E-books too cheap?

I found myself writing a response to another blog that posed the question 'are e-books too cheap?'  As usual my reply ended up being longer than their article and so I’m posting it here instead.  But the simple answer would be 'yes, yes they are.'

There is of course a lot of ranting about this subject matter in my world - indeed done so myself here in the past - something, actually, that I can scare myself with, ranting, in terms of just how well I can do that.  But that kind of honesty isn't received very well in general in a largely passive aggressive society; does nothing for my online presence, so I refrain from it for the most part these days.  With that in mind, I won't go on too much.

There's varying reasons as to why books are so under-priced but it never fails to astound me that the level of work that goes into creating a (well written) book is so undervalued - and not least of which by the author themselves. 

What other profession where such high level of skill is demanded can be paid for by the consumer with only pennies?  It's offensive to me that people think nothing of paying $5.00 or higher for a cup of coffee that's been generically percolated in minutes - oftentimes more than once a day - and yet balk at paying $2.99 for a book that's been months, or even years, in the making, a product that can provide days or weeks of pure reading pleasure that can induce a better high than caffeine, or even accompany that if you're like me and totally addicted to the stuff - but something definitely wrong with that picture - the book thing, not the coffee; nothing wrong with that at all.

Even if you have written an amazing book that should sell at a comparatively decent price, unless you have the art of marketing down, and even then, you probably won't sell any more even if you do completely under-price - that's one mistake authors make all too often, I feel.  Make it free, in general, for whatever reason (and there may be some validity to doing this for promotional purposes) and many won't value it at all - in fact whole forums dedicated to listing freebies on a daily basis are filled with people 'over-frothing' their e-readers for the sake of it - are they really going to even look at a book priced at the outrageous sum of 99c when they have so many freebies readily available in the hopes that they'll find the odd gem?   Frankly, I'm amazed that books are even allowed to be free on an on-going basis by the distributors.  What else in this life is?... well... outside of all that insightful enlightenment you hear about.  And if some people are so unimaginative that they can't manage to find any of that for themselves... well then... they should have to pay for gleaning it from others who work extremely hard at depositing their insights and inventiveness in the form of stories.  Just sayin'.

Unfortunately one reason is because of the slush pile available publicly; authors feel pressured into lowering their prices, trying, and usually failing, to get noticed.  Why should the reader have to pay for your work when they can get something else for nothing, or next to it?  Yes, outrageous to have to pay for the months of very real slogging that a true writer undertakes to bring you a story.  Indeed, I hope the comic books are separated from the encyclopaedias sooner rather than later - perhaps when untrained writers come to realize that it might be easy enough to publish a book, but not so easy to create a product that's actually worth the time they spend doing that, that they're simply bogging the rest of us down, those of us who are serious about it; striving to be the best writers we can be, not just for our benefit, but the reader's too.  Surely to God that's worth the pennies lying around in your car's coffee cup holder?

Did I say I wasn't going to go on too much...?  Ah well.

Did you know writing can be a real addiction?

Wednesday 10.00am

My…. acquaintances… shall we say… for I no longer have friends, per se… can call me obsessive compulsive.  I’m not.  Just dedicated.  Usually finish what I started.   That’s supposed to be a good thing.  Right?  Granted they do try to counteract what is really intended as an insult by adding ‘…but in a good way.’  However, as I look around me, at my life, how it’s turning out since I started my writing journey about seven years ago, I think they might be spot on; I’ve let everything else slip… and not least of which, my physical self.  This is an addiction, no joke about it anymore like I used to say; I'm being entirely serious; the effects as potentially damaging as many other, frowned upon, addictions.

If I have a resolution - which I don’t normally make simply because it’s a new year - for 2013, it’s that I have to balance my love of writing with what pays the bills, what inspires me… what keeps the weight of my erstwhile slim waistline – which is kind of funny because I don’t really eat, never have… but the old metabolism, that used to beat any amount of calories into submission singlehandedly, has started to turn traitor.

I've been 'binge-writing' recently, been obsessed, had one of those bouts that last a few weeks where everything else goes to hell and time has no meaning.  The result... even though I have an ergonomic chair and desk, all the poise in the world, what feels like some kind of a hip displacement!  That's new!  I've found that kind of writing really is detrimental to my health: headaches, eye strain, tennis elbow, stiff joints, nodules in my right arm where it leans on the desk, weight gain (yes, despite the fact I don't eat) hair loss, baggy skin...  sore ribs... or somethin'... I could go on.  But that's all going to change; yes, this year I'm getting back into jogging and other stuff that will balance what should be my real life with my writing one much more fairly, much more healthily.

Today I have to do my taxes – an infinitely hated task that despite the relative simplicity of when I do get around to them, are seven months overdue - as reminded by Revenue Canada last week - a letter I’ve long since expected - insisting I file a return – and which I’ve resolved to do right now, today, but in my obsessive compulsiveness, well-versed in the art of procrastination with everything else these days other than writing - and especially when it comes to facts and figures - I’ve found myself compiling this article instead.  Yes, indeed, a true addict.

But I will do them; I don’t want to get up in the morning anymore and dread having to, because that’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and I am, believe it or not, a responsible citizen… or at least I used to be... when I was part of society.

My taxes are filed in plastic bags, the odd liquor store and Safeway ones, garbage bags, even - perhaps the writer in me; a metaphor for what I really think of taxes - and, in ink, the year scribbled less than eloquently on the outside before being tossed into a little office in my workplace that I don’t use except to hide things I don’t want to see.  If I’m ever audited, that’s what they’ll get; garbage bags and less than well-kept records that are, actually, probably to my detriment.  Yes, I am a CRAP businessman.  Hate that side of anything, even in writing… hate promoting myself, my books, hate having to do the marketing… all of that stuff.   But there comes a time you have to bite the bullet.  Today’s that day, and for all my love of sitting and writing, still trying to procrastinate even now, I'm glad I'm the kind of person that can kick myself up the arse before it's too late.

However, it’s struck me, if I were to put as much effort into my real life, my real relationships, my real business, as I do with writing, I’d probably be a highly successful, popular guy - at least in that weird way people used to be enamoured... or somethin'... by me.  I’d be slimmer, able to wear the fitted designer shirts in 'medium' from Italy that've been abandoned to the darkest recesses of my closets, the pair of jeans I've never worn, all of which, in lucid, occasional moments in the real world, have become but a pipe dream; remnants of a surreal memory of a more dynamic me that would go out of my way to do photobombs.  Not anymore; swiping away anyone's camera like Naomi Campbell to the paparazzi as soon as they come anywhere near me.

But that’s all going to change.  Yes, cha-nge, I tells ya.   I’m going to start eating again too, proper food.  Maybe I’ll lose some weight; 20Ibs and climbing over what I should be; shocked to see too (as someone who didn’t lose or put on a single pound my entire life regardless of my habits) that even a ‘large’ won't tell the lie effectively.  And yes, it may not be much, but I watch The Biggest Loser, that’s how they all start.

And so I feel I have been a bit obsessive, and, no; not in a good way at all - save your political correctness for social media - I see what writing is doing to me, how it's affecting me, snared me, literally, into its den, how my puppy looks at me, to say ‘oh, please, not again for fuck sake’ when I sit at my desk.  Don’t get me wrong; I know what’s important; he gets his exercise, and plenty of it, lovin’ too, but going to the park is becoming more of a chore than quality time for me, if I’m being honest, and even then, my mind teeming with clever anecdotes that makes me wish I'd brought a pen.  But that is the one thing that does make me sit and think about how much time I am spending writing, perhaps the catalyst that makes me come to this realization; for not only do I need to focus more on my lovely little dog, but on me, my old friends, my health, my business – which perhaps is in danger of being run so far into the ground that there’s an entrance into it from Australia, because I'm simply neglecting it in some ways.  After all, it is life, people, and the very art of living that inspire my stories; staying indoors writing for years on end, even as a highly imaginative person, is like never maintaining your car (which I also let go for two years until recently, used to do that every winter and every summer).  No, your mind needs ‘lubed’ as well, and perhaps parts of you too (get yours out the gutter) I mean like... aromatherapy... or somethin'... whatever, total relaxation, anyway.  A mental vacation.

I think I’ve come far enough in this never ending writing journey, for it will be never-ending, apparently, that I can afford to calm it a bit now, stop obsessing, take time out every now and then, because I think I’ve become quite good at it, yes; I should really focus on doing that – however ‘taxing’ it might be.

Wednesday 5pm

So, in the process of going through every drawer, every bag, every room at both work and home, I not only got my 2011 taxes organised, but my 2012 ones too - six months earlier than I need to, which should make up for the six months I’m late with the 2011 return, don't ya think?  But I did have a moment of panic, starting to absolutely freak out when I saw the piles of receipts and invoices before me, but then, with my newfound attitude, nothing else to do, methodically went through it all, and surprisingly, rather enjoyed it.  I’ll file the return electronically tomorrow, for I most definitely have had enough now.  However, in the process, I found two un-cashed cheques, one from my 2010 taxes from the government for $179,26, which thankfully I can still cash over a year later, and one for just under $30.00 from another company which is only a few months old.  And if that wasn’t surprising enough, two of a number of old lottery tickets bringing me another $40.00 when I checked them - so I'm richer by $250.00 just by getting myself organized... the universe rewarding me for making the effort to come out of the dark shadows of my writer's mindset?  Don't be ridiculous; merely coincidental, shows just what a CRAP businessman I am.

Now I’m off to have pizza and beer and watch the premiere of American Idol - the diet and exercise will begin after the taxes are filed; too much all at one time.  Yes, too much, I deserve a bloody break.

Here is an article on the very serious matter of writing addiction.

E L James

You know, I actually felt a little bit of empathy for E L James when I saw Katie Couric interview her about her Fifty Shades series in front of a live audience; what struck me was, that here was a woman overwhelmed by the ‘relative’ success of her book.

Love it or hate it, and I have to admit the sample chapter was more than I could get through because of the writing, but it was kind of painful to watch her try to be interested in talking about her book at all, in fact she spent most of the interview squirming, hardly did any of the speaking; guests and members of the audience, as well as Katie herself, doing it all for her while she swung her foot constantly, scratched her head and looked completely mortified while unable to answer anything she was being asked, trying to come up with clever automaton answers that were obviously feigned… like, 'Oh… I wouldn’t be able to say that on national television’, while Katie pushed for specifics about what her favourite sexual fantasy, and the like, might be, to which she finally responded she couldn’t come up with anything off the top of her head.

The truth of the matter is, as perhaps, most writers will know, the worlds created in our books are separate from our real one, we expose our inner selves through our writing, cater to our imagination.  Mostly we’re shy and don’t take our stories quite as literally as our readership can, and with all the work involved, can even become sick to death of talking about them without a sort of used up enthusiasm.  There were spurts of E L trying to find a comfort level; joking around here and there with Katie in that English way that she would do more authentically with her best mates up the pub; 'Oh come on Katie...' she cajoled about something a tad risqué that seemed to be over Katie's pristine head despite her wearing a leather dress for the occasion - which actually she looked great in.  And I don’t blame her; questions from the audience including asking her advice on what sex toys to buy and what shops are best to get them from, plus talking about her characters as if they were real people, like, 'How could he be so rich being so young?' & 'How could she orgasm, as a virgin in a way that women haven’t been able to do after years?', her response, evidently annoyed, perhaps having been asked a million times; simply, that it's only a story, she’s not a sex therapist, only wrote the book for her own enjoyment, jotting down her own fantasies, and then she said, 'I would just buy a tie' - which was perhaps the one good response she did give.  Come on now... it’s fiction, people... learn to discern it from reality; after all, all those writers who have their characters hacked to pieces don't go around doing that, others not actually travelling to alternate fantasy worlds where people have names that could be across between Welsh and Klingon.  Do they?  She even said at one point that she really didn’t understand why there was so much hype surrounding this book; that it only started out as fan fiction after all... but that's mainstream publishing for you; people do get carried away because everyone else and their dog is; the art of brainwashing marketing techniques obviously still rife.  Still effective.

  But I think what is evident, the hype, the thing that has come from this series, is a liberation of sorts for women to say its alright to speak about these kinds of bedroom activities openly now, the book simply a portal to that; E L James just happened along the way; acceptable to like something other than vampires now... and for many who weren't already doing it, the opportunity to write about their sexual fantasies freely for, from what I've seen, erotica, and or porn, huge amid writers currently.

Small price to pay though, I would think, for this kind of success, to have to do the interviews, and so, while I do feel some sympathy for her, at least she can reap and enjoy the benefits when it's all over, even have a platform to jump from now to promote her future works.  I think most writers would envy that.

What makes me wanna write?

I was invited to be interviewed about being a writer (to be publicized soon) and was asked a number of questions, one of them about what inspires/motivates me to write, and when I got into it, I realized I'd gone on a bit and my answer to that one question, in its entirety, couldn't possibly be used owing to it's length - 1454 words, and so I'm depositing it here instead to add to my other posts about my writing journey - and perhaps as an appendix, should anyone reading the actual interview be a glutton for punishment - and also because I've been very busy lately, and haven't done a post in a while.  Enjoy.

***

First and foremost I write for myself, and I’m being quite serious when I say I quantum leap into the (fabricated) worlds I create when I do.

‘Whaaa…?’

You heard.

But easy to do when you know how; understand our planet’s indentation upon the fabric of space and therefore the gravitational pull of the various dimensions ensnared by it that enables a creative mind to traverse with a hop, skip and a… well… quantum leap… into the elementary; the ability to connect everything in the universe between A and B let alone all the way to Z making for interesting inventions indeed.  How could they not be told?

“Is this guy for real?”

I’m afraid so, but only in the literal sense, otherwise I’m largely considered a weirdo anomaly, so much so that when I enter a room I cause it to become lopsided.  But I like to think of myself as a wonderful eccentric, even though I’m not; better than my artistic sensibility becoming mistranslated.  But that’s what a black hole where the unknown dwells in infinite state will do for a writer such as me; one who strives to try and be unique; shock a little here and there; simply futile to even try and resist the gravitational pull because somewhere therein, for such a person as I, lies home, and everyone needs a place to relax?  Right?

“Huh?’

Please keep up.  In other words, the need to express the gift of an unusual imagination in storytelling is inherent; affords an escapism that can’t, at least for me, be found on our four-dimensional plane.  Such a mind is so fully integrated in alternate existence that the impossible is the only place where a lone-wolf might feel they belong – and wolves can do that these days, can’t they; space travel?  Or at least, werewolves do - even though I’ve never seen any of those particular creatures when I’m flying around up there - but an irresistible pastime; writing; the den of the universe calling me to mine its abyss of ingenuity, where, what hopefully emerges on paper upon my return, is new life, new worlds and a story that no man has written before.  Enterprising indeed.  Yes, I like to think of myself as Ashtar, spreading stardust wherever I go.

Who?

Oh… nobody; just some alien from the 50s, I'm sorry if you expected Picard.

But trekking through the stars and cheap metaphors about a popular TV franchise and an entity that people channel on New Years Eve aside, I’m an introvert, a true lone wolf, a little bit strange, and writing allows my soul to bare its teeth fully in a way that’s just not acceptable in person – but then that might be my propensity for dressing up as Mediaeval French royalty, I don’t know.  But as a fairly complex person, apparently, I couldn’t possibly go into the ins and outs of who I am fully here, but I did write a very heartfelt piece about what makes me me, entitled ‘Precipice of an Alternate Plane’, a few months ago, that attempts to explain away the strangeness of me as well as anything ever could I guess; inspired to write something from my heart by the late Nora Ephron’s piece on death, which really touched me in that how honest it was.   But it’s a piece, if you were to look closely enough, that might explain just how I, and no doubt, many other inspired anomalies, see the world differently from most; literally not taken in by it, not feeling embraced, possessing a kind of x-ray vision, allowing us to see it being played out very differently, insisting on keeping us at arm’s length despite our best efforts of, as the song goes, putting the right one in in the first place, followed by an awkward left leg; everything, seemingly basic at every turn, with alternate essence, simply begging to be reinvented by the art of storytelling.

“Oh… I see…,”said the blind man.

No you don't.  But anyhoo, we simply can’t help it; and even though it can often be to our detriment; becoming even more ostracised; obsessed to the point where we allow it to affect our health and listen to its insistence that we forego other perhaps more financially promising careers, an artist does what an artist does because it’s truly a calling – unlike the cameo character, Sister Betty in Prickly Scots, who, for the want of anything else to do, only became a nun after her husband left her penniless and nowhere else to go, but still she manages to find a way to buy cigarettes, crafty bitch.

But there’s an honesty that we can get away with in fiction that’s perhaps by-the-wayside in real life; society, and very much so in art, inclined to be automaton, and so recreating it somewhat satiates my need for humour, which even my more literary works are filled with, and a perfect way to not get into trouble with my ‘say it as is’, ‘no nonsense’ attitude that I’ve needed to learn to curtail somewhat.  The small hope is that, should they become successful enough, they might influence others into thinking along new lines.  In writing, people tend to find rudeness amusing, a tad outrageous, admirable even, and that's great, I think that we should laugh at ourselves more; our current climate far too politically correct sometimes.

In fact, total honesty is a prerequisite for every aspect of my life, sometimes to my detriment; a tad obsessive compulsive about it, I know; intolerant of anything that doesn’t ring true, even in fiction, for I cannot read, and certainly not write that if I can’t see it being played out authentically in my mind’s eye despite the fabricated nature of it.

I think my approach affords my characters an interesting angle though, regardless of whether they’re aliens or monsters, a nasty old lady or a precocious child, whatever, nothing and nobody as perfect as a lot of writers seem to want to make their worlds and their protagonists because, in general, that’s how its always been.  And so I feel, with my sometimes completely annoying ability for omniscience, ‘seeing’ people the way I do, that this translates into believable eccentrics that the reader can, on some level, identify with better while still maintaining a degree of awe for fictional characters, and it also affords abundant opportunity for me to develop them in a way perhaps readers might secretly relate to outside of our largely sugar-coated world.

“Did he just digress to the point where I have no idea what he’s talking about anymore?”  Probably, I do that; makes you read pieces like this more than once; get over it. ”But most people might just say they write because they love to, for fuc…  I mean… Heaven’s sake.”

Yes well, I’m not most people; please pay attention… and there’s absolutely no need for expletives or blasphemy… thank you very much.

But I guess my point is, I see inspiration everywhere, and I mean absolutely everywhere; cursed, it feels like sometimes, but it all builds up into what I call ‘FBI’ profiles for my characters/stories, and so I hope that those who dip their toes into the extra-terrestrial tides of the oceans I swim, that it will ultimately entertain them too.

“Whaaa…?”

Yeah, you heard, get over it; I’m a writer; I’m allowed to get like, all fancy… and shit.

Hardly mainstream though, and I won’t compromise, but that’s another matter; whether people like my writing or not, is, quite frankly, largely irrelevant to me; and even though I’d really like them to, again first and foremost I do write for me, myself and I.  It is always a pleasure though, when I see readers gain some unexpected delight from my unusual style, and I really appreciate that.  Discerning types, obviously.

I believe writers are therapists, psychologists and comedians, gatekeepers to Escapasia, inventors (obviously, ‘cos I just made that last word up lest you couldn’t tell) books, simply portals to other dimensions where anything is possible.  They’re educators, motivators and inspirers.  Who knows what a good story teller arouses in others, what dreams they elicit, the wings of imagination that they set in flight.

“Okay, puke... enough already; I get it.”

Yeah… I agree.

But what really motivated me in the first instance, was the worlds I became lost in in my childhood; reading every Enid Blyton book I could lay my hands on; a writer that transported me into her exciting worlds in the same way, I guess, that JK did for a whole new generation.  And despite writing first and foremost because I love to do it, I would also love to think that someone, somewhere, got the same experience as that from something I’ve written.

“Aww… I actually understood that bit.“

Uh huh.