tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57548862010480687062024-03-12T17:33:54.137-07:00Thought-DriveThe week to week thoughts and deliberations of a writer that authors, a thinker that dreams, and a realist who hopes.J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.comBlogger288125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-24135723407796699582023-06-25T07:08:00.000-07:002023-06-25T07:08:08.325-07:00Push, and breach<p> Nine months. That must be some kind of record for me. If I was the type to read into things, I might note that it's also the time it takes to make a new human from scratch. </p><p>I'm here puzzling through the audio book process, wishing I had practiced better organizational habits. As per usual, I'm learning a lot between sighs, as if the despondent air displaces to make room for the more useful knowledge. </p><p>Entering the process, my focus diffuses, like the thrust of a good night's rest striking a solid river boulder. I find old pictures in search of cover art, delete some and make mental notes to share others. I find old files in search of manuscripts, and work briefly on book blurbs. I frown and I groan and I thrash. </p><p>All of which to say, progress. My cover artist is graduating college, which is a proud moment. Work on the 6th cover has been delayed for a variety of reasons, and ultimately I take accountability for some of it as well. The edits have gone poorly, most notably because since the 1st book, this is the first book requiring some very aggressive rewrites. The entire landing, more or less. A lot of the book is in tact, but in its current version, the ending is a collision area of many ideas. The road is on fire and my paramedic methods are having trouble reaching all the separate disaster zones. My day job isn't helping. I am truly busy; only recently have I discovered the only time I have is Sunday morning, after recovering for the week, just before I have to prepare for the next, a crease of time about as wide as a page turned sideways. I know a lot more now than I used to, but the important fact is something that has been with me for years: nothing will happen if I do nothing. </p><p>So, I shall work. I have a plan in place, loose though it is. Ideally this year the 6th book will be out, and I will have officially moved beyond where I was trapped before, along with some honest-to-goodness marketing. Work will immediately begin on the 7th cover, because I have brainstormed idly on that (one benefit of having less time is having more money, say to pay for cover art). </p><p>Among all that I could comment on things I've learned, and realized, and considered, but after so much time I have the benefit of having experienced those new thoughts, and then weigh and judge them, and come away with a certain understanding of their more objective worth. My mother sent me thanks in pictures for her retirement gift. Said differently, I have another photo of her on yet another beach. This time though, she credits me with her ability to make the trip. I felt good. I felt really good. I've fantasized for years about award ceremony speeches and other grand gestures. I thought "this is what it's going to take, nothing less." Turns out I was wrong. That isn't at all what it took, to feel like I was making up for the sacrifices, even a little. Simple subtraction revealed who all of those other dreams were for, and I'm fine with that truth. I dream them more boldly now.</p><p>I had an adventure recently, milquetoast though it was, it was a first, important step for me. Well, a second. Once upon a time, I went to Puerto Rico to attend a friend's wedding. That was probably the first. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEQwN_6BNHCreDLxJXykhliwq5F7zpExpyLbr5RmoGXtB-XEuhVK-21I6AS09jD3zGGsP6rx0ckEHy6wwBDSW5ZIWSgq3IYasGJOTg7aEQATXJ0DRfqERATcwzQwLevv50rd2AXdBmCwNtrzgXOlcNPh0ze1OM5Jh0bVSxpTgYcXs4qtg67PjLB0ee3A/s1600/SSPX0165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEQwN_6BNHCreDLxJXykhliwq5F7zpExpyLbr5RmoGXtB-XEuhVK-21I6AS09jD3zGGsP6rx0ckEHy6wwBDSW5ZIWSgq3IYasGJOTg7aEQATXJ0DRfqERATcwzQwLevv50rd2AXdBmCwNtrzgXOlcNPh0ze1OM5Jh0bVSxpTgYcXs4qtg67PjLB0ee3A/s320/SSPX0165.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKkJPNO6HpOZxR3Xt_GRfp2XWaYnfwH1WgvOhwuhDtcZx2szFTUSV-YwxcNmxJR8cWB4Vzf4LZpEKy98e_vej2rDO1HcL9KZ6fp5F_dY6pZ4ij6yFYKfVooQ-mqFOoZkx5JfrQzcMagQqiV4HDttgtuU-YHhsrm3Axj9lsAt-VcWhlEKeIGG1gBmUBt80/s1600/SSPX0136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKkJPNO6HpOZxR3Xt_GRfp2XWaYnfwH1WgvOhwuhDtcZx2szFTUSV-YwxcNmxJR8cWB4Vzf4LZpEKy98e_vej2rDO1HcL9KZ6fp5F_dY6pZ4ij6yFYKfVooQ-mqFOoZkx5JfrQzcMagQqiV4HDttgtuU-YHhsrm3Axj9lsAt-VcWhlEKeIGG1gBmUBt80/s320/SSPX0136.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylP9ILmjPu9Ai8zRpaCxbKWIWZi30WxNSOzD8xHijiiqK4wVz9sxRGP0oE7uhu7NbTl_0MrzcT2D_tZUw7b9kdvV6pm7-x-fC0qB7sqSnApGwTk3AOKEpBbWNCljRw64Rx_Pby2lek5btp8NeqTeeim09YL47Bie6cWdSeh7_lkAU5tZuhyYc3TQo9IQ/s1600/SSPX0141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylP9ILmjPu9Ai8zRpaCxbKWIWZi30WxNSOzD8xHijiiqK4wVz9sxRGP0oE7uhu7NbTl_0MrzcT2D_tZUw7b9kdvV6pm7-x-fC0qB7sqSnApGwTk3AOKEpBbWNCljRw64Rx_Pby2lek5btp8NeqTeeim09YL47Bie6cWdSeh7_lkAU5tZuhyYc3TQo9IQ/s320/SSPX0141.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Recently, I visited that same friend, and met his second child. Nine months, plus a handful of years past that. There isn't a whole lot to say; I shook Time's hand. It was small, and big, and smooth, and weathered, and light and strong and surreal and certain. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-90289734276986880832022-09-05T05:25:00.000-07:002022-09-05T05:25:09.237-07:00The imparting or exchanging of information<p> I talked somewhat about how good the communication has been between <a href="https://artofmorby.com/" target="_blank">my cover artist</a> and myself. That's probably an oversimplification, because his posts on social media really outline how much he works on all aspects of his process. This refers to how hard he works, but also how well. This next cover will be the sixth cover of eight, and I feel very fortunate that we've been able to keep things together for years at this point, given the consistently increasing amount of opportunities that he gets, year after year, as he earns more exposure and recognition. I feel very confident I will be one of those people who might say "I knew him back when," and people may not even believe me. </p><p>In regards to process, things were very sloppy for the first cover. Our language wasn't very synced, nor did he have a great idea of what he needed from me to begin producing, nor did I have a way to really understand how my own words percolated into his artwork. I showed a potential reader the cover just last week, and there was the perfunctory "oh, this is cool," but there was a lot of potential we couldn't touch for so many reasons. </p><p>Fast forward to now</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBG6OQygEPwXj5lz3J61bY2FLsboz6mw8zfElenC6KZuoQ8IiMFOCFy5ZDMM7I9IEB1bSP83mYBr9vZZY9Z5MHNiQorKJeKjfgpVuby7rg_iqlqrd9HKQSW301IkajkKV6uUFCmXvOXyMrDl7idUqNdtLqgNkXGo64p_nA6W80RDIUB4AlaqzY8cLt/s296/cover6concepts1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="296" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBG6OQygEPwXj5lz3J61bY2FLsboz6mw8zfElenC6KZuoQ8IiMFOCFy5ZDMM7I9IEB1bSP83mYBr9vZZY9Z5MHNiQorKJeKjfgpVuby7rg_iqlqrd9HKQSW301IkajkKV6uUFCmXvOXyMrDl7idUqNdtLqgNkXGo64p_nA6W80RDIUB4AlaqzY8cLt/w485-h337/cover6concepts1.jpg" width="485" /></a></div><br /><p>Before heavy detail work gets committed to, we have a back and forth, about what I want and why and how it's supposed to feel. I use my words, because that's what I have, and he uses sketching to ask "do you mean something like this?" and he gives me some explanation about what the various elements are, might be, his vision, accompanied by a sketch so I know what he is understanding from what I said. </p><p>Once upon a time, when I was with a publisher, each author got a form to fill out to be given to the cover artist. It asked questions like "what do the main characters look like?" and "what is the setting of the novel" and these, I realized later, were meant to convey physical description and to provide background ideas. In the case of that organization, the execution of this left much to be desired: in many situations, it became a splicing of stock photography that made me think of the first Mortal Kombat video game. But coming full circle, those are some of the same questions that are pertinent for this process. But in addition to those questions there are things like "what is the relationship between the main characters" and "does any character have any defining characteristics" because that can account for small but important things like posture, facial expression, lighting, and color. </p><p>"<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I like your instinct with the glowing chain. I support the background, because the setting is definitely urban. Something feels lacking in the character posing. David does have a gravity, and Victoria among others are somewhat trapped in that pull, but David is also bound himself, and doesn't realize it. Of course, I'm not sure how to get that across</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">...." is what I said</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Beautiful!" was his reply "You've sparked something in my mind," and it took me a few covers before I could zero in on that being my target focus. I had this dream that my cover artist would read my book and be able to convey visually what I only had words to describe, but in reading, I wanted them to hear what I was trying to say. It didn't occur to me that I could just say it, and by saying it, access the part of a visual artist's ability to use their ability to create metaphor out of imagery. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWwHttiyQuh0B5D4sP9b7ELG1q4EmJznwDrzonDwkqLJ1kUNolL--zK3I9DyLbgtrep0yvOb3z8jujXteGq5bT0PTPS7NK01XXsE3a396lbvcjwpynFsE1pOAHjXMRbxBEF7y9VIPgd6VBUCC7nVmRv3YESrpiTGON2OxrB7LJbYcb9WVtpt6ty08A/s320/cover6concepts2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="320" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWwHttiyQuh0B5D4sP9b7ELG1q4EmJznwDrzonDwkqLJ1kUNolL--zK3I9DyLbgtrep0yvOb3z8jujXteGq5bT0PTPS7NK01XXsE3a396lbvcjwpynFsE1pOAHjXMRbxBEF7y9VIPgd6VBUCC7nVmRv3YESrpiTGON2OxrB7LJbYcb9WVtpt6ty08A/w577-h362/cover6concepts2.jpg" width="577" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It feels so simple in retrospect, communication. And I guess it is, at the end of the day. Except it is an exchange, giving and receiving. And in that there lies the difficulty. Things change, very often, when they pass through all of our filters, personal, cultural, psychological, emotional. Difficulties occur all the time because of the friction between what was given and what was accepted. I practice communication all day in my day job, and I get a lot of positive feedback at how well I do it, and yet there is considerable evidence that I have a lot of work yet to do. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But what I was trying to say is that the work continues, and that I'm proud of it, happy at how far its come, and looking forward to what comes next. </span></span></p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-81238338394549878812022-07-17T07:15:00.002-07:002022-07-17T07:15:14.391-07:00Let's play a game<p> I've discovered there is a point where even Facebook will give up on you. </p><p>I last posted in February. I guess around March I was reminded that I hadn't posted in a while. Maybe I got another reminder in April, but even then, I could tell that the robots were fed up. I would've been, too. I wasn't sulking; I might have even questioned what the use would've been, but that would've just been untrue. It's virtually impossible to say why, but for whatever reason I had a mysterious, steady few periods of royalty payments. I got an email from Amazon, then another, then another. I found it all very suspicious, and strangely was too busy with other work to really pay attention. I took a diligent moment to thank my luck, be grateful for readers, and then went about trying not to drown at my new job. I didn't think at all to blog. </p><p>And that's not why I'm writing now, either. I'm writing now because a thought I had been gnawing on for months, years, finally bore fruit. I have a personal rule I try and abide by, and it's proven to be a very effective method for generating thought experiments and I would hope productive mental activity and story-telling practice. And that method is not to denounce or deride or criticize another's telling without any idea about how to make it better myself. No amount of "that's terrible"s or "this just isn't good"s help anyone. I try, I try more for "how about"s and "I think maybe what would've been more compelling"s. </p><p>The film <i>Black Panther</i> came out in 2018 and while I didn't see it until a year later, I was still caught up in its importance to the moment of its existence. What it meant to people in terms of visibility, access, representation, perspective made it a bit transcendent. There had to be a sequel; the universe demanded it. Then Boseman passed in 2020. I remember my mouth dropping open, because I had no idea what Coogler and the other writers would do. He had very clearly killed off Michael B. Jordan, who felt to me the obvious replacement. Equally clear was that T'Challa could not be CGI'd in like some strange digital shoe horning. I remember being invested, partially because I had no idea what I would do. But, I do not have the luxury of a Hollywood producer. I have my own lot to maintain, but those are neighbors in the world of my own end game. Someday I hope to have those kinds of problems. </p><p>And driving along yesterday, it suddenly hit me. And that's that's why I'm sitting here, doing this now. I just want to get it out before I find anything else about the movie's plot (I saw a graphic for an article about a character named Iron Heart; I have no idea who that is but I assume it's the young princess, Suri). I think the new Black Panther, for all intents and purposes is Suri. I don't mean that she wears the mantle. I mean in function as the protagonist of the story. I believe this because Killmonger died. I cannot shake the scene of his demise; the line specifically. He aligned himself with the slaves that would sooner jump to their deaths in the ocean than subject themselves for what awaited on the shores of America and islands of Caribbean. His stance and philosophy echoes that of Magneto, which is to say Malcolm X, as the mutant master of magnetism neatly reflected the civil rights leader who was viewed as the more radical foil to Martin Luther King Jr., who was symbolized by Charles Xavier, and in our framework, King T'Challa. So, Killmonger dies, defiant, and then so does T'Challa. One on screen, one off, but either way both have been removed from play, much like they were in factual history. </p><p>That left lesser intermediaries to fill in the gaps, pick up the pieces, push various movements forward yes, but it also forced the people still alive to come up with our own answers. We were alive. We had to decide. And that, I believe, is an excellent seed bed to place the story of the second movie. The young genius knew her brother's heart, changed by his conflict with Killmonger: use the superior technology of Wakanda to help the larger world. But how exactly? Who exactly would the design exist to benefit? What would change as as result? What would be the nature of the complications? What would her answer be, in the metaphorical framework of her choice, given the combatting philosophies of her brothers? As the black woman-leader-survivor so often remaining in the aftermath, there to pick up the pieces when the dust settles, what would her reply ultimately be? As the mother to the new world, what would she ultimately give birth to? I think that times the heartbeat of the ultimate effort, and returns the franchise to its original heights and grandeur. </p><p>I think Marvel has a winning formula, but it isn't an award worthy recipe. I think name recognition, the effects, the explosions, the acting will all put butts in seats, but something more is expected from this sequel. Something deep, yet close, something grand, yet human. Something that people will to be able to understand but maybe not be able to articulate except with patience and great effort. Something magical. And I think it will live in the exposition and the quiet moments. </p><p>Right or wrong, I feel satisfied; this time I won't wait.</p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-3126358387427554582022-02-15T05:52:00.003-08:002022-02-15T05:52:58.772-08:00Patrick Stewart cannot be killed<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I saw friends the other day that I hadn’t seen in months. Their surprise that I had drastically changed my hair style was like a gauge for time. I remembered warmer weather and fireworks. I remembered that I had cut my hair around the time that I started the new job. I’d like to say somewhere in there I also remembered when I had last blogged, but that would be a lie.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;">But it would be true if I said I had been writing. Not true in the sideways sense that the next rewrite is coming along, which it is, or in a distracted sense in that <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tangled-Pair-Worlds-Beside/dp/B09PHHCBSK/ref=sr_1_4?qid=1644932504&refinements=p_27%3AJ+E+Cammon&s=books&sr=1-4&text=J+E+Cammon" target="_blank">the 5<sup>th</sup> book is out and available for purchase</a>, which it is, but in the pure sense that I had the idea of something new, and started pecking away at it, and have put a dozen or so thousand words onto paper.<u></u><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><u></u> <u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;">Combined with the work schedule, which is on its way to becoming routine, it is a grind. I don’t have a lot of excess energy for it, though I have identified time to devote, but consistently nearing E on my fuel tank has led to some odd dreams and sobering moments. Work is good, I will say; I am happy to do it, and my co workers and the students seem to be glad to have my services, which is a nice feeling. There are times when I feel, or fear, my writing might be suffering because I am not working with language as closely on a day-to-day basis, but even if that were valid, I am investing in different muscle groups that I feel are just as valuable, which is very gratifying.<u></u><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><u></u> <u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;">The story is also a new place where I did not imagine I would be, this time last year or at any other point. It was not planned, at least not in the way so many other creations I attempt are planned. I was thinking about it, and I was excited, but the first few pages came about spontaneously, while I was in the office, just to see if I could. It was an experiment, in a conscious sense, but it was an accident in the way it grew explosively and carried me along with it. For a while there, I did not know when it would stop. For a brief moment, I did not know what it was.<u></u><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><u></u> <u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;">Now I believe it to be the kind of short story writers write to attract the attention of publishing houses, to entice them into contracting the longer work. In the past I have written a whole novel, or close to it, and sent off the first sizable chunk. I was petrified of sending something incomplete off, and finding someone all too excited to read the rest, when there was nothing more to read. It would just be my luck. But I find myself feeling more fearless these days. Still, I can see the end, but it isn’t quite done. I have been blessed with a comparative bounty of readers willing to give me their thoughts, which has been new and refreshing and I want to use them as best I can to really make this thing crisp. All of that has been exhausting and exhilarating.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;">The multiverse concept has been popularized lately, so I'll go with this metaphor. I'm still here, but it is a different here, and I think maybe I might be a different me. But still writing. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-85640592375270029552021-08-01T07:11:00.000-07:002021-08-01T07:11:23.999-07:00Syn(onymous)<p> I have an update, if brief. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uvmIxqQSrQd6m1SZj5F2T9xLZpVsXecdc07hA_QdNoMHIMKU0CqWnCgia4-GWkO-eTM0dA61yTp-5tmAQqhEuh5vxIjMufeC1cFLU8hL9KNGkQoyJl501NkhEX1paLEjEr81X_cvodQ/s2048/209666918_593978184907443_4834844071372255352_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1448" height="415" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uvmIxqQSrQd6m1SZj5F2T9xLZpVsXecdc07hA_QdNoMHIMKU0CqWnCgia4-GWkO-eTM0dA61yTp-5tmAQqhEuh5vxIjMufeC1cFLU8hL9KNGkQoyJl501NkhEX1paLEjEr81X_cvodQ/w293-h415/209666918_593978184907443_4834844071372255352_n.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>This cover comprises the best collaboration between <a href="https://artofmorby.com/" target="_blank">my artist</a> and I thus far. I imagined this situation about a decade ago. I didn't realize it was unrealistic at the time, but what I wanted was for the artist to read the work to develop a conversation, from which would come an image that would benefit from their creativity and their intimate understanding. To his credit, he did start my first book, which is more than I could probably ask for. But we did have that conversation. I substituted his reading with my explaining, themes, metaphors, allusions, foreshadowing. He did have questions. He did go away and come back and the sketch brought to light some of the perspectives I wasn't considering, which is really all I wanted the whole time. So, the work continues. </p><p><br /></p><p>I'm also writing this because not everyone has platforms, and I think it is important to speak for the better, no matter how tall ours may be. A friend brought <a href="https://inappropriate-behavior.com/what-everyone-needs-to-hear-about-the-judge-rotenberg-center/" target="_blank">this</a> to my attention, so I am trying to be responsible and spread awareness in what small way I can. People on the autism spectrum are a growing, misrepresented, mischaracterized, misunderstood group, and being a minority myself, I am sensitive to their struggles and challenges. </p><p><br /></p><p>At first I thought maybe mixing these two ideas would've been jarring, even confusing. Then I thought about the idea of progress. I would refer to the developments in my work progress, but I would use the same word for the advancement of our society, a transformation into something more kind and humanistic. I think this does that. I hope it does that. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-53244634399881038352021-07-18T07:38:00.001-07:002021-07-18T07:38:50.719-07:00Amusement, parked<p> A while back, years, I explained how my first book series came about. At least, I think I did. Eight books were the result of a process set purely on following the story. I didn't so much have an outline as events I anticipated from various protagonists pursuing their wants. A mentor once told me to progress a story all one has to do is move a character closer or farther away from their goal. This contraction and expansion idea has become a bit more complex and nuanced over the years, but in the beginning that's all it was for me. That's how I ended up with eight books. After the first book, it made the most narrative sense for the characters to go in different physical directions. I was not so much energetic as curious, so I followed along. Those three books gained sequels of their own, before things bent back on themselves narratively and wrapped up with the eighth book. When it came time to release them, I did not have the luxury of choosing to put them out simultaneously. This was an issue I had not anticipated, when I wrote them, and I remember at the time not really having a solution. So, I made a decision and ordered the second, third, and fourth. When it came time for the fifth, without much thought at all, I repeated the cycle. The fifth book would be the sequel to the second, the sixth the sequel to the third, and the seventh would follow the fourth. </p><p>A short time ago, weeks, I recognized my lazy assumption for what it was. I don't know if it was the result of something more ordinary, like being able to see with fresh eyes, or something more interesting like wisdom gained over years, but I found myself wondering, "why did I order them this way?" and then another question, "if I'm putting them out myself, do I have to order them at all?" And it was a bit like being pushed overboard into churning waves. I didn't know up from down, and the disorientation made me question everything. I chastised myself for following an old rubric. The point, after all, was to take full control of this project, these stories, and to unburden them with any of my old thinking. And here I am four books in before questioning any of that. Oops. </p><p>Some things do have to be structured. Just about every other book series ever written is organized with some respect to time, and certainly they are ordered themselves in an incremental pattern. Whether they start with 0 or 1, the next number is 1 or 2, respectively. This is practical, meant to help the reader understand in what order the books should be read, with a moderate implication of how the events in the story move based on that organization. And I have a hard enough time as it is with clarity, so why complicate things? But still, the reason I was reminded of this situation is because books 2, 3, and 4 occur simultaneously, roughly, and events in some affect the others. Books 5, 6, and 7 are similar. In one specific instance, events in one give context to circumstances in another, and vice versa. This feels like a situation that reminds "just because you can do something doesn't mean you should."</p><p>The other limiting factor is the cover art. Working off of those old assumptions, I had doled out the work to my artist, very confident in the arrangement of things. And now I think, I wonder, if I had the art for all three, or at least the two dependent on each other, I could put them out at the same time. To say nothing of how to name them, in what order to put them in numerically, at least the narrative hiccup would be addressed. To say that I've been wracking my brain would be an understatement. </p><p>Just this past week, another thought occurred to me, and this had to do with <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Silver-Age-J-Cammon-ebook/dp/B0751JCNHH/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=j+e+cammon&qid=1626618365&sr=8-2" target="_blank">the novella I put out some time ago</a>, also years. In my mind, it would be the first, perhaps only, book to have an audio version. Not because I didn't want any of the others to be heard aloud, but because for this one I had a very specific concept in mind. I had talks with close friends, recruiting them to do voices. I drew up a list of roles that would need to be filled, and I dreamed of it all coming together in a kind of classic pulp radio style. Sound effects would have pie in the sky status, but the different voices, that added texture, that seemed doable. And then it didn't get done, and it didn't get done because I didn't do it. I could also add that life happened, that things got in the way, when it would be more accurate to say that I let things get in the way. Most accurately, just this week I realized, and this is a lesson I very often repeat, that nothing would get done unless I did it (in fact, putting it out at all had been postponed because I was waiting to publish it through more officious channels, and in the mean time was sitting on my hands). I strongly suspect that when one is more established, has more resources, one can out source, like I have with my cover art. Someday, I will perhaps have a team, or a staff, that I can delegate to, but that day is not today. </p><p>So, very simply, I have set about an attempt to make an effort. Right now I am only focused on the first section, which only has a few different voices. A friend has some equipment, and has decided to help. I am much farther than I was, simply by taking direct action, and still am so far away from achieving the aspiration I dreamed years ago, one of several. I feel like I'm going in circles, the way I am having to absorb the same lessons repeatedly, but I do think that I am further along, in other, meaningful ways. I think maybe if this were a carnival ride, it would be fun. Or nauseating. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-68107523790522358192021-06-13T07:47:00.002-07:002021-06-13T07:47:16.296-07:00Work in progress<p> In 2007, I was gifted my first glut of free mental space in years. I had graduated college, and before all the stresses of adult life had fully taken root, I reveled in the freedom from all the stressors of college life. I hung out a lot at a new friend's rented home. I say new because these were not the people I had met in college; these were my first post-college friends. Eventually, upon sharing present and past interests, I was introduced to a supernatural show that "everyone" had seen and "thought was awesome." I never had, but with the entire box set being pushed at me, I eventually relented and started watching them. I ended up in a place that was very reminiscent of where I was in 2000, when I started a journey through what I called the door-stop fantasy novels: brick-shaped, popular fantasy series that were very popular at the time, the kinds of things that have become very popular television shows in the past decade. At the time, in 2000, the foremost thought I came away with was "I could do this." I wrote some bad pages, and forced them on some good friends. The love was tough, and I was discouraged. But in 2007, after years of reading, writing, editing, critiquing, and studying composition and theory and rhetoric, after being told by my mentor that I wrote well enough to do it for a living, with that wellspring of energy and focus, I decided to try again. </p><p>Over the next three years, I ended up writing some eight novels. I hurled myself bodily into the process. My first job out of school giving me lots of free time to work on notes helped. In the second summer of that position, I actually totaled my car, so I was relegated to be either at work or at home, so that also helped. I couldn't see my friends unless they came to me, which was infrequent, so most of my free time was tangled up in the writing. I did ask some people to read it, but this was different. This was when I realized that people treated writing that had a spine, a cover, differently than an emailed word document. So, I clumsily searched for a home for my writing. I was fortunate to have found one. Not a good one, but one where I could learn a lot of valuable lessons, like patience. I saw my work online for sale in 2011. I saw my first royalty check in 2012. For the next several years, I was mired in the unpleasant process of trying to be a professional writer. Soliciting reviews, self promotion, developing a social media presence, it was a lot like trying to light a fire in a freezing windstorm. A strike, and no spark. A strike, and no spark. A strike, a spark, but no flame. A strike, a spark, a flame which was snuffed out almost immediately. Of the eight novels, I published five through that very small, unknown California print house, during which ownership changed once and management changed some three or four times. In the end, the publisher dissolved. There were a lot of apologies from people I never really knew, and goodbyes to people I might have worked harder to stay in touch with. </p><p>Five years later, my rights reverted back to me, and I started on a different journey. At some point or another, I had thought that these eight books were introductions to me. Professionally, it was the worst writing I had ever written, because after those first few years I had gone on to write more, develop more, practice more. And I made gains in my craft. I have written things since that will never see the light of day, but I have also written things since that I am very happy with, and have high hopes for. When my rights reverted, I went back to those first stories and looked at them. At first, I think it was how a planner examines a failed outline, kicks it around to scrounge out some mote of value, where they expected to find none. And what I discovered is that I did not hate the stories. I loved them. I love them, and I realized I had been mistreating them in my thoughts, thinking of them as something to put out and hope people might find a glimpse of something redeeming in them. I was a little cross with myself. Also during that introspection, I realized that what I wanted, what I really wanted, was for them to live out in the world, complete, for a chance for someone to read all of them, front to back. So, I started down that road. </p><p>It was a lot of rewriting, which I didn't dislike. In a way, I felt like the newer versions where what the first versions should have been. Had I exercised a bit more patience. I connected with a cover artist, and our communication and relationship has developed. </p><p>But only just last week did I hit a place in the fifth book where I had stopped all those years ago. I got to the point where I felt like everything had frozen. I hit my old writing, the impatient writing, the writing I had been performing when everything had stalled. I leaned back, took a deep breath, and realized it had taken me almost three years just to get back to the same point after starting all over again. I had to shake my head at the weighty but fleeting nature of time. At the same time, I just had a conversation with the cover artist, and this cover is the first cover that benefits from an actual conversation. He heard me speak, and asked questions, then went away, and engaged his own creativity. He stacked his understanding on top of the themes and ideas, and he came back with an initial sketch </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeldqSA15blUYP70xa85fHPrJ9iKbPoI76AL8lbvLXVl2yFaNdL-1gfGPCbNIxLAKjOtUqYvz6Dh7jsOtPMGN_-a51cj5Q8lXXVDjRsfdza7pZm5-77MNzsec12RvAMqSDRakaKt2FMpk/s2048/received_1467112776970433.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeldqSA15blUYP70xa85fHPrJ9iKbPoI76AL8lbvLXVl2yFaNdL-1gfGPCbNIxLAKjOtUqYvz6Dh7jsOtPMGN_-a51cj5Q8lXXVDjRsfdza7pZm5-77MNzsec12RvAMqSDRakaKt2FMpk/s320/received_1467112776970433.jpeg" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I had to give it a day to be blown away. My brain first tried to connect what I said with what he heard and how that created what he drew. Talking to him about the why of the various elements, I could then understand what he took away from our conversation, and it was very gratifying. He was looking at the same situation from an angle I hadn't conceived. I was confident then that we were going to end up with a great cover. I had to shake my head again, thinking about how much time and effort it took just to start over. <div><br /></div><div>I don't know what I would say to my younger self if I had a time machine. A lot of people use words like "enjoy the process" and similar sayings. I know that wouldn't have touched me then. It doesn't really touch me now. However, there is something profoundly powerful and inescapable about how I feel when I try to put my hands around this entire experience, and have substantive it all is. </div><div><br /></div><div>The work continues, and I am so very happy about that.<br /><p><br /></p></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-83723431950138193502021-05-02T08:23:00.003-07:002021-05-02T08:23:25.648-07:00Around (again)<p> Facebook informs me I haven't posted to my page in a while. That must mean it's been an extra long while. </p><p><br /></p><p>I haven't done a good job juggling my online presence. For a bit there, I was using <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jecammon/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> about once week, definitely once every other week. I felt good about that, and really good that I can't completely recall all the work I've posted there. I saw an interview once with a navy S.E.A.L. about the work and the rigor, and he explained that looking far down the road can make the task seem overwhelming, so his advice was instead to focus only on the next step. Then the next step. Then the next. I like it, but maybe I agree because it fits my process. </p><p><br /></p><p>Speaking of, I had a conversation with my cover artist, and that went really productively. I continue to be amazed at his progress. He told me talking things out with his clients helped him develop ideas in his mind. I told him I wanted to do whatever I could to take advantage of the energy I saw in some of his other work. It's been really well-timed, I think. The next book is the last book I was able to put out before the previous publisher went under. The situation created an impediment, a line that I could not advance beyond. I've written a lot of words since then, but because I am so negligent with my social media, no one will ever know unless I put covers on them and push them out into the world. So, the next cover, the next book, is the new starting line, and it's taken me years to get back to it. </p><p><br /></p><p>On the topic of the latest book though, here is an interesting bit of process. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fAvMeeQtoLQAM-A7fDoa1o_GeNT22ZBQZNRgYarCzG_vsAWqkQtrSFZ0C1wZbdJ6S9Q3dxaZydT8vGdcMPC-tf5StovDPSIeiyvmdc4Rd9zMnKo72S0nGEGPg4WO-UhPyo-9knQfB4I/s2048/Servant%2527s-Throne-sketch-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fAvMeeQtoLQAM-A7fDoa1o_GeNT22ZBQZNRgYarCzG_vsAWqkQtrSFZ0C1wZbdJ6S9Q3dxaZydT8vGdcMPC-tf5StovDPSIeiyvmdc4Rd9zMnKo72S0nGEGPg4WO-UhPyo-9knQfB4I/s320/Servant%2527s-Throne-sketch-2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQzEHQQ7MPrx4xG5Ygp2ZPA-VEP6tFu_B-3R6ARvFRzt_v5nZIK-uofyzGuB3aw2lLs2U61DC7-jDj53pv89_JRuLz_e1CN26c5y8nqigJJomvV6Pl_TQwLzbiGmpVtsUEk_HUpUUVMo/s2048/Servant%2527s-Throne-sketch-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQzEHQQ7MPrx4xG5Ygp2ZPA-VEP6tFu_B-3R6ARvFRzt_v5nZIK-uofyzGuB3aw2lLs2U61DC7-jDj53pv89_JRuLz_e1CN26c5y8nqigJJomvV6Pl_TQwLzbiGmpVtsUEk_HUpUUVMo/s320/Servant%2527s-Throne-sketch-1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>Here are two concepts he developed from conversations we had initially. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTzFqQqxFN-IO_zzUrsxErgkyD-ILcnMK-QSFDObQTKJHfVOAHSO7si6uDfo0AzxoamQj6DxVmaJnCcNQf-B7DvZsMuai4NWPHsbxeTyVS9SRUxtJoPoFt_NQGOTiDLlYlLajebdGwpw/s2048/AST+cover+w-+gfx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTzFqQqxFN-IO_zzUrsxErgkyD-ILcnMK-QSFDObQTKJHfVOAHSO7si6uDfo0AzxoamQj6DxVmaJnCcNQf-B7DvZsMuai4NWPHsbxeTyVS9SRUxtJoPoFt_NQGOTiDLlYlLajebdGwpw/s320/AST+cover+w-+gfx.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>As the main characters are cops, and one of them has not completely human, I wanted to use the red and blue of the emergency lights and the warm and cold of the human/supernatural dichotomy. I'm really looking forward to see what comes now that we've advanced to having actual meetings and more interactive exchanges. He asked good questions, and I was happy to be able to give him substantive answers. </p><p><br /></p><p>While all this has been going on, I have come up with some new ideas, some new stories. Right this second, I feel like I know what the next project will be, when all of this is done. But I'm trying to keep my head down to mind my feet. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-59332360524736117192021-01-31T08:06:00.001-08:002021-01-31T08:06:18.007-08:00A little late<p>The cover came in this week, and the fact of the matter is I was not ready. So, in lieu of putting down my thoughts about how all of that is going, I will instead be elsewhere, making it go. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLmzYfj0ReyGyL5_hk5LyE8QOhtAd8jeBc9oeTCBHKHpFcYpUuc2kTKsYO4iyqiKAxitKMew3W4PSL3qkRIc_AagMXbSmWtiTtHn8tx39WtavTkCKTYEQiyZ2gTWv_NWWrZWg4LO_pxY/s2048/AST.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1280" height="503" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLmzYfj0ReyGyL5_hk5LyE8QOhtAd8jeBc9oeTCBHKHpFcYpUuc2kTKsYO4iyqiKAxitKMew3W4PSL3qkRIc_AagMXbSmWtiTtHn8tx39WtavTkCKTYEQiyZ2gTWv_NWWrZWg4LO_pxY/w314-h503/AST.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-77985906874364853932020-12-13T03:58:00.001-08:002020-12-13T03:58:47.063-08:00An idea meaning new, but also old<p> I have this friend. He's been an easy target for chiding over the years because of his inability to multi-task. When he sends an email, he needs peace and quiet, no side conversations, no texting. When he goes out to eat (when people used to do that) carrying on a conversation would be nigh impossible if there was a television that he could see. And despite this well documented inability, he has the most varied list of hobbies of almost anyone I know. He writes and plays music, belongs to an off-roading club for which he maintains a capable vehicle, rides a motorcycle, hikes, and plays video games. Or, he did (referring to children this time, not the pandemic). I always felt like he would've been happier, felt less stretched, if he had found a way to focus on one thing. </p><p>I wouldn't say I lost myself in <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jecammon/" target="_blank">my humble little Instagram project</a>, but concentrating on that did make me lose sight of blogging. I guess I only have so many spoons for social media. Difficulty entraps me in ways I am not always comfortable. The idiosyncrasies of the service befuddle me, like how you can't post from a desktop, or how the posting window is more square than it is rectangular, or, more square than the window of a smart phone camera view. And beyond that, there are all the little peculiarities of using a camera phone for photography, the differences between portrait and photo and the powers of zoom. And the filters. And I can't even say I figured any of that out. Since starting, I have mostly managed to post once a week, and the exercise of arrangement along with the process of writing has sapped energies I would've been spending elsewhere. The novel has stalled, but I think what has helped that was a heightened emotionality the year has afflicted on me. In the end, I realized I had no real power to point and laugh. I struggle, too.</p><p>When this all started, I had this idea, I called it the "19 in 20." I have long held the idea that pressure and pain and discomfort and discontent are powerful sources of art. There is much conversation about the "hunger" of the starving artist, how rich and refined their work is when they are struggling with very little, and then how that quality tapers off after they get some food in their belly, and space enough to sigh in relief. I connected these ideas and thought to compile work conducted by artists I knew during this time, as a way to document a very important period in the world's history. It was ambitious, but it also overlooked the very basic need of holding shields against the madness of confinement, isolation, and disorientation. I can't say that I did not write, but the writing I did do had little to do with embracing the mindfulness of the times. Poetry I committed to put a magnifier on sparks of feelings I had on given days, far more pronounced that I might have otherwise experienced. And the fiction was very much an escape. </p><p>So I guess it is somewhat appropriate that I am back here with this at a time when the light in the tunnel is the brightest it's been in a good long while. Words like vaccine and president-elect now feature heavily in the news, along side record high hospitalizations and election fraud. The year is almost over. It makes me reflect on the power of symbols. After all, many artificial things change on the 1st, on documents in databases represented by ones and zeros, but there is no appreciable change in the nature of the sky or what trouble the horizon might bring, only our thinking about it. Because of those symbols. The reservoir of resolve is refurbished, as fresh memories of newest resolutions are synced and forged. A great many of us proactively challenge ourselves to find precise ways to be better. I've given it some thought recently, and come away mostly with questions. I have some foggy recollection of "being kinder to myself" and "being more responsible with my health" and I did go to the doctor more in the past year than I had in the 10 years previous, but I sincerely thought I was dying. It was similar to finding religion in the window seat of a crashing plane.</p><p>So maybe I could think of next year as a re do. I can't imagine that as a very novel thought. At least, I hope the tenor of '21 will be of coming again, trying again. At least, for those of us who can. There is something very awful about starting over, especially when it is preceded by so much erasing and deleting, so much baggage swept into refuse. But there are some incredible notes, too. Because the baggage doesn't really go away. More, it can be folded into something like wisdom to inform what can be done with the new clean slate. We're better already, so whatever we perform will have that benefit. We must only be resolved to try again. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-45430353218286398482020-10-16T06:48:00.001-07:002020-10-16T06:48:48.900-07:00Changing worlds<p> It says I haven't posted in some weeks, but unlike a lot of other times this year, I don't have to invent writing that I was thinking about doing. I don't have to wonder if thinking about writing is the same as actually putting words down, if editing and brainstorming and outlining well help throw off the specter of stagnation. Seven weeks ago I felt good about the critical mass of story notes and setting detail and decided to see how far into it I could get. The story was kind of a continuation of a short story I penned last year. I cannot recall what the impetus was for that piece; honestly, I will admit that I don't even know where I saved it. Regardless, it had a similar premise, and it got my attention because despite everything else that was going on, it kept my attention. And now I am working on chapter seven. </p><p>It felt really good to read back through everything, adjust the outline, flesh in some notes, make some decisions, and some gambles for the long term, and start a master file. A month and a half turned out to be over 15,000 words and some thirty pages. It reminded me of people starting NaNoWriMo early, and like usual, I have lost the ability to keep apace with that kind of output. I sent it to one person, the only person I had spoken to who was not reeling from the surprising vortex the pandemic produced, of time, of energy, of sanity. I personally can't do the math. My schedule is hybridized, and compared to how things were before, I have at least three extra hours a week by virtue of not commuting. But it just doesn't add. So, I may wait for that feedback before pushing on, I may not. The biggest determinant will be whether I can untwist the next knot of the narrative I'm building. It's kind of grandiose science fiction, and I am all at once proud I am not shying away from the demands and terrified that I am missing something, not accounting for something. </p><p>And that's not all. A perfect storm of creative productivity and positive vibes had me making an <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jecammon/" target="_blank">Instagram account</a>. Someone I know, who it turns out didn't even use the service, told me she thought it was a place where people went to find artists. Another person I had befriended told me it was a place where lots of people came together and had really high traffic numbers. The truth is that it is a phone-based application, so a laptop user like myself that mostly uses his camera for remembering things and his phone for youtube is way behind the curve. I had some days of intense frustration that I couldn't upload things from other devices, that there were no clear labels for anything, only unintuitive symbols, and there were no instructions in the interface at all. Ultimately what I had earned was a new challenge, and once I had wrapped my head around that, it was fine. I am using it to deposit my poetry, new and old. Because it is a visual medium, I have chosen to decorate the pieces with artifacts and setting that hopefully further enhance the words. I came up with the hashtag PicturesaboutPoetry. Then I learned that making up your own hashtags is not effective. </p><p>In other other news, I continue to have great conversations with my cover artist. His growth is really encouraging. He seems to be wrestling with the conundrum that with time, his work will only improve in quality, but waiting will not produce any work. I know how that feels, and yet I do not have any words to help him stumble any less than I did. I look back at entire books I wrote, which I thought highly of at the time, but now they seem more like practice, or preparation, I had to enact to be able to write the kinds of stories I am working on now, and might be able to reach later. I have mixed feelings about that, and even then, I could just be flat out wrong. Time is funny that way, how incredibly wise it seems from how it can teach so much. </p><p>I guess the last bit is I am applying for yet another opportunity to write for a company. I have always enjoyed games with great story, and being able to contribute to a project like that has always seemed very fun and fulfilling and educational. Because of the times, more and more opportunities have focused on people of color as applicants, and my friends have been very supportive about sending any and all such my way. In consecutive seasons now I have applied and not heard back and applied and not heard back. My method for such is to fully commit myself to the application process, then blissfully forget I even tried. Maybe that's safer, or maybe it's just foolish. I'm old enough now that I can look to the left and the right of my path and squint and trace out in the distance where I might have ended up had this or that opportunity turned out differently for me. There are so many different worlds. I am consistently in awe of the possibilities, that with every step forward, new ripples form.</p><p>All of that is to say I'm still here. And I've been traveling. </p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-34802769409993306362020-08-16T03:27:00.002-07:002020-08-16T03:27:32.646-07:00Like[s,] stars<p> My time on websites like YouTube was limited once upon a time, but over the years, as technology advanced, I came to rely on it as the primary research tool for "Hey did you see-" type inquiries. From wildlife videos to news clips to movie trailers to comedy skits, it is a time sink. I learn things every day, and a lot of that education is dispensed through the platform. And I sunk deep enough recently to discover the existence of content creators, and that some of the content is video of people responding to other people's content. Reality folds back on itself. But something useful came out of it, too, which was a growing confidence in my getting back out there, into attempting to promote myself. A co-worker is starting a business. We work in education, and according to her, a sad reality of that is needing a second job if one wants to be an educator, long-term. We discussed all of what she's doing, and she showed me the beginnings of a website she was designing, which made me reflect on my failures in social media. When she mentioned a friend that helps people with that sort of thing, I felt like I might have insight on how to move forward. </p><p>So I sent an email, which started another journey. I felt it was important to convey where I was in the process, how I was about understanding all of the social media and promotional tools, and what I had to offer. Good questions were passed about. I discovered that my website is down, and probably has been for some time, and that I have no clue about how to fix that. I got feedback on my blog, and it was good to confirm some of my suspicions. In looking around to show something else to help get my message across, I found myself on Amazon looking for my author page. I found it, along with the first unsolicited review of the re-release of my books:</p><p>"Monsters in an urban setting that aren't politicians... really monsters and some I like.Vampire, werewolf, old world secrets, curious human... a very cool adventure."</p><p>My first thought when I saw the little number and the colored-in stars was that finally, finally one of my friends, one of the people I gave a copy to, someone had gotten back around to jotting something down. When I clicked on the little number, I scrolled down and read the post first. I read the post and then I read the name. None of it, really, made any sense. Not that it was confusing, but I couldn't take in what the post even was, because I was so moved that someone I didn't know had posted at all. Those two sentences made my day. </p><p>Looking at the date, I realized that I was doing a terrible job all around of keeping track of things like that. Checking on my website, my reviews, even my sales all fall beneath notice. I have been stuck on story logistics, edits on old novels, re-writes of current novels, and projecting into outlines of novels I may never even write. I tried to give all of this over to the web maven, to help them understand. I am mildly interested in being better. </p><p>I have come to think of content creators in units. In almost every case, they seem to come together in groups made up of the people for whom the activity is a goal and those who are supportive of those other people. Some of them only have a few thousand subscribers, and they are in the midst of improving their equipment along with their skills. There are a variety of reoccurring participants and production quality is at a lower level. On into six digits, more of the creator's videos are visible below a given selection. The sound is better, the editing is cleaner. Fewer of those support figures are present. There are some content creators that have millions of subscribers. They are gravity wells of their own, with merchandise and sponsors. Other creators make content videos responding to their work. By this point, whoever appears along side them in videos is another creator or aspiring creator. I can only imagine how the activity has become a job, and how it fills the corners of their daily lives. But I think I can see the transition, how everything around them and about them changes as time moves forward and they increase their visibility.</p><p>The web maven asked me if I was reluctant to share of myself, based on our exchanges, and I had to think about how I actually felt about it. I had to admit that I felt that I really only had confidence in my stories, things I had pulled out of my mind and hammered into a shape I could feel pride over. I'm not sure if I have to get over that, or what I need to turn that one review into one hundred. One thousand. On the one hand, it might be changing my perspective about promotion, taking steps to educate myself and evolve with the times. On the other hand, it could be something as simple as exercising patience. Maybe that's something I'll learn tomorrow.</p>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-18024376823908941822020-07-23T08:42:00.002-07:002020-07-23T08:42:18.079-07:00The work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I fell off again. I didn't get sick, or suffer any great personal tragedy. I was actually given more time to work, and with that time I managed to work even less. <div>
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For the cover art, the artist assures me he is still working, though at this point I should probably reach out and make sure he's alright. In general, I like to think that my record for messaging people is much better than average, kind of the opposite of blogging. I sketched out the cover for book 6, even though I have no idea what I'd like book 5 to look like. I'm in the same place I was some years ago, when the 5th book was put out by the publisher and the problems of management finally took their toll. The impact of effective management has been a reoccurring theme that I am not happy with with organizations I associate with. </div>
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For the writing, I finished edits on the 4th book, and started working on the 5th, when my momentum suffered the kind of setback and loss of momentum where I can't even remember when I stopped. In that lull, a new idea, a science fiction idea, reared up, grabbed hold and has been occupying much of my thinking time in the past month or so. It is the continuation of a short story I wrote last year, and in taking down notes, doing research, talking ideas out with people, could one day have legs. One of the most revealing elements was the exposure of another science fiction series I started (and then restarted). The concept was based in a premise of humanity fleeing a decrepit earth with none of the knowledge needed to maintain the bleeding edge technology of that future. I thought it was interesting, but I also wrote it that way out of fear. I was afraid that committing to the technological aspects of science fiction were beyond me, because of how little understanding I had of modern invention and innovation. This new story did not shy away from that. Nay, it could not be written without it. It was like I had grown and not even realized it. </div>
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Which is what I hope is happening in other aspects of my life. The world is changing, and depending on what one means when one says "the world" it is changing despite not wanting to. And it is changing because its fundamental constituent parts are being forced to by circumstance. I have had conversations I never imagined having, hearing things I could not have imagined hearing. It is a bizarre time, and I am torn between feeling very strongly that change is uncomfortable and acknowledging very clearly that change is necessary for evolution. Overall, I feel like my hands are pushing against a dashboard, elbows locked, as I turn my head and close my eyes bracing for an impact that I can only speculate at. I don't know when it's coming, or how bad it will be. But the brakes have already locked. The squeal of the tires is in my ears. </div>
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I had a long conversation with a friend and fellow writer, and it was another learning experience, because I made a statement with little prefacing or lead in, because the person was a friend and a fellow writer. I assumed that as my friend, we'd spent enough time together that they could translate my perspective into their own understanding, and as a fellow writer, I thought that we had very similar ideas about characterization and dialog and plot. The conversation wasn't supposed to be long; it wasn't even supposed to be a conversation. It turned into one because I had to explain what I meant, and it took a while. I felt like I had to go all the way back to the beginning before skipping back up the road where we started. Every now and again, more often recently, I am confronted with the idea that I don't have a common sight or conception. I'm looking at the same thing everyone else is looking at, but I have strange angles. </div>
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That thought eventually led me to a place where I realized that while everyone has challenges, people have very different reactions to their challenges. Like obstacles in our paths, we might swerve erratically or smoothly dodge or barrel forward or lock up entirely. My hurdles are more like pit traps. When I engage them, they send me into spirals, because they are most usually evidence of my unworthiness or testaments to fresh failures. I have long practice at climbing up and out of such places, but I am even more highly trained in reacting to the obstacles by face-first swan diving. Unfortunately, I don't think becoming more adaptable will be a process that happens without my consent. This will be something I will have to impose willfully. I will have to look upon my shortcomings, things about myself that I hate, and encourage them, acknowledge them, and understanding them. </div>
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I will have to internalize that just because I am not writing, does not mean I am not working. </div>
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J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-63355784544483286442020-05-12T14:36:00.003-07:002020-05-12T14:36:55.265-07:00In sickness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am alive.<br />
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It is unfortunate that such a thing is an even greater uncertainty in these times, and not because whatever random 90s disaster movie turned out to be true, but because of our bizarre relationship with objective truth.<br />
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I haven't posted in some time, and not for lack of thinking about it. The walls of my apartment have been my world for the most part since the "virus season" began. I leave once a week for groceries, sometimes for walks, but generally my world has shrunk down to a scant few square feet. I work in this chair. I recline on that couch. Sometimes, I share time with friends through my internet connection on yet a third chair. I've learned a lot about myself, and one idea is that without work, I have little reason to go anywhere. Still, the adjustment of being forced to stay at home was difficult. I had strange dreams and stranger thoughts. <a href="https://thought-drive.blogspot.com/2020/03/she-called-it-new-normal.html" target="_blank">I wrote a short story</a>, and had the idea to write more, to get together with other writers and commit to a bundle of thoughts about our time in quarantine. I wanted to stamp this time, artistically, in the same way we did not have the time or poise to catalog other moments in our history.<br />
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That didn't take off at all. And like many memes, nor did I explode with creativity and productivity. The edits on the 4th novel are almost done, and the cover art commences. The relationship I am building with the artist has been very enriching. Just today he asked me about the virus response in my country. He was very kind and did not point out that his nation is faring far, far better than mine. He also asked to read my work. I was humbled, and set about getting him connected with how to download the <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-charmed-city-j-e-cammon/1132386439;jsessionid=3C8BD12782D5A0FF27E7839DF0EC6D32.prodny_store02-atgap08?ean=2940156564644" target="_blank">first book, which is free in ebook</a>. While doing so, I found that I actually had a review. Someone had downloaded the book, read it, and then commented:<br />
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Confusing</h3>
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Needs a bit of editing and I never did get the point of he story or the essence of the main characters. I didn't understand the world they lived in.</div>
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</div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This came with 1 star. "Zitzka" has 17 other reviews, none of which I looked at. When I read the review, I had a quiet moment. Deathly quiet, like a whisper in space. And then I thought, "someone read my book, and reviewed it. That's awesome." And then I heard everyone that has been supportive of me, their consoling compliments and empathetic sighing. But I meant what I said. Feedback is a gift. Even if it is horrible, even if it disagrees, that is still time and effort someone put in, and I am grateful for it. I think maybe the most difficult thing to do in this world is to get someone else to care. I have some estimation of how many copies are out there, read, unread, downloaded by mistake, and the first person to take the time to respond isn't someone who liked it, but someone who didn't get it at all.<br />
<br />
And that is what got me back here, typing this. And I know it wouldn't have been the same had it been a 5 star, congratulatory explosion of praise. That I would've kept just for me, maybe told some close friends. But this was discouraging, and absorbing that discouragement felt important enough to put down somewhere publicly. They won't all be diamonds. They can't be.<br />
<br />
I wish I was as motivated by nice things. I wish I remembered those positive moments just as crisply, but that is not what I'm working with. Or maybe that's something I should be working on. After all, I am still alive, so why not grow? <br />
<br />
In the meantime, I think I'll write some more.</div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-48396335311244298262020-03-17T06:02:00.001-07:002020-03-17T06:02:25.225-07:00She called it 'the new normal'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Distracted thinking saw me contemplating book titles like The Virus Season and invented colloquialisms like 'the 19 in 20.' Working from home has been jarring, also feeling a little trapped. This morning I woke up with a story in my head, so, without a great deal of fanfare, I wrote it down.<br />
<br />
I don't like the ending.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, there we were, standing on opposite sides of the lot
with an audience of parked cars ordered neatly into their spaces, watching us
do a little dance. One dog and walker went left, while another went right, one
back, another forward. All the while holding tight to the leashes of our family
pets who didn’t know a thing about social distance. In the beginning, Dad took Yorker
out mostly. I think he needed something to do, wanted anything to control. He
never said if he was taking time off, or if he’d have a job to go back to, if
he was working, or if he was looking for work. Then, some time later, I guess
Mom wanted in on the activity. She was working from home, but something different
was keeping her from stillness. Maybe it was us. Then, after it became mundane,
I started walking. That’s how I ended up outside, around the same time, just
about every day; that’s how I met her. But this was the 19 in ’20, so, meeting
wasn’t like meeting. I saw her, and I saw her see me, and we exchanged a wave,
and from a distance acknowledged our mutual humanity. She had a variety of colorful
workout pants and retro graphic t-shirts. She wore very bright sneakers and
liked her hair up in a ponytail. She had a really easy smile, too, but what captured
me was her walk. Where I could set my feet in place to restrain our Jack
Russel, she fought every other step not to be dragged by her Great Dane. Ultimately,
she would lose, but she still fought every day. Her animal loped and charged
and she carefully fought against the power, thoughtful not to hurt it, but did
so with a certain dignity. The fourth time I saw her, I thought about shouting along
with my wave. But then I thought that maybe if I yelled hello, all the
fantasies I had would also spill out, ricochet and echo off the apartment
siding and through the urban tree line. So instead I opted for a kind of full
body sign language. I didn’t realize it then, but everyone had the same
questions, and so were waiting with the answers in case anyone got close enough
to ask. On the 17<sup>th</sup> day, it was her ingenious idea to wait until her
animal was doing its business, until she confirmed my staring, to bend down and
write something on the pavement. The chalk rock she had apparently just found
one day, and she never confirmed how long she’d been holding onto it. Yorker
was happy enough to commit to my curiosity and when I got close enough, I could
see that she had written a telephone number onto the blacktop. I looked up and
we made eye contact and the smile made my face feel strange. Yorker was obliged
to race me back to the apartment building. The bubbles in the messenger app
were like air at the bottom of the ocean. The message that popped up was like
sunlight at the bottom of the ocean. We talked for hours that strung together
into days. A new context was given to the daily smiles and waves. I found
myself dressing more nicely, and she noticed with chiding remarks. We compared our
dogs and our parents and our lives. It never occurred to me, but of course we
went to the same high school. It always occurred to me, later, that we never
would’ve met without the 19 in ’20. Thinking back now, I can’t quite remember
how it exactly happened, but she waited for two days to tell me that she had
the symptoms. I had even seen her that day, being pulled along by Shadow. She
was just as careful as always, just as loving. I had the numbers, though. People
our age didn’t succumb. Or, we did, but it was a fraction of a percent. That didn’t
even seem like a whole person. So I told her I would love whatever part of her
was left. Plus the vaccine was on the way. My mom said it was viable, and my
dad said there was a distribution plan being put into place. I couldn’t get all
the reassurance into the phone fast enough. She didn’t text any more quickly
though. If I had thought about it, I might have noticed that they had been slowing
for days. I remember when I saw her mother from behind. I remember the moment
when I realized she wasn’t coming back outside. So, there we were, standing on
opposite sides of the lot with an audience of parked cars ordered neatly into
their spaces, watching us do a little dance. I had gotten pretty good at it, the
silent communication. Her mother couldn’t yell it, and I didn’t want to hear it
at all. But Terra had gone in the night. And that was about it. Her mother knew
the questions; I just wasn’t close enough to ask. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-15426263761184665012020-03-04T05:11:00.002-08:002020-03-04T05:11:41.725-08:00This is how we live<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I like to tell my students when they fail that an error only becomes a mistake when they neglect to learn from it. It's largely semantics, but there is a certain difference in permanence between the two. Make a wrong turn on a new commute, that's an error, that's an opportunity. Make the same wrong turn six months later, that's a mistake, that's a flatly wrong decision. Like an exhausted mine, it's settled and resigned in what it is, and what it isn't.<br />
<br />
So, the cover art is almost done for the third book, but I finished the edits yesterday. There is still a dull whine like I've forgotten something, but before I left the office I was able to read the last line on the last page, be satisfied with the sum total, and sigh. The conversations about Covid 19 in earshot have been escalating, but in the midst of all that the only thing I felt was gratitude. I'm a bit in awe, really, of the transformation I was able to enact, from the little changes, like when I clearly was writing lazily and didn't have much of a fixed idea and things drifted, and I was able to encase the meaning with stronger ideas and more direct diction. To the big things, like plot tethers I didn't realize I was failing to take advantage of, or research pieces I was able to work into the narrative to lend more grounding. At one point last week, a thought crystallized for me, and it was 'this is almost like a different person wrote this.'<br />
<br />
Truth be told, before I got to that point I was doing a lot of grumbling. Like a frustrated child kicking a rock down a street, I turned the pages. I couldn't believe I was reading it through again. It was fine, I thought to myself. And are we okay with just fine, my self rebutted. I stuck my lip out and sulked. No, I had to admit. I started all this, in concept, because I felt like the stories were good enough to be read; I thought they deserved to be read. Broad strokes, I wanted to earn my name. I wanted future publishers to see my record and look on it with a growing confidence. I still wanted my stock in a stable somewhere. But it all fell on me. Catching every error, preventing every mistake, was my responsibility. And in the beginning, I resented it. I was perturbed at the me that left typos behind.<br />
<br />
And I don't know when it changed. I do know that the last ten chapters or so really benefited from it. A lot of things were happening, and there was a narrative juggle that I was doing. The fact of the matter is that some seven or eight years ago I just wasn't as practiced. What's more, because it was like it was someone else, it was almost like I had an extra set of hands to catch everything and send them up again. It made me really look forward to working on the back half of the eight books. I was in a different place for those than I was for the initial volumes. So much so that I have trouble remembering what even happens. Even more, I am curious, for the first time in a long, long time about what might happen. I wonder how the story ends for this character, or this one, I thought to myself. Read and see, my self replied back. Which I guess explains fixed mindset, versus growth mindset, something else I talk about with my students. Perspective matters.<br />
<br />
It looks like I will be posting the cover art around the time it's finalized. The artist, <a href="https://artofmorby.com/" target="_blank">who has a name and a website I should mention</a>, told me he has a growing appreciation for cover art, and his statement made me wonder how he is changing, growing, from interacting with me. I can only guess at his evolution as we fall through our miscommunications and misunderstanding and roll into new realizations. It can be a scary process, adaptation, or not, depending on how it's taken in.<br />
<br />
Even still, wash your hands. </div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-85876384054607863812020-02-15T09:50:00.000-08:002020-02-15T09:50:03.591-08:00Perfect red hearts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The hallmark holiday was just about done when I realized I had missed it. Seeing the decorations at the grocery store, the pinks and reds in advertisements, I was aware that it was close. But the day of held no specific focus for me.<br />
<br />
However I did receive an email that <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084QKYBX1/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=a+hunter%27s+road&qid=1581788918&s=books&sr=1-3" target="_blank">the second book was finally available for print orders</a>. I say finally because an additional wrinkle appeared this go round. I spoke earlier on the exact nature of the measurements: that the trim and border and gutter are all measured down to the thousandth of an inch. This time I also learned that another important measurement is the distance between the edge of the spine and the text of the spine. It took me a moment to even conceptualize why that mattered. The email was a shock because I had already approved of the cover, already submitted the product, the pricing, the distribution, walked away and happily forgot. And then the notification that something had gone wrong. However I did do less staring, less pondering, less gnashing of teeth overall. There are eight books in the series I'm currently putting out. I wonder if there are that many lessons, that many tiny, easily overlooked considerations, or if there are many, if there are dozens.<br />
<br />
I swelled in relief though, when I finally got the email of confirmation. It was the height of the week. I also got word from my cover artist that he is moving in to the last phases of the art for the third book, whose final edits are coming along well. I threw him a bit of a curve ball this time, asking for a kind of light show effect. I continue to be thankful that he is willing to work with my requests. Just the other morning, a flash of insight occurred to me for the next cover. I don't know how difficult any of these requests are, ultimately, but thinking back to my other interactions with other artists, I don't seem to be asking for small things.<br />
<br />
Which prompts even more thinking about the bygone holiday. Love is described in many psychology textbooks as an obsession. An all-consuming neurosis. In truth, it wasn't my focusing on stories and covers and edits and reviews that kept my attention away from the matters of roses and thorns, but I was definitely otherwise mentally engaged. When it was all done, and I was lying myself to bed after midnight, only then did I have the fleeting thought of what I had missed, and maybe what I would be missing.<br />
<br />
I had an impromptu conference with a student last week, about what all people seemed to want, and how schooling and classes fit into that idea in a western world concept. I told him everyone was just trying to be happy, and working, performing a duty, providing a service, was part of that. So, we were all searching for a way to be satisfied with how we expended ourselves, that such contentment was a method for achieving joy on a day to day basis, to put ourselves to rest soundly every night. It was one of those situations where I was talking to someone else, but I was also speaking to myself.<br />
<br />
I love this, but happy is a work in progress. </div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-21822985294159154502020-01-26T07:00:00.002-08:002020-01-26T07:00:49.469-08:00Pain, management<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The director of the program where I had my first job out of college recently went in for his second hip surgery. A group text got circulated, the kind that encourages people to reach out and well wish. I was a week late with my communication, and even then called at a bad time. A few days after that, he called me back, and filled me in on his recovery and retirement. And rehabilitation. He explained the pain of the program, of the discomfort of building up strength again, in preparation for when the pain medication runs dry and one has to endure without supplement. He told me about a lady he used to see at the hospital, recovering from a knee procedure, and how she would always cut corners. He saw her some months later, apparently. She had a limp, and would forever require the use of a cane.<br />
<br />
I used to be pretty good at math. Or, Maths. I thought that when the cover for the second book arrived, I'd be able to hustle through the publishing process. The problem was that I peeked at the manuscript again. I'll read the first few chapters, I thought. I found an error on the first page, and a better way to phrase a few things on the second page, and third page. By the end of the prologue, I was disappointed with myself about how I had left things. I groaned and grumbled about going through it all over again, page to page, line by line. I had to remind myself that this is what I wanted. I wanted to publish the version of these books that I wanted to publish, with no back and forth with an editor and no stipulations in contracts. Even with the reminder, I really, really wanted to cut some corners.<br />
<br />
Then the cover came, and suddenly, I was the one holding up my own progress. I went over the halfway mark of the book and things cleared up. I would make an adjustment here and there, a stronger verb, a more concise description, better sentence structure, but overall, I wasn't grumbling anymore, at least about the kinds of things I should have fixed. I tell students I meet often that writing is a process, that perfect never happens. So, I am able to recline somewhat. But with every week, my schedule gets busier. The random vagaries of the day to day confound a moment here and there where I might be pushing forward. I've even gotten sick a couple times. And I think about how it's mostly good. I'm probably done with the roughest parts. But now one of the voices I hear is my former boss'.<br />
<br />
I don't know how to describe the meaningfulness of these random stories I come across. I had a script for the conversation with my old boss. I'd ask him how his hip was; he'd ask me about my new job; we'd also discuss my father. Somewhere in there I was expecting, hoping, that he would tell me what he always used to tell me: that I was good enough to be whatever I wanted. But I ended up learning about rehab. I knew that it was difficult, but I didn't know that it was hard because it hurt. I didn't know that it was an activity performed in preparation of a future contentment, and not just about fixing something in the present. Hard decisions now for better outcomes later.<br />
<br />
So, I guess I'll be combing all the way through, every page, every line. It won't be perfect, but I will be able to say that it was as good as I could make it, at the time. And I guess that takes as long as it takes.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-14760026824530882852020-01-07T03:49:00.002-08:002020-01-07T03:49:21.340-08:00Just add words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My manager gifted me with a bookstore gift card for the holiday, and this past weekend I decided to go and see what I could buy. I spent very little time researching my options and cursed myself later for my dereliction. I walked circles around the store, gift card in hand, like maybe it was a dowsing rod or other divination tool. Like it would vibrate when I was near the item I sought. I had aspirations, and each was quickly dashed as it bubbled up into my mind. I saw the music section in the back and thought about all the music I wish I had unlimited access to. Then I realized I don't own a CD player. I thought that surely there must be some mechanism to purchase mp3s and transfer them to my phone or a cloud account or... and then I was in the toys and games section. I thought about something to put on my desk, a puzzle I could articulate that would stimulate my mind while winding away the down hours. But I had never heard of any of the games; I was suspicious of the promises on the back ending in exclamation points. Then I was in the science fiction and fantasy section, remembering the time when one of my books was on the shelf. Right next to Glen Cook. I fell into nostalgia touring all the covers. That's the kind of cover I want, I thought to myself. The gift card was silent and still, forgotten in my hand.<br />
<br />
"This cover is officially one of the covers that has pushed me to new levels." That was my cover artist yesterday after coming back to me in response to yet another series of alterations I requested. I think I might be difficult to work with. My sequential thoughts with almost any creative project I'm involved with are that of the product being good or good enough, and then, every time, about whether or not good is good enough. Despite evidence to the contrary, I very often conclude that a lack of success is a direct result of the work not having nearly enough sweat and blood on it. I always realize later that I could've pushed more. I could've tried harder. It's the kind of thought that haunts the loudest. "This is good." That was also my cover artist, commenting on how his being pushed was beneficial. I felt relieved when I read the sentences one after the other. And then I saw the cover.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMg-MHT-5k3_N_G7f8FkCob_iGBSxHi66_De34YmFuWJdqpQ703O6Pcz8c1kejc3XAMSK2X6zgPDW6dtG1Rk7o4nFcFjqSzmbJzLfsme4_3WEDZlevwAHcawCgoOlqY4ETKrA7vw60UE/s1600/Hunter%2527s-road-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMg-MHT-5k3_N_G7f8FkCob_iGBSxHi66_De34YmFuWJdqpQ703O6Pcz8c1kejc3XAMSK2X6zgPDW6dtG1Rk7o4nFcFjqSzmbJzLfsme4_3WEDZlevwAHcawCgoOlqY4ETKrA7vw60UE/s320/Hunter%2527s-road-cover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
I had this strange, elastic moment. I wanted to tell him it was great. I wanted to tell him it was perfect. That's how happy I was. Then my thoughts snapped backward like a rubber band. Was it perfect? Or rather, did I want to take from him how good he could be if he kept working? What I decided on was that his work, when he applied himself, deserved to be on the shelf along with all the other artists I had seen in the store.<br />
<br />
I am working on enjoying this evolution. In the back of my mind, it is my hope that every cover will be better, more amazing, and as people read the stories they will become more immersed, more invested. They'll tell others, and it will spread. The second thought I have is that for marketability, the reverse should be true. Get them hooked on something transcendent, then roll out the less amazing fare. But I'm also coming to understand that I may always have that second thought. That things will never be as good as I want them to be.<br />
<br />
I wonder if this condition of mine is useful, if it has any worth for an ultimate good. I wonder if maybe I should've considered a coffee table book about being happy. Maybe a coffee table, first. Baby steps. </div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-14769320734894235062019-12-15T06:11:00.001-08:002019-12-15T06:11:07.068-08:00Turn the eye, 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Over the past few months, I've been on a kind of cooking quest. I have a lot of gaps in my education and understanding of food, and the most used machine in my various living situations has been the microwave. I had pots and pans, but I had them more out of reasoning that I should because other people had them rather than that I should be using them. I spent some hours staring over a friend's shoulder in late summer as he meal prepped for the week for his family. I learned about cutting techniques and spice families, heating principles and preparation fundamentals. The biggest thing was a growing comfort with the preparation of food, personalizing the various procedures. I've ruined a lot of dishes, but in so doing I've learned a great deal.<br />
<br />
I'm going to relate this to a recent conversation I had with my cover artist. He sent me the latest version of what he'd been working on and I was, as usual, impressed. However, he expressed to me that he was having difficulty with one specific aspect, which was the element of the supernatural. Since learning a bit more about how covers work, I chose to go with largely contemporary scenes that disclosed a hint of the otherworldly. I wanted readers to double take, and then stare and scrutinize. Because it's important for them to understand what they might be about to read, and I think that for these stories, I focused on the natural before the super. Anyway, without further ado<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3QKoaCDPTNTWeFiKnZo6Dj00MRqyYOjnmkcqG2wyynbzcA8_bF-ZM9a9YDfFwLK7jv2bL8Cyn5_qMlem1R6BLAikzAbXvmmgJZA1nUlQsIBDNeAzW4rHtvf8lpO1BtiC6fdq02X6ImI/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3QKoaCDPTNTWeFiKnZo6Dj00MRqyYOjnmkcqG2wyynbzcA8_bF-ZM9a9YDfFwLK7jv2bL8Cyn5_qMlem1R6BLAikzAbXvmmgJZA1nUlQsIBDNeAzW4rHtvf8lpO1BtiC6fdq02X6ImI/s320/7.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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So something I eat for breakfast regularly now is sausage and eggs. It's the basis for the breakfast burritos my mother makes which I have attempted and failed at miserably. But the sausage and eggs I feel confident about. Typically, I eat it over rice. Yesterday I decided to try to take another step forward and cook hash browns. Honestly, the rice was a cost saving measure, a cheap side dish I was trying to pair with as many things as I could. The breakfast addition was a happy accident. Anyway, I ruined all of the potatoes, but as usual, I learned some things in the offing. Cooking speed and oil and how they're supposed to look in regards to color and how they're supposed to smell in regards to aroma: the elements of a successful hashed potato.<br />
<br />
Likewise, my artist decided to go with a night scene after we discussed my thoughts and his feelings about how to incorporate the supernatural elements. Part of me felt a little strange, about not using a perfectly good image like this. But then I had my experiences with cooking to look back on. Not every food item I've purchased has gone into my stomach. Some of them were burned beyond reckoning (the potatoes) or charred to the point of being inedible (quesadillas), gone bad from aging (meat) or become a strange pseudo-liquid because I hadn't used them in time (onions). Something I try to tell my students is that an error does not become a mistake until we fail to learn from it. It could very well all be semantics, but the point, I try to stress, is that we do gain something by losing.<br />
<br />
So, some steps forward, and some steps back.<br />
<br />
Like learning to dance. </div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-14400608693128206512019-11-18T06:41:00.001-08:002019-11-18T06:41:16.105-08:00Connecting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I have this pair of jeans. I bought them to replace a pair I had from the 90s. It didn't occur to me then, how long clothes, especially jeans, can last, and how important it is to get the correct size and preferable fit. At the time I was just tired. I had driven a long way only to find that they were a little long, and slightly too big. I paid without thinking; I paid for years because I didn't think. Fast forward to now, and they're starting to fall apart, because of wear and because they were too big to begin with. A large hole in the knee finally became too large to ignore, then when I did ignore it, it became even larger. A friend had access to sewing supplies, and gave me instruction on how patching works. I don't know what the fabric was for originally, but it was presented to me as durable and sturdy, and the white color was similar in hue to the faded denim of the thigh and what was left of the knee. I went to work, and after stabbing myself a dozen times, I reached a really quiet place where the universe kind of made sense. In and out, pull to tightness, mind the stitch, begin again. Somewhere in there I think I realized the difference between how I feel about writing, and how I feel about teaching.<br />
<br />
Two older ladies, let's say gals, dropped in to one of my appointment slots. Non traditional students have vastly different qualities and expectations from students under 24, and they are differences I appreciate. I don't tend to mince my words, and I have a preternatural focus on fixing problems. The students before me had been given instruction and explanation that they didn't understand, and for one reason or another had sought clarification elsewhere. From what they said and how they said it, from looking at their materials and assignment sheets, I felt confident I knew what the problem was. I spoke to the issue, backtracking across the timeline of incidents, paying special care to cast some light on the dark spots where we all tend to fill in the blanks and assume. It was a lot like loosening a string of knots. This is what your professor meant. This is how you accomplish that. Here is where it started to go wrong. Answers led to more questions as they began to trust, and those answers produced the thoughtful humming that often accompanies understanding. One of them asked me where I was from, where I went to school, and why if I had majored in English why I wasn't ultimately seeking to be a teacher. "He likes words," the second one said to the first, thinking I might be bothered by the interrogation. "Or writing," and she looked at me for clarification. I nodded in affirmation. "Oh well, you'll have to let me know when your book is out," the first one said. She had fish bowl bifocals and hands like my mother. I told her I already had a book out, which is the kind of thing I say sometimes without thinking, like trying to catch a falling item, and only later am I aware that I did it without thinking. She produced a piece of paper and a pen. "Oh, what's it called?" I was glad that I hadn't lied to save my ego. I was embarrassed because I had been revealing.<br />
<br />
All of that is to say I'm taking very, very small steps, like the footprints of needlework. Pushing it through, pulling it tight, then bringing it back out. Taking a moment to look at how far I've come, only to realize I have only traveled a quarter inch. But progress is progress. I told the woman the name, and spelled out my pen name. I did not tell her it might be hard to find, but I knew a physical copy could be purchased via Amazon. I knew because I've received several texts from friends that have them in hand, all across the country. I have certain reservations about the details of it, but it feels nice to be supported. I have doubts as to that sheet of paper with my title and name ever being used, but that was more about me being more confident, not reflexively, but squaring up to the social hurdle and consciously working to surmount it. Just like my pants, which I look upon lovingly now, not in spite of the strange, uneven patch but because of it. I know whose handiwork that is, and I know that when I don't feel a draft, it is because of my direct effort.<br />
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I enjoy teaching, and I think it's the same reaction some people get from volunteering. It feels good to help. I can still remembering floundering, paddling in circles, lost and frustrated. It makes me feel better to help someone in a similar position, or even better, helping out someone right before they sail off the waterfall.<br />
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But the phrase I came up with for writing is that when I write, it feels like my soul is aligned with the universe. There is nothing I'm happier doing, and it isn't even close. Nor am I very interested in finding something else that is close, which is often somewhat terrifying.<br />
<br />
Anyway, another draft of the cover is in, but there were some things I wanted changed, so I think I'll be waiting until the next update to post. But I am inching along, a quarter inch at a time, even.</div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-43704113441442104222019-11-03T04:35:00.002-08:002019-11-03T04:35:30.696-08:00Not even five hundredths<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A lot has been said about the margin of error. Or victory. How small it can be, and how such a small thing increases the size and meaning of easy-to-overlook details. I personally love Al Pacino's speech from <i>Any Given Sunday</i>. The cover for the first book has been done for months. For a similar span, the book has been available for purchase electronically at non-Amazon type places. I get a royalty check here and there. The plan, though, the plan was to push things through over at Amazon in the same interval to become visible to that many more readers. There was a whole timeline, which I dismantled with my incompetence. First the file was in the wrong format, so I had to go back to my artist. Then, it required one image, which included the front cover, the spine, and the back cover. I went back to my artist again. He was very kind to me, making all these after-the-fact changes. All of this because I wanted to fix an issue I had going back some nine years now.<br />
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At my publisher, before it went under, they decided on a very aggressive light purple, almost pink, for every spine and every back cover that they produced. The first cover of my first book was dark, to match the tone and subject matter. It is difficult to describe my level of disappointment when my copy came in the mail. It was mixed with the excitement of holding my work in my hands, so it was a complicated stew of emotion. I couldn't deny that one of the main ingredients was that something was wrong. I spent years ineffectually pretending like it didn't bother me. It was one of the main reasons I decided to stick with the publisher. If one was going to be - lilac, the color is called lilac - then they would all be so. I would crowd bookshelves with blocks of the offensive color. I would shock people with the quality of my writing after they reached, unsure, for that first volume. And then, when I re-released them again later with different art, as successful authors are want to do, I would buy back all the originals. I dreamed that the only record of their existence would be an obscure Wikipedia entry.<br />
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So, there I was, all my rights returned, a great new cover completed (he made the back cover black), all I had to do was put in the right information in the right order and I would be on a redemption path. Ten years later, where I wished I had been in the first place. Amazon has a previewer for print books that allows one to see what the cover and inside pages will actually look like. It requires a stamp of approval from the author for obvious reasons. However, unless everything jibes perfectly, the approve button will not appear. I had to go back to my artist three more times. I articulated, with my very limited understanding, what Amazon was saying from across continents, an ocean, and half a dozen time zones. It was a very discouraging process. I exchanged half as many emails with Amazon customer service, and it really did seem as though they weren't understanding me. That added frustration to the discouragement. All because of .048 inches. I will never forget that number.<br />
<br />
A friend helped me out. It was a moment of evidence against those who would argue that money is more directly valuable and esteem is more logistically helpful. I cannot buy all the things I want, and despite how much I've worked, and for how long, I remain unknown. However to be able to reach out and touch, eventually, a person who has what I've needed, or known what I needed, and the willingness to help me has been invaluable. I wouldn't be here without them. For this friend, it was a labor of half an hour, and most of that was fiddling with the language of the image editing software he was using. I might have marveled more had I not been so emotionally deaf to the whole ordeal. Part of me had honestly given up, assumed it wouldn't happen. To protect myself, I think my mind had cocooned my heart in a distant kind of obliviousness, encircled my center in a kind of distracted concrete. I had almost forgotten my login and password. But I can attest: Late is better than never.<br />
<br />
So, I'm just going to put <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1080901094?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860" target="_blank">this right here</a>, lean back, and sigh for a while.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-62449609079361214082019-09-22T06:09:00.001-07:002019-09-22T06:09:58.160-07:00A little; more<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Not a whole lot to report on the writing end. I've organized my to-do lists, and like every other time recently, was surprised at how much I'm not doing. I have three novels I could be submitting to agents, but I never developed a good system for generating the kind of volume I need to make that worthwhile. There are a lot of success stories about people finding agents, but on average it takes dozens and dozens of submissions before anything sticks. While I'm working on edits, maybe that's something I'll do: make yet another list.<br />
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In the mean time<br />
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I looked at this image in layers. First was the first-response factor; did I like it in and of itself. Then the content factor; did it do what I needed it to do as a cover for the novel resting behind it. On to the logistic factor; thinking about the issues last time, where does my byline go, and the title, and does that obscure any of the finer elements to be placed later. I'm happy when I think about the events of the novel and place them against the details of the cover. It's a good moment, where everything seems worthwhile. I know a lot of people doing a lot of good, hard work (my cover artist will be at the Lagos Comic Con). I like to think I'm keeping up, and that it all amounts to something at some point. </div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-38998879052341094192019-09-07T08:53:00.002-07:002019-09-07T08:53:23.329-07:00Like soap bubbles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Been a while. So long that I can't really remember when I last wrote here, or what about. I have a distant recollection of some ambitious plan perfumed with an abundance of optimism. I'm not going to be a downer. I'll just say that I've learned a lot.<br />
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Today I sit in a laundromat while my dirty clothes rotate in soapy water. I always wondered about those people, in the movies and TV shows, sorting garments and slotting coins. I can now add that experience to the list of recent experiences. I don't see the same people regularly like I thought I would. I don't have any conversations with strangers like I hoped I would. Like I feared I would. But the weekly chore-ritual has settled into its place, predictable and quantifiable.<br />
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What I haven't been able to work through as yet is the writing. And I guess that part is a bit debatable. An artist friend professes that thinking about writing, outlining, sketching, even drafting temporary, unrelated things counts. As per usual, if that counts as writing, then I still write just about every day. I just don't know if I fully believe her words. Earlier this year I had four chapters written on a novel that was years overdo in its beginning. Then I realized I had an opportunity to put out the whole series of my first supernatural novels, on my own terms. "It shouldn't be that hard," is what I said then. It's been some six months of lessons since, about working with other artists, finding them and communicating with them and pushing my imagining through the filter of another's mind. And that wasn't even the most difficult part, not really.<br />
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The most difficult part, I'd wager, is keeping up the momentum. Like a spinning wheel twisting through water, there is no time off. Every revolution is earned, every turn purchased with the expenditure of a finite resource. I can honestly say there have been weeks when I just took time off. The toiling week was full and contentious and when it came time to work on my passions, on my dreams, I opted to rest. Naturally, as I wasn't moving forward on those things, this writing was the first to be cast aside. This is hard enough to maintain when I have the time and the energy.<br />
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But I think I'm turning another corner. I have an idea of what I need to do, and an avenue of planning to reach that destination. I'm Facebook friends with my cover artist. He's younger than me, and in his musings beneath the sketches that he posts, I can also feel a nostalgia for where I once was on my own artistic journey. I would say that I am a novice at management, at knowing how to push others to produce their best work without causing burn out or breaking them entirely. It's an idea that I think about a lot these days at my weekday job. In certain circles, my resume is not insubstantial. There's been talk of "sharing my knowledge" because of the fact that "I've been working in the profession for a while." I don't know when that happened. I still remember what it felt like in the first few years after graduation, just finding something to pay the bills until the publisher world realized who they kept rejecting. <br />
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But I absolutely have opinions, the kind that would coil behind assertions that I could make about why a thing should be done, or a way to improve this method or another, in ways that seem obvious to me and unclear to those in my midst. I don't like the inherent responsibility, but that's a much longer diatribe for a much different time.<br />
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This is, in so many ways, preamble. After all, if I have time to write here, then I certainly have time to write elsewhere. I used to debate with myself whether it was more appropriate to "find the time" or to "make the time." I always thought finding it implied that it was just misplaced, that it was available and unfettered, if it could only be located. Whereas making it was a much more direct and muscular action. Things had to be shoved out of the way, stacked with certainty. But now I think the whole process is much more magical. There is no time, not to be found and not to be discovered. It must be produced from nothing, beyond alchemy, equivalent to a miracle. Fragile and floating away.<br />
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In short: back to work.</div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-51706170470771560302019-07-21T08:57:00.001-07:002019-07-21T08:57:47.828-07:002019 2020<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every now and again I hear a story about a conspiracy of events, where a person is in the right place at the right time, having just experienced a prepatory series of events that puts them in the right mind space to receive whatever opportunity. I always wonder if it's the human brain seeking to order events in retrospect into some sort of providence, or if it really is a stroke of the divine.<br />
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Yesterday I was up in the mountains of Blue Ridge. A friend was having a celebration, and I had been asked months previous if I would attend. It being so far removed, and the request being so vague, I agreed without giving it much thought. Had I had all the information ahead of time, my answer very likely would've been different. However, as I sit here delivered, having passed through the crucible safe and sound, I'm glad I went. "When they told me you were coming, I didn't believe it." That's what my friend, the guest of honor said. I couldn't refute the insinuation. I don't really get out, even less so as I get older.<br />
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But that was not the case yesterday. Not only did I get out, I got lost. Accessing the cabin required driving on roads that make a driver reconsider their confidence. Sharp, blind curves and signs that said "congested area" and the edge of hillsides that tumbled way, way down. And that was before the treacherous series of switch backs that immediately led to the cabin. I went up in the morning, and came down at night. I encountered the phrase "lost horizon," which is when you can no longer see the road beneath you, because of how steep a hill you're coming up over the top of.<br />
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Getting lost, though, driving those mountain passes, staring out into the green beyond was good. A book I completed this year has Blue Ridge as one of its setting pieces. I knew of the place, but now I can say that I've walked through it, looked up at it, driven around it. I understand better how the main highways sheepishly skirt the lower foothills before branching into courageous, narrow stretches that directly attack climbs up the sides. I understand better the difference between the long, long stretches of road with the safe little reflective panels lining the byways, and the careless passes further skyward that have no guard rails, no reflective surfaces, and the lights of the car in front of you dart in and out of view because of the angling stretches that claw across the ridge. I feel like I saw and experienced things I never would have otherwise without the inciting "yes."<br />
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In other news, there are a lot of steps to this scheme, putting the book out on certain platforms, at certain times, in certain order, cover size, image type, trim and dimensions and borders. I'm still a bit lost, but most of it is done. And the second cover is underway, at least the initial sketches and conversations. I don't know if the exhaustion I feel is because my time seems so limited, or because I keep throwing my free time up on the sides of mountains. I don't keep a calendar, except mentally, and squinting into the future, I don't know when it all ends.<br />
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I feel like I'm at risk any given moment of driving off the side of a cliff, never to be heard from again. But I've made it up, and I've made it down, so I know better what it looks like, what it will feel like, when I get it all home. </div>
J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0