14th of </3

Happy Heart Breaker’s Eve, y’all. Because many of us will wake up tomorrow and find ourselves painted into a loveless corner. All I can say is, I hope it’s by choice and not circumstance.

For all the guys out there, I hope to the lord above that have not ended up gushing over some gorgeous geisha only to be struck down and stuck inside . . . The Friend Zone. Yes, The Friend Zone – that dismal, lonely place full of blood-curdling screams of orgasmic ecstasy that you aren’t giving anyone. No, those screams are coming through the wall from your heavenly, gorgeous geisha roommate’s room – you know, that roommate you’ve been in love with for . . . ever – as she’s being pounded by the guy who doesn’t give two shits about her. Yet she loves him. “Oh, give me a fuckin’ break!”

Tell me, guys, does this resemble you? If so, guess what! Yes, you are best friend guy! The super bestie that she’s ever had and you will never, ever see her naked! Trust me, I’m an expert on “bestie”.

All is not lost, however. You can try any of the following:

A) Jump a train and ride the rails as a vagrant to a different state. Yes, leave your past behind. She’ll find another bestie, i.e. dupe who will never, ever see her naked.

B) Turn that frown upside down with a shit load of LSD. Yes, you can blitz your brain to the point of delirium and possible complete insanity. You’ll be so high you may never come down, which would definitely be preferable to hearing those blood-curdling screams through the walls all night long.

C) Drive your ’84 Subaru Hatchback right off a bridge. Go ahead, test the waters, literally. See if your little Subaru really is a “Sub” for short.

D) *Insert valiant heroic death here*

See? You do have choices this Heart Breaker’s Eve. You don’t have to be struck down and stuck in The Friend Zone. Until next time, don’t cry too loud. Your bestie in the other room may hear you. I’ll leave on this note from my favorite band Led Zeppelin. Take it away, boys . . .

Ugli-rrific!

 

“Grand! Great! Thanks a lot!” These were the sarcastic words I’ve uttered since last night. I looked at both files in ePUB form of both books I’d published and, wouldn’t you know it – errors! Though, they were not my errors. The ePUB converter, for some triflin’ reason, didn’t convert the files correctly and some of the paragraphs weren’t indented. I checked my initial file on both works and my files are correct.

Needless to say, I deleted them from published status and may delete my Lulu account all together. I’ll start fresh at another online publisher – Create Space perhaps.

We’ll see. I may just randomly roll the dice and see where my book lands, publisher-wise. I’ve not given up, for sure. I will self-publish somewhere. And soon.

And on that note, off to find a site! Take care and until next post . . .

 

 

 

Shorts

My book of short stories is now live. I knocked down the prices on both books mostly because I want them seen. Less expensive books tend to do better, so say the Lulu powers that be. My new book:

 

A Wry Economy of Words

 

I hope you decide to check it out!

 

Not Too Much of a Good Thing

I have started putting together my second eBook – a work of fourteen short stories. It should be available within the month. I want to scrutinize every word in the stories as I did in my novella. No word will be wasted. I’ve been bitten and this publishing bug is righteous. I’m stung by such sweet venom of this exciting venture.

But I have a problem – a title. I don’t have one. Oh, I have few ideas for one. I need your help in determining what to call this glowing work. So far, my list of title ideas:

A Wry Economy of Words

Wry Bread and Sarcastic Circuses

Wry and Willed To Be

Born To Be Wry

Now, so far that’s how they stand in order of most to least liked. Tell me what you think, my blogging friends. Leave me a comment and help me decide the title of my next book.

Done, Done, and Done

My first novella has been published! I should really be much more excited than I am but, really, I’m exhausted from preparation of the story Word file.

Anyway, here’s a link to my first novella. I chose to publish under a pen name because my given name is so prevalent in the google search that I was afraid I’d have drowned among the other Robert Gregorys.

She and Something Greater

I hope you enjoy the read, if you indeed choose to read it. Take care and let me know what you think of the story.

Self and Self-Publishing

I feared for a while the idea of self-publishing. My attitude bared a striking resemblance to . . . I don’t know . . . the guy in Office Space that couldn’t hold onto his stapler. He wasn’t the fiercest of warriors. Oh, I’ve had plenty of reason why I shouldn’t self-publish:

• The literary world won’t take me seriously
• I won’t make any money for my hard work
• I won’t be seen and will be lost in a sea of DIY books

Well, these may all be true. Who knows! I know that I don’t know for sure because I have not tried. Which is the biggest reason I haven’t done it, I think – laziness. Or moreover, procrastination. Blast – my mother was right. I do procrastinate!

At any rate, I’ve researched a very tiny bit so far of DIY books, and so far this looks very appealing and very doable. And, call it Serendipity, all signs point to self-publishing. I’ve seen so many posts on blogs I follow about publishing and self-publishing, and it’s like the universe is giving me a nudge.

First my book will be strictly an e-book. Then later on, after a few months, if I get a buzz going and interest, I’ll go with a POD publisher – that’s print on demand. Yeah, no kidding, this really exists and you can possibly make a few dollars from simply a book printed as people buy them, as opposed to buying a huge stock and reselling the book yourself. I’ve already decided on a style of cover for the book and will paint that myself.

For once, I’m excited. And I had to share with the blog community. The book is a niche genre book – (get this) detective/romance novella with smattering of humor and a sci-fi edge. Tell me where the hell that’s going to fit? Choose a shelf! The working title (for now) is She and Something Greater. I need to research it and make sure that title can stand alone. Hopefully, it’s unique enough. Reasons I should self-publish:

• I’m tired of the rejection when I do send my book out, which is rare
• I want the book to be seen, read, and enjoyed 
• Lastly, it has Smash Hit Movie written all over it (elle oh elle! I’m not the least bit egotistical about that, am I?)
• I can make money, if even only a few dollars – it’s more than I have now

So, that’s my big post and big news for today. Big step in a positive direction, I believe. Which brings me to the final reason I should do it:

• I believe in the book. 

Until next time, be on the look-out for my best seller. I’ll let you know when it’s available. Take care . . .

 

Stephen Root as Milton in Office Space

 

Short Story Time Again

Serendipity

 

Coffee had never tasted so good. Carina sipped the steaming, creamy, sweet beverage. She took in the morning through sips of coffee and drags of mild menthol cigarettes. She never saw it coming.

The car missed the turn. He had no business being behind the wheel. The car hydroplaned on pure speed and booze. Sliding off the road into the grass, the wheels were ice skates. The car couldn’t have stopped on the wet grass in the distance from the road to the house. The driver couldn’t have had more to drink if he’d had a corn mash still in the trunk. He had begun to puke and was about to be out for the count.

She stood up with her cup that had gone empty all too quickly and walked from the front room. The one-ton ice skater pirouetted through a less-than-graceful routine at over sixty miles per hour. The car hit the front door and burst into the house with a boisterous knock. When the car came to a halt in the front room, she stood awed two feet from the car’s grill in the kitchen doorway. The man didn’t appear to be hurt – just smelly and stuporous.

“Sir?” she uttered, utterly astounded. “Sir?”

The man looked around the bent, wrecked scene.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” the man finally stated. “Do we really need to call the police, here, ma’am? I’m just not sure how I’m going to explain this one to the captain. Or my insurance company,” the man slurred.

Carina fainted.

The man followed suit.

 

Poetic Mystery

I’m not sure why I like this poem. It has a full circle kind of appeal to it, I think. Maybe that’s why. I’ve always liked structure and form and purpose. This has it somewhat in my opinion. It says something which I suppose is what poetry should try to do, i.e. paint a picture with words, portray an emotion, or just have fun with words to get a rise out of someone.

This poem means a few different things to me. But the one semi-overt overtone, one might say, is that there’s a mystery being seen and whether, if that mystery is understood, would it lose itself? Would it still exist as an idea at all? Ponder an idea long enough and “solved” or not, it tends to become almost so abstract it’s lost in a vernacular pile of jumbled goo.

My creative writing professor once said, “The words of a poem are pigments on a canvas”. Those words have stuck with me over the years, and paint a pretty telling, descriptive picture in their own right, I think. So, here’s my latest poem I’ve dug up from the archives. Feel free to leave a comment.

 

Nature’s Mystery

 

If I could see the last in line,

I could guess at what comes next.

If I could see past the sign,

I could rest from what’s now vexed.

 

But that one thing keeps me blind,

and that riddle, the question it posed,

circular, winding and quietly pined

makes a destination blocked closed.

 

So, what to do with one’s time,

but sit, and stare, and meticulously ponder

the nature of signs in rhythm and rhyme,

until the signs are no longer a wonder?

 

azernews.az

Today’s Poem

Definition of Philosophy

A riddle riding

a conundrum propelled

by an enigma

 down a mysterious

path of obscurity

 toward the unknown.

 

 

Freud couldn’t have said it better. Or maybe he did! Until next time, y’all, keep creating. And stray from the dark.

 

 

Post, Post, and Post!

So, I’m not really feelin’ it today – inspiration. That’s a rarity for me lately. Daily I seemed to wake up with creative fire on the brain. Today, mm . . . not sure why but nothing.

In an effort to stoke some embers, I reread some old poems. I found one I’d wrote in my twenties and subsequently rewrote just a few months ago. This poem may stay as it is, or I may tailor it up to fit the “say more with less” context. We shall see.

At any rate, this is how the poem stands right now. I think it may have been Robert Frost (I could be totally wrong) that said this paraphrased quote about poems being “a life-long endeavor and even still may never be complete”, or something to that effect. Then again, maybe I have just coined a quote. Who knows! Because I look back over a lot of my poetry and think, “What the hell was I thinking? I need to strike this, that image, this whole sentence and/or paragraph . . .” and I’m sure and hopeful that I’m not alone. As people mature as writers and as themselves in general, we grow and see things differently. I don’t think I’ve posted this one before. If I have, here’s the poem again.

 

She and the Painting Willow

 

The willow branches wept over him.

Purple, dark green, and pale deeper teal blue,

Wishing to be a happier red, orange, or yellow.

A willow’s finger on him its dark green hue,

The paint swirled into a twisted mosaic.

The yin-yang colors – heavy, cutting, truthful.

 

What is a willow when all her colors

Are as dark as pools or like wisps

That catch wind and blow from home.

He tried with might of the branches

To change his palette into her –

Something brilliant, bearable.

 

One day, she came back.

His dark palette couldn’t change,

The willow’s branch of wisdom,

“Your palette, your colors,

They’re all you have that is you.”

The tree broke open, came to light,

With orange, red, and dusk yellow at his back.

 

She stayed long enough that day,

She knew she’d find the same palette

There before his stay under a willow.

That willow detailed a difference.

No matter what leaves blow,

His brush would always choose the dark.

 

Take care, y’all.