How to Not Write a Novel

SQUEE

2011-03-07T21:15:00.001-08:00

Joy is the feeling of grinning inside.

I'm sure Melba Colgrove is a smart person, whoever he/she/it is.

But fuck that.

I'm grinning outside!

I sent out five query letters last week. All five are back, as of about two hours ago.

Number One: Very gently written "no".

Number Two: Form letter "no".

Number Three: Attempted to be encouraging "no".

Number Four: Send me the first five pages.

Number Five: Another attempt at encouraging "no".

Oh wait, what was that? Back up at number four? Oh yeah, biotches.

That, right there, was a "yes".

Danced around like a lunatic, called a billion people, freaked out the passersby looking in the windows. Full-fledged joygasm.

Yes, I realise that Blessed Agent of Awesome could still say no. She has a handful of chances, actually.

Don't kill my buzz.

I'm off to do more spontaneous happy dancing.

Tree vs Lava

2011-02-24T10:08:00.000-08:00

It's been four days.

I'd breakdown the hours, minutes and seconds for you, but I already feel pathetic enough as it is. No need to share my lametude with the world.

Yes, lametude is a word. I said so.

I haven't heard anything back from Agent Chica yet, but I'm not surprised.

At least, the rational part of my brain isn't surprised. She's a busy woman, said it'd be a bit of a wait, and well, it's only been four days. Regardless of the fact that she emailed me less than 12 hours after submitting, to let me know that she'd downloaded my book to her handy-dandy e-reader, I shouldn't be impatient, she's doing me a solid by reading it at all.

Ha.

You know that rational part of my brain? Imagine that it's a small, twiggy tree in the path of an erupting volcano.

Paranoid Lava eats Rational Tree.

Which for some reason reminds me of Jurassic Park. "Dinosaurs eat man...Woman inherits the earth."

Best line of the whole film.

And so not the point that I had in mind when I sat down to write this blog.

Despite Agent Chica's awesomeness, I've been entertaining the idea of sending out query letters to agents while I wait for her response.

This is a Rational Tree plan.

I know it's the smart thing to do. After all, the more chances I put out there, the more likely I'll get a yes, right?

Sizzle, pop, pop, sizzle...

The more chances that I'll get a loud chorus of "Oh hell no!"s.

Plus, sending out queries requires research. I'm too busy hitting the refresh button on my email to do research, waiting for an answer that probably won't come until at least tomorrow, given the time differences.

I look at myself spiraling, and want to scream "Don't go to the coast! Head to high ground!" Unfortunately, the cries of the other villagers about to die are drowning me out.

Scary.

2011-02-20T19:25:00.000-08:00

Each time we face our fear, we gain strength, courage, and confidence in the doing.

I sent my book to Ali's agent a few minutes ago.

Terror doesn't begin to describe what's going on in my body right now.

I pressed 'send', and ran away from my computer. Dancing around my living room like a lunatic, trying to avoid the urge to google how to retrieve a sent email.

If that's even possible.

I want to be confident about this, I really do. I want to sit here and tell you guys that in a couple of weeks, I'll be celebrating the news that T has found an agent in the states for me, and I'll be published within six months.

I want that, so badly.

But now, all I can do is second-guess myself.

I need a drink.

Show them what you're worth...

2011-02-17T20:53:00.000-08:00

Make em go Oh oh oh!

I finished my book tonight.

Typed "The End" and everything.

One set of edits, and it's ready to send off.

I think I might pull a Katy Perry and explode, with the amount of awesome I'm carrying around in my fun bags.

...Or something.

I'm sure I'm not going to be able to sleep, as I'm vibrating right now, but I need to. Only because if I stay up, something will happen to screw up the buzz I'm operating on right now.

I'm sure there's a melodramatic, self-depreciating post to follow, but that's not happening tonight.

Go me!

White-girl Rapper

2011-01-16T13:35:00.000-08:00

"After all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. The best we can do is breathe and reboot. And when that fails a little gizmo called a zip drive can provide a surprising amount of comfort."

I love "Sex and the City". It's one of my catch-all, fail-proof ways to get happy when I'm not.

The problem is when my life starts to mirror it.

There's an episode where Carrie's computer crashes, and she loses everything she'd written, for years. You watch this episode, laugh, and assume it will never happen to you.

You're wrong.

It will happen to you. One of these days, your computer will die an early death, and you will lose everything. Whether it's music, pictures, or five years worth of writing that you could never begin to recreate, you'll lose it.

I did.

Last week my computer died. Not for long, as I was able to save it's rotting carcass for a bit, at least until I can get a new one, but all of the data I had on it was wiped, completely. Not even my computer geek could get more than a few symbols and snippets of words from it.

Losing that much writing, that many starts of books that you swear you'll go back to at some other point, is painful. It feels like someone close to you has died. Like you've died.

Needless to say, even now, a week later, the sensation that I might burst into tears at any second is still very present.

Luckily the current project was on my little thumb drive, so at least I didn't lose that. But the rest of it...It's just gone.

Moral of this story? Back yo shit up.

Inkygirl has the perfect comics for me.

2011-01-09T19:55:00.000-08:00

Procrastination is the fear of success. People procrastinate because they are affraid of the success that they know will result if they move ahead now. Because success is heavy, carries a responsibility with it, it is much easier to procrastinate and live on the "someday I'll" philosophy.

I'm convinced that Denis Waitley lives in my head. Because when I read things like this, I see myself so clearly in them, that honestly, they had to have been written for me.

Which incidentally reminds me of something that's been going on at work lately, which doesn't put me in a better mood.

Of course, that's not the point.

The point is, I've given myself until tomorrow at bedtime to send my novel (finished or otherwise) to Ali's agent friend. So what am I doing?

I'm creating another blog for work stuff.
I'm working too many hours and not writing during my shifts (not entirely my fault).
I'm spending all day at my inlaws, and not bringing my book with me to work on.
I'm updating this blog.
I'm signing up for SHINE Online, a blogging contest kind of like NaNoWriMo.

I am not, however, writing.

Procrastination, and the fear that fuels it, is my ball and chain, dragging me down into the depths of "you'll never be good enough, so why bother?"

And now, I think I'm going to go take a shower, instead of writing. Or cleaning the house, which will force me to take off time from writing to do tomorrow.

Today is not a good day.

With friends like these, who needs enemies?

2011-01-05T08:19:00.001-08:00

There's a girl at work, Christen, who I like.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, she screws up her personal life so effectively that I want to revoke her decision making privileges.

But, that's not the purpose of this blog.

The purpose of this blog is to illustrate just how oblivious people can be.

The girls at work know that I'm writing a book. They know that I'm on a deadline. They know that I'll be writing at work, between customers, because our boss is awesome enough to let me use the computer there. Christen also knew the store was dead last night.

The perfect time to spend four paid hours writing, right? Not so much.

She didn't leave until I did. That is, nine o'clock. Four hours after her shift was over.

I tried to write, I did. But when you've got a hyperactive 22 year old yammering in your ear (despite the fact that she knows you have work to do, and can see you attempting to do it), it's very difficult to get anything done.

It's not like I didn't drop hints. She was in the back, eating, still talking, and I said "Hey Christen. Writing here. Put food in your mouth and shut up." She laughed, and kept talking.

*headdesk*

So basically by the end of the night, I told her that she'd wasted four hours of my time.

I think she thought I was kidding.

Stranded in Disco, Screaming

2011-01-01T19:34:00.000-08:00

I was stranded in Disco. I went to dozens of darkened places with enough flashing lights to drive the average person mad. I felt lost in the pulse of sheer panic.

I haven't the faintest idea what Martha Reeves was talking about when she said that, or honestly, even who she is. (Though I'm sure someone will tell me and I'll feel a bit of a prat.) But looking at that quote, particularly in conjunction with the picture attached, it makes perfect sense.

There is a literary agent that wants to see my writing.

Now you feel the same panic that I do. Or you don't. Either way, I'll explain, so if you understand, feel free to let your attention wander.

The idea of being an author is a lovely one. There's a pretty picture of me sitting in a quiet room, or on a terrace overlooking some beautiful city, with a mug of steaming tea at my elbow, joyously typing on my computer, working on the next Great American Novel. It comes easy, and the people that I interact with know me as "The Writer", and there is adoration that flows like ambrosia from the gods.

It doesn't work like that.

It's hours and days and months and years of second-guessing, self-loathing, sketching out suicide attempts on the coffee collars of the thousands of cups that I've used to completely ruin my insides and give me an ulcer. It's writing and rewriting and throwing pens across the room to relieve frustration. It's having invisible sword fights with broom handles to the the choreography right, though no one will notice if it's wrong. It's creating languages and magical limitations, which you'll probably never use and throw out anyway. It's being sure that, no matter how hard you try, it will never go anywhere, and that has to be okay with you, because it's "not about the reader". Which inside, you know is complete and utter bullshit. You write so that it's read. Not so that it'll take up space on your hard drive. Anyone that says different is a lying moron.

And then there comes the time when you have the chance to have someone read it. Not a friend, or a family member, or some random person you met in a writing group on the internet. But someone real.

A literary agent.

The most powerful and terrifying person in publishing. Because if they don't like it, there's no chance in hell of anyone else seeing it. The buck, as they say, stops with them. Which is a phrase I've never really understood, but that's beside the point.

They say you don't need an agent to get published. Which, I suppose is true. But, you also don't need a paddle to get down a river in a canoe. I'd love to see someone try and stay away from a waterfall with their Jedi mind powers though.

Agents are important. Agents are the author's paddle. I want a paddle. I want the help, because I'm not strong enough to make it through the waterfalls by myself.

She's a friend of a friend (which further solidifies my belief that it's not what you can do, but rather who you know), and apparently Ali has talked me up hardcore to her. No pressure, thanks Ali. Agent chick asked me questions, seemed excited, and somehow made me promise that I'd send her something by the end of next week.

Fuck me.

Veteran's Day

2010-11-11T07:37:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm a vet.

I did four years in the military, got out with an honorable discharge, and promptly burned all of my uniforms.

Needless to say, it wasn't for me.

I definitely have a love for my country though, and the deepest respect for the people that serve/have served.

I don't like Veteran's Day though.

For me, it's like Valentine's Day. Why have only one day to honor love or service or whatever? The other 364 days don't matter? Kind of crap.

But, that's not the point of this blog entry. The point is that I had a plan.

6:30 - Get up, grumble, walk around with one eye open.
8:00 - Take my son to school.
8:30 - Come home, eat, watch an episode of one of my shows to give myself time to wake up, start laundry.
10:00 - Write. Pause for 10 minutes breaks every 30, mostly used to swap around laundry.
1:00 - Fold massive pile of laundry on my bed.
1:30 - Write.
3:00 - Pick up my son at school, help with his homework, get ready for work.
4:00 - Work until 9:30.
9:30 - Retype what I wrote at work. I mean...I don't use paid time for writing! What are you talking about?
10:30 - 11:00ish - Go to bed.

Yeah.......So there's no school today. I feel that this will be less productive than I'd planned.

Sigh.

A Nose in Need...

2010-11-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

I have a cold.

My movements are exaggerated and childlike, and though the house is empty, I find myself talking to myself. Now this is a normal occurrence, particularly when I'm plotting out a new arch for my book, but this is different.

Instead of just pressing "pause" on the remote, I feel the need to say the word as well. As if the mere utterance of my intention will make the effect more...effective.

And no, I'm not high on cold medicine. It's yucky, and I don't want to take it.

Yes, I am in fact a four year old when I'm sick.

Needless to say, my plan to spend the vast majority of this morning and early afternoon writing just isn't happening. I don't have the mental clarity to do dishes, let alone write my book.

Work is, no doubt, going to be interesting this evening.

November is, in my opinion, the worst time ever to fall ill. Not only is November a rather insane month for retail, but it's also NaNoWriMo. And I am something like 15,000 words behind on my count already. I don't have the time for this.

Dear Cold,
Please come back in a more opportune month. Like...never.
No love,
Kelly

The Paper Bleeds and Deadlines Loom

2010-11-01T16:15:00.000-07:00

So my girlfriend, who is a hop, skip, and a jump away from getting herself published (the bitch), wants me to edit her manuscript before she sends it off to her agent.

That's all well and good. I don't mind. Part of me actually gets a contact high from doing it, given that she's so much closer to our shared goal than I am.

But, at the same time, I'm nervous.

As a writer, I know all too well what it's like to have someone take your baby, that you've put your blood, sweat and tears into, and hand it back a few days later, looking like a three year old has attacked it with crayons.

Editing, and being critiqued, makes us better writers. But it's till painful to have your child ripped to shreds by someone that doesn't know it like you do, and could never love it as well as it deserves.

Writers are parents, no matter what anyone says. And as a parent, I feel guilty criticizing Ali's.

It is pretty fun though.

In other news, NaNoWriMo started at midnight last night.

For those that don't know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. In a nutshell, you write 50,000 words in 30 days, or die trying.

Deadlines are good. Deadlines make you accountable to something or someone, so that you stop slacking off. Deadlines make me feel like I'm going to hyperventilate.

Honestly, it's not even the time constraint. I could write that much (probably more) in a month, no sweat. It's the thought of finishing something. Because if I finish something, I have to try and get it published. And that's the scary part.

That's why I envy Ali's bravery. Sending out your baby for the world to reject is terrifying.

I'm determined to do it though. I can't keep living like this. With a giant "What if?" hanging over my head. This is no way to live. No way to know what I'm made of. Because right now, all I'm made of is cowardice.

Ladder to the Top

2010-10-30T07:51:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine has gained a huge success in the last couple of days. A success that, while not officially completed yet, is one of those that makes me sort of hate her, as it's a goal that we both have, and she beat me to.

Ali and I get along quite well, and she's well on the way to becoming my best friend, that's for sure. We work together, write together, hang out together...The only thing we're not doing is sleeping together. (Though...Hubba-hubba...)

When one of us is whooping the other at work, we make fun. We cuss one another, and use friendly, healthy competition to make ourselves better. It's how you grow, and given that we do care about each other as much as we do, there's no harm in a little friendly snipping, if it drives us further along.

With this though, I can't resent her. I can't let her success make me grumble and push myself further. I need to be happy for her, and leave it at that.

I'm a selfish person.

Even though she deserves it far more than I do (as I'm the Queen of Procrastination), and I'm not in a position where I can succeed in the same way, I'm grumpy. We have the same dream, and she beat me to it. And the worst part is, she keeps saying how her success is going to help me when it's my time. Which is true, and helpful, and nice. But still annoying.

Damn you, Ali. Why ya gotta be awesome, and make me feel like a slacker?!

I guess this means I need to get off my ass and finish something, doesn't it?

We've all got our junk, and my junk is you.

2010-10-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

There's a man in my life.

A special, sexy, funny, charming man.

We talk all the time, wrapped up in what each other has to say, and we never fight, and always agree. He cares about what I think, treats me like a princess, and never pressures me to sleep with him. He likes my brain better than my breasts, and doesn't let me get away with putting myself down.

Unfortunately, he's gay, and lives in California. I also have to share him with a half-dozen other women.

Chase, this blog's for you.

You can eat your babies...

2010-08-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

"Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down." ~ Unknown

So my family and I were invited to a friend's house last night for dinner.

First off, I thought I was a good cook. Anything I do in comparison is going to look extremely pathetic, next to what Ali made. Veal, this garlic spinach pasta (which I'm eating leftovers of for breakfast) and this salad that was intensely amazing. She swears she just used white vinegar for the dressing, but dear God, it was orgasmic.

There's this simplistic elegance to the way she cooks things, that I couldn't ever hope to mirror. I think it's the fact that she's a Spaniard. Or something. I have no idea. Awesome though.

We laughed, literally, all night long. It was the most fun I've had in ages. Honestly, I think it was the most fun I've had since I got married, as normal dinner things I go to involve drunk people (which make me miserable), and Ali's is a dry house. So grateful for her, for so many reasons.

Except the part where she told my son that it was okay to eat your babies.

He was playing a video game of hers, and asked how to protect them.

Seriously, I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes. We all did.

God, I needed that.

Impassioned Speeches and So-Called-Support

2010-07-18T21:57:00.000-07:00

The problem with impassioned speeches in movies is that they never show the aftermath. When the speaker is done verbally bitchslapping everyone, and then goes "So yeah...I'm done now" and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, before shuffling off to hide behind someone.

I'm at that point in my novel now. (Which, by the way, has changed topics yet again. It's a third party's fault, I swear.) At least this one is already halfway done, so I'm actually finishing something, which is good.

Charlotte has just finished effectively saying "If y'all don't get your heads out of your asses, I'm going to kill you", and now...I should probably just end it there and start a new chapter. Because I can't see her doing anything else but turning pink and skedaddling. Though really, a little bit of awkward humour might be called for, given the situation. Probably would kill the tone though.

My husband and I talked last night about his level of support, or lack thereof. He seems to get some things now, so hopefully he'll stop being a pest. Unfortunately, his version of support is to try and stick his nose in. While I appreciated his help in thinking of movie clips to watch to inspire above character rant, once I open the flood gates to communication, he doesn't know when to shut up and let me write.

I do love a happy medium, as the Doctor would say. I'd also love to find one.

Pitfalls of television

2010-07-10T20:10:00.001-07:00

The Stolen Child
by: WB Yeats

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

I was taking a break, and watching an old episode of one of my favourite shows. An episode, mind you, that I've seen a dozen times, but apparently I'm too bloody thick to get things until the unlucky thirteen.

There's a bit of a poem spoken at the end, and truly through the whole episode, that I missed, only thinking it was a lure for the child that is the focal point of the episode.

I'm a bit of a prat, have I told you that?

It's a poem by Yeats, which I felt the need to look up in full after catching it (finally). Reading it a couple of times, all thoughts of my hellish novel idea have flown right out the bleeding window. Instead, I want to write this.

What "this" is is still in the simmering stage, but isn't it lovely? The imagery that I'll never be able to duplicate, and the concept of a child being taken to another world, a "better" one?

Damn you, Yeats. Damn you to hell.

Houseguests and Cementing my Place in Hell

2010-07-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

Lois Griffin: Stewie why don't you play in the other room?
Stewie Griffin: Why don't you burn in hell?

~Family Guy

My husband has his best friend here for the week. Which is fine, in theory. In theory, that means that the Captain of Nosy and Annoying will be occupied, and will leave me alone to write.

I never much believed in theories.

Instead, I've spent the last few days between work and the couch, watching the two of them stare at the television, like there isn't a great wide world out there for them to go explore. Annoying, yes, but nothing that I feel that I can get righteously irritated about, as they're technically not bothering me.

Unless breathing counts.

Speaking of righteous, I've picked a topic for my book. It's not any that I've outlined previously (because that would be too easy), but instead it stems from a conversation that may or maynot have been fueled by alcohol at three in the morning with a friend of mine. It's about the half-human daughter of the devil, who decides she wants to go to college on Earth.

I expect the Crazy!Christians to start lighting my front lawn on fire any day now.

Particularly because I will be (and already have done) putting words in not only the mouth of God, but of Jesus as well, and making Satan look more like a guy with a shitty job than the Emperor of the Damned.

Really, it's about a girl forced to redefine right and wrong, and learn what it means to be human. Kind of like Harry Potter.

At least, Harry and Eden's authors are similar in the fact that they will have insane crazies throwing eggs at their cars.

Should be fun!

Lebron James and Distractions

2010-07-04T12:35:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine's fiance told her that she was like Lebron James. Lebron can mow his own lawn, and clean his own house, but he doesn't, because his energy is better served playing basketball. He said that her energy was best spent writing, and everything else could wait.

I envy her.

I'd like to think that my energy is best spent writing, but when I'm told that I can't go find a quiet place to do it, I wonder at what the hell I'm doing with my life.

It doesn't seem fair, does it? Maybe I'm being melodramatic - as that is a favourite overreaction of mine - but what's wrong with sitting in a coffee shop for a couple of hours, pounding out a few thousand words, and feeling as if I've accomplished something more with my day than cleaning the house and doing laundry?

I want a place without distractions. Without the television on, or another person in the room. Even if he leaves me alone, he's still there. It's distracting. He says that I'd be distracted out in public, but it's a hell of a lot easier to ignore people you don't know, than it is to ignore people that you do.

I'm expected to support every fool thing that comes into his mind, but a life-long dream of mine? It's too much to ask apparently.

Tuscan Brownies

2010-07-01T18:03:00.000-07:00

"Actually, if you knew Frances, you'd know these brownies are a sign of avoidance..."

~Under the Tuscan Sun

Guess what? I'm baking brownies. Mostly to avoid making a decision about what I'm writing about.

I've gone over a few ideas today, and am in the middle of re-reading something I wrote last year, to see if it's finishable. (Yes, that's a word. I said so.) It's a young adult (I think) fantasy novel, though if I re-work it, it might be borderline adult, because well, the romance is a bit thin, which makes it fairly boring for all involved. Unlike some other writers I know, I'm not going to base the whole bit on smut. I'm far more "fade to black" when writing something that my father might end up reading. It's just weird, you know? On the up side, I had a 12 year old read it last year, and she was pissed that I wasn't finished with it. According to her mother, Leah was completely in another world while reading it, which drove her mom nuts, but it's a good sign for me.

On the other hand, I've got a piece I started a while back about a relationship, and the ten years that it involves, full of a lot of back and forth and drama and heartbreak. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that'd be interesting to anyone but me, as I'd want to be accurate with it.

And then there's Rose. Like Anne Rice's Lestat, Rose is a real person. No, I'm not insane, the muse is just that strong. The control is gone, the personality is there, and she makes daily commentary on my life, just to amuse herself. Ages ago, there was a running joke that I'd one day write a Ricean-type novel about Rose, and her journey to becoming a vampire. Whether or not I'd be able to do that without severely pissing off Anne, on the other hand, is the problem, given that two of her characters feature fairly prominently in Rose's history. I'd have to revamp (snicker) them completely, which could detract from the story. But, it has sequel potential, so that's a plus.

Finally, I had this dream a while back about a girl on a fishing vessel (I think the husband was watching Deadliest Catch on our bedroom tv again), who teams up with a scientist to try and save sea turtles. It was a vivid dream, full of villians and adventure and even a little romance, but I know nothing about boats. And living where I do, the practical research would be tough.

While opinions are like assholes, I could do with a couple more. What do you think?

Earl Grey and Procrastination

2010-07-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine told me the other day, that in order to figure out what to write about, I need to sit down with a cup of earl grey tea, and just let it come out.

Well, I'm sitting here with my cuppa, and all that's coming out is a new blog about procrastinating. Someone once said (possibly Woody Allen, but he's quoted with, well, everything, so who knows) that "procrastination is like masturbation; in the end, you're just screwing yourself." However, he also said "don't knock masturbation, it's sex with someone I love". So really, he seems to be of two minds of the subject.

Contrary to the way it sounds, my subject is not masturbation.

It's writing a novel. Probably not "the Next Great American", or even a runaway hit like the Twilight saga. If I ever get it done, the odds of it becoming just one more book on a dusty back shelf of a privately owned book store (or worse, a bargain bin pick up at Barnes & Noble), are pretty good.

Oddly enough, I kind of like that idea, though.

The mental image of me walking through a tiny, dimly-lit shop one day a hundred years from now, and seeing my book on a shelf, the spine cracked and the cover art muted with time and light damage. My little mark on the world, there for some brave soul to pick up and flip through, transporting them to another place, another time, another life.

It's a pretty picture in my head, looking at that cover.

Too bad I have no idea what's on it.