Many a little makes a mickle

Temperature: a rainy 8/46 degrees

Eating: what's left of that Saturday night of sheer delight, see below

Drinking: not for a while, had too much fun and way too many cocktails just the other night with a couple of couples we invited over for dinner

Watching: The Wind Rises and Rio 2 with or without the wee ones real soon

Listening: to the poetic soul of Anthony Joseph

Reading: another disheartening blog post on the price of piracy

 

Writing: wrote a round of takedown requests just the other week thinking fuck you very much, even visited a forum where users thanked one another for sharing Alex, a book they could have bought for $0.99. You can imagine what my share of those ninety-nine cents is. And so you probably imagine I won't miss those cents. But those cents add up. Ten books here, thirty-four there, another one hundred and twenty some place else. Many places. Way too many places.

Support authors. If you like it, buy it, the slogan on that forum read. In that order. As if they were doing us a favor. I felt sick inside. So damn sick and tired and I know what you're thinking, “Don't go there. Why did you go there? Why do this to yourself?” Look at that pic on Denysé's blog. Look at that royalty check. I'm still waiting for mine, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. That's why. You want to make sense of things. Am I really that hopeless? Are my books really that bad? Sales have plummeted, books tank, so you wanna know why and what's wrong because how the hell else will you be able to fix things. But how do you fix this? How do you make it better?

Any suggestions? Anybody? And don't say just ignore 'em. Some authors do. Most can't. They feel that's like giving permission. Like a shopkeeper turning a blind eye to shoplifting as long as someone buys something, but when they steal more than you sell... That's not what you'd call a sustainable business model, is it? And if you are to treat writing as a business you have to take these things into account so it is kinda hard to just ignore it and it's becoming ever harder for many of us to justify our profession, business-wise, you know. Working for free is not a vocation (except for the very wealthy, which for the most part authors aren't), it's volunteering.

Feeling: I want to write as Dita too. But do I want to feel like this every time I do? Mad, sad, bad? Is that why I've navigated toward other shores? Not just because I got mouths to feed and bills to pay and talents I want to put to good use but because of the emotional toll Romantica has taken? So I come out as the strong and stoic type. I'm much more sensitive and vulnerable than you'll ever know. All authors, all artists are. We have to be or else we lose connection with the world and ourselves, with the tangible and the invisible, with everything we feel so keenly and love so dearly and try so desperately to put down in words. Do you understand what I'm saying? Can you sympathize?

Authors don't necessarily need a publisher. They need a good editor and maybe an agent and even a lawyer. Readers? Do authors need readers to write happily ever after? Some are starting to think that they don't. That if there's no money, no future in writing for publication i.e. the reading public, then what the hell are they doing pissing in the wind? Writing makes them happy. The business end of things makes them miserable. Cut the business end of things and go back to being happy. Problem solved.

I kid you not, folks, that is how some of us feel, and I will never ever forgive those making things so damn hard for all of us if some of my favorite authors go back to writing for the desk drawer. Put that in your pirate pipe and smoke it. If you can get your hands on it. Which you won't be able to because it will be hidden away with all the other precious things in their life and if you'd shown some respect when you had the chance maybe we'd still be enjoying the fruits of their labor. I dread the day but it's coming. For some of us, it's just a matter of deciding today's the day. You think working on a dream is hard. It's nothing and I mean nothing compared to giving up.

Support authors. Buy a book. If you like it, buy another. My heartfelt thanks to all readers who do.

Hey brother

Lances at the ready, gentlemen, I'mma climbing on a high horse. Cue groans oh gawd it was such a lovely day what now? International Women's Day! Yes, I know, but I was kinda busy on Saturday, and this year's theme stands every day of the week/month/year. Equality for women is progress for all.

You gotta wonder sometimes, and gents please don't charge before I've had my say and please please don't take offense because I do not mean every man on the planet, but are men stupid or something? You really want to shoulder the burden, financial, political, enter areas of overrepresentation here, on your own? Like really really? Because women sure feel that way sometimes, that you're making life unnecessarily hard for yourselves keeping your own counsel, upholding your old boys' clubs, anti-social networks closing the door on fully capable, willing and able women, people differentiated by the fact that their breasts tend to be bigger than yours.

Considering that our breasts have nothing to do with our brains, they sure play a big and baffling part in the oddest of times and places. The same goes for other discriminating factors. Irrelevant. At least they should be. So don't go there. With your eyes, or your hands. Your thoughts? Keep them to yourselves if you're with Camp Chauvinist. And go camp somewhere else. It's 2014 for crying out loud but you wouldn't believe it reading the Everyday Sexism Project stories and suchlike.

I have one, every woman does, starring that part of the female anatomy that makes many a man stir and stare and many a woman insecure for life. This was way back when I had hardly anything to make you stare or stir, a time when I didn't know if I liked what I saw or what I would be seeing in a year or two, but there they were. Now. Picture a bus with many school girls, young and a bit older, on board. Along comes a gang of three boys, 17 to 19-year-olds, about to play a game as they make their way to the back: breast spotting. Breast spotting with running commentary.

I had plenty of time to realize what they were doing. Plenty of time to watch their faces, see those smirks, listen to their lewd remarks and laughter, hear other girls hiss and curse. Time to wish I was someone else, somewhere else. I intended to look away, pretend I saw or heard nothing, brush it off with indifference. I ended up looking the boy who stopped in front of me straight in the eye.

Big mistake. I still remember what he looked like and I still remember what he said, but I was thirteen years old and I hated them, those boys I didn't know and never saw again with the fire of a thirteen-year-old, and that makes the whole episode that much harder to forget. To them it was just a stupid game. To the girls in that bus they were just stupid period. But when the games and comments start piling up some girls really do stop listening and some girls stop talking and some girls stop believing they'll ever meet a decent guy and if they do he's probably just pretending or a recovering asshole about to relapse and who wants that, you know.

I'm not kidding, gentlemen. I kid you not, I've held a girl's hand, tried to talk her out of giving up on you, told her there are plenty of good men out there because I knew there were, just you wait and see. So for the love of all that is holy please don't make your life unnecessarily hard, okay. Don't be an insensitive jerk. It's 2014 for crying out loud meaning you're very much at risk of being on the receiving end, the punch line of a sexist joke and who wants that, but what goes around comes around, you know. Or as a former card-carrying playboy now a father of three girls put it: "Poetic justice much?" I wonder what he'll teach his daughters about men, what he'll tell them about his wild days and ways.

Many women have turned feminists, and I mean hardcore, card-carrying feminists, after breaching the gates of power or breaking through the glass ceiling only to be confronted by some card-carrying chauvinist questioning her every move and word. Many men have turned feminists, and I mean hardcore, deeply concerned feminists, upon the birth of a daughter. They look at the world through the eyes of a woman and don't always like what they see. They know what kind of boys their girls will face along the way because they've met them all, maybe even been one of the worst kind once, and there's nothing they can do about it now but be responsible, empathetic role models not just for their daughters but their sons as well.

I know men who wish women ruled the world. I know women who wish we did. Most people I know just wish we could get on with the business of living and loving without having to hide or exploit or abuse or excuse or resist or explain our own sex, or the opposite one. Making a power struggle of it is a monumental waste of time and resources and we're kind of running out of both on this planet so...truce?

Empowering your sisters benefits all you misters. There's nothing in this world we wouldn't do for you. You've capitalized on that. There's nothing in this world we can't do. Why not capitalize on that too.

All yours,

D.

To whom it may concern

[Promised myself I wouldn't dip my pen in this ink again, but the things I've been seeing and reading lately...damn.]

No one pays me to write. I write a story, submit the story, and if I get an offer for the story it's published. Or something happens on the way to heaven and it isn't. If and only if the story is published, I get a shot at making a part of my living writing.

My royalty check is equally proportional to how my book does. So it is with many authors. Every cent I don't make writing is a cent I go in search of somewhere else. Not that bad a deal when you like what you do. Not that sweet a deal when you dream of writing for a living, when the less you make writing the less you write and do something else instead.

The myth of the starving artist is a myth about artists starving. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, just like everybody else. I've gone without sustenance while writing. Because I forgot. Lost myself in it and simply forgot. That hunger I know, the satisfaction this craft brings. But no trade comes without frustrations and challenges and there are people out there making this one harder than I ever believed possible.

Piracy is not a big problem in digital publishing, it's huge. So if you're downloading or uploading thinking it's just me, just this once, just one, no harm done... Did you check the counter? With downloads by the dozens, hundreds, even thousands? Many writers do. They see what's going on, cry in the shower and resent you for it. Pick themselves up, fight back wondering if it's a losing battle, have another round in the shower and resent you even more. This is the demoralizing reality of those cooking up your favorite fantasies; something so prevalent everyone's sincerity is coming under suspicion.

I don't want you to write me telling me how much you liked my book and all the while think but where did you get it. I don't want to sweat months writing and revising, writing and revising some more, only to have my book stolen the minute it comes out. No author does. That is not how I want to start out a story; with the thought they will copy the hell out of this. I don't want to stop writing, either. No compulsive wordsmith does, and yet some are forced to cut back. Some never seem to get it off the ground. Mouths to feed, bills to pay, you know the drill.

What's it to you? Well, what if it were your favorite author down for the count? Hold your breath and hope for the best? You really want to take it that far? Really really? What if they switch to some other stuff they're good at? Some other craft you don't give a flying fig about? Are you prepared to hand them over to people who will never love them and appreciate them and understand them the way you do? What if you never find another author who understands you, life, the universe and everything the way they did?

I know many multitalented authors. They could have been a great many things, and what do they choose to do, the fools? They write. For reasons most can't explain and many refuse to dissect. Because that is what they love doing, what they'd rather do above all things. I for one don't want to lose a single one of my favorites so do us both a favor and don't encourage them, okay? Don't give them reasons, excuses or ideas. They're brilliant, yes. They're also highly impulsive and extremely impressionable. Give them the impression there's no future in writing and some will run.

I want to trust you. I want to write. I want to believe it doesn't have to be this way, that illegalities don't have to be accepted as part and parcel of digital publishing. Free reads are free reads, free content is free content. I get that. Books and content with a price tag are not free no matter how you come by them and you know that. You know what you're doing. What you don't seem to realize is how much deeper than an author's pocket the hurt and the harm goes.

Oh but you had no idea? You don't want to die a pitiful putz, do you? Of course not. You want to make sense of those questions, those objections, those buts burning within you. May I suggest you take a look at Shiloh Walker's rather comprehensive Q&A sure to put out the fire?

Long story short: No author, no book. End of story.

This is bad

Baaad bad bad, sweetie darlings. According to a multinational study, which released just in time for World Contraception Day, unprotected sex is on the rise and access to and knowledge about contraception is going the way of...of...someone or something that doesn't give a shit about the welfare of others.

Clueless or Clued Up: your right to be informed about contraception reports that the number of youngsters having unprotected sex with a new partner has increased by 19% in Britain, 39% in the US, and a staggering 111% in France (in the last three years). Unplanned pregnancies and myths about surefire methods after the fact abound, as do abortions and STIs. 

The fact that "young people are telling us they are not receiving enough sex education or the wrong type of information about sex and sexuality," (said Jennifer Woodside, spokeswoman for the International Planned Parenthood) isn't helping. "How can young people make decisions that are right for them and protect them from unwanted pregnancy and STIs, if we do not empower them and enable them to acquire the skills they need to make those choices?"

That's a very good question. I know a very poor answer. Let's tell them to stop doing it and then pretend they're not doing it. Come on. It's not what kids know that gets them into trouble, it's everything they don't.

The man who knew too much

Unless you've been living in a tree for the past decade, you've probably heard of Stieg Larsson and his Millennium trilogy. Here in Scandinavia, there is no escape. His literary and monetary legacy is an ongoing saga the local press churns out with fervor and the reading public gobbles up with morbid fascination. But did you know that before Larsson died, before he sold a gazillion books without tasting either fortune or fame, he was an investigative reporter, and a dedicated one at that?

Extremism, racism, human rights violations, the exploitation of and violence against women, honor killings. He spent his adult life researching and writing about the same topics you may have read about in his books. Think the crimes between those covers are gruesome, revolting even? Nothing compared to the things he came face-to-face in real life. Or rather, those fictional crimes are equally proportional to what people who are revolting between the ears are capable of.

So the man wrote what he knew, what troubled him, what he'd investigated and uncovered. The right-wing forces loved to hate him for it. All he wanted was to expose those leagues, to bring them to public consciousness and under scrutiny. Analytically he'd studied the birth and growth mechanism of fascism and seen signs it was happening in his own country.

He chose to take them seriously. These weren't second generation unemployed punks blaming society in general and minorities in particular for their problems. These were your next-door neighbors running for office and being elected on the basis of the fears, prejudices and empty rage of people who wanted someone to do something about the world turning too fast for them to follow.

Too much coffee and cigarettes, too much junk food and an utter absorption in his work claimed Larsson's life, not the Aryans. So he wasn't a saint, but he couldn't he bullied or bought, and he refused to back down. And how right he was, from the start, all along. Sweden, Finland, Denmark... In these very safe, open and democratic Scandinavian societies something very dangerous, myopic and fascist is brewing, something that goes against everything these nations have stood for and defended and been proud of for so long, and proud for good reason.

You know what in my mind is even scarier than these forces? It's your fellow man telling you they have no interest in politics. It doesn't concern them, move them, or influence them one bit. It's all the same to them. Like in that The Who song, the new boss is bound to be the same as the old boss. Oh yeah. Oh no. No no no. May I suggest next time you're tempted not to vote, speak up or make a stand, you take some time to do as Larsson did and listen very carefully to what is being said and who is doing the talking. The new boss might be nothing like the old boss, and the problem with political jokes is that they have a tendency of getting elected.

You can't rationalize racism. There is no justification for bigotry. Hate is hate and hate crimes are hate crimes. Words haven't lost their meaning and they certainly haven't lost their power. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

The Slaughterhouse Rules

Dearest denizens, how are you, sweetie daaarlings?! I had to step out for a couple of days to take care of business and suddenly it's Thursday. How did that happen? All recovered from having to fear how the votes fell and who won? Al Jazeera and Iraqi voters, my bouncing buns. You were glued to the Oscars, weren't you?

Have you had a chance to pick up Alex yet? All those running for cover: Bad boys and girls! Go to my room!! A nekkid reading, perhaps, to get you in the mood for love? Would your pulse start to rush and all kinds of misunderstandings ensue? I'm pretty sure Hubby would object even though it's just skin. We're all covered with it head to toe. What if I wish to be seen and treated as all woman and not just a brain? I'm more than a head, you know. It comes with a body attached! That didn't come out quite right, did it? Where were we?

The project I was asked to do? Mucho interesting. I'm doing it. Just this one, okay? I'm good at it. Please? I do have books lined up for you, oh yes I do. I'll still write and love you, promise! I've also been chasing after You-Know-Who. Pointless, you say? Cut a head and three grow back? We'll see. I happen to enjoy me a little cat and mouse, Itchy and Scratchy style in their case. I don't have to make their life any cushier than it already is, do I?

I was told to be cool and not dignify their sordid business with any mention or reaction whatsoever. But come on, I know they're out there. You know they're out there. They know we know. Search most any author and all kinds of possibilities open up. 

Dearest denizens, do not dignify the dark side by even glancing their way. Don't think Darth Vader's smelly armpits, think festering Sith crotch (and you've all seen that airtight suit). That's what and where they are. Nas-ty. They raise a deep contempt in this writer's heart, a heart she all too often and maybe unwisely wears on her sleeve, but said writer never claimed to be after wisdom, did she, merely justice. 

I knew it would be bad, I only had no idea it would feel this awful. Really really really really really really really really really really awful. Yes, the spate of the just and true, this burning in my belly. Better get used to it, I was told. I cut myself out of the game and three other writers get posted. We are quite expendable to Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

I'm not bitter, just a little green and idiotically idealistic and angry. Forget hate, it's pointless; worse still, paralyzing. But anger, yes anger can fuel little engines that could into superhuman feats. I shall tell you all about mine in my memoirs, The Slaughterhouse Rules, not to be written any time soon for I am still a young and untried soldier of love with many battles to wage and books to write.

It's still Read an eBook and Universal Women's Week. Ooh, and Optimism Month, kryptonite for the cynics and the occasional realist. Let's mess with both the cynics and You-Know-Who, shall we, and buy an eBook, and keep it all to ourselves. Because we can afford one. Because our favorite authors are worth it. Because we're not going to go or see very far standing on the shoulders of mental midgets and sitting inside stale Sith suits. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named disguised as a punching bag. Step back. Things will get ugly fast. Never fear for my sanity or peace of mind, sweetie daaarlings, I've found the perfect means to get my, hmm, reactions under constructive and creative wraps, thoroughly enjoying every second of it. See you in my room after carnage then. You can leave your hat on. 

Grand theft author*

Of all the excuses made and explanations given for digital piracy, the one I find most baffling is "Any publicity is good publicity."

Bestselling authors and the big houses may sympathize with the wee ones, but perhaps don't feel the pain or the consequences. They don't need the added exposure, if you can even call it that in any positive meaning of the word, or they don't publish eBooks and it's all very interesting on an academic level but doesn't really concern them. I hope the more they invest in the eBook business, the more invested they become in protecting digital copyrights. I could use a big hitter instead of just rolling with the punches here. Yes, down here.

Meanwhile, back in the jungle, writers such as myself, the ones only getting started, are keeping the faith, and typing those takedown requests as fast as we can so we could get back to our WIP. For many of us, how our books sell equals what we end up making, and that's all there is to it, to that equation. What I've often wondered is how many end up quitting because they can't get it off the ground financially. Many dream of writing; many hope to write for a living. It's a valid dream eviscerated by sabotage so widespread some are prepared to understand it, even condone it. That's the way the cookie crumbles. But in the name of promotion?

I have no illusions. Not many of those stealing and spreading and reading stolen eBooks would probably buy those books. Would they steal those same books from a bookstore? And explain it away to the nice officer exactly how? Who benefits from this? There are only losers, the biggest ones being the persons who originally came up with an original idea. Some of them are not only losing their income, they are losing heart and motivation leading to fewer books and stories, and less varied voices. Is this on someone's agenda? Does someone actually want this? Is something right only because it's prevalent, or possible? 

As for you book thieves... Unless you're prepared to share the fruits of your labor with me; give me freebies I can flaunt in your name; products of yours I can throw around in the name of spreading the word; let me try out your services for free...please don't do me any favors.

*An individual who uploads and/or downloads the intellectual property of others, including digital copies of works of fiction. Not the asserted author or owner of rights to those works, only a smug jack who hijacks them.