My Publishing Experience
While I've never had any internal drive to be published, I've always been strongly encouraged to submit my work. I think the idea was to build up my tolerance for rejection-- somebody must have sensed a weak point here. As a tot, I submitted my drawings, poems, and the very occasional short story to the usual school outlets (yearly literary collection, newspaper, yearbook, etc.). In my teens, I submitted some poems to those suspect anthologies that take just about any poet and make you pay for your own copy. I had two poems selected, for two different anthologies, both of which I posted in Prose as part of some retrospective "early works" challenge (several years ago).
In college years, I had a few articles published in the Newspaper, but generally speaking I "failed" Journalism with a 4.0-- my mentor said I would simply never make it as a journalist, as my writing was, I quote "not sensational." (I've been working on fixing that deficit ever since, though I did give up on the media.)
I learned some code and various means to create websites through WYSIWIG programs. I then published online through my own sites, using freebie servers that eventually went bust--- along with my hard wrought designs and thoughts. In the digital world things go poof very quickly, so tolerance is again fortified. Eventually, I stumbled across Prose and began to make some thoughts public through this venue. The site drew me so much because of its noncommercial atmosphere. People were writing freely, and I felt we were all battling against the dreaded brain-drain.
As time passed I heard of direct publishing and did some research. You use a website such as Kindle Direct Publishing, Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble Press, or others, to help format a manuscript to printable specifications, then upload pdf or doc files for interior and exterior of the book, obtain a barcode either through these sites randomly or by purchasing online from ISBN.org, and then viola! your book in any format (hardcover or paperback) is available for sale online directly to the purchaser without you having to storage any books, and you can even have ebook options. It is important to know that electronic versions of a book will look quite different than physical copies. Illustrations tend to be separated from text.
I believe that Prose is working on offering some direct market publishing, and perhaps already does?
Currently I have a registered publishing business, Bunny Village Press. Private initiative has been deeply rooted in my psyche and is very much a dream for my husband, so we began a venture that seemed to fit most favorably with my past experience. One that would allow us both to exercise our writing and editorial skills and would allow me to put to use my art and design abilities. The idea of publishing seemed natural, and it is perfect philosophically, though for the time being our operation is very small. Micro scale. We do direct marketing that is fundamentally the equivalent of self-publishing except that we work with the author to bring their work to life, from typing out the manuscript/ editing/ creating layout/ illustrations/ and the cover design. In this way the author oversees the process but doesn't actually do, nor have to source individually, the various tasks that need to be done to make a book real. Once outsourced to us, the entire process is kept in house.
The independence that gives is very rewarding from an artistic standpoint. There is no office to negate an idea or suggest that it is not marketable. There are very few people involved in decision making. We aim to be as true to the vision of the author as possible, just as much as if it were our own book. Indeed, when it is our own manuscript, the process is exactly the same.
If you have no interest in making money from your writing, I highly recommend self-publishing. It is important to know that as an individual it is difficult to create a marketing campaign to push your work and monetize it, profittably. However, on the plus side, overhead is minimal--- dependent only on the cost of materials to create the artwork and the investment of manhours.
If it is a labor of Love, then it is always Time well spent.
The Jesters Sonata
Balls in the air. Juggler of emotions.
I am torn between ending it all, and starting over to try again,
because the end of a muzzle seems like a headache, but also, the pill.
I pace back and forth until noon, then I realize its midnight.
No sleep until the witching hour, for it is where I am most awake.
“Eat something you bastard,” they say, yet I am not hungry for whats on their menu.
Peanut butter on bread, spread unevenly. No milk.
A moonlit snack becomes a meal. A tear becomes a bath.
A thought becomes another episode that I must binge until its very end.
What a cliffhanger.
Finally, a feast that I can eat. Hungry, for more.
I am tortured and mocked by my internal struggle, but I don’t want to miss the commercials, because there could be something that I want to buy.
I offer a facelift in the mirror. Then wash away its filth.
The voices all speak the same language, yet they’re foreign to me, and I don’t understand them, but I listen anyways because the sound of silence is deafening.
The translated captions will have to do.
“Walk it off, you’ll be fine,” they say, yet when I do so, the thorn bushes outside scrape against my skin, tearing and pulling at my weak meaningless flesh.
My insides are now exposed, and I lock the door for protection.
Why would they encourage me knowing I would fail?
Am I merely a vessel for their amusement, until the carnival closes down?
A red nose they make me wear. Am I forced to be their clown?
I dance, I sing, I play. I must entertain them until they are bored with me.
Only then, bloody, broken, and tired can I wipe away the paint.
I fall asleep to realize that I was never really, awake…
When Death Did Play
When Death did play
I was at an airport lounge in Seattle
eating dusty warm leather,
A/C a cool shadow sighing…
When Death did play
I said goodbye to my
mother and brother once more,
they stood as I went an ocean away, not knowing I was afraid.
When Death did play
I rummaged through manic memories,
running to North pole for Christmas joy,
toys I hardly cared for, a bike stolen at my
trailer park, friends for sale
take them so I don’t have to tell them who
I am…
I rolled through fences, sheep 1, 2, 3, 4, etc..
pillows concrete, bed springy cardboard, sweat
till I drown, fan whooshing hurricanes,
asylum door 3156, 65? Codes known vanish,
death speaks, I panic, consume fast food in
daily sequences…
When Death did play
I was strung up by lift and jet fuel,
maniacal wings spread out to expanding
gases sighing to finite entities.
When Death did play
He spoke kindly to my
deteriorating gaze,
brown eyes blinking
now static, terror of
afterlife, regrets come up
glowing moss green, hollow
vapors taunting me,
cupid with full quiver
giggling, friends silent
watching my execution.
no one has seen true horror until they’ve seen a heaven without animals
a dog doesn't know
much about
the world,
as most animals don't
and they don't care
about the world
or about their inability
to comprehend it
Animals are perfectly
self-centered,
like human babies
Well I knew this girl
who was an animal rights
activist
and couldn't make her
peace with
animals not following their
owners to heaven
Animals don't go to heaven,
is what religion stated
She had visited heaven
a few times
and came back. It's done through
intense meditation
and with the help of
a few special mushrooms
And every time she had
visited heaven
she saw no
animals there
If heaven doesn't have
pets
then heaven is not worth
going to,
she concluded
and she meditated some
more and
had more out-of-body
experiences
and experimented with
new shrooms and herbs
It eventually became clear
to her
that animals don't go
to heaven
because they didn't have
a savior like
Jesus Christ
to die for them, to
redeem them in the eyes
of the creator
She loved her German Shepherd
more than she loved
anything in life, more
than she loved herself
But so did God love
His son Jesus
and still gave him as sacrifice
for a higher good
When she drugged her dog
and nailed its paws,
tail and tongue
to a timber board with a
power drill
she had not the least drop
of sadism in her
It was all for
a higher cause. It was to buy
the animals their
right to go to heaven
She named her dog
Jesus Christ, of course
Even after the local authorities
took her into
custody
she was happy. She knew
that the humans who haven't
seen heaven wouldn't
understand and didn't
expect them to
"Forgive them, Father, for
they know not
what they do.
They thought they have seen
horror. Oh, but how wrong
they are. No one
has seen true horror
until they've seen
a heaven without animals!"
***
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