The Truth about Self-Publishing

I’m so psyched about self-publishing. I’m holding myself back because producing a book without another round of edits could hurt. Investing in an editor appears to be the right thing to do along side purchasing copyrights from the Library of Congress.

Two obstacles remain: Money and more stories.

Any writer or any professional will tell you to keep your job while you’re writing novels, collections, etc. I kmow I’ll have to take a risk eventually, but I want it to be a calculated risk.

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Day 5: The Unsent Love Letter

Dear ___________,

Retrospect has brought some fond memories. In the midst of youth, there were times where my heart fluttered yet I was too distracted to notice.

I didn’t understand it as a kid in elementary school. The first girl I liked was liked by most of the boys in 5th grade. She loved dolphins and wrote about it in a class activity. At the opportunity to impress her, I ended up annoying her.

You probably don’t remember. I felt bad and wanted to apologize. Somehow, I understood pride. Courage, however, was far from me.

I knew my chances were over. So, my young mind wondered to a girl who just arrived to our school. I had big crush on her. But most of my friends liked her, too. When I didn’t get any attention, I made it business to show everyone I didn’t like her. Inside my little naive heart, I adored her.

I was mean to you for no reason. I had a crush on you for sure. Every snarky look was out of boyish infatuation. Typical yet truthful.

I had a crush in middle school. It was mutual, at least it felt mutual. I was so caught up in being tough. I found my macho bravado but lacked the courage to tell the girl I half-ass carried to the nurse’s office that I liked her.

You were as sweet as a ripe peach, so pretty that I was afraid to maim your beauty with my bald, oily fingers.

High school was different. With no car I felt inadequate. I put all of my focus into school. Of course, my crushy vibes continued. It was without measure. It was a race, and I was way behind all the other dudes.

I got bold one day. On Valentine’s Day 2006, I gave my crush a poem. I spelled her name wrong though. How cute. Unfortunately, she was dating someone else.

I should’ve pursued you more. The opportunity like many others went by, and I let it happen.

Most of all, I let a jewel in my adulthood slip away. The boyish habits sustained. The petite beauty persisted. I ignored her thinking only of my selfish desire.

This uncoventional letter, this confessional blunder of words, is regret.

As a kid, I wasn’t supposed to understand the ins and outs of courtship. As an adult, however, I was conscious. I complained about being lonely while the lady that burned for me raised her hand.

Life granted me ambition. I’ve been married to it for a long time. I didn’t think there was enough room for a girlfriend. What I didn’t realize was the room I had within my life. I was selfish.

There was enough room for you.

Although our time has long since passed, I’m here to say that I never forgot you. You left me an impression that I’ll treasure for life. And for that, I thank you.

Cordially,

Elijah

Day 4: A Day with Elijah

The title sounds so good it could be a story. I may save the title for a nonfiction essay.

It’s Day Four and today I’ll blog on what a day is like for me.

First, of course, is the morning. I take my time. Grab my cellphone and urge my tingly fingers to check alerts. They believe they’re productive to career and finances. They tap away only to summon Facebook. I watch for laughs, controversy, and remain hopeful that some pretty lady has sent me a DM full of emojis.

I skim through smut, flash fiction, and video game news on the mobile browser for at least ten minutes.

Then it’s time for landscaping, the first job of the day. I put on an old, discolored shirt and a pair of blue jeans that’s too tight. A rip is forming, but I probably won’t buy new jeans until someone else notices the gaping hole. Can’t forget the imploding boots that I wear.

Off to work.

I use my years of landscaping experience to display mastery of lawn, shrubs, and small combustion engines. I take precaution. I stay away from poison ivy the best way I can. There’s much to do, but my time is limited.

One o’clock, the hour I prepare for camera operating for a broadcast news station. I shed the grime and grass in a warm shower. I dress comfortably, usually a polo shirt and dark denim jeans. I persist for a nice meal. Never know when breaking news will keep me all night.

In the event that it doesn’t, I proceed to:

  • Work on a short story, novel chapter, video, etc.
  • Go home to have another meal and live stream on Twitch.

As the late night approaches, I return back to the news station for an hour and a half. I contemplate whether or not to eat again when the shift ends.

By the time I get home. I’ll game or watch an episode or two of a random Netflix show.

Sleep is inevitable. I flip open my laptop and listen to some music until my eyes get heavy.

Day 3: Myth of the Atlantic

I’ve made it to Day Three of the blog challenge. Prompts are great when you’re in that Writer’s Block transition. Besides, this gives me some time to blog on Black Board. I’d like to thank those that read Black Board as well.

The challenge today is to find a map, a place that’s real or virtual. One of the most interesting places is the Bermuda Triangle. You know, the mythical oceanic location that has a paranormal lore which seems to be more vast than its recorded 500,000 square mile body.

As far as I know, many vessels have traveled on it and over it. Some made it across, while others disappeared into the unknown. No wreckage. No bodies. Nothing. According to History.com, ships and planes venture among its waters with no problem.

History.com added, “Christopher Columbus sailed through the area on his first voyage to the New World, he reported that a great flame of fire (probably a meteor) crashed into the sea one night and that a strange light appeared in the distance a few weeks later.”

We can spend all day talking about the theories and anomalies of the Bermuda, also called Devil’s Triangle. For now, let me explore what I think it is.

I’ve always imagined the Bermuda Triangle as a gate to Atlantis. Even though, mythology may describe it’s location differently, I believe the disappearance of all these ships, people, and objects of stellar origin pass to Atlantis through some unexplained atmospheric occurrence. Who’s to say? The legends may have it wrong. Atlantis could possibly be another version of Earth.

But all of this is theory and mystery. I’m just enjoying the art of spinning the collected information with imagination. It’s good for brainstorming.

If you’re interested in reading more about the Bermuda Triangle, you can find more information here.

Also, if you want to participate in the 7-Day Blog Challenge, the prompts are listed at this Write Tribe Festival of Words webpage.

Where passions are kept

Every now and then I’d get these little sparks that ignite furious wildfires in my mind reminding me of my initial passions of my current life choices. 

All I got is smoke. I got a feeling that what I strive for is behind the smoke. I’m trying to get to it before it turns to ash or rendered invaluable by unrelenting sut.

There’s no water in sight. No dust to calm the inferno just an inability to control it. So, I let it burn. I could see it better if it weren’t for the smoke. It has no where to go. A dome contains it choking the air it needs to breathe. 

It wants to be free, and I want to release it. Its exposed in increments like a chef teasing his culinary potential. Its witnesses only see smoke. 

Despite it’s stagnant life, I feel pressure building against the will of the dome. The walls are solid, sustainable yet unwanted. It seeks to reshape the flame and control how it burns.

The pressure builds. I’m waiting on the chance to fuel its ambition and when it does, I’ll be there to watch its light spread.