I played with a set of Roland V-session electronic drums while I was in
Ottawa. Just something else to put on my "When I win the lottery" wish
list. They go for about $4,500 U.S, which is roughly $7,300 Canadian. Believe
me, that irks me no end. What? Canadian musicians make so much more money
than American ones? Nope, it's just our undervalued freak'n dollar--the
one the Canadian gov't purposely keeps low so that Americans will spend
more money in Canada--and so will Canadians, since it's not worth anything
anywhere else. Not that I could afford $4,500 anyway. Argghhh!
And I went back to work last shift, which means: constant exhaustion, no
time for family, writing, exercise...I was off for almost two months and
lost 14 pounds, and felt great most of the time. It only reinforces how
bad my job is for me. It's pretty bad when you have to get injured so you
can be healthy.
Remember that tree in my backyard? The one that teases me by cycling through
the seasons, reminding me that I haven't made a sale? I swear it's playing
with my head now. I mean, it's bare--I know it's bare--yet at night when
I look out my window at it, the damn thing is in full bloom. The light
from the streetlight shines off its leaves like it was Ygdrasil or something.
And it's been like this for a couple of months. Maybe it's trying to tell
me something, like success is just around the corner. Or maybe I'm just
a blooming idiot.
The power went out in my area Saturday night at 8:30PM and didn't come
back on until Sunday at 3:00PM. Apparently there are some places still
without electricity. The outage was very selective; the power on my street
was out, but I could see the lights on in the homes across the way.
Luckily, Ryan and I were the only ones home that night. Pen had gone to
Niagara Falls for the weekend. We lit candles, but there wasn't much to
do except sit around and watch each other by candlelight. We tried to watch
a DVD on my laptop, but the battery died. No wonder early pioneers went
to bed so early.
We couldn't cook, so we ordered pizza and laughed our faces off as we paid
the delivery girl while holding a flashlight and counting out change. (I
think I freaked her out because when she came to the door I held the light
up under my chin and made that spooky Halloween face.) Ryan had to go to
work early in the morning, and by the time I woke up the house was freezing.
When he got home I rushed him out the door and we went to the nice, warm
cinema and saw The Time Machine. By the time the movie was over, the power
was back on.
I think I'm going to invest in a nice battery powered lamp. Something I
can read with. Of course, Ryan's still screwed. :-)
Of course I'm sick. I'm on days off. I'm sure I'll be just fine by the
time I have to go into work tomorrow at noon. At least the week has been
productive. I finished two of my short stories: Joy Ride, and Harbinger.
(Although Harbinger is almost 10,000 words long, so I wouldn't exactly
call it short.) Now if I could just sell them. And the two books. And all
my other short stories.
Hey! Maybe I'll auction them off on E-Bay. I probably stand a better chance
of them making me any money that way then by going the traditional route.
Especially if they think I'm that other Steve Perry. :-)
Okay, so I was wrong. I went to work today but only managed to tough it
out for five hours before I came home sick. If I'm smart I'll stay home
tomorrow, too. Maybe the PTB are punishing me for having the audacity to
finish two short stories in one week. I'd almost rather they did it in
their usual way--by sending me a rejection letter. I said almost.
If they really want to mess with my head they'd send me an acceptance letter
and a big fat check. (Do you think reverse psychology works on the PTB?)
What to do, what to do. I've got a couple of short stories that should
go out in the mail, but I was hoping for a little feedback on them first.
Even if none comes before I decide to send them out, it's always good to
give it a few days. Put the story out of your mind for a bit, then give
it another read. You'll be surprised at what you might find that way. Hopefully
it's a good surprise, like--Wow, this really is a good story--and not a
bad surprise, like--does this ever suck. What was I thinking, writing the
entire thing from the POV of a narcoleptic, rubber-fetish, crack-addicted,
cross-dressing cat, and in wingding font on pink paper to boot. Well, okay.
Maybe not that bad. (Pink paper. Hah!)
On a sad note, Pen's
grandmother passed away on Sunday. My best wishes and condolences go out
to all the family.
I mailed Harbinger off to WotF today, which means I can forget about it
for at least three months. I was hoping to get a little more feedback on
it before I sent it off, but their deadline was coming up, so c'est la
vie. I think I'll post Joy Ride to the workshop.
In an interesting note, a lot of people have been visiting my website lately
looking for that other Steve Perry. (The SF Writer, not the singer. That
gets really confusing.) I'm getting emails from people telling me
how much they liked the sample chapters of Darkside, and wondering where
they could get a copy. I even had a couple of guys ask me if I could send
them Naejin (although I think they were from the DROWW.) It's pretty cool
when your books have fans and they've never been published.
I have to go do the dishes soon. There aren't many, and doing such a simple
task keeps me in Pen's good books. I generally make sure the toilet seat
is left down, pick up my socks and underwear, and don't leave my toys lying
about the house. Women have divorced men over less.
See, guys just don't get it. I mean, it's just a pair of socks, right?
But to a woman you might has well have taken a dump in the middle of the
living room. They have to twist it and make it all about them. Obviously
you don't care enough about them and their feelings to do something as
simple as pick your socks up off the floor. Or worse yet, you figure they
must be some kind of maid.
The reality is, you don't expect them to pick up your socks. You don't
care if anyone picks them up. Ever. You're a guy. And even if you
pick your socks up 29 days a month, that one will come back to haunt you,
I guarantee it. So you have to find some way to offset it.
That's why you have to tell them that you love them, and buy them flowers
out of the blue occasionally. It messes with their minds. (This has been
a public service announcement brought to you by M.W.S.K.B.--Men Who Should
I have six short stories out to publishers at the moment, and one novel.
I've been waiting for word back on one of the short stories for five months
now, and over a year on the novel. That doesn't include query letters.
I donít know how these topical writers do it. By the time a publisher gets
around to accepting or rejecting your story, never mind actually publishing
it, your story is hopelessly out of date, the next ice age has arrived,
and man has evolved into a higher life form (who still gets confused if
you write in omniscient POV.) Hmmm, maybe I can market some of my sci-fi
stuff as historical fiction.