Today, I’m the bug. On the interstate. I can see a deadline approaching (with the word “Peterbilt” emblazoned across the grille) and I’m flapping my little ladybug wings as hard and fast as I can over the keyboard in hopes that, like a quantum butterfly, I can effect change. Mostly the change from “X words” to “(X+5000) words*2^The End” words.

This one is research-intensive. I’m constantly tabbed-over to wikipedia, and Google Books (and lemmetellya–whatever issues I as an author or the Author’s Guild or publishing companies have with Google Books, it is an INVALUABLE research tool for extant material and out of print primary source material. If I had to plumb the library for this, it’d be weeks and probably more than a couple bucks). Also, there are a hundred and ten other sites I’m constantly flitting to and from, including the library in meatspace.

The trick to researching is that you only research what you need to continue. It’s too easy to dig into something just for its own sake and end up two weeks into the project and not have written a damn word. But I got a handle on this one.  And now I’m gonna go read a little bit more.  For research purposes. No, really, I need this…

And yet, when our one stop is the computer in front of us, it isn’t enough. Instead of one internet, we seek out one site. Now, granted, the modern version of resources (credit cards and identity) are still being preserved, but I have to wonder what it is in our logic that says a company that produces a product on the internet needs another company to distribute that product on the internet, when both companies are merely placing “buy” links and shopping carts to the same virtual product. With distributor discounts ranging from 15% to 65% I’m forced to ask, where’s the value?

In the print publishing world, distributors have an important job and many expenses that justify the distributor discount. Shipping, storage of physical stock, placement at actual points of sale, inventory management–none of that comes free, and I get that (oh, how I get that, from my days in lean manufacturing, I get that). But where is the cost associated with storing and shipping electrons? Are site hosting and credit card processing really worth 65% of a book’s cover price?

Distribution between creation and retail is a necessary model in physical stock inventory, but not so much in the digital world, and we need to think differently about the supply chain both as producers and consumers, or we risk missing an opportunity to redefine value and streamline a system that has been static and change-resistant, simply because we are creatures of habit.

Playing it safe is a net gain in writing, too.  Writing from non-controversial points of view keeps a writer from offending people.  Sensible shoes keep your toes from getting cold if you find yourself standing in the shadows or away from the sun. And yet…without running that risk, those little piggies don’t have the chance to wiggle in the sunshine, and neither do your words.

It’s always more of a risk to write about something you feel strongly about.  It also takes more work.  It isn’t safe, and it’s certainly not inoffensive (although, honestly, nothing really is totally inoffensive–there’s always somebody around to get offended if for no other reason that they may be having a bad day and you’re the unlucky random target). But the payoffs can make you feel like you’re two inches taller and your legs look hot in skinny jeans and chunky heels (I make my own fashion statement–don’t judge).

The trick is to find a kernel of passion in your writing.  That kernel of passion will often be sensitive if you poke it.  It’ll hurt. It’ll shiver at the thought of going out without a coat to protect it from the world. It’ll definitely try to hide and fool you into thinking that there’s something else you should be more passionate about.  It’ll make you think you look fine wearing the loafers with the jeans, even if your white socks make you look like you’re prone to the moonwalk and should be short one sequined glove.

But I’m wearing strappy sandals today, in spite of my toes maybe freezing off. I’m heading for sunny spots, even if I have to walk through the shade, and dammit, my piggies are gonna wiggle in the sunshine.  I’m putting strappy silver sandals on my writing, too.  My current WIP wanders further afield than I am used to.  But I’m more excited about it than I’ve been in the planning stages of a WIP in a long time, and that, my friends, is what wiggling your piggies in sunshine feels like.

As a writer, it is mega-important for you to figure out your own personal flavor and brand of gut-rot.  I know, ewwwww, right?  But writer’s gut-rot can eat into your work and your writing and your career until you wake up one day and realize that this thing you once loved, you now hate and don’t know why.  So many writer-friends have told similar stories about something in their process, their career, their writer’s life, or elsewhere that unequivocally rotted out their passion from the inside. And if something is rotting in there, it needs to change.

That gut-rot might be a step in your process, like plotting (or not plotting, or the way you plot), or the efforts you put into promo (whether or not you’re published yet), a particularly draining critique group, a toxic business or personal relationship, or even unreasonable personal expectations (I’m not saying aim for the ground, but if your goals include “NYT bestseller list” or “XYZ publisher acquires me/puts me in lead title slot/spends millions on promo for my title” you are making your success dependent on factors not wholly in your power to control.

Which brings us back around to my broken streak.  It started last year, when I was whinging to Mr. Xandra about my six whole readers (honestly, I’m not sure if there are even six of you out there, LOL!  And I wasn’t whinging about you, I was whinging about the lack of more of you) and why didn’t I see more traffic to my blog. Pragmatist that he is, shut me up by telling me, “Duh, readers want something to read.”

Yep.  If it wasn’t for the hot air, my head would collapse in on itself sometimes.  I mean, I knew this stuff, I’m a smart chick, right? (Don’t answer that)

So I very quietly made a promise to myself that, come hell or high water, I’d make sure to post something in my blog once a week.  If I couldn’t post on the same day (which I often can’t as schedules for moms of little kids are fluid, at best, regimental at worst, and neither offer much in the way of free, quiet, quality, tranquil time in which to ruminate intelligently a la blog), then I’d use the handy-dandy magical “schedule post” button to make it cleverly look like I was showing up once a week, even if I was neck-deep in edits (which I was at one point) or otherwise occupied (several times).  I have (mostly) kept to this goal, and the goal remained something that would be in my control.  Last week, I should have scheduled my post earlier and been done with it before my troubles hit, but it’s a lesson I shall take with me into this week.  I can’t control how many blog readers I get–that’s up to anybody who stumbles across this out-of-the-way cul-de-sac of the internet.  But I can make it a place where readers have something to read.

Now, speaking of something to read…there’s a story that isn’t writing itself.

It’s easy for a writer to become obsessed about finding reviews–it can really kill your writing time to spend it hunting for mentions of your name or your book’s title, and it’s easy to get lost in the idea of the book you’ve written to the detriment of the book you’ve still got to write.  But when you receive a happy bit of news like this, it can be just the thing to kick start your day.  Hearty thanks to Night Owl for taking the time to read and review Jolly Rogered.  I know I’m one of a great many, and it means something that someone took the time to read and review.

Half an hour later, after stroking the Yank’s cheek and excusing himself to go clear the rest of his schedule, Nigel sauntered into the office, whistling the tune of a sea shanty about a good ship called the ‘Venus’, prompting a snort from Suisan as she passed back out to the front desk.

“Well?” Drew slid away from the terminal and the collection of ledgers which Nigel paid him a king’s ransom to care about.

Nigel flopped into the plush leather chair, put his hands behind his head, and regarded his former lover with a grin. “They’re so bloody cute when they come with little whimpers like that.” He emitted a self-satisfied sigh. “And when those big baby-blues look at you with wonder, it’s just enough to melt your heart and make you sick.”

Drew rolled his eyes. “I’m supposed to envy you the exotic new pet?”

“Not yet, my friend. He’s got no clue what he’s gotten himself into.”

“Yeah, about that. I’m not so sure he did the getting into. I checked his reservation and it was made from somewhere in the States, but through several bounces and out of a tunneling service located in Germany.”

“Poor bastards have to go through all that just to get a little vacation sex?” Nigel wanted to close his eyes and take a nap. Or better still, get back to the Yank and the lovely, pleasant feeling of low-grade, constant arousal the newcomer engendered in him.

“Do you think our new friend is really as innocent as he makes out?”

Nigel glanced at his longtime friend. “Judging by the way he makes out, yes.”

Drew slanted him a return look. “So what’s in it for you, then? I thought you kissed off your last Queen of Denial eight years ago.”

Nigel pouted. “I’m a fickle bitch, aren’t I?”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“He’s a complete neophyte. I want to show him the whole resort just to see the look on his face. Am I too jaded, you think?” Bloody virgins and their bloody ingénue eyes.

Drew was not to be put off by the temptation of speculation. “All I’m saying is that getting involved with an American can lead to heartbreak of the International Incident kind.”

Nigel’s brow furrowed. In spite of being the master of all he surveyed, the stark fact was that he was master on a kind of sufferance. As long as the Isla paid its taxes and membership fees to the Caribbean Union, they enjoyed a moderate international protection via carefully-courted goodwill with the looming behemoth to the north. That didn’t stop the Americans from establishing “embassies”–otherwise known as bases of nosiness–on international properties–whether the inhabitants wanted them or not. Yet he somehow doubted the Union would spend its diplomatic capital on his behalf, should the US wish to open up shop on his island. All the same, a steady flow of palm-greasing gold only lubricated the wheels of diplomacy when one knew which palms needed the greasing.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Well then,” he said. “I guess I’ll just have to pump him for information, then, won’t I? Make sure he’s on the up-and-up and all. I should go get my spy outfit on.” Nigel rose out of the chair in mock eagerness.

Drew took the bait and flicked a stylus at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Then I’m lucky to have you riding my back. Just pull my hair while you’re doing it.”

As a result, I tend to write in fits and starts. Or rather, make progress on writing-related activities in a manner of activity better suited for making half a bundt cake disappear in one sitting.  When the glut is long enough to get me from start to finish, this can be a good thing–I sit down, fork in hand, cake plate in front of me, and devour a whole story’s worth of cake  in one protracted binge of writing.  I have the same taste for cake, the same “tone” at the end of the story as I did at the start, and I’m left exhausted, bloated, but with a complete story.  And also really glad it’s a story and not a cake for reals, otherwise I’d be in a sugar-coma and have guilty cake crumbs all over the place.  But, as after the cake-binge, there comes regret.  I look at the disaster that is my house and despair the same way I’d look at that empty cake plate and feel the guilt over the binge lodge right down there in the ol’ upper-GI tract.

So to break the cycle, I’ve adopted a schedule.  I never thought I’d do it (I’m no slave to the calendar, maaaan!).  I still have a hard time conceiving of the logic of actually stopping writing when I feel like I’m on a roll.  But I do it.  Lots of writers set goals for themselves and then stop at those goals no matter what.  And you know what?  I’ve found out it works, sorta.

Some writers set themselves page goals or time goals–and when they’ve reached their goal, they stop.  Flat-out, no ands ifs or buts.  I can’t be one of those people that stops in mid-sentence if I’ve hit ten minutes or 2 pages.  Since I usually use scenes to mark time and progress, I’m pretty much insured against the need to do so.  But it doesn’t prevent me from reaching that goal and realizing that yeah, I’d like to write more, or keep going on this one wound.  And wouldn’t you know it, that feeling seems to follow me from day to day.  I’m making real progress, instead of just vomiting up a brain mess.  And that’s hella better than cake.  Even half a bundt cake in one sitting.

But especially in the online world, books have more competition.  Or I should say different competition.  At home, one can pick up a book and begin reading, or bypass the book and pick up a game controller, or turn on the TV or PC or stereo, pop in a DVD, change the channel, or decide to take a walk or bake a pie.  Online, it is much easier to click on an excerpt and get sucked into a good story…but it is just as easy to flick the mouse over another tab and click away…to a music site, YouTube, or heaven-help-us-all, popcap or facebook (and that’s only the SFW-rated stuff–nevermind what you can do without the fear of the boss looking over your shoulder!).

An epublisher that wishes to navigate the online terrain nimbly enough to keep from falling flat on its face will need to take much in stride, and to be able to make it look easy.  What does that mean, exactly?  It means that, in short, you must make your product easy to find, fairly-priced, and instantaneous to buy.  As an author, I try to do that as much as I’m able.  I might miss the mark, I dunno.  I hope that plenty of excerpts and easy to find buy links will do what they are designed to do and entice the reader into clicking “Add to Cart.”  But as I’m not my own vendor, I can only go that far.  An epublisher–which acts as vendor of digitally-published books–needs to make the buying process an easy, instant, and secure experience.  As a reader, I don’t want to have to click through many pages, or my interest fades.

As a reader, I have certain categories of story that interest me–I actually do pay attention to those “if you like X, try Y” suggestions some places have on their product pages.  And in spite of my deep and intense loathing (brought about by frustration) of iTunes (which I no longer use, but did for as long as my gift card had money on it), the iTunes algorithm did a very good job of finding songs similar to the ones I liked–and a lot better of a job remembering/discovering the (sometimes-obscure) names of the bands and songs that I couldn’t be arsed to look up.  As a result, I bought music I’d normally just sing along to on the radio.

My point is–ebooks are a consumable entertainment.  Make it so they can be devoured easily, in bite-sized guilt-free pieces, and at impulse prices.