F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

New York

The Lake Titus Camp, Summer 2016

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The Lake Titus, New York Camp. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)
The Lake Titus, New York Camp. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)

The Lake Titus Camp we stayed at is a few miles outside of Malone, New York, just toward and also outside of the Adirondack Park. There are many camps out on the lake, and we’ve seen them all from the lake (we had a tour of the lake and the camps several years back, when we stayed at another camp owned by the Carkeys, farther down the lake; a friend of my dad and stepmom gave us a boat ride guided tour). In fact, while staying at the Carkeys old camp, it was only accessible by boat—there was no road into it. So my wife and I took this little boat with an outboard on it and had to use it to get there every night—in the dark. It was so cool. And on the 4th of July during that trip the neatest experience happened: as we were boating out to the camp in total darkness (we had no light, but you could actually make your way in the darkness), we came upon all these people just sitting out in the water in their boats!

You read that right.

Welcome To Lake Titus! (© Photo F. P. Dorchak, August 15, 2016)
Welcome To Lake Titus! (© Photo F. P. Dorchak, August 15, 2016)

There were all these people just sitting out in the dark on the lake. We asked what was going on and were told that they were waiting for fireworks! Ha! How cool, we thought, so we stopped and hung out with everyone, also quietly chatting in the dark with these unknown faces all in a happy, joyful mood. It was the coolest thing! And when the fireworks went off, that was incredible…watching them from the lake! This will always remain as one of the neatest experiences of my life….

My Favorite Birds-On-A-Plate (© Photo F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)
My Favorite Birds-On-A-Plate (© Photo F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)

The camp we stayed at this time around is run by the Harwoods, and it was quite comfortable for the four of us. It has a living room, full kitchen and dining area, two bedrooms, and a bathroom with a shower in it. The living room has a pull-out sleeper couch. The view out the living-room’s windows is great! They also have a small grill out on the porch, and a fire pit in front, but we needed use of neither, since we were at my folks’ place. The camp is nestled on a steep slope of Lake Titus and has a small dock that holds a paddle boat and kayak. There is no “beach,” per se, but the water is shallow enough to get into by stepping on submerged rocks (be careful!), with a sandy bottom. The grade toward deeper water drops off quickly once you get out in. And there are fish! I don’t know what kind, but I saw all manner of them, from some three inches to what looked like (water refraction, you know) maybe six or so inches.

This trip to upstate New York was for my dad’s 80th birthday, and there wasn’t enough room for us all at my dad and stepmom’s place, so the camp was rented. My brother, Greg, his son, Alek, and my wife and I stayed here. Greg and Alek didn’t stay as long, left mid-week, but my wife and I stayed through to the next weekend. We went to my folk’s place and drove around during the day, but at night stayed here. After Greg and Alek left, in the early morning, while my wife still slept, I went down and hung out on the steps leading down to the dock and just…stared…out over the water…let my mind run wild…watched and listened to the two loons that were out there…drifting with the current and bobbing and swimming under the water to pop up somewhere else. Listened to their haunting wails, yodels, and tremolos….

Early Morning Sun. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 20, 2016)
Early Morning Sun. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 20, 2016)

Watched the rising sun sparkle off the still waters…

Looked out over the unknown dark depths and mountains for story inspiration…

This is the part of the country I remain heavily and spiritually tied to. Where I get recharged. I love upstate New York, the Adirondacks. Its mountains and waters and trees. I love the spirit of the land. Had I not gone the route I went in my career, I most certainly would have followed my dad’s path as a Forest Ranger. As a kid I was always in the 40 acres of woods up back behind our Lake Clear home roaming the land, climbing the trees. I loved it there.

Sigh.

Early Morning Kayak. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 19, 2016)
Early Morning Kayak. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 19, 2016)

Anyway…after Laura would awaken, she’d go swimming (she’s such a fish!) and I’d take out the kayak. It’s a little different than canoeing, but I love it! One day, there was a lot of mist out on the lake (it wasn’t the case every morning), and as I sat there mesmerized by it…I did watch it for a bit…it dawned on me: I have a kayak! I then made it my business to get out in that thing and cross the lake to meet up with the remaining mists before it all evaporated!

I became this Olympic kayaker, powering across Lake Titus….

And I caught up with it!

The mists danced and swirled off the waters, like wraiths evading the sun. There was this seagull on a rock as I came over…then it flew off the rock, low and across the water…it was so cool….

As I floated in among the mists I felt transported into a different world…one of eerie magical enchantment! It was stunningly beautiful and mystical! Absolutely haunting!

On my last kayak, I went down to the far end of the lake to check out the Carkey Camp. I also just wanted to head down that way because I like to go to out-of-the-way corners where not many tread, and on the way back I came across a loon! Knowing how feisty they can be, I kept my distance—maybe about 30 or so feet?—and slowly paddled past it. I was close enough to see its beady little red eyes. Sorry, no pictures, I didn’t bring the camera this time, just wanting to be in the moment without any technology. But, it was so cool!

154_9685On all my kayaks, I would go out into the middle of the lake and just…sit. Float with the current…both hands dunked into the cold, dark water, and think: It just doesn’t get any better than this!

When I was done kayaking, we’d switch and Laura would kayak and I would “mess around” in the water—I wouldn’t call what I did in the water “swimming,” per se, but I just love being in (or around) lake water. Upstate New York water. So, I’d swim out a little and back, dive under for a few strokes, and otherwise, well, just stand neck-deep in the stuff feeling all-kinds-of contented…again just staring out across the lake from a pond skater’s point of view…with a silly, complacent smile on that face of mine. Enjoying where I was…being totally in the moment. Toes squishing around in the dark lake muck below me…all kinds of fishies playing around at my feet. I’m not familiar enough with what’s in Titus, but here’s a site I found afterward.

Then, one particularly perfect morning as the sun was rising, as I looked down into the water just off the dock, I was utterly captivated by what I saw—hypnotic sun sparkles dancing off the water! They were so happy and joyful in their existence and they called out to me! These sparkles seemed to have a life of their own! This is one of my favorite videos I’ve ever taken, and yes, story idea already percolating! I simply stood there and stared into them…for I don’t know how long! Utterly mesmerized!

But…all things must come to an end…

On our last night there, Friday, the 19th, I tried taking some night shots, the moon so full and bright! No special camera, just using a couple little old, nonsmartphone cameras on various settings. I also tried to capture some of the fireworks going off across the lake, but wasn’t successful there. But…a couple of the night shots did work, you know, for being an nonprofessional. It was an incredible night!

We had an incredible stay…got to play in and on the water…had no real commitments…and just…relaxed. It was…incredible. My friend, Jan C. J. Jones, polished up one of my larger videos I’d taken (at my request) while “chasing the mists,” and turned it into a YouTube video, also adding some really cool music to cover up the scratchiness of whatever was going on when I took this video. Thanks, Jan! It turned out this was the last day I saw mists on the lake….

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A Tribute To Mac

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As I’m going back over all my old short stories, I found this little tribute I’d written back in 2000. It is about an incident that happened to me while I’d been a boy in the 70s. It was about one of the family dogs we’d lost. I’d been there when it was killed. I’m glad I’d written it up when I did, because I’d apparently already begun to forget some of the details I’d written up. Well, we are talking some 40 years, here! I even had to ask my dad about one set of details as I’d written this up a couple weeks ago.

I’ve delayed posting because I’ve been looking for a picture of Mac…but I just can’t find one! Which is weird, cause I’d seen pictures of him—and his grave—in my possession. I must have lost them over the years, or someone else has them. In any event, if I do find one, I’ll add it into this post after the fact.

As with most of what I write, it doesn’t quite end as you might expect it to end…and which is why I’ve posted it to this site rather than my other one. I like that about my work. I like that about the weird things that happen to me in my life.

Embrace the weird.

 

A Tribute to Mac

© F. P. Dorchak, Sept 17, 2000

I remember Mac like it was yesterday. Mac was the best pal any kid could ask for. He never asked for much: food, shelter, and friendship. Okay, and a constant supply of attention. You see, Mac was a black Labrador Retriever, one of our family’s pets back in the 70s. I loved him so much that as an adult I’d also named the Black Lab we’d had “Mac” (his official name for those AKC papers was “Lord MacTavish du Lac”), as well.

My dad says we got Mac from one of his dad’s bosses who lived “out west.” My grandfather used to chauffeur for the president of the board of Phelps Dodge Wire and Cable. All I do know was that for a kid just barely a teenager, the dog was big! Paws as huge as your own feet!

Mac took a while getting used to coming to us when we called him, but I guess that was to be expected. We lived in The North Country, as it was called by those who live there (upstate NY, the extreme northern end of New York State; we lived in the Adirondack Mountains) and what with all that open space…well, it took a while. But Mac was fun-loving, as all labs are! I remember…

He had this one big tree branch that was actually longer than himself, and he always used to play with it and drag it around with him all over the place. There wasn’t a day you wouldn’t look out and see him dragging it somewhere, playfully growling and head shaking back in forth in the excited frenzy of play. Or find him under the shade of some tree on a lazy summer day, patiently (surgically!) chewing and whittling away at the limb with his teeth. He loved that danged stick. He must’ve actually bitten off several inches of it, because I swear, after a while, it looked shorter….

And Mac was always there for us kids. In fact it wasn’t all that unlikely to see one of us kids sleeping on Mac’s side as he slept. We called him our “Portable Pillow.”

But…the inevitable happened one day.

 

I was going to take a bike ride a couple miles down the road to check on the mail at the Post Office, when Mac came running up to me from somewhere wanting to come along (we didn’t always keep him leashed, which wasn’t a great thing, I know, but it’s how many operated up in The North Country). Well, by this time Mac was pretty regular about coming when called, so I decided, why not? Off we went.

Mac stayed by my side as I rode one of my brothers’ bikes (his had a basket, mine didn’t, and I needed that for any mail I might collect; it was a red “banana” bike;  mine was purple) down the road. I was pretty impressed to say the least, though I was also wary about the traffic, of which there wasn’t much to begin with. If I called him, he came. I was feeling pretty good about my buddy, Mac.

We made it to the Post Office and Mac came inside with me, all happy and excited. I can still remember that day, some 40 years later. Everyone knew everyone in this hamlet of Lake Clear, including one’s pets, so we all said “Hi.” Then, much like that Miss Almira Gulch, from The Wizard of Oz, there was this one old lady in there collecting her mail. She was one of those ladies who made an issue out of everything: “Oh there ought to be a law about this” or “Oh there ought to be a law about that.” Wrinkly and bitchy (sorry, this was how I’d described her when I’d written this in 2000, so I’ve kept it as-is). The type that also revels in scolding kids for anything and everything. Miss Almira Gulch.

Well, as Mac roamed the floor as I collected my mail, the lady turned to me after seeing my dog, and told me that someday my dog would get hit by a car, the way it was running loose. “There ought to be a law…” I just knew she must have been thinking then. I said, naw, he comes when he’s called real good and we don’t let him out loose that much (really, I said that? Again, this was what I’d written in 2000, so…). Besides, Mac was a careful dog, I said. The lady left, and Mac and I said our goodbyes to Post Office personnel. We were back on the road, mail in basket, Mac at heels.

We were almost home, at that big downward-S-curving bend, maybe less than a quarter mile from home? Mac was trotting contently on the other side of the road, staying off the pavement. He had just crossed over there…when he’d decided to come back over to my side.

I swear til this day, that what I saw him do, he did. I actually saw him do this: as Mac went to cross the road, he looked first one way…then the other…then made his way across.

Now, whether or not he was actually looking for cars is arguable…but that was what he’d done.

It was at this time that a little compact sports car (I think it might have been an MG Midget, but something like it, top down, as I recall) came screaming out from around that bend towards us. Mac never saw it coming. His head was turned in the opposite direction—it happened immediately after he’d just looked down the way of the approaching bullet.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I seemed to have blocked out the thump that must have occurred, the screaming of brakes, and the skidding of car. I dropped my bike where I was and ran into the center of the road. The road here was banked at a good angle to meet the S-curved bend…and it was where Mac now lay…my Little Buddy was now a black mass around which red was actively leaking out and pooling. His mouth…his mouth was open at a sick angle…his tongue hanging out at an even sicker, unnatural angle. I remember seeing him still looking like he was breathing for a little while…roughly so. It looked utterly grotesque…hideous…and I didn’t know what to do.

I felt entirely helpless.

I’d shot my hands into the air several times in futility and disbelief…my eyes searching for somebody, anybody…anybody who knew what to do…to tell me that what I was witnessing was not reality…not what I was really seeing. That it was actually another dog lying there in a pool of its own blood in the middle of warm asphalt….

Nothing came out of my mouth.

I ran to the edge of the road…then back to Mac…then repeated my steps. Other cars began to stop.

I then ran to the door of a well-kept gray house that was right there. I rapped on the door and someone answered. I remembered trying to keep my cool…keep calm and not cry…as I blurted out what’d happened. I asked to use the phone. I called my dad. He answered. In the same calm but wavering voice, I told my father what had happened. He rhetorically asked me if this was a joke. That’s what people do in times like this. It’s the same question everyone asks while they try to forestall the inevitable realization. I think it was then that I started to cry.

I ran back out as my dad was on his way to…us. I went back to my Mac’s side. He was still bleeding…the blood still making its way down the road’s canted angle. I looked at his black body, disgustingly twisted…his mouth and tongue still that sickeningly hideous way they were when I left. I thought back to when Mac had looked both ways before crossing the road. Of what that old lady (I’d used a different term in the first draft of this…) had scolded me about Mac back in the Post Office.

And I thought of that damned little sports car…barreling around that corner like it was a Grand Prix racer.

I looked for it. There were people talking to the driver and its passenger. A guy and a girl. To this day I can still see them all standing “over there” in a group, in my mind’s eye.

I reached out and touched Mac…he was still warm. Warm but unmoving. I bent over and cradled him…praying he wasn’t hurt too badly…was not dead…hoping beyond hope he was fixable—

Was this a joke?

It wasn’t…and Mac would no longer be our Portable Pillow. No longer be whittling away at his huge stick in the shade of some tree. My dad had arrived, looking all official in his NYS Department of Environmental Conservation Forest Ranger uniform. His Everything-Will-Be-All-Right manner. He was used to scenes like this, I’m sure. Pulled dead bodies off of mountain tops and all. Now we were pulling our dead dog off the road.

We took Mac home in the back of my dad’s red ranger truck. The killers had apologized most remorsefully, saying they hadn’t seen our dog. Of course not. Most people don’t intentionally try to kill dogs while out for a drive during a beautiful, sunny day. They gave my dad all the money they had on them: about ten bucks, I seem to think it was.

We buried Mac up behind our house, before one of three gardens we had. I made a small wooden cross and carved Mac’s name into it with my pocket knife. I found Mac’s tree branch and brought it to the grave. I made two upright supports for it and suspended the stick across and over the grave. It stayed that way for most of my remaining years at home.

I don’t know how much longer after all this it was…days, months, a year?…but one day I’d seen Mac again. I’d been at the top of the long staircase of our 1800s house…I’d turned around to face the stairs while on the top landing…when I’d seen his happy black tail and butt. The tail was straight up into the air—and it and the butt were quickly heading down the stairs!

I was stunned. That was Mac! We hadn’t a black dog, in fact I’m not sure if we even had a replacement dog at this point, but it definitely was not a black dog.

As an adult I don’t hold any anger or animosity toward that “Miss Almira Gulch” or the couple that had hit Mac. Things happen. We all have to die sometime of something, I always say, and I believe there is more on The Other Side. As I also remember it, my dad told me that the couple was pretty shaken up from the accident. But, to this day, I still think about that scene. Of that couple…and how that accident might have affected them. Of Mac lying in the middle of that road. Of Mac looking both ways before crossing. Of that old lady’s ominous warning. I loved that dog. I’ll always miss Mac. He was more than just a Portable Pillow to all of us.

 

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Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York

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Morningside Cemetery, Malone, NY, July 16, 2015
Morningside Cemetery, Malone, NY, July 16, 2015

The next stop on our whirlwind North Country tour of July 16, 2015 was the Morningside Cemetery, in Malone, NY. Curiously, as I wrote and researched this post, I found that the cemetery is formed in the shape of a “heart”! How cool is that? Click this link to see that. What my stepmom wanted to show me was the resting place of U. S. Vice President William Wheeler (1876-1880).

I’m nodding all-knowledgeable-like when she told me this, but inside I’m, like, “Vice President William Who?!”

Isn’t that terrible?

U. S. Vice President William A. Wheeler, Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York, July 16, 2015
U. S. Vice President William A. Wheeler, Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York, July 16, 2015

Sure, I know there are presidents and VPs that extend back beyond the age of social media history, but, um, I don’t remember them all, sorry. And I’m not a student of politics. I learned what I needed to in grade and high school and hoped it helped frame my mind for the future, but, apparently, I’m in good company, for Rutherford B. Hayes also once asked: “Who is Wheeler?”

Sorry, Mr. Vice President!

There are some other notables interred here, including Orville Gibson, who founded the Gibson Guitar Company. He was also born in Chateaugay, new York—I never knew that. Apparently there was speculation Gibson suffered some form of mental illness. I don’t think we saw his gravestone, but I do believe my stepmom may have mentioned him. Click here for more information on Mr. Gibson.

Anyway, the Vice President’s resting place is beautiful—in fact the entire cemetery is. Rolling hills, tons of trees and shadows, and some really cool-looking grave art. Just like you’d expect a northeastern cemetery to look like! It was quiet, nary another (soul?) around, and the two of us just walked among the gravestones….

 

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St. John in the Wilderness Cemetery – Upstate New York Vacation 2014 – Part 4 of 4

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St. John in the Wilderness Cemetery, Lake Clear, N.Y. (Aug 15, 2014)
St. John in the Wilderness Cemetery, Lake Clear, N.Y. (Aug 15, 2014)

After visiting Ausable Chasm, the St. Lawrence River, and Boldt Castle, we made a drive past the old homestead and surrounds, including visiting one of NYS’s fish hatcheries (I used to bike down to the “Adirondack Fish Hatchery,” as it is now called, as a kid; there was no fence, then, and I’d walk among the pools of little fishies), and the local cemetery.

I like visiting cemeteries…I know, sooner or later it won’t be a “visit” (not that I plan on being buried), but I like them for several reasons. Anyway, I realized I’d never documented the cemetery I grew up near, in Lake Clear, N.Y.

The cemetery is part of the church we used to attend for part of my childhood (my family and I are no longer Catholic), and happened to be a short bike ride down the road from where we lived, the church located at 6148 State Route 30, Lake Clear, NY 12945. The cemetery is located in the opposite direction, to Lake Clear Junction, where you take a left (remaining on Route 30), then drive up just a touch, and you’ll see it on your right, just before the turn-off for the dump.

Anyway, I know—knew—several interred here. One was a childhood friend (Dirk Ewan), and one was Mr. Hohmeyer, whom I’ve talked about before. Dirk was three years older than me and a big dude. He was 17 when he died. I remember him having been a gentle soul…an extremely kind-hearted individual…which is rare in a strapping, seventeen-year-old (I could be wrong, but my young-self’s recollections seem to recall him being kinda big). His mom was a friend of my mom, and he and his family used to come down to the lake and hang out with us. Dirk, however, would never go into water above his shins. He was deathly afraid of it, and made no bones about it.

In 1974, he drowned.

An accident, but he drowned.

The Trapl’s lived down a little way from us, past the church. When dad had had a landscaping business (additional job, he was still a Forest Ranger), I’d go with dad helping out in any way I could, digging, muscling trees and such around, chopping out tree trunks. That last part involved Mr. Trapl. He labeled his place, “Trapl’s Yalna.” I don’t know what that means, nor the language. Google Translate said it detected the language “Azerbaijani,” and translated it into “just.” Anyway, one later afternoon-into-early-evening we’d been down there trying our damnedest to remove a tree trunk. As some may know, you don’t just “remove” tree trunks. Their roots extend at least as far down as their foliage extends upward. But we did our best, into the darkness, employing my dad’s truck, chains, and grit. I could be wrong, but I don’t remember having completed that job, but we gave it our best. We might have just cut around the visible roots and had been done with it, but I just remember all the grit and effort with my dad, and how cool it was, and that we were working into the “fall of darkness”!

One of our family members was buried (or died) here, May 7, 1968. There used to be a temporary marker. It’s long since gone.

I went to school with one of the Sayles family.

There were a couple other family names I recognized, but didn’t recognize the interred individuals.

Except for more gravestones, it looks near exactly what it looked like when I lived there (sixties and seventies), except there was no chain link fence around the back…not sure about the front, but I don’t remember one, and it really wouldn’t make sense to have a fence in the front, if there wasn’t one surrounding its perimeter.

The only other memory I have concerning this cemetery is an amusing, odd one: I was 18 and was driving alone to the dump with a load, and as I passed this cemetery, the new (at the time, 1979) Styx (one of my favorite bands at the time) tune, “Renegade” popped on the radio. I thought that was “coincidental” at the time, which I would now term “synchronistic.”

“Oh mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law
Lawman has put an end to my running and I’m so far from my home
Oh mama, I can hear your crying you’re so scared and all alone
Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don’t have very long….”

Next post: Donnelly’s Corners—the best soft ice cream ever!

 

 

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Going Indie—What I’ve Learned (So Far)—Part 11

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Forge Your Own Way. (By Morrowlong [CC-BY-SA-3.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0] or GFDL [http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons]
Forge Your Own Way. (By Morrowlong [CC-BY-SA-3.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0] or GFDL [http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons]
It’s truly never-ending.

When you’re doing everything yourself—and by “yourself” I do mean having a team, but though you do have a team, you’re still in charge—you never really get a break. And that’s okay, because, in this instance, it truly is a labor of love.  But, you can only push yourself so far without adversely affecting your health, relationships, that kind of thing. It’s like I’ve said before, you can only do what you can do. Don’t fret about it…but do your best.

Indie publishing.

I’ve been working on my Psychic manuscript since before 2000. I’d originally started notes and chapter one around 1994, actually, when I’d discovered that our government claimed to have disbanded a classified remote viewing program. It gave me a story idea, so I began notes and such, but it wasn’t until 2000 that I sat down in earnest and began the task I’m still trying to complete. This month, I hope to finally complete it. And though I’ve been working on this project for a large frigging part of my life (surprisingly, this is the manuscript I’ve worked the longest, good God—20 years, if you count when I started taking notes—man that just hit me as I write this!), the difficulty has largely been the timeframe of the book. I’ve had to change the dates and ages and technology numerous times in trying to get this thing out there. And, as I’m wrapping things up, I’m still discovering little nit-noy shit (even though I have a proofreader), like the age of my antagonist at certain events, or the need to again change his weapon of choice. It’s become maddening. I am, however, finding this stuff before my proofreader will find it (she’s still reading and not yet at the end), but it’s frustrating! So, once again, I have to go back in and make corrections. But, that’s the way this works. Unless you do have another set of eyes…and even perhaps despite that, you may still find errors, because no one knows your story like you do.

Good Lord, 20 years?

Hopefully, what you find are not egregious errors…but even so, remember, even with the Big Dogs (the Big Five/Whatever) readers find errors. We’re human, and we make mistakes.

So, here is my latest round of things I’ve discovered:

  1. We’re human, we make mistakes. Accept that, but do your best. Have a thick skin, and readers…be kind. Understand this, fact, too.
  2. Blurbs? As I’d written in a previous post, I’m no longer seeking them…but to those I’ve already gathered, I’m going to use. Again, I reiterate: all those who have written me a cover blurb have actually read my work.
  3. Copyright your work! There is a really good post on this, and it got my ass in gear, now all my work is copyrighted. I always meant to do this, it got lost in the shuffle, so, thanks, Susan (Susan Spann has been most helpful to our writing community)!
  4. Don’t respond to e-mails with your favorite (or any, for that matter!) music blasting away! You could get carried away! There, I said it. You think that’s a stupid thing to say, but I love rock and roll, and, well, yes, sometimes I can get a little carried away with the energy of it. Music can and does change your state of mind, and you don’t want to get cocky. Just sayin’.
  5. Putting a price on your cover. When I first noted this item, I was of the mind to put a price on your book when printing the cover (if you can). It’s been mentioned a couple times on sites/sellers of books. I’ve asked my community about it, and I don’t remember anyone responding, so I don’t take it as being all that important. The more I thought about it, the more I came up with: why? In today’s world, that only really seems applicable to brick-and-mortar bookstores. So, I’m backing off the need for that. I don’t think you need to have that anymore. That’s old school (unless someone reading this can give me a good reason to do so). Everyone discounts books, even the brick-and-mortar stores. Indie authors cut deals left and right. Why would this be a necessity anymore?
  6. Be quick to apologize! Never be afraid to say you’re sorry for something you may have done, even if you’re not sure you’ve actually done something wrong. I am constantly amazed at how few people in the world actually apologize for anything, especially men. You got it. Men, friggin Man-the-HELL-up and take goddamn responsibility for your actions. I see it so much in my day job it pisses me off (and had another experience with exactly this just yesterday!). I forget why I’d originally included this item, but the point is salient. Get off your Ego Podiums!
  7. WP blogging: check that your saves are actually saved! Good Lord, this bites me more than I care to consider—and other WP bloggers! Yet, every time I contact WP about this, it’s like the first time they’ve ever heard about it! It’s not, WP, so please, fix the damned issue! Below the post window, on the right, there’s a “Draft saved at…” timestamp, and below that is a “Revisions” history. Checks these areas frequently!  Can’t emphasize this enough! Check them every time you save, to make sure your save—whether it’s a “Ctrl-S” or “Save Draft” selection—that they actually have taken. Especially if you’ve completed an initial post then been away from that post for a long time, like hours or days, and come back. Copy your text into Word or Notepad as you’re working. Highlight and copy into your clipboard what you’ve worked on periodically. If you happen to get a message that has the words to the effect “Do you really want to do this“…it’s too late. You’re screwed. You’ll keep what you last entered and saved, but anything after that last “official” save is forever gone.
  8. Cut your losses. If something’s not working out for you, detach yourself from it. Remove yourself from it. I recently had to do that with something with which I’d been associated for a very long time. It’s going  its way, I’m going mine. C’est la vie. Move on. Don’t keep the “bad energy” in your Weltanschauung. Don’t bad talk whatever it is…just move on.
  9. Not all advice is good. Everyone has an opinion, just like me, but not everything we give will work for you. And—I have to say this—not everyone knows what they’re talking about! Not everyone truly understands Indie publishing! And…some are actively trying to still discredit Indie publishing, because they’re in Traditional publishing, are pissed, scared, Old School, whatever, and are trying to interdict, spoof, and (argh, I’ve forgotten the term!) intentionally direct you away from your chosen path. Be aware. Consider all you hear with a block of salt. And remember this: there are always a million reasons not to do something…but, you only need to find one reason to change. Make the break and create a new path for yourself. This, however, is one guy who has his shit together: Bob Mayer. Read his stuff.
  10. Not everything you write is publishable! This should be obvious! Going Indie may give you license to publish everything you write, but everything you write is not necessarily publishable.
  11. Keep writing.

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Going Indie—What I’ve Learned (So Far)—Part 9

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Pay or Die! By W. M. Goodes (Nye, Bill: “Bill Nye’s History of England” (1900)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Pay or Die! By W. M. Goodes (Nye, Bill: “Bill Nye’s History of England” (1900)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Taxes.

Note to IRS: Writing is NOT a hobby to me.

We had our taxes done this past week, and, once again, I got hit with the standard spiel about “Hobby/Loss” rules. About my pitiful pittance of so-called “profit.”

Why?

Because I’d spent a couple thou on releasing two novels of mine last year (not counting my normal writing expenses) and hadn’t made a profit. Though I was physically and mentally exhausted at this tax meeting, and was, admittedly, a bit angry with the same (insert favorite expletive) admonishment I’ve been receiving since about 1987, I don’t really hold it against the man reading me the riot act. He’s just part of the process and covering his ass. Making sure I understand the position of my ass. I get that. But I was tired. Even a little annoyed at myself for how much I’d spent and at the small return—especially once I saw how many e-books were downloaded and no associated reviews or whatever (even bad ones) with all those downloads. Free downloads. Sure, Mark Coker (whom I’ve met and talked with—and a super, super GREAT guy) and the rest say that’s that M.O. for Indie publishing—giveaways. They will earn themselves out sometime…near or far future…but still…I was miffed. I gave away hundreds of books, and figured they were all languishing in the dark, dank corners of hundreds of harddrives, ignored and never to be read. Bit fillers.

Okay, I’m projecting and generalizing, there, because I was tired, but that was what was going through my mind. I can’t assume to know everyone’s mindset when they acquired my work, but I was happy that so many had acquired them. At that point, I just wasn’t happy with the lack of the almighty frigging important profits…and I was unhappy with the mere thought of profits!

Profits.

You see, folks, taxes bring out the weak links in businesses. The whole idea behind businesses, we are taught, is to make money. Not that we make the world a better place by the businesses we bring into existence, not that we’re out to help others. Not any other thing—

Profits.

Yes, that severely chafes me. Because every year I have to put my Business Hat on and talk money.

Artists don’t like talking money.

We don’t do what we do for the money. But…if we want to live…we have to make some sort of remuneration. Many of us have other jobs that do make money…but all of us, well nearly all of us—I don’t presume to know everyone’s motives—would love to be able to do the one thing that keeps us going…that feeds our souls…and make a living at that.

The IRS.

But this conflicts with IRS rules and regulations, if you’re making any money. Cause, if you make money, you must pay the piper. I don’t mind paying the piper. The piper is fine. We live in a great country, and somehow, we have to pay for things in this great country, and taxes are our mechanism. Live with it. Get over it. Taxes are how we get to reap the benefits of living where we live…whether or not they are properly managed is a whole ‘nother, exhausting argument.

I don’t want to bore with all the intricacies of the IRS Code, because I don’t know it and would have to research it, and, frankly, I’d rather force-vomit-up repeatedly the entire day than have to read that stuff, but here are some case studies on the matter of writers and taxes. The basic takeaways are:

  1. Treat writing like a business.
  2. Must prove the intent of making a profit in the business of writing.
  3. If no profit is made, show that it was due to circumstances beyond one’s control, like customary business risks, casualty losses, or depressed market conditions.

Now, I’m oversimplifying, and there are many and various methods to those steps, and I’m not gonna get into them, because I’m not legal counsel and the tax law is far more complex than it needs to be, but check out that link for interesting case studies and consult your tax folk. It’s interesting that there are cases where the IRS deemed a writer as not a writer-for-profit, the case then taken to court, and the court decreed that the writer was a writer-for-profit. So, all is not lost. One of the other things in those cases, was that the writer had to prove that their not making a profit was due to the third item above. In any event, nothing’s easy, nothing’s a given. You have to make every effort to treat your writing like the business it is, if you want to claim anything on your taxes and not use hobby/loss rules. There’s always a chance you could get audited, but, if you do, you can still “win,” as long as all your ducks are in a row.

Okay, so in the interests of showing how business-like I am, here is what I’m doing, plus/minus:

  1. I get up every damn day (twice on Sundays…okay, also Mondays-Saturdays, since I appear to have RLS), whether or not I feel like doing it, and write something. Promote.
  2. I log all my time on the computer for all my writing time.
  3. I log my submissions and important events in a logbook.
  4. I spreadsheet all expenses, income, and mileage.
  5. I spreadsheet inventory.
  6. I blog.
  7. I interact on social media (WordPress, Twitter, Pinterest, FB, AboutMe, LinkedIn the occasional online forum, like, currently, an Amazon forum).
  8. I push the Indie Publishing agenda.
  9. I interview on traditional and Internet radio.
  10. I try to get any gig where I can to advance the Indie Agenda, and get my work out there.
  11. I annoy and guilt others into buying my book, when severely hopped up on caffeine—which, I’m finding, I seem to need more of as I get older. Iced Tea doesn’t seem to be cutting it any longer (see RLS, above). I do same, to get readers to review my work. Note: why do I do this? I do it so others will see how much other readers have liked the book, so they, too, might like it and buy. If this was just for a frigging hobby, I could give a shit if someone liked it or not (as in I’d be doing it for my benefit and relaxation and it doesn’t matter if you like or don’t like that…) and wouldn’t keep embarrassing myself into asking readers for reviews—even short ones. My ego does not need stroking (some might say it strokes itself…). But, again, I’d really like to make a living off this stuff, so….
  12. I try to get writer conference sessions.
  13. I’ve submitted my work for official reviews, like The Midwest Book Review and BookReview.com (whose link, curiously, seems to be down, since I sent my work to them…).
  14. Am constantly prowling (yes, prowling) for any opportunity to further advance the cause of my work (note, I didn’t say me…my work…). I’ve even got my dad trying to sell my books in upstate New York. Any of you can also help out by trying to get me in anywhere you’d think I’d fit (note, I’m not 165 lbs…am currently about 200, so keep that in mind). Get me a radio phoner interview (where I’d call in, versus showing up in-studio), invite me to your library or writer/reader groups, if in driving distance (or “they” pay for my airfare and hotel…  :-] ), send links to my work all over the planet, talk my books up whenever you can, interview me for your blog. I’m a fun guy. Witty sometimes. See, I am prowling, even trolling (note double entendre, which, originally, was “double entente,” c. 1670s)…

Thing is, I’m no longer 23 and can’t do 20-hour days anymore. I do do (go on, laugh, it’s allowed) 18-hour days, though. I have a day job that’s frequently been more than just a day job and do get quite exhausted by day’s end, so that curtails evening events (frequent ones, anyway) at the moment. I also workout after work. That takes a couple hours. Staying fit is important on many levels, but to Mr. and Mrs. IRS that should mean it makes me a lean-mean-profit-making-machine. Or tries to, anyway, but, given the glutted publishing market and “customary business risks, casualty losses, or depressed market conditions,” it’s hard to break into and make a profit in the publishing world. But I’m still in there swinging. Because I lift weights. Cardio give me longevity.

Now, yes, some of this all might sound decidedly mercenary (in actuality, reviews are not just about the promotion to me, I’m truly curious about how people interpret and feel about the stories; I’ve written them to touch and impact in some way, even inform…), take some of the romanticism out of us writers, but, sigh, we’re just trying to make a living. We’re not egotistical—most of us don’t even like the limelight—but we have a driving need to write. To convey stories we hope others might find fun or interesting. What do each of you do to stay employed? How do each of you sell yourselves? It’s a true pity so much focus is put on profitability, but you have to also look at it from the IRS’s point of view: people cheat. Once you understand that, everything else falls into place.

Don’t hate the writer. We just wanna write…and without us, you don’t have anything to read.

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