Creative Burst - There Was This Guy on a Train, Part 2

If she does appreciate smoking then her reaction is no doubt a result of some lack of confidence on her part, or perhaps it is simply that she has decided that he is "not her type" simply by sight. This of course is preposterous because as he knows no one knows their exact type just by looking at someone else. Basing a judgment on a first impression which may or may not -- and in this case it is a may not -- include any kind of verbal exchange is improper social, as well as psychological etiquette. She's not worth his time, he decides.

So rather than try to keep any spark of hope alive in this brief non-verbal exchange, he rises from his seat, tucks the cigarette neatly back into the pack, and makes his way to the dining car for a light snack. This is the most prudent time for a snack since he is sure that the train ride to B will be at least another X hours, and with the predicted weather -- a call for P with a chance of Q -- he knows that it might even be later than expected before he gets to B.

There are three other passenger cars between his and the dining car. The first one is loaded to the gills with families of all shapes and sizes. Children and parents alike try to talk over one another, none of them really succeeding. But the determination in all the faces proves to him that it is a struggle worthy of some reward, even a minimal amount of unrequited attention.

He passes through the door to the second car. This, to his immediate surprise, is filled with rows and rows of caged animals piled on top of one another at least three sometimes four and five high. His olfactory senses are immediately blasted with the most revolting, overpowering stench. He pauses for a moment in front of the cage of ferrets and turns. There it is, the smallest rodent in the cage leaning against the door almost willing him to come closer. Daring him. It seems to curl its little lips up. Smiling. Greedily. Then it speaks in a voice he finds eerily familiar.

Creative Burst - There Was This Guy on a Train

A guy on a train asks a woman for a light. He knows that there is no smoking anywhere on the train except for the rear deck which is clearly marked as the only smoking section allowed for those who feel they can't wait the X hours it takes to get from point A to point B. But his A and B are a good distance from each other and even though he's gone X hours before without a cigarette he can think of no other way to strike up a conversation with such a stunning beauty as this woman. She is clearly Y years his junior, but what is age in the face of romantic attraction?

He got on the train at A, as he always does every day at Z o'clock in the afternoon. Although the train makes several stops before it reaches B--this being D, E, and F among others which are almost always fruitless gestures since no one bothers to use those stops any longer since they really aren't near anything of any importance--he can't recall which stop it was when she entered the car in which he's riding. It could be that she got on at A with him and perhaps he just didn't notice and perhaps she was spending the first half of the trip to B in the rear car where the air conditioning always seems to be set a few degrees lower than the car in which he's riding. But he likes the slightly warmer air which doesn't upset his asthma as does the cooler. This wasn't been such a problem in his twenties and early thirties, but lately he's been taking notice.

He holds up the cigarette as he repeats the request. She isn't looking at him, or refuses to look at him, and he is left wondering if he's made a mistake by even opening his mouth because of the way her lips are curling slightly downward. She is obviously distraught, or annoyed, or one of the many other emotions he's noticed well up within himself when a person attempts a conversation with him when he clearly doesn't want to reciprocate. It is a real shame and he's actually beginning to feel sorry for her. He lowers the cigarette.

Maybe she just doesn't appreciate smoking.

What's in a name?

In this day and age of profit margins and publishers looking for the "sure thing" with every single book they publish, we (the toiling and starving writers) are left holding the bag of marketing tricks. Since we writers have to now wear a second hat more often than we'd like to, this begs the question: How do we market ourselves?

If this a question of branding, the same way that VW and Nike and Home Depot have managed to create loyalty in who wants their products? To be honest with you, I don't really want to be known as a brand. I don't want people reading my books because its just what they do, the same way that one would make the mind-numbing decision to go to Wal-Mart just because it is the first name that comes to mind when their deodorant and mouthwash run low.

Reader loyalty is much different. The concept of loyalty denotes a sense of consciousness, a feeling that one has made a decision based on sound judgment rather than one based on pseudo-instinct. (This is the power of branding - the ability to tap into the same parts of the brain that encouraged our ancestors to avoid the big, toothy predators of the earlier periods.)

Now back to my question: How do we market ourselves as writers? While pounding the pavement, signing books at events that are best graciously attended by more friends than fans, and handselling over your blog/website might work for some, this isn't going to get anyone very far. The battle is waged in the networking, personal and professional. This strategy is based on who you know, and as awful as it may feel to some, there will come a time when who you know plays a big role, if not the pivotal role, in getting recognized as a writer.

The best advice I can give, if I have any worthwhile to give at all, is to mingle with other writers. Go to conferences. Wander around a city filled with cafes where writers hang out. Get an agent. (a good one.) Get an MFA (a good one.) But most of all, and this is important to remember, never let the writing become the marketing tool. Write for yourself first. If you write it, the fans will come.

After some time, my blog is running at full steam

It has been a while since I've posted, but it is not without good reason. My daughter was born on February 17. The transition into fatherhood for a second time hasn't allowed me to spend time writing for my blog, bit it hasn't stopped me from working on my other projects. The script is moving along at a strong and steady pace. The first complete draft is nearly finished, and I'm quite pleased with it. I plan to have a portion of it, along with part of my new manuscript, available here soon.

Some changes have taken place to My American Melancholy since my last post as well. The homepage of my site, TimKenyon.com, is now host to the blog. The reviews, interviews, order form for my books, and my writing portfolio are available with the new links.

I plan to keep posting more regularly as time goes on, continuing my commentary and occasional rants about the worlds of writing, media, publishing, and whatever else strikes my fancy.

I appreciate any comments and feedback from my potential readers.

Everyday is a writing day

It is cliche for established, practicing writers to give the advice that to be a writer one must write everyday. Cliche, yes, but the advice is very true, especially for those of us who can't do without it. For those non-writers I can put it a different way. Think of living with only an occasional cigarette if your a nicotine addict, or a five-mile run if you're an adrenaline addict. If it can't be done every day, or isn't done for one reason or another, then one starts to feel a constant pull into frustration. That frustration spirals into one or more of the sub-emotions of anger. In short, one becomes unbearable to be around. I say this solely because this description fits me quite nicely.

I give advice to my writing students to write everyday, but fail to define what that means for them, and often times for myself. I tend fall into the overwhelming pit of chagrin when I don't give myself time to write the way that avid runners will run no matter what the weather. The way chain smokers will battle the single digit temperatures or ditch their friends at a smoke-free restaurant just to have a drag. Now that's dedication.

So when I tell my students that writers write, always, it's time I start taking my own advice.