"I have not failed, I have just found 10,000 ways that won’t work."

That's Thomas fucking Edison.

WARNING! Pity party!

Okay, okay, let's get this out of the way. Book sales for the month of December are a grand total of 8. Where are all my brethren (Jews) when you need them? We're out 8 days here and you couldn't find it in your dark little hearts to spring for a book this Hanukkah? A little something something for your good behavior? And what about you, Goyim? Hmm? I know a shit ton of you. Put me on your lists. Santa, like the honey badger, don't care.

Never give up. Have you ever? Or have you said, "What is this fuckery?" and simply stuck with it? I know people dealing with their demons, whether it be health, money, blood flow to certain organs (not even) - we all have the struggles. 

I can honestly say the only thing in my life I have had to constantly struggle against is mental health. I'm bipolar (the mild kind, bitches. Full blown bipolars call their wives the next day from Peru, standing on the yak farm they just purchased) and I have had my bouts with it that plunged me into some serious darkness. But I had choices. Stay down there and bathe in the depression and anxiety or seek help - live a regimented life that includes exercise (Me? Believe that shit?), proper diet (Again, me?) and positive thinking (shut up). Also, drugs.

I never gave up on the life I knew I could have and those I could share it with.

But seriously, 8 fucking books?

I guess I should take the attitude that 8 complete strangers plucked down a buck to read a story I wrote that might enhance their life in a positive, entertaining way. But sometimes, it feels futile. Who am I among the millions writing novels that I should break out, make a name for myself - obtain a level of success worth boasting about at dinner parties for your wife's co-workers? Not that they're bad parties it's just that they're doctors and basically talk about colonoscopy technique. They don't, but it would be awesome if they did.

What did I expect? Rapid success (yes)? What qualifies as success? I've sold about 1,500 books to date. Chump change, but then I can't think of anything I've done that reached that many people - except all the years of bad advertising I did that were thrust upon the masses. No thrusting in novel writing. They gotta want it.

So? What do I gain by giving up? You know the answer to that as did Thomas Edison did - who by the way, in his later years consumed only a pint of milk every three hours. So y'know, batshit and success go hand in hand.

I stopped blogging because my ego was too huge.

As an author (it could happen), one strives to build a mailing list so that when the next masterpiece is released, you can notify people on your mailing list, then go Porsche shopping. Well I've been ignoring this blog because I didn't think it was being read because I wasn't getting any email sign ups. Right? What. An ego.

So fuck that. I'm gonna blog at least twice once a week every four days. It's good writing practice. And I'm a little sketchy about this whole mailing - whoops, I lost you didn't I? Enough of this.

Let's get the business out of the way: I'm selling enough books to keep me on the Amazon Top 100 list in three categories. Of course, the book sells for $0.99 so really, how many need to be sold to remain on that list?

I'm about 45,000 words into the second novel. Paradise Rot ran to 70k - that sounds like a goodly amount of words. Info about the new book: It's called, "Once Again, With Blood," and all I'll tell you is that our hero, Kyle Brightman, is back and this time it's vampires and blood banks. That's all you're getting.

Thanksgiving is almost here (how many people in the universe have written those exact words?) and that's all I got to say about that.

Okay - that's it for now - today's lesson: don't be a dickhead with spotty blog writing.

Don't hate the player, hate the game, unless you love the game, then nevermind

Ask me, "Larry, how much are you learning about the world of indie/self publishing?"Say it out loud, now. (Pause) "Good question," (vomits on your shoes).

You hear that phrase "Learning Curve" and think, "Sure, a learning curve. Everything has one," as if it's no big deal. It's a big deal. I knew getting into this writing/publishing game that my learning curve would be huge - I still can't spell rythmn and I'm learning about "black out freebie days," - however, feeling like a chimp was not something I imagined for myself.

Learning how to do things hurts. Knowingly running towards the thing you know is going to hurt you is lunacy but it still beats submitting to Chad, the young, hipster project manager who has an action item list for you. Chad, with the argyle cardy and horn rims.

While I feel as if I've launched myself into a spectacular Acapulco cliff dive, I can't help but feel elated at being a small business owner. I'm making all kinds of mistakes, costing me money and time. I'm second guessing myself. I ate one too many Medi-Fast snacks today (you're allowed 5 - but this shit works). I'm blundering towards success, but more importantly, I'm blundering towards something of my own creation.

And I'm loving this game.

I used to love - make that like - the advertising game right up until I hated it. That might happen here as well because I'm a fickle bastard. But this time around I'm nailing two birds: being creative and controlling my success. I'm finding that as each day passes, I'm writing more and I'm searching out new ways to publicize my book. I'm not working 8 hour days. I'm working 3 hours here, 2 there, another 2 over there. In other words, I'm working according to the rythmn (shit!) of my creative and marketing output.

I love the game and love the player (that's what 15 years of therapy does to you).

Now go buy the book. Then write the review. Go on, git.

Don't punk out.

So I'm what? 30 days into the book being released - but never mind that PR - I'm talking about Monday mornings, when you wake up and try to think of every conceivable way to get some more sleep. Awe my god, just 45 minutes - hell, half an hour would do it. But no, you've gotta get up and begin the process of getting your hump out of bed and starting the day. But the desire to cave is so huge, this must be what it feels like to have a meth addiction. Sometimes I wonder if it'd be better to open a meth clinic that kept you constantly high until you wasted away - certainly there must be some organs worth harvesting? I dunno - meth heads want to be in that state of bliss forever - me? I just want an extra hour in the morning. We all do.

Or at least to wake up when the sun actually comes out.

I've been thinking about the concept of punking out (which may be a west coast surfer/skater colloquialism - maybe not) and how it's a daily churn to try and keep a book out there, hopefully getting at least one more reader a day (which is kinda of where I'm at - maybe 2.5 readers). Are you sick of hearing about "Paradise Rot?" Nah, I'm the one sick of hearing about it. But still, I wrote it, I'm stuck with it. And I'm proud of it, like a story about you being drunk enough to get saran wrapped around a concrete pillar in a parking garage, naked. That shit happens. 

So I don't punk out. I treat every day of PR on the book like a Monday morning, minus the five minutes of staring directly at the kitchen wall while your kid wants breakfast.

That's my fuckin' spot, man.

Brevity is the word for the day because I've got 2,000 words to bang out and not enough time to do it. That's the benchmark I set for myself. Sometimes I hit it. Sometimes not. It's more around 1,200 words. After that I start ripping off other writers directly by cutting and pasting passages.

As you know, I never work at home. I hate the idea of being in the house all day and night. Too secluded. I need people milling about. I need background noise - though I cut that to a minimum because I take off my hearing aids (that's right, bitch, I'm deaf) and put on my most excellent BOSE noise cancelling headphones which are worth every penny. I do all of this at Roosters cafe. I know the owner Thiu Nyugen. Actually it's like Cheers when I walk in as I know the whole staff. They even get my drink order, a triple Americano, going. It's a good vibe. I wrote the entirety of "Paradise Rot" sitting in that coffee shop.

My only problem is when someone sits in my fucking spot, man.

It's not a particular table, but rather a row of tables along the wall that have access to the ac that I need to keep my laptop charged while I bang out 2,000 (1,200) words.

Ranked in order of who should move out of my fucking spot, from idiot to elderly:

1. The guy in bike gear sipping an espresso.
2. Two or more people having some sort of committee meeting
3. Any couple
4. Someone with children (as if having the kid wasn't bad enough)
5. Retirees

So what I do is get my drink and then I sit and stare. I stare hard. The thousand yard stare you obtain from being in the shit during wartime. I send the harsh waves. Guess what? That shit works. I've never waited more than five minutes for a table. "It's a numbers game, Lar." Bullshit. I put the vibe out and it is received five by five (I have an admiration for military lingo).

More later. I just nailed a table.

Also, buy the book.

How I handle fame, Part 1.

Jesus did I get pumped when Ereadernewstoday.com ran a blurb about my book, which created a lotta traffic. We're talking about 280 books sold in one day. It put me on the SAME FREAKING PAGE for the Amazon's top 100 list as CARL HIAASEN and JANET EVANOVITCH - at #6!

Believe that shit?

So of course, it went straight to my head. Here's an example:

Supermarket checkout lady: Did you bring your own paper bag?
Me: I did. Do you like to read, because I wrote a book that's gonna be a best seller.

And it was like that all day. I stood up during the showing of "Blackfish," which is a seriously depressing documentary, anyway - I stood up and simply shouted, "Number six, bitches. Number six."

I told my wife to refer to me as, "The Author, Larry Weiner" as in "Would the author, Larry Weiner, like green beans in his salad (no).

It's intoxicating. But that was yesterday.

Today, sales are tribbling (word?) in, I still need a shit ton of reviews and I find myself emailing a bunch of bloggers to review my book. And that's when Nucky Thompson from Boardwalk Empire pulled me aside and reminded me, "It's the long con we're going for, see? Don't be a chump."

Fuckin' A, Nucky. Fuckin' A. 

What the hell are you doing?

Well? Tell us. What the fuck (for emphasis) are you doing? For some reason, I ask that question a lot. I get asked it a lot too, but it's usually in regards to something I'm doing with food or dress. Lately I've been asking it a lot concerning my career, part two. I find this humorous for a number of reasons, among them the notion that the word "career" would ever appear in a sentence regarding me.

I worked in advertising and design as an art director and designer for 17 years. During that time, if someone asked me what the hell/fuck I was doing, I usually replied, "I dunno?" And it was true. I fell into that line of work and stuck around because it was mildly entertaining and you really don't have to work that hard. "Entertaining" and "you don't really have to work that hard" would make a great college course, along with, "Fuck it, I'll teach" and "Bong design - a survey."

The entire time I worked in advertising and design I felt mostly like an imposter. I didn't have the drive to want the awards (possible that I didn't have the talent either) or to try and maneuver my way through the various ad shops until I landed at one of the big names. I rarely took the work seriously though I fought an awful lot with account people, creative directors, etc.. I look back now and think it was the bipolar talking, but I knew it was something else - I didn't want to be there, but I didn't know where I wanted to be and there was an enormous amount of frustration resulting from those feelings.

I started writing in high school. Short stories, song lyrics, poetry - all of it horrendous  - and what I wouldn't give to have them in my possession now. College came around and I found myself gravitating towards screenplays and t.v. pilots. And then I got married and moved away and fell into advertising and that was that.

But the writing was always in the background, wondering when I was gonna get back to it. Writing taunted me, called me names, added fuel to the "imposter" fire. And then one night I had an idea and I started to write it. And then I'd stop. Then start again. Then I fell into a deep depression. Many things brought me out of the cold, dark hole, chief among them - writing. It quickly became ritualized which in turn made the work flow. I stuck with it through all the rewrites and plot revisions. Most of all, I felt that I belonged in that world. Writing kept me one step ahead of the depression. And it provided an answer to that fucking question: "What the hell are you doing?"

"Writing a book," I answered.
"Good. Carry on," the question said.
"No shit, I'll carry on and who asked for your permission anyway?" I said.
"Chill. I'm just glad you're back in the game," the question said.
"Thanks. Sorry if I got a little defensive - "
"Forget about it. But enough of this blog shit. That second book ain't gonna write itself."
 "Right. Thanks. I'm on it."

Stay Golden, Pony Boy

Hola Fans!

That's right, I have fans now. I have over thirty (31) fans who bought my book. And! I have three solid reviews on Amazon. Sure, you might be thinking, "Really, Larry? That's what you're excited about?" I am, friend. I am. As I've mentioned previously, it's the long view that counts in the publishing game (no matter what I'm involved in - it's "The Game"- thus, "Soccer Dad Game" and "The Gin & Tonic game"). How many stories have you ingested in which someone or something started small and slowly built an empire? A shit ton. It takes years to get a college degree - I've sold 30ish books in 8 days. I like my odds.

But enough about the rise of Larry.

I'm reading a great book right now that I thought I'd hate. The book is "Sacre Bleu" by Christopher Moore. Check out Kirkus' take: An aspiring painter and unabashed romantic joins the greatest artists of the age in chasing his muse across fin de siècle–era France.

 Nice, eh? I love Christopher Moore and am heavily influenced by him - though I thought "Fool" flat out sucked. But this? This book reads like a lilting comedy told next to a gentle fire with some bourbon and a nice crocheted blanket across your lap. It has the trademark goofiness you come to expect from Moore, but there's also a historical bent to the Paris of the late 1800's and the artists of that time. The man makes Renoir funny.

Just reading it inspires me. I'm staying golden, bitches.

 

Impatient little fat man

This is me:

1. I go to the gym, therefore I should look like Mark Wahlberg.

2. I release a book and should have Stephen King numbers.

3. I eat the Paleo diet so where is my six pack?

4. I'm nice to my kids so they should obey my every command.

Right? Cause and effect, where art though, you bitch? This book thing has given me a moment or two to reflect on my insolence and impatience. I'd go on but i don't have time to explain it. Just know that trying to accumulate readers on a daily basis is much like the crap that won't come out. You can feel it, but damn it all - it's not budging. Why? Not enough "Colon Blow" cereal? Too much roughage? Letting word of mouth sink in (we're talking about the book now - not shit - though the case could be made either way - nah, fuck that - this book kicks as - none of this "woe is me" bullshit) it's a waiting game and like waiting for Eli to put his goddamned shoes on in the morning, it is at this point that patience must persevere. Right?

I'm feeling kinda anxious and for some reason am fixated on feces - which could be a great title for a colonoscopy educational film.

Bah!

Loss, you surround me.

I'm wrestling with the question of what to do with your life when loss enters it. It seems a bit insignificant to talk about the quest for publishing stardom when those close to you are in various states of disrepair of the soul. A friend's sister died. A friend's nephew died. A friend is sick. An in-law is sick. A brother escaped a dark fate - barely.

But how's the book doing!?

See? Not so important for the moment being.

My parents both died suddenly and though it was a shock, I was able to experience the grief in it's fresh state. Now I know the feeling of months passing by and of deterioration in the air. It's a prolonged state that leaves you caught between the world of the living and that of moving on. I comfort myself with the Einstein quote: “Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.” I'd like to think our souls - our battery pack - moves on to some other thing. Where and in what form, who knows?

But how do we live our lives in the midst of someone's imminent departure - their transference of energy? We keep leading our lives, but doing so with a bit less verve and intent. We're waiting for a conclusion that is months, even years in the making. It's a state of underlying limbo. Makes the promotion of a book, the viewing of a movie, the workout, the family dinner lack just a little bit of color. It's missing just a hint of energy. We can't help but start missing them though they are present. 

Bifocals, hearing aids, self publishing, oh frickin' my.

As I'm writing this, I'm moving my head in an up and down position, trying to keep the gradual split in my glasses lens focused in the laptop screen mode by pointing my nose at what I'm looking at. That's what the Lens Crafters woman said: point your nose toward what you're looking at. If I worked at Lens Crafters I'd tell people things like, "Hold your nose at 38 degrees south of the equator for optimal resolution," and "Your glasses make me look fat."

Up and down. Up...then down. Up - down. They say I'll get used to it. My next tattoo: "You'll Get Used To It" across a banner that spans a red broken heart with Cthulu pissing on the "Used" part of the sentence® Maybe inside a pentagram. But I'm not thinking about the bifocals as I'm already getting used to it writing this entry.

No, the real challenge comes next week when I get fitted for hearing aids. Beginning now, I'll receive $10 for every person who greets this news with, "What?" or "What'd you say?" I'd say the same thing OR I'd laugh and tell me to stop whining about it - there are children born without arms who learn to tie their shoes. And stop moving your fucking head up and down.

I'd like to take a moment to thank all the garage bands, concert halls and nightclubs I sat in, enabling me to have thoughts such as, "Blast away, bitches - I'm gonna live forever." According to my audiologist (who works in a completely excellent soundproof room) folks my age, 40-60, are coming in with demolished hearing. It is entirely a product of loud music and headphones. Right now I'm using my noise cancelling headphones as I write this. There's no music playing - just the silence. It's wonderful and a discovery ten years too late for me. My generation took one for the audio levels team.

I told my eight year-old  that when I'd wear them, I'd be able to read people's thoughts. He's already cutting me a wide swath. Fuck it. I think about all those aging rockstars with tinitis, hearing imaginary televisions on in the other room and I feel comforted.

Let's segue in to self publishing before I need a cane.

I've done most of the reading and made all of the mistakes in the self publishing arena - which includes writing a blog full of improper grammar, tweeting to myself accidentaly, repeated postings on FaceBook and living the nightmare that there's a typo in my ebook. In advertising, you have soft and hard launches - the trickle effect followed by the deluge. It's a well-oiled machine that on most days reaps a healthy return. I'm finding with self publishing that it's more a "moist" launch. There's heat and pressure and atmosphere, but it tends to linger rather than explode. It really is a, "I sold A book today" kind of playing field that makes me understand why I've read author interviews in which they said the only thing better than  a book launched is two books launched.

I'm workin' on it.

Up, down. Up...aaaannnd.. down. Up! Down-Up!

Making a book trailer & how to travel with a severed hand.

First, here's the book trailer:

Book Trailer

Now you're asking, "How did he transport a severed arm to Hawaii and what kind of freak shoots a severed hand on a crowded beach in Maui?"

Good question. Of course, you really can't tell it's Maui. It could be any beach with some resort hotels. But it was Maui. I would have preferred a beach in the Caribbean as that's where the book takes place but listen, when your wife has a conference in Maui, you're gonna get on the goddamned plane. The severed hand came from an online party favors store that had a wide assortment of severed limbs. Since the cover of my book has a severed hand holding a tropical drink, it didn't make much sense to buy the severed head.

So I get this severed hand and it looks real. Really real. So I start doing some test photos:

As you can see, it was a lotta fun. Soon I started planting the hand around the house for people to find. Even more fun than pictures. I'm thinking that this hand's gonna work out great. I'm bringing it to Maui (often a refrain of many writers). So then the question becomes, do I pack it for checked in luggage or carry on? I knew that if it was gonna get checked in the TSA folks would more than likely search the bag, maybe even put some kind of security alert on the bag. Some shit like that which could create problems. It's decided - carry on.

Now the problem becomes whether or not I'm going to fuck with the kids/people on the plane with it. The wife was slightly horrified when she learned I brought it onto a commercial airline. The kids thought it was just part of who I am. Dad's got a severed hand in his backpack. Pass the almonds. Things I thought about doing: Leaving it in the bathroom, putting it on the drink cart, shaking hands with a flight attendant, putting it on someone's seat who went to the bathroom, resting it on the shoulder of the guy in front of me - it could've went on for days.

But I did none of those things, because I'm not a fucking moron - and I fear my wife.

Anyway, shooting the trailer was easy. Took lots of shots of the surrounding beach and outdoor bars, palm trees, people frolicking. I had a general idea of how this was gonna go - beauty shots ending with a severed hand washing up on shore. To shoot that part I tossed the hand into the waves and hoped for the best. The best worked out great and to my astonishment not one person asked why I was tossing a body part around the shores of Maui. I shot the whole thing with an iphone, edited it with imovie. That's a wrap. It's a low quality affair mostly because I didn't know how to use imovie
(I have a college friend with two Emmys under his belt for editing - obviously I didn't call him) and make the right files sizes and whatnot. But in the end, the crappy resolution plays to the idea or so I tell myself.

The Long View

So now, whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, I don't have to give a preamble that I used to be an art director for over 15 years - but now I'm writing a novel. No, instead I can simply say that I'm a writer and that my book is available on Amazon. See? much less explanation and a little more credibility.

So I launched the book and posted on Facebook and created a group and knew the sales would be meh because it takes the long view to reach the ultimate goal as a writer making a living wage. So this is the start of what will be the continuance of novel writing.

But fuckin' A, the long view seems long.

"Buy the ticket. Take the ride," as Hunter S. Thompson put it. This is exciting stuff, putting yourself out there in front of friends (mostly) and then a few strangers. I didn't expect to feel vulnerable about it, but I found myself exposed - and loving it. The fact that one person other than my immediate family has agreed to read the book (let alone slap down a couple bucks for the privilege) is kind of mind blowing.

My thankfulness is vast.

So now, comes the long view - the marketing. More than the initial blast, the marketing now is a day to day activity to find new readers. This is how it goes. That inch worm knew his shit.

Namaste, bitches.

First post, bitches.

So you found it. Good on you, internet user! The reason you're here is because you either read my book and went to the website or you Googled my name and ended up with a Bulgarian Folk Dance guy who bought Larryweiner.com before I had a chance to. To quote Vonnegut, "So it goes."

First, thanks for reading "Paradise Rot." If you didn't read it, here's the link to buy it.

THE BOOK

Go there. Now.

This book took two years, then six months to write. The idea came to me a few years back while I toiled away in the advertising industry as an art director. That one of the main themes of the book is deception is no accident. I wanted to do two things: write a book about a guy placed in a precarious situation - think "North by Northwest" - and I wanted to mess with the zombie genre -  "Shaun of the Dead." I also wanted to take a character and take him down a dark hole and see if he could redeem himself. For kicks, right?

Two years, then six months?

I started writing the book without any inkling of where it was going or how it was getting there. This went on and off for a couple of years. I even tried to serialize it with the notion that it would push me to completion. But with work and divorce and other distractions, the book never went beyond 180 pages. I scrapped it along with the idea of writing altogether. I told stories with imagery, not words. Funny thing is I always enjoyed coming up with a great headline instead of a great layout. Pissed off a few copywriters with that notion.

But then I had some life changing events: I divorced (see above), my freelance art direction career started to dry up, I went kinda bonkers. So I found I had time on my hands. Thought I'd try writiing again. This time I concocted a storyline and setting based on my original idea (see above) that allowed an ADD/Bipolar I to actually keep track of where he was headed.

The book flowed. And flowed. And was rewritten. A shit ton of rewriting. And now it's here.


Thanks for stopping by.