Once upon a time a woman gave birth to a son, the first seed of her womb. When he was placed upon her breast, tiny and wrinkled, the weight of her hopes and dreams descended upon him. The crooning of family and friends who laid eyes upon him bolstered her hopes and she built formidable castles that gleamed in the Sun. Images of welcoming and feasting burst before her in glorious array; she the matriarch of a vast sea of sons. Maybe one beautifully lithe daughter, her splitting image, suitors lined up and clawing at each other to marry her. She envisioned adoring grandchildren racing through the corridors of her castle, their bubbly giggles rebounding off solid walls, full of the vigour of youth.
She basked in the praise showered upon her and bloomed in the validation given to her. She had a son.
She had not prepared herself for fear or desperation. She had not seen Death stealing glances at her precious bundle, it’s long greedy fingers reaching out of the veil to caress his cheek. “Mine,” it had whispered, sending a chill through the room that settled in her womb, scorching it with frozen heat so it would never bear another soul.
No one knew.
He brought a young girl home, “My wife…”
The castle gleamed, no one knew.
“You’re not welcome anymore, my wife…”
The castle dissolved into the image of a small cottage. She could not have forseen.
“You cannot see them, Mom. My wife…”
“I’m unwell, Mom. My wife…”
The cottage crumbled into dust that sailed on huge gusts of winds, scattered, and were lost.
The cold earth slips from her hands, dropping hollowly onto the cedar box. “My son,” her wreaked voice croaks.
“My son,” Death corrects, a fixed smile upon a terrible visage, a friendly hand intertwined with the woman her son had called, “My wife.”
What a super sunshiny day it is in Toronto! I wish you were here to share it. We could have a proper discussion.
I have the privilege of being part of a few writing groups online. I have always thought that if you’re seeking support for your work, you should give support. Some people are incredible at the social networking thing. I’m still learning.()
Sometimes an author will be done with their work, pay an editor, pay someone to format the book, pay someone to design a cover and then post it online for sale at $2.99. $2.99 for a 300 page original story!!!
If this were a business and I was counting $$s…
- Idea generation (collecting them from the “Ether”) – $100
- Writing for about 3-4 hours a day for six months at minimum wage (in Ontario $10.25) – $10.25 x 3.5 hours x 5 days a week x 24 weeks = $4,305 before tax.
- Paying an editor 2 cents per word for an 80,000 word novel – $1,600
- Paying for someone to design your cover – $500, generic – $40, doing it yourself 3-4 hours at minimum wage – $36
So the book that is sitting on the shelf (real or virtual) is worth anywhere between $5,900 and $6,400 without the cost of marketing, packaging, printing, distribution, shipping, Amazon.com fees or taxes. To break even an author would have to sell over 2,100 copies of the book at $2.99 to break even.
Really… I can’t e’en.
Support your local author, don’t be a Grinch.
Hello Readers! I hope today was a productive day for you.
I managed to finish my experiment with Adobe Premiere. One of my superpowers is teaching myself to use new software (and hardware) and then searching the internet for the experts who have free tutorials online, so I can learn things I didn’t even know I needed. I also went outside and took pictures of a small park close to my home. It was glorious.
For my night time entertainment, I chose,
“Transformers” by XenoPredDragon
It got me thinking. If I had been Gloria Witwicky, would I have survived an encounter with the Transformers? Would we have survived an encounter with the Transformers realistically speaking. It is difficult to imagine and I’m sorry I have such an unflattering view of our planet, but there it is.
Now, pardon me. I think I may have an interesting premise for a new story…