Blatant Self Promotion

Finally, after much editing and re-editing and even more editing I completed my ebook 'Postcards From Home'. My daughter read it for me and made a few suggestions and my sister-in-law Faye read it and found some typos, etc that I had missed, so after I fixed those and finalized a cover for the book, I thought I was ready to submit it to the Smashwords site.

First of all, let me preface this post with the statement that this is blatant self-promotion on my part. I cannot tell a lie--I want to and plan to write about the fact that I am extremely excited to have just published two ebooks on Smashwords! So if you would rather not read any further, I completely understand. Go and check out other blog writers who would never stoop to such a low level as this. Come back again in a few days--I promise my topic will not be about my own books at that time!

Still here? Okay then, let's get to it and I'll do my best to keep this post short.

But wait--I also had to write a four hundred character blurb about the book that would entice readers to spend their hard-earned $1.99 on my words.

I had no idea how complicated it could be to write four hundred characters! Heck, I can usually do that with my eyes closed! Of course, when I've actually tried writing with my eyes closed I've discovered afterwards that my words were gibberish because my fingers were on the wrong keys on the keyboard...so that was not a good idea to try this time, for sure.

Finally, after much editing and re-editing and even more editing I completed my book blurb. I was ready to become a famous author.

Then I remembered that I needed an ISBN in order to follow all the publishing rules. Luckily I had already applied to the Canadian agency in charge of such things and had received my ISBN prefix so all I had to do was apply for a specific number for a specific book. Easy peasy. Done.

I filled in the required information on the 'Publish' page, uploaded the cover page and then it was time to upload my completed manuscript and click on the 'submit' button.

Before I could say, "I'm an ebook author," I became an ebook author!

That was yesterday.

Today I published another ebook; this time a free one that gives readers a chance to sample my work before they spend their money on anything else I write. I think that's fair.

So now I'm going to share with you the links to both of my books on Smashwords. Downloading is simple, no matter if you have an eReader or if you read ebooks on your desktop or laptop; if you have any questions about how to sign up for Smashwords please let me know and I'll do my best to help you. It's free and only takes a couple of minutes to complete the sign-up form.

My free ebook of four short stories is titled 'Going Home and Other Stories'  and I would love for you to read it and post reviews of it on the Smashwords site. No strings attached.

My other ebook is titled 'Postcards From Home' and it is normally $1.99, but as a special offer to my blogging friends I'm offering a coupon worth 50% off the price--that means the book is only $.99 if you use the coupon code ZM86A at the checkout before Feb 14, 2012.

If you would like to read the book and write a review of it on Smashwords please let me know and I'll send you a coupon for a Free copy of 'Postcards From Home' that is also valid until Feb 14, 2012, no strings attached, except to write an honest review of your opinion.

Okay--I'm done. Whew! That feels weird, promoting my own work. As a good Canadian this is new territory to me--we are usually such unassuming souls that we would rather be failures than resort to self-promotion. But everything I've read about publishing online says that the author has to spread the word because if he or she doesn't, who on earth will? Makes sense, I suppose. It's a new world. Get with the times. Go with the flow.

Now I'm really finished. Nothing more from me tonight on this subject. Thanks for reading my post.

If you plan to publish an ebook this year please let me know when it's completed; I would love to have the honor of reading it and reviewing it online for you. I think the online publishing community calls that 'writers helping writers'; I call it being neighborly.

Cheers!

End of September

Hard to believe it’s the end of September already. The last day of the month; days are cooler now and evening falls quickly. Nights are great for sleeping as the humidity has finally disappeared, and I’m wistfully hopefully that it never will return. The trees in my yard are turning wonderful shades of red and gold and orange, and the plants in my pitiful garden are looking sad and forlorn, as if they know that winter is just around the corner.

What should a person concentrate on this time of year? Fall? Halloween? Christmas (Gasp)? For me, I’m just concentrating on getting through the next few months one day at a time, trying to put one foot in front of the other until winter comes and goes and spring arrives again.

I’m hoping to spend some winter-time in warmer climates this year but nothing is definite. What in life is definite when you get right down to it? Not much, really, except death and taxes (as the old saying goes). And I don’t like either of those choices.

The university students in my town have taken over again. They are everywhere—in supermarkets, banks, the liquor store and the post office. I love having them in our town. They add life and youth and a vibrancy that the town lacks in the lazy days of summer. So what if I have to wait at a crosswalk for ten minutes while seemingly hundreds of them head to the university cafeteria? Small price to pay for the influx of money and variety they add to our sleepy little town, I think.

But they look so young now that I’m surprised they can cross the street by themselves! Baby faces, long hair swinging in the wind, backpacks over their shoulders…hard to tell which ones are high school students and which are university newbies. Sometimes the only way to tell is when they are carrying boxes of beer or bags filled with wine from the local liquor store. And even then I have to look twice to make sure, because they all look SO young!

For the next few weeks I’m going to try to enjoy the fall. I know that before I know it the weather will be miserable—cold and rainy and snowy with lots of sleet and hail thrown in for good measure. And then I’ll be missing the trees with their brightly coloured leaves and the mosquito-free yard and the sun-dappled deck in my backyard.

Here’s to a wonderful October and November!

Moody

My mood is somber

Regardless of sunny skies or rain-filled clouds

I weep

Over oatmeal, world news, once-forgotten melodies stirring in my brain

Memory kaleidoscopes

Like diamond-sparkles on my finger

Remind me of my loss

I have no sense of time

Of moving forward

I sit and stare
At my husband's ashes
In their pewter urn
And hope, one day, for peace

I Need

Life back the way it was
Before sickness and death tore a hole
In my heart
Large enough to drive a truck through.
I need a loving smile to warm me,
A hand to hold when thunder booms,
Arms to wrap around me in the night.
I need
To stop needing…

I Dream In Colour

I dream   of fire-pits
flames the colour blue
yellows licking at my spine
Rose-coloured glasses
smashed   in grey rejection
A mustard-orange pain
burning

Bright reds   dark reds
blood reds...red blood
spilling in my dream
filling hands   buckets   rooms
Blood red rooms
dripping

I dream   of hospitals
white uniforms
green garbage bags of death
Colours fading
brown earth
brown earthworms eating

Black

* "I Dream In Colour" was originally published in Poetry Halifax Dartmouth No. 27

Close Cover Before Striking

Your touch awakes me
Tempts me
to shed my slumber-skin
Your teasing fingers dance
like flames   upon my spine
I feel the heat of body
pressing   into body
Yet wrap my arms around you
like a moth   drawn
to a fiery death

Your whispered words of love
mesmerize
Entice me to ignore
the acrid smell   of burning wings
Forgetting match-book cover wisdom
I melt
into your fire

The scent   of After Shave
hangs heavy in the air
like smoke

* "Close Cover Before Striking" was originally published in Poetry Halifax Dartmouth No. 27

You...Do Not Know Me

mirrors   do not know me
I am not   round face
nearsighted   weak chin   small
breasts   stomach stretched   from
bearing children
dimpled thighs   kneecap
missing   grey hair mingled
with the brown   more grey
than brown

close friends   do not know me
I am not   good wife
good mother   swimming
with the tide   sitting
on the fence   always ready
to make brownies    for their
bake sales

you   do not know me
you find me   shy   an
introvert   never tasting
chunks of Life larger   than
a woman's share   you
do not know me
inside   I dance
naked   in the North wind
catch bullets   with
my teeth   walk wires
high   above an open fire

*  "You   Do Not Know Me" was originally published in The Pottersfield Portfolio Volume 9

What I Miss Most

His crooked smile
That special look that said he loves me
The touch of his hands on my skin
Our kiss goodnight

His laugh
Rolling his eyes at my puns
Hogging the remote
To guard the History channel

His bedroom-blue eyes
Arms embracing me in sleep
Feeling his chest rise and fall
His weight on the bed

Morning coffee made just right
Sharing the daily paper
Admiring his legs
While he dressed for work

Nights at our cottage
Huddled together under a quilt
Watching meteor showers
Peaceful and content

My self-taught handyman
My knight in shining armour
Protector from spiders
And things that go bump in the night

His key in the door
At the end of the day
His hand in mine
Day after day after day after day

Being complete

Requiem

I watch you

wasting into baggy skin

pointed bones

in place of full breasts

wide hips

strong arms

that used to cradle me

You lie

in your hospital bed

white face whiter

than hospital sheets

Pain lines replace

the crows-feet

(that you claimed added character)

I chase you

down labyrinth tunnels

of mists and floating figures

always one step behind

never close enough

to catch your pain

I hold you

in loving arms

the way a mother holds her child

the way a woman-child holds

her dying mother

Note: My poem "Requiem" was originally published, in a slightly different format, in "Solstice 2: The Truth and Fictions of Ageing", edited by A. Burke. ISBN 0-920689-06-X

Little did I know when I wrote that poem in 1989 that my mother's death in 2005 would so closely follow the lines I wrote. Was it a poem-premonition?

The Bridge

It's peaceful on the bridge
Watching water wash over polished stones.
See the tadpoles?
Hear the mermaids calling me?
Please let me go.

Note: This short poem (140 characters or less) was inspired by Stony River's 'Microfiction Monday' picture of an older couple standing on a bridge, looking down at the water. The picture seemed melancholy to me, suggesting that perhaps the couple was losing their fight against dementia. Be sure to check out Stony River (listed in my blogroll) for guidelines to Microfiction Monday.

I Forgot

I forgot how he looks in clothes that fit his skin
How handsome he is in a tux
I forgot that only yesterday
He was young and healthy and we laughed
A lot
I remember only
That I love him
Have always loved him
Will always love him
Even when skin and bones and blood
Are offered in fire
To the gods