Celebrating Independent Authors
Writing advice and insights from the staff of Indies Unlimited.
A few weeks ago I featured three books written by members of our illustrious team (see here). Our team is now made up of many members and lots of books, so here are another three. (I’m trying to keep up, team, I’m trying really hard!).
This week I would like to draw your attention to Joe Café, by J D Mader, The Joke’s On Me by Laurie Boris and Bad Book, by Mader, K S Brooks and Stephen Hise. Three different books, three very good reads.
I’ve discovered a potentially fatal flaw in my personality. I mean, outside the more obvious ones (no need to point them out in the comments section, folks). Put simply, I like genre and I like literary. In musical terms, I like teen pop and modern classical, Spears and Stockhausen, Avril and Arvo. But this post is neither a demonstration of my “amazing” pop cultural eclecticism nor a reflection of my mental health anxieties; we like what we like, after all. No, this post is an attempt to reconcile two apparently opposing impulses in the world of writing; the aforementioned (alleged) impasse between genre and literary fiction.
For anyone who has attended a university-level creative writing course, even a single workshop, this dichotomy might already have raised its slightly distorted head. I majored in English literature and I’ve also attended a one-year certificate course in creative writing at a local university, and I don’t regret either of them. My purpose here is certainly not to trash the rarefied air of academia. Far from it. Because I genuinely learned a great deal about writing—about what works and what doesn’t work, about the inner alchemy and the outer pragmatism of this eccentric world—from those two experiences. Not to mention the confidence boost of sharing your work among motivated and engaged peers as deeply in love with the written word as you, alongside the equally essential practice of reading in front of an audience so you don’t forget that word’s spoken nature either. Continue reading “The Good, The Bad, The Indifferent”
I love maps.
There, I said it. And while that isn’t a particularly damning admission, like saying “I love black tar heroin,” it’s not exactly cool. You’re not going to get far in a singles bar sidling up to somebody and whispering, “Hey, baby. You want to see a map made in Virginia in 1862 with The Confederate Territory of Arizona on it?”
So why bring it up? Well, it’s like this. Inspiration for us writerly types can come from just about anywhere, as I’m sure you all know. One sentence in a conversation, dog running down the sidewalk, Liquid Plumr commercial (that’s how they spell it). Absolutely anything can trip the synapses fandango, and send any one of us down a scribbling path we had no idea was there. Continue reading “Ed’s Casual Friday: You are here. (Maps and stories)”
I am about to admit something that I have never really told anyone. My wife did not know until yesterday. None of my friends know. My family doesn’t know. If you’ve read my stuff before, you know that I am kind of an open book, but there is one thing I have always held back. And now I am going to tell you. And you may look at me differently. I am prepared to accept that. You may hate me or pity me – I understand. I accept the ramifications of this announcement. I am no longer afraid. I am coming out of my closet of shame. Are you ready?