Digital Age

Something which made me think during the festival was how everyone was being called writers. the term was a little funny really. The more I though about it the stranger I thought it. I didn't want to ask it out loud for fear of looking a little silly but I wondered. How many of these people actually write? I know I type, a lot. I barely ever write. Well what would be call them if we did not call them writers?

Authors

Creators

Artists

I liked all of the alternate names I thought of. Creators was my favourite (note at this point I had written the rest of the blog post and my computer decided to automatically shut down and update, I lost all my work). Sigh.

I think that the term creator is a better one for the age we live in. The Digital Age. How much difference it must make to the life of 'writer'. What would it affect?

Celebrity status? Well how much easier would it be to advertise and publicise a writer? They all have their own websites, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and online presence. I didn't know much about the writers at the Mildura Writers Festival but within minutes I could learn everything I needed to know about them and more. I could see their work online in books that had been published out in the big wide web. I went from not knowing who Les Murray was to being one of his biggest fans in only an afternoon. How cool is that?

Online publishing...how much further their work can go thanks to technology. It could be as simple as purchasing the actual book off goodreads but you could also buy a digital copy for less the price, take it anywhere with you, it never gets water damaged, creased or crushed and you can read it off several different devices. I own very few books with pages that you turn. I have read countless amounts of books on my Kindle, my phone, my tablet and my computer. Also, thanks to online publishing, it doesn't matter where in the world you are...you can buy and read an author's work. Someone could buy and read the book in France at the same time as someone in Mexico. How cool is that?

What about the actual process of writing the book. Again, you could add to it anywhere anytime as long as it's backed up on Google drive, One drive or the iCloud. You don't lose it usually because it automatically saves changes. You can track changes made in different colours to see your progress. You can cut and paste whole sections to add new sections in. It cannot be burnt or destroyed in flood or fire. Your kids can't pull out the draft and throw the pages around and get them all mixed up. I wonder if authors feel the same way about this as me? I wonder how many people still actually write their manuscripts? You can email sections of your book to people half way around the world for them to edit and revise it to then send it back without losing even a day. How cool is that?

I don't know much about writing

Not too long ago I wrote a children's book. Well a draft anyway. Why not, I thought. I do like writing. I was impressed with my efforts and have since gone back and looked at my draft feeling quite impressed with myself. The issue I ran into was what do I do with it? I can draw but I am very impatient and didn't really feel like drawing pictures. I didn't know anything about how books were made so I couldn't very well do it myself. Luckily enough I had an assignment come up for university that required me to write a blog about things related to writing. This blog post is about what to do once you've written your book.


I typed into Google "I wrote a book, now what?' I hate to think of a time when Google didn't exist. How on earth did anyone get anything done. I came across a blog post called 'I've Written a Book. Now What. 22 Steps to Getting Published by Anne R. Allen. I am not about to recount the 22 steps because I would be writing a blog post about a blog post which, although might be common practice in the 21st century, seems fairly unusual to me. Instead I will write my reaction to the steps. I feel that this makes the blog post more personal to me.


1. Celebrate - well this made me laugh when I first read it. I actually really hadn't considered doing this. Still haven't done it yet but I think that's because to me it seems you would only celebrate once something is actually published.


2. Make sure you know your genre - this made me think....is children's literature its own genre or are there genres within that? I Googled it and found this website which was helpful.


3. Research and read the latest books in your genre - I'm in luck, I am a primary school teacher so I do that most days.


4. Write your synopsis, hook, author bio and a basic query letter template - uh, what? I actually have no idea what this means.


"You can find helpful guides in any number of places. AgentQuery provides solid basics. Most agents have similar information on their websites.Nathan Bransford’s blog gives the info in a fun and friendly way, and Janet Reid’s Query Shark Blog is a boot camp for query writers. A number of forums and agent blogs provide critiques of queries—as well as Public Query Slushpile I give the basics for writing an author bio here". Yes I did copy and paste that.


5. Start a blog or build a website if you don’t have one already - Winning! I have done this. Not as an author though. So I may have to edit one of the ones I have.


6. Start researching agents - this was helpful because I was thinking of this like when you want a job. You just throw your resume around hope someone picks you up.


7. Send out your first five queries - do not know what this means and Anne didn't explain it :-( if I were to guess I'd say its just sending your book to a few people.


8. Start your next book - I feel like a lot of people wouldn't do this one? Maybe in Children's Literature sure but long novels?


9. Get rejections. Mourn - haha I like this one.


10. Send out five more queries - clever


11. See if you’ve had any silent rejections - I think this one is like when you've submitted your resume, gone in for an interview....your waiting to hear back from them, you go in and...what's that? Someone has filled the position and you have been declined.


12. Sent out five more queries - At this point I realised that getting a book published is no easy task.


13. Maybe get a request for a partial - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


14. Get the partial rejected- feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


15. Get a request for the full manuscript - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


16. Send out more queries - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


17. Get another partial rejected - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


18. Get the full rejected - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


19. Finish book #2 - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


20. Start all over again with #2 - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


21. Land an agent - feelings of point 12 continued through this point...


22. If you don’t, you may want to consider a small press or self-publishing - point number 22 actually sounds like a good point number 1. Wow. I didn't think it would be a walk in the park but I guess this really opened my eyes to the trials and tribulations of aspiring authors. It makes me think about what David Malouf said about building a good relationship with agents and publishers. I can definitely see why he has done this.


After all that I probably will leave my draft sitting exactly where it is. At least now if I want to do something with it I will know what it is I should be doing. To be honest it will probably end up where all the other writing I have done over the years has ended up. No where of interest.

Written during the Festival

THIS IS ABOUT A FOOT STEPPING ON GRASS


The grass was frosted for the night was cold. Yet she was outside. Her flesh was sensitive upon the green blades, her curves rolling slowly along crushing them underneath her weight. Arches would reach towards the sky in anticipation of the cold and thin tufts of hair stood on end stretching up towards the stars. Her skin turned white for the blood feared the cold and went to hide leaving her covered in goose bumps. She paused, unsure of her resolve to take another step, the cold was piercing.




FALLING


I'm falling


Not like when you don't see the step


Not like when your shoelace is untied


Not like when you get pushed


More like when you jumped


Like you're gliding endlessly through the stars


Like your eyes are close, your worries are gone and no fear grips you of the inevitable end

Written during the Festival

IN THE BEGINNING


In the beginning there was nothing
I existed without remembering
In the beginning I learnt everything
Words
Actions
Behaviours
Habits
...and
Emotions
In the beginning there was happiness
There were smiles and laughter...it was warm.


I don't know why he left
I don't know...
Then the
Words
Actions
Behaviours
Habits
...and
Emotions
Lost their warmth


I don't know why they changed
I don't know why they became cold
In the beginning I was young
But it's not yet the end

Written during the Festival

NEW PEN


She had just bought a new pen. A BIC Atlantis Air. She was quite picky about what pen she used. This one was ergonomically designed, aesthetically pleasing, ballpoint and wasn't that horrible smudgy ink that colours your page and skin as you write. In fact it even had a suspension function where, when you pressed down to write, it had a small amount of give. It reminded her of the front forks on the 450. Apparently the pen was made in Japan. She bought it so she could write. A simple inexpensive purchase for a simple inexpensive hobby.


No.


The pen made marks on the page. Lovely. Four dollars sixty well spent. It made invisible marks too...she didn't know pens could do this. She didn't know this pen could make her cry. Why? That damn pen forced her to listen, contemplate, evaluate, criticize and judge. That damn pen forced her to question. They were deep questions, they were complex questions...questions that did not have answers. Perhaps they had answers. How she feared the answers. That god damn fucking pen was a mirror...well she didn't know she purchased a multifunction tool.


She wondered how on earth something so small as a pen could hold such an intricate, layered reflection. She didn't know that pens could transport people. Not like a car does. Not like a truck does. Not even like a walk does. More like if you jumped off a cliff that had no base. She hadn't planned on falling today. This damn pen pushed her. She though back to the packaging, it never advertised these qualities. She bought it for the suspension really. Perhaps she could destroy the pen. Would it destroy the pain?

Written during the Festival

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
She didn't know where she wanted to sit. Where she was seemed amicable. Any other person would have thought as much. The people were acquaintances, the air was crisp and cool as it travelled the length of her windpipe and filled her lungs, and the view...glorious. The sky above her, vast and grand in its presence and it was over cast, crowded with elegant interwoven clouds. A team of birds flew their triangle formation across its expanse. She was comfortable but she was not comfortable. What does that mean?


The narrow staircase was strong, despite its age, and the yellow grip tape made her feel certain she would not slip. The handrails cooled her palms and the old pump sent vibrations through her roots to her core and rattled her soul. It wasn't as amicable here. She glanced back towards the pump. This machine had seen much and many. The pistons were strong and relentless in their continuous thrusts into the firing chambers. It frightened her and excited her. She could go down there, below deck to get closer. It did not look amicable. There was not a soul down there, it was forbidden to go there. The floor was wet with thick, black grease and the air was noticeably cooler on her skin as she extended her exposed hand down into the emptiness searching. For what? The fumes seemed to singe the hairs on the inside of her nose. It turned her off and turned her on. What does that mean?


No she wouldn't go down there...people were watching. To the rear of the vessel she moved, the Captain was loud in here, it was a small stale smelling room looking out to where they had come from. The red leather topped stools had no backs on them and there was a girl there who reminded her of a better version of herself. She could sit in there. It was amicable. There was no one else in this room that she knew, she liked it that way. Why didn't she sit here? Any other person would have. Perhaps it was because the stools didn't have backrests? I don't think that's why she moved on, but she did. She was searching for something else, something that didn't remind her of herself. She was lost...she knew exactly how she had gotten there though and where she wanted to go. What does that mean?


To the front of the vessel and she is deafened by the piercing whistle of the steam that is desperately trying to escape that dark place she had visited. Nothing should be trapped in there. The pressure built up and now it has to get out. Otherwise the engine will die in that room with no souls. The scream dies and the steam dissipates into the atmosphere, it got out and it's gone. This room reminded her of a church. Pews and an isle, elderly people all looking forward not speaking. She sat to the back on a red leather topped pew, it had a backrest yet she leaned against a cold lifeless heater that pressed uncomfortably into her left shoulder. There were no acquaintances here. These people did not notice or care for her presence. No, they cared for each others their relationships as old as the steamer we had boarded. The air was even more stale here. The constant vibrations made her restless and made her think about their source. That dark place. The view...overwhelmingly comparable. She was not comfortable here but she was comfortable. What does it mean?

The Festival

I had never been to one.

A festival.

I saw them on Facebook.

My interest wasn't captured.

This one didn't even have music.

This one didn't even have alcohol.

I'm a university student.

I like music and alcohol.

An elective perhaps.

Not one I elected.

Options were...limited.

Classmates were known and unknown.

Acquaintances and strangers.

I don't have friends.

I didn't think...

...

My expectations were low.

Life does that to you.

Pessimism.

I can't write.

What was the point?

My mind was....limited.

Wait a minute.

That's interesting.

I can feel something there.

What is that?

Was it there before?

Is it me?

I don't even know me?

How would I know?

I think I like it.

I had forgotten about it .

My life was...limited.

Strangers became friends

Acquaintances too.

I felt connected to people.

I felt disconnected from me.

It was good.

I learnt more about me,

Then I did about any author.

Isn't that funny.

I didn't expect that.

What a strange weekend.

Time was....limited.

I have been to one.

A festival.

It wasn't like Facebook.

My interest was captured.

There was no music.

There was a little alcohol.

I'm a university student.

I didn't need music or alcohol.

An elective perhaps.

Not one I elected.

My options are....limitless.