The Value of Free

Publishing is a tough business. Many people try to write books, many people finish writing books, but most never see them actually published. Sometimes it's because they just weren't polished enough yet; often, however, they just never find it a home. I was fortunate to find my first book a home. What has proved not so easy, however, is the one that followed. This is the journey of that novel...

Unlike many authors, my book had an agent with the connections to get it read by editors at all the big publishing houses, but after a year, the book still sat unpublished and with no hope in sight.

The book is called The N00b Warriors. It is a YA novel about a civil war that has wiped out much of the country...so much so that kids are being trained with video games so that they too can go out and fight in this war. It was wrote after years of teenage boys telling me there were no books that spoke to them. Really, it was my attempt to give them something that spoke to them.

When it landed at the desks of the New York editors, the response was quite favorable--except for one minor thing: it was violent. Teens, from what I gathered from much of the houses, don't want violence--they want nice stories where the good guy wins, people fall in love, and there is hope. Now it wasn't that my book didn't have that...it just didn't have enough. Also, teenage boys, it seemed from there input, didn't read.

Fortunately, in a digital age, it is possible to let the readers decide if a book that publishers said no to is worthy of the rejection. I don't know a lot about teens, but I do know two things: one, they don't have money and they appreciate free; and two, if they don't have an iPhone then chances are they have an iPod Touch. Unlike most adults, they actually enjoy reading on those tiny, glaring screens. So I did what would have been disgraceful and unprofessional five years ago (but what is now pretty common): I gave it away for free.

I was once asked what I would rather have: fame or fortune. It's easy: fame, because how do you have fame without fortune? I now know the answer: by giving it away for free. In the two plus weeks it's been live, it has been downloaded well over 1000 times. And, judging from the reviews, teens actually read and liked it.

The response has been enough to make me continue the series even if publishers reject the content as too violent. Ten years ago, writing a book that dared to be different risked never seeing the light of day, but now there's at last a chance for readers to weigh in at what should really published and read.

Many writers will go on and on at how they write for the passion not for the money. It's funny how many still aren't willing to give away their books. I've been writing professionally long enough to know writers don't make money. It's nice to get a buck here and there, but it's much nicer to know your book is actually being read.

I have often said the greatest ideas and dreams can be found in one central location: the cemetery. It's unfortunate but most dreams are never carried through. They rest in our minds until one day we are gone, and so are the ideas we carried in us. Everyone is capable of greatness, but few are capable of the sheer will, discipline and desire to get through the long bitter race that must be run before we get to the point were we can look to the crowd and listen to them appalled and chant well done.

Sometimes finishing the race that is writing means getting absolutely nothing for it. The thrill is the cheers. The book is on sale on Kindle (where it can't be free by Kindle rules), and people have bought it--enough to buy my wife a moderate dinner some place nice...but the real audience is where it's free. There may not be any glamour in giving something away, but there is certainly readership--and that's enough.

If you want to read it, just go to iBooks and type in "The N00b Warriors." If you want to buy it, go here. And if you want a free copy in Word or ePub, then email me: scottdouglas@scottdouglas.org. I will also be irregularly updating the official N00b website here: www.then00bwarriors.com

Roughing It Sample

As promised, the first two chapters from my Middle Grade novel, Roughing It.

Chapter One:
The Gateway to Knowledge

Thomas Weaver starred blankly at the clock behind the librarian’s desk. It was 5:30, thirty minutes before his mom would pick him up, and he still had not wrote a single sentence of his sixth grade Gold Rush report paper, which was due the next day.
Thomas hated school. He hated the teachers, and the reports they made him write; he hated the kids that picked on him for being a little overweight; he even hated the smell of his textbook.
His fifth grade teacher, Mr. Nelson, told him he’d like this part of history because it had lots of adventure, and people making money; he had found nothing interesting about it in all the books the librarian helped him find at the library. Even the pictures were boring.
Soon Thomas got tired of starring at the clock and began wandering around the library. He walked in and out of the aisles of books pretending to be looking for a book. He did this for nearly ten minutes when his eyes suddenly caught sight of a book that’s title read, “Don’t read me.” Thomas was of course immediately interested in this book, and pulled it from the shelf.
When he removed the book, the entire shelf began to shake and the entire column of books in front of him slowly moved forward, and then slid to the side revealing a stairway. Thomas nervously looked around. Nobody had noticed what had happened.
Thomas cautiously looked into the passageway, and with the book still in his hand he slowly moved inside. The stairway was dark; torches hung from the walls dimly lighting the passage. He carefully stepped down two steps, and then turned to make sure the door was still open. The stairs were made of wood and made creaking noises as he stepped on them.
He stepped down six more steps, and became more confident with each step. He heard a rumble behind him, and quickly turned just in time to see the bookcase close.
Thomas ran back up the steps, and tried to open the bookcase back up, but he could not do so. He starred back down the staircase nervously. He knew the only way out would be to travel down the stairs and look for another exit.
He went down the steps anxiously, and almost tripped more than once. After nearly one hundred steps he reached the bottom, and was completely out of breath.
It was dark and seemed empty. “Hello?” Thomas said quietly, and then a little louder, “Is anyone in here?”
Suddenly lights went on from the floor, and the room was bright. “Keep your voice down,” A loud voice said, “You’re in a library, for Pete’s sake.”
Thomas looked all around the room for where the voice came from. He saw nothing except the lights on the ground. “Where are you?” Thomas nervously asked.
“I’m down here.”
Thomas looked down again at the lights but saw nothing.
“Stop being silly.” The voice said, “You’re looking up—I’m down here.”
Thomas looked up and saw starring down at him a large four-eyed frog standing on top of a large oak desk similar to the one the librarian upstairs sat behind. “You’re a frog.”
“I am.”
“And you’re talking.”
“You’re a clever one—would you also like to point out that I have four eyes?”
Thomas shrugged, and asked, “Why are you upside down?”
“I’m not—you are.”
“I…” Thomas started to say, but suddenly he fell upward and landed in front of the desk. He started to stand, but got dizzy and fell back down.
“Just give it a second—you need to get used to being in another dimension.”
“Another dimension?”
The frog nodded. “You’ve entered the gateway of knowledge. This is the place where ideas are stored. My names Fox, and I’m the librarian.”
“Oh I get it.” Thomas said, “This is a dream—I fell asleep in the library, so naturally I’m dreaming about the library. I just need to lie down and close my eyes, and then I’ll wake up.”
“Why do they always do this?” Fox asked looking up at the ceiling. He looked at Thomas who had tightly closed his eyes, “Go ahead Thomas, pinch yourself. If this is a dream then it won’t hurt.”
Thomas did so and let out a yelp. He opened his eyes, and looked at Fox oddly, “How’d you know my name?”
“I know everything—I’m a librarian. Now why don’t you try and stand back up. You should be used to the atmosphere by now.”
Thomas slowly stood up, and then looked at Fox amazed, “This really isn’t a dream is it?”
Fox sighed. “I thought we already figured that part out—no it’s not a dream.”
Thomas looked behind the desk and saw for the first time rows of books that went as far as he could see. It did not look like a normal library. The books in this library floated—one on top of the other—stacked neatly in aisles. There were millions of them. Each book looked like a bright florescent hologram.
“This place is cool.”
Fox nodded. “We try to keep the air conditioning up real high—librarians do better in cool places.”
Thomas looked at him oddly, but said nothing.
“Now,” Fox said, “As I was saying before you decided you’d try and take a nap, this is the place where ideas are born. Every person who writes a book has a reason for writing it—all of their ideas come from somewhere. This is where those ideas are stored.”
“Those?” Thomas said looking at the floating books, “They look more like books than ideas.”
“Got to store an ideas somehow—why not a book?”
Thomas shrugged.
“The only humans that are supposed to know about this place are librarians, but I suppose now that you’ve found it, then you might as well make the best of it.” He paused and then said, “I believe you were in the library looking for books on the gold rush.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Like I said, I’m a librarian—I know everything…well almost everything.”
“Oh.”
“How would you like to see the gold rush first hand?”
“First hand?”
“Stop answering my questions with other questions—a simple yes or no answer, please.”
“Sure I guess.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Thomas nervously said.
“Very well.” Fox hopped off the desk, and went towards the books. “Ever heard of Mark Twain?”
“In school I think.” Thomas replied slowly following from behind.
“He’s full of ideas about the gold rush—spent a lot of time in California during it. How’d you like to meet him?”
“Okay.”
Fox hopped past hundreds of books then suddenly stopped. “Get that one for me.” He said looking at several books with nothing written on the spine.
Thomas reached for one and began to take it.
“Not that one!” Fox yelled. “The one just to the right of it.”
Thomas put his finger on the spine of the book and asked, “This one?”
“That’s right—now open it.”
He slowly opened the page, and lights flew from the book. The room became so bright that he couldn’t even make anything out. He didn’t know why, but he yelled for help, which did nothing.
“Just hold on to that book!” Fox commanded.
Thomas felt himself spinning out of control, and then falling downward. He felt like he was being sucked through a straw, and his whole body felt like it were being tightly squeezed. He thought he would die for sure.

Chapter Two:
A Bumpy Ride

The spinning finally stopped after several seconds, and Thomas crashed face first into the ground.
“You dead?” Fox said.
“I don’t think so.” Thomas mumbled with his face still in the ground. He felt the ground below him rumble, and he slowly sat up. He was not in the library anymore. “Where are we?” He asked Fox who sat on the bench in front of him.
“We’re on a stagecoach.”
“A stagecoach?” Thomas said looking around. He had never been in a stagecoach, but he had seen pictures and this was exactly how he imagined it. It was a small compartment with room for about six people to sit in. There were two benches, although mail was stacked on top of the one opposite Fox. He looked out the window and could tell they were traveling quickly. He never imagined stagecoaches went so fast.
“Actually the full name is the Pike’s Peak Express Company Stagecoach. And just for your information, the year is 1865.”
“1865?” Thomas said in disbelief, “That’s impossible.”
Fox laughed and shook his head, “Thomas, you’re going to have to realize that anything is possible when we’re dealing with ideas.” He paused, and then looked at Thomas seriously. “Sit down—I need to tell you what’s going to happen.”
Thomas quickly obeyed, and sat next to Fox.
“We’re heading to a place called Angelss Camp in Calaveras County. Once we’re there, there’s going to be a man named Ben Boone who will pick you up. You’ll be staying with his family for the next couple days.”
“Couple days?” Thomas said shaking his head no, “I can’t stay here. My mom is going to get worried when she doesn’t see me in the library.”
“She won’t worry—time doesn’t exist in this place.”
“How can it not exist?”
“We’re in the world of ideas—there is no concept of time here. Don’t worry.”
Thomas looked at Fox unconvinced.
“Honest, she won’t worry.” Fox assured him.
Thomas finally nodded and looked out the window at the distant hills. A yellowish green grass covered them. The land went for miles with no buildings in site; Thomas had never seen land so open.
“So as I was saying, you’ll be staying with Ben Boone’s family. He’ll think you’re his sister’s son from Carson City—so call him uncle.”
Thomas nodded, even though the idea seemed strange to him.
“He has a cattle ranch, and you’re supposed to be helping him.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“He’s going to show you everything you need to know.”
“What about Mark Twain?”
“Mark Twain?”
“Isn’t this Mark Twain’s idea?”
“Oh,” Fox laughed, “I completely forgot about that—yes, yes, you’ll meet him. Of course he doesn’t go by Mark Twain—he just uses that name when he writes. His real name is Samuel Clemens. And just because this is his idea, that doesn’t mean you’re going to see him.”
“I’m not going to see him.”
Fox nodded no. “I didn’t say that.”
“So when do we meet?”
“Soon enough.” He looked at a box sitting on the bench behind Thomas and said, “Inside that box are your new clothes—get dressed. We’ll be there soon.”
Thomas looked down at his clothes; he was wearing brown jeans and a green t-shirt. “Why do I need to change?”
“This is 1865—people dressed different.”
“Well I’m not changing in front of you.”
“I’ll turn around.” Fox said turning.
“And what about the windows—people can see right into the inside of the stagecoach.”
Fox laughed, “Look out there—do you see anyone?”
He looked carefully out the window. He could occasionally hear the men on top who were driving the stagecoach talking, but the outside looked empty. There were trees and grass, but no buildings. There weren’t even paved roads. Thomas lived in Southern California, which was a very busy city.
Thomas decided it was safe to change and opened the box. It contained brown slacks, a white button shirt, and a brown vest that matched the pants. “I’ll look stupid in this.” He complained.
“That’s what people wear here.”
Thomas dressed quickly. “There.” He said rolling his eyes when he finished.
Fox turned around, and closely looked Thomas over, then finally announced sincerely. “You look very handsome.”
“No I don’t—I look stupid.”
“You’ll blend in well.”
Thomas said sarcastically, “A well dressed boy and his four-eyed frog. I’ll blend in real well.”
“Good thing I’m not going to go with you.”
“You’re leaving me?”
“I’ll be back when it’s time for you to leave.”
“How will I find you?”
“I’ll find you.”
“When?” Thomas nervously asked.
“Don’t be such a worrywart.” Fox laughed. “You’ll leave when you’ve fully experienced the gold rush.”
He didn’t look too assured.
“If it’s an emergency, then just say, ‘Fox, I need you’ three times, and I’ll be right there.” He paused, and then stressed, “But you have to be alone—nobody else can see me.”
Thomas nodded and looked out the window again. He noticed for the first time that they were now in a town. The buildings looked like an old western movie he had watched once with his grandpa. Some of the buildings were large and two stories, while others were one story and seemed to be built with what ever piece of scrap they found lying around; one building wasn’t even a building—it was a tent with a post in front of it that said ‘supplies.’ He saw a few people, and they were all dressed as stupid as him. The women even wore big fancy dresses that he thought looked just as dumb as his outfit.
“Welcome to Angels Camp.” Fox said brightly.
“Doesn’t look like a campground to me.”
“It’s not a camp.” Fox corrected, “That’s just the name of the city.”
“Oh.”
The stagecoach began to slow down, and Fox said, “And now that we’re here, that means it’s about time for me to leave you.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“How am I going to find Ben?” Thomas nervously asked as the stagecoach stopped.
“You’ll find him.”
“How?”
“See that building.” Fox said pointing.
Thomas nodded.
“Go inside there and wait. He’ll find you.”
Thomas looked out the window once more at the building, then turned to protest, but when he did Fox was gone. “Fox?” he said. He looked around, but he was gone.
“Rides over, buddy.” A large man said opening the door. He looked like a cowboy. Thomas looked at him frightened and slowly moved towards the door.
“You okay?” The man asked.
Thomas nodded shyly. He got out of the stagecoach, then turned, and saw the stagecoach from the outside for the first time.
“Someone supposed to meet you here?” The man asked interrupting his stare.
He nodded once more and started to walk towards the building Fox told him about.
“Hey kid,” the man called.
Thomas turned and the man pointed at a large rectangle box that the other driver was pulling from the top of the stagecoach, “You forgot your luggage.”
The box was heavy, and Thomas had to drag it. “It’s heavy,” he said to the driver.
“You want some help?”
“I guess.”
He helped him drag it to the outside of the building then quickly left. Thomas dragged it into the building uncertain of what he was going to find inside.

Roughing It

A few years ago, I toyed with the idea of writing a kids series about authors; each book would find the character going back in time to discover what the world was like that the author wrote about. I penned one book in the series. It's called "Roughing It." It parallels many of Mark Twain's books, but mostly it's about California during the Gold Rush. The real life author (Mark Twain in this book) would always play a minor role in the story, but the book itself was more about the times that author lived in. The next book would have been about the movie industry during the 30s and would have paralleled the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I've toyed with the thought of revisiting the series, and retooling it a little. For now, however, the project is very deep in my list of things to write.

If you'd like to read the first book, it's now available on Kindle. You can read it here.

Tomorrow I'll post the first couple chapters from the story.

"Roughing it" buy it now!

Writing in the Digital Age

I finally got around to uploading the photos from my writing presentation at the Tustin Branch library last October; you can see them below. If you missed the lecture, I converted my notes into a book that you can download on Kindle (hopefully also on Nook soon). You can read a sample or buy it here.

"Writing in a Digital World." Read it on Kindle now!

Why do men have Nipples?

With Chase from The Drift. Read his stuff here.

Write Your Story & Sell Your Story

This Thursday (October 8th) at 7:00 pm, I will be giving a free presentation at the brand new Tustin library on how to write and sell your first book.

If you'd like to go, it would help them if you call ahead so they know how many seats to setup (their number is: 1-714-544-7725); if you don't call, please still come and I'll make sure they find room for you!


The address is below...I hope I see you there!

345 E. Main Street
Tustin, CA 92780

The Literary Journey

Last weeks post got a lot of page hits and a few comments; I'm amazed that when people read how shady this publisher is, they still think it's a good idea to publish with them. That's just how desperate people can be to see their books in print. There are plenty of writers out there willing to help nurture those desperate writers, so places like Publish America will cease to exist.

I think there are a lot of people out there that think they can sit down and write a book, and then it's going to be a bestseller. They make the entire process seem so effortless. I wish that it was (and for maybe a few it is), but for most people the journey is much longer and much harder and what it all comes down to is hard work.

Roland (from the book) told me awhile back that he read if you practice anything for three hours a day for ten years, then you should be successful. You can read his blog about it here. He's a little off. This is what led up to the publication of my first book:

*Age 11, write my first short story. It's about a person whose hand gets cut off and comes alive and haunts people.

*Age 12 or 13, begin to write first novel. It's about terrorism; more precisely it's about a group of people who are going to take over an airplane and take everyone hostage.

*Age 16, have two rods inserted in my back and get pissed off at the world

*Age 16, write a serious of essays in a book length work about why everyone is going to hell. I was very angry at the world.

*Age 16-17, write my first complete novel. If memory serves me correct, it's about 500 pages, and follows the life of a high school basketball star; he was kind of who I wanted to be, but couldn't on account of having rods in my back and being pretty immobile. Rejected by 50+ agents. Never Published.

*Age 17, compete my second novel. This one is about a prophet who heals people and preaches around the world. He is assassinated at the end. Rejected by 100+ agents. Never published.

*Age 18, enter college as a journalist major, but drop out of the program after I write my first article and am told it's so bad that I will not receive a grade.

*Age 18, complete my third novel. It's about a movie star whose wife is kidnapped and he goes on a journey with his brother to find her. Never bothered to submit it.

*Age 18-19, write about 400 to 500 pages of two or three different novels that I never finish. By this point I had probably wrote close to (or perhaps over) 2,000 pages of writing.

*Age 19-22, write mostly short stories to develop my voice. About 30 to 50 in all. Submit many of them. Only two ("Golden Poppies" and "Mother's Day") are published in journals

*Age 22, attend Kenyon Review Writer's workshop

*Age 22, start library school, but continue to take graduate level creative writing classes. Start writing a new novel and a novella. Finish both. I believe the novel is the best piece of fiction (at that point in my life) I had ever written, and start to lose hope in publishing when I can't find anyone who will publish it.

*Age 23-25, begin writing children's books and graduate library school. Write about three middle grade books, and a dozen or so picture books. I also begin writing "Dispatches from a Public Librarian" for McSweeney's. Begin to seriously consider self-publishing. Ultimately decide against.

*Age 25-27, work for the next several years revisiting old stories. Decide to skip a MFA in writing to study the craft of writing independently. I work on developing voice, structure, character, and dialog. Write several screenplays for movies, in part to learn about dialog and pacing. Begin work on a new novel, this one combines elements of mythology, fantasy, and literary fiction. Complete it but is rejected by the few agents I send it to.

*Age 27, begin to work on what will become "Quiet, Please." I don't think it was rejected by even one agent.

*Age 28, signed a contract with Caroll & Graf, which was bought by Da Capo.

*Age 29, after 3000+ pages of rejected fiction, non-fiction, and even poetry--after receiving hundreds (if not thousands) of rejection slips from publishers, agents and journals--having spent hundreds of dollars on stamps--I am a published author. I had been writing for almost 20 years with nothing but reject slips to show for it. Was it worth the struggle, the desperation, the loneliness, the years of hiding in my room slouched over a keyboard typing? Of course.

For Mature Eyes Only

Norman Mailer may be dead, but that didn't stop him from recieving this years award for Bad Sex in Fiction (yes, apparently there is an award for this sort of thing...and the award has been going on for 15 years). The judges cited his use of excrement in his novel "The Castle in the Forest" as being the tipping point for the award, though they also cited a line about a male character being "ready at last to grind into her with the Hound, drive into her piety" as another example of bad sex.

An honourable mention also went out to Jeanette winterson who used the phrase "silicon-lined vaginas."

Read the full article here: http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,,2217967,00.html

See You At Star Bucks Professor

A few years back, I decide to take a writing class at a local community college. At this point in my life I was already having mild success getting paid as a writer, but I was at work on a novel and I wanted workshop it to see what others thought.


I listened for several classes as the teacher rambled on and on about his accomplishments (he had published a poem (I think it was actually a poem in one of those books you have to buy to be published in))...that was it. He was qualified to teach a class in writing because he had a PhD.


When it came time to turn in actual writing of our own, I turned in a self contained fragment of my book; I thought it was great stuff. A week later I got the story back with the following: "Seems like a novel. Grade, C." No explaination of why it was a "C." No mention of what didn't work in the story. Nothing.


I wasn't bitter, but I wasn't about to spend a whole semester in school, and not be taken seriously. I emailed the professor to let him know I was dropping the class and why. I gave him suggestions on how to make it better. I told him quite passionately how a creative writing class should go. He wrote back telling me until I too had a PhD then I was not qualified to tell him how to teach a creative writing class.


We emailed each other back and forth; each time he basically rebuted that his PhD made him better than me. On his last email he explained that one day, when I had given up on my dreams of being a writer, I would be serving him coffee at Star Bucks.


At this writing, to my knowledge, this profession has yet to publish anything aside from that one poem. It seems these days he's the one who has given up on his dream of being a writer, and to him I say today, "Bruce, I'll see you at Star Bucks...and I take my coffee black."