Ah I vaguely recall my start as an independent writer; it almost seems like a lifetime ago.
I can’t even remember how I found [the oddly named] Smashwords, but I am glad we connected. Mark Coker’s publishing platform really simplified my life.
And then Draft2Digital with Books2Read came along with their pretty little layouts and boom I had a new crush. And a new distributor.
But I never left Smashwords.
By the way, it is true Smashwords and Draft2Digital are merging and I think that’s a good thing.
I’m not sure if Smashword’s support of the annual Read an eBook will continue in the years to come, but it is going on right now through March 12th. I, of course, am participating. Several of my books are available free or at a drastically reduced price. Just scroll through and check it out.
I believe The Perpetual Series was the first, or one of the first books I published with Smashwords; that was in 2013. Can you believe that?
I recall making the cover from a photograph I had taken of a flower blooming in the yard. Sadly, that flower never returned.
My apologies for not blogging more but I have seriously been busy. I’m talking BiZZy!
We are just getting the house back to normal after February’s winter storm, Uri. I’m not sure why it’s (unofficially) referred to as Uri? 🧐
I did a web search and unless I overlooked a reasonable definition-I found nothing that applied to the ice storm. Feel free to educate me.
Anywho we are getting back to normal. Haller-lu-ya!!
[doing the happy dance]
So before I get busy this morning getting the yard and pond back in shape I will leave you with a #TBT.
A Little More Time was written in 1980 something, originally published in Pose Prose & Poems in 1998 and republished in the 2017 poetic memoir called Getting Me Back
A Little More Time
There’s an eagle out there soaring And my best friend is out whoring
Turning tricks of any kind
Doing anything to make a dime God forgive her for the crime
All she needs is a little more time.
On the roof three stories high
A junky cries and begs to die
Ain’t had a fix in several days Swears he can’t go on this way
Across the street a church bell chimes
Grant us please a little more time.
An old man sick and dying
Alone with no one crying
He grieves for all the pain he’s caused
For all the people that he’s lost
Outside the window painted mimes All rushing for a little more time
A woman labors down the hall
Her anguish echoes through the wall
But soon a laughter takes its place When she looks upon the baby’s face
We are still months away from NPM and poetry discussions are abuzz. I love it!
I’m not even upset that one “genre” is dissing the other – I am just happy poetry is being discussed.
I clicked on a link/interview that was shared with a member of the Horror Writer’s Association and then BOOM I was knee deep in reading, searching and lurking a dozen other sites.
I [honestly] never considered a genre when writing poetry and probably couldn’t categorize if my life depended on it. But [speaking of dissing] I’ll share Thoughts on Writing from Getting Me Back.
Thoughts on Writing (The Requirements of an Author)
Desire: A congenital need to tell the story.
Determination: It is not enough to walk a couple of blocks or run five miles on a treadmill, come prepared to hike the Himalayas and explore the abyss.
An exoskeleton: A thick skin will not suffice — no indeed. Colleagues and critics are apt in the sadistic art of shaving and burning the thickest of flesh; their tireless wheel of pumice leaving the toughest callouses raw and bleeding. They will thin your skin; get beneath it and prove your vulnerabilities. Like a flesh eating bacteria they will consume you — kill you if you let them.
A poker face: Never let them see you sweat.
Gratitude: Because no one owes you anything!
Grace: For the rise and the inevitable fall.
Pills and booze and smoke: Because it is a hard and hateful world and you are not a god-damned ant.
I was wading in the surf on Matagorda beach one warm, sunny day while exchanging dialogue with Clara.
I had known Clara for about ten years and I have to admit, conversing with her was like pulling teeth. I don’t want to say she was dull, but she was too quiet and a tad introverted.
Don’t get me wrong, Clara is a lovely girl. She is smart and pretty and sweet and kind, but she was just too darn nice for the most part. Too calm, too reasonable, too… dull! There, I said it!
Anyway, as I was wading in the surf, dragging my feet (literally to scatter the sting rays) I was thinking how I might kill her.
I know that must sound horrible, we had been comrades for so long, but she wearied me.
Her unspoiled, hoity-toity, prim and proper,everything by the bookpersonality made me want to send her sailing face down with the outgoing tide. I think she knew it (she has that sixth sense thing, you know).
I didn’t expect Clara to fight me; it wasn’t in her nature. She had been so silent and distant; it seemed she had given up on life and maybe she wanted to die?
I had mulled it over and over in my mind for weeks and finally I had come to terms with my decision. Clara no longer served an identifiable purpose and she must be done away with.
Suddenly the voice of a perky little blonde caught my attention; she was running down the beach waving and shouting,
“Hey y’all, wait for me.”
Oh my lord,I thought, while trying to ignore the thin, tanned Mississippian’s approach.
I have to do it now – get it over with.
I hurriedly pushed Clara toward the incoming wave but she didn’t budge; her feet were planted too firmly.
“Don’t make this difficult!” I coaxed her, “just relax and go with the sea. It will be over and we – I can move on.”
I filled my lungs with sweet, salty air and dug my feet into the sand.
I was thinking, I’ll push her outfar enough forthe current to carry her away. I knew where the current was rushing dangerously below the surface, just past the sand bar.
I grabbed her shoulders and pushed, harder this time. And again, she did not move! Worse than that and to my surprise the quiet, zest-less little mouse pushed back!
“Hey! Hey!” The Mississippian yelled, “What the hell are you doing? Leave her alone!”
I’m not sure why I obliged this person whom I had never met, but I stepped back.
I studied Clara, standing there quiet and unshaken. Her eyes fixed on mine and oddly, I no longer saw her as the timid, boring little thing I wanted to kill. I recognized the quiet strength she had held all along.
“Do you know her?” I asked, referring to the woman approaching us.
Clara shook her head slowly and smiled, “No but you do. You met her on a trip to Biloxi once.”
I was speechless.
“Hey, I’m Maggie,” the lady smiled as she looked past me and held out her hand, “you must be Clara.”
I suppose it’s true that opposites attract. I watched Maggie come alive and in doing so she saved Clara.
*This is a story about a story. Clara and Maggie are safe and sound (for the most part) inside a fictionalseries.
My opinion remains unchanged and I make no apologies. Nope, none.
However I do Thank God that my feathers are re-oiled and I can laugh at myself [and the entire human race] again. Because laughing is sometimes all we have at our disposal. 🎭
Thoughts on Writing (The Requirements of an Author)
DESIRE: A CONGENITALneed to tell the story.
Determination: It is not enough to walk a couple of blocks or run five miles on a treadmill, come prepared to hike the Himalayas and explore the abyss.
An exoskeleton: A thick skin will not suffice – no indeed. Colleagues and critics are apt in the sadistic art of shaving and burning the thickest of flesh; their tireless wheel of pumice leaving the toughest callouses raw and bleeding. They will thin your skin; get beneath it and prove your vulnerabilities. Like a flesh eating bacteria they will consume you – kill you if you let them.
A poker face: Never let them see you sweat.
Gratitude: Because no one owes you anything!
Grace: For the rise and the inevitable fall.
Pills and booze and smoke: Because it is a hard and hateful world and you are not a god-damned ant.
And [YaY] with Uri out of the way I’m welcoming the sunshine and trying on swimsuits.
resting on the final page of my Gregorian calendar.
Celebrations in red,
Christmas and Kwanza
and the tail end of Hanukah.
Reminding me in stark black letters
of bombings and declarations of war.
Hitler and Mussolini and Japan…
*Dear December was first published in the short story A Hard Candy Christmas. The audiobook is narrated by Julie Gayden Nelson who does a beautiful recital.
I have to do it now – get it over with. 
The Real Janna Hill 