First draft of the Narrative essay.
Shannon Hollender
Prof. Malesh
Draft 1 of Narrative Ppr.
Due: 3/22/06
E-books and the Distribution Opportunity
Intro: Hook
Bound to her past, Suir Feale remembers being ten and watching the boat leave. The image of her grandfather holding the old red book clutched to his chest has forever haunted her. It was heavy for being so small; mom said that was because it was old. Hidden beneath its wooden cover and found deep within it’s pages of words and photographs intertwined was hidden her family’s history. The great struggle they had gone through was trapped and forever recorded in those pages. From that moment on Suir swore she’d find her grandfather again and save her family’s history from forever being lost in the new world her grandfather called “opportunity.”
When I was seven I swallowed up stories like this one whole. I was an insatiable reader and I loved everything from the sappy-sweet and boringly predictable quest tales to the mind-nerving horror/mystery, the sensual, the romantic, the mind-numbing and the erratic. I loved books and at that age read everything I could. I even took in the Bible which is a lot more twisted and convoluted than people give it credit for. When I was seven, eight, nine and ten all I could do was read. Rushing through my homework I’d run to the book-club’s newest edition of publications and pick out a group of stories I would save my allowance for.
History: Personal Involvement
When I turned eleven, my allowance wouldn’t satisfy my need for the written word anymore. I’d read everything in the house, gone through everything the Library would allow me, I’d even managed to get my hands on The Kama Sutra, and I was still craving that perfect story. So I turned to the pen. On the blank page I found that at first my ability and imagination floundered. I was too frustrated because I kept trying to predict what Mark Twain would write if he were the one sitting there holding the pen. It was awful stuff. So I turned instead to poetry. I hated the sickeningly sweet sing-songy stuff I kept getting fed as a kid and thought “I’ll write poems that are dark and perverse, that are sinister and ironic, I’ll write something evil; like the Bible.” Funny as it sounds that’s what I said; I should know I wrote it down in a pact with myself.
It started out with dark and sinister poetry and ever since I have been working on perfecting the dark and twisted side of the short story. I’ve been told I’ve developed my own sort of style. And I enjoy writing what is different from the expected. Sometimes I venture to think I’m even better at trying to entertain and be evocative than others who are out there doing the same. At the risk of sounding cliché, the page, like so many writers have written before me, does indeed give me a kind of freedom that cannot be described and is only felt deeply and wholly. And so I am thus a writer, or at least am addicted to writing and trying to get others to recognize, attend to and perchance even enjoy my words.
Community:
The community to which I thus belong is one of vast measure, immense variety and considerable competition. Why in the world would a person want to embark down such a difficult and less than promising road to success? I thought it was hopeless too and didn’t know why I or anyone else should try against such great competition either and so I almost didn’t try. For years I remained a non-competing and otherwise passive underground writer contenting myself to share occasionally with my friends and remaining passively a reader who hides behind pages and in corners. I was content only in that I could sometimes convince a friend to read what I’d written. This led quite consistently to the slow and steady decline of frequency with which I wrote and for a while in college I didn’t write anything at all except for papers and the occasional e-mail.
Spark/fire/instigation
Writing is what uplifts me so such was my steady decent into depression. Until recently when I met a man who wanted me to share with him all of what I had written. He’d chanced upon my interest in the page in amongst my complete works of Shakespeare book has since wanted me to share with him anything and all things I happen to write. I try to keep his eyes off of my papers but I must admit that it is flattering to find someone who is so enamoured by what I have to say. He has encouraged me to write and to keep writing and has since convinced me that I need to publish. He says, and assures me as he is an avid reader and knows well what is out there to be read, that I am capable of pulling in profit on my creative writing. With his support behind me, his encouragement, inspiration and advice I have begun to, for the first time in my life, consider getting published seriously.
Controversy (history too)
Since looking into it I have discovered that it is a process much harder than it appears. Getting published is far more than write, edit, edit, edit, edi… … … present to a publisher, edit, edit, edit, edi… … … get signed, and see it go into marketing, print and distribution. No! As publishers get multitudes of volumes every day, a writer must first make a name for themselves to get the publishers to look at word one of their work. This used to be done by getting published in newspapers and allowing others to use your work in their publications if you can even get them to look at you, then if you are lucky enough to get noticed by the right people you might get to submit a small work and you might get published but you have to market yourself right and you have to make sure you are targeting the right audience. Usually doing all this publishing and marketing will not be funded by the publisher either. So publication becomes an out of pocket endeavour and being a writer becomes less of a non-profit job and more of a deficit job.
The internet has offered a more streamlined and more accessible way of doing most of these things. From blogging to being an overseas news correspondent for some web-site or another, the inter net has offered an outlets and a means to the end. New as these concepts are, there are already so many who are cashing in on fame, publication and fortune in these ways. They are riding the surge of writers with crappy things to say in an attempt to shine, stand out, get a job and make a name for themselves. This too is my dream and I’ve even found a few loop holes to the non-profit / deficit problem haunting most writers. E-books are electronic publications which allow for quick and easy zero-cost publishing and they are just beginning to spread like wild fire allowing a multitude of writers to get exposure and make a name for themselves. This is the route I am planning on taking at least at first and this is the thing that may land me the exposure I need, the fan-base I want and that big contract I desire.
Perceived by others:
E-books seem to be causing quite a whirl-wind of concern though. As these book are now in electronic form, a form which is easily cracked and freely distributed, it becomes necessary that an author recognize that whatever they publish via e-book is likely to be distributed without their compensation or consent. This is fine for budding writers who just want exposure, though keeping record of this exposure becomes a difficult task. And this seems to be ok with most of the public who can now get entire books in electronic form and they may not even have to pay for them. The publishers, especially those of paged books are furious. It is a process which is cutting away a large portion of their profits because it is virtually cutting them out of the picture.
In conclusion, my opinion is:
None-the-less, this internet thing won’t go away like the publishers wish it to; the code-breakers will never cease to crack and break the codes to distribute anything they can; and the readers are still reading any thing they can get their eyes on with almost rabid force. This is comforting news to someone like me, who sees opportunity and the hope of actually getting published. Me with my red book clutched tight to my chest and my pillar of support right there behind me the whole way. I am encouraged, I am hopeful and I cling to the stories in the pages like my past, present, like my future depends on lit, because it does.
Suir Feale remembers being ten. She looked for her grandfather where ever she thought he might be. He could have been still adrift at sea, he could have made it to that far off place: “opportunity”, he could been dead, but no matter the odds she had to keep looking. She did. When she had traveled to “opportunity” to find him, she knew that she could not go on without him, he was her only friend in the world when she was younger. Now, having lived in “opportunity” for several years, she has almost given up on finding him. Years ago she gave up on life as she had hoped for it to be and now she merely goes through the routine as if it were only that constant pattern which forced her to live on. Day by day, wishing for death, feeling lost and alone in this noisy world, even the “distraction” she’d set out for herself, the marriage she’s forced herself to go through with was not helping her find or even create a new and true sense of self. She needed her Grandfather, she needed that book.
With a family of her own now in tow, she has grandchildren at her feet and a basket of red books in her arms. The Flea Market they frequent every Saturday attracts rare finds from all over the world, she always finds the red books, she’s always searching for the same one. It is one of a kind and the day she found it, the decrepit old man selling it turned to her and smiled that smile she hadn’t known in years. They had tea together, they talked, they walked and reminisced. Now that she has him there with her, she clutches her past and can finally know herself. She and he are inseparable like past present and future; like motivation, inspiration, and the mind.
Prof. Malesh
Draft 1 of Narrative Ppr.
Due: 3/22/06
E-books and the Distribution Opportunity
Intro: Hook
Bound to her past, Suir Feale remembers being ten and watching the boat leave. The image of her grandfather holding the old red book clutched to his chest has forever haunted her. It was heavy for being so small; mom said that was because it was old. Hidden beneath its wooden cover and found deep within it’s pages of words and photographs intertwined was hidden her family’s history. The great struggle they had gone through was trapped and forever recorded in those pages. From that moment on Suir swore she’d find her grandfather again and save her family’s history from forever being lost in the new world her grandfather called “opportunity.”
When I was seven I swallowed up stories like this one whole. I was an insatiable reader and I loved everything from the sappy-sweet and boringly predictable quest tales to the mind-nerving horror/mystery, the sensual, the romantic, the mind-numbing and the erratic. I loved books and at that age read everything I could. I even took in the Bible which is a lot more twisted and convoluted than people give it credit for. When I was seven, eight, nine and ten all I could do was read. Rushing through my homework I’d run to the book-club’s newest edition of publications and pick out a group of stories I would save my allowance for.
History: Personal Involvement
When I turned eleven, my allowance wouldn’t satisfy my need for the written word anymore. I’d read everything in the house, gone through everything the Library would allow me, I’d even managed to get my hands on The Kama Sutra, and I was still craving that perfect story. So I turned to the pen. On the blank page I found that at first my ability and imagination floundered. I was too frustrated because I kept trying to predict what Mark Twain would write if he were the one sitting there holding the pen. It was awful stuff. So I turned instead to poetry. I hated the sickeningly sweet sing-songy stuff I kept getting fed as a kid and thought “I’ll write poems that are dark and perverse, that are sinister and ironic, I’ll write something evil; like the Bible.” Funny as it sounds that’s what I said; I should know I wrote it down in a pact with myself.
It started out with dark and sinister poetry and ever since I have been working on perfecting the dark and twisted side of the short story. I’ve been told I’ve developed my own sort of style. And I enjoy writing what is different from the expected. Sometimes I venture to think I’m even better at trying to entertain and be evocative than others who are out there doing the same. At the risk of sounding cliché, the page, like so many writers have written before me, does indeed give me a kind of freedom that cannot be described and is only felt deeply and wholly. And so I am thus a writer, or at least am addicted to writing and trying to get others to recognize, attend to and perchance even enjoy my words.
Community:
The community to which I thus belong is one of vast measure, immense variety and considerable competition. Why in the world would a person want to embark down such a difficult and less than promising road to success? I thought it was hopeless too and didn’t know why I or anyone else should try against such great competition either and so I almost didn’t try. For years I remained a non-competing and otherwise passive underground writer contenting myself to share occasionally with my friends and remaining passively a reader who hides behind pages and in corners. I was content only in that I could sometimes convince a friend to read what I’d written. This led quite consistently to the slow and steady decline of frequency with which I wrote and for a while in college I didn’t write anything at all except for papers and the occasional e-mail.
Spark/fire/instigation
Writing is what uplifts me so such was my steady decent into depression. Until recently when I met a man who wanted me to share with him all of what I had written. He’d chanced upon my interest in the page in amongst my complete works of Shakespeare book has since wanted me to share with him anything and all things I happen to write. I try to keep his eyes off of my papers but I must admit that it is flattering to find someone who is so enamoured by what I have to say. He has encouraged me to write and to keep writing and has since convinced me that I need to publish. He says, and assures me as he is an avid reader and knows well what is out there to be read, that I am capable of pulling in profit on my creative writing. With his support behind me, his encouragement, inspiration and advice I have begun to, for the first time in my life, consider getting published seriously.
Controversy (history too)
Since looking into it I have discovered that it is a process much harder than it appears. Getting published is far more than write, edit, edit, edit, edi… … … present to a publisher, edit, edit, edit, edi… … … get signed, and see it go into marketing, print and distribution. No! As publishers get multitudes of volumes every day, a writer must first make a name for themselves to get the publishers to look at word one of their work. This used to be done by getting published in newspapers and allowing others to use your work in their publications if you can even get them to look at you, then if you are lucky enough to get noticed by the right people you might get to submit a small work and you might get published but you have to market yourself right and you have to make sure you are targeting the right audience. Usually doing all this publishing and marketing will not be funded by the publisher either. So publication becomes an out of pocket endeavour and being a writer becomes less of a non-profit job and more of a deficit job.
The internet has offered a more streamlined and more accessible way of doing most of these things. From blogging to being an overseas news correspondent for some web-site or another, the inter net has offered an outlets and a means to the end. New as these concepts are, there are already so many who are cashing in on fame, publication and fortune in these ways. They are riding the surge of writers with crappy things to say in an attempt to shine, stand out, get a job and make a name for themselves. This too is my dream and I’ve even found a few loop holes to the non-profit / deficit problem haunting most writers. E-books are electronic publications which allow for quick and easy zero-cost publishing and they are just beginning to spread like wild fire allowing a multitude of writers to get exposure and make a name for themselves. This is the route I am planning on taking at least at first and this is the thing that may land me the exposure I need, the fan-base I want and that big contract I desire.
Perceived by others:
E-books seem to be causing quite a whirl-wind of concern though. As these book are now in electronic form, a form which is easily cracked and freely distributed, it becomes necessary that an author recognize that whatever they publish via e-book is likely to be distributed without their compensation or consent. This is fine for budding writers who just want exposure, though keeping record of this exposure becomes a difficult task. And this seems to be ok with most of the public who can now get entire books in electronic form and they may not even have to pay for them. The publishers, especially those of paged books are furious. It is a process which is cutting away a large portion of their profits because it is virtually cutting them out of the picture.
In conclusion, my opinion is:
None-the-less, this internet thing won’t go away like the publishers wish it to; the code-breakers will never cease to crack and break the codes to distribute anything they can; and the readers are still reading any thing they can get their eyes on with almost rabid force. This is comforting news to someone like me, who sees opportunity and the hope of actually getting published. Me with my red book clutched tight to my chest and my pillar of support right there behind me the whole way. I am encouraged, I am hopeful and I cling to the stories in the pages like my past, present, like my future depends on lit, because it does.
Suir Feale remembers being ten. She looked for her grandfather where ever she thought he might be. He could have been still adrift at sea, he could have made it to that far off place: “opportunity”, he could been dead, but no matter the odds she had to keep looking. She did. When she had traveled to “opportunity” to find him, she knew that she could not go on without him, he was her only friend in the world when she was younger. Now, having lived in “opportunity” for several years, she has almost given up on finding him. Years ago she gave up on life as she had hoped for it to be and now she merely goes through the routine as if it were only that constant pattern which forced her to live on. Day by day, wishing for death, feeling lost and alone in this noisy world, even the “distraction” she’d set out for herself, the marriage she’s forced herself to go through with was not helping her find or even create a new and true sense of self. She needed her Grandfather, she needed that book.
With a family of her own now in tow, she has grandchildren at her feet and a basket of red books in her arms. The Flea Market they frequent every Saturday attracts rare finds from all over the world, she always finds the red books, she’s always searching for the same one. It is one of a kind and the day she found it, the decrepit old man selling it turned to her and smiled that smile she hadn’t known in years. They had tea together, they talked, they walked and reminisced. Now that she has him there with her, she clutches her past and can finally know herself. She and he are inseparable like past present and future; like motivation, inspiration, and the mind.
posted by Shannon Hollender @ 3:00 PM
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