|Okay, it wasn't this bad. It was bad, though.|
And I mean, the Bible readings and stuff were okay, and the barbershop quartet was a nice touch, but when the pastor announced that "Norman" (yes, his real name was Norman) "will be waiting for us in the Christian heaven, with all those that have gone before him," I expected ChiSing to get out of his coffin and just walk out in disgust. Of course, he couldn't do that because he's probably already a newborn in Sri Lanka or someplace. ChiSing was not one to wait around. Thankfully, there will be a second memorial service at the meditation center, and it will be a raucous, noisy celebration of life. Plenty of music, some dancing, snacks to be served afterward. That would be Sunday, April 3 at 5:00 at CSL, 4801 Spring Valley Road No. 115, Dallas, TX. See you there.
Meanwhile, a really good friend gave me a nifty gift; a writing master class with James Patterson. Yes, that James Patterson, purveyor of airplane books the world over. (And in case you do not know what an airplane book is, I'm going to tell you. It's the sort of book that you pick up because you realize when you get to the airport that, in spite of careful packing, you don't have anything to read on the airplane, which, if you're a reader, is like trying to cross the desert without any water, and so you run into the little airport bookstore thingy and grab something from the display in the front and then you read it on the airplane and forget about it half an hour later. Which doesn't mean it's a bad book. I mean it kept you entertained on the airplane, didn't it? It's just usually not all that memorable. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was my lucky exception.) It's online and I've logged in and so on but I haven't actually watched any of the lectures yet. Why? Because my life seems to be in free fall at the moment. Between work and swimming and training for this frick'n 5,000 meter race (which just got moved from July to September, which means that I get to train an extra three whole months for this thing, and whose idiot idea was that? Idiots) I feel like I haven't been home for more than ten minutes at a stretch, except to sleep.
Yet, somehow, this thing I'm writing keeps crawling along. And, to my surprise, I recently came to The End. Well, not the actual end. There's still a little wrap-up and banal dialogue to go, maybe a chapter or so. But the basic narrative has ended. The plot has resolved, I guess you could say. And I've just run into a problem that I basically have never had before in my life: The darn thing is too short.
Too short? you say. How could a book be too short? Plenty of books are too long, but too short? Doesn't happen. Well, except that it does. This li'l work of mine just topped 31,000 words. That is, seriously, between 20 and 30,000 words too short. Publishers like to print books that are of a certain length because that's how the big ol' printers and cardboard cutters and so on are calibrated. Make a book that's too long and it's too expensive to print because you have to reset all the calibrations and the page counters and the--actually, I have only the vaguest idea what I'm talking about here, but anyway, there are machines involved and things do need to be of a certain size. Make a book too short and it's not worth the money to fire up the machines in the first place. A work of 30,000 words is pretty deep into novella territory. And what is a novella, you ask? Let's let Stephen King tell you (I paraphrase, very loosely): "Buenas tardes and welcome to Novella, senor! How long will you be staying with us? A few weeks, you say? Senor, I have to tell you, you will be in Novella for a very long time, si?" Silly stereotypes aside, though, it's true. Novellas don't tend to go anywhere. They just sit there. Unless they're written by Stephen King, of course, and then they get wrapped up in a collection with three or four other novellas and published like a group of short stories and sell bazillions of copies and make everybody rich. But I am not Stephen King and this ain't no Stephen King novella. It's just a cheery yarn about statues coming to life, the impending destruction of all reality, and why it's critically important that we get Fleetwood Mac back together, preferably pre-Rumors.
Believe me, I've tried to make the thing longer. I've been able to stuff in a few extra sentences here and there. But for the most part, it just won't go. It's the length that it is, and the length is too short. So I'm not sure what to do with it, except maybe publish it on Amazon for 99 cents or, as has been gently suggested to me by people who actually know what they're talking about, more like $1.99. You don't need calibrated printing machines to make a Kindle file. And you don't even need a Kindle to read one. You can just go here or to your app store of choice and download the Kindle app, and then you can read it anywhere on your phone or tablet.
So that's the plan, and at the rate things are going I'd say it'll be ready in another month or so. If you think this is a bad idea, let me know, willya? Because everything sounds brilliant at 3 in the morning when you can't sleep.