Skyscapes, Hawaiian-Style

Have I ever mentioned that I am a serious fan of the sky? I am. I try to spend an hour a day watching the sky: clouds; the various shades of blue, grey, black; the stars. (Yes, slightly more pleasant in warm weather than in cold.) (And, yes, this is  why I never get anything done. But I figure it's good for my soul.) Anyway, now I know why I don't live in Hawaii: I'd really never get anything done because I'd be spending all my time staring up. Astute Reader Dexter, who's been on a roll lately, sent me a link to these photos of Hawaii (Kaaawa, to be precise) at dawn, courtesy of blogger Ian Lind.  Enjoy!

It's Not Just Hilarious; It's TRUE!

Astute Reader Dexter sent me this link. And now I KNOW he's astute, because he knew I'd appreciate it, because he gets what I do for a living and he realized that this would ring true. (Big round of applause for Dexter, please.)

This essay is hilarious. Why? Because it completely nails, and I mean perfectly, totally, completely nails why authors have to work so hard to promote their books: 'cause the publisher prolly isn't gonna do much because, well, read the essay.

Although: I was  fortunate with the beer book. The publicist originally assigned to it left for another job a month or so before the book came out. Which left me and my book, well, stranded. (Because everyone else in the department was already working on other authors' books and publishing PR departments are chronically understaffed. It's the nature of the beast.) (*1)

So then a new guy came on board and, uh, did, um, well, nothing. (Nice guy but worthless.) No surprise, he wasn't around long.

But about a year six months after the book came out, one of the department's underlings got promoted and took over my book and he did more for it  than anyone had prior to that. He was amazing. Wonderful. Heroic. I wanted to mother his children. He was everything any author could want.

And, yes, you can see this coming: He left to take another job. 'Cause that's how it goes in the wonderful world of publishing.

And that's why writers like me bust our asses to blog, use Twitter, write op-ed pieces (see the "Other Projects"  link at the top of the page), blog some more, etc.  Because we've got to promote our books, because, say it with me, no one else is gonna do it.

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*1: This, by the way, is not a criticism. Shit happens. Plus, I LOVE my editor and therefore I LOVE my publishing house. It was my choice to publish the meat book with them. I will stay with them as along as they'll have me. Unless my editor goes to another house. Then, hmmm . . . I might change my mind.

What Happens When Historians Write

Or at least "what happens when this historian writes": Mybrain aches. Literally. It's not a headache in the conventional sense of the word.

Instead . . . my brain actually feels, well, like it's just run a marathon. So tired at the end of a day that I have a hard time "thinking" about much of anything. (This is why I make large portions when I cook and why I own a freezer.) (Although, I have to say that cooking is a near-perfect way to unwind an exhausted brain.)

Anyway, I've been writing. Lots. Thousands of words. I have written, as near as I can tell, about a third of the manuscript in the past two weeks alone. (For those keeping track -- who? ME? Nah. --- near as I can tell, I've now written about half of what will be the final product.)

It's always like this: I spend the first, I dunno, eighteen months of a project thinking and reading and sort of writing. Then I start writing the first chapter and it feels as if I'm trying to push a huge wooden wagon out of a rut. I push. And I push. And I push. And I get nowhere.

And then suddenly, the wagon's wheels lurch forward, just a bit. A tiny jolt of momentum. So I lean into the wagon and push harder. And --- the wagon starts rolling. And it moves faster and faster and faster....

But somehow, the mental part of keeping the wagon moving becomes harder and harder and harder. Not because I get lazy or lose interest, but because by the time the wagon lurches forward, my brain is that much more stuffed with facts and information.

More to the point, it's working furiously, processing that information, relating one seemingly unrelated fact or detail or event to another to another to another.

So, for example, as I was writing chapter three (which mysteriously morphed into chapter four...), I realized that I'd been wrong about something I wrote in chapter one.  I misunderstood the relationship of A to B. And as I re-wrote that part of chapter one, I suddenly realized that the new ideas connected to a major point in chapter two.

Which, you guessed it, meant writing a new section to chapter two. Which caused it to balloon in size and focus, so that what had been the second half of the second chapter became the first half of the third chapter. Which meant the second half of the third chapter became the first half of the fourth chapter. And all of it, in turn, caused me to re-think another section of chapter one, so I re-wrote that. And . . .

You get the picture. At the end of a day, I've written perhaps three thousand words, which are not just words but ideas and analyses. And my brain aches. So that's what I've been doing and where I've been. Oh, my aching brain. Oh, my poor, poor neglected blog.

Beer, History, Persimmons

How's that for a combo? The folks at Fullsteam Brewing (which I can't spell properly because I don't know how to make a backward "F") are smart, lively, and entertaining. As evidenced by this post about persimmon beer. (And no, not just sayin' that 'cause it mentions me.)

This particular post was written by Sean (as in Sean Lilly Wilson); his partner-in-beer is Chris Davis. You can follow them on Twitter as @fullsteam. Check 'em out.