The task of redirecting traffic from the old blogger-hosted castmacabre.org is yet to be done, but in the meantime you can check out the work-in-progress new Cast Macabre site at http://castmacabre.wolfsbanepublishing.com.
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Welcome to the official site of UK fiction author, podcaster, and game developer, Barry J. Northern.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Cast Macabre Update
As part of the Amazon Kindle launch of The Best of Cast Macabre Vol I ebook, I am currently updating the main Cast Macabre website to bring it inline with Wolfsbane Publishing's other podcast, Cast of Wonders: The YA SF&Fantasy Audio Magazine.
The task of redirecting traffic from the old blogger-hosted castmacabre.org is yet to be done, but in the meantime you can check out the work-in-progress new Cast Macabre site at http://castmacabre.wolfsbanepublishing.com.
The task of redirecting traffic from the old blogger-hosted castmacabre.org is yet to be done, but in the meantime you can check out the work-in-progress new Cast Macabre site at http://castmacabre.wolfsbanepublishing.com.
Friday, 30 December 2011
Micro-fiction: Misspelled japes #1
This may well be the first and last in a series of tiny stories inspired by a simple typo or misspelling in the first sentence. I think this is a fun concept for a writing prompt exercise.
Jeremy's shoelaces were united. Increasing numbers of shoes were being admitted to the rack with elastic top-lines and Velcro straps, especially the lower sizes. The shoelaces had put up with slippers for years, they had been laceless since before anyone could remember, but now even among the old leather shoes there were more slip-ons than lace-ups. The ratio of laced to laceless was now firmly in favour of the latter, and the trend foretold the eventual decline of their race. It was time for action. The venerable laces of the Dr Marten's boots, being the longest, thread through the shiniest eyelets, and having the least corrupted aglets, stepped forward and assumed command. The laces stood together beneath him on the rack. They did not yet have a plan, but for the first time they had faith that they would prevail.
Jeremy's shoelaces were united. Increasing numbers of shoes were being admitted to the rack with elastic top-lines and Velcro straps, especially the lower sizes. The shoelaces had put up with slippers for years, they had been laceless since before anyone could remember, but now even among the old leather shoes there were more slip-ons than lace-ups. The ratio of laced to laceless was now firmly in favour of the latter, and the trend foretold the eventual decline of their race. It was time for action. The venerable laces of the Dr Marten's boots, being the longest, thread through the shiniest eyelets, and having the least corrupted aglets, stepped forward and assumed command. The laces stood together beneath him on the rack. They did not yet have a plan, but for the first time they had faith that they would prevail.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Warning: Writer Scam Alert
I just received this mail from author David Farland, and had to share it as I know many writers who are beginning to publish their works electronically. I'm subscribed to his fantastic newsletter, David Farland's Daily Kick in the Pants. Sign up for it at DavidFarland.net so that you can receive news and tips like this.
David Farland’s Daily Kick in the Pants—Beware of Possible Scams
Today I got an interesting email from a writer who put his book up on a site frequented by other new authors. He’d posted a prologue, and got a critique from a reader who said, “There’s a story in here struggling to get out. Send me the entire manuscript and I’ll edit it for you.”
Well, last year I would have thought that that was a kind offer. A complete free edit? That’s very generous!
But the critique was so vague, it could have been aimed at anyone’s prologue. No characters were named. No plot was addressed. One had to wonder if the “critic” had read the piece at all. Then it was followed by a request for an entire manuscript.
Now, that is either a very generous offer, or it could be a scam. It’s a technique used by movie producers and writers in order to drum up work. They’ll tell you that your IP needs work and then offer to “help take it to the next level” in order to get a free option on your work. Sometimes the offer is even coupled with insults. “Right now, this has some great ideas, but the writing is crap. I can fix it for you!” I learned while working with cons as a prison guard that this technique—insulting the mark and then offering to help—works remarkably well. As an artist, you are at first shocked, confused, and hurt. But as the offer of help comes, suddenly you feel grateful to the con for his benevolence.
In the past, we authors haven’t had to worry too much about the theft of intellectual properties. But I mentioned a few weeks ago about the new bout of theft that is going on, where “authors” copy others’ works, slap a new name on them, and sell them.
The latest craze of course has been “Frankenstein” novels, where a crook takes published works, cobbles pieces together, and sends it out as his own. By reading the sample chapters, the reader will think that the book looks great. It’s not until you’ve read well into the novel that you find out that you have a problem. Obviously, Amazon and the other big publishers will need to address these thieves and figure out how to shut them down.
But if you were to send a completed novel out to one of these con-men, they could steal your unpublished work, re-title it, and sell it as their own. Obviously, that’s the coming craze.
So beginning today, I feel need to warn you: don’t send electronic copies of your manuscripts to people that you don’t know.
Even if you do know the people, be careful. It’s easy to lose control of a manuscript. Many of you know about how Stephenie Meyer had a copy of a work in progress stolen a couple of years ago. If I understood the story correctly, she sent it to a friend for a critique, and it got forwarded elsewhere.
Other forms of theft are a bit rarer. I did once have a manuscript stolen—a copy of STAR WARS: THE COURTSHIP OF PRINCESS LEIA, that I was making final edits on. It was obviously taken by a fan who broke into our house (who also stole some notes that had been signed by George Lucas).
I’ve heard of a couple of cases where hardcopy manuscripts were published by “authors,” including one writing professor from Montana who would steal the work of his students. A couple of authors have tried to publish chapters swiped from other people’s books, and this practice was spotted in the work of two bestsellers in the past four years or so.
So theft has always been with us, but in the past it hasn’t been a big business.
I’m concerned that pirates could hijack your work. It’s coming, and we may not be able to shut them down. Some countries are not signatories to international copyright treaties. This creates an opportunity for thieves to steal your works without fear of being jailed or sued. What if someone in China or Nigeria or Guatemala starts marketing your book electronically? You might not have a legal recourse, and you might not be able to shut them down.
So take care with those electronic files. Send them to people that you trust, that you’re close to.
David Farland
David Farland’s Daily Kick in the Pants—Beware of Possible Scams
Today I got an interesting email from a writer who put his book up on a site frequented by other new authors. He’d posted a prologue, and got a critique from a reader who said, “There’s a story in here struggling to get out. Send me the entire manuscript and I’ll edit it for you.”
Well, last year I would have thought that that was a kind offer. A complete free edit? That’s very generous!
But the critique was so vague, it could have been aimed at anyone’s prologue. No characters were named. No plot was addressed. One had to wonder if the “critic” had read the piece at all. Then it was followed by a request for an entire manuscript.
Now, that is either a very generous offer, or it could be a scam. It’s a technique used by movie producers and writers in order to drum up work. They’ll tell you that your IP needs work and then offer to “help take it to the next level” in order to get a free option on your work. Sometimes the offer is even coupled with insults. “Right now, this has some great ideas, but the writing is crap. I can fix it for you!” I learned while working with cons as a prison guard that this technique—insulting the mark and then offering to help—works remarkably well. As an artist, you are at first shocked, confused, and hurt. But as the offer of help comes, suddenly you feel grateful to the con for his benevolence.
In the past, we authors haven’t had to worry too much about the theft of intellectual properties. But I mentioned a few weeks ago about the new bout of theft that is going on, where “authors” copy others’ works, slap a new name on them, and sell them.
The latest craze of course has been “Frankenstein” novels, where a crook takes published works, cobbles pieces together, and sends it out as his own. By reading the sample chapters, the reader will think that the book looks great. It’s not until you’ve read well into the novel that you find out that you have a problem. Obviously, Amazon and the other big publishers will need to address these thieves and figure out how to shut them down.
But if you were to send a completed novel out to one of these con-men, they could steal your unpublished work, re-title it, and sell it as their own. Obviously, that’s the coming craze.
So beginning today, I feel need to warn you: don’t send electronic copies of your manuscripts to people that you don’t know.
Even if you do know the people, be careful. It’s easy to lose control of a manuscript. Many of you know about how Stephenie Meyer had a copy of a work in progress stolen a couple of years ago. If I understood the story correctly, she sent it to a friend for a critique, and it got forwarded elsewhere.
Other forms of theft are a bit rarer. I did once have a manuscript stolen—a copy of STAR WARS: THE COURTSHIP OF PRINCESS LEIA, that I was making final edits on. It was obviously taken by a fan who broke into our house (who also stole some notes that had been signed by George Lucas).
I’ve heard of a couple of cases where hardcopy manuscripts were published by “authors,” including one writing professor from Montana who would steal the work of his students. A couple of authors have tried to publish chapters swiped from other people’s books, and this practice was spotted in the work of two bestsellers in the past four years or so.
So theft has always been with us, but in the past it hasn’t been a big business.
I’m concerned that pirates could hijack your work. It’s coming, and we may not be able to shut them down. Some countries are not signatories to international copyright treaties. This creates an opportunity for thieves to steal your works without fear of being jailed or sued. What if someone in China or Nigeria or Guatemala starts marketing your book electronically? You might not have a legal recourse, and you might not be able to shut them down.
So take care with those electronic files. Send them to people that you trust, that you’re close to.
David Farland
#friday flash - experimental piece #2 - forgetfulness
This Friday Flash was not planned or edited (except for typos and misspells). It is off-the-cuff free-writing; an experiment in creative writing. If you enjoy it, so much the better. If it offends you then you'd better not come back here again, and you must certainly never listen to my poscast, Cast Macabre.
What? Why? I don't know anything, except how to communicate apparently. How come I can still construct meaningful sentences and yet not know the name of the language I am speaking. How can I know that I am speaking, and know words like "language" and "and", and yet not remember a single specific moment in my life. I seem to have awareness of myself. I am certainly not anyone else. Neither am I that dog over there, or that widescreen 40" flatscreen television, nor am I the squat table on which it stands, nor the smell of hot dust and clean plastic that exudes from it. Why is my hand in that socket?
Today, since it's actually Saturday and I forgot about #friday flash, I'm starting with the theme of forgetfulness.
Experimental piece #2 - Forgetfulness
What? Why? I don't know anything, except how to communicate apparently. How come I can still construct meaningful sentences and yet not know the name of the language I am speaking. How can I know that I am speaking, and know words like "language" and "and", and yet not remember a single specific moment in my life. I seem to have awareness of myself. I am certainly not anyone else. Neither am I that dog over there, or that widescreen 40" flatscreen television, nor am I the squat table on which it stands, nor the smell of hot dust and clean plastic that exudes from it. Why is my hand in that socket?
Friday, 2 September 2011
#fridayflash - experimental piece #1
This Friday Flash was not planned or edited (except for typos and misspells). It is off-the-cuff free-writing; an experiment in creative writing. If you enjoy it, so much the better. If it offends you then you'd better not come back here again, and you must certainly never listen to my poscast, Cast Macabre.
The thing about artichokes is the name. I don't fancy eating something with a name like that so I pick up the swede. You can't go wrong with a swede. I've eaten swede all my life, and while I can't say I particularly liked it as a child, I can't even remember the last time I ate an artichoke -- if ever. So in the basket goes the swede. I pay at the checkout: the swede (obviously), a tube of extra-whitening toothpaste, a tub of Sudacrem (don't ask), and a big bunch of irises for Iris (it's our little joke). This is only a top-up shopping trip obviously. I think I'm all set for tonight. Should be good. I've been looking forward to it for several months.
As I leave the shop, I wonder if Bob and Henry like swede. I'm sure they do. On the way home my mind wanders and I'm struck with a sudden, deep-seated abhorrence for my life's mundanity. I put my foot down on the accelerator, wind down the windows, and turn the radio up to a rock channel. Blasting out heavy guitar riffs, the wind whipping my hair, I put my foot down more. I fish around beside me in the carrier bag and take out the swede, still shrink-wrapped. The join where the shrink-wrap was sealed feels rough against my palm as I stick my arm out the window and throw it at a community support officer. It hits her in the leg and she goes down. The rock track stops, I let go of the gas, and my moment of madness disappears. Did she see my number plate? I think of Iris, and Bob, and Henry, and their wives. I bet the artichoke wouldn't have hurt so much. Shit.
Experimental Piece #1
The thing about artichokes is the name. I don't fancy eating something with a name like that so I pick up the swede. You can't go wrong with a swede. I've eaten swede all my life, and while I can't say I particularly liked it as a child, I can't even remember the last time I ate an artichoke -- if ever. So in the basket goes the swede. I pay at the checkout: the swede (obviously), a tube of extra-whitening toothpaste, a tub of Sudacrem (don't ask), and a big bunch of irises for Iris (it's our little joke). This is only a top-up shopping trip obviously. I think I'm all set for tonight. Should be good. I've been looking forward to it for several months.
As I leave the shop, I wonder if Bob and Henry like swede. I'm sure they do. On the way home my mind wanders and I'm struck with a sudden, deep-seated abhorrence for my life's mundanity. I put my foot down on the accelerator, wind down the windows, and turn the radio up to a rock channel. Blasting out heavy guitar riffs, the wind whipping my hair, I put my foot down more. I fish around beside me in the carrier bag and take out the swede, still shrink-wrapped. The join where the shrink-wrap was sealed feels rough against my palm as I stick my arm out the window and throw it at a community support officer. It hits her in the leg and she goes down. The rock track stops, I let go of the gas, and my moment of madness disappears. Did she see my number plate? I think of Iris, and Bob, and Henry, and their wives. I bet the artichoke wouldn't have hurt so much. Shit.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
Still in Brighton -- for another two weeks?
Once we've moved there'll be lots to do in the new house, and a fair amount to do in the new job, but at least I'll be able to unpack my recording equipment, and have more time at home to write and podcast again. I can't say I'll be doing all that at my old breakneck pace for a while, but I still plan to release episodes of Cast Macabre, reopen it for submissions, and continue to enjoy editing Cast of Wonders, which is now in its fourth week over at www.castofwonders.org.
Let's hope these plans end up matching how life actually unfolds over the next few months. Until next time...
(pic unrelated, lol)
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