How to be a Published Author
If you want to be a self published author, do not read this. But if you want to earn a traditional publication, please read below.
You have taken your time to write that thought. You sacrificed a lot-time, energy and money-to ensure you complete that literary task. You were led to put pen on paper those great train thoughts. Finally, you completed the literary task! Congratulations! Next, you possibly &seek other pairs of eyes to review and possibly proofread the piece you have written. Perhaps, you sought the attention &of your best friend, family member or associate to read through, point out the typos and grammatical errors. Eventually, you have the task of proofreading met.
The stage is now set...pitching to 'appropriate' agents and publishers. Having read through their guidelines, you pitch them individually. Some publishers and literary agencies would disclose the timeframe. In other words, some will disclose to you the turnaround period: feedback time. Interestingly, others might to assert to you when you will get to know the status of your submission. In the literary world, there is a saying: 'it is everyone for themselves.' You are all alone to exercise the waiting game. It becomes herculean to wait for that period of time. Patience is needed to cope with the demanding literary industry. As a smart author, you should be looking at working on your next title.
The wait is over...the feedback is about to be given, primarily via email or postal mail. 'Dear john, thanks for your submission. We have read your submission with great interest. While we find your piece very fascinating, we regret to announce to you we cannot take your submission at this time. We wish you the best in your writing endeavor..' You feel depressed, afterwards.
Never mind! Your literary journey has just started! It is at this point you dwell on the 'never give up' psyche if you want to proceed at this point. It is at this point you begin to do a research on publishers and agents who specialize on your genre online, horn your skills, attend several writing conferences, book fairs and other literary events to meet with people, get connections and establish relationships (mentorship).
Then, by listening to and reading the stories of authors who made it, you will understand rejection is part of your literary journey. & Luckily, you get a literary recognition, be it a publisher or an agent who would be willing to take on your submission. Congratulations! The wait is worth it. The contract is presented to you for perusal, after receiving a Letter of Intent. You are satisfied with the terms of the contract through the 'green light' of an Intellectual Property Attorney, you sign the contract. Your piece now has a literary home!
It takes time to become successful. A personal instance: I started writing in 2006. Having faced several rejections from publishers and agents for years, it took me eight years to publish my first book! During those waiting periods, I was writing other books, attending book fairs, getting to meet authors like me and researching online authors who made it: what they went through.
Being a published author is not an easy feat. It takes patience, resilience, persistence, connection (and some element of luck) to become that person whose name would be penned in print, electronic, audio and other formats and remember this: Discouragement is a part of success!
Upon Meeting a Boy on the Street, While Carrying the Cremated Remains of My Alice
The kid says it, and the bell can’t be unrung, “Your wife’s nothing but a pile of dirt, now.” Was it just the uncorrupted, clear-eyed innocence of a child, or did he mean to be cruel? And could a child, a boy of about eight or nine years old, be so insidious? I try to adjust my thinking, flip the switch from darkness to light, but the old filaments
in my mind snap; glass shatters; synapses misfire. I grab his neck with my right hand, squeeze the small cardboard box with my left and make him—eat—his—words.
Balancing On the Sharp Edges of Crescent Moons
I have a bipolar friend who—now in our late 50s—texts me: “Who am I?”
How do I respond; do I respond?
I tell her she is a dear old friend, a beautiful, talented, and intelligent woman. When in fact, I feel like she is *past tense.* I AM her friend. WAS her friend. She is all but lost to me now. Even herself.
This is the nature of disease. The dis—ease straddles our world and the next, leaving her to blindly balance on the sharp edges of crescent moons: offering no rounded, no soft places to fall.
Swimming Through Shadowlands
Deep below the lake’s surface, there sits—intact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly: out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Family pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman waltz in a floating embrace.
Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. Published in over 100 literary journals / anthologies (across six of seven continents), he is founding editor of the Webby Award recognized Dribble Drabble Review, as well as a Best Book and American Writing Finalist.
Seoul. I am meeting with a potential South Korean supplier. We are in an old part of the city in a building which is part office and part museum. We have all removed our shoes. While we talk, we partake of seemingly endless cups of tea prepared and drunk in the traditional manner. Some of these teas have been preserved for decades and are discussed with all the seriousness of vintage wines in our culture.
It is mutually understood that no decisions will be made today or even at any time in the near future, as is the norm in most Asian cultures. Eventually it comes time to leave and I sit on what I perceive to be a solid looking stool to put my shoes back on. Something indefinable shifts in the mood, although the smiles remain.
Walking down the laneway leading away from the building, I take our translator discreetly aside and test whether I have sensed the mood correctly. He politely informs me that the ‘stool’ I sat on is a 400-year-old ceremonial tea table and only its superior craftsmanship has averted disaster for all concerned.
Shanghai. My flight to Hong Kong is delayed considerably. (I discover later that this has occurred because the Chinese Air Force has suddenly closed the airspace for an exercise and that it is not uncommon.) Finally a boarding call is given to a gate downstairs from the busy main departure area, empty of all but my fellow passengers and the airline staff.
A Chinese family is at the departure desk yelling at the staff and refusing to be placated.
A bus arrives to ferry passengers out to wherever our plane is parked. The family rushes towards the long line that has already formed at the check-in door. The bus is soon full and the family will have to wait for the next bus.
At this point a young man from the family becomes hysterical and attacks a male staff member, pulling his hair and slamming his head against a glass partition. Other passengers finally intervene and I look around for a security guard. Oddly, for any international airport and especially for China, there are none. When a second bus arrives, all of the family are allowed to board.
When I board the plane, I find myself seated across the aisle from the angry young man. I stow my gear and make my way back up the aisle to a steward. I describe briefly what has occurred on the ground and ask why the man has been allowed to board after assaulting one of their staff. She shrugs and her face says ‘it’s no big deal’. I return to my seat and the man glares at me for the whole flight.
Mumbai. We are returning from a delightful restaurant lunch, driven by an Indian colleague, in her own car. Our animated conversation is interrupted by a policeman at the side of the roadway motioning her to pull over. She is informed that she has exceeded the speed limit and she should step out of the car to show her licence.
Mumbai traffic is such that exceeding the speed limit is about as likely as the sighting of a unicorn. However she steps out of the car, taking her purse, and plays the game. After returning to the car she advises that she has paid the requisite bribe and the matter will be forgotten. She says normally she would challenge such behaviour but we are already late for our next appointment.
Almighty
Written by Arsi Rauf
Almighty, Almighty, Almighty
All praises for Thee,
Who did search,
In high mountains,
And boundless sea,
He got Thee.
In each star dwells
A newer world,
Sun and the moon
Show your majesty
Often, when I look around
Though can't be seen
Everytime very close You are found
That you hear a tiniest whispered sound
So
Whenever I did search I got Thee
O! Almighty.
settle in for a long ride
a sunny cold day
the day before the
first day of winter
the day before the
holiday blues settle
in for a long ride
now as i grow older
i know that ride will
get as close to death
as possible at times
you learn not to fear it
enjoy the tension
the pensive delight
of closing the circle
the only thing that
is truly guaranteed
---------------------------------------------------------
still with her mask on
listening to a conversation
in the waiting room while
staring at this beautiful
black woman
wondering what she
looks like naked
of course, my imagination
does that but still with her
mask on
you know, safety first
and all
-----------------------------------------------------
having never learned the lessons
the relentless agony
of the end of life
holding on for
a few moments
the last laugh
the last kiss
the last nibble
of glory
having never learned
the lessons of all those
wise fucks that came
before
the urgency of now
is fleeting
taking advantage of
every second is nearly
impossible in this world
where you are bombarded
with an endless onslaught
of shit
disposable,
as is everything
---------------------------------------------------------
anxiety and dread
just enough snow
to fill the old ladies
with anxiety and
dread
i'm the asshole that
wishes for enough
to make driving
an adventure
such is life
no one is ever
really happy
-------------------------------------------------------
that whiff of death
i remember cutting
through the woods
on this old trail
i remember learning
to ride a bicycle and
suddenly taking
advantage of that
freedom
i remember finding
this old trash bag
one day in the
woods
it smelled
my friend and i told
his father about it
he went over with
us to open it up
a dead dog
that whiff of death
still sits in the front
of my brain all these
years later
i know one thing
though
it made life on the
farm pretty easy
my nose could smell
a surprise long before
my eyes could be
shocked
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at The Black Shamrock, Terror House Magazine, Cajun Mutt Press, Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
One-percenter
Let me decide
for myself
if success is as empty
as they say
and I will let you know
if dating a Swedish model
in the French Riviera
is vapid and will
rapidly lead to
my soul's decay
and when my
pretty bank teller
sees my current balance
and her pupils start dilating
don't tell me this
won't feel like
a spiritual awakening
because I have been
chasing that star-studded
gold-leafed, sugar-coated
gift-wrapped, jackpot
since I was old enough
to watch
the Beverly Hillbillies
on TV
so don't you even try
to stop me from
sipping on some
good ol' Texas tea
Lonesome Dove
I don't share
my life with
one particular
person in the
traditional sense
instead I have built
an amazingly effective
invisible fence
that keeps my dogged
pride from running away
from this private property
and possibly getting run over
and once in a great while
I let in the unexpected
visitor who happens
to be in the area
and just thought
they'd stop on by
and we have
cookies and coffee
and when they leave
I wave goodbye
as their car
pulls out of the drive
while holding my
caged heart
yet it somehow
escapes like
a parakeet
into the skies
and that's when
I remember that
time flies
Spring Cleaning
I still saved
everything you
gave me
and I have
stored all that
nothingness
in an empty room
in the attic of
my consciousness
next to undeveloped
negatives of what
could have been
positive
if only you
could have lived up
to the hype
of being
what I wanted
so much
but can now
live without
I guess
that is what
dandruff and dust
is all about
Hook Up
It's official
this whole
thing is superficial
and based solely
on mutual distraction
from emotional depth
or even worse
spiritual meaning
because sometimes
it's fun to downgrade
expectations and indulge
in soft-core
consensual conversation
consisting of
nonintellectual innuendo
and zero love
so tomorrow
don't even wait
for my text
instead when you
think of me
just whisper the word
"next"
The Big Comeback
I was
once beautiful
respected far and wide
the toast of the town
considered the next big thing
expected to stay on top
traveled first class
pursued by women and the press
mentioned in the tabloids
paid handsomely
young as roses in bloom
whispered about in certain circles
the life of parties uptown and down
loved to the moon and back
dressed in Versace
with both parents alive and proud
now I'm
living in a modest home
walking like a zombie at a local Mall
disappearing into a crowd
learning old friends have become somebody
driving while listening to 80s music
lost in fantasy at the pharmacy
a has-been who would-be if could-be
and yet just offered a major new contract
given a new lease on hope
checking with a lawyer if this is
too-good-to-be-true
assured this is a legitimate opportunity
pinching myself to make sure it isn't just a dream
not even worried if this time it will or will not last
just ready to once again kick fame and fortune's ass
Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and popular contemporary poet. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled Absolut Jenson for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spirit Museum, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden. Jenson’s painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes. Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson’s poetry is widely published (with over 600 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson’s poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two novels by Ivan Jenson entitled, Marketing Mia and Erotic Rights have been published hardcover. His website is: http://www.ivanjenson.com
Ivan Jenson’s thriller “The Murderess” is now available hardcover and as an eBook on Amazon. Ivan Jenson’s new thriller, “The Widow” will be released in March 2022.
