Writing and Editing

Why I Self-Published

In the interests of full disclosure, I am a self-published author. I have three novels published in both print and electronic form, as well as a collection of short fiction on Kindle only. How are my sales? It depends on your definition. They’ve probably been above average for a self-published author working within the limitations I’ve faced. Compared to someone like James Patterson or Stephen King, my sales are miniscule.

So why did I self-publish rather than go the traditional route? And what did I learn from the experience?

Let me tell you a story.

In 2007, or thereabouts, I completed a novel I’d entitled Ni’il: The Awakening. Everyone who read it, including the professional editor who helped me revise it, said it was really good and I should definitely try to get it published. So, I wrote up a synopsis, outline, readied sample chapters, and sent about twenty queries to smaller publishing houses I thought might like my novel. (I didn’t try the larger “Big Five” publishers; they generally only accept queries from agents). And I waited.

To my surprise and delight, one of the publishers I’d queried responded and wanted to see the entire manuscript. Wow. I had the manuscript in the mail the very next day. And I waited.

And I waited.

A month passed and I waited. Two months, then three, then six and still no word. These things take time, I told myself, and the longer they take, the better for me. At least they hadn’t rejected my novel out of hand. So I continued waiting, trying to stay patient.

Nine months passed and still nothing. After ten months, I could stand it no more and sent them a polite email inquiring about my novel’s status. Within days I received and equally polite reply asking me to be patient, that, though it seemed like it had been a long time, it was not unusual in the publishing world. This was how the system worked.

Okay. Again, it meant at least somebody liked the novel. So I waited.

Eleven months, then twelve months passed. After nearly a year of waiting, I finally received a letter from the publishing company. “We’re sorry, but we decided to pass on your work. We wish you the best of luck in the future.”

They kept it for nearly a full year and then “passed on it.” At a year per publisher, I could be dead before someone decides to buy it. Even longer before they actually published it. So I decided that if I really wanted to see it in print, I would have to publish it myself and let the market decide whether it was good, or not.

As I stated above, I did moderately well, particularly with the first of the three books. And, as I also stated, I learned a lot, which will certainly help if I chose to self-publish my next novel. What did I learn? In particular, what do I know now that I would have liked to know before I started on the self-publishing path?

There is still a stigma attached to self-publishing. It’s getting better, but many bookstores and other venues will not stock self-published books, nor host events for self-published authors. We independent authors have to overcome the reputation of many really, really awful works that have been self-published through the years. Like I said, it is getting better, but be prepared for rejection out of hand.

It doesn’t matter how good your book is if no one knows about it. If you’re not prepared to spend some time and money marketing and promoting your work, you probably won’t sell many to people you don’t personally know. That means designing a coherent plan with a realistic budget and having it in hand before you ever start the publication process. You could get lucky and have your book take off on its own, but don’t count on it.

The standard time frame for a book’s success is the first six months after publication. Be prepared to work as hard during this time selling it as you did writing it.

Concentrate efforts on independent bookstores. They are much more willing to work with independent authors than big, national chains, particularly if you are a local author or the work takes place in their region/area. (This applies to brick-and-mortar stores only, online outlets are completely different).

Have a concise, well-written pitch ready. What’s a “pitch?” It’s a brief, one or two sentence description of your book, suitable for a conversation in a supermarket aisle when someone asks you what the book’s about.

Always carry several copies with you (such as in the trunk of your car). Never miss a sale because you couldn’t take advantage of someone’s unexpected interest.

Now a lot of the above also applies to publishing the traditional route because, unless you’re a household name, odds are the publisher is not going to spend a tremendous amount on marketing your work. Most of the effort will still have to come from you. With traditional publishing, the main advantage is the prestige that goes with having a big publishing house’s name on the spine of your book and the fact that the publisher pays for the layout, formatting and physical printing.

As a self-published author, you (or I) are responsible for all the costs of putting the book together, printing and marketing it. In exchange, we get more creative control: we control the content of the work itself, the design of the cover, the blurbs on the cover (or fly leaf); we even control when the book is published.

Now am I going to publish my new novel myself, or try the more traditional route?

I haven’t decided yet.

short story

Something Different

This is a myth I wrote as cultural background for my Ni’il Trilogy. Which means I ended up not using it. The myth comes from the fictional Sihketunnai tribe of Native Americans.

How Turtle Got his Shell
Legends of the Ni’il

At first there was only takin and Sunaktla, the Great Spirit, was in and of takin. Together with his sons He’eklaka, the Raven, and Ixtople, the Coyote, and his daughter, Puyalle, the Salmon, Sunaktla lived takin.

He’eklaka and Ixtaple were mischievous. As boys do everywhere, they enjoyed playing pranks on their sister, but Puyalle was strong and slippery and too quick. Many times their tricks were wasted on her and they became frustrated. They wanted someone to play with who couldn’t escape so often and so easily. They approached their father, Sunaktla, and asked him to make a playmate for them.

“You already have your sister and each other to play with,” he told them. “And the expanse of takin to play within. That is more than enough to amuse yourselves.”

They argued and pleaded, but their father would not change his mind.

He’eklaka and Ixtaple were not happy with their father’s decision. They thought it was unfair, but there was nothing they could do about it. Then Ixtaple had an idea. He and his brother waited until their father had fallen sound asleep, then he took one of He’eklaka’s feathers and began to tickle his father’s nose. After a time, Sunaktla sneezed and out sprang Wokani, the Turtle.

The brothers were overjoyed. This was exactly what they had longed for. Wokani was small and slow to move, and not nearly as strong as either of them. He was the perfect subject for their pranks and tricks. Unlike their sister, he would not be able to escape.

Sunaktle saw what his first sons had done and was not pleased. He immediately gave Wokani a shell fortress he could carry on his back. Whenever he grew tired of his brothers’ pranks, he could withdraw into the fortress where his brothers could not reach him, not matter how hard they tried.

Then he turned to his disobedient sons.

“I told you I would not create someone just for your entertainment,” he told them. “So you played a trick on me to get your way. So be it. From this time forward, it will be much more difficult for the two of you to play any of your tricks.”

When the brothers spoke to protest, they realized Sunaktla had changed their languages. He’eklaka could no longer understand anything Ixtaple said and Ixtaple could no longer understand anything He’eklaka said.

To this day the Raven and Coyote speak different languages and though they are often seen near each other, they seldom work together anymore to play their tricks.

And Wokani, the turtle, still has the shell Sunaktle gave him for his protection.


Ni’il: The Awakening: excerpt

This is a scene from my first novel “Ni’il: The Awakening.” I’ve adapted it a little so the context doesn’t need so much explanation. Hope everyone enjoys it.

Dan didn’t know how much time had passed. He did know his butt was sore from sitting on the log and that he was getting sleepy. One could only remain fully alert for so long. You haven’t really experienced darkness until you’ve been in the woods on an overcast night. He couldn’t see anything other than vague shapes; there was nothing to concentrate on. So his mind wandered.

The day before yesterday, an elderly woman named Alberta Collins had been killed while walking her dog along Eleventh Street. The dog had also been killed. Everyone around town assumed it had been the work of a rogue animal. In a rural town like Placerville, it was not unheard of for a bear or cougar to wander into town looking for an easy meal. But Dan had seen the woman’s body and he wasn’t so sure a rogue cougar or bear had been the culprit.

Off to the left, someone coughed. It was muffled, but as unnatural as a bugle call.

“Goddamn kids.” Alan muttered. “I might just shoot him myself.”

Dan smiled. When you had to cough, you had to cough. There wasn’t much you could do about it.

Too many things about Mrs. Collins’ death had been inconsistent with a wild animal attack. She hadn’t been mauled; there were no scratches, or defensive wounds on her arms or torso; the sole injury was a massive chunk of flesh taken from her throat. Her dog had basically been crushed and nothing had fed on either of them. It didn’t look like an animal attack, but it didn’t really look like a homicide either. He didn’t know what to think.

The mayor, however, had been sure. He’d ordered the Wrights be hired to track down and kill it; they would work a lot cheaper than paying overtime for a team of officers to track it down.

They also knew the woods as well–or better–than anyone in the county.

Dan had decided to come along just to see what they turned up.

Alan Sr.’s safety clicked off.

Dan sat up straight and switched off his own safety.

The lamb had stopped struggling. It was holding perfectly still.

“Down and to the right.” Alan whispered. “Something’s moving.”

Dan concentrated on listening. There had been noise the entire time they’d been waiting. Small animals scurried along the ground, scrounging dinner, birds rustled in their night roosts, owls hooted. What he was listening to now was silence. All activity had stopped. The lamb was not the only creature keeping still; the entire forest might have been holding its breath.

Then a branch snapped . . . and another . . .

“I hear it,” he whispered to the hunter.

“Let it take the bait.”

Dan nodded, though he doubted Alan could see the gesture in the darkness.

The animal moved slowly. Dan could follow it by sound. Each twig snap, each rustle of brush was like a map marker, plotting its course up and across the hill.

He wondered if the Wright boys had heard it also.

It stopped immediately below them.

Dan held his breath.

For a moment there was only silence.

The lamb screamed.

“Now!” Alan Sr. switched on his spotlight and shouldered his rifle.

Two other spots lit up on either side of them.

“What the–?” Alan said, then began to fire.

Dan saw an image centered in the combined light of the three spots. It was large and covered with long bronze hair, much like a bear. But its head was too large and strangely misshapen. The head and bloody front legs of the lamb hung from its mouth.

Alan continued to fire and now shots rang out on either side of them as Alan’s sons joined in. Dan could see the animal’s odd bronze hair twitching and jerking as bullet after bullet hit it.

Then it was gone.

The others stopped firing. Echoes of gunfire drifted away through the night.

“Did you see it go down?” Alan asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Dan shook his head. It was there. Then it wasn’t.”

Alan shoved cartridges into his rifle’s magazine. “I know I hit it. At least three times.”

“Dad!” Alan Jr. called over. “Can you see the bastard?”

“I hit it!” Tommy yelled from the other side. “A head shot! That fucker’s dead.”

Dan was keenly aware of how quiet the forest was around them.

“Boys, keep an eye peeled. Me and the Chief are going to have a look around.”

The younger men agreed to watch their backs.

Alan turned to Dan. “Ready?”

Dan took a deep breath and nodded. “But I think I’ll leave this behind.” He leaned the rifle against their former seat and pulled his Beretta from its holster and switched the safety off. “I’m better with a handgun.”

“Suit yourself.” Alan shrugged and led the way down the slope.

They went slowly. Even with the light from the three spots, the landscape was a patchwork of shadows and they had to check each carefully before entering or passing it. If the animal was now wounded, not dead. It would be extremely dangerous. They were counting on their senses, and the watchful eyes of the boys uphill, to prevent an ambush.

Dan felt like he was on a combat patrol.

“Here we go,” Alan said.

They stepped out onto the small, flat clearing they’d used to stake out the lamb. The metal pin was where they’d left it, still trailing a frayed length of rope. Nearby, they found a spattering of fresh blood. It could have been from the creature, or from the lamb; they couldn’t tell which.

There was nothing else.

Dan turned to look back up the hill. All he could see were the three spots of light burning holes in the darkness. And his night vision.

Alan pointed toward the tree line on the downhill side of the clear‑cut. “Cover me. I’m gonna look around.”

Dan nodded, swallowed hard, and took up a flexible stance facing the woods and started sweeping. He concentrated on spotting movement, rather than any specific object. In the darkness beyond the first row of trees, anything could be hiding and he wouldn’t have a chance of seeing it–until it moved.

Alan Sr. crouched to his right, checking the grass and brush for sign.

Dan licked his lips and kept scanning. He was very much aware that the forest around them was absolutely silent.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Not a damn thing. I don’t get it. I know we hit the damned thing.”

“What was that thing anyway?”

Alan glanced at him. “Looked like a bear to me.”

Dan had never seen a bear like that. He had never seen anything like that.

Alan sighed and stood up beside him. “Relax. It’s long gone. I don’t get it, but it’s not around here anymore.”

Someone screamed above them and a rifle went off, then again and a third time.

Dan hit the ground, rolled, and looked back up in time to see a second spotlight explode into a fountain of sparks.

Another strangled scream filled the night before being abruptly cut off.

“Tommy! Junior!” Alan’s voice edged toward panic. “Answer me, damn it! Tommy! Junior!”

No one answered. Two of the spotlights were gone.

“It must have circled around behind us,” Alan said.

Dan thought that seemed a reasonable guess.

The third light exploded.

They were in pitch darkness again. Until his eyes could adjust, Dan literally couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He was effectively blind.

“Junior!” Alan called again. “Tommy!”

There was no answer.

Now that it had knocked out the lights, they were at its mercy. They had more firepower, but it had better senses and was working on its own turf. Their only chance lay in somehow getting back to the truck and out of here.


“It killed my boys. My boys . . . Junior! Tommy!”

“Alan,” Dan insisted, “We’ve got to get out of here and we’ve got to move now.”

Something stirred in the darkness above them and to their left. It was circling back.


Dan looked over toward the hunter. His night vision had recovered enough that Alan’s body was an irregular shape in the darkness. Dan assumed he was in shock over his sons’ deaths. But what to do about it? Time was running out.

The thing in the darkness made a sound–the first one Dan had heard it make–and it sent chills down his back.

It chuckled.

He pushed himself to his feet, scrambled over to Alan and jerked him up by the shoulder. “Are you coming, or am I going to have to carry you?”

“I’m coming.”


Dan started up the hill and Alan fell in behind him. It was too steep and too rough to run. In the darkness, running would invite a broken leg or a head‑on with a tree trunk. He went as fast as he safely could, pulling himself up on saplings and whatever else he could grab with his left hand. In his right, he still clutched his pistol.

He glanced back once to be sure Alan was still behind him. Satisfied, he concentrated on climbing.

He had no idea where the animal was; it could be anywhere. Yet it would know exactly where they were; they were making as much noise as a cattle stampede. Again, it had the advantage.

Dan emerged onto the road so suddenly he lost his balance. He went down hard, landing on his right elbow and shoulder. Searing pain ripped down the length of his right arm. He sucked air through clenched teeth, tried not to cry out, and cradled his injured shoulder with his good hand.

Alan stumbled onto the road behind him.

Dan had lost his pistol. In the dark, he couldn’t see where it had fallen.

“You all right?” Alan crouched down beside him. His breath came in great rasping gasps.

He stifled a moan. “I think I broke something.”

“Can you make it to the truck?”

Dan nodded. He could just make out the pickup parked less than a hundred feet to his left.

But he couldn’t leave without his pistol. He would be completely defenseless.

“My Beretta,” he said, “I dropped it when I fell.”

Something moved in the brush at the edge of the road.

Alan spun around and raised his rifle.

Dan frantically searched for his pistol. If that thing was coming after them, Alan would need all the additional firepower he could get. Even a few left‑handed shots would be better than nothing.

He managed to stand, despite the pain the effort caused, and quickly scanned the shadowy gray of the gravel road for his pistol. It couldn’t have gone far.

“Head for the truck,” Alan said, “I’ll cover you.”

The animal–whatever it was–was clearly toying with them. It remained in the woods, but continued to make so much noise it had to be on purpose. It seemed to be daring the two men to do something about it. Did bears taunt their prey?

Dan stepped on something near the far edge of the road. It was his Beretta. He managed to squat down and pick it up with his left hand. Near as he could tell, the fall had not damaged it. He straightened back up and had to take a step against sudden light-headedness.

“Did you hear me?” Alan asked.

“We’re going together. I’ve got my gun.”

Alan was about to argue when something stepped from the edge of the woods onto the road.

“Tommy?” Alan lowered his rifle.

Dan stared at the figure of the younger Wright. Something was wrong. He was having trouble focusing, like his vision was blurred. He would have assumed it was the effects of shock, but he wasn’t having any trouble focusing on the young man’s father.

The figure took a step toward Alan Sr.

“Tommy? You okay?”

“How’s it feel to be the hunted instead of the hunter?” The voice was wrong. It looked like Tommy, but it wasn’t him.

Alan knew it too. He started to raise his rifle.

The young man lifted a hand and, with a single blow, took Alan Sr.’s head off at the neck.

Dan could only watch in numb fascination as the body of the hunter teetered under a fountain of blood, then tipped and fell like a tree.

The thing that looked like Tommy tipped its head back and roared.

Dan backed away.

The truck was no longer an option. He could see it just a few yards down the road, but the creature stood between it and him. The pickup could have been on the moon for the good it did him. Even worse, his patrol car was parked another mile or so farther down the road.

The creature turned its attention to Dan. Its shape dissolved before his eyes, becoming less an object than a dense dark cloud, then solidified again. Now it looked like Alan Sr.

“You’re hurt,” it said.

Dan took a step back, away from it. He still held the Beretta in his left hand, but had no illusions about its effectiveness against this enemy. It was not designed for this.

The creature’s image dissolved again and reformed. Now it had assumed the form of his mother, but not as she’d looked when she’d died. It looked like his mother as he remembered her from his childhood, a beautiful, young woman.

“What are you going to do, Danny?” It took a step toward him. “Are you going to try and shoot me too?”

Dan did the only thing he could think of. He turned and ran for his life.

But he was injured and the jarring of running on the dark gravel road seemed to open something in his shoulder. It felt wet and burning hot.

Still, he ran.

Something came between him and the clouds, something big and dark and moving very fast. He sensed a great, burdening sorrow and a terrible rage.

Then he tripped and went down and the blackness swallowed him whole . . .