What's in a name?

"I love the name of your book!" said one agent to me this weekend.

Steamtopia Rising.

It's funny. Other agents ran the gamut from "Meh," to "Look!  The line at the bar is gone!"

This agent loved it. That's what she said. In my own special way, I love her back. She loves the name of my baby.  Funny thing, (Cuz this blog seems to be filled with unfunny funny): I always thought Steamtopia Rising was more of a nickname. It's what I called my manuscript till I found something better. I still have a list of options that includes things like "Crafters of Chaos" and "Harrow's Opus." I dunno. Naming a book can be a bottomless rabbit hole from which there is no return.

"Eat me."

Lord knows I love me some rabbit hole.

The problem is, rascally rabbit, it just doesn't matter. By the time an agent and an editor give everything the official okey doikey, it could be called "Beavis Rising."

Ok, not that, but you get the idea. So I don't even think right now.

Just like Beavis.

On a promising note, there's a Detroit Steampunk conference. Guess what it's called.

Go ahead guess...

You're no fun.  The glorious gala is called Steamtopia!  Ask me, that just rocks.

So now I share titles with a steam function. So maybe Steamtopia Rising will stick. Maybe it won't, so long as I  avoid Beavis Rising I'm a happy writer. Until it's published, the only title that's sure is "Completed Manuscript." And for that, I'm grateful.

Soundtrack

Do you soundtrack? Is there a needle traveling the surface of your soul; playing heartsongs to your head, even if your ears aren't tuned to it?

There was an LA radio station in the 70s that claimed to be a soundtrack to the California day. I always liked that. I pictured my self a gritty narrator setting the scene. That's why I soundtrack. My day is filled with music. It helps my mood and even puts me in character.

I read an interview, ages ago, Sandra Bullock said that sometimes she smoked flavored cigarettes to get into character. Something about the flavor helped her identify. I like to think I'm doing the same thing. I'm not nearly as attractive doing it, but in my way, I'm trying to find the soul of a character through sensation.

While writing Steamtopia, I set a playlist on my iPhone. When I worked out dialogue, I used smaller lists. Songs that gave me the attitude and verbal cadence of the character. It wasn't exhaustive, just enough to put me in a place.

This is the playlist I created for for Rowena, my Morlock girl wrestling with others' expectations vs. her heart's sense of justice. The songs don't say all that, but they moved me to a place that put me in mind of her goals.


What about you?
Do you soundtrack?
What puts you in your creative space?

Living the Dream

Ever had a lucid dream? That's the dream where you mid-dream realize that you're asleep. You start messing with your mind by taking charge. I've had them. Usually, those dreams are job dreams. I'm doing something retail-like in nature in my Superman Underoos: giving a guy a Walkman, selling an elephant squirrels for peanuts, extending a twelve-year old's warranty on grandparents.
"You know, he's gonna give out some time. When he does, you bring him back, we'll replace him. Free of charge..."

In a dream, it's a living.

But it's not my living. I think that's why I usually wake up to the fact that I'm asleep.  I look down at my Big Boy undies and think "Weren't these Superman before..." They were, but Bob and his burger logo boxers are hardly my beef.  What translates my panties to a bunch is that I'm back in retail.

That's where I make my subconscious conscious effort. "STOP THIS!"

The dream freezes. 

That's better. "Bring me my laptop!" I yell. After all, if this is a dream job, I want my work tools. Out comes my manager: suit, tie, laptop in one hand,  strangled squirrel in the other, looking at me like I'm nuts.

"Stop that, squirrel!" The squirrel disappears and manager Shakira powers up my laptop. This is where I'm sure my dream is lucid: everything now makes sense.

That's how my SDSU experience felt. No, Shakira wasn't there, and six figures of amaze-balls contract bliss did not drop down my boxers. In fact, if there were a SDSU show and tell I wouldn't have much more to show than one  bright orange book bag.

But I do have a lot to tell.

Before this weekend, my life was a chaos clutter of writer adages.
"I write cuz I have to."
"Doubt kills more dreams than failure."
"To err is human, to blog about it is brilliant! Nobody's ever done that before."

It's so hard to form a clear thought from all my jumble word cliches. I know more than I understand   I might as well sell squirrels for nuts.

This year at SDSU, I saw people using the same nuts of knowledge I'd squirreled away. I can't explain it all. You had to be there, but you can't. This is my dream. Your dreams are your reality. If they're not, they should be.

That's one of the most important lessons I took from San Diego. Another is that a dream is just a dream until I wake up and take action. There's no such thing as sleeping in wait for the perfect dream. The only perfect dream is the one I shape. For that, I need to make a conscious effort in my dream now.

I'm taking my SDSU experience and I'm putting it into writing. That's my dream.

Day 3

It was a short but sweet day. 

Great wrapup keynote by Jonathan Maberry, who's written a lot more than I realized...

Spent my airport time following some great advice by Karen Karbo

And back to Detroit, to my love, my Queen. 

Tomorrow I'll give the short story of my long weekend.

SDSU Day 2

Texted the Pirate Queen. Time to face the day. 

I've got two advance readings and a consultation. Time to kick butt!

SDSU Day 1.

WTFam:

Nothing like an empty airport. Too bad I gotta get up so early to see it. 

Denver:

Just here to see the airport, then onto San Diego. 

So far, a beautiful flight.

Plane shadow rainbow:

Avoid the wet spot:

At last:  

I have pants! No, that's not always a gaurantee. 

Getting the PirateQueen's dress code approval. 

This must be the place. 

Let the games begin!

Mixer session:

And now, as the long day punches me in the face, it's time to crash...see you tomorrow. 

The Time Had Come. The Time is Now.

Tomorrow we see if all my prep work has paid off. It's SDSU time. Hopefully I can make some quality contacts. 

I'll keep you posted!

For now, it's early to bed, early to rise, cuz I got a plane to catch before the sunrise. 

Yah, now you see why I'm a novelist, not a poet. 

See you on the SoCal side!

The Other Half

Today I'm in the office. Not my office: my wife's. My home-time Pirate Queen is a day time marketing admiral. Her vessel: GalaxE Solutions. So she's a space pirate. 

But that's not why I'm here. It's just part of what makes her cool. That and her wicked smile. Oh, and her nachos...

No, I'm here because we have personal business mixing in our daily business. While I normally soak up the Starbucks, today our two cat one car family sops in the corporate--sans cats. All while handling personal stuff.  

It's life. 

And today I watch hers in action. My Queen dances from meeting to meeting to phone meeting to conference table. I jitter just following the frenzy with my eyes. Or, maybe that's the coffee. 

Either way, I'm amazed. She could power a laptop with that motion. I suggested that to her. She gave me a suggestion of her own. 

I explained that if I could do what she suggested, I wouldn't have time to write. 

She just gave me a pirate scowl. 

I think it's time to write now. 

Of Broccoli and Chocolate

Inspiration. We all have it. Whether we write books, paint figures, or arrange numbers into balanced rows of black and red; someone, something, or some ethereal force struck against us and sparked a flame. Elizabeth Gilbert talks about her muse, not as an origins story, but as an inner voice piloting her from project to project. Okay, I'm oversimplifying her words just a bit, but for my purposes, this version will lead you through the hanging jungle of Rob-thoughts without dangerous distraction.

Distraction is the serial killer—murdering many one-offs as well. 

Four out of five creative spirits agree: for every amazing inspiration, there's an even better distraction awaiting fruition. The fifth spirit? He's chasing the siren swell of his other voice—a new genius; he can't be bothered with silly questions about inspiration. 

So what keeps the creative spirit tethered? After our initial "AHA!" moment, what stokes the fire, inks the pen and brings us back to the well until mission accomplished?

For me, it's two things:

1. Responsibility.  I'm sharing a vision that no one can see until my work is complete.
2. Surprise. Even though I've plotted the path, every day characters still bring something new. 

Responsibility is the job; surprise is the calling.

It's broccoli and chocolate and most of us hate vegetables. That's why we're so easily distracted in air a waft with sweet scents. Only an altruistic creator can foster life from responsibility. I'm not that good. Yes, responsibility is one of my return reasons, but it's only the tug on my guilt strings; those ties can always be cut when sweet will is weak.

Surprise. That's what keeps me tethered and grounded. It's finding something new. It's seeing how things turn out. Its when Hypnomatons corner Michael on Inspiration Point, and not knowing how he escapes, despite the three page outline I already wrote. That's my chocolate for writing all the in-between broccoli.

But that's me. We all answer our own call. What's your broccoli? Your chocolate? What inspires passion in you and draws you back day after day to do what you do?

Day in the Life.

I read a platform site that said that good author webpages share personal experiences. They give insight to creative process, making me more real. Okay, I'll bleed for my craft. Here goes.

First, let me preface a few Rob Boyd fun-facts you don't know and probably should (at least for the purposes of this post—you can scrub them from your mind without harmful side effects later):

• I walk two miles a day. I leave the house, write, work out at the gym, then return home to greet my wife with an exhausted sweaty kiss at the end of each day.
• My daily needs accompany me in an overstuffed (also sweaty) grass-green  LL Bean backpack.
• I live in the north Midwest. Winter night temps peak around 10 degrees when it's balmy.
• In college, a police officer pulled me over and, after blasting a flashlight in my face, requested backup before searching my car.

Hopefully these Rob snapshots will enhance your experience. Now, let's continue. 

My walk home from the gym is about 3/4 mile. Most of that is without sidewalk, but, even in snow, I can trudge the berm without stepping into traffic. The only exception is a 10 yard stretch following a T-intersection. There, the T-base dips beneath a concrete railroad bridge, leaving room one car, each direction, and one skinny pedestrian to pass without overlapping.

Overlapping is bad, especially for the pedestrian. As said pedestrian, I am fastidiously careful crossing under the bridge as I am also very un-thin. I walk on the left side, hugging the wall and gauge oncoming traffic for overlapping potential. Not much I can do if there is. I'm a writer, not Spiderman. I can't climb to safety, but still I watch—and pray.

Last night I prayed and crossed under the bridge. I wound out and off and up the road, working along a snowdrift when a polished black Escalade approached from behind and stopped. The front window was even with my shoulder.

Not knowing how to prepare, I stopped too.

Was this a ride?

A mugging?

Questions for directions?

The window whined down and Ms. Mother-of-the-world pressed her face against the cold. "We can barely see you!" The icy wind is a burden born by the vigilant reprimander. From the looks, I'm not too worried about her burden: the ice across her face is far warmer than the stuff in her veins.

Muttered amongst my previous prayers for not getting run down were also pleas about not hurling sarcasm at crazy people. God has heard, and here he tests my resolve. Thoughts like, Well if you stay on your side of the road you'll miss me for sure, and I can strip down if you'd like to see more, race down from my brain.

A simple, "okay..?" is what wins my lips, sounding like, "and you expect me to do what about this?"

Her post-PTA hair-nest ruffles with rats of exasperation. Rob the street pedestrian has not paid proper homage. She continues."Black, is not a good color."

I know millions of Americans who would disagree.

I consider turning the reprimand to a mirror. Why not ask what sane person stops their car in the middle of the night to confront a stranger in the street? Are those kids in the car with her? I am not the face of evil, but in the light of a street-side dressing-down that doesn't matter. If I were armed with more than the burn of facial scruff and a tired leer, I could drive away in her prestigious automobile, warming her face with exhaust fumes from the SUV.

Not Rutger Hauer from the Hitcher, but enough to frighten a wayward Hobbit.

Instead, I shook my head as the window rose, hiding my ignorance. Either silence or my refusal to change clothes bored her. The engine revved and the world's mother accelerated her brood away.

When I arrived home, my Pirate Queen shrugged. "You thought they only existed in California?"

No, apparently not. I quickly jotted the experience in my notebook. Now she also exists amongst my character profiles too.

Gambol of Words

I hate the salesmanship of writing. I mean, I get the necessity, I just wish somebody else did the work. You know, a designated pitcher.

"Step right up! Come, marvel at Rob and his magical Morlocks!"

I left sales to create worlds—not create sales. Selling a TV to Ray Parker Jr., that's just a bit-o-stress in a day's work; selling two-years of my soul to an agent? That's an emotional twerk in a rejection minefield. I'm begging experts to love Steamtopia based on thirty seconds of verbal illusion.

It's more than Steamtopia Rising, I'm risking that they'll love me! I'm one junior high dance floor away from getting published.

"Here dear agent, would you care to twirl an ungainly tangle-tango with 125,000 of my favorite words? No? That's okay, it didn't work with a seventh-grade Gina Robbins either. sigh..."

Obviously, like junior high, I need to start with confidence. Time for big boy panties. I wore them to my first dance, I can wear them now. This time,  I'll put them on, one leg-hole at a time, and  inside my pants.


The other thing that makes this tough is translating the pitch from written to verbal. It's common practice to open a letter with, "Steamtopia Rising is a 125,000 word YA alternate history, fantasy novel. As Harry Potter introduced the wizarding world to muggles, Steamtopia Rising introduces steampunk Morlocks to ELOI." Try leading a conversation with those words. They'll only confuse, and Gina Robbins still won't want to dance.

So that's where I am this week: perfecting the conversational query. Working words of character and charm, so that next Saturday I'm my Friday-night best.

"Would you like to dance?"

A Morlock By any other Name

Manuscript housekeeping day!  Today I worked through my Glossary. Not really part of the book, just the way I keep track of names and characters. I'd love to use something like Tinderbox, but I'm a starving writer: I can't afford the fancy china.

Instead, I do this:

The next step begins next week: analyze my notes, and start plotting book 2.

Horse Collides into Cart: Film at Eleven.

Is it pretentious to geek-out on a world you've created? I hope not. I've spent hours crafting a "Steamtopia Rising" home screen for my iPhone. Everyone who looks at my iPhone will gasp at my fanboy cred. I'd hate for them to think I'm crazy too.

Eh, who am I kidding? They already know I'm crazy: I create worlds in my head!

I know. I know. I'm cart-before-horsing this. I don't have a book deal—not yet; no cool illustrator mocking up cover art (although, if I had a choice, I love Kirbi Fagan's work). Yet I'm obsessed. I've built a font over graphic cart to share Steamtopian pride.

"See my baby!"

The horse will come later.

What do you think?

It's Official!

I'm registered for the 2015 SDSU Writers' Conference. 

This year I'm offering up the first pages of "Steamtopia Rising" for advanced reading. Two agents will read, then talk about what works and what doesn't. I've also signed up for a "consultation" appointment. What's a consultation? Think speed dating for manuscripts, only there's one person, one chance, no pre-read--just ten minutes of stress to impress.

 Hopefully "Steamtopia Rising" can gain the same interest that DTTR did. I mean Steamtopia did place at Detroit Working Writers, but writers are one thing; agents and publishers are a different monster all-together.

I'm so excited! This January 23-25, look out San Diego: Robby's back in town!

Wish me luck!