Tag Archives: self publishing

Happy Halloween, 3.5 Readers

Treat yourself to one of my FREE books.  Yes, they will be free now throughout the weekend:

 

 

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A Rap About the Seventeen Cents I Made Selling My Books on Amazon

rappa

Uh.  Yeah.  Uh.  Yeah.

Crank up the bass.

Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Comin’ straight at ya face.

Seventeen!

Three less than twenty,

It sure is plenty.

Seventeen!

Eighty-seven less than a buck,

You know I don’t give a…

Seventeen!  Seventeen!

You know a man can only dream of

Seventeen!

A dime and a nickel, two portraits of Lincoln.

Go to the club and my breath is stinkin…

of Cristal!  Because I’m a baller.

Because I’m rolling up to my crib, still chasin the green.

But until I get some foldin’ cash, I’ll have my seventeen!

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A Rap I Wrote About the 77 Cents I Made Selling My Books on Amazon

rappa

Uh..yeah…mic check, here we go.

Cents!  It’s my dream to get to heaven, but to get there I’m gonna need some cents.

My bills piled high and I need to pay my rents, so gimmie the…cents!

File a bill of replevin and stop by the 7-11 just so I can get a number of pennies, the total of which is seventy-seven…cents!

One day I was just a normal guy, didn’t fly high and I never thought that I would ever touch the sky.

Then I looked into my bank account and thought perhaps I was dreaming or perhaps that I had died.

And then I thought I flew to the surly bonds up above.

Cuz when I saw all those cents in my possession, I surely fell in love with…cents!

Yeah, fly me to heaven on a Boeing 747, and pay for the ride with my seven and seven…cents!

My mama told me I lack common sense and my dad told me I was ever so dense but now I can buy sensitivity and density and just chill in the city and pay for it all with…my seventy seven cents!

What you got something that costs seventy cents, muthafucka?  Here, take ten dimes and keep the change, G.  Peace, I’m out.

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Get My Book for FREE!

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

All this weekend, my book, The Last Driver – Episode 1 is free, totally free!

It’s set in a dystopian future where the government controls all, and in a world where all cars are self-driving, the last man who remembers what to do behind a wheel will be called on to save the day…or will he destroy it all?

Get it today, 3.5 readers.  Did I mention it is free?  I would appreciate it if you’d get a free copy and if it isn’t too much trouble, leave a review.

Thank you.

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Get My Big Book of Badass Writing Prompts FREE Through Sunday

It’s free, 3.5 readers.

That means all you have to do is go and get it…FOR FREE!

Click.  Download.  Get a free book.  Leave a review if you like though I know that’s asking a lot.  But anyway, it’s free, 3.5 readers.  You can’t go wrong.

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A Rap About the $1.42 I Made Selling My Books on Amazon

rappa

BQB:

Aw yeah.  What you gonna do?

Aw yeah.  What you gonna do?

What you gonna do with your dolla forty-two?

Woke up in the morning, pulled my laptop out da sleeve.

Logged on to my bank account. Whoa! Do my eyes deceive?

Out of my throat, my heart did try to leave,

At the sight of some figures, so shiny and new

And wouldn’t you know it?  They added up to a dolla forty two.

CHORUS:

A dolla forty two.  A dolla forty two.

A man has got to hustle to grip that dollar forty-two.

BQB:

If you got a dollar and a half, some buster’s gonna want it.

So keep it in your pocket and you’d better well not flaunt it.

And sure you could feed the homeless and bring some happiness to the poor.

But I think I’d rather drive a new Bugatti through my garage door.

Cuz we all know some bitches love a man with a buck and some change.

So I’m gonna cruise the strip, on the hunt for some strange.

Ladies get excited, don’t know what they gonna do.

When they see a man got a wallet and inside there’s a dolla forty two.

CHORUS:

Dolla forty-two y’all.  Dolla forty-two.

BQB:

2019.  The year I clocked some green.  Peace.  I’m out.

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Writing Regrets

I’m old.

This will probably be hard to explain due to a lack of exact dates and keeping things anonymous but I’ll try.

When I was young I really wanted to be a writer.  I got internships in that both summers and then in my last semester I had a really big internship where I spent a semester in a big city working as an intern for a big organization.  Honestly, I was basically a coffee fetcher, but it was fun and I fetched coffee for some big names.

After college, I returend to Podunk and got a small writing job locally.  There was a part of me that wanted to go back to the back city and pursue a life there as a writer.  It didn’t seem far fetched.  As a young person in my early 20s, I’d already gotten a lot of experience.  The rents wanted me to pursue something more practical and while I don’t want to throw them under the bus for doing what parents do and I realize it was up to me follow through with what I wanted, I ultimately chose the practical.

Do I blame them?  A bit.  Do I blame myself the most?  Of course.  There comes a time in adult life where you have to realize your parents don’t know everything and you will have to defy and disappoint them.  Don’t worry though because either way it will work out great for them.  If you defy them and do what you want and it fails, they can say I told you so forever.  If you defy them and do what you want and it succeeds, they’ll say they were behind you all along and it was their idea.  Also, fun fact, if you obey them and do what they want and it fails, they’ll say well you should have been your own man and what do they know.

Anyway, I blame myself entirely.  It is a week man who blames others for their failings.

I told myself I’d do the practical for a while and then after I’ve made some money I’ll do what I actually want.  (Kids, FYI this doesn’t happen.  Don’t buy that shit if someone tells you it does.)

Long story short, the practical thing didn’t work out.  At that point I thought maybe I should go back to my true love of writing.

But I was a wuss.  So I did another practical thing.  This practical thing actually worked out.

I do feel like I cheated myself though.  The writing world had accepted me early and I ended up worrying that I’d end up 30 and failed because I wasn’t being paid much at 20.  Now I realize that yeah, that just happens.  You have to pay your dues but good for you, your foot is in the door.  Your feet are on the first rung of the ladder, so keep climbing.

At this point now, I’m 40.  I’m self sufficient.  I suffered a lot though and to be honest, a lack of stability made relationships difficult.  I had to come to grips this year with the fact that it’s too late to have children.  Technically, I can have them forever but all the women in my age bracket are closed down for baby business.

Could I adopt a little Chinese kid?  Sure.  Do I fear they’ll send me a faulty one on purpose and refuse to take it back?  All the big ticket purchases I’ve made in recent years where I open the box only to find that the item is missing a part such that someone at the factory was asleep at the switch tells me yes.  (Was this meant as a joke?  Partially.)

There’s nothing I can do about it now, but the regret is palpable.  I had my foot in the door in what I wanted at an early age.  Then I talked myself out of it.  Then when that failed I was free to go back to what I wanted but I chickened out again.  Ergo, had I just stuck like ten straight years in what I wanted, I probably would have gotten to be where I wanted.

Although sometimes now I think maybe it worked out because I guess I’ll never know for sure writing would have worked out.

I guess we never know how things work until we do them.  When they don’t work, we are certain the opposite course would have been a success.

Question – How do I cope with this regret?

My answer – Keep writing self published books and hope  one of them hits.

Feel free to offer your answers in the comments.

 

 

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The Rotten Side of Self-Publishing

Hey 3.5 readers.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.

Check out this article in the Guardian by Alison Flood.  

I suppose we all get wrapped up into the good of self-publishing i.e. all the great success stories big (the self-published millionaires) and small (the person who finally got to see their name in print even if it doesn’t make a dime) and in-between (the person who makes a fairly decent living but has yet to become wealthy)…but it’s worth noting there are some shenanigans going on as this article points out – plagiarism, unscrupulous characters ripping off authors, stealing their content and packaging it as their own, violating the rules and so on.

Has anyone ever experienced any self-published hi-jinx?

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Disco Werewolf – Chapter 6

DISCO_WEREWOLF_1

“Disco Werewolf is a flash in the pan,” Boogiedown Barry said while sipping his fifth drink of the evening.  “All these young up and comers to the disco scene.  They’re all razzle and no dazzle, all trash and no sash, you know what I mean?  They’re all about the kooky get ups first and the actual art of dancing comes in at a distant second, if that.  You getting all this down?”

“Dancing…comes…in…second,” Claudette mumbled to herself as she jotted her interviewee’s words down in her notebook.  “I got it, but you have to admit, Disco Werewolf can dance.”

Barry looked out at the dancefloor, where the furry funkmaster was matching the beat, note for note, with his big fuzzy feet.  All kinds of sexy ladies pushed each other out of the way for a chance to shake their booties in the wolfman of the hour’s general vicinity.

“Bah,” Barry said.  “I admit nothing.”

“Do you know who he is?”  Claudette asked.

Barry raised an eyebrow.  “Do I know who he is?”

“Yes,” Claudette said.

“Sure, I do,” Barry said.

Claudette looked at Barry with anticipation, pen at the ready.

“He’s the rat bastard who’s ruining my life,” Barry said.  “Look at him.  Hogging up the floor while the rest of us can’t get a foot in edgewise.”

The aspiring journalist frowned upon realizing that Barry didn’t know the secret to the question she was trying so desperately to answer.

Barry sipped, then belched, then sipped again.  “What did you say your name again was, little filly?”

“Claudette.”

“Claudette Who?” Barry asked as he ogled the gyrating rump stuffed inside a short orange skirt just a few feet away.

“Jenkins.”

Barry immediately snapped to attention, no longer interested in the aforementioned heiney.  He looked the kid over.  “Jenkins, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you with?” Barry asked.

“Freelance is what I should say to be honest,” Claudette replied.  “With any luck, for the New York Courant.”

“Huh.  You look a might underripe to be a reporter if you ask me.  Then again, no one asks old Boogiedown Barry anything anymore.  Oh, they used to.  How they used to hang on my every word until that fat pile of…hey, don’t write this part.  This part is off the record.”

“You hate Disco Werewolf,” Claudette said.  “I got it.”

“I do,” Barry said as he watched the monster get freaky.  “Then again, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t.  I mean, does the lion hate the lamb?  Does the hound hate the fox?  Does the  axe murderer in all those cheesy, bargain basement slasher flicks hate the horny teenagers he’s always chasing around?  You see where I’m going with this?”

“Not at all,” Claudette replied.

“I know I’m good,” Barry said.  “I know he stinks.  I don’t have to prove nothing to nobody, you hear?”

“I hear,” Claudette said.

Barry swished the booze around in his mouth like it was mouthwash, then swallowed.  “Now that, you can print.”

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  A pair of heavy feet cut through the crowd, trudging their way to the bar.  Soon enough, Barry and Claudette found themselves in the company of a big ass werewolf, as well as his hangers on.

“You’re the best, DW!”  one man shouted.  “You’re far out!”

“Groovy, baby!” came another male voice.  “Positively groovy!”

“Disco Werewolf, are you seeing anyone?” asked a female voice.

Barry was standing right beside Disco Werewolf now, but refused to acknowledge him.  Disco Werewolf looked at the fella who used to be the club’s number one dancer and growled.  “Grrr.”

              “Huh?” Barry asked as he chewed on a toothpick and looked around the bar, anywhere but in the werewolf’s direction.  “Somebody say something?  I don’t know, because I don’t talk to nobodies.”

Disco Werewolf let the rude comment slide off and raised a finger.  Ferdinand the bartender practically tripped over himself as he rushed over with an aluminum shaker in hand.

“I got your usual right here, DW, baby,” Ferdinand said as he opened the shaker and poured the contents into a glass.  He popped a toothpick into an olive, inserted it into the drink and handed it over.

The werewolf sipped.

“How is it, sir?” Ferdinand asked.  “Not too dry, I hope?  You know what, Disco Werewolf, you just say the word and I’ll throw it out and make you another.”

Disco Werewolf guzzled the concoction down in a single gulp.  Ferdinand waited in suspense for the verdict.  The monster kicked his head back and howled in delight.  “Ahhhh-wooo!”

Ferdinand smiled while the Looky Lous cheered.  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Werewolf.  I’ll keep those coming all night long.  Free of charge.  Totally gratis, on the house.  Mr. Sugarshine told me straight up, his mouth to my ears, that I shouldn’t even dream of taking your money.”

Disco Werewolf nodded and patted the barkeep on the shoulder.

“Oh wowie, zowie!” Ferdinand said.  “I’ll never wash this shoulder ever again!”

“Like you’ve ever taken a bath in your entire life, spazoid,” Barry said.

“Pipe down, has been!” Ferdinand replied.  “And you’d better make good on your tab, Barry!  It’s already $108.57 and counting!  Mr. Sugarshine can’t be expected to subsidize deadbeat rummies forever!”

“Bah,” Barry said.  “Mr. Sugarshine can subsidize both cheeks of my ass.”

Disco Werewolf was about to walk away when he felt a tug on his paw.  He looked down to see Claudette.  He locked eyes with her and for a brief moment, looked as though he were in a daze.

“Disco Werewolf?” Claudette said as she held up her notepad and pen.  “Claudette Jenkins, hopefully for the New York Courant.  Do you have a minute?”

They say that canines can’t smile because they have no lips, but on some level, the club’s resident dance hound looked happy.  He patted the girl on the head, tussling her hair.  Then, he took the pad and pen, scribbled something down, and handed it all back to Claudette before returning to the action.

Ferdinand leaned over the bar.  “Hokie smokies!   What’d he write?”

Claudette looked at the pad, then showed it to Ferdinand:

To Claudette:

              Stay in school.

              XOXO

              Disco Werewolf

              “Wow,” Ferdinand said.  “If I were you, I’d have that framed.”

Barry felt the need to interrupt.  “Pbbht!  If I were you, I’d have my head examined.”

“Stick a sock in it, lush!” Ferdinand said.  “No one asked you!”

“Bah, your mother wears combat boots,” Barry replied.

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