Amazon

OK, so I finally decided to try and put Mean, Median, Mode and Murder on Kindle. I figured now I had a Paperwhite, the minority-bullying would end. Well, sort of.

Amazon, Microsoft, Apple, and, for fear of being torn down, Google (sorry guys, I know I'm insulting you on a Google blog, but at least you're nicer about than Apple, OK?), basically all the major tech giants, live to to fill safes with pictures of Abraham Lincoln worth a... how many dollars is a bill with Abe Lincoln worth? Oh well, let's leave it at cash. So why let a nobody publish a book for FREE?

No way. Has to cost $0.99 bare minimum, or 75p in UK. No free books self-published.

I won't stand for that. I want to make money - fine, so does everybody who's watched Benefits Street - but Mean, Median, Mode and Murder isn't worth anybody's money.

Quick dilemma. Do I face criminal charges for extortion in a whole lotta countries, or do I not publish it at all? The rights are still with me...

Any suggestions?

New Year

Ah, 2014.

Let's see, the last Hobbit film is going to be released, someone is going to do something stupid... and I'm going to release a book.

Uh-huh. Don't look at me blankly; I'm serious.

I have 12 damn months, starting now, and I'm gonna release a book. That costs something. And maybe someone will buy it. Or not. Likely the latter, in which I would be the world's least successful writer. Pop, I nearly wrote 'author'. And I can't spell, again.

I don't do New Year's Resolutions, but this time, I will go through. To those of you thinking of giving up chocolate, try something else. Oh, and happy 2014. Obviously this will be the worst year ever, for no reason in particular.

It''s Back....

I don't know what colour it's back IN, but that book o' poems has returned. It has a title as well. Like, a title. An official, real title. OK, enough gawping. You look bored already.

ENOUGH RAMBLING MR COATES.

The title is:

Death, Depravity, and Demolition

Odd title for a book of poems, but it sums it up. Death? Oh, people die. Depravity? Lowest of society, madness, psychopaths, it has all that. Demolition? Oh yeah. Demolition. Got that one covered too.

So anyway, I'll have a cover after Christmas, maybe. You can never be sure the world's single most unreliable, scatty and untrustworthy person (aka. moi). Enough about me.

You're practically asleep. And I can't spell.

Wi-Fi, the Barbican, and Part I

OK, time for an update.

Wi-Fi:
Until today, we had no Wi-Fi. Now we do. I can blog more, and edit more. Yay!

The Barbican:
If you were at the Barbican Theatre on Wednesday 23 October, you may have a bunch of costumed kids humming creeplily, and talking creepily. I may have had something to do with that... no hard feelings, right?

Part I:
For four months, I have been editing Part I. It's been fun, but do I really want to keep reading that stuff? No. I've read it a dozen times or so. I've rewritten it almost from scratch. Time to move on. Of course, I will do a spellcheck, but until then, on to Part II.

So that's me. Poetry book is kind of progressing. If you have ideas, leave them in the comments below. I have to moderate and approve every single comment according to Google, so I'll see every suggestion.

You lot must hate me

Yes, here it is, another bloomin' poem. This WILL be the last. More on that later. Here is a poem:

Questions For Monsters:

What lives in shadow?
What hides at night?
What creeps in darkness?
Out of sight.

Why live there?
Why hide there?
Why creep there?
Please tell me why.

Then why come out?
To haunt and taunt,
To freak and scare,
Why be a nightmare?

Like it? Well, there's more. There's an ode to expletives, and a few other things. You won't see any of those for ages. Why? I'm horrible. Correction. I like to scrape a living off you guys.

I'm going to do a thus-far unnamed book of odd poems. There should be around 20 or so. I won't charge too much. Twenty of my poems, maybe £2.50, £2.00 if I'm kind. All poems already on the blog will be there, just by the way.

In other news, I'm closing on the end of Part I in Welcome to DROL editing.

A Poem of Sorts

I am many things. I can (just about) sing, i can (just about) act, I can (just barely) play a keyboard one-handed. I can (just about) do a lot of things. I can (apparently) write poetry. This is the topic of this post.

This morning, I wrote a poem. I made it up as I went along. It was strange, progressing from merest innocence, to a morbid end. It was quite the feeling, as the tables were turning. Here is how it went:

Just standing, standing,
Standing by the door,
Standing, Standing,
Is it worth it anymore?

I'm walking, walking,
Don't know where,
Walking, Walking,
Don't even care.

Then running, running,
Here they come again,
Running, Running,
Don't trip.

Suddenly jumping, jumping,
Here's hoping,
Jumping, Jumping,
Don't land head-first.

Now dying, dying,
Where'd I go wrong?
Dying, Dying,
'Doncha just love crash landings?

To defend my sanity, I will now announce that in Welcome to DROL, no main goodies die. Some other characters die, a lot of baddies die, but none of the goodies. That's in Book Two...

Progress, Gmail, and Bones

OK, allow me to get this straight, and explain my title:

Progress: 34 of 182 pages done from Welcome to DROL. Still WAY more to do though.

Gmail: Any questions? Message me at abcoates.mailbox@gmail.com

Bones: This is a bit longer.

Y'see, on my site, is a Google Doc. It has a sample chapter. I thought, smart as I was, that by directly uploading it to my site, everyone could see it. Y'all don't have my password, so, uh, no. That will be dealt with.

Short Version: I have a bone to pick w/ Google Docs.

EDIT: Didn't actually. T'was all fine. Poop.