Cover Artist for IMAGO

Hello, all.

As promised, I will be documenting IMAGO‘s publishing process. In the last post I told you about the general process and that the novel had been given a publication date by the editor. Well, in today’s post, let’s talk about the cover of the book.

First, any traditional publishing house will take care of your cover art and back copy for you as the process unfolds. Rogue is no different in this. Most contracts explain that the author has input on the design, but the publisher has final say. I have always wanted to work with David Sladek, and Rogue was gracious enough to allow me to use him as cover artist.  David is a world class artist and lead concept artist for a national gaming company based in CA. You can check out his work at the following link:

https://www.artstation.com/david-sladek

I cannot wait to share the cover of IMAGO with you as we move forward. Remember, it’s a long process from contract to publication date. The cover art will be ready sometime in April. Until next week.

Cheers

Be sure to visit my webpage and sign up for updates and giveaways. My website: gregorybelliveauwriter.com

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IMAGO RELEASE DATE ISSUED

I am happy to announce that my SciFi novel IMAGO has been given a release date: September 15, 2019. My plan on this blog is to chronicle my thoughts as we move through the publication process. For those who are new to publishing or just want to understand the process better – the basic process is as follows:

First, the book is accepted for publication by an acquisitions editor. Once it is accepted, the contract is sent out and haggled over. Most websites like Authors Guild (you have to be a member) will offer a critique of the contract, or if you have an agent, she will negotiate and haggle for you. I, personally, have been very successful lately without an agent (more on that in another post), swimming around in the small to medium traditional publishers, and the contract I was offered was typical for a small press: small advance, larger royalty cut – ALWAYS NO FEES FOR ANYTHING.

Secondly, (and this is the current stage with IMAGO) I will be polishing up the final version of the novel to send to the editor who will then begin the months long process of editing/feedback/revision. At this time I am also working with the cover artists to create the best cover for my genre of novel. As that process goes forward, I will keep you posted with pics.

Thirdly, about five months from publication date, the book is sent (mine will be eGalleys) out to reviewers like Library Journal, Booklist, Kirkus, and various bloggers and websites for the genre, etc… for advanced reviews.

While that is in process, final Galleys are sent to me for final edits and revisions. When all that is complete, we will be close to the release date.

That’s pretty much it. Please come back next week for an update. Hopefully I’ll provide some pics of the process as it goes forward,

be sure to check out my official website Gregorybelliveauwriter.com or Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/GregBelliveauWriter or  follow me @gkbelliveau on Twitter

Until next time

Keep writing and reading.

 

Here we go!

Well, it’s been quite a while since I have written anything on this blog. Quite frankly, I’ve been busy promoting my new book Seeds: Meditations on Grace in a World with Teeth

promoting an older novel: Go Down To Silence, which has taken on new legs because of the new book…

 

finishing and revising a dystopian novel: IMAGO, and pitching that and my other urban fantasy Blood Roots (of which I posted several chapters on this very blog – see previous posts) to small publishers. Oh, wait… there’s more… I am FINALLY finishing the last 80 pages or so of my literary/general fiction novel Sons and Brothers (my goal is to complete it by August 1st). And, finally…. I have experimented with my first podcast on Garage Band, but I still need to learn how to post the stupid thing.

That’s why I have not posted on this site for a while. There is lots to discuss in the coming months. I hope you will join me.

I want to leave you with this practical note:

If you are a writer who is serious about publishing your work with traditional publishers (small or medium or big), you need several tools:

First, you need to subscribe to Duotrope: https://duotrope.com/account/login.aspx

This is an online accumulation of editors/agents/publishers, journals, etc…. easily accessible and simple to use. Most new writers do not know where to send there material once they believe they are ready to send it… Well, now there are no excuses.

Secondly, you need to create a spreadsheet of who, what, where, when, and response. Like so many other things in life… the “I just fell into this…” is a big myth. Becoming a master at a craft/art/sport/life is intentional. And so is networking and seizing and creating opportunities. A writer must be ready for the opportunity when it comes, and must cultivate/create the opportunities so they do come. A spreadsheet is how we do this. Only one writer (shout out to Ben Percy) even mentioned this at our MFA program. I took it to heart then, and I’m sharing it now. It’s easy:

Publisher/Editor/Magazine (again, see duotrope)

Manuscript Sent: Your poem, short story, novel, sample, query, etc…

Date Sent: (da!)

Response: Asked for full manuscript, asked for sample chapters, (I could be snarky here, but I’ll be professional).

You will not believe how helpful this is, how exciting it is, how depressing, how encouraging/discouraging…. but most importantly… you will be taking your first major step towards creating opportunities you never thought you could have. Writing isn’t chance. It’s damn hard and it takes true perseverance.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear from you. Leave feedback, send an email, repost the blog. You can visit my webpage: http://www.gregorybelliveauwriter.com/index.htm

follow me on twitter: @gkbelliveau and

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/GregBelliveauWriter/

My books are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and at many retailers near you.

 

 

 

On James Joyce’s Ulysses, Melville and Writing

I’m re-reading Joyce’s Ulysses while simultaneously re-reading Ellman’s biography on James Joyce. It is facinating stuff, but similar to many other writers in this way: Joyce was always poor, always dogmatic on his writing, and always making his way as an artist. And this got me thinking once again of the writing life and the writer’s commitment to the craft. Joyce initially sold  (let’s be generous) 500 copies of A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, and could not find a publisher for Ulysses.  His good friend Ezra Pound encouraged him while he read chapters of the novel, and all of this before the great censor lawsuit when it was finally published. And this made me think of Melville (just re-read Moby Dick and Parkers two volume biography on Melville a few montha ago) who left novel writing all together because the public did not get what he was trying to do as an artist (actually called him “Mad” in a headline). He turned to Poetry for the next thirty years and died in obscurity.

I bring this up because those of us who are “in the game” and quiety publishing, or not publishing, but still quietly writing and writing and writing, creating one novel after the other, or one book of poems after the other, or one book of creative nonficiton after the other are the norm. There is no rich and famous. There is always the next project. The writer of novels is in it for the craft of creating a story that will capture the volcanic imagination inside her! The goal of every writer is to learn the craft, then write the stories, no matter how long it takes or how hard it appears to be. A very few people accepted Joyce’s work when it was written, and that is the norm. Joyce struggled to live, to write, to raise a family, was probably (like all of us) a bit mental, bipolar and single-mindedly driven. But in the end, like some ancient prophet of Delphi or the Old testament pronounced into the imagination for all time the most profound characters that live and breathe for us today. We can, any time we desire, pick up a copy of Moby DickUlysses and immerse ourselves into those universes. All we need do is read. And like Shakespeare with Hamlet or Melville’s Moby Dick or the ancient Iliad, Odessey, Old Testament, the Gospels, Symposium, etc…. beings are called ex nihilo and brought to life… forever. The magic and wonder is never… and never will be… remuneration… it is always… in the end… the audacity of the spoken word that stops time, and brings the makebelieve to life.

 

 

Upcoming Fiction and Essays

Well, as many of you Facebook Friends know, I have two new books coming out in 2017. First, my creative nonfiction essays entitled Seeds: Meditations on Grace in a World with Teeth is to be publsihed by CrossLink Publishing sometime in July/August. Second, the novel you have been reading on my blog Blood Roots (a reimagining of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde meets Beauty and the Beast) has been contracted by Solstice Publishing, and is to be released late 2017 (December) or early 2018 (January).

I am in the process of organizing each project as I work with the editors, cover designers, marketing, etc…. And I am going to post various things that happen during the process so to inform those who don’t know about the process and want to understand it better. Right now, I am working with editors in both houses to revise and complete our final manuscripts. Once that happens, then the cover and formatting, etc… will begin. It’s always an interesting experience to re-read a manuscript but now with the eyes of a reader picking it up at a bookstore…. complex and helpful.

In the months to come I will post the covers to the books, and tell you more about my travel plans and what cities I will be in and when. As always, your help in buying, promoting, talking about the books is always so helpful. But for right now, enjoy the chapters for Blood Roots posted here, and until next time….

cheers

Latest novel finished

Well, I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus – but for good reason. I have just finished my latest Urban Fantasy novel entitled IMAGO. It takes place four hundred years in the future in a city called Cogstin. I would put the pitch like this: it’s Stephen King’s “Gunslinger” and Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods” and Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” with a little bit of Milan Kundera for fun. I may post the first few chapters later. I do plan on discussing the process of writing the novel – for those out there that are interested or perhaps writing your own scifi/fantasy. That should be fun. 

On life notes: I will be teaching creative writing for Upward Bound at Wittenberg University for the next six weeks starting on Friday, so if any of you are around that area, let me know. 

Feel free to catch up on all those chapters I posted for Blood Roots. We are in the midst of pitching it to editors, so sorry to leave you hanging. Thanks for the comments on it. I really like that book and hope to get it in bookstores soon. 

G

Blood Roots: 6,7,8

Hello, readers, and thank you for your comments and emails concerning Blood Roots. I’m glad you are enjoying these sample chapters. Many of you have shared these posts, and I’m so encouraged. Thanks. Keep getting the word out. So, these next few chapters are some of my favorite from Part One. Hope you have as much fun reading them as I had writing them. Enjoy.

Blood Roots (Continued)

6

All day she found herself returning to the stone hiding space in her cell. She would forget something and hurry back there. She completed her stations early, ate quickly just to see the note again, hold the locket, stare at the woman in the picture and recite the words on the paper. The old man called her from her room more than he had liked and his tone was terse. They sat in silence at dinner, his eyes searching her face, she glancing down at her meal of rabbit and rice.

Night finally came to the church, and she could not have been more ready to hole up in her cell. She waited until the old man had wandered down into the cellar. She waited a half hour after that, just to be sure. She took out the locket and letter. Over and over, she unfolded and folded the paper into a neat package, the exotic bird in the wax more distinct in the candlelight . She held the parchment so close to the flame that on several occasions, the edge browned – those words revolving in her mind: I know who you are. Do You? She finally faded into sleep, just as the dawn broke through the forest beyond.

Her body was part machine now, trained from birth to wake early, practice the art of war, work her muscles until exhausted, until they ached, healed, into iron, a fluid moving, calculating weapon. And so, with only several hours of sleep, she woke, pulled on her shirt and pants, tied the rope belt around her waist, barefoot, agile like a cat, and dashed into the woods.

The old man had made an obstacle course for her, ropes, rocks, rivers, ravines, each with a station to punch or kick, to balance, all muscle groups, all eight postures of Tai Chi. She remembered her earliest thoughts – the old man chanting the songs to her, making her memorize them, forcing her to run from station to station. As a girl of three and four, he carried her to the stations, talking to her as he ran, she laughing and chanting, he setting her on the ground, demonstrating the positions, moving in rhythm, a graceful animal. When she was nine, he ran with her to the stations, making her chant the words, moving in unison at every station, their bodies, fluid, a dance. When she was fifteen, he waited for her, his body thin and showing signs of his age. He would create new obstacles for her, and she would overcome them, and he would create still more. And now, she did not see him at all. Now she created her own challenges, crossing a spine of rock like a cat, swinging across a ravine, dancing with a spear of wood, an extension of herself, climbing the rock face without rope or fear, seeing the hand holds in sequence, a creative act, moment by moment a revelation.

And now she ran through the forest, the songs of the eight postures alive in her mind, moving deer-like, panther-like, a terrible controlled force – but while she ran something else negotiated that routine space: the letter. I know who you are. She arrived at the second station, and she grabbed the rope and climbed without her legs to the top, shuffled across the great outcrop of rock and pulled herself up to the flat surface. Moving, dancing, sweeping her arms first forward then back, then off to the next station and the next and the next, but the letter’s words spun in her head and as she walked across the sandstone spine, she lost her footing, caught herself, and hurried to more substantial rock.

Who am I? I know who you are. The words implied a beginning. She had never sought such beginnings out. She had lingered on it here and there, but there was not time for such things, and the thought disappeared until the letter. And as she finished her last station, as she spun and broke the wooden boards, thick and reinforced, the faux image of her enemy, the Leader of the Blood Clan, as the boards splintered, she had formed a plan.

She walked to the stream and stripped her clothing off, settled into the moving water and allowed it to wash over her slender body. She closed her eyes and listened to the creaking trees, the wind as it rustled the leaves, a ripe fruit dropping in the distance. The words began to linger, revolve in her head: who are you? Where did you come from? Wasn’t the old man her origins? If not, who was he? The water was cold, penetrating, making her breathe in a slow controlled manner. She clenched her fingers then straightened them out, rolling her body so that her stomach nearly touched the sandy bottom. If not the old man, then who? And if not the old man, then another life, another world, another possibility had been willfully abandoned. And for the first time in her life she connected herself to an alternative path. Was it the woman in the picture who wrote the note? Her heart pounded. She felt a sense of panic, confusion, as if a room revealed another door, a door that she had never considered. Did she dare step through it? She breathed in, then out, the river calming her mind, the current sweeping the panic from her body. She lay there for an hour.

Her eyes blinked open, a resolve deep within her. Yes, she had a plan now. She gathered herself up and dressed while she was still wet. The morning hour was late, and she was running through the woods, the same trail the boar had traveled days and days ago. She ran, a sudden explosion of joy and excitement in her breast. She ran, and a smile broke upon her face, slight, a thin curl to one side. She headed back to the church, to the old man who would have beans and rice waiting for her on her return.

 

 

That afternoon – the old man busy in the wine cellar with his jars and herbs – that afternoon, Mira put a note in the hole of the great walnut tree. The note was simple: Who are you? Can I meet you? That night she stayed up late with the old man, his mood pensive, a suppressed animal just below the surface. She woke in the morning, each Tai Chi station a place to control her swelling expectations, limit them, push them into a safe spot, the consequences if she did not – unthinkable. She bathed in the stream quickly and dashed to the walnut tree. The letter was gone.

 

 

 

7

She went to the tree every day for a week – nothing. By the second week, she went only twice – still no response. Mira’s mind raced with scenarios, with hope, with another self, but by the third week something inside her withered. She ran through the stations twice a day now – morning and evening. And with each passing day, the door of hope, the door that led her to some other place became smaller and smaller until finally it had disappeared all together.

The old man had noticed something in her, and he taught her the art of steel. “You are the steel,” he said. “The steel is you, one, a part of you.” She consumed herself with making a blade of her own, folding the metals together as the ancients had done, forging it, pounding it, her muscles aching, the sweat from the furnace soaking her shirt, dripping down her nose. She hammered it until it was precise. She hammered it until it took the shape of the old man’s knife – an enormous Bowie knife. She tempered it in the cool water, and as it steamed, she laughed at the silliness that had consumed her for so long. This was who she was. This was what she was: honed steel, a killing device used for one purpose, one moment, a moment for the old man’s choosing, his instrument of death. She stared at the blade when it was finished, holding it up to the light of afternoon sun. All that day she sharpened the blade, sparks from the grinding stone sputtering and spitting, pock marks of pain on her forearms. She took the steel blade to her cell. She removed the stone from the wall and pulled out the note. She held the blade, no handle, held it in her right hand, the parchment in her left and slowly drew the edge across it. Slice and then slice again, and then slice again, the red wax seal stamped with the exotic bird falling to the floor. She burned the pieces of paper and held them as they curled and blackened to carbon. She replaced the stone in the wall and walked outside.

The old man was busy with a map, making markings, sipping his whiskey from a tin cup. She walked up to him, axe in hand. “I will not be back for a week.” The old man stared at her, glanced at the axe then back to her face. He scratched his stubbly chin, and then took a sip from his tin cup. He placed it on the table and went back to scribbling notes on the map.

 

 

It took her a week to chop down the great walnut tree, her hands blistered and swollen from the slow, steady fury of her swings. Each night she would hone the axe blade. Each morning she would begin again. She ate walnuts, collected from the masses falling from above and drank from the nearby stream. It fell with such force that the earth trembled below her feet. She felt no joy when it fell: she felt no pain, her hands raw, the axe handle streaked with blood. It was what had to be done. Before she left, she hacked a piece from the great stump.

The old man made a poultice and wrapped her hands, and after two weeks she could use them again. She took the chunk of walnut and began to carve. Every day she carved. She got up early, went through her stations and carved. Before darkness completely consumed the forest, she went through her stations and carved. She carved until the walnut took shape. She carved until it blackened with her body oils. She carved until it was perfect, rounded, smoothed, a part of her hand, like the very blade it would go on. And then the old man showed her how to fasten it to the steel.

 

 

 

8

It was late afternoon, and Mira sat at the wooden table across from the old man, his hands resting on a map. He had acted peculiar the whole day. When she arrived at the first station, he was waiting for her. He had not done that in two years. “What are you waiting for!” he yelled. He moved with her, screamed at her, forcing her to concentrate. “This is real,” he shouted. “You do not believe it. This is real! Life and death!” He smacked her head so hard that she immediately crouched into a defensive posture, hands like poised snakes. “Oh, now you think you are ready!” And with that he dashed lightly down the trail to the next station, she barely able to keep up with him. And the same happened at each station: shouting, taunting, pushing, sprinting to the next and the next and next.

On the last station, he ran off early, and to her dismay, he was waiting for her in his unique style, left arm across his chest, right arm straight back, blade at the ready. And then he came at her, hard, a terrible whirling machine. She made his blade miss, but his fist hit her chin, and she fell back, regained her balance, elbows low, spine a tendon of steel. She was ready for him the next pass, and she crossed her arms to block his blade as it slashed downward. She twisted and kicked his legs out from under him. He leapt to his feet and swept his foot in a great arc. She jumped high, but that was the move he was waiting for, and he quickly took her to the ground – the knife at her throat.

“Hah!” he said. “You think you are ready. The Leader of the Blood Clan is strong. He is powerful beyond imagining. He will slice you to pieces. He will -” But even before he could finish – she having already cocked and crossed her legs in anticipation – before he could finish, she turned, concentrating all her force at her knee, and with great power flipped him over, her hands pressing his hands and the blade to his own throat.

“Give me a chance,” she said trying to control her breath.

He laughed. She stood and bowed. He walked into the church without a word.

And now it was late afternoon, and she was sitting with him across the table. She recognized the old man’s hand writing, but she could not recognize any of the places. It was mostly of the great lake’s shoreline, and one island far to the east, circled and with arrows pointing to carefully blocked lettering. The old man rubbed it with his thumb, tapped aimlessly, then looked up into her face. He did not say anything for minutes. She saw the strain that the day had put on him, the purple coloring at the tips of his ears, cheeks flushed, his eyes pale blue, emotionless.

“If tonight favors you, tomorrow you will study this map, memorize it, make it part of you.”

His gaze was piercing, constant, so intense that she glanced down at the map. “I will.” She pointed to the island. “Is this where….” but she did not finish, for the old man had placed a piece of paper next to her finger. She recognized it immediately. It was the note she had placed in the walnut tree. He grabbed both her hands and pulled them to him, hard, manacles securing her to the wooden top.

“There is nothing else! No one else! There is only us, only Blood For Blood. Do you understand? No! You do not! You will tonight. I must punish you for your disobedience.”

She could barely breathe, her tongue thick and dry. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I will give you a moment to prepare.”

She stood, but her legs barely worked. She tried to push in the chair, but her hands trembled, so she turned and walked to her cell. She pulled on the sealskin shirt and pants, her mind tumbling with questions, sudden possibilities surfacing, disappearing. Someone was looking for her! The old man had found the note! I know who you are. She touched the stone where she hid the locket. Oh god it was true!

            She sat in the chair as the old man tied her arms tight. He pulled the hood over her eyes, and they walked together to the small boat. He tied her legs and hoisted the mainsail, then stepped to the rudder. She counted in her head the time from the shoreline, and she knew it was farther than any other time in her life. When he shoved her over, and her body sank into the cold murky depths, she realized the futility of such a distance. He had made his point. She would die tonight, and she knew it was by his good pleasure and only his good pleasure that she would see the morning. If he had not shown her the map, carefully placed it before her so she may see it, understand what he was telling her – if it was not for that gracious act, she was sure he intended to dump her off in the great abyss of water and leave her to feed the fish and the fowl.