Self Publishing on 800 Bucks

Last week I announced my intention to self publish a collection of stories called The Eight Fingered Criminal’s Son. Going by the comments on my little blog proclamation, I can safely state that no less than twelve people are now aware that my book will soon be published.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re right. Baby, this thing is big.

In case you missed the announcement, a book store in Thailand has agreed to carry the book. Yeah, The Eight Fingered Criminal’s Son will be available soon at a book store near you, if you happen to live in Bangkok, Thailand.

The book will also be on my web site and from the trunk of my car. I just think it’s cool that my first book store is in Bangkok.

Here are my latest moves:

Budget
My budget is 800 bucks. I spent 14 bucks taking my Indie filmmaker to the Village The film guy thinks he contracted food poisoning, Nice start, huh? I have 786 dollars left in budget.

Publicity
Somehow, I convinced a couple of independent filmmakers to help me shoot a 45 second promotional video this week. Watch for the video on Face Book, You Tube and Blogger.

Editing
I used to say I wouldn’t self publish anything unless it was edited by a pro with a legit track record. Come to think of it, I also used to say I’d never self publish. The point is I did a little research on genuine editors with legit track records and I learned these people cost a lot of money. I do not have a lot of money; therefore, I’ve enlisted three friends; a technical writer and two outstanding teachers to give my stories the once over for glaring typos or errors I may have missed.

Printing
Several people have steered me to Lulu. I’m having trouble getting concrete prices from these people. I spent a few hours researching printing and book publishing companies. The cost of a hundred books seems to range from five hundred to several thousand bucks. There are several printers within driving distance of my house; working with one of these outfits would save shipping costs. I don’t plan to print until late October, so I’ll take my time on this the most expensive aspect of publishing and printing my first hundred books.

Watch for the epic promotional video and I’ll keep you posted on the process. Many of you have shared information and advice. Thank you and please, keep the pointers coming.

If you’re thinking of self publishing you need to check out this article.

http://reviews.cnet.com/self-publishing/


I dug up this sketch in an old journal. I'm thinking it might serve as a rough draft for the cover.

wHen piGs flY #17

snYdertooNs

LeBron James and The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son **

Ladies and germs, I have an announcement to make. I’m preparing to publish a short collection of The Eight Fingered Criminal’s Son stories. You may have read excepts on this blog.

No, I don’t have an agent or a publisher – unless you count me. The agent and publisher search was a big fat bust – left me with way too much negative mojo. New ways to skin this publishing cat seem to be popping up all the time*. Heck, the Japanese are publishing books on their cell phones for crying out loud.

And I have a book store. That’s right; a book store has offered to carry my collection of stories. OK, the store is owned by a friend and it’s in Bangkok, but darn it, it’s a starting point ain’t it?

My plan is pretty raw at this stage. First, I find a printer to help me self publish 100 copies of The Eight Fingered Criminal’s Son. Then I send twenty copies to Thailand. I promote and sell the remaining eighty books from the trunk of my car and my keyboard. That’s it so far. I’m keeping it real simple to start.

Consider this  announcement the beginning of The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son publicity campaign. I’ll keep you posted as I search for a printer and formulate my plan to take over the book world.

I know several talented writers frequent this blog and I would greatly appreciate any suggestions on printing and marketing.

* Who were these people that were running around looking for new ways to skin cats?
** I added LeBron James to see if I experienced an increase in hits...

This illustration is from my children's book, How Larry the Griggit Learned to Fly. It serves as an accurate metaphor for my attempt to secure an agent and conventional publisher.

A FACE IN THE CROWD

BILL AND WAYNE'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURES IN THE QUIRKY WORLD OF FILM

Big Wayne and I met recently for another quirky adventure in the world of film. I brought the bacon, egg and Tabasco bagels and he provided the movie. After watching this absolute gem, I’ll never doubt the big man’s recommendations. It's hard believe this movie has been around so long and I missed it. Big Wayne also known as The Hoosier Daddy, is now my own personal Mr. Movie Miyagi. I don’t make a movie move without asking Big Wayne.


The movie?


I’m talking about the 1957 classic, A Face in the Crowd, directed by Elia Kazan and starring Andy Griffith. While I’ve been a fan of Kazan’s work on East of Eden, On the Waterfront and Viva Zapata, I’d only known Griffith as Barny Fife’s sidekick, Sherriff Andy Taylor on The Andy Griffith Show. Don’t get me wrong, Griffith was very good as the iconic more wholesome than white bread sheriff. I always figured he was pretty much being himself; I had no idea the man could act. From the moment he appeared on screen, Griffith was nothing short of mesmerizing. I’m telling you, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the guy - I couldn’t wait to see what he was going to do next.


Griffith portrays Lonesome Rhodes, a guitar picking drifter who is discovered by a radio hostess (Patricia Neal). America falls in love with Rhodes’ countrified wisdom and guitar picking, propelling him to stardom. Rhodes starts out speaking the truth, fighting the man but due to his addictive personality he becomes the man. I should point out that Griffith’s bluesy singing and guitar playing is very good, edgy – real edgy.

Patrica Neal, Walter Mathaw, Tony Franciosca and Lee Remick make up a supporting cast that is nothing to sneeze at.

Great movie. One of the best I’ve seen. If you haven’t already seen it, watch the darned thing. If you have already seen it, maby you ought to watch it again You won’t be disappointed. Big Wayne knows his movies.

KOOKIE THE WONDER DOG

                                                     An excerpt from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son
Kookie the Wonderdog
by W.Z Snyder
© 2008 William Snyder
Hawthorne, California-1965ish

Two narrow strips of cracked white concrete crept along the side of the house. Green and yellow weeds sprouted from cracks. Leading up to a battered wooden garage, the driveway was cut in half by a rickety swinging gate that separated the front and back yards. It was at this gate that my best friend, Kookie the Wonder Dog, nearly met an early demise.


I was just a squirt, maybe five or six. My Uncle Ronnie, who was attending UCLA, was hanging out in the back yard with some of his buddies. They were wearing crew cuts, smoking Kools, and drinking cans of Schlitz beer. Each of them was dressed in cuffed Levis and an unbuttoned Pendleton worn over a pressed white t-shirt.


One of the guys was tossing sticks for Kookie the Wonder Dog. The dog was a victim of OCDFD- that is Obsessive Compulsive Doggy Fetching Disorder. Kookie had a true need to fetch. And she would fetch anything; sticks, rocks, bricks; it didn't matter. I can remember throwing the same rock for her into a river for several hours. I guess I was easily entertained at the time. Kookie kept diving, sometimes twenty or thirty times on one rock fetching trip, but she never failed to come back with the same rock that I had thrown.


Half dachshund and half beagle; that was the heritage some veterinarian had determined for her. The loveable mutt followed my father home from a bar one day. I was told she was named after the subject of the song with the line: Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb. She was always covered with fleas – sometimes freeways of fleas commuted from one end of her body to the other. I can remember spending hours hunting the fleas through the short brown fur on Kookie’s back. I ran my fingers through her fur until I spotted one of the little devils. Then I would pinch them in half between my fingernails. I was a respectable flea hunter. Her floppy ears were shredded like the frills of Daniel Boone’s buckskin shirt. Kookie the Wonder Dog and the German Sheppard down the street at the Florchamp's place fought viciously and often. She survived being run over cars time after time again. And somehow that flea ridden mutt lived to be more than twenty years of age.


Just for the heck of it, one of my uncle’s buddies picked up a two-by-four and heaved it over the gate and into the front yard. Kookie the Wonder Dog was on that two-by-four like a cheap suit. She balanced the piece of wood in between her choppers and headed for the back yard at full speed. There was a problem. The gate was a couple of feet narrower than the two-by-four. Physics took over when that hunk of wood slammed into the immovable objects that were the gateposts. That little dog was propelled a full fifteen feet into the weathered wooden garage door. SMASH. For a split second, Kookie the Wonder dog stuck to that garage door like a bug on to a windshield. Then she slid to the cement driveway where she lay with her legs saluting the sun like a dead cockroach.

 "You killed my sister's dog you dumb sun of a bitch!" my uncle said, grabbing hold of the guy’s Pendleton and shoving him into the aluminum trashcans, spilling corn rinds and coffee grounds and beer cans all over the driveway. The two were trading punches and wrestling in the garbage when Kookie came to, gave her head a good shake and waddled to the front yard. She dragged the two by four into the back yard and began barking for someone to play fetch with her. The combatants stopped pummeling each other and looked at the mutt as if she were some kind of doggy ghost.

Griggit Comics - 1984

This panel ran in the L.A. Easy Reader back in '84.
Yeah, I drew a lot of comics in the eighties, but now I don't care what the temperature is...
sorry, it just kinda came out.

wheN piGs flY #16

snYder coMics 2010

ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST

Bill and Wayne's Excellent Adventures in the World of Film

Bill and Wayne’s latest adventure in the quirky world of movies involved sausage, egg and Tabasco bagels and a classic spaghetti western called Once Upon a Time in the West. Not only was the old flick a little bit quirky, it was a little bit kooky, strange and a lot dark and spooky.

Sergio Leone, a man whose name is synonymous with spaghetti westerns, is responsible for this masterpiece. Filmed in Spain and Utah, there is a hellish feel to the experience. Everything is filthy, dusty, dry and dilapidated. The flaming sun constantly beats down on the ghostly characters.

Leone toys with time, slowing everything down to a fiendish snail’s pace. The opening scene is a movie in itself as Leone spends what seems like hours focusing on a fly on Jack Elam’s head and water dripping insipidly on Woody Strode’s head. And it’s captivating. Alfred Hitchcock said there is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation. Leone is down with Hitchcock’s concept. The film is 999 percent anticipation and .001 percent bang. Hope my math is right there. But the bangs are pretty damned explosive.

Henry Fonda, the blue eyed iconic all American actor, is evil personified. Seeing Fonda cross over to the dark side is shocking and down right scary. Charles Bronson is magnificent (sorry, couldn’t help the cheap allusion) as the revenge bent gunfighter who speaks through a harmonica. Jason Robards plays it cool as a sometimes good, sometimes bad gunfighter. He delivers this line of the movie to the smoking hot damsel in distress, played by Claudia Cardinale: “You remind me of my mother; she was a whore…”

I’ve heard great things about this old standard over the years and I can’t believe it eluded me for so many years. Now that I’ve seen it I can comfortably say baby, the emperor is fully clothed.

Once Upon a Time in the West gets two thumbs up, five stars, and a full tub of quirky flavored popcorn.

Artist's rendering of Bill and Wayne

snYder coMics #15 - WHEN PIGS FLY

snYder coMics #14

WHEN PIGS FLY

WHEN PIGS FLY - snYder coMics #13

Sophisticated, soshmisticated - I can't help digging bad puns...

JOHNNY GUITAR

BILL AND WAYNE'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURES IN THE WORLD OF QUIRKY FILM

The latest excellent adventure in the quirky world of film came at the recommendation Guely of Sweden and RDD, the Hoosier Lawyer. My father in law Wayne and I took a look at the classic western, Johnny Guitar Saturday morning and there were sausage, egg and Tabasco sauce bagels.

Johnny Guitar, directed by Nicholas Ray, ain’t you’re run of the mill cowboy picture; the 1954 movie is a calculated attack on McCarthyism. The title character is played by Sterling Hayden, a blacklisted B movie actor and a decorated World War II veteran. In spite of the title, Johnny Guitar is a kinda cool, kinda goofy supporting character. The women run the show in this flick. Hey, I have five daughters; I’m cool with feminism.

The heroine, played by all time melodrama queen Joan Crawford, gesticulates and shouts and cries constantly at her nemesis played by Mercedes McCambridge. And McCambridge shouts, moans, shakes her fists and overacts right back. McCambridge, who would fittingly go on to serve as the voice of the devil in The Exorcist, plays a sexually repressed loudmouth weirdo, a female version of Tail gunner Joe McCarthy. These opposing crazy broads are reminiscent of the some of the nuns back in my Catholic school days.

The dialogue and musical score are tremendously over the top, giving the film the feel of a B science fiction movie. I kept waiting for the creature to pop out of the lagoon. At times it feels like an opera or a silent movie. I don’t know how to categorize the movie. All I can say it’s as bizarre as hell and it sure doesn’t play like a 1950s western.

The movie is fittingly set against the bizarre red rocks of Sedona. The characters are clad in sharp black and bright blues, reds and whites, bringing about a Disney feel.

Ray smashes the viewer in the noggin with blatant sexual symbolism. The women strap on guns while the parade of waterfalls, caves, trains, blasting storms and raging fires never stop.

Ernie Borgnine heats things up as a ridiculously psychotic and surprise, surprise, sexually repressed bad guy while John Carradine manages to do some legitimate acting in the middle of all of this insanity. First rate character actors like Royal Dano, Scott Brady and Ward Bond keep things interesting.

The dialogue is laugh out loud corny. When Sterling introduces himself as Johnny Guitar a cowboy smirks, “Guitar ain’t no kind of name.” The cowboy’s name is, get this, The Dancin’ Kid. Later in the film The Dancin’ Kid offers Johnny Guitar his hand and Johnny Guitar says, “I never shake hands with a left handed gun.” The line is so campy it’s cool – quirky cool.

The whole darned movie is quirky cool. I liked the darned thing – dammit - and so did my bagel eatin’ movie watchin’ partner, Wayne. Tabasco soaked egg and sausage bagels with a kooky old movie like Johnny Guitar is a way quirky cool way to spend a couple of hours on a Saturday morning.

Happy Mother's Day

Any man who loves his mother
is man enough for me.
Brightening her eyes, sending her flowers,
though it's no anniversary.

Many men want fame and fortune,
it's gold they love to see,
but I say a man who loves his mother
is man enough for me.

Many men love dogs and kittens,
and pet them constantly.
Show me a man who loves his mother
as much as she wants to be,
and I'll show you a man
who's a lot like me.

Dean Martin Sang this coolest mother song of all time in Robin and the Seven Hoods.

You can watch the film clip here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9w8SHp1LFfU

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY.

Hoop Tree

I took this picture in Prescott a couple of months ago.
There was something about the juxtaposition of the hoop against the tree that pretty much blew my mind...

Dart Safety and the Purple Bikini

An excerpt from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son
Dart Safety and the Purple Bikini
by W.Z Snyder
© 2008 William Snyder

Dart Safety and the Purple Bikini (1972)
When Cary Babinski showed up in my driveway I could barley see him for the onrush of late morning sunlight from behind. I had been hanging out in the garage, throwing darts. I spent a lot of time hanging out in that musty old garage that summer. Surfer Girl by Hawthorne’s own Beach Boys was playing on the baby blue transistor radio my father had sent me for Christmas.

“Hey Billy, can I play with you?”

Cary was nine and I was eleven.

“I don’t play, I hang out you little geek,” I unloaded on the goofy little kid.

Now I was plenty goofy myself and had experienced more than my share of derision from those my own age and even more from the older kids in the neighborhood so it was nice to have someone I could shove around once in a while. Cary sat on a sawhorse and watched me throw darts. I was showing off. I was picturing myself as Mingo from the Daniel Boone show throwing knives and hatchets. Mingo’s real name was Ed Ames and I'd seen him demonstrate his real life expertise with hatchet throwing on the Johnny Carson Show earlier that week.

“Let me throw the darts Billy.”

“You’re too young; darts are dangerous and you could get hurt. Then it would be my responsibility.”

“C’mon, I wanna’ play.”

“Shut up and watch the master you little dork.”

I let him retrieve the darts after I threw them. Feeling mighty confident after a few particularly good tosses, I was starting to picture myself in Mingo’s league. Mingo was without a doubt the coolest guy on the Daniel Boone show, cooler than Rosie Greer or Daniel Boone. He was a bad ass Indian dude who had been educated in England.

“Come on Billy, let me play.”

It was pathetic.

“OK.”

I had a bad idea. I picked up a flat yellow carpenter’s pencil and pulled Cary over to the dartboard.

“Now, put this pencil in your mouth.”

“Put the pencil in my mouth?”

“Yeah, like a cigarette.”

I was impatient.

“Ohhhh, your goanna’ knock the pencil outta’ my mouth like Mingo did on with the hatchets on Johnny Carson!”

The kid was excited.

I shoved the pencil into his mouth, backed up a few paces and picked out a dart.

“Yeah, that’s it Babinski, now hold still.”

The kid was shaking as I took careful aim.

“Are you sure you know how to do this Billy?”

“Sure I’m sure, now hold still.”

I was concentrating with everything I had. None too happy with what has going on, Kookie the Wonder Dog began to whimper at me feet.

“Shut up Kookie, I’m trying to concentrate.”

Beads of sweat began to form on Cary Babinski’s forehead as he attempted to stand still with his ear pressed against the dartboard. It was already hot. A prop plane buzzed low overhead. I took careful aim at the yellow pencil. The moist salty ocean air caused the metal and plastic dart feel slippery between my fingers. I squinted. I was one with Mingo. The smell of lawnmower gasoline, sawdust and spilled laundry detergent and the Pacific Ocean breeze filled my lungs as took a deep breath. In one motion, I released the air and the dart, hard and smooth. The dart sailed across the garage.

Thhhwwwwwack.

“ARGHHH!” Babinski bellowed in sheer terror.

You can read the rest in The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son. Check current postings to purchase the book...