An article on proofreading

I found this wonderful post on proofreading and its place within the publishing system via one of my author groups. I would like to share this with our readers as the author included some of the history of this in addition to the current methods. Those people that handle typesetting, copyediting, and proofreading are some amazing people since they are all different jobs with different focuses.

Proofreading Explained
Robert Doran
http://catherineryanhoward.com/2013/10/17/proofreading-explained/

About Saturday's live poetry reading

 Yesterday was a live poetry reading via Second Life at the Makazi HQ for Nova Echelon. I had originally agreed to do it in honor of the 10th anniversary, but then the leader discovered that he had miscalculated the date (It will be the 9th in...February or January, I forget which right now). So instead the festivities went to celebrate the harvest season.

I am still incredibly shy. It is one thing to facilitate a religious ritual or meditation through there. I am used to those and the focus is not on me, even though I do still get nervous at the voice part until I fall into it. When the focus is on me though?

Yipe.

Even with my mild panic attack from speaking and being heard by so many while reading my work for the group, and the coughing fits from the cold I'm fighting (thankfully I HOPE I got the mic off for those), the reading went well. There was audience participation as some of those present volunteered to read individual poems. Dante, Methos, and John Krauss/Grease Coakes were the volunteers. It was really neat hearing how it sounded with others reading them! It was even better knowing that they were being enjoyed.

We even got to hear some of Methos' work after, which was also very cool.

It is a shame that there were people that missed the reading that had expressed interest in going. It was a good gathering just the same though. Something that I like about Second Life for function like this is that once a person has an account and knows the location, or a group to join to ask for the location, it is possible for new people to drop in or wander up. That makes it more open and inclusive, very much like going to a tavern or coffeehouse.

Teresa Garcia's Poetry Reading in SL

I will be reading some of my published and unpublished poetry and discussing/chatting with attendees. This event is one of several that is planned as part of Nova Echelon / Novaya Russia's 10 year celebration.

The culture and arts division of the group has been a big support for me lately, and I have made a lot of friends through them, so it is only fitting that I help and give back some. There are a lot of great creative minds in the group, in all divisions, so please feel free to log in and listen, and bring friends.

Location: http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Makazi/173/236/22
Day: Saturday, October 26, 2013
Time: 6 PM SLT/ PDT

All avatars are welcome, although I suggest not rezzing in as a giant dragon.

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Also, don't forget about the release party for "The Dragons' Beads: A Treasury" at 6 PM November 2nd at The Rose-Club and Lounge.

Guest Post: Water by Dan O'Brien

Today we have a guest author and book.

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I want to thank you for having me on your blog to promote the release of my latest publication. Water is a novella in the B-Sides universe, which follows people in a post-apocalyptic world. While each story is a standalone adverture, together they form a deeply intricate web of action, drama, and hope. Here is a brief summary of the novella:

The next installment in the B-Sides series follows a father and son living out a quiet life in northern Arizona. A strange occurrence at the border, and a series of events that turns the world upside down, plunges society into a spiral from which it might not be able to recover. Having to flee from their home with a band of unlikely friends in tow, the open road beckons. 

Can they survive? 

And here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:

Tuesday

His phone vibrated as it slowly ventured toward the edge of his nightstand. Shaking and spinning, it was a ballet of electronic futility. James had left it behind; it wasn’t even an afterthought as he neared the valley of sand and heat that he had passed through only the night before. There were two reasons to live in the desert: sunsets and sunrises. 

This particular morning was no exception. 

The valley was formed of a crimson pastel rock that from a distance looked like the mountains at the entrance to some unknown world. But in the morning and just before the wisps of night grab a hold and smother the day, there was an explosion of colors. It was a beautiful cornucopia of blistering and beautiful art. 

The sun crawled just above the sand dunes, flooding the valley in sunshine. The splashing light tumbled across the rock formations, and iridescent stones ignited the walls of the basin. 

This was the part of the day James loved the most. 

This was when his life felt less worthless. 

There was purpose here. 

The sun came into the valley each day to create this beautiful marvel, and each day he was here to witness it. The twisting serpent of the road wove in and out of the majesty of nature, until the paved parking lot of his daily grind came into view. 

A grotesque sign was perched just off the road. 

It read: Our Stuff. 

The door of the jeep creaked as James closed it. He pulled his red vest over his black t-shirt and ran a hand through his short hair. 

The parking lot was mostly empty. 

A beat-up Buick had been parked there since the late 90s and had never moved. By this time, it was a makeshift homeless shelter for local transients. It was an important component of his duties for the day, driving off the homeless when they panhandled in front of the store. 

Silence permeated the morning––a rare treat James relished in the early mornings. She walked in from the other side of the parking lot. A blue Honda with a dented door and missing hubcaps was parked some distance away. She was his dream girl, of a sort. She was married to––or had been, it was a strange situation to be sure––a local drunk and abuser. 

Light brown hair to her chin: It was often combed over one eye, mirroring a childhood memory. There was too much eye shadow to hide indiscretions, long shirts to hide bruises. 

She was a broken doll. 

“Hey Violet,” James mumbled as he got closer, chancing an awkward wave. 

She rarely looked up and when she did, all he was struck by was the wide eyes that looked at him in gratitude for recognizing her existence. This day, she smiled weakly. Dimples in her cheeks deepened as he got closer. 

“Hello, James,” she whispered back, her voice small. 

He felt protective of her.

As he neared, he smiled widely, invitingly. 

“Did you bring Julie with you today?” 

Julie was her eight-year old daughter who often frequented work with her mother when her father was away on a binge, or more violent than usual. James felt defensive of her as well, much to his detriment. 

She shook her head. Most of the time she wore an over-sized coat with a faux fur lining and hood that was often the barrier of her hidden face. 

“Her father took her today.”

James nodded absently, as he could not imagine what that man could do with a child. He could barely take care of himself. Too often, he would barrel into the store––half-drunk and yelling––and would have to be dragged out by the police. The automatic doors at the front of the store did not open as they approached. 

Reaching out, James pulled them open and gestured for Violet to go first. She bowed her head, making an already smaller person even more diminutive. The interior of the store was still dark. The echo of the speakers played elevator music, water-downed versions of songs no one wanted to hear. As Violet disappeared into the aisles of the store, James turned and shut the front doors and locked them. 

“See you later,” he spoke, trailing off at the end.

*

The morning passed as it often did. 

The sun rose. 

Heat sweltered in the desert and the fringe humanity of Miranda sought air-conditioned shelter. James was a walker, a transient employee who sauntered through the store. Seeking out customers who required help, he sometimes cleaned the bathrooms. Often, he attended to those duties that fell between the cracks of other employees. As the morning gave way to the afternoon, there was a palpable tension in the air.

Customers were more curt than usual. 

People left angry. 

It was not until James had the distinct pleasure of interacting with a deranged desert degenerate that he began to understand what it was about that day that was enraging people so. 

“Nametag.” 

James did not register the cruel tone at first. 

“Nametag,” he repeated, this time drawing James’ attention. “Nametag, I’m talking to you. Turn around.”

James turned, his grimace dissipating into an even line. 

It was his best attempt at a smile. 

The man was a caricature of a person. His chin disappeared into his pocked neck and his bulging brown eyes seemed to be of two different sizes. Crooked teeth were revealed as he opened his mouth to speak once more. 

“Hey, what about customer service? C’mon, nametag.”

“What can I help you with, sir?” mustered James. 

The man’s face twisted into a sneer. 

He was wearing a shirt three sizes too small, his hairy belly exposed from just beneath the dirty white shirt. Putrid breath radiated from the man. It was an odor that could have risen from a trash heap in the Mojave Desert. “Attitude? You giving me attitude now, nametag? Time like this, in a crisis and what not.”

“I’m sorry that you feel I am being discourteous…”

The man sneered again. His voice, though masculine, broke as he spoke again. “Using big words on me now, college dropout. You think you’re hot shit, selling commodities to us lower folk.”

James looked at the man in disbelief, his behavior was deplorable. “Perhaps if you can just calm down, I can help you find whatever it is you are looking for.”

The man moved in closer, the scent of body odor was overpowering. “You some kind of wise guy? Why do you think I’m here? You retarded? Don’t you listen to the news? Don’t you know what’s going on?”

James looked at him, bewildered. 

“Sir, I…”

“Water,” the man spoke clearly. “Water, I need water.”

“Bottled water? Is this about the Hernandez thing? The border?” queried James, making a connection slowly, though uncertainly. “Are they peddling hysteria already?”

“Hysteria, boy, you must be living under a rock. It’s coming. That border thing’s old news. Poison is in Texas now, parts of New Mexico. They’re talking about rationing and sanctions on tap water. You believe that shit?”

James looked around the store. “I really don’t.”

It had evaded him previously. 

The scampering populace of Miranda bustled about the store, arms full of plastic water bottles and greater containers. One woman had another by the hair, dragging her away from the last water bottles on the shelf. People screamed at each other, pointing accusing fingers, claiming water as their own. 

“It would appear you aren’t the only one looking,” replied James, as he pointed to the pandemonium. “Best of luck to you.”

The man glowered at him as he passed by, but James could not believe his eyes. Lines were backed up, people nearly climbing over each other to get water and carry it away in the heat of the day, to survive. 

He stalked over to the throng of people who had begun to congregate around the empty shelves. As he approached, the masses turned as one. Their bleary eyes and angry words were upon him before he could even speak. 

“Where is the water?” one cried.

“Is there more?” queried an elderly woman shakily. 

“What do we do?” screamed another.

James held up his hands, trying to calm them. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, but they continued to bicker. Each voice rose above the others. Some shoved those smaller than themselves, like a rabid mob. He raised his voice. Some mumbles remained, but most had directed their attention at him. “Let’s all calm down for a moment. I will go in the back and see what we have.”

He moved away from them, not giving them time to object or grow ever angrier. The store was packed. Never in his eighteen months there had he seen such a rush on the store. He wondered what it was he had missed to which everyone else was reacting so intensely. Pushing open the double doors that led into the warehouse, James sighed. 

The madness was tangible. 

It permeated the air, made it thin. 

Other employees had congregated in the back, seeking shelter from the madness. Two of them talked loudly with each other. One he knew, the other was a new employee or perhaps someone with whom he had never crossed paths. The first was dressed in a style that could only be described as early fuckup. The other was the kind of person who you would not give another look, as average as they come. 

An unevenly mounted nose ring, jagged teeth, and a tone that was filled with ignorance: The younger man James did not know spoke in an overbearing tone.

“This is epic. All these fucking hillbillies running around like the skies are falling in. I’m surprised the fat ones aren’t screaming Chicken Little. Epic.” He held his hands up demonstratively. “Epic.”

Average Bob watched the less-than-eloquent fellow employee with a listless gaze. “The news said it was serious though…”

“The news? You can’t trust the news, man. They are trying to pull some bullshit over our eyes. Always, trying to force your hand,” he continued to rant. 

James moved past, making sure not to make eye contact, as he did not wish to engage them in some kind of rhetorical conversation. As he moved out of earshot, he could not help but shake his head at the redundant movie references that took the place of grammar and syntax. There was only the replacement of actual thought with recycled thought. It had become the repetition and regurgitation of the words of another. He was not necessarily bitter toward fan worship, but was simply irritated by the lack of thought most other people his age seemed to show. They were more content in the safety of what other people thought––more concerned with their small shell of a world and not the greater picture. 

His face twisted into a scowl as he moved past racks and racks of brown boxes marked in black permanent marker with various numbers designating position, quantity, and retail-related mediocrity. As he reached the back, where normally there were pallets upon pallets of shrink-wrapped water cases, he swore.

Reaching down, he picked up the wayward bunched band of plastic that had once held the pallet in place. There were seven empty pallets, the entire back stock of what the store carried. 

Where had he been? 

How had he not seen this?

The voice startled him. “Pretty intense, huh?”

James rose slowly, turning to face Violet. “Yeah, wild. How did I not notice all of this water going out?”

She moved next to him, folding her arms across her chest. “You’ve been in a daze lately, moving around as if you didn’t notice anything, anybody.”

They lingered like this for a moment. 

Neither spoke––nor breathed really––except in fractured, shallow breaths. Finally, letting out a burst of air and licking his lips, James shifted his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “I should check on those people out there. They were acting like fucking animals.”

Violet nodded, tucking her hands inside her sleeves. 

“Yeah, my break is almost over. I should be getting back.”

James nodded again, awkwardly. 

Turning away, he disappeared into the racks once more, leaving Violet to her thoughts. He shook his head and mumbled to himself in mock anger. Whenever there was a moment when he and Violet seemed to connect, they both froze, neither making a move. She was scared, but was looking for a way out. 

He knew that. 

He could be there for her. 

Smacking a hand against his forehead, he whispered to himself angrily. “Stupid.”

A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.

Water (US)
Bitten (US) 

End of the World Playlist (US)  

Cerulean Dreams (US) 

The Journey (US)  

The Path of the Fallen (US)  

The Twins of Devonshire (US)
Water (UK)

The End of the World Playlist (UK) 

Bitten (UK) 

Cerulean Dreams (UK)

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The Path of the Fallen (UK) 

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Our service for Marantha D. Jenelle AKA Jan Parupia

Arashiryuu Yashiro and StarDragon Spiritual Services will be holding THG StarDragon Publishing's memorial service for Jan Parupia AKA Marantha D. Jenelle AKA Amber Michelle (as we have no idea when her service in Texas will be and very unlikely to get across the country to go) via Second Life at the Arashiryu Yashiro. The public is welcome to attend, all you will need is a Second Life account.

Time: 4PM October 23, 2013

Location: http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Nemmers/87/72/30
We will be in the shrine building beyond the torii. Please be certain to click on the temizuya (water basin) within the innermost gate before taking a seat. Arrive early to give time for the walk.

The Dragons' Beads Release Party

The release party for our dragon anthology "The Dragons' Beads: A Treasury" will be November 2 starting at 6PM Pacific/SL Time at The Rose in Second Life. A TP link will be provided once set as the owners of The Rose were talking about the use of a skybox for the event.

The party will be DJ'd by good friend and author John Krauss AKA as Grease Coakes within SL. Bring your mate, friends, and anyone else you know that might want to come. I don't think I will be able to stream the event unfortunately, even though I had considered it as an option for those that can't go into Second Life.

Those with Second Life accounts or an interest in making one are cordially invited to attend. There will be dancing, chatting, and conversation, and those that attend will be eligible to win a free copy of the ebook. I am still working out details on how to handle that...most likely a drawing.

The theme is of course dragons, so feel free to dress up inworld as a dragon (those that like to use non-human avatars) or in dragony clothing for those not wanting to change bodies or preferring to present as human. I just ask that you don't wear a really big dragon, so that we all fit into the room.

Also don't forget that there is a rafflecopter drawing for two free copies of the ebook version. Check our blog and/or Facebook pages for how to enter.

Further news on Marantha's books.

Amazon was not able to help. Impossible Love, Homeward Bound, and Irony will be incorporated into a memorial anthology instead along with two other anthologies she had been working on and rereleased.