Those words are a bit of a mouthful, not. The chin shouldn't have to wag until it aches. The brain should have to absorb too much at once, or else it's likely to fart out every single letter.
It is surely far better to half-bake your idea and then start another completely fresh sentence, rather than try to cook the whole recipe at once with every single ingredient fully exploited in one long-winded phrase.
Of course, we don't want sentences that are so short that our prose sounds like it's copied straight from a 'Janet and John book', do we Mr. Hemingway? But yes, we agree that it's wise to avoid trying to tame too many letters.
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." (Ernest Hemingway)
Spiderworld fits genre, and it doesn't.
First, note well that this book has almost nothing to do with the natural history of spiders, well at least not those that live on Earth. They are mentioned on passing, but the arachnologist will nevertheless rest disappointed. My spiders are very much of science fiction, although what they talk about varies fairly widely across the genres. Of course, I hope that at least some bug scientists do enjoy my speculative fiction.
Anyway, speculative fiction is how I describe my book's subject matter. This one has a fairly strong science fiction thread running right through it, though most is of the soft rather than highly science based variety. Basically, Spiderworld is a space adventure set some distance in the future. There are no fantasy elements except in the remote way in which I take some character names from fantasy literature. My intention is always to write science fiction that appeals to the general reader rather than the science fiction buff, hoping that the 'scientists' don't find too that I take too many liberties with the laws of physics. This book is far more Ray Bradbury than Arthur C. Clarke, more Heinlein than Asimov. I don't pretend to walk in any of those great shoes, but merely try to give the genre reader a little help.
In this story, man is a subservient species to a race of spider-like creatures from a distant world. The spidernauts have been 'harvesting' humans from the Earth for some considerable time. This gathering is being conducted to provide both food and a source of cheap labour. The spiders have neighbours on another close planet in their solar system, which are more akin to ten legged caterpillars than spiders. I try to leave the minute detail of these creatures to the reader's imagination, rather concentrating on the cultural and social conditions of society in three sentient species, Aranians, Cheetans and Homo sapiens.
Logic seems to dictate that any species that visits us before we visit them is likely to be technologically superior. In many ways the spiders are more advanced, further down the scientific road, although the potential, the intelligence, of the two species is really not very different. This 'brain equality' proves to be vital as humanity strives to improve its lot in Spiderworld.
There are heroic deeds and cowardly acts, diverse allegiances among and between species, altruistic and selfish attitudes, philosophical thoughts and crude schemes, love and hate, animalistic and spiritual behaviours, and an adventure that is only constrained by the parameters of this invented solar system and those laws of physics that I partially understand.
As I hope you will discover, this book really needs at least a few influential readers to be influenced by its words. The why is in the plot! Than you so much for taking the trouble to read this blog post.
The book- Well, that is to be found at http://geni.us/uDv
Selling books without having shelf space in major retailers is as hard as pushing rocks up Everest. That has always been the case. Of course, we have the stream of web sales that seem to defy the laws of gravity, but only for those that have marketing skills, luck and/or influence/fame. In other words, gravity still applies. If you make it then it is near certain that you were lifted. It is nearly impossible to climb above the weight of others' good fortune, blocking your own path to success, on your own. There were a couple of good years when the early birds to on-line publishing did very well, but the path of those early innovators is chocked with earlier books making it a very hard climb.
We feel overwhelmed. A strange hopelessness of finding success is mixed with weak lingering belief in the theoretical achievable but very illusive ability to get there. Motivation is as hard to maintain as it ever has been at any time in the history of publishing. The same state of torpor exists throughout the wider arts. The quantity of artists is rapidly expanding but the slots for the successful remain doggedly limited. It is evermore likely that you as a reader are also an amateur writer, just as I am. I, like thousands of others, have a catalogue of books for sale, a brand new one, and more in my head. But is all the effort worthwhile? Well certainly not on an hourly money rate. A typical income might be one cent an hour and a minus at that, as the process of production always carries some real costs, even if only in computers and cups of coffee.
We have to write books for the love of writing, as others might compose music, paint, engage in equine sports, show dogs, garden. These sorts of activities are vital to us, they often define our being, give us a reason for living. However, the few that make a living from art or particular skill are, one here, one there and one on the road to Timbuktu. They are the million dollar lotto winners, which neither statistically will I ever be among and nor probably will anyone I know.
Fame is a constant sized cake that more and more of us are trying to eat. Only so many writers, painters or whosoever can exist in the public consciousness at once. So don't stand in the queue, walk away into a pleasant spot by the babbling brook to enjoy the play. Who knows what will happen. Our souls need that we keep performing, keep on being the people we need to be however distant the crowd. Just the dream that a fairy godmother is watching must be enough, as it was in our childhood.
As I write, there will only ever be me and dreams in my world. Even in a busy café or in the airport lounge, or on the bus to Timbuktu, there is only actually me and an out of focus, irrelevant, crowd. Every one of those passing apparitions is too busy to even glance at Cosmo, or Rushdie or some Kardashian or another. The drifting masses may never ever have time for us.
It is the private performance of our art that is needed, healthy activity for our souls, not the recognition. The money to perform- yes well- play lotto I guess. The flow and quality of our art is all that matters, because it matters to us.