Jerry Merritt's Blog

ya-a-a-a-awn . . . stre-e-e-e-etch . . . smack smack smack . . .
yawn

Oh . . . hello there. So nice of you to pop in. I suppose I owe an
apology for my long absence. At least the webmistress implied as much in a
series of increasingly indelicate messages dropped in my litter letter
box. Take this one from yesterday:

Moggie, not to hound you like a certain precious yet pesky little Yorkie with overcompensation issues, but you promised to review and highlight a different Jerry Merritt book with every change of season. In fact, you announced that very intent in your first review—a “summer” edition that arrived October 31, 2018, significantly delaying launch of the website. Since then, you’ve nibbled and napped your way through two Thanksgivings, a couple of Christmases, a whole spring and summer, and a major Pulses re-release but have never offered even a single follow up article, despite my efforts to elicit one.

Excuse me for interjecting, but “. . . elicit one?” It seems that, in addition to confusing an intention with a promise, the webmistress woefully undercounts. And as for the trespassing Yorkie stalker with the Napoleon complex, well, you don’t know the half of it. But back to the letter:

As much as I can personally identify with your self-described “endearingly sluggish, personal calendar and clock,” and while I imagine that time must surely stand still for those who remain dead center on the karmic wheel, suspended in either constant nirvana or constant catatonia, it doesn’t work like that out here on the spokes or rim, where most of us pretend to be awake. Time moves. Whether it’s linear or cyclical, it is, at the very least, progressive. Events happen to mark its inexorable unfolding. Events like a mouse trap of mysterious origin viciously snaring the paw of a canine house guest. Or like Mr. Merritt extensively rewriting his first novel to turn it into a trilogy. And when such events occur, our responses (e.g., a review to promote said book re-release) must issue in the same, dynamic dimension using the same metrics. That’s really what makes it “life.”

I so enjoy being lectured on metaphysics by someone mired in Saṃsāra and binary perception. Take her “either nirvana or catatonia” remark. Ms. CSS obviously lacks my vast experience with altered states of consciousness—especially catatonia—and therefore doesn’t realize that the two are one and the same phenomenon. And her grasp of karma is equally naïve since she apparently hasn’t connected her marauding terrier chasing me up the stairs of my own home to that same canine cretin (redundant, I know) later putting his unkempt paw in a mouse trap of “mysterious origin.” Returning, now, to her hostile condescension:

Since you’ve shown no willingness to fulfill your publication commitment as pledged on that long-ago Halloween, I must conclude it was all trick and no treat. Which forces me to rename and restructure your website contributions, singular as they may be. Accordingly, “Moggie’s Seasonal Spotlight” is hereby terminated and removed from the site landing page. May it rest in one piece.

Now that really is Draconian! I think Judge
Javascript is unconsciously punishing me because she has a cat allergy and a
dog with a wicked limp.

However, in pursuit of some path of reconciliation, some way to secure your input here for Mr. Merritt’s sake, I propose the following: if you deliver a review of his brand new novel, Diary of a Teenage Moon Goddess, before April launch of the official book showcase, I will publish it on the front page under the new banner “Moggie’s Latest Mewsings.” This will continue your website prominence while squashing all visitor expectations that your productivity follows any schedule outside your own whim.

It’s not exactly an anchovy. But I
suppose an olive branch will do.

Furthermore, the “Mewsings” nomenclature will draw a clever, species-appropriate parallel between you and your extremely patient and indulgent owner, who—need I remind you—named his own blog “Musings.”

Hmmm. While she yet again reveals her
ignorance, since cats can never be “owned,” the new banner has a nice ring to
it. And I do love me some parallels.

But that’s not all. I will provide a sitewide header link to an archive for all your articles—past, present, and future—while relaxing subject matter constraints so that your epistles may extend beyond book reviews and into the boundless expanse of your wit and wisdom.

Well . . . she’s far from purrfect.
But she is an excellent judge of talent!

Step away from your Friskies and just chew on that for a moment. How many words have found life on the Internet only to be callously dispatched to that gigantic recycle bin in the sky, where they must either languish in limbo—one “restore” mouse click away from salvation—or suffer eternal death through the hellacious, two-mouse click path of permanent deletion (disregarding hard drive CPR and other life support measures available in the cloud.) My proposal saves your words from either fate, preserving them for discriminating readers in perpetuity.

First it was mouse traps, now it’s
mouse clicks and eternal death. Is she trying to get inside my head? A veiled
threat of some kind? Or is she truly offering a tenth . . . everlasting
life to my words?

Now maybe literary immortality means less to cats, who approximate literal immortality so effortlessly. But perhaps my final inducement—a nine-lifetime supply of Star Kist Chunk Light—will convince you to complete the requested review within the specified timetable.

Sigh. She had to go there, didn’t she?

Well . . . enough with old grudges! Besides. Apart from sharing an
occasional private message annotated with my personal animosities, I’m not one
to air dirty laundry in public.

So, Ms. Webmistress, I unequivocally, unqualifiedly accept your generous offer. Subject to a couple of conditions, of course. You see, your well-fed, “precious yet pesky Yorkie” (let’s call him “Porkie” for short) indirectly cost me my eighth life. (Don’t worry. I harbor no animosity towards Porkie, who can’t help that his intelligence is as short as his stature.) The local Medical Office for Unexplained Sudden Expirations (MOUSE) has yet to declare my official cause of death but is working closely with Testing and Reports on Animal Prints (TRAP), who are examining an unspecified mechanical device seized from the scene of my last demise. Not one to wait on bureaucratic formalities, however, I moved ahead with reincarnation, surrendering my “great at ate eight” dog tags (shudder) for a “fine at nine” replacement.

With Mr. Merritt coincidently reincarnating his first novel as a trilogy (tripling the somnolence Pulses, so to speak), Diary of a Teenage Moon Goddess becomes his ninth novel. What a synchronicity! Which brings me to my counter offer: I promise to submit my Moon Goddess review before launch of the official book page if you deliver to me an eight-lifetime down payment on the proffered Star Kist Chunk Light on or before April 1, 2020, the balance to be delivered on a silver platter by Porkie himself upon publication of the complete review.

You may convey your contractual assent to these terms by posting this entire document, unedited, on the front page of the website under the new “Mewsings” banner. As the—ahem—letter box is currently full, please direct all interim correspondence to the following email address:

moggie.attorney@paw.eat.sleep

At the insistence of my sister, I did some major editing and rewriting on my first novel, a science fiction piece called Pulses. It was overly long—240,000 words. I later pared that down to a mere 194,000, but it was still a mess. I had written it while on active duty overseas and had little time to research how to write a novel. Still, my sister had liked it. But, then, she was my sister.

Against my better judgement, I put it out on Amazon a few
years back. Some liked it, but many were harshly critical. And rightly so. They
pointed out it contained too much technical stuff. And was just, well, not easy
to follow. Several of the more helpful critiques pointed out the need for a
complete editing and clarification of links among the plot elements. I had
thought at the time that readers would like to puzzle over the interconnections
and unspoken parts to piece together the plot intricacies. In my own mind, all
the clues were there to allow the reader to figure out what was taking place.
Wrong!

So I have now broken it down into a trilogy to make the whole thing more digestible for the poor reader. Smaller bites, so to say. The first book is titled Pulses, Part One, The Sentinel. The second, Pulses, Part Two, The Pilot. And the last, Pulses, Part three, The Final Protocol. In the process, I tried to clarify all the plot areas previously left to the reader to figure out on their own—and my sister claims I have now done that. To her satisfaction, at least. And she claims to be an average reader with no particular interest in science fiction.

Unfortunately, in order to make the trilogy available in Kindle’s KOLL (Kindle Owners Lending Library) and KU (Kindle Unlimited), where readers can read it for free, I had to put a minimum price of 99 cents on each of the trilogy e-books. That raises the price for those who want to download all three e-books. Still, if they download Part One and don’t like it, they won’t feel compelled to read the whole thing, nearly 200,000 words, just because it’s on their Kindle. So they’re still out only 99 cents. Anyway, I hope this effort has produced an easier-to-understand ending and a smoother, more enjoyable read for those not interested in technical details. Though there are still a few for the hard core science fiction fans that want a reasonable explanation of how things work.

Since I took up writing novels, I’m often asked the same two
questions: one, where do the ideas come from; and, two, how do you ever get a
novel written. The two questions are intertwined so I will address them as one.

No one knows where the stories come from. Oh, sure, some
novels are written based on the writer’s life experience. And I suppose a lot
of my own life has found its way into my books. After all, they say write what
you know. But how do all those words and plot twists and turns come about and
still work out in the end?

Several people have told me they wanted to write a novel and
asked me how to proceed. I’ve given all of them the same advice. And none of
them took it seriously. And none of them have ever finished a novel, though
several have put down tens of thousands of words.

So, what’s that advice? It’s simple. Before you start be
sure you have two months coming up with no known dates that will interrupt your
work. Because once you start you don’t get a day off until you’re done with a
novel. Not birthdays, not holidays, not vacations. Nothing. You work every day
until you finish.

That does something that sort of answers the question about
where the stories come from. When you work every day, your muse (read
subconscious here) learns pretty quickly that there’s this problem that needs
to be solved. And your muse will work on the next day’s writing while you’re
asleep.

If you break the cycle, though, your muse, realizing you’re
not really serious about this problem, will wander off. There’ll be a break in
continuity. And it’s really hard to pick up after a break. I had such a break
in my seventh novel. The one I’m just now finishing after seven months. For
comparison, except for my first novel where I discovered this trick while
writing it, I have never taken more than two months to finish a novel. Well,
actually, what you have after typing The End isn’t really a novel, though many
people quit there considering themselves done. No, what you actually have is a
very detailed outline of a novel. But that is a huge step forward. You have the
story down on paper. Now you have to go back over it again and again to enliven
the characters, clear up ambiguities, develop a flow in the words, well you get
the idea.

So how many words do you have to write each day? I write a
minimum of 1,000. Usually I write more. On a good day I might write 3,000. On
one or two days I might write 5,000. But that doesn’t let me off the hook for
another 1,000 the next day. That’s the rule. A minimum of a thousand every day.
No exceptions.

Okay, so you have a job and kids and there’s no way you can
do a thousand words a day. Then do 500. Same rules.

Now for a few tidbits I haven’t mentioned. There are two
types of writers. Pantsers, who write by the seat of their pants, like me and
most others. And outliners, who use a detailed outline. Seems a waste of time
to me to outline, though. I tried that on my first novel and by the time I had
10,000 words I was so far off the outline I couldn’t get back. However, if you
follow the path I outlined (sorry couldn’t help myself) above, you end up with
a very detailed outline.

So if you are going to try the non-outline route, and I
recommend that if it fits your personality, at least have a general idea of
what your novel is about and kind of how it will end then start writing to work
your way to the ending. If the ending changes before you get there, then great.
That probably means your muse thought of a better ending as you slept.

Of course, you’ll want to take some courses in English
composition first. And read a few books on novel writing to pick up the other
things you need to know. But a year’s preparation can save you several years of
finding your way after you start writing. Or maybe you’re one of those rare geniuses
who can write a great American novel on the first try with no preparation other
than learning how to type a little. I’ve heard they’re out there. Just haven’t
met any of them yet.

I don’t think this qualifies as a treat. But it is Halloween, 2018. So to avoid tricking those who rang my online doorbell expecting a blog, here goes.

I need first to express my undying gratitude to Elizabeth Lowrey for leading my efforts to create this website. For those of you who don’t know Elizabeth, she is a lovely woman of great talent and intelligence with an added touch of willingness to help others.

And help is certainly something I’ve needed to comply with my publisher’s admonition to establish some kind of ongoing contact with my readers, some of whom have been writing them to find out more about me. You see, I’m somewhat . . . if not reclusive, at least guarded. In short, I just don’t talk much about myself. So this is a bit new to me.

Since you wound up here, there’s a good chance you read my author’s page at Amazon, so you already know that much. The bio page, and this site in general, aims to augment that thumbnail with a slightly expanded picture.

As of this moment, I’m extensively reworking my first novel, Pulses, into a trilogy and prepping my latest, Diary of a Teenage Moon Goddess, for publication. My sister, Linda—whose name appears frequently throughout these pages—graciously wrote the diary entries for the Moon Goddess, and I hope to finish editing the book in the next month or two. It should be posted to Kindle shortly after.

So that’s a start. I hope you will check back periodically as I issue updates about current and future work and perhaps expound on topics of interest in the blog. I really do appreciate your interest in my writing. And have been utterly surprised at the response I’ve received from readers. And listeners. And am glad that someone appreciates my efforts to spin a few stories.

Hello and welcome. My name is Moggie.

Since you’ve circumnavigated the world wide web to find this site, you probably realize, as I do, that Jerry Merritt is the greatest writer in the history of the universe. So I’m beyond thrilled that the webmistress has afforded me this space to eat tuna and sleep commune with fellow fans and lavish much-merritted merited, public praise on my favorite author.

I intend to highlight a different opus from the Merritt canon on every solstice and equinox as dictated by my endearingly sluggish, personal calendar and clock. Meaning my august September October debut is purrfectly timed for a fall encomium of the sensational new audiobook, Time Pebbles. Released in May, 2018, by Podium Publishing and narrated by Emily Sutton-Smith, this sterling production impeccably supports the soporific haunting storyline, making for a coma-like slumber stimulating listen after a hard day’s nap in a favorite window sill.

If you doubt my objectivity (and why would you), I commend you to  . . . (whoops, Freudian slip) mouse-over and/or swipe the accompanying book cover, which will light up with five-star reviews by Mr. Merritt’s slightly less sycophantic ardent admirers. My sole interest is enjoying some quid pro quo Albacore promoting the best in spoken-word literature. Hence I unabashedly bestow upon Time Pebbles the highest rating possible: Five Paws. Or, perhaps more accurately, Five Paw Prints.

Which necessitates a brief explanation. You see, I simply can’t award “stars.” The practice of reaching across millions of light years to pluck a few nuclear fusion reactors out of the sky seems over-the-top to one as overwhelmingly, stunningly, spectacularly devoid of the human penchant for hyperbole and metaphor as Yours Truly. No, this Literal Literary Lion gravitates to an infinitely more subtle and personal rating system, albeit one posing certain challenges to a quadruped. Yet neither my exalted feline sensibilities nor my anatomical normalcy could deter me from awarding Time Pebbles the Five Paws it so richly deserves.

So how did I manage the fifth print, you may ask? A word limit Modesty prevents me from detailing the heroic sacrifice involved. Suffice to say I would have paid any price, even an arm and a leg. As it turned out, it only cost me my eighth life.

But not to worry. I have nine.