When I read over my manuscript, which happens once every few days, I hear this:
Hello, Sean. Look at this manuscript, now back to me, now back to this manuscript, now back to me. Sadly, it isn’t me, but if it stopped sitting on a hard drive and received funding through Kickstarter it could read like it’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re in a comfortable chair with the voudoun noir novel your novel could read like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s a horror-crime thriller with those plot points you love. Look again, the plot points are fully-realized story elements, engaging characters and infinite potential. Anything is possible when your book is ‘Zobop Bebop’ and not some lady-smelling potboiler. I’m on a horse.
So... off to the races. Here we go.
I've had a story in my head for several years now. Initially titled "Teenie's Blues" and renamed "Zobop Bebop," it's a cross between Superfly and Divine Horsemen. It's about hard men, bad women, bad choices and dirty dealings, and it's always nagged at my brain.
He'd followed the old forms, hoping to find her in a nostalgic mood. New suit with a flash of cotton-candy pink silk in the pocket. Shaved with rosewater. Candy and flowers in the chair next to him. Softer than a pimp, by far. He looked like a mark, like a lovesick deacon throwing the building fund at some sweet young thing with eyes like a shark and thighs made of coiled steel.
She strode to the table with a presence that threatened to burn through the body of the half-starved girl she'd chosen to wear. She looked down at Desamous coldly.
“Swiv mwen, nonm chassés,” Erzuli je Rouj said, holding out her hand. Follow me, hunted man.
He followed, feeling the bass line of the music repeated in her pulse.
Last year, I decided to quit saying I had a story to tell and just tell it. So I did, writing for three hours a night for two months until the thing was done.
Once I finished the book, I gave it a month to sit and then reread it, looking to see if I could still stomach the thing. I thoroughly enjoyed it and set it to a few, trusted readers to see their thoughts. They supported the thing, as did a few potentially hostile readers to whom I blind-posted it. (Sample chapters are here- http://pitchaweek.wordpress.com/2011/05/16/follow-up-sample-chapters-from-zobop-bebop/?preview=true&preview_id=178&preview_nonce=99fa31f399).
After trying the traditional publishing methods to no avail, I decided to try to put the thing out on my own. That's where you come in.
I figure that, if I want to do this the right way, I'm not going to go by half-measures. I'm going to get it professionally edited, professionally marketed and distributed both electronically and as a print piece. I'm going big, because that's the only way to really make this work.
“It's open territory, man.” She smiled again, letters bending on her cheek. “No one touches it. I got fifty names in my book, I got clients from uptown want a taste of the dark. I could use someone with some history, give this thing some legs. Make it real sweet for you, Cool Breeze.”
The female strode past her mistress, eyes rolled back. Possessed, Desamours thought to himself. Bred for it. She put a cold hand on his chest, scraped long nails up his neck, purred low in her throat.
“I got you, baby,” Sheba said. “I can cut you a pass with those who'd see you low. Get you a chain all your own. Good life.”
Should I make my funding limit, I'll contract through Lulu.com to deal with my editing, design and distribution; depending on my options, I may go elsewhere for editing and marketing services. I'll set up a website for the book and I'll dedicate myself to moving the book forward and moving myself forward as an author.
This story's worth telling. It's worth reading. It's worth your help.
Thanks for your time.
Desamours felt a hand around his ankle, heard a low, wet giggle.
“Like I say, focus on the future,” Kalfu said. “You're back, you're in the game. You need anything at all, let me know.”
Desamours woke up suddenly, a hand over his eyes. He smelled rum and rancid fat, heard Kalfu's gunpowder hiss as the hand receded.
Because, the way it's looking now, baby,” Kalfu said, fading into the shadows of the room, “you could use some friends.”