Archive for the tag “december”

Dear Reader: LoV-Write on Amazon

Dear Reader,

I mentioned before that December is now avbailable on Amazon.com, and now I have an official author page there as well. There you’ll find a brief biography, a link to this blog and my twitter feed. But that’s not all. You’ll also find a picture of me. It’s a self-portrait I took by using my camera’s timer, a tripod, and a mirror; I then edited it on my computer for a sepia tone.

With my updated Amazon, I have also updated the About LoV-Write page. Now you’ll find a more complete explanation of my brand name as well as a short author biography and photograph.


Until the previous time,


Judah LoVato


LoV-Write: Twitter and Pinterest

LoV-Write is now on Twitter and Pinterest.

My Twitter feed (in all it’s poorly managed glory), features the little snippets of information which are too short for my blog, as well as links to my blod posts.

LoV-Write on pinterest features boards of information relating to published and upcoming books. Be sure to see the December board to see pictures of Plymouth, England and some of the places mentioned in December.

And have I mentioned that December is now on Amazon? December is now on amazon, available as both an eBook and paperback.






Dear You: December

Dear You,

It has been a busy few weeks because I’m finishing college and working on marketing December. I’ve started a Facebook page for December and I received my first book order this past week end. I now have to sign and deliver these books which will be, I think, rather enjoyable. In the meantime, I want to share the prologue (A Note From the Author) with you. Here it is:

Dear Reader,

I wish to thank you, first and foremost, for taking a moment to read my note and for examining my book; I hope you find her enjoyable. I would like to prepare you for what you are about to read, because she is a book unlike other books in that she has refused to adhere to conventional standards of narrative beauty and character development, and lacks those vampires, wizards, and romances that seem to have taken over pop culture.

Instead, this book has insisted on speaking through a single, limited perspective that strives to reproduce the private individual thought. You’ll find that Cole, whose mind is reproduced in this book, asks many more questions than he finds answers for, and that his thoughts can become disjointed or even confusing.

I would like to offer you a bit of information that should help you follow Cole’s stream of consciousness, and navigate the discontinuity of his private perception: As Cole reflects on his journey he is struggling to leave the confines of his thoughts and live more fully in the experiential world of the day-to-day, because of this it’s important to pay attention to the ‘here’ and ‘now’ within the text and to take notice of Cole’s level of awareness at any given point.

Now I hope, as many writers do, that you will continue to read and find some measure of meaning from the thoughts and perceptions preserved here in this book.


I’m rather pleased with this process, and I hope you’ll enjoy your copy. I’ve made it unique (of course), just for you.

December: Expanding the Market

Dear You,

I started selling books last week, and already I have 35 spoken for. It’s been an interesting experience in marketing and learning not to undervalue myself like I tend to do. My book is retailing at $17.99 and I know she’s worth it because I’ve put in time and labor to create this piece of fiction; I’ve spent days editing and altering lines and letters, and enduring this uncertainty and second guessing of publishing a first novel.

That being said, December is now available online through the Tate Publishing website, so be sure to look at it.

Paperback copies are $17.99 plus $5 shipping and handling, and e-books are $13.99.

And tell everyone you know (and don’t know),


Until the previous time,


December Comes in June This Year

The release date for December has been set for June 2014; I’ll the specific date later. For the time being I thought I’d publish a picture of the book and show that, yes, this book is more than words on a screen.

Later I'll add a picture of myself.

A picture I took of the proof copy of December. I think the cover folk did well.

December: Marketing

Dear You,

I have, at long last, entered the marketing segment of the publishing process which means I must answer a multitude of questions about niche markets, and re-assess my reasons for writing in the first place. I have to ask myself: Why would I read it? Why should I read? What makes it interesting? What’s the purpose for selling this book? Why did I write the book? Why is it worth sharing? What motivation do I have for writing and selling this book?

Thinking about these things I’m remembering how December started. It started as a kind of challenge from my parents, namely my father, to capture my perceptions of society as a 19-year-old boy. I kept regular journals at the time, so the project started as journalistic entries and slowly evolved into this fictionalized cascade of internal monologue.

I think December is worth selling because it is entirely about an individual’s perception of the world, and this individual is “different” from other people. What makes this novel interesting is that, apart from social perceptions and ideations of society, the novel shows a divide between thought and action by inverting the typical italicizing pattern in a style similar to stage writing. That is, the physical actions and exterior actions are written in italic, while the interior monologue is plain text.

My motivation, then, for selling and writing this book -aside from efforts towards world domination- is to create a text that will provide historians and sociologists insights into the perceptions of we who have lived in the 21st century.

That’s what I’ve thought so far on these questions, and they are subject to change, but for now I hope all is well with you and that you’ll find a chance to examine my book and assess what meaning (or lack thereof) lies within the pages.

Your friend,



Dear You: December continues

Dear you,

Despite my recent complaints of financing and the uncertainties of post-collegiate life, there is one thing that seems to be reaching completion: December.

I received an email from marketing the other day, suggesting that I start promotional efforts for December using bookmarks and other small-scale advertisement efforts. Naturally, I just had to write you and offer you a small distraction from your daily tasks. So there you have it;  December is continuing and I’ll be starting a campaign of shameless self-promotion.

Good-bye for the moment, I hope your day goes well (especially if you have as much snow as I have)

Until the previous time,

Truly yours,


Evolution of a Written Work

Dear You,

A few weeks ago I received my manuscript back from The Editor and, as expected, the experience was somewhat traumatizing. It was also educational.

First, it challenged my perceptions of my own work, and made me re-assess my “narrative” approach. I place “narrative” in quotations because December is written as a stream-of-consciousness/internal monologue, and so, as should be expected, The Editor told me that December lacks a narrative structure. The Editor didn’t sign the letter telling me about my lack of convention, and so I lack an address for the letter I feel compelled to write defending my work. I’d like to tell you about the evolution of December from a fairly typical story to the monster of internal monologue she is today in place of a response to said Editor.

Decemeber began as a fairly basic narrative with that third-person omniscience of general fiction. According to my computer, my first draft was finished about February 1, 2012 and began:

“Alright, my love.”  Sheila replied as Cole shut the living room door behind him. He was preparing to walk to his University, carrying his computer, books, water and some coffee in his black shoulder bag. A lighter load than usual. Cole mused about Sheila’s use of ‘my love’ as he opened the front door, such an English thing, that use of ‘Love,’ ‘my love’.

And I seem to have liked that style because it remained until April 2012, when I started (but never finished) a first person version which began:

Perhaps it was the rain that set my mood so low, plummeting as with each drop of rain to tiled roofs, down stuccoed walls, to concrete roads, to glide through cracks and seep deeper and deeper into the dark unbidden earth. “Depression”, is what some people call it, I call it searching for sustenance where nothing else has.

If I remember correctly, the change was prompted by a desire to explain myself and provide background on the the events of the story. Three months later, in July, I had added background prologue and changed the opening to reflect the strange passage of time:


His first impression was that He was meant to stay with Her daughter, Karen, because He had been told Karen had a room open for rent. Karen did not have a room open for rent, but thought that the current tenant would be moving out within the month so had arranged for Him to stay with Her until that room became available. …

Thursday 1 December

Nearly three months had passed since Cole moved into Sheila’s home. During that time he and Sheila had become something like friends. Cole had made his preparations to walk back to the University Student Union Building where the chorus was performing their cabaret concert and was excusing himself from the living room.
“I’m going now,” he’d said and Sheila told him
“Alright, my love.”

This prologue/opening was very clear as far a story-line went, and I got to keep the “Alright, my love.” because that phrase had been stuck in my mind since the previous year. Between July and October I decided that the story should be a story within a story, and by October 7, 2012 I started an opening that read:

It’s strange to me. Finding these papers and examining the notes of a young life. The young life of a young man who bears my name, but who has faded beneath layers of experience.

Which kept the idea that the character found in December is an old life of old ideas and old ways, an object to be examined and reflected upon. By the end of October I refined my idea and created an opening which I rather like:

Today is the Seventh of October

Looking around my attic I see piles of odds and ends I have gathered over my life. I have to wonder when I started gathering these things. A sombrero hangs on one wall, boxes marked with different countries form a tidy hedge beneath it. It’s been awhile since I last came up here, whenever it was I bothered making the box hedge and cleaning the attic. A few years at least. It’s funny how distracting life can be.

And this approach, it seems, lead me towards the stream-of-consciousness idea (that and I’m pretty sure I had to read Virginia Woolf and James Joyce for class). The next phase scrapped the journals-in-the-attic device and started towards a more dramatic and uncertain tone:

Maybe we are the recollections of a time not yet come; a history to be examined and learned from by a future not yet established. Maybe our memories are invented as lessons for futures lives, and who we once were are instructors for who we are, and maybe who we are decides who we will become. Maybe we are nothing more than the memories of some future life.
Here I am. Cole stood in front of an arm chair, The living room. Sheila sitting in her chair. Getting ready, Books. Computer.  Coffee. snack: carrots and rice. Water. Fits well enough. Is that her gaze? Almost feel bad taking off.  Bag over shoulder. Leaving taking off. Out the door.

My files take a long time-leap from December 2012 to August 2013 from this point on, however the evolution from there was a fairly direct reworking of the entire work to the interior monologue, which I achieved over the summer of 2013. I reduced a lot of information into the limited first-person psyche and developed a limited narrator (underlined) that offers strict observational notes on the goings on in Cole’s world:

Cole stood near the pinkish arm chair, Here I am. This is where it takes place, it is placed here: here and now. Where is that? “Here and now.” Right now it is a living room, white walled, pink furnatured, with a flat screen TV, an old fire place, closed doors. Right now it is Sheila’s living room. Right now the here and now take place in Sheila’s house in Plymouth, England.

And that is the version I submitted for publication.

I have since altered it slightly and added a stronger through-line for the monologue to follow, as well as the possibility of a forward to help prepare the reader for the oddity of mock-consciousness. I’m still wondering if the forward is necessary, but I have a feeling it will be helpful in the long run.

I know this letter is longer than usual, but I hope you’ve found this process interesting.

Until we meet again,


Sorting Through Old Boxes

Today is the 21st day of December. It is the first day of winter, of Yule, and the rebirth of the world into light. I’m sorting through my boxes; these piles of notes I’ve kept for years on end. I’ve found old letters, buried in the piles of papers and memories. They are tucked away in their own folders and made distinct from the rest.

What importance do these letters have now? So many old thoughts and responses from someone I love or used to love. The letters I waited for with impatience from week to week and read and wrote with affection. Those little notes slipped into books and pockets as reminders of a shared affection. We called it love once.

What substance remains of these words now? We never promised ‘forever’ and we thought we shared a map of the future, or a dock at the pier. Those things had meaning when we wrote them. Maps are fickle, though, and as we explored the world our maps changed and I grew uncertain. “Wishy washy” she called it. Then she grew overwhelmed with life and I grew cold. She left our pier on her own boat, and I left on my own boat on a different course.

The letters don’t tell that part of the story. They don’t show the separation and goodbyes, or the general coldness that follows doused hearts. It happens when we’re afraid I guess. She was afraid of harm or harming, so was I. They don’t say if she ever came back to the harbor. These life details of letters. The characteristics of her handwriting and the lines of ink spanning page upon page of paper. Who were we back then? Who wrote these things?

Not the one reading now, who shakes his head remembering “I wasn’t thinking about my words.” and yet she said I seemed “matter of fact” when last we met. That’s progress I suppose. I wonder if she wept. Ah, but yes, she did a moment as we parted as she worried she wasn’t being fair. I’d waiting awhile for her as she wondered to and fro about the earth. After all the times shared and memories created the only remains are a handful of old notes gathering dust with other memories.

Alas, Life is not so bold a creature as Death and Death feigns to be a constant. These are like that then, the coming Yule; death of the night and birth of the light, then light passes o’er and night returns in this ever spinning wheel of the year. Old skins are shed for new skins to grow, and those are stronger for that little death.

These letters, then, these old thoughts; whether buried in ashy ruin, or returned to dusty oblivion their fate is yet unclear. I’ll see what else is in these boxes, then.

A Post Card

Dear You,

Finals are fast approaching and the stress levels are surprisingly low, though the lack of stress is easily made up for by general lack of sleep and the bitter breath of Montana’s winter. There is some light, however, and more reason to procrastinate on those essays I have to write: production’s beginning on my first novel.

I received the long awaited email this past Monday, December 2. So far I’ve been asked to confirm the title and provide a hook, teaser, and biography for the promotional copy and confirm the title, subtitle, and audience.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned, I want to call my first ‘child’ December because that describes- well, I tell you more about the story line later. I’m running out of space for a post card.

Until we meet again,


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