Weekly Update: 2-14-14 Valentine's Day

The lovely California sunshine is shining hot, and I saw two big orange-breasted robins hopping on the tree.  Life is good.  

Today, I had a subbing gig, my third one this week.  It being Valentine's Day, there were hearts and roses all over campus.  Choirs interrupted class three times to croon beautiful love songs.  Once I even got to be the recipient of the song.  What happened was this: the person who got the singing gram had left to see his councilor, leaving the ten elegantly dressed students standing awkwardly in the front of the class.  A few students piped up they should sing to me.  Which is how I found myself sitting on a stool, being serenaded to thew tune "I Can't Help Falling In Love with You."

Valentine's Day coincided with International Week.  Students drew banners representing different countries and stuck them on their door.  Today, in the quad, clubs handed out food.  I ended up eating a delicious Hawaiian chicken salad with manadarin orange and nuts and some homemade Finnish cookies which were sweet and gooey and buttery.

I was in a good mood, my students were in a good mood, it was a good day.     

Now I head into a three day weekend.  This Sunday I'll visit to Calico Ghost Town with my dad to see a Civil War re-enactment.  Should be fun.

Poem: Little Lost Lamb

This song plays a role in upcoming chapters of my "Three Floating Coffins" story.  Enjoy.

Little lost lamb, you chew on greens on the hill.
You lay your head down of a bed of dried moss.
But the sun dwindles down and the air becomes chill.
Little lost lamb, you don't know you are lost.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

The shadows of nighttime creep over the range.
Clouds obscure moonlight and hide every star.
The land you once loved is now foreign and strange.
Little lost lamb, you don't know where you are.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

A howl from the beast with sharp teeth sends you off.
You fly though the grass, hope the wolf won't pursue.
A cliff breaks the ground.  You stand still and aloft.
Little lost lamb, you don't know what to do.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

About to give in to your terror and fear,
You lay your head onto a pillow of stone.
But see now! The light of my lantern draws near.
Know, little lamb, I won't leave you alone.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

Travelogue: Art Books and Purple Treasure

 

My friend Ashley’s car stumbled off the freeway and I cheered.  After 2 turnarounds, we’d finally made it to Little Tokyo.  We had nothing in mind for our day together, but we chanced upon the LA Art Book Fair.  Ashley liked art.  I liked books.  It was meant to be.

Too Many Books

            The MOCA building, looked like a combination of old warehouse and modern museum, a maze of windowless white brick walls, with sunlight shining down from skylights in the rafters.  Volunteers handed out sunset orange building maps, but this did little to help us navigate through 235 individual stands and 2 galleries.  People were everywhere—at least one person manning the booth and two or three browsing.  The few pictures I snapped did nothing to show just how overwhelming the experience was. 

Picture a normal bookstore.  Thousands of books line the shelves in neat organized fashion: first by genre, then by author’s name or possibly subject matter.  A few thoughtful displays provide clusters of the newest, most popular books for easy browsing.  Each cover includes a clear title, a glossy picture, and some sort of summary to let you know what the book is about.  You can easily find what you’re looking for and decide whether or not you want it.

 

Not so easy here, where shelves are instead replaced by folding tables and books lay flat like so many rectangular patches on the tablecloth.  There’s no order, no genre, just whatever each independent company offers.  Some covers have no picture or no title.  And nearly all the books are so obscure, there’s no way of knowing what it’s about until you open the pages and see what’s inside.

Cloth composition books painstakingly stitched with an entry about zombie movies; onions dissected by microscope; a steampunk how-to guide for caring for your octopus; Japanese pocketbooks with textured pages; philosophy written in the dry jargon of academia—these were some of the more comprehensible things I found.  Looking through a single book was like viewing a college art gallery—and there were thousands of them.

One young man gave us a poster of a woman in a pool who liked to take pictures fully clothed in water.  His company had collected this lifetime of photographs and put it in a book.  “You find one thing and do it over and over and it becomes your mantra,” he said.  Then he tried to sell us a book on bricks.

I felt a little sad.  Many of the books represented the work of independent artists struggling to sell their work—much like me.  The art cried out for attention, but I couldn’t give it.  It was too much, too hard, too many images slamming into my brain.  Hard as I tried, I could not find meaning.

So I made my own.  I breathed in the white walls and found art in the collection: collections of pages, collections of books, collections of people.  I could not see the details, yet there was beauty in the patterns.  Rectangles everywhere: tables and books, halls and bricks—forming rows and crosses, trying to reign in the chaos, but never quite succeeding.

Food of Little Tokyo

Ashley’s vegan, so we have to be mindful of the restaurants we visit.  Shojin was the only Japanese vegan we could find.  It was hidden on the top floor of a dilapidated mall, which undermined its fanciness. 

Inside, there were murals of red Magnolias in thick ink strokes and gold prints of a lotus root and a crescent moon.  Our server laid out a sheet of paper as a tablecloth and gave us a carafe of water with a sprig of purple-rooted inside.  She was attentive throughout the meal.

We both ordered sushi.  Mine was called “Purple Treasure” ($12.95) and consisted of deep-fried eggplant smothered in a miso sauce on a brown rice and avocado, topped with strings of chili.  The taste brought back memories of Japan, where I’d first eaten eggplant and miso sushi. The flavor was rich and deep, with a twinge of bitter aftertaste in the nicest, eggplantiest way.

Ashley had what was playfully called “Crunchy Tiger, Hidden Dragon Roll” ($13.95), which had the same brown rice and avocado base, with BBQ seitan, asparagus, tempura crumbs, and spicy mayonnaise—a more American take on sushi.

For dessert we went to a little sweets place called Mikawaya in the easy-to-find Japanese Village Plaza.  I ordered two mochi-latos ($1.25 each): balls of gelato ice cream wrapped in a layer of pounded rice that’s soft and chewy and dusted with flour.  My plum mochi-lato was surprisingly sweet and unique, while the coconut one tasted creamy and had tiny chunks of fresh coconut meat inside.

Weekly Update: Root Canal

Half my tongue is still numb and my cheek feels like a pufferfish.  But my double root canal is finished.  It's a huge relief.  I don't think I realized until I got into that chair how much I dreaded the procedure--not just the financial cost, but the procedure itself.  

First came anesthesia.  The thought of a needle going into my soft gums was worse than the actual pain, which felt like a pen prodding a bruise for several seconds.  Sure it hurt--but it was far from intolerable.  The assistant assured me that this was the most painful part.

Even so, as the dentist prepared to drill I kept thinking that something would go wrong, that out of nowhere would shoot a stabbing pain.  I clenched my hands tight, irrationally wishing for my mother--or someone to be standing by.  I shut my eyes.

The drill grated on my nerves.  I could feel the pressure on the tooth.  But no pain came and I eventually opened my eyes.  Slowly, rational thought returned.  The anesthesia clearly worked.  I was fine.  Still, I couldn't unclench my hands or ease the tension in my body.  Maybe it was the taste of chemicals, the feel of rubber gloves, the sight of dust from my own tooth in the air, and later the smell of smoke as the temporary filling was sealed in.  I couldn't relax.  It was my first root canal.  Until it was over, my animal instincts were high on alert, taking in every sensation, ready to flee at the first warning of danger.

It took about an hour for the two root canals and cost me, on my discount plan, about $2000.  That number will go up when crowns are placed on my teeth to prevent further bacteria from getting inside.  In a way, I'm oddly grateful for getting through this scenario.  I've had to face the nightmare scenario of a root canal with no insurance and it turned out to be quite survivable.  Going to the dentist and even having cavities drilled seems cheap and not so scary.  I think I'll be doing it more often.

Travelogue: Devonshire Cream, Camellias, and Chinese New Year

Ostensibly we went to the Huntington Library as part of a one-day writing retreat.  But I knew in my heart that wasn't going to happen, not for me.  Whenever I visit the botanical gardens and museum displays complex, all I want to do is run around and take pictures.  Don't get me wrong, I do write—just not what I'm supposed to.

Today was no different.  As soon as I saw the red lanterns swaying from the trees—

 



But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Before we could go to Pasadena, we made a quick stop at Alicia's for breakfast.

Alicia's

We only ever seem to visit this little cafe/ gift shop on our way to Huntington Library.  Partially because the hours are so sporadic.  Sunday through Tuesday the restaurant is closed and certain items—like scones—are only served on Fridays and Saturdays.  

And I had to have my scone.  Warm and crumbly, when I split it down the middle, steam wafted out.  Honestly, though, it's not the scone I crave—it's the Devonshire cream.  Specks of vanilla bean float in the thick eggshell-white cream. It spread smooth as margarine and tasted sweeter than butter.  A dab of red jam added the final note.  I bit in and the sugar that crusted the outside of the scone crunched in my teeth.

Alicia's is also a good place to make a pit stop.  Sample lotions line the top shelf of the bathroom.  This trip, I chose to slather Vanilla Quince on my hands.

Blossoms and Herbs

 

The sun blazed hot  by the time we reached the Huntington Library.  It was the kind of blue-sky, short-sleeved January day that made SoCal the envy of those back east buried under snow drifts.  I was in the mood to admire nature, so I strolled down a grove where the camellias were blooming.

 

I'd first noticed camellias in Japan.  The gaudy red flower was the only splash of color in the grim landscape of the Nagoya winter.  There, camellias grew on bushes.  Here in California, they grew on trees: red ones, white one, candy-striped pink ones.  My aunt said camellias remind her of roses, but without the thorns.  Also, without the smells.  I pressed my nose to one, but caught not a whiff of any scent.

 

 

Still, I followed the camellia trees to a group of  Greco-Roman statues, and I enjoyed taking pictures of them--the uglier the better.  A couple of gray squirrels with auburn tails led me to the seasonal garden.  Dusky rouge daylilies, purple flecked foxglove, and Mona Lisa blue anemones graced my path. 

I progressed to the rose garden, but found no roses--just a couple Magnolia trees scattering large pink petals on the stone benches.  The air smelled fragrant.  Georgetown Lemon White Tea read a sign--and I decided then and there that’s exactly what the air smelled like that.

I got lost on my way to Somewhere but found a severely under-appreciated herb garden.  The lady there explained to me that hops, one of the principle ingredients in beer, grew on vine that looked rather like wisteria, and that Listerine contained eucalyptus and thyme.  I rubbed the silver leaves of a velvety plant and the scent of Sage rubbed off.  Plants that looked like wild purple lettuce bore names better suited for fantasy books: "Dragon’s Tongue" and "Bloody Dock." And each plant had some use—whether culinary, medicinal, or cosmetic.  It was really quite fascinating.

Vermillion Paper Lanterns

 Normally at about this time my tourism urge would burn itself out, and I’d settle back to the Chinese tea house for some chilled jasmine tea and wok-fried chicken.  Sitting in a glass menagerie overlooking a pond, I’d finally take out my ipad and begin to type.

Not this time.

Blame the vermillion paper lanterns.  They led me back to my place of refuge, but did not lead me to rest, for here was the main distraction.  Chinese artisans set up stalls to display local crafts and make sales.  A woman embroidered a gold dragon on a loom.  A man made clay figurines.  But I found myself obsessed with the chicken blood stone carving booth.

Sadly, the craft did not involve using the known corrosive properties of chicken blood to bend a slab of stone to the artisan’s will, but instead employed regular carving techniques on a soft stone similar to jade but colored a dull red: chicken blood stone.  Little squares containing with the faint outlines of horses—the Zodiac animal of 2014—and dignified men sat on the table.  I wanted to take a photo of them, but I—forgive me—chickened out.

 

Still, I might have ignored these displays and carried on, but for the performance.  A show of dancers and singers began at three on the outdoor stage nearby, so I plopped on the grass next to a girl in a red Chinese dress and watched.  Also took photos.  And tried to take notes.

Young women in beaded red outfits—I thought they looked like prom dresses, but realizes later they were pants—swung crinkled scarlet scarves in unison.  Young men with gold, lion-headed vests jumped in unison.  The song had the soft rock rhythm of any normal American pop song, but with Chinese vocals and the occasional twinge of a foreign instruments.

The host—who sported a Mohawk—explained that everyone came all the way from China.  He introduced the two singers, a man and a woman who looked to be middle aged.  The host said they sang Chinese pop songs.  If that was pop, then pop in China must be about 40 years behind.  For some reason, the woman’s song reminded me of Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.  Don’t get me wrong, they had strong voices and I enjoyed their performance.  It just wasn’t what I’d call pop.

My favorite performance was the mock Chinese wedding—which was the only one accompanied by what we’d call traditional music. It was boisterous. A man in salt and pepper wig and a bright pink jump suit played the comical matchmaker. While the dances weaved through the audience bringing in canopies and decorations, the matchmaker grabbed a man from the audience for the Chinese wife. They bowed three times and it was done.
 

By now, it was 3:30, the day was over, and the only writing I’d accomplished was half-formed thoughts scribbled in my notebook.  Which would later grow up to be a blog entry.  Which you have now finished reading.

 

Happy Chinese New Year!

Weekly Update: 2-1-14

January has passed.  For me it's been a month of deep reflection shuffling and a mental shifting.  As I transition from merely wanting to write to wanting to publish--whether I get an agent or not--it seems that I cannot be content with dreaming.  I must begin the real work.

Financially, it has been a dismal month.  Last Tuesday my trip to a dentist office revealed the need for not one, but two root canals.  That coupled with a dismal two subbing jobs for all the month of January has forced a kind of breakdown.  I can't keep living day to day.  I need to take the risk of more debt and less free time and go back to school, so that I can get the kind of stable job that pays me a livable wage.

I've had a whole decade to pursue my dream.  And I'm not giving it up.  Rather, I'm acknowldging (finally!) that the dream is not paying very well right now.  Even when I want to do things like go to writing conferences or pay for an editor--things that would help my writing--I can't, because I just don't have the money.  So I need to prioritze making a living.

When I first came to that conclusion, it felt like a defeat.  Like I had admitted I wasted so much time fooling around with my writing.  If I had just taken some practical steps after I came back from Japan, I wouldn't be in this mess.  But by and by I came to think that this is simply turning off one road and into the next.  I made my decision with to whole-heartedly pursue my dream and I stuck with it.  I learned many things, but failed to create a realistic backup plan.  Now I must restrategize  and transition to the newest phase of my life.  Lord knows, it hasn't been my first transition and it won't be the last.

I've kept writing, by the way.  I've been doing a long brainstorm of The Originals, reworking the plot of my first draft, filling in logic potholes and character backstory, and researching everything from the Alaskan tundra to the Jonestown cult.  My notes are their own novella: over 30,000 words.  I've added two new chapters to my Three Floating Coffins story and sent out Company to critique groups.

January has been a month of thought.  I hope that with the arrival of February, I'll be able to transition into action as well.

* * *

On a sunnier note, Congrats to Michelle Knowlden for finishing her second Abishag mystery novella, Indelible Beats.  I wish you all the best luck!

Twenty-year-old college student Leslie Greene believes that dating a handsome lawyer is a fairy tale come true. Unfortunately, he requires that she wear an enchanting wardrobe too. Broke again, Leslie returns to her former job as an Abishag wife (temporary wives who comfort dying men). This time she chooses comatose artist Jordan Ippel, expected to die in his La Jolla, California home before Winter quarter begins (and her boyfriend finds out).

After finding a forged painting and losing the cook, Leslie and her friends must unmask a killer to save the reputation of her husband.

The Necklace of DuChelle... with Pictures

As you know, I recently published my short story, "The Necklace of DuChelle" on Ether.   Yesterday I found out that my story was # 2 on the Top 25 Free Downloads.  YAY!  Thanks to everyone who downloaded it.  To celebrate, I've collected some images that go with the story on pinterest and put them on my blog for you to enjoy.  Hope you like them.

 

* * *

The Necklace of DuChelle

By Rebecca Lang

 

            "We are alone now, my dear Leonce."

            In the garden Eleonore reclines on the step of the marble fountain.  A lazy hand skims the surface of the water, like a cat batting at a goldfish. But her eyes are on me.  It is as though she thinks I am the fish or the mouse or the bird—or whatever small creature she wishes to toy with.  But I am not like her other admirers.  I am weak in only one regard: that I am passionately in love with her.

            "I brought something for you, my darling Eleonore."



 

            I place a golden box on her lap.  To her credit, her eyes do not flit away but continue to linger on my face.  They twinkle, blue as violets.  Sometimes I fancy Eleonore loves me, though it cannot be the constant ache I feel for her.  She is the other half of my soul, and I want to be forever near her.  I want her to be mine alone.

            "I have for you bridal present," I say.  "A final gift before our wedding."

            "Whatever can it be?"

            She lifts the lid.  She smiles. 

            Rows of diamonds drip from a chain, glittering in the afternoon sunlight.  The necklace is extravagant.  Desire glistens in Eleonore's eyes.  She touches the center jewel.

            "How beautiful."

            "It cannot outshine you," I whisper.  "Permit me to put it on."
* * *
For the rest of the story please download the Ether app for your smartphone or tablet and go to this link: http://catalog.etherbooks.com/products/3171  Don't forget to review!

Book Review: Sinking Ships

Title: Sinking Ships: An Abishag's First Mystery
Author: Michelle Knowlden*
Genre: Mystery, Novella

Summary

"For all the stupid reasons people get married, seems like caring for the dying is the kindest."

College student Leslie Greene is already nervous about starting her "job" as an Abishag wife, an unorthodox hospice worker paid to lay in bed beside a dying, comatose man--in this case 83-year old businessman Thomas Crowder.  Leslie anticipates personal scandal, loss of friends, and an end to her dating life.  She does not anticipate finding the day nurse lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, throat slashed, dead.

Suddenly, Leslie finds herself embroiled in a mystery involving family secrets, blackmail, and the wreck of a Portuguese ship.  And the danger keeps growing.  An Abishag wife must watch over her husband--till death do they part.  But who will die first: Thomas... or Leslie?

Review

When I first heard the premise of an Abishag wife, I couldn't believe it.  Who would pay for this service?  It can't be real.  Yet the concept is so thoroughly fleshed out in Sinking Ships and the character's reactions are so realistic that the more I read, the more I found myself thinking, You know, I can actually see some rich, eccentric families paying for the "therapy" of having a young girl warm the bed of their dying father.   It's a testament to Ms. Knowlden's writing that she can take a speculative element like the Abishag wife, wrap it in a mystery, and still make you believe this story can exist in the real world.

A large part of it has to do with the characters, especially the protagonist.  Leslie is a compulsive rule-follower with a streak of inward defiance, a detached professional who forms a sentimental bond with her dying husband.  These contradictions make her all at once human and all at once fascinating.  The heart of this book is really her (non-romantic) relationship with Thomas.  It's surprising that she can form any kind of bond a comatose man, let alone such a tender one.  The scenes where Leslie interacts with Thomas are some of the best in the book.

The story is not perfect.  The first three chapters run a bit slow for my taste, though it picks up in Chapter 4, when the audience gets to see what an Abishag's job actually entails.  The mystery was fine, but I had difficulty keeping track of some of the suspects and the mystery concludes a little abruptly.  All in all, though, I felt the characters were great, the premise fascinating, and  the description was lovely.  It really made me think about death and love and the ways in which we perceive others.  I recommend it.

* Michelle Knowlden is a friend of mine and I did Beta read her book.  Even so, if I hadn't enjoyed it, I wouldn't have reviewed it. 

Weekly Update: 1-24-14

First of all, I want to thank everyone who sent their encouragement in response to last week's rather gloomy update.  Some weeks are harder than others.  I appreciate the love and support.

This week felt better, in large part because my short story, "The Necklace of Duchelle," got published.   Now I've already shilled it in the article below, but let me just say, when the email came I was happy.  Finally, a response that wasn't a rejection!  But I wasn't as escatic as I thought I'd be.  Soon after I read it, my mind flew back to my schedule for the day, worries over an upcoming dentist appointment, and frustration at lack of subbing jobs (I ended up not working this week).  My lack of celebration puzzled me.

I think sometimes I don't let myself celebrate.  As hard as I work to accomplish something, when I get it, my mind suddenly switches to No Big Deal, Move On.  But I'm working on that.  This Saturday I'm going to the Huntington Library with my friends.  I was planning to be frugal--having no money to speak of--but as a celebratory reward, I think I'll allow myself to spend $10 any way I like.  :)

Publishing on Ether

Yesterday, I got published by Ether.  Yay!  This is actually the first time any of my original stories have been published.  Although Ether is not a traditional print publisher, I'm still excited that my little short story can now reach a global audience.

My Story

"The Necklace of DuChelle" is a fantasy-romance flashfiction (less than 1,000 words) with a twist. Two passionate lovers grapple with a magical necklace that strangles the unfaithful.  "The Necklace of DuChelle already has a 5-star review.  Maureen Scott writes: "WOW. I loved this story. It captures the insanity of lust and love with this brilliant short story."

You can find "The Necklace of DuChelle" here: http://catalog.etherbooks.com/products/3171  I'd be grateful for any reviews you can spare.

What is Ether?

Ether is a free app that contains short works (less than 6,000 words) in all genres, by all manner of authors.  Some stories cost money to read, but many (like mine) are free.   My friend Ned introduced it to me.  He told me he enjoyed skimming through the stories and quickly reading whichever looked appealing.

For anyone interested in Ether, the website is: http://www.etherbooks.com/.  You can also download their free App for your tablet and/ or smartphone.

Ether for Writers

Those who wish to submit their work to Ether will need to go their website (not the App) and hit the tab marked "Writers."  Before they tell you anything, they make you create an account and log-in.  I, personally, hate giving away my email address, but to be fair, they didn't spam like some other sites I know.

Writers can choose to have a Bronze or Silver membership.  Bronze members are allowed to post 5 approved works each year, while Silver members get to post 10--but they have to pay an annual fee of 25 pounds.  (Apparently, Ether is UK based).  Bronze members do not have to pay.

Before you submit, you have to create an Author's profile, which includes your name, your pen name (if any), a photograph of your face, 6 words to describe you, and a longer Author's Bio.  They are very picky about the photo and the six words, an they WILL reject your story if you mess these parts up.  Fortunately, they give examples of what is and what is not acceptable. 

This is the photo I used for myself. 

Basically, the photo should clearly show your full face (and only your face) with no distraction from the background.  The 6 words should work together harmoniously, like the line of a poem, not just be descriptors you spit out at random.   Mine was "lover of fantasy, inspired by Japan."

When your profile is complete, you can submit your story.  A normal Word document works fine, but make sure you check the spelling and grammar, because they won't do it for you.  You select the genre for the story, write a brief summary, and throw in some tags.  You submit and wait for them to get back to you.

It can take Bronze members up to 90 days to get their story approved/ denied.  Silver members receive a response in 14 days.  However, I signed up for a Bronze membership and I got my approval one week later.  (Update: my next two stories, however, took a month and a half for approval.) It came as an email, which helpfully provided me with a link to my story.  I was also notified by email when I received a review.

I'm not sure what they're looking for.  Are they just screening to make sure you don't commit the grossest violations of spelling, grammar, storytelling, and word count?  Or are they judging the content?  All I know is that the first story I submitted made it in.

When your story is published on Ether, you retain the copyright of your work.  In the Terms and Conditions, it states, "This agreement provides Ether Books Ltd with the non-exclusive global right and license to publish the submitted content [...]"  This means if you want to publish elsewhere, you can.  The writer also has the right to remove their content, if they so desire.  Just send them an email and they'll remove your story within 90 days.

Ether will offer your story as free or paid, and I don't think you get any choice in the matter.  Certainly, your first few stories will be free, as you are building an audience.  Once they do start pricing your story (usually for 69 pence UK or, I believe, 99 cents US) Ether will pay you "20% of net receipts." They will accrue the royalties and send the money to your Paypal only "when an amount of 25 pounds has been reached."

My Thoughts

But for me, it's not about the money.  It's about getting the work out there for others to read.  Building a reputation is key.  I want--and hope--my stories will serve as positive examples of writing so that in the future, people will remember my name and give my longer novels a chance.

There are a couple of things I like about Ether.

1. You Control the Copyright

One of my friends told me how she published her short stories in a famous magazine.  Years later, produces were eying her character for a movie.  However, since she sold the copyright to the magazine, that magazine controlled her characters and so she had to turn the producers down.  I'm not sure if that's still how copyright works, but it gives room to pause.  The more you can hold onto the rights of your work, the better.

2.  The Brand is You

If you submit to a normal magazine, your work will get tossed into the general mix.  Even if someone likes your story, they may forget your name.  But here, your face is selling the story.  If someone likes one story, they'll check out others--which are conveniently listed right there for them to read.  If you write enough good stories, you can build a reputation for yourself--which might carry on outside of Ether.  Eventually, people might read your novels.

At least, that's my theory.

Granted, I've only been looking at Ether for two weeks.  So anyone more knowledgeable than I, please feel free to respond.