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On the road to self publishing – ebook formatting

I finished formatting my ebook. Yes, it’s now officially ready for release.

I thought it would be hell since poems have a different way of formatting even if they are all left aligned. I also had several poems running all over the page.

I contacted several book formatters and they gave me all kinds of responses when I sent a list of things I needed done.  They all were skeptical, telling me it won’t look like it does on print. One formatter though, assured me he could do it. He even did a sample of one of the poems that has a different look with the lines all over the page. He agreed, but the funny thing was when I uploaded the book he suddenly raised his price from USD 10 to USD 200 giving me reasons that didn’t make sense for that huge price difference.

So there I was stressing out about what to do for two weeks, going up and down with formatters. Should I pay so much to get something done or should I take a chance on someone who was offering much less but cautioned me saying it might not look exactly as I want it to look?

Then a a couple of friends on Facebook assured me that,

a). it was ok if the poems in the ebook didn’t look the same as the print. Because the ereader takes on the frames and needs of the readers including font size and type that can be changed, it will never look exactly the way I want it to, and

b).book formatting was easy and there were several places offering it for free.

That made me decide to do it myself. After all, I did format the book for print and had it on PDF. What could possibly go wrong with the ePUB? I got rid of the unusual formatting for the few poems that had words crisscrossing the pages and made them all left aligned (it would have all become left aligned even if I didn’t change it).

They were right. It wasn’t hard.

I uploaded the book on D2D and after a few changes, it came out looking just the way I wanted. Wasn’t expecting that, but I’m thrilled. I’ve been playing around with the draft, making changes, but it’s done. What a relief.

Next step, uploading the PDF for POD and sending for a sample to check before pressing the publish button.

 

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The Way It Is

We can’t sing certain songs
that speak of our glorious past or our
identity. We are shamed. Tunes
hummed softly to walls that sometimes listen but
don’t record words barely coherent they
brush cheeks against hard surfaces
and sigh to winds passing outside. We
can’t be proud of our
history, the long winding road
of deeds that made us who we
are, those many, many years of development,
innovation, education,
love for humanity and the land we
live in, the great strides we
took into the future that brought us
here where we are, right now. We
are ridiculed, made to feel stupid, those years
slowly erased from memory one word at a time,
dissected, analyzed and thrown away as
not being worth a cent. Our
history. My history that sleeps crammed tight
inside cupboards, imprisoned behind glass
walls in a white man’s home, forgotten, yearning to
return but held back by words agreed with
forced signatures while mothers watched
their infants balanced on swords. We
aren’t allowed to practice our beliefs, our
religion of non-violence. We
are looked down as being inferior practicing an
ancient wisdom they claim has no place
in this new world order rolling in. Everything is being
re-written to suit the white man
somewhere. We
are forced to accept the white man’s ways
and beliefs, his lifestyle, his food filled with things
that harm our bodies. We
are persuaded to sell our values, our businesses,
infrastructure, money making properties that are
made to look as disasters, failures in our
incapable hands, handed over to foreigners with
no idea of their true worth, to appease
buffoons in political power. We watch helpless as our
lands, those many tufts of earth that make up
this place we call home, nurtured with the blood of
warriors that died to save it for a future,
are torn up, lines drawn for
ownership claimed from foreign shores.
Slowly, slowly we
change, turn once again to become slaves to
whiteness this time not controlled with
guns held against us
but through agreements signed in cold climes
behind hushed doors. We
are compelled to obey the rules
follow the oil man’s religion. Shroud our
women in darkness. Our
words are twisted like vines, tied up,
strangled. Simple meanings deconstructed, what we
meant is portrayed as something negative, ugly,
best left unsaid thrown into the gutter. We
become nothing. Beaten up our
backs curved in surrender aged beyond our
years. Coerced
into submission to the white master
oil master coming in different clothes, speaking
through different tongues sliced in two, sugar
coated to please
controlling through regional bullies,
political prophets and
religious puppets, money exercising utmost
authority while debauchery reigns,
reigns, reigns and thugs party with not a care in
the world and the police cheer and the public
cry foul and no one listens for ears
hide inside potholes and words roll in the dirt
desperately waiting for the rains.

© 2016 Shirani Rajapakse

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Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts

Earth Song is featured in LIJLA Vol 4 No1 February 2016. Go here or read it below.

 

Earth Song

 

I am the weeping earth cringing

in pain when you dig me up, pulling out

 

limbs, entrails leaving me to hemorrhage.

Shocked, in excruciating pain, no one hears my

 

silent cries. Children orphaned, lives torn apart,

fracking my veins drinking me dry. Parched

 

I crumble into pieces. I am the silent sky watching

anger whizz by to explode in places you don’t like.

 

Not yours to care while I listen

to the cries of the weak

 

trying to make sense of it all

amidst terror raining down from

 

above. I am the roaring waves, the deep

darkness under heaving waters, flowing rivers

 

gurgling streams and silent lakes that stand still as

mirrors for clouds to comb their hairs. You

 

damn me everywhere but I lift my

head straining to rise, course through the

 

way I want and not how you think

I should. I am the raging fire that burns, taking

 

the trees with me chasing the birds away,

the deer, rabbits and wild beasts

 

that hide within my voluminous cloaks. Trees, how

I love to sway to birds tunes, the beat of squirrels feet,

 

weave my magic through the land, burrowing in deep,

standing up tall reaching high to the skies waving

 

my many arms in the breeze holding onto life. I am

woman I am life I am earth and I bleed.