We All Get Better

Recently I discovered a collection of short stories by one of my favorite sci-fi/fantasy writers. The reason I hadn’t read them before is because these tales were early works of said author. Very early. I devoured them with great zeal and was….rather disappointed. It wasn’t that the stories were bad…a couple were ahhhhh worthy…it was that none of them showed the sparkle I’ve come to expect. I couldn’t put my finger on it; the plots were more or less good, the writing technically great, but that special something just wasn’t there.

After I finished I got out my first story. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t that good either. OK plot, only a few edits I wouldn’t have made today, but it didn’t wow. I can see why it never sold.

Reading the early works of one of my favorite (and famous) writers made me feel a whole lot better about my stuff. We all start out somewhat shy of what will develop into our own personal style, and even after achieving that, we can all strive to get better and better. This experience has also caused me to contemplate just what does make a story sing beyond plot, characters, setting, technical expertise...I know it when I read it, but that's not all that helpful. Hummmm...

In the meantime, I can only hope that my debut story never gets dug out from its worthy grave.

Wormholes

If you are a genre writer I’m sure you’ve had this conversation:

Them: “Oh you’re a writer? Me too! What do you write?”
Me: “Lots of things, mostly fantasy and sci-fi.”
Them: “Oh.”
Me: “What do you do?” (Already knowing the answer.)
Them: “I write literary.”

Ah yes, literary, where an apple is an apple and never a magical fruit. That’s not quite right; an apple would be a metaphor, perhaps standing in for a woman who can never be pregnant. Did you get that? A metaphor, usually presented over and over just in case you were too dense to understand the first time. Sigh.

Lately some fantasy and sci-fi writers, perhaps to get literary recognition, have dived into that (to me) pompous arena. Over the past couple of years I’ve read, and I kid you not, at least ten stories about metaphoric spacial wormholes appearing in human flesh: brains, hearts, legs, arms, one day they woke up and there it was. Of course, they weren't just wormholes, they were really talking about alienation.

I’ve railed before about Ant Rand. Love her stories, but I don’t like Objectivisim jammed down my throat. My husband asked me the other day if I thought literary works and Ayn Rand books were the same.

Not to me. Was Ayn Rand an intellectual snob? Yeah. She believed intelligent people should get better treatment and more stuff. But she made no pretense of this and never tried to hide her beliefs. You know from the first few pages what she is going to pound you with.

Literary works, in my opinion, are a totally different animal. They try to hide the “real” meaning within heavy, confusing prose, but then present their goal again and again just in case you don’t “get” it. Every time I read one of those stories it feels like the author is saying I’m smart, can you tell I’m smart, and if you can’t figure out the puzzle you’re stupid.

I used to be able to avoid literary fiction, but now it’s in every fantasy and sci-fi collection I pick up. But then I read something by one of genre’s (and proud of it) best writers and laughed my ass off.

Luckily, there was no wormhole in it.

The Return of the Zombie-Genre by Ursula K. Le Guin

Something woke her in the night. Was it steps she heard, coming up the stairs — somebody in wet training shoes, climbing the stairs very slowly... but who? And why wet shoes? It hadn't rained. There, again, the heavy, soggy sound. But it hadn't rained for weeks, it was only sultry, the air close, with a cloying hint of mildew or rot, sweet rot, like very old finiocchiona, or perhaps liverwurst gone green. There, again — the slow, squelching, sucking steps, and the foul smell was stronger. Something was climbing her stairs, coming closer to her door. As she heard the click of heel bones that had broken through rotting flesh, she knew what it was. But it was dead, dead! God damn that Chabon, dragging it out of the grave where she and the other serious writers had buried it to save serious literature from its polluting touch, the horror of its blank, pustular face, the lifeless, meaningless glare of its decaying eyes! What did the fool think he was doing? Had he paid no attention at all to the endless rituals of the serious writers and their serious critics — the formal expulsion ceremonies, the repeated anathemata, the stakes driven over and over through the heart, the vitriolic sneers, the endless, solemn dances on the grave? Did he not want to preserve the virginity of Yaddo? Had he not even understand the importance of the distinction between sci fi and counterfactual fiction? Could he not see that Cormac McCarthy — although everything in his book (except the wonderfully blatant use of an egregiously obscure vocabulary) was remarkably similar to a great many earlier works of science fiction about men crossing the country after a holocaust — could never under any circumstances be said to be a sci fi writer, because Cormac McCarthy was a serious writer and so by definition incapable of lowering himself to commit genre? Could it be that that Chabon, just because some mad fools gave him a Pulitzer, had forgotten the sacred value of the word mainstream? No, she would not look at the thing that had squelched its way into her bedroom and stood over her, reeking of rocket fuel and kryptonite, creaking like an old mansion on the moors in a wuthering wind, its brain rotting like a pear from within, dripping little grey cells through its ears. But its call on her attention was, somehow, imperative, and as it stretched out its hand to her she saw on one of the half-putrefied fingers a fiery golden ring. She moaned. How could they have buried it in such a shallow grave and then just walked away, abandoning it? "Dig it deeper, dig it deeper!" she had screamed, but they hadn't listened to her, and now where were they, all the other serious writers and critics, when she needed them? Where was her copy of Ulysses? All she had on her bedside table was a Philip Roth novel she had been using to prop up the reading lamp. She pulled the slender volume free and raised it up between her and the ghastly golem — but it was not enough. Not even Roth could save her. The monster laid its squamous hand on her, and the ring branded her like a burning coal. Genre breathed its corpse-breath in her face, and she was lost. She was defiled. She might as well be dead. She would never, ever get invited to write for Granta now.

The Final Frontier

I love Star Trek in all of its reincarnations and adaptations; I even watched the cartoon series with great fervor. I love reading sci-fi too. I’ve written some short sci-fi stories, but until now never attempted a novel.

Why? It’s hard. And it’s not my bailiwick; fantasy worlds also must be constructed, but I know my fairies. I’m also fairly well versed in world religions, so with a little research, I can successfully add a spiritual element or two in between the elves and dryads.

But sci-fi…whew. Aliens have to make sense; you can’t have them be all bug eyed and green skinned and then have them prancing around on earth, um, someone would notice. The science has to make sense. A unique culture must be invented. Language. Arts. Social mores….eeeeeeek.

But I’m doing it. Sci-fi is something I haven’t done yet. Since I've read a lot of it, at least I’m familiar with the genre. And, although I can’t add fairies, I might just be able to sneak in my signature spiritual bit.

It’s scary. But I’ll try to boldly go where I’ve not gone before…

Dresden Files

I’ve just read, no, consumed, all of the available Dresden Files books, including a collection of short stories in the same world. They are riveting, fun, exciting, can’t put ‘em down sort of books.

For you writers this may be no surprise, but I can no longer read for pleasure as well as I used to. That is an unfortunate side effect of the writing profession, I’ve come to realize. I’m constantly worrying if I will unconsciously steal something, I assess why this book is popular, and….I see things my own publishers nag me (rightly so) about…overused words, favorite phrases, “mistakes” in narrator voice.

Jim Butcher does all of those. I’ve found myself mentally whacking out unneeded words and substituting others for his favorites. He pops from 1st person narrative to using an omnipresent first, which is a little jarring.

But you know what? His books are SO good, so fast paced that I don’t do my editing thing nearly as much. The man can tell a story. His characters, well, I love them. I would like to meet them. I want to be friends with them. Well, some of them. His monsters are very creepy. And just when I think he can’t take the plot any further, I mean really…he’s on book fourteen for heaven’s sake…he does.

These books are true escapism, even for a writer. But be warned: once you start you can’t stop.

It’s Harder Than It Looks

I’ve mentioned this before, but it seems like everyone can sing…or write. Nary a few words about my latest book escapes my lips when the asker (and hey, weren’t they asking about me) launches into his or her own desire to write.

I’m cool with that. Mostly. Maybe they do have a book in there. And I’m willing, within reason, to help.  I can’t read every manuscript because I’d never get anything done, but I will offer advice, such as I have, to anyone.

I was talking with a writer the other day. I read his book because he’s a friend. It was good. But as we talked about the other part of writing, aka, marketing, rejections, and more rejections, I could see his heart sinking.

He was sad to find out you have to wait a long time to get a book back from a publisher or agent, and sometimes “no” is simply they never write or send back. You can’t, for the most part, simultaneously submit. Agents and publishers are sometimes less than kind. They can be excited one minute and then decide they don’t want your material. It doesn’t pay very well at first. And on and on. At one point he whispered that’s not fair.

Yeah…sometimes it isn’t. When I’m feeling that way I bring to mind a Jareth quote about unfairness from the movie Labyrinth: you say that so often, I wonder what your basis of comparison is? Publishing is a business and business isn’t personal when it does what it does. It’s just business.That's my basis of comparison.

But of course, that doesn’t help much when you get a mean rejection or never hear back from an agent or publisher. I felt bad for my friend, but that conversation also made me realize I have toughed it out, and I will continue to tough it out. Writing is not for the faint of heart. If nothing else, I can be glad for my stalwart, if often bruised, one. Everyone who has ever sent anything off into the Never Neverland of publishing should be.

Jareth would be so proud. At least I would hope he wouldn't give me one  his nasty peaches. :-)

Amazon Marketing

OK, so my husband likes to take surveys. Of all kinds. I think it's kind of cute. Me, not so much, maybe because I spent a great deal of my life designing them. But anyway, Gary was taking one on what his religious belief's might be (he knows, but he likes to see what a survey would tell him), and lo and behold, up pops an add for my new book beside it. I do tend to put spiritual undertones in my books this one no exception, so that was a nice placement . :-)

Thanks Amazon.



Another Sad Passing

First Anne, now Ray, sigh. His works will live forever. Rest in Peace.