So you may have noticed... I stopped writing for a while.
Stories. Books. This blog.
I completely stopped writing everything except for day-job-related minutia and a few other important bits.*
When I started my writing journey during the summer of 2007--yes, almost nine years ago now--I had big dreams. I thought I would be able to conquer the world and find some kind of fame as an author. I was trying to escape some very sour realities at the time. The first year or so after my second son, Max, was born challenged me like nothing else had in life. If you need details, they're all here in the archives of this blog.
I had started writing with big dreams, and reality intervened. I played the agent game with my first book and garnered more rejections than I care to count. It wasn't a very good book and my query letters sucked, too. I started writing short fiction and found I had a taste for it. Goals evolved. Someday, maybe, I would qualify for a writers' group. I set my sights on the HWA and became an affiliate member.
And I wrote another book or two, played the agent game again and even came just a little closer.
What if I could become an active member of the HWA? It would only take three professional sales...
I published more stories than I should have, some of them mildly embarrassing in hindsight, but they are all my progeny, ugly or not. The rejections piled up, but so did my little black ribbons--those publications I chased and chased and finally caught. Some of them are defunct now, Nossa Morte, Necrotic Tissue... I finally made the pages of Shimmer. I sold my first two professional rate stories to Shock Totem and the HWA's Blood Lite II anthology.
And then my third son was born and my wife committed suicide. My writing sputtered to a stop. It's all here if you want to dig. It's all here to read and process--right in the archives of this blog.
But what you will not find is how I lost my writing way. Chasing publication in honored magazines and anthologies made me a better writer. I cared, once. My first wife's death didn't end my writing career. I did.
You see, once upon a time, there was a gold rush. Ebooks happened in a big way. Self-publishing happened. Money sang a siren song not unlike that which led a deluded young writer during my first year. I no longer wrote for the right reasons.
Here's a hint: it's not about money. It never has been, and if organizations like the HWA expect professional pay to be a gatekeeper in the active society, it isn't because that pay means more than the commitment to achieve that pay. Members should care that much about their craft. The writing--the stories--are everything.
I've written a little since then. I've dabbled. I published a few stories a year or so back and sold my third professional rate piece. I could be an active HWA member, but I'm not. I've always needed a goal in front of me, not behind. I need that distant shore, something to chase, something to make me better again.
And I found it. The stories are there. I just need to tell them, right.
My son asked if I still blogged. Here's your answer--and I don't even know if blogging is something one does anymore.
*you can ask Kim about the asterisk
Showing posts with label thoughts on writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts on writing. Show all posts
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Why Readers, Scientifically, are People, Too
A few weeks ago my dear sister shared an article titled "Why Readers, Scientifically, Are The Best People To Fall In Love With." Improper title capitalization rules and superfluous prepositions aside, I take issue with the article. What would one expect, coming from Elite Daily, a site, I must admit, I hadn't stumbled across before but calls itself "the voice of Generation Y." Isn't that a perfect title for a Gen Y site? Elite. Yes, yes you are. Maybe that's my problem. As a Gen Xer, I'm an old fart, skeptical of everything.
Even myself. And I'm also not all that special. I'm just a person with an opinion and about three pounds of neurons in my skull, but I do like to think.
I learned the habit of asking questions of EVERYTHING in undergrad at Kansas State University, probably even before that. Richard Fogg, if you're out there, your lab section of Psych 350: Experimental Methods in Psychology way back in the fall of 1995 was brilliant. Thanks for teaching me true inquiry, critical thinking, and objectivity--and the cool lesson about what happens to a person when they come to the emergency room on a heroin overdose from your days in LA. That was awesome.
But I digress. A little.
I don't believe, and never will, that reading makes a person more empathic. That would be a causal relationship, one the author of the article implies with lines like "readers are proven to be nicer and smarter than the average human, and maybe the only people worth falling in love with on this shallow hell on earth." Wow.
While readers may be smarter and nicer than the average human (14 + years in education make me question both of those claims), I do not believe for an instant, not one millisecond, reading makes a person smarter or, and here's the most important disbelief, nicer than anyone else. There's simply a correlation between reading and empathy, reading and intelligence, reading and "theory of mind" (the ability to hold opinions, beliefs and interests apart from one's own). I've known plenty of kids who could strip a 1968 Chevy Camaro and rebuild it who couldn't read all that well. How, exactly, are we defining intelligence?
Perhaps empathic, intelligent, and "mindful" people simply are drawn to reading. Perhaps.
But there's more. The author of "Why Readers...," Lauren Martin, cites another study which suggests kids who have more stories read to them have better theories of mind. I have no doubt--but using the word "prove" as in "results that prove the more stories children have read to them, the keener their [mindfulness]" really trips my critical analysis trigger. Maybe the interaction with people is the key, the common factors--good, healthy relationships with caregivers or other adults doing the reading--is the real seed of mindfulness and empathy. Show me a study suggesting a robot can read books to kids and those kids are more mindful than anyone else... well, I guess we're doing a whole lot of supposing without real results and a whole slew of ethical concerns. I haven't read the original studies, but these seem more correlative (collecting data and finding relationships) than causal (actual, controlled studies).
Are readers "the best people to fall in love with"? I don't know. But empathic people are nice. Mindful people are very nice. I'm in love with a woman who is empathic, mindful, and intelligent. She's nice. And while she reads ALL THE TIME I don't know that either of us have finished more than a book or two in the time we've known each other.
I believe reading is very important--Martin cites several other studies "proving" readers are the only worthwhile people on the planet--but it is not the only thing which creates a human. Reading is not the only factor which contributes to intelligence, empathy, and mindfulness.
And yes... this is coming from a guy who writes. And writers need readers. Did I just alienate all of you?
(crickets)
Even myself. And I'm also not all that special. I'm just a person with an opinion and about three pounds of neurons in my skull, but I do like to think.
I learned the habit of asking questions of EVERYTHING in undergrad at Kansas State University, probably even before that. Richard Fogg, if you're out there, your lab section of Psych 350: Experimental Methods in Psychology way back in the fall of 1995 was brilliant. Thanks for teaching me true inquiry, critical thinking, and objectivity--and the cool lesson about what happens to a person when they come to the emergency room on a heroin overdose from your days in LA. That was awesome.
But I digress. A little.
I don't believe, and never will, that reading makes a person more empathic. That would be a causal relationship, one the author of the article implies with lines like "readers are proven to be nicer and smarter than the average human, and maybe the only people worth falling in love with on this shallow hell on earth." Wow.
While readers may be smarter and nicer than the average human (14 + years in education make me question both of those claims), I do not believe for an instant, not one millisecond, reading makes a person smarter or, and here's the most important disbelief, nicer than anyone else. There's simply a correlation between reading and empathy, reading and intelligence, reading and "theory of mind" (the ability to hold opinions, beliefs and interests apart from one's own). I've known plenty of kids who could strip a 1968 Chevy Camaro and rebuild it who couldn't read all that well. How, exactly, are we defining intelligence?
Perhaps empathic, intelligent, and "mindful" people simply are drawn to reading. Perhaps.
But there's more. The author of "Why Readers...," Lauren Martin, cites another study which suggests kids who have more stories read to them have better theories of mind. I have no doubt--but using the word "prove" as in "results that prove the more stories children have read to them, the keener their [mindfulness]" really trips my critical analysis trigger. Maybe the interaction with people is the key, the common factors--good, healthy relationships with caregivers or other adults doing the reading--is the real seed of mindfulness and empathy. Show me a study suggesting a robot can read books to kids and those kids are more mindful than anyone else... well, I guess we're doing a whole lot of supposing without real results and a whole slew of ethical concerns. I haven't read the original studies, but these seem more correlative (collecting data and finding relationships) than causal (actual, controlled studies).
Are readers "the best people to fall in love with"? I don't know. But empathic people are nice. Mindful people are very nice. I'm in love with a woman who is empathic, mindful, and intelligent. She's nice. And while she reads ALL THE TIME I don't know that either of us have finished more than a book or two in the time we've known each other.
I believe reading is very important--Martin cites several other studies "proving" readers are the only worthwhile people on the planet--but it is not the only thing which creates a human. Reading is not the only factor which contributes to intelligence, empathy, and mindfulness.
And yes... this is coming from a guy who writes. And writers need readers. Did I just alienate all of you?
(crickets)
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
I Planned to Discuss Perserverance, but I Gave Up
My kids give up too easily. I'm not sure if it's their generation's epidemic or anything, but I notice it with some of the kids at school, too. The district where I work even had a school improvement plan a year or so ago focused on trying to build perseverance in our students.
We gave up. I wonder what that says...
Seriously, though, kids raised on the world at the click of a mouse quit easily. For example (I'm always armed with them): my ten-year-old and video games. I can imagine the groans. "Video games? Really? I came here for a reasonable discussion about an important topic." Work with me. Video games have been a significant part of our modern tapestry, and love them or leave them, they aren't going anywhere. Owen loves to play games. He spends a quite possibly unreasonable amount of time in front of his computer, a television, or his 3DS. Yes, he plays plenty of games. Most modern games have built in learning curves to keep kids playing at a relatively simply level until they're really good. It's one of the major advances behind the scenes--face it, graphics and sound take all the glory, but a game's artificial intelligence has taken big strides.
Where Owen stumbles, however, is when he attempts anything with a lengthy quest or story or--Zeus forbid--a retro game. He wants to love The Legend of Zelda, but it's hard. He's started several games and given in when the going is tough from "start."
Okay, I'm being a bit harsh. I remember the hours Owen spent trying to conquer various shortcuts on Mario Kart Wii... the kid will stick with something, sometimes. But you go back a little further, Zelda, Mega Man, even Earthworm Jim or Ghouls and Ghosts for Sega Genesis, and he's done. And it isn't just Owen. I do see it at school, as both a teacher and a counselor. Kids give up when any task is too hard. Instead of trying again. And again. And again.
Maybe our tools, like the AI on those new video games, are just too powerful. Why work hard when a machine will do the heavy lifting? Why think and muddle through a problem when Google can probably cough up 10,000 solutions within a fraction of a second?
What I want here is good, old-fashioned stubbornness. I crave the kind of tenacity which kept me and my buddies up all night, stumbling through Hyrule's dark dungeons without the benefit of dozens of online walk-throughs and wikis. Anyone of my generation who played the original Metal Gear on NES will remember how damn hard it was just to get Snake to the first building without dying.
As a writer, perseverance has been my greatest ally. I set out to qualify for active status in the Horror Writers Association about seven years ago. It took a few years to sell my first professional rate piece, and this summer, I've been able to finally make that third qualifying sale. Seven years. Technology has made "success" as a writer far to easy to achieve. Someone turns down your story? Simply self-publish through the miracle of ebooks or the InterwebTM. But none of these quick fixes will ever help a writer hone his or her craft. Perseverance is priceless.
I want my kids to stick with difficult tasks. I want them to ask tough questions and solve challenging problems. I want them to never, ever quit. And I'll work all the rest of my days to make sure they know the value of perseverance.
We gave up. I wonder what that says...
Seriously, though, kids raised on the world at the click of a mouse quit easily. For example (I'm always armed with them): my ten-year-old and video games. I can imagine the groans. "Video games? Really? I came here for a reasonable discussion about an important topic." Work with me. Video games have been a significant part of our modern tapestry, and love them or leave them, they aren't going anywhere. Owen loves to play games. He spends a quite possibly unreasonable amount of time in front of his computer, a television, or his 3DS. Yes, he plays plenty of games. Most modern games have built in learning curves to keep kids playing at a relatively simply level until they're really good. It's one of the major advances behind the scenes--face it, graphics and sound take all the glory, but a game's artificial intelligence has taken big strides.
Where Owen stumbles, however, is when he attempts anything with a lengthy quest or story or--Zeus forbid--a retro game. He wants to love The Legend of Zelda, but it's hard. He's started several games and given in when the going is tough from "start."
Okay, I'm being a bit harsh. I remember the hours Owen spent trying to conquer various shortcuts on Mario Kart Wii... the kid will stick with something, sometimes. But you go back a little further, Zelda, Mega Man, even Earthworm Jim or Ghouls and Ghosts for Sega Genesis, and he's done. And it isn't just Owen. I do see it at school, as both a teacher and a counselor. Kids give up when any task is too hard. Instead of trying again. And again. And again.
Maybe our tools, like the AI on those new video games, are just too powerful. Why work hard when a machine will do the heavy lifting? Why think and muddle through a problem when Google can probably cough up 10,000 solutions within a fraction of a second?
What I want here is good, old-fashioned stubbornness. I crave the kind of tenacity which kept me and my buddies up all night, stumbling through Hyrule's dark dungeons without the benefit of dozens of online walk-throughs and wikis. Anyone of my generation who played the original Metal Gear on NES will remember how damn hard it was just to get Snake to the first building without dying.
As a writer, perseverance has been my greatest ally. I set out to qualify for active status in the Horror Writers Association about seven years ago. It took a few years to sell my first professional rate piece, and this summer, I've been able to finally make that third qualifying sale. Seven years. Technology has made "success" as a writer far to easy to achieve. Someone turns down your story? Simply self-publish through the miracle of ebooks or the InterwebTM. But none of these quick fixes will ever help a writer hone his or her craft. Perseverance is priceless.
I want my kids to stick with difficult tasks. I want them to ask tough questions and solve challenging problems. I want them to never, ever quit. And I'll work all the rest of my days to make sure they know the value of perseverance.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Author's Notes: "The Thing About Ray's Smile"
I often find myself writing a story without any idea where it will land.
(I really wanted to type "end up" but the dangling preposition really burns my eyes.)
"The Thing About Ray's Smile," recently published at Black Heart Magazine, is one of those stories. I had the idea for an image, a really cheeky teenager, and one of my favorite stories, T. Coraghessan Boyle's "Greasy Lake," blended together to tell the very short story of--
Okay, spoiler alert. Read "The Thing About Ray's Smile" first, please.
Ready?
--a teenager who makes a really dumb decision and it costs him his life. The bad decision? To throw an empty beer bottle at a boat full of what he thinks at the time are kids from the local junior college. That image--the bottle arcing through the air in slow motion--comes from a moment in high school when a buddy of mine tossed an empty glass bottle (only root beer in our case) against the side of a building as we cruised past a police car. I feared we'd be pulled over, but weren't. In Ray's case, the result was worse.
"The Thing About Ray's Smile" is unclassifiable. Yes, the end is horrific, but it isn't horror. It's not a crime story, either, even though a crime happens. Literary? Okay. Maybe. It's definitely dark and I enjoy the word play. It's the kind of story I enjoyed writing even without a clear landing in mind.
Thanks to Laura Roberts and Black Heart Magazine for given "Ray" life...
Irony?
(I really wanted to type "end up" but the dangling preposition really burns my eyes.)
"The Thing About Ray's Smile," recently published at Black Heart Magazine, is one of those stories. I had the idea for an image, a really cheeky teenager, and one of my favorite stories, T. Coraghessan Boyle's "Greasy Lake," blended together to tell the very short story of--
Okay, spoiler alert. Read "The Thing About Ray's Smile" first, please.
Ready?
--a teenager who makes a really dumb decision and it costs him his life. The bad decision? To throw an empty beer bottle at a boat full of what he thinks at the time are kids from the local junior college. That image--the bottle arcing through the air in slow motion--comes from a moment in high school when a buddy of mine tossed an empty glass bottle (only root beer in our case) against the side of a building as we cruised past a police car. I feared we'd be pulled over, but weren't. In Ray's case, the result was worse.
"The Thing About Ray's Smile" is unclassifiable. Yes, the end is horrific, but it isn't horror. It's not a crime story, either, even though a crime happens. Literary? Okay. Maybe. It's definitely dark and I enjoy the word play. It's the kind of story I enjoyed writing even without a clear landing in mind.
Thanks to Laura Roberts and Black Heart Magazine for given "Ray" life...
Irony?
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Dollar Signs
Money kills creativity. Money breeds censorship. Money destroys art. Money breeds derivative, "safe" art.
Once money enters the equation, creativity suffers. Yes, it can offer powerful inspiration, but think about what Rod Serling has to say about "pre-censorship" in this clip:
If a writer is thinking about what is and is not acceptable even before a piece is written, it kills the creative process. Damon Knight offers a very important piece of advice in his seminal Creating Short Fiction. To paraphrase, a writer should never say "no" to his/her subconscious in the creative process. It seems Serling's mention of "pre-censorship" is just that. It hacks creativity at the roots.
And here's a little something from Ira Glass about the time involved to make your art what you want it to be:
Did you catch the part about time (Mr. Glass talks about "years")? It takes time for a creative individual's ability to catch up with her/his taste. It takes time for creativity to really bloom. Money kills that time. Money makes everything urgent. If you need the money, you will do whatever it takes--even cutting corners in a process that just can't be rushed.
Wait, you say. What are you saying? Are you saying writers should write "for the love"? That's an insult, Aaron. Writers should be paid. Didn't you post that video from Harlan Ellison ranting about paying writers? Have you changed your mind?
No. Absolutely not. But--and this is the important moment, the epiphany--if a creative type does his/her work solely for money, that work is robbed of its potential. For example, if I write a story solely to try and publish at a specific market because said market pays well, I'm no longer thinking about the story. I'm thinking of the market and of dollar signs, and I might just make some (conscious or unconscious) decisions based on the potential pay day. It's why I have a hard time writing stories to target for specific anthologies. I'd rather write the stories I need to write and then find them homes. It's how I work.
And there's another, more insidious cancer growing here... self-publishing. If it takes time for ability to catch up with taste, it will take time before work is ready for the public. I know mine did--and even upon my earliest publications, some of my stories were not all that good. Read the first page or two of a self-published novel from someone with no other experience or "time" at the craft. Rarely will you find anything I'd call literature. And yes, speculative fiction is literature--it can still be art. It takes time. You can't rush it.
I'm still working. I'm also blessed that now, at this point in my life, I don't need to make money with my creative endeavors. I'm free to let them be the best they can--even if it takes the rest of my life for them to be where I want them to be.
Neil Peart explains in Beyond the Lighted Stage that upon the creation of 2112, Rush decided to do it their way or go home. If the record company pulled out the rug, so be it. They would remain true to their vision. One of the greatest rock drummers of all time was willing to go work at his family's tractor dealership rather than compromise on his art. I hope all creative types have the time and financial resolve to be so uncompromising.
Hell yes I do.
(And did you see how I worked three of my heroes into one blog post? Well played, Aaron. Well played.)
Once money enters the equation, creativity suffers. Yes, it can offer powerful inspiration, but think about what Rod Serling has to say about "pre-censorship" in this clip:
If a writer is thinking about what is and is not acceptable even before a piece is written, it kills the creative process. Damon Knight offers a very important piece of advice in his seminal Creating Short Fiction. To paraphrase, a writer should never say "no" to his/her subconscious in the creative process. It seems Serling's mention of "pre-censorship" is just that. It hacks creativity at the roots.
And here's a little something from Ira Glass about the time involved to make your art what you want it to be:
Did you catch the part about time (Mr. Glass talks about "years")? It takes time for a creative individual's ability to catch up with her/his taste. It takes time for creativity to really bloom. Money kills that time. Money makes everything urgent. If you need the money, you will do whatever it takes--even cutting corners in a process that just can't be rushed.
Wait, you say. What are you saying? Are you saying writers should write "for the love"? That's an insult, Aaron. Writers should be paid. Didn't you post that video from Harlan Ellison ranting about paying writers? Have you changed your mind?
No. Absolutely not. But--and this is the important moment, the epiphany--if a creative type does his/her work solely for money, that work is robbed of its potential. For example, if I write a story solely to try and publish at a specific market because said market pays well, I'm no longer thinking about the story. I'm thinking of the market and of dollar signs, and I might just make some (conscious or unconscious) decisions based on the potential pay day. It's why I have a hard time writing stories to target for specific anthologies. I'd rather write the stories I need to write and then find them homes. It's how I work.
And there's another, more insidious cancer growing here... self-publishing. If it takes time for ability to catch up with taste, it will take time before work is ready for the public. I know mine did--and even upon my earliest publications, some of my stories were not all that good. Read the first page or two of a self-published novel from someone with no other experience or "time" at the craft. Rarely will you find anything I'd call literature. And yes, speculative fiction is literature--it can still be art. It takes time. You can't rush it.
I'm still working. I'm also blessed that now, at this point in my life, I don't need to make money with my creative endeavors. I'm free to let them be the best they can--even if it takes the rest of my life for them to be where I want them to be.
Neil Peart explains in Beyond the Lighted Stage that upon the creation of 2112, Rush decided to do it their way or go home. If the record company pulled out the rug, so be it. They would remain true to their vision. One of the greatest rock drummers of all time was willing to go work at his family's tractor dealership rather than compromise on his art. I hope all creative types have the time and financial resolve to be so uncompromising.
Hell yes I do.
(And did you see how I worked three of my heroes into one blog post? Well played, Aaron. Well played.)
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
2013 Taught Me These Things
Hello, 2014. You've been around for a little over a week now, and I wanted to give you a proper greeting. So, hi. You're going to be a good year. I know it.
As I say hello to 2014, it's only fitting to say one last goodbye to 2013. It was a very good year--and one which taught me a few things:
1. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And by Santa Claus I mean a woman with whom I am madly in love. We married in July and care for a half-dozen kids in our home. And--AND I am very happy. Yes, it can happen like this. It does every day.
2. I can still write. I've had to shake away some rust (some of my work hasn't been my best), but the desire is there--not the feverish drive it once was, but that came from managing demons as much as desire to tell stories. Now, I have the desire, but the demons are not snapping at my heals. This is a better seat from which to write.
You can read the first published piece I penned after my hiatus at Weirdyear. It's a bit of flash I call "Doubt"--and I'd be thrilled it you'd give it a read.
3. Even while I spent more than a year on hiatus, books and stories continued to sell via Smashwords and Amazon. Upon returning, I've found Amazon a much more crowded landscape than ever. My sales through Smashwords and its affiliates were roughly flat. Considering I spent zero time promoting my writing for the majority of 2013, I find that quite interesting. I actually broke down my numbers (which weren't record breaking in any way), and found a few interesting tidbits. My top five paid sellers* were as follows:
Some books sold very litte--only 4 copies of The House Eaters for example. Was it the presence of words like "horror stories" or "ghost stories" or the goldmine "zombies" in the titles of the others? Was it price? None of these numbers will break records, but I like to think about data. Freebies "sold" many more copies, but I didn't include them here. For those keeping score at home, Write Hard was my bestseller for Kindle via Amazon.com, but not all of my books were available for Kindle during 2013.
4. I missed shouting at the universe via this blog, Twitter, and the InterwebTM in general.
5. I have much more to say before I take the big dirt nap. Years and years of stories to tell. Will you listen?
My 2014 goals are forthcoming. Really.
I promise.
*for the past two years, I've donated every dime of my net Smashwords earnings to local and international charities. No writer's work is paid what it is "worth" but I can make my work worth more in terms of education, food, and healthcare in the right hands. Heifer International and Health Care Access are two of my favorites.
As I say hello to 2014, it's only fitting to say one last goodbye to 2013. It was a very good year--and one which taught me a few things:
1. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And by Santa Claus I mean a woman with whom I am madly in love. We married in July and care for a half-dozen kids in our home. And--AND I am very happy. Yes, it can happen like this. It does every day.
2. I can still write. I've had to shake away some rust (some of my work hasn't been my best), but the desire is there--not the feverish drive it once was, but that came from managing demons as much as desire to tell stories. Now, I have the desire, but the demons are not snapping at my heals. This is a better seat from which to write.
You can read the first published piece I penned after my hiatus at Weirdyear. It's a bit of flash I call "Doubt"--and I'd be thrilled it you'd give it a read.
3. Even while I spent more than a year on hiatus, books and stories continued to sell via Smashwords and Amazon. Upon returning, I've found Amazon a much more crowded landscape than ever. My sales through Smashwords and its affiliates were roughly flat. Considering I spent zero time promoting my writing for the majority of 2013, I find that quite interesting. I actually broke down my numbers (which weren't record breaking in any way), and found a few interesting tidbits. My top five paid sellers* were as follows:
| A Feast of Flesh: Tales of Zombies, Monsters, and Demons | 141 | |||
| Violent Ends: Horror Stories | 120 | |||
| Thirteen Shadows: Ghost Stories | 76 | |||
| The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories | 74 | |||
| Write Hard: Prompts, Prods, and Pep-Talks for Writers | 26 |
4. I missed shouting at the universe via this blog, Twitter, and the InterwebTM in general.
5. I have much more to say before I take the big dirt nap. Years and years of stories to tell. Will you listen?
My 2014 goals are forthcoming. Really.
I promise.
*for the past two years, I've donated every dime of my net Smashwords earnings to local and international charities. No writer's work is paid what it is "worth" but I can make my work worth more in terms of education, food, and healthcare in the right hands. Heifer International and Health Care Access are two of my favorites.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
The Care and Feeding of a Story
Let me tell a story about caring for and feeding your writing.
"Wanting It" is one of my favorite stories to date. Like Ramsey Campbell, what keeps me going is the idea that I haven't yet written my best story, but "Wanting It" makes me a proud papa. I'm working with a student who struggles with writing because he wants it to be "perfect" the first time. It never is.
"Wanting It" began life as a feeling more than an idea. I wrote it during spring, 2010--several hundred thousand words and more than three years after beginning my writing journey. My heart ached. I was missing something, but I couldn't put my hands around "what" was missing. "Wanting It" began with longing, and there were tears when I wrote the story. It's biographical without telling details from my life--other than the protagonist's first name. Thanks, Tim O'Brien, for that trick.
I edited and polished and sent the story to Ken Wood at Shock Totem on April 26, 2010. I'd come to a place in my writing where I knew stories needed to start at the top no matter the odds. I found a rewrite request in my inbox on June 17. I read Ken's email several times. I looked at my story. I tried to find the "confident writer" he described hearing in the last few pages. I did what I could to tighten the story, had three friends read it and provide feedback, and sent it back.
The good people at Shock Totem liked it, but liked parts of my first version better. Ken and I began a back and forth discussion about what to change, where to change, how much or how little to change, keep, crop, blend... We exchanged several messages about what to call a guy's butt--not because we didn't know, but what would the narrator say? Ass? Rump? Buttocks? Yes, we had that conversation.
After months of writes and re-writes, Shock Totem #3 came out with "Wanting It" in the line up.
But "Wanting It"'s story wasn't over. It still isn't. The story garnered some nice reviews, including this one from Joshua Jabcuga (Bookgasm):
"I was genuinely moved by Polson’s entry, one about nostalgia and memories, and as some of us know, these ghosts of what-was or what-can-never-be-again can create the most haunting experiences of our lives, the kind that no amount of beer can drown, no pill can numb, and the type where no amount of distance or time will help us escape from it... horror at its finest."
Horror at its finest? Thanks, Joshua. Thanks Ken and the Shock Totem crew. "Wanting It" went on to land an honorable mention in Ellen Datlow's Best Horror of the Year volume 4 (my name was even mentioned in the year in review--this small town kid is humbled). Yes, hundreds of stories receive honorable mentions each year, but the four I've garnered mean so much to me. They're my own little black ribbons.
So what do I tell this student?
Keep writing. Nothing is ever finished. Ever.
(And if you've never read a page of Shock Totem, start now.)
"Wanting It" is one of my favorite stories to date. Like Ramsey Campbell, what keeps me going is the idea that I haven't yet written my best story, but "Wanting It" makes me a proud papa. I'm working with a student who struggles with writing because he wants it to be "perfect" the first time. It never is.
"Wanting It" began life as a feeling more than an idea. I wrote it during spring, 2010--several hundred thousand words and more than three years after beginning my writing journey. My heart ached. I was missing something, but I couldn't put my hands around "what" was missing. "Wanting It" began with longing, and there were tears when I wrote the story. It's biographical without telling details from my life--other than the protagonist's first name. Thanks, Tim O'Brien, for that trick.
I edited and polished and sent the story to Ken Wood at Shock Totem on April 26, 2010. I'd come to a place in my writing where I knew stories needed to start at the top no matter the odds. I found a rewrite request in my inbox on June 17. I read Ken's email several times. I looked at my story. I tried to find the "confident writer" he described hearing in the last few pages. I did what I could to tighten the story, had three friends read it and provide feedback, and sent it back.
The good people at Shock Totem liked it, but liked parts of my first version better. Ken and I began a back and forth discussion about what to change, where to change, how much or how little to change, keep, crop, blend... We exchanged several messages about what to call a guy's butt--not because we didn't know, but what would the narrator say? Ass? Rump? Buttocks? Yes, we had that conversation.
After months of writes and re-writes, Shock Totem #3 came out with "Wanting It" in the line up.
But "Wanting It"'s story wasn't over. It still isn't. The story garnered some nice reviews, including this one from Joshua Jabcuga (Bookgasm):
"I was genuinely moved by Polson’s entry, one about nostalgia and memories, and as some of us know, these ghosts of what-was or what-can-never-be-again can create the most haunting experiences of our lives, the kind that no amount of beer can drown, no pill can numb, and the type where no amount of distance or time will help us escape from it... horror at its finest."
Horror at its finest? Thanks, Joshua. Thanks Ken and the Shock Totem crew. "Wanting It" went on to land an honorable mention in Ellen Datlow's Best Horror of the Year volume 4 (my name was even mentioned in the year in review--this small town kid is humbled). Yes, hundreds of stories receive honorable mentions each year, but the four I've garnered mean so much to me. They're my own little black ribbons.
So what do I tell this student?
Keep writing. Nothing is ever finished. Ever.
(And if you've never read a page of Shock Totem, start now.)
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Aaron Polson is Dead, Long Live Aaron Polson
Remember when Garth Brooks pulled that stupid Chris Gaines stunt?
If you don't, don't worry. In the days of my youth, when I was trying like hell to figure out what it means to be a man, Garth Brooks dominated popular music. I was never a fan, but no high school dance was complete without "Low Places" being played. This is a snapshot of a moment in time, part of my generation, and part of something I'm not sure future generations will have the chance to experience.
Insomnia and I have been wrestling a bit of late, and last night, while watching one of the more horrid (and not in a good way) episodes of Hammer House of Horror on DVD, I started thinking about the fleeting nature of fame in the 21st century. Andy Warhol is my prophet.
Garth Brooks had a solid decade of serious, multi-million-selling fame. Me? Never a fan, but plenty of people loved the guy. He became so famous he could have a bizarro out-of-body experience and pretend to be someone else (Chris Gaines) and the dude still sold billions of albums and won a shit-ton of awards.
This isn't all about Brooks. This is about now, the 21st century, and the lightning strike of fame. Fame is nothing of which I want a part. I do not write for fame, I do not tell stories to become famous, I have no desire to attach "best-seller" to anything I do. I am a writer, I am a story-teller, and I do like to create the best I can.
But fame? Never heard of it. And, like the old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be--at least I suspect she ain't--er, isn't. Remember the guy who wrote the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies mash-up? I don't. But hey... I could Google him*. How about the band which had that song which was popular a year ago? No idea who we're talking about.
Maybe fame has always bounced around, leaving us only with the big names which last for time immemorial. Maybe fame has always worked this way. Maybe I'm just a crabby, sleep-deprived, middle-aged hack. Maybe.
But fame does distort reality. Fame makes a guy like Garth Brooks, king of the popular music world (in the U.S. at least) in the 1990s, think Chris Gaines was a good idea.
I pray I'm never famous.
*Okay, so I looked him up. I guess he wrote the screenplay to the recent Dark Shadows movie. That sucked, too.
If you don't, don't worry. In the days of my youth, when I was trying like hell to figure out what it means to be a man, Garth Brooks dominated popular music. I was never a fan, but no high school dance was complete without "Low Places" being played. This is a snapshot of a moment in time, part of my generation, and part of something I'm not sure future generations will have the chance to experience.
Insomnia and I have been wrestling a bit of late, and last night, while watching one of the more horrid (and not in a good way) episodes of Hammer House of Horror on DVD, I started thinking about the fleeting nature of fame in the 21st century. Andy Warhol is my prophet.
Garth Brooks had a solid decade of serious, multi-million-selling fame. Me? Never a fan, but plenty of people loved the guy. He became so famous he could have a bizarro out-of-body experience and pretend to be someone else (Chris Gaines) and the dude still sold billions of albums and won a shit-ton of awards.
This isn't all about Brooks. This is about now, the 21st century, and the lightning strike of fame. Fame is nothing of which I want a part. I do not write for fame, I do not tell stories to become famous, I have no desire to attach "best-seller" to anything I do. I am a writer, I am a story-teller, and I do like to create the best I can.
But fame? Never heard of it. And, like the old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be--at least I suspect she ain't--er, isn't. Remember the guy who wrote the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies mash-up? I don't. But hey... I could Google him*. How about the band which had that song which was popular a year ago? No idea who we're talking about.
Maybe fame has always bounced around, leaving us only with the big names which last for time immemorial. Maybe fame has always worked this way. Maybe I'm just a crabby, sleep-deprived, middle-aged hack. Maybe.
But fame does distort reality. Fame makes a guy like Garth Brooks, king of the popular music world (in the U.S. at least) in the 1990s, think Chris Gaines was a good idea.
I pray I'm never famous.
*Okay, so I looked him up. I guess he wrote the screenplay to the recent Dark Shadows movie. That sucked, too.
Friday, November 22, 2013
My Notes on "Digging Deep"
"Digging Deep" is up at Every Day Fiction today. I think they're switching servers tomorrow, so it's only appropriate the last story before blackout is about death. Sort of.
Let me tell you about "Digging Deep".
Here be spoilers.
Read the story first, if you would.
.
.
.
.
I wrote "Digging Deep" shortly before Aimee died and submitted it one time before my hiatus and return to writing. It is a story about death as I mentioned above, but more. It is a horror story, but not a Horror story. "Digging Deep" talks about Truth like I hope most of my work does. Although I've capitalized it, this Truth is human-truth, not God-truth. I'll leave that for the theologians.
I want readers to understand what moves the narrator. This is a story of big revelation rather than big events. It's not about what happened to the mummified remains the narrator helps to exhume or the horrors which might lurk on the English countryside near his home. No, it's about real horror--horror any of us can feel.
On one level, there's the horror of losing a child (or any loved one). You see, the narrator feels the connection between his daughter, Ellen, and the awful things they dig from under the standing stones. The braided hair sets him off. My grandmother buried both of her children--my Aunt Norma Jean (who I never met because she died at 21, decades before my birth) and my father (brain cancer shortened his life). I look at my own kids, those with whom I share genes and my stepchildren, and can't imagine--don't want to imagine--such terrible ends for them. I fiercely love Kim, and the thought of anything, anything happening to her abhors me. Anyone who loves so fiercely can feel the inevitable pang of death. So yes, death stalks the narrator as it does all of us.
But that, dear readers, is only a bit of the story--even for a tale just shy of 1,000 words, there's more.
"Digging Deep" is also about the horror which comes when people become little more than objects. The mummified bodies, once living, breathing people (again, the braids), are now objects for the university men. Waxy broadens the theme when he talks about the barmaid, saying, "Wouldn't mind a roll with that one," making her little more than a sexual object. For the poor narrator, Ellen becomes a thing--both an object for the "university men" and, by extension, a sexual object for men like Waxy--as he connects the dots between the three. In the end, especially in the end, death leaves each of us nothing more than objects.
Yes, that latter bit is implied. It's what the story means to me, now, nearly two years after originally writing it. But the truth--and the truth of all fiction--is that any reader's reality is just as valid as mine.
I've written the story and now it's time to share.
Let me tell you about "Digging Deep".
Here be spoilers.
Read the story first, if you would.
.
.
.
.
I wrote "Digging Deep" shortly before Aimee died and submitted it one time before my hiatus and return to writing. It is a story about death as I mentioned above, but more. It is a horror story, but not a Horror story. "Digging Deep" talks about Truth like I hope most of my work does. Although I've capitalized it, this Truth is human-truth, not God-truth. I'll leave that for the theologians.
I want readers to understand what moves the narrator. This is a story of big revelation rather than big events. It's not about what happened to the mummified remains the narrator helps to exhume or the horrors which might lurk on the English countryside near his home. No, it's about real horror--horror any of us can feel.
On one level, there's the horror of losing a child (or any loved one). You see, the narrator feels the connection between his daughter, Ellen, and the awful things they dig from under the standing stones. The braided hair sets him off. My grandmother buried both of her children--my Aunt Norma Jean (who I never met because she died at 21, decades before my birth) and my father (brain cancer shortened his life). I look at my own kids, those with whom I share genes and my stepchildren, and can't imagine--don't want to imagine--such terrible ends for them. I fiercely love Kim, and the thought of anything, anything happening to her abhors me. Anyone who loves so fiercely can feel the inevitable pang of death. So yes, death stalks the narrator as it does all of us.
But that, dear readers, is only a bit of the story--even for a tale just shy of 1,000 words, there's more.
"Digging Deep" is also about the horror which comes when people become little more than objects. The mummified bodies, once living, breathing people (again, the braids), are now objects for the university men. Waxy broadens the theme when he talks about the barmaid, saying, "Wouldn't mind a roll with that one," making her little more than a sexual object. For the poor narrator, Ellen becomes a thing--both an object for the "university men" and, by extension, a sexual object for men like Waxy--as he connects the dots between the three. In the end, especially in the end, death leaves each of us nothing more than objects.
Yes, that latter bit is implied. It's what the story means to me, now, nearly two years after originally writing it. But the truth--and the truth of all fiction--is that any reader's reality is just as valid as mine.
I've written the story and now it's time to share.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Black Ribbons: "The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft
Black Ribbon: (noun) an award for stories which inspire me and make me say "Damn, I wish I had written that."
H.P. Lovecraft is better known for Cthulhu and cosmic horror, but my favorite tale of his "The Rat in the Walls". Yes, it begins with his trademark penchant for just a little too much exposition, but I think it works here. The ending--despite being told in the 1st person--chilled me the first time I read it. I literally shuddered and then lost myself in awe of an author being able to conjure that chill with words.
On 16 July 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labours. The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors, I let no expense deter me. The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line...
"The Rats in the Walls" is readily available to read online and a free audio version can be found at Voices in the Dark.
"The Rats in the Walls" read by Sean Puckett at Voices in the Dark (mp3)
"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft text at DagonBytes (online reading)
"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft PDF
There are more Black Ribbons to come. What do I need to read next?
H.P. Lovecraft is better known for Cthulhu and cosmic horror, but my favorite tale of his "The Rat in the Walls". Yes, it begins with his trademark penchant for just a little too much exposition, but I think it works here. The ending--despite being told in the 1st person--chilled me the first time I read it. I literally shuddered and then lost myself in awe of an author being able to conjure that chill with words.
On 16 July 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labours. The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors, I let no expense deter me. The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line...
"The Rats in the Walls" is readily available to read online and a free audio version can be found at Voices in the Dark.
"The Rats in the Walls" read by Sean Puckett at Voices in the Dark (mp3)
"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft text at DagonBytes (online reading)
"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft PDF
There are more Black Ribbons to come. What do I need to read next?
What? H.P. Lovecraft could almost smile?
Monday, November 4, 2013
Here's the Thing About Money
Once upon a different life of mine, while I was a student in Principles of Learning (Pscy 475) way (WAAAAAY) back in my days as an undergrad at Kansas State University, the professor discussed motivation with this simple anecdote:
A young girl, proficient at cello, loved to play her instrument. She practiced all the time. Her parents, seeing this as an opportunity for reward, praised their daughter and started paying her for practice time.
She lost her love and stopped playing.
No, this isn't yet another blog post in a sea of blog posts on the InterwebTM about the evils of money. Money is not evil. This is simply a discussion about motivation.
As I've started writing again, I've had to ask myself, "why?" Writing takes energy and time and sometimes sucks emotional well-being*. Writing is not easy and the "rewards" are never guaranteed.
Look, nothing I do in life comes with a guarantee. If I do X, I'm not always going to have Y. Life simply doesn't work that smoothly, simply, or, unfortunately, with such logic. I do know this: back in 2011, especially in the fall as I anticipated the birth of Elliot, I felt compelled to "get paid" for my writing.
Yes, I believe and always will believe writers should be paid for quality work--but I've also learned the pay, even professional rates, is never, never commiserate with the amount of time/effort expended on a project. And some non-paying markets exist where the readership carries more weight than any amount of money I could gain for some made up nonsense (i.e., fiction). Pay never correlates 100% with quality--but there is a correlation.
I'm talking about cashing in, making a pile of money because I "had to". Writing for pay has never been my sole motivation. I don't seek professional publication venues first and then down through semi-pro and token paying markets because I need the money or even want the money--what I want is to be able to tell stories which can be and should be published in those venues because they are good stories. It's a difference in motivation, however subtle, which guides me.
I lost sight of storytelling in 2011. I lost sight of storytelling and chased dollars. Things were not good at home. In early 2012, Aimee committed suicide. Chasing the wrong motivation brought stress and a sour taste which just didn't hold up as I rebuilt my life. Now, on the other side, I'm so happy and never want to lose sight of the important stuff again.
Kim and I often talk about things "serving us". Why expend energy if something doesn't serve you? It's a slightly different spin old "do what you love or at least get paid for it" adage. And making sure something serves us is my prime mover these days. I don't need the stress of trying to make writing pay the bills. I do need the rich intellectual stimulation and personal satisfaction which comes with a story well-told. This serves me, and in serving me, it serves Kim and strengthens our relationship.
This is the motivation, folks. This is why I write: to tell stories, grow my heart and mind, and do it for the love.
*Because, despite my claim that they don't in my previous post, rejections do bother me. They bother me enough to write better stories and work harder next time.Thank you, Doug Murano, for helping me remember the value of rejection.
A young girl, proficient at cello, loved to play her instrument. She practiced all the time. Her parents, seeing this as an opportunity for reward, praised their daughter and started paying her for practice time.
She lost her love and stopped playing.
No, this isn't yet another blog post in a sea of blog posts on the InterwebTM about the evils of money. Money is not evil. This is simply a discussion about motivation.
As I've started writing again, I've had to ask myself, "why?" Writing takes energy and time and sometimes sucks emotional well-being*. Writing is not easy and the "rewards" are never guaranteed.
Look, nothing I do in life comes with a guarantee. If I do X, I'm not always going to have Y. Life simply doesn't work that smoothly, simply, or, unfortunately, with such logic. I do know this: back in 2011, especially in the fall as I anticipated the birth of Elliot, I felt compelled to "get paid" for my writing.
Yes, I believe and always will believe writers should be paid for quality work--but I've also learned the pay, even professional rates, is never, never commiserate with the amount of time/effort expended on a project. And some non-paying markets exist where the readership carries more weight than any amount of money I could gain for some made up nonsense (i.e., fiction). Pay never correlates 100% with quality--but there is a correlation.
I'm talking about cashing in, making a pile of money because I "had to". Writing for pay has never been my sole motivation. I don't seek professional publication venues first and then down through semi-pro and token paying markets because I need the money or even want the money--what I want is to be able to tell stories which can be and should be published in those venues because they are good stories. It's a difference in motivation, however subtle, which guides me.
I lost sight of storytelling in 2011. I lost sight of storytelling and chased dollars. Things were not good at home. In early 2012, Aimee committed suicide. Chasing the wrong motivation brought stress and a sour taste which just didn't hold up as I rebuilt my life. Now, on the other side, I'm so happy and never want to lose sight of the important stuff again.
Kim and I often talk about things "serving us". Why expend energy if something doesn't serve you? It's a slightly different spin old "do what you love or at least get paid for it" adage. And making sure something serves us is my prime mover these days. I don't need the stress of trying to make writing pay the bills. I do need the rich intellectual stimulation and personal satisfaction which comes with a story well-told. This serves me, and in serving me, it serves Kim and strengthens our relationship.
This is the motivation, folks. This is why I write: to tell stories, grow my heart and mind, and do it for the love.
*Because, despite my claim that they don't in my previous post, rejections do bother me. They bother me enough to write better stories and work harder next time.Thank you, Doug Murano, for helping me remember the value of rejection.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
The Wait
Here's the thing I forgot about writing and submitting short stories (or any kind of fiction/poetry): waiting.
I remember rejections well, and the oldest wounds, the first ones I suffered back in 2007 when I first began this journey, healed so well--I have a nice, thick layer of scar tissue. Rejections haven't bothered* me in a long, long time. They are part of the game, and if they bother* you, stop submitting.
But waiting... man. I forgot about the waiting. Some markets are lightning fast, especially a few pro-paying venues like Nightmare and Clarkesworld. But chances of appearing in those venues is slim. I'll submit to them when I can (i.e., I have a story which might, just might slip by the first round of reads), but they are the whitest of the white whales. Most publications have wait time well over a month or more.
Tick... tick... tick...
And then the inevitable rejection letter--or, sometimes, an acceptance.
Here's what I know now: I'm writing and submitting because I want to tell stories. Lots of stories. Big, semitrailer truckloads of stories. And some of them will be good.
Aaron, you say, you could just post your stories here. You could just upload them to Smashwords and Amazon KDP.
Yes. I could. But I want to tell the best stories I can--and the submissions process has been good to me. I've learned and become a better writer because of the wait, the rejections, the occasional feedback from editors, and the sweet taste of acceptance. I've become a better writer because I've worked with editors. I've become a better writer because I try to listen to advice, sort the good from bad, and take what works back to the word processor with me.
So I'll take the wait. I'll keep writing. This is what I love: writing and telling stories, the best stories I can. This is the path I've chosen because of how it fills me, not because of any reward on the other side.
Dream on. Like this guy (and listen to an amazing interview on NPR):
* Edited to add... Here's what I mean by "bother": if you get physically ill, want to throw a tantrum and/or respond in a negative way to a rejecting editor, or find that rejection affects your ability to write (after the requisite "rejection hangover") then you need to find another creative endeavor in which to engage.
I remember rejections well, and the oldest wounds, the first ones I suffered back in 2007 when I first began this journey, healed so well--I have a nice, thick layer of scar tissue. Rejections haven't bothered* me in a long, long time. They are part of the game, and if they bother* you, stop submitting.
But waiting... man. I forgot about the waiting. Some markets are lightning fast, especially a few pro-paying venues like Nightmare and Clarkesworld. But chances of appearing in those venues is slim. I'll submit to them when I can (i.e., I have a story which might, just might slip by the first round of reads), but they are the whitest of the white whales. Most publications have wait time well over a month or more.
Tick... tick... tick...
And then the inevitable rejection letter--or, sometimes, an acceptance.
Here's what I know now: I'm writing and submitting because I want to tell stories. Lots of stories. Big, semitrailer truckloads of stories. And some of them will be good.
Aaron, you say, you could just post your stories here. You could just upload them to Smashwords and Amazon KDP.
Yes. I could. But I want to tell the best stories I can--and the submissions process has been good to me. I've learned and become a better writer because of the wait, the rejections, the occasional feedback from editors, and the sweet taste of acceptance. I've become a better writer because I've worked with editors. I've become a better writer because I try to listen to advice, sort the good from bad, and take what works back to the word processor with me.
So I'll take the wait. I'll keep writing. This is what I love: writing and telling stories, the best stories I can. This is the path I've chosen because of how it fills me, not because of any reward on the other side.
Dream on. Like this guy (and listen to an amazing interview on NPR):
* Edited to add... Here's what I mean by "bother": if you get physically ill, want to throw a tantrum and/or respond in a negative way to a rejecting editor, or find that rejection affects your ability to write (after the requisite "rejection hangover") then you need to find another creative endeavor in which to engage.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
The Graveyard of White Whales
Hello, my name is Aaron and I write short stories. Granted, the longest piece I've written was well over 100,000 words (my first "novel" and first piece of fiction I wrote), but after editing and trimming, it landed well within the 70K range. Yes, I cut 30,000 words. Loathsome, Dark and Deep is only 67,000 words. Nothing else comes close.
I am a short story writer, and I'm not ashamed.
But things make me sad... like the white whale short story markets of yesteryear becoming the graveyard of today. After reinstating my account on Duotrope.com, I noted the following:
Of my reported acceptances (155 including poetry and reprints), 48 of those markets were dead (closed or defunct), including Everyday Weirdness, Necrotic Tissue, The Rose and Thorn Journal... some of my favorite stories had life there. Note those 48 markets represented more than 48 of my acceptances. Everyday Weirdness printed several stories and I was fortunate enough to place 3 with Necrotic Tissue. I loved those publications and did what I could to support them. Thanks to Nathan E. Lilly (Everyday Weirdness) and R. Scott McCoy (Necrotic Tissue) for everything they did to bring my stories and stories from other authors to readers' attention.
Short story venues die. It's the nature of the beast. My own brain child, 52 Stitches, is no more, but it had two years to run. It's time is done. But those which stick around? Wonderful. I'm proud to have a story in issue #118 of Space and Time. #118 people. The magazine has been around since before I was a zygote.
There are white whales I will chase and never capture before their deaths--this, too, is the nature of the beast. But I am a short story writer. I write short stories, and the submission/rejection process has made me a better writer. My stories are stronger because they've had to survive in a world of high casualty rates.
Here's a fear: writing is going to suffer in this do-it-yourself world. It already has. Why face rejections when I can easily publish myself via Smashwords, Kindle, Createspace and the like?* Why? Because, dear readers, without those white whales, even the dead ones, I would not have become the writer I am today. I wouldn't have sold a few stories to professional venues or found myself on any honorable mention lists. Writing short fiction is about the story, the art of words, and making life out of digital nothing. I want my stories to be like my flesh-and-bone children: resilient and beautiful.
Write on, chase those whales, and give some pause and respect when they leave us.
*Yes, I've published plenty of previously published material via these venues. But my first path--and it should always be a first path--was and remains the submissions trail and quest for those white whales.
I am a short story writer, and I'm not ashamed.
But things make me sad... like the white whale short story markets of yesteryear becoming the graveyard of today. After reinstating my account on Duotrope.com, I noted the following:
Of my reported acceptances (155 including poetry and reprints), 48 of those markets were dead (closed or defunct), including Everyday Weirdness, Necrotic Tissue, The Rose and Thorn Journal... some of my favorite stories had life there. Note those 48 markets represented more than 48 of my acceptances. Everyday Weirdness printed several stories and I was fortunate enough to place 3 with Necrotic Tissue. I loved those publications and did what I could to support them. Thanks to Nathan E. Lilly (Everyday Weirdness) and R. Scott McCoy (Necrotic Tissue) for everything they did to bring my stories and stories from other authors to readers' attention.
Short story venues die. It's the nature of the beast. My own brain child, 52 Stitches, is no more, but it had two years to run. It's time is done. But those which stick around? Wonderful. I'm proud to have a story in issue #118 of Space and Time. #118 people. The magazine has been around since before I was a zygote.
There are white whales I will chase and never capture before their deaths--this, too, is the nature of the beast. But I am a short story writer. I write short stories, and the submission/rejection process has made me a better writer. My stories are stronger because they've had to survive in a world of high casualty rates.
Here's a fear: writing is going to suffer in this do-it-yourself world. It already has. Why face rejections when I can easily publish myself via Smashwords, Kindle, Createspace and the like?* Why? Because, dear readers, without those white whales, even the dead ones, I would not have become the writer I am today. I wouldn't have sold a few stories to professional venues or found myself on any honorable mention lists. Writing short fiction is about the story, the art of words, and making life out of digital nothing. I want my stories to be like my flesh-and-bone children: resilient and beautiful.
Write on, chase those whales, and give some pause and respect when they leave us.
*Yes, I've published plenty of previously published material via these venues. But my first path--and it should always be a first path--was and remains the submissions trail and quest for those white whales.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
I'm Cheap
Part of resurrecting my writing "career" involves resurrecting my writing to be read. Now that we live in a world of digital words, I've never understood why anyone would take good stories away from potential readers.
Note I said good stories. I've trunked plenty of my tales, including some which have seen print. Even though they were published once, I might not want to claim them as one of my current stable of quality tales.
Way back on March 26, 2012, I wrote this post which explains how many of my collections and stories were wrested away from readers. I'm working to make them available again. And here's the thing--as I republish, I republish at the lowest price point I can. I don't mind 99 cents if it means a reader will take a chance and pick up my stories. This writing thing isn't solely about making money (although compensation is nice); it is about telling stories.
When I started focusing on the money, I started to lose my love for the process. The universe set me right.
I've recently returned Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, These Darkened Streets, The Undead: 13 Stories, and Loathsome, Dark and Deep to the digital world.
You can find them at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere electronic words are exchanged.
So yes, I'm cheap. I'm cheap and ready to tell you a story.
These Darkened Streets back in digital "print"
Note I said good stories. I've trunked plenty of my tales, including some which have seen print. Even though they were published once, I might not want to claim them as one of my current stable of quality tales.
Way back on March 26, 2012, I wrote this post which explains how many of my collections and stories were wrested away from readers. I'm working to make them available again. And here's the thing--as I republish, I republish at the lowest price point I can. I don't mind 99 cents if it means a reader will take a chance and pick up my stories. This writing thing isn't solely about making money (although compensation is nice); it is about telling stories.
When I started focusing on the money, I started to lose my love for the process. The universe set me right.
I've recently returned Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, These Darkened Streets, The Undead: 13 Stories, and Loathsome, Dark and Deep to the digital world.
Darker Matter back in digital "print"
You can find them at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere electronic words are exchanged.
So yes, I'm cheap. I'm cheap and ready to tell you a story.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Old Bones and New Polish
I'm bringing back some old books as part of the resurrection of my writing career. To be a little more accurate, my "career" slept, fairy tale-like for the last year and and some change.
I've recently published some mothballed "collections" on Smashwords, including Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, and These Darkened Streets (horror and weird fiction). I've also brought back my horror/adventure/grim-as-hell novel Loathsome, Dark and Deep (originally from Belfire Press, and until now out of "print").
I write to be read. I'll never understand the purpose of sitting on good stories when readers are hungry. No storyteller should hide in the dark.
When I set to republish Loathsome, I took a good look at the original dedication:
Do I remove the dedication? No. Not exactly. But my life isn't what it was then. There's more to my story than the dark woods I traveled with Aimee. The dedication grew as I have. So now we read the original, along with:
Kim wasn't a part of my life when I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep, but she's helped me find my way home. She's helped me find my voice again. And that, dear readers, is the only place I want to be: home, telling my stories.
I've recently published some mothballed "collections" on Smashwords, including Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, and These Darkened Streets (horror and weird fiction). I've also brought back my horror/adventure/grim-as-hell novel Loathsome, Dark and Deep (originally from Belfire Press, and until now out of "print").
I write to be read. I'll never understand the purpose of sitting on good stories when readers are hungry. No storyteller should hide in the dark.
When I set to republish Loathsome, I took a good look at the original dedication:
For Aimee, even through the darkest part of the woods.
Do I remove the dedication? No. Not exactly. But my life isn't what it was then. There's more to my story than the dark woods I traveled with Aimee. The dedication grew as I have. So now we read the original, along with:
...and Kim for helping me see the light.
Kim wasn't a part of my life when I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep, but she's helped me find my way home. She's helped me find my voice again. And that, dear readers, is the only place I want to be: home, telling my stories.
Friday, September 27, 2013
The F Bomb is a Sad Adjective and Other Free Speech Woes
Okay, so I've missed writing this blog. I've missed the conversational tone and processing some ideas which have really stuck with me. These are blog entries, not college expository essays. I may ramble.
And today, I need to ramble a bit about free speech. Two things have collided in my brain this past week and I need to process. First, there's David Guth, a professor at the Univeristy of Kansas and all the heat he's received for a recent tweet involving the NRA. The tweet-in-question read: "The blood is on the hands of the #NRA. Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters. Shame on you. May God damn you." The second... well this post ("Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito") at Medium (New to you? Me too.). It's a funny (and truthful) piece in which he uses the F-bomb. Ubiquitously.
I've wrestled with this free speech issue. When I was seventeen (and it was a pretty good year), I wasn't allowed to buy a copy of Faith No More's Angel Dust because of the explicit lyrics decal. Yes, this was way back in 1992. Remember CDs? Anyone? I was still listening to cassette tapes, too. I was fired up. Angry. How dare some over-inflated political ninny tell me to what I can or cannot listen? This I believe: free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society.
What steps over the free speech line? What is free expression and what is profane/inappropriate/illegal? Who decides where to place the line?
Once upon a time, I had a student with a large "Freedom of Fucking Speech" decal across his school planner. Really? Let me repeat: Free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society. I'm not sure which part of that statement is synonymous with "carpet F-bomb when/wherever you'd like". So yeah, Mr. Lucky Shirt's post about burritos is funny, but after a certain number of "fucking chance"s and "fucking empires of sour cream" I shut down and stop reading. If I was still teaching, I would have told my students the offense lies in lazy writing, not a personal issue with the f-word. Is "fucking" the best adjective he could muster? It certainly isn't the most accurate (unless he eats his burritos differently than me).
For those of you who like analogies, I liken using "freedom of speech" to cover for poor writing and the need to "fuck" everything (in writing) to a man who would buy a Mercedes-Benz and enter it in the demolition derby at the Douglas County Fair. Way to use those resources, dude.
But what about David Guth? I still don't know. He teaches at a university--supposedly a bastion for free speech and intellectual discourse. But it is a publicly supported university (getting at least a small chunk of funds from public tax coffers). People (taxpayers and lawmakers) get their feathers ruffled. It seems to be a matter of tone. If he had posted "What if it is your sons and daughters next time?" instead of "Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters." I think the effect might be different. But does it matter? In Twitterland, you only have 140 characters per thought.
And that, dear friends, is why I missed blogging. Ramble on.
And today, I need to ramble a bit about free speech. Two things have collided in my brain this past week and I need to process. First, there's David Guth, a professor at the Univeristy of Kansas and all the heat he's received for a recent tweet involving the NRA. The tweet-in-question read: "The blood is on the hands of the #NRA. Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters. Shame on you. May God damn you." The second... well this post ("Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito") at Medium (New to you? Me too.). It's a funny (and truthful) piece in which he uses the F-bomb. Ubiquitously.
I've wrestled with this free speech issue. When I was seventeen (and it was a pretty good year), I wasn't allowed to buy a copy of Faith No More's Angel Dust because of the explicit lyrics decal. Yes, this was way back in 1992. Remember CDs? Anyone? I was still listening to cassette tapes, too. I was fired up. Angry. How dare some over-inflated political ninny tell me to what I can or cannot listen? This I believe: free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society.
What steps over the free speech line? What is free expression and what is profane/inappropriate/illegal? Who decides where to place the line?
Once upon a time, I had a student with a large "Freedom of Fucking Speech" decal across his school planner. Really? Let me repeat: Free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society. I'm not sure which part of that statement is synonymous with "carpet F-bomb when/wherever you'd like". So yeah, Mr. Lucky Shirt's post about burritos is funny, but after a certain number of "fucking chance"s and "fucking empires of sour cream" I shut down and stop reading. If I was still teaching, I would have told my students the offense lies in lazy writing, not a personal issue with the f-word. Is "fucking" the best adjective he could muster? It certainly isn't the most accurate (unless he eats his burritos differently than me).
For those of you who like analogies, I liken using "freedom of speech" to cover for poor writing and the need to "fuck" everything (in writing) to a man who would buy a Mercedes-Benz and enter it in the demolition derby at the Douglas County Fair. Way to use those resources, dude.
But what about David Guth? I still don't know. He teaches at a university--supposedly a bastion for free speech and intellectual discourse. But it is a publicly supported university (getting at least a small chunk of funds from public tax coffers). People (taxpayers and lawmakers) get their feathers ruffled. It seems to be a matter of tone. If he had posted "What if it is your sons and daughters next time?" instead of "Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters." I think the effect might be different. But does it matter? In Twitterland, you only have 140 characters per thought.
And that, dear friends, is why I missed blogging. Ramble on.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Big Writing Dreams
I'm going to visit a friend's student this morning, a
young man who has Big Writing DreamsTM. Once upon a time, I
had such aspirations.
After more than a year of hiatus, I've started writing again. With all of my family/other commitments, I might be looking at a story a month--or maybe a couple of flash. But the love is there. The characters are speaking to me again. Words beg me to touch them.
What will I tell this anonymous student, the one with Big Writing DreamsTM? Know why you want to write. For me--when I loved writing--it was always about the story and the audience. Once upon a time, I could make words sing and dance and make love to the page, even if it was a dark and slightly dysfunctional love (most of my stuff WAS horror).
I know who I am as a writer, and it feels good. So good.
Early on, way back in the summer of '07, I was going to be a Famous AuthorTM. My career as an author would be awesome and well-paying. When I started my first book, this
is exactly how I felt. It didn't take long for the awesome/well-paying fantasies to give way to "please publish my short story
pleeeeeease". I wanted my name in print, ANYWHERE. I didn't travel far
down this road until I realized it wasn't about my name in print, but
telling stories. Readers crawled from the proverbial woodwork and gave writing a purpose. My real goal surfaced: to tell the best story I could.
Sometimes this meant trying to crack tougher markets (Shimmer? What did I send them, eleventy-billion stories before an acceptance?). My stories improved. My writing improved. I learned how to make words do what I wanted.
Self-publishing via Kindle Digital Platform became a thing. And then money showed up. Fear crashed the party--real fear about Real Stuff (words feel more important when you capitalize them). I had a pile of published stories, a couple of novels with small presses, and "need" to make writing pay.
Elliot was on the way, and I was scared sh*tless. Post-partum threatened. Writing needed to
start paying, and paying big or I would have to stop. I made some bad
choices and worked on some bad novels. I puked a bunch of garbage words all over KDP. I stopped writing to tell stories, but to make money. Love disappeared.Sometimes this meant trying to crack tougher markets (Shimmer? What did I send them, eleventy-billion stories before an acceptance?). My stories improved. My writing improved. I learned how to make words do what I wanted.
After more than a year of hiatus, I've started writing again. With all of my family/other commitments, I might be looking at a story a month--or maybe a couple of flash. But the love is there. The characters are speaking to me again. Words beg me to touch them.
What will I tell this anonymous student, the one with Big Writing DreamsTM? Know why you want to write. For me--when I loved writing--it was always about the story and the audience. Once upon a time, I could make words sing and dance and make love to the page, even if it was a dark and slightly dysfunctional love (most of my stuff WAS horror).
I know who I am as a writer, and it feels good. So good.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Communication Breakdown?
Has it been seventeen days since I last posted?
Radio silence here doesn't mean silence everywhere. In fact, I'm learning to be a better communicator than I have most of my adult life. I'm learning to say what needs to be said to those who need to hear, but doing so in ways which can deliver the message without malice or self-loathing or fear or worry or vindictiveness. I'm trying to be the best communicator I can, trying to cut away the noise and deliver the essence of the message.
It's hard.
Damn hard sometimes because words don't always do what you want them to. Words can't always translate emotions so others can feel you. Words are just words, simple tools, and sometimes fit like a broad-bladed screwdriver when a tiny one would do. Words can soothe a little but not take away the pain of losing a loved one, learning of tragedy, or facing your own mortality. Words are just words.
But I will take them.
Sometimes they are all I have.
The older boys and I have begun a daily ritual of taking "five minutes" one-on-one with Dad (me). I listen while they talk. Sometimes I share, too. Max, being six and a half, has his own super self-focused perspective on the days events. Once in a while he will surprise me, throwing in a big picture perspective that stretches well past his developmental age. Mostly, we talk about PE class or making a plaid pattern in art or what happened at recess. Owen has started really opening up to some "big talks" about life and our future. He surprises me a little, but then I realize he's my kid. I've never really done life halfway and don't want them to live that way either.
I wish we all (meaning everyone on the planet) had less fear when it came to communicating with one another. Maybe the fear stems from the insufficiency of language. Maybe the fear grows when we realize there really is no way to make someone we love know, really know what that love feels like inside of us.
I don't know. I will probably never have the answer, but I can live with it.
Communication breakdown?
No. Not at all.
Radio silence here doesn't mean silence everywhere. In fact, I'm learning to be a better communicator than I have most of my adult life. I'm learning to say what needs to be said to those who need to hear, but doing so in ways which can deliver the message without malice or self-loathing or fear or worry or vindictiveness. I'm trying to be the best communicator I can, trying to cut away the noise and deliver the essence of the message.
It's hard.
Damn hard sometimes because words don't always do what you want them to. Words can't always translate emotions so others can feel you. Words are just words, simple tools, and sometimes fit like a broad-bladed screwdriver when a tiny one would do. Words can soothe a little but not take away the pain of losing a loved one, learning of tragedy, or facing your own mortality. Words are just words.
But I will take them.
Sometimes they are all I have.
The older boys and I have begun a daily ritual of taking "five minutes" one-on-one with Dad (me). I listen while they talk. Sometimes I share, too. Max, being six and a half, has his own super self-focused perspective on the days events. Once in a while he will surprise me, throwing in a big picture perspective that stretches well past his developmental age. Mostly, we talk about PE class or making a plaid pattern in art or what happened at recess. Owen has started really opening up to some "big talks" about life and our future. He surprises me a little, but then I realize he's my kid. I've never really done life halfway and don't want them to live that way either.
I wish we all (meaning everyone on the planet) had less fear when it came to communicating with one another. Maybe the fear stems from the insufficiency of language. Maybe the fear grows when we realize there really is no way to make someone we love know, really know what that love feels like inside of us.
I don't know. I will probably never have the answer, but I can live with it.
Communication breakdown?
No. Not at all.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Digging in the Dirt
If you live long enough, you'll come face to face with some genuine horrors. Death of loved ones, long illnesses, dishonesty and betrayal, heartache (and not the pleasant kind--because yes, I now believe ache can be pleasant)...
If you live long enough, you'll earn a few scars.
I was digging up Mom's peonies at her old house this past weekend when our neighbor sidled to me and said, "If you find any bones, we're not going to call the police."
What?
She laughed. Bones. Memories. Scars we've tried to bury in our own dirt. Painful experiences we've tried to shove down so deep and cover so completely we think--just maybe--no one will ever see them again. We don't have to show our weak moments. We can pretend those hurtful things never happened. We can live life free of the weight of history. No one has to see our scars if we cover them with enough hearty black soil.
But it never works, does it? You spend your life shoveling and shoveling and hoping it will be enough to hide the scars and the bones and memories, but your shoulders stiffen and your hands callous and crack and bleed... And the bones still come to the surface.
All of that energy wasted... for what?
The boys' principal said something wise this morning--kids are much better than adults at being open and honest about their thoughts and feelings if we give them a chance. Adults spend so much energy trying to suppress their feelings. Trying.
So much energy wasted... for what?
If the best of my short stories were about anything, they were about living in the face of pain and disappointment and horror. I've always felt hopeful about them, despite how hideous my progeny might look to a reader. I've always thought they were little stories of hope.
I'm living out loud the best I can. I'll save my energy for love and hope and gratitude. It is a conscious choice--a choice I can make as well as anyone. I'll dig up the peonies, but won't worry about the bones I find. They aren't mine, and I never buried them there.
If you live long enough, you'll earn a few scars.
I was digging up Mom's peonies at her old house this past weekend when our neighbor sidled to me and said, "If you find any bones, we're not going to call the police."
What?
She laughed. Bones. Memories. Scars we've tried to bury in our own dirt. Painful experiences we've tried to shove down so deep and cover so completely we think--just maybe--no one will ever see them again. We don't have to show our weak moments. We can pretend those hurtful things never happened. We can live life free of the weight of history. No one has to see our scars if we cover them with enough hearty black soil.
But it never works, does it? You spend your life shoveling and shoveling and hoping it will be enough to hide the scars and the bones and memories, but your shoulders stiffen and your hands callous and crack and bleed... And the bones still come to the surface.
All of that energy wasted... for what?
The boys' principal said something wise this morning--kids are much better than adults at being open and honest about their thoughts and feelings if we give them a chance. Adults spend so much energy trying to suppress their feelings. Trying.
So much energy wasted... for what?
If the best of my short stories were about anything, they were about living in the face of pain and disappointment and horror. I've always felt hopeful about them, despite how hideous my progeny might look to a reader. I've always thought they were little stories of hope.
I'm living out loud the best I can. I'll save my energy for love and hope and gratitude. It is a conscious choice--a choice I can make as well as anyone. I'll dig up the peonies, but won't worry about the bones I find. They aren't mine, and I never buried them there.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Museum Pieces
Purging the basement, I found several artifacts of my life. Each one could sprout several stories:
I worked at Hastings Entertainment in Lawrence back in '98. What an odd and eventful year...
Many of you remember the story about how Aimee aimed our little boat toward the Tetons despite warnings to "stay within a mile of shore"? This is my face moments before the big freak out.
My last day of work at Ray's IGA after my senior year in high school. I met some life-long friends at that job. Some of them dumped a bucket of water on me as I was leaving.
Yes, McKinley Middle School's mascot... sorry to my friends from across the pond, but in American history the Redcoats were the bad guys (at least during the Revolution). Of course the picture looks more like a minuteman. How about the Fighting Minutemen? I don't get it, either. Every school in Clay Center was named after an assasinated president, too... Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley. If the high school was build five years later, it would have been a Kennedy.
More coming. I know--you're holding your breath.
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