I’ve been thinking about first lines. Yes, you want to hook the reader, or at least have them think that oh, maybe this story won’t be a complete waste of my precious time. Yet there’s a fine line there between hooking the reader and false advertising, which is the same thing as cheating. And we’ve already been over the subject of cheating the reader, and all you really have to remember is this–don’t. Not ever. So I approach the subject of “first lines” with a mixture of fascination and unease. I’m kind of with Damon Knight on the whole notion, which I paraphrase: “The problem with starting a story with a really killer first line is that writers often spend the entire balance of the piece trying to justify it.” With the implication being that they’re doing this “rather than telling the darn story.” I think there’s truth in that. Yes, you want a good opening hook, but that hook is usually set in the first paragraph, not the first line. Even an impatient reader will trust you that far, if no farther. What you want is a first line that will lead the reader to the the second line, which leads them to the third and, well, you get the idea. A first line is important, but you don’t necessarily need it to grab the reader by the scruff if you can lead them by the hand. It is, as we’ve talked about before, a matter of trust. The first line has to convince the reader to trust you enough to read farther. The first line has to carry the implication, the hint, that you know what you’re doing. You may not believe you do, and that’s fine, nay even realistic. You’re trying to convince the reader. Continue reading
Category Archives: magazines
Zen and the Art of Beating Your Head Against the Wall – Once More, With Rejections
I want to talk about rejections for a minute. Yes, no one likes them, but as the Corleones would say, “It’s nothing personal. Just business.” For the most part that’s actually true, though this being the small and feud-oriented family field that it is, it’s not always true, but close enough for the sake of this discussion.
The idea that it’s “not personal” flies in the face of the idea of the “personal” rejection, the one step up from the universally hated “form” rejection. A personal rejection is often interpreted to mean that you’re making progress. Often true, especially when you’re just starting out. Say you’ve gotten ten form rejects in a row from the same editor, but the eleventh gets a “try again” scribble(okay, these days maybe it’s a personal note tacked onto the end of a form macro, but the point stands), and the fourteenth gets an actual note explaining why the editor isn’t buying this one, but also (as before) try again. As Mike Resnick often says, the key word in “personal rejection” is not “personal,” and he’s right. “No” is still not a “yes.” Even so, personal rejections, while considerably short of a sale, are often rightly seen as encouraging signs.
Yet what I’m going to talk about is an exception to that rule. A case where the quite understandable response to a personal rejection would be to never, ever, bother to send that editor another story or novel so long as you both shall live. I’m not talking about the unprofessional, insulting rejection; so long as you’re dealing with people who conduct themselves professionally, those are rare, and why would you deal with anyone else? No, what I’m talking about is far more common type of personal rejection. I’ve gotten a few, and they never fail to send me into a funk of annoyance and regret.
It’s simply this: a rejection that shows beyond question that the aspects of your work that make it unique to you, plays to your strengths and interests, and that may even make your work worth doing to you, to go through the agony and sweat to get the story down in the first place, are the very aspects that the editor finds objectionable. In short, the editor clearly doesn’t “get” you. But there’s a catch to it, and one rejection like that doesn’t tell the story. You have to subject yourself to multiple instances of the same sort of cluelessness before you’re justified in writing off the market completely.
I can hear it now–“I do? What do you think I am, some kind of masochist?” Continue reading
Zen and the Art of Beating Your Head Against the Wall Revisited
“Everything’s been said. But no one was listening, so we have to keep saying it.” — Anonymous.
I’ve said this before, I know. Look away if you want. I won’t mind. Some of this applies across the board, but this is mostly for the short story people out there.
Ok, tough guys of all genders, do you really think you’re ready for this? Of course you do, and why shouldn’t you? You’ve endured the long hours with nothing but you and a blank screen. You’ve endured the rejections. You’ve endured the shoestring operations that either lose your submissions or close up shop before they publish that story they bought from you, the one that was going to make your reputation overnight. Your grin may have been more grimace for a bit, but you got through it. Now you sneer at editorial indifference, you scoff at bad reviews. You’ve been assayed, weighed in the balance, proven. You’re starting to break through; the venues are getting better, the checks are getting larger. This is no small accomplishment. You’re in. You’ve done it. You’ve passed all the tests.
Not all. There’s still one test left. And while we’re at it, how good are you at being ignored?
“…Any Club That Would Have Me for a Member…”
The subject came up in another context but it got me thinking about it. New magazines have always popped up fairly frequently in the field. Most don’t last long. This was true back in the mimeograph days and it’s even more true now, when web publishing basically means anyone with a little time and the notion can put up a web page and call it a magazine. This in turn will spawn the writer on the make’s natural prey–the market listing.
I don’t know about you all, but when I’m scanning the list of new markets at Ralan’s or wherever, the number of potential markets I find worth bothering with is very small. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — I’m picky. It’s probably some deep character flaw that makes me think I have the right to be picky. I mean, who the hell do I think I am anyway? But there it is. Actually, it’s even worse than that–I think every writer should be picky. Value what you do, or no one else will. Aim higher, even if you think the target is out of range. Maybe it is, but maybe it isn’t. So all that said, I’ve been thinking about what separates a venue worth considering and one that, well, just isn’t. Continue reading
Word of Podcast
If you’re interested in the sf/f field in general, the SF Signal web site is probably already familiar to you. This week they’ve put up one of their regular podcasts, this time a panel discussion on the state of the Swords & Sorcery (S&S)subgenre and where the genre is at the moment, (Episode 108): 2012 Sword & Sorcery Mega Panel Part 1
. Panelists were:
Lou Anders is the editor of Pyr Books, Scott Andrews is the editor of Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Violette Malan and James Sutter are authors, Jaym Gates and Patrick Hester are the SF Signal podcast moderators. Besides being an interesting discussion in itself for anyone even remotely interested in the subject (and I’m looking forward to part 2), it was interesting to me personally because my name came up several times as a modern S&S author in connection with the Lord Yamada stories.
I can see it. For one thing, as subgenres go, S&S is pretty mecurial. Any subgenre that can encompass at various times Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, Fritz Leiber, C.L. Moore, Joanna Russ, G.R.R. Martin, and Michael Moorcock, has to be a bit of a moving target. For another, at various times in my development I was very deliberately writing S&S. For one thing, I went through an early phase where I didn’t read much else. For another, when I was first trying to break into the fantasy magazines (all maybe three of them at the time), S&S was in the ascendant, as hot or hotter than Steampunk is now. I wrote a fair bit of it, and apparently I still am.
I’ll grant you, I wasn’t thinking of Yamada as S&S when the series first came to me. I had him envisioned more as a Heian-era noire detective, sort of Sam Spade with a tachi. He quickly grew past that limited conception, and thank heavens for that, but the tone remained that of a generalist fantasy with mystery overtones. And yet the stories still easily fit under the S&S umbrella. I hadn’t thought of them that way, but it’s true, and perfectly fine with me.
Categories aside, I think this is the first time that my name and work has come up in a podcast that wasn’t a podcast of one of my own stories. Getting a reminder now and then that other people do read and like what you do doesn’t entirely suck.
Richard Parks 