So Who Wants to Know?

The topic came up elsewhere and got me thinking of the infamous Author Bio-Blurb. You see it in books, sure, but those of us who write short stories as well, or even primarily, have to deal with it too and a lot more often. I know. It’s really a sort of “high-class worry” to people who haven’t sold at all or barely. “Writing author blurbs is hard? My heart frickin’ bleeds for your anguish.” I’ll grant you, the first few are kinda fun. Then you’re selling maybe five or six stories or more every year, year after year, and it’s become a chore. 

“Again, my heart frickin’ bleeds—“ Continue reading

Embracing Your Inner Butcher

Earlier this morning I killed a couple of paragraphs. Perfectly innocent little things, well written, even revealed a smidge of character in them. Not enough. They weren’t pulling their weight, the little deadbeats, and now they’re gone. In the next session, whenever that is, I have already planned which section of the story I mean to attack. There will be more carnage, more innocent words spilled. It will not, however, be murder. It will be self-defense.

Long, hectoring tirade follows. Proceed at your own risk. Continue reading

New Story Time – “A Thing or Two About Love”

Looking back on this story now I can see that it’s just,oh, maybe a tad cynical about the subject. I acknowledge and own this, but I’m not going to apologize for it. You have to write from the place you are at the time, even if, apparently, in 1997 I was being a bit of a smart-ass.

“A Thing or Two About Love”

Following the Wrong Gods Home

I was reading over an old blog post on the subject of short stories versus novels, and the thing that struck me about whatever I was ranting about was how dated the thing was. Irrelevant, even. I am constantly reminded that so many “truths” that I had internalized to the core of my being about the writing and publishing of sf/f just aren’t true anymore. Some were never true at all.

It’s something I should be used to by now. Back when I was struggling to “break in” at even an entry level, I had a very clear idea of what I wanted, and where I was trying to get to. The field had fairly clear parameters. I knew what magazines “counted” and what my targets were. For writers, I knew who the major players were. But a funny thing happened on my way to entering the field—by the time I got there, it wasn’t the same field. Remember the phrase, “There were giants in the earth in those days”? Well, there were. My first sale was to the venerable Amazing Stories, the absolute oldest of the magazines and arguably the first real sf magazine, period. By the time I sold my second story, to Asimov’s SF, Amazing was no more. My third story sale was to a magazine that didn’t even exist when I was targeting the first two, SF Age, now also gone. For the first fourteen years that I was selling stories my “go to” market was Realms of Fantasy, and now? Poof. Gone.

And it wasn’t just magazines. I had my heroes, writers who were almost like gods and goddesses to me. And by the time I felt somewhat part of the field, again, it wasn’t there anymore. Many of the old gods had died off or retired. New people, like me, were filling the niches. Some would go on to be major players, people I’d never even heard of in the preceding years. I was where I wanted to be, but it wasn’t where I thought it was. Continue reading

Face Value

 I’ve been thinking about the concept of surprise as it relates to fiction and specifically the relationship between writer and reader. Readers like to be surprised, as a general rule, but it has to be the right sort of surprise. We’re all familiar with the iconic “Twilight Zone” story where the payoff is an ironic twist. That works in small doses, but do it time and again and it becomes too much like a parlor trick everyone’s seen once too often. The punch goes away and the surprise is no longer surprising. I’ve talked about ending before, and how it has to be the “right” ending for the story. The right ending will always have a sense of inevitability about it, whether the reader sees it coming or not. But is it really better if they don’t? And, if so, what can be reasonably sacrificed to make that happen?

This is the balance that concerns me, because I find it’s one aspect of storytelling that we have to deal with all the time. Fiction is a consensus illusion created between the writer and the reader. As a writer you craft a dream that the reader, for a while, shares. Yet their experience reading will never be the same as yours writing. They will never quite see the characters as you do, and they will interpret intent and meanings with their own perspective. That’s not a problem, that’s just the way the game works and all writers have to be aware of it. But the writer who goes for surprise has to be especially aware of and, in a sense, manipulate that perspective, and the primary tools are omission and misdirection. Continue reading