I’ve been thinking, yet again, about the notion of “subversion” in general as it relates to sf/f. Unlike the alleged real world, where subversion is what outfits like Homeland Security and the NSA will try to get you disappeared over, in our genre subversion is rated a Good Thing by reviewers and academics alike (readers perhaps have a different idea, but we’re not talking about them right now). Perhaps even the highest achievement to which a sf/f story can aspire. If you doubt that, just try to remember the last time you saw the term “subversive” used in a genre review where it was regarded as a bad thing. Take your time. Continue reading
Category Archives: Writing
“Don’t Share That! You Don’t Know Where It’s Been!”
What does this mean? Maybe it means there’s nothing new under the sun. Or there are only so many ideas that can exist at one time. Or someone else is always smarter than you are. Or Ray Bradbury’s passing has me unhinged and I need to talk about something at least marginally less depressing. Lots of potential significance to hand out, for those interested in significance. Sometimes I am. Interested, that is. Not significant. And I certainly wouldn’t rule out the “unhinged” part.
That bit of surreality brought to you by my prior reading, a collection of interviews with the likewise gone but always eccentric Edward Gorey. He said, among other things and I do paraphrase, “I have this crazy theory–I think that good art is not about what it seems to be about.” The interview was from, oh, twenty years ago or so. It just smacked me on the head because, now and then when I do panels at conventions, some wannabee/hopeful/beginner/glutton for punishment sometimes asks, “How do you know if a story you’re writing is going to be any good?” The obvious answer of course is “You don’t.” Even so, at least in my case, there eventually comes a point, usually before the end, when I do, in fact, know that I’ve hit the mark or missed it. And I’ve said it so many times it’s become my stock answer, mostly because it’s true: “For any given story, you have to ask yourself two questions: 1) What’s the story about? and 2) Ok, now what’s it really about? If I can answer both questions, then the story usually works.” This is not meant to be flip. On the contrary, it is deadly serious, since the first question refers to what happens in the story, but what happens in the story isn’t the story. On the surface, “Romeo and Juliet” is about a family feud, but that’s not what it’s really about. Anyway, Gorey said it first. Or at least before I did. Probably because it’s really obvious. Well, once you see it, that is. Like most “obvious” things.
Okay, there’s also something else we need to get out of the way while we’re both here–I have no Inner Child, okay? I am my Inner Child. I think Ray Bradbury is primarily responsible for that–he certainly led by example. So what I’ve got here is an Inner Fatuous Old Man, and sometimes he takes over. Maybe like now.
Just consider the source.
PSA or Blatant Commercialism — Why Can’t it Be Both?
This is an excerpt from thePublisher’s Weekly review of ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER OF HEAVEN–“Gods, mortals, and entities somewhere in between provide provocative reflections on human nature in this breezy collection of 14 fantasy stories… The title story is a delightful folktale meditation on the mysteries of love and friendship. Parks (Hereafter, and After) relates these tales in a lyrical style that is sympathetic without being sentimental, straddling the boundary between the realistic and the romantic.”
Never mind all that. The unique thing about this particular collection, my most recent, is that it was my first regular hardcover. The trends and realities of current publishing also dictate that it will be my last. Any other books/stories appearing in hardcover, like the Yamada novel from PS Publishing in the UK, will be strictly limited editions and, to be blunt, a bit pricey. There were only so many of this regular hc printed, and when they’re gone, that is IT. No more. It’s trade paper and ebook from here on out. That’s not a sad thing, it’s just the way things are, but if you’re one of those readers who just like a book in hardcover, now wouldn’t be a bad time to pick it up. End of PSA. Or commercial. Whatever this is.
Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Prime Books.
The Road to Hell is Really Paved With Killer Opening Lines
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
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
Richard Parks 