Tomorrow, I travel to Scenic Columbus, Ohio, to embrace my fellow science fictioneers in sisterly love. Or something like that. Yes, it's time to go to a convention, and it's my first one in far too long. Since, like, January.
At ConText, I hope to finally meet my not-infrequent TOC buddy, Lucy A. Snyder; to catch up with Jaime Lee Moyer of poetry fame; and to avoid the too-overt stalking Mike Resnick, who has been holding "The Lonesome Dark" prisoner on his desk for a while now. (Well, it's either him or Eric Flint.) (And, presumably on his desk. Perhaps it's propping up a wobbly table.) And of course, to catch up with my buddy Elizabeth Shack.
Is there anyone else going that I should be stalking, either overtly or non-overtly?
In the meantime, I must pack.
And stop reading about Mike Resnick. Because I need to stop reading things he's written essays on slush, which is not packing, in spite of intriguing statements like "[The] odds against selling a slush story to Asimov’s? 4,000-to-1 against."
Dang. Now I'm feeling all miraculous and shit.
Well, fortunately I'll be traveling tomorrow with my biggest co-conspirator, Julie Winningham. She knows how to keep me humble. And how.
I got some. I'm moving on.
School is taking up too much time.
I'm working as hard as I can on the novel(s), but it's tough.
Dave Klecha, writing buddy and good friend, just became a dad for the second time! Go, Dave! More importantly, go, Tarri!
Now. How are you?
Here are some things I've learned this month:
1) It is much easier to work out the problems in a completed manuscript than an incomplete one.
2) Three years is really enough time to have thought through all the problems of character, world-building, and plot of a single novel.
3) I never have this feeling of smooth pleasantness when rewriting a short story. Short stories are too cramped. Every word counts. You can't just decide to make your theme more apparent by introducing a sub-plot. You can't just add words whenever you want. I think I am a writer-claustrophobe. I can't imagine having this much fun rewriting a short story. I've gone back to short stories three years later, too, and I can say, with honesty, that it's even less fun than rewriting after a month.
Anyway. Just thought I'd share with you my highly subjective recent experiences with novel-writing. Er. Re-writing.
...who opens her email in the morning while chanting in her head: "Big money, no whammies, BIG MONEY, NO WHAMMIES, STOP!!!" ?
Yes, I thought so, too.
(The idea is that if I get to STOP just as my email screen pops to life, I will definitely be okay and not have any rejections, only acceptance letters, in the box.)
(So far, it's worked. I've only gotten rejections when I don't remember to chant.)
(40) The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers by Betsy Lerner [non-fiction]
Go forth and read this, if thou be a writer. That is all.
Unless you aren't having any motivation problems. In which case, ignore above.
That is really all.
(41) Idlewild by Nick Sagan [science fiction]
Lots of fun and inventive stuff dispersed throughout (delicious and nutritious as the two opposing forces of the universe? Yep!), though occasionally, I wondered if I had skipped pages or paragraphs or whole chapters--something about Sagan's writing style didn't keep me abreast of things properly, and I don't usually zone out.
Still. Michigan-based science fiction! Yay! I love the sequel title: Edenborn. Because Idlewild was the "Black Eden," a resort for African-Americans before desegregation killed it--I presume.
(42) Jackaroo by Cynthia Voigt [YA - ruritarian fantasy??] re-read
I loved this book soverymuch when I was younger, and while it is still most excellent, I had a harder time emotionally connecting to the story this time. I don't know if that's because I'm just older and more cynical, or because I've read the books in the series that follow them--and while the bleakness and the beauty of this book are still apparent, they pale in comparison to the three following books.
Voigt doesn't write easy books; they aren't easy on the reader, and they aren't easy on the characters. On the surface, this looks like a swashbuckling adventure tale. It is much, much deeper.
For the record, I not only did not win WotF, I didn't even make quarter-finalist. That's my first time! Boo! I am now worried that I killed my dear story in the rewrite, so double-boo!
I quote to you now this paragraph from Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers:
"[Here are] what I call editorial rejection euphemisms: not right for our list (get it out of here), pacing problems (boring), exhaustive (academic/boring), somewhat heavy-handed (preachy), not without charm (too precious), nicely written but ultimately unsatisfying (plotless), underdeveloped characters (totally stock), nice sense of place (is this about anything?), not enough tension (mind-numbingly slow), feels familiar (yet another road-trip / coming-of-age / ugly-duckling / dysfunctional-family novel), entertaining (overwritten), crowded marketplace (not another!), and my personal favorite: too special (which of course means it won't sell)." p. 174
Well. I've been called "entertaining" in rejection letters enough times that I have a complex now, but I do suspect the list of euphemisms is somewhat different for short fiction. Or, I hope it is. Also, I'm wondering how many nicely writtens with no "but" after it mean the same thing as Lerner lists.
Anyway. Here's today's Great Truth of Trying to Get Published: editors always claim that rejectomancy is a waste of time, but the fact is, there are euphemisms, and that's what rejectomancy really is, an attempt to decipher the euphemisms. I know editors who think it's terribly clear when they say "it didn't grab me" versus "it didn't hold my attention," but in fact, it takes some thought, and it's very handy when the editor comes out in public and says, "Look. 'Didn't grab' means I didn't make it past the first page. 'Didn't hold' means I didn't make it to the end."
Also: I rejectomance, therefore I am.
Well, Steve Buchheit may be reluctant to shove his incremental successes in everyone's faces, but I am nowhere near as polite. I've a story that is officially out of the slush at InterGalactic Medicine Show, according to this here email from Edmund Schubert. I should hear in four weeks. Or so.
Feel any less egomaniacal, Steve?
I have finally, finally, FINALLY (maybe finally) wrangled the first chapter of Some Novel About Conquest (By Right of Conquest, but maybe also The Human Conquest, and wow does novel-titling suck in a way that short story-titling does not) into a first chapter like form. I may be speaking too soon, as I have another scene to write, but my ducks may at last be in a row.
Maybe.
Probably.
But that's officially first blood. Victory.
In other news, I saw V for Vendetta last night, and it ate my brain in the best way. Mostly because there's finally something out there that uses the themes from The Phantom of the Opera in a way that actually works for me. The Phantom and Christine were about music, but... maybe I don't appreciate enough about opera to think that he was offering her something better than what she could have had with Raoul. Perhaps this is because she ultimately never really seemed to appreciate Art, and because she did choose Raoul in the end? Dunno. But V and Evey, well, that's a whole different thing. Freedom from fear is perhaps the single most powerful concept in modern life--to me, anyway. To anyone who's ever been significantly afraid.
I may have to write a whole book about the freedom from fear, some day.
But not today. Today I'm writing about sacrifice and altruism and abandoning honor to save humanity. Fun times.