Year: 2018 (page 11 of 32)

I talk a good game.

I say the right words, the right motivational words. I say, don’t quit! I say, keep writing that story, finish your shit, end what you begin, you can do it, and then I shake my pom-poms (which may or may not be the nickname I have given to my buttcheeks), and rah-rah-rah.

And it’s not bad advice, in the general sense. Of course you have to finish your shit. If you start writing a story, you’re best also trying to end that story. And that’s for a lot of reasons: it’s because we need to know that we are capable of ending what we begin, it’s because the ending of a story is a vital component to learn, it’s because so many writers never finish what they start, it’s because we need that little dopamine hit of stumbling drunkenly over the finish line.

It is, as a rule, a pretty hard and fast one. Most of writing is not given over to rules carved into the schist and bedrock, but this one? It’s pretty damn close, right?

Finish.

Your.

Shit.

Except.

Wait, what? Except what? What the fuck, Chuck? Didn’t you just say this was a hard and fast rule? Carved into schist, whatever the fuck schist is? What is schist, anyway? Is it poop? Rock poop? “Oh no, I schist myself,” the boulder said, ejecting a rattle of little pebbles out of its craggy crevice. Or is it crevasse? Is any of this important? Are you talking to yourself, Chuck? Am I talking to myself?

Who am I?

Who are you?

Man, this post has already gone way off the rails.

Let’s refocus:

Sure, finish your shit.

Except, sometimes, you have to quit.

Now, I don’t mean in the larger scheme of things — I don’t mean, QUIT WRITING, YOU SUCK. You may! Suck, that is. I certainly did, once upon a time — and I may yet still. I think the reason to quit writing overall is that you don’t really like it very much, but it’s damn sure not because you aren’t good at it, because not being good at a thing is the precursor to getting good at the thing.

No, I mean, sometimes you have to abandon a story.

You gotta cut bait and let the fish have the worm.

It’s okay.

Here’s why you quit a story, I think —

a) You’re just not ready. Or it’s not ready. Point is? Something’s off. The stories we write aren’t all surface — the writing of a tale is rarely the sum total of the work that goes into it, and very early on in my life and career I hadn’t figured this out. I’d get an idea and I’d instantly run to the page and scribble scribble scribble and then be mad at myself because what was on the page was half-formed drivel. Shallower than a thimble of spit. What goes into a story is often a whole lot of foundational thinking and feeling and internal arguing — a kind of quality assurance testing, a weird narrative Thunderdome-of-Ideas. Like brownies, a story needs time to bake. Pull them out too early and it’s just goop. (Though: maybe delicious goop.) If you’re building a house, so much of that architecture is about establishing a strong, unshakeable foundation — even though that foundation is something the homeowners will never see. It’s hidden beneath the dirt, but without it, the walls tumble, the roof falls, the house crumbles. Sometimes you just haven’t laid the foundation of the story.

b) It’s just not any good. Now, this one is tricky as hell, because we remain the worst judges of our own work, especially when we’re in the thick of it. I routinely am certain that the thing I am writing is APOCALYPTICALLY BAD, and then the next day I feel like it’s THE BEST THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN, BY GOSH AND BY GOLLY, and sometimes I feel those two contradictory feelings multiple times in the span of a single hour. But! As you develop a good writing habit and a steady instinct for this stuff (an instinct sharpened largely against the whetstone of practice), you start to get a gut check for this stuff. And if you go days, weeks, 200 pages and you still think, this really isn’t coming together, then it’s time for a strategic retreat from the work.

c) You’re not having fun. This one, too, is tricky, because writing isn’t always an act of eating cotton candy while happy puppies squirm at your feet. Some days are purely reserved for shoveling earth. Some days are like pulling bad teeth. That’s normal. It isn’t always fun. Hell, it isn’t often fun. But there’s also an evaluation you might make — again, after some time with it — where you realize, you’re just not enjoying this. It holds no surprises for you. It feels rote and routine, and if it feels that way to you, it may very well feel that way to a reader. Once again, a strategic retreat is called upon.

d) Something better comes along. I don’t just mean a shinier idea — no, shinier ideas are the norm. They will constantly parade themselves before you. As I am wont to say, the question we ask writers shouldn’t be, “Where do you get your ideas?” but rather, “HOW DO YOU MAKE THEM STOP OH GOD THEY WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE ARE THERE DRUGS TO HELP ME OR DO YOU HAVE A HAMMER I CAN HIT MYSELF WITH OH GOD I AM A CONSTANT IMAGINATION ANTENNA it’s so noisy please send cotton candy and puppies.” What I’m talking about is a confirmed, paying gig — like, I’ve quit one project because it was an uncertain thing, and I took the sure thing gig. But but but, the caveat to this is, do the mental calculus. Don’t just take a paying gig because it’s a paying gig if you’re not immediately desperate for the work or the cash. Sometimes it’s best to hunker down over the thing you care about instead of the thing that pays.

All of this adds up to an understanding of a sunk cost fallacy — just because you spent time writing something doesn’t mean you have to spend time finishing it. Yes, it’s good practice. Yes, there are myriad reasons to do so. But sometimes, you gotta give it the heave-ho and move onto something that feels better, feels stronger, something that sits on a more robust foundation.

Now, to tell a brief story —

I started a novel maybe… three, four years ago. I loved the idea, but halfway through it, it just wasn’t coming together. It didn’t feel right. And so I did what I am loathe to do: I abandoned that shit on the side of the road like a colicky baby. (Please do not abandon actual babies, by the way.) I hated it. I felt bad. But it felt like the only way — writing the story wasn’t just digging ditches, it felt like digging ditches to nowhere, for no purpose, just reshuffling dirt molecules for the sake of doing so.

And I sat on that broken, dead story for the last three years.

Thing is, it wasn’t dead after all.

Some grave, grotesque stirring of life still lurked inside it, and now here I am, about to re-start the story all over again. Because I figured it out. Years of having this goddamn seed stuck in my teeth, I finally tongued it hard and worked it out, and now I’ve got my hands around it.

It will be a proper novel still.

Now, the rest of my writing life is one where I wrote five novels before I ever began and have abandoned a few finished novels since getting published. And if we’re talking straight-up unfinished-as-fuck quit-ass novels, oh, man, I am like a serial killer of novels. I have left behind me a wake of story corpses, chopped in half before they ever lived a full life. So, I’ve quit many stories, and here I am, still writing. It didn’t kill me. It didn’t kill my work.

I quit shit, and yet onward I go.

Because even though I quit some stories, I still didn’t quit writing stories.

And that’s my message to you —

Sometimes, you have to quit writing a thing.

As long as you don’t quit writing all the things.

* * *

DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Indiebound / Amazon / B&N

You may have heard of, or even experienced this scenario:

*inserts VHS tape into player*

*ancient afterschool special begins to play*

I wrote a book!

An agent took me on.

A publisher is interested…

Oh, holy shit, they’re going to make an offer! Ha ha! This is it! This is the dream.

The agent emailed me the offer.

It’s a —

Whoa.

WHOA.

It’s a three-book deal!

They say my book needs to be a series, a trilogy, and they want to buy the whole motherfucking trilogy, oh fucking yes, I am the GOD OF WRITING, this is amazing, I am amazing, my agent is amazing, the publisher is amazing.

*fast forward VHS tape*

Oh, this is great, my first book is coming out this week. I AM SO EXCITED I AM PISSING GLITTER. Plus, the publisher has put in a little time and money, and they’ve asked that I really develop my platform and my brand and we’re doing some Goodreads giveaways and — all while I’m writing the second book! Which comes out in the next 6-12 months! This is so cool!

*fast forwards some more*

Oh.

Well. Um. The book came out!

That’s good. But it… I mean, it didn’t do slambang numbers, and not sure if I’ll earn out. Maybe over time. That’ll be fine. Meanwhile, I’ll just… I’ll just keep plugging away on this second book.

Though, I need to admit, it’s… hard. It’s a little harder writing this second book knowing that the first wasn’t a big deal. Just emotionally it’s a lot, but hey — fuck that. I’m an author. I’ve got a three-book-deal, and I know for sure that the publisher believes in me and that the second book will get a nice extra push and —

*fast forwards*

I just got an email and the publisher isn’t really entirely behind the second book. They love it! They’re happy. But they’re also not… committing my attention to it because they feel like the money and time they gave to the first book should be enough but how are people going to find the second book if they haven’t found the first book? Is it magic? Are we relying on magic? Are there wizards? And it’s not like the second book can somehow sell more copies than the first, probably…

Well, that’s okay. Each book has a long tail and they’ll generate attention for one another and just having them on bookstore shelves will be a win!

*fast forwards*

Okay, sooooo, ha ha ha, turns out, bookstores set their orders based on the sales of the last book, and in fact they often cut those orders by 25-50%, so the first book not doing so hot means they haven’t ordered as many copies of the second book annnnnd

I’m sorta writing the third book now, a year later

or I’m trying to write the third book

and

it’s hard, it’s really hard

I’m writing this book

this third book

and I worry it’s just going to go kerplunk into the publishing toilet

but without the splash

just a flush

and then the void

and what about when I go to get my next book deal

and they look at the sales of this series, my first

what will happen

is this over just as it’s beginning?

*pops out VHS tape*

*spins chair around, sits on it in uncool Captain America-style*

So, here’s the thing.

The above scenario is a little pessimistic — and even if it happens, it’s important to recognize that it’s not the end-all be-all situation. You’re published, and though no book is guaranteed, your foot is in the door and I’ve found that publishers are not overly punitive regarding the sales of a first series. They’re not operating in bewildered isolation; they know the score. They know it’s hard. And if the next idea is a good one, they’ll offer again.

Though, they’ll probably offer with another series.

And here’s my caution —

Committing to a series, especially for a debut or new-ish author, is tough.

It’s tough for a lot of reasons.

a) It’s tough because of the spiraling situation above. Sales of a first book are no guarantee, and now you’re in for three books long before you know how the first has done. You will likely be in the middle of writing a second or third book by the time you figure out the first has done… you know, not that great. It’s not necessarily that your publisher won’t support that first book — they may, they may not. But they probably won’t throw much support behind the second or third book, on the hopes that the attention investment they put into the first book will carry it. If they don’t have an innovative strategy to grow the series — and some publishers do! — that series is, well, literally a series of diminishing returns. Which, yes, might mean cut orders from bookstores, or higher remainders, or whatever.

b) This feeds a secondary situation — some readers are growing gun-shy when it comes to investing in and keeping up with book series. They prefer not to buy a series until it’s complete — they’ve been burned before, you see. By authors who haven’t finished the series, or by a bookstore that stopped carrying the books, or by a publisher that ended a series early. And ironically, this situation in return re-feeds the first problem: if readers don’t commit to buying a series book by book along the way, then it’s even likelier that a bookstore will stop carrying it, that a publisher will stop publishing it, that the writer will keep writing it. This is the PUBLISHING OUROBOROS, a snake biting its own tail, slurping up its own body like a serpentine noodle.

c) Writing a series is… actually hard. Here you’re a debut writer and you’re tasked not just with one book, but three — and not just three books, but one story split thrice, a trilogy. I don’t to say this is advanced story math, exactly, but it’s also not basic shit. This is at least an intermediate level-up (ding), and I’m tempted to say it’s a swim forward or drown scenario, which is true, but it has the added complication that the success or failure of a book is not entirely reliant on you, the other. What I mean is, there are so many other factors that go into making a book leap into people’s hands or die on the shelf — marketing, promotion, cover design, placement, bookstore love, librarian mojo, zeitgeist, simple fucking luck — that now you’re forced to do this dance with three books, not one. It’s vital to realize this is a commitment on your part — like getting a new job and being told you can’t just quit if it doesn’t work out. “Welcome to Dave’s Churro Repair, new employee, please sign this contract confirming you work for us for at least two years!”

d) The commit to write a series or trilogy or whatever the configuration is a commitment often made before you’ve done it. That’s okay, and certainly there’s a certain pleasure to writing on spec — here’s the idea (which is nearly always in part a lie!) and now I am paid money to write it. But again, for a new author unused to the trials and tribulations of a writing schedule with a theoretically tight deadline, this can actually be pretty fucking tough. Again, this is thrown into the deep end stuff — HEY THANKS FOR THE BOOK, the publisher says, NOW WRITE TWO MORE IN THE NEXT 9-12 MONTHS. Which is phenomenal if you’re practiced and ready; less awesome if you have no idea what the fiddly fuck you’re doing and you’ve got kids and a day job and a weird habit of showing up in people’s houses with a chair and a VHS tape in order to lecture at them. Also, you’re dressed as Captain America. Freak. But also it’s kinda sexy? Shut up.

So, what do you do?

Well, I have no idea.

If you’re in SFF or, really, any kind of genre, it’s probably gonna come up. And when it does, you just need to be prepared for how to deal with it.

You could —

Talk to your agent. (And/or, the editor.) If the book isn’t something you want for a series, you need to own that up front. Be clear. It’s okay to not write or pitch a series, and it’s okay to be clear that this is a standalone. Wanderers (out July 2019!) is a book that is for me, very distinctly a standalone. Admittedly, a huge standalone (280k), but it’s one book. I had people ask if I could turn it into a duology or a trilogy — and yes, I could have, but no, I sure as fuck didn’t. The publisher believes in it as one book, and honestly, the pressure that alleviates is astounding. I don’t have to worry about 2-3 years worth of book releases in one story — it’s one and done, baby. And the second book in the deal is also a standalone, which is a new chance to succeed or fail rather than several books staple-gunned together into a giant authorial raft.

Plan for a series only if it merits a series. Again, worth talking to your agent and editor with the idea that the first book stands alone but has series potential — in other words, if it does well, you will commit to a series. If it doesn’t? Then you’re not on the hook for a few years of writing, editing, and promo. Note that a series benefits a publisher more than it benefits a writer, often, so, go in with clear-eyes and firm demands.

Self-publish. Self-published series do well — and self-publishing one book also gives you a reflexive ability to see if more books are demanded or if it’s time to cut bait and run. No publisher will demand you write more of a failing series because, drum roll please, you’re the publisher. Of course, that’s also the downside: you’re the publisher, not just the writer. Considerably more work on your part, but if you’re good at that kind of work or know how to pay the right people — go for it.

Write all the books first. Write the series first. If it’s a trilogy, write the trilogy before trying to publish. If it’s a longer series, write the first three books, at least. Or, bare minimum, plot the books robustly, so that when the contract comes in you’re not rushing to figure out the story beats on a longer series.

Suck it up and enjoy the ride. Hey, getting books published is awesome, and fuck it, you can just roll with whatever punches this industry throws at you. At least you know they’re coming, right?

p.s. Pissing Glitter is my CIA code name, don’t @ me

* * *

THE RAPTOR & THE WREN: Miriam Black, Book 5

Miriam Black, in lockstep with death, continues on her quest to control her own fate! Having been desperate to rid herself of her psychic powers, Miriam now finds herself armed with the solution — a seemingly impossible one. But Miriam’s past is catching up to her, just as she’s trying to leave it behind. A copy-cat killer has caught the public’s attention. An old nemesis is back from the dead. And Louis, the ex she still loves, will commit an unforgivable act if she doesn’t change the future. 

Miriam knows that only a great sacrifice is enough to counter fate. Can she save Louis, stop the killer, and survive? 

Hunted and haunted, Miriam is coming to a crossroads, and nothing is going to stand in her way, not even the Trespasser.

Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

This motherfucker here is the spotted lanternfly.

On the plus side, it’s kind of pretty. The gray, stained-glass, fingerprint wings — and underneath them, which this does not show, you’d find a vicious splash of red, which at least makes them easy to identify at a distance. For when they fly, that red really pops. The fire of little lanterns.

On the minus side, they’re an invasive species making a fast, fast foray into Pennsylvania. They have a hunger for another invasive — the assy-smelling Tree of Heaven, which is a weedy tree that pops up like unwanted backhair — and if that’s all it were, it would also fall neatly into the plus column. Sure, jerk bug, eat the jerk tree, huzzah. But they also hanker for grape vines, apple trees, peach trees, I think walnuts trees, too? Last year, I’d seen a few of them here and there. This year I’ve seen ten times that amount, and last week we went to the wildlife conservancy to hike and look for butterflies, and while there, we probably saw… 50? 60? All in just a couple hours.

So, they’re here, and we crush them whenever possible. I’ve heard tell from Twitter pal Rebecca Seidel that maybe a little diluted Dawn dish soap with water can kill them. Worth a shot.

(Thanks, Rebecca!)

And of course, all this is happening as slowly-but-surely we lose a ton of wonderful ash trees thanks to the emerald ash borer. We’re inoculating some of our nicest trees because the cost of inoculation per tree per year has come down from $1000 to $100, but it’s also no guarantee.

Good job, mankind. Spreading invasive species, like a jerk.

I suppose this is where I do the thing where I’m like HEY HEY HEY I WROTE A BOOK CALLED INVASIVE and it’s sorta about invasive species, if by “invasive species” you mean “Frankensteinian man-made skin-harvesting ants who take over the island of Kauai.” Anyway, blah blah blah, buy Invasive, in print or ebook or audio, please and thank you.

Also, looks like Damn Fine Story on e-book is down a bit in price ($8.49).

Anyway.

If you want another buggy macro, here is the head, or maybe the butt? of an io moth caterpillar, replete with a waterdrop cradled in the spines. Those spines, by the way, will give you a nasty passive sting. They blend in perfectly with our redbud tree, and so it’s easy to brush along one and get stung. I haven’t, as yet, though our tree guy got a sting — some say it’s equivalent to a bee sting, others claim it’s far worse? DO NOT HUG THE CATERPILLAR.

Or, if you’d rather a caterpillar who is a wee smidgen friendlier, here is the caterpillar of the snowberry clearwing hummingbird moth, a cool moth whose wings are, well, literally transparent in places. This one is an adorable little sushi roll, and was very delicious HA HA what no I didn’t eat the caterpillar YOU ate the caterpillar shut up

Here, this caterpillar you can hug. I mean, gently. Or maybe you should just let the caterpillar hug you, I mean, what with those ADORABLE WIDDLE CATTYPILLOW PAWS OMFG.

Ahem.

Anyway, I guess that’s it for now.

BE GOOD, HOOMANS

*vanishes in an ostentatious display of pixels*

I meet a lot of writers, young writers particularly, who feel like they don’t have anything new to say, no new stories to tell, no new ideas.

Now, for me, ideas are mostly shiny, plastic dross. When you first find them they look like emeralds on the beach, a rare fossil, an Important Discovery —

But most of the time, they’re just cheap trash dressed up to look nice. They’re tequila-shined Mardi Gras beads that escaped the gutter, somehow. Maybe that’s unfair to ideas, because ideas are the seeds from which most stories germinate, but even there, consider that when you plant a seed and the resultant plant begins to grow, it looks the fucking same nearly every time.

It’s a little stem.

It’s two leaves.

A sprout, that’s all.

(Seriously, it’s this shit right here.)

And growing a plant out of a seed is both an act of generative power (I DID IT, I BASICALLY HELPED CREATE LIFE) to the crushing reality that what you did is so common it’s disgusting (I PERFORMED A BARE MINIMUM ACT THAT EVEN A CHILD COULD ACCOMPLISH).

And writing a book or any kind of story — or really, making any kind of thing at all — is a lot like that, too, especially right when you start. I HAVE BEGUN AN AMAZING JOURNEY, you think, seconds before you decide, JUST LIKE MILLIONS OF FAILED DIPSHITS BEFORE ME OH GOD I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING OH SHIT THIS GROUND IS SO WELL-TRAVELED IT’S A PAVED, BRIGHTLY LIT PATH, THERE ARE SIGNS AND DOG POOP STATIONS

FUCK FUCK FUCK

And it’s at this point that some writers, myself included, experience a kind of narrative, existential vaporlock. You freeze up. And the worry comes that you’ve nothing to add to the canon of ideas, that whatever story you’re going to tell isn’t particularly original. Surely someone has told a story like this.

You’re right. They probably have.

In the history of storytelling, it’s very, very hard to have an entirely original take on something. When you’re pitching a book to an agent, or when your agent is pitching a book to editors, you might be asked what the “comp” titles are — meaning, what books are like it already. And in Hollywoodland, pitching a story is often you trying to feign originality by smashing up two pre-existing properties — “It’s like Terminator meets Gilmore Girls! It’s Pinnocchio, but set on the Titanic — in space! It’s as if Spongebob Squarepants took the meth from Breaking Bad and found himself living destitute in a pineapple just outside Nightmare on Elm Street!” And it’s a very cliched thing, and I assure you, having pitched film and TV on the Leftmost Coast, it’s also a very real thing. If you don’t distill the property down to those two or three already extant stories, they certainly will, and it can feel weirdly disheartening to find out that your story is considered to be as original as two unoriginal things staple-gunned together.

And so at the start of the work and at the end of the work, the originality is in question.

For many, this is troubling.

Don’t let it be.

I consider there to be very few Actual Truths in writing, in storytelling, in making cool shit — but this, I think, comes as close to Actual Truth as I can muster.

Every story has one original thing about it.

And that original thing is

You.

That sounds like some goofy-ass self-help shit, I know, but trust me, you’re it. You’re the thing. You’re the Original Idea, the Important Discovery, the One Untold Tale, the Unexplored Path, the Savior of Narnia, the Sword of Damocles, the Revenge of the Sith wait I’m getting carried away, sorry, sorry. Ahem. Moving on. Point is, it’s you. Look at it this way —

You’re a bundle of unexpected genetics. Two people fucked, and they made you. And to make each of them, two other people fucked, and on and on and on — you’re at the bottom of an inverted pyramid, the nadir of an unholy host of genetic material that has scrambled itself up and guaranteed that you are a random, uncountable confluence of atoms. And that’s just the genetic side.

On the memetic side — the side of ideas and information — oh my sweet fucking hell, are you ever an infinite, irreplicable* maze. You are a labyrinthine tangle of wants, desires, fears, experiences, anxieties, certainties, questions. You’re the sum total of the places you’ve been, the people you’ve met, the things you’ve seen. And you complicate that when you go more places, meet more people, see new things. You never get simpler. You just get more complex. Your uncertainties grow. Your maze grows larger even as you travel it. You’re an amazingly weird, bizarre, wonderful bundle of wires.

(Now, I don’t want you get a big head about you — yes, all writers are precious snowflakes, but also, acting like a precious snowflake will make somebody melt your ass right quick. You’ll be a microscopic puddle before too long.)

I think a lot of writers — again, younger writers in particular, and I certainly didn’t realize this when I was younger and trying to write — is that this unique aspect of the work (i.e. You) is not something to be avoided, but rather, something to enthusiastically pour into the work. You should put yourself in there. Wholly and without reservation. Complicate the work with your uncertainties and worries. Address your questions and fears. Don’t just breathe ideas gently into it — summon your ideas as a gale-force wind and they’ll blow the sails of the story in the way that no plot twist or fight scene can.

That’s okay. That’s as it should be.

The story isn’t you.

You aren’t the story.

But you’re in there as much as you want to be. Invisibly, perhaps, but vitally just the same — suffusing it as you see fit. Don’t worry about originality in plot or genre or whatever. Worry about bringing yourself into the world, onto the page, into the story. Write what you like. Write what you want to read. Tell the story and use the voice in the way that only you can tell it.

You’re the One Original Aspect, and that cannot be beat.

*not a word but should be

* * *

DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Indiebound / Amazon / B&N