HELLO, FELLOW CISGENDERED MENS,

It is I, your male-identifying cohort, Chnurk Mandog, and it’s time we had a little talk.

Before we begin this talk, though, I’m gonna tell a story.

Recently, I was in Florida, aka, America’s Moist Dangly Bits, and while there, I was on Sanibel Island, which is known in part as possessing the best shelling beaches in the world, and also offering up tiny invisible bugs called no-see-ums that appear in a shimmering cloud and buzzsaw you down to your bones. While on a shelling beach, I witnessed many things, including pretty shells, a dead rat, several dead stingrays, and a vicious red tide. I also witnessed this:

A family was walking up along the top margins of the beach. Meaning, away from the water, up by the trees. It was a father and a mother, both I’d guess in their late-30s early 40s, and a pack of four boys. Presumably, their children, or maybe clones, I dunno. The boys were chasing lizards, and one of the boys came up to his father and said, “DAD CAN I GRAB A LIZARD’S TAIL?”

And the father said, “Yeah, just don’t let him bite you.”

The boy ran off to join his lizard-hunting brothers.

Thankfully, the lizards were faster than these shitty kids, and the boys became so irritated and bored with not-catching lizards that they fucked off down to the water’s edge, instead.

My own son was with me, and I asked him, “Do you think you should grab lizards by the tail?” And he asked me, “Won’t that hurt the lizard?” And I said, “I dunno, probably.”

“Will they bite you?” he asked.

“Does that matter?” I asked. And when he looked up at me confused, I explained:

“The effect of the action on you is not as an important as the effect of the action on the lizard. Doesn’t matter if the lizard bites, because it’s not okay to go grabbing living things, because they’re not yours, and because you might hurt them.”

Our son, a little burgeoning rules lawyer, seemed pleased with this answer, and I felt, yay, a teachable moment. Huzzah and hooray.

The day went on, as days tend to.

But I was bugged by the event because I felt like I should’ve said something. Not to my own son, but to that dickhead dad and his dickhead boys — normally, I have a very strong DON’T PARENT OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN creed in place, because you can do what you want with your kids and I will handle my own, thank you. I’m not the Worldfather, I’m not your Parent Cop, and we all make mistakes. Just the same, I felt like those little fuckers are probably out ripping tails off lizards because their father couldn’t be bothered to tell them that wasn’t nice to do.

Later that afternoon, we were at a grocery store in the island called Jerry’s — and outside of Jerry’s is an array of other shops, a little courtyard, and maybe six cages that play host to various parrots or parrot-like entities. My son and I were toodling around outside while my wife was in one of the stores, and together we walked up to one of the cages, which contained, if I recall, a squawking blue-and-yellow macaw.

An older dude, maybe early 60s, was standing there next to us.

On the cage hung a sign, clearly written, in big, bold letters:

WE ARE ON A SPECIAL DIET.

PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS.

The older dude was noshing a pastry of some kind. A danish, I think.

And as we’re standing there, he took a piece of the danish, and thrust it through the cage bars to the parrot. Literally moving his hand three inches above the sign that clearly tells him DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS YOU FUCKING DING-DONG in an act of willful ignorance.

As the bird moved to the food, I snapped at him:

“You’re not supposed to feed the birds.”

He shot me a look, confused. Maybe angry. Said nothing.

I continue:

“It says right there on that sign you’re ignoring. They’re on a special diet. Don’t feed the goddamn birds.” He stared at me, mute, and I said, “Are you listening?” Slowly, his hand retracted before the bird was able to claim its inappropriate pastry snack. The man continued to look at me, not saying anything, and he then hurried away toward his wife. As he scurried off, I explained to my son loudly, because I’m a jerk, “YOU CAN’T FEED BREAD TO BIRDS BECAUSE BIRDS DON’T EAT BREAD. YOU DON’T SEE BIRDS BAKING BREAD, DO YOU? NO, YOU DON’T. BREAD CAUSES MALNUTRITION IN BIRDS.” My voice got louder and louder as I said this, to ensure that the old man heard me. My son, who is now reading actual words, said, “It says right there on the sign, don’t feed the birds.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yeah,” my son said.

“Yeah,” I said again, righteous.

I’m sure as soon as we walked away, Ol’ Danish McGee probably wandered back up and shoved a gobbet of cheese danish into the macaw’s beak. But at least I said something and I felt a little better about that, even if it didn’t answer for the jerkwad boys who were ripping tails off lizards.

You might say, Chnurk, what is the point of this story?

To which, I point to this as a partial answer:

IN WAKE OF WEINSTEIN, MEN WONDER IF HUGGING WOMEN STILL OK

Now, of course, obviously what I’m doing here is I’m leading up to something, and that something is not that women are lizards or birds, nor do they have tails or special diets, but rather, hey men?

You need to keep your damn hands to yourself.

Your touch is not a gift.

Your gropey, searching hands are not charity, they’re not a favor, they’re not God’s Benevolence, they’re just your dumb hands, and you need to keep them — and all your other parts, especially your stupid probably very ugly dick — to yourself. This shouldn’t be difficult. It’s literally a lesson we taught to our own son at a very early age: “Don’t touch people who don’t want to be touched.” And that want to be touched part is not only essential, but rather, it’s essential to realize that only vigorous consent can alert you to the desire to be touched. It’s not implicit. It’s not in her eyes, it’s not whispered on the wind, as if by magic. It’s spoken by the mouth, or written on a piece of paper — if someone asks for a hug or some other kind of physical contact? They want the hug. If they don’t, you can ask them proactively: “HI, MAY I HUG YOU?” and if they say yes? Hug them appropriately, in the Normal Hugging Way. If they say no? Then do not touch them. No-handsy, no-touchy. This shouldn’t be difficult. These are preschool rules, man.

It’s not even an insult if she says no. It’s just a choice. A choice born maybe of trauma you can’t see. Or a choice based on preference or predilection. Or maybe it is an insult, maybe she doesn’t like you, maybe you’re an asshole, maybe this, maybe that. It doesn’t matter. A no is a no. You are owed nothing. She is not yours. The world is not yours. More to the point:

Life is not your buffet line of sexual opportunity, jerks. Women are not in a stable for your mate or mistress selection. I once watched a dude at a grocery store hit on a blind woman (I am ashamed I didn’t say anything to him, honestly), and what I said then remains true now: women are not just sockets for your plugs. This is true everywhere. It’s true at the grocery store. It’s true in your own home. It’s true at work! I know! At work. But isn’t the workplace just a meat market where you, the Hunter-Gatherer, will select your Ladymeat from the Ladymeat on Display?

No! No you fucking ape, it’s not. The women there in the workplace are there to work. That’s literally it. They are autonomous, independent individuals, just as you yourself are an autonomous, independent individual, dude. That’s true no matter their gender, their color, their able-bodiedness — they are not yours to touch or ogle. Your own autonomy extends to the margins of your own body and no further. And, by the way, since I have a number of writer and other creative folk following along, please note too that our workplaces are a little more fluid and flexible — conventions and conferences, for instance, are our workplaces. They, too, are not your sexual buffet line. The women there, be they fans, volunteers, readers, writers, artists, whoever, are still not a box of lusty chocolates from which to choose.

Keep your shitty demon hands to yourself. They are in time-out. Stick them in your pockets if you must. Duct-tape them together. Burn them with cigarettes if they seem motivated to stray. Keep them hidden or someone is going to rightfully chop them off.

Listen, I get it. You’ve been told, or at least shown, that the WORLD IS YOUR OYSTER. All you gotta do is grab it, pop open its shell, and suck down the meat that you have claimed for yourself. Grab all the lizards you want, dominionist man! Personal liberty says you can feed that parrot whatever the fuck you want, mighty parrot-conquerer! You can feed that parrot danish, or dishsoap, or your own dick, why not? Why can’t you fuck the parrot? You are God-chosen caveman! Club what you choose and take what is yours! Women are there for your pleasure and your breeding, ha ha ha right? Christ, my own father would drive his big-ass pickup truck close to other cars so he could stare down women’s shirts. We’d go to a couple local bars, and — in full view of my mother! — would flirt with waitresses, slap their asses, that kind of thing. He never said to me, “Son, women are yours to do with as you please,” but he certainly demonstrated that. And that kind of demonstration continues today, all around us. “Rape culture doesn’t exist,” someone surely believes even as we elected an admitted sexual predator to the highest office in the land, a guy whose only spoken moral is, “You can do anything,” and that includes grabbing women in whatever way he chooses. That sexual predator is now endorsing a secondary monster, Roy Moore, who is credibly-accused of child molestation in a way where he was banned from the local mall. (But not banned from the Senate, I guess!)

And here you might be saying, whoa whoa whoa, how’d we get here? Clearly that is different. Clearly there are stratum at play here — nuance is essential, right? A guy who forces a hug is nowhere near the same as a guy who picks up 14-year-old girls and tries to force sexual acts upon them? And you’re right. Points for you. They’re not the same. The matter of degree in difference is considerable, in much the same way that slapping someone in the face is way different from blasting out their middle with a shotgun blast of buckshot.

And yet, slapping people is still wrong.

And it’s still an act of violence.

The difference between what our president has admitted doing — or what Weinstein did — and inappropriate sexual misconduct in the workplace is obvious, but both actions come from the same place: the belief that you can do what you want, that you can touch who you want, that you do not require consent to do so.

That is incorrect.

JFC, men. Stow it. Stick your hands in the nearest glove compartment, then have someone — preferably a woman — slam the compartment shut in a way so violent that it dismembers your monster hands and contains them in the prison of that glove compartment.

I have no greater point than that. The world is not your plaything. That extends to women, to each other, to all humans, to the creatures of this world, to objects you do not own, to really every damn thing under the sun that is not a part of your body or purchased by you with cash-slash-credit. Yes, you can hug women, if they consent to being hugged. With vigorous consent, you and all other consenting parties can slap all your parts together in whatever configuration you find most delightful. Affection is not dead. It’s just meant for people who actually want it. Why the fuck would you want to give affection to someone who doesn’t want it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Put your hands away. PUT YOUR STUPID HANDS AWAY. AND YOUR MOUTH AND YOUR TONGUE AND ALL YOUR BITS.

And seriously, also, your dick.

Seriously.

Seriously.

Put your dick away.

Nobody wants to see that thing.

Even people who want to see that thing really don’t want to see that thing.

No, no, I’m not saying to be ashamed of your dick, I’m just saying, unless you get an email where the font is in 144-point size Comic Sans and it says PLEASE SHOW ME YOUR DICK AT THE NEXT OPPORTUNITY, I WILL GAZE UPON THIS DICK DIGITALLY OR IN FULL 4K REALITY, and it has a signature of authenticity underneath that is notarized by three licensed sources, stop showing people your stupid dingle.

Teach this to your children.

Tell this to the men in your life.

If you see something, say something.

The end.

Wait, no, this is not a thinkpiece on whether that song is The Good or The Bad, and if you got here by some SEO wizardry that suggests otherwise, I apologize.

Ahem.

ANYWAY HEY HI HELLO HOW ARE YOU.

I’ve been gone, a bit. Popped off to GRAND FLORIDIA with the family. Anna Maria Island was lurvely, with big beautiful beaches and powdery sand and a wild, roaming Delilah S. Dawson and family. Fort Myers Beach on the other hand was like if you put a tuxedo on a skunk and then stuck a vape wand in its mouth and made it play the Lotto scratch-offs all day — but, the beach was nice, so. Sanibel Island was wild and rangy while paradoxically also upscale, and though the beaches were wonderfully jagged and shell-cracked, they weren’t really that beachy? But they did offer oh so many cool shells, including this one spiral-shaped one I found that contained the nymph form of an Elder Conch God, but then we just ate him in some fritters, oops.

While there, I took a swim with my phone.

You’re thinking, ha ha ha, I went into the pool with my phone and was immediately like, OH SHIT NO MY PHONE, and it was a little bit like that, except for the “immediate” part. Instead, I went into the pool and emerged 30-45 minutes later, realizing my phone was in my pocket.

Curiously, my phone still works. (It’s an iPhone 7 Plus.) It never actually stopped working, but rather, worked wonkily for a week — the touchscreen would stop working, the phone would sometimes reboot endlessly, the screen looked weird and warped. I kept it in a bag of Damp Rid for the week (fuck rice), and now I have it and…

It mostly works fine. Once in a while something odd will happen, so I’m still waiting for it to die? But its quality has improved. The screen looks fine, now, except for two ghostly lines at the corner. Hasn’t rebooted in days. The touchscreen stopped working for a little while, but it seems back and good to go again? I expect it’s still on borrowed time, but we shall see. We shall see.

*looks at phone*

*discovers phone is playing an elaborate War Games scenario*

*except it’s not a scenario, it’s really happening*

*suddenly we’re at war with Canada*

It’s fine, I’m sure it’s fine.

What else is going on?

Hey, Thunderbird is out now in paperback! Miriam Black, Book 4, where Miriam is in the god-fucked desert of Arizona and goes up against an anti-government psychic militia? Sure, why not. Check it out in print, or in e-book, in preparation for The Raptor & The Wren, coming in January. I’m currently writing the sixth and final (!) book, Vultures, and it is giving me feels. All the feels. Every last feel. (I’ve wrapped up trilogies before but never put the close on a proper series. It’s tough and amazing and I’m honored people have read the series enough to warrant this even happening. So, thank you to those who have enjoyed Miriam’s vulgar adventures.)

Also, Turok #4 is out — Turok learns the truth about Imperator Vex and his missing Baby Girl, and conspires with Vigilant Cross to head to the city of Ak-Tha to rescue his daughter and end a motherfucking empire. This leads up to the final issue, out soon.

If you want to hear actor Ahmed Best — the voice of Jar-Jar Binks — talk about Jar-Jar’s end in Empire’s End and read a bit from my book, you want to click this link right here. (Fast forward to about 12:30 to hear him read.)

Last call, too — if you need a gift for the penmonkey in your life: Gifts for Writers 2017.

And I think that’s it, for now?

See you soon, frandos.

The exciting conclusion to a sumptuous Gaslamp Fantasy series!

Leanna Renee Hieber brings Victorian London and New York to life and fills both cities with ghosts and monsters. Two groups of paranormally talented investigators discover that the Eterna compound—thought to be the key to immortality—is, instead, a powerful protective charm. That protection is sorely needed, for both England and the U.S. are under attack by dark forces. Having vanquished the demonic pretender to the British throne, the now-united forces of the Eterna Commission and the Omega Department reach America ready to take on a new menace. But like the United States itself, this evil is rapidly spreading from sea to shining sea. Will the new magic our heroes have discovered be strong enough to defeat it? With its blend of Victorian details, complex plots, and compelling characters, Hieber’s fascinating historical fantasy continues to earn critical acclaim. The Eterna Files series: The Eterna Files, Eterna and Omega, The Eterna Solution

WALKING THE HIGH WIRE:

I’m a Gothic novelist writing Gaslamp Fantasy books that feature inclusive stories starring some kick-ass lady psychics backed by a quirky cast of dynamic characters of all stripes that examine the 19th century preoccupations with ghosts, Spiritualism and Mysticism. I nod to the Gothic with winks and homage, while trying to offer my characters more agency than they often had in original Gothics where women were solely victims or plot devices. I throw in lots of drama, action, adventure, wild theatrically, but at the end of the day I want my books to be about heart and soul. My style isn’t for everyone, but for those who give it a chance, I’m told it’s fun to give yourself over to a bit of reckless Gothic abandon :). The balance of High Drama bordering on melodrama is such a hard tight-rope, and so one of the things I’m constantly learning every single book is how to make the unbelievable and even absurd, ‘realistic’ or probable. For me the key is always atmosphere and character, setting the right visual and narrative tone while staying true to the people I place on the stage. This being the third book in the series, that ‘set-up’ was less difficult as it was established but the key then was meaningfully sustaining it. I made a world where I had already pushed the paranormal envelope, as I always do, and that’s consistent, as all my worlds between series are parallel. Maintaining consistency won’t bring the reader out of the narrative, even if it’s ‘improbable’. For me, looking at the 19th century, science and pseudo-science were hand in hand, allowing for a lot of wide, fantastical room. I stayed focused on localized magic rather than opening up all of magic, that helped keep the scope honed and site-specific.

DON’T GET TOO STUCK IN YOUR HEAD

So, I’m a certified pantser. Working with my ever-patient editor to pull towards a few more plotter skills. In turn, I work with complex plots, and large casts of characters. My drafting process entails a lot of herding cats.

The draft of this book was far too stuck in my head and in my characters’ heads. It was too cerebral, psychic and emotional and goodness was the action lacking. It had none of the big, epic theatrically of the end of the second book that I had to at least meet if not top in this book. It’s important to take a step back to track the action and intent (and good critique partners can help with this) and make sure that the emotional journey doesn’t meander. Check in constantly with the main characters so that if they’re in a reactive state, they don’t stay there, get them back to proactive. Action can’t happen without intent, consideration and psychological process, but I was too deep in the fog of thought, internal narration and emotional streams of consciousness to make for the dynamic, atmospheric and adventurous narrative that I want to be writing.

THE SUBCONSCIOUS MIND IS FRIGHTENINGLY AMAZING

So due to a confluence of forces, I had to turn around a pretty brutal edit of this book in a very short time frame. I re-wrote the last third of the book in shorter order than I would ever recommend to anyone. But when I would hit a wall, via exhaustion or ‘I just don’t know how I’m going to fix this’, I decided to take a power daydream nap, and give my brain a problem to chew on. Progress wasn’t happening quickly or effectively when I was just staring at a screen but sometimes in that liminal awake-asleep space, breakthroughs can happen. It was almost scary, how the subconscious can problem solve, but I was a bit refreshed from closing my eyes, and I generally had a new idea, provided I was specific about what I have my mind to chew on and observe in the mind’s eye.

TRUST IN YOUR CHARACTERS

I learn and re-learn this every time. While my bond with my characters admittedly gets me a bit stuck in their heads, when I force them back into action, they surprise and delight me every time. If you’ve forged a strong bond with your characters and really enjoy letting them fully live in your head and heart, when you’re calling on the “Muse” for help with the next scene, your characters serve that Muse role and can start answering the questions your draft is positing. When stuck, interrogate them. If they don’t know the answers, then their motivations are probably not strong enough. I’ve had to re-examine that one a whole lot. I really love my characters and sometimes that means I can be too soft on them. That’s why I went ahead and chopped off my heroine’s ear in this book. (Spoiler). She’s super mad at me still. But the scene is far more intense and effective. Trust in your characters but also push them.

THOMAS EDISON WAS AN A-HOLE

I mean, I knew that already but I sure re-learned it during this book. Whatever visionary tendencies he wielded was eclipsed by how much work he stole (especially from folks of color, immigrants, anyone less ruthless in business), stunts he pulled and patents he gobbled up. Greedy, among other unsavory qualities. (Go team Tesla, and AC won in the end anyway).

TOO MUCH INTERESTING 1880s STUFF FOR JUST ONE YEAR

I took more liberties in this book with time-stamps. The factual timeline is a bit off concerning a few statues and technological innovations. I am of course writing Historical Fantasy and so bending reality and presenting anachronism is accepted but as I am also a licensed New York City tour guide and a lifelong student of the era, I try my best to present a realistic 19th century New York in which Paranormal things happen to my diverse teams of operatives. In The Eterna Solution, it is thematically important to present the state of “Lady Liberty” , so I included a part of her elaborate history. The arm of the Statue of Liberty stood in Madison Square Park for some time before enough money was raised (finally compiled by small amounts raised by hard-working, average, immigrant New Yorkers) to place her on the pedestal designed by Richard Morris Hunt and set her out on Bedloe’s Island. My book takes place in 1882, when Liberty’s arm was not yet there, she was being trial-assembled at this point before being shipped from France. But the arm in the park is a beautifully surreal image and her Torch was a small observation deck for a time. I also include a presentation of very early film, but Edison’s “Kinetoscope” wouldn’t be presented until 1888. He was, however, as noted above, actively stealing other folks’ ideas. I do include an author’s note in the back explaining these diversions, as I want to be specific about what is and isn’t matched to NYC history in exact years. There is always far more going on in history than any one narrative can contain. I adore all kinds of quirky historical details but as always, it has to serve moving the story and development forward.

Every book, l learn again how to write a book, every book I hit walls and get frustrated and fear I don’t know what I’m doing, every book, I fall in love again with people, with conflict, with unfolding possibility, with ghosts, with magic, and with the idea that I’ll do it all again next time. I hope you’ll join me for this time.

Leanna Renee Hieber is an actress, playwright and the award-winning author of Gothic Victorian Fantasy novels for adults and teens. Her Strangely Beautiful saga, beginning with The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker, hit Barnes & Noble and Borders Bestseller lists and garnered numerous regional genre awards, with new revised editions from Tor Books now available. Darker Still was named an American Bookseller’s Association “Indie Next List” pick and a Scholastic Book Club “Highly Recommended” title. Her new Eterna Files saga of Gaslamp Fantasy is now available from Tor Books. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and she is a 4 time Prism Award winner for excellence in the genre of Fantasy and Romance. Her books have been selected for national book club editions and translated into many languages. A proud member of performer unions Actors Equity and SAG-AFTRA, she lives in New York City where she is a licensed ghost tour guide featured on The Travel Channel’s Mysteries at the Museum and has been featured in film and television on shows like Boardwalk Empire. She crafts unique jewelry on Etsy for Torch and Arrow and she is represented by Paul Stevens of the Donald Maass agency and is active on Twitter @leannarenee. Resources, free reads and more can be found at http://leannareneehieber.com

Leanna Renee Hieber: Twitter | Website

The Eterna Solution: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

In the dark streets of Corma exists a book that writes itself, a book that some would kill for…

Black market courier Rowena Downshire is just trying to pay her mother’s freedom from debtor’s prison when an urgent and unexpected delivery leads her face to face with a creature out of nightmares.  Rowena escapes with her life, but the strange book she was ordered to deliver is stolen.

The Alchemist knows things few men have lived to tell about, and when Rowena shows up on his doorstep, frightened and empty-handed, he knows better than to turn her away. What he discovers leads him to ask for help from the last man he wants to see—the former mercenary, Anselm Meteron.

Across town, Reverend Phillip Chalmers awakes in a cell, bloodied and bruised, facing a creature twice his size. Translating the stolen book may be his only hope for survival; however, he soon realizes the book may be a fabled text written by the Creator Himself, tracking the nine human subjects of His Grand Experiment. In the wrong hands, it could mean the end of humanity.

Rowena and her companions become the target of conspirators who seek to use the book for their own ends.  But how can this unlikely team be sure who the enemy is when they can barely trust each other? And what will happen when the book reveals a secret no human was meant to know?

Nobody Knows You’re Doing This Thing…

Hey there, handsome, smart, adventurous person! You decided to write a book! Go, you! You have embarked upon something that will change your life, at minimum teaching you how patient you are with yourself, how forgiving, how driven, and how functional on only a modicum of sleep. This experience will also change your sense of just how important you and this major enterprise really are.

*leans in close*

Because nobody knows you’re writing this novel.

You think I mean “Nobody knows because you haven’t told them.” Nope. I mean even people you have told, with puff-chested pride or (perhaps) hushed, conspiratorial whispers, will look at you blankly each time you bring your writing up. And then (the paths diverge here a bit) they respond with some mixture of amusement, confusion, discomfort, etc., as if they’ve never heard of a human being — let alone you — trying such a thing. Get used to this being the world’s weirdest secret. It seems to keep itself, even as you talk to people about your work, the idea of it bouncing off them with humbling regularity. You have to hold onto the knowledge of what you’re doing, because a baffling plurality of people around you just plain won’t.

… And For the Most Part, They Won’t Get It

My agent will tell you I’m not very good at the so-called elevator pitch. She’ll tell you this not because she’s a merciless heckler (she’s actually quite lovely; send Bridget Smith all your sfnal things) but because she is absolutely correct. I can do a lot of peachy keen things on a page. Get me in front of a live audience and I get a little. . . off-script. But my terrible elevator pitch was improved markedly by repeated exposure to people politely inquiring about my writing and repeated experiences timing how long it took their eyes to glaze as I explained my world of fused science and religion, complete with retired mercenaries, desperate orphans, bizarre creatures, and Things No Man Was Meant to Know.

Take advantage of people Not Getting It. Use the polite curiosity of hapless innocents to refine your understanding of your work. Learn to make your project sound irresistible. My money moment was getting a group of Vegas tourists entranced by the Bellagio’s fountains to stop listening to Andrea Bocelli synced to spurting water and pull out their smartphones, taking down my name and The Nine’s title.

I’m still not sure that they got it. But I got them.

Assemble Your Avengers!

Writers need support systems. But not all support systems work equally well for every writer, every project, every process. Thinking carefully about what kind of reader you want to reach and what your strengths and weaknesses as a writer are will help you assemble the right team.

Finding the right critique partners is a bit like putting together a superhero team. You don’t expect Hawkeye to be the muscle, because he’s literally not built that way. You send him to cover Cap, and to be eyes for blunderbusses like Thor, or infiltrators like Black Widow. I’m good at characterization and world-building, but there are gaps in my armor, too. I need Michelle Barry because she knows how to put characters in a bad situation, then turn up the heat until the dial breaks off the stove. I need Maura Jortner because her marginal speculations about where the plot might be going are often so much savvier than my original plan, I’m all too happy zig toward her zag. I’m sure they have some reason for keeping me around. Maybe I’m like Banner.

Not Hulk. Banner. Twitchy, with questionable fashion sense.

“No” Recalculates the Route Toward “Yes”

Rejection is a reality for writers at every level. The good news is, most “No”s are (eventually) part of how your writing career recalculates the route to “Yes.”

So that agent didn’t want to represent my novel? Okay. There are uncounted others I’ve yet to contact. So the agent with the R&R offer didn’t like the final product? Okay. This other one did, and I’m only talking to her because I did that revision in the first place. I’m only hearing her great ideas because my writing didn’t fit into someone else’s game plan. So the first couple of editors who look at the manuscript take a pass? That’s okay. One of them wants to see a revision. The revision doesn’t make it through Acquisitions? I’ve still got that revision. And lookee lookee if another editor doesn’t think it’s just her thing.

It only takes one yes. It will take a lot of “no”s to get there. But you need those “no”s because they help you find the route that will best support your work — the people who were looking for something just like it all along.

The Second Book Is Not the First Book

The first book was perhaps the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You get a contract that starts off a series, maybe. I did. Good for me! Good for you! Guess what?

Writing the first book was easy, though it never for a minute seemed that way. Past You would punch Present You in the nose just for suggesting it. But Past You doesn’t know what you’re learning now: all that time recalculating the route toward Yes by way of No’sville was a luxury. It’s you writing at your own pace, revising meticulously, stepping back for as long as you want, and never having to worry if the two steps forward your writing took today are only making up for the two taken backward yesterday.

Book two, book three. Those are hard because every positive review (and I’ve been lucky enough to get more than a few, even some that made me a bit weak in the knees) reminds you that now, people have expectations. You have readers, and they expect more, and better. And, of course, your publisher is waiting, too. Your process has to change, and so does your pace, and so you assemble your Avengers sometimes for the sole purpose of making gibbering noises at them, and them sending you gifs of cute animals and babies eating cake. These things help, mostly. But because you Did The Thing, you now need to Do It Again. Good luck, and godspeed. It’s going to feel very different.

Trust me, I know.

Tracy Townsend holds a master’s degree in writing and rhetoric from DePaul University and a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from DePauw University, a source of regular consternation when proofreading her credentials. She is the past chair of the English Department at the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy, an elite public boarding school, where she presently teaches creative writing and science fiction and fantasy literature. She has been a martial arts instructor, a stage combat and accent coach, and a short-order cook for houses full of tired gamers. Now she lives in Bolingbrook, Illinois with two bumptious hounds, two remarkable children, and one very patient husband.

Tracy Townsend: Website | Twitter

The Nine: Amazon | B&N | Indiebound | Powells | Read an excerpt

A galactic empire falls… and a secret directive rings through the stars: kill all the humans.

A Red Peace left Jaqi and Araskar fugitives- the Resistance, the Empire’s remnants, and the insectoid Matakas want them dead, especially now that John Starfire’s upped the price on their heads. Nowhere is safe, but Araskar has a secret, and he uses it to make a deal with the Matakas. From the stolen high-level intel in his memory-sword comes a name: Shadow Sun Seven.

This hidden Imperial prison holds a cache of hyperdense oxygen, a priceless rarity from the Empire. It also holds a mysterious prisoner who knows secrets about the monsters in the Dark Zone, and thus Jaqi’s destiny. If Araskar and Z can survive a prison pit fight, while Jaqi and her dodgy allies break in, they can stop John Starfire’s genocide.

1- The Great Secret Idea Source Is… Fun

My stories come from a specific place. Not a magical unicorn’s butt, or any other magical butt, but from a three-foot square of Kool-Aid stained carpet.

Said carpet is occupied by a little kid who still lives in my head, despite years of boring adult stuff. He sits cross-legged with a bunch of toys loudly shouting:

SHWOOM!

WHOOSH!

PEW PEW PEW!

This is pretty much what happened with my first novel A Red Peace. The kid provided space bugs. Memory-swords. Cyborg planets. Sun-eating spiders. You know, the stuff that goes KABLOOM. I added what I’ve learned from writing short fiction about character, pacing and satisfying the audience, and wrapped it up in a story about totalitarianism and one’s conscience. Once A Red Peace was drafted and done, the kid SKREEKAPLEWed a quick skeleton of events for the sequels.

But the kid’s attention turned elsewhere after that, and that was fine, because the book was in submission limbo, hanging out in the Great Vortex of an editor’s desk.

2- …The Great Idea Source Will Not Have Fun on Command

And then Tor bought A Red Peace.

Not just A Red Peace, but two sequels! I had a genuine contract for Unnamed Starfire Book Two and Solve For X Starfire Book Three.

Victory. Novel deal. It called for a serious RASHKLAPOW!

Or so I thought. I presented the contracts to the kid and he…

Ran away and hid.

When I tracked him (mentally) down, he said, “Wait! Here’s ten other ideas I like better!”

Kid. Come on. I have a deadline.

3. Don’t Look At The End Product (Even Under Deadline), But Figure Out What Kind of Story You’re Writing First

We did this for a while. Several months in which the kid would give me any idea except the one I was contracted for. The kid simply couldn’t ignore the external pressure and play; SHROOKABOOMBUM was not achievable when I stood there yelling “this needs to be X amount of words, and as good as the first!”

Finally I stood back, took the limits off, and offered the kid just one suggestion. We could blow our deadline, we could write a piece of crap, we could put it all in iambic pentameter… it would all be okay, as long as we had some fun with this idea.

“Okay,” he said, little face furrowing in suspicion.

A Red Peace had been an extended chase sequence. The sequel, turning the tides, would be a caper. Subterfuge. A daring break-in. A mysterious prisoner.

The kid got a little excited. A caper? What’s the break-in? Wait, I’ve got it. It’s a prison built in the guts of a giant space tick. There’s someone who has living guns. There’s blob people and scorpion things and a tower in the middle of the desert and an alien crime queen bug… SKA-PLOW-WHAM!

The problem with writing on commission is this: you have to get your head out of the end product (sequel that moves story X distance, with Y wordcount, for Z deadline) and go back to the part where things were fun. This is most difficult when you haven’t actually written on commission before, and writing has always been an exercise in all-fun, few consequences.

So don’t start from the limits. You can worry about that in rewrites.

4. Big Fascist Bullies Will Make You Feel Bullied…

The kid and I, of course, both stopped in horror when a piss-haired fascist monster was elected President halfway through writing the book.

My agent called to check on me and said “Half my clients are frozen with anger and panic, and half are writing more furiously than ever, to kill fascism with their art.”

I don’t know if I felt either. I (and the kid) felt like we were right back at Scout Camp, getting picked on and missing our toys and our square of carpet. But it turns out…

5. …You Can Punch Right Back With Words

Given that my books are about the downfall of a galactic despot, the kid and I found that SHA-BLOOM could be rather therapeutic, after all, as long as we included some marching and a lot of calling our elected reps. In some ways, it was easier to say “Someone might read this and stand up to fascism” for both me, and the kid, and that made us even more excited for the THIRD book, when fascism gets what’s coming to it.

What’s that? You, yourself, like a little SKRAPLOW? You want to know who the mysterious prisoner is in the heart of the space tick prison, and what’s up with the living guns, the blobs and the tower? You too want to stick it to a galactic fascist? Shadow Sun Seven comes out November 28th from Tor.com, and if you haven’t please take a look at A Red Peace, out now, to SKREEKABLOOIE, er, pretty great reviews.

Spencer Ellsworth has been writing since he learned how. His short fiction has previously appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Fantasy & Science Fiction, and at Tor.com. Over the years, he’s worked as a wilderness survival instructor, paraeducator in a special education classroom, and in publishing; he currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three children and works at a small tribal college on a Native American reservation.

Spencer Ellsworth: Website

Shadow Sun Seven: Amazon | B&N | Kobo | Powells

Why yes, it is that time of the year again. That time when you, a person who has a Precious Penmonkey in their lives, wonders aloud, “What the fuck do I buy for a writer? Do they need food pellets? Are they powered by bees? Do I just throw notebooks and pens at them until they write a masterpiece? WHO THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE.”

And here is where I appear out of the earth — like a ghost except made of lava because how cool is a lavaghost? — and give you some much-needed help. Here are some gift options for the Precious Penmonkey in your life. In your house. Possibly even in your heating ducts.

(For previous year lists –>)

(Gifts for Writers 2016)

(Gifts for Writers 2015)

(Gifts for Writers 2014)

Yep, I’m Going To Be Giddily Shameless

I wrote a book. It’s called Damn Fine Story. It’s not about writing, per se, but it is about storytelling — how to frame and shape your narrative, how to let characters lead the way, how to use metaphor and theme, and so forth. It also explains how my father lost his pinky finger and it talks a lot about Star Wars and Die Hard and, hey, you know what, just stop here and buy it. Buy it for your writer pal. It isn’t a one-stop shop for easy answers, but it hopefully will challenge them to look at their stories in a new way. Grab it in print or ebook. For a bonus round, check out my bundle of writing-related e-books here. THANK YOU FOR ENDURING MY SHAMELESS FROTHING. Please reward yourself with a cookie.

White Noise Machine

In case you haven’t noticed, 2017 is a year of shenanigans — it is the Epoch of Deepest Dipshittery, the Timeline of Wonky Whatfuckery. It’s an endless barrage of nonsense coming at you from all angles. The news alone is like being covered in biting ants, always, eternally, impossibly. It’s ants and ants and more ants. This is legitimately difficult for us word-wrangling writerfolk, because we will lose ourselves to the crawling and the biting. And so, we need distractions. One distraction that’s been helpful for me both in writing and in sleeping? Blissful white noise. You can use various apps or white noise albums, but a white noise machine makes a nice gift for underneath the Holiday-Neutral Joy-Shrub of choice. If want something that plugs into the wall, the Red Rooster machine is nice. If you’d prefer something with a bunch more sounds and powered by USB, this Pictek model is handy. Or you can just stand over them and go WHOOSH SHHHH FSSHHHH HOOOOOOFFFSSSSSHHH all night long, I don’t care, you do you.

Noise-Canceling Headphones

I’ve recommended good headphones before, but it behooves (as above) offering ones that CANCEL OUT THE ENDLESS NOISE OF THE STUPIDEST TIMELINE IN WHICH WE CURRENTLY EXIST. No headphones will drown them out permanently, but good ones can offer a pleasant escape temporarily for your favorite penmonkey, either while writing or while on a plane (as many of us travel semi-frequently). If you want something kinda luxe, these Sennheiser bluetooth muffs are pretty rad — though a less-expensive Sony wired version (noise isolating) can work, too. Good headphones are like a cabinet that opens to aural Narnia. Except watch out for the satyrs and their pyramid schemes.

Motherfucking Ice Cream, Motherfucker

I recommend ice cream every year, but in 2017 I have to recommend it with greater emphasis because it is entirely possible that the existence of ice cream is literally the last thing keeping us from sliding into the void. I will note, with epic delight, that Jenis Ice Cream now offers a Pint Club program, and as you know, the First Rule of Pint Club is shut up and eat the ice cream for tomorrow, we may die. I mean, you can now subscribe to ice cream. No greater subscription exists, not porn, not National Geographic, not anything. Salt and Straw also offers seasonal pint subscriptions, btw, and their ice cream is also sublime.

Washington Post Subscription

Speaking of subscriptions, paying writers is always a good thing, and if I can change my earlier statement, it is ice cream and good journalism that’s stopping us from sliding into the void, so feel free to get the writer in your life the gift of good journalism. Though it does expose them to more news, so maybe also pair it with some ice cream or whiskey just in case. I recommend WaPo for your subscription.

Authorial Bug-Out-Bag

I initially was going to put this on here as a joke, but I actually kinda like it, so fuck it, here we are. If the Shit Hits The Fan and the End Times arrive, we should have a bag full of necessary goods like a crossbow and ice cream and like, I dunno, a hatchet? A laser pistol? I haven’t thought this through. But writers will also want a bag full of necessarily writing gear, like pens and paper and such. Throw together a literary bug-out-bag to get them out the door. Check out this cool Sendak Artist writer gear roll-up — it’s expensive but purty. I travel with a Tom Bihn bag and love it, too. Point is, get a bag, fill it with writer essentials like a cool pen you can use to maybe kill a guy and a kick-ass notebook made from actual stone, or maybe this pen that needs no ink, maybe a handgun that shoots words onto paper *receives note* okay that’s not a thing. But you can put some good slavery-free chocolate in there, too. And a probably-sadly-not-bulletproof flask. A couple good books. Some hallucinogenic mushrooms. Whatever. Get creative.

Old-School Writing Devices

Once again, old-school word processors are all-the-rage, so check out the Freewrite or the King Jim Pomera DM100, or hell, a portable typewriter, nothing electronic about it. Hell, buy a rock and some rock chisels. Get those penmonkeys to write like it was in the old days: CARVED INTO THE BEDROCK ITSELF.

Speaking Of Old School

Pencil cases, man. It’s a thing. A new, cool pencil case can go in that bug-out-bag, or maybe it’s just where your favorite writer now stores their weed ha ha I mean pencils, shut up, who said weed. LOOK AT THIS ADORABLE CORGI PENCIL CASE, OMG. Or a waxed canvas pencil case for the bug-out-bag. Or, back to Peg and Awl: this scribbler’s pouch.

New-School

Authors may be in need of a nice portable keyboard — and here is one that folds up nice and neat, like an envelope made of infinite stories.

Authorial Puppets

If you’ve ever wanted to stick your finger up the ass of a famous, classical writer, well, these author finger puppets will give your penmonkey pal all the jollies. That’s right, James Joyce, I’m going to make you pay for Finnegan’s Wake. As a sidenote, you cannot stick your finger up my ass. At least not without buying me a fancy gin drink first.

Bookish Candles

Normally I try to avoid this type of writer kitsch, but my pal, BESTSELLING AUTHOR, KEVIN HEARNE, recommends these geeky bookish candles from Frostbeard Studio, so here I am, passing along that recommendation. This one just smells like Old Books, apparently. Maybe eventually they’ll make one called Impostor Syndrome and we can all breathe in its heady fumes.

Storytelling Games

I am a fan of anything that juices the ol’ story-glands, so to speak, so storytelling games earn my delight in that regard. Tall Tales is fun for your family. Dixit has a Balderdashian vibe to it. We are fans of Kodama here at the ol’ Wendighaus, fun because a story grows out of how you build a tree. Someone recommended Story Slam to me recently, too.

Or, Fuck It, Just Buy Them Some D&D, Man

It’s got Dungeons, it’s got Dragons, c’mon. More seriously, buy the writer in your life an RPG. First, it helps them understand story in different ways. Second, they get to play with dice, mmm, dice, precious fate-twisting dice. Third, it forces them to make friends. YAY FOR NEW FRANDOS.

Zinc Lozenges

Wait, did I just say zinc lozenges? I did. There is some evidence that zinc lozenges can help not stave off a cold, but rather, shorten a cold’s duration, and given that writers are of frail constitution and travel frequently — which puts them in contact with the rhinovirus-slathered hordes. I take Cold-Eeze with me wherever I go. I mean, not literally wherever. I’m not wandering into the men’s room with a backpack full of Cold-Eeze or anything, relax.

Weirdo Reference Books

I am nothing if not a fan of books that teach me weird stuff, and so I will recommend a few here, in the hopes you the penmonkey in your cellar also appreciates it. Atlas Obscura? Yes, please. Soonish: Ten Emerging Technologies That’ll Improve And/Or Ruin Everything? Indeed. The Wasp That Brainwashed The Caterpillar? What delight! Other Minds: The Octopus, The Sea, And The Deep Origins Of Consciousness? Super-great! (I prefer these books in physical format, hence the Indiebound links, but if you want e-book, you know where to look.)

Art Harder, Motherfucker (Mug)

Shameless again, but hey! A mug! With profanity on it! It says ART HARDER, MOTHERFUCKER, because why wouldn’t it? You can also get it without the profanity, if you truly must. (Ugh.)

Writer Subscription Boxes

Yes, there is a box where you can subscribe to pens and ink and stationary and the like. Or there’s the Meraki Literary Box, whatever the hell that is. I assume they just give you fingerbones of canonical writers, like, a bit of Chaucer here, a pinky from Mary Shelley, whatever. Or for additional mystery, there exists the Mysterious Package Company…

Speaking Of Pens

Your penmonkey pal will need a place to put ’em. Try this!

Or If You Like To Get Wood

These “mistake sticks” from Offerman Wood Shop are handy. Bonus: a wooden handmade holder for your mistake sticks!

And That’s All She Wrote

Merry Neutral Holiday to you and the penmonkey in your life. If you’ve got other cool gift ideas for us silly writer-types, drop ’em in the comments below. *waves* *gets in a rocket-powered sleigh* *reindeer are sucked into the engine and turned into reindeer chum* *blasts off on a tide of fire, blood and antler dust, all of which rain down upon you* HO HO WHA HA HA HA