So, here’s the deal. Bookburners is a piece of serial fiction about demon hunters — and it just wrapped up its first season. It’s published by Serial Box in weekly episodes (in both e-format and audio). With the whole first season done, that primes the series for binge reading via SerialBox.com, their app, or an e-retailer of your choice. 

Thing is, while I am a sucker for serial fiction, I’m extra-suckery for serial fiction written by several of my favorite people. Like, for real. Mur Lafferty? Max Gladstone?! Margaret Dunlap?!? And Brian Francis Slattery, who, admittedly, I don’t really know? But if he hangs out with these three, then it is safe to assume he is similarly made of the same awesome meteor-forged metal. 

They wanted to pop by and do a guest post, and the idea for said guest post was too good to pass up — four authors offering up their take on what would happen if they personally had to do the job of “demon-hunter.” Thus it is time to meet the Bookburners – the real ones, at least. Max Gladstone (Three Parts Dead and the Craft Sequence), Mur Lafferty (The Shambling Guide to New York City and the I Should be Writing podcast), Margaret Dunlap (The Lizzie Bennet Diaries and The Middleman), and Brian Francis Slattery (Spaceman Blues and Liberation).

Mur Lafferty

Max is our fearless leader, strategy is his game and he’s good for swinging a 2×4 to knock off a zombie’s head. I’ve seen it.

Brian, him I don’t trust. If you read the very weird shit he writes, you know that he’s got to have some inside knowledge. Dude writes scary-ass demons so well because he drinks with scary-ass demons on Tuesday nights down at the Wild Wings (Monday night is Ladies’ Night, Tuesday is Demons’ Night. Although some demons who identify as ladies do visit both nights.)

Margaret is our quartermaster, she keeps all of the weapons cleaned, sharpened, and ready to go. She always knows who has what weapon, and who put a scratch on the silver sword. * But don’t touch her gun. She can drop a vampire at 100 yards with a wooden bullet, and was the cause of last year’s Halloween Eve riot down at the Wild Wings. You see, this face-eating demon, who is also fond of mild wings, got her order switched with Margaret’s super hot wings. That lady was very offended that Margaret had eaten half of her basket of wings without batting an eye. Demon tried to eat her face. Margaret wasn’t having any of it. That was a big clean up night at the Wild Wings.

Then there’s me. I’d be considered the fool, the Zeppo, the Xander, the bait. I am the one who is an ethics test for new recruits; when doing their first field test of running away from demons, I have to fall down and hurt my leg. If they come back for me, they pass. If they don’t, they fail, and I get eaten. Luckily we’ve only recruited ethical people so far, but new Season 2 writer for the team, Andrea Phillips, nearly failed when she paused to consider before she turned around and helped me up. I also moonlight as a bartender down at the Wild Wings and manage to get my team discounts when they come in on Ladies’ Night and Demons’ Night.

* I said I was sorry!

[murverse] [@mightymur]

Margaret Dunlap

Okay, first of all, I don’t know who decided it was a good idea to put together a demon-hunting team made up entirely of writers, but if you’re looking for someone who is secretly trying to sell out humanity to the forces of evil, magic, and hot wings, that’s where I’d look for suspects first. When I signed up for this gig, we were just trying to revolutionize serial fiction on the internet. That’s what they told me anyway.

Of course Max is our fearless leader. Partially, this is because he is the tallest, and it turns out that all of those studies that say tall people tend to get ahead in life are actually on to something. Plus, it seemed like a good idea at the time. We had already put in him in charge of the writing team, and it saved us having to work out the hierarchy again to just go with that when fighting demons got added to the mission brief. Since none of us have died yet (I totally had a bead on that demon if Andrea hadn’t come back for you, Mur!), I’d say he’s doing a pretty awesome job.

Mur is our chief intelligence officer. She wrote a series of guidebooks for supernatural creatures. She knows where they go, how they take their coffee, how spicy they like their hot wings. She can *blend.* Not that this makes us question her loyalty. The guidebooks are obviously a clever double-blind. Make the monsters think that you’re on their side, tell them where they can gather, and then use that information to keep an eye on them. She’s playing a very deep game.

(That’s why I won’t accept her apology for scratching the silver sword. Because I know she didn’t do it. I’m not sure why she’s taking the fall for Max. Maybe he put her up to it, maybe this way he’ll owe her a favor later on. But it was obviously Max. I mean, he fences. Who else in this crowd would even pick up a sword?)

And then there’s Brian. Brian knows how to live off the grid, chops wood, and has a stockpile of olive oil cans in his kitchen. Sure, he says it’s because he “cooks Italian” a lot. Riiiiiight. Personally, I’m not sure what’s up with Brain, I’m just glad that he’s on our side. At least, I’m pretty sure he is. I do know one thing for sure: I wouldn’t want to cross a man who knows how to transform an accordion into a guitar.

What do I do around this joint? Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that. Whatever needs doing. I was worried the demon fighting was really going to cut in on the writing time, but it turns out I just watch less HGTV. So, if that’s all you needed to know, would you mind passing the hot wings?

[Margaret on IMDB] [@spyscribe]

Max Gladstone

First, if I’m the leader, we’re all in deep trouble.  Which we might be!  But under my leadership we’re definitely going to give the demons a bit of an easier time.  In point of fact I’m probably more like the tip of the phalanx.  Let’s charge into the problem!  Tackle the big thing with the thorns and the seven eyestalks head-on, even though the head is where all the teeth are.  Never tell me the odds!

(Actually, please do tell me the odds.  Odds are helpful for decision-making and not getting eaten.)

I figure it’s Margaret actually keeping the team together—quartermastering, sure, but also coordinating from behind the lines.  She’s the one who knows the demons’ weak spots, while the rest of us bash in and flail about.  “Let’s try silver!” says I.  “Guys, silver doesn’t—“ “Too late, trying it anyway.” *roars, crashing of trees, people tossed through walls* “That didn’t work at all.”  “I TOLD you,” says Margaret.  “Just cut off the head, it’ll be fine.”

Of course, cutting off the head is easier said than done.  ‘Coz the head, to repeat, is where all the teeth are.

Mur’s team ninja.  It’s the humor that disarms—she’s all calm and collected on the surface, nothing weird here, no problem whatsoever, got a great joke or three—and then the knife slides in.  She’s most likely to take out the critter in the end.  Making it look easy, all the way along.

Brian’s the one who will doom us all.  He’s great for dealing with demons—maybe even too great.  Because if you summon a bigger demon to eat the demon you’re currently fighting, then you’re stuck with the new, even more enormous demon hanging around.  And then where are you?

In deep trouble.

Which, to be fair, is where we started off.  So it’s probably all for the best.

[MaxGladstone] [@maxgladstone]

Brian Francis Slattery

Maybe this is giving in to the consensus, but I agree with Mur and Margaret that Max is our leader. How can he not be? If you saw him at our meetings, you would agree, too. I also agree with Max, Margaret, and Mur that Margaret and Mur are the real brains of the operation, in addition to being the most effective, funny, and organized. And they are all being a little too modest. Against the three of them, few demons stand much of a chance.

But I guess I’m wondering why we’re fighting the demons in the first place. I know it’s our assignment and all, but haven’t we all read I Am Legend? I’m serious. I know the demons are horrible for us. Terrible things happen when they’re around. But what if we’re even more horrible for them than they are for us? What if the unholy power they unleash in our world, which boils people’s brains and destroys cities, is nothing compared to the havoc we wreak on them? For all we know, every time a human summons a demon from its realm, a toxic, gelatinous substance is left behind where the demon was standing, and that toxin spreads and infects everything it touches, so that no other demons—not to mention the nine-legged food they eat, or the spiraled castles they live in, or the very purple soil they walk on—is safe. For all we know, we have caused their ancient metropolises, once so vast they looked like mountain ranges from a distance, to melt into piles of poisonous slag. Their continents are slipping into the orange oceans that surround them, and the demons are crowded on the few spots of dry land left, begging for some power even higher than they are to intervene, even as the earth softens beneath their feet. We have ruined an entire plane of existence, and all become we’re lonely, or bored, or greedy, or we want revenge, or some other small human concern. Who are the demons now, you know?

So Max is right: Maybe it’s better to just be where we started off in the first place. Pass the wings. Extra spicy.

[BFSlattery]

* * *

Magic is real, and hungry — trapped in ancient texts and artifacts, only a few who discover it survive to fight back. Detective Sal Brooks is a survivor. Freshly awake to just what dangers are lurking, she joins a Vatican-backed black-ops anti-magic squad: Team Three of the Societas Librorum Occultorum. Together they stand between humanity and magical apocalypse. Some call them the Bookburners. They don’t like the label.

Bookburners: Serial Box | The App! | Amazon

Eleanor and Esmerelda are identical twins with a secret language all their own, inseparable until a terrible accident claims Esme’s life. Eleanor’s family is left in tatters: her mother retreats inward, seeking comfort in bottles; her father reluctantly abandons ship. Eleanor is forced to grow up more quickly than a child should, and becomes the target of her mother’s growing rage.

Years pass, and Eleanor’s painful reality begins to unravel in strange ways. The first time it happens, she walks through a school doorway, and finds herself in a cornfield, beneath wide blue skies. When she stumbles back into her own world, time has flown by without her. Again and again, against her will, she falls out of her world and into other, stranger ones, leaving behind empty rooms and worried loved ones.

One fateful day, Eleanor leaps from a cliff and is torn from her world altogether. She meets a mysterious stranger, Mea, who reveals to Eleanor the weight of her family’s loss. To save her broken parents, and rescue herself, Eleanor must learn how deep the well of her mother’s grief and her father’s heartbreak truly goes. Esmerelda’s death was not the only tragic loss in her family’s fragmented history, and unless Eleanor can master her strange new abilities, it may not be the last.

Dumb, blockheaded persistence sometimes wins the day

Let’s just get this one out of the way, right up front: This book took a long, long time. Nearly fifteen years long. That kind of long. And let me be clear: This isn’t a badge of honor. This isn’t Look how many hours I worked this week, did you work that many hours? No? You’ve probably worked with people like that. And you know that those people probably work more inefficiently than you do. There’s a reason you didn’t work seventy-six hours this week. You can get your work done in the usual forty. And that’s exactly the case here. Eleanor took nearly fifteen years for a lot of reasons, most of which had to do with my inexperience, my inefficiency, my tendency to be derailed by shiny objects—like the nearly two years I spent adapting it into an amateur comic instead of working on the novel—and some of which were more practical, like:

Sometimes you aren’t ready to write the book you’re writing

I was twenty-three when I began working on this novel. I wasn’t a newcomer to the idea of writing books—I’d already written and shelved three of them—but it was immediately apparent to me that Eleanor was the first personal novel I had attempted. This was a book that was going to answer some big questions that I had about life, the universe, et cetera. There’s a problem with that, though: when you’re twenty-three, you don’t know the answers. Or if you do, your answers are pretty damp and unformed, not yet tested by age and experience. In my case, Eleanor—at least in those early, long-ago drafts—was struggling to reconcile some major questions I had about faith, belief, the existence of god. I grew up in the Pentecostal church, where questions like that weren’t only dodged, but discouraged. In my early twenties, I was finally trying to face them head-on, using Eleanor, my novel-in-progress, as my tank. I didn’t know how to drive a tank then, and still don’t.

I chipped away at this novel until about 2010—the comic detour—and then again until late 2012, when I put Eleanor aside entirely. My wife had found a novel-writing competition, and suggested I enter. It seemed disingenuous to try to rush Eleanor to completion for the sake of a contest I probably wouldn’t win, so I wrote something else, and finished it in record time—about three weeks. I skipped the contest altogether—I never win contests anyway—and self-published this lark of a novel. It found some readers, and gave me a high I’d never experienced. People were reading my work! It was as if a dam had burst: in the next eight months, I wrote and self-published three more novels.

I returned to the lump that was Eleanor after that, having restored my writerly confidence, and to my surprise, discovered another major impediment to my earlier progress:

Sometimes the book you’re writing wants to be a different book

Remember all those big questions I was asking? And how I was using Eleanor to try to answer them? Yeah, well, more than a decade had passed since I first started down that road. I’d gotten married; I’d become a father. When I returned to the novel in 2013, I realized that not only was Eleanor a failed self-help book masquerading as a novel, I’d long ago stopped asking those big questions. I’d already resolved my personal opinions about faith and belief and god and such, and here was my old book, still throwing pebbles at that hurricane. I couldn’t relate to it at all. I expected this to depress me, I think, but instead, it was utterly liberating. I didn’t have to write that book anymore.

But the characters stuck with me. I’d known Eleanor and her family for more years than I’d known most of the tangible, real human beings in my life. Giving them up wasn’t that appealing. So instead of throwing them away, I just threw away the story I’d constructed for them, and began looking for their story, one that wasn’t my own. And it turned out that the story I discovered was way, way more interesting than my own derailed, earlier draft.

Writing is fun (sometimes), but revision is magical

Okay, writing isn’t always fun. Most of the time it isn’t fun, even. There are good days, but mostly you just have to do it. It took several novels for me to learn this particular truth, but once it finally sunk in, it stuck: you don’t have to write a perfect draft the first time out, or the second, or the ninth. You just have to make each one better, a little at a time.

Revising a book is pure, unadulterated magic. You step back, you look at what you’ve made, and suddenly, if you look long enough, you start to see the threadbare parts, or the areas where too much fabric piled up. It bunches too tightly in this area; it’s too taut over there. You tug here, snip there, and suddenly entire sections of the garment begin to hang just right. In the case of Eleanor, the biggest themes emerged after I’d finished writing the new draft. Once I saw them, I could work my way back through the book, drawing them out a little more.

Beware, though: once you fall in love with the editing process, you might have a hard time ever stopping. Eventually, you have to put your hands up, push away from the table, and call a thing done. There’s always something more you could tweak. You’ve got more stories to tell, though. Right? I definitely do.

There are, like, seven thousand ways to get to the finish line

When I was eighteen years old and I wrote my first novel, I set a goal: by twenty-five I’d be a big literary star. (Oh, those heady teenage dreams.) Five years later I started Eleanor, not knowing I’d be approaching forty before the book was complete. (And boy am I grateful that self-publishing wasn’t as easy and accessible when I was eighteen years old. Hoo, boy.)

When I finished Eleanor, I half-heartedly sent it to a few agents and editors, but then I did what I knew how to do: I self-published it, in the summer of 2014. If that’s all that had happened, it would have been enough. People were reading the book, sharing it with their friend. It found an audience, and that audience connected with the book in ways I genuinely didn’t expect. I was surprised when the book shot up the Amazon bestseller list—I think it peaked at #25 or so, to my amazement—and even more surprised when an email arrived from a Hollywood producer who was interested in the film rights. That was a conversation I wasn’t prepared to have on my own, but it helped me find an agent who could help. And then things just kept going: the agent helped me sell the novel to a major publisher (Crown), and then several foreign rights sales followed. Months of additional editing came after that, and then my first journey through the mechanisms of the publishing world began. I’ve crossed so many different finish lines with this book now that I’ve lost track. I’ll be thirty-eight this year, though, and I feel like I’ve just crossed the starting line.

* * *

Jason Gurley is the author of Eleanor (Crown, 2016) and the fiction collection Deep Breath Hold Tight. His short stories have appeared in Lightspeed Magazine and various anthologies. He lives and writes in Oregon.

Jason Gurley: Twitter | Website

Eleanor: Amazon | Penguin Random House | Powell’s | B&N | iTunes

I’ve seen the movie — *checks calendar* — 473 times in the theater.

FINE JEEZ NOT REALLY.

But I have seen it three times, and for a person with alarmingly little time, that’s saying something. The Force Awakens has been a big deal around this house, obviously. For one, it ties into a little self-published novel I wrote called SPACE JARS: AFTERPANTS. But more than that, this is the first theatrical release my wife has seen in almost five years. And it was the first theater-going experience for our son, B-Dub. My wife never really had a Star Wars of her own — but now she does. She’s seen it twice and wants to see it again. She has, to my knowledge, never seen a film more than once in the theater.

Like I said: big deal around this house.

(Sidenote, this is why I think you have the effect of some folks being extra-resistant to negativity around the movie, particularly that snarkier brand of criticism. It’s because this isn’t just a movie. In some ways, it’s not a movie at all. It’s a puppy. The fanbase hasn’t had a puppy in a while and now we have one and it’s cute and enthusiastic and lots of fun even though it has its proper puppy flaws, but when a stranger comes and calls your new puppy ugly or rambunctious or gassy or whatever, some folks take that less as criticism and more of an insult. Perhaps not fairly, but emotions are rarely fair, I’m afraid. Star Wars is entangled with a great deal more than just movie culture. It ties into larger pop culture, true, but it also is braided in with friends and family and childhood and — well, that’s a complicated knot is all I’m saying.)

But I wanted to take a look at the film for some of the storytelling lessons it offers — in this case, not negative lessons (of which you could find some, I’m sure), but rather, positive takeaways that might wet your mind whistle when it comes to thinking about your story or other stories or, I dunno, delicious enchiladas.

Mmm. Enchiladas.

*clears throat*

ARE YOU READY, CLASS?

*hands out lightsabers*

LET US BEGIN.

(oh, some light spoilers found below.)

Worldbuilding Can Be About What You Don’t Show

Epic fantasy novels are wont, sometimes, to put all their worldbuilding on display. That’s why some of them are big enough to snap a horse’s neck — I’ve literally read a few that demonstrated roughly 40% story, 60% worldbuilding. Not much actually happens, but we sure do learn a lot about royal crests and dishware and the sacred toe-washing techniques of faraway lands. Some of these books are soggy with details — and that’s a thing people want to read, sometimes. So, it’s cool. It’s not my bag! But if you like it, then go forth and enjoy.

Just the same, one of the things I really adored about the original SW films 30 years ago was that they took a shrugworthy FUCK YOU attitude when it came to providing details. What were the Clone Wars? What the shit is a Bothan? Where did the Empire come from and why do they have such a space-boner for planet-destroying super-weapons? (Answer to that last one: the same boner most Earth countries have for reiterative superweapons, I’d guess. “What’s next, Admiral Bob?” “BIGGER SHIPS BIGGER BOMBS BIGGER BLOW-EM-UPS.”)

The prequels had less interest in that level of mystery. In fact, they worked very hard to answer the mysteries. Which is not a bad thing, it’s just worldbuilding in the other direction — heavier on the “soaking up the details” part of the equation.

The Force Awakens goes back to the storytelling roots of the films 30 years ago, and it just puts shit out there. Why is there a Resistance? Where did the First Order come from? What is that pig thing? (Answer: a happabore.) WHY DOESN’T SNAP WEXLEY HAVE A BODYGUARD MURDER-DROID NAMED MISTER BONES AS HIS ASTROMECH? Okay, fine, that last question is probably mine alone, but whatever. I’m still asking it and I expect our next President to address it.

In fact, let’s take one particular mystery — THE OLD DUDE AT THE BEGINNING OF THE MOVIE. The movie opens and there is Max von Sydow in a dirt hut with Poe “So Pretty” Dameron, and he isn’t named, we don’t know who he is, and despite being a seemingly vital character, he is immediately executed (er, spoiler!) by Kylo Ben. If you watch the credits or read supplemental material, you’ll learn his name: Lor San Tekka. Supplemental material also provides some other information, none of it properly vital. And you might think that’s a huge gap. Some do, even still, think it’s an issue that the film didn’t explain much. But for me, the movie is an exercise in providing the very bare minimum to get you to the next scene. We don’t need to know who this guy is — in fact, he becomes quite tantalizing a figure given how his language indicates that this very moment is the culmination of his character arc. He hands over the Map to Skywalker and says, “This will begin to make things right.” Whoa, what? What went wrong? Why does he have the map? Why has he been keeping the map secret? What the hell? And then, VZZRAOWKSZZH the guy is torn down like a pair of ugly curtains.

And that’s all you get.

Sometimes, worldbuilding is better in the mind of the audience. It gains strength there. It multiplies like an image in a house of mirrors. Mysteries compel us. Unanswered questions draw us forward. Now, they become frustrating when the lack of answers stop us from comprehending the story, but that’s not what happens here. We know just enough to move forward.

This isn’t a solution for every story, but it’s an interesting test — if you strip out a bunch of the worldbuilding, does your story still work? It’s vital, I think, that it does.

Orchestrating Key Moments Is, Well, Key

Every story has flaws. Flaws are not by themselves bad things — the bugs only become bad when they remove us from the story, and they remove us from the story when they outnumber or outweigh the features. One of the features of The Force Awakens are moments that are almost perfectly designed to be moments you talk about later. Moments you remember. Moments you anticipate on a rewatch. The best stories have these scenes and beats — Die Hard is practically a conveyor belt of those holy shit moments. TFA has several. I won’t name them here because honestly, not sure I have to. (I bet you’ve already thought of at least one.)

It’s interesting when you hear the filmmakers talk about this movie, because you learn that they began with a question: how do we want the audience to feel? Not “how will this make them feel?” But rather, how do we engineer a narrative to stir certain feelings? Feelings of nostalgia and sadness and triumph — the mythic resonance of the old films remixed in a new way?

It’s not just about drawing a map to Skywalker. It’s about drawing a map toward certain emotions. One of the ways that the filmmakers do that, I think, is by plotting these big moments. Not just moments that are exciting (though they are likely that), but moments that are big in terms of the characters — big in terms of their emotional impact on the audience. It’s worth considering how you can do this for your own work. What do you want the audience to feel? What moments will get them to these feelings? How do you draw the map to that?

Characters Who Like Each Other? A Pop Culture Miracle!

Listen, I know we all want Poe and Finn to steam up the windows of an X-Wing with their sloppy tongue-hockey skills — but for my mileage, what’s greatest about all three protagonists is how much they seem to like each other as characters. They meet and near-instantly have a rapport. They may fight or argue, but it feels like a fight between people who intrinsically belong together. They are enthused to be together. It’s not bitter or a struggle to watch them interact — the conflict comes from the larger narrative, not from characters wanting to always choke each other. They have the delight of dogs meeting other dogs. They may be guarded for a moment but then it’s like, WOO I LIKE YOU AND YOU LIKE ME AND LET’S GO HAVE SOME MOTHERFUCKING ADVENTURES. The audience sees this and they feel like a part of it. Like we’re all part of some D&D adventuring group meeting up in a tavern for the first time.

This isn’t appropriate for all story modes, obviously. But for this kind of thing? It’s a great way to smash characters together and then propel them forward on the nosecone of a narrative rocket.

Fuck Yeah, Subtext

There exists a kind of meta-narrative component to The Force Awakens. Sure, the movie is totally about STARS and WARS and AWAKENING FORCE and all that good stuff, but it’s interesting, too, that the characters inhabit a world filled with the junk of the world we left behind 30 years ago as an audience — Rey lives inside a destroyed AT-AT on a planet of debris. She flies an even junkier version of the Falcon through the bowels of a super star destroyer (which, cough cough, is the Ravager from Aftermath). Kylo Ren is a literal fanboy for the Dark Side. He’s got like, a foam finger waving about (DARTH VADER #1! WOO!) and he’s clearly adopted the Dark Side’s fashion sense, too.

Max Gladstone (who wrote a fantastic piece about TFA through the lens of Star Wars roleplaying) pointed out to me that the line of Kylo Ren’s — “It’s just us, now” — is as much about the characters on-screen as it is about the audience. It’s about generational shifts — I’m a parent now, giving over the trilogy to my son. Just as Lucas has given the trilogy over to Abrams and Disney. The film itself has its own tangled messages about parentage, about the effect a parent can have on a child. It’s a coded message to the audience that this is a passing of the story torch, man. This is an old story with new characters. Not a reboot, but also not exactly a sequel. And then you can factor in various culture-leaning feelings — if Kylo Ren is a fanboy for the Dark Side and for Vader, his petulant, pathetic rage-pleas to Rey (“YOU NEED A TEACHER…”) sound a whole lot like he’s calling her a Fake Geek Girl (“…FOR MAGIC: THE GATHERING.”). And you could lean even further that Kylo Ren starts to vibe a whole lot like fans inside pop culture who feel betrayed by the changes of their fandom (“it’s about ethics in Dark Side fashion, that’s all, and also the SJJ Social Justice Jedi are taking over the galaxy and winning all the awards even though they’re a marginal order because really Vader was much more popular…”).

Don’t be afraid to play with subtext. Know your audience and to learn to speak to them not just with what’s overt, but also with themes and ideas buried beneath a layer or two of the story.

Extra Fuck Yeah, Inclusion

I am a white guy talking about diversity, so that should already make you narrow your eyes a little bit, probably — but I think it’s vital to realize that your audience is potentially far more than just, well, people who look like me. Cultural appropriation is its own sticky subject, and as authors, it’s a damn fine idea to make sure we’re not stealing someone else’s story or experience for our own. But, a film like TFA doesn’t have to worry as much about that — it’s a book about SPACE GUNS and GALACTIC WIZARDS and isn’t really in danger of appropriating any kind of actual human culture, which means it has full license to include all kinds of people in its ranks. That has huge meaning. The new film has a much bigger female audience than other films of its genre, and its two other leads are people of color. It’s worth considering as a storyteller if your characters are monochromatic and exclusive rather than inclusive of the audience you have — or an audience you could have if you decided to actually talk to them once in a while.

(Bonus, you know who my son sometimes pretends to be? Rey. And other times? Finn. He doesn’t see why they can’t be heroes or why he can’t look up to them and try to inhabit them — it’s a big change from a pop culture world that usually asks that little girls and children of color pretend to inhabit the stories and arcs of white male heroes.)

And just in case you hear that refrain that inclusion can’t sell — please remember three non-white-male protagonists have led the biggest box office film ever. That’s no small feat, and easily disproves the lie that films with women or people of color are somehow marginal.

Back when I was in elementary school, we used to do that thing on Valentine’s Day where you wrote little crummy cardboardy valentines (often from Your Favorite Brand™) to your other class members and of course you saved the good ones for the kids you had a crush on and of course there were those poor sods who always got way fewer valentines than other kids even though you were supposed to write valentines for everybody. It was cruel and strange and an odd sort of training for being a writer.

Because really, our books and our stories are all paper valentines. We write them and send them out into the world to crushes and non-crushes alike and we really hope you accept them. And we really hope you give us a valentine back.

We are all just authors standing in front of audiences asking them to love us.

Buy our books, yes. But also, love us.

It sets us up for a lot of heartbreak. Which is nobody’s fault; it is what it is. We stick our hearts not on our sleeves but on the paper and then we slide the paper in front of you and watch your face to see how you react. And this isn’t just one to one. This isn’t just us asking one person if they liked our book. It’s cumulative. It’s us asking hundreds, thousands, all the people to dig what we’re doing. Or at least to recognize that we’re doing it. And that can be hard. It is compounded by the fact that as I said in the last post (Your 2016 Authorial Mandate!), we’re all clothes drying on the line — we are not well-protected as a creative species.

As such, it is up to us to protect ourselves to some degree.

Self-care is very important for a writer. Let’s talk some tips.

0. Read This

My cheese-eating co-conspirator Delilah Dawson wrote about this subject. So read it.

1. Recognize Depression

This deserves attention right up front.

Writer’s block is not depression. Depression is depression. It is real. It is a disease (or as some prefer, a disability). It is not fake. You are not making it up. It is not “all in your head.” And worst of all, depression lies. And for the writer, one of its most insidious lies is that depression somehow entangles itself with your work. It twines with the art, like a tumor seeking its own blood flow, and you start to associate the two together. Maybe you come to believe that depression or anxiety is essential for the writing. Or maybe you believe that it isn’t really depression, it’s just writer’s block or some variant thereof and surely the best way forward is to write your way through it.

That can work with writer’s block. That won’t likely work with depression.

Trying to write your way through depression is like trying to run fast through mud. It’s like trying to rid yourself of a headache by punching yourself in the head. It’s a very good way to sink. It’s a very good way to deepen the ache. Do not try to write your way through depression.

Treat depression as depression. Or anxiety or whatever particular flavor you have. I’m not a BRAINOLOGIST, so that means whatever it means in terms of the specifics — but likely, it means going to talk to someone of a professional nature and then potentially either continuing therapy or finding solutions in medication or other life adjustments. But it’s real. It isn’t an illusion. And it isn’t part of your art. That’s how the demon convinces you into letting it stay.

2. You Don’t Owe Anybody Your Attention

It’s the Internet, so people want to yell at you. They want to give you shit or write nasty comments or haunt you like a bad smell on an old jacket. It scrapes away some of your paint, so remember: you don’t owe anyone your attention. Okay, sure, you should probably give it to people who matter: friends, family, agents, editors. (Though even there, if their effect on your is somehow corrosive, worth considering if their presence in your life is a feature or a bug.) Beyond that? You can wall off the rest of the world. You are not required to stand there in the town square and suffer people punting cabbages at your head. That’s not your job. We start to think it is — we come to believe that somehow being an artist also means being out there in the thick of it, and that we should let all the lasers and arrows and angrily-hurled cats hit us dead on like it’s some kind of MOTHERFUCKING ART GAUNTLET, but that’s not true at all. Your job is to make cool stuff. Everything else is secondary. And letting that toxic stuff wash over you isn’t even that — it’s not a job requirement, so feel free to shut it down.

3. You Don’t Need To Read All Those Reviews

Repeat after me: Reviews are not your responsibility.

The critical conversation is an essential one, one that exists between the reader and herself and that reviewer’s own circle of trust — and you are not in that circle.

Reviewers and critics are an essential part of culture.

They’re not, however,  an essential part of you making art.

Reviews won’t do much for you as an author. Admittedly, I read them all, because I am apparently fond of punching myself in the teeth, but I don’t actually get much out of them. The most you’ll get is that some people will like your book and some people will love your book and others will hate the book so bad that they want to shove it up the ass of a irritably-boweled hippopotamus and then detonate said diarrhea monster with a barrel of TNT. Even more complicated is sometimes you find people who love to hate books so much that their hate reviews read more like performance art snark than actual critical discourse. And that’s okay. That’s all part of the deal. You write the thing and then you leave it on a table and people can do what they want with it: they can ignore it, punch it, make out sloppily with it, shit on it, whatever.

You don’t have to watch as they do. It’s understandable you want to, of course — in most artistic pursuits, you get audience feedback pretty quickly. Up on stage, the audience laughs or they don’t. But a book, whew. You sit in isolation writing the thing over a few months or a year, and then it takes a while to sell it and it takes a while to get it out there. Even self-published it’s not like, CLICK BOOM BANG THERE WE GO. I mean, dang, it still takes time for people to read the thing. As such, it’s natural to want to gaze in on the audience to see what they think — but reviews aren’t really “the audience.” They’re a part of it! A vital, necessary part. But they speak for themselves and for their circles. Meanwhile, 90% of your audience is reading the book and having a private reaction. You aren’t on stage. You can’t see them. You have no idea if they’re laughing at the right parts or angrily gnawing on the book for That Thing You Did On Page 214 or what. It’s a mystery.

The problem with looking at reviews is, we’re human. And humans are dumb. Just dumb as a bucket of chimp scat. What I mean is, we are very good at focusing on a little bit of bad and ignoring the massive amount of good. In some ways, this is logical, one supposes. A nice piece of cheesecake with a single rat turd on it will undeniably spoil the cheesecake. But let’s see you have a perfectly nice day, a wonderful day doing whatever it is you love (amusement park, hanging out with friends, eating cheesecake, karate-punching robo-hobos), and then one slightly bad thing happens, our brain does this thing where we remember the bad part, not the good part. That day will always be smeared with the moment of that time when the lady spilled her coffee on you or you got into a fight with a puma or whatever the fuck actually happened. You will drown the good stuff in the sour brine of the bad stuff. Negativity pickles.

Reviews can be like that. Ninety-nine positive reviews can be shitted up by one whopper of a bad review. That’s not good. It’s not logical. And yet, that’s how your brain works, probably because it’s trying to get you to not eat the rat-turd cheesecake. If you find yourself sullied by bad reviews, don’t read them. They won’t do much for you. Move on. Move past. Ignore, ignore, ignore. Let those reviews work their magic as part of a conversation that does not need you in it.

4. In Fact, Get Away From The Internet For A While

Turn it off.

Walk away.

You don’t need it every moment.

It is a firehose. You don’t need to drink from it all the time.

Everything in moderation. Go away. Clear your head. Trust me — a break from the Internet, whether it’s a day or a week or a month, can be super-helpful. Maybe it’s just a social media break, or maybe it’s a GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ALL OF IT break. Either way, it’ll still be here when you get back, I promise. It’ll still have images of Poe and Finn smolderingly staring at one another. It’ll still have cat videos. We’ll keep it warm — go take a digital vacay.

5. Walk Away From The Work

Always be writing.

I’ve said it. It’s a common refrain. And it’s part of my work vibe — I gotta work to pay the bills, and work is writing and writing is work. I do the work and get paid, or I don’t work and get nothing. The choice is easy, most times, because for me, the writing is wonderful. The hardest day writing is better than the best day doing pretty much anything else.

But while generally true, it is not universally true.

Some days are not for writing.

Some days are for thinking about it. Other days are for explicitly not thinking about it at all. Some days are for wandering in meadows, or reading good books, or having freaky sex, or karate-punching robo-hobos.

You can take a break. You can walk away from it. You can walk away for a day or a week or a month. Whatever you need to realign to center. Whatever you need for yourself. (Here, though, the counter argument: don’t stay away too long. A vacation from the art has its own kind of half-life, and eventually the value of that vacation begins to break down and poison you in other ways. Over time you’ll learn when self-care means to write, and when it means to not.)

6. Your Body Is Not A Temple, It’s A Machine

Your body demands worship sometimes, sure. Sometimes it needs ice cream and time on the couch and various erotic latherings. But often it’s best not to view your body as a temple but rather, as a machine. Machines need proper fuel to run. They need clean dongles and well-waxed widgets. (YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, KIDS: CLEAN YOUR DONGLES! WAX YOUR WIDGETS!) You can’t just throw hot sauerkraut into a gas tank and hope the car will run. Machines need maintenance. Your machine needs maintenance, too. Exercise. Eat well. Your brain is part of the machine, not separate from it, and your brain does all the heavy lifting in this whole ARTING HARDER thing. Keep it together. Help your brain by keeping the machine running effectively.

7. Do Not Compare Yourself To Others

No good comes of this. Don’t do it. Everyone has someone else to which they are theoretically inferior. I’m sure even Stephen King stares at a picture of J.K. Rowling in a drawer somewhere that he occasionally pulls out and just stares at in a sinister manner. You are you. Your success is your own. And frankly, in writing, the biggest success is just surviving. Compare yourself only to yourself, and even then, only when it helps, never when it hurts.

8. Have Something That Isn’t Writing

Doodling. Quilting. Theater. Political assassinations. Have something that is not writing. For me, it’s photography. It breaks my brain away from the wordsmithy. It gives me an opportunity to stretch my legs in a different direction and it’s a healthy distraction, not a toxic one.

9. Shove Shame Out The Airlock

Art is often braided with shame. You should be ashamed, we say, if you are not creating. It is what you are and so the best thing you can do is to constantly be regurgitating content. And if you’re not, then time to whip out the ol’ shame bells. CLONG. CLONG. CLONG. Or maybe you get the shame if you’re creating the “wrong” things — and someone is always out there to tell you what you’re doing is the wrong thing, trust me. CLONG. CLONG. CLONG.

Shame feels motivational because we react to it. We clench up at shame and feel like we need to do better, lest the universe or our dead parents or a jury of our peers will be gasp disappointed in us. But shame is a ladder stuck in quicksand. Even as you climb up it, you’re sinking back down.

Shame will do you no good. Excise it from your emotional diet.

And definitely cut out those who would attempt to motivate (read: “bludgeon”) you with shame.

10. Return To The Writing

At the end of the day, sometimes the best thing you can do is shut out everything else and go back to center. Sometimes that means going back to the notebook or the computer and just writing. Maybe it doesn’t mean writing any one specific thing. Could be that you don’t need word count on the project that’s plaguing you, but instead you just need to regurgitate whatever stream-of-consciousness horse-garbage you’ve got going on inside your head. The work can be purifying by itself. And at the end of it all, this is what you are, and the work and the words will light the way.

FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE HAS RETURNED FOR THE NEW YEAR

*flash of lightning*

*crash of thunder*

*angry geese*

I don’t know why there are angry geese here, but they’re probably upset by all that lightning and thunder and maybe me yelling. Whatever, geese. You’re not the boss of me.

Regardless, it’s time for the fiction challenge to return proper, and this week’s challenge is simple enough: I want you to go ahead and click this link.

That link will take you to a page of nine images over at Flickr — nine images that are a sampling of the photos chosen by Flickr’s “interestingness” algorithm.

You will choose one of these photos and use it as inspiration for a 1000-word flash fiction story.

Post that story at your blog or other online space. Then come back here and drop a link to that story in the comments so we can all come and read it. Do not forget in your post or in your comment to indicate what photo (by link) you chose to provide you with inspiration for the story.

You have one week to complete this task or you will be assassinated.

*checks notes*

Sorry, you have one week to complete this task or nothing will happen except that you won’t have written this story or fulfilled this challenge in any way — my lawyers are very keen on me emphasizing the fact you will not be assassinated. Please and thank you.

The story is due by next Friday, noon EST on 1/15/16.

GO DO YOUR THING. And don’t mind the geese. Or the assassin.

That blog title is way too long, but fuck it.

A handful of weeks ago, some presumably well-meaning tickledick posted a comment here at the blog. It was a comment that I chose not to approve because, really, I don’t need your shit, Rando Calrissian. This blog is my digital house, and I don’t let strangers inside just so they can take a dump on my kitchen table, especially so we can all sit around, smelling it and discussing it. But the comment was a splinter under my nail, working its way up into the finger-meat. And then reading George R. R. Martin’s end-of-the-year message about not finishing the newest SOIAF also was something that crawled inside me and starting having thought-babies.

Being here on the Internet is a bit like hanging out on a clothesline — some days are sunny and warm, other days are cool and breezy. Some days it pisses rain and the wind tries to take you, and other days it’s daggers of ice or a rime of snow or smoke from a wildfire or some pervert streaking across the lawn and stropping up against you with his unwanted nasty bits.

Being on the Internet means being exposed.

You’re just out there. A squirming nerve without the tooth surrounding it.

That’s good in some ways because you’re exposed to new people, new ideas, new ways of doing things. You’re not an isolated creature here. You are an experiment being observed and are in turn an observer of countless other experiments, and that makes a subtle-not-subtle push-and-pull. But can also be erosive or corrosive — it can wear off your paint a little bit.

As a writer in particular, it has its ups and downs, too. Here, you’ll find yourself surrounded by a gaggle of ink-fingered cohorts who know what it is to do what you do. You’ll have a herd, a cult, a clan, a tribe. You’ll have smaller communities who know what it is you write or want to write, too, whether it’s young adult or epic fantasy or erotic sci-fi cookbooks. And here on the Digital Tubes, everybody is has an opinion, everybody is an expert. And that’s extra-true with writing. Other writers have their processes and their hang-ups and their wins and their losses, and they share it all. Which is, on a whole, a good thing. Information is good. Camaraderie is good.

That, though, can muddy the waters at the same time. This Person is doing This Person’s thing, and That Person is doing That Person’s thing, and Other Person is really loud about what WILL SURELY WORK FOR EVERYBODY (translation, will probably only work for people who are or are like Other Person). And advice gurgles up around your feet like rising floodwaters. Do this, do that, don’t do this, don’t say that, don’t write this, this isn’t selling, that is a no-no, publish this way, sell that way, don’t publish that other way, drink this, wear houndstooth jackets with elbow patches, drink that, snark here, snark there, with a fox, in a box, wearing socks, eating rocks, with a bear, without hair, anywhere. We have a whole lot of writers trying to figure out who they really are, and in the process, do a very good job at also telling you who you should be in order to conform to their notions of who they want to be. To confirm who they are, it’s easy for them to also confirm who you should be, too. That’s not sinister. That’s just human nature. It’s easier to become something when others are along for the ride. And it’s also the joy of confirmation bias — what worked for me confirms that I WAS RIGHT AND SO YOU ARE A HEINOUS DIPSHIT IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW PRECISELY IN MY FOOTSTEPS. I do it. You do it. Most of us do, I think.

It then gets further complicated once you have readers. Or, Uber Readers, aka, fans. Because they, too, have opinions on you and your work. They will have opinions on your process. And it’s not that they’re wrong, it’s that they’re — no, wait, they are wrong, never mind. They’re totally wrong, because they’re not writing the stories. They’re right about what they want to read and when they want to read it, but not about how to create it. It’s hard to tell someone how to do their job. It’s extra-hard to tell them how to make their art. Because process and prose and authorial intent are all intensely personal to the creator. Personal and twisted further by the pressures of creation and the potential mental stresses that come along with it — remember, a great many writers and artists also suffer from depression or anxiety or other ghosts in the gray matter.

It’s not just one type of writer over another. This is true of new writers who are just finding their way. This is true of mid-career or mid-list writers who are out there in the wilderness surviving, not sure how to get out of the forest just yet. This is true of super-successful authors who are trapped under the magnifying lens of a massively public fanbase — the sun likely focusing into a laser-hot beam upon their foreheads. All artists of every level are exposed here.

Here, now, is the comment referenced at the fore of the post:

“There is no skill floor or ceiling to being a writer. Anyone who speaks a language, who tells a story, can write. To be published is a stricter process that requires an adherence to professional guidelines and to a standard of quality that is dictated by the publishing office. That you’ve been published so many times is no small feat, and I commend you for it.

But having read Aftermath and Blackbirds, I feel that there is…a laziness to your style that you seem to be either unaware of or have come to terms with. It’s difficult to quantify, but it gives me the impression that you don’t value writing as an art. As a job, certainly. But not as a form of expression. Because otherwise you wouldn’t spend 45-90 days on a book. A soul isn’t bared in three months. Professional or no, no book you truly care for should go from start to finish that quickly.

To know an art is to break established rules in the hopes of producing a truer version of your vision. And you certainly break the rules of writing craft. In the first three paragraphs of Blackbirds you’ve disregarded flow, used inappropriate comparisons, and introduced the main character through a mirror scene. And while these things are permissible, they are not the hallmarks of someone who cherishes what he writes.

Great writing seeks subtlety. It’s the words that are unwritten, the descriptions that are inferred, the meaning that comes across through the subtext of what is explicit that writing excels at communicating. But your writing doesn’t ask me to look within myself for answers. It asks me to look no further than the page. And that, to me, is a tragedy. Because we’re all capable of greatness. But greatness comes from being dissatisfied with how things are, and with pushing the boundaries of what you believe yourself to be capable of in order to achieve your absolute best. And even then, you won’t be satisfied. You’ll push yourself further in your next pursuits, because now you’ve touched on what you’re capable of, but you won’t be satisfied.

To release your books in such a short time frame tells me that you’re satisfied, and that breaks my heart.”

I tried for the better part of a week to conjure a more cogent response than “fuck you,” and I got as far as “go fuck yourself.” Like, I tried to go through it once and conjure point-by-point rebuttals — well, no, because of course I value art and art is not beholden to any timetable and it takes the time that it takes short or long and — but eventually my rebuttal dissolves into a gargled cry of “eat a bucket of deep-fried fucks, you squawking chicken-fucker.” With an added, “HOW’S THAT FOR SUBTLETY,” and then a crotch-grab as I cackle and yell, “CHERISH THIS.”

This is someone who wants his vision to be my vision. He has very explicit ideas about how art is made — ideas that, by the way, are provably false. (For writers in particular, looking at the daily word counts of famous writers is clarifying in its sheer variation.) Great writing is not one thing any more than great paintings are, or great music, or, or, or. The variation in art is glorious. The variation in the process that puts the art into the world is equally amazing. Music can be operatic, or punk, or dub-step. A sculpture might be an alabaster goddess or a bunch of fucking cubes stuck to a bunch of other fucking cubes. Food can be subtle and airy or unctuous and heavy or whipped into a foam or shoved between two buns (tee hee buns). Comedy can be a routine that takes years to write, or an improv session that took 30 seconds to conjure.

There’s no wrong way to do it, as long as you’re doing it.

There’s no timetable, as long as you’re taking the time.

Nobody can tell you how you do it. They can only tell you how they do it or what illusions they hold about the process — illusions that often wither under actual implementation.

They can offer suggestions. And you are free to take them, hold them up in the light, and see if there is anything there of value. And if there isn’t? Then you can fling it into the trash compactor on the detention level where it will be ogled and eaten by the one-eyed Dianoga.

That’s not to say there aren’t people you should listen to — a good editor or agent, a trusted friend, a beloved author. But even there, you want to find people who will clarify and improve your process and your work — not substitute it with something that isn’t really yours.

So, in 2016, I advise you to give your middle fingers a proper workout and elevate them accordingly to any who would diminish who you are, what you make, or how you make it. You don’t need to wall yourself off from it, but you also don’t need to be a sweater hanging on the clothesline, either. Get some tooth around that nerve.

Know who you are. Learn your process. Find your way. And don’t let anyone else define who you are as a creator, as an artist, as a writing writer who motherfucking writes.

Happy 2016, writers.

You do you.

*explodes in gory human fireworks*