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October 16, 2012 / 73 Comments

25 Things Writers Should Know About Conferences And Conventions

Con season is almost over, so that tells me it’s a most excellent time to write a post about con season! Right? Right? Fellas? Where you goin’, fellas? WHATEVER FINE JUST LEAVE.

Anyway.

I figured that writers go to conventions and conferences year-round, so it’s a good idea to talk to you penmonkeys about what to do there, what to expect, where to find me drunk at 3AM (hint: parking garage inside a duffel bag). If you’re looking for more general “con etiquette” stuff, I might recommend this wise post by the most excellent Colleen Lindsay: Convention Etiquette For Fans, Pros, And Exhibitors.”

1. Hint: The Writers Are At The Bar

Let’s just get this one out of the way right now: if you’re wondering where the writers are, they’re at the bar. No, seriously. I’m not saying they’re there getting lit up like a Christmas tree — despite the myth, not all writers are rampant liquor pigs — but the hotel (and/or nearest) bar is a place of social aggregation for the word-herd. We’re all at the watering hole, watering our, uhh, holes.

2. Know What You Want Out Of It

Go to a conference or convention with a goal and a plan to achieve that goal. (That goal should not be: “Stowaway in Neil Gaiman’s luggage so you can return with him to his magical story-land,” or “Discover whatever tugboat George R.R. Martin is captaining and steal it for a joyride.”) Honing your craft? Discovering publishing options? Just there to geek out with your freak out? Have the end result in mind and arrange your conference (talks, panels, booth visits) accordingly.

3. Purpose #1: Go To Up Your Game

One of the “primary purposes” of a conference or convention is to hone your authorial blade. Our weapons all grow dull and rusty with over-use and sometimes you go to these things hoping to whet them against the many stones present. The goal is to get better. To learn new things. Our brains need new information, and conventions and conferences (heretofore referred to as “cons”) will give you that.

4. Purpose #2: Go To Meet People

Another primary purpose is just to meet people. Writer seems a solitary job and, of course, it is. We shimmy into our musty, fetid author pods, shut the door, then hook our skulls and fingers up to the electrodes that connect us to the Galactic Story Blob where we operate in total isolation (well, that’s how I do it, anyway, you probably have a “desk” with a “computer”). Still, writers need community. They need other writers. They need agents and editors and marketing dudes and, above all else, they need readers. So, cons are great places to meet people. It’s about forging connections both business and personal.

5. Human Meets Human, Not Writer-Bot Plugs Into Publishing Receptacle

Worth repeating: when I say “connections,” I don’t mean in a purely business sense. Trust me, your con experience is going to be at its weakest when you approach it as All Business. I’ve seen those writers and they’re always “on.” They’re also very irritating, like buzzing fluorescents with a horsefly constantly tapping against the bulb. Go to make friends. Or at least acquaintances. Hear their stories, tell a few of your own. Connect on a human level, not in a “LET US FORGE COMMERCE ARRANGEMENT” way.

6. You Should Totally Say Hello To Your Favorite Writers

I speak as a writer who is deliriously excited when a reader (or for me the rara avis, a “fan”) comes up and says hello. Not only does it stroke my constantly inflating-and-deflating ego (it’s like the lungs of a tired old horse, I swear), but it also confirms that, hey, this thing I’m doing is actually reaching people. I know some writers — er, really, “authors” — don’t want anyone to come say ‘boo’ to them, but you know what? Fuck them. That’s fine for like, the grocery store, but they’re at a con. If you’re a pro at one of these things, appreciate your readers, don’t elbow them in the neck and shove past. Readers are how we get to exist.

7. But Seriously, Don’t Be A Fuckin’ Weirdo About It

Okay, yes, go say hello to your favorite writermonkeys. But, hey, also? Don’t be a crazy-pants asshole about it. Don’t dominate their time. Don’t get pushy. Don’t be rude. Don’t be mean. Don’t cling like a dingleberry. Don’t challenge them about typos or plot points. Let them eat in peace. Let them pee in peace. Let them sleep in peace. (Everything else is probably fair game.) You want them to respect you so you have to respect them in turn. That’s the human contract. That’s how we all win the game is by being respectful to one another instead of just splashing douche into each other’s eyes again and again.

8. On The Subject Of Book Signings

Deserves special attention: some authors don’t want to sign books outside of designated signing periods, and that’s understandable. An author who will generate a line around the block doesn’t want that line generated when he’s trying to cross the lobby to get a bottle of water or when he’s outside the hotel trying to hide a couple hobo bodies. Others, however (like, erm, me), will sign books whenever you thrust them upon us. Hell, I’ll sign body parts, pets, children, other people’s books, souls. I’ll sign anything except, say, checks. Point is, know your limits, respect the authors. Double-true: don’t ask them to sign like, a suitcase full of books. Triple-true: we appreciate it when you have us sign books to someone specific rather than a generic autograph which then vaguely suggests you’re gonna turn around and sell that shit online.

9. On The Subject Of Being Creepy

Deserves extra-special attention: don’t get stalkery, don’t corner anybody of any sex, don’t inappropriately touch people, don’t get suggestive or act rapey or be in any way threatening toward others in a violent or violating manner. “But she was dressed in duct-tape bra-and-panties,” is not a good reason to get grabby. They’re not hookers. Trying to look sexy is not an invitation for you to get sexy with them anymore than me wearing a shirt with a bullseye is good enough reason to fire an arrow through my chest. Be conscious of acting creepy, scary, grabby, etc. Bonus reading: on creepy creepers who creepily creep.

10. Don’t Get Stupid Drunk

At a con, people drink. And drinking means getting a little silly. Silly is good. Silly is fine. Nobody expects you to have a couple gin-and-tonics and drive a car, operate a firearm, or negotiate peace between two warring galactic races. But don’t be a rum-sodden barf-bag, either. If you can’t feel your teeth and you puke in my lap, you’ve got a problem. You don’t want writers, agents or editors remembering you as “That dude who got blitzkrieged on Jager-bombs and took a shit on a plastic fern in the hotel lobby.”

11. You’re Not Actually The Expert

Pet peeve time! Unless you’re actually on the panel, assume you’re not the expert in the room. It is not your time to shine, you crazy diamond. Ask questions, but let other people ask questions, too. And also: don’t be “that guy” who just raises his hand and then stands up and makes a statement like everyone’s here to see you. “Well, I think the state of space opera is blibbedy-blobbedy-bloo and I disagree with…” HOLY CRAP SHUT UP. This is not an Internet forum, Selfish Guy. You don’t have to enlighten us with your “genius.”

12. Arrive Early For Things

Pet peeve again! Coming into any event late is a dick move. I’ve done it, and I regret having done it. You make noise. You distract. For some reason whenever someone comes in late they always maximize the disruption, too, like, they’re carrying a stack of rattling dinner plates and have cymbals between their thighs and then stagger in and trip over a projector cord and accidentally start an electrical fire. Eeesh. Seriously, get their early. That helps you get a seat, too, so, yay.

13. Ask The Right Questions

I talked this past week about how you should ask the questions about story before you ask the questions about publishing, and what that means in a practical sense is that you should goasking questions regarding your place in the process. That’s not to say you can’t get ahead and ask a curious question or three about advances and contracts and how to enrage a literary agent, but what I’m saying is, use the conference to help you get a handle on the next stage, not three stages down the way. One step at a time.

14. Purpose #3: Pimp Your Shiznit In Appropriate And Approved Pimp Channels

Another purpose: to sell thine wares, story-slinging troubadour. You got books or other items of cultural output you want to pimp, awesome. Go forth and do so. But a suggestion: try to stick to approved commercial channels. Don’t just like, set up a tarp in the middle of the lobby to sell your self-published bag of shi — I mean, magnum opus to passersby. Yes, we all gotta make a buck and buy dinner but as always, be respectful of others and don’t act like an only child who always gets to do what he wants, others-be-damned.

15. Nobody Wants To Hear About Your Book (Unless They Do)

At game cons, the joke is always, “Nobody wants to hear about your character.” (Seriously, we don’t.) At writing cons, the joke is, “Nobody wants to hear about your book.” (No, seriously, we don’t.) Now, I may eventually want to hear about your book but only after we’ve connected on a human level. Assume that I don’t automatically see you as just a bag of skin meant only to transport the intellectual meat that is your novel. I assume that like me you’re a person with parents and a job and favorite ice cream flavors and a penchant for deviant-but-consensual sex acts. I don’t care about your book until I care, at least a little bit, about you. If someone wants to know what you’ve written or are writing, they will ask.

16. Clean Your Body, You Musky Stank Beast

A convention (larger geek/fan contingent) tends to have this problem more than conferences (larger pro-level academic contingent), but I’ve experienced it at both: wash yourself. Uh, daily, please — hell, more than that if you have to. Cons are often warm. You’re jostling with people, running around, and you end up in close quarters (like, say, elevators). You will leak sweat. You will start to smell like a glob of Edam cheese left in a jockstrap under a heat lamp. Scrub the algae and barnacles from forth your hull, you stinky little garbage scow. Oh, and brush your teeth. The hell did you eat for lunch? Old fish and cigarettes?

17. Escape Conference Gravity

Leave the con at some point. At least once. If you’re somewhere new — small town, big city, jungle cult compound — get outside and go see something. The real world always counts more than the “artificial gravity” that is any conference or convention. Even if you go do base-level tourist shit and eat at a restaurant everyone tells you you have to eat it, it’s at least something.

18. Pros Should Act Like Pros

This list has been directed toward attendees, but here’s a message for pros: you are professional, so act professional. That doesn’t mean you need to be always in “paid author” mode, but it does mean you should maintain a standard of etiquette and, as with everyone else there, not act like a wheelbarrow full of fatty ego and emotional manure. Respect attendees. Be kind. Be nice to volunteers, too, who are — uhh, duh — volunteering their time in part for you. Be awesome even in the face of “not-awesome.”

19. Some Writers Are Paid, Many Are Not

Many of the writers speaking at cons are not paid. Some are. Most aren’t. Know that going in: they are often themselves volunteering their time. It’s not like they’re going back to the hotel room to roll around in cash.

20. Some Writers Are Also Total D-Bags, Just So You Know

It’s a shame, but sometimes that “beloved writer” of yours is a total cock-bird. We don’t get into this gig having to pass a politeness test, so some authors end up being gruff, grumpy, sour, otherwise shitty people. Sometimes it’s temporary: maybe they’re having a bad day. Sometimes it’s a permanent affliction. Let it go. You can choose to vote with your dollar, but don’t be a dickhole in return. Let the storm pass.

21. Elevator Pitches And Pitch Meetings: Meh?

Take this one with a grain of salt — or, if you prefer, an entire salt mine — but I’m not sure that pitch meetings or having your elevator pitch ready to fly is the most important thing in the world. It’s probably worked for some, but…? Eh? I’m going to go out on a limb and say, skip the pitch meetings. Instead, meet agents and editors elsewhere. And meet the authors of those agents and editors. Regarding your elevator pitch: listen, it’s a very good intellectual exercise to distill your story down into a single 10- or 15-second sentence. Again, I don’t know that it’s ever been the deal-maker, but when people ask, it’s kind of you to not bludgeon them half to death with the hammerblow of a ten-minute plot synopsis.

22. Do Not Thrust Your Manuscript Upon, Well, Anybody

I see people handing out manuscripts — like, hand-printed, hand-bound manuscripts, fraying like a mouse is using them as nesting material — all the time at conferences and conventions. Worse, they’re handing them out to people who can do nothing with them. “Here, random author, you are an author and I am an author so let us commune over my novel, THE GORGONZOLA PERPLEXITY.” Don’t do this. Not ever. Stop. Keep that manuscript in your pants. First, this is the digital age. If I want your novel, hey, look, a PDF file. Don’t try to make someone carry your printout in their luggage. Second, what do you want them to do with it? Most authors don’t want to read unsolicited material (hint hint stop emailing me this stuff) because of a hoary host of unholy reasons. You know what I’ll do if you hand me your manuscript at a conference? I’m going to roll it up and thwack you across the bridge of your nose.

23. Do Not Hand Out Ugly-Ass Amateur Hour Business Cards

Your business card sucks. Printed at home. The ink is bleeding as if you dropped it in a puddle outside. It’s got a Cheeto fingerprint on the back. It smells of — *sniff sniff* — flopsweat and wine coolers. Here’s the thing. Business cards are already a dubious value proposition for writers. Freelancers may find good use for them but “author-types,” not so much. This is, after all, the days of a thing called the Enternit, or the Wide Whirled Web or whatever, and so it’s pretty easy for people to find you online. A business card needs to be a nudge in that direction. Name; incredibly minimal note as to your role; contact information offline; contact information online (which includes how you want me to find you on social media). If that business card does not appear on par with the kind of card, say, an actual businessperson would use, just throw it away, because that’s what I’ll do. Oh, one more tip: only give out a business card if someone asks. That means they’ll use it. Otherwise, just thrusting it upon them means it’ll end up lining someone’s hamster cage.

24. You’re Probably Paying Money, So Take Advantage

Cons aren’t cheap. So milk them for all they’re worth.

25. Talking About Writing Is Not The Same As Writing

The fourth and final purpose of going to these things is to get your ass reenergized. The con should be the intellectual equivalent of jacking yourself up (up, not off, weirdo) with a Red-Bull-and-fire-ants enema. It should get you back in your chair pounding the keys and working the story like a goddamn wad of pizza dough. What that means is, go to the con and then return to use what you learned. Revitalize! Harness new information! Going to cons can, like so many things in our penmonkey lives, feel productive when really, it’s not. It’s only productive if you take the raw ore you just chipped off the psychic walls and refine that shit into precious stones and glittery gems and sweet, sweet crack-rock. Always remember that talking about writing is not the same as writing. You built the staircase. Now you best walk up it. Otherwise, what’s the point?


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October 15, 2012 / 28 Comments

The Pupdate

For those who missed out, a quick flashback:

About three weeks ago, we took the puppy plunge, adopted an 8-month-old shelter dog that is part… *coughcough* red dog and part… *hack wheeze cough* other dog. The shelter said “Lab mix.” The paperwork from the originating shelter said “Lab-spaniel mix.” I say “some kind of retriever and some kind of hound or maybe Rhodesian Ridgeback or maybe she’s just a mutt and let’s leave it at that.”

The puppy’s name was Peaches.

We changed it to Mauna Loa, or “Loa” for short.

You may think that’s an odd name, and it probably is. But! Our taco terrier is named Tai-shan (not after the Panda, because by golly, the terrier got here first), which is one of the five sacred mountains of China. Mauna Loa is one of the five volcanoes that make up Hawaii. So, both of our dogs are named after mountains (and Mauna Loa means “long mountain,” and this pup is a very long, lanky pooch).

Plus, B-Dub can say “Loa.”

There. Now you’re caught up.

So. How’s it going, you ask?

* * *

She is, by and large, an excellent dog. She’s a better dog than many adult dogs. She’s great with B-Dub, really good with guests, very submissive (but not so submissive she cowers and quakes and pees herself, which for the record is also a very good way to get out of social obligations).

She is, however, still a puppy. Possibly one of the most well-behaved puppies, but, y’know.

PUPPY.

Which means, puppy problems.

She hasn’t eaten anything of ours that she’s not supposed to, which is a huge win.

She is only… partially housebroken. (And we don’t do full-bore crate-training. And no I don’t need a lecture about how great crate-training is. I don’t much care for it in theory or practice. You do as you like with your poochie and we’ll do as we like with ours.) She’s getting better, the accidents are dwindling.

She’s mouthy. I don’t mean she runs around spouting vulgarity (leave that to us): I mean, she just lost puppy teeth and is getting the big doggy teeth and so she occasionally likes to wrap those teeth around things like, say, your flesh. Not in a hurtful way (she’s actually quite gentle), but just the same, she’s doofy and clumsy and sometimes hits you with those teeth. Like a shark with its mouth closed, whack. But this “bitey-thing,” it’s improving. She’s getting much more… polite with the teeth.

She doesn’t bark much. Not a big whiner.

Periods of high puppy energy that needs to be directed lest it explode everywhere.

She walks great on the leash. Very calm, measured, right by my side.

We’re very lucky.

* * *

For the record, my training technique is like this:

I become a human pinata full of doggy training treats. My pockets hang heavy with them. Here’s the thing: the greatest reward you can offer your dog is attention. The treat is merely a manifestation of that attention: it’s you feeding them by hand and petting them and OH SO HAPPY PUPPY LOVE HUMAN PINATA PERSON. The dog basically has (for purposes of training) two modes of existence: the Angel and the Asshole. When the dog is being an Asshole, you deny them that which they most desperately seek: your attention. You ignore them. No play. No communication. They are canina-non-grata. When the dog is an Angel, you reward with love and, y’know, you make it rain with those motherfucking training treats.

So, over time, Angel wins out over Asshole.

There, that’s my training technique in a nutshell.

* * *

The old dog hates her.

Now, part of this is understandable, since the new puppy almost killed the old dog.

See, Loa came in with kennel cough.

The old dog caught kennel cough.

That swiftly developed into a bad respiratory infection.

And pink-eye.

So, the old dog suddenly looked like a zombie dog. Red, gooey eyes. Wet snorts and gurgly snurgles that sounded like she was trying to breathe through a pile of tapioca pudding. She was lethargic and didn’t want to eat and whenever Loa came near (WANT TO PLAY LET’S PLAY PLAY PLAY PLAY I BITE YOU I ROLL OVER I YAP PLAY EEEEEEE), Tai basically said, “I’m dying, fuck you,” and bit her.

Thankfully, we got the old dog meds.

The meds are almost over.

She has returned from the brink of zombification.

And, even better:

It looks like old dog doesn’t hate new puppy as much as she once did.

VICTORY.

* * *

Oh, also, Loa the puppy is also suicidal.

She is quite fond of mushrooms. No, not the kind you buy in the grocery store. Rather, the kind you find peppering the lawn in, say, autumn. The kind that are mostly harmless except the ones that are, which is to say, the ones that are holy-fucking-toxic.

I could hire this dumdum out to mushroom foragers. She’s got a diligent nose that sniffs out the most well-hidden fungal delights in the forest. I turned the other day and found her jabbing her nose into the ground and wolfing something down. I pried her mouth open, got half a mushroom out.

And, of course, instantly panicked.

Because mushroom poisoning is like, a real thing. Dogs eat bad shrooms and instead of tripping out and going to a Phish show, they pretty much just… die instead. So suddenly it was a race to figure out if this was a bad mushroom or one of the harmless ones and thankfully it was just one of the “it’s fine to eat, if a little bit gross” kind. That has not stopped her from constantly seeking out mushrooms to eat. I’ve stopped her every time but she finds the tiniest, weirdest little mushrooms. Soon as she stops and starts nosing around, it’s not that she needs to drop a load or spray the lawn — she’s trying to eat potentially poisonous mushrooms. Like a dummy. I’m surprised I haven’t found her trying to eat like, toxic blowfish or something.

Dogs are very sweet. And very stupid.

* * *

I don’t know why dogs need to find the perfect place to poop. Do they get a prize if they find the proper geocoordinates? Are they fertilizing ley lines? If they poop in the wrong sector, does Voldemort win?

* * *

We don’t know what kind of dog she is. Or how big she’ll get. Or where she really even comes from. But she’s ours, now. Part of the family. Even if she almost killed our other dog and daily tries to kill herself with toxic mushrooms. Welcome home, pup. Stop and smell the flowers.

Just don’t eat those goddamn mushrooms.

And don’t mind if that other dog bites you in the face a couple more times.

October 12, 2012 / 165 Comments

Flash Fiction Challenge: Scary Story In Three Sentences

Last week’s challenge — “Five Titles Make A Challenge” — exists for your perusal. Oh, and a quick housekeeping note: still reading through the last Epic Game of Aspects stories to determine my favorite! Gimme time. You guys did some awesome stuff and there’s a good amount to go through. Soon!

Today is easy.

Er, easy to describe, difficult to do.

This is another “write a story in three sentences” challenge except —

Drum roll please, make it scary. (Meaning: horror.)

And please, under 100 words.

This one’s a little different from all the others in that, I don’t want you to post at your respective online spaces. I want you to post here, in the comments. I’ll pick a favorite of the stories and send that person something scary. Er, “scary,” maybe, I dunno.

Remember: a story is not a vignette.

It has a beginning, middle and an end. It is not merely a snapshot in time.

You have, as usual, one week. Due by October 19th, noon EST. Though, note — I’ll be in Los Angeles that day at Storyworld and the Writer’s Digest West conference giving a talk and doing some panels (so if you’re out that way, do come say “hi”). So I’ll get to the stories after the weekend is over and I’ve flown home, drunk and filled with the glittery dream poison that is Los Angeles.

October 11, 2012 / 7 Comments

“Making The Magazine,” By Brian White

 

So, here’s the deal. There’s this magazine, right? It’s called Fireside Magazine, and it’s put together by this guy, Brian White, who I sometimes kidnap and keep in my cellar, ostensibly to edit my work but most times just to watch marathons of bad cartoons and throw cans at his head.

Right now, Fireside Magazine is on a Kickstarter campaign for its third issue.

I’ll give you two reasons — well, two and a half, anyway — to consider taking a look at the page and pledging a little something-something to the cause.

First, Brian has pulled together some crazy-go-nuts talent across all three issues. Elizabeth Bear. Stephen Blackmoore. Mary Robinette Kowal. Ken Liu. That’s just the tippy-top of a really shiny, really lovely iceberg. I’ve heard his plans for other authors hopping on board and — well, all I’ll say is it’s in our best interests to have this magazine keep living on.

Second: Brian is committed to paying writers really well. Well above the norms, by the way — you’ll find very few (if any) markets paying what Fireside is paying. So, if you’re a fan of authors: help him pay them.

Second-and-a-half: I know this because Fireside published me in their first issue. Brian let a little Atlanta Burns short story called “Emerald Lakes” slip through the gates and, oh, that’s right — you can now read that story for free online thanks to him.

Now, time to bring Brian over here so he can talk a little about the subject of putting together a magazine and what that means for the stories, authors, and readers of said magazine. Say hello to him.

And don’t mind that he smells like my root cellar.

* * *

Storytelling is the blood that flows through the veins of Fireside. When the idea for starting a fiction and comics magazine bubbled out of a brain stew of ideas about writing and publishing, I knew I wanted to break the convention of a genre-focused magazine. The inspiration was what Neil Gaiman and Al Sarrantonio did with their 2010 anthology, Stories, which was to find fiction that, as Gaiman wrote in his introduction, keeps readers asking “and then what happened?”

When it comes down to it, I don’t think genre matters. I used to. I used to think I was a sci-fi and fantasy guy. It defined me as a reader. But other genres kept pecking in around the edges. And then Twitter happened, and I started seeing people talking about all kinds of great books, and great writers, and I started buying other things. And you know what? I like it all. Crime, comics (not a genre per se but let’s lump it in for this discussion), horror, non-genre, clowns, just give me a good story and I will read it. All genre defines is how a story is told, not whether it is somehow “worthy” of your attention. Same goes with prose versus comics.

When I started asking writers – people like Chuck who I knew a bit from Twitter – if they’d be interested in taking a chance on me and our first Kickstarter, most everyone asked, “OK, what are your guidelines. What genre do you want? Theme?” And I told them to write whatever they wanted. Just write a good story. And they did. And some of those stories weren’t anything like what I’d have gotten if I’d asked for something specific based on what the writer was “known” for. Ken Liu, one of the best short speculative fiction writers emerging now, wrote a beautiful non-genre story. Stephen Blackmoore – whose first book, City of the Lost, a violent pulpy zombie novel that nearly made me puke in my Cheerios – wrote a sweet, optimistic science-fiction story.

In our first two issues, we’ve also had fantasy, horror, crime, near-future sci-fi, and ninjas. And I love that. I love that each issue has a different mix of lenses to peer through. I love not knowing exactly what that mix will look like until the stories come in after the Kickstarter is successful. The writers I’ve worked with have really embraced the idea, and I think we’re producing something that isn’t quite like anything else. Our readers don’t quite know what they’re getting from issue to issue, except that the stories will keep them turning the pages to find out what happens next.

Fireside started as a stew of ideas in my brain, and now we are making a stew of stories for each issue. And I think it’s pretty damn tasty.

October 10, 2012 / 11 Comments

This Risotto Gonna Fuck You Up, Son

My risotto brings all the boys to the yard.

I don’t know what they do when they get there. I guess they probably beat me up and take my risotto. Which is a really sad and violent end to this whole affair, but that’s just how my risotto is. It’s that good. How can you not love food that invites tragedy?

Anyway.

It’s autumn, which for me is the Time of Risotto. I don’t know why. Risotto is comforting. I like to make a pillow out of it and just rest my head upon it, quietly napping in fifteen minute intervals, then waking up to take a few bites before I lay my head down upon the gummy ricey goodness once more. Sure, sometimes I’ll have sex with it. That’s okay. Nothing wrong with that. Don’t judge me.

You eat this risotto, you’ll understand.

The risotto we are going to make today is:

MUSHROOM BUTTERNUT SQUASH APPLE RISOTTOPALOOZA.

Or, to combine: MUSHNUT SQUAPPLE RISOTTO.

“Mushnut Squapple” is also the alias I use when checking into hotels. Because otherwise I’m mobbed by fans. Mobbed by them! They tear at my hair. They punch me. They make me eat dirt. Those are “fans,” right?

Right.

Moving on.

Your oven — aka, your Culinary Hell Chamber — well, turn that sumbitch on to 425F.

Onto a cookie sheet, you’re going to want to lay out: one cubed apple, one cubed butternut squash half, and two diced shallots. By “cubed,” I don’t mean “giant Rubik’s Cube chunks of food.” Don’t be an asshole. I mean little cubes. Dicey cubes. Cubes the size of a six-sided die or smaller.

Make sure those are shellacked with olive oil, salt, pepper, a little garlic, and the dreams of seven sleeping panda bears. (These are easy to procure if you have an Asian market nearby.)

Lay out on the cookie sheet. Punish them in the Hell Chamber.

Such punishment should take about 20 minutes. So they get soft and the teeniest-bit brown.

In the meantime, mushrooms.

No, we’re not fucking around with the risotto, yet. That needs your full attention. The risotto is like a needy child. You don’t watch the risotto, the risotto will turn on you. It’ll draw on the walls in crayon. Poop in the flower box. Kill and eat the cat.

The mushrooms I use for this are either maitake or shitake mushrooms. Maitake mushrooms are “hen-of-the-woods.” Shitake mushrooms are “shit-hats in the woods.” I think I have that right?

Ooh, couple quick random facts to interrupt the recipe:

First, there exists a mushroom called “chicken-of-the-woods,” which is different from “hen-of-the-woods.” Chicken-of-the-woods, when diced and cooked, actually looks like cooked chicken. And, even weirder, it tastes like cooked chicken if that chicken were spritzed with lemon. It is the trippiest thing.

Second, in this household we refer to piles of poop — like, say, ones left by the dog — as “Elmo Hats.” This will surely backfire as one day our toddler tries to place an Elmo Hat on top of Elmo’s head. But for now, we like the image it provides. We have a good time here. Even at the cost of poor Elmo’s reputation.

Back to the recipe.

Cut your mushrooms into strips. Then, into a hot pan with butter. (MMM BUTTER.) The mushrooms are greedy motherfuckers and will soak up all that butter so you’re free to add more if it all disappears. A little salt, a little pepper. Five minutes in, splash a quarter-cup of sherry in there. And, if you’re a fan of dairy, two tablespoons of heavy cream on top of that.

No, that’s not what I mean by “heavy cream.” Pants on, El Freak-o.

Another three to five minutes and your mushrooms should be soul-jizzingly delicious.

Now, you could stop here. You could take the roasted veggies, pair them with the mushrooms, and just… shove that stuff in your mouth. You would be happy. But we’re not aiming for “happy.” We’re aiming for “motherfucking ebullient, motherfucker.” AKA, “MEM.”

Hashtag: #mem

Getting to #mem means we need to level up this meal.

And that means it’s risotto time, you bastards.

Here is how I roll with risotto:

Fuck white wine. White wine isn’t where it’s at. White wine doesn’t have the teeth for it.

I use Irish Whisky.

Okay, not really.

I use dry white vermouth.

So, you want that out and ready to roll. You also want… mm, three cups of Your Favorite Stock (I like chicken, but your mileage may vary with turkey or veggie stock). And this stock should not be cold. It should be warmed up a little bit, like, say, in your microwave (aka your Nuclear Food Cube). You want all that out.

Now, rice selection, duh, it’s “arborio” rice.

Get a pot. Over medium-high heat. A pad of butter goes in. Melts. Foams up. Foams down. Time to add one cup of rice into the not-so-foamy — and, oh, unsalted — butter.

Stir. Get it buttery. You don’t want the rice browned, just slathered in butter.

Now, time to get that rice drunk, son.

One cup of vermouth into the mix. Sploosh.

Here is, of course, the trick to risotto: stirring like a crazy person for the next twenty minutes. Get a good long spoon — wooden if you have it — because you’re going to be hovering over your risotto like flies over garbage. … okay, that’s not a really attractive image, is it? What else hovers? IT HOVERS LIKE GOD JUDGING ALL OF US MEALY-MOUTHED SINNERS. Better, I guess.

Anyway.

Stirring the risotto is what makes it sticky and creamy (“Sticky N’ Creamy” was what they called me back in my boy band days). It releases, I dunno, atoms of starch or something. What am I, a scientist? Shut up. Imagine that it’s like one big marathon masturbation session — you just gotta go to down on this thing.

Mmkay? Mmkay.

So, vermouth into the pot. It’ll boil up. Reduce heat to med-low.

And, uhh, stir.

Don’t let it get stuck to the bottom of the pot.

You do that, you’ll ruin everything. And then your dinner guests will hate you. One of them will stab you with the broken stem of a wine glass. That someone will be me.

So, stir, stir, stir, until the wine is absorbed.

And then, from that point on, just keep adding stock a little at a time — just enough to cover the rice.

Then, stir, stir, blah blah blah, stir, until the stock is absorbed.

Like I said, this’ll take about three cups of stock. Ish.

Somewhere after the first cup and a half, I like to add another splash of vermouth. INTO MY MOUTH. And then also into the pot, fine, whatever, I CAN QUIT ANYTIME. Goddamn, you people. So judgey.

This will go on for about 20 minutes.

Toward that time, start tasting the risotto.

It should have a bit of a bite to it — you don’t want it so soft it’s gluey. But you also don’t want to be crunching down on a plate full of uncooked rice, delicious as that sounds.

Right at the end, mix in your roasted vegetables and mushrooms. Don’t add cheese. Don’t add cream or milk or anything. It’s creamy-as-is. Or, should be, unless you fucked it up like you fucked up all your relationships and career choices. (Don’t think I don’t know.)

Now: eat.

Bring a weapon, because you will have to defend yourselves from all the boys who will enter your yard to steal your yummy-ass risotto.

October 9, 2012 / 40 Comments

Ask The Writer: “How Do I Get Published?”

This post is a bait-and-switch.

I’m warning you up front that this is me being a Cheaty McCheaterPants in that I’m totally not going to answer the question posed above. First, because despite what you may think, the question of “How do I get published?” (or its variants: “How do I make a game, how do I sell my script, how do I get to write Batman?”) has a many-headed and surprisingly complex answer. (And also: not that interesting.)

Second, because I’m kinda a jerk.

HA HA HA SUCKERS.

Okay, so, to set the stage:

As you know, I spoke at the Crossroads Writer’s Conference this past weekend.

At such conferences and conventions you always end up meeting a wide-eyed and delightfully eager gaggle of hopeful penmonkeys young and old who have not yet had the optimism beaten out of them and, more to the point, have not always had wisdom beaten into them.

(I am of course ever a fan of beating wisdom into writers. Often with a board. A heavy wooden board.)

Part of what always stuns me about these conferences is the focus — more from the standpoint of the question-askers rather than the answer-givers or the conference-holders — on the end game. The then above the now. The result rather than the process. The publishing above the story. More crassly, the questions end up being more about the commerce rather than the craft.

Now, let me jump in here and say: knowing the in’s and out’s of publishing is important. Being aware of the business and its greasy, sinister workings is a feature, not a bug. That business stuff is important, but it only follows the part where you learn how to craft the fuck out of your art, or art the fuck out of your craft (just don’t fuck either out of either). Because, I gotta tell you, for every one question I get about the actual writing or storytelling process I get ten questions about agents, or editors, or publishers, or getting movies made or scripts read or why I won’t have sex with them and love them up with my heroic “beard-style.” (OKAY FINE NOBODY IS ASKING ME THAT SHUT UP *sob*).

Getting an agent or putting your manuscript and script out there isn’t exactly easy, no, but that process is fairly mechanical. That’s one step in front of the other. But writing a book? Producing a killer script? Telling a motherfucking bomb-dropper of a story? That’s really hard. That’s the tricky part! A story is this big, hard-to-contain thing, this overwhelming gas giant of possibility that requires a level of emotional and intellectual commitment drawn from a far deeper well than you could imagine. Knowing how to make a character pop, how to make a story feel impactful, how to elevate tension and keep your readers biting at the bait on your hook — these are the tricky tasks. These are the jobs that have no easy answers, that cannot simply default to a mechanical menu of pre-programmed actions.

The whole “endgame” bullshit is fairly rote and, frankly, not all that magical. But the writing part, the storytelling part — that’s some voodoo, right there. That’s some at-times-awesome, other-times-awful, awe-inspiring, heavily-perspiring, weird and wonderful and fucked up and frustrating and completely imperfect power. It’s your power as the writer. That’s the part that remains entirely in your control.

Hell, I can’t tell you how many people want to know how to get published before they have even finished the story. Which is like asking how to write an Oscar speech before you even get cast in the goddamn movie. (Or, for your sports nuts: like asking how you get on the cover of a Madden video game before you learn to throw a football. Or, for you “aspiring serial killers,” figuring out what your death row meal will be before you’ve even flayed the skin off seven dead hoboes.)

Witness this pair of tweets from (ahem, incredible) author Paolo Bacigalupi:

So: I’m not saying I won’t answer questions about agents or editors or publishing or any of that end-game stuff. And I’m also not saying you shouldn’t ask. But what I am saying is, focus more on the part where you produce the material that matters — the material that will first launch your ass into the realm of the publishable, the editor-needing, the agent-having, the fan-favorite-being.

Work on the story.

Character, plot, theme, process, beginnings, endings.

Ask those questions first.

Don’t be distracted by questions that do not pertain to you. Not yet. Asking those questions and getting the answers is a way to feel productive, to lend some credence to ourselves (and even to others) that says, “Look, I’m asking the important questions, the questions about how I get paid, about how I do this without losing my car and having to take out a second mortgage on my first-born.” But fuck that and forget it — pay attention to the order of operations. Write first, publish after.

As they say, love writing as much as you love having written.

Also, YES, FINE, I’LL HAVE SEX WITH YOU JEEZ.

(Beardo, Wendig-style!)

(*gallop-dances into the wall, passes out in puddle of blood*)


Want another hot tasty dose of dubious writing advice aimed at your facemeats?

500 WAYS TO TELL A BETTER STORY: $2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER: $2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

500 MORE WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER: $2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING: $0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY: $4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY: $2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

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