WorldCon

Ah London.  So nice to return after so many years since we lived here.  Well, not actually here, but on the outskirts in a little place named Uxbridge - the coach stop on the way to Windsor from London back in the days when horses and coaches reigned and which is now a few tube stops away from the ExCel. Uxbridge is also where the Magna Carta was signed at the Crown and Tready, just across the street from our flat. But I digress.

WorldCon is the reason for us being here to represent the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, which actually should be the Science Fiction and Fantasy English Writers of the World since the organization is open to anyone who writes in that language regardless of country. And we do have members around the world, albeit that some are simply expats.l  People write speculative fiction in other languages as well, but the organization has not yet opened that branch of literature.

This is the first WorldCon in London since 1965, coincidentally the year SFWA was founded and, as far as I know, the first to have official representation from the organization.  To honor this we are throwing a nice soiree for members and holding informational meetings for those interested in hearing about the organization's recent activities.

With over ten literary tracks among those for games, costumes, modeling, etc thr schedule is thick enought to quell an Orc.  It is hard to make a choice of how to use your time with so many sessions and so many writers I've not seen or read before.  The conflicting sessions havemade scheduling decisions extremely difficult, and hall conversations too short and too many.  For someone like me with ADD this was triply terrifying, nevertheless too interesting to be ignored.

Did I mention the dealers room?  OMG, such a feast for the eyes and mind, not to mention all the glitz and glamor of costumes, decorations, and dress.  It's like being in a mad halloween and
rummage sale being held at maximum volume.

And there are THREE more days to go!

#SFWApro 

Perils of Plotland (Con't)

It's been a while since I bemoaned the progress (or lack of it) on my great experiment to write an entire novel by the seat of my pants - "Pantsing," as Jamie Todd Rubin terms it.  Today, I think I may be near the end of my long journey through the wilds of Plotland.

To recap very briefly, I started this project with NaNoMoWri last year, did my fifty thousand words on a continuous stream, letting the subconscious roam wide and free with only a minimal plot line (fifty words - one for each thousand) to guide me.   In the last week I've gotten the epistle up to ninety-seven thousand words and finally, FINALLY, see how this ambling plot may tie together to a satisfactory conclusion.  That I have at least an idea of how this wraps up is is fortunate as I am preparing for a month's vacation that will give me scant opportunity to wrestle further with this beast.

 Surprisingly, at least to me, is that the entire story now makes sense and that raises some questions:  Did my imagination compose the entire story without informing me of its intent OR have I been   letting each scene dictate the subsequent one with no thought of overall scheme?  I can't seem to recall any moment of intent while recklessly pounding out the first half nor, to be honest, has there been much evidence of such during the creation of the current effort.  The only control I recall exerting was keeping the characters moving along and having something interesting take place on occasion.  Oh yeah, and world-building along the way.

My Workbench

In the past two days I began sketching out all the major surgery sites within this sprawling mess by annotating the diagram I've been maintaining, seeing where I have to insert new material, and where there might be potential to rearrange the sequence of events.  This is, of course, all preparatory to doing the actual hard work of writing the added and needed material, after which I will have to edit the entire novel once or twice before searching for some beta readers (any volunteers?), which will no doubt result in further edits and work.  I can't wait to see what lies ahead in these last three (estimated) chapters.

 While on vacation perhaps I shall scribble a short story or two, that is, if I am unable to suppress an urge to write.  But one thing for certain, I am going out of my way to slave no more on the aspects of this journey through Plotland until I return.  My brain needs a rest.

 I think I am beginning to understand why these novels take YEARS to complete.

#SFWApro

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Dramatic Waste

As you may have discovered while reading this chair on blog posts, I am perpetually concerned about my failures as a writer, about the lack of attention we short fiction writers receive, and how we move like mist through the literary landscape, affecting nothing and leaving no trace of our passage. C'est la vie and I shall lie in the fictional graveyard beneath an unmarked stone of mediocrity*.

Or so I believed until I read this beautiful article by Stephen Marche that revealed that I am not alone, nor have I been the only one to feel and be treated this way. The trail of sorrow extends deeply into the past and has afflicted countless well-known writers as well as an a googolplex of scribblers like me.

This got me to thinking about the situation.  I write a lot but sell roughly 20% in a good year.  That means that 80% of my output will never be seen by the public. The membership of SFWA is about 1800 souls, only about a quarter regularly publish stories or novels.  The rest might make an occasional sale after becoming members or have been slaving for years on the Great American SF/Fantasy Novel. Prolific writers such as Laura Anne Gilman and Michael Swanwick crank out a continuous stream of shorter works while people like Gail Martin and Brian Sanderson build massive tomes of longer length. But they are at the high end of the genre's spectrum. At the other end are those who sell only a small percentage of all they complete,

What is the cost of all this wasted creativity?  Are we writing for nothing but to amuse other struggling members of our writing groups or produce drafts that line the liter boxes of our cats (all serious writers have cats, it seems.)  What is the point of wasting all our brainpower on pounding out useless words when there are other, more serious problems that would gain from greater attention? I can only conclude that we writers are masochists, enjoying our suffering while publicly proclaiming our dedication.  Despite all the angst, all the soul searching, the all-too-obvious futility of writing, we continue to scribble, scribble, scribble on the sands where the incoming tide washes them away. The only conclusion I can reach is that many of us cannot resist the call of the machine, the caress of a pen in hand, or permit a blank sheet to remain unsullied.

A writer has to write.

#SFWApro

*I recently declared in a ReaderCon forum that my unsold stories were forming the basis for my post-humous success (which, incidentally resulted in several people inquiring about my health.) 

A Fond Farewell

Twenty-six years ago I bought a nice little ETAP 23, a Belgan sailboat I could single-hand on the various rivers and creeks of the Chesapeake Bay.  I was not new to sailing, having sailed on other people's boats as a teen and then renewed my skills on a little ten-foot Wesort at the headwaters of the Severn River for a few years before upgrading to a larger boat.

Over the years Sparrow, as I christened her (the dingy was named Hawk, in case you were wondering,) and I explored the various rivers and creeks feeding the Bay.  First sailing out of Back Creek in Annapolis, through the mouth of the Severn, and into the Bay itself.   From there I sailed across to circumnavigate Kent Island, cross under the Chesapeake Bay bridge, and once, sailed all the way to Baltimore.

After I moved to a marina on the South River I learned the pleasures of reaching the more southern reaches of the Bay and later, in the Magothy River, I managed to explore further.  Sparrow finally ended up in Pasadena, quite near where I first learned to sail and from where I could sail by the huge carriers and transports entering and leaving the waters of Baltimore's inner harbor, often lying in irons off Fort Carroll to watch the tugs and Bay pilots maneuver the large container ships to dock.

Sparrow was ever ready for a day;s sail, responding to the wind, current, and my steady hand on the tiller and lines. She sometimes acted the frisky colt, eager to run and at other times like a tired plow horse.  There were hours of crushing, searing boredom when the summer failed to produce sufficient wind to blow the chuff off a dandelion.  There were also moments of near terror when gale winds and storms came with little warning.  I once had to chip ice from the shrouds on my way to winter storage because I procrastinated too long by wanting one more day with her.

But as time and tide cannot be stayed, neither could my ability to sail Sparrow as I wished. The last year I ventured no further than six nautical miles from the marina, far less on windless days, and often regretted the other things I could be doing instead of limping along.  For the past two years I wouldn't go out when the winds were stiff and dreaded the weaker winds that failed to give Sparrow  a good run.  I'd like to think that Sparrow understood, wishing instead that we could sail as we did before, brisk against the wind, surfing the cresting waves, and running free and happy.

But all good things must end and so I finally admitted that we had to part. I donated Sparrow to charity so she could find a happier home with someone who loved her as I had.

I will miss her.

#SFWApro

Anticipation

When my very first stories appeared in Analog too many years ago I used to hang around the newsstand and wait for someone to pick up one of the few copies. While I waited newbie published thoughts ran through my head: Should I offer to autograph my story? Perhaps introduce myself as one of the magazine's writers? Rip the magazine from their hands and open it to point at MY story? What would be the neatest, bestest thing to do now that I was a published author.  My first story - what a rush it would be to meet an actual reader!

And so I lurked for hours, waiting, waiting, waiting and, sadly, since no one picked up a copy I never acted out those fantasies.  Eventually, the impulse to expose myself in public faded, although I still look for someone buying those magazines when I'm in at the bookstores. Now I restrict myself with meeting a fan or two (usually less, most of the time) at conventions.

As my sales increased I began documenting my efforts recording when a piece was written, to whom I'd submitted, and when I could expect an acceptance or rejection.  That latter was more frequent than I liked, but I persevered and, over time, I was fairly able to predict how soon I'd get a reply from any specific editor. My list also clued me as to when I needed to send a gentle reminder that I still existed and was waiting for a reply.

I learned that some editors take a long time, others a very long time, or in a few forgotten cases, an eternity.  I placed the more tardy editors at the bottom of the rotation. I did have a cut off when it was obvious there would never be a reply of any sort, which also removed that editor from future consideration. Rudeness should not be rewarded. I'd rather an unequivocal rejection than no answer at all.

You would think that receiving an acceptance by a magazine would be the end state - joy at the notification and happiness when the check arrives.  But acceptance is one thing and publication another.  First you wait for the galleys to arrive, a sure sign of imminent publication, you hope.  There is no certainty, even at this stage.  Few editors provide an anticipated publication date, so I am constantly in a state of uncertainty after the notice contract, check, and galleys. Will it appear next month,  some future month, next year, of in a fat collection?  Author copies arrive after distribution so you have to check again; waiting.

Some things never change.


#SFWApro

And Here I Thought I was the Only One

For the past umptynine blogs I've been bitching about how lonely is the plight of the poor writer who slaves away in darkness and only rarely emerges from his barrow to embrace the company of others, sometimes even those who share his affliction.  I have often pondered if all writers feel this way and commented on the fallacy of thinking their success comes easily.

But that was before I read an article by Gwenda Bond that confirmed my worse suspicions.  My eyes have been opened to see that other writers share my special circle of hell; ever cursed to "scribble, scribble, scribble..." in a state of perpetual concern that we have neither the skills nor talent to write anything worthy and that any success we've achieved was through sheer luck or a mistaken acceptance by an editor.  Perfection always gets in the way of sufficient as we polish our prose endlessly, submitting only when fatigue or deadlines overtake us. We all know, deep in our hearts, that we are impostors and- dare we say it - inadequate.

It matters little how well others might praise or curse our writing. In our tiny writer's minds we know that we were merely lucky, that our best work were largely accidental, and that we are undeserving of whatever praise is being bestowed.  We are all pitiful, sniveling wretches, doomed like Sisyphus to be forever striving, only to discover there's always another boulder, another hill, another damned deadline ahead and each momentary success only leads to more opportunities to fail, fail, fail.

But, by God, despite all that, all the misgivings, self-doubt, and time required, I do love writing.

Memory Lane

While browsing my files I sometimes take another look at some stories that never found a home despite, in my humble opinion, being the finest literary work of the century*.   Of course one does look for reasons that the tales failed to resonate with editors, some of whom might have liked the work, but demurred for reasons unconnected to the story itself or its presentation. Some of these stories have been rewritten numerous times in an attempt to correct whatever problems others might have perceived. Others I've re-read to discover where the plot sags or the characters morph into creatures untrue to their established nature.  Some of the older ones are simply outdated, speaking of things overtaken by technological progress, or thrown in the trash due to scientific advances.

I browse the past whenever creativity lags and, as I do so, I have to face the inevitable questions about their disposition.  Do I attempt yet another rewrite, a better edit, a slight modification, or simply send it on another round of editors, hoping that at least one might be in a better mood when they read it again or at least suffer from sufficient memory lapse that they no longer recall rejecting it.

I have far more completed, but failed pieces than those that were successfully published,so don't even get me started on those incomplete messes that I simply abandoned. They outnumber the completed ones by a substantial number.  Someday, I mutter to myself in my darker moods, the future will recognize my brilliance and grant me posthumous success. This is a dream shared, no doubt, by legions of other writers who also flail against the cruelty of the speculative short fiction market.

I have such an abandoned piece before me at the moment. It is a perfectly respectable story. Do I work on refurbishing it, or do I push on with yet another new story, hoping that it might find better success?  It's a problem, and one I despair of ever solving.

Or maybe this sort of self-abuse is just a way of avoiding writing.

* Or maybe not: I'm somewhat biased.

#SFWApro