I am not an expert at publication. On the contrary, I'm quite new at the game. It was only last spring I started to take the concept of publishing seriously. My first story was submitted this past August and in the four months that followed I have published exactly 0 works. But I've been learning along the way and now have a slightly better grasp on the business of publication than I had even half a year ago. To celebrate Rejection #13, here are all the things I learned while trying to get published.
1. There Are Still Paying Magazines Out There!
When I got my Writer's Digest Writer's Market 2011, I was saddened to see something like 3 fantasy magazines listed in there and came to the conclusion that there was no market for fantasy short stories. My dream seemed over before it began. But all was not lost.
I learned of the L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future, which only considers amateur writers' work and offers prizes up to $5000 with no entry fee. Also, the Writer's Digest 101 Best Websites for Writers included some helpful sites. Predators and Editors, while somewhat out of date, does offer a few (mostly low-paying) magazines.
But the most helpful website by far was the Science Fiction Writers of America, which almost inadvertently gave me a cache of updated and paying websites. The Science Fiction Writers of America will only accept published SF/F writers as members, the lowest of which must publish at least 1 short story in a magazine paying a minimum $50 or 5 cents a word. They helpfully offer a list of qualifying magazines. That means the twenty or so magazines listed not only specifically publish my genre, they also pay a decent amount. Once I found this little gem, half my work was done.
2. Some Magazines are Digital and Some are Non-Profit
I was surprised to learn how many of the magazines are entirely digital and how many of the magazines simply give out their content free of charge, no ads or anything. Sometimes you have to go to their website and sometimes they send the stories straight to your email! Obviously, this is a wonderful opportunity for writers to research the magazines and find out exactly what kind of stories the publishers are interested in.
More amazingly, they give their content out free and still pay writers. How do they do it? I learned that at least some of them do all the work of applying for grant money from the government so that they can pay for quality stories. I, personally, really am grateful for these magazines and their editors who put in so much hard work for our sakes.
3. Organization is Key
Before I got serious about submitting to magazines, I would occasionally check out the pay rates of a magazine, see what they were looking for, and daydream about submitting. Ultimately, that got me no where. There were too many negative feelings associated with publishing, and I just couldn't muster up the backbone to go through with it. It was too much work, I inwardly whined. I was too busy.
Organization changed that. First of all, the very process of organizing changed my mental framework. The business of publication became a business and did not hinge on my feelings at the moment. Having a system in place made submissions efficient and far easier.
So what was my system?
I printed out forms with the name of the magazine, their email, their editor, their genre, their interests, what they were looking for, what they were NOT looking for, their pay rate, the word limits, and how to submit. I filled out a form for every magazine (hand-written, no less) and stuck these in a binder for future reference.
When I have a story ready to submit for publication, I flip through the binder and make a list of the magazines which might be interested in the story. I prioritize the list and go through it one magazine after the other. After I submit, I do my record-keeping.
On a spreadsheet, I type in the name of the story, the magazine I submitted to, the date I sent it, when I can expect a response, the date it got accepted or rejected, comments, any costs for submitting the story (postage or contest fees) and any money received (which, to date, is just a big column of 0s). I do this every time I send out a story. I also print out a copy of my rejections. This is partially for tax purposes (on the off chance I make enough money to pay taxes), partially to keep track of where my stories are sent, partially to see how long it takes to get a rejection.
Very basic stuff, but it does take time to make and implement a system.
4. It is Very, Very Hard to Get Accepted
For some reason I thought that it would be easy to get published in Daily Science Fiction. After all, they needed stories five days a week. My logic was that they needed more stories than monthly or bimonthly magazines and so I would have a better shot at getting published due to sheer volume.
I was mistaken.
My story did actually get through the first round of cuts, "rarified company that more than 80% of submissions do not reach." The second and final round had slightly better odds, but still "half or more of our second round stories will not ultimately see publication." In other words, I had a 90% chance or higher of being rejected. And, by the way, I was. I got cut in the second round.
Now, if those are my odds for a magazine that needs 260 stories a year, I shudder to think of what my odds are for something like the Writers of the Future Contest which only accepts 12 stories a year.
5. Feedback is More Precious Than Gold
Most of the magazines I've submitted to tell me straight out that they don't have time to give personalized feedback. You get a polite but generic rejection letter. The stories I sent "couldn't hold my interest" or "isn't quite what we're looking for right now" or "didn't quite work for me." One letter told me, "To date, we have reviewed many strong stories that we did not take. Either the fit was wrong or we'd just taken tales with a similar theme or a half dozen other reasons."
I'm beginning to wonder if the legend editors sending back manuscripts bleeding with red ink to heart-broken writers has gone the way of the dinosaurs. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, if anything. Perhaps the editor just didn't like it, perhaps it was bested by better stories, perhaps it was just late to the party. There is something quite gauling in thinking your story was rejected not for any obvious reason, but because it just wasn't good enough.
If I ever do receive one of those bleeding manuscripts, I shall probably jump for joy. Then I'll read it and weep.
6. 1st Rejection = Elation; 10th = Depression
My first rejection letter came in the mail, and when I received it, I was devastated, but also weirdly elated. All writers get rejected, so this letter was like a badge of proof that I was now part of the writer's club. I had taken a step up. I was professional now. And I figured after about 50 rejections, I'd start getting accepted. That's just how it worked.
Fast-forward to rejection # 10 and the elation had worn off. I just felt devastated.
It's like going on one of those rafting rides. Before you even step on, you see the sign. "You will get wet. You may get soaked." You see the people exiting the raft shaking water off their slippers and notice the beads of precipitation on the seats. But still, you get on.
Rejection #1 is like hitting the first rapid and feeling cold water go down your back. It's shocking, but also exciting. Rejection #10 is like walking around the park in wet socks for an hour, getting a blister on your heel. You're just sloughing through, knowing it will be a long time before conditions change and feeling helpless to do anything about it.
So expect doubt and depression and questioning your worth as a writer. Just expect it delayed.
7. I'm More Creative Than I Thought
I never thought of myself as an "idea" person. My writing strength came from developing stories; that's why I preferred novels to short stories. With a novel, I take one or two ideas and develop the heck out of them. But with each new short story, a new idea is needed. How was I supposed to constantly think of ideas? My mind just didn't work that way.
Well, maybe it does.
I came up with an idea journal and forced myself to write in it. I was not constant. Every now and then, I'd force myself to write a page or two in the journal. Every now and then, I'd daydream a good idea right before bed and stick it in the journal. Every now and then, I'd stumble upon an interesting new fact or concept and play with it.
And while I can't say I'm a fount of ideas, I nearly filled up that journal in six months and came up with more ideas than I needed to. All I needed was a journal and a half-hearted attempt at brainstorming. Were all the ideas good? No. But I'm still shocked at the usable amount that I, a "non-creative" person, was able to come up with.
8. I'm Not Sorry
I've known I've wanted to be a professional writer since I was twelve. I pursued creative writing as a degree. I'm 27, and I've only just started publishing. Think of all I could have learned if I had started ten years sooner. Aren't you sorry you waited so long?
No, honestly, I'm not. I wasn't ready ten years ago.
For the longest time, I refused to submit to magazines. I told myself I wasn't a short story writer. My prose wasn't up to par, my ideas were unsellable, my stories were doomed to failure. All true. (Probably.) But the real reason I didn't submit was because I didn't think could handle the rejection. I would crack under the pressure, fall into a depression, and never write again.
So, I didn't look into publishing. Instead, I spent ten years honing my craft and building up professional armor. I needed to know my stories were good on their own, whether they were published or not. At the same time, I had to de-sensitize from the finished product enough to treat publishing as a business, basically detach my dreams of success from the story and cast it out like a fisherman throwing out a net.
Writing is a hard business. Some young writers throw out their work and achieve fame and prestige. Others get crushed. I took the cautious path. That's what I was comfortable with. When you're leaning toward ready, jump. But if you're still frozen in terror, it's okay. Take your time.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
Kinuyo and the Kitsune
It had been three days since Kinuyo’s mother had gone out to buy some eggs from Mrs. Yamamoto, a friend from across the town. She hadn’t returned.
Her mother left in the early evening. Kinuyo chopped the green onions and heated the rice; she fried the fish and boiled the tea. Then she waited until the tea grew cold and the sky became dark. The late autumn wind sent a shiver through her thin shawl. From somewhere deep in the streets, someone cried out, someone scampered like a rat over the road. Leaves rustled. A lone dog howled.
And still her mother didn’t returned.
The second day, Kinuyo swept the house and mended a tear in her mother’s slippers. She bought soba from a small shop nearby for dinner.
“Maybe some trouble on the street kept her from coming home last night,” she told a scruffy orange dog sniffing the maple tree in front of their house. “Perhaps there was a scuffle between the imperial troops an accused and a Shougitai spy. I’d say a robber, but,” Kinuyo smiled briefly, “they don’t seem to be good at catching them.”
The dog gazed out into street. It barked once, then went back to sniffing.
(Continue after the Break)
A Brief Summary of November
So November passed, with good times and bad.
On the bright side, I completed my NaNoWriMo. The brainstorming really helped me. I ended up with 54,000 words, 4,000 words more than necessary. Part of what kept me going was a bit of competition with other writers and seeing the chart on the page inch up with every few hundred words added. Yes, there were also times when I got swept up into the story, when I needed nothing else but sheer inspiration. For all the times I got stuck, I had word counts and graphs.
My aunt joined in the fun, though she wrote poems, and we had little adventures in inspiration. We went to the arboritum, to the park, to Huntington Library. We even went to Disneyland as a reward. But I do have to admit, when I finished, I felt rather glum. Yes, I had finished, but it was hard work, harder than I expected and I was sort of disappointed I'd only finished NaNoWriMo and not more.
Now, before you throw knives and pitchforks at me, I have this to say: I only worked twice this month as a substitute, meaning that for November, NaNoWriMo was my employment. And 3 hours a day, 5 days a week seemed like too little work. But that could also be my perfectionism talking. Whenever I accomplish something, I end up with a teaspon of guilt. Either I didn't do enough or I didn't work fast enough. There's always something a little wrong.
Like this blog. I tried to write a few articles for it, but somehow, it didn't work out. Maybe I just don't know what the point of this blog is or who is reading it or who will ever read it. Nonfiction isn't my strength. I don't do it well. Why bother?
Sorry. My writer moodiness is coming out.
I got a further three rejections this month, two on the same day. This is discouraging news for me, but (possibly) good news for you. I'm going to post one of my stories online for you to see. Perhaps I'll get some comments on how to improve it for publication. One can hope and dream.
On the bright side, I completed my NaNoWriMo. The brainstorming really helped me. I ended up with 54,000 words, 4,000 words more than necessary. Part of what kept me going was a bit of competition with other writers and seeing the chart on the page inch up with every few hundred words added. Yes, there were also times when I got swept up into the story, when I needed nothing else but sheer inspiration. For all the times I got stuck, I had word counts and graphs.
My aunt joined in the fun, though she wrote poems, and we had little adventures in inspiration. We went to the arboritum, to the park, to Huntington Library. We even went to Disneyland as a reward. But I do have to admit, when I finished, I felt rather glum. Yes, I had finished, but it was hard work, harder than I expected and I was sort of disappointed I'd only finished NaNoWriMo and not more.
Now, before you throw knives and pitchforks at me, I have this to say: I only worked twice this month as a substitute, meaning that for November, NaNoWriMo was my employment. And 3 hours a day, 5 days a week seemed like too little work. But that could also be my perfectionism talking. Whenever I accomplish something, I end up with a teaspon of guilt. Either I didn't do enough or I didn't work fast enough. There's always something a little wrong.
Like this blog. I tried to write a few articles for it, but somehow, it didn't work out. Maybe I just don't know what the point of this blog is or who is reading it or who will ever read it. Nonfiction isn't my strength. I don't do it well. Why bother?
Sorry. My writer moodiness is coming out.
I got a further three rejections this month, two on the same day. This is discouraging news for me, but (possibly) good news for you. I'm going to post one of my stories online for you to see. Perhaps I'll get some comments on how to improve it for publication. One can hope and dream.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Two More Rejections
"Kinuyo and the Kitsune" and "The Necklace of DuChelle" got rejected by Strange Horizons and Flash Fiction Online, respectively. Funny thing was, I submitted them within an hour of each other on the same day and got the rejection news within an hour of each other on the same day. Also, they both told me to wait a minimum of 2 weeks, but they actually rejected my story in 11 days. So, that's something.
Well, the good news for you is that if no one wants them, I'll probably post them on my website and/ or blog. Then you can judge the quality of my work for yourselves. Maybe you can tell me why my stories were rejected, as I've yet to get any feedback from the publishers.
Well, the good news for you is that if no one wants them, I'll probably post them on my website and/ or blog. Then you can judge the quality of my work for yourselves. Maybe you can tell me why my stories were rejected, as I've yet to get any feedback from the publishers.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Prepping for NaNoWriMo
November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo to those of us who prefer abbreviations. The concept is simple. You have one month to complete a novel-sized manuscript of 50,000 words, or roughly 200 pages, typed, double-spaced. Which, for me is actually a quarter of a novel. Now, I've heard about NaNoWriMo since college, but this is the first time I've had the guts to commit to it.
(For more information about National Novel Writing Month, go to www.nanowrimo.org)
After I signed up, I got an email from one of the website's hosts about an event called Crunch-tober, where you spend the month of October brainstorming 500 word posts in preparation for November. As I was scanning this email at 5:50 AM, I ended up missing the part where they provide you with writing prompts. At any rate, it didn't matter, because I already had something in mind.
I'm currently finishing up an epic fantasy novel tentatively called The Changlings, which I've been slaving away at since college. Part of the reason it's taken me nearly 10 years to finish is that I really had no idea what I was doing. Foolishly, I believed I could make it up as I went along. Also, when in doubt, edit! I ended up scrapping over half of it. And when you consider I wrote multiple drafts of 850 pages, that's like sending a thousand pages down the drain.
So, this time, I'm trying to be more efficient. And that means no editing until I know the ending. I'm not going to spend three weeks making sure that every detail in Chapter 3 is perfect, only to throw the whole thing away when I realize it's incompatible with Chapter 4. Haste may make waste, but it's nothing compared to perfectionism.
All this is a long way of saying that my goal for NaNoWriMo is to write down the ending to the necessary sequel of The Changelings, which I'm currently calling The Originals. I've been anticipating this event since early summer. On a whim, I decided to do my own version of Crunch-tober. For 5 days a week, four weeks straight I'd write 500 words about any point that bothered me on my second novel or any interesting tidbit I happened to pick up from the military channel. I figured if anything, I'd flush out the bad ideas. Plus, it was a good way of filling up between 6:15 AM to 7:30 AM, that nerve-wracking time of the morning when I was pretty sure--but not quite--that I wasn't getting called in for a substitute assignment.
So, now Crunch-tober is finished for me, and how did I do? Over 15,000 words and 50 pages of notes, including the conclusion to two battles and six character arcs. In other words, it added up. And I wasn't even really trying. But it goes to show what a concentrated effort of even 1 hour a day can do.
Now that I have some idea what I'm writing, it's time to sit down and write it. I'll try to keep you posted in November. See you then.
(For more information about National Novel Writing Month, go to www.nanowrimo.org)
After I signed up, I got an email from one of the website's hosts about an event called Crunch-tober, where you spend the month of October brainstorming 500 word posts in preparation for November. As I was scanning this email at 5:50 AM, I ended up missing the part where they provide you with writing prompts. At any rate, it didn't matter, because I already had something in mind.
I'm currently finishing up an epic fantasy novel tentatively called The Changlings, which I've been slaving away at since college. Part of the reason it's taken me nearly 10 years to finish is that I really had no idea what I was doing. Foolishly, I believed I could make it up as I went along. Also, when in doubt, edit! I ended up scrapping over half of it. And when you consider I wrote multiple drafts of 850 pages, that's like sending a thousand pages down the drain.
So, this time, I'm trying to be more efficient. And that means no editing until I know the ending. I'm not going to spend three weeks making sure that every detail in Chapter 3 is perfect, only to throw the whole thing away when I realize it's incompatible with Chapter 4. Haste may make waste, but it's nothing compared to perfectionism.
All this is a long way of saying that my goal for NaNoWriMo is to write down the ending to the necessary sequel of The Changelings, which I'm currently calling The Originals. I've been anticipating this event since early summer. On a whim, I decided to do my own version of Crunch-tober. For 5 days a week, four weeks straight I'd write 500 words about any point that bothered me on my second novel or any interesting tidbit I happened to pick up from the military channel. I figured if anything, I'd flush out the bad ideas. Plus, it was a good way of filling up between 6:15 AM to 7:30 AM, that nerve-wracking time of the morning when I was pretty sure--but not quite--that I wasn't getting called in for a substitute assignment.
So, now Crunch-tober is finished for me, and how did I do? Over 15,000 words and 50 pages of notes, including the conclusion to two battles and six character arcs. In other words, it added up. And I wasn't even really trying. But it goes to show what a concentrated effort of even 1 hour a day can do.
Now that I have some idea what I'm writing, it's time to sit down and write it. I'll try to keep you posted in November. See you then.
Book Review: The Disappeared
"The Disappeared"
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Summary
The Disappeared follows newly-promoted detective Miles Flint and his partner DeRicci as they investigate an mysterious yachts that wash up on their moon base, containing everything from gruesomely murdered bodies to kidnapped children. Intertwined with their story is that of Ekaterina, whose attempt to run from her past quickly takes disastrous turn, and Jamal, whose secret causes the loss of his son. Shady corporate practices and alien diplomacy feature heavily in this thrilling science fiction adventure.
Review
The novel opens with a bang. In the very first chapter we're introduced to three different characters going through three very different bad days. The action between them is well-balanced and the writing is clean and crisp. Tensions grow and chases ensue. For the first 50 pages, I could not put the book down. The suspense and action carried me easily through the four hundred pages.
Ekaterina's story is particularly heart-pounding, as we witness this calm lawyer taking bold action, improvising, and drawing on all her skills just to survive. Flint and DeRicci's arcs began slowly, but as cases pile up and alien demands clash with their values, you can see them being pushed to the brink.
Unfortunately, the ending couldn't really maintain such an action-packed start. The climax hinged heavily on alien diplomacy and legal loopholes, a rather underwhelming finish. Despite the detectives, the case was straight-forward and there was no mystery to be revealed at the end. There were also several points which caused me to revoke my suspension of disbelief. (See Rant.)
Of the four main characters, one had a drastic change of heart (which I found a tad unbelievable), another's arc ended abruptly, and a third's never went anywhere to begin with. The exception was DeRicci, who had grown to develop a respect for Flint, while revealing hidden depths to the reader. On the whole, I ended the story feeling vaguely dissatisfied, though this was largely disappointment that a strong start didn't have a strong end.
Rant (Warning: Spoilers)
The premise of aliens being legally able to kidnap human children for the crimes of their parents was as frustrating as it was intriguing. I could not believe a democratic society that valued individual life could be so blasé about aliens snatching infants in the middle of the night and destroying their personality. Particularly since it could happen to almost anyone. For example, a woman who accidentally killed some sentient moss very nearly lost the children of employees who never even stepped foot on the alien planet. That's like working for Wal-mart and then one day having your children held hostage because the CEO made a bad deal with China.
It's a deliberately infuriating incident, and I just can't accept that it never made the news or caused debate about trading children away for the rights to alien bottled water (seriously). But maybe the author has expanded on this point elsewhere. The Disappeared is labeled a "Retrieval Artist" novel. Maybe the politics are highlighted elsewhere.
But that doesn't explain the idea of lying to an alien species who abhor lies. One of the main climatic points is that the Rev, a short-tempered, slightly aggressive group, are stewing in a police room, waiting for them to turn over a prisoner. Only problem: the prisoner has escaped. The police try to distract the aliens while hunting down the prisoner, to no avail. By the end, the Rev have grown so fed up with the delays, they start tearing the room apart.
Question: Why did no one tell them that they lost the prisoner?
The police seem to think that if they tell the truth, the Rev will go on a rampage through the city, regardless of intergalactic protocol. Well, the police don't know the Rev very well, so it's possible they make wrong assumptions. But what about the translators and lawyers who specialize in this area? You'd think they might have some idea.
But these are nit-picky things. The real elephant in the room is the ending. Detective Flint finds out that the company that are supposed to help people in trouble with the alien justice system "disappear" has been turning over these people to the aliens instead. There's nothing illegal about this. The only thing Flint can do is find a new, more reliable service to help these people instead. Which he does. "Data Services" is the name of the company.
So, he takes this information to one of the victims. First, Flint tells him that they can't legally hold him for more than 24 hours, so he's free to go. (Hint, hint.) Then, he asks about disappearance services, including this obscure "Data Services." (HINT, HINT.) Oh, and he records this conversation and turns it over to the alien to show that he was following the law to the letter.
Then, Flint resigns. He hacks into the bad disappearance company's computers, retrieves the names of their clients, and sells them to Data Services. They will give new identities to those in trouble and get a tidy profit in return. It's a happy ending. Except that Flint just told the aliens and the police station that Data Services is the cover for a black market fugitive smuggling ring. By the way, he neglects to mention this fact to Data Services.
Potentially, Data Services will get shut down by a police sting operation in the coming week, have their lists of fugitives confiscated, and millions of disappeared left vulnerable to the aliens. And since Flint's no longer part of the force, he can do nothing to stop them.
Not the best thought-out plan, in my opinion.
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Summary
The Disappeared follows newly-promoted detective Miles Flint and his partner DeRicci as they investigate an mysterious yachts that wash up on their moon base, containing everything from gruesomely murdered bodies to kidnapped children. Intertwined with their story is that of Ekaterina, whose attempt to run from her past quickly takes disastrous turn, and Jamal, whose secret causes the loss of his son. Shady corporate practices and alien diplomacy feature heavily in this thrilling science fiction adventure.
Review
The novel opens with a bang. In the very first chapter we're introduced to three different characters going through three very different bad days. The action between them is well-balanced and the writing is clean and crisp. Tensions grow and chases ensue. For the first 50 pages, I could not put the book down. The suspense and action carried me easily through the four hundred pages.
Ekaterina's story is particularly heart-pounding, as we witness this calm lawyer taking bold action, improvising, and drawing on all her skills just to survive. Flint and DeRicci's arcs began slowly, but as cases pile up and alien demands clash with their values, you can see them being pushed to the brink.
Unfortunately, the ending couldn't really maintain such an action-packed start. The climax hinged heavily on alien diplomacy and legal loopholes, a rather underwhelming finish. Despite the detectives, the case was straight-forward and there was no mystery to be revealed at the end. There were also several points which caused me to revoke my suspension of disbelief. (See Rant.)
Of the four main characters, one had a drastic change of heart (which I found a tad unbelievable), another's arc ended abruptly, and a third's never went anywhere to begin with. The exception was DeRicci, who had grown to develop a respect for Flint, while revealing hidden depths to the reader. On the whole, I ended the story feeling vaguely dissatisfied, though this was largely disappointment that a strong start didn't have a strong end.
Rant (Warning: Spoilers)
The premise of aliens being legally able to kidnap human children for the crimes of their parents was as frustrating as it was intriguing. I could not believe a democratic society that valued individual life could be so blasé about aliens snatching infants in the middle of the night and destroying their personality. Particularly since it could happen to almost anyone. For example, a woman who accidentally killed some sentient moss very nearly lost the children of employees who never even stepped foot on the alien planet. That's like working for Wal-mart and then one day having your children held hostage because the CEO made a bad deal with China.
It's a deliberately infuriating incident, and I just can't accept that it never made the news or caused debate about trading children away for the rights to alien bottled water (seriously). But maybe the author has expanded on this point elsewhere. The Disappeared is labeled a "Retrieval Artist" novel. Maybe the politics are highlighted elsewhere.
But that doesn't explain the idea of lying to an alien species who abhor lies. One of the main climatic points is that the Rev, a short-tempered, slightly aggressive group, are stewing in a police room, waiting for them to turn over a prisoner. Only problem: the prisoner has escaped. The police try to distract the aliens while hunting down the prisoner, to no avail. By the end, the Rev have grown so fed up with the delays, they start tearing the room apart.
Question: Why did no one tell them that they lost the prisoner?
The police seem to think that if they tell the truth, the Rev will go on a rampage through the city, regardless of intergalactic protocol. Well, the police don't know the Rev very well, so it's possible they make wrong assumptions. But what about the translators and lawyers who specialize in this area? You'd think they might have some idea.
But these are nit-picky things. The real elephant in the room is the ending. Detective Flint finds out that the company that are supposed to help people in trouble with the alien justice system "disappear" has been turning over these people to the aliens instead. There's nothing illegal about this. The only thing Flint can do is find a new, more reliable service to help these people instead. Which he does. "Data Services" is the name of the company.
So, he takes this information to one of the victims. First, Flint tells him that they can't legally hold him for more than 24 hours, so he's free to go. (Hint, hint.) Then, he asks about disappearance services, including this obscure "Data Services." (HINT, HINT.) Oh, and he records this conversation and turns it over to the alien to show that he was following the law to the letter.
Then, Flint resigns. He hacks into the bad disappearance company's computers, retrieves the names of their clients, and sells them to Data Services. They will give new identities to those in trouble and get a tidy profit in return. It's a happy ending. Except that Flint just told the aliens and the police station that Data Services is the cover for a black market fugitive smuggling ring. By the way, he neglects to mention this fact to Data Services.
Potentially, Data Services will get shut down by a police sting operation in the coming week, have their lists of fugitives confiscated, and millions of disappeared left vulnerable to the aliens. And since Flint's no longer part of the force, he can do nothing to stop them.
Not the best thought-out plan, in my opinion.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Short Fiction: Florence
Last week Saturday, I attended a meeting of the Brea Library Writer's Group. (http://www.facebook.com/BreaLibraryWritersGroup?ref=stream) As part of our meeting, we do a ten-minute writing exercise based on one of several prompts. I chose "I had always wanted to travel to Florence" for my topic. Surprisingly, I actually came up with an okay story, so here it is, for everyone to enjoy.
I had always wanted to travel to Florence. But now it was too late. I sat in the seat of an airplane taking off from Rome's airport any minute now. The flight attendant was giving safety instructions in Italian, and I was gazing out the window, trying to smush myself into it--as though if I pressed hard enough against the plastic, it would pop out and I could crawl out the window and reclaim my life. But the plastic stayed firm.
"Abigail, stop squirming," my mother hissed. "Sit up straight. I swear sometimes you behave just like a child."
She was the one who had "rescued" me. Who'd flown off to fetch me when I made a wreck of my life for the ump-teenth time. I slouched. This time, she didn't even ask how I'd let my life get so out of control. Just came in and hauled me back home. Soon we'd be back to rehab and therapy, back to quiet family dinners and dull recitals. But my mother's look of disappointment would never quite leave her face.
I sighed.
Well, I'd made it to Italy this time. That was something.
Maybe next time I'd make it all the way to Florence.
I had always wanted to travel to Florence. But now it was too late. I sat in the seat of an airplane taking off from Rome's airport any minute now. The flight attendant was giving safety instructions in Italian, and I was gazing out the window, trying to smush myself into it--as though if I pressed hard enough against the plastic, it would pop out and I could crawl out the window and reclaim my life. But the plastic stayed firm.
"Abigail, stop squirming," my mother hissed. "Sit up straight. I swear sometimes you behave just like a child."
She was the one who had "rescued" me. Who'd flown off to fetch me when I made a wreck of my life for the ump-teenth time. I slouched. This time, she didn't even ask how I'd let my life get so out of control. Just came in and hauled me back home. Soon we'd be back to rehab and therapy, back to quiet family dinners and dull recitals. But my mother's look of disappointment would never quite leave her face.
I sighed.
Well, I'd made it to Italy this time. That was something.
Maybe next time I'd make it all the way to Florence.
Rejection Blues
Two of my short stories have been rejected this week, and it's frustrating.
"Kinuyo and the Kitsune," a fifteen-page historical fairy tale set in Japan just after the collapse of the Shogunate about a young girl's encounter with a shape-shifting fox while searching for her missing mother, got rejected by Orson Scott Card's Intergallactic Medicine Show last Sunday. It's also been rejected by The Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy and Clarkesworld.
"The Necklace of DuChelle," a three-page fantasy flashfiction about a necklace that can strangle people, made it past the first round of Daily Science Fiction, before getting rejected in the final round last Friday.
I don't know which is worse. The story on rejection number 3 or the story that almost made it.
What makes it hard for me, is that I'm still new at this rejection game. It's taken me years to even build up enough courage to submit. Rationally, I know authors get rejected several times, over and over again, but that doesn't help the touch of despair that creeps into your heart when you get that dreaded email. Not that I cried or anything. Just felt a little sad.
A few things do help, though. Printing out the rejection and labeling it helps. Oddly enough, this changes the rejection into an accomplishment. I now have five rejections. I figure once I get to fifty, I should be published.
Interestingly enough, this motivated me to continue writing short stories, proving that even negative feedback is better than silence. I feel the need to prove myself. I will get something published, even if I have to wear the editors out with my persistance. Just you wait.
"Kinuyo and the Kitsune," a fifteen-page historical fairy tale set in Japan just after the collapse of the Shogunate about a young girl's encounter with a shape-shifting fox while searching for her missing mother, got rejected by Orson Scott Card's Intergallactic Medicine Show last Sunday. It's also been rejected by The Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy and Clarkesworld.
"The Necklace of DuChelle," a three-page fantasy flashfiction about a necklace that can strangle people, made it past the first round of Daily Science Fiction, before getting rejected in the final round last Friday.
I don't know which is worse. The story on rejection number 3 or the story that almost made it.
What makes it hard for me, is that I'm still new at this rejection game. It's taken me years to even build up enough courage to submit. Rationally, I know authors get rejected several times, over and over again, but that doesn't help the touch of despair that creeps into your heart when you get that dreaded email. Not that I cried or anything. Just felt a little sad.
A few things do help, though. Printing out the rejection and labeling it helps. Oddly enough, this changes the rejection into an accomplishment. I now have five rejections. I figure once I get to fifty, I should be published.
Interestingly enough, this motivated me to continue writing short stories, proving that even negative feedback is better than silence. I feel the need to prove myself. I will get something published, even if I have to wear the editors out with my persistance. Just you wait.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
The Anxiety of the Substitute
This fall, I took work as a substitute teacher, and just last week, I started getting called in. Although I've only subbed for two days now, teaching isn't all that new to me. For three years I worked as a teacher's aid in Japan, forced to perform English sentences to unknown audiences at the beck and call of the real teacher. Sometimes I'd go in with no plan, no script, and I'd have to create a lesson off the top of my head. Working improv is nothing new to me.
That doesn't lessen my stage fright.
Somewhere between 5:30-7:30 in the morning, the dance of dread begins. Will I get called in? My ears tense for the sound of my phone's generic ring tone, knowing only entity would call me so early. Will I get an assignment? Do I want to go to work today? I know if I get called in, I will work, I must work, not just for the immediate paycheck the day brings, but to build my reputation for the future. Yet another part of me just hopes that the school will leave me alone, so that I can spend my free time writing.
Three times the phone did ring. The first time, I hesitated, fumbled with the buttons in the dark, and completely missed the assignment. The second time, I heard the assignment, wanted it repeated, but accidently hit the button for accept. The third time, I was ready, but right before I hit that button, a surge of panic filled my soul. It became a struggle to press 1.
The next three minutes, I ran around the house hyperventalating. While the sensible part of my mind told me to arrange a ride with my aunt, pack my lunch, and find out the specifics of my assignment online, the emotional side of me was busy whipping myself into a frenzy. Oddly, I couldn't tell you over what. I was afraid. Not of teaching, I'd done that before. Not of high school students, I'd worked with them and didn't find them to be monsters. What I was afraid of was nothing. The big, black wall of nothing pressing up against my eyes.
The unknown.
I think if I were in one bad scenario, I could solve it or endure it. But my mind wasn't spitting out one, it was spitting out 20 and demanding I solve them all at once and think of new ones and solve those as well. Now! Hence the panic. But the funny thing was, once I got to school, once I saw the physical buildings, the panic left. There was no more time to prepare. There was only action. Moreover, there was something familiar about the campus. I had never been to this school, but I'd been in others, taught in them, too. My experience hardened over my chest like a breastplate and I walked inside the office calm and alert.
Parts of the day were tough. Sometimes I was frustrated. Sometimes I was uncertain. But I wasn't afraid. The situation, good or bad, had become solid, and once solid, I could adapt to it. I trusted myself again.
The phone call was the worst of it.
That doesn't lessen my stage fright.
Somewhere between 5:30-7:30 in the morning, the dance of dread begins. Will I get called in? My ears tense for the sound of my phone's generic ring tone, knowing only entity would call me so early. Will I get an assignment? Do I want to go to work today? I know if I get called in, I will work, I must work, not just for the immediate paycheck the day brings, but to build my reputation for the future. Yet another part of me just hopes that the school will leave me alone, so that I can spend my free time writing.
Three times the phone did ring. The first time, I hesitated, fumbled with the buttons in the dark, and completely missed the assignment. The second time, I heard the assignment, wanted it repeated, but accidently hit the button for accept. The third time, I was ready, but right before I hit that button, a surge of panic filled my soul. It became a struggle to press 1.
The next three minutes, I ran around the house hyperventalating. While the sensible part of my mind told me to arrange a ride with my aunt, pack my lunch, and find out the specifics of my assignment online, the emotional side of me was busy whipping myself into a frenzy. Oddly, I couldn't tell you over what. I was afraid. Not of teaching, I'd done that before. Not of high school students, I'd worked with them and didn't find them to be monsters. What I was afraid of was nothing. The big, black wall of nothing pressing up against my eyes.
The unknown.
I think if I were in one bad scenario, I could solve it or endure it. But my mind wasn't spitting out one, it was spitting out 20 and demanding I solve them all at once and think of new ones and solve those as well. Now! Hence the panic. But the funny thing was, once I got to school, once I saw the physical buildings, the panic left. There was no more time to prepare. There was only action. Moreover, there was something familiar about the campus. I had never been to this school, but I'd been in others, taught in them, too. My experience hardened over my chest like a breastplate and I walked inside the office calm and alert.
Parts of the day were tough. Sometimes I was frustrated. Sometimes I was uncertain. But I wasn't afraid. The situation, good or bad, had become solid, and once solid, I could adapt to it. I trusted myself again.
The phone call was the worst of it.
Musings on Limited Willpower
Is willpower finite?
I'm so used to thinking of willpower as limitless, like brainpower or human potential or air. I had never considered it might be something we gets in daily allowances to be budgeted throughout the day. Yet this is exactly the argument I stumbled upon while reading the November 2012 edition of Writer's Digest. Mike Becktle's article "Overcoming Writer's Block Without Willpower" began by throwing out this idea:
"Here's the problem with willpower: It's limited. [...] Simply put, when we use it up by resisting a chocolate doughnut all morning, there's none left to stay disciplined in our writing an hour later."
I'd never heard of this before. But I suspect it's on its way to becoming the hot new idea, because just one day later, I read about it again, this time in a recent Cracked article, "5 Ways Your Brain Tricks You into Sticking with Bad Habits" by Dennis Hong. (http://www.cracked.com/article_20028_5-ways-your-brain-tricks-you-into-sticking-with-bad-habits.html)
I'm not entirely certain I believe the scientific explanation, which contrasts making healthy decisions with brainteasers. While resisting temptation may utilize willpower, I would label solving puzzles more a trait of concentration. Either way, as a speculative writer, my reaction to these sort of ideas is to hold it as true in my mind (whether or not I actually believe it is) and see what sort of conclusions you can draw.
So, if we you a limited amount of willpower, what will your reaction be? As with most limitations, you can either use it as an excuse or start getting creative. Is the limit the same day to day, or does it vary with other factors, say how sleepy you are or how much time you've had to relax? Are some people born with more than others? Can you grow it? Can you trick it?
For example, if you take something you hate, such as going to the gym, and make it a habit (which according to the Cracked article will take you ten weeks), does it no longer count as exerting willpower? Or if you make something you dislike fun, will that also lessen the discipline?
And if you find the absolute limit, how will you spend it? If you try to be absolutely efficient with your willpower, will that effort actually drain you of it? If you dole out your efforts spontaneously, will you ever get anything done? What's the fine balance?
These are some thoughts, I like to throw around. To be honest, I've been trying to discipline myself into steady writing for some time now, and it's difficult. The more deadlines and word limits I impose, the more time I spend worrying over them. My willpower goes into maintaining my system and then I wonder why I'm not inspired. How can inspiration come if you're constantly yelling, "You have to write 9 pages by bedtime, hurry up, you're wasting time, you're never going to finish if you don't write already, just get something on the page, I don't care what it is, just do something!" On the other hand, if I didn't force myself to write at least 5 times a week, I'd make excuses and get out of practice.
What are your thoughts on willpower and discipline? Do you find the idea of a limited amount depressing or refreshing?
Comments would be nice.
I'm so used to thinking of willpower as limitless, like brainpower or human potential or air. I had never considered it might be something we gets in daily allowances to be budgeted throughout the day. Yet this is exactly the argument I stumbled upon while reading the November 2012 edition of Writer's Digest. Mike Becktle's article "Overcoming Writer's Block Without Willpower" began by throwing out this idea:
"Here's the problem with willpower: It's limited. [...] Simply put, when we use it up by resisting a chocolate doughnut all morning, there's none left to stay disciplined in our writing an hour later."
I'd never heard of this before. But I suspect it's on its way to becoming the hot new idea, because just one day later, I read about it again, this time in a recent Cracked article, "5 Ways Your Brain Tricks You into Sticking with Bad Habits" by Dennis Hong. (http://www.cracked.com/article_20028_5-ways-your-brain-tricks-you-into-sticking-with-bad-habits.html)
I'm not entirely certain I believe the scientific explanation, which contrasts making healthy decisions with brainteasers. While resisting temptation may utilize willpower, I would label solving puzzles more a trait of concentration. Either way, as a speculative writer, my reaction to these sort of ideas is to hold it as true in my mind (whether or not I actually believe it is) and see what sort of conclusions you can draw.
So, if we you a limited amount of willpower, what will your reaction be? As with most limitations, you can either use it as an excuse or start getting creative. Is the limit the same day to day, or does it vary with other factors, say how sleepy you are or how much time you've had to relax? Are some people born with more than others? Can you grow it? Can you trick it?
For example, if you take something you hate, such as going to the gym, and make it a habit (which according to the Cracked article will take you ten weeks), does it no longer count as exerting willpower? Or if you make something you dislike fun, will that also lessen the discipline?
And if you find the absolute limit, how will you spend it? If you try to be absolutely efficient with your willpower, will that effort actually drain you of it? If you dole out your efforts spontaneously, will you ever get anything done? What's the fine balance?
These are some thoughts, I like to throw around. To be honest, I've been trying to discipline myself into steady writing for some time now, and it's difficult. The more deadlines and word limits I impose, the more time I spend worrying over them. My willpower goes into maintaining my system and then I wonder why I'm not inspired. How can inspiration come if you're constantly yelling, "You have to write 9 pages by bedtime, hurry up, you're wasting time, you're never going to finish if you don't write already, just get something on the page, I don't care what it is, just do something!" On the other hand, if I didn't force myself to write at least 5 times a week, I'd make excuses and get out of practice.
What are your thoughts on willpower and discipline? Do you find the idea of a limited amount depressing or refreshing?
Comments would be nice.
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