A Lovely Tumult

Hello Reader!  How are you?  Good?  I hope so stranger!  It's been too long since I've seen any of you, talked with you, wrote at you.  I miss complaining about my lack of progress, my ineptitude at plotting and the absolute drudgery that is school.  Now I've already mentioned that I was taking a four-week writing workshop course that has really helped me step forward in my writing.  I've never been so halfway inspired by anything.

The reason why I say halfway inspired is actually the theme of this post.  The woman who taught the workshop was called VJ Waks and she's self-published two novels - Tau 4 and Hammerspace.  She's quite the forceful lady, very self-assured and capable, without a shred of doubt about anything.  It's incredible to see this, but it's also troubling.

I guess they know their audience?

She knows she's a good writer.  She believes it whole-heartedly, in fact she speaks about her talent frequently.  During the workshop, not very many - no, I correct myself - zero works from other authors were used by her as an example of good writing.  What did she use?  Her own novels.  I get product placement, and I get the easiness of just picking up your own book, whose contents you know like the back of your hand, and using it to give examples of good writing.  But there's a terrible amount of pride involved, no?

I hope she wasn't completely a creature of hubris, because she is very much like me.  Ms. Waks began as a neuroscience major, eventually getting her master's degree in Neurobiology.  WHAT?  I know right?  How eerie that her journey mirrors the potential path I would like to follow.  Her novels are science fiction, the genre I'll probably be put in should I publish.  She gave up her neuroscience career to write, and she loves it now.  She thoroughly enjoys her life.

This guy wrote Moby Dick.  No one knew that when he was alive.

But she self-published.  Why?  I don't know.  To be honest, I don't care.  Because what troubles me is that I have no clue what makes her different from me.  So what, I'm writing science fiction.  So what I've got a story, sprawling as it is, about a young man troubled and struggling.  SO WHAT.  At the end of the day, there's nothing that makes me different from her.  She's not "struggling" by any means, and when you read reviews of her work there's no denying that she's got quality writing skills.  She's only got one non-five star rating!  Then again, for two books she's got a grand total of 14 reviews.

Why isn't someone this good, with this kind of talent, more popular?  Because all she's got is herself?  Well then why didn't an agent take her on?  What didn't they see?  Marketability?  This begs the question of whether or not I'm writing for money.  Which makes me pause.  Because I'm not really sure what I'm writing for.

I feel like this kid a lot of the time.  'Cept not for coloring.

I've never really articulated the reason.  I just write.  It's just in me and I just want it out.  I want to stop imagining these things as my life, these characters and battles and passions, I want them excised from my mind.  On paper, on my computer, whatever.  I'm not writing for high art, but then again popularity is something I dearly seek.  Neither am I writing for money, but a sustainable job is another thing I crave.  How can I achieve these things if someone far better than me can't make it without resorting to taking odd jobs writing for companies, family members, lawyers etc.

Obscurity is what I fear, and what I'm writing against.  God damn it, I don't want to fade into obscurity.  I don't want to end up has some has-been science fiction writer teaching workshops with only two or three people attending in some tucked away part of a university with an all-html website with nothing but 14 reviews to my name. I'm making no progress in this blogpost so instead of a satisfactory denouement, I'll leave you with these last few desperate words.  Obscurity terrifies me.  And the business of my life keeps pulling me into that black hole of fear and doubt.

So I guess the workshop did great things for my book, but few good things for my ego.  Until next time then.

Query Letter Week 3

Hello Reader!  The summer's been hot, so I've been staying inside reading and writing.  I recently finished Dave Eggers' book Zeitoun which is a fascinating nonfiction account of a Muslim family's struggle to stay together despite the horrors of Hurricane Katrina.  I just want to make a quick comment about the book before I begin the meat of the blog.

It was really refreshing to read a normal story for once, one where there wasn't really a lofty purpose.  A lot of the time I catch myself getting absorbed into stories that are grandiose, springboards for the author to comment on the human condition or some other hoity-toity subject.  (Yes, I know that's what I want to do to, bear with me for a second).  I liked reading a story with a normal family, dealing with circumstances that were indeed extraordinary, but not to the point where existentialist arguments about existence became the theme.  I hope that in reading the next book on my to-do list (Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections) I'll be able to dilute some of the work of these two brilliant authors into my own.  Creating a fantastical world grounded in realistic engagement between characters is my goal for this novel and the ones to come.  Maybe I can learn from Eggers and Franzen how to do that properly.

Now, onto the real reason I wrote this blogpost.  Here's the consolidation of all of your suggestions and a few of my own revisions.  I hope you guys like it, and as always please be frank and honest with your critiques.  I always appreciate them, and they've been really constructive so far!  Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

On the island country of Atlantis, Prince Briok Cwartel is born into an era of uneasy peace.  With an absent father and a mother possessed of an iron-will, Briok grows to become petulant, brave, and ambitious. Then, on the day of his father’s funeral, the immortal Amar tells him that he is the final Magna Beast, heir to the throne of the alien Mags.

Quickly educated on the holy wars between the righteous Mags and genocidal Howlas, Briok is tasked with killing the Howlamega, savage leader of the Howlas and murderer of Briok’s father.  Because of his young age Briok’s quest does not take him far from Atlantis’ clear azure shores, forcing him to deal with the dual pressures of history assignments and Lara Heken’s sweet smile while training for premeditated violence.

Standing in the way of his success is a growing mafia civil war, led by the arrogant Tory Cross.  Power-hungry and grief-stricken at the deaths of his brother and nephew, Tory uses newfound technology to threaten Atlantis’ well-ordered society and Briok's life.  With the mafia on one side and Briok’s petulant nature on the other, Amar decides to enact a desperate battleplan that blurs the line between good and evil – and just may let him die.

Until next time then.

Resumes

Hello Reader.  So I've been thinking about how I'm going to make myself look abso-positiva-lutely amazing to agents, so much so that they will want to just gobble me and my book right up!  The best answer would be to get an MFA.  Seeing as how I'm set on this Neuroscience track, I don't think that's really feasible.  Unless I fail this genetics class.  But please God don't push me into writing by beating the crap out of me in science.  Pretty please? 

Anyways, seeing as how MFA-dom is slightly further away than Pluto I've been looking into/getting suggestions for writing contests!  And literary magazines of course, which I've already talked about.  Not extensively, I know, but enough to fill you in.  Need to know basis and all. 

So, there are two contests in my sights right now: The Shirley Collier Prize and the Coachella Review Prize.  Both are prestigious in their own way.  Both say prize at the end, making me sound extra special.  "I won a prize Agent X!" "Alrighty son, sign me up!"

Right, well, a man can dream.  This is an update, pure and simple.  My life has become so much more hectic now that my procrastination has finally caught up to me.  Until next time then.

Revelations...Not Really

Hello Reader.  So I'm in the mood to share today.  I've already posted an excerpt, so no I won't be sharing more pages from my novel with you.  I will however be posting my newest query letter.  Comments, critiques, suggestions?  All are welcome.  What I want to know is...from this query are you interested?  I tried to do something different than what I've seen from other queries (that have gotten their books published) mainly because I'm trying so damn hard to combat the science fiction stigma.  I am not a science fiction writer, I am a storyteller.   The query letter is after the jump.

Ah well, life goes on.

Hello Reader.  Today, I'm in a dull mood.  Grades came back, health's down the toilet, and my final query letter was just returned.  Another no from Barer Literary.  I was actually disappointed with this one.  I was really hoping she would be able to represent me.  Her style is so focused and she has an insane amount of dedication.  I've always tried to be an optimistic person, but today just isn't cutting it.  So I'm going to cut this post off short with an excerpt.

The scene is where Tory and Weller, the two brothers who lead the Cross Mafia Family, are awaiting a new shipment of their laser guns.  They are met with a mysterious person that they know well, who brings them news from the frontlines of the war between the Mags and Howlas.

“Do you want to talk or should I deal with the captain?” Tory was glaring at his brother.

            Weller grunted wearily, “I don’t want to talk.  I don’t even know why you brought me here.” He impatiently checked his watch.

            “You’re here because you are my brother.  We built this empire together, we’re going to run it together.”  Tory looked around the shoreline, his eyes scouring for any passersby.  “If you’re not going to talk, at least control your anger.  You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

            “You, perhaps, for dragging me away from my home.” A wind blew through their coats, brushing their beards.  They stood on the pier for a while, watching the boat navigate its way around a series of jetties.  Seagulls cawed behind them, dropping by their silent figures hoping for something to eat.  When nothing came they flapped away, blaring their cries for food louder.

            When the boat came to dock they walked along the pier to meet the captain.  What met them forced surprise onto Tory’s face.  “What are you doing here?” he growled.

            A Howla, diminutive in stature with more of a mouse’s face than a wolf’s, was shuffling towards the gangsters.  Thick-rimmed glasses adorned his face, an odd trait for someone who could heal his wounds at anytime.  A large cloak covered his body, shabby and dull in color.  He wore a patched hat, loose strings following him as he walked.  His fur was a dark shade of brown, with red streaks flitting in and out of sight as he moved.  His ears were intact and his stomach was absent of any scars.  He was the exact opposite of a Howlian warrior.

            “How are you Tory?  Weller?  I’m glad both of you are here,” the Howla took his hat off and held it against his chest.  “Please, if you will follow me I want to discuss a few things with you before you take these away.”

            Tory flinched slightly when the mysterious Howla had put his arm on him, turning away towards Weller with a look of apprehension filling his eyes. 

            “What do you want from us Harry?  We haven’t done anything wrong.” Weller was bristling as well, his frustration showing in his voice.

            “Not yet,” Harry giggled, a high-pitched wheezing sound that scared the birds in front of them, “No, not yet.  I’m here to make sure you never do.”  He took a few more steps past the docked ship and let his hands clasp in front of him. 

            “Did you know that the Holy Prophet Howlamega has killed the twenty-fifth Magna Beast?”  Harry smiled at the awe in both Tory and Weller’s faces, “I see you have yet to hear the good news.  Well, this death we have finally come upon is momentous, as I am sure you know.” 

            Tory’s look of awe turned to anger, “What does this have to do with us?”

            Harry gave a wry smile, crinkling his face into a terrible mask of conceit, “As the ambassador of the Holy Prophet, it is my duty to tell you of the Rewards that have been placed upon us.  Due to Sulfanen the Lion’s death, we have been given the unique opportunity to build our army without hindrance from the Mags.  Obviously, you understand the implications for your families.”

            Weller’s bristling turned to outright rage.  He grabbed Harry by the throat and lifted him with one hand, “How dare you attempt to use us, just after my son dies?  You want to kill more boys for your war?”

            As Harry struggled, Tory looked on with equal hatred.  Restrained as he was, he also stepped towards the dangling Harry, his body tense.  “We have accepted your help from afar as a business transaction.  Not as a favor.  I don’t give a damn about the Howlamega’s dreams.  Your war is not ours. We’re trying to make a living.”  But Tory’s words were lost upon Harry.  Though his life was slowly being ripped away from him, he was smiling.  His wheezing laugh could be heard through Weller’s grunts of frustration. 

            “Stop laughing!” Weller dug his hands deeper into Harry’s throat, “Stop laughing I said, you conniving bastard.”

            It was to no avail.  Harry continued with his giggling fit, his hands now hanging limp at his sides.  He was doing nothing to stop the attack, nothing to stop his life from escaping him.  Tory’s eyes narrowed when Harry looked to the bow of the ship. “Stop Weller!” Tory pushed Weller’s arm down, forcing him to let Harry go.  “The Howlamega’s here,” Tory whispered into his brother’s ear.  He followed Harry’s dark eyes and saw a wisp of smoke slither away.

            “Good boy Tory.” Clasping his throat tightly as he healed it, Harry grinned.  “You are a fine leader.”  He rose unsteadily before glaring at Weller, “Your brother on the other hand is too wild.  Small wonder that his pup went and killed himself.”  Harry had to step back as Weller made another grab at his throat.

            “Where is he?” Weller’s growl was full of menace, unrestrained hatred lacing his voice.

            “As if you could kill him,” Harry straightened his jacket and put his hat back on.  “Back to the Rewards.  You will, young Tory, have your family be a part of our army.  This is your duty as a Howla, this is your duty as a warrior.  It will not be shirked.”  He glared at Weller, “Knowing your anger however, I am worried.  You must remember that there is always a limit to the Rewards.  We are not allowed to harm the Lion’s family, or the country in which they reside.”

            “How would we know where they live?  We don’t know who the Magna Beast is!”  Tory was in disbelief.  The Howlamega was demanding the world from Howlas a world away.

            Harry remained unfazed, “Make a wild guess Tory, use that magnificent brain of yours.”  He turned around to face the Atlantia coastline, “Why else would we build you up here?”  With that, Harry smiled.  “Be careful with these guns Tory.  And Weller, I am truly sorry that your son died.  Next time, I hope we meet under less strenuous circumstances.”  He tipped his hat to the brothers, and left them in shock. 

Until next time then.

Burnt to a Crisp

Hello Reader.  First a bit of news: I sent out three query letters today.  Exciting?  No, not at all.  It's more a mixture of overwhelming fear and anxiety boiling over into the region of calm that suppresses a wild and intense need to yell and scream out of delirium.  So, on to who I sent these letters to!

Barer Literary: She's known for being incredibly intimate with her authors, and she knows her way around the publishing industry.  Plus, just based on the few interviews I've read with her, she is one of the most passionate literary agents out there.

Meredith Bernstein Literary: Not much has been said about her but she's old school, which is something that I absolutely gravitate towards.  She represents (kind of) what I'm writing so I decided to give it a shot.

Castiglia Literary Agency: Honestly, I've been using Writer's Market 2009 to inform my decisions about who I should send my queries out to.  Castiglia sort've represents what I'm putting out, so I sent out a letter.

I'm really hoping something comes out of these.  If not, well, I'm not going to cry because I've got 30 other literary agents on a nice little list of mine who are going to be bothered by me.  I wish I had more, because there are so many of them out there!  But I can't really spend too much more time fiddling around with my thumbs waiting for this opportunity to plant itself in my lap.  I'm going after this, whether I feel uncomfortable or not.

Which is the odd thing.  I'm usually extremely-passionate-to-the-point-that-I'm-feeling-nauseous about things like this.  I'm not at all nauseous about this.  I'm more nervous and excited and...well, read above.  But I'm not killing myself over it.  Is it because I don't want this enough?  How could I not?  This has been a part of me since I was a child, I can't remember when it wasn't.  This is my life, how could I not be excited for it?

And when I was asking myself these questions, I realized something.  This novel, this idea, this legend I've developed in my head using my overactive imagination truly is my life.  This is who I am, the very essence of my soul, my existence delineated and crammed into the pages of the novel I've written and those I hope to write.  Briok Cwartel's story is my own, and my story is his.  I can't be nauseous and I can't ache for something that is already existing and a part of me.

I think that's been the missing piece in all I've done concerning this book.  I've never had peace of mind, never truly believed I could be published.  And I don't need that when Briok's legend is already published, via my own existence.  He is already here, living and breathing and fighting destiny trying to make his mark on the world.  He's just doing all of those things under a pseudonym: my own name.

Thinking over this, realizing this, and fermenting it in my head for the past dozen or so hours has opened my eyes.  I don't need accolades, I don't need popularity, I DON'T EVEN NEED THIS TO BE PUBLISHED.  Those would be fantastic to have, and my gratitude would be without limit.  Yet I've found a spot in my journey with this book that's let me see it not just as a novel, but as my journey on this Earth too, and that's damn well good enough.  I love this story, I love the grandeur it has given my life.  It's my escape, my wellspring of calm and my constant companion.  It will not go unheard, I know it won't.  But now, even if it does, I'll still be happy.  Until next time then.

Wait, I'm supposed to be in school...

Hello Reader.  I'm writing to you from someplace other than my dorm room.  Amazing, right?  I think so. I'm in a computer lab.  Waiting for a class to start.  Because my days are always hectic, and I find myself living on campus rather than in my dorm room with my satisfying video games, laptop, and bed.  I haven't worked a lick on Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae in some time.  Is it my fault, or am I going to blame my schoolwork for that?  I don't even know that yet. 

But that's not troubling me so much.  A) I've already written about time management, B) I'm pretty sure whining is not going to get me more blog readers.  What's really troubling me is the lack of attention being paid to the slush pile.  For those of you who don't know what that is, the slush pile is the aggregation of any unsolicited manuscripts that are sent out to publishers and agents by first-time authors. I've read a couple of interesting articles about the death of the slush pile - one of which you can find here.  It's disheartening to see what I think is an art form die.

The slush pile is a random pile of crap mixed with more chance than a Monopoly board.  Should I put a TM there?  Maybe when this is more popular.  Anyways, while the slush pile's cons are very large, I believe it's pros are much larger.  New writers bring new ideas.  Don't tell me there are no new stories.  You're right, and everyone else knows it.  So stop pretending you're intelligent.  What there are plenty of, are writers capable of telling the same stories over again in new and exciting ways.  The slush pile can give publishers and agents exactly that. 

Now by publishers, I mean Penguin and HarperCollins and another major "label" out there.  So one can imagine the girth that such a company may bring to finding new authors and new stories.  Is that an excuse to ignore the musings and hopes of so many voices?  I don't think so.  I'm not that well-versed in economics, and I'm definitely a new guy to the publishing scene - so new I haven't even been published yet!  But what I am well-versed in are second-chances and lucky breaks.  Because I've had several of them.  I've been given so many first chances and "Hey why don't you try this, and if you fail, we'll try again huh?"'s  that my life story is due in little part to my own machinations.  I've been the beneficiary of so many other people's generosity.  And I've done pretty well so far with all of that lovin'.  So why can't others get that treatment?

Why can't I get that treatment?  You can see where I'm coming from.  A place of greed and supplication.  I want to be lucky enough that publishers and agents will notice me in the slush pile.  I want to be that ridiculously blessed bastard who only sent out 15 query letters, got 10 rejections, and because of some secretary's mistake wound up with the rival to Harry Potter's ubiquity - I am so calling you out Stephanie Myers.  The death of the slush pile is killing that greed, replacing it with a forlorn sense of WTFery.  As an aspiring author, all I can do is look at articles like the Wall Street Journal one above and be catatonic with doubt.  Has anyone watched that movie?  It wasn't very good.

But why is it an art form, you, that anonymous reader who doesn't comment very often, ask?  Because voice is an art form.  And the slush pile gives you some of the most varied and wonderful voices you can imagine.  It's variety that's the spice of life, right?  Then again, they also give you crap like this:  oops, no one puts up stuff from the slush pile because they think it's not worth it.  Dicks.

Sorry about that.  I'm trying to make a more concerted effort at trying to stop my bitterness from making me digress.  It's difficult.

Anyways, I think I've found a way around the slush pile.  Whether I like it or not, the thing is dying.  The economy is forcing agents to be more wary of fiction, and publishers have outright refused to see anything that's not agented.  So I have to adapt to the times.  My solution?  Or desperate plan?  Submitting to literary magazines.  I've already got Westwind Literary magazine in my scope, and maybe I'll start writing some short stories so I can submit them to some other magazine.  God willing, one day I'll get to win an award or be published in a prestigious anthology.  Here's to hoping.  So that'll be my question of the day: What literary magazines do you know of?  Do you know anyone who's been published in one?  Leave comments, directions, and e-mails to those people, if you know them, below.  Until next time then.

The Book is a Beast

Hello Reader!  So let's begin this post with a lament.  No, it's more like a bastardized form of a complaint.  It's so hard to get a novel organized!!!  There are so many things being juggled around at once.  From sequencing to flow to tone, I'm reeling from the variety of plates I've got to keep spinning.

It's all due to the episodic nature of the novel.  I'm not talking about novels in general, I'm talking about mine.  Each chapter is devoted to one theme.  Will an agent think I'm just a schizophrenic teenage author?  It's scary wondering what someone will say about your work that's hundreds of miles away.

Actually, that might be the fear that's really behind my complaints.  Everything from sequencing of events to the tone of the novel are things I can fix.  I guess I'm not truly afraid of those things. I'm just being lazy.  What I'm really scared of are the agents that'll be reading my work.  They don't have an emotional attachment to who I am and what I'm trying to do.

I read a lot of the interviews that these agents give.  They're so damn generic about what they want.  It's like trying to interpret a woman.  Yes means no, but only on Tuesdays when you're having Fried Fish.  Otherwise, Yes means Yes, unless you've gone to the bathroom three times that day.  These are exaggerations, but read anyone of the links above to the Literary Blog.  Sometimes I feel like even these agents don't know what they want.

One guy said that he threw out the Lovely Bones because he couldn't handle it.  He had three daughters and he just couldn't bear to read about a little girl being raped and killed.  Well, how the Hell was Alice Sebold supposed to know that?  Do I have to stalk each and every agent I'm querying?  Should I not send my book to an agent whose father died when they were a young age?  It's baffling how subjective these guys can be, and I, as an author, still have to depend on them!

And then there's the hatred out there for science fiction.  Jeez, no really respectable agent represents it!  It feels like my name has to be Isaac Asimov for me to get published in the genre.  I don't even want to be published in that genre, I want to be in commercial fiction.  But I've got aliens and spaceships in my book.  Nothing matters except for those things.  I barely even have spaceships!  There's only one!  In the first five pages of the book!  And then it's gone.  Ya, I've got tons of aliens, but they're not the slithery kind that like to suck your brains out.  They've got passions and hatreds, loves and loss. 

I'm venting, yes.  But it feels good.  Anyways, I guess I'd better suck it up. It's normal I suppose to be afraid of putting yourself in the fire.  It's a part of life to be afraid of judgment and paranoid of ridicule.  It's also part of life to deal with stubborn people who only see one path, even though you see another.  I've got to convince them my way is the coolest, otherwise this book will stay a 300 page waste of hard drive space.  Let's hope this winter break changes that.  Until Next Time Then.