Elizabeth Massie

I’ve been thinking recently about what it means to be a professional writer, beyond the ordinary “I’m paid for this so that makes me a professional” definition. Having attended a bunch of conventions in my time as well as book signings and other gatherings of writers/artists/and those who make their livings or part of their livings through creative ventures, some things I’ve seen and heard have stuck in my head. And my craw (I’m from the South; we have craws).

One convention I attended this spring had several of the Bigger Names on board, along with a bunch of lesser-known writers. It was a weekend event, with panels and signings scheduled Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Saturday afternoon, while hanging out in the bar between my particular scheduled events, I heard one of the convention organizers wandering around the tables and stools, asking various folks if they had seen a particular professional writer who was in attendance but who hadn’t appeared at any of the scheduled panels that day. Nobody knew where this writer was (well, the writer knew, we didn’t). This writer didn’t show up until later than night, grumbling about this and that, unfazed by the fact that some of this writer’s fans and readers had attended the convention with specific hopes of hearing the writer speak on the panels and had been very disappointed. The organizers were disappointed, too, as well as a little irritated. Granted, this professional wasn’t paid to come to the convention. And yes, this professional even had to pay for the motel room as did all except the Guests of Honors. But this was known ahead of time. When this professional agreed to attend and be present at panels and signings, then the writer should have followed through and should have made an appearance at the panels and signings. To me, this would be the action of a professional.

At another convention recently, I was paired to sign at the same table with a young fantasy writer. She had one book out from a small/specialty publisher and was writing her second book. She was in her mid-thirties, charming, bright, enthusiastic about all things writing. We talked about all sorts of things from publishers to editing to families to pets. Then she said something that really struck me. She said, “I appreciate you talking to me. I was at a mass signing not too long ago and I was sitting next to (name left out here; just let me state that this person is a Big Name in fantasy writing). She was so rude. I introduced myself and she just glanced at me and then away. She never spoke to me. She never looked my way the rest of the time, but only talked to people who bought her book and had it signed.” I told her that writer might have made money as an author but she sure didn’t act like a professional.

Yet another recent convention – I was in the hospitality suite where writers were hanging out, chowing down on chips and chili, having fun. Then one of the Big Names made a loud, derogatory, supposedly humorous remark about another lesser-published writer who was attending the convention. At that very moment, the writer’s husband came into the room. I don’t know if he heard the remark or not, but it was a very uncomfortable moment, regardless. No, writers don’t have to like every other writer’s work nor every other writer. Some writers (and fans) are totally arrogant jerks and I find it hard to say something nice about them. Sure, we talk about each other; that’s human nature. But a hospitality suite is an open space, not a private room. As Jim Moore mentioned in his May blog, word gets out and gets around. Not that insulting a newbie in public is going to ruin an established career, but still, it ain’t very professional. It’s unnecessary. And c’mon, it’s just mean spirited.

Am I expecting too much from my fellow writers to do what they say they will do? To not complain excessively and bad-mouth others just to appear edgy and hip? To be, at least publicly, respectful of others in the business, regardless of whether they’ve published one story or a thousand, one book or a hundred? To respect readers, book buyers, and fans because they are the ones who, ultimately, hold our fates in their hands? To live up to the higher definition of professional?

And one doesn’t have to have been in the biz long to act like a professional. A beginning writer, even a wanna-be writer, may behave much more like a professional that someone who has sold thirty novels. On the other hand, a Big Name who has sold thirty novels can be much more of a professional than the newbie with one story sale who imagines she deserves to be hailed as a creative genius.

Hmmm…maybe it’s just a matter of common courtesy?

Okay. Bye.

Many of you will recall the ole’ Barbra Streisand song. “People…people who need people…are the luckiest people in the world.” Well, in all honesty, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t need someone. They might swear they don’t or act like they don’t, but I’d venture to guess that, based on the song’s logic, everybody merits the title of luckiest person in the world.

I was moderator of a panel recently at Ravencon, a convention in Richmond in April. The panel topic was “Revenge of the Mediocre Character,” with the discussion pitting the merits of ordinary, flawed characters against super-ordinary, powerful heroes. About a third of the way into the talk, I said, “Let’s get deeper for a minute. Do you think it’s important that writers like people in order to create genuine, realistic characters?” Half of the panelists said no, that writers really only had to have an interest or curiosity about people, and it wasn’t necessary to actually like them. The other half felt that it is important for a writer to like or have empathy for people in order to create characters that live and breathe on the page, characters to which readers can relate or care about. I’m of the latter mindset. I think a good writer should be able to imagine, as judgment-free as possible, what it is like to be a certain person in order to develop a realistic character – be the person old or young, rich or poor, educated or not, intellectually lacking or brilliant, pessimistic or optimistic, nerd or jock, mentally unstable or the picture of mental health (whatever that means), kind or cruel, goofy or sophisticated, festeringly angry or bubblingly cheerful, or any varied combination of the above. It doesn’t mean you embrace everything that person thinks or does, but it means you want to understand, you want to dig deep, you want to feel that person and in doing so find an empathy for the pains, joys, fears, misconceptions, hatreds, loves, and hopes that person has experienced.

Jump back, now, to January 2007. Cort and I attended Marscon, a primarily science fiction/fantasy convention in Williamsburg. This convention is made up of typical fantasy/science fiction convention goers, and you’ll know what I mean if you’ve ever attended such a convention. It means people in costumes, people crammed into gaming rooms for hours or days on end, people enthusiastically discussing Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Battlestar Galactica, Harry Potter, Firefly, and Dr. Who, men in capes duking it out in the parking lot with light sabers. I’ve attended a number of science fiction/fantasy/horror conventions in my time; I started going back in 1985, as a matter of fact. Met some of my most favorite writers and developed friendships with some of the most creatively wonderful people in the world at such conventions.

I’ve heard people make big-time fun of those who get into the costumes, the role-playing, the gaming, and the parking lot light saber dueling. But I’m a writer. I really do enjoy people in their many manifestations. Here are some things I’ve witnessed, in hopes that if you’ve dissed these people in the past you might take another look, that you might find some understanding, that you might feel a bit of empathy:

1. Heavyset, sometimes older women who in normal day-to-day are likely overlooked because they don’t match the popular stereotype of beauty, dressed as queens or ladies-in-waiting or winged angels or flowery forest sprites, curtseying gracefully in the hallways to gentlemen in swashbuckling garb who bow respectfully in return. You can feel a genuine sense of pride, joy, and acceptance radiating from these folks. How cool is that?

2. Teenagers, black and white, some dressed like rappers with the sideways hats, chains, and crotch-knee pants, other dressed in simple shirts and jeans, hunkering down over huge tables covered in gaming pieces with people twice their age who are dressed in fantasy tee-shirts, dragon jewelry, or silvery space costumes. The game playing is lively and civil. You are witnessing people who you’d never expect hanging together, hanging together and having a great time doing so. Acceptance and respect personified.

3. Young adults who, when “out in the world,” would be considered nerds, geeks, or goofy misfits, dancing in a big happy circle as a pirate band plays lively, fast-paced music on guitar, fiddle, leather “serpent,” uilleann pipes, and mandolin. These young people laugh and spin and twirl unabashedly, grabbing hands of anyone who cares to join their circle without hesitation, free of the opinions of others beyond their circle, having an absolute ball. God bless ‘em!

Everybody needs somebody. Everybody wants to be understood and accepted. The lady in her queen outfit, the man dressed as a pirate. The teenager in his rapper’s clothes, the young woman in her dragon jewelry. The caped saber-dueler, the costumed Storm Trooper. The twenty-year-old grabbing onto others’ hands and dancing in a circle without caring how he might appear to the critical eye, the rabid game player who hasn’t bathed in a couple days because for the time being there are more important things in his life. The less than cheerful checkout lady at Wal-Mart, the weary young mother with two squirming kids in her grocery cart. The homeless man, the bullied and enraged high school outcast. The elderly man who can no longer drive his car, the fashion model starving herself to stay in the game, the young man whose only family is a gang, the six-year-old whose mother is a drug addict, the middle aged wife whose husband just died of a heart attack, the tortured captive in a dark and isolated cell. These are all real people. We want real people to people our stories.

As a writer, I care. I want to care. I’m sure I don’t care enough, but I want to get better at it. If I can represent another human being as someone with depth, as someone with all those hopes and dreams and fears and pains I mentioned earlier, I think I will have done at least part of my job well. And perhaps if a reader can see, can come to understand or feel some sort of relation to a particular fictional character, then maybe, maybe, he or she will be less likely to diss a similar person in real life. Maybe he or she will give it a bit more thought before judging. And wouldn’t that be an ultimate cool?

Emotions. If you’re a conscious human being, you got ‘em and there’s no use denying it. Love, anger, contentment, sadness, frustration, hope, joy, fear. In the period of one day, we probably experience most if not all of them as they dance or crawl or float or claw their ways through our stomachs, hearts, and minds, coloring what we see and how we react to the world.

Today, ladies and gentlemen, let’s look at fear.

Yep, I’m scared of stuff. I fear small, enclosed spaces. I mean, what if I get stuck in there and can never get out? How scary is that? For the first time in my life, I had an MRI about a month ago. When I saw the machine my heart began to race and I started planning my escape. I made it through the twenty minutes inside only because they gave me earplugs and a washcloth over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and another technician talked to me most of the time I was inside, rambling on about families and vacations and movies. There were a few panic moments but the tech talked me through them.

I also fear heights. I went on a really fun rock-scramble a couple years ago in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was great for the most part: climbing up and around big rocks, finding pathways between, grasping the granite and the lichens, watching insects skitter in and out of cracks in the stone, working the old leg and arm muscles. But there were two moments that totally freaked me out. One when I reached a section where it wasn’t just solid rock around and beneath me…there was a crevasse about fifty feet deep that I had to step over to get to the next portion of the climb. Now the “step over” against the wall of rock to my left was only about two feet wide, and there was secure footing on the other side, but to my right the opening widened and there was the drop with nothing below but treetops and wind. I freaked. I slammed myself against the wall of rock, closed my eyes, and tried to figure out if I could go forward or would have to go back, retracing my steps to where I began. Finally, and miraculously, I took a deep breath, refused to look to my right, and stepped over to the other side. The second moment that scared me was when I reached the highest point of the rock scramble. There I stood atop a huge boulder at the highest mountain point, with nothing but drops to all sides. And it was windy, big-time windy. Even though the boulder was large and flat across the top, I had visions of being blown off like a piece of crumbled paper. I dropped to my knees, mouth dry and heart racing, and crawled across the boulder to reach the place where I began my descent. It was good to get back down to the “real ground.”

Now, let me echo what most of you are probably thinking. Fear is an important emotion. It can keep us out of suspicious alleyways or avoid creepy people. It can make us cover our heads, run, or hide in the face of imminent danger. Fear of strange dogs might keep us from getting our ass or fingers chomped off. Fear of not having enough money to pay our bills can make us work harder, or longer, or even get another job.

Fear, however, can turn around and bite us in the behind, just like that strange dog. It can cause us to cower and freeze. It can suck us dry of ambition, energy, and clarity. And such fear-based troubles are never more apparent than in those of us who want to or do create fiction. We have wonderful ideas parading in our heads, stories with characters we love or hate, stories of drama and terror and destruction and triumph. We feel the raw emotion our characters feel, we see, taste, and smell the landscape in which we’ve placed them. Not only would our story read well in print, but it would make a great movie, too! It’s so visual, so visceral, so moving, so powerful!

Then we turn on our computers, pound away for a while, then sit back to behold what we’ve created. And the fear kicks in. We begin to doubt what we’ve done, what we’re hoping to do, and we freeze. David Bayles and Ted Orland, authors of Art & Fear, sum up some of the internal doubts that stop us in our tracks:

I’m not an artist/writer – I’m a phony.
I have nothing worth saying.
I’m not sure what I’m doing.
Other people are better than I am.
I’m only a (student/physicist/mother/whatever).
No one understands my work.
No one likes my work.
I’m no good.

You chant these mantras enough and you won’t get anywhere. You’ll labor (or stop laboring altogether) under the assumption that you have to be More Than Ordinary to create fiction. You have to be a Shakespeare or a Dickens or a Twain to produce anything of value. You fear that without that special genius spark, what you have to say is crap, or worse. You shut down the computer or close up the journal and put it aside, though inside something still nags at you to write. A conundrum. What you want you fear because what you want you fear you cannot really have, and just imagine all the pain that could come of trying and failing? You can imagine the gorgeous view from the mountain top boulder – the sunlight, the blue skies, and the 360-degree vista revealing distant ridges yet to climb. But also simultaneously imagine yourself getting crumpled up and blown off like some bit of trash, never to climb again.

Just remember this. True literary geniuses are few and far between; yet look at all the good books and stories that have been published throughout time. Of course, you need to do your homework, to learn how to construct a decent sentence, how to use grammar properly, to learn about point of view and voice and pacing. But these are skills a writer can be learn, just as a painter can learn about perspective, color, and composition. Taking a writing course might accomplish this, but so will reading, reading, reading good works to see, to absorb, the craft of writing and then writing, writing, writing to exercise your skills, immersing yourself into the act as a student might immerse himself or herself into a new language in a foreign country. Will the writing be the stuff of genius? Probably not. Is that okay? Absolutely. Will it get better? Very possibly, if you don’t quit.

To get started, just Put down the first sentence. Put down the second. See where it’s going. Realize it might not go where you expect, but that’s part of the uncertainty of writing, the uncertainly of making art. You might have an outline, but even then, realize and accept the fact that things may well change as you go along. Let go of the need to control everything, just do it. Move ahead. Tell your story. Let it happen. Allow the fear of heights wash over you, and then take another step, and another. Know that most art is made by ordinary people. That means you can to it, too. And it doesn’t necessarily mean the results will be ordinary, but who can tell for certain until it is done?

Don’t assume you are predestined to fail, though you might come short of your expectations or what you think are the world’s expectations. Realize that you will struggle but that what is created by you is, literally and figuratively, in your own hands. Embrace that freedom. Chose to write if it is what you long to do. And if it makes you feel any better, know that every writer I know – professional, amateur, and dabbler – has struggled with fear. But those who have ultimately succeeded are those who took the risks, faced the fear, and made the choice.

by Elizabeth Massie
Yes, I’ll admit it. I watch “Cops.” Some Friday or Saturday nights, when Cort and I have dinner (our dining room is a converted art studio so we eat in the living room), we tune in to Court TV and watch the finest from around the country chase down, drag out, wrestle with, handcuff, question, and arrest the not-so-finest of the same areas. We try guess the year the show was filmed based on the hair-dos, cars, and clothes. Cort makes a Three Stooges sound – “Whoo whoo whoo whoo!” – when a suspect suddenly high-tails it down the street on foot or across yards and fences. I shake my head in wearied amazement when perp after perp, once he or she has been caught in the act of 1) stealing a car, 2) selling drugs, 3) soliciting prostitution, or 4) beating up a spouse/neighbor/friend/cousin, gets all sweet and compliant and swears 1) “I didn’t do nothin’, sir”, 2) “It wasn’t me, sir”, 3) “This is the first time I done this, sir,” 4) “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, sir,” 5) “Those aren’t mine, sir,” 6) “This is my cousin’s car, sir,” or 7) I go home and go to sleep, Poppy…I mean Officer.”So what the heck does “Cops” have to do with writing? Why do I waste my precious time on such a goofy show? (An aside: I’ve had some writers tell me they disdain television, it’s a waste of time, it’s a mind-numbing leech, etc., etc. Well, I’m not them. So poo to you on that.)

If you are a character-driven writer, like me, you often slip your feet into the other person’s (occasionally smelly) shoes to see what his or her life might be like. You try on his/her skin, clothes, hair-do, education, family, income, prejudices, fears, hatreds, and abode. This is a good tool for creating realistic and/or sympathetic characters.

People are people wherever they are, in spite of the various differences listed above. We eat, we breathe, we pee, we sleep, we need, we want, we live, we die. And I am fascinated by how closely related we are, in both this moment and the potential next, with fragile threads that are broken or left intact depending on decisions we make, actions we take.

On “Cops” I see a young guy with a burned out tail light get pulled over by the police. The cops stop their own car and get out to talk to the dude. The dude suddenly stomps on the gas and pulls off, high-tailing it away, the demon-red glow of his taillights retreating into the night. A moment’s decision, and everything changes. If he’d just waited to get his ticket for the light, he wouldn’t have added evading, speeding, reckless driving, and running numerous stoplights/signs to his list of sins. And the cops probably wouldn’t have taken him out of the car, patted him down, and discovered the packet of meth in his jeans. A spit second decision and the dude’s life has changed irrevocably. Not that the meth wouldn’t have gotten him, but still, it’s a different pathway.

Nobody naw give you no break.

Another episode – cops are called in on a domestic violence report. A man in the yard is whacking on his wife/girlfriend/whatever. When the cops attempt to separate them, the wife/girlfriend/whatever turns on the cops and pops one in the face. Blam! She is arrested for assaulting an officer. A thin fabric of time between pre-arrest and post-arrest. She could have just let it go and let the husband/boyfriend/whatever pay his price. But no, she lashed out and so was also charged.

Police naw give you no break.

Now, I grew up in a normal-ish family. We had our troubles, but for the most part we were happy, healthy, comfortable, and safe. The only real criminal was one of my grandfathers, who molested my sisters and me when we were little. He never went to jail, we never told, and he died before I was an adult and my own kids were born. Good. Other than that, and beyond my own lone speeding ticket, I can’t think of anything any of us have done that would be “Cops” worthy. No car thefts. No drug selling. No stabbings, shootings, beatings, maulings, evadings, embezzeling. Such a lifestyle is foreign to my own personal experience. But, of course, I wonder about it. I’m a writer.

So what if I made a poor, wrong, or ill conceived split-second decision? How would my life be altered, if not for the next moment or hour, but perhaps my entire life? There is such a tenuous line between doing something and not, killing someone and not, stealing something and not. Human skin is just several millimeters thick; what a delicate barrier between life and bleeding out.

What if I slap the back of the head of the lady who is taking too long in the grocery line? What if I accidentally stick this knife in my eye, or in somebody else’s eye? What if I push the person in front of me down the escalator? What if I scream “fire” in a crowded theater? What if I take off my clothes in the middle of the mall? What if I cuss out the cop on the street corner, or make obscene gestures to the already furious man in the car next to me? What if I just grab hold of that razor wire with both hands, or sick my finger in that socket? What if I jump in front of the bus that is coming down the street? I would guess that each simple, split-second decision would veer my life in a direction I would then no longer have to imagine, and I would have to face the consequences.

So, back to writing. Imagining “what if” is an excellent tool to get things going. Letting your mind meander over the many possible what-ifs, from the benign to the terrifying, choosing a couple of those tenuous lines to cross over, and then following the results to their conclusion, can let you become your characters – to feel what they feel, to hear and smell what they smell, to taste what they taste, without having to actually cuss out the cop, slap the woman, or jump in front of the bus. And, happily, cops won’t pull you over. You won’t have to stand there as they grope you for drugs or weapons and as the cameraperson gets in your face. You won’t be harassed, tazed, or cuffed. You’ll still be safe at home, in front of your computer, shaking your head, feeling sympathy or rage or even bemusement at your character for making such a pathetic or careless split-second decision, and then getting down to work to record the results and the unfolding story.

>Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?

Okay. Bye.

So it’s the second day of the New Year. Time to see how my resolutions are faring.

Resolution #1 – Don’t eat as much sugar this year. There were lots of Christmas cookies and candy lying around the house…a tin of those little Danish sweeties, a box of chocolate covered cherries, a half plate of brownies, several canes of Hersheyetts. I finshed them all in the last hour before midnight on the 31st.

Resolution #2 – Leave the desk more frequently; get those legs movin’, those arms workin’, that blood pumpin’. I took out several bags of holiday trash yesterday. They had to weigh a couple pounds each.

Resolution #3 – Get out more to visit/see people and places, as writing can be a very solitary career which can make for one very solitary writer, limiting one’s exposure to the real world about which the writer attempts to write. I went to the post office yesterday to mail a couple bills that were due, well, yesterday. I was all ready to chat and be friendly with the other folks at the post office, ready to watch and observe and take mental notes of their witty whimsicalness, their charming and disarming humanness. But come to find out, most people don’t congregate at the post office on New Year’s Day.

Resolution #4 – Watch less t.v. I’ve only watched one show since the New Year – the Twilight Zone marathon.

Resolution #5 – Meet all writing deadlines this year. I usually do, but a few have slipped past in the past. Not this year. This year I shall be the consummate professional I’ve always imagined I could be. Speaking of which, I have a novel due to my editor at Berkley at noon today (a ghost story called Homeplace, which will hit the stands in August). I’ve finished the book but need to do one more read over before I send it off on its merry way across cyberspace. Four hours…I can get this done.

So far, so good.

Happy 2007!

Okay. Bye.

(Sing to the tune of the Andy Williams’ hit song, “Love Story”)

Where do I begin,
To tell a story of how bad a book can be?
A volume painful as a wrenched and splintered knee?
The simple truth – that it smells like an urn of pee?
Where do I start?

With its first few words,
It gave new meaning to the terms “this sucks,” “this stinks,”
As cold and lifeless as a pile of flattened skinks.
That this was published make me groan, and my heart sinks.
It drives me mad.

It drives me mad because they’re everywhere,
These so-called “books” from so-called “publishers,”
In stores, online, all perfect bound,
And looking just like tomes that you should pay for,
That you should read, and should I say more?
You’ll reach for your cash,
A big mistake.

How long will this last?
How many crappy books will see the light of day?
I have an answer now
And this much I will say,
As long as “writers” have the money they can pay,
They’ll still be there.
They’ll still be there.

***********************

As much as possible I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. Ask Cort. He thinks I sometimes give too much benefit of the doubt when there is little to benefit and much to doubt. Please keep that in mind as I wail and moan and gnash my teeth a bit.

I love writing – the whole idea of creating stories for other people to read, stories that will amuse, entertain, frighten, enlighten, and/or challenge the readers. I love writers –
from the well-known to the lesser-known to the unknown, writers who produce interesting, engaging, well-envisioned, or craftily off-the-wall works. These folks are sparkling gems in this world. To you, I raise a glass of cold Pepsi (that’s an honor here in Massie-land).

And then there are the others.

Where do I begin?

While visiting various bookstores during the last few months I’ve run across folks at signing tables promoting their new books. I’ll discuss two in particular. Two from whom I bought books, so I know what I’m talking about. No assumptions here, no unfair stereotyping, just the cold hard facts.

Signing #1: This was held at an independent bookstore. Nice, cozy little place that carried a variety of topics and titles. The writer was a lovely lady, all smiley, very pleasant. She had a table display with a cute stuffed horse and a cake decorated with icing horses, one she shared with potential and actual customers on horsey paper plates. Guess what her book was about? Did you guess horses? Very good. Arabian horses in particular. It was written for children and was packed with illustrations, though the illustrations were, I noted immediately, painfully amateur and overly sugary, reminding me of the sincere, optimistic, yet untrained drawings of middle school kids I used to teach. The book itself was slick and perfect bound, a tidy little package. On the inside back cover was the author’s bio and a charming photo of her with one of her many Arabian horses. I’d never heard of the publisher, but noted its office was in the same city as this bookstore, the same city where this writer lived. Hmmm….

Okay. So. I buy a copy of this lady’s horsey children’s book. I figure, in spite of the lopsided illustrations, it may be a nice little story that my granddaughter, when she’s a bit older, will enjoy.

Oh.

My.

I can’t ever remember reading such convoluted descriptions, unrealistic dialogue, and page after page of actionless, emotionless, confusing blather in what was called a published book. I think the horses ran away and had some kind of adventure, though I’m not sure what exactly they did while away or how they got home to their flower-strewn farm. At one point one horse smelled something and got scared. The other one died at the end. But I think he came back as an angel, or maybe it was a dream. Since I couldn’t in good conscience give the book to Anya, I gave it to a friend who writes children’s books (with titles from publishers such as Random House, Peachtree, and Simon & Schuster) and she said she’ll use parts of it, without mentioning the title or author, to teach the various errors one might make in writing fiction.

Signing #2: This was at a Barnes & Noble. Another lady was selling her first novel, a young adult romantic suspense. She explained that it was about a girl struggling within an oppressive family and then growing up to overcome the past. This book was from a publisher I’d never heard of based in the mid-west. But hey, there are lots of publishers I’ve never heard of. On the back inside cover, the publisher touted itself as having only the best editors who choose fiction of merit and produce books of quality. There was a nice photo of the author in there, too, holding her dog, looking very writerly.

Okay. So I buy a copy of this lady’s young adult romantic suspense book. I figure, I’ve written some YA novels and I like to see what other people are doing for that market. Plus, I like to support other writers as much as possible.

Oh.

My.

I got a chai and muffin at the bookstore coffee shop and settled down to read a bit as Cort perused the aisles. On the back cover I noted a glaring typo. I started reading. On page one I found two typos with more to come, scattered throughout in good measure. By page 10 the girl’s oppressive family back-story was complete. No descriptions of how the family was oppressive other than she had to wear conservative clothes. Only a mention that the church she attended was very strict. (How strict? I wanted to know. What was it like inside that church with those “oppressive” people? Come on, you’re a writer, aren’t you? Show me!) On page 5, when our heroine is eight, we are told she is teased by other kids because of her clothing. A sixth grade boy then comes to her aid and tells her that she shouldn’t be sad because one day she will rise up and claim herself in her own right, that she will become a shining star, shining brighter than the rest. (This isn’t verbatim but almost verbatim. I kid you not.) A sixth grade boy said this? I’ve taught sixth grade boys. Even the kindest and brightest don’t talk like that. Then our heroine goes to college and meets her roommates in the dorm. The reader is treated to five different points of view on a single page. Back and forth and around and around. This happens throughout the book, numerous POVs bouncing from one to another in a very short space of text. The story never stays in anyone’s head for any length of time. Nobody sounds real. They each speak as if they are waiting for the writer to give them their next line. There is absolutely no emotion, except that we’re told the girl falls in love. At one point, when our heroine laughs and tells a friend that she feels like she’s a character in a certain movie, the writer pauses with a little aside to explain the movie and who starred in it, so, I suppose, a reader wouldn’t be confused by the character’s comment. The one ethnic character is differentiated from the others because she starts most of her sentences with “Girl,…” I was ready to tear my hair out by page 68 (am I not persistent to get that far?)

So here are my frustrated meanderings.

If someone has enough money or drive, he or she can get a book out. It might be self-published. It might be friend-published (I’ll start a publishing company for you and you start one for me!) It might be published by a wanna-be company that has little idea or concern about what makes a good story – they don’t pay the author squat (because the author should be happy to have his/her book in print so they can just suck it up) and they don’t edit worth beans. But o! doesn’t the book look nice?

No longer is having a book published a unique and note-worthy accomplishmen
t because the technology is universally available. Everybody’s doin’ it (doin’ it, doin’ it, pickin’ their nose and chewin’ it, chewin’ it.) It’s like serious, professional writers have been displaying in a juried fine arts show but recently the show has opened its doors to include paint-by-numbers and kit crafts.

Here’s my benefit of the doubt, offered to good writers. If you know how to tell a good tale, if you know how to revise and edit, if you have taken care to make sure it flows, that the characters are realistic with personalities and emotions, that the tale doesn’t jump around carelessly, that the action is shown and not told, and yet the bigger name publishers aren’t interested, then go for it. Publish it however you want. There are some excellent smaller and specialty presses that know the business and care about producing good books. Or publish it yourself. Or let your friend do it. I’ll cheer you on. You deserve to have your book out there and I might even buy a copy.

But if you don’t or haven’t or won’t, then stop for a moment and think. Do you really want to have your name on something that others will run from in terror or laugh at uncomfortably? Don’t you think it would be a good idea to learn how to write before selling your writing to readers and therefore establishing a less than respected name for yourself? Don’t you want to write and sell books beyond your first effort?

I realize that nothing I say will make a difference. Those who find the cash and have the drive will publish those books anyway. They’re going to clog the literary arteries like so much bad cholesterol. And those who write good fiction will continue to swim the wild and whirling current with as much strength and determination as possible to keep their heads above the gathering sludge.

If I come across as benefit-of-the-doubtless, so be it. If I sound elitist, I don’t mean to. But thanks for hearing me out.

Okay. Bye.

Beth

Most of my writing is fiction, often times horror/suspense, sometimes historical fiction supported by facts, but fiction nonetheless. I love creating characters and seeing what they’ll do once I plunk them down into a particular setting with certain circumstances nipping at their heels.

I also publish nonfiction. I’ve written about the works of Dean Koontz and about why kids love horror. I’ve written essays on novels and films that have affected me on one level or other. I’ve written biographies of famous Americans. I’ve written textbook chapters on the Freedmen’s Bureau, World War I, and the Vietnam War. I’ve written a children’s dictionary of animals. I’ve written articles on mutations, erosion, harnessing tidal power, and other sciencely things.

Writers rarely stick to one kind of writing. Why? Because if you can write, and write well, you possess a powerful tool. And power often resists a narrow channel.

Because I hold this powerful tool, because I can put one word after another in a relatively sensible manner, I often take up the cause of issues that concern me. Writing letters to an editor or guest editorials to newspaper won’t earn me any money and will sometimes win me enemies. Yet the very core of my being is infused with words, they are as much a part of me as my skin and bones and nerves, and I must write them, I must share them. The old proverb, “The pen is mightier than the sword” (Edward George Bulwer Lytton (1803-1873) rings true to me. If there is something to be corrected, I want to take part. I may not be good at giving a speech. I might not have a lot of money to contribute to a fix a wrong. But I can write about it.

Here is my newest fight – On November 7th, Virginia citizens will vote on what is called “Ballot Question #1.” This so-called “marriage amendment” will prohibit marriage between same sex couples. It will also prevent unmarried couples (both straight and gay) from being able to have legal agreements that “approximate” the agreements allowed in marriage…such as powers of attorney for matters of medical decisions, property rights, wills, etc. Otherwise disinterested family members could swoop down and challenge a will that leaves worldly possessions to a person’s life partner and very likely have the will overturned. Same thing with medical decisions…a couple who have lived together for years, and have given the other the right to make difficult health care decisions when the other is not able, can have a sister from lord-knows-where show up out of the blue, or a state rep if there is no living relative, and steal those decisions right out from under the one who has been “like a spouse” to the other for so long. Doesn’t matter, says Virginia, because that’s the evil of the matter…these people have been living like spouses, attempting to “approximate” the design, benefits, rights, etc. of marriage. Heaven knows, say the amendment proponents, we can’t allow that! It is against God and family values!

This issue infuriates me. Yes, I believe in allowing same sex marriage. I also believe there should not be a constitutional amendment that takes away citizens’ rights. My partner, Cortney and I, would be directly affected by the amendment if it passes, as we are a committed, long-term, yet unmarried heterosexual couple. I don’t think Virginia should force people to marry just so they can have strong legal agreements between them, or to deny others the right to marry in order to keep them from ever gaining those rights in the first place.

I’ve written letters to the editor of various newspapers on this as well as several guest columns. I’ve written e-mails to friends and family who live and vote in Virginia, asking them to “PLEASE VOTE NO ON BALLOT QUESTION #1!” I’ve just written this essay.

Are you a writer? Is there something bothering you, something unjust or unclear or nonsensical, something that should be changed or should be prevented from happening? If so, take a few moments from your ghost story or zombie novel and wield that inky sword, my friends! Don’t feel like composing a long treatise? Sometimes a few good lines is plenty to give a reader food for thought. Help make a difference. Life is too short not to.

So it’s October, and some of the Unplugged Storytellers have decided this month to share a bit of spooky fiction instead of thoughts and musings on the writing life and craft. Let me go first.

“Whittler” was my very first published short story, back in the day when The Horror Show magazine ruled. It was summer, and I’d just come home from a week at Simmons College in Boston at the New England Writers Conference. What an excellent week that was…intense writing sessions, guest speakers (Stephen King was one), and meeting other writers who wanted to make it in the world of words, such as our very own charming and talented Brian Hodge. During our off hours, we were able to travel around the great city and dream aloud about our hopes for the future. Brian was a step ahead of me; he had sold a short story to THS, and kindly gave me Dave Silva’s contact information and the important head’s up – “Dave doesn’t want stories over 3,500 words.”

Everything I’d written to that point was 6,000 or more. So, on arriving home, I challenged myself to write the briefest story I could write while still making it coherent and cohesive. I came up with 685 words, which I’d fine-tuned and had ready to submit in two hours. Three weeks after I submitted the story, I received my acceptance letter in the mail (on my 30th birthday.) I also got a check for $2.00. I was on my way.

There has been discussion recently about why horror literature is often relegated, like a piece of chewed gum, to the bottom of the sole of the shoe of that fine gentleman/gentlewoman called literature. John Rosenman had a well-written, well thought-out two-part essay on that very topic here on Storytellers Unplugged (see August 11 and August 14). He mused on the fact that horror seems to be victim of “literary racism” and pondered the factors that make it so.

I want to run a bit more with that, trailing the sticky, chewed up gum as I go. My thoughts aren’t as well thought-out or researched as John’s, but here they are.

I agree with John’s assessments. Horror fiction is often misjudged and even dismissed before someone takes the trouble to even read what it is they are dismissing. It is also tossed aside by some after they’ve sampled it because horror fiction can be gritty, gruff, painful, and startling, and therefore discomfiting. However, I think another reason people who read other types of literature may cringe and roll their eyes when we mention horror is that we in the horror business sometimes poop on the plate.

Let me back up a bit. A little while ago, I was flipping through a magazine that features horror fiction. Nice package with a slick cover, some top notch fiction among the less than stellar, a few excellent illustrations among the not-so-good, and some interesting interviews and articles. Then I saw the poop on the plate. It was an ad for a gross-out writing contest. The come-on included a black and white photo of a coiling log of glistening (what appeared to be) human feces on a dinner plate, complete with silverware and a cloth napkin tied up in a bow. It challenged folks to send in their “best shit” to the contest.

Okay. Well.

I’ve written graphic horror. When something needs to be shown to the reader, I rarely hesitate. Horror is a dark genre that doesn’t flinch when it shouldn’t flinch; it gets to the heart of matters without shying away. It is a genre that can hold its head up for what it reveals about fear, terror, and other emotions, about character and dire circumstances, about torment, struggle, failure, and yes, even hope. When genuinely curious folks ask me why I write horror and read horror, I point to those facets of horror fiction. But sometimes behind those questions, somewhere in the doubtful crinkle of their eyes I can detect that unspoken question, “So, why do you guys poop on plates?”

So I ask my horror brethren and sisteren this: does horror as a genre have to also include the gross-out for gross-out sake? Does it have to include the “how many ways can I make you vomit for the fun of vomiting,” the “let’s paint the walls with our warm, steaming shit ‘cause it feels really cool – or warm – on our fingers,” the “let’s see how sick we can make our readers” writings? Can’t that be another genre? Please? It’s like a smelly, drooling little brother with few social skills who tags along wherever you go; he doesn’t quite fit in or have many friends of his own, so he wants and needs you to open the doors for him.

No, I’m not a prude. I’m not stomping on anyone’s creative expression. I’m not saying don’t write the gross-out. Have at it, poop all you want, whenever you want, on whatever you want, truly, it’s fine with me. Tell me I don’t understand the free-spirited rebellion inherent in poopy-plate fiction. Tell me I don’t understand art. That’s totally cool.

But in the meanwhile I ask again, does it have to be considered horror fiction? Can’t we give the smelly little brother up for adoption? Can’t he have a shelf space of his own?

Okay. Bye.