Matt Forbeck

I’m still finishing up the novel I mentioned last month—almost there!—so I’m going to keep this short and sweet.

I love to listen to music. Back when I was a kid, I’d pull out my parents LP albums and 45s (that’s a single-song vinyl record, kid, not a pistol) and listen to them over and over again. I’d learn the lyrics, sing along, and then sing them to myself when I wasn’t anywhere near a record player or radio. (This was back before MP3s and things that play them.)

Today, I still love listening to music, and fortunately I work at a computer that gives me access to countless tunes of all stripes. The trouble is that when I’m working I don’t want to listen to most of them. Writing uses the verbal centers of your brain, the ones they always check to see if they’re shutting off accidentally when they do brain surgery, which is why they keep you awake through it and treat you as if you’re drilling words for the national spelling bee.

Songs with lyrics, of course, also worm their way into that part of the brain—unless I’m familiar enough with them to ignore them and treat them like background chatter. Unfortunately, I need every bit of that center that I can draw on when I’m writing a novel. There’s just not enough of it to spare, and if my brain starts latching on to lyrics and singing along—even just in my head—it’s not letting me use what I need to write. In other words, there’s only so much mindwidth getting pumped out of my verbal centers, and I need to give my writing full access to it.

Because of this, I like listening to wordless music when I write: soundtracks, techno, trance, house, things with a beat but nothing to say—at least literally. In fact, I’ll often pick up or adopt a certain album for a new book and then listen to it over and over while I write. When I’m done with the book, I’m often done (at least for a while) with that piece of music too.

The music also helps drown out the other strange noises in my house—I have lots of kids—and lets me focus on the writing instead. Things like screams still manage to poke through, which is likely good for my family’s long-term survival though.

When I’m not writing, though, I really go for great music with solid lyrics that mean something to me. For instance, the ringtone on my cell phone is the opening bars to “Taking Care of Business” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive. As the song says, “If you ever get annoyed, look at me. I’m self-employed. I love to work at nothing all day.”

I am behind on a deadline for my next novel, the first of three I’m writing this year, on top of a couple nonfiction books, a screenplay, and other things I have little doubt will come my way. One of the main rules of writing is to finish what you start, preferably on time.

So, I’m going to go do that and strive to be a better example of how it should be done. Then I’ll come back here and blather on at greater length, hopefully about how I pulled this off. Till then, keep writing!

I know I will. I’m contractually obligated to—and grateful to be so.

Today, likely as you read this, I’m heading to LA for the US premiere of the Mutant Chronicles film, of which I wrote the novelization. I’ve been involved with the world of the Mutant Chronicles since the early ’90s, during which period I wrote or edited nearly every RPG, CCG, or miniatures game book associated with it.

Even back then, the people who owned the games—Target Games in Sweden—were planning on a film. I helped polish the original treatment for the film and even supplied a second treatment of my own for the pitch package that eventually brought Ed Pressman on board as the film’s producer. Before that, Ed’s family at Pressman Toys also produced the original Mutant Chronicles game: Siege of the Citadel. Small world.

Now, about a decade and a half later, the film is finally going to have its theatrical release in the US this week.

With most novelizations, as a writer, you’re pretty much stuck with whatever you can find in the script. The studio executives want to make sure you’re giving the readers the story they’ve developed—no more and no less.

If you look at a novel made into a film, though, you can see how much has to be taken out of the novel to cram it into the standard two hours or less that most Hollywood films run. It stands to reason that transforming the film into a novel would require creating a lot of extra material that just wouldn’t go into a film, but that’s a rare thing to see happen.

Fortunately, given my long history with the world, the people at Paradox Entertainment who hired me asked me to do just that. With their encouragement, I wrote a double-deluxe writer’s cut of the novel that the film could have been adapted from. It features many chapters of all-new backstory, character development, treachery, and big explosions that the novel demanded over and above what the film could provide. And I had a blast doing it.

To make sure that the novelization and the film synced up tightly, the people at Paradox flew me out to LA last year to watch a nearly final cut of the film in a private screening room in West Hollywood. While potential distributors took in the film, I devoured it twice, furiously typing notes on my laptop, hoping to be able to capture everything I could to make the book as faithful to the film as I could.

Now, with the book out since last fall, and the film finally in theaters, I can’t wait to see it on the big screen—again.

Back in September, I wrote about “The Season of the Pitch.” In that, I mentioned that one of challenges with freelance writing is that right after you sign contracts for one gig you often wind up getting contacted about a better, shinier assignment. After you’ve spent so much time beating the bushes to flush out these choice pieces of work, it’s hard to turn them down. After all, if you didn’t want to do them, you wouldn’t have pitched for them in the first place, right?

Let me state, though, that this is an excellent problem to have. It’s hard to complain about having too many cool things to work on, especially when others may be struggling to find anything to work on at all.

So don’t. Sit your butt in the chair and get the work done instead. You can sleep when you’re dead—or at least when you’re done. Sooner or later, the season of the pitch will come around again, and you’ll wonder where all those people who piled work on you last year have gone.

Of course, that’s easier to say than do. Life tends to crop up and suck up time too. For instance, I just spent a few hours in the local ER with my son Ken, who sliced open his hand on a fireplace door, a wound that required nine stitches to repair. He should be fine, although he’ll have a nice scar to show off later.

The point is that you can’t plan for things like that. They happen, you deal with them, and you get back to work as soon as you can. Good editors will understand if such things make you a little late.

However, if you dodge emails and phone calls for weeks while you juggle projects and scramble to catch up, those good editors will turn on you—the way they should. There’s little worse to an editor than to wonder if she needs to recommission something that might show up completed the next day.

So, if you get behind, be sure to be up front about it as soon as you can. Apologize, offer solutions, and keep moving.

It’s better yet, though, if you can figure out a way to hit those deadlines, no matter how fast they keep coming at you. Doing this requires discipline, self-knowledge, a calendar, and a calculator.

Your self-knowledge tells you how much work you can get done in a given stretch of time. Keep a record of how many words you write each day, both under the worst and the best of circumstances. You’ll need this information later.

Use your calculator to figure out how many days each project in your pipeline should take. If you can write 5,000 words per day on a good day, and you’re tackling a 100,000-word book, then that should take you about 20 days to complete. Of course, that assumes you can string together 20 good days in a row. Some will be better than that, and others will be worse, but this should give you at least a rough idea of how much time you need.

Then take up that calendar and plot out those days you need. Don’t forget about weekends and holidays. You can sacrifice those breaks when you find yourself in a crunch, but try not to do that to yourself too often. That way lies burnout, which is the last thing you need when you’re hoping to beat your deadlines.

Once you’ve done all that, focus on your discipline to make sure you stick to your plan. A plan’s no good if you ignore it, no matter whether your excuses are excellent or not. Keep at it, and soon you’ll find yourself on the other side of the crunch—and with a stack of shiny new credits (and corresponding payments) to wait on.

As I watched the inauguration of Barack Obama, the reporters and pundits strove to overlay a narrative on nearly every detail, from the gift that Michelle Obama brought Laura Bush to the look in George W. Bush’s eyes as Barack took the oath of office. That’s their job. They’re there to provide us with a context for what we see on TV.

Just like in fiction, the best narratives in life have a sense of both the improbable and the inevitable about them. President Obama’s personal history resonates with the strength of the American dream. A boy born to a Kenyan immigrant and a native Kansan, then raised by a single mother and his grandparents, grows up to become the first African-American President of the United States.

When Obama was a child, I’m sure this seemed like such an impossible dream that his parents couldn’t possibly have imagined it for him. Looking back from today, though, his ascent has a well-defined arc as clear as a meteor burning through the summer skies.

Good fiction works like that too. You start with a simple premise, and you follow the hero on a journey through a staggering series of events until coming to a triumphant close. Sure, not every story works this way, but the most satisfying ones tend to.

As the pundits (and Obama’s team) create this narrative, they pick out and highlight the relevant details, the ones that wind up having some bearing on the story line they’ve chosen. Details like who was his first girlfriend or what he had for breakfast on his first day at Harvard get passed over. They might be interesting in themselves, but they don’t mean anything to the story at hand.

As human beings, we crave that sense of order in the universe, the feeling that events mean something, especially when lined up next to each other. We want to believe that purpose drives our lives, not random chance, so we naturally winnow out those relevant details and leave the chaff behind.

Fiction has to follow that same urge. Nothing in a well-told tale is random, even if it might feel that way at any particular moment. In fiction, the author plays the role of the intelligent designer, placing every piece, forming every character, and setting events in motion.

This is why truth can—and often is—stranger than fiction. Reality is random, no matter how we may try to frame it.

Dick Cheney hurt his back just before the inauguration. This put him in a black overcoat and a wheelchair for the ceremony. All he needed was a white cat on his lap to transform him fully into Ersnt Stavro Blofeld.

Later in the day, Senators Ted Kennedy (last of his generation of Kennedy politicians) and Robert Byrd (former KKK leader who endorsed Obama in the primaries) both became ill at the post-inauguration lunch.

If you placed these events in a bit of serious fiction, you might set your readers’ eyes rolling. They’re just a little too pat to ring true—even if they are. To make such things work, a writer needs to set them up before knocking them down. Kicking something that’s already down is the act of a bully, not an author.

And nobody likes a bully.

I don’t write because I have to. I do it because I forced myself to.

I know some writers say, “A writer writes,” or “write every day,” or “I can’t not write.” None of those apply to me. I can go without writing for days—weeks even, especially if there’s a long vacation stretching out before me. That might not sound like much, but I make my living as a full-time writer. If I don’t write (or design games or toys, which I also lump into my makeshift career), I don’t eat.

More to the point, my family of seven doesn’t eat. I usually find that notion serves up plenty of motivation to write. I don’t need a neurosis to pull me to the keyboard. I don’t pursue some grand notion of art. I’m not here to change the world—just to feed my family and to have a great time while I do it.

Of course, if I can change the world along the way, I’m all for it. I don’t spend much time hoping that will happen. Few pieces of writing have actually changed the world, and I’m not quite arrogant enough to think any of mine will. I’d settle for rattling a few cages that need it every now and then. In the meantime, I’m happy if I can just get my readers to keep turning my pages.

When I was in college, I set myself up with a dual degree program, approved by the deans of two colleges at the University of Michigan. Had I stuck to the plan, I’d have had a BS in Electrical Engineering/Computer Science and a BA in Creative Writing in five years.

Read more…

I love freelancing. Given my choice, I’d do nothing else for the rest of my life. To date, I’ve not ever had a full-time job outside of writing and games, and I’ve effectively spoiled myself for any other kind of career.

I’ve had a few points at which I had long-term contracts (effectively salaries) with certain clients. I co-founded a noted RPG publisher (Pinnacle Entertainment) and ran served as its president for four years. I was also the director of Human Head Studios‘ tabletop games division for a couple years. But for the vast majority of the past 19 years since I got out of college, I’ve been a determined freelancer.

The thing about freelancing work is that its as steady as the deck of a storm-tossed ship. It rocks back and forth on the waves, and it’s up to the pilot of the ship to keep a steady hand on the wheel and trust to his skills and good fortune. Every now and then, even the most stalwart freelancer find his ship tossed upon the shoals, and he had to decide whether to ride it out or jump ship and start paddling for land.

The past few years, however, I’ve noticed a pattern in the timing of my freelance work. I start out the year in January with plenty of work and a good plan for taking care of it all in a manner that will keep my family fed and allow me the luxury of occasionally seeing my bed.

Come the spring, though, enough new projects drop in my lap that I need to give up the dream of dreaming through the night. I file for an extension on my tax return and hope that I can get back to them again before too long.

The trouble, of course, is that the best gigs never come first. If they did, I’d just take those and express my regrets to the others. Instead, I always seem to start out with some fun but clearly not spectacular projects and sign contracts for those. Then the better offers come in, and I have to decide between letting them slip away or sacrificing the little free time I have.

Free time always loses out.

I then work like crazy through the summer. I apologize to my all-too-understanding wife about having to bring my work along on our family vacation, but I thin the regrets over that by keeping work hours that would make a banker blanch. (Fun during daylight and work at night.)

Once we’re back home and school starts for the kids, I settle back into my office and realize that the deadlines I have are farther off than usual, the stress is less, and if I’m not careful I might actually run out of work. I take advantage of the breather for some home improvement projects, catching up on my sleep a bit, and—yes—finally doing those taxes.

Then I remember what comes in September. It’s the season of the pitch.

It’s about this time of year that companies start their plans for the next business cycle—either next year or farther out, depending on how big or ambitious they may be. They’re looking around for new ideas, and they’re open for suggestions. They want to discover the greatest new projects and bring them to life.

That’s where I come in. I reach into my bag of tricks and pull out a fistful of boomerangs. Then I scribble my ideas on them and let them fly. Some come back, and I throw them out there again. The ones that don’t are the ones I love best. Someone out there liked it enough to snatch it for herself.

That time is now. I have anywhere from a half-dozen to a dozen (or more) pitches, projects, and deals in various stages of development. Some of them are just for fun. Others might make me rich. Most fall in between. And I have no control over which ones will interest anyone. I just keep tossing them out there and hope I get enough responses before my arms get tired.

This season usually lasts until November. Then the week before Thanksgiving, right in the middle of the month, the companies make up their minds. They want to get things signed and sealed before the winter break, and we spend the next few weeks making that happen. Then we all go hibernate for the holidays.

Come January, it all starts over again. Right now, I can’t think about that though. I’ve got an idea for something else, and I have to find another boomerang on which to write it.

I’ve been on the road almost the entire time since my last post here on Storytellers Unplugged. I started out with a quick couple of days in San Diego at Comic-Con International, the biggest pop culture convention in the world. On that Friday (July 25), I rode up to LA for a business meeting. I flew back from there and got home around midnight.

The next morning, my wife and I packed the kids into the minivan and set off for the Northwoods for her high school reunion in Ironwood, Michigan. After that, we stayed at her family cabin near Watersmeet, Michigan, (home of the Nimrods!) for the next week and a half. From there, we drove to Madeline Island and spent five days with my mother, brother, and sisters and their families in a huge house overlooking Lake Superior.

With all that family fun behind us, we hustled back home on August 12. On August 13, I got up and drove to Indianapolis to be a guest of honor at Gen Con, this hemisphere’s largest gaming convention.

That meant I wasn’t at my desk for three and a half weeks. Toss in the prep for the trip and the recovery (I still haven’t gotten my voice back from Gen Con), and we’re looking at a full month of vacation.

Or so it would seem.

The fact is I brought my laptop with me, and I worked just about every day. Normally I’d get up and type for a bit, then have some lunch and horse around with the family in the afternoon and evening. Then, after everyone else was in bed, I’d start typing again.

This is the curse of the freelance life, the one no one tells you about when you get started. Being able to set your own hours sounds like you’re going to have plenty of time to mess around, play games, watch TV, and goof off between those frantic moments of getting work done. The reality is that once you punch in you never punch out. (Cue “Hotel California.”)

I’d intended to take some honest time off. To leave the laptop locked up in the car. Maybe to whittle away at some personal projects rather than to keep carving away at my regular work.

Then, a couple weeks before the start of the trip, a number of opportunities—great ones, the kinds of offers you can’t bring yourself to refuse—dropped in my lap. And they all had to be taken care of ASAP. Of course.

So I didn’t manage to free myself from my silicon shackles.

The trick with setting your work schedule is that the coolest, best-paying projects always seem to come in last, after you’ve already allotted every sane bit of time you have. Rather than turn down the great jobs so you can peck away in resentment at the ones you already have, you start looking at those nights and weekends. And those vacations.

In Watersmeet, out at the cabin, we don’t have running water or a phone. Our side of the lake just had electricity run out to it a few years back. Cell phone coverage is spotty. We usually have to stand by a particular tree near the beach to hold an unburbled conversation.

But the cabin next to ours has a satellite dish. With internet service. And Wi-Fi.

I was doomed.

Still, it was the kind of doom I dream about. My office became the stump of an old pine tree only spitting distance from the beach (and near enough to the neighbors to borrow their Wi-Fi). Many times, I’d sit there long enough for a family of ducks to gather in the waters around me and bathe, unaware of how close I was. More than once, I looked up to see a bald eagle swooping overhead.

One day, I finished work after midnight, and I needed to e-mail it out. I didn’t want to disturb the neighbors by stumbling along the beach in the middle of the night, so I edged my way as far as I could into the fringe of the woods separating their cabin from ours. No matter how close I moved, though, I still couldn’t get enough of a signal to get my files e-mailed out.

Then I grasped my MacBook in two hands and held it over my head. The screen shined like a lighthouse in the night, a rectangular beacon for the invisible, wireless threads of the internet I hoped to gather to it.

A moment later, I heard the zooming noise that told me my efforts had paid off. My message had been sent. My editor would be pleased. And I could stop brushing the bugs off the glowing screen.

I love my job.

My editors almost never call. Most of them, I’ve never met. Often our only contact is via e-mail and Federal Express. It can go on that way for years, and has.

As long as everything’s fine, there’s no need to talk. I land an assignment for a novel, I’m thrilled. I turn it in on time and it rocks, the editor’s even happier. And it’s all done in the most efficient way possible for busy people racing around the dawn of the 21st century. No time for chats with people we don’t really know.

So, when the phone rings, you know it’s trouble.

Last week, I didn’t even hear the ringtone on my cell phone. (It’s the opening bars of the freelancer’s rock anthem: “Taking Care of Business” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive.) It wasn’t until I heard my editor talking on my voice mail I knew something was wrong. I called her back despite that.

Erin Evans is probably a wonderful lady. She’s never been anything but kind to me. Hell, she commissioned a fantasy novel from me for Wizards of the Coast.

But sometimes circumstances force wonderful people to do rotten things—things that, while they may kick you in the teeth personally, are for the greater good. It does suck, but I have to respect people brave and classy enough to do it over the phone. Giving bad news via the written word is too easy. The right thing to do is to call someone up, talk them through it, and risk having him bite your head off, and it takes guts to pull it off right.

Politely and professionally, Erin informed me Wizards was sadly no longer interested in publishing the novel she’d commissioned from me. This decision did not reflect upon me at all. The entire subline of which the novel was to have been a part had been killed. Not too surprised (the phone call had tipped me off, after all) I took it pretty well, and both Erin and I left the door open to work on another project together at some future date.

Management at Wizards apparently wants to do something different with the book department, although I’m not privy to what it is. They’ve removed a number of books from their schedule recently, including (others have told me) a subline of Dragonlance novels and their entire Wizards of the Coast Discoveries line of original fiction.

This is the second time I’ve gotten news like this from Wizards. The last time one of my editors called me, it was Nina Hess telling me that their Knights of the Silver Dragon line had been canceled. I’d already written three books in that series (which I’d created for them) and had been contracted for two more when that axe fell.

Nina was just as fantastic and regretful about it as Erin. While I may not always agree with the decisions the managers at Wizards makes, they sure do hire good people.

Honestly, this wasn’t horrible news for me. I’ve had too much to do lately to spend any time on the book. It wasn’t due until December, but Erin had been asking me for a full outline for much of the spring.

All I ever put on paper for the book was the initial pitch, which ran about three pages. Despite that, Wizards kindly asked me to keep my initial advance, so I really can’t complain. It’s decent money for a few pages worth of work, and I now have a bit more time to tackle more pressing things without feeling guilty about pushing that outline off.

The news is a bit sadder for the people who’d gotten farther along on their work, like Jeff LaSala, Marcy Rockwell, Paul Kemp, and Ari Marmell, plus Steve and Melanie Tem and many others I probably don’t know about yet. They all have my sympathies.

Still, I’m confident we’ll all live to write another day. Nobody broke our fingers. Our word processors still work. And our imaginations burn brighter than ever.

No matter how much it may hurt to land on your rump when the rug gets yanked out from under you, we’ll all dust ourselves off and continue on.

Look for new and better books from every one of us—soon.