Those of you who have been following my little adventure from the start know that I have been working hard to get published this year. That, or at least collect a healthy stack of rejection letters from a few magazines, 20 in total by August 2010. As of last night I’ve got two rejection letters, that’s 10% of the whole show. With a single year left before I am standing tall before the man I need to knock out about 1.5 stories a month to meet this deadline. I have no shortage of things I am eager to write about so this is really just a logistical problem at this point. Where do I find the time?
I have to be at work early on weekdays, so mornings are out unless I start waking up at 6AM. My weekday evenings are usually a good time, but I am often pretty exhausted by then. Weekends are ok, but I am often out doing something with friends. Really, my most productive time is Sunday afternoons, the laundry hours, but that is not nearly enough.
Looking back at this little calendar of excuses makes me ashamed of myself. Stephen King managed to knock out a his first few novels when he was working full time in a laundry and teaching, not to mention raising a couple kids. If I can’t have that kind of discipline while working an office job and having no major responsibilities outside of work I have no business calling myself a writer.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Down from the door where it began...
I take comfort in imagining that all writers, even the great old ones, occasionally feel like I feel today. I am on the verge of sending my first submission out for consideration to the wild world of publication. This should be a happy time for me, a milestone on my way down a new and exciting path, but it isn’t. Instead I stand in the shadow of Vonnegut, King, Bester, Rushdie, and Orwell and feel a hideous surge of shame at the humble work I’ve cobbled together so far. Will I drop this sucker in the mail? Absolutely. I’ve put too much juice into it to turn back now. Still, I can’t help but fret over the fact that I am swimming in unfamiliar waters surrounded by some very big fish. The world I know is one of politics, paper, and numbers. Academia and the austere reaches of the business and government affairs are the only worlds I know. Every step I take toward writing fiction is a step away from the comfort of home, and adventures do make one late for dinner. I might as well get used to the idea, when a wizard comes calling there’s just no getting the bastard to leave.
More to come.
More to come.
Friday, May 1, 2009
A Word on Character
I’m resolved to keeping this blog as focused as possible on literary matters, but recent events force me to divert for a moment to address a terrible wrong. Last night my friends and I saw the premier of X-Men Origins. I won’t drag out the myriad details of this film’s failure; I will simply say that it let me down.
The first thing I said to my friends walking out of the Georgetown theatre after the midnight showing of X-Men Origins was “Why Stan Lee? Why’d you do it?” Standing there in the misty rain at 2 AM on a weekday, dressed as superhero at the age of twenty-five, I wasn’t feeling quite at my best. Fourteen friends and acquaintances had gathered together that evening to see a film about our most beloved cultural icons. We so loved these characters that no bounds of common sense, social convention, or good taste could have stopped us from making an appearance that night. We came for many reasons, but mostly, mostly we were drawn by the guileless enthusiasm of my best friend. Hours before the show he had put the final touches on a set of cardboard claws he had proudly worn across town, smoking a cheap cigar to complete the look. Seeing him after the show, his face white with shock and his claws discarded, was like looking at a child who had just learned about the death of a beloved pet at the hands of a careless trucker.
Of course, in the cold light of day we must come to terms with the facts. I know how it happened of course, the same force that has driven the video game world and the music of our times from their lofty beginnings to stinking quagmire of mediocrity in the arts has set its sights on a new target, comics. After the new Star Wars trilogy and the unspeakable abomination that was Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, how long did we think our beloved comic heroes would be safe? The truth is that this was inevitable. The moment it was realized that we, the avid consumers of modern myth, were in fact a profitable demographic, our fate was sealed. Our legends were bound to be strained, diluted, and served en masse to the drunken hoards of movie goers and toy shoppers who scoff at the consequences of their over-indulgence and move from fad to fad after the next quick fix.
The real tragedy is that we asked for this. While we tried to set our expectations low every true fan that set foot into the theatres harbored a secret desire that somehow our legends would win through and that the movie would meet our most desperate ideals. When faced with Hollywood’s inevitable betrayal and cheapening that secret hope died inside us, wounding us so deeply because we kept it close to our hearts where the world couldn’t see it. We set ourselves up for the fall, and fall we have.
The only question that remains is what to do next.
To the writers out there, I implore you. To thine own characters be true. No matter what the material temptation may be, we must remember that the generations that come after us will only have our fiction to truly tell them who we were. Every time we give into stereotype or hammer down our art to make it more acceptable we are reducing not only ourselves, but the essence of our generation. We must do better than this.
To the readers and movie goers, I say there is no other recourse then to heal and move on. We can point fingers all we want, we can rage against this injustice with all the power the internet has, we can even boycott. I tell you though that none of these things will make it better. Until we learn to admit that we are hurt, admit that we are scared, and learn to love again, we will never be whole. Don’t turn your backs on fiction; you’ve been friends for far too long for that. Let solace in the company of friends and time regenerate the damage we’ve suffered, then head out again onto the open roads of fantasy with a clear mind and no memory.
It’s what Wolverine would have wanted.
The first thing I said to my friends walking out of the Georgetown theatre after the midnight showing of X-Men Origins was “Why Stan Lee? Why’d you do it?” Standing there in the misty rain at 2 AM on a weekday, dressed as superhero at the age of twenty-five, I wasn’t feeling quite at my best. Fourteen friends and acquaintances had gathered together that evening to see a film about our most beloved cultural icons. We so loved these characters that no bounds of common sense, social convention, or good taste could have stopped us from making an appearance that night. We came for many reasons, but mostly, mostly we were drawn by the guileless enthusiasm of my best friend. Hours before the show he had put the final touches on a set of cardboard claws he had proudly worn across town, smoking a cheap cigar to complete the look. Seeing him after the show, his face white with shock and his claws discarded, was like looking at a child who had just learned about the death of a beloved pet at the hands of a careless trucker.
Of course, in the cold light of day we must come to terms with the facts. I know how it happened of course, the same force that has driven the video game world and the music of our times from their lofty beginnings to stinking quagmire of mediocrity in the arts has set its sights on a new target, comics. After the new Star Wars trilogy and the unspeakable abomination that was Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, how long did we think our beloved comic heroes would be safe? The truth is that this was inevitable. The moment it was realized that we, the avid consumers of modern myth, were in fact a profitable demographic, our fate was sealed. Our legends were bound to be strained, diluted, and served en masse to the drunken hoards of movie goers and toy shoppers who scoff at the consequences of their over-indulgence and move from fad to fad after the next quick fix.
The real tragedy is that we asked for this. While we tried to set our expectations low every true fan that set foot into the theatres harbored a secret desire that somehow our legends would win through and that the movie would meet our most desperate ideals. When faced with Hollywood’s inevitable betrayal and cheapening that secret hope died inside us, wounding us so deeply because we kept it close to our hearts where the world couldn’t see it. We set ourselves up for the fall, and fall we have.
The only question that remains is what to do next.
To the writers out there, I implore you. To thine own characters be true. No matter what the material temptation may be, we must remember that the generations that come after us will only have our fiction to truly tell them who we were. Every time we give into stereotype or hammer down our art to make it more acceptable we are reducing not only ourselves, but the essence of our generation. We must do better than this.
To the readers and movie goers, I say there is no other recourse then to heal and move on. We can point fingers all we want, we can rage against this injustice with all the power the internet has, we can even boycott. I tell you though that none of these things will make it better. Until we learn to admit that we are hurt, admit that we are scared, and learn to love again, we will never be whole. Don’t turn your backs on fiction; you’ve been friends for far too long for that. Let solace in the company of friends and time regenerate the damage we’ve suffered, then head out again onto the open roads of fantasy with a clear mind and no memory.
It’s what Wolverine would have wanted.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Gauntlet
While going through the agonizing process of applying for grad school I had the good fortune of coming across a fellow named Stephen Graham Jones, a writer and professor at the UC Boulder. (Check out his website here) Once I was accepted into the program and made the decision to defer I asked him for a challenge to tide me through the months between now and when I actually get to school. He came back with this
“Get publishes in WEIRD TALES and FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION. Or collect about ten rejections from each. It’s the kind of assignment that entails writing better, writing a lot, writing when people say you shouldn't, writing even better, tailoring your work to fit, doing the research to make it fit, all that.”
Having never submitted anything for publication, this is a mighty task indeed. I am determined to make it happen. It’s going to require me to really step up my game in terms of the amount of work I am producing each month.
“Get publishes in WEIRD TALES and FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION. Or collect about ten rejections from each. It’s the kind of assignment that entails writing better, writing a lot, writing when people say you shouldn't, writing even better, tailoring your work to fit, doing the research to make it fit, all that.”
Having never submitted anything for publication, this is a mighty task indeed. I am determined to make it happen. It’s going to require me to really step up my game in terms of the amount of work I am producing each month.
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