The Wrong Type of Crazy

If you haven't been following the story from the beginning, here's the summary. In 2009 I challenged myself: finish a novel or give up writing. I had way too many starts and way way way too few finishes. So this was it. I had a new job. I had a long commute with dedicated writing time. Get it done or give it up.

Happily, I did finish a novel (BLACK MAGIC AND BARBECUE SAUCE), two in fact (WANTED: CHOSEN ONE, NOW HIRING [which has since been renamed WITH A CROOKED CROWN]), and my pursuit of professional publication began in earnest. I wrote novels, queries, synopses, thank you letters, blog posts, twitter tweets, and so on and so forth. I took this seriously and knuckled down so I could endure rejection and enjoy success. Well, benchmarks I consider success as the professional publication part remains elusive. Still, full requests and the like are pretty thrilling. I've met some cool authors along the way and cool agents too. I've learned a hell of a lot and tried to teach a little, too.

One thing I've learned about the other people in this craft is that we share a lot of similarities in terms of emotional states, emotional stresses, emotional sensitivity in the like. While I will not limit this to authors but would go so far as to apply it to so many artists, creative types seem to have an increased level of empathy. You might hear this as soft-skinned or over-reacting or being a pussy. Whatever. We feel pain at 11 when the meter should only go up to 10. And not only our own, but others too. We empathize because we we explore how people work. It's how we create characters. We watch people. We measure what they do and how they act. We contrast what people say versus what they do and we find the inconsistencies. We explore motivations, watch lies (to themselves or to others), and let the drama play out because all of it is life's story that we want to twist and retell in our own way.

Problem is, this empathy isn't just a switch that turned on when we decided we wanted to write. It's been there forever and there was no explaining why the overly sensitive five year old was freaking out about something that seemed so minor to his parents because someday he was going to be a writer.

I think that's why so many artists are messed up emotionally. They've been running at 11 their entire lives and that is going to create neuroses. It is that damage that allows us to find pathos and tell an amazing story, to plumb the depths of broken life and show the heart one has to endure such hardship.

It also allows for a lot of self-doubt. What if I'm not broken correctly? I often write about a character that has to do the right thing at his own expense, or a person that puts duty before self. It applies order and logic to the chaos, but what if rather than painting with such amazing lines, I should be creating form from chaos. Paint outside the lines and make it amazing. What if how I endured years of being at 11 isn't what's necessary to be great at what I want to do? Don't be crisp and clean. Be loud and hectic. Put our guitar up to the speaker and hear all that feedback and find the music in it.

I'm broken wrong. I broke and taped it back together when I should have just enjoyed the two different pieces separately.

Oh my!

I've been sick, which has left me a lot of time not writing and a lot of time thinking of what I've done in the last three years. The feedback I've received. The success and the failures. The successes of friends who are going on to great things while I'm essentially still in the square I was three years ago. Maybe they're broken right and I'm broken wrong. Wouldn't that be a bitch.


On an up-note, I'm getting better, which means I've started writing again. When I write I have less time for self-doubt. But I also have a partial with an agent and that always ratchets my self-doubt up to about a 15. Especially since she didn't like the full I gave her (which I thought was a stronger novel). I've piled so much onto this accomplishment and every time it doesn't work out, I start finding all the different ways why I'm not good enough. Because I live life at 11. That's how I do.

Enthusiasm

What what? Two posts in a week? That's crazy! The Mayans were right! Run for your lives!

...wait, never mind, that last post was on Friday, so this is technically a new week. Move along. Nothing to see here.

I used to post much more frequently. Technically I'm supposed to be past my busy time of year and have more time for posting, but my editors turned over content two months late. Don't worry. In educational publishing, that's early. But it leaves me two weeks to do the work for which I should have seven. Huzzah!

I am typing this out, though, because I've been noticing a lot of blog-fading going on without much explanation as to why. I see a lot of apologies when they post, which I was doing as well. After awhile that gets tiring. I get it. You're sorry. But if you can't post five times a week like you used to, then post once a week and announce there is a change. Better that then apologizing every week when you only post once.

[/tangent]

Anyway, I've been posting here less. It has nothing to do with you guys. You're great. I like having you here, and conversing with you in the comments. It's because I didn't make it where I wanted to make it in 2011. I'm getting tired of blogging about writing. We all start there, because that's what we have in common, but so much of the conversation on the industry has turned vitriolic, that I don't feel like participating in that any more.

And really, I wanted to talk about other things, exciting things, new things that you can't get on other blogs. I wanted to talk about my writing. Specifically that I had signed with an agent, that we had gone on submission, that I was going to have a book coming out, and so many of the other things that I deal with on a professional level as a project manager in educational publishing but not as a writer in trade publishing.

This isn't a writing blog. Hell, it's not a blog at all, as I so often say. It's a journal. I want to talk about things that are happening, but right now, the same things are happening that happened last year. I have an agent looking at my work. I'm waiting patiently. I'm writing new things. Washing, Rinse, Repeat. I feel like I'm just blowing hot air until I can deliver on what I say I'm going to do. I am going to sign with an agent. I am going to get a book deal. I am going to accomplish my goals. And when I start another new manuscript, it gets hard to come here and tell you how excited I am.

Incidentally, I'm really excited about my current works in progress. What's Behind the Crooked Door is unlike anything I've written before. Beneath a Sundered Sky is the story I've wanted to write since I was five. That really jazzes a person up. Things are awesome! They could be awesomer [ahem, unnamed agent reading my stuff right now]. I hope eventually they will be awesomest [I'm a winner! Really! Pick me!]. But until then, I'll make do with awesome.

I hope my lack of posting does not reflect poorly on what I have to say.

Real-Life Hobbit

When I was growing up, we didn't have a lot of money. "Attention K-Mart shoppers" was a frequent phrase uttered over the PA system, to give you a frame of reference. (Younger readers, K-Mart is like Wal-Mart before Wal-Mart was Wal-Mart.) Unfortunately, the quality of goods to be obtained there was not always the best. Do you know what foot stones are? Where some really shitty shoes sometime (like the kind you'd buy at K-Mart) and the sharp pains you feel beneath the soles of your feet are foot stones. That's what I got from a $10 pair of shoes from K-Mart.

My mother's response when I told her I couldn't walk any more and needed new shoes? Let's go back to K-Mart and get a new pair. Yeah, no. Let's go get some real shoes. Unfortunately real shoes back then cost pretty similar to what real shoes cost now. A pair of shoes for a ten year old would cost you $40 on the affordable side. And of course, this is the age of Air Jordans where everyone else was wearing $120 shoes. But we were poor and $40 usually got me yelled at plenty, thanks.

One year the search for shoes proved so difficult that I almost could not find any that we could afford. This meant that I spent a good portion of my time barefoot. That tradition continues today. The first thing I do when I get home is take off my shoes and socks. I don't like wearing them. They smother my feet and trap me in and really, what do I need shoes for? I'm not walking over hot coals or jagged rocks.

My wife likes to call me her hobbit, and there may be some truth to that. At work, me being in my own cube with high walls, if I'm really focused on an important project and I don't want any distractions, I'll take off my shoes. I leave my socks on because I'm at work and all, but if I could...oh, I would.

And in case you're curious, I'm at work on my lunch hour right now and I am not wearing my shoes. Wheeeeeeeeee!

A New Adventure!

Groupon Queen discovered that we lived near the nation's third largest living history museum, Old Sturbridge Village. This is a village as you would have found it in 1835 New England, and many of the buildings are actually from that period transplanted from one of the various states. Actors/educators are in period dress and conduct themselves in particular professions, so there's a printer, a tinsmith, a potter, etc. This was REALLY cool and I learned a ton! (My understanding of how a grist mill works was informed by Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow and 19th-century mills did not use a rotating millstone of that fashion, if that fashion ever existed. Also, I learned how a sawmill works and a schoolhouse and...and...who the hell can fit 12 people in a house that small?!)

There was also Fife and Drum corps there today playing a variety of music. And some of the early 18th-century muskets are as tall as I am. How the hell could anyone aim with something that large? You'd need a stand to rest the barrel on! (They also had a seven-barrel musket that you might recognize if you've watched the Richard Sharpe miniseries. I don't know if it appears in the novels.)

Inevitably in these places, I end up taking pictures of the placards instead of the actual structures because I want to be able to go back and reference their information later. (I did this for a map at a Greek Fest for the Middle East c. 2nd millenium BC and it was pretty awesome.)

The one I was most enthused about today was the information on the mill. Aside from showing the proper way to turn the millstone (they laid on top of one another like two donuts whereas I had thought one vertical rolling around the other), they also explained how millers kept their business. People brought their grains that needed milling and would pay the "Miller's Toll," 1/16th of the milled grain that the miller could then sell to those people who did not raise their own crops.

I love the phrase "Miller's Toll" and am devoting considerable effort to finding a story that will fit with it. I'll let you know if I come up with anything.

I'm Famous!

I don't read erotic romance, but that doesn't make Roni Loren any less cool. We have a great rhythm on twitter where she posts a blog entry, people comment, she says "Go check out the controversy!, and I go see one person disagreeing with her. I then wag my finger at her for hyberbolizing controversy (she should be a Washington reporter) and we both smile and keep doing what we're doing.

Well today, she has a guest blogger...ME! So go check out the controversy!

Also, her first book CRASH INTO ME is coming out soon, so buy it if you like erotic romance. I'm told its both super nifty and keen.

Why are you still reading here? Go! Now!

Meme: Blog of DOOOOOOMMMM!!!!

Ted Cross (of Ted Cross fame) passed along a blog award called the BLOG OF DOOM!!!! While normally I shy away from blog awards, this one is full of DOOM! How could I pass that up?



The Rules:

1. When you receive the Blog Award of DOOM your task is to post a short selection of your writing, 100-300 words, in which your favorite character suffers a horrible fate. It can be your favorite character from your own writing or from something you've read, it can be from a finished manuscript, a WIP or something you just made up on the spot. Your choice, but it has to be full of DOOM!

2. Pass it on to one other blogger and let them know their DOOM has come.

3. Remember that the person who passed the award on to you also received it as well. Go back to their post to read and comment on their writing sample. Make sure to thank them for sending the DOOM your way.

4. Whenever you use the word DOOM in your post, you must capitalize the whole thing.


As such, I will tap Nate Wilson who seems like a ridiculously nice fellow. Let us see his dark side. I'll also give a nod to Jennifer Hillier whose debut thriller CREEP releases July 5th.

As for my own offering of DOOM! I have picked an excerpt from an epilogue that originally appeared at the end of my dystopian sf manuscript, JEHOVAH'S HITLIST. It did not make the final cut (a pun!), but I will most likely post it as a short story here on the site. See after the jump for...DOOM!!!!

(Also, for some context, this scene features quadruplet brothers all of whom are named Joe.)


Epilogue...of DOOM!

The water wasn't stopping. It was rising and fast. Seated on the ground, it already came up to their bellies.

“What do we do?” Joe³ screamed.

“Climb.” Joe¹ pointed at a ledge above them. They scanned the wall for handholds but there weren't any to be found.

“On me,” Joe¹ said. They used to play this game when none of them was tall enough to jump to the fire escape ladder on their own. Joe² hopped on Joe¹'s shoulders. It was hard to keep their balance with the water pounding against them, harder still when Joe³ climbed up to stand on Joe²'s shoulders.

“I got it!” Joe³ called back down.

“What about Joe?” Joe² asked of his youngest brother.

“I'll hand him up once you got yerselves a perch,” Joe¹ said. Their youngest brother by a few hours sat between his legs, unconscious and bleeding.

Joe³ found himself a stable spot and hung upside down. He grabbed Joe² by the wrists and hauled him up. Then he flipped upside down, Joe³ taking him by the ankles. They hung down and reached. The water was over Joe⁴'s head now, up to Joe¹ chest even though he was standing.

Joe¹ fought hard to pull his brother up out of the water, the current trying to suck him under completely and wash him away down the street. Joe⁴'s head broke the water. He coughed violently, confused but conscious.

“I don't need no bath, Anna,” he insisted, slapping at Joe¹.

Joe¹ wrapped his arms around him and threw him upward inch by inch until he was almost sitting on his shoulders. He was high enough Joe² could grab his shirt and hoist him up.

By the time they got Joe⁴ situated so he wouldn't knock himself off again, the water was up to Joe¹'s shoulders.

“Yer turn,” Joe² shouted, hanging upside down again.

“I cain't! The water's too strong!” Joe¹ did his best to hold onto the wall, but the water still roared through the crack in the wall, washing everything away.

“You got to!” Joe² yelled.

“I cain't!”

“You got to! You said you was gonna teach me how t'whistle. I cain't whistle!”

The water rose up over Joe¹'s head, turning any response into bubbles.

“Joe!” his brothers screamed, but his head never reappeared.

Joe² kicked at Joe³'s hands until Joe³ dropped him. He dove into the water after his brother. He never came up from the water. Joe³ jumped in shortly after.

Joe⁴ lay on the precipice of the building, bleeding and confused. He watched his brothers drown. He did not cry when the water rose past the second floor, when it lapped at his face, or when it eventually overtook him. He did not try to run.

He had always done everything with his brothers.

SEO What

It's never too early to start. SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization. You may see a lot of ads around the internets for SEO companies that will help you game the system. They understand the value of links to and from your content to work your way through Google's algorithm. Once upon a time it was thought of as narcissistic to Google yourself. Now it's a must.

Go do that right now. We'll wait.

If your website or blog did not come up first, you're doing it wrong. Now granted, some of you may have more competition than others. Once upon a time, there was an English rocker of note with my name and I was appearing on page 6. Now I am the entirety of page 1.

Though that's not entirely honest, is it? Google recently changed its algorithm to personalize search results. Googling the exact same term as you will not yield the same top ten results. So I recommend Googling yourself on a friend's computer (or a coworker's who doesn't have an online history talking to you would be best).

Here's what it comes down to, when an agent Googles your name, you want the first option he/she clicks to be you. Your website, your blog, or at least your Twitter account.

But how, Joe? How do we do this? Links, young man/woman. Links will aid you in your effort. The more (valid) locations linking to your website, the more Google's algorithm thinks your important. (Compound this with the frequency in which you are clicked on after a search and up up up you go!) So you know when you're reading a blog and you see a commenter posting his/her website? That's not just to drive content to their site. It's to improve their SEO as well. Live links (not just the text), leading to your site make it important. That's how unethical SEO companies work so quickly. They set up 175 or so false websites and have all of them link back to you, ratcheting you up the list. Google has taken steps to have such results stripped or at least dropped in ranking. They've added a "relevance" variable, which is why attempting this on your own would be a waste.

Participation is the key! And friendship. People who list your website are helping you. When you list their website, you help them. When you participate, you help yourself and if you participate well, you help the community! It's all interconnected, like on Ferngully.

For me personally, one of the biggest challenges to merging my site and my website is that pages that appear in the top ten results are no longer functional. If an agent were to click on "the Inkwell" for example, they would get a page not found and there's unfortunately no way I can fix it. (This also means older sites and interviews I gave when I was wet(ter) behind the ears are starting to show up on the first page. It takes a lot to kill your history on the internet. Always be mindful of echoes from the past.

So go and be popular, boys and girls! I expect you all to start showing up on the first page of Google results by next month. By next year I want yo to be number one! (Unless you are named after someone famous, in which case find a different way to phrase your online presence so that you might be found.)

Still haven't Googled yourself? I'll make it easy for you. Copy and paste this URL http://lmgtfy.com/?q=joseph+l+selby

Replace "joseph+l+selby" with your own name (and use + signs instead of spaces).

New Things

The template for the blog has changed yet again. I liked that last one, but there were too many small things that needed fixing. Date wasn't displaying properly. The manner in which comments were listed was dumb. User pics weren't showing up like they were supposed to. I'll be the first to admit that my JavaScript isn't the strongest, but things I know should have worked weren't working, and I want to have a blog that I can customize to suit my purposes.

So I found this new thing. As good as the last? No. But better than the standard brown world thing and more readable than my original that so many people (*cough* Rich *cough*) complained about.

So we'll see if this one sticks.

Something else I did today is try out Google Documents. Oh, I've used it before, but never for anything that was important. Namely, I've never used it for my writing. So I created a brand spanking new super-secret Google account (you can't hack what you don't know is there!) and ran through some trial documents. I am unsure of whether GDocs is a suitable replacement for a word processor.

Why would I even be considering it? Because of THIS! My Eee PC is aging and the new models don't use XP as their OS any more. A netbook using Windows 7 is counterintuitive. More so when it's Windows 7 Starter (which isn't much of a starter). The Chromebook is a web-paced portal device but it allows you to work offline. This wouldn't replace my Asus laptop at home but my Asus Eee PC that I write on. That thing doesn't have anything on it other than Open Office. So not being able to install applications isn't much of a concern for me. Acer is making an 11-inch WiFi only (well, they're making a 3G version as well but I have no need for that). And with a cell phone that acts as a mobile hotspot, this may be the next logical step in my computing evolution.

The problem with Google Docs is A) the terms for which you have to agree to use it (they're standard stuff, but I don't like terms for my work), B) it indents lines using an indent formatting rather than a tab mark, and most importantly C) there is no custom dictionaries. You can add words to the dictionary, but you can never remove them. And you cannot have multiple dictionaries, which is exactly what I do for my books. What is a valid word in one novel may not be a valid word in another. So I make a new dictionary with each manuscript. I can't do that with Google Docs and that's a really big deal.

Still, the Eee PC hasn't kicked it yet. We'll revisit this proposition once it is gone and I need a new laptop.

Feline Masters

There are many reasons why I prefer cats over dogs. Many many reasons. Today's reason is because their genius knows no limit. We have three cats, an old man and a brother and sister we adopted a year and a half ago. The young boy fancies himself the king of the jungle and regularly mauls a string I run in circles for him.

Alas, I was unavailable yesterday and his sister wanted to play too. So the young buck (heretofore known as Wolfgang) took his string in mouth, hopped up on the kitchen table, and dangled it over the side. The young lass (heretofore known as Jitterbug) then proceeded to play string with him, no humans involved.

This level of complex thought staggers me. Truly they will rule the world some day.

How to Comment

So this new template I'm using doesn't put the comment link on the front page. You have to click on 0 Comments and then click on comment. I will fix it when I have some free time. I notice that I've received NO comments since I made the switch. Thing is, other than that and a few other minor quibbles, I like this template, so I'm going to stick with it. So if you don't mind, in the short term, taking the extra step to comment. I miss hearing from my peoples. :'(

Big 5-0

Elizabeth Poole has passed 50 followers on her blog, leaving us little 15 subscriber folks in the dust! In celebration of this milestone, she has called for a blog fest! Take your older writing and post it to show what kind of writers we used to be! Now I've lost a lot of my older stuff over the course of repeated moves in my immediate post-college career. You can still listen to my short story "The End of Bliss".

So with that in mind, CONGRATULATIONS LIZ!

I thought I would instead post chapter two from my first completed novel, BLACK MAGIC AND BARBECUE SAUCE. It did not get picked up by an agent because its main character is Poseidon. He's a thief. I'm told this makes the story too much like Percy Jackson. Read the following chapter and tell me if you agree.


October 8, 2006
Cardinals 6, Padres 2

“Penultimate, man! There is no other way to describe it than penultimate!” Cy Lekkas wields a chicken drummie like a scepter, Weck-n-Wings' patented Nuclear Sauce flinging onto the table as if he were anointing it with holy water. The table matches his curly brown hair, most of his face, his St. Louis Cardinals baseball jersey, and his jeans, all of which have been sanctified by barbecue sauce at some point during the night.

The man across from him doesn't mind—or even notice. Beer has been flowing freely for hours and the night is still young. The Cardinals made short work of the Padres and are on their way to the championship series and, barring a spectacular collapse, will be the 2006 World Series champs.

“The St. Louis Cardinals are going to be the 2006 World Series champs!” Cy shouts, raising his drummie high in royal decree. The restaurant erupts in cheers. This might be considered a frustrating disruption to the dinner of non-baseball-watching patrons. Such a consideration is not feasible in St. Louis because there are no non-baseball-watching patrons, not in St. Louis, not in a place like Weck-n-Wings.

Weck-n-Wings is a chicken wing joint. The menu offers salads and shrimp, but the only people that eat those things are ex-employees and people that have no soul. For everyone else, there are wings, drummies, and sixteen different barbecue sauces from mild and sweet to Nuclear, a sauce that has earned its name. And like any good wing joint, there are copious amounts of beer. The walls are covered with big-screen LCDs offering every sport aired on TV: baseball, basketball, football, hockey, cricket, Aussie rugby (Union), and even curling. Curling is unnaturally popular. What space is left on the walls is filled with smaller screens with trivia games. The servers—all female—are the most beautiful, nubile specimens in the city and that is by design.

“If they win the series, I'm going to go to California and have a plastic surgeon implant a womb, right here,” the man says, rubbing his belly. “Then I'm going to go find Pujols, and I'm going to have his baby. I'm going to make love to him right there in the locker room, and I'm going to give him another child.”

“Sweet, sweet man love.” Cy has no idea who the man is, why the baseball star needs another child, or why that child wouldn't be conceived with his wife rather than a stranger, but he's wearing a Cardinals jersey so they are brothers.

“It's not man love if I have a womb,” he rebukes. “I'm going to give him a child. It's special.” The man looks visibly distraught at Cy's obvious lack of regard for the miracle of life.

Cy scrunches his face, pondering the miracle of life through a haze of Budweiser and the heady aroma of Nuclear Sauce—which he notices has dripped all down his forearm. He begins licking it clean as he ponders.

“But how is his semen going to get to your egg? And do eggs come with the womb or do you have to buy those separate? You'll need fallopian tubes. And a vagina. You gotta get the whole nine yards. I'm not sure if I would have a doctor cut off my dick if the Cards win the series.” His eyebrows raise, waiting for all the facts of womb transplantation to sink in. “I like my dick. I like it where it is.” He dries an arm with a napkin.

If he promised to remove his dick if they won—and obviously if they win it would be because he promised to remove his dick—would it be worth it? Which is more important, his dick or the Cardinals winning the series again. “Maybe a testicle. I've got two...”

“Nah, you got it all wrong.” The stranger nods his head authoritatively. “Those California doctors can do anything. You just have em pop off your junk for nine months, give Pujols a baby, then have em pop it back on. I don't think that's unreasonable.”

So which is more important, the uninterrupted presence of his penis or the Cards winning a series? This would take some consideration. Cy sits back at the table and dips his fingers into the tub of Nuclear Sauce then licks them clean. Sure the wings are tossed in sauce before they're served, but never enough. Not enough for Cy, anyway. And if he has to drop a few extra bucks for a mega-side of sauce, it is worth the price.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” the waitress asks. She wears the Weck-n-Wings' black and gold uniform shirt surprisingly free of barbecue sauce with a name tag that says, “Welcome to Weck-n-Wings, I'm K A Y L A.” Long blonde hair, pale skin, and wonderful curves. In the sea of post-season frenzy, she is the lighthouse that reminds these men that there is a world outside of baseball.

“I'm fine. Mother, do you need anything?” Cy asks the man across the table. The guy shakes his head. “We're good, thank you.”

Kayla collects some of the trash from the table. She gives him a “Who is that?” quirked eyebrow. He gives her an “I have no idea” shrug. She gives him a “Look at your shirt!” frown. He gives her a “Who cares? It's the playoffs!” smile. She gives him a “See you tonight” wink, careful that no other patrons see her lest they get the wrong impression.

“I'll bring the check,” she says. “You can pay whenever you're ready.”

Not that he needs to worry about paying. It's theater for the masses. What Kayla cannot give him through her employee perks he wins with the Nuclear Sauce Challenge. He has won every time since the restaurant started the event, much to the dismay of the assistant store manager, Mark Preston. The same store manager that is making a bee line to his table right now.
“Manager Mark, you model of manliness, you paragon of promiscuity, how are you this glorious evening?” Cy slams his fist on the table emphatically. No one notices. They're lost in their own celebrations.

Mark tries and fails to force his expression to unphased neutrality, imitating British austerity. He appears more the butler than manager.

“Mr. Lekkas. How good to see you again. I had only seen you five times this week and I was beginning to worry,” Mark says, ignoring Cy's own salutation. Cy thinks the man should be happy to have such a loyal patron, but given how long it has been since last he paid, he understands the belligerence. “And how is your meal tonight, Mr. Lekkas?” he asks. He looks down his nose at Cy, making his long nose hairs particularly noticeable. Mark runs the multi-million dollar grossing franchise restaurant while Big Mike, the owner/store manager spends his time trying to shag the newest waitress. But his name tag still says, “Welcome to Weck-n-Wings, I'm M A R K,” eliminating any sense of authority.

“Terrific as always, Manager Mark.” Cy licks between his fingers suggestively. Mark's face contorts, as if he had uncomfortable gas. “Terrific game, terrific chicken, terrific service. All in all, I'd say it was superlative.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.”

The two men pause, Cy waiting for Mark and Mark seemingly savoring some delicious bit of knowledge that he has yet to reveal. Cy dips a drummie in his extra sauce, then puts the whole thing into his mouth, pulling it in and out as he sucks it clean. Mark wrinkles his nose and begins to shift his weight from foot to foot.

“I have some news that I believe you'll find relevant, Mr. Lekkas,” Mark says.

“Yes, Manager Mark?” Cy says, extracting the bone and swallowing the chicken in one large, audible gulp.

“Please, it's just Mark. Or Mr. Preston.”

“And important information that was. I'll keep that in mind.” Cy looks to his table-mate only to find the man gone elsewhere. They hadn't actually eaten at the same table but only fell together during the reverie of the Cardinals' victory. The need to piss or some similar demand has drawn him away, leaving Cy alone to revel in his own juvenile humor.

“What? No, that's not what I— that is—”

“Oxygen, man!” Cy shouts, grabbing another wing. “Breathe.”

“Mr. Lekkas, I have received notice from Corporate that we are amending the Nuclear Sauce Challenge. Whereas previously you—any customer was entitled to a free meal if he could eat 18 Nuclear wings, a person is now entitled to only one complimentary meal a month.”

Cy nods, mouth full of chicken. He drinks from his tub of Nuclear Sauce like it was a beverage. Mark's eyes widen and his jaw works, bobbing up and down as he tries to speak.

“Th—this amendment, sir, was effective as of Monday, so you have already received your complimentary meal for the month. I hope it is not an inconvenience to you that you were not informed then.”

“Mark?”

“Yes, Mr. Lekkas?”

“Did you really just say whereas? Whereas, Mark? Really?”

More chicken. More sauce. More jaw bobbing.

“If you are unable to pay for your meal today, sir, we can hold your bus pass or other form of identification while you visit an ATM.”

The insult is not missed. Cy can't help but smile. He's never gotten this much of a rise from Manager Mark before.

“No worries, Mark. Mrs. Poole at the corporate office sent me the notice too. My picture is in the lobby, you know, for having won the Challenge more than anyone else. Seems she's an admirer. She sent me a bunch of gift cards. More are on the way, too. I'm good.”

“She...she—”

Cy stares at the jaw. The thing must be on a hinge the way it just moves up and down like that. It's like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. He wonders if Mark has an oil can in the back office.

Mark turns and walks away without saying anything else.

Cy smiles to himself. He shouldn't derive so much pleasure from haranguing Mark, but he does. And Mark took a jab at him. The man has a stick so far up his ass that he wouldn't take a jab at Evander Holyfield if the two were in a boxing ring.

“Did you see that?” Cy asks, seemingly to no one. The din of the crowd is loud enough that no one hears him or how his voice has changed. It sounds like metal feet of an imbalanced table rocking back and forth.

“I did,” Table answers. “You're taking a risk pushing him like that.” It has no lips, no mouth, no vocal cords, but it Speaks, and Cy understands it. Understands it and Speaks its language.

A fan standing near the table looks over his shoulder. Seeing nothing but Cy sitting covered with Nuclear sauce, he turns back to his party. “This isn't just about you, you know,” Table says.

Cy takes a chicken drummie and swirls it in his extra sauce, placing the mess in his mouth. The hair on his arms stands up as energy courses through his body. He doesn't just hear Table, he hears everything that Speaks in the restaurant. While the other tables, the ceiling, and the walls are all silent, the floor has a lot to say. None of it polite. Cy smiles and purposefully drips a little sauce on the floor.

“Oh, fuck you!” Floor bellows, its voice like squeaky shoes on a wet surface. Cy laughs.

“Antagonizing Manager Mark isn't enough?” says Table. “Now you have to piss off Floor too?”

“No worries. Everything will be okay.” Cy says. If you live long enough, everything is okay eventually.

“For you maybe. But Kayla won't be so fortunate.”

“What about Kayla?” For the first time in the conversation, Table truly has Cy's attention. He grips the side of the table and leans close to it, as if proximity might speed its response.

“Manager Mark was sitting at me yesterday after close. He was saying things. Saying things about Kayla.”

“What things?”

“Never a good sign, my man.” Cy's brother-in-Cardinal-Nation returns, falling back into his chair, knocking over the tub of extra sauce. He gives Cy a critical look, his eyes widening and narrowing as he tries to focus. “You gotta keep your head up or the waitress is gonna cut you off.”

“I'm not drunk,” Cy says irritably, sitting upright.

“No, of course not.” The man gives him a knowing wink. “Me either.”

Cy hears Floor sniggering at him.

“Shut up,” Cy says, sotto voce.

“Gazundtite,” the man says.

Sonny Liston

If you know the name Sonny Liston at all, you know it's the guy on the mat in the famous Mohammed Ali photo. It's one of the most highly recognizable/promoted sports pictures in American sports history. There's Ali talking smack and some boxer on the mat he's just knocked down in the first round. That's Sonny Liston¹.

In the world of publishing, you are not Mohammed Ali. You are Sonny Liston. You need to focus on the fight you're in and not think of the fight that comes next. If you're not focused, you'll get an Ali jab to the face that will drop you to the canvas and then they'll publish your humiliation for decades to come.

I submitted a query on Monday. It was a damn fine query. One of the best I've ever written (and while I only have four completed novels, I wrote eight different queries for WANTED alone, so plenty of queries for comparison's sake). I submitted it to an agent that had previously requested a full manuscript. I then started doing wat I always do. I started a new project to take my mind off the wait. But, I skipped back to the completed manuscript. I had rewritten the beginning and wanted to make sure that this new content was as good as it could be. I wanted to make sure they requested a full again and not just sample pages.

Do you see what I did just there? I'm working to make sure they request a full when they haven't even requested sample pages yet. A solid query + a desired genre + previous positive history with the agent summed a presumption that they would want to see more. So thirty hours later when I got a rejection, Ali got me right in the face. I have never had such a strong reaction to rejection as I did yesterday. Why? Because I wasn't focused on the fight I was fighting. I had moved on.

Don't do that. Publishing is hard enough. There are so many steps along the way where someone can tell you that your awesomeness isn't good enough. Put your effort into staying emotionally strong. Learn from their criticism, improve, continue. You need to put the next foot forward and you can't do that if you're lying on the mat getting your picture taken.

This is only one rejection. I still have plenty of other agents who--if they have any sense at all--will want to see my manuscript. ;) There's another fight after this one, and it's time to prepare for that one².


¹ Sonny Liston had a record of 50-4-0 and was world heavyweight champion when he faced Cassius Clay for the first time. The famous photo is from the rematch. Clay had changed his name to Ali, the Nation of Islam was at the height of its national power, and Liston took a considerably light jab in the first round and dropped. The ring ref was so occupied with getting Ali to a neutral corner that he never started the ten-count. It was a sports reporter who informed the ref that Liston had been down for longer than ten seconds that prompted the ref to call the match (even though the rules of boxing require the opponent to be in a neutral corner before the count can begin). Years later, according to Wikipedia, Liston admitted to taking a dive because he was scared of retaliation from the Nation of Islam if he should win.

² The next fight involves a synopsis. I hate synopses. They just suck the life out of a story.

A Dollar Fifty in Late Charges at the Public Library

I have two degrees, English with a focus in creative writing and theatre with a focus in playwriting. When I finished college, I considered myself a playwright. With the exception of two classes, my English education had been crap^{1, 2}. Of my required creative writing classes, I had the same professor for all but one and she was just there for the paycheck. I learned absolutely nothing from her other than, yes, there are bad teachers out there.

While I had dreamed of writing novels when I was younger, I found plays more fulfilling³. I planned on going to graduate school, and maybe teaching writing while writing plays of my own⁴. That derailed in the spring of 2000 when my college best friend asked me to move to St. Louis and help him with his business. There went grad school and St. Louis doesn't have a strong theatre community. A few oases in the desert, but nothing like Boston. A decade later and I'm back to pursuing fiction publication.

The thing is, I'd still like to get a higher degree. Not because I think it'll make me a better writer (my college classes certainly didn't), but because I said I was going to. I don't like that hanging over me. I told my college mentor on two separate occasions that I was going to go to grad school and here I am 11+ years later without a single graduate class under my belt.

I don't pursue that impulse. Time is a factor. Add in the strong desire to never have homework again. Then season that with I don't think graduate programs teach writers what they need to know. I run into a lot of writing graduate students. Most of them have rolled into the program directly out of college. They're 21, wet behind the ears, and no everything. As any old man will tell you, someone that young can't know everything. You have to get to our age before you know everything.

Joking aside, graduate writing students love to talk about the business though few of them have any experience with it other than submitting a short story or poem to an online magazine. A couple might have been published once or twice⁵, but they all know how the industry works. What kills me is when they start telling me how the industry works, they're so often totally and inextricably wrong.

Frankly, they'd all be better served by a week of intensive reading of blog archives by Kristin Nelson, Nathan Bransford, Moonrat, and the other heavy hitters of the publishing blogosphere. The thing I hear most often is that it's not how you write but who you know⁶. There are claims as to costs and midlist authoring and querying.

Oh the querying. I think college professors intentionally teach their students how to query wrong to diminish competition against their own works that they're still trying to get published. I can't figure out why else they would tell them to do the things they do. (One student talked about the importance of listing his MA at the top of the query so that the agent would know they're weren't just any writer, but someone truly talented. He did not appreciate it when I started laughing at him.)

I try to set them right. I try to pop those bubbles that I can. I tell them who to Google and what blogs to read. Listen, student, you seem like a nice person. I'm not trying to rain on your parade, but you're spending graduate level dollars on information that will net you nothing in return. You'd be better served getting a library card and signing onto the internets where they keep the truth. You're in for a rude awakening. Prepare yourself so you can be the first of your classmates to successfully navigate the rocky shoals of publishing.

This leads to the inevitable, what have you published? Me? Well, I have three completed manuscripts, two of which received full requests. I have a fourth I'm about to start querying, but I have not published a novel yet.

And that seals the advice of my fate. If I don't have the bookshelf to prove myself a better source than their instructors, they'd rather believe what they already believe. Don't take my word on it! Just go to these blogs. Look through the archives!

They never do, of course. They have homework, after all. This irks me only a little, but I probably would have done the same in their situation. I feel bad for the older students, though. The ones that aren't still claimed as a dependent by their parents, but have a spouse and kids and a job on top of their school work. They're draining the family funds for an experience they think will ready them for publishing.

Writing readies you for publishing. Reading readies you for publishing. Information readies you for publishing. You can get all this without a graduate program. You don't need to spend 150 grand for an MFA, only a dollar fifty in late charges at the public library.


¹ Folklore and Advanced Writing: Poetry, in case you were wondering (and no, I'm not a poet).

² My Shakespeare English class (as opposed to my Shakespeare theatre class I took the semester before) was so atrocious and factually inaccurate ("all Shakespearean plays are tragicomedy") that I complained about the professor to the department. My grade was then dropped from an A to a B.

³ There was a play my senior year that--while pretentious--had a woman scream while the lights were out. No movie, audio recording, or any other medium of delivery had ever evoked such a strong response from me. She reached into my stomach and tore out my intestines. I almost came out of my seat it was so powerful.

⁴ You think it's hard to get a book published, try the theatre. The people that make a living in that art are not only incredibly talented but wicked lucky as well.

⁵ This demographic is obviously changing as more and more young authors are published as undergraduates and even teens. Hannah Moskowitz had a good blog post on what it's like being a published author as an undergraduate.

⁶ Knowing the right person can open a lot of doors, don't get me wrong. It can be maddening for those of us who don't. But in the end, if your writing isn't up to snuff, you better know the owner of the publishing company or it doesn't really matter.