Flash Sale

This Saturday and Sunday Alien House is on sale for only $.99. Because I felt like it.

My Right to Write Right

It’s always been said, and I believe it, that you should write what you want to read. I don’t see how you can argue with this. Sure, you can say that this isn’t the most commercial approach, but if you’re in this business to make money, then you’re in the wrong business. The chances of immediate and significant commercial success in writing are greater than of winning the lottery, but the lottery is a lot less work.

The problem with the commercial approach (assuming you can make it work) is that you’re going to spend your life writing what makes you money and not what makes you happy. This is not a “woke” aphorism; this is whether you want writing to be like any other 9-to-5 job or if you want to spend your days being your own boss and daydreaming for a living. I mean, you’re going to write either way.

Most of us who write do it because we simply can’t help ourselves. Writing is our compulsion. If I skip it long enough, I get withdrawal symptoms. I start getting antsy and nervous and feeling as if life is slipping away from my control–the same symptoms I get when my submissions have been out too long. I guess you can’t win.

If you’re going to write anyway, you might as well write something you enjoy. Stories come out of your head. If you aren’t enjoying what’s coming out of your head, then you either need to be a horror writer or in therapy. Probably both.

So I write what I would want to read. Which is good, because I’m going to have to read it at least two or three times before I start subbing it, and again if I sell it and have to review the galleys. If I don’t like what I’m doing, I’m going to be bored out of my skull.

Write what you’d like to read if someone else wrote it. You may sell it; you may not. But if you keep doing that, if you keep on putting down the stories you love, then you will sell them. Because some editor out there loves those stories too. And he knows how to reach others who love them. It may be a small circle, but you will have contributed to their love and they will appreciate you. Heck, they’ll even pay you.

Someday, maybe, if you’re the luckiest snowball in hell, they’ll pay you a lot.

The Pantser and the Plodder

They come up all the time, the two questions that every writer must face: How often do you have to write? And how long should a story take to write?

Like most questions that writers face, these do not have an answer.

Well, let’s just say they don’t have a single answer. In his legendary On Writing, Stephen King says that you have to write every day, without fail. And in a perfect world, where writers didn’t need day jobs, didn’t have spouses and kids who need them (not that there’s anything wrong with spouses and kids!), and didn’t have to take out the garbage, get the car serviced, call the roofer, or drive to the in-laws for holidays…in other words, where writers were free simply to write, that would be absolutely true.

Sound like your life? Nope, not mine either. So the best answer to that question is: You should write as close to every day as you can. But don’t feel guilty if you can’t. Because the truth is, you have other responsibilities. Now, if you’re a full-time professional writer who supports your family with your novels, that’s different. Again, does that sound like your life?

And then there’s the second question, and it’s trickier. The short answer is, of course, that a story takes as long as it takes, but that’s more of a length than a time determination. The real answer is: A story takes as long as it takes.

In the words of Inigo Montoya, “Let me ‘splain.” I’ve written a 3000-word story in two days, but a 4000-word short story can easily take me four weeks. I once wrote a 60,000-word novel in less than 60 days; a 90,000-word novel can easily take six months or more.

Does that make it clear?

Each piece of fiction is different and requires a different amount of effort and thought (which is also effort, as we keep trying to explain to all those people who think that just because we’re sitting late at night in a dark room that we must be asleep–no, we’re working). And it doesn’t get easier the longer you do it. Just ask George R.R. Martin; the poor man can’t work for all the folks asking him to work faster. And Patrick Rothfuss? Let’s not go there.

There is common theme among all successful writers, however, and I’m not talking about just the bestsellers, but all of us who write: Persistence. It’s not a matter of how many stories you start. It’s a matter of how many you finish.

Be the tortoise or be the hare. They both reached the finish line eventually.

Filling the Lonely Hours

It’s pretty much accepted advice that if you want to be a writer, you have to write every day. In fact, there are those who say you are not a writer if you don’t write every day. (They’re wrong, but that’s another topic.) What they don’t say is why you have to write every day. Is it to hone your craft? Is it to increase production? Actually, it’s neither of these things.

The real reason you need to write every day is because otherwise you’ll go crazy waiting.

Writing is a slog, a lot of hard work followed by more hard work, and then you send off your story and you breathe a sigh of relief that your hard work is done.

Except it isn’t. Because the hardest work you have to do as a writer is waiting for everyone else to do what you need them to do. You wait for the editor to read your submission. If it’s rejected, you wait some more on another editor. If it’s accepted, you wait for edits. Then you wait for your check. Then you wait for the story to hit the newsstands. Then you wait to see if there are any reviews. Then you–well, you get the idea. A lot of the writing process involves other people, whose lives do not revolve around your story. And boy, do they let you know it. Didn’t you write every day for a month to produce this masterpiece? So how can anyone just let it sit in the slush pile or on their TBR shelf?

Such questions will drive you nuts. You know what’s going on, the slush readers and the editors and the printers and so on, but there’s nothing you can do about any of it. So it’s either stew in your own juices, or write something else. Because that’s the only aspect of this entire business that’s in your hands. You write because you need something to do.

Which means if it doesn’t get done, it’s your fault. Which is another item to worry about. But as they say, “With great writing comes great…” something. I forget. I should’ve written it down.

“Daydreams” at Stupefying Stories

My (very) short story “Daydreams” will debut tomorrow at Stupefying Stories. Remember all the times as kids when we wished for flying cars? And how many times have you said, “If only I knew then what I know now?”

Yeah. Well, be careful what you wish for.

Shh–The Sale is a Secret

In honor of Nemesis being the man with the face no one knows, I’m having a sale on his first book, The Choking Rain, but nobody knows it’s already started. For the next few days, you can get The Choking Rain for $.99 (and book no. 2, The Scent of Death, for $2.99).

It’s 1932, the world is in the midst of a depression, and the storm clouds of conflict are already gathering in Europe. War is still years away, but the preparations are beginning… In Los Angeles, the Olympic Games are set to start in a few months, but suddenly a rash of mysterious deaths strikes the city, men dying in the streets as if strangled by invisible hands. As the list of victims rolls on, a former World War I ace is drawn into the mystery when he foils his sister’s attempted kidnapping, but the fingers of the plot are still closing, and he finds himself trapped in a nightmare that could envelop not only Los Angeles, but the entire United States…

Image created by Wendy Nikel

Grey Phantom #2 Out Today

I am proud to announce that The Grey Phantom #2: The Mad Monk has been released on Amazon today. If you’re not an Amazon fan, it will go up on various other platforms tomorrow.

It’s 1936. The Grey Phantom has been operating in Capitol City for almost two months, and the gangs are already feeling the pressure. They can’t find him, City Hall and the police can’t do anything about his violent vigilante activities, and worst of all, the citizens of Capitol City are beginning to rise up in his support. The mob’s greatest weapon is fear, and the Grey Phantom is turning that weapon on them…

But now a double-event spells trouble, as a man claiming to be the long-dead Russian monk Rasputin has come to town, railing against the Communist government back home and stirring up the immigrant population–a threat that has brought Stalin’s top assassin to silence him. But why Capitol City? And why does Rasputin want to meet the elusive Grey Phantom?

Meanwhile, the mobs have come up with a new plan to stop the Grey Phantom without ever meeting him head-on, to destroy his support among the populace and turn them against him. Now, with his allies doubting him, his enemies closing in, and an assassin who must go through him to accomplish his mission, the Grey Phantom finds himself in greater danger than ever before, accused of heinous crimes that he is helpless to prove he did not commit…

You Don’t Have to Eat What’s on Your Plate

I’ve been hearing a lot of chatter from various quarters lately about publishing contracts, and in particular contracts that you don’t want to sign. Now I’m not a lawyer, but I have been around for a while and I’ve seen some contracts, and it seems to me the most valuable advice to give to a new author is: You don’t have to sign the contract as written.

You’ve been writing for a while. It’s been a slog. You’re tired. You’re discouraged. You’re offered a contract! You’ve made a sale! Hallelujah! You’ll never forget this moment. You’ve gone from a wannabe writer to … a businessperson.

Wait-what? I thought I’d gone from a wannabe to a soon-to-be-published writer. My dreams have come true!

Yes, you have. Congratulations. You will never forget this moment. But the world moves on. The first thing you want to do if you is read your contract. Twice. (The first time is just to make sure that you’re not imagining the whole thing.) But of course, you don’t know anything about publishing contracts (unless you’re already in that business, but let’s assume you’re not). How do you know this contract is any good? Just because it was offered to you by a market you’ve heard of doesn’t mean it’s a good deal. What do you do?

You go look at SFWA’s model contracts, that’s what you do. And I mean this, even if it’s your first 1000-word sale. You are entitled to a fair deal. Most of the time that’s what you’re being offered, but how would you know? SFWA can help you figure that out.

The second thing to know is that contracts are negotiations. Just because you’re being offered a set of terms doesn’t mean you have to accept them. If something varies from the model contract, consider it carefully. Most markets will work with authors; if you ask politely about altering a clause, they may very well agree. Or they may not. Then you have to decide how important it is to you. But remember, rights that seem unimportant now may be important later. You’re in this for the long haul. Don’t give away anything that you don’t have to.

“But if I don’t sign the contract I lose the sale.” Yeah, that’s a toughie. But if the story sold once, it may well sell again. I once asked a publisher for a minor concession, not demanding, just asking. The publisher threw a fit and rescinded the offer. I sold it literally two weeks later for a lot more money. Maybe you won’t be as lucky, but years from now you’ll look back and be glad you made the choice you made. If you don’t sell that story, you’ll sell others. Trust me, the first sale is the hardest.

Writing isn’t easy, but it’s important to you, so you do it. Protecting what you’ve written isn’t easy, either, but it’s just as important. You’ve learned how to write; now you have to learn how to read.

O What Fools These Writers Be

Everyone has his own definition of wisdom. Here’s mine: “Wisdom is knowing when the remark that sounds so clever in your head may not sound so clever out loud–and then not saying it.”

Which is why I say writers must be fools; not because they are any less wise than other people, but because they often say things they know will sound stupid when said out loud–they simply make other people say them.

Of course this doesn’t mean that authors have secret ESP powers that allow them to dictate what others say (and let us hope they never will. They are capable of making folks say some really odd stuff.) No, writers are even more powerful than that–they can create whole new people, heck, they can create whole new universes.*

A writer can say the most stupid, evil, offensive things he wants to, so long as he sends those sentiments out into the world through the mouth of the appropriate character. (And yes, it’s possible to go overboard, but we’re talking Art here, so if properly handled, the bar is pretty high.) This is not to say that all the words in a book reflect the true feelings of the author, of course, far from it. I’ve written a lot of books, and in those books I’ve killed a lot of people, but I’ve never killed anyone in real life and have no intention of ever doing so. Anyone who kills in my books does it on his own time.

On the other hand, such sentiments may well betray an author’s belief that such feelings should be aired, if only to shut them down. (In fiction, good usually triumphs over evil.) Whether a character’s pronouncements represent the views of the author depends on the book and the author. Often as not, the views of the characters are dictated solely by what the author thinks will sell.

Which brings us back to my definition of wisdom. Will the remarks that sound so clever in my head sound sufficiently clever on the page that anyone will pay to read them? I have no idea. Most of the time, the answer is “no.”

And yet I spend my life producing goods that, according to the odds, no one will ever buy. What does that make me?

*Given this overwhelming power, shouldn’t everyone want to be a writer? But I digress.

Never Having to Say You’re Sorry

Being a writer means never having to say you’re sorry–for murdering somebody.

I’m in the middle of writing a story. Literally. The publisher’s guidelines call for a story of a certain length, and I’m halfway there. At some point in this story, a particular character has to die. And I realized, as I pondered his ultimate demise, that it had to be sooner rather than later. After all, I’m halfway through the story. You can’t wait on this kind of development forever; a murder always raises the stakes, and you can’t wait to raise the stakes until almost the end of the story, or else the reader will wonder what all that folderol leading up to this point was for. (“I’ve got better things to do with my time than wait for you to crush somebody’s skull with a rock!” he might be heard to mutter.)

So this fellow must die, and he’s going to do it in the next scene, which wasn’t supposed to have him in it at all but then he’d have to wait too long and besides it might lead to repetitive storytelling in the approach so waiting would just be a bad idea. Which leads to the question: Does an author feel bad for killing off a character?

After all, as long-time readers will know, authors think of their books as their children, and the characters therein as real people. (If you don’t believe in your characters, who will?) So you’d think if we had to knock one off, we’d feel a crumb of remorse, or at least regret.

Nope, not a bit. Writers are in loco parentis, after a fashion, but we are also akin to generals sending off our troops to fight. Sometimes we have to send them off knowing they may well die. Now generals do regret this necessity, but writers are made of sterner stuff (and they’re dealing with imaginary troops). Which means that so long as a character’s death is necessary, it isn’t regrettable at all. (Okay, it’s possible that the writer may regret it on occasion, but in this case I don’t.) This character’s death is absolutely necessary; not only does it raise the stakes, but no other character would do. He’s in the wrong place at the wrong time and sticking his nose where he ought not. Classic recipe for becoming victim no. 1.

So rather than remorse, I feel pride. I have written this character specifically for this purpose, and I’m happy to say that he will be serving that purpose quite neatly. It’s possible, of course, that he might see things differently, but I’m afraid that in about 500 words, he’s no longer going to be able to object.

Sorry not sorry.