Perfect First Draft Syndrome

I’ve been having some trouble lately. A couple of months ago I developed a painful condition in one shoulder that led me to suspend typing for an extended period. I tried speech-to-text but I was unimpressed with the results. I tried writing longhand, but although I have found it a useful tool for unlocking creativity, it has its own limits. In the end, I just stopped writing until I could figure out what was wrong with my shoulder.

Well, now my shoulder is much better (thank you), but the writing hasn’t really gotten back on track. I’ve worked on some older stuff that only needed editing, and I did draft one flash piece, but I have two novels in progress on my hard drive, and they are currently “in progress” in name only.

The truth is they were struggling before I got hurt (for various reasons not relevant here), but the reason I can’t seem to return to them is a more fundamental one than any I was wrestling with before: It seems I have what I like to call Perfect First Draft Syndrome.

Perfect First Draft Syndrome is akin to writer’s block, but it’s less a problem with figuring out what to write than it is with simply getting underway on a project.

Anyone who has followed me for a while knows that I subscribe to the “shitty first draft” method spelled out in Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. In essence, your first draft is your spitball draft, the throw-the-spaghetti-at-the-wall-to-see-if-it-sticks draft. This is where anything goes, just empty out your subconscious and see what lands of the page. It can be messy, it can be misspelled, it can be utterly incoherent—doesn’t matter. What matters is that somewhere down in that muddy puddle of words lie a few sentences that you can use, that tell a story. You pan for those and throw the rest away.

And you never, ever, show that draft to anyone. The knowledge that no one will ever see it will free you to set down the words you need.

Yeah, that’s what’s supposed to happen. But every writer has an editor in his head, and that editor can’t wait to weigh in even when you want him to shut up. When that editor gains the upper hand before you start to write the story, you get Perfect First Draft Syndrome. “What if it’s no good?” the editor asks. “It’s got to be great right out of the gate!” he insists.

Of course, none of this is true, but when the editor escapes from his assigned spot in your brain, he acts like an idiot. Think of him like the “suits” at movie studios who tell directors how to make a film even though they’ve never set foot on a set.

And yet, like the suits, the editor wields great power. He can stall a project just by standing there. He doesn’t even have to chain himself to a bulldozer. He simply looks you in the eye and asks: “Is this the best you can do?” even though you haven’t done it yet.

Still, he isn’t invincible. If he were, nothing would ever get written. The way past him is to write something, anything, so long as it is an unplanned, spontaneous piece, so the editor has no chance to jump in front of the train. It can be a flash story, for example, or even a blog post. Enough that you learn again how not to listen to the editor and just do the job of writing. The editor can have his shot later.

Sometimes this works immediately. Sometimes it doesn’t. But it helps to remember that nothing is ever perfect anyway. It doesn’t have to be. It just has to satisfy an editor.

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Blog Interview

I’ve done a blog interview, my first, in fact. In it I reveal the Secrets of the Universe, my Plan for World Peace, and of course, the publication date of the next installment of The Song of Ice and Fire.

So, you know, the usual author stuff.

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New story publication

I’m proud to announce that my story “Commitment,” originally published in the anthology “Age of Certainty,” way back in 2013, is being reprinted in the first issue of Further Light magazine. The print edition is available now; the on-line publication of my story is scheduled for February 3.

“Commitment” is about a man who has lost faith in–well, pretty much everything–who is confronted with evidence of what he has forsaken. If faith is acceptance without evidence, is proof a good thing? The end of the universe depends on one man’s answer.

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Nobody Wants to Interview Me (for real)

So today I got an out-of-the-blue email–from England, no less–offering to interview me for “Reader’s House, a literary magazine based in London.” Woohoo! one thinks. I’m moving up in the world. Well, one does if this is the first thing one sees on his phone in the morning, but eventually the logical part of the brain wakes up (after much coffee) and says, “Why would these people want to interview me?” And the questions follow fast and furious.

Because to be honest, nobody wants to interview me for a fancy literary magazine. Or likely, you either. (I’m speaking to authors, here. Mostly.) The reason magazines interview famous folks is to draw readers, and I am neither famous nor likely to draw readers. So who are these people and why are they taking up my precious morning bandwidth? (I’ll give them a little slack on the “morning” part because they’re in England and thus several hours ahead of me.)

It turns out after a little research that while this is not necessarily a scam, it’s not exactly an individualized invitation. Although Readers House says, “We are interested in conducting an interview with you about you and your titles,” their interest is rather more personal–as in interested in personal gain. According to Writer Beware,* Readers House will publish your interview on line for free; so far, so good. But… “If you commite [sic] to buy a few printed issues we may include your interview in print.” And if you want any of their other services designed to publicize your interview, it will cost you anywhere from $150 to $490. And is what you get worth what you pay? I honestly don’t know and I’m not looking to find out. I’m willing to bet that I know already.

The point I’m trying to make is not that you should avoid Readers House; that decision is entirely up to you. An interview with them might be just the boost your career needs. Your books, your choice. The same goes for anyone else who offers you something out of the blue: an interview, publication, a famous author as your new best friend. (Don’t laugh; it happens.)

What I’m saying is that nothing in this business falls into your lap. When someone you’ve never heard of offers to give you something you’ve never asked for, check it out three ways before lunch and twice after. Now, it’s true that established authors are routinely approached by editors to contribute to anthologies. I have been myself. (You can find that story here.) But those are offers from known parties who are offering money, not asking for it. Remember the adage: Money flows to the author.

And when you make enough money, someone will want to interview you for what you say, not what you pay.

*If you’re a writer and you don’t already subscribe to Writer Beware, run, do not walk, over there and do so. Right now. I’m not kidding.

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You Don’t Have to be Insane

Sometimes, when on line or in person someone will pose the question, “What’s the one piece of advice you would give to someone who wants to be a writer?” my answer will be: “Don’t.” I typically phrase it in a jesting tone, because I don’t want to come off as a curmudgeon (there’s plenty to time for that later), but I’m only half-joking. If I were pressed, I would add, “This is ridiculously hard work and it doesn’t pay well. If you’re looking to make money, literally almost any other job would work better.”

“But,” one might reply, “you do it.” Yes, I do, but my excuse is that I got the bug before I realized what I was getting into and by the time I learned, it was far too late. I mean, yes, I was once warned by a friend in the book industry that the chances of success were one in a thousand based on magazine rejection rates, but I heard what I wanted to hear (“You have a chance in a thousand!”) and pushed on. And on.

It’s because I’ve been through that wringer (and am still being wrung out) that I’ve adopted this philosophy. Seriously, if you’re considering a writing career, re-think your values. Now, before it’s too late. If you want my advice, you shouldn’t do it.

And the reason I say that is because if I, your mother, your high school English teacher, or even the editor of Tomorrow is Today spec-fic magazine can persuade you that you shouldn’t be a writer, then, well, you shouldn’t be a writer. (It’s like Holland Taylor to Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde: “If you’re going to let one stupid prick ruin your life… you’re not the girl I thought you were.”) The only reason you should be a writer is if writing is in your soul. If it’s an itch that cannot be scratched any other way. If you are so convinced that you were born to write that nobody can tell you otherwise.

Let me be (probably not the first) to tell you that for writers, rejection is a way of life. Every writer I know has tons, and gets them to this day (and I know people who’ve won Hugos and Nebulas). The road to what you call “success” is long and likely never-ending, because “success” is always one step on the ladder above you. it’s like the pyramids; you’ll never finish.

The pay? Laughable for short fiction. Even most novelists can’t make a living at it, and most are one bad book away from obscurity.

On the other hand, it is easier today to be published than ever before (and I’m not including self-publishing). When I started, there were three SFF magazines; today there are thousands. And there are compensations: First, the writing community is tight. They will root for you and you for them every day; it’s not a competition. We’re all on the same team. Second, the joy of a sale is wondrous, and when a fan meets you at a con or asks for an autograph, you feel like a millionaire.

But the bottom line is that you have to believe in you. No matter how many rejections, no matter how few of your friends and family seem to care (really, it’s a matter of not understanding what you do), and maybe worst of all, no matter how many of your peers seem to be passing you by, you have to push on because…well, because you have no choice. It’s write or die.

Or go watch Netflix. It’s your life.

We’ve all heard, “You don’t have to be insane to [be a writer], but it helps.” Actually, it probably doesn’t. What you need to be a writer is not insanity, but obliviousness. You have to oblivious to every negative thing around you and concentrate on what’s inside you. Sometimes you have to be oblivious to your family and friends. You have to believe in the face of all the odds. In another context, we’d say you need “faith.”

So, yes, if you ask me I’m going to tell you not to be a writer. Because if you listen to me and you quit, you were never meant to be one, and if you were meant to be one, you’ll ignore me and call me a curmudgeon. Go on; I’m a writer no matter what you say.

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Writing Well is Overrated

I do not write well.

Which is OK, because writing well is overrated.

Notice I didn’t say “good writing” is overrated, because it is most assuredly not. But being able to write well (at least for fiction writers) is an overrated skill, and not nearly as valuable as two others: being a good editor, and finding good readers.

The first of these is often confused with being a good writer, but they’re two different animals. Being a good editor in this context means being able to edit yourself, and despite all the appearances, it is not the same as being good writer.

The Writer is the guy who throws whatever represents his vision onto the page. He thinks and he scribbles, and he tries to get his story set down in some permanent medium. Why does he bother? Why not just tell the story out of his own mouth? It’s not so people can read it, it’s so that when he puts on his editor’s hat, he can review his chicken scratches and turn them into words. Which he must do if he wants anyone to publish this garbage. Because let me tell you, although I’ve been publishing for 25 years, and writing for some time longer, my first drafts are still utterly unpublishable. If I had to depend solely on the Writer, no matter the progress he’s achieved in these many years, I’d be nowhere.

The Editor is the fellow who takes the writer’s hasty and uninhibited words and smooths them out, picking through the crop and discarding the worm-eaten and the rotten until only the marketable remains. The Editor can’t create stories, but he can see them with a more critical eye than the Writer can manage. What you’re reading is not what the Writer put down.

(As an aside, ideally the Editor waits for the writer to finish, but for some reason Editors like to think they’re writers and refuse to wait their turn. It’s the Editor who keeps making suggestions, even as I write this, and I wish he’d stop. [If you were a better writer, I wouldn’t need to be so proactive. -Ed.])

Then there’s the second skill, choosing Readers. No editor can catch all of the problems the writer has left for him; he is, after all, part of the same brain. Readers provide a third-party focus, an irreplaceable service.

So after the Editor and the Readers have had their say, it goes back to the Writer. He revises, the Editor comments, and this goes on until the Writer is too tired to continue. (No story is ever finished, but the writer eventually becomes exhausted.)

Then the story goes out on sub. Maybe it’s published. Maybe it’s popular and wins awards. Maybe people will praise the writer for his vision, his awesome writing. But that will miss the point. Every story is written by a village, even if most of the village is in your own head. Writing well, by itself, is overrated.

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Two New Books Received

I’ve just gotten my author’s copies of two new anthologies that I was lucky enough to land in. The first is a whimsical fable about some not-so-whimsical creatures, called “White Flag,” originally published back in 2003 but now on display in Tales of Galactic Pest Control. If it walks like a cockroach but looks like a silverfish, it could be Clyde.

On sale next month, Robots Past & Future contains “Wills and Trust,” the story of a robotic valet serving three generations of his employer-family. The things that are important to one generation may mean little to the next: How do you decide what to hold onto and what to let go?

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“Tales of Galactic Pest Control” live

The new anthology of bugs, bug-eyed monsters, and pest control is here, featuring my story “White Flag.” If you think you’re safe up there in your sterilized, hermetically-sealed, steel space habitat surrounded by blessedly insect-free vacuum, well guess again. The stories in this volume will show you the error of your ways.

You can see the list of authors here.

Because sometimes, the bug is the feature.

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Moving Forward by Looking Backward

In his memoir The Early Asimov, Isaac Asimov reminisces about writing “Nightfall.”

I often wonder, with a shudder, what might have happened on the evening of March 17, 1941, if some angelic spirit had whispered in my ear, “Isaac, you are about to start writing the best science fiction short story of our time.”

I would undoubtedly have frozen solid. I wouldn’t have been able to type a word.

With all due respect to Dr. Asimov, I disagree. Prior knowledge of how your book will be received could be the most valuable tool in your toolbox.* Imagine knowing exactly what reviewers will say when your deathless prose reaches their eyes! How easy would it be to craft a masterpiece if you had already seen which parts of your work were destined to wreak havoc on your readers’ emotions?

Of course, you can’t. But reread the third sentence of the previous paragraph–and take it as a suggestion.

I was recently working on a paranormal mystery novel, not my usual fare, but I had an idea. The problem with mysteries (for pantsers like me) is that you can’t just start writing and see where the plot takes you. You have to know where you’re going ahead of time, or else you’re going to have a lot of work interpolating clues and such after you’re done, and it’s never really going to read seamlessly. I wanted this book to function first as a mystery and secondly as a fantasy, so much outlining was needed–not my normal modus operandi.

Initially, I was trying to follow the thematic arc of a classic mystery like The Big Sleep. Later I realized that my book was shaping up more along the lines of The Maltese Falcon, but it wasn’t either of these that provided me with my big epiphany–it was another Hammett masterpiece, The Thin Man.

Big fan. Read the book, have all the movies on DVD, have a major crush on Nora Charles. (If you’ve seen the movies and do not have a crush on one of the protagonists, we can’t be friends.) At the end of each adventure, Nick Charles rounds up all of the suspects, sits them down, and proceeds to lecture them on how he unravelled the whole story to determine that the murderer was…

And that’s when it hit me. Instead of racking my brain to figure out who was where when, had a motive, and who was just lying to hide something else, why not let my detective explain it all to me at the end of the book as if I were one of the suspects? In other words, “Life is short, write the ending of your book first.” In the words of your main character.

And it worked. He expounded and I listened. I had already figured out who the guilty party was, but it was my detective who explained how he had cut through all of the obstructing undergrowth of lies, misplaced loyalties and petty jealousies (most which I didn’t know existed until he explained them), and why the second murder had occurred. (I didn’t even know there had been a second murder.) He also explained the MacGuffin, another factor I hadn’t known about–which revealed several characters’ motives.

Maybe it was time travel, maybe it was astral projection, and maybe it was just adopting a new point of view, but imagining how my novel would look, looking backward, changed everything. And the technique isn’t limited to writing the ending first. You could go beyond that, putting yourself in the position of reading a review. “The author pulls the reader in through his careful use of alternating points of view.” Did you know you were planning to alternate points of view? Well, you know it now!

Perhaps the real takeaway here is that just because the reader will experience your story in a linear fashion doesn’t mean you have to write it that way. You could literally write it backward and no one would ever know. Or you could outline it ahead of time, maybe by the method I’ve described.

It’s not that odd when you think about it. Who doesn’t daydream about the awards that their novel or story is going to win? Who doesn’t imagine being featured in a celebrity book club? This is just a more specific daydream.

Specifically, this post will lead directly to my being commissioned to write a how-to book by Writer’s Digest. You heard it here first.

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*On the other hand, it could be a very big problem, as in Time and Again, by Clifford B. Simak (1951).

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“Galactic Pest Control”

I’m proud to announce that I will have a story, “White Flag,” in Amazing Stories‘ upcoming anthology, Galactic Pest Control, edited by Tom Easton and David Gerrold. I don’t want to give anything away, but I’ll give you a hint: You’ll be rooting for the little guy. Literally.

There’s a Kickstarter for the project, so if you want to chip in, we’ll all be grateful. Or you can wait for the book to come out to buy a copy, in which case we’ll all be grateful. In the meantime, you can try to guess the source of this quote: “Bugs, Mr. Rico! Zillions of ’em!”*

*Answer.

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