While Waiting to be Published
While Waiting to be Published
Equipment for an Expedition to an Alien Savanah
I’m getting ready for the International Three Day Novel Contest and I have a small wire
shelf for holding dictionaries. Mine has: The American College Dictionary The American College
Dictionary
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Music on Mars
I’ve been revising a new short story called ‘The Librarian’ (related to ‘The Astronaut’s Library’) and I realized the character had read a science fiction story I had read: an astronaut on
Mars comes across a set of alien ruins. An automated system gives him food (which is loathsome) and loudspeakers play dissonant music. By the end of the story the food seems excellent and
the music has changed to the sound of sweet violins. (I won’t spoil more of the sweet but creepy story than that, it’s one of those Sfnal happy endings that is not happy, ...
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No Moving Parts
Murray F. Yaco's No Moving
Parts
assures me I've got something right, both in a short story I've already finished and the 3 Day Novel I'm working on.
...
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assures me I've got something right, both in a short story I've already finished and the 3 Day Novel I'm working on.
The Astronaut's Library
I’ve started tagging my Library Thing books “In My Fiction” for books that have a character named after a character in that book, or for books mentioned (or quoted) by the people in my fiction.
(Not always favorably: the mention of the Star Trek book “Final Frontier” and certain Heinlein works do not mean my future civilizations are Libertarian utopias. See the “The World
in His Throat” for why that is not the case.)
One of the main premises in my series set in the future is that an astronaut bequeaths his library to ...
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Tea and Sunshine
This is one of those fairly typical times in my writing life: waiting for word from publishers. I feel a little under the weather, so I am trying to match my time and capacities to what needs to be done. I have three novels which need to be typed up and revised. I have a novella that needs to be typed up and revised (and researched). This year’s 3-Day Novel is coming into focus (after the usual anxiety that I will spend the whole weekend with a completely blank mind or crossing off blind alley first paragraphs). (This will of course be followed by the anxiety that I’ll run out of story during the weekend and end up with a Half-Day Novel.)
I spent yesterday, sick, thinking everything I wrote was awful: no one’s wanted to publish it in a year, right? However, I remembered that I don’t think straight when I don’t feel well and Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life
says we all hate our own work, at times. I sat down in the evening and read over an incomplete novel: it was pretty good. I read over the short story which was published last year: the new novel was better. I had some thoughts about structuring the universe they both appear in then went to sleep.
says we all hate our own work, at times. I sat down in the evening and read over an incomplete novel: it was pretty good. I read over the short story which was published last year: the new novel was better. I had some thoughts about structuring the universe they both appear in then went to sleep.So I will stay close to my mug of tea and a light blanket, prop myself up at my computer, and do something small and undemanding in my open time.
I also added a review of Brian Aldiss' second novel, Bow Down to Nul
, to my LibraryThing account. (I think it failed to post on my Twitter feed.) The book:
, to my LibraryThing account. (I think it failed to post on my Twitter feed.) The book:
And Now With Amazon
I spent yesterday revising the story I wrote a few weeks ago: proofreading, revising, checking continuity against other stories and novels in the same universe, looking up the scientific names of plants, looking up the names of minor characters in other works, adding bits of the world's history, doing general research. I felt tired by the end of the day and as of my brain had been hollowed out, but I was glad to get the work done. I had marked up a printed copy of the story the day before but I was glad to get the intensive work largely done.
As a friend said to me tonight: I can do nothing thoughtlessly. I'm not one to tear the last page out of the typewriter (or out of the printer) and send it off, as-is, to a publisher.
I also read over the title-less story I'm calling (for now) "Inspired by 'The Ebony Frame
' and I spent the evening reading a book about science fiction publishing. I took some pictures with my new (used) camera, bought a camera bag so I won't drop it on the rocks of York beach, and had lunch at Moe's.
' and I spent the evening reading a book about science fiction publishing. I took some pictures with my new (used) camera, bought a camera bag so I won't drop it on the rocks of York beach, and had lunch at Moe's.Today I wrote a much longer entry about this past weekend (talking about all sorts of SFnal things) but it got eaten when I tried to post it. Better luck tomorrow.
I also set it up so you can support this website buy buying the anthology I appear in:
and I made a few background changes to this site and to LisaShapter.com. That was plenty for one evening.
What I Meant to Write
Today I discovered that my local library has every last Dune prequel and sequel but not The Left Hand of Darkness
or The Dispossessed
. I plan to sit down with a stack of purchase request cards and leaf through the Hugo and Nebula lists (at the very least) tomorrow. (They do have all the O. Henry Prize anthologies
back to the 1950's.) Inconsistency is a strange thing to meet at a library: it's unexpected.
I also wrote a five page ... something. It may be the start of a short story, it may be part of a novel (just not one of the ones I have written, already.) When I write something I keep it: it usually turns into something. I've had whole novels come from a few pages of "What is this? I can't use this for anything." I've learned patience: being quiet and waiting, pen in hand, gets better results than jumping up and insisting on something obviously useful in a prior work, salable on its own, or sensible by the rules of whatever branch of science I thought I was trying to work within. There is always time later to work on those three points, first I must have something to revise.
I spent part of the day running errands and the evening reading about the business of SF publishing. I already knew that there are more defunct science fiction magazines than current ones and I already knew that the market for short magazine fiction has shrunk over the past 100 years: I know I am up against the clever, the gripping, and the witty and I have little to offer but an emotion (never as stark as those produced by Poe's stories
.)I believe in what I am doing, however: the best science fiction stories I have read ends on a feeling (often unique), and I hold that no matter what we attribute their charms to, emotion has a lot to do with why these stories are classics.
I meant to spend this evening revising any of the dozen projects I have in progress but I spent it on new writing. The new novella I am working on (so far labeled "Inspired by 'The Ebony Frame'") may be trying to do something that is too difficult for me: first finish the novella, then read it over, then have it read, then draw conclusions. I can only try.
or The Dispossessed. I plan to sit down with a stack of purchase request cards and leaf through the Hugo and Nebula lists (at the very least) tomorrow. (They do have all the O. Henry Prize anthologies back to the 1950's.) Inconsistency is a strange thing to meet at a library: it's unexpected.I also wrote a five page ... something. It may be the start of a short story, it may be part of a novel (just not one of the ones I have written, already.) When I write something I keep it: it usually turns into something. I've had whole novels come from a few pages of "What is this? I can't use this for anything." I've learned patience: being quiet and waiting, pen in hand, gets better results than jumping up and insisting on something obviously useful in a prior work, salable on its own, or sensible by the rules of whatever branch of science I thought I was trying to work within. There is always time later to work on those three points, first I must have something to revise.
I spent part of the day running errands and the evening reading about the business of SF publishing. I already knew that there are more defunct science fiction magazines than current ones and I already knew that the market for short magazine fiction has shrunk over the past 100 years: I know I am up against the clever, the gripping, and the witty and I have little to offer but an emotion (never as stark as those produced by Poe's stories
.)I believe in what I am doing, however: the best science fiction stories I have read ends on a feeling (often unique), and I hold that no matter what we attribute their charms to, emotion has a lot to do with why these stories are classics.I meant to spend this evening revising any of the dozen projects I have in progress but I spent it on new writing. The new novella I am working on (so far labeled "Inspired by 'The Ebony Frame'") may be trying to do something that is too difficult for me: first finish the novella, then read it over, then have it read, then draw conclusions. I can only try.
The Lost Novella
The short story I started (let's call it "Inspired by 'The Ebony Frame'"), set in the same universe as "The World in His Throat
" and "The Four Wives of Lt. Shi, seems to be developing into a novella (or a novel). I wanted to write more yesterday but I had places I had to be, none of them with a pen (although taking Arnold Rimmer'sone good piece of advice, I always carry a pen), pieces of paper, or hours of uninterrupted time. What I wanted to write is lost for good: the narrator starts speaking and all I can do is take dictation. Like most people, he can't repeat an emotional narrative word for word, and usually won't want to try. It's a different day, he isn't thinking about the same things, he has his own life to live, and his time to sit alone and talk with me is limited. He has a wife and children, a demanding job, a small staff of household servants, and what he's trying to sort out in telling his own story only occurs to him in rare moods — not exactly melancholy but thoughtful.
Maybe most writers want heaps of unstructured time to think about their ideas, do outlines, research, sketch — I always have a radio in my mind scanning for the voices of my narrators. If it rests on something that isn't just chatter I must write or lose whatever the voice was supposed to be part of (a play, the chapter of a novel, a short story, a new work). This happens, sometimes, but with a new narrator and a new work I have the least chance of getting it back. The narrator is nervous, he knows I see more in his story than he does, he does not yet trust me. (Although I've written books by narrators who don't trust me there must be some kind of working relationship.)
So today I kept an ear open, I took a drive by the shore, bought some dinner, grilled it, read a bit of a book I'm in the middle of, thought about knitting if it weren't so damned hot, sat with the coals until I was sure they had burned down and the mosquitoes began to bite, then came inside to see if the internet was working and to do a head count of the day's rejection letters. Today I passed a location in one of my novellas by a road I don't usually drive on. I wanted to stop and take a picture then I looked at the traffic, the cops; the confused, hot, irate tourists and decided to keep driving. I should take another whack at researching the place and its history but today was too good a day to look out at the sea and think about how the shore will look in the winter.
The narrator didn't speak again: I never know when or if any of them will (even if I have an entire — or partial — book from them). I'll just have to see. It's no use worrying about it: I have manuscripts to type, manuscripts to revise, manuscripts to print out and proofread, manuscripts to send out, query letters to compose. If he speaks again I will try to be certain I can take down every word.
'"), set in the same universe as "The World in His Throat" and "The Four Wives of Lt. Shi, seems to be developing into a novella (or a novel). I wanted to write more yesterday but I had places I had to be, none of them with a pen (although taking Arnold Rimmer'sone good piece of advice, I always carry a pen), pieces of paper, or hours of uninterrupted time. What I wanted to write is lost for good: the narrator starts speaking and all I can do is take dictation. Like most people, he can't repeat an emotional narrative word for word, and usually won't want to try. It's a different day, he isn't thinking about the same things, he has his own life to live, and his time to sit alone and talk with me is limited. He has a wife and children, a demanding job, a small staff of household servants, and what he's trying to sort out in telling his own story only occurs to him in rare moods — not exactly melancholy but thoughtful.
Maybe most writers want heaps of unstructured time to think about their ideas, do outlines, research, sketch — I always have a radio in my mind scanning for the voices of my narrators. If it rests on something that isn't just chatter I must write or lose whatever the voice was supposed to be part of (a play, the chapter of a novel, a short story, a new work). This happens, sometimes, but with a new narrator and a new work I have the least chance of getting it back. The narrator is nervous, he knows I see more in his story than he does, he does not yet trust me. (Although I've written books by narrators who don't trust me there must be some kind of working relationship.)
So today I kept an ear open, I took a drive by the shore, bought some dinner, grilled it, read a bit of a book I'm in the middle of, thought about knitting if it weren't so damned hot, sat with the coals until I was sure they had burned down and the mosquitoes began to bite, then came inside to see if the internet was working and to do a head count of the day's rejection letters. Today I passed a location in one of my novellas by a road I don't usually drive on. I wanted to stop and take a picture then I looked at the traffic, the cops; the confused, hot, irate tourists and decided to keep driving. I should take another whack at researching the place and its history but today was too good a day to look out at the sea and think about how the shore will look in the winter.
The narrator didn't speak again: I never know when or if any of them will (even if I have an entire — or partial — book from them). I'll just have to see. It's no use worrying about it: I have manuscripts to type, manuscripts to revise, manuscripts to print out and proofread, manuscripts to send out, query letters to compose. If he speaks again I will try to be certain I can take down every word.
And There Goes My Publisher List
Today I went shopping for a new kitchen faucet (no more black mold!), cooked dinner through the most beautiful evening in the world, and wrote a 15 page short story (longhand).
I also managed to cut my other hand (not as severely as my dominant hand), burn my arm, and send my master tracking list of all my manuscripts to Canada with no return postage.
Perhaps this would be a good day to go to bed early ....
I also sent off a query for one of those difficult-to-place science fiction novellas (I've been writing a string of them and very few publishers take works longer than a short story but shorter than a novel) and began reconstructing my potential publisher tracking list.
I also took the splint off my finger and typed a letter to a friend. On this:
(Olympia Elite typewriter image courtesy http://www.technikimbuero.at/museum/restauriert/olympia_elite.htm. My camera won't talk to my computer.)
Still to do: revise the story I wrote within the last two weeks and finish reconstructing my where-my-manuscripts are list. Tonight, however, reading.
Dealing With Rejections Later
Today I was rejected by an anthology, I ignored two prior rejections, and I cleaned out the cabinet under the sink in preparation for the handyman's arrival next week. Yes, there's been a leak. The floor of the cabinet has fallen in and there is a patch of mold. It's black.
Having just heard some terrifying story about the effects of black mold, I looked it up on the CDC website and sloshed it with clorox and turned on the stove vent. I picked up the mail, looked through it, and thought about reading a book as it started to rain and it was a lovely afternoon to read a book. Instead I called customer support at Go Daddy , the host of this site (they were lovely), and I was surprised to find some stock photo of some people I don't know smack in the middle of my blog. (I could change it to an equally stock photo of sunflowers sunflowers.) I made some design tweaks, dealt with the mail, and cooked dinner for the household.
I did not write: I did spend the evening listening to the radio.
