October 19th, 2007

writing plot octopus

the one they came to bury was not very heavy

Second draft of "Knock On Coffins" complete at a little under 17K.

It works this time.

Suddenly, I can write novellas. I never could do that before. It's new since 2006.

Also, got a ton of fiddly prepub stuff I needed to do for DUST finished. Amazing what I can accomplish when I have an actual whole day to do it in.

Next week, I need to have less social life and fewer chores, and actually be like an employed* persion.

Hmm. If I can write this week, maybe I need to look at "King Pole" tomorrow and see if I can fix that. Since an editor just emailed me about it, ahem.

Oh, god. Look at all this email.

Bah. Monday.

*not-so-Freudian slip: "empolyed."
spies mfu illya bitch please _ truepenny

Being an open letter to Jeff VanderMeer

Oh, look, I'm going to get into another fight with Jeff VanderMeer.

We're all shocked, I'm sure.

Here's the money shot of what Jeff says, for me:

What I seemed to find in those old magazines sometimes overreached, or crashed into and sank on the rocks of evangelical experimentalism…but, at its best, that fiction was altogether more adult than much of what I’ve read recently. It seemed sharper and more balanced between intellect and emotion. There was ample intelligence behind it, sometimes a cruel and frightening intelligence. It was often bracing, unexpected, and jagged. 

Dear Jeff,

Yep. The old "compare the best of the old stuff to the vast majority of the new stuff and then declare the current state of the field culturally bankrupt trick."

Jeff, I gotta tell you. The sheer illogic of your post boggles me.

First, it assumes that the majority of writers are not in fact sweating everything they produce. I dunno if this means that you're not sweating everything you produce, but I assure you, many writers are. Working their butts off, sweating blood, taking things apart and putting them together repeatedly, doing multiple drafts and a good deal of hard thinking, fussing over every sentence, putting their blood and sweat and painful hard-earned experience into every character detail--broken hearts, and broken bones.

I know. I watch some of them do it.

One's dignity as an artist requires that one keep pushing. Trying harder, digging in, going to the wall. Writing what it hurts you to write.

You know, most art, even earnest art, will be pretty bad. And a whole hell of a lot will be competent but average. And the reason for that is that not everything can be above average. You might look up the definition of the word average if you need a refresher course on why.

Second, you assume that hard work equals excellent stories.

Now, does hard work mean every story is going to be a great one?

Alas. That's where the heartbreak comes in.


You can work your ass off, and kind of suck. You can work your ass off, and be just barely good enough. You can work your ass off, and be mediocre.

You can, in fact, work your ass off for fifty years, and be mediocre.


Scary, isn't it?

But you only get one R.A. Lafferty, one James Tiptree, one Chip Delany, one Kelly Link, and not all of us can be him, or her. Sorry.

Ooo. Yeah. It smarts.

Lemme tell you. It smarts the hell out of me, too.

Third, you assume that the best work is going to be edgy and political and dark. And it's not, my friend. Or, at least, not edgy and political and dark the way you want it to be. Sometimes the best stories are edgy as hell, challenging and uncomfortable and right where it hurts and big and sweeping and savage. And sometimes they're tiny little perfect painful things, sweet and sharp and life-changing as a splinter of glass lodged in the soft pink swollen tissues of your throat, or as a a kiss from somebody you thought would never love you.

That assumption that the significant things in life are always dark and edgy? That's a comfort zone too, and a comforting--and I would honestly say adolescent--fixation.

John Gardner calls it "disPollyanna Syndrome," the cynical fallacy that the real world is unrelievedly bleak.

But it's not. Sorry. Sometimes, the real world--and art--are shockingly perfect. Sometimes the truth is a jewel.

Fourth, of course, SFF writers are universally engaged in writing highly commercial, derivative short fiction for the big bucks it offers. It's all comfort-food tripe, but it's what the market wants, and the short fiction scene isn't essentially a club scene consisting of writers writing for and to other writers and the most hard-core oh, five or ten thousand genre fans.

That was sarcasm, if you missed it.

Fifth, not everybody gets a great story. And even people who do, eventually, get one great story may not get two. And the vast majority of writers who get even one great story serve out a long and gruelling apprenticeship learning their craft first. Writing well is not a talent. It is not a gift. It is not an act of will. You don't get to get up in the morning, click your heels, and say, "Today I am going to write a classic story."

Believe me. If that worked? I would know by now, because I've tried it.

Sixth, once you've had your great story? You are stuck with it for the rest of your life. And you will have to get up every morning and wonder how you're going to top "Scanners Live In Vain," and realize that everything you write from now on is probably going to be a let-down.

Seventh, my great story is not necessarily your great story. Most of what the genre conversation as a whole praises highly falls flat for me for one reason or another.

Eighth, I have to point out that small stories can be important, too. Tiny little personal stories are no less worthy than big sweeping ones. And there are any number of writers who are engaged in the subversive activity of telling stories about the sorts of people SFF has traditonally found uninteresting. Unworthy. Beneath notice.

Midwives. Chimney sweeps. Beat cops. Orcs. Failing small businessmen. Mothers of sick children. Struggling hacks. Second-stringers.

Like the vast majority of writers.

Sorry, Jeff, to have to deliver the bad news. But it's okay; I understand not being good enough. (And hey, I mean, if you were a girl, you could have the added filip of having to be about twice as good as a male author to get the same amount of respect. I mean, do you honestly think Chris Moriarty is a worse writer than Richard Morgan? Or that Cat Valente is a worse writer than China Mieville? Because, um, with all due respect, and all respect due to Richard and China--I think Chris and Cat are every bit as good as the boys. And I know which writers I hear discussed more frequently.)

See, here's the problem. No matter how ferociously we hate our own inadequacies, no matter how much we will ourselves to genius, we each of us still struggle painfully with the fact that every morning we wake the hell up, and we still haven't turned into Theodore Sturgeon*.

God dammit.

To hell.

Your friend,



In tangentially related matters, go read this:


and this:


and this:


and this:


Here. Have some pictures of Tornado Intercept Vehicles.

*Sturgeon probably had somebody he struggled painfully with not being too, I would guess, knowing writers.
holmes confidence

and more from Jeff.

Jeff V. responds to my post on his post here.

(My post.)

Alas, I seem to have been sharper than I intended, as I was trying for a tone of humorous argument, not condescension or viciousness. Viva la internets, I guess.

The mention of Cat/China/et al was indeed a tangent, one meant to illustrate that the standards of "great" fiction are incredibly arbitrary and personal, and not intended as a jab at Jeff, who is undeserving of such.

And he is absolutely entitled to not enjoy most of the short fiction he reads! (I don't enjoy most of the short fiction *I* read.)

What I took exception to was the implication I saw in his post that the reason he wasn't enjoying this fiction was because the authors weren't trying hard enough, which seemed to me the central theme and argument of what he wrote.

Jeff also sez:

And I still think there are pressures of commercialism and the idea of fiction-as-commodity that writers have to face and think about, and are often more noticeable within genre. It is good to continually remind ourselves of this–I know I have to.

Oh, heck yes.

If I would just put fewer icky queer people in my books, for example, who knows--I might get movie options or something.

Anyway, sorry I came across as having bit your head off, Jeff. Me being a jerk sometimes comes free with the subscription, I'm afraid.