Having sold a book*, people are of course already asking me about cover art. Do I know what it will be? Have I seen it? Do I know when it will be done?
Let me answer these questions in order: No. No. And...no.
And, in anticipation of the next question, no, I don't know if I will have any input on it. Let's just say that, having spoken to other authors, I'm not going to hold my breath on that one.
However, if you are interested in what goes into a book cover's design, Lauren Panepinto over at Orbit was good enough to make this high-speed video about the design of Gail Carriger's book "Blameless." It's a cool little video. (Link taken from SF Signal)
* = I have a title and tentative release date, btw (which I believe I neglected to post here): AMONG THIEVES is due out from ROC (Penguin), April of 2011.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Confidence and Confidants
This is not a post about writing--at least, not at its core. It matters very much to the process of writing, though, so I'll share it here.
______
It's been a long time since I've written on this blog. More than a year. I don't bring that up as a commentary admitting to my absence; it's germane to why I'm writing here today.
I didn't write on here because I wasn't writing at all. Last year I struggled a great deal with a lot of things, most of which I'll talk about here in time, all of which were part of the Gordian knot I'd tied myself into. But at the root of why I stopped writing was this: I had lost confidence in myself.
One of the most fundamental reasons for belonging to a writers group like Wyrdsmiths is to have the support and encouragement of your fellow writers around you. And they have been there, not pressing me, letting me have and take whatever time I might need. I certainly wasn't burdening the group with work to critique.
For those of you who don't know me well, I should note that I've been writing for 20 years now. I identify as a writer, and consider writing to be core to my sense of self, more than almost any other trait. And I almost quit writing last year, for good.
Not that it would have been good. I am a fundamentally happier person when I am writing.
I've been working on a particular novel project for twelve years now, off and on—mostly off. It is a large project, somewhat overwhelming, and a project of its scale brings its own complications and dangers to the table: “Am I good enough to write this book? How can I possibly keep track of a world this large, with so many characters and complications, et cetera? How will people react if I retell a story they have so much grounded upon?” A piece of this novel was what I submitted to Wyrdsmiths when I was first trying to join the group years ago, and over the years I have come back to it and turned in pieces of it for critique.
Along the way, I've collected lots of opinions on it, ranging from delight to disgust. Several more experienced writers, in whom I have a lot of trust, suggested that certain elements of the novel would need to change or else it wouldn't be publishable. That was difficult to handle. Not only did I know from reading other novels that had been published that some of those styles and elements had been used successfully, but it made me stop and scrutinize the structure of the piece in a way that didn't help me continue on to complete the story. I started to feel that the reason I couldn't use a particular style or phrasing was that I wasn't good enough to do that, unlike Author A who had already established a name.
I'm not saying there isn't some truth to that nugget about publishing. I'm saying it affected me in an unhelpful way.
Perhaps the least helpful response when faced with an already overwhelming project is thinking that you are not up to the task. I turned to other writing to improve my craft. I wrote short stories—a very good way to focus on tightening your craft, by the way; shorter word count, fast turnaround—and found that there were innumerable things wrong with what I was doing. I tried to work on other novels, and found that problems persisted. Rejection is discouraging, and as writers we have to shoulder a lot of it.
Add to this downward trend that I would rather be writing than doing almost anything with my life. I enjoy writing for weeks and months at a time—and yes, I have done so, and finished novels before. I know that I could do this full-time. And I see that future becoming less and less clear, less probable, with each passing year.
I stopped believing in myself, and started letting all the baggage accumulate. I stopped loving the process.
Was the frustration of writing and the associated feedback the only thing that sapped my confidence? No, not by a long shot. I cut myself down in plenty of other ways, and I'll get to some of those in due course. But the key is that as a developing writer, I came at the critique process wrong: I cared too much what others thought.
Before you jump: Critique is essential to improving your work. Feedback from other writers can be one of the most valuable assets you ever encounter. But you must find the proper balance between listening to what others think and doing what you believe in. You must believe in the story the way it works in your own mind, and you must believe in yourself as the person who can tell that story.
No, really. You must be confident.
If you don't believe in the story, you won't have the energy necessary to sit down all those days and hours to write it. You won't care about it in the way that will keep you coming back, even when it's difficult. You won't be able to pour your energy into it, because you won't actually believe it is worth investing your energy in.
And if you don't believe in yourself, you're building yourself into a house of cards. It's not pretty when your house falls down around you. Every writer has things they struggle with. Every writer gets better as they work on their craft. And every writer can only do as well as they are able to right now. You can't just wait and hope you'll get better. Writing takes practice. Write this book now. Sure,maybe your craft will be better when you write the next one, or the one after that. But if you don't write this one, you definitely won't get any better, and you won't have anything to show for it, either.
The moral of the story? Your fellow writers are a wonderful resource for you as a writer—they understand some of the stresses and difficulties you will experience along the road of writing. And they are, generally, are trying to help* when they give you feedback on a story. It's up to you to find the right balance between listening to what they have to say and holding on to that vision of the story that got you so energized to write it in the first place. It's okay for a story to change, for feedback to alter it, but not if it means you don't care about the story any more. That's not a change it's okay to make.
______
*If they aren't, send 'em to me. I got me plenty of vim and vinegar to dole out to that sort of critic.
______
It's been a long time since I've written on this blog. More than a year. I don't bring that up as a commentary admitting to my absence; it's germane to why I'm writing here today.
I didn't write on here because I wasn't writing at all. Last year I struggled a great deal with a lot of things, most of which I'll talk about here in time, all of which were part of the Gordian knot I'd tied myself into. But at the root of why I stopped writing was this: I had lost confidence in myself.
One of the most fundamental reasons for belonging to a writers group like Wyrdsmiths is to have the support and encouragement of your fellow writers around you. And they have been there, not pressing me, letting me have and take whatever time I might need. I certainly wasn't burdening the group with work to critique.
For those of you who don't know me well, I should note that I've been writing for 20 years now. I identify as a writer, and consider writing to be core to my sense of self, more than almost any other trait. And I almost quit writing last year, for good.
Not that it would have been good. I am a fundamentally happier person when I am writing.
I've been working on a particular novel project for twelve years now, off and on—mostly off. It is a large project, somewhat overwhelming, and a project of its scale brings its own complications and dangers to the table: “Am I good enough to write this book? How can I possibly keep track of a world this large, with so many characters and complications, et cetera? How will people react if I retell a story they have so much grounded upon?” A piece of this novel was what I submitted to Wyrdsmiths when I was first trying to join the group years ago, and over the years I have come back to it and turned in pieces of it for critique.
Along the way, I've collected lots of opinions on it, ranging from delight to disgust. Several more experienced writers, in whom I have a lot of trust, suggested that certain elements of the novel would need to change or else it wouldn't be publishable. That was difficult to handle. Not only did I know from reading other novels that had been published that some of those styles and elements had been used successfully, but it made me stop and scrutinize the structure of the piece in a way that didn't help me continue on to complete the story. I started to feel that the reason I couldn't use a particular style or phrasing was that I wasn't good enough to do that, unlike Author A who had already established a name.
I'm not saying there isn't some truth to that nugget about publishing. I'm saying it affected me in an unhelpful way.
Perhaps the least helpful response when faced with an already overwhelming project is thinking that you are not up to the task. I turned to other writing to improve my craft. I wrote short stories—a very good way to focus on tightening your craft, by the way; shorter word count, fast turnaround—and found that there were innumerable things wrong with what I was doing. I tried to work on other novels, and found that problems persisted. Rejection is discouraging, and as writers we have to shoulder a lot of it.
Add to this downward trend that I would rather be writing than doing almost anything with my life. I enjoy writing for weeks and months at a time—and yes, I have done so, and finished novels before. I know that I could do this full-time. And I see that future becoming less and less clear, less probable, with each passing year.
I stopped believing in myself, and started letting all the baggage accumulate. I stopped loving the process.
Was the frustration of writing and the associated feedback the only thing that sapped my confidence? No, not by a long shot. I cut myself down in plenty of other ways, and I'll get to some of those in due course. But the key is that as a developing writer, I came at the critique process wrong: I cared too much what others thought.
Before you jump: Critique is essential to improving your work. Feedback from other writers can be one of the most valuable assets you ever encounter. But you must find the proper balance between listening to what others think and doing what you believe in. You must believe in the story the way it works in your own mind, and you must believe in yourself as the person who can tell that story.
No, really. You must be confident.
If you don't believe in the story, you won't have the energy necessary to sit down all those days and hours to write it. You won't care about it in the way that will keep you coming back, even when it's difficult. You won't be able to pour your energy into it, because you won't actually believe it is worth investing your energy in.
And if you don't believe in yourself, you're building yourself into a house of cards. It's not pretty when your house falls down around you. Every writer has things they struggle with. Every writer gets better as they work on their craft. And every writer can only do as well as they are able to right now. You can't just wait and hope you'll get better. Writing takes practice. Write this book now. Sure,maybe your craft will be better when you write the next one, or the one after that. But if you don't write this one, you definitely won't get any better, and you won't have anything to show for it, either.
The moral of the story? Your fellow writers are a wonderful resource for you as a writer—they understand some of the stresses and difficulties you will experience along the road of writing. And they are, generally, are trying to help* when they give you feedback on a story. It's up to you to find the right balance between listening to what they have to say and holding on to that vision of the story that got you so energized to write it in the first place. It's okay for a story to change, for feedback to alter it, but not if it means you don't care about the story any more. That's not a change it's okay to make.
______
*If they aren't, send 'em to me. I got me plenty of vim and vinegar to dole out to that sort of critic.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Friday, March 05, 2010
Friday Cat Blogging
3 cats in a 1 cat space…this is not going to end well.
Otter cat has lost her shell cracking stone :-(
Piano cat does not want piano played.
Or perhaps piano cat is just sun cat in a different beam.
I controlz da TV wif my mind…I mean head.
I just have very large bones!
Otter cat has lost her shell cracking stone :-(
Piano cat does not want piano played.
Or perhaps piano cat is just sun cat in a different beam.
I controlz da TV wif my mind…I mean head.
I just have very large bones!
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Smart Things (Updated)
More on common publishing misconceptions from Charlie Stross. What authors actually sell to publishers. And Territories, Translations and Foreign Rights. If you're at all interested in the business of publishing this series is a must read.
Ursala Le Guin being interviewed about the Google Books deal. She doesn't like it any more than I do. In fact, she likes it a lot less.
The NYT with some more or less hard numbers on epublishing.
Updated to add: Jim Hines on why advances matter.
Ursala Le Guin being interviewed about the Google Books deal. She doesn't like it any more than I do. In fact, she likes it a lot less.
The NYT with some more or less hard numbers on epublishing.
Updated to add: Jim Hines on why advances matter.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
The (Little) Squid on the Mantel
Okay, so the title of this post is a bit of an inside-joke, and blatantly stolen from fellow WSer Lyda Morehouse. It's our equivalent of the old theater saw that says if you put a gun on the mantelpiece in Act I, it better damn well go off before the end of the play. We just use a squid because, well, because we do.
Still, it seemed as good of a way as any to introduce the topic of reader expectation, and how we as writers should be aware of it.
Now, there are some pretty obvious types of reader expectation. I don't, for example, write a fantasy adventure novel and expect a fan of restoration romance to run out and pick it up, let alone necessarily enjoy it (although if he/she does, great!). My book is aimed at a specific audience, and that reader tends to fall outside of it. Easy, and pretty straight forward. By the same token, if I start my book out with a tense, action-packed scene, I have set a certain expectation in the reader's mind. This doesn't mean I have to have constant, non-stop fight-fight-fight action going all the time (which would be both exhausting to write and to read), but I had also better not spend chapters 3 through 20 going through a very pain-staking, convoluted, introspective character/world/theology study, either. That way leads to flung books and lost readers.
But this is big-picture stuff, and we already know all of that, right? Right. (Riiight?)
So what am I talking about today?
I am talking about the smaller expectations we make with the reader on almost every page: the unconscious flags we wave for readers that, as writers, we should try to be aware of. The descriptions, actions, and so on that tell readers one thing, but can, in not-quite-on-the-mark writing, lead to broken promises. Flags that, in essence, make something look like a squid when it is not.
Um, okay, you say. I think I see where you're going, but how about some examples?
Glad you asked.
One of the easiest examples I can think of is character description. I believe it was Roger Zelazny who said (or wrote...I don't recall the medium) that he consciously tried to limit descriptions of secondary characters to three qualities, and then move one. Something like, "Durand was a small, barrel-shaped man, with a bristly crop of hair and a dingy brown suit that looked like it had last been pressed some time during the Carter administration." (Mine, not Zelazny's -- can you tell I've been preparing for a panel on Noir Fiction?). I tell you three things here -- build, hair cut, clothing -- but it manages to paint a concise, yet memorable, picture. I can pretty much expect that, if I did it right, the next time I mention Durand's suit (or build, or hair), the reader will have an instant image of him to retrieve in their head.
Okay, great. I used three attributes and 32 total words to create a sketch of a character. So what? Well, it all goes back to expectations. By sticking to this level of description, I have tried to tell the reader something. I have said, "This character is important enough to warrant a name and a couple characteristics. You are supposed to remember him. However, he will most likely not be a key character, so you don't have to work too hard on keeping him foremost in your head." In presenting a limited picture of Durand, I have, hopefully, also signaled to the reader that Durand is going to have a limited presence/importance in the story. Likewise, if I spend a good paragraph or more describing Durand (or a place, or a flower, or...), then I am signaling to the reader that he is more important. In short, by giving him more real estate on the page, I am implying that he should take up more real estate in the reader's consciousness, as well as in the development of the story.
Now, that isn't to say this is merely a matter of basic math, where word count = importance. There is a lot more to this than having a three-box checklist. I have to be aware of my writing style in general, how I tend to portray other characters, places and events, and so on. If I am a writer who lavishes description on everything, then this guideline is going to fall beyond flat -- it will likely go through the floor and damage the flow of my work. Likewise, if I tend to dole out as little description as Hemingway, three attributes effectively leap off the page and scream, "Important guy! Important guy!!" You, as a writer, need to figure out what works with your style, so you know what you are conveying to the reader. Likewise, you need to figure out when it is okay to go in the other direction (whatever that may be for you) to better convey an idea, or a setting, or a mood.
The point is, I know what I am saying (or at least trying to say) to the reader when I drop someone like Durand in their lap. I am aware of the cue I am giving them based on what I am presenting on the page, aside from the words. And this is the place where I think a lot of newer writers get hung up: they focus so much on the world, so much on the characters, so much on getting everything in their head on the page and painting as complete a picture as they can for the reader, that they don't realize they are painting a squid right next to their lovingly described spear-carrier. How you put something on the page is just as important as what you put on it. And that applies not just to descriptions, but also action, world-building, dialogue...just about everything -- all of it can serve double, or even triple, duty, even when you may not mean it to.
So, does this mean you should sit, paralyzed, staring at the screen, terrified you are telling the reader the wrong thing when you say "he had red hair" instead of talking about "the fiery locks on his head"? Of course not. You write what you write, and you figure out what works over time, and you fix it if you think you need to. That's how you develop your craft. But part of that growing craft is to also be aware of the subtler things your words are doing on the page. And, of course, to be able to recognize the occasional squid when you see one. :)
Still, it seemed as good of a way as any to introduce the topic of reader expectation, and how we as writers should be aware of it.
Now, there are some pretty obvious types of reader expectation. I don't, for example, write a fantasy adventure novel and expect a fan of restoration romance to run out and pick it up, let alone necessarily enjoy it (although if he/she does, great!). My book is aimed at a specific audience, and that reader tends to fall outside of it. Easy, and pretty straight forward. By the same token, if I start my book out with a tense, action-packed scene, I have set a certain expectation in the reader's mind. This doesn't mean I have to have constant, non-stop fight-fight-fight action going all the time (which would be both exhausting to write and to read), but I had also better not spend chapters 3 through 20 going through a very pain-staking, convoluted, introspective character/world/theology study, either. That way leads to flung books and lost readers.
But this is big-picture stuff, and we already know all of that, right? Right. (Riiight?)
So what am I talking about today?
I am talking about the smaller expectations we make with the reader on almost every page: the unconscious flags we wave for readers that, as writers, we should try to be aware of. The descriptions, actions, and so on that tell readers one thing, but can, in not-quite-on-the-mark writing, lead to broken promises. Flags that, in essence, make something look like a squid when it is not.
Um, okay, you say. I think I see where you're going, but how about some examples?
Glad you asked.
One of the easiest examples I can think of is character description. I believe it was Roger Zelazny who said (or wrote...I don't recall the medium) that he consciously tried to limit descriptions of secondary characters to three qualities, and then move one. Something like, "Durand was a small, barrel-shaped man, with a bristly crop of hair and a dingy brown suit that looked like it had last been pressed some time during the Carter administration." (Mine, not Zelazny's -- can you tell I've been preparing for a panel on Noir Fiction?). I tell you three things here -- build, hair cut, clothing -- but it manages to paint a concise, yet memorable, picture. I can pretty much expect that, if I did it right, the next time I mention Durand's suit (or build, or hair), the reader will have an instant image of him to retrieve in their head.
Okay, great. I used three attributes and 32 total words to create a sketch of a character. So what? Well, it all goes back to expectations. By sticking to this level of description, I have tried to tell the reader something. I have said, "This character is important enough to warrant a name and a couple characteristics. You are supposed to remember him. However, he will most likely not be a key character, so you don't have to work too hard on keeping him foremost in your head." In presenting a limited picture of Durand, I have, hopefully, also signaled to the reader that Durand is going to have a limited presence/importance in the story. Likewise, if I spend a good paragraph or more describing Durand (or a place, or a flower, or...), then I am signaling to the reader that he is more important. In short, by giving him more real estate on the page, I am implying that he should take up more real estate in the reader's consciousness, as well as in the development of the story.
Now, that isn't to say this is merely a matter of basic math, where word count = importance. There is a lot more to this than having a three-box checklist. I have to be aware of my writing style in general, how I tend to portray other characters, places and events, and so on. If I am a writer who lavishes description on everything, then this guideline is going to fall beyond flat -- it will likely go through the floor and damage the flow of my work. Likewise, if I tend to dole out as little description as Hemingway, three attributes effectively leap off the page and scream, "Important guy! Important guy!!" You, as a writer, need to figure out what works with your style, so you know what you are conveying to the reader. Likewise, you need to figure out when it is okay to go in the other direction (whatever that may be for you) to better convey an idea, or a setting, or a mood.
The point is, I know what I am saying (or at least trying to say) to the reader when I drop someone like Durand in their lap. I am aware of the cue I am giving them based on what I am presenting on the page, aside from the words. And this is the place where I think a lot of newer writers get hung up: they focus so much on the world, so much on the characters, so much on getting everything in their head on the page and painting as complete a picture as they can for the reader, that they don't realize they are painting a squid right next to their lovingly described spear-carrier. How you put something on the page is just as important as what you put on it. And that applies not just to descriptions, but also action, world-building, dialogue...just about everything -- all of it can serve double, or even triple, duty, even when you may not mean it to.
So, does this mean you should sit, paralyzed, staring at the screen, terrified you are telling the reader the wrong thing when you say "he had red hair" instead of talking about "the fiery locks on his head"? Of course not. You write what you write, and you figure out what works over time, and you fix it if you think you need to. That's how you develop your craft. But part of that growing craft is to also be aware of the subtler things your words are doing on the page. And, of course, to be able to recognize the occasional squid when you see one. :)
Question and a picture
First, the question -- I've run out of "newbie questions" to answer for my Tate blog and I was wondering if anyone out here has questions they might wanted answered by me or anyone else at Wyrdsmiths.
Second, I wanted to show off the cool fort my son Mason and I have been building during his winter break.
Second, I wanted to show off the cool fort my son Mason and I have been building during his winter break.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Kelly's Marscon Schedule, March 5–7
Saturday
With: Kelly McCullough, mod.; Roy C. Booth, Doug Hulick
Villainy for Dummies
Krushenko’s Lounge (13th Floor) — Saturday 11:00 am
So one day you look around and realize that YOU are the bad guy and that twerp whose father you murdered a decade ago might turn out to be the hero. Now what? Tips on surviving beyond the last page of the book (or the credits of the movie)...at least through a couple of sequels.
With: Naomi Kritzer, mod.; Kelly McCullough, Lyda Morehouse
Unraveling the Mystery: Big Bang Theory
Krushenko’s Lounge (13th Floor) — Saturday 02:00 pm
Come talk about what you like and/or don’t like about the physicist sitcom Big Bang Theory.
With: Tony Artym, mod.; Eric M. Heideman, Kelly McCullough, Lyda Morehouse, Brian K. Perry
Writing Dark Lords and Femmes Fatales, Character
Re(a)d Mars/Taylor (2nd Floor) — Saturday 06:00 pm
A great book needs a great enemy. How do you create good antagonists? Remembering that no one is the villain of their own story is a good start. What works? What doesn’t?
With: Kelly McCullough, mod.; Roy C. Booth, Doug Hulick
What Is a Villain?
Re(a)d Mars/Taylor (2nd Floor) — Saturday 07:00 pm
Who is this villain guy, anyway? Look at things from the villain’s point of view: the hero is always thwarting their plans. What a pain! Are the villains objectively villains, or do they seem that way because the victors write history?
With: Rick Gellman, mod.; Kelly McCullough, Baron David E Romm
Sunday
Writing Dark Lords and Femmes Fatales, The Antihero
Re(a)d Mars/Taylor (2nd Floor) — Sunday 11:00 am
Sometimes your heroine isn’t. Sometimes your hero’s just the lesser of two evils. From the Black Company, through the Punisher, to the Evil Overlord games, some of the best and most fun protagonists are Dark Lords and Femmes Fatales. How do you make that work as a writer.With: Kelly McCullough, mod.; Roy C. Booth, Doug Hulick
The Dark Side of the Fey
Re(a)d Mars/Taylor (2nd Floor) — Sunday 01:00 pm
Traditionally capricious and dangerous, the fey are now often portrayed very differently. Why have we moved toward a purely cuddly and kindly fey? What authors draw on the more traditional characteristics and do it well? Why does this work? What purpose to tales of the dark fey serve? Why should we “stay on the path”?
With: Kelly McCullough, mod.; Rob Callahan, Beth Hansen-Buth, Catherine Lundoff
Writing Dark Lords and Femmes Fatales: World
Re(a)d Mars/Taylor (2nd Floor) — Sunday 03:00 pm
Sometimes the enemy is as much the situation or system as it is an individual villain or villainess. Sometimes the world creates the villain. A discussion of the interaction between world and antagonist and of circumstance as antagonist.
With: Kelly McCullough, mod.; Roy C. Booth, Doug Hulick
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