Friday, 30 September 2016

Stories from the Near-Future goes LIVE

There's nothing better than having your stories republished in a great venue that you're proud to appear in. I'm pleased to say that's happening to me now!

My near-future, grimy-black comedy story "Bad Copies" appears in Stories from the Near-Future.

You can pick up the paperback at Amazon:  - and Stories From the Near Future earns my respect and devotion by sending every contributor a hard-copy book (no longer a perk writers can count on)!

If you don't care about hard-copies  - then you can get the e-book for $2.99 from Kindle or Amazon. 

Kindle link: 

Congratulations to editor Andrew McRae and all the writers published within the pages of this handsome book. Now...go order your very own copy.

Wednesday, 20 July 2016

When Excitement Turns to Ennui

Finding out that one of your stories is shortlisted or held for a second or third reading is exciting. It fills you with delicious anticipation (tinged with a bit of dread that you'll find a rejection slip every time you check your e-mail). But as the weeks and months drag on, any excitement inevitably turns to ennui.

After four or five months, the anticipation goes away entirely because all you have come to expect is another day, another week, another month of waiting. It does dull the pain when the rejection finally comes. Hurt and frustration are replaced by relief. You may understandably feel a bit of anger if you've waited six or eight months and all you get in the end is a form rejection. After that length of time, a conscientious publication should send you at least a personal rejection.

This entire process is repeated ten or twelve times a year when you have a lot of stories on the go. That's when publications like Clarkesworld and F&SF become a panacea. Sure you will almost certainly get a form rejection – but it generally just takes a day or two – sometimes a week. Getting rejected so fast it makes your head spin can feel invigorating after months and months of waiting. And these editors sometimes send out personal rejections. A personal rejection in five days is SO much better than a form rejection after eight months. Doesn't matter how mercenary their process is! Doesn't matter if they don't read past the first line...first paragraph...first page. Fine! Those publications earn your loyalty and subscriptions.

Then there are the other occasions, when the market you've submitted your story to responds with an acceptance rather than a rejection. Oh happy day! Does it make up for all the waiting? Hmm. If there are enough sales, they might. Enough to give you a feeling of having momentum – three or four sales in a season. Heck, that many sales in a year feels like pretty good momentum to many writers. But one sale? Especially if it pays less than professional rates. Sure, it's nice, but…meh. No offence to the wonderful editors who have published my work - but that's one story out of twelve - or twenty. And by the time it gets accepted, my enthusiasm about the story itself tends to have waned a bit.

Then, there's usually an additional wait for publication. Four months, eight months, a year. If you've been writing for a long time, you've undoubtedly experienced what it's like having a story accepted only to have the publication go under before they get around to publishing your story. Or paying you for it.

Robert Runte recently mentioned on the SF Canada listserver that the worst thing that can happen to a writer is landing in the "maybe" pile. Robert once bought one of my stories for Tesseracts 5. I was in his "maybe" pile for months and would have been rejected if he hadn't fought hard with the publisher to add pages – which allowed him to buy my story along with a couple others. Generally, visits to the maybe pile don't have such happy endings. And once you reach a certain level of competence, without achieving a commensurate level of acclaim or recognition, that's where you tend to spend a great deal of time.

I've been thinking about changing my name. Mr. Maybe is sorta catchy. I might actually do it. Just let me think about it for six or eight more months. Then again, I might be too bored by then to actually make a decision. 

Monday, 11 April 2016

The Epic Trilodrabble

My dear friend, Sally McBride, recently introduced me to the concept of 100 word stories, called drabbles. Some drabble publishers insist that drabbles must be precisely 100 words not including title. Others include the title. And some say that approximately 100 words is good enough. I've gone with the first definition.

I have found writing these to be a wonderful way to creatively kickstart my brain and have written quite a number of the over the past few weeks. I expanded the definition a bit, writing a Double-Drabble. And here, making much ado about next-to-nothing, I am unveiling my epic Trilodrabble...

The Hoard of the Bling
A Trilodrabble
 By D.L.L.Sproule

Fellowship is the Thing 

   When I was eleven, Uncle Bill gave me a ring. It left no black mark around my finger and had no gap at the back to accommodate my growing physique. It was real gold.

   When I put that ring on, I became the opposite of invisible. My friends thought it was swank, and grown up jewelry turns girls on. I could do anything. So I never took it off – even when my finger started turning purple. Then black.

   When the finger fell off, I threw it into a volcano in a desperate attempt to stop "the change" in its tracks.

The Two Flowers

   The lava-spewing monstrosity was in a neighbor's yard, right beside a mountain of manure that had two flowers growing at the summit – incredible red flowers with stamen as yellow as the sun.

   The girl I liked, Carrie, never looked at me anymore. So when I got down from the volcano, I decided I just had time before the school bus came, to pick her those flowers.

   When I tried to give them to her, she told me I smelled like shit. And when I took off my shoes, she saw how big and hairy my feet are. Oh, well. 

The Non-returnable King 

   A male charm bracelet, I thought. Why not! It would be the next big thing. Swank. Sexy! It could have soldiers and baseball players, grenades, dice, pistols, celebrity clitorises and a variety of balls. Gold, silver, precious stones. I even dreamed up a little gold Elvis Presley – jointed, with swingable hips.

   I convinced some investors it would make us all rich. We stayed the course, kept hoping it would catch on. We waited and waited, before we finally lost our shirts.

   Too late to change course, or make a new plan. The die were cast. The King's hips were frozen.

 Acknowledgements: The idea of celebrity clitorises from Nick Cave's The Death of Bunny Munro.

Wednesday, 16 March 2016

The Evolution of Reading

I understand pretty much all of the arguments for e-books: ecological friendliness (Save a Tree!), lower costs, availability, accessibility, scalable type and so on. Good arguments.

But it's rare to hear anyone talk about the downsides. And oh, yes, there are downsides.

I understand that a lot of people read on their phones, and in fact, I see people doing it. But I simply cannot comprehend how someone could indulge in that activity for any extended length of time.

A cellphone has never struck me as an acceptable medium for reading fiction. Tweets and texts – fine. Most web sites are built to absorb in snippets. But chowing down on a 2000 or 3000 word essay – not so much. Even short stories lose continuity for me, as I zip from one screen to the next.

I am a reader who frequently flicks backward and forward; rereading passages to better appreciate something that comes later; doublechecking the names of characters to make sure they are who I think they are; reestablishing my place in the narrative; and so on. Poems and short stories are readable in that fashion, as long as they're not dependent on layout – but not novels. The centre cannot hold.

When the screen is tiny, there are far too many pages. It's easy to go too far or not far enough, and too hard to find my place again when I'm done my search. Reading Lord of the Rings or Moby Dick on a cellphone would be akin to listening to a song one bar at a time – which would suck the joy right out of it!

I've heard of people writing novels on their cellphones! Seriously? With those itty-bitty keyboards and my enormous thumbs, texting is a challenge. Maintaining a coherent narrative would be like painting the Sistine Chapel on playing cards (thus creating the world's largest and most unhelpful jigsaw puzzle – where every piece fits almost everywhere).

All of my problems are exacerbated if I'm connected to wi-fi or a network. The constant bleeps and whistles are complete concentration destroyers. Even if I'm unconnected, the telephone is a constant distraction. And God forbid the fucking thing should run out of power or spontaneously decide to install an update as I'm turning a page.

I've never measured, but I would guess that when I'm reading a hardcopy book, I read at least 20 full sized pages at a sitting. If I got through that many on a cellphone, it would be a minor miracle. And since it takes 12 cell phone pages to equal one real page, I would be clipping along at a rate of about a page per sitting. Anton Chekov stories would be mini-marathons. Game of Thrones? No, just no.

My reader experience doesn't improve that drastically with tablets. I've used small and large screens, dedicated readers and all-purpose androids. Each of them has different problems:

  • If I don't read fast enough, the screen dims.
  • If I move my hand, or touch the wrong spot on the screen, I turn pages I didn't intend to turn.
  • Or I turn them too fast – a chapter at a time is not unheard of.

At first, I thought that once I got used to this, it would get easier. But I've now read dozens of books in e-pub format and I still don't like it. Yes, it's doable, and it's convenient and desirable in all the ways I mentioned in the first paragraph. But I still don't find e-pubs very reader friendly. The tech, the apps, the connections are all unreliable. And adding bells and whistles somehow makes the devices even less reader friendly.

Maybe if I had grown up reading for pleasure on electronic devices, it would be less annoying, more intuitive. Maybe. But in truth, it would also be more distracting. Video games, movies, socializing, gossiping, videos, animation – they're ALL easier than reading and far, far easier than writing.

The formats in which we digest our entertainment have always been dictated by available media, and I honestly believe this is the beginning of the end for all the literary forms we currently know and love. There will always be people who love different forms and seek them out. But once the tools for modifying "literature" are available, accessible and easier to use, I believe that fiction will become more interactive, multi-channel and multi-sensual.

The seeds of it are at websites like sub-Q Magazine. Hasn't caught on yet and probably won't for awhile. And what we see there is a long ways from whatever form it will ultimately assume. But what they're aiming for is fiction that is created specifically to consume online – an admirable and inevitable goal that might actually make reading onscreen enjoyable. Until then – well it is cheaper, and more convenient. Maybe I'll...hmmm.

Hurry up interactive fiction. Your time has come. 

Friday, 11 March 2016

The Rise of the Accidental Small Publisher

So the short story marketplace is becoming incredibly crowded and competitive. Other than being a great time to buy short story collections and anthologies – what does that say about the literary landscape?

Is it actually easier – or harder to get a novel published these days than a short story?

Well if we're talking big name publishers, it's almost certainly harder than ever before. Lots of publishers have gone under in the past fifteen years – unable to hold their own in a marketplace where people who can barely string a coherent sentence together suddenly have the power to make their dreams come true by self-publishing a book.

According to a 2002 NY Times article by Joseph Epstein, more than 80% of people in the U.S.A. believe they have a book in them and 80,000 books are published in America every year. Remember – this was 2002 – ten years before the self publishing boom. These days, every one of those 200 million people has the resources to self-publish their book.

You may have considered such a thing, or, like me, have actually gone there. If you have a few dollars to spend and can afford to pay for a good cover and cover design, your book can be indistinguishable from the masterpieces or the gripping thrillers or the intellectual tomes that you're positioning yourself against. But the public is slowly starting to catch on to the signs that separate self-published books from their more well-heeled competitors. Like the imprint. If something comes from Doubleday or Harper Collins or Simon and Schuster – that means it has not only appealed to a distinguished and experienced editor – but also gone through a rigorous editorial process (or as rigorous as it gets these days). These processes do not guarantee quality, but they at least promise that the book will come up to the minimum standard that all books once had to achieve before they saw the light of day.

Over the past few decades, the stigma of a self-published book has been enough to ensure that said authors are not taken seriously by the literati – the critics, other writers, bookstore buyers and so forth. Most self-published books suffer from "cheap design." Even if the author has gone out and consigned a wonderful work of art to grace the cover, and hired a professional copy editors to vet the prose – there are still tell-tale signs that give it away. Many of these books waste the beautiful cover image by embedding it within poor design – a badly chosen or overly familiar typeface – sized and coloured or poorly placed on the page; there may be a complete absence of design on the spine or back cover; badly laid out pages inside, with lack of margins or white space, hard to read or uninspired typeface or similar design problems. None of these problems fatal in and of themselves, but collectively they conspire to reveal the final product as "amateur."

And even if the book gets all those things right, it can give itself away in a multitude of other ways: lack of reputable blurbs on the cover or within the front or back pages; 100% five-star rave reviews online; and most obviously, an imprint that no one has ever heard of. A web search for the imprint reveals that they have published a total of five books – all by the same author.

A self-published book that doesn't display any of those obvious tells suggests an insider perspective. It's a sign that even if the book was self-published, the author knows books, understands marketing and has invested the time and effort to put out a professional looking product. This is also a clue that their book may be considerably better than most of the self-published work on the market (or not). The process can also work the other way – where a brilliant book is hidden behind layers of bad design and poor marketing choices…but I like to think, or at least hope, that the author involved in such a project stands at least some chance of getting discovered and building an audience for themselves.

As for the book-buying public – we're all on the lookout these days!

Which brings me to the trend that I was intending to talk about. The rise of the accidental small publisher.

Once an author has self-published a few books, they will likely make many of the above discoveries for themselves. Coming to realize how important design is in creating a professional looking product, they find and hire a good designer. They may bring some literate, unemployed friends on board as editors and start building a publishing infrastructure. And having done so, they discover that their books still stand out as self-published because there are no other authors on their imprint. If they network and belong to a writer's community, they may know other authors who are producing good work. By publishing their books (maybe with some personal investment from the writers involved), they can build a small stable of writers. They discover they can get the word out about their company and attract visitors to their website by publishing short story collections. This works better if they actually pay authors a nominal amount like a penny a word. Gradually, the website starts looking more and more legitimate and this begins to boost sales of their own titles. At that point, they probably just pay novelists commissions on sales on their books – which gives them a way of not only recouping their own investment, but bringing the writers back with more and better books. And then, some of these accidental publishers may come to the revelation that if they are willing to pay advances – on the novels as well as the short stories in the anthologies – and as little as a couple hundred dollars will distinguish them from 95% of the micro-publishers in the marketplace – they may be able to attract some truly outstanding writers. Because with the current state of publishing, there are hundreds of writers who would have (or actually have) been mid-list writers or better in the old regime. And they are grateful for any publisher who will pay them real money. Suddenly the new imprint is getting some respect and maybe even an award nomination or two.

From out of the ashes of the old publishing model – I can see more than a few of these publishers rising. Many will likely continue to grow and evolve, because they are not saddled by the same sort of infrastructure that "real" publishers have to deal with. They can write their own ticket. And in the process, they can provide a worthy home for some wonderful writers who were left wandering the wilderness with their poor tattered manuscripts.

Publishing is dead. Long live publishing.

Monday, 7 March 2016

Short Stories ARE the Big Time These Days

Writing short stories used to be a sort of apprenticeship for aspiring writers - a great way to hone your craft in preparation for the big time. But in today's ultra-competitive marketplace, it make have become just the opposite. An ongoing cage match for expert practitioners of the form.

When I finished writing my story, "They Fell Away," I was certain that it was one of the best things I've ever written. I remain confident in it - but for the sake of keeping it real and properly tempering my expectations - in the hope that it make the process of writing and submitting stories more bearable - I gave some thought to the actual odds of getting an acceptance whenever one sends out a story.

"They Fell Away" bounced last week from a one cent a word market called Hypnos. The respected bi-annual, semi-pro mag gave me a short personal response essentially saying that they had been discussing it and decided not to take it. At least they discussed it - which meant that more than one editor had most likely read it. This was at the top of a long "form" that they send out to everyone - explaining that they can't respond personally because they receiver over 900 submissions per month - which would put it at 5500 submissions per issue - and can accept no more than a few. At best, the usual odds are close to 1000 to one.

I listened to an interview with Jacob Haddon of Lamplight magazine (a 3 cent a word horror market that's had one of my stories for almost 6 months), where he explained that he received approximately 3,500 submissions since his last issue. Since he solicits some of his contents - and like most editors, has regular author/submittors whose work he likes, I guesstimate the odds at Lamplight to be somewhere between 3 and 10 in 3,500 - or somewhere between 350 and 1150 to one. 

I can't even imagine where this puts the odds at big name pubs like Asimovs or F&SF. But suffice it to say that even if my publication history and writing skills give me an advantage over 95% of the competition, my odds at a semi-pro like Hypnos probably don't get much better than 10 to one. At a lesser known prozine like Lamplight I might be between 35 and 100 to one. And at a well known prozine, it would probably be at least 250 to one against on every submission. Don't know where this puts the odds of getting picked for a years best antho or getting an award nom. But suffice it to say that the odds are not in anyone's favour and just getting positive responses and establishing some sort of personal relationship with editors is a huge kudo. 

Maybe my best stories can (and have) overcome these odds in a heartbeat - but I think every story I write is one of my best stories when I first send it out. It's only as the rejections start piling up that I grudgingly admit anything different.

David Nickle, one of the most accomplished writers I know, pointed out that the odds of selling a novelette or novella to a market that doesn't already know and love me are pretty much off the charts - because they can run three shorter stories at the same cost to them - and increase their readership with a more diverse selection of options. Their odds of running a story that resonates with readers triples by taking three shorter stories over one novellete. 

So in the end - anything less than clear and absolute brilliance will require extreme perseverance, lots of strategy, a ton of rejection and a boatload of luck. It gets better once you establish a reputation and fanbase and editors start soliciting stories from you - but that is a process that could frankly take decades. Even solicited stories are only selected for the final TOC part of the time. I've had friends who have had multiple solicited stories rejected before scoring with one.

There was a time when breaking in with short stories was a good strategy. But these days,I've come to realize that our odds of selling a novel are just as good or better than selling a short story. (granted - our odds of getting a reasonable advance are worse than ever). 

So next time you see a story collection out there - with half or more of the stories having been previously published - do yourself a favour and buy the damned thing...because the odds that it will contain something brilliant are very much on your side. And when a writer breaks out, like another of my friends, Kelly Robson, with five published short stories in a year - where three or four of them make the best of the year anthologies - I can do nothing but sit back in awe and admiration. As far as I know, Kelly doesn't even have a story collection on the horizon - but as soon as one becomes available...if there was any justice in this world (which I know there isn't), there would be long line-ups at the bookstore from people waiting to get their hands on it. 

Achieving that level of success with no more than short stories is an accomplishment than no more than about one in 1,000 writers will ever come close to. 

Monday, 22 February 2016


Having seen the movie, The Witch, over this past weekend - I was impressed by its evocation of the 17th century - especially its depiction of how our faith governed every aspect of our values, our perceptions and our approach to life.

With no real knowledge or access to knowledge, those early pioneers were awed by and afraid of everything. Imagination blossomed and flourished in that garden of ignorance. Not knowing what was possible and impossible - made everything possible, everything real.

The sum total of individual knowledge was contained within our minds and within the pages of the one book most people in the new world had any access to - the Holy Bible. Civilization gradually changed all that. A proliferation of books from a huge range of experts and gifted scribes constantly set new limits and defined the boundaries of possibility. Humanity's growing knowledge base gradually eroded the power of religiosity and ignorance and finally brought our imaginations into check: the fantastic became mere whimsy, monsters became metaphorical and we lost our fear along with our sense of wonder. Anything that went against accepted truth, or which seemed to be unprecedented – was regarded as suspect. We had the hubris to think, "How can any condition exist in the real world without having been documented by now?" We could indulge in fantasy with the certainty that it wasn't real. Spiritualism became a retreat for those bored and repressed by the suffocating weight of knowledge.

A similar restlessness, curiosity and yearning for the excitement of the unknown led us to seek out things we did not yet know for certain - to invent new challenges and try find new roads forward.
In the mid-20th century, science fiction gave our imaginations someplace to go that was largely ungoverned by our prejudices and our then-current knowledge. It egged the actual scientists to push harder and go further. In that way, speculation allowed us to open new doors and examine new possibilities. And to look again into the vast and mutable face of the unknown. The thrill seekers and adventurers among us quivered with joy.

And our knowledge-base kept on growing and growing and growing. The computer revolution at the end of the millennium made all history, literature, math, geography, science and speculation available to everyone. But the unstoppable onslaught of information forced us to develop and use filters. No human mind can contain more than snippets of the vast knowledge now available to us.

The next great flood does not involve water.

Knowledge is becoming our enemy - because we don't know what to do with it all - other than sift through it endlessly. Reduce it to the finest grains. We may glean nuggets of insight, which will seem like nothing measured against the knowledge we already have. But all it will leave behind is quicksand - absorbing everything without a trace.

No human can comprehend the singularity that is well and truly upon us. It's like trying to understand God or infinity. The vastness renders us insignificant, reveals us as pilgrims shivering and praying at the edge of the wilderness - clinging to our own stubborn truths because we dare not open our minds to what they cannot possibly comprehend.

The rejection of the unprecedented is our knee-jerk reaction to being thrust into an uncertain future. We retreat into the tried and true. We hole up in our little hovels, afraid to go out, because the woods are full of witches. We may even turn out to be witches.

As the father in The Witch might have said, "That's what comes of going beyond our station."

Mere humans; we can't hold a book and absorb its contents. We need to read one page at a time. No one can wish their way to the top of a mountain. No goal worth achieving can be reached holistically - but only by figuring out the next handhold, placing the next piton, taking the next step that needs to be taken, to scale this one small cliff face. And then we can think about the next and the next.

If we have mastered any one skill as a species, it is the skill of reductionism - of thinking small and taking one step at a time. So I wonder that we don't have a greater appreciation for the little things: the snippets of wisdom the eldest of us have gathered in our long lives that can help our children to move into the future, inspired rather than overwhelmed by the manifold possibilities.

There is a way forward - a place we can go where the old rules no longer apply. But once we go there, we will no longer be human.

People of my generation are the last refugees from the pre-information Age. Beyond here, anything is possible. Beyond here, our ignorance becomes evident once again. Beyond here, there be dragons.

Tuesday, 16 February 2016

Staying the Course

If I hadn't devoted 2/3 of my life to a singular goal, I would have given up writing completely by now. As it is, the twelve year break I took from writing – from my mid forties into my late fifties – demonstrated a number of important things. Most of my equally talented and accomplished friends succeeded to a greater or lesser degree during that time where I walked away. So my timing was horrible. It was like making a long term investment – and then pulling all my money out just before the big payoff.

But that was just one of the many miscalculations I made during my multi-decade career arc.

Mistake one: dismissing a lack of natural talent as a minor impediment. Grammar was never a particular strong suit of mine. I loved the flow and natural poetry of language, I loved the vividness of something beautifully described, I loved being to express my thoughts, clearly and succinctly – but I had to take remedial English courses in University to help me understand and remember the actual rules of grammar and punctuation. I've always been able to create a brilliant sentence or even a brilliant paragraph, but my prose inevitably descended into awkward phrasing and clumsy summarization.

My mind was filled with stories – but was frequently tripped up by the chore of translating those vivid stories to the page before the sheer effort of correcting my own natural ineptitude dragged me down and I started getting bored and distracted with the process. The tendency was to reach for the next shiny object – a new story that would flow out of me so easily that I needn't worry about getting mired in the process.

I was misled by the fact that this process occasionally worked. I could indeed maintain the brilliance for a page, several pages…even the length of an entire story. I would send the story out into the world and editors would indeed fall on it with glad cries! The feeling of accomplishment is the most fulfilling thing I have ever experienced. But that elation always faded fairly quickly and the works I crafted in it's wake – no matter how excited I was about them – pretty much never lived up to their predecessor. So I had a pattern. A shining success followed by five years of slogging and discouragement. Another success – then five more years of mud diving. Trying to increase my output in order to shorten that five year wait only resulted in my falling back into bad old habits.  So my lack of natural talent was a major impediment rather than a minor one. It took decades to overcome, by which time, most of my contemporaries from my youth had long since surpassed me.

I'm not saying that the mission I had set for myself was futile. In the forty years I've been writing, the quality of my output has increased exponentially. I can now declare myself a master of the basics. I can copyedit with the best of them. I can create immaculate prose on demand. But the time it has taken me to reach what is essentially the starting point for most groundbreaking writers is a huge handicap. If I had been this good when I was 25, the world would have been my oyster. Success would almost certainly have bred more success rather than undermining my self-confidence. Prolificacy would have been inevitable.

But the point is – I wasn't this good when I was 25. Not even close. And had I realized what a long hard slog I had ahead of me, I would probably have set a different course. There was so much I had to learn – not only about writing well, but about creating three dimensional characters (which didn't come easily for someone as innately antisocial as I am) and creating immersive settings (which was even more difficult given that I had moved 20 times by the time I was 18 years old and never developed a deep appreciation for any location. Settings were blurry, and creating a sense of place has always been elusive.

I've never been one to court sympathy and say "alas poor me." I've lived a very rich life. So many others have it so much worse. But all these things were impediments toward achieving the career goal I had set myself at the age of 14.

As I reached middle age and found myself barreling toward the personal singularity of decreptitude – I looked at what I had accomplished and was somewhat satisfied. I had written a number of acclaimed stories – even though 95 per cent of my output was either unpublished or buried in little magazines that started plummeting into obscurity the moment they were published. My ratio of success had doubled. Instead of writing a good story every five years, I was writing two every five years. At that rate, I might have a publishable collection by the time I was 90. A number of personal issues piled onto that – making me feel like an utter failure. My fantasy world was crumbling and in the real world, I wasn't even capable of making a decent wage on an ongoing basis.

I took a salaried job and set about rebuilding my life – one with more realistic and attainable goals. But it wasn't long before I was once again overwhelmed with ideas and carried away by my aspirations. Anchored by a stable and loving relationship, I almost made a go of my entrepreneurial venture (a magazine to help new Canadians integrate in this country). Even though it didn't make much money – it was making a difference in society and genuinely helping people. My need for creative expression was satisfied by my venture into stone sculpture – with my partner in love and life as my companion. While it was and continues to be gratifying to create beautiful things, I watched so many of my contemporaries in the writing field begin to achieve real success. I couldn't help telling  myself that if I had only hung on a little longer and tried a little harder, I might be there with them (not a sure thing by any means).

I was nagged by the realization that I had climbed almost to the top of the mountain before turning around and coming back down. I kept staring up at the mountaintop and yearning to feel that sense of accomplishment that I had found with my first professional story sales. It felt like the forty years I spent learning my craft had been a complete and utterly stupid waste.

On the flip side of that, I looked at the career status of my most successful contemporaries and realized that there was no entrance to Smaug's treasure trove at that pinnacle. The most successful of my contemporaries were living about as comfortably as moderately successful bankers or stock brokers or business owners. Some of the best writers I had ever known have never been able to make a good enough living from their craft to live well on their writing income alone. Almost all of them needed to work other jobs to make ends meet – and live about as well as a somewhat successful plumber or welder or grocery manager. The crown was clearly made of fool's gold! But still I pined for it, willing to give almost anything to finally achieve the unrealistic career objective I had set for myself back in high school.

So, I went back to writing, despite that fact that I couldn't hope to catch up with colleagues who had long since left me in the dust. Despite the fact that I now have to compete against brilliant writers half my age who are much more connected to the 21st century zeitgeist than I could ever be. And there are so many of them!

The population of the Earth has more than doubled since I started writing and media has become so much more ubiquitous – sweeping everyone into its thrall. There are five times as many talented writers now vying for that false crown. So instead of getting ever closer to the success I craved, I'm probably further away than ever.

But even if success has become more elusive than ever – writing is what I do best – what I do better than almost everyone else. I love being able to help my stories realize their full potential. And I daresay, I'm probably writing a brilliant story per year now. If I keep it up until I die, I may be creating a brilliant story every three or four months! I'll finally fill a short story collection worthy of sitting on the same shelf with my literary heroes. I might even finish a few of the novels I've been working on forever.

My heirs might make enough to go out for a really nice meal after my funeral. Or not. But as I drift into that final sleep, I'll be able to look back on my life satisfied that I actually followed through, fulfilled my potential – and there's a chance, however faint, that some of my stories will be read and will inspire future generations.

Maybe I'm just holding onto this dream because I'm too stupid to give up. Or maybe it's because I am finally smart enough not to.

Sunday, 31 January 2016

The Demands We Put on Ourselves

 As a writer, I don’t demand nearly enough from myself. Most especially, in terms of word count. Regular production is absolutely necessary to nurture both the quality and quantity of work. And my fiction output just isn’t significant enough. I may write 400 words a day – but much of it is usually spent revising the previous days output. I cut the original back to 200 and add 200 more. For a total gain of… Couldn’t be zero, could it? No wonder I’m not getting any novels finished. I need to reset the production requirement to 400 original words. Or 1,000! But even if I can’t do that, even if my usual method only produces 200 words a day – when all is said and done, it enables me to finish a 3000 word short story in just over two weeks. Which is about what I actually accomplish.
     Between job-hunting, freelancing, blogging, and non-fiction/content production, I put out the equivalent of a couple short stories per month.
     My biggest artistic goal this winter, is “getting a story into the Exile Anthology of New Canadian Comedy.”
     Both editors were fans of “Nunavut Thunderfuck.” Claude Lalumiere was instrumental in the change from the old boring title to the current one. The words were in the story, I just hadn’t recognized them as a great title. So Claude is clearly a shrewd editor of comedy.
     And Corey Redekop is not just a rising star in the literary arena, he’s also one of Canada’s most active and charismatic promoters of fiction in any guise, and based entirely on electronic encounters, he seems to be a funny guy..
     Even Exile publisher, Michael Callahan, was a fan of that story.
     So when the comedy anthology was announced, I decided that if I want to be taken seriously as a nutbar writer, I need to have something in there.
     Voila. I came up with an idea and started writing. Ta-da, It took me two weeks to produce “Rated F for Family” and it was good.
     But not fucking good enough. Corey and Claude turned it down. Now what?
     Task one: look at the story and figure out why they turned it down.
     I had aimed for a sort of Canadian George Saunders vibe. But achieved a strange sort of Hallmark meets Red/Green patina. More Wayne and Schuster than Kids in the Hall. Strangely old fashioned and not consistently funny enough. Kinda sweet.
     What? Wait. I don’t do sweet. But… there are places in the story where that works – and places where its folksy and literary aspects are perfectly balanced and there are some good laughs. Well, maybe chuckles. Or at least smiles.
     Damn you editors for making me so freaking self-critical! Damn you for making me try again!
     On the other hand, I still have a week left.
     And I’ve started working on a genuinely subversive story about the psychedelic state that incorporates onomatopoeia and synesthesia and makes me laugh out loud. It will almost certainly appeal to a much smaller demographic than the other story – but that’s what I get for using my own voice rather than trying to tap into the style of George Saunders.
     Will I get it done by Feb. 7? I don’t know. But it might be okay anyway, since THIS time I grabbed a brain and conceived of the story as having TWO potential homes. There’s an American anthology called Ghosts on Drugs that pays six cent a word US. That’s more than The Exile Anthology. This is a no lose proposition.
     Unless, of course, neither of them like it. Then I’m back to square one. With a really hard-to-market story and a bag fulla blues.
     Not like that hasn’t happened before.
     Fucking editors…