The horror. The HORROR.

Forgive me, gods of writing, for I have sinned.

I sent a piece for consideration that I did not thoroughly edit. And holy shit I found some stinkers on my umpteenth read through. 'Due' instead of 'do'? Missing and double words? Kill me now, spare me some of the shame.

And the bitch of it? They wrote back to say it had passed first reading and was being considered for placement. I'm hoping that the story kicked so much ass they could ignore the errors sprinkled in. That's what I will hope to my dying day.

I think I made a blog post about this earlier, where the story has one of these mistakes in the first paragraph. I did not go into the vivid, horrifying detail. I may, should they say 'Clean this up and we'll publish it'. I never will, however, if they reject it after these few months. If that's the case I will delete every single post about such terrible things, and we will never speak of this again. Like a bond that people take after they've killed somebody and dumped them in a river.

So if you're reading this in the future, I have either lied or the piece was accepted.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Is my blog a GOOD blog?

I recently found an old friends blog. It's minimalist, white background, black text. But it works because what she writes is fantastic. She doesn't need a hokey background or pictures or crazy fonts.

So then I look at my blog.

Crazy font? No.

Pictures? No.

Hokey "I'm a writer! Look! A book!" background? Fuck you.

If I had a book, like she does (you can find where to get them at her awesomely Spartan blog here) or if I could write such funny shit, I might not need anything else.

But for the time being, I am a writer. Just look at my blog's background. It's a fucking book. What more do you need?

Wordslinger-117 out.

What a way to start the month.

The usual Tuesday writers group is holding their meeting in the FSU Alumni center this week. I was told this last week.

As I write this, I'm sitting and waiting for the event to kick off. This is not the usual 'get a pint and have a seat' affair. No. I came here wearing a hoodie and torn jeans. Other people are wearing blazers. There is a donation at the door of ten dollars for the Second Harvest charity. I had seven dollars in my pocket. There is a silent auction. A cash bar.

Which wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't given them the seven dollars at the door with a look of "sorry, I'm not from your planet. "

So I sit here in a hooded sweatshirt with a back eye and a swollen chin.

I am sorry to say I've never even heard of our guest of honor Pam Houston. She has at least four books published so I feel like I damn well should. But live and learn.

I feel like a kid again, growing up next to Elon College, sneaking into functions for the free food. Maybe I should just feel slick for getting in at a discount. Suck it, poor people.

I kid of course. But somebody please give me a dollar so I can get a beer.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Update: Pam Houston is awesome. Get her stuff.

One for the road!

One last post for October (before the clock strikes 12!). It's been a long month, with more rejections than I would have liked, but each one makes me harder. Better. Faster. Stronger. Now excuse me, I have to do the robot. Daft Punk has that effect on me.

Anyway, all I can say is I'm keeping up the grind. Work, revise, send in, repeat. I've met some really cool people at the weekly writer's gathering - mostly poets, who I am greatly jealous of, with their ability to distill what I try for (imagery) to the purest form. They are whiskey to my beer.

And as the weather turns, I have a feeling the winter hunker down will polish my manuscript clean. Queries will go out, agents will be found, works will be published. I know this, because if I don't know this, I have nothing. Faith, friends. Faith is what it's all about.

Keep your heads up, and I'll keep up mine.

Wordslinger-117, out.

Dammit, Poetry

Poetry is something I haven't done since third grade. But can I just say I kicked ass at it? But that is not to say I cannot appreciate poetry. Poetry, good poetry anyway, boils away all the prose and filler in a story and leaves really good imagery. It's the mental slap that makes you pay attention, the metaphor that immediately connects you to the writer's mental picture, the simile that's so familiar and true you can't help but laugh or weep or groan. Most poetry is not good poetry.

That being said, I'm still attending the local writer's meets on Tuesday hoping for fiction each time. Selfish of me, I know. Whenever it's poetry, I groan and die a little inside, but I make the best of it. I hang in there and pick out little phrases, good imagery and other things you'll get from good poetry.

Sometimes it's rather good, and I laugh or clam up the way the writer wanted. Mostly I try to look interested as not to be impolite. I found myself playing with beer coasters tonight, waiting for that electric shock of a great metaphor to hit me. It did hit now and then, like a white ball bouncing around a roulette wheel. But like that same roulette wheel, it missed more than not.

If nothing else, I get to take in the people around me. The traits, the sounds. The ebb and flow of conversation, the details that make these people real. The awkward way a teenage girl holds a cigarette as she tries to look cool. The glances of undergrads at pints of beer, like caged wolves eyeing a cut of steak. The guy sitting next to me talking to somebody about how good fantasy novels have the same hitting points as literary fiction, all in a nasally voice that makes me weep to be in the 'Sci-Fi/Fantasy' bookshelves. The little things.

But if I keep going, it can't ALL be poetry. I think. I hope. And besides, networking - such a God-awful word but one we all have to do in some form or another - can always be done.

I'll keep writing, you keep reading. That's the deal. I'll see what I can do to make it worthwhile.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Reach for the sky

So that fat paycheck from the story that I didn't quite expect to sell never came. Really I think I've found a happy medium for submitting my stories for publication. I'm never scared to submit to these guys, the pros, the big wigs. Am I crushed when I'm not accepted? No.

There are so many great stories out there. Somebody probably had one better than mine, or the editor just wasn't feeling it. Are the rejections going to keep me from submitting to them again?

Not a chance in Hell. Reach for the sky because tomorrow may never come.

One day, my time will come. If you work hard enough and don't give up, you can make it. I believe that with every fiber of me.

It's funny, the words I see most in my 'Submissions' folder of me email are 'Unfortunately' 'but' and 'thank you'. I like Thank You the most. Anyone who's submitted knows that 'Unfortunately' is usually the tenth or so word in the email. At least they don't string you along!

I'm just going to keep on going until I get more tallies in that 'W' column. (That's 'Wins' for the non-sports inclined).

It's not over yet. I've been down but I've never been out.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Rocktober

The summer is over now. My beloved Red Sox are not in the post season. Any day now, the weather here in Tallahassee will take a turn for the bitter cold of... well, it's Florida, so it won't be too bitter. But it will get colder.

What that means is that my summer distractions are mostly done now. I'll be getting that Salinger-esque 'lock myself in the office and write' thing going again, but it's been a while coming.

I made a submission just now to a publication that pays ten cents per word (!) and the idea of getting $290 for a short story is beyond my grasp. It's out there the same way the quantum physics and string theory blow my mind. That is roughly one (1) of my paychecks for a slow week right now working in the garage. I'm not holding out much hope on accepting the story - I think, personally, it's a good story, but the editor might not - if only not to be crushed. But the very concept of such prestige makes me drool.

Interestingly enough, I never know how casual or formal the cover letter for my submission should be. I don't want the readers to think that I've sent them a blanket, form cover letter (though it would only be reasonable, since they send out blanket, form rejection letters). But I don't want them to think I'm just here, clowning around. You want to present yourself as a professional, but also as a human being with plenty of personality.

Like most things in the writing gig, I'm starting to get that you need to find a balance.

Speaking of balance, know what would help balance my checking account? $290 for a short story.

Let's hope I rolled a seven. Or a natural 20, if that's more your bag.

Wordslinger-117 out.

The game is afoot!

Say that with your best Sean Connery accent and it sounds so much cooler.

So the other night I went to a local bar where, every Tuesday, they have an author come talk about their book. This week was a man who grew up on a South African wildlife preserve during the apartheid era. Very interesting stuff that made for a good read (Especially the part about lions making a kill right next to where he's sleeping). But the most important thing to happen? I successfully said to somebody I met there "why yes, I write speculative fiction." For one, it's a lot cooler than saying "geese guysh I write schi-fi novelsh!!!!11!" But another thing: I don't say "oh I write on the side when I'm not working". I fucking WRITE, son. Dig it.

I almost feel like I'm a spy amongst them. These members of academia, these people who are teachers and students and professional 'thinkers'. Here is this kid from North Carolina with no ties to FSU claiming to write! Almost professionally! "ahem... Gentlemen?"

Writer is spy!

Anyway, while not feeling like I was successfully bullshiting everyone there, I did take a lot in. It was nice.

Wordslinger-117 out.

And there goes my swagger

So the other day I'm talking to somebody at work. Not somebody I work with but somebody who's tires I'm checking. She's taking creative writing as her major and I say "oh cool, what do you write?"

She replies "nonfiction and poetry. Do you write?"

I say yes! In fact I do!

"Oh what do you write?"

"Genre. Mostly sci-fi."

"oh. Cool."

And bam. I just went from cool guy to dork, just like that. Maybe it's just in my head - it probably is - but I could just feel the swagger of my "why yes I am an author" run away from the situation like it's ass was on fire. The follow up question: "did you write a book?" persuaded it to run faster when I answered "yeah but... It's not published. I'm getting my name out in the short story market right now."

Not really a George McFly "I just couldn't take that kind of rejection!" but I heard it that way.

I think one day I'll be looking back at this as I stroll into a convention, full of piss and vinegar, the "cool" sci-fi writer, girls screaming like I was the damn Beatles... I'll have a good laugh. But man, try saying you write science fiction and try to look like the groovy sonofabitch you know you are. It aint easy.

Wordslinger-117 out.

I have five stories floating through cyberspace

Five. I had to look at my spreadsheet to be sure. Five possible credits (and payments!) and five possible rejections. You know what's kind of scary about the whole thing, though?

I tell myself that after five short stories published, five pieces of work that I get paid for, I start querying for my book. And holy shit does that make things seem pretty real. The book is done and ready to go, but it's always seemed far off. In the future. That whole "one day" thing. But there is a reason I'm reading up on queries and pitches and all of these other things I'll have to do to get the book sold.

While reading up, I've also discovered that everyone and their grandmother wants to be a writer. It's almost disheartening when you read through comments on blogs and websites, and its all to the effect of 'Very nice. MY novel is...' and then a link to their blog.

I think the job market I'm trying to break into is a little crowded. But I'll get this job the same way I got all the other jobs I've ever held: go in there with the ability to bullshit my way into being liked and making them think I have the capability to excel at the work.

In other news, I submitted a piece to the Writers of the Future contest. Third prize is $500, so say a prayer for me.

-Wordslinger-117 out.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince...

Borders is filing for Chapter 7. Everything must go, all assets liquidized.

As a former Borders employee, I have mixed feelings. On the one hand: BURN IT ALL! TO THE GROUND! Dance around the funeral pyres of the establishments, lifting your wailing voices to sing the ruin of their corporation! I remember working and Borders and absolutely despising upper management. I hated the corporate rules handed down by some unseen force to essentially make my life suck. $6.50 an hour to have your soul constantly eroded was the going rate.

On the other hand, I had fun. A lot of fun. I met some of the coolest people I ever have working there. Borders Books, Music and Cafe in Stony Brook, New York had great people working there (for the most part. I'm talking about YOU, Jillian! Hater! (actually I loved Jill, she was cool... for a hater)). I managed to get paid for putting books on shelves, screwing around with friends, and occasionally helping people who didn't know how to type things into the Info computer. The hours sucked, the pay was shit, and the boss was a soulless she-beast who would only lumber out of her office to yell at us, but I had a great time working there.

So it is an end of an era. Eric over at Pimp My Novel has said he expects this to hasten the transition into new media, to make print books secondary to electronic. Probably true, much to my chagrin. It's a little scary, trying to get into this world, this career, especially as everything is changing so radically.

But like those corny motivational posters say, ride the wave of change or be crushed under it.

R.I.P. Borders

1974-2011

Wordslinger-117 out.

This is my blog. There are many like it, but this one is mine...

I'm not going to do the whole credo about my rifle/blog. But I need to respect this bad boy some more. I may also have to invest in a the Twitter. See, I used that 'the' ironically, because it's what older people call it sometimes.

I should also not blog late at night. I get stupid.

So, on the writing front: another day, another submission, another reading. I went back and read 'There Will Come Soft Rains' by Ray Bradbury again. It is the pinnacle of what post-apocalyptic fiction can be, I think. Well crafted, with just enough visualization (some of it very stark, carries a lot of impact). You should read it, because it's awesome.

The more I go through the market for short stories, the more I find publications that don't publish profanity or violence. While I respect that it's their publication, they can do whatever the hell they want with it, I can't understand how you can rule out a good story because of these things. Profanity, when done correctly, makes dialogue real. Unless you're a seventy year old lady baking a cake for the church's bake sale, when you stub your toe you don't say 'Oh darn!'. You shout! 'FUCK!' or 'FUCK ME!' or 'MOTHERFUCKER!'. You can be the nicest person, try to live the cleanest, keep your language inoffensive, interjections care not one bit about these things.

Violence is perhaps even more bizarre to me. Any story must have conflict, otherwise its boring and nobody wants to read it. Conflict and resolution drive plot. Sure, there's the court room conflict, the lover's conflict, all kinds of conflict. But there is no baser form of conflict than violence.

That's just me bitching, though. While I have my reasons for thinking that, I'm sure the editors have their reasons for thinking otherwise, and their reasons are just as valid.

Probably.

But maybe not...

Wordslinger-117 out.

Star Wars quotes can get you in trouble...

Nothing to do with writing today. But a case of not paying attention.

The town had a parade today. It was the usual affair: floats, people from the community, et cetera. I stood outside of work with some of the guys and watched it. The Star Wars fans were in attendance, people from the 501st Legion, of the Galactic Empire that is. Pretty cool, bunch of guys in storm trooper uniforms. And a Boba Fett. Always need the Fett man.

I said to one of them: "These are not the droids you're looking for. Move along."

"That only works on the weak minded!" He said through the storm trooper helmet. It was funny. The parade moves up a bit. They're near the end of the line.

The guy in the back of the formation was pretty tall. As Princess Leia says to Luke when she first meets him, I said in the general direction of the guy: "Aren't you a little short to be a storm trooper?"

The tall guy slowly looks over at me like I just said "Hey, ugly, I had sexual relations with your wife." I could tell he was not happy, even with the storm trooper helmet on.

One of the guys I work with, Frankie, says "Dude, that's not cool."

"What?"

"He only has one leg, bro."

The clone trooper in front of the tall one did indeed only have one leg. The other one was a prosthetic.

...fuuuuuuuuuck.

"I didn't... I mean, that wasn't..."

Frankie doesn't know many lines from Star Wars. So by the time I'm trying to explain that no, I wasn't picking on a guy for missing a leg from the knee down by calling him short, it's become one of those "whatever you say" moments.

So this is what George Kastanza felt like. So if anyone is reading this that's in Tallahassee's 501st Storm Trooper legion, Vader's Fist, please tell the clone trooper Lieutenant (the man had blue on his armor, he was a goddamn officer) that it was a complete misunderstanding.

Dear God, I will never quote Star Wars again.

At least not for another week.

Formatting be damned...

...it feels good to see my stuff in print. Well, in pixels.

My story went up today (http://www.necrologyshorts.com/2011/03/11/castle-heldeur/) and good God does it look good. There was some formatting that didn't transfer over from the way I wrote it, in basic manuscript format, but it doesn't really matter. Internal thoughts just aren't in italics. It gives them a Chuck Pala... Pahla... the guy who wrote Fight Club feel. (Chuck Palahniuk, by the way, very talented).

Now we get back to the hard stuff. Writing. Editing. That pain in the ass process of getting the story from my brain to the page. But for now; lets have a drink!

Theraputic work

Another day, another rejection slip. This one from Asimov's (a form letter, of course, but hey, they're big name. So it's understandable). And then you get to thinking in the back of your head "So you wrote a book. Big deal. Everyone's done that, chump."

And you feel unprofessional. You feel like a slob. You think "how in the flaming HELL did they do it? King, Clancy, Grisham, Patterson - these guys are professionals. I want to be a professional!"

You know what makes me feel like a professional? Like I'm serious about my work? A highlighter.

A blue highlighter that I stole from a data entry job I worked at like three years ago. Here's what you do: take that highlighter and a copy of the Writer's Digest. Go to the literary agents section. Read about what kind of agents are out there. Highlight the ones that you think could represent you.

That's it. I think technically it's work - trying to further your career - but something about highlighting an agent (AGENT! Pros have agents!) is kind of fun. It's like wishful thinking that has an ultimate goal. You think of them calling and saying "Why hello, Mister Futch, we received your query letter and the outline of your project and would like to represent you."

Representation! Doesn't the word just make you salivate? Cant you see the line where it says 'Client's Signature'? By golly, doesn't it just make you all tingly?

Are you tingly? You should stop drinking. Seriously. You have a problem and need help.

So whenever the world gets you down, grab a highlighter and highlight the ever-loving SHIT out of something. A book, a manuscript, your boss's desk, the walls of the bathroom, your own body, your kid's face. Highlight and say proudly "I am a professional!"

I'm a professional! But... still, not a writer.

Wordslinger-117 out.

I'm not a writer, dammit!

Really, I'm not. Writers are those guys you see in coffee shops, wearing black turtle necks and writing on laptops. Okay, so maybe I own a black turtle neck. And maybe I am currently writing on a laptop.

But I write genre. Genre! Science fiction western! Post apocalyptic survival! Zombies! I'm not a writer. I'm just a guy who writes.

Does that make sense?

So far tonight, I've submitted three short stories to three different magazines and ezines. Mostly for peanuts. At this point, I'll take a letter saying "I like what you did, we'll publish it and you'll get nothing."

Nothing?! Yes, thank you very much, I would LOVE nothing!

So I'm starting this blog to recount my experiences as a twenty-something guy who just wants to write. Share my experiences: excitement and adventure at every turn! Low paying jobs! A girlfriend with a PhD (who is way smarter than I am)! Escaping New York! Okay, so only one of those is a downer. But they're exciting, yes?

If it helped keep that Julie and Julia lady sane, maybe it can do the same for me.

It's past 3:30 AM. I'm going to bed.

Wordslinger-117 out.