This guy!

I'm starting to believe that getting published is crowded, but like most other job markets, its crowded with jackasses. I read a lot of sites about getting published (what a shocker, I know) and the more I read, the more I find myself going 'wait, they did what?'

They're ready to query an agent but don't know what an SASE is? (Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope, FYI. For Your Information, BTW. By The W--okay I'm done).

They bemoan having to acquire an agent in their query letters?

They assure people it's a shoe-in for Oprah's (now defunct) book club?

Who the fuck are these people and why are they pissing off agents and their screeners when other writers are... okay, perfect analogy: you're waiting in line to get to your terminal in an airport. Security is a bitch, because hey, TSA. What are you gonna do? One guy has to go through the metal detector twice. He gets all kinds of indignant, and holds everyone else up. He shouts about his rights, about how ridiculous the whole thing is, et cetera. Everyone else behind him, waiting to pass through the required checkpoint, tap their feet and look at their watches, eyes rolling. Maybe somebody says 'Hey, asshole. Do you mind?' Maybe they don't.

See where I'm going with this? Put the research into getting an agent and getting your manuscript published, know what the industry is all about. Get with it or get the hell out of my way. I've got books to publish here.

Or, and this may very well be WORSE, the starving artists of the writing world that seem to come up as examples on many an agent's blog. Where this is their life's work! Their blood, sweat, tears, and various other cliches! It is their art! Change it? Sell out? What do you take them as? Because it surely isn't as an author!

Move along, now, sir, you're embarrassing yourself. By the way, your French Art History degree is showing. (If anyone reading this HAS a French Art History degree, I'm not trying to poke fun at you. I swear to God. I'm so sorry.)

Have an agent wave six figures - Hell, five figures - and see how far I'll go to please the editor, the publishers, my agent. I'm not making art here, I'm telling a goddamned story. Should the antagonist's name be change from Sancho to Samuel? Why the fuck not? Maybe the guy in the second chapter doesn't die. Alright, sure.

Maybe your main character should be a vampire.

...maybe you should go fuck yourself with a rake. A man has limits, you know.

So who's ready to treat his work like a product, that should be sold? This guy. Who wants to work with an agent/editor/publicist/EVERYONE to rock the fuck out? THIS guy.

Who has two thumbs and is an author?

Michael Futch, nice to meet you.

- 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.

The Blogosphere

I have just swam the literary blogosphere (Jesus I hate that word) and am now surfacing, gasping for air. Holy. God.

Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, has a blog. Most are interesting. Some are helpful. And others are just full of pretentious dicks. Which is to be expected, considering the kind of blog it is. I'm not going to name names, because that's a form of dickery. But let's just say I would not want to get a beer with these people.

There are some that are helpful but also very... rude. Well, rude may be too strong of a word. Janet Reid's blog, the Query Shark, for example, is a wonderful resource for crafting a great query. She will often go to lengths to say 'this is what you're doing wrong with your query'. But her responses to other bloggers and questions and the like? If you get more than 'no' from her, you have just performed a miracle. But she's a busy woman, and its all from the goodness of her heart. Her icy, blackened heart. So I can understand it.

I think I'll send in a query to the shark and see what she says. If it even gets posted, that is. She says 99% of them don't get on the board.

I think I can make that other 1%.

Wordslinger-117 out.

BOOM! Sphinx!

Rejection letter number... okay, so I don't keep track. But I open it up and BOOM! Yummy! Personalized. And not just personalized, my friends, but edited.

Edited. They went through my manuscript, wrote down notes, and sent it back. This is the first time my work has ever been edited by somebody in the profession, and it feels nice. Better than nice, I feel like a pro.

Most of it was getting away from the passive 'was' in my gerunds. There was a bit about cleaning up the F-bombs, but that's probably more the editor's taste, which I can appreciate. It makes publishing it in a magazine a lot easier. A couple things of motivation and continuity, but overall I get the feeling the story made it to the 'maybe' pile, and possibly even into the 'short list' pile for consideration.

What's more, this is the short story that is part of the larger universe. A short set before the novel. The one I always thought of as incomplete, probably never would do well. Seems I was mistaken! Oh ho HO!

So, possibly the best rejection letter I've had since I started. What I need to do now is edit according to the recommended changes, sit on it, re-edit, and send it off again. I've got a feeling that this one is a winner.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Cobwebs. Cobwebs everywhere.

It has been a number of months since I posted here. Mainly because I have been lazy. Laziness, my dear America, breeds incompetence! That was a Fallout 3 reference. Big props if you got it.

The writing gig hasn't gotten any easier. I'm doing what I think will be my least favorite part of the chosen career: editing. Going through and correcting what I got wrong the first time, rewriting so it flows, taking ENTIRE chunks of the manuscript out. But it's not that I don't like taking a pair of hedge clippers to my work. Oh no, my dear America, it's LAZINESS! AND LAZINESS- you get where I'm going with this.

But that's why they call it work. And if you're an author, you still have to work. And I'm coming to terms with wanting to call myself an author. I saw the movie about Eddie Izzard and really identified with him. Not that I want to wear a woman's clothes and speak with an English accent, but that you've got to believe. He said "If you want to be a comedian you've got to BELIEVE you're a comedian. If you want to be an actor you've got to BELIEVE you're an actor. If you want to be an astronaut, you've got to BELIEVE you're an astronaut."

I believe I'm an author. I'm not an accomplished author. Not a renown author. Or even a PUBLISHED author (yet). But I'm an author.

Now what?

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.

Tom can read?

It's the weirdest feeling, having a friend say they like what you wrote. Especially one of your guys, your homies, your brudders from another mudders. Case in point, my friend Tom. Tom is in the army. He's high speed, Rangeriffic, leads the way all the way. And I hear that he not only reads a lot, but liked what I wrote?

On the one hand, hey, alright. Thanks, man. On the other hand... Tom can read? You have to understand the relationship between us - us being all of my friends. We drink and make fun of each other. Constantly. "Dumbshit" is a term of endearment. A fun, memorable night should involve a) bleeding from the face, b) "Wow, did I really say that?" or c)bar tabs that we cant afford. Sometimes they're all interconnected.

So to not only have proof of something so nerdy as writing genre, but to have it read and then liked? Weird as hell. But it's a good weird.

Of course, it's criticism from a friend, which will always be good. I suppose it's biased, by in On Writing, King said something along the lines of "would you rather have some random asshole critique you first?" I suppose he is right.

Now I've just gotta get the damn thing published. Anyone want to take a risk on a newcomer, nothing under his belt and nothing to his name? Come on. It worked for JK Rowling. I think Clancy and Grisham were more or less the same way. I'll knock your damn socks off if you give me the chance.

Wordslinger-117 out.