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!

What is this funny feeling in my tummy...?

Go to my email inbox. I see 'From: Sara Ferguson, Editor'. I think "Another rejection slip. Well, at least they got back to me at a good rate."

I read:

Greetings!

This is in response to your submission, “Castle Heldeur ”. We are accepting your submission.

I'd like to thank the Academy.

My first acceptance. It's a little online e-zine, maybe not so little really, called Necrology Shorts. They also have a Kindle deal where it will go out to subscribers on their kindle. I don't get any money, but my name is now out there. My work is published. You like me! You really like me!

So keep an eye out on www.necrologyshorts.com for the debut piece of Michael Futch: 'Castle Heldeur'.

And thank you, Sara Ferguson, for reaffirming that yes; I am an author.

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.

I feel dirty

I just wrote a flash fiction piece. I feel like I need a shower now. Don't get me wrong, I don't think people who write flash fiction are dirty or not writers (I'm not a writer, remember?) or anything. I just... it feels like I had a quicky. Little exposition, no world building, I didn't even name any characters! There were only two of them!

It's like I've taken all the stuff I'm good at and thrown it to the side and said 'FUCK this stuff, where's the dialogue and development?!'. I don't know if that's good, bad, or what. I'm just so confused right now.

Taking an hour to write a completely contained story that should be easily understood is like... I don't know, it's almost like cheating. Like using Cliff's Notes. But there wasn't anything more to the story: a guy is talking to a local grave digger who is more than meets the eye. And he doesn't transform into a robot. That's it, really. It's all dialogue, a bit of build up, and reveal.

Well. I guess now I'll let it stew, edit it, and see if anyone wants some flash fiction.

Wordslinger-117 out.

The waiting game

So, this is what happens when you're trying to submit stories to magazines and you've got no credits to your name.

1. Submit story to a publication (usually one at a time. They dont like it when you send it to them and somebody else. They're special.)
2. Wait a month.
3. Wait another month.
4. ???
5. Profit!
5a. Rejection!

It's agonizing waiting for that rejection (or maybe profit! you never know!). You're sitting there scratching at an itch to submit, but the itch doesn't go away. "It's okay," you tell yourself. "I've submitted a piece... they'll get back to me soon."

"NOOOO!" Your itch says. "Submit it again! To somebody else! At the SAME TIME! Consequences be DAMNED!"

And you fight it. And fight it. And then you get an email from somebody you submitted to and it says....

Dear Michael Futch,

"Thank you for sending your manuscript "Pinked Void," number 19818, to us here at Blahblahblahmagazine via the online submission manager.

We are sorry this particular manuscript was not selected for publication in Blahblahblahmagazine. We hope you will send us another soon, though. We could not publish Blahblahblahmagazine without the fine writing submitted to us. While we regret that the large number of submissions we receive makes it difficult for the editors to respond personally, we want to emphasize that an editor personally read your manuscript. Devoted reading is part of the Blahblahblah magazine editorial mission; it is also our own personal one."


A fucking FORM LETTER! GODTROHEORGMQERGOQW$%H RAAAAAGE. But they did read it. I think. That's what they say anyway. OR DID THEY?!

Well. That's the way it goes. I can submit it somewhere else now and rage again a couple months down the road. At least Asimovs has online submissions now (you Luddite bastards). Maybe someone else needs that, too... I'm LOOKING RIGHT AT YOU, F&SF MAGAZINE! YEAH, YOU SEE ME!

Wordslinger-117 out.

Dodged a bullet on that one.

So, going through some rejection slips, I noticed one where I sent in a story on impulse. I didn't read the magazine first. Shame on me, I know. But it turns out I should have read it for more than just to "get a feel for it".

I went and read a couple shorts on there. The first one I clicked on... well, it was sci-fi. But it was heavy handed, and I just could not get into it. No problem there, right? Just not what I like to read.

So I go to another one. The title was something about avocados. Written by some woman, forget the author's name. And I almost feel bad about trashing another writer's works, especially one who is, like me, submitting to short story magazines and online publications.

But holy shit. Let me give you a brief rundown. It's told in a first person narrative. It's about a woman (possibly the author) in a grocery store, looking through the avocados on display. And hey, look who strikes up a conversation with her, but actor and director Billy Bob Thorton.

I shit you not.

The story goes on to where her and Billy Bob throw a couple avocados at each other, and end up spilling to the ground like a bad '80s movie. You know, that moment where things get all serious and the two leads kiss. Well, she didn't kiss ol' Billy Bob. Instead she reaches out and caresses his face and tells him he's beautiful.

Seriously.

That's pretty much the whole thing, right there, minus the descriptive parts and the dialogue. I read that, immediately closed the window, and wrote on my submission-tracking Excel sheet: "Do not submit".

So this is possibly the one post you'll ever read where I celebrate the fact that I received a rejection notice. I consider it a victory, perhaps not by my own doing, but a victory nonetheless. Rejoice!

Wordslinger-117 out.

I feel bad for my keyboard

Sometimes I feel like I dont pay it enough attention. It's there and shouting "Hey, remember me? Remember all that shit you've got in your head? I can get it out for you." But then I look at it and say "Silly keyboard, if I do that, then I'll just obsess over it and want to get it perfect."

And that doesn't happen. You don't get things perfect, you get them to the point where you go "Alright, maybe..." and then you send it off for someone to read it and hopefully they think "Alright, maybe..." and we're back to square one of waiting for that reject slip.

Damn, that's pretty pessimistic, huh? A bit too George McFly. I just don't think I could take that kind of rejection.

But I do have an odd relationship with the keyboard. It wants me to use it, and when I use it, I beat the poor thing relentlessly. And then I saw what I beat out of it and beat it some more. And it never complains. I think it likes it.

The dirty thing.

To the editor: personalized rejections plx

So I've resubmitted to publications that had previously rejected one of my stories. I sent them new ones. Why? Well, for one, the story I sent in was kind of... an experimental piece. One big internal dialogue, really. But mainly it's because they read it and had something to say on it.

The rejection notice had a little something in there more than "We're going to pass on this one". One wrote me saying the character was very believable (score!), but it was mostly world building and exposition. Little action. And I agree; the story was just something I came up with while listening to Rocket Man on the radio. Another one told me that it fit too comfortably into the sci-fi genre, and their magazine is more of a subsection deal. Fair enough.

I read a few stories on one of them - Ideomancer - and thought "Yes. Yes, I can do this. This is good shit they've got up. My stuff belongs here. So I sent 'em another one I wrote. Dear Lord, let them read it and think the same thing.

So editors, keep the personalized notices coming. I'm going to feed on your recognition that I've written something like some kind of nerdy genre author vampire. I von to read your rejection.

Wordslinger-117 out.