An Open Letter to Writers

I remember very clearly the first time I received pay for writing; just as clearly as I remember my two favorite college literature courses. During my junior year at Binghamton University in upstate New York, I received my first EVER check for a short story: a whopping $10 for a little science fiction diddy I sold to a small digest called Millennium Science Fiction Magazine. It was a glorious day, especially because I'd initially thought the envelope containing the slightly cheap-looking check was a bill.

I splurged that $10 on half a tank of gas in the old Ford Tempo AND Taco Bell for lunch.

I went on to ignore the short story market entirely, plodding along instead on a manuscript that to this day lies in a dusty box somewhere in my office. I had accomplished a great feat at the tender age of twenty-two - I finished something - but instead of trying to recreate its success, I swallowed the hook upon which dangled "novelist dreams". I dismissed short fiction as "not worth my time", a distraction from the main goal: becoming a novelist.

If only Professor Peabody's "Way Back Machine" really existed, because if so, I'd hop on that baby, set it for 1997, and give myself a quick retroactive kick in the pants.

Out of all the literature courses I've taken during my college career, my two favorites are American Short Story and Detective Fiction, taken at Broome Community College, in Binghamton, New York. In those classes I discovered the raw power of short fiction; Flannery O'Connor in one, Ellery Queen in the other. In Broome's library I discovered Asimov's Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine, Analog Science Fiction & Fact, and Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. I remember pouring over them for weeks, snared in rapt attention by the power these writers exhibited in a handful of pages.

Did I try submitting stories to them? Well....no, because I was writing a novel, and I didn't want to "waste time". I wanted greatness; and right quickly, at that.

Sigh.

What did I accomplish? After nine years I produced a 178,000 word science fiction manuscript that no one wanted, as well as a partially finished manuscript that I'd changed countless of times. Along the way, I'd written dozens of character studies and isolated scenes that I planned on using for my "great work", and while I occasionally pondered tweaking them into short stories, I never did because I didn't want any "distractions". I had a book to write, after all.

I can partly blame immaturity; for a long season I was never completely at peace with who I was as a person. Landing that "big book contract" was my Holy Grail; the thing that would "complete" me. Falling down that particular rabbit hole is easy; writers, after all, are often strange folk with the oddly contradicting desire to hide, but to also want people to read and appreciate their stories.

Anyone pursuing a career writing fiction walks a tenuous tightrope; they write because they simply love the craft, plotting, and character genesis, but writers also want their characters out there, running through the minds of readers. Unless a writer has plugged themselves into the market and done their research, the most popular and most glamorized avenue for their fiction is the "novel".

Unfortunately, hordes of unscrupulous folks posing as literary agents, publishers, and scads of shady print-on-demand companies have swooped in over the past ten years to feed off the dreams of unsuspecting newbies; I myself narrowly avoided several such scams (all POD printers are not bad, by any means).

Now would the perfect time to clarify: I've never finished writing a book or had one published; I hold a mere eleven published short stories to my name, several years worth of non-fiction writing credits, and I currently write a weekly book review column with The Press & Sun Bulletin, the city newspaper in Binghamton, New York. I am by no means an expert authority, merely one who's recently been cured of "novel fever".

I'm certainly not saying that pursing novel publication is a bad thing, by any means. I'd be lying if I said there doesn't remain in me the wish to see my name on a book spine someday. However, in a world that touts "bigger is better", it's very hard not to become obsessed with the novel "Holy Grail".

A large part of the problem is symptomatic of our generation; folks in general have very little patience. This is why so many college athletes forsake collegiate careers to shine under the lights of pro athletics; it's why so many marriages end in divorce and why - to steal from Langston Hughes - so many 'dreams are deferred', because no one has the patience to wait for said dream's fruition, anymore.

It's amazing to consider some folks used to make a career out of short stories, with nary a New York Times Bestseller in sight. Ray Bradbury spent years writing short stories; one right after the other, before he ever wrote a novel. However, imagine this: how odd would it be to hear someone say, "I'm really not interested in writing a novel; I'd rather focus on my short stories"?

I only speak as one recently cured of this same fever. Writing had become a chore for me; a dreaded occupation; something I wasn't sure I liked anymore, but still needed to do. I plugged away, day after day, re-working the same tired old manuscript, never seeing my name in print, getting more and more frustrated. I dragged myself out of bed every day at 4 AM, (I now get up at 3:30, but because I seem my name in bylines, it's FUN again), until finally, about two years ago, I hit a wall.

Writing was starting to suck, big time. I had no credits, no publications, nothing to show for my efforts but a manuscript that had been refried more than twice baked beans. In a word, writing had become a chore, and it wasn't fun any longer. At that point, I did the only thing I could: I gave up for a several weeks and tried to figure out what the heck was wrong with me.

Salvation came in the form of short story writing and review writing. Not coincidently, around that time I finished Stephen King's On Writing, (a must have, gotta tell ya), and I realized that in re-writing the same old manuscript over and over and concentrating solely on novel success, not only was I completely cutting myself off from an entire world of writing that had nothing to do with novels, I was also having NO FUN AT ALL! At a certain point, especially with writing, you have to ask yourself: Why the heck am I doing this? Fame? Fortune? Do I even like the dang thing, at this point? I asked myself this:

"Self?"

"What???!" Surly, because still obsessing about novel success.

"Let me ask you a question. Say you'll never make ANY money writing at all..."

"Oh, well that's freakin' great! Ruin my day, won't don't? While you're at it, ruin my freakin' life!" Probably throws something at this point.

"Oookay...less caffeine for you, writer boy."

"ROWWRRR!!" Frustrated, caffeine-deprived writer howl.

"Yeah, that's great. Anyhoo, let's play pretend. Let's pretend the most you'll ever make from writing is a scattered thousand bucks or so over three or fours years of writing short stories and reviews..."

"That sucks. How can I buy a Ferrari with only a thousand bucks?"

Sigh. "..and let's say the biggest sale you'll ever make for a short story will be, say, $200 bucks...if you're really lucky..."

"Two-hundred bucks??!?! That's not even half the monthly mortgage payment! Are you nuts?"

"Focus, buddy, focus. Here...have a Monster Energy Drink, Lo-carb for that waist of yours...." Tosses can.

Pops can, guzzles, and sighs. "Yessss. Caffeine, it's the precious, my preciousssss....."

"Riiiiiight. Anyway, what if that's it? No big cars, no money, no hobnobbing with Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or Kevin J. Anderson. What then?"

Wipes Monster off mouth with arm. "Huh? Whaddya mean?"

"I mean....what's the point, Bozo? What would make writing fun for you, even if you knew you'd never make it to the big time? What would make you keep writing, no matter what?"

Another sip of Monster, a scratch on the head. "I dunno. It would be cool if someone actually saw something I'd written somewhere. Y'know, saw my name in byline with an email, so they could email me and say, 'Hey...that's sure didn't suck', or something like that."

"Hmmm. A byline. You mean like a paper, or something, right? Like maybe book or movie reviews?"

A shrug. "Yeah, I guess."

"Would you need to get paid for it?"

Deep sigh. "I suppose not. It would just be cool for someone to read something of mine, and maybe be noticed....even if by only by the milk man or someone like that."

"Okay, cool. Remember that ratty little newspaper you wrote for in college?"

"Yeah, sure. I wrote book reviews for them."

"Well....what the heck? See if they want you back."

"Okay." Pause. "What now?"

"What about that short story contest you found out about last week? How about that? You've got a bunch of excerpts from your WIP that could be tweaked for that. Why not give it a shot?"

Mumble, kicks the ground.

"What? I missed that."

"I SAID....I tried already. The editor rejected it, said it used too much italics and stuff, and was too long."

"Yeah....but don't you have time to resubmit?"

"I suppose...but I can't write a short story; that's just not my style! Everything I write is long and complicated...OW! Why'd ya hit me?"

"I'm gonna keep hitting you until you resubmit that story. Clear?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever. Just don't hit me again."

"Soooo.....did you respond to those online magazines that wanted you to write book reviews, even offered to send you ARC's and free books to do it?"

"I dunno....who really cares about online credits, anyway? Plus, half the books they want to send me are stinkin' romance novels; I don't wanna read that crap....."

Raises hand, doesn't say a word.

"Okay, okay! I'll email them today! How's reading a bunch of chic lit books gonna help my writing, I'd like to know?"

"DUH. You plan on writing a female character eventually, right?"

"Yeah, but....oh. Reading chic lit might help me understand chicks better, huh?"

"Not very PC, but you're getting it." Pause. "Okay, here's one last thing: with all your short stories...."

Looks alarmed. "All? I thought I was only doing the one story....."

Only raises eyebrow this time.

"Okay! SHEESH!"

"Anyway, with all your short stories, follow this guideline EVERY time: write, revise, edit, submit."

"Okay; write, revise, edit....whoa, whoa! That quickly? How'm I gonna make the thing perfect? I can't just edit it a few times and then send it out!"

"Oh, well, c'mere then....."

"Okay! I'll do it! I'll do it!"

"And while you're at it.....start writing poetry."

"Huh? Why?"

"It's good for the soul."

"Yeah, but poets NEVER make any money...."

Harsh glare. "ITS. GOOD. FOR. THE. SOUL!"

Throws up hands in despair. "Fine, fine, whatever you want! At this rate, I'll NEVER get a novel published!"

Okay, so maybe it didn't go exactly like that. However, two years later, I can't say I've done a TON, but I've done some stuff: eleven short stories published, a twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth waiting in the wings, some poems to be published in January, I write a weekly book review column for our city newspaper for money of all things, and one of my short story prizes didn't bring in $200, but it did get half that, and then traded $30 bucks of it with the editor for three more contributor copies.

Am I any closer to getting that novel published? Who knows? But it's fun again, and that's all that matters. Now I'm eager to get out of bed at 3:30 AM instead of dragging myself up, and I can't want to start writing, because with short stories and reviews, the end is always in sight.

So, advice? Well, every writer is destined to tread a different path, but I will say this: don't take the quick and easy road to publication. Smell the flowers. Take time to learn the craft. Have fun.

Who knows? That fun may be the only thing that lets you survive, and then when you're hobnobbing with Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Kevin J. Anderson, you can swap writer survival stories and stuff.