Please read this.
I write almost every day. 90% of that is usually crap, as evidenced by Sturgeon’s Law, and more often than not its not fiction. If I stretched this writing pattern out over the next five years, I may sporadically finish the odd short story or blog post or chapter of novel, but…I wont be professional. I came across a listener comment on an episode of the Writing Excuses podcast. The commenter posted these words on being professional:
If I’m going to be a professional, then I need to act professionally.
So what does it mean to be professional? Obviously, getting published would be a strong vote of confidence in that direction, but while I’m at the struggling unpublished writer phase, I think the most important thing I can do right now is to build habits to cultivate discipline so I can increase my chances of going pro one day.
I thought about this topic recently when I decided whether I wanted to take lessons in Indian Classical Music. I’m already taking piano and tae kwon do, each with their own demands on time; learning another instrument would only serve to take away from what little time I have left for writing. I’ll also be starting my CA articling in January, which will keep me busy full-time. Between that and everything else, I’m going to make time every day to start and finish my fiction projects.
My plan is to meet a monthly deadline and enter a story every quarter into the Writers of the Future contest. And I’ll post my progress here to keep things honest and commit myself to these goals.
Thanks to Tobias Buckell, whose post on Habits was the initial inspiration for this post.
I’m not a linguist, nor do I play one on TV. I haven’t even taken a linguistics class thus far in my University career, but I find articles like this one to resonate with my inner geek. The writer in me is constantly collecting, as they say, grist for the mill and this particular article got me thinking about how the concept of linguistic relativity can be used in building more colourful sf stories.
Language can inform culture, scientific progress, and religious systems without ever intruding directly into the story. I suppose this would be one of the challenges in writing a really good historical novel set in another country and time. The Writer would be working with translated material where a lot of the original meaning is lost in translation. How did these ancient cultures think? What concepts did they use to express scientific ideas for which there was no corresponding vocabulary? I think, in this context, historical novels and historical texts are perhaps the closest analog to science fiction and fantasy, where the sf writer can learn a lot about worldbuilding, but that’s another topic altogether.
On the flip side you could be writing a wide-screen space opera a la Star Wars, involving dozens of alien cultures and bypass the whole linguistics quagmire by just using Universal Translation Devices. (Doctor Who does this as well with the TARDIS, but I’d argue that its almost essential to the plot and nature of the show.) With space operas, linguistic differences would lend credibility to the multitude of different alien species, rather than treating them as your cliche ‘bug-eyed-humans’.
Close Encounters of the Third Kind does this in spades, where the most important aspect of the First Contact trope is the unique way in which humans and aliens first communicate: music. Or more particularly: music as language.
In any case the language barriers between cultures definitely adds an interesting dimension to the story, and I’m looking at developing it as a part of my worldbuilding details for future stories I write.
This Sufi devotional song to Khwaja Gharib Nawaz, composed by the inimitable A.R. Rahman and featured in the Bollywood movie Jodhaa Akbar, puts me in a very peaceful, calm mood every time I listen to it. I thought I would share it with all of you today. Give it a listen:
Note: Lyrics and translation here. The choreography in the song is really well done as well. Watch towards the end where Akbar starts to dance with the sufis.
I hate second drafts. At this point, as the writer, you’ve finished the story once, but you know that you will throw away 99% of it in the second draft. But this is not why I hate second drafts. Its the revision.
In second draft revision, I’ve found myself in stages of major story reconstruction while simultaneously fixing passive voice sentence structure and cliche scenes. I almost never have moments of pure “flow”–just free wheeling fun where I’m creating the story–there are always concerns of whether the story has got its shit together (in a manner of speaking) or if I’m just writing a exhaustingly self effacing monologue that pokes fun of the sf/fantasy genre and poorly imitates a Neil Gaiman short story. (Note: I bring this up because I have a unknown number of trunk short stories from high school and the beginning of University that tried and failed at the task.)
And, the truth of it is that there’s no easy way around the revision. You put in the hours, the days, and whatever it takes to get you from beginning to middle to end. Then when you have something vaguely story shaped, your writing workshop (if you belong to one) reads it and tells you that you may need another draft. And you repeat, and sometimes on the worst of days it feels like the revision is ad infinitum. But persist (like I am) and you may surprise yourself with something original.
On a personal note, I finished up the second draft of a story I started during the summer, and submitted it to two writing workshops at the start of September. The comments were helpful and for the most part fixed glaringly obvious flaws in the story. Due to school and other commitments I put off second draft revisions on another short story I finished over the summer. But, being honest here, the first draft sucks. I’ve rescued the best bits that I can from that train wreck and I’m attempting to Frankenstein the next iteration together. But, I did get out 430 words tonight and it looks pretty good down the road for the story. I wonder what it’ll be like to write a novel that’s at least ten times longer than any short story I’ve written so far and revise that… Your thoughts? Anyone out there actually like second drafts or revision?
So, after reading of Mark Frauenfelder’s ginger-ale experimentation via BoingBoing, I decided to try my own batch at home. I should note, however, that I ended up using Alton Brown’s recipe instead. Here are my notes:
– The recipe calls for 1/8 teaspoon of yeast, but I used a lot less than that. I was worried that the end product would have a strong yeasty afte-rtaste, but the end result was that while there was a mild yeast flavour to the drink, not enough carbonation occurred to make the drink suitably fizzy.
I think, in future batches, I will use more yeast in the recipe and maybe try a champagne or brewer’s yeast instead.
– Alton Brown filtered his ginger/sugar syrup before adding it to the water and yeast, but I just added the shredded ginger and filtered it out when I was ready to drink. I don’t have a control case to see if this affects flavour, so I’ll try filtering the ginger next time.
– Mark’s and Alton’s recipes both used sugar as sweetener for the drink. I subbed honey for a 1/3 of the sweetener, and I noticed that there was a distinct pleasant aroma when I simmered it with the ginger/sugar/water for the syrup. Some of this has flavour and aroma has carried over to the drink, so I’ll try it again in my next batch.
– I used some fresh squeezed lemon to add a little sour flavour to the drink and in future batches I’d like to try out spices like peppercorns and nutmeg to see how they affect flavour.
– Cooling the drink definitely helped with releasing CO2 when opening the bottle for the first time after fermentation. Plus, this is a drink you’ll want to enjoy cold.
– I’m also open to trying carbonated water and ginger syrup and bypassing the whole fermentation process if that works.
Those are my thoughts, and based on the thoughts of half of my family that tried the end product, it was a halfway decent drink. I look forward to experimenting and fine tuning the recipe to make a better ginger ale. Its fairly simple to make, and I highly recommend this to all amateur chefs.
This interview first appeared a little over two years ago in the Internet Review of Science Fiction, and qualifies as my first published article. Jack’s a masterful short story writer, and I was glad to be able to interview him. He discusses some of his influences in authors and books, origins of his short stories, and advice for writers. Fans of his work, and aspiring writers will enjoy it, I think.
Jack Skillingstead is the critically acclaimed author of over two dozen short stories published in venues including Asimov’s, Realms of Fantasy, and On Spec. Mr. Skillingstead’s stories, including the Theodore Sturgeon Award finalist “Dead Worlds,” have been reprinted in a number of Year’s Best Science Fiction anthologies. In 2001, Jack’s story “Bon Soir” was chosen by Stephen King as a winning entry in a writing exercise from his book On Writing.
His upcoming projects include work on Couplers—a YA graphic novel—and “Are You There And Other Stories” a collection of short stories from Golden Gryphon Press. Mr. Skillingstead lives in Seattle with several thousand books. Over the past few weeks, I exchanged emails with Jack to discuss his literary influences, some of the finer points of his concise short stories, upcoming projects, and how he became the writer he is today.
Arun Jiwa: Which authors would you say have been a strong influence on your own writing?
Jack Skillingstead: Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury, Roger Zelazny, and Harlan Ellison. These are all guys I read obsessively when I was much younger, at a time in my writing life when I craved strong voices to guide my ambition. I don’t see any of them exerting a strong influence on me nowadays, but back then I carried their voices inside my head like splinter personalities, so it’s likely they shaped me.
AJ: What are five of your favorite books?
JS: The answer varies. Restricting myself to genre, five that spring immediately to mind are: More Than Human, by Theodore Sturgeon; Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said, by Philip K. Dick; Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury; The Marriage Of Sticks, by Jonathan Carroll; Nova, by Samuel R. Delany. Since at this stage I’m primarily a short story writer, it might be more useful to name five story collections that have mattered to me (again, in genre): Deathbird Stories, by Harlan Ellison; Driftglass, by Samuel R. Delany; The October Country, by Ray Bradbury; Night Shift, by Stephen King; The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth, by Roger Zelazny.
AJ: I heard that you’d started a short story project with Harlan Ellison. What was it like to collaborate with someone who was influential to you as a writer?
JS: Surrealistic. Harlan had been a presence in my consciousness since 1968 when I first saw his name appear at the end of a Star Trek episode. As a teenager and young adult I was occasionally obsessed with his short stories—with his voice. Certainly I’m not the first to have had that experience. At the Nebulas in Tempe, in 2006, during a private conversation I asked him if he had any thoughts about publishing something in Asimov’s. I thought it would be cool to see my name in the same table of contents with his—sort of a full circle experience. Harlan said he would do one better than that and write a story in collaboration with me, if I wanted. It took me a couple of days to accept his offer, since I found the prospect intimidating.
In our conversation I’d mentioned his book of collaborations, Partners In Wonder. Much later, when we were on the verge of starting the story, he referred to our project as “Partners In Wonder Redux.” This got to me a little bit, for personal reasons. I’ll head off your next question by telling you that no, a co-written short story has never resulted from all this. I can say that in preparation, to get a rolling start, I wrote five short stories of my own, and wound up selling four of them to major markets. More recently I finished a story directly connected to Harlan and my encounter with him. So it’s all good and I have no complaints.
AJ: Having been through the collaboration process once, do you feel you’ve learned more as a writer? Would you ever collaborate again?
JS: I didn’t learn any writing lessons in particular. I don’t feel this attempted collaboration gave me much of a feel for the process. I did learn a few things about myself and other people in the SF world that have been useful, or at least enlightening.
And of course writing those “preparation” stories was good. It taught me I could produce under pressure. As for future collaborations, sure, I’d give it another shot.
AJ: Ok, let’s talk about your short stories. On a rough estimate you’ve written about 20, and have been published in various markets—Asimov’s, Talebones, and Realms of Fantasy. Out of all these is there a particular short story where you feel you completely succeeded in what you set out to do?
JS: It’s 27, if you’re including smaller markets such as On Spec as well as sales to original anthologies, most of those 27 occurring since 2003. Not that I’m counting. None of these published or soon-to-be published stories are bad (I’ve written plenty of bad ones that didn’t get this far), but some have succeeded more than others. I should add that I rarely “set out” to do anything in particular when I begin a story. In fact, the more I think I know going in the less I seem to accomplish, and the harder it is to get there. I know this doesn’t make logical sense. Writing a story is a strange night journey. You get in the car, throw the map out the window, and concentrate only what your headlights reveal in the near distance, leaving to Fate the ultimate destination.
So, altering your question a little, is there a particular story that I think succeeds from every angle? I can think of a couple, one of which isn’t in print yet. But “Dead Worlds” (Asimov’s June 2003) strikes me very well. When I started it all I really had was the concept of telepresence. That was the “idea.” How did it succeed? First, the story meant something to me. It presented clearly some of my highly personal perceptions of the world and prefigured most of my major concerns which would turn up in later stories. Second, all the sentences were solid and served the outcome. When surprises came along they fit the matrix. It was all there, and I knew it. Once completed, I could hold the story in my mind almost like a physical object, turning it this way and that, admiring its lack of major flaws. Of course it has flaws, but no glaring ones.
That was also my first professional sale. Not that I believed it would sell. My experience up to that point had been total rejection. I was used to it, accepted it, and after a great deal of pain and soul searching had virtually given up on the idea of being published, ever. I remember getting the letter from Gardner Dozois. I’d just arrived home from work. It was 11:30 at night. I’d stopped to pick up the mail. There was one of my SASEs. I opened it in the kitchen. My wife and daughter were sitting on the sofa in the next room. My wife asked me what was wrong. I must have looked stunned. Maybe I should have given up sooner. By now I might have a real career going.
AJ: Two of your stories—"The Chimera Transit" and “Scrawl Daddy"—feature some very unique developments in the way of space travel. Can you talk a little bit about your inspiration for these developments and/or the inventive thought process behind those systems of space travel?
JS: I’m not a science guy. I’m not against science. I’m not ignorant. But when space travel occurs in my fiction it’s there purely to serve the narrative intent. The practical mechanics of space flight are fascinating, but I’m probably not the guy to write about them. Others can do that much better. When I was a teenager I read a lot of Arthur C. Clarke, books like A Fall of Moondust and Rendezvous With Rama. I really loved these books, but I never aspired to emulate them. In "The Chimera Transit” the ship “devours itself” because my character is devouring himself. Language supports the image. The Universe contracting into a “whirling funnel of stars,” etc. is received imagery from the science fictional vault. I care about getting the science right when I need to, though. There’s real science in “The Chimera Transit,” the science of brain chemistry. But mostly I care about whether the story says something true about my character’s interior life and whether it works as narrative. And I care about getting the language past a purely utilitarian level.
Writers with tin ears, who don’t care about language, are failing to use the one element that distinguishes prose fiction from other storytelling media. It’s like a movie director deciding he doesn’t need a decent cinematographer or somebody who knows how to light a set, as if he considered those things the precious traits of a “style monkey.”
“Scrawl Daddy” features one-way portals and clones on nursery ships. Both serve what passes for my literary intent. It isn’t one of my best stories, possibly because I had to do a little extra handwaving to pull it off at all. I love it anyway, though. It’s fun and full of surprises. It also helped me process some confusing events in life around the time I wrote it.
AJ: I’ve read a few of your Harbinger stories, and a blurb for one of those stories—"Girl In the Empty Apartment,“ I believe—talked about the consciousness evolution of the human race. For readers who are unfamiliar with those stories, can you give us a bit of thematic background on that idea?
JS: Basically, I cribbed the idea from Colin Wilson’s theories of a "new existentialism.” That was the starting point. My take is a soft SF version of the current all-purpose BIG IDEA: the Singularity. In the case of my stories it’s human consciousness arriving at a transcendent tipping point. Why not? This idea has worked for me in some of my short stories, but the novel has met with universal rejection. I’ve been told it’s too unconventional. No one seems to know how to market it. This strikes me as strange, since I’ve always regarded SF as the place to go with unconventional ideas. On the other hand St. Martin’s passed on the novel because their senior editor thought it was too science fictional, with insufficient crossover appeal. Sometimes you can’t win. Of course, it may just be that I’m a crappy novelist.
My new book presents nine-foot-tall tentacled alien invaders who rip people limb from limb. I predict a barn burner.
AJ: You’ve written some stories that seem like straight SF, but have a strong slipstream feel. In those terms do you feel that the definition of genre or sub-genre is a restrictive border or something to be ignored?
JS: As I’ve sold more science fiction stories I’ve tried to address the usual expectations of the SF audience, which I respect. However, I don’t really think in terms of genre distinctions. Asimov’s has been a great place for me to publish, since for the most part I’ve been able to tell exactly the stories I want to tell. I know I tend to…veer. But most readers don’t seem to mind. Besides, it’s about how jazzy the story works on its own terms, not some arbitrary restrictions, isn’t it? Having said that, I want to add that I really love science fiction, the history, the current state—all of it. I grew up saturated with it from every medium and continue to read and enjoy it immensely. I’ll never forget the first time I saw my name on the cover of Asimov’s. I’d been more or less dreaming about such an occurrence my whole life.
AJ: You mentioned on your site that you’ve been writing scripts for a comic book series. Can you give readers an idea of the kinds of stories you’ve been writing for this series?
JS: It’s a YA space opera about life on a gigantic generation ship constructed within the core of an asteroid. Couplers is Buzz Dixon’s brainchild; I’m just a hired gun. Buzz and his partner first approached my good friend Nancy Kress, but she didn’t feel she was a visual enough writer to pull it off. When she mentioned it to me I was immediately interested. Like a lot of guys, I always wanted to write for the comics, though I had no idea how to go about it. Anyway, I asked Nancy to recommend me. What the hell—nothing ventured, nothing gained.
AJ: Was writing for comics a natural transition for you, or was there a steep learning curve?
JS: I was scared spitless. These scripts had to be ninety pages long. All of a sudden I was having conference calls and signing contracts promising to deliver something I had no idea how to do. Also, there were some restrictions, because of the nature and intent of the series. I should have been completely at sea. But…instead I found it the easiest professional-level writing I’ve ever done. It was delightful and natural to visualize panels and describe them—to tell a story in a series of still images.
The restrictions didn’t particularly inhibit me. Instead they provided a structure that allowed me to spin out the kind of big primary colors stories that are almost the dead opposite of what I usually do in my short fiction. So: virtually no learning curve at all, except for the initial awkwardness of formatting the script pages.
AJ: How long did it take you to make your first sale from when you started to write seriously and what had you learned from your writing up to that point?
JS: I was about twelve when I decided I needed to be a writer. For a long time, though, my efforts were desultory at best. When I finally got serious it took about fifteen years before I sold anything. This sounds worse than it is. Many of those fifteen years were spent writing novels that weren’t really successful and that I never submitted to publishers.
I followed a pattern of writing a dozen or so short stories, becoming discouraged at their failure, both artistically and in the marketplace, and switching to novels. The novels occupied vast stretches of time, in one case five years while I wrote draft after draft, pounding away at my little Smith Corona portable manual typewriter in rented rooms, hundreds of thousands of words. At this stage I can hardly fathom my stamina in those days. All this labor, by the way, without the least encouragement. No writing groups, Clarion, nothing. Not even a friend who wrote seriously.
What did I learn? Writing warehouses of words taught me, eventually, that less is more. Kind of a paradox. I think I started out wanted to be Stephen King but discovered my natural abilities were in a tight prose line delivered at minimum length. Not a bad lesson, and worth every year.
AJ: What advice would you pass on to aspiring writers?
JS: Write a lot and read widely. At least attempt to read difficult books. Broaden your horizons. Read SF but also read mysteries and suspense and Dickens and Nabokov and Cheever and whoever’s current. Don’t be disdainful of the so-called mainstream. If a book is too difficult for you, put it down and pick up a different one. If you don’t already love the process of writing, learn to love it. This is very hard work if you’re doing it for any reason other than love. Don’t be in a rush. Try to forget about getting published and all that. Concern yourself with what you’re doing on a sentence by sentence basis. Try writing in longhand; fill notebooks instead of hard drives. Computers are wonderful tools, but if you don’t know what you’re doing it isn’t particularly useful for your pages to look perfect. It might give you the mistaken impression that what you’ve written is perfect, too. When you think you have something good then market it. Don’t collect one or two rejection slips then descend into a slough of despond.
Much of this has to do with battling off hostile mental forces—self doubt, fear, loneliness—even embarrassment, as you watch your friends succeed at more mundane activities. I was good enough to publish years before I actually did. But I wasn’t systematically marketing my fiction. Going about it in such a haphazard fashion guarantees that luck will play a disproportionately large role in achieving, or failing to achieve, your goal. There is nothing coincidental about the fact that Gardner Dozois gave me my first pro sale just a few months after I got organized with envelopes, copies, SASEs and submission-tracking charts.
AJ: Jack, thanks for the interview.
I must admit: I’m a sucker for well written novels about India. In the past two years, I’ve sampled R.K. Narayan, Suketu Mehta, Salman Rushdie, Vandana Singh, Ian McDonald (not Indian himself, but writes damn good stories) and now Gregory David Roberts, the inimitable author of Shantaram. First impressions run something like this:
Shantaram reads like a Bollywood movie.
Now let me explain that premise. Roberts takes many of the narrative conceits that are put to work in the typical Bollywood movie (the melodrama, the action sequences, the true love, the poetry, the religion, the philosophy, the happy endings and by god even the dance sequences) and deftly weaves them into an overarching narrative about the big questions of life:
Where are we from?
Why are we here?
Where are we going?
The novel is loosely based on Roberts’ life, particularly his experience as a heroin addict and armed robber breaking out of a maximum security prison in Australia and the story of his life in Mumbai, India where he spends approximately the next eight years of his life. He learns to speak Marathi and Hindi, lives in Mumbai under the assumed name of Lindsay (Lin), joins the Bombay mafia as a passport smuggler, runs the currency black market beat, falls in love, gets imprisoned in an Indian jail, acts in Bollywood movies, and even goes to Afghanistan to fight with the mujaheddin. The book weighs in at over 900 pages, and as a writer I’m jealous at how superbly he pulls off these tricks without overwhelming the reader. But this is not the book’s biggest strength.
When authors write cities in fiction, at some level, as the writer, they populate those vasty spaces with all the characters of their own mind. In that sense, Roberts’ Mumbai is not the one Rushdie wrote about in Midnight’s Children and its not the city Mehta explored in his travelogue Maximum City. This is a city that is uniquely Roberts and its streets, its pubs, its markets are all populated with the ghosts of his memory brought to life. His deep understanding of the hitmen, mobsters, prostitutes, slum dwellers, tourists, chai wallahs, taxi drivers, sinners, and saints that populate Mumbai are what bring the book to life in the reader’s mind, because its only through them that the reader can access Roberts’ Mumbai to the fullest.
A Few Minor Objections About the Book:
Although the poetic narrative is one of the book’s biggest selling points, it does slow down the book a few times with its overly verbose description. I did, however, like Roberts’ use of Hindi words in the book. I have a feeling that some readers will be frustrated by the seemingly arbitrary nature he inserts these phrases into the book, but it grew on me. Especially when it led to singing and dancing afterwards.
Roberts uses the novel as a platform to explore some philosophical themes that he calls The Theory of Complexity. The few times he brought this up verged on being pedantic, but the intrusions to the narrative were minor and I guess this can be given a pass when looking at the book overall.
Roberts is currently writing a sequel called The Mountain Shadow, that takes place after the events in Shantaram, but the novel can be read as a stand-alone as it ties together most of the loose plot ends. And, as is typical of Bollywood movies, we get a happy ending, one that borders on bittersweet, to the novel, but we’re never really given a closure to Lin’s story. As to what may happen to him next, I recount to you the popular dialogue from Bollywood movie Om Shanti Om:
Picture abhi bakhi hai meri dost!*
*The movie is still not over my friends!
Pick one unimportant thing in your story and explain the heck out of it, and pick one important thing in the story and don’t explain it at all.
Quote was attributed to author David Farland.
At first glance this seems counterintuitive, and I’m not sure that it can be applied to all stories, but it does posit an unfamiliar way to develop unique details for setting in a story. For example, check out this random game trailer:
This story could explain why water (the unimportant thing) is important, but leave the main event (the world-shattering apocalyptic event) unexplained. The story might develop around water being scarce and its impact on the characters rather than retreading overused post-apocalyptic scenery. Readers and aspiring writers, what do you think?
Futurists love to make predictions about the death of a particular form of media (ie. books will be dead, the short story will be dead, science fiction is dead, etc.) but I’d argue that these portrayals are greatly overexaggerated by attention grabbing headlines of news, and despite these predictions, the medium that best suits the message will remain pertinent through technological upheaval.
As Cory Doctorow tells us in his article: “Reports of blogging’s death have been greatly exaggerated:”
Do a search-and-replace on “blog” and you could rewrite the coverage as evidence of the death of television, novels, short stories, poetry, live theatre, musicals, or any of the hundreds of the other media that went from breathless ascendancy to merely another tile in the mosaic.
Now suppose that books wont phase out all of a sudden and consumers still like consuming the dead-tree version of <insert your favorite author here>. What does this future look like?