Storytellersunplugged

David Crosby, of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, talked about writing songs in a recent television interview, saying (paraphrasing here) that if you want to write about a dock, you don’t start by describing the dock. It may take a while to get there, but in the meantime you do something to spark the imagination.

Ellen Datlow, interviewed by Nick Kaufman at www.fearzone.com/blog/ellen-datlow, talked about her reading experience for the St. Martins Press Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthologies:

“There are so many pieces of short fiction (this is not only in horror of course) that provide a set up and scene but no real story. Or have no texture — all surface, no undercurrents. Or use flabby language or over the top language with dialog that you’d never hear in real life. I prefer fiction that works on more than one level (although a short, sharp shock can be fine for a change of pace).”

Last year, the venerable small press genre magazine Space and Time (over forty years and still going strong!) was sold to a new publisher. I continued on as its Fiction Editor, with my wife Linda Addison as Poetry Editor. Why would we do such time-consuming work for no other apparent reward than helping work we love get published? Well, I guess the answer’s in the question….

Anyway, we had to recruit a few new associate editors to help with the slush, and in talking to a few volunteers from the Garden State Horror Writers Association (Gary Frank, Jennifer M. Perrson, Edward Greaves, along with veteran New Yawkah editor/writer Monica O’Rourke and previous ST associate editors Natalia Lincoln and Alexa DeMonterice, and last minute sign-on Alan Kistler), I found myself talking about something called the slushiness of slush.

Or.

What to look for and how to deal with stories coming in from the cold.

It’s at this point that I remember another reason why I do the Fiction Editor gig at Space and Time – it reminds me what my stories, everybody’s stories, face when they’re sent out.

Reality. Readers. The world outside of your dreams and the language that rings inside your head and the kinds of characters you’re drawn to talk about.

So. In reading the few hundred stories that I’ve personally handled during the past three months, what principles have guided me through the selection process?

For the short answer, go back to the opening words of wisdom.

For the long and quite possibly tedious answer, read on.

First off, the experience of reading as an editor for a project, whether it’s your own or for someone else, is really reading for an audience. That is, you’re reading to attract the audience, or a market, a publisher hopes will buy the product you’re helping to put together. So, reading for an audience is a lot like writing for one.

You’re no longer trying to break through a single editor to get a story in a magazine or anthology. I think it’s more like writing a novel and thinking about the market you’re trying to reach in terms of a career.

Of course, ultimately, that audience begins with you. How well you blend a personal vision with a market’s need (and who really knows what the “market” needs? Mad Ave didn’t get where it is by meeting stated needs, but by creating them.) is certainly a predictor of the project’s success.

In this case, I’m working with a publisher and so I’m looking for particular kinds of stories that reflect a merging of visions. I’ve been around ST for a while, working with the previous publisher Gordon Linzner, so my preferences are pretty apparent. Fortunately, they’re not too far off from one the new publisher is looking for, or else I wouldn’t be there.

What I look for in stories, my own and in my reading, is a sense of wonder, a sense of character, and a varying blend of darkness and light. Okay, that’s probably pretty vague. Sorry. But then again, I’m not. Because ultimately I’m looking to be surprised in a good way, and I think most short story readers are looking for the same thing.

Note to self. Be surprising.

Another thing I look for is a hook. Something at the beginning that signals something interesting is going to happen. A seed of what will be at the end (and like a seed, something that looks completely different from what will come at the end). In short, not a description of the dock.

Now, I’m going to go into some things that will, I suspect, bore experienced writers and, I fear, be ignored by novices.

The publisher requested email subs. I’ve never read exclusively email subs before, so I didn’t realize there is a significant segment of writers out there who do not know, or perhaps do not believe, that manuscript format applies to electronic submissions as well as old-fashioned snail subs. The story shouldn’t just be a file with the title, name and text attached to an email.

No. Really. I’m not kidding. As I told several writers, if you send a publisher a story and they like it, what happens if they can’t reach you? If they can’t send the contract? The check? Emails get lost. We had to scramble looking for old emails to tell people yes or no. And then there’s the joy of going the extra mile to get the word count.   Yee hah, that’s the way to editorial love.

Oh, this crazy internet age….

Other observations:

If the story is from the first person point of view, and every sentence has an “I” as a subject, you have a problem.

Boy, some folks out there really have issues with extreme religious types – the sinner-hating madman is the new serial killer. But just because you don’t read many stories from pro markets with this theme doesn’t mean it’s new and original and needs to be done. No, that’s not the message, at all.

It’s more fun when characters interact. I know, I have a problem with this, too. Sometimes the idea, or the background, or a single character’s interior processes seems like so much fun to play with that the temptation to stay pat with that particular hand becomes too great. But – and I find I keep having to remind myself of this in my own writing – it’s even more fun if there’s an antagonist and protagonist. Really. Especially for the reader.

Don’t describe the dock.

Playing tricks with the premise instead of the characters, like the big “reveal” which never turns out to be that big, or laying out a funky idea but leaving it out there to plod to its inevitable conclusion. Yes, Twilight Zone and Vault of Horror style storytelling is popular. But I’m not sure that market is actually buying much reading material. It’s the kind of thing Nick Mamatas from over at Clarkesworld has pointed out: a bunch of guys find something in a field, bring it back, bad things happen, end of story. The pulp days are gone (well, except for television). These days, the story is about characters, not the premise. The story is in how the characters interact with each other under pressure from the premise, not just how they react to the monster or the alien or the cool techie idea until some one or thing dies at the end.

It’s okay to have a character arc, even in a procedural or a fantasy.

Readers want to feel a sense of excitement about the world they’re entering. A sense of commitment from the writer to the story, the world, the characters. They want to believe, they’re looking reasons to have faith. They want to be entertained. Language conveys that sense of something special going on. Rhythm, color, something, anything.

It’s okay to set a story someplace other than where you grew up, but research that place so it doesn’t sound like a place everyone grows up.

It’s okay to set a story where you grew up, just don’t make it sound like a place where everyone grows up.

About that dock thing (note to self – learn to let go): editors and teachers talk about starting the story in the middle. Things are happening, the reader wants to find out what they are, and feels compelled to catch up while events are unfolding. Don’t describe the dock, let the boats come and go, the passengers get off and on, the birds fly, the fish lurk by the pilings.

To the writer who responded to my brief “I’ll pass” note, which at least was not the standard rejection note, with a demand to know “why,” I’ll provide the explanation that I didn’t bother to at the time, for the same reason I didn’t say anything: If you have to ask, you’ll never know.

Look. We all put our hearts out there to get stomped. It hurts. It hurts even for the pros who always seem to get accepted. I’ve been there when Asimov talked about receiving a rejection from the magazine bearing his name. I mean, damn. Sometimes an editor provides explanations, other times they don’t. Sometimes the writing is just too terrible. Sometimes the story doesn’t fit. There’s not time. There’s nothing to say other than that’s not what the editor is looking for. Whatever. I understand, new writers, especially, want to know why. But giving feedback is a 50/50 proposition. Not everyone appreciates it. Some folks get insulted. And sometimes, there really is no explanation.

Writing is hard. So is being on the other side of the editorial desk.

Of course, being 99% writer, I’ll side with writing being harder.

But diving into the slushiness of slush is no easy thing, either. It is, however, worthwhile for writers to try out if the chance presents itself, if for nothing more than the experience of rejecting instead of being rejected.

Hearts do get broken on both sides of the line.