2015 Kindle Book Awards Semi-Finalist

No long blog post today (not that I do many of those or anything). I just wanted to announce that I found out last week that I am a semi-finalist in the 2015 Kindle Book Awards in the Suspense/Horror category. It was unexpected, and I am proud to be in contention with so many other talented authors. It's inspiring, but also funny to think that this started out as a hobby that I never thought would amount to much. Thanks to everyone who assured me Cicada Spring wasn't crap when I was certain it was. Next update on this will be September 1st when I find if I made it to the finals. Fingers crossed.

True Detective: A Few Observations

I want to start by saying that as of writing this, I have not formed any sort of opinion regarding how good or bad the new season of True Detective is. It would be foolish to this early on. In fact, to be completely honest, the only reason I am writing this at all is in shallow hopes that the trending topic will result in a few extra hits on my blog and, possibly, a few extra book sales. Shameless, I know, but whadya gonna do? A man’s gotta eat. That being said, it does not mean that what I am writing is, for lack of a better word, complete shit. What I’m really saying is: There be truth in these here hills.

Okay, so it’s not an opinion and it’s not shit... so what is it then? This early on in the season of TD (due to laziness, I will be referring to True Detective as TD from here on out), it’s just some observations on what I noticed after watching last night’s episode, “The Western Book Of The Dead.” Things that seemed to be working and things that seemed not to be. There’ll be a few opinions, sure, but as promised I will not judge the season itself, as many have been so quick to do.

*Possible light spoilers below*

To start, I can understand why everyone was so quick to rip the first episode apart. It was very heavy on character development, which, like any backstory or exposition in fiction, can tend to be a bit on the slow side if not executed with a deft hand. One of the most successful methods of doing it well, from a historical standpoint (because you never know who will change the rules of the game), is to get to know your characters bit by bit as you journey through the main narrative with them. That was what worked so well last season. We opened to the heart of the mystery, dove right in, and took the ride with Marty and Rust from the get go, being introduced to them more and more as the story went on. And while I think last night’s episode of TD did a good job of setting the stage for what’s to come, I will say that it lacked that dark hook that season one cast out there right away to lure in its audience. It was all fur coat and no trousers. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing; it’s just different. However, when coming off the high from last year’s soul-blistering introduction to the series, it’s easy to see how different can taste an awful lot like crap. My recommendation to anyone already abandoning ship this early on in the season is this: Cleanse your pallet, then come back and try to view season two as its own animal. Compare it to its predecessor, fine, that’s inevitable and I will likely do it now, but do so in the same way you would compare red and white wines to each other.

My next thought ties to what’s above. Nic Pizzolatto’s writing tends to be very focused on understanding what drives his characters—aka motivation—which is extremely crucial to telling a good story with good characters. If what people do and how they act does not seem authentically motivated, then we don’t believe it and we stop watching... or reading. In WBOD (get it? more laziness) we are introduced to a fair amount of characters right away (we get ‘the who’ upfront instead of ‘the what’ this season), and of each we learn just enough through action, implication, what is said—and not said—to pique our interest. I’m sure as season two progresses the onion will be peeled back on each character significantly, in time with the plot. From a writer’s perspective, it seems to me that Nic has gotten a lot of the heavy lifting out of the way early, clearing the way for a headlong plunge into a story-rich plot that may require a bit more room to tell itself. And that’s fine by me. Or I could be completely wrong.

The one thing I will say was lacking so far, was the eerie atmosphere from season one. The atmosphere of WBOD was thoroughly dark (I felt wrong not drinking whiskey while watching it)… but it was dark in a different kind of way. It was dark in a private detective noir film kind of way, where I kept half-expecting someone to drop the word “dame.” Thankfully that never happened, although I could tell Vince Vaughn’s character wanted to badly to utter it at least once. And I really disliked the use of the nearly identical ominous ambient music they used in season one for scenes in last night’s ep where it didn’t quite belong. It felt an awful lot like a cheap trick to try to elicit a latent response generated by residual feelings for last year’s story. I also could have done without the cringe-worthy and poorly executed almost-lose-control-of-the-motorcycle shtick. F that... he should be dead.

One more thing that seems a little forced is the overuse of philosophical ideas in a not-so-subtle way by characters. Last season it worked with Rust because whenever he’d go off on a tangent his partner was always there to call him out on it, and it made the whole thing seem self-aware and it worked. This season, so far, there is nothing to offset the heaviness of the dialogue and at times it can feel a little overwrought and crammed into the actors’ mouths. But as I said in the very beginning, it’s only getting started. The season is just waking up and last night’s episode was merely it opening its eyes and yawning. Saying, “Hello, old friend.” I’m confident there’s a satisfying ride ahead (twss).

There’s more on my mind, but I’m tired and want to go to bed. Perhaps I’ll do this weekly on Mondays for the remainder of the season. Or maybe I won’t.

 

“Behold what was once a man.”

 

Writing Advice: Or (How One Writer Writes)

About a week ago a friend of mine let me do a guest post on her blog. I'm not sure if it's against guest-blogging protocol to post the same post on your own blog after it's already been posted on another's website, but I need to start building my posts (and I really liked this one) so I decided to take the risk. If I'm committing some kind of blog sin, I do hope someone will tell me.

 * * * * *

My girlfriend and I just signed a lease on a new apartment. That is exciting news in and of itself, but something equally exciting happened to me this weekend while I was cleaning out my bookshelf and boxing things up: I found my copy of Strunk's The Elements of Style. Immediately I recalled how fun and terrifying those first baby steps into the perilous world of writing were. The feeling was a strange combination of fear and longing that made me thirsty for a cold beer with old friends. I missed those earlier times.

Ahhh nostalgia, what a fantastic and powerful drug.

*Long thoughtful sigh*

Moving on now. 

Even better than the book discovery, was when I cracked it open and leafed through the pages and the receipt for it fell out (Spirit of '76 Bookstore, which, coincidentally, is now carrying my first novel, Cicada Spring). The receipt was faded and creased in all kids of strange ways that seemed impossible, especially when you considered that it had spent nearly three years pressed flatly between pages. But there it was in all its magnificent glory—proof of a beginning. For all intents and purposes, it was my birth certificate, a reminder of when I decided writing was what I wanted to do.

According to the tiny piece of paper, May 20th, 2012, was when Christian the Writer was born. I'm still a lot of other things: Christian the Banker, Christian the Over-Confident Golfer, Christian the Hungry, Christian the Habitual Line-Crosser. But Christian the Writer is certainly my favorite of all these identities. He is the one who feels most at home in his awkward and often sunburned skin. Christian the Writer doesn't tan well.

It's funny to think about how three years can feel so short yet so long at the same time. From my current standpoint, it flew by (a tad cliché, I know), but when I try to place myself in my younger self's writing shoes, I can only remember time passing in a grim slog of impatience.

When I was first starting, pumping out short story after short story, all I wanted to do was get better. I wrote hard and fast, with little regard for the rules. I was aware I was making mistakes, but I didn't care. Damn it, I wanted to be good NOW! Get out of my way punctuation and grammar! However, deep down, I knew there was work to be done. Very. Hard. Work. Talent, in my opinion, is less about the 'genius' you think you have inside you, the gift you believe you were given, and much more about how hard you are willing to work to coax it out of you and shine a light on it. It'll be an ugly bastard at first--squinty eyes, no teeth, opaque pink skin (picture a baby rat)--but eventually you can pretty it up some and maybe even find someone who'd be happy to date it.

What I'm getting at is this: I knew that if I kept at it, if I promised myself that no matter what happened, if at the end of the day I never gave up, then inevitably I would get better. And sure enough, I did. At least I think so. The progress was slow. The results, I was certain, would never come. But bit by bit, word by word, then sentence by sentence, things started to get better and easier. I have no delusions of being a genius writer, but I do, however, think that the talent I felt simmering inside me is finally a little easier to transition from my head to the blank page. In short, it's gotten easier to say what I want to say the way I want to say it. And in writing, that's pretty darn important. It is your voice.

So, while I know 'writing advice' is an over-touched-upon subject, and one I'm not even sure I am qualified to discuss, I would still like to talk a little bit about what I picked up along the way. Bits and scraps from here and there. Things that worked for me. Some might be helpful. Some might be better suited as dog food. But if you, dear reader, should glean even the tiniest morsel of inspiration or insight from it, I will be satisfied. Think of this less as advice and more of me telling you what has worked for me. There is no one size-fits-all with writing, so read this and interpret it widely. These things are simply the things I've noticed I was doing when I felt most in control of my craft.

Let's begin.

1) Write Honestly

This is something of a staple in almost any book on writing you will ever read. My favorite, of course, is Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, and he discusses the topic the way only Stephen King can. I doubt he would claim to have invented the notion; it is simply something any writer worth his or her salt learns along the way—that the words are best and have the greatest impact when they aren't dumbed down out of fear of what people might think or who might get offended.

Many writers, I have found, are the sort who were often thought of as weird in their adolescence. Not because they were actually weird necessarily, but because they would say things with little care of what others would think of them. Little did we know we were preparing ourselves at such a young age to say what we wanted to say the way we wanted to say it.

So what exactly does 'write honestly' mean? It can mean many things to many people, but to me it means don't hold back. For example: If you want to make a character convincing, say a character who is supposed to be devious and evil (serial killers are a good blank canvas for the dark inclined mind), then I hate to tell you this but you're going to have to conjure up some dark thoughts that disturb you. And when you finally go to put them down on the page, cringing as you type the words, second guessing yourself as to whether or not it's too much and you've crossed a line, you need to know that that's when you should keep going. If you aren't feeling it as a writer when you're writing it, then you better believe the reader won't feel it when they read it. That goes for any emotion—fear, love, lust, anger, humor, sadness.

To write honestly you need to know your characters inside and out. They have to think and behave the way they were meant to, and often times the way that they want to; they can easily take on a life of their own and say things that catch you off guard. So if they decide to speak up, for the love of God do not censor them. It's an unforgivable sin, if you ask me, and you should be nibbled to death by a duck.

2) Surprise Yourself

When it comes to twists and surprises you need to avoid doing the first thing that comes to mind. You are the writer, but you are also the first reader. If you get to a point in your story where you can see the setup/opportunity for a plot-twist coming, take a break for a moment. During that break, think of the first two or three scenarios that would best fit that twist... then throw them away. If you thought of them that fast, then chances are a reader will too. Sometimes the cleverest twists are the ones that seem more obvious (sounds counterintuitive, I know), but people automatically look for the obscure when they start to realize things aren't what they seem. Hiding in plain sight isn't always bad if it suits your story. Points for clever twists are always good, but not the ultimate currency in storytelling. Stories are so much bigger than gimmicks.

In a roundabout way, I think I am trying to say to be real as often as possible. Root your lies in grains of truth to lend them believability and ground them in reality.

3) Find What Works For You and Do It

Writers are creatures of habit, if nothing else. We have our routines and our environmental requirements in order for the words to flow freely. Some writers like to drink or smoke a cigarette or wear aluminum foil on their feet. Find what works for you, your comfort zone, and stay there for the duration of your writing session, whatever it may be. Me? I need to be warm. Scratch that—I need to be blazing hot. I bundle up and turn the heat to 78 degrees. It's the only way I can relax enough to get things moving along. By the time I've managed to get down a thousand or so words, I'm usually a sweaty medium-rare and ready for consuming.

4) Write, Damn it!

This one should go without saying, yet I cannot tell you how many "writers" I have met who tell me they want to write something. It's usually at this moment that I am overtaken with ungovernable rage and want to grab them by the lapels and shake them, all the while screaming "Well then write it, damn you! Don't tell me you want to write... WRITE!!"

What I am getting at in a not-so-subtle way is that if you want to write, you need to write. Even if it is only a hundred words a day, you have to write. It is the only way to get better, and it is the only way to be a writer. Hence the old chestnut: A writer writes. It's old and it's a chestnut because it is true. I have a minimum goal of five hundred words per day, and I always hit that no matter what, even if the words are crap. If I don't, I honestly have a hard time sleeping. Writing, as with so many other hobbies, can quickly become a compulsion and an obsession that demands things from you. It is not unlike an unruly child without manners. It wants what it wants when it wants it. So feed it and you'll be happy.

5) Read Everything

That's all I have to say about that.

6) Dialogue

Dialogue can be tricky. I have always been jealous of those to whom it comes easy. My brother, for instance, can write clever and witty dialogue as if he has been doing it for his entire life. I should mention he is not a writer and the dialogue he does put down on the page is usually just part of some funny email he has decided to send me when the hours of our day jobs are ticking by slowly. But still, he is damn good at it. The trick is, I have found, to remove the boring parts (Elmore Leonard says the same about all writing, in fact). Dialogue should always move the story along or build a character's depth and reveal subtle motivations. It's a great way to show instead of tell.

If you want to try an exercise that can help you improve your skills, try this: listen to conversations on a train and transcribe them, then after you've creepily jotted down everything the couple next to has said, take out all the parts that didn't lend a person character (mannerisms and stall words etc) and take out all the stuff that didn't advance the conversation. What you are left with is the good meat.

7) Finish Something

One of the biggest confidence boosts I got when I was first beginning to write was when I finished my first story. I had a wicked habit of starting things and putting them down, never to be finished. The problem is that when you first come up with an idea to write, there is this initial euphoric blast of adrenalin and excitement. You are like a child with a new toy. But after a few thousand words the excitement wears off and you are left with a bill for the hard work required to finish it. This is where the men are separated from the boys, the women from the girls. This is where it's time to show that story who the hell's boss. So do it. Come to the page every day and finish that story. Even when it gets hard, even when the idea seems stupid at second thought, even when the characters don't resonate, finish it. I promise you when you sit there at the end of it all, finished first draft in hand, it will all be worth it. One cruddy but finished story is far better than a dozen brilliant first paragraphs. And besides, first drafts almost always stink anyway. It's okay. Rewriting and editing is an equally important craft to hone, and you will do just that, grasshopper... you will. It just takes time and practice.

For now I think I have said enough. There is more kicking around in my noggin I am sure, but much of it is probably nothing more than opinions on what you should eat for breakfast and what brand of tea to drink while writing (Earl Grey). So I shall depart posthaste, before I lose your attention, dear reader. But first I would like to thank Kathleen Valentine for the opportunity to write this piece for her blog. The advice she has given me over the past few years has been invaluable.

Thank You.

New FREE Short Story on Amazon

For the next two days my short story "Finding Nebraska" will be free on Amazon. Give it a read. Hope you enjoy. I'll post a description and an excerpt below.

Description:

A short story of 8000 words.

Sometimes the wheel of life doesn't spin in your favor, and sometimes there's nothing you can do about it. Brian Lethando knows this firsthand. His mother left him when he was only two years old, and his father died shortly after of a heroin overdose. Twenty years later, when the woman who took Brian in and raised him as her own son begins to suffer the effects of Alzheimer's, the two of them set out on one last road trip to discover the true meaning of the word 'family.'

Excerpt:

Finding Nebraska

We drive west on Route 20. The car moves along, rolling on rusted rims and bald tires, barreling toward some uncertain future I know holds in it the possibility of hurt. But that’s life, and that’s okay. Hands gripping the wheel, eyes set forward on the edge of the sunset, I ask, “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

Louise looks at me. Smiles. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that we break our hearts, our bodies and our souls, for the things we love—or the idea of love, anyway. I know that much. But no, Brian, I can’t tell you if this is a good idea. I only know you’ll do it because you have to.” Then she turns back to the window.

Silence.

Land rolls on endlessly. Outside is a plate of dead plains that seem like lost dreams. Forgotten hope. Dry grass like dead love. Vast skies kiss the purple horizon with level lips. Occasional rock ridges the color of burnt biscuits cut the straight lines, catching the last rays of the falling sun, setting their crowns on fire like stone torches.

I think about what Louise just said. I think I understand what she meant about having to go. She is having one of her moments of clarity, a two-day stretch this time. To some it might not seem that way, but she is. I recognize it. The eyes tell it like it is. And she is behind them right now.

These moments, when I recognize the woman who raised me for all those years, are where I want to be. But I feel myself already starting to miss them, like the promise of being lost forever has already begun sweeping them away. They are little glimpses back to the old Louise, the woman who existed before she got sick, before her doctor said that phrase that sounded so cruelly like Old-Timer’s Disease. Nothing lasts forever, though. I’m not foolish enough to think it does. Some things should, I’ll admit that. But they plain don’t. Just have to bear it.

With a final wink, the sun drops below the horizon. The sky smolders like an ember of heaven. Louise slides across the bench-seat of the Pontiac and rests her head on my shoulder. She fiddles with the radio dial. Something with twang fills the car. We must be in Nebraska by now.

“I think we’re in Nebraska,” I say. “You want to take your pills?”

She doesn’t respond, only rests her hand on my thigh and begins to caress it. Then I feel her dry lips on my neck, smell her sweet perfume with the stiff undertones of medicine and dry mouth. “Dad will never know, Cody. Let’s be a little bad. Why don’t you pull over? We’ll park for a bit.”

She’s gone again, just like that. I pull away gently. I don’t want to scare her. What she thinks and feels in these moments is real to her. Cody was her boyfriend in high school, from a timeline nearly fifty years before.

“Louise, it’s me, Brian. Do you remember who I am? We’re taking a road trip, remember?”

She looks at me, trying to hold a flirtatious smile—or trying to remember how to. I can see that she feels sixteen again, but the deep-set lines in her face won’t lie about her age. They are like dried up riverbeds wandering away from the edges of her eyes, her lips, mapping the story of a hard life.

Doubt clouds her face. Her smile starts to fade, replaced with something like embarrassment. Only she doesn’t know if she should be embarrassed, so she hesitates, clinging to that false reality where she’s sixteen and I’m Cody. She is half kneeling on the seat like an eager teenager when her world begins slipping through her fingers. She becomes aware of the misalignment in her mind. Then she slouches, as if someone pulled a plug and she is deflating. “Oh, I… Brian? I’m sorry. I got confused. Did I… I thought you were…”

I don’t let her finish. She shouldn’t have to say the words. She shouldn’t have to explain herself. It isn’t her fault. “It’s okay. Don’t apologize. Maybe we should stop for the night. Get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

And it has been a long day. We’ve covered nearly six hundred miles. Six hundred miles with only one slip of her mind. Not bad. But not good, either. The bouts seem to come in clusters, like wave sets breaking on the shore of her mind. Churning. Unearthing fossilized memories like ancient relics. There is comfort in knowing that when white water settles, clear waters resurface.

Read the rest here: http://www.amazon.com/Finding-Nebraska-Short-Christian-Galacar-ebook/dp/B00VUE3FXE/

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Confessions of an Honest Liar

If you write fiction, chances are you’re a fantastic liar. But that’s okay; it’s the job, and I won’t judge you for it, so long as you don’t judge me. Who knows? Maybe one day people will even pay you to lie to them, if you do it well enough, of course.

One of my favorite authors, Stephen King, touched on the subject of being a liar. He tells a true story about once being mistaken for Francis Ford Coppola in Boston circa the 1970’s (or maybe it was Connecticut), and instead of telling the misguided fan that he was not in fact the famous film director, he played along with it and had some fun lying to the guy, eventually signing a fake autograph for him. In the end, King’s reasoning was simple (and I am paraphrasing and recalling from memory, so I may be off a little or maybe even making it up, although I don’t think I am): He said he is a writer of fiction, which by default made him susceptible to telling the occasional white lie, if for no other reason than to just have a little fun. That is, after all, precisely what his fans have paid him millions of dollars to do for the last three and a half decades—lie to them. Old habits die hard, it would seem.

In my opinion, if you ever really expect to tell a good story, being a liar is less a side-effect of writing fiction and more a requirement. And not only do you need to be able to spin one hell of a yarn, you need to make your lies honest. Honesty is the most important thing. Of all the rules I’ve stumbled upon in books on writing and blog posts over the last few years, it is the one rule I will never (nor should any writer) break. If I do, you have my permission to break into my house in the middle of the night while I slumber away and subject me to whatever painful torture you see fit for such an egregious misdeed. I only ask you leave my fingers intact so that I may have the opportunity to redeem myself at some future date.

Honesty, in case I haven’t been clear enough, is important to me, as it should be for any writer. It is why my blog is titled The Honest Scrivener, and it is why Stephen King’s quote about truthfulness in writing is on my home page. The quote (which I will now allow you ten seconds to go back and read…Done? Okay, good) sums up the importance of the unspoken promise the writer makes to the reader to tell a story as truthfully as possible, expressing with honesty—which can sometimes be brutal and painful, and sometimes beautiful and enlightening—how humans act and talk.

It is in honesty that truly great writing lives. Readers can smell it and feel it. Hell, if it’s good enough, they can almost reach out and touch it when they encounter it. It is the thing that makes a person stop reading for that brief moment and crack the spine of the book open across their chest, simply so they can appreciate what they’ve just experienced. It is a little, secret moment of gratitude—a head nod to the author for not pulling any punches. If a character is an asshole, don’t call them a jerk . . . call them a goddamned asshole. That’s what they are, so why try to sugarcoat it? It’s disrespectful to the reader, shameful for the writer to do, and, in my very humble opinion, degrades the craft. Simply put: Dishonest lies are bad fiction. People appreciate honesty, in life and in art. Perhaps it’s because it creates an unspoken sense of connection, a feeling that we are not alone, especially when we read an idea or a thought we assumed was solely unique to us. When we find that someone else out there in this great big world shares our sentiment about something we have always only been able to feel but never fully understand, and then that thing is illuminated in a way you’ve never seen before, and it is defined in a way that allows you to see its true form, well, I don’t know about you, but I think that is a very magical thing. It is like a lost puzzle piece has been slid into place, and life—the world, even—seems to make a little more sense, even if only in a minute way. Honesty is the foundation that healthy, lasting relationships are built upon. And isn’t that what writing is—a relationship between author and reader?

We exist for far too brief a time on earth to be lied to poorly, so find someone whose deceit is born in truth and honesty and let them lie to you properly. And hey, maybe throw them a few bucks every now and again for their troubles. I’m sure they’d appreciate that. Deception is hard work.

Book Cover - Self-Publish vs. Traditional - Query Synopsis

So as many of my readers might know, I finished my first novel, Cicada Spring, back in April. When I was done with the first draft, I put it aside for a month to gain some perspective. After that excruciatingly long period of waiting, I read it, edited it, read it, edited it, read it, paid for an editor from Red Adept Publishing (a lovely small publisher that provides indie author services, and that I highly recommend), adjusted accordingly (no major problems, only wrinkles, I was told), then read it again. Trust me, reading the same book 4 or 5 times in a few months can be trying, but it was a necessary step to get the manuscript ready to send out. Now that baby sparkles like Jesus's teeth.

I have sent it out many times. It gets bites. I have had a few full requests, some partials, some good feedback. That’s great—already more than I ever expected. However, the more I research, the more I begin to realize that self-publishing might be how I want to sell this book (I have become addicted to Anne Allen's blog; it has some invaluable advice on so many subjects). It gives me complete control, and that is something very important to me. I have given myself a deadline: If I cannot find an agent or a publisher to represent or sell this book by Jan.1^st, 2015, I will go headfirst, full-throttle into self-publishing. And just for fun, in case I do choose that route, I wanted to be ready, so I had a cover made up. And after seeing it, I honestly wish January would just get here, already.

Thanks, James at goonwrite.com. He did a great job.

And just in case you want a reference point, I have included the synopsis I have been sending to agents.

After fifteen-year-old Kara Price is raped by the beloved mayor of Heartsridge, Massachusetts, and no one takes action, the people of this small New England town discover a truth that may have been better left buried.

Cicada Spring is a 103,000-word suspense-thriller about a teenage girl’s fight for redemption, after her life is shattered by a prominent small-town politician. Fargo meets A Time to Kill when nefarious and heartfelt storylines collide and interconnect, culminating in an unforeseen conclusion about revenge, courage, unconditional love, and life after loss.

Cicada Spring is the story of a wicked crime told from the various viewpoints of the morally-haunted characters surrounding it. There’s the mayor, Harry Bennett, who can do no wrong in the eyes of the town. No one believes he could commit the crime of which he is accused. He’s their golden boy, after all. But a violent history lurks in his past. There's Sheriff Gaines, the law at the center of it all, who is bound by the rules and plagued by a guilty conscience. He wants to do the right thing, but first he needs to decide what that is. There’s David Price, the quiet, level-headed man and father, who only wants justice for his daughter—no matter what it costs. There's a serial killer in the midst of an identity crisis, who has just discovered his next victim at a small diner in Heartsridge—and whose arrival couldn’t have come at a worse time: the start of the annual Spring Festival. Then, at the center of it all, there's Kara, who just wants to move on with her life and forget everything that happened to her. But how can she do that when everyone in town thinks she is a liar who is only out for attention? Braided together, this cast of characters, all acting on behalf of their own interests, begs the question: How far would you go to protect your own?



Rejection: Take Your Licks and Move On

You need a thick skin if you're going to be a writer. There's no way around it. If you plan on finding any sort of success with writing—with anything you're truly passionate about, really—be prepared to be rejected dozens, if not hundreds, of times. But it's okay. Have no fear, dear readers. Think of rejection as a rite of passage that confirms two things: you are a part of the human race; and you are participating. That second acknowledgment is an important one. Participation is key: You have to be willing to play if you want to win. I know that sounds terribly cliché (because it is), but it's true.

Don't get ahead of yourself, though. I know what you're thinking. Hands on your hips, chest pushed out, full of all the youthful exuberance of a new writer, you want to scream to the writing gods: I'm not afraid of you! Bring it on, muchacho! I'll play your damn game! 

Whoa. All right. I like your enthusiasm but slow down, partner, participation comes at a cost, you innocent sweet foolish child. Do not forget that if you are prepared to walk onto the same field that the professionals play on, then you are an eligible player and fair game for full contact hits. Sorry, them's the terms. And sometimes those hits will hurt, and probably make you want to quit and limp off the field, helmet in hand and tail between your legs. You won't, though, right? Promise me you won't. Try to remember that in writing, much like in life, it's all about stepping outside your comfort zone. That's where all important growth occurs, after all.

Now, if you're willing to accept the consequences that come with playing with the big dogs, go ahead and call yourself a writer. Go ahead. Really. No one will judge you. You've always wanted to, anyway, so do it. You’re starting where most of the pros did, navigating the same obstacles, and experiencing the same heartbreak they all did when they were cutting their teeth. So why not measure yourself accordingly? You've earned it merely by agreeing to participate. Even if you have never made a dime with your writing, if you are in the game, go ahead and call yourself a writer. Deal? Okay, good.

The willingness to throw yourself into the ring, outmatched, outweighed, and still wet behind the ears, to put up your dukes and give it your best when the odds are stacked against you, is a crucial first step in every writer's—every human's—journey. And I know you'll go out there hungry, full of piss and vinegar, ready take on the world, but chances are the first few bouts will not go to you, the underdog—the writing industry is a tough, skilled opponent that has seen all your tricks before (it's also an industry filled with fierce competition)—but hey, at least you're fighting, right? And if you're willing to fight, to get back up when you get knocked down, you stand a chance. That's all you can ask for—a chance. You just need to learn how to take a hit and continue forward unshaken, until an opportunity presents itself and you get to land a few punches of your own. Tired of the sports metaphors? Me too. I'll rein it in.

Being rejected stings any way you look at it, but the wounds are superficial and non-life-threatening, I promise. They are like small paper cuts inflicted upon the ego: They will make you wince, but in the end there's hardly any blood, and they heal fast. There are probably close to one hundred rejections—each one a layer of the callous every writer eventually forms over the years—saved in my email folder, and I'm still here and still writing. Nothing will ever change that. You know why? Because I am a writer. That's what I was built to do. Any professional will be quick, if not proud, to reveal that somewhere in their writing space is a collection of rejection letters. They are like battle scars that tell the story of a hard journey, and in some future time you will have your own collection of battle scars to look at and a tale of a hard, but worthwhile, journey to revel in.

So, how does one deal with the temporary hurt of being rejected? I offer the mindset I have always used to cope with any unavoidable, difficult reality that one must face repeatedly: It never gets easier, you only get used to it. And I firmly believe this. You will never open an email or a letter from an editor and read the dreaded words "not a good fit" or "not what I'm looking for at the moment" and be filled with anything other than a bitter twinge of disappointment. The important part is that you allow yourself a moment to grieve. Feel the emotion, don't fight it. Let it flow through you. Then, after a few beers and few moments of self-loathing, put it behind you and move on. Set your sights on the next one. And there will be many more "next ones.”

For a great article about the manuscript submission process and dealing with rejection, click here.