Story forty-seven

I just packaged my 47th short story of the year and will mail it the next time I leave the house. It's a 5,000-word Christmas romance. I started writing the story on July 19, 2007, and had about half of it completed before I picked it up again yesterday.

I seem to be on a roll with Christmas stories, but the window of opportunity for submitting them this year is rapidly closing. I have about a week remaining for manuscripts that have to be mailed and about two weeks remaining for manuscripts that can be e-mailed.

Grounded

If one of your characters falls, where does he fall? If outside, he should fall to the ground. If inside, he should fall to the floor.

It irritates the bejesus out of me when an author and/or the author's copyeditor uses or allows the use of "ground" as a synonym for "floor." I've checked my dictionaries and my thesaurus: They aren't synonyms.

Story forty-six

I just submitted my 46th short story of the year. It's a light-hearted Christmas romance/confession that clocks in at 3,900 words. I wrote the first few hundred words of the opening scene on December 26 of last year and wrote the rest of the story this week.

Story forty-five

I completed and submitted my 45th short story of the year a few minutes ago. It's a 3,300-word Christmas confession. I had the idea for it and started writing yesterday morning. I finished writing this morning and let the manuscript sit for half a day before proofreading it and sending it off.

18

This has been a good week. I received another acceptance today--my 18th of the year--this time for a hardboiled bit of erotic crime fiction. I finished writing this story in early January and it sold to the second editor to see it.

17

I received my 17th acceptance of the year a few minutes ago, this for the 5,300-word confession I submitted on August 19.

Published

My story "Lower Standards" appears in the September/October issue of New Love Stories Magazine, hitting newsstands right about now. When I wrote the story back in 2007, I hoped to sell it to one of the confession magazines. All the confession magazines rejected it.

The up side? NLSM paid almost twice as much as the best-paying confession magazine would have given me.

Sometimes rejection pays off handsomely.

Story forty-four

I've quit counting the days, but I did complete and submit my 44th short story of the year earlier today. It's a 5,300-word confession that I started writing on January 13, 2002. I had completed a good draft of the first two scenes--1,000-words, give or take--sometime during the years since starting work on it. I picked the story up again last Friday morning and worked on it until I left for ArmadilloCon that afternoon. I returned to work on the story after my return, spending a few minutes on it Sunday night and several hours on it last evening and this afternoon.

Another market fades

I received an e-mail today letting me know that one of my regular markets has just gone on hiatus "until at least January 2010." This market has purchased and published many of my short stories, all under one of my pseudonyms, so it's distressing to see it go on hiatus. I hope that it returns next year and that "hiatus" isn't a polite way of saying "dead."

ArmadilloCon rejuvenated me and threatens to set my Plot Monkey free

I began my writing career as a science fiction writer. Well, actually, I began as a science fiction fan with an intense desire to be a science fiction writer. Despite that early desire, most of my recent writing success has come from crime fiction and women's fiction.

ArmadilloCon last weekend, my first SF convention in several years (and ArmadilloCon's the only SF convention I've attended since moving to Texas in the early '90s; this was, I think, my third ArmadilloCon) was a bit of an eye-opener. I've been away from active participation in the SF community long enough that I do not recognize the current crop of SF writers, and I've been away so long that whatever limited notoriety I had as an SF fan and even more limited notoriety I had as an SF neo-pro all those years ago has faded from the collective consciousness.

(For example, only two people showed up for my reading on Friday evening, and one of them was Rebecca [a.k.a. Plot Monkey], attending her first genre convention of any kind.)

The nice thing about ArmadilloCon, though, is that it does draw a few crime fiction writers. Rebecca and I had an all-too-brief conversation with Bill Crider and Joe Lansdale on Friday evening, and we spent most of Saturday evening in the bar with Victor Gischler and a slowly evolving group of writers, hope-to-be-writers, and fans. An editor from Tor--Jim Frenkle--even joined us for a bit.

Except for all-too-rare poker games hosted by local mystery writer George Wilhite and his wife Becky, I have no face-time with other writers; my contact with other writers is limited to e-mail and participation in a couple of on-line communities. So, having spent much of Saturday evening talking shop (and talking about a zillion other things as well), I came away from ArmadilloCon refreshed.

Over the course of the weekend, Rebecca* and I came up with nearly a dozen story ideas, one of which she brought to the table almost completely formed. All I did was take notes as fast as my pen could fly and add a kick-ass title. As soon as I complete the story I was working on before leaving for the convention, I'll try to write the story she gave me, and hope I can do it justice.

In the end, it's obvious that my writing career has taken me away from my roots; it's even more obvious that time spent among other writers--writers from any genre--can be quite rejuvenating.

The weekend at ArmadilloCon even has Rebecca thinking about writing her own stories instead of feeding me her plots.
____
*She's MY Plot Monkey and YOU can't have her.

Day two-hundred-twenty-five, story forty-three

It's been a long, hot summer, and I've not been writing much. A few minutes ago I finished and submitted my 43rd short story of the year, a 3,000-word romance/confession that takes place on Thanksgiving.

Yesterday I saw a call for submissions from an editor seeking "a dozen or so" Thanksgiving-themed romance/confession stories by Monday morning. I had written the first 400 words of a Thanksgiving story back on July 18, 2007, and had left it sitting on my hard drive. Yesterday afternoon I blew off the digital dust and then spent a few hours yesterday evening and several hours this evening completing the story.

ArmadilloCon

ArmadilloCon--a science fiction convention that draws a few mystery writers--takes place in Austin, Texas, next weekend (August 14-16).

I'll be there; I'm doing a reading Friday evening and I'm on a panel Sunday morning.

If any blog readers also plan to be attend, feel free to say "howdy."

Why books, CDs, and other tangible forms of intellectual property still matter

To avoid this:

http://www.slate.com/id/2223214/

Writing-to-guideline vs. writing-for-self

In the current issue of Newsweek (July 13, 2009), Lawrence Block is quoted as saying, "I think the less attention I pay to what people want and the more attention I pay to just writing the book I want to write, the better I do."

Earlier today, before stumbling across Block's comments, I happened to (re)read reviews of my books that readers had posted at www.barnesandnoble.com, and I had spent a goodly part of the late afternoon wondering why the fiction I've been writing lately would probably not receive the same kind of glowing reviews. Much of what was reviewed was written with no particular market in mind and much of what I write these days is for specific markets with specific requirements. I was pondering whether or not I have been putting too much emphasis on writing-to-guideline and not enough on writing-for-self.

It's been a bloody long time since I wrote a story with absolutely no market in mind, with no goal other than to please myself. Oh, I've come close a few times, starting stories with no market in mind but knowing before I ever finished the final drafts exactly where I intended to submit them. And that knowing causes subtle shifts in both the writing and the revision. (The violence is too graphic/not graphic enough, the sex is too explicit/not explicit enough, etc.)

So I've been asking myself, what would I write if I could completely block out my knowledge of editorial guidelines and write something just to please myself?

Damned if I know.

Published

"My Island Fling" is the lead story in the August True Romance.

My first rejection from the future

It's already tomorrow in Australia and an Australian publication just e-mailed me a rejection letter.

Sigh.

My future looks bleak.

One sure-fire way to identify an amateur publication

If, anywhere in the publication, copyright is referred to as "copywrite," don't submit your manuscripts. Either the editors don't know what copyright is or their proofreading skills suck.

copyright = "the exclusive right to make copies, license, and otherwise exploit a literary, musical, or artistic work, whether printed, audio, video, etc."

copywrite = not a dictionary-approved word, though a copywriter is "a writer of copy, esp. for advertisements or publicity releases."

What constitutes "professional"?

Following is a revised and expanded version of something I wrote in the comments section of yesterday's post:

"Professional" is how one group of writers attempts to distance themselves from another group of writers, and each group of writers manipulates their definition to ensure that they are "professional."

One thing that amuses me is when writers of one genre, having little experience with common practices in another genre, define "professional" in such a way that professionals in the other genre are excluded from the definition of "professional."

Here are some rather general guidelines to determine whether or not a publication is professional:

1) How much does it pay?

For purposes of obtaining active membership (membership with full voting privileges) HWA and SFWA require short story sales to publications that pay no less than 5-cents/word. MWA and PWA are less rigid. My understanding, which may be incorrect, is that RWA considers only sales of novels as a qualification for active membership.

2) Is the editor of the publication paid?

A professional publication pays its staff. Usually. Some literary magazines are staffed by volunteers and underwritten by a university or a non-profit organization.

3) Does the contract indicate understanding of copyright law?

A professional publication offers a contract or letter of agreement that clearly indicates that they understand copyright law.

Why e-zines aren't generally considered "professional":

1) They don't pay or they pay only a token amount. A few science fiction e-zines do pay "professional" rates, but writers in other genres are unaware of them and therefore tar all e-zines with the same negative brush.

2) Few e-zines have paid staff because the e-zines don't generate enough income. Many e-zines are supported by the editor/publisher's day job. Professional publications aren't usually supported by the editor/publisher's day job. They ARE the editor/publisher's day job.

3) Far too many e-zine editor/publishers indicate a complete lack of knowledge about copyright law in their guidelines. For example, their guidelines say things such as "all rights belong to the individual contributors" or "all rights return to the writers after six months" or some other nonsensical statement.

Here are some rather general guidelines to determine whether or not a writer is professional:

1) How much does she get paid?

Some organizations consider any amount of money received below a certain threshhold--for HWA and SFWA that threshhold is 5-cents/word for short fiction; for MWA it's $25/story--to be below professional level and that a writer who accepts less than "professional" pay is, therefore, not a "professional."

2) Does she pay self-employment tax on her earnings from writing?

A professional writer is, in fact, self-employed. She keeps accurate records and reports her income from writing and expenses related to writing to the IRS and, when she shows a profit for the year, pays taxes on her income.

3) What portion of her income is generated by writing?

A professional writer generates a significant portion of her annual income from writing or, by some definitions, by writing and writing-related activities (editing anthologies, lecturing, mentoring, etc.). What constitutes "significant" varies.

4) What does she write/where has she been published?

I have met many novelists who seem to believe that what separates "professional" writers from all other writers is the publication of a novel, especially if the novel is published by a "New York publishing company." Some writers believe that only ink-on-paper constitutes "professional" publication, ignoring audio, electronic, and other forms of publication.

5) What is her education?

Having a degree (B.A., M.A., M.F.A.) in professional writing, creative writing, journalism, or a similar subject is a plus, though a degree alone is usually insufficient.

6) What awards has she received?

Remember, awards from "my" organization are more professional than awards from "your" organization.

7) Does she pay to have her work published?

Vanity publication, self-publishing, or starting a company that publishes the publisher's writing in addition to that of other people is considered unprofessional. Except when it isn't.

I might could go on, but no matter how we try to differentiate between "professional" and non-professional writers, it usually comes down to a discussion of "us" versus "them," and we always want to be part of "us."

Didn't Pogo say, "We have met the enemy and he is us"?

Perhaps we should spend more time thinking about what it means to be "them." After all, someday they might be "us" and we will be "them"--stuck on the outside looking in because we no longer fit the definition of "professional."

Per-word vs. flat-rate

Earlier today I listened to a presentation about short story writing. One of the two presenters--an established mystery short story writer--claimed that professional publications pay by the word and that publications that pay flat rates are not professional publications.

What a crock.

I've sold short stories--some of them mysteries--to many publications that pay flat rates The flat rates some of these publications pay exceed the per-word rates that the top mystery magazines pay for stories of equivalent length. And sales to some of these publications were used to qualify me for active membership in the Horror Writers Association, Mystery Writers of America, and Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.

So, whether a publication pays per-word or pays a flat rate for its fiction is not, in and of itself, an indication of whether or not the publication is a professional market.

Of Memories Dying

It was a small town on the northern California coast where the teenagers still cruised Main Street, stopping at both the stoplights on their trek from the A&W north to the bowling alley, then around and back again; a small town nestled against the ocean where the Coast Ranges prevented most radio and television signals from bringing in the latest fashions; a small town where progress rarely interfered and the A&W was still the only link to a world of fast food.

A full moon hung low in the evening sky, fragmented by naked branches and power lines. I stood in the shadows before the high school, staring at the faded spot on the wall where the capital B had fallen off, leaving only aker High School still intact. The school was much the same as it had been when I left, still a collection of single-story hallways intersecting to form inaccessible open courtyards.

I stood on a brown patch of grass, my knapsack at my feet. Faded green canvas, I’d bought it at an Army surplus store and carried it around the world with me, stuffing it with tiny objects I’d found in small villages and back-alley shops where tourists never went.

A breeze from the ocean blew up through town and sent a chill crawling through me. I pulled my jacket tighter around my gaunt frame, fumbling to tug the zipper upward with shaking fingers.

My clothes hung limply from my body, mismatched and out of style. The shirt, brown cotton gauze stained with sweat, I’d found in India. The jeans, now faded and frayed at the cuffs of the bell bottoms, were a pair of counterfeit Levi’s I’d found in Hong Kong. The green jacket I’d received from an Army deserter in Cambodia after spending a five-day drunk with him, helping him through a bad case of the DT’s and a good case of scotch. My shoes--a pair of low-top black tennis shoes--were new. I deserved that; I’d walked through the soles of so many others.

“Hey there!”

I was suddenly pinned against the school wall by a spotlight, silhouetted like a marionette with no strings.

“Hey there.” The voice behind the spotlight called again and I blinked my tired eyes against the light, squinting to see who was talking to me.

“What are you doing there?”

“I used to go to school here,” I said. My voice was ragged, hesitant, because I could not see the other person.

The light snapped off and I blinked again, adjusting to the sudden darkness.

“Class of ’80.” The voice came from inside a police car. “You?”

“Class of ’74,” I said. It seemed like so many years had passed, like so many things had worn away at what I was, what I had dreamed of being, that I no longer had a sense of time.

“What brought you back?” he asked. He was broad-shouldered and serious, the type who had played football and been class president, gotten good grades and been liked by everyone.

I shook my head. There was nothing I could tell him.

He motioned me over to the patrol car and offered to buy me a cup of coffee. I gathered up my knapsack and climbed into the car beside him.

“Mike Morelli,” he said as he stuck out a thick hand with strong fingers.

I grasped his hand firmly, shook it, and released it quickly. His touch burned in my memory, my palms sweaty and shaking. “Patrick Bates,” I said.

Morelli slowly swung the patrol car out of the faculty parking lot and pointed it down the road toward the main part of town. Silence between us and the faint crackling and popping of the radio as he drove tickled at the razor-sharp edges of my nerves, rubbing the exposed ends like ground glass.

“Seventy-four,” he said thoughtfully, his forehead wrinkled as if he strained to remember. “Wasn’t that the year--”

“It was,” I said, interrupting his question. I had wondered how long it would take him to remember.

Morelli grunted, silent again. He drove through town, down narrow streets between rows of houses washed pale by my memory of them, south to the A&W, pulling the patrol car to a halt in one of the stalls. He reached out his open window and pressed the button on the face of the speaker, ordering two coffees and a Papa Burger. He looked over at me, the details of my face lost in the shadows inside the car. “You want anything else?”

“No. Coffee’s fine.”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said to the teenaged voice in the speaker. Then he turned to me again. “They’ve all left, you know.”

I nodded. It wasn’t hard to guess that my few remaining classmates would leave town just as I had left.

“Nobody else has ever come back,” Morelli said. “Nobody I ever heard of.”

I nodded again, wishing my coffee would hurry. We sat silent for a moment, watching as a Mustang careered into the parking lot, teenaged boys hanging from the open windows, yelling and waving. As soon as they saw the patrol car, they slowed and the driver very carefully pulled the rusting car into a stall at the far end of the row.

“Now them boys,” Morelli said, pointing his finger at the Mustang, “they don’t understand what this town does.”

“They will,” I said. “Give them time.”

Before he could respond, our coffee and his hamburger arrived. He passed a steaming cup to me, then unwrapped his hamburger and took a bite. Catsup and mustard spewed out the other side of the bun. He wiped at his uniform with a napkin, the stain already evident and too late to wipe away.

“You surprise me,” Morelli finally said.

“Yes?”

“You’re not what I expected.” He took another bite of the hamburger, more carefully this time. “You look late sixties,” he said. “Like you forgot to leave an era behind.”

“Here?” I questioned. “This town’s always been an era behind.”

Morelli didn’t know whether to laugh or take me seriously. He considered a moment, then agreed with me. “This town moves slow. It always has.”

A blonde waitress wiggled past, carrying a tray full of root beer mugs to the Mustang at the end of the aisle. Morelli’s eyes followed her to the Mustang, then back into the restaurant.

“You must have a lot of bitter memories,” Morelli said. “The whole class of ’74 must have bitter memories.”

I nodded. “It pushed them away. Kept them from coming back.”

“It was a hell of an accident,” he continued, oblivious to my comment. “Damn near the whole senior class.” He shook his head as if to shake away the memories; then he said, “I lived three blocks away from the hotel. The explosion woke me up. My father and I watched the fire from down the street. I must have had nightmares for a month after that.”

I knew what he meant. The nightmares would never end for me, had never stopped, and I didn’t expect to free myself of them.

“Where were you when it happened?” Morelli asked.

“Outside,” I said. “In the parking lot sneaking a drink from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. My girlfriend was inside.”

“Jesus.” Morelli finished his hamburger and crumpled up his napkin. “You were lucky.”

“Maybe.” I pulled aside my long, greasy black hair and showed him the purple splotches on the side of my face and the back of my neck. They extended far down my back and across my chest, a tattoo of burning tuxedo etched into my skin. “I went in after her. There was nothing I could do.”

We sat together watching the boys in the Mustang as they piled out of the car and took their places on the hood. They laughed and swore at each other, pushed one another off the car, spilling root beer on the pavement. They were rough-and-tumble, as I had once been.

“Can I drop you someplace?” Morelli asked as he started the car. “I have to make my rounds again.”

I looked over at him in the darkness of the patrol car, seeing the hard lines already forming in his young face. “I want to go back to the school.” I said.

“I could take you to a motel if you want.”

“The school will be fine.”

He shrugged and pulled from the parking lot. “They don’t know how lucky they are,” Morelli said as he motioned toward the boys. “In a few years they’ll realize they can’t escape from this town. Nobody does,” he said. “They come back sooner or later.”

I listened to him ramble, watching the town crawl slowly past the car window. In ten years, nothing much had changed. D’Grasso’s Hardware Store had a new coat of white paint. Henderson’s Floral Shop had become Johnson’s Floral Gallery. The Hi-Ho Inn had expanded into the next building. And the remains of the old hotel had been swept away, replaced by a small park in the center of town. But the Standard station where I’d had my first part-time job still had full service and the weekly newspaper still posted the front page of the most recent edition in their front window. And the houses were still the same bland blend of clapboard and vinyl siding.

“I came back,” he said. “I had dreams. Big dreams. But I came back.” He looked over at me. “Your class had dreams, too. But you’re the first one to return.”

“Most of us never had a chance to leave,” I said.

“Hell of a tragedy, wasn’t it? I mean, so many kids on their graduation night. They never really had a chance, did they?”

Morelli pulled the patrol car to a halt in the faculty parking lot and I climbed out with my knapsack firmly in hand.

“You sure you don’t need a ride someplace else?” he said. “I’d be happy to take you.”

“No thanks,” I told him. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll wait here a while.”

I watched as the patrol car pulled away and I wondered if Morelli understood. Ten years is a long time for some of us.

I sat on the front porch of the school and waited, watched the moon and felt the breeze from the ocean sweep up from town to chill me. As chairman of the ten-year reunion committee, it was my responsibility to send out the invitations.

I began unpacking the knapsack; they would be arriving soon.

My classmates.

All of them.

-----

“Of Memories Dying” copyright © 1985 Michael Bracken. First published in Midnight, an anthology edited by Charles L. Grant and published in paperback by Tor Books.

A little history:

“Of Memories Dying” was was written early in my career and was the first of my short stories to be published in an anthology. It appeared on the preliminary ballot for a Nebula Award.

It was later expanded and released under the title “In the Town of Memories Dying and Dreams Unborn” as part of Even Roses Bleed, an audiobook collection of seven of my stories released by Books In Motion in 1995.

After a slight revision, In the Town of Memories Dying and Dreams Unborn was released in 2000 as a small-sized paperback by Barley Books in England. Reviews sere solid: “A truly terrifying tale in the Stephen King tradition. Michael Bracken is a horror writer to watch out for.” (Writers Block) and “Nicely understated and atmospheric....” (Science Fiction Chronicle). Barley Books promptly went out of business.

In 2002, Wildside Press released Canvas Bleeding, a hardback collection of my horror short stories that includes the original version of “Of Memories Dying.”

“Dreams Unborn,” a prequel to “Of Memories Dying”/In the Town of Memories Dying and Dreams Unborn was published in Small Crimes, a hardback anthology of crime fiction I edited that Wildside Press published in 2004. Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine reviewed the anthology and said, “... the concluding novella, ‘Dreams Unborn,’ which though much grimmer may remind you of American Graffiti, is the best piece of fiction I’ve read by editor Bracken.” “Dreams Unborn” was named one of the year’s best mysteries by the editors of The Best American Mystery Stories 2005.

Maybe someday the two halves of the story--“Dreams Unborn” and “In the Town of Memories Dying and Dreams Unborn”--will be published together.

Bad review of an old story

Koi's notebook reviews Midnight, an anthology of horror stories edited by Charles L. Grant and published by Tor Books in 1985, and has this to say about my contribution:

Of Memories Dying is a failure as a horror story. Two men meet in front of a school, drive to a burger joint. One eats a burger. They drive back to the school. One gets out, the other drives off. There is a nebulous hint that something out of the ordinary might happen a few pages after the story has ended. This is not a horror story. This is not even a prologue. This is ... pointless, utterly pointless, and the worst proofread part of the book to boot.

Of Memories Dying appeared on the preliminary ballot for a Nebula Award. Different strokes, different folks, eh?

!

In the June 9 entry at the Make Mine Mystery blog, "Stop Shouting Already," Marvin D. Wilson comments on the overuse of exclamation points. If you read the comments following the post, you'll notice that Mark Troy quoted the complete text of "The Shootout," an incredibly short story I wrote that contains 10 exclamation points but only two words. Of course, most people won't understand the story without reading Mark's comments before and after the story.

Go. Read. Now.

Day one-hundred-sixty-three, story forty-two

I just finished and submitted my 42nd short story of the year. I started writing this on Wednesday in response to an open call for submissions I received on June 4. It's 2,100 words, contains a crime, but it's not crime fiction. It's a relationship story. Sort of.

Day one-hundred-fifty-eight, story forty-one

I finished and submitted my 41st short story of the year earlier this evening. It's a 2,400-word confession I started writing on May 27, 2008.

Wordplay

Last weekend I went to the theater to see Up. The theater charged $2 extra because the movie was in 3-D.

This evening I went to a porn theater. They charged me $1 extra because the movie was in Double-D.

Career reboot

When I started writing again in January, 3.5 months after my quadruple bypass, new material began pouring out of me, and it continues to pour out of me. I've completed 40 short stories since January 1. At this pace I'll complete 100 short stories this year, nearly double the production of a typical year.

Much of what I've written has been outside my "box"--stories written for new markets, "old" markets to which I've never sold, and themed anthologies I might not have looked at twice a year ago. The downside of writing outside my box is that my sales rate is down and my rejection rate is up. Despite that, income from short fiction is holding steady and is comparable to this point last year.

In a way, the 3.5-month drug-induced stupor that prevented me from writing during the closing months of 2008 helped to reboot my career at the beginning of 2009.

Go figure.

Prone to error

Too often I read stories--especially various forms of crime fiction--in which a person or a body is described as "prone," and yet the context makes it clear that the person or body is actually "supine."

It frustrates the bejesus out of me.

Direct from the dictionary definitions:

Prone = "lying face downward"

Supine = "lying on the back, face or front upward"

I hope you're not prone ("having a natural inclination or tendency to something") to making this error.

16

I received my 16th acceptance of the year today, for a 5,800-word confession I submitted on April 22.

Published

My story "All Wrapped Up" appears in the July issue of True Love.

Day one-hundred-fifty, story forty

I finished and submitted my 40th short story of the year a few minutes ago. It's a 700-word bit of literary crime fiction I started writing on Thursday. I sent it to a non-paying, on-line literary publication.

Day one-hundred-forty-six, story thirty-nine

Earlier this evening I finished writing my 39th short story of the year, a 3,500-word ghost story. I started writing this story on April 18 after I saw an abandoned house out in the middle of nowhere. After my protagonist buys the house, he learns that the previous owner had disappeared.

I emailed the story to an editor a few minutes ago.

Day one-hundred-thirty-seven, story thirty-eight

I finished writing my 38th short story of the year this morning, a 700-word mystery. I started writing this on July 13, 2006, and finally finished it. Hardcopy goes in the mail later today.

Yesterday in Blood and Bone reviewed

From GoodReads, Ed had this to say about my collection Yesterday in Blood and Bone:

A ton of very short fiction, each with a twist in the tale. Dark, noir book.

Day one-hundred-thirty-five, story thirty-seven

I just finished writing my 37th short story of the year, an 800-word romance involving a security guard. I started writing this one on June 14 of last year. Hardcopy will go in the mail tomorrow.

Six years, or 72 consecutive months

Today's mail brought contributor copies of the July 2009 Hustler Fantasies containing "Fuck or Fucked?" (not my original title), a hardboiled story about a hitman, retired by a heart attack and subsequent quadruple bypass, who becomes the subject of an open contract.

With publication of this story, I have had one or more pieces of short fiction published each month for 72 consecutive months--that's six years of short fiction. During those six years I survived a divorce and my own quadruple bypass. I also wrote one hell of a lot of short fiction.

The streak started with the August 2003 Hustler Fantasies, which contained two of my stories, and has included short stories in nearly every genre. Excluding those months when I had collections released, my best month was April 2008 when I had nine stories published in four different publications, followed by July 2006 when I had eight stories published in three different publications, and March 2005 when I had seven stories published in four different publications and June 2006 when I had seven stories published in four different publications.

My short stories have appeared under my own byline, under a variety of pseudonyms, and, in the case of confessions, without any byline at all.

Because editors determine which stories to accept and which issues to put them in, this is a publication streak that I don't have much control over. I can not predict how long it will continue, or even if it will continue at all.

On the other hand, there are a few things I have control over. These are things I've done, and will continue to do, that explain the reason for this streak and why it might continue into the future:

Maintain high productivity. The more stories I write and submit, the greater the odds that I will continue getting published with regularity.

Target multiple genres. There don't seem to be enough paying markets in any single genre to support a highly productive short story writer. Therefore, I write in multiple genres.

Target multiple publications. Even within the genres, I spread my work out among multiple publications.

Write themed and seasonal stories. I try to write some stories that are tied to themes or seasons, thus producing stories that are most suitable for specific magazine issues. For example, I've had particularly good luck with Christmas stories (published in December) and Valentine's Day stories (published in February), but have also written St. Patrick's Day stories (March), April Fool's Day stories (April), Back-to-School stories (September), and Diabetes stories (October).

Although I have additional stories scheduled for publication in June and July, I don't have any scheduled for August. It's probably too late to submit anything specifically for August, so if I haven't already put something in an editor's hands that fits an August issue, I may see my streak end.

But I hope I don't.

Day one-hundred-thirty-two, story thirty-six

I finished writing my 36th short story of the year a few minutes ago. It's an 800-word romance involving go-karts. I wrote the opening sentences on May 18 of last year as an example of a "meet cute" for a writing class I was teaching. I liked the opening so much I copied it from my class notes and--over the course of a year--turned it into a complete story.

The hardcopy will go in the mail tomorrow.

My name's Michael, by the way

"My name's Michael, by the way."

"Welcome, Mr. Bytheway. We've been expecting you here at--"

"No, no, no. My name's Michael, by the way."

"Yes, Mr. Bytheway. I understood you the first time."

"No, you didn't. My name's not Bytheway. It's Michael. 'By the way' is a crutch writers use when they need to introduce characters to one another. It's often done in romantic fiction as part of the 'meet cute.'"

"The 'meet cute'?"

"That's a different post. Stick to the subject."

"So why do they do it?"

"Because it's easy. Writers use this crutch when they can't or won't take the time to be creative. There must be a zillion ways to have one character introduce himself to another without resorting to 'by the way.'"

"A zillion? Surely you're exaggerating."

"Maybe I am. And don't call me 'Shirley.'"

"Yes, Mr. Bythe-- Michael. Perhaps you could share a few examples."

"I can."

I introduced myself and stuck out my hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Michael," he said as he grasped my hand. "I'm Steve."

Or

He glanced at the name tag pinned over my badge. "Nice to meet you, Officer Bracken. I'm Bob Smith, attorney for the plantiff."

Or

"The name's Bracken. Michael Bracken. Yours?"

Or

I handed him my business card and waited. He moved his lips while he read so I waited longer than usual. Finally, he looked up and, as if to confirm what he had just read, asked, "Mr. Bracken?"

Or

We'd been talking for ten minutes and I still hadn't told him my name. I decided I would wait until he asked. If he asked.

Or

I interrupted him. "I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't throw it."
"So what should I call you?"
"Don't call me. Don't ever call me."
"I think 'Meathead' will work. You can call me 'sir.'"

Or...

"Well, you should get the idea by now."

"I do, Mr. Bytheway, I do."

15

I received my 15th acceptance of the year earlier today, this for the romance story I submitted to an anthology editor on April 29.

Day one-hundred-thirty, story thirty-five

I finished and submitted my 35th short story of the year a few minutes ago. It's a 1,500-word bit of erotica.

Day one-hundred-twenty-nine, story thirty-four

I finished and submitted my 34th short story of the year a few minutes ago. It's a 3,700-word bit of crime fiction about two college boys and what happens to them during spring break.

Last week I saw the call for submissions for an anthology and wondered if I could come up with something appropriate. I made multiple false starts. Then on Wednesday I found a file on my computer from March 11 of last year, an opening scene of less than two hundred words. The characters were all wrong but the setting and basic events depicted in those <200 words had potential. I redrafted the opening and started piecing the story together, not realizing what I had until I had gone through multiple drafts. Unlike most of my stories, I wasn't sure what this one was about, where it was going, or how it was going to get there until I had a near-complete, but quit sloppy draft. Then I revised, rewrote, and rearranged until I had a story.

And now it's in an editor's hands.

What would you do for a Klondike Bar, or to sell a short story?

While egosurfing, I found my name mentioned in a 2007 discussion thread about writing short fiction for a living. In one of the posts, Michael D. Turner wrote:

[T]here are some things I'm probably not willing to do to sell stories for a living. I won't pass myself off as Black, Korean, Vietnamese, or some other ethnic or "racial" type. [...] I'd pass myself off as a women writer to sell romances, except I haven't developed the touch to write romances yet [...]

I have two different reactions to this, one from the creative side and one from the business side.

From the creative side: Isn't pretending to be something we're not a major part of writing fiction? I'm a middle-class white male but I've written stories featuring both genders, multiple sexual orientations, various ethnicities, a variety of socio-economic classes, a wide variety of occupations, and on and on and on. Writing only stories populated by people like me would be pretty damned boring.

From the business side: I've never pretended to be anyone other than who I am when dealing with editors, but I've had work published with bylines that were not my own. There is a long history of female writers using male pseudonyms (especially for science fiction) and male writers using female pseudonyms (especially for romance). This is a marketing tactic that I readily embrace. If the difference between an acceptance and a rejection is my byline, then I'll change my byline.

How about you? What are you willing--or not willing--to do to sell a short story?

And look like a rhino's butt, too

Christian Wiman, editor of Poetry, in the May/June Poets & Writers, on the need for writers to protect their creative side:

"The self that writes may need to be a delicate and protected creature, but the self that submits to magazines ought to be as tough as a rhino's butt."

14

I received my 14th acceptance of the year earlier today, this for reprint rights to an essay.

Day one-hundred-twenty-three, story thirty-three

I finished my 33rd short story of the year a few minutes ago. One of the two stories Plot Monkey and I outlined last Sunday while waiting for Amazing Race to start, it's a 1,000-word country romance. I've submitted it to a magazine to which I've not previously submitted.

Day one-hundred-twenty-one, story thirty-two

I finished and submitted my 32nd short story of the year earlier this evening, a 2,500-word romance involving two college students and a skateboard. I started writing this story on May 2 of last year. I wrote half of it and then stalled. I showed what I'd written to Rebecca, my personal plot monkey, and she gave me some ideas on ways I could finish the story. I cherry picked from her suggestions and found the last half as easy to write as the first half had been.

Day one-hundred-twenty, story thirty-one

I finished writing my 31st short story of the year earlier today. It's a 5,000-word confession/romance about a single mother, her precocious first-grader, and her son's teacher. I started writing it on April 22 of last year and kept returning to it until the pieces fit together. It'll go in the mail tomorrow.

Wordplay

I had to cut this from a WIP because it just didn't fit. But it was fun to write.

“Watch, Mom.” Tommy put a plastic dinosaur in a toy convertible and pushed it across the room. When the car hit the wall, he said, “Tyrannosaurus wrecks!”

Day one-hundred-nineteen, story thirty

I finished writing my 30th short story of the year earlier this evening, a 2,600-word romance. I began work on this Sunday evening while Plot Monkey and I were waiting for Amazing Race to start. We plotted two stories, both romances but intended for publications that are not at all alike. Because this one was targeted at an anthology with an impending deadline, I finished it first. It's already on its way to the editor.

Published

My story "A Father's Final Gift" is the lead story in the June True Story.

Organizing short story production

On the Short Mystery Fiction Society list, a writer mentioned my "formidable production" and asked how I organize it.

My response:

If you write fast enough, you don't have to be organized. I have several hundred short stories in various stages of completion--ranging from one-sentence story descriptions to multi-thousand-word near-final drafts. Whenever I see a call for submissions that piques my interest, I take a quick stroll through the WIPs to see if I have anything that fits. If I do, then I finish and submit the story. If I don't, then I try to brainstorm something appropriate.

But most of my work goes to publications where I've been published before. Mastering a publication's requirements means I don't have to wait for calls for submission to cross my desk before writing and submitting stories.

But how do I organize the several hundred partial manuscripts? File folders on my computer labeled by genre or by magazine or by series character. If I have an idea for a Morris Ronald Boyette story, the partial goes into a folder named "Boyette"; in I have an idea for a confession, the partial goes into the folder labeled "confessions"; if I have an idea for a Woman's World story, the partial goes into the "Woman's World" folder.

One tip if you write for contests and anthologies: Get a three-ring binder. Print out the submission requirements or contest rules. Put them in the binder in due date order. When you sit down to write, open the binder to the first page. Write a story for that anthology or contest. If you finish in time, submit the story and tear the page out. If you miss the deadline, tear the page out. Either way, the next time you sit down to write, open up the binder to the first page and write a story for that anthology or contest. Repeat.

4/29/9 addition: I keep hard copies of all my finished manuscripts, so the torn-out page goes in the file folder with the hardcopy so that I know how to follow-up later if I need to.

Too American?

I received a rejection last week from an editor in the U.K. and one sentence from the rejection letter stands out: "[T]he story is so evocative of America, both in its sense of place and its characters, that we felt our readers wouldn't find the feeling of comfort and familiarity that they look for in [...]."

Day one-hundred-seventeen, story twenty-nine

I finished my 29th story of the year this evening, a 1,100-word bit of erotica. I don't know when I started writing it because it's based on a scene I cut from another story back on April 8. I added a beginning and an ending to turn it from a scene into a story and I'll put the manuscript in the mail in the morning.

Texas Mystery Week panel

I'll be joining George Wilhite, author of The Texas Rodeo Murders, and possibly other writers for the panel discussion "On Writing Mysteries" during Texas Mystery Week. Join us at 7 p.m., May 14, at the Barnes & Noble in Waco, Texas.

What are the odds?

I just learned that 225 stories were submitted to the Mystery Writers of America's Publications Committee for potential inclusion in an upcoming MWA anthology. One of them was mine. There are only 10 open slots. That's a 10-in-225 chance or a 1-in-22.5 chance that my story will be selected. And let's say 25 writers buggered up their submissions somehow--by failing to follow submission guidelines, by submitting the wrong genre, or by displaying sub-literacy--which would drop the odds down to 1 in 20. Not bad odds, but not great, either.

The final selections should be announced mid-May. I'd keep my fingers crossed until then, but it makes typing difficult.

Hourly rate

According to 25 Jobs that Pay $25-an-Hour, writers and editors--those who "Write and/or edit scripts, stories, publications, advertisements and other materials"--earn an average of $25.46/hour and have a mean annual salary of $53,000.

Really?

Maybe it was just my ego talking, but all this time I thought I was above average. Now that I've done the math, I don't think I am. Although I earn far better than $25.46/hour on some projects, I also earn far less on others. When I add them all together and divide by the number of hours worked, I'm just not quite there.

So now I have a new goal to strive for.

My goal is to be average.

Now available on Kindle

My private eye novel All White Girls is now available in a Kindle edition. It joins my young adult romance Just in Time for Love, previously released in a Kindle edition.

Inspiration is hard work

This past Friday, Sandra Seamans asked, on her blog My Little Corner:

Do you just write the story that tracks through your brain or do you write with a specific market in mind? For me writing for a market is plain torture and it shows in the writing, so I tend to write the stories as they come to me, then search for a market. Not the best way to work, I guess, but most days that works for me.

My response, which I thought I'd share here:

But here's a tip you can take to the bank (literally):

Select a publication you'd like to write for. Study it. Study the guidelines to determine what they say they want. Study the stories to determine what they actually publish. Then force yourself to write stories for that publication. Submit those stories. Pretty soon you'll discover that inspiration provides you with market-specific story ideas.

I'm a slacker

A friend of mine--a prolific, multi-genre short story writer like me (who I'm not naming because I didn't ask permission to quote him)--wrote in an e-mail yesterday, "I’ve been cranking out the words like never before (hoping to hit 27,000 this month, more than double what I used to average)."

My first thought was, "Holy crap!"

That's double my monthly average.

Then I realized that's less than 1,000 words/day. At my speed that's only twenty minutes of typing, leaving seven hours and forty minutes to think up what to type.

And I realized why I'm not as productive as I want to be: I think too much. I'm spending seven hours and fifty minutes a day thinking and only ten minutes a day typing.

Starting tomorrow, I'll cut ten minutes off my thinking time and add it to my typing time.

Day one-hundred-fourteen, story twenty-eight

I completed my 28th short story of the year a few minutes ago, a 2,300-word bit of crime fiction. I wrote the first two sentences on April 22. Yesterday I received a call for submissions for an anthology of biker fiction and immediately finished a rough draft of the opening scene. By that point I pretty much knew the plot, the characters, and the setting. I spent yesterday evening and this evening trying to make the words on the page match my vision. Mostly, it does. A few inspired twists were the result of multiple revisions. And the story's already on its way to the anthology's editor.

Published

My story "Returning Home" appears in the June issue of True Love.

Day one-hundred-twelve, story twenty-seven

I completed and submitted my 27th short story of the year this evening. It's a 2,700-word story of a man haunted by a past relationship. I don't know if it's horror or just a story about a relationship that's gone terribly wrong.

I had the idea for the story and started writing it on April 16.

13

I received my 13th acceptance this year, this time for the confession I revised and resubmitted last Friday. Apparently I eliminated the right 600 words.

Of course, the thrill of victory is tempered by the agony of defeat. I received a rejection from the same editor.

The British are paying! The British are paying!

I've had a PayPal account for a few years now, but I've never used it. Today an editor in the U.K. paid for a short story via my PayPal account. The process--especially because it involves converting payment from one currency to another--was much simpler and faster than my other method of dealing with payments from other countries. There's no filling out forms at the credit union--forms that only one person knows how to find and no one knows how to complete--and waiting for several weeks for money to appear in my account--minus a severe service charge.

I guess this means I've made another step into the future. At this rate I ought to have a cell phone before the turn of the century.

Day one-hundred-nine, story twenty-six

I don't Tweet, but now I've written Twitter Fiction. I just wrote and submitted my 26th story of the year, a ten-word (59 character) bit of noir crime fiction. To a paying market, no less.

It's not how long your story is, it's what you do with it

A few months ago I submitted a 6,600-word story to a market that, at the time, was accepting stories up to 8,000 words. While waiting for a response to my submission, the publication's guidelines changed and and the maximum length is now 6,000 words.

Today my story came back with a note letting me know that the editor liked the story, reminding me of the new length requirements, and suggesting that I resubmit the story if I could cut 600+ words from it.

Cutting the first 300 words was easy. Cutting the second 300 words wasn't.

First to go: Dialog tags. All those "he said"s and "she said"s weren't necessary. Many were cut.

Next to go: Imprecision. For example: "A few minutes before six, he..." became "At six, he..."

And then: Holy crap. At this point it becomes a paragraph-by-paragraph, sentence-by-sentence, word-by-word line edit.

But I did it and the story is on its way back to the editor.

Day one-hundred-six, story twenty-five

A few minutes ago I completed and submitted my 25th story of the year, a 5,800-word confession/romance. I started writing the story on January 16, 2007, worked on it at various times since then, and finished a complete draft last night. Today I edited/proofread the manuscript and then sent it off.

Published

My short story "Hard Worker" appears in the just-published The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, edited by Barbara Cardy and published by Running Press.

Technology and the death of the author-friendly word count

A long time ago, in a land not so far away, before every would-be writer owned a personal computer and word processing software, manuscript preparation followed a fairly rigid format. Because manuscript format was rigid, it was easy to calculate manuscript word counts: One page contained 250 words. The opening page of a short story, because it began halfway down the page to accomodate the title, the byline, and the author's contact information, contained 125 words. The last page varied and need to be guesstimated based on how much of the page was actually filled.

Back then I could safely estimate that my 11-page short story manuscript contained 2,500 words. Editors, who usually used the same method to estimate word count, paid based on that estimated word count. At 5-cents/word, I could expect to receive a check for $125.

Not long after I began submitting electronic manuscripts (on disk initially; via e-mail these days), I noticed that publications paying on a per-word basis were paying less. Their per-word rates had not been reduced. Instead, they were using a word processing program's wordcount function to determine pay. That 2,500-word manuscript (using the "traditional" method of counting) may only contain 2,100 words. At 5-cents/word, the pay comes to $105.

In effect, publications that did not raise their per-word pay rates after the advent of electronic manuscripts actually reduced the amount of money they paid writers.

Go figure.

Something smells in here

I'm spoiled. I've been spoiled for several years. And it isn't really a good thing.

I sell almost every short story I write, quite often to the first or second editor to whom I submit them.

When I'm feeling good, I tell myself, "I really know my markets." When I'm not feeling good, I tell myself, "I'm not stretching myself."

When I started writing again in late December--after 3.5 months of negligible effort caused, it appears, by medication I began taking following a quadruple bypass in September and ceased taking a few days before Christmas--I wrote several stories outside my usual comfort zone, including an erotic vampire story and a P.I./fantasy cross-genre story.

As the weeks pass, I find myself more and more concentrating my efforts on the same-old same-old. Oh, sure, I've been targeting Woman's World since the beginning of the year, but I'm targeting a new market, not a new genre.

Before something starts to smell around here, perhaps I need to push myself a little harder. I need to stretch my writing muscles. I need to write fiction outside my comfort zone and not settle for selling the short stories I already know I can write.

Maybe I'll even create new genres:

Instead of writing Chick Lit, I'll write Hick Lit.

I'll combine mystery subgenres and write Hardboiled Cozies or Cozy Noir.

Or maybe I'll just try to finish another novel.

All quiet on the western front

I'm a member of three Yahoo groups devoted to writing short fiction--active in two groups, mostly a lurker in the third--and I've noticed a recent paucity of posts on all three group lists. Usually the lists are filled with posts from members about publications, sales, and rejections. Lately there's been next to nothing posted.

Has spring driven all of my fellow writers outside? Or is it worse than that--has spring driven all the editors outside so they're not responding to submissions?

Day one-hundred, story twenty-four

I completed my 24th short story of the year today, another 800-word romance. I started work on the story on February 26, but wasn't able to finish it until this morning.

"Short Fiction Is My Life," Part 2

"Short Fiction Is My Life, Part 2" has just been posted at Rafe McGregor's blog.

Published

My short story "Postcards for Mom" appears in the May True Confessions.

I'm guest-blogging at Rafe McGregor's place

As part of his on-going discussion about "the decline in the popularity and significance of the short story as a literary form," Rafe McGregor asked me how it's possible to make a living writing short fiction. He's divided my response into two parts. The first part--"Short Fiction Is My Life, Part 1"--has just been posted; the second part will be posted later this week.

Increasing income from short fiction

There are three primary ways a short story writer can increase his income from short fiction: write and sell more to current markets, write the same amount but sell to better-paying markets, and sell reprint rights to existing stories.

Sooner or later a competent and reasonably productive short story writer will find an editor who will publish his work on a regular basis. If the writer and editor get into a rhythm of two stories a year, it's time for the writer to try for three a year, thereby increasing his income from that one market by 50%.

On the other hand, let's imagine that the two-story-a-year market pays $100/story. If the writer finds a new market that pays $200/story and he writes one story a year for each publication, he's also increased his income by 50%.

Which is the better option? From an income standpoint the options appear equal. Whether they are depends on something many short story writers don't discuss and may not even consider: income-per-hour. If it takes five hours to write a $100 story and 10 hours to write a $200 story, then it's a financial wash. The $200/story market only becomes financially worthwhile if the writer can reduce the amount of time it takes him to write a story for that market.

Two less tangible factors are important to consider as well: status and visibility. Do your peers view one market as having a higher status, and could your appearance in that publication increase your visibility among editors (especially those that might approach you with assignments), agents (especially if you desire to write books), and conference organizers (especially those that pay guest speakers).

But what if efforts to crack the higher paying market prove futile? What if the income-per-hour results in a net gain of $0? Is the effort wasted? Not for a writer who plans ahead and develops a hierarchy of submissions.

For example: For many years I wrote for several magazines that published a similar genre of fiction. The best-paying (that I sold to) paid $750/story, the next tier paid $400/story, the next tier paid $300/story, the next tier paid $100/story, and then there were a handful of publications that made only token payments. The hierarchy I developed for my submissions in that genre worked well for several years, and I sold work at all levels. (Alas, magazines change publishers, change editors, change editorial needs, or just flat go out of business and that hierarchy of submissions is now a busted chain.)

I'm currently trying to crack a new-to-me market in a genre a half-step removed from one where I'm already selling regularly. I started writing and submitting to the publication before I had established my hierarchy of submissions, and I wasn't sure what I would do with my stories if they were rejected. During the past week I've found several publications that publish similar stories and I'm in the process of developing my hierarchy of submissions for stories in that genre.

What about reprints? Selling reprints is almost like earning money for nothing. I send copies of my work to appropriate best-of-year anthologies, and I keep a watch on market reports for other reprint opportunities. Occasionally I earn more for reprint rights than I earned for the original sale.

Are there other ways for a short story writer to increase his income from short fiction? Maybe, but damned if I know what they are.

11, 12

Today's acceptances include a reprint and an essay about writing.

Reprinted

My story "The April Fool," which was first published in the April 2009 issue of True Romance, was posted on the magazine's blog yesterday.

Buck me

Rafe McGregor makes my name part of the title of his blog post earlier today, "The Short Story: Michael Bracken," and discusses the "decline in the popularity and significance of the short story as a literary form" and some writers who are bucking the trend.

Quoted

Laurie Pawlik-Kienlen reviews Andrew McAleer's The 101 Habits of Highly Successful Novelists at The Adventurous Writer.com and plucks out a few quotes to create "8 Habits of Highly Effective Writers." Habit #7:

Get used to disappointment. “A writing career is nothing more than a long series of disappointments punctuated by occasional moments of success,” writes Michael Bracken in 101 Habits of Highly Successful Novelists. “Maintaining a long writing career involves a little bit of talent, a little bit of luck, and a great deal of determination.”

When do suggestions become collaboration?

Over the years I've collaborated on a handful of articles and short stories--the most recent being "Snowbird," written with Tom Sweeney and published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine back in December 2007. In each case my co-author and I entered into the collaboration knowingly and with clear intent.

Joe, my best friend in high school, and I alternated time at the keyboard. I would write a sentence or two and then he would write a sentence or two. We wrote faan fiction (fiction about science fiction fans) and some of what we wrote was published in science fiction fanzines. These were usually published under a pseudonym because Joe and I were characters in the stories.

In college, Walter and I collaborated on articles for the college paper. We played to our strengths. He did most of the research and I did most of the writing. We shared the bylines and split the money.

My second wife, Pamela, made a game of it. She would write an opening scene and then challenge me to write the rest of the story. A few of these stories were published under my name, but most appeared under pseudonyms. (And a few unfinished stories linger in files many years after her death.)

Tom and I collaborated in a more "intimate" fashion. We discussed everything and we revised each other mercilessly. When I look at the final, published draft of "Snowbird," I can identify only half a sentence as "mine," and the finished story represents the first sale either of us made to Ellery Queen.

Rebecca--whom I have referred to as "Plot Monkey" or as "my plot monkey" in previous posts--seem to be stumbling toward collaboration. A few years ago I referred to the old adage that if you put enough monkeys with enough typewriters into a room together, sooner or later they'll write the complete works of Shakespeare. At the time I said I didn't need all of the monkeys, just the plot monkey. I thought if I had someone to help plot I could increase my productivity.

Enter Rebecca, a voracious reader but non-writer. Over dinner one evening I mentioned two stories that I had half written and hadn't finished because I couldn't figure out the rest of the plots. By the time we left the restaurant, we had roughed out the plots for the last half of each story.

I finished writing and sold those stories.

We've had dicussions about other stalled stories since then, and one day earlier this year I saw a note from an editor looking for stories to fit a particular holiday theme. I had nothing finished, nothing in progress, and no ideas for a story that fit the theme. I mentioned this to Rebecca. The next day she emailed me a rough plot and the backstory that propelled the plot.

I wrote and sold that story.

The story I wrote Sunday came from a plot Rebecca and I devised after riding the Texas State Railroad on Saturday. This time she did more than just help plot. She also helped with characterization and suggested ways to revise parts of what I'd written. I even included a sentence she wrote in the final draft.

I submitted the story under my byline, but I'm left wondering: When do suggestions become collaboration? At what point does the help someone gives you justify sharing the byline, the income, and whatever fame and glory might follow?

I don't have an answer. Do you?

Published

My story "New Job on Campus" appears in the May True Romance.

Day eighty-eight, story twenty-three

Plot Monkey and I spent yesterday riding on the Texas State Railroad, and by the time the trip ended we had ideas for several stories. We roughed out plots for a couple of them on the ride home, and I scratched out notes while she drove, all the while wishing I'd taken my laptop with me so I could actually write. Today I wrote an 800-word romance based on one of those ideas, and while we were swapping thoughts about the romance, she provided me with an idea for yet another story based on our train trip.

Anyhow, the 800-word romance will go into the mail tomorrow.

10

I received my tenth acceptance earlier today, for a 1,400-word short story I wrote in January 2002. The story straddles the line between horror and crime fiction, and so might best be described as non-supernatural horror fiction.

The story was accepted by the first two publications to which I submitted it, and both publications went belly-up without publishing the story. The manuscript has bounced around a bit since then, and actually was just accepted by an editor who had seen it before. It didn't fit his needs when I first submitted it, but he mentioned the story when he contacted me about submitting to a themed issue he was working on. And guess what? The story fit the theme.

What Michael Eisner and I have in common

On page 122 of the April Esquire, Michael Eisner is quoted as saying, "Quadruple-bypass surgery teaches you that you have extra veins in your legs."

Who knew?

Revisions without end

As a response to a post earlier today on Patrick Shawn Bagley's Bitter Water Blog, Sandra Seamans asked, "[D]oes there come a point where you can revise a story to death? [...] I'm not against revisions, just wondering how you know when to stop, how you know that you've gotten the story right."

I'm not certain it's possible to ever get a story "right." I revise until I've created a story that's "publishable." There's a point somewhere between "publishable" and "perfect" where the amount of effort necessary to achieve perfection becomes counter-productive financially. Even if you put in the extra effort, the story won't be any more publishable, the story won't earn any more money, and only a handful of readers will ever notice the difference.

Which, perhaps, leads to a discussion of the difference between an "artist" and a "craftsman." An artist might spend the extra time to achieve perfection, but only produce a new story every 19.3 months, while a craftsman might produce several stories in the same amount of time and never achieve perfection.

Spring cleaning

Editors across the country must be engaging in a bit of spring cleaning. In addition to the recent spate of acceptances, I've also received quite a few rejections recently (seven over the past eleven days).

9

My ninth acceptance of the year arrived via e-mail a few minutes ago, this time for a bit of hardboiled crime fiction I wrote last summer. The editor mentioned wanting some minor revisions, but I don't expect them to be a problem.

8; War stories

I received my eighth acceptance of the year earlier today, this time for a confession about a female soldier who returns home from Iraq and discovers that her husband is missing.

When I posted a note about finishing and submitting this story back on February 12, Susanne mentioned that she had had several stories rejected that involved returning soldiers. Although she didn't specifically say so, I inferred from Susanne's comments that she wondered if confession editors were shying away from war-related stories.

Having now placed two war-related confessions, it appears to me that confession editors will accept some war-related stories. (My other war-related confession, about the impact of a soldier's death on the pregnant girlfriend he left behind, was accepted last week by a different editor.)

So, what's the difference between the war-related confessions that have been accepted and those that haven't?

6, 7

Two contracts were waiting in my mailbox when I returned home this afternoon, representing my 6th and 7th short story sales of the year. Both stories are hardboiled crime fiction, and both sold to the same editor.

Although I'm still behind schedule to meet my annual goal of a sale a week, receiving four acceptances within the past five days certainly makes me much closer than I was on Thursday of last week!

5

I received my 5th acceptance of the year earlier today. I received a contract for the confession I completed and submitted on January 1.

Another "student" sells!

Last summer I taught an on-line course in confession writing and I learned today that another one of the students who completed the course sold the story she wrote.

The "course" started with lessons and turned into a mentor/mentee or editor/writer relationship. After the participants wrote each scene, I edited what they had written, made suggestions for revisions, and suggested directions their stories might develop. Each participant then accepted or rejected my comments and wrote their story's subsequent scene. Then we did it all over again until they had final drafts.

All White Girls to be reprinted

My hardboiled private eye novel All White Girls will be reprinted later this year, and I spent part of the weekend reading the proofs for the new edition. I hadn't read AWG cover-to-cover since reading proofs for the first edition in 2001 and, if it wasn't egotistical to say this about my own work, I'd say it's a damn good novel.

4

My Internet access has returned and with a renewed ability to receive e-mail came word of my 4th acceptance of the year, this time for a private eye story. This is a story I revised and resubmitted at an editor's request back on February 20.

I've lost my connection to the world

When I booted up my computer first thing Thursday morning I discovered that I had lost my Internet connection, and I still have no Internet connection. I miss it. I miss it especially because in the span of one day I received pages proofs from a publisher and an invitation to submit to a magazine, messages I did not see until this morning when I checked my e-mail from a client's computer. Lack of an Internet connection has the potential play havoc with my career.

On the other hand, without an Internet connection, I actually spent all of my time at the computer last night writing--not checking the news, not playing poker, not reading Yahoo groups and message boards, and not surfing.

The only negative impact to my writing was the inability to keep www.dictionary.com handy. I actually had to resort to using a real dictionary.

I'm not sure how soon I'll get my Internet connection back, but the next few days could be both challenging and highly production.

Six-month update

Six months ago today I had quadruple bypass surgery. Every indication is that it was a success and that I am healing appropriately. I completed cardiac rehab last week and, though I didn't lose any weight, I did gain muscle mass, strength, and stamina. I'm now able to do everything I was doing pre-surgery.

My diet has not changed significantly post-surgery, but that's because I changed my diet in early 2007, emphasizing more fruits, vegetables, and fish, and less fast food and prepackaged foods, and had already lost weight from the 2007 change in diet. I no longer add salt to my food and try to avoid prepackaged foods--such as potato chips--that contain significant amounts of salt. What I've been unable to do is break my Mountain Dew habit.

After changing my medications in late December I returned to writing and have been quite productive since then, completing a new short story approximately every three days. Pre-surgery I was averaging slightly more than one story each week. I don't know if I can maintain this pace or if the change in medications was ExLax for my brain, allowing me to push out everything that had backed up in there during the 3.5 months following surgery when I was barely writing, and that I'll slow down again when my brain is flushed out.

I find that I'm a little less patient than I was before and more irritated by little things that didn't bother me--or that I didn't let bother me--pre-surgery. I don't know if this is a permanent change or something that will disappear over time.

Otherwise, not much has changed.

Day sixty-nine, story twenty-two

I just submitted my 22nd story of the year, a 6,600-word confession about a small town girl in the big city. I started work on this in August 2004 and had written 4,800 words--the first 4,000 words and 800 words of notes and partial scenes--before I picked it up Sunday evening.

Day sixty-seven, story twenty-one

I just submitted my 21st story of the year, a 6,200-word confession about a single mother who thinks she's falling for a married man that I started writing in December 2007. I've worked on the story sporadically since then and finally put the finishing touches on the manuscript this afternoon.

Patience is a dish best served quickly

"I submitted my manuscript last year/last month/last week/yesterday/ten minutes ago and I haven't received a response. How long should I wait before I call the editor/withdraw my manuscript/submit my story elsewhere?"

I see variations of this question on various Yahoo groups and message boards nearly every day. Are writers less patience today than writers were several years ago, or are we just as impatient now as then but are more obvious about it thanks to the speed with which we can share our impatience with others?

I have to admit that I share some of the impatience of new writers unfamiliar with the slow, grinding pace of traditional publishing, but my impatience isn't related to the length of time it takes for a single editor to respond to a single submission. I have too many manuscripts floating around to even remember all of them, let alone worry about any particular one. My impatience has to do with communication gaps.

If I don't receive something in the mail (surface or e-) every few days--acceptance, rejection, contract, check, contributor's copy, request for revision, etc.--I start to get nervous. If more than a week passes without contact, I start thumbing through my file of submitted manuscripts, calculating which ones should have generated responses based on my previous experiences with particular publications. If more than two weeks pass, I get jumpy, leaping up to check the mailbox every time I hear a noise outside the front door and making my e-mail refresh every few minutes rather than letting it automatically refresh every twenty minutes.

So, while I understand and share the impatience of new writers, I have the advantage of knowing the solution for both of us is the same: Produce more work.

The more manuscripts under submission, the less time we have worry about any individual manuscript and the more likely we are to have some kind of regular contact from editors.

Published

My story "The April Fool" is the lead story in the April True Romance.

Day sixty, story twenty

I just finished writing my 20th story of the year, an 800-word romance that I started writing in March of 2005. It's headed out in tomorrow's mail.