Analog likes my style

I was beginning to despair of my writing career (nearly 40 submissions since I started keeping track in 2013, and not so much as a whiff of interest). Then, one of the editors at Analog Science Fiction & Fact sent me this email on November 23:

Dear Andrew, 

Thank you for letting me see "Mother Knows." I'm sorry it didn't strike me as quite right for our present needs. 

I rather like your style of writing and suggest that you try us again.

Whoa, hold on. Did one of the editors of Analog, one of the most famous, widely-read, and respected sci-fi mags in the world, just tell me he liked my style?

Yes he did.

You'd best believe I whipped something off to him post-haste. I'll let you know how it goes.

writing updates, 5/14/2014 + sci-fi art, entry #4

This post is all about my scribbles, yes, but since I write science fiction, it's a good place to give you some more sci-fi art. So here you go:

Now, on to the meat of the matter.

June 29 is the day that's circled on my calendar. On that day, it will have been exactly five months since I submitted a query to Ace & Roc Science Fiction & Fantasy, imprints of the Penguin Group. I'll know for sure by then if Penguin is interested in my novel or if they aren't. If the latter is the case—and their continued silence indicates to me that it is—then I have a backup plan. 

Baen Books, a renowned sci-fi press, doesn't just accept unsolicited queries: they accept unsolicited manuscripts. I checked their submission guide and it seems they prefer works between 100,000-130,000 words. Mine is 114,000. They prefer a simple style and judge works primarily on plot and characterization, and if it's one thing my work is oozing with, it's plot and characterization. My style is simple, with a few sesquipedalian terms scattered in here and there (crucial to the plot, of course). Baen also offers "competitive" payment rates. Vague wording, yes, but then Ace & Roc didn't breathe a word about payment at all. 

The only downside is that the "reporting time" (response time) is 9-12 months. Ouch. 

Well, can't win 'em all. As Baen sheepishly admits, they get a lot of manuscripts. So I'd basically have to wait until next April or possibly next July to find out if Baen wants to publish my baby or not. Miss H and I shall be gone from Korea by then, and hopefully installed in a tasteful, spacious two-bedroom apartment in Henderson, Nevada and engaged upon entry-level jobs with wondrous prospects, blabbity blabbity blah. 

At least I have a timeline. 

No joy yet on the short fiction front. Daily Science Fiction is considering my 1,100-word short story "Boxing Day," which I submitted on May 2. I expect a reply within a fortnight. 

In the meantime, to keep myself busy, I've conducted yet another full-blown proofread-and-line-edit of Novel #1. Gawd, this feels like the zillionth one I've done, and it probably is. When I finish I'll do the same thing to Novel #3 (not for the first or the last time) and then following that I'll finish Novel #4. (Novel #2, as you'll recall, is a work of historical fiction unrelated to my humongous sci-fi opus). I really want to get started on Novel #5 before the year's out. That one's going to be fun. I've been taking long walks and brainstorming it for a long while now and I've had some spectacular ideas, wheezes which will keep the fans happy and my fingers busy. 

As for nonfiction, well...Korail just instigated another scenic train route. You remember how I told you about the O-Train and V-Train? Well, those were so successful that they started up another sightseer, the S-Train, down in the southern part of the peninsula. There's talk of G- and B-Trains to travel up the east and west coasts of Korea as well. But the big one is the DMZ-Train, which...well, I don't know much more about than you do. But I do know that the end of the line is the infamous Dorasan Station, a fully-equipped and squeaky-clean yet abandoned and ghostly whistle stop. It's the last one before the DMZ, and the railway line stretches on emptily into the distance, a high road to nowhere. It was part of the USO tour that Miss H and I did in 2012. It'd be cool to roll up to it in an actual train, though, and see the countryside in between Seoul and the DMZ. Dorasan Station was built during a rare period of amity between the two Koreas and was intended to serve as a gateway for trade and industry (and perhaps passenger service) between Seoul and Pyongyang, but the creeping enmity between the two nations killed the dream and left the station derelict. I imagine I could write a pretty travel article about a ride on the DMZ-Train and submit it anywhere I liked, using some of the vivid imagery and florid prose for which I am renowned. 

Oh, and I imagine the big Z-shaped train trip I'm taking through Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore this summer (not to mention the week I'm spending in Hong Kong afterward) would be fine travel-journalism fodder too. 

So. That's where I am. 

Wish me luck. 

fiction vs. science fiction

On Friday I spoke to my mother on the phone for the first time in four months. We're not estranged or anything; far from it. I'm just a horrible son, even when you don't apply the Confucian lens. We talked around Christmastime and...well, the time just slipped away. Life intervened. The trip to Sapporo, the move to Gangnam, and all that jazz. It's hard for me to remember that I have to contact her; she has no way of contacting me (I call my parents via Skype, but they have a land line).

Anyway, Mum said something interesting, as she always does. We were discussing my younger brother, a young actor in Hollywood searching for his big break, and how a big-name studio asked him and his crew to do a short film. You can catch some snippets of it here, if you don't mind strong language. (He's on IMDB, too.) That dark-haired fellow with the Mel Gibson looks and the chip on his shoulder and the what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about expression on his face is who I grew up with, folks. 

Anyway, I finally managed to inform my mum that I've submitted my first novel to Penguin Books, and am awaiting a reply. Among the many pithy observations she made was that my brother and I have both chosen extremely tough and competitive careers, and we are both on the threshold of success (she's great with the encouraging comments). It gave me pause. She was right in more ways than she knew. Not only have I decided to make my name in fiction, but science fiction to boot. The requirements of the genre are a bit more stringent than mainstream fiction. I don't mean to imply that mainstream fiction is a cakewalk or anything like that. Not at all. To be a writer in any genre requires patience, skill, practice, a certain degree of natural talent, patience, confidence, dedication, and hard work (especially the last one). It's not much different from being an actor in that respect. That was my mum's whole point. 

But to be a sci-fi writer you need all that and more, I've realized. First, you have to understand the fundamental ways in which technology, science and progress affect human lives. You have to see the human story behind the inhuman gadgets and gizmos. You must march to the same fife as a mainstream fiction writer by composing a compelling story, a tale of ordinary human (or inhuman) beings in challenging situations, relatable characters with the same age-old problems, seasoning the tale with conflict and drama and triumph and failure and character development, not forgetting correct pacing and florid language and all the other ingredients which fiction is heir to; but that ain't all. Into the fabric of fiction you must weave the scintillating threads of the fantastic. You must wed your human story to the extraordinary technology of the future, the advanced science of impending ages, the limitless world of wonder that lies beyond the borders of imagination. One e-zine I've submitted to won't even consider a manuscript unless it's "a good character-driven story wherein the technology is so vital to the plot that the narrative would be indelibly altered were it absent." 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I consistently fail to do. 

Writing is like herding cats. Staying on top of what every good story needs—plot, pacing, vivid characters, sizzling prose, universal mores—while trying to throw in the novel aspects of science fiction like mind-blowing tech and aliens and starships and whatnot is...challenging. It's rather like trying to cook a four-course dinner. You're boiling the pasta and stirring the sauce and grating the cheese and pounding the breadcrumbs, and just as finish you realize that you've let the mushrooms (which were supposed to be lightly sautéed) burn to ashes in the skillet. Despite your best efforts, the meal leaves a carcinogenic taste in the mouth of anyone who eats it. That, apparently, is what my stories are doing to the editors at Asimov's, Analog, and Daily Science Fiction. I haven't sold a story yet. 

But at least I know what I'm doing wrong. The trick is that happy marriage of the unreal and imaginary to the tried-and-true fictive formula. I haven't had much success combining memorable characters, fantastic settings, incredible technology and a classic plot into one single story, but I'm getting better. Like anything else, all it takes is practice. You have to get a feel for it, and I can feel that I'm getting a feel for it. Enough to realize that some stories need to be aborted before I waste time and energy on them (such as the idea I had while shopping with Miss H last weekend, "Incheon Airport Post-Rapture"—ha!). 

I can write good stories, and I can dream up good sci-fi concepts, but getting the two to merge in my brain and slide all the way down through my arms and fingers to the keyboard is another matter. 

Tomorrow is Wednesday, my day off. I'll see what I can do about it then. Wish me luck. 

writing updates, 7/24/2013

There's only three of them, so pay attention:

ITEM ONE:
Novel #2, the one I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year, is almost ready. I'm half done with the second-to-last edit. (The final edit's just going to be a glorified proofreading.) After that I'm formatting it and e-publishing it for the Amazon Kindle. We'll see what comes of that...it'll be a test case. I'll make sure to properly advertise on this here blog so you can run to your nearest e-reader or tablet and buy it as soon as it's launched. The title will be Mugunghwa: The Wreck of the Rose of Sharon.

ITEM TWO:
Novel #3 is half-finished as well. It has a title, a table of contents, and 51,000 words or so. Nearly ten chapters out of 19 (planned) are complete. As I said earlier, I'm 50% finished with being 66% ready to sign a three-book deal. In case you forgot, Novel #1 and #3 are Books 1 and 2 of my big sci-fi magnum opus. (Novel #2 is historical fiction.)

ITEM THREE:
I got rejected again. Sad day.

Just before I left Korea I submitted a 1,700-word short story (entitled The First Twenty-Five Years) to Daily Science Fiction magazine. After the customary wait, I got an e-mail back. Instead of the usual rejection notice (which I'd received for the seven or eight other stories I'd sent to DSF), this e-mail was different. Here's what it said:

Andrew,

We have good news and we have bad news. The good news is that your story has made our second round, rarified company that more than 90% of submissions do not reach. While half or more of our second round stories will not ultimately see publication under the DSF rocket, this story has reached the final go/no-go before launch.

The bad news--and I promised you some bad news--is that it will take us time to make that final decision. Expect an additional two weeks or so, but don't be surprised if it's a month from today. Thanks for your continued patience, and thanks for sending us this worthy submission.

  - Daily Science Fiction Staff

Wow, huh? You may imagine the palpitations my heart went through as I read those words. After all these months and months of writing crap stories and languishing in impoverished rejection, I'd finally made the grade. Okay, not "the" grade. "A" grade. I'd gotten past the initial rejection phase. I'd landed myself in the second round of review. Not bad for a beginner, eh?

Unfortunately, about three weeks later, I wound up with the same old rejection slip in my inbox. Ah well. At least I know now the caliber of writing I must put out in order to be considered for publication. And I've assayed the market and know what kind of stories they like. Now I can sit back, think of a good idea, stick in all the ingredients, and hopefully get accepted next time around.

Wish me luck...

writing updates, 12/18/2012

Boy, have I got news for you! I finally submitted another story somewhere!
On December 11, after a long dry spell, I sent a short piece to Daily Science Fiction. They customarily take stories under 1,000 words in length. I figured there was no future for me as a writer if I couldn't write something that brief. So, in the space of roughly 30 minutes, I thought of an idea, slapped it down on paper, edited it, and submitted it.

And then, of course, I realized that I'd made a mistake. Like I always do. I hadn't properly understood DSF's submission guidelines. When they say "plain text only" they're not just talking about omitting all the fancy symbols and stuff. They mean sticking your Word document onto Notepad and thereby converting it to ASCII format. Before you submit it.

Great. Nice going, Postie. Way to break into the world of science fiction, fudging the submission guidelines and all. 

I don't know what to expect. I submitted the story (entitled "The Maze") a week ago. DSF's guidelines said to allow three weeks for a response. I'm not sure whether they'll politely ask me to redo my formatting and resubmit, or tell me to hit the bricks. Either way my heart's in my mouth until I find out. I'm filling the time by kicking myself vigorously.

The second big chunk of news is that my brother (who is a stage actor in Los Angeles) e-mailed me out of the blue to ask me to help him with something. Apparently he's writing a novel, too. I'd hardly spoken to him in two years, so I didn't know what he was up to. But yeah: he's writing. And like me, he's encountering some degree of frustration. He asked me for help in honing his work-in-progress and revising it, which I was glad to do. I was quite flattered, in fact. In return, he's taking a look at some of my stuff! He's already give me loads of assistance with several of my short stories (more about that later). He may even aid me in my larger endeavors, like my NaNoWriMo project and my magnum opus.

This is extremely encouraging, to say the least. I had not been able to find a beta reader who was suitably well versed in literature and dramatic devices to be able to critique my work properly. Most people I gave my stuff to just corrected my grammar, or line-edited, or made a few vague comments about characterization. Not my brother. He's picking me to pieces, but doing so in an encouraging, engaging and lively fashion. This is precisely what I've been needing all this time. We've only been at it a week and I feel like we've accomplished a lifetime's work. It's the best feeling in the world. Thanks, bro. I only hope I've been as much help to you.

So, while I'm excitedly waiting to see what our family think tank churns out, I haven't been idle. I've resolved to get back on track with my writing and actually publish some stuff. I'm going to start writing like I actually mean to be a writer someday, in other words.

Discipline is key. Up to now I've been juggling too much. It's been difficult to strike a balance between work, physical activity, leisure and writing. Focusing too much one one threw the others out of balance. But now I'm going to take aim at one and let the others fall into place. I'll try to submit a short story (no matter how short) at least once every two weeks. I'm going to move forward with revisions on both my NaNoWriMo project and my science fiction novel. (I should really think of codenames for both of these works so I can stop referring to them as "my science fiction novel" and "my NaNoWriMo project.")

Progress will be made. Poor writing shall be made rich. Mistakes, shortcomings and inequities shall be rectified. Flaccid prose shall be made taut and strong and hearty. And in the end...sweet victory. I'll be on my way to fortune and glory (and $32,000 bottles of Scotch) in no time.

Wish me luck...

keeping it tight

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a travel writer. A 21st-century travel writer, anyway.

I've been doing some thinking, and I believe I've figured out why I don't have a career yet.

It's not that I can't write. I'm a first-rate wordsmith.

It's not that I can't find anything to write about. There's boatloads of material out there. I'm sitting right in the middle of some of the best travel material (especially budget travel material) an aspiring travel writer could ask for.

It's not that I can't get published. I've done that three or four times already. My work's graced the pages of Real Travel Adventures, In the Know Traveler, and The Expeditioner. I've even been featured in one of the latter's printed compilations.

But therein lies the problem. I've been calling myself a travel writer for a few years now, and I've only been published a couple of times. That means one thing, and one thing only: I'm lazy. Apparently, writing is a full-time job. You must constantly send out proposals and pitches. Keep lines in the water and irons in the fire. (Actually writing every day is another plus.) Try as I might, I just can't seem to keep those kind of habits up for very long.

Here, check out this questionnaire I found on the Travel Writer's Exchange. This says it all, really. I'm not so bad off...I did answer mostly C's. Long story short, though there's only a few things I'm lacking, they're enough to impede my nascent career something righteous.

Being a lazy bastard isn't even my main problem, though. There's something else. It only recently made itself apparent, and it took me a while to understand it.

I'm long-winded.

Yep, since the future of travel writing lies online, the new line of thinking is that travel writing must be short, sweet and to-the-point. Actually, that's the way it's always been. You shouldn't go off on digressions, or give in to the temptation to fill your writing with florid prose. You should stick to the task at hand, which is to tell your reader about your subject and back it up with a few lurid details. But lately, it seems, there's been added emphasis on the whole brevity thing.

Brevity is, and shall remain, a difficult challenge for me. I'm a wordy bugger. Maybe that's the reason I started this blog in the first place. And why the posts are so freaking long, when all the best blogging advice says you should keep 'em tight. This is the only place I can get my meandering, garrulous, poetical, literary jollies out. And you know what's even funnier than that? Somehow I've gotten away with being long-winded even in my published works—you'll notice that all those articles I've linked to are rather lengthy.

But no more, I'm sensing: I'm going to have to toe the line from here on out. Write well, write briefly, and start shotgunning those proposals and pitches all over the place.

Well, no time like the present. I've been in Korea for almost a month now and I'm settled into my apartment, even if I don't have my green card or my first paycheck in hand yet. Time to start my career. First thing to do, I reckon, is survey the list of newspapers that the TWE recommends and send out some pitches. I bet they'd be interested in the balloon launch I participated in last weekend. Or the kind of fun you can have in Hongdae on a Saturday night. I just have to remember to keep it tight, short, sweet and simple. I shall adjust to this new future the way I've adjusted to everything else: maybe a tad reluctantly, but with aplomb, dignity and competence.

Wish me luck.

writing updates, 8/6/2011

I have sent a novella to Fantasy & Science Fiction!

Yes, you read that correctly. I wrote a novella. And actually got up the courage to send it to a publisher. I sent it off in early July.

...and got it back three weeks later, with a rejection slip enclosed.

This is only the second time I've been rejected. Heck, it was even the same magazine. I might've known what was coming. An amateur can't expect his first five, ten, or 1500 works to be accepted at a veteran sci-fi mag which has played host to everybody from Stephen King to Daniel Keyes. King himself got a nail and hammered it into the wall above his bed and stuck his rejection slips there. He had a whole pile of them before he got accepted anywhere. Sylvia Plath submitted one story to The New Yorker thirty-six times before they finally accepted it. I can't logically expect anything different.

But still, it hurts.

I had high hopes for this story. It was 23,000 words of what appeared to be, at the time of submission, 100% Grade-A effluence. The plot (I thought) was superb, the setting grandiose and compelling, the premise timeless. The characters sparkled and sizzled. The twist at the end was dynamite. To the FACE.

Boy, was I wrong. The assistant editor at Fantasy & Science Fiction wrote back and said, basically, that the story "couldn't hold interest."

Ouch.

Well, I shrugged, I'll have to do better next time.

I was flying around at 10,000 feet yesterday, with the bright desert sun shining in the window and burning my face to a crisp, when suddenly two new ideas struck me full-force. One concerns a boiling planet 73 million miles from its super-hot sun, where the inhabitants scurry about like rats beneath the surface until an alien race from an ice planet shows up and begins siphoning all the heat off; and the other, "Refuge" concerns an extraterrestrial mendicant who just happens to show up in the backyard of a—

Now, now; any more and I'd be telling.

Succinctly, I have two new story ideas burning holes in my brain, and I'll start work on them forthwith. Whether they'll actually be published is up for debate, but I think I'm getting a little better with every piece of crap I churn out. Someday one of them is going to catch the eye of somebody sitting at a big desk. And you'll be the first to hear about it.

Or something like that.

I have one last momentous piece of scribbling shop-talk for you.

I have resumed work on the Novel.

Yes! That damn novel!

I was sitting around the airport one day, bored out of my skull, wondering when I was going to get over my fears and finally implement the edits and changes I'd been kicking around, when something inside me said "Screw it." I clicked on the link and the monster itself appeared on the screen of my brand-new Toshiba.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I highlighted a chunk of puerile drivel.

Licking dry lips, I moved my index finger to the top right corner of my keyboard, and punched the DELETE key.

The garbage vanished.

And just like that, the Novel got a little better. I added in a few paragraphs of new dialog and characterization, liking where it was going. The beginning is a lot less dry and preachy and a little more punchy now. It shows promise, much more promise than before. My inklings were correct about what needed to be done to improve the storyline.

I shan't stop here. I'll keep on editing, slowly, carefully, so the night-terrors don't overtake me again. And soon the monster will hopefully come out looking better than it did in the beginning.

That is all...

Wish me luck.

writing updates, 3/31/2011

It never ceases to amaze me how magazine editors always seem to know exactly what I'm thinking.

Seriously, they've got me pegged. It happens every time. I'll wonder aloud in an offhand way "How easy would it be to transition from a fixed-wing aircraft to flying a helicopter?"

And lo and behold, the April issue of AOPA Pilot magazine runs an article (part of their Pilot Challenges series) about a lifelong airplane pilot trying her hand at helicopters for the first time.

Shazam! My question's answered. This isn't the first time the AOPA has done this to me, either. A while back I wondered what it might be like to fly VLJs (very light jets) solo from the left seat, and they up and came out with an article about a fellow who owns his own Cessna Citation Mustang and does just that. And as if that wasn't amazing enough, the man's a published novelist as well!

Or take the April editions of Science Illustrated and Popular Science. I picked 'em up on a whim at Barnes & Noble a few weeks back. One of three scenarios in corporate publishing politics is playing itself out here. Either (a) these competing magazines monitor each other's work like a bug under a microscope, and arrange matters so that articles with extremely similar subject material are published simultaneously, or (b) both publications maintain research teams comprised of assiduous, straight-shooting go-getters whom of their own accord, respectively, come up with timely stories which just happen to cover the same topic; or (c) the editors-in-chief of both publications have a direct line to my brain via crystal ball or magic mirror, see what I'm mulling over in preparation for my next crack at being a science fiction writer, and delegate their writers accordingly:

"Quick, Hawkins! He's wondering about humanity, the future, and the possible mass-migration of civilization to new stars and new worlds aboard massive space-worthy floating arks!"

"Get moving, Jansen, Sadie, Leroy. He needs more info on giant starships, interstellar travel, space station environments, self-contained ecosystems and possible planetary destinations. Like, yesterday. Scram!"

My money's on option (c). 

Who'd a' thunk it? This month both magazines featured front-page articles pertaining to interstellar travel. And I mean real interstellar travel, not glitzy Hollywood Battlestar Galactica interstellar travel. Feasible, like. None of this high-flown hyperspace crap. Just the nitty-gritty: ships powered by black holes. A solar sail miles wide, capable of propelling a spacecraft at a fraction of the speed of light. A cone-shaped vehicle, which gathers and manufactures its own fuel from stardust as it zooms through the void. Star cruisers the size of continents, designed to hold a million human beings, and enough livestock, greenhouses, water recycling plants, air scrubbers, public parks, recreation halls, virtual-reality discotheques and whatnot to keep all of us from going hungry, thirsty, or batshit crazy. Lasers. Antimatter. Nuclear warheads. Hell, one article even talked about how our physical bodies might not even need to make the trip; eventually we might develop the capability to simply send our consciousness across billions of light-years instantaneously, downloading it into another body upon arrival.

Sounds amazing, doesn't it? And disturbingly god-like. Speaking for myself, I think it's a neat idea. But I kind of like to keep my body with me wherever I travel. I might need bits of it once I reach my destination, if you know what I mean. This whole sending-your-mind-into-space idea reminds me of a couple of rather unsettling stories by H.P. Lovecraft ("The Whisperer in Darkness" and "The Shadow Out of Time"; both involve aliens hijacking people's minds and transporting them across the space-time continuum).

(Ahem) Anyway, to cut a long story short, all of this stuff really helped me out with my writing.

I, ladies and gents, have completed my first science fiction novella.

If, going by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America standard, a novella is indeed between 17,500 and 40,000 words in length (less being a novelette and more a full-bore novel)...

Then I have written a novella.

That story I've been slaving away at, off-and-on, for something like four months—"Aptitude" I think I called it—is finally finished. I've got to edit it and clean it up some, of course, but the draft is complete. Rough tally is 21,300 words.

Ain't that the cat's pajamas?

I mean, yeah, okay, sure. I wrote a novel before this. It's about 51,000 words. A short novel, yes, but a novel. ("Only one, but a lion," as Aesop wrote.) I'd hesitate to call it a novel, though. It sucks canal water. I've been informed by semi-competent authorities that my characters lack depth, the first act is flat and dry and dull, and my description could use stand a lot more pizazz. (Huzzah, I finally get to use the word "pizazz" in a blog post...about dang time!) 

Something just feels right about this story. It has a plot. It's dynamic. It flows. The characters sparkle and sizzle and flash. The dialog is punchy. The setting is described in intimate detail. The conflict is multifarious and mind-bending. All of it just sort of weaves together. "Aptitude" is an amalgamation of coming-of-age story and high-speed mystery thriller (set in outer space). And unlike this damn novel, I like the way this story turned out. It feels whole. Complete. Well-rounded. Unpolished, but fully shaped. It has that "I'm-done-all-you-need-to-do-is-take-off-the-rough-edges-and-BOOM-I'll-be-a-twenty-carat-diamond" feel to it.

So I'm immensely encouraged and excited by the vibe I'm getting off this story, both during and after its creation. I'll keep you posted on how the submission process goes. In the meantime, it's time for me to polish up some other stories I've got waiting on hold, both on paper and in my brain. I'll keep you posted on that, too. I might even get back into editing the novel sometime soon. I'm confident that I'll fix it eventually. If I have enough whiskey on hand, that is.

And as for my stated goal of publishing three nonfiction travel articles by July? Nuh-uh. Not going to happen. I'm going to try, but I might have to push the deadline back a bit. Then again, word's come down from the higher-ups that we might have the entire month of April off from work. With all that downtime something's sure to happen on the writing front. I should hope I could be productive if I'm grounded for four weeks. 

Stay tuned...

P.S. Here's the link to the PopSci feature on how we might depart our planet. (I don't like the tone of this article too much; it accuses the human race of being a "risk to the planet." Nonetheless it's entertaining and mind-blowing enough to hold my interest.) I tried to get a link for the Science Illustrated article, too, but it seems they are rather like yours truly: too old-fashioned and stubborn to put their stuff up online. You can only find it in print. Check your local bookstore. Oh, and if you're curious about the artwork, that's a computer-generated image from the well-known and celebrated sci-fi novel The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells, obtained from Wallpaperbase.com. It depicts a highly underrated scene that, to my knowledge, has never made it into a cinematic adaptation of the book: the ironclad torpedo ram Thunder Child, under full steam, attacks three Martian tripods to cover the escape of another vessel laden with English refugees, off the mouth of the River Blackwater in Essex. Though heavily damaged by the Martians' Heat-Ray, she successfully rams one tripod and destroys it. The Thunder Child then turns toward a second tripod. Burning from stem to stern and close to sinking, the valiant ship charges the enemy with all flags flying and guns blazing. The second tripod's Heat-Ray obliterates the torpedo ram, detonating her boilers and ammunition magazines, but the flaming wreckage plows onward and crushes the Martian. The civilians aboard the paddle-wheel steamer are able to escape unharmed.

This is the first time in The War of the Worlds that a human artifact is able to compete with the Martians and come anywhere close to victory. Despite the loss of the ship and all hands aboard, the Thunder Child's sacrifice proves a tremendous boost to human morale, which the Martians have nearly stamped out of existence.

Now tell me that ain't good science fiction. Just try.

inside the box: or, how I got my first rejection slip

When asked, "What do you read?", Stephen King replies, "Everything I can get my hands on."

In truth, King does a lot more than that. He buys audio books and listens to them in his car whenever he drives somewhere.
"Come on," he says, "how many times do you need to listen to Deep Purple's 'Highway Star'?"

Good thing I'm not all that fond of Deep Purple. I suppose Led Zeppelin would hardly make an adequate substitute, though.

I suppose it makes good sense for a writer—even a published, internationally famous one—to immerse himself or herself in reading material. Even stuff that isn't strictly related to the author's preferred genre can help. By constantly reading (and writing), King is keeping his skills sharp. He's seeing what's out there. He's getting a feel for his craft. He's learning from his fellow authors and their scribbles. Constant exposure never hurts when you're trying to learn something and/or stay good at it.

Apparently I don't read enough science fiction, then.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Postman has received his first rejection slip.

Well, okay, it wasn't my first. More like the second. Okay, third. Okay, eleventh. (Nah, I'm kidding, it really was only the second slip I've ever received, honest.) But it was the first one I got from a fiction magazine, and that's what counts. Fiction is where I intend to make my mark. And on September 30, 2010, Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine sent me a wake-up call. My short story, entitled "Wrong Life-Form, Genius" has officially been rejected.

The editor, good man that he is, wrote me a personal note instead of sending a form letter. He explained that though my story was "a good try" and that F&SF is "always looking for humor," my story was "too obvious."

Okay, I could see that. My story concerns two Earthmen assigned to make contact with the sentient crystalline life-forms of a nearby exoplanet, only to discover, at the end, after spending twenty pages trying to communicate with a chunk of crystal using interpretive dance and impressionist art, that it's actually the sunflowers of this world which are the sentient ones.

Puerile, yes, but I had a lot of fun writing it.

This was a test shot, anyway. I'd read an issue or two of F&SF, and had heard plenty about their submission standards on the Internet, but I wanted to assay the market in person. I thought I'd whip up something short and sweet and submit it before I sent them any of my big honking novelettes. I thought "Wrong Life-Form, Genius" might have a decent chance of being published, so I put the finishing touches on it, packaged it and sent it off.

Well, here's my answer.

It wasn't as though I didn't approach the writing seriously. I was earnestly attempting to construct a character-driven story, with a point, premise, purpose and plot, and all those other P-words which the best sci-fi stories possess. What I've noticed about my favorite sci-fi writers is that they were observant. They perceived the faults and oddities of the civilizations they were a part of, and satirized these societal shortcomings in their stories, using clever and creative metaphors. H.G. Wells lampooned the inherently bestial nature of human beings with The Island of Dr. Moreau; John W. Campbell, Jr. explored trust, survival instincts and collaboration in crisis with his spine-tingling "Who Goes There?"; and Poul Anderson had a great deal to say about identity, freedom, interpersonal relationships and independence in "Call Me Joe."

What I had with "Wrong Life-Form, Genius" was the form of a dramatic, metaphorical, quote-unquote "deep" sci-fi story...but not substance, nor the subtlety to conceal it. I had a story, simple as it was. I had a climax. I had a conclusion. I even had a sort of metaphorical premise, though poor and underrepresented. (The story was intended to show up humanity's abject lack of knowledge about extraterrestrial life, and the futility of attempting to predict the nature of said life...or plan the methods by which we might interact with it.)

But I failed to develop matters fully. I wrote it on the spur of the moment, focusing on the humor and dialogue instead of the story itself. Without planning things out, without taking time to brainstorm the methods I would use to tease the meaningful elements out of the basic tale, I wound up with a substandard bit of drivel. The result, naturally, was "obvious," as F&SF's editor put it. I'd written an anticlimactic and pointless story, with no underlying meaning and a sadly predictable outcome.

I will admit to being...let's see...moderately bummed out by the rejection letter. It was my first (well, second), after all. And I'd honestly thought that "Wrong Life-Form, Genius" had had a shot. It curdled my insides to hear some stranger judging my precious little story. I was embarrassed, discouraged, disconsolate.

I didn't stay that way for long, though. I hadn't been too emotionally invested in the work. (I wrote it on the spur of the moment, remember? In a coffeehouse, sitting across from my best friend to boot. I wrote it basically to make him laugh.) It was just a silly little chunk of humorous fiction, sent off on a whim. That made the rejection easier to take.

And easier to learn from. It wasn't but five minutes before I was analyzing my story, my writing process, examining the manifest of my train of thought, sussing out what I'd done wrong and what I could do better next time. I still had four or five longer stories I was working on, which I did seriously hope to get published. This was no time to be feeling down in the dumps. It was time to start perfecting my other works, based on what I'd learned from this rejection. After all, what are you supposed to when you fall down?

That's right, guys. You get right back up on the, uh, horse.

What do I lack? I asked myself. I sat around and drank alcohol and puzzled until my puzzler was sore. Then I made up my mind. I lack focus. I'm fine with actually writing the story, but I'm getting too hung up on the minor mechanics and ignoring the big picture, the story as a whole, the grand design behind the veil. I'm so blinded by the details that I'm overshooting the inspiration necessary to create a unique and multifaceted masterpiece, and as a result, my stories are turning out to be puerile and obvious. They lack meaning, worth, complexity, subtlety. They don't have the deeper context, the satirical punch, the masterful sophistication of story and plot and character which make better authors' work sizzle.

In short, I need to practice more. I need to write more, and I need to read more, too. Good science fiction will diffuse into my brain through my eyeballs, be analyzed by a crack team of discerning neurons, and then fall down the dusty chute to my fingers, where it will flow back out of my body and onto the blank pages on my laptop screen where it belongs.

No, no, I'm not going to start plagiarizing, smarty-pants. I mean I'm going to get a better feel for my craft, keep abreast of what constitutes "good" and "bad" writing, inspire myself to try for new heights, inundate and imbue my brain with good science fiction, and, like Stephen King, become (and remain) a better writer for it.

By coincidence, I located The Best Science Fiction Stories (Volumes IIA and IIB) in a used bookstore behind the corner gas station a couple of weeks ago.

I also picked up U-Boat Commander, a factual account of a German submariner's service in the Atlantic during World War II; A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess; Winged Pharaoh by Joan Grant; and a couple other miscellaneous novels.

Oh, snap.

Training my inner writer is going to be a blast.

I intend to read through these stories (penned by known and unknown authors) and consider them carefully. And then, employing their best elements and most effective devices, I'll revise my own nascent projects.

Wish me luck.

news from the side

You probably already know that I like the Marx Brothers. My favorite is definitely Groucho, or "Julius" as he was sometimes known. Clever man. Always up for a good laugh, and if there wasn't one handy, he'd supply it. My favorite Marx flick is 1933's Duck Soup, where Groucho plays Rufus T. Firefly, the dictator of a small European country, Freedonia. (Don't that beat all?) For various uncomplicated reasons, Freedonia is drawn into a war with a neighboring country, thanks to the double-dealing ambassador, Trentino, who has secretly been trying to subvert Firefly's power.

Firefly's having none of it, though.

Then it's war! Firefly commands the troops in the field, keeping a Thompson submachine gun in a violin case by his side. A soldier comes in and hands him a message from the front.

"I'm sick of getting messages from the front," gripes Firefly. "Why can't I ever get a message from the side?"

Fine, fine. Go ahead and groan. Jeez, nobody appreciates intelligent humor anymore. Nowadays it's all bathroom humor and sex jokes and flatulence.

Soapboxes aside, I have some news for you.

I want to apologize for tapering off from my current spate of blogging fervor. Several things have come up. Firstly, I finally have a second job. The proprietor of the small café down at Apple Valley Airport, Mack, keeps asking me if I want to wash dishes for him, only half-jokingly. Since none of the bars in the area are hiring, I finally decided to take him up on it. I've read Bill Gates's 11 Rules Kids Won't Learn in School. Number Four is as follows:

Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger-flipping. They called it opportunity. They weren't embarrassed about making minimum wage, either. They would have been embarrassed to sit around talking about Kurt Cobain all weekend.

That's telling 'em, Bill. For what it's worth, I agree with him. Work is work. I need the money, I'm able-bodied and capable, and it's not embarrassing or degrading. (Heck, more embarrassing yet would be sitting around my parents' house all day blogging about how broke I am.)

So I've taken the job and am working towards my goals with added zeal (and increased income, hallelujah!). I've survived the first weekend, so I think I'll be fine. It was tough, make no mistake. Mack runs a catering service on the side, and in addition to the café's dishes, I had all the catering trays and pots and pans and bowls to do. Saturday was ten hours and Sunday was eleven. Thank goodness for rubber gloves or the skin would've been sloughing off my dishpan hands.

So that took up Saturday and Sunday. The other thing that's been going on is...girls, dude.

I've gotten myself one.

Sorry ladies, the Postman is now taken. He's been reserved. Snatched up. Diverted by a wonderful lady. I'll call her Miss H. She's an old high-school friend. We had quite an amiable relationship in class, went our separate ways during college, and met up again one night back in August. What with one thing and another, we decided to go steady. So here we are, having a ball. We're an old-fashioned couple: we go to movies at the drive-in theater, sit out on hilltops and stargaze, or go prowling through used bookstores. We're both taking enormous pleasure in each other's company. I'm feeling much more sanguine about life in general since Miss H and I took up together, let me tell you. It's as though this void in the center of my chest has suddenly been filled up. Something's back in my life that's been gone for too long, and it's the grandest thing. She's a classy lady and a real kick to be around, cute as a button, easygoing all get-out, and shares a lot of my interests. What more could a guy ask for?

And last...did I tell you I sent a story off to Fantasy & Science Fiction? Well, I most certainly did. It's a 3,500-word humor/science fiction piece concerning two Earth astronauts who are trying to communicate with an alien life form—and failing miserably. Science believes that we may discover sentient crystalline life on exoplanets with odd geological makeups. So my question was, how would we communicate with them? How do you talk to a crystal? My two astronauts are trying some unusual methods: interpretive dance and impressionist art, for starters. If this story gets published, you'll see the results.

That's about the news. I've been trying to finish and finalize two of the other stories I've been working on, both much longer (in the novelette range, 10,000+ words). One of them needs to be rewritten; I've decided that this first draft is rather puerile and doesn't explore the themes fully enough. The second isn't finished, but I've got a handle on where it's going.

This just in: I had jury duty today, but I called up the automated hotline just a minute ago and it said it was canceled! So now I've got the rest of the day off, thank goodness. Looks like a busy week ahead, though. The chase program is finally starting up again on Thursday and there'll be another load of dishes to do on the weekend...but Miss H and I have a nice trip to the bookstore planned for later this afternoon. Maybe I'll pick up yet another forgotten sci-fi classic like The Escape Orbit. (Which, by the way, is turning into such an excellent work...the plot has gotten more convoluted than I ever would've imagined. Full review coming later.)

How's things been with you?

out of the doldrums

I'm reading a book called Race to the Pole by Sir Ranulph Fiennes. It's the last word on Robert F. Scott's ill-fated second expedition to the Antarctic. Scott and four companions made the South Pole, only to find they'd been beaten to the punch by the dastardly and deceitful Roald Amundsen. To add insult to injury, all five of them died on the way back to Ross Island and their ship, the Terra Nova. (That means "new land" in Latin, doncha know.)

Reading about people dying in the middle of a wasteland (and ships getting stuck in ice) has made me think a lot about my own situation. I'd love to be off on my next adventure, giving Indiana Jones a run for his money, plumbing unexplored territory and discovering new lands. But I'm a bit stuck. There's a few things to finish, and some money to save; then I can go. In the meantime, I'm stuck in the pack ice. I'm working my way out of it with patience and tact, but it still seems like I'm in the slump of my life here.

And as a very intelligent man once wrote, "un-slumping yourself is not easily done."

But it seems that, after a full year of stagnation, during which I have accomplished practically nothing (except for finishing a novel, becoming a travel writer, acquiring a bartender's certificate and nearly polishing off a pilot's license), things are finally about to pick up.

There've been a few new developments. I'm taking some proactive steps to improve my situation (and hasten my eventual departure from said slump). There've been a few other things that have happened of their own accord, too, which stand to shake things up around here in the coming weeks.

Let's begin with the latest:

Dawg (Boss #3), lately returned from Colombia, has informed us that the Reno Air Races are coming up in mid-September.

And we're all invited.

I'm going to the air races.

Stop a moment and consider what that means to me. You know how plane-crazy I am. I'm not the most die-hard enthusiast you'll meet, and I could be doing a lot more to familiarize myself with the mechanics of engines and the principles of flight. I'm not yet a professional aviator.
But I do like airplanes, as you've probably guessed. I go absolutely nuts when I smell a warbird in the vicinity. And there's a great many civil aircraft that can make me go ga-ga as well. Air races are the province of some of the fastest, most nimble, most sporty airplanes in existence, moreover. And I'll be going to one of the most well-known and prestigious races of them all, the last bastion of the world's fastest motor sport. The Reno Air Races (formally known as the National Championship Air Races) includes the Unlimited class of aircraft, which apparently "consists almost entirely of both modified and stock World War II aircraft [which] routinely reach speeds in excess of 400 miles per hour." Some of these beasts (like September Fury, pictured above) look like they were plucked right from TaleSpin or a comic book about air pirates.

Hot. Diggity. DAMN.

I was about eight years old the last time I was involved with anything resembling a race. The vehicles were seven inches long, 2¾ inches wide, weighed no more than five ounces, and were made of pinewood.

Reno is going to be an absolute blast.

Go ahead and turn green, suckers.

Moving on...

More about what I'm doing to un-slump myself: my father recently informed me (in a nonchalant sort of way) that I have a mutual fund sitting in the pipeline. It was created soon after my birth and has endured nearly 24 years of stock market ups and downs. It's not enough to retire on, certainly, but it'll take care of the urgent things on my to-do-before-I-go-to-Spain-or-Australia list: namely, car repairs and pilot's licensing.
I think I'm going to use it for car repairs. Those could potentially cost more than $700, which is the amount I've budgeted for finishing my pilot's license. I'll knock off new shocks, new tires, new brakes and new coolant with my mutual fund and use my next paycheck to kill off the pilot's license.

And then, ladies and gentlemen...there will be nothing holding me here. I can gallivant off to a far corner of the globe, or procure any decent radio job in the Western United States and finally move out of my parents' house.

I'll let you know what I decide. This should all be resolved within the month. As of September 1, 2010, you shall be privy to the doings of Postman, the pilot (and owner of an upgraded 1995 Jeep Cherokee).

If you want to hear some writing updates, here they are:

My good buddy Nick, whom I met in college, a student of animation and visual design, who is currently working for a private animation studio near Orlando, Florida (and, with any luck, will soon be moving to Blue Sky Animation, the folks who brought you Despicable Me)...

Well, he got in touch with me a few weeks ago. We'd been in and out of contact since graduation, but never routinely. Out of the blue he dropped me a line. Prior to this, I'd talked with him at length about my novel idea, and he was very intrigued. So intrigued, in fact, that he asked me to send him some stuff and he'd draw up some sketches and pictures.

Awesome.

I'd been stressing about finding an artist for my comic book, worrying myself sick over procuring one that I could rely on and work well with. And then BAM, an old friend whom I know and trust offers me his services, which I already know to be top-flight.

Sometimes I get so lucky I feel almost ashamed.

Anyway, not much had come of that arrangement, but Nick and I renewed the promise over the phone. That was the purpose of his call, in fact. That, and to catch up. He's a good guy. He's had some hard times out there in Florida. One of the studios he was working for got shut down for want of money, which was a pity, because Nick really enjoyed what he was doing there. He's been getting by with freelancing and semi-regular work for Campus Crusade for Christ. He's been offered a half-year contract with CRU, and he's taken 'em up on it for the time being. But he's sent out applications to a half-dozen other studios, and has his eye on the aforementioned Blue Sky.

In the meantime, he said he had time to illustrate my stuff! So I said, "Heck yes! I'll send you some character bios and outlines right away."

And so I did. Nick and I are meeting every Monday evening now on Skype to exchange ideas and material (and catch up with each other's lives). It's incredible. Feels like the dream is coming alive, seeing my characters and settings leap into vibrant existence, born of Nick's pencils and pens and agile mind. His work is more than I could have hoped for. We have slightly different visions of the world I'm creating, of course, but that's what our meetings are for: to hash out those disparities and come to mutual agreement, exchange thoughts on character and detail, and just build the series from the ground up.

We're just doing it for fun, of course; neither of us is anywhere near being ready to find an outlet for this yet. Heck, I haven't even gotten the novel published (though my novelist cousin is finished reading it, and is sending it to me next week; she wrote in her e-mail "GOOD JOB!" I think she liked it!).

But when we are ready to go public with this...well, shoot. We'll have the groundwork laid already.

One last thing. My first science fiction novelette is pretty much edited. I'm handing it over to a friend tomorrow to proof, and then I'm [gulp] sending it to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, double-spaced, formatted and numbered, with a self-addressed stamped envelope and my little fingers crossed.

I should have lots of news for you in two weeks...stay tuned.

P.S. You know, I worry about these posts. Sometimes I think I'm going to bore you guys to tears with all of this crap. The doubts, the obstacles, the struggles, the triumphs, the baby steps forward. Posts like this grate on my nerves sometimes. Jeez, aren't there enough people in the world who are going to make me feel insecure without me making myself feel that way? I'm not a whiner, I'm a winner! C'mon, Postman, buck up!

But remember, I'm reading about Robert F. Scott. And in Race to the Pole, I learned that for all his brilliance, tact, courage, stamina, and fortitude, Scott was about as insecure as I am. He constantly blamed himself for making stupid mistakes, not doing enough to correct his personal flaws, his inherent lack of willpower, his physical frailty (he couldn't stand the sight of blood), and failing to live up to his personal standards. He got on his own case even when others praised him. After he'd accomplished a great deal, Scott still fell into depressed moods, feeling inferior to those around him. Even the fortune-teller could see that this maudlin melancholy was part of Scott's personality.

So now all of a sudden I don't feel so bad about waxing pathetic all the time.

If one of the most famous explorers in history got away with it, what's to stop me?

If I ever buy a boat, I'm calling it Terra Nova.