Wednesday, September 29, 2010

crime and publishment

Saturday was my twenty-fourth birthday. I had a marvelous time, despite working an eleven-hour shift at the airport café during the airshow. No matter. Somehow I managed to get home, recuperate, and host a grand cocktail party which lasted until the wee hours of the morning.

Having finally subdued the hangover, I now reflect on what I've accomplished in life so far.

It looks as though I've done nearly everything I wanted to do before the age of twenty-five. I've acquired a college degree, lived in a foreign country, gotten drunk on absinthe, published some travel articles, learned how to tend bar, and (as of last Monday) earned a private pilot's certificate.

(Miss H and I are going to Disneyland sometime in October, so that will soon be off the to-do list as well.) 

Only one accomplishment remains. I still need to get published.

I don't need to publish my novel before I'm 25. I'm cool with that. But I would like to land on Planet Fiction before I'm a quarter of a century old. Just to prove to myself that I can do it, you know. Get in there while I'm still young. Make my mark. Publish a short story or three.

So I'm writing sci-fi stories like mad, and have already submitted one to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, as you'll recall. Some of these stories are pretty long: ten thousand words or more, well into novelette range. 

Fortunately, there are still plenty of magazines out there that publish works of that length.

I'm going to pick up the pace over the next few days. I've decided I need to try harder at this, even despite working six days a week and entertaining a lady friend. There's no reason not to. I can easily set aside an hour or so every day for this. The only thing that separates me from all those sci-fi authors I admire so much (Robert A. Heinlein, L. Sprague de Camp, Isaac Asmiov, John W. Campbell, Jr., H.G. Wells, and many more) is persistence.

The way I see it, writing is a lot like acting. Most of the work is done before you become famous. You have to lay the groundwork before you attain any kind of notoriety, or even success: writing dozens, hundreds of stories and sending them to every publication and periodical you can find. It's exhausting work, costs a mint in postage, and requires diligence, patience, and determination.

You have to have the determination (and the stamina) to write those hundreds of stories and revise them until they're suitable for publication. If your schedule is busy, then you need to set aside time to write and submit, too, just like you would to exercise or play fetch with the dog. No excuses. I don't care if you have to cut your teatime short by five minutes. Make sure you're writing and submitting at least an hour a day. You can find that much time, no matter who you are or how frenetic your day is. I know a lot of writers who work nine-to-five jobs and come home exhausted every evening. When do they write? On their lunch breaks. It's getting yourself into the proper state of mind, that's all. It's not a matter of whether you can do it. It's a matter of when

You have to have the diligence to package your submissions the way the magazine wants you to: typically, Courier font, double spacing, numbered pages and word counts. Trust me, this is worth your time. The worst thing you can do when submitting a story is fail to format your submission correctly, especially when the submission guidelines are often readily available on the publication's web page. The guidelines are there for a reason. They make your submission more professional in appearance, as well as render it easier for an editor to read. This just might help you find out whether you're being published sooner—not to mention give you a better shot at being published, period. No editor's going to have the time or the willpower to try and decipher a single-spaced, thirty-page manuscript written in an undecipherable font in the colors of the rainbow.

Finally, you must have the patience to wait the requisite 4-8 weeks to find out whether your submission is suitable for publication. Many editors are swamped these days, thanks to an ever-growing population of wannabe writers. They're not going to look more charitably upon your work if you badger them all the time querying the status of your story. Working tirelessly on stories (every day, folks, every day: you want to keep your hand in, don't you?) and shotgunning them across the fiction universe (making sure, however, that you follow individual publications' respective submission requirements to the letter) also takes patience. Just remember, you're not going to be an overnight success. Most latter-day critics agree that Herman Melville wrote some of the best stories in the English language, and yet he was highly unappreciated in his time. Most of the stuff he wrote, which today is venerated by literati, was a flash in the pan back in the 19th century. Melville himself worked as a customs inspector most of his life, just to make ends meet. He never made enough to support himself on his writing alone. Chances are, neither will you. There's no harm in trying, though. You have to write a lot, submit a lot, and wait a lot in this game. Write, submit, and wait. Make sure you do a little of all three, every single day. Slacking is a crime punishable by death—or worse, life in obscurity. Slackers never get published (unless they write for IGN).

Remember, if you keep up the fight and don't let your writing slide, and keep up a steady stream of submissions, publishment will be yours. It may take a while, yes. The process may be tedious, yes. The flood of rejection slips will be heartbreaking, yes. But persistence is key. I heard that Sylvia Plath submitted one story to the New Yorker at least 30 times before they finally published it. If she'd quit after 29 tries, would she ever have succeeded?

Like former Vice President Dan Quayle once said, "If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure."

Persist and you will find what you seek. Such is true of every literary hero, no matter what side of the page they're on, no?

And when you do get published...celebrate. Do a happy dance. Eat something unhealthy. Watch a fatuous TV show. Buy 582 Slim Jims. Reward yourself for your persistence. Go ahead and relax. You earned it.




British barbecue blues

There was hardly any time to breathe, let alone detoxify, after Jeff and I returned to Newcastle from Ireland on the 17th of June, 2010.

We had a barbecue to prepare.

Being guests from the colonies, we thought we'd repay our kindly English hosts by throwing them a little bash. Jeff and I would put our heads together and bring the best of our backyard party skills to the fore. I'd grill up some ribs and hamburgers and Jeff would do his famous cornflake potatoes, with some other side-dishes thrown in.

It sounded good on paper. How it actually turned out is something else altogether.

Adam took Jeff and I down to Morrison's (the big grocery store) the evening of the 17th to get all the ingredients we'd need...including the charcoal, and even the barbecue itself. Adam's mum didn't have one, you see. Living within spitting distance of the North Sea, she doesn't have cause to grill outdoors very often. They have that stuff out in England called rain, you see. I don't know exactly what it is, but I guess it has something to do with water coming out of the sky. I have a difficult time imagining such a miraculous phenomenon, but I can see how it would make fire-starting difficult.

So we picked up the goods, lugged 'em back to Adam's mum's house in a taxi, and set about getting the preliminary preparations done. I assembled the new grill myself, which I'm rather proud of. I'm not the most mechanically able, but give me enough time (and mulligans) and I'm usually able to work it all out. I got it done just before dark (at 11:00 p.m.) and we all sat around having a few beers and admiring the thing. It was the same shape as a typical tripod grill (wheels, tray, big black pot with a round lid, etc.) but about half the size. You had to stoop to flip anything grilling on it. It was about the size of the grill on the left in the picture below, here:


Again, I wish I could show you my own pictures (this one's from Wikipedia), but I have none. I think I tried to take some photos of the grill I assembled, but by that time it was dark and the pictures came out unrecognizably blurred and obscure.

We had a marginally decent night's sleep that night. When you get the bunch of us together—A, E, Jeff, and me, not to mention E's friend M—well, we have a tendency to bounce of each other and egg each other on, and what was supposed to be "a few drinks" and "an early bedtime" turns into yet another late-night lesson in debauchery.

The day arrived, and after an eleventh-hour dash to Morrison's for some forgotten ingredients, all was in readiness. The ribs had been seasoned and rubbed, the charcoal was resting comfortably in the tiny grill, the burger patties were lovingly shaped and patted down. Jeff, with E's help, had already mixed up and baked his cornflake potatoes, the recipe for which I shall not include because it is a sacred H_______ family heirloom, and to divulge it would bring the wrath of all Canada down on my head.

Just kidding.

Anyway, Jeff's preparations were now done, and he joined the rapidly growing crowd of guests in their cans of Carlson while I flitted between the kitchen and the backyard.

Things were not going as planned. I had two five-pound bags of charcoal at my disposal. The first one burned far too hot. Seriously, the burgers were being instantly charred. That was all well and good if I'd been preparing only the burgers, but I was trying to put together a whole course of meat dishes here. I only had one extra bag of charcoal and this one was burning up too fast. I was only able to dish up about five or six burgers before the heat died completely.

British barbecue: 1
Postman: 0


Daunted by a fast burn and low heat retention (on the part of the grill itself), I was determined not to lose to the second bag. I readied the remaining burgers and ribs, lit the last load of charcoal and prepared for some heavy action.

None came.

The second batch was far too cool. The inferno of the first bag never materialized. The second bag was slow to ignite and when it finally did burn, it was cool enough that I could place a finger on the bare metal of the grill lid and not be burned. The ribs and burgers just sat there, not even cooking, as pink as they'd been at the supermarket.

I was eventually forced to move the uncooked meat from the useless grill and finish it off in the kitchen oven.

Oh, the humiliation.

British barbecue: 2
Postman: 0


I did get a consolation prize. Everyone enjoyed the burgers, and even more so the ribs. Though I was slightly dilatory in serving up the goods, the assembled guests complimented my grilling prowess, and even commiserated with me.

"It's a British barbecue, mate," said N (one of Adam's friends), as if that explained everything.

Jeff's cornflake potatoes were by far the most popular thing on the menu, but we won't talk about that. I can't have it said that a Canadian served up a tastier dish at a barbecue than an American, can I?

Way to upstage me there, Jeff old pal.

Anyway, we made a jolly night of it. Once the cooking was done I was able to sit down, relax, enjoy a burger and a beer, and yell at the TV along with the rest of the guys as the English World Cup team played to a somewhat embarrassing 0-0 draw with Algeria. (The ladies sat outside with a bottle of wine, sharing some much-needed girl talk. Jeff joined them, but we won't talk about that either.)

After the game we all got drunk and partied until the wee hours of the morning.

Pretty good day overall, I guess.