| Self-Destructive (For Angela) |
[Jun. 29th, 2006|09:15 am] |
Life is a buffet table.
Pay attention now and don't get distracted. This is important.
There are two kinds of people in the world. The first approaches the buffet table with a caution which borders on trepidation. On their small plate they carry a half-dozen toothpicks. They meander around the room, taking a serpentine path toward the spread, talking to people they both know and don't know in the finest tradition of avoidance. When they finally arrive at the table, they remove a small card from their pocket (most likely a nutritional guide) and then carefully stab one or two of the most unoffending offerings with the previously mentioned toothpicks. When they run out of toothpicks, they scurry away from the table and wipe the sweat from their brow with the corner edge of their carefully folded linen napkin.
Then there's the other kind of person. They fulltiltboogie up to the table, elbow people out of the way (causing many calorie-counting/point/carb index/fat content cards to hit the floor) and grab up fistfulls of whatever looks best, or interesting, or colorful, or greasy or sweet or burnyourtongueoff delicious. They then stuff both fistfulls of food in their mouth, run down the table and grab some more. When they're done, they puke it all up and go back for more.
When the first type of person encounters the second, they invariably have the perfect label for them (as this type usually does): Self-destructive.
Now, in all fairness, the first type of person will probably live longer. They'll get invited to more dinner parties (after all, who wants someone around who'll shove their hands into the food) and they'll lift their chins slightly whenever they talk about a person of the second type. But then again, they'll live longer in the most boring fashion, the dinner parties they attend will be uninteresting, and occassionaly when lifting their chins a bird will shit squarely on their forehead.
I'm the second type of person. So is my incredible daughter. Her mother is the first.
So Angela, next time your mother calls you self-destructive, have a box of toothpicks handy to give her. Then go to the fridge and steal the cheesecake she's got hidden behind the non-fat carton of milk.
Eat life. Don't let it eat you.
And remember, when someone calls you self-destructive, it's usually an expression of jealousy and fear.
Neither one of which you inherited. |
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| SF Review |
[Apr. 1st, 2006|10:13 am] |
Nice to get a good one for a change. SF Review has this to say about "Ten With a Flag." :
Another story I rated Very Good was "Ten With a Flag" by Joseph Paul Haines. In this future, unborn babies are rated for their future potential as are all who are alive. A young couple who are sixes is told their unborn son is a 10 but that something has caused a 'flag' to be assigned to him that gives them the option to terminate the pregnancy. How this plays out makes for a chilling tale. |
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| Ten? Things I've Learned About/From Writing |
[Mar. 31st, 2006|06:41 am] |
We'll see if I get to ten. :-)
1. Research is for versimilitude. Never confuse it with story.
2. A writer's ego is a fragile thing. Protect it. If you happen to read a bad review of your work, read it only once. Listening to the good things, though, is twice as important as listening to the bad. You're going to remember the bad things said about your writing no matter what. The good things you have to work to remember.
3. You're better than you think you are.
4. You're not as good as you think you are.
5. It doesn't matter that you know how you're going to finish a story. What's important is that you start it. The ending will make itself known to you, but only if you don't sit around and wait for it to appear. The worst that can happen is that the story doesn't sell.
6. Everyone has an opinion on how you should write, particularly non-writers. Being a writer means constantly having to prove your talent to people who have none.
7. Never pronounce a story, "the best thing you've ever written," as soon as you finish it. It isn't.
8. Never think that your story is complete crap. It isn't.
9. Never talk down about your own work. There are plenty of people in the world who will do that for you. Don't become one of them.
10. Genre is a marketing tool. If you think about genre when you're writing a story, you're a monkey. Write your story and let someone else figure out how to market it. You're the writer, not the ad agency.
(Guess I made it after all, and with more to go!)
11. If you obsess about outstanding submissions, the best cure is to go write another story.
12. Find a support group. Other writers work best. You're going to need it. But don't let their neurosis become your own.
13. "Less art, more substance!" Don't become so enamored with your own prose stylings that you forget that there's a story you are trying to tell.
14. None of this will help you. When the day is over, it's still you and the blank page. Remember that the blank page is your friend; the act of writing is why you do this. The publications, the reviews, the awards . . .they'll not matter two months down the road. You'll still be there, sitting in front of your computer and fighting with the words. Friends will move. Your girlfriend will dump you. You'll get fat, get skinny again, and get sick. But the blank page will never go away. Learn to love it. Learn to appreciate the very potential of it. Then, go fill the potential.
Enough. :-) |
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| Quick Update |
[Mar. 29th, 2006|09:37 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Nothing, but circus music is running through my head . . . | ] |
Well, I'm down to 288 from 296, and I really only started the diet last Monday. So, I can't comlain about 8 pounds in ten days.
I snuck on the scale this morning even though it wasn't weigh-in day.
And, I probably won't be posting again until this weekend at the earliest. I'm in the middle of writing a story for an invitation anthology and it's due by the 31st. The story is fantasy/humor, and it feels really good to chuckle while writing. It's been too long since I allowed myself to play like this. It will probably be finished tomorrow morning, but well, you know. Better to plan on more time than less.
Other than that, just a lot of work and writing going on in this neck of the woods.
And how are you? |
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| Justifications are more important than sex |
[Mar. 23rd, 2006|08:28 am] |
And if you don't believe it, try going a week without a justification.
I'm reminded of this particular piece of wisdom by an entry I read over at the Rumor Mill today. A writer, who signed in anonymously, had their story rejected by The New Yorker in just around five minutes. This writer further went on to state that it was good to see that the story was duly considered before being rejected, and that the lesson had been learned that this was obviously a closed market unless you were a "BIG NAME." (Cue echo effect.)
Well I say bully for them. Perhaps they'll go on to further learn that all markets are closed markets and to stop wasting their time by submitting anywhere. Cuz, I mean, it's not like quality fiction _ever_ gets published on its own merits. No, absolutely not. If you don't have an agent or you don't have the new first name of "New York Times Bestselling Author," or you're not meeting the editor of Sweeney's every Thursday at Tavern on the Green for lunch, then why would anyone possibly buy your story?
Just because Ray Bradbury continues to submit to The New Yorker and has yet, in all of his years of writing, to sell them a story shouldn't be any indication that this is a difficult market for anydamnedbody. This writer's career is firmly in the hands of others, and there's no real escape.
Good.
If there's one thing I can't stand it's ignorance when information is readily available. This business is so populated with nonsensical myths. If you don't use Courier, it's an automatic rejection. If you don't have an agent, you'll never sell a novel. Short story collections don't sell. Editors remember it if you send them a bad story and won't give your next story a second look. No one ever gets out of the slush pile in the New York houses. If you write four novels a year, or gasp! even more, then you can't be writing anything good. A story must be rewritten at least six times or it can't possibly sell.
And the best one, in my opinion, is that you are in the control of forces larger than yourself. So you see, it isn't your fault that no one is buying your stories. Uncle Jim and Aunt Jane and Grandma McReedy love your stuff, so the only reason it's not selling is because they JUST DON'T LIKE YOU, DAMNIT.
Okay, here's the truth:
The only thing that will get your story rejected is that it is the wrong story for the wrong magazine at the wrong time.
Period. End of discussion. Now this, of course, assumes that you've worked and studied and written written written until you were blue in the face and can produce a coherent sentence.
Let's look at some of the other myths above:
1. If you don't use courier, it's an automatic rejection. Feh. Dean Wesley Smith recently made that comment that in all the years he's been editing Strange New Worlds--over 18k manuscripts--he's noticed font NOT ONCE. Courier is safe, and there's nothing wrong with that. But if you sent it in Times New Roman, it's not going to get stuffed in an envelope and sent back to you without the same glance than another ms. will get. Use proper manuscript format, yes, and DO use a font that is easy on the editor's eyes. If you're using TNR, there's nothing wrong with using 13 pt. It's about the editor's comfort, not dogma. Your story's strength will get you rejected or accepted.
2. If you don't have an agent, you'll never get published. Double Feh. Look, the way to get the kind of agent your really want is to get an offer _first_. Then, when you get that phone call, when the editor says, "We like it, we want it, let's talk," you thank them and instruct them that your agent will call back within twenty-four hours. Then, you get on the horn with your list of dream agents--you have been studying the market, haven't you?--and tell them about the offer and ask if they'd be willing to negotiate the sale for you with an eye toward permanent representation. Um, you're walking in the door with a quality product at this point. You're offering a percentage of a done deal! Even if they don't want to represent you further than this particular book, they're going to suggest others who will. So stop worrying about the issue. Spend your energy writing a great book.
3. Short story collections don't sell. Well, not if there isn't a market for you as a writer. Short story collections are items for later, not now. Doug Lain and Tim Pratt both have collections on the market, as well as Mike Jasper and a number of other great writers without huge names. But they write great fiction. Great fiction sells. Are you recognizing a pattern yet?
4. Editors remember if you send them a bad story. Jeez, obsess much? Okay, here's the deal: Any editor that's been around longer than three weeks is barely going to remember the GOOD stories they've read. Why would they possibly remember the bad? As a new writer, it may surprise you to know that you are the worst judge of the quality of your own fiction. Don't prejudge your story. Put it in the mail. Let the editor decide. You might be surprised.
Okay, that's enough. But are you really paying attention? You can hold onto your myths if you want. That's fine. I won't complain. Anything that makes editing easier on those brave souls who do the job is just hunky-dory by me. You know, quicker turn-around times for me. I like that.
I fully expect that I'll get a bunch of argument about this post.
After all, justifications are more important than sex. |
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| Gryffyn's Home |
[Mar. 16th, 2006|08:55 am] |
Well, I stepped outside this morning and lo and behold, my cat was standing in my neighbor's yard. He was just staring at me, wondering . . .well, whatever cats that have been on their own for the last three days wonder.
It was something of a shock. I had just about given up hope that he'd make his way home. I grabbed a pouch of his food from the kitchen and went back outside. Usually, Gryffyn will come running whenever I shake the pouch. He knows the sound of nummies. This time, however, he just stood and stared.
So I broke out the big guns. I plugged the electric can opener into the outlet nearest the back door and started it running. While the sound of a pouch of food being opened means nummies, the electric can opener means tuna, and that means super-duper-nummified Gryffyn treat.
But still, no dice.
He finally ran and hid under the neighbor's deck and stayed there. I called his name. He returned my calls with plaintive meows.
Finally, after three seperate trips this morning, I ventured into the neighbor's yard with a plate of food. Covering twenty feet in a period of five minutes, I crept closer until I was about five feet away.
It was if a lightbulb went off over his head. He looked up, and with a meow that I swear sounded like, "Daddy!" he walked right over to me.
Gryffyn is now inside. He's eaten, hit the litter box, and sluffed off upstairs to sleep.
But my little boy is home. He's safe, he's fed and he's warm.
Sigh.
No matter what else happens today, it's a good day. |
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| Black Cat, White Stripe |
[Mar. 13th, 2006|07:59 am] |
So I guess this is a Monday morning after all.
I step outside this morning on to my back porch, and see two skunks playing around in my back yard. Now, I live in the suburbs of Cleveland, and being generous, there is an entire eight feet or so between houses. Now understand, it's a good neighborhood and it's still quiet despite being cramped, but I never, ever thought I'd see skunks in my back yard.
So I did what any normal person would do. I called my wife over to the door to have her verify that I was not, in fact, still asleep.
No such luck. Two skunks really were playing in the flowerbed.
Okay, no problem. I'll just go inside, shut the door and let them go away, right?
Well . . .
I turn around, and Gryffyn, my indoor cat, my lovely cat that's absolutely terrified of anything not in his immediate knowledge base; my indoor, terrified cat that runs from loud noises, is standing on the porch with me. He'd slipped out while I wasn't looking and his attention is completely focused on said skunks.
Okay, it could have been worse. Gryffyn could have run over and decided to play. Gryffyn could have decided that they were interlopers in his domain and attacked. Instead, he just ran off the porch and decided that today was a wonderful day to break his previous phobia of being outside and run off.
That was about an hour ago. Still haven't seen my cat.
But he's out there, somewhere, playing in the warm near-spring air, with two skunks running around the neighborhood.
I hear that tomato juice works wonder for getting rid of the smell.
Just planning, is all.
What a start to the week. |
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| Maybe Ralph Ellison wasn't just speaking of skin color . . . |
[Mar. 9th, 2006|11:45 am] |
It's amazing how realizations can hit all at once.
I was standing outside today before work, and this guy walks by and asks, "You have an extra dime?"
Now, living in working in downtown Cleveland and previous to that, downtown Seattle, I've grown accustomed to being hit up for cash. I almost don't even see the person anymore. I just make up some excuse about having no cash on me or just having spent my last bit and immediately go back into my own little world of thought.
And that's the thing, isn't it? I've been in my own little world. I've treated anyone outside my comfort sphere as phantoms. Someone needs help, I just ignore the fact and move on. Just another Ellisonian invisible man taking up a precious moment of my day.
When did I grow so cold? At what point did I just give up on the feelings or needs of others and focus on my little existence to the point of disrespect? Is it possible that my own feelings of being ignored are somehow tied up in the fact that I ignore everyone else? Am I so enraptured with my own quest for respect that I can't give anyone else the respect I practically demand?
Thing is, see, I had three bucks in my wallet. I had lunch upstairs, brought from home and I just got paid today. It would have been nothing to give this guy a buck or two.
Absolutely nothing.
And maybe that's what's creating my own nothing.
Food for thought. |
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| Warm Fuzzies |
[Mar. 8th, 2006|12:04 pm] |
Angela Challis, editor of Shadowed Realms, was recently interviewed and had this to say in her conversation:
"Unfortunately though, these three components rarely (extremely rarely) arrive hand-in-hand. I have published a number of tales that exemplify strong writing and an engaging story, but so far, only three have managed to capture the unsettling style of horror I seek -- amazingly, they were all less than 650 words long.
I suspect it will be a long time before another author impresses me to the extent that Charles Richard Lange did with his story, Asking Questions. Lange conveyed a tale of every increasing horror -- each new sentence introducing a deeper level of the protagonist's perversity -- and he did this without a hint of gore ... and only 195 words.
In 649 words, Triad in the Key of Lies by Joseph Paul Haines masterfully highlighted the horrors of obsession and overwhelming guilt.
In Congo Jenga, Shane Jiraiya Cummings proves once and for all that size doesn't count. All it took was 434 words for him to leave the reader feeling violated with this classic piece of blunt horror. By all accounts, the squirm factor was felt by every brain it buried into."
That'll make your day.
The story can be found at Shadowed Realms |
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| Much Better |
[Mar. 7th, 2006|08:13 am] |
It's amazing the difference a day can make.
Once you make positive choices in your life--once you make the actual, honest-to-god decision--it can have an incredible effect on your outlook.
Thank you all for your words of encouragement. It's good to know that friends like you are possible.
Sat down and watched a recorded episode of "Battlestar Galactica," last night and now I feel completely dense. I just realized that they're retelling Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_. Mary Shelley's book is one of my favorite novels of all time, and it's good to see that the themes of good and evil and the desire for redemption not only haven't been lost, but are still as valid as the day that nineteen year old girl first set pen to paper. I'll write more about this later.
For now, if you aren't watching this show, kick yourself twice for me and then start.
Until next. |
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| A New Beginning |
[Mar. 6th, 2006|08:29 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  embarrassed | ] |
Had a scare this last week. You know, one of those dreams that wakes you up wondering how many more times you're going to wake up before one day, quite unexpectedly, you don't.
Well friends, it's the kind of dream that makes you realize that your life is something of a nightmare in its own right.
(If pure self-examination is more than you can take, please move on. You don't want to read what's coming next.)
Let's take honest stock: (and please, no comments telling me, "Oh no, Joseph, you're quite mistaken . . . I'm being completely honest here with you and myself for the first time in a long while. While I appreciate your support, I don't need to be coddled.)
I'm in the worst physical shape of my life. I got on the scale this morning and weighed in at a whopping 296.4 pounds while sporting 46.4% of the weight as body fat. I don't have any problems walking around . . .yet, but I do get weary quite easily. I just turned 39 and that kind of weight simply isn't wise in someone my age. Hell, it's not wise in someone ANY age. My hair is going--thanks Mom and Dad--and to tell the simple truth, I'm turning into the ultimate old, balding, fat-guy joke. My sex life isn't in any way healthy because of it. When you simply don't have the stamina to work all day and spend some time to yourself and still have a sex life, something has got to change. To make matters worse, when you put on the kind of weight I have (I'm six feet tall, btw) you begin to notice a certain shortening of available assets. You want to talk about a bad joke? Let's not even talk about the effects of poor circulation.
You were warned I was being brutally honest.
As far as my writing goes, I'm a semi-pro at best. I've worked and written and done what I can, but my skills simply aren't there yet to compete with the big boys. I've had some good sales, but this is as far as I'll go unless I work on getting better. So I'm going to cut my production down to a story a month for the rest of the year and spend time studying the techniques and writing of those who are better than me. If I really want to make a career of writing, I have to be able to compete with the top 10% of all published writers, and I'm not there yet.
I started Atkins and a work-out regimen this morning. And PLEASE, no long-winded lectures about Atkins. It works for me, and my genetics are such that even at this weight my cholesterol numbers are better than some vegetarians. I'm also lucky that during my last physical my doctor looked at my cholesterol numbers and my heart readings and in essence said, "You're one lucky son-of-a-bitch." He even made me come back three times to retest the cholesterol levels because he didn't believe the readings the first two times.
So why am I posting such dirty laundry?
Easy. I need your help. Even if you never say a word, I'll know I've got to give the weekly results of my weigh-in and my study notes to you. Every Monday I'll post my weight, my body-fat and what I've done to improve my writing. Feel free to get on my back if I don't make progress. I'll spare you my before pictures until such a time as I can show you the after pictures as well.
I'd like to have a career as a writer, but I'd also like it to be a long career, if you get my drift. I don't want people to ever say, "but he was so young."
Thank you all for being here. It means a great deal to me. |
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| Additional Cool |
[Feb. 22nd, 2006|08:42 am] |
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As if selling a story to Interzone wasn't cool enough, now I find out that my story is being illustrated by Martin Bland. That's enough to make a guy smile for a month or so . . . |
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| Nice Company |
[Feb. 18th, 2006|07:41 am] |
 Interzone #203, with my story, "Ten with a Flag," has gone to press. To say I'm thrilled to have my story included is an understatement, particularly with the company I'm keeping in this issue. |
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| Bulletproof Monk |
[Feb. 17th, 2006|08:10 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  relieved | ] |
Dodged a bullet I did.
As previously reported, I accepted the position on the other side of the company. The position I turned down--the management position--wasn't scheduled to happen until the end of the first quarter. My manager promised me the position was mine when it opened then if I wanted it.
Well, he was fired yesterday. He and a young lady who worked directly beneath him. (And yes, I just chose my words very carefully so you can draw your own conclusions.) So had I waited for the management position and turned down the other promotion, today I'd be holding a bag full of worthless promises.
I need to sit down now.
Thanks to everyone for the congrats and good wishes. It means a lot. |
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| Decision |
[Feb. 16th, 2006|07:32 am] |
I did the smart thing. I took the new position. I wasn't challenged where I was and even as a supervisor I'd have stagnated. With the new position there's much more opportunity for career advancement not to mention that I'll be learning every day. I like that.
If I'd stayed in my current position--even as a supervisor--it would have been for comfort only, and I'm not going to let fear make my decisions for me.
Once I made the decision, the excitement followed. I'll be working with title professionals again and that's a good thing. The customer service side is moving toward a call center environment, and for cryin' out loud I don't need that kind of working environment.
So, decision made. Wish me luck. |
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| Tough Decisions |
[Feb. 15th, 2006|08:02 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  confused | ] |
A real beauty today . . .
I've been offered two positions within my company. Both are promotions. I have until 5 p.m. today to decide which I'll take.
One is a supervisor position for the job I'm currently working. One is a position within a new branch of the company. I'm happy where I'm at, mind you, and the supervisory position will solve some of the lingering problems I have with work. But if I take the new position, there's much more opportunity for career advancement within the company. I'll be constantly busy and I'd actually be utilizing my skills there. I'm overqualified for the position which I currently have, but it's comfortable and I like the people I work with. I've developed relationships with our customers and I'd miss the interaction with them. There's something to be said about being the "go-to" guy.
Were I a corporate climber, I'd snap up the new position in a heartbeat. But I'm not. I'm a writer. My day job is what I do to pay the bills. Yet there is a part of me that feels as if it would be irresponsible not to take the new position. I'd be in a place where my skills would be highlighted to the right people within the company.
But I don't know how much I'd enjoy the position. It's impossible to tell without actually working it.
I've got until 5 p.m.
I'm still not sure what I'm going to do. I'll let you know. |
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| Hello! |
[Feb. 14th, 2006|08:38 am] |
Okay, I've made the switch.
There are a number of reasons I've decided to move over to LiveJournal from Journalscape--none of which have to do with the quality of Journalscape, mind you--but the end result is that this is my new blog page.
See you around! |
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