Serialization and Business Models

in which our author is pinned between his wallet and his dreams

The fine folks over at Pimp My Novel (I'm sorry, I have forgotten the author's name and don't know if they'd appreciate being called "Mr. Pimp") have posted an excellent entry on the return of serialization and the possibility of low-priced short stories as a valid business model.

I am intrigued by these ideas, and wish to subscribe to their newsletter.

More specifically, I am wondering if there is something here for me; if maybe I can pull off the kind of business model they are describing with some of my short works, for just $1 or $2—not the kind of prices that'd let me quit my job and buy an island, but the sort that would help me build a fanbase, or have some numbers to spit at possible agents and publishers. I'm not sure if this is worth it, but I tell myself that the worst that happens is I waste a couple hours determining that it's fiscally infeasible.

What does this mean for you? Well, it might mean you get bugged about buying stuff off Amazon in a week or two, or start seeing Amazon buttons in the sidebar off to our right. Also for now it means one or two stories are coming down from the "Selected Writings" section while I go over the old contracts for them and see if they'd be viable candidates for said small-ticket sales. They may just get popped right back up to the Interwebs, but we'll see, on all counts. Rest assured you will be kept updated, my loyal fans and constant readers.

Time to roll the dice, I guess. Let's hope for boxcars.

Not Providence: Better Really Late than Really Never

I'm nearly an hour late with the update, and I have no excuse but troubled sleep and a sudden surge of work. The good news is, the update has occurred, and Book Two Part Two is ready for your perusal. I call this one "Conspiracy and Cancer Similes". Blame the Burroughs.

The Power of Parties

Saturday was a party for a dear old friend, one of those college remnants who never saw fit to leave my life; and so I found myself taking the long train-trek to Berkeley, to Philip K. Dick's old house, to enjoy home-cooked food with an acupuncturist and a zombie burlesque dancer. Call it "Awesome by Proxy".





And lo, it was awesome.

The first hour was meeting and re-meeting, surprise hugs from people thought gone and surprise hugs from people I'd never met before. I got to hear the phrase "There's some beer in the bathroom". I spoke to two writers, a journalist, two burlesque dancers, and more "amateur" chefs than I've ever seen in one room. I listened to a woman with the loveliest pink hair play "Chocolate Jesus" on the accordion. I tried a galaxy of delightful foods and beverages including whole new uses for cucumbers and figs. I was misunderstood in the kitchen and called a perv while washing dishes and did equal parts thinking and laughing. I determined how sober I need to stay to engage with a party as I require it. And in the morning I was awakened by my friend's acupuncture classmate for an impromptu breakfast and conversation, wherein I was assured that one session of needling could handle both my tendonitis and my life-long clogged nose, as well as some suggestions for handling my asthma and a suggestion of getting into bodywork.

My friend, going nameless until I have permission, has always had a knack for finding unusual, brilliant, talented people to surround himself with; people who are not affluent, not necessarily stable, not making the kinds of lives we're told to make, but the kinds of lives that fulfill. And I've often been jealous of them, these radiant people, these thinkers; until it occurred to me that my friend had kept me around all these years, despite knowing me in my confused, tear-stained, self-jigsawing youth, and it dawned on me: though I might not command a room, I was not here out of some sense of duty, on either side of the equation. Maybe I'm one of them?

Well, I'm not. I've got my life issues and plenty of falling on my face left to do. But I'm surrounded by models that show the kind of life I want is possible, and they clearly enjoy my company. So I think I'm on the right track.

And that's the best thing a party could ever tell me.

Canon Can Bite Me: Why I Don't Gawp

Last night, July 23rd, 2009, I finally saw Die Hard.

It's an excellent movie, all told, even with me knowing how it ends, even with me having seen so many movies that tried to ape it. I knew the important quotes already, of course; I had to, because otherwise I couldn't survive.

See, in the circles I run in (probably most decent circles), Die Hard is one of Those Movies, similar to Those Books. I'm sure you've got some of Those in your circle of friends, too*; those works that everyone has to have seen, or they can't be in the club. Those works which, when a person confesses to ignorance of them, trigger gawping and gasping and stares of disbelief. Critical circles have those, too: books like Ulysses, or movies like Citizen Kane. Only in critical circles it isn't usually staring, so much as it is dismissal of any opinion not partially empowered by those works.

This attitude is part of the problem.

I think it's fair to say I'm a pretty smart guy. Well-informed, most of the time, pretty well-read and educated. But I am paralyzed at the thought of admitting I don't know some particular piece of film or literature, due to the possibility that the reaction will be "Oh My God how could you not know that piece you infidel?" It has happened so many times and with such vehemence that I am reluctant to admit pieces I don't even expect the people I'm talking to would care about—particularly since I got my Master's degree and am now, in theory, the Well-Read Guy in my social group.

Now imagine people who are less secure in their intelligence. In their acculturation. Their education. Their taste. Think about the impact this kind of reaction has on them. Why even bother trying to be well-read (well-viewed?) if you're going to get mocked for seeking out the quality works?

I'll freely admit I'm a sensitive guy, but this doesn't just have to be about feeling insulted. I know plenty of people who haven't seen what I consider great movies, purely because too many people have told them they "have" to see it. That kind of hype never pans out well; there's a reason TVTropes has a whole bundle of entries about the reactions triggered by hype.

This is one of the places the Internet has not improved things in the slightest. With communication globalizing, people can pick on your taste and your apparent lack of culture from across the globe, and your chances of encountering someone who thinks the works you do not know are seminal approaches one with alacrity.

I am fortunate enough to have made friends who do not do this; who react by saying that a piece is great and offering to lend it to me, rather than even mock outrage. I still have some friends who do it, but they also tend to like different things than I do. And also I'm inured to it.

What I'm saying here is that I think canonization of media is dangerous. While I won't pretend there aren't movies and books that are just plain better, I also won't pretend that there isn't a huge amount of subjectivity involved in determining what does and doesn't suck real, real bad. And I agree that there are some works that people who want to study a genre or technique should read for good examples of them. But I don't agree that those works are universal or that not having read them voids one's opinion on a topic; that's a tactic for debate of facts, not taste. And reacting as though there is something wrong with the lack of exposure is not the best way to remedy it.

So the next time someone says they haven't seen a movie, pause. Your shock could be the reason they never check it out again. And please, please, don't use the word "canon".

*I'm going to guess, given that you're here, that your movies probably include Mirrormask and/or Pan's Labyrinth, and you probably list The Sandman among the books. I can dream.

Not Providence: Oh For...

So I remembered to update Facebook. I remembered to update Twitter. I remembered to update LiveJournal.

But I did not post about it on Blogger.

Not Providence Book Two started today. Grocery time!

Enjoy! It's been there for 8 hours, plenty of time for it to settle.

Advice to Writers, Including Me

I'll keep this short, but not modest.

All of us urban fantasy/dark fantasy/horror/weirdboiled/New Weird/Old Weird/whatever you want to call us writers need to really sit back and say something to ourselves:

Just because it's sick doesn't mean it's good.

Colloquially, of course, I'll disagree with that. I think a little flaunting of societal norms is appropriate, especially in art, which I see as necessarily addressing that which we can't address day-to-day. I think that evoking a reaction (other than "Jesus this story sucks") is important, and I don't care what reaction you aim for so long as you do it honestly. But do not think that just because you've/I've/we've written a story with something in it we think is a little gross means that royal-we have written something worthy of publication.

Writers, in my experience, particularly urban fantasy and horror writers, are obsessed with earning the moniker "twisted". This is rational, really; we all want to be powerful and memorable, and when we're striving for these kinds of emotions a little depravity goes a long way. It's not like you'll find many horrifying stories about going to the store and buying a puppy. Well, with the right twist ending maybe...

But in this as in all things it's easy to see the signifier and not the signified. It's easy to say that because Stephen King made clowns scary, one's story is scarier because it has a clown; or because eye-gouging is horrifying the phrase "he gouged out his eyes" makes a story horror. In both of these cases they aren't necessarily wrong—I've found both clowns and eye-gouging scary—but the trouble is the idea that these symbols are so potent that they'll make up for this little thing called "skill".

It's like gore in horror movies. For me the scariest part of the only Saw film I ever saw was the handful of seconds before each trap went off, when we weren't sure what it would do or how it would be triggered or if there was a way to shut it off. Horror is an emotion, and horror films, horror writing, should be trying for that.

Unfortunately, that's really hard; but it's not too hard to come up with some vaguely twisted idea and do that instead. Similarly, good direction and evocative music are expensive, but you can make gallons of fake blood out of a few simple ingredients. Both the states of affairs are unfortunate, and both of them disrupt the very mood they are theoretically trying to invoke.

The same goes for the flights of imagination fantasy is trying to evoke, and the unicorn-and-vampire-choked cityscapes that tend to spring up in its stead; or the technological playground of science-fiction that often just puts extra arms on the protagonist in lieu of plot development.

It happens in mysteries, too, and chick-lit and splatterpunk and everything else, but the point always remains: writing is about evoking a mood and telling a story, not cramming obvious symbols in as ballast.

My mantra is "horror is often twisted, but twisted is not often horror". I often fail to keep this in mind; but when I do, it always helps. And so, I share my mantra with you.

Now, once you're past the disconnect about depravity, we'll talk about gamer culture and its obsession with wolf packs...

The Alchemy of Words, or Everything's Role in the Process

More stating the obvious by me

Our job is not easy.

I say that of writing right now, but I mean to encompass every job on this planet. There are easy jobs in practice—the ones you hear bitched about by those of us who don't make six figures, by those who don't consider Monaco within our price range—but even they take their toll in stresses and worries, and in the simple fact that no-one who hears what you do likes you.

Writing, though—all art, as a subset of work—is one of few jobs that feels like alchemy.

So much goes into writing; and so much affects it. Writers, like all artists, pour their experiences into their writing (hence some of the recurring tropes one finds in writing, given the experiences that tend to lead to the creative life). Writers are students of life, collecting all the little bits around them. Unfortunately, life can also easily get in the way.

I don't just mean the workaday grind; I don't just mean the stress of the deadline. I mean little things, things you wouldn't think would affect it. Things like the temperature of the office; the angle at which you're typing; the extra weight of the book in your book-bag today, or the pile of laundry waiting to be sorted. One drink, or two drinks, or a few too many potatoes at dinner time, or that one high note in "Stand By Me" that keeps drilling through the wall and into your skull. The book you're reading not being that interesting. Or the argument you had this weekend with your best friend, and the way their eyes keep scowling up from your memories. Or fifteen missing minutes of sleep.

This weekend, I slept poorly on Saturday. I indulged my childlike impulses and I stayed up far too late. At the time it seemed insignificant: a day of heavy muscles and gummy eyelids, in trade for a few extra hours clustered around the digital campfire with my friends. Perfectly fair. Except that all week I've felt put upon to even leave my bed, and the day has been a slow slump to the left, and writing…God…that I've gotten work done three days out of four is a miracle, and I think I'm going to see serious revision to what came out on Wednesday.

Writers never fail a little; we always manage to fail a lot. We tell ourselves this is it, we stomp, we shout and proclaim. We're Dustin Hoffman as Hook, telling Smee that this time he shouldn't try to stop us. As I have been this week, wondering if I'd be happier without the pressure, happier without the thinking, happier if I could see a sentence without considering how it could be better ordered and kept. Happier if I didn't dream this direction; happier in a tie and a fashion plate haircut.

I wouldn't be. I know that. I'm just tired and off-center. I need a foggy sky and a warm breakfast and Will Ferrell telling Maggie Gyllenhaal he brought her flours. I need enough sleep that waking up is a joy. And I need a drink that tastes like came from an actual living organism.

Then I'll be happy. And then I'll Make Things.

I just wish people would pay me.

Not Providence: In Between Times

Today's update is now ready: When Harry Met Randall. Yes, that's a real bar.

No annotations this week. Maybe that means I'm getting easier to understand. I'd better work on that.

Next week: Book Two!

Two Items, Hold the Sleep

Weekends. Weekends, weekends, weekends. Usually I think of these as meant for writing; for dates; for getting all the little chores done that I was too knackered after work to even consider doing during the week (hello, frying pan; how are you, socks?). But sometimes, weekends need to be a little atavistic. Sometimes you need to go see friends you see once or twice a month, and stay up until all hours playing video games and eating cheap food from Safeway, like your body is still twenty years old and can handle this kind of behavior. At least I've learned to enjoy vegetables.

Unfortunately, this also means I am terrified for my writing productivity today, as lack of sleep is one of the primary vectors for the dreaded writer's block (at least for me; it's entirely possible some of you will disagree with me). So I've had coffee, and am dealing with those aforementioned chores, and may take an early afternoon nap; and hopefully that plus my usual efforts toward watching quality movies and telling myself I don't have to write will result in a little brilliance pouring onto my plate.

As per the sleep-to-brilliance ratio, I am not at my most scintillating today; but sometimes musing about sleep deprivation and the appropriate utility for weekends is necessary, and sometimes I believe people want to hear these ruminations, in stark contrast to my earlier draconian policies about what I'd post here in the Notes. So I'll conclude here by saying that after years of me trying to explain what I want and dream of for myself, Nathan Bransford's found a guest writer to put it down in writing. Every time I look at that post again, a little part of me sniffles.

And now, laundry and Falling Down. Joy of joys.

How We Read

Talk to me about how you read.

I hear a lot about fast readers, slow readers, analytic readers, but these are just terms, big umbrellas that don't necessarily fit everybody. I want to hear about actual reading styles.

What do you read fast? What do you read slow? How fast do you prefer reading? What makes you speed up or slow down? Do you go back and re-read when confused, or do you try to forge ahead? Do you stop to look up words or write them down for later/try to get them in context? What environmental factors contribute to you enjoying your reading experience (or put differently, what is your favorite time and place to read)?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Not Providence: The World Turns

Part Nineteen is up. Exeunt Book One, with a discussion of nerves.

Next week we'll have a little break for you—still Not Providence but not quite the same sort of thing. Then the following week we'll get on with Book Two. Thanks to everyone who's still reading.

Now, a weird question for you here, more a curiosity than a matter of urgency.

Say that this site were to start offering, for a small fee, a collated PDF file of "The Insider". There would be very little difference in content between the two versions (I'd give it another check for grammar, and get rid of a couple egregious redundancies, but leave the rest of it untouched), but it would be nice and clean and printable for those of you who want hard copy to put on the shelf or read on the couch or shred in a bout of anger. I would also make the rest of the Books available as they are finished (possibly a week or two in advance of the final chapters being published), both in individual volumes and in collected volumes with a slight discount (because that's how America does it, baby).

My question is: How much, to your minds, would be appropriate to charge? That is, how much would you pay for such a product? I have some numbers in mind, but I want to see if they jive with what the Intertubes would be willing to fork out.

That's all for now; enjoy the end of Book One, and the peacekeepers will see you next week!

The Truth about Twitter

I want to make this post longer, because I treasure your hits and have goals for this site. But Paul Constant already made my point for me.

"Paul Constant Reviews Twitter" is an insightful, incisive, and cleverly-written look at Twitter's impact on the Internet and communication.

I'm not sure Twitter will fade away as Constant expects (except in a broad sense), but otherwise I agree with him: Twitter's changed things.

It's challenged writers; it's opened avenues; it's paved the road for a whole new way of doing business and living life, despite its misuse.

Even this post wouldn't be in the format it takes if it weren't for Twitter suggesting 140 characters can be used to convey important ideas.

So I salute Twitter for this noisy but bloodless revolution; and Paul Constant and @amandapalmer for writing it and linking it respectively.

(And yes, every single paragraph is 140 characters long; Constant did it first and I had to see if I could follow his lead. Thank you sir.)

Now tell me: You followed that, didn't you? So how bad can Twitter be? Give it a try; for proof of concept read the #iranelection hashtag.

For now, I have kielbasa to be cooked, laundry to be done, and writing to be wrote. If you want a Twitter primer, DM me. It's worth a try.

Outside, the Shouts of Giants

Today I caught up with my aunt, formerly my housemate; today we walked down a Castro Street devoid of people but for about a half-dozen diners and an emergency situation of some sort I was glad to have missed (people I'd seen while we had frozen yogurt were there, staring at it aghast, like bit players in an Aronofsky film).

Today I ate kielbasa, roasted potatoes, and beer for dinner.

Today I saw fireworks from the little school by my house, while neighbors I had never seen clustered around me and chatted.

Today I am thankful for my country and my freedom. Not in a propaganda sort of way; not in a jingoistic way; not in the abstract way every other blog post today will talk about. I'm thankful to live in a country where our greatest fights are to improve amenities some other countries only dream of having; to live in a country where my voice can matter; to live in a country where the ogreish booming of fireworks can be a sound of celebration instead of fear; to live in a country where I have the time and the energy to write this.

So, thanks, Founding Fathers, and those who died to bring us this independence. Whatever you were fighting for, whatever you'd wanted, what we've got is pretty special. Let's continue the experiment.