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Dragons AheadThis post is hard to write. It’s uncomfortable, and not a little embarrassing. No. More than that. It’s bloody humiliating. I debated whether or not I could ignore the situation entirely and pretend as if nothing had happened — Move along. Nothing to see here. — That, however, would have been neither honest nor productive, both of which are planks in the platform I use to run this blog.

And so, this post. (more…)

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Stack of BooksI’ve been thinking about “immersion” lately. A lot. It’s infected my daily thoughts, disturbed my reading, and stymied my writing.

If I was searching for someone to blame, I’d have to pick Jefferson Smith and the “Immerse or Die” project he runs over at CreativityHacker, but since it’s been an interesting and illuminating intrusion, I’ll thank him instead.

Immersion is that willing suspension of disbelief a reader brings to each new book. Readers know that the people in my books are not real, and that the events within my pages never really happened. They voluntarily set aside their logical, common-sense disbelief in the truth of my tale as they dive into my books, swim through the worlds and words of my description, and give their hearts to characters I’ve conjured out of nothing but air and brash intention. This is the contract between us, reader and author: they agree to pretend for a time that my stories are real, and I agree not to burst their bubble. It is a trust that I, as author, must handle gently, because when it is breached, it cannot be rebuilt. (more…)

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I have a bone to pick with Horace Engdahl.

Engdahl is a member of the Swedish Academy (the folks who give out the Nobel Prizes) and this month, in an interview with French paper La Croix, he lamented that literature in the West is suffering because writers have become too “professionalized.”

Formerly, he opines, writers used to work as cab drivers, as secretaries, as waiters for a living. The work was difficult, but it fed their literary growth. Now, though, with grants and financial support, writers only have to write which, in Engdahl’s estimation, “cuts the writer off from society and creates an unhealthy link with institutions.”

This, from a guy who’s been a member of such an “institution” (i.e., the Swedish Academy) for nearly two decades, and probably hasn’t driven a taxi or waited tables in his life (he was a secretary for ten years…for the Swedish Academy. A-hem.)

Obviously, Engdahl believes that the only source for “litrachur” in the West is the legions of authors who are living the high-life on their NEA grants and their MacArthur fellowships. Those of us who work for a living outside our writing (i.e., the vast majority of us) are incapable of writing anything lofty enough to catch the notice of anyone of import.

For a laugh, though, try to guess just where Engdahl looks for literature in the East and in Africa. That’s right; he looks among those who work for a living outside their writing (though he worries about the future of their literary stars, too, hoping that the quality of work :will not be lessened by the assimilation and the westernization of these authors.”

I don’t disagree with everything Engdahl says–I see, as he does, a rise in the “faux-transgressive” (my phrase, not his) in Western literature–but by and large, his words really show the exclusionist attitude of the literary world. There’s literature, and then there’s just writing. And nothing written for a paycheck can be worth a literary dime.

I’d say something snarky here, just to vent my spleen, but The Observer’s associate editor, Robert McCrum, put it all too well:

“At face value, these comments are an odd mixture of grumpy old man and Nordic romantic. I’m not sure that the author’s garret is the guarantor of excellence.”

Oh, snap!

k

PS. For an English writeup on the topic, see The Guardian’s article here.

Typewriter

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Stack of BooksLast Saturday, I battled a demon, and emerged triumphant.

Okay, maybe not “triumphant.” But I was able to walk away under my own power.

Last Saturday, the Sumner Arts Commission, in partnership with the Sumner Public Library, hosted a panel of authors on the topic, “Getting it Right,” i.e., the importance of accuracy in historical research.

With me on the panel were three respected authors: Rebecca Morris, co-author of If I Can’t Have You, about the true story of the Susan Powell disappearance; Ned Hayes, who wrote Sinful Folk, a novel set in the 14th century; and Candace Robb (writing also as Emma Campion) author of the Owen Archer mysteries and whose latest novel, A Triple Knot, focuses on Joan of Kent, cousin to King Edward III.

Yes. Three bestselling authors.

And me.

In front of a crowd of people.

Speaking.

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Dragons AheadRejection: a small message written in fog and tea leaves from which a writer tries to extract any clue as to where the hell he went wrong.

I’ve got ’em–a big thick stack of ’em–and now that I’ve re-entered the fray of short story marketing, I’m getting more. Unfortunately, as cryptic as were the rejections I amassed a decade ago, the ones hitting my desk these days are totally inscrutable.

But last week’s Submit post got me thinking about those old rejections…Was there more to learn from them than I thought? So I went up into the attic, pulled down the dusty, crack-edged binder, and started to paw through them.

Here’s what I found.

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Dragons AheadI’ve never liked the word “submit.” To Submit, to place under, to capitulate, to yield.

Nope. Never liked it.

When I started writing, I learned a new meaning for the word “submit”: to send for consideration a manuscript, born of sweat and tears, wrapped in prayers and orisons, in hopes that, against overwhelming odds and counter to all probability, an editor will find it pleasing and bestow upon it the gift of acceptance.

And submit I did. Often and regularly. For years. I have the rejections to prove it (more on them, next week). For now, though, some thoughts on the mechanics of submitting your work to markets.

First: Do it.

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Self-Promotion: the crude and unappealing practice of marketing one’s own work; in British slang, often called “flogging.”

I’ve only met one writer who actually enjoys flogging his books. He travels up and down the coast, reading excerpts, glad-handing, meeting people, building an impressive network. For every other writer I’ve met, mention the word “promotion” and watch them wince.

We hate promoting our books. HateitHateitHateit. Some writers hate it so much, they don’t do it at all.

But according to ND Author Services (aka NDAS, run by bestselling authors Barb and J.C. Hendee, who–believe me–know what they’re talking about), there’s some good news. As with everything else in the publishing industry, self-promotion–the very nature of it–is changing.

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