Tag Archives: writing

I haven’t posted, haven’t sent out a newsletter, haven’t done much of anything since before our trip to the World SF Convention.

(Image by Hunter Desportes, on Flickr under Creative Commons.)

I am still here, still working, just … swamped.

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Are you an aspiring writer, looking for advice on how to get started, how to craft a story, and/or how to get that story published? Would you like me to give you my ideas on any or all of those subjects?

(Image: “Written in Slumber,” by matryosha, from Flickr under Creative Commons)

If you read this blog much at all, you know that I don’t offer much in the way of writing advice. A lot of my friends post advice, often quite good, on their blogs. Some deliver great practical advice on the tedious task of sitting down and pounding out prose; others share thoughtful insights into the elements of stories and how writers, like alchemists, transmute leaden ideas into golden tales of wonder and delight.

Why don’t I offer writing advice? Why am I reluctant to do so? I think it’s a combination of imposter syndrome — my own insecurity about my grasp of the craft — and my perception that there’s more than enough writing advice being passed around already.

If I’m wrong about that, let me know.

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This falls under the category of “how not to respond to rejection.”

(“Keep Calm – Carry On,” by John Cooper, on Flickr under Creative Commons.)

Sometimes writers put my tact and diplomacy to the test. Witness this response I received from one author:

Dear Gray:

Your statement “it does not seem right for us” tells me no one read my book. Someone should read it because I am a phenomenal writer. How about you? I would like for you to read my book, then write to me and tell me why it is not good enough to publish. Everyone has a little free time, Gray, what do you have to lose? If it really is not right for Baen, just stop reading, but give it a few chapters before you write it off.

Thank you in advance for your help.

This is the kind of thing that makes me want to jump through the computer screen and throttle the person on the other side. Rather than responding directly with a virtual flamethrower, I’ve decided to use this as a teaching example for other writers who are submitting their work for evaluation.

There is so much wrong with this writer’s response that I have to take it point-by-point:

• “Your statement ‘it does not seem right for us’ tells me no one read my book.” Funny, it should tell you that it did not seem right for us.
• “Someone should read it because I am a phenomenal writer. ” Thank you for pointing that out. It wasn’t obvious from what I read of your manuscript.
• “How about you?” I did.
• “I would like for you to read my book, then write to me and tell me why it is not good enough to publish.” And I would like for someone to unload a dump truck full of money in my driveway, but it’s unlikely to happen.
• “Everyone has a little free time, Gray, what do you have to lose?” More of the remaining seconds of my life, which are fewer and fewer every second. Funny how that works.
• “If it really is not right for Baen, just stop reading, but give it a few chapters before you write it off.” I did stop reading. I gave it as much as I deemed fit. I won’t say how much. (I believe the most classic response to complaints along these lines was Isaac Asimov’s, who reportedly told an author that he did not have to eat an entire egg to know it was rotten.)
• “Thank you in advance for your help.” You’re welcome, I guess?

Writers, please don’t do this. No, strike that expression of polite consideration: Writers, don’t do this.

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Most of the time I think of these blog posts as trees falling in forests.

(“Fallen Trunk,” by edenpictures, on Flickr, under Creative Commons.)

And most of the time those forests are devoid of other life to hear the trees falling.

But still the trees fall.

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