“A decision on your submission”

In today’s mailbag:

Dear Philip:

Thank you for submitting your work to [redacted]. Unfortunately, we are unable to accept it for publication at this time. We enjoyed the ease of your prose and would look forward to anything you have to submit in the future.

Sincerely,
The Editors.

Thank you, The Editors.

Hmm. I don’t seem to have any liquor handy. Too bad.

So.
Very.
Angry.
.
.
.
.
.

On these occasions, all that’s left is to scrutinize the rejection notice with a pathetic gaze, searching for a jot of encouragement. The previous rejection of the manuscript in question cited the story’s “lovely writing.” This latest notice notes “the ease” of the prose in the submission. So, er, yay?

The writing’s fine, but the story itself blows. That’s probably a fair assessment.

Carrying on, then.

The latest rejection notice

In the email box yesterday:

Please be advised that despite the lovely writing in “Waitresses,” our editors felt that it was not quite right for us at this time.

We hope you will continue to send us your work. We look forward to reading it.

I stand advised.

All righty, then.

All (still) quiet on the writing front

Not a fictional word written here in the last week, but I’m less jittery about it that I was last Thursday. Got some ideas bumping around in my head, though, which is more mental activity than has been the case lately.

In related news: No news, actually, on the story that I sent out eight weeks back. That is, the manuscript is still

under consideration

Which is better than

rejected

So in the meantime, we’ll just try to get something done.

Wordless

I’ve accomplished exactly zero fiction writing over the past month or so, and am appropriately irritated with myself for this. Recurrent bouts of viral gastroenteritis threw me off track, which is understandable; getting back into the traces, to kludge up the metaphor at work here, has been an inexcusably slow process. Meh.

Not much to say about it, except that I’ll have better news to report on this front next week.

Well. That’s about it for this entry, I guess.

The state of the page

It’s been a while since my last status report on non-blog writing, and conscience dictates that I say something or other about what I’ve been up to. On the other hand, that part of me that recognizes the deleterious effects of talking a project out - that is, the bleeding-out of creative energy and inner pressure, let’s say, that by rights should go into the work itself - tells me to shut the fuck up. The post you’re reading now is the result of a compromise between those positions.

So! Not producing as much as I’d like to regarding the long-term writing project (which I guess I should just go ahead and call a novel). I recognize that this is because I’m in an early research mode which dictates more processing than output, but I still feel kind of itchy about it. On the other hand, the research is actually going well; I’m learning a lot about things I know little about. The most positive aspect of the research so far is the realization that my initial notions regarding the novel aren’t wholly and laughably off-base. You have no idea what a relief that is.

Anyway, the research will go on for a while.

As for other stuff: currently shopping a story around and feeling fairly good about it. At any rate, it’s good to have it out in the world, trying to earn its keep.

Another project is trying to get my attention, as though I was capable of managing more than one writing project at a time. That’s funny, sort of.

More to come.

Defining creativity

At the web design think tank A List Apart, Andy Rutledge attempts to clarify the definition of creativity - what it is, and most distinctly what it is not. Though the topic here is approached from a design standpoint, the core of the argument seems - to me, anyway - to apply with particular poignancy to writing.

I yield the floor to Mr. Rutledge. Substitute “writers” for “designers” or “narrative” for “design” as you see fit.

Creativity has nothing at all to do with self-expression or flamboyancy. Aside from the simple ability to create things, the most important feature of creativity is a highly developed perception filter that is somewhat less common than we’re led to believe. Despite what we were taught in school, we don’t all possess significant creativity, and fewer of us still have any skill at employing it. True, anyone can make something, and anyone can make something up. In this mundane sense, everyone is creative. But this basic truth belies the design-relevant definition of creativity, and ignores the fact that each one of us has different creative abilities.

Creativity is technical and analytical, not expressive (as in self-expression). It is a filter through which perception and output pass, not a receptor or an infusion (as in the case of inspiration). Creativity may require or be enhanced by inspiration, but the two are distinct forces. (These facts are vital in discriminating between appropriate and inappropriate descriptions and applications of creativity.)

Creativity is an inborn capacity for thinking differently than most, seeing differently, and making connections and perceiving relationships others miss. But most importantly, it is the ability to then extrapolate contextually useful ways of employing that data: to create something that meets a specific challenge. By this definition, creativity is merely a tool; it does not convey skill. For a dedicated few, though, this inborn capacity is then further augmented by certain disciplines, including:

• ongoing curiosity,
• the desire and habit of looking more deeply into things than others care to,
• the habit of comparing stimulus with result, and
• a habit for qualitative discrimination.

It is primarily these disciplines that set top creative professionals apart from those who are merely gifted. It is also these disciplines that help shape a designer’s intuitive senses, which are vital to design craft, processes, and overall success. Being merely creatively gifted is no qualification for design expertise, and the idea that creativity is a magic bullet that anyone or any designer may employ to positive effect is a vacuous notion.

Some may view this declaration as having a rather anti-egalitarian flavor, and they’d be right. I remember reading somewhere, though, that art is not a democracy.

Anyway, the concept of applied creativity is something to mull over. I may have more to say on it later.

From Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel

Jane Smiley says:

Now that you have decided to begin your novel, you may congratulate yourself. You have not been asked or groomed to write a novel. You have not gone to novel-writing school, nor taken a standard curriculum of preparatory courses. Chances are, no one wants you to write your novel - if they say they do, they are just meaning that you should get it over with or get on with it. The people you know actually dread reading the novel you are about to write - they don’t want to read about themselves, they don’t want to be bored, and they fear embarrassment for everyone. You are, therefore, free.

Yes, ma’am.

More to come as seems appropriate.

Scrivener

I imagine that most fledgling writers - people just like myself, only less so - are constantly on the lookout for any tool or approach that will make writing possible easier. We’re talking here about short story writers, poets and novelists, screenwriters, any kind of researcher. In the digital age, a natural category of tools for such writers is the specialized word processor, or perhaps it’s more accurately called an idea organizer or project manager. The thinking behind this genus of writing program is that for work that involves research and gathering of resources, and for writers who need the flexibility of shuffling narrative elements ala index cards and corkboards, more than a mere word processor is required.

There are several such programs out there in the wild, but I was drawn to Literature and Latte’s Scrivener (a Mac-only program) by a couple of rather positive mentions at Lifehacker, and by a love letter to the program penned by Merlin Mann of 43folders. The Mann review of the product really spoke to me:

If you write like I do (and I pray that you do not), you have a messy approach to drafting that is iterative, intuitive, and far from linear. You do a brain dump, then type a little, then research a little, then type a little more, then move a bunch of stuff around, then groan aloud, then 80% start over and so on until something is done. Yes, it would be more tidy if we all followed the mandate of our elementary school teachers and wrote perfect 5-paragraph essays straight from a completed outline. But, such is life. And Scrivener seems to get that.

I’m using the 30-day trial period to give Scrivener a spin, and so far I’m impressed. The program allows you to save a variety of resources for reference, even PDFs, audio files, and website URIs. The 98% of you who use Microsoft Word can relax, as Scrivener outputs to that program. Expect to have to devote some time to the tutorial, but it’s far from boring and well worth your attention. The acid test will come shortly as I really apply the program to the “longer project” I’m working on, but I think I’d be surprised if the $39.95 price doesn’t wind up feeling like a bargain.

Update: Purchased it a couple of weeks ago.

Windows users: As mentioned above, Scrivener is not for you. But Literature and Latte graciously provides a list of Windows-based writing programs, with descriptions and links. Alternative Mac programs are also listed.

The story so far (Splotchy’s Story Meme, cont.)

I’ve been tagged! This time with a story meme that originated with Splotchy, passed through many hands, and was delivered to me by Bitty. I am to add to the story and then pass it along to other unsuspecting souls, who must then do the same. Them’s the rules, as kona said earlier. Following Bitty’s example, I have provided the previous installments along with links to their origin.

I tag Shakespeare’s Sister, Litbrit, Camera Obscura, and Mamalogues. There, now.

The story so far:

I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)

I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)

The nightmares began during the following spring. The apple trees came to life in my dreams. At first the trees spoke and I thought they were amusing. That changed when the messages arrived. Lately, their anger was directed at me. (mathman6293)

I turned and stared out the kitchen window, past the frosty-lidded cistern to the orchard beyond. My trees, my beautiful fruit trees, stood leafless and dark. I wished with all my heart that this was just a normal winter thing, but it wasn’t.

“Why are you blaming me, guys? You know I love you. You watched me go out and vote that last time, in the ice-storm. It’s not like I didn’t try!”

I turned with a sigh and went to the phone to give Zaius a call. Perhaps The Good Doctor had made some incremental progress on his Long-Shot-Theory. (TCR)

Unfortunately, the phone was dead. Not from the inclement frigid weather, but because I didn’t pay the phone bill and my service was shut off. “Oh well, I’ll use the cell phone,” I said aloud to no one but myself. As fate would have it, the cell phone battery was completely drained. I never even heard the thing chirping during the night to remind me to charge it. Being somewhat annoyed by all this, I went back to the kitchen, grabbed an ice pick and began chipping away at the rock-solid apple sauce when suddenly there was a very loud knock on my door which startled me. (kona)

In my surprise, I dropped the applesauce; no one but me had been on the property since Cordelia had died, not even Zaius. The frozen jar smashed into my big toe, which was inadequately protected by a worn green handknit slipper, one of Cordelia’s last gifts to me. Blood gushed from the crushed digit as the knocking escalated into insistent pounding. I moved from room to room in a frenzy, limping yet rushing, knocking over stacks of books and papers, blood documenting my every move. Where were my glasses? I had to have my glasses to see out the peephole. It hadn’t been prudent to fling open a door in welcome since the Winter Cleansings of 2018, just after the internet was shut down. Where did I put them? Just as I spotted the spectacles beside the fireplace, the pounding stopped, replaced by a most inhuman howl. (Bitty)

The sound brought me up short. “Fenrir?” I whispered. Then, louder: “Digby?”

“Yes, and freezing on your threshold,” came the gruff reply from the other side of the door.

Forgetting the spectacles, I hobbled to the door, threw back the seven bolts and flung the door open. The apparition on my step was not one often seen in civilized places - tall and unkempt, pale as frost, bristling with particles of ice in his hair and beard and furs. But then, we were far removed from civilization. “Salutations,” he said with stiff formality.

Before I could answer, I was accosted by a great bulk of sinew and fur. My vision was obscured by gray fur and one wild rolling eye. Hot breath blasted my face. “Hello, Fenrir,” I said. A long red tongue gave answer, wetly.

“Fenrir!” snapped Digby. “Compose yourself!”

The canis growled but complied at once, settling onto its haunches and fixing Digby with a reproachful stare. “Unmannered brute,” Digby muttered as he advanced into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. “One would think he had never been trained.”

“Understandable, given the company he keeps,” I said, smiling.

Digby glanced around the room, taking in the disheveled papers and volumes. “Late American Scholar, as I expected,” he remarked. “And still impulsive. You should know better than to open your door to strangers. Without your glasses, even.”

“I’m a trusting soul. How did you find me?”

“Simple enough when one knows well the person one seeks.” He turned to appraise me. “Exile becomes you, Lydia,” he said, more softly. “You look well.” He glanced down at my foot. “Though your sock is bleeding.”

“My slipper,” I corrected him. “I dropped something.”

“Ever graceful,” Digby said. “Off with it.”

I sat without argument on the armchair nearest the unlit fireplace, then pulled off the sodden slipper. Digby knelt before me, still wearing his ice-glittered furs. He took my foot in his right hand, then rummaged in a hidden pocket and produced a battered gray device with three lights. He pressed a button and the device began to hum, lights glaring red. He held the device over my damaged toe. “This will sting a bit,” he said dryly. (Waveflux)

Note: Very minor editing was necessary and so performed.

A couple of responses from those to whom I passed the meme:

I’ll get you, my pretty! *shakes fist in air*

and

You are so getting some dry fruit cake from me for Christmas.

Awesome. :-D

Elemental

I mentioned earlier that in On Writing Short Stories, author Tom Bailey divides fiction into these familiar and basic elements:

character, plot, setting & time, metaphor, and voice

You could make a case for letting setting and time stand alone like the others, I suppose, but they seem rather fundamentally entwined, bonded since birth, the Castor and Pollux of fictional building blocks. Also, they’re somewhat minor-league compared to heavy hitters like character and plot, aren’t they? We have to let them slip past the velvet rope, sure, but they’re definitely B-listers.

Anyway.

In The New Rules of Lifting, authors Lou Schuler and Alwyn Cosgrove divide weight training into six basic elements or movements:

squat, deadlift, lunge, push, pull, and twist

Schuler and Cosgrove don’t claim to have invented this concept - the book credits Paul Chek - but they certainly recognize the value of reducing a daunting activity to its basics.

I rather like that approach in weight training, and in fiction writing - the reductive, stripped-down-ness of it all.

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