It’s Spring Break at SLCC so I’ve set the goal of finishing the sample chapters by this Saturday.  Three chapters, roughly 7-8,000 words, in a week shouldn’t be too tough.  As of this morning I’m to about 5,500 words and am nearly done with chapter two.  Right on pace.  It’s impossible to know if a rough draft is good or not, especially as our emotions so often lie to us during composition, but I feel pretty good given how new and different this genre and perspective are.  I’m writing from the POV of a 14-year-old Korean-American girl, first person, so there’s a lot that’s new there.  I’ll keep you updated, hopefully with greater frequency once the rough draft of these chapters is finished.

In preparation for writing this new story, I’ve been reading some teen girl lit with a strong voice and powerful, traumatic emotions.  That isn’t all I’ve been reading, but it has added titles to the list that I wouldn’t likely have picked up otherwise.  So here’s a rundown of the books and authors I’ve been reading in recent months and why:

- Sara Zarr.  Sara’s a friend and member of several local writer’s organizations with me, and I’ve been hearing about her work for a long time.  It isn’t the type of stuff I read normally, but this new story gave me a good reason to try her writing.  It’s good.  Very good, in fact, if Sweathearts is any indication.  (And I hear her other books are better.)  So I’m picking up Story of a Girl (her National Book Award nominated debut) and Once Was Lost next.    

- Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson.  Another teen book, very strong voice and equally difficult subject matter.  It was very good, though I did feel that sometimes the dark, jaded slant of the protagonist was a little excessive.  Dark humor can lose it’s theraputic value if used too often, which I felt occasionally made this protagonist feel just a touch artificial.  But that’s pretty particular criticism; overall, very well done.

- Dune by Frank Herbert.  I’ve read this book before, of course, but not since I was a teen.  I knew I liked it, but I’d forgotten just how much.  Aside from Herbert’s affinity or jumping heads within a scene (which I sometimes find distracting) and his italicizing thoughts (which always irritates me when done as frequently as Herbert does), it’s a near-perfect book.  Great drama, fine characterization, fantastic dialogue, all communicating really complex and important ideas.  The rest of the series is less cohesive than the first book, but it’s definitely a worthwhile read.  It’s a great study into what it means to be human and how intricately that is tied to our ability to hope.  It will always be one of my top recommendations.

- Kate DiCamillo.  I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m not as familiar with children’s lit as I am adult, and that since I started writing for kids I’ve been trying to catch up.  In that rush, I’ve found no children’s writer that I more admire and even envy than Kate.  The Magician’s Elephant, The Tale of Despereaux, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, all fantastic.  They’re books I wish I had written.  I still want to be Neil Gaiman when I grow up, put now I’d like a bit of DiCamillo thrown in as well.

- Terry Pratchett’s The Fifth Elephant.  A Discworld novel I’d not read before, it was typical Pratchett, which means it is anything but typical.  Life is always better with a little Pratchett added to the mix.

- Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations and R.L. Stine’s Welcome to Dead House.  The first I reread and the second I read for the first time in preparation for UELMA a few weeks ago. 

- I just started Dan Wells’ I Am Not a Serial Killer.  While I’m not much of a horror reader, I’m impressed by Dan’s craftsmanship and his ability to tread the very fine line he needs to tell the story without losing sympathy for the protagonist.

- The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins.  Good, well-written story, but I’m not as high on it as many others.  I found that a number of things in the story felt implausible, which made the experience less authentic than I would have liked.

- Next on the list (if I ever find the time) The Gathering Storm by Brandon Sanderson and Robert Jordan.  Hey, I put them in the order I consider proper given how the book was written.     

Adios.

There is nothing that says a novel can’t be legitimately cross- or multi-generic.. Dean Koontz has been blending psychological terror, supernatural horror, thriller, romance, adventure, historical, science-fiction (especially alternate history), and fantasy for years, and the results are often immensely enjoyable novels that speak to wider audiences than would otherwise be possible.

 This is a really important point.  Genre is by definition a “loose category of composition,” with the emphasis on loose.  They are arrived upon by experimentation and the resulting convention that follows.  They are not static, concrete concepts; they are certainly not boxes or molds into which stories must fit.  Just as Michael remarked, many of the best stories successfully adopt and employ conventions from multiple genres into a cohesive whole.   

So what does that mean?  It means that genre should not be an omnipresent driving or defining guide for either writers or readers; however, knowing the genre in which you’re writing can be important for a few reasons.  

When you’re composing something, whether a written story or a painting or a verbal statement or whatever, awareness of your audience is a rhetorical necessity for effective communication.  The conventions of a genre give us rough guidelines we can use to shape our message for better effect.  Fantasy readers tend to appreciate the impossible presented as plausible, whereas readers of courtroom thrillers are more likely to engage in a story predicated upon a more literal representation of reality as we experience it.  That tells us as writers that if we’re trying to reach Terry Pratchett fans we’d be better served to write stories that are more Pratchett-like than Grisham-ish.

Pratchett-like > Grisham-ish?  Not exactly a scalpel of a compositional tool, is it.  And you know, it’s a wonderful thing that it isn’t.  The moment we come up with exact recipes for narrative is the moment stories stop being told, because we’ll have all relevant perspectives already.  (This will never happen, by the way, so long as a single human being exists.)  So why is genre talked about so often in publishing?  Look at it from an agent’s viewpoint.  If you pitch a story, she wants to know that you have crafted your novel so that it will be attractive to a wide and, hopefully, partially established and identified audience.  If you can’t lump your book into the very loose conventions of established genres, what is she supposed to think?  This story is for older military men who are now pacifists and prefer their symbolism to trend toward fauna, particularly the large predators of the Russian steppe.  Think that will excite her?  Nope, no more than, “There’s something in my story for everyone.”  If you tell her your story is psychological horror, not only can she assume that readers of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Ira Levin, and Edgar Allen Poe may like it and fans of Louisa May Alcott or Helen Fielding probably won’t, but also that you’re familiar with the ideas and tastes of these readers.

This is, I believe, a much more important function of genre.  Yes, it’s important to be able to pitch your work so that an agent or editor will buy it, and that requires being able to tell them where stores will shelve your book; far more important is reading lots of the same things your desired audience is reading so you’re a part of their discourse community.  Communication differs among groups.  Not just in the languages they speak, but in the ideas and emotions they share and explore, and in conventions they create to commuicate successfully.  

Genres work similarly.  Readers of Brandon Sanderson are likely to have read Tolkien, Eddings, Hobbs, and McCaffrey; they’re also more likely than many others to have read C.S. Lewis, Phillip Pullman, and Lloyd Alexander.  This means that these individuals are conversant in certain ideas, symbols, and systems that most others are not.  If you’re writing for these people you sure better have a sense of what they like and don’t like, what they find interesting or perplexing, and especially what became passe decades ago because Piers Anthony or Marion Zimmer Bradley already did it. 

Here’s an analogy: let’s look at all of literature as a cocktail party.  No matter where you are inside the party you hear the buzz of conversation, and everyone in the room has enough in common that they are talking about the same types of things in the generic: occupations, family, recreation, and the like.  People meet each other, make polite chit-chat for a while, and then move on to discuss very similar things with new individuals.  A genre might be considered the subgroups that form within the room to discuss particulars of these broad subjects.  If you abruptly slide into these conversations, you can’t just use the same old lines you’ve used to board passing partygoers in the past.  Here, you’ve got to listen and learn to know what is going on, especially if you want to make a comment that will mark you as anything but completely ignorant.

That’s what genre allows: it is a tool that helps us take part in an ongoing conversation among a specific group of readers so that we can become well-enough informed to add our own voice in a way that will be appreciated.  If a group at the party is discussing the designated batter rule in baseball, you don’t want to blurt out, “That’s the one where the players skate, right?”  Just the same, if readers are enthralled by the seductive nature of evil in the work of Thomas Harris, you don’t want to give them a book based on the premise that truly bad stuff has no place in fiction and so you’ve written a story about a stolen garden gnome (which could be a hilarious book if written for the right reasons and for people who would appreciate it).       

To wrap up: genre isn’t a rule, it’s a tool, like almost everything else in writing.  Use it to reassure prospective editors that you have an idea what type of person will like your book and where the store can shelve it; more importantly, use it to help you write to better effect for the people that are moved by the same ideas, challenges, and passions that drive you.               

Thursday

The conference started off with an interesting panel on writing style, after which I talked with Lisa Mangum about a requested manuscript of mine that’s apparently disappeared in some vortex at Shadow Mountain.  She said she isn’t in the vortex neighborhood (acquisitions) any more, but that believe it or not there is  bottom to the singularity and, yes, a fourteen month wait probably is a good sign in this case.  Having decided I would take what I could get in the optimism department, I headed to a presentation on open source software that made me aware of a few tools that may be very, very helpful.  (I’d never even heard of GIMP, which is apparently an open source graphic program in the vein of PhotoShop, for example.)  After this, I attended a panel on Mormons writing, reading, and editing horror fiction, mostly because Michael Collings (formerly of Pepperdine) took part, and I always love hearing him speak and teach.

Nathan Hale (who works with Shannon Hale on the Rapunzle graphic novels but is not her husband, brother, or othersuch, but is a scion of the Hale theater dynasty) then gave the day’s keynote address, which was a blend of three presentations that wasn’t exactly seemless and was better for it.  It was fun, as were the substantial number of flying fish (the helicopter rather than the standard species).   

Then came my first panel of the conference: Putting Romance in Fantasy.  Other panelists included Mette Harrison (who was a fine moderator in addition to contributing a great deal), Ami Chopine, Lesli Muir Lytle, and Anna del C. Dye.  We talked about romance as a concept apart from romance as a genre, which I thought was important, and I even thought to bust out one of my favorite Oscar Wilde quotes.  A number of people complimented me on the panel over the weekend, so I must have said something constructive, which is the goal.   

Soon after I took part in my second panel of the day, which addressed why so many mothers and dogs and such die in children’s stories.  My friend and former editor Stacy Whitman (who is moving to New York, hurray!) served as moderator and panelist as she pitched questions at two good friends, Julie Wright and Paul Genesse, and myself.  Much of the time was spent establishing the difference between a trope and a cliche, which is a really important distinction.

Oh, I almost forgot.  That night I was invited to a goodbye dinner for Stacy at Bangkok Grill in Orem (about 8th south and 3rd east, I believe).  It was quite a gathering.  Stacy went to BYU with Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, Howard Taylor, and a bunch of others now in the writing/publishing world, and they kindly let me attend with the rest of the clan.  It was kind of a thing to see, about twenty-five or thirty of us, a surprising number published writers (some very famous).  Here’s all you need to know: 1) Bangkok Grill is very good (Howard knows his Thai food) so you should go.  Frequently.  2)  Talking about methods of procuring and utilitzing tape worms for medicinal use is not the best subject for dinner conversation, but it can and does happen.  3)  If you think a writer is an especially capable, interesting, or admirable kind of person, never, ever go to dinner with a gang of us.  I fit in that night.  That means you will be disappointed to the brink of suicide.  4) Eating spicy food at night does not hinder my sleep, for which I am profoundly grateful.       

Friday

I was on the first panel of the morning, which filled up despite the hour (9:00 am) because of a really strong lineup: Guest of Honor and NY Times Bestseller Brandon Sanderson, the certified and certifiable schlock genius Howard Taylor, good buddy and perpetual puzzle James Dashner, and Larry Correia and Karen Hoover, neither of whom I knew but both certainly held their own on this heavyweight panel.  I hope I did the same, because this session earned a lot of praise—perhaps because it ranged from imbibing Essence of Payton Manning (you will live a happier life if you don’t ask) to the redneck fairies in Larry’s work to Brandon’s taking “Rapunzel’s hair” and “Sponge Bob” and transmuting them into a story about a space elevator constructed of impervious, semi-divine keratin which facilitates the discovery of a race of sentient sponges.  Yeah, if you weren’t there, you missed out.  That fifty minutes will never be replicated.

Marty Brenneis was the day’s keynotes, and he showed how George Lucas’s special effects company did every single cool thing you’ve ever seen on film.  It was a blast!  (Very literally.)  

At noon I was scheduled for a signing, which eventually happened though it looked for a long time that it wouldn’t.  There was some miscommunication between event organizers and the BYU Bookstore, and myself along with quite a few other authors found none of our books were available to buy.  When I discovered this the previous day I allowed my frustration to get the better of me for a while, but a very kind and patient woman named Tami arranged for me to sell on consignment and all went swimmingly.  They even got a sign with my name printed out in three hours!  I’m telling you, that girl is magic.  I signed some books over the course of the hour and talked to more people, so it turned out great.  A few other ladies at the bookstore helped me along with Tami though I didn’t catch their names.  Thanks, ladies.       

An hour later came my second panel of the day on writing authentic child characters.  Other panelists were Julie Wright (a much better moderator than she gives herself credit for), Dene Low (Laura Card), Laura Bingham, Bron Bahlmann (who is sixteen and truly deserved his seat!), myself, and James Dashner doing his best Jeff Savage impression as Jeff didn’t make it.  (For the record, it was more of a James doing Jeff doing a spot-on James Dashner impression.)  Again, things went well.  I didn’t know Dene or Laura very well, but they were both impressive.  Bron made me feel both old and a touch slow, which is a striking concoction of inferiority.  I’m a bit embarrassed that I laughed when James explained his process of secondary character creation, but it wasn’t insulting at all, at least, it wasn’t meant to be.  It was a result of perplexity.  James just writes good stories, much in the way the wind blows.  He’s so instinctive where I’m analytic.  He’ll tell you frankly he doesn’t know how or why about much of his process and, equally frankly, it’s like an itch I can’t scratch.  I gotta know how that brain works!  I swear, if he’s ever foolish enough to take a nap near me when we’re alone I’m going to find some scissors or something and poke around in his brain.  James, you have been warned.

I wrapped up the day with a really interesting presentation by Bryan Beus, a visual artist who reminds me a lot of myself in his approach to art.  He presented on archetypes and the monomyth in narrative from a largely visual point of view, which I found fascinating.  It really was like looking at a very familiar subject through lenses just that much different from what you’re used to.  We talked for a minute afterward and it was clear that there was some methodological kinship there.  I’m really glad I went.

Saturday

I’m always a bit drained by the third day of a conference and I was only on one Saturday panel, so I planned on keeping things short.  The day started off pleasantly when Brandon Mull and I parked near each other and walked into the Wilkinson Center together.  We caught up a bit and talked shop.  Brandon is one of the very successful writers who has and continues to pound the pavement like a madman.  He’s visited, I don’t know, a thousand schools over the years?  Whatever the actual number, he’s a legend in the local children’s writing world for his energy and work ethic.  When you add that to a terrific storyteller and a genuinely nice guy, you get someone who’s always nice to cross paths with.

Again, my panel was the first of the day (though my second on romance, go figure).  Where before I was the only guy on the romance panel, this was all men: moderator John Brown (who I got to know at dinner on Thursday), fellow Dragonlance writer Dan Willis, and L.E. Modesitt Jr (Lee) in addition to myself.  I thought this panel was fantastic, though Lee did disagree with me a few times (ouch!).  I can’t complain, honestly.  This was a good panel with the four of us dealing with pretty nuanced stuff, from sociological theory to narrative craftsmanship.  There was a lot of interplay and, I think, really actionable information for those in attendance.  I was glad to be a part and look forward to future events with all these men (though the topic of romance seems unlike as a future place for us to meet up). 

Then I spent an hour or two talking with a lovely nineteen-year-old woman about her book—or, you might say, abusing her by suggesting so many options for revision it certainly gave her a headache.  I’d use her name, but she insists she’s a thirty-plus married with two children.  I don’t want to expose her identity as a bald (and very young)-faced liar.

Then I went to two panels on worldbuilding.

Then I came home to write to you.    

Other things I’ll report (which you may or may not want to know):

* People ask me to take pictures with them, and this happened three times at LTUE.  I always agree, but still find this to be extremely odd.  Rather like taking pictures of a can of soup.  There is nothing particularly off putting about a can of soup, certainly, but neither is it possessed of a rare aesthetic quality.  Whenever I’m asked to take a picture with someone, a single thought fills my head: stop looking so confused.

* James Dashner’s entrance in a room is sometimes accomplied by applause, only some of which is sarcastic.  Brandon Sanderson’s is accompanied by greater applause, none of it sarcastic.  Mine is accompanied by no applause.  All of this strikes me as logical.

* Paul Genesse wrote some very generous things (perhaps overly so) on his blog after our Thursday afternoon panel.  He actually posted it that day—after being on four panels!  Like Brandon Mull, Paul too is a machine in synthetic flesh.     

* The Brandons Mull and Sanderson signed books for my brother and his wife.  I will now be even cooler to their family.  (My nephew, who will be four tomorrow, thinks I’m pretty awesome already, so just wait until he can read the dedication to GDC.)

* Best panelist of the conference: L.E. Modesitt Jr.  Yeah, yeah, that guy who kind of sort of disagreed with me about some stuff.  I may not agree with him on everything, but I do most things—and the guy knows his craft and knows how to talk about it.  I admire and respect his balance of intellectual orientation in the disciplines of economics, politics, and other social dynamics with the truly idiosyncratic nature of telling a story.  He’s one who does it right, if you ask me (though he’d be the first to point out that a million other ways can be just as right).  The Brandons, Howard Taylor, and Dan Wells among others are always standouts, but this weekend’s cream was Lee (which, unfortunately, rose only on Saturday as he was supporting his wife with an event she is holding this weekend).  If you ever get a chance to hear Lee talk about writing, don’t pass it up, I’m telling you.    

* My friend Eric Swedin and I still have yet to appear on the same panel, which is beginning to threaten mathematical probability as we know it.  My five panels were, I believe, more than the allotment to anyone not a very special guest.  For his part, Eric is so omni-present at this thing that it is unofficially known as Life, the Universe, and Eric.  (This may become official next year depending on Eric’s generosity and the conference’s poverty.)  I’m impatient to sit with him at the same covered table brimming with mics and free water, do you hear me!

* At my book signing a lady picked up my book, started to read, and in about a minute laughed long and hard out loud.  That was cool.

* Yup, LTUE was all good.

I hate to sound preachy but have you thought of submitting elsewhere? A year’s a long time and unless you have some specific agreement with these individuals, I would consider sending out your MS to other venues. You’re a good writer, Clint. I wouldn’t wait to see if other fish take the bait.

First off, thank you very much for the compliment.  As for thoughts on submitting elsewhere, yes, I have considered it seriously.  What I’ve decided is to do my best to have my cake and eat it too.  I think the book is a terrific fit with this particular publisher, and that combined with a strong recommendation I received make me think that my chances with this house are about as good as they come in this industry.  For these reasons, I’ve wanted to respect their exclusivity for the time being—at least among publishers.

What I have done is submitted the book to agents.  That doesn’t count as a multiple submission, so no breaking the exclusivity I promised.  Meanwhile, if a really good agent falls for the book before a contract offer is extended, I’ll be able to discuss the next step with them.  If they believe that submitting to other houses is the best step, I’ll do that; if they want to approach the current publisher and seek a deal, I’ll do that.  If, on the other hand, the publisher does offer a deal first, I’ll contact my top agents and tell them that an offer is on the table and I’d be interested in exploring representation.  Either way, it works well for me.

So that’s the situation in more depth, L.T.  I don’t have all my eggs in one basket, exactly; rather, I’m trying to cook them two different but complimentary ways.  It’s just a fact of the business that even when you’ve got things on multiple burners—which all writers should, if they’re serious about publishing—you find yourself waiting a lot while the pots simmer.  Four of my top agents have had my package for a long time now, and the publisher’s had my book for an eternity.  None of it’s empirical evidence, but the trends are looking good.  It’s just one of those times when I have to let things finish cooking, no matter how hungry I am.

Perhaps I should say starving?  Famished?  Or maybe follow Shakespeare and use the classic “in a consumption.”  Well, take your pick, whichever screams to you more loudly, “I HATE WAITING!”

You learn to wait when you seek to publish. You may not wait well, but you wait. The only alternative is to make something happen yourself, and since you cannot make a publisher accept your book, you’re left with many less constructive alternatives, many of which tend toward the tragic and might get you on wanted lists and, eventually, the evening news. To avoid this, every writer cultivates a second style in addition to their writing style—a waiting style.

Some writers wait by refusing to wait; instead, they work. I try this one, but can’t manage to squeeze my life so devoid of empty seconds that obsessive thoughts have no room to blossom. I always manage to think of new ways that someone could reject the most brilliant book ever written in the history or alternate histories of this world or any sufficiently interesting variation.  (This is the way I think of all my books as they’re out as submissions.) 

Other writers go back to their work and continue to “revise.” In actuality, they’re mostly self-cannibalizing, churning in and over themselves and their work so incessantly that all vigor and color is gnawed away. It’s like sticking a Christmas stocking the washer over and over again hoping it will get just that much cleaner. Not only is this questionable in regard to efficacy, but after the two-hundredth washing that cheery red will remain in memory only. And as the publishing world often works according to its own special time (it’s called Continental Drift Standard), you’ll have plenty of time to churn that story over so excessively that no life or breath remains.  As styles of waiting go, this is about the worst.  Don’t do it.

Other writers I know chose the distraction route.  Whether sports or movies or diving into a book very unlike what they’ve written, they try to replace thoughts about rejection with other interests.  In theory, this should work great.  In my case, the practice has proved problematic.  Not only do such distractions work only momentarily on me, but they usually produce a measure of guilt that I didn’t use the time productively (see the first waiting strategy of diving into more work).  If you can apply this one, I envy you.

 While there are many more styles, I’ll mention only one other common type: the social waiter.  These writers attend writers meetings, critique groups, or simply pepper their colleagues with lamentation about how agonizing it is to wait for that next rejection letter, like a toddler playing peek-a-boo for the twentieth time who still manages to hope that this time, finally, ugly uncle Chester really will be gone when the hands disappear.  Other writers refer to this as commiseration; normal people call it making a pest of one’s self.

In my seven years or so of serious writing (about six of which were spent submitting for consideration of publication), I’ve learned a lot about my waiting style.  This past year of a publisher sitting on a requested manuscript has greatly refined my style which, according to my current understanding, is about as follows:  As I wait I work, first strategically, then busily, then grumpily, then desperately; then a stupor hits me and I wonder if I am mistaking busyness for achievement (an old whip crack of John Wooden); then I realize how much time has actually passed, and I glory in my inevitable achievement, which includes attributing the delay to the publisher buying time to gather an advance big enough for me to buy my own Hawaiian island; then I remember it’s more likely they’ve forgotten about me, misplaced the manuscript, or so covered it with coffee stains they can no longer remember who sent it; then I try to jump in my blender; when the spatial impossibilities of my effort finally hit me, I settle down, remember the hundred plus rejections I’ve already survived, and recall that they have not—as yet—been added to; then I remind myself I do not know the end from the beginning, that good things can and do happen, and that I sent out a truly good book; with that ballast for stability, I get back to work—which only occasionally I combine with pacing, gnashing of teeth, and periodic outbursts of alternating threats and prophesy, both delightful and dour.

That pretty much covers my past year.   May the next see my waiting style undergo much less refinement than it has this year.  

Oh, and if the publisher hasn’t gotten back to me by this time next year, expect to see me on some creatively tragic story on the evening news.

I often meet writers who are looking to be the next Stephanie Meyer.  They actually talk about how to do it, strategize battle plans and the like.  This is a complete waste of time, and trust me, if you’re serious about publishing you have plenty of other things that will more productively fill every single second of your waking life.  Why is it a waste of time, you ask?  Because becoming the bestselling author in the world is a butterfly affect thing.  It is the cumulative result of so many different variables, many of which we are all completely unaware of, that trying to manipulate factors to bring it about is just laughable. 

It’s the nature of all popular culture—and by the way, phenomena like Harry Potter and Twilight are essentially pop culture events.  The biggest bestsellers are always products of adoption by popular culture.  Take the entire body of any story form for mass consumption, whether it be novels or movies or whatever.  About eighty percent have no chance of becoming huge.  They are simply too low in quality, targeted to too small an audience, not distributed widely enough, or something similar.  Some will be every bit as rich and worthwhile as any other narrative put out that season, and they still won’t have a chance to really break out.  Earning bestsellerdom takes more than deserving it, sadly.  You need sufficient quality, a sufficiently large audience, sufficient production and distribution—and a good deal of providence.  And what we find is that between ten and twenty percent of truly professional level stuff fits the first three criteria.  About the top fifth of any genre published has a chance to break out and make it huge. 

Why do so few actually do it?  Largely, it’s a matter of chance, but in this case luck almost always exhibits itself as word of mouth.  Word of mouth can be generated by innumerable factors, some of them quite silly.  In James’s case, he happened to write a book that reminded people at Random House of The Hunger Games—and he wrote it years before The Hunger Games was even contracted.  His timing was, in most respects, plain luck.  He happened to come out with a good book at the perfect time.  That is, in almost every circumstance, the formula for break out success.

So stop planning on being that next person who shakes the world on its foundation and makes Earth settle at a slightly different slant afterward.  For most who deserve such, it doesn’t happen.  And you can’t make it happen.  What you, and I, and any one of us can do is strive to be in that top twenty percent.  We can strive to be in the top fifth in quality, and write things that people really do want to read,  lots of them, and work until people in the industry realize that as well.  At that point, we qualify for bestsellerdom.  Then we just wait and see if the Fates pick our names out of the hat (hopefully, not to cut our threads).  If not, well, I intend to toss my name into that hat again, and I’ll keep on doing it as often as I can for as long as I can manage.

*****

For those who aren’t aware, there’s a new Kurt Vonnegut short story—excerpted from a forthcoming volume of his unpublished fiction—that you can read for free in Vanity Fair.  It’s all about a woman who writes the story of her life and how her husband is this brilliant, sophisticated, virile love machine, and sells said story, becomes rich, and all this ruins her life.  Anyone doubting that Vonnegut actually wrote the thing only need read that the story in the story takes place in “Hypocrites’ Junction” to know of its authenticity.  Read the story and improve your life, because this is what all Kurt Vonnegut stories do. 

For my part, I am determined to test his hypothesis.  I now intend to write lots of stories that sell for lots of money, draw inspiration for these from my brilliant, sophisticated, virile love machine wife (Note to self: get brilliant, sophisticated, virile love machine wife), and see whether it makes me miserable.  Preliminary results aren’t in yet, but I’m leaning a little more toward ”exultant” rather than “unhappy.”

*****

Random yet important thought (which characterizes most of my thoughts, I believe): Including the words ”based on a true story” on either cover of a novel—or anywhere in between—is one of the worst and most pointless ideas statistically possible, even from a random firing of neurons.  It’s like a highway slathered in mayonnaise.  I see many possible repercussions, but none that justify sticking the one with the other, and none of which I can possibly see as beneficial.  A novel means fiction.  It means “I made this up.”  How, exactly, does the qualifying “based on a true story” change that?  By indicating that some unidentified portions of the text to some unidentified degree correlate to some unidentified situations in the life of a person who may or may not be identifiable by the name used or, in many cases, would more accurately be described as an aggregate person combining several products of the above simple formula. 

What? 

You made the story say what you want, when you want, and where you want.  That’s fiction.  If all it took to make something “based on a true story” was correlation of inspiration to a “real” event there would be no such thing as fiction.  Every story ever written reflects the human experience of reality.  Every story is “based on a true story.”  In fact, every story is “based on the life story of its creator.”  All story is, therefore, “true.”  Not all story is factual.  (All the world’s—or worlds’, whichever you prefer—wisdom is rooted in semantics, after all.) 

So let’s get our terms right, okay.  If you’re writing a story that incorporates many facts you’ve uncovered about some person’s life or experience, and you change those when desired to craft effect, you’re writing a novel.  It’s fiction, so don’t go trying to invent some in-between quasi-realm where a story that didn’t happen will feel more tangible.  The moment a reader reads “novel” they, by necessity, doubt every word of every page in the book.  Whether things really happened or not becomes, for all intents and purposes, irrelevant.

The point, I guess, is this: if you want to tell people what happened, do it as well as you can without sacrificing veracity, or as much of it as you can attain; if you just want to give people the best story possible, who cares which parts of the story were inspired by what.  And if you’re trying to do both without doing either completely, you’re ladeling more mayonnaise on your highway.  Go ahead if you want, but I’ve got this bad feeling that whatever else happens, as the day drags on I think things are likely to start stinking in the sun.           

Please, as you read this blog post, do so with the ringing sound of trumpets echoing in the background.  For I here announce the (week-late) official, long-foretold release of The Maze Runner, a literary sojourn that will take my good friend (and non-Jane Austin character) James Dashner up at least several notches on the carven totem of children’s fiction luminaries.

Haven’t read it yet, but I will.  What I can tell you is that this book took a long, complicated, and, I’m certain, angel-blessed pathway to Random House, where it found a good home at the top of their fall list, where it released last week.  Domestically.  I’m not sure when it releases in the seven (I think it’s seven) other languages that have already been contracted.  For anyone who has read and loved The Hunger Games, check out The Maze Runner, as I’ve heard it’ll please the palate.  

Currently, James is in the middle of a several week tour to a number of different states, which has me green in the gills.  I’m sure that by the end he’ll be nearly dead from exhaustion, but that tempers my envy only a tinsy bit.  Well, if imitation is the greatest form of flattery, then envy must be a co-captain.  Here’s to James and The Maze Runner, which I hope sells almost a billion copies—but only almost.  Yes, my goodwill definitely has limits, and beyond these borders pettiness reigns!

After two months, they were out of copies.  That changed things. 

So, I just got back from the bookstore, which bought ten more copies—this time not on consignment.  Apparently, they are no longer worried about being able to sell copies.  Can you tell this post has been written in a little bit of smug mode?

I just can’t help it.  I found out today that people have been stealing my book from the bookstore!  While this may not exactly be ethical, I find that really cool.  Now, it’s cool whenever people read my book; it still stuns me a bit that this is so.  It’s even better when people think enough of the book to buy it.  Best of all is when people tell me, in that special shallow-breathed enthusiasm, that they loved the book.  But there’s something special about knowing that people out there consider my book important enough to break the law to attain.  There’s something very charming about the thought of dashing thieves willing to live on the lam for the sake of great literature—or bizarre kids stories about dragons colliding with cows, however you characterize GDC. 

Anyway, I thought it was cool, and it made me happy.

Now, back to work.  Oh, and for any of the students from the Children’s Lit class I will address tonight, if you’ve found your way to this blog, you’re on the right track.  If you posted a comment (as instructed) then you’re a step ahead of others.  If you keep coming here periodically, and do the rest of the things I told you, you can consider yourself on the inside track to publication.  Hurray!