over the cliff

Today I came across a link to a post by Nayad Monroe, a slushreader at Clarkesworld Magazine about submissions to the magazine. It’s an excellent post and contains a lot of really good information about how to properly submit your manuscript for submission which, as the slushreader pointed out, should be common sense by now. As Clarkesworld is one of my favorite magazines, I will definitely be using this post to guide my future submissions. Everything this woman says to do, I will do because you should always follow the guidelines of a magazine.

This is where the driving me crazy part comes in.

When I was working for the Crab Orchard Review I also handled hundreds of submissions and read as a first reader for many of them. I cannot recall a *single* short story that was submitted in New Courier. My best guess for this is that because literary journals deal with poetry and fiction, and since poetry looks really wonky when printed up in Courier, Times New Roman became the preference. Regardless, I far, far, far prefer the way Times New Roman looks–for poetry and fiction–and thus I tend to submit everything in that font. I understand the advantages to Courier: as a monospaced font it’s easier to spot errors, but I also don’t want to be the single New Couriered story when I submit to the Missouri Review. The easy thing to do of course is to just change the font when submitting to the different types of magazines, and here’s where the second crazy moment comes in.

Neoffice is the devil. At first it just liked to italicize huge chunks of text for no reason. They fixed that bug, so now instead of italics, I have paragraphs of all caps. Or a page of gibberish. I have discovered that the best way to circumvent this issue is to save in Neoffice, open the file in Textedit, and save again. However since the problems usually arise when the file is subsequently opened in Microsoft Word, posts like these from editors to whom I have submitted recently, start to make me paranoid. What if the problems aren’t fixed. What if this post is written specifically to me, the weird girl who uses Times New Roman, all caps, gibberish, and italics just to annoy editors?

Speaking of editors, Ms. Monroe requests that cover letters be addressed to the editor by name. Here’s where I tend to disagree. I know that Clarkesworld has slushreaders and I don’t know which one will inevitably be reading my story. As she points out, listing everyone by name is awkward, and so I tend to opt for the generic “Dear Editors”. This habit also stems from submissions to literary magazines since half the time you don’t know who the editor is because the website is out of date. Nothing like submitting to an editor by name only to discover a few weeks later that the person in question doesn’t work at that university anymore.

Anyway, despite my neuroticism, I do love when editors post things like this because I do really care about what each editor’s personal preferences are. If Ms. Monroe wants me to address everything to Mr. Clarke or to flying, prancing, magic pony, I’ll do it. I know it doesn’t really make a difference in the decision making process because the story is everything, but I don’t want to be the person whose cover letter and/or submission is read aloud to others in an office somewhere as the best example of what *not* to do.

…Not that I know of any readers who have ever done that…

I could try to explain why there’s been a 7 month lapse in posting, or I could launch into a review of the movie I saw last night.

I read His Dark Materials trilogy after seeing the preview for what looked, judging by all the pretty colors and the relative cuteness of polar bears, to be an excellent fantasy movie of the first installment. Surely this would surpass The Chronicles of Narnia which I found, despite the relative cuteness of talking woodland creatures, to be rather costumey and short on logic. And while I had complaints with the book (mostly with POV) I thought there was enough stuff–namely talking polar bears–to warrant an excellent film. Lyra, the main character, was not particularly well rendered in the novel, but I believed a good director would be able to smooth her out–or at least make her consistent. Mystery and bad guys and witches and flying mechanical contraptions abounded. And when you didn’t have a talking polar bear on screen, there would be more than enough talking other critters.

Hopeful, and dare I say enthusiastic, my friends and I went to the 10:10 PM showing of The Golden Compass. The best way to put our experience is with a quote from one Alex Lumans who said, “I don’t need an alethiometer to know that’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back.”

Another way to put it would be to say that in the great ranking of fantasy films, Eragon is no longer at the bottom.

Nor are the Star Wars prequels.

First off, the story had no pacing. In essence it felt like one really long trailer. Scene after scene of ominous foretelling and exposition. But the reason we go to movies and not trailers is so that we can, occasionally, and if it’s not too much trouble, get some development. Sections from the book that offered the best chance for this were skimmed. Characters appeared out of thin air–literally–to give crucial information that wasn’t that crucial just so that when the same character randomly showed up in the nick of time, we wouldn’t be too surprised.

Second, the script. How these actors managed to say their lines with straight faces, I’ll never understand. According to the trivia page from IMDB Tom Stoppard wrote a draft which Weitz, the director, rejected so he could adapt it himself. Idiot. I think the worst line was, “You mean to ride me?” But it was mostly bad in context.

Third, the logic. Or lack thereof. At one point in the film the giant talking polar bear claims that his armor is his “soul”. He becomes an alcoholic when the people of a certain town trick him and steal it from him. So what does he do as soon as he gets it back? Leaves it behind every chance he gets in order to carry Lyra to some random location. Right. And if Lyra is this ultra-special child for whom lots of bad guys are hunting, why is she left on her own so often? Apparently every adult character graduated from the Britney Spears House of Daycare.

Oh well, maybe the sequel will be better.

“In the religion of flame, heaven comes when all the world is ash.” -James Maxey, Bitterwood.

Bant Bitterwood is not a hero. For 20 years he has wandered the world slaying dragons fueled only by his hate and lust for revenge. He has no higher purpose, no lofty aspirations and when he tells people his name, they don’t believe him.

When Bitterwood kills the dragon prince, King Albekizan orders the slaughter of all humans. In any typical fantasy, this would be the point where Bitterwood rallies all of mankind in a fight for survival. There would be great battles and speeches. There would be an old man who gives guidance and is eventually killed off in order to harden the hero to his task and tell the reader This is really serious. And the dragons would be standard winged lizards who all look, sound, and act pretty much the same.

Fortunately for us, James Maxey is not a typical fantasy writer. Bitterwood is not a hero. Albekizan is not just a blood thirsty evil doer. And most of the novel is told from the point of view of other characters. The dragons themselves are artfully rendered and given specific characteristics to explain their function within dragon society. And Mr. Maxey is also not afraid to include biological specific effects of an individual’s death.

Mr. Maxey also has a singular talent for creating characters that are not perfect, nor does he try the old trick of making a mostly perfect person with one tragic flaw. They’re human, or in some cases, dragon. They make choices, some bad, some good and deal with the consequences. But they are always interesting and captivating and, even when they’re ordering the genocide of an entire species, sympathetic.

Unfortunately for you, this book won’t be published until July. But when it is, you should buy it and, if you’re like me, you’ll finish it in one sitting. Because to be quite honest, I think James Maxey could write a grocery list and I’d still want to read it.

To find out more (and read the first chapter), visit http://bitterwoodnovel.blogspot.com/

Mythic II is now available for preorder on Shocklines and the Margie Review website now says that Volume 5 will be released in October.

I don’t expect all of you to run out and order them. Except for you, Mom.

My mother has been complaining that I don’t update my blog enough. I don’t know what she’s talking about…

No doubt you (all 3 of my faithful readers) have been wondering what I’m up to. Perhaps you thought I was busy writing of the great American novel.

Curing cancer.

Alphabetizing my socks.

Shaving “Raketenpanzerbushethunk!” into Demos’ fur.

In truth I have been doing none of these things. Instead I house-sat for my Aunt and Uncle, wrote lots of bad poetry at Starbucks, went vineyarding with Adam and Elena and helped (very little) them move into their new house, read the first 10 pages of half a dozen books, and did NOT go to Katie’s wedding.

One of my best friends from High School got married. And I didn’t go. I think I officially fail as a human.

I’m also not really quite sure if I ever told her definitively that I wasn’t going to be able to make it. [Insert expletive and plague on both of my computers here]

In case she ever googles her own name and comes across this: Katie Brinkley I adore you and I hope you and Jonas (ha! I didn’t call him Sven for once) are very, very, very happy. And tell him that he better treat you right or I’ll drown him.

In other news… Sara and Elena came over the other day and we had a submissions party–hopefully the first of many. Because I am psychotically OCD, I created a Poetry Bible filled with information on journals (stated response time, average response time, ranking, and manuscript guidelines), contests, market statistics, submissions log, and copies of the poems I’ve sold. To give me hope in my many hours of despair.

The sad thing was in the 4 hours we spent drinking wine and eating cheese straws… all I managed to do was print out everything I have, spread it out on the floor, and wish that I’d written better stuff.

But today I printed, stuffed and mailed packets to Poetry, Missouri Review, Mid-American Review, and Margie.

I also sim subbed the heck out of everything. I had to print out a sheet with a list of the poems that are at multiple places so that when I get rejected from all of them… I can check them off one by one. Double points to the journal if I cry.

And that has been my life. But for now, I must pack.

Longer update later. For now: Just sold “Lower Schoolers Explore the Universe” to Strange Horizons. This makes me happy since now I can pretend that my first sale to them wasn’t a fluke.

Some cute pictures, so I don’t lose them.

Puppy
Kittens
Kitten
Baby Seal

…do not collect $200.

I received my first ever rejection from a literary magazine. As far as “We hate you and your writing sucks” slips go, it was pretty polite. It wasn’t a torn off corner of a sheet of paper with the word ‘No!’ written on it as if I were some puppy trying to grab food off the table. They didn’t send back my manuscript with cat vomit or coffee stains on it. They didn’t say “Save the literary world. Die now.” Just a simple “Thank you for sending us your work, but we cannot use it at the present time.”

They were also relatively fast. 32 days. Pretty damn snappy for a lit magazine. I sent batches of poems off to Ploughshares and CrazyHorse at the end of March which I probably won’t see again until September. By then I’ll probably hate everything I’ve written and crawl back to my parents to see if Medical School is still an option.

In other pseudo-writing related news… I read book 3 of Goodkinds Sword of Truth infinitology. I still hate the names he gives groups of people, and his dialogue reminds me of that play in Kindergarten we did about Egyptians making bread, but it was readable. So I ordered book 4 and told Oliver that if I don’t like, it’s his fault. He doesn’t seem to think this is very fair.

I want to say that I put this in my blog ages ago, but I couldn’t find it. So I thought I’d post it again.

Querying the New Yorker

(1) In the beginning the author read Let There be Write by Nancy Fulda and decided to write a blog entry.

(2) And the blog entry was without form, and void except for the editing features at the top of the Wordpress ‘Write Post’ page. Which the author found annoying.

(3) And the author said, Let there be things in my day worth writing about! And there were none.

(4) And the author saw that her life was dull and meaningless. And she was sad.

(5) And then the author remembered that she had submitted many poems and needed to check her e-mail and so she saved the post as a draft. And the evening and the morning were the first day.

(6) And the author said Let there be replies, and let them divide the submitted and the trunked.

(7) And the author saw that there were no replies. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

(8) And the author said, let the e-mail program bring forth acceptances, or rejections. But mainly acceptances and it was not so. And the evening and the morning were the third day. Because it apparently took a long time for this author to check her e-mail and respond to its emptiness.

(9) And the author said, let me send out more poems. By snail mail. And she divided her poems into batches as the goddess Joanne Merriam had bade her. And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

(10) And many more days passed.

(11) And the author said, let there be replies now. But there were none. And the evening and the morning were some other day.

(12) So the author suffered in the image of her failure and lonliness; more poems, created she them, and said unto them, be enticing, and good, and replenish my bank account, and bring me prestige and literary acclaim, for you are my greatest work. And then she remembered that they were poems and crossed ‘replenish my bank account’ from the list.

(13) And on the nth day, the author remembered her blog entry and checked her e-mail again but there was nothing and behold, she angsted.

Okay, I’ll admit it right up front: I read trash fiction on occasion. The Anita Blake books, the first two Paolonigodheneedstochangehisname dragon monstrosities, the Lackey dragon monstrosities, the DaVinci Code, the Nanny Diaries, and most recently… The Devil Wears Prada.

My mother bought it and loved it when it had just been released, she’d read me sections and I found them amusing… so when I was in Barnes and Noble a couple of weeks ago cursing that they didn’t actually have The Final Key by Catherina Asarao in stock, I saw it… I bought it… and true to form, it took me until the other day to actually start reading it.

And just now, I finished it.

And parts of it were amusing, very amusing. Laugh out loud and repeat it to my mother and aunts amusing. But it was a complete and total waste of my time. And it wasn’t because it was horrendous prose or particularly distasteful characters… it was just… not satisfying. It was like the whole thing was set up just to showcase these little ‘look how awful my boss is’ vignettes.

And what was really irritating was how she kept going back and forth in time. In fact the first chapter takes place at least 3 months into her job just to see Andy run around doing this bizarre errand that ends badly. Nothing crucial happens to Andy or her job. The entire chapter is nothing but ‘oh god isn’t this funny in a ‘I am so glad this is not me’ kind of way’.

Ummm. Okay.

Dear Author, I promise that if you write well and give me an interesting character that I like and care about, I will read the first however many chapters it takes me to actually get to the ‘Omg this is the bitch from hell’ war stories. Promise.

At any rate, I could’ve forgiven the first chapter if it had been a one time deal. But she kept doing it. She’d start a new scene–a phone conversation between Andy and her co-worker and then flashback into a ‘Ooooh isn’t this a funny story that I forgot to tell you about when it happened’ moment. That’s really what the book was all about. Moments. Which was why I didn’t care nor was particularly interested in all the heavy relationshipy stuff. I didn’t care that Andy and her boyfriend were falling apart, or that Lily, her best friend and roommate, was becoming an alcoholic. I actually didn’t understand why anyone was upset that Andy had to keep cancelling plans because of the bitch because… well the whole book was about the bitch and the office—that’s where all the interesting stuff was happening. Screw Andy’s real life, it’s never been important to me as a reader so why should I care about it at all?

Which is why the book is completely unsatisfying as a whole (other than the moment where Andy finally says ‘Fuck you’ to Miranda… that felt good). When she leaves her job, all the interesting fun stuff is now gone and I stop caring about Andy and what happens to her. Sure the author gives me the nice cotton candy ‘Andy is actually gonna be okay in the end’ ending, but I’d stopped caring the moment Miranda found her voice to fire the girl.

And if you’re mad at me for giving away the ending, don’t be. The point of the book is to hear the ridiculous things that Miranda does and says… I haven’t ruined anything.

Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is the author did only a halfass job of making me actually care about Andy and her “real” life. Andy’s job never seemed to be in any real jeopardy, and it also didn’t seem like being fired would be such a bad thing. Maybe if the author had made it appear that if Andy were fired from Runway she’d never get a job anywhere else—well, anywhere that Andy would actually like to work—then there would’ve been real tension.

I could probably go on for another 10 minutes about what needs to be changed and where… but just like Lily in the coma… it just doesn’t seem all that important.