On September 26, 2022, NASA’s Double Asteroid Redirection Test (DART) succeeded in impacting a probe on the asteroid Dimorphos in an attempt to redirect the path of that body.
You’re late to the party, NASA. It’s been done already. Over a century ago.
As chronicled in The Cometeers, an international team already attempted to redirect an Earthbound comet.
In 1897.
When Comet Göker threatened to strike our planet in September of that year, there were no rockets, no nuclear weapons. They fired projectiles from the Jules Verne cannon and tried to deflect the comet with a gunpowder explosion. Commander Hanno Knighthead struggled to motivate his argumentative, multinational crew of eccentric geniuses to work together.
Then he learned the crew included a saboteur. Only a truly extraordinary leader could get this group to cooperate, identify and thwart the spy, and jury-rig a way to divert the comet. Lucky thing Hanno brought his chewing gum.
Good work, NASA. DART struck its target. But let’s not call it new or innovative. The credit for saving the Earth from collision goes to The Cometeers, by—
Next Sunday, October 2, 2022 marks 150 years to the day after Phileas Fogg began his trip Around the World in Eighty Days. I’ll celebrate this fictional event in two ways:
My story “80 Hours,” will be available for purchase, though you can pre-order it now.
I’ll begin a series of blogposts on the days when Fogg and his companions arrived in each city on their trip.
To Jules Verne’s reading audience in 1872, it must have seemed astounding to think someone could circle the globe in as little as eighty days. Today, we’re accustomed to the space station and manned spacecraft orbiting the earth in a little over eighty minutes.
For the rest of us non-astronauts, imagine facing the challenge of circumnavigating the earth in eighty hours with no preparation and with unknown, promised obstacles along the way. That’s the problem confronting shy and sheltered Wendy Pegram in “80 Hours.”
You may pre-order “80 Hours” in ebook form now at Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, Tolino, and Vivlio. Starting next Sunday, you’ll be able to get the book at those sites, and at Amazon, Scribd, and Rakuten Kobo.
If you’ve been itching to make the trip around our globe, you can do it for real. Or (far cheaper) you can read your way around the world by two different methods, courtesy of—
Ah, the metaphor. The perfect asset for rendering the abstract concrete, for elevating prose above mere banal description, for igniting the fire of words.
tiger photo by Charles J. Sharp
I’ve written about metaphors before, but only to distinguish them from their showy, weaker fellow creatures, similes. The poor, attention-starved simile. It’s like a male peacock, brandishing ‘like’ or ‘as’ to signal the reader, to flash its tail feathers, saying, “Look at me! I’m making a comparison!”
A metaphor shows no signal, gives no sign. It’s unannounced, sneaky, and subtle. A trained tiger lurking within a jungle of words. Hidden power, and beauty.
I attended a webinar this week titled “The Magic of Metaphor,” by author Marin Sardy, and that inspired this post. She refreshed my knowledge of this trained predator, one I’ve too often left languishing in its cage. Thanks to her, I’ve fed the beast, stroked its fur, let it get some exercise, and vowed to present it more often.
All metaphors hinge on an absurdity. A thing is not a thing, says the metaphor, it is some other thing. It’s not like something else. It is something quite different. X is Y. Shakespeare asserts the whole world is a stage. They’re the same thing, equal.
Absurd. The whole world is not a stage. You know that. Shakespeare knew you’d know that. But your mind, that highly evolved pattern recognition engine, saw the link and made the connection. The world resembles a stage in some respects—got it.
Ms. Sardy discussed the various types of metaphor, the different tricks your trained tiger can perform. Simple, Compound, Extended, Implied, and Conceptual. You can look those up elsewhere. Each takes the basic ‘X is Y’ formulation and twists it a different way.
Metaphors help readers understand and appreciate your story. The ‘X’ is something in your story—hard to describe, difficult to picture, outside the reader’s experience. In the cited metaphor by Shakespeare, “all the world” is fuzzy, nebulous, too big to grasp. Your powerful trained tiger equates that with ‘Y,’ something known to readers, tangible, and easier to imagine. “A stage.”
If your tiger performs well, Ms. Sardy says, the metaphor is clear, apt, original, and authentic. On a bad day, the tiger bites its trainer-author in the form of a cliché, or metaphors that are mixed, stacked, or forced.
Ms. Sardy addressed how to train your tiger—that is, how to choose the right metaphor. Given the ‘X’ of your story, how do you select the perfect ‘Y?’ The four pieces of advice, put in my own words, follow:
Push past the obvious. List a bunch of candidate ‘Ys’ (perhaps by mind-mapping) and don’t pick the first ones that occur to you.
Think for yourself. Don’t copy, or even attempt to imitate, the metaphors of other writers.
Understand the ‘X.’ Put yourself as deeply into your story as you can. Immerse your mind in it. Only by being there can you convey an appropriate and vivid comparison.
Draw from past experience. Think about similar things from your own past. That may help you select the right ‘Y,’ one familiar to readers.
Note: In this post, I’ve transposed Ms. Sardy’s marvelous webinar into my own words. She didn’t use a trained tiger to describe metaphors—that’s my idea. I take the blame for any misinterpretation of her wonderful talk.
Ready to show off your trained tiger? At the literacy circus, a spotlight shines down on the center ring. A vast, reading audience waits in their seats, anxious to find out if your trained tiger act is better than that of—
A writer’s retreat sounds good, doesn’t it? Get away from your day job, your house-mates, your friends, for a week, a weekend, or even just a day. Pure writing bliss.
Except it often isn’t. I’ve blogged about writing retreats here, and even earlier, here. If you approach them with realistic expectations, maintain discipline, and avoid distractions, you may accomplish many of your retreat goals.
You can divide writer’s retreats into two types—Group and Do-It-Yourself, and I’ve done both. Group retreats provide camaraderie with like-minded writers, and the opportunity for critiques and idea-sharing.
DIY retreats, described in two great posts—this one by Kristen Pope, and this one by Alicia de los Reyes, feature ‘alone time’ where it’s just you and your words. You may find a well-executed DIY retreat quite productive and rewarding.
Now for the counter-argument. In group retreats, when all is said and done, there’s often much more said than done. If you’re going to talk and not write, don’t call it a retreat. Call it a weekend with friends, a party, or a beer-bash.
DIY retreats avoid that problem, but may suffer other pitfalls. If you’re accustomed to writing in short bursts during the rare moments life allows, you may find it difficult to stay focused when you’ve set aside a whole day. If you’ve trained your brain to adjust to one-hour writing sessions, don’t be surprised when the gray matter gets distracted or sluggish after an hour.
Also, when you think about it, DIY retreats resemble your daily writing sessions, except they’re longer. Just a question of scale. Seems a little strange to give it a special name—retreat—when it’s so similar to your normal routine.
Consider professional authors, those who call writing their day job. They write all day, every day. Think the term ‘DIY retreat’ means anything to them? What you call a DIY retreat, they call a career.
Perhaps you should aim at that target. Rather than writing for a few minutes squeezed from life each day, all the while looking forward to the next retreat when you can really write, why not think of each day as a DIY retreat? Maximize those seized moments. Do everything you can to approximate the life of a serious, professional author. Maybe you can’t give up your day job or ignore life’s other requirements, but you can prioritize your time to permit more writing.
With that mindset, every day starts looking like a DIY retreat. Who started calling them ‘retreats,’ anyway? Yes, they involve backing away from the non-writing parts of life, but ‘retreat’ sounds so weak, like surrender. From a writing perspective, you’re advancing, not retreating. Let’s call them advances, or charges, or attacks.
Let’s go, writers! Grab your spear and shield—er, I mean pen and laptop, and advance toward glory. No retreat, no surrender. Charge forward! Follow—
Interesting fact—over the years, I’ve submitted stories 441 times, and in all of the responses to all of those submissions, I’ve never been rejected. Hard to believe? Consider this—no matter how many times you submit your writing for publication, you will never be rejected either.
To clarify, my stories have been rejected plenty of times. Yours might be rejected as well. But I, as a person, have never been rejected by any editor. Nor will you.
When one of your stories gets rejected, it sure feels like the editor is rejecting you, doesn’t it? It’s like the editor’s saying, ‘You’re not good enough for my publication. You really aren’t a very good writer. You ought to quit now and consider doing something else with your time.’
Editors never say that. Nor do they mean it. But we writers can’t help but think that’s what they mean. After all, we think, I just wrote something from the heart, from the deepest part of my soul. I am the story, and the story is me. When you reject it, you reject me.
In dealing with this conundrum, you’ve got two options to choose from:
You can identify with your stories in a personal, intimate way. When an editor rejects one of your stories, you can regard it as a rejection of your very being. You’ll have to find some way of coping with that (see below).
You can place some emotional distance between yourself and your stories. They’re not you and you’re not them. They’re good, and you’re proud of them, but they’re a product of you, not the very essence of you. A rejection of a story is nothing more than a minor setback. It doesn’t constitute a condemnation of you as a person. Your identity as a writer remains intact.
Though I practice Option 2, I’m not sure that’s best. It can lead to a disinterested approach to writing—’It’s just a story, after all. It’s not me. Who cares if it gets rejected?’
Option 1, however, reminds me of the quote attributed to Ernest Hemingway—“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” That attitude calls for baring your soul using words, pouring out your essence into every story. Perhaps Option 1 could result in the best, most masterful writing you can do.
If you choose Option 1, how do you deal with rejection? You’re in for a rough time when an editor rejects (what you consider to be) you. At a minimum, alcohol may get consumed and perhaps your forehead will bang into a wall a few times. I hope nothing worse occurs.
It seems likely that, for Option 1 writers, rejection becomes less soul-crushing after the tenth, or the hundredth time. I hope so, even if only for the sake of minimizing wall damage.
Perhaps wisdom lies in a sort of balance between Option 1 and 2. You could maintain a close relationship, an identity, with your stories, while growing a hard shell when it comes to others’ opinions. You’re going to need a thick skin at some point anyway, even after acceptance, when critical readers leave scathing comments.
Whichever option you choose and however you deal with rejections of your stories, it remains true that you will never get rejected, and neither will—
