Tag Archives: rejection

Heinlein’s Rules

In his 1947 essay “On the Writing of Speculative Fiction,” science fiction writer Robert A. Heinlein stated five rules for writing fiction.  Here they are:

1. You must write.

2. You must finish what you write.

3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.

4. You must put the work on the market.

5. You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.

He went on to say that he didn’t much fear the new competition he’d face from putting these rules out in the open, since he figured half of those who claim they want to write won’t complete step 1, and half of the remainder wouldn’t finish step 2, and so on.  Those of you working out the math should forget it–all those halves are just approximate.

Heinlein’s rules are repeated all over the web and there has been much criticism of them.  Some have said they sound too harsh, like Drill Sergeant Heinlein is shouting all those “MUSTs.”  To those folks I’d ask–If your aim is to get your work published, which of those steps do you think you could skip, or kinda half-do?  Really.  Look back over them and tell me which rule could be softened in its wording.

The main criticisms target rule 3, “You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.”  Some assume Heinlein is telling writers to send their first draft out on the market.  I doubt Mr. Heinlein meant that.  I think rewriting the first draft until it’s acceptable is implicit in rule 2: “You must finish what you write.”  It’s not likely to be really finished after a very rough, rapidly-scribbled first draft, even though you’ve reached “The End.”  Heinlein means that you must declare the work finished and then refrain from the temptation to waste time endlessly trying to perfect the work, unless an editor has asked for revisions and you agree to them.  As Heinlein also said elsewhere, “They didn’t want it good, they wanted it Wednesday.”

My own quibble with the rules concerns their order.  As written, they are single steps to be executed in sequential order.  The only loop in the process is within the final two steps, which basically say to send the manuscript out, and when you get a rejection, send the work–unchanged–to another market that same day.  So if all the other steps are in sequential order, Rule 3 makes no sense as written. You haven’t sent the work out yet, so how could you have received a request from an editor for a rewrite?  I say Rules 3 and 4 should be swapped.

The great writer Robert J. Sawyer has suggested adding a 6th rule, “Start Working on Something Else.”  This is likely aimed at those who think their first story will make them famous and so wait breathlessly for word from the editor about acceptance or rejection.  If you’re truly a writer, you can hardly wait to tackle the next project, so that’s when you start it.  Unfortunately, Rule 6 would then be the only one focused on some other, next work while the rest of the rules concern a single story.  Still, I concur with the intent, though I might have phrased it as, “Think of another story to write and go to step 1.”

I like Heinlein’s Rules.  I think their commanding tone is a stentorian call summoning you to action and perhaps to greatness.  Don’t think of them as overly harsh commandments that doom you to misery for the slightest deviation.  They’re an invitation; get out there; don’t talk about it–do it!  And they’re also a promise; follow these rules and you will get published.  It’s hard to think of more inspiring words for a beginning writer.

Please let me know what you think.  Also, remember that Heinlein wrote his rules about 65 years ago.  Perhaps 65 years from now people will still be debating words written by–

                                                                      Poseidon’s Scribe

 

January 29, 2012Permalink

Aiming for the Anthos

You’ve heard anthologies are a way to break into the writing business, but you’re not sure whether, or how, to submit?  Well, you’ve surfed to the right blog.  This is an area where Poseidon’s Scribe has some experience.  Seven of my stories are published in anthologies.

An anthology is a collection of stories, often sharing something in common and usually written by a variety of contributing writers.  Anthologies appeal to readers because they can sample the writing of unfamiliar authors and enjoy a smorgasbord of different styles.  Publishers like anthologies because readers like to pay for them, payment to authors tends to be low, and sometimes anthologies can sell very well.

Why do authors write for them?  For beginning writers, anthologies may just be the easiest way to get a story in print and to start establishing writing credentials.  Also, sometimes the theme is so compelling you just feel the urge to write that story!  An anthology can be the very thing you need to break out of a writing slump.

In a future blog post, I’ll discuss how to find out about upcoming anthologies.  For now, let’s assume you’ve just read a publisher’s call for stories to fill an anthology.  This one’s looking for tales that involve musk oxen, the theme of the anthology.  As you surf the publisher’s website you see they usually publish horror, and that’s not a genre that interests you.  So you ignore that call for stories and move on.

Then a day or two goes by and you find you can’t stop thinking about musk oxen.  Your brain keeps re-chewing the mental cud of numerous story lines.    Some of the ideas might even make good horror stories.  What’s going on?  Your muse is offering you a deal  If you can stampede away from your comfort zone, then your muse agrees to whisper a steady stream of musk oxen story ideas, scenes, plot lines, and characters.

So you sit down to write a story about a musk ox.  Of the various ideas roaming the fields of your mind, which one do you pick?  Here’s my view.  Don’t select the most obvious one, or two.  Other writers will have grazed those grasses already and that lessens the chance of the editor accepting your story.  I suggest aiming for the edge of the anthology’s theme.  Look for a different angle, a thematic twist that will make your story unique.  Ensure your story idea still fits within the anthology’s rules, but just within the border of those rules.  Also, consider if you could market your story elsewhere, should your story get rejected for this anthology.

You finish your story and now you’re checking the anthology’s rules one more time before submitting.  Here’s something you missed before.  “Payment for this anthology will be hardened, dried musk ox droppings (or monetary equivalent).”  What the–?  Payment for anthologies is often low.  Still, if you’re a beginning writer, payment is not the most important thing for you right now.  Exposure is; getting a story in print is; establishing a writing credential is.  Plus you never know when an anthology can really take off.

The scenario above happened to me.  When I saw the call for horror stories involving fish, I skipped right over it.  My muse didn’t.  She wouldn’t let go, even when I explained to her I don’t write horror stories and asked her who would buy such a book.  Are there really that many fishermen out there who enjoy horror stories?  Shows what I know about what appeals to the public!  Dead Bait by Severed Press, in which my story “Blood in the River” appears, remains the best-selling anthology of which I’m a part.  Who knew?

For you publishers, the idea of a musk ox anthology is free for the taking, and please don’t credit me with it!  For you writers, please understand I am not publishing an anthology. Do not send any musk ox stories to…

Poseidon’s Scribe

June 19, 2011Permalink

Ah, the Sweet Freedoms of Rejection!

This post’s title will make sense when you’re done reading the post.  Rejection sounds like such a dismal subject, but it’s a fact of life for most writers.  Nothing I can say here will make you enjoy getting rejections, but maybe my musings will offer a little perspective and a way to help you look at rejections differently.

They say you learn more from failure than success.  They also say that getting fired from a job is sometimes the best thing that happens to some people.  Whoever they are, they seem awfully chipper about bad things happening to other people, don’t they?

In my experience, the first rejection is the most difficult.  Rejections get easier after that until they get routine.  Just like the message that “they” are trying to convey with their little aphorisms, it’s all in your attitude, your reaction to the bad news.

Suppose you could speed past the first four Kübler-Ross Stages of Grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, and Depression) and reach Acceptance sooner.  One way to do that is to realize the editor is not rejecting you.  Remember, this is nothing personal.  It’s just business.  For whatever reason (and they don’t have to tell you the reason), your story was not a fit for them.

Remember, all you did was write the story.  The publisher is the one who would have been taking all the financial risks.  For some reason, your submission didn’t scratch the itch, didn’t yield a positive result in their profit/loss calculus.  That’s all.

The other way to look at that rejection is to consider that it just gave you two freedoms.  That’s right—your life now has two new options you didn’t have before:

1.  First, and most obvious, you are now free to send that story to a different market.  In fact, you should, and right away.  Same day, if possible.  Keep it moving.  (Note:  if two or more markets accept simultaneous submissions, then you might have already submitted your story elsewhere, in which case there’s no cause for great sorrow when one market rejects it.)

2.  The second freedom is that you are now free to send a different story to the same market that just rejected the first one.  Why not?  They just rejected one of your stories, not you as an author.  That last one didn’t meet their needs but the next story just might.  (Again, if the market accepts multiple submissions, you might well have two or more stories being considered by them already, so one rejection isn’t cause for alarm.)

Lastly, take some solace in the fact that even some classic and best-selling fiction works were rejected multiple times before achieving acceptance and great success, including:

  • Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling (1997).  Rejected about 12 times by major publishers.
  • A Time to Kill by John Grisham (1989). Rejected by 16 agents and 12 publishers.
  • Lust for Life by Irving Stone (1934).  Rejected by 16 publishers.
  • The Diary of Anne Frank by Anne Frank (1947).  Rejected 16 times.
  • Dune by Frank Herbert (1965).  Rejected 23 times by publishers.
  • A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L’Engle (1962). Rejected 26 times by publishers.
  • Carrie by Stephen King (1974).  Rejected 30 times by publishers.
  • Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell (1936).  Rejected 38 times.

Though it’s hard at first, be persistent in the face of rejections.  Capitalize on the two freedoms given to you by each rejection.  Keep submitting.  That’s not only what they say, it’s also advocated by–

Poseidon’s Scribe

 

June 5, 2011Permalink

The Worst Click

You’re a beginning writer and you’ve been writing and rewriting your manuscript.  For some reason, the actual product doesn’t match in grandeur the masterpiece you had in your head when you started.  The process of assembling the actual words, herding them together in some sort of order, made the whole resulting story seem more juvenile than you intended.  Not juvenile as in ‘written for juveniles to read,’ but ‘written by a juvenile who nearly failed English.’

You could go through and edit your creation one more time in hopes that greatness will finally emerge, but you’ve done that already repeatedly and it hasn’t worked.  It’s doubtful if one more edit will accomplish much.  Besides, you’re getting a little sick of the thing.  Your muse has flitted off, interested in different and ever newer pursuits.

Somewhere you’d heard that even the best writers let a manuscript sit for a time—a few weeks or even months—and then come back to it, able to look with a fresher eye.  In your case that’s not an option, since today’s the deadline for the anthology for which you’re aiming.  Or maybe you already did let the work sit for a while but it didn’t result in a better manuscript, just further loss of interest in the story.  In either case, this opus isn’t going to get any better than it is right now.

So you sit staring at the monitor, looking at an e-mail you’ve written to the editor.  The e-mail has your story attached—oh, you triple-checked that.  The file with the story is in the format preferred by the editor, again triple-checked.  The e-mail is short and upbeat.  Everything is ready.  All you have to do is click the ‘send’ button and your first-ever story will be on its way to an actual editor.

So what gives?  Why the delay?  It’s a single mouse click, for crying out loud.  What happened to that boldness you felt when you couldn’t wait to charge in and start writing the story?  Where’s that reckless abandon with which you stayed up until three in the morning last month to pound out the first draft of the final scene, typing “The End” in weary triumph?  What’s happened to reduce that bravely audacious writer to a quivering mass of doubt, consumed with fear at the sight of a Send button?

What if, you keep thinking, the editor doesn’t like it?  What if it’s the worst piece of tripe the editor has ever read?  It would be bad to receive a rejection, but devastating if the editor replied with something like, “It was enough for me to endure your opening paragraph, and how I wish I could have that precious time back.  I have many enemies, but none so vile that I would force them to read a single sentence of your work.  Not only am I rejecting your story, but I beg you, for the good of humanity, to take up another hobby—any other hobby.”

It’s that and a thousand similar scenarios that keep your finger poised above, but never quite clicking, the mouse button that would send your first story on its way.  I’ll write about dealing with rejections in a future blog post, but in this case you’re rejecting the story yourself before you even send it in.

Would it help if I told you that every writer goes through that the first time?  What if I said that no self-respecting editor ever sends a rejection full of personal put-downs like you imagined?  How about if I told you it’s only this first submission that causes such angst, that all the rest are far easier?

Since you face an irrational fear, one of your own making, there’s no works-every-time cure I can offer.  However, I suggest you dig deep inside yourself.  Remember when you started this quest?  You wanted to find out if you could be a writer, if you have what it takes.  This little moment of truth is part of the process, part of the writing game.

Chances are this submission will result in rejection, but that won’t deter the writer within you.  Oh, no, that inner writer will instead be spurred on, intent to do better next time.  That would-be (no, will-be!) author inside you laughs at rejections, even prints them out and saves them as badges of honor.  That confident scribbler within you knows that one day the act of submitting stories will be routine.  And on that day you’ll look back on this first moment of indecision and laugh.

So click ‘send,’ brave writer!  Hold your creation—your baby—aloft so the world can see.  You can do it.  I did, and survived.  As always, write to me here if you have some reaction to this post.  Now well past that first, worst click, I call myself—

Poseidon’s Scribe

March 20, 2011Permalink

Why I Write

It would be better for you, the reader, if I could title this blog post, ‘Why You Should Write,’ since that would be more interesting and applicable to you.  However, it turns out I’m not as well informed about you as I am about me.  In hopes that one writer’s motivations may apply to someone else, I urge you to read on nonetheless.

The simple answer to why I write is that I cannot do otherwise.  The creative, story-telling impulse is too strong to resist; my muse screams too loudly when I don’t write.  In that manner, it is easier to write than to abstain.

All of that is true, but it wasn’t always so.  I didn’t always have a story to tell.  Even when I did, my doubts about writing outweighed my desire to do so.  Of doubts I had many.  How could I possibly write as well as the authors whose stories I read and loved?  How could I ever hope to convey ideas and provide entertainment in such a clever and skillful manner?  I understood that writing took time; could I spare that time?  I knew beginning writers got a lot of rejections; could I deal with them?

Further, I had not done well in English classes in school.  Enjoyed—yes; excelled—definitely not.  In college I majored in a branch of engineering.  Engineers are not known for their language skills.  An ability to write well is actually frowned upon, and could get you tossed out of the Engineers Guild.  (I’m kidding, of course–at least about there being a Guild).

So, despite a lack of writing skills, a lack of confidence in my English ability, and despite an inferiority complex when I compared myself to the world’s best authors, despite all those things, I still took up a pen and scribbled.  Why?

Looking back, I did have three things going for me.  First, I had a strong interest in reading fiction.  Loved it.  Devoured books, especially science fiction.  Second, I am creative by nature.  I delight in imaginative brainstorming, but not so much with other people, as brainstorming is normally done.  I seek to come up with solutions to problems that are unique and interesting to me.  Third, I’m one of those self-improvement nuts.  Phrased more positively, I was willing to spend the time trying to improve a new skill.  I’m willing to push on past minor failures along the way to achieving a goal.

These attributes didn’t pop up out of nowhere, of course.  I was influenced by my parents.  Much as Jules Verne gained a sense of precision and skill with words from his lawyer father, and a sense of romance and knowledge of human relationships from his mother, I too was a product of separate influences from my parents.  Thinking about it now, my own parents separately bequeathed me important attributes necessary to be a science fiction writer.  Thanks, Mom and Dad!

In summation it appears that, for me, the impulses to become a writer overcame the opposing factors (the doubts, lack of skills, etc.).  After that, like any hobby, the snowball effect took over and the habit of writing became self-sustaining.  I found I enjoyed writing the more I practiced it and the more I learned about it.  My critique group helped hone my skills and provided an encouraging atmosphere.  Eventually, I felt confident enough to submit stories to the marketplace.  Lastly, getting stories accepted and published provided the most powerful incentive of all to write more.

That’s why I write, and if you’re wondering if you could take up writing as a hobby or vocation, perhaps some of the items I discussed apply to you too.  More likely, your reasons will be different.  Did this blog post trigger some thought of agreement or disagreement?  Write to me here and let me know.

Poseidon’s Scribe

February 13, 2011Permalink