Excuse Me While I Just Don’t Get It

Hotel Scams, King Retiring and Kissing the Wrong Asses

Wow! what a month for bitching! 

First off, if you went to World-Con and stayed at the Fairmont, check your bill. Someone on the hotel staff tried to make a small fortune adding charges for "carpet cleaning" to the bills of almost everyone who paid with a credit card. They added $120.00 to my bill. I guarantee that the carpets when we left the room were clean. Not only did we not have a party in our room, but the truth is that we spent very little time in it at all – period.

I hate it when someone tries to screw people out of money like this, and you know why they do it? They do it because they know that about half the people won't even look at their bill, and that of the half that do look, half of them won't contest the obvious bogus charge because they don't want the hassle.

I'm sure whoever is behind this thought a bunch of Sci-Fi geeks would be an easy target, but oh boy did they pick the wrong group to screw with!

First off, most of the Sci-Fi community has to work very hard for their money, so they're going to check out that bill. Then, when they notice the extra charge they're going to go to their computers and use everything at their disposal to make sure that everyone knows what's happened.

Within hours of checking my bill I'd heard of dozens of others who'd found the same charges and forced the hotel to remove them.

Mostly they didn't count on one simple fact – something they didn't know about our community. We're used to abuse, and we know how to give back as good as we get.

We were all the weird kid that everyone treated like shit. Even now some mundane is always telling us that we're going to hell. Even in our adult lives people think nothing of taunting us because of the way we look, how we act, or what we do for a living. So... when a hotel tries to do us out of our hard-earned cash, we don't – any of us – belong to that group of people who won't contest bad treatment. We have been well trained in dealing with bullies of all kinds, and we absolutely will not pay for damages we didn't make.

I didn't – and as far as I know no one else captured in this bit of attempted thievery has, either.

But think of the unnecessary bullshit. The stress involved in being over charged. How much time we wasted trying to chase down the person in charge of removing the bogus charges from our bills. Having to argue  with someone who insisted the charges were real, that you had done damage,  but that out of the kindness of their hearts they'd remove the charges.

Quite frankly, it makes you realize why groups file class action suits and go after people like this. Some thieving bastard tried to steal from us, and in dealing with it we lose peace of mind and time, and they bold face lie and act like they're doing you some sort of favor because they aren't picking your pocket. I know that by the time I was done dealing with them I very badly wanted to band together with everyone else who'd been over charged and file a huge law suit.

Now for my second bitch.

Steven King says he's retiring. Now if he really retires we'd all like to believe that this will open up slots in the book stores for dozens of young horror writers, but the truth is that it won't. Somewhere even now the publishing “powers that be” are deciding who they will promote as the “next Steven King.” They will put millions of dollars into marketing this guy – and it will be a man. I’m not screaming sexism here, just laying out the simple fact that they're not going to be able to promote a woman as the “next Steven King.”

Be prepared. Some relative unknown will by next year be a household name. His books will become the new status symbol books that everyone must have, and his titles will fill all the slots that King’s books will vacate.

Instead of dozens of writers finally getting a well deserved break, one man will be made rich and famous. Maybe he'll be deserving, maybe not. King's leaving should restore balance. Dozens of writers making a decent living instead of one person getting rich. But instead there will just be a new rich guy taking up the slots which should be filled with a plethora of different writers.

You may ask yourself why. Wouldn't it be better to get some books out there that are truly different? Wouldn't it be better to give the consumers dozens of choices, to offer a truly unique reading experience instead of trying to find someone to write in relatively the same style and the same sort of stuff that King has done?

See... you simply don't understand the mainstream publishers. First off, they don't want to try anything different because it might fail.

Most consumers are sheep. They want to read what everyone else is reading. They want to read the same crap they've been reading for years. Why take a chance with something new that they might reject? Besides, most people don't actually read the status symbol books, they just buy them to take on the plane with them so that everyone will know how hip and cool they  are.

With the big names like King and Grisham all they have to do is go watch the movie then carry the book around and talk about how much better the book is than the movie. In fact yuppies have huge conversations about how much better Grisham's books are than the movies, and it's amazing because I don't think any of them have actually read the damn books. So you see, it doesn't really matter what's in the book anyway.

Then there's that other horrid bookkeeping problem. If you promote only one book and let it fill fifty slots in every book store, then that's one big check instead of fifty little ones.

It's just easier.

Now I know what you're saying. You're saying I wouldn't be bitching if they chose me to promote and make rich. But those of you who truly know me know that isn't true...

I'd find something to bitch about.

Last but not least, let us talk about my inability to kiss the right asses. This is no doubt why I don't land the big contract with the big house that would then put a bazillion dollars into my ad campaign.

See, no matter how hard I try, I just don't seem to be able to treat anyone any differently than I treat anyone else, and the rich and powerful expect to be treated differently. The fact is I'll make excuses for some dumb ass newby before I'll make any excuse at all for some big shot in the business.

For instance... some guy I didn't know from Adam sends me a manuscript. Now I know he's been to the web-site – how else did he find my snail mail address – and if he's been to the web-site he should know that I'm a) not reading for anything right now, b) probably don't accept poetry, and c) that I never read for nonfiction. On top of this he sends the cover art with his submission.

Now I should have just tossed it in the trash. At the very most I should have written a very hasty “thanks but no thanks” and shucked it into his SASE. But, noooo... I actually read over the guy’s work, and then spend fifteen minutes telling this guy how best to market his "prose."

Why?

I asked myself that same question and realized that I could actually see where this guy was coming from. He's hard up, and he doesn't know a lot about the business end of writing. It says I'm not reading for anything, and that when I am, I'm not reading for what he's got. However it also says I like stuff that's different, and his stuff is definitely different. Who knows? Maybe by sending it when I'm not reading for anything else means it might make him stand out. He doesn't know that I'm not reading for anything   because a) all my slots are full, and b) I'm on deadline with my own book.

Him I can be nice to.

However... At world-con I walked up to a group which included a couple of friends of mine as well as one of the mega publishers. Now when someone walks up on a conversation I'm in, and I'm talking so that I can't verbally acknowledge their presence, I look up, make eye contact with the person who has joined the conversation, smile and acknowledge their presence. It’s just polite. Not this guy. He literally turned away from me, acting as if I had somehow invaded the most private of conversations – which I hadn't. They were talking books. I walked away and went and found someone who wouldn't snub me. I'll never approach this fellow again, and if I should ever be fortunate enough to become one of the big shots in this business, and he should walk up to where I'm talking to a bunch of people, I will not only turn my back to him, but I'll remind him of what an ass he was.

See, the problem is I don't understand his behavior at all. He's rich and powerful. He's got everything most people work a lifetime for, and he's younger than I am. Would it actually kill him to be polite? Does the fact that he doesn't acknowledge me make me a no one? How does he know that I won't someday write that status symbol book that they all want so badly to publish? He knows absolutely nothing about me, yet he automatically dismissed me as a human being.

Then there’s my rather big shot colleague who’s been in the business less time than I have telling me I have to “pay my dues.” The more I think about it, the more it stings. I realized after much thought – trying to tell myself over and over that she wasn't trying to be hateful, that she just didn't know me – that she was in fact putting me where she thought my place should be. Which is actually pretty hateful.

She had no idea how many years I have been in the business. No idea at how many shit jobs I'd had to do. The hardships of doing those jobs, of raising a child on my own at below the poverty level, and trying to make it as a writer with no money, no influence, and no real help for most of my writing career.

I have read her work, but she has never bothered to so much as glance at mine. Now I know that there aren't enough hours in the day to read everyone’s books, but for all she knows I may actually be three times the writer she is.

She has achieved success and recognition for her work, so it shouldn't be too hard for her to extend a little kindness to someone who hasn't yet made it. Yet she found it necessary to shove me down the proverbial ladder and tell me that I have to "pay my dues." Her obvious intent was to tell me I've worked hard to get where I am. You haven't worked as hard I have, and you certainly don't deserve to be treated like me.

I've been writing since I was twelkve. I started submitting my work at twenty-one, and I didn't sell my first short story till I was twenty-eight. I didn't sell my first book till I was thirty-nine.

I didn't have even a manual typewriter till I was twenty. The first version of Chains of Freedom was in fact handwritten. I wasn't able to afford an electric typewriter till I was thirty, and I had to save till I was thirty-seven for my first computer. For most of my career I've had to work a full time job and write at night. I could hardly afford to do the two local cons much less anything else, so promoting myself and my work was limited to where I could drive.

While I always found time to write, I often didn't have the time or money to send my work out. I certainly couldn't afford any of the trade magazines that would tell me what markets were open, so I had very limited knowledge of markets. I would borrow the trades from friends, and of course by the time I submitted to many of the magazines they had already gone down in flames.

I wrote, and I wrote. Every single day. And I dreamed that some day I'd make a living writing instead of killing myself doing some dead-end manual labor job. I didn't want to get either rich or famous or win awards. I just wanted to make a living doing the one thing I knew I was good at.

There was no one who could pay my way through life while I honed my craft. Or who could afford to send me to conventions so I could promote myself. I've had the autograph sessions where no one came. I've received the dozens of rejection letters. I've had the bad reviews. I've had the man say to me, "Why should I buy your book? Who are you?" I've been snubbed by some of the big writers and most of the big publishers. I've waited a year to get that wadded up, poorly printed rejection letter from the publisher who asked to see all seven of the titles I had on hand and asked for an exclusive, which meant I couldn't submit them anywhere else.

I’ve lived years of my life sleep deprived, over worked, and suicidal.

So... I guess what I really want to know is, how many more years and how many more crappy things do I have to go through before those people who have worked less time and risen with less effort will think that I've finally paid my dues and deserve to be able to joke with them as if we were equals?

Maybe... just maybe... if you're going to say something like, "You've got to pay your dues" to someone, you ought to find out just what they've been through.

The fact that someone has made it big in this business very rarely means that they have actually “paid their dues.” More times than not, they just got lucky.

Selina

Bitch #17

So... You Say You Want To Be A Writer

Part One

When I say I’m not reading for anything till after January, and that the only month I’m reading for The Four Bubbas of the Apocalypse: Flatulence, Halitosis, Incest & Ned is March of 2003, I mean it. If you want to be a writer, learn to follow the guidelines.

When we finished Contraception in Kansas City, I had done a total of fifteen conventions for the year, large and small, far away and close. Lynn and I had packed up and taken the company – lock, stock, and barrel – to fourteen of those.

Now... while I got my membership free to all but two of those, we had to pay for tables and Lynn’s membership everywhere we went, pay for the motel room, and for food and traveling expenses. I was gone a total of forty-eight days, while Lynn was gone a total of forty. Some places we made money, other places we lost our asses, which meant that when all was done and said, after we paid for advertising and paid the authors and artists, we broke even. It’s a hell of a lot of work to do to break even, but the economy is bad, and everywhere we went people were out of work and out of money.

I’m sure many of our writers and artists will be disappointed to learn that we will not be doing that many conventions next year. We may also cut back on the number of perfect bound titles we do next year – we haven’t decided yet.

Does all this mean the company is going belly up? No, not at all. In fact, as micro presses go, we’re actually doing quite well. Right now the company is making enough to pay its own debt, and all the travel expenses, as well as all the authors and artists. If the economy ever picks up, I believe we may even actually start to make some money for ourselves.

We’re just flat tired, and worn completely out. Besides the traveling – and remember that the only convention I flew out to was World-Con. We drove to and from every single other one because we were hauling stock. – There is the day-to-day business of running the company. There’s all the reading of slush, editing (and no one ever seems to get their book handed in at a convention time for me to be able to stop everything and just edit their book) taking phone calls from books stores, filling orders, unpacking and packing books, hauling them to the post office, all the book work – oh, and for those of you who have forgotten, Lynn still works a day job, we still have the farm, and we would still like to have a life if we ever get the time to squeeze it in. If all that’s not enough, I’ve got my own writing career to think about.

So... don’t assume that you’re going to be an exception to my rule. If you send your work in when I ask for it, it’s going to take me months to get to it. If you send it in when I’m not reading, and I say I’m not, I’m putting your name on my “list.”

So... You Say You Want To Be A Writer

Part Two

I’ve worked most of my life towards a career in writing.

This entire year, however, every convention I’ve done I’ve had at least as many publishing panels as I’ve had writing panels. At least three of the conventions put me on no writing panels at all.

So, here I am trying to promote my work, and it’s really hard because the whole time I’m trying to talk to people about my work I’ve got every wannabe writer at the convention hitting me up to look at their work, wanting to know how I run things when I’m reading and all.

I have no problem with that. In fact, I fully understand it. What I don’t understand is how I was treated by any of the con coms that didn’t know me or my work personally. At one convention I was given only one token panel. It was at 10:00 in the morning (anyone who knows me knows I specifically ask not to be booked before 11:00). I was on the panel with five other ”writers”—between the five other members of the panel, they didn’t have even one professional credit. Two of them had printed their own work in chap books, and the others had all been published POD[i]. I had been thrown – as my father would say- into the bone pile. They didn’t bother to get on the Internet and punch my name in and find out that Oh! Low and behold! She’s actually a professional, gets-paid-to-do-it writer. They assumed that because they didn’t know me, I must not be worth knowing. I’d say it was a humbling experience, but it mostly just sucked. I’m now forty-two years old, I have deadlines, and long hours, and I get treated like the scum of the Earth by a large section of my peers. (Some of the big shots feel about “new writers” the way I feel about a cold; they just want you to go away.) Which is bad enough, but now I also get smashed around by fans who don’t want me taking time away from the “important” people on the panels, and con-coms that don’t bother to find out that I’m not vanity press or POD published before they assign me to that station.

I’m a freaking member of SFWA for God’s sake! I’m not hard to find on the web.
            Still want to be a writer?

So... You Say You Want To Be A Writer

Part Three

            The lowest, absolutely the worst, most depressing thing that happened to me this year was when one of my best friends basically told me my work sucked, and how dare I even put myself in the same category as “these” other writers. He was flabbergasted and genuinely taken aback that I could even dare to dream that I might – after thirty years of writing and twenty years of actively working to make it in this field – think that I was worthy to be treated like... what? I’m really not asking for much, a little consideration, just a little respect.

And here’s the real kicker. He’d only actually read two of my books. He doesn’t like horror, and he doesn’t like comedy, so guess which two he read.
            My point – and I do have one besides on the top of my head – is that in no other line of work, in no other job or profession, would total strangers (not to mention your best friends) feel that it was not only not right, but that it was actually kind for them to tell you what a shitty job you were doing.

Still want to be a writer?

So... You Say You Want To Be A Writer

Part Four

Jack McDevitt was giving a talk at Mile Hi-Con, and I went to hear him because I like Jack. When I walk in, Jack is berating writers who tell “wanna be” writers how horrible writing is. He’s going on and on about the true joy which is writing – and he’s absolutely right.

I love nothing – except sex – better than writing. Creating pictures, places and people with words. It is truly the high point of my life. Except for raising my son, nothing has given me a greater feeling of accomplishment. Every time one of my books comes out and I hold it in my hands for the first time, I’m still in awe. It’s an empowering, if very fleeting, feeling.

However, what Jack didn’t get into was that every writer, no matter how much he or she bitches about it, loves the act of writing or they’d do something – anything – else.

Because the business end of it is just the absolute worst.

And what Jack didn’t even touch on was that when he broke in, it was a hell of a lot easier to do so. There were more markets, and fewer writers competing for more slots. People were reading more, and the major publishing houses hadn’t been swallowed by corporate raiders who will stick all their money and backing behind one author and one book while leaving the others to fend for themselves.

Perhaps he has talked about it before, but he didn’t talk about it that day.

Lots of times, if you don’t have first hand experience of something, you aren’t even aware of what’s going on. It’s sort of how the rich don’t believe there are any poor people. If it was easy for you to learn to catch, you assume it must have been easy for everyone – till you see a kid take a ball in the head.

If you’re a writer, if you’ve got the bug, you’re going to write.

If you want to be a writer just because you think it would be cool, run while you still have the chance.

Stay warm, Happy Chanukah!
Selina 

Bitch #18

But Truthfully, Dear...

We all know them. That person in every group who professes to put truth above all else.  They're your "honest" friend who's only telling you the horrible, hurtful truth because it's what's best for you.  Right?

Bullshit!  

The last thing any of us wants to hear is the truth.  Especially the "truth" skewed by someone else’s opinion.  And when that “truth” comes from someone with their own –and often hidden – agenda, it's just plain old emotional bullying.

We all know when a true friend is telling us a truth we need to hear whether we want to or not.  Thing's like... You've got to quit drinking so much. – or – I don't care how rich you are, if you get caught shoplifting you're going to be in trouble. And the now famous, Dude! You can't be getting head in the oval office! It's just wrong.

A true friend will tell you when your shirt tail's zipped into your fly, when you've got spinach between your teeth or that you have BO. Because after all you'd tell them rather than let them go through the whole office party like that.

That's not what I'm talking about.  You know what I'm talking about. This is the person who asks if you're going to wear those shoes with that outfit – just as you're getting ready to step out the door for the single most important event of your life. They're the ones who feel they need to tell you that they dislike the new cabinet you just built into your house, as if you're going to rip it out and start over again. They say it like this, "Now that, I just don't like. I have to be honest because that's just the way I am." Or they’ll say, "If I don't like something, I'll tell you. You know that about me."

Yes, we do, and it's why we hate you.  But – unlike you – we've learned that you shouldn't say things just to hurt or destroy people.

Face it, these people are all losers. They want to put you down by "telling the truth" so that you can feel as badly as they do about their own failures.  If they kept their mouths shut instead of telling you the "truth" at every opportunity, you might not second guess yourself, start to have doubts about your skill and accomplishments, and you might actually excel.  Thus leaving their passive-aggressive asses in the dust. These people prey on our insecurities.  They know we have doubts, and they want to make sure that we continue to see ourselves as incompetent imposters, who will eventually be caught up in our own web of carefully constructed lies about how good we are, and... AHHHH!

Do we really need anyone’s help to do that?  We creative neurotics who work our whole lives for some sort of creative acceptance in the world.

This is why I implore you writers... don't read your own reviews unless someone tells you how good it is. Most reviewers will give a true opinion of a book.  It is helpful and often takes into account that the book isn't the sort of thing the reviewer usually likes to read.  They act professionally. 

Others – too many – are frustrated writers who can't seem to break into the business.  They are jealous, angry, and are always looking for flaws.   They will tell the reader their "truth" about a writer’s work in the same tone that they might ask if you really think those shoes go with that outfit.  They don't want to help the reader make an informed choice when choosing a book, they want to hurt the writer.

And can you really blame them?  I mean let’s face it, most of us hate to see someone succeed at something we have failed at, especially if we see them as having put in less effort or not having done as good a job.  If you're sitting there shaking your head no, and saying you're not like that, then call the Catholic Church and demand a sainthood.  I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that 99.99% of us, if we're trying to open a jar for ten minutes and someone else comes in and says, "Let me try," and we say, "Go ahead but you won't get it open," and they do...  We ain't saying, "Oh joy and rapture, thank you so much."  We're saying, "I must have loosened it," and we're thinking we'd rather starve to death than eat those pickles.

It's human nature.

Some people say if you can't take creative criticism get out of the business.  But consider two things.  First, if the book or story has already been printed, it's too late to change it. Second – and this is a big thing for me – the term “creative criticism” is an oxymoron.  Criticism, by it's very nature, is anything but creative.  True creativity comes from stretching your abilities and your imagination, and it's hard to put yourself out there if someone’s standing over you telling you what you're doing wrong – how they think you should fix it. Criticism is stifling. It makes us doubt ourselves and our vision.

Speaking of criticism, there are some very good critique groups out there, where people actually work with and try to improve each other’s writing.  However, there are those other kinds...

I have friends who belong to critique groups whose entire purpose seems to be to defend themselves and their work by saying something just as bad about the work of the other people in the group.  This goes round and round till they are basically screaming at each other like children in a school yard.   Is this creative?  I don't think so.  Is it helpful?  Only if you think a really hot night of sex begins with being told how bad you are and getting a good ass whipping.

It's torture.

Tell me the truth, tell me how I can improve my work, and I'll love you forever, listen to every word you say and take it under consideration. But start a sentence with, “I really hated that,” and I'm going to immediately become defensive, so that even if you have a very good point I'm not going to listen because... if I can't get the jar open myself I don't want the freaking pickles! 

It's human nature.

If someone tells you that you suck, and then you do what they said, then they win – you did suck, and then they fixed you.  Sort of like you'd fix a cat, because it may be for your own good, but you've lost your strut.

Of course there is the other extreme – those writers who are so touchy about their work that you dare not make even the kindest and most well-intentioned suggestion.  They will have complete meltdowns if you say anything even slightly negative. They'll ask your opinion, and then when you give it they're pissed off.

Here's a clue, folks.  If you don't want to know, don't ask, because it's a sure bet that one of those really "honest" people in your group is going to tell you way more than you ever wanted to hear.

So... the big question.  Why do writers read our own reviews, and why do we join critique groups even if we hate everything they have to say?  Because we are hoping against hope to read or hear something exceptionally, amazingly, positive.  We've poured our soul into our work.  We've worked very hard, and we just need to hear someone say, "You done good, kid."

It's human nature.

Shalom,

Selina

Bitch #19

Kick Me Now – or – How to Successfully Make People Hate You Without Even Trying.

Over twenty-five years ago I converted to Judaism and found I had unwittingly made myself the target of an entire mountain of animosity. Religious Christians saw me as a traitor, a heretic. Those who had been born Jews treated me like a pretender. For most "real," Jews you just never quite stack up. In the minds of both groups I had just entered a limbo stage where I was neither one of “them” nor one of “us.” 

Of course as time passed my Christian friends calmed down and stopped seeing me as a traitor, and the Jews forgot that I hadn't always been a Jew and embraced me as one of the tribe.

Having now gained everyone's acceptance and missing all the hate, I then jumped out of the closet. Some of my straight friends abandoned me, many had no idea how to treat me, and I was told by any number of gay people that I was not nearly gay enough – whatever the hell that means. Once again I was in that limbo state where I didn't belong to any one group, as I hadn't completely stepped out of my straight roll and into my gay one.

Eventually everyone who just flat couldn't accept my "life style" left, and most of my straight friends just admitted that they'd always known, and it became a non-issue in time. I tied myself firmly to the gay community, and they made a place for me.

So I started to think, "Gee, I'm not really on anyone whose opinion I care about's hate list. How can I get back to no man’s land, and isolate myself from my peers now?"

I pondered this question for many months and finally had the answer.  I was already a writer, so... I became a publisher.

Now once again I'm in the limbo bin, only with a slight twist. Writers treat me like a publisher, and publishers treat me like a writer,  so I get shit from all sides with no apparent relief in sight. But it's so much worse than even that, because they all expect me to be both when it suits them.

Publishers expect me to make my deadlines, turn in professional quality work, and then promote myself and that work to the detriment of all other things in my life. However, because I'm also one of them, they expect me to understand completely when they lose my disks before they've had a chance to look at them – could I please send more – my royalty check is late, or one of their "important" writers got ad space and I didn't.

Writers expect me to read every submission that comes in whether I'm currently reading for anything or not, edit their books in a timely and professional fashion, push their books, make sure they get great cover art, and see that they get their royalty checks on time. But because I'm also one of them they expect me to understand when they... Don't meet their deadlines,  refuse to do anything whatsoever to promote themselves or their book – because they just don't have the time, and send me manuscripts for full length novels without querying first even though it clearly states on the web-site that I'm not reading for anything right now.

This last one kills me. This is a small house; we like it that way. I am the only reader, and I have a life – or would like to. I don't have time to read all the things that I have said I would read. When I am reading for things it can take me months to get through the slush pile, because I actually read everything that comes in during that time. As a writer, it pains me to take someone's carefully and professionally packaged manuscript and just throw it into the fire. And I know when I write that person a letter telling him why I can't read his manuscript at this time that he's instantly going to decide that I'm the biggest ass hole on the planet... Because I'm a writer, and I ought to know what it's like to get such a letter. To know that your masterpiece didn't even get read.

So... as you can see while earlier attempts to make myself a complete outcast brought only temporary satisfaction, this last combination seems to have done the trick, and I'm expecting to have a full portion of frustration and hate pouring my way for many years to come.

Shalom,

Selina

Bitch #20

Three for the Price of One!!

1)  What You Say?

            So... we're all readers, some of us are writers, either way we constantly deal with the English language – unless you're one of those smug dudes that read in another language, and then I'm just going to assume that to a certain degree all languages have at least some of the same pitfalls as ours does.

Take for instance the word “janitor.” Now we all know what a janitor is, but if you didn't and you heard someone called that, and they weren't at work there is no way you'd know what the person meant about him. Is it derogatory? Are they some perv who has a thing for women named Janet? Is Jani a body part, and is his torn? I prefer the term “maintenance worker,” it tells me exactly what the guy does; he works at maintaining something. It's plain, simple, and to the point.

Unlike “maintenance engineer.” What the hell does that mean? Does he fix things while driving a train? Does he maybe draw plans about maintaining?

Fire place, simple straight forward – a place for fire. So what's up with furnace? Again if you didn't know what a furnace was and someone was talking about theirs, would you be embarrassed that they were discussing something so private in front of you? "My furnace runs hot and cold these days, and sometimes I have to really bang it to get it to work at all."

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to lose words like furnace or janitor. As a writer, you need all the words you can get. However weird shit plays in my head all the time, and I sometimes like to share it with you. Thinking about these words – and a few other examples I won't bore you with – got me to thinking. Sometimes the easiest way to say something is really the best way to say it. I get really tired of gimmicky writing techniques and swimming against the current just for the sake of doing it.

For instance... I recently read an excellent book by one of my favorite authors, but for some reason this author decided not to italicize internal dialogue. I found this very confusing. I was constantly thinking, "Oh I can't believe that dumb bastard just said that out loud!" Only to realize that they hadn't. Seems to me like when they invent such a neat way to separate the internal dialogue from the rest of the story you ought to use it.

As and editor/publisher, when I say I want different stories I mean I want different stories not that I want them written in some funky-assed way.

I like my fiction “formula” with a good beginning, middle and end. It's all about story telling, and you can't tell a good story with just middle, a beginning, or an end – and putting them out of order is usually more confusing than effective.

Don't give me pages and pages of set up.  Lead me, don't shove me, but do show me the axe before it conveniently appears in the protagonist’s hands just as the monster walks in the room.

Readers want to be entertained; they want the story to make sense. They aren’t going to understand that the seemingly magical axe is a metaphor for your relationship with your father. That you never thought he was there for you, except as a sharp edge of disapproval, but when you most needed him he was there, and his sharpness came to your aid.

Face it; the reader couldn't give a shit less. They just want to know where that damn axe came from.

Yes, it's true that there are really only six plots, but there are millions of concepts, simple ideas that make a story different from everything else ever written. What motivates a character? How does the plot drive him forward? At what points does he stagger, at what points does he fall, how quickly does he get back up, and how does he ultimately resolve the conflict? 

And there is possibly my biggest bitch. At what point did someone decide that you could read an entire 800 page book, and when you turn the last page it's quite all right if no conflict has been resolved?

It's like sex without orgasm. What was the point? Was it a goal to see how many words they could write without ever really saying anything, because without some resolution as far as I'm concerned they haven't actually succeeded in writing a story? At the very best they've slung some pretty words on paper, and at the worst they've left the reader feeling frustrated, wondering just how many books they're going to have to read till they get to the end of the story.

Some writers will talk all artsy-fartsy about how people like me are simple-minded fools who always want everything tied up in a neat pretty ribbon, and I guess they'd be right. Coming from a working class background I've never seen anyone get paid for doing a half a job, not at least and get another job anytime soon. They don't seem to understand that just because someone didn't like something doesn't mean they didn't get it.

Take for instance the word “janitor.”

(Bonus Bitch for the month of February)
2)  Con Clothing -or- Is That Your Costume, or Are You Just Happy To See Me... Again?

            So, over the last two years I have done twenty-six conventions. About half way through 2002 I noticed that everyone – with the exception of Jim Murray – was basically wearing the same thing at every con. I started to wonder if maybe Sci Fi artists, writers and their fans were just all so broke that they only had just the one change of clothes, or if they lived in those costumes.

Then it dawned on me... I was wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing at the last seventeen conventions.

From there the answer came to me; I had “convention” clothes. Clothes that I only wore at conventions – because being mostly broke I have to save my good clothes for being in the public eye – and so does everyone else.

These weren't the only clothes they owned. If they were, they would have been threadbare long ago and fallen to pieces.

Like mine.

From here I decided that in order to look professional and like I owned more than one set of clothing, I would have to buy new shirts every year and then carefully shuffle them so that I didn't wear the same thing to two conventions in the same area. This way people would think I was successful and had lots of clothing.

Of course my clever scam was undone at World-Con where I had to wear basically everything I owned just to get through the convention with clothes on. I tried mixing and matching my outfits, but realized that didn't really work when all you ever wore were jeans. Of course I had black jeans and blue jeans, so I was able to alter my look a little, and then of course there are all the vests. I have four, and I can shift those, too, for a slightly different look. Of course then people recognize the vests, so... You’re basically screwed no matter what you do. 

While at World-Con I roomed with Elizabeth Moon and Laura Underwood – yes, we writers are all so rich that we have to bunk together just to be able to make our expenses – Elizabeth had a dress she had brought to go to some fancy dinner thing, but had failed to bring a purse because since she rarely wears a dress she had forgotten that there's no place to put your shit. So she had to buy one in the hotel gift shop and pay way more than it was worth. She also apparently forgot what a bitch it was to walk in heels and by the time she got back from the dinner, after walking several blocks, she was singing the familiar choruses of, "Oh, never again!"

We decided what women really need is a shoe-something like those roller shoes the kids have where the heal would pop out when you needed to dress up, but would fold up for easy walking when no one was looking.

Brilliant!

Connie Willis has her own solution to con wear to cover her own particular problem area. You see boys and girls, the most awarded author in our field is a spiller of monumental proportions. In fact, when Stephen Pagel and I went to dinner with Connie and one of her friends, she not only managed to spill on herself but everyone else at the table as well. We teased her that we were going to have shirts made up that said, "We went to dinner with Connie Willis and all we got was this stain." The shirt would then be stained in appropriate areas. We might actually do this yet – maybe wear them to a Nebula dinner.

Any way, Connie told us her secret to being a spiller and still always looking clean and fresh at conventions – sorry, Connie but I think it's time the world should know. Connie builds totally reversible pullover vests – which, if they're different colors on both sides gives you two different outfits. She wears these vests over every outfit. If she spills something on herself – which I'm guessing is more or less a given – she just goes to the bathroom and turns the vest inside out before she goes to the next panel or event.

Genius!

Now if only we could find a way to accessorize the Klingons!

(Lynn’s Personal Favorite)

3) Your Personality On Your Counter Top

So today I get up like everyday, and everything goes wrong. I've got to clean the chimney, and of course everything I need is in the shop, so I take a trip out to the shop only to find that two of the goats got in there and shut the door behind them. They have of course shit and pissed all over the shop, so I run them out and clean up the shop.

I get the things I need to clean the chimney, and as I start back to the house I do a quick head count and realize the billy goat is missing, so I take the crap on up to the house and then double back. I find the billy goat locked in the milk room where he has shit and pissed all over, and I stop to clean this up.

Now they've never gotten into the shop before, and they've only managed to break into the milk room a couple of times in the past, so I already know it's going to be a crappy day.

After 9/11 I bought this big fancy wood heater because I figured I was going to need it in the coming apocalypse. Bought me a year's supply of barbeque sauce, too. I paid $994.00 for this stove and all the fancy stove pipe. To date it has saved me damn near that much in heating bills and has never given me one minutes trouble.

Until today.

I clean all the hot coals out of the stove and let it cool down, then I take off the plate that covers the catalytic converter and crawl up on the roof, remove the cap, and clean out the stovepipe. I clean all the creosote out of the stove, clean the catalytic converter, put the plate back on, build a fire, and light the stove.

And it won't draft. Not at all. Smoke comes pouring out of the stove, and even when I shut the door on my "airtight" stove, it's still pouring smoke into the room.

I still don't know why it won't draft. I haven't done shit to it, and it's still smoking. There is no flame, so the fire isn't actually starting. At least at this point it isn't running into the room.

Any way, the house fills with smoke and I have to run around and open all the doors and windows and turn on the fans as I turn off the smoke alarms. While I'm doing this the phone rings. It's Barnes and Noble. They're claiming they never received a shipment of books they've been billed for. I tell him I don't know what happened and that he'll have to e-mail Lynn. He asks for her e-mail address. I turn off the second smoke alarm and go to the office to get it for him. I give it to him three times because he apparently can't spell cox. Then I hang up and run back to try to stop the smoke from billowing into my house. I open the door to the stove and it shoots flame out the door at me. I slam it shut. The flame goes out it starts smoking again. The phone rings.

Apparently the man at Barnes and Noble also can't spell internet or com, either.

The house is getting really cold now, and the smoke is still so thick you could cut it with a knife. My eyes are tearing up. I'm chocking to death.

I decide to go back up on the roof and block the wind from running back into the chimney, thinking this might be the reason it's refusing to draft. 

It isn't.

I try lighter fluid, more flames more smoke.

I try the blow drier, more flames, ashes blow everywhere, more smoke.

I finally decide that I will just try to make the stove stop smoking, screw getting a fire going; we'll just freeze.

I shut it down. No flame but lots of smoke.

Eventually it at least stopped smoking in the house, and I was able to close the doors and windows, which is good because I'm afraid at this point that the pipes will freeze.

So I've now got a $1,000-dollar wood stove and several ricks of wood, and I'm heating with gas.

Things calm down a bit, so I decide to get my e-mail. I get a letter from Gerald Burton who still hasn't gotten his book, and I'm wondering if the stupid-assed post office has just lost an entire shipment.

I decide that's it, the day just sucks. I go to the john, after which I wash my hands, and that's when I realized something amazing. You can learn everything you need to know about someone by looking at the condition of and what they keep on their bathroom counter.

The gojo bottle – still dripping with black creosote slime – sitting right next to the mango surprise body lotion, the mouth wash, the antibacterial hand soap.  The faucet clean of white foamy toothpaste spit (unlike Lynn's faucet).  It said everything you need to know about me.

First... I'm always having to do shitty jobs that no one else wants to do that cover me in goo. I chafe everywhere as soon as it gets cold, because I work outside in the weather. The sink’s clean even though I obviously have just had goo all over me, and there’s no spittle so I'm obviously a bit of a clean freak. I'm afraid of germs, I like to have fresh breath, and I probably just had a really shitty day.

Because how could anyone so anal retentive, and neurotic who has to do such crappy jobs have anything but a shitty day?