Writing

Two Stories

This month I have two short stories publishing; “The Company I Keep” appears in the YA Mystery anthology Life is Short and Then You Die, edited by Kelley Armstrong, and “Zilla, 2015” is up over at The Lascaux Review.

I’m extremely proud of both stories, and pretty excited to have them out in the world. As anyone who has seen me talk about writing in public knows, I want to basically publish everything I’ve ever written, good or bad. So having two stories out in one month is kind of exciting.

What’s interesting about these two stories, at least to me, is that they both started off as novels. And after writing ~100,000 words between them, I wound up with about 10,000 words worth keeping.

The Company I Keep

The Company I Keep officially began life in November, 2014 as a book about a man investigating the death of his college roommate 20 years after the fact. I began folding in material from a book about a mother who poisoned her children as a form of punishment, and spent a solid four years, off and on, trying to make the story work. In 2015, I had a 30,000-word novella that I liked but didn’t love; it had a nice sharpness to it, but felt meandering. So I put THE END on it and made a halfhearted attempt to submit, but then began working on it again.

In 2017 I had a 61,000-word novel that I knew better than to try an publish. It wasn’t terrible, but it also wasn’t good. I’d added a lot of backstory and business to it, but none of it felt consequential. Along the way, I’d played with the age of the characters, and the main character had evolved into a sort-of genius, a kid smart enough to attend college when he was 16 but not smart enough to actually do anything with his brains.

But I liked the Voice. I liked the main character. And I liked the mystery. When I read about the MWA Anthology Life is Short and Then You Die, which was looking for YA mystery stories focused on seeing your first dead body, I thought, The Company I Keep would work if it was 6,000 words long instead of 60,000.

Unless …

Yup. I cut that novel down. I deleted 90% of the words. And I sold that story to the anthology. Which either means that I’m a terrible writer who has to throw away 90% of his work before he has something decent, or that I need a bit of help identifying when my idea doesn’t really need 60,000 words to get through.

Zilla, 2015

I’ve had a poster of Edward Gorey’s Gashlycrumb Tinies on my wall for years now, and had an idea about writing a novel where the Tinies didn’t die as kids, but were being murdered one by one as adults. In May, 2018 I started working on that novel, and never got very far, though I did work up a great deal of detailed background information regarding the characters (all 26 of them, natch).

In early 2019 I decided to make one last try, and began work on a bit that would act as a prologue for the novel, detailing the last days of Zilla. I liked what I did, a lot, and was optimistic about working up a novel around the concept.

Yeah, that didn’t happen. I flailed around for a bit, trying different ways back into the story. Then I began working on another novel which occupied increasing amounts of my brain, and eventually realized that the Zilla story was actually the point. That short story was what I’d been working towards for more than a year, I just hadn’t realized it. So I cut my losses and sent Zilla, 2015 to The Lascaux Review because it seemed like a good fit. And sold it.

What’s the lesson here? There doesn’t have to be one, but I suppose one take-away is that you can get hung up on an idea being this or that, when what you should be doing is seeing where those ideas take you. Or maybe the take-away is that even in failed novels you can often salvage something good.

I’m proud of these stories. I hope you read them and let me know what you think. And if you’re struggling with a novel right now, maybe you can pull something out of it right now instead of spending another few months trying to squeeze literary greatness from a rock.

Or maybe I’ll go back and try again on both of these novels someday. Why not? There are no rules. Or maybe the rule is, Jeff need to throw away 90% of what he writes all the time. Which would explain a lot, actually.

Stop Asking Permission

Like a lot of people who grow up to make their living by writing words, I began writing as a kid; I wrote my first story when I was probably eight years old or so, prompted by a classroom assignment. When I started reading books (The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia, most notably) that sealed the deal — I wanted to write stories, and that was all I wanted to do.

Yes, I was an extremely cool kid. Who needs money, athletic ability, or dashing good looks when you can write a story?

Anyways, as a kid I wrote via instinct, blatant plagiarism, and wild abandon. I never worried about whether my work was original, or whether it followed some set of rules about fiction. I just made shit up and had fun doing it. And to a large extent I’ve continued that tradition as an adult. Sure, I am more conscious of what’s happening in popular writing right now, and I avoid the level of outright idea theft I once engaged in, but I’ve never understood why so many aspiring writers pause to ask permission about their ideas.

Mother May I

You see a lot of this on writer’s forums and in-person at conferences and such, questions that begin with “Can I …” and end with some writing technique or decision. Some common ones are “Can I use real locations as settings?” or “Can I use different POVs in one story?” or “Can I have a lot of characters in a relative short story?” Sometimes, of course, the question is formatted differently; asking “How many characters can I have in a 10,000 word story?” is pretty much the same question.

The answer to all these questions, of course, is sure! If you can pull it off.

The frightening thing about writing is that it’s wholly creative. You start with nothing and you make a story out of thin air, characters, setting, conflict, plot — all out of thin air. That’s also the great thing about it, but it can be intimidating; rules give us structure, they put bumpers on the sides so you can’t jump the lane and crash.

Don’t ask permission. Go ahead and crash. If you try to write a story and fail, so what? You start over. You try to figure out why it didn’t work. You hone and revise and tinker. Asking other writers whether or not you’re allowed to do something will just get you a wide range of answers, because writers each have their own limitations, their own private rules with no guarantees that they will map well to your own inclinations. Trust me; just by going ahead and writing whatever terrible trash you’ve got in mind, you’ll figure out what works and what doesn’t, which is way more important than what’s allowed.

Except when it comes to pantslessness. Trust me when I say asking whether you’re allowed to take off your pants is not only polite, it’s often quite advisable.

WDC 19

So, over the weekend I once again participated in the Writers Digest Annual Conference in New York City. The Duchess put some pants on me and we crossed the river without incident, unless you consider me spontaneously breakdancing on the subway an incident, which, to be fair, everyone else on the subway car certainly did.

First up was a two-hander with my agent, the Query Shark herself, entitled “JEFF SOMERS TELLS ALL, JANET REID REVISES HIM: BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE AUTHOR/AGENT RELATIONSHIP.” This was a lot of fun, as Janet and I have a great relationship and love to take the piss out of each other, and folks at WDC have a lot of questions about how a real-life agent relationship works. Here’s a photo of me trying to decide if I’ve just been insulted or not:

Not sure if ‘braying jackass’ counts as an insult.

After that The Duchess and I grabbed some lunch and a beer, and returned to the hotel to discover that half the WD Staff had been looking for me because my presentation file for my solo gig (Mistakes, I’ve Made [More Than] a Few: Learning to Take Failure in Stride as an Author) was crashing computers everywhere. After figuring that out, it was time for me to stand up in front of people and talk about all the humiliating failures I’ve experienced as a pro writer. For an hour.

I almost look competent here. Almost. Thanks to The Duchess for these great pics!

I really do think this is a subject that needs more attention at writing conferences and the like. When you’re asked to stand on stage and offer wisdom, the urge to brand yourself as an expert who knows everything is strong, but it’s a disservice to people making their way up, because it gives the impression that there is One True Way and deviating from it is disaster. I think if more pro writers spoke honestly about the times they failed, people would benefit greatly.

I got a great response to the presentation, with a lot of people staying behind to chat and ask questions, so I think others agreed. As always. WDC did a fantastic job pulling this together. Aside from me there were of course dozens of other great writers sharing their experience and advice (a few you might have heard of, like N.K. Jemisin and Karin Slaughter), and the WD folks work their butts off to make it a great experience for all. Thanks, guys!

Finally, here is my new avatar for all things social media.

Yup.

What To Do When You’re Hanging Fire

Has this ever happened to you:

You’re writing a novel, and things are going well. You’re halfway, or two-thirds, or one-fifth of the way through and you like everything you’ve done so far.

And then you hit a wall.

You end a chapter, and you have no idea where the story goes next. Everything is going according to plan, but your next steps suddenly don’t seem right. You’re still excited about the premise and the characters and all the rest, but you’re not excited about what comes next — or even sure what that should be. So you pause. You back away from the keyboard and you leave the story in suspended animation, hanging fire in-between the bits you thought were pretty great and the bits you haven’t written yet.

And then you wait.

The Hardest Part

When you’re plantsing a novel and inspiration runs dry, the best thing to do is just walk away. Leave off, go do something else, and treat finishing that story similarly to the way Douglas Adams had Arthur Dent learn to fly by throwing himself at the ground and missing: Don’t try to finish it.

This can be difficult, especially if you’re like me and can’t stand unfinished business. I have a mania for completing projects, and leaving a novel half finished for days or weeks or months is difficult. But necessary, because the worst thing you can ever do with a story is force it. If you aren’t inspired by the next plot point, hang back and wait until it comes. Otherwise you’re just grinding.

Of course, this presupposes that you’ve got the space to hang back. If you’re under contract or writing this book to literally pay the rent, you might have to grind, and the story will probably be fine, just not as great as it could have been.

Of course, when you’re old and busted like me, this also means you come across a 40,000 word half-novel you stopped writing 5 years ago and then completely forgot about, so you write a 350-word ending and call it a novella and go to bed.

The Myth of The Effortless Brad Pitt

When discussing the craft of writing, you might not think Brad Pitt comes into it all that much. Or, perhaps, you expect Brad Pitt to come into it constantly, to be a part of every conversation. Which: Fair.

I bring up Brad Pitt because I recently saw the film Once Upon a Time in Hollywood and thus was exposed to over two hours of Pitt being impossibly cool as the confident, athletic, and possibly homicidal failed stuntman Cliff Booth. This included a gratuitous scene where Cliff climbs onto a roof to fix a fallen television antennae and takes off his shirt to bask in the California sun. I can imagine zero reason for this scene to be in the film except that Quentin Tarantino knew it would please his audience, or possibly because Pitt just takes his shirt off constantly and it was bound to be in the final cut by sheer weight of minutes captured on film.

But! I have not come here to drag Brad Pitt. He’s a fine-looking man, and obviously works hard at being fit and at acting. He’s fun to watch on the screen. That’s actually my point: Brad Pitt works hard at things. Cliff Booth? Not so much.

Effortlessly Cool

While it is true that no one wants their movies to be an hour longer so the director can include many lengthy sequences when their badass characters work out in the gym, train with weapons and in hand-to-hand combat, and drink endless beige smoothies filled with disgusting healthy goop, I wish there was at least a hint at that. Instead, Cliff is pretty typical: He’s never shown exercising, he drinks a fair amount, the one meal he’s shown preparing and eating is mac and cheese from a box, and yet he’s a smooth criminal who nearly defeats Bruce Fucking Lee in a fight. He exhibits badassery at several moments, most notably the bloody, hysterical ending. When he ascends that roof to fix the antennae, he does so in a few parkour-esque bounds. And, of course, he has Brad Pitt’s abs.

If I lived Cliff’s lifestyle, I’d be 300 pounds. Possibly dead. I would not be capable of killing hippies and bounding onto roofs.

Now, full disclosure, I don’t usually detail my characters’ training regimen in my own fiction. Avery Cates never spends a few pages doing crunches while he contemplates his reaction times. But! Avery is a desperate criminal, and he’s usually being pushed from one desperate fight to the next, so I always imagined his lifestyle just generally kept him in decent shape.

But so many stories have Cliff Booths in them: Mere mortal men who are somehow killing machines with perfect abs despite spending most of their time sitting around doing nothing.

A Pet Peeve

It’s a pet peeve, is all. And something to think about when you’re writing your own characters. You don’t need to detail their gym routines, but a little hint that it doesn’t just come natural would be appreciated, and will add to the verisimilitude of the piece. As well as a reduction of stress in our audience.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been inspired by Cliff Booth to drink six beers and climb onto my roof. If you don’t hear from me in three or four days, assume I’m dead and someone please burn my hard drive.

The Power of Skip

I’ve always been a champion procrastinator. It’s a shame cycle: I put off doing things, even things I ostensibly enjoy, until I suddenly wake up in the middle of the night with a vision of my own impending mortality, and then you’ll find me sweating freely at 3AM as I work doggedly at four or five projects simultaneously.

Is almost everything I do driven by fear of death? You betcha. Except whiskey. I drink that for the love.

Of course, a lot of these unfinished projects are novels and short stories and weird metafictional thingies that I started working on in 1989 and now exist as 60,000 separate files in various word processor file formats.

What’s crazy about this is that I love writing. It’s the one thing I will always choose to do, one of the few things I’m just as enthused about, if not more so, than when I was a kid. And yet the main thing I procrastinate about is writing.

Who Will Finish All These Novels?

One reason for this that most writers will understand is simple: Creating a story can be damned intimidating. You look back at what you wrote last year and the process is mysterious, the inspirations opaque, the tricky bits impenetrable. How many of you have ever re-read something you wrote a few years ago and discovered you don’t recognize it, it’s like it was written by a stranger. That’s happened to me, and it can make starting something new kind of scary. After all, you can’t repeat a trick you didn’t understand in the first place.

What makes it harder, often, is the sense of heavy lifting that some aspects of a story can inspire. There are always bits of a story you’re excited to write, and bits you’re not so excited to write but need to be in there anyway. Often a story will begin with a burst of enthusiasm and then you run into a less-exciting bit and your brain issues a stop work order.

In those moments, a good way to deal with it is to skip those parts.

Skip It

There’s a tendency to think you have to follow rules when you write–but your process is your process.

Ian Fleming, who wrote the James Bond novels, had a remarkable process: He would write the story, the entire plot, without bothering with much detail. The end result was a skeleton of a book, but it had all the plot twists, dialogue, and characters. Then he would go back and revise, adding in the sumptuous details of Bond’s globe-trotting life.

In other words, Fleming skipped stuff he either wasn’t interested in or found challenging at that stage of the project. Then he went back and did the same.

You can skip anything. Skip the boring parts, the exposition and necessary mundane sequences that are required but unexciting. Skip the explanations and just keep moving; you can go back and explain (or figure out) what it all means in revision. Skip the details like Ian Fleming. Skip the dialogue! Why not. Any time you pause and think you’d rather not write this next bit … don’t. Put in a marker, move on to something you do want to write, and enjoy yourself.

Of course, you can go too far with this. Decades ago I skipped wearing pants, and look where I am today.

My Running List of Instant Rejection Phrases in Freelance Job Ads

Working as a freelance writer isn’t all free drinks and suitcases full of cash. Actually, it’s neither of those things pretty consistently. What it is is a lot of work and the occasional perusal of ads from folks seeking professional writers, and many of these ads are rage-inducing. I’ve begun keeping a running list of words and phrases that will immediately cause me to back out of your ad and assume you are the worst.

Rockstar. When folks mention needing a ‘rockstar’ freelance writer,what they usually really want is someone who is willing to work with poor or absent direction, to tolerate insane demands and low wages, and somehow magically guess what the client is thinking at all times. The other side of this, of course, is that any problems are naturally your fault, for not being Rockstar enough.

Consistent Work. Translation: We pay peanuts but there are so many of them you might just scrape by. As long as you ‘consistently’ work 18 hours a day.

Plagiarism/Copyscape. Warning against plagiarism tells you immediately that this client is suspicious of the supposed value a writer brings to their business. They will probably also demand that you run your work through Grammarly, which is the same as asking your cat to proofread your work. Which I’ve done, when very drunk. I do not recommend this.

Simple/Easy/Straightforward. If they’re already gaslighting you on how much work is involved in the ad, just think how it’ll be when there’s live work to be done!

Unpaid. Whether its a sample project, a training period, or the job itself, if there’s no payment involved, they can go screw.

Revenue Sharing/Paid per click. It’s amazing that this still exists, honestly, but I’ve been fooled for a few seconds by decently-crafted ads that lead you down the primrose path to the dreaded revshare or PPC model, where you don’t get paid anything unless the article you’re writing gets enough clicks and traffic. Since it’s not my job to be an unpaid marketing guru for your site, that would be a hard no.

This is an evolving list, of course, but for the moment these are things that will make me nope the fuck out of any writing job. My life goal is to get to a point professionally where I turn down any job that doesn’t pay me in single malt Scotch. #careerGoals

Five Ways to Approach Chapter 1

No one ever said writing novels was easy. Except me, several times, but I almost certainly drinking when I said that and not thinking clearly.

Let me start over: Writing novels isn’t easy, and sometimes the hardest part is starting. If you’ve got several dozen files on your hard drive named some variation of GENIUS_NOVEL_D1, GENIUS_NOVEL_D1_2, GENIUS_NOVEL_D1_3 and so on, you know of which I speak.

For me, approaching novels in the same way each time is sometimes part of the problem. After all, if something works, why change it? If you’ve written several novels before simply by starting at the beginning, or by outlining for weeks before writing a word, or, I don’t know, sacrificing a chicken and praying to dank gods, then you could make worse decisions than to try that successful approach again.

But if it stops working, sometimes it helps to try something different in terms of approach. After all, what have you got to lose? In this scenario you’re already failing to write that novel.

Five Easy Chapters

Sometimes the secret to writing a novel is getting past the vast void of blankness that faces you when you start. If you’ve tried a few times to get Chapter One going and have nothing but discarded drafts to show for it, try one of these approaches.

In Media Res: Skip the boring parts and jump right to the part of the story you’re most excited to write. Sometimes what slows you down is doing all the ‘eat your vegetables’ writing right away. Dive into dessert first. You can always go back and eat that broccoli later.

The Lecture Approach: Exposition can be deadly, but can also be cut out later—if you’re having trouble getting started, start explaining the universe, characters, et al., as a way of jump-starting the story. Don’t worry about style or narrative, just tell it like you’re explaining it to an insurance adjuster.

The Alternative POV: Just because you have a POV main character doesn’t mean they have to be the first Voice your reader encounters. Maybe you’re having trouble hooking into your main character’s tone or style. Work on someone else for a bit, see what happens.

The Unrelated Incident: A great way to make a splash and write a fun, energetic Chapter 1 is to ignore your plot entirely and write a self-contained story that sets the table and introduces everything and everybody—because it’s unrelated, it allows total freedom. It can also be deleted later if it helps you get going–or be adapted into something else.

The James Bond Approach: James Bond movies start with an exciting action sequence that often has nothing to do with the main story. Why not do the same? Chapter 1 shouldn’t be a dull simmer of introductory information, it should be a story unto itself. Introduce your characters and universe by creating an awesome mini-adventure that stands alone as an exciting story even if it also ties into the greater plot later.

There’s no guarantee any of these approaches will cure your novel, of course, but there’s plenty more where these came from. Get creative! That’s what you do! Creativity isn’t just about story and characters. You can be creative in your process as well. Just like I get creative when all I’ve got left in the bar is vermouth, Blue Curacao, and Frangelico.

Learning to Love the Downside

The Writing Life is often presented in pretty rosy terms: You get to be creative and curious! You get to work in your pajamas1! You get to transform your functional alcoholism into a marketing brand2!

But as anyone who has actually tried to make a go of this writing thing as a profession knows, there are downsides. So, so many downsides. There are bad reviews and unsatisfying freelance projects3, writer’s block and failed novels, low sales and bad experiences with publishers, the discovery that the world at large is much less interested in reading books than you assumed and the discovery that this is because most of the world is actually Slender Men in human disguise4.

Every writer has a few bad days in their career. It’s easy to love some aspects of writing. It’s easy to love the creative rush when you have a great idea or put THE END on a manuscript you know is strong. It’s easy to love great reviews, or invitations to speak at events.

The trick is to love the downsides as much as the easy-to-love stuff, because it’s all writing5.

Embrace the Suck

There’s a positive core at the center of every terrible thing about writing:

Negative feedback. No one likes hearing all the many ways their writing sucks. We’ve all had that moment of finishing a story that is very dear to us, or a freelance assignment we’re incredibly proud of, only to have a Beta Reader or critic tear it to pieces or the client send it back with reams of edit notes. It’s not fun, but love the way criticism like that improves your work. Because nine times out of ten, when you assess the work in light of the critique, you realize they have a point, and the story or piece gets better6.

Failed Deals. One of the most heartbreaking things is getting close with a deal to publish or sell your work and watching it fall apart. It never fails to be demoralizing; there’s just nothing worse than imagining yourself richer and better-known than you already are and then having to re-calibrate back down to current levels. But every time this happens I walk away a little smarter about the business side of publishing. Which doesn’t replace the money or fame, but at least makes me feel a little better7.

Failed Novels. I’ve had plenty of story ideas that start off buzzing with energy and then slowly turn into overcooked potatoes8. And it’s painful every time, even when I’m able to salvage a novella or short story from the mess. But at the same time, I always have a long list of ideas I haven’t had a chance to write yet, so a filed novel offers me an opportunity to write the next thing, which just might be amazing. Or more potatoes.

Downsides are everywhere, and sometimes you string together a bunch of downsides in a row and it’s depressing. But learning to see and appreciate the upsides to the downsides is a skill that will serve you well in this business.

The Reality Trap

I’ve written before about how realism doesn’t guarantee your writing is good; in other words, just because you’re writing about something that actually happened doesn’t mean the end result will be persuasive. You can base stories and plot twists on actual events that you actually witnessed and still get pushback from readers and editors who just don’t buy what you’re selling.

When this happens, there’s a tendency to outrage because it actually happened. How can someone tell you that plot twist doesn’t work when it actually worked in the real world? I understand, and have experienced, that precise flavor of outrage, but it does you no good. Arguing about it does you no good. You just have to write better.

Reality <> Good Writin’

Just because something actually happened doesn’t mean you get to ignore the usual rules of storytelling, after all, and one of those rules is this: If your reader doesn’t get something in your story, it’s your fault. If something doesn’t seem realistic or plausible in your story, even if it’s based on a real event, you have to go back and revise it until you’ve sold it properly. Getting defensive just because you’re working from memory is no excuse.

The craziest part of this, of course, is the fact that sometimes the more you deviate from the reality of the event, the more readily your reader accepts the scenario. It can be super counter-intuitive, and occasionally frustrating. And while one reader who doesn’t get what you’re doing can be an outlier, if all of your readers complain about the same thing you have to stop assuming the reality basis of the bit will sell itself, and start looking into doing a better job of selling.

This is complicated when you base your stories off of hair-raising moments you experience after drinking two bottles of ripple and eating $50 worth of Taco Bell. Those visions are vivid.