Archive for the ‘indie publishing’ Tag
In conversations with other writers, I often find myself in disagreement regarding a particular aspect of the writing process. Many, perhaps most, dislike the work involved with revisions and editing, seeing it as a relentless, grinding chore designed to fuel self-doubt. You see countless memes in the social media expressing, in cartoonish grotesquerie, the fear and loathing often invoked by the process of editing. For me, the very opposite is true. The hardest part of the fiction-writing process is creating the basis of the plot and the characters to start with. I don’t outline, because fiction doesn’t come to me that way. I grope my way forward, figuring things out as I go. “Pantsing,” say some, as in writing by the seat of your pants. I prefer the phrase discovery writing. Whatever you choose to call it, this phase is always hard work, and rarely easy, but it’s work that must be done to get me where I want to be.
What I most look forward to is what comes after, that process of self-editing and revision that unfolds after that rough draft has developed a beginning, a middle, and an end. There’s some discovery writing still to come, but it grows from what’s already there. Part of the joy of writing comes in those bright epiphanies that occur as I begin to realize the true potential of the tale I’ve told.
Some books take longer than others to reach this point of revision. My current work in progress took a long damn time to get there. For a while, I feared it never would.
I expected the third book of the Children of Rost’aht tetralogy (Heir to Rost’aht) to be a challenge. The story takes place at the same time as Book Two (The Best Laid Plans), and I needed to make sure certain details lined up just so. News from elsewhere (events in Book Two) needed to reach the characters in Book Three with a degree of timing that made sense. I’ve never tried such a thing before, and although the concept sounds simple enough, it didn’t prove to be as straightforward as I’d hoped. And that’s an understatement. My usual discovery writing approach to a first draft proved poorly suited to the task. It felt at times as if I were riding a bicycle over rough pavement, while always looking behind instead of ahead. Time after time I was drawn up short by the realization that something had been revealed that the current characters could not know, not at that point. Just as often, I sailed past something that they really should have been aware of, if their actions were to make any sense.
And then there were the external distractions of this past year, coming into focus while I worked on Book Three. As mentioned in the previous entry, I was puzzled by a dramatic fall-off in book sales, infuriated by the theft of several titles by trainers of chatbots, and dismayed by a stark reminder that eBook piracy is alive and well. I was riding downhill quickly, looking backward, and hitting pot holes. It’s impossible to maintain balance riding a bicycle that way. It doesn’t work any better while writing a story. Needless to say, the discovery writing phase of this book did not proceed smoothly, or without a few spectacular crashes.
It took months longer than usual, and what I finally ended up with was a mess. At some point, the usual pattern of discovery simply unraveled, and some of the “chapters” I wrote were wildly out of sequence. I did not always think of necessary plot elements until well after I passed the point where they were needed. So I just wrote what occurred, when it occurred, with the vague notion of moving bits around to correct placement, after the fact. But my first attempt to do so dissolved into chaos.
At a writer’s group meeting, a few months after the time I would normally have sent the manuscript off to the editor, I shared my tale of woe. In the conversation that followed, someone made the point that an outline at the start might have kept any of this from happening. A moot point. Any time I’ve tried to do an outline for a work of fiction, it’s automatically become discovery writing, with a fully written first draft as the result. And I did, in fact, have a draft, albeit a really bad one. But what at first seemed an entirely pointless observation turned into a true lightbulb moment. Why not turn the mess into a collection of very short chapter summaries and reorganize them into a sort of outline, after the fact? Surely it would be easier that way to see the big picture, rather than taking on the entire thing at once? This idea emerged from the group conversation, and the consensus was that it might be worth a try.
I agreed and went forward with it. Each of the so-called chapters I’d devised was given a number and a short summary. I then spent a lot of time making copy and paste maneuvers, guided by those summaries, and eventually had everything lined up properly. Heir to Rost’aht existed – sort of – its plot ordered, and missing parts glaringly obvious. And then I did the same thing for Book Two, realizing only then that an after-the-fact outline of that book would provide a useful guide to the necessary order of events. No surprise – I found mistakes in the development of Book Three’s plot through this second outline.
It all worked out in the end. I was able to take the existing material and relocate or delete anything that rendered the dual timelines contradictory. I was also able to plug some gaping plot holes. In a sense, I rewrote the rough draft into a first draft, one finally suitable for revisions. Now I can dig in to the part that makes it all worthwhile, the revisions that put life and color into the plot and characters I’ve created. For me, this truly is not the greatest chore involved with writing fiction. What I did to reach this point was the hard part, and especially so in this unusual case.
There’s a moral to this story, best expressed by nature writer Ann Haymond Zwinger, in her book The Nearsighted Naturalist: “If anybody says writing is an easy task, don’t ever buy a used car from him.”
Much of my activity in the social media has to do with writing and reading. Networking with other writers counts as one of the better reasons I have for spending time online. It’s good for the morale to be in touch with people who understand this strange habit I have, without requiring any explanations. The same goes for reading, especially when discussing a specific genre, such as science fiction. These interactions, which include numerous reviews and recommendations, account for nearly all my fiction book-buying decisions these days. The discussions that lead to book selections on my part are often wide-ranging and diverse, and – of course – loaded with opinions. Also, sometimes, complaints.
A specific complaint I see expressed regularly has to do with trilogies or longer series. This complaint reads the same way whether the author is as popular as Frank Herbert or N.K. Jemisin, or a relative unknown such as yours truly. A reader will mention reading a Book One, and, inevitably, someone responds by allowing that they, too, like the first book, and sometimes also the second. But after that it was all downhill. The author, they believe, ran out of ideas or – worse – simply got lazy (speculations vary). Such commentary leaps out at me because, as often as not, I’ve read the series or trilogy in question, and experienced no such thing. Different people will react to books in different ways and the definition of “quality” is, of course, flexible and highly subjective. And a series really can run out of steam if the writer extends the story too far, striving for quantity at the expense of consistent quality. (It is, by the way, very difficult to know when to quit.) All of that being true, I rarely see such a comment made about books by an author whose body of work consists of stand-alone novels or short stories. Readers might find that body of writing inconsistent, one book to the next, but it isn’t normally seen in the same way as a steady decline over a series of connected novels. (“Their first book was great, the next only so-so, but that latest release deserves an award!”) Something else happens when it’s a series of books, meant to be read in order.
Curious about this difference in perception, I’ve made it a habit to ask people about reading habits when they make the observation that a series started out with great promise, but lost momentum somewhere along the way. The key questions turned out to be “How long did it take you to read that series?” and “Did you read it straight through?” I haven’t exactly made a systematic study of the matter, but the responses I’ve received have led me to the following observation: there seems to be a correlation between the perception of a series faltering and the habit of binge reading.
Binge reading simply means that you start with book one and don’t stop until you’ve read through the entire series. (People also do this with movies and TV shows.) You’re all in, fully committed. The series is treated, essentially, as one really big book.
Binge reading is a habit I never acquired. In younger days, books came to me one or two at a time. They were all stand-alones until I discovered Tolkien, and even then there was a considerable lag in reading The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King. The same thing happened when I read Frank Herbert’s Dune. The other books in that series were out there (it was still a trilogy at that time), but acquiring copies took some time – and I read or reread other books in the meantime. I believe this is how I developed a good memory for books I’ve read, so reading the next book months or a year later has never been a problem. And these days I’m in the habit of having a mix of reads ongoing at any one time, fiction and nonfiction. It could be said that I’m the opposite of a binge reader.
Other readers take a different approach: they buy the whole series at once, or if necessary wait until the entire thing is complete, and then plunge in. (The latter makes a certain amount of sense, since now and then a writer gets partway into a series and just drops it.) Those for whom binge reading is the norm make a serious commitment to reading a series. For most, this complete immersion is a big part of the fun. And in truth, most of the binge readers I’ve met end up quite satisfied by their experiences. But not all of them.
In the conversations I’ve had with fellow readers, more often than now it’s the bingers who claim that the writer jumped the shark, and should have quit while they were ahead. But was it the writing or the reader who ran out of momentum? While it’s certainly possible for a writer fade in the stretch (that sort of thing can happen to anybody, in the course of any endeavor), I find myself wondering if the problem is more likely due to reader fatigue, than any failing on the part of the writer.
For many readers, bingeing through a series is part of the fun. Not everyone who binge-reads runs afoul of this phenomenon, or experiences it with every series they read. But some do, and I’ve even heard from readers who absolutely will not read a series, ever, because they all “lose it” before the end. They are often quite vocal in their dislike, and are critical of writers who write a multi-book series – as if this were some sort of personal failing.
So – some binge and some do not. To my mind, bingeing carries the risk of reader fatigue, and having examined my own habits in this light, binge reading will never, for me, become a habit. All a matter of perception on my part, a matter of calling it the way I see it. How does it work for you?
A friend and fellow writer recently worked with a writing coach, seeking to restart a writing career that had stalled out. The result was a renewed enthusiasm for the craft, and it seems my friend is on the path to regaining the motivation to write. I didn’t catch all the details of these coaching sessions, when the tale was told, but one aspect in particular caught my attention. It seems this writer has an intuitive approach to writing that runs counter to a few commonly expressed ideas regarding the writing process. Advice about how it “should” be done had been internalized regardless of the conflict it created with my friend’s approach, and the self-doubt that developed as a result created a serious case of writer’s block.
The answer for this person, brought to light by the coaching, turned out to be giving themselves permission to write in a way that came naturally, regardless of outside advice. To accept that what some writers consider a bad habit might actually be the best thing for another writer to do. And that trying to shoehorn your process into the expectations raised by others could be the worst.
It’s all too easy to fall into the expert advice trap, especially if you’re new to writing. Most of us learn, as our very first lesson, that writing isn’t as easy as just putting down words in the right order. Writing creatively takes practice, and for most of us we’re talking a lot of practice over a significant amount of time. It’s natural enough, then, to seek advice when you’re new to the craft of writing, and it makes perfect sense to try out the advice that’s been received. But one piece of advice I always give to new writers is this: these are not rules being set out for you to follow. The only things other writers can provide, however well-known or successful they may be, are guidelines based on personal experience. It pays to listen to how others approach the craft, and you may well learn something that helps you move forward. But…
Guidelines, not rules. Always remember this concept. If you’ve worked out a process that’s getting the words down, but something you do doesn’t fit the standard advice floating around out there, don’t assume you’re doing something wrong. Be willing to try new ideas out, but give yourself permission to dismiss them if they don’t help get you into the groove.
Three examples from my own experience should serve to illustrate what I mean. The first has to do with word counts. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve been told that worrying about word counts as a measure of productivity or progress is a bad habit. That you shouldn’t become “hung up” on word counts, for fear of being discouraged by seemingly inadequate numbers. I can see where that fear might interfere with the creative process, should consistently low counts undermine motivation and morale. For some writers that surely is a potential problem, and a reason not to keep a count. For me, though, it works the other way around, and I’ve been using word counts for as long as I’ve been writing. Word count records, especially when putting down a first draft, keep me honest about my work ethic; keep me from lapsing into lazy habits. And on “bad” days I can look at even a modest word count and be assured that I at least made some progress. It’s a tool I know and use well. It might work this way for you. It might not.
Another thing that I’ve been told repeatedly is that it’s a bad habit is to have multiple works in progress. The advice here is that you absolutely should focus on one project, finish that one, and only then move on. For beginning writer this does make some sense. But we don’t stay beginners forever, and not all beginners work the same way. For me, with more years of experience behind me than I want to count, having more than one project moving forward greatly increases my productivity. If I just can’t get the current novel rolling today, I have a couple of things to work on that keep me writing. This gives the writing process itself momentum, regardless of which project sees its word count rise. In thirteen years I’ve released eighteen titles of various lengths. More than a few of them were written concurrently. If you have enough confidence and self-discipline, having a different project to switch to when something gets stuck can be beneficial. Unless your natural mode is one of laser focus on one thing at a time, all of the time, in which case that’s your process, and never mind what I do.
Writing nonstop without revising as you go is often highly touted (and by some big name authors) as the best way to write a book. Going back to change things before the draft is completed is seen as a risky habit that could slow down the development of the book. Or worse, keep you from ever finishing that book in the first place. Should you then plunge forward with a draft and never look back, just because they say so? Revise only when that first draft is done? For the most part, that’s what I do. But ideas sometimes come after the fact, and unless I go back and make changes – or at least insert notes regarding what the changes should be – I’ll be distracted by that stray idea for the rest of the first draft. No one I know writes well when distracted. So if going back and forth as needed gets the job done for you, feel free, no matter what someone else tells you. Subverting that natural tendency, on “expert” advice, could make you a less productive – and less happy – writer in the long run. Grant yourself a dispensation and revise whenever you feel the need.
Always be willing to try other ways to write. Some of what you learn might prove useful – you just never know. Or that well-intended advice could be the worst thing in the world for you, as a writer. On the chance that the latter scenario arises, always reserve for yourself the permission to say no, and do what really works for you.
Like most writers, I read a lot. I’ve been a compulsive reader ever since I learned to read as a small boy. Fiction of a fantastical nature has always been a primary source of reading pleasure, although I’ve cast my net wider than the genres of science fiction and fantasy. An even wider cast characterizes my nonfiction reading habits. In that realm, I am quite omnivorous: history, in its many facets; the sciences, especially astronomy and things biological; natural history; the arts; philosophy. So, it should come as no surprise that I sometimes read books about writing.
This past year (2024) I read three works by fellow practitioners of the art of wordsmithing. Each of them caught my fancy for a different reason, and all of them are worthy of the attention of writers, both new and experienced. They are Righting Writing by Michael Bailey, Steering the Craft: A 21st Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story by Ursula K. LeGuin, and Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott.
Righting Writing by Michael Bailey was the first I picked up, on the recommendation of a friend. Michael Bailey writes fiction in a genre – horror – that I’m not very familiar with. But the friend who recommended the book, who is best known for her poetry in that very same genre, is someone whose feelings about writing resonate strongly with my own. Hearing her heap glowing praise on this book regarding the nuts and bolts of storytelling was enough. I downloaded a copy and pretty much started reading it right away. The result of this read is my tendency to recommend the book to anyone starting out in “the madness of writing, editing, and publishing,” as the copy on the book cover spells it out. To steal another bit from the cover (and the word lined out is not an error): “A book for those who want need to write.” If there is a topic regarding the writing process that Michael Bailey does not cover in this book, safe to say it isn’t relevant to the goal. The author’s thoroughness is truly impressive. All the topics covered are delivered with a clean, concise prose style that is at the same time alive and anything but dull and technical. I’m not a beginner, but I found it very useful to be reminded of some of the basics. If you’re just getting started, get this book. Right now.
Steering the Craft: A 21st Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story by Ursula K. LeGuin could serve as a good follow-up to the book briefly reviewed above. The author herself says this slim volume is not aimed at beginning writers, and an argument could be made. That said, I don’t think you’d need to be writing with serious intent for very long before this book would be of benefit. Covering some of the same topics as Michael Bailey’s book, LeGuin takes a closer – and often opinionated – look at such matters as complex syntax, points of view, narrative style, as well as when and how to use adjectives and adverbs. I especially liked the way she treats some of the Do and Don’t advice that clutters the social media, such as matters to do with sentence length and structure, show vs. tell, and passive voice, to name three bugaboos self-styled writing coaches often harp on. (And I was amused mightily when she made the point that many of those crying foul over passive voice clearly don’t know what it is.) And all of this done in LeGuin’s marvelous prose.
Righting Writing and Steering the Craft were good reads for this old hand at wordsmithing because they reminded me of aspects of writing that, these days, I do pretty much by instinct. For some of these, this book served as a source of validation; nice to know I’m doing it right. For others – well, let’s just say I sat up and took notice.
Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott stands apart from the previous books discussed above. Written in an informal, conversational style, I had the feeling as I read that I was just hanging out with a fellow member of my tribe. Sharing a cup of coffee and talking about this thing I do and can’t live without. Reading it I was reminded, clearly and beautifully, why I persisted as a writer for so many years, when the traditional publishing industry could find no use for me. (Okay, I’ll be fair and honest and admit that for a while, there was absolutely no reason traditional publishing should have spent money producing what I wrote.) Bird by Bird not only instructs, it motivates and inspires. That makes it worth reading, no matter how advanced or successful you happen to be.
So, is there one of these three I would consider a must read, apart from the others?
No.
Each of these books is worth reading for its own reasons. All of them can help you, each in its own way. So, give them all a try. Find them at a local bookstore, or track them down at the library. I don’t believe you’ll be disappointed.
Imagine for a moment that you’ve recently climbed a long, steep mountain trail. At the top of that mountain you gazed out over the world below, filled with a deep sense of satisfaction that made your physical weariness worth all the trouble you experienced on the way up. You set yourself the goal to make this difficult climb, and it proved even more of a challenge than you ever imagined it could be. But you kept climbing until you were at the top. You’ve accomplished a thing not everyone can do. You climbed that mountain.
The next day, at a party, you meet a person proudly showing off pictures of that same lofty view. This person impresses the crowd by reciting numbers regarding the steepness of the slopes, the altitude of the summit, and what the view from the top revealed of the world. But this person didn’t hike the trail, much less scramble up and over the steeper, rockier portions. They bought a ticket from a helicopter tour company that flew them to the summit, and then back down. You’re prepared to shrug it off – to each their own, right? But then that person claims to be a mountaineer, just like you. When you point out the obvious difference between a mountain climber and a tourist buying a helicopter ticket, the reaction is filled with lame rationalizations as this person tries to make their accomplishment somehow equal to yours. What difference does it make, they eventually insist, how you reach the summit? You got there; that’s all that matters, right? The work and effort you put into your experience of the actual climb means nothing to this pretender.
As if this isn’t bad enough, there are people at the party who actually agree with this point of view. To them, you aren’t a successful mountain climber. You’re a braggart.
Sounds outrageous, doesn’t it? Welcome to the world of the honest storyteller in the age of so-called “AI.”
The last time I wrote on this subject, I was asked what exactly I had against the idea of artificial intelligence. The truth is, I have nothing against artificial intelligence at all. I think meeting and interacting with such a being would be a fascinating experience. But so far as I know, the event called the “singularity” by researchers in that field has not yet occurred. Or if it has, the entity that evolved from it is quite wisely maintaining a low profile. Consider the popular assumptions regarding the likely results of such an emergence. Would you be in a hurry to announce your existence to a world that assumes you mean to destroy it? What we have, instead, are sophisticated machine-learning systems capable of manipulating and connecting data in extraordinary ways, and presenting the results (in certain applications) in a manner that effectively mimics human communication. These systems have enormous potential to aid such endeavors as science and medicine, and I surely have no qualms about their application in such fields.
But some of the systems popularly termed “AI,” and being marketed for public consumption, are quite another matter. My anger (let’s call it what it is) is directed at the misapplication of these tools. Generative AI systems are being used by writer-wannabes to avoid the considerable work and time involved with learning to write readable fiction.
I’ve lost track of the number of people I’ve met, in the twelve years since I first self-published, who decided to give writing a try – and then expressed utter dismay at how hard it is. Reading a book gives the false impression that it’s all just a matter of laying out the words, and spelling them correctly. That the book was the result of a year or more (often much more) of dedicated effort, during which it existed as a rough draft that would be no fun at all to read, is invisible to the average reader. It isn’t until you decide to start following such a path yourself that you realize, and perhaps appreciate, how steep the mountain before you really is. You soon doubt both your ability to stay on that trail, and your sanity for even trying in the first place.
Many people, in this age of direct-to-readers self-publishing, seem to find the need to climb that mountain offensive. Publishing a book is so automated it takes very little effort to do so. It just seems wrong that the writing part should be such a painful and frustrating slog. This is especially true of those who have been misled into thinking of writing as a sort of side-hustle that can yield easy money. Surely we’re entitled to an easier way to get this thing done?
There is no easier way. All truly creative endeavors are the result of melding human knowledge, experience, and imagination into a form that can be shared with others through a combination of hard-won talent and willingness to work toward the desired result. Writing is no exception to this truth. But this is not what you get when you tell a so-called AI that you want a plot or story start that involves certain elements of your preferred genre of fiction. The machine will consider all the fiction it has scanned (sometimes illegally) that meets the user’s parameters, and cobble together something that fits the general formula for that genre. It really doesn’t matter how you use what it gives you. There was no creative effort from you to get this started, no exercise of the imagination that draws on a lifetime of experience, or a skilled effort applied after years of practice. What you’ve been given, with little or no effort on your part, are words and patterns absorbed by an algorithm, from stories someone else actually wrote once upon a time.
By the way, I am well aware of the ironic roll self-publishing plays here. Would we be having this discussion if publishing your own book could only be done the old-school way, requiring a publishing company and a contract? I don’t believe so. Irony, indeed, that the very thing that opened the door for my own work – and is still considered by many publishers to be cheating – has made so-called AI a viable product for those who want to have been a writer.
I write these words with a certain sense of resignation. I’m not so naïve as to believe my expressions of ire will stop people from cheating with AI, whether in the arts or in other fields. I doubt there’s ever been, in all of history, an innovation that wasn’t misapplied in some way. This one just happens to hit close to home. But I am what I am, a storyteller and a writer, things I can’t live without. Like our imaginary mountain climber, planning his next conquest in spite of what he experienced at that party, all I can do is to go on writing the tales I have to tell. I will always do so to the best of my ability, without input from machine-learning algorithms. That’s a promise. Every project I’ve taken on has challenged me, and never in the same way twice, but having climbed that mountain a dozen times now, I know I don’t need to cheat.
No, this writing thing isn’t easy, not at all. But it’s always worth it.
TusCon 50, November 10, 11, 12, 2023. Tucson, Arizona.
Friday, Nov. 10th
I will, indeed, be a participant in this year’s TusCon event. Below you will find my official schedule. In between these times, to quote the wizard, expect me when you see me.
No official functions on day one. I’ll be here and there, attending the odd panel discussion (the odder they are the more likely you’ll find me there). Also likely to be in the vicinity of the Dealer’s Room, where Mostly Books will have some of my books available for sale.
Unfortunately, the one thing I’m not doing this year is setting up a telescope. There’s apparently no place to do so at this location.
Saturday, Nov. 11th
Autograph Session #1
11:00 am to 12:00 pm at the designated Autograph Area, in the company of fellow participants Curt Booth, J.L. Doty, Mona Ventress, William Herr, and Robert Kurtzman. I’ll sign books, program guides, and the free stuff I’ll have with me. Almost anything that will take the ink from a ball point pen. I draw the line at body parts that require public disrobing. Don’t go there.
Kill your darlings. How do you keep character death meaningful?
In the Ballroom from 3:00 pm to 4:00 pm. “There are good ways to kill your characters. And there are bad ways to kill your characters. Come learn some of the best ways to kill your characters.” That’s how the program guide describes this one. So come and learn how writers kill, and why. In a fictional sense, I mean. Don’t be afraid, we won’t hurt anyone. Promise. Sharing this panel with Diana Terrill Clark, Marsheila Rockwell, Yvonne Navarro, Frankie Robertson, and Cynthia Ward.
Getting to Know your Characters.
In Panel Room #1 from 8:00 pm to 9:00 pm. From the program guide, “Who is your hero really? Does he vibe at all with the person you think he’s going to hook up with in the 3rd act? And why is he opposing your villain? And speaking of your villain…” Some insights into how we create the characters that populate our fiction. How we make these imaginary people seem real? And why do we need that resemblance is coincidental caveat at the beginnings of our books? In the company of Catherine Wells, Jay Smith, and William Herr.
Sunday, Nov. 12th
Thomas Watson Reading
In Panel Room #2 from 10:00 am to 11:00 am. No, you will not be sitting in a room watching me read. That would be weird. I’ll be reading something out loud. Something I wrote, of course. Could be almost anything, really. After more than ten years of writing and publishing fiction, there’s certainly plenty to choose from. And that’s a thought that makes this author smile.
Who am I?
It’s one of the oldest of all philosophical questions, one that has prompted countless hours of self-examination by every generation of human beings. A question that can only be answered from within, and sometimes only with considerable difficulty.
It can’t be answered by someone else, looking in from the outside. Such an attempt often results in baseless assumptions being made, or if they seem to be otherwise, are based on false impressions. Misunderstandings arise as a result. Some are addressed and clarified in a rational, adult fashion. Some are not.
I’ve read many accounts of authors running afoul of unintended false impressions raised by the fiction they publish. People read the work, it affects them emotionally, and they decide they’ve learned something about that author through the feelings the story evoked. While for some authors this may be an accurate perception, I believe that far more often than not the opposite is true. After almost twelve years published, I find that I can now offer myself as a case in point.
Some of you may have read my short novel Toby, the story of a man for whom life has taken a serious turn for the worse, leaving him questioning the value of just about everything and everyone. Taking to the road to clear his head and reorient himself, he encounters a lost dog in a campground, and resolves to return this poor beast to its family. The catch: he finds the pooch in New Mexico, after the heartbroken family was forced to return to their home in Illinois without their lost dog. But he accepts the challenge, hits the road, and adventures ensue.
The eponymous dog is a major character; he is, after all, a turning point in this man’s life. I did my best to make Toby the dog and Paul the man equally believable characters, and from the responses I’ve seen, I did a pretty good job. Not being a dog owner, or in any sense a dog person, I did plenty of research on dogs and their behavior, then ran this story by a friend who has dogs that he and his wife train for agility competitions. This research added up to the dog not only becoming a believable character, but an eminently lovable fictional canine. So lovable and relatable, that some people think the book is about the dog, not the man.
I can easily see where a dog person would come to that conclusion, and don’t really mind at all that this happens. Toby is supposed to capture the heart of the reader as he helps Paul rediscover that the best approach to life is to say “yes” to it – whatever it may bring. The story is actually a sort of hero’s journey, in the Campbellian sense. That was my intention, along with wanting to write something with an unashamedly happy ending.
I have been amazed and delighted by the way the book has touched the lives of those who’ve read it. Very few have reacted in a negative way, all but one of them reacting to an unfortunate and unfair prejudice against Toby’s breed. That exception is the case in point noted earlier. One reader made an assumption about me, based on reading a copy of Toby. While not an unreasonable assumption, it was unfortunately incorrect. This reader contacted me about a behavioral problem that developed in their dog, a fairly serious matter as I understood it. While I sympathized, I had to respond, in all honesty, that I was entirely unqualified to provide such advice. What I know about dogs is second-hand, based largely on research, with some feedback from friends who are dog-owners.
Toby is an idealized representation of the canine species, created for a specific fictional purpose. He is not based on a real dog, nor is he derived from a lifetime of dog-raising experience on my part. I like dogs well enough, and have enjoyed the company of well-behaved dogs owned by friends on any number of occasions. But I’ve never raised one of my own – and really have no desire to do so. I explained this to the reader, pointing out that merely writing a book that includes a canine character didn’t qualify me to offer the advice being sought. I suggested seeking the help of a veterinarian or a specialist in dog behavior.
This was not the expected answer, and the reader was most displeased. For this reader the book created the unfortunate and false impression that I had significant expertise in dog care and behavior. How could I have created such a realistic canine character otherwise? The disconnect created by my reply prompted a harsh (putting it mildly) reaction. I’d misled this reader, and the concept that I might have done so without intending any such thing never entered the argument.
Okay, it does happen that someone reads a book I’ve published and decides that my work just doesn’t satisfy. But this is the first time anyone ever read a book of mine, expressed great affection for it, but ended up deciding I’m some sort of lying bastard unfit to walk on the same planet. How dare I write a book “about a dog” without being an expert in the care and feeding of the canine tribe?
Probably the same way I dare to write about people traveling between the stars, flying on gryphons, or meeting a harpy moonlighting as a Muse – just a few of things I’ve written about but never experienced. All in a day’s work, as a teller of tales.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised by this reader’s assumptions, and the false impression of me engendered by the story in Toby. After all, I went to great lengths to make Toby a thoroughly believable dog. But that’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s part of my job. If I fail at it, I fail as a storyteller, so I always go all out when creating a character of any species. And yet here I sit, surprised by the realization that, this time, I may have succeeded just a little too well.
In an effort to increase the availability of my books in eBook format, I have now made most of them available through Google Play. Because their website does not effectively segregate my work from another author of the same name – an English preacher who has been dead for 337 years – searching for my books by author name is an effort in futility. You can search by each title, but it would be more convenient to have all the links available in one place. So, if you’re in the habit of reading on your phone and buy books through Google Play, allow me relieve you of the need to search for mine at all. A list of links follows.
The Astronomy Memoirs
Mr. Olcott’s Skies: An Old Book and a Youthful Obsession
Tales of a Three-legged Newt: Essays and Anecdotes for Amateur Astronomers
War of the Second Iteration
The Luck of Han’anga
Founders’ Effect
The Plight of the Eli’ahtna
The Courage to Accept
Setha’im Prosh
Tales from the Second Iteration
Where A Demon Hides: War of the Second Iteration – Coda
All That Bedevils Us
The Chimera Multiverse
The Gryphon Stone
The Lesson of Almiraya Bay
Fantasy
Variation on a Theme
Let’s get something clear right from the start. This thing they call Artificial Intelligence, currently being discussed and promoted in a big way? It’s a misapplication of the term. These systems are not conscious entities, certainly not in the HAL 9000 or SkyNet science fictional sense. To the best of my understanding these are machine learning algorithms, designed to respond to requests in ways that mimic human interactions. They search the vast online resources out there, do so in an astonishingly short amount of time, and come up with a response that meets the criteria set by the user. That response is given in a way that reads (or sounds) like something almost human. AI systems get better at this the more often they’re used, and in that sense, at least, they do learn.
They respond according to their programming which, to be honest, is almost mind-boggling in its sophistication and ability. But Artificial Intelligence (AI) is a term that has been appropriated by those who see “gold in them thar hills.” It serves them well as a marketing buzzword. These systems are not intelligent in the sense of being capable of independent thought, which would make it possible for them to be creative. (Not yet, anyway.) They don’t think. They don’t create. They harvest, organize, and present information in what seems a personable manner. They are computer tools to be used – or misused.
And misused they will be. Nothing special about AI as far as this goes. It’s a short list that contains only technologies that have never lent themselves to abuse. It always comes around to whether or not the risks inherent in deliberate misuse of technology outweigh the benefits. With AI this remains to be seen, although there certainly are signs of trouble ahead. One example, relevant to what I do, is the application of so-called AI to the world of writing.
While I believe that a time will come when true AI “wakes up” and develops its own sort of awareness and creativity, I don’t see it happening in the immediate future. The idea that a machine of any sort will be able to do what I do, and do it well enough to compete effectively with flesh-and-blood writers, while not entirely far-fetched, doesn’t worry me. These systems, when asked to start a story or write an essay, sift the virtual world and cobble together things found out there to fit the request. They create nothing new in the process. I don’t see the novelist or short story writer being replaced any time soon by such systems.
What I do see happening, with ever increasing frequency, is the use of so-called AI to “aid” the writing process. I’ve heard of writers who, for various reasons, have turned to these augmented search engines for story ideas, opening paragraphs (and even chapters), and for evaluation of stylistic elements in their writing. All of this is done to make the process easier or more efficient, or to save money by eliminating editorial expenses. Such use is frequently described as being on par with the employment of grammar programs. Some of those experimenting with AI seem to be looking for a way to jump-start a writing career that has faltered, for whom motivation has been undermined by a lack of success as defined by book sales. Such a measure of success is an expectation too many aspiring writers carry into their effort right from the beginning. Lack of fulfillment of this expectation is understandably frustrating, and that frustration can suppress the motivation to write.
For some, this use of AI might turn out to be just what they need to regain their motivation and start writing again. Having your personal well of inspiration cease to generate story ideas must be a horrible feeling. If AI helps someone to bounce back from such a dry spell, it could be considered an example of proper use of the technology, and it would be hard to hold that use against them. But to my mind, the current application of AI to get the actual work of writing done amounts to a steep and slippery slope. For no matter what “tools” you employ to make writing seem easier, the problem of finding and cultivating readers will not change. And it is this problem, more than anything else, that interferes with commercial success. Finding an “easier” way to write fiction will surely create a temptation in some to let the machine do ever more of the writer’s work, possibly increasing their productivity, but with a decline in quality. This is already happening; as a result, a few short fiction and poetry periodicals are now closed to unsolicited work because they are being inundated by lackluster, machine-generated material. If this trend continues, the independent book-publishing world risks being swamped as well, as increasing numbers of frustrated writers release books they have “written” using AI. Books that are, to an ever-increasing degree, the work of machine learning systems that become more adept at imitating human expression with each iteration – books with stories lacking the spark of true creativity that gives good fiction its emotional power.
Even if human readers of fiction recognize the soullessness of such material, there’s nothing to stop it from being published and promoted. The market is already seriously over-saturated as it is, and piling more – possibly substandard – books into the mix will help no one, writers or readers. This, more than the possibility that a machine might replace me, gives me nightmares.
For my own part, I won’t be using these so-called AI tools in my writing. This isn’t a purely ethical decision on my part. I won’t be tempted to try the AI writing tricks I see ever more people embracing because I don’t find them useful. Coming up with ideas or story starts? Seriously, I’ll die of old age before I run out of story ideas. As for reducing the “grunt work” involved with writing (whatever it is people really mean by the phrase), I enjoy the actual process of writing too much for that to have any appeal. And I don’t believe for a moment that AI can edit a book for me as effectively as a human being. So, when you read a story or a book by me (or even a weblog essay), you can be assured it was produced by 100% organic methods.
Sorry about that, HAL.
You’ve decided to try your hand at writing fiction, and have committed words to paper – or to a computer file. But after weeks or months of work, you’re getting absolutely nowhere. The material you’ve produced doesn’t inspire confidence, and as a result, it’s hard to stay motivated. What’s going on here? Why isn’t it working? It certainly didn’t look this hard, to judge from the books you’ve read.
You seek advice from other writers, such as the ideas I presented here. None of it works, and your frustration grows while the story sits there, untouched. Writing a story sounded like a thing worth doing, and you do know how to write, but it just isn’t working according to expectations. Why?
Maybe it’s time to examine what motivated you to write that novel or short story. What made this seem a good idea in the first place?
When I ask this question of people I meet, in and out of the virtual realm, the answers fall into two general categories: a love of reading fiction inspired the idea of telling a tale; or it sounded like an easy side hustle – definitely better than driving for Uber or Lyft. Whichever I hear, there’s a common mistaken assumption, that writing fiction is a relatively easy thing to do. That it might be anything but easy comes as a shock to many would-be writers.
Although telling stories is a thing that comes naturally to most people, no one is born a writer. We all tell stories of one kind or another. You spend a day at work, or at school, and then come home to tell your family about the events of your day. You share memories of past events with friends. That’s basic storytelling. For some of us, however, the itch to be creative wakes up the imagination, and stories come into being that are not of day-to-day events in real life. Fiction, in other words. That creative impulse can amplify this very human thing called storytelling (I’m tempted to say hijack it), and with enough such amplification, the urge to tell that story takes hold. And there you sit, a literate human being who has done plenty of reading, deciding to write this one down and see how it flies.
That bit about writing it down is the hard part. Writing readable fiction takes time and practice. For most of us, it takes a lot of time and practice. There are exceptions to this rule, but it’s those exceptions that define the rule, after all. That exceptions exist is no guarantee you will be one of them. And so it’s more than likely that the first attempt feels awkward, or just outright botched. When you find yourself floundering, you have two choices. You can keep at it, and practice the art until you are good enough to publish your work with some confidence. If you can accept the reality that the only way to become adept at writing fiction is to first write some lousy fiction, there’s hope for you. Go on and give it another try.
The second choice is, of course, to quit. You can give it up and be content with reading fiction. I’ll come back to that choice a little later.
But what about those seeking a side hustle?
To be blunt, if you started stringing words together because you thought it might be an easy way to make money, you’ve embarked upon a fool’s errand. The chances of making even a modest living by writing are very slim. The fact that a few people do so, and in fewer cases make a lot of money, comes back to exceptions defining the rule. And the rule is that making a living as a writer is incredibly difficult. I’ve never managed it, and I’m doing better than many indie authors. In my case, the sales of my existing books easily cover the expenses involved with the publication of new books: editing, cover art, promotion, etc. I consider this a success – but it’s a success more than a decade in the making. I’m comfortable with this. I’m a storyteller, not an entrepreneur wannabe. But if I had to pay the bills from that income, well…
So, if you’re into this for the money, make sure you have a day job that provides a good financial fallback. Unless you turn out to be one of those rare exceptions (best of luck with that) you’re probably going to need it.
However, it does seem to me that most people who try their hand at writing fiction these days are those who have always wondered if they could make it work. They’ve been inspired by the fiction they love to read. “I wonder if I can?” is a good reason to give anything an honest attempt. But perhaps your inability to finish that story is the answer to the question. It just may be that you can’t. That you are not, by your nature, creative in the literary sense. You are a reader and not a writer, not a teller of fanciful tales after all. It may not be a desirable answer, but it may be the truth.
How can you be sure, one way or the other? One way to make that call involves answering the question with another question. Can you stop? Now that you’ve had at least a little experience in trying to write fiction, and have let your imagination come out to play, can you give that up? If you realize you haven’t at least tried to get any writing done for a month or more, and you shrug this off without a qualm, it may be time to reconsider the idea of writing. If letting it go turns out to be easier said than done, if you find yourself being distracted by thoughts of that unfinished tale – or by new ideas for stories – you need to keep trying. There’s a good chance you really are a writer. So do a little each day, even if all you manage is an idea scribbled down or a new paragraph that helps a story inch forward. Keep at it. It will all add up, in the end, even if the increments are small.
The learning curve can be steep, but the view from the top is worth the climb. Work it bit-by-bit, if necessary, until you’ve finally told a tale to the end. Don’t worry along the way about whether or not it’s good enough to publish. It probably won’t be – yet. That’s what the revision process is all about. That rough draft might take some time, and your first efforts may be flat-out embarrassing. (Mine certainly were.) Be patient with yourself; you can only learn to write fiction by writing fiction. You may be stuck fast today, but if you persist, where might you be tomorrow?
Under Desert Stars 