OnlineCollege.org has compiled a list of 101 Tips from the World’s Most Famous Authors. You’ll find everyone here, from Hemingway to Stephen King.
My favourite?
Dr. Seuss. Be responsible for your own success. “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. You are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”
What’s yours?
It finally happened.
I got rejected this week—twice!—for two different pieces, from two different markets. Honestly, until now I’ve been incredibly fortunate. The work I’ve been submitting traditionally has hit the right publishers at the right times and was accepted every time. Up until now, I’ve enjoyed a perfect run.
It was bound to happen, and to be honest I thought it would be upsetting when it did.
But I’m okay.
I thought I would take my first rejections personally. I thought I would judge myself harshly and feel rejected as a person. But I don’t. I’m still new to the publishing game, and it would be unfair to myself to expect perfection. Either the work I submitted was good, just not for those particular markets, or it sucked and I just didn’t see it.
That’s the important distinction. The work might have sucked. And if the work sucked, it doesn’t mean I suck. It means I have more to learn, and hundreds of thousands of practice hours ahead of me.
Everyone expects to be able to write right from the start, because we all know how to put words on paper. But to be able to write well, that’s the part that only comes with hard work. It comes with failing, and hating it, and starting over.
And now that I know it’s not the end of the world, I’m less afraid of the next time. It’s a little liberating, actually.
This novel is still coming along nicely. It’s exciting, because normally by now I’ve fallen out of love with a story I hate the story’s guts, and I’m angry at each individual letter on the screen for conspiring against me to form words that suck.
Anyway.
I’m still so new to this whole actually-completing-work phase of my fledgling career that it’s hard to know how to pace myself. As we’ve seen in—ahem—other areas of my life, I tend to run myself ragged, trying to do more, and eventually I burn myself out.
So I’m trying to develop a writing plan, as in x number of hours per day or x number of words. To pace myself and actually know when to knock it off, already. But there’s some small part of me that thinks if I don’t WRITE THIS WHOLE THING RIGHT NOW OMG it will stop being exciting, and I’ll dump it like I did its predecessors. I keep getting little mental flashes of really neat scenes, and I feel like I need to capture everything now, for fear it won’t be as good later.
So my question is this: how do you strike a balance?
I edited the hell out of a story last night. I changed almost everything and mercilessly butchered my darlings until only the proudest were left standing. The more I edited the more I realized the first draft really had been…less than great. A little wooden and a whole lot disjointed. Shitty, to be blunt. As I was editing, I kept wondering how I’d ever liked the story in the first place.
And still, this morning, I’m pretty high on accomplishment. I love the story now. It’s decent, and it flows, and dare I say it’s even a little funny.
A huge part of why I used to give up on stories is that when you’re writing the rough draft, it’s easy to hate the story. Sometimes it’s easy to hate yourself a little, too. I’m no good at this. How the hell did I ever expect to get anywhere? It will never be good. My friends and family are just being kind and really they think I suck ass.
I’d heard all the quotes from famous authors belittling the first draft, bitching about how the first draft sucks, will always suck. I heard it, but I didn’t believe it. Surely, these incredible artists were just being modest, or were venting their frustrations hyperbolically.
It took me a long while, years, to feel the truth of what I’d been hearing.
So from someone who’s not a famous author (yet), if you’re teetering on the precipice, pay attention: it sucks. It will suck, hard. But the joy is in fixing all those what-the-hells, smoothing and sticking together the jagged bits with Bondo and silly-string and whatever else you keep in your bag of tricks.
Now I realize that the worse the rough, the more fun it is to attack it in editing. Now you have a basic plan in mind, a beginning-middle-end of some sort, and you get to run in there, machete swinging, and mercilessly mow down anything that invaded your story’s territory when you weren’t looking. Stupid character? Whack ’em. Boring part? Light something on fire and watch ’em panic. The best part is seeing what you can do to mix it up a little.
So take joy in your shitty first drafts. Look forward to the cruel revenge you will take on anything that dares not be good. Keep a metaphorical knife in your teeth and madman’s glimmer in your eye. Love it, or strike it dead.
The movie starts with an invisible murderer killing a man in the shower. Alright, not bad. Then what happens?
NOTHING. NOTHING HAPPENS. IT’S SO BORING.
Well then, what can we gain from watching The Horrible Sexy Vampire? It teaches a lot about how not to write dialogue—NEVER EVER write like this*. (Lines appearing one after the other are as spoken in conversation. I’ve tried to interpret the punctuation so you can “hear” it in all its glory.) Enjoy.
Unlikely characterization: “In my opinion, we cannot prove nor disprove the existence of vampires.” A pathologist, presumably a man of science, arguing with a logical police investigator.
Exhaustive exposition: I was going to transcribe the pathologist’s statement of how we “know” it’s a vampire going around murdering these people (including math equations!), but it’s just paragraph after paragraph of blather. The characters just stand there, static, while one talks at the other.
Awkward delays in plot: “That baron should be buried downstairs in the cellar, and so should his wife. We may be able to open their tombs.” “…What do you suppose they’ll hold, other than their crumbling bones?” “First we’ll have to find the door.” “Of course.”
“Explaining is stupid; why should I bother?” Yeah, I have nothing to say about that one.
“Written” language rather than realistic speech: “I dislike idle conjectures.”
Lack of editing-slash-logic: “…the last owner had no children.” “Are you referring to my mother?”
Characters don’t really talk to each other, they just talk: “Pardon my indiscretion, but what is it you do in London?” “Well, I’m not actually forced to do anything. I have a steady source of income and devote myself to my hobby of taxidermy. I should say I spend a huge amount of my time doing that.” “How interesting. You’re really most kind. Many thanks again.”
Throwaway dialogue: “What’s the time?” “It’s three past midnight go to bed.” “Tomorrow then bye.” (two barmaids)
Major lessons to take away: watch pacing and dialogue. Eliminate lengthy walking sequences where nothing happens. Make sure characters actually communicate instead of just blurting dialogue at each other. Also, edit for realism: I doubt a real cop would go on at length about intimate murder-case details to a perfect stranger (who, by the way, is also a suspect).
Runners-up for awfulness: One character literally rubs at his eyes in disbelief, on two separate occasions. Also, surprise vampire necrophilia.
Kudos, though, to the invisible vampire: a trait somewhat underused in vampire stories. That’s the only compliment I can give this one.
*This movie was originally in Spanish; but my argument stands. Someone still made these horrible dialogue choices when the screenplay was translated. And the plot speaks the universal language of suck.
It’s tough being a little fish.
I’ve always written. I remember my public school having their own “book binding” (Grade Eights with glue and sewing machines), and how thrilled I was to see my “books” after completion. I wrote little stories all the time. And I read like I breathed, every single day, no matter what. I used to read as my Mom drove me home from the library because I couldn’t wait the ten minutes before starting a new book.
It’s been a dream of mine, always, to one day join the secret tribe of Authors. To know their secrets and learn their magic. I wanted to be a famous writer the way other kids wanted to be rock stars. It felt like the same thing.
I grew up just knowing that someday it would happen. Of course it would. I’d have a study, and a pot of tea, and I’d dash off bestseller after bestseller. It seemed formulaic: read the books, learn the nuance, then…fame. Easy.
I somehow, in my child-fantasies, completely missed reality.
I neglected to understand that I had to put in the work. It’s not glamorous to think that a good portion of what you write will be garbage, and it’s hard as hell to accept that and still come back the next day. I refused to accept anything less than perfection. Instead I dabbled, kicking ass at English and penning little stories here and there, just enough for the occasional ego boost. I was sure that some day the gate would be opened and I’d somehow just stumble upon The Truth.
I have, now.
Authors are people who buckle down and actually write. They’re (WE’RE) “Writers” because that’s what we do. We write. There is no secret. You don’t need permission, or approval. Anyone can do it, to some varying degree. Pick up a pen, open a laptop, and spill your story. It’s not mystical, or arcane.
It’s work. It’s the potential for rejection. It’s the sobering reality that I may never make a living at this. It’s the fact that the thing won’t write itself, and it’s up to me to carve out the time to make it happen. It’s knowing that I’m surrounded by peers who have been in the publishing game already for years. It’s reading articles by and about people who make enough to get by, by their words alone, and feeling hopeful and distraught at the same time.
It’s coming to terms with the fact that it seems like everyone is writing these days, and I’m a tiny fish in their immense pond. There’s no real path to take, no markers that show me what to do next. But I’ll keep swimming against the current, working harder, so someday, someday I might reach my goal.
This one’s silly and gross, and I had a blast writing it. Enjoy! -Stefanie
Dump Room
Melissa pried back the white plastic lid and tipped the bucket unceremoniously over a large sieve.
A hand flopped out and lay there in the plastic mesh, palm up, fingers curled.
She leaned over to get a better angle through her thick plastic mask. Female, looks like. Huh.
Once the hand had drained, she lifted the sieve and flipped it over into a lined container marked BIOHAZARD. The hand fell wetly on top of the sundry pieces already laying there; a gallbladder, a kidney, a tumour with the eye and lid still attached.
The mask she wore was chafing again. She scrunched her cheeks, trying to unstick the rubber gasket that was gouging a raw red ring into her skin. It wouldn’t budge, stuck slick against the sweat beading on her face. She sighed, the sound amplified oddly behind the industrial mask.
Better get a couple more done before break, she thought.
Sighing inwardly, she reached for the next bucket. The shelves were full this time; it would take her the rest of the day, easily, and maybe some of the next.
It hadn’t been her first choice, this job. It wouldn’t be anyone’s. But it was necessary.
An overtired supervisor had shown her to the dim room. It was cramped, tucked in behind the Pathology labs, and even through the door Melissa could smell the chemicals inside.
“This is the dump room,” the woman, Cheryl, had said. “Anything comes offa you or outta you, we keep it here in case someone decides they want to sue us. After six months, everything in here’s gotta be thrown out.” She’d swung the door wide and swept Melissa inside.
“Masks, here.” She pointed as she spoke. “Gowns, gloves, shoe covers. Buckets. If you can’t get them open, I can get you a pry tool, but I don’t like to use them. More chance of a splash.”
Melissa had hoped her grimace wasn’t obvious.
“Now, you need to know that these containers might hold anything. Breasts, feet, products of conception.” She’d looked at Melissa, her eyes softening a little. “That’s babies. Miscarriages, abortions. If you can’t deal with that we can find someone else.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Melissa said, her voice cheerful, wanting so badly to make a good impression. Anything to get a job here. Anything.
Cheryl had nodded curtly and slipped out, leaving Melissa alone with pieces of strangers.
That first time the job had been half done already; Cheryl said the intern before her had moved on suddenly. Melissa had made short work of the dumping, and had been given the dubious honour of “Disposal Attendant”. The job paid next to nothing, but her internship was unpaid altogether and she was nearing the end of her loan.
Now she peeled back the opaque plastic lid.
Weird, she thought, there’s nothing in this one.
She swirled the murky preservative around; still nothing surfaced. She shrugged and poured the liquid out in the dump sink beside the sieve.
An ear, badly burnt, plopped into the shiny steel sink. It lay there, shrivelled and raw.
“Gross,” she said to the empty room. She flexed one gloved hand and reached down to pick it up. Her fingers stopped just shy of the lobe; for a second she thought of what it might feel like and almost didn’t touch it at all.
She’d imagined hard brittleness, but what she felt when she plucked it from the sink was warm soft flesh.
Reflex made her fling it away; it stuck to the back wall of the sink and began, before her horrified eyes, to slide back down.
She gagged a little.
Finally it flipped end over end and came to rest again by the drain.
Melissa looked around for tongs, pliers, anything so she wouldn’t have to feel its warmth against her glove. She found a pencil lying along the back of the counter, but couldn’t bring herself to pierce the tissue.
Reluctantly, she extended her hand again. She exhaled, steeled herself, and scooped the offending organ up. She tossed it into the waste box, where it vanished down the side.
Melissa shuddered. Screw this. I’m taking my break.
She shucked her gown off and turned to hang it on the hook.
A sound, a very, very quiet sound, came from behind her.
She stopped, held her breath, waited.
It was muffled, but it was there. The crackle of shifting plastic.
She knew right away, but she turned to be sure: it was coming from the box on the floor. The big yellow one with all the…parts.
She moved closer, shoved the box with the toe of her sneaker.
Waited.
Nothing. Stop being a dumbass.
She peeled the thick rubber gloves down and flung them onto the counter. The booties could wait—they were a pain in the ass anyway.
She nudged the lid into place with one denim-clad knee and turned to leave.
Wait.
The lid had been on, firmly, before she took her gown off. Cheryl had stressed the importance of covering the…waste…as a personal safety precaution. Melissa had clamped the lid down, she was sure of it.
But then it had been open, just a little, tilted back on an angle.
You’re losing it. Get out of the fumes.
She turned
then
a long, slick piece of intestine coiled its way up her leg. Melissa shrieked and kicked, trying to dislodge the thing. It only snugged tighter, climbing higher until it reached her thigh. One end swung itself across her and wrapped around her other leg, rendering her immobile. The other end was still pinched in the lid of the hazard container.
She screamed then, the shrill sound dead against the insulating rows of plastic.
Her hands shook; her body shuddered. This isn’t happening.
She forced a quivering hand down and pulled at the ropey gore, but it was steadfast. And the lid was sliding back again…
Melissa tried to scissor her legs apart; to force enough slack to run.
A fingertip appeared. Two. The hand gripped the lip of the waste box and tensed, trying to pull itself over. Suddenly it fell, pushed by a blob of amorphous meat that splatted down beside it.
The intestine was squeezing harder, made stronger by the chemicals that preserved it. It was up to her stomach now. She gaped down in horror. Dark blue veins pulsed with hideous life. A wet trail of chemical fixative marked its ascent. The pockets in the intestine contracted and expanded, propelling it as it slithered up toward her chest.
Bits of gore rained down from the yellow bucket on the floor and began inching closer. The errant ear from earlier rode perched atop the gnarled hand, whose cracked and blackened nails clicked on the tile as it approached.
The hand reached her in seconds, it seemed, and began tugging on her pant leg. Its fingertips clenched the fabric, urging her back towards the spreading pool of excised tissue. The grisly stump at the wrist thumped against the floor as it pulled.
The intestines were almost at her neck now, cuddled into the hot pulse at her throat. The severed end reached up and lovingly stroked her face—
The door behind her swung open.
Instantly the undead tissue fell to the floor, harmless again.
Cheryl stood in the doorway, mouth open in shock as she surveyed the scene. Bits and pieces lay scattered around the floor. Melissa stood stiff at the centre of the carnage.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Cheryl demanded.
“It…they…attacked me!”
“They who?”
Melissa struggled to speak. The open end of intestine lying across her shoe burped, releasing a mouthful of fixative.
She ran, screaming, from the room. Cheryl watched her go with open disgust.
“They think they’ll handle it, but they never do.” She sighed, grabbed some gloves from her pocket, and set about cleaning the glistening mess.
My love of horror began with my Mom.
Which is funny, because if you know her, you’ll know that watching a horror movie is the absolute last thing she would ever consider doing. The fact that I grew to love gore and guts still unsettles her: “Whose kid ARE you, anyway?”
It began with my Mom, because she bought me an issue of Seventeen magazine.
To my ten-year-old self, Seventeen was an impossibly cool magazine. It was clearly for older girls. It talked about kissing! and boys! and tampons! I felt cool just having one in my possession.
Somewhere in there (I don’t remember the issue), one of the little quizzes mentioned having a Stephen King book on your nightstand. I think if you picked that option, you were “edgy” or something. And I desperately wanted to be edgy. I begged for a King book.
My parents were both the sensibly-permissive type: I wasn’t allowed out past dark, but they’d let me watch a scary movie as long as I promised I knew the monsters were people in costumes. I promised, and I promised also that if they bought me this “grown-up book” I’d be fine. It’s just words. What’s to be scared of?
Dad bought me Misery. I was smugly proud of myself. Not only was I going to read an adult book, but it was a scary adult book. I would prove not only my reading aptitude, but my incredible fearlessness. Besides, the language was easy enough for a bookish kid.
I zipped along, grimacing here and there, knowing that Annie Wilkes was very bad news, but still gleeful that I was getting away with adult behaviour. Being the little asshole I was, I made sure all my classmates saw me pull out the novel during Reading Time.
It was during this quiet time that I reached The Part With The Mouse.
If you’ve not read it, this scene has the captive hero locked in the basement of the madwoman Annie. He’s been starving, and, I’m pretty sure, drinking his own urine to survive. Annie comes to see him, and she’s all nutty and angry, and she scoops up the mouse that’s been running around the cellar. Then she squeezes it til its eyes burst and licks the blood off her fingers.
I almost lost it, right there. If it weren’t for a room full of my mean-spirited little friends, I would have cried and wet myself.
But I didn’t. I maintained. I also didn’t tell my parents that I stayed awake for what felt like weeks, petrified that Annie Wilkes was coming up the stairs with her sledgehammer.
She never did, and I came to realize that the little jolt of terror was a rush. How much could I handle?
The thrill never went away. And now, writing horror stories, I want to scare you too. It’s a fun little kick. Perfectly safe.
Well, mostly. As long as you keep the lights on, and listen for those little noises that follow you in the dark…
sniderwriter 