Category Archives: Publishing

Superstars Week, Day 2: Top Benefits of the Superstars Seminar

Today, Day Two of Superstars Week, three more Fictorians share some of the top benefits the Superstars Writing Seminar provided to us.

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Frank Morin: Superstars was a landmark event in my writing career. I came to Superstars thinking I knew what it meant to be a writer. I left knowing what it takes to succeed.

The presenters shared so much knowledge in such a short time, it’s hard to understand until you’re there. Of all the brilliant advice, here’s what I found most useful:

1. Volume matters, particularly in today’s market. One book per year is minimum. No longer can a writer slave over a manuscript for years before it’s ready for release. Just like everything else in our world, the pace is faster than ever. Competition is fierce and readers’ attention spans are short. They have too many other options available. They won’t wait for years. Kevin J Anderson said early in his career, he was querying with over 30 separate pieces simultaneously.

2. Contracts. This is business. Publishers, and even some agents, are not your friends. The only person who is really looking out for your interests is you. Learn about contracts, ask questions, and don’t sign anything you don’t fully understand.

3. The economics of publishing. We got a glimpse at the economics involved from both the authors and publishers points of view. It was eye opening.  I had never realized publishers generally lose money on an author’s first book. A publisher is making an investment, hoping to reap a return on that investment through future books by that author as their fan base grows. That helped explain why most new authors get very little for a first novel. Understanding how the industry works allows us to approach it as professionals, with correct expectations.

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Ann Cooney: Superstars was wonderful because now I’m able to manage my career with confidence and approach it with professionalism rather than naive timidity.

Superstars showed me where the bar sits to be a professional writer. For example, if you’re serious about writing, WRITE! A novel a year is the minimum output. So, that first year after Superstars I wrote two novels to complete the trilogy I had started. Last year I researched and wrote another novel. This year, my new research complete, I expect to complete one, possibly two novels for a series. So now when I talk to publishers and editors, I have a product line which show I’m serious because I have more than a one-time dream I’m selling.

Before Superstars I found the idea of talking with anyone in the industry intimidating because I felt so naive. And I was. Now, with some understanding how things operate, it’s easier talk to publishers, editors and successful authors in a time when the industry is changing so much.

When I saw how much the superstar authors give back to the writing community I was inspired to do more than I had been. I’m a short story contest judge. I’m editing an anthology. I help other aspiring writers and support writing groups. The neat thing is that the more I give, the more I learn and grow and my network of resources and contacts are always expanding.

In short, the greatest thing about Superstars is that I have great role models who have not only inspired me but have shared what it takes to make it in this industry. And for that, I’ll always be grateful. Thanks!

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Jason Michelsen: I can’t recommend the Superstars Writing Seminar enough. Even after going through two different writing programs at the undergrad and graduate levels in college, there were so many things left untaught during my education about the business side of the industry. I suppose it is a school’s job merely to teach its students how to write better, but, as I learned at the
seminar, there is so much more to being a writer than just writing.

For one thing, we never discussed contracts in school, and if you ever want to get paid as a writer, knowing about contracts is important. The lecture by Eric Flint on contracts was invaluable. Granted, there are a lot of writers out there who may not read their contracts carefully and leave all negotiating up to their agents, but I for one want to know exactly what’s in my contract should I ever be lucky enough to get published through traditional means.

Getting published through traditional means typically requires an agent, something else that was never discussed when I was in school but is covered at length during this seminar. It’s true that just about every author has their own unique story about how they acquired their agent, but the Superstars Writing Seminar prepares you for what you need to do when you’re ready to go to market with your finished manuscript.

Knowing a little about the market doesn’t hurt either. Okay, knowing a lot about the market is ideal: what kinds of books are selling, what publishing houses publish the types of books you write, what you might expect to make as a mid-list author or national bestseller, etc.

Sure, discussing salary might be jumping the gun a bit for most seminar attendees, but that’s the beauty of the Superstars Writing Seminar. Not only do you get access to a wealth of knowledge about the publishing industry, you also get access to some of the most prolific writers producing speculative fiction today. So if you go, hang out with the authors during breaks, ask them questions, network and make connections with your fellow attendees. You’ll be glad you did!

See you in April at Superstars!

Superstars Week, Day 1: Changed Trajectories

Evan Braun: Back in the winter of 2010, I was absolutely nowhere. I thought of myself as a “writer,” but I was stalled with several unfinished projects and low ambition. The publishing world seemed impenetrable. I didn’t belong to any writing groups. I didn’t have a critique partner. Really, I had almost no writer friends at all, and I had never thought to venture to a convention or seminar.

And then I saw a post on Brandon Sanderson’s blog about an upcoming seminar he was teaching at: Superstars Writing Seminar. I had been following Brandon’s progress for some time, mostly due to his Wheel of Time connection, and I respected him as a writer. The other writers represented were no less respectable: Kevin J. Anderson, David Farland, Eric Flint, and Rebecca Moesta. The promise was that this seminar was different than all the others, that it would emphasize the business of writing over the craft of writing. Craft is important beyond measure, no question about it, but the business end of things is where so many up-and-comers trip and fall.

I’m from central Canada and the conference was in Pasadena, so attending was no small investment, and yet I made a split-second decision to take a gamble, hoping this would enliven my flagging writing career.

It did, and without hesitation I can chalk up most, if not all, of my growth since, both as a writer and as a professional, to that split-second decision. Not only have I finished writing several novels since then, but I’ve mapped out a half-dozen others and even published one with a small press.

The third annual Superstars Writing Seminar is coming up this April 30-May 2 in Las Vegas, and to help promote that event, several contributors here at the Fictorian Era decided to band together and do a week of posts about our Superstars experiences. You see, the Fictorian Era only exists because of Superstars. All of us came together at that fateful 2010 seminar. So, to pay homage to the event that brought us together and changed our collective course as writers, we ask you to consider Superstars.

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Colette Vernon: I attended the 2010 Superstars Seminar in Pasadena. It exceeded all my expectations. Throughout the entire seminar, Kevin, Brandon, Dave, Rebecca, and Eric made themselves available for questions and sincerely did all they could to help us publishing wannabes. They didn’t run to their hotel rooms as I’ve noticed many other well-known writers do during conventions, but spent their time with us.

They brought in unexpected guest speakers, from Joni Labaqui with Writers of the Future to famous Hollywood script writers. Their presentations helped us understand the possibilities available through writing contests and film. They were as open, easy to talk to, and available for discussion as the writers hosting the seminar.

In the two blocks to the Authors Dinner and back I learned more than from any convention I’ve ever attended. One of the authors took time to discuss a recent partial request I’d received from an agent. He asked me questions about my manuscript and the agent, helping me analyze the situation for myself in order to make important decisions. On the way back, he answered specific craft questions, basically giving a twenty-minute, mini-writing class to our group. I believe the tips given in those few minutes jumped my writing ability to the next level.

Of course, I have to mention the connections I’ve made with my fellow Fictorians. Our friendships continued beyond the seminar into the eventual creation of this blog. Many of us have started getting our feet wet in the publishing world. I doubt I would have been remotely prepared for that experience without my attendance at Superstars. With the recent changes in publishing, I’m looking forward to learning more, and asking questions I wouldn’t have thought of two years ago, at the 2012 Las Vegas Superstars.

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Matt Jones: I’ve been going to conventions for years. I’ve been to countless panels talking about every topic under the sun. Some have been interesting, others not so much. Sometimes they would touch on the chosen topic just to drastically change course and start discussing something off the wall, never to return to the original topic. These panels helped give me confidence to write, knowing that if these people could do it, why couldn’t I?

And then I attended the Superstars Writing Seminar, and I was treated to something completely different. At Superstars, you’re treated not as a wannabe writer, but as a professional who is ready to be an author. Instead of questioning your ability to come up with a story or an original thought on your own, they prepare you to take your manuscripts and get them published. It was an entirely new direction for me. It taught me how to deal with agents and publishers, the pros and cons of each. It even touched on self-publishing.

You’re taught the secrets of pitching your work, choosing the best agent, and getting the best deals on the contract. Best of all, they make you feel like you’re not just another author who is begging for scraps, hoping someone who walks by takes pity on you. You’re an author, and the world is waiting for your novel. Superstars is there to show you how to give it to them.

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From now until Wednesday, come back to read more about the seminar and the specific ways it has helped each of us Fictorians-and, more importantly, how it can help you-take your fledgling career to the next level. Starting on Thursday, we’ll be hearing from a couple of the Superstars themselves in a pair of Q&A guest posts. You won’t want to miss what they have to say.

Brad R. Torgersen: On Not Quitting

A Guest Post by Brad R. Torgersen

One week ago, I got a call from the President of the Science Fiction Writers of America.  He told me that my novelette, “Ray of Light,” was nominated for the SFWA Nebula award — one of Science Fiction and Fantasy literature’s top accolades.

In the week since that phone call I’ve had time to reflect.  Being nominated for a Nebula means my story not only connected with readers, it connected with a readership composed of my peers.  I’m very gratified and flattered by that, and whether I win the award or it passes to someone else in my category, I can say from now on that my fiction is “Nebula quality,” something I find more than a little astounding when I consider the fact that I didn’t have a single word in professional print prior to 2010.

How did it happen?

Simple: I didn’t quit.

You may or may not have seen this piece of advice floating around: those who can be encouraged to quit writing, should be encouraged to quit.

It’s an old saw, occasionally revived by this or that professional.  It comes out of the observation that almost all books and stories that arrive on an editor’s desk — unsolicited — are not up to par.  They don’t cut the mustard.  They are not professional quality.  And the more of this type of manuscript there are, the harder it is to parse out the good stuff.  The stories that are worth a publisher’s time.  The stories that sell.

There is also a bit of elitism happening, in that many writers — having become authors — want to pull up the ladder behind them.  They function from an assumption of finite possibilities.  Ergo, there are only so many pieces of pie to go around, and the fewer people jockeying at the table, the less difficult it is to compete for a slice.

I’d like you, as would-be author, to take such admonishment — the urge to quit — with a grain of salt.

Yes, it’s true, not everyone is cut out to be a professional (ergo, paid) writer.  There are far, far more people competing for paid publication today than at any time in history, and thanks to the miracle of electronic publishing and cost-friendly on-demand printing, virtually anyone able to string three words together on a page can claim to have been published.  Which simply puts the slush pile on display for all to see, whereas it was formerly the editors (and the close associates and family of the unsold writers) who saw such work.

Most of it below the zone.  Not photo-ready.  You may read some of this fiction on Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble and conclude that the author would have been better advised to take a torch to his computer, than e-publish and put his incompetence on display.

But this is the case for virtually all writers, when they are starting out.  And even when they are well advanced into their “learning years,” during which they slog through book after book and story after story with little monetary or professional success to show for it.  I know.  I spent 17 years in unpublished obscurity, barring a tiny handful of token sales in unpaid venues.  I generated somewhere close to 870,000 unpublished words, en route to my first professional-level sale — “professional” being defined according to the SFWA standard of $0.05 US or better, per word.

It’s probable that had a person seen my work at the two year mark, or the four year mark, or even the ten year mark, (s)he might have concluded with confidence: this fellow simply isn’t any good.

Lord knows when I look at my 870,000 unpublished words, I see a lot of stinker manuscripts.  Some of them I’ve been able to mine for recent projects: total re-drafting, as new manuscripts which preserve the core characters and/or concepts, while draping these in entirely new prose.  Last year I sold two stories which began life as resurrections from the bones of a single, much older story.  Which is probably a good lesson in how ideas for stories are plentiful; it’s the execution of those ideas that counts.

Ten years ago I couldn’t execute very well.  Ten years ago I was still waist-deep in my “wading pool” practice period.  And if I’d had someone come up to me — a real professional whom I admired or esteemed — and he told me I was no good, that I should save my time and trouble, and quit, I might have been persuaded to do it.

Much as it would have killed me inside.

Thankfully, that never happened.  I have a spouse who has been married to me literally as long as I’ve wanted to be a professional Science Fiction writer.  A few years ago she put her finger in my chest and declared, “You’d better get off your ass and make this thing happen, or you won’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror.”  She knew then, as she’s always known, that I was born to do this.  That it was in my blood to do it.  That even if I tried to quit, I’d unconsciously find excuses to keep doing it any way.  In some form or other.  And since anything worth doing well, is usually worth doing well enough to get paid for it, the path was clear: shoulder-to-the-wheel, no going back, no turning around, only forward.

Professional, or bust.

Now, some people just think they want to be pros.  Having read or enjoyed fiction, or having gotten it into their heads that being an author is a good path to prestige, notoriety, or glamour, they sit down and embark upon the project without realizing that fiction-writing is more like playing a musical instrument, than it is like doing a term paper for school.  Good fiction has to be engaging and emotionally transporting in ways term papers or other kinds of non-fiction writing are not.  Just as the music we enjoy listening to every day is often several cuts above the barely-passable recital pieces of the technically-able (though passionless) player.  Even blog writing isn’t necessarily comparable, because blogs tend to be repositories for stream-of-consciousness expression.  Not constructed narrative of the sort that typifies fiction as we know it in the English language of the 21st century.

Most importantly, these people don’t yearn for it in their hearts.  It is an aspiration that arises from places not rooted in their souls.  Their egoes, perhaps?  Or their pocketbooks?  But not the very core of their being.

And every once in awhile someone of this type does make it professionally, managing some degree of monetary or critical gain.

But almost always, these people find a reason to put their writing away.  And they move on, and are happier for it.  Life has prepared them to accomplish other things.  And this is absolutely fine.  If you find you don’t have the proverbial “fire in the belly” for this work, that’s an important thing to discover and know about yourself, and it’s going to be part of your path to sleuthing out what does inspire and excite you.

But for those writers who discover — often at an early age — that there is almost nothing as satisfying as creating stories, the admonition to quit is a death sentence.  Not literally.  But a psychic and emotional death.

Many writers who fall into this purgatorial category don’t have the stamina for the long, long haul of the learning curve, but they can’t walk away from writing either, nor can they convince themselves to attempt new ways or new approaches which will help them overcome blockages in their craft.  From this pool you can usually draw our critics — people who know something of the art, and may even practice it occasionally, but cannot or will not make the necessary final effort to become totally committed to what is (for me at least) a lifetime vocation.

Don’t be that person.  Don’t be the writer who knows deep down in his or her soul that you burn for the stories inside of you, they excite and inflame your spirit like nothing else, but you’re too lazy to put in a 120% effort to overcome your amateur tendencies, fallacies, foibles, and short-sightedness.  So you settle into being a sniper against other writers.  Or, almost as bad, you become a bitter-ender.  Someone who haunts writing forums or conventions and complains endlessly about how the game is rigged, success is about who you know, not how good you are, or that only random, pure luck determines the winners — everyone else gets to be a loser.

That’s horse shit.

The truth: winners across all competitive arenas of popular culture have this one thing in common — they never quit.

You might be deep into a literary adolescence that seems endless.  When does it get easier?  When do the rejection letters stop?  Why aren’t your Kindle and Nook books and stories selling?

You just have to remind yourself of the 10,000 hour rule: it takes roughly 10,000 hours for a person to go from being a raw beginner, to possessing what more or less passes for competence.

Competence in the speculative and fantastic literary field being defined currently as: able to sell regularly to the SFWA-recognized publishers and editors of said field.

At about the 7-year mark in my adolescence, which I date to roughly 1999, I had expended a huge sum of effort and energy on a sizeable raft of short fiction, plus two or three aborted, rather meandering novel projects.  I’d racked up a nice wad of rejection slips, a tiny handful with hopeful words on them, usually hand-written from editors: almost made it, or, close but not quite.

I was so frustrated I could taste it.  Every day.  My youthful idealism about writing had given way to an encroaching cynicism.  Was I a permanent second-class citizen in the writing world?  How come other people seemed to be leaping out into the vanguard of Science Fiction and Fantasy while I seemed utterly unable to penetrate?  Was I a life-time wannabe?  What more did I have to do to prove to the editors that I was worthwhile?

Several more years passed.  I abandoned short fiction almost entirely, in favor of several newer, more focused novel projects.  But here again I hit a wall: the novel (in my estimation) proved an entirely different animal, compared to the short story.  It was impossible (for me) to navigate my way from point A to point Z in a book, by the seat of my pants, as I’d been able to do going from point A to point E in a short story.

I also got busy with life.  I was still married.  I had a full-time civilian career, and a new secondary career in the Army Reserve.  I was also a new father.  Whatever free time I’d been used to devoting to writing up to that point, vanished in the blink of an eye.  No more could I rely on keeping “hobbyist hours,” it was either find a way to write, or the writing wouldn’t happen at all.

So, I did what a lot of writers at that point are prone to do: I lapsed into a state of near-quitting.  If not in my heart, then in practice.

At which point my wife rescued me — good spouses are hard to find, but made of solid platinum.  I highly recommend getting one.

In 2005 I had to come back to the effort almost like a beginner.  Start from scratch.  Clear the stable of old stories and ideas and prejudices and concepts and habits.  Be bold.  Go in new directions.  Try things I’d never tried before.

It wasn’t an instant difference.  The rejections I was getting in 2006 and 2007 weren’t any different from the rejections of 1996 or 1997.

But I was a different person.  I was older.  I’d lived more life.  I’d had some scales fall from my eyes, and I’d been humbled by many setbacks.  I’d seen some tough times and ridden out a few very rough spots.  I’d learned the value of dogged, stubborn persistence in the face of almost overwhelming obstacles, thanks to my military experience.  And I’d learned a thing or two about how people truly work, inside, thanks to my marriage, and raising a child.  Both of which required me to subsume or subjugate my ego for the sake of more important things.

In 2009, it finally happened.  Writers of the Future called to inform me that my story, “Exanastasis,” had won placement in the third quarter of the 26th annual installment of that anthology.  60 days later, Stanley Schmidt — editor of Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine — wrote to inform me that my story, “Outbound,” was being purchased for publication.  A double-win, considering that both stories had been focused efforts to secure a spot with Writers of the Future.  “Outbound,” has since gone on to do wonderful things for me via re-sales and gathering the attention of Hollywood people, a top agent in New York, as well as a readers’ choice award.  While the Writers of the Future Contest exposed me to a troupe of highly-successful professionals, some of whom — like Mike Resnick — have gone on to become important mentors, as well as good friends.

And that was just the start.  Stanley Schmidt wasn’t the only editor buying.  Other editors liked me too.  Or at least, they liked my stories.  Suddenly there was real money flowing into the family budget.  Thousands of dollars!  And success began to build upon success, sale upon sale, until I’d managed to grab the attention of a major novel publisher too, thus positioning myself to make the crucial (in my mind) expansion into that lucrative arena.

Now, the runway lights are lit — I just have to land the airplane!

An thus comes the call, for the Nebula nomination.

Oh wow.

Could I have planned on it?  No.  In fact, I would highly advise you to keep awards like the Nebula off your bucket lists, because the Nebula is a voted award (not blind, in the manner of Writers of the Future) and you could be a very successful, financially-lucrative author and never come close to either a Nebula or a Hugo — the other major award in Science Fiction and Fantasy.  These things cannot be won through hard work or effort.  Success can be won in this fashion.  But the awards are entirely beyond your control.

Which is why it’s a unique surprise to discover that someone has decided to put you in for one.  Or that enough someones have put you in to actually get you onto the short list, from which the eventual winners are to be picked.

None of it would be possible, if I’d quit.  If I’d looked at myself in 1995 or 2000 or 2005, and concluded, “Nah, it’s a waste of effort, I will never be a writer,” and slammed the closet door shut on my dream.  There was every reason to quit at those times.  I wasn’t selling a word.  I wasn’t making a dime.  There were many, many things which were all far more immediately important to myself and my family, on which I could have devoted all of my time.  And nobody — save my wife — would have blamed me if I’d been practical, sensible, pragmatic, and tried to stop being a writer.  After all, everything up until then indicated I wasn’t any good at writing.  That the best choice would be for me to stop wasting my time.

I never made that choice.

I hope you don’t either.

If you’ve got the stones for the project — whether male or female — and if you’ve concluded (either through long experience or perhaps through rare, personal insight) that you simply cannot walk away from it, then you owe it to yourself to keep going.  To keep trying.  To not give up.  To absolutely refuse to fail.

There is far more of my new-found success rooted in persistence and long-suffering, than in talent.  There are thousands of far more talented writers in the world.  Yet I am the one with the Nebula nomination.  And it’s because I didn’t give up or let myself make excuses.  Also, my family didn’t let me give up or make excuses.  And now I’m seeing the rewards of my labor, and I can state with conviction that there have been few greater or more satisfying experiences in my life, than seeing my stories — my words — reach professional print, and go on to some measure of professional acclaim.

Oh, and the money’s cool too.

Guest Writer Bio:
Brad Torgersen has sold his fiction to Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, and has launched several novelettes on both the Amazon.com Kindle and the Barnes & Noble Nook platforms. He has collaborated with award-winner Mike Resnick on a short story for Ian Watson’s The Mammoth Book of SF Wars anthology, due out in 2012, and they are currently collaborating on a second military SF piece for a different anthology. He also has serial collaborations in the works with old friends from the Searcher & Stallion graphic audio drama. His novelette, “Outbound,” won the Analog “AnLab’ Readers’ Choice award for Best Novelette of 2010, and his novelette, “Exanastasis,” won the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future award, appearing in the Contest’s 26th volume. You can read more from Brad at http://bradrtorgersen.wordpress.com/.

And the winner is …..

And the winner is ….

Not you!

What happened? You’ve worked on your craft for tens of thousands, hundreds of hundred thousand words. You’ve gone to workshops, read every blog, every book on craft you can find. By now you know what the pros say and you can teach the writing courses just as well. And yet, the podium still eludes you.

Then there’s Writer X gracing the podium. Her writing isn’t as crisp. Her wrinkles of profound thought aren’t as deep. And she’s much newer at the game. So why was her work chosen over yours?

As co-editor of the Shanghai Steam Anthology, I’ve had to read well crafted and poorly crafted stories. Some writers had great ideas but needed to hone their writing skills. Others wrote prose well enough but the story lacked tension, the story arc was incomplete, the dialogue didn’t work, it lacked theme/focus or the historical homework wasn’t done.

Then there were the stories which survived the first round of cuts. Those which had that extra something. Some would need some revision, others editing while the best ones required no work.

What!!!!!! you exclaim. Some needing revision are in the final round? What about the ones with the well crafted prose that you denied? Why weren’t they chosen for editorial revision?

The answer is simple – besides being decently written, these stories are memorable. Despite their flaws, I was engaged to the end. Every story in the last round evokes an emotional response whether it’s of laughter, amusement, bitter sweetness, feeling defeated, cheering a hero, being horrified, melancholy, elation, and so on. It may be quietly engaging as in a romantic tragedy or a simple rendering of a thought provoking moment.

The emotional response I’m describing is not about liking or disliking a character. It’s about the story itself. Am I left feeling optimistic, laughing, amused by the clever turn of events or am I saddened, horrified, forced to reflect on the human condition? And does that story stay with me long after I’ve read it? Does it have emotional resonance?

The story, like every character in it, has its own voice – its own drama, its own growth, its own ability to draw readers in and not let them go. That voice carries the story’s emotional resonance which is framed by the promise made at its beginning and is concluded or addressed by the end.

We understand that the story arc is an important backbone for a story with a beginning, middle and end which includes challenges, climax and denouement. Characters cleverly doing their thing without purpose or meaning is not enough. How do you want the reader to understand the world you’ve created when the story is done? How do you want him to feel? Happy? Sad? Thoughtful? Hopeful? Depressed? Scared to death? Satisfied for running a marathon? Cheering that the good guy beat the bad guy?

Once you understand what emotions you want the reader to experience, your writing voice will be clear and the story’s emotional resonance will reflect that. Emotionally, the reader is compelled to read the story through to its bitter, joyful, triumphant, tragic or thoughtful end. You don’t want them feeling emotionally flat and wondering so what?

 Good writing counts for a lot in submissions for contests, anthologies or publishing. But no matter how well crafted the words are, how strong the plot and characters appear to be, without emotional resonance the story isn’t memorable. It’s the little aha! I get it!  or what a ride! feeling a reader experiences that makes it memorable. That aha! may be a good chortle, a reflective moment, celebration of the protagonist’s victory or grumping at a character’s stubbornness.  Whatever the aha! is, every reader craves it and every story needs it to be memorable.

 Now when you revise and edit your work or when others critique it for you, ask them: How does the story make you feel?, Does it stay with you after you’ve finished it?, If you had strong feelings about the story, tell me why. If not, what does it need/why does it feel flat to you? These are hard questions to ask and answer but knowing this will take your story to the next level and make it resonate with readers.