Keeping It Real

An interesting conversation on Twitter (started by Erin Whalen) got me thinking about where my ideas for fiction originate.  Do I start with the characters, the plot, or the setting?  Most people in this conversation were character or plot devotees, but I have to admit I'm a setting guy.

Maybe this is because I write mostly speculative fiction, which puts a premium on where things take place.  The fictional world isn't our world, and so it's particularly important for the author to visualize it distinctly and to know it intimately.

And that's what tends to happen in my creative process: I see a place that I think would be interesting, then I ask myself what kinds of characters would be there, and why.  From that, character and plot flow more or less naturally.

An example is my forthcoming novel Survival Colony Nine.  I couldn't get the image out of my head of a wasteland world, a desert setting sparsely populated by small roving groups of people.  The questions of how the world got that way, who these people were, what they lacked and wanted, what obstacles stood in the way to their achieving their desires, and how they might overcome these obstacles all developed from that original image, which I quote here as it appears in the manuscript's current form:

The world stretched in an endless circle of dust around me, broken only by the shapes of ragged tents and squat, rusted trucks.  Both were patterned with camouflage colors.  Everything else was a dead reddish-brown, the color of dried blood under fingernails.  The sky was a uniform brown so similar to the land my head spun with the feeling that the solid ground was only a reflection.  The heat felt like a blanket wrapped around my hands, my eyes, my throat.

That setting was enough to propel me into the story of fourteen-year-old Querry Genn and his colony, Survival Colony Nine, as they struggle for existence in a ruined world overrun by the monstrous antagonists I call the Skaldi.

I wrote in a previous post about the risks of "info-dumping," or revealing too much about the fictional world in a single lump of information.  But balanced against that risk is the need for the author--and particularly the author of speculative fiction--to have all that information in mind.  Indeed, I've found that the more I know about my own setting, the less inclined I am to dump what I know on the reader all at once; if I feel confident in the setting, I also feel confident in letting it emerge slowly and organically.

So let's hear it for setting!  Plot is what makes readers keep reading your book, and characters are what make them fall in love with it--but setting is what keeps it real.

What the Dog Saw

I just received word that my latest science fiction story, "What the Dog Saw," has been accepted by Bellow Literary Journal. It should be out early next year.

Warning: this is the story I mentioned a good long time ago (last year, I think, when I was first writing it) that possesses a very experimental voice. It can be off-putting--though interestingly, two or three journals that rejected it said they liked the voice but didn't like other aspects of the story! I personally think it's a pretty cool little piece, but consider yourself warned.

It's also interesting to note that the editor of Bellow spent some time working with me on this story to make it better. I say this is interesting because, in my personal experience, I've found editors of speculative fiction journals more willing than editors of straight-up literary journals to work with their writers. Several of my spec fic stories, including "Cats in the Backyard," "A Very Small Child Called Eugene," and "A Chimaera Story with Four Morals," were published only after some editorial changes, all of which made the stories better, in my opinion. Now, this might be a false comparison; it might be that my literary fiction just isn't good enough to get published in the journals that offer editorial assistance, so such stories of mine aren't even making it to that point. But it might also be that the editors of journals that specialize in genre fiction have a particularly keen sense of what their readers want, and thus they are particularly invested in crafting stories to meet those expectations.

Whatever, the story's coming out soon! I'd love to hear some reader reactions to it once you see it in print.

$2.01 USD

The title of this post is exactly how much I've made so far in royalties from my story "Snooping," which was recently published in an e-book anthology from Nevermet Press. That's the amount that went to me after the editor/publisher took his percentage and all the other authors divvied up the rest.

So obviously, unless you're Stephen King or J. K. Rowling, you do this thing for love, not money. In fact, they probably do it for love too. The money just kind of happened.

But you plug on. I just got word that my story "What the Dog Saw" has been (kind of) accepted for publication. The editor wants some revisions, and unlike previous instances in which I've been asked to revise a work before publication, this guy sounds as if he's not ready to publish the story unless I meet his expectations. So we'll see what happens there.

I've been publishing fiction now for about three years, and I've got a good twenty stories and just about as many dollars to my credit. To some, this might make the act of seeking publication for one's work seem pointless.

But me, I'm not complaining. I'm living large. And I've got $2.01 USD to prove it.

"Snooping" Available!

My new/old story "Snooping" is now available, along with twelve other fantasy/sci-fi stories, in the anthology Stories in the Ether from Nevermet Press. You can check it out and download it in a variety of e-forms here.

Enjoy, and spread the word!

"Aphasia" Available to Order!

Just thought you'd like to know that my story "Aphasia" is available to order in the collection Beyond the Grave, published by Pill Hill Press. The link is here. Trust me, the cover art alone makes it worth the price! And then when you add in my story (as well as all the others). . . . Well, you just can't put a dollar value on quality like that!

A Very Small Child Called Eugene

As promised, I'm back, with news of a recently published short story. It's titled "A Very Small Child Called Eugene," and I suppose you'd call it speculative fiction/alternative history/magical realism/something like that. My contributor's copies came yesterday, so you can order copies of your own if you're so inclined. And the online version will be out in October, according to the publisher, A cappella Zoo, which you can find at this link.

Warning: the story contains explicit language and hard-to-stomach concepts (hard to stomach in the moral sense, not the physiological sense). It's why a couple publishers turned it down; they liked it, but told me they were afraid their readers might not understand what the story's trying to do and might be deeply offended by it. I hope that's not the case with you; I hope you see what the story's really about. But that's always a risk when dealing with sensitive subjects, subjects we as a culture haven't really resolved no matter what we may like to tell ourselves.

Snooping, Redux

The new and (I think) improved version of my old story "Snooping" is available on the website of Nevermet Press! The story's been trimmed and tightened, and I think it reads much better now. There were supposed to be illustrations to go along with it, but alas, they seem not to have materialized. Maybe they will when the print edition comes out later this year.

Enjoy!

Feast or Famine

In the world of publishing (at least, in MY world of publishing), it always seems to be feast or famine. I'll go months without getting a nibble on any of the stories or essays I've sent around, then all of a sudden I'll get two or three acceptances in rapid succession.

At the moment, I'm relishing a "feast" phase: I just found out today that my sci-fi short story "Snooping," which was previously published in a now-defunct and unavailable e-magazine, was accepted in the anthology Stories in the Ether, to be published by Nevermet Press. It'll appear (so they say) in print, online, AND audio formats, the last of which is new for me. I just hope they have James Earl Jones or Ian McKellen reading my stuff!

I should also point out, for those who have read this story before, that the editors have asked for some fairly substantial changes, so it'll be a fundamentally new (and, I hope, fundamentally better) story this time around. I will, of course, let you know when it appears.

I wonder whether tomorrow will bring more feast . . . or the beginning of a new famine?

Fantasy Fiction Feast

For those of you who have been famished for a taste of some fantasy fiction (I know I have been), I offer two delightful tidbits: my just-published story, "A Chimaera Story with Four Morals," which appears in Jersey Devil Press; and the promise of more to come, as my story "A Very Small Child Called Eugene" was just accepted for publication by A cappella Zoo. (It should be out in September.) The latter story is a bit of a personal triumph: it's an odd tale, as you'll see when it arrives, and after a dozen or so rejection slips, it was hovering on the verge of retirement. But I had faith in it (a couple of those rejection slips were very encouraging, as rejection slips go), and I'm glad I stuck it out.

So dig in, and enjoy!

Aphasia

I had another short story accepted for publication yesterday, in a print anthology titled Beyond the Grave, to be published by Static Movement. The title of my story, "Aphasia," might not seem to have a lot to do with beyond-the-grave stuff, but trust me: read it and it'll all make sense! I'll let you know when it's published so you can do just that.

This'll be my third anthologized work, which I've found is a nifty way to get genre fiction in print: there are many small publishers producing many, many themed anthologies, and they're always looking for more. They don't pay as well as some of the genre magazines, but who cares? I'm in this for the love, not the money.

Good thing, too; I think my royalties from last year were a whopping $14.86. Needless to say, I don't plan to quit my day job anytime soon.

"Frogsong" (Officially!)

My sci-fi story "Frogsong" is now officially available in the anthology Farspace 2. It's an interstellar environmentalist love story of sorts, with a dash of Heart of Darkness thrown in for kicks. Ya gotta love it!

So check it out, buy lots of copies for Christmas, and let me know what you think!

"The Burning of Sarah Post" Hits the Stands (for Real)

I received my copy of "The Burning of Sarah Post" in the mail today; apparently, the printer was running a bit behind schedule, but it's available for purchase now. If I do say so myself, it looks great! There's one part of the story (you'll know which part I mean when you see it) that I had some concerns about, typographically, but the printer did a great job with it. I'm looking forward to reading all the other great stuff in the collection too!

The publisher, Sam's Dot Publishing, also alerted me to their online newsletter, which contains information about their publications, plus some excerpts therefrom. If you're into fantasy, sci-fi, and horror, it's worth checking out!

"The Burning of Sarah Post" Hits the Stands!

The anthology Cover of Darkness, in which my short story "The Burning of Sarah Post" appears, has just hit the stands! "Sarah Post" is a story of witchcraft and evil (not necessarily the same thing!), perfect for Halloween (or the month after). Pick up a copy or two--you won't regret it (though you might have trouble sleeping!).

Frogsong

My latest sci-fi story, "Frogsong," is due out in the anthology Farspace 2 (available any day now through this link). Here's a teaser:

Frogsong

By J. David Bell

The delivery truck rumbled along the muddy road above the swamp. In the cab, eyes fighting fatigue and the gathering dark, Todd Stuckey guided the rig up a steep grade. He could feel his rear tires slaloming in the slop until with a rattle and cough of gears they caught hold. He kept the window cracked just an inch, taking in rich whiffs of diesel to clear his head of the swamp stench, rank and stifling as a latrine. The lush green of overhanging trees faded to a blur in the twilight as luminescent bugs started to dance over the marsh like sparklers. And behind it all, as ever, the song: a drone, a peal, a whine. An endless, senseless cacophony of throats crying carols across the swamp.

In low gear, Stuckey inched down a grade that levelled at the swamp’s edge. One more bend and the compound rose in his headlights: a paved loading dock, prefab trailers, the broad squat gable of the mess hall. On the flagpole, the Stars and Stripes drooped in the sultry air. Beside the dock a halo of sulphur light revealed a solitary figure slumped in his booth, head lowered on crossed arms. Stuckey wheeled around the drive, backed her in, and hopped from the cab. His boots met the pavement with a familiar liquid smack. He circled his truck, unlatched the gate, and sent it rattling to roost. Then he approached the clerk.

The man had shown no awareness of the truck’s arrival; he remained prone, head buried in his arms, cap hiding his face and hair. Close up, Stuckey could see his shoulders rising and falling, hear his snores. They seemed to keep time with the rhythmic pulse of the swamp.

“Delivery,” Stuckey said. His voice came out loud and ringing against the background buzz. “Where do you want it?”

The clerk muttered, raised his head, and squinted. Stuckey saw then he was only a kid, maybe twenty-two, red-haired and freckled, red-eyed and raw cheeked. New guy. He removed his cap, ran a hand through unruly hair, and yawned.

“What you hauling, Joe?” They called the delivery guys “Joes”--as in “Regular Joe.” Stuckey’d have preferred to be called a Regular, but it was the Joe part that had stuck.

He shrugged. “Laminate, drywall, the usual. It’s in the manifest,” he said, shoving his clipboard at the kid’s face. “We got an unloading crew?”

The kid scratched his head as if he’d never heard such a question. “Ease up, Joe,” he said. “Just take it easy.”

“Look,” Stuckey began, but the kid had roused himself from his stool and gotten his legs out the door. “I’ll make the call,” he said, and yawned again. Then he sat there stupidly, hands in his lap, staring at his open palms.

Stuckey left the clipboard and returned to his truck. Last run of the day, he reminded himself. A tepid shower, a frozen dinner, a lukewarm beer, a rerun or sportscast in the rec room. Anything to dream the place away, drown out the sound and smell for a moment. Then bed. Then the same thing the next day.

The Burning of Sarah Post

I recently sold a short story to the print digest Cover of Darkness, an anthology of dark fiction. It's due out this November. The story, titled "The Burning of Sarah Post," is set in a quasi-historical, quasi-Puritan community undergoing the throes of a witchcraft panic. I've been shopping it around for some time now, and it's great for it to finally have found a home.

For fun, I decided to post a "teaser," the first few pages of the story, to pique your interest. If you like what you read, why not pick up a copy of the book when it comes out?

The Burning of Sarah Post

by J. David Bell

Witchcraft, like gossip, spreads fast. No sooner does Agatha Simmons turn her toddlers to toadstools (she always was a bad mother) than Hester Rand turns the head of John Samuels, perfumes and potions, and lures him from home and hearth and his poor sweet idiot Annie. Next you know Annie’s raising warts and boils, welts and warts again on Prothall Rand’s prize show cow Prudence, and fifteen year old Lilly, the Reverend’s housekeeper, is curdling milk and sprinkling spiders in the Reverend’s wife’s shortbread. Before the week’s out it’s not safe to go abroad for fear of being hailed on by dead newts, or shoved by giggling invisible demons into the pigtrough, or snatched by the Devil himself and danced naked in the forest under scrawls of chicken blood and the red tongues of crosses burning.

Sarah Post was a witch. The rains that bestirred the roads to mud that fall also churned up evil, and it lay over the town like a film of oil on a puddle of still water. It was green if you saw it in a certain light; as your shadow fell on it, black as tar; and if in passing you stole a hindward glance, glistening like wet sugar. Children running averted their steps and tripped past; the old black cat sniffed it and backed away, mangy bristles erect; even the great Daniel Oldfather refused to touch it with his twisted walking stick, as if for fear that hands beneath would drag him deep down and under. At its mere mention a shiver threshed the town like leaves curling in fire.

Her hair was black as bat’s wing across pumpkin moon, her eyes green like the place beneath the lift of a wave, her skin so pale it seemed a reflection of itself in a night window. Nestled in the webbing of her lip was a scar, dark and wet, as if she’d nipped herself and not done bleeding. She lived alone, in the hut on forest’s edge her mother had left her; she strayed to the woods accompanied only by the black cat, which trailed her as if she might be something good to eat. She spoke little, even when spoken to; she labored till dawn, rose at dusk, and sojourned seldom in public places; she tended her garden on the Lord’s day, planting strange herbs that climbed vines out of the moist black earth, their blooms smelling of garlic and onions. Suitors she had none, though in the past they’d braved the stinging air to deliver flowers and suchlike gifts. These she’d pitched with other rot on the backyard heap.

A Creative Writing Whammy Double

The rhythms of academic life have kept me from my blog for most of November (and December doesn't look much better). Ah, to be a Scan-tron feeder and not one of those poor souls who must read hundreds of papers per term. . . . But I digress.

There's really no news on the writing front, or at least no positive news. I've been shopping around some science fiction stories--almost all my work, I find, has a fantasy/sci-fi edge to it, so I figured why not go all the way?--but so far, no bites. This is not surprising; many of these markets receive 500 story submissions per month, and they reject the vast majority of works submitted. (Some of them also have incredibly fast turn-around times, between 1 and 3 days. Some even provide links so you can chart the progress of your story online--or at least, watch it moving up in the queue and then, once it reaches the #1 spot, wait anxiously for the decision that, in the case of rejections, arrives seemingly within minutes.) If anything comes of this quest to break into a new market, I'll let you know.

The other thing that's happened in the past week is that an old essay, one I submitted to various markets nearly a year ago, was accepted by one of those markets--but, alas, it had already been accepted by another one six months ago! For those new to the game, the way it works is that some markets permit simultaneous submissions; that is, they don't mind if you submit your works for consideration to multiple markets at the same time. This used to be taboo--editors didn't like spending time on a story or essay only to find that it had been accepted elsewhere--but given the lengthy turn-around time in many markets, increasing numbers of them have come to recognize that it's simply not fair to force a writer to wait for an exclusive decision that might not come for a year or more. (Academic markets, alas, haven't gotten the news, and they not only demand exclusive viewing rights but move at a snail's pace--which is why much scholarship is out-of-date the moment it hits the shelves.) The proper procedure, for those markets that do accept simultaneous submissions (not all of them do), is to indicate up front that you're submitting a work simultaneously, and, if it's accepted by one of the markets to which you've sent it, immediately notify all the others. That's exactly what I did in this case, but the second market must have missed my note, and so they thought the essay was still up for grabs.

Obviously not a perfect system, but what can you do?

Since I've talked about science fiction in this post and since I don't want to end without offering something substantial, here's a link to my story "Snooping," which appeared earlier this year as the lead story in the first issue of the speculative fiction journal The Squirrel Cage. It's the science-fictioniest thing I've published so far.