Posts in the "The Life" Category

• Carry on Writing!

  Writing the Second Novel

  What happens when you publish your first novel? They ask you to write the sequel, and then you fall behind because of… uh, reasons, and you forget to write the blog post you were supposed to write because you were working on the new book, and it ends up being really short and not very informative. Sorry.

  Anyway, my first novel experience might not be typical. My first was a Warhammer tie-in novel, and not much happened at all after I wrote it. It got no reviews, no press, and at first very little notice from it’s target audience. Despite that, my publisher gave me two sequels, so I kept my day job and wrote those too, which led to me taking over an established Warhammer series and a fair amount of recognition – at least among fans of the Warhammer universe.

  But after that first book, there wasn’t much. I remember thinking, hey! I’m a published novelist. This should open some doors, and I sent my precious author copies of the book to various agents with letters of introductions and pitches for some of my original novels (including Jane Carver). The few responses I got back were no thank yous. Which, in my naiveté, baffled me. I thought the fact that I was published, and could be counted upon to deliver a well-written book in three months would interest them. Not so much. (more…)

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• Look, Ma! No hands!

  Writing the Second Novel

  I always thought my problems would be solved the moment I had an agent and my manuscript sold to a publisher. I thought that once you were published the negative voice in the back of your brain vanished forever. Ha! Yeah. Not so much. The voice that tells you you suck merely acquires a new script. You’re not a real writer because you’ve only one book in print. You’re not a real writer because your book didn’t sell enough copies. You’re not a real writer because you haven’t won an award. You’re not a real writer because… well, you get the point. But you know what? Dealing with that negative voice, blowing it off, and still writing — that is being a real writer. It’s having to cope with all the doubts and all the things which you’ll never have control over. (Like how many people buy your work.) It’s not easy, but every job has its downside. That’s why you have to love writing with every fiber of your being. Because it’s just not worth the heartache, otherwise.

  With the first book, you’ve all the time in the world. I had three years to do all the research I needed to write Of Blood and Honey. When it came time to write And Blue Skies from Pain frankly, I panicked. The pressure to get everything as correct as I could get it had become too much. I didn’t know if I could finish the second book. I cried all over my agent’s t-shirt at the retreat last summer. He told me it was going to be fine and that I really did have all the information I needed. It took an expert on Northern Irish politics, Nicholas Whyte, to make me understand that for sure. (Thank you, Nicholas!) My agent was sooo right. Of course that wasn’t the only stress. There was that awful internal critic. It was chanting, “The second book won’t be as good. No one will like it. You’ll never write anything as good as the first.” (Thank goodness that turned out to be not true.) My goal has always been to improve as a writer over time. There’s so much to learn! There is no way anyone can know everything about writing, and now I feel I can grow. That first book isn’t everything.

  Honestly, all this pressure and stress is normal. It’s why being a new writer is so difficult and also so hard for outside people to understand. The second book is where you find out if you can really hack it as a professional. The first… well… I wouldn’t call it a fluke, myself. You work too damned hard and bleed too damned much to call it that. It’s more than mere luck — far more. Sure, luck is a factor, but you made that luck with your bare hands and others helped — many others. But the second book is where the training wheels come off the bike. There’s a risk of falling over and skinning your knees or cracking open your head. There’s always that risk that you’ll have to put the training wheels back on too, but there’s also a chance you’ll ride down that road in no time with your hands in the air, laughing. You never know until you try.

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• “A novel must be exceptionally good to live as long as the average cat.”

  Writing the Second Novel

   

   When I finished writing my novel FAITH, I experienced what I thought was a strange reaction: I closed the file on it and didn’t want any more to do with it. This isn’t to say I reacted against it. I felt proud of it, and still do, and I reckon I’ve written it as well as I’m able to. It was simply that I felt I’d said everything I wanted to say about those people and that universe, and any more would be mere tinkering. At least, that’s how my agent explained it when I described it to him, and he said it’s not uncommon for authors to have such a feeling. Do any of the other Night Bazaar authors recognise it?

  When Lord Chesterfield said that a novel must be exceptionally good to live as long as the average cat, he probably had a life of eleven or twelve years in mind. Our house has always had cats, and most of them have lived that long or more. Our longest-lived cat was Chloe: twenty-seven years. She was a small skinny cat, with lovely tortoiseshell markings, and something of the sinewy build of a Siamese. She simply wasn’t afraid of anything. She’d have faced down a pack of velociraptors if they’d come into our garden (admittedly not a frequent occurrence in the English Home Counties) and she went through life like a sort of feline bag lady, swearing copiously at anything that invaded her space. I’d like to think that my book will be out there in twenty-seven years, conducting itself like Chloe.

  I’ve enjoyed doing internet interviews about FAITH. One of the questions was to describe the book in 140 characters or less. The answer I gave was:

  “Motiveless, invincible alien ship. Almost-alien human opponent. Moby Dick meets Kafka meets Duel. Irresistible force meets irresistible force.”

  I’d love to see someone reading my book on a train, or browsing it in a bookshop. We British tend not to speak to each other unless we’re introduced, but I’d find it hard not to start a conversation.

   

  I’m writing my second novel now; I’m nearly halfway through it. It’s also SF, but very different, and deliberately so. It will be a kind of political thriller, but with strange edges. I’ve set it in the future (about fifty years from now) so I could explore ideas about how politics, economics, technology, culture and religion might develop by then. And that’s why I love the SF genre. Whenever I get an idea for a book, I turn almost automatically to SF as the genre in which to express it. SF gives the freedom to explore and develop ideas. It’s not impossible in other genres, but it’s more possible in SF. At least, that’s how I’ve always felt about the genre, but again, I’d like to ask the other Night Bazaar authors if they feel the same way.

  Another question I’ve been asked in interviews is whether I’ve thought of doing a sequel or prequel to FAITH, or at least a book set in the same universe. Again, I’d like to know what the other Night Bazaar authors think about sequels or prequels. Personally I’m not enthusiastic, for the reasons mentioned above.

  I think this will be the last of my scheduled Night Bazaar posts. I’ll always remember that my first one was on January 3, the day FAITH was published. I’ve really enjoyed doing this, and getting to know the other Night Bazaar authors, and finding how many things we have in common. I hope to get over to some conventions in future, and perhaps we can meet up and talk about favourite authors, music, and whether the Ultimate Answer really is Forty-Two. Very best wishes for the success of your books.

  W.G., once again I’m sorry about what happened to you and I hope you get your home back to normal.

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• A glorious, nauseating journey of discovery

  Writing the Second Novel

  There are two ways to look at publishing your first novel.  My friend Mark Lawrence looks at it this way: you have already won the lottery. With so many good writers out there, and agents and publishing houses drowning in submissions, somehow you got your book noticed, and not only  noticed, but in print and on shelves. Everything else that happens after that is a gift. (He says this while simultaneously writing a best seller, designing a rocket ship, and saving his children from terrorists.)

  I take a more stressful view: this first book is a chance, a foot in the door, a job interview. After that, you could be a writer for real. You just have to learn to write for a deadline; suck creativity out of your overtired, depressed, distracted head; learn how to write a good sentence the first time instead of the fifth; be professional and adult when discussing your work (harder for me than I originally believed); and come up with a good idea more frequently than once every five years.

  Because Mark is right: the first book is a sign of incredible luck. But I think the second book (or trilogy, if you write SFF) is a sign that you are a writer. (more…)

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• Pints or Panels

  Conventions and Conferences

  

  by Ross E. Lockhart, Managing Editor

  I’m going to let you in on a big secret: most genre conventions are actually two conventions. There is the convention itself, with its speakers, panels, awards banquets, pitch sessions, and track programming, and then there is that phenomena affectionately known as “bar con,” a movable feast in which the real business of genre publishing—or, at the very least, an awful lot of drinking—gets done.

  I was no stranger to conventions and their unique dynamics before joining Night Shade Books, having attended San Diego Comic-Con—officially and unofficially—for several years (before it moved out of Golden Hall and became a city-sized advertising event for summer movies) and a number of music industry conventions in my former life, but my first literary convention was the 2007 World Fantasy Convention in Saratoga Springs, New York. My Virgil for this Divine Comedy of discovery was Night Shade’s editor-in-chief, Jeremy Lassen, and between Bar Con and the dealers’ room, I met a number of awesome people, and had an incredible time, but didn’t attend a single panel or official convention event.

  Other literary conventions followed. Notable good times were had at the 2008 World Horror Convention in Salt Lake City, Utah, NorWesCon 32 in Seattle, Washington, and the 66th annual World Science Fiction Convention in Denver, Colorado (AKA Denvention3). I didn’t attend a single panel at these, though there was, apparently, singing.

  But lately, I’ve become interested in the more… conventional aspects of conventions. At last year’s World Fantasy Convention in San Diego, I participated in a panel on mermaids alongside author Stina Leicht, and had a wonderful time (though we did head back to the bar afterwards), and I’ve signed up for a handful of panels—to be announced—at this year’s World Horror Convention (which is back in Salt Lake City). If you’re attending, come on by.

  So… Pints or Panels? I recommend them both. If you’re trying to network, meet your favorite authors, or collect autographs, hit the track programming. If, however, you want to see industry professionals in their natural habitat, go to the bar.

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• LIVE ALL NUDE

  Conventions and Conferences

  I’ve been going to conventions all my life, most of that time as a SF fan, but in the last decade or so as an “industry professional” – however loosely you want to define that term. I don’t know how professional I am, but I’ll take any excuse to get off the computer once or twice a year, leave the house, and remind myself that I’m not a brain in a jar. The advent of social media has been a boon for authors in many ways, but in terms of wasting less time on social media it has been a disaster.

  That’s the first tip I would give prospective author-conventioneers: Don’t get so bogged down with social media that you neglect to fully inhabit the here and now. Maybe you can do both, but for me, going to a convention is a rare and welcome break from suckling that ubiquitous electronic teat; a few precious days of freedom from the soul-stealing engines of Infotania – don’t waste it! The virtual cocoon will still be waiting when you get home.

  Having said that, it can be a weird and uncomfortable transition going from the womb-like peace of your computer desk to the mob scene of a busy convention hall. Let’s face it, very few authors are in this line of work because we love to party. We’re loners. I’m sure that writing in solitude year after year would be unbearable torture for someone who needs a lot of people around to distract them from the pointlessness of their existence. Well, writers often have the opposite problem – to paraphrase Greta Garbo, “Ve vant to be alone.”

  Therefore, my second piece of advice in coping with conventions is to limit your exposure. When you start feeling like you’re either going to collapse or explode, just call it a day. Go back to your hotel room, swim in the pool, take a nap, watch cable and order pizza. Or take a walk around the city. Chances are you’ve never been there before – snag a few dazed-looking fellow authors and hit the town. One of my favorite things to do when I’m in San Diego for Comic-Con is to go out on the half-day fishing boats. It’s a great way to meet interesting, queasy people, and I find that being on the open sea for a few hours is the perfect antidote to the indoor crowd surfing at the Con. Just don’t forget to take a shower.

  There was a time when I could stay in a convention all day, endlessly thrilled by all the costumes and movie paraphernalia (“Look, it’s the STAR WARS issue of American Cinematographer!”), and I still get a jolt of nostalgic pleasure from silly things like being able to sit in the actual DeLorean from BACK TO THE FUTURE. But these days I find that if I spend more than a few hours aimlessly wandering a convention floor, it makes me feel as though I’m being dogpiled by Wookiees. And seeking out authors and artists I admire is often just awkward, since I never know what to say without gushing like a fanboy and embarrassing both of us.

  Being a fan is no longer enough. What I need nowadays is to have a job to do, a panel or a signing to attend, a booth I can sit in with other jaded lugs like me – in other words, some professional reason to be there. There’s nothing I like more than meeting people who share my interests, especially if they’re familiar with my work, but I can’t just randomly mingle and hope to bump into them. That’s a recipe for despair.

  Which brings us to my third suggestion: Get your name on the marquee. In other words, make sure you and your publisher have some kind of author event(s) arranged beforehand so that you don’t have that terrible sense of loitering, of being a creepy hobo lurking amid the throngs of teenage gaming fanatics. If I’m not slated to sit on at least one panel, forget it. And I wouldn’t recommend going to a party unless you have friends there: Nothing is more demoralizing than finding that the only person interested in talking to a random stranger who claims to be an “author” is another random stranger who claims to be an “author” – except that he hasn’t actually written anything in his life, and is looking for someone to co-author his torture-porn novel (“Like SAW, only more extreme!”).

  However, it’s a whole different story if you’re up on a stage with a microphone. That confers upon you the aura of legitimacy, of celebrity, and if you’re lucky enough to be on a panel with people more famous than yourself, all the better. That makes you the contender! You’re the earnest underdog that everyone’s rooting for, just like ROCKY and THE KARATE KID. This is your chance to steal the limelight by making your book sound so damn interesting that nobody can resist it. Turn on the charm! Be funny! Which brings me to my final bit of advice: Bring crib-notes.

  It can seem a bit daunting looking out across a crowded room – you feel so naked with all those eyes watching you. Just don’t panic. Remember that everybody’s naked under their clothes; we’re all equally ridiculous, so there’s no reason to be shy. Just take a deep breath and start talking.

  See? It’s easy.

  Thanks for reading!

  –W.G. Marshall

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• The Brigadoon Bar

  Conventions and Conferences

  Business-wise, I don’t really know what works at cons and what doesn’t, and what cons are the best to attend. Conventional wisdom suggests smaller cons are better for meeting people and making deals, but it was at a crowded party at San Diego Comic Con, the craziest con of them all, that I met Jeremy Lassen and pitched Jane Carver to him, so maybe size doesn’t matter.

  I do know that I have met and made friends with more fellow authors and editors in the bars and parties around the cons than within them. And that just makes sense. Trying to talk to someone while they’re signing or manning a booth or after they’ve just spoken on a panel and really need to go to the powder room isn’t going to make for relaxed conversation. A talk over beers – or in my case ice teas – is much more conducive to the easy flow of ideas and friendship.

  That one thing, in fact, is what makes going to cons something I want to do. Writers are solitary creatures, and even though we are more connected these days through all the various social media sites, no amount of tweeting can replace getting together with people who do the same thing that you do and talking to them about it face to face.

  Cons are a traveling salon – not in the beauty shop sense of the word, the other one – a floating Algonquin round table where a rotating cast of regulars has an episodic but endless discourse about the things we rarely get to talk about in other circles. In Toronto you pick up the thread of a conversation you started in San Jose. In Brighton you finally make the point you wanted to make in Denver. Friendships are made, stories retold, and running gags elaborated upon over the course of years and time zones. In a way, the bar at the con is always the same bar, and it’s always the same night, we just walk out of it into different cities and different times, blinking into the sun.

  Of course, a man of modest means such as myself can only return to that Brigadoon Bar occasionally, and feels like he’s missed a lot of the jokes every time he manages to get back. I admit to a seething envy of the people who seem to be able to go to every con, and who seem to know everyone there but me. I’m hoping, though, with a new book and some luck, I’ll be able to go more often now, because I miss the party, and I never did get to tell that joke I wanted to tell back in San Diego.

  Is that bagpipes I hear?

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• It’s All Happening

  Conventions and Conferences

  William Miller: I have to go home.
  Penny Lane: You are home.
  –from Almost Famous

  Conventions work best for people with a touch of extravert in them. I love conventions. I wouldn’t be where I am without them either.* But before you go to the trouble of reading this entry, I’d recommend reading the previous one: “Getting the Most Out of Your Time on This Planet.” It covers the subject (and networking) in ways that I’ve never been able to get across because I don’t have a corporate sales background. So, go ahead. Read that article. I’ll wait for you here.

  Humm-hum-hum. La-la-la-hold music. Hum. Hum.

  Okay. Done reading? I’ll continue, then.

  For new writers, conventions are long term investments. They aren’t for people who are into instant gratification. Conventions are not ‘marketing opportunities.’** They’re for meeting people, learning, and making new friends. The other stuff, the business stuff comes after–sometimes years after and sometimes not at all. For example, a good friend of mine just heard from his agent that an editor my friend met at a convention years ago remembered him. My friend made a good impression as a serious student. As a result, the editor in question asked to see my friend’s manuscript last week. This is how it works. Meeting people gets your face and demeanor linked with your name–or at a workshop, your work. That, provided you weren’t obnoxious, will send you to the top of a slush pile. Otherwise, SFF conventions are about making friends, seeing good friends, and long chats about the things we love.

  As a new writer, there is a great deal you don’t have control over. It sucks, but get used to it. (Hell, as a professional writer there’s a great deal you’ve no control over.) For your own mental health, it’s best to focus on the biggest thing that you can control: your writing. Take all the opportunities you can to learn from others. Talk. Listen. Read. Absorb. It’s an opportunity to find out how others, who have achieved what you wish to achieve, made it in the business. Since there are all sorts of paths that work, you really don’t know which one will work for you. Consider such discussions research. But understand that conventions are about creating the potential for connections. You’ve no control over what form a connection will take. So, it’s best to relax, be yourself, and have a good time. People who treat conventions like their moment to stand with their sandwich-board sign and hawk their wares (from what I’ve observed) tend to have the least fun and therefore, get the least out of the experience. No one wants to talk or listen because no one enjoys a high-pressure sale–at least no one I’ve ever met. Think about it.

  ————————

  *Of course, conventions aren’t the only reason. Working in a bookstore for six years was another factor as was working my ass off learning all I could about writing, practicing writing, writing, and more writing, and reading, reading and reading. Rejections, feedback, and workshops were also big factors, but hard work and determination were the biggest.

  **And, for the love of Pete, please understand that writing workshops are not marketing opportunities either. They’re work-shops. They’re for learning about writing as well as learning how to give and receive a critique of your work.

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• A Conventional Virgin

  Conventions and Conferences

   

  I must apologise in advance for what will be a short and rather unhelpful post. It could hardly be anything else, as I’ve never been to any SF conventions. I’ve been a compulsive SF reader for almost as long as I’ve been able to read, but I suppose I’ve been rather like a lurker, consuming the medium but not actively socialising. I hope that will change now I’ve had a novel published, but it’s only one novel and it was only published in January, so the occasion hasn’t arisen yet.

   

  I do know that at some SF conventions, people might appear dressed as their favourite SF characters. If my novel ever gets famous enough for people to appear as characters from it, then I’d pay good money to see the people dressed as Cyr. If you’ve read my book, you will understand that. If you haven’t, please buy it and read it. It’s called FAITH, and my website is http://john-love.com/

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• All about cons from someone who hasn’t been there

  Conventions and Conferences

  Ah, conventions. They sound like such fun. Great costumes, parties, roleplaying games with everyone’s favorite authors—who wouldn’t want to go? Well, a shy person like myself. The best thing about being an international person of mystery is that nobody knows who I am. No phone calls, no author readings, no book signings: so far I have loved it. But I also know that the writing community is just that – a community – and that one day I will join it in person.

  Even so, I imagine my first venture into conventions this way: I will attend a few panels (“Chronological Dissonance: Modern Archetypes & Morals in a Historical Setting” and “Science Fiction & Religion: How Readers and Writers Mix the Two”—both from past cons—are what I imagine), then run off to a museum by myself or else hole up in my room, writing. (more…)

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