Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 263

The Publishing Cart Before The Storytelling Horse

I got a little rant stuck between my teeth. It's like a caraway seed, or a beefy tendon, or a .22 shell casing (hey, fuck you, a boy's gotta get his vitamins and minerals somehow).

Self-publishers, I'm talking to you.

And I'm talking to the pundits, too. In fact, I'm talking more to the pundits than to those actually walking the self-publishing path. Not everybody. Just a handful.

If you get a little froth on your screen, here — *hands you a squeegee* — just wipe it away.

Here, then, is the core of my message to you:

It is time to upgrade the discussion.

Let's talk about what that means.

First, it means: we get it. Self-publishing is the path you've chosen and further, is a path you believe is lined with chocolate flowers and hoverboards and bags of money and the mealy bones of traditionally-published authors. Self-publishing is a proven commodity. You can stop selling the world on its power. This isn't Amway. You don't get a stipend every time another author decides to self-publish. You're not squatting atop the pinnacle of a pyramid scheme. (And if you are, you should climb down. One word: hemmorhoids.)

Instead of trying to convince people to self-publish, it may in fact be time to help people self-publish well. While self-publishing may by this point be a proven path it doesn't remain a guaranteed path. In fact it's no such thing: I know several self-published authors out in the world with great books, kick-ass covers, and they are certainly not selling to their potential. In fact, if they continue to sell as they appear to sell then I would suggest these books would have done much better had they been published — gasp — traditionally. Succeeding in an increasingly glutted space is no easy trick. Every bubble pops. Every gold rush either reveals a limited supply or instead ends up devaluing the gold one finds there. The reality is that it's going to become harder — note that I didn't say impossible — to succeed in that space and so it behooves the Wise Pundits With Their Long Beards to acknowledge the realities and help authors do well.

It may then be a good time to acknowledge some of the challenges of self-publishing rather than ignoring them. Filter, for instance? Dogshit. Total dogshit. Discovering new self-published authors is left almost completely to word of mouth or to the marketing efforts of one author's voice. The discovery of just browsing a bookstore and finding great new stuff to read is gone. Amazon offers little in recompense: browsing there is like trying to find a diamond in a dump truck full of cubic zirconiums. Marketing as a self-published author is a whole other problem: it's tricky as hell. Half the self-publishers out there still manage to sound like Snake Oil Salesman — myself included — and so why not try to discuss the best practices? Why not talk about the way forward?

Though, actually, let's take a step backward. Here's another problem: maybe we should stop putting the publishing cart before the storytelling horse. In self-publishing, I see so much that focuses on sales numbers and money earned, but I see alarmingly little that devotes itself toward telling good stories. After all, that's the point, right? Selling is, or should be, secondary. The quality of one's writing and the power of one's storytelling is key. It's primary. It's why we do this thing that we do. Any time you hear about the major self-publishers, it's always about the sales, the percentage, the money earned. What's rare is a comment about how good the books are. When the narrative was all about Amanda Hocking, everybody was buzzing about her numbers, but nobody I know was buzzing about how good those books were. Focus less on the delivery of the stories and more about the quality of what's being delivered.

It's worth too to try to foster a revolution not merely in format or distribution but also in what's being distributed. If DIY publishing is really going to assert itself, it has to stop mimicking other publishing. Exhort authors to take risks in format and in genre. This is the time to do some really new stuff — go big, get nuts, let what's going on inside the story be as iconoclastic and rebellious as the means by which you produced that story.

Really, though, the biggest thing that needs an upgrade is the attitude.

Traditionally-published authors are not slave labor. They're not idiots or fools. They've not made "the wrong choice." You went one way. They went another. Sometimes your paths converge; other times, they do not.

Yes, yes, I get it. Big Publishing has, in some instances, abused authors who have come into their stable. This is no secret and it is inexcusable. It's also not a universal phenomenon. And it's a phenomenon that a good agent — not a shitty agent, not an agent who is more in love with publishing than with authors — can help to protect against.

You do realize that some trad-pub authors are actually… happy, right? Note I didn't say "happy in the shackles of corporate slavery," I mean, they're actually pleased with the way they've been treated. They like their agents, they like their editors, and they're actually earning out. Hell, it's why you see some self-published authors take traditional contracts when offered — it's because the terms were right.

Publishing traditionally remains a choice, but many want to paint a false dichotomy as if any who travel that path are deluded slaves or desperate authors — as if self-publishing is an immediate and guaranteed path to success. It's not. Neither is traditional publishing. You pick your choice, you take your shot, and that's that.

Not every author is primed to go all DIY on their own asses. Many paint that self-pub choice as an easy one — the obvious choice, the "duh" choice, like you're some kind of brain-damaged window-licker if you didn't make it — but the reality is, publishing your own work is a hard row to hoe. It's more work than many authors want to accept, and I don't blame them. Covers and formatting and independent editors and marketing and hey-if-you-don't-mind-I'm-going-to-just-suck-on-this-shotgun-lollipop-for-a-while-BOOM.

Nobody should be punished for choosing either path as long as they walk the path wisely.

Self-published authors don't like to be dissed by the traditionally-published and the reverse remains true. Nobody's got a lock on the truth. Nobody's got their thumb on the pulse of the future (despite how much they love to trumpet their own oracular insight). Yes, things are changing. But the sky isn't falling — the ground is merely shifting beneath our feet.

Same way it shifted — and continues to shift — in other creative endeavors.

The rhetoric often assumes that we're all on our own side of the fence, but here's a newsflash for you: there's no goddamn fence. You're a storyteller. I'm a storyteller. Good books are good books no matter how they got to market. You make your choice, so why not let others do the same? Further: don't be a sanctimonious dick about it. Upgrade your attitude. Elevate the discussion. You should be proud of your own accomplishments and excited that the path you picked was the right path. Go any further than that and you do little to endear anybody toward your imaginary bullshit either/or dichotomy.

We should all be helping one another tell great stories.

Let's talk to one another not as publishers, but as writers and storytellers.

All of us, wondrously pantsless. And probably drunk.

Amen.

*drops mic off stage, disappears in a cloud of incredulity and oompah music*

25 Things You Should Know About NaNoWriMo

It's that time of the year, then, that normal everyday men and women get a hankering for the taste of ink and misery, thus choosing to step into the arena to tangle with the NaNoWriMo beast.

Here, then, are 25 of my thoughts regarding this month-long pilgrimage into the mouth of the novel — peruse, digest, then discuss. Feel free to hit the comments and add your own thoughts to the tangle.

1. Writing Requires Writing

The oft-repeated refrain, "Writers write," is as true a sentiment as one can find, and yet so many self-declared writers seem to ignore it just the same. National Novel Writing Month — NaNoWriMo, which sounds like like the more formalized greeting used by Mork when calling home to Ork — demands that writers shit or get off the pot. It says, you're a writer, so get to scrawling, motherfucker.

2. Writing Requires Finishing

The other giant sucking chest wound that afflicts a great many so-called writers is the inability to finish a single fucking thing. Not a novel, not a script, not a short story. (One wonders how many unfinished manuscripts sit collecting dust like a shelf full of Hummel figurines in an old cat lady's decrepit Victorian manse.) NaNoWriMo lays down the law: you have a goal and that goal is to finish.

3. Discipline, With A Capital "Do That Shit Every Day, Son"

The way you survive NaNoWriMo is the same way any novelist survives: by spot-welding one's ass to the office chair every day and putting the words to screen and paper no matter what. Got a headache? Better write. Kid won't stop crying? Better write. Life is hard and weepy-pissy-sadfaced-panda-noises? Fuck you and write. Covered in killer bees? Maybe today's not the best day to write. You might want to call somebody. Just don't pee in fear. Bees can smell fear-urine. Pee is to bees as catnip is to cats.

4. The Magic Number Is 1666

Ahh. The Devil's vintage. Ahem. Anyway. To hit 50,000 words in one month, you must write at least 1,666 words per day over the 30 day period. I write about 1000 words in an hour, so you're probably looking at two to three hours worth of work per day. If you choose to not work weekends, you'll probably need to hit around 2300 words per day. If you're only working weekends, then ~6000 per day.

5. The Problem With 50,000 Words

Be advised: 50,000 words does not a novel make. It may technically count, but publishers don't want to hear it. Even in the young adult market I'd say that most novels hover around 60,000 words. You go to a publisher with 50k in hand and call it a novel, they're going to laugh at you. And whip your naked ass with a towel. And put that shit on YouTube so everybody can have a chortle or three. Someone out there is surely saying, "Yes, but what if I'm self-publishing?" Oh, don't worry, you intrepid DIY'ers. I'll get to you.

6. The True Nature Of "Finishing"

For the record, I'm not a fan of referring to one's sexual climax as "finishing." It's so… final. "I have finished. I am complete. Snooze Mode, engaged!" I prefer "arrived." Sounds so much more festive! As if there's more on the way! This party's just getting started! … wait, I'm talking about the wrong type of finishing, aren't I? Hm. Damn. Ah, yes, NaNoWriMo. Writing 50,000 words is your technical goal — completing a novel in those 50,000 words is not. You can turn in an unfinished novel and be good to go. The only concern there is that 50,000 words serves only as a milestone and come December it again becomes oh-so-easy to settle in with the "I've Written Part Of A Novel" crowd. Always remember: the only way through is through.

7. Draft Zero

It helps to look at your NaNoWriMo novel as the zero draft — it has a beginning, it has an ending, it has a whole lot of something in the middle. The puzzle pieces are all on the table and, at the very least, you've got an image starting to come together ("is that a dolphin riding side-saddle on a mechanical warhorse through a hail of lasers?"). But the zero draft isn't done cooking. A proper first draft awaits. A first draft that will see more meat slapped onto those exposed bones, taking your word count into more realistic territory.

8. Quanity Above Quality

Put differently, the end result of any written novel is quality. You're looking for that thing to shine like a stiletto and be just as sharp. NaNoWriMo doesn't ask for or judge quality as part of its end goal. To "win" the month, you could theoretically write the phrase "nipple sandwich" 25,000 times and earn yourself a little certificate. Quantity must be spun into quality. You've got all the sticks. Now build yourself a house.

9. Beware "Win" Conditions

If you complete NaNoWriMo, I give you permission to feel like a winner. If you don't, I do not — repeat, awooga, awooga, do not — give you permission to feel like a loser. This is one of the perils of the gamification of novel-writing, the belief that by racking up a certain score (word count) in a pre-set time-frame (one month for everybody), you win. And by not doing this, well, fuck you, put another quarter in the machine, dongface. Which leads me to:

10. We're Not All Robots Who Follow The Same Pre-Described Program

NaNoWriMo assumes a single way of writing a novel. Part of this equation — "smash brain against keyboard until story bleeds out" — is fairly universal. The rest is not. For every novelist comes a new path cut through the jungle. Some novelists write 1000 words a day. Some 5000 words a day. Some spend more time on planning, others spend a year or more writing. Be advised that NaNoWriMo is not a guaranteed solution, nor is your "failure to thrive" in that program in any way meaningful. I tried it years back and found it just didn't fit for me. (And yet I remain!) It is not a bellwether of your ability or talent.

11. November Is A Shitty Month

November. The month of Thanksgiving. The month where people start shopping for Christmas. The month where we celebrate National Pomegranate Month (NaPoGraMo?). Yeah. Not a great month to pick to get stuff done. Just be aware that November presents its own unique challenges to novelists of any stripe, much less those doing a combat landing during NaNoWriMo. Know this going in.

12. The Perfect Is The Enemy Of The Good

NaNoWriMo gets one lesson right: writing can at times be like a sprint and you can't hover over every day's worth of writing, picking ticks and mites from its hair — you will always find more ticks, more mites. The desire for perfection is like a pit of wet coal silt: it will grab your boots like iron hands and never let you go.

13. Total Suckity-Ass Donkey Crap Is Also The Enemy Of The Good

On the other hand, is this novel is the equivalent of you shitting your diaper and then rubbing your poopy butt up against the walls of your plexiglass enclosure, then what's the fucking point?

14. You Have Permission To Suck — Temporarily

The point is, you're not aiming to be a shitty writer with prose on par with a mouthful of toilet water, but you must allow yourself permission to embrace imperfection. You're not trying to write irreparable fiction, you're trying to make a go at a flawed story whose bones are good but whose components may need rebuilding. Imperfect is not the same as impossible.

15. NaStoPlaMo

Take October. Name it "National Story Planning Month." Whatever you're going to do in November, you don't have to go in blind. You've no requirement, after all, to suddenly leap out of bed on November 1st, crack open your head with an ice ax, and let the story come pouring from the cleft. Spontaneous generation is a myth in science as it is in creative spheres. Plan. Prep. Take a month. Get your mise en place in place.

16. NaEdYoShiMo

December then becomes "National Edit Your Shit Month." Or, if you need a month away from it, maybe you come back to it in January — but the point is, always come back to it. If you want to do this novel writing thing then you must come to terms with the fact that rewriting is part of a novel's life-cycle. Repeat the mantra: Writing is when I make the words. Editing is when I make them not shitty.

17. The Stats Bear Ogling

In 2009, NaNo had 167,150 participants, and 32,178 "winners." That's a pretty good rate, just shy of 20% completion. The numbers get a bit more telling when you look at the number of published novels that have come out of the entire ten-year program, and that number appears to be below 200 books. Out of the 500,000 or so total participants of NaNo over the years, that's a very minor 0.04%. This isn't an indictment against NaNoWriMo but is, however, an illustrative number just the same: it's harder than the Devil's dangle-rod in a cobalt-tungsten condom to get published these days.

18. Why Some Authors Dismiss NaNoWriMo

Professional authors — perhaps unfairly — sometimes look at the program with a dismissive sniff or a condescending eye roll. Look at it from their perspective: NaNo participants might seem on par with tourists. Professional authors live here all year. We are what we are all the time. And then others come along and, for one month, dance around on our beaches and poop in the water and pretend to be native. The point is, don't act like a haole, haole. Don't be like that girl in college who kissed girls and called herself a lesbian even though she was really just doing it to get other guys hot under the scrotum collar. And pro authors, don't act like prigs and pricks, either. Drop the dismissal. Most of us are all trying to share the same weird wordmonkey dream, and that's a thing to be celebrated, not denigrated.

19. Why Some Agents And Editors Despise NaNoWriMo

If the story holds true, agents and editors receive a flush of slush from NaNoWriMo in the months following November. A heaping midden pile of bad prose which, for the record, only serves to block the door for everybody else with its stinky robustness. You may say, "But I'm not going to do that." Of course you're not, but somebody probably is. And those that spam every agent or editor with their half-cocked garbage novel should be dragged around by their balls or labia and then fed to a pen full of rutting pigs.

20. The Self-Publishing Marketplace Is Not Your Vomit Bag

Just as you should not run to agents and editors with your fetal draft, you should not instantly fling it like a booger into the marketplace. Novels, like whisky and wine, need time.

21. The NaNoWriMo Website Isn't Doing Itself Any Favors

The text on the NaNoWriMo website is, for me, a point of dismissal and does little to engender respect from professional writers (as opposed to, say, the participants, who often do earn that respect). Check, for example, the text identifying why you should participate: "The reasons are endless! To actively participate in one of our era's most enchanting art forms! To write without having to obsess over quality. To be able to make obscure references to passages from our novels at parties. To be able to mock real novelists who dawdle on and on, taking far longer than 30 days to produce their work." Yes, we stupid novelists, what with our interest in quality and our inability to produce a perfect draft in 30 days. Sometimes I want to kick the NaNoWriMo website in its non-existent digital crotch.

22. Engage The Community (But Realize That Writing Is Up To You)

November sees a flurry of activity on the novel-writing front, and you can harness that energy by engaging with the community. Just the same — at the end of the day it's you and your word count. Nobody can do this shit for you. When it all comes down to it, you're the one motherfucker who can slay this dragon and make a hat from his skull, a coat from his scales, and a tale from his tongue.

23. Fuck The Police

NaNoWriMo has a lot of rules: you're supposed to "start fresh," you're not really meant to work on non-fiction, blah blah blah. This is all just made-up stuff. It's not government mandated. This isn't taxes, for fuck's sake. Do what you like. Even better: do what the story needs. Hell with the rules. Fuck the police. Write. Write endlessly. Don't be constrained by this program. It's just a springboard: use it to launch your way to awesomeness. Anything you don't like about it, toss it out the window. That certificate you get at the end doesn't mean dog dick. The only thing that matters is you and your writing.

24. Be Aware Of Variants

Have you seen ROW80, or, A Round of Words in 80 Days? I've also seen smaller variants about writing scripts and non-fiction projects. Come up with your own variant if you must. NaNoWriMo is just a means to an end — it's just one path up the mountain. Other exist, so find them if this one doesn't seem your speed.

25. November Is Just Your Beginning

If you get to the end of the month with a manuscript — finished or not — in hand, celebrate. Do a little dance. Eat a microwaved pizza, do a shot of tequila, take off your pants and burn them in the fireplace. And then think, "Tomorrow, I've got more to do." Because this is just the start. I don't mean that to sound punishing — if it sounds punishing, you shouldn't be a writer. It should be fucking liberating. It should fill your heart with a flutter of eager wings: "Holy shit! I can do this tomorrow, too! I can do this in December and January and any day of the goddamn week I so choose." Don't stop on November 30th. You want to do this thing, do this thing. Your energy and effort can turn NaNoWriMo from a month-long gimmick to a life-long love and possibly even a career. Let this foster in you a love of storytelling made real through discipline — and don't let that love or that discipline wither on the vine come December 1st.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Forging Weapons For The Penmonkey's Pilgrimage

Some of you might be doing NaNoWriMo next month. Others of you are just writing novels because that's what you do. It's in your blood. Like flatworms and syphilis.

I'd like to offer myself to be your penmonkey sherpa. Let me guide you and your word-mules up the mountainous ascent, into the whorling flakes and keening winds, where we shall plant our manuscripts into the snow with a delightful crunch, probably only moments before we freeze to death and our frosted corpses are sexually violated by lonely Wampa creatures. At least our dead colonic flesh-stockings will serve as a place to incubate the Wampa's squealing pups, and we may take some solace that the novels that grew out of this treacherous journey may one day go on to be bestsellers or, at least, help fix a crooked table.

All this month shall be geared toward the act of writing a novel in preparation for you crazy kids who are going to step into the breach and tango with the NaNoWriMo bear.

As such, the purpose of this post is tri-fold.

One: New Penmonkey Promotion

If you during the month of October you buy either CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY or its follow-up, REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY, then I will toss you a free PDF copy of 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING. All three books contain a squirming burlap sack of advice for those of you writing novels. The books cover everything from plot to characters to theme to query letters to drinking to self-despair to did I mention drinking? They will light firecrackers of inspiration and shove them elbow-deep into your your nether-hole. You will come out smelling like printer ink and bathtub bourbon.

If you buy the PDF of COAFPM or ROTPM, then you don't need to do anything. You will receive your free PDF of 250 THINGS without you batting an additional eyelash.

If you buy COAFPM or ROTPM over Amazon or B&N, then you will need to contact me at terribleminds at gmail dot com and include proof-of-purchase. From there I'll get you set up right.

Be advised also that there exists a secondary ongoing promotion for COAFPM – the "Penmonkey Incitement Program." The more copies I sell, the more stuff I give away.

For every 50 copies, I send out a postcard with a unique piece of writing advice on it.

For every 100 copies, I give someone a PENMONKEY t-shirt.

For every 200 copies, I offer up a critique of the chosen's writing.

For every 500 copies, I will buy someone a brand new Kindle.

We are at 385 copies sold out of the 1000.

Which means it's time to give away a postcard, doesn't it?

The random generator at Random.org has chosen:

Kerry Freeman!

Kerry, I'll be contacting you.

Two: Recommended Posts

I'll be posting a new NaNoWriMo post tomorrow ("25 Things You Should Know About NaNoWriMo") but in the meantime, here's ten posts at this site I think NaNoWriMo'ers could use:

25 Things You Should Know About Writing A Novel

25 Ways To Fuck With Your Characters

25 Ways To Defeat Writer's Block

25 Ways To Make Exposition Your Bitch

Jumpstarting A Stalled Novel

Storytelling And The Art Of Sadness

Storytelling: The Foremost Fundamentals And Elemental Essentials

What Novelists Can Learn From Screenwriters

Why You Won't Finish That Novel

And, of course — The Writer's Prayer.

If you like 'em, feel free to spread them around to others.

Like flatforms and/or syphilis.

Three: What Do You Wanna Talk About?

So, those of you writing novels in or out of NaNoWrimo –

What do you want to talk about? Hit me up.

Let me know what troubles you're having, what questions plague you in the darkest nadir of the night, what topics you think deserves attention from a mouthy fuck such as yours truly.

Worldbuilding Challenge: Welcome To Blackbloom

Last week's "three-sentence challenge" is ready for your eyes to behold.

This week's challenge is a little different.

You'll note that it does not say "flash fiction."

It says "worldbuilding."

Here's the deal. You and me, we're going to build a world. Out of scratch. This is tabula rasa, and by smashing our faces against the screen and leaving upon it a gooey streak of blood and brain matter (aka "imagination grease") we are going to birth a world out of zippity-zero-nada-nichts. From nothing to something, from chaos comes order.

We're not going to do it all today.

We will, in fact, do it once a month. Every last Friday of the month for one year, or… until this thought experiment fails miserably and crashes into the mountains where it's forced to eat its friends.

Sometimes we'll be doing some straight-up worldbuilding, other times we'll dig deeper and start telling stories set in this world. But before the stories, the world itself must be made.

What are the aims of this weird little experiment? I don't even know. Part of it is just to see if we can build a world that is a place where fiction can live — can a series of strangers collaborate on a world in such a way to generate a seed bed where stories can grow and thrive? I don't know. But I'm here to find out.

We'll play in this crazy generative playground, see what happens.

Let's begin.

These are the only things you know about Blackbloom.

First, that is its name. Blackbloom.

Second, it is a place where human and non-humans alike dwell.

That's it. That's all we know. Everything else is up in the air. Everything else is suspect. Nothing is canonical. All is apocryphal. Like I said: chaos. From chaos we shall draw a deep syringe filled with truth.

Today's mission is for each of you to provide one aspect of the world in under 100 words. This aspect is a point of status quo: it defines the world as it is now. Not as it will become.

You might say: "It has two suns." Or, "Water is a precious resource." Or, "Two warring factions fight over the world's largest city." Define the reality as it is now. Define Blackbloom's current existence.

You can say whatever you'd like. Given that so little is defined, you've nothing to build from — but also, nothing to hold you back. This is the act of creation, the weird Genesis of a made-up world.

Thus, feel free to be as creative as you'd like. As weird as you must be.

I will pick… we'll say 10 of these, but if I see more that are really awesome, I'll up to… let's say "20." That's my job in all of this: to serve not as deity but rather as adjuticator.

I'll pick those by the time the next Worldbuilding Challenge rolls around.

Which will be…

October 28th.

Now, get your pick-axes and encyclopedias.

Go nuts.

Create a world.

And welcome to Blackbloom.

In Which I Am Interviewed By SFX Magazine

I'm waiting on a few kick-ass interviews (Joelle Charbonneau! JC Hutchins! Pat Kelleher!), but in the meantime I figured I'd flip it and switch it and post a short interview I did with SFX Magazine regarding DOUBLE DEAD, which comes out in November. A small version of the image is below, but if you click it, you'll embiggenate that sonofabitch. You'll embiggen it reaaaal goood.

This is also the second time I've been mentioned in SFX in just a few short months. The first thanks to Aaron Dembski-Bowden, who was kind enough to pimp my writing books.

This interview is truncated, unfortunately — not that I blame them for doing so, but I wrote a whole lot more than what's in there. If I find out I can post the whole thing, I shall.

Also: yesterday I received a first look at the BLACKBIRDS cover, which is — well, I can't share it with you. I can't even share who's doing it. All I can say is, it is a fucking whopper of a cover. Embodies the book so elegantly, it's insane. It's a real stunner and were it sitting on a shelf near to my face, I'd instantly look at it. And then I'd probably masturbate. I mean, I might do that anyway? I should stop talking.

So, here goes:

Interview.

Boom.

Oh, you should feel free to go buy a copy of SFX (#214) if you want. And then rub it on yourself.

IT RUBS THE INTERVIEW ON THE PRIVATES OR IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN

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Transmissions From Baby-Town: "The Elmo Problem"

Elmo.

Fuuuuuckin' Elmo.

By this point, the Baby Formerly And Still Actually Known As "B-Dub" is four months old. He's a smiley, gurgly, farty beast. He grabs his feet. He shoves everything into his mouth. With his mouth he chews, he chews hard, his gums crushing my index finger daily. (Yes, he's probably starting to teethe already.) He sleeps, but not much. He's awake frequently. He's very alert. He now laughs. That's a delightful sound whose gravity is inescapable: we will do anything to make the baby laugh. Smack self in crotch with hammer? Drive car through a K-Mart? Kill so many nuns their bodies stack like firewood? Whatever you need, B-Dub. Just laugh for us. Just laugh.

I recognize already the danger of this path: a path many parents have gone down, a path where they work against good sense to keep their own children happy — no matter how little it helps them or the aforementioned children. There they walk, pandering to teenagers or adult children in order to win their friendship. Desperate and pleading and chasing the dragon just the same. Just love me, angry teenager. Just love me. And also, stop throwing food from the refrigerator at my head. Unless that makes you happy! Does that make you happy, angry teenager? What do you need? A sandwich? A dirt bike? A Taser? A hobo I purchased from the hobo black market? OH MY GOD I NEED YOUR APPROVAL

I can quit any time.

After all, our kid is a mere four months old and if I could bottle that laugh, you would buy it.

Here, listen:

Laughing Baby from Chuck Wendig on Vimeo.

See? You'd buy it. Right now.

Point being, we are happy to have an amused four-month-old rather than the occasionally epically cranky four-month-old. And one of the things that amuses Baby B-Dub is when we put on Sesame Street.

I grew up with Sesame Street. Loved it as a kid, and pretty much love it even still. This is Jim Henson we're talking about. These are Muppets. Who doesn't love Muppets? Al Qaeda. That's who doesn't love Muppets.

I understand the prevailing wisdom that says very young children shouldn't watch television, and for the most part, Baby B-Dub faces us while we watch the Tube of the Boob. But we let him watch Sesame Street. I was pleased to turn it on and discover that it has not gone the way of other programming, which is to say, flashy ADD can't-hold-an-image-for-more-than-a-few-picoseconds. Hell, watching some of Sesame Street I'm reminded of how ADD I've become. I watched one the other day that had Snuffleupagus suffering with a sneezing problem and by the end I was checking my watch. "Let's wrap this shit up," I'm saying.

B-Dub, though, he's rapt. He'll brighten when Big Bird comes on. He'll talk to Abby the whatever-the-fuck-she-is. Fairy? She's a fairy, right? Hell, soon as that new guy Murray shows up, B-Dub's in. He's invested.

And then, of course, Elmo shows.

It's inevitable. It happens every episode. And the baby loves it. Elmo is a bright spot in a dark day, Elmo is a dollop of red whimsy, a giddy supernova, a blob of ketchup on a really great hamburger.

That is, it's all those things for him. For the baby.

For me, Elmo is a fly inside my ear. He's a broken fingernail, a bearded psychopath who won't leave my TV.

Part of it is… part of it's the laugh. This is like, a… a Joker-tormenting-the-Batman laugh. I tried to mimic the noise of Elmo's laugh with my own mouth and I woke up two days later just outside of Carson City, Nevada, covered in scorpions and cradling some guy's severed foot in my arms.

Elmo's mouth is the mouth of madness.

I try to get my head around Elmo and I feel woozy. I mean, okay, Elmo's kind of like, a little kid, right? He represents the children watching. He's playful and weird and frankly, a little bit stupid. (But that's okay because he's always learning. I guess. I dunno. Shut up.) So, why is it that Elmo lives alone? Who let Elmo have a house? Is he renting? Did he take advantage of a down market and buy a place? Are kids allowed to buy houses on Sesame Street? Jesus Christmas. No wonder we're in the middle of an economic crisis. We let monster toddlers procure real estate. Great lesson, there. Someone call Tim Geithner.

Another great lesson: Elmo speaks in third person.

"Elmo this," and "Elmo that." Who does that? "Elmo's fur is dyed with the blood of a hundred other Muppets!" Elmo cries. Then giggles as invisible hands tickle him.

Yes, please, Elmo, teach my son to refer to himself in the third person.

And why is Elmo asking a baby about anything? Every segment of Elmo's World generally orbits a specific topic: doctors, bugs, cats, merkins, Lemon Pledge, torture porn, the methamphetamine epidemic, lasagna, whatever. Every part of the segment goes toward exploring the topic. Which is fine, in theory. Elmo sings a song, which is essentially Elmo just yammering the topic's name over and over again, often set to a Christmas carol. Elmo talks to his fish, Dorothy, who often imagines Elmo in weird get-ups (Elmo is a caterpillar! Elmo is Rapunzel! Elmo is a cranky dominatrix!).

And then, inevitably, Elmo talks to a baby. He doesn't refer to this baby by name. He just calls it "baby."

"Hi, baby! What do you think about D. W. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation, baby?"

In response, the baby gurgles and spits up and tries to eat Elmo's proboscis.

And then Elmo laughs: "Ha ha ha, you're so stupid, baby. Babies don't know about early silent films that were also used as recruitment tools for the Klu Klux Klan! You're just a baby! Ha ha ha!"

Why? Why? Why do you ask a baby, Elmo? That baby doesn't know jack shit. That baby never knows jack shit. You're not helping anybody. And frankly, you're embarrassing that poor baby. You know what happens to the babies that end up on the Elmo's World segment? They get put up for adoption. Or sometimes they get turned into cat food. That's true! I read it somewhere. The parents are so ashamed of their stupid babies — stupidity exposed by that sinister fiend, Elmo — that they have little choice but to go on without them.

I think I read it in Newsweek.

Anyway.

None of that, none of it, worries me more than –

Yes, you guessed it.

Mister Noodle.

Or Mister Noodle's brother, Mister Noodle.

Or any of the foul miscreants from the dread Noodle clan.

Here's the thing.

I'm pretty sure Mister Noodle is a kid-toucher. I know he's a weirdo. He's definitely an idiot.

But I think he's got a thing for kids.

And given the fact that Elmo appears to be a kid, this adds a whole creepy vibe to the Elmo-Mister Noodle relationship. Let's break it down a little bit and you can see what I'm talking about.

Every segment, Elmo opens his window (which for some reason is a struggle and the window resists Elmo's attempts — possibly because the window has Elmo's best interests at heart, which is good, because Elmo is a three-year-old who lives on his own because his parents probably died in a house fire that Elmo himself set). When Elmo opens his window… there stands Mister Noodle.

Mister Noodle waits for Elmo to do this. He hangs out outside Elmo's window. All the time!

Staring. Lingering. Waiting.

Just the other day I watched one where the window opened and, as always, Mister Noodle stood right outside the window. But here's the kicker, and this is not a joke: he was touching his crotch. Seriously! Not kidding! His left hand was hovering over his crotch. As if he had been interrupted. As if, had Elmo waited only 30 seconds longer, we would've caught Mister Noodle with his, erm, "mister noodle" out.

This segment-within-a-segment always goes the same way. Elmo asks Mister Noodle to expound upon the current topic du jour, and Mister Noodle spectacularly botches any implementation of said topic. If the topic is about brushing your teeth, Mister Noodle will shove a toothbrush up into his brain (don't worry, there's not much going on up there). If the topic is about dogs, Mister Noodle will try to leash and walk a hot dog. If the topic is about molecular microbiology, Mister Noodle will concoct a devastating flu plague that eradicates the Muppet population (the "Fozzy Flu," they call it).

Then, some disembodied child's choice — not Elmo — castigates Mister Noodle for dicking it up again. "No, Mister Noodle, we don't eat 9-volt batteries. Silly Mister Noodle."

Finally, Mister Noodle comes closer and…

… well, he frequently touches Elmo.

Like, one episode was about doctors. And Mister Noodle was fucking around with a stethoscope. When he finally learned how to use it, he walked to the window and used it on Elmo. Fine in theory, but it's the way he uses it. He lingers on Elmo's chest. He slowly draws the stethoscope's head down and circles it there like he's trying to do more than just hear this Muppet's dubious heartbeat.

But here's the really creepy example.

One segment was about "skin."

Yes. Skin.

A serial killer topic if ever there was one. I'm just glad Elmo eschewed singing the "skinning a hooker" song.

Anyway, so around rolls the Mister Noodle sketch and of course Mister Noodle has to lean inside Elmo's window with his blank eyes and his creepy mustache. And then Elmo says, "Slip me some skin!" which already is a red flag, because here I think Mister Noodle is going to go all Buffalo Bill and open a suitcase filled with tanned human flesh, but what happens instead is worse. Mister Noodle slowly, tenderly drags his fingers up Elmo's wormy puppet arms — seriously, it's like, a sensual touch — before finally caressing Elmo's hairy palms. Then — then! — it's time for "backrubs." Because there's nothing like teaching your small children to give and receive backrubs from weird adult neighbors. And the backrubs are, again, sensual. These aren't manly backrubs. They're not silly. They're blissful, erotic massages. Mister Noodle seriously actually embraces Elmo from behind.

Eventually that segment ends with Elmo singing the "skin" song, which is Elmo saying SKIN SKIN SKIN over and over again set to the tune of "Jingle Bells," and then a book floats nearby, a book that I am led to believe is bound in some kind of skin, and Mister Noodle dances outside, obviously giddy.

My child is eventually going to go to school and there they will tell him about "Stranger Danger" and then he'll come home and watch Elmo get caressed by this mutant who may not even be Elmo's neighbor. For all I know, Mister Noodle just lives in the bushes, having escaped some kind of… facility. Does Elmo run? Does Elmo say no, then go, then tell? No. Instead Elmo lets Mister Noodle kiss his neck while Elmo munches away on M&Ms that smell like weird chemicals. Good job, Sesame Street. Nice work there.

So, that's what I see as the "Elmo Problem."

Anybody else? Just me?

I'm doomed, aren't I?

Writers Must Kill Self-Doubt Before Self-Doubt Kills Them

It's insidious, this thing called doubt.

You're sitting there, chugging along, doing your little penmonkey dance with the squiggly shapes and silly stories and then, before you know it, a shadow falls over your shoulder. You turn around.

But it's too late. There's doubt. A gaunt and sallow thing. It's starved itself. It's all howling mouths and empty eyes. The only sustenance it receives is from a novelty beer hat placed upon its fragile eggshell head — except, instead of holding beer, the hat holds the blood-milked hearts of other writers, writers who have fallen to self-doubt's enervating wails, writers who fell torpid, sung to sleep by sickening lullabies.

Suddenly Old Mister Doubt is jabbering in your ear.

You're not good enough.

You'll never make it, you know.

Everyone's disappointed in you.

Where are your pants? Normal people wear pants.

You really thought you could do it, didn't you? Silly, silly penmonkey.

And you crumple like an empty Chinese food container beneath a crushing tank tread.

Self-doubt is the enemy of the writer. It is one of many: laziness, fear, ego, porn, Doritos. But it is most certainly one of the worst, if not the worst, in the writer's rogue gallery of nemeses.

You let self-doubt get a hold of you, it'll kill your work dead. You'll stop in the middle of a project, then print the manuscript out for the sole purpose of urinating on its pages before glumly eating them.

You mustn't be seduced by the callous whispers of the doubting monster at your back. To survive as a writer you must wheel on the beast, your sharpened pen at hand. Then you must spear him to the earth.

Here, then, are some revelations that will help the everyday inkslinger slay the dread creature.

We're All Part Of The Self-Hatred Quilt

Everybody suffers under the yoke of self-doubt. Everybody. Creatives especially. You really think that Neil Gaiman doesn't find the gnomes of doubt nattering at his back? Or Stephen King? Or Steven Spielberg? Or Snooki? Self-doubt has the singular power to make you feel very alone indeed, as if you're the only sad motherfucker in the universe feeling like he's not worth a damn. It's bullshit. A ruse.

Admiral Ackbar knows what it is: that shit's a trap.

You're not alone. We all get it. The difference is that some writers pull their boots out of the hungry mire and others sink deeper and deeper until they're caught in an inescapable nest of old Druid bones.

You Get Multiple Go-Rounds On This Carousel

Writers are afforded a gift few others have: the wondertastic, majestariffic, splendiferous do-over.

Self-doubt is handily eradicated when you give yourself permission to write badly. I mean, okay, this isn't a permanent permission slip: it's just a day-trip to the Shit Museum, a hall-pass to the Turd Closet, but you have to let yourself karate chop doubt in the neck and step over his twitching body as you step boldly into the breach to write some occasionally awful awfulness.

Because you are also afforded the chance to go back. And fix it. And rewrite it. And fix it some more.

It's like the writer gets one giant infinite roll of duct tape.

Dude, Seriously, You're Not Curing Cancer Over Here

Put differently, you're not exactly saving lives. You're not pulling children out of burning buildings or shooting Osama bin Laden or curing a global pandemic. You're a writer. Self-doubt for those other guys is life-threatening. They fuck up, people die. You fuck up, the the ink on your manuscript bleeds from your blubbering tears and you put on a couple pounds from wolfing down three boxes of strawberry Pop-Tarts. (*chew chew chew* ARE YOU THERE GOD ITS ME DIABETES)

Doubt evaporates when you realize that what you're doing isn't some epic quest. I'm not saying storytelling isn't important. It is. Real important. But lives don't hang in the balance.

Calm down. Take the pressure off.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Put down the Pop-Tarts.

Failure Is The Snake That Bites His Own Tail (And His Tail Tastes Like Shit)

There's that whole Yoda saying: "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate and hate leads to George Lucas endlessly tinkering with Star Wars where he makes Luke step in a squishy pile of Wampa waste, inserts a series of Darth Vader dance scenes, and ensures that the Tauntaun shoots first."

I have my own version of that, which says:

"Self-doubt leads to failure, and failure in turns leads to self-doubt, and the two tango together, punching you in the butthole again and again until you can no longer defecate productively."

That's the horrible thing about self-doubt: it convinces us that our own failure is inevitable, an unavoidable recourse based on our own screaming lack of talent. But failure isn't inevitable, and in fact failure is created by a fear of failure and by our certain uncertainty we possess about our own ability to succeed. Writers engineer their own failure with such grace and elegance it's almost impressive.

Remember: failure is not a foregone conclusion.

Piss in the face of that sentiment.

Time And Practice Are Two Of Doubt's Mightiest Foes

Sometimes self-doubt comes from a real place, a revelation that you're just not ready. The problem isn't this revelation but rather how writers react to it. The reaction is: OMG NOT GOOD ENOUGH MUST EJECT OR DIE. What a terribly unproductive reaction. Or, more accurately, over-reaction.

Can you imagine if that was our response to all the things in life? "I tried to bake my first cake and it turned out gluey and unpleasant, so I set fire to my kitchen and walked away as it exploded behind me."

You can't do that. That's insane. You're not going to be perfect right out of the gate. Time and practice will improve your mojo, and an improved sense of one's mojo will go a long way toward mitigating doubt.

I mean, this doesn't happen overnight. "I practiced for a week. WHERE IS MY CONFIDENCE COOKIE?" is not a useful question to ask. We're talking years upon years of this: but the good news is, it's not like a switch gets flipped. This is gradual: over time, the light of your increased abilities beats back the shadows of your own doubt. Time and practice are the medicine that heal the anal fistula of your raging insecurity.

I went too far with "anal fistula," didn't I?

Clear Your Head Of All Those Boggy Tampons

Sometimes you just need a short term solution. Take a walk. Have some tea. Read a book. Talk to a friend. Go jerk off. Eat a cookie. Run on the elliptical. Pet a dog. Go to the park. Give a sandwich to a homeless guy.

Get perspective. Sometimes doubt is just a tangle of vines and cobwebs and you need to chop through them and go to clear your head. Easy Peasy, George and Weezy.

Turn That Frown Upside Down Until It's A Curved Blade With Which To Cut Doubt's Throat, Then Watch That Doubting Asshole Bleed Out On Your Carpets

Turn self-doubt against itself. Don't let it be a weapon against you: let it be a weapon against itself. Self-doubt can occasionally be clarifying: it might be a red flag that says, "Okay, you know what? Something just ain't right. Is this the best character arc? Do I need to rejigger these scenes? Am I sure that a rock opera about Anton van Leeuwnhoek, the Father of Microbiology, is really the best move here?"

The key is to let doubt be clarifying rather than muddying. It's important to know that the doubt isn't yours to carry. It's not about you. You needn't doubt your own abilities but rather some aspect of your current work that feels like it's not coming together. Here your self-doubt serves as the standard-bearer for those instincts rising up from your gutty-works. Follow your heart.

Thus, self-doubt helps you improve, which in turn helps you defeat self-doubt.

That's some ninja shit. That's like, reversing the energy of the attack. You are a goddamn self-doubt killing machine. You take self-doubt and evaginate that sumbitch.

And yes, "evaginate" means to "turn something inside out." To turn it tubular.

In other words, to turn it into a vagina.

Be honest: it's shit like this that keeps you coming back to terribleminds.

Validation Comes From Within

In the end, here may be the most important factor: don't go looking for validation elsewhere. Don't look for it from friends, loved ones, publishers, editors, agents, mailmen, or cats.

External validation isn't a bad thing. It just isn't what you need. Because it matters little that they believe in you if you don't believe in yourself. Confidence must blossom from within, a corpse-flower redolent with your delightful stink, a stink you find captivating, enlightening, empowering. The confidence you find elsewhere is hollow, a ladder made of brittle twigs. At the end of the day you'll never be sure if those around you are just wrong — or maybe they're lying! — or maybe they're suffering under the depredations of some wretched brain parasite that tricks them into liking mediocre things! — and that just means you're opening yourself to other forms of doubt.

And doubt needs to go suck a pipe. Doubt needs to take a dirt-nap.

And the way you do that is by finding your own way. By fostering your own confidence.

Because just as doubt is one of the writer's greatest enemies…

…confidence is one of the writer's most powerful friends.

Your turn, word-nerds.

How do you defeat the doubt within?

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

25 Things Writers Should Know About Theme

1. Every Story Is An Argument

Every story's trying to say something. It's trying to beam an idea, a message, into the minds of the readers. In this way, every story is an argument. It's the writer making a case. It's the writer saying, "All of life is suffering." Or, "Man will be undone by his prideful reach." Or "Love blows." Or, "If you dance with the Devil Wombat, you get cornholed by the Devil Wombat." This argument is the story's theme.

2. The Elements Of Story Support That Argument

If the theme, then, is the writer's thesis statement, then all elements of the story — character, plot, word choice, scene development, inclusion of the Devil Wombat — go toward proving that thesis.

3. Unearthed Or Engineered

The theme needn't be something the writer is explicitly aware of — it may be an unconscious argument, a message that has crept into the work like a virus capable of overwriting narrative DNA, like a freaky dwarven stalker hiding in your panty drawers and getting his greasy Norseman stink all over your undergarments. A writer can engineer the theme — building it into the work. Or a writer can unearth it — discovering its tendrils after the work is written.

4. Theme: A Lens That Levels The Laser

Knowing your theme can give your story focus. If you know the theme before you write, it helps you make your argument. If you discover the theme before a rewrite, it helps you go back through and filter the story, discovering which elements speak to your argument and which elements are either vestigial (your story's stubby, grubby tail) or which elements go against your core argument ("so far, nobody is getting cornholed by the Devil Wombat").

5. Do I Really Need This Happy Horseshit?

Yes and no. Yes, your story needs a theme. It's what elevates that motherfucker to something beyond forgettable entertainment. You can be assured, for instance, that 90% of movies starring Dolph Lundgren have no theme present. A story with a theme is a story with a point. No, you don't always need to identify the theme. Sometimes a story will leap out of your head with a theme cradled to its bosom (along with the shattered pottery remains of your skull) regardless of whether or not you intended it. Of course, identifying the theme at some point in your storytelling will ensure that it exists and that your story isn't just a hollow scarecrow bereft of his stuffing. Awww. Sad scarecrow. Crying corn syrup tears.

6. Slippery Business

I make it sound easy. Like you can just state a theme or find it tucked away in your story like a mint on a pillow. It isn't. Theme is slippery, uncertain. It's like a lubed-up sex gimp: every time you think you get your hands around him the greasy latex-enveloped sonofabitch is out of the cage and free from your grip and running into traffic where he's trying desperately to unzipper his mouth and scream for help. Be advised: theme is tricky. Chameleonic. Which isn't a word. But it should be. It jolly well fucking should be.

7. For Instance: You Can Get It Wrong

You might think going in, "What I'm trying to say with this story is that man's inhumanity to man is what keeps civilization going." But then you get done the story and you're like, "Oh, shit. I wasn't saying that at all, was I? I was saying that man's inhumanity to cake is what keeps civilization going." And then you're like, "Fuck yeah, cake." And you eat some cake.

8. Mmm, Speaking Of Cake

In cake, every piece is a microcosm of the whole. A slice contains frosting, cake, filling. Okay, that's not entirely true — sometimes you get a piece of cake where you get something other pieces don't get, like a fondant rose, but really, let's be honest, fondant tastes like sugary butthole. Nasty stuff. So, let's disregard that and go back to the original notion: all pieces of cake contain the essence of that cake. So it is with your story: all pieces of the story contain the essence of that story, and the essence of that story is the theme. The theme is cake, frosting, filling. In every slice you cut. Man, now I really want a piece of cake.

9. Grand Unification Theory

Another way to look at theme: it unifies story and bridges disparate elements. In this way theme is like The Force. Or like fiber. Or like bondage at an orgy. It ties the whole thing together. Different characters, tangled plotlines, curious notions: all of them come together with the magic motherfucking superglue of theme.

10. Put Down That Baseball Bat, Pick Up That Phial Of Poison

Theme can do a story harm. It isn't a bludgeoning device. A story is more than just a conveyance for your message: the message is just one component of your story. Overwrought themes become belligerent within the text, like a guy yelling in your ear, smacking you between the shoulder blades with his Bible. Theme is a drop of poison: subtle, unseen, but carried in the bloodstream to the heart and brain just the same. Repeat after me, penmonkeys: Your story is not a sermon.

11. No Good If Nobody Knows It

The poison is only valuable if the victim feels the effects. Your big dick or magical vagina only matter if people can see 'em, touch 'em, play with 'em, erect heretical idols to their glory (mine is cast in lapis lazuli and a nice sharp cheddar cheese). So it is with theme: a theme so subtle it's imperceptible does your story zero good. It'd be like having a character that just never shows up.

12. Triangulating Theme

Ask three questions to zero in on your theme: "What is this story about?" "Why do I want to tell this story?" "Why will anyone care?" Three answers. Three beams of light. Illuminating dark spaces. Revealing theme.

13. As Much An Obsession As A Decision

The auteur theory suggests that, throughout an author's body of work one can find consistent themes — and, studying a number of authors, you'll find this to be true. (Look no further than James Joyce in this respect, where he courts themes exploring the everyday heroism of the common man competing against the paralysis of the same.) In this way theme is sometimes an obsession, the author compelled to explore certain aspects and arguments without ever really meaning to — theme then needn't be decided upon, nor must it be constrained to a single narrative. Theme is bigger, bolder, madder than all that. Sometimes theme is who we really are as writers.

14. Theme Is Not Motif

I'll sometimes read that theme can be expressed as a single word. "Love." "Death." "Plastics." Let me offer my own one word to that: bullshit. Those are motifs. Elements and symbols that show up again and again in the story. Motif is not synonymous with theme. "Death" is not a theme. "Man can learn from death" is a theme. "Life is stupid because we all die" is a theme. "Sex and death are uncomfortable neighbors" is a theme. Death is just a word. An inconclusive and unassertive word. Theme says something, goddamnit.

15. Mmm, Speaking Of Cake, I Mean, Motif

That said, motif can be a carrier for theme: theme is the disease and motif is the little outbreak monkey spreading it. If your theme's making a statement about death, then symbols of death would not be unexpected. Or maybe you'd use symbols of time or decay. I mean, it has to make sense, of course. A theme about what man can learn from death is not well-embodied by, say, a series of microwave ovens.

16. Theme Is Also Not A Logline

A logline is plot-based. It depicts a sequence of events in brief, almost vignetted, form. Plot embodies breadth. Theme embodies depth. Theme is about story, and story is the weirder, hairier brother to "plot."

17. Piranhasaur Versus Mechatarantula

In English class, I was often told that theme could best be described as X versus Y. Man versus Nature. Man Versus Man. Man Versus Woman. Fat Guy Versus Hammock. Of course, English class was frequently fucking stupid. Once more I'm forced to call bullshit. Theme isn't just you, the writer, identifying a struggle. That's not enough. Theme picks a goddamn side. Theme asserts predictive outcome. It says, "In this struggle, nature always gets the best of man." It predicts, "That hammock is going to fuck that fat guy up, for realsies." Theme does more than merely showcase conflict. Theme puts its money on the table.

18. Take That Question Mark And Shove It Up Your Boothole

So too it is that theme is never a question. "How far will man go for love?" is a question, not a theme. Theme isn't a big blank spot. Theme is the fucking answer, right or wrong, good or bad.

19. It Is The Question, However, That Drives Us

Plot can carry theme by asking the question — like the aforementioned, "How far will man go for love?" — but then it's theme's job to stick the landing and, by the end of the story, answer the question posed. Theme comes back around and demonstrates, "This is how far man will go for love." It shows if man will go into the whale's mouth and out the whale's keister, or it shows it man has limitations, or if man's love can be defeated by other elements (greed, lust, fear, microwave ovens, wombats).

20. Of Turtleheads And Passing Comets

Theme might end up like Halley's Comet — once or twice in a story, it emerges from hiding and shows itself. The blood test reveals it and The Thing springs forth from flesh. In this way, it's okay if the theme is plainly stated (often by a character) once or twice in the story. Forrest Gump tells us that life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get. (And the film is like a box of chocolates, too — all the shitty ones filled with suntan lotion and zit cream.) The opening line to Reservoir Dogs could be argued to give away the whole point to the movie: it is, after all, a metaphor for big dicks.

21. Do Your Due Diligence

Read books. Watch movies. Play games. Find the theme in each. This isn't like math. You may not find one pure answer to the equation. But it's a valuable exercise just the same. It'll teach you that theme works.

22. Your Audience Might Not Give A Shit (But That's Okay)

Theme may not be something the audience sees or even cares about. Further, the audience may find stuff in your work you never intended. Like that old joke goes, the reader sees the blue curtains as some expression of grief, futility and the author's repressed bestiality but, in reality, the author just meant, "The curtains are fuckin' blue." It's all good. This is the squirmy slippery nature of story. That's the many-headed hydra of art.

23. Not Just For Literary Noses Held High In The Air

Just the same, theme isn't a jungle gym found on a playground meant only for literary snobs. Theme speaks to common experience and thus is for the common reader and the common writer. Theme isn't better than you and you're not better than theme. Like in Close Encounters, this is you mounding your mashed potatoes into an unexpected shape. "This means something." Fuck yeah, it does. That's a beautiful thing.

24. A Weapon In Your Word Warrior Arsenal

How important is theme at the end of the day? It's one more weapon in your cabinet, one more tool in your box. It is neither the most nor the least most important device in there — you determine its value. My only advice is, it helps to get floor-time with every weapon just so you know how best to slay every opponent. Play with theme. Learn its power. I mean, why the hell not?

25. For Fuck's Sake, Say Something

You want theme distilled down? You want it reduced like a tasty sauce? Theme is you saying something with your fiction. Why wouldn't you want to say something? Big or small, simple or complex, as profound as you care to make it, fiction has the power to do more than just be a recitation of plot events. Your work becomes your own — fingerprinted in blood — when you capitalize on the power of storytelling to speak your heart and soul. Take a stand. Put your big dick and magic vagina on the line (figuratively speaking) and let theme be a bold pronouncement of confidence, a message encoded in the DNA of an already-great story.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Flash Fiction Challenge: Another Three Sentences

"The Numbers Game" — last week's challenge — demands your eyeballs and appreciation.

At some point this week, I crossed 6000 followers on Twitter.

Which means: I'm going to send out some more terribleminds postcards, each with a piece of writing advice just for you. Penned by me. In the heartsblood of a magical white bull.

Okay, maybe not that last part.

Here's the deal: I'm going to send out three postcards.

I will send them anywhere in the world.

In addition, the three winners will also receive one of my e-books in PDF format. (Winner's choice.)

But you gotta work for it.

Last week's challenge was brief — 100 words! — and this week's is going to continue down Ole Brevity Lane and ask you to write a piece of flash fiction that is, drum roll please:

Three sentences long.

This can be in any genre. Any subject. No limitations beyond size.

Three. Sentences. Long.

Post directly in the comments below.

You have until Monday — yes, Monday, as in September 26th — at noon EST.

Then I shall pick.

Greg Stolze: The Terribleminds Interview

Mister Stolze and I share a freelance-flavored past, in that both of us did substantial work for White Wolf Game Studios, and periodically add more to that resume. He's since done a great deal of his own game design work and, in terms of both games and fiction, was kickstarting his own stories before Kickstarter even existed. You can find Greg at his website here, and Twitter at @GregStolze.

Why do you tell stories?

It beats honest work. In all seriousness, I think this world is a better, brighter place with me as a novelist than as a brain surgeon. Writing stories and designing games are the only tasks at which an objective observer would say I excel, unless you put in noncommercial tasks like "being a loving husband" or "getting lost even when driving to a location I've visited dozens of times."

Give the audience one piece of writing or storytelling advice:

Hm, I'm trying to think of something that isn't just a ripoff of Anne Lamott. I actually cut 'n' pasted her article at this link so I could send it off any time anyone asked me for writing advice. Summary version: Don't be a writer if the process is just an implement of success for you, instead of the reason you do it. If you don't write the way an alcoholic drinks — compulsively and at the expensive of many other good things in life — you probably won't go far or like where you stop.

Or I could just rip off Justin Achilli's advice of avoiding the word "will" like it's radioactive cyanide. It was part of his grand, glorious crusade against passive voice. Passive voice is when you phrase something as "X happened" or "X was done" instead of the more active "Y did X." Passive voice sounds all weaselly, like you're trying to obscure responsibility. "Mistakes were made." "There were discrepancies in the vote count." "The body was found in the lake." Sounds like abashed bureaucrats mumbling into their shoes. Compare with "I made a mistake," "The vote machines couldn't make the tallies come out even" or "So there I was, minding my own business and trying to get a picture of a snowy egret when suddenly I find this fucking BODY in the lake!" Mm, engaging!

What's great about being a writer, and conversely, what sucks about it?

Getting to make stuff up all the time is pretty great. I have a brain like a butterfly, flitting hither and yon and never settling for long. Also, my brain spreads beauty and joy to all who behold it, which is why I'm saving up to have my skull replaced with a clear, strong polymer, probably Lexan(tm). Also, nobody knows where my brain goes in the rain.

What sucks about it? Hm, the publishing industry was a tough nut to crack when I was starting out and is currently undergoing cataclysmic upheavals that could well leave the landscape littered with the shattered corpses of once-proud dead-tree juggernauts. In the shadows of the bodies, nothing moves but tiny, furtive, hair-clad figures composing fan-fiction.

You're a Kickstarter ninja, always kicking and starting fiction or game projects. What do you like about the Kickstarter model? And didn't you kind of do this way back when with your "Ransom" model?

What I like about Kickstarter is that it enables my laziness. I don't have to track who paid me or how much and, if things go pear-shaped, I don't have to do refunds. They take credit cards so I don't have to, and provide a nice platform where I can upload my videos and posts without swearing at HTML for hours. They take their percentage, as do the credit card companies, but what'cha gonna do?

The Ransom Model was, in some ways, crowd-funding before it was called that. For me, a TRUE Ransom (as opposed to them bitch-ass frontin' ersatz pseudo-Ransoms, many of which I have run) works on the notion that "If I get $X, the already-completed work becomes free for everyone." The D…iS! fundraiser isn't a Ransom as much as a pre-order. The nice thing about ransoming, especially for short stories is (1) once it's free, I can point people to links and say, "Look, go there and get free reads. If you enjoyed 'Enzymes' or 'Two Things She Does With Her Body,' you'll probably like this next story I've written" instead of having to explain what's brilliant about the story without being able to tell the whole thing. You know how people try to get you to work for free, saying "Oh, you'll get so much valuable exposure!" — a line that most sober college students can see is bullshit when a guy at Spring Break waves his camera at them, but which inexplicably works some times on artists and writers. Now I can get all the valuable free exposure I want, on my terms, and get paid for it. Also, I keep my clothes on.

Advice for authors or game designers looking to "kickstart" a project that way? Lots of Kickstarter projects out there: any way to stand out?

Kickstarter emphatically DOES NOT CREATE DEMAND. That's your job. It can turn trust and goodwill into money, but you have to give people a reason to want it. Having a good promotion video and intriguing sell-text will get you partway there, but you also have to hustle your ass off getting the word out any way you can. It's not like an ATM. Expecting it to do the work for you is like putting a hammer on top of a board and wondering when your scrollwork-engraved cabinet will be done.

What are your thoughts about the publishing industry as it stands — agents, editors, publishers? Is that a road you hope to travel? Or are you all up in the DIY model?

I have a horrible, horrible psychological block regarding agents. I mean, I've sent in my share of query letters — to be brutally honest, probably a little less than my share, but I've struck out every time. I take it too hard, and when the rejection arrives, I ask myself "Why did I piss away all that time and hope and effort researching the agent, finding out what she likes, crafting the approach letter, editing the approach letter, then spend 2-3 months biting my nails before the brush-off? I could've written, edited, promoted and self-published a $500 short story in less time, with less heartache AND been happier with myself."

It's a phobia. I used to feel that writing an agent query letter was like eating a piece of my own death. Now I feel it's more like eating death, vomiting it up, eating the vomit, shitting it out, and then somehow eating my own shit-death-puke. Which is not the agents' fault. I'm sure many of them are lovely, lovely people. But life is short. Approaching publishers directly is just as bad. I met a local publisher personally, gave him my card, shook his hand, spoke politely with him after his talk to my writer's group and, afterwards, shyly sent an email about maybe, possibly submitting a novel if he wanted to see it. That novel is "Mask of the Other." I'm quite confident that I'll have it available for sale before he ever gets back to me.

Add in the current publishing climate, and there are days when getting an agent looks like hiring an interior decorator when your house is burning down. That said, I'd love to have someone else do all the editing, layout, promotion, marketing, shipping and distribution for me. Still. Here we are. It would have been nice to have had the option, I guess.

What are the differences between writing game material and fiction? You prefer one over the other?

It's the difference between making a guitar and playing one. When I write game material, I'm trying to be some kind of invisible helper elf, enabling others to create their stories and do what they want. When I write fiction, I'm telling the story exactly the way I want it to go (mostly). Both have their charms. I loved writing stories even before I started gaming, but gaming loved me BACK before fiction really did.

You are a storyteller with children. Having only a four-month-old, I know that's not easy-peasy-diaper-squeezy, so: how the fuck do you do it?!

Set manageable goals. Understand that writing is going to take a hit. Personally, I found a place near my house where I could park my toddlers for something ridiculous like $4 an hour each at the Eola Community Center. Now the rules were that I had to stay in the Center and they'd come and get me for diaper changes, and they wouldn't hold a kid for more than two hours at a stretch, but if you plan ahead, you can get 1100 words written in an hour. Now, of course, they're in school all day. So just work towards that, Chuck.

Favorite word? And then, the follow up: Favorite curse word?

I'm kind of partial to "Ah." Also "fuck-pole," which I think is underutilized.

Favorite alcoholic beverage? (If cocktail: provide recipe. If you don't drink alcohol, fine, fine, a non-alcoholic beverage will do.)

In the summer, I like a G&T like this: Fill a tall glass with ice, crush a quarter lime in it, fill that with tonic (the kind with quinine) almost to the top, then a double-shot of Tanqueray on top. Stir and drink. But when I ran out of gin and didn't want to run to the store, I replaced the gin with one shot of Grand Marnier and one shot of Jose Cuervo tequila. I called it the "Grand Killya," but don't let that stop you from trying one.

Or you can go with two scoops of ice cream, a tiny drizzle of chocolate sauce, a shot of Bailey's Irish Cream and a shot of Frangelico hazlenut liquor in a blender. Smoothy-fy it and drink on the back porch while trying to get a grip. I call that one "Home-Made Prozac."

In the winter though, I've been trending towards aquavit — it's like liquid rye bread that makes you sleepy.

Recommend a book, comic book, film, or game: something with great story. Go!

For writers, I recommend Italo Calvino's If On A Winter's Night a Traveler… even though it's distinctly aimed at you, the reader. No, literally: The book is written in the second person, and details your adventures as you try to get your hands on an unmangled copy of 'Italo Calvino's new novel If On A Winter's Night a Traveler…' It hilariously explodes the book trade, publishing, literary analysis, the entire reading experience and especially, especially writing. There's a wonderful scene where two writers find out they're at the same resort. One's a highbrow literary lion who agonizes and thrashes over every line, every word, every phrase. The other's a bestselling thriller-monger who "produces books the way a vine produces pumpkins." There's a beautiful woman reading by the pool, and each of them is agonized by the thought that she's reading the OTHER writer's book. That, in my experience, is the literary life compressed into a single image.

What skills do you bring to help the humans win the inevitable zombie war?

I'll be honest with you Chuck, most of my training has emphasized hand-to-hand combat with humans, paying particular attention to ligature strangles. Sure, I did some Okinawan kobudo back in the day, but I suspect I'd be best used keeping the survivors from turning on one another. You know, some sort of "Are you going to give Katy her Skittles back or do I have to put you in the sleeper hold again?" kind of arrangement.

You've committed crimes against humanity. They caught you. You get one last meal.

Two beer-boiled elk sausage bratwursts with horseradish mustard, one with carmelized onions and sauerkraut, one plain, each served on fresh-baked, lightly-toasted split french rolls. A bottle of Jhoom beer and a G&T as described above. Home-Made Prozac for dessert. Yeah, if I'm going to get a dose of Edison's medicine, I'm not bothering with a balanced meal and I'll want to be as smashed as possible.

What's next for you as a storyteller? What does the future hold?

Let's see. SWITCHFLIPPED is out now, that's right here, and I've been shilling that all the livelong day. The fundraiser for Dinosaurs… in Spaaace! is ticking down and I'm hoping like hell that makes it. It's making me anxious, so I'll probably go for shorter, smaller and cheaper stuff for a while — perhaps drumming up the cash for a SWITCHFLIPPED print run.

After I clear those decks, I've got Mask of the Other, which I'd call a "military horror novel" — a squad of US soldiers stumbles across the wreckage of Saddam's occult weapons program in 1991 and gets entangled with the Cthulhu Mythos demimonde. Within that frame, it also deals heavily with modern-day ghost towns. Parts are set in Varosha — pictured in these links:

http://woondu.com/images/strange/varosha-ghost-town-cyprus/varosha-ghost-town9.jpg

http://www.flickr.com/photos/danielzolli/2440928047/

http://greekodyssey.typepad.com/my_greek_odyssey/images/2007/04/12/forbidden_zone_2.jpg

Varosha's a neighborhood in Cyprus that was abandoned during the Turkish invasion in 1974, and during the occupation, the Turks just fenced it off and said, "No one goes in or we shoot them." Other parts are set on the island of Hashima:

http://amazingtourismtraveling.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Ghost-town-Hashima-Island-Gunkanjima-japan.jpg

http://static.omglog.com/uploads/2009/10/hashima-island-decaying-city-photos-555×371.jpg

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yw3j8kNsVyE/TctfQGbxhyI/AAAAAAAAEuw/iKpeMUUTUoE/s400/hashima01.jpg

…which was basically a town built on top of a coal mine on an island the size of a few football fields. It was very suddenly evacuated and abandoned… in 1974.

That's all true or, at least, internet-true. I asked myself, "what would make people abandon cities on islands in 1974?" and came up with some HPL-style answers. That's the novel.

Way off on the back burner, I'm thinking of open-developing a new set of RPG mechanics and ransoming out polished versions of them in a sort of "fantasy science" setting — nice short chunks, maybe 10,000 words like the REIGN ransoms. That might work better than big stuff like D…iS! That project's called HORIZON, so keep an eye peeled.