Chuck Wendig's Blog, page 75

The Doormakers Will Make No Doors

I live in a building with hundreds of other families, maybe thousands. We live here, eat here, sleep here. Our kids learn here. The adults work here. And once, maybe a few times a week, people enter into our building and they take our people away from us. They rob them in the dark. They steal them from us forever. Many times they take our children, sometimes they take the adults.

This building has no doors.

We tell the keepers of this building, the Doormakers, “We have no doors. That’s why they can get in and take our people. We don’t have doors at the front of the building. Our homes inside the building have no doors. Our rooms inside our homes have no doors. They can just walk in. They can just take us whenever they want.”

And the Doormakers tell us, “I’m so sorry.” They clasp their hands together, and they wring them together like they’re squeezing water from a sponge. The look shared on their faces is one of pain. “You are in our thoughts,” they say, sympathetically. “You are in our prayers. It’s the Shadow People,” they say. “From out there. From beyond the Building.”

“So you’ll make us doors?” we ask. “You’ll put them on for us?”

“Doors won’t help,” the Doormakers say, regrettably. “The Shadow People will just open them and walk right in anyway.”

“I have a solution to that,” you tell them. “Locks. We lock the doors.”

“But then all doorways will be impassable,” the Doormakers say. “You’re talking about closing off all the doorways, forever. We can’t do that.”

“No, what we can do is give everyone keys. Keys to those who should be able to use the doors. We’ll all have keys to the building. And those who live in their homes will have keys to their homes. And those who live in the rooms of our homes can have keys to those rooms.”

“Keys are very costly,” the Doormakers say.

“So are our lives,” we answer.

“You’re trying to restrict all freedom of movement,” the Doormakers say.

“What? No, no, no, we’re just trying to stay safe.”

Here, the Doormakers pull out The Document. We all signed the Document in order to live here, and the Doormaker points to a part of The Document that has long been underlined, underlined so many times the pen has nearly worn through the paper. (No other of the Document’s precepts have been underlined in such a way, and the Doormakers don’t seem to remember what the rest of The Document even says.) “Look here,” the Doormakers say.

They point to the precept which reads:

The well-regulated hallways will represent the right of the Building’s people to have unrestricted freedom-of-movement.

“See?” the Doormakers say. “We cannot restrict movement.”

“But that’s not precisely what the precept says,” you explain. “It suggests that first, this is about the hallways, not our homes or the front of the building, but it also notes that the hallways are well-regulated. The hallways have no doors, no cameras, no regulation at all. Anyone can walk down them and enter our houses, our bedrooms, our most private places. That’s how they’re taking us.” Whoever they are, we think but do not say.

“That is the cost of freedom,” they say.

“But this isn’t freedom, this is the opposite of freedom.”

Being taken is not freedom, we point out.

“Why do you hate freedom?” the Doormakers say. They tut-tut us, and hurry back to the stairway, to head to their penthouses which we have never seen. We feel uncertain of what to do. We don’t want to restrict all freedom, do we? This seems like common sense, but now we’re left wondering — are the Doormakers right?

At night, more of our children are taken from us.

We announce it over the intercoms, to the whole building. Every day or three, a tally of those who were taken from us. We’ve grown resistant to it. The most we do is listen to hear if the names are names we know; if not, maybe we don’t listen so hard. In part because it’s too sad to think about for too long. In part because it’s just becoming noise. The background sound of the tragedies of the universe, unstoppable and implacable, we tell ourselves. Like old age. Like entropy.

But sometimes we get mad again.

We get mad when we know the names, when we know who were taken.

We try to talk to the Doormakers about it, telling them, “At least do something. Put some boxes in front of the door. Or half-doors. Even an alarm so we can hear when people are coming through. Or cameras, to see who is taking us.”

They say they know who is taking us. The Shadow People. And they mumble at us about how sad they are for us, and how we are in their hearts, and then they hurry back to their penthouses.

One of us looks up the history of The Building, and they find documents from The Architects who built it — the Architects didn’t intend for the Building to have no doors, it turns out. They wanted doors. It’s why they created the Doormakers to govern the building. They didn’t want people from inside or outside the building to be able to enter our homes! They wanted the hallways to be clear, yes, but that’s it — just the hallways. Our homes are our homes. We send a missive up to the Doormakers — they’ve stopped meeting with us — to tell them what we found. We receive a message over the intercom as a result thanking us for our due diligence, our time, our thoughtfulness, and that’s all they say.

“Does that mean they’ll do something?” we ask one another.

“Maybe,” we tell one another. “Maybe they’ll make us doors.”

But weeks go by. We lose dozens again. Some point out, “Really, as a percentage, it’s not that we’re losing that many. Do we really need doors?” But they say it with a kind of listlessness, like they’ve given up, given in. Someone else says, “Acceptable losses, really, for our freedom,” but no one seems to believe that. We want our doors.

So we decide to make them ourselves.

Our floor, and the people of other floors, take it into their own hands to put together doors. We’ve never made doors before, and it’s not our purview, but we manage to cobble together crude gates and hatches with rough hinges and uneven knobs. Someone on our floor is even good with metal, so he makes for us locks and keys for our homes. And that night we hear knobs rattling. Our doors shudder against their frames. But none come in. And that night, none go missing.

In the morning, the Doormakers appear.

They have hammers. They strike the knobs off our doors. They pry the hinges off the wall. “No restricting freedom of movement,” they say firmly, hammers in hand. Then they head back upstairs in an incredulous huff.

We look at our handiwork, smashed. We wonder what will come.

That night, more of us are taken again. Nineteen children.

The night after that, a respite, and same with the two nights hence, but then it begins again in earnest, three children, then four women, then some of those who work in the offices of the Building — they are taken, pulled from their desks and hiding places through the open doorways, and then they’re gone from us forever. Maybe to join the shadows, we don’t even know.

The intercom announces the lost and the taken.

Sometimes we’re not even sure if it’s announcing everyone or not.

Then more on our floor have been taken. We know them. We know their names. When they come on over the intercom, we weep.

“We have to do something. We have to make the Doormakers listen.”

So, we decide to go against protocol. Together we march to the stairs and up, up, up we go, to the penthouse. To the Doormakers. But there, we find the most curious thing:

A door.

They have a door.

And it’s locked.

“This must be a mistake,” one of us says. “That’s not possible.”

“Hypocrisy,” another says.

“Maybe they need the door to protect themselves.”

“From who? The Shadow People?”

But we fear the real answer: it’s to protect them from us. (Some of us wonder aloud: who are the Shadow People? Are they even real? Are they even a threat?) So we work very hard to take down the door. We use our bare hands. We use tools from our kitchens. We chip away at the mortar and brick, we pull away hinges with our now-bloodied fingers.

The door falls.

The penthouse is revealed. A beautiful world. Gold and silver. Polished wood. And doors everywhere. Doors to every room. Some locked, some not. We hear voices behind one, and this time we offer no finesse — we simply slam ourselves up against it again and again, the bulk of us forming a battering ram, until the door falls and we tumble into a room.

In this table is a table, big and grand.

One one side of this very long table are the Doormakers. On the other are figures in suits. They look like us. We’ve seen some of them here before — they live here. In the Building, on the upper floors. A briefcase sits between them on the table, a golden glow coming from within it. The Doormakers quickly snap the case shut, but when they do, a piece of paper — a contract — slips off the table, stirred by the breeze of the closing lid. The paper lands at our feet. It contains a list of names. We know some of those names. Names of those who have been taken.

Before we know what’s happening, bodyguards of the Doormakers are wrestling us back out of this room, then out of the penthouse. They quickly put up another door — thicker, made of metal, with hinges thick as our arms. All the while we wail and yell and kick and thrash. They’re the ones taking us, we cry. They’ve made a deal with those who take us. There aren’t any shadowy people. It’s them. They’re taking us. They’re paying the Doormakers to not build us any doors, to keep the hallways open. The guards drag us down, down, down, past the floors on which we live, all the way to the basement.

There, too, we find doors.

We’re thrown into rooms. The doors slam shut behind us. We’re left in the dark. The guards hiss at us, tell us we’re the Shadow People, now, and we can have doors if we want to. These doors. Doors we can’t open. Doors that are locked tight, sealing us shut behind them. We realize too late that the freedom they talk about isn’t our freedom, but theirs.

We pound on the doors, screaming to be let out.

These are the doors the Doormakers made.

And we will help to make them.

* * *

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THE RAPTOR & THE WREN: Miriam Black, Book Five

Miriam Black, in lockstep with death, continues on her quest to control her own fate!

Having been desperate to rid herself of her psychic powers, Miriam now finds herself armed with the solution — a seemingly impossible one. But Miriam’s past is catching up to her, just as she’s trying to leave it behind. A copy-cat killer has caught the public’s attention. An old nemesis is back from the dead. And Louis, the ex she still loves, will commit an unforgivable act if she doesn’t change the future. 

Miriam knows that only a great sacrifice is enough to counter fate. Can she save Louis, stop the killer, and survive? 

Hunted and haunted, Miriam is coming to a crossroads, and nothing is going to stand in her way, not even the Trespasser.

Indiebound  |  Amazon  |  B&N

The Miriam Black Books: Giveaway, Plus How To Get Signed Copies

PSST, HEY YOU

REAL QUICK

C’MERE

*opens trenchcoat*

*trenchcoat contains an infinite cabinet of birds, good birds and bad birds and strange birds and mad birds, from the hooded pitohui to the Eastern Phoebe to the grebe to the rough-faced shag, and they all whisper to you in tandem: you really want the Miriam Black books*

Okay so — last night, I launched The Raptor & The Wren to a full house of wonderful readers last night at the also wonderful Let’s Play Books in Emmaus, PA. And I’ll be at the Elgin Literary Festival (ELF!) this weekend to give a talk and also attack you with owls. I mean, sign your book?

Ahem.

So — note that if you want a signed book from me, whether it’s the Miriam Black books or really, any of my other books, then Let’s Play Books has you covered. They will ship to wherever you are. Check out their website and contact them via their email or via this antiquated device I’ve heard about called a “pa-honie” —

*receives note*

Ahh, it’s pronounced FONE. Cool.

Also!

Tor.com is doing a giveaway of the series, so go check that out. Their giveaway runs till January 26th, so you’ve got a couple days.

If you’ve checked out this series, thank you — it’s been a long, weird, wonderful labor of love. Please to enjoy, and tell your friends. Or don’t tell them, I’m not your father. But I will be when I get this time machine up and running, just you wait.

P.S. one more quick thing — if you’re going to ECCC in Seattle, I will be there. My schedule is here! Also, I’ll be attending the Worldbuilders Party that Friday (details here), and I’ll be running a game of Balderdash at my table, so donate to the charity, come hang out, play a wordsmithy game about lying liars who lie, come out to the coast, we’ll have a few laughs.

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Ursula K. Le Guin On Writing: “Alas, There Are No Recipes”

With the passing of Ursula Le Guin — whose short work I read very early, and whose longer work I only read much, much later — I am reminded of some advice she’d given about writing, and given what is sometimes the focus of this blog, I thought I’d highlight her words here.

(Note: do read her original answer here.)

When asked how one writes something good, she responded with:

The way to make something good is to make it well.

If the ingredients are extra good (truffles, vivid prose, fascinating characters) that’s a help. But it’s what you do with them that counts. With the most ordinary ingredients (potatoes, everyday language, commonplace characters) — and care and skill in using them — you can make something extremely good.

Inexperienced writers tend to seek the recipes for writing well. You buy the cookbook, you take the list of ingredients, you follow the directions, and behold! A masterpiece! The Never-Falling Soufflé!

Wouldn’t it be nice? But alas, there are no recipes. We have no Julia Child. Successful professional writers are not withholding mysterious secrets from eager beginners. The only way anybody ever learns to write well is by trying to write well. This usually begins by reading good writing by other people, and writing very badly by yourself, for a long time.

There are “secrets” to making a story work — but they apply only to that particular writer and that particular story. You find out how to make the thing work by working at it — coming back to it, testing it, seeing where it sticks or wobbles or cheats, and figuring out how to make it go where it has to go.

And on the subject of writing to a market or following prescribed rules:

If your manuscript doesn’t follow the rules of what’s currently trendy, the rules of what’s supposed to be salable, the rule some great authority laid down, you’re supposed to make it do so. Most such rules are hogwash, and even sound ones may not apply to your story. What’s the use of a great recipe for soufflé if you’re making blintzes? The important thing is to know what it is you’re making, where your story is going, so that you use only the advice that genuinely helps you get there. The hell with soufflé, stick to your blintzes.

We make something good, a blintz, a story, by having worked at blintzmaking or storywriting till we’ve learned how to do it.

With a blintz, the process is fairly routine. With stories, the process is never twice the same. Even a story written to the most prescriptive formula, like some westerns or romances, can be made poorly, or made well.

Making anything well involves a commitment to the work. And that requires courage: you have to trust yourself. It helps to remember that the goal is not to write a masterpiece or a best-seller. The goal is to be able to look at your story and say, Yes. That’s as good as I can make it.

(I find that advice to be very, very freeing.)

Le Guin, having been done with novels, gave herself in 2015 to the task of answering a considerable number of writing questions at Book View Cafe, and I think you’ll find much of what she says there interesting and useful, and I encourage you to read the literally hundreds of answers she gives. I’ve popped in a few more delightful bits here —

On being asked the difference between literary fiction and genre:

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog about Genre Fiction vs Literary Fiction in which I stated Le Guin’s Hypothesis:

Literature is the extant body of written art. All novels belong to it.

I find this saves a lot of head-scratching.

On those who believe that one style of POV is correct when writing prose:

Distrust anybody — fellow writer, agent, editor — who tells you that fiction must use only limited third person.

It’s trendy at the moment, sure. But the surest way to go out of vogue is to be in it.

As currently practiced, limited third person is (like the present tense) a kind of flashlight beam — it gives a brilliant, narrow, simplifying intensity of vision. It’s well suited to many short stories and to the kinds of novel where a fast pace and a tight focus are prime values. It lends itself to detachment and irony.

The unlimited third person, the de-centered, flexible, moving point of view, is natural to stories and novels in which character and emotional relationships and interactions, cultural contrasts, etc., are important, in which problems aren’t solved by a gunshot or a bomb but by being worked out (or not worked out) over time.

Forcing such a narrative into a single POV will limit it and may cripple it. Write your story the way it wants and needs to be written. Change your POV when you feel like it!

Only, be really, really sure that you know how to do it…

On writing to, and thinking about, your so-called audience:

“Audience” literally means “the people listening” – which tells you what an odd business writing stories down is. We are silent performers in an empty room. We lack the instant feedback that maintains and sharpens the story-teller’s consciousness of and relationship with the audience. So, does the writer consciously try to imagine a reader? An ideal reader? A whole lot of readers? Or are we each our own audience, writing a book we’d like to read, the way we’d like it written? Or do we seek a peer-group for the feedback? Such choices are entirely up to you the writer. And nobody can say what the right balance of conventionality and expectability, challenge and originality, is for you. Tailoring your writing to a specific audience/market is good for writers to whom salability is a prime value, for others it can be demoralizing, a sell-out.

The only advice I can offer is tentative: If you imagine your “audience,” your readers, imagine them as intelligent and sympathetic — ready to read you if you give them the chance.

And really, one of my favorite bits, she talks about success as a metric in writing:

Esme, I think the word success confuses people. They get recognition mixed up with achievement, and celebrity mixed up with excellence. I rarely use the word – it confuses me. I didn’t want to be a success, I wanted to be a writer. I didn’t set out to write successful books. I tried to write good ones.

Receiving recognition is very important to a young artist, but you may have to settle for achievement with very little recognition for a long time. You ask about me. I wrote and submitted my work to editors for six or seven years without getting anything published except a few poems in poetry magazines – as near invisibility as you can get in print. It kept me going, though. Then I got two short stories accepted within a week, one by a literary quarterly, the other by a commercial genre magazine. From then on I had some sense of where to send the next story, and began to publish more regularly, and finally placed a novel. Each publication added to my self-confidence. Growing recognition added more. But the truth is, I always had confidence in myself as a writer – I had arrogance, even. Yet I had endless times of self-doubt. I think what carried me through was simply commitment to the job. I wanted to do it.

Talent is no good without commitment. I’ve had students who wrote very well, but weren’t willing to commit to write, to go on writing, and to go on writing better. But that’s what it takes.

“Feeling successful” – well, that’s something you have to work out for yourself, what it means to you, how important it is. You’re quite right that very good and highly celebrated writers may not feel “successful.” Maybe they have unhappy natures, and the Nobel Prize would just depress them. Or maybe they aren’t fully satisfied with what they’ve done so far, don’t feel they’ve yet written the best book they could write. But they have the commitment that keeps them trying to do it.

Hang in there. And don’t push it. No hurry! Writing is a lifetime job.

This is really just the tip of the iceberg.

I confess, I’ve never before read her book on writing, Steering the Craft, but I’m going to, now.

And, while you’re at it, given all that’s going on in the world, I suggest seeking out and reading (or re-reading) “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” It was the first thing I’d ever read from Le Guin and it has stuck in my craw (in the best worst way) since, imprinting in ways most stories never do. It’s a near-perfect example of how science-fiction and other imaginary narrative is uniquely posed to challenge us and trouble us and make is think about who we are and what we do.

[photo credit: AP]

Out Now: The Raptor & The Wren (Miriam Black, Book 5)

[image error]WELL, HELLO THERE.

I WROTE A BOOK.

Actually, I’ve written six of them in this particular series — I finished a draft of the sixth Miriam Black book, Vultures, yesterday, and today sees the release of the fifth and penultimate book, The Raptor & The Wren. Available in both hardcover and paperback on the same day, and also, obviously, ebook.

Buy in print (Indiebound), or in e-book (Amazon | B&N | iTunes)

I’ll leave you with the official description* first:

Miriam Black, in lockstep with death, continues on her quest to control her own fate in The Raptor and the Wren, the brand-new fifth book in the Miriam Black series.

Having been desperate to rid herself of her psychic powers, Miriam now finds herself armed with the solution — a seemingly impossible one. But Miriam’s past is catching up to her, just as she’s trying to leave it behind. A copy-cat killer has caught the public’s attention. An old nemesis is back from the dead. And Louis, the ex she still loves, will commit an unforgivable act if she doesn’t change the future. 

Miriam knows that only a great sacrifice is enough to counter fate. Can she save Louis, stop the killer, and survive? 

Hunted and haunted, Miriam is coming to a crossroads, and nothing is going to stand in her way, not even the Trespasser.

(*Actually, I see a different official description on bookselling sites, which is honestly a little spoiler-iffic? Dunno what’s up there.)

And maybe we should jump into a couple-few reviews…

“Wendig expertly splashes Miriam’s considerable emotional pain across the page, never sparing her the price of her gut-wrenching circumstances, and closes with a shocking twist that is a true game-changer.” — Publishers Weekly

“With a dark storyline and an even darker protagonist, this vivid adventure takes readers on an emotional, violent ride. VERDICT: The fifth book in the series (after Thunderbird) drives further down the road into Miriam Black’s life: the trauma, the fears, and the forgiveness. It will please fans of Joe Hill and Joe Abercrombie.” — Library Journal

“Wendig dials to eleven the violent maelstrom that is Miriam’s life, pulling in a gaggle of familiar characters from past installments along the way, tying them together into a tangled rat king of death and discovery. This time around, the narrative hits even harder than before, propelling Miriam well beyond her comfort zone and forcing her to dig herself in even deeper to survive. As usual, Wendig writes like he’s driving a truck full of dynamite downhill, on ice, and his brakes are out, careening madly from one absurd action beat to another, with black humor keeping pace all the way.” — Barnes & Noble Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog

“The Miriam Black series flips between genres, blending together elements of horror, mystery, psychological thriller, and urban fantasy into something deliciously addictive. Raptors is more on the thriller/horror/dark UF bent, a novel full of sharp writing, harrowing plot and subplots, and devastating characters. The Raptor and the Wren is an heartbreaker of a book that’ll leave you gasping for breath by the final page. Bring on the finale!” — Tor.com

If you haven’t seen the series trailer:

My own thoughts?

I wrote this book in the fall of last year, which was, umm, an interesting time politically, and one in which I found myself getting very little sleep, so this book was sort of stolen from and produced by a ongoing fight with insomnia. Not that I recommend it as part of your writing regimen, but honestly, I think that contributed well to the overall vibe of the book.

This is a pretty, um, rough book. Like, if you imagine the Miriam Black books to be an entire series of Empire Strikes Back-level downers, then this book is the Empire Strikes Back of that series. It represents a hard row to hoe for poor Miriam, and shows her growing and changing while also grappling with a series of new existential threats for her and those around her.

It also contains an owl called BIRD-OF-DOOM, so there’s that.

I never know exactly where to put the Miriam books on a genre-scale — some call these urban fantasy, but this book has no “urban” in it, nor is it particularly fantastical, though the supernatural is an everpresent backdrop. It’s a little bit crime, for sure. It’s a little bit horror, most definitely. They’re thrillers, no doubt, supernatural thrillers, written with the kind of (hopefully) relentless pacing where you read it with a breathless pace — the pace of someone being chased through a house by a machete-wielding murderer.

Yesterday, as noted, I just finished the sixth and final (!) book, Vultures — which should come out a year from now, roughly. That one is a bit longer than all the others, and it both sad and exhilarating to have finished a six-book series. I won’t spoil what’s to come in that book, because then I’d spoil what’s to come in this book.

Beautiful cover, by the way, is from Adam S. Doyle.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy it, and the series. If you have enjoyed any of these books, I’d sure love a review written at a site like Amazon or Goodreads, or spraypainted on a city bus, or written in elegant calligraphy on the side of a whale, or burned into the moon using a big laser. Thanks!

A note: do not start with this book. You need to read the rest first.

The Miriam Black series is, in order:

Blackbirds — print | ebook

Mockingbird — print | ebook

The Cormorant — print | ebook

Thunderbird — print | ebook

The Raptor & The Wren — print | ebook

Macro Monday Is A Magic Fox

LOOK.

FOX.

The Writer Shed Fox is back — this year I’d only seen it (him? her?) by way of its footprints, but the other day after a snow, poof, there it was, right in front of the shed. I quick grabbed my camera and snapped a shot just before it ducked under a pair of boulders by our driveway.

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Also, today is the day we met this doofus (seen there on the left) — at the time, at the shelter, she was named Sascha, but we found that too crude, too inelegant, and we wanted something with more class. So we ceded the dog-naming to the then-four-year-old, and he of course went with SNOOBUG, so here we are, with SNOOBUG the dog, who looks very much like someone took the head off a Corgi, stuck it on the body of a German Shepherd. A German Frankencorgi, perhaps.

Anyway.

I have some news to share but I can’t yet share it.

I also have another piece of news to share but I can’t share that, either.

I just got the edit on my massive monster-sized novel (Wanderers, clocking in presently at 260,000 words), and it’s a 17-page edit letter, and I’ve never gotten one of those before! I expected to hate it, to quiver, to run in fear, but everything was… like, really right on? It’s gonna take some work to kick this fucker into shape, but it’s worth doing, because I think this book is really something. I hope you’ll agree when it comes out next year.

Also, poised to finish Vultures, the final Miriam book.

Which reminds me:

Tomorrow.

The Raptor & The Wren releases. [print | ebook]

See you then.

Flash Fiction Challenge: This Time, I Pick The Lyric

Okay, last week, you got to pick a song lyric you really liked, and you wrote a story based on that bit of song poetry. Right? Right.

Cool.

This week, I’m giving you the lyric.

It’s from Sza’s “Drew Barrymore.”

(Lyrics here. Video here.)

The lyric in question is this line, the opening line the song:

“Why is it so hard to accept the party is over?”

The song has a lot of great lines, but that’s the one we’re going with. Take from it whatever inspiration you choose. Base a theme on it. Make it literal or figurative. Any genre will do.

Length: ~1000 words

Due by: Friday, January 26th, noon EST

(Note: I’m gone next Friday so there may not be a flash fiction challenge. Lately I’ve been getting a WordPress error when I try to schedule posts, and they don’t actually show up when they’re scheduled? I assume a variety pack of gremlins is to blame.)

Post at your online space.

Give us that sweet sweet link.

Go write.

Assorted Thoughts On Impostor Syndrome, Gathered In A Bouquet

So, a few weeks back I did a couple threads on impostor syndrome, which is a very common thing that writers of all experience and comfort levels seem to experience — I certainly do, and you probably do, too. If you don’t, you might be a monster, maybe some kind of Yeti, so get that checked out. I figured I should grab these tweets and pop them somewhere, like, say, at this little blog, to share with those who maybe missed the threads on Twitter when they first appeared.

This is two separate threads, broken out by asterisks.

And asterisks, as you know, are also Cat Butthole Emoji. So, look for the trio of ASCII cat poopers, and you know when the next thread is beginning.

[Note: I’m not using Storify for these anymore because Storify is going away.]

* * *

I will now tell my own impostor syndrome story, as it relates to @neilhimself.

So, two years ago, I had the distinct pleasure of getting to speak in NYC as part of @MargaretAtwood‘s birthday event at the 92Y.

I was one of the speakers alongside a set of luminaries like @leverus, @erinmorgenstern, and @neilhimself — in the presence of @MargaretAtwood herself.

I mean, holy shit, right?!

Already I was going to the event with the utter certainty I didn’t belong there. I felt like a shadow on an X-Ray, a notable stain on an otherwise beautiful skeleton.

When I got there, arriving a bit early for the event, I went into the green room and I was alone.

Except for Neil Gaiman.

Neil Fucking Gaiman. Good Omens! Sandman! The Ocean at the End of the Lane! Stardust and Coraline and American Gods and Neverwhere and…

(C’mon. Dark poet, elegantly mussed hair, you know him, you love him.)

And I stood there for a moment, utterly frozen. He was, if I recall, looking at his phone.

And I said: “I can go.”

Because I thought, I should leave him alone! I don’t belong here. THIS IS RARE AIR AND I DO NOT DESERVE TO BREATHE IT.

And then he Tasered me and called security.

*checks notes*

Wait, no.

He smiled warmly and invited me in and was friendly and delightful and made me feel like I belonged. The other authors welcomed me too and it was awesome, even if I (even now!) still feel like a stowaway on that boat.

As writers we so often have the feeling like we are a Scooby-Doo monster about to be unmasked. I don’t think you ever really lose that.

BUT — and here is a vital part of the lesson — you can help diminish that feeling in other writers by making them feel welcome and a part of the tribe.

Recognize other writers feel like impostors too — and you can combat the feeling in yourself by helping them combat it when you welcome them. In this, community blooms.

You’ll never lose it. But you can help others feel like they belong. And when community grows you feel less alone.

At whatever level you are, other authors are likely to feel isolated and impostor-ish. You aren’t alone. And you can help them not be alone, too. Thanks to @neilhimself for doing exactly that for me, that day. @leverus, @erinmorgenstern and obviously @MargaretAtwood, too.

* * *

Can we talk a little [more] about impostor syndrome? Let’s talk about it. More specifically, let me tell you how I — well, it’s not how I defeat it, but rather, how I lean into it.

DOCTOR PENMONKEY: HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LEARN TO LOVE THE IMPOSTOR SYNDROME. Or something.

(This is a follow up somewhat to last week’s thread, which talked about the value of community in regulating impostor syndrome in others and, by proxy, in yourself.)

[Note, seen above]

So, the facts on the ground are, blah blah blah, impostor syndrome is bullshit, but most (all?) writers suffer from it regularly, you’re not alone, it’s totally normal, and so on and so forth.

But —

A lot of advice goes toward how you stop feeling it, which is not always helpful because — ennnh, you’re gonna keep feeling it. You just are.

Maybe you’ll experience it with less regularity, but it’ll be there. It’s like a ghost. You thought you got rid of the ghost but then you go to shower and BOO, the ghost is there, and you pee yourself a little, because ghost.

For me, writing is two things: it’s DOING THE WORK plus MITIGATING MY MINDSET. The first part is sitting down and gnawing your keyboard until words come out.

The second part is all in my head. And it’s a heady, gurgling broth of mental adjustment, from managing expectations to punching self-doubt in the kidneys to not comparing myself to others to not second-guessing myself and the book every 13 minutes, and so forth.

Part of the thorny tangle of my authorial brain-briar is the snarling snare of impostor’s syndrome. You feel like you don’t belong, as if at any moment someone will unmask you like a Scooby-Doo villain. AND I WOULD’VE GOTTEN AWAY WITH IT IF IT WASN’T FOR YOU MEDDLING BRAIN WEASELS

And yes, I used the Scooby-Doo metaphor in the above thread, but I like it, and I’m keeping it, so.

*tasers you*

Here, though, is how I lean into my impostor syndrome rather than suffering from impostor syndrome:

I learn to embrace the joy of the forbidden.

What I mean is this: impostor syndrome wants you to feel like a new kid in class, and every moment of your career feels like you entering the classroom and going to sit down at a faraway desk as everyone stares at you, The New Kid.

But there’s a different version if it, where you experience an illicit thrill of being somewhere you’re explicitly not supposed to be.

It’s like sneaking backstage at a concert. Or hanging out in your high school after hours, after everything is shut and everyone is gone. Or getting a tour of the chocolate factory OOPS one of the kids fell into the drink ha ha ha that’s okay she’s chocolate now, it’s fine.

There are a few real-world analogs to this I’ve experienced — in Hawaii, I’ve been to places where you’re not supposed to go, off-the-beaten-path, and you can see some truly delirious waterfalls, beaches, cliffs, if you do.

Or, having crashed a party or an event you weren’t invited to? Suddenly you’re shoveling down fancy horse-doovers and pretending like you’re supposed to be there.

Recently I got to sit in First Class for the first time, and it was like, exciting because I knew I didn’t belong there. I was like HA HA FUCK YOU I AM DRINKING SCOTCH BEFORE WE TAKE OFF AT 11AM THAT’S RIGHT, I’M A FLY IN YOUR MILK, RICH PEOPLE

I SEE YOU LOOKING AT ME, GUY IN THE THIRD ROW. IT’S ME, THE BARBARIAN IN ROW 4, BUDDY. HUGS AND KISSES, GUY-WHO-IS-PROBABLY-A-CEO. HA HA HA SUCK IT

And it’s that “ha ha ha suck it” that feels so good about being somewhere you’re not supposed to be. There is a great deal of freedom, in fact, in that.

Being the barbarian at the gate comes with a great deal of reduced responsibility. Because you’re breaking the rules. You’ve changed the game. You’re not supposed to be here…

…and yet, here you are.

Impostor Syndrome can either be you, The New Kid, nervous about not belonging. Or it can be you, the Party-Crasher, joyfully gobbling down fancy foods and enjoying the anarchy of your uninvited presence.

* * *

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DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Out now!

Indiebound  |  Amazon  |  B&N

Flash Fiction Challenge: Song Lyric Story

Okie dokie, hawks and doves, here’s the deal this week:

I want you to pick a song you really, really like. A song that moves you at the lyrical level — THE WORDS REALLY SPEAK TO YOU, WOW, WHOA, JEEZ.

Now, take a slice of those words — a smidgen of the lyrics, a line, a short stanza — and use them as the theme or basis for a bit of flash fiction.

(Example: I’m a huge Concrete Blonde fan — and some of you are sadly asking, “Who?” — and there’s a line in the song “Take Me Home,” where Johnette Napolitano sings, Life is beautiful and terrible and strange. It’s not particularly specific, but I always find that line sums up life pretty well for me, and the world, and people in general, and I could handily write a bit of fiction based on that single bit.)

Length: ~1000 words

Due by: noon EST, Friday the 19th

Post at your online space.

Give us a link to it in the comments below.

Ask The Wendigo: My Advice To A Young Writer

An email rolled into my inbox right at the end of November, and the email said this:

Hey man, I’m a big fan of yours and have been following your stuff since I was a kid. I’m 24 now, have just finished my Master’s in Creative Writing, and am seeking an agent for my fantasy novel which I’ve just finished.

I’m a couple of rejection letters deep at this point. Disheartening, as I’m sure you can remember, but I’m far, far from giving up yet. I write every day and take the craft of writing more seriously than, well, almost everything.

I just wanted to reach out to you and maybe get some advice on what I should be doing at this point in my career. Making it as a full-time writer is on my mind every day; my eyes are firmly set on this goal and they haven’t drifted – though at times it seems like an impossible thing to accomplish. After years of practising (and sucking), I am now confident in my skills and my ideas. The experience of writing a novel has honestly shocked me – it’s been exciting, tedious, frustrating, and immensely fulfiling all at once.

And I thought, instead of responding to this person individually, I would respond to him publicly (I asked him if that was okay, to be clear).

My easy, fast answer to this is, “YES, GOOD JOB,” because on a cursory read, hey, everything looks good. He writes a lot. He’s finished a book. He’s mindful of the work and the career. He’s right on about writing a book — exciting, yep. Tedious, sometimes. Frustrating, ha ha, oh shit, yeah. Immensely fulfilling? I certainly find it so, sure.

But I have deeper thoughts, too, if he — and you — care to listen.

Here goes.

a) “…have been following your stuff since I was a kid.”

OKAY SLOW YOUR ROLL, YOUNG MC — you’re only 24 and have been reading me since you were a kid? I’ve only been writing novels for 5-6 years now, jeez. Though I did work in gaming for years before that… oh god I’m getting older, aren’t I? Oh shit. Ohhhh shit. *cups hands over mouth* *eyes wide as pancakes* *quiet panic ensues*

b) “I’m 24 now.”

Actually, let’s hover over that number — 24. You’ve just finished a novel. Good! GOOD. That’s commendable work. You may very well be a talented, eager, and capable lad. But I want you also to realize that your brownies might still need to stay in the oven a while. I don’t know this. I haven’t read your book. But I’d argue most writers don’t really come into their own until their 30s — that’s not to say there are not a number of wunderkind who karate kick open the doors of publishing with their spry, energetic 24-year-old bodies, but at 24, you’re probably very limited, yet, in what you know, in what you’ve done. At 24, your brain literally stopped growing only a couple-few years before, and your heart is still a kettle of excitable fish. You don’t yet know what you know. But you expect to know everything.

You believe, at that age, you should have the world saddled up and already frothy with both vigor and distance. You expect to be miles down the road.

And yet, you’re not.

Here, then, is what I consider to be one of the more crucial tests of being a writer — it is the ability to dig in, demonstrate patience, and keep doing the thing specifically because you realize you’re not ready to do the thing.

What I mean is this: a lot of writers, at this stage, do as you have done. But then this happens: I HAVE FINISHED THE BOOK. I HAVE RECEIVED THE REJECTIONS. I HAVE EXPERIENCED THE DISHEARTENMENT AND ENNUI. THE WORLD DOES NOT UNDERSTAND MY VERBAL AND NARRATIVE PUISSANCE, AND SO I SHALL REJECT IT BEFORE IT CAN REJECT ME FURTHER.

They fuck off.

They fuck right off, and choose not to admit that they’re unready, but rather, they project it onto the rest of the world. Publishing isn’t ready. The audience isn’t ready.

NOBODY UNDERSTANDS MY GENIUS, MAN.

Now, Guy Who Wrote Me That E-Mail, I’m not saying that’s you! But it is a trap some young writers fall into. I certainly almost fell into it myself. Even older, more experienced writers can experience it from time to time.

The greatest gift you can give yourself is patience — and, should patience fail, give yourself the gift of its darker, crankier cousin:

Bullheaded, spiteful stubbornness.

When one book fails, you write the next book.

As your failures pile up, you use that hill to climb to the next level.

c) “A couple of rejection letters”

Ha ha ha, ohhh, hah. Hah. Hee. Yeah. Yeaaaahhh. You’re going to get a lot more of those. You need to get a lot more of those. Rejections are normal. I still get rejections. Since publishing books I’ve written a couple books that just weren’t ready to go out into the world. I have so many rejection letters from my 20s into my 30s I could literally wallpaper my writing shed, inside and out. I could use them to make a siege engine. I could make ten thousand origami swans. I could burn them for warmth and it would provide me with seven years of reliable heat.

Rejections, however terrible, are your friend.

Rejections are scars; proof you’ve been fighting in the arena.

Let them frustrate you. Then do better the next time.

d) “Making it as a full-time writer”

This isn’t the worst goal, but it’s a distant one. Most authors have day jobs. I don’t, because I spent years in the freelance trenches, and once I ejected from that, I got really, really lucky. One day I may need to go back — though, let’s be honest, at this point I have winnowed my skill-sets down to “mashing action figures together to make them fight-and-or-fuck and then I write all fancy about it,” so I’m not sure what kind of job I could even get.

Regardless, let the goal be writing a good book and getting it out there.

Then do it again, and again.

Only worry about the “full-time author” thing when you have no other choice — when you are forced into a position where you can either keep the day job or keep writing books. When that happens, you disengage from the day-job, and you leap into the warm, dark void.

e) “I am now confident in my skills and ideas.”

Don’t be.

Oh, you should be able to write with confidence.

But you also shouldn’t be married to that confidence.

So, this is a weird one, because there’s a line here, and it’s a thin line, but you should try to tap-dance merrily upon it — you don’t want to be overconfident, and you don’t want to be flailing around a pool of under-confidence, either. Overconfidence means you make mistakes. It means you don’t grow because you believe you’re already all growned up. It means you view failure as someone else’s fault rather than your own. Under-confidence means you don’t think you can do it, so maybe, potentially, you just don’t do it.

Gotta walk that line, thin as it may be. Be sure in yourself while at the same time admitting you’ve still so much to learn. Writers possess a peculiar kind of ego, I find — we seem sometimes to have a big presence, a bloated ego, but soon you realize it’s more like a balloon than a wrecking ball. It’s puffy and large and ultimately empty inside. Better instead to have the ego of a small stone. A small stone is small, yes, and small in comparison to the many other stones around it. But it can also be potent in the right hands — it can break windows, it can be slung into the skull of a giant, it can, uhh, what else could you do with a small stone? Choke a bear? Let’s go with that: choke a bear.

The good news is, Dear E-Mailer, if you find the writing of a novel exciting, frustrating, tedious and fulfilling in equal measure, then I suspect you’ve at the very least got the proper mind-set to really do this thing. Just know that doing this thing is not a one-and-done measure.

It’s not about getting a degree and writing a book and then just cashing those sweet checks. It might mean getting a day-job. It might mean writing two, five, seven more novels before you really hit on your voice, your skills, or even figuring out what the fuck you actually want to write. It might mean growing up more than you already are. It might mean endless more rejections, failure after failure, where after each you have to salvage some lesson, some truth, some kind of windy wisdom that will fill your sails and move your boat further upon this seemingly silent and often still sea. It means doing the thing even when doing the thing is hard. Harder this time than the last. Maybe even harder the next time you try.

But try, you must.

Onward you go.

* * *

[image error]

DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Out now!

Indiebound  |  Amazon  |  B&N

Macro Monday Returns To Regularly-Scheduled Shenanigans

No, that’s not a macro photo.

OR IS IT

MAYBE THAT’S A CLOSE-UP OF A CAR WINDSHIELD

AND THAT BIRD IS JUST REALLY, REALLY TEENY-TINY

YOU DON’T KNOW

Ahem.

Hi!

Welcome back! Slowly, but surely, we kick the cold machinery that runs this place, pouring boiling water on it to unfreeze its gears and flywheels. I’m not sure we’ll return to a full-bore schedule just yet, as I’m in the midst of finishing a novel (and a somewhat important one, it being the very last Miriam Black novel, Vultures), so bear with me as everything slowly grumbles and grinds to life once more.

Finishing the last book in a series is traditionally very difficult, as it is here — compounded by the fact this is not merely a trilogy, but rather, six whole books (and a novella, and a short story). Just as you want to stick the landing on the final act of any book, you really really want to stick the landing on the final act of six books, because holy shit. But have trust: the books have been building to something, and after the, um, ending of The Raptor & The Wren, you’ll get some sense of where it’s headed — at least, until I knock you off balance once again.

That seems then to be a good segue into a review of The Raptor & The Wren, this one coming in from Library Journal:

[Stuff cut out because slightly spoilery.] With a dark story line and an even darker protagonist, this vivid adventure takes readers on an emotional, violent ride. VERDICT: The fifth book in the series (after Thunderbird) drives further down the road into Miriam Black’s life: the trauma, the fears, and the forgiveness. It will please fans of Joe Hill and Joe Abercrombie. —Kristi Chadwick, Massachusetts Lib. Syst., South Deerfield

And, in case you missed it, Let’s Play Books is running a pre-order deal — buy the book, I’ll sign it, I’ll even personalize and predict YOUR DEMISE into the pages, and they’ll get it to you on release date with free shipping. Details here.

Or you can just come to the book launch at Let’s Play Books on 1/23.

Or or or you can come hang out with me at the Elgin Literary Festival (Chicago ‘burbs) on 1/26 – 1/27, should you so decide.

Let’s see. What else is a-brewing?

You will find that my Heartland series — think John Steinbeck’s Star Wars — is on sale for a buck per book for your Kindle, so, check out Under the Empyrean Sky, Blightborn, and The Harvest.

ANYWAY, here, have a tweet thread, goodbye!

“Put a jade egg in your hoo-ha.”

“Gwyneth, no.”

“Coffee enema.”

“Seriously, Gwyneth, c’mon.”

“Eat three rubies in a ruby smoothie and an elf will arrive to open your Sex Chakras.”

“What the fuck, Gwyneth.”

“Feed a stolen baby to a cunning wolf at midnight–“

“GWYNETH, NO.” https://t.co/POfpvQpGmY

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018

“Steam the vulva.”

“Gwyneth.”

“Steam it. With moon-steam.”

“The fuck is moon-steam, Gwyneth.”

“It’s acai berries macerated in diamond powder and magic sugar and run through the bowels of a civet cat.”

“Gwyneth, this is cocaine.”

“Now put it all in your colon. All of it.”

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018

“Transvaginal papaya cream.”

“Gwyneth, what does that even mean?”

“Irradiated lemur protein.”

“You’re just… you’re just saying things, now.”

“Activated urethra charcoal.”

“Gwyneth, what the hell — oh my god are those the launch codes?!”

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018

“Make a cocktail of ghost peppers, cordyceps zombie ants, macaw sweat. Muddle with ancient lavender and mummy’s gauze. Pour over a poultice of forgotten aspirations. Put it in all your orifices. Pack it tight.”

“Gwyneth, can’t I just eat some kale?”

“Now you fight a jaguar.”

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018

“Before you fight the jaguar, you must be naked. Except for this.”

“Gwyneth, is that a butt plug?”

“It is a lunar detox wand.”

“It’s a butt plug.”

“It is made from upcycled meteors.”

“Does it go in my butt?

“…”

“Gwyneth.”

“It goes in your butt.”

“Goddamnit, Gwyneth.”

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018

“Just put it up there. To detox.”

“Gwyneth, where do you get this stuff?!”

“Goop.”

“What the shit is Goop?”

“It is a catalog. It is a way of life. It is primordial ooze that fills your negative psycho-spiritual nooks.”

“Gwyneth, are you high?”

“Yes.”

“On what?”

“On Goop.”

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018

“Gwyneth, is Goop just cocaine?”

“No.”

“Gwyneth. We talked about this.”

“…”

“…”

“It’s cocaine and crime fraiche. And a little ayahuasca.”

“Jesus Christ, Gwyneth.”

— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) January 7, 2018