Phil Elmore's Blog, page 8

Technocracy: Social Media Enables Progressives’ Interolance

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the Hugo awards, “social justice” activism, and progressive intolerance. Read the full column here in WND News.

The Nebulas, The Hugos, The Sad Puppies, and the SJWs

One of the ongoing frustrations for every writer who is not also a politically correct, progressive true believer — and there sure are plenty of authors who are — is that in the online world where most of us ply our trade and promote our work, the depredations of “social justice” types are unavoidable. Social justice activists are forever offended about some benign comment. They’re always reading your mind and telling you what you believe; they’re always happy to tell you what is in your heart; they trade in code words and “dog whistles” and “micro-aggressions.” Whenever confronted with opinions they do not like, they become apoplectic. The typical progressive cannot stand dissent and will go to any length to silence conservatives, libertarians, Christians, and any other human being whose worldview does not fit within the rigidly fascist guidelines of progressive groupthink. And if you are a conservative, a libertarian, a Christian, or simply not politically correct, your work will be denigrated, your person insulted, and your character questioned by legions of progressive drones marching in lockstep to left-wing ideology.

A favorite tactic of the social-justice-obsessed left is shouting down, destroying, and otherwise marginalizing anyone whose opinion is not progressive enough to suit them. Are you a straight, white male? It doesn’t matter how well you write, then; you are a bad person because you are not a woman, a gay man, and any race but white. Your work is the result of “privilege” and not of talent. Your motives are questionable and your attitudes are presumed worthy of condemnation before they are expressed.  In this environment, it is no surprise that a meaningful dialogue between the legions of progressive writers and the smaller but vocal minority of conservative authors is not possible. You cannot have a rational conversation with someone who is, by definition, irrational. When they’re not screaming “racism” or “homophobia” or otherwise accusing their ideological opponents of myriad crimes against humanity, social justice activists are waging war on the livelihoods of any and all who oppose them.

I’ve explained in other entries that barriers to entry in the world of publishing are lower than they’ve ever been. If you’re willing to spend the money to self-publish, you not only can do so relatively quickly, but you can reach the potential audience that is all of Amazon’s customers (even if brick-and-mortar booksellers refuse to stock paper books published directly through Amazon). What you should take away from this is that in a market glutted with the work of amateurs, the filtering process is that much more important. As the influence of the “Big Five” publishers wanes, it is essential that some method exist to screen the works of fiction vying for your attention. One of the ways one might do this is to select the work of acclaimed authors — that is, authors who have received awards.

In the universe of contemporary science fiction, this makes organizations like the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA, which hands out the Nebulas) and the World Science Fiction Society (WSFS, which awards the Hugos) influential. The people who hold sway in these organizations have power and influence in the world of science fiction literature. If you can determine who wins awards, you determine whose work becomes known and therefore popular. Awarding organizations are therefore gatekeepers, at least of a sort. They can perform a very useful function in a market bloated with otherwise unworthy efforts.

Therein also lies a problem, for when these organizations are dominated by one political outlook, the result is the predictable marginalization of anyone who does not toe the line espoused by the gatekeepers. Take SFWA, for example. From 2010 to 2013, the president of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America was one John Scalzi. No more wretched a Social Justice Whiner (SJW, sometimes erroneously defined as “Social Justice Warrior”) are you likely to find. Scalzi, arguably a talented writer, is nonetheless a mewling, bedwetting progressive. His diatribe, “Straight White Male: The Lowest Difficulty Setting There is” sums up everything that makes Social Justice Whiners tick. In their hatred for white men, they fail to see the hypocrisy in branding others racist. In their attempt to exclude anyone who does not fall into a favored progressive demographic — minorities, homosexuals, women — they fail to see the absurdity in their demands for inclusion and tolerance. Among Scalzi’s fellow travelers are ogres like K.T. Bradford, an arrogant, finger-wagging Jabba the Hutt in a fright wig who thinks writing should be judged, not on how well it is written, but on the skin color and wedding tackle of the author.

Science fiction authors who refuse to live in politically correct prison camps have fought back by organizing to influence voting for relevant awards. The Hugo Awards, for example, recently saw tremendous gains for “right wing” authors, where “right wing” is “anything to the left of John Scalzi and K.T. Bradford.” Arthur Chu’s elaborate histrionics in Salon would be merely embarrassing if his mischaracterization of the voting process did not harm good people’s reputations. He described the Hugo award process as “right-wing backlash” and non-progressive authors, readers, and voters as a “small group of deranged trolls.” Meanwhile, respected and award-winning author Brad R. Torgersen, one of the prime movers behind the “Sad Puppies” campaign to bring political balance to the Hugo awards, was maligned in “Entertainment Weekly” as a racist misogynist. He promptly shut up his critics by posting a photo of his family, including his adorable daughter and the black woman who is his wife. This did little, however, to undo the lies told about him by EW’s Isabella Bidenharn [which EW “corrected” after the harm was wrought].

The damage done online by SJWs to the reputations of conservatives, libertarians, Christians, and other “right-wingers” is very real. They control many media outlets and can brand you an unperson — a homophobe, a racist, a hatemonger – as quickly as one of their bloggers can press “send.” The SJW cannot exist without the Internet. If not for social media, if not for the power of the virtual mob, individual SJWs would be laughed out of any room they entered. If a Social Justice Whiner approached you on the street and demanded that you “check your privilege,” you would scoff at such a person and perhaps even push them out of your way. Most SJW types are weaklings, both mentally and physically. Like all cowards, they only have power when there are a great many of them… or when they have the Internet to shield them from the physical consequences of endlessly confronting, insulting, and accusing decent human beings of thoughtcrime.

Our lives are both connected through and dominated by social media.  If you are an author, it is not enough to hide your opinions, to express only the weakest of public sentiments, and to hope no one on the left discovers that you are a closeted “right-winger” whose work should be condemned regardless of its merits. You must also write only politically correct, boring drivel — the type of social-justice-approved pablum that makes for dreadful writing and even worse reading. It is no wonder, then, that authors whose political outlook is not aligned with the simpering leftists are stepping into the light in increasing numbers, making their opinions known and letting their work speak for itself.  The online world, and the awards within our industry circles, represent ground that we dare not concede to the SJWs. If we let them hold sway, we will all live in that progressive gulag, that politically correct prison camp, in spirit if not in body. That is a dystopian future that rivals the bleakest work of any science fiction author.

The Executioner: Assassin’s Tripwire

My last “Executioner” novel for Gold Eagle/Worldwide Library is Assassin’s Tripwire.  I’m going to miss working with this series, and I wish I had been able to give the characters a proper send-off.  My original draft for this manuscript included Mack Bolan and his handler, Hal Brognola, discussing how much longer they can continue doing this sort of work.  The two men conclude that as long as there is evil in the world, they’ll keep fighting.  Somewhere out there, I hope they’re doing just that.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 14: “Accidents Happen”

“Take a long look, Mister Miller,” said Councilwoman Sara Lindsey. She pushed the pocket tab across the table. The image it displayed was not pleasant: A man in his late twenties lay suspended in an air cot, covered in burns that, in some cases, were deep enough to expose bone. Whether the man was alive or dead was not clear from the picture.

“Please, call me Chad,” said the man seated opposite her. Miller wore an identity badge proclaiming him a licensed lobbyist for Baxter-Derrill Medicorp. He also wore a cheap suit and a phony smile. Lindsey despised him. She had met him only this morning.

“That,” said Lindsey, “is what legalization of Sleep looks like. That is what Oyd Waller wants to unleash on Northam? On Hongkongtown?”

“Councilwoman,” said Miller, pausing to take a sip from his tea cup, “while BDM understands your concerns, we would caution you not to make judgments based on the illegal, back-alley operations that characterize illicit Sleep production.  We simply want to bring this process from the darkness into the light.  Yes, the chemical process that produces Sleep is remarkably corrosive. It is damaging to both people and equipment, I’m told. Dangerous technology like this ought to be regulated. There needs to be government oversight. Relegated to the shadow economy, it’s no wonder that unsafe practices exist.  This was the same argument applied to the legalization of heroin and cocaine, you’ll recall… and the results were identical.”

“Waller’s motives aren’t concern for public welfare,” said Lindsey. “Let’s just put that on the table, shall we, Mister Miller? You’re here carrying water for your CEO, not trying to swing my vote for the public good.”

“I think we can both acknowledge,” Miller said, too smoothly, “that BDM would of course profit from the establishment of de-Sleep centers for the rehabilitation of the addicted.”

“So your company would not only produce Sleep and profit from its production, but also profit from the treatment of those your product has addicted.”

“That’s a cynical way to look at it,” said Miller.  “We prefer to see it as a process of normalization.”

“Normalization? Is that why the bill Waller and BDM are sponsoring also deregulates soylicon? Are claiming BDM knew nothing about the manufacture of soylicon precursors at the Barkhor Street Surgery?  Oh, I can see you’re surprised by that.  I have my sources in law enforcement, just as you do. I know that Barkhor Street is a holding of BDM, and I know that a routine inspection there turned up contraindicated synthetics. Growing biochips, living computers, or unregistered synthetic flesh is against both Northam and Hongkongtown law, Mister Miller.”

“My employer cannot be held responsible for the actions of a few misguided, rogue employees,” said Miller, showing her his capped teeth.  He spread his hands in what had to be a practice gesture of reassurance.  “As for soylicon, while we regret the overzealous actions of the Barkhor Street medical professionals whose employment we’ve since been forced to terminate, we do think the scrutiny on bio-active synthetics is misplaced. Put simply, Councilwoman, the public doesn’t understand soylicon. There were certain… miscommunications when it was first introduced. Call it improper marketing. We believe banning a substance that has real application in medical science and food production  was a premature overreaction on the part of Northam’s government. Given Hongkongtown’s unique legal status, if the city council decriminalizes it, we can again begin production of soylicon for local use. That may pave the way for mainland legality.  It’s an iterative process.”

“It’s ghoulish,” said Lindsey. “Soylicon might as well be human flesh.”

“But it isn’t,” said Miller.  “It’s a hybrid substance, officially classified as a polymer-bonded synthetic organism with no living characteristics.”

“The Medical Hegemony believes otherwise.”

“The Medical Hegemony,” said Miller, his tone darkening, “has grown complacent. When innovation is stifled by the Hegemony’s knee-jerk negative reactions, everyone suffers. But you have a history with the Medical Hegemony, don’t you, Councilwoman? I believe they’ve contributed handsomely to your campaign. Strange, that mainland medical establishment would take an interest in your political fortunes, given that Hongkongtown is the one production center in Northam not completely under the Hegemony’s thumb.”

“If you’re implying something,” said Lindsey, “I encourage you to get to your point, Mister Miller.”

“My point,” said Miller, standing, “is that you should reconsider your vote. The margin is quickly moving in our favor.  After what happened to Councilman Theopolis… what a terrible tragedy.”

Lindsey felt her mouth fall open.  “Theopolis was murdered,” she said quietly. “I hope you’re not saying what I think—”

“An accident,” said Miller. “Accidents happen.  They’re common in Hongkongtown. A murder, a car wreck, a fire with no explanation. All merely random acts of chance, if tragic ones.”  He smoothed the front of his suit and turned to go.  Without looking at her, he said, “Accidents can happen to anyone, Councilwoman.  Consider that carefully when you next cast your vote.”  He left her sitting at the day room table.

The door closed on pneumatic runners.  It opened again to admit Phillips, her assistant.

“Ma’am?” said Phillips. “Are you all right?”

“No, Phillips,” said Lindsey.  “I don’t think I am.”

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing. Phillips?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Get my pistol from the safe and load it.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

Miller climbed into his vehicle and sealed the doors with a wave of his hand over the lock sensor.  “Scramble communications,” he said. “Query headquarters.”

“Scrambled communications active,” said the car. “Querying.”

“Waller,” came the voice a moment later.  “How did it go?”

“She’s a stubborn old bat,” said Miller.  “I don’t think she’s going to budge, not even if scare her. That type doesn’t back down. She’s a crusader. You can’t scare off a true believer in the Hegemony’s cause.”

“I feared as much,” said Waller.

“I think we should put a unit on her,” said Miller. “That would drop the ratio on the Council to break-even.”

“Is that wise? We have units unaccounted for already.”

“They’re… a little unstable, I’ll grant you,” said Miller. But we knew the beta programming was a little iffy.  They can still get the job done. Honestly, sir, I don’t see that we have a choice.”

“What about this detective, this Moxley character?”

“He’s nothing,” said Miller.  “A broken-down loser. I’ll handle it, sir.  He’s a minor nuisance, not an obstacle.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I know him,” said Miller.  “I’m certain.”

“Report back when you can. We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to get everything lined up before the next time the Council votes. Out.”

The connection closed.  Miller massaged his chin with his thumb for a moment before turning to face the back seat. The creature concealed by the smoked windows of the car looked back at him without expression.

Miller laughed out loud.

“I do not understand,” said the creature.

“Nothing,” said Miller. “I was laughing.”

“You were laughing,” it said. “Do you have instructions for me, sir?”

“Yeah,” said Miller.  “You’re on,”

“I’m on,” said the creature.

Miller fanned the lock sensor again. He was still chuckling at his own joke.

It was hard to have an expression when you didn’t have a face.

The Ugly and the Uglier in Self-Publishing

Considering self-publishing? You aren’t alone. If you’ve always wanted to be an author but couldn’t “get published” before, you need only plunk down a few dollars in fees to make it happen directly through Amazon or with the help of a number of self-publishing houses. These companies are only too willing to take to market just about anything you’d care to put on the page, in paper or as an e-book. Anyone can be an author now… but that fact is proving frustrating for authors and readers alike, who are adjusting to a rapidly changing market that is now glutted with material that never should have made it onto Amazon.

Only a few years ago, self-publishing printed books through Publish on Demand (POD) outfits was becoming very popular. It represented a big step forward in what was then still known as “vanity press.” Authors who could not or would not secure publishing deals with “real” publishers could instead print their work on their own terms for a fee. Where once vanity publishing meant paying rather large fees for a crate of books you then sold out of your garage or the trunk of your car, the rise of POD technology made self-publishing both more respectable and more cost-effective. For a much smaller fee (compared to printing in quantity) to set up the book (and possibly a hosting fee to keep it live), any author could have a paperback or even a hardcover from whose sales he would derive small royalties. Such authors then sat around at card tables at their local bookstores or public libraries, desperately trying to make eye contact with nonplussed shoppers.

The market continues to evolve. Now that e-books have eclipsed printed books, barriers to entry for new authors are the lowest they’ve ever been. A prospective author no longer needs to set up a printed book with a POD publishing house unless he or she chooses. That author may now go directly to Amazon, reaching the pool of prospective readers the massive online bookseller serves. Amazon’s direct publishing program, wherein the company offers Kindle-platform e-books (and even printed paper books through its company CreateSpace), has proven immensely popular. Self-publishing promises authors more control, faster time to market, global distribution, and higher royalties.

Of course, self-publishing also allows authors who could not otherwise secure a publishing agreement to bring their books to market and put them in front of customers’ faces, which is largely the point of the service. For every successful direct-publishing author formerly championed by the Big Five, there are thousands of aspiring (and often incompetent) would-be writers pumping illiterate swill onto Amazon’s pages. Their e-books, many of which are even offered for free, are the distilled essence of aspiring amateur writers. These are people who just want someone to read their work. They’re happy to give their efforts away (to the tune of a disturbingly high percentage of badly written, free-to-download erotica, for example) as long as they know someone is going to see the writing.

Some of these authors show promise. Some will go on to be successful and commercially published authors. I am one myself; my first published works were dreadful novels that I produced through the very reputable POD publisher Booklocker. But the number of authors who can say they self-published some chaff before actually learning their trade is small compared to the number of would-be writers who are content to keep churning out work that is not edited, that never improves, and that will be read by only a handful of family members and friends. It therefore falls to the customer to wade through the dizzying array of offerings in an effort to dig up a decent read.

There are other issues associated with self-publishing that might not be apparent immediately. One is that authors who publish their own work may be, knowingly or unknowingly, printing plagiarism or libel. The typical self-publisher cannot possibly screen the avalanche of badly written garbage that crosses its virtual desks, so these companies rely on reporting after the fact to alert them of questionable content. They’ll err on the side of caution so as not to become party to any lawsuits that result… but the book, complete with ISBN number, now exists, and will exist forever even if it is not readily available. As the author, you’re on the hook for whatever damage that does and to whomever it offends. That may not sound terribly worrisome until you find yourself on the receiving end of an intellectual property suit (because you had no editor to raise the question in the first place).

According to the Financial Times‘ Henry Mance, some 460,000 titles were self-published globally in 2013, an increase of 500% over five years. “The industry,” he writes, “is ‘evolving from a frantic, wild west-style space to a more serious business,’” according to one research group. …[E]very part of the publishing process can now be replicated by authors themselves… Self-published works account for 50 percent of author royalties generated by ebooks on Amazon… By contrast, the Big Five publishers deliver 35 percent of ebook royalties.” In other words, if you DO have an audience as an established and talented writer, self-publishing may make more money for you, even if it lacks the prestige associated with being a Big Five author.

Mance goes on to quote business competitors who claim Amazon is using its self-publishing platform to “bludgeon” publishers by reducing their profitability. Barnes and Noble, meanwhile — one of the few brick-and-mortar chains still a going concern in today’s challenging publishing landscape — still steadfastly refuses to stock print books published by Amazon. If you’re a self-published author and you publish through Amazon, in other words, you won’t be seeing your work on bookstore shelves any time soon, at least not in a Barnes and Noble. This is less of a problem for obscure, beginning authors than for well-known and established ones, who stand to lose a significant portion of their market if they switch from the Big Five to a self-publishing platform in order to reap more of the profits of their own sales.

Where does this leave authors and their audiences? The answers are unclear as the market continues to change. There are good self-published books. There are also many bad ones. As gate-keepers to the world of publishing continue to evaporate, writers and readers alike will be forced to navigate uncharted waters. Their shared goal — finding something decent to read – is both easier and harder thanks to the evolving technology that makes it possible. The role of the individual authors, the intellectual property owners and developers, in marketing what will become trusted properties, thus becomes that much more important. When it is impossible to find an entertaining book by browsing a bloated market, we will turn to filters to screen potential entrants. The nature of those filters remains to be seen and is evolving even now.

Technocracy — Self-Publishing: The Good, The Bad, and the Even Worse

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the continuing evolution of the publishing and self-publishing industries. Read it here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 13: “Crosses to Bear”

Ben Garrison stood on the third story of a building overlooking the Capitol tech ghetto. The building had been partially razed, leaving three levels of ruin that retained just enough structure to provide cover for his snipers. The snipers had already left their positions, however. The raid on the illegal surgical facility — which sat in the shadow of the Augment District among countless abandoned homes — had gone off without a hitch and with no loss of life.  Turbofan interceptor craft stirred up whirlwinds of grit and debris on the filthy street below.  Through his binoculars, he swept the windows of the target building, making sure there was nothing moving now that his men were clearing out. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Ogs to hide during a raid and then come creeping out of the woodwork when the heat was off. The smaller models could fit where no human being could go.

He felt the disc of his phone vibrate in his pocket. He tapped the stud implanted behind his right ear. “Garrison,” he said.

“This is Harold Moxley calling for Commander Ben Garrison.”

“Commander,” said Garrison. “I, uh, haven’t answered to that rank for thirty years, Mister… Moxley? Why does that sound familiar?”

“We served together, Commander,” said Moxley. “I was a supply sergeant—”

“Oh,” said Garrison.  “Right. That Moxley.”

The statement hung between them for a few moments. When Garrison didn’t comment further, Moxley apparently decided to stumble forward.  “I’m calling you, Commander, because you’re the only person I know in Human Services.”

“That might be overselling it a bit, don’t you think?” Garrison asked. He had not yet decided, himself, if Moxley was digging a hole.

“Fair enough, sir,” said Moxley. “But what I’m bringing to you isn’t, strictly, speaking, something I could raise through channels. For one, there’s my status. I’m a private detective in Hongkongtown, where Human Services does not even maintain a field office.”

“We’ve been busy enough there nonetheless,” said Garrison. “As you probably know.”

“I’m aware,” said Moxley. “The official word is there’s a much larger Og presence in Honkongtown than anyone realized.  I know there’s some talk on the mainland of government intervention, but the politics of our free-trade status is an obstacle.”

“You assess the situation correctly,” said Garrison. “So why this call, Mister Moxley?”

The detective did not react to Garrison’s refusal to use either his current title or his past rank. Garrison gave the man points for that.  “I’ve got something strange. Something that isn’t an Og, but isn’t a robot like we’re used to seeing them.  It’s some kind of synthetic organism.  I need to have it analyzed but, to be honest, I need to know someone I can trust knows about it, too. It would be awfully easy to disappear me and cover this up. It’s that big. At least, I think so.”

“You could go through channels.”

“The synthetic tried to kill me, Commander. I don’t know who I can trust, but it sure isn’t the Hongkongtown authorities. Too many holes.”

Garrison had to admit that this was sound reasoning. Moxley wasn’t stupid, whatever else he was.  “I can send you a team,” he said.  “Cory Jenson and Erica Detweiler. Two of my better agents, young and hungry. They’ll assess the situation and, if warranted, transport your captured sample back to Human Services here in the Capital.”

“How are things in Central—”

“We don’t get to call it that anymore,” said Garrison. “Haven’t you heard, Mister Moxley? Prime Minister Nguin’s administration abhors that unofficial nickname. We are officially The Capital. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably a subversive.”

“I guess that tells me how things are.”

“We all have our political crosses to bear,” said Garrison.  “But as I’m doing you a favor, Mister Moxley, perhaps you can return it.”

“I’m listening,” said Moxley.

“I’ve kept up on the raids in your area,” said Garrison, “because we’ve been tracking a network of Og terrorists whose roots go pretty deep into Hongkongtown. I’ve heard rumors. I was wondering if maybe you could offer me any insight.”

“Go ahead,” said Moxley.

“What can you tell me about an Og named Montauk?”

Moxley paused for longer than Garrison would have liked.  Finally, the detective said, “I’ve met him. Apparently he was active around here for quite a while. He got mixed up with some local trouble we had out here, involving an escaped prisoner.”

“I haven’t seen any data on that,” said Garrison. “It wasn’t mentioned in any of the files.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess it wouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“That’s complicated,” said Moxley. “And it’s probably not relevant. At least I hope not. But the upshot is that Montauk hasn’t been seen around here since.  Blew town and stayed blown. I can say with confidence I know nothing about any Og freedom-fighting activities in Hongkongtown.”

“Curious.”

“Commander?”

“Curious that you would use that term,” said Garrison.  “These aren’t freedom fighters, Mister Moxley. I know it may be tempting to see them that way, removed as you are from the day to day threat of the Ogs. Here in Central… Here in the Capital, we cope with their depredations every day. I’m standing in the shadow of the wall of our Augment District right now.  These are dangerous creatures who cannot be trusted. Their activities are no more a fight for political freedom than a home invader’s are a fight for financial freedom.”

“Duly noted,” said Moxley.  “Look, Commander, I got nothing against the guy. I never had any detailed information about what he was doing here. But I know Hongkongtown. I know what goes on here.  If he was active, I’d hear something. There’s been nothing. As far as I know, he left town when the Peytons did, and for the same reasons.”

“The Peytons?”

“The escaped prisoner,” said Moxley. “A bag-job named Ian Peyton and his daughter, Annika. They were mixed up with Government Intelligence somehow. It’s all been hushed up. I’d say you didn’t hear it from me, but smarter folks than I am have already erased it from the computers. I might as well be whistling show tunes into your ear, for all the confirmation you’ll find.”

Garrison had no idea what to make of that.  “If you do hear of anything regarding Montauk or his Og network,” he said, “I will expect a call.”

“Yeah,” said Moxley. “Right.”

“I’ve logged your contact data,” Garrison told him. “Expect agents Jensen and Detweiler shortly.  And Mister Moxley?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

“Sure, Commander.  Thank you too.”

The connection closed.  Garrison shook his head and brought his binoculars back up to his face.  He still had a lot of work left to do.

It occurred to him, as he focused once more on the building below, that Detective Harold Moxley was an excellent liar.

Technocracy: Will the Left gain control of every web search?

Read my WND “Technocracy” column this week, “Will the Left gain control of every web search?” here in WND News.

Rules for Resumes

A resume exists for a very specific reason, and it isn’t to get you the job. Resumes are not tools for job applicants. They are tools for employers. They exist solely to help an employer eliminate prospective job applicants. It is subsequently through interviews that someone gets (or does not get) a job. If I knew that there were only two people in the entire world available and willing to perform my open job, I would, as the employer, waste no time asking to see their resumes. I would engage them both in conversation to see which one I wanted to hire.

From your perspective as a job applicant, therefore, the resume is Willy Wonka’s golden ticket: It is a means of getting you from outside the building into the lobby. It exists only to get you through the screening process. What you then do is up to you. In other words, if your resume gets you through the glass doors and into a conference room, the job is yours to lose from that point.

How, then, should a resume be written? You know that it should be free of mistakes, but simply proofing it isn’t enough. There are a few simple guidelines that I use.

First, a resume must define you, immediately and succinctly. There are those who don’t use summaries in their resume templates, because among other things this makes it difficult to use the same resume for multiple types of jobs if the applicant is casting a wide net. That’s the wrong approach. An employer wants to know not only that you are looking for a job, but that you are looking specifically for the job offered. If you are looking for multiple types of employment, tailor a resume and a corresponding resume summary to each type of job. Sum yourself up in that summary, as in, “Experienced documentation specialist with information design and computer-aided drafting experience seeks challenging employment in information technology or related fields.”  It’s not that hard, but it tells the employer exactly who you are supposed to be and why that is relevant to his needs.

Second, a resume must be keyword searchable. Get the list of your job skills and any relevant software experience early in the resume. Make it easy for Human Resources personnel to log what you can do in whatever system they’re using. An employer wants to know that you have the skills or experience necessary to the do job. You must be complete and accurate in reporting what you know. NEVER LIE. I have seen employees lose jobs because they claimed to know a specific software program but could not effectively use it once on the job.  If you claim to know software that you actually don’t, you had better be staying up all night over the weekend to learn that software inside and out before your first morning on the job.

Third, a resume must be brief. One page is preferred, with a separate sheet for references that you can provide on request. Avoid going to two pages unless you have such a long work history (say, twenty years in the business, that sort of thing) that it’s impossible. In that case, two pages is okay because it can be copied onto the front and back of a single sheet of paper. Never, ever allow a resume to stretch to three pages, however. Nobody — and I am completely serious — will ever read a three page resume. They are unwieldy and take too much time to absorb. Avoid the temptation to include enough information for three pages that has been shrunk down with tiny margins to fit onto two. Edit out the unnecessary fluff, and rephrase more succinctly those descriptions that are too long.

Fourth, your contact information must be professional.  If you’re using an AOL email address or a fanciful hotmail account, create a new gmail address that sounds like something a professional would use. PhilTheWarriorPrince@hotmail.com is an unacceptable email for a resume compared to Phil.Elmore@[almost any domain but hotmail]. People are going to use that email to follow up on your interview, in all likelihood. Present yourself as you want to be seen.  If you have your own website, make sure your prospective employer isn’t going to see something he won’t like when he navigates to the domain after seeing it in your e-mail address.  Also, make sure to include a phone number that reaches you directly. If your mother is going to pick up the phone when an employer calls, that may not be the image you want to convey. Buy a prepaid phone (they’re cheap) and use it exclusively for fielding resume follow-ups. Make sure to set up the voice mail (and don’t try to be cute when you do that).

Finally, a resume must be clean and pleasing to the eye.  Discard any advice you’ve been given about making your resume stand out. Don’t use colored paper. Don’t get fancy with graphics. Don’t send it taped to a box of donuts. Employers don’t want gimmicks and they are turned off by them. Make your resume clean, professional, and easy on the eye (meaning not cluttered or chaotic). Your prospective employer just wants to screen applicants. He or she will respond to the content of your resume accordingly. Employers are not moved by tricks, no matter how clever you think they are, and they will tend to dismiss as a poor risk any applicant who tries to get too creative.

Remember that a resume is always about time. Employers have a limited amount of time to spare. Hiring is usually a nuisance that, rightly or wrongly, hiring managers see as bleeding productive time from the rest of the day. Don’t waste an employer’s time, and therefore annoy that prospective employer, by coloring outside the lines. Keep it clean, keep it professional, and above all, keep it succinctly informative. And when you’re ready to pay someone to do all this for you, think of http://www.philelmore.com for all your resume, writing, editing, and authoring needs.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 12: “I Know A Guy”

“Don’t let it go to your head, kid.”

Moxley shook his head as the duty officer handed him a polymer bag full of his personal effects.  He glanced back at the desk, then to Weber.

“I guess they’re not going to give it back,” said Mox.

Weber’s eyes bulged.  “Kid, you don’t have the brains God gave a cop. Shut your mouth and pick up your feet.”

Moxley looked around.  Weber continued to amble out of the stationhouse. His gait was wobbly but unhurried. If a man could walk grumpy, Weber did so.

“I’ll get another,” said Mox.

“No you won’t,” said Weber.  “I told you to get a gun, not a blade. Blades look bad. They always look bad. You’re lucky the Day Sergeant owes people money.” They reached the parking area and Weber climbed into the driver’s side of his brand-new Monkton Dayliner. He gestured impatiently for Moxley to climb into the vehicle.  The car pulled away before Mox had closed his door.  “What got into your head, kid?” Weber said.  “What holing notion made you think it was okay to stab a guy to death?”

“Self-defense.”

“Not my point.”

Moxley didn’t answer for a long moment.  Finally, he said, “Nobody will sell a gun to me.”

Weber snorted.  “The dishonorable again?” he said.  “Is that all? Hell, you could have said so. How do you think I fixed your credentials in the first place?”

“You can do that?”

“I already did it,” said Weber. “We can add a gun to your detective ID, easy. That councilman, what’s his name, the one who took his picture with you last month. He can pull this string. I just gotta make a call.”

“I did save his career.”

“Yeah, you’re a real hero,” said Weber. “He kills a hooker who likes it rough, you cover it up so his liability policy stays intact. You’re a man among men.”

Mox shot Weber a look.  “But—”

“Don’t get sandy,” said Weber. “I’m just saying that in this job you’re gonna meet plenty of powerful scumbags. You’re gonna do favors for them. They’re gonna be grateful. They’ll shake your hand and grin for the cameras. If it can’t come back to them they’ll even grease the wheels for you sometimes. But the second you could hurt them, the moment you’re a danger, they’ll cut you loose. You can’t make friends with politicians, kid. Remember that.”

Moxley stared out his window. The Dayliner churned smoothly through the Hongkongtown traffic. Weber drove in silence for several blocks.

“He was going to kill me, Web.”

“They’re all gonna kill you,” said Weber.  “Hongkongtown.”

“Hongkongtown,” said Moxley.

 

* * *

 “Great plan, Mox,” said Lobby.  He dumped the plastic bag at the foot of the sofa.  Moxley, whose pain had overcome his reservations about Lobby’s furniture, managed to scoop up the bag with some difficulty. He removed the plastic bag of bourbon, zipped open the mouth, and drank deeply.  The stuff was cheap, cheaper even than what Moxley usually bought. It burned going down. It would burn coming out.

“I’ll pay you back,” said Moxley.

“No,” said Lobby. “You won’t.”  He went back into the kitchen, where the body of whatever had been imitating Sheb was lying on the countertop. How Lobby had gotten the corpse — if you could call it that — up on the counter, Mox couldn’t say. He quickly added the fact to the long list of things he didn’t care about just now.

“What I want to know,” said Lobby, poking at the remains of the creature’s head with a digital spanner, “is how you figured rolling that car at 140 kay pee aytch wasn’t going to kill you.”

“That car was next year’s model,” said Moxley. “Auto drive, passive restraints, you name it.”

“Then how did you figure it would kill this thing?” said Lobby. “You said it didn’t even flinch when you shot it.”

“It didn’t,” said Mox. “And I didn’t. Figure, I mean. Crashing the car was the only thing I could think of.”

“It’s that kind of decision making,” said Lobby, sounding distracted now as he dug deeper into the creature’s shattered skull, “that has propelled you to the success you enjoy today.”

Moxley washed back a retort with more discount bourbon. He needed Lobby right now.  When he could feel his throat again, he said, “So what is it?”

“Beats hell out of me,” said Lobby.  “It’s not an Oggy, but it’s like no robot I’ve seen. Far more advanced.  Synthetics of this kind… it’s got some kind of electric matrix that makes its skin unstable. Keeps shifting under my fingers.”

“Shifting how?” said Moxley.

“I think it’s camouflage,” said Lobby.  “Like a chameleon.  Changes color to match its environment. Makes sense. If this is some kind of infiltration unit, built to look like your friend, then it would have other advanced capabilities. To make it a better spy.”

“And a better killer,” said Moxley.  He rubbed his face with his hand.  The bourbon was starting to turn his lips numb.

“So how do you rate a… a synthoid spy assassin?”

“Synthoid?”

“Have to call it something,” said Lobby.  “So?”

“I don’t know, Lobby,” said Mox.  “It was asking me about Ray.  Wanted to know what he told me.”

“Well, what did he tell you?”

“That’s just it,” said Moxley.  “Nothing. Nothing that I can think of, anyway. That’s why I need his case files.  You gotta hurry, Lob. I think I’m big trouble here.”

Lobby looked to the synthoid, then back to the detective.  “You? Try both of us, Moxley.”

“Yeah,” said Mox.  He considered the bag of bourbon in his fist.  “Looks that way.”

Lobby went to the cupboard above his stove, stood on his tiptoes, and removed a sawed-off rotary shotgun. He broke it, checked the chambers, and closed it again.  “So what now?”

“Now we call for help,” said Moxley.

“But who?” said Lobby. “I’m out of my depth here, Moxley.”

“I know a guy,” said Mox.