Hugh Howey's Blog, page 89

Office Space

The Wool ARCs!

Oh man, oh man, these are going to be popular. Random House UK and Century Publishing have just received the first batch of WOOL advance review copies. People within the company are already snatching them up left and right. In fact, I worry that very few of these will actually make it out to their intended audience!

Here’s how ARCs are supposed to work, for those of you unfamiliar with them: Publishers send advance copies of books to retailers, book buyers, media outlets, and reviewers. This gets the right people excited about the work prior to its publication date. Reviews appear ahead of time, and store managers know to purchase extra copies of the works they look forward to recommending to their customers.

Normally, ARCs are of inferior quality to the finished product. This is understandable, of course. They are invariably paperback and often feature a substitute cover (or practically no cover at all). What Century and Random House UK have done with WOOL is create an ARC you would want to own, one you’ll talk about. There’s another slice of genius at work here: by splitting the book into its original 5 parts, they not only pay homage to the publication history of the work, they make it possible for five employees to read along at the same time!

I can imagine the scene at our old bookstore in Boone. One of us snags the ARC before the others can get to it. When we finish the first part, we tear into the second, but we also bring the book we’ve finished back to work because so-and-so really has to read this. Next thing you know, people are begging for the next entry and passing them around like an infectious disease. Five of us are reading various bits simultaneously, which fuels a conversation!

At least, that’s what I hope happens around the UK. Time will tell. Until then, feast your eyes on the awesomeness that Century has wrought:

Also, if you read my recent post celebrating INDIEpendence Day, you’ll appreciate how killer it is to see a major player like Century / Random House thinking outside the box and giving a work this kind of personal touch. This is the same publisher that took a chance on 50 Shades of Grey and promoted it with all its might. It reiterates what I said in that last post: being indie is all about the mentality of doing what’s right, doing what’s fun, doing what you think will make a difference. This is so much more refreshing than simply doing what’s always been done before. Kudos to whoever came up with this idea and for all the others who put their weight and enthusiasm behind it.

Oh, and rest assured that I’ll get some video up when my copy of these bad boys arrives stateside.

Happy INDIEpendence Day!

We all know this person, right? You send out a quick Tweet or Facebook update, and some friend informs you that you’ve split an infinitive, left a modifier dangling, ignored the necessity of the Oxford comma, or some other rule you didn’t learn in grade school and you sure as hell don’t remember now. You might have as an excuse that you were typing on your cramped cell phone or that you honestly don’t care about these rules. My rationale is normally that I goofed. Because even though I make a living at writing, I don’t know much about it. I just have ideas that I want to communicate, and I rely on spellcheck to make this as pain-free for the reader as possible.

Because really, what is language for? When you distill it right down to its essence, it’s all about the teleportation of ideas and imaginings, right? Think about how strange this process is: I see something in my mind, or I have a thought, and by emitting a strange series of sounds (or by drawing a string of symbols), I can implant into your brain what was previously in mine. Bizarro. And yet we do it every day and take it completely for granted.

If language is meant to communicate, why do we get in an uproar when it does its primary job, but with slight imperfections? In most cases, the intent of an error-filled sentence is clear. Heck, you can leave all the vowels out of this entire blog post and most people would still be able to read it. The Idea-Teleporter that we call “language” can be missing quite a few bolts and springs and still do its job.

And yet, many people expect perfection out of a tool that does not require it. It’s like wanting a car that not only delivers us to our destination, but emits no road noise, has plenty of cup holders, and will not break down. Ever. It can’t simply do what it was meant to do, it has to do it without error or a scratch. I can’t think of many things that are held to this standard, but the written word seems to be one of them.

Language is meant to be flexible. Moldable. To change over time. Look at neologisms. And no, I didn’t make that word up; that’s the word for making words up! Which is necessary as the world becomes more complex and fills up with physical things that people invent. One of my favorite sections of Wired magazine is the handful of new words that have come into vogue since the last issue. I’m always amazed that they can find four or five of these every month without fail. That means there’s a lot of neologisimism going on. And yeah, I just made that up. Microsoft Word is having red squiggly fits with that one. Who cares? You know what I mean! And that’s all that matters.

Now, if new words upset some, the hijacking of words send many more into apoplectic fits. But this is just the way of things. Words are used differently across generations, sometimes just to help differentiate us from each other (i.e.: to confuse parental units). When I was a kid, we started using the word “bad” to mean “good.” We came up with “radical” to mean things that were really quite blasé, but at least they made us happy. My grandfather would have reached for a gun at the mention of a “radical.” I snatched my skateboard. Etymologists had fits.

Look at the word “awful.” It used to mean the exact opposite of what it means today. Something that inspired awe has become something that inspires distaste. Same goes for “artificial.” What formerly denoted an expression of artistic merit now means anything but. Does it matter? Not to me. I know what century I live in. The knobs on the Idea-Teleporter have moved, but I can still work the thing. We all can.

On many writing forums these days, the quickest way to end a healthy and productive discussion and watch it devolve into wielded clubs and hurled sticks is to use a couple of words in a new manner. One of these is e-publish. Much is written these days about the e-publishing revolution (or the rEvolution, if you want to get awesomely radical about it). And for those who have been publishing digital books in some form or another for years, this raises hackles. The word, for them, has always meant something else.

An established e-publisher views their process much the same as a traditional press. They take on manuscripts, edit them thoroughly, produce some cover art, and put up for sale a finished e-book. To them, e-publishing is a lengthy and involved process, one that also involves gatekeepers. It’s exclusive. Not everyone can join.

Another way the term “e-publish” has been commonly used is by traditional presses. Just a few years ago, they would use this term to describe an ancillary process, as in: “Let’s e-publish this book as well, but wait a few months and really jack that price up.” In this use, e-publish is a secondary act, both in time and importance. That’s changing now, as publishers examine their revenue streams.

So why has e-publish become synonymous with self-publish? And should we care? And why do some authors tear their hair out as the two terms become interchangeable?

I think it boils down to a handful of things. First, most self-publishers only e-publish these days. Gone are the days when self-publishing meant turning your basement or garage into a warehouse for that 5,000 print run of your mystery novel (because that’s the point where production costs got low enough to “only” charge $34.95 for a 250-page work and still make two dollars on each copy). Now, you write, revise, edit, and press a button (this simplification is sure to annoy many). E-publishing is without a doubt becoming defined by do-it-yourselfers. This is why the terms are beginning to stand for the same thing.

Moreover, most e-published books are from self-publishers, not from e-publishers. The former are drowning out the latter. For every book produced by a small e-publisher, a thousand or more are uploaded by someone like me, whose work probably wouldn’t be accepted by these digital gatekeepers (perhaps rightly so).

And so a word with old meanings is having them stripped away. Adding to this process (and to the suffering of e-publishers) is the fact that hardly anyone writes about e-publishing houses in a sensational manner. Even when an e-publisher has a hit that is taken on by a big press, the public and media often label this as a self-published work. They don’t know e-publishers exist. Which makes the struggle to retain this word an admittedly scary, lonely, and desperate struggle for those who have poured so much sweat, blood, and tears into their businesses.

I sympathize with e-publishers, who have been on the front lines for the longest time. They dug the trenches and strung out the wire. They did and continue to do all the hard work. And when a bunch of yahoos run by, waving their bayonets like fools, throwing themselves across no-man’s-land with absolute contempt of boundaries and expectations, one imagines there would be some shaking of fists. I suppose I’m one of those yahoos, charging into the mist, but I’m at least curious about all the cursing from the trenches I just vaulted over. I want to turn and apologize for causing offense. Or at least to thank them for holding the line. I love e-publishers, even as I steal their moniker. I feel awful for the radicals who came before me.

If the new usage of e-publish has some people in a bother, wait until you use the word “indie” around the wrong listener. You’ll be sorry. Indie, you see, is often thought to denote any publisher that you’ve never heard of. It’s not Random House or Harper Collins or Penguin. It’s the publisher who operates much like those houses … but isn’t.

Now, I love indie publishers. My first book was published by NorLights Press, an independent publisher, and I still cherish my friendships over there. I also adore indie bookstores. I worked for two years in a university bookshop that was run on the indie model. The manager came from The Regulator in Raleigh, a signature indie bookshop, and we tried our best to emulate them in both look and feel.

So what’s the fuss over this term? Well, self-published authors have taken (rightly, I believe) to calling themselves “indie.” There are reasons for this. For one, not everyone can touch-type their hyphen, so it’s just easier to write. It’s also easier to say. Not to mention: It sounds cooler. Which is probably why the kids are fussing over it. It’s the best toy on the floor, and there’s only one of them.

Why do I consider myself indie? Because I choose to be, and so do others. Many of the authors who self-publish today never attempt the traditional route. They forgo the lengthy querying process and go straight to readers. Being indie is a choice, not something they’re forced into by being barred at any gate. I know quite a few indie authors who have turned down offers from presses both large and small. To us, being “independent” means being free of publishing houses altogether. This distinction feels significant. The distinction between the size of the press seems less so.

Having said that, I was raised with siblings, and my parents constantly yelled at us to “share.” Just because there’s one toy doesn’t mean anyone has to hog it. Words are used to communicate ideas. If you tell me you run an indie press or were published by one, I’m not going to assume it was Simon and Schuster. If you tell me you’re an indie author, I’m not going to assume your work is of any particular quality or that you got fed up after years of acquiring rejection letters. In both cases, I’m going to assume that you have a unique vision of how to go about producing good works, that there’s nothing at the major houses that fits for what you’d like to do, and so you’re doing it on your own. That may be with a small team at a small house. That may be you, all alone, out of your literal house. I say both uses are fine. But don’t be surprised when more and more people think of self-published authors as “indie” while small presses that operate according to the traditional model are lumped in with the non-indie houses. To me, this is language made more clear, not usurped. Philosophy means more than size. Indie doesn’t say you aren’t making a profit; it simply means you aren’t bound by anyone else’s rules.

Look at Louis C.K., possibly the biggest name in stand-up comedy today. Louis is wildly successful and extremely wealthy, and yet he perfectly embodies the indie spirit. He produces his own shows and sells them directly to the viewer. By charging $5 for his self-produced show, he made a million dollars in a handful of days, simplified delivery for viewers, and everyone won out. More recently, he decided to cut out the middleman for his most recent comedy tour and sold tickets on his website. This meant reduced fees and protections against gougers, so the people who want to attend are the ones purchasing the tickets. Louis is like the Amazon.com of comedy. Big and successful, yeah, but still operating according to indie principles.

What are indie principles, then? I think it’s the same philosophy that motivated the founding fathers. I believe it’s the soul at the heart of every indie artist out there who is doing his or her own thing. This is what we celelibrate this week with Independence Day and INDIEpendence day alike. It’s the ability to ask oneself not: “How has this always been done in the past?” But rather: “What’s the best way to do this, period?”

The true indie will make up their own rules. They will follow their heart and their art. They will adopt and adapt language in the manner that best serves our ability to communicate. And while we can feel sorry for those who wish things wouldn’t change, and who take offense at our borrowing of words, we will not allow those who came before us to dictate the shape of our philosophies. It’s all about the people who matter: The readers. The consumers. The general public. Serve them and serve them well.

Happy INDIEpendence Day.

And don’t be an asshole with your fireworks.

The Amazing Art of Ben Adams

Check out this mega talent. Ben Adams does these daily sketches, but each one is jam-packed with talent and little touches of awesomeness. Jahns with her cane, Marnes with his canteen, Holston with his sad suit, Jules and her defiant pose and ponytails. Love, love, love. And I think you will, too.

http://www.benjadams.com/category/daily-drawings/

A Year Older. None the Wiser.

Every year I sense how little I know. And not in the cool Zen sense of becoming an empty glass ready to be filled, but in the sense of senility, where I am certain that I was smarter the year before and ever smarter the further back I look.

My vocabulary is dwindling. Photos remind me of days I had long forgotten. I can’t remember anyone’s name. And I mean: I’m still shaking their hand, I tried my damnedest, and I can’t remember their name.

Part of my worry with everything I write is that I’m getting dumber and dumber. It’s a real fear. And I know there are people twice my age shaking their heads and wishing they could reach through my blog and slap some sense into me, but believe me: I’ve banged my head a number of times over the years. Perhaps you’re holding up better than I am. Hitting me certainly won’t help.

I console myself with this: When I read stuff I wrote back when I was smarter, I find myself pleasantly surprised. Startled, even. Doing that to your future self is pretty cool. One day, I’ll read this blog with a few more numbing years behind me, and I’ll think: Shit. It’s still happening.

A Birthday/Parting Gift

In five days, while on vacation, I’ll turn 37. Might as well be 40. Since I won’t be around to revel in the dozen or so “Happy B-Days” on my FB wall, I decided I’d leave a gift behind for you all, instead. Here’s my rough draft of chapter 18 of I, ZOMBIE. Do not enjoy.

18 • Chiang Xhen



There was meat hanging in the window: Chickens strung up by their necks, pork wrapped in twine, little hooves in prayer, half-rotten fish frozen mid-dive, their dull scales cracking off and fluttering to the ground like leaves from a shedding tree. The meat was rotten. The air was heavy with the stench of it being locked tight in that tiny shop for days and days. Clouds of flies gathered. The meat had long since been appetizing.

Two chairs lay tipped over beneath the meat, old and ornate chairs of carved wood. The shop owners used the chairs to hang their daily offerings and to adjust the signs on which prices daily fluctuated. Chiang Xhen roamed the shop in meandering circles, bumping into tables, her inhuman and lonely grunts filling the darkened space, her young eyes occasionally falling to the fragile chairs lying on their sides, her thoughts drifting toward her parents.

The crowded city made for a strange life for a young Chinese girl. Her parents had been born in China, while she had been born in this tiny microcosm, this span of city blocks made to look like someone else’s home.

Sure, she got out of Chinatown occasionally—but not often. Her parents took her to museums and concerts. They stood before large canvases and her mother showed showed Chiang how other people made brush strokes, what a hand both confident and relaxed could produce. Both of her parents stressed hours of practice. There, look at how that woman in the first chair plays violin, how her hand lays over to the side, just the edges of her fingers sliding up and down the strings.

Chiang complained after one concert that she was only ten, and that it hurt her fingers to twist them that way. When they got home that night, her mother took her aside and unwrapped her feet and pointed to them, and Chiang kept future discomforts to herself.

Her parents had been born in China and had brought much of it over with them. But it was a warped version of home, Chiang discovered. The more she talked to her friends, the more she found that her parents held in their hearts a fantasy version of their birthland. Chiang was now eleven, and had only that year discovered that dragons weren’t real. They never had been. It made her question the dinosaurs from that museum, too.

At her one-room school, they learned a lot of politics. Her teacher didn’t know English. She spoke more of the news at home than she did of the city. Chiang learned without meaning to that she was lucky to be alive. That back home, her parents may have decided to not keep her. And here, she could have all the brothers and sisters she wanted.

She didn’t argue with her teacher, didn’t mention her mother’s feet or the way her father looked at her with sadness. She had only begged for a little brother once. Her parents had yelled at one another all night, making it hard to sleep. So whenever her teacher spoke of such things, Chiang gazed out the window at something else.

Usually, it was the bold stripes on the flags of Little Italy, which every year her people encroached more and more. When she mentioned this to her father, that she felt badly for the Italians, he had shrugged. Pounding a flank of meat with his wooden hammer, he had explained to her that some people care more about where they come from than others. He told her to feel sorry for them about that while he hammered the meat with more anger.

Chiang had felt sorry for her father that day—and for the meat.

She made another circuit of the shop, her parents‘ shop. She had never been so hungry in all her life. The days had gotten away from her—not for lack of counting or so grand a number, but her mind wandered as it grew dark and light again outside. Strangers occasionally pressed against the glass, eying the meat, deciding it wasn’t for them. This much hadn’t changed. Tourists, turning their noses up at delicacies. Laughing and taking pictures. Only, they didn’t take pictures anymore. They paused with their horrible wounds. The disgusting display was in reverse, now. And then they lumbered onward.

Chiang wondered how long this would last, how long before everyone died for good. She ran that last day over and over in her head. School had been cancelled suddenly, parents arriving for their children, people running in the streets. Only, they hadn’t been screaming. That scared her the most, the wide eyes and slack jaws from the adults hurrying away with their children in their arms. In the movies, they were always screaming as loud as they could while a Chinese version of Godzilla crushed buildings beneath its scaly feet. Instead, there had been silence, which was unnerving because it wasn’t right. Everywhere, people scattered, legs hurrying, no time for screams at all.

Or maybe they didn’t want to draw attention. The sick were already in the streets. It was difficult to see them, for they moved slowly. They didn’t stand out. Not until you bumped into them, looking for your parents, fighting the crowds to get home, and a kind stranger took your hand, bent down to see if you needed help, and bit off your fingers.

Chiang made another lap of the shop. She had never been so hungry before. Even waiting until the last customer was served before her mother made something in the back had never been this bad. Nothing had. She’d lost count of the days spent circling the shop, but it had been three since she’d had anything to eat. Three days with the hunger driving her mad.

A newspaper fluttered by outside and pressed itself to the glass. It was like a tourist, peeping in. Headlines from those last days were spread across its face—news of an outbreak entirely under control. Until it wasn’t. Chiang wondered what was happening in China. She thought of her school teacher and all her friends, wondered what had happened to them. As the people passed, she looked for anyone she knew, but they were all tourists.

The newspaper flapped off on the breeze. Where it had pressed, Chinese characters painted with a young and unsure hand could be seen against the fading backlight of another counted day. The characters were supposed to say: 人生. Rénshēng. Life.

Outside, it would have read this way. To the tourists, of course, it meant nothing. Just backdrop that lent Chinatown its authenticity. For locals, of course, it promised healthy ingredients and traditional medicines. Eternal life.

Chiang had laughed when she’d seen it from the inside. After she had drawn it for the third time, washing off each attempt with a bucket of water and a rag as she attempted to satisfy her mother’s exacting standards, she saw what it meant in reverse. From the inside, the brush strokes were backwards. It looked more like shēngrén. 生人. Stranger.

A stranger life. Life as a stranger. A girl growing up in a home away from home, people she didn’t know peering through the glass, taking pictures of and pointing at the delicacies hanging in the window. It was funny how that worked out. Like the characters knew all along that this was coming. A secret only they knew.

Chiang laughed in her mind. It was the only place she could laugh or cry anymore. She wanted out. She wanted to run, to skip and shout and scream, but knotted chains hung from the doors of the little shop. Her parents had locked them all inside, had locked away their one precious girl while she grew sicker and sicker, and they worried more and more.

Two chairs of ornate wood lay tipped on their sides. There was flesh up past the knees that might sate her painful hunger, but Chiang could circle and circle and wave her arms and never reach any more. She had eaten all she could. She was powerfully hungry and all alone, and meat hung in the window of her parents’ shop.

Vacation? Or Writing Retreat?

It’s amazing to be standing here, on the other side of the last few weeks. All of our stuff has been safely transported across four states, and Amber and I now live on Jupiter. Jupiter, Florida. (I’m trying to convince everyone on these parts to substitute “on” for “in.” Both seem technically correct to me — this is Jupiter beneath our feet. And yeah, I’m already getting strange looks from the locals).

I also have the trip to New York behind me, which was a flurry of interesting and not-so-interesting meetings. The offers are coming in, and one actually made me sit up straight. No, it wasn’t a bunch of zeros written on a napkin and slid across a desk. There’s one publisher out there with a different vision, it seems. A publisher breaking ranks. I swear, if this kind of thing becomes common, it’ll turn the industry upside down. The others will have to scramble to compete or they’ll be crushed.

Okay, enough about that. The hectic trip to New York is behind me, as is ConCarolinas 2012, which was an absolute blast. I met a ton of awesome writers, got to hang out with a handful of fans, spent time with an old friend, and learned about “filking.” I could get addicted to cons. Even Amber had a great time, and she’s one of those “cool kids!”

Now we’re in Florida. On Jupiter. Our days have been a mix of fun and hectic. Writing in the morning, unboxing stuff, trying to get projects done to the house (HOAs are crazy!) and running an endless list of errands. I won’t bore you with all this stuff. The accomplishment of each one, however, greatly lessens my stress. As did our house in Boone closing. Things feel manageable again.

Which makes the timing of our vacation absolutely sublime. Amber and I planned this trip back in February, maybe earlier. We weren’t even sure we’d be living in Florida when it came around. Our 10-year anniversary fell at an awkward time for her work, so we set up a trip to the Bahamas during the summer and delayed the celebration. We leave tomorrow for Staniel Cay for five nights of practically nothing. Staniel is a quiet island in the Exumas. Snorkel, sit by the pool, drink a Kalik, write about zombies.

I have no idea what the internet availability will be like. It’s been 6 or 7 years since I’ve been to Staniel. So, I may not be replying to emails and Tweets as I normally do. People say this is part of vacationing. It sounds like hell to me. I will be writing, however. I’m trying to have the zombie mess out in July so I can get back to the silos. This also means that signed books will go out today, but future orders will have to wait until I get back. Apologies for any delays incurred!

Damn, this is nerve-wracking. I’m thinking of how my routine works right now, and putting a halt to it for six days sounds awful. Hopefully I’ll feel differently once I’m over there. Hopefully you cats are still around when I get back!

Site Spasms!

Sorry for the site issues! Looking into it!

Please, Don’t Drink and Vlog

My Large Stack of Irrational Exuberance

When my first book came out a few years ago, I was taken aback by the pre-orders. I sold over 100 copies of MOLLY FYDE AND THE PARSONA RESCUE before it was even a physical book. This was partly because of the free samples of the first chapters I had slathered everywhere and partly because I spammed every friend and relative I knew (and some that I didn’t). The result was a huge outpouring of generosity and curiosity. Even those who didn’t read YA or Sci-Fi, much less a combination of the two, were getting a copy to support a struggling artist.

That book did fairly well for a first release from a small press. It also ended on a killer cliffhanger, so I assumed everyone who bought the first book would want the sequel. I ordered boxes of MOLLY FYDE AND THE LAND OF LIGHT appropriate to this irrational exuberance. I had a handful of signings lined up in my hometown, signings at venues that brought a crush of people the first time around. The first hint that my writing was crap came when I saw the much sparser crowds who turned up for the sequel. It dawned on me (eventually) that a lot of those first sales were sympathy buys. The book had probably never been read by some of those supporters. The first chapters had turned off many of the rest. And I sat there with unopened boxes of THE LAND OF LIGHT and chatted with the few people who did read the first book and loved it.

Three years later, I still have over a dozen of those books. I’ve had to order copies of everything else, as that experience made me wary of expecting any sort of continued success. So while I run out of BLOOD OF BILLIONS and FIGHT FOR PEACE and have to wait for more to come in before I can fulfill orders, I just reach for the next copy on the LAND OF LIGHT pile, thankful for every one that I sell.

But I noticed something this week, as I fought to catch up with orders for signed copies. I only have a dozen or so of the second book left! The success of WOOL has translated to more and more people checking out the Molly series, which has brought a trickle of signed copy orders, which has meant me going to the printer for more of books 1, 3, and 4 . . . and my large stack of irrational exuberance dwindling.

All this comes as Jasper Schreurs puts the finishing touches on the new cover for the second book, and I realize how sublime the timing. As I run out of one, I’ll be ordering new editions of another. And watch: I’ll assume nobody wants any. And because of a mistake made years ago, which is only now ironing itself out, I’ll keep under-ordering copies of the books with the new art, never able to capture again that hopeful naiveté that followed the frenzied (and sympathetic) rush for THE PARSONA RESCUE…