Thomas Pluck's Blog, page 59

Responding to Bad Reviews

A short note about responding to bad reviews.

Don’t.

Have you noticed that, especially in America, everything is Totally Freakin’ Awesome or the Worst Thing Ever? Unless it is “Meh.” If you get a review with such hyperbole or inarticulate apathy, is it worth responding to?

If the reviewer dislikes your politics, you’re not going to change their mind. All you will do by jumping in is galvanize the less radical against you. Stand behind your principles, but don’t drag your book into the horrid mud-slinging of American political debate.

If the reviewer hates doody words, you will not change his or her mind. They have likely been averse to foul language since childhood. It is a matter of taste.

This also means, don’t call the wrath of your readership down upon the commenter to respond for you. Maybe you forgot what readers do. On occasion, we get bored and browse review sites to review books that we like. When we see someone trash it, and we discreetly click “No” next to the “Was This Review Helpful?” question, or we vote the review down. We do this without you weeping, raging, sighing, or laughing at the review and calling our attention to it.

Unless you’re Patrick Somerville, and the reviewer got facts wrong, and the paper’s fact checkers email your character’s email account to check it, and you have an amusing back-and-forth that you publish on Salon, don’t respond to negative reviews.

It makes you seem petty and amateur. It makes you seem lacking in self-respect, that you don’t believe in your work, or your readers’ taste. After all, you have many more readers than reviewers (I hope). Whose opinion is more important?

Requiring constant validation will hobble you as a writer. Do you want to write stories that will garner you praise, or stories you want to write?

Forget the reviews. Why aren’t you writing your next book?

 

Feeding Kate: Helping a Friend

My good friend Sabrina, of the crime fiction blog My Friends Call Me Kate, needs jaw surgery. She has Lupus. If you know anyone with this painful, joint-damaging disease, or if you’ve read the Dave Robicheaux novels by James Lee Burke- you know what’s she’s going through. And this gal loves her some cheeseburgers and cupcakes. Something I can appreciate.

Her insurance won’t pay for it- and instead of waiting for our country to enter the mid-20th century, we’re going to help her ourselves with an IndieGoGo campaign. Laura Benedict, Laura Curtis, Clare Toohey and Neliza Drew got us together to write stories for our cheeseburger-loving and crime fiction reading friend. The book is called FEEDING KATE, and we’ve got a hell of a line-up:

Ellie Anderson
Laura Benedict
Stephen Blackmoore
Joelle Charbonneau
Laura K. Curtis
Hilary Davidson
Neliza Drew
Chad Eagleton
Jenny Gardiner
Daryl Wood Gerber
Kent Gowran
Chris F. Holm
Dan O’Shea
Ron Earl Phillips
Thomas Pluck
Chad Rohrbacher
Linda Rodriguez
Johnny Shaw
Josh Stallings
Clare Toohey
Steve Weddle
Chuck Wendig
Holly West

All the proceeds will go to her surgery, and any left over will go to the American Lupus Foundation. For $5 you get a copy of the e-book, and for $18 you’ll get a print copy made through Lightning Source, by pros.

And if you like my fiction, you’ll get a Jay Desmarteaux story. He’s the lead in my novel Bury the Hatchet, a Cajun boy who likes a cheeseburger now and then himself. He’s a bully-hating bruiser who runs afoul of a biker gang in the Utah desert, who blame him for picking off their riders with his Cadillac. Their lawyer, a leather-clad lady biker named Kate, makes him a deal he can’t refuse: Take out the killer vehicle with a trunk full of nitro… if you loved “Duel” this one will be for you, and the only place to read it will be in … Feeding Kate!

Patience and Marshmallows

I’d like to talk about the virtue of patience and how it pertains to being a writer.

First things first: who the hell is this guy to give advice? He’s written a few dozen stories, and self-published an anthology. I’m not giving advice. I want to start a discussion about something that has come up a lot in the writing community on the ol’ internet.

Patience, or lack thereof.

I grew up raised by worriers.  My Grams lit candles whenever we traveled from home, and in catechism, I learned that all the tragedies in my past and future were punishments for trespasses that I had thought about committing. I try my best to realize that every bad thing that occurs is not karma for some past or future transgression. It becomes difficult to do anything, with that kind of hang-up.

The other thing I learned in Catholic school was that it was better to be punished for doing something than for something you didn’t do. So if the whole class was going to be punished for goofing around, I made sure I was doing the goofing. This has made me someone who would rather act than stand by. And while I don’t consider myself that busy or prolific, this neurosis has given me the blessing of output. What does this have to do with that poor dog with the treat on his nose?

Patience. I used to be very impatient about writing and being published. I would submit to markets who responded quickly. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to be published right now, dammit! And a few editors could tell you that I wrote stories for them overnight to apologize for not reading the guidelines about simultaneous submissions (Thank you for your understanding, David and Aldo). So, I learned early that impatience only brings embarrassment and tears. And I am thankful for the lesson.

Now, one must strike when the iron is hot. And opportunity knocks but once. But be sure that what you hear is a knock, and not your own belly rumbling with hunger for glory.

I don’t talk much about self-publishing vs. traditional. I think it has become less of a business decision than a personal crusade for some evangelists, and has become as pleasant to discuss as politics. Which is to say I’d rather toast my own danglies in a waffle iron than jump into the discussion, at this point. So I will approach it from the angle of patience, because I’ve seen too many good writers make mistakes due to a lack of it.

I’ve read of a couple short story collections and one self-published novel being pulled and re-released due to copy-editing errors. The writers made effusive apologies, offered the book free, told all their Facebook friends and blogger buddies to download the new copy. But the cat is out of the bag, and the readers they hoped to reach- the ones who don’t follow them on Twitter or read their blog already- have gotten a Shit Sandwich. And even if they do download the new version, they’ll remember this.

Of course, we’ve all read traditionally published books with errors. The e-book of Neal Stephenson’s REAMDE was pulled for egregious mistakes. But it doesn’t make up for the fact that you only get one chance to make a first impression. Do you want the priceless word of mouth to be, “That book was great,” or “I’m never buying one of his books again”?

There are more examples of impatience: Querying a press with your novel, then self-publishing it a few weeks later. Not submitting to markets who take over 30 days to respond. Self-publishing merely to avoid the grueling process of submitting queries to editors or agents, then waiting up to 18 months or more for your book to be published, if everything goes well.

The real question is: Do you want one marshmallow now, or three marshmallows later?

That link goes to Kristine Rusch writing on the Stanford Delayed Gratification Experiment, where children were offered one marshmallow now, but told if they didn’t eat it, they could have two marshmallows later. I know, I want a marshmallow now, don’t you? Well, wait for it.

Kris Rusch uses this experiment to show why we will take a “big” advance now, vs. the slow steady sales that can be achieved through self-publishing. But I’m going to flip that argument. I think a lot of new writers self-publish because they can’t wait to eat that marshmallow. Not a money marshmallow, but one of gratification at hearing their friends (and hopefully some new readers) tell them how much they liked their book. And I think a lot of the time we should wait, to get more marshmallows.

Ms. Rusch is a pro, and her Business Rusch blog is great reading. I like reading her posts because she is somewhat balanced and shrewd in judging traditional vs. self publishing. She may seem like she isn’t, because she calls out the big boys on their terrible accounting, bullying contracts, and otherwise non-agile business performance, but that is because she has self-respect. She is a professional, and demands to be treated as such. And I can’t think of anything wrong with behaving that way, from the time you submit your first story for publication.

Kris Rusch has self-published, and has many books with traditional publishers. She makes a choice on each book. It is a business decision, not a religion, or changing the world. It is not a knife in the back of bookstores, fighting the gatekeepers, or giving the big bully Amazon the defiant middle finger. It is no more political than choosing a credit union over a multinational bank (though that too, has been politicized).

If you read Ms. Rusch’s post, she lays out a very convincing argument to self-publish, when comparing money made vs. advances paid, on average. If you write, read that post. It will inform your decisions. But keep an open mind, and don’t act out of impatience. If you want to write a series character, you might not want to self-publish, if you are doing so to get the attention of a traditional publisher. They don’t want book #4 in your series. They want book #1, and they’re not going to publish it if it’s… already published.

And… editing is essential. Not just copy-editing. Editing. Find someone who will be honest with you, or pay a pro. They are out there. Check their references. If your stories were all published in well-edited zines, that’s great. Edit them again, you’d be amazed how many typos slip past multiple sets of eyes. Ask Lawrence Block, who found half a sentence repeated in a novel that was published three times and proofread each time.

This is the age of instant gratification. But to quote an old commercial… Make no wine before its time. Remember when writers used to have novels they left in a drawer? Maybe writing this novel was practice, if everything thinks your book stinks on ice. Do you want to send it out there, like an embarrassing childhood photo? That is a serious consideration. A reader is unlikely to forgive you and see if your second book got a whole lot better.

I force myself to sit on a story for a week before I edit it again and send it out. It hurts, like someone is spooling my intestines out on a spindle. But it pays off, when I’m stuffing my face with the marshmallows of acceptance. I rewrote my first novel, gutted over half of it, and this version is being gutted again. I had entire chapters describing the past in great detail, when one sucker punch of a line could do the job… but enough about that.

I have a long way to go and a lot to learn. But I have learned some patience, and it has served me very well. I may self-publish a story collection, with a new Jay Corso story, after he debuts in Needle. I am editing my first novel, and will be querying agents and editors this year. If no one asks for edits, and rejects it outright… who knows, I may self-publish. But it won’t be because I can’t wait to see what people think. It will be because that is what I’ve decided is best. And I’ll damn sure be writing my next novel as soon as I’m done editing this one.

From what I can see, it’s like fighting. You need to strike when opportunity presents itself. But you sure as hell don’t throw a punch just to get it over with.

I used to do that, as well. I had a straight nose, once.

A Glutton for Punishment, at Shorts2Go

If you want to read a story a day on your phone, you should follow @Shorts2Go on Twitter.

They link to a free short story every day. My recent favorite was by Octavia Butler.  Today, my story “A Glutton for Punishment,” at Beat to a Pulp, is featured. It’s a shorty, if you haven’t read it, I’d appreciate your thoughts. This story was also reprinted in Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader: Flush Fiction. It seems to touch a nerve.

Go get your nerve touched.

 

Song in my Head: All These Things That I’ve Done

I love the tangible sense of regret that the Killers evoke with this song. This is my favorite version of it, from Richard Kelly’s Southland Tales: an insane ensemble cast monstrosity that required multiple comic books to explain its rich and satirical backstory. It was generally panned by moviegoers and critics alike, but I loved it. It was the hugest, weirdest film I’d ever seen, and my cousin Lou Taylor Pucci gets to blow up a zeppelin with a rocket launcher.

Also, Wallace Shawn plays a supervillain. Zelda “Go into the Light, Carol Ann!” Rubinstein is in it. Everybody is in it. I can’t guarantee that you’ll like it, but it’s like Kelly popped the zit of his imagination all over the screen, and it kept flowing and erupting like a bloody, volcanic death pimple. Meaning sometimes it’s just that you can’t stop watching, to see what bizarre mutant might crawl out next.

And that’s not to say I think it’s a horrible movie. Indulgent? Intentionally obscure? Perhaps even pretentious? Yes, but wonderful. It uses all sorts of shortcuts that we’ve come to accept in big blockbuster movies, as if mocking us. It tries to force an idiotic catchphrase down our throats, via The Rock. And it blows shit up for no reason.

What’s not to like?

Let the editing begin…

Let’s get physical: red pen vs. 534 pages.

I gave myself a month off to write three stories I owed, and to let the flavors meld in the gumbo. I’m back in gear and the red pen is out, so I will be blogging less often this month while I edit and rewrite. It’s time.

When I swim, and I’m underwater in the blessed silence, the story invades my head. Telling me what it needs. I’ll be busy listening to it. I have a few more obligations to take care of in the coming months. I’m giving myself until October to finish this, which is more than enough time.

I think editing on paper is the way to go. I have a decent track record for copy editing, but when the laptop is closed, there are fewer distractions. This is also much longer than it needs to be, I’ll be distilling the past into brief passages. This fight will go a full ten rounds, but I don’t want a lot of clinching in the 7th. Keeping gas in the tank is the biggest obstacle I’ve found in novels, and I want to keep the punches landing.

This draft is much different than the “zero draft” I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year. A different lead. A different tone. The good thing is that the fun stuff from the first version fits very well into a new project that I will begin as soon as this one’s done, about an Iraq vet and the spoiled son of a cop who inherit a bar that becomes infested with hipsters… and of course, one winds up dead. Ironically, of course. More on that later.

For now, this book is all that matters.

My Local – Watchung Booksellers

The death of the independent bookstore has been greatly exaggerated.

Some are having hard times, and some are closing. But imagine my surprise when I walked into my local, the excellent Watchung Booksellers, and found that they will be closing next week.

TO EXPAND.

Now, that’s the kind of news a writer and a book lover finds joyful. I’ve known the bookmongers and proprietors for nearly twenty years, and they run a great shop with a sprawling children’s section, a meaty mystery department, and they’ve had everyone from Jenny Milchman and Dennis Tafoya to the one and only Lawrence Block signing and speaking there. All in a very efficiently used, and to dip into realtor parlance, charming and cozy space.

It’s a small store. I’ve been in smaller bookshops, but I can’t recall them, and I think they’re all in bookstore heaven now. So I am thrilled to see them taking over space from next door and embiggening themselves.

I stopped in to pick up Sara Gran’s Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead, on the urgent recommendation of Matthew Funk, and snagged Night Soldiers by Alan Furst, after hearing about his ambitious series of linked novels set in the run-up to the Second World War. They have impeccable taste- meaning they carry books I love by friends and other authors I admire- and they’ve sold a few copies of the Lost Children Anthology, which is available from them locally and via mail order, if you like supporting indie bookstores.

Coming Soon!

A few new publications and appearances to look out for.

The next issue of Needle: A Magazine of Noir will contain my story “Gumbo Weather,” marking the first appearance of Jay Desmarteaux, the Cajun ex-con from my novel, Bury the Hatchet. If you wanna know what “gumbo weather” means… clickie.

“Garbage Man,” the latest Denny the Dent adventure, will appear in Beat to a Pulp: Superheroes, edited by David Cranmer. It’s the longest Denny story, and sets up the novel. Denny is on the run, and goes from being a grotesque neighborhood oddity to someone parents tell bad kids will get them if they don’t quiet their violent ways.

“Tiger Mother,” set in ’40s Harlem, will appear in Noir Nation #2.

“From the Heart,” a quick shot of Chicago blues, will appear in Shotgun Honey.

I already mentioned “Red Hot,” my story for Chad Eagleton’s “Hoods, Hot Rods & Hellcats” anthology. It’s now in his hands, and I’m looking forward to this collection. It’s an era I love reading about.

“We’re All Guys Here,” will be appearing in [PANK] Magazine. I think it’s in the pulp issue, but I’m not sure.

If you click the menu up there that says “Short Stories,” it brings you to a list of my publications in print, e-book and online. Most of them are available for free.

Song Stuck in My Head: Get Rhythm!

Yup, been listening to a lot of rockabilly and early rock collections while writing “Red Hot,” and this one stuck in my head. Which is great, because the next story, “Ramapough Ringer,” is set in a West Virginia holler, and this song feels right at home.

I came late to loving Johnny Cash. A co-worker named Reilly, who wore Sharpei slippers to work and looked sort of like Ralph Wiggum, went agog when I didn’t recognize lyrics from “Folsom Prison Blues.” He rectified that, and after finding both of Johnny’s live prison albums, I devoured whatever I could find. Prior to that, I knew Ring of Fire and “I Walk the Line,” which was one of my grandpa Abby’s favorites. A grandpa named Abby? Isn’t that short for Abigail?

Nope, “Abby” as we called him, resembled Fred Flinstone and drove a gravel truck. He always had an unlit cigar dangling from the corner of his cheek, and he called me “Rocky,” because even as a toddler, I had muscles like a rock. I sat on the rug and watched the Flintstones, and he imitated Fred’s catchphrase, “Yabba dabba doo,” once. And there is no “once” with a toddler. I asked for him to “Yabby” so much, it became his nickname through the family.

We lost Abby to cancer when I was seven, and like many men of his generation, he was an enigma behind a chiseled statue that betrayed little emotion. But he had a good heart, and we saw little of his temper as rambunctious children, when he lay on the couch eaten up by cancer. I inherited my love of “sloppy hamburgers,” as he called them, and muscle cars (he owned Mustangs) from Abby, and Johnny Cash inevitably brings back memories of him.

 

Manhood in a Bottle

Listening to This Guy is Like Taking Business Advice from Fredo.

Would you buy tequila from this guy?I like Michael Imperioli as an actor, but they have him playing Christopher Moltisanti from the Sopranos for these commercials. And “Christophuh” was the worst kind of psychopath, the wishy-washy, whiny kind. It’s like buying pasta sauce from Fredo in the Godfather.

Maybe he should play Spider from Goodfellas instead, and Joe Pesci can wander in and shoot him in the foot. “Tequila so good, you’ll crawl for it!”

Part of me is chafing at these ad campaigns for old booze because they attempt to make men of my age feel somewhat lacking in manhood, compared to our fathers. Not to disparage a generation, or paint all Ever since Hemingway, we’ve decided that Manhood means shooting wild animals, climbing mountains, and drinking copious amounts of hard liquor (which is especially amusing, since Hemingway popularized the daiquiri). The Canadian Club ads state “Damn right your Dad drank it,” playing into the bullshit that it is somehow difficult or less enjoyable to be a man these days.

Your Dad May Have Never Said He Loved You, But He Banged Lots of Chicks.

You know what? The easiest thing in the world is to be a white middle to upper class man. Let John Scalzi put it more eloquently than I can: If life’s a game, it’s the easiest difficulty setting. We all got troubles. But you know what? Your DAD wouldn’t whine about them, and wax poetic about the ’60s, when we had free rein to be assholes. You want to be a man? You don’t need to run a triathlon, or flip giant truck tires, or climb a mountain that 3,100 other people have climbed,*

Try this:

Stand up to bullies. Respect women. Respect others. Be this guy:

August Landmesser. No, he was not executed.

If August Landmesser hawked schnapps, I’d buy a bottle. And no, you don’t need to stand up to the Nazi regime to be a stand-up human being. How about this guy, who saw his neighbor whipping his son for not being good at playing catch, and not only recorded it to show authorities, but yelled and got him to stop, and told him to come over and whip him if he was such a tough guy. And the abuser wasn’t just a neighbor, but a powerful board member.

Unfortunately, you can’t buy principles like that in a bottle of booze. You have to practice them, each and every day.

*Everest. There are unclimbed peaks in the Himalayas, either avalanche-prone or sacred to the people of the region.