Coming toward the end of another year. Not the best one, true. But
who knows what the future holds? Not me, says the flea.
Another Halloween has come and gone, which in itself should have
prodded me to write. This year I played with an interpretation of
Krampus, cuddly Santa's uglier, meaner big brother, as my costume.
It still needs some tweaking, but I got a lot of comments on how cool
it was, and one of the best complements you can get that special day
of the year. 'Trick or trea –.' That's the golden moment when
someone a third of your height looks up at you and forgets that the
secret code phrase ends with a plea for goodies. That's when they
look up at you and maybe see what you're trying to show them; the
dark, special magic that our ancestors once wove by sharing stories
over campfires. I might have inspired a budding young storyteller
this October night. Or one of America's future serial killers. I
take no responsibility either way.
Of course we also had the annual turkey massacre, which my wife and I
celebrated with our traditional pasta. Let me sum it up thusly: Yum.
This entry's title needs some backstory. I haven't gone to many
conventions lately, a trend I plan on breaking, soon. But there were
a few I used to go to quite regularly, always finding some good
panels where I could ask questions of people who have fought, and
won, the same fight I'm in right now. The student learns from the
master, so it is written.
Yet inevitably the master says or does something that makes the
student yell, “Are you f---ing kidding me?” Or at least, that's
what sometimes happens.
Was at a con once upon a time, went to a panel, someone asked a
question. So far so good. Now I don't know if this lady, sitting
among the other writers on the panel, who answered that question and
most of the other questions just didn't get enough sleep the night
before, if someone ran over her dog the day before she came to the
con, or if she was just constipated. But that day her answers were
the most condescending, pedantic, shallow, shovelful of crap I had
ever heard at that con or any other gathering where the point was
supposed to be to enlighten. Not only were we all told to not mind
when our stories were rejected, we all had to parrot a neat little
phrase back at this woman, like good, obedient schoolchildren. I am
not the exception. Repeat after me, I am not the exception.
She was annoyed, because often when she edited for anthologies,
people would send her stories that exceeded the requested word count,
or were in a genre other than the one asked for. She was really
upset when one of the attendees asked what the hell the traditional
phrase, 'not what we're looking for at this time' meant, venting some
of the frustration that builds up when your story doesn't make the
cut and all you get is a vague, one-sentence reason on your e-mailed
rejection slip and you can't get any useful information out of it.
Just move on and send it somewhere else, was her answer. It's just
rejection. It's nothing personal.
Let me tell you this, you reading these words I don't know where and
I don't know when. You are the fucking exception, from the atoms
that make up that very tip top fraction of your highest hair to that
spark inside that you might call your soul. You are the cog in the
machine that decides, you know what, today I'll see what happens if I
start spinning in this other direction, and to hell with the machine.
You are the crazy one who dreams. When someone tells you that you
aren't, laugh at them, give them a single-finger salute, or if you
have one handy, feel free to throw a bucket of warm piss on them.
They've earned it.
Did she have a point? She had a piece of a point, I'll give her
that. The woman is sharp, and knows her stuff. Does she know more
than me? Oh hell yes. That doesn't mean that she had the right
answer, or that if she did, that she provided it.
Her point, her whole point, was about her, and her ego. The point
she should have had, because she was addressing a bunch of frustrated
people who had shelled out money to be in that room, was to not let
that aching, enduring sting of rejection be the deciding factor. To
take that rage and despair that always pops back up and channel it
into hunting down another agent, or open anthology. To once again
pound the damn keyboard to crank out yet another pitch.
Also, just send it somewhere else? If you've been at this a while
then you know that there's no magical list of people sitting
anxiously at their PC's with money burning holes in their bank
accounts, waiting for quality (fill in your genre) stories. Are
there some lists? Hell yes, and praise (fill in your deity) for
that. These are often set up and maintained by other writers, some
for free, some for pay. I've never heard of anyone getting rich or
even just making a living from such a list. Nor do I expect to hear
about one anytime soon.
Yeah, that bit of a point that she had. If you send a fantastic
comedy story to someone who is reading for an anthology full of noir
thrillers, you're going to get rejected. You might even annoy the
editor so much that they remember your name and bite you in the ass
later. Can you afford to take that chance? I have listened to
enough editors to know that the only thing worse than sending them an
e-mail asking if the word count they listed is a hard limit is not
even asking and sending in a story that's larger than they asked for.
If your submission is ten or thirty words over the limit, they
PROBABLY won't care. But they decide that, not you. If that
overworked editor is putting together a paying anthology or magazine
issue and they've put out a general call for submissions, then
they're probably going to get a thousand submissions, or more.
That means, if our anthology has room for ten stories, that almost a
hundred times more stories will be rejected than will be accepted.
So yes, pay attention to what they ask for. Sticking out by breaking
the rules is going to get your hard-written tale yanked out of the
running. But don't stop sending things in. Send in stories that
will pass through all the filters. That's what those requirements
are.
But remember this. Ten of those hypothetical people who sent stories
in, got into that book.
Who are those ten, then? Well by definition, they're the exceptions.
Have I made my point? If I haven't, let me pick up a hammer and make
it. Saying 'I am not the exception' means accepting that 'I will not
get picked.' The minute I accept that, I'll delete this blog, burn
my computer with all my stories stored on it, and drill out the part
of my brain that dreams. When that woman talked to me and everyone
else in that room like we were nothing better than cogs, why did she
do it? Because she was annoyed. What did she tell us? Don't get
annoyed.
Okay. Let's check the horse's vital signs. It's dead, Jim.
The con in question took place a few years ago, and I've been mulling
over whether the incident needed to be talked about ever since then.
If she or anyone else recognizes themselves in the above anecdote and
needs to tell their side of it, that's what the comments section is
for. Ball's in your court.
Also, while putting this down I came up with some other points that
might give everyone an idea of what it's like to be on the receiving
end of all those submissions, and it may be next week's post. We'll
see.
In the meantime, I am the exception, after all. I'll keep writing.
