Mr. Know-It-All

You probably know somebody like this. If so, you have my sympathy. They’re not evil, they’re not dangerous, they’re not necessarily threats to society. They’re just, well, damned annoying. And they make such wonderful blog fodder.

My story begins last Saturday, when I made my annual appearance at a writers’ group I sort of belong to. (Annual because they’re based in Philadelphia, which is a two-hour drive for me. Except when they meet at the one member’s house in King of Prussia, which is only a little over an hour away and doesn’t include all the traffic. That’s the one I go to.) There were only a few people present when I arrived, including one long-time member whom we’ll call Darrell. That’s his real name. No way I’m protecting this putz. If you’ve been even marginally involved in science fiction/fantasy fandom over the last 20 years, you probably know who I mean. If so, you’re probably nodding already. Yeah, that Darrell.

So anyway, we’re chatting about who’s writing what and I mention my entry in the Harlequin writing contest and how it’s the first time I’ve ever been able to use the phrase, “The dingo ate your baby” in a romance novel. I get the expected smiles and polite laughs and a good time was had by all. Until Darrell, who’s hovering at the edge of the group, steps forward and remarks, “You know, that actually happened several years ago,” and proceeds to relate the story, regardless of whether or not we’ve heard it already, or care.

Yes, Darrell. I know the story. Everybody knows the story, or at least knows of it. It’s been told so many times it’s become urban legend, to be used as the punch line in jokes. Which is why I used it in my story. Since the speaker is a demon who takes the form of a dingo and who’s possessing my hero, it seemed appropriate.

Not that my choices as a writer matter a whit to Darrell. He’s achieved his true objective: he’s successfully hijacked the conversation and made himself the center of attention by setting himself up as an expert. Not just on dingoes eating babies, but on everything.

I used to go to SF conventions, and I saw a lot of Darrells in attendance. No matter what the topic is, they’ll happily hold forth on it, whether they know what they’re talking about or not. Experience doesn’t really matter. What matters is, they’re talking. The spotlight is on them. All the world can clearly see how intelligent and knowledgeable they are, so much more so than everyone else.

Somehow I don’t believe “intelligent” is the word their captive audiences ascribe to these pompous motormouths. The word I was thinking during the dingo incident started with “a” and ended in “hole.” “Tiresome” also comes to mind. So does “attention whore.”

I don’t mean to single out SF fandom as a hotbed for these morons, but it does seem to attract this personality type. They’re very literal-minded. They don’t appear to understand humor, or irony, or sarcasm, unless they themselves are using it. They’re also oblivious to the phrase, “Will you shut the hell up already?” Darrell’s been with the writers’ group since before I started attending in the 1990s. He was this way back then, and he’s this way today. Yes, he has been told about it. He’s been ridiculed by others for it. It just slides right off. A willful lack of self-awareness also seems to be a trait of these people.

And yeah, there are female versions. It’s been my misfortune to know one. In fact, she’s also a member of the same writers’ group. Her schtick is to make every conversation be about herself. At least she knows her topic. One time, stuck in conversation with her, I deliberately kept switching subject matter, just to see what would happen. On average, it would take her only three sentences to redirect the conversation back to her favorite subject. A classic example: I was telling her about Stephen King’s then-recent accident, the one where a careless driver hit him with a van. Her immediate response: “I had a van once.” I kid you not. This is narcissism at its finest.

I don’t talk to her any more. It would be different if she was an interesting person, but she isn’t. She’s a major whiner. So not interested. Same for you, Darrell. You and the drive are the reason I don’t go to more of these meetings. I want to talk to and learn from people, plural, not just you. All I’ve learned from you is to steer clear of you, and try not to say anything at all when I’m within your earshot.

I’ve also learned the best thing I can do for my career is to skip these meetings entirely and spend the time writing. It’s a helluva lot more productive.

Which brings me to one of the best possible uses of the Internet. We can get up on our soapboxes and expound for pages on end on any topic at all, including those we know nothing about. It’s called “blogging.” Look at my spotlight, with me in the center! Hey, where you going? Come back!

What the Hell Was I Thinking?

Writers are nuts. This month I’m proving it.

Around the end of August I found out Harlequin is running its “So You Think You Can Write” contest. The object is to write a novel for one of Harlequin’s category lines. The winner (and maybe some of the other finalists) gets published. What the hell, here’s the link: www.soyouthinkyoucanwrite.com.

I’m sure every romance writer out there has looked at Harlequin’s monthly entries on the bookstore shelves or in Kmart and dreamed of seeing their byline on a cover. Harlequin is the romance market. They’re at the top of the food chain, the McDonald’s of romance publishing. Take that any way you want. Never mind the accusations of the company short-changing their authors. Publication with them is still the Holy Grail for a lot of romance writers. Success in this contest could help a beginning or lower-tier writer get her name out to the masses.

Which is why I decided to enter. I’ve toyed with the notion of subbing to Harlequin’s Nocturne line off and on over the years. I read the books. I have a couple ideas that might fit. I started one about three years back, and wrote maybe two and a half chapters before I lost interest and tucked it into the closet for safekeeping. So the first hurdle’s down: I already have the required first chapter for when the entry window opens on September 23. All I need is the rest of the book.

Let me repeat that. All I need to enter the contest is a finished, ready-to-sub manuscript of 80,000-85,000 words (standard length of a Nocturne), written, edited and polished in roughly a month. Piece of cake.

Have I ever mentioned what a slow writer I am? Look up “procrastination” and “undisciplined” in the dictionary. That’s me waving in the picture. If I might quote Dr. Phil here: “What the hell were you thinking?”

Theoretically, it can be done. It’s possible to write 1000 words in an hour. If you write 3000 words a day for 30 days, by the end of a month you’ll have written 90,000 words, enough to make up a regular book and more than enough for a Nocturne. I spend more than three hours a day watching TV. Just turn off the TV and I should be able to do this. You in the back, no snickering.

So what if the plot didn’t come to me until I was two chapters in? At least I’ve got one now. I’m still not sure who the characters are, but I’ll know by the end of the book. This is why I want to get the first draft done fast, so I’ll have time for a second. I’m breaking with tradition and drafting the book directly on the laptop so I won’t have to retype. I can email myself chapters and print them out for a hard copy backup.

Why the big push and the pressure? All they want to start with is the first chapter. They won’t ask for the full until the middle of October. The odds I’ll be one of the 50 semifinalists are still pretty nebulous; that’ll depend on the number and quality of the entries. Chances are I won’t be.

That’s what I figured the last time I entered a contest, American Title IV. Then I got the email I was a finalist and they wanted the full manuscript. My “full manuscript” at the time was handwritten pages. I cut work for a day and a half and typed like a madwoman to get it to them by the end of the week. Then I got eliminated in the first round. And lost my job, but it was temp anyway, so no big. The point is, I wasn’t expecting to be chosen and got caught with my ass hanging out. That’s not going to happen again. I’m going to have a finished novel by the middle of October whether I’m selected or not. So there.

The question is, will it be a Nocturne? Wellllllll … it’ll be a paranormal, and there’s romance in it. That’s all I can say at the moment. I’m re-reading the stack of Nocturnes I already have to get a feel for the line. Even with study and the best of intentions, I suspect I’ll end up writing my book and not Harlequin’s. That’s just how it goes.

Here’s a for instance: the heroine finds out she’s (can’t say; it’s a spoiler). She is not pleased. “I’m not a (spoiler)! I’m a waitress, dammit!” She then blasts the bad guy six ways from Sunday. “You want fries with that, you son of a bitch?” she screams at him.

I don’t know for sure if that scene will make it into the final version. Right now I’m leaning that way. It’s how I write. I know Siren would let me get away with it. Maybe so would a couple other publishers. Maybe even Harlequin’s Carina imprint. But one of their category books? No way. Not only is the damsel swearing and tossing around Bruce Willis-style quips, she’s way too proactive for a conservative Harlequin category romance. The monthly series books are the Big Macs of romance: same pickles, special sauce and onions every time. Play with the winning formula and the readers might get testy.

Y’know what? Screw it. I’m holding my own contest. I’m going to write a full-length novel by the end of September. That’s 85,000 words in what is now less than a month. Maybe it’ll even look like a Nocturne. I’m not concerned with that. I just want to finish a book. I’m going to see if I can stick to a schedule, achieve daily writing goals and make a deadline. To motivate myself, I’m entering my first chapter. That should drive me to complete and polish the book by October 10. This time if a publisher emails me, I’ll be ready.

If they don’t, no loss. I’ll still have a paranormal romance novel finished and ready to market. If nobody bites, there’s always self-publishing. I come out ahead no matter what.

Now all I have to do is write the thing. I knew there was a catch. Back to the keyboard and the caffeine. If I can stay awake, I’ll keep you posted.

This 'n' That

I don’t have any one topic to chat about today, so here’s a couple snippets of things. We’ll start with the fun one, because everybody should kick off the day with a laugh. British researchers have determined that dinosaur flatulence released millions of tons of methane and other greenhouse gases into the primordial air, and may have contributed to prehistoric global warming. And you thought cows were bad. Me, I’m green with envy over those Brits, who got paid to speculate on the effects of dinosaur belches and pooties. Who says you can’t find a job in today’s economy?

There’s another touch Mr. Spielberg could have added to his now-cancelled show Terra Nova. The kids have once again slipped out of the compound without supervision or weapons. They hear an enormous bang. “What was that?” The gas cloud hits. “Yecchhh! Fartosaurus!” Or imagine a scene in Jurassic Park, with the Brontosaurus herd placidly grazing, punctuated by the occasional air horn or earth-shaking belch. What did they say to each other? “Pull my tail”? No wonder they were known as “thunder lizards.” Maybe the next flick in the series will be written by Adam Sandler.

Nobody has yet speculated on the effects of pterosaur mid-air evacuations. Think about that next time the local robins target your car.

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This one’s not so funny if you’re a writer who wants to make a living. It’s romance writer Ann Voss Peterson, who won’t be writing for Harlequin any more because she can’t make a living thanks to their low royalties, which she worked out to be about 2.4%. This is after 25 releases, books in bookstores and WalMart and Target, and worldwide distribution. Selling 10,000 copies sounds like a lot until you realize you’re only getting 6-10 cents per copy. She could probably self-pub her out-of-print books and make a ton more money, but Harlequin’s clinging to the rights. She’s not the only one who has issues with Harlequin’s contract and business practices either.

The whole story can be found here at Joe Konrath's blog, A Newbie's Guide to Publishing, at jakonrath.blogspot.com. Look for the "Harlequin Fail" entry on May 8. Or check out the forums at Absolute Write (www.absolutewrite.com/forums, Romance/Women's Fiction thread, "Tell us how you really feel, Mr. Konrath!")for other writers’ takes on the story. Between this and Harlequin’s reported response times of up to a year or longer, I don’t think I’ll be subbing anything to them after all. There was a time when Harlequin was pretty much the only game in town, but that’s not true any more. Much as I’d love to see my paperbacks on a bookstore’s shelves, I’d rather make a decent living without having to look for a job. I can still get print copies through POD, so in the end I’ll be happy.

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Here’s why I like physical bookstores: you can take a book off the shelf and skim through it in the store to see if you like it or not before you slap down your dollars at the register. That’s not fair to the writers who worked so hard for so long to get it into the store so you can flip through it for free, but times are tough. One book I previewed had a total weepy wimp of a heroine—a vampire, no less—who failed to grow a spine in 200 pages and allowed not one but two “heroes” to emotionally abuse her. Of course, the alpha male had a change of heart at the end and decided he truly loved her after all. Yeah, right. Am I glad I didn’t pay good money for that. Ladies, if you want to sell, write better books.

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The Avengers has kicked off the summer movie season, which means there won’t be any real movies for grownups until after school starts in September. I do recommend The Avengers, because there’s actual character development and growth in between the fight scenes and stuff blowing up, and because Joss Whedon is God. The CGI Hulk doesn’t quite steal the movie, but he comes pretty damn close. Take that, expensive flesh and blood actors. We’re heading for the point where pretty soon Hollywood won’t need you any more. I recommend you learn computer animation or brush up on your voiceover skills. Or you could always write for Harlequin.

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What will I be doing this weekend? Probably pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. Wish I had a dinosaur to eat all my greens, but the winds would probably blow my mobile home over. There’s an upside and a downside to everything. Enjoy today!