Mitch Wagner Sayeth:
>Later, Isaac Asimov showed how that's twaddle. The best shape for a door is rectangular, unless you're in microgravity, which Heinlein's door wasn't.
>There is a rule implied here about the writing of hard sf.
Well, it's probably not the one Heinlein had in mind, but...
...the rule is that humans don't always, or even usually, design things in the best way.
If a door was dilating in one of my stories, it would be because the politician who commissioned the building was trying to make a statement about being prepared for the future, or because the architect was trying to win an award for originality. It would cause plenty of problems, and the people who worked in the building would complain about it to each other constantly. Eventually, however, they would end up being sort of fond of the awkward thing, and defend its utility to any outsider who dared say that it was, maybe, not the best possible design.
In my world-building notes, the phrase that comes up most often is "The logic goes something like this..." When I talk with friends who've seen my background, that phrase alone is enough to indicate that I think someone's actions are A) well thought-out, and B) stupid.
Adrienne: In grad school I had to teach 3 full classes (I'll have to again, when I finish post-doccing). After the 2nd semester dealing with 3 or 4 kids a class who would rather lose a grade than give a 5-minute informal presentation, I went and talked with the counseling center. They swore to me that they could get someone over that sort of social phobia in three sessions. The trick, of course, is that the kid has to actually attend those sessions. I only managed to get that to happen once--a guy who ended up writing his final paper on social phobia (it was a psych class) and at least claimed that he was going to get his dealt with. That kid was the teaching equivalent of the publisher buying the book.
Anyway, just to let you know--if that happens a lot in your classes it might be worth seeing if the clinical psychology grads have a program to deal with it.
Okay, maybe a change of tense will clarify Teresa's intentions and reduce the tension. Let's try it.
If you really are writing better stuff than what's on the best-seller list, then you *will* almost certainly be published, eventually.
I'm pretty sure Teresa is aware that all published books were originally unpublished. She's an editor--seeing books through that transition is her life-work.
It *is* true that one can write and submit better-than-bestseller-quality material and not get published. It's just that if you do it for long enough, eventually you won't be not-published any more.
It is certainly true that there is good unpublished stuff out there, and bad published stuff. The main reason that most people prefer to wade through the published stuff is that there is a cut-off to how bad it gets. There's no filter on most internet publication, or on any self-publication, which makes it a lot harder to find the gems. Most people have a limited amount of reading time, so they are going to look at something that at least one other person besides the author has read and liked. And edited. They are not judging its actual quality without reading it, but they do know that certain publishers are *more* likely to produce a book of good quality. Therefore, they are more likely to give themselves the opportunity to judge books from those publishers.
Whether or not you're willing to put in the time it takes to be published is a personal decision. I have a great big ego, and want *lots* of people to see how good my writing is, so I'm trying to get published. Alternatively, I have a really nervous ego, and want at least one editor to decide my stuff is worth reading before *anyone* who doesn't love me gets to read it. On the other hand, if I found that the submission process interfered with my writing, I'd probably choose writing new stuff over trying to publish finished work too.
I'm one of the people for whom writing is an addiction. It's what I do at 2 AM when I *really* need to be well-rested in the morning, bleary-eyed, with my mind moving at triple-speed, hearing voices and seeing the shape of worlds and snapping at anyone who tries to talk to me. (Why is anyone else up at 2 AM? Well, my housemates are writers, too, otherwise they wouldn't put up with me). When it works, it's a high like nothing else. When it doesn't, the contrast makes me feel like my head is full of mold, and everything brilliant that was ever in there has long since been used up or gone bad.
After I went through this cycle a few times, I learned that the moldy periods don't last. Eventually, the spark comes back, and I find that without my attention ideas have been formulating beneath the surface, getting ready for the time when I'm able to turn them into words again. I've learned to think of these as fallow times, a different stage of the creative process rather than a break in it. (That last metaphor isn't mine, it's from Judy Collins' song "Fallow Time." Good painkiller for writer's block.)
Which is all meant in the way of some consolation for Fran, who sounds to me like she's in that sort of a state, writing-wise. Eventually, in my experience at least, the 'passion' comes back, and it starts being enjoyable again. Meanwhile, you do what you can to tend the soil over the winter, and trust something is growing there.
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| 2004 | 4 |
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