To submit

It’s time. By Friday, when you’ll have read this, I’ll have submitted my novel to The Open Submissions Period of Doom. At time of writing I still have to tinker with my synopsis and make a few alterations to the submittable chapters. But I’m almost there; almost ready to throw my work into the pyre and hope the smoke-signals it gives off are enough to summon demand for the full manuscript.

It’s a horrible situation – not just for me, of course, but for all writers in my position. Publishers willing to take on authors without agents are few. Publishers who’ll take on SFF are few. There are about three moderate-sized ones in the UK with whom I have my heart set on publication, all of which are usually agent-only. So there’s a lot riding on this, because I’m ambitious.

I’m ambitious not for ‘success’ in any of its flawed, double-edged forms, but for the feeling of moving forwards. I’ve published with an independent publisher and I’ve self-published. I want to be making progress, as a person and within my chosen career. I‘m impatient for that.

I also feel that the work I’m currently hawking marks a significant step forwards as an author.

The other writers – maybe you – who are submitting to this open period may well be better authors than me. They may be more polished in their pitches. In fact, it would be quite astonishing if there weren’t numerous pieces that the company feels are ‘better’ than mine. So what hope do I have?

I don’t know the answer to that question. But hope I do still have, so I shall enter my work and then try to forget about it until the (almost) inevitable rejection.

The big question that then follows: what’s Plan B?

At the moment I simply don’t know. I believe in this work, but I’ve been rejected by all agents under the sun. I could self-publish again, but this is the first in a trilogy and… well, the honest truth is that it would simply feel like failure. Don’t get me wrong, I salute all those who choose to self-publish and I wish them every success. But I don’t have it in me – at the moment – to go out and try drum up publicity all over again, three more times, whilst staring down the barrel of low readership, no engagement and… well, the lack of the things I aspire to.

This is me now. I reserve the right to change my mind/acquire some enthusiasm.

What else? I could go into some great diatribe about the state of publishing, but you might just come back and tell me it’s just that my writing’s not very good, and who am I to argue that?

This is the 450th (ish) post I’ve written for this blog and I’m still back exactly where I started. One of those lifetimes, I guess. A writer’s life.

On hindsight

The best thing about writing a sequel before the first book is published is that it’s much easier to return to part one and fix errors in continuity before a work is out there in the public domain. And by errors in continuity I mean areas where you’ve subtly changed your mind or re-placed emphasis rather than big plot-holes or the like. Those should have long-since been closed by now.

I’m currently retooling Oneiromancer with the expectation of an imminent submission. I had been working on book three but have had to temporarily (again) shelve this, what with life and priorities and all that. But I find that, now, going back to book one in the series feels subtly different. I know what’s going to happen to these (surviving) characters in two books’ time. And some things just don’t quite mesh.

It’s little things. Giving one character a fake East End accent is now unnecessary and slightly at odds with what I’ll explain to be his background (there is room for the accent – I could justify it – but it’s a layer of explanation and backstory that’s just not necessary). It’s having my ‘magical’ character able to do things that she’s never going to do again – again, slightly at odds with how the rest of the series pans out.

Nothing I’m seeing now is actually wrong, or clunky, or inappropriate. It’s just that I’ve seen these characters’ futures and can better mould them to the labours ahead.

The best thing about getting a book published before writing the sequel is that certain things are set in stone and cannot be simply fixed. They become part of the mythos and must be accounted for in any subsequent works.

Why is this a good thing? Well, for a start it rules out the possibility of second-guessing. You have to move forwards, you cannot look back and endlessly tinker. What’s done is done.

Secondly, limitations are good for the imagination. Giving yourself a problem forces yourself to think logically. My stray accent, say, might be explained in the second book, which, if done well, might actually make you look like some long-term strategic thinker rather than just some desperate blunderer. My miracle-worker might realise she can no longer do what she initially did – and that might be a whole plot-thread in itself.

Plus you’d have a damn book out. I dream of getting this bloody thing into print. Don’t seem no closer now to when I was first-drafting it.

As an aside, Our Kind of Bastard owes a fair bit to a friend/beta-reader who pointed out that I missed an opportunity to save a character’s life. I took the idea she suggested – a road not taken rather than a plot-hole – and incorporated it into the survivors’ psyche; a sense of guilt to sharpen the loss. Going back was an option (and, I guess, one that any future editor may still desire) but it would have so radically affected Oneiromancer that I chose to fold the failure into the sequels.

I guess I always think that moving forwards is the best option. But they say it’s always much easier to write the beginning once you’ve got to the end. My failures to get the damn thing published means I can continue to make the novel sharper, leaner and hungrier.

Crumbs of comfort, I guess, as my failures also make it harder to get published in the first place. But I still believe. I do. Honest.

Onwards!

50 shades of doubt

Last week I wrote about the gyp I was getting from synopsis and elevator pitch. It has subsequently come to my attention that I should probably look at the actual writing that gets attached to a submission, not merely the flashy, fleshy bits on the side.

The piece I’m submitting here is Oneiromancer, and for the life of me I can’t remember when I actually wrote the damn thing. It was definitely two houses ago, back when I occupied an entirely different world. I know I submitted it to Flame Tree Press at the same time as I submitted Night Shift. It’s been a while, at least, through various drafts. And I’ve not really examined my submission package for at least three years.

Good thing is that the writing pretty much stands up. Or at least the first half-chapter does; for this I took to my writing group last week. There are improvements to be made, but, by and large, things make sense. The voice mostly works, the characters are graspable and all that. Changes I’ll have to make are relatively small, the swearing I have to perform only of a moderate nature.

But a writer never stops fretting. I read a chunk that’s in only a single voice, but this is a polyfocal novel with a lot of ‘stars’: the writers’ group don’t know that I’m about to change to someone else’s POV for the next section.

I worry about this. I worry about introducing to many names too soon. I worry about not giving the audience time to properly ‘bed in’ to the novel before switching things around.

You may be saying to yourself ‘well if you fret so much, and you can see the potential problems, why don’t you just do something about it?’ To which I respond with a sigh as long and deep as the great spot of Jupiter.

It’s not that easy. I wanted to write a multiple-POV novel. I like this kind of story. It’s kind of got fixed over the years. To rewrite this would be to rewrite the whole sorry tale, and I’d rather walk my own path right now, pending agentory/editorial demands. I personally happen to think that the damn thing works.

And that last thing, that’s what it really comes down to. I doubt, gods know I doubt. But I have something, some shred of ability to string words and ideas together in a form that I believe in. May just be self-delusion, I guess – but then I have persuaded people to give me money for words, so it can’t be just me. Can it?

I console myself with the writers’-grouperly thumbs-up. Now I need to gird my metaphoricals and take the next section to a meeting soon. I have only three weeks before my target open-submission period closes. I have very little time to waste.

No time for doubting. Needs must and all that.

Back to basics

A few weeks ago I wrote about how a binary decision would go to shape my year; about how I was awaiting a simple yes/no decision that would define 2022 for me. Well, things have changed, as these things are wont to do. The offer has been (amicably) rescinded. I must return to traditional submission techniques – the last resort of the desperate and hungry.

This means I am returning to my traditional haunts: the worlds of synopsis, covering letter and elevator pitch. And instead of a single known person deciding my future, I am returning to the lands of faceless committees and anonymised readers.

At the moment I have three different versions of the synopsis – one short, one long, one nearly-as-long-as-the-long-one – I need to either choose between or merge. I have a covering letter that I think isn’t bad but has been rejected by most agents. And I’m entirely lacking a suitable elevator pitch.

There is an open-submissions period coming up with a great SFF publisher, so the clock is ticking. I need to get these right, and in any case it’s probably the elevator pitch – the handful of words (precise counts differ) that you’d use to seduce some high-powered exec were you to find yourself in a lift together – that gives me most concern. Quite aside from the fact that I’m British and would just stare at my feet for the entire time confined with said theoretical executive, I just don’t know how to go about it.

At the moment I have version that are entirely the wrong length, thus:

Insomniac miracle-worker Saira accidentally gives form to a being from another reality. Now she must prevent the sadistic Dashwood from flooding London with monsters from the Dreamland.

Slightly longer:

Saira, a seamstress in a London sink-estate, can draw matter from the very air around her and shape it to her will. But when Dashwood, a racist thug from a 1930s novel, slips into this world through her dreams and takes the role as a police inspector, Saira must band together with a rag-tag band of allies to stop him – before Dashwood can flood the city with monsters.

Are they any good? Well I have no idea. I might reinforce whichever I choose with my old fallback: Monsters Inc as written by Stephen King. Problem with this, of course, is that it doesn’t really convey much information. And I’ve not really read enough SK to make a meaningful comparison; I’m too much of a wimp to read horror.

So what else is there to say? I must go back to basics, pausing the long-suffering WIP (it’s already on pause, to be honest, as I have more proofreading to do) in order to revisit past infamies.

Hope. I still have hope. And, at the end of the day, it’s the hope that kills you.

Onwards!