Tuesday 19 November 2013

We All Need Compassion...

Last week I made a joke on twitter about a certain phrase I encounter commonly in the covering emails that accompany the submissions I read.  It was about "emerging writers".  "Emerging from what?" I chortled, and proceeded to posit some scenarios.  I was quite witty.  You can check my timeline if you don't believe me. And it felt good, whilst simultaneously making me feel like a complete heel.

And then, just as the guilt began to fade like memories of August's warmth in November's chill, Hanna Silva came along with an excellent blog post reminding me that submitters are people too!  Who knew?

Well, we all do, or we all did.  December House is a young business, and I still have time to read every submission without the inevitable jaded sighs that will no doubt be the soundtrack to my office in a few years' time.  I still feel the raw hope that springs from every cover email, even the ones where the writer has restricted themselves, with admirable restraint, to one line.  I still want to send detailed feedback to every rejectee, in the hopes that it will encourage them in their future writing endeavours.  Fuck, I still type "we wish you every success in your future writing endeavours" and MEAN IT.

And I have always loathed those lists, written by smug, self-satisfied publishers, telling you exactly what spacing to use, what the margins should be, what font to use, what to say, what not to say.  They've always screamed to me of non-creative people trying to put creative people into a neat, little box, to reduce everybody down to the same dimensions.  Writers and artists, by nature, step outside the paradigms the rest of us loll comfortably about in, and these lengthy "make-your-work-look-just-like-everybody-else's-so-I-can-read-it-more-easily" lists smack of latent tall poppy syndrome.  The secret whisper, beneath the self-justificatory mentions of eyestrain and workload, is you're not special, don't act like you are.  I mean, have you every read one of these lists without wanting to facepunch the author?  Be enthusiastic, but not cocky, be proactive but not annoying, tell me about the book but not in a way that makes you sound like a dick, oh and bear in mind that I am making all these judgement calls completely subjectively whilst pretending they are objective and you've never met me, have you, so you have no idea how I respond to anything at all.  Got that?

So, why did I make the joke?  (Seriously, have you checked it out, yet? You'll rofl.)  Because, even with all of the above, there is a slight trench mentality starting to creep into my work.  And, as time goes on, I can only see it getting worse.  Now, I say "trench mentality" in much the same way Silva uses "soul-destroying" - with a hefty caveat that these terms are relative - but, nonetheless, I can see why editors start sticking together, producing lists, and chuckling with each other about the poor blighters trying to get their work read or viewed.  It's because we are besieged by crap.  Crap of the highest order.  You won't know this, because your work is obviously not crap.  You don't produce crap and you don't know anyone who does.  You and your community of struggling fellow artists/writers are all undiscovered genii (the Leonardos, not the lamp-dwellers), and you genuinely have no conception of the sheer volume of awful, awful work that I and my fellow editors and readers have to wade through on a daily basis.  At December House we accept roughly two percent of what's submitted.  That's ninety-eight percent of bad grammar, cardboard characters, stilted dialogue, clichéd situations, and clunky plotting, and I have to read it all, and respond to every submission, and find a polite way to reject it that will neither crush the submitter, nor provide false hope.  And there's a code we do stick to, believe it or not.  I can't be snarky about the actual submissions.  As terrible as some of them are, they are earnest and well-intentioned, and they are art, actual art.  They are something that has been created out of nothing, by a fellow human being, and that demands respect, whatever my view of the actual product.  So, when the crapwaves are rising, solace is occasionally to be found by thinking snarky thoughts about the covering emails.  Because crap is depressing, but crap that has been signalled to me as the "greatest novel of this century"?  Crap that, I am informed upfront, I may not understand because the style is "uniquely new" and "beyond the capacity of most commissioning editors to appreciate"?  Crap that is in three different coloured fonts and is accompanied hand drawn illustrations that look like something I drew in year 5? If I can't find humour in that then I may as well lay my head gently on my desk and read at a ninety-degree angle.  Because there is so much to contend with in the search for something genuinely exciting and new, and you people seem hell-bent on making it as difficult for yourselves as possible.

So, what advice can I give you that might be genuinely helpful?  Not much, actually.  I'm one person, and I couldn't tell you why I respond to some cover emails better than others.  And I certainly can't speak for anyone else in the industry.  One person's earnest is another person's over-the-top, while confident and cocky are intimate bedfellows.  There's no point in trying to be what the person on the receiving end of the submission wants you to be because you can't possibly guess what that is.  You have to just be you, and hope for the best.  Screw it, it really is the work that matters anyway.  A shit cover letter won't hold you back if your work is genuinely as good as you hope it is.  We're all after the next big thing.  We wouldn't turn it down because we didn't like the sound of you.  And if we forget, every once in a while, that you are, as Silva points out, in need of a little compassion with regards to how you interpret our expectations of your behaviour during the mind-numbingly terrifying and confusing submissions process, then I apologise.

And I hope that, while I'm managing the editing and submissions process at December House, there will always be a warm welcome for the cover letter that tells me whatever it damn well wants to.  Speak to me as the person you are, not the person you think I might want you to be.  You will inevitably say something idiotic, but who cares?  I don't.  You've created something that took time, and effort, and energy, and you've put part of yourself into it, and now you have the awesome level of ballsiness required to actually show it to a complete stranger in the hopes that they don't rip it completely to shreds in front of your very eyes.  You have, as Silva points out, shot it out into the void in the hopes that it finds a tender home among kind-hearted folk, but half the time you won't even know what happened to it.  I can't promise that I will like what you send me, but I do promise that if it appears on my computer I will quietly change it to 12-pt Times New Roman, and proceed to judge it on its own merits, even if you've accidentally claimed it's the next great novel of your generation, attempted to sum up the overall tone of your piece with an inexplicable accompanying picture of some sealions, or committed the ultimate atrocity, and sent the whole thing in Comic Sans.
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Saturday 26 October 2013

Deadly Sins

November is drawing in, a month of fireworks and decomposing pumpkins, bringing our thoughts inevitably to whether or not we can pull off a charitable moustache, and if now is too soon to break out Do They Know It’s Christmas on the iPod. Many of you will be signing up for this year’s #NaNoWriMo, and while you toil, toil in the mines of forced creativity, December House are here again to offer you respite, a distraction, or perhaps inspiration, in the form of 2013’s Flash Fiction Fest.  

This year we’ve gone with the theme of the seven deadly sins, with interestingly varied results.  Some of our writers went oh so dark, while others mined the depths of human frailty and weakness to discover a rich seam of humour.  So whether you like to be chilled, challenged, touched, or tickled, there’s something here for you.  

We’ve opened the fest out to our current December House writers this year, and we’re really pleased with what they’ve come up with.  Old hands and festival originators Neil Vogler, Sean Craven, and PT Dilloway have been joined by ‘Engn’ scribe Simon Kewin, the author of ‘What Remains’, Philip Leslie, ‘Hitter’ writer Daryn Guarino, rookie wordsmith Jessica Leather (look out next year for her debut novel ‘The Escapists’), and this year’s competition winner J Freese.  Between them they’ve conjured, for your delectation, ancient languages, murders, marriages, computer games, camp sites, clockwork cities, space ships, nightclubs, and car yards, feeders, eaters, lovers, cheaters, film-makers, spellcasters, waitresses, private detectives, losers, winners, heroes, villains, ninjas, dogs, snakes, and miniature heist-planners.  To name but a few.

So, when All Saints’ day dawns, and you breathe a sigh of relief, climb out of the wardrobe, and put the wooden stake/shotgun/axe/silver bullets/crucifix away for another year, don’t forget to head on over to http://www.flashfictionfest.com to check out the first of over fifty fiction bites designed to both delight and destroy… 

Check out nanowrimo here: http://nanowrimo.org

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