Another essay on inspirations, this one from 1993. How is this dated? Only in personal ways. I no longer go to Rockaway Beach with other writers. The writer house changed management and it’s not possible to do. Not that I went the last few years anyway. I moved from the mountains to the coast in 1995, so no longer needed to vacation there. But the ocean still inspires me. Actually, the area I live makes me think of a New England fishing village, unless the sun hits it just right. Then it seems like an English village. The fog makes a local motel look like a castle. It’s quite pretty, and very inspiring. Just like it used to be.

Oh. And the power goes out here too. Regularly.

Editorial

Every winter, I travel with ten other writers to Rockaway Beach on the Oregon Coast. We each write a short story in a weekend, which sounds like a lot of work — and it is — but it also gives us time to walk on the beach, bake cookies, and have great conversations around the fire.

Rockaway Beach in January is difficult to get to, and not very populated. The tourists go to other beachfront cities, like Seaside or Canon Beach. In the mornings, I would wander to the beach alone, and as I jogged in the sand, the only footprints in front of me would be the tiny three-pronged stick footprints that belonged to gulls. If I turned my back on the beach-front houses, all I saw was the ocean, frothing and moving with its own life. Each morning was sunny, and the ocean was blue and white, unusual this far north. The constant rumble of the waves was a soothing counterpoint to the silence of the town.

I felt as if I had reached the edge of the world.

And yet —

If I turned around, houses faced me. Some were closed against the morning, abandoned by the summer people who come for only one season. In another, a woman sat in a rocking chair, doing a crossword puzzle. In yet another, an elderly man held a steaming coffee mug and stared at the sea.
I was not alone, and I really didn’t want to be.

That end-of-the-world alone feeling intensified when the power went out on Saturday night. In an unfamiliar house, with no phone, and only thin walls protecting us from the frosty night air, the veneer of civilization seemed thin. Dean Wesley Smith and I went into a nearby town for candles and firewood, and I was relieved to see the lights of the Safeway casting a glow across the parking lot.

I am not a pioneer. I prefer to walk ancient roads worn by many feet. I like the convenience of electric power and the ability to buy meat prepackaged at a grocery store. Yet, living in the American West, I am faced with pioneer memories all the time. Stories told by friends who can remember when the only north-south road in Idaho would be closed during bad weather, friends whose grandparents snowshoed across country. Houses litter the Cascade Range near the roads, but just off the highway lies open country as far as the eye can see. Markers record the stops on the Oregon Trail. If I half close my eyes, I can imagine what that would have looked like to travelers — hills and valleys and treacherous climbs that seemed to go on forever.

Last year, traveling in a sudden snowstorm in Nevada’s high mountain desert, our headlights caught a sign marking that empty countryside as part of the short-lived Pony Express Route. There, just for a second, shimmering outside my car window, was the terror a Pony Express rider felt when a sudden snowstorm caught him alone in that wide open country.

Sometimes, too, when I sit in my house in Oregon’s Coastal Mountain Range, I wonder if a Native American stood in this spot, overlooking the valley, as the whites encroached. This house stands on an old logging road, played out so long ago that the gravel road exists beneath a two-inch layer of dirt. But below that is the dirt that supported Native American camps, and gave them protection from life in the marshy Willamette Valley, the place they called the Valley of Sickness.

Ancient roads. History layered with geology, stories written on top of stories. Yet when I stared at the ocean in Rockaway Beach, I felt as if the ocean had a life of its own, as if it were the end of roads and the beginning of a frontier. Stanislaw Lem wrote about the ocean as a sentient being in Solaris, a book I read long before I sat on an Oregon beachfront. I think of that novel each time I stand on the beach, each time I hear the shush-shush of the waves. I wonder what stories the ocean has, and what secrets it hides, and what its quiet voice is trying to tell us.

Sometimes I think it odd that science fiction stories come to mind when I stare at the ocean. But then I realize it is no more odd than the pieces of history I choose to see when I stand on a patch of ground. Each time, it is a way of affirming to myself that I am not alone. Others have stood before the ocean and wondered at its majesty. People have crossed snow-covered high mountain deserts and survived. Despite any sudden darkness I may find myself in, whether in Rockaway or in life, I find reassurance in stories — be they history or fiction — that somewhere down the road a store is open, a well-lit store with candles and firewood, where someone else has already gone to escape the gloom.

A difficult month for reading. First there was Worldcon. Travel—particularly book tours and conventions—cut into my reading time, since I can sleep on any airplane these days. The books I did read were mostly unsatisfying.

So the month wasn’t an entire waste.

August, 2008

Asimov’s, July, 2008. One of the best issues of an sf magazine that I have read this year. I’ll make note of a special story or two below, but this entire issue is worth your while.

Baxter, Stephen, “The Ice War,” Asimov’s, September, 2008. At the Sidewise Awards ceremony at Worldcon, the nominees and the judges had a short, panel-like discussion about what a good alternate history needs to work. We concluded that a good alternate history needs an excellent story and historical rigor although, as Steven Silver, one of the judges and writer/publisher of a superb on-line fanzine, said, “It’s better to have an excellent story and poor history than it is to have excellent history and a poor story.”

The next day, I was walking to lunch with Sheila Williams, the Hugo-nominated editor of Asimov’s, and we were discussing the role of alternate history in her magazine. She said that she prefers the alternate history she publishes to have some science in it as well.

Steven Baxter’s “The Ice War” is a marvelous example of all of those points. It has a rousing story, rigourous history, and science—something I wasn’t going to believe possible when I started the story.

The story’s point of view character is Jack Hobbes, who appears to be the spiritual if not the actual descendant of Thomas Hobbes, Britain’s most famous philosopher. This Hobbes is a self-proclaimed coward and he’s a thorough scoundrel as well, but he’s an interesting—and cheeky—character. As he flees the ice monsters (in scenes deliberately reminescent of War of the Worlds), he encounters Daniel Defoe, author of Robinson Crusoe, Jonathan Swift (in our world, author of Gulliver’s Travels; alas, in this one he doesn’t live long enough to write it), and Sir Isaac Newton at the end of his life.

The three men are traveling to Edinburgh on the order of the King. Their mission is to save England, which, oddly enough, they do, but not without the help of Hobbes and the weather.

Baxter makes all of these historical characters live and breathe. He also throws in Newton’s theories and scientific thinking, and the differences between DeFoe and Swift. The story manages to be current in its examination of the little ice age that England was suffering through at the time—and the way that sudden climate change (in this case, in the form of invaders from the stars) will have an impact on everyone’s lives.

This is why I read alternate history, and why I read science fiction. Adventure, thoughtfulness, great characters, and a slam-bang story all rolled into one. One of the stories of the year.

Bishop, Michael, “Vinegar Peace, or the Used Adult Orphanage,” Asimov’s, July, 2008. First, this story has a nifty sfnal conceit—the idea of an orphanage for adults who’ve lost their children (and any relative who can take care of them in old age). But while the story itself explores this fascinating idea, the heart of it is about outliving your children. Extremely powerful and well done.

Brasheres, Ann, The Second Summer of the Sisterhood, Delacorte, 2003. I read the first book, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, before it became a phenomenon. I discovered it in a bookstore, read the opening chapter, was stunned at the author’s audacity (the book starts in first person plural, then goes to third person limited alternating points of view between the four main characters). The slight fantastic element—a single pair of jeans that can fit four very physically (and emotionally) different girls—is less of a plot device and more of a metaphor.

I loved the first book, but it broke my heart—and I didn’t expect it. Until that book, YA had replaced romance as my relaxation reading. But Sisterhood was one of the first edgy YA novels and its message as well as its sophistication made me realize that YA, like everything else, now had new agendas. I knew I would read the second book, but I also knew I had to be in the mood for something that challenged me and made me feel something more than casual enjoyment.

I finally came back to the second book this summer, thinking I had to read it before the movie. Turns out the movie is about the girls in college, and this book is not at all about college. It’s about the relationship between the girls and their mothers. It’s not as heartbreaking as the first book, although it is touching, and the insights are worthwhile. I don’t think it can stand alone—Tibby’s plotline depends on your knowledge of Bailey (my favorite character from the first book)—but I do think it’s worth reading. Now I have to buy the remaining books. Oh, sadness: an excuse to buy more books. Woe is me.

Burrough, Brian, “Bringing Down Bear Stearns,” Vanity Fair, August, 2008. If you’ve been following the troubles in the financial markets and still have questions about what happened at Bear Stearns, then this article is for you. Since it’s in a major mainstream publication, I have to assume it’s been fact-checked and vetted by lawyers. Which makes the information inside all the more startling. We were brought up to believe that financial markets were protected by the legislation written during the Progressive Era and the Roosevelt Administration. But these newer markets, like Bear Stearns, slipped through. The result is catastrophic. And this article, well written and well researched, reads like a good thriller. Check it out.

Creasey, Ian, “Cut Loose the Bonds of Flesh and Bone,” Asimov’s, September, 2008. I’m not sure if I liked this story because it’s a hell of a story or because it speaks to me and the decisions I would have made in the same shoes as the protagonist. But it’s a thought-provoking piece on the finality of death, and certainly worth the read.

Dessen, Sarah, This Lullabye, Speak, 2004. I first encountered Sarah Dessen’s work through her wonderful book, Just Listen. This Lullabye isn’t quite as good—it feels a bit padded in the beginning—but the characters are strong and the situations interesting. This book, in the guise of a girl’s last summer home before college, is actually about the sacrifices we make (especially of ourselves) when we fall in love. She also manages an excellent portrayal of life with a writer. Recommended.

Kelly, James Patrick, “On the Net: Storming the Academy,” Asimov’s, August, 2008. Jim’s “On the Net” columns are always fun and informative. This one has more structure than usual (often he takes us through loosely connected websites. This time, however, he explores the uneasy connection between sf and academia. He gives a brief history of the relationship and takes us all the way to the present. Worth reading—and worth checking out the links.

Sellar, Gord, “Lester Young and the Jupiter’s Moons’ Blues,” Asimov’s, July, 2008. This novelette is a tour de force of voice, music, and storytelling. In an alternate timeline where jazz musicians are taken to the stars by an appreciative alien species, things aren’t exactly as they seem. Written like fine jazz itself, capturing the voices of musicians as well as the era, and managing to write well about music (I heard [or perhaps I should say reheard] a lot of the pieces in my head as I read), this story is extremely well done. The most memorable story I’ve read in the magazines this year.

Silverberg, Robert, “Reflections: Some Thoughts on the Short Story,” Asimov’s, August, 2008. When a Grand Master of Science Fiction writes an essay on writing, all wannabe writers and established writers should read it. Bob’s essay on the short story brings up a few points I hadn’t thought of. He also discusses how he moves between the long form (novels) and the short form (short stories). He’s done that throughout his career. A lot of writers give up short stories once they’ve published a novel, a mistake, I think, since the forms are so different. Each form is a challenge, and worth the writer’s time. Just like this essay.

Spinrad, Norman, “On Books: the Multiverse,” Asimov’s, April/May, 2008. Normally I wouldn’t recommend a book review column, but Norman’s column always reads like a good essay. This one, in particular, is very strong. It explains the scientific concept of multiverse, and explores how sf writers can/have/and should examine it in story form. A great piece of science fiction theory—and quite a challenge to sf writers all over the globe.

Van Doren, Charles, “All the Answers,” The New Yorker, July 28, 2008. I find stories of people who have recovered after a great and public failure fascinating. This is no exception. Charles Van Doren was at the heart of the Quiz Show Scandals in the 1950s (Ralph Fiennes played him in Quiz Show about a decade ago). He was a promising man from a famous family, and after that, he more or less disappeared.

But not really. It turns out he worked as a writer for the rest of his career—primarily at Encyclopedia Brittanica, which meant that, without knowing it, I had probably read his work.

This essay isn’t a mea culpa. More of a “this is what happened from my perspective.” If you, like me, are fascinated with second acts, here’s an interesting one—hidden in a well written essay.

Wolven, Nick, “An Art, Like Everything Else,” Asimov’s, April/May, 2008. A story about death in the future, this is Wolven’s first professional sale, and it’s a heck of a good way to start. Wolven manages to capture how it feels to lose a loved one within his sfnal premise. Excellent.

“Dark Corners,” my story that appeared in Baen’s Universe last year, has been reprinted in The Best of Jim Baen’s Universe #2. The books arrived yesterday.

I’m not sure how many years it’s been since I last saw Brian Thomsen. I do know that it was more than five years ago, because Julius Schwartz was still alive. Julie, for those who didn’t know him, was THE DC editor in the 60s & 70s. Until his death in his 80s, he had an office at DC that he visited every week.

I always saw Julie when I was in New York. I was in his office when Brian arrived. Brian and Julie had a standing lunch date, and on the previous one, Julie mentioned that Dean and I were going to come visit him. So Brian stopped by too.

We had a lovely time. I always had a lovely time with Brian (and Julie too). We were never close, but our lives touched. He tried to buy my first novel many, many years ago. For a year, he kept taking it to committee, trying to get them to back the book. They’d refuse, and he’d send me a postcard, vowing to try again. He never did manage to buy it–someone else did–but he bought Dean’s first novel.

We had some lovely dinners with Brian when he was Dean’s editor. And we saw each other off and on over the years. When he moved to Wisconsin for an editing job with (I believe) TSR, he learned to drive. His friends described teaching him as one of the scariest experiences of their lives. I always imagined Brian negotiating the roads that I once drove in a similar situation when my then-husband taught me to drive a stick shift. Somehow Wisconsin drivers survived the both of us.

Brian died this week. According to Locus Magazine, he was 49–just a year older than I am. He had a heart attack. He leaves family, good friends, and those of us who didn’t know him well, but appreciated him.

It was always nice to know he was out there.

Now I hope he’s somewhere great, having lunch with Julius Schwartz and talking science fiction.

Whenever we teach workshops with new students, I get reminded of a myth that exists among writers: There is such a thing as a perfect short story.

To the beginning writer, the perfect short story is a story that will sell to every editor every time.

To the sparsely published writer, the idea is a bit more complicated. Someday the sparsely published writer will achieve such a level of perfection that every story will sell on the first time in the mail.

To the established writer, the perfect short story will win every award in the field and will be universally loved.

Or if you’re a novelist, then the perfect novel will be the Great American Novel, discussed in every “important” venue. Or it will win the Pulitzer. Or it will hit the New York Times Bestseller List.

You see the pattern.

And there’s a bit more to that pattern: the writer can achieve the perfect short story if only he learns “the secret.” Once learned, the writer will never go back. Each story will achieve perfection.

Well, sorry to tell you, there is no such thing as a perfect short story.

Let’s hit the myths one by one.

No story will sell to every editor every time. If that were the case, then editors could be interchangeable or robots could buy stories. An editor brings her taste to the magazine or anthology, and that editor may love one story and hate others. Both types may be equally good, and both may be award winners. But the editor will not like them all.

That is also why magazines and anthologies have different slants and different voices. No story will sell everywhere to everyone.

As a reader, you already know that. You’ve read Year’s Best collections which have some real dogs in them–from your point of view, anyway. The editor truly believes those stories are the best of the year.

If you look at the New York Times Bestseller list for this week, you’ll see books that you will love, books you might like, and books you will hate. And that list will vary for every other reader on the planet.

Or if you read every single story published this calendar year by the New Yorker–supposedly the gold standard of short fiction–you’ll find some stories that you can’t forget, others that someone in your creative writing class in college could have written better, and some that don’t seem like stories at all.

There is no such thing as a perfect short story.

So where does this myth come from? It comes from life experience. With enough practice, we have all achieved our goals. Especially in school. If you work hard enough, you can learn biology or write an acceptable essay or ace a math test.

But apply that to sports now. If you practice and practice and practice, can you play golf as well as Tiger Woods? Of course not. Does Tiger win every tournament he plays? No. Perfection, while it seems achievable in school, is not possible in life.

And it’s worse in the writing profession than it is in most others. Because there are times that we writers write horrible, terrible, awful drafts of stories as we strive to figure out what it is we’re trying to do. The best writers see those drafts as practice, toss them, and try that story again.

Writers who believe in perfection think that those drafts can be tweaked into something good. These writers clearly don’t understand the process.

And writing is a process. It’s something that happens day to day, week to week, year to year. Sometimes writers try for a concept, a story, an idea that’s beyond their skill level. So they fail. And many writers never try to reach beyond their skill level. Their stories get tiresome over time, never really improving and never saying anything new.

Does this mean a writer will never write a perfect short story? Sorry to say, yes. But that writer, if she keeps striving, will eventually write something so amazing that it becomes the talk of her genre. And maybe it’ll even break out of genre, like Michael Chabon’s book, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union did earlier this year.

As a writer, keep learning. Strive to write the best story you can write each and every time you write something. Then release it into the world (mail it in other words), and start all over again–striving for an excellent story and doing your best to achieve it.

Free yourself from the myth of perfection, and you’ll become a better writer. I guarantee it.