Being treated like royalty

I had my first book come out in 1999. I'm on 13 now, with number 14 in press. You'd think by now I'd have learned, but I think it's defensive memory - like marathon runners managing to forget the exhaustion and the pain and remember the glory and sense of achievement. Or parents planning on a second child and managing to forget the birth part, the diapers, sleepless nights and tantrums of the first... Just because I have been re-reminded of it and its something you need to know as a new writer, let me talk a bit about the reality of how out of touch the writer is with actuality, of your only real tool to know how you're doing: royalty statements.

These arrive. Mostly. Well, that depends on your publisher. With Baen mine arrive. With others... maybe. I've yet to see a single royalty statement for my short fiction, and I have sold 25 stories. I don't expect them to make money -- but I'd finding knowing how (and where) they sold valuable. Anyway: If you get a royalty statement really have no way of knowing if they reflect truth or creative fiction. I know one author (at a different publisher ) whose e-sales are clearly creative fiction, because she knows more people who have bought it than she's been paid for. And very small the numbers of sales on more than one book are precisely the same on another - statistically improbable.. You can of course demand an accounting -- but you'll never sell another book, and if you're wrong and the flaw does not exceed $2000 IIRC, it will be expensive, as you pay for it. So it never happens. I blame Norman Spinrad for this sorry state of affairs - but that's a long story for another time. If it hadn't been for Spinrad's action, the industry would have been healthier financially, and far weaker than it is now. I would also probably not have been published. You can -- if you evade the obstacles the big publishing houses made Bookscan put in your way (ever wonder why?) get the Bookscan figures. These however are very much less complete than your publisher's records and don't include every sale (I believe they exclude Amazon, and Indies and many stores not in a few main centres). As they estimate too apparently, they can exceed the numbers on your royalty statement (if for example you sell OK in New York and other major cities, but barely sell a copy in the rest of the US.) Of course it is entirely possible that the dark suspicions in every author's mind are mere paranoia, like the conviction that e-piracy stole all your sales.

But dear future writer, the saga goes on. You see, royalty statements only cover a complete six month reporting period. - Jan-June, July-December. So if your book comes out 30 December, two days later you are at the start to a complete 6 months and in theory you should get your royalty statement in September (in practice December). However if your book comes out on 3 January... your complete 6 months only starts in July-December. So in theory you would get that statement in March. Only in practice the statement will be a further 2-3 months late. So in other words, if your book came out 3 January 2009... you might only hear how it has done, and get any income from it early July 2010.

There are good historical reasons for most of this, and this delay is the origin of advances which are the bane of every publishing house's existence. Advances -- seeing as the landlord and the power company and the grocer take a similarly dim view to authors to waiting 18 months to be paid, are what most of us end up living on. They are an advance on royalty income and are typically paid - for books sold on proposal half on signing, half on turn in, or for multiple book sales 1/3 on signing and 2/3 on turn in, or latterly 1/3 signing, 1/3 turn in, and 1/3 on publication. A good editor once told me they aim at 2/3 of what they think a book will earn, and a good agent told me he aims for as much as a book will earn.

Er. Do you see the flaw in this? As this is all pure thumb-suck as to how well a book -- especially on proposal -- will do, and getting it very wrong (even if the book does much better than expected) reflects badly on the editor - because that's his job - to estimate it right, the publisher's staff have a vested interest in seeing it is nearly right. They have various tools to do this -- firstly their instincts, secondly those very accurate Nielsen Bookscan figures, and thirdly their company's clout in marketing, and distribution and retail space. And next time they buy from the same author, they have the figures resulting from using these tools... So the only ‘real' factor is the editor's instinct. In some cases that is good - Campbell, Jim Baen for examples -- but let's be honest here - it's a big, complex world, and even the very best get it wrong sometimes. Still, that's how it works and this is why (besides wanting money or needing it to live on) authors and agents try for as high an advance as possible. Which, of course skews the system further and forces the publisher to carry considerable debt...

It would be to everyone's advantage if advances became history. Well, certain editors who enjoyed the power of bestowing them, and certain authors who enjoyed the ‘push' that a huge advance gave to a mediocre to poor book, wouldn't like it. But publishers, their shareholders, readers and most authors would benefit.

Only we STILL have the lag phase, between proposal and payment, and the very long gaps in any author's income, and the uncertainty -- so most authors would not be prepared to let a publisher have their books without an advance, because if they did, the publisher could simply use the saving to give more to Joe or Fred in terms of push. Quite frankly there isn't a lot of trust out there, a situation fostered by all the secrecy.

The answer obviously is to do away with the lag phase, and to make sure that authors knew they were getting an equal chance (or reasonable chance) to succeed. Now, as I said, there are good historical reasons for the lag -- some which still exist for paper. Firstly, keeping track of a physical inventory was not easy or quick. Basically a stock count was the only way to really be totally sure. And every six months was pretty reasonable for that. Of course computerisation has improved this vastly and there really is no reason why a publisher cannot know fairly precisely what they've shipped and what they've got back on a day-by-day basis. Some will tell you, some will tell you if asked, and some just won't. Secondly, retailers had a three-month payment window. The publisher needed at least 4-5 months to be sure he'd actually got the money out of them. Thirdly sheer physical distribution - by sea for eg, could add months onto the time for both sales AND returns. Fourthly the issue of returns and the complexity this added onto calculations of royalties. Finally, the authors were costing the publisher interest charges on the advance. It made sense therefore to sit on/use the cash for as long as possible.

Of course all of the above falls apart in an e-book environment. The publisher and the retailer know immediately how much they have sold (and there is no reason the author and readers shouldn't know too), there are no ‘in distribution' copies, no returns, and no reason (as you are not holding physical stock you have to pay for before sale) to delay payment. And if authors - particularly those with work ready to sell - got paid say... monthly (to save on transfer costs), there is no need for advances, and an electronic retailer has as much e-space for Joe Neverheardofim as for Fred Bigname, and both have the same number of copies (ie as many as any reader wants) on their shelf.

It's a very attractive proposition for authors (the idea of a predictable income - even if it's only predictable day to day by tracking it - paid reliably on a predictable day every month - when bills are monthly is almost intoxicatingly lovely, compared to now), and for publishers, as they escape advances _and_ get reliable sales figures on which authors really sell well (without the GIGO input of bookscan, distribution, marketing and retail space) - which should make them make more money.
Maybe it is less attractive for retail...

Can anyone see any holes in it?

Boy, Do I Have a Deal for You!

I don't know about everyone else, but one of the hardest things for me is to come up with a title for books as I write them. What I find happens a lot of times is the title that absolutely, positively fits has already been used and when searching, it has often been used, well, often. Head -> desk. Then there's the knowledge that the title is transient. Quite often an agent or editor will decide the title just isn't right and needs to be changed. Their reasons are manifest and, especially as a new author, not to be challenged. Still, I can't go around calling my latest work "George", especially when the lead character's name isn't George. If I call it "WIP", I'll get confused because I always have at least three things going at once -- the brand new book or story in rough draft (and there are often two at this stage), the book or short story doing the rounds with my beta readers and in edits, and then the book and story on submission. Besides, can you imagine the looks I'd get from agents and editors if I sent them the following:

Dear Ms. Agent,

Attached please find my novel, "Work in Progress". It's a 100,000 word urban fantasy ....

Somehow, I have a feeling if I ever sent something like that out, Miss Snark would return from retirement and her first blog entry would be on my query letter. Sorry, much as I miss Miss Snark, I am not that big of a masochist. In fact, the closet thing to masochism I come to is being a writer. Besides, a title -- even if it may be changed later -- says a lot about a book or short story. It is the reader's first indication of what they should expect from the book. Title and cover art will draw them in. Back cover excerpt -- or item description for e-books -- will set the hook. Then it's up to us, as writers, to fulfill their expectations with what we write.

Any way, here's the deal. I have a work in progress that is, so far, being very frustrating. For one, it insists on being dark in tone while the other book I'm working on is lighter and more humorous. For another, this is the first time I'm having trouble coming up with a title. So here's the deal. I'm going to excerpt the first of the book below -- Remember, this is a very rough draft and hasn't been through the edit process. So there will be changes and tightening of the prose -- and throw the floor open to you guys for title suggestions. Kate has agreed to help me choose the one that best seems to fit where the story is going. The winner will get, if you want, a line-by-line edit of your first chapter or first 5k words of a novel or short story. I figure this way, we're helping one another.

Here goes, and thanks!

##

It started with the war. Which, in so many ways, is the height of irony. The war was supposed to end all our problems. Once done, we'd no longer have to hide or walk in the shadows. For the first time in living memory – and our memory is very long – we'd finally be able to live "normal lives", whatever that means.


Only it didn't happen that way. The war was lost before it began. That's why none of the history books recorded it. You won't even find it as a footnote in some scholarly text. Nor will you find mention of us, not unless some miracle occurs to change the current path we've been on since that terrible day.


We were betrayed. Unbeknownst to us, there'd been a traitor in our midst. Our own Judas,
if you will. For not much more than the fabled 30 pieces of silver – and the assurance he'd never be harmed nor his secret revealed – one of our own had sold our plans to the enemy.


They'd struck without warning, killing indiscriminately. We didn't have a chance. So we'd
scattered, swearing on our dead that we'd claim vengeance one day.


We didn't know that day how deep the treachery ran. The traitor had done more than sell our plans. He'd sold our names and the locations of our homes and loved ones. Those of us who'd escaped the first trap found ourselves hunted like game. Using the information given them by the traitor, the enemy hunted us down and killed with no more consideration than they'd give a rabid dog. These witch hunts, for lack of a better term, continued throughout the years, slowly but surely shrinking our ranks until only a handful of us remain.


So, instead of coming out of the shadows, we've been driven deeper underground. We've been
forced to adapt to a changing world with technologies that make it harder and harder to hide our existence. We do our best to blend into the background, mourning those we've lost and always looking over our shoulders for those who hunt us.


Most of all, we thirst for vengeance. Our blood cries for the loss of our children. The traitor will pay. Even if it falls to the last of our kind. His head shall be separated from his body, his heart ripped out and cast aside. He will learn the price of his treason.


And I swear it will be by my hand.

One

They were watching. Or at least someone was. I knew it the moment I stepped outside. I could feel their eyes on me in the prickling at the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades. Somewhere among the crowd an enemy waited. Perhaps my time had finally come. If so, whoever watched me would soon learn I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

I stepped away from the door and glanced around, careful not to be too obvious about it. Yes, someone was definitely there. Again. As much as I’d like to believe the one watching me was more interested in my good looks – hah! – or even in stealing my backpack, I knew better. I’d felt their presence for a week now. Never at the same time or the same place. It didn’t matter that I’d varied my routine. At last twice a day, they were there, watching me, following me. And I was certain I knew why.

I was also tired of playing games. I like a good hunt as much as the next person. But only when I’m the hunter. This being the hunted wasn’t sitting well and I wanted it to stop – now.

One way or another, I’d end this game of cat and mouse. But I had to bide my time.

Downtown Fort Worth wasn’t the place for a confrontation. At least not the sort that I usually found myself involved in. Unfortunately, I hadn’t chosen the arena. Unless I wanted everything out in the open, I needed to find someplace secluded and quickly.

A hint of worry licked at my confidence. Whoever was following me had managed to do so for a week now. The fact they’d been able to keep track of me no matter what I did to throw them off meant they were at least as good as I was, perhaps even better. So I had to be careful. No unnecessary risks. Well, at least no outrageously unnecessary ones. My whole life was one of risk. The fact someone was stalking me – again – only proved it.

We’ll, we’d see soon enough how good they were. I was tired of playing mouse to their cat.

But for anything to happen, I had to get off the street. A pubic confrontation would only play into their hands. Too many people had cell phones with video capability. The last thing I needed was for a video of what I had planned to hit the internet – and reach those who had made it their life’s mission to destroy me and those I cared for.

But Fort Worth, even downtown Fort Worth, wasn’t without out of the way areas where I could
put my plan into action. All I had to do was get to one, before my unseen trackers decided to make their move.

I started down the block, blending in with the crowd. One in the afternoon meant the sidewalks were crowded. Attorneys and paralegals hurried down the street in the direction of the county courthouse, their briefcases swinging like weapons to part the crowd before them. Men and women in business suits strolled only slightly more leisurely back to their offices from lunch. One or two may have staggered a bit, the worse for wear after one too many drinks. I stepped around a group of four women, dressed in the latest after-tennis wear that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Their voices grated against my ears as they debated where to go for lunch. They were quickly drowned out by a group of kids, laughing and talking and wanting to know if they were going to the zoo soon. Everyday life in this city that proclaims itself to be the gateway to the West.

As the crowd pressed on down the street, I paused near the entrance to the Bank of Texas, located in one of the tallest buildings in town. I carefully shifted my backpack, settling it more comfortably over my left shoulder, leaving my right had free. I wanted to be able to drop it without hesitation when the time came. And something told me that time would be soon.

I had to get off the streets.

A man bumped against me and I stiffened, relaxing only as he mumbled a quick “’cuse me” and moved on. At least he’d said that much. One thing about Fort Worth, it was a polite town.

Even though I looked like the average college student wandering the streets, trying to decide whether to go to the bookstore to study or one of the many bars located in the area to forget about school, people still greeted me and begged for forgiveness for whatever minor breech they thought they might have committed. But at least they meant me no harm. No, that came from another quarter and it worried me that I still couldn’t locate the danger. Were they really that good or had I finally grown sloppy? Had I spent so much time hiding in plain sight and getting away with it that I’d made a fatal mistake somewhere along the line?

No, I couldn’t – I wouldn’t – believe that. And now it was time to see just how good my shadow really was.

A slight smile touched my lips as I ducked inside the bank building. It was a risk. I knew it. There were any number of security cameras here, cameras that would capture my image. But they’d also capture the image of whoever followed me. It might not help me but, in the long run, it might help others like me. That really was the best I could hope for.

The glass doors slid shut behind me and or one moment I relished the cool air and soft music that greeted me. But I couldn’t stand there enjoying it. Too many others wanted inside, politely but insistently pushing past me. Then there was my shadow, that threat I could feel even if I couldn’t see it. No, I had to move further inside and hope whoever it was didn’t choose this place for our showdown.

“May I help you, ma’am?” the uniformed security guard asked as I approached his desk.

To the right lay the lobby for the bank. Through the glass walls, I could see customers and employees and armed guards. Unless my tail was a fool of phenomenal proportions, he wouldn’t try anything here. Still, it was best not to hang around and tempt fate.

“I’ve got a deliver for George and Chandler from the Jessup Firm. They’re expecting it.”

I waited as he called upstairs to confirm my story. Funny enough, it was the truth. I hadn’t realized when I took the temporary job as runner for a local law firm that it would come in handy as a way to keep alive. For the first time in my life, I had a reason to be thankful for those bottom feeders call lawyers.

“Thirty-fifth floor, ma’am. I’ll need you to sign in and put this on.”

He pushed a clipboard across the desk in my direction with one hand and handed me a guest badge with the other. His eyes didn’t leave the page as I scrawled my name on the first available line. I handed him back the clipboard and then attached the badge to the right front pocket of my jeans. There, I was official. If anything happened, the cops would look into it and boy would they be surprised by what they found.

So I simply had to be smart and not let anything happen. The fate of too many others rested on it.

Ten minutes later, I stepped into the corridor outside the law firm of George and Chandler and glanced around. No one else was visible. But that didn’t mean anything and I knew it. My pursuers could very easily be waiting for me in the lobby. It would be easy to flank me as I stepped off the elevator. They’d rely on the fact I wouldn’t want to create a scene. By the time we were away from the crowds, it would be too late – at least for me.

They could be closer, hiding in the restrooms down the hall or in the stairways. But I doubted it. I was sure they hadn’t given up, but I could no longer feel them bearing down on me as I had before. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. All I knew for sure was I had to get out of the building without being backed into a corner that would force me to either surrender to them or reveal much more to the public-at-large than any of us wanted to.

The elevator doors slid open and I tensed, waiting for the inevitable. Instead of the monsters of my past stepping into the corridor and coming for me, a couple of well dressed women stepped out instead. From their whispered conversation, I knew they were talking about a different kind of assignation than the one I’d been expecting. No, they were comparing notes on their love lives, oblivious to all around them.

Inspiration hit. I reached out and stopped the door before it could close. My lips pulled back into a satisfied grin as I punched the buttons to make the elevator car stop on the twenty fifth, nineteenth and tenth floors before coming to a stop in the lobby. Unless I missed my guess, the car would stop on at least one other floor along the way which was all to the good. The more stops it made, and the more people who got on and off, the more difficult it became for my pursuers to realize where I actually had gone.

Now, to get out of the building and make sure that any confrontation happened on my terms and not theirs.

I resisted the urge to run as I moved back down the corridor toward the stairwell door. I could hurry once there. But I didn’t dare draw attention to myself now. I’d take the stairs up six floors and then take the elevator down. Everything above the fortieth floor used a different bank of elevators than the one I’d come up on. These elevators opened out of sight of the main lobby and just across from the stairwell door that led down to the parking garage. If I could just cross to the door, I’d be in the garage before anyone knew it.

Of course, that was a very big IF….

The elevator doors opened and I let myself be swept into the back section of the lobby by the other passengers. As I stepped out, I glanced around, every sense alive and seeking.

Much as I’d hoped my shadow had given up and gone home, he was still there. I could feel him. He was close, too close for comfort. But where? Why couldn’t I see him?

Praying the explanation was as simple as whoever it was being on the opposite side of the elevator bank and blind to my return, I looked for the stairwell door. All I had to do was get to it. That’s all. Only ten feet separated me from potential freedom.

With my backpack thumping against my back, I hit the door at a dead run. Now we’d play it my way. Let’s see just how good he – or she – happened to be. I’d spent a lifetime training for situations like this. I’d bet my life – hell, I was betting my life – that he hadn’t and I hoped that I wasn’t backing the wrong horse this time.

I pelted up the drive, climbing, climbing until I saw daylight. Cars lined up at the gates, waiting for their tickets to enter or to pay so they could exit. I slipped between them, emerging onto the street. Even then I didn’t slow. I couldn’t. I could hear someone behind me. Running feet, labored breathing. Good. He wasn’t in the physical condition I was and now he’d pay for it. Then he’d tell me what I wanted to know or pay an even greater price.

I veered to my right into another parking garage, an above-ground one this time.

We’d already run more than a city block, not counting the time in the bank’s parking garage. I could feel my pursuer flagging. Good. Just a little longer. I had to be careful about where I chose to confront him. But soon, very soon, this would be over.

There’s something about the hunt that excites at the primal level. It doesn’t matter if you’re the hunted or the hunter. At least it doesn’t matter to me. My senses seem to sharpen as my pulse increases. My mind is clear, calm. I know how good I am. I’ve managed to live a very long time by most standards because of it. This hunter, if you dared call him that, was no match for me.
Soon, he’d realize that the hunter had become the hunted and he was now the prey. I could
hardly wait to see his expression, to taste his fear.

I raced up the ramp and around the corner, one level and then two. My running shoes, carefully selected for just such an emergency, cushioned my steps. Only a muted slap-slap-slap with each footfall betrayed me. Even though my pulse raced, my breathing was barely labored. I was born for the hunt and for the long chase it entailed.

I hit the door leading to the stairwell. Time to add some distance between us. The door slammed behind me, just as I wanted. I wanted him in the stairwell. I wanted him to pause and wonder which direction I’d gone. Then, when he started up the stairs in my direction, he’d be even more tired, his legs heavier, harder to move. And that, she knew, made him an easier target when the time came.

Three flights up, I slammed through another door, ignoring the possibility others might be on the other side. This was between me and the man who followed me. The world had shrunk to just the two of us. There wasn’t time to worry about anyone else. Not until this was over. Until he was over.

Then I could worry about consequences.

For one moment I slowed, my eyes scanning the level. Good. Almost every parking space was
filled. The cars and vans increased the shadows on the level, making it easier to hide. And hide I was going to do. Now was the time for patience and cunning. Maybe even time to play with the fool a bit before pouncing. He needed to learn that the mouse often has very sharp teeth and the cat had best be battle-hardened before going after it.

He was close. I could feel it even as I heard his steps. The fool. Why wear boots if you’re trying to stalk someone in the heart of a city? Every step he took reverberated even though the closed door. Better, he’d grown tired, just as I planned. Soon, very soon, it would be over.

I crouched behind a van near the top of the ramp, hidden in the shadows. My backpack rested on the concrete beside me. Down the aisle, the stairwell door clanged shut, followed almost instantly by a sharp curse. I couldn’t help smiling. He’d grown tired and careless. It just kept getting better.

Still, I remained where I was, secure in the knowledge the shadows were, as always, my friend. For a moment, the only sounds were of my heart beating and my slow, even breaths.

There! A step. Then another. His pace quickened. He wasn’t running, quite, but it was close. If I’d doubted someone followed me, I no longer did.

Someone most definitely was following me. What surprised me was how they seemed to be breaking all the rules. Whoever it was, he hunted alone. His tactics, or lack thereof, betrayed his inexperience. He was either very sure of himself or very foolish. Either one could play to my advantage, as long as I didn’t get cocky.

Leaving my backpack, I edged around the rear of the van. The backpack, if he found it, would delay him further. It would divert his attention and give me the chance to act. But I had to take care not to blow my chance before it arrived.

I crept behind another car, big and black. Some sort of SUV. I really didn’t care what it was so long as it offered me protection. That was all that mattered. Now was when hunter became the hunted and the thrill of it raced through me. If only we were away from town where this could become a real hunt.

Footsteps neared. Slower now, more relaxed. It was almost as if someone was taking a leisurely stroll toward me. Had I misjudged? Was it possible my stalker had been playing me? No, I didn’t believe that. There had to be another explanation.

I shrank further into the shadows between the cars, creeping backwards, away from the aisle. My heart hammered as it hadn’t since leaving the bank. Fear clawed at my throat.

For one moment, I closed my eyes, praying this was all some horrible dream I’d soon awaken from. But it wasn’t. I’d learned long ago that the only nightmares are the ones we’re forced to live, day after day after day.

A car door opened just a few yards away and I started nervously. My hands flew to my mouth
in a desperate attempt to silence my gasp. It wasn’t him. By all that was holy, it wasn’t him. It had been an innocent, that’s all. Not that there’s really any innocents left these days. Still, whoever it was, they weren’t a part of this. All I had to do was wait for them to leave. Then I could finish this, once and for all.

If I had time. For all I knew, the one following me had heard my gasp and even now was using the sound of the car starting and backing out of its space to close in on me. Dear God, what should I do?

Patience. I had to stay patient and not move too soon. Nor could I risk getting careless now, with the end so close.

A red sedan slowly passed my hiding space. Behind the wheel sat an attractive, gray haired woman. Even from where I crouched in the shadows, I could see she hadn’t locked her doors. It would be so easy to slide into the backseat as she drove past, to force her to drive my out of there and away from my pursuer. It was so tempting. . . .

No! That wasn’t the way. It was far too dangerous to involved someone else, someone outside the clan. In this day and age of lojack technology on cars and global positioning software in cell phones, it wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. One phone call to the police and they’d know within minutes where the car was. I might be willing to do a lot of things to stay alive but risking a police shoot out wasn’t one of them.

The car disappeared around the curve and I sank back against the wheel of the SUV. Where was he? My ears strained and my heart pounded. No matter how many times I'd been in this position – and I'd been there more times than I cared to count – it never got any easier. How could it when so many deaths haunted me? But this time was different. I could feel it. The hunter was alone and a one-on-one fight suited me just fine.

But I wouldn't kill him unless he forced me to. Not that I wouldn't do whatever was necessary to find out how he'd found me. Once I knew that, I could disappear into the shadows again and move on, another town and another identity.

Again.

Leather scraped concrete and my muscles tensed. I waited, ready to pounce. All he had to do was come a little closer.

Wait. Something was wrong. This was all happening too easily. Was it possible this was all some sort of elaborate trap they'd laid to capture me.

Fear licked at my confidence and without thought I glanced down, frantically searching for that tell-tale red dot of a laser scope. Nothing. If anyone besides the two of us was there, they hadn't tagged me, at least not yet. Maybe I was worrying for no reason.

Not willing to take the chance, I dropped to my stomach and looked under the cars, searching for another set of feet, for anything to prove or disprove my fears. Nothing. Only the boots and jeans of the pursuer I knew about.

I sat back up and drew a slow, deep breath. My lips pulled back, baring my teeth and a low, primal growl fought for release. My muscles all but quivered in anticipation as each step brought the hunter closer, ever closer.

From where I crouched, I saw his legs first. Faded blue jeans. Black, worn boots.

Interesting. That wasn't the usual attire of the hunters but it did make sense if this one was trying to blend in here. Maybe he wasn't quite the amateur I first thought. Or maybe not. Although he moved slowly up the aisle, checking first one direction and the other as he scanned between the parked cars, his hands were visible and very empty. My well-trained eye saw no hint of a weapon anywhere on him. Good. That would make things much easier.

I slipped further into the shadows cast by the SUV and the wall behind me. All I needed was for him to take another couple of steps forward. That's all. Then I'd be in his blind spot and could move. He'd never know what hit him. By the time he figured it out, it would be too late and they would both be well away from there and anyone who might be looking for him.

Silently, I rose from my crouch and stepped into the aisle. As if suddenly aware of my presence, he turned. My fist froze half-way to his face and a gasp tore from my throat.

No! It couldn't be. I couldn't be seeing him, not here and sure as hell not now. He was dead, damn it! Dead by my hand.

My mind may have frozen, but my body acted on instinct. I turned and took one step away from him. I had to run. It didn't matter where. All that mattered was getting out of there. I'd made the worst mistake possible. I'd gotten too sure of myself and I'd fallen into his trap.

But how do you fight a dead man?

For one moment, I thought I'd actually manage to get away. Stupid. I was so stupid.

Three sharp jabs hit my back, like needles or nails. I reached back, swatting at them without breaking stride. Then my system lit up. It felt as if a thousand – a million – hot needles suddenly pierced me. Every nerve seemed to catch fire. No longer would my body answer my demands. Muscles tensed, spasmed and I fell. There was pain – I think there was pain – as I hit the concrete face first. But I wasn't sure. Not when everything hurt.

Breathe. I had to breathe. But my lungs wouldn't work. Panic filled me. This is what Hell must be like. A mind alive and terrified in a body that does nothing but scream in agony. Dear God, was this really the day I'd die?

Process Server (an oldie but a goodie) -- by Sarah A. Hoyt

(This week we've been discussing different aspects of the writing process. Since Sarah's off to LibertyCon, along with a lot of other folks, Kate and I thought this post from 2008 fit right in with the week's topics. Enjoy and discuss! -- Amanda)

My friend Dave Freer started this week talking about process and it seems like an excellent lead to follow.

We writers hang a lot meaning and thought on the process. This would seem particularly strange since each of us seems to have a completely different process which he swears by, and different touchstones he believes essential for the work to turn out “right.”

Of course, in actual fact it is not strange at all. After all, like most primitive cultures, we are at the mercy of dimly-understood forces (in this case editorial and distribution) who make decisions we can’t predict with results we often have trouble rationalizing. If fretting and obsessing about process helps calm our anxieties and keeps us from sacrificing goats to the word processor, so much the better – if for no other reason because most of us live in jurisdictions that take exception to animal sacrifice and because animal blood does terrible things to the flooring of your average suburban home.

So – that said – what is my process? Ah.... in what respect?

Each of us, after all, also has a different thing we call process. In fact, while going through workshops, way back in the stone age when I was unpublished (it was hard to be published in the stone age. All that endless chipping away at stone. And a short story could break your back just lugging around) I was often baffled by the phrase “Trust the process” because I was fairly sure I didn’t have one. (Unless bitching, moaning, and coming downstairs to dramatically announce to my husband that I was done with writing forever at least once per story could count as a process.) Part of this was because I knew very few writers with whom I could discuss how writing happened and therefore I tended to assume that what I did to create fiction was not a process but simply how things were done. Like insular people who’ve never been away from their place of birth, I assumed there were two ways of doing things, my way and the profoundly wrong way.

I’ve since met many writers and come across as many “processes” as there are authors. I can rarely tell from the finished product how an author writes (though I can usually tell on “feel” whether they get “character first” or “plot first.” This is not a value judgement. There are excellent authors in each camp.)

Process being such a multi-splendored thing, I could spend hours describing mine, and would probably no more enlighten you – as Dave Freer put it – than observing shark mating habits will improve your sex life. So, for today, I will confine myself to stating some vague, off the cuff commandments on writing in general. (There are ten. I could thunder a little, if it made you feel better. I refuse, however, to engrave stone tablets. Fresh out of chisel.)

Next week I’ll take on the eternal question, which in writing circles passes for chicken vs. egg – Plotter vs. Pantser – and in two weeks, if my attention spa should last that long, we’ll take on matters of speed in writing. This week, however, you’ll have to content yourself with commandments. Feel free to obey them, laugh at them or burn them in ritual sacrifice to your word processor.

1 - Though Shalt Not Put Thy Faith in Magical Objects.

I think we all heard the story, probably apocryphal, of the writer whose writing was brilliant so long as his desk lamp was turned on while he wrote. As proof of the magic in the object, the lightbulb didn’t go out. Ever. He grew more and more confident in his magic lamp with its magic lightbulb. (No, we have no word on whether he rubbed it. Stop being prurient!) Until he and his wife were involved in an acrimonious divorce when the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs.-Writer told him she changed that lightbulb every two weeks or so to make sure it didn’t die while he was writing. Said – possibly non existent – writer allegedly didn’t write again for years.

2 - Thou Shalt Not Put Thy Faith In Anyone’s Opinion of How You Should Work.

No, I really don’t care if the anyone is your best friend, a bestseller who wrote a book on how to do this, or your agent who has a special formula for writing extraordinary books or all of the above rolled into one shining vision of perfection. Look into my eyes, and believe this if you never believe anything else you hear about how to write: chances are someone else is as completely wrong about how you should write as they would be wrong if they told you what your sexual orientation should be or what would work for you in bed. It is not something someone outside your head is qualified to know. I used sexual orientation for a reason. Like how you write it is composed of myriad impulses, pushes, pulls, moral directives and genetic predispositions, most of which operate at a level you will never be conscious of, even if you try to be. Heck, if you think about it the reason WHY we write is just as mysterious. We all know people as sane or insane as we are who feel absolutely no compulsion to serve the fickle divinities of story. Am I saying you shouldn’t listen to other people’s advice? No. I’m saying you shouldn’t put your FAITH in it. By all means, try waking up early and writing for two hours before breakfast just like that bestselling buddy told you to. It might work for you. But don’t bend yourself out of shape trying to make it work for you. You came into the world with a unique set of sensory/expressive tools and ultimately what will work for you will be a combination of parts of what works for other people and things that don’t work for anyone else. (And before you ask, yes, here speaks sad experience. I spent at least ten years changing my writing habits every time someone told me I was doing it wrong. In the end I learned a lot from it, but most of what I learned was the sentence after “2".)

3 - One Man’s Bubblegum is Another Man’s Roast.

Okay, go ahead, say “ew” and get it out of your system. Now moving on from that gross image – what I mean is, never believe someone’s opinion of what your chosen genre/subgenre/approach is and what “true literature” should be. I have read any number of how-to books halfway through, then set them down not to pick them up again because the author – who made good points up to then – suddenly informed me that if I wrote science fiction/horror/mystery/fantasy or simply “commercial” fiction, then he wasn’t talking to me, because what I did was NOT art but formulaic dreck. Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but no one is entitled to his own facts. “Literature” might be definable and it might be all that (let’s leave aside the fact that it’s rarely defined the same by the author’s generation and the next ones.) I’ve read literary works – few – universally regarded as such that are indeed a cut above most other writing (Jorge Luis Borges comes to mind.) But I’ve read “genre” fiction that evokes the same awe (Terry Pratchett comes to mind) and which certainly required as strong a combination of inspiration and craft. So next time someone tells you “you shouldn’t be writing that drek, write literature instead” look them straight in the eye and tell them to go roast their own bubble gum. The blank look that follows should be enough for a laugh and you can run away before they recover their wits.

4 - Thou Shalt Not Know It All.

Any writer who came up through a writers’ group – a surprising number comes up in isolation, but I came up with a writers’ group who all started at more or less the same level – knows at least one know-it-all. (Actually, they should be so lucky. They probably know five or six.) The know-it-all is the person who doesn’t need my two injunctions above. They would never trust anyone else about their process because their process is perfect, duh. And they would never read a writing book because they know how to write and every one of their words is sacred. The Earth and the Sky shall pass away before they deviate one iota from their writing habits.
After posting the two rules above I needed to post this one. Be aware that most know-it-alls are unpublished and will remain so. The exceptions are geniuses which are as rare among writers as among any other human population. I said not to trust anyone wholesale and not to devalue your work wholesale. However, I did not say to not learn and to remain clasping your ossified little habits to your breast. Writing is a craft. No one would expect to walk into a basket weaving workshop and be a master basket weaver just because he’s used baskets all his life. Expecting to be a perfect writer because you read is just as insane. If you’re starting out, be aware you have to learn techniques for how to do things better. And if you’re experienced, you’ll have to learn techniques for how to do things better. My favorite writers experiment and change until the very end. I’d bet everyone’s favorite writers do.

5 - Practice Makes Perfect

Only writing will help you discover what works for you and what doesn’t. In the abstract loads of things work for me that I cannot in fact do. (Like get up at four in the morning to write. Should work, but I end up typing on the cat, petting the keyboard and trying to pour coffee into my eye.) This is because I don’t write with my rational brain, but with the lint between my toes or something. Meaning, I can’t control it. (For instance, I’ll be in the middle of a novel and another will ambush me in an alley, and I’ll have to stop and outline it before I write anything else. You think I’d choose to do that? But it works.) So write, write a lot.

6 - Do Not Write for the Drawer

Am I saying that everything you write should be publishable? No. I wrote eight novels before one got accepted (three of THOSE have sold since then, but that doesn’t matter.) Am I saying that you should inflict your beginner attempts, full of thumb marks and blotches on professional editors and agents? Forbid the thought. Those people suffer enough as is. What I’m saying, though, is that in your mind you should be aiming to write for publication. What do I mean by this? Well, during a particularly dark year – I think 93, which goes to show you it’s always darkest before dawn, since I started selling shorts in 94 – I “gave up.” Giving up, for me, doesn’t involve actually not writing, since writing is a compulsion. So I decided I was just going to write “for me.” And then I found I couldn’t. Not after the first two weeks or so. If you can, more power to you, and maybe you should just do that, as then you can’t fail. My issue is that in writing only for me I lacked the discipline of trying to get the story to someone outside my head. Sadly, I found the end result of this didn’t do a thing for me either – despite the fact that I am arguably inside my head. (The gentleman at the back should refrain from comments about being out of one’s mind.)

7- Always look up the ladder.

When picking whom to listen to (though never to believe wholesale) about your process/work, always look up the ladder of success to where you’d like to be. In other words, if you are a bestseller stop twisting yourself into pretzels wondering why that reviewer from Middle School Digest hated your last novel. (Of course, if you are a bestseller and reading this, you’re already breaking that rule. Unless you’re doing it for comic relief.) In this, remember success is relative. I have friends who are not as published as I am but whom I acknowledge as experts on plotting or character or even language. I listen to them on that, if not on the rest.

8 - Thou Wilt Remember The Work On Display

The best learning tools are not how-to-write books, but the fiction works themselves. Remember that we know what works. It’s on display on bookstore shelves. Get them. Read them. Analyze them. Besides, you started in this because you like reading, right?

9 - Thou Shalt Seek Out Other Writers.

And if you’re wondering why you should, since you can’t trust them when they tell you what your process should be, see me after class to discuss snark and when not to use it.
Seriously – seek out other writers because as different as we are from each other and as much as we drive each other absolutely nuts (admittedly a short distance and well paved road for most of us) chances are you have more in common with other writers than with non-writers. There are exceptions to this, but by and large when you want to cry into your beer or rejoice in your success, your writer-buddy is more likely to get it than anyone else. Everyone gets “my novel tanked, I’m out of work.” Ditto everyone gets “My novel just went big, I’m rolling in dough.” Monetary failure and success happen in other professions as well. However, the sheer joy of “I finally finished that chapter that hasn’t moved for a week” can only be grasped by a fellow sufferer. Through thick, thin, hell and high water, it is your writer friends who will hold you together.

10 - Write. Submit. Repeat.

Writing on the Run

It can be pretty hard to find the time to write. Life has a way of coming at you all at once. Family dramas, excessive workload, sickness - all of the above.

One of the things that has really saved me when things get hectic is the discovery that my laptop works fine on the bus. This gives me up to an hour a day during the week, and it all goes surprisingly well when I don't get distracted by people talking loudly on their mobile (first up against the wall when the revolution comes) or to each other right behind me. If you are prone to travel sickness, that would probably knock that one out.

If you are being beaten back even more, there are always those few minutes spent waiting for an elevator, or waiting for the bus or train. You can use those moments to dream away about your story, maybe flesh out a character, or if things are really grim, just feel good about the fact you are a writer.

Carry a notepad or electronic equivalent that you can slip easily into your laptop bag, pocket or purse. If you get into the right frame of mind, its amazing how productive you can be on the ideas front in very short slices of time. I personally love writing with pen on paper. Sitting down in a cafe with my English Breakfast tea (strong) and writing in my journal is a treat.

Feed the beast: Let yourself get immersed in good fiction, or visual story. Read things that excite you. Inspire yourself creatively. You can do that even you are unwell and too physically exhausted to sit in a chair. Try audio books if you need to be on the move. Get the creative juices flowing - you never know when that great new concept will hit you right between the eyes. I got my last one pulling up weeds.

Find your niche: Even in the most busy life there will be places you can find a calm moment - 'eyes in the storm'. My favourite is to escape to a local cafe. The development of an invisibility field is highly recommended:)

Use the mundane tasks of the day as brainstorming time - doing the dishes, sweeping the floor, ironing, painting, handyman stuff etc

How do you manage to fit in writing when things get crazy?

To Shred or Not to Shred, That is the Question

Rowena's post this week started me thinking about critiquing and how little I knew when I first tippy-toed into the whole 'write like you're already professional' kind of thing. Basically, critique is a skill that all writers need to learn - among other things, learning to critique helps you sharpen your internal editor so when you need the editor-hat you can actually do a half-decent job of it.

Like everything else in this business, you never really finish learning to critique. You just widen the repertoire: my earliest crits were horribly lame (yes, to those of you who've 'enjoyed' a Kate-shredomatic critique, I had no idea at first).

First things first: never, ever crit with "This sucks" or worse, "You suck". It's insulting, and worse, it doesn't do anything to tell the author what they need to fix. The whole point here is to improve the story. If you absolutely loathe the concept, it's okay to bow out with a comment to the effect that you wouldn't be able to give the piece a fair critique. On the other hand, "It's wonderful!" is equally useless. If you really can't see anything that needs improvement, look at what worked really well in the piece and comment on how effective it was.

Next, for those on the receiving end: remember that the goal is to improve your story. Not everyone can manage to be tactful - I've been told that even my gentle critiques are pretty rough on the recipient, not because I'm nasty, but because I've learned to be thorough. Of course, I'm the woman whose idea of 'tact' is "Nail stuck through it to fasten it to the wall", and who's about as subtle as the blunt end of an axe. A good critique can hurt, especially if all you've had is how wonderful the piece is. If it does hurt, do not respond immediately. Wait a day or two, until you can look at it without getting steamed up, and then evaluate the critique against what you've written. Chances are you'll find that there's a problem you need to fix.

The third general piece of advice is this: try to say why you think something is a problem, and if you can offer alternatives, do so. If you can't, that's fine - the idea is to try to hit on the reason something doesn't work, and possibly get the author thinking about how to make it work. Even knowing something doesn't work and why is often enough.

Finally: Do not, under any circumstances, do everything that your critique group says you need to do. Evaluate the suggestions, look for common issues - if everyone has a problem with scene X, then chances are there's a problem - but it may not be the problem that was identified. It could be that the problem is quite different and everyone hit different symptoms. Also, it's quite common for a critiquer to have a different vision for a piece than yours, which means that their critiques are going to be somewhat off-base. This is particularly common when you're critiquing a novel chapter by chapter, or scene by scene.

Okay. With all of that out of the way, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to critique the scene below. I'll be commenting on the crits and suggesting better ways to make your point. Oh, and in case you're wondering, this is raw unedited draft (which I don't usually inflict on people) so there are plenty of issues with it. It's also the opening of the new thing.

// Start snippet //

Dowager's Square swarmed with activity in the perpetual half-light of the Great Eclipse. William Seraph, Lord Alvar, emerged from his dark stone townhouse, smoothing his gloves as he paused on the top step to survey the scene before him.

Across the square, the turreted silhouette of the Imperial Academy of Engineers appeared black against the dark outline of the sun: a fairytale castle outlined by a shadowed sun that occupied fully half the southern sky in perpetual midday.

Though Dowager's Square was a prestigious address, street vendors crowded the huge space, all calling their wares in such cacophony that Alvar often wondered how anyone with a front bedroom could sleep. The Academy students were frequent customers, seeking variety in diet - and, alas, other matters - when they had time to spare.

The comforting burr of countless mechanisms surrounded him, their tingling warmth as familiar to Alvar as his own body. Years of training at the Academy had honed his natural gift to a level where Alvar could distinguish the different kinds of mechanisms and even identify individual devices with which he was familiar. Unlike many of his royal cousins, Alvar's right to the title of Engineer was fully earned, no honorarium in recognition of their ancestry.
Something was wrong.

The faintest hint of a frown touched Alvar's brow as he strode forward. People parted for him, perhaps sensing his presence. He could sense nothing wrong in the 'canics around him, yet uneasiness persisted, a nagging suggestion that evaded his conscious awareness.

Heat rose through the soles of his boots, the heat of molten rock so close to the surface it might break through at any moment, but for the combination of a multitude of steam driven devices to draw off rising pressure and the immense multi-layered motion dampers with their springs thicker than a man's height. All seemed well to his senses.

Every step on the paved square heightened Alvar's disquiet, driving him to probe to the deepest extent of his gift. The first hints of rust in a household radiator to his left tasted faintly sour, and a poorly oiled flywheel in the student quarters of the Academy buzzed off-key. If Alvar recalled correctly, that was one of the devices used to test precisely how sensitive a prospective student's gift might be. Students unable to diagnose the problem were relegated to Mechanics, capable of building and repairing to specifications, but not sensitive enough for true Engineering.

The multi-layered alloys of the dampers beneath his feet jiggled as the springs adjusted to shifting lava beneath them, strengthening the thin crust of the busy square. The movements were too small to be detected by ordinary senses, so small that one could stand a penny edge-on and it would not tip - though here the likelihood that a penny would remain unclaimed more than a few heartbeats was small indeed.

The respectable stall-holders competed with whores and beggars, the Empire's waste chasing any means by which they might sustain themselves - or drown themselves in forgetfulness for a little longer. Though constables chased them from the square once the Palace bells tolled curfew, they returned with the waking bells, and remained through the day, using the crowded square to avoid any constabulary attention.

Alvar had no doubt those unfortunates lived a life far grimmer than anything he could imagine. Their stunted bodies and gaunt faces told their own stories.
Someone emerged from the crowd, running too quickly to stop. In the moment before they collided, Alvar glimpsed ragged gray clothing flapping from a skinny figure. Then he fought to both stay on his feet and hold his assailant. It was a common trick: bowl over an unsuspecting nobleman, then one’s colleagues relieved the gentleman of his valuables while the one responsible for the collision helped the victim to his feet and apologized profusely.

"Please, milord, yer an Engineer, ain't ya? Tell 'em to get away from 'ere! One o' them big springs is gonna go."

The desperate tone and the blazing strength of the boy's gift froze Alvar in place for a long moment. How had the Academy talent scouts missed him? Then the import of the boy's words sank in. "Where?"

The boy pointed to the ground almost directly beneath Alvar's feet.

He sent his gift that way, probing the spring. The sense of unease, the nagging certainty of something wrong, intensified.

Alvar followed the nausea, probing where it strengthened.

Another Engineer's presence beside his, strong but untutored, guiding him unerringly to a point on the spring where Alvar initially saw nothing wrong, nothing but his own gift's insistence that something was not right. He probed deeper, seeking the finer structure of the tempered alloy.

Ice flooded his stomach and he swallowed in a mouth gone dry. Metal fatigue: the one thing all Engineers dreaded. It was so cursed difficult to detect, and so lethal in its results. A fatigued part could go from apparently perfect condition to catastrophic failure in a heartbeat.

"I have it." He pursed his lips and gave the Empire-wide signal for impending disaster: three short whistles, three longer, then three short. The piercing tone cut through the din, bringing Alvar the attention of many of those present.

He raised his free hand above his head, signaling the crowd to move themselves away from where he stood, and marking out the expected direction of failure. Every child learned those signals, and knew to obey without question.

Frightened babble rose from the hush, and people rushed away, shopkeepers abandoning carts and pushing at those too far to have seen the signals. As always, fear generated its own momentum, infecting those beyond reach of Alvar's signals to send them fleeing with those who knew what approached.

The boy tackled him, knocking him off balance and sending them both skidding along heated paving stones.

A sharp crack of stone and metal breaking shattered any reproach Alvar might have considered. The sound seemed to echo without end, though as he hauled himself to his feet, one small part of his mind calculating the cost of a ruined suit, the sound modulated to a steady hiss of escaping steam.

The boy had saved his life. The newly opened gap was close to six feet in width, and already the edges were sagging. It would have swallowed him, if the escaping steam had not scalded him beyond healing.

Alvar caught the boy's shoulder. "Come. You should be in the Academy." Already the Academy's bells were signaling a breach in Dowager's Square and a summons to all Engineers to assist with repairs.

To his credit, the boy made no attempt to free himself from Alvar's grip. That was not reason enough for Alvar to trust him not to flee. The youngster's ragged clothing and dirt-crusted skin was clear evidence he was from the lowest classes, and could be expected to fear authority. Undoubtedly he had committed any number of crimes merely to stay alive: a reason the courts rarely gave any credence. If arrested, the best the lad could hope for was exile or virtual slave labor at one of the outer colonies. There were worse fates.

// End snippet //

Critique away - I'll be responding with commentary, and if you're really good, you may even get to see the final result. Eventually. Possibly a very long time from now, since I usually hammer through the first draft from beginning to end, then go back to clean up - but I do take notes.

Open Thread

Sorry for the late post, everyone. I got distracted with work and forgot to check in. Sarah is away from her computer today, so we're going to have an open thread. Anything relating to writing is fair game. If you have any comments or questions, post them and we'll do our best to answer -- or to ask more questions (We're evil that way ;-P ).

Something else to consider, if there are specific topics you'd like us to blog about, list them in the comment section. We're always looking for new ideas and inspiration for the blog.

The floor is now yours!

Critiquing 101

Coffee and Chocolate, where would we writers be without them? Especially when editing!

Following on from Amanda's post about editing ...

I thought I'd fill you in on how Marianne de Pierres and I started the ROR peer Critique Group nearly 10 years ago.


We were looking for something to push us to the next level of professionalism. We'd done all the workshops and we'd been running the VISION writing group for several years. But we craved more. We wanted novel length critiquing. We wanted knives (in the nicest possible way).

So we contacted a few writing friends we had, people scattered across Australia, and asked if they would like to be part of a peer critiquing group dedicated to improving their writing craft. So that was how the first ROR started.

ROR was meant to stand for wRiters on the Road. Then we found out that someone had actually started a group using that name. So we changed it to wRiters on the Reisling, but that gave a bad impression, so we changed it to wRiters on the Rise.

We've done well over the years. See here.

We have another ROR coming up in late august, just before World Con in Melbourne. This is how we structure our critiques. We send out our books a month beforehand so the we can read all the manuscripts and write reports. This is a big commitments, but worth it because we are getting 5-6 reports back on our books. (There are 8 RORees but because life happens, not all of us can make it every time).

Then we divide up the 3 days or so that we have into sessions, eg, Morning, afternoon, after dinner. And we do someone's book intensively for about 3 hours. Honestly, after that you feel like youv'e been put through the wringer, but in a good way.

This is how we structure the Crit.

Novel Length Critique

Overview (How we felt the book worked, marketability etc)

Tone and/or age appropriate (eg. age –if the book is for children 11-14, tone — if the tone is right for the subgenre)

Structure (look at establishing the problem and characters in the first chapters, narrative pacing, satisfying resolution).

View Point (Look at any problems with VP. This is usually a beginning writer’s problem, but sometimes an established writer will need to add or remove a VP to create narrative tension).

Characterisation (Which characters are working, which ones aren’t. What are their character arcs? What do they learn in the course of the book. Internal conflict, External conflict).

Logic Flaws in World Building and Plot (These two are tied in because we’re writing spec fic. Even an Urban Fantasy is going to have world building because it is our world, one step removed. A flaw in world building will throw the reader out of the story).

Dialogue (Is it appropriate for the age/education of the characters)

Setting/visuals (Does the reader feel as if they are really there? Can they see the place? Is it rich and inventive, or derivative?).

General, page by page comments.

Looking back at all this, I realise that I could write a post on each of these topics and still not do them justice.

At ROR each of us would have our say and then we’d break into general discussion, getting all enthusiastic and excited about the book. The person whose book had been critiqued would come away, their head spinning with ideas and a new perspective.

Having 5- 6 people critique your book is good because if one person doesn't get something, but everyone else does, then you know it's just that person. It's not the book.

Publishing is a tough business, having a peer group who give feedback and offer support has been wonderful. I thoroughly recommend creating your own peer critique group.