California on Fire

I just got back from El Toro High School, which is an evacuation shelter for victims displaced from the horrible Santiago Canyon fires. It's a scene that etches into one's memory like an overly bright light bulb. We've all seen the images of people sleeping on cots, having nothing but the clothes on their back, but nothing does those pictures justice other than seeing it firsthand. The parking is filled with cars, motor homes and pop-ups. Pets on leashes wander around with their owners – each looking dazed and worried, while others lie around, waiting.

My daughter and I arrived with three boxes of books – “hurts” that didn’t survive the book signing process. We can’t sell them for retail, so we’ve been donating them to the Wounded Warriors in Camp Pendleton. As I drove past the high school yesterday, I got the bright idea to give these poor victims something else to think about. How better to do that than escape into the pages of a good book.

The Red Cross folks told us they won't accept books, but their faces changed when I said I live right up the street, my intent was to give these poor people something better to think about other than whether they still had homes, and that I was Stan Chambers' publisher. Hearing Stan's name, they brightened right up and welcomed us into the gym. It was surreal to see the gym where we'd watched countless basketball games while my daughter bounced around as a cheerleader years ago. It was a place of action and excitement.

Not now. It's eerily quiet. There are cots everywhere and the lights are low because most are trying to get some sleep. Everyone speaks in soft tones. Even the television is barely audible. Inside and out, the school looks like a war zone. Those we spoke to were upbeat and grateful for the books.

We had a small crowd around us as we unpacked the books and stacked them around the main television. It was a thrill to watch them paw through our many titles. Many touched our arms and gave us a soft thank you before wandering off. It was hard to keep a dry eye.

I'm so glad we did this.

Submission Autopsy - Part 4 – POV

The setting: In the operating room. A manuscript autopsy is being performed by the eminent Dr. Editor and her ever-faithful helper, Editorial Intern. Immediate cause of death has been determined to be an acute case of Dullitis - the covers of the manuscript were too far apart. Contributing causes are slowly being uncovered in this autopsy. So far, the patient suffered from massive hemorrhaging between Show vs. Tell, Fluffitis and Backstoryosis, Dialog tagococcal, and the latest - Point of Viewicemia.

Dr. Editor: Quick, Editorial Intern, my smelling salts! I’ve met the beast and it’s going to be a tug of war to extract this out of the manuscript.

Editorial Intern: Why, doctor? After all, the manuscript is dead, so what difference does it make?

Dr. Editor: Bite your tongue and wash your mouth out with Draino. My dear, Editorial Intern, have you learned nothing? If I extract Point of Viewicemia without care, there will be nothing left of this poor manuscript to bury. No matter how horribly a manuscript died, it deserves a smidge of dignity. Hand me the buzz saw. No, no, the tiny one. (smoke arises from the depths of the manuscript, leaving an acrid odor wafting about the operating room)

Editorial Intern: Gah, what’s that smell?

Dr. Editor: Sorry. Plug your nose. It’s an infected First Person Point of View (POV). It tends to give off a rancid stench when it sits right next to the Limited Omniscient POV. Oh my, look here, you can see the lesions that were left by the Objective POV.

Editorial Intern: First Person , Limited Omniscient, Objective points of view. I’m confused.

Dr. Editor: Yes, yes, so was this manuscript. You see, what happened is this manuscript was slowly strangled by combating points of view. Look at this paragraph; it’s written in the Objective point of view and right next to it is another paragraph written in the First Person point of view.

Editorial Intern: (blinking with bewilderment) Objective? First Person?

Dr. Editor: Say, just where did you get your MFA from anyway? Dr. Scholl’s? Come on, think! Objective – look it up in the dictionary. Objectivity is based on facts, things that are external – like action or dialog, not internal – like thoughts or feelings. Simply put, the reader can’t see anything other than through the dialog or action. You never get into anyone’s head.

First Person, on the other hand, is where the story unfolds through the eyes of the narrator, and it’s only his thoughts and impressions we get to see. Keep in mind that this point of view isn’t necessarily the truth because you’re limited to this one person’s perceptions.

Editorial Intern: Tricky stuff.

Dr. Editor: It’s that and a bag of chips, I tell you. And there’s more than just these two points of view. There’s Third Person Objective, Limited Omniscient, and a few others that I can’t possibly go into or I’d never finish this autopsy. Suffice it to say that when a manuscript mixes points of view together, it creates a toxic smell that’ll frizz your hair. My problem isn’t what POV the manuscript used but rather that it stays consistent. Lookie here, I’ll pull out this one offender and read it to you:

I couldn’t believe that I’d won the Hot Bellybutton Contest. My competition was sooo tough this year. That snobby Marcia Mammary had a bellybutton tuck last summer, and I’m pretty sure Rosie Pinkgut used all her clothing allowance on a personal trainer. I hadn’t done anything other than oiling my bellybutton down every night and keeping it lint free.

Marica looked at the new winner and curled her lip. “Nice crown, O-Ring. Who cares about a stupid contest anyway? Especially since Brad Meathead asked me to the beach this weekend.” She tossed her hair and gave the new queen a flip of her middle finger.

Rosie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt her temper rise to the boiling point. Brad was her boyfriend, and who did that loosey goosey Marica think she was kidding with that innocent act? No one wanted to win the Hot Bellybutton Contest more than anyone she’d ever known.

Can you count the POVs, Editorial Intern?

Editorial Intern: Um, First Person in the first paragraph, the second paragraph is Third Person Objective, and the last one is Third Person.

Dr. Editor: Exactamundo. Now, remember, I don’t give one whit which POV the manuscript is in - but that it freaking stays in one POV.

Editorial Intern: But what happens when you want to have a story with more than one character’s point of view?

Dr. Editor: Sure, this happens in just about every manuscript. A story can get boring if we’re in one person’s head all the time. The trick is to keep one point of view per scene. If the manuscript wants to get into someone else’s head, then there needs to be a scene switch. You can’t, can’t, can’t be in Marcia and Rosie’s head in the same scene. This is called head hopping. Whenever I see this, I know the manuscript is a newbie. The truth of this is that very few manuscripts can pull this off effectively, so the common recommendation is “don’t try it.” Ever.

Editorial Intern: Is there anything else you see in there?

Dr. Editor: Wait, pull aside that modifier and exclamation point. Ah, geez, the final insult. This manuscript went into the point of view of a very minor character.

Editorial Intern: Why?

Dr. Editor: Good question. There very few valid reasons for a story to be seen through the eyes of a minor character. The action is with the main characters, so that’s where the focus must remain. Elevating nothing characters who add zippo to the plot is illogical. It derails the strength of the narrative and adds to the confusion.

Editorial Intern: Doctor, you’re taking off your gloves. Does this mean—

Dr. Editor: Yes, Editorial Intern, I’m finished with the autopsy. This was one of the toughest autopsies I’ve done in a long time.

Editorial Intern: So have you determined an exact cause of death?

Dr. Editor: I have. It was a conflagration of Show vs. Tell, Fluffitis and Backstoryosis, Dialog tagococcal, and Point of Viewicemia. It’s amazing the entire manuscript didn’t explode into a ball of fire. I’ve heard of this happening. You remember Miss Snark? The story on the street is that her office blew up in a raging inferno from one of these kinds of manuscripts, and that’s why she closed down her blog. Beware, Editorial Intern. Recognize the signs of Manuscript Extreme Dullitis. You blow up my office, and it’s coming out of your paycheck.

Submission Autopsy - Part 3 – Dialog tags

The setting: In the operating room. A manuscript autopsy is being performed by the eminent Dr. Editor and her ever-faithful helper, Editorial Intern. Immediate cause of death has been determined to be an acute case of Dullitis - the covers of the manuscript were too far apart. Contributing causes are slowly being uncovered in this autopsy. So far, the patient suffered from massive hemorrhaging between Show vs. Tell, Fluffitis and Backstoryosis, and the latest - Dialog tagococcal.

Dr. Editor: (clucking sounds fill the operating room) Ah, such a pity. Dialog tagococal, or its more commonly recognized form, the dialog tag, is an insidious little beast because most manuscripts have no idea of their existence. They’re like little viruses that suck the life out of a story. If their numbers are kept to a minimum, they’re fairly benign. The problem with dialog tags is that they’re most virulent when put into the body of an immature manuscript. They colonize and prevent richness and flavor of the writing to propagate.

Editorial Intern: How so, Dr. Editor?

Dr. Editor: I’ll give you an example:

“What does that cloud look like to you?” asked Bobby.
“I dunno,” I said. “It looks like a kid sucking on a helium balloon.”
“You ever sucked on a helium balloon?” Bobby asked.
“Sure,” I said, “every time one of my sisters has a birthday. I stick a fork in the biggest one and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.”

Editorial Intern: Seems okay to me. What’s wrong with it?

Dr. Editor: It’s lifeless, like they’re talking heads. Let’s see what happens when I take the dialog tags out:

Bobby looked over at me through quizzical brown eyes. “What does that cloud look like to you?”
I squinted on what looked like a giant bag cotton balls in the sky and shrugged. “I dunno.” Bending my head sideways, I focused on one tiny cloud. “It looks like a kid sucking on a helium balloon.”

Bobby laughed and punched my arm. “You ever sucked on a helium balloon?”
“Sure, every time one of my sisters has a birthday. I stick a fork in the biggest one and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.”

Okay, it’s not Faust, but it breaks up the monotony and gives them dimension. Instead of relying on a dialog tag to signify a speaker, try assigning an action to the character; a scratch of the nose, bite of a candy bar. Vastly decreasing the use of dialog tags opens up the writing to a whole new world of communication and, in the process, a richer story.

Editorial Intern: Does this mean that all dialog tags should be irradiated?

Dr. Editor: No, not at all. Everything should be done in moderation, much like that box of Twinkies you ate at lunch. Obviously we need tags to signify who’s doing the talking when there are more than two characters in a scene. But too often dialog tags tend to create this thud, thud cadence, and it detracts from the dialog. It’s off-putting to read a lovely piece of dialog and finish it off with, “he said.” Clunk.

Editorial Intern: Does this go for saying things like, “he intoned,” “he gasped,” “he wheezed”?

Dr. Editor: Argh! These are some of the worst offenders because dialog tagococcal joins forces with Show vs. Tell and creates a mess. By using anything other than “said,” you’re assigning more importance to the tag than you are the dialog. It sticks out much like your pink paisley shirt with that red striped skirt. If a character gasps while speaking, then the manuscript has to jolly well show that.

Example:

“I can’t believe you ate my entire box of Twinkies,” I gasped.

Now, let’s try it again:

I clutched my throat and staggered toward the empty box – the very box I’d been saving to bribe the traffic judge. “I can’t believe you ate my entire box of Twinkies.”

Or:

I looked at the empty box and gasped. “I can’t believe you ate my entire box of Twinkies.”

Editorial Intern: Yes, but, Doctor, you use a lot more words to say what I could with two words.

Doctor Editor: This is true. But in the process, the reader better understands the depth of the character’s angst. The long and short of it is never take short cuts. Manuscripts who do this suffocate under the weight of their own dryness and single dimension.

Editorial Intern: So this is what killed the patient? Dialog tagococcus?

Doctor Editor: Still not sure. I haven’t gotten to the last third of the manuscript yet. Hand me the retractors and let’s see what’s lurking behind this prepositional phrase. Eek! Point of Viewicemia. Oh, I really hoped to avoid this beast.

Stay tuned…

Submission Autopsy - Part 2 – Backstory, Fluff and Good Intentions

The setting: In the operating room. A manuscript autopsy is being performed by the eminent Dr. Editor and her ever-faithful helper, Editorial Intern. Immediate cause of death has been determined to be an acute case of Dullitis - the covers of the manuscript were too far apart. Contributing causes are slowly being uncovered in this autopsy, the latest of which is Fluffitis and Backstoryosis.

Editorial Intern: Fluffitis and Backstoryosis? I’m not familiar with these terms, Dr. Editor.

Dr. Editor: Unfortunately Fluff and Backstory are the number one killers of all manuscripts because they tend to team up and destroy all the healthy writing. The result is that the reader falls asleep due to terminal boredom and/or confusion. I’ve seen cases where the backstory was so severe that I forgot the original plot. Those are the worst, and we normally isolate those in the EPC Unit because they’re so infectious.

Editorial Intern: EPC Unit?

Dr. Editor: Eternal Pile of Crap. The only way to circumvent Fluff and Backstory is to put them on a severe diet.

Editorial Intern: What exactly is Fluff?

Dr. Editor: Fluff is the little inconsequential stuff that, when properly done, can round out a chapter or a character very nicely but has nothing to do with the plot. For example, it’s the quick sidebar to explain that the hopelessly rich Margarita Von Aldenbald was nicknamed Lampie during a inebriated foray into a trucker bar where she commenced to dancing on the tables wearing nothing but a lampshade while singing “I’m An Oscar Meyer Wiener.” It goes to development and adding richness to the story.

Editorial Intern: But?

Dr. Editor: But overdo Fluff, and you veer the train off the tracks. And I see this all too often among new manuscripts who are so in love with their own writing that they forget they have a story to tell. Now, if Fluff isn't too overdone, we’re normally lucky enough to edit it out with a surgical strike of our mighty red pens. If it’s metastasized throughout the entire manuscript, the standard medical procedure is to rip the guts out of the manuscript and rebuild it. I liken it to eating a Hershey bar after it’s fallen in the gutter – I could do it, but why? I just throw it away and get another one. So goes it with the overfluffed manuscript. There are always other manuscripts waiting to be read.

Editorial Intern: So what about Backstory?

Dr. Editor: Same type of atrocities going on with Backstory and can have the effect of a bucket of warm spit. Like Fluff, Backstory is good in small doses. Backstory, when done properly, lends necessary background to a character or a situation in order for the story to progress. It’s a small trip back in time.

Editorial Intern: Doctor, how will I recognize Backstory?

Dr. Editor: Let’s say that you see a story that has pink Martians threatening to invade, and the only person who can save Earth is the head cheerleader from Bucktooth High. She’s discovered that her sneezes are toxic to the little pink Martians. Problem is, every time she sneezes part of her luxurious blond hair falls out, so she has this dilemma: sneeze and save the world, don't sneeze and keep her hair. There’s your action and your story. Now, a tiny bit of Backstory could detail how she was teased as a kid because her hair was a ratty mess until she hit puberty when it grew in thick and became the envy of every girl on campus. Even though it’s backstory, it goes to motive and character development, and explains why she’s so freaked about sneezing. This is effective backstory.

However, if the Backstory yammers on about how Tommy Zitface used to pop her bra strap as his way of telling her he had a mad crush on her and wanted to take her to the Dance With a Dog Social that Friday night, now you’re treading into Who Gives a Rat’s Hiney land. It has nothing to do with the plot at hand and adds zip to the story.

As with Fluff, we treat Backstory the same way if it hasn’t metastasized too much. We excise the tumor with a surgical strike with our mighty red pens. Luckily, the bleeding is normally minimal. But also like Fluff, if it’s spread itself throughout the entire manuscript, we normally have to pronounce it Dead on Arrival. And we always, always, always attach a Do Not Resuscitate order to it.

Editorial Intern: So Fluff and Backstory are lethal.

Dr. Editor: Oh my yes. I’ve seen them kill the tension of a story many times. I’ve read stories where the tension of a scene had me on the edge of my seat. Then Backstory or Fluff comes along and kills every bit of it. And what’s really sad is that the manuscript has built in antibodies that are often ignored.

Editorial Intern: Antibodies? So there’s actually hope.

Dr. Editor: Absolutely. The Intent antibody lurks inside every single manuscript and is designed to kill anything that ruins a story. Intent is always asking, “What are you trying to say? What is your intent? What’s the point of this sentence, this chapter?”

You see, every line and every chapter must have a reason for being there, and Intent works in the background much like the anti virus program on our computers. It pops up whenever Fluff and Backstory rear their ugly heads and signals a warning sign. But, alas, just like the popups on our computers, we turn them off all too often because they’re irritating. The result is that Fluff and Backstory are free to wield their damage.

Editorial Intern: And that results in…

Dr. Editor: Yes. The dreaded Rejection Death Notice.

Editorial Intern: So Fluff and Backstory is what killed this manuscript, right, Dr. Editor?

Dr. Editor: I’m not sure. The autopsy isn’t completed yet. Ah ha, see? Look there, past the sentence fragment and misplaced story arc…I think I see…oh dear, Dialogal tagococcus…

Stay tuned…

Submission Autopsy - Part 1 - Show vs. Tell

Editorial Intern: Dr. Editor, I’ve wheeled in the patient for further examination. I’ve looked and looked, but I can’t find any cause of death.

Dr. Editor: Ah, the deceased; Submission 101 – yes, yes, I’m familiar with the patient. Well, not this one, particularly, but I’ve seen the signs many times, and in many of those cases, the death was senseless.

Editorial Intern: You mean you know the cause of death? But you haven’t even begun the autopsy.

Dr. Editor: I don’t know the exact cause of death, my dear intern, and that’s why we must perform an autopsy. But I can see in the chart that this was an acute case where the covers of the manuscript were too far apart.

Editorial Intern: You mean —

Dr. Editor: Yes. Death by Dullitis. Let’s pick up the scalpel and investigate, shall we? (sounds of buzzsaw and grunting fill the small operating room) Ah ha, see this, Intern? (Dr. Editor yanks on a misplaced verb and dangling participle) Here’s our first clue; massive hemorrhaging between Show vs. Tell.

Editorial Intern: This is just so sad.

Dr. Editor: Indeed. What happened here is that there was too much telling and little showing. What happened is that a barrier was created between the reader and the story and the characters. When you tell, you lack passion.

Editorial Intern: What do you mean?

Dr. Editor: I’ll give you an example. “Blutto Bovine was fat.” The end result is that I have to draw up my own opinion as to what fat means. I’m forced into my own head rather than being in the story. It’s lazy writing and uninteresting. Let’s spice up that same sentence with some show. “The cracks in the sidewalks widened an extra millimeter every time Blutto Bovine made his midday trek to 31 Flavors to order a double scoop of Double Fudge Maraschino Cherry. He always made a point of eating it quickly to avoid staining the only shirt that could cover a fleshy belly that hung over his belt like a root beer float. “

Editorial Intern: Isn’t that longer?

Dr. Editor: Of course it is. But in those two sentences, we’ve gleaned the enormity of Blutto’s girth, his favorite ice cream, his schedule, and his lack of wardrobe. And, we’ve done this with a very visual picture.

Editorial Intern: Do you think this patient simply didn’t know how to show?

Dr. Editor: It’s possible. But ignorance isn’t an excuse for causality in death, my dear intern. Just as in real life, our writing should utilize all our senses – smell, sound, sight, taste, touch – they bring a story to life. After all a muddy pond can be just a muddy pond, or it can smell like a dusty attic on a winter day. Take your pick. This poor patient suffered the consequences.

Editorial Intern: So is the hemorrhaging between Show vs. Tell the cause of death, Dr, Editor?

Dr. Editor: It doesn’t appear so. (Dr. Editor cuts out an intransitive verb and gasps) Oh my holy liver, it looks like there’s a lot more going on. It’s so sad, so tragic.

Editorial Intern: What, Dr. Editor? What??

Dr. Editor: (sniffling loudly) The patient is filled with Fluffitis and Backstoryosis.

Stay tuned…

General Service Announcement

Our submission stack has nearly reached the ceiling, and we're currently taking bets as to how many of those are genres that we don't publish.

"What's that, Price?" you ask with no small amount of shock. "Everyone knows that a savvy writer always reads the submission guidelines as if their very existence depends on it."

Yes, yes, in a perfect world that is the case. But I've managed to lose my passport to Utopia and the reality is that nearly thirty percent of all submissions fall outside our scope of publication. Mysteries, romance, YA, short stories, travel guides, action/adventure...we don't publish any of these, yet they flow into our office like that broken toilet I keep nagging hubby to get fixed.

Therefore, I've decided that rather than taking time out of my day to inform these good folks that they've failed Submissions 101, I have to do what every other agent and editor I know does; delete or toss these submissions unanswered. It's sad, really, because they've wasted everyone's time. And the waste of paper and ink? I shudder at my growing recycle bin.

Please, dear writers, when you're submitting or querying, always make sure that the publisher actually produces the type of work you write. That's why we put our submission guidelines on our websites. If you fail to do this and send me your bat vampire romance with talking toads, I'll nuke you.

Ah, poo, who am I kidding? If people aren't reading our submissions guidelines, what are the chances they're reading this blog?

Craziness Abounds – Who’s Lookin’ Out for You?

Just like the pendulum that swings from side to side, ideas also swing from side to side. Eggs used to be good for us, but then they turned bad, before it become a hesitant okay. How about caffeine? And dark chocolate? Heck, it used to be grease for my hips, but now it’s a soothing balm. And what about books that have unhappy endings?

Think I’m kidding? Take a look here, and you’ll get an eyeful. Seems that there is a group of good people in Britain who have appointed themselves the literary police, and it is their mission to burn children’s books that have unhappy endings. I quote: “The Happy Ending Foundation is planning a series of Bad Book Bonfires for later this month, when parents will be encouraged to burn novels with negative endings.”

As a publisher, I find it abhorrent that there are people out there whose rose-colored glasses are so fogged up that they will censor everything that doesn’t fit within their narrow field of vision. As a writer, I’m appalled that these people are so ill prepared to handle a pesky little thing called “Reality.” These are the same folks who cluck at PTA meetings and strong arm schools to ban childhood favs of Tag and Dodgeball.

I’m a parent and took pains to insure that my kids read age appropriate books. The idea that I need to enlist the services of busybodies who have nothing better to do than invade my life is a travesty every freedom loving person should reject.

“Yes, yes, Price, ease up on the rising blood pressure. See how we’re all laughing?”

Of course I do. We’re all doing the collective eye roll. On the other hand, it’s gradualism at its finest. What seems insane now could one day become acceptable because they’ve worn us down through attrition. That’s how freedoms are lost and groups like this are able to propagate.

What’s too crazy to think about now could very easily become the norm in the future. Publishers may be ordered to only publish happy-happy stories and think joy-joy thoughts. Take a look at your own work and decide if you’re ready to see it go the way of Tag and Dodgeball.