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Hello!
I’m updating, because I haven’t updated. I’ve been writing, and I finished my new story about the hanging underwater city. Hooray!
I’m about to go to Maine, will be gone for maybe a week or so. So, I figured even though I’ve been updating less I’d let anyone know who’s wondering that I’m not going to be updating because I won’t actually have the internet for a while.
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Today I sent off a copy of my revised, edited, and finished story “A Stowaway’s Tale” much of which started here, in serial form. I sent it to “Fantasy & Science Fiction” through the mail. My first non-electronic submission.
I’m working to get through my new story, about the hanging underwater city. As usual I could always use people to read it and give impressions in between my first draft and final edit, so email me if you’d like to recieve it as an attachment. Maybe another week or so, maybe sooner, depending on how long it ends up being and how diligently I work at finishing it.
Tomorrow I have another workshop. Looking forward to it. Might have a bit of fiction to post afterwards.
Okay, haven’t updated in a while. So much harder to blog when I’m writing every day on things I want to publish in the non-blog sense.
I’ve got another new concept I’m developing into a story. It’s probably my most fully developed sci-fi world so far. I won’t say too much, but imagine a world where people build out from the coast, floating new development on huge blocks of foam, like is being tried in Holland and the UAE. Next imagine classic underwater domed cities. Finally, put the two ideas together and you get a hanging underwater city, anchored from the top in a floating mass of foam, connected to a coastal city with an inbetween bit where development is mostly on top of the foam, but new development taking place downward and under water instead of upward.
If you can imagine that then you’ve got the starting place for my new tale. I’m having tons of fun, both in writing and in talking through the implications of the hanging under water city with my brother!
Today I got my 3rd rejection, this time for my “World Without History” short story. Instead of being downcast, though, I am seriously excited! That’s because this time my rejection mentioned a reason the person writing chose to pass, instead of the first two times when I got what was clearly a form letter sayind basically ”Great story, thanks but no thanks!”
It was only a single sentence sandwiched in between the standard “thanks but no thanks” kind of sentences, but I’m pretty sure that in this case negative means positive. It even indicated a good direction I ought to take my revisions in, by clarifying the scenario and adding some detail to make the world of the story more convincing.
The magazine that rejected me pays actual money for the stories it accepts as well, which means that they probably get a lot of submissions and are very selective, as opposed to the kind of publication that only offers no payment or a token payment. The fact that my story was taken seriously enough to be commented on is totally encouraging! Especially since it’s only my third try at this publication stuff it’s more than I realistically expected to see this quickly.
I’m working on a new story, but I’m also motivated to go back to this one and rework it before sending it to somewhere else. It may take a while, but I think this story has some real potential and maybe, if I keep at it, someone will agree to pay me money for it someday.
Cash money, bitches. I won’t settle for anything less. Suck on that, Ally Arkallian and all you other haters out there.
The paint chips Jonathon was breaking off the rowboat hurt his fingers, but he kept on picking at them anyway. Pick, pick, ow, suck on fingers. They weren’t bleeding yet so sucking on them only tasted bitter and left his mouth feeling powder dry and tingling. He kept on picking. He couldn’t stop until he reached the end of one of the big patches of flaking paint or until his fingers started showing specks of red between the white paint flecks. That was his habit, and habit for Jonathon was everything.
No rule said he couldn’t wash his mouth to stop the dry feeling or the tingle, though, so with his right hand still picking paint chips he reached down his left inside the boat and grasped around for the lid of the chest he’d stuck his water bottle in to. His hand found the points of a hacksaw someone had abandoned on the bottom of the rowboat first, and then the rusty metal fastener that kept the chest’s lid closed. He opened it by feel and pried the lid back with the cracking sound of old wood resisting new intrusions.
The water bottle was still cold and prickly with condensation when he put his hand around it. He pulled it out and saw a drop of blood begin to run down the side, comingling with the water. Jonathon stopped picking paint chips for a moment in confusion. He always stopped when he saw blood, but this blood was coming out of the wrong finger. It was from the hand that held the water bottle which was brilliant, glistening and glittery as every drop of water reflected sunlight differently.
He’d cut his finger on the hacksaw before he’d found the chest’s lid. Now he had to race to the end of the patch of peeling paint before the blood dropped off the bottom of the bottle. The new rule came all at once, from everywhere and nowhere, and Jonathon became frantic in his efforts as he tried to meet it. Pick, pick, pickpickpickpick, pick. His other hand was bleeding too now. Good. That balanced it.
this is from my latest workshop. i’ve finished a first draft of a new story also, but right now i hate it and not at all sure it’s salvageable. starting a new thing though, which is fun and hopefully i’ll like it better. thanks for the support, everyone 
Well, I got my first rejection notice. I think I was pretty well prepared, and I turned around and sent the story right back out to the next magazine on my list. Still, there’s a bit of a sting to reading a form rejection letter, and the worst part is wondering if I’m fooling myself for trying.
Don’t get me wrong. I know I write well. I know the pieces I’ve sent out are probably professional quality, or at least close, and with a bit more practice writing at that length I’m sure I can make even more improvement.
But! But what if I’m deluding myself, telling myself I’m better than I am? What if the ultimate impact of my stories are to make some poor editor slog through another piece of shit badly written short story in his or her pile and waste the time they could be spending reading decent writing. What if I’m another poor deluded sap that things they can be a writer without having a clue?
I hate feeling like I might be fooling myself. Even though I don’t really believe it, just the possibility feels bad. I know, logically, that all successful writers rack up a pile of no’s before they ever get a single yes, and I believe I can be one of those people if I perservere and believe in myself and just keep telling the stories that I want to tell.
The little voice saying “Vanessa, you’re crazy/stupid/foolish/self-deluding” is just whispering a teeny bit louder, that’s all.
