1201161657Remember the good old days when strict gatekeepers had total control over what got published? It wasn’t all that long ago, when you think about it. Some of us still have scars from trying to crash those gates. Getting slapped down by relentless rejection was bad enough, but what about all the rules that these guardians of literature enforced? If we were fortunate enough to get replies from them at all, we’d receive a dressing down about all the strictures we had violated in our pitiful attempts to write. We would not merit a second glance, much less true consideration, until we mastered the various commandments they had set up to keep the barriers in place.

There were various telltale signs, the gatekeepers said, that pegged you as an amateur. One of these was overuse of adjectives and adverbs. Well, maybe the occasional odd adjective could be allowed, they conceded, but adverbs were strictly verboten. Likewise, if a character said something, he or she could only say it. No declaring or exclaiming or expostulating. And no exclamation points, ever! Above all, we must avoid overwriting and exposition, two deadly sins that went hand in hand. But even the masters do that, I might protest. What about John Updike with his multiple metaphors, and Pat Conroy with his lush descriptions? But those are famous guys, I was told. They get to play by their own rules, or none at all. Someone without a name had to grab the reader’s attention on the first page, if not the first sentence, since even in those pre-social media days, there were distractions at every turn to keep people from reading. In fact, the average attention span was so minuscule that if a prospective reader didn’t get instantly hooked, he couldn’t be blamed for turning on the TV rather than proceeding to page two.

Prior to the advent of self-publishing, when it seemed next to impossible for a beginner to publish a novel, I tried my hand at a few short stories. It proved equally difficult to penetrate any but the most amateur story markets, the type that paid in copies of the magazine. I decided the only way to get beyond the endless “not suitable for us, but good luck” responses was to pay for advice from a reputable source. I sent several stories to a critique service run by the editor of a well-regarded literary magazine. She tore them to shreds, although not without offering tidbits of encouragement here and there. She offered to go on working with me, since I showed a hint of promise. I didn’t take her up on that offer, since I soon gave up trying to write stories and instead decided to work on novels, which would at least offer a greater reward if successful. My critique contact likewise gave up criticizing stories, saying she was inundated with too many bad ones. She, too, decided to concentrate on longer manuscripts.

I recently reread one of the stories I submitted to this service. It was called “Cheryl’s Lunch Hour,” and was based on what I thought was a clever, if somewhat implausible plot twist. It centers on a Federal government secretary in her mid-twenties, who is mentoring her sister, twenty-year-old Rosie, a gifted dancer. Both girls live with their parents, who are fairly unimaginative about the sisters’ goals. Cheryl frequently uses her lunch hour to take an arduous trip from her Washington office to the Maryland suburbs to watch Rosie rehearse for an upcoming small theater production. She believes in her sister, although she is embittered by her comparatively boring job and a jealous streak she can’t quite suppress, since she once had theatrical aspirations herself.

One day, Cheryl runs into a talent scout outside the theater who mistakes her for her sister. For a fleeting minute or two, Cheryl wonders if she can utilize this instance of mistaken identity for her benefit. Maybe if she dieted and practiced, she could dance again herself, with perhaps less skill but with a depth of maturity that her sister does not yet possess. Her head explodes with dreams. Could she possibly carry off this deception? By the time she gets back to her job (which she had had dreams of quitting on the spot), she’s shaken off the fantasy and resumes her main chore of typing spreadsheets.

No doubt I put both the story and the critique aside for many years because the criticism was harsh. Was my critic too enamored with little rules? Perhaps, as she jumped on every instance of sentences close together that repeated common words and phrases such as “she,” “the,” “it is,” and “there was.” She pointed out the redundancy of sentences such as “She scolded loudly.” She denounced as a cliche the opening device I used of the main character waking up in the morning with yesterday’s problems swirling through her head.

I violated plenty of bigger rules as well. I was scolded for having no hint of the central story problem on page one. In my critic’s judgment, the story lacked a sympathetic viewpoint character, since “Cheryl is jealous of her sister, yet wants to use her to feel good about herself.” But she’s not a total bitch, I protested, just discontent with her life and understandably envious of her talented, younger sister. Is she any less sympathetic than the pedestrian parents or the arrogant, oblivious Rosie? It seemed the critic found all of them pretty despicable, except perhaps the superior at Cheryl’s office who has agreed numerous times to cover for her during her prolonged lunch hours. Even he has an ulterior motive … to start a relationship with her. “Central characters and villains shouldn’t be all good or all bad,” my critic lectured, rather obviously. Additionally, what I considered the clever trick of the tale, the case of mistaken identity, was judged to be unrealistic. Maybe so, I thought, but for crying out loud, it’s fiction.

It got worse. Most painful of all was the critic’s judgment that the prose tended to be “unnatural in both narration and dialogue.” My heroine was in the habit of delivering long monologues. For example, she sarcastically describes her State Department job to her father, a higher-up in the department: “You may think all I do is type operating budgets for the Weapons Evaluation Division. But I have the secret knowledge that keeps the operation going. Nobody else in that office knows how to set up charts on the computer. You think it’s easy getting those huge numbers to fall into neat columns? If I were to quit today, I don’t know what you administrators at Main State would do without your nifty charts. And if you didn’t have those numbers always at hand to feed to the negotiators, what would they bargain with? That might be the end of any hopes for world peace in our time!”

Have I gotten better at this stuff over the years? I knew even then that my critic made excellent points. It was kind of her, after all that, to find a shred of hope for me as a writer. Nowadays, I choose to look on the bright side. If I cringe at my earlier efforts, it must mean I’ve improved, at least a little.

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0601161425Traditional publishers will probably never embrace independent authors as equals. They will be loath to admit that the terms of engagement in this ongoing battle are changing, that the combatants are becoming more equal, and that some authors even find a way to go “hybrid.” It’s becoming increasingly clear that the trads are losing the high ground they once held in the area of editorial standards.

Examples of bad editing crop up more and more in the traditional world. For example, there are few authors more successful at traditional publishing than Anne Rice. She also specializes in the hottest subjects in fiction, vampires and werewolves. Yet Floyd Orr, editor of the long-running review site PODBRAM, and a rabid Rice fan, reports: “Anne Rice’s 34th book contains more errors than I have ever seen in a top-selling, traditionally published hardback! There are errors of every kind: repeated common words, misused spellings of words that are real words that actually mean something else, misuse of tense, and various other types of boo-boos. What do these errors all have in common? They are the sort that appear in books because human eyes did not read and reread and proofread the text before publishing it. There was an obvious reliance on computer programs to find the errors. Was this by Ms. Rice, her editor, or Knopf in general? Who knows?” Floyd kindly goes on to point out that the error count of Rice’s book easily surpasses those of several of the self-published books he has reviewed, including my own Handmaidens of Rock.

Trads were guilty from the start of not fighting this war honestly, but things have progressed to the point that self-published authors don’t have to suffer the same nonsense anymore. They can take or leave “friendly advice” from self-appointed arbiters of what deserves to be published. No doubt these experts will persist in warning us against “vanity” publishers, a term that should have been deep-sixed years ago. We can now call out websites that masquerade as help for the self-published, but are actually designed to discourage us. Certainly there are bad self-published books, but the argument that we’re all equally bad doesn’t hold water, any more than the argument that traditional publishing guarantees quality.

Several years ago, I sent my 2007 novel, The Rock Star’s Homecoming, to a site called “The Self-Publishing Review,” a blog run by an author who’d had a fair amount of success in publishing non-fiction. Some speculated that her generic-sounding name might be a pseudonym to protect herself from backlash. Certainly the name of her blog was misleading. Once I had read a sampling of her “reviews,” it became clear to me that these were something else altogether. By any fair standard, a reader who purports to provide a review must, at the very least, read the book. Her object was to throw cold water on authors by subjecting them to the kind of treatment they would receive if they sent their manuscripts to a “legitimate” publisher. Admittedly, that might be a useful service, but it was not what she advertised.

To be fair, she warned us: “I’m an editor, and expect published books to be polished. I’m going to count all the errors I find in spelling, punctuation and grammar and when I reach fifteen I’m going to stop reading. I’ll work my way through up to five pages of boring prose or bad writing before I give up.” Despite that stern warning, I felt okay about sending her my novel, although it had to be shipped overseas at some expense. I’ve been something of an editor myself during many years of technical writing for the Federal government. I knew I had gone over my novel carefully and that it had been edited by professionals.

My book, like almost every other that this hot-shot editor “reviewed,” was discarded after about seven pages because of alleged mistakes. I was sure there were not fifteen errors of the type she warned against in the whole book, much less in the first seven pages. When I asked for an explanation, she admitted that there was nothing wrong with my “spelling, punctuation and grammar” per se. My sin was “exposition,” apparently a common complaint against self-published authors, and a handy one if the arbiters can’t find more obvious mistakes.

What does this sin consist of, exactly? Wikipedia defines exposition as “the insertion of important background information within a story; for example, information about the setting, characters’ backstories, prior plot events, historical context, etc.” The article quotes fantasy and science fiction author Jo Walton on the importance of “scattering information seamlessly through the text, as opposed to stopping the story to impart the information.”

My problem with this criticism, legitimate though it might be, is that famous authors do it with impunity. I pointed out that two of my favorites, Pat Conroy and Gail Godwin, tend to not even start their stories until the scene is thoroughly set. If any arbiter tried to impose rules on them, about exposition or anything else, they’d laugh in that person’s face. Ah, the arbiters say, but there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it. All I conclude from this is that it’s always wrong when self-published authors do it.

What about the credentials of these arbiters? Despite their successes in the non-fiction realm, they tend to be sitting on piles of unpublished novels like everyone else. Ironically, that’s where they’re offering their harshest criticism. Since self-publishing is for losers, they disdain that route—although they might admit to putting excerpts of their novels on the Internet, as if that were not a form of self-publishing.

We’ve all heard plenty of those traditional “success stories,” touting the efforts of authors who kept writing and rewriting the same story for fifteen or twenty years, submitting it to numerous agents and publishers, revising and starting over to suit each new critic, perhaps even trying to re-envision their stories as plays or screenplays. Sometimes two decades of effort and perseverance are indeed “rewarded,” but that’s not my idea of success. How many other stories could these authors have been writing during those endless years spent twisting their original vision a hundred different ways to suit one critic after another? Was the original inspiration even recognizable by then? Fortunately, no one has to settle for this kind of treatment any more. The fight rages on, with one of the combatants, in my opinion, looking increasingly desperate.

South_Carolina_flag_mapOne of my favorite novelists, Pat Conroy, has written a couple of memoirs that explore the roots of his fiction. The latest one, The Death of Santini, tackles the most painful source of his inspiration, the brutal treatment he and his siblings suffered at the hands of their father, a Marine Corps fighter pilot.

Conroy was always destined to be controversial, with such an array of dark and violent subjects to choose from. His first book, The Boo, was originally self-published (something we indies can take to heart). His second, The Water Is Wide, described his experience as an inexperienced teacher in an impoverished African American elementary school. His methods got him fired after a year, and his indictment of the segregated school system provoked a fair amount of outrage in the South. Since then, Conroy has continued to deal with the hot topics that roiled the nation during the 1960s, such as southern racism, civil rights, and the Vietnam War. He also tackles the most personally sensitive topic imaginable: his own experiences with mental illness, including the psychosis of a sister, the suicide of a brother, and his own periodic breakdowns.

Conroy’s writing tends to be lush and metaphor-filled, something that many so-called experts frown on. Certainly we indies get slammed if we’re perceived to be too flowery. That’s why I was delighted to read his blast against the naysayers: “I trained myself to be unafraid of critics, and I’ve held them in high contempt since my earliest days as a writer because their work seems pinched and sullen and paramecium-souled.”

A paramecium-souled critic! Has anyone ever put it better? I’m certainly not knocking constructive criticism, which authors need, but haven’t we all encountered our share of these paramecium souls? Don’t we know what it is to be willfully misunderstood by readers who refuse to suspend disbelief long enough to accept our vision? That kind of automatic dismissal precludes thoughtful judgment and lends itself to nit-picking. And don’t even get me started on the hordes of anonymous trolls who feel qualified to write a “review” based on a two-minute skimming.

Conroy also goes on to explain why he doesn’t write reviews, or at least bad ones: “I made the decision to never write a critical dismissal of the works of another brother or sister writer, and I’ve lived up to that promise to myself. No writer has suffered over morning coffee because of the savagery of my review of his or her latest book, and no one ever will.” We could all take a lesson from those words: a thoughtful critique is one thing, a hatchet job quite another.