The Jaggerstein Monster: A Writer's Tale

This anthology marked the first appearance of my story, "The Man with the Barbed-Wire Fists." Back in the day, we all thought the cover boy looked a lot more like Mick Jagger than Boris Karloff... but, hey, it was the nineties, after all.

I remember going into Tower Books over in Concord and spotting Frankenstein: The Monster Wakes faced in a paperback dump (i.e. cover out in a cardboard display case) before I even knew the book had been published. Wow. A new anthology, and I had a story in it... and Tower Books had a ton of copies! That was a moment.

The next year I had another -- I was in the same Tower around the time the paperback edition of my first novel (Slippin' Into Darkness) came out, grabbing a couple anthologies. I gave the clerk my plastic, and (in return) he gave me a funny look. Like: kind of startled.

"Are you the Norman Partridge?" he asked.

The only answer I could think of was: "Do I owe you money?"

Anyway, writing about Shivers VII the other day made me nostalgic for anthologies like this one. Sure, there are still anthos out there, but how often do you discover them by wandering into a bookstore and spotting them in a paperback dump? That was fun. And I could multiply that particular pleasure by a couple dozen after I hit the point as a writer where I'd spot the bylines of writers I actually knew on the table of contents page. For example, check out this crew in Frankenstein: The Monster Wakes -- Peter Crowther (a whirlwind talent who soon added publishing to his game), Rex Miller (a very nice guy who wrote very mean books), Gary Braunbeck (like me, one of the "House" writers in the early days of Cemetery Dance), Larry Segriff (my Minnesota snow-blizzard World Fantasy Con roommate!), Brian Hodge (who'd often make me want to break my pencils)... and even Rich Chizmar (the Cemetery Dance honcho himself). Of course, envy might rear it's head if I didn't have a story in said antho, too -- What? A Dead Elvis book and they didn't ask me? I can't believe it! -- but as Elvis himself once said: That's the way the mop flops, son. You pays your money and you takes your chance... and besides, there was always another anthology opportunity right around the corner.

Apart from that, there was a genuine camaraderie among the writers who populated the TOCs of books like this one -- at least among the young guys -- even if we weren't connected by the net back in those days. Apart from a single boiled-down biographical paragraph that usually ran in an abbreviated About the Authors section at the tail-end of each anthology, we were pretty much anonymous. We certainly weren't the Mick Jaggers of horror, and there wasn't much showbiz in our games. We didn't have author platforms; no one was bothering to interview us; the only thing we had going for us were the stories themselves. So the stories did the talking, and odds were that you knew other writers by their work long before you knew anything about them personally.

But to tell the truth, that's a pretty fine way of knowing a writer.

In fact, maybe it's the best way.

Or, as someone once said: "It is the tale, not he who tells it."

Back then, it really was.

Building Your Resume (w/ a side order of pre-Thanksgiving cheer)

Here's a fun post over at Brian Freeman's blog, demonstrating that even a guy like Stephen King started out taking shots in the dark with his early submissions.

I remember writing cover letters like King's. Mine were always short and sweet -- I can recall a tip in one of the first Writers' Market books I read that advised young writers against giving a rundown of a plot for a submission; the idea was to let the story speak for itself. Just mention your credits, keep your cover letter short and sweet, and include an SASE with appropriate return postage. That was the professional way to do things. Let the story do the talkin'.

But: Hell, that didn't really leave much for me to say to an editor. In the early days, I'd struggle to find something -- anything -- to say in a cover letter. I used to type something like: "I've enjoyed reading your magazine (i. e. yes, I'm not a dolt -- I've done my homework and I think this story is appropriate for you), and I hope you'll find the enclosed story to your liking (i. e. please read the damn thing). I'm an unpublished writer, but I hope that won't keep you from considering my manuscript. Thanks for your time (i. e. I think I'm cut out for better than the slush pile; you tell me if I'm wrong); enclosed find a SASE (but please, for god's sake don't use it)."

It was a great relief when I had a few years of publishing under my belt. First I graduated to writing cover letters that said: "I've been published in some of the newer magazines, including Cemetery Dance, Noctulpa, and Grue..." Later, I upped the ante with my first professional credits: "I've had stories accepted for Charlie Grant's Final Shadows anthology and Joe Lansdale's Dark at Heart..." A little later, I could mention sales to the various Year's Best anthos, and a few award nominations, too. Even the publication of my first novel.

Of course, none of that was done through email. When I started out, email didn't exist. I'm kind of glad about that. I've still got a filing cabinet filled with old correspondence -- you know, that paper stuff the postman used to deliver to your house. Inside are manila folders full of letters I traded with other young writers, proposals I shot out to editors, guidelines for long-lost anthologies (yes -- the infamous HWA "haunted airport" antho!), letters and postcards from grand old writers like Robert Bloch and Dick Laymon and Karl Edward Wagner... lots of stuff like that. I've even got every rejection slip I ever received.

I've got to admit that it's fun to look through those files every now and then. Seeing the old letterheads of magazines that are no longer with us brings back memories, as do those (sometimes) cryptic signatures at the bottom of the page and (equally cryptic) handwritten comments I still can't decipher twenty years later. It's great to channel some of my early enthusiasm, and (yes) instructive to consider some of my early failures, too. After all, it was all part of learning the writing game, and I wonder if young writers will get that kind of one-stop-shopping glance in the rearview mirror as the years pass -- I mean, does anyone really archive their emails or (even worse) text messages? I don't think so.

Taking a look back myself, I'd say the main thing that's changed for me is my attitude about rejection. Used to be, I'd almost always take it personally. I'd get a rejection slip, and I'd immediately want to prove the editor wrong by selling the story to a better magazine. Or I'd want to write a new story that would knock out the editor who'd rejected me, get me a slot in his or her antho or magazine, and get me a check. Of course, sometimes that happened, and sometimes it didn't. What I can say now is that my attitude was fuel for the fire -- and, hey, if taking rejection personally made me write another story, that was something positive right there. We all can use a blast of creative fire, and that particular brand got me to "The End" of plenty of stories.

Mostly, though, I've learned that rejection is nothing personal at all -- it's simply a business decision. Because writing is business. Oh, it can be art, too, but those battles are fought on another front, when you're alone with the page in your office. The business/rejection/acceptance stuff really does break down in a different way.

Editors want good stories -- that's a given. But beyond that they also want names that sell books, or magazines, or eBooks, or whatever. And they want to get the best writer they can wrangle with the money they have available. So when push comes to shove, commerce is the part of the engine that drives a lot of deals, and (as a result) success or failure in the marketplace. Most of the time editors are looking for writers who can carry the freight, and get the job done, and deliver the goods both creatively and in the marketplace... and there's a lot more to getting yourself in that position besides becoming a good writer.

Still, ask most of us, and you'll find that the "being good" part of the equation carries a lot of weight. Acclaim is nice. Deals are nice. Money is wonderful. But I don't know anyone who doesn't want to think they've done quality work. In other words: Nobody gets excited about thinking they're a hack, no matter how much money they have.

And, really, if you're a working writer, there's an easy way to size things up for yourself. Just take a look at your personal bookshelf, the one where you keep your solo work and contributor copies of anthologies and magazines where your work has appeared. Run your finger along those spines. Take your creative pulse. See if the work bound up in those volumes satisfies you or doesn't. If there are novels on those shelves you wish you hadn't written, think about the ones you should have written instead... and write 'em. Think about the books you'd like to see up there two years from now... and three years past that. Think about the publishers you've worked with and the ones you'd like to work with, and how you can position yourself to make some of those deals a reality. Think about where you've been, and where you're going, and the fiction that's going to get you there.

Make some plans. Kindle yourself some creative fire. Because it's the fire that will get you there. No matter where it comes from. No matter how you make it. It's the one thing that every writer needs to make good work.

So kindle it up, and when those flames deliver you to the keyboard be thankful.

Rattle those keys.

And let that fire burn.