Just No

anti-bucketThis is not a bucket list. Oh, I have one of those. I believe I’ve even given you a peek into it at some point. There’s lot of fun things in there, and I will absolutely do every single one of them. But these items? No, just no. This is not that. This is the anti-bucket list. This is the list of things that I will never do. Not willingly. Not consciously. Not ever.

1. Jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Parachutes are only for emergencies, and even then I may need convincing.

2. Tie a giant rubber band to my ankle and leap from anything taller than a chair. Um, no. The idea of the ground rushing up to meet my face and just when I’m certain I’m going to die by pushing my teeth through my skull and crushing every bone in my body I spring back into the air and do it again? I’ll pass.

3. Swim with sharks. Not going to happen. No suit. No cage. No way. I saw that movie, it didn’t end well. And those cages? That’s just a happy meal box to them and I’m no french fry!

4. Rock climbing. I don’t mean a boulder at the beach. I mean a freaking mountain and me hanging off the sheer side of it with nothing but a rope and little metal hook in a nook to hold me there. The opening of Mission Impossible? Not unless I get to do it like he did… on a sound stage with a blue screen.

5. Vacation somewhere cold. Yes, I’ve been to 48 of the 50 states. Yes, I’ll go to 49 eventually. But that 50th? Forget it. Don’t need it. I grew up where it’s actually colder than parts of Alaska but I’m not interested in seeing the parts that are just barely warmer. The ratio of men to women is insane you say? Nope, still not interested. There are a million beaches to choose from, why the hell would I chose snowshoes when I can be barefoot in the sand?

I bet you have a list like this, as well. You may not think of it on a regular basis, but it’s there. Perhaps you’re only reminded of it when you see someone doing one of them and think, “oh that’s nice not ever gonna happen!” (Much like the moment which spurred this blog post.) So, play along why don’t you? I’ve been off the grid for a while. I’m not necessarily back—tax season, too many writing deadlines, and well, do I need other reasons with those two? So please… feel free to play along and tell me what’s on your anti-bucket list!

101 — with Nicholas Kaufmann

As part of my ongoing 101 section for newer writers, I’ve asked a handful of colleagues—and mentors of my own—to participate in the name of preventing mistakes and paying knowledge forward. I asked them all the same question… This edition is brought to you by Nicholas Kaufmann, author of General Slocum’s Gold, Chasing the Dragon, and more. And now, Nick…


If there’s one thing I wish someone had told me when I was just starting out, one thing I wish I hadn’t had to learn the hard way, it is simply this.

You can say no.

You can say no to publishers. Sure, it can be enormously flattering to have a publication offer, especially when it’s your very first. But as any woman who has ever been hit on in a club or bar can tell you, not every offer is a good one. There are a lot of shitty publishers out there—many of them in the horror micropress—who prey on writers for content and give them nothing in return, not even that elusive promised “exposure,” because nobody actually reads the books these publishers put out. And you became a writer to be read, didn’t you? So aim high instead. There are plenty of publishers out there whose authors are read, they’re just not as easy to publish with as the crappy ones. But who said anything worth doing is easy? Keep striving. Keep challenging yourself. You’ll become a better writer for it, I promise. And you’ll feel a lot better about yourself knowing you’ve made business decisions (and yes, this is a business, folks) that value the time and effort you put into your work.

You can say no to idiots online. Message boards and social media sites are full of them. Mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, reactionary boneheads who don’t know what they’re talking about, but who insist there is only one way to become a writer. You have to start with short stories. You have to start with the small press. You have to read Ed Lee or Richard Laymon or some other splatterpunk darling. No, you don’t. Thousands of successful authors have started with novels. Thousands more have had their first novels published by major New York houses. (And don’t give me that old sawhorse that the major houses don’t publish horror. They publish horror every day, it’s just by authors you may not be familiar with because the online idiots don’t start threads about them.) Read widely, following your interests, not the interests of others. Put simply, there is no single path to success, no matter what any of these morons say. I wish I hadn’t listened to them when I was starting out and they told me to stop reading literary novels with gothic or horror bents and start reading the horror small press instead. I honestly believe my own career is ten years behind where it should be because I followed their advice.

You can say no to services that are clearly intended to do nothing more than separate authors from their money. For example, there are review sites that charge a fee to review your book. They’ll tell you that without reviews your book won’t sell well, and they’re not entirely wrong about that, but that doesn’t mean you (or your publisher) have to go paying for it. That’s not how it works. Real reviews, the reviews that actually have weight, the reviews that matter to readers, appear in magazines, newspapers, or websites that pay their reviewers themselves. (Blogs are a whole different subject, but in short, blog reviews can move copies, too. It’s just another form of word-of-mouth.) Publishers and authors never pay for reviews, because reviews that are paid for are meaningless. Once money changes hands, they’ve lost any possibility of objectivity. There are other examples of this pervasive fleecing of writers, too, such as companies that offer to turn your novel or story into a film treatment written by “professional screenwriters,” often for several thousand dollars. They’ll tell you that you can’t sell your work to Hollywood without it. Don’t believe them. It’s bullshit. Books are optioned all the time without treatments attached, and authors are rarely asked to write treatments themselves. Be smart, and beware. Use your noggin. There are a ton of scams out there that prey on desperate and eager authors. Don’t fall for them. Remember, money always flows to the writer, not from the writer.

When you want something really badly, saying no can be the hardest thing in the world. But when it’s for the right reasons, it pays off. Be smart. Keep your wits about you. Treat this business like a business, and treat yourself with respect. Keep in mind through all the ups and downs, all the waiting and disappointment, that nothing worth doing is ever easy. And remember, as a writer you are creating the content that publishers want. You’re supplying the commodity. That gives you the power, and the right, to say no


Thanks to Nick for playing along. Please visit him at to see what he’s up to and grab the books you haven’t read yet…


101 — with Lee Thomas

As part of my ongoing 101 section for newer writers, I’ve asked a handful of colleagues—and mentors of my own—to participate in the name of preventing mistakes and paying knowledge forward. I asked them all the same question… This edition is brought to you by Lee Thomas, author of The Dust of Wonderland, The German, and many more. And now, Lee…


(The use of the word bitch in this article refers to its use as prison slang and is in no way specific to or related to gender or sexual orientation, and no such interpretation should be made.)

My good friend Kelli asked me to guest blog, and naturally I was glad to do it because she da rock, but the prompt she gave me proved a bit of a challenge. She asked: “What one thing during your writing career did you have to learn the hard way, on your own? Something you wish someone had told you or warned you about?”

Well, quite honestly, most everything. Still, in thinking about this, I was reminded of a very good piece of advice that–had it come with a caveat, or I had been smarter–could have been even more valuable. You see, I used to be really new at this, too. I entered the publishing industry naïve and eager, but we’ll get to that soon enough. First, the good advice.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever received, in regard to the publishing business, came from Douglas Clegg, though it is unlikely he knows this. I was at my first horror gathering, which happened to be the first Horrorfind Convention, with my friend Kris. Being far more gregarious than I, but also a novice looking to break into publishing, Kris made quick friends with a number of people, and I tagged along behind her, smiling, nodding, keeping my mouth shut and trying to keep my fanboy reflex in check whenever Ken Foree or Michael Berryman walked by. One afternoon Kris was speaking with Doug, and he mentioned the HWA and their message board (a very different beast than the board they have now). He suggested she join the organization and then just observe the comments on the message board to get a feel for what was going on. He also encouraged her to ask specific questions, but mostly he felt it would help immensely if she just read the posts and absorbed.

What I got from this exchange was that it was important not to come screaming into the conversation, but rather to sit back and listen. What he did not say, and it is something I believe would have proven beneficial was: Everyone wants to be helpful, and they will give freely of their knowledge—whether they have any or not.

I feel qualified to speak to this topic because, as noted above, I entered the business wide-eyed and dumb as toast. I didn’t have the knowledge or the confidence to navigate the system in the way that would have been most beneficial to my career. I took quite a lot of bad advice and made every mistake a new writer can make. This happened because upon entering the business, my assumption was that everyone knew more than I did, and therefor, everyone’s advice was pretty much equal in value. It sounds ridiculous in retrospect, but there it is. I let the business make me its Bitch.

The thing is when you’re new to this (or any other) business, you might assume, as I did, that anyone further along in the process has something useful to teach you, but think of it this way: you’re about to enter a prison system and you can either come in as a Guard, a Thug, or somebody’s Bitch. After all, you can have a person in the publishing correctional facility for 3 months, 3 years, or 3 decades, but a Guard’s experience is going to be far different from that of a Thug’s.

A Bitch’s experience is going to be the worst. These boys and girls come into the business vulnerable and uncertain, and they are looking for quick and easy ways to establish themselves. They do this by becoming a Bitch. Note that I am emphasizing the words Quick and Easy—let’s call it Queasy—because that is the key to being a Bitch. It is Queasy to send poorly written material to a freebie site. They have nothing to lose by posting your story, so you get jazzed, thinking you’ve accomplished something, but the fact is, the “publisher” takes no risk by accepting whatever is thrown his or her way. Similarly, you place your first novel with a “publisher” who uses CreateSpace to format and distribute the title. They do minimal promotion, expecting you–the newbie author–to fling copies far and wide, effectively doing more to promote the publisher’s name to other Bitches, who will eagerly sign on for the same reasons you did. The title becomes an ebook and it’s on Kindle! Along with millions of other titles. If sales are bad, do you think the publisher blames his or herself for bad packaging (because your cover will suck–don’t doubt it), insufficient marketing, or any of the other facets of book failure?  Mmmmm, no.  And there’s no reason they should. Again, there is little risk involved for said “publisher,” so there is no need for concern, and certainly no motivation to discern quality work from not-so-quality work.

There’s very little effort required to survive publishing as a Bitch. You take no chances, expend minimal energy, and you find peace, even satisfaction, at your chosen station because it is safe. And you can surround yourself with other Bitches all assuring you that you’re doing the right thing.

In a highly publicized research study from David Dunning of Cornell University, some very interesting theories of self-perception were discovered: “The research shows that incompetent people are inherently unable to judge the competence of other people, or the quality of those people’s ideas.” As such: “Very smart ideas are going to be hard for people to adopt, because most people don’t have the sophistication to recognize how good an idea is.”

My only two internet explosions, which is to say, the two occasions when I felt I behaved very badly on message boards were a direct result of individuals who fell squarely into the description above. They were incompetent and remain so, but they fought for their right to be ignorant at every turn, going so far as to insult well established professionals in the field.  My issue was not that they questioned/berated/annoyed me, but rather, that they were insulting to real industry leaders who had decades of experience and who were trying to help said idiots: free and solid advice from people who knew the business! And just because what was being said did not fit into the juvenile philosophies of these two individuals, the professionals ended up being treated like diapers.

Were the prevalent environment such that these two gentlemen proved to be anomalous–just a couple of nimrods who were unable to accurately weigh the value of advice or expertise—then the problem of bad advice would be inconsequential, but that is not the case. One of the magical qualities of human nature can be boiled down to the old saw about another class of the animal kingdom: birds of a feather flock together. This they do, and often enough they shit all over the landscape. So instead of one or two people with bad ideas perching above our heads, there is an entire flock. From these groups come philosophies that are tailor made to make the incompetent feel capable and even successful, mostly because the bar is set so low. I call this the Gospel of the Bitch.

It is very important to point out that these people do not mean any harm (well, most don’t). As noted above, they want to help. Their hearts are in the right place, and they may well be the nicest, sweetest, most generous folks you’ve ever encountered. They should be applauded for taking the time and energy to offer you assistance, but understand that they are preaching a gospel, and the more people they can bring into the congregation the happier they are, because you and others will be supporting their faith.

How do you know the Gospel of the Bitch? It goes back to the Queasy I note above. Bad advice can sound incredibly logical, but if something will get you somewhere fast or easy in publishing, it’s best not to invest all that much hope in it. Now again, I’m speaking to NEW writers. Folks who have been around for a while can make up their own minds. They may be Thugs, Guards, or Bitches, but my warning is for the new kids on the haunted block, who are honing their craft, testing the waters, and looking for legitimate guidance.

What kinds of things will the Church of Bitch suggest? “It’s important to just get your name out there.” Definition: spend hours of labor and imagination on a project and then give it away to whoever will format it and throw it on the web to be forgotten. LISTEN closely; one sale in a reputable market is worth 100 “sales” to most freebie websites. I want to use names to exemplify my point, but I won’t. Well, I’ll use one: Laird Barron. He spent (probably still spends) weeks, sometimes months on a single short story, novella or novelette, and those stories regularly appear in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and a truckload of Ellen Datlow-edited anthologies. His output might be seen as minimal, but the value of his work and his reputation are unquestionable. Other authors have sold dozens, maybe a hundred, stories in the same time frame, but mentioning their names here would give them far more publicity than they’ve earned.

Another choice bit of advice is “Self-publish. Digital has made publishing a level playing field.” This is not an argument about the merit of self-publishing. You can visit Joe Konrath’s blog for that discussion. This is about craft. As a new writer you need, emphasis on need, to hone your craft, and you need experienced people to help you with that. Editors are one such group of experienced people. You may think your work is done, polished, good, even rivetingly magical, but it probably isn’t. If it is, then it will sell to a recognized market and you won’t need to self-publish. If it isn’t, then you can save yourself some embarrassment by working on your technical skills and submitting to legitimate editors. Sure you’ll get some form rejections, but along the way you’ll receive more personalized notes and possibly even sell some stories. If you jump head first into self-publishing you eliminate any semblance of quality assurance. No one is going to edit it for you once its published, readers are just going to add a single-star rating and a “God, this blows” to your Kindle reviews.

Further, if you don’t have enough confidence in your work to take your lumps with editors and critics, why should anyone have enough confidence in your work to spend even a penny on it? Maybe you’re absolutely brilliant and your work will be discovered. Maybe. Not likely or even remotely common. For every self-pubbed title that becomes a sensation, there are tens of thousands that come and go like gnats on a summer’s eve (douche reference intended).

Here’s the thing. All advice isn’t equal. Know who is giving the advice and listen to it critically. If it sounds too good to be true—if it sounds Queasy—you are likely hearing a tract from the Book of Bitch. Obviously, there are exceptions to everything I’ve noted here, and your experience might be vastly different from others, but if you’re in publishing, you’re here because you can’t help it. You certainly didn’t get into it for fame or fortune. You have to be here, because you are compelled to tell your stories. And it’s a life sentence.

So welcome to the cell block, New Meat. Enter with pride and confidence. Believe in yourself and earn your place in the yard. After all, there are no victims in the Gospel of the Bitch, only volunteers.


Thanks to Lee for playing along. Please visit him at to see what he’s up to and grab the books you haven’t read yet…

101 — with Jack Ketchum

As part of my ongoing 101 section for newer writers, I’ve asked a handful of colleagues—and mentors of my own—to participate in the name of preventing mistakes and paying knowledge forward. I asked them all the same question: What one thing did you have to learn on your own you wish someone had told you? This edition is brought to you by Jack Ketchum, author of Off Season, The Girl Next Door, Red and many more. And now… Jack.


In college and for several years after I was probably reading too much Harold Pinter, Beckett, Joyce, Blaise Cendrars and Henry Miller — Henry for sure — and got the idea that I was going to be the next one to advance American literature.  I was going to dazzle ‘em one day.  Just you wait and see.

The upshot of this bit of post-adolescent foolishness was that for the next eight years after graduating, while acting, teaching, writing ad copy, and working as an author’s agent I wrote a handful of “experimental” one-act plays in the manner of Pinter and Beckett, a ridiculously obscure novella, a lot of poetry, a pretty decent children’s book, and my first novel.

Ah, that fucking piece-of-shit first novel.

It was autobiographical, naturally — that seemed to be where the novel was going at the time, with Mailer and Tom Wolfe and the rest taking a leaf from Miller —  written from the copious notes I’d taken on a road-trip with my girlfriend from New York to California.  It wanted to be THE AIR-CONDITIONED NIGHTMARE or some such thing.  But although there was some pretty good writing in it I was no Henry Miller.  I wasn’t going to top the master at his own game.

I was determined, though.  Dogged.  I must have rewritten that damn thing a dozen times or more.  It was long, then got longer, then longer still.  I cut, fixed, wrote some more, cut that, inserted this…it just went on and on.  At some point my girlfriend Paula had had enough, bless her heart.  “You’re supposed to be such a hot-shit writer?” she said.  “Sell something!”

That pissed me off.  I mean, that  really pissed me off.  Harsh words were spoken.  But I’d been working as an author’s agent for three years and knew the markets.  All the men’s mags back then wanted to be low-rent Playboys.  So I wrote a story called THE HANGUP, a black comedy that was only marginally autobiographical and in no way experimental and was not going to advance American literature by a fraction of an inch, and sent it off to an editor I knew, Ben Pesta at Swank — and he snapped it up.   The check was probably a hundred dollars.    Maybe a hundred fifty.

Best check I ever got.  I went home to my mom’s house and burned every draft and copy of that damn novel in her fireplace.  My mom thought I’d gone a little nuts, I think.  But I wasn’t.  I was free.  I quit my job and started marketing my own stuff like crazy and I’ve never looked back.

Forget art.  In time, a measure of it will come to you.  You don’t have to go searching for the thing.  You read, you absorb, you write, and over time you’re writing better and better.  Pretty soon you’re doing stronger stuff than you ever thought you would.

It’s the nature of the beast.


Thanks to Jack for playing along and giving you all some food for thought and a lesson for your ears rather than over your head. Please visit him at to see what he’s up to and grab the books you haven’t read yet…

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