writing

All Day, Every Day

Posted on June 5, 2012 by B.C. Johnson

I’ve taken the plunge. I’ve leaped off a cliff with the intention of designing and eventually constructing a parachute on the way down. Wisdom? No. Charisma? Maybe. Dexterity . . .

Wait now I’m just naming D&D attributes. Sorry, I’m back.

I quit my job to become a full-time writer, is what I’m saying. It’s funny, what I’ve learned about saying that particular sentence back there. It’s an easy way to gauge someone’s personality, and its utterance reveals a bucketload about the person that responds. It’s actually pretty funny. I’ve said it in a room full of people and gotten everything from anger to excitement to pity.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not surprised by this. I knew when I made that fateful decision that it was a risky one, both financially and socially. I mean, the economy isn’t exactly wearing its Sunday best, and quitting a stable job is a terrifically, excitingly bad idea, most especially to pursue a career with the stability of a professional Blackjack player.

I am lucky, and that’s made the decision easier. I’m lucky to have a fiancee who’s not only willing to support me while I try this noble experiment, but in fact actually suggested it. I’m lucky that as a relatively young man I have a retirement fund I can plunder to pay for a wedding. I’m most especially lucky that I live in a time where I can stay at home and write all day and get paid for it. In a time before the internet, the only way to do that was to be one of the top percent of successful, popular novelists. Now, in this time, being able to apply to literally every freelance writing job posting on planet Earth makes things easier. Not easy, Heaven forfend and Hell no, but easier. Possible, anyway.

Not having kids or mortgage helps too.

The decision was necessary. More than necessary, if there’s a word for that. You think a writer would have one of those.

Working a job that fluctuated every week, without warning, between fifty hours and eighty makes writing impossible. Impossible. I say it a third time to appease the Old Gods: Impossible. Did I write? Yes. Did I even publish a book? Why yes sir I sure did. In nine years, I produced one book fit to print. An accomplishment to be sure, but no career. No possibility of career.

So I begin the noble experiment. I began it yesterday, as a matter of fact. If things don’t work out over a significant period of time, than I’ll be happy to grab another day job and write on the side. After all, my complaint for nine years has been thus: If only I had more time. More time and I’d be Stephen King, more time and I’d be a proper scotch-drinking, bathrobe-wearing, writer. Time!

Now I have the time. If I can’t put my typewriter where my mouth is, than I’ve been full of shit for nine years. If I can’t do it, than I know that I was just using time as an excuse to not write. And if that happens, then I got another day job and write on my off hours, knowing once and for all that I didn’t need time, I just needed to have my ass kicked a little.

Ah, gentle readers, but if it does work.

If it does . . .

Categories: Diary, writing | 1 Comment

Chandler’s Rule

Posted on January 2, 2012 by B.C. Johnson

Raymond Chandler, famous author of detective noir fiction, said it best:

“When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.”

I’ve always loved this bit of advice. Now it doesn’t have to turn every slow scene into a gun battle, but the idea is wonderful: when in doubt, tension. When in doubt, action. When in doubt, raise the stakes. The introduction of a “Chandler’s Gunman” puts a point on any scene. The air becomes thicker, the characters more desperate, and more importantly, it helps to clear away the bullshit.

Have two characters bogged down by indecision, personal conflict, or (worse) agreeing with each other? Add someone or something they have to deal with. Something they can’t ignore, something that unites them or divides them or just does something. Chandler’s Gunman can be a guy with a gun, or a fire, or a realization, or a death, or even just that piece of time-sensitive vital information that gets our lazy protagonists off their asses.

Chandler’s Gunman saved the manuscript I’m working on. Just this week, in fact.

I’ll admit an ugly truth – writer’s block exists. Now I’ll admit an even more uggo truth: it exists because writers think everything they wrote is awesome and etched in awesome stone. Unwillingness to adapt, to change, to ride out what the story is rather than what you thought it was going to be.

I had a safe place that slowed my characters down. I had a bunch of backup they could call to solve their problems, a fortress they could return to, a base camp. My story, in addition to growing long and boring (oh yeah), had ground to a halt.

I blew the fortress up. Fire, flames, death. I hideously murdered all of the friendly people there, introduced the nasty S.O.B. who did the chopping, and walked away from the wreckage laughing my author head off. In one fell swoop I’d saved my manuscript, introduced a villain, and pushed the story into its third act.

A man with a gun works wonders.

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Reactions in a DeLorean

Posted on December 16, 2011 by B.C. Johnson

Yesterday I signed my first book deal. I had reactions of my own, namely extreme excitement combined with an odd sensation of worrying vertigo. It turns out finding the handle of one of your dreams and finally getting a grip on it is just as terrifying as it is satisfying – I find myself thinking of the work ahead. Of which there is plenty: having signed with a small company, I’m about to get an exciting crash course in marketing.

It doesn’t feel like a brass ring, or like a lottery ticket. It feels like another step, if it is a by-and-large HUGE and wonderful step filled with bacon cheeseburgers and puppies and happy things. It made me wonder, what would previous incarnations of myself think?

26 and 7

Bobby (26) : “Hey, seven-year-old me! We finally got published!”

Bobby (7) : “Well duuuuh. Was your story about cats or penguins, like my story?”

Bobby (26): “Sorry bud. I’m afraid I’ve pretty much retired myself from ‘anthropomorphic animals go somewhere wacky’ genre.”

Bobby (7): “I don’t even know who you are. Is Raphael still your favorite ninja turtle?”

Bobby (26): “Well, obviously.”

Bobby (7): “Wanna play Power Rangers? I’m the Red Ranger!”

Bobby (26): “What? That’s ridiculous . . . I’m the Red Ranger.”

26 and 12

Bobby (26) : “Hey, twelve-year-old me! We finally got published!”

Bobby (12): “Yeah, sure. Hey, so you’re from the future then?”

Bobby (26) : “Obviously.”

Bobby (12): “So . . . wow, you’re tall.”

Bobby (26): “Very true. I know you’re shorter than all the girls right now, and pretty fat, and your haircut is . . . really, a ponytail? Anyway, it gets a lot better.”

Bobby (12): “We’re still fat, I see.”

Bobby (26): “Well, we get much thinner. Then after high school we get REALLY fat, but then we get thin again. Now we’re somewhere in the middle because – you know what? Listen. That’s not really what I’m here to talk about. I’m saying – ”

Bobby (12): “Quiet. Be honest with me. Have we touched a booby yet? Don’t bullshit me here.”

Bobby (26): “That’s not really important – ”

Bobby (12): “You shut your cow mouth. Boobies. Touched. Go.”

Bobby (26): “Little Bobby . . . ”

Bobby (12): “Remember how much I’m getting bullied right now? I will end you.”

Bobby (26): “Well . . . yeah. All the time. It’s pretty awesome.”

Bobby (12): “WoooooOOOOO!”

Bobby (26): “Sigh”

26 and 16

Bobby (26): “Hey, sixteen-year-old Bobby! We just got published!”

Bobby (16): “Um, how old are you?”

Bobby (26): “I’m . . . twenty six. I’m twenty six. Why?”

Bobby (16): “So, we got published like, again?”

Bobby (26): “What do you mean ‘again’?”

Bobby (16): “You published like, your ninth book, right?”

Bobby (26): “No, it’s the first one. I dont . . . ”

Bobby (16): “THE FIRST ONE? Are you HIGH?”

Bobby (26): “We don’t really get into drugs – ”

Bobby (16): “You, just now, ten years from now, publish your first book. Wow. Wow On a Pogo Stick. Were you kidnapped somewhere in the intervening years? Did you overcome a debilitating illness? Fight in a war?”

Bobby (26): “No, no, and no. It’s a slow process, dude.”

Bobby (16): “Most authors write a book in a year, right? How many books have been fully completed in ten years?”

Bobby (26): “Hold on. A book a year is pretty fast. And besides, you don’t start seriously writing for another four years.”

Bobby (16): “What? Why?! Oh, oh. College. Right. I guess that makes sense.”

Bobby (26): “Oh, uh . . . ”

Bobby (16): “What? Oh what now? You didn’t GO TO COLLEGE?!”

Bobby (26): “I went . . .”

Bobby (16): “Oh Jesus, man.”

Bobby (26): “So, to uh, answer your earlier question . . . two books.”

Bobby (16): “I don’t even want to talk to you anymore.”

Bobby (26): “I’m sorry, dude.”

Bobby (16): “You know what? Whatever. What’s the booby situation?”

Bobby (26): “Excellent, really.”

Bobby (16): “One out of three ain’t bad, I guess. We have a show tonight, wanna come? It’ll freak everyone out.”

Bobby (26): “Sure! I’ll jump and be like ‘I’m from the future, where the zombies are! Ahhhhh!'”

Bobby (16): “Ha, nice. There aren’t . . . ”

Bobby (26): “No, no zombies. But I’ve got some bad news for you about vampire movies . . . “

Categories: publishing, second manuscript, writing | 2 Comments

Elations

Posted on December 1, 2011 by B.C. Johnson

Let’s not bury the lead: I think I may be in the last few hours of one of the best days of my life.

So far, obviously. Someday when I’m riding a pterodactyl into a week-long game of naked laser tag (in space!), I’ll look back on this auspicious Wednesday and think: Was there really a time before I had a pterodactyl? What in the hell did I spend all of my time doing back then? Not riding pterodactyls, that’s what.

First off: I nailed a job interview. This is the least exciting of the three things that made my day, though noteworthy, certainly.

My agent also sent me a publishing contract, which is a sentence I’ve wanted to write my whole life. Eight months ago I didn’t have a contract, or an agent. Just two manuscripts (one particularly dusty, and liable to stay that way) sitting in my hard drive, playing harmonica and singing prison songs. But not like, “Jail House Rock” prison songs. The sad ones, about “nobody knowing” and the like. A miserable state, happily ended.

The funny thing is, we haven’t decided if we’re taking the contract. Lots of questions still to be had, especially for a raw green publishing newbie like myself. Percentages, rights, maths – all of the stuff I spent most of my academic career trying to get the hell away from. My agent and I are talking about small presses and big presses and working out the details but here’s the best part:

None of that matters.

My worst case scenario at the moment is getting published.

The third thing that put a nice fucking cherry on top of all of this: today was the last day of NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. And I finished, at around nine o’clock. 50,000 words this month.

I’m feeling lucky. Tired. Filled with a voice telling me to enjoy the moment, which is so not a problem. I tried to watch TV, I tried to play some PS3, I tried to tell myself that now was the time to take a much needed break from writing.

So naturally I came here, to type it out.

Fuckin’ writers.

Categories: first manuscript, publishing, writing | Leave a comment

Genesis (Not Sega)

Posted on November 23, 2011 by B.C. Johnson

I blog, therefore, I am.

I’ve had a few blogs before, here and there, scraps of personal info or jokes or comics starring action figures (hilarious, but unprofitable).

I’m first and foremost a writer, and I thought I’d use this particular space to shake loose all the random thoughts, memories, and sea-shanties pertaining to that most hallowed profession. Well, maybe not most hallowed. I mean, we authors basically enjoy “lying to people“ and “wearing sweatpants,” and other than drug-dealer, writer is the only job that allows for both in great quantities.

I’m B.C. Johnson, and I’ll be your host this evening. Actually it’s the middle of the day, and I’m supposed to be working on my manuscript. But I couldn’t help myself – today, I received my first offer to be published(!). A contract is in the mail, folks, and I almost exploded from sheer childish explosive, exploding glee. Whether I’ll be signing it has a lot to do with stuff out my hands, the content of the contract, how many sheep it requires I trade them, etc.

I told my agent I wouldn’t mind being paid in Assassin’s Creed games and Buffy Blurays, but apparently that isn’t “industry standard.”

My first novel sits on my hard drive and in a box, where it will likely remain until the Earth is taken over by Morlocks. My second novel, however, is out there. And someone wants it. Its a difficult feeling to express, but its sort of like OOOOOHHHHHHHHHHOOOOLLLLYYYCRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP.

Basically.

When my brain remembers how to function properly, I’ll be back here to try to sort it all out.

– B.C. Johnson

Categories: first manuscript, publishing, second manuscript, writing | Leave a comment