Being Epic

From the SF story I’m working on, “You Remind Me of Summer”. Think it will end up being 6-7k.

Madhur hesitated in the doorway of the bar. No sign on the outside other than a weathered metal plaque set at eye level to the right of the door. It showed a complicated red knot on a chipped white background.

This was dangerous territory but it was also anonymity, a place where no one would be looking at her flags. The privacy field inside kept all such information unavailable.

Someone was coming up behind her and there was nothing to prevent them reading her right now, so she gave the metal knob a twist and pulled it toward her to slip inside.

First impressions: booze-scented brown darkness broken by a single strand of red and green Christmas lights, tables centered in pools of yellow light from overhead lamps, constructions of spiderwire and sickly glow crystals. Along the back wall, a photo mural tried to provide the illusion of looking out onto a great deal seascape from a high cliff, but stains and a few tears made the illusion ineffectual. Underfoot, plas-crete, worn and a little slippery. A dim jukebox pulsing out a watery rendition of “I’ll be Home for the Holidays.”

The air smelled of sweat and alcohol and here and there a whiff of cologne or perfume. The inhabitants were varied ““ even a few nonhumans and mechanicals, but most shared a uniform dispirited look, a slump to their shoulders that made them seem aged and discouraged. Many nursed drinks, but three teenagers lounged at a back pool table, talking trash talk to each other as the balls clacked defiantly against each other.

This morning on the train into the city, she’d looked out the window and seen three young deer, springborn, now nearing fall adolescence, playing with each other by the side of highway running parallel to the track. They darted back and forth; one reared, sharp little hooves flicking out in play, catch me if you can, full of fearless stupidity and no thought for the cars rushing past so close to their play.

Then they were gone, and the landscape kept flickering as she tried to ignore the porter’s stare.

She chose one of the few empty tables, close to the wall, sliding into a wobbly seat, touching a faded video display, freckled with dissipated pixels, alight, tabbing through the choices, contemplating beer and onion rings. Her mouth watered at the thought not just of the greasy food, but the sensation of being unlooked at ““

— then someone sliding into the seat across from her, a woman perhaps two or three decades senior, face unfrozen by the conventional anti-aging techniques, but instead wearing tattoos across forearms and cheeks, purple streaks almost as faded as the menu.

Alarm blared against her nerves, but she refused to let her breath quicken or her tone be anything but bland. “Thanks, but I’m not looking for company.”

“Neither am I if bedplay’s what you mean,” the woman said sharply. Her hair was a silver Mohawk, tipped with blue along the six-inch strands that stood up like a parrot’s crest. She looked strong, was Madhur’s first thought, like some sort of warrior goddess cum blacksmith or stevedore.

“I just want conversation,” the woman said, “and any man I talk to is going to think I’m trying to pick him up, even if I lead with a denial of that. Humor an old broad and entertain me this evening. Unless you really do want to be by yourself, in which case I’ll slide off and leave you alone.”

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I get a lot of requests to look at people’s stories. Sometimes people just send them to me. This has prompted this post, but it is not directed at any specific recent requests. (I should note that this is different than my offer to read for awards – I’m happy to read those.) I’m talking about stories of the still unpublished variety.

I’m sorry. I really am. I know it’s a great story. But here’s some reasons why I’m not thrilled by your offer to let me read it.

I do read fast, but I have a lot to read. I’m reading for the Norton Award this year, which has meant an onslaught of books. I’m reading to stay abreast of the field and so I can make intelligent award nomination decisions. And I’m reading for my own pleasure.

You’re not asking me to read it, really, but also to critique it. That takes time, and even just a little crit is a piranha-like bite out of a day already besieged.

You’re asking me to do it for free. I charge to critique stories. Right now I’m not taking any, because I want to focus on my own work. The same goes for Kickstarters asking me for crits as donation incentives this year. I got bit in the butt with a bunch of these all at once, and it’s just not working for me. I’ll revisit this policy in 2015.

You may not want to hear what I have to say. A few years ago someone pressed a manuscript in my hands, and I took the time to go through it pretty thoroughly and explain why it wasn’t ready for primetime and what changes needed to be made. The recipient made it clear that he’d been wanting to hear praise and market suggestions. That was a bit discouraging.

I am not in a position to publish your story. If that’s what you’re hoping, I’m not currently editing a magazine and the couple of editing projects I have coming up are pretty specific in theme. It is extremely unlikely that I will read your story, shout “Huzzah!” and send it off to another editor saying they should buy it.

If you absolutely must have me read your story, you do have the option of taking my workshop. I offer plenty of classes and there’s new sections of both the Writing F&SF Stories and the Advanced Workshop opening soon.

This is hard for me because I have a difficult time saying no to requests. But they add up into vast piles of undone work that dampen all productive effort. So despite all the convulsions and pain this is causing my inner Midwesterner, who desperately wants to be polite… save us both the trouble and send it to your crit group. At least for now. Okay?