People sometimes ask whether or not the membership fee for the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America is worth it. I think it is, but mileage will vary. That mileage is certainly dependent on how effectively you use it. So here’s a sample action plan I’m putting together for my next book.
4-6 months ahead of time
Look to see what upcoming events, such as local reading series, conferences, and conventions work with your schedule. For example, if your book were being released in May, you might want to supply some ARCs for the Nebula Conference swag bags. Or if you’re in the Pacific Northwest area, you might contact the local organizers of the readings series in order to set up a reading.
Look at the SFWA boards to see if there’s any upcoming cooperative efforts you might become part of, or propose your own, along the lines of “Hey, I’ve got a book coming out on this date, anyone else got something coming out around then that wants to coordinate publicity?
If you’re doing that cooperative effort, make sure all your items are lined up!
The day of the release
Make sure you say something on your personal thread in the Discussion Forums so people know to spread the word! Give them as many resources to do so as you can, such as supplying a graphic or a pre-composed tweet.
Tag @SFWA in a tweet or two to get them to RT it.
After the release
Keep an eye open for the next SFWA Storybundle; they appear every six months or so.
Make sure there are copies in .mobi, .epub, and .pdf forms in the appropriate forums on the discussion boards if you want members to be able to read it when thinking about making Nebula nominations.
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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
The crescent moon is a fingernail mark pressed into the darkening sky. An anxious star tugs at it, trying to pull it up farther. Hands swim below the surface of the water. Birds cradled in the wickerwork of leafless branches eye the restless fluttering of the fingers.
Someone calls, but no one answers. Shadows sweep along the banks of the lake, pulled and stretched into awkward shapes by passing headlights. No one answers.
Someone walks and feels the dry stiff grass lace itself around their ankles, tracing lines of frost. The hands continue to crawl and the moon creeps up the sky.
No one answers.
Tin dancing mice revolve in the warmth of the kitchen. One watches the light of the moon as it moves down the blue stripes of the wallpaper. It marks the time with one ticking paw. The mice click and whir, dancing frantically, trying to forget that their clothes are only painted on.
The salt and pepper shakers, shaped like ears of corn, sit sullenly. Upstairs, sleepers move restlessly, their dreams escaping, leaking into the feather comforters.
The moonlight reaches the fifth bar of delphinium.
There is still no answer. Someone longs for the heated air of the kitchen, but instead sits on a bench and watches the movements of the hands. Fingers break the corrugated surface of the water and return to counting the pebbles in the silt below.
Ducks whisper among the reeds, revealing their secret journey. Their tickets are crumpled birch leaves, spiderwebs of veins eroded by the autumn rain, gilded by the guilty starlight. Someone takes one and tucks it in the pocket of their jacket, where it tangles with milkweed down.
The moonlight reaches the twelfth bar,and the mice spin slowly, regretfully, back into their boxes. The comforters are stained crimson and ebony with the dregs of dreams.
The hands swim like memories in the process of being forgotten. Someone waits, and no one answers.
Description captures so much nuance, and the structure of the sentence can prove integral to its effect, as frequently happens in Dunnett's writing.A series that I come back to repeatedly is Dorothy Dunnett’s marvelous six-volume series The Lymond Chronicles. Dunnett has two strengths: dialogue and its accompanying actions as well as a descriptive gift that I am bitterly envious of. Right now I’m working my way through the books for a third or fourth time, and I’m midway through Book 3, The Disorderly Knights.
In this chapter Lymond and Oonagh are escaping the Turkish camp, and it’s just marvelous.
At the edge of the still, dark pool that was the sea, at the brimming edge of freedom where no boat was to be seen, she spoke the first words of the few they were to exchange. ‘I cannot swim. You know it?”
The sea is the still dark pool, the brimming edge of freedom and we know that it’s still perilous and questionable because they can’t even see the boat. It’s a passage where words are scarce and breath is conserved, and Dunnett deftly raises the stakes here with that six word exchange.
In the dark she saw the flash of his smile. ‘Trust me.’ And he drew her with a strong hand until the green phosphorescence beaded her ankles, and deeper, and deeper, until the thick milk-warm water, almost unfelt, was up to her waist. She heard him swear feelingly to himself as the salt water searched out, discovered his burns. Then with a rustle she saw his pale head sink back into the quiet sea and at the same moment she was gripped and drawn after him, her face to the stars, drawn through the tides with the sea lapping like her lost hair at her cheeks, the drive of his body beneath her pulling them both from the shore. They were launched on the long journey towards the slim shape, black against glossy black, which was the brigantine, with Thompson on board.
Right off the bat, the first moment of the paragraph, the terse tense nature of the dialogue is maintained, along with a single detail reminding us of the lack of lighting. And because it’s Lymond, brilliant ephemeral Lymond, that detail backs up the dazzle of his character with its verb masquerading as a noun: flash. The moment where he draws her into the water, first to the lovely image of the phosphorescence around her ankles, then and deeper, and deeper, as though each comma was a wave, is one of those that bludgeons me with despair whenever I read Dunnett, because I don’t think I’ll ever come close to the precision and brilliant construction of that sentence, and she does it line after line after line for six fricking books, plus the eight book Niccolo series and the MacBeth one. HOLY COW. And then she delivers the final stroke with the temperature of the silky water combined with the information that now she’s up to her waist. We’re reminded that Lymond is not in the best physical shape because Dunnett never resists a chance to ratchet up the tension.
After that a long sentence conveys the sense of the journey, starting with the sound and visual of his pale head. Something about the way the sentence is constructed mimics the physical blocking of the scene, with Oonagh being drawn over and through the water with the drive of his body submerged beneath, pulling them both forward. Followed by more journey, and even more sense of the lighting, with the ship black against glossy black.
She never knew how long a swim that was, for she had one task: to make his work possible. Her body limp, her limbs brushing the surface of the sea, she took air at the top of his thrust; learned after the first gagging mistake to close every channel to the sudden dip, the molesting wave that slapped suddenly over one cheek. The hard grip under her armpits never altered, nor did Lymond’s own breathing for a long time vary at all.
That paragraph has a lot of sexual, physical terms (her body limp, her limbs brushing the surface of the sea, she took air at the top of his thrust) that turn violent (learned after the first gagging mistake to close every channel to the sudden dip, the molesting wave that slapped suddenly over her cheek), which echoes Oonagh’s experiences in the book, having been beaten many times by her former lover Cormac MacCarthy. But interestingly, the next sentence shows us that Lymond is steady where the violence is sporadic; he is drawing her forward through it. I’ve noticed Dunnett repeating figures like this over and over before — in Queens’ Play, it’s eyes, for example, so I’ll be curious to see whether this keeps getting repeated — or I may go back to earlier chapters to look at their interactions again.
I urge my writing students to copy out passages like this, to test them sentence by sentence, looking to see how the effects are created. Sometimes it’s just an exercise in angst, when you’re working with a writer that’s much better than you are, but I can’t help but think you always learn something from the practice.
