Favorite excerpts from your novels.

[Naruzeldamaster]

"Up to trouble? Me? Nonsense darling, I've been a well behaved Kitsune for the past 2 thousand years! They might even let me out of parole for good behavior."

"You mean besides the oceans of booze you've been consuming, regularly, without restraint?"

"How the hell else am I supposed to cope with the solitude..."

"I....damn, I....don't have a counter for that..."

"Understanding, spite, and acceptance...that's why you're my favorite student."

"You sure it's not just cause I'm the only one still sane?"

"Maybe....maybe not..."

 

[Malik]

These are only a start, I might take some writing classes to learn other styles of writing.

I strongly recommend this, for every writer.

My degree is in English, with a linguistics minor, and effectively a dual concentration in sociolinguistics and the philosophy of language; I wasn't a creative writing major. I went to a school that has turned out a sh*tload of notable authors, though. My mother was a bestselling author, although she ghost-wrote for another author. I was born to the trade, won writing competitions in high school, wrote my first novel at 16.

Despite all this, I had ten novels rejected in the 15 years after receiving my degree. I had easily a million words of fiction, maybe two million counting throwaway drafts, under my belt before I self-published my first novel. But it has done very well, and continues to sell well. I'm now agented out of New York and have multiple publishers holding my new manuscript. It takes time to get good, is what I'm getting at, here.

You don't have to get a degree to be an author, especially nowadays--I know college is different, now, and much more expensive--but every author needs to keep learning. This is not a career you just walk into blindly. Being a successful novelist means a lifetime of dedication. It's nothing short of the kind of dedication and focus you'd need to become a concert pianist. Becoming a bestselling, full-time author is like becoming a concert pianist who has PBS specials and who tours with orchestras. (I can speak to this from experience; my wife is a professional opera singer.)

You'll keep getting better at writing until the moment you die, but on your deathbed, you'll still be convinced you're not good enough--you'll wish you'd held in there a little longer to learn the next thing about writing. And if that doesn't sound like the life you want to live, drop this hobby, because being a failed author can kill you, and not learning how to write will sure as hell ensure that you fail. Fundamentals of the writing craft--composition, theory, grammar, literary history--are as critical to an author as reading music and proper fingering are to an aspiring orchestral musician. And based on what you've posted, these are all things you need to study. Deeply, and for the rest of your life, if you want to do this.

I don't say this to talk you out of it. Quite the opposite. You clearly have the drive, and that's a great start. But it's not enough.

Get some classes under your belt. Find a mentor. Absorb books on the craft of writing. Join writing groups. Attend conventions, both for SF/F and for writing. Make friends. Find critique partners. Take their input seriously. Develop a thick skin; this is a full-contact sport. People will tell you things that are going to sting, and they'll say it about work you've put your heart and soul into. And never quit.

We all started where you are, right now.

 

[Finchbearer]

And then you get people who just decide to write a novel one day and get published! Doesn’t necessarily take years and years of hard graft.

 

[pmmg]

Everyones journey is different, but i suspect those who are successful in their first shot are way fewer than those who spend years improving their craft. Its not a good gamble to think you will write one and it will all payoff. To have that is almost like winning the lottery.

Ive known some who just blew me away with talent, but they were very few.

 

[Malik]

Everyones journey is different, but i suspect those who are successful in their first shot are way fewer than those who spend years improving their craft. Its not a good gamble to think you will write one and it will all payoff. To have that is almost like winning the lottery.

Ive known some who just blew me away with talent, but they were very few.

Holding to my earlier analogy, there are 10-year-old concert violinists. There are prodigious talents out there.

Odds are, if you're reading this, you're not one. That means you'll have to work at it.

 

[Finchbearer]

Like winning a lottery that you earned the right to win - along with a host of other people who are making that success happen. Particularly if it’s traditional publishing I would have thought. What I meant with my earlier comment is that I personally have read quite a lot of books by authors who before they became authors either did something else entirely or otherwise had little creative writing experience. Probably also a lot of ‘not what you know but who you know’ going on too.

 

[BrittleBones]

It takes years of hard work and learning to become a writer. I've mainly gone the trad route but it took me 15 years of trying before a publisher said yes. I improved a lot in that time.

I think you've got a long way to go Super Fantasy - that's not to put you off. It's to make you appreciate what a long hard road it is. And that applies to self-pubbed writers as well. You've still got to produce professional quality work if you expect people to read it or even (gasp) pay for it.

And then there's S.E. Hinton, who published The Outsiders when she was 18.

But I digress. I think it's good to make finished products. Don't work on the same draft for ten years, get something done in two then move on from it. You'll get more improvement out of fresh ideas, I think.

 

[A. E. Lowan]

I strongly recommend this, for every writer.

My degree is in English, with a linguistics minor, and effectively a dual concentration in sociolinguistics and the philosophy of language; I wasn't a creative writing major. I went to a school that has turned out a sh*tload of notable authors, though. My mother was a bestselling author, although she ghost-wrote for another author. I was born to the trade, won writing competitions in high school, wrote my first novel at 16.

Despite all this, I had ten novels rejected in the 15 years after receiving my degree. I had easily a million words of fiction, maybe two million counting throwaway drafts, under my belt before I self-published my first novel. But it has done very well, and continues to sell well. I'm now agented out of New York and have multiple publishers holding my new manuscript. It takes time to get good, is what I'm getting at, here.

You don't have to get a degree to be an author, especially nowadays--I know college is different, now, and much more expensive--but every author needs to keep learning. This is not a career you just walk into blindly. Being a successful novelist means a lifetime of dedication. It's nothing short of the kind of dedication and focus you'd need to become a concert pianist. Becoming a bestselling, full-time author is like becoming a concert pianist who has PBS specials and who tours with orchestras. (I can speak to this from experience; my wife is a professional opera singer.)

You'll keep getting better at writing until the moment you die, but on your deathbed, you'll still be convinced you're not good enough--you'll wish you'd held in there a little longer to learn the next thing about writing. And if that doesn't sound like the life you want to live, drop this hobby, because being a failed author can kill you, and not learning how to write will sure as hell ensure that you fail. Fundamentals of the writing craft--composition, theory, grammar, literary history--are as critical to an author as reading music and proper fingering are to an aspiring orchestral musician. And based on what you've posted, these are all things you need to study. Deeply, and for the rest of your life, if you want to do this.

I don't say this to talk you out of it. Quite the opposite. You clearly have the drive, and that's a great start. But it's not enough.

Get some classes under your belt. Find a mentor. Absorb books on the craft of writing. Join writing groups. Attend conventions, both for SF/F and for writing. Make friends. Find critique partners. Take their input seriously. Develop a thick skin; this is a full-contact sport. People will tell you things that are going to sting, and they'll say it about work you've put your heart and soul into. And never quit.

We all started where you are, right now.

I always knew there was something I liked about you. My mom wasn't a best seller, but she did write humor, and she also raised me to the business. I was writing query letters in middle school. Looking back, I know it was because she hated them - like we all do - but cutting my teeth on rejection slips was good training for that thick skin. So when I say I've been hacking at this for 40 years, and me being 49, it's because my mom saved every. Bloody. Thing. I wrote, from Kindergarten to the Books of Binding.

The fact that she and my dad both got to hold the proof copy of Faerie Rising, and my dad looking at her and saying, "It's real!" will probably remain the best moment of my life.

OP, listen to Malik. He knows what he's talking about, and I'll usually say most of this to new writers but he got here first. This is a job - and yes, it's a job, a very hard job - that you have to not only love, you have to feel deep, abiding passion for. To me, the worst thing I could do would be to quit writing. It keeps me sane, quite literally. I know many authors who feel the same way. Good luck and godspeed, and we'll be here when you need us.

Malik, Iowa?

 

[Mad Swede]

A. E. Lowan said that writing is a passion. And it is. But there are many reasons why we as writers have that passion, and what may help you is working out what it is that drives your writing. Knowing what drove me to start writing also helped me to work out what sort of stories I wanted to tell and based on that helped develop my style. Malik mentioned writing classes, but I would add that before you even consider taking classes you need to be able to express yourself well verbally and preferably also in your professional work. By that I mean that you have to be able to express or explain something clearly and concisely, because only then are you able to add all the descriptions of scenes, actions and emotions that add depth to the core of your story without losing the story itself. As The Dark One says, writing stories that others want to read takes practice and dedication.

 

[Demesnedenoir]

After blowing off Iowa Writers Workshop—WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!—I didn't write for a decade, then studied screenwriting at UCLA, then after a couple of near misses, I decided H'Wood was insane, I didn't write again for almost two decades. Once writing again, I ended up with an editor who owned a small publishing house before selling out, and she informed me that the Big Five were just as nuts as H'Wood, so I went Indie. Which is a lot cheaper than putting together an Indie movie, which i came close to doing, heh heh. My formal writing classes outside of screenwriting equals 2, and they were crap. First novel I ever finished won a few Indie awards, both major and minor. When I was in my twenties, I consciously decided not to write because I held a theory that I needed to live some life to put into the books and make even fantasy real. I kick myself for getting going so late, but what the hell, life is more than sitting at a keyboard. Whether you learn by reading (some people swear by it) or by classes (some people swear by it) or by writing a million words (some people swear by it) or self-study (some people swear by it) or by mentor (some people swear by it) the main thing is to refine your craft and understand story. Those are two separate but related disciplines.

Even if born with talent, the craft should be refined. It took a lot of years before I had the discipline to refine my talent, mainly because I was out there having fun, LMAO. Who the hell wants to sit around typing all damned day? It's still a bitch to sit still so much, but the discipline of age fixed that... mostly. People can be big hits when they're young or crappy writers, but it's usually more because the story captures the zeitgeist than they are great writers.

 

[Demesnedenoir]

After that babbling, I figured it a good idea to get back to snippets of our writing we love! So, here we go, this from the rough of The War of Seven Lies that I'll release in June...

"An offer of arbitration—"

"Lessons aren't taught by pissin' your pants kindness; the Broldun learn best with their faces shoved in the shit and blood of the battlefield. Remember that, boy."

Warlord Buldane Choerkin's stern stare left Guvarek without room for challenge. Warriors and lords didn't fear his title alone, he bore a tempter to match his stature and skill. His form dominated the space of the council tent, the table he leaned against damned near disappearing behind his fur-clad bulk. If peace could be found this day, it would be in this tent, but it seemed the man was in the mood for blood instead of beer.

"Aye, my lord." The phrase cinched Guvarek's gut with quivering unease, and he shifted his weight in the hopes of allaying his misgivings. Winds whipped the tent's canvas, fierce enough to make the fire's flames dance and swirl the gray smoke rising for the open peak. Some said high winds were an ill portent for battles, but did the same apply to debates? Alone in the warlord's tent wasn't the place to question commands, but it was better than not alone. "Our enemy today is Clan Broldun. Distant kin, but kin—"

Maille rattled, a fist of iron links chill on Guvarek's cheek, and his head snapped to his shoulder with the force of the hit. He puffed his chest and brought his eyes back to meet his lord's. Buldane's grandmother being half Broldun wasn't going to stall the coming battle.

"If you weren't my son, I'd plant your head on a pike. Heed my wisdom, boy. Annihilation is victory, absolute and unquestioned."

"Aye, my lord." Guvarek's hand strayed with the urge to rub his jaw as his tongue wiggled a loosened tooth, but he fought the urge and hooked his thumb in his swordbelt.

 

[Malik]

I always knew there was something I liked about you. My mom wasn't a best seller, but she did write humor, and she also raised me to the business. I was writing query letters in middle school.

What really prepared me for this was Mom receiving fan mail for the "author," who IIRC was a pen name belonging to the publisher with a stable of ghost writers cranking out "the author's" books, and having bestsellers doing it, but having her own work turned down for publication for literally her entire life. She died with nothing published under her own name, yet she got fan mail. I have no visions of sugarplums about this industry.

I have a massive, world-changing deal on the table right now--handshake done, waiting on the lawyers and the paperwork--but I know better than to get excited. My mother's experience, plus my own with 15 years in the music business including 2 major label deals, lets me know better. This is the entertainment industry, and it will kill you if you let it. Work hard, and be proud of what you do, people. In the end, it's all you have.

Well, a fan asked me to sign her boob, once. That was pretty cool.

 

[Demesnedenoir]

Yeah, I know a guy who had a handshake deal in H'Wood and then became persona non-grata overnight. Blindsided him.

Hoping for the best, that way I can use you as a connection to get slapped around by the man, heh heh.

What really prepared me for this was Mom receiving fan mail for the "author," who IIRC was a pen name belonging to the publisher with a stable of ghost writers cranking out "the author's" books, and having bestsellers doing it, but having her own work turned down for publication for literally her entire life. She died with nothing published under her own name, yet she got fan mail. I have no visions of sugarplums about this industry.

I have a massive, world-changing deal on the table right now--handshake done, waiting on the lawyers and the paperwork--but I know better than to get excited. My mother's experience, plus my own with 15 years in the music business including 2 major label deals, lets me know better. This is the entertainment industry, and it will kill you if you let it. Work hard, and be proud of what you do, people. In the end, it's all you have.

Well, a fan asked me to sign her boob, once. That was pretty cool.

 

[Malik]

Malik, Iowa?

I'd never get out of the Midwest alive. Or without warrants. Nooooooooope.

 

[damselsgotballs]

Favorite excerpts?

the only trick of friendship, I think, is to find people who are better than you are — not smarter, not cooler, but kinder, and more generous, and more forgiving — and then to appreciate them for what they can teach you, and to try to listen to them when they tell you something about yourself, no matter how bad — or good — it might be, and to trust them, which is the hardest thing of all. But the best, as well.”

-A Little Life

 

[Super Fantasy]

Most of my experience so far is writing poetry and short stories, I feel like novels are more in depth.

 

[Super Fantasy]

There seems to be many writing styles, and I feel as if they can sometimes be combined.
Although i'm still very new to writing.
Many of my posts on this thread are short stories i'm working on, and only started writing.

 

[Super Fantasy]

When the three of them walked inside of Ovartremest Horizon, they noticed a meowing fox purring.
And the store looked to be a standard store, that sold various things.
And after a while of browsing the wares of the store, the owner greeted them.
She was a younger woman who seemed very knowledgeable.
"I see the three of you made your way to my store, we get few customers these days."
"Because the corporations own so very much of our world."
"Im Rinty, the owner of Ovartremest Horizon." She told them her name, but only after some time of talking.
Rinty seemed bored from a lack of customers.
And her store had a certain kind of rebellious vibe.
"What is your store named after?" Yizzy asked Rinty.
"If I told you, I would need to love you, and im fresh out of love these days." Rinty joked.
But Yizzy, Rivona and Vynid were distracted by all of the wares in Ovartremest Horizon.
There were many novels, and the store reminded the them of Hidden Agenda.
Yizzy noticed a novel titled "The Rinjinji", and it wasn't long before Rinty noticed Yizzy skimming through the novel.
"The novel you are holding is about the Rinjinji and their war against the Rengenshi."
"It details the Rinjinji revolution."
"Do you support the Rinjinji?" Rivona asked.
"No, I have a different political philosophy." Rinty said in a weary tone.

 

[Demesnedenoir]

A new snippet I enjoyed writing... This piece comes from the upcoming War of Seven Lies and the chapters involving The Touched will "break rules" like crazy. It's a blast to write it, heh heh. It's gonna jar the shit out of some readers until getting used to it.


"Are there creatures here who'd eat me?"

The Touched's smirking lips over ornery-looking teeth prepared me for the answer. "Alive or dead, in pieces or whole? All questions have nuances in the influences, wouldn't you agree?"

It wasn't as much of an answer as I would have liked, but I reconsidered my need for a more resolute answer as we walked. Snakes and legged but still slithering things avoided us, or perhaps avoided him, slipping into, under, and through anything they could find to avoid our gaze, and I felt foolish to have considered our being in danger. This, too, was a silly choice, as I was just misunderstanding the types of dangers a person might face. Perhaps being eaten is the least dangerous danger of all, short-term, really, compared to the dangers faced by the mind and the soul. However, I shouldn't have discounted being eaten, either.

 

[Jackarandajam]

Mayor Tom Ramba realized, just before his chauffeured Lane Runner topped the hill into Opportunity, that he was snarling. He hated Adrita and her crooked teeth, he hated her peasant helpers, he hated her business, but most of all he hated her arrogance. She had somehow climbed to a place of prominence in his city with a sort of ignorant charisma he would never understand and didn’t want to, and somehow stayed there, annoying him. Infuriating him. She strutted through his streets like a rat queen, knowing everyone and cussing half of them back into their houses, and the city loved her for it.

He rubbed his hands and lightly patted his pretty face, being careful not to smear the paint-accented laugh lines. No scruff, no grease, no bumps and only laugh lines for wrinkles. His laugh lines were good wrinkles. He carefully palmed his hair and licked his teeth. Liar White, his father had called good teeth, and he had them. Neat as porcelain, clean as a tight fence. Shiny boyish grin.

He took a deep breath and let it out, closing his eyes and concentrating. For the next few minutes, he could pretend Adrita was royalty. Everyone was royalty. Every coughing, throat-slitting, swill-drinking ingrate was, after all, the king or queen of their own soft mind and capricious opinion, and the ability to treat them as such had gotten him to where he was. Everyone got the whole Ramba package every time; Another thing his father used to say. Every detail in place, every effort made. The foot they saw was the one you brought, so wear the best shoes every time.

As the forest green hovercraft slid over the hill and down, newly detailed accessories sparkling in the morning sun, He risked appearing over-eager and craned his neck to survey the field over the driver’s shoulder. Opportunity looked about half picked of The Chained Dogs jackets already, spots of brown on a carpet of gray. Adrita was there with a tall apprentice, both turned half around to watch his approach, her squinted grin displaying a wretched excuse for a mouthful of teeth.

He rubbed his hands and patted his face again, then closed his eyes and mentally got out his little pride pouch. He imagined his pride as a glowing white ball he plucked from his forehead and gingerly placed in the pouch. He mimed pulling the drawstring tight and put it in his pocket. He would put it back after the meeting, and if the shine was dimmed a little, that was fine. There was a man he knew who cultivated obedient little companions that could buff the glow back into the dullest pride. The man liked Toms money, and Tom liked the buffing.

His mind wandered to the gloves he kept in the top drawer of his dresser and he felt his blood rise. White gloves, calfskin leather that slid on like silk. He could touch anything with those gloves on, however he wanted to. He patted the pocket that contained his pride and promised it a treat when they got home.


The Lane Runner slowed and Tom put his hand on the door. Sometimes people were best kept waiting; sweating and fidgeting and staring at the front grill of his million mark hovercraft while he calmly sat in the backseat and licked his teeth and counted his fingers, waiting for the right moment to dramatically present himself. For those people, he usually didn’t even have to use the pride pouch. Adrita was not one of those people.

The chauffeur stopped the Hovercraft with the grill not facing Adrita and stayed in his seat, as directed, and Tom flung the back door open and lurched out into the burning sun, nearly stumbling on the outstretched arm of a jacketless corpse. He closed the door and popped his sunglasses on, then stood akimbo, taking in the field.

“Leyt Fantasmic, but you’ve done a lot of work out here already, huh?” He said, thickening his local accent and raising his eyebrows at Adrita.
“Not out here for the playmates,” She replied, dry as ever, “are you?”
Tom laughed. He could always laugh. “Nope, looking for you. Got a business proposition for ya.”
Adrita rolled her eyes. “No.”
“Hey,” said Tom, holding up his hands, “this is a good one. Got a buyer for the Heaven grays.”
Adrita glanced away and absently fished a crusty little pipe out of her pocket and stuck it in her teeth, then motioned for him to go on.
He approached her, dropping his voice. “Look, breaking down the fabric and re-dying is the only way to get them back into circulation on-world, that’s the law. Well that never happens, as you know, cause now it’s more expensive than just getting new ones made. It’ll take years for these grays to get gone on their own unless the Dogs pay to have them removed, which I happen to know ain’t the plan. That means more mess for you next time you’re out here gathering.”
“New ones’ll be on top,” Adrita muttered around the pipe, “Ain’t that big of a deal.” She cut her eyes to him and grinned. “f’your tryin to get out of payin for ‘em, save us both some time.”
Tom felt his smile go wrong and did what he could to correct it. “Every intention of paying. Your normal gathering and washing fee plus ten percent on top.” He slapped his hands together, then spread them. “Extra work is extra work and I’m late getting to you about this ‘cause the deal just closed. I’ll eat the ten percent for the inconvenience but you gotta understand that’s the best I can do. The jackets are worthless, I’m barely making a coin off the deal now.”

Adrita sighed and looked at her apprentice. “Pay mind, my boy,” she said, patting his shoulder, “Y’see Tom here,” she jabbed her pipe at Tom, “hates my guts just like I hate his. He’s a soul in him like what lays in a drain pipe, just a little smear that smells sour and’d disappear with a bit a scrubbin. Nothin there but foul smellin black, and not much neither. Likewise, he thinks me a thorn in his pretty brisket, and my head on a spike in his chambers’d stand his little soldier til the day he goes to hell. So when he comes rollin’ out to the killin field, it means one a’ two things. Either he’s figured a way to get at my neck, or he’s talked himself into a pile a’ shiny and needs my blessing to get at it.”
“I-“ began Tom.
“So yer sellin jackets to off-worlders,” said Adrita, turning on him and grinning again, “which as we both know is as illegal as it gets, ‘cordin to ye old Tome Of the Reckoning. Movin’ our precious special resources and methods out into the wide world, so some devil’s army can come swoopin’ outta the sky in our own precious fabrics.”

“You–“ Began Tom again. Definitely something wrong with his smile now but to hell with it.

“Course,” she went on, “we know more’n the fools did who wrote the damned thing now, don’t we? It’s a wide world out there. Most armies got armor ten times better’n these jackets, though the jackets can’t be beat for lightweight strength and throwing a blade. So I don’t give two shits about what the Tome says, and that ain’t new information to no one on this world.”

“Well that’s–“

“Problem is, lotta folks around here care quite a lot what the book has to say about things, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll gather the grays and sell ‘em to ya for triple my usual fee.”

“Now listen, Adrit–“

“Shut up. That probably ain’t a fraction a what yer makin on ‘em but I aint got time to sus the truth out from between yer pointed teeth. You can pay me triple, all up front, this afternoon, or you can try starting a business to do it yerself again.”
This time her grin was pure poison. “I admit it’s a bit boring at the top, and I do admire a fightin spirit. Why don’t you give that another shot?”

Tom stared for a moment and swallowed hard a few times. Finally he shrugged and stuck out a hand, his famous smile now nothing but a wrinkled lip. Adrita glanced at his hand, curling her own lip as she re-pocketed her pipe.

“Go away, Tom.” She growled, “Coin before sundown or you can pay your friends back.”
She and her apprentice turned away and Tom, eyes bulging, let his hand drop and turned for his million mark hovercraft.

“By the way,” She called as he opened the door, “I’m sellin the jackets to you under suspicion and I ain’t afraid to let a few people know, neither. F’you decide to try and screw me over yer off-worlder deals, you’ll find the same crowd you found when you hung yer pretty sign. My crowd.”

He got in and shut the door carefully. The chauffeur pulled the Lane Runner around and cruised toward the hill. Tom sat, eyes closed and head back, until they were over the hill and dropping down the other side.

Then he slammed a fist into the back of the driver's headrest and screamed.