Lightspeed Magazine: My Year One

John Joseph Adams might have released his first anthology celebrating Lightspeed Magazine's first 12 months of outstanding stories, but Friday marked my own Year One with Lightspeed, and man, what a year it's been, working first as a slush reader, and now as one of the magazine's Editorial Assistants / Social Media person. I was a bit reluctant at first when asked, worried that I might be sucked into a world of terrible stories that I'd never get over. I found the contrary: slush reading has been an outstanding lesson in and of itself on what goes into an outstanding story, and there's a lot of good fiction that gets submitted. Over the last year, I've read hundreds of stories: some great, some bad. Over the last year, I've learned a couple of things from my work there:

First, a couple of disclaimers:

1. This isn't a how-to guide on how to get a story directly published in Lightspeed Magazine, other than that “write really well” is sort of the catch-all for every publication out there.
2. This is just my viewpoint, not Lightspeed's.

Rejections happen... a lot.

Lightspeed Magazine currently has 96 slots for fiction. Scratch that, half of those are reprints. You're left with 48 slots of original fiction. If you only write in one genre, cut that in half again: 24 slots for new, original science fiction stories and 24 slots for new, original fantasy stories. On the other end? There's a lot of authors submitting stories for those precious few slots every single day. That's a large pile of stories that comes to us, far more than we could ever hope to publish. The result is a ton of letters going out saying thanks, but not this time.

Getting past the slush readers requires one thing: a story that blows us away from the first page, and holds our attention. It has to hold the attention of others at the magazine: what works for one person might not work for someone else. Ultimately, the stories run the gauntlet, and are whittled down. The intended effect here is that we come out with a stable of short fiction that we're willing to stand behind. The result speaks for itself, I think: I've seen a ton of our stories on the “Best of” lists and end-of-the-year anthologies in the last couple of months. The magazine was nominated for a couple of Hugo Awards in its first year, and I've little doubt that we'll be listed in the next year. (I've got a couple of stories that I'd love to see win a shiny rocket, personally.)

Your Best Work Matters

Personally, I'm a stickler for detail, and the slush work has improved my own stories quite a bit, and my own submissions process:

1: refer to Christie Yant's blog post on cover letters and submitting, and follow it to a T. When I'm reading a story, it's useful to know if you've attended Clarion or you've been published in X, Y and Z magazines, but not things like “'I'm sure this will be rejected, but you never know'”: you don't need to give us reasons to reject your own story ahead of time.

The same diligence goes for grammatical errors, spelling mistakes, weird formatting and so forth. This is a fantastic guide to refer to when it comes to the format of a manuscript. The font doesn’t bother me (provided it’s readable), but it’s good to make sure that you’ve read it through more than once, and that it’s not overly difficult for someone to read. Spelling and grammar can be easily fixed, but broken stories are harder. Remember, you're asking the magazine (at least, if you're submitting to a magazine that pays money) to buy something from you, which they in turn ask people to buy in a bound package, printed or otherwise. If someone hasn't put in the effort to carefully read over their story and put it through the ringer, what else haven't they done their due diligence on? Characters? Dialogue? Worldbuilding? If my faith in the story is shattered early on, it's hard to regain that as I read on.

2: After submitting, wait for a response, and then repeat. And repeat again.

Structure, characters, ideas, story

In 2008-2009, I wrote a handful of stories, and half-heartedly submitted them to a couple of markets, where they were pretty promptly rejected. I did the same thing when I was in high school, and received a couple of rejections before getting dejected myself. I've since written stories in 2011 that I'm much, much happier with.

Slush reading has done a couple of things for me: it's shown me that there are stories that go out on their first submission and get bought pretty quickly. (It doesn't happen often, but when it does, those stories are pretty amazing.) There's other authors that dutifully submit numerous times, improving each time, before we find something that we like. There are also a lot of stories that get a read through and are rejected. There are lessons to be learned from both: a story that's published is a great example of what it takes to be published. A story that's rejected is a great example of where there's something wrong with the story.

Plausibility is a big thing for me. Fiction is a window into our everyday lives, with an idea behind it that helps us better understand the world around us. The individual actions of the characters, what they say to each other and their motivations all contribute to some central point that is revealed through what happens. Often times, I come across stories where something doesn't quite fit: the character's motivations aren't clear, the dialogue isn't there or something along those lines, but underneath all of that, there's something in the world that the author has created that doesn't line up for me. Sometimes, it's as simple as a plot device that, when under scrutiny, doesn't make sense: A cyberpunk story where technology is obviously advanced, but the thinking behind the story hasn't caught up with the technology. Thinking to myself “why is this happening” isn't generally something that should be happening while reading it.

In other instances, I find myself asking the following question: how is this contributing to the style of story that it belongs to: does a time travel story warning of the dangers of killing one's grandfather add anything new or different to that? If no, I have to find a way to justify recommending it. (That's not to say that we won't get a story like that, that's worth publishing.)

In my own writing, I've found that I spend a lot of time planning out what's going to happen, trying to figure out what the best intersection between the idea that I've had fits with a set of characters, the world and its own rules, and what the characters do to best display said idea. A lot of ideas end up in the trash, or filed away for later. I'm still working at it.

Keep at it & learn from your mistakes

I see authors submit multiple stories, and I see people who've submitted for the first time. What I love seeing is an author who submits a story, and soon, comes back after with another story that's better. I hope, that once we reject a story, an author will go ahead and take a look over it again: something happened that made it a poor fit for the market, and in between my own submissions, I go re-read stories and see if there's something that's tripping them up somewhere. Even once a story is accepted somewhere, it goes through an editorial process that will further change the story. From my own experience with various military history projects, there's always something to improve, depending on the day, the mindset that I'm in, and so forth.

My own efforts at fiction are long processes: I plan, write and set aside for a month or two. I go back, revise (or throw out) and repeat. The story goes to a couple of beta readers, and comes back with edits. I try and get stories that improve from story to story. Hopefully, I'll look back on what I've written now at some point and find that I've improved from that point on, either with greater experience, different mindset or writing ability.

The key point is to continue to submit, and to realize that rejections aren't some sort of personal vendetta, but reinforcement that nothing less than the best will cut it. With that in mind, I go back, edit and try again, until I can get to that point.

Even once a person has sold a story, there's no guarantee that I'll like their next story; it's happened before.

I've yet to attend a writing workshop (recently - I am a very happy alum of the Champlain Young Writer's Conference, held every year in Burlington, Vermont's Champlain College), or writer's group, but the best educational experience that I've had is by far working in the middle of a slush pile. It's provided me with tons of examples of what not to do, what to do better, and what absolutely every story needs to have: a reason to turn to the next page. I'm looking forward to what the next year will bring.

(And, if I haven't scared you away with all that, submissions have changed.)

Lightspeed Magazine

I'm happy to report that I've been asked to join the Lightspeed Magazine team as a submissions reader. Lightspeed, a relatively new magazine focusing on Science Fiction, edited by John Joseph Adams, who's edited Brave New Worlds and Wastelands.

I'll be working to help sort out the so-called 'slush-pile' that magazines get from writers hoping to be published, sorting out what should be included, and what shouldn't be. It's something that I'm interested in, and I'm hopeful that this will be a good look at how the industry functions, especially as someone who enjoys writing and putting together stories. It's an exciting opportunity, I think, one that could potentially open doors or at least show me which way to the door, down the road.

In the meantime, it's a magazine that I'd recommend anyway: the stories that I have read have all been fantastic, high-calibre pieces of fiction, and a lot of these stories have gone on to other anthologies or have been nominated for some awards in the field. The magazine's website is: http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/, with the ability to read online, or via various ebook formats.

Stop Punking the Genre!

In 1983, the term Cyberpunk was born, with a story by the same name by author Bruce Bethke in Amazing Stories #94. The term is defined as a "[S]ubgenre of science fiction that focuses on the effects on society and individuals of advanced computer technology, artificial intelligence and bionic implants in an increasingly global culture, especially as seen in the struggles of streetwise, disaffected characters. (Prucher, Jeff, Brave New Words: The Oxford Dictionary of Science Fiction, 30). The word itself comes from the meshing of 'cyber' and 'punk', which to me has always seemed as an electronics rebellion. Certainly, the subgenre is one that presents drastically different stories and meanings than what had traditionally been science fiction, and in a way, the style represents a degree of cutting edge thinking that really belongs to the first on the scene, with the truly unique and original thoughts that go against the grain. I think of cyberpunk as the books that are out looking for a fight, ready to cut those unprepared with what they have to say.

My main issue here is two-fold. The first is that with that in mind, it's hard to apply that sort of label to any sort of science fiction after the term is pushing 30 years old, much as it's hard to take someone seriously who's been involved in the punk scene for a comparable amount of time, with several records under their belt to a major record label. The surprise and edge vanishes after a while, and in a way, the 'Cyberpunk' term has become a label that's synonymous with electronics and dystopia. At the same time, the suffix '-Punk' seems to be added onto any number of themes and styles of science fiction literature. Steampunk is a ready example, both visually with film, photography and costuming, but also with such books as Cherie Priest's Boneshaker, where there is a blend of dystopic and steam-powered technology. The problem that I see is that the idea behind 'punk'-style music, video, literature is that it's something that ultimately rebells against a label, and in science fiction's field of vision, -punk is the marketing term to rally behind in creating a subgenre, undermining or missing what the word in the meantime really means.

The term itself came at a time of globalization and a rise of technology around the world, and has since become a label for any number of stories that correspond to a use of technology, with dystopic and near-future themes. Promoted by Gardiner Dozois, the term has largely been used to describe books by William Gibson, Philip K. Dick, Bruce Sterling, Neil Stephenson, and many more. Neuromancer really cut in close at a time before the Internet and home computing, creating a vision of the future that was wholly unique, interesting and edgy. In a large way, the term really did apply to a lot of these earlier books. (This is not to say that modern books in the 'cyberpunk' genre are bad - far from it. This isn't a specific criticism at the books within, just at the association and labeling that they're saddled with). Like observing a quantum event, you change the picture simply by looking at it, and in effect, calling something 'punk' undermines the meaning of the term, and ultimately, does the books labeled as such a big of a disservice. In this day and age with computers and virtual worlds becoming the norm, computers and electronics aren't necessarily that edgy, and any book written in the genre will most likely be compared to Neuromancer in some way or form.

At the same time, I've long been irritated by the Steampunk genre as a concept. According to Brave New Words, the term was coined just four years later by K.W. Jeter in a letter, noting that he believed that stories set in the Victorian era will become the next big thing, and suggested the term Steampunk, most likely in relation to the same edgy connotations that '-punk' gave the word 'cyber'. Once again, the idea of the word 'punk' being used as a label, especially a label right out of the gate, goes against all of the rebellion and fire that the term really should hold for that which it describes. Steampunk is a subgenre that is really beginning to grow a bit more, but doesn't feel new or edgy as far as its content goes: much of what you can see in the stories has long roots in the genre: the stories of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, for example, could easily fall well within the common definitions of Steampunk, and they did it when the concepts were really new and punkish in their own right. (Wells, especially, went across the grain in his literature and his personal life). Thus, a lot of this current steampunk fad is a retread over old ground, with stories that tell drastically different things this time around. Cherie Prist's latest book, for example, isn't so much about technology as it is about character inter-relations in a steampunk-styled environment, one that I'd really label as alternate history over Steampunk. The same goes for recent books by K.J Parker with Devices and Desires, Christopher Priest's The Prestige and Ekaterina Sedia's The Alchemy of Stone. I've long believed that the term science fiction, fantasy and speculative fiction in general really transcends the content and goes far more towards the themes, plotline and characters of each work.

Still, there seems to be a tendency for new genres to be bestowed with the '-punk' suffix to differentiate various groups of works by content and theme to perfectly define its own little sub-genre and capture a specific audience. In a large way, it's a good move on the parts of publishing marketing departments to better make their books sell: define an audience, and target them. In some cases, it's warranted. The stories of Paolo Bacigalupi, for example, such as The Windup Girl, The People of Sand and Slag and The Calorie Man, all exist within stories that are defined by their environmentalism-styled stories, ones that have a clear and defining message within a near future, influenced by current events. I've seen others, and called them myself, bio-punk, because in a way, they are some of the more raw, unique and though-provoking stories that I've yet seen. I'm sure that there are other stories, (including the upcoming story at Lightspeed Magazine called Amyrillis, by Carrie Vaughn), that looks at the environmental future and the speculative elements of the next several decades, at the same level of intensity as the early Cyberpunk stories. At other points, I've seen a tendency to apply the label to other things that really don't warrant it, and I can't help but wonder if '-punk' has just become synonymous with 'subgenre' or 'cool'. With the rise of steampunk and cyberpunk, what's to say that there won't be a major movement like 'biopunk', but alongside such things as woodpunk, ironpunk and stonepunk, each with their own style of stories, each more ridiculous than the last? In this possible future, Homer's Iliad, Odyssey and the entirety of the Greek myths will be re-categorized as 'Bronzepunk', and the Apollo-era of space stories will be titled 'Vacuumpunk' (which will most likely be re-titled for ironic effect, vacuum pump fiction).

The main question behind all this is that if the term '-punk' becomes an expected title for any style of sub genre, does it really convey the same meaning as it did in those early days, when? I think that it doesn't, because the idea behind the term is that the fiction is unexpected and raw, and placing the label on it becomes an effective, safe bandage that soothes what shouldn't be. The fiction isn't at fault, it's the hype behind it. Ultimately, speculative fiction as a whole is done a disservice by the constant subgenres, which separates out everything into miniscule categories that are ultimately meaningless, governed and sold based upon their superficial elements, but not the central themes that ultimately make a story worth reading. Punking a genre seems to be the epitome of posing, especially if the term is simply applied to a brand of stories for the simple purpose of finding a market for them.