Cutting the Cord-(When and how to end professional relationships.)

The first word that comes to mind in this sentence is RELATIONSHIPS. It's a very important word.

We are, all of us, basically nothing without them. You have friends? Relationship. Lovers? Relationship. Editors? Relationship. Readers? Often times a relationship.

Sometimes, however little we might like the idea, relationships change or end. The problem is, as I suspect most of you already know, sometimes those long-term connections tend to go out in a blaze of glory.

A while back I had a friend of mine whom I had not seen much come up to me and at a convention and casually ask if I might be available to do lunch sometime. we got together a little over a week later and we chatted but there was a tension between us. Finally my friend looked at me and said, "Honestly, Jim, I thought I'd done something to offend you."

He had not. But I was dealing with my writing career, my full-time job and at that time, my wife who was dying by inches and needed my support. Here's the thing: I did not tell anyone that my wife was ill. It was not their business. She did not want it advertised and I therefore did not push it. People who saw us together could tell there wee issues. (the wheelchair was a dead giveaway.) I'm not saying any of  this to be contrary. I'm pointing out that he did not KNOW what i was going through anymore than I knew what he was going through. We parted ways out of a lack of communication. We were never business partners or professionally connected though we both work in the same industry.

We fell to the wayside and eventually we repaired our differences. The fact that we fell away was an unfortunate side effect of life.

Another example from more recently. I saw a gentleman I have seen exactly once in the last 5 years last week at Dragon-Con. He made a point to hunt me down. I'm not hard to find when I'm at a convention like DC, but as I had a dozen panels and lots of people to catch up with (We're writers. we're ridiculously solitary a lot of the time. Conventions make up for it. In my case, so does working at Starbucks. You think I jest, but without that job I'd likely be a hermit. )

This particular gentleman was a good friend for years. We met up for movies, we talked books, we did a lot of things as part of the same group. Over time I got busy (you'll note a patten here. It happens a lot, which saddens me but is inevitable when I have deadlines) and he stopped hanging around with our group as much. From time to time I would basically look up from my writing, notice he was no longer around, and feel a little bad about that, but life moves on when you aren't paying attention and for all of the reasons already mentioned, I was not often paying attention.

He asked for ten minutes of my time at Dragon-Con. Seriously, ten minutes is nothing, but that particular day? I had 6 panels and a few meetings set up (remember that professional part? We're getting there).

Long story short, he first apologized for not knowing, when we'd seen each other the previous time, that my wife had passed. Again, I seldom make mention of that fact. You want details? Here they are. When Bonnie passed I told a handful of people. I did not post on social media. I took a week to recover and did my best to move on. It's just the way I'm programmed. So I was not at all surprised that he had not heard. he was horrified. He apologized profusely and I explained that it was;t necessary.

And I was glad to look into the face of a man I'd missed for a long time without realizing that I missed him.

He also told me that a mutual friend of ours (whom I have long since stopped speaking with because he is borderline toxic) told him that I no longer wanted to see him, because he and my wife were not famous friends. It happens. My friend and my then wife tolerated each other. They were never going to be close. Until that conversation--which I know nothing of--occurred, we had continued in the same circles. After a jackass who shared an opinion that had no foundation in truth had made that comment, we had been friends and then, pow. Separation. It was silent and it was complete and from time to time I looked up at the world around me and was sad that my friend was no longer there.

That's two examples of relationships falling apart. Neither of them were intentional. They have, thankfully, been mended.

The first one was miscommunication and busy lives. the second was the assumption of truth from a third party, and busy lives. We are, all of us, busy, aren't we? God knows most of my friends have to actively find the time for leisure.

Now that I've told you all of that, I'll explain a few simple facts from my perspective: Relationships end. Professional relationships often end badly, whether you want them to or not.

Once upon a time I was dealing with Publisher A, A small press that did limited editions of all of my books. Per contract (and I knew this going in, folks, but I'll always caution you again KNOW WHAT YOUR CONTRACT SAYS) half of whatever I made from reselling to a mass-market went to Publisher A. When one of my biggest novels to date (And by big I mean length here at 300,000 words) went into mass-market release, it became three books and the money was good. And half of that was going to Publisher A. Except it down;t work out that way. I had to overhaul books 1 and 2 in order for the books to make sense as a trilogy. I did a lot of extra work. And because I was doing a lot of extra work, I felt (and I still feel) that I should get a bit more of the money for literally adding 40,000 words to the effort. especially because the entire format of the novels had to be changed in order to make it a trilogy instead of one mammoth book.

Long story short, the new publisher and I worked out deal where one of the three books was essentially considered a new book. Publisher A got a nice chance of change, but it was 2/3 of what the publisher felt it should be.

We did not part on good terms. Publisher A felt cheated.

Some of you might agree. I did not and do not. Publisher A threw  deeply nasty meal my way and that was the end of it in my eyes.

Later, Publisher A actually sent me a note of apology. Listen I get it. We all want our fair share. But I still stand by not wanting to give away half of the money for what amounted to a completely different novel when you added in the extra 40K.

That same situation also involved Publisher B. 

It was a a rare and precious moment in my career. I had two publishers that wanted a book of mine. I was unaccented at the time I spent most of my career unaccented. Anyone that says you can't make a living without an agent is possibly incorrect, but its IS a lot more work. In any event, I would up with a bidding war. Publisher B. was doing several of my paperback reprints around that time and had WONDERFUL distribution. They paid squat, but you got into airports, etc.

Enter Publisher C. Not as aggressive, but definitely just as good for distribution and also one of the bigger companies.

Bidding war. Publisher C. won. By a lot. I made enough money to think there was a chance to survive as a writer. (My opinion on that changes daily, by the way).

Publisher B. was not pleased. On my next few books, they low-balled me on options and that was that. We parted company. There was no negotiation beyond that point. We had done a few originals together and they'd sold well enough but after the bidding war the honeymoon was decidedly over. I have since seen the representatives of Publisher B. on several occasions. We are civil and even friendly to each other, but there's almost always that awkward silence where we realize we no longer have much in common. Publisher B. has gone the way of the Dodo bird, by the way, and dragged a few careers into the muck in the process. I managed to avoid that, because we'd cut all ties by the time the publisher collapsed in ruination.

Publisher C. is still going strong and though we haven't done anything new together for a while I still get the occasional royalty check.

I still see the editor from Publisher C regularly. We often have a meal together at conventions, or at least a drink. There are other publishers I have NEVER worked with that I have meals or drinks with. Why? Because they're fun people, and because this is a small industry in many ways. In all cases, we are friendly and we can get along very well and have had several deeply passionate conversations of thew sort you can only have with friends. But do you want to know something? If I ever DO sell to them, and the time comes to negotiate? That friendship goes to the wayside until the talks are done. I'll do you one better, my agent will handle the negotiations, because that way the friendships are unaffected.

In any event, I will do everything I can to avoid ending the relationships I have with people in the industry. We may not work together, but there's nothing that says we can't remain civil.

I mentioned this article to Author E.J. Stevens.

She suggested telling the entire affair from Jonathan Crowley's perspective. I can't do that. The story would end in flames. Seriously, there was never a character more willing to end every relationship with carnage. So instead of making suggestions from Crowley's perspective, here: have a short story about Crowley and relationships. (Art by Alan M. Clark, who is awesome.)

Where Did We Go Wrong?

By James A. Moore

"Why won't you even speak to me, Jonathan?" Her voice rang in his ears and Crowley did his best to ignore her. It wasn't easy. She was persistent. 

The cold air bit at his exposed skin and Crowley looked from his perspective atop a four-story apartment building toward the home of his target. The woman inside that building had, according to the people he'd persuaded to talk to him, been dabbling in the sort of sorcery that never went right. 

Joan's voice came from every closer, the whining note buzzing like a fly next to his left ear. "Jonathan, I know we were never married or anything, but we had fun, didn't we?" He closed his eyes. Yes, they'd had fun. 

"Joanie, honey, you should just stop while you're ahead, okay? This isn't going to go the way you want it to, and I'm a little busy right now."

"You know I hate it when you call me Joanie. Makes me sound like I'm twelve." That petulant tone again. Pouty and annoyed and at the same time playful. One night together. It had been a long time ago. Still, she thought that meant something.

"At least you're not ignoring me any more." He felt the pressure of her fingers on his left shoulder. Jonathan Crowley opened his eyes just in time to see his target across the street opening the leather satchel that contained the book she'd managed to steal from Boston Occult Archives, which sounded so formal but was little more than a used and new bookstore specializing in tarot readings, Wiccan books and printed paranormal accounts of every type. 

He'd actually gone to the store because they had a copy of his Crowley’s Compendium of Exotic Botanicals, 1819 Edition, a book that was absent from his library. He intended to buy it. They had it on hold. 

The damned fools held that one in a lock box. The manuscript that Lianna Potter had in her apartment? That shouldn't have ever made it to their store. Books like that were best destroyed, or if that was not possible, held in a place where no one would ever find them. Like his library.

The Potter woman was carefully laying out the summoning ring that would allow her to summon a demon. 

"Jonathan, you're making me angry now.  Look at me!" 

He looked, and sighed. 

She'd been so beautiful once. Bright eyes, a lovely face, and hair he still remembered holding in his hands and smelling as they made love. It was a rare thing for him to be with anyone. A long life means endless chances for regret. 

They had not parted company on good terms. She wanted more than he could offer and the names she called him would have ended with him beating someone severely (Not her, just the next person who ticked him off.) if she had been someone he felt close enough to for the words to actually hurt.

That was the thing with casual sex. No hard feelings and no looking back.

Now and the past came to haunt a foolish man despite that philosophy.

So beautiful once, but death was not kind. Her body was long gone. Buried or cremated he had no idea, but her spirit remained, rotting and furious. Her once voluptuous form was desiccated. Her hair had fallen out in heavy patches, leaving bald, rotted bone to remind him of the temple and scalp he'd kissed feverishly. Her breasts, along with most of he internal organs, were gone, lost in a cavernous shadow. 

Her eyes wee glimmering lights in the sockets of her mildewed face. 

"How did you die, Joanie?"

"I-I can't remember."

"Why are you still here, Joanie?"

"Because I love you, baby?" her voice was a simpering mess and he hated it. Hated the memory of her baby talk after their romp in the dump of a hotel that she and her brother had managed. He remembered her brother, too. How angry he'd been when he called to make accusations. 

Hard to remember, it had been along time ago, but it was possible Crowley and laughed at the man before he killed the phone call. 

Really, it was best not to get involved with people. It always went wrong. 

"Joanie, honey, if you leave now I can pretend this never happened. For old times' sake."

"Jonathan, baby, come with me. Be with me. We could have so much fun."

Across the street the Potter woman was standing up now, naked and dancing. Her windows were open. How was it that she didn't think to pull the drapes or do anything at all to protect the summoning circle she had made out of little more than salt and a few herbs?

If the twerp who'd owned the bookstore hadn't asked for help, Crowley could have done nothing from where he was. He'd been invited. That made all the difference. 

30 yards away, across the street and a story higher than the Potter woman, Crowley saw the air shimmer and distort where the demon was starting to manifest. Did the lady want riches? Revenge? True love to notice her? Did she want to bring back a loved one or, god forbid, a favorite pet? Crowley did not know and did not care. 

"Johnny..."

Okay, that did it. No one called him Johnny. 

"Remember what I do for a living, Joanie?"

The ruin of Joan's face twisted into a frown of concentration. "Something to do with monsters?"

"Yep. I hunt them. That includes ghosts."

"What's that got to do with me?"

More the pity. She wasn't even aware she was dead.

"Everything." His hand reached out and grabbed at her spectral flesh. He should have slipped right through, but there were dozens of incantations to let him touch a ghost and hundreds that involved exorcising them. This time around, a little something different. 

He folded the energies of the dead thing that had once been his lover into a knot of fury. What had been was in the past, but what remained had its uses. If he were a kind man he would have sent her to her final rewards. Sometimes that might mean heaven, he had no real idea. He had never been allowed to see the joys of the afterlife except as an unwanted visitor. Heaven? No idea. Hell? Oh yes, several of them and on numerous occasions.

His pitching arm was just fine. The essence of Joanie shot across the street like a hardball aimed at the batter's face. 

She screamed as she ripped through the air and screamed louder still when her spectral energies blew through the lines of salt meant to protect the Potter woman from what she was trying to haul into this world. 

The salt line broke. 

Joanie shrieked in agony. 

The half-formed demon roared out laughter as it drew Joanie to it and then reached out with black, burning hands to pull Lianna Potter to its distorted, half-shaped chest. 

The air echoed with screams and laughter alike as the shapes all collapsed in on themselves and were pulled into whatever Hell Potter and been dealing with. 

Crowley took the stairs on the way down. He had a book to collect. For a moment he felt bad about Joanie (Not Lianna Potter. She had done that to herself) and he sighed, remembering what they'd been to each other for a few short hours. 

Wait! Don't Burn that Bridge!

You'll hear this advice a lot in the publishing world: Don't Burn Bridges. In case the metaphor escapes you, it means to avoid ending professional relationships in a way leaves a chasm between you that can never be breached.

This is because the publishing world is SMALL. It doesn't feel like it when you're a newbie. It feels really huge, populated by enormous bookstores and libraries, shelved with thousands upon thousands of books. The authors of those books seem to be innumerable, with Jane Austen's novels made in to movies right and left and Molly O'Keefe's showcased in Marvel's Latest.

The people who agent and edit these books, they're names without faces - perhaps with a backdrop of New York City skyscrapers behind them. It doesn't seem possible that this is a relatively tiny microcosm and everybody knows each other.

But they do. They so do.

For example, I know Molly, whose book is being read by Harley Quinn in the newly released Suicide Squad movie. Molly's my friend - we've had drinks together, done an anthology together, and she even read one of my drafts and told me why it wasn't working (the mark of a TRUE writer friend!). She has no idea how her book ended up in Harley Quinn's hands during the filming - just that it was in New York and somehow someone handed Margot Robbie *that* romance novel.

Not only is it a much smaller world than one would think, serendipity plays a huge role in it.

I was reflecting yesterday on my fiction-writing career thus far. I saw someone I've known since 2008 - eight years that feel like many more at this point, because she and I have traveled so far since then. We used to be critique partners (CPs) and were shopping our first novels at the same time. We had a brothers-in-arms type friendship. (I really wish there was a female metaphor for this. Sisters-in-short-skirts?) She went on to found her own publishing house. We haven't had a conversation in something like seven years, but yesterday we were at a writers event together.

It's a really small community, people. You're going to run into the same people over and over again.

Recently on an author loop, I saw someone asking for advice on firing her agent. I advised a personal conversation. It's not easy - confrontation of any sort never is - but it's like breaking up. Some relationships demand that level of in-person respect. I was the lone voice, however. Everyone else spoke up and said to send a certified letter.

Now, most agency contracts specify that - that the relationship should be dissolved in writing. But I *strongly* believe this should happen AFTER the personal conversation. Let me tell you why.

I was at a conference with my agent and a well-known author had just fired her agent, via certified letter. My agent's best friend worked at the same agency as the fired agent, who was someone I also knew and had had drinks with. The fired agent was devastated. She'd had no idea anything was wrong. Imagine thinking your marriage is fine and getting divorce papers in the mail. As a result, ALL the agents were upset. The author's name was on all their lips that week, and not in the best light. Another story that an agent friend told me. An author was deciding between several agents. She asked my friend for an example letter she could send to decline representation. My friend, under the impression that this author planned to sign with her, happily provided the letter. Which the author then turned around and mailed to her, via certified letter.

Can you see how this leaves a bad taste in people's mouths? First of all, it's unnecessarily callous to people who ARE human beings and whose feelings can be hurt in the same way as anyone. Also, it creates a reputation.

I've heard it said that being an author who works successfully in the industry requires three things: 1) excellent work, 2) ability to meet deadlines, and 3) being enjoyable to work with. Also, that you can have two of those three qualities and still do well, but not only one.

And, let's face it, we all miss deadlines from time to time.

Sure, I hear you saying, but self-publishing changes all this! Screw New York and working with those people! And, yes, one of the authors I mentioned is going to self-publishing and more power to her. I hope she does fantastically well. I consider her a friend and I love her books.

The thing is, it's a small community, and when we burn a bridge, everyone nearby feels the heat and chokes on the smoke. And there's no reason to do it. Every once in a while, a relationship goes up in flames and all you can do is try to escape with your skin intact. But, if you can help it, do your best to cut that cord with cordiality. The industry constantly changes and you never know when that person might walk into your life again.

When you run into them years later, you'll be glad you did.

Besides, it's the human way to behave.

How Do I Decide What To Write Next?

There are times I feel like I must be the free floating electron of this group because it seems with a lot of our craft questions, I have no system or structure and I point to my Muse as my fundamental explanation for all my choices. Hint: there is no spreadsheet in the Veronica Scott reality.

OK, here we go again. I write whatever story I feel most drawn to at the moment. Purely up to the Muse. Yes, I am aware there's no vaguely Grecian or even Olivia Newton-Johnish female figure lurking in my brain, telling me what to do. (Referencing the movie "Xanadu." ) I know it's all me but hey, I LIKE the idea of my Muse. She's convenient shorthand and avoids any need for distracting and deflecting psychobabble on my part regarding motivations and influences. Or attempts to dig deeper into my process and maybe upset the entire applecart of How I Do What I Do. And this is just me, talking about myself - I know for some people a more analytical Method is their truth and foundation. We're all different and there's no one right way (or wrong way either) to "author". Thank goodness!

I'm constantly on the quest for new story ideas. I read all kinds of magazines from GQ to Star to Business Week voraciously, and keep notes and clippings in case I need an inspiration. I'm always following research rabbit holes on the internet and saying under my breath, "Wow, that would make a cool story!" With a science fiction twist of course or it wouldn't be me.

Since I'm currently self published, I have no one else's deadlines to take into consideration, unless I'm involved in a group project, like the upcoming PETS IN SPACE anthology, with eight other authors. For something of that nature I do have to work writing the story into my life on a schedule. So since I knew I'd be writing a story with a pet, I made sure to include not one but two animals in Star Cruise: Outbreak, so I'd have something to work with. I enjoy developing short stories and novellas set in my Star Cruise series. I also realized the Cargo Master, Owen Embersson, who has a minor role in Outbreak, would be the hero for the PETS novella. Outbreak was published April 8th this year and the PETS story was due by September 15th. I finished the novella in July, while also getting two other books out in May and June, and it went through its edits in August. Turned it in last week. So I'm right on the schedule.

During that time, I was strongly drawn to tell the story of Johnny, the secondary character from Mission to Mahjundar, and got his book out in June, entitled Hostage to the Stars. Currently I'm finally ready to write the sequel for Khevan and Twilka, who survived the Wreck of the Nebula Dream, and I'm 28K into that. I go with whatever story I'm craving to tell, the one where words are clamoring to be put on the page. The one I wake up in the morning thinking about...

Being Told What to Write Next

Nothing annoys me more than being deep in the guts of a story and having a shiny new idea pop up. It never fails. Never. Used to be, I'd succumb to the siren song of the bejeweled new thing. As a result, nothing ever got finished. My unfinished projects file isn't just a graveyard. It's an entire damned ecosystem.

That changed several years ago when I made a vow to finish a thing. To handle the allure of ideas popping in to seduce me away from soldiering on to The End, I instituted a policy: It takes a number, and it stands in line. This meant scribbling down the gist of an idea - just enough to be able to recapture the feel of the story, then filing it. I'd go back to hacking my way through my WIP.

Now, whether its luck of the draw, a lack of marketing acumen, or the alignment of the sun, moon, and stars, I have two abandoned series of two books each that had been contracted by a traditional publishing house that wanted nothing to do with any further books in either series. Well okay. My obligation to produce the rest of those books went up in smoke unless my contracts allow me to self-publish the follow up books in each or either series (combing the fine print on that point, with someone who speaks legalese.) Until that legal determination is made, I can't be sitting on my hands. I want to write.

No problem, though, right? I had an idea file to mine. I read through everything in that file. I weeded through my notes and incomprehensible (that sounded like a solid story idea? WTH?) tidbits of narrative with no future. I picked the one that I knew needed to be written. Big project with possible longevity. Utterly outside my skillset. Which clearly meant it was exactly what I ought to pursue. Planning, plotting, and research undertaken. Completed. Undertaken again. Completed again. Opening scene written.

And then, I'm embarrassed to say, lightning struck. I was totally sideswiped by a character who insisted his story would be told and it would be told NOW.

That's how Damned If He Does happened. I had no intention of writing paranormal romance. None. But when a hot dude walks into your head, takes up residence and refuses to leave, you either need hardcore medication or you need to write as fast as possible and get rid of him that way.

So I guess the answer to the 'how do I decide' question is this: Sometimes I choose and sometimes I am chosen. The last book picked me. No clue why. But it did. When I have the luxury of getting to choose, I pick a story out of my league. One that intrigues me and that can occupy my mind for days. Some day, when I am again under contract, I will giggle at the notion of getting to pick what I write next. But for now, I'm in a privileged position to write what sounds like fun at any given moment.

Rest assured. I've gone back to the big, scary, historical fantasy project. It's on track for a POS draft by 10/31. And yes. I do know what comes after that. NANOing book 3 of the SFR series. Cause that heroine has taken up residence in my brain and she's tapping her foot while waving her number beneath my nose. Apparently, it's her turn.

Perils of the Writer: Deciding What's Next

So, upon the writing of this, I'm putting the final touches on The Imposters of Aventil, getting ready to send that in (along with finalized maps, appendix, acknowledgments), and with that, Imposters of Aventil will be done. Save, you know, copy edits and proofs.  But the fundamental book that will come out next October (i.e., 2017) will be what it's going to be.

Now, what am I going to do next?

Fortunately, I have contracts and deadlines to tell me what that's going to be.  Namely, my top priority is going to be finishing the working draft of Lady Henterman's Wardrobe, the sequel to next March's The Holver Alley Crew.  I'm well along with it, but it is rough, and it's still got plenty of work to go.  That's really not a decision, though: that's what's next.

After that, my decisions and prioritizing get a bit more complicated.  I need to get moving on the third Constabulary book, The Parliament of Bodies.  But part of working that involves redoing the outline.  I'm also rewriting another manuscript-- one that's finished-- and getting that polished (and sold) is somewhat tied to Parliament.  This is the challenge with writing these interconnected stories in the same setting: having that re-write locked down will help me figure out what I need to do in Parliament.  The core story plan won't change, but there are shades and elements that weren't fully anticipated when I wrote the original outline.

Beyond that, I have a few things on the backburner that I will pay more attention to.  I still have a space opera book I'm working on, and it needs a lot of work.  Like, an ending.  And a serious re-write of the first three chapters.  I also have a fantasy project that is well-outlined, but it wasn't coming together.  I realized the problem is in the worldbuilding.  So I'm going back into that aspect and re-doing it in a way I'm finding fun and exciting.  Of those two, I think the latter is going to become my real 'back-up' project for the foreseeable future. 

But still, first things first: Lady Henterman's Wardrobe.  That's an easy choice.

Works in Progress: How to Determine What Now and What Next

Deciding what to work on now and next comes down to backing into dates of a marketing plan.

Want me to try that again in plain English?

I currently subscribe to the theory that the ideal release schedule for a self-published series is one book per quarter/four books a year. (Yes, there are lots of other theories out there, so YMMV.) I have four series I want to publish. Basic math says that equals sixteen books released in a year. Basic sanity says that's never going to happen. Creatively, I cannot focus on only one series because of burn out. (It's like having pizza every day; awesome at first but then you can't stand the sight, smell, or mention of it.) So, more than one series, but less than four. Three series is a book released every month. Again, not remotely realistic for me. So, knowing my personal limitations, I'm going with two series.

Which two? The one I've already launched and the one with the hungriest audience. Both are sub-genres of Fantasy. I don't want to confuse or lose any audience I'm fortunate enough to build by jumping into an unrelated genre. I don't (yet?) have that kind of dedicated following.

Eight books drafted, edited, and produced in a year is...frankly still beyond my abilities. How do I address that? Well, I've already screwed up the release timing of my High Fantasy series, so I'm going to accept that four 150k books a year isn't going to happen. That series is not going to fit the ideal marketing schedule. Not now. Not ever. Fortunately, High Fantasy audiences tend to be more forgiving of long gaps between releases. I'll shoot for one release every nine months.

My second series is Urban Fantasy with half(ish) the word count of the High Fantasy, yet a much higher reader demand for more frequent releases. So, four books per year has to happen for this series to succeed in a glutted market.

Now I'm looking at five books a year. Possibly still unrealistic for someone who's only managed to launch one book in the last eighteen months. How do I give myself a fighting chance?  I'm taking advantage of my foible and I'm stock-piling. I'm writing four books in the Urban Fantasy series before I launch it, so I have one year of work in that series ready to go while I write the next year's planned books.

When I wrap up a series another one can slide into its place.  That is The Plan...and we all know the plan is the first casualty.

That, ladies and gents, is how I determine on what I'm working now and next.

Juggling Multiple Projects - How to Decide What to Work on Next

Here's me on the Iron Throne (from Game of Thrones, if you're not in the know). I'm feeling like I look pretty natural there. The only thing missing is that I did not yet have my WWJJD? (What Would Jessica Jones Do?) ribbon.

Still pretty kickass, though.

Our topic this week at the SFF Seven (which totally sounds like a superhero group to me, to continue to riff on the theme), is "What next? How do you decide which projects when?"

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!

What is this "decide"?

Seriously - once upon a time this used to be an issue for me. I remember once making a list of a dozen or so story ideas and using a random number generator to decide which to work on next. Long gone are those days! 

Some of this comes from working with traditional publishing contracts. We end up "deciding" to work on whatever thing has the closest deadline. Due next week? DECISION MADE.

But it's also a natural consequence of writing series. If you have one, two, three, more books out there, then readers are going to be messaging about when the next one is coming out. That's a big decider, too. 

Of course, even with supposedly finished series, I get those messages, so...)

All this said, you know me. I keep a spreadsheet. 

OF COURSE I DO.

This is what mine looks like right now. I cropped so as to make it easier to read. As you can see, the "In My Court" section is the most salient. Right now I have four projects all solidly with me and none in "Someone Else's Court." Which is too bad, really. You'll also note that I classify them as either "Up to Bat" or "On Deck." The irony of me using sports metaphors for these should be lost on no one. On the other hand, the fact that I've mixed tennis with baseball says it all.

Also noteworthy is that THE NOISE OF FUR, which has a later deadline than THE TIDES OF BÁRA and SENSATION, is at bat. It seems counter-intuitive, but this is where my deciding comes in. I *had* planned to do revisions on that story starting 9/12 (which you'd be able to see if you could scroll to the right), but two things happened. First, Grace Draven, who is heading up the anthology, TEETH, LONG AND SHARP, that THE NOISE OF FUR is for, asked me if I could send my story to Ilona Andrews, who's writing the introduction. I didn't want to send it in bad condition. But then, second, I received the content edits from my editor and she thinks the story is in great shape! (Such relief!) So, I knew could both polish this story quickly and give it to Grace for Ilona to read. Thus, I did make a decision within my framework to move that up to being at bat and I'll do that today.

Sharp eyes might note that SENSATION and THE TIDES OF BÁRA share a deadline. This is an artifact of me getting behind schedule, which means the deadlines slid and stacked up against each other. In my head I know that the SENSATION deadline is a somewhat artificial one, and that's the one that will slide if one of them has to.

And if they all slide then... WWJJD?

Flash Fiction Fun with the Classics

With apologies to every lover of The Classics:

The Brothers Karamazov set out on an Odyssey with Great Expectations of finding Anna Karenina, whose Pride and Prejudice had led her to refuse the offer from The Catcher In The Rye. After checking her options at The Foundation Trilogy she’d climbed the Dune and was Gone With The Wind.

Peter Rabbit decided to keep her company and they hitched a ride on Revolutionary Road with Ben-Hur. They were making Pilgrim’s Progress while eating The Grapes of Wrath and talking Of Mice and Men.

Little Dorrit saw them thunder past in the chariot and being a girl with Sense and Sensibility, she talked to the Little Women and Little Men about what to do next. Report Anna? Chase Anna? It seemed the Call of the Wild was upon their friend as she fled her past mistakes.

“I think she’s going to Wuthering Heights,” said The Great Gatsby. “We could send The Three Musketeers after her.”

“What started all this?” asked Jane Eyre. “I thought she was content at Northanger Abbey with A Room With A View of the Bleak House and the Mill on the Floss? She assured me she could enjoy A Hundred Years of Solitude there because it was Far From the Madding Crowd, so what changed? Is it The Time of the Plague or what?”

“Our Mutual Friend received The Scarlet Letter from Oliver Twist, telling her A Tale of Two Cities about The Count of Monte Cristo and Tess of the D’Ubervilles having an affair in Paris and London, under her nose.”  Dracula winked at Frankenstein and sipped his dark red wine. “Now she’s On the Road and going Around the World in Eighty Days apparently.”

“But her true love since 1984 has been Tom Jones,” said Dorrit. “Ever since he sang in those tight pants at the Animal Farm, remember? She was on a date with The Lord of the Flies but she only had eyes for Tom.”

“It’s a Catch-22 and everyone is Les Miserables all right.”  Don Quixote stopped jabbing at Charlotte’s Web. “She needs a Time Machine to return to 1984 and have a do over because The Metamorphosis started then.”

Heidi, The Prince and the Pauper rushed into the room, all three hand in hand. “We just read in today's edition of The Pickwick Papers that Anna booked A Passage to India with The Old Man and the Sea! Should we go Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and try to arrive before she does?”

“She’ll run into Moby Dick and end up with The Swiss Family Robinson, or perhaps even Robinson Crusoe,”  Candide exclaimed. “The Idiot, going North and South on The Good Earth, with no clear plan.”

“At least she wasn’t Kidnapped.” Don Q ate a crumpet. “This is A Moveable Feast you’ve prepared for us today, Dorrit; my compliments to the chef.”

Smiling, their hostess said, “Frederica took a turn in the kitchen today, right before she left to attend the Cotillion with the Devil’s Cub."

 “Everyone should relax and stop being A Confederacy of Dunces. I’ll call The Lord of the Rings and he’ll not only find Anna, he’ll bring her to Washington Square, where Doctor Zhivago can examine her. Then he can advise us in The Remains of the Day what we should do next.” Dracula reached for his cell phone.

Dorrit turned to the only person who had yet to weigh in on their friend Anna’s problems. “What do you think? Are they talking White Noise or are the vampire and Don Q making sense?”

Atlas Shrugged.