Sometime after failing to get into #2 I became part of an online group of aspiring Trek writers determined to get in the anthology. One of our members had a story that violated the rules of the contest. It was 1000 words too long and it involved relationships/relatives that did not exist in any of the TV shows or movies. (Specifically, for all you Trekkies out there, it centered on Lore and Deanna’s daughter.) Her story was a story so beautiful, she assured us, that it transcended the rules of the contest. She didn’t last long with our group. However she was a presence on the web, and each year when the winners were announced she jammed the message boards on Simon and Schuster’s site and Trek forums everywhere with her denunciation of the contest as fixed — that only friends of the judges won. After #6 winners were announced and she went on her tirade, I lost my head and offered to look at what she had submitted that year and maybe offer some advice. Not a single word had been changed — it was the same story she’d been submitting since year one. I had the sense to walk away.

A concert pianist does not expect people to buy tickets to every practice session. Why do writers expect someone to buy every story? Quite frankly, becoming a concert pianist involves a lot more hard work.

The mantra — and I know someone else has already posted a variation — is Write; mail; repeat. It’s the only way to grow, the only way to become better at our craft, the only way to be professional.

The individual who never allows him- or herself to write a gosh darn word.

I mean, yes, it’s frustrating when you deal with people who cling to a piece of literary flotsam. But, geesh, at least they took a chance.

I have known so many people (women, mostly) who never allowed themselves to pursue their dreams of putting an idea into a story format. And I just find that very disheartening, especially knowing how powerfully writing can change someone’s whole life.

(Okay, that was just too damn schmaltzy… I obviously have been watching too much Disney Pixar crap. Somebody throw me a copy of Ibsen, okay? Blechh.)

And take to heart the old adage:

Write, submit, write, submit!

Me, I didn’t know from contests when I started out. I wrote two books before I submitted. Second one sold, first one never did. But I think by the time of that first sale, I’d written at least three more books.

(Pause to remember the Gold Old Days when I couldn’t get the ideas down fast enough. )

Over the years, I’ve accumulated three or four books that never found a home. Or, in one case, found a home, got returned to me, and is now making the rounds all over again. I’ve discovered that my statute of limitations generally runs around five years — after that, I’ve completely let go, moved on, and honestly don’t care anymore. One or two stories still nag, and may yet be resurrected in another form one of these days. But I don’t even have copies of a couple of those older ones, who died when the old harddrive did. And I didn’t even mourn their loss.

Sometimes first books sell, sometimes (often) they don’t, although obviously (okay, maybe not so obviously) expecting to sell without spending time learning the craft is crazy. This sounds a bit different, however: Revising and learning doesn’t seem to be a problem as much as letting go of the first effort and taking what you’ve learned into new territory. I think for those people the idea of spending all that time on something and then letting it return to the ether whence it came seems counterintuitive.

But sometimes that’s exactly what you have to do.

Of course, what baffles me is…how do they keep from telling all those *other* stories???

A couple years ago, I wrote a story that I adored. My critique group wasn’t so keen on it; nobody seemed to like it but me. I shelved it, ran across it a year later, and realized I had been so enthralled with my own ideas that I’d written an over-detailed, under-plotted, meandering mess.

I still like the world and the characters, though. One of these days, when I’ve sharpened my critical eye to a lethal edge, I’ll haul that story back onto my desktop and gut it like a sacrificial lamb.

I’m starting to think that you can either love writing, or you can love the things you write. If you love writing then you change, you grow, you hone your skills to better practice your craft. If you love what you write, you drag the same manuscript around for years wondering why nobody appreciates your baby the way you do.