Fresh from Louisiana, a gift of satsumas, a tangerine-like fruit, from a very kind Whatever reader who thought I and the family might enjoy them. And so we are. The fellow who sent them may announce himself if he wishes (I tend not to name names unless given explicit permission), but suffice to say his generosity made our day here both sweet and tart. Thank you, kind sir.

One of the things I’m finding interesting — and by interesting, I mean appalling – about my recent thumping upon Black Matrix Publishing for paying an insultingly low fifth a cent a word for its stories is that there’s a category of aspiring writer who appears genuinely offended that I would call out this company for paying its authors so very poorly. The complaint goes a bit like this, and you’ll understand that I’m excerpting from various sources:

It’s not really fair that Scalzi is singling out Black Matrix Publishing when so many others are doing the same thing. Doesn’t he remember what it was like to be a new writer? We can’t all make what the pros make. A market like this gives me hope. It’s not Scalzi’s business anyway.

Allow me to address each of these in turn.

“It’s not fair Scalzi is singling out Black Matrix Publishing” — This is an “if lots of people are cheapskates, you shouldn’t call out just one of the cheapskates” argument, which as you may expect is not an argument I have much time for. Sure, lots of other publishers might have business plans predicated on screwing the writer, but this is the one I was looking at that particular day, and its payment scale richly deserved comment and derision. Is this fair? Of course it is: Calling out ridiculously poor payment rates is always fair. One is not required to make a list of all known poorly-paying publishers in order to justly and fairly criticize one of them. If and when I call out another publisher for equally ridiculous payment levels, that’ll be fair too.

I do notice Black Matrix Publishing is currently wrapping itself in the “we’re just simple fans doing a hobby, here, we never intended to be a pro market” justification for paying writers badly. Really? Planning to publish four magazines and two separate book lines is a hobby? Does one generally create an LLC for one’s hobby? Call me skeptical. This is a business.

“Doesn’t he remember what it was like to be a new writer?” — Sure I do. And when I made my first science fiction sale, it was to Strange Horizons, because it was a market which made a point of paying what’s regarded as a pro rate in science fiction (and still does). Because even as a new writer, I felt very strongly that I deserved fair payment for my work, and, separately but equally importantly, I placed value on my work. Even as a newbie writer, I wouldn’t have sent a damn thing to a publisher like Black Matrix, because I assume my work deserves better than a market that values it that poorly.

Mind you, this isn’t limited to fiction, either — when I was starting out as freelance writer back in college and then again after I left AOL, I also didn’t write for markets which didn’t value my work; I wrote for the ones that paid me what I felt should be paid. It’s worked pretty well for me, and trust me, I am not so very special as a writer that this is not replicable for others.

“We can’t all make what the pros make” — Why not? All it takes is the decision not to take less than that for your work, and patience until you get to that point. This is why I advise writers to keep their day jobs. If you can’t or won’t wait, pick a lower amount you’re happy with, below which you do not go. Allow me to suggest that amount be a positive integer when it comes to pennies per word.

“A market like this gives me hope” — A market that thinks so little of you that it takes five words to get to a penny gives you hope? You need better hope standards, my friends.

Look, this is pretty simple: Black Matrix Publishing pays crap rates because it can. The people running it appear to be running it on a shoe string, if the proprietor’s lament about paying a few thousand dollars to date into it is correct, and they’re likely well aware that none of the other vendors providing elements for their little operation are so fungible in their costs as writers. The people who print their magazines will not be pleased to make 4% of their generally accepted “pro rates” for their printing services; the Staples down the street is not going to give them a 96% discount on pens and printer cartridges. The only group of people so willing to offer such a steep discount on services rendered are writers. Why? “Because at least they pay something.” “Because I’m working my way up.” “Because no one writes this stuff to make money.” “Because it gives me hope.”

Bullshit. Someone intending to make a profit off your words offering you a fifth of a penny per word isn’t giving you hope, he’s giving you the shaft — and he’s banking on your psychological need for approval and recognition in a field you want to be a part of to make you grab your ankles and sings his praises while he reams you. This isn’t hope, it’s Aspiring Writer Stockholm Syndrome. Snap out of it.

“It’s not Scalzi’s business anyway” — Sure it is. I’m a writer. It’s in my interest to call out markets that in my opinion are taking advantage of writers, because I prefer a marketplace filled with markets that value the work I provide, not filled with markets that take as read that writers will be pathetically grateful just to be published not matter how badly you pay them. How would I feel if Black Matrix Publishing folded its tent? Delighted. Good riddance to publishers who value writers so poorly. But what would make me even more delighted is if the proprietors stopped saying they were committed to writers and actually showed some commitment by paying something more than a fraction of a cent per word. I think it’s not too much to ask. I also think it’s my business to say so.

Louise

In the old days, people put their trees up much later than they do now.  My family put it up the week before Christmas and Mother took it down first thing on January 2^nd.  Our tree was skinny so you could hang ornaments inside the branches.  We had those colored candle-shaped lights that bubbled.  Geez, I loved those lights.

Tom’s family waited to buy their tree until the day before Christmas, because they were cheap.  They bought fat, bush-like trees where ornaments hung on the outside of the tree like refrigerator magnets.

These were real trees, not synthetic trees.  Real, dead trees.  But they smelled like live trees for a few days and then they dropped needles all over the carpet, because everybody had carpet in the old days, post World War II old days, I mean.

I held on to real, dead trees until the year 2004 when we bought an elegant but small condo.  That year I went synthetic.  Then we moved to New York City for a couple of years where I bought real, dead trees again, because seeing trees on the sidewalk in New York was magical. There was no way I was not going to buy one of those trees.

Now I’m back to that skinny synthetic tree (see above) and I load it with ornaments, meaningful kitsch I have gathered over the years from various places:  Boston, Minneapolis, San Francisco, Prince Edward Island, Maine, Vienna, Holland, Japan and  New York, where I bought some really gaudy stuff at Tavern on the Green when they went on sale.

I want to slap people who put up a Christmas tree before Thanksgiving.  I want to whack them good.

I used to think Thanksgiving weekend was too early, but now I see that it is becoming traditional to put the tree up that weekend, especially if the tree is fake anyway.

Last year, I removed the ornaments the third week in January, because the home teachers were coming, and I would have felt ashamed to have the tree still standing there in my living room.  I do a lot of housekeeping out of shame.  Anyway, I carried that tree with all of the lights still on it down the stairs and stuck it into a big closet.  One of these days I will carry it back up and decorate it again.  Maybe next year.  I’m going to NYC this year.

So when do you put it up?  And do you buy the fat tree or the skinny tree?  Synthetic or real (but dead)?  Do you decorate your house to the nines?  Do you wear Christmas sweaters?  Christmas pins?  Christmas aprons?  Do you have Christmas towels?  Do you buy a new wreathe every year?  On a scale of 1 to 10 how enthusiastically do you decorate your house and yourself for the holiday?  10 being extreme.  I’ll let you decide how extreme.  And 1 is bah humbug or you’re a Marxist.

Let’s start the decade retrospectives, shall we? And to do that, I’m sending you over to my AMC column this week, where I’m offering up my list of the worst (major) science fiction films of the last ten years. No direct-to-video or Uwe Boll-related slumming here; no, we’re going after the flicks Hollywood spent millions making and marketing. While you’re there you can take a poll to determine which of my candidates you think stinks the worst, or alternately, berate me for missing the obvious candidate which you shall provide in the comment section. Go and offer your wisdom on what science fiction sucks the most from the last ten years.

Some jackass HOA tells a 90-year-old Medal of Honor winner he can’t have a flagpole in his front yard.

For laughs and giggles, here’s why Van T. Barfoot won his Medal of Honor, from the citation itself:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty on 23 May 1944, near Carano, Italy. With his platoon heavily engaged during an assault against forces well entrenched on commanding ground, 2d Lt. Barfoot (then Tech. Sgt.) moved off alone upon the enemy left flank. He crawled to the proximity of 1 machinegun nest and made a direct hit on it with a hand grenade, killing 2 and wounding 3 Germans. He continued along the German defense line to another machinegun emplacement, and with his tommygun killed 2 and captured 3 soldiers. Members of another enemy machinegun crew then abandoned their position and gave themselves up to Sgt. Barfoot.

Leaving the prisoners for his support squad to pick up, he proceeded to mop up positions in the immediate area, capturing more prisoners and bringing his total count to 17. Later that day, after he had reorganized his men and consolidated the newly captured ground, the enemy launched a fierce armored counterattack directly at his platoon positions. Securing a bazooka, Sgt. Barfoot took up an exposed position directly in front of 3 advancing Mark VI tanks. From a distance of 75 yards his first shot destroyed the track of the leading tank, effectively disabling it, while the other 2 changed direction toward the flank. As the crew of the disabled tank dismounted, Sgt. Barfoot killed 3 of them with his tommygun. He continued onward into enemy terrain and destroyed a recently abandoned German fieldpiece with a demolition charge placed in the breech.

While returning to his platoon position, Sgt. Barfoot, though greatly fatigued by his Herculean efforts, assisted 2 of his seriously wounded men 1,700 yards to a position of safety. Sgt. Barfoot’s extraordinary heroism, demonstration of magnificent valor, and aggressive determination in the face of pointblank fire are a perpetual inspiration to his fellow soldiers.

Dear homeowners association: When a Medal of Honor recipient wants to have a flagpole in his front yard, you say “Yes, sir. By all means. Thank you, sir.” Because you know what? Dude’s earned that damn flagpole, and you all look like officious pricks for telling him he can’t have it because it messes with your neighborhood’s feng shui. Please get over yourselves as soon as you possibly can.

Really. This is just new levels of stupid. 90-year-old Medal of Honor recipient. Takes a special level of cluelessness to try to take away that man’s flagpole.

In various chromatic tones.

Except to say that if you like typefaces — I mean, really like them — you need to see this.

There, your “WTF?” tanks should now be all filled up for today.

Over on the Black Matrix Publishing site. Apparently the ridicule the man’s getting for paying a pathetically low rate to his contibutors has made him defensive, which is good, but the man presumably has no intention of upping his payment rate, which is, of course, very bad indeed. Likewise I’m not especially impressed at the various very bad no good terrible attempts at “logic” the fellow uses to justify paying a rate to contributors that would embarrass a depression-era pulp editor.

Oh, and Mr. Kenyon, should you be reading this: in response to your question “I could ask when was the last time he spent roughly $4,000 in one year to authors and artists out of his own pocket,” well, as it happens, in the last couple of months I commissioned artwork for a project I’m developing and spent my own money on it: $1,000, in fact. The difference between you and me is that I paid that money to one person for a single piece of art, because that was a fair rate for the work, as opposed to, say, the $50 you propose for compensation for a book or magazine cover. You can be likewise assured that should I ever choose to pay out of my own pocket for text, that I will pay a fair rate for it, and not mewl and whine about how much money I’m spending on things other than the people without whose work I would not have the product which I hoped to sell and profit from. Your bad business planning does not justify screwing writers.

Awe, no one commented on my Depeche Mode photo!  Granted, WP screwed up the posting and maybe no one saw it…  But on to news!

Applications are now being accepted for Taos Toolbox, a graduate-level writing workshop where I’ll be a guest lecturer.

Pat’s Fantasy Hotlist, of the awesome giveaways, is giving away a set of new Wild Cards books — Inside Straight and Busted Flush — including stories by me.  This is because Suicide Kings, the third volume, will be out in a couple of weeks!

And…it’s snowing!  More snow!  So glad I don’t have to go anywhere…

Writers are often asked where their ideas come from, but any writer knows that coming up with ideas is only a small portion of the battle. The major portion of the writing battle is showing up — putting your butt in the chair and doing the work of getting the idea out of your head and on to the paper or monitor screen. J.C. Hutchins knows all about this: His novel 7th Son: Descent is jam-packed with ideas, but for Hutchins, the proof was in the writing — actually getting it down and seeing how all those cool ideas work in the real world. And how did they work? Hutchins will be pleased to fill you in.

J.C. HUTCHINS:

Fiction writers excel at two things: masturbation and lying.

Lying, that’s the fun part — finding the Big Idea, and then dumping gobs of sweat equity into crafting a superstructure and characters that convincingly supports it. Even when a mythology is based on facts, there’s always a clothesline upon which a writer hangs half-truths and outright lies. Invent authentic secret history and technology to accommodate, say, the conceit that human cloning has been around for at least 15 years, and you’ll get buy-in from the reader. Snag that, and you’re gold.

In contrast, masturbation passes the time, but doesn’t move the needle. Writers love to fondle those wonderful ideas they’ve yet to commit to paper. Man, it’s going to be such a good book, crammed with such great concepts . . . as soon as there’s time to write it. You even have a Moleskine notebook and pricey fountain pen and a stack of receipts as tall as a Venti Doucheacino Latte to accompany those spiffy notions. Hell, you’ve pud-pulled about your future success so much, you’ve made a playlist of the music Spielberg will use for the movie soundtrack.

When I was conceiving 7th Son: Descent back in 2001, I was a compulsive mental masturbator. My ideas weren’t entirely new, but I reckoned their presentation could be: A story set in present day in which human cloning — and the recording of a human’s memories — had been a reality for nearly 20 years. Seven men, unwitting participants in this experiment, each with identical childhood memories but unique skill sets, are assembled to stop a global threat they’re unqualified to combat. A well-funded villain so cruel he’d make Blofeld wet the bed. Stolen Russian nukes. Dangerous mindwipe tech that could make an assassin anyone or anywhere. Monster truck-sized conspiracies. Automatic gunfire. Fate Of The World stakes.

But I was all talk, no action. I was Wanky McWankerton, in love with words I’d yet to write. I did this for nearly two years. If every sperm is sacred, God wasn’t irate with me — he was effing thermonuclear.

The kick in the nads that eventually moved me from wanking to writing hinged on the villain. I knew how he would threaten the world — those nukes weren’t a red herring; they’d be used later in the story — but floundered when it came to who he’d be. I finally realized my seven everyman clone protagonists needed a villain that contrasted and enhanced their extraordinary origins. It’d up the ante for them as characters, add an emotional “this time it’s personal” angle to the story.

So I made the villain, a man code-named John Alpha, the very man they were cloned from — the man whose childhood memories they shared. This provided some great potential for emotional conflict, and would give a logical reason for the government scientists to assemble the seven clones — after all, they were armed with insights about Alpha no one else had. Further, the villain could mastermind a vendetta against the heroes and the experiment’s scientists . . . all while laying the foundation for a scheme that would decimate the world’s economy and create global chaos. My Big Idea was so big, I wound up writing a trilogy. (The publication of the sequels hinges on the sales success of 7th Son: Descent.)

Groovy. My noggin was chuggin’, but I needed a spectacular opening; a catalyst to bring the government scientists out of hiding and enlist the help of the seven clones. Aha. Murder the U.S. president, using an unlikely assassin. The mystery behind this bizarre slaying would propel the first act of the novel, introduce our heroes and readers to the crazy-ass tech that would fuel the rest of the book and series, and give me fodder for Descent’s opening lines: “The president of the United States is dead. He was murdered in the morning sunlight by a four-year-old boy. . .”

Boom. Once those words popped into my head, I started writing. While the years of concocting idea after idea was helpful, it was absolutely unsatisfying in comparison to rolling up my sleeves and crafting the tale. Lying. I got to tie up those fact-based clotheslines and hang lie after lie upon them, manufacturing secret histories and technologies that would support my Big Idea — human cloning isn’t near; it’s already here — and building characters who would react realistically to that revelation and rise to the challenge of taking down their psychopathic progenitor.

In the midst of this, I made sure each of the seven protags represented a facet of the human cloning issue. The POV blue-collar type frets over issues of identity, the priest has an intense crisis of faith, the geneticist wigs over the ethics, the insane messianic computer hacker does the Snoopy dance because he’s a living conspiracy theory, and so on.

I also saw opportunities to explore some relevant sub-topics: nature vs. nurture, classic Pandora’s Box and abuse of power stuff, the concept of “if I’d taken another life path, where would I wind up?”, etc. I tried to squeeze some character-driven gray matter in my conspiracy-soaked popcorn potboiler.

7th Son: Descent shouldn’t be in print, actually. It was rejected by agents in 2005, was released as a podcast a year later, and thanks to the support of thousands of fans, finally got on the radar at St. Martin’s. It was released in print a few weeks ago. It’s fitting that a story that was nearly never written due to all my wanking would require such a circuitous seven-year-long path to publication. I am karma’s bitch.

But the experience taught me that Big Ideas are only truly worthwhile when you — surprise! — actually follow up on them. Less talk, more action. I’ve swapped my Moleskine and fountain pen for loose leaf and Flair felt-tips. I deleted that movie soundtrack playlist years ago. I’ve traded my Starbucks visits for Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru.

I’ve gotta rush back to the house and computer, see. I’ve got more lying to do.

—-

7th Son: Descent: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Powell’s

Listen to audio and read excerpts of the novel here. Follow J.C. Hutchins on Twitter.

This is nice: The Android’s Dream pops up on bookseller AbeBook’s best books of the decade list, in the company of books like The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, White Teeth, Never Let Me Go, The Road and other such tomes. I can’t complain about the company.

It also pleases me to see The Android’s Dream get singled out in this way, because in many ways it’s the underdog of my novels, so I’m always happy to see it get some extra attention. Thanks, AbeBooks.

Update: Also, a bit oddly, there’s a new review of TAD at SF Site today, which calls it “a tense political thriller written by a futurist with ADHD.” Heh.

If you leave Manhattan, driving north on I-87, with the Bronx to you right, you’ll see a massive apartment complex. We took a picture of it.

I’m being snarky here, but what I like best about these apartment buildings is the use of the word “luxury.” This may not be fair of me, as I’ve never actually seen the inside of one of these apartments, but I had a hard time coming up with “luxury” when I looked at them. Something about  hovering over a congested and messy highway and an exterior identical to the housing projects just across the way?

It’s one of the words that we’ve killed: luxury. While it used to mean sumptuous, ease, high quality, something that really wealthy people like to buy, now it tends to mean, “we’re trying.”

And while I’m at it, let’s talk about the word gourmet. As in, a deli I recently visited in Chinatown that had dead ducks hanging in the windows. Also hanging in the window? A big sign with the name of the deli, “Gourmet Deli.”

Another word with no meaning: homemade. Like the marinara sauce I purchased from a grocery store. Is it legal for them to write that on the label?

Also not homemade: the pie that won the contest this last weekend. Mixing ice cream and orange juice concentrate? Then pouring it all into a ready-made graham cracker crust?

And in this case, yes, “not homemade” is another way to say “we lost to a six-year old.”

(Oh yeah, and the winning pie? Delicious. I voted for it myself.)

I’m back!  Over the last week or so I commemorated my current travels by posting photos of past travels.  I’ve spent the last 10 or so days in Barcelona and the south of France.  This region wasn’t actually high on my list of places I wanted to go, but some friends of mine were going, and I tagged along, since the timing was good and I wasn’t likely to make the effort to go on my own.  Over the next week or so, once I get photos sorted, I’ll post about the many fine things I saw and did.

When I got home, I found the revision notes for one novel and the copyedits for another novel waiting for me.  So I guess it’s back to work.  Oh, and I got something else — a copy of Kitty’s’ House of Horrors!  The actual finished novel!  Which means it won’t be too long now before it starts showing up in stores.  The official release date is January 4.

And here’s a hint of what I did on the trip.  This was November 21 at the Palau Sant Jordi in Barcelona.  Martin and Dave of Depeche Mode.  And yeah, we really were that close…