Mayhew contest 2009 – One Thousand And One Parsecs

Why I’m not a fan of writing groups

I was listening to a recent episode of I Should Be Writing today, and it got me thinking about writing groups and how my philosophy on them has changed. Long story short, I used to love them, but now I’m not such a huge fan.

I should probably start out by mentioning that I lead a college writing group for two years, and I don’t regret the experience at all. The Quark writing group was extremely helpful, both in terms of my own growth as a writer, and the connections it gave me with other writerly people. I still keep in touch with many of them.

But now…I just don’t think writing groups are all that great. In fact, I think that they often do more harm than good, not just for experienced writers, but for the beginner who lacks the confidence to strike out on their own. Here’s why:

The group dynamic gives inexperienced critiquers a false sense of authority.

Most writing groups consist of writers who are at roughly the same level of expertise. For beginners, this means that the people critiquing your story might not know any better than you whether the story is broken. However, because of the dynamics of the whole thing (captive audience, desire to impress peers, etc), these people are likely to act as if they have more authority than they really do.

To be fair, I’ve had plenty of critique partners who have managed to be modest and down-to-Earth when offering their critiques. However, I’ve also seen plenty of others get puffed up and offer some really dumb advice.

Beginning writers often naively look for someone to show them the answers–some mentor or authority figure whose every word is true, who will light the path and show them the way. Put a bunch of them into a writing group together, and more often than not you’ll end up with the blind leading the blind.

The weekly submission process does not simulate the reading experience.

Logistically, most writing groups have to set a limit on the size and number of submissions. For the Quark writing group, our limit was three submissions of four thousand words each. It worked out fine for short stories, but most of us were writing novels, which meant that we had to workshop our books in little four thousand word chunks.

The problem is that nobody reads novels at that rate. Either they get hooked and finish the thing, or they get bored and stop reading. Therefore, while the feedback you receive might be good for helping out with craft issues, by the time the next week rolls around either everyone has forgotten what happened already, or they remember it wrong, or they were expecting something different and are ticked off because they have to wait another week.

After I revised Bringing Stella Home a couple of times (after–see below!), I workshopped it through a writing group I’d put together after leaving the Quark writing group. I can’t tell you how many times I heard “why are we in James’s point of view this week? I hate James! I want to get back to Stella!” I got this comment so often, for a while I thought the book was really flawed. However, when I got the feedback from my first readers, no one had this problem at all.

The reason? They read the book the way it was actually meant to be read.

Workshopping a work in progress is the surest way to kill a book.

Committees might be good at doing some things, but they’re absolutely horrible at producing anything innovative or original. Make no mistake: if you’re workshopping something you haven’t already finished and you follow most or all of the feedback you receive, you’re writing your book by committee.

Most writers agree that when you write your first draft, you should not revise anything until it’s done. This is because the act of revision makes you so critical of your own work that it’s very easy to get discouraged or “fix” something that was actually a good idea.

Workshopping a work in progress does exactly the same thing: it puts you in a critical frame of mind that will literally kill your book. Even if you manage to finish it, it won’t be nearly as good as it could have been because you’ve probably nipped all your best ideas in the bud, before they had time to grow and develop.

A truly great book does not appeal to everyone.

There’s a word for something that appeals to everyone equally, that runs about middle of the road and doesn’t upset anyone. That word is “average.”

No truly great work is loved by everyone. This isn’t just true of controversial stuff–it’s true of everything. For every one of your favorite books, there’s a one-star review of it on the internet somewhere. So if everyone tells you your book is good, that might not actually be the case. In fact, it’s a much better sign when some people hate it and others can’t stop raving about it.

The trouble with writing groups is that the group dynamic can lead to a herd mentality, where everyone goes along with the first opinion that gets expressed. Ever played Werewolf? The same thing happens there. One person throws out an accusation, the vote gets called, everyone starts looking around to see who is raising their hand and before you know it, all the hands are in the air.

So unless one of the seven or eight people in your writing group loves your work enough to stand up and defend it, chances are the feedback will err on the side of being too negative. This makes it very difficult to tell whether your story actually sucks, or whether it’s just above average.

Writing groups teach you to write to rules, not for readers.

One of the dynamics of writing groups is that they encourage people to find and latch on to certain writing rules, where people can say “this story is broken because of x” or “this writing is flawed because of y.” Over time, this becomes so ingrained that people stop reading to see whether the story actually works and instead read to see whether the story follows the rules.

The truth, however, is that there are no hard and fast rules when it comes to writing. For example, you’ve heard of “show, don’t tell”? Yeah, go and read Ender’s Game. The entire book is one giant tell–and it’s brilliant. It was the first sf novel to win both the Hugo and the Nebula awards in the same year, and has remained a perennial bestseller ever since.

Nothing hit this home for me more when the cryo scene excerpt from Genesis Earth won first place in the 2009 Mayhew contest at BYU. Parts of the scene lapse from first person past tense to second person present tense, and the members of my writing group pointed that out as a major no-no. However, even though it broke the rules, it worked well enough to win an award.

To be fair, there are some things that writing groups are very good for. They can be a good way to learn the basics of craft (ie “the rules”), and they do give you a sense of community that can be very encouraging when you’re just starting out. However, the drawbacks are so great that I don’t think I’ll ever go back.

Personally, I’ve moved from writing groups to a core group of first readers whose feedback I value and whose opinions I trust. I finish my project, send them the entire manuscript with a deadline in which to read it, and thank them graciously for whatever feedback I receive. Most of them aren’t even writers, in fact–but all of them are readers. Most of them don’t know who the others are, and none of them ever see any of the feedback from the others.

Criticism is good; if you want to grow as a writer, you should welcome criticism and constantly solicit it. But I do believe it’s possible to grow out of a writing group–or to succeed without ever being a part of one at all.

Just another update

A few updates, in case you’re interested in what’s going on with me:

I’m getting ready to post a new story to Amazon. This is going to be the one that won first place in the 2009 Mayhew short story contest at BYU. It’s also an excerpt for Genesis Earth, which is currently in the quarter finals for the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. More news on that as it comes out.

Into the Nebulous Deep is coming along. Surprisingly, the rough draft follows a very tight, coherent plot structure. At this stage, every other novel I’ve written is usually all over the place. This one looks like it’s going to be twenty chapters, with four parts of five chapters each.

Right now, I’m in the middle of chapter 13. I was hoping to finish it this week, but my sister was in town this weekend, so I spent most of my time with her instead. Not that that’s a problem; I can probably catch up tomorrow. I’m hoping to finish part III before the end of next week.

It’s going to be tough, though, because I’m starting a new temp job on Monday. It’s 40 hours per week at $9, which is pretty sweet, especially since my tax return is basically going to cover all my expenses this month. Hooray for cheap Utah summers! The full time work is going to be tough on the writing, though.

Which brings me to my last update: the guys at Pioneer Book called me back today and set up a job interview on Tuesday! Hooray! I’m totally stoked–this bookstore job would be awesome. I might even postpone my TEFL plans for a while if I get the job. It probably won’t be full time or pay much more than minimum wage, but dude, it’s a bookstore. Plus, part time work is perfect for writing. As long as I have enough to get by, I’ll be happy.

And to close, let me leave you with this awesome trailer my brother in law shared with me. I haven’t seen this movie, but it looks absolutely freaking awesome–like the kind of film my old roommate Steve Dethloff would make.

Man, Steve and I would make an awesome duo in a post-apocalyptic world. I should move to Dallas just so we can be ready to team up when it happens. If they made a movie of our exploits together, it would totally be just like this. Lost Vegas…

Steve, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that there’s no one I’d rather be killing zombies with than you.

Another excerpt from Genesis Earth

I made a lot of progress on the latest draft of my novel Genesis Earth last week, and figured it was time to post another excerpt. This one comes from chapter 4, when Michael and Terra arrive at the star system they’ve been sent to explore.

A slightly truncated version of this excerpt won first place in the 2009 Mayhew short story contest at BYU. I’ve made a few minor edits since then, mostly for clarification, but nothing too major. Enjoy!

They say that cryofreeze is the closest thing to death short of actually dying. I believe it.

First, you strip off your clothes and lower yourself down into the coffin-shaped cryo chamber. The glass seals shut above you, and a cold, green mist fills the narrow space, penetrating your naked skin. The mist contains chemicals that freeze your cells properly, so that they don’t crack or break when you thaw out–but it has a nauseous smell to it, and makes you feel sticky. Your skin starts to change from pink to white to light blue, slow enough not to notice right away, but quick enough to catch if you know what to look for.

As the chemicals continue their work, you start to shiver. Just before the cold becomes unbearable, sleeping gas seeps in through the top valves of the chamber. You pass out, too stiff to peacefully fall asleep. The rapid freezing process–where your heart and lungs cease their natural functions–happens while you’re unconscious.

They say that you don’t dream when you’re in cryo, but that’s a lie–they just don’t know how to explain it. Neither do I, but I can say something about the experience. The lines between the senses and your own thoughts blur together, until reality itself becomes utterly unrecognizable. Imperceptible images flash across your awareness, beyond your ability to process them.

Maybe that’s what nothing itself feels like; after all, is it really possible to comprehend non-existence without thinking of it in terms of space and time? I don’t know–I just know that I don’t want to go back there.

By the time you regain consciousness, the thawing process has already run most of its course. The flashes and images become brighter and more perceptible. You have a sort of falling sensation, during which you become aware of your body.

Painfully aware.

When you open your eyes, you’ve got a splitting headache and a nauseous stomach. Every time you move, another muscle cramps up on you. If you aren’t careful, you empty your bowels right there in the chamber.

The glass hisses open, the chamber tilts up to a forty five degree angle, and your limp body slides down the cold metal back until you find yourself sitting on your ankles. Your breath feels like fire in your lungs, and even though steam envelopes your body from all sides, you feel deathly cold. Too weak to stand up, you fall forward onto your hands and knees instead.

The vomiting is the worst. Forty year old bile splatters cold across the floor, followed by a good ten minutes of dry heaving. Each convulsion is so painful, it makes you feel as if you’re coughing up your own stomach. After you’re finished, you want to do nothing but lie on the ground–in your vomit or to the side, it doesn’t really matter–and cry.

But all that passes with time. After lying on the floor for what seems like hours, your body starts to take strength. The headaches die down, and the cramps slowly diminish. When you open your eyes again, the stars fade away like some kind of ebbing soda fizz, revealing the unfamiliar room in which you have awakened. You bend your fingers, lift your arms, and slowly drag yourself away from that god-awful place.

After that, what is there to do? Wash up, get dressed in your vacuum wrapped forty year old clothes, and clean up the mess.

My stomach throbbed as I walked onto the bridge, but I ignored the pain. My aching body could wait; I had more important things to do.

The instruments showed that we had arrived nearly thirty light hours out from the central star, just outside the orbit of the fourth planet in the system. An unfamiliar starfield shone through the windows, dimmed somewhat by the presence of EB-175 even though the star was still far away. A quick review of the automated ship’s log showed that no significant objects had come anywhere close to the ship in the last two months. Nothing had been sent to intercept us.

I blinked and reread the log, just to make sure. If there was intelligent alien life, maybe they were waiting, watching us from a distance. Or maybe the log was wrong.

My bodily needs eventually overcame my scientific obsession, however. I stood up from my seat on the bridge and made my way to the ship’s tiny mess hall where I could find something to satisfy my cramping stomach.

I felt sick and disoriented for nearly an hour. In that time, I ate some meal and fruit drink, but not much else. It felt eerie to be alone on the ship, but I didn’t want to thaw Terra until I had recovered my strength.

After an hour, I was ready. At least, I thought I was.

Terra didn’t look human–she looked like a giant doll, a pale, lifeless marionette. Her skin was a whitish-blue, while her other features–fingernails, toenails, lips, nipples–stood out in high contrast shades of black and purple. Her hair was darker than I remembered, as if the cryofreeze had sucked the color out of that, too. The glass of the chamber was cold to the touch, and the expansion of her frozen bodily fluids made her body look slightly bloated. I felt like a voyeur staring at her, but the sight was so morbidly fascinating that I could hardly turn away.

Eventually, however, I got myself together and started the thawing process. A hissing sound came from within the chamber, and a greenish mist washed over her. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, redness and color began to return to her skin. Her body deflated as the temperature in the chamber rose and her bodily fluids began to melt. A robotic arm with two suction cups fastened onto her chest and twitched as a series of quick electric shocks restarted her heart.

I periodically glanced down at the control screen, monitoring the various measures of her status. My legs felt stiff, and my hands trembled–I’d never run through this procedure before, and I barely knew what I was doing. The process was supposed to be fully automated, but cryonics is an imperfect science, and problems frequently arise.

About ten minutes in, I noticed something unusual. Little blue splotches were forming on Terra’s skin at the extremities on her hands and feet. After half a minute, they started showing up on her thighs and torso. I frowned; that didn’t seem right. I adjusted the heating pattern inside the chamber, but the blotches didn’t go away. Instead, the bleeping from the computer that marked her heartbeat started drifting into an unpredictable pattern.

With sweaty palms, I accelerated the thawing process. The uneven heating was probably causing blockages in her veins and arteries. I’d need to break those up soon, if her heart, brain, and lungs were to fully revive their functions. She could only last so long on the machine–

Without warning, the bleeping turned into a constant monotone.

I glanced down and cried out in shock. The line showing her heartbeat had flatlined–according to the machine, she was clinically dead.

I frantically keyed in a series of commands on my console. The robotic arm reattached the suction cups to Terra’s chest and reapplied the electric shocks. To my relief, her heart started beating again, but weaker and more erratic than before. A second later, the warning indicators on half the instruments blinked on. My heart skipped a beat as they flashed in rhythmic chorus. This was serious–very serious.

“Please, no,” I said, face paling. There was no-one on the ship to hear me, though; I was alone.

Within seconds, I figured out what the problem was. Micro-cramps in her muscles were causing uneven heating, cutting off the arteries and capillaries in various parts of her body. Her heart hadn’t recovered sufficiently to break the blockages, so they were spreading.

My hands trembled so much I doubted my fingers could type a coherent sentence. In spite of that, I worked as quickly as I could to counteract the complications, maintaining constant periodic shocks to her heart and significantly increasing the heat on her upper torso. With any luck, her blood would warm up enough to relax the contracted muscles and break the blockages. Still, most the indicators remained in the red–the electric shocks were simply unsustainable. I waited as long as I thought I could, then crossed my fingers and shut them off. Her heart kept pumping, but the beat soon drifted back into unpredictability.

I glanced up at the cryo chamber and caught my breath. Her arms, legs, and chest twitched and convulsed at utter random, undulating in a slow motion seizure. She had no control of her body. Chills ran down my neck and arms.

She needed more than the machines could give her. I pulled out a syringe from the medical cabinet and nervously fumbled through nearly four dozen canisters of liquid drugs. The wrong injection could kill her, but if I didn’t give her something right away, she didn’t have a chance. I grabbed the formula that I thought would best relax her muscles and filled the syringe.

A few of the indicators were moving out of the red when I returned, but the situation was still serious. A brainwave scan showed that her body was operating 85% autonomously from the machines and that she had regained partial consciousness. I waited until the indicator reached 95% and cracked open the glass.

Steam poured out of the chamber and splashed across the ceiling, while the sound of violent coughing came from within. Terra half slid, half fell to the ground. I rushed forward and caught her before she hit the floor, and she responded by vomiting on the front of my shirt.

Despite the heat of the steam, her skin felt cold, and her vomit even colder. I held her off to one side and patted her back to help her force it out. She stopped twitching and coughed a couple of times, but quickly grew weak in my arms.

“Come on, Terra!” I pleaded. Her breathing was too ragged for her to respond.

There wasn’t any time to lose. I pulled out the syringe and balled my fingers around it into a fist. It was built for a fast, emergency injection–the kind that could be jammed into someone’s leg. I brought it down on her right thigh. Her blotchy-blue skin rippled a little, and the fluid went in almost immediately.

A couple of seconds passed before the medicine took any effect. When it did, her whole body went stiff, and her eyes opened wide, revealing dilated pupils. Before I could react, she started convulsing violently, as if she were going into a seizure. I set her on the floor as gently as I could and held onto her head to make sure that she didn’t injure herself.

After about fifteen seconds, her body went limp again. I put two fingers up to her neck and felt for a pulse. To my relief, it was steady and strong. I sighed and practically collapsed.

As if in response, her chest heaved and she started vomiting again. I scrambled to my knees and turned her onto her side. How much stuff did she have in there–hadn’t she followed the 24 hour no food rule? No time to worry about that–just help her get it out without choking on the stuff.

She vomited and coughed until snot dripped down her face and the hoarse sound of her dry heaving filled the room. She was still too weak to sit up, so I supported her as best I could until she stopped. Sobs of pain slowly replaced the retching.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

What a stupid thing to say!

She looked up and gave me an icy glare. Tears and snot mingled on her cheeks. “No!” she shouted, then went back to coughing.

I held her until she began to quiet down. With the worst of it gone, relief came slowly to my nervous body. Her skin was getting warmer and her heartbeat was steady now. After forty years on the threshold of death, she was alive again.

Alive and completely naked. My cheeks flushed, and I set her on the floor.

“Can you stand up yet?” I asked.

“Not…yet,” she groaned. “Cramps…everywhere.”

I grabbed a towel on the side of the control panel and hastily draped it over her. She reached up with a hand and weakly held onto it. I waited until her breathing became less labored before asking her again.

“How about now?”

She clenched her teeth and nodded.

I stood up and took her by one hand, pulling her gently to her feet. She bent her knees carefully as she sat up, still holding onto the towel. When she was standing up, she let go of my hand and reached out for the wall. The towel fell off of one side, but she didn’t make any attempt to fix it. She still seemed fairly incoherent.

“What’s…our…status?” she asked.

“Everything is going well. We’re about two light hours out from the system.”

“Good,” she groaned, slowly wrapping the towel back around her. I almost reached out a hand to help, but hesitated.

“D–do you need help?” I stammered.

“No, thanks, I think I’ve got it.” She glanced up at me, then down at my chest and grinned. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“What?” I looked down and saw the vomit. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about it.”

She nodded weakly and closed her eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” I asked.

“I don’t…think so. Getting…better.” She staggered away from the wall and nearly fell over. “So…cold…”

She had stopped shivering. That was a bad sign.

“Here,” I said, taking her hand. “Follow me.”

If she wasn’t shivering, her body wasn’t generating enough heat yet and she was at serious risk for hypothermia. The best way to counteract that was to immerse her in warm water. I led her down the hall and into the narrow, cylindrical shower unit in the bathroom. She nearly passed out on the way there, and I practically carried her the last half of the way. The towel fell off in the hallway, making things only more awkward for me, but that was no longer important.

I leaned her up against the smooth wall of the unit, and she slid down to her knees. Her skin was sickly pale, her arms limp, and she mumbled incoherently as her head flopped back against the wall, hair partially covering her face.

I bit my lip and reached around the side to activate the water. Should I turn the heat up to full, or would that give her system too much shock? My heart pounded in my chest–no time to waste. I set the temperature to low-warm and hit the activate button.

Jets of lukewarm water shot out from all sides, drenching my already soiled shirt and running out into the room. Rivulets ran down Terra’s face and pale skin, but she didn’t move.

“Come on,” I said, ignoring the water soaking my clothes as I knelt down and put my hands on her shoulder. “Terra, are you alright? Terra!”

I pressed my fingers against her neck and found a pulse. Her body shuddered and she coughed. Nothing else to do but give her some space and let the shower do its work.

My heart still pounding, I stepped out of the unit and shut the door. My shirt was soaking wet, and Terra’s watery vomit ran down my legs and pooled on the floor. As I stood there dripping, Terra stumbled noisily to her feet, teeth chattering. The diffuse glass began to steam up, indicating that she’d turned up the heat on her own.

She was recovering.

“Your clothes are outside,” I said as I pulled out the vacuum sealed bags and put them on a shelf next to the door.

“Okay,” she groaned.

“Are you okay? Do you need any more help?”

“No…thanks,” she muttered. I left the room.

When I reached the hallway, I leaned against the wall and promptly collapsed in exhaustion. A puddle of grimy water formed around me on the floor, but I no longer cared. I sat there by myself for a long time.

Many Bothans died to bring you this weekend

This past week was pretty crazy. Tests, papers, homework…BLEARGH. Less than satisfying. What’s more, I was starting to get cabin fever from being in Provo so long. Every day, doing the same old thing, going the same old places, seeing the same old sights…

…Then I got a call from my friend Ben Fisher, saying that everyone from the old Capitol House was going down for a camping trip near Moab. Would I like to come?

HECK YES!!!

I basically dropped everything to run away with these guys. First, I had a late paper that I had to finish–stayed up until 5am Friday to write it, took a 3 hour nap, then went to class. CRAZY. Emailed it to professor Ricks, with “many Bothans died to bring you this paper” in the body. Got my coworkers to cover for me so I could get out early, met up with Ben, and then we loaded up our car with the girls and the camping stuff and basically ran down to catch Steve, Warren, Mike, and the others, who were already at the campsite.

What an awesome weekend! Ben had brought a couple of dutch ovens and tons and TONS of good food! Dinner was much better than the stereotypical hot dogs and smores (though we did have smores in the morning). We had cobler, sweet and sour chicken, and fried rice for dinner–awesome! Plus, it was fun just to hang out around the campfire and talk. Good times.

We laid out some tarps on the sandy ground, then threw down our sleeping bags and had a big bivouac under the stars. I fell asleep as Ben was telling us all a story that had something to do with galoshes…I don’t really remember it all that well actually…and then I woke up a couple of hours later and didn’t sleep again the whole night. I hadn’t brought a mattress, and man, the ground was hard…ugh. Note to self–get a better sleeping bag and some kind of a camping mattress. Mike Lebben was the smartest–he brought a cot.

hanging out at Arches Got up early, restarted the campfire, and we had a good breakfast–biscuits and gravy, and then smores a little while later. Good times. We took off a little later and went up to Arches National Park to do some hiking.

We checked out Delicate Arch and Balancing Rock, then did some rock climbing out near Sandstone Arch. Lots of fun. I got sunburned really bad (of course), but the weather was really nice! Not too hot, with a good breeze up near the top of the mountain.

hanging out near balancing rock This was my first time at Arches, and despite some problems with the parking, it was a lot of fun. The desert around Arches reminds me a lot of Petra–lots of sandy red rocks in weird formations, making for relatively easy climbing. In fact, the whole trip reminded me a lot of Jordan and Petra.

One of the most interesting things about these trips is the social dynamic and getting to know new people. I knew all the guys from the capitol house, but I met a few new people as well. Natascha was there (she kept telling me to take a candid picture of her, then posed! The pictures above are some of the few ones where she didn’t know I was pointing the camera at her), and her sister Hannah, who I hadn’t met before, plus her good friend Beth, who always bugs me about the one time I didn’t sub for her at the MTC cafeteria when it was her birthday (for consolation, I told her I was fired the next year–I think it made her feel vindicated to hear that), plus a couple of other friends of the other guys. It was also good to see the guys from the capitol house again. Probably my favorite part of the trip was hanging out around the campfire, or the conversations we had driving the three hours up and back.

In a lot of ways, the weekend was a roller coaster. Beth commented that she was really surprised that all of us from the old Capitol House, with our strong personalities, get along as friends without tearing each other to pieces. It was a valid comment–me and Warren weren’t getting along this weekend, for some reason. I think I was still stressed out about the past week, plus I just haven’t hung out with him a lot recently. So that was one of the lows of the weekend. Another low was getting up Sunday morning, after we’d gotten back, and finding out that I had a 102 degree fever. Not too much fun.

Still, there were quite a few highs. On the way back from Moab, Natascha and her sister got me talking about my mission, and I shared a TON of old mission stories with them. Good times, even if I was more than a little loopy (or perhaps it was BECAUSE I was so loopy…). Also, when I got back, I found out that I’d gotten a letter from the English department–turns out I won first place in the Mayhew short story specialty contest!!! WOOHOO!!! Awesome!

So, anyways, that was my weekend. Basically, it was like half of a summer rolled up in 2 days. It was SOOO good to take a break and get out of Provo! Good times!