Roger Floyd, BA, PhD Science, writing, writing science fiction, environmental.


Where Do All The Writers Go?

I’ve been an aspiring writer of fiction (largely science fiction novels) for over twenty years now, and have yet to publish a book-length work.  I have published a few short works, including one poem (free style), but nothing—short or long form—to a paying market.  Not a particularly auspicious beginning to a writing career, especially when I read every now and then about someone who writes a book, never having written a book before, and sends it to an agent or two, and they love it right off, and it sells to a publisher in a preempt for 6 or 7 figures and now they’re really well known, and accolades and awards and prizes pour in, and all’s well that ends well.  The writing magazines love to do interviews with them.  And seriously, my hat’s off to them.

But—and I put myself in this category—for every successful author like that, indeed for any successful author regardless of how long it took him/her to get there, there must be hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands or maybe even hundreds of thousands of unsuccessful authors who write and write, but whose work is not deemed worthy of publication by agents, editors, publishers and the like.  It’s not good enough, they say, or it doesn’t meet our needs at the present time, or we just published/handled/represented that type of story recently, or it needs work/editing/cutting/revision, or nobody’s buying that type of work any more, or it doesn’t have zombies in it, or the undead or Abraham Lincoln, or it’s just plain lousy, or—and this is my favorite—we just couldn’t get past the writing (?).  There are a zillion reasons writers don’t get published.  Perhaps a different reason for each author.

Only a small number of writers get to the stage where an agent/publisher will pick up their work and decide to give it a go to the extent of a book or series of books; I suppose the vast majority of those who submit are never picked up.  What happens to them?

I’ve been to a number of writer’s conferences in my attempts to learn enough about writing to get published the traditional way, and at those conferences I’ve seen many who could be classified as The Great Unpublished.  They, like me, submit and submit, but nothing ever comes of it.  Some may get a book deal, but I suppose most don’t.  I don’t know of any statistics on the subject, so I find myself wondering: what happens to them?  Do they eventually quit?  Do they go on and on, endlessly submitting and getting rejected?  How many unpublished novels are out there that are eventually self-published because no one will take them?  In other words, and to put it a little more scientifically, for how many novels, is KDP an endpoint?

I’ve heard it said, and I’ve read it in magazines, that no matter what you write, someone, somewhere out there, wants your work.  This is supposed to get you to keep submitting.  You’ll find someone somewhere sometime.  Don’t give up, they say.  Granted, that’s sound advice, but personally, I’ve had little success with it.  KDP is looking better and better.

Does anybody know of any statistics about how many writers quit after giving the publishing game the old college try?  (Sorry about that.)

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Keep The Action Going – Part II

A few days ago I was exercising in the fitness facility at the apartment complex where I live, and turned on one of the TVs installed there.  I scanned the channels and came across a movie channel showing “Titanic.”  Now, those of you who read this blog and know me personally may also know I’ve railed against this movie since it came out.  My objection to the movie is that it places a silly fictitious love story in what was one of the greatest disasters of the 20th Century.  Why, I cannot fathom.  The love story interrupts the flow of the main story, the sinking of the ship, like commercials interrupt a TV movie.  I have never been interested in the love story; I want to see what happens to the ship.  I want to see how they handle the disaster itself; how the passengers and crew react; how they show the newest information of how the ship sank, and I dislike cutting into the main story to watch two people have sex in an old car.  I really couldn’t care less.  If the producers of the movie wanted to write a love story on a ship, then they should have done so, and not insert it within an unrelated highly dramatic situation.  The two don’t go together at all.  Get on with it, I say.  Keep the action moving.

I’ve talked about this subject before; you may remember reading about it after it was posted on 2019/6/23.  In writing, or making a movie or TV show, or whatever, keep the action going.  Don’t interrupt.  Allow the action to flow of its own accord.  Action will ebb and flow naturally, and may even come to a stop all by itself.  If so, go with it.  The teller of the story should stay aloof.

Here’s another example.

I left “Titanic” after only a few minutes and scanned a few more channels and came to a women’s singles tennis match.  I like tennis; I played it a lot in my younger days.  At one point, the coach of one of the players talked to his charge during one of the changeovers.  No problem there because the match had entered one of its normal rest points.  But after the action resumed, the director of the show found it necessary to cut down the size of the image of the match, and put beside it a rerun of the coach talking to the player.  Why?  I never did find out.  This forced the viewer to watch the action on what was essentially a screen about one-quarter the normal size.  My God!  I couldn’t believe it.  The coach talking to his player is unimportant.  The important thing is the tennis match.  It’s the action.  Always the action.  Never interrupt the action.

Tennis is an example of a sport with built-in pauses that TV coverage can use for commercials without causing serious interruptions.  That’s okay, it’s part of the game, though it does make it hard to watch sometimes.  All those breaks can become wearisome . . .  Perhaps that’s why soccer is such a popular sport around the world.  Forty-five minutes of non-stop action each half.  The clock keeps running.  No interruptions.  Writers and TV producers take note.

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The Summer of 2019

Well, the summer of 2019 is upon us and many things have slowed down.  People take vacations and try to get away from the hubbub of daily life.  Schools are out for the most part, and in the heat of the summer, relaxation is the order of the day.  I, too, have relaxed.

One regular part of my life that takes place largely during the school year are the weekly rehearsals for the concert band I play in.  And so, with band practice over for the summer, I had occasion to pull out my trumpet and give it a thorough cleaning.  It hadn’t been cleaned for over six months, not since I cleaned it during the Christmas holiday.  Cleaning a trumpet requires complete disassembly.  Not only does the mouthpiece come out (and get thoroughly reamed out with a stiff brush made for the job), but all the valves and each of the tuning slides have to be removed.  A trumpet has four tuning slides, one for each valve and one larger one that tunes the instrument itself.  Everything comes out.  If I wanted to disassemble any further, I’d have to get a soldering torch and unhook the different connections that hold the body of the trumpet together.  (Not a good idea.)

Now that everything is out, cleaning begins.  First I flush the entire basic unit with hot water and set it aside and turn to the valves.  The valves change the air flow through the horn and are what make it possible to play all the different notes called for in the music.  They are the most sensitive part of the trumpet, and I clean these with a rag soaked in isopropyl alcohol (rubbing alcohol).  This removes all the old valve oil and any contaminants.  Note: Valve oil is slightly different from most lubricating oils because valve oil is an evaporative oil.  It doesn’t build up like other oils, it evaporates, and has to be replenished from time to time as one plays.  But contaminants, usually solids from saliva and in the water that condenses in the horn as one blows through it, do build up and they have to be removed.

Now the valve housings have to be similarly cleaned with alcohol, and everything allowed to dry.  I wipe off the Vaseline from each of the tuning slides and replace with clean Vaseline and put them back in their proper positions.  I add fresh oil to the valves and replace them in their housings and screw down the valve tops.  Success—we are done.  The instrument is in playing condition.  Replace the mouthpiece and away we go.

The whole process takes about half an hour, and there’s a real element of satisfaction in having a musical instrument that is clean and functioning properly.  The valves operate smoothly and the tuning slides slip in and out easily.  (That’s one way to tell if an instrument needs cleaning—the valves start sticking.  That can be awfully annoying if it happens during a concert.)

But in the world of trumpet playing, that’s the easy part.  Eventually comes the more difficult part: the actual act of playing.  Band practice will resume in August, and new music will be distributed.  I’m not a professional trumpet player; it can take me several months to master a piece of music.  By “master” I mean simply play the right notes.  I know how to blow through the horn to produce a sound, and every now and then I press down one or more of the valves to produce a different note or two, but putting all that in the proper order as called for in the music is a different matter.  A tricky passage can take a while to learn, but the final result is what we call “music.”

Music is a lot like writing.  At their heart, both are subjective pursuits.  Good music exists in the imagination of the beholder, as does good writing.  To a great extent, you know good music or good writing when you see it or hear it.  Anyone can string words together in sentences, but that doesn’t necessarily form good writing.  Likewise, anyone can play a set of notes, but will it always be good music?  Writing takes practice, just like the music, and the number of wrong notes in either can be, well, large.  For me, playing a trumpet is usually a straightforward process.  I practice the difficult passages over and over until I get them right.  Writing, though, can be sporadic.  Writing here and there, areas of relative calm followed by times of zealous production.  But in the end, one validates the other.  I take a break from writing to play.  I take a break from playing to write.  Does one help the other?  Perhaps only in the sense that one allows oneself to take a break from one to take up the other.

Either way, nothing is lost.


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The “Was” That Was

Every now and then I run across, or am asked about, the admonition that new writers learn, to limit the use of “to be” verbs in their writing.  Instead of writing, “he is/was,” or “they are/were,” instructors say, “Try something else.”  It’s good advice, as having a bunch of “was” or “were” in one paragraph or even one sentence can be trying to the reader.  Many beginning writers, myself included, have fallen into the trap of using “to be” verbs too much without realizing it.  But replacing “was” or “were” (let’s assume here for the sake of simplicity, that you write, like so many of us do, in the past tense) can be tricky.  Generally, you can’t simply substitute another verb for the “to be” verb, and keep the sentence logical and meaningful.  How does one get out of the trap of overusing “to be?”  Here’s one approach to this problem that has worked for me.

To be brutally honest, in most cases you’ll have to recast the sentence.  That sounds time-consuming, but the advantage of recasting the sentence is that it can lead to room to add more detail than with the “to be” verb in it.  It can even lead to a sentence that will have more detail in it than two sentences, but without ending up with a run-on sentence where two sentences are joined with “and” or some such conjunction.

Take the sentence, “He was six-feet tall with a physique like a linebacker.”  That’s okay, but it can be improved by removing the weak verb “was” and rewriting the sentence and adding detail.  “His physique, like that of a linebacker, gave him a youthful look well below his actual age of ninety-seven.”  Not two sentences, and not a run-on sentence.

Another example:  Instead of “The town was situated on a hill overlooking the bay.” write:  “The town, situated on a hill overlooking the bay, served as a beacon for mariners trying the find the narrow inlet.”  Again, more detail, yet the same emphasis is still there.

Remember this:  “It was a dark and stormy night”?  This can be improved by eliminating the “was” and adding more detail.  “The storm came up quickly during the night, lashing the shore with seventy-mile-an-hour winds that blew the shutters on the old house onto the beach.”  Detail, detail.

This advice certainly isn’t meant to be all-consuming.  A few “was/were” verbs aren’t going to consign your writing to the trash bin, but too many can make it difficult to read.  Sometimes a few simple sentences with “was/were” are appropriate.  But constantly being told “he was . . .”  “she was . . .” and so on, gets tiring and it indicates a serious lack of imagination as well as laziness and even sloppiness on the part of the writer.  Take the time to do it not just “right”, but well.

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Keep The Action Going

Lately I’ve been watching reruns of the TV crime drama “Major Crimes.”  I like the action as the detectives of the Major Crimes unit solve the case.  The show is well written and the cases deliciously complicated, which keeps me guessing as to the identity of the perpetrator.  But the one major drawback of the show is the subplot involving the character of Rusty, a teenage boy who spent several years alone on the streets of Los Angeles, and his attempts to find his mother.  He’s been adopted by the Captain of the Major Crimes unit, though I still keep wondering why a teen-age boy is allowed to wander around the Major Crimes area while the team is trying to solve the case.  But more to the point, the subplot interrupts the flow of the main story, which is to solve the damn crime.  The subplot annoying and disruptive.  We’re taken out of the main story and forced to watch something that has little to do, in most cases, with solving the crime.  I, as a viewer of the show, have gotten absorbed in the main story line of each episode, and I don’t want to watch something that has little or nothing to do with the story.  I want to see whodunit.  The complicated plots make me want to know.  Yet, repeatedly, we have to put up with a rather vague, nebulous subplot for several minutes, several times during each one-hour show.  Yesterday evening I grew so frustrated that I turned the show off rather than sit through this unnecessary diversion.

Moral of the story, don’t interrupt the action.  Keep it going to the end.

A good example of a TV series which kept the action going throughout each hour-long drama is the “Law and Order” series.  Most of the episodes I’ve seen didn’t waste time on subplots.  Sure, the characters have private lives, and occasionally these were brought into the main story, but the individual episodes invariably stuck to the main story, i.e., solve the damn crime.

Another example of a show that kept the action going and didn’t waste time on personal problems was the old “Mission Impossible” series.  Here, the characters (the “good guys”) simply carried out their orders (usually having to do with espionage or some related process) and got the job done.  No unnecessary subplots involving human interest that took away from the main story.

I find myself wondering if this isn’t one of the reasons we find commercials so annoying: they take us away from the story while someone yells at us to buy a certain product or service we usually don’t want and don’t need.  Sort of a plottus interruptus.  This may also be why Alfred Hitchcock always denigrated commercials on his TV series.  He knew they interrupted the flow of the story.  Not good if you have a detective looking for a murderer.

Now, subplots can work, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not against subplots, but they have to be handled well.  The important thing to remember is that a subplot must be integral to the story.  It must come at a reasonable time in the narrative, and must advance the plot.  Not simply interrupt and throw in a different story.  A possible good example of this is the movie, “Rocky.”  (The first of the series.)  The main story line revolves around Rocky Balboa as he trains for his big boxing match with the world champion, having been plucked out of obscurity by the champ and given a chance to become a big-time fighter.  Okay.  The subplot involves his relationship with his girl friend.  The reason this subplot works is that it appears at logical times in the story.  Rocky trains during the day, and sees his girl in the evening.  Sure, the action slows, but it still involves Rocky.  It comes at a reasonable point in the plot, and it doesn’t occur as a sudden interruption in the story line.  It’s a smooth transition, not abrupt.

If you are writing a novel or screenplay or short story or even a memoir, keep in mind that whenever you abruptly stop the action and go to something else, especially something quieter in the story, you run the risk of losing your viewer or reader.  Keep the action going, even if it slows somewhat.  As Aesop said once, “He who hesitates is lost.”

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High School–A New Perspective

I’m not by any means a school administrator or teacher or school superintendent or member of a school board, though I do have a high school diploma and college and postgraduate degrees, and I have taught a few science courses in college and postgraduate education.  But as an outside observer, I’ve been watching high school through the last sixty or so years, and I’ve heard of how high school prepares students for adulthood, both good and bad.  Generally speaking, high school hasn’t changed much from when I attended, all those years ago.  It’s time for high school to enter the modern world and I would like to offer a very general plan that would bring high school into the new century.

I suggest that high school (I’m including grades 9-12 as “high school”) go on a quarter system, to be held year round.  Four quarters a year, fall, winter, spring and summer, with the school to remain open all year, and courses available all four quarters.  Each student would have to accumulate enough points for graduation, with one point given for each course completed.  Since this is on a quarter system rather than semester system or the six 6-week periods prevalent when I was in high school, the amount of education represented by each point would, of course, change.  Those points would be distributed over a variety of courses to result in a student prepared for his/her next step, whether that be college, trade school, or just getting a job.  Courses would include English (including grammar, reading for comprehension, writing) math, social studies, science, arts, physical education, participation courses such as athletics (football, baseball, etc.), or band, drama, choir and so forth.  This isn’t much different from the curriculum most high schools offer now.  But what I suggest is that each student be free—after the age of 16—to attend courses at her/his own pace.  Up to age 16, students would be required to attend high school and take a certain number of courses on a year round basis.  After 16, students would be allowed to take courses as they see fit, and obtain a diploma when they have accumulated the proper number of points.  I foresee graduation exercises at the end of every quarter.

I’m sure that the summer quarter would be lightly attended if this schedule were put into effect now, but after a while, I suspect students would appreciate the ability to take courses year round to graduate as soon as their own abilities allow.  Some students will jump at the chance to graduate earlier than they would by the current system.  Others, such as students who have an outside job, might graduate later.  But giving students a little more freedom to pursue education at their own pace might reduce the stress on students to graduate under the rigid and time-intensive system we have now.  No more closing the schools in the summer.

The practice of closing schools in the summer is a hold-over from when students had to help the family during the summer.  That’s not true so much any more, though if a student wanted to work in the summer under this system, he/she is free to do so.  Even when I was in high school, that wasn’t true.

Additionally, students would be allowed to take courses above the level necessary for graduation.  A student might take a second year of algebra to prepare for college, if she/he wanted.  A student could also come back later and pick up a course in order to be better prepared to get a job.  I would like to have taken a course in woodworking in high school, but could never fit it into my schedule.

This type of schedule is more like college, but I think students, at 16 and above, would be better served by allowing them to go at their own pace.   Granted, some students may stretch their coursework out over more than four years, but that should be up to them.  A high school diploma indicates that the student has met the requirements for graduation, and those requirements are designed to give the student a well-rounded education, regardless of how long it takes.  A high school diploma is still a high school diploma.

This isn’t a big change in high school education.  The content of courses wouldn’t change much other than to switch to a quarter system.  This system is based more on the idea that students have better control over their education, in both pace and content, which is a more realistic situation here in the Twenty-first Century.

Any other suggestions?

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Mental Telepathy In Science Fiction

I’m currently working on a story of about 23,000 words (that makes it a “novella” or “novelette,” depending on your definition) that has to do with humans from Earth who come in contact with beings on another planet who communicate almost entirely by mental telepathy.  Their brains are so big—maybe 50 to 100 times the size and mass of an adult human brain—that they have developed the physical power to send signals to others of their species in the their immediate vicinity.  They’re all on the same wavelength, so to speak.  These signals are received as communication.  Literally.  The signals are received as a string of words, in the same way we communicate with a string of words using the vibrations of our vocal cords to send vibrations through a gaseous medium, air.  These creatures have no specific organs of communication as we do at all.

All of that got me to thinking.  How does one species communicate by mental telepathy to another species if they speak different languages?  Is mental telepathy even possible in that situation?  A string of words just won’t work because the recipient still won’t understand the meaning of the transmission.  But in my story, one of the two main characters is capable of understanding the foreign species.  In fact, that’s the whole basis of the story, that humans may be able to contact beings on another world.  But, the devil is in the details: how would that work?  Science fiction writers might want to take note of this; it could be useful in stories about first contact(s).

I did a little looking around at the concept of “mental telepathy,” and it’s usually defined as the ability to communicate through means not involving talking, reading, or any other standard method.  It’s basically a sort of transmission from one mind to another.  But that’s as far as it goes.  I haven’t found anyone who has actually wondered how it takes place.  What is it that’s being transmitted?  If someone says she/he can read another person’s mind, what is it they are reading?  In my humble, and perhaps somewhat flippant opinion, here’s three possible ways that mental  telepathy might actually take place, in order of simplest to most complex.

1.  By concepts only.  In this method, only broad concepts are actually being transmitted from one to another.  The concept of rocket propulsion, for example.  Or weightlessness in the vacuum of outer space.  The necessity of an atmosphere for life to exist.  No actual images are sent, and no details at all.

2.  Mind visualization.  In this method, actual images are sent.  That could transmit a vast amount of information.  The image of an Apollo space capsule, inside and out, for example, would tell the recipient—assuming he’s sophisticated in space travel—just what it was like for our species to travel to another heavenly body in the early stages of our space program.  The information transmitted would be only in the image itself.  Any other information, say, what it was like to live in one of those cramped capsules, would have to be inferred by the recipient.  But an Apollo space capsule in one language would be an Apollo space capsule in any other.

3.  Transmission of a string of words.  This I expect would be the most complicated form of transmission, but would convey the greatest amount of information.  That is, of course, what words are designed to do.  An image of the Apollo space capsule might give a visitor from another planet a lot of information, but many details he/she (it?) might not understand.  Words, description, these would be the most detailed.  But the recipient of the mental transmission of a string of words would have to understand the language of the sender to be able to interpret it. and so this method, while highly accurate, might be seriously limited.

I’m not an expert in ESP or mental telepathy, certainly, and I’ve never heard if any of these methods are currently being tested.  I’m not sure if mental telepathy really exists outside of science fiction.  It’s a controversial subject in real life, but in science fiction the sky’s the limit.  If you need mental telepathy in your writing, have a go at one of these types.  They seem, to me, to be the most likely modes of transmission of information.


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