How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy (22 page)

SFWA

Peter D. Pautz, Exec. Sec.

Box H

Wharton NJ 07885

Pautz deals with all questions concerning membership eligibility.

There are other writers’ organizations, most notably the new Horror Writers Association, modeled closely on the best features of SFWA. Check with Locus or your publisher or editor if you’re a professional writer interested in getting information about pertinent professional organizations.
8. Awards

Besides the Nebula Award, the other major sf award is the Hugo, given out at the annual WorldCon. Voted on by members of the convention (you must join many months in advance if you want to nominate and vote for the Hugos), the Hugos are given in many more categories than the Nebulas. Fiction Nebulas and Hugos are given in the standard four categories: Short story (1-7,499 words), Novelette (7,50014,999), Novella (15,00039,999), and Novel (40,000 words and longer). Hugos are also awarded in

other categories, like best nonfiction, best artist, best professional editor, and in fan categories like best fanzine, best fan writer, and best fan artist. WorldCon also votes on the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, for which a writer is eligible for two years following his first publication.

There are many other awards of great distinction: The Campbell Memorial Award for novel (voted on by a jury), the Sturgeon Memorial Award for short fiction (jury), the Philip K. Dick Award for original paperback novel (jury), the World Fantasy Awards in several categories (jury, with some nominations by members of the World Fantasy Convention); many awards in foreign countries, including the “Japanese Hugos” customarily presented at WorldCon; and many awards by less-well-known organizations. It can be a heady thing to win any of these awards, and in all cases the awards are a symbol of a devotion to quality. The speculative fiction community cares very much about literary quality, even if we define it in our own terms.

A word of advice, however: Writers do not campaign for awards unless they are prepared to reap a harvest of scorn. The slightest hint of anything even resembling campaigning leads to a great deal of nastiness and suspicion, so even though most writers do harbor secret ambitions of receiving Hugos and Nebulas, it’s considered more decorous to appear unconcerned when one’s own story goes before the voters.

There is also a great deal of talk about how the major awards -Hugos and Nebulas - lead to wealth and fame. It’s true that foreign sales generally rise for authors who have won these awards (foreign editors often have few other guides as to who is “hot” in the U.S., which remains the heart of science fiction), but many winners will tell you that a Hugo or Nebula is no guarantee that a work will even remain in print.

In short, while it’s lovely to receive awards, they should be appreciated for what they mean: that a certain number of people like your work. Don’t expect any more than that, and certainly don’t make the slightest change in your writing or your behavior in an attempt to win one. If you win, fine; if you don’t, that’s also fine. The awards rarely go to the most innovative writers until long after their best work is done.

9. Life at Home

I don’t know you; it would be presumptuous of me to try to tell you how to live. Nevertheless, I’ve seen enough other writers and had enough expe

riences of my own to be able to warn you of some dangers and point out some things that may work for you. If you don’t like people preaching at you, skip this section, because that’s pretty much what I’m about to do. But if you are willing to listen to the observations of somebody who has lived this life for more than a few years, and has watched many other writers from varying degrees of distance, then this section is for you: The advice here has as much to do with becoming and remaining a successful writer as any other part of this book.

Discipline.
The life of a full-time writer has no externally imposed discipline. No one expects you in the morning; if you’re late to work, no one glowers. You can take a day off whenever you want, and you never need a note from a doctor. No one hires a temp to take your place if you’re gone for a week. This means you are deliciously free; it also means that if, like me, you are extravagantly lazy, you can find yourself way behind in your work.

The discipline has to come from within. Don’t wait for a muse to strike and force you to your typewriter. Such events are rare-in my experience, muses tend to strike those who are at the keyboard typing their brains out, not those who are playing video games in the basement.

Take care of your body.
Writing is a sedentary business; it’s easy for many of us to get fat and sluggish. Your brain is attached to the rest of your body. You can’t do your best work when you’re weak or in ill health. At times when I’ve exercised and kept my weight down, I’ve had much more vigor and stamina when it came to writing. At other times, when I’ve neglected my health, I’ve struggled to pull energetic stories out of a lethargic mind. It’s worth the time to take an hour’s walk before writing. You may write a bit less for the time spent, but you may find that you write better.

Beware of dependencies.
Writing is self-exhaustive. Everything you produce comes out of your own soul. You don’t always like what you find there, and you always fear that someday you’ll reach down inside yourself for something and find nothing there at all. There’s a lot of tension in that, and no easy way to dissipate it. It’s quite easy to become dependent on the reassurance that comes from drugs: caffeine, alcohol, and sometimes harder stuff.
When you become dependent on such things, they fulfill the fear they’re

often intended to quell: They make it harder to tell stories, harder to find truthful things to say, and harder to communicate them clearly. There are those who claim they can’t write without their coffee or booze or some pharmaceutical crutch. I believe that the truth is much more painful: They can’t
live
without those things, so they certainly can’t
write
without them, as long as the dependency remains.

How serious are you about your art? Your mind is your instrument. How can you tell the truth unless your vision’s clear?

Be patient.
What is it you want? To write? Or to be a writer? If you w&, to
be
a writer-to have the fame and fortune that you imagine writc. have-you’ll have a long wait. But if you want to do what writers do -tei, stories that other people may or may not want to read-you’ll enjoy your life whether your stories catch on with the public or not.

Don’t try to find shortcuts.
A lasting career only comes from learning the craft and working hard to perfect it. And even if a degree of fame or praise does come quickly and easily, don’t count on it continuing. The critic who loved this year’s book will rip you up and down next year; the public that bought a hundred thousand copies of the last book may buy only ten thousand of the next. Bear it calmly. Fame comes and goes, but you-your life, your work, your family, your real friends-will still be there, year in and year out.

Don’t compete or compare.
It’s deadly to start comparing yourself to other writers. Why did
he
win the Nebula this year when my story is so much better? How did
she
get a six-figure contract when I published my first story five years before anybody ever heard of her? I must really be a failure, if I can’t do better than
he
does.

I’ve been on both sides of that awful fence between the envied and the envious, and this much is clear: There is no rational basis for comparison or competition in the arts. If somebody gets rich and famous faster than you, it may mean they’re better at the craft than you are-or it may mean they happen to be telling stories that strike a nerve with a wider audience. What happens to other writers says nothing about you or your talent or your future. The writer you envy today will probably have reason to envy you tomorrow.

And envy is poisonous. One person’s success doesn’t take anything

away from you. If two people write brilliant books that are published the same day, the shine from one doesn’t diminish the lustre of the other. If the audience goes crazy about one book and buys a million copies in a month, that doesn’t stop another book from selling a million copies the same month. In fact, the success of one sf book generally brings new readers into the field-some of whom will discover and love your works.

One of the nicest things about the field of speculative fiction is how little envy there is. Older writers almost always reach out to help younger ones; younger ones almost always give honor to the older ones. Even where there are squabbles, there’s almost always an underlying respect that wins out in the long run. The enemy of a good writer is never another writer-the enemy is apathy and unconcern in the audience. That’s what you need to overcome if you’re going to succeed in your art, and in that struggle we writers are all on the same side.

Keep perspective.
Storytelling is important. You really
do
have an effect on the world, and it matters that you write your tales and have them published. But other things matter, too-your family, your friends. I’ve known more than a few writers who forget how to be decent human beings, who act as though their status as writers lifted them above such common limitations as courtesy and generosity, patience and good humor.

It’s especially important to remain on good terms with the people you live with. Writing puts many strains on family life. When you’re just starting out, your spouse and children may think those evening and weekend hours you spend typing are stolen from them. Sometimes you
do
have to finish the story; sometimes, though, your family and friends need you more than art does.

And later, when your career is moving well, it’s easy to be seduced by people who treat you as if everything you say is clever and fascinating. Your spouse and kids can never compete with the adulation of strangers; they know you too well. It’s so easy to forget who you are and fall into the famous-writer role that strangers may want you to fill. It happens to those who are weak or unwary. It helps to take a few moments now and then and decide whether you would let any of your fictional heroes treat other people the way you do-or, if they did, whether you would like them very much. A bit of self-examination now and then is also good for your fiction, since all your characters come, ultimately, from inside you.

The best storytellers are the ones who write, not to get rich and famous, but because they love good stories and long to share them with other people. That’s a fundamentally positive act. Even if your stories happen to be grimy or frightening or depressing, telling those stories is an act of union between two or more human beings. Even if you think you believe in nothing, you believe in that, or you wouldn’t bother to tell your tales in the first place. Even the most “antisocial” fiction is, fundamentally, a community-building act.

The community built by speculative fiction is a particularly important one, because it includes, as audience and storytellers, many of the people who are most open to change and most accepting of strangeness. They are the visionaries, the cutting edge of society, the people who in their hearts are explorers and pioneersand they draw some of their visions and receive some of their experiences from the work we offer them. It’s a labor worth doing, and worth doing well.

So close this book and get back to work.

THE END.

Table of Contents

How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy

1. The Infinite Boundary

2. World Creation

3. Story Construction

4. Writing Well

5. The Life and Business of Writing