Black Gate

This is one of my favorite pieces of art. I found it ages ago at thewallpaper.co.

Good morning, Readers!

I had an argument with a friend the other day, and it’s kind of stuck in my throat a bit. Permit me to indulge myself and get all my thoughts around the issue out. It always helps to write it out. You’re all basically my therapists.

Jokes aside, the argument centered around the idea that not everyone can (as in should) be a writer. He says not, I say absolutely they can, and should if they so desire.

Now, this isn’t an argument about whether people have the time or the will to become writers. That is a separate issue. If the assumption is that they want to, then they absolutely can, and absolutely should.

His argument was something around talent, that just because someone can string a few sentences together, it doesn’t make them writers. Their story ideas may be garbage. They may not be able to spell all that well. They can’t adequately turn what’s in their head into something understandable on the page.

In a way, I suppose, he’s right.

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I’m sure many of you by now have heard of the sudden controversy that erupted around Canadian horror/speculative fiction publisher, ChiZine. The story has been picked up by Victoria Strauss of Writer Beware. You always know it’s bad when Writer Beware gets involved. For those of you who are blissfully unaware of the situation, good for you. Stay that way if you can. If you insist on knowing it all, I can recommend a great round-up by High Fever Books (here). Start at the bottom and work your way up through the updates.

It’s bad.

For the most part, there has been an outpouring of support for those affected; the authors who were not paid, and the former staff who were so atrociously abused. As with all controversies, however, there have been a number of bad takes. The worst has come from an editor by the name of Stephen Jones, who had this to say:

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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay. If you think about it, the Muses are incredibly creepy.

Good morning, Readers!

Back in the day, just a bit before my time, creativity was once thought to be an external force. It was a supernatural intervention, the whispering of a deity in the ear of her fortunate unfortunate, compelling them to create in a fugue of mystical madness… probably. It’s likely I made that up. I have no citation.

It’s a myth that appears to have a rather oddly long life. Still to this day, people talk of creativity as if it’s some strange external thing. They do the same with talent, as if either are some kind of divine gift… or curse (some days, folks. Some days). The fact of the matter is, it’s not some strange magic. There are no spirits whispering in one’s ear, commanding creation, directing creativity.

Creativity, and talent for that matter, is a skill. It is a muscle that has been exercised relentlessly. From youth, creativity is fed on a steady supply of stories of the impossible, mind-bending images, and lots of time to ponder and play. Talent’s diet consists simply of practice. Hours and hours of practice. These things, when given freely and often in a person’s youth, creates a solid foundation for creativity.

This skill must be nurtured, the muscle flexed often, or it is lost. Like most things that are done in this manner, creativity as part of a routine can appear effortless to the outside eye. No one really sees the years of effort, practice and failure that goes into the effortless exertion they are witness to. The creative knows.

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Good morning, Readers!

A fair warning, I’m attempting to tackle a topic that is currently at the center of a great deal of controversy in the realm. Because speculative fiction is a realm. This is especially of issue in the YA community.

A further disclaimer: despite my struggles to get noticed in a marketplace flooded with writers, I am fully aware that as a white, cis-het woman, I have a lot of privilege in this field. That will unavoidably impact what I’m trying to say here a little. If you belong to a minority, feel free to correct me where I misstep. I am always looking to learn, and I never mean to offend.

Literal magic.

Novels are incredible things. They are, frankly, magical. They are the conduits to adventure, to wonders unheard of. They are a means to explore truth via outlandish lies. They grapple with grief and loss, danger, and rage. Through the magic of books, we can face our greatest fears, from the safety of our comfiest nooks, and emerge triumphant. Novels, particularly the speculative, allow us to experience things we normally would be denied.

This includes the experiences of people we could never be.

As writers, it is our job to inhabit these lives that are not our own and bring them to life on the page. Oft times, these people are not folks that look, act or sound like us. They are people whose lives differ vastly from our own. Still, we write their experiences and pray that we are doing well. At risk of raising some fury, there is a limit to what we can do, and, I firmly believe, what we should do.

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