book promotion, Flash Fiction, humor, Magic and Science, mythology, Satire, Stories, Uncategorized, Welcome, Writers Co-op, Writers Co-op Anthology

2019 Writers Co-op Anthology

 – by Curtis Bausse

The Writers’ Co-op invites submissions of short stories (and poems) for the second edition of our yearly anthology, The Rabbit Hole. Volume one was released in November last year, volume two is scheduled for September 2019.

This year, we are looking for weird stories dealing with the following themes: entertainmentweather or science. (If you want to combine all three, we’re very open to stories about a group of scientists on their way to the theatre when they’re caught in a freak snowstorm.) However, there will also be a section Weird At Large for stories that don’t fit the specific themes suggested.

There is a maximum word count of 5000. This is more a guideline than a strict limit – quality is the main criterion, not length. So a great story will be accepted, whether it’s 6000 words or 200 (flash fiction is welcome). But we’re looking for short stories, not novellas or extracts from novels – the story should be complete in itself. Though the anthology will be comprised mostly of stories, there will also be room for some poems or pieces of an experimental nature.

The deadline is 31st March 2019. Submissions should be sent in an attached file to curtis.bausse(at)outlook.com with the subject ‘Co-op submission’. They may have been previously published on personal websites (or elsewhere) but authors must have full rights to them when submitting. Authors will retain said rights after the story or poem is published in the Writers’ Co-op anthology.

Writers whose stories are selected will have the choice between keeping their share of the royalties or donating them to the Against Malaria Foundation.

What is meant by ‘weird’?

Like many categories, it’s fuzzy, because it stands in distinction to ‘normal’, and there’s no common acceptance of what is normal. Not all writers will approach it the same way, and so much the better – we hope for plenty of variety. At the core of weirdness, though, is the upsetting of expectations: normality, in the sense of what we’re accustomed to, doesn’t follow the course that led us to form those expectations. Where it goes – somewhere disturbing or hilarious – is entirely the writer’s choice. Or why not hilariously disturbing? Indeed, one advantage of ‘weird’ is that it allows for humour as much as for horror, so go for it!

How weird does it have to be? Anything from full on, over-the-top freaky to subtly odd and unsettling. So no worries if weird isn’t your usual style – a few deft touches can suffice. Give us writing that shifts our perceptions, leads us to experience, bubbling up through the regularity and routine, the fundamental weirdness of life. To quote the Count of Lautréamont, author of the Chant de Maldoror, if your piece is ‘beautiful as the chance meeting on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella,’ there’s every chance that we’ll love it.

We look forward to reading you.

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book promotion, Flash Fiction, humor, publishing, Satire, Stories, Uncategorized, Welcome, Writers Co-op

SciFi Lampoon

It’s a new magazine, a portal for spoofs of a cherished genre. We are sailing into uncharted waters with this. We, at least, possess no charts. But Geoff Habiger, Mike Van Horn, Adam Joseph Stump, Margret Treiber, Rik Ty, Jim Webster (to name a few in alphabetical order) and others are now editing submissions. Together with the writers they are working with, that’s enough talent to start a chain reaction. The plan is to publish the first issue this year on Amazon in digital and hard-copy formats.

I know, I know. A magazine? Our motto should be “Trephening.” (You need us like you need a hole in the head.) On the other hand, why not let in a fresh breeze? Or, better yet, be that breeze. Got a humorous speculative fiction story in you? It can be science fiction, fantasy, superhero fiction, science fantasy, horror, utopian, dystopian fiction, supernatural fiction – just be risible. It can also be a funny advertisement, article, column or letter to the editor. Or rewrite a famous story (that is in the public domain!) The idea is to poke fun at ourselves and have fun doing it.

And we do have the domain name, SciFiLampoon.com. That seals our bona fides, doesn’t it? We’ll even set up a formal web portal to feature the magazine and its writers, accept submissions and link to the sales sites.

So, if you can laugh at what you write, share the fun.
Submissions@SciFiLampoon.com

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About Writers, Literary critique, Uncategorized, Writers Co-op

World’s Best Critique Group: A Case Study

– by Christy Moceri

In 2015, I joined a writer’s group that changed my life. We call ourselves the International Writers Syndicate, because one of our members is Canadian and ‘Syndicate’ sounds sinister and mysterious. After four years of steady improvement and one year of co-leadership, this is what I’ve learned.

We Are Intentional
We created our group to become better writers. This may sound obvious, but many writing groups form around a shared interest rather than a shared purpose. In other groups I’ve sampled, motives for participation range from, “I need something to keep me occupied on Tuesday nights,” to “I love hearing what a great writer I am. Please tell me more.”

Once you decide the purpose of your group, and commit to that purpose, decision-making about how to spend that time – and who to spend it with — becomes a lot clearer.

We Are Crafty
In keeping with our goal for continued improvement, we are heavily focused on craft. Lately a number of us have been doing a deep-dive into global structure. The more we study craft together, the more we develop a shared language for communicating about each other’s work. Our explicit, written objective in the critique process is not to impose our personal preferences onto someone else’s work, but rather to help each member clarify the story they are trying to tell and provide tools and techniques that will help them tell that story more effectively. Though we write everything from YA to erotic thriller, we believe that the principles of good storytelling are universal. We honor those principles at every meeting.

We Are Ruthless
Here’s the truth about writer’s groups that nobody wants to hear: The desire to be nice will ride roughshod over your most deeply cherished vision for a group of committed, like-minded writers. Nice will invite anyone through the door, roll out the welcome mat, and allow them to suck your time, energy and resources regardless of their skill, commitment, or cultural fit. Nice will encourage whispered, covert conversations and erode group cohesion. Don’t believe for a second you’re sparing anyone’s feelings by not being direct with them. In the long run, they will only be hurt more.

After a number of frustrating experiences with open membership, we became a closed group, by invitation only. We evaluate for skill level, capacity for improvement, demonstrated ability to give and receive a critique, and tolerance for dirty jokes. Does it suck to tell an otherwise lovely person that they aren’t a good fit for your group? Sure does. You know what sucks more? Devoting precious time and energy to someone who doesn’t share or even comprehend your vision.

We don’t just guard membership with ruthless fervor, we’re also ruthless in the critique process itself. We tell each other what we really think, sometimes loudly. Honesty is our commitment to one another, no matter how much it hurts, because not improving as writers is the worst possible outcome.  We consider this thing sacred, and we’re going to protect it with everything we have.

We Love Each Other
If you care passionately about improving your writing, you will suffer. You will face writing tasks that seem impossible, spend months parched of inspiration, writhe with insecurity, and probably hear feedback that makes you want to pitch your manuscript in the trash and go do something fun. When you are trapped in the gaping maw of the worst this lifestyle has to offer, nothing matters more than having someone to ride out that suffering with you. They will listen to your paranoid 3am text rants and read your five versions of your third act because you will do the same for them. When they are full of fear and trembling, you will tell them they are brave and destined for greatness, dress them for battle, and push them out into the world. Your bond becomes their armor. And you will never feel more powerful.

Visit Christy on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100028306160378

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mythology

Mything the Real Point

 

“You have confused the true and the real”.   

–George Stanley / In conversation 

(Epigraph from Delany’s Dhalgren)

 

Sometime it seems to me that we have a rather dismissive attitude toward myth.

I think it stems from the notion that for ancient societies, the function of myth was to explain natural phenomena. The changing seasons were “explained” by the abduction and periodic return of Persephone. The daily path of the sun was “explained” by a god who made a trek across the sky — either in a blazing chariot (for the Greeks)  or with the sun slung across his back (for the Navajo). Thunder? Lightning? Those were the terrible weapons of Zeus or of Thor.

But how should we view these sorts of stories? Did they really represent a sort of primitive pseudoscience? I don’t have access to any actual ancient people, but I have a hard time buying this notion. I think ancient people were, for the most part, as capable of abstract thought as we are. Sure, there were rubes and yokels — just as there are today — who might have believed that a whirlpool could really be the ravenous maw of a monster. But experienced sailors doubtless saw whirlpools all the time. Sure, sometimes they represented hazards that had to be avoided, but they knew they weren’t monsters. So why turn a whirlpool into a monster? Because that’s what people do: we tell stories. Myths are stories, full of symbolism and metaphor, and we’re missing something if we dismiss them as the geewhiz hokum of a bunch of bronze-age simpletons.

***

It was, I think, common for the ancient Greeks to see the world as permeated by spirits, by deities. Some were major: Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, Hera, etc. Others were remarkably insignificant. A road, a river, a tree, could have a particular deity associated with it. Not a deity of all roads or all rivers, but a specific god who inhabited or embodied a specific road, a particular river. If you look up “Greek goddess of childbirth” on your computer, Google will pop out the name Eileithyia. She was, certainly, a goddess of childbirth in Hellenic and pre-Hellenic cultures. But the Greeks had many goddesses (and some gods) who were directly associated with all the various stages of labor and childbirth: a goddess of conception, of quickening, of the cessation of menstruation, of swelling, of itching, of nausea, the production of colostrum, first contractions, bloody show, water breaking — any of these events or symptoms (and many others) likely had their own associated demiurges. German philologists had a name for these sorts of deities: augenblick gotter. Momentary gods. They existed for the one purpose, the one moment, and that was all.

Did all Greeks pay their respects to all of these deities? Of course not. Many were specific to a particular region or tradition. But the idea of having a multitude of truly trivial gods would’ve been familiar to most ancient people. Polytheism was the rule, not the exception, and you can see similar systems in place for the Egyptians, the Sumerians, the Norse, the Aztecs, as well as for followers of Hinduism, Shintoism, and other religions. The world was a place of magic, and even the most mundane event could be seen as an aspect of that magical world.

When I refer to the world being a magical place, I’m talking about the way it operated, not assigning it a quality. Just because because it was full of wonders doesn’t mean it was all wonderful. Nature abounded with hardships and cruelties. Life was nasty, brutish and short — and it was also full of wonders. Food grew on trees, and sprung from the earth. Life itself arose from its own destruction. New life came from our own bodies (well, women’s bodies, but that’s a subject for another time). And even in the face of hardships, we found tools — fire, blades, augers — to help us cope. Tools that we took from the world around us and modified to our our needs. Really, how could we not have wondered if there was something supernatural behind it all? And if that magic failed us, as it so often must have, well, that just spoke to the inscrutable nature of those powers, those designs. We don’t really understand what the world wants from us, but it seems like it must want something. Otherwise, why give us all of these things? And why, conversely, be so harsh, so demanding, so inexplicable?

And these sorts of questions, this sensibility, is at the root of the human impulse toward religion. It comes from fear and from wonder. It can inspire rigid dogma — and it can inspire creativity. There’s not that much difference between the miraculous things that happen in the Bible (or the Torah or the Koran) and the stories recounted in Homer or Ovid. (In fact, there are some stunning and not-at-all inadvertent parallels between some parts of those narratives, but again, a story for another time.)  But hardly anyone worships Eileithyia or Persephone or Dionysus anymore, so we’ve downgraded their mysteries to amusing old folktales, rather than powerful religious symbols.

***

There IS an explanatory function to a lot of myth. But reducing it to an explanation of the weather or how the leopard got spots is selling it way short. Myths deal with the invention of language, with the origin of rituals, the reason for certain taboos, with heroism, with love, with the beginnings of life itself.

Above all, myths are stories about us. And while it’s common to assume that myths are meant to edify, even a cursory reading makes such an idea almost laughable. The classical Greek gods aren’t meant as models. You’d be hard pressed to find a worse band of jealous and conniving liars, bellicose egomanics, cheats and rapists.

But do they tell us something about ourselves? Absolutely.  

Mythology is too complex, too mixed, too multilayered to be reduced to a single purpose. Reza Azlan said: “all religions are nothing more than a language made up of symbols and metaphors to help an individual explain faith.” Okay. He’s a contentious figure, but his description is apt. Myth is metaphor. Myth is story, and we use story to express what we find otherwise inexpressible. The narratives we create in fiction are distinct from the stories we use to convey facts and information, because those facts are mired in, and limited by, our attachment to the real. No matter how realistic our fiction is, it is not real.  

And that’s the point. Sometimes we need to go beyond the real to get at the true.

That’s where religion comes from.

That’s where myth comes from.

That’s where stories come from.

(Robert Graves saw the entire body of classical Greek myth as chronicling the invasion and subjugation of the bronze age matriarchal societies of pre-Hellenic Greece by the invading, patriarchal tribes from the north — essentially political propaganda. He makes a compelling case for it, too.)

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