Why I Will Never Plagiarize

Over on Whatever by John Scalzi is a post on Quentin Rowan's response after being caught plagiarizing the works of multiple authors in order to get published. It's a fascinating example of complete and utter doucebaggery (Quentin's response, not John's post. John's post is pretty much spot on and very fair and balanced.). I recommend reading both.

I've already made a brief entry in the comments section of John's post, but I thought I should elaborate a bit further here on why you will never find me plagiarizing the works of others. There are a few reasons, from least to most important:

1. I could get caught.

 I'd have to live in fear of getting caught and exposed to the whole world. My career as an author come to a crashing and unrecoverable halt. At this point, Quentin Rowan's name is mud in the publishing world. He will likely never work in the field ever again. Heck, he was even fired from the bookstore that employed him because of this. No publisher would touch anything he produces now, and even if he uses a pseudonym he's done if anyone ever connects his real name to it, which is much more likely nowadays.

2.  I would lose friends.

I've been fortunate enough to make friends within the writing and science fiction\fantasy communities thanks to attending conventions. If I got caught as a plagiarist those friends would disown me so quickly I'd have whiplash. Now, don't get me wrong, these are good people. My crime would be so great they'd have to do it, and rightfully so.

3. I'd always know I cheated.

This is the most important reason for me. Ruin in the publishing world I could live with. Losing friends would hurt, a lot, but I've lost friends in the past through moving and drifting apart so I know it's survivable. Knowing that I got success by stealing and cheating would be what would kill me.

I was raised to take responsibility for my mistakes and give credit where it's due. They are two of the central tenants of my life. Plagiarism breaks both of these.

The comments section of John's original post provides many more reasons that I agree with. In the end, I want to recognized for my work and not something I've stolen. Getting published will be even sweeter when done by my own mental sweat and not thieving from others.

Con Report: SFContario2

So my brain has finally rebooted after SFContario2. I think it took this long since I was stuck in traffic in downtown Toronto for two hours, trying to get to the highway, due to what I assume was the Santa Claus parade.

Did I enjoy the con? Yes, definitely. It's always great to run into friends I only get to see at conventions and have a chance to catch up. Also, there were a lot of great panels and an overflow of great guests.

The highlight of the guests, for me at least, had to be John Scalzi, who was in full "performing monkey" mode. (His words, not mine). The Creation Museum slideshow on Saturday, where John took the audience through his photos of his trip to the Creation Museum while gently mocking it, was hilarious. I say "gently" mocking as at no point did he get into a fire and brimstone rant at how utterly moronic some of the notions expressed in the museum were. It was more like he took a pin, poked a hole, and deflated a great deal of mental hot air.

Another highlight was seeing J.M. Frey up and about. That woman is made of win. She recently went through abdominal surgery but still was able to show up and be pleasant and engaging, even if she was a bit tired. I'm glad to hear she's got another few books in the works, and I look forward to picking them up as they're released.

Another good thing was the Auroras. My friend Marie Bilodeau was up for best novel, and while she didn't win she was positive and upbeat, congratulating the winners and showing that, like J.M., she is also made of win. Marie didn't win this year but I'm sure there is a trophy with her name on it in the future. And hey, we were sitting at the table with the most winners that day. Maybe some of that good luck will rub off.

A personal highlight of the Auroras was being introduced to the other people at the table as a writer. While I do self-identify myself as a writer I am very careful not to claim myself as such. I'm self-deprecating on this, and call myself unpublished. One attendee was kind enough to call me "undiscovered". Be that as it may, to actually have someone else recognize me as a writer was a great mental boost.

The final highlight of the con for me was the final panel I attended. This was entitled "The Business of Writing", and the content pretty much matched the title. It started out with the moderator, Marie, throwing it open to questions to the audience. Mine was the first answered (helps when you know the moderator and slip her five bucks beforehand - no this didn't happen I'm joking). I asked what is the greatest business danger for new writers, and received some great answers and advice. Also, I learned a great trick to remember for myself when on panels in the future. Scalzi looked directly at me and made eye contact while answering my question, even though he was second or third to answer. This may seem like a small thing, but it took that moment from "hey thanks for giving us something to talk about" to "hey here's some information you could find useful". He acknowledge that I was the one asking the question and addressed the answer to me as opposed to being someone standing on high making grand pronouncements.

In no way should this take away from the contributions of the other panelists as they provided great advice/information as well, but it did strike me as something I should pay attention to if I'm on a panel and answering a question.

Going to conventions is a learning experience for me in addition to being enjoyable. I'm looking forward to next year's conventions as I think I'm done for 2011 at this point.

Would I go to another SFContario? Yes, but probably not next year as World Fantasy is in town then and I've already registered and booked a hotel room.

Clash of The Geeks Now Out

The Scalzi/Wheaton Fan Fic contest that I didn't win (Grrrrrr... ah well, better luck next time) has now been made available for download. Find more on Scalzi's site here.

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served... Well Not To Me Apparently

Well, as you've probably already heard the winners for the Scalzi/Wheaton contest have been announced, and I'm not one of them.

Dang.

Part of me would like to use much stronger language in regards to this, but that would be counter productive and truly unfair to the actual winners. As much as I'd like to vent and rant about it, there is no good reason to. Heck, I should be proud of myself for even entering. I could have just sat on the sidelines and then regretted not trying. The only way I'll get published is if I keep trying. Who knows, maybe John Scalzi will take the suggestion about making this an annual thing to heart and I'll get another chance next year.

I'm glad I took a few days to mull over my feelings before making this post. I think the thing that really, really bothers me, is that the rejection for this was impersonal. There was no other way it could be of course, with the over 350 entries (I think that was the total number they quoted), so it's no one's fault. And it's not like I'm not used to rejection, but what I've been getting from other places has been so positive.

I know, I know, positive rejection, what's that? The best way I can put it is, the messages I've been getting back on the Riding Europa submissions have been polite, mostly form letters, but encouraging me to still submit. That may not sound like much, but it's a big difference to hear "this doesn't work for us, but please continue to submit," instead of "this doesn't work for us."

Maybe I'm just grasping at straws. Who knows? Still, I've written three things since I finished Riding Europa; a novella that's being read by friends, the Scalzi/Wheaton submission, and the first draft of a short story I just finished tonight. Each one has felt stronger than the last, so even if Riding Europa doesn't make it I've still got things in the pipeline I can send out.

Also, I haven't run out of ideas, not by a long shot. Gonna spend the rest of tonight reading, and then start working on another new project tomorrow while letting the first draft of my current story percolate in the back of my brain.

Following the Herd

I thought I wasn't going to do this, but what the heck. Since so many others are posting their Scalzi Wheaton Stories, here's mine:

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold, So Wear A Sweater

John Scalzi was walking through a back hallway at Whattacon, netbook clutched firmly in hand, when the Star Trek the Next Generation theme started blasting from the phone in his pocket. That could only mean one thing. Wil was calling.

“Hey Wil,” said John, answering the phone. “What's up?”

There was a dead silence that seemed to last for years, then a gravelly and worn sounding voice said, “You know what's up John. I know. I know it all.”

John flushed red, and started gesturing with his notebook. “It's not what you think. It was years ago, and an honest mistake.”

Wil continued, sounding more and more like he was speaking from the grave, “How could you John? I suffered for years because of this. Did you think some fancy velvet painting would make up for that?”

“Look, Wil, I'm at a con and late for a panel. We'll talk next week when I get back home. Bye.” John ended the call, turned the phone's ringer off, and stuffed it back in his pocket. He hadn't been completely lying when he said he was late for a panel, so he tried to force the guilt out of his mind as he continued rushing down the hallway.

***

“He hung up on me,” said Wil. His words were directed at the Infamous Clown Sweater hanging on a plastic hanger from the knob of his office door. There was no anger and no sadness in his voice, not even a little irritation. The words arrived dead, as if the body that uttered them had long since lost it's soul.

You knew he would. The voice seemed to flow across Wil's brain, like a spreading oil slick. He'd been hearing it for weeks now, ever since he'd found the sweater, ever since he found out what John had done. At first he'd fought the voice, railed against, but bit by bit, piece by piece, his resistance had failed. The part of him that kept fighting had grown smaller and weaker, until now it was almost gone.

“What can I do,” Wil asked. He looked at the sweater, faint lines of hope showing on his face. Maybe if he had an answer this would all end, and that little part of him that still fought could recover the man he used to be.

Revenge, purred the voice, lashing Wil with images, sounds, and smells, each one tied to a painful memory. He put his hands to his head to steady himself. Revenge, it said again, the sensations coming faster and faster. He rose from the chair, clutching his head as if to keep it from bursting. REVENGE!, it screamed, overwhelming his senses and sending him to his knees.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse from the effort. “What do I need to do?”

Put me on, and say the words. Wil rose from the floor and walked to the door. He slid the sweater off its hanger and pulled it over his head. It fit like a second skin. Some of the threads touching his skin began to unravel, and there was a brief moment of pain as they penetrated his body and began to wrap around his nerves and burrowed into his muscles and bones. A moment later the pain intensified as the sweater began to change Wil, warping him from the inside out.

“I WANT REVENGE!” he screamed.

It has begun, oozed the voice, and the last bit of Wil that fought was snuffed out like a candle in a rainstorm.

***

John was lost. Somehow he'd gotten turned around while navigating the back hallways. It should have taken him only five minutes to get to the next panel, and been a nearly straight walk down the theatre service access, but the direct route had been blocked by equipment for tonight's dance, and his detour and left him completely and utterly lost.

“Man, where the hell am I?” he said, rounding another corner in the seemingly endless maze. He spotted a sign that said EXIT and, hoping it lead somewhere public he could get his bearings, he opened the door and walked through. He found himself in what appeared to be a small storage room, stuffed to the brim with food products, and no exit that he could see. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Crap,” he said, turning around and pushing on the door's latch. It wouldn't move. He pressed harder, his face turning red and sweat forming on his forehead. It was no use; the door was either stuck or locked. Either way it wasn't opening.

“Oh, this is just great. First Wil and now this. Can anything else go wrong today?” John pulled out his phone, and was about to call for help when he noticed the LOOKING FOR SERVICE message. He sighed and started wandering the room, looking for a window or another door hidden in the back. He didn't get far before he ran into a pallet brimming with tightly wrapped bottles of Coke Zero.

It was then that John realized how thirsty he was. It felt as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his tongue, like it was a lump of hardened clay in his mouth, covered with a gummy paste of saliva. Surely no one would mind if he took just one bottle. He placed his netbook on the ground and then ripped into the pallet's plastic wrap, like a junkie after a fix, and yanked out the first bottle that came loose. He opened it and raised it to his mouth, his body practically vibrating with anticipation.

It seemed forever before the liquid touched his lips, as if time had slowed. He could hear his heart thumping, his breath filling his lungs, and then it hit him. The soda rushed past his lips, over his teeth, and onto his tongue. The bubbles burned away the dried saliva, and then soaked into his taste-buds, infusing them with flavour. Next the delicious nectar flowed to his throat, tickling and tingling all the way down. Then the sensation was gone, as the bottle was empty.

John barely registered reaching for the next bottle and drinking it. Grabbing the third was only a hazy feeling of his hand moving, and after that all he could sense was liquid filling him, being absorbed by every cell of his body. It seemed as if only seconds passed before the last bottle on the pallet was empty. John looked around to see himself surrounded by empties, like spent shell casings.

“Whoa,” he said, and then let out a thunderous belch. “Must've been thirsty.”

It was then that the hole in the wall registered in his Coke addled brain. It wasn't a big hole by any means, but it was roughly Scalzi sized, and roughly Scalzi shaped, and blacker than a Republican's heart. It had been hidden by the pallet of soda. It never occurred to John to wonder why it was there. All that entered his brain was, “Hey, there's an exit.”

He pulled out his phone and walked into the hole, pressing the buttons every few seconds to keep the display lit. It was a tiny beacon of light in the smothering darkness.

John just kept walking, farther and farther into the hole. Each step took him Somewhere Else. The temperature started to rise, and a sulphurous smell filled the tunnel. It was so gradual that John didn't notice, just as he didn't notice the changes taking place within himself. His Coke Zero soaked cells started to warp and twist, changes starting in the centre of his body and flowing outwards. His skin turned green, his muscles grew, and his ears lengthened and formed into points. The changes did not stop with his body. His clothing compressed and formed crude leather armour with a skirt of metal scales and spiked shoulder pads. His right ear suddenly sprouted two gold earrings.

The phone in his right hand warped, lengthened and widened, it's light going out as it turned into a rough wooden shield, banded and cornered with thick pig iron. It didn't matter to John, as his eyes could see just fine in the ever lightening gloom. A point of red light in the distance grew larger with each step he took. His new ears could hear the steady rumble of thousands of tons of molten rock shifting and rolling. The last thing to change was his netbook, and as he stepped out of the tunnel, into a blasted volcanic landscape, he hefted a wicked looking axe in it's place.

John continued to walk, exploring his new environment.

***

Rise, said the voice to Wil. The body holding the shattered remnants of his mind obeyed. Open the door, it commanded next, and a wave of heat and sulphurous odor struck him as he complied. His expression didn't change as eyes surveyed the seething volcano the thrust itself upward from what should have been his neighbours lawn.

Look down, said the voice next. At Wil's feet was a gleaming bronze spear. He reached down and picked it up, and as he rose he saw the mount. It was as if a kitten had been crossed with a pegasus and a unicorn. Without being prompted by the voice he walked towards it. Slitted green eyes watched him as he approached and then reached out to the creature, petting and scratching the fur at the base of it's golden horn. It purred, a subsonic thrum that travelled through Wil's arm to the rest of his body. He stopped stroking long enough to mount and grab the reigns. Knowledge of how to command the beast flowed into his brain. With a flick of the wrist they were off, flying through the air with a seemingly feline grace.

“What now?” asked Wil.

The voice replied. Fly south, look for green.

That shouldn't be too hard, thought Wil. Everything around him was either red or brown, including his mount. After only a few moments his spotted a green figure making it's way across a cracked plateau. He steered his mount towards it.

That is Scalzi, said the voice. Kill him, kill him, KILL HIM!

A nearly blinding rage overtook Wil. His vision rimmed with red and locked onto the green figure. He signalled his mount into a dive. The closer he got, the more his anger intensified. It didn't matter who or what the figure in front of him was, it was going to die.

Just before he struck, Wil screamed, “SCALZI!”

John looked up just in time to see his doom.

Riding Europa - Submission 1

Just submitted my short story, Riding Europa, to Asimov's Science Fiction and Fantasy. This is the same one that I submitted to the Writer in Residence program for the Merrill Collection and had evaluated by Karl Schroeder.

Sweet Jeebus I actually submitted something. Heck, with this and the Scalzi contest I've submitted two things within thirty days of each other, and finished the first draft on a twenty thousand word novella. I may actually be able to do this whole writer thing.

Scalzi/Wheaton Contest

Just a quick update on the John Scalzi/Wil Wheaton fanfic contest. Apparently they've received about 350 entries as of the close of submission, and it looks as if there are a lot of good ones in there.

Oh well, here's hoping. :)

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold, So Wear A Sweater

Ok, so it's been awhile since I've updated. What can I say. My time is probably better spent actually writing than blogging, but I really should do both, and eventually I'll have to get a Twitter account (I'm putting that off as long as possible). Oh well, enough kvetching about what I should be doing and how about I say what I've actually done.

Lets see. Already covered the meeting with Karl, which went well. The send off the Merrill collection had for him at the end of May was nice, too bad it couldn't have gone later but the library had to close. Work on my time travel Santa/Jesus novella has gone well so far. The first draft is approaching 20,000 words and is likely to top that once I get back to it. Right now that project is on hold for something else.

And what might that something else be you ask? I'm glad you asked so nicely. The title of this update is a hint. Hmmmm.... not much of a hint is it? Alright, I'll tell, I'll tell! Check out the following link:

LINKY!!!

Ok, read it? Good. As of today my submission for the Wheaton/Scalzi great fan-fic contest has gone through three drafts and is now being perused by trusted readers. So far it's gotten the reaction I want. The first reader was reduced to mad laughter, and everyone else who's read it has found it amusing. What can I say. Based on the picture I had to go for over the top melodrama, and I think I nailed it just right. The story's funny and extreme and just the right amount of ridiculous that it can be enjoyed without being too much.

I really, really hope my story makes the cut. So far Scalzi has revealed that over 100 submissions have been put in, which is actually a lot less than I thought there would be. I was afraid there might be, well, thousands. I may actually have a chance.

Oh, and the title of this post is the title of my story. If it gets in, then I'll let people discover it once they purchase the collection. Heck, it's not like a ton of people are reading this blog, but if you are let me just say thank-you. If it doesn't get in I'll post it up here. We'll just have to wait and see.

I Now Have A Trinity

Of stories that is. Not the mannish looking chic from the Matrix movies in the tight black leather. no, definitely not that.

Just finished the first draft on my third story from the "Great Resumption" and I'm actually very happy with it. I was able to use multiple third-person viewpoints, as in the story is told in the third person but the focus shifts, and I like the way I was able to break them up. I need to give the story a day to sit and kind of percolate, so tomorrow I likely won't be working on anything unless I get some feedback on my second story. It seems that something about 30 pages long takes a bit to be read. The waiting is aggravating but I'm getting feedback for free so I really can't complain.

Speaking of aggravating, I'm still waiting to hear from EDGE on my Tesseracts submission. It is now officially a week after the stated deadline they posted for when they would get back to people. I'm hoping this means they're having a hard time choosing and that I have a good chance of getting published. If not, well then I'll take whatever feedback, if any, they give and either dust off the story and try elsewhere, rework the story and try again, or consign it to the dustbin of history and move on.

Amazingly I have no shortage of ideas right now. There have been at least two nights in the last few weeks where I've woken from a dream and had to write down details right away. Also, I have ideas for novels burning in the back of my brain. Heck, I have ideas for series of novels burning in the back of my brain! A part of me wishes I could quit my job and write full time, but right now that isn't feasible. Aside from the whole starving to death in a back alley thing, I'm close to getting off contract and in full time with benefits. So, stable work with good benefits versus living day to day on what I can bring in on my unproven talent as a writer. Yeah, I'll stick with the job to pay the bills for now.

John Scalzi has a great piece on Whatever about authors and financial issues. The points he makes are something I always trying to keep in mind. Basically it's the same points my parents made years ago anytime I mentioned the idea of becoming a writer, but don't tell John or else he may feel old, and he can't feel old because he's not that much older than me! Article can be found here.

Well, that's all for now. Hopefully I'll have some good news soon. At the very least I should start writing about what I've been reading. Hmmmmm.... I did just finish a book by David Weber. Maybe I should write a review on it this weekend. Not a bad idea.