Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

I’ve moaned and groaned about titles here many times, and since the insomnia fairy holds me firmly in her grasp tonight, I figured I’d share what was recently generously shared with me by a few fellow Codexians: an article they published in the November 2004 issue of the SF & Fantasy Workshop newsletter (which I believe is now defunct).

Whereas it has not turned me into an awesome titler of things instantly, it has given me a great “cheat” sheet I can look to for inspiration, and I have very grateful to have it.
I reproduce it here, hopefully, with permission.

SOME WAYS TO COMPOSE A TITLE
by Eric James Stone, Alethea Kontis, Douglas Cohen and John Brown

1. Person. It could be an actual name (EMMA, JANE EYRE), a nickname, a title or position (SPEAKER FOR THE DEAD, THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO), or a description (THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE, THE LAST JUROR, THE THREE MUSKETEERS). The person in question should probably be either the protagonist or the antagonist, although if the person has great “off-stage” importance it can still work (REBECCA.)

2. Place. It can be a specific place name (MANSFIELD PARK, MAIN STREET, CETAGANDA), more generic (ISLAND, NEUTRON STAR) or a description (THE TWO TOWERS, THE RESTAURANT AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE.)

3. Thing. (THE SWORD, THE PERFECT STORM)

4. Event or action. (THE TRIAL, THE RETURN OF THE KING, KILL BILL)

5. Date, time or period. (1984, 1632, SEVEN DAYS IN MAY, TWILIGHT)

6. Number or measurement (FAHRENHEIT 451)

7. The Ludlum Method. Follow the pattern used for most Robert Ludlum books: The [Name] [Noun]. (THE BOURNE IDENTITY, THE DA VINCI CODE) [I'm not saying Ludlum wrote THE DA VINCI CODE, I'm saying it follows the pattern.]

8. Blank and Blank. (ROMEO AND JULIET, WAR AND PEACE, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA)

9. Blank of/from/to/on/in/for/other-preposition Blank. (A STORM OF SWORDS, THE DEED OF PAKSENARRION, NIGHT OF MADNESS)

10. Blank’s Blank. (HART’S HOPE, ENDER’S GAME, EXILE’S VALOR)

11. Quotations or literary allusions, whether well-known or obscure. (SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES, TO SAIL BEYOND THE SUNSET, STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND)

12. Plays on words or cliches. (SLEEPING DOGS, MONDAY MOURNING, OPEN RANGE)

13. Professional or other jargon. (PRESUMED INNOCENT, ABSENCE OF MALICE, BROKEN ARROW)

14. A word or phrase from your own piece. (CRY, THE BELOVED COUNTRY; HONEY, I SHRUNK THE KIDS; ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT IN CHROME)

15. A word or phrase from a particular historical period. (BUFFALO SOLDIERS)

16. The/A/An Man/Woman/Boy/Girl/Other Who/That Blank. (THE MAN WHO SOLD THE MOON, THE GIRL WHO LOVED TOM GORDON, THE SHIP WHO SANG, A SHIP THAT BENDS)

17. The thematic title. (LOVE, SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION)

So, here we go. This is the project I have been muttering about under my breath and bouncing in my chair over:

On March 1, 2009, Brain Harvest: An Almanac of Bad-Ass Speculative Fiction will begin its intrepid voyage, bringing you the best speculative short fiction we can find.

Brain Harvest will publish on the web and on your mobile device. We’ve noticed that a lot of reading is happening in non-traditional ways (hey, we see you, over there, glued to your iPhone or Blackberry. If you’ve got ten minutes, we’ve got the best SFF you can hold in your hand). 

We pay “pro-rates” (5 cents a word) for stories 100 – 750 words.

We will be opening for general submissions on February 15, 2009. Please do not submit before then–we’ll delete everything dated before then.

Go to http://www.brainharvestmag.com/submit for full guidelines.

We are also offering a low-cost, high-awesome crit service, Fresh eyes, starting now. Depending on your needs and budget, you can rent up to four pairs of fresh eyes who will read your fiction and provide a one-page written critique in a timely fashion.

Find out more about Fresh eyes at http://www.brainharvestmag.com/fresh-eyes.

When I first got out of Clarion West, I bemoaned my lack of process, or more specifically, I worried about what my new process was going to look like. Six months later, I think I have a stronger idea of how I work. I also have a solid idea of what my weaknesses are.

I work really well–in the moment.  That moment does not come every day, and I no longer try and force that. I do force myself to write at least 4 days a week, but if the other 3 are uninspired, so be it. I also tend never to work at the same time each day. I’ve noticed a tendency to enjoy working most in the afternoon, but I don’t hold hard and fast to it.  As long as I produce, I don’t feel too guilty about pooping on the two most cardinal and widespread bits of writing-habit directive.

Once I am in a story, I muck around and work very well, even if the story is a complete and total washout.  Once I am in a story, I work more than 3 days a week easily, I work whenever I can snatch the attentive time and space, and I flail around and shape and write and rewrite until the sucker is as done as I can make it.

But here’s where I am weak: titles* and starting a new story. Case in point: I just finished a piece and I am actually pretty happy with it. It has begun its rounds at the magazines along with my other active, homeless pieces. Great. Right?

However, the thought of starting a new piece again leaves me slack-jawed, slightly nauseated, confused, and filled with anxiety. It seems like every time I finish a new story, I seem to have forgotten entirely how to start another story–and no number of writing prompts, seeds, or hours staring at my idea list in my journal can convince me otherwise.

I know, it’s totally unreasonable. And illogical. That’s why I am having, aside from the discomfort of the discomfort, discomfort with my discomfort.

So far, I have managed to always start something else, but only after a few days to a week of pushing/depression/desperation/apathy/bargaining. What’s the deal with that? I mean, I can learn to trust this part of my process, I guess, but what’s with the making myself miserable in order to earn a new idea? Is this why writers have such a bad reputation for drinking? Is my Jewish half asserting its thousand year mastery of genetically-induced navel-gazing and guilt? Is it my internal clock? Is it a personality flaw? Are these just, really, rhetorical questions?

Well, at least someone I love is doing better with all this:  I opened my late issue of the SFWA magazine to see that one of my beloved CW classmates, Kristin Janz,  had made the recommended reading list for the Nebula 2008 pre-ballot for her very cool, kinda-meta “Veritas Nos Liberabit“.  It’s a great read and I am so very pleased for her.

* I’ve mentioned that countless times before and have since gotten some awesome guidance on the subject which I promise I will share in another post.

I just returned from a writing/coffee date with a lovely lady of whom I’ve internet-known for awhile now, but just met in person. Social time = good. I forget that sometimes, and live a little too much like this ThinkGeek tshirt:

(which is a shirt I really want, BTW)

Anyway, we had a lovely conversation, and we briefly touched on the Clarions (she is considering applying) and it reminded me that Clarion West is now accepting applications for the 2009 workshop (through 1 March 2009). The teacher roster kicks ass for 2009, if you haven’t noticed:  John Kessel (!!!), Rudy Rucker (they all deserve !!!, actually), Elizabeth Bear, Karen Joy Fowler, Nalo Hopkinson, and David G. Hartwell.

I’ve talked a lot about my experience at Clarion West to many folks, but I still get asked, from time to time, by someone if they should apply. So, I want to state publicly a resounding YES to anyone in the studio audience who is asking themselves that question (or about to ask me).  If you are at the point where you are considering whether attending a Clarion is right for you, then you are probably at exactly the right point to apply.

Now, you may not get accepted. The Clarions are pretty freaking competitive, and the competition gets stiffer when the roster of teachers is as impressive as, say, my year (which I say without ego, pinky swear) or this year. But you should apply.

I’ve learned a few things about applying, however, that I will happily share with you to make your application as strong as possible. Here is what I have been told makes a strong application (and some of what I did myself):

1. Submit stories that you  not only consider you best work, but also your most interesting. Send in pieces that stretch, search, experiment, and maybe even fail a little. Pieces that show a strong voice, a different approach to SFF, and the willingness to risk will always stand out. Don’t play it too safe.

2. Take your time with your personal statement and really explain why you want to come to Clarion and what you hope you can gain from the experience. The best Clarion students, I am told, are the ones who come to the workshop with an open mind and a willingness to fail and fall and flail during the workshop in order to try new things. If you aren’t willing to throw aside and away everything you think you know about your writing, Clarion won’t be that great an experience for you—but if you are, no matter what stage of experience you’ve reached, then say so. That is what Clarion is about.

3. For the love of all that is holy, follow the submission directions, and submit a complete application before the deadline. I know that sounds…obvious, but I’ve heard of many an application having to, heartbreakingly, be axed because the applicant did not follow directions. Follow the page count, even if you have to excerpt a story. Follow directions! I mean it! Look at my exclamation marks!

4. Prepare NOW as if you will be accepted. Six weeks is an awfully long time to be away from your job, your family, your pets…even if you are in the same town, as I was. Begin to sniff out how you would pull it off if you get in sooner rather than later. I mean, don’t give notice at your job or sell your house or anything until you do hear, but starting to brainstorm strategies about how you could make it happen now is far less stressful than trying to get it all figured out in two months. Trust me on that.

Anyway, I will keep my fingers crossed for those of you applying for 2009. It really was, for lack of a better sounding phrase, a life-changing experience for me–in almost *all* good ways. I have a whole new set of colleague-friends, a new toolbox of skills–but most importantly for me, my drive and ambition back.

And maybe I’ll see you around. Since I’m a local, Clarion West can’t get rid of me. I’ll be sniffing around, volunteering and baking banana bread for the new class, just as past CWers did for my class.

1. I am waiting impatiently for Pam, Maggie, and Chris R., three of my Clarion West fam, to arrive. They are in town for the Charles De Lint workshop this Sunday at Hugo House. I am hosting and getting some muchly needed f2f hive mind time.
Don’t know what we’re up to this weekend, aside from Sunday, when they are actually in the workshop. I am sure some philosophical discourse, some in-jokes, and quite a few drunk dials are in order.
I know I will be at Charles’ reading Monday evening:
Fantastic Fiction readings and conversation salon with Charles de Lint
Charles de Lint, author of “Moonheart” and “Dingo,” among others, reads and discusses his work. Co-sponsored by Richard Hugo House. $5.
 www.nwmediaarts.com
Cabaret
Monday, October 27th, 2008, 7:00 PM
W00t.
2. Aside from cleaning the house in expectation of said visitors, I have pretty much spent the day researching the psychology of colonialism and post colonialism for a story revision.  You know, because I like to write about happy stuff.
Ow.
I am also trying to grasp desperately at an idea for my NaNoWriMo project, which starts in like, oh, a week.
3. I have five stories actively circulating the markets. I can’t remember the last time I had that many out at one time.
Oh, yeah. Because I NEVER have before.
4. I’ve been really, really, really burned out on contracting in IT as a day-job, and full time, lately, has been UNpossible. But, I just found something very, super, uber part time.  I am VERY excited about it, because it will eventually lead to a new day-job career entirely—and the non-profit that hired me is really confident in my aptitude and willing to spend time training me…as a vocational coach for adults with developmental disabilities. I have my first client already and am supposed to start with her next weekend (the hours right now are Saturday – Monday. Not a dream schedule, but it’s a start).
5. I have my Halloween costume altogether: a paper “H” I will tape to my forehead*. Now, if I only knew of something to actually do on Halloween this year.

 
*Say it with me now: “GEEK.”
Don’t get the reference? Hrm. That means you probably had a social life in the 80s.
And hey, it’s better than the two consecutive years I went as a serial killer, dressed like I always do, because serial killers look just like everyone else. That was both geeky and lame.

Voting
I voted. I’m a good citizen. My ballot is stamped and ready to go. Now I’ll just be edgy and crabby until the results.

Titles
I started working on a story that is cutting really fast and close to a bunch of personal stuff going on with me. The interesting part, though, is not the subject matter (well, it is) but what I want to discuss here is that I just started the draft and I came up with a really good title.
This does not always happen. In fact, I feel like I used to be better at titling my stories, then somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to consistently come up with good titles. This frustrates me, because I see what a lost opportunity a mediocre title is. A less-than-spectacular title makes me feel like I am ending my story out into the world, half-dressed. Or worse, wearing flip flops with an evening gown.
Once in a great while, a fantastic title occurs to me as I am drafting a piece, falling fully formed from my head like warrior Athena from Zeus. Like today. But most of the time, I struggle with the title long after I’ve called truce on editing.
The last draft I finished, in fact, is sitting, waiting for revision—which I can consciously avoiding because I can’t come up with a halfway decent title for it…and it’s driving me bananas.
I really don’t know how to trap the elusive title if it doesn’t happen naturally during drafting. I’ve tried various approaches: combing through the piece and circling phrases that seem to stand alone or suggest things; brainstorming words that were synonymous with the theme I hoped to underscore; letting it percolate quietly a while and hoping the universe will align and reveal a title to me; forcing a title by retrofitting something into the story post-draft; and having a couple dozen drinks and re-reading the draft. These have all worked to some degree—usually a lesser one.
Some days, I envy the visual artists who can just call something “Untitled #75” or some such and let the work stand, as it is.
Endings I think I have nailed. Beginnings I can fake in draft #2. But titles? Shit. Titles are hard.

Meme!
And now…a meme. Some intrepid readers have told me that I am “mysterious” and “vague” about personal stuff. So, here you go. I’m throwing anyone curious a bone.

Ten things you probably didn’t know about me. All totally true.

1.     I am slightly nyctophilic, and not in a goth-chic way. I really do not care for bright sunlight very much. I never have.
2.     I savagely bite my cuticles when I am stressed out. Like, until they bleed.
3.     I really like to knit, but only hats. Nothing else.
4.     I consider myself a Unitarian Universalist.
5.     I’m obsessed with purses, bags, and containers.
6.     Writing with a pencil sets my teeth on edge. I am picky about pens, but I’ll take the worst pen choice over a pencil. Pencils make me really uncomfortable.
7.     I had scarlet fever when I was seven. No one knows where I caught it. It is the cause of several chronic medical conditions.
8.     I can’t walk in heels of any height for more than ten minutes. Even kitten heels.
9.     I do not like the color yellow. At all. Any shade.
10.   I wince when I eat crunchy foods. I don’t know why. It’s like I am preparing to have my teeth crack.

Resurfacing after a crisis-induced “vacation” from all things real life is absolutely and utterly overwhelming. ZOMFG. Emails, phone messages, projects where I can’t even find the threads I dropped to go on said crisis-induced vacation…I don’t even know where I am today. Do I just wipe the slate clean and just pretend all that’s piled up in the last week doesn’t exist? I really want to. Just looking at this teetering pile, literal and figurative, is giving me palpitations. It’s like a big version of the anxiety attack I get when I neglect my RSS reader for a few days and there are like 5 gazillion new posts and I have to hit the panic button and mark them all read because I am half-paralyzed with dread.

This is illustrative of why I have to be a compulsive list-maker. The minute one thing gets out of hand, I feel like everything gets out of hand and it’s all-of-a-sudden-way-too-fucking-much.

That makes me sound like a delicate flower, yes? I’m not. Pinky swear. I just can only juggle, like, two balls at one time. I’m better when I juggle one. Just toss it up and catch it, toss and catch. I’m totally envious of people like Cory Doctorow, who is plugged in and performing 50 tasks simultaneously. I try and wind up in a big, sticky, horrifying mess. Like this one.

What I have managed is to get some writing done. Not a ton or anything, and probably not super-inspired genius level stuff, but enough to keep my self-esteem at a healthy level. Look, see?

It’s about the sitting ass-in-chair. It’s been easy because said crisis has had my ass in a chair often and for sprints of time. I’ve been working like this: hard for an hour, then stop. Hard for 30 minutes, then stop. Over coffee for 15 minutes, then stop. While waiting on a line for 20 minutes, then stop. I’d like to see what I am capable of once things settle a bit and I build up endurance to work for a couple of hours at a time (hello, NaNoWriMo).

I have also managed to get four rejections within 5 days. All personable, friendly, even encouraging in places. I don’t mind rejections at all. Never have, although I know many good writers who still get a bit tender at them. What’s new for me is my new blast-‘em system. As soon as a rejection comes in, that story goes out again, within 48 hours. Never done this before…having at least 4 stories out at a time and working on churning (grinding? Slowly squeezing?) out new work.

I’m trying to decide how many rejections are reasonable before trunking a story. I have no idea. Should it depend on the story? On how much I like it? Or some other criteria? I’ve got a handhold on the writing process again, which involves not romanticizing the whole thing like it’s a magical cabal I need to remember the correct incantation to gain access to. Now, the whole submitting thing. It was way easier when I wrote one solicited thing a year. Now, I’m groping around and trying to figure out how high the walls are with my eyes closed. *bump, bump* Toss, catch.

One percent (and this is in the midst of some personal chaos and upheaval of the engrossingly unfun sort)!

So, apparently, what I need to do is just sit the hell down. That’s the process.
If I keep sitting the hell down, eventually I type some words.
I now have two stories out to market, and am hoping to finish the current one (which is a rewrite–a deep rewrite) and send it out to seeks its fortune over the weekend. Then, onto the next (another deep rewrite; this one needs about 2,000 new words). I have a vague inkling, maybe, I think, of what’s after that.
Point is, I’m working. It may only be for 30 minutes at a time, but I’m working.
Step three: sit the hell down.
I have also “offiicially” committed to doing NaNoRiMo, so I’d better get accustomed to sitting the hell down. That sucker is 50,000+ words. I’m going to do it too, and I pinky swear that the last 10,000 words will not be “Screw Flanders.”

Also important: I know you’ve probably been looking in your closet and thinking, “What I really need is a mess of teeshirts and crap that have aliens on them, or that, at least, talk about global donimation.”
Me too.
Well, Maggie @ Apex has anticipated our garment needs and re/designed a bunch of ringers, tanks, mugs, and hats that look really swell and go to a great cause–keeping dark SF awesome:
Apex at Zazzle (There is nothing like a hot cup of global domination!)
Apex at CafePress (personally, I’m coveting the Apex Minion Ladies’ T in black)

So, Homecoming and The Wave and Other Stories are going out of print. This means a few things worth mentioning.
One, if you ever had any burning desire to own either of them, now would be the optimal time to get on that.
Two, it means I can do whatever I wish with them–the rights revert back into my own hot little hands. What I wish will probably look something like this: hide Homecoming until such date I rewrite it as a screenplay, which is really what I’ve wanted to do with it for a few years now; release some stories from The Wave as Creative Commons right here* for your enjoyment and perusal; rewrite two stories from The Wave that never came out exactly how I wanted them to the first time ‘round and either reprint them someplace or release them as Creative Commons as well.
It wasn’t too long ago that I was musing over the state of those books and wondering how they would fit into my “career” (frenetic air quotes) going forward. Funny how life gives you an answer–when you ask the question, that is**.
Update on the whole finding-my-process debacle: none or some, depending on how you squint at it (remember Oblique Strategies? “A Line has two sides.”). I have written notes for three new stories (that are interesting ideas but, as of yet, seem to go nowhere), but no keyboard typey-typey has happened. I’ve revised one story written at Clarion West ( and sent it off), tried to revise a second (and managed to muck it up further), and began revising a third (with the intention of sending that off somewhere this week). So, yeah. Still approaching step three.

*I’d do that now, except here’s a fun fact: two computers ago, a nasty little virus thingie munched the fuck out of my hard drive, erasing both entire manuscripts from soft copy existence. Which means, I will have to retype these suckers all by myself, unless someone has a magical typing elf they’d like to lend me for the duration.

**Oh, I understand that things go in and out of print, that this is the business, and all that kind of stuff, but I have to admit that it’s left me with a sense of ambivalence I wasn’t expecting. Relief v. discouragement, possibility v. hand-wringing. Interesting,

Process is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately–because I’ve realized in the past three weeks that I have no process. Well, not yet.
And this terrifies me.
Before you dredge up any sympathy for me, I’ll admit up front that it is my own fault. For twelve years, I bobbled quite un/happily in the warm and familiar waters of literary fiction. I had my thing and my go-to moves and, in a sense, I was quite comfortable with my thing and my go-to moves. Comfortable, but kind of freaking miserable.
Yeah, I produced some books and some work, much of which I’m proud of, and have managed to keep myself just published enough that I could call myself a writer without giggling or eye rolling. But I never nudged out of obscurity or, more importantly, produced more than one piece a year (or thereabouts).
A few things fell into place for me last year, and I began reading more and more speculative fiction. I re-fell in love with SF (I was weaned on Asimov and Heinlein and Poul Anderson), and decided to be an unrepentant genre-switcher. And, as often happens when you make a wish or a public declaration, the wild opportunity to attend Clarion West came barreling at me. I jumped on that bull, and rode it, sometimes barely holding on, for six weeks.
Best thing I’ve ever done for my writing. Ever.
But now, as the dust clears and my bruised ass heals, I realize I’m now solely responsible (again) for making anything happen again.
Well, duh, you say, and I concur. Duh.
Clarion West is six weeks of intense writing in a wondrous bubble where everyone wants you to succeed, ultimately, and all you have to worry about is producing a story a week, critting your classmates’ stories, and maybe, getting around to washing those yoga pants you’d been wearing all week long.
Out of the bubble, for what–almost a month?–I’ve been flipping around like a fish. A non-writing fish. A non-writing fish who is torturing herself for flipping and not writing (and especially since this counter is still.at.zero ).
I finally sat myself down for a long. Honest conversation, and the consensus my flipping fish self and I came to was that I swore a solemn oath to myself pre-Clarion West to set ablaze all my pre-existing blocks, habits, opinions, comfort zones, and ego about writing. I did that. And while I was there, I filled that now-void with all kinds of good and useful knowledge about all the things that had been wrong with my thing, my go-to moves, and only producing one thing a year. And I used the Clarion process of insulation + panic to produce a story (sometimes, they were really more “stories”) a week.
But now, back in real life, I have to find my real life process because the Clarion process, when competing with job(s), husband, family, friends, the information overload of my beloved internet, cats, sleeping, cooking my own damn food; t goes over like a pregnant polevaulter.
Terrifying.
So, this is a documentation of the process of finding a process. Step one is admitting you have no process. Step two is to quit flipping like non-writing fish who is torturing herself for flipping and not writing.
I’m at step two.five: conquering the fear (remembering that the fear is always step two.five no matter what).
I can see step three in the distance, but I’m not there yet. It’s both freeing and humiliating to admit that I can *see* step three but am clinging to this whole process about process. I can see step three; I hope I’ll get there this week.
What’s step three (you may ask)?
It’s to jump back into the messiness, the uncertainty, the demented but irresistible cacophony of voices…and you can’t see the bottom. It’s just to show up and do it. It’s to quit caring whether it’s good or bad or if anyone will care. Step three–just jump. And yell, Wheee! when you do it.

Oh, abyss. I’ll be there soon. Pinky swear.

(whee.)