The Great Hype Fright

Last night was my first midnight drive in a very long time–from before I was laid off from The Hole of Doom.  It was a very cloudy and cool night, which is what you’d expect with the moon waning towards new.

I was tried, and no one traveled with me to work out plots and stories and the like.  The night didn’t feel like one for creative processing, and so my mind was on other things.  And with that, my mind turned back to something I hadn’t thought about in a very long time . . .

The year was 1985, and I was working in South Bend.  I was driving sixty-five miles to get to work, and for have the year the company was in the eastern time zone, which mean it was a hour ahead of me.  I had a woman for a boss (first time for that) who was a very good boss, and there was a strange collection of people working in IT.

There was Mr. Super Patriot, who had done his time in the Air Force, was Republican to the core, and talked about all the guns he owned.  There was PC Guy who was some kind of fundamentalist dude who believed in six thousand year old Earths and Noah’s Ark.  And there was, lastly, The King of Bullshit.

The King was a consultant, some guy in his 50′s who knew everything, knew everyone, and who would always argue you down with the phrase, “I could tell you what I know about this, but I can’t, ’cause it’s secret.”  Yes, the mantra of every person who’s ever done work in, or for, the government, and though they know The Secrets of the Universe, they’re unable to do any work short of becoming a consultant in the computer field.  (Come to think of it, I’ve know four people like this.  Hummmm . . .)

One day a group of us was gathered around The King of Bullshit’s cubical, talking about something, I don’t remember the exact conversation after all these years.  It was then he pulled out one of the most incredible statements I’ve ever heard anyone utter as fact:  that there were a dozen astronauts flying around the galaxy in a Bussard Ramjet, exploring “the universe”, and that they’d come back home in five hundred years only about five years older.

For those who didn’t click on the link above–and I know that’s most of you–a Bussard Ramjet is a hypothetical sort of space ship that uses a huge magnetic scoop to gather hydrogen from the interstellar medium, and turn into fuel for its fusion engine.  In a way, it would be like having a car that could scoop petrel out of the air, so you’d never need worry about filling up again.  (It would also make rain showers real interesting, if you know what I mean.)

Only one problem:  the Bussard Ramjet is found only in the realm of fantasy.  We can’t build anything like that, at least not for a few hundred years.  You’ll find them in a lot of Larry Niven’s Known Space stories, and in Poul Anderson’s novel Tau Zero, but you won’t see one in your life time.  Ever.

The problem was I knew this, even then.  This wasn’t an unknown concept for me, and I knew it to be completely fictional.  So I called him on it.  I said that’s impossible, Bussard Ramjets don’t exist, so there are no people flying “through the galaxy,” going where no one has gone before, set to return in five hundred years . . .

The King got very pissed, because none of the other people believed me, they thought for sure he was telling the truth.  He called me out in return, saying he knew this was a fact, that it had launched ten years before, because he’d been at Cape Canaveral when it was launched . . .

I had to call him out again.  The Bussard Ramjet is a huge ship, and it’s not one deigned for flight anywhere save space.  That meant (1) you couldn’t launch it from the surface of any plant, (2) you’d have to build it in space, (3) he was full of shit.  I once more told him that was nuts, that sort of ship is, as a minimum, ten times larger than a Saturn V, and since you couldn’t “secret launch” one of those monsters, one sure as hell wasn’t going to “secret launch” something that was bigger.

At this point The King of Bullshit just affixed me with a pissed-off stare, and told me, “You have no idea what’s going on.  If you knew what I know–”

Right, dude.  What I did know then was if you cut out of work on a Friday afternoon, about one PM, but leave your monitor on so people will think you’re still working, and that you’ve just stepped away from your desk for a moment, you’re gonna get caught and fired–which is what eventually happened to The King of Bullshit.

What is the point of this rant?

For a long time one of my mantras has been, “Don’t believe the hype.”  When someone starts going on about anything with a certain amount of hyperbole, it’s always best to turned a jaundiced eye to their comments.  I’ve done the same thing in the past, but I’ve gotten better about throwing things out there without thinking about where it sits on the Hype Meter.

Hype also works against you at times.  I’m trying to break into the writing business in a full-time way, everyone knows that.  Problem is, breaking into the writing business is a tough thing to do.  It takes a butt-load of work, and the payoff may be very slow in coming.

It also seems that there’s something printed every week that is there to remind us that, not only is it a hard thing to break into, it’s getting harder.  It’s a big, hard, uphill battle, and everything is stacked against you–or so it seems.  It’s like the Hype Machine goes out of its way to knock your ass into the dirt, then stand over you laughing its evil laugh as you grovel.

Not a lot of fun, let me tell you.

So more than a few people just give the hell up, often going out screaming on Facebook that they’ve HAD IT, that they AREN’T WRITING ANYMORE, and that their DREAM IS OVER!  (Or is that “ovar”?  I can never get that one right.)

I’ve said it before:  the only one who kills your dreams is you.  Not that guy over there, not that publisher who gave you stink eye, not The King of Bullshit who knows things, and if only he could tell you . . .

The best way to combat hype is with facts, and when someone gives you shit, hit back with the facts.  And I mean well founded, researched facts, not the sort of facts you’re going to find on Fox “News” any particular minute of the day.  Someone says you suck as a writer?  Get others to read your manuscript, see what they say.  One house rejects you?  Send out the story again.  People don’t like your idea?  Screw them:  it’s yours!  Who asked them anyway?

Hype is never your friend, so you shouldn’t ever let it bother you.  I know that’s not possible, because we’re not automatons, we’re people, and our feelings get twisted by others who have the facts, who know things.  Only thing to do is get into your research, keep working, and keep writing.  If it’s going to happen, it will.

As for The King of Bullshit . . . I’m sure he’d dead by now, as he was in his late fifties back in ’85, and the dude wasn’t in the best of health then.  If he’s not dead, it’s even money he’s some cranky old man missing everything cool while he bitches about all the people who don’t know what he knows.

Here’s one thing I do know, dude.  There’s been a bit of research done on your Ramjet since you told me this story almost thirty years ago, and what did scientist find?  That the Bussard Ramjet is affected by drag caused by the interstellar medium.  (Don’t ever let anyone tell you space is empty, ‘kay?)  That means it has a top speed, which is . . .

Twelve percent the speed of light.

That means in a flat out run to Alpha Centauri, the sorta closest star to us, your ship that’s going to spend five hundred years exploring the galaxy will get there in . . . 36 years, give or take a few months to get up to speed; longer if you decide to slow down and take a look.  I’m pretty good with math, and I know twelve percent the speed of light does not allow relativity to raise its ugly head, so time dilation does not come into play.

I’m not bad with math, so let me see:  if this crew was, say, 35 when they left Earth, that would mean when they get to the closest star they’ll be . . . add six, carry the one . . . at least 71, maybe 72.  Which means when they come back they’ll be . . . add nothing, carry the nothing . . . dead.

Wasn’t it nice of me to share my top secret knowledge with you?

But I Liked It

Oh, you miserable day.  Why does thou torment me so much?

Actually, it’s not this day; this day is just getting started, and who knows what it’s got lying in wait for me?  No, no:  I’m talking about yesterday.  Well, not just yesterday–last night.

My dreams.  You killed me with such strangeness.

Don’t ask me how I was back in college without actually taking any college courses, because that’s the way dreams work.  They aren’t suppose to always make sense, but here I was, hanging with friends, driving at breakneck speeds down a country road–like that have here in Indiana by the butt-loads–the windows rolled down, the radio cranked up, the wind whipping everywhere.

And like that–it all went to hell.

Somehow we drove up a huge ramp and launched out into empty space–as in, we were flying over everything.  Then the ground dropped away, and there was about a two hundred foot fall for us to enjoy in what seemed like very slow motion.  You know, you’re falling, but the fall is taking forever.  I even expected my life to flash before whatever was functioning as eyes, but apparently it’s too boring for even a quick death scroll.

Then, we hit bottom . . . and everything was fine.  Seriously.  It was as if we’d just suffered a minor fender bender; the car wasn’t even damaged that badly.  We just stumbled out of the car in shock and collapse wherever we though was a good spot.

That’s when it happened . . .

One of the passengers in this flying death machine was a pretty cute redhead, and as she grew near me, I reached out and gave her a kiss.  Not just a kiss, but one of those, “We survived death; lets make babies!” kiss.  I felt everything:  the touch, the warmth, the tenderness, the excitement . . . I don’t normally feel things in a dream, save for terror or sadness, but this was so nice, so wonderful–

Of course, that meant it also had to go to hell.

Once we all found our way back to whatever crazy ass campus where we stayed–which was so cool it had an indoor baseball field–and no sooner we were back in a library, one where we were the only people there, the girl I kissed came up to me, all pissed to hell and screaming, telling me that I didn’t mean it, that I’d only kissed her because–and here she waves a paper at me–it was all for an assignment!  Apparently there was something on the paper about finding life affirmations and stuff like that, but that’s not important:  the woman I’d kiss was totally burned with me ’cause, when I kissed her after surviving freakin’ death, I didn’t mean it!

Which mean I wasn’t getting any others.

The dream went into a tailspin quickly after that, mostly because I really did want another kiss.  It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed in real life, and the dream one was beautiful.  So to be told that I didn’t mean it, no chance you’re getting another one, loser, really burned me hard.  Not only that, but I lost my car in the snow–which popped up overnight during the summer–and then I couldn’t find my shoes . . .

Man, when things go to hell in my dreams, they go to hell.

Oh, I’ll edit today and put things behind me.  Forget the cute girl who said I didn’t mean my kiss when I totally did.  Forget I cheated death again.

I wonder what the hell I’m gonna get thrown at me tonight?

Reality Bending

You don’t know what I saw yesterday.  Believe me.  You don’t.

Yesterday was a game changer.  I’m not ready to talk about it yet, but lets just say this:  something was bound to give, and give it did in a very big way.  So much so I didn’t even feel the passage of time for most of the day.  So much so that I wasn’t certain what day it was today.

Let’s just say there will come a time when I do talk.  Maybe in a week, maybe in a month.  But it will come.

What do talk about, then?

Rejection.

After a month of being out with a publishing company, I finally received an email regarding one of my novels–specifically, my NaNo Novel.  I knew it was a long shot to get it out there, but I went for it anyway–

The letter was a rejection.  Not what they’re looking for, maybe not be sellable, various things like that.   At least it wasn’t a, “Your book sucks, why are you wasting our time?” sort of letter.  I went ahead and set it up as a milestone on my Author’s Page, because it is.  It’s not the good sort of milestone you want to see, but if you write, and if you’re serious about wanting to be published, then you’re going to see these.

See, it means you’re trying.  Every time you send a manuscript out, there’s a 50-50 chance it’s going to come back to you mutilated and stomped upon.  Someone isn’t going to like it.  Some suit may say it’s not going to sell.  Some editor may tell you the characters are unlikable.  Doesn’t matter.  There will be a reason, and one of those reasons may be that your work does blow just a little–or a lot.  Maybe you have to work at it a little harder.

I spoke with The Muse a little yesterday, and she said, “If there weren’t rejections, there’d be a lot more books out there.”  She hasn’t been roaming about Smashwords of late–ba, da, boom!  But true enough.  There are a lot of things out there driving the sales of books these days, and I’d say I’ve got a one in four chance of getting any story published any time I send out a manuscript.

So what is next?  Find another publisher.  As Isaac Asimov stated, ”You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you’re working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success–but only if you persist.”  Since the Good Doctor knew a little something about sending manuscripts out, it’s advice to take to heart.  It’s one thing to say you’re writing for yourself, but you should only do that for yourself first:  you gotta remember, you’re also writing for the gallery, and it’s not fair to keep them in the dark.

So, onward.  I’ll start looking for another publisher today, check their submission guidelines, then get something prepped for them.  Gotta do it, ’cause I gotta get that story published.

It might take a while for anyone to admit it, but there are people out there just waiting to read this novel.

I can’t keep them waiting.