Novice Short Story Writers Make Three Mistakes

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

1. They get lost in the trends.

The human brain—i.e., the editor’s brain, i.e., my brain—is hardwired to notice differences. When reading submissions, I diligently fight this instinct and give every submission a fair read. But I am not blind to the trends in our submission pile, and I want to respect our journal’s readers, offering them an exciting variety of stories.

Unfortunately, most emerging writer submissions easily fall into three content categories: Alzheimer’s or a dead/dying loved one, heteronormative relationships, and cliché sci-fi. And while a skilled and engaging story can, of course, be concerned with this content, a story that tackles an alternative topic better catches the editors’ eye.

The same goes for first person, past tense, limited narratives. Three-quarters of the submissions I see are written in this mode, and while it is equally as valuable as other narrative modes, its overuse is tedious.

2. They write an antihero.

Writing an antihero into such a short text is difficult. Yes, literature and film are full of fascinating antiheroes, but they only work because those artistic forms—novels, drama, full-length films—provide the time needed to witness character development. Humbert Humbert or Walter White wouldn’t work in a short story.

If you introduce a character that requires more room than a short story offers, you can end up leaving that character undeveloped and unhumanized. The character will feel one-dimensional. The character won’t have the room to speak for themself, to redeem themself.

If your story needs a displeasing character, try finding them at a major life transition or at the moment of their repentance. You don’t have the time to do otherwise.

3. They dillydally.

Yes, they are prose, but short stories are not novels. They have totally different rules. The form just does not allow for the superfluous. A short story can only contain what is absolutely relevant to the story’s purpose. Unfortunately, most new writers let this extra—and boring—content stick around into the final draft. 

If you want to fix this problem, try this trick. Ask yourself: Why is this story being told? Your answer to that question is the story’s purpose! Now start cutting. If it’s a first draft, try cutting half of the overall content, starting with the beginning and any backstory. Only leave what is directly connected to the purpose. I’ve done this exercise countless times with writers, and it’s always (pleasantly) shocking how the story reads the same, if not better, after the cuts.

Another trick. Recall the book and movie Twister. You, the audience, arrive at the narrative mid-crisis—mid-science experiment, mid-divorce, mid-storm—and within minutes, you are literally inside a tornado. The audience only learns about the characters from what’s revealed mid-action and onwards—and sometimes, sparingly, through digressions. What I’m saying is, it won’t hurt to think like Michael Crichton: don’t just get to your story’s purpose quickly, start at the story’s purpose.

Ingredients

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

As the Cloud Lake Literary Fiction Editor, I can confidently claim that our submissions never lack creativity. The submission pile is full of stories with premises that shock and excite me. But a unique premise is only part of the recipe for a good story. A publishable story requires all of its literary elements to be well crafted.

It’s like cooking. To be a good chef, you must know every flavour and how they work together. Even if you have a beautiful cut of meat, you must still know what combination of flavours is appropriate for the meal. You must know how the flavours will interact. You must know how to cook these flavours in a balanced and proper manner. If you misjudge even one single flavour, or if you cook in an improper sequence, the meal will taste odd and unbalanced. More than likely the meal will be forgettable. Or worse, ruined.

If this cooking metaphor was too elongated to follow, here’s the code: The chef is the author. The flavours are writing elements. The meal is the story. Balance is, well, balance.  

What I’m saying is, to create a successful story the author must employ the appropriate writing elements. These elements are (in no particular order): syntax, sense, diction, sentence length, metaphor, meaning, sound, rhythm, speed, passion, tension, tone, discipline, weight, and pressure. Notice how I didn’t even list plot, characters, or setting? To continue our cooking analogy, those three fiction writing elements are simply fundamental, like a wok and tongs; without them we can’t even begin cooking. Furthermore, good quality cookware is vital to making great food. 

To accept a submission to our journal, I’m looking for a story that is well crafted. The author must be serious about their technique; they must know and care about these writing elements and employ them appropriately. There must be balance in the story.

Without doubt, learning how to employ these writing elements is challenging. If it was easy, my job as an editor would be very difficult. But if you want your work to stand out, you must make it stand out. You must work hard, write several drafts, assess your work from the perspective of every writing element in your repertoire, and then edit appropriately. And if eventually you get the balance right, the story will get published. Guaranteed.

To quote Wallace Stevens, “technique is the proof of your seriousness.” Now show me how serious you are.

Topics I Don’t Want to Read About

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

As the fiction editor for Cloud Lake Literary, I have the pleasure of reading hundreds of submissions every year. Like most literary journals, most of our submissions come from young new authors, people trying their best to carve a narrative into something sharp and engaging. It’s a thrilling position for me to be in, not only because I’m exposed to an abundance of impressive creativity, but because reading our fiction submissions allows me to see a snapshot of the contemporary literary consciousness of new authors.

This snapshot is not something that should be guarded. I believe that new writers can find value in understanding the trends of contemporary short fiction so they can better respond and write their own short fiction with an informed edge. Therefore, let me divulge some of these trends now.

About 50% of our short fiction submissions use a sci-fi or spec-lit conceit, even though Cloud Lake Literary is not advertised as a sci-fi or spec-lit publication. These submissions are always incredibly unique and creative. This shockingly high percentage of submissions also proves how prominent these genres remain. But creativity alone is not enough to get a story published. A one-of-a-kind universe doesn’t offset poor diction, tone, dialogue, etc.

Furthermore, 2SLGBTQIA+ topics were only present in about 3% of our submissions. Race-related topics were present in roughly 5%. I expected and hoped that these two topics would be explored in more of our fiction submissions. The fact that we still receive so few fiction submissions that explore gender or race proves that our literary journal, and the literary community as a whole, has much work to do at making the submission process safer and more inclusive.

The topics covered most were: Alzheimer’s or memory loss; the death of a close family member; and young heteronormative love.

It’s understandable why these three topics are covered so often. These topics are some of the most emotionally intense moments that a person can experience. They remain popular narratives in all contemporary entertainment media and are present in many bestselling books, movies, and TV shows. When you feel the emotions connected to one of these occurrences, as a writer, it is hard not to think that the experience should become fodder for your creative writing. But I would suggest for new writers to ignore these popular topics altogether.

For example, if 40% of our short fiction submissions involve young heteronormative love, it’s likely that many of those submissions contain overlapping content. The topic drowns in repetition. Also, it is not uncommon for editors to encounter these popular topics with a negative bias. Obviously, this bias is problematic, as every creative work deserves its own individual analysis, but to say that this bias doesn’t occur would be a lie. Simply, the human brain can get bored of repetition.

The answer to this problem, for short fiction, is simple: explore. “There’s nothing new under the sun” is untrue. There are always new topics worth exploring in prose, and as the fiction editor, fresh topics always excite me. I want to read about the gender complexities in airline management. Fossils and mummified bodies pulled from a swamp. The foods worth bringing to a home-birth party. Short fiction is just that—short. To impress an editor, it’s best to be unique.

My Method, Part 2

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

Have you read “My Method, Part 1,” yet?

When I’m done with my handwritten brainstorming session, I copy these notes to the computer. This process is often more beneficial than the handwriting stage. I get new ideas, I see lines that better connect, I notice what lines are already useless, and I often start to see the shape of the poem. And I don’t shy away from acting on this knowledge. For me, this moment of creation is the sweet spot. It gets no better than this stage. It’s the time in life that I feel most like an artist.

I only end this stage when I have a decent-looking poem created. It can take anywhere from 10 minutes to 10 hours. It all depends on the poem’s purpose and if I feel I’ve achieved it.

Then I leave the poem alone. The longer the poem sits, the better. Aging a poem for one month is what tastes best to me. At one month, I’ve mostly forgotten how I wrote the poem. I’m far less emotionally tied to specific sections. I can better see what parts don’t work, and I can more easily remove them. 

At this stage, I change from my artist pants to my professional poet pants. Meaning I’m no longer primarily looking to create, but instead, I’m looking at craft. I’m going through a list—a real checklist—and I’m assessing what is working and what is not. If something isn’t working, I change it, and then I return to the list. And if you’re looking for specifics, here’s my editing list: I assess purpose, energy, tone, form, symmetry and cadence of ideas, themes, diction, vocabulary, use of all senses, use of texture words, symbols, sentence length, speaking voice, and line breaks. The list evolves over time as well, but that’s what it looks like today.

When the list is done, the poem is complete—kind of. If possible, I age the poem again and then edit it again. But I often find it more useful to move on to other poems or research. Working on other poems usually gives me the necessary distance to reflect on the finished work, and how it might fit into a larger collection, or how something still isn’t sitting right. Taking a step back to reflect is just as important as diving into the work. 

One last point. As I edit, I keep a keen eye out for quality. It often happens that a good idea or a good line just does not fit within the current poem. But that does not make the line garbage. I keep a poetry scrapyard file full of lines that didn’t work. Often, I’ve used one of these lines as a seed for an entirely new poem. Other times, I’ve used these lines to fix a floundering poem. If you create a good line, keep it. Your ideas are valuable.

My Method, Part 1

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

I was recently asked if I would share my writing method, and I’m fascinated by the question. Not because I or my method are at all brilliant, but because a writer willing to share their method is vital for how many other writers develop their own method. This sharing is largely how I came up with my own writing method. Therefore, in repayment, I will share my specific method for writing poems. 

While my method is largely the attempted adaptation of the methods of other writers, it’s also a method constructed through experimentation and honest reflection. So, I encourage you, when constructing or adjusting your own writing method, to borrow and experiment with some of the things I do.

First, I study the craft. When I’m not writing, I’m reading about writing. Or I’m thinking about writing. Or I’m talking to my partner about writing. Or taking notes about a poem I want to write. Or a poem I want to edit. I’m looking at the world and considering things like tone, politics, energy, diction, and rhythm. Studying the writing craft really just means training the writing brain, and my writing brain never turns off.

I do the majority of my writing during scheduled sessions. These happen in the morning. My brain is most fresh and clear at this time of day (though I often exploit the messy emotional late-night brain). I also try to make my writing space distraction-free. No partner interrupting me. The dog is both fed and watered. Chores are put on a later to-do list. I sit at a clean desk (extra papers or books are distractions, and I need free space in case immediate research becomes necessary; good ideas are too rare and valuable to be lost due to clutter). Even my desk faces a plain blank white wall (the happenings out a window catch my eye too often). I also have a notebook and a computer on hand.

Before I write anything, I make notes about the skeleton of the poem. I answer: What purpose does this poem serve? What part of this topic do I care about? What would I like the tone and energy of this poem to be?

Then I dump ideas down. I handwrite out every idea I have about the topic (handwriting has been proven to activate more creative parts of the brain). Fundamentally, I’m brainstorming. I’m looking for ideas I didn’t know I had, and I’m trying to track ideas to their end. For this reason, I force myself not to stop writing until I can’t think of anything else related to the topic. For me, this often takes 10 to 30 minutes.

This is the first part of Evan’s method. Stay tuned for Part 2!

Do You Need a Literary Agent?

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

New authors often ask me, “How do I acquire a literary agent?” It strikes me as strange that the question is not phrased, “Do I need a literary agent?” Why is it assumed that a literary agent is a necessary step on the road to publication? My guess is that it is due to the frequent depictions of literary agents in popular film and television. Regardless, here’s a few responses for these new authors.

The short answer:

You don’t acquire a literary agent. If your work is good enough, and you publish a great book or two, at that point a literary agent will find you. 

The long answer:

You don’t need a literary agent. But if you want one, then, by all means, try to get one. Literary agents can be incredibly helpful.

Literary agents are essentially assistants. They promote the work of their authors. They offer career development advice. They keep a keen eye on publishing trends and advise their authors on this information accordingly. And they can offer editorial feedback on an author’s work.

But literary agents should not be something that any Canadian author, new or established, should worry about acquiring.

The literary industry is financially malnourished, and with such little money to go around, there exist very few literary agents—far fewer than there are good authors. So even if you want a literary agent, and your work is stellar, it will still be difficult to get one.

Furthermore, many successful authors never acquire a literary agent. Instead, they’ve found a publisher and editor that work well with them, and they’ve spent their career utilizing these relationships for their literary needs instead of leaning on the expertise of a literary agent.

Additionally, many authors just don’t want a literary agent. Agents earn a living through a percentage of their authors’ sales, and many authors would rather not give anyone a cut.

How do I get a literary agent?

Literary agents need to make money too. Therefore, most literary agents aren’t acquiring authors until they are a few steps into their careers. For literary agents, it’s not worth investing in an author unless there’s proof that the author’s work is respected, that their books have a sizeable and growing audience, and that the author is ambitious.

If you are already a few steps into your career and you'd like a literary agent, but literary agents are still not flocking your way, then look for literary agents that accept submissions.

Similar to a publisher, literary agents often accept manuscript submissions. Unfortunately, literary agents also receive tons of submissions, almost always require complete manuscripts, and have little time to judge a manuscript's quality. So make sure that the manuscript is perfect before you send it out.

Can you just hire a literary agent?

You can, but it’s unusual. There are not many for-hire literary agents out there, and if you do find one, they’ll likely come with a subpar reputation. It would also be unlikely for a publisher to give these agents the time of day.

What if I’m a poet?

Unless you also write prose, literary agents can't take you on. There’s such little money in poetry that it’s just not worth a literary agent’s time.

Note: The opinions shared in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Cloud Lake Literary. As always, do your research and do what’s best for your writing.

You Can’t Wait Around for the Muse to Speak

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

Is there such a thing as a born genius? It’s certainly up for debate. I won’t weigh in more than to say that I’ve met several accomplished writers, but I’ve yet to meet an inherent genius. None of these accomplished writers were born with artistic talent, nor did their muse magically show up one day with the entire blueprint for creating great art.

Those whom I have met are accomplished writers who worked incredibly hard to master their craft and who did everything within their power to orchestrate a life that fostered literary opportunities.

Regarding craft, these accomplished writers prove that you can’t just wait around for the muse to speak. If you’re educationally static, and then the muse does deliver a golden idea, you won’t have the skills needed to properly turn the idea into art. What I’m saying is, to be a successful writer, you must always be working to improve your craft.

But what does constant craft improvement look like?

For me, it looks like years of university studies, an ongoing and evolving relationship with literary communities, regularly participating in poetry workshops, reading the widest variety of literature possible, exploring carpentry and culinary arts, and practicing my poetry skills with a pencil and paper every day.

For you it might look like reading numerous “How to write poetry?” articles, weekly literature conversations with a sibling, an obsession with architecture photography, regular attendance at slam poetry festivals, and a library card so overused it’s cracking.

The strategy for improving writing craft is different for everyone, and it’s important for you to continue pushing yourself and evolving your strategy.

Regarding the orchestration of life, these accomplished writers also prove that if you want to excel in your literary field, you must regularly reflect on your life, your place in the world, and the experiences you gain from it. What are your interests, your connections, your living locations? How do you spend your time? Will these things help you achieve your literary goals? And if not, which ones can you change?

For many writers, this looks like moving to a literary hub or enrolling in an MFA program to increase their connections to other literary minds. For other writers, this means changing jobs or professions to better experience a specific lifestyle firsthand. For me, recently, it meant moving to Northern Ontario because Toronto didn’t offer exposure to the cultural topics I was compelled to write about.

The strategy for orchestrating life, like the strategy for learning writing craft, is different for everyone. But it is hard to become a successful writer if you don’t constantly improve your craft and regularly assess your relationship to the world. If you want to be a successful writer, you have to work for it.

Hyperbolic Advice to Live By

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

Reflecting on my creative life, I’ve discovered that I’m heavily influenced by the suggestions of other writers. When I come across useful advice, I write it down, and if it’s really good, it becomes a digital note on my computer, a motivational reminder that I employ during tough writing days.

What I didn’t notice until now is that these notes contain a theme: the hyperbolic.

When read literally, my most treasured advice actually suggests the impossible. Yet the advice works for me. It’s simply a reminder of the difficulty of writing, of the near-impossible and unceasing work that must be done to be a good writer.

If you're like me and you absorb the advice of other writers, then these notes might also resonate with you. I'll share three of them; I hope the advice can be of use to you. Remember that you’re welcome to critically assess it, judge it, experiment with it, adopt it, adapt it, or discard it according to your own needs.

“Fiction is impossible. Ask me [John Oliver Killens]. Poetry is impossible. Ask Langston or Countee. Baldwin will say essays are impossible. But everyone agrees, short stories are so impossible, they almost can’t be written at all.”

This is a quote that Maya Angelou relates in her book The Heart of a Woman. This book and this quote are reminders that writing is hard. Really hard. No matter the genre. Especially if you want to do it well. So be prepared for failure.

“In my opinion, after one finishes a story, one should cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we writers lie most of all.” 

An article in the Paris Review attributes this quote to Chekhov. A master of brevity and subtext, Chekhov and this quote are reminders to be efficient. Do not waste time with the superfluous. Dig to the most vital core of your topic, and write only that.

“Be totally familiar with the entirety of the Western literary tradition, and if you have any extra time, throw in the Eastern.”

Also from the Paris Review, this quote is Jim Harrison responding to an interviewer’s question, “Do you have any advice for younger writers?” Personally, I adapt Harrison's advice away from the concept of a Western-Eastern literary world, but I still find Harrison’s underlying message to be powerful: it’s your obligation as a writer to know the entire literary landscape. It’s an impossible task, of course, but if you’re stricken by writer’s block, don’t worry, reading is just as important as writing. As Harrison says, “how can you write well unless you know what passes for the best in the last three or four hundred years?”

When to Write?

by Evan J

By Evan J

Part of learning how to write is learning how to schedule your creative time. Some people need an unchanging writing regimen. Others thrive on unpredictability. So: what days and what times are best?

Writing is a tough profession, and the only way to excel at it is to work at it every single day. For some people, that means writing every day of the week. But I interpret this advice differently and suggest writing only five days a week.

Regardless of whether it’s five or seven, this quantity of writing offers several benefits: it keeps the creative mind strong and active, it exposes thinking trends or writing patterns that you might not even know you possessed, and it delivers content in bulk. Ever wonder how some writers publish a new book every year? It’s because they write every day.

But like an athlete, I believe rest days are just as important as active days. Two days off from writing per week allows you to reflect on ideas without the pressure to create, and allows you to explore other artistic disciplines. Continuing with the athlete metaphor, exploring other artistic disciplines is like cross-training. You become a better runner by also cycling or swimming. You become a better writer if you also practice dance or spin pottery.

As for the best time of day for writing, the science says to write in the morning when the brain is fresh and most optimistic. This is the time when I schedule the bulk of my writing. But my other favourite time to write is during what I call the margins of the day.

Inevitably, everyone’s day has little breaks, little one-to-five-minute moments of waiting (at the bus stop, lined up at a store, in the washroom), and it’s then that I like to create. This is a wonderful way to write because it: offers you about one extra hour of total writing time each day, it allows you to keep a creative idea working in your head throughout the entire day, and the immediacy of the world is better infused into your writing because of your proximity to speech, emotions, movement, etc.

I’ve come up with a useful little phrase: “you can’t write if you don’t write.” It’s blunt, uncomfortably simple, and a truth that I often tell myself. There can be no excuses. Nobody can do it for you. So if your life is busy, you still have to find a way to make writing a priority. But how? Tommy Orange, Octavia E. Butler, and many other great authors made sure to get up extra early, we’re talking 4 a.m., to jam in a few hours of writing before a busy daytime life. When my life gets busy, I create a meticulous full-day schedule, plopping tasks into 30-minute chunks, and I make sure 60 minutes of writing and 60 minutes of editing are always allotted. 

Four Tips for Rural Writers

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

In a previous article, I wrote about the literary opportunities available for city dwellers vs. rural residents. I declared, truthfully, that living in a city offers significantly more prospects. But if you’re an aspiring writer living rurally and moving to a city is out of the question, here’s a list of tips specific to rural writers that will help advance your craft. 

(To clarify, when I use the word “writer” in this article, I’m talking about the writer who wants to connect with the literary community and wants to share their writing with a bigger audience. I’m not talking about the genius or hermit writer that inherently knows what is perfect literary art and produces it without any editors or feedback [ie. Emily Dickinson]. I’m also not talking about the familial writer whose only literary aspirations are to produce work for friends and family.)

1. Find or create a digital community.

Writing is a solitary act, but the craft is a communal one. Writers need other writers for proofreading, for criticizing, for asking craft-based questions, and for providing pressure. So if you don’t yet have a set of literary friends, it’s time to acquire them. Thankfully, the pandemic has evened the befriending playing field since the majority of literary events are now online. Look nationally, look globally, and start attending online literary events. How do you meet other like-minded writers? Writers guilds often host casual online meet-and-greets for this exact purpose. Otherwise, attend some online readings, read at some digital open mics. The key here is to put yourself out there, comment verbally or in the chatbox, and see who gives you feedback. If you like the feedback, start a conversation. And if, eventually, you feel comfortable, start sharing your work. 

2. Embrace your locale.

The literary industry is flooded with city-centric perspectives, so if you’re willing to write about the specificities of your particular rural location, you’ll likely turn some heads.

3. Read widely. 

Read a variety of genres by a diversity of authors. Rural living is no excuse for being ill-informed of the world’s changes. While it’s not vital to know current politics (though it can be very useful for some writers and topics), writers must know the general social interests, sympathies, and hostilities of the reading populous and publishing world. For example, whatever your enviro-political views, if you’re going to write faithfully about tar sands, it’s helpful to know that Albertans generally have more sympathy for the oil industry than, say, Californians.

4. Connect with other local rural artists.

Isolation can be dangerous, so talking face-to-face with other artists is an important component of maintaining your creative and mental health. If you have no other local artistic friends, visit your local library, rec centre, seniors centre, or gift shop and start conversations with owners and patrons. Look for already existing flyers or advertisements promoting local artists, and then invite them for a coffee. If you still can’t find anyone, start your own Facebook Group or make a poster advertising a casual meetup for artists.

New Ways for Poets to Get Paid

by Evan J

Photo by Evan J

It’s no secret that it’s near impossible to make any significant money as a poet. There are arguably only five poets in Canada that actually bring home the bacon from poetry book sales. Personally, as a professional poet, when I audit my most financially lucrative years, I’m still not making anything more than $5,000 a year, and that includes grants. Yet it seems that other artists (musicians, photographers, filmmakers, culinary artists), even enthusiastic, emerging ones, can earn a living wage by their craft. 

While the internet falsely suggests that it’s possible to get by as a professional working poet, I have yet to find any inventive answers for how to do so. Poetry book sales, public readings, literary journals, and contest winnings are all fun, but they don’t pay the bills. So I assessed the market and came up with three unexplored opportunities for poets to potentially make some significant money. If you are keen to work exclusively as a poet, to earn your life’s primary dollars by using your artistic craft, I believe you might be able to do so by exploring these three options.

1. Connect with large organizations.

For-profit, non-profit, committees—really any organization in any industry that has enough money for advertising and conferences. Large organizations are often looking for new and unique media content. Sometimes they’re looking to supplement the opening hour or keynote speech at a conference. Sometimes they have a community engagement wing you didn’t know about. For any of these reasons, it’s not unheard of for a large organization to consider commissioning a poet to create and record applicable poetry. Of the poets that do find these gigs, the slam poets significantly outnumber the page poets, so having a knack for performance can go a long way, further than awards or publishing credentials. Regarding how to connect with these organizations, it’s both a numbers game and a quality game. You’ll have to connect with hundreds of organizations, sell yourself well, and have recorded examples at the ready. Having a family or friend connection to the organization can help you through the front door.

2. Document weddings.

Wedding organizers are often willing to hire musicians and photographers without ever questioning the thousand-dollar price tag. Consequently, there might be an opportunity to convince the happy couple that their special day also deserves to be documented poetically. Picture this: a home’s hallway decorated with a set of picture frames, each frame filled with an elegant poem, every poem glorifying and defining that special wedding day. Like beginner photographers, you’d need examples and a healthy social media presence. You’d have to complete a few discounted wedding gigs to help acquire example material and testimonials. 

3. Offer programming for seniors.

When poets think about community programming opportunities, the list usually starts at libraries and ends at grade schools. Yet this completely disregards the other end of the age range. Facilities that provide entertainment and care services to adults and seniors (seniors centres, adult learning centres, supportive housing, retirement communities, retirement homes and independent living facilities, assisted living facilities, nursing homes) are often looking for programming from external sources. At these locations, musicians, theatre companies, crafting professionals, and visual artists regularly offer weekly entertainment sessions. There is no reason a poet could not also provide a regular reading or creative writing session.

#PoetryPaidMe

by Evan J

Photo by Evan J

Nisha Patel, an award-winning spoken word poet and Edmonton’s current Poet Laureate, recently used the hashtag #PoetryPaidMe in a series of social media posts that publicized her billable rates for poetry-related undertakings—performances, commissions, mentoring, etc. While this in itself is significant, what is more significant are the high prices she charges, and her justification for these prices, (rightfully) based on her expertise. The posts promote the need for the artistic community to have several necessary and overdue public conversations about the financial value of poetry, specifically about how poorly most poets get paid for their work.

Without getting too much into the history of arts funding and the Canadian public’s complex relationship with poetry, here is some background to poetry’s financial side. Here’s what happens before a poet gets paid: 

For various reasons, publishers don’t make enough from sales. Consequently, they need money to survive, so they ask politically funded arts councils and (more fruitlessly) private donors for help. Politicians then decide how much (or, more accurately, how little) money to give these arts councils. Arts councils get some money, then hand a chunk of it down to publishers, who in turn distribute it amongst their (also underpaid) staff and authors. When the process is complete, a poet will make on average $40 for a poem published in a literary journal. For better context, after writing, thinking, editing, proofing, and submitting, poets are paid less than $5 an hour.

What this financial breakdown shows, and what Patel is reminding us, is that this system is obviously broken. While the last thing I want to do is degrade poetry by demanding it fit better into a capitalist box (to talk money and poetry in the same sentence is loathsome enough), proper financial compensation is a conversation that needs to happen. Most poets in Canada would indeed practice their craft for free (and most already do), but this should not be the reality for such an important pillar of Canada’s artistic community.

How to solve this problem is the big question, and I don’t have the answer yet. Literary journals, book publishers, and arts councils are also feeling the financial crunch. But passively accepting $40 per poem just because it’s the going rate, well, I don’t think that’s going to help. What might help, for starters, is if more pressure is applied to every level where money changes hands. Poets, like other artists, should be demanding equitable pay, if not more, from the entire industry. Many poets are experts in their artistic field, and, regardless of how the grant money is distributed in Canada, they deserve to be paid accordingly.

Additionally, the flourishing poetry community should, like Patel, start conversations about financial compensation. The quantity and diversity of poets are both growing fast, and it would be wonderful if these poets could converse with all parties—other poets, arts organizations, writers’ unions, festivals, other artists, etc.—about these issues. And in those conversations, real numbers should be thrown around and considered. It would be wonderful to see a variety of charts—maybe even using the charts from Patel’s posts as the templates —that offer equitable financial rates for all the activities poets are asked to undertake.

Even if it’s plainly visible how little money is currently involved in poetry, and even if it’s disheartening to see the publishers already so strapped for cash, more money will never appear and poets will never be paid appropriately until the poets themselves start to demand it.

*Evan J is an independent, contributing writer for Cloud Lake Literary. As of this publication date, Cloud Lake Literary does not have any form of public funding or grants. We follow industry standards and pay our writers and artists out of our own (volunteer) pockets alongside any advertising and subscriptions we can obtain and still run at a deficit. We recognize and believe that all poets, writers, and artists should be paid (and paid well) for their time and skill. Always seek payment for your work.

Tools for Your Editing Toolbox

by Evan J

photo by Evan J

My last article offered advice on why and how to proofread your submission. Now I want to switch to the step before proofreading—editing your work—and offer some tools to help improve your content. Here are three instructions to add to your editing process.

Check for accuracy.

Real objects and lifelike characters can be powerful tools in a narrative. They can draw the reader in through their relatability. But a mistake in this area can completely kill a creative work. So take the time and check all of your names and objects for accuracy and credibility. Watch out for anachronisms. Google everything. If your protagonist is a First Nations Chief from Manitoulin Island, they had better have an Anishinaabe name, not a Dene or Stó:lō one. If your characters are going hunting for moose, they had better bring something bigger than a .22 calibre rifle.

Trim your work.

If you’ve ever taken a writing class, the teacher has probably explained (usually via an inappropriately morbid metaphor) the need to cull the excess content from your work. Some people suggest editing out 5 percent, others say 50 percent. And while I’m not about to throw my hat in the ring with these useless numbers, I do agree that it is a vital step to clean the dirt from your work. For most writers, locating your work’s real meaning takes many tries. We often use writing as a chisel, each written line digging towards that core idea. When we finally reach the core, we have layers of debris—unrelated lines, redundant lines. It can be difficult to delete these lines: maybe they’re a reminder of all the work it took to reach the core, maybe the line concerns some topic that you’re emotionally connected to, or maybe the line just sounds amazing! But in the end, no matter the shape or smell of that dirt, it is still dirt, still an obstruction, and it must be removed. Your readers want and deserve a clear path to your core idea.

Let the work sit unread.

Every time you read through your own work your eyes and brain get used to the order of the words. They stop questioning why you wrote what you wrote, and they start skipping sections without you even noticing. To fix this problem at the editing stage, it’s best to give the work a break. There is, of course, no specified break time for every brain, but the longer you can give it before returning to the work, the better. Deadlines are usually the main restriction that limits how much time you can let a piece sit unread. But as a golden rule, start your writing well before the deadline with the expectation of letting the work sit once or twice before you submit it. I let the first draft of this article sit unread for a week before returning to finish it. For poetry and short fiction, I often let them sit unread for two or three weeks before returning.

The Little Errors That Ruin a Submission

by Evan J

photo by Evan J

In a previous article I said, “distribute your energy appropriately, get the details correct, but focus your time on the content.” However, as I read my umpteenth submission, I’m recognizing that “the small stuff” is, understandably, not obvious to new writers. Therefore, let me explicate that phrase and then reveal what the little errors are and how to fix them. 

I begin reading every submission with an open mind. I want to respect the submission, to fall in love with its content—but I also need the submission to respect me, to let me focus on the content. Errors do not let the reader focus. They are distracting.

When I find an error, my focus is cut in half. One half is still attentive to the content. But the other half is counting mistakes and estimating how much work it would take to fix the piece. With every error, half of my mind thinks: Is this a one-off problem, or should I expect more disruptions? Will there be so many errors that we won’t have time to fix them, even if the content is good? If this author can’t get the punctuation right, will the major techniques like plot also contain errors? These are not questions that you want surrounding your work, so respect your work and the submission reader by doing a thorough proofread before submitting.

How to proofread:

Find a way to print out your work and make edits on paper; the proofreading eye catches many more errors on the printed page. Then read it through very, very slowly. Read out loud. Question every spelling, every punctuation use, every everything. Then read it backwards, one sentence at a time; a backwards reading helps catch what you skimmed over accidentally. When you’re done, fix the mistakes, then print it out and repeat this process. Always aim for perfection.

The little errors to fix:

Evict every double space. Left-justify your prose. Make every straight quotation mark a curly quotation mark (' vs. “). Catch every spelling variation and verify that it’s appropriate to the national spelling of the place you are submitting (L vs. LL, O vs. OU, ER vs. RE endings, etc.). Double-check your verb tenses. And unless the guidelines say otherwise, just use Times New Roman, 12-point font. Funky fonts will not magically make your submission better. 

A trick of the trade:

 The last thing you should do before submitting your work is run it through the free Grammarly online software. Don’t take every piece of advice that it gives because it doesn’t quite understand creative writing, but do investigate what it underlines to help catch any remaining mistakes. Errors are clever and can find their way into your work when you least expect them.

Now that you’ve been educated about little errors, do your darndest to avoid them.

Urban Literary Hubs vs. Rural Living

by Evan J

photo by Evan J

I’ve lived in big cities, hustling the emerging writer’s hustle, and I’ve lived in a small town without a literary event for 400 kilometres. Through these experiences, I’ve learned a few truths. I’ve learned that the term “literary hub” is appropriate, that literary opportunities (jobs, editor positions, conferences, festivals, secret holiday parties in the Coach House attic) most often occur in the city. I’ve learned that urban literary culture can be dangerous to your mental health if you’re not careful; the inundated event schedules, the literati’s ostensible snobbery, the lack of jobs and overall lack of pay, the expensive cost of living, and the critics have spoiled more than one passionate young writer. I’ve learned that the stress of the urban literary culture, as well as the overall stress of urban life, dwindles when you leave the city. But I’ve also learned that literary opportunities dwindle the further a writer is distanced from an urban centre.

If you’re trying to learn about the industry, maybe by getting an editing job to help hone your editing skills, or by searching for a mentor, then the bustle of an urban literary community offers the best chances. Though it is possible to achieve these goals while living rurally, you’ll probably be making all of your connections online because of a lack of local events (Sioux Lookout had a total of one literary event in 2019). On the other hand, the literary hubs (Toronto, Vancouver, Montreal) offer literary events every night, and before COVID (and hopefully after) this meant endless opportunities for connecting in person with established authors and editors. These gatherings are vital for those writers who need external motivation to write. Presenting your work, talking about literature over a coffee, having friends expect to read/hear your new work—these motivators are essential for many writers, and it can be difficult to create a dynamic community like this if you’re the only serious writer in your little remote town.

On the other hand, if you’re looking to cull life’s distraction and maximize your writing time, a rural life might help. Rural lifestyles have less audible and visual noise, and although these noises can sometimes be useful (I once won a literary award for a poem about the noise of a Toronto subway station), escaping them can be therapeutic. There is also a chance that if you live rurally your cost of living will be less expensive, which might free up some writing time (cheaper mortgage = less money needed = employment less necessary = more free time = more writing). But the stresses of household chores, familial obligations, and commutes exist everywhere. It doesn’t matter if you’re living rurally or in an urban location, it’s up to you to carve the necessary time into your day to write. The location of the writer doesn’t matter.

Will living rurally help you become a better writer? Probably not, though it might offer a little less stress. Will living in an urban literary hub help you become a better writer? Probably yes, as long as you’re careful and take advantage of the opportunities.

Erupting from the Submissions Pile

by Evan J

photo by Evan J

Writers who haven’t worked or volunteered for a literary journal or magazine (colloquially “lit mag”) are at a disadvantage because they haven’t witnessed the submission and selection process first hand. This article is here to fix that. First, you’ll get a rundown of how the submission and selection process usually happens. Second, you’ll get a few tips to help liberate your work from the pile.  

Depending on the lit mag, your submission is likely pushed into a pile with 50–500 other submissions. A team of readers now tackles the job of sorting the pile into no-ways and maybes, usually at a rate of 5–10% for the latter. (It’s worth noting that these readers are usually volunteers, sometimes highly skilled writers and editors, sometimes undergrad students just entering the literary field. Sometimes they are reading for only one short week-long period when the submission window closes, and sometimes they are reading all year round.) Next, these 10% of maybe submissions are read by a senior editor and further refined down to about 5%. Depending on the magazine, the final 5% are either accepted, or passed on to an editorial board of professional writers, which completes the final selection. When the dust settles, lit mags accept about 1–5% of submissions, and between three to twelve staff have judged the work.

Now that you know the process and can see how tough it is to make it through all the cuts, here are three points of advice to help your work better run the submission and selection gauntlet. 

Submission guidelines are often long and boring reads, but there are two recurring requests worth underlining. First, lit mags want you to know their vibe by having read the recent issues. Second, lit mags want to be surprised, thrilled, shocked, captivated, etc. What they are saying is that they want to remember you, to have your metaphors cut them off in traffic, to hear your voice in their waffles during Sunday brunch with grandma. The trick for achieving this? Actually reading the recent issues. When you’re done that, submit something appropriately alternative. And by appropriately alternative I mean something that pushes the editors’ minds, not something they’d have to change their layouts and readership to publish. The Literary Review of Canada just doesn’t have the space to publish a long poem. Brick’s audience isn’t down for your essay punctuated with eggplant emojis. 

Next, do the details right, but don’t belabour the small stuff. While there have been times when I’ve rejected a good piece because numerous punctuation and spelling errors made it too confusing to read, there have been more times when I’ve accepted a piece with small errors because the content was brilliant. While errors are indeed distracting and give the impression that you aren’t serious about your craft, many lit mags are willing to fix small mistakes if the content is worthy. So distribute your energy appropriately, get the details correct, but focus your time on the content. Good content remains paramount.

Finally, remember that lit mag editors are real people. Their preferences are personal and changing and completely out of your control. You can submit beautiful, unique, powerful, blunt, relevant writing, and the editors still might not connect with it. And it’s nobody’s fault. It might take two or three or twenty submission attempts until your work finally aligns with the editors’ minds. All you can do is improve your craft and play the numbers game by submitting again.

Note that the comments and views expressed in this article are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect Cloud Lake Literary’s opinions or thoughts.

Are Literary Journals Still Important?

by Evan J

Photo by Evan J

The main critiques of literary journals are: that they are too niche, that their readership is too small to remain culturally relevant, and that the state-sponsored funding that props them up is a waste of taxpayer money. If you agree with the above critiques, you are probably missing the point of literary journals. And that point is community.

It’s true, sales of Canadian literary journals are so low that their operation relies primarily on financial donations, operating grants, and volunteers. But measuring the value of literary journals by sales alone is like measuring the value of a library simply by how many books are withdrawn. Literary journals, like libraries, offer a whole lot more than casual reading.

For starters, emerging artists rely on them. Literary journals are a writer’s first proving ground. Having work published in a journal means that it has been vetted by professional editors and has risen above the other submissions—a major accomplishment, considering the healthy volume of submissions that literary journals receive. This vetting process is also relevant to many grant applications catering to emerging writers. Typically, grants require applicants to have a minimum number of pieces published by literary journals before applying, meaning that publication in literary journals adds literal value to a writer’s future. ­And behind all of these facts lies credibility and confidence, qualities vital to the growth of emerging writers. Qualities that literary journals provide.

Granting bodies such as the Ontario Arts Council (OAC) also rely on literary journals for grant distribution. Literary journals, like most magazines, inherently foster editors. With the sheer quantity of submissions that they must sort and vet, these editors have a keen knowledge of writing quality and writing trends. The OAC utilizes this expertise by partnering with literary journals in order to help distribute their Recommender Grants for Writers. 

The vetting process is also professionally important for the administrative and professional sides of the literary community. Book publishers, literary agents, festival organizers, anthologizers, and other literary professionals are reading literary journals, scanning for quality, remembering names, and surveilling trends. I’m not saying that publishing in literary journals will get you an agent, a book deal, and a national reading tour. But if you’re hoping for your manuscript to emerge from the slush pile, the exposure of your name and work in a literary journal can increase your chances.

As for the readership of literary journals, yes, it is small. But it is not irrelevant. The readership is largely made up of other writers and academics. These are people connected to artistic and intellectual communities around the world, and literary journals are a means of idea communication within and between these communities.

While the financial arguments for literary journals are admittedly poor, most journals still do pay honorariums to their contributors, and employ one or two managing editors as well. These are people undertaking their dream jobs of working with words every day, even if it is for poverty-line wages.

There is also an argument for the creation of indirect jobs and job training. The creation of a magazine requires submission readers, proofreaders, layout designers, website designers, content editors, and administrative support. Some larger, more financially solvent literary journals pay a team of freelancers to fill these roles. Most small literary journals complete these tasks with a team of volunteers, people passionate about literature and willing to learn these important skills. For this latter group, literary journals exist as a place to learn, and a place to test the publishing industry before dedicating themselves to education programs or careers. They are also a place for learners to make connections with established authors and editors, and acquire references that are essential for job, post-secondary, mentorship, residency, and grant applications.

Lastly, it’s important to note that literary journals don’t just publish an issue and then call it a day. Literary journals are also physically involved in the community. Most host launch parties where authors gather to read and support one another. Some of the larger literary journals sponsor live events like interviews, panels, and festival events with their editors and/or contributors. Many run literary contests. Several of them host regular writing workshops in the local community. Effectively, literary journals create the moments when literary correspondence, friendships, and even future mentorships begin. These are moments that define community.

So yes, literary journals are very important.

Another Scrivener vs. Word Debate

By Evan J

Photo by Evan J

Scrivener vs. Word. Who cares? You do! You’re the writer, the genius with that masterpiece idea bouncing around upstairs. But along with your brilliance comes responsibility. You must consider how best to transfer your knowledge from brain to digital page. The question then becomes: what word processing software is best for you?

For those who don’t already know, Scrivener is word processing software designed specifically for novelists. It launched in 2007 and has become a preferred writing software because of one major feature: organization. The program houses all of your files—from chapters to setting descriptions to research—in one accessible workspace. Navigating between files is simplified by having a list of files and folders directly beside your primary writing screen. The rearrangement of scenes and chapters is drag-and-drop easy. The interface is not littered with endless formatting options that you’ll never use. The entire program is visually clean.

The downside? Unlike big tech companies that offer in-house cloud services (OneDrive, iCloud, Google Drive), if you’re using Scrivener and want to flip-flop from computer to cellphone, you must save your files to a file-hosting service such as Dropbox. While this extra step works seamlessly for most users, the use of an additional external program has confused some of the less tech-savvy users.

That’s Scrivener in a nutshell. Then there’s Microsoft Word, the word processing monarch. 

Word has been around for over thirty years, is the world’s leading word processing software, and is designed for handling nearly all text-based projects—essays, cover letters, pamphlets, you name it. And that’s probably Word’s best quality: versatility. It has a feature for everything.

If we’re talking about purchasing cost, you probably already own Word. It’s that popular. You’ve also probably been using it for years. There will be no learning curve here, no time dedicated to finding a comfort level in some new software.

Word is also the preference for poets. Of course, Scrivener can be used for all creative writing, including poetry, but the reality is that most magazines and book publishers still want your poems formatted with Word-specific guidelines. By just sticking with Word in the first place, you'll save time by avoiding the task of reformatting.

However, organization is key to novel writing and it can get pretty difficult to keep track of all the Word files you’re using. It’s by no means impossible to do this, but since your scenes, sketches, and research are often saved as single Word files in various folders, there will inevitably be writing sessions where you spend more time trying to find the correct file than actually writing your book.

Finally, it’s worth noting that both of these programs cost money. If you’re starting with a new computer and can only afford one word processing software, the everyday utility of Word is the way to go. But if you’re a dedicated novelist and are willing to give Scrivener a shot, you’ll likely be impressed with the investment. And if neither Word nor Scrivener float your boat, you can always give the Ulysses software a shot. Or a typewriter.

A Battle as Old as the Keyboard

Photo by Evan J

By Evan J

Begin with conflict and your reader will be hooked. I believe in this writing concept and therefore, to begin my blogging residency for Cloud Lake Literary, I begin with a fight. It’s a battle as old as the keyboard. It’s the question of a writer’s preference: handwriting or typing?

This debate contains some science. The act of handwriting, of using a pen to place text on a page, requires multiple brain functions. The brain must manage grip, align your body, and respond to the texture of pen and paper. It must remember how to create letters and then, as with typing, it must translate ideas into lines of readable language. While these layers of mental multi-tasking might feel like unneeded extra stress and you might be already be shuffling towards Team Keyboard just wait a sec. It’s not stress. It’s brain exercise. And like the body, exercise makes the brain stronger. It makes the brain more nimble and therefore more fit to access memories, facts, and skills.

In fact, science goes a step further. Many studies have shown how any exercise (of the body or brain) improves the brain’s creative capacity. The brain’s creative functioning peaks during and immediately after physical exercise. So take your hand for a walk across the page whenever possible. Better yet, take your legs for a walk and then put pen to paper. I promise that your sacrifice of time will be rewarded with better writing quality. Ondaatje still handwrites his novels three times before they ever meet a keyboard (I’ve regrettably never asked him how often he takes a stroll).

However, as much as science backs the connection between creativity and the pen, many of us just don’t have enough time in a day to be adding any extra steps. If your work is for public readership, you will always (eventually) have to type it up. There is not a publisher, a magazine, or a journal alive today that will accept your handwritten submission (unless you are a calligraphy poet like H. Masud Taj, in which case the keyboard is replaced by nib and ink). So when you already have a nine-to-five job, a family to care for, and/or more looming writing deadlines than you can shake a stick at it’s understandable to place handwritten first drafts on the chopping block. 

Furthermore, computers offer editing abilities that handwriting just can’t mimic. As a poet, my creations are always evolving. Like a de Kooning painting, my poems are often reworked until they no longer resemble the original poem in any way - and I love this process. I love how quickly I can make a monstrous change and then dislike the change and revert back. In every version, the poem on the screen looks finished and I can assess it without the editing marks of past versions. It’s a process only possible with a keyboard and computer.

So which is it for you? Handwriting or typing?