Weighing in on 4 sci-fi tropes: crime against writing or pet peeve?

Thanks for reading the Sentient Rejection Letter! Each week I’ll share an update from my life writing and publishing fiction, discuss a speculative fiction trend, and talk about my favorite recent story. Let’s go!

When is a story finished?

Sometimes when a story is rejected, I’ll revisit it, and make some revisions. I’m trying to stop this. Not because my artistic vision and confidence have been shaken by a form rejection but because it shouldn’t be so easy to improve the story at this stage. 

I’ve found that I’ve finished a story when I can only make lateral changes to it. If you can spot a piece of sloppy exposition, a structure problem, or a typo, those are easy fixes. They unquestionably improve your story and you should have made them before you submitted them for publication. When you’re not sure if you’re improving a story or just making it different, it’s a good sign to hold put.

Lately, I’ve been getting into the habit of holding my story a little longer than I think is necessary, just in case. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you’ll never truly know why a story was rejected—even if you “score” a coveted personal rejection letter—but it sure helps to know it’s not because a character named Lance changes his name to Yul halfway through the story without explanation.

You’re not as clever as you think you are: valid criticism or personal peccadillo?

In this section, I talk about the intricacies of submissions guidelines for various markets. I love submissions guidelines; they’re no substitute for reading a publication, but they can be helpful for alerting you to preferences that aren’t initially obvious.  

Occasionally, a market will call-out a “story sin” I’ve committed, and I’ll sheepishly realize they have a point—hence the name of this section. Other times, it’s just a matter of taste. So how do know when you should remove this element (or entire story) from submissions to this market exclusively or to ditch the habit altogether? Today, we’re playing “them or me?” I’ll share some submissions guidelines and weigh in as the ultimate arbiter of truth. Let’s go:

Metaphorosis: “Present tense: I see a lot of stories written in the present tense. Most of them don’t benefit from it. Think about why you’ve chosen the tense; unless you have a good reason, you’re probably better off in the past. (Weren’t we all?)”

While Metaphorosis isn’t the only market to share this opinion, this is a clear-cut case of taste. I’ve seen a lot of incredible stories told in the present tense, and it doesn’t bother me aesthetically. Like a lot of entries on submissions guidelines, they’ve earned a spot from misuse by junior writers. I genuinely believe writers without a good hold of grammar use present tense sometimes to avoid using the past perfect incorrectly.

To Metaphorosis’ credit, even here, they’re only advising caution and due diligence. In fact, they’ve even published stories in the present tense. It can and should be done, just do it well.

Verdict: Use responsibly

Clarkesworld: “stories about young kids playing in some field and discovering ANYTHING. (a body, an alien craft, Excalibur, ANYTHING).”

Examples like this illustrate why reading a lot is so important. Every writer—and especially, every science fiction writer—has had a brilliant idea only to discover it has been done better twenty times already. Most of the time you write a story like this, it’s because you didn’t realize what a well-tread subject it is. Of course, there are exceptions. I personally love to invoke tropes to subvert expectations, but it’s vital that if you do this, your story is in a conversation with its heritage and using it for effect. Just like an undercover cop who's in too deep, it can be difficult for editors (or yourself) to distinguish the difference between a hardened criminal and someone pretending to be one for effect. Unless you have a really good reason, I have to side with Clarkesworld on this oddly specific take.

Verdict: Stay away from the cornfield, Jimmy

Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores: “robots with feelings”

This is obviously a matter of preference—I’ve read acclaimed stories in the last year that explore this theme, but I can’t say I entirely disagree. I think this subject has been done to death, and I wouldn’t mind if all writers collectively agreed to put it in the penalty box for two years to give it some time to breathe. But stories that fall into this camp will almost certainly not be penalized at most markets.

Verdict: Fine to use, but maybe don’t, just because I’m asking you nicely

SFWA/F&SF: The Jar of Tang “For you see, we are all living in a jar of Tang!” or “For you see, I am a dog!” A story contrived so that the author can spring a silly surprise about its setting. Mainstay of the old Twilight Zone TV show. An entire pointless story contrived so the author can cry “Fooled you!” For instance, the story takes place in a desert of coarse orange sand surrounded by an impenetrable vitrine barrier; surprise! our heroes are microbes in a jar of Tang powdered orange drink.”

This classic article was written in 2009, but it is as relevant as ever. F&SF still links to it in their submissions guidelines for good reason. You’d be well-advised to avoid almost every example included in their long list of rookie mistakes, but this example feels especially insightful. I love a clever surprise, but it’s too common that the writer is not as clever as they think they are. I still see stories like this published all the time in Pro markets, but you’d still be best off to avoid them.

Verdict: Be better, you knucklehead.

My favorite story I read this week:

“Informed Consent Logs from the Soul Swap Clinic”—Sarah Pauling, Clarkesworld

“TECHNICIAN: Um. Fairly. C-can you tell me about any reservations you have regarding the procedure?

BLUE: Probably what I’m most, like, nervous about—besides learning how to walk again [laughs]—is that my new body’s neural pathways won’t be developed right for engineering work. Not that I work since getting married. But you know. I like keeping up with nanomaterials and stuff.”

The portion of my brain that reads speculative fiction is one jaded mofo. I am the grizzled cop who has lost too many rookie partners, the thrice divorced mother who expects her blind date to be a serial killer. When I see a “gimmick” in a story, I assume it will be terrible. If it uses a quirky narrative device or  if the premise sounds like a scifi-themed SNL skit, I begin reading with extreme prejudice. It’s all the more satisfying when I am proven completely wrong and find that said story rocks because it was written with intent and care by a talented writer. 

With “Informed Consent Logs from the Soul Swap Clinic,” Pauling pulls off many small miracles. The central conceit—as the title makes plain— is that the story is exclusively through “consent” conversations between a technician and two people swapping souls. 

The problem with these formats is that they can impose artificial limitations on the story you can tell as a writer. There’s information you should know as a reader, but it becomes awkward or implausible to share them through the confines of the story structure. What’s brilliant here is that this is used to the story’s advantage. Part of the fun and all of the mystery is piecing together the pieces that are happening off-scene. Pauling does a terrific job at preparing you for this moment through a whole host of narrative devices so that you are exactly on the right page when this moment comes. 

Other elements that can feel distracting or grating—like a character with a consistent stutter—are revealed to be essential to the story. I love it when the storyteller is smarter than I am. It’s a great feeling to think, Why would this character possibly do this? or How hasn’t the writer thought of this plothole? to discover that it was part of the design all along. 

Finally, all three characters start off flat (with purpose) and end up round and developed in under 2,000 words. Now you’re just showing off, Pauling. I salute you and I’m envious of you!

My only major criticism is that this gives me less plausible cover the next time I tell myself a rejected story was too bold or experimental for the outlet that rejected it.

Until next time

Thank you so much for reading—I mean it! I’d love to hear from you. Shoot me a comment, reach out to me at robertjmchughjr@gmail.com, or tweet at@SentientLetter to find me.