Several years ago, I reached a crossroads of sort in my writing career, caught between what came naturally and pushing myself into another direction entirely.
I’d written a book, in truth an earlier version of book one of Black Rose War which comes is finally due for release in 2014 after years of rewrites and re-imaginings.  This version, looking back on it now, was pedantic, the story all right, but nothing like what it could have been, but at the time I was incredibly proud of this adventure in a wonderland of my own creation.  I looked at the story, it had emotion and conflict, adventure and a touch of political drama, and, like so many fantasy pieces, existed in a world filled with medieval touches.  I sent the story off to a few publishers and agents, and quickly grew frustrated by the lack of interest, clearly they didn’t understand that all I needed was a chance.  When I finally found one willing to give me a chance, the fact that they worked with you to self-publish, offering only a guiding hand to help authors, I didn’t even smell the trap.  This isn’t an article about that though, I got out of it without losing a penny, and there are plenty of tales out there about the dangers of such dubious businesses.
What I did, during the brief window where I thought that version of Black Rose War was bound for publishing, is get the idea of writing several short stories set within the world I created as a kind of teaser for the series (an idea I’ve gone back to now that I actually really am on the verge of bringing them out with Neverland Publishing next year).  I wrote four or five stories, all of them actually connected in some way with the main tale, though set hundreds and occasionally thousands of years before.  I started sending these stories out, brimming with the confidence of youth and absolutely certain that my big break was only a few weeks away.  Nope, it sure wasn’t.
I got a series of rejections back instead of the enthusiastic acceptances I expected, but one in particular changed my life.  The man or woman who wrote this little letter didn’t sign it, just put the magazine’s letterhead at the bottom, so I can’t even name them, but they did more for me with a few lines than they intended or I even realized at the time.  “There is nothing in this inventive or creative, it’s all a derivative of the same old fantasy stuff we’ve been reading for a hundred years.  We publish exciting new viewpoints, not rehashes of old stories.”
I was angry, and over the years I’ve learned that most editors do indeed pull their punches much better, and I probably caught this particular gentleman or lady on a very bad day, but in retrospect, I’m so glad I did.  I think I turned purple with rage, grabbing a bottle of something alcoholic and sitting on the couch just stewing with bitterness, telling the empty room how stupid they were, how they just didn’t understand, how I owned the story, and so what if it wasn’t weird and off the wall.  I could make a story as bizarre as they wanted, but without that human element it didn’t matter, no reader would connect with it.  Then I fell asleep, and through the night, waking in fits and starts, still upset but starting to contemplate what they said, I merged the two.  I went over the stories, and even the book, and spotted where I did let chances at letting my imagination fly get bogged down in rehashing what people expected because it clicked together so easily.  I let vista drift into the mundane, because…  I don’t really have an answer, even today.
I threw the story out, threw the book out even, and started over.  Now, more than half a decade later, when I send out my queries I get a very different response.
What I took away from that passionate rejection was nothing less than what became the central pillar of my entire career since then, push and challenge the reader and myself with every page of the story.  Whether it’s suddenly deciding in Where I’m Bound that my central character, a main of great dignity and principle, could become so contorted with hate he nearly kills a young kid, or in Kings of New York asking if a sociopath might start feeling something vaguely resembling friendship and what that might look like, or the grand imagination of stripping away governments and exploring space in a pure capitalist society in New Frontier, I try to always push, and imagine what that editor might say about the next story.  Not to sound too arrogant, which is rather difficult in an article like this, it’s not that I always succeed, not even the greats who tower above me always scored with every story, but I try every time, and I think over the years of pushing so hard, I’ve gotten so much better at this elusive and frustrating craft.
This small lesson sounds trite, almost obvious, but everywhere I turn these days, all of the message boards and groups, always talk about making a warm comfortable and inviting environment for writers.  I can’t speak to others, and they’re welcome to what works for them, but that’s rarely helped me, and I can find that with my friends, or in a conversation with my publisher.  What excites me far more is facing the criticism, scratching thick skin until it feels raw again, and coming back the next time determined to prove that I’m even better, whether it’s answer a book review critic or my own editor’s re-write demands.  Facing the litany of criticism also made me a braver writer, not just dismissing the naysayers, saying they didn’t get it, or they aren’t the audience for this, but listening, absorbing, and only then deciding if the words would change, or if they could go to hell.