Decisions, Decisions, Decisions
(the following is based on a presentation to the EnVision Writer’s Workshop in Brisbane, July 2003)
So far, I’ve selected fiction for four issues of Aurealis. All of it (hopefully) good. When I was asked to EnVision
to talk about what an editor looks for in a short story, it made me critically re-evaluate the fiction I’d chosen
for Aurealis issues #29 to #31. Every one of those stories had — for me — something special, and as I looked at
them again, I began to see some common themes arising.
As I told the EnVision Writer’s Group, I can’t claim to speak for all editors — in fact I’ve seen stories I’ve
rejected published in other magazines, and good luck to the authors concerned. It’s great to see writers
persevering and finding a market that’s right for their story. But what I plan to do here is provide some insight
into the editorial processes that take place within Aurealis — and I do believe some of this will be applicable
regardless of the magazine you end up submitting to.
The Aurealis submission process
Aurealis receives over 300 submissions a year. Subscriber submissions are ‘fast tracked’, i.e. go immediately to
the top of the reading pile, but all stories are judged on merit.
Aurealis isn’t looking for ‘name’ writers. We’re looking for good stories, regardless of who they’re from. A lot of
well-known writers today got their start in Aurealis, and we continue that focus of nurturing new talent.
I couldn’t get through 300 manuscripts and run the business side of Aurealis alone. Currently we have five readers,
most of whom have been with Aurealis for quite a few years. Manuscripts are distributed to them by the submissions
manager. We have a tick-and-flick response sheet with a space for comments. All sheets are returned via the
submissions manager, who checks them before sending rejected manuscripts and comments back to the writers. Our
focus is on positive feedback. We try to identify the story’s strengths (sometimes a hard task) and give specific
constructive advice on how — in our humble opinion — the story can be improved.
We’re not looking for a particular kind of story. Anything goes —a s long as it’s not sick or pornographic — and
with five readers we get a fair diversity of tastes and styles coming through in the selections.
Readers refer stories with potential to me for a final decision. If I need a second opinion, my associate editor
Sara Creasy provides me with another viewpoint I know I can trust. Occasionally I will request a rewrite, although
I always have to interrogate myself about my reasons for that—which leads me to the following warning…
A word of warning about editors
Contrary to popular belief, editors are human. And that means we can make mistakes, give wrong advice, and
generally make huge stuff-ups. So if you get a rejection from an editor and you don’t agree with his or her reasons
for rejecting your work — ignore it, throw it in the bin, and move on.
But before you do, take a little time to consider the remarks and see if there might be a modicum of truth there.
As I said, I really have to question my motives when giving advice on stories. It’s easy to say, ‘I’d do it this
way if it were me’, but it’s not my story, it’s someone else’s voice. However, there are a few things that every
story has to deliver on.
The basics
It’s fair to say a genre story would need to be very unusual indeed to be selected if it didn’t at least make a
good attempt at getting some of the basics right — characterisation, dialogue, setting, believability/ internal
logic, the entry point of the narrative, and length.
When looking at work, I’m particularly interested in real, believable characters — ordinary people in extraordinary
situations. This is supported not only by a believable set of emotional reactions that are used in a consistent
way, but also through dialogue that is real — i.e. incomplete, self-referential, and anything but stilted.
Setting is also an area of particular importance to the genre. Writers are creating imaginary worlds and times, and
you have to communicate those to the reader in a succinct and evocative way. Sometimes writers rely on the tropes
of the genre, the standard language and settings, to help readers — warp drive, castle keep, dungeon, etc. — and if
setting isn’t the focus of the story you can get away with it if the other aspects are well-realised. But where
setting is important, it’s crucial to do it well.
Coupled to this are believability and internal logic. Created universes have to be internally consistent. It’s
fairly obvious that if you set up a series of conventions, you must work within those — unless you come up with a
good enough reason for breaking the rules. When it comes to science-based stories, the detail you need to put in
has to be finely balanced. Enough to give the reader the idea — and the ability to infer probable causes and
effects — but not too much that it slows the pace of the story or becomes preachy or not relevant to the main
thrust of the plot. My own understanding of science comes from an early and sustained reading of Marvel comics. For
example, I know gamma radiation turns you green and gives you great pecs. I’m sure I’ve rejected science-based
stories as farfetched (even though they may actually be scientifically accurate) because the author hasn’t
sufficiently explained what I, as the reader, need to know in order to understand the concepts they are using.
Entry point is another common flaw. Some authors feel they need to do a fair bit up front to ‘set up’ the story
situation, but in terms of the short story I really prefer to dive right into the action. Tell me what I need to
know as the protagonist is jumping clear of the clutches of a dragon or powering up their disruptor banks for
another pass. If you haven’t caught the reader’s attention or posed a question in their mind in the first page,
you’re likely to lose them.
The final main point is length. We don’t publish anything under 2000 or over 8000 words — as a rule. I have
published longer pieces — ’On The Road to Ruin’ (Greg Guerin) in #31 is one example — but pieces that long really
need to be able to hold the attention and pace. I have published shorter pieces — ’A Nun’s Story’ (Helen Patrice)
and ‘The Last Monk’ (George Ivanoff) in #30 — but short shorts need to be incredibly well-written in terms of
conveying a lot of content, feeling and so on, in a very short space.
Another common problem area is lack of sufficient fantasy or SF elements. We are a fantasy and SF mag. I always
remember a line in Analog’s submission guidelines. I don’t know if it’s still there but it went something like — in
SF stories the SF element needs to be a central part of the story: try thinking of Frankenstein without the
science. The whole story would collapse without it.
My own personal quirks
As well as fixing up the basics, you also have to satisfy the market — in this case Aurealis, so this is where I
reveal some of my own personal foibles. Remember, these will vary from editor to editor and market to market — it’s
unfortunately the nature of the beast, but it also makes for magazines with very different flavours. I’d encourage
anyone thinking of submitting a story to a local mag to buy a few back issues — not only because as independent
press we need the money (and deserve the support), but because you will learn something of what is likely to sell
in that market.
I’ll give some idea of what guides my selection processes now, and back them with some examples of stories I’ve
selected for Aurealis issues #29 to #31.
The original(!) idea or Using the tropes in a new way
This is real bread and butter stuff. The speculative fiction genre, to my mind, engages the intellect of the reader
like no other.
In SF, for example, we project the reader forward into the future. Extrapolation and idea development is the key.
The most common form of this type of story posits a scientific development and plots the ramifications on society
at large or a defined social grouping. Normally this is told through the eyes of a protagonist who brings a human
element to the change or upheaval brought about. Think of Greg Bear’s Blood Music as a prime example of this type
of story. These kinds of stories are what got me interested in the genre in the first place, and it still gives me
chills when I come across a piece that has that smack of originality. Equally, the core proposition of the story
may not be all that original or even new, but the author’s portrayal breathes new life into it — which I think is a
pretty special skill in itself.
There are a number of Aurealis stories that fit this category. ‘Profit Motive’ (Steve de Beer, #31) is a hard
science story that also manages to create believable alien characters — the opportunistic crew of the good ship
Profit Motive — as well as spinning a tale of greed in a future where the corporations control everything. All very
entertaining, but the driving idea is the incredibly detailed and, apparently, scientifically valid method to soft-
land a huge ice comet in central Australia. The concept is as audacious as the story’s protagonist, and just as
well realised.
The idea of humans enhanced by cybernetic implants is a stock one in SF. But in ‘The Touch of Silk’ (#29), Robert N
Stephenson manipulated the tropes so well, creating in a very short space a complex social structure, a history for
that society spanning thousands of years and a battle for the hearts and minds of the people based on a mundane (to
us, at least) artefact used as proof of their origins. The way this central idea was revealed shocked me and made
me laugh at the same time. All of this was set as background to a fast-paced chase story where no one was as they
seemed. It was a godsend.
‘Lucy Lucy’(Shane M Brown, #29) takes the familiar concept of human cloning and projects us into a near future
where the majority of women have been killed by a fem-plague. To ensure the survival of the race, the surviving
women have been cloned tens of thousands of times. The story centres on one particular Lucy clone and extrapolates
out in all directions based on her point of view — for example, her hatred of being accosted by people because they
always think they know what Lucys like and are like, and her obsessive search through abandoned houses looking for
photographs and memorabilia of ‘real’ and ‘different’ pre fem-plague women. There’s a wealth of ideas here,
including the main thread that reveals the awful truth about Lucys — all internally consistent and well-written.
‘Wind Down’ (Trent Jamieson, #30) again takes familiar tropes but throws them together in new ways — eternal humans
who grow their bodies to suit any environment, living ships, the slow wait for the end of the universe. The central
premise contrasts these ‘alien’ elements of the future against a very human, and in its own way eternal, love story
of loss and acceptance. I think it was that very human element surviving millions of years after the heat death of
Earth that sold me on the story.
‘Reefer Madness’ (Patricia O’Neill, #31) stood out as a truly original — and bizarre — scientific idea. It revolves
around the creation of genetically modified humans who get fat on sunlight and actually metabolise carbon dioxide
from the environment. They’re the human equivalent of carbon sink forests and they get a government subsidy for
their trouble. One teenage girl rebels against her genetic heritage and seeks out illegal medical help to remove
the modifications. Given the characterisation and setting were solid, I accepted it almost instantly.
The transformational story
If the previous type of story engaged the intellect, this category of story speaks to our spiritual and emotional
side. Stories of this type show a character coming to a new understanding or making a discovery that results in
their ‘transformation’, or at least infers one past the end of the narrative. I think this is something that the
genre handles really well — and given many stories confront the protagonist with the alien or unknown, it’s
inevitable (unless the character is carved out of stone) that they undergo some kind of transformation as a result,
or come to a revelation about themselves or the nature of the universe around them. I really have a soft spot for
these stories because they’re messengers of the potential within human beings to change — they’re hopeful pieces
that (as I’ve said in a previous editorial) represent my personal touchstone for the essence of speculative fiction.
‘The Nun’s Story’ (Helen Patrice, #30) is a pure transformational story — and after it appeared in Aurealis, it was
listed by Ellen Datlow as an honourable mention in the Year’s Best Fantasy and Science Fiction. Sister Luke is a
young girl approaching adulthood, serving as assistant to her abusive father, a self-styled evangelist, toiling to
convert to Christianity a group of avian creatures on an alien planet. Sister Luke’s early childhood and the flight
(or possible murder) of her mother and siblings is very lightly handled through dream remembrances, which reveal
more to the reader than the poor girl seems to understand. It’s as if she knows something is wrong about her
situation, but doesn’t know what. She has too much faith in what her father tells her. But when she sees one of the
young avians grow its wings and begin to fly, she realises more on an instinctual level how right the avians’ way
of life is, how much she wants to be a part of that, and how sordid and earthbound her father’s own pretensions
really are. The story speaks on a real emotional level and as such it had a great strength that couldn’t be ignored.
‘The Touch of Silk’ (Robert N Stephenson, #29) also had a very strong transformational theme. Both the main
characters have on the surface come to the end of their usefulness, being unable to afford the upgrades that mean
their cyborg bodies can continue to serve those in power. Tasha is on the run from the Reclaimers and hooks up with
Henry, who is himself close to a total shutdown. But Henry has a secret that strikes at the very core of the ruling
faction’s belief system. When Henry is badly injured helping Tasha escape, he asks her to do what must be done to
preserve the truth. Her acceptance of this task and her promise to herself as she leaves is one of those moments in
fiction that evokes (at least for me) a strong emotional response. I still get goose bumps.
‘The Well of Waiting Souls’ (Mina Athanasopoulos, #30) has a large back story that is deftly handled without
slowing the pace. It also starts right in the action, which kicks it along from the first sentence. The story
concerns a second child being blighted by what appears to be a ‘family curse’. Isan is one of the Templars, spirit
singers who use their powers to heal, among other things. Isan has a complex history with the family, having failed
to save their first child years before and surrendering to an affair with the husband, Dash Jaspari. But the source
of the curse goes back even farther than that, and is tied to the genocide of an alien race by the child’s great
grandfather. Many of the characters confront ugly truths about themselves or their loved ones as the story
progresses and the family’s guilt is finally revealed during an exorcism to save the child. By this point we have a
deep understanding of Isan’s history and motivations. So much so that the shock we feel — when the narrative takes
a twist and she sacrifices herself to a visceral transformation — is quickly followed by the understanding that,
being the person she is, she had no other choice.
The well-written or ‘I just like it’ story
Yes, this is my catch-all category. But then nobody said story selection always has to follow logical rules.
Sometimes I find a story that’s well-written, well-paced and entertaining and, well, I just like it. The idea
behind it may not be particularly original or new even, but the way it’s told demands my attention. This is more to
do with the author as skilled storyteller than anything else. The pieces just flow so well, they’re hard to reject.
Being an editor means you can indulge yourself — so long as the consumer agrees with your taste. Adam Browne is a
real prose stylist. Some people don’t like his approach, but I always find his use of language entertaining,
humorous, and juxtaposed in such a way that it demands the reader think about what they’re reading. Luckily, enough
of the reading public agrees with me. We published ‘The Weatherboard Spaceship’ in #27/28 and it won an Aurealis
Award that year. It’s not to say that I haven’t rejected work by Adam — the story still has to meet the magazine’s
requirements and my own internal logic — but when all the elements I’m looking for are present, it’s pretty hard to
reject one of Adam’s pieces. The premise for ‘Space Operetta’ (#31) was to create the universe in an Aristotelian
model rather than a Copernican one. This has been thought of before, as Adam noted in a short piece he wrote to add
to the story in the mag, but Adam realised the idea so completely — conjuring up clockwork constellations and
populating the heavens with improbable ships plying a course to change zodiacal perturbations and affect the
destiny of nations — that the whole thing was an absolute joy to read.
A honeymoon couple on holiday at a seaside resort. The husband falls ill and seems to be in a coma. We discover he
has fallen victim to a camera that captures the soul of whoever is photographed by it. This sounds like a very
familiar story. And it was, but it was made much more unusual by the skilful characterisation of one Father Muerte,
the description of a very unusual holiday resort called Costa Satanas, and a supporting cast of colourful
characters — all of whom are more than they appear. Lee Battersby’s creation (‘Father Muerte and the Theft’, #29)
had great atmosphere — comfortable, entertaining and satisfying. While the main story may be mundane, he sets up
all sorts of questions in the mind of the reader about Father Muerte, Costa Satanas and the other inhabitants, and
provides some tantalising answers that leave you begging for more. This story just felt like an instant classic.
And since we published it, I’ve been badgering Lee to produce further instalments.
‘Catflap’ (Chuck McKenzie, #30) similarly had story elements that lovers of the genre would recognise instantly. A
cold war between Earth and a violent alien race is raging. Earth’s defences are impenetrable… until a greedy and
unprincipled entrepreneur negotiates a commercial opportunity and unwittingly allows the aliens to smuggle their
eggs onto Earth. Again, it was the perfect characterisation, the creation of the alien creatures, their complex
social and biological structure, and a lot of very funny dialogue that raised this story above the mundane and made
for an entertaining and satisfying read.
A word about rewrites
So I’ve explained some of my personal quirks regarding story selection. I’d like to expand a bit on rewrites.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m always very wary about suggesting rewrites. Firstly because you’re tampering with
someone else’s idea and you have to really question your motives for that. Secondly, by requesting a rewrite you’re
half-committing yourself to publishing the story if it’s fixed up in the way you suggest, so you have to be pretty
sure that the story — although not good enough at present — has the potential to be good enough.
To a certain extent, that goes to the capacity of the author. Generally with known authors, it’s a bit easier to do
this. They’ve been around the traps and they’ve probably had rewrite requests before and will be able to deal with
suggestions in a professional manner. Relatively inexperienced authors may need a bit more help and then you have
to question whether you really have the time to invest. Again that depends on the potential of the story. Of course
some authors may react quite badly to your suggestions. I haven’t experienced that directly yet, but at the back of
my mind is the thought that it’s just a matter of time.
To try and focus any thoughts I have of suggesting a rewrite, I look at a story structurally from the point of view
of a reader who has shelled out $12.50 for a copy of the mag. That helps me to see if the story drags in places, if
it explains enough but not too much so the reader understands and sees significance where they should but doesn’t
feel they’re being talked down to, and if the resolution is strong enough and ‘satisfying’ within the context of
what has gone before. If I can see structural faults, I’ll certainly highlight them, whether or not I request a
rewrite.
‘The Tower’ (Neil Halliday, #30) concerns a tourist trip to a huge alien artifact — a kilometres-high crystal tower
that defies all human engineering concepts. The story also mixes together quite effectively human remembrances of
the Tower of Babylon and Jacob’s ladder. It’s hard to explain, but the idea behind it was intriguing and we’ve
since had a lot of very positive comments about it. This was one instance where I requested a rewrite — on
structural grounds. As I said, the idea was strong and the writing was polished, but the original submission was
told in the second person — you this, you that — an interesting experiment, but it wasn’t working. I felt it would
be too jarring to the reader to hear ‘you feel this, you do that’ all the time, and they’d probably end up thinking
‘no, I don’t’ every time they came across it. The technique also meant we had limited access to the main
protagonist — you can’t easily reveal personal details about the character, because ‘you’ effectively already know
them. I made some comments, Neil took them on board and — at my encouragement — also took his time.
This, I think, is critical if you’re going to accept suggestions from other people. Your story is organic — it’s
developed over several rewrites prior to submission — and if you don’t take the time to let the external
suggestions grow into your work, and alter them in the process, then the ‘graft’ won’t take. In other words, rushed
changes will stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. Some months later, Neil resubmitted and the rewrite was
perfect — not only told in the third person, but also adding much more detail on the protagonist, which was crucial
since the nub of the story is the tower’s effect on the main character.
Conclusion
So there you have it, short story selection Aurealis-style. As I said in the beginning, every magazine is
different. At Aurealis, we look for a mixture of originality and good craft, and as you’d see there’s a fair bit of
subjectivity (guided, we hope, by sound knowledge of the genre and good judgement) in what finally makes it into
print.
What this all boils down to is three final pieces of advice to authors. Write what feels right for you — don’t
tailor your work to fit in with what you think is in an editor’s mind because it won’t be your best work. Know your
markets — know what’s likely to sell to which magazine. You can save yourself a lot of time that way. And finally,
never stop writing or submitting — good craft comes with practice, and good stories will always find a home.
Here’s to the future.
Keith
Copyright by Keith Stevenson © 2004