Terri and the others are lying. Shame on you, Dayton. "Just write." Really? Come on.
What pleasure do you get from this sort of thing? It's brutal.
Here is the truth of writing fiction. The real truth, without the varnish. It's not pretty so, if you are of the rainbow and unicorn persuasion, best to pop off now. There's a good lass. Or lad. Whatever. Just get out. This ain't for the squeamish.
They gone? Good. Okay.
Now then.
The truth of breaking into prose writing. Pay attention. I'm risking my life here.
The truth:
It's a complex system of favors and bribes that gets any writer into the driver's seat. Even for short stories.
Cash payments. Mule duties. Travel is usually involved. Martial arts training is helpful but only if you're REALLY proficient (otherwise you'll just get hurt worse). And it's good to have some training in field medicine. I'm just saying. Swallow knows what I mean.
But, before all that, there's Phil. (Yes, you craven bastards, I'm telling them about Phil. DEAL WITH IT.)
If you have any prayer of becoming a published writer, first you have find Phil (and he's a bastard for being in places you wouldn't think of). You have to find him and you have to convince him that you can come up with the necessary cash in the first, I think, four days. There's no set amount. I think he makes it up as he goes along. and it's always a LOT, usually something close to Everything You Have +.
Then if, IF he likes the cut of your jib (he says that a lot and I still don't know what the hell it means), he'll send you on an ERRAND.
I don't know what the other guys had to do but my Errand was something that will keep me in therapy for at least another decade. No, I won't talk about it. And neither will you if you make it that far. Trust me. (Jesus. Remember what happened to Constance DuPree? God, that was a rum business.)
After that, if you complete, if you survive, THEN, you get to write a short story. 7500 words or less. Make it less if you know what's good for you.
Then Phil takes whatever you write and hands it over to Mack or KRAD (not anything close to their real names, BTW. But that's a whole other rant.) who turn it into whatever they deem it should be that week. THAT is the story that ultimately gets published with your byline. And that's not just with tie-in books. That's EVERY book you've seen on a shelf since 1973. Even porn.
You just have no idea how deep this goes, man. Really.
And that's just for prose. Don't get me started on the limerick and haiku markets because we'll be here all month. Those guys are effin' scary.
Brrr.
PS: if anyone talks to Phil before I do, tell him (okay, gently inform him) that I would like to see my dog again, sometime this century. Alive. I didn't mean what I said. It was just a joke.
Ah. Who am I kidding? This post is my death warrant. Nice knowing you people.