(Read Part I here.)
Do or Do Not. There is no Try.
One of my assignments when I was activated to respond to the Deepwater Horizon oil spill disaster was to put worthy sailors in for awards. I had to write the citations for dozens of men and women of assorted ranks, all of whom had been pulled away from their civilian lives and cast into an uncertain and tough situation, and worked tirelessly in spite of it.
I wanted to do right by them (and I was the writer in the unit), so I labored long and hard, banging out a score of citations, eloquently (or so I thought) extolling their outstanding command presence, their devotion to duty, their tireless and herculean efforts.
So I was a little taken aback when my commander plopped the stack of citations on my desk and told me to do them all over again. “Oustanding command presence?” she asked. “Tireless effort? Myke! What the heck does that even mean? What did they do?” Like most writers who have their work questioned, I took it hard.
“Ma’am, spell it out for me,” I said. “I don’t want to have to do these over again. What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I need specifics,” she said. “Numbers. Here you say that this officer coordinated movements for the cutter fleet. How many ships? How many hours a day? How much oil was skimmed as a result? Numbers!”
The military is like that, from award citations to training qualifications to standards of justice and punishment. There are hard lines. There are expected results.
And those standards are binary. They are 0 and 1. You either pass or you don’t. You do or do not do. There is no try. There is no A for effort. The guard doesn’t care that you were really sick or having a hard time at home. If you don’t show up for your shift on the watch, you are derelict. End of story. Your Physical Training officer doesn’t care if you’ve been struggling with your bills. Either you worked out hard enough to make your weigh in or you didn’t, and if you didn’t, you’re probably going to get thrown out on a medical discharge.
Writing is like that. It is an absolutely binary and unforgiving process. The community is full of wonderful people who will smile and make sympathetic noises. They will drink with you and be your friend. All of this is absolutely genuine, and none of it changes the fact that the serious gatekeepers, like military officers, put the mission first.
They must buy manuscripts that will sell and make their companies money. If that means you have to suffer and be in pain, then too bad, so sad. They will again smile and make sympathetic noises, but they were looking for the 1, not the 0, and all the kindness in the world isn’t going to change that one iota.
The universe doesn’t care if you’re sad, or lonely, or having a tough week. You either sit down and put the requisite words on paper to finish your novel, or you don’t. You either take the hard look at your craft and study those writers you admire and make changes as necessary, or you don’t.
In the end, the only thing you have the power to affect are the results of your own labors. The system is beyond you and always will be. Serve the mission before yourself. That mission is to write the best book you possibly can, and you have got to believe it is one hell of a lot more important than your personal comfort.
Perhaps the most frustrating thing I see at conventions (and it’s frustrating because it’s like looking in a mirror) are the questions I hear from aspiring writers at pro panels. “What’s proper manuscript format?” “What are editors buying these days?” “Where can I find out about new markets?” “What’s the best way to chat up an agent?”
None of these questions are about craft. None of them are asking the pros how they construct plot, or make gripping dialogue, or conceive believable characters. There are a few gems, but precious few. Most aspiring writers are putting the accent on the wrong syllable, focusing on marketing, networking and insider ball. Sizzle and not steak. And that’s the problem. You can have all the friends in the world. You can be connected to every major editor in the business. Will it help? Not unless you’ve got a killer book to sell them.
Because it’s mission first. 0 or 1. Specifics. Numbers.
Results.
I Am Kill You
When I was going through officer training, they loved to play little games with us. We’d be sitting down to chow and told we had an hour to study for a big test the next morning. That would be cutting it close. An hour was barely enough time to cover the breadth of topics we’d be tested on. We’d eat fast, get out of the chow hall as quickly as possible and head back to our rooms.
Only to find they’d been tossed. Our instructors had emptied our drawers, thrown our clothes all over the place. They dumped our mattesses on the floor. Our study materials were in a heap beside the trash can.
And inspection was at 0600 sharp.
By the time we got the mess cleaned up, our study hour had dwindled to 15 minutes.
Officer training was like that. They heaped task on top of task. They buried you under a million niggling details, sucked up your time deliberately, so that you could never finish it all. And then, when you were at your worst, exhausted, frazzled, panicked, they would test you. They would sit you down to a written exam. They would haul you out onto the parade deck or into the passageway and make you do pushups.
They would push you to the very limit of your endurance and then, only then would they judge you.
And to your utter amazement, you realized that you could do it.
By the time I left the academy grounds, I could run and do pushups on an hours sleep. I could pass challenging tests with only minimal study time. I could make snap judgments with incomplete information, under pressure to make a good decision, and I could do it with confidence.
And after a time, that amazement, that dawning sense of capability gave way to a rush. It became an addiction.
A little cold rage goes a long way. It’s adolescent, sure, but with the misery seeking goes the pride of being the nastiest, toughest, hard as nails bastard in the whole company. Your shipmate does 50 pushups? You do 55. She pulls an 18 hour watch? You do 24.
Why? Because. Screw you. You can’t stop me. No matter what you, oh cruel and unfeeling universe throw at me, I will knock it out of the park. I am a member of the United States military. I have slogged through the worst humanity has to offer and emerged tempered by the experience. Is that all you’ve got? You’ve got to be kidding me.
It’s the Kobayashi Maru. It’s Ender’s final test against the Buggers. It’s the thrill of facing and beating impossible odds. Even more, it’s the rush and adrenaline addiction that makes you seek such impossible challenges.
There’s a saying you’ll hear in boot camps, officer candidate schools and training grounds across the country. “Bring it.”
It’s short for “bring it on,” but the succinct bark gives it an edge uniquely warlike. And that’s what it is, really, a battle cry, a defiant shout.
An industry overwhelmed with aspirants? Fewer companies publishing fewer books each year? Less people reading? Digital piracy? Is that all? Seriously?
Bring it. I’m ready. I was born for this.
See You in the Trenches
Maybe you were cast in iron from your earliest days. Maybe you’re one of the few who naturally eschews your own comfort, or maintains a laser focus on the things needed for success. Maybe you have a natural font of the cold anger necessary to face daunting challenges. If so, I truly admire you.
Because I’m not, and I wasn’t and I don’t. It took military service and three spins in a war zone to hammer those realities into me. I can’t say if they will ultimately take me to the pinnacles I’d like to achieve, but they’ve gotten me off to a start. And that’s something.
So, for what it’s worth, I invite you to join me in the suck. Get down in the mud and start pushing. Strain and grunt and scream until you feel like your muscles are on fire, until your breath burns your lungs. Then look over. You’ll see me there, pushing right along side you.
Because it’s absolute hell.
And there’s no place I’d rather be.
This post originally appeared on John Mierau’s blog, here.
Myke Cole is the author of the military fantasy Shadow Ops series. The first novel, Control Point, is coming from Ace in February 2012.
Awesome! Thank you for the reality check, and thank you for your service.
I code software for a living, and read SciFi for pleasure. I belive your articles transcend the act of writing and are inspirational for any creative act. You could retitle your article “Why Every Software Developer Should Join the US Military” and replace Write with Code and it would ring as true for me.
There is no try. There is no A for effort.
A number of Medal of Honor receipients would disagree with you.
Nice Post. You have a good voice. I can see why they picked you up. Personally I agree with the methodology of pushing oneself to succeed. Not everyone can do it that way. On a side note I believe that is one of the reasons a volunteer army is always better than a drafted one.
@@@@@ 3. Total
I think you miss understood Mr. Cole. An “A for effort ” is a hollow reward. It’s like everyone in your little league getting a trophy. Even you, though your team lost every game. You didn’t win, you didn’t really do all that well, hell you sucked, but you gave it your all, so here’s something so you don’t feel bad. The Medal of Honor recipients didn’t get an “A for effort”, they actually won the finals.
Writing is a tough pursuit. I remember the years of rejection slips, clinging in my mind to an article I had read by Steven King, where he described the hundreds of rejection slips he received before his first sale. If he could do it, I thought, I can, too. And then, even after I made a sale, those rejection slips kept coming, and I realized that one success didn’t necessarily ensure another.
That’s why I gave up writing for years, instead, putting my artistic talents into playing Irish music in pubs. Free whiskey and immediate applause when you do good. Now, that is good living!
But, when you do succeed in writing, and crack open that lovely book, and see your name amongst the contributors in the table of contents–what a great feeling, made all the more sweet by the suffering and sweat that went into it!
@@.-@ Balance
I didn’t understand Mr. Cole, I was pointing out that there are lots of times in the military when simply the effort is good enough, and that a number of them are highly heroic. Dakota Meyers, the latest MoH winner, didn’t actually save the lives of any of the men he kept going back for, again and again, but that didn’t matter.
@6. Total
Here’s the thing about the Medal of Honor verus success as a writer: no self respecting soldier ever wants to recieve one, especially not for being unable to save his men from death. I’m not saying Dakota Meyers did not deserve the award, I’m saying you cannot compare the two. I’m sure he would prefer his buddies alive and well over a shiny trinket around his neck.
A wonderful analogy of comparing the discipline needed to be a military officer to the life and habits of a successful writer. Maybe that’s the secret my ex-military relatives have been whispering…. Hmm, maybe they should write the books too.
Ahhh, the rigors of officer candidacy, where you will never, ever be given time enough to accomplish your tasks. On purpose. To see how you handle the stress. To see how well you can separate out the essential from the not-so-essential. To see how well you take it when they bawl you out anyway — and you just have to endure and be satisfied that you did what you thought was the right thing for the time, and if the TAC officers don’t like it… well, that’s to be expected. They are TACs. Oh yes, I know this game well.
My policy during Candidacy was — as in writing — to help out my fellows as much as I was able. I knew I’d never be the strongest nor the fastest nor the best tactician nor the most apt test-taker, but I like to think I know how to help. To lend a bit extra to my mates in the ordeal. Because if there is anything true about the military experience, it’s that we are stronger together than we are as individuals. I didn’t want to see any of my fellows fail, and I tried to do what I could to assist when and where such assistance was needed.
Next month I’ll be making my third appearance at the Life, The Universe & Everything symposium, which is widely regarded as Utah’s best fantastic and speculative conference for writers. I am not the most famous nor the most sold nor even the most skilled writer serving on panels, but I do try to help where I am able. Because others — like Allan Cole, Mike Resnick, Dave Wolverton, Dean Wesley Smith, Kris Rusch, Kevin J. Anderson, Eric Flint, and on and on — have helped me so much in the past.
Another spot-on article, Myke. Thumbs up! It really is surprising how much of one’s experience in uniform tends to inform one’s experience out of uniform. My ten years in the service have definitely made me into a *very* different person than I’d have otherwise been. And I am glad for it. Refusing to quit — to allow any setback or hardship to defeat me — is definitely something that has benefitted me on a range of civilian challenges, writing and gaining professional publication and professional status among them.
There are a great many excellent writers– perhaps the majority of excellent writers– who have never done military work.
What’s your point, Nancy?
Andrew, I think it’s the same feeling I have. Something that Myke Cole sees as vital for his writing is being presented by him as the one true way to become a writer.
His personal story is interesting, but I can’t buy into that idea.
Understandable if you didn’t read Part 1, which began with “We’re all different. We all come at our goals from different angles. I can’t promise that what’s worked for me will work for anyone else. But before I went pro, I wanted to hear what worked for others. I offer this in that same spirit.”
Of course, if you didn’t read Part 1, why are you reading Part 2?
I confess I forgot that bit from the first article– what stuck was the idea of joining the US military as a route to becoming a writer, which strikes me as astonishingly bad advice.
If Cole chose his title for the articles– “Why Every Writer Should Join the US Military”– he’s got some responsibility for the more emphatic statement having a stronger mental effect than his disclaimer.
It is clear to me that the title of these two articles was meant to be ironic, and not taken literally. But it was taken literally, which means that irony was lost on many, and I think that has generated much of the discussion. I don’t think anyone, including Mr. Cole, thinks that every budding writer should be queued up at the local recruiting station.
The article’s a good reminder that results are better than excuses and a fun read – but there’s certainly more than one way to skin a cat (*). My friend who’s a working single mother told me that running a job and a child by herself had taught her everything she knows about time management. She’s the one who wrote her novel a bit at a time on the train on the way to work each morning.
*Disclaimer: I own an eleven week old kitten and do not intend to skin him.
@18: Thank you.
I think what makes some people angry here is that he is forgetting something I see many Americans (including pacifist) usually forgets when talking about the military: the killing people part.
My grand-uncle is a WW2 veteran (Brazilian Army) and I grew up listening to his stories. How he translated what de Nazi prisoners said (we are German-Brazilian, German was his first language). How he became a friend of an old Italian. How that Italian offered him one o his daughter, free to choose, to make her happier in the New World. How he said no because he already had a fiancée. He also talked how he was a coward (a “shitter”), but, because of the “American vaccine”, he become courageous and strong to walk over the dead bodies. And, also, how he found out his fiancée was already married when he came back to Brazil after serving for 2 years in Italy.
He was miserable, he was humiliated. He is proud. He is my hero.
When it was time for me to join the Army, and I said to him I want to, he became very sad, he told me not to. You know why? Because of the fucking killing people part. The part he never told me.
That’s my problem with this article. I don’t want to go around the world to kill people to become a better writer. The military is not about that. War is not about that. If you are going to kill people, you better have a better reason then been a writer. It’s disrespectful with all innocent people who get shot for reasons they don’t have control of on this wars.
(BTW, here you don’t choose to serve. The Army chooses you to serve. Every 18 year old men have to enlist, but only 2% actually is chosen. Unfortunatly, I was part of the 98%)
Here’s the thing about the Medal of Honor verus success as a writer: no self respecting soldier ever wants to recieve one, especially not for being unable to save his men from death. I’m not saying Dakota Meyers did not deserve the award, I’m saying you cannot compare the two. I’m sure he would prefer his buddies alive and well over a shiny trinket around his neck
My point had nothing to do about being a writer or not. It had to do with the meme about there being no reward for trying in the military. That’s simply not true and it’s not true at a level that makes it ridiculous. Meyers is a hero despite that the fact that he failed to bring back his buddies. I’m sure he’d rather they were alive (in fact, he’s said exactly that). He’s a hero because he tried under appallingly dangerous circumstances.
AlBrown @18: I’m so glad you noticed that. Years ago, Myke Cole was a student of mine for a week at Viable Paradise. It’s been educational to see how many readers assumed that because he’d served in the military, he must be thoughtless and uncomplicated. That’s not at all how I remember him.
(Hi, Myke.)
I’ll go further and say this week has taught me that when the conversation turns to military service, a surprising range of readers stop paying attention to what’s actually being said. It’s very odd. The prose is giving off signals that say “writer honestly trying to engage with complex and difficult subject for which we lack default language,” and they come back with bombast and hyperbole about warmongers and babykillers.
I suppose it means the subject makes them uncomfortable. A lot of bad behavior on the internet traces back to that reaction, in one form or another.
In everyone’s defense, I suppose that it is a good thing that the thought of war makes us uncomfortable. War should never be seen as anything better than a necessary evil.
I would suggest, though, that the folks who can’t have a civil discussion about an uncomfortable topic are showing us why humans end up in conflict far more frequently than one would like.
Consider that some of those people have grown up in a world where they only heard about the military when something awful had happened. They didn’t have the context they needed to process it, so now when the subject comes up, they’re stressed.
Not that it excuses uncivil behavior.
Thanks, Myke.
Now in my ninth year of retirement from a 21 year Navy career, during which I wrote many award recommendations, many evaluations. Numerous times, I was told to write myself up for this or that, and my answer was always the same: “All due respect, sir, no. I don’t ask my subordinates to write their award inputs, and I won’t do my own. You think I’ve earned something, you’re my leader, you do it. If you want me to look it over before it goes up, I’ll be happy to.”
I’m puzzled by those who take the opportunity of your revealing article to throw political rabbit-punches at the military. I’m sure everyone here has heard it said, but nobody hates war more than those who wear the uniform of their nation. I have no wish to start a back-and-forth about that, but I have a hard time letting such mischaracterizations slide by. It is an unfortunate but accurate truth that liberty has been gained, wherever it has been gained, at the cost of blood. That doesn’t mean that I, nor anyone else connected to the military, likes it that way.
EDIT to add:
The phrase “Bring it” as used in the military isn’t shorthand for “Bring it on”, as you suggested. “Bring it on” is a taunt aimed at an opponent, letting them know that you are ready to handle, and surpass, whatever they have. “Bring it” is an encouragement to a peer or subordinate, to use their skills, talents and gifts to their maximum potential. As a weapon is “brought to bear” on a target, one should bring their abilities to bear on a situation.
Dear Mr. Cole,
This one article of yours has made me decide to purchase your book once it comes out. Nice writing.
Reading the Amazon blurb, it sort of sounds like a Larry Correia meets Michael Z. Williamson.
Great read as was the first part. Currently, I am deployed in Afghanistan and enjoy, along with a few of the other guys on my team, good military sci-fi. While some may disagree, I can tell you that writers who have military experience (Mr. Cole and John Ringo e.g.) are able to write in such a way that people like me can say, “he gets it!” The authors experience enhances the readers experience.
As a writer and the mother of a fallen soldier, I do get your point and see at is as very personal to you. Thank you for your service, it is always appreciated. I don’t actually agree with the philosophy of, that which hurts us only makes us stronger. It is more, I think, an innate ability within us to see the suffering of others in any shape or form. Despite my son’s passing (he was a Canadian soldier with two tours in Afghanistan) I do agree the military can be a great place, but it definitely not is for everyone. For once in my life I agree with Nick Mamatas *G* and think perhaps this should have been titled differently. It is a wonderful piece overall and definitely shows your abilities as a writer. Everything is vivid. But, I felt, being a soldier, especially a career soldier, is a calling, like being a nurse or a vet, or any number of careers. It takes a special person to be a good soldier. And, yes, those experiences definitely shape you, as losing a son shapes you. Life shapes us, which is basically what you are saying. I entered a competition recently where ‘opening lines’ were a requisite. As I read through countless openings about death in many shapes and forms, I thought, none of you (or very few) truly understand what death means, and that is when experience versus research really shows through writing. Until you have had to scrape up the body parts of your comrades, no, very few will understand. Apologies for the length, but I felt a need to say something. Many of your comparisons were apt but I could also see why a few didn’t ‘get’ it. Writing is a passion, which pays little. The reward is indeed when people ‘get’ it.