The short stories in this volume are clearly not practice. They’re good or they wouldn’t have been chosen out of the thousands—and I do mean thousands—of stories that Writers of the Future receives every quarter.
These stories have heart, they have creativity, but most important, they’re a good read.
That’s what so many writers forget when they approach short fiction as if it’s a finger exercise. The writers write a dutiful little piece with lovely words. Then they hone those words to death, forgetting that the story is the most important thing.
What is a story? Well, I can give you the numerical answer. The standards used by the Hugo awards, the most prestigious award in science fiction, are: A short story is no longer than 7,500 words; a novelette runs from 7,501 words to 15,000 words; and a novella runs from 15,001 words to 30,000 words.
By the way, all of those things—short story, novelette, novella—are considered short fiction. Other genres have slightly different definitions, but the one thing we writers, publishers, editors and readers can agree on is this: If the piece runs too long, it’s a novel.
The Writers of the Future contest, by the way, limits story length to 17,000 words. Which means that you can write them a short-short (under 1,000 words) or a novella (up to 17,000 words, but no more). Be warned that either form—the shortest and the longest—are tough.
But what is short fiction and why is it hard? Let me answer the second part first. Short fiction is hard because it must do the work of a novel at one-tenth to one-third the size.
Novelists cheat. I tell you this as someone who has published over 100 of them. Novelists can spread out, go on digressions, add extra subplots if the main story doesn’t work. Novelists can meander, explore interesting characters who have no real point in the plot or muse on some scientific principle.
Short fiction writers can’t. I tell you that as someone who has published more than 400 short stories and who edited short fiction for two different companies for over ten years. Short fiction writers must get to the point. They must focus their work on the most important part of the tale, whatever that may be.
Algis Budrys, a fantastic writer, the first Writers of the Future Contest administrator and a major influence on my life, used to say that the short story is the most important event in a character’s life. That’s good for stand-alone short stories, but for stories that follow serial characters (like a detective), it doesn’t always work. So I modified it to “one of the most important events” in a character’s life. The story needs to have something earthshaking—or universe-shaking, in the case of science fiction.
And of course, never forget: the story’s the thing, not the writing. And not the manuscript. The manuscript is the tool to get the story from the writer’s head to the reader’s head, nothing more. Right now, I’m writing this essay in my office, and you’re reading it months, maybe years later, somewhere else. Yet I’m telling you something in real time. The real time for me is December, 2011. The real time for you might be June, 2021. All I’ve done is use a tool to communicate with you, and I’m not communicating words, I’m communicating my ideas, expressed in my voice.
The “story” part of the short story is what the story is about. The events, yes, but the characters and the setting, and the entire experience of living inside that world for the brief duration of the reading experience.
The story itself must be good. Forget the finger exercises. Forget the pretty words. Forget the mountains of rewriting. Rewriting is a skill that takes years to learn. Concentrate on writing a lot of short stories.
In 1947, in a book called Worlds of Beyond, Science Fiction Grand Master Robert Heinlein wrote a series of business rules for serious science fiction writers. They are:
1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you write.
3. You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.
4. You must put it on the market.
5. You must keep it on the market until sold.
This advice is still good, even in the digital age, even with the rise of indie publishing. I’ll add a few things to modify the business rules for the twenty-first century. They are pretty simple additions:
1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you write.
3. You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order, and only if you agree with the editorial direction. (We call this the Harlan Ellison corollary, first added by the man most consider the best short story writer the field has ever known.)
4. You must put it on the market.
5. You must keep it on the market.
6. Repeat on a weekly basis.
You’ll note that only three and five got revised. Six is the addition that my husband, the excellent writer Dean Wesley Smith, and I have made over the years.
Three needs the Harlan Ellison corollary, because not every reader (even an editor) is right about every story. And five reflects the indie publishing reality. If a writer self-publishes a short story, that short story should stay on the market, and the writer should move on to the next story. Will the writer improve over the years? Sure. But the writer shouldn’t be stuck trying to “improve” past works. The writer should write new works, different works, always striving to improve.
After Heinlein wrote down his rules, he added this: “They are amazingly hard to follow—which is why there are so few professional writers and so many aspirants and which is why I am not afraid to give away the racket!”
Those words remain true today. Very few beginning writers ever try to write, let alone finish what they write, let alone put what they write on the market, in whatever form. And the forms will change, as they have over the past few years.
What I love is that the market for short fiction has expanded greatly. We are now in a new golden age of short fiction. Dozens of new, paying short fiction markets crop up every year. And that doesn’t count the indie-publishing revolution. Right now, short fiction writers have a better chance to be published than at any other time in the past thirty years.
And that’s a great thing for science fiction. Because, as I said above, the heart and future of the genre is in short fiction, and always has been. That’s why L. Ron Hubbard sponsored a short fiction contest, not a novel contest. Science fiction’s most classic works either started as short stories and then got expanded into novels, or those classic works are short stories that we still discuss today.
Our best writers still produce excellent short fiction. From George R. R. Martin to Connie Willis to contest winner Robert Reed, our best novelists still find time to write spectacular short fiction. And by doing so, they move the field ever forward, looking at old ideas in new ways, creating new ideas and new worlds, and writing the most memorable characters ever.
But most of all, these writers are spectacular storytellers. They tell long stories and short stories, medium-length stories and short punchy stories. They let the tale determine its own length, and they continually add to an already rich field.
Our best writers write short stories throughout their careers. This volume contains the best writers of a new generation. I hope we all get a chance to read their short fiction for decades to come.
The Command for Love
written by
Nick T. Chan
illustrated by
CARLY TROWBRIDGE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nick T. Chan lives in Sydney, Australia, with his wonderful wife Fiona and future Hugo/Nebula/Pulitzer/Nobel prize-winning daughter Nina. He has previously worked as a technical writer for textbooks in various fields, and currently works as a project manager and editor in postgraduate education. He is also an assistant editor on the Parsec Ink Triangulation series of anthologies.
His childhood was spent reading. Reading when he should have been cleaning his bedroom, reading instead of (and duri
ng) playing sports, reading when he should have been doing his homework. As a young boy, his long-suffering mother had to read The Lord of the Rings to him every night without any deviation. Nick had memorized every single page, so he knew if his mother tried to skip any pages (even the Tom Bombadil passages).
After university, Nick attempted to write sporadically, but made the mistake of abandoning his love of speculative fiction in the belief that other genres were more respectable. Without loving what he wrote, his productivity withered, and he abandoned serious writing for many years.
Five years ago, Nick returned to his roots in order to write a fantasy novel that will never see the light of day. At the same time, he spotted an advertisement for a writing course run by acclaimed Australian speculative fiction writer Terry Dowling. With the help of renowned Australian writers such as Cat Sparks, Rob Hood and Terry, as well as a talented writing group organized by Terry, Nick started on the continuing journey of learning how to write and rekindled his love for speculative fiction. In 2010, he set his sights on the Writers of the Future competition.
After two honorable mentions and one non-winning Finalist, he won with “The Command for Love.” He is currently working on a novel set in the same world as “The Command for Love.”
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Hailing from Huntsville, Alabama, Carly Trowbridge has the pleasure of calling the town affectionately known as “Rocket City, USA” home. In a city brimming full of engineers and physicists, it is hard to pinpoint exactly where her fascination with the science fiction genre began. Needless to say, she was never at a loss for inspiration growing up. These days she finds herself influenced by the sci-fi, fantasy and pop culture scene as whole, and finds artistry in everything from graphic novels to movie marathons on the Syfy channel.
Carly holds a bachelor’s degree in art and biology, and spent her undergraduate years focused on improving her skills in drafting and drawing. She has recently received her master’s degree in medical illustration from the Medical College of Georgia. In between sporadic part-time jobs, she keeps busy traveling across the US keeping in touch with friends. Carly is honored to be included among the Illustrators of the Future, and looks forward with high hopes to whatever other opportunities await her.
The Command for Love
For the third time in a week, Ligish removed the locking pin from the back of his skull, opened the doors and examined his brain through an automicroscope. Maybe today he’d figure out which one of the homunculus’ slips of paper was the command for love and destroy the damn thing. The last thing he wanted was to fall in love with his master’s daughter.
A cascade of mirrors relayed images from inside Ligish’s skull to a silver screen in front of his face. Reflected in the silver was Master Gray’s homunculus sitting at an ivory desk. Ligish’s skull was empty except for the desk, the homunculus and a golden sphere the size of a grapefruit. The homunculus’ hand blurred as it dipped its quill against a hole in the desk. The nib emerged coated with black ink-blood. The homunculus wrote mysterious symbols on pieces of parchment. Once it finished each command, the homunculus pushed it through a slot in the golden sphere.
Ligish increased the magnification. Yesterday, he’d thought he’d discovered the command for love. He’d spotted the same symbol several times, but then he realized he’d seen it last month during routine self-examination. He’d only fallen in love with Anna last week.
Ligish sighed. It was hopeless. Humans had their subconscious driving their behavior in ways unknown to their rational minds, but at least it was theirs, and sometimes they could refuse its imperatives. He could not refuse his homunculus and it no longer listened to his thoughts. Worse still, it grew senile in lockstep with Master Gray.
He’d never heard of a homunculus giving instructions to fall in love before. It was utter foolishness. She was human. He was an electro-reinforced titanium war golem. Somehow, he must fall out of love with Anna. At the thought of her name, the homunculus scribbled a command and put it into the slot. The pistons in his chest compartment sped up. Ligish clutched his chest. What was the fool thing doing now? By God, even thinking her name made his engines malfunction. This love business needed to end. Master Gray was too senile to create a new homunculus and too poor to buy a new one, so only Ligish could find a solution.
There was no end to his worries. Love, Master Gray’s poverty, the leaking roof over the north wing and a thousand household chores. He was no closer to identifying the command today than he was on Monday, and other tasks demanded his attention. Ligish waited until his chest pistons slowed and then pushed the automicroscope controls away.
Someone knocked on the doors. “Golem,” a man said. “Open these doors.” Master Gray hadn’t left his bed or seen visitors for months. Who could it be? The man turned the handle and tried to enter, but Ligish had blocked the doors with a scale model of the world. The doors hit the model’s head, activating the key-wound mechanism. With a whir, the right arm lifted the sun above the chest’s vertical plane, while the left arm dropped below, imitating the cycle of day and night. “Golem, I command you to open up!”
It was tempting to ignore the visitor and continue with his research, but Miss Anna would chide him for neglecting his duties. “One moment,” he called and locked his skull. He walked to the doors, his footsteps rattling the glass beakers on the laboratory benches. He lifted the model world by the leg, careful to avoid crushing the tiny mountains, and moved it from the doorway.
A bespectacled old soldier opened the doors. He limped into the laboratory, his tan military uniform almost blending into the parquet floor. A row of medals from the Suprasternal Notch war was pinned to his chest. The gears in Ligish’s bowels rumbled. The Suprasternal Notch war was notorious for its brutality. The stars on the man’s shoulders indicated a general’s rank. Shuffling behind was a junior officer carrying a notepad and pencil.
The man leaned upon his walking stick as he surveyed the mess of glassware, scientific instruments and charts scattered around what had once been the family ballroom. “Johnson, take note,” he said. “A genuine titanium war golem from the Transpyloric Plane. I’d thought they’d all been destroyed after the treaty of Omental Bursa. It must be thousands of years old.”
Ligish knelt so they were at the same height and extended his hand. The general examined it with a cool curiosity, but did not shake. After an uncomfortable moment, Ligish dropped his hand and stood.
“It is a pleasure to have your acquaintance,” Ligish said. “I believe I’m the only verified war golem left upon the world’s upper body, though there are rumors inert bronze war golems sleep in Acetabulum’s dark forests.”
The general stretched and tapped Ligish on the forehead with his walking stick, making a tiny belling sound. “At least ten feet tall and electroreinforced titanium skin,” he said to Johnson, who scribbled notes. “See the rust on the skull rivets? It still houses the original soul. Thousands of years of experience. Johnson, what do you think a genuine war golem under my homunculus would do for the war in Anterior Talus?”
“It may turn the tide, General Maul,” Johnson said.
In his head, Ligish counted to ten. He’d usher these upstart soldiers from their house calmly and coolly, like a proper servant. “General Maul,” he said. “Master Gray is in ill health and Miss Anna has need of my tutoring before her final exams. As much as I’d love to serve Arteria Carotis, I’m needed here.”
Maul spoke to Johnson. “Its homunculus is quite the conversationalist. It’ll be a pity to replace it.”
“Did you not hear me?” Ligish yelled. A beaker fell from a bench and shattered.
Maul removed his spectacles and stared at Ligish, his eyes like wet black stones. “You’ve no choice. Once I’m married to Miss Gray, you’re my possession.”
Ligish’s knees buckled and it was all he could do to avoid toppling in shock. “Married?”
Anna could not be engaged to this man. She’d have told him, wouldn’t she? “I don’t wish to be employed by you.”
“Mr. Gray is sentimental about your generations of service to his family, but the law is the law,” Maul said. “The thinking have dominion over the nonthinking and only men are self-aware. Mr. Gray has agreed I’ll clear his debts in return for the ownership of his daughter and his goods. You’ll be my possession in a month.”
Ligish balled his fists, wanting badly to grab Maul’s head and squeeze until it popped. General Maul continued peering around the lab, picking up beakers and ruining Ligish’s experiments. “You’re dismissed,” he said. “A month is barely enough time to repair this hovel. I’d suggest you start.”
Ligish bowed and scraped out of the laboratory. Once the doors were closed, he strode toward the western wing. Hopefully his homunculus would command him to beg Master Gray to sell Ligish to a charity before the wedding. He could do good helping the poor instead of slaughtering men in the distant polar darkness of Anterior Talus.
Instead of walking to Master Gray, his homunculus made him climb the stairs to her room. There was no reason to do so. As a woman, Anna had no say over whom she married. But his homunculus compelled him to tiptoe to her room as quietly as his bulk allowed and tap on her door.
“I’m studying,” she said, and he feared the fragility underneath the calm in her voice might break him. He pushed the door open. A book was open in one hand. With her other hand, she pushed colored thumbtacks into a map of the world. After consulting a page, she pushed a blue tack into the world’s right shoulder.
“That’s incorrect,” Ligish said. “Remember, the principality of Dexter Trapezius invaded Dexter Glenohumeral last month. The laws are now the same across both shoulders and the upper chest.” Anna removed the blue thumbtack from the world’s right shoulder and replaced it with a red one.
Writers of the Future, Volume 28 Page 22