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The first thing you should know is that Mike and I live in Alaska. It’s a non-contiguous part of the United States of America that we bought from Russia in the 1867 and became an official state in 1959. We live in houses, we have the Internet, and we do not have penguins.
The second thing is that the state capital of Alaska is Juneau. It’s a sleepy town on the southeast coast, a region otherwise known as the “panhandle” (after its resemblance on a map). Southeast Alaska hosts a number of similar communities (Skagway, Ketchikan, Sitka, etc.) that are not connected to the road system. Instead, the only way to access these towns is by air or water. If you, as a constituent, want to visit your state legislature in Juneau, you can either buy a discounted flight on Alaska Airlines, or you can ride the Alaska Marine Highway for a few nights, pitching a tent under the stars on the deck of a ferry and breathing in diesel exhaust.
The last thing you should know is that these coastal towns, with the state capital included, run on tourism. Some sustain themselves by fishing, or timber, or possibly mining, but tourism supports their economy by an overwhelming margin. With summers in southeast Alaska being temperate and gorgeous, and the quaint seaside towns having rich histories with the gold rushes and the state’s formation, the southeast is massively popular with cruise ships. Shops and storefronts open up mid-May. The deep water ports are flooded with millions of tourists checking ‘Alaska’ off of their bucket list. The locals suffer the onslaught from May to late August. And then mid-September the cruise ships stop coming, and the boat people disappear, and the shops are shuttered for the winter.
At this point in the entry, you start to wonder what I’m getting at. Am I writing about the tourism industry in Alaska? Am I trying to sell Alaskan cruises? Is this a “Mister Josh Goes to Washington/Juneau” kind of a story? Am I about to break into a blistering five part series on my opinions about local Alaskan politics?
Rest assured: I am writing about none of those things. But honestly, you should have some idea by now, right? Three paragraphs in, and you, as a reader, should have some idea what an author is trying to talk about. That’s his or her job, right? They need to hook you, reel you in, get you interested enough so you don’t keep scrolling. Intro, Question, Discussion, Hypothesis, Transition. And hold on, this is a blog about writing, isn’t it? Why aren’t I talking about that? I was sold a bill of goods, sir!
Sorry everyone. Let me try again. I’ll get it the next time, I promise. Okay!
The first thing you should know is that Mike and I are improv adjacent. What I mean by that is that quite a few of our friends are members of the improv comedy scene in Anchorage, Alaska. In fact, if you Google us, you’ll quickly run across us being listed as ‘staff’ for one of the troupes in town. What this means is that I host a few websites, and Mike has helped out with videography at times. Other than that, you will never find us on stage, and for the most part, we are entirely unfunny (even when we try hard).
The second thing you should know is that Alaska, mysterious and quaint and The Last Frontier and all that, actually hosts its own improv festival (the Alaska State Improv festival, or ASIF). It is hosted in Juneau (the state capital, as mentioned above), and invites troupes from across the state as well as across the nation to come, perform, network, and learn about the craft.
The third thing that you should know is that, for whatever strange reason, I decided to go to ASIF in April 2015. Well, I suppose the reason isn’t all that strange: I enjoy watching improv, I like hanging out with my friends, and despite having grown up in Alaska, I had never been to Juneau. It also helped that mileage tickets were cheap, and I could share the cost of a room with my friends who were also traveling there as part of the festival.
Er, well. That was just as bad, wasn’t it? I mean, I sort of tied it together with mention of Juneau, but… is this now Josh’s travelogue? What the hell does this have to do with Skysail? Or airships? Or writing? This asshat just wants to talk about his friends who do that Whose Line Is It Anyway? shit. If I wanted to see comedy, I’ll watch a comedian. Besides, there’s no way that they just come up with all that stuff on the fly. Someone told me that they rehearse that shit. It’s all just an act.
…is what you might be thinking. I haven’t sold you on the topic. I just keep listing three things that you don’t care about. As an author, I have to make you care. Okay. Okay. One more chance, alright? I’ll get it this time.
The first thing you should know is that I was a little hung over. We’d gone out drinking with the other improvisers the night before. Not overboard. Just your normal, run-of-the-mill drinking. Just professional improvisers and comedians from across the nation. Just your friends who share their passion for the craft. And then you, the weird, dumpy guy that runs their website that happened to have enough airmiles. All in the only open bar in Juneau, the shuttered, ghost town of the Alaska state capital in late April, waiting for the boat people to come.
The second thing you should know about is pelmeni. A pelmeni is a meat/cheese/whatever filled dumpling. They can be prepared in a lot of ways, but the only way I’ve ever had them is with a sort of spicy curry and sour cream. The only time I’ve ever had pelmeni is well into the early morning hours, and only after drinking for a time (but not overboard). And the only place I’ve had pelmeni is at the 24-hour pelmeni place in Juneau. The memory of Juneau tastes like curried pelmeni and sour cream.
The last thing you should know is that I was alone. I do this a lot. I’m pretty far from neurotypical, and nowhere near my friends, the hyper-charismatic stage performers. My capacity for socialization has a pretty low ceiling, and the quality of my interactions is somewhere between ‘cheap human knockoff’ and ‘an alien insect wearing a Josh suit.’ I’m well aware of my orthogonality, which feeds my anxiety monsters like delicious, delicious midnight pelmeni. It doesn’t matter if it was the night before. Anxiety sticks with you. The best and only solution is to vent to atmosphere. To take a walk. To be nobody for a while. To be alone.
So, maybe an improvement? I don’t know. We introduce a character, his problems, his emotional state, and his whereabouts…. a little unclear on whether we’re being moody or making a curry-farts joke, but these are just, well, parameters aren’t they? Parameters for the human experience. Now you have a toe-hold, a handle on whatever weird emotional truth the author is trying to communicate. If you can relate, then maybe that is inching you towards caring. But you are still missing something: purpose. In improv parlance, you need an objective, a reason to drive the scene forward, a problem for the characters to solve. Otherwise, you just have heads that are talking, whining about social anxiety and being hung over.
The first thing you should know is that I had hours and hours to kill. Everyone had gone off to their improv worshops. To learn about adding emotion to their scenes. To learn about making good use of gender. To practice singing a song that you make up on the spot. Skills so beyond my ken that I laughed when they asked if I wanted to tag along. I had already walked up the hills of Juneau, and then back down them, and then visited a museum, and it was still early.
The second thing is that, while I love most movies, the ones that really get to me tend to have three things: sad robots, sharp (or at least minimal) dialog, and long, dark gazes into the wreckage of the human soul. So, you know, WALL·E.
The last thing you should know is that Alaska is weird with its movie releases, particularly the more remote parts of the state. We might live in modern houses. We might have the Internet. But we still get feature film releases later than the lower 48. And the stranger, art-y films that have limited release? Good luck.
So, I’m walking around Juneau, a little hung over, burping up late night pelmeni, and I see a poster for Ex Machina, having just opened at the movie theater in downtown Juneau (months after its actual theatrical release).
I look at my wristband to check the time, and I still have forever. The movie is starting soon. I buy a ticket. They ask me to surrender my backpack. I take a seat, and I’m the only person in the theater. I tweet that the theater is playing the Jurassic Park theme song on repeat, and that I’m sort of into it.
Two hours later: I was surprised as hell, the movie was great, and I immediately wished that somebody else had seen it with me. If you haven’t seen it, you should.
Somewhere in the middle of the film, there is this scene:
The scene stuck with me. As an aspiring author, or rather, someone responsible for creative output, the idea that art could be created without purpose, without context, without conscious effort, was interesting. It meant that anything could be art. And that part of the human experience was subject to machinery we will never understand. And whether art was effective was not just if it had purpose, but just a matter of whether or not it struck a chord in somebody who gave it the time of day.
That’s the thing, though. I knew about Jackson Pollock. Well, I knew of him. I knew that he was a drip painter. I knew that he made art, and that it was important somehow, even if I didn’t understand it. But until Ex Machina came along, I had no context. I did not know the conversation that surrounded Pollock, or what his paintings meant at the time they were painted. I just knew enough to answer exam questions for my Art Appreciation 101 class I took freshman year in college. Drippy paintings? B. Jackson Pollock. Points, please.
So. The question is context. Music, paintings, writing, all art exists with some context. Everything is inspired, derived, or references something else that came before it. Some art defies understanding without knowing the context surrounding it. I absolutely needed context to understand the importance of drip paintings. And the only way I was able to acquire that context it was to watch a movie about not trusting female robots after a night of drinking in a strange, desolate town in strange, desolate part of the world that everyone says they want to see someday.
You needed context. You, dear reader, might not have known about Juneau. Or Alaska, and its tiny but proud improv community. Or why I was walking the streets of Juneau alone. Or why I went to see a movie while I was technically on vacation. Or why I taste curry every time I think of Alaskan politics. Or that writers, or really, any artists, struggle to balance the context of their art with the content of their art. It took me three tries to get it right in this article. And even then, I’m not sure I struck a proper balance.
Mike and I struggle with this just the same. We’ll want to introduce a new idea, a new concept to the world of Skysail, but one of us will have read a book in which something similar happens. Or we’ll find an article on TVTropes that just skewers us for even thinking about it. Or we’ll gum it for a bit and determine that it’s either too “young adult,” or too “Final Fantasy,” or “too Josh,” or “too Mike,” or even not enough.
The struggle is not that we are trying to create something so entirely unique, so defiant of context that we can draw no lines to anything else. That is the way of pain and suffering, and just produces something that looks like noise (or a drip painting). The struggle is acknowledging your context. The struggle is communicating all the necessary details such that your audience is in the right frame of mind. The struggle is to provide those details at the exact right time so that nobody is bored, or overwhelmed, or confused. The struggle is to draw a circle around something, and hope that our reader draws the exact same circle.
The first thing you should know is that we’re writing novels about airships, a common staple in fantasy and steampunk stories.
The second thing you should know is that the main protagonist, Vasili, is an amalgam of what we remember of our 14-year-old selves as we entered adulthood and experienced an indifferent world.
The last thing you should know is that there are cats.
That’s all you need to know to enjoy Skysail.
Writing isn’t my full time job. It isn’t really even my job. Well, it currently isn’t even a job.
But I aim to write novels. Josh and I are in the final stages of finishing our debut book, and have two more completed drafts in the edit-hopper. We have another two books in the series mapped out. Barring abject failure, friendship collapse or bodily harm, this project should continue well into the foreseeable future. Whether it will extend anything beyond a dottering hobby will be up to the market and our shameless gumption for foisting this repeatedly in your face. While it would be nice to make a living writing, for now it serves as the outlet of creativity and purpose I have craved.
At some point in my life, my wife and I decided to stop just practicing and procreate. At the time I worked for a small landscape architecture firm, fulfilling my design education by creating places and spaces, while my spouse kept us living comfortable working in a multinational high-rise. A blend of logic and personal choice led me to taking on the atypical role of stay-at-home dad. Not long after the birth of my first, Josh and I decided to make something.
All parents will understand the time and energy it takes to keep a single half-functional whelp alive. Most parents will appreciate the time and energy it takes to raise even just one human child. At a minimum you are responsible for their calorie intake, basic hygiene, and health. In one moment you are going to bed when you please, eating on your own schedule, and making daily plans with another able bodied adult. The next day you are slinging a noxious concoction of powdered nutrient into the gaping maw of a screaming animal. You’re mopping shit out of folds of flesh. You’re awakened at unholy times of the night for the basest of human needs not your own. You are no longer on you-time. Then later on you have another kid and the cycle starts anew.
I will try not to digress into the extreme joys and personal fulfillment I have encountered in parenthood. They are there much more often than the trials of fluid modulation described above. This post isn’t about the ups and downs of rearing kids. What it is about, however, is how little time I have to myself.
So when do I write?
The weekend. My wife has every other Friday off, so on odd numbered weekends I sometimes get a large portion of the day where I can escape to my favorite coffee shop and just *write.* Sunday mornings I go to said coffee shop with my daughter. She drinks a hot chocolate and either makes a friend, flips through a book, or plays nicely. She is four now and is independent enough to let me enjoy my drink and start in on some edits before her mom comes to relieve me.
Secondly, I can scribble some thoughts down during the hour of nap time. That is, if I am not so wrung out that I need those precious minutes to recoup my sanity.
After the children are abed, after I’ve showered, and after I’ve had the first non-interrupted conversation of the day with my wife… sometime around 9:30 I get to sit down, breathe a sigh of relief, and open Giterary.
I find the evenings the most difficult time to get fuck-all done. I’m exhausted and kind of just want to watch Stranger Things or play a few rounds of TagPro. Hey Josh, how about a quick round of Nuclear Throne?
You are probably starting to understand why we started writing in 2012 and nothing is published yet.
When I began writing, my sole objective was to create the kind of story I wanted to read. That meant a world with depth, history, airships, and some light fantasy elements. It meant relatable characters born my own life experience. It meant an adventure story with cruel realities and misguided expectations. I wanted it to be fun to write and fun to read. I managed to convince Josh to help me with this and for some reason he included me on what *he* wanted to write. It took some discourse over many drinks, but it quickly became *our* book.
Though the product is wildly different from our initial 2012 outline, I regret nothing when it comes to the development. Josh and I have endlessly debated and tweaked the narrative based on our own ideas for what *our* story should be. Though I find we’ve easily discovered compromise within the broad strokes, we often haggle over nomenclature and each make unreasonable demands on what should not – nay, cannot – be altered. Some debates are kicked down the road time and again, the resulting line item looming in perpetuity inside the NextJam file. Only when the shame becomes unbearable, and self-imposed deadlines lie within sight, that we force ourselves to blunder into a resolution. I hope our tens of eventual readers never come to know how much time has been spent unearthing cogent names of irrelevant landscapes.
Sometimes the topic of marketability comes up. Who is our audience? Are we marginalizing X? Are we forgetting to include Y? Who will this even appeal to? Most of these questions still hang in their air unanswered. We stare at each other in silence before shrugging to continue writing the story we want to write. It is inevitable someone will stumble upon our work and wish it was something else. We cannot either cater to, nor please them all.
At the outset I wanted to shop our book to the traditional publishers. It’s respectable, I argued. The grand institute of validation. Josh had his reservations, but gave a silent nod of reluctant assent and entertained my ambitions. And so we dipped our toe into query letter writing. The idea of distilling your work to under 200 words, without spoiling key plot points, is a task unto itself. Josh did the brunt of the work, with me chirping unhelpful, distracting critique. The fruits of that labor can be found here and all praise should be heaped upon my co-author’s dark altar of broken PSUs and hoarded coax cables. The querying field is littered with mines, intended to whittle sparse wheat from the frequent chaff put before agents and publishers. Feedback we received from the query letter writing community provided us with some key advice that pushed us towards making some important decisions trending towards self publishing.
1. Our book is too long. For first time writers, a 300k word book is unlikely to be considered by a literary agent, much less a publishing house. Getting someone to read your query letter is a chore in itself. Having an agent digest two unknown’s lengthy manuscript might be a near impossibility.
2. We would split our book. Book 1, as it was intended, was outlined and constructed as three distinct acts from the get-go. Each act still comes in around 100k words, a healthy book by itself. The editing to smooth the transitions has been comparatively minimal, thanks mostly in part to our initial construction for narrative arcs.
3. Marketability. Because we are splitting the book into smaller pieces, we can price our work more competitively. This might just be my instinct, but buying an unknown author’s $9-10, 300k word book is a risky proposition, particularly with the minimal-marketing self published approach. But three books averaged out at $3 apiece might entice readers to actually take a chance on the first volume. Once we have established a body of work, using Volume I as a loss leader into the greater series might work in our benefit.
4. There are existing champions of self publishing. While success stories like Hugh Howey and Andy Weir are encouraging, we by no means accept it as the norm. But the available data is trending in the favor of self publishing.
5. Edit. Perhaps this is low-hanging fruit, but before we shit our first book onto your Kindle, the work needs editing. And then more editing. It needs to be honed, sharpened and reforged again. If we fuck up here, we’re perpetuating the stereotype that self publishing is for amateurs.
And so we take our time. Josh and I have been working on this project for over four years now, and while we do not have a definitive date to foist this upon the cold, unfeeling world, it *will* make its way out there. We’ll stumble and make some mistakes. But we’ll already be working on the next installment, so our fervent, insatiable eight readers will not have to wait long for Volume 2.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was teaching a shitty project management seminar at the community college. Or living my recurring nightmare, where everyone just talks in management buzzwords.
I work as a computer programmer in a pretty classic office environment. Cubicle walls. Motivational posters. The dull hum of the A/C unit directly overhead. Awkward coffee pot etiquette. But the work is interesting, and I feel capable and accomplished in doing it.
This year, I went in for a ‘lead’ position among programmers and somehow got it. The new position, while putting the ever-prestigious ‘Lead’ in front of my title, doesn’t really having me leading anyone or anything. I mean, I can inform decisions, and make recommendations, but I can’t really tell anyone what to do. Which, to me, is pretty perfect.
I like what I do, and I can’t really see myself being any happier if I ever get promoted to a management position. Management seems like one of the most boring things in the world, filled with budgets, due dates, and endless meetings. You are responsible, for better or worse, for your decisions and those underneath you. All that, and you don’t even get to swing wrenches anymore. Which is what turns me off the most.
I’ve heard similar from other programmers (a preference to stay technical), but not as many as you would think. Not all programmers are die-hard code monkeys, looking to sling/fling code all the live-long day. A good number of programmers are only programmers as a stepping stone to greater career aspirations. They have some talent in the technical realm, but they don’t enjoy it. They have a love for the sea, but maybe they don’t want to spend the whole time swimming in it. The details can be uninteresting, and probably those looking up the ladder would rather deal with the more abstract and larger-in-scope aspects of technology. The system architecture. Design. Requirements gathering. Whatever.
That, or they more enjoy telling other people to do those things.
I don’t really ever want to be a manager. But I can appreciate what they do. And not just in a “I’m glad you’re doing it, and not me” sort of way. Managers, to me, have two very difficult jobs, answering two very impossible questions:
- What should be done?
- Who should do what?
Being a successful manager is finding good answers to those questions. Answers that save money, time, and keep as many people happy as possible. I say they are impossible questions to answer because there is never a right answer. Or at least not “right” within the narrow band of perfection I have become accustomed to in my career dealing with flawless automatons and strict determinism. Nobody will be perfectly happy with a choice you make for them, even if was a better one.
So. Why go on about all this? You thought this was a blog about writing, wherein we discuss the subtle art of putting ideas to paper and maybe talking about what it’s like to co-author a book. Not some weirdly entitled rambling about that one time an office worker got promoted.
Well. If you’re writing with someone else, and you’ve outlined all your things and you’re about to start writing, there are two, very important, and very impossible questions you will be faced with:
- What should be done?
- Who should do what?
You may notice that these two questions are the same as those above. Which sort of implies that co-authoring a book is as much about writing as it is about managing the writers.
You will, at some point, reach a point in your project, where you will have a list of things to do. That list will probably look like your table of contents, or even your scene listing depending how deep you went with outlining. You might look to your co-author and shrug, haphazardly suggesting, “Halfsies?” You might even go so far as Mike and I did and just choose to go down the chapter list, interleaving Mike-chapters and Josh-chapters in an AB-AB rhyming scheme.
If you’re at that point, and you have the opportunity to be reading this, stop for a moment. Pause. Consider that an AB-AB rhyming scheme isn’t all that spectacular. And consider that it is rare that things in life are as easy as they seem. Rare, tending towards never. Consider that you have a management problem. You will have to find a way to manage each of your time and resources in a way that gets things done and hopefully keeps everybody happy.
Otherwise the project fails.
If you reached the same conclusion, please, benefit from our hard-fought list of things we discovered as we tried to manage writing a book together.
Not all chapters are created equal
Not by a long shot. The first chapter? The one that’s supposed to grip the audience? The audience you haven’t met? And agents you don’t know? And their assistants, sorting through their slush pile after lunch when they are tired and sleepy and want to go home? The part of the book that will probably be given away for free on the Amazon book preview in an effort to show the world what caliber of literary artists you are and ultimately determine whether they hit ‘buy’ or just keep scrolling?
Yeah, that’s not going to be the same amount of work as the filler chapter where the main character has a good time going fishing.
First chapter. Last chapter. Action chapters, where you’ll scrutinize every action for whether it is too Jackie Chan, or not enough. Heavy dialog chapters, where the characters have to deliver tons of exposition while sounding like real, relatable people that readers will identify with. Chapters that switch point-of-view, or use a different tense, or storytelling mechanism.
They will all have wildly varying difficulty. You can certainly try to guess if a chapter will be a challenge, particularly if you’ve never written something like it. Just know that your guesses will probably be wrong.
Not all chapters hold equal interest to the writers
There. I said it. Sometimes, I just don’t care about the worldbuilding chapters. Of every thing I ask, “Why is this relevant? Why should I care? And why should the readers care?” And I have to realize that I am not every person. Not everybody buys a coffee table book about the history of word processing. Or buys Craisins by the four pound bag. Not everybody enjoys reading about the same things, and more importantly, not everybody enjoys writing about the same things.
When Mike and I divvied up our chapters, we didn’t always consider what we wanted to write about. For instance, I like my worldbuilding in the background, barely present, dripping into your heart through a pinhole until you realize you’ve been steeped in it. But for the chapters that need it, no, demand it, I find it difficult. The geopolitics of a place I’ve never been only interest me slightly more than the geopolitics of a place I’ve always lived. However, a chapter needs a throwaway sentence about a fictional magic system? I’m on it. That’s where I live. There’s where I feel strong.
Be sure to consider what your interests and strengths are when assigning chapters. Otherwise, you get Josh yadda-yadda’ing through some important world history, and Mike yadda-yadda‘ing the critical principals of flight to your pulp airship fantasy.
Not every chapter is one chapter
There. I said that, too. Though, not exactly as cathartic as the last. Basically: you might be writing a chapter, and suddenly realize it’s not just one chapter. In that case, you have some stuff to figure out. And likely, you’ll need to talk to your writing partner to hash out a bunch of stuff.
We had a pretty classic case of this with Volume 2 of Skysail. We had a chapter that we just called ‘Travel’. The original notes just said, “Traveling,” or something equally vague. We intended it to be our first foray into the actual traveling aspect of our world. After all, you can’t just be on an airship and not satisfy a little wanderlust. However, we quickly figured out that we couldn’t just have a ‘travel’ chapter, cutting from place to place. It didn’t fit with the tone and pacing we had set so far, and we still had a ton of story to tell.
That single chapter turned into five. And introduced complex action scenes, mysteries, dialog, and all sorts of things we didn’t intend. And, at the outset, they were all assigned to me.
We divvied them up later. But the point is that these things have a habit of ballooning unexpectedly. So expect it.
Not all chapters can be written right now
In fact, I don’t know how we really started on any of our chapters, other than just blindly mashing keys and hoping it turns out for the best. Every chapter we wrote has some degree of dependency to it, whether it is plot reference, character reference, forward and backwards consistency, or even just flow between one chapter and the next.
The problem is there is no root to all those dependencies. No one single place you can start from to say, “Hey. Everything starts here. So let’s get this part down first.” Your first chapter will depend somehow on the contents of the last chapter. And your last chapter will depend on the contents of the first.
The point here is to acknowledge this dependency and then try to move past it. Find chapters that, even if they have dependency, seem to have less of a dependency than others.
If you have to whiteboard it all out, do so, drawing lines between your table of contents entries.
(Above: the original Pacman Source code, with lines drawn to show conditional and looping jumps that occur during execution. From Ben Fry).
Best case scenario: you find natural breaks to your story that you can use to split up the work. Worst case: you identify all of the things you both need to agree on before you get much further.
Two people can’t do the task of one person in half the time
In fact, there’s nothing that says it won’t take at least at much time as one person, if not more.
There’s been tons of study on the topic, but most of the phenomenon I’ve experienced firsthand in my programming career. Many hands are supposed to make light work, sure, but that’s, like, when you’re moving somebody’s couch. It’s not the same thing when you’re trying to design software, or, for that matter, writing a novel.
Novels have dependency (described above). Many hands make light work, but only if those hands can be directly applied at the same time. Some tasks can’t be done at the same time. Two people can’t work on the same chapter, same as two programmers can’t (easily) work on the same bits of code. They can work around it, or come to agreement on a common element in order to work separately, but generally they are serial tasks. Tasks that cannot be executed in parallel.
It gets worse. With every added worker, there is added inefficiency. There is increased need for communication, and increased likelihood of having to stop one person’s task to address another’s. There is friction, wherein two workers disagree on something, and therefore, cannot proceed without coming to some conclusion. There is the slipping of gears, where something catches, or breaks down, or misses a tooth when transferring work between systems.
We’ve suffered all of these in our project. Where some novelists can crank out a publishable piece in a year, it’s taken two guys four years.
Many hands don’t make light work. Many hands make a lot of work. But in the end, we are creating something that neither of us could create alone, so the ends justify the means.
There is an idea in computer science called reduction. The Wikipedia article states it better, but essentially the idea is that if two problems can be solved using the same solution, then those two problems cannot be more ‘complex’ than the other. Reduction is fun, because if you can mathematically prove that a problem can be ‘reduced’ to another, then you have mathematically proven that a problem has a certain complexity without actually having to figure out its complexity. Computer scientists get off on that.
But I don’t really consider myself a proper computer scientist. I have a degree in the field, but I can’t really say that I’ve directly used all that many of the theoretical concepts they taught us. We learned about the nature of complexity, and what about is computable. Both of which are great to have at ready when someone asks you why something is ‘impossible’ and you can pretentiously inform them that it is ‘yet unsolved by computer science.’ But I’ve never sought to ‘reduce’ anything since I graduated. I’ll probably never contribute to the field other than evangelizing to rudderless college students that you will never want for work if you can program a computer.
So. I’m a bad computer scientists. Which is why my hijacking of the idea of ‘reduction’ isn’t the best. There is no algorithm that applies to project management that can then be re-used to solve something in novelwriting. I have no real way to show that they are both of the same complexity.
But I can say that both are complex. Both problems involve humans. Squishy, weird mammals that taught themselves agriculture and how to type. And that wrangling those strange creatures to do work is a difficult, nigh impossible task.
Some time after I had gotten the promotion, my dad asked me if I would ever want to be a manager. I told him what I told you, dear reader: “Not really.”
He nodded, then told me he used to feel the same. But then when he got into the position, he found that he sort of enjoyed it. He could dictate how technical he wanted to be, how close to swinging a wrench. But more importantly, he had the agency to make the right choice where somebody else would just fuck it all up.
Managing people and managing a book aren’t exactly the same things. But they share some of the same complexity, and the same problems. And, to some degree, they share the same idea of responsibility and ownership. We might be writing the worst airship fantasy book out there. And it might be a little bit narcissistic to say, but if somebody other than Mike and I were writing it, they might just make it worse.
There’s some satisfaction in that.