Although this blog is primarily about writing and the business of writing, it also belongs to a giant nerd, and giant nerds like nothing more than to pontificate about their favorite nerdy subjects. So, from time to time, expect to see me blathering on, very specifically, about things like medieval weapons, martial arts, and, sigh, dinosaurs.
Yep, one of my particular areas of nerd expertise is paleontology. I’ve been fascinated with dinosaurs and other prehistoric critters since I was wee tyke. So, as you might guess, the most recent entry into the Jurassic Park franchise, Jurassic World, sent me into paroxysms of nerd rage. Don’t worry; I’m not gonna bore the shit out of you with a tedious rant about dinosaurs with feathers. Instead, I’m going to be positive and talk about a few prehistoric monsters I’d like to see in a JP movie.
The five critters I’m going to talk about don’t get a lot of press, and you’ve probably never heard of most of them. The other thing to keep in mind is that none of the animals I’m going to talk about are dinosaurs. I feel justified in that decision based on the fact the JP franchise has recently introduced prehistoric critters that aren’t dinos, specifically, pterosaurs and mosasaurs. That said, the following five prehistoric animals check all the usual boxes for inclusion in a JP movie. They’re all predators, they’re all the biggest in their particular group, and they’re all really cool.
So let’s get started:
1) Sarcosuchus imperator
This one is a no-brainer for me, and it’s the only one on the list I think might have an actual shot at making it into a JP movie. Sarcosuchus is the largest crocodilian that ever lived. It’s a 40-foot, 8-ton crocodile that, no shit, probably ate dinosaurs. Let me repeat that. It fucking ate dinosaurs. Pretty cool, huh?
The other thing Sarcosuchus has going for it is it lived 112 million years ago, right in the Cretaceous period, and since the Jurassic Park franchise has a serious hard-on for the Cretaceous (not the Jurassic, oddly), ol’ Sarchy should fit right in. In all seriousness, though, crocs make for great drama. They’re some of the best ambush predators around, and, well, you can probably imagine a scene in the next JP movie (Jurassic Galaxy: The Feathering). A lone Velociraptor (Can I just call it a Utahraptor? Please?) comes to a tropical lake, bends down for a quick drink, and BAM! Eight tons of scales and teeth explode from the water, and not even the nimble raptor can avoid the jaws of death. The Sarcosuchus clamps down, pulls the raptor into the water, and both disappear, leaving only a crimson stain on the lake’s surface. Later in the movie, Chris Pratt can saddle up and ride the giant croc into battle against the evil geneticist Dr. Henry Wu and his army of cloned flying raptor piranhas.
2) Andrewsarchus mongoliensis
As I said earlier, a running theme in the JP franchise is new critters need to be the biggest and the baddest. Well, Andrewsarchus is both. The largest mammalian carnivore in the books, Andrewsarchus is big, mean, and really, really weird. Some estimates put this vaguely wolf-shaped critter at 15 feet long and nearly 2 tons. That’s like twice the size of the largest grizzly bear. On top of that, Andrewsarchus had a massive skull with jaws that could produce some of the greatest bite force of any mammal, so it could crack bone with the best of them.
Andrewsarchus hails from the Eocene period, about 40 million years ago. It was one of those times when evolution took a couple of strange turns. For example, Andrewsarchus is a contender for the largest mammalian predator of all time, but here’s the weird part, it’s only living relatives are ungulates. In fact, it’s thought Andrewsarchus had hooves. That’s right, the largest mammalian predator of all time had hooves and is related to fucking sheep. Cool, huh?
I think a giant wolf monster with hooves is just too cool to pass up, and I can easily see them in a JP movie as part of the petting zoo or something.
3) Phorusrhacos longissimus
Yeah, I know that’s a mouthful, so let me simplify it for you. You can just call this critter and its relatives by the totally metal moniker “terror birds.” What’s a terror bird? Well, take an ostrich, cross it with a giant eagle, sprinkle in a liberal dash of baddassitude, and then crank that fucker up to eleven. That’s a terror bird, and Phorusrhacos was one of the biggest. I’m talking about an 8-foot-tall, 300-pound flightless bird armed with a beak sharper than a goddamn samurai sword and talons that’d put holes in Kevlar.
One of the other things that makes terror birds really cool is how long they were around. They showed up in the early Paleocene, like 62 million years ago, right after the extinction that wiped out the dinosaurs. In fact, they were likely some of the first large predators to evolve after the dinosaurs (although, to be technical, terror birds are dinosaurs). They stuck around until as recently as a couple million years ago, which means actual human beings just missed being bird food by a few hundred thousand years.
Phorusrhacos is great for the JP franchise because it’s an actual bird, not one of those silly non-avian dinosaurs, so, you know, you could put feathers on it and not have to worry about the public actually learning something.
4) Dunkleosteus terrelli
What do you get when you cross a giant shark, a tank, and a jumbo–sized staple remover together? You get one of the most badass monsters ever to swim the oceans. Now, I know I could have hit the easy button and chosen Carcharodon megalodon, the massive 50-foot shark you’ve all likely heard about, but I’m gonna get all hipster and shit and talk about a monster that was awesome way before giant sharks were cool.
Dunkleosteus lived a long, long time ago, in the Devonian period. We’re talking like 400 million years ago, in a time where most critters lived in the sea and animals had just begun to colonize the land. Dunkloesteus was the largest member of a group of weird armored fish called placoderms, and it was designed to be a cannibal. Its massive jaws were like a pair of industrial shears, designed to cut through the armored plates of its fellows.
In my opinion, Dunkleosteus is perfect for the JP franchise. It’s huge (30 feet long and 4 tons), looks like a nightmare concocted by a coke-addled Pokémon designer, and they could make up all kinds of shit about the strength of its jaws. I mean, by the time JP is done with it, the government will be cloning them to chew through enemy submarines to get at the tasty meat filling inside.
5) Jaekelopterus rhenania
For my final choice, I’m gonna stay with aquatic horrors and go with a creature that is the largest member of a group of terrifying monsters called sea scorpions. These arthropod nightmares swam the oceans, lakes, and rivers of the world as early as the Ordovician period (460 million years ago) and as late as the Permian period (250 million years ago). That’s a span of some 200 million years, which means sea scorpions are one of the most successful organisms in the history of organisms. I mean, shit, humans have only been around for like 200 thousand years. We’re barely a blip on the geological time scale.
Sea scorpions generally look like someone crossed a lobster with a crab during a really bad acid trip. The biggest, Jaekelopterus, was over 8 feet long with pincers that extended another 3 feet or so. I’d rather face down an entire school of sharks than deal with just one of these things. A shark would at least give you a nice, clean death. One chomp, and you’re done. A sea scorpion would tear you into bite-sized nuggets, giving you the distinct pleasure of drowning and getting eaten alive.
Jaekelopterus and the rest of the sea scorpions would fit right into JP. They could serve the little ones up like lobsters in the overpriced park restaurants, and then feed irritating secondary characters to the big ones to up the stakes and let all the moviegoers know shit just got real.
Anyway, thanks for taking a trip with me down Nerdery Lane. If you share my enthusiasm for weird prehistoric critters, tell me about one of your favorites in the comments.
Okay, you’ve got a story ready to submit. Now where do you submit it? Well, first, sign up for a Duotrope account (see my post about that here), then when you find an appealing market, the very first thing you should look for is the “What We Want” section in the submission guidelines. This is the place where the publication you’ve chosen hopefully tells you exactly what kinds of stories they publish.
In my opinion, your targeting needs to be pretty precise when submitting to genre markets. I know it sounds easy. If you write horror, look for markets that publish horror. Duh. But hold up there; if you’re writing King-esque average-Joe-in-a-supernatural-situation horror and you submit your work to bizarro-Lovecraftian-atmospheric horror magazine, you don’t stand much of a chance of getting published. So read the What We Wants carefully.
The What We Want section is the most basic and elementary part of the submission guidelines, and the penalty for FTFFD (failure to follow fucking directions) or SSD (special snowflake disorder) is severe.
Rejectomancy points deducted for FTFFD or SSD: -15 (What’s this?)
Okay, let’s look at a What We Want section you might see in a typical genre mag:
[XXX] is seeking original science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories, regardless of sub-genre.
This is pretty straightforward. This magazine tells us which genres they publish, and they’re not picky about subgenres. This big spread of genres is pretty common in submission guidelines, even if the publication in question primarily publishers only one of them. I think some publishers like to keep their What We Wants vague because they don’t want to pass up a good story if it’s not in their primary genre. That said, you’ll notice the genres this magazine publishes are not listed in alphabetical order. Does that mean anything? It could. If I were to take a guess, I’ll bet these genres are listed in order of preference, so as a horror writer, I might be a little hesitant to send a story here unless it was a mash up of sci-fi and horror or fantasy and horror.
Here’s another, more detailed What We Want that I’ll break up in pieces so we can completely overanalyze it:
We want horror, dark speculative fiction and noir. No specific sub-genres or themes.
This one is a bit more targeted, and what they’re looking for is more tightly focused than the first magazine. The term “dark speculative fiction” actually tells you a lot, in my opinion. They’re not saying don’t submit fantasy or sci-fi, or hell, even a western, they’re just saying it has to have a dark (horror) element. Think Twilight Zone, and I believe you’ll be on the right track.
The next line from the guidelines is:
Avoid excessive gore and sexuality unless it is essential to the story.
You’re going to see this line a lot in one form or another. Unfortunately, it doesn’t tell you much because “excessive” is entirely subjective. For example, I don’t think the gore in Django Unchained is excessive, and I think it is essential to the story. I know plenty of folks who wholeheartedly disagree on both counts. Who’s right? This is a case where you should definitely check out a sample story or two and try and figure out the publication’s tolerance levels.
Don’t get me wrong, I get why these “no excessive gore and language” lines appear in submission guidelines. I can only imagine the crazy, twisted shit some of these poor editors have to slog through because the author thinks buckets of gore and the use of the word “fuck” every six words is edgy. It’s not; it’s boring and trite. That said, I don’t know if the “no excessive” line in the submission guidelines is going to stop a writer for submitting a story like that. Maybe it weeds out a few. At the very least, it gives an editor an ironclad excuse for shit-canning a story without having to suffer through the whole thing.
Okay, now for the easy part, the last line is:
We are not accepting vampire or zombie stories at this time.
Guess what this means? Do not send them a vampire or zombie story. Period. End of discussion. Do not fall prey to SSD and think for a hot second your vampire/zombie story is so fantastic they’ll publish it anyway. Here’s what’s going to happen. The editor will start reading your story, figure out it’s a vampire or zombie story in the first two paragraphs, stop reading, curse your name, and fire off a form rejection. What’s worse, he or she might remember your the next time you submit.
In my experience, the reason magazines put these restrictions in their guidelines—for horror writers, the no vampire/zombies thing is super common—is because a) they’ve gotten a metric fuck ton of the restricted story already, and b) most of them are terrible. There’s nothing inherently wrong with a vampire or a zombie story, it’s just that with all common tropes, most of the good ideas have been done, and it takes something really unique to stand out. There are legions of would-be Stephanie Millers and Robert Kirkmans just spinning out reams of the same vampire romance tale or zombie apocalypse story. How’d you like to be the editor that has to read through piles and piles of that stuff? You wouldn’t, and you’d add something in your guidelines to ensure you don’t receive any more of them.
To sum up, read the What We Want part of the guidelines carefully, and try and match your story to the publication’s preferred genres and subgenres as closely as you can. You’ll increase your chances of getting published, and you won’t lose those precious rejectomancy experience points.
Up next, Submission Protocol: Length-Wise.
This short collection of flash fiction is published by Skull Island eXpeditions and is part of the steam & sorcery Iron Kingdoms setting, which includes the award-winning games WARMACHINE and HORDES. My story, “Uncommon Allies,” can be found within. It’s a touching tale of violent frog men and savage trollkin putting aside their differences to violently savage someone else, together.
The collection can be had for the paltry sum of .99 cents. Buy it here:
Welcome to the next installment of Rejection Letter Rundown. Today, I’m covering that first baby step forward on the path of rejectomancy, the improved form rejection. If you’d like to catch up and read the first post in this series, click here.
At first glance, the improved form rejection might look like the common form rejection, but it carries an important distinction—it says something other than no. It’s still a no—don’t make any mistake about that—but hidden within this rejection is the first sign you might be making progress with this particular publisher.
Here’s one of mine:
Many thanks for sending “XXX”, but I’m sorry to say that we don’t think it’s quite right for [our publication]. We wish you luck placing it elsewhere, and hope that you’ll send us something new soon.
You’ll notice this letter has many of the same components as the common form rejection. It says the publisher received and read my submission, they’re not going to publish it, and it has the very common nicety of wishing me luck placing it elsewhere. The distinction between the common form rejection and the improved form rejection is the second part of the last sentence, “…and we hope you’ll send us something new soon.”
There is some debate on the improved form rejection, and there are writers who believe the line “…send us something new” in the letter above is just as sincere as the one right before it, “We wish you luck placing it elsewhere.” They’re both just the garden variety niceties you find in the common form rejection. There’s likely some truth in this, and I have no doubt some publishers use this model.
On the other hand, I’ve heard there are publications that have multiple tiers of form rejections. A series of letters that, while still form rejections, offers encouragement or a sincere invitation to submit again. The first tier is the common form rejection. The second form letter (and some even have a third or fourth) is sent to authors whose work shows some promise. Maybe not enough promise to warrant a personal rejection letter (we’ll cover those later), but enough to say, “We’re not entirely opposed to reading another one of your stories.”
So here’s the big question: Is the improved form rejection more often just a common form rejection in disguise? Sometimes, yes, but I’d rather err on the positive side of this thing. Here’s why. I was an editor for a long time, and without exception, I never sent a request, of any kind, to an author I didn’t want he or she to complete. I just didn’t have the time look at emails and stories from authors whose work doesn’t fit the style or tone I wanted. I like to think I’m not the only editor that feels that way.
My reason for believing the improved form rejection indicates you’re making progress comes from my own experience. This is anecdotal as fuck, but, hey, it’s my blog, and around here anecdotal is ironclad proof. I’ve sent a story to a publisher, got the common form rejection, sent another and got the improved form rejection, sent another and got the improved form rejection (verbatim) again, until, finally, after two more improved form rejections, I got a personal rejection that said, “Hey , dumbass, stop sending us your shitty stories.” Kidding! Nah, the editor took the time to tell me he liked my work, but I was just missing the mark, and he offered some helpful advice on how I might improve. I’ve yet to submit again to that particular publisher—I’m thinking very carefully about what I should send—but I certainly felt encouraged by the progress I made, moving up through the various form letters to the pinnacle of rejection, the informative personal rejection (we’ll cover that one eventually).
Bottom line, if an editor requests that you send more work, even in a form letter, they probably mean it. So, go ahead, reload, and fire off another piece. Keep in mind, though, if you don’t progress to a personal rejection, or, even better, an acceptance, or you stop getting the improved form rejection and start getting the common form rejection again, it might be time to give this particular publisher a rest and send your work somewhere else.
This is a question writers hear a lot. Hell, it’s a question writers ask a lot. The most common answer is something frustratingly vague like, “all the time” or “as much as you can.” Easy, right? I mean who has a day job, a significant other, friends, a life that requires occasional routine maintenance, and all that other shit that gets in the way of writing all the goddamn time?
My problem with the “all the time” answer is the implication that if you’re not writing 24/7, you’ll never be any good or have any success. That leads to the feeling that you’re never writing enough. That feeling sucks, and I don’t recommend it.
Yes, you need to write a lot to get better, but that doesn’t mean your writing can’t fit somewhat comfortably into the rest of your life. Writing is my fulltime gig, and I don’t write all the time. I have a daily goal of 2,000 words on my current fiction project and then another 500 to 1,000 words on stuff like blogging. Those numbers allow me to comfortably hit my deadlines and still have something resembling a life.
I get not everyone has eight hours a day to devote to writing (and intermittently fucking around on the internet), but I think my method works even if you can only find an hour a day to write. So, my answer to the age-old question “How much/often should I write?” is the following incredibly complex formula. Try to keep up.
Step 1: Figure out what you want to write: short stories, novels, blog posts, whatever. It doesn’t matter what it is; just pick something with a quantifiable length.
Step 2: Set a daily writing goal. Start small, even as small as 250 words per day. That doesn’t seem like a lot, but that shit adds up. In a week, you’ve got a solid flash fiction story; in a month, a reasonably sized short story; over a year, we’re talking novel-length. (By the way, I’ve highlighted the 250th word in this post, so you can see how much actual writing that entails.) If a word count goal feels too much like accounting, set a time limit. I’d recommend starting with a solid hour. Whatever the metric you choose, it should be something you can easily measure, so you’ll know the exact moment you achieve it.
Step 3: Hit your goal and bask in the warm glow of achievement. That sense of achievement is really important—next to getting published, it’s my favorite part of writing. When I hit my word count, I feel good. What’s better, I don’t feel guilty for paying attention to the other parts of my life. I get more shit done when I don’t feel guilty (so will you).
If you’re new to this whole writing thing, I think setting small, measurable goals is the way to go. Try it out. My guess is that you’ll start hitting that initial goal, and then, in a very short time, exceeding it on a regular basis.
Already got a method that works for you? Tell me about it in the comments.