Author Archives: Scott Parkin
I write across a fair number of genres. Each form prides itself on telling True Stories that move beyond mere accuracy to expose underlying Reality. Even writers of “realistic” fiction carefully sift the many real and accurate possible details to find the one they perceive as most (contextually) powerful or interesting—leaving an awful lot of realism unrealized in any story.
This is not a rant against the definition of “real” or “true;” rather it’s a personal exploration of the usefulness of varied viewpoints in collision with the conventions of genre and the marketplace. Continue reading
Every author has to work out the details of their own career with fear and trembling, but as we seek our avenues for expression it seems useful to remember the reader. If Indie publishers are taking market share, it’s because readers are seeking satisfying stories outside the traditional (and sometimes limited or hidebound) avenues. Continue reading
Problem is that there really is a lot of meh out there. Not good, not bad, just…meh. Entropy seems to be working. I don’t believe in negative reviews, so I won’t mention any names (to protect the guilty), but in the end a lot of my recent reading has filled me with a colossal sense of “so what?” Continue reading
It becomes very easy to see your own gaps of talent, to identify the admirable in others and despair at its relative lack in your own work. We seek to be Miltons and Shakespeares, and in so doing sometimes fail to recognize how successfully we cover much of the same ground by somewhat different means. Continue reading
Most of us count ourselves members of many communities, and feel both affinity with the totality of the community and distinction from many of its individual members. It’s the nature of the beast; we are complex beings with complex interests, so we pursue multiple memberships in communities of interest.
Except when we don’t. Continue reading
I was once considered a promising writer. I had written more than 150 short stories. Then it happened. The horrible realization that sapped my strength and crushed my heart and left me dazed and disoriented and despondent. I was a fake. A fraud. A pretender. I was not the spinner of brief tales I had always seen myself as.
I was not a short story writer at all. It seemed I was a natural novelist—an entirely different animal. Continue reading