I want to talk about short story contracts, writing “for exposure,” and the inherent contradictions that insidiously poison the writing community.
To start, let me say that I’ve had nearly 200 short stories published in… oh god, I have no idea how many different markets.
I’ve read a lot of short story contracts, and I read them every time. I’ve had dozens of stories published by Daily Science Fiction, and I reread that contract every time. Because if you don’t reread it, you don’t know that they didn’t change something.
You need to read what you’re signing.
Now I hate reading contracts. I think it’s one of my two absolute least favorite activities, right up there with shopping for pants. (Shudder.)
But contracts have real consequences, and you have to read them.
If you sign the wrong contract — say one without a sunset clause, and then the market goes under — then you can lose the rights to your story FOREVER.
I’m not willing to risk that. I won’t sign a contract without a sunset clause. (That’s a clause saying when it ends.)
Now maybe there’s a price and a specific piece of fiction — like, I dunno, a stand-alone flash story for a million dollars — where I would sign a contract without a sunset clause.
But generally, there’s no excuse for a market refusing to include a sunset clause.
If you find yourself dealing with a contract that doesn’t have a sunset clause, you’ve gotta ask for it. Any decent market will give it to you.
I’ve had five stories published at Analog Science Fiction & Fact and they make me ask for that sunset clause every damned time. But they do give it to me.
What really kills me here is that if EVERY AUTHOR asked for a sunset clause EVERY TIME they were published by Analog, they’d just make it a standard part of the contract, because it would save them time.
So, I know all y’all ain’t asking for the most basic of rights you deserve.
And yes, I know that reading contracts is hard and boring. They’re dense and tricky to understand, and honestly, it just feels so damn high stakes.
Like, what if I find something un-signable? Do I just lose this sale?
Maybe.
I have lost sales over bad contracts with markets who refused to negotiate. It’s gotten to where the joy of receiving a story acceptance is followed so rapidly by the pit of fear in my stomach saying, “But what about the contract?” that I hardly want to submit stories anymore.
With how power dynamics work in the fiction industry, reading a contract feels less like engaging in negotiation for a fair & equitable exchange, and more like reading an instruction manual for a bomb, trying to figure if it’s going to explode in your hands, blowing up the sale.
If I could hit a button and destroy the entire concept of contracts, I very possibly would hit that button and worry about the unintended consequences after. (I can be impulsive; if I weren’t, there wouldn’t be Zooscape, so there.)
So, what’s the alternative?
Well, I’m not so much advocating for a specific path here as discussing a big, complicated, thorny issue.
Also, I have ZERO contracts training. I just have a weirdly litigious dad; a very rational accountant mother; and lots of practice.
Most writers have less.
Now I want to pivot to talking about one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen happen during the pandemic.
Early on, when it was all woe & terror & uncertainty, Khaki Doggy
decided to put together a podcast — The Voice of Dog — with uplifting furry stories to cheer people up.
Writers donated their stories; Khaki donated the time to record them; and there’s no money or contracts involved anywhere. It goes against all the rules for how this stuff is SUPPOSED to work. And technically, I guess, it’s “for exposure” work.
Except that’s so cynical.
To begin with, I offered Khaki stories that had been published before. But eventually, I started giving him brand new ones, because PEOPLE WERE LISTENING TO THEM. And that is a billion times better than having those stories languish in a folder on my computer.
And those stories that had been languishing, they’re GOOD STORIES that deserve listeners.
See, people don’t say it, but they do believe, at a very deep level, that you can tell something about how good a story is by how much is paid for it.
This is dead wrong.
It should be obvious that the value of a story is not accurately measured by the money that an author makes from it, but I have a specific, personal, timely example.
I sold a story to Nature Futures for $130. That same story had already been rejected by a market that pays $3.
So, how much is that story worth?
Less than $3, because I couldn’t sell it to that market?
$0, because I hadn’t managed to sell it?
Or exactly $130 as soon as it sold?
No, it’s ineffable and different for every person who will encounter it. It’s not money.
Let me repeat that, because it’s very important:
STORIES ARE NOT MONEY
Let’s bring this back around to The Voice of Dog.
That podcast gets listeners. People who tell me they enjoyed my story. Also, its stories are well-known and loved enough that they get award nominations and wins.
It’s also fostered community among the writers and voice actors.
The Voice of Dog is an absolutely beautiful addition to the world, but it goes against so many of the RULES for how the BUSINESS of writing fiction should be conducted.
It’s is very much the definition of “for exposure” writing, that thing we’re taught to hate and scorn.
So, what do writers do with this contradiction?
Hell if I know. I’ve been actively brainstorming where to go from here with my “career,” and I am as lost as Theseus without a piece of string in the labyrinth.
Except there’s string everywhere — “Get an agent!” “Do pitch wars!”
None of the strings seem to lead anywhere I want to go, and I feel like I’ve been walking in circles.
And maybe, walking in circles wouldn’t be so bad if I could get it out of my head that there’s somewhere better to go.
Maybe the labyrinth is all we’ve got.