Writers Are Readers, Right?

 by Thomas Kies

I got a phone call from a man who was referred to me by a friend.  Apparently, they were talking about life insurance.  I know, I know, not the most exciting subject in the world.  But it was during their conversation that the man confessed to my friend that he was interested in writing a book.  Being as I’m the only published novelist my friend knows personally, he naturally gave him my phone number. 

To my friend’s credit, he gave him my OFFICE number and not my personal cellphone.  So good on him.  

To keep anyone from being embarrassed, let’s call the man Charlie.  Charlie called me and politely told me what he would like to talk to me about.  Now, I love to talk about books, writing, and publishing. So, we scheduled a meeting the very next day.

I was happy to spend time with Charlie.  He asked good questions and took copious notes.  We discussed the positives and negatives of traditional publishing, self-publishing, and hybrid publishing. I told him how valuable it is to join a writers’ group and get a beta reader…no, not his wife or any of his children. We talked about how you need a good editor and how you need to sit down and write something every single day.  That’s what writers do. 

I asked him what genre he was interested in.  Charlie told me he wanted to write a thriller. Then I asked him who is your favorite author and what do you like to read?

His answer was, “Well, I’m not much of a reader.”

WHAT?

My question for the audience is, can you be a writer without being a reader?  In my opinion, NO!

Stephen King said, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all else: read a lot and write a lot.”

If Charlie wants to be a writer of thrillers, he’d be best served by reading thriller novels.  He’d be studying the writers who have made it happen. They’ve not only gotten published, but they managed to get onto best seller lists.  Writers like Lee Child, Brad Thor, Gillian Flynn, Don Winslow, David Baldacci, S.A. Cosby, Stephen Mack Jones, Stieg Larsson, Karin Slaughter, and Thomas Harris, just to name a few. 

It's how you can study plot structure, pacing, grammar, character development as well as a hundred other writing items you should know about if you’re going to try to write a book that someone will want to read. 

To Charlie’s credit, he’s not alone.  I’ve lost count of the people who have taken one of my Creative Writing classes at our local college that have answered that same question, “What do you read and who is your favorite author?”  And their answer has been, “I’m not much of a reader.”

But, on the flip side of that equation, I’ve found that the best writers who have taken my class are indeed dedicated readers.  They not only study the craft and work at it but enjoy reading.  

How can you not?    www.thomaskiesauthor.com

The End is Near

 Winter, and the ghost of Covid 19 is stealing away. I'm writing this while Fort Collins is preparing for a massive snow storm and we are warned daily about the emergence of variants to this disease. Nevertheless, spring is just around the corner. I can feel it coming. 

My spirits always lift when I do what I'm supposed to do: write books. Today, I got back to work on my mystery. I have liked the basic plot from the very beginning, and was going great guns, then got side-tracked. I had an assignment from the publisher of my historical novels and put the mystery aside. That was a good move, but then I didn't get fully back to the work-in-progress, and that was a dumb move.

 The time spent during the Covid shutdown could have been a great blessing for writers. It should have been for me. But strangely enough, I found myself frittering away my days. I've always been a compulsive reader and I couldn't stop myself from reading book after book. It's my primary way of dealing with anxiety and just about anything else. Atypically, I became a binge TV watcher. 

There was this sense of all the time in the world to complete work. I worked sporadically, and not with my usual zest. My days lacked the joyful bewilderment of immersion so complete that I would lose track of time. When this immersion occurs, the real world, with all of its real problems, fades away because the process is more compelling. 

During this wasted year when I should have finished my book and begun a new one, or reorganized my house, or hand waxed all of my hardwood floors, or sewn lovely gifts for all my daughters and grandchildren, or refinished furniture, or tackled math, or learned a language, or cooked and froze meals, or worked on my saggy body, I treated the time like it was a vacation.

Still, I'm not clinically depressed and a lot of people are. I'm ready to get back to work. I've had both of my Covid shots and so have a lot of my friends. 

Between this strange sorrowful disease that came out of nowhere, and the terrifying wildness of American politics, simply surviving seemed like a worthy goal. 

I'm here. Bring the new year on. 

The Blessings of Ignorance

Truth is, I don't know a thing about writing. With four mysteries (soon five) two historical novels and a non-fiction academic book under my belt, I'm amazed at how little I've learned. Looking back, I'm convinced the best thing that ever happened to me was there was no one around to either encourage or discourage me.

My natural calling was reading. I simply read all the time. It didn't bother my parents or anyone else until society came up with the concept that children should be well-rounded. Then my parents worried. Because it didn't seem quite normal for a child to read that much.  

No problem. I learned to hide my reading. I propped up a book in the drain rack when I dried dishes. There was a book in my music when I played the piano. Yes, I could easily read while my fingers practiced the scales, or whatever. To this day, I'm never without a book.

Do not assume that I was a shy retiring child. In fact I liked other children, and adored adults. During my childhood, one of my biggest pleasures was listening to my father and uncles and their friends tell stories.

No one supervised my reading. When my parents played bridge with Aunt Margaret and Uncle Clarence I headed for the living room and Aunt Margaret's collection from the Doubleday Book Club. What luxury! And such a good little nine-year-old. Never any trouble. But what a brouhaha when they discovered that I had already read Annie Jordan, Unconquered, and Forever Amber.

If someone has asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up when I was nine years old, in my secret heart, I knew I wanted to write books. But saying so would have sounded crazy. I didn't know one single soul who was a writer. I didn't know how one became a writer.

My husband and I were both born in Anderson County, Kansas. When we married, we moved to Western Kansas. He was a truck driver and hauled cattle. A bullhauler. My creative side responded to the vastness of the Kansas prairie. I was certainly free from any social constraints. There was no one to tell me I read too much. I could open the back door and holler if I wanted to. Or eat ice cream. Or go fishing.

Or I could write a book. No one to stop me from doing that either.

I began writing for real when I was about twenty-two or twenty-three. Somewhere in there. I taught myself from articles in the Writer's Digest and from books I ordered through Interlibrary Loan. Although I've never had a creative writing course, my self-education was lengthy and very rigorous. I've never been in a writing group.

Because my "method" is rather strange and seems to vary from book to book, I simply cannot imagine reading part of a manuscript to people who might offer suggestions. Praise or criticism would be destructive during the creative stage. I don't even know who will show up for a book until I'm through with the first draft. It's a work in progress.

I remain convinced that everyone should write a book twice before showing it to anyone. If you have any integrity at all, you will know what's wrong with your own book. So fix it. Then let other people read it. If they have good suggestions that you know are right, apply their ideas. The quickest people to offer criticism will come from people who have never published a book themselves.

My first novel was published by Simon & Schuster. If there were anyone at all around to tell me how hard it was to find an agent, get published, learn how to write, I never would have tried. On the other hand, I really needed a mentor. I've made a lot of mistakes. I would love to take them back. But that applies to a number of missteps in my life.

The care and feeding of writers

Barbara here, writing from Iceland. This is a pleasure rather than a writing-related trip, but a writer always sees the world through the lens of words.

Iceland has only a little over 330,000 people, two thirds of whom live in Reykjavik, the capital city, but it has a vibrant arts, music, and literary scene. The gift shops are full of hand-crafted goods made by Icelanders, instead of the usual trinkets mass-produced somewhere in Asia. There are knitted goods, pottery, carvings, art... and books! Bookstores and libraries are everywhere, and a quick perusal of the bookstore shelves reveals a wealth of books in Icelandic, including numerous world-class crime writers whose books are not only devoured in their native tongue but translated and enjoyed the world over. One of Iceland's literary icons, Halldor Laxness, won the Nobel prize in 1955. All this in a country of only 330,000 people.

In the short time I've been here, I've noticed Iceland is fiercely proud and protective of its heritage, culture, and language, which is very close to the old Norse of more than a thousand years ago. Their culture is rooted in sagas of their origins, part fantastical, part myth, part historical. The family sagas were passed down orally for generations before being written down by storyteller historians. Tales of bravery, adventure, brotherly feuds, betrayal, and triumph. Storytelling, one might say, is bred in the bone. Through government policy and individual commitment, Iceland supports its culture and its artists, which allows a tiny population less than the size of most mid-sized western towns to provide a livelihood for its creative class. Something that English-speaking countries with populations hundreds of times greater, like Canada, struggle to do, and often fail.

Education is free through secondary school, which runs until age 20, and free also at the state universities, and there is a high level of literacy in Iceland. A culture of reading is supported both at the schools, through dedicated reading times, and at home. Grants and awards are available to support writers as well. I suspect that if I had time to delve deeper beneath the surface, I would find government policies and incentives to support local creators. Certainly in the bookstores, the small English book section contained translations of Icelandic crime writers (among other writers) instead of the usual American or British blockbuster thrillers that feature most prominently in bookstores in English speaking countries.

Iceland's geographical isolation and unique language no doubt contribute to the thriving indigenous book scene, but like many Europeans, most of the people I encountered, from store clerks to mechanics at the tire store, spoke English remarkably well and were plugged into the larger global scene. But they also seem to believe that art and literature, in particular their own, are worth preserving. In a world increasingly homogenized by international corporate juggernauts, if we want to preserve the richness of regional, personal, and cultural diversity, we would do well to take a page from Iceland's book.

Bookaholics

Several days ago something went south with a tooth. The old filling decided to leave or I chipped it. Whatever. Yesterday it began to ache and I called the dentist for an emergency appointment before the pain became immobilizing.

The office could work me in immediately. I hastily assembled everything I would need. Insurance cards, check book, credit cards, glasses, keys, and most important of all — a book. In this case it was one I was reading for the Western Writers Contemporary Novel contest.

Books play so many important functions in my life I hardly know where to begin the list. I was highly amused by Aline's recent post where she said, "I taught myself to read at four and to this day I feel a sort of panic if I'm going to be stuck somewhere with nothing to read."

Right! And double that if it involves any medical procedures. If there is a short waiting time for a routine appointment often the magazines strewn around the office are sufficient and I catch up on all the latest scandals roiling Hollywood. I take in the Red Carpet fashions and mentally join the praise or criticism flung at the glitterati who can afford $10,000 gowns.

But yesterday's dental visit involved a crown, a great deal of money (even with dental insurance) and a long, long procedure. Turned out they could make the crown right there in the office.

Ironically, despite the unexpected expense, and my usual concern over reactions to medications, my very first thought was, "Thank goodness I brought a book." Then my second thought was, "What if I finish it before I get out of here?"

Books distract me. It's how I cope with anxiety.

I hate dental appointments. After reclining in the chair and finishing a volley of x-rays I propped the book on my lap and the instant the hygienist, dental assistant, or doctor left the room to fetch needles, compounds — god only knows what else — I read. The book made everything tolerable if not pleasant.

Books are also how I take myself in hand when I'm overwhelmed, (often) and have way too much work to do (often) I pick up a book and decide after I've finished a chapter I will do xxxx and then read another chapter or scene. Somewhere along the line work seems manageable and I'm merrily humming away. Then when I've finished a decent chunk I reward myself with another chapter.

So I'm a bookaholic! Want to make something of it? Through the blessing of libraries and free book exchanges no criminal gangs are involved with feeding my addiction. Other than encouraging my tendency toward sloth there's no risk to my soul and books keep me so very very happy.

The First Thanksgiving

We had a great Thanksgiving yesterday. It was the first time I hosted a large family event in my home since moving to Fort Collins. I was amazed at how my house accommodated the group. The too small kitchen seemed to swell to include all the women who had their fingers in various pies. There was even room for the essential pitch table in the living room.

I have a large leather sectional that is just right for viewing movies. A large arched three-shaded lamp provides plenty of light for those who want to knit or do needlework.

We have a lot to be thankful for this year. This autumn has been one of the most spectacular I've seen. The weather has been gorgeous and the country is slowly emerging from the wounds afflicted during the recent election.

Thanksgiving is the source of one my happiest memories. I was introduced to reading through a little book about Thanksgiving. The title was Hoot Owl.

I wanted to learn to read more than anything in the world. We were in a tiny school where three grades were together in one room. No pre-school or kindergarten. No TV, Sesame Street, or clever toys. My mother read stories sometimes out of the old Book of Knowledge. We were simply jump-started into first grade.

I thought reading was a trick or a revelation. I emulated a third grade boy I especially admired. I sat exactly as he did, held my head at the same angle, frowned like he did. But I couldn't read. Then one day the teacher told us about the alphabet and that the alphabet formed words and the words then became sentences and sentences were the basis of stories. I was swept with a wave of white-hot fury that it was that simple and everyone had withheld it from me.

The alphabet and everything connected with it became an obsession. And then came one of the most joyful days of my life. After the class had endured yet another fumble-through with Dick, Jane, Spot, and that damned ball and I was out of anything to do, the teacher told me I could choose a book to read.

And I could! I could actually read. And these books all had plots.

 The first book I ever read on my own was Hoot Owl. It was about a little pioneer boy who got lost in the woods. Just when everything seemed the darkest and he despaired of ever making it back to his colony he was befriended by a little Indian boy, Hoot Owl, who took him to his stern, but kindly Chief. A group of Indians guided Hoot Owl back to his anxious parents who, along with other welcoming colonists, were preparing a Thanksgiving feast. Naturally, the grateful colonists invited the Indians to share their meal. It was the first Thanksgiving and everyone lived happily ever after.

There now. Wasn't that wonderful? The shelves were full of similar books and I was off and running.

A Reader's Confession

I've found this week's discussion thought-provoking not only because it has prompted me to think about my relationship with titles and covers as a writer but because I've been thinking about what I read and why.

I am now about to share a secret. I often buy books that friends or reviewers I trust have recommended. But the truth is these book often set on my shelf -- or a table where they were deposited to be in plain sight -- unread. My Southern-born grandma would have called it "being contrary". As much as I value the helpful friends and reviewers who tell me about terrific books that they have read and I should read, when I'm reading for pleasure, I "just as soon" (as we say in the South) choose my own book.

I read so many books -- fiction and nonfiction -- because I need to or have to for classes I'm teaching or research I'm doing. When I have a chance to read purely for pleasure I want to choose my own book. I want to recreate that lovely feeling I had every week as a teenager when I would walk into the public library and browse through the shelves to find the book or two I would read that weekend.


I had that same feeling when I was old enough to earn a little money of my own and could buy a novel at the small bookstore on Main Street. I loved browsing through the paperbacks and leaving with a mystery or a Gothic romance or a historical or an espionage novel. Starlight mints, iced tea, and a book that I couldn't wait to open.

I think those memories are why I buy books that are recommended, intending to read them, and often don't.

On occasion I have come back to a book that was recommended years earlier. Sometimes I browse my own bookshelves, feeling I should read some of the books I have before bringing another book into the house -- even a library book. Now and then I "discover" a book that was recommended, coming up on it and being delighted to find that I might well have taken it home if I had found it on my own.

There are a couple of exceptions to my resistance to books I don't choose. I'm on the list of available book discussion leaders for a local library system. I lead a discussion two or three times a year if one of the member libraries asks me to come. I enjoy doing this not only because people in library reading groups read books with close attention, but because the books on the annual lists are often books that I would like to read. The discussion leaders identify the books we would be willing to do, and I always find books that I'd like to read and hope I will be asked to lead a discussion so that I will make the time to read them.

My other exception is the two or three times I've been on a book award committee. Loads of novels to read, a whole year's worth in a category. But a wonderful opportunity to have the library delivered to ones door. The added bonus is that this is an occasion when I can't be contrary. I need to read books that I might not have chosen -- and how lovely to discover I like a book I might not have picked up as I was browsing in the library or a bookstore. 

I'm on my way to the Suffolk Mystery Authors Festival tomorrow, and I'm going to browse my bookshelves for a wonderful book to take along to read on the plane. I consider time spent in the air "free time". I am not obliged to do the work I brought along. I can settle in with a book and remember again how much fun it is to read for pure pleasure.

Dog Days

I'm waiting for the edits for Fractured Families. This is a perfect time to catch up on projects and if I were the right sort of person, I would be outlining a new book or spiffing up my web page, or stalking bookstore owners to promote my new non-fiction historical book.

Instead I'm slipping into my dog days mentality.  When I was a child living in Eastern Kansas summers were often unbearable. The heat of late July and early August blanketed all the pre-air conditioning days and nights and there was no way to throw it off. It was oppressive and deadly and inescapable. This time of year was referred to as Dog Days.

There was one sure way to obtain relief but it was forbidden. We could go to Garnett and swim in the pool. But mom wouldn't let my sister and I do that because that time of year was associated with polio and diseases. Vaccines changed everything of course but the warning to stay be cautious during Dogs Days remained.

The term got it's name from Sirius, the "Dog Star" which rises and sets with the sun. During late July it's in conjunction with the sun and the ancients believed its heat was added to the heat of the sun. Which isn't true, but never mind. Hot is hot and before air conditioning this time of summer was a preview of hell.

Now there are other reasons I'm especially cautious during Dog Days. Polio aside, new dangers lurk. Lime disease infects unsuspecting fishermen and hikers. The possible complications are heart-breaking and sometimes permanent. We have daily warnings to wear long-sleeved shirts and full-length pants to shield our bodies from West Nile-bearing mosquitos. We're not supposed to walk at dawn or sundown--which are my favorite times--because mosquitos are the thickest then.That leaves the hottest time of the day. I'm not about to risk a heat stroke.

It's Dog Days run amuck.

So who can blame me if l lie about in a listless stupor reading, reading, reading. It's the way I was brought up.