Creative Longings

By Shelley Burbank

I was chatting with an artist friend of mine, Sharon, about creativity.* Sharon once wrote a novel. She always wanted to be a writer, or thought she did. She’s very talented. She can write a beautiful sentence, build a story, and conjure characters from thin air.  

Writing, however, made her unhappy. By her own account, writing took her to dark places, made her miserable. Dealing with the publishing landscape multiplied that misery by a hundred-fold. After much soul searching, Sharon realized she and writing needed to break up. Instead, she turned back to her first love, art. It is as if the sun burst forth from the clouds.

Since taking up sketching, painting, and other visual art again (plus interior design, to boot), she’s light, happy, fulfilled, and practically blazing with joy. It’s been wondrous to behold. 

Here’s a not-so-secret secret: I wish I could draw. Draw, paint, all kinds of visual art. I’ve practiced. I can sometimes do a passable facsimile of the thing, but drawing doesn’t come naturally. The urge to create something in visual media comes naturally. The act–the muscle memory and the eye–not so much. (Collage is satisfying, and I’ll do that for myself when the mood strikes. For my own enjoyment.) 

I love illustrated books and stories. I envision these illustrations and want them for my stories and think I want to make them. If I’m being totally honest, though, I think what I really want is the finished product. I’m not that interested in the process, and we all know that process is the good part when the art’s real inside. When the art’s part of you. 

An illustration by me

Today I told Sharon, “I’m jealous of artists. But I remind myself I can enjoy it without having to DO it.”

“That’s where I’ve gotten to with writing!”

“Why do I think I have to DO everything????”

“Girl, if I had that answer for myself, I’d share. We both have the ‘I bet I could do that’ gene.”

“Right,” I said. “I bet creative people just get urges to create. Maybe it’s that simple. So do the one you’re best at. Support the rest.”

That last bit hit me, even as I typed it. Creative people are often drawn to multiple disciplines, hobbies, arts. Piano lessons in grades 1-5 taught me I’d never be a musician, even though I enjoyed playing my favorite songs well into my college years. Sometimes I suspect I’d be good at sculpture. Or pottery. Or weaving. But I’m old and wise enough now to know that’s ridiculous. 

I learned to knit and tried spinning yarn for a while, loving the idea of fiber art. I had fun playing around with the spinning wheel and drop spindle, looking at fiber art magazines, day-dreaming about natural dye processes. I carded, rolled, spun yarn, and knit a scarf from mohair roving…

Reader, it didn’t stick. 

My one true passion has always been books and writing. Writing is where I’ve put my energy and my ten-thousand hours. Writing is my art form. 

I can appreciate all the arts. I can listen to Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria and sing it at the top of my lungs in the car all alone, but I’ll never sing opera in public. I love theater, but find me in the audience on opening night clapping my hands off. I’ll pick out beautiful handspun yarn at the Fryeburg Fair and admire the woman spinning directly from her angora bunny in the corner. I’ll follow visual artists on social media and sigh with admiration over the designs, but my collages and art journals will be for myself and for sharing on social media as amateur-at-best pieces, not for professional purposes. I’ll buy hand-thrown pottery, art prints, handmade quilts, and fabulously concocted desserts. Yes, my heart will ache a little to do all these things, but I can resist.   

I don’t have to do it all. Writing is my medium. I can support the rest.

_________

* Names of people in my essays are changed and sometimes the characters are amalgams. The conversations are real. 

Writing and Insecurity

By Thomas Kies

I’m nearly finished writing the first draft of a new book.  It’s not part of the Geneva Chase series which I’ve loved doing.  This has a male protagonist (kind of nice not writing as a woman for a change), different location (I love Connecticut, but the cost of living is wicked high and it’s time to write a mystery using new scenery), and a different vibe.

My publisher hasn’t committed to the book, and I don’t know if they will. I hope they do.

As a matter of fact, there’s no guarantee that it will ever see the light of day.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve written a novel that was never published.  As a matter of fact, before I found an agent (she’s the best) for Random Road, I had written four other books.

Before Random Road, was I feeling insecure?  Hell yes.

I still am. 

As I continue to steam ahead on the new book, there are some days where I think this is the best piece of fiction I’ve ever written.  And then, later that same day, I wonder if it’s the worst piece of crap ever knocked out on a laptop.

Yeah, insecurity.  

I asked my browser if any other writers have suffered from insecurity.  This is what it said:

Yes, many famous writers have suffered from insecurity. For example, Ernest Hemingway was known for his insecurities and his tendency to compare himself to other writers. F. Scott Fitzgerald also struggled with insecurity throughout his life. Virginia Woolf was known to have suffered from depression and anxiety, which often made her feel insecure about her writing.

● "I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances." - John Steinbeck

● "I have spent a good many years since―too many, I think―being ashamed about what I write. I think I was forty before I realized that almost every writer of fiction or poetry who has ever published a line has been accused by someone of wasting his or her God-given talent." - Stephen King

● "I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within." - Gustave Flaubert

● "I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering." - Robert Frost

I’m going to get back to writing.  Luckily, at this point, unlike Frost, I know what the end looks like.  When I started, the characters were foreign to me.  The villain or villains unknown.  The story yet to unfold. 

Now the characters are like old friends.  I hope you get to spend time with them as well.

www.thomaskiesauthor.com

What's Behind Me?

By Johnny D. Boggs

A fellow writer asked what dictionary I use.

Hey, I did not say that this was a stimulating conversation.

I turned around, made notes, and answered that a Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary sits right behind me. Deluxe Second Edition. I probably could buy a new one, but with the plethora of online dictionaries, is that worthwhile? Besides, next to that is Webster’s unabridged An American Dictionary of the English Language from 1860.

Since I mostly write historical fiction, I probably pull the latter out more than the modern Webster’s. Unless I pick up that 1876 copy of Webster’s A Common-School Dictionary of the English Language.

Then I spy the two-volume A Dictionary of Americanisms on Historical Principles from 1951, which I often peruse, unless I grab Richard Thornton’s two-volume An American Glossary from 1962.

My Roget’s Thesaurus is A Treasury of English Words and Phrases from 1883.

An atlas? Well, there’s a modern Rand McNally, but I also have a Cram’s Unrivaled Family Atlas of the World Indexed from 1885. I have to be careful with that one, because I can look at maps for hours.

Wow. I just learned something. My hometown of Timmonsville, South Carolina, was in Darlington County in 1885. That find sends me to Google to learn that Florence County wasn’t first formed until 1888.

My King James Bible is from 1868. Translations have changed over the years, you see.

For grammar I have that bible commonly known as “Strunk and White” but properly called The Elements of Style. It’s the Fourth Edition, but I still have the battered Third Edition that I used all through journalism school and my newspaper career.

The Elements of Editing and The Elements of Grammar sit next to the well-read On Writing Well by William Zinsser and Fowler’s Modern English Usage, Second Edition.

Those are the closest constant books. History books and biographies, etc., might be stacked in front of that shelf, but those will change depending on what I’m working on at the time.

Then there are books on the shelves above the printer. First Names. The Chicago Manual of Style. The Washington Post Deskbook on Style (to see what Woodward, Bernstein and Bradlee might have been reading circa 1972-1974). A modern Roget’s (well, it was modern when I bought it in college). Tons of books on slang – always make sure slang references include an etymology if you’re writing historical fiction –  and English usage.

More reference books, books on firearms, 19th Century catalogs from Bloomingdale’s, Montgomery Ward and Sears, Roebuck & Co. … Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable … Old West dictionaries … the 1955 reprint of Ballads and Songs Collected by the Missouri Folk-Lore Society … Colonial American English … The Complete Oxford Shakespeare (there's also a 1942 edition of The Complete Plays and Poems of William Shakespeare from Houghton Mifflin somewhere around here) … foreign-language dictionaries … various state historical atlases … David Dary’s Frontier Medicine … 19th Century baseball rulebooks … Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing (to keep me grounded) … and even the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, which a foul-mouthed writer recommended to me years ago.

Yes, you are absolutely right. The writer who asked me what dictionary I use was sorry he asked.

Superstitions

By Johnny D. Boggs

I just made an emergency run to the grocery.

I was out of blueberries. Had gone days without any. Which explained why this week has been so lousy. 

Sources for magazine assignments blowing me off. Outlining a novel not coming together as I’d hoped. Sentence I just wrote reading like crud.

Here’s my morning ritual: Get up. Let the doggies out and feed the big one. Hit the coffeemaker. Shower. Get dressed. And, most importantly, make myself a smoothie.

The ingredients vary, depending on what’s available. Raspberries. Strawberries. Blackberries. Spinach. Celery. Tomatoes. Oranges. Peach. Grapefruit. Lemon. Chile. Carrots. Apple. Cucumber. Zucchini. Brazil nuts. Protein powder.

And 20 blueberries.

For good luck.

I am not so insecure and insane that I must have a 20-blueberry smoothie when I’m on the road. When I’m home, however, I remain fairly certain that failure to include those 20 blueberries dooms me to a frustrating day at the Mac. That the Kansas City Royals and South Carolina Gamecocks will stink if they’re playing. That the check I’m expecting won’t be in the mail. 

If I happen to have only 23 blueberries left, I’ll likely add the extra three. Maybe.

A 20-blueberry smoothie could be a ritual because I happen to like blueberries, though, as a native of South Carolina, I’m a much bigger fan of peaches. Maybe the specific number is just a tradition. Perhaps it’s comforting.

Or I could be superstitious.

But I have no problem stepping on cracks in sidewalks. I don’t worry if a black cat walks in front of me. Thirteen is just another number. There’s no rabbit’s foot around. I won’t walk under a ladder, but that’s because my dad was a building contractor, and there might be someone on that ladder, or there might be a hammer or a gallon of paint atop the ladder, and I don’t want a carpenter or a hammer falling on my head or being bathed in paint if I accidentally slip and hit that ladder.

When I coached Little League, I would try to wear the same socks, shoes, etc., if we were winning. Once we lost, the mojo was gone and I’d find new duds or wash the luck back into what I had been wearing. I would chastise anyone who started packing up equipment before the game was over.

And I will never step on a foul line.

Superstitions apply to writing, too.

The first book I ever sold was mailed (back when we actually mailed typed manuscripts), per the publisher’s guidelines, in 12-point Monaco. Most people that I run into these days have never even heard of Monaco, but I use it all the time. Well, if a publisher demands 10-point Times New Roman or 14-point Calibri, I’ll try to comply. If I happen to forget, I just think, Hey, Editors, all y’all have to do is hit “Select All,” and change the font and point size, silly.

Then when the editors have a bad day, they have only themselves to blame.

 Remembering Peter Cooper

By Johnny D. Boggs

“Somehow, Johnny Cash is dead.”

We’re taught in Journalism 101 to tell readers what they need to know in that first paragraph. Make every word count. And force those readers to keep reading.

Peter Cooper nailed it on September 13, 2003, when his obituary of The Man in Black appeared in The Tennessean, Nashville’s daily newspaper.

For 19 years, I’ve been saying that’s the best lede to any newspaper story I’ve ever read.

Peter, newspaper journalist turned musician, songwriter, historian, music producer, author of liner notes and senior director, producer and writer at the Country Music Hall of Fame, died Dec. 6. He had sustained a head injury after a fall the previous week.

He was only 52 years old.

We both hailed from South Carolina. Peter was born in Spartanburg – he wrote Hub City Music Makers: One Southern Town’s Popular Musical Legacy about his hometown’s music scene (the Marshall Tucker Band, Walter Hyatt …) – and taught school in Rock Hill (“I used to live in Rock Hill/South Carolina, South Carolina/I’m glad I’m not living there still/I feel much better now” he sings in one of his songs).

I grew up farther south in the Pee Dee country. Living in New Mexico, I feel much better now, too.

Peter Cooper. Photo by Deone Jahnke

Courtesy PeterCooperMusic.com

After Peter’s death, I started rereading his Johnny’s Cash & Charley’s Pride: Lasting Legends and Untold Adventures in Country Music. If you want to know about Nashville, songwriters and country-music stars, that’s the book to read. And Tom T. Hall’s The Storyteller’s Nashville: A Gritty & Glorious Life in Country Music (Peter wrote the preface).

How do writers improve their writing? They read great writers.

I read Peter Cooper. And learned a lot.

Peter wrote:

“[O]bjectivity is the mortal enemy. …

"But objectivity is dispassionate.

"And we’re in the passion business.

"We’re trying to make people feel something different than what they felt before they read our words.”

That’s a concept White House beat reporters or those covering cops in Dallas might have trouble wrapping their heads around, but for entertainment writers or fiction writers, it’s a subject worthy of discussion in the bar after deadline.

Recalling an interview during which Johnny Cash told Peter, “I read everything you write,” Peter wrote:

“Immediately, I was ten feet tall.

“Johnny Cash reads all my stuff.

“Then I shrunk eight feet down from ten.

“Johnny Cash reads all my stuff.

“All my stuff.

“Stuff I write on deadline … stuff I just can’t nail … stuff where I am writing over my head … stuff where I am unduly judgmental … stuff where I am overly kind.

“All my stuff.

“Johnny Cash.

“Writer’s block ensued.”

Peter was a writer I wanted to sit down with at Nashville’s Loveless Café and talk craft. Now, all I can do is listen to his music and reread his prose.

Because I’m still waiting for my brain to accept this fact:

Somehow, Peter Cooper is dead.

Connections

 

Connections

By Johnny D. Boggs

The telephone rang last week, and I pushed away from the keyboard and answered. The news stunned me.

Karl Cordova died after cardiac arrest the day before. He was 52.

Karl worked for, and loved, the National Park Service, serving as superintendent at Casa Grande (Arizona) Ruins National Monument and Pecos (New Mexico) National Historical Park. I met him after he moved to New Mexico to take the Pecos job. His two sons and my son were in the same Boy Scout troop -- Karl eventually became Scoutmaster, and I was one of several assistants -- and all three boys played baseball. I coached baseball with Karl, sometimes against him, and umpired a few ballgames in which the boys played.

                                                        Karl Cordova at a naturalization 

                                                        ceremony at Pecos National His-

                                                        torical Park in 2016.

I have never met anyone as calm and collected as Karl. He never lost his cool -- hard to do when you're wrangling pre-teen and teenage boys.

The sad news also had me thinking that as a writer, you often never know if you touch readers, and it's a blessing when you have. It's a bigger blessing when you realize how a reader can touch you.

The last time I say Karl was in March. He invited me to bring the family to a dinner in Pecos with Friends of Pecos National Historical Park on the eve of the park's annual Civil War Encampment (the 1862 battle of Glorieta Pass, in which Union forces turned back a Confederate invasion, was partially fought on what's now park property). I'd talk a bit about writing historical novels and answer any questions.

Over the years, I had given Karl some of my novels, and he had bought others. His father, he said, was a big fan of my books and loved Westerns. When you write in this genre, you hear that fairly often: My father reads ... My grandfather reads ... my great-grandpa reads. ... Well, Karl said he liked my books, too, though I'm pretty sure his sons had no interest in reading Westerns.

But that night, Karl told another story.

He was visiting his father in the hospital. His dad was reading Hard Winter, if my memory's right. I said, "I kinda like that one myself." They talked about my my writing style, how they liked the way I told different kinds of Westerns, how I did my research, how I made my characters realistic, believable, human. I was wondering if my hat would fit when I had to leave.

And then Karl said:

"My father passed away that night. So I'll always remember that the last conversation we had was about your books." 

Readers have written letters or emails or even telephoned to say how much they like something I've written, or why they didn't like what I'd written. But I'd never heard anything like what Karl said that night. I signed a copy of the book in memory of Karl's dad.

This morning, I'll be at Karl's funeral. This afternoon, I'll be back in the office, writing a novel with a deadline fast approaching. But I've already rewritten part of that book. A few days ago, I called up the Word doc and went to the dedication. Deleted what I had written, then replaced it with:

In memory of Karl Cordova (1970-2022),

fellow baseball coach, Scout leader, and friend;

and his father, Bill (1936-2020),

who liked my novels.

Writers' Conference Joy

 

Writers' Conference Joy

 by Johnny D. Boggs

Today should find me at the Best Western Inn of the Ozarks for the annual Ozark Creative Writers conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

Don’t ask why they keep inviting me back, but I know the reason I make that roughly 1,600-mile round trip every October.

You never stop learning the business, and there are worse places to be than the Ozark Mountains in the fall. 

OCW has been holding an annual conference for 55 years. I forget the year – it wasn’t 55 years ago – but the first time I went was as a keynote speaker. After which, board members asked me to join the board of directors. Pretty sneaky, but I accepted.

After two days of panels and presentations, I was also asked to hand out prizes to the winners of writing contests. Each year, the conference offers dozens of contests, paying prizes from $10 to $300, or certificates for honorable mentions. It would be a treat for the winners, I was informed, to get an award from me.

So there I stood with a certificate in my hand when the emcee announced that first finalist.

For 24 years, I’ve been writing professionally – full time, no real day job, no retirement, no inheritance. I haven’t written anything on spec for years. An editor, publisher or my agent reaches out to me, a deal is worked out, I deliver the manuscript, and deposit the check.

But around this time every year, when I had out money or a certificate and I smile and say, “Congratulations,” I remember.

The first professional byline I got came for a sports article in the Sumter (South Carolina) Daily Item the summer after I graduated from high school. That byline was my payment. Drove 65 miles roundtrip to buy some papers at a 7-Eleven, and when Daddy came home, I showed him the sports cover, pointed at the article. He sat down, read my first journalistic effort, and said, “Well, that’s interesting.”

Mama said: “Read who wrote it.”

“Oh.” Daddy saw my name. “I didn’t even look to see who wrote it.”

Wasn’t the last time something like that happened.

All that evening at my first OCW, and at every banquet night since, I recall sending short stories or short nonfiction articles on spec to magazine editors … trashing rejection letters … collecting my payment of two contributor’s copies … maybe depositing a check for five bucks. I remember the time a magazine offered me a hundred bucks for a short story, then folded before the story ever got published – or I got paid … signing that first book contract … and when I told my dad that I had given notice, was quitting the newspaper game, and moving to New Mexico to write full time. He said, “Well, I reckon you know what the hell you’re doing.”

I didn’t. Still don’t. 

But I love to see those faces on dads and grandmothers and lawyers and schoolteachers, retirees and even young kids who have that same dream, and are excited that someone liked his or her writing.

That’s why you’ll find me in Eureka Springs this weekend.

Preventing Brain Fade

By Johnny D. Boggs

             Brain Fade.

My favorite bit of sports jargon/slang comes from my newspaper days. If you include college, part-time work, freelancing and almost 15 years in what was then a highly competitive/drive-you-to-drink market in Dallas-Fort Worth, that covers 1980-2001. The phrase comes from NASCAR – stock-car racing – which I found myself covering and editing during much of my career. You see, when Dallas Times Herald and Fort Worth Star-Telegram editors learned I came from South Carolina, they figured I knew all about goin’ racin’. Well, I did attend school with NASCAR Hall-of-Famer Cale Yarborough’s daughters.

             Covering races or editing articles about races, I ran across Brain Fade a time or two.

There’s not much a driver can do at 190 mph when his car throws rod or a tire blows, but when a driver does something completely stupid – and maybe wrecks other cars – that, folks, is Brain Fade.

So whenever an editor or proofreader (yikes, or even a reader after a book/article is published) calls my attention to a stupid mistake, I chalk it up to Brain Fade.

Most Brain Fades I attribute to newspaper training: Write fast. File on time. Pray that the copy editors catch anything that will get you in serious trouble. Make it better for the next edition.

Sure, when I sit down at the desk, I think: This book isn’t due for months, take your time, don’t type so fast. I remind myself of the advice a high school writing teacher gave Robert A. Caro, who went on to have a successful newspaper career before becoming a two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer:

“The trouble with you is that you think with your fingers.”

For a few minutes, I slow down. Then that newspaper DNA takes over and I’m back at 120 words a minute.

My goal always is: Cut down on Brain Fades.

In Working: Researching, Interviewing, Writing, Caro recalls that when he moved to book-length works he started writing his first drafts with pencil in longhand – just to slow that write-fast instinct. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says, “but you get calluses.” My handwriting, however, stinks.

One night on the sports desk at the Dallas Times Herald, a fellow copy editor theorized on why we caught more gaffes on paper proofs than while editing on computers. His reasoning: The eye-to-brain connection rebels from a computer screen. So print your proof out on paper. And recycle so we don’t kill as many trees.

Another tip I’ve heard: Read your work aloud. (But I hate my voice.)

Or change your point size and your font before proofreading.

Hey, we’ll try anything.

Benjamin Dreyer, copy chief of Random House, had an interesting essay in the September 25 New York Times Book Review. One line, as writer and editor, especially struck a chord:

“I still aim for unadulterated perfection, at least as far as books are concerned. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t.”

I’ll keep on trying.

 

The Last Class

 By Thomas Kies

Tonight will be the last class in my Creative Writing workshop series at the college.  The last class is always a little bittersweet, although many of the participants sign up for my Advanced class starting in three weeks, so I’ll get the chance to work with them again.

This time around, there were seven people in the group.  Starting out, no one knows anything about each other. By the end of six weeks, they’re all friends, supporting each other in their writing, and sometimes their lives. 

Every week, I give them a writing prompt and the following week they read it in front of the class.  Now, I know how scary that is.  I’ve been reading my own work in front of groups for years, and I still get the heebie-jeebies. To make it easier on them and a positive experience, after the students read the piece they’ve written, the class applauds, and we go around the room talking about what we liked about what they’ve written and what might make it stronger.

One week, I asked them to write a kick-ass protagonist.  Another week, I asked them to write an extremely emotional scene.  Throughout the workshop, it’s clear that in some cases, they’re writing as wish fulfillment (think: James Bond-style spy thriller) and in some cases it’s therapy (think: suicide, PTSD, or spousal abuse). 

Whatever they write, it’s clearly personal.  And I think that’s what all writing is about.  We’re making stuff up, sure, but to some degree, what we’re putting down on paper is a piece of ourselves. 

Which is why we get nervous when we read it in front of a group of people. 

For my last class tonight, the assignment is to write the last three or four pages of your book.  Whatever that means to you.  

Some of the students have managed to keep the thread of a cogent story going using every one of my exercise prompts.  So, most likely, we’ll hear the last few pages of the book they have in their head.

When they go home, they will have written the first and last chapters of their first book.  Now all they have to do is fill in the middle.

Of course, that’s the trick, isn’t it?

In some cases, the last few pages of their book represent closure to something that they have written about that’s deeply personal to them. There will be resolution. 

This is the sixth time I’ve taught this workshop, and thankfully, the resolutions I’ve heard have always been positive. 

So, I look forward to tonight’s class and see how the friendships that have formed play out after the workshops have ended.  Some of my students have gone on to create writing/critique groups and continue to meet.  Two of my students have gone on to write books and one has had one published. 

That’s my reward. 

Gats and Cats

I'm known as a workaholic and so it was unusual to pry myself loose for a long overdue vacation. Last year, the cons I planned to attend got cancelled because of Covid and I was left with airline tickets to use or lose. A few months back, a buddy of mine I've known since the 6th grade suffered a heart attack and that prompted me to make plans and get going. Since I was traveling to the East coast, I decided to visit as many friends as I could in one trip. 

I started in Dumfries, then headed to Falls Church to visit Duane, a college chum and Ranger buddy. Being guys in America, we stopped by a gun range to bust caps, using a suppressor. Duane served in Military Intelligence, then Special Forces, and switched careers to work in the CIA. He published an excellent memoir of his last field assignment, which was about the early days of the war in Afghanistan. We didn't talk much how that mess ended.

My next stop was to see a writing buddy, Quincy Allen, who moved from Denver to Charlotte, NC. One of his cats apparently approved of me as it left a feather on my backpack. 

Then north to Rocky Mount to visit Greg, another Army buddy. He and I flew Cobra helicopters in the Air Cavalry. Again, as we were still in America, we went shooting, also with a suppressor.

My last stop was Charleston to visit Mark and Rebel, who I was lucky enough to meet years back when I first got published. Mark is local tour guide and historian with several books to his credit. He and his wife are also cat people and besides taking care of their own felines, twice a day the neighborhood alley cats stop by for chow.

If you're in Charleston, you have to say hello to the carriage horses.

Believable Behavior

 If you’re going to be a writer, I believe you need to be a keen observer of your surroundings.  I’m not just talking about places and things and the appearance of people (who eventually become characters in your stories), but human behavior. 

Like when you give a book talk, you read the room.  Last Thursday night, I gave a talk to one of our many regional Rotary Clubs. This one was small in number, about twenty, the majority the audience being senior citizens.  

Most of the time, I lead with a joke that, if you haven’t heard it before, rocks the room.  Studying the faces last night, I knew that joke would fall flat on its backside. Instead, I launched with a self-depreciating description on my agonizingly long journey to being published.  

They thought that was pretty funny.   Okay, with this crowd, my pain was their comedy.

As I was speaking, I watched their faces to see if they were remaining engaged or if I was boring them into catatonia.  I’m pretty certain I did well because when I finished, they hit me with a flurry of excellent questions. 

One of them was the question I get most often, Is it hard to write in the first-person as a woman?” 

Yes it is.  I never planned to write more than one book that featured Geneva Chase.  It involves a ton of research, most of it online, of course.  When you’re writing mysteries, you look up everything from poisons to guns to escort services to muscle cars.

When writing about Geneva Chase, I also look up hairstyles and cosmetics, as well as women’s shoes and clothing.

You know how once you’ve looked something up online you receive an onslaught of related ads?  When I do my research, my computer screen is festival of weirdness. 

But I also listen to the way women talk and walk and how they act.  It’s a fine line between being observant and being creepy. 

So, let’s pivot for a moment, and talk about irrational behaviors.  When I’m writing, I try to describe behavior that’s believable.  The last thing you want is your readers to shake their heads and say, “That would never happen.”

And yet, we see irrational behavior all the time.  Most recently, people who refuse to get the Covid vaccine. Full disclosure, my wife and I jumped all over it when we had a chance to get the shot.  I was certain that everyone else would as well.  I was so certain, that I have my hotel booked and my airline ticket purchased to head to New Orleans for Bouchercon in late August.

Now, because there’s still a fairly high percentage of people refusing to be vaccinated, I’m having second thoughts.  The folks from Bouchercon sent an email to all participants that to be safe, the Mayor of New Orleans is asking people to mask up when they’re inside because of the increase in cases of variant infections, a danger in particular to those who are unvaccinated. 

The most basic human behavior is self-preservation and the safekeeping of those most close to you.  

I guess you could call this kind of irrational behavior a plot twist, but its one that strains believability. 

The case of the vanishing words

Sometimes I think technology is out to get me.

I don't mean in a Skynet, come-with-me-if-you-want-to-live way, but there are occasions when I think there's been a meeting called by my devices in which the agenda is this:

• 1. Minutes of the last meeting on how we can annoy Douglas.

• 2. New ways forward on how we can annoy Douglas.

• 3. Any other competent business (on how we can annoy Douglas).

Take my cell phone - please take my cell phone!

Here in dear old Blighty we call it a mobile, which does often cause confusion when I hear parents talking about their child being fascinated by a mobile. It takes me a beat to realise they are referring to one of those hanging contraptions that rotate and not that their new born is thumbing LOLs on social media. 

On the other hand, cell phone makes me think of tattooed felons making illicit calls from one of Her Majesty's penal establishments.

Anyway, my device has been proving unreliable of late. Calls either don't connect or when I answer an incoming call the other party can't hear me. It's also not alerting me to some texts for some reason. I don't mind when it's the usual spam but there are some people that I do really want to hear from and when I find one has arrived unanounced, and therefore unseen, it does annoy me.

Then there's my PC. It has been as slow as a week in the jail (without a cell phone). I've cleaned and dumped and even polished but it remains sluggish. Facebook in particular takes an age to load. And I often type faster than the technology can handle - at least that's how it seems - and it hangs there as if it's having a meeting on the shop floor to discuss the excess workload. My music apps can suddenly stop. And the built-in disc player is so useless - working only when it feels like it - that it should run for public office.

But more importantly, last weekend, the PC failed to save three thousand words of the book I'm writing.

I was nearing the end of the first complete draft of a new Rebecca Connolly and the words were flowing. I was in the zone, baby!

I did everything I was supposed to do and more. Auto-save was enabled. The text was also manually saved whenever I paused for coffee, functions of a personal nature or just for breath. It was saved to the PC, to an external hard drive and a thumb drive. I did all that because there had been a few minor issues and I wasn't taking chances.

I then took Mickey up the braes for a walk. It was a lovely day and I was thoroughly pleased with myself.

That's Mickey having a rest during the walk. 

Anyway, my plan was to complete the first draft when I got home. I was filled with confidence, unusually for this particular book because it has proved troublesome (Tip: Never move house when in the middle of writing a novel.)

But when I reopened the file I discovered that everything I had done that day was gone. Vanished into the ether. Not present on this plane. Or more importantly, nowhere on my computer.

It was a mystery so I consulted a friend whose knowledge of such matters I rely on with such regularity I'm surprised he doesn't insist on a retainer. But he could neither find the missing words nor explain why this had happened. It might be an issue with my software or my hardware. Or both.

And how did I feel?

Well, let's say I was somewhat vexed and there was some industrial language.

Naturally, much like the angler and the one that got away, I have convinced myself that those 3,000 words were the best I have ever written and even though the next day I churned out 4.5k to complete the draft they were not nearly as good. (Saved, incidentally, as above but also copied and pasted into an email. I was taking no chances.)

Then came the next phase in my writing process - printing it all up. I like to go through the words the old-fashioned way, with a pen, because I firmly believe that you see more on the printed page than you do on screen. Or, at least, I do.

However, that means I have to engage in a struggle with my printer, which does often seem to have a mind of its own. Maybe Skynet was involved after all. 

Before I can print anything, we have to engage in the old wireless set up two step. It resolutely refuses to connect until I make obeisance to it, telling it that it's the best, wisest, most beautiful printer in the whole wide world and if it would just please print up these 300-odd pages I'd be very grateful. It grants me the boon - and then runs out of ink. Having forseen such an eventuality, I produced a brand new cartridge, giving the machine a grin that said "I have you now." 

But my triumph turned to tragedy when I realised that I had somehow engineered to buy a colour ink cartridge and not a black one. Shamefaced, I had to go back to the shop and buy another.

Later, someone told me I could have printed it up anyway using the colour cartridge.

Cue more vexation and industrial language. 

Anyway, the pages were eventually printed - the ink cartidge held out to the very end but only just - and I have been going through them for the past few days with said pen.

The upshot of all this is that I believe I'll have to invest in a new phone and computer, and because I am toying with the idea of buying an Apple Mac I may have to consider a life of actual crime to pay for it.

As to the mystery of the missing words, that must be consigned to my Giant Rat of Sumatra file, not because the world is not ready but because I'll never get to the bottom of it. 

Writing in Paradise...Usually

 I’ve enjoyed some of the blogs here on Type M that detail locations where our fellow bloggers like to write and some of their writing habits.  As many of you know, I live on the coast of North Carolina.  We have a house on Bogue Banks Island, which is a barrier island south of the Outer Banks.

It sounds exotic—saying I live on an island.  It’s about twenty-one miles long and at its narrowest point, you can see both the ocean on one side of the island and Bogue Sound on the other. It’s a vacation destination with thousands of vacation homes, about ten hotels, and fabulous restaurants, boutique shops, and stores where you can buy anything from swimming suits to fishing tackle. 

In the “off season”, late autumn, winter, and early spring, it’s very quiet here.  There are times you can walk the beach and not see another soul.  That’s when I enjoy this island the most.  

But this is June and while it’s not yet officially summer, we are inundated with tourists.  The restaurants all have long lines, the grocery stores are overcrowded, and the roads are clogged with people trying to find their way around. 

I’m not complaining because this is when businesses here on the coast make their money.  Our county has a year-round population of slightly less than seventy-thousand people.  During the “season”, that grows to over two-hundred and fifty thousand people.  It can put a strain on infrastructure and that includes the internet.

Think of it as a pipeline from one end of the island to the other.  During the “off season” demand isn’t particularly stressful.  But when we have two-hundred thousand people out here, all downloading Netflix or playing World of Warcraft, that internet pipeline clogs up quickly.

Case in point, my publisher has re-released my first book Random Road. Our publicist arranged to have a Zoom interview with me and Barbara Peters from the Poisoned Pen Bookstore.  Full disclosure, Barbara has been one of the editors on all of my Geneva Chase mysteries.  

She told me that the interview would go anywhere from a half-hour to an hour, depending on how well it went.  

It was awful.

The internet kept dropping the Zoom connection.  She’d ask a question or make a commentary to which I’d start to answer and about halfway through, my screen would freeze.  The only way to get back in was to start the process over…every damned time.  Once, when I popped back onto the interview, I held up a glass of wine and said, “I’m turning this into a drinking game.  Every time I drop out, I take a drink.”

Barbara grinned at me, held up her own glass of wine and said, “Way ahead of you, kiddo.”

Unfortunately, the connection did not get any better.  Needless to say, the interview was over at a half hour.  Blessedly.

But all in all, this is a lovely place to work.  My home office has a window overlooking our front lawn. If I feel like a stroll, the ocean is a few minutes from the house.  

And now, I must get back to my WIP.  I have a July first deadline for my fifth adventure with Geneva Chase, and yet again, I’m putting the poor woman through hell. 

Getting back to work

Happy Monday to you from Douglas Skelton in a sunny but chilly Scotland.

As you know, I have been moving house. And if you didn't know, where have you been? Do you not pay attention when I'm talking? Yes, I mean you at the back there. Stop your giggling and behave!

I am now fully ensconsed in my new bolthole, having swapped the peace and quiet of rural Scotland for the excitement and traffic noise of the big city (the new place is Glasgow adjacent).

With the house now in some semblance of order. Books are shelved, pictures are hung, rugs are down and shampooed. Mickey the dog and Tom the cat are more or less settled.

Time now turn my mind to the day job.

That's writing, just in case you didn't realise. 

I have a new book to complete by July. I hit the halfway mark of the first draft just before all the moving madness began but now it's time to pick of those threads and see if I can weave them into something magical. Or at least readable. Or, at the very least, completed.

Halting a work in progress in the middle is a double-edged sword. On the one hand there is the danger that whatever muse was working to get me to the midway mark has flitted elsewhere and alighted on some other writer's brow. 

On the other hand, the break may help me see the piece more clearly and let me attack it with renewed vigor. Or something. (And I hope you noticed I used the US spelling there. I am nothing if not considerate.)

Time will tell, I suppose.

I've used the word time three times so far. Where's an editor when you need one?

I mentioned the muse earlier. People often think of such a thing in relation to creatives.

Here's the thing...

It doesn't really exist.

Writing is a job, at least it is to me. Sometimes it's a chore. It's something I do. It's how I (try to) make a living.

Inspiration - the muse - is that flash at the beginning of the process. In other words, the idea. The big 'What if...?'

After that, it's application. Sitting at the desk, thumping those keys. I'm a two-fingered typist and I tend to poke at the keyboard as if I'm trying to prod it awake. 

The work progresses one letter, one word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time. Sometimes it's as slow as molasses in January. (Yup, another US reference). Other times it flows like....like...

Oh, dear. I can't think of a simile. 

This does not bode well for getting back to work on Monday.

Writing is something you work at. Books do not appear as if guided by some unseen hand. It has to be written and rewritten, honed, edited, smoothed, manipulated. In our genre (crime, just in case you've wandered in off the street) clues have to be dropped with the kind of legerdemain that could give us membership of the Magic Circle. Twists have to be twisted so subtly that no-one sees them coming. Characters have to step off the page and walk around the room. Dialogue has to sing (not literally, unless you're pulling a Rodgers and Hammerstein. Or Cop Rock. Remember that? Steve Bochco's short-lived show which saw cops burst into song, literally on the beat.)

So by the time you read this on Monday I will have selected a suitable soundtrack and will be back in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. Back with Rebecca Connolly and her friends. Back, this time, in a dark world of murder and magic.

Cover me - I'm going in...

Where was I?

Hi, Douglas Skelton this end.

This year will the strangest Christmas in living memory, thanks to you-know-what.

Here in dear old Blighty families should not congregate to tuck into the turkey over the holidays. The original advice not to do so was reversed to allow a period of five days when they could get together but that reversal has itself been reversed to only one day.

Honestly, there are so many reversals it's like reading a William Goldman novel. Especially when the uppermost question on our minds when we think about popping out for a pint of milk is 'Is it safe?'

The wacky world of publishing appears to shutting down for the holidays nonetheless.

Well, at least the bit that signs off on deals and edits and, importantly, signs the cheques. For the benefit of the US, that's the correct spelling of check. Yes, I know it's simpler but that's not the point. Standards must be maintained and once we are contagion-free I will be despatching a team of spelling and pronunciation missionaries to your fair land to educate with evangelistic zeal. 

I'm kidding, of course, and to prove it here's a smiley face - 😀

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes...

For the next two to three weeks there will be no queries from publishers or agents. No deals being made. No edits being demanded. 

Many authors will not be shutting down. Oh, they may take some time on Christmas Day to pull a cracker (if this blog had been for the UK market I could have made an off colour remark at this juncture followed by a virtual Sid James/Carry On dirty laugh. And I apologise to anyone who doesn't understand all this but it's been a long day and I'm tired so please bear with me because I may veer off at a tangent at the drop of a Christmas Pudding, this paragraph being a case in point).

Now, where was I?

Oh yes...

I for one will be treating the holiday period as, well, something that is not a holiday period. I have a new book I am writing on spec and I want to complete at least its first draft by January or February because then I have a deadline for the fourth in my Rebecca Connolly series. That's not until the summer but time flies like an arrow they say. And fruit flies like a banana. I remember the first time I heard that line, I laughed fit to bust. Ah, laughter - those were the days.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes...

How many other scribblers of words, sometimes in the right order, will be thusly labouring while others are Zooming and Skyping? 

Quite a number, I'll bet, for the creative process recognises no Yuletide fun and brooks no New Year stoppages. Of course, in Scotland, we call New Year's Eve Hogmanay, which sounds like Hug Many and there will be none of that, thank you very much. In fact, I would quite happily see the whole huggy/kissy things banished for good. Not that I get much of that, of course, for traditionally the women here hang me up and kiss the mistletoe.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes...

So Christmas Day will see me banging away (see reference above to Sid James and Carry On movies). I may stop for a mince pie or two - for reference, it's not made of minced beef but minced fruit - before I make myself something suitably festive to eat. I'm not ignoring the midwinter feast completely. My name is not Ebenezer Scrooge, you know. At least, I don't think it. Hang on while I check the name tag sewed into my collar.

Nope, not Ebenezer Scrooge. I seem to be called Machine Washable.

Anyway, if you are still with me, thanks for sticking with this ramble. I'm going to head back into this world of mayhem I am creating.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes...

(PS - I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and that 2021 will be better than this disaster movie of a year has been).

Tribute to Lilly, My Writing Buddy

 The Covid-19 pandemic, apocalyptic wildfires in the west, horrific hurricanes hitting the Gulf Coast states, lawmakers and citizens denying science and refusing to keep themselves safe by simply wearing a facemask.   

Then Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away on Friday.

Bad week. Bad week, for sure.

Made worse when we picked up the cremated remains of our shih-tzu Lilly on Saturday. 

She was about fourteen years old and had been with us for about seven. She was a rescue, so we didn’t know much about her life before she came to be part of the family.  Stacy, the wonderful woman who brought us Lilly, told us that she thought Lilly had been kept in a crate for long periods of time.  As a result, her back legs were a little wonky and not particularly strong. Sometimes she’d get tired on a long walk and just lay down in the grass.  

Good advice for all of us, I think.  When life gets to be too much, go outside, and lay down in the grass.

Lilly loved being in my office, a finished room over the garage, sleeping on the love seat next to my desk, or snoozing among my many notebooks on the floor, while I’d write.  I liked looking over at her, watching her breathe, and somehow the world felt like it was okay.

And if I got up from my desk to go downstairs for a cup of coffee, she’d spot me when I returned,  flip over on her back, and insist on having her tummy rubbed.  

We should always make time for tummy rubs.

In the evening, that’s when Cindy and I would watch television and Lilly would snooze until I went downstairs for something.  God help me if I came upstairs without bringing her some treats.  Inevitably, I had to go back downstairs to fetch them or she’d give me the stink eye until I did.

We should always make time for treats. 

Quick story about how much we love our dogs.  About five years ago during a freak February ice storm (we live on the coast of North Carolina) my wife Cindy was getting ready to take Lilly out for her final walk of the night.

Being the good husband, I told her, “No, honey.  It’s still sleeting, let me do it.”  And she did.

I carried Lilly out into the cold dark night, ice pellets bouncing off my hat, down the driveway, and across the street to the corner, where all the neighborhood dogs seem have been at one time or another.  I set Lilly down and waited, listening to the ice hit the road and the tree limbs in the darkness above me.

There was a sudden noise that sounded like a cannon shot.  Without thinking, I put my arm up over my head.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and Lilly was looking genuinely confused but unscathed.  

That’s when I realized that I’d been hit by a falling tree limb and my right arm no longer seemed to work.  We both got back to the house and an ambulance took me to the hospital where it was judged that my arm was broken.

The story about the ice storm was on the front page of our hometown newspaper, noting that there had been one serious injury as a result, telling the world about my dog walking mishap.

On Thursday I went into surgery and while I was there, my assistant where I worked fielded calls from people who had read the story.  She’d tell them that I was fine and undergoing surgery.

Every single one of them said, “Yeah, that’s good news about Tom.  But how’s Lilly?”

She was fine.  I broke the fall of the tree limb with my body.  It appeared I was expendable, but everyone loves dogs, and Lilly was well known in our neighborhood. 

Not having her here has left a huge hole in our lives.  The house feels empty.  Lilly was our friend and protector of our home.  We never once have had a squirrel inside the house.  

She was also my writing buddy and right now while I’m sitting at my desk with my laptop in front of me, I wish I could turn to her, give her a tummy rub, and get her some treats. 

Why We Do This.

My newest book, Graveyard Bay, launched on September 10th. In the past week, I’ve done several book signings, one book talk (with dinner), and was a featured author at the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance show in South Carolina. Next weekend, I’m flying to Scottsdale, AZ, to sign books at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore.

Since the launch, I’ve had readers tell me that the book has kept them up at night reading. One told me she stayed up until four in the morning so that she could finish the book. A work colleague told me a similar story, giving me a slight shudder when she talked about the scary ending.

That’s what we do this for, isn’t it? To know that you’ve told a good story? To know that you might have scared the bejesus out of someone? To know that you might have made a lasting impression and a new fan?

If you’re doing it for the money, you’re doing it for the wrong reason.

Early on in my writing career, I showed my wife a royalty check that was smaller than the others. Her comment was, “It’ll come.”

My answer to her was, “Well, you know I don’t do this for the money.”

That’s when she grabbed me by the front of my shirt and said, “I never want to hear you say that again.”

Perhaps it didn't happen quite like that, but I'm a storyteller.

It would be fabulous to be that tiny percentage of mystery authors who can make a decent living and not need a day job. Don’t get me wrong. I’m the President of our Chamber of Commerce here on the coast of North Carolina and being a cheerleader for this area is a wonderful experience. I'm not anywhere near ready to retire yet.

But writing is my passion. I do it because I love it. The reality is I could not live solely on the income from my books—yet. That doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Just not today.

Last July I attended Thrillerfest in New York and one of the events it a debut authors breakfast. There were about twenty writers who have either recently released a thriller or was about to. They had a chance to spend about two minutes talking to the audience about themselves and their books.

What was most disconcerting was that there were four or five of them who announced to the large crowd that, now they had a book under their belt, they had quit their day jobs. The crowd loved hearing that and applauded.

I wanted to grab those authors by their shirts, the way my wife had grabbed mine, and say, “Why the hell did you do that? That’s premature. You have to be realistic.”

Here’s a short explanation about how this generally works. Unless you’re self-published, and that’s a whole other subject, once you sign a contract with a publisher, the author receives half of the agreed upon advance.

Once the book has undergone revisions with the publisher’s editor and is locked and loaded for release, the author receives the second half of the advance.

That advance is not a gift. It’s exactly what it says it is--an advance on earned royalties from book sales. The author is paid a percentage of the number of books that are sold. If you don’t sell enough books to cover the advance (and you certainly hope that you do), the author doesn’t see another dime.

That’s why we authors are always hustling to promote ourselves and our books.

I think the best way to sum this all up is with a quote from another Poisoned Pen Press author, Jeffrey Siger. Mr. Siger is a former Wall Street lawyer who did manage to quit his day job to become a full-time mystery/thriller writer who also lives half of the year on a Greek island. In an interview, he said of becoming a full-time writer, “I’m also a realist, and in making my decision I knew and appreciated that writing, as with any career in the arts, is a lousy way to make a living, but a wonderful way to make a life.”

Thank you, Mr. Siger.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

When we were children, my sister and I lived off and on with our grandparents. They resided in a cottage in the Finger Lakes region of Upstate New York on one of the smaller lakes. During the summer time, the cottages and restaurants were full of renters and second home owners. In the off-season, however, we were one of the few year-round residents. In winter, it was downright desolate.

When it was so quiet and lonely, that’s when my sister, Bonnie, and I would make up adventures and live them out among the empty cottages and dirt roads. Living on a lake made the adventures more real. The blowing snow, the fog lifting from the lake’s dark surface, old Native American tales—the mysteries were dark and spooky. Perfect for adventurous children.

On top of that, there was a Boy Scout camp on that lake, about a mile from us. During the winter, nobody was there and it was a great place to explore and look for pirate booty or where the bodies were buried

My sister, God bless her, was two years younger than me and she was really a good sport at living in my imagination. Granted, there were times when she’d balk and refuse to go on my adventures—until I promised to give her wheelbarrow rides when we got back to my grandparent’s house.

Then, as I got older, to make money, after school and on weekends, I worked on dairy farms and vineyards in the area. A lot of that labor is solo and repetitive so to keep from going stark raving mad, I made up stories in my head. They were always thrilling adventures, where I was always the hero.

Gee Tom, that’s great, but when did you want to become a writer?

I’m getting to that part.

In addition to making stuff up, I was a voracious reader. My grandfather had a huge collection of Louis L’Amour westerns and Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason series. He also had a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories.

When the new James Bond novel would come out, I’d pay my sixty cents to buy the paperback version down at the local pharmacy. Then I got addicted to John D. McDonald’s Travis McGee mystery/thriller series.

         Get to the point, when did you know you wanted to be a writer?

It was when my grandparents let me use their typewriter. I was only eleven or twelve at the time, but I thrilled to sound of the keys as they tapped out the stories in my head and put them on a sheet of paper. The tales I wrote were of murders and kidnappings and general skullduggery.

Whenever I wrote a passage that contained the word “blood”, I switched the typewriter ribbon from black to red.

Oh, scary.

My grandparents were my biggest fans. My Uncle Hub (Emory Herbert Young) was also a story teller and would read my adventures and encouraged me to keep writing.

But real life got in the way. Dating girls, college, marriage and children of my own. I never stopped writing, but I was working for newspapers and magazines at the time. It wasn’t until my children were grown and I changed careers, that I became serious about living in my imagination again.

I didn’t have to dig very deep to tap into that childhood imagination that I enjoyed for so much of my youth.

According to Joanne Friedman, PhD, Clinical Psychologist, “The ability to continue to create fantasy out of reality continues into adulthood. Whether we indulge it or not is a personality differences matter. Adult don’t “squash” creativity in children. They may limit its expression, however, by not listening and by telling a child he needs to stop expressing it. It still exists internally and comes out when adults aren’t around. I know my parents, not really the most attentive listeners to my shy little voice, had no clue I thought I could fly (until probably the fourth or fifth grade) and was spending time jumping off the picnic table not to hone my jumping skills but because I was flying, in my own mind, across the yard. So how loudly a child expresses the fantasies also plays a part. Creativity would not exist at all in the adult world were it not for the fact that we all still have that little voice in our heads that remembers our early explorations and thrives on the memories.”

So fellow writers, let’s keep makin’ stuff up and writin’ it down.

Tricks and old dogs

What a fun trip down memory lane we are having on Type M this week. Typing and typewriters. I can relate to so many of the stories! Back in the mists of time when I attended high school in the early '60s, students were streamed into academic or commercial (and within academic, into Latin or science, the former being more prestigious). There was flexibility to mix some science into Latin, which I did, but there was no room in the day to fit in typing. It was strictly for those heading to the work force after high school, rather than university.

Although I never took the classics in university and instead focussed primarily on science and psychology, I have never regretted those agonizing two years I spent learning Latin conjugations and struggling to translate Virgil under the fierce glare of Latin teacher Mr. Marcus (I kid you not). Not only is Latin the basis of so many languages, but knowing the Latin root and the connections between words is very helpful in enriching understanding and vocabulary.

I have often had occasion to regret that I never took typing, however. Like Aline, I learned to type haphazardly on my mother's very old typewriter that banged and clacked and regularly jammed into a tangle of keys if I typed too fast. The ribbons were two-toned - red on the top and black on the bottom - to allow for more interesting presentations. I became quite proficient at the hunt and peck technique and also at the liquid white-out that was supposed to correct mistakes. All the way through university I typed up papers on the noisy old machine, usually at 3 a.m.

When I first worked as a psychologist, I wrote my reports long-hand, and these were typed either by someone in the "typing pool" or by the secretary down the hall. Both approaches involved much back and forth to correct errors and edit text. At home, however, I was writing my first fictional masterpieces first on that old typewriter and later on an electric typewriter. I recall the sheer joy of typing my first manuscript on a computer word processing program. No more white-out or correct-o-tape. No more typing pages again and again to edit and re-edit material. Word Perfect was a dream.

Sometimes I long for the simplicity of that early word processing program. I told it exactly what to type and it did it. If it did something peculiar like double-indent a piece of text, I just selected "reveal codes" and I could see exactly what code I needed to delete. It did not attempt to anticipate my formatting or insert sneaky codes that I couldn't see and couldn't delete. It was not full of complicated  options that I would never figure out how to use and would never need anyway. It was a very sad day when Word Perfect was discontinued and I had to switch to MS Word.

I think we are products of our time and become comfortable with what has worked for us well for decades. I still write first drafts in long-hand, and I do not use any of the fancy writing and editing software available to writers to help them organize their ideas and keep track of story points. I just write and keep lists. Like hunt and peck, my technique is laborious and certainly not efficient, but it works for me.

However, I do wish I could touch-type, so maybe I will hunt down Mavis Beacon and give her system a try.

When Writers Teach

Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

I like to think that I can write and at the same time, I like to think that I can impart some of what I've learned about writing to others. Before I got published, I kept my thoughts about writing to myself, thinking that I needed publishing credentials, otherwise I'd be spouting yet another unlearned opinion. Once I did get published I strained hard against first-book-itis, meaning that hubris and know-everything attitude first-time authors get. Sadly, I did slip once or twice.

After I got published I sought opportunities to monetize what I'd learned, mainly through teaching. I asked about teaching at my alma mater, the University of Denver, and I was told that because I didn't have an English degree or a Creative Writing MFA, it was a no-go. Over the years I did speak about writing at conferences, mostly gratis, and earned a recurring instructor gig at Lighthouse Writers. Like many of you already know, teaching is its own discipline. Good writers do not necessarily make for good instructors.

Here's what I learned:

There are only so many classes that can be taught on any writing subject. The creative part is inventing a new, catchy name for a workshop that's already been taught a bzillion times. The Importance of World-building becomes Crucial Steps to Setting. In your syllabus it helps to swap out terms that mean the same thing. Goal, Conflict, and Plot Twist becomes Direction, Drama, and Narrative Pivot.

Don't talk too much. If you're on a panel, share the mic. If you're teaching a workshop, throw in writer prompts. Personally I hate them because I'm one of those writers who struggles to bang out a coherent sentence and I'm awed by those who can in a matter of minutes, craft a paragraph of jeweled prose. But other writers love the opportunity to share so indulge them.

Get off your high horse. Most of your students are really sharp and well-read. I've had several occasions where I mentioned something in class and one or two of my students would immediately look up a reference on the Internet, or as us old-timers call it: THE computer.

Very few writers live on royalties. Even if you score a YUGE publishing deal, the money is dribbled out as if every dollar was squeezed from the publisher's liver. The first year might leave you fat and happy, but the checks start to shrink and soon, if you've already ditched the day job, you start hunting for side work that leaves time for writing. Possibly the most steady and lucrative way of keeping you fed and off the street corner is by teaching. Thankfully, a couple of years ago Regis University asked me to join the faculty of their Mile High MFA Creative Writing program. In their stable of poets and literary types, all very accomplished, I'm their commercial-fiction writing guy. I work part-time, meaning I still need other means of income, which are mostly freelance gigs and the occasional check for a short story. I also sell a painting now and then. Yes, I know many out there are astounded that I'm not filthy rich. In my youth, I did make a deal with the devil, but the check bounced. Bastard.

So go forth and write, fellow ink-stained wretches.*

* to quote Kurt Vonnegut