The Truth Is Place (A Foundation for an Artistic Life)

Mar14

“A song to thee, fair State of mine,
Michigan, my Michigan.
But greater song than this is thine,
Michigan, my Michigan.
The whisper of the forest tree,
The thunder of the inland sea,
Unite in one grand symphony
Of Michigan, my Michigan…” ~Douglas Malloch (from Michigan, My Michigan,1902)

Late- Winter Blues: I’ve done a bit of bitching about my home state this week. More specifically, about the weather here. Which is unusual for me. I’ve written about my love of the change of seasons, and my fondness for winter, here. But what a winter we’ve had here in the Mighty Mitten! With record-setting snow levels and a near record number of days below zero degrees Fahrenheit, I think I’ve finally gotten my fill.

But I still can’t imagine living anywhere else. In fact, even after such a brutal winter, I can honestly say that if I could move anywhere, I’d move further north, right here in my home state. Give me the tall, singing pines of Hartwick, the deep blue lakes of Leelanau, the soaring dunes of Sleeping Bear, the cold, clear streams of Little Traverse Bay.

Tighten Your Rust Belt: I so often hear that people’s impression of Michigan is not one just of inclement weather, but one of closed auto factories, high unemployment and crime. I even saw a comment on a tourism site that condemned the whole state as having a “foul, sulfurous smell.” This from a guy who lived in Chicago. Makes one wonder about the prevailing westerly winds that originate from his industry intensive area. But nevertheless, it’s a bit silly to say that an entire state can have a certain odor.

Certainly Michigan has more than its share of closed factories. We’ve had our ups and downs. But to anyone who imagines these things define our state, I simply say: You’ve obviously never been here. Or at least: You’ve never really looked around outside the somewhat rusty belt of the state’s major cities’ limits.

Been Called Home:

“I wanna live in a land of lakes, where the great waves break
And the night runs right into the day
I wanna be with the ones I left, but I’m way out west
And the years keep on slipping away
I wanna run on the sacred dunes, through the ancient ruins
Where the fires of my ancestors burned
I remember that fateful day, when I ran away
And you told me I couldn’t return

You made me swear I’d never forget, I made a vow I’d see you again
I will be back one day, and I’ll find you there by the great big lake…” ~Lord Huron (aka Ben Schneider of Okemos, MI, from the song, I Will Be Back One Day)

I have lived elsewhere. I’ve lived near enough to smell the ocean in Southern California; within sight of the capital across one of the majestic lakes of Madison, Wisconsin; in a quaint turn-of-the-century neighborhood in suburban Chicagoland; and in a rural village on the edge of farmland so flat and far-reaching one can watch an errant dog run away for days.

And I love to travel and spend time in other parts of the US and the world. I’ve seen places so beautiful they take your breath. I’ve been among folks so welcoming you’d think they considered all visitors to be kin. But these old dirt roads always beckon me. No other place can truly be home for me. As excited as I am each time we get out to see the wide world, I always end up longing for the contentment of home. In all the years I lived elsewhere, I think I always knew I’d end up back here.

Finding My Truth Is Place:

“In the end, of course, the truth is place.

Place is where we first become conscious of the world outside ourselves, then outside the family, then outside the community. Place is where we draw our first and last breath. Place either smothers our spirits, or liberates it.

A startlingly beautiful and varied place like Michigan most often frees the spirit. In doing so, it is parent to creativity—sometimes to everlasting art.” ~Dave and Jack Dempsey (from Ink Trails: Michigan’s Famous and Forgotten Authors)

I’d like to think I would’ve pursued my writing journey if I’d ended up living elsewhere, but sometimes I wonder. If I had started elsewhere, I’m guessing it would’ve been quite a different journey. Certainly living here, where I drew my first breath, and became conscious of the world outside myself, has been conducive to pursuing my writing dream. Maybe I’m as rooted in my journey here as Georgia O’Keeffe was in the New Mexican desert, or as Anne Rice is in New Orleans. Not to compare myself to them, but I do feel my home is my artistic foundation. Few writers have been more closely identified with a place than Carl Sandburg with Chicago (“City of big shoulders…”), and yet he did much of his writing on his rooftop deck overlooking the Lake Michigan shore, less than a mile from my house.

There is such a comforting lull to life in the woods near the shore. I even love the cloudiness—a condition often experienced living on the leeward side of a great lake. I remember longing for cloudy days when I lived in SoCal, where they are rare. Big billowing clouds have a way of filling me a nostalgic melancholy. For me it’s an ideal state for creativity—for letting my thoughts wander. I’m sure many of you won’t get it, but perhaps some of you will, when I say that cloudiness takes the pressure off.

And history is all around me. Our roads and beach paths were once trod by Potawatomi and Ottawa Indians; French voyageurs paddled our shores and rivers; and English forts originated our nearest towns—perfect for immersing myself in a historical world on the page.

Dania Looks Suspiciously Like Michigan: For those who have read my work, whether you realize it or not, you have undoubtedly sensed my world here in the Mighty Mitten in the settings. From the blue ribbon of the Danian River, to the log walls around the village of Danihem, to the pine and fir forested foothills of the Skolani hunting grounds, and eastward to the ancient beeches and oaks of Afletam Forest and the open grasslands of Oium—Michigan haunts the world I’ve created on the page. Even the weather is familiar. There are lots of cloudy and inclement days in Dania—have you noticed?

I once thought my first novel would be a fantasy based on first encounters between Native Americans and Europeans, set here in the Great Lakes Region. In hindsight I can see how much of my interest in that history suffuses my story. It’s in the conflict between a self-identified civilized culture versus another they deem to be less so. I particularly see it in my creation of the Skolani tribe. It’s in their love of, and dependence on, their horses. I see it in their Kabitka—a moveable village of wagons and hide tents.

And I haven’t discarded the notion of writing the one set in the New World. After all, the research is right outside my door.

For Those Who See: As for our tough Michigan winter, I know this too shall pass. Past experience shows me that things change, even in the Mighty Mitten. I might even say especially here. And there’s beauty in change. Beauty that has the ability to inspire.

“To those who see bare branches –

and know they hold the buds of spring

To those who see stars falling in the heavens

and know the constellations will remain forever

To those who see long lines of geese fade far beyond –

and know they come back again to nest

To those who see with wonder in their hearts and know –

what glories there can be for those who see…”

~Benzonia, Michigan native Gwen Frostic (To Those Who See, from Contemplations, 1973)

What about you? Do you believe that “the truth is place”? Has your world informed your writing? When you hear the name “Michigan” do closed factories or flourishing forests and white sand beaches come to mind? How do you feel about clouds?

[Photos by Vaughn Roycroft]

What If…

Feb18

Today I have a special guest for you. Please meet and welcome Peggy Duffy. Besides being my awesome sister-in-law, Peggy is a yoga instructor and the founder of Miss Fit Girls—a wonderful yoga-based mentoring program for girls aged 10-16. I encourage you to check out Miss Fit Girls, either at their website or their Facebook page.

I said Peg is a “special” guest, and she certainly is. She’s special in a lot of ways, but once you read this post, you will undoubtedly be surprised by one of those ways—she’s not a writer. (Well, not yet. She’s certainly a natural storyteller, so she’s more than halfway to being one of us. 😉 )

From the moment I read this wise essay, I knew I needed to share it with my writer friends. After all, we are the ultimate askers of “What if,” aren’t we? Enjoy!

What if…

We all do it. What if it works? What if it doesn’t?! What if I don’t pass this test? What if I can’t get out? What if I can’t find a job? A partner? What if I fail? What if…what if I don’t?!

May 10th, 2010 – She just came home from her first year of college. The next day was starting her internship at a swanky ad company. It was a beautiful May day. She was shining too. She had so much energy that a quick bike ride would help dispense it.

I answered and heard: She’s going to be fine.

It’s funny how time blurs, instructions are not ‘heard’ but understood. I was one mile from the accident. I pulled up wherever. And I saw… I saw a car, and the back tire of a bike sticking out from under it and the ambulance. It’s true when they say all sounds disappear. I heard nothing. I only wanted to see… her.

I stepped into the ambulance. There she was, head brace, strapped down, bloody. As I stared at her head, she rolled her eyes back to see me.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Oh, she’s always trying to protect me. I looked down at my girl. I looked her up & down, watching the EMT’s prepare her arms for IV’s.

“No. I’M FINE. YOU just got run over by a car.” She gave me a look of “Really? Sarcasm now?” It’s my go-to.

“So, you’re ‘fine’, right? Have you seen who is working on you?” I was referring to the fine looking EMT boys saving my girl’s life.

She smiled and raised her eyebrows. She’s fine.

“Fine” can be defined in many many ways. She was driven to the hospital in an ambulance, her clothes cut off in front of 27 nurses and doctors, cone of shame, iv’s, X-rays, poking, pinching, blinding flashlights to the eyes. All for good reason: what they found… road rash, tire skid mark on her back, a small crack in the transverse process, and a bunch of pulled muscles. They left us alone. She was fine… then the shock wore off. It was like the blanket that had covered and protected her was now of no need and slowly pulled down off her body. Her face changed, she looked at me wide eyed and became a very scared, very young child. She wailed. And so did I. What if her head had hit the cement, the bumper, what if her back was crushed by the tire? What if…yes.. what if I had lost my girl that day? We both LOST it. Deep deep belly cries that filled the room. It filled the halls all the way to the nurses’ station. I knew our cries were heard because a few minutes into our bawl-out, a little nurse slid in like Joel in Risky Business with her finger raised and a loud “HEY!”

“STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW!” She was pissed? Sort of.. but more than that, she had a message. Mid-bawl we both stopped.

“SHE is fine. She’s alive and not broken, not dying. She’s here … Now.” (… and this next line changed our lives).

“Those ‘what if’s’… those ‘what ifs’ will only steal from you!! What ifs will kill you.” and she left us. *perfect entrance, perfect exit.

I looked at Meg. Laying in her hospital bed, scraped, bruised, sore. She was here. I would get to see her grow more into the beautiful girl she already is.

The next few weeks were rough. A frustrating recovery and a joyous journey to full-on enjoying life and all it has to offer. No accident, illness, disease leaves you the same as you were before. It changes you, challenges you. What are your ‘what if’s’? WHAT IF… you lived it without the fear of losing it, rather living it with the love of having it. That is my only ‘what if’ question. I don’t even ask it anymore, I know the answer so well.

What are your “what ifs”? Do they ever get in the way? Please share.

About Miss Fit Girls:

Connecting, Encouraging, Strengthening, Accepting, Celebrating

Miss Fit Girls is a unique yoga-based program for girls ages 10-16 years old. With fast and intense changes going on in their bodies and minds, Miss Fit Girls, gives them the time they need to slow down and enjoy. At MFG, they learn to trust and listen to their own thoughts and emotions, embrace the movement of change and learn to respond rather than react. They come to the mat to practice so they are prepared for the ups & downs in their daily lives.

Lessons on Burning Brightly

Feb7

“Life is no brief candle…. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got a hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.” ~George Bernard Shaw

[Be forewarned: If you are not a dog person, you may not be interested in this post. Conversely, if you are one, and dislike discussions of losing one, or of pet grief, I won’t be offended if you choose to stay away. My wife stubbornly refused to read or watch Marley and Me for this very reason, so I get it.]

Our Bright Star, Dimmed: Those of you who know me or follow me on Facebook know not only that I had Belle, but that she was a star in my life. My wife and I lost our beautiful girl this past Wednesday. She had recently lost the use of her hind legs to a cancerous tumor on her spine. We took her to the Michigan State University Veterinary Hospital, seeking everything in our power to help her to beat it, but it was not to be. It was left to us to put an end to our stoic girl’s worsening pain.

She may have lost her battle with cancer, but she never lost her spirit. She could not have faded, or slowly withered. She burned brightly, undiminished, right up to the final day, the final moment. Till this last year, even as she slowed her step slightly, she was an eleven year old puppy. Even though it’s difficult for us, I know in my heart it is rightful.

Utterly Unique: This is a difficult post for me to write, on so many levels. But it’s one of the things Belle helped to teach me: I am a writer; I deal with life by writing. About the only thing I’m sure of is that I won’t be able to do her justice. (Maybe in a novel, but…)

For those who never met her, you need to know she was utterly unique. Some dogs are called sweet or gentle, but not Belle. She’s been called quirky, funny, intense, an exuberant greeter, a hard charger, and more than one observer has remarked that they wished her energy could be bottled for human consumption. She was vocal and bouncy, and at times seemed barely within control, but it was always due to an abundance of enthusiasm—not such a bad thing. When you think about it, wouldn’t the world be a better place if more of us had too much enthusiasm, rather than too little?

We Are Family: We had another black lab before Belle who taught us that Life’s Too Short, and I’ve already written about Maggie, here. Belle was most certainly blessed by Maggie’s sacrifice and life-lessons. Because of Maggie, we no longer left a dog alone all day while we worked our lives away. Because of Maggie, Belle led a pretty stellar life, if I do say so. She walked twice a day through forests and on the beach. I can easily assert that she swam in Lake Michigan on more than half of her days on this earth.

As difficult as Belle was as a puppy (an entire story all its own), she settled in to our lives with absolute symmetry. She was a sentient being in our home, a powerful presence in our lives, and an integral part of the triad of our family. Some dogs are relatively unattached to humans, some are one-man/woman dogs, but not Belle. As my sister put it, she was: “our daughter, sister, and best friend, all wrapped up in one.”

As a demonstration of how important our togetherness was to Belle, as we made ready to go out on either of our daily walks, she would literally herd the one of us who seemed to be lagging (which was usually my wife – sorry honey). She would walk behind, nudge, and bark at the laggard until they had their coat, and all three of us were ready to go. Once out on the porch, if one of us lagged even a pace, to pick up a toy or grab a leash, they were scolded and urged forth with a bark or two (even at 7am, much to our neighbors’ chagrin on a summer Saturday morning). If one of us had to stay back from walking, for whatever reason, Belle had to be all but dragged away, with much glancing back—fret written upon her expressive face—until the house was out of sight.

My Writing Partner: Since this is a writing blog, I do want to share the parts of my writing life that involve Belle. Many of you have undoubtedly heard me refer to Belle as my writing partner. This is not just a clever nickname. She was with me at a carpentry jobsite the day I first put pen to paper with an idea for a story. She was with me every day throughout the drafting of the trilogy and through dozens of rewrites. She tilted her head when I asked questions aloud, and followed me around the house when I paced and muttered over a plot point. She was a vital component of every break, every brainstorming walk, every reflective hour sitting on our bench atop the dune.

Canine Writing Lessons: But most importantly, she taught me so much that enhanced the writer that I’ve become. Here are just a few lessons that spring to mind like a lab springs onto the tailgate of a pickup.

*Be patient; Find joy amidst the chaos. Belle was always a handful. When she was a puppy, I fought to find a way to control her—to bend her to my will. She was having none of it. She was so damn smart. She knew entire sentences, let alone words. She knew: come, sit, lay down, stay, fetch (on land or water), drop, heel, halt in place off leash, get in her bed, bring various toys (by name)—and most of those either with hand signals or verbal commands. But if someone came to the door, or met us on the beach, it was all forgotten. No matter what I did, she danced and wiggled, wagged and barked for the first ten minutes of any visit with most anyone—moreso for those she knew and loved. I learned to accept it, and to even smile over it. Over the years we had a noticeable decline in visitors. But what did it matter? We had each other, and who needs visitors who dislike joyful enthusiasm over being seen?

She taught me to be at peace over what I couldn’t control. But also that I could rely on the fact that I worked and had gained mastery when it mattered—in issues of safety or when someone was genuinely afraid of her. She was the living embodiment of my version of the Serenity Prayer (Lord, grant me the patience to accept that which I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.)

*Show up every day—there’s joy to be found in routine. Since Belle’s been gone, we are up and out for our morning walk. It’s as she would’ve wanted it. Indeed, while she was alive, she demanded it. We never eat breakfast or have coffee first. We don the appropriate gear and go out into whatever weather. And we fill our lungs with fresh air, and watch the sky turn amber with the dawn. We see deer and hear woodpeckers sounding on hollow trunks. And the day is vital, from the moment we rise. Same for evening. At five pm, if I hadn’t stopped typing, I felt her stare, or heard her not-so-subtle hums: “Um, V, it’s getting to be time to shut it down. And you’d better text Mo to come home.”

She taught me that routine is a useful tool in the writing life. That start times and end times were important to the process.

*A job well-done is a reward in and of itself. Belle’s job, besides being there for me while I wrote, was to fetch. Which fetch toy did not matter. If it was a Frisbee, it had to be caught and brought back, preferably before it hit the ground. If it was a bumper, it had to be brought to shore. If it was a squeaky ball, it had to be subdued and returned to my hand, with as many squeaks as possible in the process. Although she was a phenomenal athlete, and often made leaping catches to the ooos and ahs of onlookers, she did not do her job for the acceptance or admiration of others. If it was just she and I alone on the shore, and she made a great catch, with the surf crashing around her before the Frisbee hit the wash, she pranced and shook it with the same proud zeal as she would’ve if there had been an audience.

She taught me that the effort and practice that lead to success are fulfilling on their own, and meant to be enjoyed—each and every day.

Gratitude and Resonance: Our house feels so damn empty. She is everywhere I look. There are moments when I don’t know how I’ll go on without feeling this intense sense of loss and sadness. But I know I will. We are already laughing over the memories. Not quite as much as we are crying, but that will change. We’re taking it day by day. The well-wishes and condolences of those who knew her, or of her importance to our lives, has been a healing blessing. We are thankful for the love of our friends and family at this difficult time.

Our hearts are broken. And I know there will always be an empty space in mine, carved by her absence. But Belle’s joy continues to resonate. And I know it will go on, for the rest of my days on this earth. And for that I am immensely grateful.

I will share with you one of the last things I said to Belle, in an intensely personal moment. I share in the hopes that it will help to cement her lessons, for me and for my friends. I share in the hopes that her joy will resonate all the stronger. I said: “Thank you, Miss. For everything—for all the lessons, all the stories, all the laughs and tears. I promise you, they will not go to waste. I will never forget. Thank you for being my partner and my friend.” I buried my face in her fur, and she nestled her head against me and sighed, letting me know that she believed me.

[Photo credit for the shot of the three of us goes to Harrington Photography, Three Oaks, MI]

Spartans, What is Your Profession?

Dec9

Faltering Fandom: I don’t often talk about sports with my writing friends. Other than the occasional, “You knocked it outta the park,” I’m not even a big fan of sports metaphors. They mostly seem clichéd or contrived. That’s not to say I’m not a sports fan. I am. Back in my days in business, watching professional and college sports was not only entertaining but an undemanding diversion from the work-a-day life. On occasion I still watch entire games, but I think since I started writing I’ve filled the majority of those hours with reading. In spite of my faltering enthusiasm for sports, I still follow the progress of my favorite teams.

Loyalist or Masochist? I suppose largely because football (of the American variety) was my dad’s game, it’s always been my favorite as well. Seems like an old-fashioned notion, but my dad believed in staying loyal to a team. When I was a boy, because they were successful at the time, I once told him I was a Green Bay Packers fan. This did not sit well with Dad. His disapproval must’ve struck a chord with mini-me. Because of this, since I’ve always considered Michigan my home, and since I graduated from Michigan State University, my two football teams have always been the Detroit Lions and the Michigan State Spartans. Yep—I’m one of those: a (mostly) longsuffering fan. A sports masochist, so to speak.

Magic in the Air: There’s been a stirring in the late autumn air here in the Mighty Mitten. A sort of gridiron magic that is lingering longer than the typical cold snap. This time it’s gaining momentum—like a winter storm front sweeping across the Great Lakes. As of the writing of this, the Lions are leading their division at 7-5. Just before I started writing I actually heard an analyst call the Lions: “The most talented team in the NFL.” (Reality check: He also called them sloppy and inconsistent, but still…)

Prepare for Glory! Then there are the Spartans. Saturday night I was up very late (for me) watching my alma mater’s team win the Big Ten Championship game and a Rose Bowl bid. And they did it in convincing fashion, by soundly beating the #2 ranked Ohio State Buckeyes. I haven’t been that worked up about a sporting event… well, since the last time MSU won the Big Ten and a Rose Bowl bid… In 1987 (in a game against Indiana that I attended).

The play of these kids (let’s face it—I’m fast-approaching being old enough to be the players’ grandfather) has really captured my imagination and enthusiasm. As we did in January of ’88, my wife and I are even considering making the trip to Pasadena to watch “our kids play ball” on the big stage of the 100^th edition of the Grand-daddy of All Bowl Games.

Just an Arcadian: Although I am excited by my Spartans, I am not a player or a coach. I don’t have any kin playing. I have rarely attended games in the past ten years (as I age I’ve become increasingly less fond of crowds and traffic). These Spartans are merely kids playing a game for a school I attended over twenty-five years ago.

If Spartan King Leonidas had asked after my vocation, I would’ve dropped my gaze to my sandals and murmured, “I’m but a scribe, sire.” But that doesn’t mean my heart wouldn’t swell in hearing the reply when Leonidas asked the same of his 300 men. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t feel inspired by the bravery and determination of those who share an institutional alliance and a common sense of place with me here in The Mighty Mitten.

Sleepless in Sparta: I went to bed after the game, but it left me tossing and turning, unable to settle to slumber after the exhilaration of witnessing sporting history. So rather than counting invading Persians (or blitzing Buckeyes), or reciting memorized lines from 300, I contemplated how these Spartans have captured my imagination. And I actually concluded that it has much to do with the current state of my writing journey. In the spirit of citizenship with my fellow scribes, I thought I’d share the ways:

*Quiet Competence: As sporting teams go, in this age of swag and brag, this Spartan team has stayed relatively quiet. There’s little talk and much devotion to a work ethic. They seem to understand that results are what matter. Even though they are amateurs (kids, as I mentioned), they’ve maintained a workmanlike professionalism about the game.

The same goes for writing. Impressive word counts, blog stats, even pretty pages of prose—none of it matters in the face of a successful manuscript. For each work-in-progress, I need to focus on the result of a finished story arc that satisfies. A pro seeks success and doesn’t bother himself with distractions or peripherals. If I choose to be a novelist, only successful novels count. I’m in this for the long haul. I want to write many more books. I want to be a pro. I should act like one.

*Adapt and Grow/Play all four quarters: The Spartans have come a long way since their only loss in mid-September (yes, Domers, we remember—to the Notre Dame Fighting Irish). The Spartans have learned from their mistakes. Even within the context of a game, the Spartans—particularly on defense—are constantly adjusting and adapting. Even when they were down this season, they continued to endeavor to find a winning formula. Their game-plan is fluid, and includes discarding what isn’t working and finding success through a willingness to change. They continued to adapt and grow—each drive, each defensive stop, each quarter, each game… All season.

My original game-plan for my trilogy included a prologue and opening with an examination of the childhoods of five primary characters. Even after six major rewrites, and an opening quite different from that of the first game-plan, I’m still not sure I’ve found the formula for success. But I know the season is far from over.

*Momentum is All About Attitude: There was a point in the Big Ten championship, late in the first half and early second, that the Buckeyes scored twenty-four unanswered points. They had clearly gained the momentum. The Spartans were on their heels and behind. But there was no quit in their eyes. They kept at it. You could see the ongoing effort, the upright postures. They worked down the field, grinding out an ugly drive that netted them a mere field-goal. They still trailed. Then the defense held the Buckeyes to a three-and-out. They gutted out the most unlikely of momentum shifts late in the game… Against a team that everyone expected to win—not only this game, but a national championship.

We’ve all had rejections. I know I have. And I am subject to bouts of writerly sulk. No matter how many people have read my work and said they’ve enjoyed it, there are days when I am utterly focused on the lesser number of readers who never finished, said they weren’t drawn in, or simply didn’t care for it.

Let’s face it—there are always going to be others who are picked to win. Sometimes it seems like others get all the breaks. If we allow ourselves to get down about it, we’ve already lost. Every game has momentum shifts. There will always be difficult periods. We must keep fighting, with our backs straight and our heads up. Even gutting out a long-shot, low-points score—such as a personalized critique in a rejection or a positive review for a short piece—can change the momentum in our favor.

*Don’t Listen to the Experts/Play Your Own Game: At the season’s onset you would’ve been hard-pressed to find many who would’ve picked the Spartans to win-out their Big Ten schedule, let alone defeat OSU in the championship game. They started the season unranked, and even as late as the kickoff Saturday night, few reckoned them more than a footnote to the collegiate football season. All season long, sports media analysts said they were: too reliant on defense, too reliant on an average running game, had an inexperienced quarterback, etcetera. Today they are calling the Spartans Rose Bowl-bound champions.

I’ve always heard things from “the publishing experts” that boded ill for me. Over the years I’ve heard: I must keep manuscripts under 120K, that women warriors are insulting to women, that fantasy must include a well-ordered system of magic, and that the quest of a protagonist to leadership was the kiss of death. I suppose I’ve decided to play my own game. But then again, when I started ten years ago, I often heard that epic fantasy was passé, that it didn’t sell. Things change.

Spartans Never Retreat, Never Surrender: I know that not every try will result in a win. Finding my way to my own vision of a satisfying story—seen in my mind and felt in my heart—and then finding it again and again, is the only thing that will make my writing journey a success. I’ve been at this quite a while, but I feel like the end of a long but successful first season is in sight. And, with the right inspiration and attitude, I could have a long career ahead.

So yes, Leonidas, I know what my profession is.

Have you ever been inspired by an athlete or a sports team? Are you ready to answer Leonidas with pride?

Fatherly Inspiration

Nov8

This coming Monday is Veterans’ Day. My father was a veteran and a week from Wednesday is his birthday. He would’ve been 95. It has also been 20 years since his passing, in September of ’93, just two months short of his 75^th birthday. So he’s been on my mind.

Brothers of the Greatest Generation: It’s become a bit of a cliché, but I honestly think the WW2 generation deserves the moniker, and will keep their special place in history. And it wasn’t just that they grew up in the depression and fought and won one of the greatest conflicts the world has known. It was what came after, too. They came back, educated themselves, and got to work. They managed this, in part, through a couple of attributes that my dad exemplified: quiet courage and humility.

My dad grew up on a farm in south-central Michigan. He and his brother Gordon, just one year younger, both joined the army before America entered the war, right out of high school. By all accounts, my dad and Gordy had always been very close.

Quick story to illustrate. After my dad passed away and while I was still doing outside sales to lumberyards, I called on a little, old-time lumberyard near my dad’s childhood stomping grounds. I entered and a bell clanked on the door, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. I navigated aisles of nail bins on creaky wood floors, making my way back to the contractor’s sales desk. There sat the lone elderly employee, leaning back behind the counter reading a newspaper. He didn’t say a word as I introduced myself, and barely glanced up after I gave him my card. He squinted down at my card through half-glasses, and finally said, “Any relation to Gaylord or Gordy?” I told him that I was Gaylord’s son and said, “You knew my dad?”

“Oh, we met,” he said with a wry smile. “Your dad made a block on me that I’ll never forget. Took me clean out of the play, which allowed your uncle to score the winning touchdown for our division championship. I’ll never forget those two. They really packed a one-two punch. Never was sure which, but one of ‘em broke my nose that night.”

I’d known that my dad had been a fullback in high school, and that his brother had been the quarterback, but I’d never heard such a story. Although he loved the game his whole life, my dad had always waved off any football prowess, saying something like: “I was just a blocking back. Gordy was the real athlete of the family.”

Dad & Gordy mugging for the camera before Gordy shipped overseas.

Dad & Gordy mugging for the camera in front of my grandmother’s house before Gordy shipped overseas.

My dad started his service in the Airborne, but as America’s involvement in the European theater increased, he was transferred to the Blackhawks—the 86^th Infantry Division. While he was training to be shipped overseas, he learned of his little brother Gordy’s death. Gordon’s ship was torpedoed in the Mediterranean Sea, on its way to invade North Africa. There were no survivors.

Respect Gained Too Late: I don’t mean to imply that I didn’t respect my dad when he was alive. We shared a very special relationship. My parents divorced when I was fourteen. I’m the youngest, and my sister went with my mom, leaving Dad and I alone in the house. All through my high school years, my dad and I learned to cook together. Shortly after the divorce, I helped to paint the house to earn money for a new stereo for my room. He went with me to pick it out. I would pull one of the big speakers out into the hall and crank it up while we made and ate dinner. This ex-GI, a big band lover and fan of The Lawrence Welk Show, indulged my every musical obsession, from The Who to The Clash, at floor-thumping volume, during dinner! Now that’s a cool dad.

But I’ve gained a much deeper respect for him and his life since his passing. He was always just dad. I’d always been a history buff, and read scores of books on WW2 during my teen years. He knew of my interest, and I knew he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d always say things like: “We were just doing our job. All we wanted was to get the job done, so we could come home.”

I once convinced him we should watch the movie Bridge at Remagen together on TV. He knew that I knew that the story centered on his division, the Blackhawks. Even knowing he didn’t want to talk, after an intense action sequence I couldn’t restrain myself. I ventured: “Did you shoot at them like that?” With hooded eyes, he gave me a half-nod. I saw his discomfort, which made me squirm. He finally said, “When they said march, we marched. When they said shoot, we shot. I decided a long time ago that it’s something I don’t want to dwell on.” We watched the rest in silence, and I knew the film was forcing him to dwell.

Over the years, I gained a few additional precious tidbits regarding his war service. One memorable one relates to his unit’s transport to the Pacific theater. The Blackhawks were one of the first divisions pulled out of Europe in late ’44. They were to be the “seasoned veterans” on the front lines for the invasion of mainland Japan. My dad told me that while they were en route, their commanding officer lined them up on deck and told them to look at the soldier on their left, then on their right. They were told that one of the three of them would not survive the first day of the attack. While they steamed toward a sure bloodbath, news came that America had dropped the bomb, and that Japan had surrendered. You can only imagine their relief. It was short-lived. They were rerouted to the Philippines, for “cleanup operations,” rooting out Japanese that would not believe the war was over. Can you imagine putting your life on the line, watching your buddies become casualties, knowing that the war was over? The Blackhawks didn’t make it home until December of ’46.

My Kind of Coach: But it hasn’t just been his war experience that I’ve gained respect for. My dad was a postman for almost 30 years. He trained so many letter carriers, the whole post office called him Coach. He walked from the post office to his route and back every day, never taking a truck although he was offered many. He went to work at 5:30 every day, often before the snow plow had come by. When he had a heart attack at age 64, he had accumulated enough unused sick days to carry him to his retirement—over a year’s worth.

I’ve already written about my dad’s love of gardening, here. He grew up on the farm, and his inner farm-boy remained intact throughout his life. He loved big family dinners after a hard day’s honest work. His dedication to hand-turning the compost into the soil of his expansive vegetable garden each spring was uniquely definitive of his character. Dedication and patience yields results. There was no use jawin’ about it, or searching for a miracle cure (those motorized tillers were “for the birds” according to Dad). Just dig in and get the job done.

Parental Guidance Has Been Suggested: Even though my dad passed away a decade before my writing journey began in earnest (almost to the day), I’ve been thinking about his influence on my work. I may not have become a gardener, but in regard to finishing manuscripts, I know that I learned my tendency to “just dig in and get the job done.”

And, in hindsight, I see so much of him in the work itself. It might seem strange to those who’ve read my work, as the primary protagonist of my trilogy feels his father’s legacy is a curse. But that is not where I see him. My MC’s grandfather and elder mentor are both calming and steadying influences. They remind him that what really matters can only be found inside. I see Dad in these elder mentor figures. My dad was 44 when I was born, so many of my most powerful memories of him are from when he was in his fifties (my age now). In a way, he was always very grandfatherly with me (since I was the baby, I’m certain my elder siblings would agree that he was much sterner and stricter with them).

My protagonist abhors the glorification of war. He is honor-bound to creating a peaceful existence for his people, even in the face of being named a coward for his principles. From his elders he’s learned that what other people say about him means nothing, that staying true to himself is all. But when there is no other recourse, he knows there’s no sense jawin’ about it or hoping for a miracle. He digs in and gets the job done.

Yeah, there’s quite a bit of my father in my work. So thanks, Dad. Miss ya, Big Guy.

Do you see your parents in your work? Care to share?

I’ve Been High

Oct22

“I’ve Been High” ~ by Peter Buck, Mike Mills and Michael Stipe (R.E.M.)

Have you seen?
Have-not will travel
Have I missed the big reveal?
Do my eyes,
Do my eyes seem empty?
I’ve forgotten how this feels.

I’ve been high
I’ve climbed so high
The light, sometimes it washes over me.

Standardized Success: By my fortieth birthday, despite all predictions to the contrary, by current societal standards my life was a success. I truly felt I had it all. I was happily married to my soul mate. My wife and I had built a successful business. We were a financially sound enterprise. I was esteemed by colleagues and clients, and was often sought and consulted for my expertise in my field.

I held court on my fortieth birthday by plopping down in my beach chair at the shoreline near my summer house, craft beer in hand and feet dangling in the warm wash of the Lake Michigan waves. Several dozen friends and family stopped by to toast me and wish me continuing success. Looking back on my life that day, I knew I’d climbed so high. The light of it washed over me.

And yet, I knew there was more. This was success, but what did it mean? Had I missed the big reveal?

Have you been?
Have-done will travel
I fell down on my knees

Was I wrong?
I don’t know, don’t answer.
I just needed to believe.

Something More: Six weeks after my fortieth came 9-11-01. A year after that we lost a loved one, and learned of the terminal illness of another loved one. Life went on. Business was still business. Success paid the bills—but the challenge of it no longer tasted so sweet.

We knew it was time to reevaluate. I’ve told the tale before (in detail here), but I’ll synopsize for those who haven’t heard it. We walked away, leaving the comforts of success behind. Have-done will travel.

We downsized, moving to our beloved cottage in the woods. We sold or gave away the lion’s share of our possessions. Life slowed down. Things were less certain, less secure. And yet we found the time to search for meaning and peace, to attempt to be in the moment—seeking to better know ourselves, and to enjoy each other every day. Striving for success by our own standards.

Were we wrong to walk away from the comforts of making a lucrative living? I don’t know, don’t answer. But I still suspect we are meant for something more than making money and accumulating possessions. I just needed to believe. And still do.

I’ve been high
I’ve climbed so high
The light, sometimes it washes over me.

So I dive into a pool.
So cool and deep that if I sink I sink,
And when I swim I fly, so high.

Taking the Plunge: Writing fiction has stripped away all of the vestiges of my so-called former success. And not just due to a lack of monetary compensation. I am the boss of one—myself. I am no longer an expert. Far from it. I am, and shall long be, a humble student of the process—a protégé to those who’ve spent a lifetime swimming these waters. It’s daunting. There are no lifeguards. If I sink, I sink.

But since diving in, I’ve come to realize that nothing feels more natural, or more rewarding, than writing. I know my early attempts were awkward, and yet they awoke a love of learning and challenge, and revealed a longing to strive for deeper understanding.

The exposure afterward can be cold, but also bracing. The muscle memory gained through practice allows me to go deeper with each attempt than I’d previously dared. By most societal standards, I am not yet a successful writer. But when I swim I fly—so high.

What I want
All I really want is
Just to live my life on high.

And I know
I know you want the same
I can see it in your eyes.

Success by Choice: Every writer I know was or is a success… At something. I know plenty of successful novelists and publishing industry folks. But I also know fiction writers who are former doctors, lawyers, and journalists. There are former painters and actors. And so many are so well-educated—with multiple degrees from prestigious schools.

Or they are successful because they did not have such opportunities. Some have raised themselves up from the humblest of upbringings, taking steady jobs and bonding with partners for love, and raising beautiful children. And they write for an hour after the family is in bed, or before they get up. I think I admire them the most.

But we all choose to write—to dive into those daunting waters. Only to expose ourselves to the cold afterward, hoping to learn and grow. Striving to go deeper. When I see your posts, and hear of your ongoing writerly struggles, I know you want the same thing I do—to live life on high. I can see it in your eyes.

We know that when we swim we fly. We are all successes. By our own standards. Just for continuing to dive and to strive—and to fly, so high.

I’ve been high
I’ve climbed so high
The light, sometimes it washes over me.

Washes over me
I close my eyes
So I can see
Make my make-believe, believe in me.

Seeing the Real Me: It’s odd to think that only by delving into a make-believe world have I come to know myself. I’d hardly paused to try to recognize myself through the years of my successful business run. I didn’t really know what I considered heroic or honorable. I hadn’t asked myself what I really believe are admirable traits in my fellow human beings—let alone myself. I’d never asked myself if I thought mankind was intrinsically noble or base. I hadn’t asked what my marriage really meant to me, or what I hoped to achieve before I left this earth—what I’d like to be remembered for, or even if I was worthy of being remembered.

Sure, by society’s standards, I’ve been high. But my writerly self finds those standards lacking. I’ve found that writing takes me to another level. Society might see my fiction-writing as a make-believe form of success. But I close my eyes to their standards. I close them so I can see. Only through my make-believe perspective have I come to believe in me.

How about you? Do you consider yourself a success? By whose standards?

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The Travel Muse

Oct16

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” ~Bilbo Baggins (JRR Tolkien)

Getting Out There: Since most of you are writers, I’m guessing a few of you will identify with this: I dread going places. And the longer I write, the worse I get. Even an approaching dinner party can make me squirm with reluctance. Heck, I even dread going to the grocery store on a Saturday. I’ll take a non-crowded Tuesday morning, please.

And as exciting as vacation travel can be, as the departure date looms, I am filled with dread. You have the packing, the passports, the parking, and dealing with people. There are airports, security checks, and dealing with people. There are hotels, tour schedules, and dealing with people. Have I mentioned that you have to deal with people?

I guess I’m a bit like old Bilbo. “Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not Today. Good morning!” But once something (or someone) gets me out there (I don’t have a Gandalf, but I do have an adventure-loving wife), especially after a day or two on the road, my old curious, wandering soul tends to reemerge. The dread dissipates and is replaced by what darn near resembles an adventurous spirit.

Such was the case on our last trip—a river-cruise on the Rhine River, from Basel, Switzerland to Amsterdam. And get this: the ship even offered second breakfast! That’s what I call traveling in style.

Seeing is Believing:

“Travel makes you modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.” ~Gustave Flaubert

One of the reasons we chose a Rhine River cruise was that part of my trilogy is set in the region (most of the first half of book three). Besides the second breakfasts, we also loved the idea of seeing such a vast swath of the heart of western Europe and only unpacking once. I’d done quite a bit of research in writing the segment set in the region. Traveling there let me know I’d mostly gotten it right; the slope of the river banks, the walls of the ancient cities, etcetera. But I knew from past experience, there’s nothing like actually being there and seeing it for yourself to sharpen your perceptions.

I’m actually looking forward to the inevitable rewrite of book three, just knowing I can imbue the prose with even more of the region’s atmosphere. Now I’ve actually stood on the banks of the mighty river, and contemplated a cold-weather crossing. I’ve gazed across to the far hilly shore, perfectly comprehending what it might feel like to know a hostile force was probably hidden in the trees overlooking the far bank (chilling). I’ve seen the old Roman arched gateway of Cologne—Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium in those days—and walked the original square. I’ve seen the ornately-decorated, colored wine glasses and flagons used by the colony’s merchants and administrators (seen while touring Cologne’s Römisch-Germanische Museum, which was one of the highlights of the trip for me). I know from experience that the infusion of carefully placed details can breathe new life into the work. As wonderful a tool as the internet can be, there’s nothing quite like being in a place to sense its history.

Guiding Lights: I used to disdain guided tours while traveling. I used to think I was better off discovering a place on my own. I was a traveler, not a tourist, damn it! Tour guides were for blue-haired ladies and multi-camera-toting, sunburnt nerds. Now that I’m older (and a multi-camera-toting, sunburnt nerd), I’ve grown an appreciation. Particularly for a really good tour guide.

One of the first times I realized what a resource a guide could be was on a tour of Pearl Harbor and the USS Missouri. Here was a man who could point at the ground to show us where he was standing, at the age of seven, when he realized the attack was on. He then pointed up to the mountainous horizon as he told us where dozens of Zero fighters and Val carrier bombers came into view. The emotion was still fresh on his face and in his voice as he described first seeing the Japanese rising suns on the wings, and hearing the first rattle of machinegun fire. I can still clearly recall the tour, over ten years later.

Jack the Welsh tour guide.

And good tour guides abound. Some better than others, but there is always something to be learned from each. This trip was no exception. To name a few, we had Jack in Colmar, Alsace—a Welsh expatriate, fluent in French and German, with a tremendous grasp on the region’s history and culture, delivered with passion and humor. Then there was Franco in Cologne, whose knowledge of the cathedral and its history seemed an expertise that could not be topped—until we went to the Roman museum and he warmed to the topic of the Roman colonial era in the region.

So when the opportunity arises, don’t be too cool for school. Take the tours. Listen up and ask questions. You are bound to learn from those passionate enough about their area to put up with the likes of us sunburnt nerds. And don’t forget to tip!

Up With People (No, Really):

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men, places, and things cannot be acquired vegetating in one small corner of the earth.” ~Mark Twain

One of the things I dread about cruising is that there are bound to be other passengers. Have I mentioned my reluctance about dealing with people? And yet, I am always intrigued. For a writer, travel is a wonderful people-watching opportunity. And we met our fair share of interesting folks on this trip. For example, there were the sisters traveling with their mother, revisiting Germany for the first time since their German father passed. We’d gotten friendly onboard, and they already knew I was a writer. Over a traditional German meal (and quite a bit of German wine), it came out that their father had written a book—a memoir. Turns out he had been in the Wehrmacht during WW2. He was not a Nazi, and was forcibly drafted into service as a boy, toward the end of the war. The book was about not just his experiences in the war, but the aftermath—living in a postwar world as an ex-German soldier. It sounds fascinating, but I’d have never learned of it if we hadn’t spent a week, and several meals (and no few cocktail hours) with these interesting folks.

There are also the people you encounter at every stop and on every outing. Not just the guides, but the shopkeepers, hotel and museum workers, fellow diners, even waiters and waitresses. Even very brief conversations (often with the difficulty of language differences) enhance the experience of being abroad. It’s always fun to tell people that we are from Chicago while traveling abroad (we actually live in SW Michigan, but Chicago is the nearest city). I often get the sense their image of Chicago is one of heavy industry, gangsters, and corrupt machine-politics. Which gives me a better insight into my own worldview.

Broadening Horizons:

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of looking at things.” ~Henry Miller

There’s more to travel than the specific things you learn or the pictures you take. There is a gained sense of worldliness. It’s inspiring, and as exhausting as it can seem in the short run, it’s ultimately revitalizing. Travel renews our sense of wonder.

As author Bill Bryson says in his book, Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe: “[This is the] glory of foreign travel, as far as I am concerned. I can’t think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can’t even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.” I can vouch for the danger of street crossing, particularly in France. Our Welsh tour-guide Jack warned us that the French used their brakes as if each application depleted a finite and precious resource.

Just like reading a good book, travel is an immersion experience, and is bound to broaden your perspective and your worldview—which can only be a good thing for us writers, right? So if you’re a reluctant traveler, like me, do yourself a favor, and step out onto that road. The odds of being swept off your feet are much better than if you stay holed up in your writerly den.

Your turn to embark. Has travel influenced or inspired your work? Where are you off to next?

The Three-Phase Writer – Redirect to A Thought Grows

Sep30

Today I am happy to be the guest at Julie Luek‘s lovely blog, A Thought Grows . I first came to know Julie on the comment board of the WU blog. Then we became Facebook friends, and realized we both love walking in nature and dogs–an excellent basis for a friendship, don’t you think?

Some of you might have noticed that I’ve been a bit scarce this summer. No, I wasn’t “reverse hibernating,” although I do love autumn and winter. In the post I explain my whereabouts, and my partial absence in the writerly online community. And I even compare that very community to, of all things, a rabbit’s warren.

So head on over, if you would, and join me at A Thought Grows for The Three-Phase Writer.

A Writerly Pilot Light – Writer Unboxed Redirect

Sep18

Today I have the honor of contributing to the Writer Unboxed blog. And it really is an honor. As most of you know, WU is the home-base of my writing community. I’m a moderator on the WU group page, and a contributor for Writer Inboxed, the WU newsetter. But it’s just such a special thrill for me to be a featured contributor to the main page–among some of my all-time favorite bloggers and mentors.

Today’s post is about dealing with writerly waiting. Which is hell. Sorry I haven’t offered anything here in a few weeks. I wrote the WU post a little while back, when I was just coming out of a waiting period. I’ve since finished another rewrite of book one of my trilogy, which is what’s kept me from blogging. It’s about to go back out into the world. Once again I’m banking my writerly embers for the long haul. So rereading my own words on this is particularly helpful. I hope so for some of you, too.

So please join me over on WU for A Writerly Pilot Light.

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Setting the Circumstances

Aug6

My “Career-In-Potential”:

“Once we turn pro (and even before we do), our Muse has plans for us. Those plans are our career-in-potential. They exist, whether we choose to believe in them or not. And they’re operating upon us, influencing us like the gravitational pull of an enormous invisible star.

If you’re a writer, your career-in-potential is a shelf of books. Your books. Books you’ve written. They exist now, even if you haven’t started Book #1.” ~Steven Pressfield

The above quote is from a post called Thinking a Career, from SP’s fabulous Writing Wednesdays blog series. If you haven’t yet, I highly recommend you not only read this post, but subscribe to the series. I think the piece resonates for me because I felt the “gravitational pull” of my career-in-potential long before I read it. I think I subconsciously felt that pull even as I trudged through the writing of my trilogy, and that was—in part—why I did not stop writing after book one was complete. As I describe in last week’s post, I was self-deluding about the work’s potential, unwilling to allow myself to think too far ahead for fear of freaking myself out (and having my career-in-potential fizzle-in-actuality). But I knew I needed to put my own pieces in place on the board in order to learn the game, let alone the stakes.

Masters of My Domain:

“When the student is ready, the master appears.” ~Buddhist Proverb

I didn’t start reading Jacqueline Carey until I was nearly done writing the first draft of my trilogy. But after finishing her debut, Kushiel’s Dart, I immediately saw parallels. JC’s epic, character-focused stories and her detailed alternate-historical settings combine to create the kind of submersion for readers I was seeking to craft. And by the time I read Kushiel’s Dart, she already had six fat volumes (two trilogies) on the shelf—a fantasy lover’s treasure-trove. She subsequently added another trilogy set in the same world, as well as two pairs of urban fantasies, with more on the way.

When I started following JC on Facebook in ‘08, she had no author page, but she ‘friended’ her fans, and I was among the first 400 or so. Since then she’s transferred us to an author page, and the page has grown to over 13,000 fans. I admire the catalog she’s built, but I also admire how she has handled her growing fan-base. She interacts with her readers on an almost daily basis, and genuinely shares of herself. In my experience, she responds to every single thing someone puts on her Facebook wall with a ‘like’ or a personal comment. I’ve written her several times, and in each case she has taken the time to respond in a warm and engaged way.

And the reward for her efforts: loyalty! I’ve seen several stories from fans who’ve hand-sold her books to other shoppers in the bookstore. Not only do her fans (including yours truly) recommend her, they buy multiple copies to give and lend to readers they think should be reading her. Heck, there are even scores of fans who tattoo their bodies with images and words from her work (no tattoos here… yet). Talk about a tribute to an author.

Serial Aspirations: To top it all off, Carey just keeps getting better. After reading her Naamah trilogy, I felt so strongly about her growth that I wrote her to tell her I thought she was at the top of her game. And she never stops trying new things. Fans of her epic historicals (like me) are willing to venture trying her urban fantasy.

I’ve recently discovered Robin Hobb’s Farseer series, and am on my sixth book. I finish one, consider the other books in my TBR list, then download the next Farseer book. So far, I can’t seem to sate my Farseer appetite. Plus I’ve learned a lot about internal versus external plot development, as well as creating micro-tension through constantly rising stakes. She’s another master of the epic historical fantasy domain. I consider writers like Hobb and Carey to be mentors as well as role models. For an epic fantasy writer, they both have careers worthy of aspiration.

Delivering On The First Order: When my wife and I were in the building materials business, we learned a valuable lesson about selling. We knew we weren’t just selling a bunk of lumber. We were selling a service. We sold to lumber retailers, and there were only so many of them in our delivery area. We needed their repeat business—hence, we needed their loyalty. We knew initiating trial was one thing. But once we got that first order, we had to deliver. To get them to commit to us, that first shipment had to be more than satisfactory. It had to be a knockout.

For a writer who aspires to sell a series, the lesson was a powerful one. I think some of my non-writer friends sometimes wonder what the heck is taking me so long (and perhaps even some of my writer friends wonder, as well). Many of them know I have four completed manuscripts, and that I’m on my fifth or sixth major rewrite of book one ( even though it feels like the 15^th or 16^th). But I know I’ve got to deliver on the first order, or the rest of the series will languish, or worse, never see the light of day.

The Comfort of the Familiar: I’ve been told by several readers that they enjoyed book two much more than book one. And a few have said that, from book one to my most recent manuscript, the writing only gets stronger. I think this is pretty natural and easily explained by my growth as a writer. But I suspect there is something else at work here. Starting into book two or three of a series is a completely different thing than trying a new author’s first book. You’ve become acquainted with the world, and hopefully fond of the characters. As a series moves along, it’s like visiting old friends. You share a history. You know the backstory. It gives a writer a tremendous amount of freedom. And once you have that comfort and loyalty, it even offers a bit of space to experiment and stretch, as Carey has done with her urban fantasy work.

I was discussing this with my wife the other night, and she said, “Sort of like the hair stylist thing.” I am absolutely positive I looked bewildered, because my expression made her laugh. She went on to explain that if you have a stylist you have been using for a while, you not only grow familiar with them, you start to get comfortable. And from that comfort, you begin to trust them. At some point, after several times delivering the hairstyle you know and like, you are open to their suggestions for experimentation. And after a few successful experiments or variations, if they screw up one of your cuts (or color sessions, etc.), you are more willing to forgive it. You go back (perhaps earlier than usual) because you know they can deliver on the sort of comfort you’ve come to expect. A pretty darn apt analogy. One that I never would’ve come up with on my own.

But you wouldn’t go back to someone who didn’t deliver on the first appointment. A series needs to earn familiarity in order to deliver comfort, and thereby to deserve loyalty. So back to getting it right on the first book.

Visualizing the Voyage:

“If a man does not know to what port he is steering, no wind is favorable to him.” ~Seneca

I have admitted I am not an optimist by nature. My wife handles that for me, thank you. I am not saying that I anticipate having the legions of fans Carey and Hobb have rightfully earned. I know it’s a competitive business. And the vagaries of the ever-changing publishing business paired with the fickle tastes of readers will make it challenging to navigate to any level of success.

I know I’m lucky. I’m lucky to have wonderful mentors and readers and writerly friends. Lucky to have found Writer Unboxed, and to have been given some wonderful opportunities to serve there. Lucky to have had the business background, the time, and (even though I often feel the opposite) the patience to strive for the right set of circumstances for a successful voyage toward publication.

I’m sure there will be storms to come, but the experience I’ve gained along the way will help me to steer through. Thus far I’ve had mostly favorable winds. But I know to what port I am steering. I believe in my career-in-potential. I can see those books Pressfield refers to on the shelf.

I’m not sure what to expect from my next destination, but I’m comfortable knowing I’ve done everything I could to make the best of it when I arrive.

Do you see your books on the shelf? Whose esteemed career do you aspire to?

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Vaughn Roycroft's Blog

Seeking the Inner Ancient