And what’s with the kilt?
My manuscript of WHERE YOU WILL DIE is now in the hands of a very accomplished and insightful editor, giving it that final polish to make it ready for publication. The story really came together over the winter, and I’ve begun the final steps to getting it into the world.
So I thought I might share a little about the main character, Alan Wright. Rather than tell you about him (what they call an “information dump”), I thought I’d post some extracts from the book itself. Hope you enjoy.
Me? Well, I’ll keep wearing my mask for a little while longer, thank you very much. It’s the smart thing to do. Anyone with any sense knows this is a far, far better rest than we ever…
I plan to wear it for the rest of my life. I've never trusted people to do right with their colds and flu and whatnot anyway, but wearing a mask has long been outlawed in many states and localities, as a guard against crime. I'm taking this "temporary" exception all the way to my grave. :)
That is the root of the critiques of postmodernism in a nutshell. That its emphasis on relativism, rejection of objectivity, and the doubt of comprehensive world views leave you without a sense of much meaning in the world.
Yes, that is one basic critique, which should be reason enough to reject this pseudo-philosophy. But the other is equally damning. If nothing has meaning, than anything and everything can have meaning. It destroys the meaning of meaning. If Modern philosophy (as in rationality, objectivity, etc. ) has been a "net gain for humanity", how is its antithesis (rejection of rationality, objectivity, etc. an improvement or even a welcome diversion?
Accomplished authors and teachers of the writing craft all agree: Good writing is rewriting.
“I rewrote the ending of ‘Farewell to Arms’ 39 times before I was satisfied.”
- Ernest Hemingway
As to what makes good rewriting, all agree that cutting is key. Cut every page, paragraph, sentence, or word that does not belong, that does not accomplish something for the story.
“When your story is ready for rewrite, cut it to the bone. Get rid of every ounce of excess fat. This is going to hurt; revising a story down to the bare essentials is always a little like…
In October 2020, I participated in the first-ever Zoom meeting of WordFest — the long-lived and beloved forum for Pacific Northwest writers created and hosted by author Alan Rose. This is my segment from that virtual coffee house confab. In it, I read my short story “Some Pruning is Best Done in Fall”.
The story is of two women, recently married, and the impact of a mother’s death on their newfound happiness. A rose blossom, the third character in the tale, helps one of the women answer the question, “What’s in a name?”
Here’s the reading from my YouTube Channel:
No one is more surprised than I to report I am meeting the milestones I set for myself in this last big edit of my novel, WHERE YOU WILL DIE. But darned if I’m not finishing up the third of my 12 week schedule with a completion rate to (almost) match The book is 68 short chapters. I’ve finished 20 as of today. The goal is 24 done by Sunday. So I’m just in the range to be a third done in chapters when I’m a third done in time.
To celebrate (hey, why not?) I thought I’d take the…
A New Direction for My Novel
After three years of drafting, editing, and revising, I am embarked on the final preparations of my novel, previously titled: FOR WANT OF SCRIPTURE.
Writing novels is easy. Editing stories into good novels is notoriously difficult.
I sat down and wrote the first sentences of this story the morning of Sunday, July 9, 2017. I was on fire. I set the goal of a chapter every two weeks. Forty-four weeks later I had twelve chapters — having missed my deadline as many times as I met it. It was over 110 thousand words. …
Oh, heady days!
Late imperial, early feudal,
rancor in the air like poison smoke.
We breathe in fitful gasps
and coughs, inhale the future,
waste the exhale in shouts of spleen.
Grinning, cheap movie villains,
we play to the camera,
our manicured and bloody hands
midwife the suicide of a people.
All gunpowder and lipstick,
every finger tap and eyeball twitch
recorded, measured, bought, sold,
stolen and raped, we laugh at pain
for a discount at the bar. …
I am roiled tonight with questions.
What inexorable force impresses choice
beyond all good and evil?
Why does the mantle of responsibility,
of power over many lives,
transfer no wisdom to the pathfinder for a billion?
Is this what we want,
we sons and daughters of the revolution?
We scoff at promises long ago sealed
and break them with the snap of a twig.
What did Dwight and John tell us?
What truly is the trinity of my people?
The president, the merchant and the priest?
Be still a moment — listen
for whispers from ages of man;
turn away — no…
One day in a time and place not far from here, a man named Oben went to market to buy bread for his family. He left his wife and nearly grown son behind and walked the few miles between his tiny farm and the nearby village, Burada. It was a clear, crisp, early fall day, and the man took note of the bright sunshine, the cool breeze, the delightful chirping of the birds and the leaves just starting to turn from their summer green to yellow and gold. The man smiled as he walked.
Reaching the outskirts of the village…
“Heaven is a library of every book ever written, eternity to sit and read, and a bottomless cup of the best coffee.”