Hoesel

It's been a long time...

2010-01-26T21:06:00.000-08:00

It's been about a year and a half since I've updated this blog. In that time, I've had two novels published.

Having a few books published has been an amazing experience. In some ways I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. And, in doing so, I've remembered I have a neglected blog. I'm going to try and update as often as I can, to document the trials, travails, and wins of the publishing process. But if I go silent for long, visit me at www.donhoesel.com.

My novels:

Elisha's Bones
Hunter's Moon

The fine folks at Bethany House have come up with a really cool cover

2008-08-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

Elisha's Bones - or February 2006 Reprised

2007-11-02T19:08:00.000-07:00

I think my mom still checks this blog occasionally. And I think Mike Snyder stops by every once in a while, if only to shake his head in smug satisfaction that at least he's not the most infrequent blogger on the internet.

It's already been mentioned in several places, but I'll announce it here, too. Bethany House Publishers has offered me a contract for my novel Elisha's Bones.

What's especially fulfilling for me is that this is the book I mentioned in my post back in Feb. 2006, all of two posts ago. It's funny rereading that post because I barely remember writing it. But I know that I did get tired and bogged down through the process. And I did struggle with elements of the genre, and plots, and endings, and all of the other things I thought I'd struggle with. And I still like the way the book came out.

I hope you will, too. Even after all of the edits I know Bethany will require. Lots and lots of edits.

Elisha's Bones, Bethany House Publishers, Spring 2009

Breaking a 17 Month Blog Shunning For A Good Cause

2007-07-10T20:41:00.000-07:00

For the two people who may still be checking this blog after my 17 month absence, click here and pre-order this book. It's called My Name is Russell Fink, and it's by the tremendously talented Mike Snyder.

Go.

Go now.

Don't read another word.

From a WIP

2006-02-25T19:30:00.000-08:00

I cannot sweat.
I am one with the searing heat:
the sucking furnace of nomadic environs.
The water has been drained from me,
my tongue fattened with expectation.
And my skin is hardened with denial and brittle with promise.

I've started a new project: a book that will be a departure for me. It's a different sort of story than any I've yet written.

I'm wrestling with the concept, testing where my voice fits in the genre, fleshing out the characters, deciding on the macro themes that I hope I can hang the story on. In my opinion, this is the most exciting part of writing a book. The first few chapters, when the prose begins to flow, the characters work themselves out, and the stylistic elements (especially the ones that you're trying out for the first time) start to work for you instead of against you; these are the things that I most enjoy about writing.

And they're the things that I will remember when I'm in the middle and feeling bogged down, or at the end and fretting that things are not coming together as I'd like them to. If I can look back on the excitement I felt when starting a project, I know that I can see it through.

The little piece at the top of this post is another reason I am so enamored with the process. When I wrote it for this new book, I felt good about it. I think it flows well, has some nice imagery, and it complements the prose before and after it. I'm happy with it. More that that: I'm proud of it. And that's knowing that by the time the book is done, that small portion will doubtless have been rewritten so that it is unrecognizable, or will have been dropped completely. It's not important. What does matter is that I'm excited about laying down the prose, about the possibilities.

Who knows, those six lines may find themselves in the finished product unchanged. And maybe the book will be stronger because of them. Whatever happens is OK because right now I am just happy to be at the start of things again.

And maybe in a few months I'll need to come back to this post and reread it to remind myself what it feels like to love something that can be so difficult.

The Deal

2005-09-30T19:33:00.000-07:00

“You remember any of this?”

My father’s voice startles me after an hour of navigating the winding mountain roads without a word between us. Since the stop for gas in Chelsea, when he asked if I wanted a cup of coffee, the rumbling of the V-8 has filled the aural vacuum. Maybe what made me jump, beyond the fact that the timbre of my father’s voice could wake Lazarus, is that I’d been considering the same thing – how none of this seemed familiar until the last turn, when I could see the red outline of the cider mill through the pine trees some two-hundred feet below us.

As a boy I would watch for that mill, playing a game with my father to see who could spot it first. I can’t remember a time when he won that contest and I am certain now that he derived the greater pleasure from my small triumphs. He took me to see the mill once, when I was eight or nine. We walked through the place, watching the coring, peeling and pressing of the apples. He’d told me that before the mill was ushered into the twentieth century, migrant workers, mostly black families, would show up at harvest time to pick and process the fruit.

For a few of those seasons my father had worked alongside them, sweating beneath the sun, learning the work songs of a different people. He’d lost the tip of his finger in the press during his last harvest and the mill foreman had burned the wound with lye to stop the bleeding. They had loaded him into the back of the man’s car and driven him twenty miles to Randle, where the doctor had given my father a shot for the pain, telling him there was little he could do that the lye had not already done. That same afternoon my father was back working at the press.

"I remember the mill,” I say.

My father nods but does not take his eyes from the road. His large hands, tough and brown like leather, rest on the wheel, guiding the Ford around curves and up inclines that must be as familiar to him as the halls of the hospital are to me. I do not know how often he has taken this trip since my mom passed; maybe this is the first time. But he grew up in these mountains, on land owned by his people for generations; this place is a part of him in a way that my suburban childhood home could never be for me.

“You win again,” he says.

I do not answer but turn away to look out the window. It is strange that I am back in this place, sitting alongside this man, as if the intervening twenty years have been erased. How many times as a child did I take this trip with him, sitting in the silence of a different cab and sharing the lost and simple pleasure of just being together?

“So how’s that doctor thing working out?”

Like most children, I once thought my father the wisest man in the world. He seldom spoke and when he did his words were reasoned, filled with the wisdom of a people for whom both logic and superstition held sway. By the time I took my first breath in the world he was educated, in the top five percent of his class at the University of Virginia, but more than ever convinced that people spoke too much. It is this that makes my father’s question seem out of place – the fact that it is idle chatter and unlike him.

“Everything’s great, dad. My residency will be over next month. Then I’ll probably take that job out in California. I think I told you about it.”

He nods but does not answer and when I look, his eyes are dark. His hands have tightened on the wheel, draining the color from his knuckles. It takes me a fraction of a second before I, too, feel the palpable unsettlement that has crept into the cab. As I refocus my attention on the green outside of the truck, I know without knowing how that we are very near the place. Call it a psychic scar or some other metaphysical crap but I do not think a person can live through something traumatic without elements of the event searing themselves into the unconscious.

What’s funny to me is that, for an event that has wrought such grave consequences, I don’t remember much of the accident, only turning at the sound of my mother’s gasp, watching her look down on me with an expression that only later I identified as an apology. The rest of it I can relive only as images: lights flashing, someone in black and yellow reaching for me, a window with spider web cracks. Then nothing until the hospital: a physical therapy session. I sometimes wonder what happened to the other memories, for surely I must have some that cover the period between my first awakening in the hospital to the painful stretching of damaged bones and muscles in the PT room. Among my clearest recollections is that my father had not been there; I remember looking around the room as I held the padded bars, like someone just waking to a knowledge of himself. I cried then, asking about my mother and my father, and the therapist set me in a wheelchair and took me back to my room.

I’m watching now – looking for the tree, wondering if we left a mark on it as identifiable as the one it left on our family. Perhaps a mile goes by and I see nothing; I know we must have passed it.

“It was back a ways,” my father says. I can see his face in profile, the suggestion of a sad smile that alights on his craggy skin, and I am pleased that he could feel my need.

In a way, that tree ended two things for me: my happy childhood and my relationship with my father. When he buried my mother, with me still in the hospital, he buried a part of himself – the part that told jokes, that smiled, that hugged. I think I missed his touch the most: a hand on my shoulder while I struggled to reel in a trout, the rough play on the floor of the family room, how he would tousle my hair when he put me to bed.

“You remember that fish you caught up in Randle?” he asks me. I’m starting to wonder if my memories are that transparent or if, more likely, our thoughts are running along similar veins.

“It weighed seventeen pounds,” I answer. “I still have that picture; it’s on the wall of my office.”

He looks at me for a moment and I see a warmth in his eyes that I have not seen in twenty years, and maybe a hint of sadness. It makes me wonder, again, about the invitation to make this trip with him – and my eagerness to accept such a journey down a path littered with emotional and physical scars.

Maybe one of the things that I picked up from my daddy’s people, the mountain folk whose blood courses though my veins, is a sort of fatalism – the knowledge that things happen, that no one but God almighty can say why, and that it does no use to dwell on the acts of this mysterious, sometimes vengeful being. It is a stoicism of the simple folk, which makes me wonder if this trip means anything at all. Maybe the baggage I’ve carried over the last twenty years is a suspect gift from my mother’s side, and my father has been over this thing for a long time. Maybe.

The Ford is navigating a steeper stretch of rutted road and I anticipate a half-remembered level out. When we hit it, it is like the sky opening before us –like nothing else exists in the world except for the blue canopy and us. It strikes me almost the same as it did when I was young, even through the years of schooling that have worked so hard to teach me that God does not exist. It is romanticism of the worst kind and, despite the view, I laugh. My father’s kin would never have been affected by a view in this way; everything they did, everything they were, was bound up in nature in a way that people who rely on machinery and supply chains cannot fathom. To them, to my father, God is something else entirely – not a beauty-invoked catharsis, but a being to be respected and appeased and feared.

“What’s so funny?”

I allow the mirth to recede and meet his eyes.

“I guess I’m just nervous. It’s been a long time.”

We exit the truck and I feel the crisp air on my skin. It feels good in my lungs, free of the antiseptic odors of the hospital, the smell of subdivision fertilizer and the scent of cigars in my office. Beneath my feet the leaves crunch with a fierceness amplified by the silence of this remote place.

My father is at the back of the truck and he lowers the tailgate. He reaches beneath the canvas cover and pulls out two orange vests, two canteens and our jacketed guns. I unzip the bag and remove my Remington. This is the first my dad has seen of it and he admires it with a practiced eye.

“That an 870?” he says in a way that tells me he already knows the answer. I doubt there is a gun in existence that my father does not recognize.

“It is.” I like the gun, the way it feels in my hands, the slight recoil into my shoulder, the accuracy – even as I know that it is something that my father would never own. My father’s guns get used; by the end of a hunt, mud will coat the stock, the barrel might have another ding and the trigger will be imperceptibly worn by the caress of his finger. The 870 looks new, expensive – it’s all styling.

When he pulls his gun from its case I am not surprised to see that he is still using the Winchester Model 70. It is a classic firearm and carries with it the marks of a thousand expeditions. When I was younger, I watched him buy and sell any number of guns, never attaching any maudlin sentiment to any of them. Can it be a coincidence that this one that he has kept is the first that he let me shoot?

We don the orange vests and set off, my father taking the lead. I always walked behind him when I was young, following in his steps, mimicking the way he held his gun, how his head would turn as he watched the forest. In a few steps we are off the road and entering the cover of the trees, browning leaves crunching beneath our waterproof boots. There is a familiarity to this, even through the marked differences – the foremost being the length of my stride. The last time I hunted with my father I was only nine and had to work to keep up with his steps. Now I find myself slowing to match his gait, wondering if his step has slowed a bit over the years.

We pass a mile in comfortable silence, scanning the woods for movement, for hoof prints preserved in soft earth, for rut marks gouged in tree bark; this last is most important as it would signify the passage of a buck. Mockingbirds provide the only sound beyond our steps and the wind and I am lulled into a sense of peace that I can only get when I am hunting. When we break through into a clearing I instantly know the place, vivid even after two decades. I locate the tree stand on the other side of the empty space that covers maybe twenty yards. The wood has worn to gray beneath the assault of the elements. I shot my first and only buck from that stand, then dressed the carcass under my father’s patient tutelage.

If the sight means anything to the older man, he does not show it in his steady stride. He looks ready to pass through and out of the clearing, his path taking him due west, but all I remember past this spot is a steep drop off, something I doubt a goat would attempt to navigate. In a low voice I call after him.

“Dad, why don’t we try the tree stand?”

He stops and half turns to wait while I come alongside him. When I do, he nods and starts off again, an unspoken invitation to remain at his shoulder. The clearing and the tree stand disappear behind us; I wonder if my initials could have still been seen in one of the boards or if, like so many other things, time has erased its existence.

“I made a deal, you know.”

I look at my father but his eyes are on the path. When some time passes without an answer from me, he meets my gaze.

“When you and your mom were lying in that hospital, I made a deal.”

I am caught off guard by the statement, by this admission of something; the only thing that I can think to do is nod.

He goes quiet then and casts a practiced eye over the forest. For a while nothing passes between us but shared labor until, after several moments, each one of which I count to myself, he starts again.

“Do you know what it was like sitting next to her?”

As a doctor I have watched family gather in a terminal patient’s room, saying their goodbyes, making their peace with whomever they needed to. But no, I do not know what it’s like detached from clinical distance.

“I bet I argued with God for two days over your mom’s bed. I begged Him to let her live.” He snorts and shifts his gun to the other hand. “I know I cursed Him some.”

If my father is waiting for some sort of response from me, I am in no position to give it. I have never heard him talk like this and I am wholly unprepared to process it, much less answer. I think he knows because his pauses seem to be for his own sake, as if the words need to be said, regardless of whether or not I am here to bear witness to their speaking.

“I asked God to spare her because I couldn’t take the thought of living alone.”

He looks at me then, as if making sure that he has my attention, as if I could be focused on anything else but his face, his words.

“I guessed that He had to take one of you.”

He does not look away, even as he continues to walk; his eyes bore into mine with a weight of emotion of which I would not have imagined him capable. And then I am given clarity. I can see a man at his wife’s side, begging a God he can not understand to let her live, offering the life of his son in exchange. A deal that God rejected.

After he sees the knowledge take hold he looks away, his eyes red. I have never once seen my father cry, not even in the aftermath of my mother’s loss. It shakes me to see him like this – a tremor through the things I have held most solid.

Almost unnoticed, the forest ends and we come out of the trees to stand at the edge of a cliff. Below us are rocks and mountain sediment. And a view that rivals anything I have ever seen. Still, I can hardly look away from my father’s face.

He sets the butt of his Winchester on the rock and turns into the wind, his eyes closed as if the air offers some kind of absolution.

“Do you have any idea how it feels to offer something that important, only to see her die anyway?”

His eyes are still shut but I answer.

“I don’t, dad.”

He gives a smile that is filled with pain but does not acknowledge my admission. I, who have seen men and women fighting for their very lives, can see that my dad is engaged in something similar – some kind of silent war that I am incapable of understanding.

“I added myself to the deal, too,” he says finally. “I said I would give myself to God. Whatever that meant.”

I reach for him now, wrapping my hand around his arm, my fingers pressing into flesh that feels bony and thin.

“You wanted Him to take me and leave her. I would have done the same thing. I understand, dad.” I want to pull him away from the edge, to talk to him, to empty the vessel through this emotional sieve, to keep him from doing what I think he may have come here for.

He turns and grasps my shoulder in his large hand, holding it fiercely.

“You can’t understand, son; it took me twenty years to do that.” Love and sorrow fill his voice in equal measure. “After seeing the man you’ve become, I finally know that God made the right choice. He let my angel die but gave the world a man who heals – a man with so much to give.”

I am caught in this strange and beautiful moment, but also puzzled.

“Then why are we here, dad?”

With his hand still on my shoulder he looks out over the valley below, and there is something in his eyes that I have never seen: a brightness, a peace.

“Because I had to fulfill my end of the deal.”

Leave them wanting more

2005-06-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

I like to discover things – to stumble across something special or unique, to become privy to something that I might not have seen had I not turned my head a certain way. Something peeking out from behind a hedgerow, just waiting for someone to take their gaze from their own navel and glance around. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine to think that I’ve uncovered a lost secret, that I get to experience, to enjoy something that most other people won’t pay attention to.

It was 1991 when, as a senior in college, I was introduced to just such a gem in the music of Rich Mullins. I remember wondering at the time why I had never heard of him before then. He was one of the greatest singer/songwriters I’d ever heard and his music had a depth to it that I just couldn’t get enough of. I devoured every album I could get my hands on and, as the years passed, waited eagerly for the next one to come out.

Each CD demonstrated his musical skill, but it was the lyrics he wrote that really defined him. Honest words sung with heartfelt candor.

He died in 1997 in a car accident, at the age of 42 I believe. He was just starting another album. He’d taken his guitar and a tape recorder out to his barn where he kept an old piano and he played all of the songs that he was planning to cut later with his band. After he died his record company tried to clean up the sound on the tape and they released it. I listen to it every now and again and I wonder what it would have been like had he been given the time to finish it. And I wonder about all of the music that I will never hear.

See, he left me wanting more. Because he was talented – he knew his craft and dedicated himself to it.

As a writer, will I have that sort of dedication, that type of honesty and passion? Will I have something to say when I pick up pen and paper? When someone reads a book I’ve written, will it leave them wanting more?

I’ll let that question hang there. I’ve got a CD to listen to.

People Watching and Richard Thompson

2005-05-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

It’s Thursday, the 26th and I’m standing on a sidewalk in Nashville, waiting for the doors to open at the Bellcourt Theater. Located, oddly enough, on Bellcourt Avenue. Behind me is guy who is probably in his late fifties, early sixties and he looks just like a guy I know named Stan whom I used to work with at some dismal copy shop years ago.

A few minutes ago I had walked away from the ticket counter thrilled to have been able to score two tickets to the show, shown as sold out for days. I don’t know why they had tickets at the window and I don’t care. It meant that I did not have to walk up and down the line asking if someone had tickets to sell. It would have been my own fault – procrastination is one of those failings that you can truly only blame on yourself. If you can find the time or the inclination.

This guy, the one now standing in line behind me, asked where I got the tickets and I told him and he hurried to the counter. By the time he was done I was back in line with my wife and I called to him as he walked by, asking if he was able to get one too. Fake Stan took this as an invitation to sidle into the line next to me and ask if I’d been a Richard Thompson fan for a long time. I told him that, yes, I’d liked RT for a while and he proceeded to ask if I had been at the show in New York where Fairport Convention opened up for Fleetwood Mac. It’s important to note here that the show Fake Stan was referring to took place sometime in 1970 and so, depending on when, exactly, the show was, I may or may not have been born yet. The guy behind me, probably the same age as Fake Stan, had been at that show and the two struck up a line friendship. Which was fine by me because for one, I’m not that sociable and two, my lovely wife was in line with me and she’s much more fun to talk to.

We waited in line for about forty-five minutes before the doors opened and it gave me a lot of time to people watch. Even though I’m not the social sort, I still enjoy watching other people. It’s probably the writer in me. And it was quite a group to watch. The militant lesbians in front of us, one with armpits hairier than mine, the other with a pretty but severely pock-marked face. The two extraordinarily festive young college gentlemen about ten people back in line – one dressed nightclub cowboy chic, the other in something pulled from Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean wardrobe. Middle-aged couples, families with teenage children, young adults, even a grandparent or two, hearing aids good to go. Ordinary people with a strong hippie flavor – the aged rebels grown comfortable sometime during the Reagan administrations but still connecting with their roots. Best of all though was the Marlon Brando look-a-like who slid into the seat in front of me, accompanied by a younger lady friend. From what I could gather, he was the father of the one in the Billie Jean suit.

It may sound like a strange assortment of people for a single show but, when you think about Richard Thompson, it makes perfect sense. He’s been playing since the late sixties and is one of the most gifted guitarists in the world. And he has a talent for songwriting that others in the industry marvel at. I could fill a book with quotes from music greats about how seminal he has been to their careers. Greatness that spans the better part of forty years collects fans through every decade. Grandpa remembers the stuff from the Fairport Convention years, or when RT was cutting albums with his now estranged wife Linda, while the young kids heard some of his stuff on the local alt station and bought a few CDs to find out about this aging troubadour.

I think that to be a good writer, you have to be a good people-watcher. You need to have some understanding of what makes them tick – not just the ones you like to write about, but the ones who may make you uncomfortable, too. Want to know how to remedy the accusation that your characters are paper, that they are one dimensional and lifeless? Go to a Richard Thompson show and just watch. And enjoy the living, breathing organic thing that is the crowd. And then write.

The doors finally opened and we streamed in to see a great show. We were in the third row: perfect seats. But this is a post about people watching and so a commentary on the show (as great as it was) will have to wait.

A Sense of Place

2005-05-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening I had the good fortune to spend a few hours with a friend of mine whom I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. We met at a favorite spot of mine called The Flying Saucer. We sat out on the “porch”, sunk deep into leather couches and sampled a few foreign brews. It was well-spent time, catching up with my friend, commiserating about things that are common to most men in their mid to late thirties. And just enjoying the place.

The Saucer is one of those strange spots that, for lack of any fitting descriptor, seems more vivid than just about anywhere else. There is an atmosphere, a concreteness, an intangible thing that makes it more than the sum of its parts. If it was the setting for a story, it would be as important a literary element as the plot and the characters.

That’s one of the reasons that I like the southern authors so much. In their books the place is a character; the towns, the natural surroundings, the culture – each is described with something just short of anthropomorphism. You can see the love that the writer has for the place, itself. If you don’t quite get what I’m saying, pick up anything by Larry Brown.

When a writer has the ability to evoke a sense of place it pulls the reader deeper into the story, helping them to get their bearings in a landscape that exists in the mind of the author. When the reader is connected, they can follow the characters with greater confidence.

Good characters should be shaped by their surroundings, if they have any depth at all. To understand the place is to understand elements of the characters. To describe a Kansas farm suggests a great deal about Dorothy; do we really need to have the author tell us that she is bored? Can we not understand Kino and Juana’s quiet hope and resigned acceptance from Steinbeck’s crafting of La Paz?

I’ve often struggled with the literary charge of “show don’t tell” and I can’t think of a better tool that a strong sense of place to help me craft a good story while trusting the reader to follow along.

Readers: they’re smarter than you think.

Lives of their own

2005-05-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

Mike is sitting in the passenger seat of a ’79 Datsun, watching the empty Alaskan road open up before him. Driving the car is a woman named Helen who until twenty minutes ago had been a waitress in a fifties diner. Her young son has the backseat to himself.

And they are all running, even though Mike is the only one who knows what, exactly, from.

Welcome to a scene from my newest book – the scene that almost wasn’t.

As a general rule (broken on occasion with usually satisfactory results) I do no not outline a book before I write it. I start with a general idea, a bare bones story with a good character or two. Then I run with it. In this case Mike was supposed to have been a minor character – someone whose only purpose was to get the important characters to where they were supposed to be, doing what I needed them to do. In fact, Mike was supposed to die very early on.

But something happened as I wrote for Mike, as I fleshed out his character. I realized that it was Mike who was the main character, the person who would hold the book together, and who will probably change more than any other character as the events of the story play themselves out. Right now, I couldn’t imagine this book without Mike as the lead and I’m satisfied that I have not compromised my original vision for this book.

I’m not sure it would have worked out that way had I outlined the book. Mike would probably have been killed, we would never have met Helen and one of the best things I’ve ever written (a scene involving middle-aged mimes at the aforementioned fifties diner) would never have happened.

Am I advocating free-form writing in all cases for everyone? Nope. Like I said, I’ve written with a detailed outline and I’ve been pleased with the outcome. You simply have to trust that your creativity on the front end (the outline stage) leaves you with something that you can work with. But I think I like the open-ended, the possibilities, the undisciplined nature of my prose. I think it gives paper characters lives of their own – a depth I couldn’t have outlined.

Now I have a choice for Mike to make, one that has not been pre-recorded between staid Roman numerals.

Do Mike and Helen make a run for Canada?

Does Mike steal a more reliable car to aid in their getaway, dragging the innocent Helen into his seedy world?

Does Mike freak out at his impulsive decision to take Helen and her son with him and drop her off somewhere safe?

Do I kill Mike off, only later than I had first intended?

Or…. Put anything you want here.

At this moment I don’t know the answer and I think I like the not knowing.

I Have Termites

2005-05-18T19:31:00.000-07:00

Not me personally, of course. And, fortunately, not even in my home. Yet.

I have about 18 large and very heavy railroad ties that the provious owners of my home used to keep their dog from digging under the fence and getting into the neighbors' yards. I've been meaning to get rid of them since we moved in a few years ago and have recently discovered that termites (huge, well-organized colonies of them) have made them bases, ostensibly from which to launch coordinated assaults on my home. Like the Allies taking Okinawa, Midway, etc. to clear the way for an attack on Japan.

My friend Jerry came over and we loaded about half of them into his pickup and drove them down to a construction waste site a few miles away. During the process, I learned a few things:

Jerry is much stronger than I am.

Termites really do some impressive work - I mean, as much as I hate them as a homeowner, I can't help but admire their determination to eat through an entire railroad tie. That's like everyone in my subdivision trying to eat the surface area of Nashville.

When walking backwards through the yard, try not to trip over the kiddie pool while holding something that weighs over two hundred pounds.

Much later in the evening I got to thinking about the last book I wrote, about how it had termites in it. I was having a hard time with the book, not really enjoying writing it (first time in the genre and learning that it's not my thing.) But I was deep into it, probably 50 pages or so from having it done. I was in the middle of a scene - an early climax, to resolve a mid-sized plot item. But as I was about to have my main character say something dramatic, or have someone take a shot at her (I write on the fly often so I hadn't quite figured out how the scene was going to end) I realized that the whole scene was a termite. It was sitting in the book, taking up space, weakening stronger sections before and after it.

OK, so take it out. The problem, though, was that I had devoted a number of scenes and characters to this plot point. Taking it (them) out would mean sending the story in a different direction, not to mention leaving me much farther away from finishing the book. And since I wasn't really enjoying writing this one anyway, I actually thought about leaving it alone.

But the book would have been weak, like the railroad ties, some of which were crumbling as we lugged them over and around yard hazards. In the end, I removed the termite, as well as a number of its cousins, and had to rework almost half the book.

I still didn't enjoy the process but I'm proud of the product. When someone reads it I can be pretty comfortable with the knowledge that there are no obvious insects weakening its structural integrity.

It's in the same neighborhood as something a writer friend of mine calls "killing your darlings". Maybe I'll write on that in a future post so check back with me.

I never wanted to have a blog...

2005-02-02T19:38:00.000-08:00

...until I was convinced I had something interesting, important, different, relevant, or at least not boring to say. Well, I'm not sure that's ever going to happen so, bowing to peer pressure from two of my friends who have blogs, I've taken the plunge.

I'm not sure what it's going to be about - not entirely. But, like both of the aforementioned fellow bloggers, a portion of it will be dedicated to writing. Maybe not particularly good writing but, hey, we'll see.

So, to quote Kramer, "I'm out there, Jerry!" But relax, you're protected by more than a "thin layer of Gaberdine".