Maintaining a regular writing schedule

cafe(友光軒) by voo34oov (CC BY 2.0)

There’s a software industry maxim: “Always be shipping.” That means, if you’re not writing software, you’re not shipping software.

The same thinking applies for writing novels, short stories, self-help guides, biographies, and so on. If you’re not writing (or editing, or proofing), you’re not moving closer to getting your work published.

The following advice will sound familiar to anyone who’s read a book or taken a class on how to write a novel:

“Write an hour everyday.”

The idea behind this bit of sage counsel is that, by writing a little bit everyday, you will eventually reach your goal of writing a novel (or a short story, or a movie script). Another way I’ve seen this phrased is, “If a novel manuscript is 350 pages long, that means if you write a page everyday, you’ll have your novel finished in under a year.”

I’m not a fan of these hard-and-fast rules of writing. For one, they’re often difficult to stick to. Like a strict diet or physical exercise regimen, missing a day or two usually leaves behind a sizable amount of guilt. Guilt may get you back to the keyboard and typing, but it’s a horrible emotion to overcome when you should be focused on your characters and their challenges.

Let me offer a slight twist. Instead of “write an hour everyday” or “write a page a day,” find a regular writing schedule and stick to it. In other words, come up with a schedule right for you.

Once a week

I don’t write everyday. I tried it on a number of occasions. It was not productive.

After a lot of experimentation, I found my best work came when I wrote once a week. I’ve written a number of novels over the past ten-plus years, all while maintaining a weekly, not daily, schedule.

With that one allotted day, though, I spend eight hours writing. That’s writing with minimal interruptions for eight hours straight, like an office worker in a cubicle. And note that I do not require a certain number of pages or words be written in those eight hours. I do my best. That’s all I can ask of myself.

Over the course of my writing day, I’ll pause for lunch. I eat at my computer and go over what I’ve produced so far that morning. Usually I write at cafes, although during the pandemic, I learned how to write at home without interruptions.

The people in my life know that one day a week is off-limits. If something comes up that interrupts my schedule, I make arrangements to write on a different day. It takes a lot to pry that one day from my grip.

Plus, the way I write, I’m usually just starting to cook when I reach my first hour writing. “Write one hour a day?” Juices start flowing at the end of the first hour, and words are still coming at a fast and steady pace. Why stop right when things are going well? I’d rather bank those seven hours a week into a single day, and add another hour on top of them for good measure.

I’ve encountered some skepticism from other budding writers about my routine. Like most writing lore, “write an hour everyday” has become ingrained as one rule among dozens for becoming a successful writer—a kind of mantric or devotional routine that guarantees results. Your novel was rejected? Well, did you skip a day while you were writing it? Also, did you open your book with weather?

“Write an hour a day,” is sound advice in spirit, but not in practice. Better advice is to find a productive writing routine, and stick to it.

A second job

This is the important part: It’s not a wasted day. As I’ve told my family, writing is my second job. It’s not a great-paying job, but it is a job.

Time to write doesn’t magically appear. People in your life will always find some other priority for you. They’ll tell you that you can write later. You have to be firm on this point.

You don’t have to spend a full day a week writing to produce a novel. If you can set aside a few hours twice a week—say, two dedicated evenings—you’ll be surprised how much writing you can get done. But you will want to stick to your schedule for it to work.

One writer I admire is comic book legend Peter Bagge. Apparently, Bagge is infamous in the comics industry for his work ethic. Every morning he rises, dresses in business-casual clothes, and go to his home office to produce comics. He’s not working from home. His office just happens to be in his home. He puts in a full day, five days a week.

I don’t have the success to write everyday and make a living wage off my work. Still, I made a commitment to myself that I would treat the one day a week I had free as a work day, just like Bagge does. I rise, eat breakfast, head to the computer, and write, just as if I was heading to the office.

Silence your phone. Close the door to the room. Put on a pair of headphones. Turn off your computer’s Wi-Fi to avoid the temptation to surf social media.

If you’re not writing, you’re not producing. Make the time to write.

“Take care of your backlist, and your backlist takes care of you”

Lawrence Block
Crime writer Lawrence Block.

At an AWP panel discussion in 2014, Lawrence Block related a bit of wisdom he’d learned from another author: “Take care of your backlist, and your backlist takes care of you.” He added the advice had served him well over his writing career.

By that point, I’d been writing fiction for several years. I’d met many authors (aspiring and published), attended numerous workshops (formal and informal) and worked with many writing teachers in different genres. Yet, in all that time, I’d never heard this piece of advice. I found Block’s advice to be quite sage, and I continue to believe in it. (It’s also a rare example of writing lore that is worth paying attention to.)

The problem was, in 2014, I didn’t have a backlist. How could I take care of that which does not exist?

(Quick terminology clarification: The standard use of the term “backlist” or “back catalog” refers to a publisher’s catalog of titles released in prior years but still in print or stock. I took Block’s usage to indicate the sum of an author’s work, in print or otherwise.)

He went on and told the panel audience that, when he investigated Amazon’s Kindle Publishing, he realized he could release all his out-of-print books in electronic form and sell them direct without having to shop them around for a publisher. He went through his old contracts and reacquired rights for books his publishers had let lapse. He even paid his agent fifteen percent of the royalties he earned on his direct-sale ebooks “because it was the right thing to do.”

This is a great example of taking care of one’s backlist.

In many ways, Lawrence Block persuaded me to jump onto the Kindle bandwagon. On my way home from the conference, it occurred to me that I was selling myself short. I’d published several short stories in literary journals in the U.S. and Britain, enough to put together a story collection. A few years earlier, a small non-profit in Oakland published a short run of a novella they’d commissioned from me. A big-name author might not call it much of a backlist, but for a small-fry like me, it was a start.

And it was a significant start. I turned my oh-so-modest backlist into two Kindle ebooks. The experience reinvigorated me to finish my first novel, a book I’d been working on and stewing over for nearly fifteen years.

Today, I’ve written seven novels, and have an eighth on the way. I’m hardly an active blogger, but over the last decade-plus, I’ve put out over three hundred blog posts, including many book reviews and critical analyses that I’m proud of. All of that is backlist.

Eleven years after first hearing it, Block’s advice returned to me when I decided to “go wide” and move my backlist to Kobo. And I was thinking of Block when I sent an email to MX Publishing in London inquiring if they’d be interested in taking on A Man Named Baskerville, which I’d already put out as an ebook and in paperback. They accepted—and produced a hardcover and a fantastic audiobook edition, which I brag about to everyone I know, even strangers on the street.

The words you’re reading right now are from my backlist. Years ago, I took a stab at running a Substack. It didn’t work out, but a few of those newsletters are still pertinent, including this one. I freshened it up and posted it here.

Taking care of your backlist

Anything you’ve written and published—an old blog, a book review a university journal printed, that thing you wrote for a neighborhood newsletter—is part of your backlist. Scour your computer’s “Documents” folder. Dig up old clippings. Make a list of everything you’ve written to completion.

Some ideas for taking care of your backlist:

  • If you’re building a book series, bundle them into a ebook boxed set edition.
  • Take a hard look at your older books. Is it time for a fresh cover? Is that title really catching the reader’s attention?
  • Also take a look at your books’ metadata—are they listed with the right keywords and categories?
  • Is there a publisher out there that might be interested in taking on one of your old books or series?
  • Is it time to go wide and make you books available in more markets?
  • Collect your short stories into a book. That short story you couldn’t place? Dig it up and polish it as well. Even the short story collections of big name writers often include unpublished work.
  • Convert your blog into a book. Over the years, I’ve written a number of entries on book, film, and television. I’m thinking about gathering them up and producing an essay collection.
  • Work with writers you know, who live in your area, or who write in the same genre. Assemble a collection of short stories or first chapters as a sampler. Each author can include a short bio and links for readers to buy more of their work.
  • YouTube, audiobooks, translations, Substack, and podcasts offer new ways to make your work available.

What’s the point of all this? Will it make you money? Will it sell more books?

Maybe…and maybe not. Don’t overlook using your backlist to increase your exposure. Short story collections don’t sell particularly well—they never have—but you can offer a collection as an incentive for people to sign up for your mailing list. Services like Patreon are always asking you to think creatively about sharing premium or subscriber-only work with your patrons. Plus, a few additional titles on your web site and social media profile doesn’t hurt.

You never know when one of these side avenues piques a reader’s interest and leads them to try your more recent work. Even one new reader is a success. I rejoice every time someone reads one of my books. For me, that’s the whole purpose of this crazy focus in my life.

Ten years of blogging: Waiting for Neuro

Fan-made movie poster for William Gibson’s Neuromancer.

Previously: A unique manifesto

In this series where I review my last ten years of blogging, I tend to focus on posts that either made some waves, or posts with subjects I want to take up again. The 2022 post I want to return to has both qualities. It regards William Gibson’s cyberpunk classic Neuromancer.

Back then, I wrote about the Waiting for Godot-like patience the book’s fans have endured in anticipation of a movie adaptation. Rumors and announcements have come and gone over the last four decades: Directors taking on the project, studios arranging funding, big-name actors being tapped, and so on. Joshua Hull, author of Underexposed!: The 50 Greatest Movies Never Made calls the elusive Neuromancer movie “the white whale for a number of filmmakers throughout the years.”

It was yet another rumor in 2022 of an Apple TV+ adaptation that led to me to ask “Will we finally see Neuromancer on the screen?” As usual, nothing came of it.

At this rate, we may reach the year Neuromancer is set—some time in the 2030s—before a movie version is produced.

Fan-made "teaser" movie poster for a hoped-for Neuromancer film.
Fan-made “teaser” movie poster: “The future is already here”

Whatever else William Gibson will be remembered for, his fiction has almost always centered on the proles and lumpen claiming technology and repurposing it for their own ends. Gibson put the punk into cyberpunk. As I wrote in my 2023 follow-up,

[Gibson] took computers out of the realm of men in lab coats standing over coffin-sized boxes in dust-free rooms. He put tech on the street, in the pockets of skate punks and the ears of all-night sushi line cooks. … Instead of an obscure nerd subculture, he gave exotic tech to everyone, even folks sleeping on mattresses on rain-soaked streets. Neuromancer is a book set during a perpetual war between the haves and have-nots, and the battlefield is cyberspace.

So it’s delicious how this has folded back on itself. Today’s video and photo technology has been claimed and repurposed to craft hints of a film version of Neuromancer. As exhibited here and in the 2022/2023 posts, the proliferation of fan-made Neuromancer film posters is evidence of what can be done with some Photoshop skills and a DeviantArt account. Likewise, as the fake movie trailer below proves, it’s now possible to assemble, score, and distribute worldwide a cinematic amuse-gueule of what a movie might look like.

This leads to a tantalizing question: What if someone simply made their own version of Neuromancer? Not a movie trailer, but the movie itself?

When Neuromancer was published forty years ago, the suggestion would have been ludicrous. The indie film scene was only starting to find its feet. Movies like David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977) and the Coen Brothers’ Blood Simple (1984) were some of the earliest to gain traction outside of college-town theaters. Robert Townsend’s Hollywood Shuffle (1987) was the first film I knew of to be financed on credit cards.

As in Gibson’s Sprawl, today’s film-making technology is fast, cheap, and out of control. A new breed of auteurs exist, capable of filming and editing movies with consumer electronics—even filming with iPhones. Distribution is as easy as clicking on an “Upload” button.

Unlike the high production costs associated with most science-fiction movies, Neuromancer could conceivably need far less in terms of costumes, set design, and special effects. Most of the book takes place in locales like neon-saturated Chiba and modern luxury hotels, locations that could be reproduced in many cities in North America. The “future tech” of Gibson’s Sprawl is off-the-shelf these days. Data gloves? Check. Virtual reality headset? Check. That leaves the bulk of the special effects to his vision of cyberspace, which an experienced computer animator could flesh out.

Perhaps I’m lowballing the effort required. Even if the production design is within reach, the make-or-break line will be in the acting. The power of Neuromancer is the characters and the human drama, and not a lot of splashy CGI. Get good actors, and be ruthless in cost-cutting the rest of the production.

Given all this, perhaps the question to ask is: Why hasn’t an amateur fan production been mounted?

Fan-made movie poster for Neuromancer: “Jack in soon”

The obvious hang-up will be copyright law. But the dreaded DMCA take-down notice shouldn’t be feared too quickly. Others have worked around this in clever ways. Three high school friends recreated Raiders of the Lost Ark, shot-for-shot, in the 1980s, and released it wide with the blessings of George Lucas and Steven Spielberg. Charles Ross performs a “One Man Star Wars Trilogy” stage show, doing all the voice lines and sound effects, again, with the permission of Lucasfilm. Innumerable Star Trek fan films, from shoddy to surprisingly worthy, abound.

In the 2000s, an acquaintance of mine in the theater business gave me his take on Charles Ross’ “One Man Star Wars” shows. He said Ross started performing the act in his living room for friends and family, and then at local theaters for low pay, until he was filling city auditoriums. He didn’t approach Lucasfilm until he had some success under his belt. He pled that his show was an act of love for the source material, and Lucas relented.

In other words: Start low to the ground, work your way up, and ask forgiveness after-the-fact rather than begging permission to proceed.

A fan-made Neuromancer film could gingerly tiptoe across the finish line with a similar strategy—and maybe even get away with it. If the movie were a labor of love, and not an easy-money cash grab, who knows? I have to believe the game of red-light/green-light Gibson has played with Hollywood over the decades has soured him on the studios, not to mention his rejected script for an Aliens sequel and all the trouble the studios made for Johnny Mnemonic.

Stephen King had a “Dollar Deal” program where he permitted filmmakers to adapt any of his short stories for one dollar, providing they (a) sent him a copy of the final product, and (b) they did not exhibit it commercially without his permission. (To get an idea of its success, The Shawshank Redemption began as a Dollar Deal.) Lucas made similar agreements with the Raiders kids and Charles Ross.

Fan-made Neuromancer movie poster: “Hack Into a New Reality / December 2031”

Earlier I wondered if I was low-balling the production effort. I may be low-balling the copyright issue twice as much. Thanks to a lawsuit by CBS/Paramount against the fan production of Star Trek: Axanar, the heyday of Star Trek fan films appears behind us. Stephen King concluded his “Dollar Deal” program at the end of 2023, with no stated reason. My guess is that the proliferation of studio streaming services—the “plusses” like MGM+, Disney+, and Paramount Plus—has unlocked a new revenue stream for old intellectual property, and the copyright lawyers are battening down the hatches.

Still, there is no extant movie or TV version of Neuromancer to compete against. Who knows? An under-the-radar fan production might stand a chance, if done with care and passion for the source material.

Will we finally see Neuromancer on the screen?

Ten years of blogging: A unique manifesto

Cover of The Atlantic magazine, July/August 2001
The Atlantic magazine, July/August 2001. This issue featured the first installment of B. R. Myer’s original “A Reader’s Manifesto”

Previously: Flaubertian three-dimensionalism
Next: Waiting for Neuro

My favorite blog post for 2021 would have to be my review of B. R. Myers A Reader’s Manifesto, a book of literary criticism with a remarkable life: It started as a different book, was published as a two-part essay in The Atlantic, and then was published in book form yet again. (The history of its repeated rebirth is remarkable unto itself, and something I spend a little time digging into.)

Myers’ original 2001 essay sparked a debate over the state of American literature that was singular in my lifetime. His thesis was that American literature had grown pretentious, stunted, and dull. It’s wild to think there was a moment in recent American history when a good chunk of the public was discussing literature, contemporary or otherwise.

I did a bit of extra research for my post, digging into online newspaper and magazine archives to locate contemporaneous articles. (As I wrote, this was “a time when most people had their news delivered to them via bicycle.”) I also put the review through several extra editing cycles, in a lawyerly attempt to make certain everything on the page was either supported elsewhere or comported exactly to my personal viewpoint. There’s an admirable cleanness to Myers’ prose that I wanted to emulate.

Cover of A Reader's Manifesto by B.R. Myers

As an example of Manifesto‘s continuing relevance twenty years later, here’s a paragraph from the acclaimed 2021 novel Leave the World Behind:

The store was frigid, brightly lit, wide-aisled. She bought yogurt and blueberries. She bought sliced turkey, whole-grain bread, that pebbly mud-colored mustard, and mayonnaise. She bought potato chips and tortilla chips and jarred salsa full of cilantro, even though Archie refused to eat cilantro. She bought organic hot dogs and inexpensive buns and the same ketchup everyone bought. She bought cold, hard lemons and seltzer and Tito’s vodka and two bottles of nine-dollar red wine. She bought dried spaghetti and salted butter and a head of garlic. She bought thick-cut bacon and a two-pound bag of flour and twelve-dollar maple syrup in a faceted glass bottle like a tacky perfume. She bought a pound of ground coffee, so potent she could smell it through the vacuum seal, and size 4 coffee filters made of recycled paper. If you care? She cared! She bought a three-pack of paper towels, and a spray-on sunscreen, and aloe, because the children had inherited their father’s pale skin. She bought those fancy crackers you put out when there were guests, and Ritz crackers, which everyone liked best, and crumbly white cheddar cheese and extra-garlicky hummus and an unsliced hard salami and those carrots that are tumbled around until they’re the size of a child’s fingers. She bought packages of cookies from Pepperidge Farm and three pints of Ben & Jerry’s politically virtuous ice cream and a Duncan Hines boxed mix for a yellow cake and a Duncan Hines tub of chocolate frosting with a red plastic lid, because parenthood had taught her that on a vacation’s inevitable rainy day you could while away an hour by baking a boxed cake. She bought two tumescent zucchini, a bag of snap peas, a bouquet of curling kale so green it was almost black. She bought a bottle of olive oil and a box of Entenmann’s crumb-topped doughnuts, a bunch of bananas and a bag of white nectarines and two plastic packages of strawberries, a dozen brown eggs, a plastic box of prewashed spinach, a plastic container of olives, some heirloom tomatoes wrapped in crinkling cellophane, marbled green and shocking orange. She bought three pounds of ground beef and two packages of hamburger buns, their bottoms dusty with flour, and a jar of locally made pickles. She bought four avocados and three limes and a sandy bundle of cilantro even though Archie refused to eat cilantro. It was more than two hundred dollars, but never mind.

If you skipped ahead, go back and read it again. After all, Leave the World Behind won over twenty “Book of the Year” awards.

Myers called out these “skim-friendly” lists as indicators of “a tale of Life in Consumerland, full of heavy irony, trite musing about advertising and materialism, and long, long lists of consumer artifacts, all dedicated to the proposition that America is a wasteland of stupefied shoppers.” He was speaking about White Noise back then. He could very well be speaking about Leave the World Behind today.

When I first read Manifesto in 2001, and again in 2021, my view was that Myers should be taken more seriously than some would have us believe. I remain convinced. Then and today, literary readers are pressed into accepting an author as a modern-day genius by dint of their credentials, their identity, their subject matter, or their elite supporters in the press. Myer’s Manifesto is more than a work of literary criticism, it’s a work of media criticism—he’s also taking aim at the literary gatekeepers and taste-makers perched in positions of cultural privilege.

In 2001, B. R. Myers asked an emperor-has-no-clothes question: Instead of rewarding authors because of who they are or who they know, why not judge their books by story, language, themes, and meanings? That question caused a big fuss back then. It turns out, it still can, if you ask it in the right company.

Twenty Years Later: B. R. Myers, A Reader’s Manifesto

Character-driven fiction, plot-driven fiction

Charles Baxter
Charles Baxter

Last year I wrote about dysfunctional narratives, a type of story that Charles Baxter first identified in the 1990s and which now seems overly prevalent today. He quoted a description of them by poet Marilynne Robinson, who also identified this type of narrative. She called it a “mean little myth”:

One is born and in passage through childhood suffers some grave harm. Subsequent good fortune is meaningless because of the injury, while subsequent misfortune is highly significant as the consequence of this injury. The work of one’s life is to discover and name the harm one has suffered.

In my post, I wrote about a “Cambrian explosion” of dysfunctional narratives in our culture since the 1990s, this sense that we’re being overwhelmed by them. They’re in our magazines and books, in our cinema, in our newspapers, and on social media. “Reading begins to be understood as a form of personal therapy or political action,” Baxter wrote, and his observation seems as acute today as it did back then.

Last year I offered a few explanations for what energized this explosion. Recently I thought of another reason to add to the list. It’s a concept repeated endlessly in creative writing classes and how-to guides on writing fiction, namely, character-driven fiction versus plot-driven fiction. Respectable authors are supposed to write character-driven fiction and to eschew plot-driven fiction, which is largely associated with genre fiction.

When I first heard this edict of character versus plot, I accepted it as sage wisdom, and sought to follow it closely. Over the years, I kept hearing it from instructors and successful writers, especially writers of so-called literary fiction. I heard it so much, I began to question it. What exactly is character? What is plot?

I began to pose these questions to my peers. Their response usually sounded like this:

“‘Character’ is all the things that make a character unique. ‘Plot’ is the stuff that happens in a story.” A character-driven story is supposedly rich with humanizing details, while a plot-driven piece is a fluffy story where “a lot of stuff happens.”

Aristotle is not the final word on literary analysis, but his opinions on how a story succeeds or fails is far more nuanced than what many of my peers and instructors in creative writing programs could offer.

Aristotle defines character as a set of human traits imitated in the text. Traits could be run-of-the-mill personality markers, such as a character who is studious or arrogant, or complex and contradictory, like Hamlet’s brooding and questioning nature. Before modern times, playwrights often used traits associated with the four humors to define characters in a play.

The four humors

For Aristotle, plot is the series of decisions a character makes that propels the story forward. These decisions generally take two forms: The character speaks, or the character acts. In line with the saying “actions speak louder than words,” Aristotle holds that a character’s actions are more significant, and more revealing, than the words they mouth.

When one of the salesmen in Glengarry Glen Ross announces he’s going close a big sale that night, and then crosses the street to have a cocktail, his actions reveal the hollowness of his words. Both decisions (speaking and acting) are also plot. Plot proves what character traits merely suggest.1

In other words, plot is not “stuff that happens.” (Note the passive voice, as though plot elements are forced upon the characters.) Rather, plot is a sequence of decisions made—and readers are very interested in a character’s decisions.

To be fair, inaction by a character is a kind of decision. Certainly there’s room for stories about characters who ponder a great deal and do little about it. In successful fiction, though, the final effect of inaction is almost always ironic. (Two good examples are Richard Ford’s “Rock Springs” and Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”) The problem is when inaction in literary fiction is treated as sublime.

The inaccurate, watered-down definition of plot-driven fiction—”A story where a lot of stuff happens”—has led to contemporary American literature’s fascination with flabby, low-energy narratives. I’ve met authors proud that the characters in their stories don’t do anything—never get off the couch, never pick up the phone, never make a decision of any consequence. Literary fiction has come to regard passivity as a virtue and action as a vice. A writer crafting a character who takes matters into their own hands risks having their work classified as genre fiction.

For decades now, creative writing programs have been pushing an aesthetic emphasizing character traits over character decisions. It’s frustrating to watch, year after year, the primacy of character-driven fiction getting pushed on young writers, with too many of them accepting the mantra without further consideration.

And this is why I think the Cambrian explosion of dysfunctional narratives is tied to this obsession with character-driven fiction. Passivity and inactivity are keystones of Baxter’s dysfunctional narratives. In his essay, he notes the trend toward “me” stories (“the protagonists…are central characters to whom things happen”) over “I” stories (“the protagonist makes certain decisions and takes some responsibility for them”).

This is why I’m wary of character-driven writers who do not permit their protagonists to make mistakes, instead strategically devising stories where they make no mistakes, and are therefore blameless. No wonder plot—that is, decision-making—is being eschewed, when this is the kind of story being upheld and praised.

  1. Aristotle’s Poetics are obviously far more complicated than my three-paragraph summary, but the gist described here holds. ↩︎

Ten years of blogging: Flaubertian three-dimensionalism

Flannery O’Connor

Previously: Writer’s block
Next: A unique manifesto

The year that was 2020 will most likely go down as one of the most turbulent years of my life: The COVID-19 pandemic, lock-downs and masking, the murder of George Floyd and the ensuing riots, all leading up to the most contentious presidential election in memory that some still deny was properly tabulated.

In contrast, 2019 had been for me a rather productive year creatively, and I wound up publishing two novels in 2020 back-to-back: Stranger Son in April, followed by In My Memory Locked in June.

That aside, as 2020 trudged onward and the pandemic fevered on, it grew apparent normalcy would not make an appearance any time soon. I began to suffer a low-grade depression, a toothy rat gnawing at the ankles of my mental health. I needed to do something creative to keep a hold on my fragile state.

I made a personal goal of putting out a compact book—my previous two were unusually lengthy for me, with In My Memory Locked clocking in at 120,000 words. I had been binging on streamed movies (and who didn’t that year?) Viewing the masterful The Day of the Jackal motivated me to pick up Frederick Forsythe’s original novel, which I learned was inspired by his tenure as a journalist in Paris reporting on the assassination attempts made on Charles De Gaulle’s life.

I committed myself to write a taut thriller about the pandemic and lock-downs, short and sweet, with as little fat as possible, and saturated with paranoia and claustrophobia. The result was Man in the Middle, published in November 2020 and my most overlooked book. I’m proud of it, though, especially considering the conditions I was working under. I also believe it to be the first novel published expressly about the COVID-19 pandemic—but I cannot prove that.

As for blogging in 2020, I put out a number of short series which garnered some interest. At the start of the year, I did a mini-series on Dungeons & Dragons, including my take on Gary Gygax’s Appendix N, which was his book recommendations he included in the first AD&D Dungeon Master’s Guide. Another series took at look at Hollywood novels, which gave me a chance to write on a few books I’ve been meaning to cover for some time, including The Day of the Locust and They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?

Gustave Flaubert
Gustave Flaubert

But the post I’m most proud of from 2020 regarded a bit of writing advice I’ve heard on and off for years now in writing groups and at writing conferences: “Use three senses to make a scene come alive.” Invariably, this advice is attributed to Gustave Flaubert.

As far as writing lore goes, this one is rather economical in expression. It’s also not altogether obvious why it’s true. Why three sense, and not four or five, or even two? The resulting blog post was satisfying to write because investigating the origins of this saying led naturally to explaining why it appears to be true.

There appears to be no evidence Flaubert ever made this statement, at least, not in such a direct manner. Rather, the textual evidence is that it originated from Flannery O’Connor, who in turn was summarizing a observation made by her mentor, Caroline Gordon.

Now, I’ve read many of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories—anyone who’s taken a few creative writing classes will eventually read “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” her most anthologized work. I had never read anything by Caroline Gordon, however, so it was fascinating to delve briefly into her work.

It’s a shame Gordon is not more well-read today. It’s probably due to her work not taking the tangents and experiments that other American modernists risked (such as Faulkner and Jean Toomer). She remained a formalist to the end. Her How to Read a Novel is an enlightening book, and while a tad dated, would make fine reading for anyone serious about writing a full-bodied, red-blooded novel.

Mostly, my pride for “Use three senses to make a scene come alive” is that it’s a solid essay: It starts out with an interesting question that leads to more questions, takes a couple of detours and unexpected side-roads on its journey, and ends on a note of successful discovery. It’s about all I can aspire to when I sit down to write.

“Use three senses to make a scene come alive”

Ten years of blogging: Writer’s block

John Turturro in Barton Fink

Previously: An all-too-familiar utopia
Next: Flaubertian three-dimensionalism

From a novel-writing perspective, 2018 and 2019 was a creative interregnum. After publishing Hagar’s Mother in late 2017, I found myself juggling energy between two books. One was the third installment of the Bridge Daughter series, the other a futuristic detective novel where society has essentially become a giant social media simulation. While working on the former, 2018 fizzled away with a fearful lack of progress. As 2019 marched on, a slow panic developed inside me. Would I burn off a second year with nothing to show for it?

I learned a hard lesson: Writer’s block is real. Before this, I’d read articles by well-known writers who either denied it existed, or called it a semi-phony condition covering for laziness. The cure for supposed writer’s block, they explained, was to turn off your Internet, silence your phone, and write.

The early chapters of the Bridge Daughter sequel emerged in fits and spurts. Like a teenager learning how to drive a stick shift, I couldn’t find second gear and launch the story forward. Eventually I admitted that I’d hit something like writer’s block. I recalled what the Coen Brothers did when they were blocked developing Miller’s Crossing: They wrote a movie about writer’s block, Barton Fink.

While I didn’t go that meta, I used the problem to pivot to my science-fiction detective novel. Encouragingly, I was far more productive. It was also a much longer story. As a tightly-wound mystery, it was vital the chronologies of the different characters matched up, as story events were occurring in the background that the detective only learned about later. This required a fair amount of revision to clean up and synchronize.

The pivot did unblock me, and in a big way. During a stay in Tokyo at the end of 2019, I finished the remainder of the third Bridge Daughter book over a six-week sprint. Unlike the grind of the detective novel, Stranger Son spilled forth all at once. It and In My Memory Locked were published in 2020.

Photo of cappuccino with leaves drawn in the foam
Cappucino by Scott Rocher (CC-BY-NC 2.0)

The other writing outlet I used over 2019 to break my writer’s block was this blog. It’s no surprise my focus that year would be on the writing process itself. I blogged about keeping a writing notebook on your phone, story revision, story structure, and even on (bad) cover letters. Basically, any problem I faced while writing, I at least attempted to compose a post about it. (Most were never published, trapped forever in my blog software’s Drafts folder.)

So desperate to write anything to keep the blood flowing, I even wrote about writing in cafes. It couldn’t have been more flagrant: Sitting in a cafe, desperate to jump-start the creative engine, I started writing about what I saw around me. What began as a lark grew into a lengthy diatribe on the different cafes I’d written in over two-and-a-half decades, and the varieties of cafe patrons and owners I’ve had to put up with.

The cafe I wrote that post in was near-perfect for my writing habit. Plenty of seating, open late, electrical outlets, free Wi-Fi, good drinks, good food, reasonable prices, a cozy college student vibe—and a mere one block from my apartment. That’s why at the end of the post I didn’t reveal its name. I feared it would be discovered and ruined.

Well, not long after posting, the cafe changed owners. One by one, the wonderful perks disappeared, prices crept upwards, and hours were reduced. By the end of 2019, I was on the hunt for a new cafe.

A few months later, my preference for writing in public spaces would become a very distant problem.

A quarter-century writing in cafes