Kill Your Idols

Yesterday, over at Do Some Damage, Dave White had a thing or two to say about how a fledgling writer should approach the heaps of writing advice they'll find on these-here innertubes. His post resonated with me, because when I first decided to try my hand at writing, I eagerly consumed every bit of advice I could find, and the wild disagreement on nearly every point damn near paralyzed me.

Here's the thing, though. Most of the advice I was reading wasn't on random writers' blogs; it came from well-regarded books on writing from folks who've proven time and time again they've got the goods. Folks like Block and King and Grafton. Folks a fledgling writer would be nuts to just dismiss.

Right?

Wrong.

See, the thing about writing is there's no one way to do it. So like Dave suggests in his post, you've got to learn to take what you can use, and jettison the rest. Easy if it's some quack you've never heard of telling you he's got the secret to bestsellerdom. Tough if it's someone who's writing you admire. But developing the confidence to know what to keep and what to discard is key to actually ever getting anything down on paper.

All of which serves as a rambling preamble to my first-ever regular (okay, semi-regular) (or maybe not that regular at all) (hey, there's a chance I'll do another one sometime; get off my back about it, would you?) feature here at _holm: Kill Your Idols. Kill Your Idols will focus on specific advice from people I dig that for whatever reason just doesn't work for me, and why.

Now, since I've prattled on for like a book and a half already, I'll make the first installment a short one. And since this is about killing idols, I'm gonna aim high. So howsabout we start with this gem from Mr. Stephen King:

"Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule."

Youch. That ain't no mamby-pamby suggestion; that, my friends, is a capital-R Rule. And I'd bet for Mr. King, it's just as iron-clad as it sounds. For me, though?

For me, that rule blows.

Why does that rule blow (again, for me; your mileage may vary)? Here's why: tattered, battered, timeworn, white-hot, and a half a dozen other words that appeared over and over (and OVER) again in my most recent novel, so often in fact that seeing them upon rereading yanked me right out of the story every time and reminded me that it was nothing more than words on a page, and mighty repetitive ones at that. They're all sort of default adjectives for me, words I didn't have to reach too far to find, and although there's nothing wrong with any of them, their sheer repetition made them wince-worthy every damn time.

Now, it's not that I had to use those words; off the top of my head, I can list plenty of synonyms for each of them. But in the moment, when that's what my brain's supplying me, thinking of a synonym is like trying to remember the melody of a song while another one is playing. And when that happens, I reach for my thesaurus.

So does that mean King's wrong? Yes, but only in his formulation of the rule as universal. For him, I bet it works every time. For me, it'd result in a lesser manuscript than if I just ignored it. So I ignore it.

Should you ignore it? How the hell should I know? I'm not in the business of giving writing advice. All I can tell you is what works for me. But if knowing I'm idiot enough not to listen to advice from people who can really write helps you do the same, then... well, I don't know what, then. But I think it would've helped me to get that message when I first put pen to paper (er, fingers to keyboard.)

So there you have it -- my first sorta regular feature. Unless it's not. Next time on Kill Your Idols, maybe I'll dispel some of this nonsense regarding adverbs...

Back at it...

After a month or so spent writing shorts, I've spent the past week getting back to work on the New Book. Said New Book comes in at a little over 52,000 words right now, and after a refamiliarizing read-through/polish of each and every one of those words, I'm pretty sure it's the best thing I've ever written. It's the second in a series that begins with Dead Harvest, a series that recasts the struggle between heaven and hell as a Golden Era crime pulp. There aren't words to express how much fun I'm having playing in this particular sandbox. I sincerely hope I get to do so for years to come.

Oh yeah, and the New Book has a name: The Wrong Goodbye. Not too terribly long from now, it'll have an ending as well. Fingers crossed y'all get to read it someday.

Crime Factory #1 Now Live!

A little jailbird told me the first issue of Crime Factory is now live. Go check it out here.

Am I in it? Nope. But some mighty talented people are -- people like Dave White, Steve Weddle, Frank Bill, and Hilary Davidson, just to name a few.

Seriously, from the looks of it, Crime Factory's one hell of a venue, not just for short fiction, but for reviews, excerpts, the whole nine.

So what're you waiting for? Get outta here and get reading!

A man can't just sit around.

Larry Walters had a dream. A fairly common dream, at that. Larry Walters dreamed that he could fly. The problem was, Larry's vision was poor, and he was thus ill-suited to become a pilot. Most people, faced with similar limitations, might let go of such a dream.

Larry Walters was not most people.

On a sunny summer day in 1982, in his modest backyard in San Pedro, Larry boarded a makeshift aircraft comprised of a lawn chair, a seat belt, and forty-odd weather balloons, armed with a pellet gun, a CB radio, and a cooler full of sandwiches and beer. His plan was to release the line that tethered his craft to his Jeep, rise to a height of thirty feet or so, and have himself a little picnic. Then he'd just shoot out a couple balloons and float gently back to earth, just as easy as could be.

But Larry, it would seem, was not so good with basic physics. When he released the tether, his craft rose 15,000 feet in the air. According to some reports, he didn't dare shoot out the balloons, for fear the chair would tip, so instead, he did what any reasonable person in his situation would do: he drank.

Eventually, he drifted into the approach corridor of Long Beach airport, disrupting air traffic. Imagine for a moment what that must have looked like to the folks waiting for clearance to land: a drunk man in a lawn chair with a gun, some three miles above the ground. He did finally touch down safely, though not before getting tangled in some power lines and knocking out power in the entire Long Beach area.

It goes without saying that Larry, upon touchdown, was arrested. Seems the FAA took umbrage with his violation of restricted airspace. But by the time they nabbed him, the story'd spread, and a few crack reporters witnessed his arrest. One of those reporters asked why he'd done it. Larry's response? "A man can't just sit around."

I love that quote. I love it because it's so simple (stupid, even, given that Larry literally did, in fact, sit around), and yet tells you a lot about the man who said it. People thought his dream of flight was unattainable. Thought his flight itself was stupid. But that didn't stop Larry. Didn't deter him in the slightest. And when questioned on the matter afterward, his answer was more or less a what're you gonna do? shrug.

Becoming a published novelist is a silly dream. There's no money in it (usually), and God knows there are plenty of books on the shelf already. My friends and family are supportive, sure, but I think most of 'em find the whole endeavor a little peculiar to say the least.

Do me a favor; take a gander at the links down on the sidebar. Those men and women get it. They should; each one of them's a Larry Walters. Like Larry, they all seem normal enough on the surface; most have day-jobs, mortgages, kids. But on the page?

On the page those folks can fly.

Congratulations, Sophie!

I'm delighted to report that Sophie Littlefield's fantastic debut novel, A Bad Day For Sorry, has been nominated for an Edgar! Pop on over to her blog and congratulate her, and if you haven't read Sorry yet, then by God, go buy it; you'll be glad you did...

It's not easy being "Green".

Just finished my second short of the year, a nasty little slug of noir called Green. As in weed, money, envy, inexperience, and nausea, all of which manage to make an appearance. After really slogging to finish my last short, this one wrote quick, for which I'm grateful. Now it's out the door and wandering the scary, scary world (or rather, sitting in the inbox of the friend who requested it), so I'll let you know if and when it finds a home.

In other news, there is no other news. But hey, the new year's a little over two weeks old, and I've already got two new submissions. Not too shabby, that. Now all I've got to figure out if I'm tackling short #3, or if it's back to the book for me.

Man, I love it when the words keep coming. Best damn buzz there is...

That's right, cobwebs: don't get comfy.

Just a quick followup post to say that apparently A Native Problem doesn't suck, because I've just gotten word from David Cranmer, Editor Extraordinaire, that it's going to appear in Beat to a Pulp's first-ever print anthology!

I can't tell you how psyched I am about this. For those keeping score, this is my first anthology publication, and I'll tell ya, it's a doozy. (For the record, I think it should be spelled "deusy", but whatever.) David's got great taste, and Beat to a Pulp is one of my favorite 'zines going. And man, what a lineup he's put together for this anthology! Randisi. Crider. Littlefield. Abbott. Reasoner. Not to mention the patron saint of modern pulp, Charles Freakin' Ardai. (I swear, I'd plunk down actual dollars American to read Ardai's grocery list. And yeah, I'm pretty sure that is his middle name.)

Jealous? No need to be! Turns out, there are still a few spots left to fill. So what're you waiting for? Write well, and write fast.