Who we are vs. what we do

So much of our culture revolves around what we do for a living.

“What do you do?” Is usually one of the first questions we’re asked (or we ask) whenever we meet someone, whether it’s just to make polite small talk or a genuine attempt to get to know that other person.

I’m not sure if it’s specifically a human trait, but it certainly is an American one. There are cultures throughout the world where a person’s worth is not dependent on how much value they bring to society, where the sense of identity is not necessarily tied to what someone does to pay the bills.

For writers, particularly independent writers, it’s a difficult question to answer. Most of us aren’t actively making a living by writing–at least not the form of writing that first tickled our dream nodules. Does that mean that’s not what we are? Absolutely not. It’s who we are at the core; we just need to be reminded sometimes (or at least I do. Maybe you’re more fortunate.)

When I was a senior communications specialist, it always bothered me to provide that title whenever I was asked the ‘what do you do?’ question. Eyes glazed, for one thing, and people misunderstood it, for another.

One common response was: “Oh, like telephone lines?” Or, picture Clint Eastwood reloading his Spencer rifle in “Unforgiven:” “Communication specialist? Like cables and such?” I would then explain what I did: writing for executives, contributing feature stories, lots of letters. It always sounded like a long-winded explanation or justification of why I hadn’t published more. I enjoyed parts of it, but it certainly didn’t spark a fire.

It’s also important to note that if, for one reason or another, you lose that job, you can feel stripped of your identity. That, I can tell you, is not an easy journey to reverse.

Instead, just say: I’m a writer. Every time you say it, you’ll make it a little more true. Your eyes will light up, you’ll feel engaged. You’ll remember what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. You will keep that goal alive in the midst of the rejection slips, the disappointments, the rough critiques and the monotony of working in a cubicle or delivering packages or slinging hashbrowns. Maybe you’ll even get some ideas.

Writing is a difficult calling. It can be a lonely calling. It is, almost by definition, a solitary one. We need all the encouragement we can get and it’s perfectly okay to supply it ourselves. Perhaps that response will generate some skeptical looks, rolled eyes or smirks. Who cares what they think? You’re not saying it for them. You’re saying it for yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

The explanatory lede

The explanatory lede has been a pet peeve of mine ever since I learned what it was.

In my newspaper days, they came up frequently and I could usually see them develop. I would glance across the newsroom and see one of my staff start a story, write six or seven words, delete them and then start again. Explanatory ledes usually happen when people are stuck, not sure of their topic or trying to take up space–like a middle-schooler who has to write a thousand words on Dickens’ Great Expectations. 

Probably for the same reason, explanatory ledes are just as common, if not more so, in the  corporate world. Each time I see them, I strike them out as my inner J. Jonah Jameson growls: “Don’t tell me why you’re telling the story. Just tell the story.”

It’s funny, though. I was about to do one, myself. As I start blogging again, start getting into a regular writing rhythm again, I felt compelled to announce it and perhaps offer an apology for things I haven’t done. The year is almost over and I have accomplished very little: a new Keegan story closer to the tone I had anticipated for him; a second Charlie Morton short story that introduced one of my favorite characters. I wanted to speed up and I slowed down, instead.

Maybe you’re walking the same dog. Starting over is all well and good. It is important, if you want to be successful (in writing or any endeavor, really), to get serious and stay serious. Go ahead. Start over. Just don’t feel compelled to tell anyone what you’re doing or why. Tell your stories; write your blogs; voice your opinions. Save the explanations. The only one you need is this: it’s who you are.

 

What Nick Saban can teach you about writing

A while ago, I was sitting in the back row of another corporate seminar, certain I was about to waste the day.

I can’t even remember what this one was called. It had something to do with leadership, something to do with communication and something to do with creativity. Perhaps the theme was how to unlock creativity, or how leaders can tap into the creativity of their teams.

As I’ve said before, these kinds of things are usually hogwash because, when it comes right down to it, nobody can tell anyone else how to unlock their creativity. It’s all guesswork. What works for one person may not work for another. I listen to music on some nights. I drink beer on others. I do both on many. Sometimes one works, sometimes the other does and sometimes no amount of IPA or background music will do the trick.

Anyway. I’m getting ahead of myself. The first five minutes of this leadership telecast featured a stand-up comedian who somehow went from clowns to Santa Claus to Nazis in about 75 seconds. I turned to the person next to me, a doctor who looked as perplexed as I felt, and then settled in. I didn’t have high hopes.

Then Nick Saban showed up.

For those who don’t know, Nick Saban is the head coach of the University of Alabama football team, the Crimson Tide, one of the winningest coaches in college football history. He was on stage to talk about clarity in leadership, but the simple lesson he had applies not just to football or leadership or writing, but to life in general.

He said the first time he meets with recruits, he asks them what they want to get out of his program.

“All I’ve got to get them to say is ‘I want to graduate college and I want to play in the NFL some day,'” he said, “and I’ve got them.  I’ve got them, because then I can go back and hold them to those goals: You skipping study hall today? How’s that going to help you graduate college? You gave up a little early on the play, didn’t you? How will that help you get to the NFL?”

Simple. Clear. Accountable. Allow people to set their goals, and then remind them what those goals were. It works in the business world, it works in life–and it works in writing. The only difference there is that you have to set your own goals and you have to hold yourself accountable.

That’s where most beginning writers fail. God knows, it’s where I fail. A simple look back at this blog will provide enough evidence of that. My goal is to write something every week, but things always get in the way. Or rather, I let them get in the way.

So I don’t know if this will work for you. I’m going to try it, as I resolve–once again–to get back into a regular writing rhythm and try to get some things accomplished. I’m going to ask myself what I want: to finish a short story each month, to research, outline and write a novel this year. Then I’ll hold myself accountable.

I will remind myself: watching The Fifth Element for a 32nd time? How’s that going to help you get that story done? Turn off the alarm, stuff the phone under a pillow, and go back to sleep for three hours? How’s that going to help on your research? Scrolling through your social media feed for hours on end? How will that help you complete an outline?

And so on.

Writing is not easy, even in a perfect world. Most of us, particularly beginners, don’t have the luxury of a lot of writing time. Between day jobs, chores, paying bills, family obligations and more, we’re lucky to have any time at all. It’s important to use what little is left.

And if you don’t…ask yourself why and how it will help you get where you want to go. It’s what Nick Saban would do.

 

 

 

 

 

Recalculating

Time is fleeting.

Before you read any further, you should know something: I am the target audience for this post.

In fact, I am the target audience for most of what I write here. I don’t know more about anything than anyone else and, if I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to explain it any better or tell anyone why it is so. That being said, feel free to read along and comment. Perhaps we can find our way together.

I went up north on the last weekend of summer–at least, according to the calendar. You wouldn’t have known it by the weather here in Michigan; it was in the mid-80s, even in the northern portion of the lower peninsula, where I spent that 48 hours lounging on the couch or scraping moss off a roof.

It was a work trip, but I was also there for inspiration. My wife and son could not come with me and, since I have no wifi at “Shangri Lake” (a term I just now coined to describe the cottage), I figured it would be an excellent time to finish off the short story I had started, oh….too long ago.

In other words, the conditions were ripe. The spirit was willing but the mind, unfortunately, was not. My laptop stayed tucked in my bag on the floor. I didn’t even pull it out.

Like many other wannabee writers, I have fallen into a trap. I refuse to call it writer’s block. For me it’s a matter of scheduling and discipline. This is how my circle goes: I tell myself I will write from 10 p.m. to midnight, after everyone at home has gone to sleep and all is quiet. When that time comes around, I’m too wasted from the rest of the day: work, bills, chores, etc. I fear taking too much caffeine that late because then I won’t be able to sleep and I’ll be useless the following day. It makes more sense, I tell my gullible self, to wake up early and write before the day–and reality–wears me out. My son, who is in high school, wakes up at 5 a.m., a full two hours before I need to get ready for work. That’s a huge chunk of time, if used effectively.

So I quit for the night, even if I have only written a sentence or two, confident in my ability to wake up and spring to the keyboard.

The alarm goes off, roosters crow (somewhere, anyway) and still I slumber. Or, worse yet, I fade in and out of a state of half-sleep that still leaves me useless for the rest of the day. When the 10 p.m. “writing time” comes around again, I can barely keep my head up and the cycle continues.

I don’t have any answers. Obviously, if I did, I’d probably have more than just a few short stories up on Amazon. I can’t tell you what will work for you or, for that matter, offer any advice. I can only tell you what I will try. Recalculating.

On the way home from the cottage, I ran into a traffic jam. It’s not unusual on Sunday afternoons in northern Michigan. I-75 is a four lane freeway up there–two in each direction–and on this particular Sunday, one of those lanes was closed. For seven miles. Worst of all, there wasn’t any obvious work being done on the road. The barrels could have been moved aside. I knew it was coming because I had seen it on the way up. I thought I was prepared.

Nope.

After moving about 30 feet in as many minutes, I pulled an illegal traffic maneauver and drove back the way I came. I sped all the way back to Houghton Lake, shaking my head in empathy at the poor bastards who were about to run into that cluster on the way south. I drove west through town, had a nice leisurely dinner, and then headed south on highway 127, instead.

This was the way we had always traveled up north when I was younger. The old way. My dad hated driving on the main freeway and this was a little more relaxed, leisurely and less well-traveled. That still proved to be true on my most recent trip. I barely had to touch the brakes and Gadget the Wonder Van sped silently through the miles.

Is there a correlation between writing and driving? Probably. There was when I started this but, true to form, that was about a month ago. I think what I wanted to get at is that sometimes the old, comfortable ways and more productive than new ways.

So, in order to get myself back on a writing schedule, I’m returning to the old ways. I must realize that I am simply not wired to get up and be creative before the first rooster rouses. That’s the first rule of writing: find something that works for you, or something that may work for you, start it and stick to it.

Second, I’m going to take part in the National Novel Writer’s Month again this year. NaNoWriMo, as most people refer to it, challenges people to write an entire novel (of 50,000 words) between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30. I’ve done it before but had skipped a few years because the concept of quantity over quality didn’t work for me. It gave me an out, allowing me to write create something truly horrible just to satisfy an arbitrary word count.

I’ll probably post some thoughts about that, too, as the month progresses. In the meantime, remember this: the more you write, the easier it’ll be. It’s not easy to be persistent and consistent in it, but it’s absolutely necessary.

 

 

 

 

Just draw your dog

I have a certain fascination with seminars, webinars or other types of conferences or retreats designed to help you unleash your creativity.

They’re usually led by an aging hipster or a college professor or a self-described marketing guru—someone with gray hair, an open shirt, skinny jeans and battered sneakers. These experts move around a lot while they speak, gesticulating wildly, and they try to interact with their audience—creative souls who talk about word association games or tricks that free your mind. I was at one recently where the presenter wanted us to engage and “free our creativity” with an activity that involved paper airplanes and balloons. You throw the plane, see, or blow up the balloon and let it go. That’s your mind, soaring free or dribbling creativity as it leaks your own air on its brief, erratic flight.

It was then that I decided nobody knows what they’re talking about. Nobody can really tell anyone else how to unleash their creativity.

Rest assured, I count myself in that category.

Sure, I am fortunate enough to work in the communications department for a health care system and, on any given day, I can sometimes call myself a writer. I am an award-winning former newspaper reporter and editor and I can tell you how to fix stories based on grammar, flow and paragraph structure—but I couldn’t necessarily tell you how to find your own (other than to say: ‘I don’t know. Go talk to some people.’). I’ve written stories and novels (yet to be published), but I have no idea how to tell you to think up a great concept or character out of nowhere.

I think I’m lucky in that regard: I get bored a lot. My mind wanders, usually during work meetings. I look around. Names come to me. Usually a line of dialogue or two. Things happen, dots appear and connect themselves.

Does that mean I think everyone should sit in one of those meetings? Nope. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Besides, there’d be no guarantee you would walk out with a quick outline or character sketch anyway. What works for one person might not work for another. That’s an important thing to remember.

I sat in another lecture a few weeks ago at a communications retreat. This one was entitled ‘Creative Thinking & Problem Solving.’ The synopsis promised another interactive session designed to help attendees rediscover their creativity and use it to do great work.

But this one surprised me—not because it actually delivered on that promise, but because it offered some insight into what may be holding us back. The speaker, Karl Gude, a professor with the College of Communications Arts and Science at Michigan State University, pointed out a telling statistic. Prior to entering kindergarten, he said, about 96 percent of children tested positive as creative thinkers. By the time they graduate, that number had dropped to two percent.

He didn’t blame the public school system, but suggested it was the result of our interactions with other people and the expectations that arise from those interactions.

As an example, he used a typical kindergarten exercise: a teacher telling students to draw their dog. Then he showed an example of one of those drawings—it looked like a leaking pair of conjoined watermelons with a smile on one end.

“It may not look like your dog and it may not even look like a dog, but you still love it, because you love drawing and you love your dog,” he said.

Then he showed a different picture, one that more resembled a dog, with a house and a bright sun at the top of the corner—along with a scowling child yelling: ‘Your dog sucks!’

It’s from that first interaction, that first critical response, he said, that we begin to second guess ourselves. Eventually we draw (or, for the purpose of this blog, write) to please the audience, the critics, perhaps the people who our characters are based on—and not ourselves. We lose sight of the joy that brought us to the art and our creativity suffers.

I know I’m guilty. Some of my stories are loosely based on events that happened while I was the editor of a chain of newspapers. The characters are shades of people or combinations of several people I’ve encountered over the years and, while I love (or at least like) them all, they all have flaws. What if they don’t like it?

Or I’ll be at a bookstore, wondering if I’ll ever be as successful—or maybe just as good—as the authors I like to read. Their prose is so much more polished. It is three-dimensional, where I feel like my writing only presents two. It can be daunting.

The answer? Just draw your dog.

Don’t worry about what anyone will say. Just get it down. You are not going to please everyone, so don’t try. Please yourself. Writers tend to be their own toughest critics. If you please yourself, chances are you’ll please your audience—or the majority of them, anyway. I think the only way to do that is to write with abandon and then edit with skill. Those that don’t like it won’t come back, but that’s okay

Unless you’re fortunate to write creatively full-time, you’ll encounter enough obstacles each and every day to keep you from writing. Don’t let yourself or your inner critic be one of them. Don’t let the rows and rows of of book-lined shelves at your neighborhood store cow you. Silence the anxiety and remember the joy. Just draw your dog.

 

 

Getting it Back

I have a simple black canvas shoulder bag with a strap, two pockets on the front and one on the back.

Inside, you’ll find a couple of small pockets with sleeves for writing utensils and a zippered partition in the main compartment. There’s a flap that covers the front and conceals the contents; it has a vaguely floral shape on it, stitched in red. The bag is large enough for my laptop and a folder that contained some miscellaneous writing notes and a few sketches of worlds in progress. Not much more.

“That’s a cool bag,” someone said to me recently. “I like it; simple and practical.”

“Just like me,” I joked. I held it up. “I found it at my favorite comic book store and it sort of called to me.”

We were at a seminar and had a few minutes to kill before the talk started back up again. I welcomed the distraction.

“What’s the design supposed to be,” she asked. “Is that writing underneath it?”

I was suddenly embarrassed because there was a phrase there, but I had to read it again. I had forgotten it. Once I started, though, it came back to me in a rush, naturally, as if the words were there all along under the surface of my thoughts.

“God is in his Heaven and all is right in the world,” I told her, half reading, half remembering.

The design on the front had some significance in the manga genre. I didn’t know that when I bought it—someone else had to tell me—and I still don’t know exactly what that significance is. I picked the bag up, not because I necessarily wanted to spend a lot of money at the comic book store, or because of the size, number of pockets or overall functionality, but because of that quote. That’s what had called to me. It was comforting at a time when I needed the additional comfort. Strengthening at a time when I needed the strength. It was a good, protective quote.

A quote I had since forgotten.

The worst part, I realized, was that I hadn’t just forgotten some of the words or the general cadence of the sentence—I had forgotten it was even there.

It has always been this way with me. I gird myself up for some upcoming challenge, obstacle or opportunity, calling inspiration and reassurance from whatever I see around me. I look for signs in everyday things. Then, when the battle is won, the challenge overcome and the opportunity is either realized or has passed by, I forget whatever it was that helped me through. Perhaps it is just human nature. Maybe it’s something we all need to think about more often as we go through life, unwittingly hauling the dead weight of old inspirations along with us.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot heading into November and the annual allure of the National Novel Writing Month challenge. The concept is to write a complete novel—at least 50,000 words—within the confines of the month, to force yourself to get write down what has been dancing around in your mind. Write it fast, write every day and don’t worry about how bad it is. You can fix bad writing, but you can’t fix air.

This is something I’ve done before. At one time I was so confident in my writing ability, creativity and pacing that I wrote up two concepts at the same time. I was even at a point where I thought I didn’t need it. I could write what I wanted, when I wanted and make it as good as I wanted, no matter how inconsistent I had been with my schedule. The ability would come, the creativity would return. The proverbial muse, giggling and blushing like she did when we first met, would take up her rightful place on my shoulder.

Now, despite all the assurances that things are right in the world, and with me, despite all the inspirational quotes I had once taped to my keyboard and computer screen, I am not so sure. The pace of about 1,667 words a day (once, I could do that in an hour) is a bit daunting. I am unprepared. I have a story concept that I have been tossing around for a while and a character who I know will carry the tale when I cannot. That’s about it.

Still, the old inspirations are there. “God is in his Heaven and all is right in the world.” “Approach all areas of life with a bold enthusiasm this year.” (That was from a fortune cookie). “We must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy us.” “Doing is being; to have done is not enough.” Those came from Ray Bradbury, along with: “We must take up arms each and every day, perhaps knowing that the battle cannot be entirely won. But fight we must, if only a gentle bout. The smallest effort to win means, at the end of each day, a sort of victory.”

I love Bradbury’s stuff, which came from Zen in the Art of Writing, so much that I call him Uncle Ray. Whenever I read his advice on writing, I think: This is what I was meant to do. He knew, but never directly told, the secret to all things: The inspiration doesn’t matter. It’s what in you that counts. Use it, build it, feed it—no matter what you’re chasing—and you’ll find success.

Do me a favor, though. When you do find success, don’t forget what inspired you along the way. Pass it on. Someone else may need it as much as you once did.

The best of quotes, the worst of quotes

Whenever I have a hard time starting a new project, I turn to Ray Bradbury.

I have a dog-eared and stained copy of Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing close at hand and several excerpts from it saved into a word document on my desktop entitled: In Case of Emergency.

If you haven’t picked up the book  yet, you should–it’s not just an invigorating look at how to approach writing, but how to live your life. Bradbury, in language we can all understand and identify with, talks about meeting each day with zest and gusto and how important it is to be true to our art as a way to shield ourselves from the daily grind. The preface alone is worth the price.

My favorite quote is not about zest or gusto, however. It’s not even the short sentence that I print out and tape to every computer monitor and/or laptop that I purchase: “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

My favorite quote is a longer one and I have a love/hate relationship with it. It is the best of quotes and the worst of quotes at the same time.

“We must take arms each and every day,
perhaps knowing the battle cannot be entirely won,
but fight we must, if only a gently bout.
The smallest effort to win means, at the end of the day, a sort of victory.”

Bradbury is talking about the importance of writing every day, of keeping up some kind of rhythm, of making sure that your writing muscles are toned and your mind loose–despite what else may be happening in your life. Fight we must, if only a gentle bout.

He’s certainly right about that. Anyone who has fallen off the proverbial writing wagon can attest to it. It’s difficult to kick off the rust once you let yourself lapse. Writing is like any other muscle: when you stop exercising it, it turns to flab overnight.

The danger is concentrating on the final portion of that quote (and, ironically, it is the portion that is printed out and stuck on my keyboards and screens). “The smallest effort to win means, at the end of day, a sort of victory.”

Maybe it’s just me, but when it comes to writing I’m a ‘smallest effort’ kind of guy, even though I continually try to break myself of that bad habit. I set aside a two-hour block to write every day (except Friday, my lone decompression day). I rarely keep that schedule. Life gets in the way, throwing up an obstacle of a different sort just when I think I’ve overcome the last one. Even when I sit down, there are things that distract me: social media, the Internet (I am a news junkie), maybe hunting down a new song. Before I know it, most of my writing time is up and I’m lucky to jot down 500 words or so.

I compound that mistake by congratulating myself. After all, Uncle Ray (he is not really my uncle, of course, but I like to think we’re related in spirit) said any attempt to win was a sort of victory, right? Aren’t I victorious? He’d be proud.

Well, I doubt it. It’s a great thought, writing every day whether you feel like it or not, whether your muse is sitting on your shoulder or off pouting in a dark corner (or scrolling through Twitter’s never-ending timeline), but only if you don’t set your bar that low. Let those days be the exception, not the norm. Unplug your internet, turn off your wi-fi, close the door and bar it if you have to.

You’ll thank yourself and those melancholy bouts will happen less often. At least, that’s how it is for me–and that’s how I know I am a writer. Those muscles, however flabby they are when I start, quickly regain their strength.

That’s the kind of victory “Uncle Ray” would be proud of.

Getting the blog back together or, the writing process blog tour

I was flattered when my friend and colleague, Lisa Peers, invited me to join this blog hop on the writing process. I gave her debut novel, ‘Love and Other B-Sides‘ a four-star review instead of a five-star review primarily because I am sort of a prickly pain in the ass when it comes to posting reviews. My old editor nature coming out, I guess. If you get a chance, read it. It’s good.

As for me, whenever I sit down to write I feel like I know more about how not to do it than how to approach it, but perhaps you can learn something from my mistakes.

What am I working on?

I have a lot going on. First of all, I have four stories posted on Amazon, published through Kindle Direct Publishing. They are, in no particular order: Unclaimed, a fantasy/sci-fi short story featuring an eventual series character, Keegan; Keeper of the Dead, a fantasy/horror story about an aging warrior battling his own (and someone else’s) demons; and A Better Way, a modern satirical thriller about a regular guy named Darryl Johnson whose life goes horribly awry. Finally, there is Two Cows Too Many, an odd story that is based on a dare that the late Marion Zimmer Bradley posed in her magazine. Unclaimed and Two Cows are the only ones that have sold so far, but the reviews are positive and I thank you for them.

Next up, is Lady of the Lake, featuring another series character. Lady is a modern mystery based in part on my past as an editor and reporter of a major weekly newspaper chain here in Metro Detroit. Charlie Morton, the POV character, is like I used to be, only smarter and funnier.

I am also slogging my way through another fantasy short story, The Sigilist, and recently discovered one major problem and how to fix it. (Unfortunately, it means starting over). Then I have another Keegan story, Three Sacrifices, that will need to be rewritten, too. Also, I have at least one novel I’d like to finish and post before the end of the year, either a Charlie Morton story (probably) or one of the three first draft fantasy novels I have tucked away on my flash drive.

I write on this blog sporadically as well as on two practice fiction blogs, one a fantasy series, the other strictly sci-fi, based on the space adventures of my bored cat. Feel free to check them out, but I warn you they are just first drafts, proofed only for spelling.

How does my writing differ from others in its genre?

The quick answer to this (I hope) is humor. I think spending more than a dozen years in the news field has given me a good ear for dialogue, too. There are other former newspaper writers who have turned to fiction, of course, but I deliberately didn’t go the way they did, with novels or stories set in major cities. My protagonists are not very heroic; they often don’t know what they’re doing, or why. They are small-timers living in a small time world tackling problems that most of us face.

Why do I write what I do?

Entertainment, mostly. The stories come to me and I feel obligated to get them down. I am, however, taking a more serious look at what I do and why I am doing it (or why I want to, at any rate), because I feel it’s important to have some kind of message hidden among the one-liners and snappy comebacks. A Better Way in particular has a few thought-provoking lines tucked away in Darryl’s non-linear ramblings. He’s like a Billy Joel song that way.

How does my writing process work?

I alluded to this in the beginning. The short answer is, I’m still working on that part.

I had a dream, once, a silly little dream, that I could write a short story a week and get them published. This was based on my optimum writing speed of about 1,700 words an hour for two hours every day. I’ve backed off from that because of age, infirmary and common sense. Writing is hard work; good writing, even more so.  I still think it is important to write every day and I am using this blog post to jump start my efforts again.

My concept is simple: spend the first hour editing one work, the second hour writing a different one. The idea is to gradually get into the creative mind set while you’re fixing your mistakes during your first hour. I’ve tried two different versions of this: The Rooster Plan (from 5-7 a.m.) and the Owl Plan (from 10 to midnight). Both have their challenges, lack of sleep chief among them, and neither have exactly taken flight. Not that a rooster can fly, but you get the idea.

Who’s next?

I have never met @NatRusso, but I liked him enough to ask if I could include him at the end of this and he graciously agreed. You can find all sorts of information about him and his work here. (As you can see, his Writing Process blog was actually posted before mine. His book, Necromancer Awakening, is among the current top-sellers on Amazon. I’ve started it and have been impressed so far (I sense another four-star review coming). Also, he is a good writer to follow on twitter because he finds a good mixture of advice, marketing and general conversation.

Also, check out the work of an old friend who writes as PJ Lincoln. Like me, he’s another former newspaper guy who has a growing collection of fiction published through Amazon and elsewhere.

Thanks for stopping in. Feel free to share, leave a comment, download a story and post a review!