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Experiences beyond the page

In books, Writing on April 24, 2012 at 7:01 am

A small relic associated with one of New York's most bizarre crimes.

An article filed from the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books on Monday featured a great story from Scottish crime novelist Philip Kerr, who had a strange run-in with a Russian cop while researching a novel in the former Soviet Union. Without giving too much away, it involves bottle of vodka, a naked man, a frightened translator, and a frozen lake. Working on my own books over the years, I’ve had several interesting experiences. The most memorable ones are associated with the writing of my first published effort, On the House. The book details the murder of Michael Malloy in Prohibition-era New York by a gang of bumbling killers nicknamed the “Murder Trust.” Malloy survived multiple attempts on his life—each one more outrageous than the last—without realizing anyone was trying to kill him.

I spent quite a bit of time in New York researching the book. Many hours were spent in the basement of the Bronx courthouse, reviewing trial transcripts and other official papers. One afternoon, while I was going through a stack of folders, a rather large gentleman with his own pile of documents took a seat opposite me at the same table. He wore an ill-fitting suit that looked two sizes too small for him. His shirt, buttoned no more than midway up his chest, revealed a large gold pendant on a clunky chain. Nearly every finger boasted a thick glittery ring. He immediately struck me as a character out of “Goodfellas,” a sort of walking cliché. When I looked up at him, he smiled by way of greeting. I did likewise and returned to my research materials.

It's out of print now. Bummer.

“What are you working on?” he asked in a New York accent that seemed totally appropriate to the way he was dressed.

When I filled him in, he told me he was familiar with the Malloy story. Most people who grew up in the Bronx, he said, knew it. To be polite, I asked him what he was doing at the courthouse—and, with great enthusiasm, he told me.

“I’m researching a case, too,” he said. “Mine!”

It turned out that some years back this gentleman was accused of breaking into his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and stealing a number of valuable jewels (I immediately stole another glance at his fingers). He was eventually picked up by the cops, charged, and convicted. He claimed to be innocent of said crime and hoped to find something in the case files with which he could overturn his conviction.

“Sounds to me like you need a good alibi,” I said, entertained by the story.

“Oh, I got a great alibi,” he said. At the same time some “loser was tossing my ex’s panty drawer” (his words), he was on the other side of town having sex with the victim’s sister. He did not phrase this in a g-rated manner—and, to this day, I have no idea what it means to have “porked the dog legs” off someone. But this guy had apparently done it and was proud of the achievement. The sister had refused to testify on his behalf because she didn’t want her sibling to know of the tryst. Having shared this rather sordid episode with me, the gentleman fished a business card from his pocket and passed it my way. His name was Pete, and he worked for what appeared to be a loan agency.

“You’re a loan officer?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Let’s just say I work in collections.”

I immediately got the hint and stopped asking questions. Pete, however, kept up his friendly banter and wanted to know how long I’d be in town. When I told him a couple of days, he volunteered to be a tour guide of sorts and promised to show me a New York most people don’t get to see. This, he said, would entail visits to a high-end brothel, a member-only club, and suppliers of whatever commodity I desired. When I told him my girlfriend would most likely disapprove, he said, “I ain’t gonna tell her.” This would be the point in a movie where an angel appears on one shoulder and a devil on the other, each urging me to follow their respective moral path. In the event, my sense of decency got the better of me. I thanked Pete for his kind offer but ultimately declined.

When I returned home to the Bay Area, I finished writing the book and shipped it off to my editor at Penguin. It hit stores in October 2005. One of the would-be killers in the story was a Bronx taxi driver named Harry Green who was paid a small fee to run a drunken Malloy over one frosty evening. For various reasons, Green failed in his objective. Subsequently, he was the only member of the Murder Trust not to meet their end in Sing-Sing’s electric chair. Shortly after the book’s publication, I received a very nice email from an elderly woman in Berkeley who had read the book and enjoyed it. Would I care, she asked, to meet in person? This woman was non-other than Harry Green’s widow. I was quite flabbergasted by the whole thing and naturally agreed to see her. Mrs. Green (I don’t want to reveal her first name for privacy’s sake) invited my girlfriend (future wife) and I to dinner at her daughter’s house.

Having spent more than a year writing a book about a gang who plots a fiendish murder, I wondered jokingly if I wasn’t being lured into a trap. Would the Green family tarnish my food with anti-freeze (as the Murder Trust had done to poor Malloy)? Or, would an aggrieved member of the clan try to run me over as I approached the house? In the event, it was a lovely evening. The dinner was a backyard barbecue. A long table had been set; the centerpiece was a diorama featuring a toy taxi running over an action figure. The Greens were wonderful people. Harry’s widow, then in her eighties, was a real firecracker with a great sense of humor. She met Harry after he had served ten years for his involvement in the Malloy case. She described him as a good man who had made a very bad choice. Upon his release from prison, he spent the remainder of his life on the right side of the law, working in various professions. I wish now I could remember all the details, but my notes from the evening are packed away somewhere!

At the end of the evening, as Katie and I got up to leave, the Greens gave me the toy taxi cab from the table’s centerpiece. It still sits on my writing desk today.

On the House unfortunately went out of print several years ago, but I hope that someday it makes a return. If it does, I’ll add an “Afterword” and detail the man Harry Green became.

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What’s the best way for an author to be remembered?

In books, writers, Writing on April 10, 2012 at 9:18 am

This past weekend, I checked the Amazon listing for Human Game and was pleased to see the sales ranking had jumped from the million-mark to the neighborhood of 200,000. Someone had obviously pre-ordered a copy. To that kind-hearted and anonymous individual, I send my sincere thanks. The book isn’t due out until October 2—indeed, the Amazon listing does not yet feature the cover image—so it’s great to know that someone is eager enough to order the book seven months before its release.

I once read somewhere that for a book to be a bestseller, heavy promotion has to begin about six months before it hits stores. Whether this is true or not, I have no idea—but, certainly, an aim of this blog is to get the word out. I realize blogging alone won’t sell books, but I’m hoping it helps. At this stage, it’s too early to tell. I do find it interesting, however, that several visitors to my blog have got here by entering the book’s title as their search-engine query.

While discussing all this with my wife over the weekend, I said, “What I’d give for just one major seller!” I feel no shame in admitting this. Yes, I want to sell out—I want to sell out an entire print run! I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a writer, musician, or any artist, for that matter, wanting to make money from their toils. Of course, I don’t write solely for cash. I enjoy the process and take great satisfaction in receiving the final product from the publisher prior to publication. I’m just saying one bestseller would be nice!

This all leads to a question: As an author, is it better to be remembered as a prolific scribe who turned out high quality books that never sold in large quantities, or remembered solely for one big-selling book in particular? Pondering this question, I drummed up a short list of authors who only ever produced one book—but, of course, they’re works have the stuff of immortality.

Margaret Mitchell – Gone with the Wind
Harper Lee – To Kill a Mockingbird
Ralph Ellison – The Invisible Man
John Kennedy Toole – A Confederacy of Dunces
Emily Brontë – Wuthering Heights

As for authors who produced numerous works but are remembered primarily for one book, I came up with the following (this, of course, is open to debate):

Hunter S. Thompson – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Joseph Heller – Catch-22
J.D. Salinger – The Catcher in the Rye
Ken Kesey – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Henry Miller – Tropic of Cancer
D.H. Lawrence – Lady Chatterley’s Lover
F. Scott Fitzgerald – The Great Gatsby

Honestly, if I were to be remembered at all, I’d be happy to be remembered either way, for it means the work–whether multiple books, or just one–has touched a considerable audience.

The Guardian approached this from a different angle last year and composed a list of authors “famous for the wrong book.” Among them are Kurt Vonnegut for Slaughterhouse-Five and Evelyn Waugh for Brideshead Revisited.

Are there any authors you’d add to the above lists?

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Putting the smackdown on young, aspiring authors . . .

In books, e-books, publishing, Writing on April 3, 2012 at 9:02 am

Saturday’s New York Times featured an article on teens who self-publish their books with financial help from Mom and Dad. The parents of the young scribes interviewed say it’s a great way to encourage their kids to keep writing and to reward the months of work their children put into their manuscripts. Some in the publishing industry, however, see this as a negative thing. They argue it doesn’t teach children anything about perseverance or the real struggles involved in getting published.

The article quotes novelist Tom Robbins, who sounds somewhat bitter:

“What’s next Kiddie architects, juvenile dentists, 11-year-old rocket scientists? Any parent who thinks that the crafting of engrossing, meaningful, publishable fiction requires less talent and experience than designing a house, extracting a wisdom tooth, or supervising a lunar probe is, frankly, delusional. There are no prodigies in literature. Literature requires experience, in a way that mathematics and music do not.”

The article doesn’t actually assert that the parents interviewed think anything of the sort. But while we’re on the subject: Why compare writing to dental work and architecture? It is, resorting to cliché, comparing apples to oranges. One can’t say that writing a novel requires as much talent as designing and launching a lunar probe. They require two completely different skill sets. I’d say successfully sending a rocket to the moon requires an incredible amount of specialized talent. Or, maybe I’m being delusional.

I’ve stated my thoughts on self-published works before. While I’m not opposed to people publishing their books themselves, I think too many self-published authors rush to get their work out there and inundate the market with sloppy material. Then again, traditional publishing houses hit the public with a fair amount of garbage, too—so give these kids a break. Are they really causing any bestselling authors and powerful editors grief by putting their work out there? No. But what about the argument that “literature requires experience”?

The kids profiled in the article range from a 12 year old to a high school junior. While adults may stay clear of books written by teens, we can assume other teens may show interest in stories crafted by their contemporaries. I would venture to say these young authors have channeled teenage experiences into their fiction–experiences other teens would more likely identify with than someone who graduated from high school 20-plus years ago.

Not every piece of writing that’s published has to be a deeply moving experience for the reader (look at James Patterson). It can be something lightweight, written with the sole intent to entertain. Authors can think that what they do is deeply profound—but, in the end, their main job is to entertain. So let these kids self publish their books and enjoy the moment. Life only gets more stressful as one grows older, so let them enjoy the fulfillment of a dream . . . even if it’s only for a short while.

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First impressions: My opening paragraphs . . .

In Writing on April 2, 2012 at 8:41 am

It’s always fun, when in a bookstore, to pick up a random book and read the opening paragraph. Over the years, this exercise has resulted in the purchase of books I might have otherwise missed or ignored. I discovered Fred Vargas’s The Chalk-Circle Man this way, which soon led me to her other wonderful books. As a teen, the opening lines of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye hooked me instantly. I’ve been a fan of Philip Marlowe’s adventures ever since.

It goes without saying that a great opening sets the tone of a book. Ian Fleming and John Steinbeck are responsible for my two favorite opening paragraphs. Fleming’s introduction to Casino Royale, the first James Bond novel, is brilliant for its sense of atmosphere:

The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling–a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension–becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.

The opening to Steinbeck’s Cannery Row is wonderful for its vivid evocation of setting:

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, ‘whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,’ by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, ‘Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,’ and he would have meant the same thing.

While I’m certainly not attempting to compare myself with the likes of Fleming and Steinbeck (!), I thought I’d share the opening paragraphs to my previous books. I hope you enjoy . . .

On the House (Berkley, October 2005):

This story is true. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent, for nearly all the participants were perpetrators of nefarious schemes and bodily harm. They were low-rent thugs and booze-addled crooks surprisingly incompetent in their criminal undertakings. This is not a tale of smooth operators in silk suits. It is, instead, a story of bungling ineptitude, of a crime so convoluted, authorities were “admittedly skeptical” of its veracity when it first came to light. Once the facts were established, Bronx District Attorney Samuel J. Foley declared the scheme to be “the most grotesque chain of events in New York criminal history.”

In the Dark (Berkley, November 2006); Published in the UK as The Blackout Murders (JR Books, March 2008):

A dark, cramped space of stagnant air, the bomb shelter’s interior smelled of cold mortar and stale sweat. A stone seat ran the length of one inner wall, while, on the floor, an electric lantern cast a pallid circle of light across the morbid discovery made earlier that morning. The brick-built shelter was one of several on Montague Place, Marylebone—near Regent’s Park in Central London—and one of countless similar structures that lined the streets of the capital. It was just shy of nine o’clock, and a harsh winter’s sun backlit the city’s shattered skyline. Daybreak came hard to London, a metropolis whose landscape had been forever altered by incendiary and high-explosive—but the air-raid sirens had remained silent the night before.

War of Words (Union Square Press, May 2009):

A profession not without risk, the job of newspaper editor attracted men of stern stuff in the testosterone-rich days of old San Francisco. Nearly fatal beatings and bloodletting by pistol and bowie knife were regularly occurring phenomena outside (and sometimes inside) the sanctity of the newsroom. Gunpowder and steel proved highly effective in expressing one’s displeasure with an article–more so than a letter to the editor. An angry reader gunned down a reporter in the autumn of 1852 outside Sacramento after the scribe penned an editorial criticizing the governor. One editor got the picture and posted the following notice on his office door: “Subscriptions received from 9 to 4; challenges from 11 to 12 only.”

Dark City (Ian Allan, London, October 2010):

Christmas shoppers crowded narrow Birchin Lane in the early afternoon hours of Friday, 8 November 1944, their collars turned up against the heavy fog that hung over the city. They paid scant attention to the Vauxhall that turned into the street shortly after two-thirty and came to a stop outside Frank Wordley’s jewelry store at number 23. Three young men, one of them carrying an axe, clambered out of the vehicle and approached the store’s front window.

The Killing Skies (Spellmount/The History Press, London, March 2006):

Memories still lingered. A generation of British men wiped out in the mud-swamped, rat-infested trenches of the Western Front. A war not yet far removed by the passing of time. Now, on a Sunday, a mere two decades after the Great War’s guns fell silent, the BBC carried the subdued tones of Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, broadcasting from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street . . . At 11 a.m. on 3 September 1939, as barrage balloons ascended above London, Big Ben tolled the hour of war.

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The mercurial tastes of readers . . .

In books on March 29, 2012 at 8:55 am

Why do so many books fail to make a big impression on the public, while others become blockbusters? This is a question I’ve been pondering since the emergence of Fifty Shades of Grey, the book dubbed “Mommy Porn” by the press, which has become a sales phenomenon. What started out as a piece of Twilight fan fiction on the Web has morphed into a New York Times mega-seller, earning author E.L. James and the small Australian press that initially published the book a six-figure deal from Vintage. According to the Los Angeles Times, the major studios are lining up to purchase the film rights.

Richard Perry/New York Times

For those who might not be familiar with the story, Fifty Shades of Grey chronicles the sexual adventures of twenty-something literature student Anastasia Steel, apparently a virgin at the beginning of the book, and her sadomasochistic boyfriend, young billionaire Christian Grey. The book, according to the articles I’ve read (seriously, I haven’t read the book), is pretty much one long sex scene, replete with hardcore bondage, domination, and other things that would have made Lady Chatterley blush. Make no mistake, I’m no prude. The subject matter is not one I find offensive—I’m simply curious about the book’s popularity.

I don’t begrudge James her success. Indeed, more power to her. But what is it about the book that’s fueling its overwhelming popularity? Is it simply sex? If that’s the answer, does this mean Henry Miller’s books will start appearing on the bestseller lists? What was it about Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy that spawned a similar frenzy? I read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and its two sequels and enjoyed them all, but I’m at a loss to explain why those books in particular struck such a powerful chord with people. It’s a tragedy Larsson didn’t live long enough to see his books become the pop-culture phenomenon they did.

What I not only find puzzling–but disturbing–is Snooki, whose book . . . I can’t even finish typing this sentence. Let’s move on.

I’m currently reading Into Africa by adventurer Martin Dugard. The book details Henry Stanley’s epic 1871 search for missing explorer David Livingstone in the heart of Africa (their eventual meeting was immortalized by Stanley’s famous greeting: “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”). The book is a stellar adventure story written in a lively manner that almost dares the reader not to turn the page. It’s one of the best works of narrative nonfiction I’ve picked up in a long while and reads like a real-life Indiana Jones story.

It’s a wonderful character study of two very complex individuals: Livingstone, the missionary bent on finding the source of the Nile; and Stanley, a journalist plagued by failure and desperate to make something of his life. Why didn’t this book generate mammoth sales? It has drama, human conflict, adventure, a touch of mystery—but not much sex.

An author I’ve mentioned on this blog before is James Crumley, whose violent, drug-fueled detective novels rank amongst the best crime fiction I’ve read. He has been cited as a major influence by such bestselling authors as Michael Connelly and Dennis Lehane, yet he never found a large audience. Crumley, who died in 2008, voiced his thoughts on the matter in a 2001 interview with the Dallas Morning News:

I’m not middlebrow and middle class. Sure, I’d like it if more people read the books. My children would like it. My ex-wives would like it. But that’s just not what I’m about.

The opening line to Crumley’s The Last Good Kiss is considered by many to be one of the finest of the genre:

When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.

The whole book, mind you, is phenomenal.

Otto Penzler, founder of the Mysterious Press and owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in New York City, could never account for Crumley’s lack of mainstream success. “He just never found a mass audience,” he told the the Los Angeles Times in 2008, “and I wish I could tell you why. I don’t know.”

As the author of six non-bestselling books (well, one did appear in a brief flash on the Barnes and Noble paperback bestseller list about six years ago) and my next book due out in October, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever beat the odds. If great authors like Crumley go their entire career hidden in the literary shadows, what chance do other scribes have?

All writers, of course, are prone to such feelings every now and then. The trick is not to dwell on them too long. If we knew why some books meet with great success, while others go out in a blaze of obscurity, we’d all be writing massive bestsellers.

Who knows? Maybe in the end, it is all about sex.

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Why fear the blank page?

In Uncategorized, Writing on March 20, 2012 at 8:49 am

While recently perusing blogs maintained by other scribes, I came across one in which the writer detailed his fear of the blank page (or, should it be screen?). He waxed poetic about the “emptiness” of the page, of how it taunts him and seemingly “dares” him to put that first word down. There is, he wrote, “something infinite” about the whole thing. A number of readers left comments, stating similar thoughts. I don’t get it. While I agree that starting a writing project can be a daunting undertaking, I’ve never lived in fear of a page—blank or otherwise. To me, it’s like a motorcyclist saying he’s scared of the open road. If you’re a writer, why fear a tool of the trade?

Yes, I believe writing is a craft and a special skill not everyone possesses, but I’ve never been one to over-analyze the process. Words take shape in my head, and I put them on paper. This is not an effort to simplify writing or make light of the hard work authors put into their stories, it’s simply how I view things. Yes, I fuss over what I’m doing and fret over sentences, but I never dread a blank page.

If you have a story to tell and are anxious to purge it from your system, the page is there to help you. I don’t feel it taunting me or daring me to do anything. It’s simply a blank palette you bring to life. So, get your hands on that keyboard—or grab that pen—and get some words down! As I’ve stated in previous posts, who cares if what you write is terrible? You can clean it up later.

Before I commence any new book project, I always make sure I know how the story starts. Not until I have an opening figured out in my head do I sit down to write. By the time I situate myself at the keyboard, I’m desperate to type—hence, the page never stays blank for long. If you consider the blank page as this massive obstacle you have to overcome, you’re setting yourself up for difficulties before you even start. Think of the page, instead, as the outlet that will let you tell your story. A friend of mine, who happens to fear the page, dictates his opening passages into a tape recorder and then transcribes them. This guarantees he has something to write when he fires up his computer.

I guess, in short, I’m trying to say that if you know what you’re going to write, there’s no point being scared of a blank computer screen or a fresh page in your journal. What I worry about is whether the story I’m telling is any good. The greatest fear for me when writing is losing interest in the subject matter. That’s something you can’t overcome and is ultimately the kiss of death.

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Life is too short to stick with boring books

In books, writers on March 16, 2012 at 9:08 am

It recently dawned on me I’ll die before I get to every book on my reading list. These days, what with the day job, new daddy duties, and writing my own books, I don’t have as much reading time as I once did. Indeed, I find I hardly have the mental stamina in the evenings to get through five pages. I’ll read several paragraphs and realize none of what I’ve read has actually sunk in. All the while, the number of books on my bedside table continues to grow. If you were to take a look, you would find:

The Lost City of Z (David Grann)
Have Mercy On Us All (Fred Vargas)
Seeking Whom He May Devour (also by Vargas)
A Bridge Too Far (Cornelius Ryan)
Inferno (Max Hastings)
The Woman Lit by Fireflies (Jim Harrison)
The Farmer’s Daughter (also by Harrison)
Churchill: A Life (Martin Gilbert)
The Blue Nile (Alex Moorehead)
The Desert War (also by Moorehead)
Carte Blanche (Jeffery Deaver)

I should say not all of these are actually on my bedside table out of fear the stack might collapse and kill me while I sleep. They’re scattered throughout the house. Some people have closets filled with shoes; I’ve got shelves overflowing with books—and still I continue to purchase more, even though there are plenty I have yet to read. Is this a sickness? An addiction? I know I’m not alone. I also know it drives my wife bananas. “Why,” she asks, peering at me over a stack of hardcovers, “must you buy so many books?”

I simply love books . . . they bring me comfort. I love being surrounded by them. In my home office, I have three bookshelves stuffed to capacity with biographies, histories, and thrillers, including a couple of autographed books by Stephen King and William Peter Blatty. On one shelf, I have multiple editions of Ian Fleming’s original Bond novels, including six British first editions published by Jonathan Cape. They’re cherished possessions.

I’ve read ninety percent of the books I own—but that remaining ten percent nags at me. It’s because of this I no longer waste my time struggling to finish books I find boring. In a recent blog post, The Literary Man asked when is it okay to give up on a book. My answer is as soon as you realize you’re bored. Life is too short to stick with disappointing reads. If you’re served a crummy meal in a restaurant, you don’t continue eating it. You ask the waiter to bring you something else.

With all the books I still have to conquer—and the list continues to grow—I place high expectations on my hardcover and paperback entertainment. If I’m not hooked in the first 100 pages, chances are I’m ditching it. Our time here is limited, and I’ve got a lot of books to read.

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Evil Siblings: Procrastination and Writer’s Block

In Writing on March 13, 2012 at 7:50 am

In her excellent book The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain, neurologist Alice Flaherty tackles, among other things, the difference between writer’s block and procrastination. “A blocked writer has the discipline to stay at the desk but cannot write,” she writes. “A procrastinator, on the other hand, cannot bring himself to sit down at the desk; yet if something forces him to sit down he may write quite fluently.”

While I agree with Flaherty’s point of view, I think writer’s block can lead to procrastination. One may become so frustrated with their inability to get the words down, they create excuses not to sit in front of the keyboard.

As my wife will attest, I procrastinate in all things—though I am pretty self-disciplined where writing is concerned. It’s easy for me to come up with a million things I’d rather be doing than banging out a manuscript—but would any of them fill me with the self-satisfaction I experience after a good day’s writing? No. It’s like mustering the will to go to the gym. We all dread getting in the car and driving to our rendezvous with the treadmill, but we feel better in the end for doing it. When I’m working on a book, I always take stock of my accomplishments at day’s end. Did I get any writing done, or did I waste time surfing the web? If you’re a “writer” who always comes up with reasons not to write, you become that person who spends countless hours talking about writing but never actually doing any. I don’t want to be that individual.

I have been fortunate when it comes to writer’s block. Although I go through occasional spells, it’s never been a chronic problem. In The Midnight Disease, Flaherty excerpts a letter Joseph Conrad wrote to a friend regarding this particular torment:

I sit down religiously every morning, I sit down for eight hours every day—and the sitting down is all. In the course of that working day of eight hours, I write three sentences which I erase before leaving the table in despair. Sometimes it takes all my resolution and power of self-control to refrain from butting my head against the wall. I want to howl and foam at the mouth but I daren’t do it for fear of waking the baby and alarming my wife. After such crises of despair, I doze for hours, still held conscious that there is that story that I am unable to write. Then I wake up, try again, and at last go to bed completely done up. At night I sleep. In the morning I get up with that horror of the powerlessness I must face through a day of vain efforts . . .

The irony of Conrad’s letter, of course, is he can write about writer’s block—he just can’t write the story that’s percolating inside his brain. I’m happy to say I have never reached such a level of despair. When writing, I don’t force words on the page. I simply go with the flow if they’re in my head and try not to worry too much about the initial quality. I know I’ll be editing the hell out of them later. The main thing is to get the story down. If the mental well is dry, however, I don’t press the issue. I won’t sit staring at a blinking cursor, as that will only make things worse. The best remedy, at least for me, is to walk away from the keyboard and focus my attention elsewhere, be it a book, movie, or some music, and let my subconscious tackle the problem. I’m not sure why, but the shower is where a lot of my ideas reveal themselves. If I’ve been struggling to find the right wording for something, it’ll usually hit me in the morning as I’m rinsing the shampoo from my hair.

Of course, washing one’s hair is not a practical solution for everybody. Looking for advice that might help others, I found this 2010 article from Psychology Today that offers “Ten Top Tips to End Writer’s Block Procrastination.” Hopefully, someone out there will benefit from them!

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A few words from Stephen King

In author, writers, Writing on March 10, 2012 at 6:39 am

While cruising around Youtube last night, I stumbled across a 2009 BBC interview with Stephen King (I’ve posted the video clip below). The interview is split into several parts, during which King discusses his career and thoughts on writing. Most interesting are his views on teaching creative writing. Basically, he says creative writing classes exist so writers who can’t make a living writing can make a living teaching. He goes onto say creative writing can’t be taught. The best advice you can give an aspiring writer, he says, is to read and write a lot. Experiencing a bit of life doesn’t hurt, either.

While I’m not a snob when it comes to writing, I believe you either have the ability to write or you don’t. Just as you can’t teach someone to use paint and brush to become a good painter, you can’t teach someone to become a good writer. Also, how do you teach something for which there are no strict rules? Every writer approaches their work differently. Some writers use outlines, others prefer to let the story develop as they go along. How do you teach someone to bring their own “voice” to a page? If you already have the ability to write, perhaps a creative writing class can teach you to hone your skills—but it can hardly create skills that aren’t even there to begin with.

King goes onto say that writers who teach, or give themselves “too much air and light,” tend to produce work that is lifeless. This, I don’t agree with. I don’t know one writer who can support themselves solely on their writing. With the exception of the world’s Stephen Kings, most authors endure the daily grind of a job that pays the bills—whether it be in a classroom or cubicle. King’s record obviously speaks for itself—and he’s produced some of my favorite books—but what other alternative do the majority of authors have? One could argue that having a day job keep’s an author rooted in reality. There’s something to be said for mingling with other people on a daily basis and not spending it locked away in a room in front of a keyboard.

He also has an interesting stance on writing conferences, which he says offer creative people a chance to find someone to sleep with. Apparently, creative types are so abnormal, they have a hard time establishing relationships with others. This may be true for some . . . but I like to think I’m one of the normal ones!

Check out more of what he has to say. It’s a great interview . . .

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Presenting . . . the cover to ‘Human Game’

In books, publishing on March 6, 2012 at 7:31 am

Last week, Penguin sent me the mock-up of the cover to Human Game: The True Story of the ‘Great Escape’ Murders and the Hunt for the Gestapo Gunmen. I’m pleased with the end result and find the red color theme to be pretty striking. The faded swastika behind the main title adds a menacing touch to the overall presentation without being distracting. I hope it lures readers! The book hits stores in the US October 2, with a UK release date scheduled for early next year.

Human Game is the non-fiction sequel to the famous World War II story of The Great Escape, the book by Paul Brickhill that became the classic 1963 movie starring Steve McQueen and Richard Attenborough. The book and film (a personal favorite) detail the mass breakout of 76 Allied airmen from Stalag Luft III, a prison camp deep in the heart of Nazi Germany. What made the breakout famous was not merely the number of men involved, but the operation’s overall logistics. All escapees were supplied with German money, fake travel documents and identity papers, homemade compasses, maps, and rations. Outfits, ranging from business suits to German military uniforms, were tailored for every escapee. The men spent more than a year digging three escape tunnels. As I write in Human Game, this endeavor alone required . . .

“. . . the requisitioning of 1,219 knifes, 582 forks, 408 spoons, 246 water cans, 1,699 blankets, 192 bed covers, 161 pillow cases, 1,212 pillows, 655 straw mattresses, 34 chairs, the frames of 90 bunk beds, 3,424 towels, 10 single tables, 52 twenty-man tables, more than 1,200 bed bolsters, nearly 1,400 beaded battens, 76 benches, 1,000 feet of electrical wiring and 600 feet of rope. Four thousand bed boards were used to shore-up the tunnels. Lights wired into the camp’s electrical supply provided illumination underground; air pumps made of discarded kitbags, empty powdered-milk tins, wood-framing, wire mesh and tar paper supplied fresh air to those doing the digging.”

What the men accomplished was nothing short of amazing.

Of the 76 “Great Escapers,” only three made it back to England. Twenty-three were returned to various prison camps. The remaining 50 were rounded up by the Gestapo and executed. The movie ends with the condemned being shot en masse in a field by a German machine gunner. In reality, the men were taken in groups of twos and threes to isolated killing fields throughout the Reich and shot in the beck of the neck. The bodies were destroyed at local concentration camps and crematoriums. The movie always left me wondering who, exactly, was responsible for killing the escapees and what, if anything, became of them? In 2007, I decided to find out. Human Game is the result of three years of researching and writing.

In England, where I’m originally from, “The Great Escape” comes on every Christmas day—a strange, but enjoyable, tradition. I first watched it with my grandfather when I was a child, and it left an indelible impression. Second only to my grandfather’s wartime service in the Royal Air Force, “The Great Escape” launched my lifelong interest in the Second World War. Tales of ordinary people rising to meet extraordinary challenges have always fascinated me—and the investigation into the “Great Escape” murders is such a story.

Tasked with tracking down the Gestapo gunmen was a small team from the RAF’s Special Investigating Branch. The men, detectives in their civilian lives, arrived in Germany in September 1945—seventeen months after the killings—to pick up a trail long gone cold. The team would traverse a Germany divided amongst the American, British, French, and Russian occupiers, all of whom had their own agendas. Through sheer determination and crack investigative skills, the team brought 21 killers to justice in a hunt that spanned three years and pierced the darkest realms of Nazi fanaticism.

I hope readers, upon the book’s release, find the story as enthralling as I do!

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