Guest Post: What Kind of Relationship Do You Have With Your Writing?

This month, I'm turning my column over to a guest, Eric Beckstrom. I've been friends with Eric, a talented writer and photographer, for some thirty years, and I'm pleased to have the chance to let him address the SleuthSayers audience on a topic I'm sure many of us can identify with. As Eric mentions here, his first published story appeared in the 2017 Bouchercon anthology--an enviable place to make your debut, given the competition for those spots! What's even more remarkable is that he's since placed stories in three more Bouchercon anthologies (how many other writers have been selected for four? Certainly none I know of). His latest, "Six Cylinder Totem," will be in the 2025 edition, Blood on the Bayou: Case Closed (available for preorder here). Without further ado, here's Eric!

— Joe

What Kind of Relationship Do You Have With Your Writing?

Eric Beckstrom

We all have a relationship of craft to our writing, or however you choose to put it--relationship, interaction, approach--but I find myself wondering whether other writers also think about their relationship with their writing as a truly personal one--a nearly or even literal interpersonal one, as distinguished from simply craft-centered and intrapersonal. Maybe every writer reading this column experiences their writing in that way, I don't know. That is my own experience– closer to, or, in practice, even literally interpersonal. It is intrapersonal, too, but I also relate to my writing as this other thing outside of myself, like it's a separate entity. The relationship has been fraught. Sometimes– much more so now– it is functional and healthy, sometimes less so, and, for an interminably long time, it was dysfunctional right down to its atomic spin. It includes compromise, generosity, forgiveness, impatience, resignation, joy, trust, fear, just like any other important relationship in my life. The current complexity of the relationship is a gift compared to when it was an actively negative, hostile one, defined by avoidance, fear, and resentment, with only the briefest moments of pleasure and appreciation.

That was years ago. Then, one night, I made a decision that changed my relationship with my writing forever in an instant: I let myself off the hook. More on that later. I understand, of course, there are many very accomplished writers among the SleuthSayers readership, and that perhaps everyone moving their eyes across this screen has also moved well beyond anything I have to say here; but if you ever trudge or outright struggle with your writing--not the craft connection, but the relational one--then maybe there's something here for you.

One of the most common pieces of advice or edicts offered by established writers to budding or struggling writers is, "Write every day," "Write for at least an hour each day," or some variation thereof. This advice is always well-intended, but in my view it seems awfully essentialist. Sometimes it even seems to stem from writers with--I'm being a little cheeky here--personality privilege, such as those who have never or rarely had difficulty with motivation; or from other forms of privilege, like growing up in an environment that encouraged and nurtured creativity or was at least free from significant obstacles to creativity.

© Eric Beckstrom,
LowPho Impressionism

Or maybe those edicts about the right way to approach writing aren't nearly as pervasive as I have thought, and it's more that my (more or less) past hypersensitivity turned my hearing that advice four or five times into a hall of mirrors back then, fifty-five times five in how I felt it reflected negatively on me. Back when I was struggling for my life as a writer, I heard it as judgment. "Eric, you don't writer every day, let alone each day for an hour or two. Therefore, you are not a real writer because you obviously don't have the passion everyone says you'd feel if you were. You are a piker: you make only small bets on yourself, and to the extent that you make writing commitments to yourself, you withdraw from them."

While advice around commitment, writing schedules, regularity, and habit, is, on the face of it, sound, it has a hook on which I used to hang like someone in a Stephen Graham Jones novel or the first victim in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That hook has barbs of guilt, fear, imposter syndrome (not to mention nature-nurture baggage). It also has barbs forged from practical challenges like having to work full-time and having other commitments, and being too mentally exhausted to sit down and write at the end of a day of all that. Until the night I let myself off the hook, I used to absorb those writing edicts as barbs into flesh. As profoundly, debilitatingly discouraging.

For sure, that's also on me. Also, on my upbringing. Also, on the third-grade teacher who called my very first story silly and unrealistic. But, at the end of the day, it was on me to change how I relate to writing. From the age of ten and decades into my adult life, yearning to write, but blocked by inhibitions and other stumbling blocks I'd never learned to turn into steppingstones, I absorbed the standards set by established writers as slammed doors, guilty verdicts, and commandments I had broken.

Here's what happened the night I let myself off the hook– off other people's hook.

I was sitting in front of the TV feeling conflicted, as I felt every night. I knew I ought to go into the other room, turn on the computer, and write. I longed to do so– it was a physical sensation– but couldn't bring myself to. I hadn't been writing, so I wasn't a real writer, right? And since I'd finished very few writing projects, I had limited evidence of talent anyway. All my Psych 101 childhood baggage was there, too, present, like that longing, as something I felt as you'd feel someone slouching behind you in the town psycho house, reaching for your shoulder.

Then, for some reason– and I don't know where this came from– I said out loud to myself "You know what? Screw all that. Screw the edicts and other people's standards. Screw the judgment you feel from others and screw the self-judgment. If you write tonight, great. If you don't write tonight, then don't castigate yourself. Maybe you'll write tomorrow."

In that moment, a strange kind of functional (as differentiated from dysfunctional) indifference triggered a profound letting go which permanently changed my relationship with my writing. And, finally off the hook, having made a deliberate, defiant choice to stop judging my writer self by others' standards and even by my own standards at the time, that very same night, I turned off the TV, turned on the computer, and started writing. Years later (not all my hangups disappeared in one night), after I began making the effort to submit stories for publication, one of the first ones I ever completed, over a single weekend just weeks after I finally began writing in earnest, landed in the 2017 Bouchercon anthology as the first story I had published.

Since then, I've encountered, or perhaps just become more capable of seeing and absorbing, more down to earth, approachable advice and insight offered by others. William Faulkner said, "I write when the spirit moves me." Now, he also said, "The spirit moves me every day," but his words contain no edict or implied universal standard, no judgment. Jordan Peele added an entirely new dimension to my relationship with writing, and, I will share, to my approach to life, with his suggestions to, "Embrace the risk that only you can take." One of the most practical, wise, simple, and compassionate insights I've gotten from another writer– and because of that component of compassion, this insight most clearly describes my current, far more healthy interpersonal relationship with my writing– came from a good writer friend, who, when I described my ongoing struggle with tackling large writing projects, said, "You know, I think it's just about forward progress, whatever that means to you." I also recall the wisdom of another friend who, when I told him about some life issues I was struggling with at the time, said, "That's good. If you're struggling it means you haven't given up. Don't stop moving, don't stop struggling." It's not advice specific to writing, but it sure works.

Nowadays, for me, forward progress could be a single sentence I drop into a story right before my head hits the pillow. It could be a cool ending to an as-yet nonexistent story. Or an interesting first sentence. An evocative title without even the vaguest notion of what plot it might lead to. A single word texted to myself at 2:00AM because it strikes me as belonging to whatever I'm working on. I often do research on the fly, so forward progress is sometimes a link to some article I drop into a given story doc, which I keep in the cloud so I can do that from wherever, whenever. And yes, sometimes forward progress is pages of fast, effortless, final-draft quality writing.

But I never measure my "progress"--those quotation marks are important--by the number of words or pages, though if I make good progress in that way I consciously, usually out loud, give myself credit. And, submission deadlines notwithstanding, I rarely measure my progress according to some timeline. Some days, and I hate to say, sometimes for weeks, I don't write a word, though if that happens now it's almost always due to external constraints rather than resistance; and that is in itself forward progress with respect to my relationship with my writing, upon which the writing itself, and really everything, depends. But that doesn't mean I'm not making forward progress with respect to writing itself, because during those stretches of not writing paragraphs and pages I'm still doing everything I've noted, like simmering ideas, writing in my head and emailing it to myself later, reading like a writer. It's a delicate and, yes, sometimes fraught, balance between self-compassion and self-discipline--after all, what relationship is perfectly healthy?--but these days my relationship with my writing is more characterized by compassion, generosity of spirit, and confidence. Stories have greater trust that I will finish them, and I have greater trust that stories will lead me where they want to go. Even if I don't know where a story is leading me, or I think I do but it changes its mind, or if my confidence flags, or it just seems too difficult to finish, the two-way charitable nature of the relationship between my writing and I has transformed how I approach these situations: at long last, more often than not, that is in a healthy, functional way.

And it's a good thing, too, because for reasons I won't get into here the relationship between my writing and me has become a truly existential thing that sways the cut and core of my life. This thing has been described as a need, a compulsion, a yearning. In Ramsey Campbell's story, "The Voice of the Beach," the protagonist-writer says, "If I failed to write for more than a few days I became depressed. Writing was the way I overcame the depression over not writing." I am grateful to have reached the point where writing is something I want to do, not just something I must do to reduce bad feelings. Writing has become something that I do because, yes, if I don't then I feel sad and unfulfilled, but that's no longer the principle motive. For decades, I yearned to reach a point where I would write because it brings fulfillment and pleasure, even when it's hard or I don't feel like writing in a given moment or on a given day. I am relieved to have reached that point, even if I'm not very "productive" compared to most other writers I know of. That's no longer a hook I hang on. These days, for me a hook is a good story idea, a good opening line or a great title, and the only barbs are the ones my characters must contend with.

That is what I wish for every writer, whether well-established or yearning to begin: a satisfying and healthy relationship with your writing, and, in the words of my friend, forward progress, whatever that means to you.

© Eric Beckstrom, LowPho Impressionism

Only One Writer in the Room

I've talked about whether or not to listen to music while writing. No two writers are the same. I often need music, except in those quiet hours before the day begins. Then I need silence. But later in the day?

Yeah, I need my tunes. But that comes with a caveat. Deep Purple's "Highway Star" or jazz instrumentals do not disrupt the story flow. But I can't have a storyteller singing or rapping. As such, no post-Animals Roger Waters and no Carrie Underwood. The former I find kind of annoying anyway. I was thrilled when Floyd became a trio led by David Gilmour because I want to hear Floyd, not Roger's daddy issues morphed into geo-politics. Carrie?

"Two Cadillacs" already has its own story spinning up in my head. And then we have the most noir country song since "Goodbye, Earl": "Blown Away." First time I ever heard a story about a girl using a tornado to kill her abusive father. Guess there was enough rain in Oklahoma to make that happen.

I used to blast Metallica when I was younger. They put out this thundering wall of sound that drowned out the world. Now I have a persistent ringing in my left ear. It's not bad, and sometimes, ambient noise tamps it down. But I'm not in my thirties anymore. I may listen to Van Halen or Metallica in the car, but when I write, I find myself drifting more toward jazz. While it could be, its vocal songs are not stories as often as other genres. Plus it has more instrumentals than rock or country or, especially, pop. Acts in the other three genres, along with hip hop, are dependent on someone fronting the band. You need your Robert Plants and Taylor Swifts and Blake Sheltons. And hip hop, which is more rhythm than melody to begin with, is a lousy genre for instrumentals. Ludacris, for instance, has some of the best backing tracks in the genre, which really make his songs pop. Take out the vocals, however, and it sounds like half a bar of some interesting synth on a loop.

But jazz? Strip the vocals off "My Favorite Things," and you have a playground for Miles or Coltrane (and later, his wife, Alice) or the Marsalis brothers. In jazz, voice is more an instrument than something to be supported by the backing band.

And pop, which is all about spectacle, needs a charismatic person to draw in the audience. Hence, most pop acts are solo, often an outlet for songwriters these days. I've heard my share of country instrumentals. The genre can use more in this era of Spotify blandness. But rock? There's always room in rock for sending the vocalist on break. Like when Stevie Ray Vaughan took on Jimi Hendrix's classic "Little Wing."

Thoughts on Finding Time and Space to Write

Ladies and gentlemen of the crime community, we take great pleasure in introducing Mr David Heska Wanbli Weiden. Please give David a warm welcome.

— Leigh

author David Heska Wanbli Weiden
photo by Aslan Chalom

            David Heska Wanbli Weiden

            I am delighted to join the SleuthSayers roster! It’s a pleasure to join writers whom I’ve known for some time and others that I’ve yet to meet. In this introductory post, I thought I’d share some thoughts on publishing and marketing a debut novel (spoiler alert: during a pandemic!) and also on finding space to write one’s second novel, although I hasten to add that no one should take any advice from me on this topic, given that it’s been five (!) years since my debut was published. I am happy to report that the sequel, Wisdom Corner, is forthcoming in 2026, and I also have an edited anthology forthcoming from Akashic Books titled Native Noir.

            By way of background, my debut novel, Winter Counts, was published by Ecco/HarperCollins. It’s the tale of Virgil Wounded Horse, a vigilante on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota. I’m an enrolled citizen of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe (known as the Sicangu Lakota nation in our language), and so it’s no surprise that I set the novel there. I wasn’t raised on the reservation, but I spent a great deal of time there growing up, as my mother was born there and our family still has a presence on the rez. Indeed, I “own” three small parcels of land on the reservation, although that land is held in trust by the federal government and is leased to white ranchers, who pay rent for the use of the land (the princely sum I receive ranges from 75 cents to several dollars per annum.)

            I wrote and revised Winter Counts in the period from 2017-2019 and was extremely fortunate to secure representation from a literary agent, the wonderful Michelle Brower, in 2018. On submission, we were lucky to have a number of Big Five imprints interested in the manuscript, and Ecco offered a two-book deal, which we accepted. Publication was set for August 2020, and I excitedly attended to all of the details of publication: copyediting, proofreading, cover design, audio book creation, etc.

            And then the global pandemic happened.

            The Covid-19 years now seem very far away, but it is difficult to understate the impact the virus had on the publishing world in the early stages. My entire book tour was canceled as was every planned event, including a live book launch in my hometown of Denver. Indeed, every brick-and-mortar bookstore in the country had closed, which did not bode well for hand sales of the novel by booksellers. Naturally, I was devastated, as it seemed like all of my hard work was going down the drain. But, people were dying, and I was of course grateful that no one in my family was affected (although I did contract the virus, just weeks before the first vaccine was released) and I mourned for those lost, including a former classmate. The impact of Covid-19 was catastrophic for citizens of my reservation, as there were few opportunities to quarantine on Indigenous lands and many Native nations did not have the resources to purchase medical masks before federal funds began to be distributed. (Jumping ahead of the story a bit: after my novel was released, private book clubs began to ask me to join them virtually; I never charged a fee, but I did request that they donate to the Rosebud Sioux Tribe Covid fund, and I was gratified to raise a fair amount of money for my people to purchase masks and other items.)

         For those of us with books published in the first wave of the pandemic, there were no templates on how to move forward. Given that the usual model of in-person book promotion was not possible, I made the decision that I’d utilize every option offered to discuss the novel. And indeed, that’s exactly what I did. In the year after the book was released, I engaged in nearly two hundred events: virtual bookstore readings, podcasts, virtual festival appearances, radio broadcasts, meetings with private book clubs, print interviews, television appearances, and even an Instagram takeover of the HarperCollins account. I also wrote several dozen blog posts and articles, including an op-ed for the New York Times. I was grateful for these opportunities to talk about the novel and the issues in the book, and my initial awkwardness with video appearances lessened to some degree. Happily, I believe that my work paid off, as the novel was able to attract significant attention in the press as well as dozens of positive and rave reviews. Sales were excellent, and the book made a few bestseller lists as well as receiving twelve awards in the U.S. and England.

            The point here is that book promotion and marketing apparently changed as a result of the pandemic years, and this change may be permanent. I’ve spoken to veteran authors who told me that they never participated in any virtual events before the pandemic, but that these appearances are now standard for them. To be sure, there are some authors who have such a national presence that they can eschew these virtual gatherings, but for most of us, Zoom events are now the norm. For example, about one hundred private book clubs adopted and discussed Winter Counts, and I made a virtual appearance for about half of those. It’s always a pleasure to speak with these enthusiastic readers, but these meetings take time and energy, of course.

         And that brings me to the issue of writing the second novel. I’ll confess that I’ve sometimes felt like a slacker when I observed folks in my writer friend group publishing novels every couple of years (or even more frequently!) But I know that each of us has a different process and different circumstances. Like most, I’ve maintained a day job as well as family responsibilities. Raising teenagers—at least in my house—ensures a steady stream of issues that demand immediate attention. In addition, many of us maintain side jobs and passion projects. In my case, I’ve made it a priority to give back to the Native American and writing communities, engaging in fundraising, mentoring, and various forms of professional service. But these activities also take significant time and attention.

            This brings me to the practical advice on finishing a second book, although I’ll repeat my caveat that I’m not sure I’m the person to advise on this. For me, the most intense bursts of creativity have occurred when I’ve been in attendance at artists’ residencies. I’ve had the exceptional good fortune to be in residence twice at MacDowell, Ucross, and Ragdale, as well as once at the Vermont Studio Center and once as Artist in Residence at Brown University. For those who aren’t aware, these residencies are spaces for artists to work, uninterrupted, in the presence of other creatives. At MacDowell, located in the woods of New Hampshire, each artist is given a cabin or studio in which to work by themselves; lunches are silently dropped off at the front door. In the evenings, a communal meal allows for discussion of work projects and other topics. In 2018, I wrote the final chapters of Winter Counts in two weeks in an intense period of focused creativity in the Garland studio at MacDowell. In the last several years, I’ve worked on Wisdom Corner at other residencies with similar results.

            For those struggling to find time in which to write while juggling family and other responsibilities, artists’ residencies can be a godsend. Many of these residencies charge no fees and some even provide travel stipends. For the best-known residencies, admission is competitive while others are less so. But, despite the benefits of these residencies, I’ve found that there are vanishingly few crime or genre writers at these spaces. It’s tempting to infer that there may be a bias by the judges against genre writers and in favor of literary fiction authors. I can’t definitively answer that question, but I can share at least one data point. For the last two years, I was a judge for a well-known residency (I’m not allowed to say which one), and, in that time period, there were exactly zero crime writers who applied for admission. Perhaps this was just an anomaly, but my sense is that crime and genre writers are either unaware of these residencies or believe that these spaces are not for them. This is most certainly not true! I urge crime and genre writers to apply to these residencies as well as other conferences, festivals, and events. I’ll briefly note that many general writing conferences—such as Tin House, Bread Loaf, and Sewanee—are also frequently overlooked by genre writers.

            I’ll end these thoughts by noting that the landscape of publishing has certainly changed in the last decade for a variety of reasons. Not only the transformations wrought by the pandemic, but the consolidation of publishing as certain presses and imprints have merged or shut down. Many more changes are certainly coming given the economic uncertainty we face. In light of this, it’s in our interest as genre writers to remain aware of these challenges and adapt as necessary. To this end, I’m heartened by the formation of communities such as Crime Writers of Color, Queer Crime Writers, and others. These groups have tirelessly worked to open up spaces for writers previously marginalized from mainstream publishing, a positive development in our ever-changing industry.

Dust and Write

            I've been doing some research on the American Civil War for my next project. The notes I'm taking are stacking higher and higher. I could write a first-class term paper at this point, but I'm not ready yet to write a story.

            In particular, I’m still looking for a hinge fact.

            The hinge fact, in my definition, is the tidbit that hooks the reader and opens up the story. I assume that it will capture the reader’s interest if it grabs my attention.

            I recently read Dust and Light. The author, Andrea Barrett, writes historical fiction and has garnered numerous national prizes for her work. Dust and Light is a short nonfiction book in which she discusses finding and using facts in her writing. The book received some nice attention and seemed perfect for helping me clarify my thoughts on research and writing.

            The Devil's Kitchen, my debut novel, unfolds across dual timelines. The remaining books in the series will as well. To write the historical chapters, I need a basketful of facts. However, to progress as a writer, I wanted to consider new and better ways to utilize them.

            Dust and Light has me thinking about historical facts and their judicious use. I want to deploy the facts to tell the story rather than using the story to display the facts. That's always the goal, but it's easier to articulate than to execute.

            I also hoped the book might show me how to pinpoint the hinge fact.

            That final search didn’t pay off. As Barrett outlined her method, I kept hearing the word "chaotic" in my head. In interviews, she has described her research and writing process as odd, inefficient, even crazy. One of the book's themes is that a discussion of process isn't intended to teach a particular method of writing. Instead, the conversation teaches us that we all have our own individualized method for writing and that “we should cherish those ways.”

            Andrea Barrett may be the dictionary definition of ‘pantser.’

            Her book reminded me of a few other things. The author related a story about scientific research from the nineteenth century. Fridtjof Nansen theorized that in the frozen wilderness of the Polar Sea, ice drifted northwest. He searched for evidence to support his belief. Nansen learned of the Jeanette, a ship exploring the region that had been lost at sea. Several years after its disappearance, a pair of oilskin pants from the Jeanette washed up on the shore of Greenland. Nansen recognized their clockwise drift pattern and set off on his own largely successful expedition.

            An empty pair of pants floating onto the Greenland coast is my idea of a hinge fact. 

            To make his leap of understanding, Nansen needed this fact. But to appreciate its significance, he required a solid knowledge foundation in his field. The explorer also benefited from a community to support and challenge him. He needed resources— a crew, a ship, and time. Finally, Nansen required the courage to try.

            The scientific or explorer’s method may not be identical to that of the fiction writer, but the resource demands are similar. The entry point, an adequate base, space and time to explore, and a supportive community are all elements of successful writing.

            Barrett seriously downplays the use of facts. She acknowledges that fiction must be about something. Setting out a story about a character doing something within a specific time and place necessarily involves articulating facts. While reluctantly agreeing, she wants her facts to be dissolved into her fiction. The basket of facts she accumulates is used to inform what characters love and what motivates them rather than providing specific details about who and when. She doesn't like to overburden her stories with facts. 

            Much of Dust and Light is devoted to clarifying this idea. What Barrett wants to convey about her characters needs to be true, even if not entirely factual. Everyone who writes fiction probably thinks the same way. We write stories and not encyclopedias. 

            To write crime fiction rooted in history, I need a plot. And within a plot, I need facts. In interviews, more so than in Dust and Light, Barrett makes clear that she writes literary historical fiction rather than genre fiction. I felt the metaphorical pat on the head and the implied, 'I’m not really talking about you.' While her polite dismissal sounded a bit pretentious, the take-home lesson--to separate the cause from the result--retained value. Barrett encourages writers “not to confuse the material with the aesthetic creation arising from the material.” In fiction, the facts are in service to the story.

            We think the same way about character building. Somewhere on my computer are saved a host of surveys I’ve been given. These are questionnaires to flesh out fictional characters. When I’ve thought through what sort of dessert she likes and what pet she had as a child, I have a better picture of who my character is and how she might respond in each situation, even if nowhere in my story does she ever pause to eat strawberry ice cream with her cat. The pile of facts Barrett accumulates help her to know her historical characters in the same way.

            Dust and Light is a quick read. I didn’t find my guide to locating the hinge fact. I did, however, come away with a lesson on delicacy in selecting and incorporating facts into my stories. I got a cautionary tale about the temptation to flood my stories with excessive information. The book gave me a glimpse into different research and writing styles. It reminded me about the value of the community.

            And speaking of community. I’ll be traveling from ThrillerFest on the day this blog posts. I won’t have internet access. Please excuse the failure to reply to a comment.

            Until next time.

Pet Peeves: 2025 Writing Edition

Interesting, title, right? Perhaps a little provocative?

Let’s be clear. I’m talking about writing pet peeves.

I mean, come on. This is a blog ostensibly about writing. And while many of my fellow SleuthSayers and yours truly frequently indulge our impulses to discuss other interests, There’s plenty going on in the writing world right now that merits commentary.

In light of this, I offer below a few of my own beefs about current trends in writing, As well as some pithy observations from other writers among my circle of friends. Where the comment is my own, I have left it unattributed. Other contributors are noted alongside their entries.

With that said, let us begin.

GROUND/FLOOR

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of writers (Many of them, Indie) have a tendency to conflate the words “ground” and “floor”.

For example:

“The glass candelabra dropped from her hand, crashing into a hundred pieces when it hit the ground.” 

This when the character is in a second story bedroom. Not outside, and not even in a basement with a dirt floor!

I have seen this literally dozens of times in books I’ve read over the past year. What’s more, said conflation seems to go only one way. And that is using the word “ground” when the word “floor” is appropriate.

I have yet to see something along the lines of: “Milton stood in the middle of the road, watching the wagon retreat into the distance. And when it had gone from sight, he fell to his knees on the dusty floor.”

Weird, huh?

An actual example of something actually being thrown on the actual ground.

NOT JUST THE TITLE OF A TERRIFIC PETER GABRIEL ALBUM

I’m referring, of course, to the word “so.”

Specifically, at the head of a sentence, and solely used in dialogue.

For example: “So I heard you got cancer.”

I suppose seeing something like this once or twice over the course of 80-90k words is one thing. But here’s the thing about “dialogue leading so”: once it crops up one place, pretty soon you’re seeing it as dialogue tag signaling a transition in every conversation in said book. I have seen this time and again. And that is just lazy writing. Why not just go with: “I heard you got cancer.”?

AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON (OVER)USING A.I.

No question A.I. can come in handy when a writer needs a quick answer to a research question in the middle of a scene. We’ve all been there. It’s like a Google search on steroids.

But (and again, I’m seeing this mostly with Indie writers) I have begun to see bloated passages where paragraphs tend to run together, often repeating the exposition of a certain set of facts over and over, as if to show the importance of said facts, and the intensity of the revelation of their existence by sheer repetition.

Mess around with any form of A.I. long enough and this pattern can seem awfully familiar. And then there’s stuff like this:

Readers Annoyed When Fantasy Novel Accidentally Leaves AI Prompt in Published Version, Showing Request to Copy Another Writer’s Style.

And apparently there are plenty of other examples of this sort of thing.

And when caught out, the authors in question seem to be leaning hard on the notion that what tripped them up and revealed their use of generative AI constituted an “editing mistake.”

Uh-huh.

Laurie Rockenbeck says:

If I see “long moment” I want to scream. (Mainly because a best selling author uses it ten times in every novel….)

David Schlosser (who writes as “dbschlosser”) says:

Hyphenation proliferation. The stupidest example I see everywhere now is 70-percent.

Or seven-out-of-ten.

It's like engineers using Random Capital Letters to tell you How Important This Is.

I (also) have an opinion about "as" from editing non-native English speakers' technical reports.

Because, since, as all *can* mean the same thing ... and so we should choose carefully which word to use in each instance.

Because is explicitly causal. In research on influence and persuasion, it is literally a magic word - people will do things they would not otherwise do when they hear a reason justified by "because."

"Since" and "as" both have temporal implications "because" does not have.

Use "since" to describe time elapsed SINCE something happened - not to describe why what happened since then happened.

Use "as" to describe events occurring simultaneously.

Use "because" to describe cause-and-effect relationships.

Jim Thomsen says:

I would say the growing reliance on histrionic reaction beats in thrillers. From a recently released novel: “Guilt had twisted in my entrails like a knife.”

Other examples:

“Anxiety churns along her skin.”

“Anger, pulsing anger, dripped down her body.”

“Grief hurtled toward me, crashing into me and beating inside my chest like a giant, furious animal.”

“Horror stole over me like a mist, uncurling deep within. And then a fiery knot began to burn in my stomach.”

“Agony was stamped indelibly on his body, weighted across the miserable hunch of his shoulders. He looked smaller somehow, shrunken, the way a grape shrivels into a raisin.”

I collect these.

My evergreen sarcastic retort: “That makes my heart pound like a hooker’s headboard in a highway hotel.”

******

And that is about as great a last word as we’re gonna find. So I’ll leave it there. How about you? Pet peeves? Got ‘em? Share ‘em in the Comments section below!

See you in two weeks!

A Year In, A Month Off

My first regular SleuthSayers post went up in late April of 2024, so I missed the opportunity to mark the occasion of my first anniversary as a member of this crew. In that first post, I somehow tried to make a connection between writing and a specific approach to baseball strategy. Since then I've talked about ShortCon, shelf shortages, musical anthologies, Walter Mitty, writing dialogue, the creation of a new Derringer Award, and a number of other topics. Hopefully, some of you out there have enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I look forward to continuing to offer my rambles for a some time to come.

This particular month, I'm finding the shoebox of ideas a little empty. In fact, I haven't really written anything this month.

 That's after writing five stories in the first four months of the year, ranging from 2900 to 5800 words. I wouldn't call what I'm going through at the moment writer's block. It's not that I want to write but can't. It's more a matter of having other things to do and no pressing need to get back to the keyboard.

There was a time when this would have bothered--even frightened--me. I would have felt like if I didn't get back to writing ASAP, I might never get back to it at all. I'd be obsessed with the opportunities I might be missing. I'd be thinking about all the interviews I've ever seen with writers who say that ""real" writers write every day. I'd be thinking about Ray Bradbury's advice to write a story every single week, on the theory that nobody can write 52 bad stories in a row.

I've never come close to hitting that mark. The most stories I've ever written in one year is 26; over the last several years, I'm much closer to a one-story-a-month pace.

OK, so I don't write as much as this guy

The difference between the earlier me, who would have been panicked at a month without writing, and the current me, who's handling it fairly well, comes down, I think, to experience. I know that I've been through periods like this before, and invariably come out of them. I know that, sooner or later, I will sit down at the keyboard again and turn something out. A little time away from writing isn't necessarily a bad thing. It might even be a good one.

I'm confident that, somewhere in the back of my head, ideas are bubbling. Sooner or later, one will break the surface. And I understand that "real" writers come in all varieties. Yes, some write every single day. Others need breaks. And that's okay.

Even if it makes for what is almost surely my shortest column so far.

How about you? Do you take breaks from writing? Do you think doing so ultimately helps you?

The Two-Sentence Trick

 

I sold a story to an anthology this week.  I can't tell you about that yet but I want to tell you about a tool, new to me, which I used.

I have always been a plotter rather than a pantser, but I don't usually outline.  I knew this would be a longer story than I have been writing lately -- it turned out to be 7,500 words which I then had to (shudder) edit down to 6,000 -- so I decided to outline it.

But here's how I did it: For each scene I wrote two sentences. The first told what happened.  The second explained why it was important. Or putting it another way: How did this scene advance the plot? (Because if it doesn't, why is it there?)

This was particularly appropriate because this mystery story really was a mystery story, meaning my protagonist had to solve a crime.  My system made it easy for me to keep track of the clues.

For example: 

Scene 6. Chickie, the manager,  confronts them and says he doesn’t want Hilda back because she caused them trouble by getting arrested.  They learn that  Surebank is the insurance company involved in the theft.

Got it? The first sentence is what happens in the scene.  The second sentence tells me what the protagonist got out of it. 

Worked for me. This time.  Who know what will happen next time around?

Music When You Write

© Embassy Pictures

For years, especially on Short Mystery, I've found myself drawn into the whole Music While Writing vs. Complete Silence debate. I haven't for a while, but my latest take is interesting. I've gotten really good at ignoring the television if I work evenings in the living room. However, as I type this now, I'm playing ocean sounds on my streaming app. 

Years ago, the then-spousal unit and I had a roommate who demanded a lot of attention. I, of course, wanted ours to be a couple's home, maybe eventually with a kid. (Spoiler alert: I later became a serial stepdad, but that's a different story.) So I would blast Metallica and Led Zeppelin through headphones to shut her (and the nearby TV) out. The roomie wanted to know how I got anything done playing loud music through the headphones. "I can't hear the rest of the world."

And really, if you have ADHD, diagnosed or not, music gives your wandering brain a place to go to and come back from. As the years went on, however, I liked that wall of sound as I wrote. It was particularly fun when a friend from Ireland started sending me blues CDs and certain members of the crime community latched onto Tom Waits. More recently, I rediscovered Yes (I'd kind of soured on any prog rock not played by Pink Floyd for a few years) and King Crimson. Plus my jazz phase.

When this debate comes up, people tend to center on what their brain wants. Coffee, followed closely by tea, is a given. Some people need calm, but not necessarily quiet. The most common response has been classical or ambient music at low volume. Although one scifi writer I know live-streamed as he wrote the last chapter of a book and played jazz in the background. Not sure I could do the live-streaming part. I've had people who wanted to peer over my shoulder as I write or wanted to read everything before it's finished. That results in a firm "No," followed by something more assertive when they don't take the hint. (Similarly, I hate reading unfinished manuscripts and refuse to do it as an editor.)

Some people want silence. Complete silence. The door is shut, and unless you're the cat (or a well-behaved dog), keep out. I get it. Absolutely no distractions. Also, there's a need to keep anything outside that might influence a story from getting in. Hence writers from Tolstoy to Chuck Wendig have write shacks. (John Scalzi bought a church, but I suspect he still writes at home, based on his blog.)

I'm of the low-volume music school of thought these days. Mind you, I don't listen to loud music as much as I used to. I was once the proud owner of the entire Led Zeppelin catalog on cassette, a Camaro, and an impressive mullet. (1987 or 88. No photographic evidence exists of either the hair or the car. I'm kind of bummed about the car.) Jazz can be played at lower volume, and I got into the jazz habit driving Uber. I could tell whether I'd like a passenger or not based on how they reacted to jazz. (Nearly threw one guy out of the car when he wanted "good music," but couldn't specify what that meant.)

Silence sounds very appealing. No noise other than the ambient noise of a house or the outdoors, maybe, as right this moment for me, the furnace kicking in. Sounds almost like meditation.

I think most of us need a little noise to write. Creatives' minds wander as it is, and music or ambient noise is a benign way to fill up space where the mind might go, "But how will The Bachelor end tonight?"

Adventures in Dictation

Shortly before lockdown, I talked to a science fiction author named Rick Partlow about getting on board with his publisher. He said, "Sure, if you have a good indie backlog (I did.) and can spin up stories quickly."

Um...

Holland Bay took ten years to hammer into publishable form. The Dogs of Beaumont Heights, the sequel, took only two because I knew the setting. But it was still a struggle. A trilogy? I thanked Rick and decided science fiction as TS Hottle would remain a not-for-profit venture. There was no way I could spin up a character arc for the mysterious pilot calling herself Suicide. (It's a call sign, based on her penchant for taking risks no one else ever would.) I thanked Rick and moved on. I was at work, took a restroom break. 

By the time I got back to my desk, I had nine story germs spun up in my head. Maybe I could toss these out and make it a trilogy about Suicide and not the seven kids (now adults) from earlier books I'd written. I messaged Rick back. Rick manages a 90,000-word novel a month! I said, "Ass."

"You're welcome."

But how would I make that work? My wife had suffered a major health crisis and needed more attention than before, when she was working and could deal with my man flu. (Spoiler alert: I've only had the flu once since 2002, and my bout with Covid I mistook for a bad cold. Sadly, it hit the same day I got my first booster. That was fun.)

At the time, I drove Uber, but I didn't want potentially sick people in my car. And Uber's isolation practices, when everything was unknown and no vaccines existed, didn't cut it. So I switched to Door Dash. Pick up food, drive to the customer, go to the next restaurant. I also found Rick's secret. He dictated.

Well, I knew these characters intimately. And I'd started outlining more. One reason Holland Bay took so long was that I'd pantsed a story in a fictional city with a cast of characters that would give Dickens pause and a level of detail Tolkien would have balked at. I was trying to write all five seasons of The Wire at one time. Nine science fiction novels? I'd better at least sketch them out.

I quickly developed a system to write while I worked. The restaurants all tended to be in the same location. So I didn't use GPS. Driving to the restaurant or waiting on a run? I dictated the story into Google Docs on my phone. Driving to the customer? I listened to audio books, tolerating the GPS's interruptions along the way. Suicide Run, the original book in the arc, took a month and checked in around 85,000 words (if memory serves.) The longest is the next unreleased book (8 of 9, with a short story collection as a coda), at 92,000 words.  In a year, I managed to dictate the entire story arc of nine novels. 

What did I learn?

It was a weird time, requiring weird approaches. I might have done Holland Bay parts 2, 3, and 4 that way, but somehow, that didn't seem right. Nor did I want to resurrect my PI, Nick Kepler. Kepler is done, anyway. But the arc is not so much a nine-book series-within-a-series as it's a really long story about the seven young people and their mentor in the events following my original trilogy. And if you've read this space for any amount of time, you know I have a penchant for settings and world-building. Probably why Ed McBain appeals to me like he does.

 

Write Fast! Write Slow! Write Daily! Write When You Can!

 I currently exist in two distinct hells: Rewrite Hell, and End-of-Term-Grading Hell. So I thought I would repost something I wrote back in 2013 under the title: Writing Efficiency in its Myriad Forms. As a rumination on efficient writing it has aged surprisingly well. As a snapshot of life at Casa Thornton it is definitely a fly flash-frozen in amber. (occasional parenthetical updates in italics are additions/emendations intended for this repost, btw.) I hope you get something out of it either way. See you in two weeks! - B.T.

**************************************

In his excellent piece This Year You Write Your Novel, Walter Moseley gives the following advice: “The first thing you have to know about writing is that it is something you must do every day–every morning or every night, whatever time it is that you have. Ideally, the time you decide on is also the time when you do your best work.”

In his defense, Walter apparently has the luxury to plan out his schedule to quite a specific degree.

Along with “Write every day,” “Write fast” seems to be the mantra of this generation. “Writing fast and producing copious amounts of word product is the key to success,” so many “how to” books seem to say.

Bosh.

I’ll tell ya, I have had my share of 2,000 word-count days. Not a one of them came independent of either a hell of a lot of time spent thinking about what I wanted to write that day, or by dint of a whole lot of later tweaking, editing, or outright re-writing.

Put simply, I can write fast, or I can write well. I cannot do both.

This is not to say that such a thing isn’t possible. It is! Just not for me.

I once wrote a pair of 40,000 word books (80,000 words total) in eight weeks. Tight deadline. Unreasonable (and unprofessional, and unhelpful) development editor didn’t make it any easier.

I was an unmarried, kidless apartment dweller at the time. I had (and still have) a day gig that required a fair amount of headspace. So it was work, home to write, bed, rinse and repeat.

Talk about a miserable couple of months!

Astonishingly these two books are still in print.

We spent longer on reworking what I’d written into something passable than it took to write the initial drafts, or, for that matter, for me to have written them well in the first place. But that was a different time in my career, and in my life.

If I were to find myself in that sort of situation today, I’d have to give back the advance. Seriously. I’ve got a marriage and a house and a wonderful one (now twelve!) year-old son, all of whom require my time and attention.

More to the point, they command my time and attention. I enjoy the hell out of being married, being a father, and owning a home. I suspect the fact that I was in my mid-forties by the time I experienced any of these pleasures does nothing to lessen them.

Couple these aspects of my daily life with the fact that my day gig still requires a lot of my energy and attention, and I find myself left with the question, “How do I get anything written at all, let alone sold?”

The answer is that for I published my most recent book in 2011. That was also the year in which I collected and edited an anthology of crime fiction called West Coast Crime Wave. I got married and bought my house in 2010. My son was born in 2012.

(I've published a lot of stuff since then, glad to say!)

So there was some adjustment involved in taking on these new responsibilities, adjustment time during which my publishing slowed to a stand-still.

This is not to say that I stopped writing during this time. Far from it. I figure that during the second half of 2011 and all of 2012, I easily wrote 50,000 words on my work-in-progress historical mystery.

I just won’t be publishing any of those words. They were intended to keep my hand in it, if you will, not to be part of the final equation.

And it worked.

You heard it here first: I’m just wrapping the sale of my first short story in years. I’m also nearly 2/3 of the way through the final draft of my current WIP, a historical thriller set in antebellum Washington, D.C. By this time next year, I’ll have this and another novel wrapped, in addition to writing three more new short stories, and publishing them along with some of my previously published canon in a collection.

And I won’t do it by “writing every day” or “writing fast.” With my schedule that’s just not feasible. So I do the next best thing.

I write when I can where I can as much as I can and as often as I can. Sometimes it’s 2,000 words a day. Sometimes it’s 2,000 words a week.

(And some days it's a few hundred words on my phone!)

It takes a while longer to get my head back into the story once I’ve been away from it for a while, but I think that’s a small price to pay for making time to play with my son every day, spend quality time with my wife, and keep the house from falling down around our ears.

For example, I wrote the ending to “Paper Son,” my short story featured in Akashic Books’ Seattle Noir anthology, while sitting in Seattle Mystery Bookshop, waiting for my friend Simon Wood to finish up a signing there. What’s more, I wrote it on my Blackberry smartphone and emailed it to myself.

I’ve also been known to record story ideas while driving. My commute contributes to some terrific “alone and pondering” time.

Plus, I don’t tend to let story ideas fall by the wayside. This is especially true of short stories. I will get an idea, do some research (remember, I write historical mystery/crime fiction, after all), then begin working on it.

This has so far stood me in good stead. So far I’ve published five short stories (soon to be six), all with paying venues, out of a total of seven shorts actually completed.

In fact, the second story I sold to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, “Suicide Blonde,” was initially rejected. I reworked it, submitted it to the annual MWA anthology contest. They also rejected it.

But I believed in the story enough to resubmit it to Linda Landrigan AHMM, and this time she bought it. What a great feeling!

By the way, I almost never finish a short by working on it straight through. Usually the ones I’ve published have come from months or years of on and off development. Take the story I am about to sell. I first began work on it in 2007.

I guess in the end I don’t really disagree with Mr. Mosley’s excellent advice, at least in spirit. After all, while I can’t really generate new fiction every single day, I definitely do write every day (in various forms), and I believe I’m in complete agreement with the spirit of his advice, which seems to emphasize the importance of establishing a routine in order to help make you more efficient as a writer.

In that regard, I’m doing the best I can. And life is good!

(And it's even better now!)

Recharging Your Batteries

"Every other writer's process is sort of vaguely scary and appalling." - Daryl Gregory.

Since I retired a few years ago I have fallen into a new pattern for writing and I decided to share it with you.  Mostly I am inviting you to compare and contrast in the comments.

I have been writing short stories exclusively for the last few years.  I write slow (or is that slowly?) and a first draft takes me weeks to months.  I write every day and on most days I will also do some editing of different stories.  (Most of mine go through roughly ten drafts.)

But I found that when I finished that first draft I was reluctant to start on another story.  (I usually have another one ready to go - and boy, am I using up my supply on parentheses today.)

So here's what I figured out.  The day after I finish a first draft I switch to doing only editing for a week.  And after a few days this really bugs me.  Instead of being reluctant I soon find I am dying to get onto the next story.  

When the week is over my engines are roaring to go.  And that's a good thing.

Speaking of engines, your mileage may vary.  How does your work process go?

Don’t Worry. Write Happy.

In a recent Zoom presentation, Linda Landrigan, editor of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, recommended Joni B. Cole’s Good Naked: How to Write More, Write Better, and Be Happier, so I read the revised and expanded edition released by University of New Mexico Press in 2022.

Linda recommended the book because of Cole’s advice about, as Linda put it, “writing from the middle.” Cole advocates that you “dive into a first draft by writing any scene or memory or passage that asserts itself in your consciousness and feels like it might belong somewhere, anywhere, in the story” (p 79). Further, you should “[w]rite the hot spots—the stuff that feels vivid and demanding of your time now—and figure out later how they flow and fit together” (p 79).

Though I nearly always write the first scene first—without it I have nothing—I often do something similar to what Cole advocates: I write scenes out of order, leaving notes between the scenes to let me know what I think should move the reader from one to the other, be it a simple transition or a complete scene or sometimes even multiple scenes.

Writing out of order is one of the ways Cole suggests that we can avoid writer’s block. Putting anything—anything at all—on a page indicates that the muse is still with us, even if not focused on what we wish it to focus on.

Cole also notes that staring at the computer screen until she “came up with a brilliant idea” was for her and is for us counter-productive because “writing is what happens when we are busy looking away from the page” (178). Many of us know this, and it’s why we walk the dog, take extra showers, rearrange the refrigerator’s contents, hang out in coffee shops, and do other things when we are vexed with a piece of writing. The solution often comes when we aren’t trying to force it.

One theme that runs through the entire book—it’s right there in the subtitle—is the belief that happiness and productivity go hand-in-hand. A happy writer produces more and better work and that, in turn, feeds the writer’s happiness. (Don’t we all feel better when we’ve had a good day at the keyboard?)

“Happiness can be an elusive goal,” Cole writes (p 219-220), “and while we have the inalienable right to pursue it, what often remains in doubt is whether we have the gumption and energy to do so. To cultivate a sense of well-being, and open ourselves up to joy, requires a commitment to positive practices.”

So, stop being a writer who claims not to be happy writing, but only happy having written.

Instead, find joy in the creative process itself.

Reward yourself for a well-turned phrase, pat yourself on the back for drafting a complete scene, and celebrate devising the perfect plot twist. In short, find happiness in each step of the process.

If you do this, you will be eager to return to the keyboard, and you will return again and again and again. You will be more productive, you will write better, and you will be happier.

More than One Way to Creatively Write

A few days ago on the 1st of July, Chris Knopf wrote about writing letters. The essay reminded me of my mother.

Historically, we know many male writers through their books and novels, but only a few women writers. We can, however, study a number of women of yesteryear through their correspondence. My mother, Hillis, followed in that tradition. She was an inveterate letter writer.

And she would write anyone, sometimes asking questions, often asserting a strong opinion. Occasionally a public figure received a note with a schoolteacher rebuke. I imagined the recipient gulping and mumbling, “Yes, ma’am.”

When I graduated high school, I received a congratulatory letter from the state’s governor. In one missive, Mom mentioned in passing I would be graduating, and somebody picked up on it.

She contributed trivia questions to a radio quiz show, and after a while, the show’s host began to reach out to her. On occasion when Mom visited the city, she’d chat with the show’s presenter prior to lunchtime.

Once after bidding him goodbye, Mom steered her kid (me) down the street where she came across a panhandler in front of a coffee shop. The man looked distressed. Mom said, “Let’s go inside and I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“I can’t,” said the derelict. “They won’t let me in.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Won’t they? We shall see about that.”

Uh-oh. My mother was barely five feet tall standing on a phonebook, but Dear God, she was fierce.

She took him by the elbow and ushered him inside. Immediately the staff said, “He has no money to pay. He has to leave.”

The cheeky waiter was fortunate Mom didn’t haul off and slap him in the kneecap. Mom pretended not to hear him.

“Young man, you will bring us salad, ham and turkey sandwiches, and coffee, thank you.”

Across the restaurant, spoons and forks hung in mid-air. Cups suspended before reaching the lip. All eyes turned on a server facing off against a munchkin who looked like she could devour him for lunch.

“But ma’am…” The waiter saw a steely flicker in Mom’s eyes that couldn’t be broached, a glint suggesting his continued good health might come into question. “Y-Yes ma’am. W-Will you be having dessert?”

Postal Cards versus Post Cards

As proficient as she was catching the ears of movers and shakers, Hillis was locally known for her postal cards. Postal cards and post cards are different. Postal cards refer to official US Postal Service cards, typically manilla-colored rectangles with no illustration other than guides for the address. They come pre-stamped, postage paid. Post cards, aka picture postcards, are common commercial cards, often a bit larger than postal cards. They require separately purchased postage.

One other thing– The Post Office offered for sale official USPS uncut ‘penny postal cards’. Firms could buy sheets of cards, print their message, promotion, or advertisement on the backs, and then cut them to size.

 

 

Project Manager

Mom didn’t so much have hobbies, but rather projects. Hobbies are done for sheer enjoyment, the journey not the destination. Projects have a goal, a destination.

Dad was well aware of Mom’s projects, so when he came across hundreds of sheets of postal cards to be discarded, he asked for them. The printing on the back was no longer accurate, but the postage on the cards was still valid.

Dad presented them to Mom and she was gleeful. Sheet by sheet, she laid them face down on her work table. She rolled adhesive over their backs, and then fitted sheets of white paper over the preprinted card backs, and finally, with a paper cutter snipped them to size. Mom now had many hundreds of official, paid postal cards or, as Dad might say, a week’s supply.

Then Came the Fun

Mom’s handwriting was compact and efficient, if not particularly feminine. She could pack three quarters of Shakespeare ’s Hamlet on the back of a newly minted card, flip it over and sideways, and fill the left half of the face of the card. It turns out as long as she left three inches on the right for an address, she could do whatever the hell she wanted with the rest of the card. Mother could do things with cards no one thought possible.

The local postmaster admitted he enjoyed reading Mom’s cards. Mom pretended offense. Although privately pleased, she gently reminded the man he shouldn’t read private mail.

The Queen of Cards

Mother made special cards for children in hospitals. Using her famous blue-black ink, she’d start lettering a message along the edge of a card, writing a note to the child in a spiral, requiring the victim, er, recipient to turn and turn the card to read the note.

Sometimes, she’d purchase stickers or clip tiny pictures from magazines to decorate her cards. Occasionally she’d integrate pictures into the message itself. She experimented with lemon-juice invisible ink, but her most innovative cards bore no written message at all.

A child who might be hospitalized for sometime might receive an envelope from Mom containing needle, thread, and a brief note, instructing the recipient to retain the needle and thread. Every few days thereafter, a postal card would arrive with no writing other than tiny numbers and dots in the message area. Yep, Mom’s get-well postal card was a connect-the-dots picture puzzle solved with needle and thread.

 

 

T’was a sad day many years later, when Mother used her last card. By then, I was an adult. (Stop sniggering!) By then, many around the country and especially our counties had benefitted from Mom’s postal cards. That last card marked the end of a writing legacy.