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Stack of BooksFirst, a welcome to our new subscribers. At some point we popped up over the 200 member mark, which I find pretty cool. So, thanks, all, for your interest.

My free time this weekend was spent backtracking. I’d started my research of Seattle’s history at 1860, heading up the years toward 1874, but it became clear that for my purposes, 1874 Seattle was just too big a town. I want a setting that is rougher, more primitive, and a town that is smaller.

Picking 1874, the backstory for my main “Old Seattle” character included experience in the Civil War, possibly with injuries, certainly with trauma. I wanted a reason for him to immigrate to the West, but also a reason for him to recoil from society and live outside the town. (more…)

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Writing with Pen and PaperNo, not my Chapter One. Sorry if I got your hopes up, there. (Did I? I hope I did, actually.)

No, I mean Chapter Ones (or is it Chapters One, like attorneys general?), in general. What are the needs, what are the requirements of a novel’s Chapter One.

A lot of writers paraphrase Chekhov. In essence, If you hang a loaded gun on the wall in Act I, it must go off by the end of Act III.

A lot of writers (mostly newer writers) want the literary equivalent of a movie’s “establishing shot.” They want everything set up in Chapter One–characters, setting, conflict, subplots–everything.

For me, the best advice I’ve ever heard on how to build my Chapter One is this:

Shoot the sheriff on the first page.

(more…)

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If there’s one thing that irks me, it’s applying rules to creative endeavors.

I’m also not much for taking things out of context. Like this.

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

A lot of writers treat King’s advice on writing like a bible and, like a lot of Bible carriers, they often take things over-literally and take quotes completely out of context.

This is an example of both.

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Stack of Books…and why it matters.

I’m still researching Seattle history for my next book, The Wolf Tree, trudging through Thomas Prosch’s bone-dry but fact-filled Chronological History of Seattle from 1850 to 1897. I’m up to 1871, which is within spitting distance to my target of 1874.

Some people might say this is a bit over-the-top for what is essentially a secondary story line in a mainstream/non-genre novel, and I’ll admit, I do have a tendency to over-research.

But you know what? That’s just tough. Deal with it, peeps. I won’t apologize or change.

Here’s why. (more…)

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Okay. Now I’m pissed off.

All weekend, the news was filled with tweets and squawks about the verdict in the George Zimmerman trial, about how “the system had failed,” and how the jurors, now released from their sequestration, were receiving threats and messages of a most vicious nature. The public seemed to want to blame the jurors, and not the laws or the prosecution.

Being on a jury is a completely thankless job. We put jurors down for not being clever enough to get out of their civic responsibility, and then we pillory them for complying with their oath of office. Thus, yesterday, I posted my support of the jury. They had a difficult job, did it conscientiously, and were being punished for it.

But by the end of the day, the Twitterverse blew up again. This time they were outraged by the news that Juror B37 had signed with a literary agent and intended to write a book about her experience. No book deal had been made. She and her agent were just talking about the possibility of writing a book. That didn’t matter to the Twitterati, though, and they went ballistic, got nasty, and started a petition, and stopped the “outrage” in its tracks.

But the Twitterverse got it wrong.

The outrage is not that this woman, Juror B37, was thinking about writing a book of her experience in the trial. Juror B37 is by all reports a quiet, middle-class, middle-aged worker. She has committed no crime. She has performed a civic duty that most of the Twitterati try to shirk. She and five other jurors were sequestered, hidden from their families and the public during the course of a highly publicized trial. She and her co-jurors sat and listened and weighed the evidence, and then rendered a considered verdict which was–by all legal analysis of the trial that I’ve read–the only verdict they could have returned.

No. That’s not the outrage.

The outrage is that the Twitterati, led by people like the anonymous @MoreAndAgain (aka Cocky McSwagsalot) have applied their prejudice to Juror B37. They have disparaged her, libeled her, imputed the failure of the prosecution’s case to her, accused her of dereliction of her duty as a juror, and have successfully bullied her into dropping all plans to write a book on the subject of her experience.

Yes. Bullied.

The Twitterverse has ganged up on Juror B37, eliminated for her a chance to relay her experience to an obviously ignorant public, closed an avenue whereby we might have further discussion of the ridiculous laws that went into this case, and also eliminated for her a way to build some extra income for her retirement.

And these bullies did all this without any facts, without any empathy, and without any shame.

That is outrageous.

I’m disgusted by it.

k

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Stack of BooksFor the past few weeks, I’ve been doing research for The Wolf Tree. It’s been an education, in several ways.

Seattle isn’t like New York or San Francisco or London. I don’t have dozens of books to choose from, rows of scholarly tomes filled with history, details, and anecdotes. (more…)

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Stack of BooksYeah, sure.

“I write because…because I must,” he said as he fell back in a swoon, hand to forehead.

Blah, blah, blah. Flip it to the B-Side, Sonny.

[Jeez…how many of you don’t know what I mean by “B-side,” I wonder?]

Let’s drop the dramatics and be real for a moment.

The truth is, if I never wrote another word, if I never ventured another sentence of prose, I would not die. Yes, that’s right. If I never wrote again, I wouldn’t spend my life in abject misery. I wouldn’t feel the lack of a pen in my hand like the ache from some phantom limb. I wouldn’t bemoan the globe’s loss of my mellifluous prose (nor, most likely, would the globe).

No, I do not write because “I must.” Nor do I write for fame (duh!) or fortune (ditto!). Nor do I write for the approbation of my peers (hell, they’re so busy they can’t even find time to read my books, much less swamp me with approbation.)

Obviously, there are reasons I write. You don’t write nine novels without sufficient reason. But do you want to know why? Seriously, do you want to know?

C’mere. I’ll tell you. (more…)

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