The Six Most Difficult Things for a Novelist To Do

About six years ago, a small publisher offered me a contract to write a book on the perils and pitfalls of writing and publishing. He even offered a small advance. You writers out there know how rare that is. But I have not written the book yet because I still need a way to end it. When one reads a book about a problem, one expects a solution. 

After almost fifteen years of writing novels, I still have not figured things out. And I am still a little surprised at the bias against fiction, especially non-genre, character-driven fiction.

I think that these are the six most difficult things for a writer of such novels to do (with one being the most difficult):   

Sixth: Write a synopsis. Synopses used to be about 20 or 30 pages for a 350 page book. Now, they are usually one or two pages. We must tell what our book is about in about 500 words or less. Try doing that when you are not writing plot-driven fiction. Try fleshing out five or more characters in a page or two.

Fifth: Write a query letter. Make it engaging, yet professional, agents and publishers advise. List your background and qualifications, your book’s genre and word count, a synopsis of everything that happens in your manuscript from beginning to end, describe the target audience for your work (and no, all the readers in the world is not an acceptable answer),and by the way, keep it to one page, please. Also, if the margins are wrong, it will often be rejected out of hand. Then wait six months. In one case, I had a query answered four years after my book was published. 

Fourth: Write a logline. This is your elevator speech, just in case a very naïve agent catches you on an elevator and asks you what your novel is about. I expect sometime in ancient times that actually happened, but nobody can prove it. In most of the big conferences I have attended, agents run for their rooms and lock themselves in just as soon as their presentation is finished. 

Third: Write copy for the cover of your book. See numbers four and six.  One would think we could use those for cover copy, but they are never the exact number of words and four and six are written for agents and publishers. This one is for readers. 

   

Second: Get an agent or publisher to read any of the above. They look for blockbuster potential, and non-genre, character-driven novels seldom become blockbusters. 

First (the most difficult):  Market this type of book after it is published.  

Yes, I know all the stories about unknown authors who finally hit it big. J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter, Stephanie Meyer and the Twilight vampire series, E. L. James and the Shades of Grey erotica series (some call it mommy porn), John Grisham selling books out of his pickup in Wal-Mart parking lots.  

Many first-time best sellers came about because of a fluke, a happenstance, a key contact, or a tremendous amount of money spent on a fine publicist. I don’t mean to imply that the best-sellers are not good books, only that there are many superior books that never sell a tenth as well (if at all). 

So all I have to do is make myself the beneficiary of a fluke, create for myself fifteen minutes of fame that will cause my books to skyrocket to the best seller lists. Stieg Larsson and his The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest, etc… made it big by dying. Scratch that.

And yes, I do believe in flukes. I enjoyed one big fluke and a few smaller one when I wrote non-fiction. So for now, I will just continue to work on finding the solution so I can write the last chapter of that book. 

Next week—more about marketing—the toughest thing.

A Party for a Cowboy Preacher

I was surprised and pleased when the invitation came to attend a birthday party for an old friend. I had not seen Larry in several years.  We met on a trail-ride several years back. Conversation was easy with him from the start and I could see he was a good man with horses. And he was obviously more experienced than I with organized trail-rides.

As I recall, he told me he felt life passing him by when the Texas Sesquicentennial Wagon Train passed his dairy. So he made major changes to his life, saddled up and joined the train. As he related the story, I knew this cowboy was philosophical and serious about living a full life. I don’t remember exactly how many years ago that was, but it’s safe to say it was more than ten.

I learned that Larry and Dianna hauled a buckboard and two horses to Abilene every year to carry dignitaries in the Western Heritage Classic parades. They did the same thing for Cheyenne Frontier Days. That’s really a long haul and a serious commitment. 

I ran into Larry a couple more times at Abilene and we stayed in touch sporadically over the years. From a pair of horseshoes and other metal, he made a roping cowboy complete with iron hat and gave it to me. The cowboy swings a loop made from copper wire. He also made a deer horn slide for my collection of wild rags. Both are favorites. 

Larry became a preacher at Rimrock Cowboy Church and I got busier with writing and our paths did not cross for a few years—until the invitation. Jan and I had a minor conflict the night of the party, plans for the next day that told us to get to bed early, and were both dead tired from a busy Saturday. But we knew we should go, knew that we would regret it if we didn’t, would likely have a great time if we did. 

We got lost once when GPS on Jan’s phone led us in a circle, but found our way easily to Woodland Ranch when we gave up on the phone and consulted the map that came with the invitation. The ranch headquarters sits on a hill near Alba, looks out on a nice lake and a groomed pasture with horses and cattle. An unusually beautiful setting, and the weather was nice, about as good as you get in summertime Texas. 

The party was a secret, so Larry and Dianna were not there when we arrived. We visited with their son and two daughters and roamed around the ranch yard and kitchen. I always feel at home surrounded by people who wear boots and hats and there were plenty of those. When the guest of honor arrived, I think he was genuinely shocked.

We had great catfish and all the trimmings cooked by friends and family and good conversations with new friends. When a couple across from us learned that I am a writer, she told of how her father was an avid reader and in poor health. It was the day before Fathers’ Day, so Jan poked me and nodded toward the car, indicating I should give her one of my books for her father.

I can’t explain why, but I am sometimes uncomfortable giving a book to someone I just met. It’s like giving someone a pet that brings an obligation to care for it. Giving a book almost comes with an obligation to read it. But I did as Jan suggested and gave her a book autographed to her father. She cried, proving once again that Jan was right. I also gave Larry my latest book for his birthday.

I listened as people stood to give testimonials to Larry and the positive influence he had on their lives, including some who had been baptized by my old friend. Then we talked Larry into reciting some of his cowboy poems.  As the day waned and the sun began to set across the lake and we listened to the sounds of cowboy poetry and laughter, Jan and I knew it was a night we would never forget.   

A Ball and Glove

As I put my fingers into the too-expensive ball glove and slammed the baseball into the pocket a few times, the sound, feel and smell of the ball and glove made fond memories come rushing back. The ball and glove were gifts from my son for Father’s Day. He knew I no longer needed a ball and glove, but we both knew it was a symbolic gift—a symbol of the bond between father, son and grandson. He said the three of us would play catch again someday. 

Catch—probably one of the most common ways for fathers and sons to bond when I was a boy and when my son was a boy. I coached at least one of his boy baseball teams and I tried to never miss a game when he played for other coaches. He developed into a good player. 

My father never coached, but he would come out of the dairy barn, the hay meadow, or a plowed field to make it to my games. He didn’t coach my team, but he did coach me. I wondered how a farmer dressed in overalls knew so much about baseball. I had to learn from someone else that he had been a top player in his youth and had to pass up a chance to play on a traveling team because he had to earn a living. 

I wrote a piece several years back about boys and baseball, but never could find the right place to publish it. In the piece, I criticized the sorry state of boys’ baseball these days. Here is part of that article:

Was I scared, tense and nervous that first Little League game?  You bet.  But I would rather have had a ground ball hit me in the teeth than let that coach, my father, or myself down.  My teammates were the same.  The message—if you are going to do something, it is much more joyous to do it right.  Put your heart and soul into it.

Today’s message: Relax, don’t take it seriously – being a slacker is cute—everybody should get a trophy.  What fun is that?  It misses the joy of knocking down a ground ball and throwing out a runner at first with heart as much as skill.  Sure, there are boys who are natural athletes and those of us who have to put forth much more effort to get the same or less results.  Some boys may not be cut out for baseball or for any sport.  That’s fine.  I will be just as pleased if one of my grandsons chooses a violin over a baseball.  Whatever he chooses, I want him to put his heart into it.  Because that is the way you squeeze joy out of life. 

I am not advocating taking away fun or traumatizing young boys for the sake of winning.  Just the opposite.  We have taken the joy out of the game and replaced it with political correctness.  Take infield chatter—they don’t do it anymore.  The sound of “batta, batta, batta, eeezy out, swing batta swing, two away, get your easy man, force out on every base, run on anything”, was as sweet as the sound of tree frogs singing on a summer night.  Now, we can’t say easy-out because it might hurt someone’s feelings.

 

The message in the old days: Don’t let a few words rattle you if you are coming to the plate.  Today’s message: Sticks and stones can break my bones and words can also really, really hurt me.  Nobody is allowed to put any pressure on me.  Sorry, but life is not like that. 

Am I saying that baseball is lost?  Far from it.  Select teams play a great brand of baseball. But they are select—a pretty exclusive club. 

My appeal is for those kids who want to play for the love of the game. Let’s teach them how to play it, how to enjoy it, before they make a decision about the role of team sports in their lives. 

Baseball is a metaphor for life.  I used it that way in my first novel. Writing that book made me  realize what I learned from those glorious days of baseball.  I learned to look fear in the face and stand up to it by hitting a fastball that seemed headed for my head instead of the plate.  I learned patience as I let balls pass by and waited for the right pitch.  I learned to handle embarrassment when I struck out, let a “skinner” get by me, or missed a pop fly.  I endured and survived absolute mortification when I was not chosen for an all-star team. 

 

I learned how to function as a member of a team and support my teammates.  I learned how to suck it up when we lost and how to be a good sport when we won.  I experienced the pure joy of hitting a fastball in the sweet spot of the bat and watching it sail just over the reach of a jumping shortstop, the thrill of stealing home.  All boys should have such sweet and bittersweet memories. 

And then I got to experience the warm glow when a symbolic gift brought it all back. Thanks for that, son.

Words Come First

During the decades I spent trying to build muscle in the left side of my brain, I always admired those who were strong on the other side, the creative side. When I began to write, I noticed that songwriters and poets could tell a story in seventy words that might take me seven hundred or more (and their words rhymed). Of course, this was back in the good old days when songs did tell stories.

As I try to build mind pictures for my readers, I sometimes play inspiring background music and wish that I could put that music in my words. More often than not, the music is played only in my mind. 

When I see a book converted to a movie done well, I envy the music and cinematography that can thrill us, inspire us, fill us up with emotion and make us overflow. Writers have to make do with written words on a printed page, and nowadays, on the screen of the latest gadget.

Remember that sweeping panoramic view of Montana mountains and valleys at the end of The Horse Whisperer as Tom Booker watched Annie Maclean drive away to music that tugged at our heartstrings?

We writers try to achieve that affect in at least one or two scenes in a book (some try to do it on every page), but we just don’t have the visual effects and the sound. Still, if there had been no story told, no novel, no screenplay, there would have been no movie, no soundtrack, and no music. Words always come first, and we can take comfort in that.

Hot Checks and Hogs the Final Chapter

It is well past midnight when Burl steps out into the cold yard at home.  The house is dark.  He holds the truck door that Weldon is trying to close.  “You owe me eighty-five more dollars, Weldon, and you damn sure gonna pay me this time.”

Months pass before Burl sees Weldon again.  He does see Weldon’s horses being shod by another farrier, though, and wonders if Weldon will pay the other fella with a hot check. His question is answered two months later as Burl leaves his house before daylight on a particularly hot Saturday morning and sees Weldon’s horses tied in his horse lot, waiting to be shod. Burl grunts. "Must have written that other farrier a hot check."

He sits down to smoke a cigarette as he stares at Weldon’s horses and waits for good daylight.  Other customers drop off their horses and Burl takes them in order.  It is close to five o’clock when he finishes with all the other customers’ horses.  Weldon’s horses’ hooves are still long and cracked, their shoes missing nails. 

It is after midnight when Weldon parks his truck and trailer in the dark lane north of Burl’s barn.  He walks a quarter mile on the dusty road in silence and tries to keep the gate hinges from squeaking as he enters the horse lot.  He uses the light of the moon to check the horses’ new shoes.  Satisfied and a little surprised, he is untying lead ropes when he sees the red tip of Burl’s cigarette emerge from the moonlight shadows. 

“Damn, Burl, you bout scared the livin’ shit outta  me.  Whatchu doin sneakin round here so late at night?”

Burl drops his cigarette and grounds it out with his boot.  “I live here.” 

“Listen, Burl, I hate to be so late gettin’ back an all, but I didn’t get finished haulin’ till after dark, then …”

“Was you gonna leave without payin’ me again, Weldon?”

“Aw, naw, Burl.  Shoot, I was gonna write you a check and leave it over there under the anvil way I always do.”  He walked toward the anvil.  “Didn’t you find that last check I left over there?”

“I got two of them checks in my pocket here.  Both of ‘em hot enough to bend a horseshoe.”

“Well, now, I had no idea.  That mighta been the time I was having trouble with that damn bank makin’ mistakes on me.  Try runnin’ them things through again.”

“Ran 'em through twice.  They burnin' a hole in my pocket right now.”

“You’d thank them bank people could keep up better.”

“Them mistakes usually happen a lot when you don’t put no money in your account, Weldon.”

Weldon nods vigorously and studies his boots.  “Tell you what, I’ll just write you a check to cover today’s shoes and them other two checks.  Let me just load these horses and get my checkbook out of the pickup pocket.  I parked aways down the road to keep from wakin’ you and Lillie.”  Weldon starts to lead the horses out of the lot but they refuse to budge.  He looks down to see what is the trouble and finds a chain that locks a leg of each horse to a corral post.

“You owe me for today and them two hot checks, Weldon.  Plus eighty-five dollars for that hog trip.”

“Now Burl, you know I can’t afford to carry that kind of money on me.  Places I go, it might get a man killed.  Why don’t I just come by here first thing Monday morning and bring the cash?”

“That’ll be fine.  Knew you wouldn’t have it. You just pick which one of them horses you think the least of and I’ll keep it till I get my money.  If you ain’t brought it by the end of Monday, I’ll be takin' it to the Tuesday sale.”

Burl almost feels a twinge of pity as Weldon sees he is trapped.  “What did you ever do with them hogs, anyway, Weldon?”

“Was gonna have one butchered and put in the freezer.  Sell the rest and have one to eat free and clear.”

“Who bought 'em?”

Weldon shook his head, slumped his shoulders.  “Nobody.  Was always scared of hogs and they all got away when I was trying to unload the trailer.”