Musings Of A New Southern Man

My writers block this week took a different form. I had no problem coming up with ideas. My problem was coming up with too many ideas. It centered on a single chapter. It isn't an important chapter, so it wasn't like I was working on a load-bearing wall in my house, but I kept coming up with flaws in the construction. I tweaked my first idea with a second idea. Later I considered a third idea ... and a fourth ... and a fifth. I stepped back and looked at the result. It read like a shattered mirror, with the broken pieces reflecting different angles. It was a mess. So I did what any self-respecting author would do ... I threw up my hands and screamed to the skies. I asked for wisdom. I posted a note on my Twitter account and asked other authors who follow me for ideas. I was greeted by silence. OK, someone is trying to tell me I have to solve this problem on my own. So then I did what any self-respecting author would do ... I stepped back, looked at the chapters leading up to

Here are a few random thoughts to toss out today: I have a new fave for a literary agent's blog, and I don't have to leave the Denver area for the source. Agent Rachelle Gardner rolls out a new entry almost every day, and almost every entry is designed to help the unpublished author sharpen his or her game. It is a marvelous resource. Gardner's blog is all good info all the time. It took me nine months to come up with the skeletal structure for my first novel. It also took that much time to get it completely polished, and then there probably will be more polishing when I find an agent. That's just part of the deal. If anyone thinks they have that great idea for a novel and can whip it out and have it published all within a few months, I will have to pop that balloon. One author wrote that writing is the second-toughest job in the world, topped only by alligator wrestling. I also laughed out loud when someone related Mark Twain's reply when someone asked him what

You don't have to spend much time going over my pantheon of favorite authors of fiction. There are two: John Hart and Ken Kesey. The reason is simple. Both write characters who are very real, very universal and exist in worlds I can touch every day. Kesey could take the Stampers and make them Maine lobstermen and not lose a thing. Hart could take Work Pickens or Johnny Merrimon and drop them into Idaho and it would feel right. Kesey wrote about his beloved Oregon, and Hart does that with his native North Carolina. But I believe Hart missed that basic point with his latest novel, "Iron House." Hey, it's a great novel, and I loved reading it. It is a marvelous work. My problem is that universal aspect of his characters got lost in this one. Let me explain. I have no problem with the main character, Michael, who, as Hart says, is "a cold-blooded killer." But there is a basic human foundation to Michael despite his line of work, and I can accept him. He love

I understand why the publishing industry is in trouble, and why there hasn't been a major work of fiction recently that will be talked about by later generations ... save for the Harry Potter series. Publishing is running scared, and it has retreated into a bunker mentality as far as fiction. Books are accepted that follow established norms. We have Harry Potter wannabes and Twilight clones. We have established spy stories and established detectives. Where is something the quality of "To Kill A Mockingbird"? Why does someone like Kathryn Stockett have to go begging for more than three years before her "The Help" is allowed to reach the public? The problem is systemic. I know this is gross generalization, and generalization invites error, but here is the way the system works. There are thousands of English majors or those with degrees in fiction writing who populate agent and editing jobs. They all have been taught a paint by the numbers approach to novels.