You know you want to write a book. I can help.
To stretch that anchor/storm metaphor:
After the storm has passed the crew can’t take a break. First order is damage assessment and vital repairs.
Once the fires are put out, literally or metaphorically, the ship still needs sailing. A myriad little things need tidying up.
If the crew takes it easy after the storm they condemn their ship.
After 3 days with no posts you’re probable wondering where I am.
I am in New Mexico. Tucumcari, to be exact. Fascinating as that must be for you, the story behind it is a lesson in how balance and moving forward go hand in hand.
We knew when we moved in a year ago that the house we rented was for sale. After 3 years on the market (in a seriously “buyer’s” market) we weren’t concerned, especially as seasoned nomads.
Last Wednesday we got the message that the house sold and the new owners wanted to move in April 1st. While the landlord is only required to give 28 days notice ours made a special effort and gave us 35.
The challenge was that we were leaving on this Arizona/California trip 5 days later, and won’t be back until after the final date. … more … “Forge Ahead Unfettered”
[image: Larry Brooks]No secret I’m a huge fan of Larry Brooks. If you’d like a huge jump start on your next novel, check out Larry’s Conceptual Kickstart Story Analysis. For fifty bucks you’ll get feedback from a master to ensure that your concept will result in the best possible book (as long as you execute the other 5 elements of story engineering and all 6 elements of story physics.
We’re moving everything we own into storage this weekend because the house we’re renting just sold, and we leave on Tuesday for a month-long business trip so ta-daa! it all has to get done now now now.
Posts here should continue as usual. They may, though, have a certain frantic or distracted tone.
[image: Jane Friedman]Another person Tom Bentley and I are both fans of: Jane Friedman. She spent a decade guiding Writer’s Digest. She has a wee bit of insight into what’s going on in the maelstrom of modern publishing.
Dig through her writing advice archive and read Tom’s comments:
Jane Friedman’s site and work examines with an analytical but empathetic eye the windings of many writing roads, from individual authorship to self- and traditional publishing to diverse matters of writing craft and business. She is on top of the latest developments—and offers clear interpretations from that peak.
This is an excerpt from an unpublished novel.
[image: anacrusis]You have to wake up early to beat the summer sun around here. I must have fallen asleep before 9 last night. Dark meant it wasn’t even 6 yet. By 6:00 the far side of the lake would already have a glow behind it as the sun rose.
Yup; clock on my phone said 5:50. I felt restless, anxious. I wandered from room to room as I drank a mug of coffee. Felt like I was looking for something that I knew wasn’t there.
The neat columns of boxes here and there, the big empty spaces where I had nothing, the quiet and dark drove me out.
A run was still the best way to clear my head, morning or evening. I paced myself to let the thoughts percolate and dissipate. I know you can’t go around the grieving process, you have to go through it. Doesn’t make it any less painful. At least I could be doing something I loved as it happened to me.
The slower pace took me farther than my sprint had yesterday. I realized I was running around the south end of the lake, running toward the sunrise. The trees thinned, and I could see more of the pink behind. It was as if the sun were making a sound, a rushing sound like water. I knew I’d drifted away from the lake by now, farther south. I couldn’t see water to the left at all, just the gentle slope down from the little ridge I ran along.
The sparse grass and dirt gave way to flat rock, shale, maybe, like the places I ran in Ireland. Hard on the legs, but here I expected it to turn back to springy soft forest floor again.
Instead, it turned into nothing at all.
If I’d been running any faster I’d have gone right over the edge. The rushing sound I’d been hearing was the lake pouring out through the narrow outlet Mrs. Wright had mentioned. I slid to a stop at the sharp edge of the rock. The water scrambled through an eight-foot-wide channel, pressed by the rock walls.
It was probably deep enough that if I’d fallen, I wouldn’t have been injured by hitting bottom, but water is powerful. When you’ve been slammed by ocean waves in California you develop a healthy respect for it. The best case scenario would involve being dragged downstream far longer than I wanted to walk back wet.
The other side of the chasm looked different. Sycamore or elm or something like that instead of pines. Approaching from the other side wouldn’t have been as frightening. The shale had broken off and was a foot lower than this side. You’d probably notice the gap.
It would also help that it was clear, not covered with pine needles like this side. Pine needles on smooth rock are slippery as ice.
It didn’t look too wide to jump, but the slippery edge made me too nervous to try it.
I wasn’t going any farther around the lake this morning, so I turned around and headed home.
Another snippet from Tom Bentley’s blog. I’ll weigh in as well, because I love Jonathan Fields and the Good Life Project.
Jonathan is good at letting people talk. These aren’t interviews so much as led conversations. He’s not showing up with a list of questions to elicit the facts they want to share. He’s in the moment, helping someone he’s excited about share their passion with us.
His book Career Renegade changed my life. I’m still working on Uncertainty after my second reading, trying to move it from head knowledge to heart action.
Tom comments:
[image: Getting Your Book Out of the Someday Box]The greatest challenge to getting your book out of the “someday” box isn’t writing, it’s starting. It helps if you spend some time finding why; if you clearly establish your real reason for writing a business book.
… more … “Getting Your Book Out of the “Someday” Box by Finding Why”
[image: New Mexico window]Traffic is down here at Someday Box. We aren’t surprised, Best Beloved and I. The reposts from Finding Why and Business Heretics. Excerpts. Links to hither and yon.
Being the needy angsty type, my first impulse is to ask how I can make you love me more. The Dylan poster on my wall says it doesn’t matter who loves you as long as you love you.
Most of you show up on Friday, after the newsletter goes out. The in-between posts get less love, maybe because they’re not fresh. Maybe because the titles aren’t compelling. Maybe because they’re about someone else instead of me, and you’re all slavering and lusting for more me, less them.
Maybe I should have my head examined.
Truth is, there are consequences to change.
… more … “Truth or Consequences: It’s Not Just a Town in New Mexico Any More”
[image: A Long Hard Look]I’m working on a light mystery novella. (It’s either a big novella or a short novel. Seems I keep hitting the word count just between established norms. Surprise.)
Been posting a 1,000-word chapter every weekday at my personal blog; 17 so far. Start reading Chapter 1 now. Unless you have an important appointment in the next hour. Think potato chips.
What Readers Say:
I love it so far!! – Rebeccah
I love the way you continue raising questions to be answered throughout the chapters instead of just having the murder itself as the puzzle. That made for a great hook. – Elizabeth
[image: Through The Fog]The following is an excerpt from my Irish mystery novel, Into the Fog, a sequel to Through the Fog.
“Niall; Fearghal. Step in side and have a whiskey.” The look on their faces was almost worth the days that came after.
“Told you he was here.”
“You also said he wasn’t a fool. You’re one for two, Niall.”
Niall glared at his older, larger (but, shall we say, less intellectual?) brother and moved toward the front step. “I’ve given up whiskey entirely, Martin, but a cup of something hot wouldn’t go amiss.” I had to step back inside to make room in the doorway for them to come in.
Fearghal O’ Quinn wasn’t quite tall enough to duck as he came through, but he filled a normal sized room well enough. Niall, not as tall and not as broad, always seemed restless, as if he were anticipating a surprise he wasn’t going to like.
Niall jostled Fearghal. “Get in, get in; my backside’s hanging out the door.” Stepping around his brother, he stopped cold.
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