Recently I
talked with an aspiring writer who felt unsure about her first novel. She asked
how I started. Specifically, she wanted to know if I tried nonfiction, short
pieces, or just jumped directly into a novel. She wanted to know if I had help.
Did I take classes, use a writing coach, or read books about the craft of
writing. The questions came in a torrent. My response, a single syllable.
“Yes.”
I always
wanted to be a novelist. In fact, I started college as an English major. I
could tell a good story, but my grammar and spelling embarrassed me so often, I switched to economics. I never again thought about writing until I
had a brilliant idea for a novel. That idea started me on an extended foray into
abject disillusionment and rejection. After shoe boxes full of rejections, an agent took the time to tell
me that my book was crap, although he did give me credit for an intriguing storyline. The bottom of his short note read, “Writing is a
profession, leave it to people who know what they’re doing.”
No more
writing for years.
Then an
interesting event took place. A professional journal approached me for an
article about a technology success I had managed as CIO for a major
corporation. That’s when I discovered editors. My piece laid out our technical project
as a story about overcoming challenges, but my spelling and grammar—after all these years—still needed help. The editor not
only fixed my flaws, but showed me every change she had made. I went through
each and every one trying to learn how to do a better job next time. There were
seven more “next times,” and each journal article improved until I felt I was
getting the hang of writing.
Next, I
started writing magazine articles. These were still nonfiction, technical pieces,
but I branched away from computers to write about other subjects. But not
for long. In a fit of optimism, I put together a proposal for a nonfiction book about
managing computer professionals.
There’s an
old saying in publishing that nonfiction depends on credentials and fiction
depends on platform. Like a lot of clichés, this one has some truth to it.
Because of my title as CTO of a Fortune 50 company, my book acquired an agent
and publisher lickety-split. This endeavor became The Digital Organization, published by Wiley &Sons. The
entire experience was a nightmare. Now, I discovered a new kind of editor—not
one who fixed my transgressions, but one with the power to dictate content. The
process was glacial. Not a good attribute for a book about the speed-of-light
computer industry. I vowed never again to invest so much time on a book with a
shelf-life measured in nano-seconds.
After a few
failed nonfiction proposals, I wanted to try my hand at fiction again.
I started by reading books that promised to teach the craft of novel writing. Definitely
a mixed bag. After I got five chapters of my novel as close to perfect as
possible, I hired a writing coach from Gotham Writers' Workshop. I discovered I had underestimated
perfect. Despite a manuscript spattered with red ink, the coach was highly
encouraging. She believed my book had serious potential and gave me numerous
tips on how to get it to a professional level. Upon finishing Tempest at Dawn, I easily acquired an
agent with McIntosh & Otis. I was going to be famous.
Not so much.
The agent shopped the book around and received enough positive feedback to keep
the effort up for a couple of years, but in the end, everyone decided to “pass”
on my novel about the Constitutional Convention. In the meantime, I wrote a
western titled The Shopkeeper, and a
series was born.
I have now written nine novels, two nonfiction books, and ghostwritten books for celebrities. All of them have done respectable, but it was the Steve Dancy character who caught
readers’ attention. The enthusiasm for the series surprised me, especially among women readers. I thought
Westerns were dead. Instead, I discovered an eager audience for traditional
heroes who dispatch bad men.
And the best part: Westerns have a looong shelf
life. Just ask Louis L’Amour.
