Spur that Jingles

"I've got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle..." goes the old cowboy song. I've been humming it because I have one now. Not just any spur, but The Spur. As in literary award for best first novel: God's Thunderbolt: The Vigilantes of Montana. Courtesy of the Western Writers of America, which has been awarding Spurs since 1953. In a previous blog I wrote that the Spur is one of two awards open to traditionally published and self-published books alike. I'm grateful that I qualified, and even more thankful that I won.

I joined some pretty august company: Craig Johnson, whose Another Man's Moccasins won a Spur for the best short novel (under 90,000 words); and Thomas Cobb, whose Shavetail won the Spur for best long novel (over 90,000 words). Johnson's series about Sheriff Walter Longmire of Wyoming has been one of my favorites ever since his first novel (A Dish Served Cold), and Cobb's previous novel (Crazy Heart) is being filmed and stars Jeff Bridges. Both of them in their separate ways are highly individual and fascinating writers.

Both are published by traditional publishers. God's Thunderbolt is not. As you all know, it's self-published.

There are lots of reasons for self-publishing, and I have all of them. First, being the age I am (none of your business), I could be long gone before some publishers or agents saw fit to reply to my queries. That's how inundated they are, and short staffed.

Second, I'm not gifted with endless patience, except for my fiction writing.

Third, I knew I was not writing the Next Big Thing. No attacks on the Catholic Church or any other church, no witches or goblins or cute warlocks in horn rims, no shapeless monsters looming from anyone's nightmares, no devils incarnate, no journeys to the farthest galaxy or from that galaxy to consume earth, no mainframe computers running amok and generating baby supercomputers smarter than humans. That being so, I had a hunch most publishers and agents might not be interested.

I was right. But along the way to being somewhat disappointed, I learned about the Long Tail in book marketing, that Amazon has mastered. According to Wikipedia, "The Long Tail as a proper noun was first coined by Chris Anderson in an October 2004 Wired magazine article to describe the niche strategy of businesses, such as Amazon.com or Netflix, that sell a large number of unique items, each in relatively small quantities."

If Amazon can make pots of money selling to multiple niches, I figured I could make some money selling to one niche. Defining my niche meant defining my audience. Selling to that niche meant leveraging the power of the Internet, among other strategies. It would work, I thought, if the book were good enough that people liked it. So it has proved.

Even the Spur judges thought so. At the convention, I received these comments: "You have written a great book," said one judge. And another, "I was sad when I finished it. I didn't want it to end."

The night before the Spur banquet, a friend took me out for a rewarding dessert. To say I was delighted is an understatement as you can see from the photo she also took. Surprisingly enough, I ate that monster chocolate sundae, with the chocolate chip cooky and the extra puddles of whipped cream and chocolate fudge, and still slid into my jeans when I got home!

Seven Islands

A while back, one of the older horses in Gus's little herd got kicked so hard in the leg that it broke. The old guy stood in one spot, on three legs, while all the other horses grouped around him in silent sympathy until the owner of the boarding stable discovered them, found the problem, and called the owner and then the vet. The vet put the old horse down while the owner wept. The other horses stood off a bit in a group until the old guy died, then wandered off. After the owner left, the stable owner drove his backhoe into the field and dug a big hole in a far corner, scooped up the old guy's corpse and put him in it, then covered up the hole. The next year they planted a tree over the grave. (Burying a horse on your own property is legal in Montana.)

I could tell the horses were sad because their number was diminished by one. They drooped, and there was a look in their eyes.

This afternoon, I'll participate in the human version of that. A high school classmate (1958) was killed in a car accident on Monday. Those of us who live here will gather at the church before the funeral and go in together, and sit together. She and I and several others were confirmed in this same church, in 1953. There have been other funerals here, for other classmates, and each time we sit together, conscious each time that our numbers are diminished by one.

Not all of us live here, of course, and not all of us are in touch with our classmates, but here we are. Again. One less.

That will happen more often, as one classmate emailed me, as we become more geriatric. It's inevitable. But we have good memories over many years, so we must console ourselves with those and for some of us, with our faith.

One of the best consolations is the knowledge that we make up something larger than ourselves. A community. The class of 1958. We are not alone, or if we are, we don't have to be.

Great writers have argued about this for hundreds of years. Matthew Arnold (1822-1866) wrote a poem called "To Marguerite".

YES: In the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

Centuries earlier, John Donne (1572 - 1631) wrote the contrary view in his "Meditation XVII":

No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. Therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Ernest Hemingway, of course, took the title of his novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, from Donne's work. This novel has been called one of the great war novels of the 20th century, and reading the novel I hear echoes of Donne. "Any man's death diminishes me."

So now, as I wait for the funeral of my classmate. We all feel diminished by her death, as we did at the passing of our other classmates. But at the same time we are still a community, we and our spouses, and our children and grandchildren, on down the generations. Perhaps the poet William Wordsworth summed it up best for me in his simple little poem, "We Are Seven." In that poem, the narrator tries to argue with a child about the size of her family. The child insists, "We are seven," while the narrator argues that they can't be seven because one child lies buried in the churchyard. With supreme adult logic he tells her that seven minus one equals six.

She is not convinced. One sibling might have died, but her family still numbers seven.

I agree. The class of 1958 may be diminished by one more, but our community remains intact.

Thank You

God's Thunderbolt: The Vigilantes of Montana won the Spur Award for Best First Novel from the Western Writers of America. Tomorrow I fly to Oklahoma City to accept the award at the WWA Convention. I've known about this since the end of March, so you'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now. However, I still have that "Who me?" feeling.

So right off the top, thank you to the Western Writers of America for -- as I wrote in the previous post -- levelling the playing field (yes, I know it's a cliche, but heck). This organization allows self-published books to compete on the same basis with books published by major publishers. I'm honored by the group's accolade.

Even more importantly, thank you to the people who have read God's Thunderbolt. Thank you to those who read it and took the time to tell me you liked it, or loved it. Thank you to Marilyn K, who said she got so cold reading the blizzard scene that she had to get a blanket. Thank you to Bill, who liked it so much he took it to his men's prayer breakfast. Thank you to the people who complained they couldn't get their house cleaned, because they couldn't put it down.

Thank you to Leo in Hot Springs who borrowed it from a friend, then passed it to another friend, who donated it to the library when he was done. Thank you all who liked it enough to share it with your friends.

Thank you to Jan who told all our classmates about it, and all those who spread the word.

Thank you to those who have bought it for birthday, Christmas, graduation, Mother's Day and Father's Day gifts and couldn't resist reading it first. Thank you for bringing it by the office so I can sign it for you.

Thank you to the rural communities like Ronan and Hot Springs where book lovers gathered to hear me talk about it. You were all worth the drives -- even at today's gas prices!

Thank you to all those I don't know about, and those I haven't named. Forgive me if you feel left out, but there's a limit as to how many words a computer will hold.

Thank you to the test readers, Lynda, and Betsey, and Martin whose early reports were so encouraging. You were right, as it turns out.

Thank you to the bookstore owners and managers who have taken a chance on this unknown writer and the obscure book.

Thank you to the media people who helped publicize it. Your articles and reviews and interviews have gone far beyond merely announcing that someone wrote a pretty good book. I appreciate your excitement and the excellent work you did on my behalf. One reviewer called it a "literary Western." That label fits better than any other I've found yet.

Special thanks to Dick, for nearly 33 years together.

So long. I'll be back online next week, when I return from Oklahoma City, the WWA convention, and the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum.

Take care.

Is it Vanity?

The terms vanity press and vanity publishing used to mean that books too poorly written to interest a "real" publisher would pay to have their own books printed and bound. The implication, of course, was that "real" publishers published "good" books and vanity publishers were by definition failures who couldn't write.

I asked Gus what he thought of that, and he chewed on the question along with a mouthful of grass. After wiping his lips on a white fetlock and leaving green streaks, he decided that vanity was as much a force as it ever was. "But," he nickered, "there are plenty of poorly written books between covers these days, no matter who published them." Then he bit off more grass and chewed on the question (and the grass) some more. "Poor writing doesn't come only from vanity publications."

"We call it self-publishing these days," I told him. "That has a lot fewer connotations of poor quality. Maybe."

"On the other hoof," he said, raising the left hind as a warning to anyone who might want to muscle in on his patch of grass, "maybe proportionately there aren't so many poorly written books in self-publishing. At least not a greater proportion than there are in 'real' publishing."

He has a good point, even for a horse. R R Bowker projects that in the US alone traditional publishers put out 275,232 books in 2008, and POD books totaled 285,394. That's a total of 560,626 books altogether!

Bowker did not report how many POD books were fiction, but traditional publishers together published 47,541 fiction titles in 2008. That's a drop of 11% from 2007. (See the complete article on RR Bowker online.) The article doesn't say, either, how many traditional publishers were using POD technology, but there is some migration from the traditional publishing model to POD.

With all those titles rolling off the presses, no matter which printing technologies were used, we can't say that self-published books are automatically worse than traditionally published books. There are simply too many books to make that generalization logical. People might gesture toward awards, most of which are won by traditionally published books. However, many awards are closed to self-published books. It is not logical, Gus tells me, to assume that no book worth a Pulitzer or a Nobel was self-published because those awards are not open to self-published books.

The National Book Awards are open to self-published books, provided the publisher also publishes books by other people, and the publisher may be asked to provide a catalog to prove it. But books published through "self-publishing services are not eligible."

If a self-published book cannot compete on the same basis as a traditionally published book, how can anyone say that self-published books are by definition not good? One cannot say that these premier awards could never be awarded to authors of self-published books on the basis of inferior quality because they are not good, when in fact the entire category is excluded.

Some book awards, such as the Spur (awarded by the Western Writers of America) and the Edgar (awarded by the Mystery Writers of America) are open to both self-published and traditionally published work. The Nebula (awarded by the Sci Fi Writers of America) is open only to books who not nominated by authors, publishers, or anyone else with a monetary interest in the work. Both the Spur and the Edgar are awarded to nonmembers as well as members of the organizations. In my view, both these organizations have leveled the playing field.

"Of course," said Gus (acting as devil's advocate), "you think so because you won the Spur for Best First Novel." Perhaps. At least I admit the possibility.

However, as things presently stand, the attitude that self-published books aren't as good as traditionally published books can't be tested. Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry, won a Spur and then went on to win the Pulitzer. God's Thunderbolt: The Vigilantes of Montana, which won the Spur Gus mentioned, is not eligible for a Pulitzer because it's self-published.

And I'd suggest that until major book awards are open to any book, self-published or traditionally published, and both types of books are entered, we can't adequately test the prejudice in favor of traditionally published books. Until then, we can assume that authors do not necessarily choose to self-publish their books because of vanity.

Gus's Lists

Gus and I were talking about books on writing. He admits to not reading words very well -- something about mashing the book with his hoof when he tries to keep his place -- at least not as well as he reads body language. (He can tell what sort of mood I'm in almost before I'm out of the car.)

Anyway, he mentioned that some writers might want to know what books on writing have been most useful and helpful to me. I had to agree with him. So I've listed a few of the best ones, and I'll add more from time to time.

The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley never fails to inspire my brain to think in new directions. It's a book of writing exercises from the other side of the brain than the side that normally works on my sentences. I have found that after I work on an exercise for a few minutes, I want to leap up and write the novel. Sometimes an exercise inspires me to expand a character's scope or change his approach to another character. One exercise challenged me to put two characters in a room together naked and have them relate without sexual overtones. Try it. It's surprisingly difficult -- or it was for me at least. That exercise was revealing in more ways than one. I tried it with two men, two women, and one of each in several separate attempts. None of them was satisfactory enough to be incorporated into a draft of Gold Under Ice.

Both The Making of a Story by Alice LaPlante and Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway could well be a personal MFA in a book. Each book covers the entire spectrum of fiction writing, and each book is comprehensive. But Burroway's textbook on writing fiction is very expensive and inspires strong feelings both for and against. People who object to it do so on the grounds that the price does not seem justified by the content. People who love it think that the content warrants the price. I confess to having bought both the third edition and the sixth edition, but the seventh edition does not appear to me to contain enough new material to spend an extra twenty dollars.

I can't tell you which book I prefer because I have learned a great deal and enjoyed both of them. But while writing teachers seem to regard Burroway's book more highly than LaPlante's, in my mind they are similar in their contents though not so much in the way they carry out their intentions. LaPlante's style is more accessible, and her book is much less expensive. I'd advise reading the customer reviews on Amazon before you buy either one and then do what you think is best.

Steering the Craft by Ursula LeGuin surprised me. It is one of the best books on writing style that I have ever read, and when I bought it I didn't think it would be a strong competitor for Strunk & White's Elements of Style, which I have owned since college. It is excellent for someone who wants to improve the way he or she writes, who wants to understand how to mine the riches of the English language. It's for people who want to be writers and not merely put out some print-covered pages between covers. If you love our common language, you'll learn and improve from this book.

No one who loves the English language can overlook the fact that we all need editing. If we can't afford an editor, we have to try to do it ourselves. Because the publishing houses have cut back on editing in an effort to save money, editing becomes the author's responsibility. I have found Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Browne and Dave King one of the more useful and helpful books on my fiction writing bookshelf. After weeks of concentrating on dialogue, characterization, creating conflict, and writing telling scenes that build the book, going back over the draft with Self-Editing is like putting in a separate set of eyes. Revision comes then from an fresh perspective, and invariably I find a deeper of who the characters are and what the story is about.

"Good," whickers Gus. "Maybe someday you'll win a Spur for your other boot."

"Don't be silly," I tell him. "I'm so inspired now I think I'll put you back in the pasture and go read one of those."

"As long as you leave me a carrot," he says, "I don't mind being left to graze instead of work."

I'm in Love...

For the last several mornings I've awakened with a strange joy. Instead of lounging there while the radio plays some schlock electronic pop noise, I actually get right out of bed and get ready for my morning commute -- all the way into the writing room via the kitchen for coffee and breakfast. Not even the morning newscast that my husband watches can break the joy, because I'm in love. Again. Nothing to worry the man about, though.

With the new novel, Gold Under Ice.

Love strikes at odd times while writing a novel. For me, it seems to hit about two-thirds of the way through the first/second draft. (I'm not sure how many drafts I write; they aren't clearly drafts one or two. Some scenes require more rewriting than others.) With God's Thunderbolt: The Vigilantes of Montana, love struck in April of 2007, and I finished the book in August.

With Gold Under Ice, love struck about May 19, but I know I won't be done by August or September. At least, I hope not, because I don't want to leave this book for a long time to come. I'm hoping to spend about another year at it and maybe sometime while I'm writing it, I'll discover something new to fall in love with. A new character, a new development for one of the characters in this book or in God's Thunderbolt, because many of the same characters are in both books. That's only fair, Gold Under Ice being the sequel to God's Thunderbolt.

In the aftermath of the Vigilante actions, the gold lies under the ice of Alder Creek. But then the ice breaks.

Because I fall in love with characters. Those strange human-like figments of a writer's imagination who make the stories are what I love about writing fiction. They face moral dilemmas and do their best when faced with the times that try their souls.

That's the best part about writing fiction, for me, anyway. To watch their struggles and cheer them on and hope they can work things out for the best in this less than perfect world.

Does that sound familiar to anyone?

Good writing and good wine

Gus tells me I should write about wine and writing. Not that he knows anything about wine, because he doesn't like the squishy feel of grapes crushing under his frogs. (Yes, horses have frogs. They don't have toes, but they have frogs, the hard flesh like a huge callus in the middle of their hooves.) In my opinion, he doesn't know much about writing, either, but that never stopped Gus. He has opinions. (And I don't?)

I don't know about making wine, either, although I tried once. In graduate school, about the time God created the earth, some friends and I decided to make our own wine. One of our friends, being Italian, was familiar with the process, so he guided us along the way, and we all pitched in to help. With gusto. Especially did we enjoy trying to crush the grapes with our toes, not even caring that we had purple feet for a while, which looked odd with our sandals. We stood around the tub and demanded our turns like much younger kids.

We set the grape juice aside in the basement of our wine-making friend's apartment house to age and went home for the summer. In September we came back all a-twitter (just imagine if we'd had computers in the '60's!) to taste our product.

Our wine-making friend opened the cask -- not oak because we couldn't get that in Kansas -- and took the first sip. By the look on his face we knew we wouldn't be competing with Chateau LaFite Rothschild (or Chateau La Fit, either). He wrinkled his nose and sneered, "Too Young."

The rest of us had to try it. It tasted, as I recall, like a slightly sour grape juice. Not horrible, not poisonous, but not good. The guys rolled the cask out into the garden and spilled it all into the dirt. We hoped it might do some good for the plants next spring. (They came up slightly bent.)

You know where I'm going with this, I bet. And I won't disappoint you. It seems to me -- and Gus agrees -- that too many books hit the market too soon. The writer (or publisher for the traditionally published) rushes to finish the book, and out it comes with all its problems intact. The plot isn't completely thought out, so events are disconnected and don't follow logically from the one before. Characters seem kind of unfamiliar to the writer, often in ways we can't put our fingers on, and as readers we ask if they'd really do that.

Mostly, though, the writing isn't there. It's blah, with no flavor, no interesting ways of combining words, phrases, or thoughts. The rhythms are all the same, or they bump along with hardly any rhythm in them. Worst of all, the writer may be ignorant of grammar. He'll use lay instead of lie. Maybe make other mistakes as if he's too important to learn to use the language. (That sentence fragment is on purpose, by the way, to emphasize the point.)e

Then, he'll wonder why his book doesn't sell a million copies -- or a hundred or so -- no matter how hard he promotes it.

Sometimes I wish I could catch other writers before they rush their books into print and whisper to them: Sell no book before it's time. No, scratch that. Sell no book before its time.