Let me tell
you a tale
Words—their origins, meaning and sound, their look and their rhythm in combination—are my obsession.
Since the late 1960s, I’ve compulsively indulged in my passion on a daily basis, putting in 8-12 hours (or more) at the keyboards of manual and electric typewriters, word processors and computers. I feel like a slacker if I don’t produce at least 5,000 words of usable prose during each session.
I like juggling numerous projects—that’s a carryover from my advertising work. Constant practice has honed my concentration skills to a fine point, and I can switch sharp focus between fiction and nonfiction or from project to project in an instant. (That’s the secret of writing: the ability to block out distractions long enough to get the job done right.)
Though a heavy percentage of my output has been nonfiction—and I look forward to the mental challenge of the next project with as much enthusiasm as my first project—my heart really belongs to fiction.
For me, nonfiction is mostly a professional labor of the mind.
Fiction is more a labor of love.
Writing is its own reward
As a writer, I’ve been affected to some degree by virtually everything I’ve read, and I learn something new from every piece of work, whether it’s mine or someone else’s.
Story concepts are everywhere. I feel fortunate whenever I can dip into the constant stream of thought that zips at the speed of light through my brain and hold onto one idea long enough to turn it into prose.
Some of the major influences on my work—not necessarily in order of importance—include Raymond Chandler, Cornell Woolrich, Thomas Hardy, O. Henry, Edgar Allan Poe, Patricia Highsmith, Ernest Hemingway, David Goodis, Bill Pronzini, Graham Greene, Ross Macdonald, Helen MacInnes, Robert Graves, Ed McBain, Fredric Brown, Shirley Jackson, William McGivern, and too many others to list. If I could consistently write half as well as any of the authors mentioned I’d be gratified.
A workaholic intoxicated with the job
To date, I’ve published nearly 600 stories, from flash to novella length.
Many early stories (carbons, contributor’s copies, the paper bricks of photocopied manuscripts) have been lost in the course of multiple long-distance moves. That might be a good thing.
Due to circumstances, such as the urgent need to earn a living, there have been gaps in my production, but I’ve managed to place an average of a story per month over the last 45 years or so.
At any given time, I usually have 20-50 completed short stories ready for submission, just waiting for the right publication or themed anthology to come along. Another 50 stories are in various stages of completion. And a thousand potentially viable concepts wait in the wings, because everything I see and hear provides inspiration that might be convertible into fiction.
Most storytellers don’t get rich
Probably half of my published short fiction appeared before I turned 30. Early stories had more passion and energy. Later stories have more craft, pacing and guile.
The majority of my stories found places in literary and “little” magazines, chapbooks, college journals, and obscure and ephemeral periodicals.
Whatever the venue, print or online during the last decade, I’d never have survived solely on what I earned from my fiction.
Some publications offered only contributor’s copies, most only small stipends, probably averaging a cent per word.
The biggest checks I’ve ever received for short stories were in the low hundreds. (Whereas a fat advertising project, like an annual report, a 10-minute video script, a capabilities brochure, or a full-page magazine series can reap thousands, in considerably less time than it takes to see a story in print.)
My first 300-350 stories were published under outrageous pseudonyms like Luke Warmwater, Eaton Worms, Albie Dern, Harry Legg, Bjorn Toulouse, Bruton E. Tooten, or Rameses Woolley. Each fresh story had a bizarre new name.
Why write under pen names?
For one thing, I’ve always had a weakness for puns; I’m a great admirer of S.J. Perlman, of W.C. Fields and Groucho Marx and their celluloid alter egos.
For another thing, I believe philosophically that the story should matter more than its author. In writing throughout my career for the credit of others, I lost some pride of authorship that only in advanced age —when you start thinking about your legacy—has been resurrected. (I’ve written fiction exclusively under variations of my own name for the past two decades.)
For a third and more practical thing, I didn’t want to chance that my highly moral parents might stumble across a box of contributor’s copies moldering in their basement and read some of my risqué stuff. (“No son of mine would write something that awful!”)
So if in a musty garage-sale magazine you come upon an author with an improbable name, it could be me.
What’s my style?
My fictional style changes according to need, chameleon-like, thanks to my training in advertising. I try to write straightforward, declarative sentences. I like imagery. I relish suspense, and I try to aim at a spot equidistant to the reader’s head, heart and gut.
In my fiction I enjoy experimenting with different voices and moods, trying points of view unlike my own, and using a wide range of settings and time periods. I’ve written along the whole spectrum from deadly serious noir to light humorous fluff. Much of my fiction concerns crime.
Unlike some, I don’t have the ability to dash off polished stories in a single draft.
Fiction writing for me is fun, but it’s still hard, sweaty work, and I’m a tough self-critic.
Short or long, pieces always go through numerous versions before I’ve satisfied with them (and I’m never really satisfied; I periodically re-edit my published stories, inserting a better word here, a more succinct phrase there.) Like a musician in search of the lost chord, I’m always working toward the well-constructed sentence, the fully rounded character, and the inescapable conclusion.
Going long again
Many years after pseudonymously writing three porn novels, and after millions of anonymously published words, I got the urge to see my name in print.
I wrote two new novels: a contemporary private eye story, starring investigator Skoog (Freak-Out), and an adventure-mystery set in the 1960s based loosely on my hitchhiking experiences, featuring a slippery protagonist called “The Drifter” (Kissing Asphalt).
I consumed most of a decade, used up yard-thick stacks of paper on query letters, synopses and sample chapters, and spent a small fortune on postage trying to interest agents and publishers in my work. Though I garnered favorable comments, and had several near misses, it was no sale.
So eventually, I did it myself, paying to publish both novels.
Without any publicity, each has sold enough copies to more than repay my investment, which is all I was hoping for. I’ve received complimentary comments in e-mails from satisfied readers around the world who took a chance on a relative unknown and bought my books.
Kind fans keep asking when the sequels will be out. (I’m working on it: I have four novels completed, including follow-ups to Freak-Out and Kissing Asphalt, that I’m continuing to shop; you can read excerpts by clicking the links below.)
For those who enjoy my fiction, thank you. If you want to read more, please be patient. I’m writing as fast as I can.
Links to short stories:
A Liberal
Education
Can
You See the Real Me?
Game of Chance
He
Finally Gets the Point
Hit-and-Run
Lights Out
Serves You Right
Tear Along
Dotted Line
A Wet One
Essay: My own private Idaho private eye
Links to novel chapters:
Novel Excerpt
#1: Freak-Out
Novel Excerpt #2: Kissing Asphalt
Novel Excerpt #3 Primed for Murder
Novel Excerpt #4 Run Till You Drop
Novel Excerpt #5 Soft Shoulders
Novel Excerpt #6 Young Blood