It’s been sort of a perfect storm of late in terms of triggers leading me to think very hard about writing advice, writing processes, and progress in writing.

Part of it is the discussion I had with awesome human Anthony Carboni on our podcast, Ragnatalk, where in Episode 15 we attempt, however vainly, to tackle the nature of failed, troublesome New Year Resolutions.

Part of it is the blowback to the Marie Kondo Netflix show, and the backlash to the blowback, and the backblow to the lashback. (Wait, what?)

Part of it too is this tweet by other awesome human, Delilah Dawson:

https://twitter.com/DelilahSDawson/status/1084494864631455744

I am wont to describe myself sometimes as a failed novelist. Which seems strange, of course, because I’ve published over 20 novels with a handful more on the way — which would seem like the earmark of success. I’m a NYT-bestselling author, to boot, which again would maaaaybe suggest that success has been met, good job, go me, self-high-five. But I also wrote my first novel at 18. And wrote four more that were execrable. And tried to write countless others, all of which litter the earth behind me, a wake of Story Corpses and Book Carcasses whose lives were ended prematurely when I abandoned them. Given that I didn’t have my first novel published until 2012, when I was 36 years old, I had far more years under my belt as a failed writer-of-books than as a successful one.

Now, obviously publishing a novel is only one metric of success — finishing one certainly is, too, and I finished my first book when I was 18, so I understand if you’re bristling a little at this point, because we should celebrate our successes! Shit, sometimes writing a single sentence is a major win, right? But before you run at me, arms akimbo, warning me of my error, I also want to make sure you realize that when I say failed novelist, I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s not derogatory. It’s not meant to ding me or self-limit me or even undersell me. It is, for me, a huge win: I am not a person who reviles failure, and in fact, consider it a necessary part of Doing The Thing, whatever the hell The Thing is. Failing at a thing means you still tried. And trying means doing.

My path through that forest of failure — and, eventually, success — is a pretty janky, drunken zig-zag. (As I make fun of here.) It’s a stumbling tumble working counter monkey at coffee places and as an IT guy for a fashion company and selling computers and doing marketing for the library system and then there was game writing and screenwriting and transmedia writing and comics and, and, and. It’s a whole lot of not writing novels, while also trying very hard (and failing very hard) at writing novels.

It was a lot of giving up, and (thankfully) even more giving up on giving up.

So, I’m cool with being a failed novelist. Because there was just no other way.

I note this because, I very obviously don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. And you could not replicate my journey if you tried. (Even if you could replicate it, it wouldn’t be yours, it’d be mine, and would likely bring you little joy or triumph. Unless you’re my doppelgänger, CHNURK MANDOG, who is out there, right now, the motherfucker. With his beard of bees and his snake-fingers and the spiders that live in his mouth! Damn you, Chnurk Mandog, damn you.) And yet, and yet, despite being the cartographer of the jankiest-ass map, despite not actually knowing what the sweet hot hell I’m doing, I still tend to give writing advice.

Now, it’s been very interesting to watch the reaction to the Marie Kondo thing — in part because it seems a whole lot of people are just now discovering her spark joy form of minimalist organization. And it’s been interesting to watch the reaction to the reaction. Obviously, she riled some people up by suggesting they should only keep so many books on their shelves and her methodology for determining what books to keep or not to keep certainly isn’t for me, but it will also work for a lot of people even as it doesn’t for me. Predictably, some people were like FUCK YOU MARIE KONDO YOU CAN’T TAKE MY BOOKS YOU GODDAMN DRACULA, and further predictably, some of the over-reaction is probably due to an (un)healthy dose of racism and sexism. But for me it also highlighted how we present, and engage with, advice — like, because we’re All Forever Online, we are probably well-aware at this point that nuance in conversation needs way more oxygen than the Internet is often willing to give it. Everything is either THE BEST or THE WORST, everyone is either THE HERO WE NEED or CANCELLED, KICK ‘EM OUT THE AIRLOCK, every point is either A THOUSAND PERCENT TRUE or SO WRONG IT LITERALLY CURDLES MY URINE.

And writing advice has in the past taken this form, too — let us never forget the Traditional Versus Self-Publishing Wars of 2011-2013, where you were either an Elitist Snob-Slash-Serf Leaving Money On The Table or you were Some Authorial Trash Panda Regurgitating Hot Story Barf On Kindle For Ninety-Nine Cents. Or how about how no matter who you are, if you want to be a writer you have to Write Every Day, and Real Writers don’t use adverbs, and Real Writers spin widdershins before they write, and Real Writers eat bees.

(That last one is true, though.)

So, the advice coming from the Cinematic Kondoverse is that you should get rid of books, subtext: because if you don’t you’re a bad wasteful piece-of-shit, you piece-of-shit, you’re wrong and she’s right and so what if she never said that and it’s just advice that you can easily take or leave, but screw her and the streaming service she rode in on.

But no, really — it’s just advice.

And writing advice is just advice, too. It’s like you asking me how to drive to the mall. Maybe I tell you to take the highway, or to take backroads, or to fly a fucking dirigible there because dirigibles are rad, man. No one answer is right or wrong — it’s just me telling you how I’d go. And I think with advice, and writing advice in general, we need to be very cautious as the givers of that advice not to perpetuate the right/wrong dichotomy, not to suggest that there are secret handshakes or one true paths or magical equations you can cleave to to find success. Advice is often the product of survivorship bias: I DID THIS AND IT WORKED FOR ME SO YOU DO THAT NOW, TOO. And maybe it works for you, maybe it doesn’t. It’s why I open and close Damn Fine Story with caveats that I don’t know what I’m doing, that writing advice is bullshit — but sometimes, bullshit fertilizes.

I’m not an expert. I’m just an explorer. I realize that more and more, every day.

(Note: there are actual experts out there, and while writing advice is not science, some things actually are science, and we should endeavor to weight the opinions of actual experts in those fields as greater than that of Internet Randos, please and thank you.)

So, what’s the point of all this?

I don’t yet know.

What I can tell you is that I know less about writing now than when I began, and that my successes have been born of failures, and that my failures are made from just trying shit. All the time. It’s me constantly poking at this thing I do. Sometimes that means 2,000 words a day, sometimes it means 5,000 words in a day, sometimes it means no writing in a day because I’m lost in thought to it. Sometimes it means self-care. Sometimes it means I realize today’s self-care is just a crutch, and I can’t lean on it. But every day it usually means touching it, so to speak, just a little bit. It means looking at it, prodding it, not leaving the work alone. It means accepting that to do this thing I want to do, I need to do it, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, and not always in one direction. Progress is not always in a forward direction. It’s too often sideways. Once in a while, it’s driving in reverse. Sometimes you go back to go forward, sometimes you spin in place for a while, just revving your engine. I don’t know.

That’s the point: I don’t know.

And nobody else does, either.

Nobody but you.

But to Delilah’s point above, there is no waste in your effort. That’s the key takeaway here — the goal is simply never to give up, and always to be doing something. Thinking, plotting, writing, rewriting, scrapping it, starting over, just fucking poking and prodding the thing. How you do that, and the form that it takes, is yours. But be assured that no effort is left on the floor. No part of it fails to teach you a lesson: even, and especially, the failures. To fail is to try. To try is to do. Most people write one book every never. Most people never even manage a paragraph, much less a scene, or a chapter, or a finished manuscript. The best thing I can tell you is to keep on keeping on. The tragedy is not in failing. The tragedy is in quitting. Persevere. And as I said before: persist.

* * *

DAMN FINE STORY: Mastering the Tools of a Powerful Narrative

What do Luke Skywalker, John McClane, and a lonely dog on Ho’okipa Beach have in common? Simply put, we care about them.

Great storytelling is making readers care about your characters, the choices they make, and what happens to them. It’s making your audience feel the tension and emotion of a situation right alongside your protagonist. And to tell a damn fine story, you need to understand why and how that caring happens.

Whether you’re writing a novel, screenplay, video game, or comic, this funny and informative guide is chock-full of examples about the art and craft of storytelling–and how to write a damn fine story of your own.

Indiebound / Amazon / B&N

If you did not already know, now you do: I am known at times for reviewing (“reviewing”) heirloom apples over on twitter (check out my thread, which begins here and goes in for like, hundreds of fucking tweets about apples). If I’m ever interviewed to be a SCOTUS judge, I will surely be called to answer for my “apple problem,” where I will vociferously defend myself thus: “I LIKE APPLES. OKAY? I LIKE APPLES A LOT. AND THEY LIKE ME. ME AND THE BOYS AND GIRLS ALL ATE APPLES, OKAY? THAT’S AMERICAN.”

And I am of course a savage apple snob. I don’t mean to be. It’s just, I’ve seen the truth and the truth is that there are literally thousands of types of apples, and they range wildly in taste and complexity and quality and that’s just a lot of fun. It’s interesting. It’s like getting a whole range of fruit-tasting experience that you didn’t know existed before.

Sadly, though, that’s not what’s commercially available to us the rest of the year. Most people across the country don’t get more than a dozen apple-types available year around — and here someone much smarter than me can chime in with a conversation about food deserts and grocery stores. Produce is tricky, because outside farm areas, it has to travel well and look pretty even before it tastes good, and… well, the long story short is that we only get so many kinds of apples available in stores.

And people ask me which of those they should eat.

As if I have a clue.

So, I thought: well, I’ll do what I do for heirloom apples, and review some store-bought ones. I’m doing it here instead of Twitter because… well, I don’t know. THE FUTURE IS THE PAST: BLOGS ARE BACK. (They’re probably not but I figure it if I say it loud enough, you’ll believe me.)

So, here, I’m gonna rank some apples.

These apples, in part:

But I also had more in the fridge worth reviewing.

We’ll go worst to best.

Note: these are all just my humble, uninformed opinions, and further, apples on any given day and at any given store might be different, and so maybe I ended up with an exceptionally good example of Type A and a total shitbucket version of Type B and neither are exemplary of the whole, yadda yadda yadda. Just saying, this ain’t math.

Let us begin.

15. Rome

God, this fucking apple. First, that photo is pretty and I like it — I didn’t take photos of all the apples, but I did of this one because it was so lovingly round and red. And I had high hopes for how it would taste even though it’s largely described as a good cooking or sauce apple, and ohhh fuck I shouldn’t have had those high hopes. It was like eating apple-scented sand, just a mouthful of sad, wet sand. Sauce it all you like, but don’t put it in your mouth uncooked.

14. Granny Smith

Look. It’s good for baking but don’t put it in your mouth. Deal? Deal.

Moving on.

13. Green Dragon

That apple above is the Green Dragon, which is a great name for an apple, if that apple were good. And this one is not good. It is an apple that is best fed to children and horses. Okay, so here’s the thing, I cut open this apple to take a look at it, and the smell of the thing was intense. In a good way, not in a smells like goat farts way — I mean, it was redolent with floral esters. (Did you know that apples are a relative of the rose? True story.) And that smell, alongside the name, form a powerful over-promise / under-deliver scenario, because the resultant apple is sweet in the way that tastes like someone just dipped their thumb in white sugar and had you lick it off. There’s zero tartness, and the sugar flavor isn’t even complicated. It’s just candy. And not even good candy. Worse, then the texture kicks in, which is mealy, mushy, gritty. I’ve read some reviews of these apples that suggest they’re pretty 50/50 — meaning, you can get really good ones and really turdy ones, but that’s also not much of a recommendation if their quality is all over the map.

12. Crimson Gold

This apple is tiny. I am confused a bit about its parentage, as I’m to understand there is a crabapple cross called a Crimson Gold, but this Crimson Gold came in a bag with a bunch of its diminutive friends, and it said it was a cross of a Newtown and Spitzenburg? I have no idea. What I know is this: fuck this apple. It’s too small. What’s the point? You can’t eat the middle (okay, technically you can), so you’re mostly just nibbling the thing, because the core takes up most of it. The flavor is fine — it’s very sugar-forward, with a funky, vegetal finish, but the texture is like eating a toe. And not a nice soft baby toe either but like, a toe that’s seen some shit, a toe that belongs to a foot that has crossed mountain ranges. Feed this apple to a hungry pony and move on.

11. Autumn Glory

I love autumn. I love glory. I wanted to love this apple and the first bite is tantalizing — there’s something in there that is puzzlingly caramel, this warm, buttery burned sugar thing I’ve never really found in another apple. And there’s a whiff of the licorice flavor you get with a really good russet. And there’s a hint of tartness. But then the flavor kinda goes away and you’re left still… chewing it. Like a piece of bubblegum that you know you can’t swallow but you also know you can’t just stick on the bottom of the bus seat because people might look at you, so you’re instead left to kinda keep chawing and chawing and gnashing this thing into oblivion.

10. Red Delicious

I know. Okay?

I know.

You’re already saying, “Chuck, but the Red Delicious apple is a fucking monster. It’s the pinnacle of mediocrity, it’s an artifact of a time that apples had to be able to survive a 600-mile journey in an apple cart, it just has to stand there and be tough and pretty despite how shitty it tastes.” I know! I KNOW. I’ve myself said that it is the Judas Apple, the Liar Fruit, it is neither red (honestly it’s kind of a Satanic crimson) nor delicious, and is an apple best used for throwing at your enemies.

And yet here we are.

In proof that this is the weirdest and worst timeline, the Red Delicious apple was not the worst I tasted. In fact it was perfectly okay. I mean, it wasn’t exactly good, but like, I ate it and didn’t hate myself. The only hatred came from the peculiarly bitter aftertaste, which tastes more like an apple seed than an actual apple? Whatever. Point is, this wasn’t hellish. I still wouldn’t buy one. I’d still throw it at enemies. Its texture is crisp but a little woody (tee-hee, woody). It is in fact the very definition of mediocre. But it’s not horse food.

I know, I’m sorry, I want to hate it.

9. Snapdragon

Another dragon apple, I see.

This is a nice apple. Smells and tastes of elderflower. It’s crisp and juicy. A little too juicy, in that it almost came across as watery. But that also lends it a very refreshing vibe. Be a great summer apple on a hot day. After several bites I noticed in this apple and several of the other ones that there’s also a bit of white grape flavor going on which makes sense since I think some grape juice is cut with apple juice, the same way cocaine is stepped on by including like, baby powder? I dunno. Grassy aftertaste.

8. Sweetango

I really like juice from Sweetango — less so the apple. I mean, it’s good! It’s nice. It has its sweetness and tartness in near perfect balance but has this weird aftertaste that’s like drinking your grandmother’s cheap CVS perfume? Comes on strong with flavor then gets weird, and not in a good way weird. Its parents are the Honeycrisp and the Zestar (Zestar being my favorite galactic overlord, as well), but for my mileage, just eat a Honeycrisp instead.

7. Fuji

It’s cliched, but I prefer Fuji as an apple with other foods — with cheese, in salads, on a charcuterie board, with soft baby toes, whatever. (Also good to blend up and make your own vinaigrette with.) But not my favorite for eating. Still, it’s a solid apple contender.

6. Honeycrisp

This is where I make people mad.

The Honeycrisp (initially mistyped as “Hineycrisp”) is fine.

It’s fine.

It’s even good.

But it is not the sacred savior of apples. You bring up apples and everyone’s like FUCKING HONEYCRISP FUCK YEAH HONEYCRISP SCREW YOUR OTHER APPLES THE HONEYCRISP IS LORD AND KING OF APPLETOWN, and, y’know, calm down. I’m glad you like it! Like it, love it, rub it all over yourself. But for my mileage it’s a very expensive, sort of half-trendy half-mediocre Top-40 pop music apple that is totally serviceable and yet also not… that interesting? It’s like talking to someone about Transformers and they’re like MY FAVORITE TRANSFORMER IS OPTIMUS PRIME, and… okay, we all like Optimus Prime. He’s great. It’s also sorta the obvious answer. I mean, where’s the Cliffjumper love? Howabout Windblade?

For me it’s too sweet. YMMV. And what I mean by that is, FUCK YOU, HONEYCRISP, YOU’RE THE ED SHEERAN OF APPLES.

5. Jazz

It’s the jazz hands of apples. Meaning, it’s zippy and fun, and swiftly overdone if you indulge too much. Always a good snacking apple, though.

4. Envy & Gala

I’m putting these two together because, quite honestly, the specimens I had were not particularly distinguishable from one another. Gala is an Envy parent, and… listen, these are both sweet apples, sweet more than they are tart, with good juiciness and crunch. I don’t know that they’re particularly exciting, but they just taste like appley goodness.

3. Opal

Now we’re getting somewhere. I really liked the Opal. Very, very crisp apple with this incredibly breaking texture that called to mind the feeling of using your teeth to break off a piece of good dark chocolate. Strong scent of pear-pineapple which is met by an equally fruity flavor profile. Also in times of great need, Opal turns into a Mighty Apple Princess and will fight on your behalf, for your honor, for the Kingdom of Fruitonia. True story, don’t @ me.

2. Ruby Frost

Ruby Frost: a great apple, also my stripper name. Got a nice lemon tingle tartness (Lemon Tingle is my backup stripper name), has a floral vibe while not being overly perfumey, not cloyingly-sweet.

1. Pink Lady

Fuck yeah, Pink Ladies.

(Also known as Cripps Pink.)

This is lately my go-to apple — good balanced apple with an electric tartness that’s tempered by a mouth-slap of sweetness. I will say I had a small batch of these and one of them tasted hellaciously like soap, and I have no idea why. I assume there’s some weird soap bandit going around grocery stores injecting apples with dish detergent or something.

In Summation

Again, none of this is science — so much of this is based off peculiar intricacies like the weather, the orchard, how long the apples have been on the shelf, and so on and so forth. (I mean, of course the breeding and heritage of apples is science, but my tasting of them and opinion about them is most certainly not.) Like what you like and don’t be swayed away from that. Just eat apples! They’re good food. Good fiber, they help you sleep, they even help against acid reflux. (Avoid apple cider vinegar for reflux, mind you. If your acid reflux is from, well, acid, then pouring more acid on top of it is not pleasant. Though I’m not a doctor, so again, YMMV.)

I should note that there are other apples I like more than what’s listed here — I’ll take a Jonathan, Jonagold, or Braeburn any day of the week. The best apple I ever ate was in fact a Jonathan apple in Fruita, Colorado. Also, I’m to understand that my very favorite non-heirloom apple, the Gold Rush, is growing more available at local orchards and grocery stores, and it’s a helluva good apple. Not great when you pick it in Oct/Nov, but amazing come December, and keeps through till February or even beyond. (We just ate our last batch the other night, and they’re perfect for snacking, for pies, for cooking, probably even for cider.)

And since I’m sure someone will ask, here is a quick list of my favorite heirlooms of 2018 in no particular order, should you ever be able to find them:

Golden Russet (or really, any russet), Gold Star, Roman Stem, any Limbertwig (Smokey Mtn or Myers Royal or Caney Fork), Keener Seedling, Little Jewel, Esopus Spitzenburg, Tompkins King, Yosemite, Vandevere, Guyandotte Pippin, Tydeman’s Late Orange, Cornish Aromatic, Jonagram, Rubinette, St. Cecilia, King of Pippins. Need an orchard directory? Here’s one.

* * *

WANDERERS: A Novel, out July 2nd, 2019.

A decadent rock star. A deeply religious radio host. A disgraced scientist. And a teenage girl who may be the world’s last hope. An astonishing tapestry of humanity that Harlan Coben calls “a suspenseful, twisty, satisfying, surprising, thought-provoking epic.”

A sleepwalking phenomenon awakens terror and violence in America. The real danger may not be the epidemic, but the fear of it. With society collapsing—and an ultraviolent militia threatening to exterminate them—the fate of the sleepwalkers and the shepherds who guide them depends on unraveling the mystery behind the epidemic. The terrifying secret will either tear the nation apart—or bring the survivors together to remake a shattered world.

Preorder: Print | eBook

HEY HAPPY MACKEREL MONDAY

*hits you in the face with a mackerel*

See? Macro Monday is so much better than getting hit in the face with a mackerel. (Star Wars X-mas ornament macros at the bottom of this post.)

ANYWAY hey hi hello happy Monday everyone.

The weekend tried to rescue us from the banality of the week, but as always, it failed in its task and has retreated to its Party Crypt, where it will return again at the close of Friday to once more try to save us from the oppression of Monday’s brute squad.

Some quick news-tickled updates:

First, hey, that’s right, there’s a new episode of Ragnatalk in the offing. And I’m quite certain that this time we actually finish the last five minutes of Thor: Ragna—

*receives note*

Okay I’m informed by my lawyers that we did not finish the movie and instead talked about post-New Year motivation and process and how to stay true to your goals and chip at them meaningfully? What fresh hell is this? Are we some kind of self-help podcast now? Jeez.

(More seriously, the podcast hits on some very real process stuff which may earn some fresh bloggery re: writing. Keep your grapes peeled.)

Next up: another podcast, the Big Beautiful Podcast, as hosted by Jamie Greene. I’m on it! Talking about writing and life and Star Wars and other stuff.

Lessee. What else?

Vultures drops next week! If you want an autographed copy replete with PERSONAL DEATH PROPHECY, you can nab one from Lets Play Books — they’ll ship it right to you. Otherwise, pre-order in print or eBook. Bonus: now available for pre-order in audio as well, hosted by series narrator, Emily Beresford!

Speaking of audio, you can also pre-order the audio for Death & Honey, the triumvirate of novellas by Kevin Hearne, Delilah Dawson, and yours truly. My story is a story featuring Wren, from the Miriam Black series, and nestles comfortably between the end of Book 5 and Book 6. Also, Subterranean Press is doing a limited print edition, with some signed and signed/lettered editions left. Check it out.

AND THAT’S IT

GAME OVER

GO HOME

*kicks you out of the van*

*speeds off*