All Posts Tagged: Gary C. Stalcup
Lost in Translation
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am in the process of peddling to literary agents WHERE SHADOWS LOOM, my recently-completed suspense novel set in the Eagle Ford Shale of South Texas. A few weeks ago my query letter gained the attention of a highly-regarded literary agent in New York. Needless to say, I was thrilled. Signing with a big-time agent is a big deal. It can be a game changer. Doors will likely open that otherwise would not, at least not for a little ole writer like me. This guy read my manuscript, said he found the story “very compelling,” but after mulling it over, declined to represent me because “this genre is really struggling right now.”
My question is: What genre? Suspense/Thrillers? That genre appears to me to be healthy enough. I suspect–which is all I can do since I can’t read the collective minds of the publishing establishment–the guy was referring to westerns. You see, thus far, my stories have all been set in Texas, and so, naturally, they must all be considered westerns, right? Of course, the agent knows better. He read the story, after all. But his point is well taken: would-be readers will make that assumption, right or wrong. I know that is at least somewhat true, but why? Why is a thriller set in California not pigeonholed this way? Or one set in Connecticut? Or Florida?
I can’t do much about the stereotype, and for a guy born and raised in Texas, writing stories set somewhere else that attempt to reflect life seems a bit disingenuous, pretentious even. A setting is merely the vehicle for which the writer states his/her case. WANDERING WEST is not exactly a contemporary western, though I can see where readers who read word lines and not the spaces between them might draw such an incomplete and inaccurate conclusion.
So you be the judge. Below is the body of my query for WHERE SHADOWS LOOM. You tell me, after reading it, whether or not you deem the premise to be a western of sorts or a thriller of sorts. If you want to call it a contemporary western thriller, so be it. I can live with that, so long as that loose interpretation doesn’t prejudice your thinking before actually reading the story.
Query:
Wendall Connor isn’t sure what to believe anymore. His mind has begun to play tricks on him. After seven years in the NFL, he has suffered concussion more times than he can count. And what can he do about it anyway? A throbbing mass of mangled flesh and splintered bone, his body is held together by little more than titanium steel, surgical glue, and the sheer determination to put off the next surgery for as long as he can.
But he has to do something. Who else is there?
His friend and neighbor across the street, U.S. Senator Juanita Guajardo’s son, and the loan officer at the bank are both missing. Wendall left them alone for only a few minutes and now they’re gone. Are their stories true, as fantastic as they seem, or is this another distortion created in Wendall’s addled mind?
Did his friend and business associate, Conrad Murphy, really kidnap Sergio Guajardo? Would he really murder Lester Russell? Wendall Connor knows Conrad Murphy is selfish and demanding. He’s well aware that Conrad’s business empire is struggling, and he once witnessed Conrad’s violent temper firsthand. But is the man so desperate he would steal public funds and then kill Lester Russell because the poor guy overheard the details of that scheme?
WHERE SHADOWS LOOM is an 82,537-word suspense novel set in a rugged, desolate area of the Eagle Ford Shale oil play in South Texas where the boom has gone bust.
So that’s my basic query for attracting the interest of agents and publishers. Regarding the genre, let me know your thoughts. A writer trying to break preconceptions in a world of preconceptions needs all the help he can get.
First, Let Me Apologize
I haven’t written a post in some time. You were sitting on the edge of your seat, wondering, I know. I must admit to feeling, let’s say, less than enthusiastic as of late. Why is that? Am I having trouble with my latest novel, WHERE SHADOWS LOOM? No, actually, I’ve completed the manuscript. I’m excited about that. I’ve taken SHADOWS as far as I can without a second and third pair of eyes poring over it. Now, I’m letting it stew while I mull things over. I need a proofreader with fresh, discerning eyes; a talented, perceptive editor; I could desperately use an agent with major contacts; and ultimately, of course, I need a good publisher. I’m panting for air just thinking about all that.
Writing is hard work, excruciatingly so sometimes, but it’s not the writing that gives me pause. Stirring the creative juices far outweighs the hammering out of a story’s devilish details. So why the weary sigh? Well, the fact of the matter is, selling books requires marketing, and believe it or not, pounding a fist against my chest while shouting how wonderful my work is, is not something I naturally am inclined to do. Frankly, I find it distasteful, and I suspect many of you find it annoying. For that, I apologize, as necessary as it nevertheless seems to be. Long since obliterated is my youthful notion that writers write and publishers promote. The thought that a writer’s time is too valuable to waste with the thorny details of marketing is, of course, laughable. Unless your name is Stephen King, you best learn to write fresh stuff while simultaneously shouting at the top of your lungs why readers should be buying up the stuff you already have in publication. Writing is a craft; in some cases, it’s an art; but above all, it’s a juggling act. And juggling requires a skill of its own–a concentration of its own.
That’s what I keep telling myself. But I don’t compartmentalize well when I’m engrossed in my writing. When I’m obsessed with my writing, some would say. I keep reminding myself about that, too. After all, as I mentioned, writing is hard work. And I didn’t sign on to be that clown, juggling knives at the weekend carnival, in front of a sparse crowd, never mind my feeling like the butt of a cruel joke now and then. Besides, catching knives with bare hands can be dangerous.
Tough shucks of worm-eaten corn, you say. Everybody has to toot their own horn nowadays. We live in a narcissistic world! It’s all about the self! More often than not, it’s about the id! If you don’t start shouting, who will? So, get to it! Roll up your sleeves and start juggling! Shout with the same enthusiasm you have when you peck away on the keyboard–and at the same time! Make people know you’re out there! Make them know you have something that must be read! This is a narcissistic world, remember? And what’s more narcissistic than thinking what you write actually is worth someone else’s reading? So make people hear you! Make yourself heard above the deafening roar of a screaming social media! Do it!
Okay, okay, alright already. Can I dry my eyes first? Does anyone have a tissue? Oh thanks. Yes, better. (Deep sigh.) Now where was I? Oh yeah. So–so, if you haven’t taken the time to read WANDERING WEST, please do! You can buy it right here on my website! I think you’ll like it–I really do! But don’t take my word for it; check out the reviews! You can find them right here on my website, too! And when you’ve finished reading, help me get the word out! Write a kind review, tell a friend to read the book, pass the word, and so on! Shout it at the top of your lungs, for crying out loud! Please? I mean–please! Meanwhile, amid my own shouts, I’ll keep working to get WHERE SHADOWS LOOM ready for publication. I can juggle, just like the next guy. And by the way, keep an eye out for more on WHERE SHADOWS LOOM. I’ll be posting about that again soon.
Now where are those knives?
Searching For Dragons and Finding Windmills
Do you do that, too? Do you search for the fiery dragon and find only the creaky old windmill? I know I do. I have a tendency to hear the squeak and, therefore, see only the rust. Nevermind the fact that the blades are, otherwise, shiny and oiled. The blasted thing is still turning! But the squeak! It’s maddening! Well, that’s human nature, I guess. Especially when it’s our squeak we’re hearing, and our blade with the rust that we’re seeing. That’s kind of where I am these days where writing is concerned. I’m listening hard for that squeak, and if I listen hard enough, I’m sure gonna hear it.
Can a story move too fast? Can it be too tight? Have I fleshed out too many characters? Not enough? Have I spent too much time on this scene, and not enough on that one? I’ve been asking myself questions like these quite a lot lately. First drafts are like that, you know. Insecurity abounds. What will the reader think of this? Of that? Well, as Willie Shakespeare himself wrote, “To thine own self be true.” Everyone has to have a rudder to get anywhere in life, right? Mine is channeled pretty deep after these so many (yes, many) years. So, despite the insecurity, I press on with the original draft of my new novel, WHERE SHADOWS LOOM. Actually, I’m feeling better about things just telling you about them now. Thanks, future reader. I’ll let you know more as I channel on. I’ve got a can of 3-in-1 oil right here beside me, should I hear another squeak, whether I need it or not.
Now where is that fiery dragon? I need it for my next scene. I know it’s around here somewhere.
Sweat, Tears and Sir Francis Bacon
Just so you will know, my sleeves are rolled, my reading glasses are perched over my nose, and I’m hovered over my keyboard the way a mother pigeon flutters over her squab. I’m hard at work on my next novel, WHERE SHADOWS LOOM. Like any expecting parent, I’m excited about the prospects but a little anxious about the results.
Writing is hard work. Writing well is exacting, hard work. As Sir Francis Bacon wrote (And I’ll quote it the way my dad did rather than how it was written because I like the sound of it a little better.): “Conversation maketh the ready man, reading maketh the learned man, but writing maketh the exact man.” No truer words were ever written, about communication at least. Conversation, indeed, prepares us to communicate offhand, which, by its very nature, lends itself to inaccuracies. Reading certainly teaches us, provides us with that precious gift of knowledge. It gives us the authority with which to communicate intelligently. But, as Bacon’s quote so eloquently states, writing–writing well–forces us to express what we mean and to mean what we express. I can assure you, writing well–saying what you mean and meaning what you say–is harder than it sounds. It is a struggle, a slog through a grueling process, that is matched only by the exhilaration of the creative process.
So, I toil away, reminded of Dad’s admonition and Bacon’s eloquent insight. Beyond that, I can only hope for the best. That great beyond is in your hands, the reader’s hands. When the time comes–should WHERE SHADOWS LOOM be deemed of sufficient quality to be published–I hope you’ll give this old, bleary-eyed writer his due. Read my work. All any author can ever ask for is to be read.
I know what you’re thinking about now. Here you are almost through reading this post and Gary still hasn’t told us one blasted thing about WHERE SHADOWS LOOM. What the heck is it about? Well, you’ll just have to stay tuned to future posts for answers to that question. I will tell you that I’m excited about it. I’m having fun with my flawed characters and the mounting circumstances they find themselves in. It is a rather tense work with many moving parts. Keep your fingers crossed that ole Gary can pull this one off. And stay tuned for any future developments I happen to divulge.
Oh, and while you’re staying tuned (Thank you very much!), if you haven’t already done so, give a look to a previously toiled-over piece of fiction I wrote, WANDERING WEST.
The Challenge and The Reward of Writing Wandering West
I was asked some time ago to explain the challenges and the rewards of writing Wandering West. Well, writing fiction is both challenging and rewarding–period. I think virtually all writers of fiction will attest to that. It is a grueling process. Writing fiction challenges the soul, if you will. For me, it is taxing emotionally. It requires such attention to detail, such a focus and a commitment, that I tend to become obsessed with my work. (Don’t take my word for it; ask my wife!) I tend to live within the bubble of the story with my characters until the last word is hammered out, and then, for a little longer still. Not until the story is complete do I feel any real sense of satisfaction, any real sense of achievement. Actually, it’s an overwhelming sense of relief that I experience at that point. Here I’ve created this monster and finally–finally–I can put it to bed! Did I mention that writing is a grueling process? That goes double for writing fiction.
So why do it? Why get up in the middle of the night–maybe repeatedly, night after night, month after month–to jot down a thought, to correct an incongruity, to change this, to improve that, etc.? Life is too short, and life offers up enough misery without creating that of my own making. Maybe so, but, for me, the rewards more than make up for these challenges. I think virtually all writers of fiction will agree with me when I say that the creative process itself is what I find so rewarding. It’s what makes writing fiction so worthwhile. The creative process is what drives me. It can send a lightning bolt flashing through my veins like few things on this Planet Earth–except for, well, maybe a lightning bolt. I really do get a charge out of fleshing out a character, working out a scene, and ultimately, building a storyline. It’s my thing, as they say.
But the question was: what did I find challenging and rewarding about writing Wandering West specifically? Well, specific to Wandering West, there is a hospital scene in the first third of the story that, I think, illustrates this idea of writing fiction being both a challenge and a reward. This scene was difficult for me to write emotionally. It is rather autobiographical in many respects, and so was a little painful to get into. But once I did, the words flowed as fast as my fat, arthritic fingers (Yes, that’s rather autobiographical, too, where Jack Stiler is concerned.) could hammer them out on the keyboard. Writing truly is the spontaneous overflow of human emotion, as Wordsworth put it. For me, writing this scene was evidence of that. I meant this scene to be poignant, and after reading it for the upteenth time, I think I succeeded. I hope so anyway. It still moves me.
For those who have read Wandering West, I hope that scene moved you, too. If you haven’t yet picked up the book to read it, well, as I often write on this blog, while you’re here, you might as well click onto the book section and make a purchase. And let me know what you think.
Epigraph to Wandering West
Among the multitude of Europeans to wander west to America in the Nineteenth Century was a teacher and poet from Lisburn, Ireland by the name of Henry McDonald Flecher. It is his poem, The Homeless, taken from his book, Odin’s Last Hour, that serves as my epigraph to Wandering West. I discovered it while searching for just the right quote to put at the beginning of my book. When I read it, I knew it was the one. Flecher was not just any poet. He was a renowned poet of his day, honored, alongside Tennyson, by Queen Victoria. An interesting tidbit about him is his claim, privately at least, that Tennyson stole a few of his verses. Whether that is true or not, well, who can say? Maybe Tennyson would argue that Flecher plagiarized a few of his lines. Maybe it was a case of sour grapes, for Tennyson, as we all know, became world renowned and of historic literary significance. None of it really matters now, other than to provide an interesting footnote to an interesting life. After teaching at a small college in Connecticut for a time, Flecher made his way to Blossom, Texas, where he taught Physics and Metaphysics at Lamar College. He continued to write, having published several volumes of prose and poetry, until his death in 1902.
Why am I blogging about some Irish poet who virtually no one has heard of and who died so long ago? What’s the point? So what if I used one of his poems as a lead-in to Wandering West? Big deal. I might well have found one of Tennyson’s to use. Who cares? Who reads poetry anyway? Well, in my own small way, I wanted to honor this man, that’s why, pure and simple. You see, I wouldn’t be here without Henry McDonald Flecher. He is my great-grandfather.
For those who have yet to read Wandering West, here is its epigraph:
. . . All too busy, all too eager
Hunting pleasure, grasping gain,
To regard that form so meager
Drooping in her drought of pain . . .
Hearts to love her, homes to shelter,
Let the lonely wanderer find,
Screen her from the storms that pelt her,
From misfortune’s rain and wind.
—“The Homeless,” from
Odin’s Last Hour
by Henry McDonald Flecher
For those who have read Wandering West, I think you’ll agree: The Homeless is a fitting, thematic introduction to my novel. If you haven’t read the story, please do. And while you’re at it–after you’ve purchased Wandering West here on my website–you may want to mosey on over to Amazon or Barnes & Noble to pick up a copy of Odin’s Last Hour. Here’s a link: http://www.amazon.com/Odins-Last-Hour-Other-Poems/dp/1174557494
It’s food for thought.
Elevators, Speeches and Wandering West
My first conversation with the publisher’s marketing director for Wandering West was a little awkward to say the least. She asked me to give her my elevator speech. Believe me, I know all about elevator speeches. I give them all the time, where my financial advising business is concerned. If you want to know about a stock I like, my view on the markets, the economy, etc., I can spit something out by the time we move from the parking garage to the seventh floor. After nearly thirty years in The Bizz, I’ve been around the block a time or two. That doesn’t mean I necessarily have the answers. It just means I understand some of the questions, and to some of those, I may think I have at least a part of the solution.
But this is about my elevator speech for Wandering West. When the young woman from Lulu Publishing, in her sweet voice, asked me to explain what Wandering West is about–and to do it in thirty seconds–well, I stuttered and stammered my half minute into–finally–an admission that I wasn’t quite sure how to do that. I mean, heck, it took me 100,000 words–300+ pages–to tell the story, riveting yet poignant as it surely is. As I’ve explained in previous posts, I don’t enjoy being put on the spot about my writing, nor about much of anything else, for that matter. Who does? Moreover, my writing starts from a mood, a feeling if you will. I have to get my sea legs under me, my narrative voice at just the right pitch. From there, the characters are developed, and the storyline takes off like a Virgin Galactic flight into outer space. Hopefully, the flights will take off like my story does, for the passengers’ sakes.
So, what is my elevator speech, now that I’ve spat it out for the upteenth time? As they say, practice makes perfect, or in my case, almost functional. Close your eyes and pretend–no, don’t close your eyes. You can’t read the rest of this text if you do that. Pretend we’re in an elevator, soothing elevator music (naturally) playing softly from the speakers overhead. You have just asked–with great interest, mind you–what Wandering West is about.
And I clear my raspy throat to say: Wandering West is a contemporary, literary novel set in South Texas, in the rugged, desolate, rather inhospitable terrain, not far from the Mexican border. It’s about an older fellow, by the name of Jack Stiler, who has lost his beloved wife to cancer and his Wall Street career to a humiliating scandal. Jack returns home in a desperate attempt to save the family ranch from financial ruin–from the invasion of smugglers of people, guns, and drugs–in the midst of a drought of historic porportions–and, while battling to hold on to those he loves, he struggles also to save himself from the demons that torment him.
My elevator speech doesn’t really do justice to Wandering West, I don’t think. You’ll just have to click onto the book section of my website and order the book itself. I think you’ll be enthralled if you give it a good read. I tend to write better than I give speeches, in an elevator or otherwise.
Wandering West and the Christmas Spirit
Recently, I was asked what three words best describe Wandering West and its characters. I thought about it for a minute. How could three words possibly describe a book? Of course, no three words can really do that. At most, they can maybe capture the essence of a story. The essence of Wandering West is the enduring of life’s challenges, however insurmountable they may seem. So, my first inclination was to answer with the word ‘perseverance’ three times. That indeed is the heart of Wandering West. But on further thought, I decided another response to the question might as well be the words ‘faith, hope and love.’ God’s three gifts are what Jack clings to in his quest for redemption, in his struggle to overcome difficulty and in his search for peace and contentment.
That said, Wandering West is no Sunday School lesson for the kiddos. Far from it. Wandering West is a depiction of one man’s life–a mere glimpse of one man’s life–and we all know that life, even a mere glimpse, can be crude, brutal, unfair, sometimes cruel and, all too often, seemingly godless. Yet, without giving away too much of the story, let me just say that, in many ways, nonetheless, Wandering West captures the spirit of Christmas. As much as life is about persevering over difficulty, it’s also about having faith, hope and love. Without these three devine gifts, perseverance really has no meaning.
Merry Christmas, everyone, to you and to yours!
Capturing An Audience
Who will want to read Wandering West? That was just about the first question to pop into my brain once I decided I had a story to tell. One of the slew of questions that followed–from the slew of questions that never stop–is the more pertinent one: who will actually read Wandering West? More to the point, who will even know the story exists to be read? Without promotion, the potential reader’s discovery of a book’s existence is akin to the hiker who stumbles onto the tree deep inside the forest where the wallet was last seen. Without having blazed a distinguishable trail to get there, the likelihood of finding that lost wallet is remote at best.
For me, by far, the most frustrating part about the entire process of writing, editing, publishing and marketing a book is the marketing–the capturing of an audience. Before I can target that audience, I first must have an idea who comprises it. So, who, exactly, will Wandering West appeal to? Well, my answer to that question is rather simple. I think it will appeal to a broad range of readers. I hope so anyway. After all, the book possesses many of the same ingredients that are found in other works with broad interest. It has elements of suspense and mystery, scandal and romance, humor and tragedy. If I do say so myself, Wandering West is funny in places, and it’s sad in places. It’s tense in places, and it’s thoughtful in places. It’s about life. According to the readers to whom I have spoken, it is fast-paced, a real page turner. Yes, I’m smiling like a proud pappa as I write that, but it’s true. That is what they tell me, to a person. I certainly intended to make it so. I get bored easily. No reader should get bored with something I write. At every turn, Jack Stiler is confronted emotionally, and oftentimes, in physical, life-threatening ways. Because he’s an older fellow, Jack suffers from a few of the more typical ailments of aging, so I think the older reader will identify with those things, and with Jack’s growing sense of mortality. At some point in life, the realization that a heart has only so many beats begins to gnaw at us all. As actively-paced and energetic as Wandering West may be, I also intended it to be poignant and thought-provoking. I think Jack’s empathy and introspection see to that.
So, my fingers and toes are crossed in the hope that Wandering West will attract quite an audience. The trick now is to make that potential audience aware that the book exists, that it’s now available to be read and enjoyed. I just need a well-trampled trail to show the reader the way. I hope you’ll help me get the word out. An author needs all the promotional help she or he can get. No one wants to get lost in a forest in search of a meandering and obscure trail, least of all, me.
How I came to write Wandering West
Why did I write Wandering West? What inspired me? Or, to censor an old friend’s recent admonition, “What the heck were you thinking, putting yourself through such a gut-wrenching, thankless–self flagellating–process, and for what?” When the subject of my having written a book comes up, these are the immediate and inevitable questions I get. I generally stammer a bit, clear my throat and try my best to explain that writing–gulp–simply, is in my bones. I am compelled to express my life’s observations through writing fiction, as sometimes daunting and generally inefficient as that may be. Most people who know me aren’t aware that I have always been something of a writer. In my twenties, I wrote several novels, acquired a literary agent and endeavored to make writing fiction a career. After all, didn’t Faulkner get his writing career off the ground in his twenties? Didn’t Hemingway? Didn’t all writers worth anything? Ahh, to be so naive again. To put it bluntly, as an author, I was not yet ready for prime time. In my case, I hadn’t lived enough to develop the depth that my characters needed to write the type stories that inspired me. Besides, by my late twenties, I had a family to care for, and yes, better things to do than coop myself up in front of an IBM Selectric all day. Yes, I know. I’m dating myself now.
Life, as they say, got in the way, until recently. At the time, I was in one of my contemplative moods, something I am afflicted with all too often, I’m afraid. I was reflecting on my life, how I had gottten to this point. I was savoring the occasional minor victory and pining over the all-too familiar traumatic defeat. Where was I headed, now that I could actually glimpse–however blurry the view–old age on the horizon? It was, after all, in the not-distant-enough future. It dawned on me that any ordinary person, placed in an extraordinary circumstance, confronted with the realization of growing older, would have a story to tell. I had this image of an older guy wandering toward the sunset–the sunset of his life, if you will. The title, Wandering West, then popped into my head. I knew immediately that I would write this aging man’s story, or at least give a stab at it to see how it developed. Once I fleshed out Jack Stiler’s character, at least in my mind, the story took on a life of its own. That’s generally how I have always written. I develop characters and let them tell the story. In the beginning, this is nothing more than a vague concept, a feeling or a mood more than anything. I have no elaborate outline, detailing this and that. I can’t work that way. I’m as surprised as anyone when I get to point D from point C in the story. For me, that’s what keeps it fresh and alive. As a writer, I get hooked the way I hope the reader does. In the case of Wandering West, I completed the story in three to four months, a rather quick pace in light of my previous writings. I think this one was champing at the bit to get out. If you’ve already read Wandering West, pardon the pun. If not, get to it! Click on the purchase button in the book section of this website. And thanks!