The Economics of Entertainment

March has arrived with its usual mix of hope and despair. Spring is right around the corner/will this winter never end? In Ukraine neither hope nor despair are sufficient to define what people are experiencing but you don’t need me to tell you that. Or anything, really (see, despair) though you might find this interesting (hope springs eternal).

The baseball lockout continues cancelling spring training and putting opening day in doubt. For fans, despair looms, while for those who don’t care about battles between billionaire owners and millionaire players, there is always hope for classic movies or perhaps opera performances to fill the programming gap.

In seemingly unrelated news, author Brandon Sanderson popped out four unplanned novels in his spare time over the last couple of years (I assume he has no personal life) and is running a Kickstarter to bring them to the world. He was aiming for a million dollars but is over $20 million now. Good for him, though I won’t be contributing since I haven’t been able to get more than 50 pages into a fantasy novel in over 20 years.

I don’t begrudge him the money any more than I begrudge baseball players making millions for playing a game. It’s all entertainment and people love to be entertained. Better that the creators and athletes get the money than the rent-takers that make up most of the capitalist class. Still, it is somewhat sad to see writing increasingly look like every other aspect of the entertainment business, a few incredibly well-paid stars and thousands of others struggling to make a living wage.

Back to baseball, the very top players make $15-20 million a year (a couple of recent contracts provide in excess of a quarter of a billion dollars to the player over 8 or 12 years). The minimum big league salary is around $1 million so the 26 guys on the big league roster are doing okay. Of course, 20% of non-pitchers only play one season in the bigs and the average career for all players is reported to be 5.6 years. Meanwhile most players in the minors make a lot less. The minimum salary for a player in Single A (still considered professional) is now $500 a week (raised in 2021 from $290). They only get paid for the weeks they play so that works out to $10,000 a year. In other words, less than the minimum wage. Semi-pro players may get less than $50 a game or a few thousand for the entire season.

Thirty to forty years ago, a writer who got a professional advance for a novel could consider quitting his day job. A 2-book deal made going full time a viable option. Professional writers weren’t exactly rich but a middle-class lifestyle wasn’t out of reach. Even those who were less successful could combine their writing income with part-time work in other fields such as teaching (or they could find a supportive spouse with a decent income and do alright as a family). Even then there were a few writers who got big advances or sold a lot of books and did better than alright but million-dollar advances were unknown. In fact, according to Forbes, the first person to make a million dollars strictly from writing books (we’ll leave movies out of this) was J.K. Rowling in 2004. Now well-established authors or first-time authors with buzz or celebrities (Brittany Spears just got a $15 million advance for her tell-all biography, yet to be ghost-written) can easily make a million a book.

Good for them, you might say, and sure why not?

Meanwhile, average advances have been falling. Typically, a first-time author selling to a large or medium size publisher will get less than $10,000. Small presses offer even less and, of course, self publishers get no advance at all. Meanwhile the median income for full-time writers (from writing alone) is just over $20,000, down nearly 30% since 2009. In other words, the rich are getting richer while the poor as usual are getting poorer. And of course, the average career of writers, like those of baseball players is short. One and done is not uncommon with the big publishers and many writers are finished after 5 books (in other words 5.6 years like ball players). Self-publishing is always an option for those who love the game—just as retired major league players can get a gig playing semi-pro—but there is little or no money involved (unless you are in the satellite industry of editing, book design, coaching or selling courses to help self-publishing writers become rich and famous).

That is what the entertainment business is like. The same analysis can be made for actors, musicians, even talk-show hosts and stand-up comics. Hierarchies of income and status exist in all professions but none do it quite the way the entertainment business does where you are either a star or you’re a flash in the pan or you’re just an extra.

What keeps so many people going? In writing as in sports it is often the love of the game or the undying hope that next year will be better.

Photo by Tim Bechervaise on Unsplash

By the way, buy my book.

Brevity

The parsimonious use of words and flowery phrases is the fundamental essence and spirit of clever and humorous expression.

AKA: Brevity is the soul of wit.

After yesterday’s substantial essay on reading, we all deserve a break today. (And now a jingle is running through your head. You’re welcome.)

Keeping it brief is all the rage these days (unless you’re talking about movies, many of which seem like bloated messes). Flash fiction markets, some of them paying 10 or 12 cents a word, have sprung up across the Internet, indicating a market for stories of less than 1000 words, or preferably 500. Drabbles, stories of 100 words (sometimes exactly that length) are also popular.

Why stop there? Here’s a six-word story that’s been attributed to a number of authors, including Hemingway.

For sale: Baby clothes, never used.

Of course, even at 12 cents a word, that only pays $0.72 (or $1 Canadian).  That’s a lousy hourly rate, even just for typing, let alone composing.

As Blaise Pascal famously wrote: I’d have written a shorter letter but I didn’t have the time.

Which is to say: Brevity cannot be rushed. It takes time (thinking, editing) to keep it brief. Not as long as it does to write a novel, but close.

Case in point—I spent half an hour of my “waking time” in the middle of last night thinking about what to include in this blog and what to leave out.

Let me leave you with this, true for both speechmakers and blog writers.

Be bold. Be bright. Be brief.

Photo by Stanislav Remnev on Unsplash

Writing Movies About Writing

There are countless movies about writers and writing, likely going right back to the very first reels in the late 1800s. Undoubtedly, the maxim of write what you know has something to do with it. After all screenwriters are writers first and even directors think they are writers (or at least re-writers). Films range from the strictly biographical to the purely fantastical.

I can hardly claim to have seen them all or even the majority of them but there are forty or so that I distinctly remember having watched at least once and a few I have watched several times. Using that metric—times viewed—as a guide, here are my 10 favorite movies about the mysterious thing we call creative writing.

Shakespeare in Love

While there are plenty of biographical bits to hang this romp on, Shakespeare is a largely fictional account of the writing of Romeo and Juliet, which begins as a comedy and ends, well, we all know how that ends. Tom Stoppard is both a great student of the Bard (he also wrote Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead) but has a deft comic touch and, in the process of the romantic hijinks demonstrates a number of keen insights into improvisation and its role in writing.

Midnight in Paris

I know we’re not supposed to like or even mention W***y A***n, but I have no difficulty separating the art from the artist. Besides he doesn’t appear in this movie though Owen Wilson does a deft surfer dude impression of him. The story of a successful screenwriter who longs to be a serious novelist (did I mention this is a fantasy), it’s also a great statement about how you can never move forward until you stop looking back. The depiction of Stein was kind, of Hemingway a bit harsh and Dali was simply delightful. And you can’t beat Paris in the rain.

Dead Poet’s Society

I’ve watched this film a number of times though I’m not sure I could watch it again – too heartbreaking after what happened to Robin Williams, the only celebrity I’ve truly mourned. Still, I remember it fondly for portraying that the road to good writing always begins with reading great books. O Captain, my Captain!

My Left Foot

A purely biographical story of Christy Brown, the almost paraplegic Irish writer who produced five books over the course of his short life (he died at 49) primarily by writing and typing with his only viable limb, his left leg. The film starred Daniel Day Lewis who went on to be one of my favorite actor, mostly for his ability to completely disappear into a role. Brown’s epic struggle to overcome not just his disability but also poverty and prejudice is inspiring on numerous levels and make my complaints about life and writing seem pretty meager in comparison.

Genius

Another biopic, this one about Max Perkins the legendary editor, and often discoverer, of Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Marjorie Rawlins, Erskine Caldwell, Alan Paton, James Jones and Marguerite Young. The movie focuses on Perkins’ complex and often tumultuous relationship with Thomas Wolfe, author of Look Homeward, Angel and Of Time and the River. I loved this movie and the book that inspired it for what it taught me about how a good relationship between an author and an editor can engender genius. I highly recommend both film and to any aspiring editor.

Adaptation

This is a brilliant film, but a difficult one to watch. Based on the real life efforts of screenwriter Charlie Kauffman to adapt the novel The Orchard Thief to the screen, the film depicts the struggle between trying to remain true to the original material while faced with the demands of Hollywood to conform to the “formula” for success (you know, the 3-act structure and yadda, yadda, yadda). He suffers from addiction, delusion and depression and the film itself reveals the journey in a mixture of fact and fantasy. A good commentary on the idea of adaption but also on the difficulties of writing in other people’s voices whether licensed by the estate (Nero Wolfe or Agatha Christie) or fan fiction of various kinds.

Stranger Then Fiction

Along a similar line as the above, this postulates a real person discovering their life is being written by a successful author: what happens to the author’s character subsequently happens to them. Worried about the character’s apparent impending death, our hero, played by Will Ferrell, in perhaps his best performance ever, goes looking for the writer, played by Emma Thompson. At times funny and moving, it provides an insight into how fiction can sometimes seem to more interesting than real life and how readers can sometimes feel so close to a character that they begin to see themselves in the books they read.

Miss Potter

A little bit fluffy as one might expect in a film about the creator of Peter Rabbit, Miss Potter is a charming tale of a young woman who is repeatedly told by parents, friends and society that writing is not a fit occupation for a young woman and will lead only to unhappiness. Even her eventual publisher has no faith in the book, only printing it to give the younger brother of the family a project. As we all know, they were all wrong but the story of how she proves them wrong with the support of the young publisher (who also becomes her fiancé) is a fine story of the power of perseverance.

Iris

At the other end of a writer’s life can sometimes lie our greatest fear. Iris portrays the life and marriage of Iris Murdoch and John Bayley and garnered Academy Award nominations for Judy Dench, Jim Broadbent and Kate Winslett. Funny and joyful in the beginning it turns tragic and painful as Iris descends into dementia and John struggles to care for her. Bring your Kleenex.

Barfly

Charles Bukowski. Drinks a lot. Falls in lust. Drinks more. Writes poetry. Drinks. Becomes a major if often reviled figure in American letters. Keeps drinking. And other things. Micky Rourke is perfectly cast in the role. There are uglier depictions of the writing life (Naked Lunch, maybe) but I’ll pick this one to remind me that creativity isn’t always pretty.

I’ll finish with two recent movies that might with another viewing break into this list. Mank tells the story of Howard Mankiewicz and the writing of the screenplay for Citizen Kane and The Man Who Invented Christmas explores the life of Charles Dickens as he writes A Christmas Carol. The former is brutally realistic and in black and white while the latter weaves bits of fantasy into the tale. Both are great depictions of various elements of the creative writing process. And finally, two films that are often lauded but which I personally hate: Misery and Barton Fink.

Happy viewing.

Here’s a book that I think would make a great movie. It’s not about writing or writers but I wrote it. In the Shadow of Versailles.

Photo by Jeremy Yap on Unsplash

“Friendly” Writing Advice

“Memory is the best editor.” That’s what Ezra Pound told Ernest Hemingway when his wife left all his manuscripts on a train, never to be seen again. Maybe that’s why Hem kept trying to teach Pound how to box. Later, when he was asked by Yeats to comment on one of his later plays, Pound returned it with a single word –Shit—scrawled across the front page. Ezra always was a good buddy. Hemingway took Pound’s advice and tried to re-write the lost stories better. There is no report what Yeats did with his critique.

When Dorothy Parker was asked if she enjoyed writing, she replied that she enjoyed having written, a sentiment I’ve occasionally felt to be painfully true. Dorothy also said: “If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.” Reviewing a play for a New York paper, she said it covered the gamut of emotions from A to B. I said something similar in a book review for the Calgary Herald in the 1990s: To say the characters are two dimensional, is an insult to the second dimension. Ken McGoogan wisely decided not to publish that review.

I also advised a friend to wear earplugs to a viewing of one of the prequel Star Wars movies as the dialogue was likely to give him splinters.

Back to Hemingway, he claimed writing was easy. All you had to do was sit at a typewriter and bleed. Thankfully, he made enough money as a writer, that he never had to became a teacher. I envision him on the first day of class handing out razor blades to all his students.

Stephen King is reputed to have said to become a writer, you first need to write a million words of shit. Octavia Butler put it more kindly when she claimed that perseverance was the most important skill of an author. Harlan Ellison chimed in with: The trick is not becoming a writer; the trick is staying a writer. He added: Get a day job, make your money from that, then write to please yourself. Many prospective authors have learned that lesson the hard way.

Of course, successful writers aren’t always cynical even though it is their best interest to discourage young writers as it reduces the competition.

Gore Vidal gave good advice when he noted: “Each writer is born with a repertory company in his head. Shakespeare has perhaps 20 players. … I have 10 or so, and that’s a lot. As you get older, you become more skillful at casting them.” In other words, you don’t have to write everything or everyone; know your strengths and make them stronger.

I wish more people would listen to Elmore Leonard when he says: “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.”

Of course, Carl Sandburg may have said it best: “Beware of advice – even this.”

More writers than I can mention advise that before writing you should read, read, read. You could start with my murder mystery set in 1919 Paris.

The Joy (and Futility) of Writing

This blog was triggered by a post I saw on Twitter. The essence of it was: If you knew a comet was going to hit the earth in six months, would you continue to write the book you are working on? If not, you should quit writing now.

The tweet had plenty of likes and positive comments and a number of retweets. My response was less supportive (well, I didn’t actually answer because who needs the misery). What utter self-important and pernicious twaddle.

First off, it implies that someone whose entire life isn’t centered around their writing, is not really a writer. Which is, of course, not only silly but dismissive of the work of writers who often went months or even years without writing or even thinking about writing but produced magnificent books. Maybe they only wrote a few but, frankly, I’d rather write 2 brilliant novels than 25 pedestrian ones.

Secondly, who are you, random Twitter user to tell me what to do with my life. I write because it gives me pleasure, because sometimes I have something to say (and sometimes I don’t) and, yes, I write to be read. Otherwise, I’d just keep a diary. But most of all, I write while doing things that are equally as important to me and as valid to the world.

Finally, if I knew the world was going to end in six months, or more specifically, that I was going to end in six months, I wouldn’t waste that time by pounding away at a keyboard, writing a book that no one in the former case and almost no one in the latter, was going to read. I have friends and family –people I love—to spend time with. I have places I’ve never seen, landscapes and cities and cultures of spectacular beauty and complexity that I yearn to experience. There are foods I’ve never tasted, flowers I’ve never smelled, music I haven’t heard.

If I had six months left, I would fill it with experience, not creating mediated experience for others.

Okay, enough ranting. Note sorry, not done yet.

 For many of my friends, writing is a career, a job like any other, maybe more complex and rewarding than some but still an occupation rather than an entire life. No one would ask a lawyer or a carpenter or a civil servant or a bartender, no matter how successful, or even how much they enjoyed their work, to keep filing briefs, building houses, writing policy or serving drinks until they drew their last breath. Only artists are expected to be that obsessed with work.

For others, it is an enjoyable hobby, something they do rather than surfing or knitting, a pleasant occupation for after the day’s work is done. Many of them are remarkably good at it. William Carlos Williams wrote a number of fine novels, which he produced as an escape from being a busy country doctor. Did he take his writing seriously? Sure. But would he have done it if it wasn’t enjoyable or if it interfered with his true passion which was to keep his neighbours healthy? Probably not.

I likely fall into that category. A hobbyist who has had some moderate successes. I only wrote full-time (if you don’t count the money-making side gigs) for six years back in the 90s and most of my real success came after I returned to a regular job. I wouldn’t give up those years for anything but I wouldn’t do them again, either.

Recently a friend publicly bemoaned the fact that his novel has not sold a lot of copies. His experience isn’t unique (in fact, it is the sad reality of most writers) but few writers openly admit that writing, their passion in some cases, does not pay the bills. We judge people so much on how financially successful they are that it is painful and embarrassing to admit that a book we spent a year or two writing is paying us a fraction of minimum wage. Although I’ve had a few good years, I probably could have made more money doing almost anything else (the year I spent as a bartender, slinging drinks part-time made me more money than writing more or less fulltime). I certainly could have made more money if I’d stayed in the public service, rather than temporarily retiring at age 36 for six years.

But would I quit writing for any reason other than my impending death? Apparently not. Nearly forty years in, writing is where I return when I need a break from life, when I want to play, when I think I have something to say that I think at least a few readers will want to hear.

I don’t strictly write for myself but I accept that my audience is limited. It could be that despite study and practice, I’m not a good enough writer to attract a larger one; I’m certainly not as good as some of my friends, or the brilliant people I know only from their books. It could be a failure of marketing or it could be that the things I like to write about don’t interest the larger world. I don’t care. I write because it gives me pleasure and occupies my mind and I write to communicate with, or just entertain, a few like-minded souls.

Write to the day you die if you wish. Robertson Davies is reputed to have started a short story on the day he died at age 90, but I will point out, he never finished it and nobody ever read it.

Write, don’t write, that’s up to you and not for others to judge. But, no matter what work you devote yourself to, don’t forget the big wide world of love, laughter and life that surrounds you and beckons you.

If you want to make an old writer feel happy and loved, go buy my books on Amazon. You can also search for me on KOBO.

Poetry

Maybe it’s an age thing or maybe an energy one, but I’ve been spending a lot more time with poetry lately, both reading it and, occasionally, scratching a few lines in a big leather notebook. I’ve tried my hand at poetry before (who hasn’t?) but my efforts were uneducated, unformed, and mostly awful. I was of the school of, if I can talk, I can write, which is a lovely idea but denigrates the intense effort required to master any art. I once showed one of my best efforts to a well-published poet and he said: It’s a nice sentiment but it’s not poetry. I didn’t understand what he meant by that but recently I’ve wanted to figure it out.

I suppose after a lifetime of working and playing with language, I’ve become fascinated by the way poets can intertwine form and meaning by using meter, rhyme, word choice and allusion to tell stories that reach deep into the emotional well of human existence.

The tools are different but the goal of all writing should be to move the reader. It doesn’t always work and, when it does work for some, it falls flat for others. Sometimes that is the fault of the writer but, since writing and reading is a form of conversation it can fall on the reader, too. Sometimes as writers, we don’t speak clearly; sometimes as readers, we refuse to listen. It’s one of many reasons why I try to read widely from various cultures, genders, and points of view. I don’t always get it, but I do feel I’m stretching my comprehension of the world.

Of course, sometimes all I really want is a damn good story but here’s the thing, a damn good story can still be cloaked in raiments of silver and gold.

But back to poetry. My high school exposure to poetry was pretty limited. I learned about iambic pentameter but didn’t grasp that many English language poets, including Shakespeare, play around with the rhythmic structure or use an entirely different one, mostly rooted in the way English is spoken, with beats and rests. Poetry in other languages use entirely different stress patterns or none at all, which is why good translations, that try to replicate those patterns sound odd, but still beautiful, to the English ear.

I also learned so long ago that poetry either rhymed or it didn’t, along with a strange prejudice for, or sometimes against, precisely rhymed lines. (The worst doggerel is usually precisely rhymed.) But it turns out that poets play with rhyme as well, using near rhymes, visual rhymes (for example, though and rough which look like they rhyme but don’t), assonance and consonance, internal rhymes (where the rhyme appears inside the line) and so on. I was also taught all poetry was meant to be read aloud but often poets use the layout on the page to achieve their poetic effects.

The more I study poetic forms, the more I realize how little I grasp about poetry. I’m a long way from calling myself a poet, mostly because I haven’t put enough time and effort into it. Life has become incredibly busy recently and my leather-bound journal is gathering dust and my recently acquired books of poetry await my reader’s eye. Maybe later today…

But now I’ll take a risk, and show you how far I’ve come and how far I’ve yet to go.

A brave bank of Black-eyed Susans
Guard the river pathway.
Having heard the November geese flee,
I wonder what else they’ll see
As winter approaches.

On the slate-grey river, a lone duck
Floats, abandoned by her flock.
Is she afraid, or certain
Her instincts will guide her home
When winter approaches?

We drift along the river together
As leaves waft down like golden rain.
The steady click of cane on rock
Reminds us precious time remains
Now winter approaches.

You can’t buy my poetry anywhere but you can buy my books here.

Is this a COVID-19 Story?

A writer friend who authors cozy mysteries recently asked a group of her readers if she should include elements of the pandemic in her next couple of novels. The answer was a resounding NO! Still, it is a valid question. Many of my writer friends are describing their latest short stories as COVID stories and they are not particularly happy about it. How, they ask themselves, can you write truthfully about something you don’t yet quite understand?

Think how Emma Donahue must feel. Her recent novel, The Pull of the Stars, was conceived as a story to commemorate the 100^th anniversary of the Spanish Flu but the final draft was delivered in March 2020, just a few days before WHO declared the pandemic. It is an excellent book and reflects a deep understanding and contemplation of the end of WWI, the impact of the flu on individuals and society, the especial impact that the pandemic had on women and a whole bunch of other things. Plus it is deeply moving and ultimately hopeful. It might resonate with people going through the current pandemic but clearly it is not a COVID novel. What happened in 1918-20 might parallel the events of the last two years but they are not the same.

It is frequently said that novels, whether set in the past, present or the future, reflect the author’s understanding of critical things that happened in their lives and worlds ten years before. For most artists, it takes that long to dig below the surface interpretation to create some version of the truth—even if it is only true for them.

Of course, lots of people have rushed things into print that are purportedly about our recent experiences. Maybe these people are operating at warp speed or have been cybernetically enhanced to allow them to discover deeper truths lurking below surface experience. But I doubt it.

In any case, I have no intention of seeking out their work. Covid-19 is still dominating my real life; I hardly need more of it in my imaginary one. Maybe I’ll be ready to read about this pandemic when the next one hits.

Sadly, you can be sure there will be a next one. Global interconnectedness and climate change pretty much assure us of that. Fortunately, the advances we’ve made in biology and medicine in the last 15 years and especially in the last two likely ensure that our response to the next one (and the one after that) will be quicker and more effective.

Not that that will matter much if climate change turns the planet into a cinder in the next few decades.

Sorry, as you get older, you keep seeing images of doom (if only your own) around every corner.

In case you were wondering, my latest novel, In the Shadow of Versailles, is not a Covid-19 novel either, even though the Spanish Flu does play a role. The first draft was finished several years ago when the pandemic was just a glimmer in your favorite conspiracy theorist’s eye.

You can see what it’s all about for yourself, for a modest sum, right here.

Plotters and Pantsers

They say writers fall into two camps: those who meticulously plan out every detail of their work with special attention to the plot and those who simply have a general idea of the story and write until they come to a conclusion. Personally, I think of it as a spectrum and every writer has their own unique point on it.

As in art, so too in life. Recently I watched this video of a woman who continued to figure skate, despite car accidents and strokes, until she was 90. Even in her 80s she was entering competitions and regularly won medals for her class—which included everyone over 50. In the interview, she talked about how some people plan their lives while she simply let life happen to her. That expression “Letting life happen to you” is often used a bit derisively but, frankly, she seemed a lot happier than many of my tightly wound friends who need to control every aspect of their life.

I mostly followed a pantser lifestyle even though, as a writer, I’m pretty focused on plot. When I was 12, I was pretty sure I was going to be a scientist, working in a lab somewhere and I even got a degree in chemistry. But before I left school I had switched to political science. I worked at related things for quite a while but most of my decisions were of the nature of “that looks interesting” rather than “that is the next stage in my plan” and I finally gave up on the concept of “career path” when I was about 32.

Because I never had a destination in mind, I was always pretty happy with wherever I wound up, knowing full well there was always another opportunity waiting over the horizon. I drifted from the public service to the arts to education and then to Parliament Hill. I read physics for fun and performed for money, became a writer and publisher and an advisor to politicians.

Could I have reached higher levels in any of those fields if I had just settled down and made a plan? Probably, but I wouldn’t necessarily have been happier. And, in the end, we all die anyway no matter how carefully we plan to avoid it.

As in life, so too in art. When I sat down to write In the Shadow of Versailles, I meticulously plotted the story, the character arcs, even the settings I would explore. I researched politics and food and fashion and technology to create a seamless web. Then, I plunked my poor detective, WWI veteran, Max Anderson, into the middle of it to live life as best he could. Did he plan to become a detective? Far from it; all he wanted was a quiet life. But interesting things kept happening and before he knew it, he was solving a crime no one else would admit happened. To see how he does, pick up a copy of In the Shadow of Versailles, wherever ebooks are sold.

Writing for the Joy of It

Samuel Johnson once said: None but a fool writes except for money. It proved a useful quote as I incorporated it in a 1000-word essay I had to write as part of an application for a scholarship. I got the money. It was enough that my entire four years at university was covered. While going to school was cheap back then ($1500 paid for tuition, room and board, and most of my books) but that $6 a word was the most I’ve ever been paid for writing.

Of course, there were other factors in play. I’m sure finishing first in my high school while being active in student affairs had some influence on the decision but still, without the 1000 words, I wouldn’t have got that particular scholarship—the richest my university gave out at the time.

Writing for money. One way or another, it’s what a lot of people do. Whether you are a lawyer writing briefs, a bureaucrat formulating policy, a teacher putting together a lesson plan or a contractor putting together a statement of work for a quote, it’s all writing for money. The only people who seem to be expected to write for no money are, well, writers.

Because, as everyone knows, we do it for the joy of it.

Let me let you in on a little secret. We do write for the joy of it. Or, at least, we should.

This is not to say that writers don’t want and need to get paid. Getting paid for writing is how full-time writers pay for groceries, rent, taxes, or home renovations. It’s how they pay for their kid’s dental work, there internet connection, their eventual retirement (Ha, ha, I hear some of my friends laughing).

But what if you don’t need the money?

As it happens, I don’t. Not really. I had a good job; I saved some money and earned a good pension. Mostly by writing (policy papers, speeches, letters) though there were always other duties as assigned. Creative writing was only a full-time job for a few (lean) years but it did provide a little gravy for most of my working life.

Writing and editing still makes me a little extra which I am more than happy to spend on the finer things in life. I like money and I believe in the principle that creatives should be paid (which is why I don’t give away my work for free), but need it? <SUBLIMINAL MESSAGE: SEND CASH NOW> Not me.

Yet, I still find myself writing, but only when a story promises to give me joy in the writing of it. Don’t get me wrong; writing is still hard work. Every story requires you to do a little research and a lot of thinking. Getting it right, often through re-writes, can be tough. Still, the sheer pleasure of finding the right word or crafting a good sentence cannot be denied. Losing yourself in a world of your own creation is (almost) better than going someplace you’ve never been. Stories don’t have to be happy to give joy to the writer; they can be so sad you have to wipe your eyes to finish the paragraph. Horror or laughter or sense of wonder—they can all bring a writer joy. And learning new skills is a wonderful thing, too, which is why I’ve started to study the craft of poetry.

These days I’m spending most of my writing time in 1920s Paris because it fascinates me and challenges my intellect and emotional range. It pushes me the way a long hard walk pushes me, leaving me tired but exhilarated. But I’m also having a lot of fun working on a science fiction noir detective story for an upcoming anthology. In fact, I’m having so much fun the editors may decide not to buy it. And I’m okay with that.

In the meantime, you can see all the joy I’m finding in writing the Max Anderson mysteries. In The Shadow of Versailles is now available here and the second book will appear around the beginning of October. But you will have to pay for it because… baby needs a new pair of shoes!

The Inciting Incident

Every story begins with an inciting incident, the event that drives the main character out of the ordinary course of his life on to the path of his best true destiny. Ideally, that’s where they end up though, as Robbie Burns tells us things “gang aft agley.” The inciting incident of In the Shadow of Versailles comes early. After four paragraphs to establish the ordinary course of Max Anderson’s life, this happens:

***

He was passing a stone church opposite Square St. Bernard when he heard the cry. It was faint and echoed against the stone walls of the old buildings so that, at first, he couldn’t tell where it had come from or even if it was a man or a woman.

The cry came again, clearer and more desperate.

“Aux secours! On me tue.”

They are killing me. The voice was coming from the far side of the church. The streets were now deserted. Max was weaponless save for a small pocketknife and his cane. He thought of the Webley service revolver he had kept for reasons he did not understand, hidden in a box at the bottom of his suitcase. He might as well wish for the moon.

A third cry, a harsh inchoate groan of pain. A familiar tremor ran along his legs and he had to force himself to turn toward the sound. After the first step it was easier and Max hurried along the wrought iron fence that surrounded the church, each painful stride threatening to tumble him to the ground. His only asset was surprise. He stepped through a narrow gate, bellowing with his best parade ground voice. Three men, their faces covered in scarves, were punching and kicking a fourth, who was slumped in an archway against a blue door trying to shield his face with his upraised arms. At Max’s shout the gang froze in a violent tableau, lit by a single dim streetlight opposite the church’s rear entrance.

Before they could react, Max took two quick steps and struck the closest gangster, a short thick-set man in a striped shirt, across the neck with the head of his cane. The man staggered and almost fell. The second, taller but as heavily built, leapt toward Max, hands outstretched. He recoiled in pain as Max’s small blade cut a gash across the back of his hand and up his arm.

The victim was not helpless, either. He took quick advantage of Max’s interruption, stepped close to his third assailant and shot a hard right into the man’s broad belly. He followed with a short chopping left to the man’s ear. The gangster turned and fled, the other two fast behind.

They had barely disappeared in the darkness before a policeman came flying around the corner, his white stick raised and his cape billowing behind him.

“Almost when we needed one,” muttered the short dark man Max had rescued, picking up his hat.

The gendarme, puffing and red faced, looked from Max to the other man, who was now dabbing at the blood on his face with a white silk handkerchief. He said something fast that Max didn’t catch. He shook his head. “Pardon, ne comprend pas.”

“Is this wog bothering you, monsieur?” he repeated in barely comprehensible English.

Max shook his head more emphatically and switched back to French. “No, he was being attacked by three men. They went that way.” Max gestured with his cane along the street. The officer, a sergeant by the markings on his sleeve, nodded but gave no indication that he intended a pursuit. He took out a notebook and took their names, addresses and the few bits of description they could provide.

“Monsieur Barzani,” he said at last, “Do you know why you were attacked?”

“Perhaps they wanted to rob me of my wallet,” Barzani shrugged, speaking such precise French that Max felt envious. “Or perhaps it is because I’m a wog.”

The gendarme glared and snapped his notebook shut. With a promise to find them should he require anything further, he turned on his heel and strode into the gathering gloom.

“We have heard each other’s names but we have not formally met,” said Barzani, in English as flawless as his French. He extended his hand. “Hevel Mohammed Barzani, late of Tehran, freelance diplomat and currently a man about town.”

Max took the hand and shook it warmly, slightly embarrassed by the policeman’s words and behaviour. He tried to match the precision of Barzani’s French. “Maxwell Michael Anderson, late of Truro and the Nova Scotia Highlanders. Currently between drinks.”

“Then we must remedy that. Drinks and a cigar, too. I have some imported directly from Cuba that you simply must try.”

“I wasn’t trying to cadge…”

“Of course not, my friend” said Barzani, taking Max by the arm. “I owe you a great debt. I think those men intended more than a simple beating. I would be a poor son of Allah if I did not offer some token of my gratitude. Now come. I know a charming little bistro a few blocks from here where we can be refreshed and build upon what I am sure will become a great friendship.”

***

If you would like to read more, you can purchase In the Shadow of Versailles in your favorite on-line store.

Photo: Reinhardhauke (Wikipedia Commons)