WE ARE WHAT WE WRITE… REALLY?!!

Darrell James

A neighbor of mine recently read my collection of short stories, Body Count: A Killer Collection. When I saw her some days later she commented that she liked the stories but that they made her wonder about me (the author)—the inference being that because I write about murder (sometimes from a somewhat dark perspective) that I must somehow be as secretly deranged as the characters I create.

Moi? I’m a guy who walks around ants on the sidewalk so as not to spoil their day.

In my introduction to the book, I did offer this defense: “I am less intrigued by murder itself, than I am with the premeditation that leads to it. In other words, at what point in the course of human conflict does murder become the solution of choice.”

Ahhh, but, then, perhaps, it was no defense at all, but yet another clever attempt by the author to conceal his darker, more devious, intent.

I know I’m not the first writer to be held in suspicion of his work. In Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft, he indicates that the he is often ask why he chooses to write horror (given such obvious talent for writing). His answer is: “What makes you think I can write anything else?”

Perhaps, good Stephen has looked inside himself and glimpsed the demon that conjures the work.

But I doubt it.

In real life, I abhor violence of any kind. And find it uncomfortable to even be in the presence of an argument.

And, if it were so, one of us (Stephen or I) would have already been caught skulking through some dark alley or climbing through some unlocked bedroom window.

So, what’s behind the fascination for writing stories of murder? And what does it say about the readers who love to read them?

Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts. (I’d truly like to know who among you to be on the lookout for.)

YOU JUST DO

By Darrell James

Nearly every fiction writer I know has one or more failed novels tucked away in a drawer someplace. Novels that were at least somewhat inspired in their concept at the time, but were perhaps poorly executed in their craft. I have two, plus an original screenplay.

The first is a thriller titled The Walking Man featuring a homeless vet as the stories main character. The second was a crime tale titled Law Dogs Don’t Chill, featuring a cop who is trying his best to retire but who just can’t seem to put down the cause. And then there was the screenplay First Hostage, that I pitched as something akin to “Die Hard meets The Hunt For Red October.”

In their essence, all were conceptually pretty good, I think. But in looking back now, it becomes obvious that I simply hadn’t yet acquired the skills to pull them off. It took several more years before my first short story was published and longer still before Midnight offered a book deal on my Del Shannon series of mystery/thrillers.

All this—the work, the learning, the development, the patience—took place over a period of some ten to fifteen years. So, it raises the question:

When do you know when you’re good enough?

Elmore Leonard once said, “I never really became a writer until I stopped worrying about what my mother would think.”

In the beginning, I believe, a writer (or for that matter a beginner in just about any field of endeavor) starts perhaps with a dream to become a success. But short of that dream there is little skill to back it up.

I’ve had it defined for me as four stages of learning one goes through to be a master at anything:

Stage One—Unconscious Incompetence: You don’t know what you don’t know.

Stage two—Conscious Incompetence: As you grow you start to become aware of how little you do know.

Stage Three—Conscious Competence: At this level you begin to realize you abilities and take confidence in them.

Stage Four—Unconscious Competence: The Master. Your skills are so honed you can accomplish them blindfolded.

We all dream of reaching Stage Four, to be a master of the art. To be the Jack Nicklaus or the Peggy Fleming of our chosen field. To fly completely in the zone. To acquire the rewards that come with being the best there is.

I spent quite a few years (I think most do) working and studying and practicing my way through stages 1 & 2 as a writer. My wife, Diana, would tell you she believes I reached Stage 3 somewhere in 2006. I had just written a short story called Something Heavy When You Need It. I had given it to her to read and critique, as is our custom. When I came downstairs a short time later, I found her crying over the manuscript. She would say she knew at that very moment that I would one day be a success.

To me, I think it came sometime later. In 2007 I wrote a story called Trust A Dead Man To Keep A Secret. The plan was to submit it to Deadly Ink for their Deadly Ink competition. I remember writing that story with a certain confidence. A feeling that I knew (somehow knew) that the story was good, that it would stand up strongly against the other stories that would be submitted. I believed—in writing it—that I would actually win. And did!

That wasn’t arrogance talking, believe me. I was still questioning much of what it would take to become a successful writer. But there was a certain confidence that I had going into it. Confidence born of experience. It was further affirmed a year later when my short story The Art of Avarice, appearing in the anthology Politics Noir, became a finalist in the Derringer Awards. And again earlier this year when Midnight Ink offered me a book deal for Del Shannon.

I have a long way to go to reach Stage Four, I know that. And maybe it’s at that level where the idea of “natural talent” comes into play. You either find the zone or you don’t. What I do know (what I have learned) is that with hard work and a willingness to persevere you can accomplish almost anything.

I ask earlier, “When do you know when you’re good enough?”

I think the answer is… You just do!

What’s your take on it? When did you begin to realize your craft as a writer? And if your specialty is in another field, when did you first know you were truly getting the job done?

Leave a comment. I’d really like to know.