Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing, Zombies Need Brains

Monday Musings: A New Anthology and Submission Advice For Writers

By now you might have seen the posts across several social media platforms: There is a new Zombies Need Brains Kickstarter campaign underway. For eleven years now, ZNB has been publishing quality short fiction from teams of established professionals and new voices found through open calls for stories. We’re doing three anthologies this year, and before I get to the advice part of the post, I wanted to take a bit of time to tell you about them.ZNB Kickstarter image

The first anthology is Were- 2, and is edited by Joshua Palmatier and S.C. Butler. The original Were- anthology came out in 2016, and featured stories about were-creatures other than werewolves. This new anthology has a similar theme. I wrote a story for Were-, one I still love, called “A Party For Bailey.” For my were-creatures I chose bears, and that’s all I’ll say. I’m sure you’ll love Were- 2 — its anchor authors include Randee Dawn, Auston Habershaw, Gini Koch, Gail Z. Martin and Larry N. Martin, Harry Turtledove, Tim Waggoner, and Jean Marie Ward.

This year’s second anthology is Skull X Bones. It’s a pirate anthology that I will be co-editing with Joshua. We will be looking for speculative fiction stories of any sort (fantasy, paranormal, science fiction, horror), as long as they focus on pirates. Our anchor author lineup includes Rod Belcher, Alex Bledsoe, Jennifer Brozek, C.C. Finlay, Violette Malan, Misty Massey, and Alan Smale.

Finally, Joshua will be solo editing a follow up to the Ampyrium anthology that was published earlier this summer. Ampyrium is a shared fantasy world that debuted in seven novella-length stories written by Patricia Bray, S.C. Butler, Esther M. Friesner, Juliet E. McKenna, Jason Palmatier, Joshua Palmatier, and me. The new anthology, Ampyrium: Merchant War, will have anchor stories from all seven of us, plus another seven stories (or so) from an open call.

So, as a long-time ZNB editor (Skull X Bones will be my sixth ZNB anthology), and a longer-term ZNB author (in addition to those I have edited, I have written for a half dozen ZNB anthologies), what advice can I offer to writers hoping to sell stories to one collection or another? Each ZNB anthology receives literally hundreds of open call submissions. Usually we take seven or eight stories. So you want your story to stand out in good ways.

1) Pay close attention to the anthology themes. When we ask for stories written, say, about pirates, that doesn’t mean the story should merely mention pirates or have one corsair as a background character. It means pirates, of whatever sort, should be so central to the story that without them, the narrative does not exist. For an anthology like Ampyrium: Merchant War, you should probably plan to read some or all of the first anthology, to familiarize yourself with the setting and the themes of those original tales. Speaking as an editor, I can tell you that I reject more stories for not being on theme than for any other reason.

2) Read the submission guidelines. This is important for ANYTHING you submit to any market. All editors are swamped with stories and short on time. We want to find great stories, obviously, but we also want to get through our slush piles. When I get a story that’s written in a tiny font, or that is single-spaced (which makes a story MUCH harder to read), or has wonky margins, or a weird font color, I tend to start reading it with a negative attitude. The writer in question has already ticked me off by ignoring the guidelines, and now I’m looking for one more reason to reject the story and move on to the next one.

You don’t want that. You want to do everything right in terms of formatting and following directions, so that I read the story with an open mind, so that I accept or reject the story purely based on the quality of the writing and narrative elements. Follow. The. Guidelines.

3) Proof your story. Then proof your story. And then proof your story again. Look, typos happen. All of us who edit for ZNB are also professional writers. We all have typos in our own books and stories, and chances are we could read through them 100 times and still not catch every little error. But that said, again speaking as an editor, finding two or three typos on the very first page is much like receiving a story that didn’t follow the GLs (see above). It makes me wonder if the author of the story cared enough to edit. Taking pride in our work means, in part, making our manuscripts as clean as possible.

4) Think about your narrative — and how it relates to the theme — as broadly as possible. Joshua has said, in offering advice on panels, “Your first idea is not necessarily your best idea.” And he’s right. Sometimes, a great idea comes to us immediately. Those moments are magical, but relatively uncommon. More often, our first idea is the most obvious one, which can mean that it will be similar to the ideas of lots of other writers submitting to the anthology. Let your ideas for your story steep a bit. Give them time to take you in truly innovative directions.

5) Develop your ideas. My second most common reason for rejecting a story is that the idea of the narrative failed to move beyond just that: an idea. A story is more than a cool premise. A story is about characters, be they human or fantastical or alien. A story brings some sort of change or progress to the lives of those characters or to the world around them. If your synopsis of the story you’re submitting doesn’t include something about characters, their lives, and the way things change for them, chances are you need to rethink your story. And I would add this — generally speaking, if the word count of your story is under 2,500, it probably needs more development. We rarely take stories that are shorter than that, not because we want you to pad your word count, but rather because it takes time to develop a plot into something more than an idea.

The open call for stories for this year’s ZNB anthologies will begin soon after the Kickstarter ends. So, first things first: We have to fund the projects. We are already a quarter of the way to our goal, which is great. But we still have a long way to go, and we need your help!!

Thanks, and have a great week!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: Beauty and Hope at the Olympics

There is an image from an Olympic event I watched that has been captured in a photo. It is beautiful and it gives me hope on so many levels. The men’s Moroccan soccer team had just pounded team U.S.A. 4-0. It was a humiliating and comprehensive loss for the American team, which had surprised many by making it out of group play and into the second stage of the Olympic soccer tournament. For a moment, it seemed that U.S. men’s soccer had finally exceeded expectations and come together in exciting and promising ways. Then reality hit.

Olympic soccer moment
(Photo by Marc Atkins/Getty Images)

But in the wake of the match, as American forward Kevin Paredes sat on the grass, despondent and exhausted, a Moroccan player, Achraf Hakimi, came over, squatted in front of him, and put his forehead on Paredes’s forehead to speak quietly to him and offer a few words. Consolation, praise, understanding? It really doesn’t matter what he said. What matters is that he said it, in the manner captured in that remarkable photo.

I am not naïve. Athletics can’t bridge all of the world’s geopolitical chasms. A singular act of sportsmanship, no matter how moving, can’t overcome stubbornly persistent cultural divisions. I don’t look this photo, or recall the moment when I saw this on the broadcast, and think, “That player is so kind; world peace is here!”

But we live in a world that is mired in dark times. War, prejudice, government sanctioned acts of wanton cruelty, authoritarian threats to democracy and republican government all across the globe, including here at home. Everywhere we look, we see what appears to be a breakdown in basic human kindness and compassion. And I’m simply saying that this image offers a counterpoint to the steady drumbeat of bad news and mind-numbing inhumanity. Here are two men, opponents on the pitch, products of vastly different cultures, who, in the captured moment, are nothing more or less than comrades and human beings bound by empathy and love of the game they play. It’s simple and understated. It’s miraculous and worthy of celebration.

I noticed other similar moments during this year’s games. Swimmers from different countries crossing lane markers after a tight race to congratulate one another. Simone Biles and Jordan Chiles (when she still had her bronze) honoring floor exercise gold medalist Rebeca Andrade of Brazil during the medals ceremony. Competitors in the X sports events marveling at the accomplishments of their rivals. One of the original purposes of the modern Olympics, which began in 1896, was to foster understanding among nations through friendly competition. And while it’s easy to laugh off such idealistic intentions, this is one of the reasons I love watching the games every two years (now that the Winter and Summer Olympics are staggered).

I should take a moment to acknowledge that the Olympics can also bring out the worst in humanity — Adolphe Hitler’s failed attempt to use the 1936 games as a display of Aryan superiority; the massacre of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics in Munich; the 1996 Atlanta Olympics bombing by a right-wing domestic terrorist; the shameful, transphobic, and unsubstantiated attacks during this year’s games on Algerian boxer Imane Khelif. More often than not, when geopolitics intrudes upon the games, they do so with terrible results.

But moments of that sort are the exceptions, not the rule. Acts like those of Morocco’s soccer star truly are the norm.

The games are over now. Other sporting events will take center stage, with varying amounts of sportsmanship on display. The world’s problems will continue. Perhaps more countries, including ours, will reject authoritarianism as France did earlier this summer. But war and violence and oppression will continue.

And I will remember that image. I’ll cling to the memory as a talisman. Because there is kindness and understanding in the world, even in places where we might not think to look for it.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Writing

Monday Musings: Checking In, With Further Thoughts On Grief

I’ve been traveling a lot this summer — hence my inconsistency when it comes to posting. Generally the travel has gone well, and visits with friends and family have been wonderful. Whether in personal settings or professional ones, I have felt valued and loved, seen and supported. I can’t ask for more.

I am still on the same journey I have been on for the better part of a year. Grief, I am learning, doesn’t ever go away. It changes, it eases and spikes and eases again, it becomes part of us, redefining who we are and how we interact with the world, with the people in our lives, with ourselves.Alex

Months ago, I wrote that I would not wish to stop grieving. We grieve because we loved and because we remember. Grief is how our hearts and minds remain connected to those we have lost. I continue to believe this.

I am no stranger to grief; I’ve dealt with more loss in my life than I would have liked. We lost my mother and father when I was still in my early 30s. We lost my brother Bill far too early. And, of course, we lost Alex — the cruelest cut of all. In the past, I fought my grief, trying to hold it at arm’s length, fearing that to embrace it would be to surrender. The thought of that surrender terrified me. What if I couldn’t pull myself out of my sadness? What if the loss overwhelmed me?

This time around, I didn’t have a choice. The loss was too great, the pain too consuming. Had I not surrendered to it, I would have broken in half, like a tree trunk snapped off by a straight-line wind. Yes, there is an echo here of Aesop’s fable, “The Oak and the Reed.” A better analogy for my purpose is standing in the surf. I’ve never been a confident swimmer, and I used to hate swimming in the ocean because I would try to stand against the force of breakers. Only when I learned to body surf and to dive through waves did I start to love going to the shore. It was a lesson the girls picked up on quickly, and some of my fondest memories are of swimming with Nancy, Alex, and Erin during our annual beach vacations.

Grief is a huge wave. Only when I allowed it to wash over me and carry me where it would, did I come to understand that I could surrender to it without drowning.

Something else I’ve learned about grief — and another analogy to explain it: Our emotions have needs, just as our bodies do. And often we have to listen to our thoughts and feelings to understand what those needs might be. You know that feeling when you’re suddenly hungry for something very specific — a piece of fruit, or some meat or cheese, or a savory snack. That is our body’s way of telling us that it needs a certain type of nutrition — sugar, protein, salt. We learn to trust those cravings and to cater to them.

My emotions, and perhaps yours as well, work much the same way. There are days when I need to be with other people. There are days when I want to be alone. There are days when I crave work and others when writing and editing are the last things I want to do. One day I wanted to get a tattoo. Another day — Alex’s birthday, actually — I needed to hike and birdwatch on my own. I walked eleven miles that day. I have learned to listen to my grief, to honor it, to let it guide me through the roughest days.

So, how am I doing? I’m asked that a lot. Still. I don’t mind at all. I understand that the question comes from concern and from love. And the truth is, nine months on from the hardest, worst, most brutal thing that has ever happened in my life, I am all right. I won’t say I’m doing great. I don’t think you’d believe me if I did. But I am living my life, savoring time with the people I love most, doing the little things that I enjoy and from which I draw strength and peace. I have bad days, of course. But I get through them. And I’m finding there are fewer of them now than there were in the fall and winter.

It occurs to me as I write this that I have been listening to some new music lately. New to me, I should say. The lyrics aren’t particularly deep and the musicianship isn’t all that flashy. It’s kind of the musical equivalent of peanut butter and pretzels — a bit of protein, more substance than, say, gummy worms. But no one would confuse it for gourmet fare. It matches my mood in a way. I am not ready to go back to the tunes from which I have usually drawn emotional comfort. There is too much baggage in that music. Too much pain. Too many associations. And so these new songs are what I’m using to get through right now.

One last analogy to explain where I am with my grief at this point in time.

Thanks for reading. Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Monday Musings: The Cost of Political Violence

We are officially through the looking glass.

In the wake of the apparent attempt to assassinate Donald Trump over the weekend, the RIGHT is now accusing the LEFT of instigating stochastic terrorism against the MAGA movement. For those of you not familiar with the term, stochastic terrorism is essentially political violence that has been sparked by inflamed rhetoric directed at a movement, a segment of the population, or even an individual.

And you know what? In a sense, the right is correct. Yes, Donald Trump and the far right represent an existential threat to the founding principles of our republic. There can really be no denying this. Read about “Project 2025,” the right’s blueprint for what the next Republican Administration ought to look like, and one is driven to that single conclusion. The right’s plans for the country would destroy our nation’s unique experiment in representative democracy.

That may seem like just the sort of dangerous rhetoric Republicans are currently complaining about. I get that. But it is also true.

The problem is, political rhetoric in the United States has been so extreme for so long that we seem incapable of dialing it back. I want to say that it doesn’t matter who started it or which side has committed more atrocities in their pursuit of political dominance, but I find it hard to type the words. Even as I try to craft a plea for moderation, for tolerance, for sanity, I also want to scream from the rooftops that the other side is responsible, is more guilty, has more blood on their proverbial hands. The wounds to our society run deep, and every election cycle we pick at the scabs, drawing fresh blood and renewed pain.

We hear about new acts of violence, and our reactions are tribal. One side claims, without foundation, that the perpetrator was a member of a political group on the other side. The other side claims something similar, or tries to argue that the whole event was “a false flag.” (Yes, both sides have done these things.) We await confirmation of our biases, eager for another opportunity to score points off of someone else’s misfortune. I am as guilty of this as anyone. I hate what I see in myself in those moments.

When it comes down to it, there is blame aplenty to go around. Is it really necessary to weigh the violence of January 6, 2021 against that of July 13, 2024? Isn’t it enough to say that both were unacceptable, that both were assaults on all the values we hold dear? Every new violation breeds more hatred, more recrimination, more hostility. And the circle of violence spirals further and further beyond our control.

I wish I believed that Donald Trump was man enough to say, in the wake of the apparent attempt on his life, “Enough! From this day forward, for the good of the nation, I will abandon my extreme rhetoric. I disagree with Joe Biden and the Democrats on a host of issues, but we are all Americans, and we owe it to our country and children to discuss those differences rationally, peaceably, without threats of violence, whether implicit or explicit.”

I’m sad to say that I don’t believe he is capable of saying such a thing. Rather, I fully expect him to turn the screw again, to ratchet up tensions even more.

We are playing a perilous game of rhetorical chicken. People died as a result of January 6th. People died on Saturday. How many more need to be killed before we come to our senses? Do we really have to take our country to the brink of (another) civil conflict before we come to our senses? That would be a tragedy. Another in a long line.

Enough.

Stay safe. Have a good week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: Me And My Guitar…

Me and my guitar,
Always in the same mood;
I am mostly flesh and bones,
And he is mostly wood.
Never does grow impatient
For the changes I don’t know, no;
If he can’t go to heaven,
Maybe I don’t want to go, no…
— James Taylor

As many of you know, I am a musician. I am an amateur, to be sure, and not as proficient or dedicated as I was in my younger days, but I’m still enthusiastic about my music and deeply attached to my guitars.

What’s the difference between now and my youth? Why was I “more proficient and dedicated” then? Well, in part, back then music was something I did instead of course work. It was a welcome distraction, a great way to procrastinate, and one of my favorite things to do when high. (Hey, you asked….) These days, I have other distractions and I am far more devoted to my writing than I ever was to school work.

Free Samples flyerMore to the point, though, back in the day, I used to perform regularly. Along with my dear, dear friends Alan Goldberg and Amy Halliday, I was in a band called Free Samples. Three voices, two guitars. Acoustic rock — CSN, Beatles, Paul Simon/Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, Bonnie Raitt, Joni Mitchell, Pousette-Dart, etc. We performed several times a semester, usually at the campus coffee house, but also at special events during which we shared the evening with other acoustic bands.

I loved performing. Even more, I loved rehearsing and preparing for gigs with Alan and Amy. Making music with the two of them defined my years at Brown. I enjoyed my college years (mostly) and made many of my most enduring friendships in those years. I learned a lot, did well academically, grew up (some — I still had plenty of growing up to do post-college). But my fondest memories, my happiest moments, revolved around Free Samples.

After college, we three went in different directions. Alan and Amy were both in the D.C. area for a short while, and while there they continued to perform together on a regular basis. I remained in Providence and performed there a few times before starting graduate school out in California. I performed once or twice in the Bay Area, but my studies consumed most of my time. And then I met Nancy, and life took me in other directions. Amy continues to sing with a church group. And Alan has become a regular performer in the Albany, New York area as the leader of a band called Innocent Bystanders. He has made himself into an incredibly accomplished musician and performer.

Me? I have played regularly over the intervening years, but pretty much only for myself and my family. Aside from a fun and memorable guest appearance with Alan and his band one night some eight or so years ago, I haven’t performed publicly in a long, long time.

Why am I sharing all of this with you now?

Next week, I will be out in Oregon visiting another couple of dear friends from college — mutual friends of Alan and mine. Alan will be there as well, and over the weekend we will be performing music. Alan’s younger son, Dan, a terrific keyboard player and singer, will be joining us. This will be, as I said, my first public performance in years, and only my second since, well, the early 1990s.

Nervous? Why, yes. Yes, I am.

Alan and DavidAs I made clear earlier, I am not the player or singer I used to be, mostly because I don’t work at it as I once did. And so I’m afraid I’ll sound bad. Alan and Dan have played together a lot over the past several years, including live performances and online concerts they gave during the pandemic. They sound great as a twosome and I don’t want to ruin that. They have terrific on-stage rapport, just as Alan and I did back when we were young. I don’t want to get in the way of that, either. And I have overwhelmingly positive memories of my performing days. I don’t want to sully those recollections with a performance now that is subpar. I don’t want to embarrass myself.

Put another way, I can think of a hundred reasons why this might be a bad idea.

At the same time, though, I’m also excited about the possibilities. Audiences, as Alan has reminded me again and again when I express my doubts to him, tend to be kind, generous, and forgiving. They aren’t there to point and laugh and denigrate. They’re there to have fun, to enjoy good music, to sing along. They don’t care about the occasional botched lyric or missed chord. Neither do Alan and Dan. The insecurities are all in my head, rooted in my own self-doubt. So the moment I get beyond them, I will be free to savor the experience, to bask in the musical camaraderie, to rediscover something that once meant the world to me, something I have missed terribly for all these years.

I’m trying my hardest to build my anticipation around that vision, that outcome. Because if all goes well, this could be a magical event.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Monday Musings: Forlorn On The Fourth Of July

We have a fun July 4th celebration in our little town. It’s a university town, and a somewhat affluent one at that, especially when compared with the surrounding communities. And so we attract a lot of visitors. There are games for kids, a fun, somewhat tongue-in-cheek dog show, a parade, lots of food stands, a crafts fair, and, in the evening, a surprisingly good fireworks display over one of the local lakes.

Erin face paintAlex face paintOur girls LOVED Sewanee Fourth of July when they were young. We would give them a bit of cash, help them meet up with friends, and then pretty much say goodbye to them for the day. It’s a small, safe, friendly town, and we never worried about them. They always found us eventually, sunburned and sweaty, their faces covered in face-paint, their pockets stuffed with candy that was thrown to kids by the parade participants. We’d go home, have a nap and some dinner, not that any of us was very hungry, and then, after covering ourselves with bug spray, would make our way to the fireworks venue.

Fond memories.

Nancy and I have been doing July 4th on our own for many years now, since we became empty-nesters. It’s easier in a way, though a bit less fun. The magic of the day has dissipated with the years. We still enjoy seeing people, and we can usually find something good to eat. These days, we tend to stop by a couple of the parties that take place along the parade route, and, once the parade is done, we head home. Some years we go to see the fireworks, some years we don’t.

I will admit that this year my heart isn’t in it. Not the way it used to be. Part of that is personal — those fond memories have thorns these days.

But more than that, I feel less inclined to celebrate America than I used to. I have long found the equating of conservatism with patriotism offensive. I was brought up by liberals, and I raised my kids as a committed progressive. The terminology changed, but the love of country has never wavered. I have a Ph.D. in U.S. history, and while it is impossible to dive into the depths of our nation’s past without seeing its many flaws, it is also impossible to do so without gaining a healthy appreciation for qualities in our national story that are worthy of admiration. Resolve and resilience, boundless ambition and a commitment to human dignity that is often myopic and even hypocritical but also naïvely sincere. Ours is an imperfect but charmingly idealistic vision of government, an experiment in democratic republicanism that has yet to fulfill the dreams of its Founders, but which continues to strive for realization.

All of which makes our current state of political affairs so terrifying. The aforementioned experiment is at risk. If the Presidential election were held today, we would likely elect a man who has shown no compunction at all about placing his personal hunger for power above the national good, a man who has shown utter disregard for the centuries-old norms of our governing system, a man who has been convicted of 34 felonies and accused of dozens more, a man who literally lies about everything, who has made grievance and greed and graft synonymous with his personal brand, and who has declared without shame that he intends to begin his next term in the White House — a sequel to his disastrous, chaotic, hate-filled first term — with a one-day dictatorship. As if this paragon of gluttony will be able to stop after a single day.

Is our incumbent old? Yes. Do his communications skills leave much to be desired? Absolutely. This is why your Democratic friends and neighbors haven’t slept or eaten in days and have the look of caffeine addicts whose coffee machine is on the fritz. But Joseph Biden has been a remarkably effective President when it comes to passing bipartisan legislation. He has overseen an economic recovery that includes the creation of fifteen million new jobs. To be sure, inflation went up on his watch, spurred by supply-chain disruptions that began during the Covid recession of 2020 and worldwide economic dislocations caused by the ongoing war between Russia and Ukraine. But it has come down steadily since its 2022 peak and is now below 3% annually.

Most of all, though, the President is a decent, honest man, who honors and upholds our nation’s political ideals. He poses no threat to our republic. On the contrary, he is committed to saving our heating planet, improving the lives of those who face discrimination and economic injustice, and restoring a national right to women’s health care access. He has spent his life fighting for social equality. Is he a step slower now? A bit more muddled in his speech? A bit more frail and forgetful? Yes, yes, and yes. But on his worst day, he is better than the lying felon running against him.

I hope desperately that the American people will realize this before it’s too late. I fear they won’t.

I hope your July Fourth is fun and fulfilling.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Monday Musings: Very Special Tattoos

While our older daughter, Alex, was sick with cancer, she continued to live her life with passion and exuberance, in defiance of the disease, the treatments, the fear, the injustice of a cruel and arbitrary illness. She traveled, she spent time with friends, she treated herself to new clothes, she went to concerts and restaurants and parties, she worked out. And she challenged herself to do new things.

Early on, soon after her diagnosis, a dear friend gave her a lovely bouquet of wildflowers that she kept in a vase in her apartment. Eventually, of course, the flowers faded and then dried, but they never lost their delicate beauty, and they continued to mean the world to her. She kept them in the same vase, refusing to get rid of them. I think in some way they became a talisman for her. As long as those fragile blooms remained intact, she would be all right.

Somewhere along the way, as her battle went on, Alex decided she wanted to have the image of those blooms tattooed on her arm. She turned to a friend from NYU who had become an accomplished tattoo artist. This friend, Ally Zhou, specializes in fine line work, and was the ideal person to render the precise details of the dried bouquet. The result was a gorgeous tattoo that Alex bore proudly for the rest of her too-short life.

After Alex’s death, Nancy, Erin, and I decided that we wanted to honor Alex by getting tattoos from Ally as well. Ally had already designed a couple for Alex’s friends: a copy of Alex’s nickname signature — “ABC” — and a small image of lemons, which had a special meaning for Alex during her illness — like Beyoncé, life had dealt her lemons and she was determined to make lemonade.

Last week, the three of us were in New York for the wedding of my nephew and niece-in-law (I know that’s not a thing, but it really, really ought to be . . .). A couple of days after the wedding, we went down to Brooklyn for a day, to the studio collective where Ally works. It’s called Macondo, and it’s a very cool place. We had contacted Ally ahead of time, and they set aside much of the afternoon for the three of us.

I should say here that while Alex and Erin had long talked about getting tattoos, Nancy and I never have. If not for Alex and her ordeal, we never would have even considered doing this. But now it felt like an imperative, something we all needed to do. And so Nancy got a set of blooms based on Alex’s bouquet, and added to it a small butterfly that she (Nancy) drew, and a small version of Alex’s “ABC.” Erin added Nancy’s butterfly to the “ABC” she’d gotten at Alex’s memorial in NYC back in October. And I got the “ABC” and the lemons.

I know there are many of you reading this for whom a small tattoo is no big deal. You have sleeves or extensive back pieces or whatever. I think that’s great. But as I say, this was something Nancy and I had never intended to do. It felt momentous, like a ritual of sorts, a way of alchemizing our grief into something physical and shared and public, something that links us to one another and to Alex. I love my new tattoo, for what it means as well as for how it looks.

Did it hurt? Well, yeah, a little. Tattoo artists use needles, you know. While lying on the table, I gained a healthy respect for those I mentioned earlier who have extensive art all over their bodies. I’m not sure I could do that. But Ally has a light hand and a wonderfully gentle and supportive manner. It was a good experience for all of us.

Our darling girl is gone. Nothing can bring her back. But, strange as it seems, I feel a bit closer to her now. To my mind, our tattoos are yet another affirmation of our family connection, which transcends all.

Have a great week.

Baen Books, Bell Bridge Books, Blogging, Case Files of Justis Fearsson, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, Thieftaker Chronicles, Tor Books, Writing

Monday Musings: Introducing the Toothbrush Principle

We have a Sonicare toothbrush — one of those rechargeable ones that vibrates, like, a trillion times per second and essentially buzzes plaque and tartar into submission. (That might not be exactly the science behind the technology, but that is certainly what it feels like.) The toothbrush has a built-in timer that changes the tone of the buzz every thirty seconds, to let us know it’s time to abuse a different part of our mouths (top front, top back, bottom front, bottom back, or whatever) and so we generally brush for about two minutes every morning and every evening. (Stick with me; there is a point to this.)

If we do the math, two times a day at two minutes per brushing comes to twenty-eight minutes per week, or 1,460 minutes of brushing per year. That’s twenty-four hours and twenty minutes. So, put another way, each year, we spend the equivalent of one entire day brushing our teeth. We can do calculations like this for all sorts of things. I do a workout each weekday morning before I take my morning walk. That workout lasts about forty minutes and I do it five days a week (except for when I’m traveling). So, that’s 200 minutes a week for, let’s say, forty-five weeks out of the year. That means I spend the equivalent of slightly more than six full days a year working out, just so that I can eat a bowl of ice cream at the end of the day and not feel too guilty about it.

But for the purposes of this post, let’s stick with the toothbrushing example. Assuming, of course, that you’re still reading. Certainly by now you’re wondering what the hell this is about.

Allow me to explain.

Speaking with beginning writers at conventions (as I did at ConCarolinas a week or so ago) I often hear that they are ready to start work on a novel, but they worry about carving out time in their already-busy lives for a big project. Such an endeavor feels overwhelming, frightening, impossible.

The Loyalist Witch, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)And in part, this is the fault of professionals like me, who talk about our work habits and, perhaps, create unrealistic expectations that writers with less experience then apply to themselves. I write full time. I demand of myself that I write 2,000 words per day. I am asked often how long it takes me to write a book, and the honest answer is that it takes me about three months, which is pretty quick, I know. Writers who are at the outsets of their careers should not necessarily expect to do the same.

Because I didn’t always write this fast. For the first ten years of my career, I was pleased to complete a book a year. And that pace is much easier to maintain than you might think. Let’s do a bit more math.

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeWe’ll begin with the assumption that the book we’re writing will come in at around 100,000 words, which is the approximate length of most of the Thieftaker books, the Chalice War books, and the Fearsson books. Epic fantasies tend to be somewhat longer; YAs tend to be shorter. But 100K is a good middle ground.

Let’s assume as well that at most we can afford to devote an hour a day to writing. And in that hour, we can only expect to write one page — about 250 words. That pace may sound way too slow, and you may be saying to yourself that at that rate we’ll be writing forever.

Well, no. At that pace, even allowing for missed days along the way, we can be finished with our 100,000 word novel in a little over 13 months. If we can up our production to five hundred words a day just on weekends, we can be done in closer to eleven months, under a year.

Feeling more ambitious? Say we can write for ninety minutes each weekday, and can manage to average 500 words a day, while taking our weekends off to recharge. Well, now we’re writing 2,500 words per week, and that novel will be done in less than nine months. Willing to write on weekends, too? Now we’re down to seven months.

I can go on, but by now you get the idea. Applying the toothbrush principle — which says simply that small efforts on a daily basis add up quickly — we can transform the very idea of writing a novel from something daunting — a challenge that feels too huge to tackle — into something manageable, doable.

Now, to be clear, I am not suggesting that anyone exchange brushing their teeth for writing. The day is long enough to get both done. And four out of five dentists surveyed tell us that the world will be a better, fresher place if we all continue to brush our teeth . . . .

Have a great week!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Writing

Monday Musings: A Wonderful Return To Convention-ing

I spent this past weekend at ConCarolinas in Charlotte, reconnecting with fans, colleagues, and friends. And it was great.

The last con I attended was DragonCon at the end of August/beginning of September 2023, before the fall and all that came with it. Since that time, I have largely avoided crowds of people and interactions with even some close friends. I shied away from personal contact with pretty much everyone. It has just been too hard.

And so resolving to attend this con was a big deal for me. I put it on my professional calendar early in the year, committed to it, both internally and publicly. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it was something I wanted to do, but I knew it was something I should do.

All of which made this past weekend such a wonderful and surprising pleasure. Yes, I sold a good number of books — it was one of my best ConCarolinas ever in that regard. But more than that, it simply was wonderful to see people, to talk about writing and publishing, to laugh with friends who have been absent from my life for far too long.

Throughout the weekend, I was touched by the number of people who wanted to offer condolences, words of comfort, hugs of support. I was grateful again and again for the expressions of sympathy, and then for the efforts made by people around me to treat me as they always have — with affection and kindness, but also with irreverence and snark. A weekend that I feared would be awkward and challenging turned out to be fun and refreshingly natural.

It was, in short, exactly the convention I needed and wanted it to be. I have a great many people to thank for that, and I am not going to try to name them here. It’s not that they don’t deserve to be mentioned and thanked individually. They really, really do. But I am destined to forget someone important, and thus do more damage than good with such a list. Suffice it to say that if we shared a moment (or more) during the weekend — if we had a meal together, or a drink, or a panel, or a conversation; if you stopped by my book table to peruse my offerings or buy something or ask me a question about writing; if you had a role in making the convention such a great success (despite broken escalators and hobbled elevators and malfunctioning thermostats) — I am deeply grateful to you. Thank you.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Monday Musings: Contemplating Marriage At Thirty-Three Years

Thirty-three years ago, on Memorial Day Weekend in 1991, Nancy and I were married. We were living in California at the time, doing our graduate work at Stanford, which is where we met. We had a wonderful weekend, which included not just the wedding itself — in the Rodin Sculpture Garden in front of the Stanford Art Museum (now called the Cantor Arts Center) — and our reception at a restaurant called the Velvet Turtle, but also a Saturday softball game for all our guests, and several really nice lunches and dinners. To this day, I don’t know that I have ever felt more loved than I (we) did that weekend. It was glorious.

Wedding Day Photo 1We had lived together for two years before our wedding, and we were both in our late twenties. We had known almost from the day we started dating that we would spend the rest of our lives together, and by the time that weekend rolled around, we felt ready for the responsibilities and challenges of marriage. And we were. And still, we had no idea.

Life events come in flurries. I remember that year, ours was just one of many weddings we attended. Suddenly, it seemed like everyone we knew was getting married. A few years later, a bunch of our friends started having kids, and pretty soon we ourselves were shopping for a crib and changing table. Skip ahead to today, and we seem to be in a new phase in which many of our friends’ kids and (at least on my side of the family) several relatives are getting married. We have already been to one wedding this year, and we have three more to attend between now and summer’s end. Which is great. The first wedding weekend was loads of fun and I have every reason to expect the others will be as well.

I have no doubt that all four couples feel ready to make their commitment. They understand that marriage brings responsibilities and challenges. And they have no idea.

Wedding Day Photo 2
In front of Rodin’s “Gates of Hell.”

By any measure, Nancy and I have had a successful marriage. We’ve stayed together through tough times. We have remained true to each other. We are best friends and we are also still very much in love. We have raised two brilliant, reasonably happy, independent, beautiful children. We have pursued careers that we love, and each of us has enjoyed a good deal of success. We have supported each other through disappointments and setbacks, losses and tragedies. And we have shared countless marvelous experiences, things that we both will remember for the rest of our lives.

We have no cause for complaint.

And yet, with all of that going for us, I can also state without any doubt that we have both been through times of deep frustration with each other and with the circumstances of our life together. We have fought. We have gotten fed up. We have weathered periods of difficulty that could have torn us apart.

Some time back — more than ten years now — a couple with whom we spent a good deal of our social time told us they were splitting up. We were utterly gobsmacked. These were people we saw socially on a weekly basis. We celebrated holidays and birthdays with them. They were our closest friends here in our little town. Yet, we’d had no idea that they were having troubles. And I think that reveals something fundamental about the work involved in keeping a marriage going. So much of the effort takes place out of sight, unseen by anyone other than our partner. We don’t want our kids to see it. We don’t want to put on awkward displays in front of our colleagues or friends or families. We do the work in private, make our sacrifices without anyone other than our spouse knowing.

Nancy provost installationThe clichés are true. Of course marriage is about love, about passion, and — even more — about friendship. But it is also about compromise, about joining two lives and finding the balance necessary to make certain that each of those lives feels complete and fulfilling, even as together we build a third life that belongs to both of us. It is a complicated undertaking. And while love and passion are great, there are times when they feel elusive. The kids are sick and you both have work deadlines and the shopping needs to get done. Or one job is more demanding than usual and it’s all you both can do just to get one kid to soccer practice and the other to ballet while also taking care of dinner and arranging the babysitter for the Friday event in town. Work, balance, compromise, sacrifice — sometimes, it feels like that’s all there is. Those early days of the romance, when everything was laughter and love and sex and adventure, seem so very, very distant.

And yet those golden elements of marriage do come around again, if we’re patient, and if we keep making the effort.

So, what advice would I offer to those who are marrying now?

1. Remember to laugh and play. Nancy and I laugh and joke all the time, and we have managed to do this through almost every phase of our marriage. Our shared sense of humor is probably the single most important element of our partnership.

Our family in Monteverde, Costa Rica, November 2011.2. Have faith. I’m not talking about religious faith here (though if that’s your thing, great). I mean faith in each other and in what you share. That belief in the fundamental power of our bond has gotten us past some really hard times. The love might not always be palpable, but we KNOW it’s there, and that certainty gets us through.

3. Honor the work. I believe people cheat because when things grow difficult, they convince themselves that being with someone else will bring back all the fun of the early days without any of the problems. That’s folly. Every relationship takes work. Every relationship goes through rough patches. The work we do builds on itself. Nancy and my marriage is stronger now for all that we’ve put into it over thirty-three years. Why on earth would I want to start over when my best friend and the love of my life is right here?

I wish you love and laughter. Have a great week.

David and Nancy
(Photo by Cat Sparks)

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