Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Thieftaker Chronicles, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Beginnings, Middles, and Endings, part II — Narrative Structure

Last week, I began a new Professional Wednesday feature called “Beginnings, Middles, and Endings,” in which I plan to write about the various parts of story writing. In last week’s post, I focused on openings, on how to approach the beginning of a novel or short story.

This week, I take on middles, and I imagine this will be the first of a couple of essays on the subject. Because let’s be honest: By far the biggest chunk of what we write is the “middle.” Even if we take the first two or three chapters as the opening, and the last two or three as the ending, that still leaves the vast majority of our novel occupying the middle. So any discussion of how to handle that middle is going to have to touch on several topics. And today, I am beginning with a general overview — the 10,000 foot view, if you will.

Thieftaker, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)First, though, it occurs to me that in writing about openings last week, I left out one crucial, but easy-to-describe story element: “the inciting event.” The inciting event of your narrative is, quite simply, the thing that jump-starts your story, that takes the characters you have introduced in your opening lines from a place of relative stasis to a place of flux, of change, of tension and conflict and, perhaps, danger. It is the commencement of the narrative path that will carry your characters through the rest of the story. In his description of the Hero’s Journey, Joseph Campbell referred to the inciting event as the “Call to Adventure.” If you’re looking for examples, think of the arrival of the first letter from Hogwarts in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, or the appearance of Gandalf at Bilbo Baggins’s door in The Hobbit. In pretty much all the Thieftaker books and stories, it is the arrival of whoever Ethan’s new client will be for that episode.

Your inciting event can be anything. Whatever launches your narrative, taking your lead character from a place of balance and peace to one of conflict and tension. And really, that’s it. We can make it more complicated, but it doesn’t need to be.

This description of the inciting event allows me to segue into a broader discussion of story structure, since any formula for narrative will include the inciting event. The most common storytelling model — the one that comes up most when I have conversations with fellow writers — is the three-act structure. This is a fairly simple and helpful framework by which to organize our narrative. Act One is the “Setup” and includes an introduction to our characters and setting, as well as the inciting event and an early climax. Act Two is called “Confrontation.” Here our story takes off, with ever-increasing action and tension, a series of obstacles placed in the path of our heroes, a midway-point plot-twist, and ultimately a crisis that precipitates a second story climax. Act Three, “Resolution,” features our story’s resolving climax, a diminution of action, and finally a denouement that resolves outstanding issues, eases tension, and, in most cases, leaves our characters changed, but at relative peace. You can Google “Three Act Structure” and find essays about this approach as well as visual representations of the structure. I should add as well, that there is also a five-act structure that I find less compelling and useful than this one.

Okay, confession time.

When I write, I never think in terms of “Acts” and I don’t graph out my chapters to make certain I am following the schematic one sees in the results of the aforementioned Google search. It’s not that I find fault with the three-act structure, or try to avoid it in any way. To the contrary. I expect that I use it in every project; if you were to superimpose one of those graphics onto the narrative structure of any of my novels, you would probably find that I write in three acts all the time, following the model quite closely.

What I said was, I don’t THINK in terms of “Acts.” I never have. Not even with my earliest novels. I believe by that point I had already thoroughly internalized the three-act structure, having been exposed to it in novels, movies, television shows, theater, etc. for pretty much my entire life. Writing in that form came as second nature.

Now, that is not to say that those who do organize their novels and stories using the three-act structure have somehow failed to internalize it as I did. Not in the least. The model is so prevalent that I think all of us have it ingrained to some degree, even those who don’t create stories for a living. This is why two writers, one who outlines and one who writes without any narrative plotting written down ahead of time, can both come up with tales that closely follow this structure. As with a written outline, I think of the three-act structure as a narrative tool, something some writers use to organize their thoughts ahead of time. I outline by chapter. Sometimes. I also write without an outline. Sometimes.

And without actually visualizing my story as a three-act graphic, I almost always write in three acts. So why don’t I think in those terms as I’m writing or even outlining? I suppose I am leery of imposing any predetermined structure on my story planning. Even if I wind up following the structure, I want it to happen organically, without the sort of premeditation that might convince me to plot according to pattern rather than according to the exigencies of my story, my characters, my creative vision.

Where does this leave our conversation, and what does it mean for whatever advice I might offer in this first post about story middles?

First, pay attention to the structure of movies and television shows you watch and books you read or listen to. The best learning tools at your disposal are the narratives crafted by creators you enjoy and respect.

Second, even if you don’t plot strictly according to the three-act structure, be aware of the rough pattern illustrated in those visual representations. You want to have an inciting event, a huge twist near the middle, and a deep crisis for your protagonist near the climax. You want your narrative tension to climb until your final climax. And you want there to be resolution at the end.

Third, write your story. Just write it. Get it down on paper (or phosphors). Don’t obsess over structure and whether you have every plot point in the right place. Write it. Finish it. And then, if the structure needs adjustment, handle that in revisions. Your story need not conform to anyone else’s concept of what “narrative” should look like. Write it as you imagine it. And if you decide to “fix” things later, make sure you do so in service to the story YOU want to tell, not the structure someone else says is “correct.”

Keep writing.

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

Monday Musings: What’s Next?

Today is Juneteenth, of course — a (now) federally recognized holiday commemorating the emancipation of slaves in 1865. And I wish all of you a wonderful day of celebration and reflection. As proud as I am of Joe Biden’s push to make Juneteenth (finally) a national holiday, I am also deeply ashamed to say that my Congressman, Scott DesJarlais (R-TN4) was one of only fourteen members of Congress (all of them Republicans) to vote against the establishment of the holiday. I’m sure he came up with some excuse to justify his vote, but the fact is he catered to the worst instincts of his overwhelmingly white, hyper-conservative constituents. Shameful.

But that is beside the point. Again, I hope you have a wonderful holiday. I plan to, and I plan to take some time as well to think about the progress we have made as a nation, and the great distance we still have to travel on the journey toward racial justice.

***

David and Nancy
(Photo by Cat Sparks)

Here in our little corner of the world, the life I share with Nancy is about to go through a significant transition, one that I believe will be good for both of us. After eighteen months as acting president of the university here, Nancy will be transitioning back to a supporting role and helping to welcome the newly appointed next president of the school. This has been the plan from the start of Nancy’s tenure as acting president, and her role as a special consultant to the next Vice Chancellor (that’s what they call the president here) was even written into her appointment letter eighteen months ago.

My feelings about the coming shift are somewhat mixed. On the one hand, I know she will be happier and more relaxed. She will sleep better, I am sure. She will go back to working 40 to 50 hours a week instead of 55 to 65. She will no longer have to worry about midnight calls from campus security and the Student Life Office. She will no longer have event after event after event, week after week after week. Life will slow down for both of us, and I welcome that.

On the other hand, she has had a remarkable tenure as acting president that saw her steer the school through a period of unexpected upheaval. She presided over a record-setting admissions cycle and the two most successful annual fundraising days in the school’s history. She continued and deepened the university’s commitment to advancing diversity, equity, and inclusion. She was a terrific ambassador and fundraiser for the institution. And she instituted practices to make communication from the administration to the other university constituencies more candid and transparent. All this while also serving as a trailblazer and role-model: She is the first woman in the history of the school to serve as president.

As much as I have worried about her lack of sleep, her constant workload, the effects of being the most visible person on the campus and therefore having a political and emotional target on her back, I have also loved watching her shine in this role. She is a superstar. I’ve known it for more than thirty years. It’s been fun to see others figure it out as well. I am so proud of her achievements, her class, her integrity, her compassion, her remarkable strength, and her incredible skills as a leader, I can’t even put it into words.

The new president comes from another institution, but he was an undergraduate here and served in various roles at the university in the first two decades Nancy and I were here. His younger child and our older daughter went to elementary school together, swam together, played soccer together. The new president’s wife taught ballet to both of our girls. They are wonderful people and will serve the institution well. Nancy and I wish them every success.

What is next for us?

Well, as I mentioned, Nancy will be helping with the transition through the summer and the 2023-24 Fall Semester. On January 1, 2024, she will go on sabbatical for the calendar year. Sabbaticals in academia usually come every seven years. Nancy’s last sabbatical ended in August of 2006. So, yeah, she’s due . . . .

I have no plans to change what I am doing. I will continue to write and edit. But I also expect that during Nancy’s sabbatical we might travel more than we usually do, and I look forward to having a few adventures. We’ll see our girls — lots, I hope. And, of course, I will enjoy having time with my sweetie. Quiet evenings, relaxed meals, unscheduled weekends — all of that sounds lovely. Beyond the Sabbatical and whatever Nancy’s next step will be as a returning member of the university faculty, we don’t know. But that’s okay, too. A little mystery and uncertainty never hurt anyone.

Enjoy today’s holiday, and have a wonderful week.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Radiants, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Beginnings, Middles, and Endings, Part I — Openings

This week, I launch a new series here in the Professional Wednesday feature — “Beginnings, Middles, and Endings.” Sometimes I focus on minute details of writing in these posts, arcane points of craft or business that are helpful to some, but perhaps less so to others. With this series, I am, at least for a few weeks, returning to basics of storytelling. Because while we can focus on all sorts of small points to improve our writing, the fact is we’re all storytellers, and it never hurts to reconsider the fundamentals now and then.

Today, let’s start with beginnings (“A very good place to start,” to borrow from The Sound of Music). To state the obvious, your opening lines, paragraphs, and pages are where you want to hook your reader. I spend a great deal of time — a disproportionate amount of time — crafting my opening page. I want my readers to be wowed by the time they start reading page 2. I want them to have decided on that very first page that they cannot/dare not/will not put this book down until they have finished reading it. (Yes, they can pause for meals and sleep, but only because I’m a generous soul.)

There are, of course, as many ways to hook a reader as there are stories to be told and authors to tell them. My wonderful friend J.D. Blackrose (Joelle Reizes) begins her book A Wrinkle and Crime with a single sentence that is laugh-out-loud funny. Readers are hooked in mere seconds. Guy Gavriel Kay, another good friend and probably my favorite author, tends to ease into his novels a bit more, allowing his gorgeous prose and the slow build of his brilliant storytelling to draw readers in.

RADIANTS, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Belle Books)I fall somewhere in between. I don’t think any of my novels have a single opening sentence that grabs readers by the collar (that’s actually pretty rare), but I do try to capture my readers’ attention early. My best book opening, I believe, comes in Radiants (Bell Bridge Books, 2021):

The first time I did it, my mom, who is about as chill as any parent anywhere, hit me. Slapped me across the face. This was after I confessed. She never would have known if I hadn’t told her, and still she hit me. That’s how pissed off she was.

She told me it was a violation, which I didn’t even understand at first. I thought she meant it was against the rules—like a violation in sports—and I had pretty much figured that out when she slapped me. But no, she meant violation in a way I’d never heard the word used.

An invasion. A rape of the mind. She called it that, too. Her slap shocked me. When she called it a rape, I started to cry. I swore I’d never do it again, and she made me promise on my dad’s grave, something she hadn’t ever done before. I did, and I meant it.

I was twelve at the time. About the age my brother is now, and you just know Mom is aware of that. Hyper-aware.

I honored the promise I made that day. I had been tempted in the weeks and months and years since. Many, many times. But never once did I break my vow. Not until today.

Why do I like this opening so much? Well, let’s break it down. Our opening should hint at conflict and tension. It should introduce a key character — a central protagonist or antagonist. It should establish voice. And it should intrigue or excite the reader with action or mystery or romance or some other compelling plot feature. This opening to Radiants does all of those things in about half a page. The conflict and tension are right there in the first graph, with the slap from an otherwise mellow parent. Clearly this narrator did something really bad — and we want to know what it was. These graphs, and her confession, establish the narrator as someone we trust and want to know more about. Already we know she has faced tragedy, as indicated by the oblique reference to her father’s death, and we know she has a younger brother. We get a sense of her voice from the informal tone of the prose. And with that last line we want to know more — about her and what she is going through. This terrible thing she did, this thing that angered her mother so much, she has just done again! Today!! Why? And we’re off and running . . . .

As I said, there are an infinite number of ways we might open our books. There is no single right way to do this (or really anything else in writing). But there are some things to avoid in our opening passages. One of the most common errors I see in the opening paragraphs of short stories and the opening pages of novels, is an over-reliance on exposition. Often beginning writers are so eager to explain their worlds, tell us all there is to know about lead characters, and show the cool stuff in their magic systems or imagined technologies, that they dive into descriptions and explanations. The problem with this? There is almost no tension or conflict in exposition and background. Tension and conflict come from character and narrative. So save the exposition for later. Or, better yet, do away with it entirely and find other, more creative and compelling ways to reveal your background information.

Some writers err on the side of the other extreme. They are so eager to plunge the reader into action that they have on page one some serious, terrible stuff happening to their characters. The problem here is that we don’t yet know the characters well enough to care about them the way we ought to before they’re put through the wringer. As in so many aspects of writing, we want to find balance. We don’t want to bore readers with too much character background, but we also don’t want to overwhelm them with spectacle at the expense of introducing our lead characters.

There are a few things beginning writers are told they should never, ever do with their opening lines. “Don’t begin with your character waking up.” “Don’t start with the literary equivalent of a weather report.” (“It was a dark and stormy night . . . .”) “Don’t open with a dream sequence (and then have the character wake up).” The problem with these sorts of openings is they’re overdone to the point of cliché. That said, it may be that you’ve found a way to open with a character waking up that is perfect for your story and is unlike any other waking-up-opening the world has ever seen. In which case, go for it.

As long as your opening feels original and organic to the story, you should be fine. And originality is most likely to come from your characters. Anchor yourself firmly in the point of view of whoever your narrating character is for the opening scene, and then tap into their emotions, thoughts, and sensations. Make it visceral, make it powerful. Ultimately, the best opening will be one that is compelling, intriguing, and, of course, written with eloquence and passion.

Next week (and perhaps the week after), Middles!!

In the meantime, keep writing.

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

Monday Musings: AI Content Creation? No, Thanks

I’ll start by assuring you that this is not one of those posts. I’m not going to share my feelings regarding AI generated content and then reveal at the very end of the post that everything you’ve read was actually AI generated. It’s really me. I promise. How can you be sure? Well, the best evidence is this: I’m too cheap to purchase the AI generator I’ll be discussing . . . .

That I would even think it necessary to say as much . . . well, read on.

An email appeared in my inbox this past week. It came from a prominent maker of WordPress plugins and it advertised a new AI content generator for WordPress sites. “Our latest product [is] aimed at enriching your WordPress experience . . . This tool utilizes the potential of artificial intelligence, adding a formidable ally to your writing process.”

Already, I can hear the Skynet airships hovering overhead. [Sorry — Terminator reference.]

I’ll admit, I was horrified. Wanting to know more, I followed the link in the email and was taken to the product page where I could see the generator in action. “Write a blog post about X,” the app is told, and in a second or two content populates the screen. (I should add here that we are guided through the product tour by what is clearly an AI-generated voice. It’s kind of creepy, actually.) The wording produced by the plugin is clean and flowing, free of typos and grammatical errors. In fact, that’s one of the features the developer trumpets. No more typos. No more wording mistakes. God forbid writers should just learn to write and take the time to proofread their work.

The AI generator can also provide snappy titles for its posts as well as summaries of the content, and it can even adapt the tone of the piece to our mood and preference — among the possible choices are “formal,” “informal,” “optimistic,” “humorous” (humorous AI? Really?), “serious,” “skeptical,” “empathetic,” “confident,” “passionate,” and “provocative.” The tour shows the imagined user switching from “formal” to “passionate.” The differences in the resulting text are minimal.

I’m not naïve, and I’m also not blind to the benefits such a generator might bring to, say, a travel enterprise that specializes in tours of various parts of the world. Rather than write separate essays about each region, which could take hours, a webmaster could input the parameters for each essay and complete the work in mere moments. The resulting prose would be safe, error-free, and quite likely good enough for the company’s purposes.

It would also be anodyne, soulless, utterly lacking in anything remotely human.

Reading the text generated in the product tour, I was struck by a few things. First, for now at least, the AI’s vocabulary and writing style are both quite limited. It repeats words and sentence structure so that there is a sameness to each paragraph and the treatment of each new topic. Also — and this is predictable, I suppose — the generated text is as dry as dust. It is long on fact, on the sort of information one might find in an encyclopedia entry, but it lacks anything to which one might connect emotionally. And it also lacks rhetorical flourishes — simile, metaphor, analogy. It is, in short, boring.

“Say goodbye to writer’s block and hello to effortless content creation,” the product tour says, missing the point entirely. I have written about writer’s block before, and the last time I did, I hurt and offended a writer friend whom I care about and admire. I have said in the past that writer’s block doesn’t exist (and I’ll get to what I mean by that in a moment). The fact is, though, this is not true. Writer’s block does exist. It is a debilitating void, an inability to create that can last months, even years at a time. Writers who are afflicted with it, as my friend has been, suffer greatly.

But writer’s block as it is used commonly, as it is used here in this AI generator product tour, is not at all the same. It is the difference between clinical depression and saying one is “depressed” because a favorite sports team lost a close one.

What most people — including the app developer — mean when they speak of writer’s block is the inability to write something in a particular moment. This form of “writer’s block” presupposes that writing is easy, that creating new content should come without effort, without hesitation, without forethought and contemplation. What most call “writer’s block” I call writing. Because writing isn’t easy. Creating new content takes tremendous effort. It is messy and slow and frustrating. It is fits and starts. It is staring out the window for fifteen minutes at a time, wracking one’s brain for that perfect turn of phrase. It is re-writing the same graph six times until it shines just as we want it to.

And that’s what’s wrong with AI generated content. That struggle to create, that wrenching, ugly, glorious process is what infuses our writing with emotion and energy, individuality and the spark of humanity that makes writing and reading joyous. When we take away the work, the messiness, the false starts and numerous rewrites — in other words, when we make writing “effortless” — we also render it gutless and vapid.

Is there a use for AI generated writing? I guess. I mentioned a hypothetical travel business earlier; AI would probably save its owners a bit of time and money. At what cost, though? How much dumbing down is too much? And where does this slippery slope lead? At the risk of sounding idealistic and giving the lie to my early claim that I’m not naïve, I have to ask: Wouldn’t we be better served as a society if we put as much effort into teaching our children to write and think creatively as we do teaching computers to do stuff for us? The answer seems self-evident to me.

Have a great week.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, LonTobyn Chronicle, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Cauldron, Tor Books, Writing

Professional Wednesday: The Emotions of a Book Release

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeLet’s start with the obvious: The Chalice War: Cauldron is now out and available from all booksellers in ebook and paper formats. This is the second installment in my Celtic urban fantasy trilogy, The Chalice War. Stone, the first book, came out a month ago. And the third and final volume, Sword, should be released in early August. The cover reveal will be coming soon.

I sold a bunch of copies of the first two books at ConCarolinas this past weekend, and hope to sell bunches more at LibertyCon (Chattanooga — June 23-25). By the time DragonCon rolls around (Atlanta — August 31-September 4), I’ll have all three books in stock.

I have, in a previous post, made the case for supporting authors and their blogs, etc. by buying their published works; I won’t bother making the case again. I have also made the case for buying the early books in a series as they’re released, rather than waiting for the entire series to drop, and I won’t bother doing that again either.

But I did want to spend a bit of time discussing the emotions of a new release, emotions that begin well before the actual publication of the novel. The anticipation can be excruciating. Not just waiting to see the book, or even looking forward to seeing it in the hands of readers, though I feel both of those. With each new book, I experience this sense of excitement about the story finding its way into the world. “I have a new book coming,” I want to shout from the rooftops, “and it is going to blow your minds!!” As I’ve said before, I almost always feel that my newest book is also my best, and so I want to show off a bit, let people see what I’m capable of as an artist now. Ego? Maybe. Pride? Definitely.

Children of Amarid, by David B. Coe (Hardcover -- Art by Romas Kukalis)I’m asked quite often if I still feel the thrill of seeing a new book in print, even after so many years and so many releases. And the truth is, I do. Sure, the very first time was unlike anything I’ve experienced since. I still remember getting a call from the local bookstore here in our little college town. My author copies hadn’t arrived yet, so when the store manager reached out to let me know the hardcover edition of Children of Amarid was in stock, I rushed over to see it. I’m pretty sure Nancy came with me.

And, typical of me, I was so excited to see the book, to hold it in my hands, to see my name right there on the cover, right below the gorgeous artwork. I was over the moon. But I also recall thinking, “Hmmmm, the image is a bit too dark, and the colors don’t pop the way they should.” I have long been Glass-Half-Empty Guy . . . . Which doesn’t change the fact that I was right. The cover did come out too dark, something Tor corrected with the mass market paperback edition a year later. Just sayin’.

Those competing impulses, though, are fairly typical for me, and, as I gather from conversations I’ve had with other authors, for many of my colleagues as well. Yes, the thrill is real. So is the worry about sales and critical response, the hyper-sensitivity to anything that might be even slightly off with the new product, the certainty that the excitement will prove fleeting while the concerns linger.

We authors notice things others don’t — the darkness of the images is a perfect example. No one else thought the jacket art for the hardcover of Children of Amarid was anything other than cool. But I picked up on the (very mild) flaw immediately. That said, I have been fortunate with my book art throughout my career, and have liked the cover images that appear on almost all my books. There are a couple of exceptions, but I won’t say more than that. The point is, I have never actually hated one of my covers. I know plenty of authors who have. I can’t imagine how difficult that would be.

There can be other problems as well. Sometimes the maps we put in our books are split in an awkward way in order to fit them in the front pages. Sometimes there are typos. I know authors who have had their books published only to find that the print editions begin or end with the wrong chapter or scene!! Oh. My. God. I would lose my freaking mind. All sorts of things can go wrong.

And, as I mentioned before, even if all goes as it should with the published version of the book, and even if the jacket looks great, sales can disappoint. So can reviews. Releases can coincide with economic downturns. Or national tragedies. Or global pandemics. We have no control over such things, of course, and in the context of world events, the fate of our book release is pretty insignificant. Except to us. For us, it’s more than a book release. It’s the realization of years of work and hope and passion.

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeWith all this in mind, I am happy to say that the releases of The Chalice War: Stone and The Chalice War: Cauldron have gone great. No new pandemics. The stock market is up. The art work looks marvelous. All the chapters are just where they should be. (I think — I should probably check to be sure . . . . Yep, they look great!) Sales? I have no idea at this point. It’s too early to know. Reviews? We’ll see about those as well. I worry, of course. I want these books to succeed. I want you to like them. And, if you do, I would love for you to tell the world.

Thanks for reading this.

Keep writing!

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

Monday Musings: Contemplating The Cosmos Again (Or Is It “Still”?)

I am just back from a weekend in Charlotte, where I attended ConCarolinas. This only a few days after my return from Wyoming/Colorado. It’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks, and convention season is far from over.

But my thoughts remain fixed on the wondrous days I spent at the Launch Pad Workshop in Laramie that I wrote about in last week’s post. Launch Pad is intended to educate creators so that when they introduce concepts related to astronomy and space travel to their work, they do so in an informed, accurate way. The workshop does far more that that, however, at least it has for me. It has made me think in different ways about a host of issues and questions. Last week, I focused on the new urgency and moral weight with which it has infused my thinking regarding global climate change.

This week, my thoughts have been trending in a somewhat different direction.

It is a given of astronomical thinking, and also of physical and chemical law, that all the matter found in the universe today was formed at the time of the Big Bang. The vast majority of that matter exists now in the form of hydrogen and helium — the latter is produced, along with energy, by the fusion of hydrogen atoms in stars. Hydrogen, the lightest element, accounts for 73% of all the matter in the universe. Helium accounts for 25%. All the other known elements combined account for the remaining 2%. That’s all. Two percent. Proving once again that stars are big, and there are a lot of them.

This, though, is not the point I am trying to make.

Dying Star
A dying star. Credit: NASA, ESA and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team

When stars are formed, and when stars die, other elements are created by the tremendous pressure and energy produced by extreme gravitational forces. I won’t attempt to go into the physics of this because I am fated to screw it up in some way, inviting ridicule and undermining the larger purpose of this post. You’ll just have to trust me on this, and also on the rest of what I’m going to say. Namely . . . .

There is, in the birth, life, and death of a star, a circularity of consumption and production of elements and resources that mirrors what we see in, say, the death of a tree in a primeval forest. Nothing is lost; everything from the old goes into creating new star “life” — new energy and mass — just as every component of the downed tree infuses the soil with nutrients for new saplings. Probably this is self-evident, but I believe it is worth noting nevertheless. Ecology of this sort, whether on the scale of trees or of stars, is elegant in its efficiency, beautiful in its symmetry.

Combine this with the sheer size of stars and galaxies, and we are confronted once more with the relative insignificance of our own world. Yes, we have polluted and scarred our world. We risk poisoning ourselves — our food, our water, our air — and rendering our world uninhabitable. But the universe will go on. Long, long, long after we as a species are gone, our planet will be consumed by our dying sun and all that we are and all that we leave behind will be reclaimed by the universe and used to create new stars, new planets, perhaps new life.

This past weekend at the convention, though, a conversation among friends turned to the question of what happens to us as individuals when we die. Now, I am not a religious person. I don’t believe in an afterlife. I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I don’t believe in reincarnation. But the universe is filled with the unexplainable, the unfathomable. There are forms of matter and energy that the smartest minds on the planet have yet to figure out fully — dark matter and dark energy, quarks and gluons. We have so much yet to learn.

So, who is to say what happens to our spirit, what some might refer to as our soul? Does it exist? I don’t know. And if it does, I don’t know what form it would take, though I expect it would be more energy than matter. But energy and matter both are subject to laws of conservation. They can’t be lost or gained. They continue, and have since the Big Bang.

And if closed, circular, conserving systems govern what happens to the smallest of creatures and plants, to the great Sequoias of Pacific forests — the largest living things on Earth — to planets and stars and galaxies, mightn’t they also govern what happens to us? Not only our bodies, but our essences? I’m not trying to get all metaphysical here. Really, I’m not. I’m not saying “This is.” But after all the mind-blowing stuff I learned at Launch Pad, I do find myself saying, with ever more frequency, “Couldn’t this be?”

Have a great week.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Cauldron, Writing

Thursday Teaser — THE CHALICE WAR: CAULDRON Drops Tomorrow!!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeThe Chalice War: Cauldron, the second volume in my new Celtic-themed urban fantasy, will be released tomorrow by Bell Bridge Books. And to get you a bit more excited about the release, I offer a new teaser — my hero’s first encounter with the Celtic sea god, Manannán mac Lir. Enjoy!!

*****

While Carrie continued her conversations, Riann wandered up the strand. Near a rock pool, she came upon a man who sat in a rickety lawn chair, an ancient Billabong baseball cap on his head, and two fishing poles set in rod holders before him. A dory rested at the tideline a short distance away, its wood worn and badly in need of fresh paint.

Or so she thought at first glance.

When she glimpsed it from the corner of her eye, the boat looked quite different. It was golden and perfect. She halted and stared straight at the vessel; once again, it appeared to be a battered old rowboat.

She wheeled to face the man. “What—”

His smile stopped her.

He was gorgeous. His chin and cheeks were grizzled, and the corners of his emerald eyes crinkled. He had a dimple on one side, and his hair stuck out from beneath his hat, hanging down to the base of his neck. He wore khaki cutoffs and a stained, torn short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a tanned and toned chest and belly, lightly covered with fine silver curls. She had been with men and women, and she preferred the latter. But she would have taken this man to her bed without hesitation.

And he seemed to know it.

“You like my boat?” he asked in a soft Irish burr, his voice a warm tenor.

She eyed the dory again, then averted her gaze slightly, enough to see it turn golden once more.

“I don’t understand,” she said, facing him.

“Of course you do, love. You understand perfectly.” He nodded at Quinn, who stood beside her. “Your conduit is beautiful. May I?”

Before she could answer, he clicked his tongue and held out a hand, palm up. Quinn strained to reach him. Riann released the leash, unsure of why she did it. Quinn trotted to the man and sat in front of him, allowing him to scratch her ears and neck.

“Aye, a fine creature.” He regarded her. “You’re Michael Donovan’s girl, aren’t you?”

She gaped, but took a step toward him. “You knew my father?”

“Aye, love. He was a good man. His death was a terrible loss for all in the magical world.”

Riann stole a glance at Carrie, started and looked again, then turned a quick circle. A soft wind blew off the water, cooling the day, and the surf surged and retreated as always. Silver gulls circled and cried, and a sea eagle flew past, clutching a fish in its talons. But every person on the beach and the sidewalk had frozen in place, as if time had stopped.

“I’m dreaming,” she murmured, frightened.

“You’re not even asleep.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out something that caught the sun with a flash of silver. He tossed it in her direction.

She caught and scrutinized it. It appeared to be a coin of some sort, though almost all the detail had been worn away. She thought there might be a head on one side. She couldn’t make out the design on the obverse. It was mostly round, and slightly concave.

“What is this?”

“A drachm. A Celtic crown essentially. Proof that I’m real, that this is real.”

Riann turned it over. “How—”

“Twenty-two hundred years, give or take.”

She studied the coin for another moment before walking closer to him and holding it out for him to take.

“Keep it,” he said with a smile. “A token, to remember me.”

“Who are you?” Riann asked, fear giving way to curiosity.

“Forgive me. Manannán mac Lir, at your service.”

She’d heard the name before, from her father, of course. She combed her memory.

A small frown creased the man’s brow, which, impossibly, made him even more attractive. “Come now. I refuse to believe that Michael never spoke of me.”

“He did. I just can’t remember—”

“You would forget a god?”

And then she did remember.

Manannán, the sea god. A trickster, her father called him. Fickle, even capricious, like all the Celtic gods, but essentially benevolent.

Riann wondered if she should bow, or kneel.

“Most prostrate themselves before me,” he said, his tone severe.

“O-oh! I . . . I didn’t know.”

He laughed. “That was a joke, love. I had the sense you were about to curtsy or some such.”

She felt her face redden.

One of the fishing poles juddered and nodded. Manannán sat forward, took hold of the pole, and reeled in what turned out to be an enormous silver fish. The god removed the hook from the creature, whispered something to it in a language Riann didn’t know, and heaved it back into the water, easily clearing the coastal breakers.

“Why—”

“Just checking in with old friends. What do you know about the woman?”

As quickly as blood had flooded her cheeks it now drained away, leaving her cold, despite the sunshine.

“What?”

“The woman. The dead one they found last night.” He continued to scratch Quinn’s head. She licked his hand.

“That was you,” Riann said, remembering how Quinn growled and stared into the darkness. “You were watching us.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She was Sidhe. She was killed by a Fomhoire and her demon. But that’s about all. I don’t know why they killed her.”

“Fomhoire need a reason?”

She lifted a shoulder, conceding the point.

“You know nothing more?”

“I know her name, where she worked, that she was on a museum board and was recognized for her philanthropy.”

“Which museum?”

“The Australian.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “What else?”

She shrugged again. “That’s all.”

Manannán’s frown this time conveyed disapproval, as if he thought she should know more.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because she thought he expected it.

“No worries, love. But I may check with you again at some point. If you learn anything of value, I hope you’ll tell me. Fomhoire incursions are becoming too frequent for my taste. And now they’ve focused their attention here. There has to be a reason.”

“There are others who know more than I do. Why ask me?”

“Who says I haven’t asked those others?” He let the question hang, a gentle rebuke. “As to why you, because you were there last night, of course. Because you knew enough to convince the police to let you see the body. That was well done. Michael would have admired your resourcefulness.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled in answer and her knees nearly gave way. Rather than stare at him, she cast another look at Carrie, who still stood frozen with the brawlers. When Riann turned back to the god she found him eyeing the reporter as well.

“She a friend of yours?”

“I suppose. We’ve only really just met.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on Carrie, an odd twist to his grin. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“What is?”

Manannán turned back to her, his expression brightening. “Not a thing. Remember what I told you. Learn what you can, and watch for me. My demesne ends at the shore, so I’ll always be near water.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m going to start things again now. You may experience a moment’s unpleasantness. It’ll pass. ’Til next time.”

Before she could say goodbye, a wave of dizziness crashed over her and she staggered. Voices reached her. A dog on the far side of the street barked and a car engine revved. The world had awakened.

Manannán was gone, as were his chair, the fishing poles, and that magical golden boat. The coin lay in her palm. Proof . . . . Quinn whimpered and sidled back to Riann.

Riann scratched her head absently.

Carrie called her name and when Riann looked that way, she waved and beckoned. Riann strode over the sand to the sidewalk. Already she felt better.

“Do you have the images you need?” Carrie asked.

“Uh . . . yes. Your interviews are over?”

The woman nodded. “I have enough to write my story.” She surveyed the beach. “It’s nice here. Too bad we haven’t time to stay.”

“Yes. Did you happen to notice the man I was talking to?”

“I didn’t see you talking to anyone. Who was he? Did he see what happened last night?”

“No, nothing like that. Just . . . just a guy fishing. We should probably head back.”

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Marketing Strategy, a New Release, and an Excerpt!!

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeThis Friday — the day after tomorrow!! — The Chalice War: Cauldron, the second book in my new Celtic-themed urban fantasy series, will be released by Bell Bridge Books. For those of you thinking, “Wait, didn’t you JUST have a release in this same series?” you’re right, I did. The Chalice War: Stone came out May 5, four weeks before this week’s release. And the final book in the series, The Chalice War: Sword, will be out in July or August. (And wait until you see the jacket art: Spoiler Alert — it’s spectacular!)

The thinking behind rapid-fire releases of this sort is pretty simple: If the first book interests readers, and if they fly through that opening volume, they will be eager for more and won’t want to wait. I can’t tell you how many times authors hear from readers, “Oh, I hate waiting for each book in a series to come out, so I wait until the last book is published before I buy any of them.”

This is deeply frustrating for those of us who write and sell books for a living. I get it, of course. Sometimes, fans have to wait a year or more for subsequent volumes in a series to be released. And on occasion, those subsequent volumes never appear at all. The series is dropped by the publisher, or the author simply never gets around to completing the story. Writers aren’t the only ones who can find the publishing schedule frustrating.

Here’s the thing, though: Quite often, the publication of second and third and fourth volumes in a given series is dependent on the sales of the first book. If sales of Book I disappoint, some publishers will decide to drop the series, rather than go to the trouble and expense of putting out the later volumes. And so the reluctance of readers to buy that first book, lest the others don’t find their way to print, becomes self-fulfilling.

The rapid release model is relatively new in the publishing world, but it is intended to prevent this sort of thing from happening. If readers see the second and third books coming out so soon after the first, they will be more willing to buy that initial installment, and might go ahead and just grab all three as they appear. This is certainly my hope.

So, in the spirit of marketing and piquing your interest, let me tell you a bit about Book II, Cauldron. In book I, Stone, we meet Marti Rider, a Sidhe conjurer, and Kelsey Strand, two strangers who are bound to each other by a powerful magical artifact. They are attacked and pursued across the country by Fomhoire demons and their allies, who are intent upon killing them, claiming the artifact as their own, and using it to conquer our world. Along the way, we encounter a host of Celtic immortals who help our heroes or hinder them, depending on their shifting alliances.

In Cauldron, the pursuit of these magical chalices shifts to Australia, where we are introduced to Riann Donovan and her friend (and perhaps more) Carrie Pelsher. Riann is a Sidhe sorcerer who has fled the States to Australia to escape a tragic past. Carrie is a journalist with a strange affinity for magic. When the Sidhe community in Sydney is devastated by a coordinated Fomhoire assault, the two women find themselves in a race against time and a dance of intrigue among gods, Furies, and demons. And yes, for those wondering, Marti and Kel will find their way to Australia to join the fun.

As I’ve said before, I love all of these books. Writing Cauldron allowed me to draw upon experiences and memories from the year I spent Down Under. Many of the locations described in the book are places Nancy, the girls, and I visited. It was a special book to write. And I hope you enjoy it.

And, to whet your appetite for the book even more, here is a short excerpt! Enjoy!

*****
The train had just pulled out of Redfern station when the first frisson of magic brushed across Sara’s skin. She shivered, tasting darkness in its touch.

Fomhoire. Here, in the middle of Sydney. Nearby and closing in, accompanied by . . . by what? Wight? Demon? Yes, demon. All this she read in that initial contact. More, she sensed the Fomhoire had already found her, was intent on her and closing the distance between them.

Sara stood, crossed to the nearest of the sliding doors, and stared out into the inky black of the railway tunnel, desperate for the light of the next station. Never had the distance between Redfern and Central felt so great. The train car rocked, and she grabbed hold of the steel pole beside her to keep from tumbling into the lap of a young businessman.

“Pardon me,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked to her. He answered with a nearly imperceptible nod and turned his attention back to the Herald.

Morning commuters crowded the CityRail trains and stations. Surely Fomhoire assassins wouldn’t attack her here, in front of so many.

A small voice in her mind replied, Why not?

She wore work clothes, carried her briefcase, was on her way to her office in the CBD. Roger, her tabby, her conduit, was at home, safe in her flat, too far away to help her with spells. She was powerless, defenseless.

The train slowed—finally!—and the train guard announced their arrival at Central Station.

“Change here for Northern, Carlingford, North Shore, Cumberland. . . .”

The moment the doors opened, she pushed her way out, heedless of the men and women in front of her and those on the platform waiting to board. People shouted after her; a few muttered obscenities. She didn’t care. She hurried to the nearest stairway, one that would take her to the concourse. The magic followed, aimed like a weapon at her back.

By the time Sara reached the top of the stairs, she was breathing hard, sweating through the blouse she wore beneath her blazer. She switched her briefcase to the other hand, wiped her slick palm on her skirt.

She kept to the crowd, surrounding herself with people, using them as shields and searching frantically for anyone who might give off enough glow to let her defend herself.

How can there be Fomhoire in Sydney?

She and the others maintained a network, a web of magic. Like Sidhe in other parts of the world, they watched for portals and Fomhoire incursions from the Underrealm. As far as she knew, they had sensed nothing.

For decades, Sara and her fellow Sidhe had protected one another, warned one another. These last several years had been quiet, peaceful. She knew other Sidhe in countries far from Australia had battled Fomhoire recently. Harrowing reports had reached her from the States, from Europe and Africa and Asia. But here . . . . Relative peace had reigned for so long, she had grown comfortable, lax. Caution needed to be a routine, like exercise. And she had grown lazy. How many mornings had she left her flat without taking the simple precaution of warding herself? This morning had been no different from yesterday, from the day before, from the one before that. Except it was entirely different. And she might well die because of it.

She exited the gates, threaded her way through the throng in the concourse, hoping to lose her pursuers among the masses. She would exit the station onto Pitt Street and grab a taxi. That was her plan anyway.

As she neared the doors at the west end of the concourse, she sensed more magic. Wights probably, but without Roger, she wouldn’t stand much chance against them, either. She slowed, halted. People flowed around her on either side, as if she were a stone in a stream.

Eddy Street then—the nearest exit.

After a single step in that direction she stopped again. More magic. They had her surrounded.

Another train perhaps. If she could return to the gates and get to a North Shore platform, or maybe the Illawarra line . . . .

A spell electrified the air and made the hairs on her neck stand on end. Sara could do nothing except brace herself for its impact.

Magic fell upon her an instant later, obliterating thought, will, consciousness. She couldn’t say if she remained standing or fell to the floor or ran in circles like some ridiculous child’s toy. Time was lost to her.

When next she became aware of her surroundings, she was still upright in the middle of Central Railway Station’s Grand Concourse. A woman stood before her radiating so much power Sara had to resist an urge to shield her eyes.

“Hello, Sara,” she said in a cool alto and an accent that would have convinced any native Aussie.

“Who are you?” Sara asked, surprised she could speak.

The woman smiled. She was beautiful, of course. The Fomhoire always were here in the Above, regardless of how they appeared in the demon realm. Pale blue eyes, flawless olive skin, golden brown hair that fell in a shimmering curtain to her shoulders. As brilliant and superficial as a Carnival mask. She wore jeans and a long sleeve Sydney FC T-shirt; nothing that would have made her stand out in a crowd.

A second form hovered at her shoulder, as hideous as the woman was lovely, as ethereal as she was solid. It appeared to be little more than a cloud; shapeless, smoke grey, undulating. What might have been eyes shone dully from within the shadow, like stars partially obscured by a nighttime haze. Its lone substantial feature was a mouth at its very center, nearly round and armed with several rows of spiny teeth.

Two demons. One ghastly, the other lovely. Both deadly, no doubt.

None of the people passing by took note of them. Sara sensed that she, the Fomhoire, and the cloud demon were invisible to all.

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

Monday Musings: Coming Home From Launch Pad, and Contemplating the Cosmos

I spent last week at the University of Wyoming in Laramie, attending the Launch Pad Astronomy Workshop. Launch Pad is the brainchild of Mike Brotherton, a science fiction writer who also happens to be a professor of Astronomy at U of W, and Jim Verley, also a professor at Wyoming. They started the workshop back in 2007, basically because they had grown tired of reading bad space science in SF novels and of seeing bad space science in SF movies. The idea of the workshop is to bring together small groups of writers and literary industry professionals and give them a crash course in astrophysics. Along the way, Mike and his current fellow instructors — Christian Ready, an astronomer at Towson University who has worked on the Hubble and James Webb Space Telescope projects, and Theodora Zastrocky, one of Mike’s graduate students — hope to correct longstanding misconceptions about how space “works,” and impart to the workshop attendees some of their passion for all things astronomical.

Launch Pad 2023I applied for the workshop back in March, and was fortunate to be accepted along with a group of eight other writers, all of them intelligent, inquisitive, totally engaged, and eager to learn. It was an amazing week, filled with fascinating lectures, wide-ranging discussions, and very cool demonstrations. We learned a ton, laughed even more, and benefitted from the awesome knowledge and enthusiasm of our three teachers. The weather in Wyoming was a bit uncooperative, denying us the opportunity to spend an evening looking through telescopes, but otherwise the week was all we could have hoped for.

This is a Monday Musings post, of course, and so part of my purpose in writing about the workshop is to share with you some of what I’m considering as I make my way home from Wyoming. And honestly, I’m not certain where to start.

I suppose I should begin where the week’s curriculum began, because it really is fundamental to everything else: Space is really big.

Yeah, that’s obvious. At least I thought it was when Mike said it at the start of his first lecture. I was kind of cavalier about it, actually. “I know that. Everyone knows that. They sure are starting off with basics . . . .” Except, of course, I had no idea. None. The idea that space is big is both completely obvious and utterly incomprehensible. It is big on a scale that defies logic and understanding. And despite all the cool space photos and well-explained charts Mike and Christian and Theodora shared with us, I didn’t really get it until Day 4 of the workshop.

We were talking about galaxies at that point, defining different types and discussing how they form and interact with one another. And whoever was lecturing that day — I believe it was Theodora — put up on the screen yet another stunning image from the Hubble Space Telescope. It’s an image of a spiral galaxy viewed “edge-on,” so that the galaxy appears relatively flat except for the bright bulge at the center. Theodora explained that while the spiral arms of the galaxy are home to relatively new stars, like our sun, older stars are clustered in that bright center.

And suddenly, the scale of space hit me.

Galaxy edge-on
Credit: ESA/Hubble & NASA, D. Rosario

You can see the image here. That central bright spot is a tiny part of the galaxy. And it is filled with stars, none of them all that close to one another. In fact, the closest star to our own sun is 4.25 light years away. That’s 25,300,000,000,000 miles. Each star in the pictured galaxy is, quite likely, the center of its own solar system. And every one of those solar systems is probably comparable in scale to our own.

Here is a face-on image of another spiral galaxy to give a sense of the structure.

Spiral galaxy, Face-on
Credit: NASA, ESA, S. Beckwith (STScI), and The Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)

Okay, now look at this third photo.

Galaxies, from Webb Telescope
Credit: NASA, ESA, CSA, and STScI

This is an image from the James Webb Space Telescope of a tiny — and I mean TINY — portion of the sky. Look at all those galaxies, each one of them comparable to the ones in the previous images, each of them containing tens of billions, or even hundreds of billions of stars.

By now, you’re probably thinking, “Okay, David, we get. Space is big. So what?” Fair enough.

We look at the Grand Canyon and we marvel at how vast it is. We glimpse the Rockies, or the Cascades, or, if we’re truly fortunate, Kilimanjaro or the Himalayas, and we are awed by their majesty. We wonder (rightfully so) at the achievements to-date of NASA — journeys to the Moon, to Mars, to Jupiter, to the Kuiper Belt. Yet all of these things are minute. Our world is less than a speck. Our lives are less than flashes of light in the scope of spacetime that is our universe.

But our insignificance in the face of the hugeness of the universe is a cliché, and is sort of beside the point.

Everything that we are, every element and molecule in our world, in our lives, in our bodies, comes from the formation of the universe. It was all there in that first mysterious occurrence of creation known as the Big Bang. It has shaped us, as individuals, as societies and cultures, as a species. I’m not a religious person, but there is something miraculous in this. When I look at the vast scope of all that surrounds us in space, and I contemplate our infinitesimal world, I cannot help but be struck by the fragility of this world. We think of it as so very large. “The whole world.” It’s a phrase we use and hear from earliest childhood. In reality, that whole world is so very, very small.

That we exist at all is remarkable. We should be doing all we can — again, as individuals, as societies and cultures, as a species — to protect that miracle. Are there other worlds out there with life, with civilizations? Maybe. Probably. But we don’t know. And maybe we would be better served to assume there aren’t, that we’re alone.

We are, as a species, well on our way to blowing this, to fucking up our world beyond hope of repair or recovery. Hubris has very nearly destroyed us. The sort of hubris that ignores how enormous is the universe in which we live, and how insignificant a place in it our world holds.

Look at those photos again. Look at how gorgeous our universe is, our galaxy is. Look at a photo of the Grand Canyon. That’s pretty gorgeous, too, small though it might be. Beauty runs like a plot thread through the entirety of existence, from the dandelion growing in the green of our lawn to the spectacular galaxies that glow as far as science’s eye can see.

We owe it to ourselves and to those we love to spend our every breath making sure all that beauty is there for our children, and their children, and all the generations to come. The universe cares nothing for us. We are as dust to it. We are the ones who must save ourselves.

So, take a moment tonight to stare up into the stars, to appreciate the beauty of all you can see, and all you know is there but can’t spot with the naked eye. The universe is a wondrous place. But it won’t wait for us indefinitely.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Invasives, The Chalice War, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Another Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Younger Me,

Yes, it’s me again — Middle Aged David. Upper Middle Aged David, actually. I know I wrote to you earlier this week. I remember doing so. I’m not so far gone quite yet. But I thought you might benefit from a second letter focused on the professional side of things. As I told you on Monday, we did wind up having a career in writing, just as we dreamed when we were a kid. And, also as I told you, our professional life hasn’t followed precisely the path we envisioned. That’s fine. We’ve had a good ride so far. But there’s stuff you should know, stuff I wish I had known.

I suppose all of it can be summed up in two words — and I hate to resort to cliché, in a writing post no less, but it really is true. Shit happens. It does, it does, it does. And it has happened to us. More than once.

The biggest mistake I made — we made — early on was assuming our career trajectory would be linear, a progression toward greater and greater success, higher and higher advances, bigger and better sales numbers. That may be true for a select few, but for most writers a career follows a meandering, uncertain path. Some books and series are more successful than others — commercially and critically. I call that early expectation of ever-improving circumstance our biggest mistake not because it somehow led to a disappointing outcome for one project or another, but because it caused me — us — so much pain. When our career hit that first speed bump, I took it personally. I felt I had failed, and also that the industry had failed me. I was confused and angry and sad and, most of all, terrified at the thought that this first disappointment would mean the end of our professional journey. I didn’t yet understand the nature of a creative life.

And so I say to you, Younger Me, learn resilience. Grieve for those lofty unmet ambitions, but then move on and try again. Learn moderation. Don’t let commercial and critical success carry you too high, and don’t let poor results drive you too low. Success will follow failure, which will follow success, and so on. If you can — and I know it’s so, so hard — learn to let go of expectation entirely. We don’t know which books will soar and which will flop. We love them all, which is why we go to the extreme trouble of writing them in the first place. And finally, learn contentment. Love the stories you create on their own terms. Find success in the completion of a good tale, in the realization of an artistic vision.

Take every promise made to you by an editor and publisher with a grain of salt. It’s not that they don’t mean what they say. Okay, SOME of them don’t mean what they say. But mostly, they simply can’t anticipate all that might happen. Producing a book is no small feat. A thousand things can go wrong. Editors and publishers often tell us, as if gospel, that a certain thing is going to happen on a given date. And that is, at the moment, their best guess of what will happen. Pencil in the date. Don’t commit it to ink. Because, as we have established, shit happens.

Thieftaker, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)All those great ideas you have for jacket art? They’re not as great as you think they are. Seriously. We are a writer. And we’re very, very good at that. We are NOT a graphic artist. We are NOT a marketing expert. I remember when the first Thieftaker novel went into production, I had what I thought was SUCH a wonderful idea for the jacket art. A can’t miss idea. PERFECT for the book. It wasn’t any of those things. The moment I saw Chris McGrath’s image for the book, which WAS brilliant and wonderful and perfect, I understood that no one should ever put me — us — in charge of selecting jacket art.

INVASIVES, by David B. Coe (Jacket art courtesy of Belle Books)On the other hand, do trust in your story ideas. All of them. Even the old ones that haven’t yet gone anywhere. At some point, you’ll have an idea for a story about three kids living in the subway tunnels beneath New York City. And you won’t have any idea what to do with it. You’ll give up on it. Don’t. It will become Invasives. At another time, you’ll write a story about two women interacting with Celtic deities and trying to protect an ancient, transcendently powerful magical artifact. That one, too, will seem to languish. Trust the story. That book just came out. It’s called The Chalice War: Stone. Believe in your vision.

If a publisher promises more than you think they can deliver, under terms that seem way too good to be believed, be skeptical. Very, very skeptical. Chances are, they CAN’T deliver. Chances are those terms can’t be met. We’ve been burned a couple of times. ’Nough said.

Over the past twenty-five-plus years, I have tried to thank Nancy every single day for making our career possible. And I’ll continue to thank her. But I might have missed a few days. Fill in the gaps, will you?

Most of all, keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll do the same. No, we haven’t gotten all we wanted, we haven’t achieved every goal. But we’re doing okay, and as much fun as you’ve been having early in our career, I’m having even more now. It keeps getting better.

And yes, the rumors are true. We’re editing now, and we like it. The dark side really is more powerful . . . .

Best wishes,

Older David

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