Ringggg!

Actually, it was more of a buzz in my back pocket that at first made me think my leg was going to sleep. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but that day I was in a mood.

“What?”

“Uh, well, hello. Is iss Rabees?” His accent was so thick I could barely understand the words. I’ll let you select the suitable accent as we progress.

“How can I help you?”

“This is Jake–––.”

“From State Farm?”

“What. No.” I could tell he was going back to his script. “This is Jake–––.”

“Jake who?”

“Uh, This is Jake Wilson and I’m calling about your recent publication, The Broken Truth…A Novel.”

“That’s The Broken Truth. The word novel isn’t part of the title.”

A loooonggggg pause.

“Are you there, Jake?”

“Yes, it is I. One of our scouts––––.”

“Crockett or Boone.”

“Excuse me. This is Jake.”

“Forgive me Jake, neither of those guys were scouts, but Kit Carson was.”

“Um. One of our scouts came across your book, The Broken Truth–––.”

“Don’t say the novel part.”

“Um.” Back to the script. “One of our book scouts came across your book (he almost said it again) and recommended it to us. Your book is cinematic in scope–––.”

“Thank you for that. I was my intention. I write as if I’m seeing a movie and try to bring that to my pages.”

“Yes. Thank you. Your book is cinematic in scope, and we feel that it is a perfect candidate for inclusion between you and Lions Gate–––.” He said it as two distinct words.

“Thanks, but you’ll have to talk with my agent.”

“Agent?”

“Literary agent.”

“You have a literary agent?” I imagined him flipping through pages on his computer, looking for that thread.

“You didn’t think I had one, did you? Miss that one in training?”

“Does this agent receive money–––“

“Money comes in. It doesn’t go out, that’s a true and honest statement, and you’re likely going to ask me for some type of payment for this remarkable opportunity How much?”

“Well, we have several levels.”

“Figured. Adios.”

*

There are many times I don’t want to answer, or fool with those bottom feeders. Here are a few voicemails I held onto for this enlightening occasion. Mistakes included.

“Bro truth Brew truth, Redis, your boo came highly recommended and we’re truly impressed by a cinematic potential. We’d love to explore a collaboration by connecting you directly with movie producers or directors either in person or via (who uses that word while speaking) Zoom to discuss the exciting possibility of adapting your story into the feature film or TV series.”

That one was from Nebraska. I wish I’d answered to get the caller to describe the town and where his office was located. If you don’t know, these scam artists bounce the calls around the country to make you think they’re legitimate and not from some unairconditioned warehouse far, far away.

How about this one allegedly from Fresno, California. Transcribed and somewhat translated. “Hi, Revis, is Roland from Lion Leash, I am a TV coordinator for Spotlight network, I am calling to extend an invitation for Emmy Award-winning director Logan Crawford would like to showcase your book. I am a TV coordinator. I’m reaching out regarding your book. Please call me back at 599-60….”

This one’s a favorite from Winfield, MO. “Hi, Ribs, my name is Johnester, and I’m calling for Ribs. (He was kinda making me hungry) Ribs Withem, and the reason I’m calling is I want to verify if you’re the author of The Texas Joe. If you are the author, please call me back at this number because your book caught our attention and I’d love the chance to speak with you shortly.”

Another from California. “Hi, Rellis, this is Paige senior executive book editor calling from Paige Chronicles, (I think that’s what she said. It’s hard to understand through all the crackling, which made me wonder if it’s coming through some transatlantic cable) because we would like to interview you about book scouts and specialist who highly recommended it from your feature to represent your book.”

“Hi, good day, this is Ava from Beach Chronicles a premium partner with Amazon once you have received this voicemail to call me back on thees number that works in order for us to discuss some important matters about your book The Broken Truth, a Thriller or thrillers (that’s not part of the title!!!). Thank you, and have a good one.”

*

And now I’m inundated with AI generated emails from Ellen B. Trumbull, or Christina William Brown, or Alison Malcha, Cecilia Marks II, and probably others, trying to separate me from my money. Here are a couple I cut and pasted, complete with the emojis they included.

Reavis,

You’ve been called the “genuine article” by Craig Johnson, Kirkus compared your mysteries to Harper Lee and Joe Lansdale, and the New York Times praised your writing as a sleeper that deserves wider attention. You’ve penned Westerns, mysteries, and even 2,500+ articles. That’s one hell of a trail of words.

Now here comes The Only Saloon in Town bank robberies, scalp hunters, corrupt marshals, and Cap Whitlatch trying to keep the whole town from blowing sky-high. It’s cinematic, bloody, and gritty exactly what readers of Westerns crave.

But then I checked Amazon. 30 reviews. Thirty. (Note: I think there are more on that and Goodreads, but I don’t pay any attention to them.) That’s barely a bar fight in Angel Fire. A story with scalp hunters and marauding devils has fewer reviews than a $20 desk lamp. That’s just wrong.

I run a private community of 2,000+ dedicated readers who don’t just leave “Good book 👍” but dive in, analyze, and post thoughtful reviews that give books the credibility they deserve. They love supporting seasoned authors who already have a strong voice but need that extra boost of reader firepower.

So, Reavis should we let Cap Whitlatch keep drinking alone in a half-empty saloon of 30 reviews, or should we pack the place, light the lamps, and give this book the kind of attention even C.J. Box would raise a glass to? 🍺📖

Best,

I didn’t answer, so she tried again:

Hi Reavis,

Just circling back 30 reviews for The Only Saloon in Town doesn’t match the grit and firepower of your story. A book that is cinematic deserves a full house, not a half-empty saloon.

That’s exactly where my private community of 2,000+ engaged readers comes in. They love Westerns and mysteries, and they leave the kind of thoughtful reviews that boost credibility and visibility.

Would you like me to send you a quick 2-minute outline of how we can get Cap Whitlatch the packed saloon he deserves?

Best,

Then this one arrived. Same style, AI generated, and with still another hometown girl name (I wonder why they’re all women in these emails?).

Reavis, you’ve got gangsters rolling into East Texas, a crooked sheriff “crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” counterfeit bills floating around, a psychic kid dreaming doom, and a climax that reads like a Shakespearean showdown with cowboy boots on. Basically, Vengeance is Mine has more action than a Vegas card table on payday. 🎰💥

(Note: This one released in 2014. I’m not sure why they latched onto this particular title. Now, we continue.)

And yet… Amazon still thinks your book belongs in the quiet corner with dusty paperbacks and forgotten romance novellas. 182 reviews? For a modern western listed in True West’s Top 5? (At least AI got that part right) That’s like parking a Mustang on the prairie and calling it “just another horse.” 🐎😂

Here’s where I tip my hat. 🤠 I’m not a PR firm, not some slick “book marketing guru,” and I don’t have a website, LinkedIn, or a TikTok where I dance holding novels (you’re welcome). It’s just me and my private crew of 2,000+ readers who live for mysteries, thrillers, and western grit. We don’t skim and slap stars   we actually read, argue about characters, and drop reviews that Amazon’s cranky algorithm can’t ignore.

So, Reavis, do you want Vengeance is Mine to keep sittin’ pretty in the shade like a cowboy at siesta, or do you want me to send in readers who’ll make it gallop loud enough for the whole algorithmic rodeo to notice? 🐂📚🔥

Best

I haven’t returned either of these emails, but they came in right on top of each other this week. Then I opened this one that’s cut and pasted.

Hi  Reavis Wortham,

I hope this message finds you in great spirits.

My name is Allyson, and I’m reaching out on behalf of Books Discovery Group, a team of literary scouts and creative development agents passionate about discovering compelling stories with real market potential. While quietly evaluating promising works across the literary landscape, your book, “The Broken Truth: A Thriller (Tucker Snow Thrillers),” stood out for its powerful message, literary merit, and commercial viability.

We believe your manuscript (for crying out loud, people, it’s a book now, not a manuscript!!!) holds exceptional potential—not just for traditional publishing but also for adaptation into film or television. In today’s evolving storytelling ecosystem, producers are actively seeking fresh, impactful narratives like yours. With the right representation and positioning, your work could open doors to wide distribution and enduring cultural relevance across multiple platforms.

At Books Discovery Group, we work exclusively on a commission-based model, meaning we only succeed when you do. Our full focus is on securing the best possible publishing and screen adaptation opportunities for authors like you. You retain creative control—we handle the connections, negotiations, and positioning that help your work shine in competitive markets.

Before proceeding, may I ask if you are currently represented by another literary agent? If not, it would be an absolute honor to represent you and introduce your work to our trusted network of traditional publishers and media producers.

I’d welcome the opportunity to speak with you directly and explore what’s next. Please feel free to contact me at (347) 669-1975 at your convenience.

Thank you for creating a story worth discovering. I look forward to the possibility of working together and championing your book to a broader audience.

Warm regards,

When I didn’t answer, their algorithm tried again on, with a slightly different ending on The Broken Truth:

For The Broken Truth, a 10–20 reader push could seriously shake up its visibility and give Tucker the posse he deserves. I can even share a peek at how my readers discuss books you’ll see right away it’s real, passionate, and powerful.

What do you say want me to unleash a squad of die-hard thriller fans to ride with Tucker Snow and get this book seen by the readers it deserves? 🤠📚✨

Cecilia

*

So what is all this? Folks trying to drum up business? Author scams? I won’t say for sure, to avoid litigation, but I have my suspicions.

Scams targeting authors often involve an advance fee, where individuals or companies masquerading as agents or publishers request upfront payments for publishing or marketing services. Other scams include unrealistic royalties or a large book advance for a fee, claims of having “discovered” a previously unknown book, and requests for various fees to revitalize or market an older work.

Pros and beginners alike should be wary of these unsolicited offers, especially those promising huge returns, and avoid paying upfront fees for publishing services. Legitimate agents and publishers do not ask for such payments.

These people hoping to dig into your bank account might pose as a literary agent or publisher with misleading offers. They might contact you about an older book they just “discovered,” saying they can increase sales.

A new tact is claiming false affiliation with entities like Amazon, or a famous director they they might be able to put you in touch with. The Lionsgate scam with famous names has been making the rounds lately.

Be skeptical of unsolicited offers, never pay upfront fees, do your due diligence. If you think a call might be legit, find their website and use that number to check. They’ll likely tell you it was a con.

Research through The Authors Guild, or the Society of Authors to name a couple for alerts on scams targeting authors.

As Sonny and Cher once reported, “The Beat Goes On”….and on…and on…and on. I’m cynical, but many ground-level and even experienced authors can be taken by these scam artists. There are many online articles about these individuals, and more. Here are a couple that might be of interest. Writer Beware.

https://authorsguild.org/resource/publishing-scam-alerts/

https://writerbeware.blog/scam-archive/

Oh, and if any of the above contacts are truly legitimate, I’m sorry, and please reach out to me again so we can do the deal.

I just returned from Boucheron in New Orleans. The first time I was there in 1975, Mardis Gras was in full swing and most folks were juiced to the gills. I say most, because I only remember bits and pieces of that six-day trip. Today, people still drink there, heavily, and not just at night. As the sun lowers in the thick, humid air, neon still shines bright, reflected in puddles of fluids I don’t care to ponder.

But back to Bouchercon. This mystery thriller gathering of writers and fans is likely the largest in North America. There were panels, presentations, and lots of authors. Many of them drinking. Other than going out for meals (and they were all splendid) I spent most of the time in the bar, talking with other attendees, who may or may not have been partaking of spirits and club soda.

If you’ve never been to any writers conference, the bar is where business takes place. No matter if you drink or not, it’s like a Serengeti  watering hole and almost everyone gathers there at one time or another in the evenings.

For some of us, it’s early afternoon.

Besides networking as we call it, I was on a panel along with four other excellent authors who shared their thoughts on “setting.” as a character. We’re all nice people, and everyone agreed that settings can  become a character that can, and will, drive a story.

If you don’t think so, read Fear in a Handful of Dust by John Ives, the pseudonym of a prolific author, Brian Garfield.

I picked that title up back when it was released in 1978 and was blown away by Ives/Garfield’s gritty dialogue and the reality of people struggling to survive in the desert. The cast is limited to essentially five characters, an insane mental patient, and four doctors.

The sixth character is the Mojave Desert.

But that’s not what this blog is about…sorry.

It’s also not about making sure your microphone is turned off. One of the panelists almost said something that would have followed her for years. Remember. All mikes are hot, whether they’re turned on or not. And now, finally, back to my original subject.

During the course of our panel discussion that wandered nearly as much as this blog, fellow participants mentioned that in one of his own novels, a troll emerged at an earlier conference to bring up what that individual thought was an important mistake in let’s say, Mr. Smith’s novel.

“At one point in your latest work, you write that it rained on May 25, 1964. Well, that’s incorrect. I looked it up through Goggle, ChatGap, and an old man who siad he was there, but I’m not sure, because he’d been at a conference and couldn’t remember much about what happened, but the point is, through rabbit holes and research, I discovered that it in fact didn’t rain that day like you said. Did you realize that?”

Personally, I would have suggested that the troll kiss my…

However, Mr. Smith was shaken by that point. He shouldn’t have been.

He should have said in a loud, firm voice, “It’s fiction, you moron!!! Take it as entertainment and not nonfiction.”

So maybe Mr. Smith wanted it to rain that day in his book in order to accomplish some plot point, mood, or setting. Who’s to say a tiny little cloud didn’t pop up in Nebraska and drop an inch of rain in about an hour.

Case in point. Here in the Dallas/Ft. Worth metroplex, the National Weather Service office is at the DFW airport. That’s where records and airplanes are kept, but Texas is such a strange animal that it has rained at my house only thirty miles away while not a drop fell at the airport.

Therefore it was recorded as a rain-free day.

When I was a kid playing softball at my uncle’s house in the country, a cousin knocked a fly ball over the roof and into the front yard…where it was raining, though not a drop fell in the back yard. So we all ran around to the other side to get soaked, much to our mother’s pleasure.

And while I’m rambling around here on several subjects, let me point out to everyone that the thermometer at DFW is surrounded by concrete! It’s hotter there than at my house where we have trees and grass, so in my humble opinion (and that’s the only one that counts right this moment, in my opinion), the days when we reach that magic (gasp) number of 100 only counts in the middle of all that concrete!

Envision me shouting this fact like Sam Kinison.

So with that, please return to your writing. Be accurate with real places (one way vs. two-way streets for example), tell your fictional story (maybe change the name of your town so your streets can run the way you want them to), and don’t worry about the minutiae!!!

Pronounced muh-NOO-shee-ee, it refers to the small, precise, and often useless details or trifling matters of something, often in a literal sense.

Sam Kinison again, worrying about these things will only give you an ulcer!!!!

I’ve been an outdoorsman all my life, and camping has always been an integral part of those experiences. I’ve slept on the ground with nothing but a blanket over me and an ocean of stars stretching from horizon to horizon. I was sick that frosty night in South Dakota, and full of fever, which limited movement to only my eyeballs. Everything else hurt. Propped up against a fallen log, I could do nothing but watch the Milky Way.

I think it healed me in a way no drugs could have touched.

I’ve slept in the back of a pickup truck, wrapped in a sleeping bag, and in a canvas tent so hot the July humidity drove me out onto a concrete picnic table that felt better than any five star hotel bed. One night beside a gurgling stream, I retreated to save my life, chased there by a million mosquitoes determined so suck every drop of blood from my body. As the sun settled below the pine treetops, I peeked out the door flap and realized it wasn’t as dark as I thought. The yellow nylon was so thick with those little winged vampires, the sunset in reality was a living horde of insects.

As the years passed, we owned pop-up trailers, small campers, Class C campers, bumper pull campers, and 36-foot fifty-wheel that was larger than my first apartment. They’ve all been a learning experience, and the memories we’ve shared in those shelters still come up in pleasant recollections.

The Bride and I have pulled off into national forest campgrounds and spent both hot and cold nights in the back of our conversion van. We’ve cooked over hardwood fires, charcoal, small pump-up backpacking stoves, Coleman stoves, and even over the heat of a homemade stove made from a tin can.

It’s been so cold, that our water froze in the tent with us, so humid the breeze from a passing hummingbird felt good, and so hot we couldn’t rest. There was one sultry night in East Texas where we lay in pools of sweat, laughing at the symphony of tiny frogs that sang until an agreed-upon moment when they paused for a buffalo-size bullfrog to croke one deep bass note, and then the music continued.

So why are you telling us all this on a writer’s blog?

Because writing is much the same. You’ve found what you like doing, and that’s creating worlds that either don’t exist, or are based on a character you developed from firing synapses.

Many writers search for that magic formula to help them get words on paper and create the Great American Novel. It’s the same as what I described above, experiments and experiences that finally solidify into your own personal recipe. We all have, or had, our idea of what a writer’s life might be like, and it usually isn’t what we’ve seen on television or in the movies.

On Thursday night, the Bride and I attended a wine tasting fundraiser for my old alma mater, and I was introduced to a former Texas senator who has donated a gamebird research facility to determine while bobwhite quail numbers have dropped to alarming numbers in the past thirty or forty years. They’re working hard to bring them back to our state, and as I discussed my recent visit to the Lyon Center for Gamebird Research, he asked about being an author.

“Do you get up and write every morning?”

How many times have we heard that? “I try to write at least five pages every day. It sometimes comes early, at noon, or whenever I can find the right time to sit down and work.”

I didn’t tell him it was because I found what works for me, and what I enjoy.

A few months ago I had a long talk with a fellow bestselling author who hit the market like dynamite with her first novel. As our conversation meandered down unfamiliar trails or the same old paths authors follow when they get together, we discussed how far our manuscripts progressed in a single day. She was awed by my output, see above, and shook her head.

“I do good to write a single paragraph in a day. Sometimes I lock up on a single word and it takes forever to find the right one.”

Fine, then. That’s her working day, but like the camping discussion above (see, here’s that page a day thing), everyone is different. The only truth is that we all aspects of this world in different ways, and in terms of writing, we all have different goals. Just be inspired.

I’ve written newspaper columns on a yellow legal pad in front of a tent as lightning moved across the valley below. My best day of writing so far was one day in a 36’ fifth-wheel as rain thundered on the roof and it was impossible to go outside. It’s not where or how I produced my books, it’s the fact that I found a comfort zone somewhere that spoke to me.

There are hundreds of books on how to be a successful author out there. Read them if you want, but find the process speaks to you and follow that unexplored road, just the way the Bride and I experimented with camping, be it good or bad.

Find your comfortable place and get that first draft finished. At least put down page a day, but even that’s not for everyone. Then agonize over the post production, if you want or need to, in a figurative four-star hotel somewhere.

Quit talking about it, and over-thinking the process, and write.

Deadlines.

Brrrr.

A line not to be crossed without consequences.

All writers bow to them, and for some, looming deadlines are also an electric jolt to get authors off the stick and in front of the keyboard. I confess. I do my best work right up against deadlines.

The dreaded word originated during the Civil War, referencing a defined line around prison camps that prisoners weren’t allowed to cross under the guarantee of being shot by guards. Some sources say it began at Andersonville, a Confederate prison camp notorious for its horrific conditions and high death rate among Union prisoners.

“Before noon, we were turned into the pen which is merely enclosed by a ditch and the dirt taken from the ditch thrown up on the outside, making a sort of breastwork. The ditch serves as a dead line, and no prisoners must go near the ditch. ­–––Robert Ransom, Diary of Robert Ransom, Nov, 22, 1863.

You get the picture.

Over time, as memories faded, the term softened and shifted from a literal physical boundary to a time limit. In the early 1900s, newspapers used the word to indicate the last possible moment for submitting copy for publication. Meeting a deadline is the mark of a professional, or one who refuses to be late.

Now, to soften that a bit, some writing deadlines are fluid. Life can get in the way of meeting those obligations, and most editors and publishers understand, to a point. Your family, health, and all those insane troubles that sometimes swirl around us like tweeting birds circling a cartoon character’s head should take precedence.

Simply missing a specific date because you can’t get off the stick is unforgivable and sets back a publisher’s schedule. Titles are lined up on the calendar for print and missing those dates might put your manuscript back at the end of the line, or pulled completely, damaging the writer’s reputation, and also that of their agent.

Other things happen, too. I got a little lazy in writing my fourth novel, Dark Places, and my agent took me to task, setting back my delivery date.

“Rev, I love the manuscript, but you missed an entire plot line.”

“What!!!???”

“Pepper ran away from home, and you didn’t follow her. She’s almost forgotten until the end.”

“But….”

“Follow her.”

I did, and it gave the book an entirely different quality. However, I missed that deadline in the sense that we had to ask for more time. The publisher gave me a month, but my subconscious, knowing I’d become lazy, had already written the material and the story poured out in only two weeks.

Besides the book deadlines mentioned above, (and I’m free of those for the first time in several years because I’ve turned in three novels in my new series and have some breathing room), I still have a weekly newspaper column and magazine columns…plus this blog.

Book deadlines, short story deadlines, column and magazine articles, blog posts, well-established newsletters, and paid Substack posts all require razor sharp attention. If you sign either a physical, agreed upon contract, or a personal goal to get your work on a particular date or day, they should all be met.

It’s your professional reputation that’s on the line.

The clear, waist-deep creek was full of salmon finning nose to tail as I eased up over a low rise. The sun was bright in a fresh new blue bowl overhead, and the mild July day it felt like fall.

We’d been told mosquitoes were the state bird of Alaska, so I smelled like a walking DEET factory. The scent of clothes and skin soaked in insect repellent me of camping when I was a kid. The Old Man was a firm believer in spraying us down until we virtually dripped.

We hadn’t seen a mosquito on the whole nine-day salmon trip, so the stuff must have worked great!

Unfamiliar birds flitted through the spruce trees that made me think of Christmas. Willows and alders lined Montana Creek, making casting difficult. There were other bushes I couldn’t identify, but I gave each of them unmentionable names when my leader tangled up so bad I had to break off the limber branches to free the fly.

That extra issue was irritating, because that day we were casting 9-weight rods with big fat salmon flies that apparently were a favorite treat for those bushes.

The fish ignored my offerings.

Frustrated, I dug in one of the many pockets on my fishing vest to find a box of flies I hadn’t yet tried. It was filled with pink, blue sparkles, yellow, black, and chartreuse morsels all crowded together in the foam holders.

It reminded me of five-year-old girls’ birthday party with dresses and favors.

Clipping off the unmolested fly, I chose a black streamer designed to resemble a leach. It’s kind of a Catch-22. The salmon aren’t hungry, but we throw flies that look tasty.

Strip line, cast, back cast, forward, one more back cast to stretch the line out and lay it in the water. The fly sinks, bumps along the gravel and sand bottom and slides down the back of a big King who is patiently waiting for the one immediately in front to get off her phone and go.

Five casts later, the fish still weren’t interested.

Clamping the rod under my arm, I slipped off the fly and rummaged through another pocket to locate a different box. The other pockets were so packed with equipment I looked as if I were wearing an inflated lifejacket.

Two young men appeared in shorts, ancient hiking boots, and nothing else. Mutt and Jeff looked to be about eighteen. I looked down at my chest waders and wading boots, fully conscious of my vented shirt, polarized glasses, and hat.

The kids had nothing else but lots of hair and salmon rods.

Both broke out in wide grins. The tallest I’d named Jeff chinned toward the creek. “You catching anything?”

“Can’t buy a bite. How about y’all?”

“Caught half a dozen. We threw them back.”

“Figures.” I sighed. “What are you throwing?”

The shorter one I’d named Mutt held out a 7-weight rod and unhooked his lure to show me. It looked like a piece of yarn from his grandmother’s knitting bag.

I adjusted my glasses. “What is that?”

A piece of yarn from my grandmother’s knitting bag.”

“What makes it appealing?”

Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a fish, but it works.”

Mutt nodded. “It’s how you twist it on your hook.”

“Give me a bare hook.” Jeff held out his hand.

“The only bare ones I have are trout hooks.”

Mutt looked puzzled. “What do you catch trout for?”

I’d heard most Alaskans considered trout a trash fish. “I like to eat them.”

“Are you as good on trout as you are salmon?”

“Funny.”

Mutt took the streamer on the end of my leader and studied it for a moment before taking out his knife and stripping everything off except for the head. Then he plucked a wad of blue yarn from his wet pocket, untangled a piece, and somehow wove it onto the hook.

He held it out. “There. Did you see how I did that?”

I thought about the diopters in my fly vest, and how I wished I’d attached them to my trifocals to better see what he was doing. “Sure.”

He handed me two more pieces. “Keep these. I have plenty.”

Jeff pointed. “Mind if we play through?”

I shrugged. “Have at it.”

He flipped out a little line, made a cast, and we watched it drift. The line tightened, his rod bowed, and he had a fish on.

I sighed. “All right. Good luck.”

Engrossed in the fight, neither looked up and I made my way upstream to spend the rest of the day without a strike, but the twist of yarn worked the next day telling me I was onto something.

Now, I know this isn’t an outdoor blog, but as I told my girls when they wanted to know if reality and family are included, “Read between the lines.”

Today’s little suggestion relates to the way we write. Some would-be authors complain about how their submissions keep coming back, and I wonder, are they doing the same thing repeatedly without success?

Is their query letter a little off?

Is their elevator pitch wrong?

Is their entire story written from the wrong viewpoint? First person present tense?

Einstein supposedly defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. There’s no evidence he actually said it, however, the idea describes a lack of progress or a futile approach, which was the way I wrote thirty years ago without success.

Bestselling author Craig Johnson of the Longmire series and I were talking a few weeks ago in Amarillo and he mentioned the state of western writing. His series are contemporary westerns with a traditional feel. He suggested new authors abandon the idea of writing like Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour.

“That’s already been done, by Grey and L’Amour. And done very well. With that in mind, writers need to find a different approach.”

It reminded me of the first writing panel I ever attended. A gentleman behind a mounted video camera in the audience raised his hand during the Q&A portion of the presentation. “I’ve submitted a dozen books, over and over to different houses and agents, and not one has ever been accepted. What’s wrong with these people?”

An author leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “Maybe you aren’t any good.”

It was a harsh thing to say, but maybe true. He’d been trying the same thing over and over again. It was time to adapt.

Which is what I had to do that morning on Montana Creek in Alaska. The next day I brought a 43-pound King salmon to hand, using that bit of twisted yarn. I’d changed my approach.

Think about it.

If and when the apocalypse finally happens and I survive, I’m gonna be the most pissed-off human left on the earth. I can’t stand for my hair to be long, and I have to shave every day. The stubble under my neck drives me crazy, and all the Road Warrior gangs better steer clear.

I finally found a real barbershop. Not a hair salon, stylist center, hair spa, or hair stylist. It’s an old-school barbershop with hair on the floor, slightly uncomfortable chairs, and the smell of Barbicide or Pinaud, with an undertone of cigars and pipe smoke.

A rack of magazines sits beside the door, ranging from shooting sports, hunting, cars, or anything with Texas in the title.

The two barbers who’ve retired from either law enforcement or the military. How do I know? Their own haircuts, tattoos, and the subject matter they discuss. I haven’t asked, though.

Most of the time I simply walk in and one of them is available, scissors in hand and lightly clicking as if waiting for a head.

Today was different. Both chairs were occupied, and I was in a hurry. A lively discussion about wild hogs bounced back and forth between the barbers and one customer who was draped and seated.

A redheaded gentleman sat beside a mom concentrating on her phone, waiting for her son’s fancy haircut to be finished. Beside him, a bent man with hair whiter than my own listened to the exchange, hands on the head of his cane and smiling as if he knew a secret.

Barber One stepped back to judge the length of his young project’s sideburns. “Well, I believe we can’t kill enough hogs. I hear there are nearly three million of them in the state.”

Feral hogs are so destructive to crops and land, it’s estimated they cost Texans between $400 to $500 million dollars each year. They’re dangerous to humans and animals, destroy habitat, and carry communicative diseases that can be passed on to livestock.

Redhead chuckled. “About half of them are rooting up my pasture.”

“I heard Constable Rick killed one off his porch the other morning,” I said.

Barber One shook his head. “Well, that leaves two million, nine hundred ninety-nine more.”

Barber Two paused, thinking. “How many piglets can a feral sow have at a time?”

“Six to twelve,” I recalled. “Usually six, I’ve heard, but I don’t know anyone who goes out and counts them.”

“Well, then we’re back up to three million and five by now, as fast as those things reproduce.”

The discussion continued until it was my time in the chair. He shook out the drape and clipped it around my neck.

“What are we doing for you today?”

“Short. No skin showing.”

“Got it.”

The youngster stepped down from Barber One’s chair, to be replaced by the white-haired man who creaked his way to the chair and settled in. I met the elderly gentleman’s eyes and he nodded a hello.

The barber wrapped his neck. “How are we cutting today, sir?”

“Make it look good, like it’s not a fresh cut.”

“Trying to make an impression?”

“I have a lot of people coming to visit.”

“Birthday. Anniversary?”

“Funeral.”

“Sorry to hear. Hope it wasn’t someone close.”

“About as close as it can be. It’s me.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.

The elderly man smiled. “I’m dying.”

Barber Two chuckled. “Aren’t we all.”

I closed my eyes, listening.

“No. Really. The doctors released me a few days ago after I was in the hospital for several weeks. Said my kidneys are failing and there’s nothing else they can do. Sent me home with hospice.” He sighed. “I have a kidney infection now, and they figure I won’t see Monday.”

My barber paused. “Well, doctors don’t know everything.”

“They don’t, but I know how I feel.” He chuckled and I cracked an eye open again. He was honestly cheerful, and I still thought he was setting us up.

“But it’s okay. I’ve done it all. I was married to a wonderful woman who’s already up there waiting for me. My daughters are successful businesswomen and moms, and my son’ll come to his senses one of these days. Maybe this’ll straighten him out.

“I’ve traveled the world, vacationed in every state. Hunting and fished here in the U.S., shot big game in Africa, caught marlin from blue water and sailed on a big three-masted schooner.”

The shop was silent. Even their scissors weren’t clicking.

“I’ve driven good cars, eaten fine food, though I still think home fried chicken is best, and watched good people do great things.”

Barber One started to speak, but had to stop and clear his throat. “So you figure you needed a haircut.”

“Wanted to take one last thing off my list.” The gentleman’s smile was as wide as a four-lane highway. “I have most everything else taken care of. Gave my guns away to son-in-laws and good friends who’re still young enough to use them.

“I just wish I could hunt quail one more time. I miss that most, following dogs on a chilly morning. I wonder if quail and dogs will be in heaven.” He paused, veering off again. “No matter. You know, I’m looking forward to seeing my mama again.”

A few minutes later, Barber Two gave my shoulder a pat and spun me around to face the big mirror on the wall. “All finished.”

Apparently, my instructions weren’t clear enough. My hair looked as if I’d just joined the military. “Well, thanks.”

I stepped outside to consider my new head and what I’d heard. It was a lot to absorb, and I was still standing there when the old gentleman came outside.

He gave me that same wide grin and I couldn’t help but smile, too. “I know you.”

“You do?”

“Yep, I’ve been reading your newspaper columns for years, and most of your books, though that spooky one was a little much. Reading this last few years has been all I can do, so your stories have help passed the time.”

We stood there for a second before I held out my hand. “Thanks for reading my work.”

He nodded. “Not much to say, is there?” He shifted his cane and paused. “I’d rather have a hug, if it’s all the same to you.”

There in front of the barbershop, we hugged, and I let him be the one to step back. He winked. “Good luck.”

I patted his shoulder. “At least you got a better haircut than this one.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” he said and walked slowly away.

On the way home, other similar conversations came to mind, and that’s the purpose of this discussion. As writers, we’re entertainers, and our work is impactful in more ways than we expect. More than once I’ve heard my brother from another mother, John Gilstrap, say we’re entertainers, and that’s the God’s honest truth.

During a signing at the Barnes and Noble in Garland, Texas, about five years ago, a woman asked me to sign a stack of books bearing my name. “I have your new one here, but these others belonged to my husband.”

For once I knew when to keep my mouth shut, so I waited.

“He died a month ago from cancer, and your books helped him get through the chemo and these last months. He made me promise to buy everything you write, because he was such a big fan.”

Eyes stinging, I stepped around the signing table, and we stood there with our arms around each other long enough for a couple of other fans to tear up. My allergies must have been acting up, because my eyes watered for a long time after that.

Not getting too deep into a friend’s life, but a woman I’ve known for several years also gave my earlier books to her son who was suffering from cancer. He had a rough time of it, and at the end, she and his young wife read aloud to him when he could no longer focus. I had the honor of talking with him on the phone from across the country and had to clear my voice several times. We visited until his strength went that day and he was gone not long after that.

Don’t underestimate your work. It will impact others, and you probably won’t even know about it.

One of my oldest friends, Steve Knagg (a former newspaper columnist), is a guitar-picking son of a gun. In the late 1980s and 90s, he and I traveled across the country to our state and national conferences and events, and played in hospitality rooms to mostly entertain ourselves, and hopefully, others.

That was back in the days when Southwest Arlines flew with only a few dozen passengers, even at peak times. Once, he and I boarded with our guitars and found there were only six other seats filled. We’d been in the bar earlier, so we went to the back, and after the plane took off, took out our guitars and started playing.

The flight attendant came by. “Y’all can’t be doing that. You’re disturbing the other passengers.”

I glanced down the aisle. “We’re providing entertainment.”

“I’d like for you to provide silence.”

Steve spoke up. “We’ll quit playing if you’ll give us free drinks.”

She came back with a dozen bottles of Wild Turkey and we put away our instruments. I think that was the most we were ever paid for our performances.

I haven’t played in over twenty-five years, but he still picks a little, and a couple of weeks ago, we started talking about how we learned. My limited abilities came from lessons when I was in junior high school. To a kid who loved The Monkees, the idea of being a famous musician was appealing, but after learning the basic chords, I abandoned the classes because I didn’t like to practice.

After that, I tinkered with my old Stella, and like other kids of our era, my friends and I formed a garage band that was…terrible. We had three songs, and I’m sure they were like fingernails on a blackboard to anyone over eighteen. One of my female cousins asked us to play at her fifteenth birthday, and we went through our repertoire five times before my uncle came into the living room, unplugged the microphone, and took it with him.

We weren’t surprised. The year before, we played In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on the record player so many times he took the LP off the spindle, opened the door, and flung it like a frisbee into the yard. He was very clear on what he liked, or disliked.

Steve, on the other hand. learned to play in a different way. One day his dad bought a cheap guitar and without saying a word to his three sons, leaned it up in the corner of the living room where it gathered dust for a year or two. Then one day, after listening to Bob Dylan albums, Steve wiped the dust off and asked a friend to teach him some chords.

He showed considerable aptitude and eventually taught his younger brother to play. That brother became an engineer at Skunkworks, but could have made a career out of playing in professional bands. He’s one of the best pickers I’ve ever known.

I asked Steve once what he would have done if his dad came in with the guitar and said, “Here, learn to play this.”

“I wouldn’t have done it.”

Typical kid reaction, and I should have learned from it, since I took child psychology classes as part of my degree in education. Which leads me to today’s post. Our oldest daughter, Chelsea (AKA the Redhead in my newspaper columns), is now a high school librarian and suffers the same stubbornness. If I tell her to read a book that caught my attention, she won’t do it. She loves me, but there’s some unconscious quirk that kicks in and she can’t help but dig in her heels.

Her twelve-year-old daughter, Riley, inherited the same stubbornness, but I didn’t know it until a couple of weeks ago when the Bride and I took the whole crew down to the Texas coast. Riley suffers from the same affliction I’ve carried all my life, the need to have books close by. It makes my heart happy to see she brings a backpack full of books everywhere she goes.

Interestingly, she prefers not to read on electronic devices, stating that she likes the feel and smell of books.

Ahhhhh.

Now that she’s graduated to chapter books, I really want her to read one that I discovered when I was in the seventh grade. Let’s pause here to understand The Spooky Thing was hysterical to a boy in 1967. William O. Steele was a favorite back then, and I have most of those books on my nostalgia shelf. Sorry about the blurry image, but it was the best I could find online.

So I made the mistake of telling Riley I wanted her to read the book, and described the plot and how funny I thought it was. The Redhead cut her eyes at me and gave her head a small warning shake. It was too late. The sixth-grader shut me down and left the untouched book in the kitchen table.

When she went outside to swim with her brother and cousins, the Redhead caught me. “She won’t read it now. You should have just put it somewhere she could see it and maybe she’d pick it up.”

“This isn’t like when I was a kid and adults were the enemy. It’s a good book.”

“Never trust anyone over twenty-one. I know, Dad, you’ve told us those stories, but she’s like I am, and you’re her granddad. Remember what you say when you’re teaching a writing class. Show, don’t tell.”

“So what should I have done?”

“Put it somewhere where she’d see it and maybe she would have picked it up and thumbed through the pages. But it looks old, the protagonists are boys, and she likes girl heroes the most.” She shrugged. “And besides, I don’t think the cover would ever catch her interest.”

“I like the artwork.”

“Of course you do, but she reads graphic novels. She’s used to Calvin and Hobbs artwork, too, as well as Garfield. Now she reads things like School for Good and Evil, and Big Nate, and The Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Her new favorite is the Sherlock Society.”

“Never heard of those.”

“She just read The Thief of Always.”

“Okay, I see where the graphics are better, but she reads Clive Barker and not my own stuff?”

“She doesn’t know him, but she’ll get there with your books, because she sees them on the shelf behind your desk all the time. She asked me the other day if she would like The Rock Hole, but don’t suggest it. Let her find the books in her own time.”

I sighed, realizing I should have remembered Steve’s dad and the guitar, and left The Spooky Thing out with all the other kid books in what we call “the kid’s room,” and crossed my fingers.

So with that knowledge, my next project is to collect all my old childhood favorites and put them on a shelf where the grandcritters can see them. Maybe our future readers will find something of interest, and they can enjoy the books that led me to become a dedicated reader, and eventually a writer.

I should have listened harder in Child Psych 101, but then again, that was a long time ago and I didn’t want anyone, especially professions, to tell me what to do.

“Time is on my side, yes it is.” Mick Jagger

Old Mick might have been wrong about that one.

I love writing for Killzone.com, and most of the time I’m a week or so ahead of these posts, but the past few weeks have been a firehose of deadlines and family obligations, along with day-to-day duties such as yardwork, household maintenance, and writer duties.

This week caught up to me. I finished a newspaper column only ten minutes before deadline, because the summer schedule with our grandcritters absorbed my time. We just got back from a week at the beach, which completely threw as far as dates are concerned. Not complaining here, because we’re fortunate to have them all close by.

New or budding authors don’t realize this business isn’t just sitting before the keyboard and tapping out words. There’s a lot more to being an author that meets the eye.

For example, in addition to the aforementioned newspaper column due today, I had this blog post (due Saturday) which needed to be finished before getting on the road tomorrow morning (Friday) to attend the Western Writers of America conference this weekend of June 20-22, and (Today, Thursday, June 19 at 7:00) I am author Craig Johnson’s in-conversation partner for his Return to Sender book tour here in the DFW area.

Wait. There’s more. I also have a magazine deadline for Texas Fish and Game, and am the editor for an upcoming short story anthology entitled Rough Country (2026 release). I’d reached out to a number of bestselling and talented authors to join in this Roan and Weatherford publication benefitting the U.S. Marshal’s Survivor Fund, and it’s my duty to spearhead this project.

“Against the wind, I’m still running against the wind, I’m older now, but still running against the wind.” Bob Seger.

That’s how I feel right now. Line edits for Comancheria just went in after dedicating several days to that project, and the publisher at R&W is allowing me to have more than the usual amount of input in the cover, which we still haven’t nailed down and publication is in October. Together with the editor and the artist, we’ve discarded half a dozen options.

Wait, again. There’s still more. I’m working with my publishers at Sourcebooks to find the right talent to record the audio version of my most recent Red River novel, The Texas Job. We almost have the right voice for this novel, which I just learned, is in the running for the Will Rogers Gold Medallion in the Western Modern Fiction category. At the same time, The Journey South is in the running for the gold in the Will Rogers Medallion Traditional Western Fiction category.

Copy edits are almost ready for A Dead Man’s Laugh, and that will take precedence over other projects. As many of you know, these edits come in out of the blue and there’s usually (for me, anyway) a two-week deadline, so all momentum on anything else has to stop.

And finally, this summer in a writer’s life will climax in the completion of my manuscript titled, What We Owe the Dead, which I hope to send to my agent by the middle of July (my own deadline).

This all needs to be wrapped before we head out to Bouchercon, in New Orleans. After that, I’ll finish the edits for the anthology so I can attend the Will Rogers Medallion Award ceremony in Tulsa, OK, at the end of October.

I still need to finish my own short story for the Rough Country anthology, and on the horizon is a new Red River novel, which will be set in 1979, the end of the Strange Seventies. While drinking lots of local wine a thousand-year-old house in Italy last October, Gilstrap and I hammered out the plot basics for this tenth book in my original series. Note: It still sounded good the next morning.

This is all a Magic Carpet Ride (Steppenwolf), and I’m glad to be here. It’s been a long road to this place in time, and starting out, I had no idea what would be required to reach this level of (for me) literary success.

When I post this one on the Killzone dashboard, I can get to work on a few specific questions to ask Craig about Return to Sender. He and I have known each other for so long, most of our discussion will be organic and we’ll follow the free-wheeling conversation to wherever it goes, but I’ll need a couple of specific questions that I might forget.

Now it’s time to post this discussion and check at least one item off my list. Wait! Dang it! I need to post tonight’s event one more time on my social media accounts, so there goes another bite of time.

With all that, how’s your writing world, and is there a song that pops into your head that might relate?

I have a world of stories filed away that may never get used in my novels. Some are significant recollections waiting to be used, based on coincidences, while others are the seeds of ideas planted for future use.

My folks are from the country, survivors of the Great Depression, who lived in Red River bottoms, the border between Texas and Oklahoma. Chicota was a community of farmers who raised most of their own food, cows, and kids, along with the crops that fed the rest of this country.

When those old men (who were younger than I am today) took time off, it was for church, town on Saturdays, and to fish on Sunday afternoons. That meant throwing a line in the Red, or pools which were often full of crappie, the best eating.

Thinking about those fish reminds me of a natural spring pool about four miles from my maternal grandparents’ farmhouse. It was one of the few remaining springs in the area that once boasted dozens, if not more than a couple of hundred seeps, bubblers, and gushers.

When I mentioned the word pool above, I meant what some might call a pond, or tank (in West Texas). It was large enough to launch the Old Man’s vee-hull boat and motor, so it was of some significant size. He took me there several times, to fish, and to see the underwater beauty of such a natural wonder.

When the Old Man wasn’t around with the boat, my younger Cousin and I rode up on our bikes to enjoy something highly unusual in our part of Northeast Texas, clear, running water.

The gin-clear water in that pool, the fish of all sizes, and its shady banks still call to me, because most pools, creeks, streams, rivers and lakes in our part of the world are muddy. Which brings us back to my original discussion, clear water.

Several years ago, Cousin (who was much rounder in his later years) and I went looking for that unnamed spring lake. The years degraded our memories, and the land was different. The pastures were gone, and houses hunkered in the woods like ugly weeds.

“Posted” signs warned us away from the original trail we’d used over fifty years ago, so we followed blacktop roads to our estimated destination. A gray-haired gentleman was outside his house, working on a truck when we pulled up in his drive and waited for his dog to stop barking.

He rose, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Howdy boys. What can I do for you?”

I took the lead. “We’re looking for a spring lake that used to be around here.”

“Well, I’ve only lived here about ten years. Haven’t heard of a lake.”

Cousin was interested. “Where’d you move from?”

“Prosper, Texas.”

I shook my head in wonder at such a small world. “That’s where my wife grew up. Did you know the Reynolds family?”

His smile became genuine. “Sure enough. Robert and Robbie were good friends.”

Such a strange coincidence created an immediate bond and we visited for half an hour before getting back around to the reason we were there. Our new friend pointed. “The only pool around here is that little muddy puddle over yonder on someone else’s land that stays wet year-round.”

We looked where he pointed, and my recollections of the area superimposed themselves on the “muddy puddle.”

“Good Lord.” My spirits fell, and Cousin’s face mirrored my own.

He rubbed his bald head. “They’ve killed the spring with all this construction around here.”

The sweet water that once flowed fast enough to fill a small, three-acre-pool struggled to survive as a mud hole. Disappointed and saddened, we left, thinking about such a strange coincidence that I would meet friends of the War Department’s dad and brother in my ancestors’ community, and how “progress” was killing such wonderful, natural resources.

Here’s another. A few years ago, when I drove a dually pickup–––Let’s pause here, because I had to explain duallys to one of my city-dwelling editors who’d never heard of a six-wheeled truck. After explaining the concept, that individual still misunderstood, thinking there were three in a line on each side. I wrote back again, sending a link so that person could see there were four on the back and two in the front.

Because a dually is hippy, it won’t fit into most garages, especially the one at our old house, so I parked it on the street the entire time we lived there. Unfortunately, someone broke in one night and stole whatever wasn’t nailed down, (including my Juicy Fruit gum) and that included a pair of prescription Oakley sunglasses. I sincerely hoped they wore them while driving into a bridge abutment one night, but it didn’t happen.

They took tools, OTC drugs (antacids and allergy pills I kept in the cab because my former son-in-law was dangerously allergic to stings), and the Bride’s little pocket camera she used for work with the Frisco ISD, but forgot to take out that night.

Figuring all was lost, we filed a police report and went on about our lives. Somewhere around six weeks later, she got a call from the local PD.

“Mrs. Wortham, we have a report here about a burglary of a motor vehicle.”

“It was my husband’s truck. He filed the report. I’m surprised you called me.”

“Well, it’s an interesting story. We busted a vehicle burglary ring and found a digital camera in a house full of stolen items. There was a photo of the front of a school, and when we went to that location, they remembered you came by with your camera. We have the couple who broke into his truck. The guy is cooperating, but the female is a war horse, so I’d like to know if you’d like to press charges.”

She laughed. “I’m sure my husband will.”

I did.

Now here’s one last story I can draw from, but haven’t yet found the place. When we were still in that same house, the Bride came home for lunch and called me a few minutes after she left. “Hey, there’s a car in the alley right behind the house. It’s running, but no one is in it. I wonder if they have some kind of trouble. You might want to go look.”

I walked out to find an old car idling a few feet from our drive. No one was behind the wheel, and when I glanced inside, the back of my neck tingled. A screwdriver protruded from the steering column.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

I told dispatch where I lived. “There’s a running car behind our house and no one is in it. I think it’s stolen.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because there’s a screwdriver in the ignition, for one thing.”

Her voice changed. “What kind of car is it, and can you see the license tag?”

I told her.

“Sir, get away from the car and go in the house now. Officers are on the way.”

Following such direct orders, I did as she said and waited. Two minutes later every cop in the city was at our location, looking for the bank robbers who’d used that vehicle as a getaway car, dumped it in the alley, ran through the yard between our house and the neighbor, and drove away in another vehicle parked on our street.

But one lighter moment was when several young officers showed up to search the area, they insisted on checking our back yard, only to find my nineteen-year-old daughter sunning beside the pool. They checked the backyard several times until I asked her to come inside, even though our premises was the safest place in town.

So with those in mind, (and I confess none of these images are real by the way),how many of you writers draw from old memories and or unlikely events to use in your manuscripts? Do you have stories of police work you can weave into a future work, but haven’t done it yet? Do you have real life adventures or coincidences, or pet peeves and disappointments that can enrich your works?

I still have more, but these will have to do at this writing.

While thinking about the topic of today’s discussion, I checked my Facebook page (where we all get out writing ideas, right?) and came across a post from Cowboys and Indians Magazine on the 50^th anniversary of Willie Nelson’s The Redhead Stranger album.

Good Lord, I’m getting old.

If you haven’t heard this LP, just think Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.

back in 1975, This concept in country music was a departure from Nashville’s unnecessary symphony orchestration, and Willie wasn’t interested in continuing this new wave of music. He wanted to return to his roots. To do so, he came to Garland, Texas, (where I worked as an educator for 35 years) and recorded this “concept” album in a tiny one-room state of the art recording studio only a block from Garland High School (where I taught from 1985-86, and discovered I had no interest in becoming a vice principal at that level).

This album was based on an entire story revolving around the Red Headed Stranger who lost the love of his life. Conceptionally, the entire soundtrack is about Parson Shay, a flawed man who murders his wife and her lover. Consumed by grief and anger, he becomes a fugitive traveling the west, struggling with the guilt of his actions. Full of rage, he also shoots a saloon girl who he thinks is trying to steal his horse.

The following lyric, “You can’t hang a man for killing a woman, who tries to steal his horse,” is a novel unto itself.

Willie stripped down so much of the instrumentation that it sounds like an old-school band playing in a garage. When he sent the tapes to his record company, they thought it was a bare demo and wanted to add all that crap he hated.

Because he had full creative control, Willie insisted on keeping it simple, and that album is now ranked number 183 on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time and number one on CMT’s 40 Greatest Albums in Country Music.

Not bad for doing what he wanted without interference from others who tend to follow the current trend.

Bill Witliff wrote that wonderful screenplay for a movie based on the album, but you’ll likely recognize one of his more famous movies, Lonesome Dove. Based on the book by Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove features two tortured souls, August McCrae and Woodrow F. Call. Gus seeks a lost love, while Woodrow refuses to acknowledge that he loved a prostitute and fathered a child he refuses to recognize.

Many authors explore characters grappling with emotional or psychological trauma that manifests in many ways. This turmoil often stems from loss, or a deep sense of inner conflict, either intentionally revealed by the author, or hinted at through the protagonists’ actions and vague references.

My most recent series featuring Tucker Snow examines a Texas Brand Inspector’s life after his wife and baby are killed by an addict, leaving him to raise a teenage daughter alone. He’s far too impulsive and uses his own brother to step over any imaginary line, laying waste to criminals who, in his opinion, just need killing.

An author doesn’t have to tell readers exactly what drives their characters. The story might, and often does, reveal the emotional issues that drive a protagonist with information revealed throughout the novel.

Mickey Spillane created Mike Hammer, who is driven to seek justice, but he’s a pessimistic creature who survived the Japanese Theater in World War II and struggles to find goodness in the country he fought for.

My good friend John Gilstrap’s Jonathan Grave is another character who seeks justice for all, and his ruthless methods fall outside the law to save hostages most agencies can’t, or won’t save. How do we know what drives Jonathan? Read No Mercy where his backstory is revealed. Is Jonathan flawed? You bet he is.

Aren’t we all?

One reviewer said she particularly enjoyed the “subtle flaws in Grave’s character – flaws he understands and even admits to, but doesn’t necessarily try to correct.”

Other authors have created flawed characters.

Lee Child created Jack Reacher. His major flaw is that he won’t walk off from injustice or a fight. He lays waste to criminals, then moves on to do it again. He prefers isolation, has few social skills, and has an impulsive, extremely aggressive nature.

The Searchers, a novel by Alan LeMay became a John Wayne movie. Amos Edwards (Ethan in the movie) is the most troubled and morally complex character I’ve ever read. Due to a warped sense of honor, Amos is obsessed with finding and killing his captive niece because he believes she’s has been corrupted by her Comanche captors.

Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl has more than one. “Nick is not the charming hero we’re accustomed to in thrillers; he’s a deeply flawed and morally ambiguous figure whose actions leave us oscillating between sympathy and suspicion,” writes fan Riya Bhorkar. “Amy, on the other hand, is a master manipulator, crafting her own narrative with surgical precision and leaving a trail of devastation in her wake.”

In Shane, Jack Schaefer’s protagonist by the same name is a mysterious drifting gunfighter who hangs up his guns and falls in love with his employer’s wife. He returns to his old ways when her husband is provoked into a gunfight. He kills rancher Luke Fletcher, (Ryker in the movie), reverting to his old self. LeMay skillfully leaves enough crumbs for readers to see he has a number of faults before he rides off, wounded and possibly dying.

So who is your favorite flawed character, and/or have you created such fictional protagonists? And let’s go one step further. Are these these character flaws cut from whole cloth, or do they come from within?