When I wrote my first Sonny Hawke novel, Hawke’s Prey, I structured the plot around a 100-year-snowstorm in the Big Bend region of West Texas. This arid desert sees more rain than most would believe, but the inclusion of deep snow was a surprise to most people.

To be sure I wasn’t getting into that weird world of reader volatility about reality––

“Cars always blow up when you shoot them! Don’t you watch movies?”

“You dumb writer. There’s no thumb safety on a Glock!”

“Can’t you read a map? Elm Street in downtown Dallas is one way going west!!!”

 –––I contacted local Channel 5 weatherman David Finfrock to see if he could explain how such a storm could arrive in that part of the Lone Star State. He graciously invited me to his home and we sat down with paper maps so he could show me how the elements of such a storm could come together.

I outlined the snow storm exactly that way in the book and caught grief from a number of readers who swore there had never been a two-foot snow in Alpine or Marfa, the two towns I combined into Ballard for the novel. The record was 19” back in 1946.

In 2021 and again in 2023, snow fell to startling depths that drifted more than two feet in many places, shutting down that entire part of the country. I was vindicated.

My most recent novel, Hard Country, is a contemporary western featuring Brand Inspector Tucker Snow and his brother, Harley. They work together to take down a meth dealer in rural Northeast Texas, and in the course of the story, Tucker’s late-model Dodge dually is stolen.

They get it back, and Tuck drives it to retired friend west of Fort Worth to see if he can download any data from the pick-up’s computer. The wizard of a mechanic plugs a device into the Dodge and downloads tons of data. They find that the thief linked his iPhone to the vehicle’s blue-tooth, wanting to hear some bad-boy music while he drove. That personal info helped unravel the meth dealer’s world.

This is an excerpt from the novel:

Don pointed at the computer screen. “Everything about Tuck that he didn’t know was downloaded on the truck’s computer. Look here. There are two levels to what I’m looking for. These are places you’ve been. The GPS keeps track of everywhere you drove.”

I didn’t like that one bit. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. The black box in there’s been tracking you since the day you drove off the lot. Here are the speeds you ran from Point A to Point B. They say it only records and holds the info for a short while, but it’s a lie.”

Harley chewed his bottom lip. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since 1994. It started out innocent enough, like everything else the government does, but then they started adding stuff on. The data was used to track how cars performed in crashes, but then they went off the rails with it. They’ll tell you it doesn’t track where you’re going, or record audio and video, but they’re lying through their teeth.

“Now they’re into data mining. Right now there are over seventy-eight million cars on the road with these recording devices. I ’magine ninety-eight percent of the cars sold will be tracking their owners within the next ten years, and probably doing more than that.

“That’s where the technology gets out of hand. More recent vehicles record your habits, where you go, and when. Here’s one I don’t like.” He paused the scrolling screen and pointed with the cursor. “Cameras in cars now track your eyes when you’re driving to see whether you’re watching the road, and not your phone or any other distractions. They do it in the name of safety, but I don’t believe that for one minute.

“What I’m looking for is even deeper, and more disturbing. They’re downloading your taste in music, or your voice commands. They search your history, looking at apps such as Waze, Apple CarPlay, Pandora, or Music Box…which is where I am now. You like big band music, huh?”

I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I do like big band music and only listen to it when I’m in the truck by myself, but the idea of the car recording my listening habits was uncomfortable, to say the least.

“Folks are driving giant smartphones these days. The minute you pair your cell phone with the truck, either by Bluetooth or through a USB port, they tap into everything with personal data, anticipate your needs, and even log into apps that have credit card information and who has access to all that info that shouldn’t be out there.”

He poised and glanced over his shoulder at me. “I can find your credit card numbers if you want, ’cause I bet you’ve ordered stuff through your phone. Boys, you’re watched twenty-four seven. Big Brother is here and people feed him info every day without a shrug or a raised eyebrow. Give me an old ’56 Dodge truck any time.”

There’s more, but you get the picture. People said I was making all this up, but I first heard about it on the Ed Wallace radio show in Dallas. From there I did some digging, and uncovered the actual information above, and then some.

I was once again vindicated by a recent CBS 12 News Now report that featured Jen Caltrider, Director of Mozilla’s “Privacy not Included, who said, “Data is money these days and cars have the ability to collect so much of it, maybe more than any other device including phones.”

This data that is sold to third parties with deep pockets and is also shared with the U.S. Government. The personal information comes from devices within late model cars they investigated (such as Mercedes, Nissan and Ford), utilizing cameras, microphones, and censors. Some of the shared or sold data they reported in the news story includes medical information, buying info, and get this, your sex life.

Hummm…

According to this report, cars collect more of your data than even your phone, and I suspect that includes your Alexa, Dot or whatever smart device is listening in your home. I know that’s true, because one day in the living room a couple of years ago the Bride and I were talking about old school paint by number sets and one I did with my mom back in the early 1960s. That afternoon, an ad popped up on one of my social media platforms for…wait for it…paint by number sets.

Can you imagine the incredible odds of that being a coincidence?

Think of the line in the 1984 hit by Rockwell, “I always feel like somebody’s watching me.”

So do your research, suffer the slings and arrows of disbelievers, and don’t believe there’s anything left to make up. Now, get back to writing.

Hard Country. “An action fan’s dream. Non-stop excitement. Wonderful characters. A terrific locale. And a startling bulletin about how your car is watching you.”—David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of First Blood

I’m one of those people who has written just about anything. Novels, short stories, screenplays, magazine articles, newspaper columns, pyramid style newspaper articles, news releases, and so on.

The one thing I can’t write is a song.

It won’t come. I can’t do it. I sit down with an idea and nothing works. I’m sure it’s partially because I’m trying to include too much information. Good songs are tight, brief, and have an impact.

Before I continue, let’s be clear I’m not talking about bubble gum pop rock lyrics, (baby oh baby hey baby baby humm), or this new so-called country music that’s simply repetition and tailgates, trucks, and partying in a field.

I’m talking about songs that tell a story. That’s what we do, right? Writers want to tell a story, whether it’s a novel, or shorter as a novella, or the traditional short story. This morning I woke up to a new, rain-washed world of clean, cool air and for some reason The Wabash Cannonball came into my head.

This narrative was originally written sometime in the 1880s and is sweeping in scope.

From the great Atlantic ocean
To the wide Pacific shore
To the queen of flowing mountains
For the hills and by the shore
She’s mighty tall and handsome
And she’s known quite well by all
She came down from Birmingham on the Wabash Cannonball

Well now listen to the jingle
To the rumble and the roar
As she glides along the woodland
Through the hills and by the shore
Hear the mighty rush of the engine
And the lonesome hoboes call
No changes can be taken
On the Wabash Cannonball.

Now here’s to daddy Claxton
May his name forever stand
He’ll always be remembered
In the ports throughout the land
His earthly race is over
And the curtain round him falls
We’ll carry him home to Glory
On the Wabash Cannonball                           Copyright A.P. Carter

Here’s a link to the Roy Acuff version written long ago. The quality has issues, but the story is there.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i435ovKX9aE

This song (I didn’t include the two reprises at the end) tells a story about Daddy Claxton, an engineer, but it’s also filled with descriptions that put the reader in that place, something we all seek do in our writing. Sight, sound, and though the original writer A.P. Carter never mentions the sense of smell, the writing brings smoke, clear mountain air, and the humid odor of any coast in this land.

Another song I use when I’m teaching comes from the late, great Charlie Robison, who recorded The Lights of Loving County, a condensed novel. It’s the age-old story of betrayal, and ultimate justice. I wish I’d written this perfect story complete with a riveting plot, descriptions of our desolate West Texas, and an excellent twist. Loving County is the most sparsely populated county in the country.

Well, I loved a girl
She lived out in Pecos, and pretty as she could be.
And I worked the rigs on out in Odessa
To give her whatever she needs.

But that girl, she run with an oil company bum
‘Cause the diamond was not on her hand.
And he left her soon ‘neath the big loving moon
To go out and X-ray the land.

Now I sit in my car at the New Rainbow Bar downtown,
And the frost on the windshield shines toward the sky
Like a thousand tiny diamonds in the lights of loving county.

Well, l walked in that bar and I drank myself crazy
Thinking about her and that man.
When in walked a woman, looking richer than sin
With ten years worth of work on her hand.

Well, I followed her home and when she was alone
Well, I put my gun to her head,
And I don’t recall what happened next at all
But now that rich woman, she is dead.

Now I drive down the highway
Ten miles from my sweet baby’s arms.
And the moon is so bright it don’t look like night
And the diamond how it sparkles in the lights of Loving County.

But she opened that door and I knelt on the floor
And I put that ring in her hand.
Then she said, “I do” and she’d leave with me soon
To the rigs out in South Alabam’.

Well, I told her to hide that ring there inside
And wait ’til the timing was good,
And I drove back home and I was alone
‘Cause I thought that she understood.

The next night an old friend just called me to wish us both well,
He said, he’d seen her downtown, sashaying around
And her diamond how it sparkled in the lights of Loving County.

Well that sheriff, he found me out wandering
All around El Paso the very next day.
You see, I’d lost my mind on that broken white line
Before I even reached Balmorhea.

Well, now she’s in Fort Worth and she’s just giving birth
To the son of that oil company man.
And they buried that poor old sheriff’s dead wife
With the ring that I stole on her hand.

And sometimes they let me look up at that East Texas sky.
And the rain on the pines, oh Lord, how it shines,
Like my darling’s little diamond in the lights of Loving County.

Copyright, Charlie Robison

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uewrSagO-r4

Studying the lyrics of songs is an excellent exercise in creative writing. These artists have distilled the essence of a story into wonderfully crafted bites. Last night the Bride and I fired up our new old-school Marantz stereo and Craig turntable. We’ve returned to our analog roots and listened to old vinyl for hours and absorbed a heartfelt world of music about life, survival, hearbreak, and real country.

The following lines and brief verses are wonderful, descriptive images for the listener.

You don’t know lonely ’til it’s chiseled in stone. Vern Gosden, Chiseled in Stone

She wore red dresses with her black shining hair,
Oh, she had my baby, and caused me to care.
Then coldly she left me to suffer and cry.
She wore red dresses and told such sweet lies.
Dwight Yoakum, She Wore Red Dresses

There’s a burning question afire in my mind, you always had the answers to the ones I couldn’t find.  Clint Black and Hayden Nicholas, Where Are You Now

Seeking relief from your memories, I’ve almost Jack Daniels drowned.  Ronnie Reynolds and Linda Craig. Recorded by John Anderson, Almost Jack Daniels Drowned.

As I write today, I hope such sentences come to mind, because these are the things that stick with readers.

It’s frustrating that I can’t write songs, but I’m eternally grateful others can.

A gentleman I’ve known for years came up to me at an event a few days ago. “I hear you have a new book out.”

“I do. It released last month.”

“I hope it does well.”

“You and me both, brother.”

“You need to write a book about my Uncle Fred. I told you about him the last time I saw you.” (He did, and to excess). “He’s a character. There’s a whole book in that guy.”

No, there’s not!

My eyes glazed over as he related an event in which his uncle cracked a funny decades ago. When he finished about six hours later and cackled like a loon at the recollection, I managed a friendly grin. “Why don’t you write it?”

“I’m no author. I can sure tell you some great stories about him, though. It’d be a great book.”

No, it won’t.

“A good book needs a lot of things besides a character, like a plot for instance. That’d be a good start, but jot a few things down and maybe it’ll turn into the start of a novel for you.”

He slapped me on the arm. “You bring your pad and a pen the next time and I’ll tell you all the crazy things he’s done.”

I had to speak around a frozen grin. “I bet he’s still doing them.”

“You bet he is! You meet this guy, and you’ll want to write about him!”

Nope.

*

An elderly relative sat down beside me at a family gathering. “I’ve written a book about my life.”

“Good for you!”

“It needs work, though.”

“All first drafts need work. How many words is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s sixty pages, though.”

I forced my eyes not to glaze as the elderly woman told me about how her husband had “gone crazy” and eventually joined a cult. “He tried to kill me several times.”

I’m considering it myself!!!

Instead, I continued to listen as she dug around in the images on her phone. “Here’s a picture of one of the pages. You want to read this?”

You shot photos of your work!!!???

“I’d like you to read my book and help me make it interesting. There’s lot of folks from this town in it, too. It’s the kind of book that’ll help others.”

Good lord! That entire page is one long paragraph and my brain’ll leak out my ears if I try to…

“I’d be careful about naming names.”

“Well, it’s a biography. I can tell the truth. Tell your agent to call me.”

“No, but good luck.”

*

“Let me tell you some stories about my family and you write it down and we’ll split the money.”

“No thanks.”

*

“My whole life has been full of ups and downs. Would you write it for me?”

“No.”

*

“Would you read my manuscript and…”

“No.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m the boogyman all right.”

*

I’m sure every author has endured similar conversations and requests, or been approached with similar propositions, or someone did their best to get them to write their life story. The truth is, these stories might be interesting because they know the people, or have lived the story, but they don’t have what it takes to become a novel that will interest an agent, editor, or readers.

It’s not right. It’s not wrong. It just is.

*

I bet I’m not the only one who’s been approached like this, but that’s okay. It’s an honor that folks like my writing and want me to tell their stories, except I can’t.

How ‘bout y’all?

During a recent book talk, a lady raised her hand. “How long does it take to write a novel?”

Oh boy! I got to use my high school freshman teacher’s taunting question right back at her. “How long is a piece of string?”

She frowned, as did almost everyone in the audience. And like Miss Adams, I had to explain. “My piece of string isn’t the same as yours, or hers, or his. They’re all different.”

“What does that have to do with my question?”

“My first novel took years. I wrote it whenever I had a few minutes, and I’d be willing to bet that most authors will have a similar story. Few of us were able to sit down and hammer out our first book out without stopping.

“Then I finished the novel and lost it in an electronic hiccup. Starting over, it only took three or four years after that to write it from memory. Then I carried it around, polishing here, tweaking there, telling everyone I’d written a novel and basking in the glory of having finished it.

“The truth is, I was still tweaking it even after finding an agent. While she shopped it around, I polished it some more, because I’d read that you have to make the stinkin’ thing shine.”

Nods all around.

“So if you’re asking how long that particular manuscript was under construction, I’ll have to say about ten years.”

Her eyes widened and I nodded knowingly, because I came through the other side.

But here’s the fun part for the rest of you to ponder. After it was accepted for publication, I kinda lounged around, being an author in my mind. About ten days after it hit the shelves, my editor reached out. “You got great reviews! When do I get to see pages for the next one?”

“Huh?”

“Your next book comes out in about a year. We already have it on the schedule.”

Wait, what? They have another book scheduled and I haven’t even started it yet? What the hell!!!???

I didn’t have a ghost of an idea for another book and my publisher wanted a finished manuscript to follow the first novel. Stunned, we hung up and I sat at my desk and looked around. What am I gonna do? I’m already a failure.

Then I remembered a novella I’d worked on through the years. Would that work?

I dug the pages from our file cabinet and read them. Yep, I could change the name here, add a character here, throw in the two now-eleven-year-old kids Top and Pepper. Cool! I have a jump on the next book! I can change the location and set the whole thing in my fictional town of Chisum, which I’d modeled on Paris, Texas.

I looked at the word count. I looked at the calendar. I looked out the window and examined my fingernails. Then I went to work.

Burrows, that piece of string, came in at 90,000 words and was finished in six months.

The woman at the book signing was giving me the Hairy Eyeball as I rambled on. “In my case, once I finished the second, I got into a rhythm. I shot for five pages a day, which seems like a lot, but by then I’d retired from a long career in education and was dedicating all my time to writing.

“Some folks’ piece of string is only a page a day. Others might be a thousand words, and I’ve heard of authors who hit their personally established word count and stop in mid-sentence so as not to burn their candle too fast.”

I learned, and now with several different series in the queue, I’ve gotten faster.

One novel birthed in a dream wrapped in six weeks.

I just finished a traditional western that took three months.

I’m working on another traditional western that I believe will wrap in eight weeks. I’ve been averaging four to five thousand words a day on that WIP, on these days I can invest the time. Other days come in at two thousand words. I’ve cracked 30,000 words on that one, and in my mind, I’m almost on the downhill side.

So how long does it take to write a novel?

I don’t know.

Looking online at “master” classes, or dozens of articles, you’ll see different lengths of string. One self-publishing site states with authority that you need eight months to write 80,000 words.

Another says your first draft should only take three months.

The truth is, your piece of string is different. Screw what everyone else says. It’s your work, and your own pace.

J.K. Rowling took six years to write the first Harry Potter.

It took Stephen King “several years” to finish Carrie, and then he worked on The Stand for two years.

Don’t let arbitrary deadlines or timelines to drive your work. Write when you can, as much as is comfortable and still keep the juices flowing. But make no mistake, speed, or the lack thereof, isn’t important. It’s the quality of work that makes a novel readable, and successful.

Write on!

It’s signing season again for me with the release of Hard Country, my first novel in the Tucker Snow series. For an author, this is the time to emerge from the writing cave and look real people in the eye. For some, it’s frightening. For an old classroom teacher and public speaker like me, it’s an opportunity to interact with fans, and I love it.

At my last signing in Northeast Texas, I was approached by a woman somewhere in (I estimate) in her thirties. Her brown hair was cut short, and she had a studious look about her. “Can I talk to you when you’re finished?”

“Sure.” I scribbled my signature on her book and she took a nearby seat to watch as a long line of fans worked their way down the table. A friend who is a retired librarian helped with the books, opening them to the proper page and making sure folks wrote their name on a note so I wouldn’t misspell them.

My events are relaxed, and I spend a lot of time with those who want to talk as I’m signing, so that patient lady sat there for half an hour. Finally it was just her, Librarian, and myself. The room quieted and she pulled her chair closer.

Putting the cap on my pen, I didn’t ask her name, and she didn’t offer it. I leaned back, expecting to hear about her novel under construction. “I bet you’re a writer.”

She looked sheepish and adjusted the dark-rimmed glasses on her nose. “Trying. I’m not published, but I’m in a writing group and I read a lot.” She held up my book. “I’ve been looking forward to your new series. I love world building.”

“How far are you in your manuscript?”

“About thirty thousand words.” She grinned. “Good words, too, all lined up in the right order and everything, but I’ve hit a roadblock.”

“What is it?” I hoped she wouldn’t say she had writers block.

“Well, I’m in a writing group which has helped me a lot. We meet once a month and share what we’ve written. They’ve made some good points and I’ve listened to their suggestions, but I have re-written pages for so long that I’m kind of lost.”

“Write your book.”

She looked startled. “I am.”

“No.” This is where I’ll make some folks upset, but it’s something, I’ve seen over and over. “You’re in a loop, and listening to others instead of plowing ahead with your manuscript. I get that writers groups are beneficial. It’s a great support system. It’s great to talk with others who understand, too, and to get feedback for a while. Keep going every month and maintain that interest that keeps the fires burning, but get your book written and don’t stop until you type, The End.”

“But they’ve had good ideas.”

“I’m sure they have. How many are published?”

“None. They’re good writers.”

“I’m sure they are. Write your book.”

Librarian gave me the eye and I backed off.

The lady leaned forward. “There’s another thing. It’s the big block I was talking about and I’m really worried.”

“What’s that? Writer’s block?”

“No,” She looked uncomfortable. “It’s come up…”

“In your writers group.”

“Yes.” She tilted her head and looked at me like a puppy trying to make sense of the English language. “See, my book is set in the southern Oklahoma territories over a hundred years ago and my protagonist is someone related to me that I heard about when I was little. She was Choctaw. I have other characters that are like me.”

I knew where she was going, but made her say it. “And that is?”

“My group says I’ll get in trouble for cultural appropriation, but it’s historical fiction based on what my grandmother told me, and the research I’ve done.”

“Was she Indian?”

“Cherokee.”

“Is it about your grandmother and what she told your? Someone you knew?”

“Partially.”

“Write your book.”

“But I might get in trouble, writing characters who don’t look like me.”

“You won’t until you write your book.”

“But…”

“I assume you have a large cast of characters, so write about them all. This is a diverse world, and use that to be accurate. Tell a story that’s faithful to the time and write the truth. Use all the honesty you can and don’t worry about what others might say. Concern yourself with what you’re saying in this world you’re building.”

She looked so relieved I thought she was going to cry. “So it’s okay to have characters that aren’t like me.”

“In my opinion, yes. Do your research. You’re using different historical characters who were there, and you’re including them to heighten the richness of the story, so just write your book.”

“You keep saying that. So don’t be afraid.”

“Write the truth.”

“I think I can get back to work now.”

“Go put words on paper and don’t worry about what others might say. We’re artists and our fiction comes from all those around us. Concentrate on what you’re saying and you’ll be just fine. Carry the weight of writing, not the burden of what a very few others might say against your dream.”

She used both hands to shake mine. “Thank you.”

I wasn’t through. “If you have something to say, say it.”

She nodded, and left.

The Librarian gave me a funny look when the lady was gone. “You were kinda harsh there, bud.”

“The truth is sometimes harsh, but she’ll never get it written until she gets back to work.”

That goes for everyone else, too.

I was a voracious reader as a kid, and read well beyond my grade level. When other kids were reading the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Half-Magic, and Pirates Promise, I picked up To Kill a Mockingbird, Tom Sawyer, and believe it or not, The Dirty Dozen.

Because of my reading habits, I’d already blasted through such novels as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Lord of the Flies, Farenheit 451, and Death of a Salesman well before some of those were assigned in English class. One I couldn’t stand was The Great Gatsby, and still didn’t like it upon re-reading the novel last year.

Not too long ago I started thinking of those classics I’d read as a kid and decided it was time to revisit those novels. Now that I’m pushing 70, I wanted to see how those novels apply these days after a lifetime of experiences, and it was fascinating.

I started with Steinbeck, and the first novel I ever read by this Nobel Prize winning author was Travels With Charley, and that was somewhere around age fourteen. It sparked an interest in U.S. travel that has continued to this day. Then I went back and read Of Mice and Men and by the time I was in high school, The Grapes of Wrath, all before my senior year.

The Bride and I were in Palm Springs a couple of months ago and I ran across that title in an antique store. See, there’s that travel thing and I coughed up five dollars for the well-thumbed paperback reprint circa 1969. Book deadlines left it in my travel bag until last week.

I just finished it yesterday, and was surprised how well it held up. Those who know me understand my fascination with the Dust Bowl, so much that my novel last year entitled The Texas Job was set in the Great Depression. Maybe it’s because of the stories I heard from my family members who survived on scratch farms during that time.

To me, Grapes of Wrath is haunting and somewhat of a minor horror novel, based on what the Joad family endured on their way out to the promised land that proved to be something entirely different. I’d forgotten Steinbeck’s writing style that I feel might have sparked my own, though I don’t always write in third person. He switches back from third, to social commentary in alternating chapters that is unique to this author.

He wrote of the people I grew up with, and his dialogue and descriptions are as comfortable as an old shoe. He used words like “strowed,” and “pone,” and “flour and lard,” and phrases like, “the men squatted on their hams,” and “we got to make miles,” and “she looked down at her hands tight-locked in her lap.” It felt like I was hearing the old folks talking again.

I’d also forgotten that his book was banned after its release back in 1939, because critics said it promoted organized labor, extramarital sex, and violence. Still, to this day, it continues to be a source of controversy for some of those reasons listed above. Reading it today, this novel about as harsh as watching an episode of Law and Order.

Next in line for me is Of Mice and Men, then on to either On The Road, or Lord of the Flies, all read over fifty years ago.

Which classics do you need to re-read, and which ones impacted you?

Sometimes we don’t have to use all the words we know. You can convey entire stories full of feeling with just a few sentences. Today’s blog post:

Our little Shih Tzu, Willie, now sleeps in the garden. As I work, the house is silent, save for the ticking of the clock.

I’m up against a looming deadline and am living on coffee and burritos, so today’s post is a cheat because it originally appeared on the online version of Stand Magazine in a different form.

My works are always set in small-town Texas. Though I live near the DFW metroplex, I’m no fan of cities, and only a couple of chapters in a twelve-year career as a novelist have occurred in those canyons of concrete and steel.

Maybe that’s because my roots run deep in rural Northeast Texas, and it all stems from deep ancestral family anchors and my maternal grandfather who was a farmer and constable in Lamar County from the 1940s through the mid-1980s. I mine these stories and memories from long ago, because he made a statement when I was ten that I’ve never forgotten.

We were in his old farm truck, heading toward one of the two general stores in Chicota to pick up a loaf of Ideal bread, and Dr Peppers. In warm weather, he drove with his left elbow hanging out the open window. Always in faded blue overalls, light blue shirt washed so often it was soft as a baby’s bottom, and wearing his ever-present LBJ hat, he threw a glance at an unpainted farmhouse sagging under the weight of past years.

“Another one of my old uncles lived there when I was a kid. It won’t be standing much longer. He was in the pen once, but got out and married and then that ol’ gal up and run off on him and he just withered away.”

He considered his statement for a moment. “You know, son, small towns are like ponds. Up on the surface there’s not much to see, but underneath, there’s a world of life and death going on.”

Those two sentences stuck, and have been the basis for much of my mystery and thriller writing career.

Back in the 1960s where my Red River series is set, there were few secrets in our community. Throw in the fact that we were all related in some way, news traveled fast over party lines. It just occurred to me that I had nearly a hundred relatives living close to both sets of grandparents in a two-mile square, including third and fourth cousins with a couple of double-cousins thrown in for good measure.

In the country there’s always someone watching out the window, and despite today’s social media platforms, the ol’ grapevine still exists and the uninformed are surprised to find that folks living in rural areas have very little privacy in a general sense.

Small town folks know all about each other, and what they’ve done, good or bad, just as my running buddy John Gilstrap postulated in a post earlier this month.

For example, when I was a kid here was one instance when a strange Cadillac pulled up to a relative’s farmhouse looking for directions (decades before GPS) and soon the community buzzed that “someone” was visiting the Widow Davis.

It took a while for that bit of excitement to run its course, and Widow Davis in her late eighties was tickled pink to find out people were talking about her interest in something other than watching the daily stories (soap operas) on the one channel she received on her portable black and white television.

I guess the main reason I still visit these small towns in print, or in person, is because it reminds me of a simpler time. In fact, I based a novel on a 1960s mafia hitman from Las Vegas who wanted to escape his criminal life and start anew with his new girlfriend in the fictional Northeast Texas community of Center Springs.

But you can’t hide in a small town, and especially a smaller rural community. People know the minute you get there, and the ensuing plot of that novel rests firmly upon that misconception.

After another novel came out, one of my oldest aunts called me from her assisted living quarters, mad as an old wet hen. She launched into me the moment I answered. “Reavis Zane, I have a crow to pick with you!”

Where I come from, you’re in serious trouble when an older female relative begins a conversation with your first and middle names. I immediately felt like an adolescent boy again. “Aunt Irene, I’m sorry I haven’t called you in a while…”

“It’s not that. I’m talking about that new book of yours that I just read. Young man, you shouldn’t be telling family secrets!”

“I haven’t…”

“You did! You wrote about Leroy and Lizzie running off together and leaving their husband and wife.”

“No, I made that whole thing up. Those are fictional characters and… wait, what? I didn’t know that. Uncle Leroy and Aunt Lizzie were married to someone else before? Who were they married to?”

She grew quiet on the other end of the line and then snapped at me. “Well, those are family secrets and I’m not gonna talk about that!”

And she hung up on me.

Thinking back, a large number of successful authors set their plots in small towns and pastoral communities. Maybe that’s what I look for, a sense of quiet desperation, limited numbers of characters, and the skeletons that seem to accumulate in all our closets.

So if you move to a small town to escape the busy city and some crime real or imagined, visualize a pool, which is where livestock gets water in Northeast Texas, (it’s a pond in East Texas, and a tank in central and west parts of the Lone Star State). Whatever you call it, remember the surface is peaceful and calm as dragonflies circle and birds flit over.

But underneath, where you can’t see, there’s a world of life and death going on, and you’ll likely be shocked at what you find under there.

I have a love/hate relationship with copy editors. They don’t know that.

We need them. Lordy how I need them, because no matter how many times the Bride and I read a manuscript, we miss something, and this current work in progress is no different. I thought I’d turned in clean pages, and once again a detail-oriented individual found errors that I’d missed.

One thing I hated as a high school student was to see all those red marks on an assignment. I’d worked so hard to provide what my English teachers required, remembering all the rules of grammar, and the vocabulary necessary to tell a good story.

But when they were returned, passed back down over disinterested shoulders to my seat against the wall, those corrections and questions sent a flush of anger through my body and it was all I could do not to rush up to her desk and point out everything she’d highlighted that was wrong…

…in my opinion.

Today I still feel that same flush at the notes on the right hand side of the screen, but choke it down because they’re usually right.

Usually, I said.

A few years ago a side note in the page proofs raised my ire. The editor questioned the spelling of a pistol carried by one of my characters. The note read, There is no hyphen in a Taurus Ultra-Lite.

In my mind, I called up this individual. “But you’re wrong! There is a hyphen.”

“No there isn’t. I looked it up online.”

“Well, you looked it up wrong, because the pistol I have here in my hand has a Taurus Ultra-Lite stamped into the frame.”

“You have a pistol!!!???”

It really didn’t go down exactly that way, but I do own a Taurus Ultra-Lite (a terrible revolver in my opinion and I wish I hadn’t bought it), and those words and that hyphen really are stamped into the frame, justifying my use of that weapon.

Another copy editor once pointed out to me that my use of “booger-bear” was wrong in a Red River manuscript. Now, I grew up in fear of booger-bears in the night, and often pictured them as a child-chomping monster resembling the Creature From the Black Lagoon, but with longer teeth and claws and red eyes that glowed in the darkness.

Brrrr.

When I read that side note, I laughed out loud.

“According to the Urban Dictionary, a booger-bear is a woman of loose morals.”

A river of comments rushed through my brain, but I resisted. However, I wanted to write back, “Never use the Urban Dictionary to confirm anything I include about rural America.”

These days I include a note to the copy editor which reads:

“Please do not edit the spelling or use of words in my dialogue, nor should you edit for proper grammar inside quotation marks. This dialogue is regional, and therefore written the way us Texans use those words and phrases.”

Booger-bear.

I also do not care about the current grammatical rules that insist on creating these odd-looking names such as Cross’s, Williams’s, or any other possessive. I’m old, and the AP Press Style book says the correct way to write the possessive case of Reavis is Reavis’, not Reavis’s. Reavis’ work will always read as such.

Please do not attempt to correct guns or calibers. If you don’t know that a .410 shotgun is a caliber, then stay out of this discussion.

That really isn’t one of my notes, but I’d like it to be, along with the following:

No, there is not town in Texas called Nashville. I know it’s in Tennessee, and I’ve been there in a fruitless search for real country music. I made it up because I write fiction. If I intend to use a real name, all I have to do is grab one out of the air, because I can’t seem to make up a town name that hasn’t already been used. I wanted to use Hogansville as an example, but when I checked, there really is a Hogansville, TX.

But I don’t hammer them, because these fine editors are simply doing their job to keep me honest, and to ensure that when my book hits the shelves it will contain as few mistakes as possible. Copy editors are essential and they give that final polish to a book.

Don’t be too hard on them.

On another note: Sourcebooks and Goodreads are giving away 25 copies of Hard Country, my first novel in the contemporary Tucker Snow series that will release August 1, 2023. The contest runs from July 8-27th. Follow the link below to enter, and good luck!

Oh, and feel free to pre-order your copy from your favorite online dealer.

https://srcbks.com/44dWkQ0

Back in the early 1980s, I taught school under my good friend Curtis, who was then an Assistant Principal. Like me, he absorbed books by the dozens, and we spent hours discussing authors, books, and writing.

He knew I had dreams of getting published some day, and often encouraged me to finish a manuscript. Just one manuscript. “Finish the stinkin’ thing!”

We all know how that goes, but I started and abandoned a dozen ideas hammered out on an IBM Selectric typewriter. One manuscript even grew to seventy-five pages, and when I look back at it today (it’s still in the bottom drawer of my desk), I know why it died.

Years passed, and one day I got a newspaper column published and eventually self-syndicated those writings while his own career advanced.

He took a position as high school principal in one district, then assistant superintendent in another, and finally became superintendent of a small East Texas town before eventually coming back to Garland, Texas, the tenth largest district in the state.

I remained in Garland and had moved up as the assistant director of Communications and Public Relations. I was the guy on the front lines when things went wrong, and was the spokesperson for the district.

After I found myself again working under Curtis, we picked up where we left off and continued our talks about books and writing.

More than one lunch flew by as those conversations became more intense and in my case, somehow desperate. “I just want to get a book published. Just one.”

“You will.”

“It hasn’t happened yet. Look at us, were getting older by the minute and you’re getting gray headed.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Once, but there was some old guy there. Look, I think I’m missing out. Some day you and I’ll be in rocking chairs on the front porch, still talking about the works of other people. Then we’ll be gone and those books will still be on the shelves, maybe for generations. That’s what I want. A book on a shelf to tell a story, and to let people know I was here.”

“Don’t give up, then.”

“I never said I was giving up.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Shut up and pay the bill, boss.”

“You shut up and write.”

So I did. In 2011, my first novel was published, and in the ensuing years, there are more than a dozen on those shelves, with many more already written (waiting their turn to hit the shelves in the coming months and years), and right this minute, others contracted by two different publishers.

We’re both retired now and get together every couple of months. Curtis and I met for breakfast the other day and he grinned across the table, holding my book bearing the newest title which I signed to him. “Just one book, huh?”

“Yeah, and I made it.”

He sipped his coffee amid the smells of frying bacon and onions. He eyed me. “Now what?”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

I took a swallow from my mug. “I’ve been offered to ghost write a couple of novels.”

His eyebrow arched and he pushed his empty plate to the side. “You want to publish under another guy’s name?”

“No. I want the money that comes from publishing under another guy’s name.”

I outlined the deal and an unusual offer that would bring in even more than simple contract work.

He shook his head. “But your name wouldn’t be anywhere in those pages.”

“No.”

“You have a distinctive writing style. People will figure it out.”

“Maybe, but that’s not the point.”

“Aren’t you already writing under your real name for them?”

“Sure, but this is extra and those kinds of books just roll off without taking up too much time. I can write them, and still produce my Red River series, along with the new Cap Whitlatch westerns.”

“How many books a year is that?”

I sighed. “Three. Maybe four.”

“And how many standalone novels are you hammering out.”

“Two.”

“You can’t do it. You don’t have the time.”

“We’ll find out.”

He grinned down into his coffee. “And I remember when your dream was a single book on a shelf. Now you have a second career. I guess you need to get after that keyboard.”

So I’ve agreed to ghost write. I know half a dozen authors who’ve done the same thing. One is so prolific I was stunned by the number, and laughed aloud when he told me the names he wrote under. It’s been a great living for him, and he doesn’t care that his name is on just a few of them.

I look at the shelf to my left and my books under Reavis Z. Wortham take up most of the space. I have my wish, with many more to come.

But there’s the carrot out there that will swell my bank account.

Is that why we write?

Money?

Or is something else?