by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Apropos of our discussion on Artificial Intelligence last week—and the horrifying prospect of millions of books being produced (not written) every year (one indie “writer” has declared he is going to produce ten books a month)—I thought I’d say a word on behalf of humanity. Goodness knows we need it.

I decided to corner the machine with a question. I asked ChatGPT itself if there was any room left for flesh-and-blood scribblers. It answered, in part,

AI can generate text based on patterns and data it has been trained on, but true creativity and originality often stem from human imagination, emotions, and experiences. Human writers bring a unique perspective and the ability to create innovative narratives that AI may struggle to replicate.

Fiction writing often involves exploring complex emotions and human experiences. While AI can analyze and mimic emotions to some extent, it may not fully comprehend the depth and nuances of human emotions in the same way as a human writer does. Emotional intelligence and empathy are vital components of storytelling that are challenging for AI to replicate convincingly.

Emotional intelligence and empathy. In other words, heart.

We gotta have it. It’s the thing that distinguishes us from the machines. And if we want to keep selling fiction, we need to get heart onto the page.

That’s because discoverability is a challenge with a “tsunami” of competent fiction deluging the Amazon shores. Some of that challenge is overstated. We’ve had 15 years of competent and mediocre ebooks, and it’s not volume that sells over time, or gives an algorithmic boost to a backlist. Reader reviews do much of the curation and the best books rise to the top (not always, as we know, but the odds are better with superb book after superb book).

Now, of course, the tsunami is exponentially bigger and more terrifying.

Or maybe it’s more like Sharknado!

What is the answer? Simply this: we have to put into our books what the machines cannot replicate. And the most important thing they cannot replicate is you. Your heart, your soul, your vision, pressed through the craft you diligently study and apply.

Robert Frost famously said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” Meaning you’ve got to feel before you write.

You’ve got to write like you’re in love. Later, you can edit like you’re in charge.

Love, say the poets, is a kind of ecstasy that overwhelms. Even elementary school kids have ideas about love. Some time ago a teacher asked her class to define love. A few of the answers:

“Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they get to know each other.”

“When somebody loves you, the way they say your name is different.”

“Love makes you smile when you’re tired.”

“You really shouldn’t say ‘I love you’ unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot.”

Tommy, age 6, nailed it: “Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving lotion and they smell each other.”

So, to love your book, smell it! By that I mean, don’t forget the sense of smell, as Steve recently discussed. But not just the obvious smell. Find something unique. Unique is what the machines don’t find. Yet.

Want to see what I mean? Look no further than the great Raymond Chandler in The Little Sister:

She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.

No machine’s going to come up with that! Because it’s not rational, and it’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be felt.

Same with emotions. The machine will give you the obvious choices. Say your character is in a dark alley and hears footsteps. What emotion? Fear pops immediately to mind.

But that’s predictable. Instead, human, go deeper. In his book The Emotional Craft of Fiction, Donald Maass says to pursue “third-level” emotions. What this means is, you think of the obvious emotion the character would feel in a situation. But then ask, What else would the character feel? And ask once more, What else? That’s the third level, the one that is surprising, which a reader experiences as delight.

An exercise I love is the page-long sentence. I choose a moment in my story where the character is feeling deeply. I stop and open up a fresh doc and write a sentence of 200-300 words, no stopping, in the character’s voice, talking about all the permutations of the feeling, going on tangents, coming up with metaphors, not pausing to edit. Once you get going, your Boys in the Basemet will send up things you didn’t know were there, and you’ll get at least one gem to polish and put in your text.

Your heart is doing an end run around your conscious and cliché-steeped mind.

So let the machines churn their mediocre-if-competent product. Make yours unforgettable. The secret ingredient is heart.

Speaking of which, I put a lot of my heart into a crazy book called Some People Are Dead: Part Essay, Part Memoir, Parts Unknown. These are short riffs on subjects—including my own life story—that arose randomly as I considered the obituaries of famous and not-so-famous people. These can be read as five-minute escapes from the world whenever such is needed (like, every day). The Kindle version is free for five days. Enjoy!

Over to you now. How do you get your heart into your pages?

We might as well end with the hit song from the musical Damn Yankees. In the song, heart is about grit, something else writers need in abundance, now more than ever:

Time is our most precious commodity. Regardless of inequities in life, each day we have equality—exactly the same amount of time allotted to all. 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds.

In many ways, it’s not about the amount of time we have. It’s how we use our time. Time being the ultimate tool; a finite and non-renewable resource.

I’m short of time today (so to speak). I have little time to deliver a meaningful piece, and by meaningful, I mean something of value that folks following The Kill Zone can take away. So, I’m writing a short, meaningful piece about time value.

I’m short of time because I’ve created a writing monster that’s frothed like a sack of Mentos dunked into a Diet Coke vat. I’m enjoying the fizz but, man, is it ever sucking time. There’s no foreseeable end in sight.

So, I’m tapping an article I recently read on The Free Press (Bari Weiss—hate her or love her). It was titled The Time Billionaires and went like this:

A million seconds is 11 and 1/2 days. A billion seconds is slightly over 31 years. In our western culture, we’re so, so obsessed with money. We deify dollar billionaires when we really should be fan girls and fan boys of time billionaires. For instance, most 20-year-olds have two billion or better seconds left in their lives. But few look at it that way and don’t relate to themselves as being time billionaires. Many people fail to realize this asset’s value until it’s gone.

The piece had a nice quote from Stoic philosopher Seneca that read, “We are not given a short life, but we make it short, and we are not ill-supplied but wasteful of it.”

The article also linked a “Life Calendar”. It exposes a blank 90-year lifespan by each year listed vertically with 52 squares across the horizontal representing weeks in a year. It’s downloadable, and you can print it as an 8 ½ x 11 worksheet. See the pic below.

I drew out, or charted, my life calendar. It was an interesting exercise that made me reflect on where I’d spent the last 2 billion seconds of my life and where I’m going. I’m 66 now and, if my genes are predictive, I might have a billion seconds remaining.

Yes, still time to be a time billionaire. It’s what I do with forthcoming seconds that count. But if it goes like my Coke & Mento project is going, I might never get done.

How about you, Kill Zoners? Have you looked at your Life Calendar and worked on it? Also, if anyone has time management tips, I’d love to hear them. God knows, I need some.

By John Gilstrap

From 2019 to 2022, I wrote two books per year–one Jonathan Grave thriller and one Victoria Emerson thriller. That’s six books in three years. Or, 200,000 words per year. During Covid. While building a house. And selling a house. And moving twice. It was exhausting.

Worse, it wasn’t fun. Don’t get me wrong–I’m proud of the stories and the characters and all the moving parts of the books, but as I age, sitting and writing for long periods of time has become uncomfortable. Thanks to a reckless youth and too many years of catching heavy burning stuff with my fire helmet have left my neck and back pretty creaky. When I stay active–say through gardening and yard work and playing with the dog–everything works fine. But after five or six hours at the keyboard, I feel like it takes an hour just to stand upright again.

And there was a mental strain to that writing schedule, as well. Taking all the unique life-stuff out of the equation, a two-a-year contract means that I was always writing one story while editing or proof reading another. It’s just more work than I wanted to do.

But I still want to explore new ideas.

If all goes as expected, I will soon sign a contract with Kensington Publishing that will advance my Jonathan Grave series to 18 volumes. I never dreamed that the momentum of those books would continue to build as it has, and while I’m very much in love with the characters and their mission to bring justice to bad guys, it’s fun to explore different characters and different plots.

Another new series.

I had just finished the page proof edits for White Smoke, the third book of the Victoria Emerson series, when my agent called to tell me that she and my editor had been talking about me over lunch. They think I should do another new series, this one a spin-off from Jonathan that would take a regular character from the series and spin her off in a new direction while at the same time knocking Jonathan’s world a few degrees off its axis.

The idea had occurred to me before, and I find the idea exciting, but see above. I don’t want to do two books a year anymore. I want to have a life outside of my office. It’s the nature of a popular series (and one that I hope will also become popular) that people want to see new books on a regular basis. I hear all the time from people who count on the new Grave book to entertain them at the beach every year.

So, we reached a compromise: One book every 9 months, each new volume in each series dropping every 18 months. That feels doable to me. I guess we’ll find out.

I’m being deliberately obtuse about the new series because no contracts have been signed. I’ll come clean when that happens, I promise.

So, TKZ family, do you find the act of writing to be physically tiring? Inquiring minds want to know . . .

By PJ Parrish

Today is Monday. As good a day as any to die. Well, die figuratively. I started a new book today. The curtain has gone up. My stomach hurts. It isn’t my diverticulitis flaring up. I’m sweating. And it’s way past menopause.

Man, this never gets easier, does it. Staring at that field of white. Watching that damn  curser blinking like a heart monitor. Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thump…

Writing is painful for me. Not just psychically painful. Physically painful. Although I have been noodling around with this new book idea for weeks now, I have been putting off actually starting it. I have good excuses. First there was the Edgar banquet. Then there’s this conference first novel contest I’m judging. Then the dogs needed their dental cleanings. Then there was the Heat and Panthers semi-finals. Then friends came up for Memorial Day and I had to take them on a winery tour. And man, look at that load of laundry over there waiting to be folded,

But you know, don’t you. The longer you wait, the worse it gets. Because writing is like exercising, or practicing the piano or learning a language. If you stop, your energy flags, your muscles atrophy, your mind grows cobwebs.  You get fat and lazy. Then get you depressed because you’ve gotten fat and lazy.

It’s a confidence thing. Every time I start a new project, I am scared. Scared that I’ve run out of gas, scared that I will become one of those pathetic writers who phone it in. I’m worried that, because I’m not a pup anymore, I don’t have the energy to go the distance and the new kids coming up are so damn clever. I’m thinking that this plot is pallid, that this story is shapeless. I will be revealed as the fraud that I am,

But…

Then I remember. I remember that once things get going — oh, around chapter 20 or so — it will start to gel. It will become fun again. I remember that I have been here before and have come out the other end okay. I remember that every book feels like you are pushing a mammoth boulder up a hill until that beautiful moment when you crest and then you race downhill in an exhilarating rush. And I remember that I am so damn lucky to get paid (well maybe) to think stuff up, to have readers who buy still our books and write us emails of thanks. I remember all of this and try to stop whining and do my job.

The good thing is, there is redemption even for scofflaws. There is always another day, a new chance. Another Monday.

Today is Monday. Today, I took a detour and wrote this blog instead. I know this is  procrastination of sorts. But this blog has also been like a quick set of jumping jacks. See, I figure just the fact that I have to come here and move my fingers over the keyboard might get my lard ass in gear again for the heavy lifting of fiction.

And I looked this up: I’ve been hanging around here now since 2012. You guys are my peeps.

So, thanks for letting me vent today. You’re cheaper than therapy and a lot more fun. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s back to work. That page is still blank. That curser is still blinking. I’m not getting younger. Every journey starts with one keystroke.

“A metaphor is a figure of speech that, for rhetorical effect, directly refers to one thing by mentioning another. It may provide clarity or identify hidden similarities between two different ideas.”

Way back in college, I had to take a speech class. Never figuring I’d need it since I was pursuing a degree in architecture, I staggered in and out of each class without much caring what my grade would be. In fact, I took a D and was glad to get it, but one interesting assignment was to write and present a persuasive speech.

As I recall, the idea caused much consternation among some of the other students, but I didn’t care, because all I wanted to do was complete the assignment and get out of there.

One of my fellow students wrote a gut-wrenching plea to end war, because he’d just lost his brother in Viet Nam. But he didn’t write about war, he wrote a metaphor about something entirely different that we absorbed in wonder. We knew what he was talking about, but the idea hit us from a different angle.

My professor ended the day by saying, “When writing, there are times we need to make people think, instead of slamming them with the facts as we, the author, see them. A writer or speaker is charged with making people think, and to elicit an emotional response.”

Way back when I was first published, I’d use what my old man called “three-dollar-words,” designed to force readers to a thesaurus. What a stupid idea. It wasn’t my job to expand my reader’s vocabulary. It was to inform, but mostly to entertain.

However, there were times I couldn’t write what I wanted, so I found an alternate way to make a point through the use of a metaphor…

There’s a wonderful children’s book titled, A Fly Went By, by Michael McClintock and edited by the one and only Dr. Seuss. I read the story to both of my girls when they were very young. Now my grandchildren love the rhyming story that focuses on misplaced perception and unknown fears that continues to build throughout the story until the source of all that fear is rooted out.

In a nutshell, a small boy is relaxing in a rowboat one find day, loving the outdoors and watching clouds pass overhead when a fearful fly buzzes past. It’s being chased by a frog, who is in turn being chased by a cat, who is chased by a dog, who is followed by a pig. By the end of the little book, an entire frightened menagerie passes, all trailed by a man who is frightened by a sheep who starts the whole thing by getting its hoof tangled in a bucket.

This cumulative tale is great for a variety of reasons, one of which is that we too often get caught up in whatever the Fear of the Day might be. In this book, the kids learn that instead of taking other people’s word for how bad something is, they should investigate and make informed decisions before the Boogy Man turns out to be their own fears.

It’s odd that I like the story, because it starts with a fly and I hate flies with an absurd passion. I have flyswatters in every room of the house, just in case one sneaks in and threatens my peaceful world. In the pantry, three more swatters wait for a killing.

A Bug-A-Salt gun on a shelf in the pantry. It’s a bright yellow plastic pump-action shotgun that blasts flies with table salt. We’ve salted a number of them, and plan to buy even more to eliminate the pests.

We do our best to keep the filthy insects out, with closed doors and screens, but as in many things in life, it isn’t if one gets in, but when.

For some reason they’re attracted to a great glass brick wall in our shower, and to keep from being defenseless there, I have a slightly rusted swatter within reach.

Sometimes you can’t enjoy the outdoors because of invasive flies. The first time we had a cookout here at the new house was on a late spring day, one perfect for eating out. We cooked burgers on the grill, and I noticed more than a few flies around the patties protected by plastic wrap.

There are always flies around, and we should be attentive at all times lest they contaminate our food with their filthy feet and repulsive mouthparts called the labellum and pseudotrachea.

Urk!

As our delicious burgers patties sizzled, those nasty insects brought their kinfolk, until by the time we gathered the family and settled around the patio table to enjoy lunch, we were engulfed in a swam. Hundreds landed on everything so fast the kids couldn’t eat.

Waving them off was impossible, and with shrieks, gesticulations, and lots of adult curses (properly curbed for little ears), we gathered everything and retreated to the kitchen, only to be followed by bombing patrols that continued inside until we armed ourselves and launched a counter attack.

One flew into the Redhead’s mouth, (my oldest daughter) and a string of words that would have impressed a merchant seaman emerged. She spat it out and stomped the soft, tiny corpse until it was nothing but a stain.

As we all know, flies are sourced from some of the most revolting environments we can imagine. They come from the filth that attracts and breeds them, and bring their contamination to the rest of us who do everything we can to protect ourselves, and enjoy a maintained, well-ordered existance.

I’m convinced our neighbors who have seven big dogs were a significant source of the infestation, and I wondered if those good, well-intentioned folks ever cleaned up their own back yard. You shouldn’t foul your own nest, and that goes for letting feces remain in your yard for long periods of time, even though a soaking rain can melt it into the ground where it allegedly becomes beneficial fertilizer.

We keep our yard clean, despite deposits from Willie the Wonder-dog (read Shih Tzu here), and I patrol the yard with whatever utensils are necessary to keep our property clean and safe in all way.

We’re required to protect our houses from pests, and prevention works when done properly, but there are times we have to stop them before they get in. I have a pest control man who comes by a couple of times a year. His theory is, “keep them out of the house, before you have to kill ‘em inside.”

Some sympathetic individuals surely like flies and feel sorry for them in some bizarre way, but that’s not how my mind works.

I despise flies, but love A Fly Went By, and I bet you will, too. Read it to your little ones and enjoy this metaphor.