Martin Dugard's Blog, page 8

Source: IMDb

Just six weeks to go!

The obvious question about my choice of topic is how does a writer in Orange County, California come to write a book about the Battle of Britain? The Lord works in mysterious ways, but as near as I can divine it all began with the 1969 movie.

I was already predisposed to being an airplane fanatic, growing up on air force bases. But something about the aerial combat in that film (real Spitfires, Hurricanes, and Messerschmitts were used in the filming, by the way) caught my attention. At the time, I was into building model airplanes. So I not only built a few British and German WWII fighters, but I hung them from my ceiling as if they were suspended in a dogfight.

That was that. My fascination with the Battle of Britain lay dormant for thirty years. Then — and I know this will sound odd — the British comedy duo Amstrong and Miller created a pair of characters based on Spitfire pilots. They're hilarious. Somehow, watching them make fun of Hurricanes ("thems shit planes") brought me back to my childhood fascination with all things RAF.

And there you have it.

Permalink

Source: IMDb

Just six weeks to go!

The obvious question about my choice of topic is how does a writer in Orange County, California come to write a book about the Battle of Britain? The Lord works in mysterious ways, but as near as I can divine it all began with the 1969 movie.

I was already predisposed to being an airplane fanatic, growing up on air force bases. But something about the aerial combat in that film (real Spitfires, Hurricanes, and Messerschmitts were used in the filming, by the way) caught my attention. At the time, I was into building model airplanes. So I not only built a few British and German WWII fighters, but I hung them from my ceiling as if they were suspended in a dogfight.

That was that. My fascination with the Battle of Britain lay dormant for thirty years. Then — and I know this will sound odd — the British comedy duo Amstrong and Miller created a pair of characters based on Spitfire pilots. They're hilarious. Somehow, watching them make fun of Hurricanes ("thems shit planes") brought me back to my childhood fascination with all things RAF.

And there you have it.

Permalink

It's time. That's all I can say: it's time.

It has been fifteen years since I left our Mammoth Summer Training Camp in the dead of night, drove three hours to Reno, then flew to New York for the meeting that would define this last decade-plus of my writing career. Back then Killing Lincoln was a stand-alone project and I wrote it with that in mind. This was the first of the dozen Killing books in which I playfully inserted an oblique Springsteen reference. Once they survived the edit, I left them in. Just a couple words or a phrase. If you know The Boss, you'll find them.

The books came to define the way history is written, a fast-paced present tense narrative heavy on detail and action. I wrote with an eye toward history-as-thriller. Thanks to this approach, they sold millions, becoming the bestselling history series in, well, history.

This week I turned down an offer to write another book with my co-author. I need to focus on my solo works, among them the upcoming Taking London, due out June 11.

I'm walking away. It feels great. Actually, it feels overdue. My writing is sharper than ever and I want to be in charge of every word that goes on the page. I'm nobody's "typist," as it has been suggested. Being co-author means doing the heavy lifting in the book process. Might as well do that for my own books and clear up any doubt.

So, it's time. I move into this next phase of my career with great eagerness, a lightness in my step. I didn't realize how much I needed this. My best writing is ahead of me, of that I am sure.

Someday we'll look back on this and it will all seem funny.

Permalink

Taking London comes out seven weeks from Tuesday. I've been doing this a long time so I know it's best to try not to think about it. The gestation cycle is so long between finishing a book and seeing it in print. I will be euphoric and perhaps weep when I receive my first box of finished copies, cracking it open to hold the new book in my hands for the first time. One book will immediately be placed on a shelf in my library next to the other solo projects. I won't do the thing where I take a video and post it on Insta or tweet about it on X, because it's such a personal moment. Otherwise, I will do my best to put June 11 out of my mind, knowing it will drive me crazy if I count down the days. Eight weeks feel like too far out, just under six is like it's almost there, the Biblical forty days of meditation and temptation. But the last seven weeks always feel like forever.

So how will I spend the time?

Write every day on Taking Midway, which is coming along splendidly. I did the usual thing where I set the first chapter on a certain historical date, then realize the more complete story needs to begin much earlier. Chapter One becomes Chapter Thirteen in a hurry. This is what happens once the story starts talking to me. Happens every single book.

I'll coach my distance runners at Santa Margarita Catholic High School each afternoon. We're entering championship season and my athletes continue to amaze me. My top guys just set school records in the 4x800 relay (7:48) and Distance Medley Relay (10:17) and my top girls are really starting to round into form. League Finals is this Friday, then we begin the countdown to the State Meet in Fresno in May.

I'll make hard decisions about what my next book will be after Taking Midway. Ideally, Midway will finish mid-July. I like to take two weeks and then jump into the next project. These next seven weeks are for lining up that gig.

I'll continue my new daily habit of practicing the guitar. I'd like to become more conversational in French but am taking it one challenge at a time. I know, I know: the French thing sounds a little precious. But it's been on my mind for decades. Let's just do it, for fuck’s sake.

I'm running more. Need to keep that going. Calene tells me my tummy looks smaller, which is nice to hear.

She's doing great, by the way.

There's my anniversary and my birthday between now and the pub date. My neighbor Mike also has a birthday, which is worth noting because we were born in Portsmouth Naval Hospital two weeks apart. We lived two doors down for twenty years before realizing this fact, as well as the amazing coincidence that our parents knew each other well and that our dads flew B-47's together. The birth certificates are from Kittery, Maine, so we call each other the Kittery Boys after a couple cold ones.

Appliances in the Mammoth condo need replacing. All of them except the toaster. I'll head up next month, just in time for the snowmelt and opening of my favorite trails. My cousin Marsha is going up for a week right around June 11 and I'd like them in place for her.

Somewhere around June 1, the first Taking London reviews will roll in. Bookstores get their copies a week later. If you've pre-ordered, you'll get yours in the mail on the pub date.

Finally, and not to get too clandestine about all this, I'm pondering a major career move. You'll know about it before anyone else.

Party on.

Permalink

Just back from Malta.

I really didn't want to go. Malta is impossible to reach from LA. It's a small island off the southern coast of Sicily. I met up for business with a few friends from New York. Malta is a wonderful destination, almost unknown to Americans. European tourists were everywhere. The ground is hilly like San Francisco and my runs were slow enough that I didn't want to post them on Strava. But in deviating from the main streets and into the alleys I found character and history I will long remember. Later at night, I trekked back in to enjoy the small restaurants and bars with my friends. There's something about walking up a long steep road after a good meal that quiets the soul.

Having said all that, what I want to talk about is the unexpected of travel. Flying, in particular.

I was exhausted when I got on the plane at LAX to start the trip, sleeping only five hours since the end of the Springsteen show the night before. When I landed in London I had slept only two hours more on the plane. Called an audible and pushed back my flight to Malta for a day. The Connaught found a little nook known as Room 219 for me and I spent the time in London gathering my wits with hard sleep, a shave and haircut at Jack the Clipper's, and immersing myself in Amor Towles' new book at the Audley. Dinner at Delfino's, a couple hours writing, etc. Game changer.

The Air Malta flight on Sunday was not horrible. My middle seat was between two thin young women, affording me the arm rests. I slept in relative comfort, waking up to shift in my seat every once in a while to escape the booty lock that comes with being a grown man in a barely padded seat. I reminded myself to request an aisle seat on the return.

Malta, Malta, Malta.

The flight back to London on Thursday was more interesting. I got my aisle seat, 29C in the back of the plane. Everyone waiting in the long bathroom line graciously gave me a hip check as I slept. Children scampered. Grown men held long conversations in Italian and Farsi standing next to me. The mood was busy, let's say. At least the crowd kept me from leaning too far back in my head rest and snoring. That would have been a scene.

Another day in London on the way back, this one planned. Four mile walk. Lunch at Byron's. Morning run in Hyde Park. Long pre-flight sauna. Heathrow Express from Paddington to the airport. When Calene is with me, I take a cab. But that felt indulgent traveling alone. Hempy's going to read this and tell me to take an Uber. Comme ci, comme ca.

Terminal 2. The Queen's Terminal. Noon on Friday. I stood in line to board.

An airline representative studied my passport and guided me to a back lane. Normally, this is the sign of being chosen for a security check. I wondered whether it was random or whether I somehow looked hostile. The second flattered me more. I was greeted by her boss, who handed me a box of chocolates and a certificate for flying one million lifetime miles on United, which would occur during the upcoming flight. I had no idea.

He let me board first. Other passengers offered congratulations. The crew signed a card. "Pilot Dan" came back from the cockpit when I took my seat, shook my hand, and offered me a "Million Miler" challenge coin — which I shall treasure. It was all very surreal.

So that was my Malta adventure. This is the way of travel: conflict, exhaustion, adjustment, and an occasional celebration.

There's lots I haven't told you, though that will all come out. I'm glad I went.

Permalink

It has been a week, people.

The moment I realized things were getting under my skin came on Thursday evening, as I tried to park for the Springsteen show at the Forum. I went to the wrong entrance and was instructed to turn around and go back down the street to an entirely different lot. Traffic was coming from both directions. I had no choice but to make a very illegal u-turn.

That's not the end of that vignette. But it helps to know what led up to then.

It begins with my trip to Malta, an island off the coast of Sicily the day after Springsteen. Malta is not easy to get to. The trip is for business purposes and I'd never been. But I'm in the middle of track season and was a little conflicted about leaving my runners for a week. It would also mean not having my regular writing routine for Taking Midway, which is becoming more pressing. Traveling a long distance means sleep management. And as you all know, for a man who loves to see the world, I sure do love my daily routine.

So I think it was the anticipation of the journey and its discomforts and logistics and break in my daily way of getting things done that had me a little sideways. Anticipation is the root of anxiety. For those of you who know me, and think that perhaps I'm a little on the laid back side, that is all a facade. I can be as anxious and uptight as anyone, particularly when I wake up at 3 am and count my fears. My wife, who loves to send me Insta memes about ADHD, has pretty well diagnosed the issue.

But hey, it's just a trip, I told myself. An adventure. Calm down. Missing a track meet and a few writing days is not the end of the world. The sleep will take care of itself.

Then the water heater broke. Water flooded my office and seeped into the walls, meaning plumbers and a restoration company shook their heads in commiseration before ripping out the drywall and pulling back the carpet then installing those big loud drying machines that make my dogs uneasy. Even as I prepared to leave the house for the journey, issues of insurance and rebuilding were sure to be waiting when I got back. Just to make sure the event hit home, I slapped my Amex down for a new water heater, which is not a cheap investment.

These things add up. I thought I was in my right mind; Calene told me I was distracted. I told her I was fine. She began looking at me strangely, as if she should take away the car keys. I told her I was fine.

Then something as simple as being told I was attempting to park in the wrong lot at the Forum led me away from the rational into the deeply stupid. So I made the very dangerous illegal u-turn. I thought the road was clear. I thought I pulled it off.

At the very last minute, right at the apex of my distraction, I saw the car that was about to t-bone the driver's side of my Rover. I braked hard. The other driver also jammed to a halt. We barely missed a collision. We made eye contact, though I was ashamed to look at her. She was in her thirties and alone, her face a mixture of terror and WTF. I averted my gaze and drove away, not completing the u-turn but fairly certain I barely missed either dying or wrecking my car — or both.

Later, during the concert, a woman slid into my spot into the row next to Calene when I stepped out for a quick bathroom break during "Letter to You." Happens all the time at concerts, someone sneaking past the usher to hide in the crowd.

"Move," I snapped at her the instant I got back, scaring her away, not even pretending for a minute that I wanted to be cool about sharing the space.

That was my shame about the near-accident coming out. Yeah, so maybe I was wound a little tight.

So here I am in Malta. The sun is shining. Tourists are everywhere. The journey was easy. The sleep took care of itself. A new water heater waits at home, along with the shambles of my office. I don't like the term mindful because it's a reminder that I'm not. Who can be mindful when the mind is thinking about split times, airport layovers, water heaters, the 1941 sinking of HMS Prince of Wales, and brain scans? When the little things add up and make you do stupid things, maybe mindful isn't such a bad thing after all.

Permalink

SS_Normandie_at_sea.jpg: Vick the Viking

The countdown continues. Taking London goes on sale just two months from now. In the meantime, here's a little Easter gift for all my readers. I've long threatened to write a fiction piece. For the past few months, as part of my daily warm-up, I've written a little of this and a little of that. No title yet. Not sure if this stab at fiction will ever see the light of day but it's been a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy this sample, and have a great Easter!

August 30, 1939
New York, New York
4 p.m.

"Bonjour."

Fitzgerald Martin wedges his dogeared phrase book into a rear pocket of his Levi's. Right fist grips a three-year-old gym bag with Olympic rings branded into the leather. He walks fast along the Hudson waterfront, searching for his ship to France. He's headed for Pier 88 and Normandie.

Fitz passes De Grasse's empty berth. He nervously taps the stiff new passport in his right front pocket. Then his left, to make sure he feels the bulge of his wallet. Just to make sure they're where they should be. Then each one again. He knows it's compulsive and doesn't care.

Stay in New York.

It would be so easy.

Get a job. Find a new girl. Move on.

War is coming. The dockside smells like diesel and fear. A tugboat horn. Clang of s ship's bell. August humidity. Travelers hustling to their ship, tickets in hand, dragging suitcases and children. Mighty ocean liners dock side by side like runners on the line, waiting to sprint across the Atlantic, stacks puffing smoke. Bremen, Normandie, Aquitania — German, French, British, just like the battle lines in Europe. The New York Times says war could start tomorrow. These could be the last crossings for months.

Fitzgerald Martin is desperate to be away.

Sightseers with nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon stand in place, ogling this special moment in history, titillated by the morbid thought that these powerful ships could be sunk, tons of steel and hundreds of passengers condemned to the deep. Fitz continues pressing through the crowds: cigarette smoke, the garlic and grease of a vendor's cart, cop in a blue uniform swinging a nightstick like a character in a movie, stale whiskey breath, a new mother with baby vomit on her shoulder but no baby. She looks Fitz straight in the eye as if knowing his secret but says nothing.

"Bonjour."

She looks away. He says it again but this time not to her. Quietly, to himself, needing to get the accent just right. First impressions are everything. Something as simple as saying hello could have a firm impact on this next phase of his life.

"Bonjour." This time with upward inflection to show optimism.

Bremen casts a long shadow. Twin stacks, hull painted black. Berlin is waiting. Germans in perfectly straight lines wait to board. From way up on the main deck, the pop of a solitary champagne cork. No U-boat is going to sink this luxurious beast. That big red swastika flying over her decks tells every German skipper she's off limits.

Fitz' shoulder slams into a lone man rushing to the Bremen, spinning them both sideways. The stranger's hat falls off, revealing slick blond hair with a part on the left. Early twenties, face like a greyhound, annoyed. "Pardon," Fitz says with a hurried French inflection, snapped back into the moment.

"It's nothing," replies the man in superior Prussian. He picks up his hat and glares. The German does a double-take. "It's you," he mumbles.

"Luther," Fitz acknowledges coldly, recognizing him in an instant. The shock of the chance meeting wears off fast. But it's Tobias Luther who gets in the last shot.

"I was the better man that day. I would have won. You know that, right?"

A smirking Luther is gone before Fitz can set him straight, hustling home like the good Nazi that he is.

De Grasse is now somewhere out in the Atlantic, bound for Cherbourg, in a hurry to beat the war. Room for 1,200 passengers but only sailed with 134. Fitz should have been one of them. But as he stood in line to purchase his ticket something told him the French liner was doomed. So, he booked passage on Normandie. He spent the additional night in Manhattan wondering whether that was his gut talking or a quiet voice of fear telling him not to go into the war zone at all.

Now, Fitzgerald wishes he'd sailed on De Grasse. Normandie is the biggest, fastest, and most luxurious ship in the world — a rich French target begging for a German torpedo to split her hull. Hitler would cackle at news of her sinking. Probably award some lucky bastard an Iron Cross. But she's also the last ship leaving for France. Now it's Normandie or nothing.

Fitz has the routing memorized: New York to Le Havre. Le Havre to Marseilles. Marseilles to Algeria and a little town named Sidi Bel Abbes, there to find French Foreign Legion headquarters, volunteer to fight as a legionnaire, and be given a new French name.

If allowed to choose, it will be D'Artagnan, like the musketeer.

The young athlete makes a mental note to do push-ups and sit-ups during the crossing. Maybe even run on deck if they'll let him.

Fitzgerald takes off his hat and pushes a hand through his tangled brown hair. Total strangers do an abrupt double take. Some stare. He slams the hat down hard on his head and ignores the looks. Fitz wonders why in the world anyone would want to be famous. It's horrible.

For a moment, just a moment, nausea and homesickness take over.

Fitz forces his way through the crowd, ticket is in his valise, as he now calls his gym bag. The more French words he adopts right now, the easier the transition into the Legion, where he will speak the language all the time.

Finally, Normandie. She towers over 88, a hundred feet high and three football fields long. Black hull, white superstructure, three red funnels. Twelve decks. Top speed a remarkable thirty-two knots, fast as a battleship. Able to cross the Atlantic in four days. Never in his life has Fitzgerald stood in the shadow of something so large. It's impossible to imagine that anything in the world, even Nazi torpedoes, could sink this behemoth.

A single narrow bridge connects Normandie to the dock. No one stands in line. Fitz steps smartly to the gangplank.

A security guard blocks his path. Tailored uniform with piping and epaulets. Normandie embroidered above the left front pocket in peignot font. "Help you?" the man says like a New Yorker but with a smooth Parisian accent. Barely older than Fitz. Tanned, hair slicked down and parted, a faint smell of rose water.

Fitz holds out his ticket. "Bonjour." A bit rough.

"Bonjour." Like poetry.

"I'd like to come aboard."

"But why?"

"I have a ticket."

"I can see that. But why do you want to get on board?"

"It says here," Fitz insists, doing his best not to sound panicked. "That we depart in two hours."

"Cancelled," replies the guard, shrugging his shoulders and pursing his lips in a way Fitzgerald considers uniquely French.

"I have a ticket."

"The voyage is cancelled."

"Now see here, I need to get to France."

The guard pretends Fitz no longer exists. He lights a Gitanes and turns his back, lifting his eyes to appreciate the sweeping lines of Normandie's upper deck.

"I came all the way from California!"

The guard flicks his hand in dismissal.

Fitz has a few choice things he would like to say. Might even throw a punch, though Lord knows he's used up his allotment of stupid impulsive moments. He turns. Walks ten steps. Drops his valise — gym bag, he tells himself, scorning his pretensions. Then he turns and charges back toward the guard, deciding a punch in the mouth is just what this situation requires.

A booming voice stops him.

"Time magazine, am I right?"

A lot of Chicago and a little something British in the accent.

Fitz turns and confronts a handsome man scarcely older than himself, dressed in a thousand-dollar suit. Silk school tie. Not an ounce of body fat. A beautiful red-haired woman who looks like a movie star stands at his side.

The man smiles broadly in that easy way of someone at home in his own skin. Extends his hand. "Billy Fiske. Bobsled. '28 and '32. This is Rose. You ran the 1500 in `36, am I right?"

Fitz shakes his hand. Fiske is legit. Olympians know Olympians.

"Fitzgerald Martin. Yep, that's me."

"I've read all about you, Fitzie. And I can well imagine why you'd want to run away.”

"Now let's see about getting you to Europe. I'm going there to fight. Are you?"

Permalink

I recently saw a photo of Gray Man author Mark Greaney on a speedboat, laptop open, typing away on a new book while rocketing across a lake somewhere.

I can relate. My guess is that he was on deadline, squeezing in a few hundred words to expand his writing day. There's an illusion that serious writers lock themselves in a cone of silence whenever they make sentences. The world never intrudes. We light a candle, pour a cup of coffee, shut the door, and enjoy a daily routine that does not deviate one iota until the book is done.

It's not like that. I am on deadline for Taking Midway right now. Not the frantic final weeks, just the awareness that I need to keep a certain pace to my daily word count. My favorite part of the book process is editing the entire first draft. Usually, I write a chapter then go back over and fuss, losing all forward momentum until I get the chapter right. This time, I'm writing the story, rough as it may be. Once I get a full book complete, then I'm going to go back to start the payoff, bringing out themes, finding pretty words, and looking at the project from a new perspective.

I digress. Back to writing anywhere, any time.

I'm sitting in a comfy chair in the cancer ward at UCI while Calene gets an infusion in the recliner just across from me. I'll finish this blog and then open up Taking Midway to work until the treatment is over. This afternoon I'm driving to San Diego to see Springsteen. It's a solo outing because I'll be in the pit. This means I've got a couple hours down time after my drive south before they open the doors (hopefully, my wristband will get me a spot next to the stage). So I'll write in my Yeti chair in the parking lot. I'm not above a good pregame tailgate but making sentences is just as fun. And a deadline is a deadline.

Flying to Malta next week. Never been. I'll see the sights and do a little research but I'll definitely write. Stopping in London on the way back. Just a day but I'll head over to the Audley and write.

On the plane, in a hotel room, at a cafe while sipping coffee. At track meets. Alas, never on a speedboat. Now that I've made this list, I suddenly realize it reads like the writer's version of the Mile High Club.

So if you've been thinking about a writing project of your own, don't let life get in the way. Life and writing go hand-in-hand. I love it. It's not compulsive, not drudgery, and the work is addictive in a way I do not understand.

Join the club.

Permalink

I usually write these missives on Sunday. It's my down day for the week and my mind is free to wander. But Calene and I spent the weekend in San Diego, hanging out with our oldest son to celebrate his birthday. There was no agenda. We wandered the waterfront to start the morning, stopping to tour the USS Midway, something I suggested because I'm writing a book about the Battle of Midway and the visit felt like a fine symbolic gesture. I also thought it was a great way to kill an hour or so.

A significant portion of the ship is now dedicated to a museum-within-a-museum about the battle. There's a film showing actual battle footage. A docent introduced the 20-minute documentary by saying he'd read almost every book there is about Midway. This is not something a writer wants to hear in the middle of a project on the exact same topic, because you never know what kind of reader someone might be. Some are self-proclaimed experts. Some are more fond of academic history, some like the story told the same way every time, and some harbor a personal connection with the story and have a book of their own in the back of their mind.

The docent seemed like a nice enough guy and the footage was vivid so I forgot about Taking Midway and enjoyed the show. My book doesn't come out for a year, giving me plenty of time to steel myself for those who find my telling of the Midway saga unconventional. I mean, it's obviously the same history but I'm having fun looking at the narrative through a different lens.

So we left Midway and enjoyed a Double Delicious in the sun at the Stone beer garden next to the train station. Then we walked some more and suddenly all thoughts of stealing back to the hotel to write a blog were forgotten. It intruded on my thoughts for a second, suggesting I could tap it out with my thumbs on my phone. I told the blog to go away because it felt nice to have a day without responsibility.

We walked some more and laughed and reminisced and did all the things you do with people you love on a day with no agenda. A waiter at the lunch place brought out a bottle of De La Viuda hot sauce when I told him I'd like my buffalo wrap spicy. I had never heard of it but took a picture on my phone because it had a nice kick.

Then we walked through Little Italy, where spring break crowds made the sidewalks full.

A stop at Bolt, where Devin did some sort of magic with his phone app that allowed him to control the jukebox.

People watching. Many bad jokes. An occasional moment of frank discussion.

Then an after-dark Uber back to the Pendry, where the bar was filled with conventioneers in smart clothes with big smiles and bigger drinks, by which time it was far too late to write a blog post on a day when nothing happened.

On those occasions such as this morning, when I start my day with a leftover slice from Ballpark Pizza, I always think of the fasting guru who told me that any food was permissible when breaking a fast, "unless, you know, it's pizza."

What follows is a cautionary tale, though not about nutrition.

I made a vow to myself back when I first began writing that I would take any job that came my way, provided it was morally and ethically sound. Hence, in addition to writing books you might have heard of, I've signed deals to ghostwrite books with three different self-styled gurus — a billionaire, a self-help guy whom I guarantee you know, and the fasting nerd. I can't say their names because of NDA's, but I can tell you the gigs involved flying private, green slushies, vegetarian corn dogs, and constant battles to get paid.

Writing a book with a guru is not an immersion into wisdom and transformation. It is, in fact, a slow walk through hell, every day spent trying to write in the voice of someone who believes the world revolves around them, and who believes writers should work for free. I'm a slow learner, which is why I didn't stop after just one bad experience.

This is where I point out that a co-author and a ghostwriter are two different things. Co-authors literally write the book with an individual and get their name on the cover. I've done more than a dozen of these with Bill O, James Patterson, and Mark Burnett. It's good money, they're extremely nice guys to work with, and the memories are priceless. Working with Bill has sent me researching all around the world, Jim is a font of great writing advice, and Mark and I once flew all the way across the country in a private jet so he could visit Martha Stewart in prison. My job was to have lunch at the Greenbrier and make sure the media didn't know about the rendezvous. I had a blast.

Ghostwriting means you write in someone else's voice, cash the check, and don't get your name on the cover. Mostly because you don't want to — your God-given gift for writing sullied by the opposite of creativity, an endurance contest of putting words on the page every day until the ordeal is over. Which can take a long time, because gurus like attention, which means they want someone to listen to their every word, even if it has nothing to do with telling their story. In the case of the financial guy and self-help guru, this meant a clause in my contract stipulating I had to be on call to fly anywhere in the world at any time to listen to their ideas about the book. Then they show up hours late for their meeting and talk about everything under the sun except the project, and the next thing you know you've missed your child's Little League game because you missed your flight home, which makes you swear you'll never jet halfway around the world to interview an asshole again, only to be reminded that it's in your contract. Which is a feeling of amazing powerlessness. These things stay with you.

Why do I mention this? Why spend an entire blog telling you how I feel about windy millionaires? I blame the pizza. It reminded me of the fasting guy, which reminded me of gurus I've worked for and that I have loved every minute of every day I have spent writing for a living — except when I work with gurus. I admit that I am part of the problem, a little too proud and independent for my own good. Gurus like servitude, not backbone.

Having said that, one reason I write this blog is to help would-be writers navigate the literary world. So this is a cautionary tale. The gift of creativity is one we all possess. Cherish it — and be aware ghostwriting will crush your soul.

That is all.

Enjoy your pizza.

Permalink