Hieronymus Hawkes's Blog, page 4

Finding Your Voice (Without Getting a Throat Injury)

Or: how to sound like yourself without sounding like everyone else

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfetterred Treacle

Writers love to talk about voice like it’s some mythical creature that lives in your laptop and only appears when the moon is right and your imposter syndrome is distracted.

“You’ve got to find your voice,” they say.

Okay…where exactly is it? Is it under “Settings”? Is there a button I missed?

I used to think voice was all about style. Sentence rhythm. Word choice. Syntax. And yes, it’s partly those things. But voice isn’t just how you write. It’s also how you think. How your brain naturally turns over an idea. It’s the way you tell any story, even if it’s about parallel parking or the contents of your fridge. (You know you’ve got voice if I’d read your grocery list and still chuckle at the commentary.)

And there are a lot of writers on Substack that have an amazing voice. I am not going to name names here. I don’t want to hurt your feelings if you don’t show up on my list of people with a great voice.

Voice is tone, perspective, honesty, attitude.
It’s what happens when you stop trying to write like a writer and just…write like a person. A weird little person with obsessions, opinions, and that one phrase you always lean on when you’re tired. (“Clear Ether,” anyone? I closed a lot of my older blogs with that. But even that was derivative, E.E. Smith used it for the Lensman series.)

When you’re starting out, your voice is usually buried under a pile of influences. You try to sound like your favorite authors. You unconsciously echo their rhythms, their jokes, their paragraph lengths. It’s not a bad thing, it’s how we all learn. You can’t find your voice until you’ve borrowed a few others. But eventually, if you keep going, something shifts. You stop performing the idea of “author,” and start sounding like yourself on purpose.

Here’s the kicker, your voice will evolve. And it should.

If you’re still figuring it out, here’s my advice:

Write a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Voice shows up through repetition and rhythm.

Read widely. Steal from the best until it sounds like yours.

Talk on the page like you talk in real life. Just…maybe clean up the ums and curse words. (Unless that’s your brand. In which case: respect.) Keep in mind we emulate real dialogue; we don’t actually write the way people talk. They often hem and haw and don’t finish sentences, or say “ya know,” a lot. That would be horrible to read.

Pay attention to what makes you smile while writing. That’s often the trailhead to your voice.

And for the record, yes, you can have a different voice for different projects. Your space opera may not sound like your cozy paranormal mystery (unless that’s what you’re going for, in which case, you beautiful maniac, carry on). My Substack voice is very different from my prose voice. But underneath it all, there should still be a fingerprint. Something that says this came from you.

Okay, here is a little treat. I am going to share with you the very first draft of my current WIP. A voice comparison with the latest version to show the evolution.

2008 version (Sorry, I know it’s bad. I was new at writing)

It is always a bit of a euphoric feeling when I have conquered my foe but it also leaves me mentally fogged. I need to get back into the house and change without being seen. I don’t like the members of my staff seeing me like this. The euphoria never lasts very long, in fact it is already wearing off as I approach the main house. But I am still jazzed up and a bit on the ragged edge.

I stealth my way along the grounds avoiding my security detail. The darkness of the very early morning hour assists my efforts. Despite all the high tech gear I have put in place to defend my estate I am able to defeat it rather easily. I am not sure if I need to beef it up to the point where I am not able to sneak back in or if things are better the way they are. It would be highly embarrassing to be caught by my own security team, but I do want tight security. It’s a fine line. But then again, I am not just any ordinary thug. I have skills that most men do not possess and I am stronger and faster than a normal man. I can also sense them from a good distance away, which is very handy when trying to avoid roaming patrols.

I make my way to the lower level secret entrance, where I had left the door unlocked on my way out. I am able to avoid contact with anyone else and slip inside the entrance unnoticed. At least that is what I thought. I little too late I realize my folly.

“Good evening Nonno,” a sweet but low female voice says to me. I instantly recognize it is my chief of security, waiting for me just inside the door; waiting with a cloak to drape around me. She is new to my staff and is obviously doing a better job than I expected. I had been focused on the grounds and not the interior of the house.

I am a mess, with torn clothes and a disheveled appearance and a few scrapes and bruises, all minor but it gives me the look of someone dangerous and slightly manic. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here Marta,” I manage to rasp out at her as I try to get a grip on myself. I am still on the edge, almost animal in the way that I feel after the hunt. It takes a real effort to get my head right and calm my impulses as my blood is really flowing in my veins now. I am acutely aware of her presence; I sense her distance, her scent, even her emotional state. Me on the other hand, I am feeling somewhat embarrassed to have her see me like this, even though she knows me very well.

“I AM your Security Chief. I take the job seriously. How would you feel if I let someone else in here?” she says looking at me with a knowing smile, perhaps a little nervous too. She wraps the cloak around me shoulders. “I knew when you left and I’ve been keeping an eye out for you for the last few hours.” We start walking toward my private chambers on this level of the house as I calm further. “Why do you insist on these hunts Nonno? You know they are unnecessary, we have every thing you need right here on the estate.” Nonno is a term of affection; I am her great-grandfather.

“It would be hard for me to explain to you grandchild, but let’s just say that I enjoy the hunt – probably a little too much.” We walk in silence for a bit. “Don’t worry; nobody is going to turn up missing tomorrow in town.” She stops and I raise my head to look at her.

“I wasn’t worried about that Nonno – at least not too much,” she finished the last with a small grin.

I am feeling more like my normal self, as normal as I get anyway. “In time perhaps it will become clear to you why I hunt. Have you talked to your father? He might have some insight.”

“Not recently, he is not all that happy with his retirement and he’s having a hard time adjusting to his new role as husband first,” she says with a small laugh. Then more serious she continues “It’s not my place to question you Nonno. I just want to be able to do my job. Conall told me to let you go when I saw you leaving the grounds. I would feel horrible if something happened to you, that’s all.”

“I’m a pretty tough hombre Marta, you needn’t worry so much. Listen to your brother.”

“Yes Nonno.” I was looking into her eyes now and could see that it pained her to not be able to do her job. My former security chief, while competent, often had no idea when I would sneak out to hunt. I could see now that I would have to rethink the whole thing. I am annoyed that it bothers me to see the pain in her eyes. The Cognate serve its purpose very well, but I had made my mind up a long time ago to try not to get too emotionally involved with them, something I was not following through on very well of late. It was painful for me when they went out of my life as they invariably did. It was a concession I had to make with myself after Anne died. Anne was my wife – a long time ago.

As we approach my quarters I stop and turn to face her. “I won’t sneak out on you again Marta. I’m going to clean up and then I’m heading down to the music studio to work on a new lick that I am trying to perfect. I’ll be good for the rest of the evening,” I say with a grin.

“Ok, I will head up to security and see how things are going. Good luck on that guitar lick Nonno.” She bows her head slightly and grinning she leaves me. She understands me I think, at least my desire to play, she would often come and listen to me play the guitar when she was a young girl.

2025 version

He reached his room, changing swiftly into the scent-masking black polymers he used exclusively for hunting, each movement ritualistic, disciplined. A necessary habit to control the beast. It pacing beneath his ribs, awake, waiting, starving for the barest chance to seize control.

The beast within him was always hungry. It needed release, or it would tear its way out when he least expected. And he could not afford another slip. Remi had spent centuries fighting it, carefully nurturing control through these isolated hunts, just enough to satisfy the insatiable need. Just enough to maintain the fragile peace he’d struck within himself.

Isolating himself was the other part of that equation. Better to be away from the temptation. Safer for everyone.

Outside, the Spring Montana air enveloped him, rich and alive with scents, freshly mown lawn, the bouquet of a variety of flowers, scat from an assortment of small animals, the decay of dead vermin, nothing out of the ordinary.

No humans.

Good.

Remi inhaled deeply, savoring this last contact with Earth’s tapestry of aromas before heading for the sterility of space.

The sweetness of lilacs drifted from the edge of the lawn, triggering a sudden, vivid memory of Jen, her laughter, her smile here beneath the stars, the promise he’d made never to kill again.

His heart tightened painfully. Centuries gone, yet she lingered in every quiet moment. And guilt. He might have to break his vow.

Remi moved silently through the wooded slopes of his vast Montana estate, the night air cool and sharp against his heightened senses. Beneath the pristine quiet, the beast within him stirred restlessly, impatiently craving release. He exhaled slowly, savoring the solitude, the ritual calm before a carefully managed storm.

An unfamiliar scent interrupted his reverie.

Remi froze mid-step. Every muscle flexed in silent readiness, instincts older than memory kicking in before thought caught up. The scent hit first—foreign, wrong—threading sharp through the night air like copper over loam. Someone was here.

Impossible. No one had breached this land. Never.

But the thrum in his blood said otherwise. His body moved before permission, knees bending low, silent through the pines and mulch and memory. The scent of pine sap, distant snowmelt, and the ghost of wildflowers baked into the soil. Beautiful. Clean. His last sanctuary. And now? Spoiled.

A heartbeat pulsed ahead. Not frantic. Not stumbling. Calm. Controlled. The cadence of someone trained. Professional. That alone made them more dangerous.

A low growl started deep in his throat, unbidden. The beast inside him stretched toward the sound, ears pricked, teeth already lengthening in anticipation. It liked the hunt. It craved this break in monotony.

It was no mistake. This was intrusion.

The tension in his jaw pulsed. Coppery tang where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, sharp and hot.

His mind whispered caution.

The beast wanted violence.

Remi moved silently to a vantage point, eyes and ears straining for confirmation.

There. Movement, furtive and cautious, yet unmistakably human. Not a casual trespasser this one, he moved with practiced intent.

The sharp edge of gun oil and fresh carbon found him. The intruder was armed. Interesting, but irrelevant. The beast growled louder, eager for the hunt, pulsing with the need to consume, to dominate. Remi fought it back, gritting his teeth.

A quick capture, a clean interrogation, that was the goal. He just had to maintain control. But the villain’s blood called out. Hunger pulling at Remi violently. The beast roared inside him, pleading, demanding release.

The intruder stepped into full view.

Black-clad. Military-cut gear, slick with reflective suppression. Night vision goggles hugged his face, scanning the shadows with slow, practiced sweeps. A professional, at least, on paper.

Remi didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a breath. He became the stillness. Not hiding, being the dark. He had no heat signature.

The man’s gaze passed over him like a breeze brushing a statue. Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No hint he’d sensed what coiled not ten meters away.

Amateur.

A decent operator would’ve noticed the absence of motion in that pocket of air. The unnatural hush of something watching back.

The beast inside him grinned. Easy prey.

Remi struck.

One heartbeat, the man was alone. The next, he was airborne, wrenched off his feet in a blur of motion no human reflex could hope to follow.

Remi slammed him against the tree trunk hard enough to rattle bark loose. The rifle clattered to the ground, useless now. Disarmed before he could even register danger. Remi didn’t need force; he was force.

His face hovered inches from the intruder’s. Breath steamed between them. Remi inhaled, pulling in everything, the stink of fear, the ozone tinge of electro-fiber mesh, the sour adrenaline pooling beneath the man’s skin. The bastard reeked of panic.

Remi studied the intruder’s eyes, looking for shape, structure—intent. But the man’s mind was a shattered mirror, all sharp edges and no reflections. Nothing but noise and terror echoing back at him.

Hope you enjoyed that.

As you can see the first version I swept right past the thing that actually shows him being a vampire and a hunter. Classic Show vs Tell.

So, if you’re searching for your voice, don’t panic. Keep showing up. Keep putting words down. Your voice is already there, it just hasn’t stopped clearing its throat yet.

How Do You Title a Novel Without Losing Your Mind?

Seriously. If you know, please email me

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfetterred Treacle

I’ve finished four full manuscripts and numerous stories that aren’t complete, and I still think titling a novel is somewhere between “naming your child” and “picking your last words.” You want it to be punchy. You want it to whisper genre and tone like a literary sommelier. You want it to stick in a reader’s brain like a pop song, but preferably without rhyming with Baby Shark.

Meanwhile, you’re just staring at your document going, “Okay but what do I call you??”

I once read that one-word titles are the gold standard. (Think Inception, Run, Dune, It.) Sounds smart, until you try to find a single word that:
a) matches your theme,
b) hasn’t already been used by twelve other authors, and
c) doesn’t sound like a discontinued energy bar.

It’s the literary equivalent of trying to name a rock band in 2025. Every good word is taken. Every bad one is ironic. (Although I do keep a list of band names. You never know.)

Titles are a lot like first lines, deceptively small, agonizingly important, and statistically almost never the version you started with. I’d love to see a survey on how many writers actually keep their first sentence from the first draft. I’d wager the percentage is smaller than confirmed Bigfoot sightings.

My last book? The working title was Perfect Working Order. I thought it was elegant. Subtle. A little mysterious. I think that is the 6th or 7th title. The editor I pitched it to gave me the professional version of, “That title is NyQuil in book form.” She asked if I was “attached to it,” which I now know is editor-speak for “If this title were a font, it would be Times New Meh.”

Is that actually a thing? Are authors that attached to the title?

I’ve joked before that I’d happily rename the thing Explosions and Murder! if it helped sell copies. That’s not even a joke, really. If you’re in this game to be read, and not just to fill notebooks with tortured genius, you eventually have to let go. Kill your darlings, especially if your darling is a title no one understands but you.

Now, every once in a while I fantasize about a secret society of elite book-namers. People who read your manuscript once, sip an espresso, and go, “It’s called Blood Geometry. You’re welcome.” Where are these people? Why don’t they have a service? A hotline? A TikTok?

One trick that’s helped, pulling a title straight from the manuscript. A single line that captures something essential about the story. It doesn’t have to be poetic, it just has to feel right. And if readers hit that line in the book and go “ohhhh,” even better. Of course, that only works if your manuscript has that kind of line. And if it’s not buried on page 412 of a 240k-word behemoth.

Another solid strategy is the ultra-obvious title, Toy Story, Fatal Attraction, The Exorcist. You know exactly what you’re getting. Straightforward, on-brand, no guesswork. But it’s a fine line between clarity and cliché, and sometimes you don’t know which side of that line you’re on until it’s printed in hardcover.

So, no, titling isn’t easy. Don’t expect to get it right on the first try. Or the fifth. And definitely don’t let it stall your writing. If your book is about identity collapse, solar colonization, and vampire love triangles, calling it Space People might not get the nuance across.

Although, to be fair, brainstorming fake titles is a phenomenal way to avoid your word count.

Ultimately? Don’t get too precious. Title it something that works for now and change it later if you have to. This process is nonlinear and messy.

Which brings me to:

Totally Real and Not-Made-Up Book Title Services You Wish Existed

NameDropper
For when you’ve been staring at the ceiling for four days and all you’ve got is “Untitled Sci-Fi Project 3.”

Title Fight
You vs. the thesaurus. Only one will survive.

The Titling Dead
Your last five rejected titles come back to haunt you…and one of them still kinda works.

Wheel of Genres
Spin once. Your title now includes either “Blood,” “Chronicles,” or “The Something of Something.” You’re welcome.

SEO No-No
Every title idea you love, cross-referenced with Google trends to make sure it’ll never show up in search results.

The Title Whisperer
“Call it Ashes and Echoes. Or maybe The Echo of Ashes. Or Ashy Echo. I dunno. You figure it out.”

If you’ve got a great titling trick, or just a hilarious fail you’d like to share, I’m all ears. I may even borrow it. For a book. Or this post.

Transported to 1986 by a Song (A Look Back at a Look Back)

Originally posted in 2019. Revisited with a little more grey hair—and maybe a little more wisdom

Music has this magical quality. It can yank you across decades in a single chord. I wrote the bones of this post back in 2019 after a particularly nostalgic drive home. Sirius XM’s 80s channel was counting down the top songs from this week in 1986, and number three was “Highway to the Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins.

Boom. Instant time machine.

It was a beautiful day, the kind that makes your memory lean in close. And with that music, I was twenty-one again. The summer of ’86. What my old roommate called the “God Summer”the stretch of time right after graduating from the U.S. Air Force Academy. We felt immortal. Young, fit, and brimming with plans. I still had a full head of hair and was ready to start my Air Force career as a pilot. At least, that was the plan.

Graduation Day May 28, 1986

Just a few months earlier, Top Gun had hit theaters. It was like pouring jet fuel on our collective dreams. Graduation was just weeks away, and we were all convinced we’d be flying fighters soon. That movie hit us like a shot of adrenaline. A few of us actually made it.

Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT) is a beast of its own. They say you can teach a monkey to fly if you give it enough bananas, but the trick is keeping up with the Air Force’s pace. Some of it was glorious. Walking off the flightline in a G-suit, helmet tucked under one arm, after a smooth T-38 sortie. I felt like Maverick. My callsign was “Woodrow.” I even rode my motorcycle home afterward. Almost comically on-brand, but it was real.

UPT Official Photo on a very windy day. Sometime in September or October 1986

Up to that point, I’d been pretty successful at whatever I put my mind to. But somewhere near the midpoint of UPT, I hit a wall. A full-blown crisis of confidence. I started to wonder if I’d make it through. That was new. And deeply humbling.

The first half of training was twelve-hour days minimum, with multiple sorties, and every spare second was spent studying instruments, procedures, and systems. At the end of a sweltering Mississippi day, my brain felt like a microwaved burrito. I’m not wired for relentless repetition, which didn’t help.

But it wasn’t all grind. We blew off steam like it was our job. Work hard, play harder. Weekends were packed with beer, dancing (yes, I was actually a good dancer, ask literally no one), and even a little FM fame. My best friend and I had a Saturday night college radio show. Eventually the pool won out, and we ditched the booth for sunshine and cannonballs. I regret nothing.

We were so young.

When I look back now, with a few more miles on the tires, I can see how much time I “wasted.” Not in a hand-wringing way, it was mostly fun, but it wasn’t productive. If I could give that version of me some advice, it’d be: find something you’re passionate about and chase it with everything you’ve got. It took me a long time to figure that out. And truthfully, I wasn’t exactly searching with a map and flashlight.

Back in 2019, I mentioned they were making a Top Gun sequel. Top Gun: Maverick hadn’t come out yet. I joked it looked like a cheesy rehash and added: “I don’t care. Take my money.”

I stand by that.

Kenny Loggins confirmed that “Danger Zone” would be in the movie, and that hit me in the gut. Because that song? It carries more than nostalgia.

It carries Pete.

Pete was a year ahead of me at the Academy. We were in the same cadet squadron, me a freshman, him a sophomore. Solid guy. At Columbus he and some of the others had a house on the edge of town with a pool, and they threw some legendary parties.

The one I remember best? Assignment night. Pete got an F-15. He cranked “Highway to the Danger Zone” on repeat, screamed the lyrics, and danced around the house like a kid who just got handed a fighter jet for Christmas. I can still see it, his joy was electric.

Pete flew for a few years, left the service, and eventually came back. He died in a crash. I don’t know the whole story, just that he was gone.

But I remember 22-year-old Pete, alive, ecstatic, fists in the air, singing that song like it was a promise. And in that moment, for him, it was.

I graduated from pilot training in the fall of ’87. Didn’t get fighters. I got the KC-135 Stratotanker. Less dogfighting, more flying gas station. But it mattered. I ended up flying tankers for 32 years. Not bad for a guy who once feared he wouldn’t make it.

Right after I got dowsed on following my last flight in the KC-135, my youngest children in the background.

Sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened if I’d found my “thing” sooner. Maybe writing. Maybe art. Maybe gaming, approached from a creative side, building worlds or writing articles for magazines. But those are just musings. Water under the bridge.

Revisiting this old post reminded me how strong those memories still are. One song, one sunny day, and I’m back in that summer. Remembering how it felt to be weightless with possibility. Remembering friends. Remembering who I was becoming.

No real regrets.

Life is good.

And it’s only getting better.

The Blob Under My Bed

How I Learned to Sleep Without Dangling Anything Ever Again

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfetterred Treacle

When I was eight years old, my parents took me to the drive-in to see a little film called Beware! The Blob. You may not remember it, and honestly, that’s probably for the best. It was a low-budget sequel to the original Blob, less horror classic, more ridiculous chaos.

I don’t remember the popcorn. I don’t remember the weather. But I remember the Blob.

For the uninitiated, the Blob is a big, goopy, blood-red mass that slides around eating people. Slowly. Relentlessly. It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t have a plan. It just absorbs everything in its path, like Jell-O with a grudge.

And that night, parked under the stars in the safety of our big American car, my brain did the thing that little kid brains are so terrifyingly good at, it rewrote reality.By the time we got home, I knew the Blob lived under my bed.

It had found its way from the screen into my room, where it now lurked, waiting for any foolish foot or wayward arm to stray over the edge. That was its moment. That was the rule. Hang off the bed? Blob bait.

For months, I slept like a professionally shrink-wrapped burrito. Tucked. Tight. No toes over the line. No dangling arms. And under no circumstances did I let my hand trail off the mattress, even when I had to pee or I desperately needed a drink of water. That was Blob territory.

Was it hokey? Absolutely. Did it stick with me? Oh yeah. Stick…it never got me actually. LOL.

What amazes me now is how powerful fear can be, especially when you’re a kid. It doesn’t matter if the monster is a bad special effect from a movie your parents thought was “silly fun.” When your brain decides something is real, it’s real.

It’s funny looking back now, of course. The special effects in Beware! The Blob were glorified ketchup and cornstarch. But to eight-year-old me? It was a documentary.

That fear, the kind that feels absurd in hindsight, teaches you something. It makes you cautious. Imaginative. Maybe even a little more empathetic to what other people are afraid of.

And if nothing else, it explains why I still don’t like sleeping with my limbs hanging off the bed.

Some habits die hard. Others ooze under the frame and wait.

Your Turn

Did you have a childhood fear that seems silly now but haunted you then? A monster, a movie, a weird noise in the basement? Let me know. I’ll be over here keeping my ankles tucked safely under the covers.

What I’ve Learned About Relationships (So far)

The Ultimate Long-Form Character Development Arc

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfetterred Treacle

You don’t stay married for nearly 30 years without learning a few things. Sometimes the easy way, sometimes the “oops-I-shouldn’t-have-said-that” way. Relationships are funny things, full of joy, compromise, miscommunication, shared coffee hot drink orders (my wife hates coffee,) and the occasional strategic blanket tug.

1. Honesty Really  Is  the Best Policy

It sounds basic, but it’s the bedrock. You can’t build anything lasting if you’re constantly trying to remember what version of the truth you told. My wife and I don’t lie to each other. Ever. That level of trust didn’t happen overnight, but now it’s second nature. And bonus, I never have to keep track of elaborate cover stories. She already knows everything. (Sometimes before I do.)

2. Lead with a Servant Heart

I know, it sounds like a line from a church bulletin. But what I mean is, put each other first. And no, not in a doormat kind of way. If both people are looking out for each other’s well-being, things tend to balance out beautifully. It’s like synchronized generosity. The trick? It has to go both ways, or resentment creeps in faster than cold pizza vanishes from the fridge.

3. Communication: Use It or Lose It

Most problems in relationships aren’t huge problems. They’re misunderstandings that fester. Just say the thing. Even if it’s weird or uncomfortable. Even if it’s “I didn’t sleep well because your elbow was on my kidney.” Talk early. Talk often. Keep each other in the loop. And remember, silence isn’t golden, it’s just confusing. My wife and I are both cancer widows after long marriages and we started with openness and heavy communication right from the first few conversations we had. It’s been magical. Simple, but so hard for so many.

4. Apologize (Even When It’s Not Your Fault)

Sometimes someone just has to go first. Not to take the blame, but to break the ice. Pride is a terrible third wheel and a horrible plan for happiness. A well-timed “I’m sorry” is a powerful thing. And let’s be honest, making up is way more fun than sulking.

5. Set Expectations Out Loud

Your partner isn’t psychic. If you expect something, say it. Don’t assume. Don’t drop hints like a sitcom spouse in a holiday episode. Just be clear. You’ll both be happier, and no one ends up fuming because someone forgot it was “your turn” to unload the dishwasher in 1998. Early and often. Don’t make your partner guess.

6. Be Curious About Your Partner

This one’s underrated. Don’t just live next to your partner, live with them. Ask questions. Learn what makes them tick (and what ticks them off). Take an interest in their interests, even if you don’t share them. You don’t have to become a knitwear enthusiast or know every character on their favorite murder show, but your curiosity is a form of love. And it keeps the connection fresh. I actually have a list I keep of her favorite things, like Angelina’s Chocolate from Paris, or that Songbird by Fleetwood Mac is one of her favorite songs.

7. You’re Not Responsible for Their Happiness (But You Can Help Make Room for It)

This one took me a while. You can’t make someone happy, and it’s not your job to fix all their bad days. But you can create space for joy. You can do little things that lighten the load. You can be their safe place to land. It’s not about solving their life, it’s about showing up for it.

8. Cultivate Shared Joy

Having mutual interests helps. Shared joy builds shared memories, and shared memories are the glue. Whether it’s a hobby, a show, a band, or a mutual disdain for folding laundry, find your “us” things. They’re worth the time. Laugh at the ridiculous things that happen. Humor is one of the best salves for any problem and the more you can laugh together, the better.

9. Look for the Good, Not the Gaps

In long-term relationships, it’s easy to start tallying the things your partner isn’t doing. Try to focus instead on what they are doing. Gratitude softens the edges of daily life. It turns “why didn’t they…?” into “I’m glad they did.”

10. Sometimes Listening Is the Fix

Okay fellas, lean in for this one: they don’t always want you to fix it. (In fact, they rarely do.) What they want is for you to listen. Really listen. Not the kind where you’re secretly assembling a three-step solution while nodding supportively. Just be present. Let them vent. Validate the feeling. And if you’re not sure whether to offer advice or just be quiet? Ask. Trust me, “Do you want me to listen or help brainstorm?” is relationship gold.

Final Thoughts

Love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a practice. A long, weird, wonderful, often funny practice that you get to do every day. And if you’re lucky, you get to learn from the same person, over and over again.

What about you? What’s one relationship truth you’ve learned the hard (or hilarious) way? What’s the best (or weirdest) relationship advice you’ve ever gotten or given? Drop it in the comments. I’m always learning.

The Case for Complicated Villains

(Or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Antagonist)

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfetterred Treacle

For a long time, I wrote stories without proper villains.

Not out of rebellion. It just sort of…happened. The tension in my books usually came from systems, secrets, or internal struggle, more “man vs. society” or “man vs. existential dread” than “man vs. mustache-twirler.” I thought that was fine. I’d heard all the advice about needing a strong antagonist, but I shrugged and wrote anyway.

I’m reminded of Rustlers’ Rhapsody.

If you haven’t seen it, it’s a Western spoof starring Tom Berenger as Rex O’Herlihan, the classic singing cowboy from the 1940s and 50s. He’s square-jawed, well-meaning, always wins his fights, and never swears. He also knows he’s in a certain kind of series. The kind where good guys wear white hats and villains are conveniently evil and wear black. Simple. Predictable.

Until one day, a different kind of villain shows up.

A man in a white hat. Soft-spoken. Reasonable. Full of nuance. And he does the most dastardly thing imaginable. He makes Rex question himself.

Is he even the hero anymore? Is he still the good guy? Is he, gasp, confident in his sexuality? He never kissed the girl at the end of the episode (or other more explicit things.)

That moment stuck with me. Because that’s what a great antagonist does. They don’t just get in the way, they get under the protagonist’s skin. They challenge not just goals, but identity. They turn the story from a shootout into a psychological rodeo.

When I finally added a true antagonist to my last book, after many rewrites, POV shifts, and a gender merry-go-round, everything came into focus. The villain wasn’t pure evil (he was pretty bad though.) He had a past, a worldview, a reason. And that made him dangerous. Not because of what he did, but because of what he revealed in the protagonist. But even then It was an afterthought. A fix in postproduction.

Same thing happened in my current WIP. I started out villain-less, as usual, and the story meandered. I ended up adding one in late, postproduction again. But when I sat down for the rewrite and built an antagonist who believed he was the hero? Suddenly, the narrative tightened. The stakes sharpened. My main character had someone to push against and that friction created sparks and completely changed his focus.

I still think you can write a good story without a traditional antagonist. But if your plot feels soft around the edges, or your protagonist isn’t evolving, ask yourself this.

Who’s pressing on them? Who’s making them uncomfortable?

Not all villains need to wear black hats. Sometimes the best ones dress just like your hero and ask better questions.

So how do you build a villain like that?

Here are a few things I’ve learned:

They have to want something.

And not something generic like “power” or “chaos.” I mean something specific. Personal. Tangible. The kind of thing that puts them on a collision course with your protagonist. A good villain isn’t just evil, they’re in the way. Even better? They might be right.

They believe they’re the hero.

This one’s cliché because it’s true. Your antagonist should have a code, maybe even a noble one. They’re just willing to cross a few more lines to uphold it. If your reader can understand them (even if they don’t agree with them), you’ve got something potent.

They make your protagonist  react.

A good villain doesn’t just oppose the hero, they reveal them. Their presence should force hard choices. Compromise. Change. If your protagonist can stay the same person from beginning to end, the antagonist isn’t doing enough.

They should have limits.

Even the scariest antagonists need boundaries. Maybe they won’t hurt children. Maybe they secretly hope they’ll lose. The edges of their darkness can make them more interesting and more human.

Bonus points if they’re charming.

Not necessary, but oh-so-fun. A villain with a sense of humor, or a touch of style, or a seductive bit of charisma is more dangerous because they’re hard to hate. If your reader loves them a little, you’re doing something right.

At the end of the day, your antagonist is one half of the engine driving your story. They’re not just the obstacle, they’re the test. The crucible. The mirror. And if they’re doing their job, they’ll make your protagonist shine brighter by forcing them through the fire.

So. Who’s standing in your hero’s way? And what do they believe in so fiercely, they’re willing to become the villain in someone else’s story?

Writer Brain: A Survival Guide for the People Who Love Us

A Field Guide to Your Friendly Neighborhood Narrative Goblin

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If you live with a writer, love a writer, or just occasionally share space with one, you may have noticed some unusual behaviors: far-off stares, muttering at odd hours, sudden emotional reactions to fictional events, and a total inability to answer a simple question like “Can you be normal for like five minutes?” (Even after making direct eye contact.)

Congratulations. You’re dealing with Writer Brain.

It’s not a condition. It’s a lifestyle. And yes, it’s contagious, but only if you live with us or stand too close to the story board.

Here’s your field guide to surviving (and maybe even appreciating) life with someone whose brain is always in draft mode.

The Zoning-Out Phenomenon

Writers don’t always live in the moment. Sometimes we live in six alternate timelines where our main character is about to be kidnapped, dumped, or get a new haircut that changes everything.

What it looks like: Blank stares. Unblinking silence. Delayed responses, or no response at all.

Things to try: Gently wave a cookie in front of us until eye contact is restored. Or whisper, “I brought snacks,” and back away slowly. Or alternatively, “Murderbot is on.”

The Dialogue Loop

We rehearse conversations. A lot. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes while pacing. Sometimes while brushing our teeth.

What it looks like: Whispered arguments with nobody present. Startling laughter in an empty room.

Things to try: Do not assume we’re talking to you. We aren’t. (Unless we say your name. Then, probably.)

Sudden Emotional Whiplash

We may cry in the car because a character died. Or rage at dinner because a scene isn’t working.

What it looks like: Mood swings with no real-world trigger. Possibly shouting “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO HER?” at the Word doc.

Things to try: Nod, listen, and do not suggest we take a break. We’re already spiraling. Offer a hug.

Unusual Google History

We research things. Strange things. Things that may worry your neighbors.

What it looks like: “How to remove bloodstains,” “What poisons are traceable,” or “How fast does a body decompose in space?” Perhaps the FBI has shown up at your door.

Things to try: Do not panic. It’s fiction. Most likely. (If we start muttering in Latin and lighting candles, maybe check in.)

Writing Time is Not Talk Time

When we’re writing, we are mentally in another universe. Even if we’re sitting right next to you.

What it looks like: Headphones in. Blank document open. Occasional sighing.

Things to try: Wait until the typing stops, or slide us a note like it’s 8th grade algebra. Tapping us may startle us badly. Like, a balloon popping next to your ear bad.

We Use You for Material

Yes, we steal from real life. That funny thing you said? In chapter six now. That fight we had? Heavily fictionalized. Probably. I mean certainly.

What it looks like: A character with disturbingly familiar dialogue.

Things to try: Take it as a compliment. You made the cut. The good news is it’s likely a positive inclusion, not like the people that piss us off, who become villains or people that die horrible deaths. In the story of course.

Book Launch Mode = Emotional Combustion

Publishing a book is like birthing a grouchy baby and then throwing it to wolves. With a press release.

What it looks like: Imposter syndrome. Mood swings. Obsessive refreshes of Amazon rankings. Almost as much as I refresh my Substack feed.

Things to try: Say, “I’m proud of you,” and mean it. Then hide the wine.

The Vanishing Act

Sometimes we disappear into writing marathons. It might be a writing deadline or just inspiration, which can be fickle and fleeting at times. This may happen late at night, early in the morning, or during what was supposed to be a casual Sunday.

What it looks like: Lights on at 2 a.m. Coffee mugs multiplying. A cryptic Post-it note that says, “Don’t knock. Mid-scene.”

Things to try: Let us ride the wave. If we’re lucky, we’ll emerge with a completed chapter, or at least a coherent sentence, and only mild caffeine tremors.

The Research Rabbit Hole

It starts innocently, just looking up how long it takes to sail from Lisbon to Mumbai. Three hours later we’re experts on 16th-century nautical knotwork and Portuguese shipboard recipes.

What it looks like: Tabs. So many tabs. A glazed look. A faint scent of overheated synapses.

Things to try: Ask if we’ve remembered to eat. Then ask again. We probably didn’t hear you the first time.

Plotting in the Shower

The hot water is magic. It opens the brain portals. Whole plot arcs are born between shampoo and conditioner.

What it looks like: A shriek from the bathroom followed by “I HAVE TO WRITE THIS DOWN!” and a damp writer running past you in a towel, leaving chaos and steam in their wake.

Best response: Hand us a notebook. Don’t ask questions. Just accept that your loofah may now contain spoilers.

The Read-Aloud Trap

We will absolutely ask you to listen to something we just wrote. Maybe it’s a paragraph. Maybe it’s twenty pages. We’ll say, “Just tell me what you think.” But what we mean is, “Tell me it’s perfect or lie creatively.” (actually, I want real feedback, but your mileage may vary)

What it looks like: Puppy eyes. An open laptop. A sudden performance of chapter three.

Things to try: Drop everything and listen. Be honest, but gentle. Offer praise before critique. And know that “reading a thing” may become a recurring ritual.

The Post-Rejection Ice Cream Ritual

Every writer hits a wall sometimes. Maybe it’s a form rejection. Maybe it’s a critique that hit too close. Maybe we just re-read something we wrote at 2 a.m. and now need to make peace with the universe.

What it looks like: Melancholy sighs. The slow unwrapping of a spoon. An empty pint of rocky road and a thousand-yard stare.

Things to try: Bring backup ice cream. Sit quietly nearby. Say things like, “You’re brilliant,” and, “That agent has no vision.” Bonus points if you can quote our own work back at us.

Final Note

We love you. We really do. Even when we forget to text back, miss part of the movie, or pause mid-conversation to scribble something down. Thank you for being the anchor that lets us drift into fictional chaos and still come home, back to reality.

If you ever wonder whether it’s worth it, just remember, we probably wrote you into the story. And you were awesome.

I’m Always in Deep POV

(A confession, a defense, and possibly a warning label)

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The other day, my wife said something to me. I don’t know what it was. I didn’t hear it. Didn’t even register the sound.

I distinctly remember her letting the dog out, using my amazing peripheral vision, then I lost the thread, because I was back in Deep POV.

We were sitting outside on our beautiful deck in the sunshine. I was mid-scene. Typing, staring, obsessing over a line that was either brilliant or awful. I wouldn’t know until later. Time ceased to exist.

A minute or two later, I have no idea, it might have been an hour, but I come up for air as my son steps outside to let us know he is going to bring our other dog out. (Those two cannot be in the same space, they will go at each other) So I look around for the other dog. I tell him to hold on because she is out here.

My wife says, “I told you I was putting her inside.”

Sorry. Missed it.

I was in deep POV.

Like, really deep. The kind of narrative state where you no longer have a body. You are the character. You’re bleeding into the page. You are the dialogue. Your spouse could be juggling flaming swords in the kitchen and you’d just wonder vaguely if it smells like popcorn.

Later, she commented on my lack of attention.

My dry-witted reply? “I’m always in deep POV.”

She burst out laughing so hard I thought she might drop her tea. I don’t blame her.

But the thing is…I was only sort of kidding, and she knew it.

Look I get it, it’s pretty aweful. I should actually be paying attention to her, but I’m trying to finish this rewrite. She is very understanding. Amazing really. Really.

What  Is  Deep POV (for the blissfully unaware)?

It’s writer speak for when you inhabit a character so completely that you remove all narrative distance. You don’t say “she felt angry.” You say: He was late. Again. You don’t say “he realized he was in danger.” You say: The air shifted. Too quiet. Too still.

Deep POV is writing without a safety net. It’s full immersion. It’s storytelling without a narrator’s seatbelt.

It’s also apparently a really solid excuse for not hearing your spouse ask if you took the chicken out of the freezer. (I didn’t.)

Side Effects May Include:

Talking to yourself in character voices.Zoning out during real conversations because you’re mentally rewriting imaginary ones.Answering questions ten minutes after they were asked.Tuning out during meetings to mentally storyboard your next chapter.Narrating your own life in third person.Accidentally calling your spouse by your main character’s name (do not recommend).

So yes. I’m always in deep POV.

It’s not just how I write. It’s how I am now.

Sorry in advance if I miss your birthday party or forget to pick up milk.

It’s not personal. I’m just currently inside the head of a sarcastic hacker trying to defuse a situation with a vampire technocrat.

You know. Tuesday stuff.

The One Thing Indie and Trad Authors Agree On (Besides Coffee)

Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Mailing List

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Writers don’t talk about mailing lists at cocktail parties. We talk about story ideas, bad reviews, and how our characters are misbehaving. But behind every author who makes this thing work, indie or trad, is a mailing list.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not fast. And it kind of feels like yelling into a mailbox at first. But trust me, it’s the single most powerful, reliable tool you’ll ever have as a writer.

And yes, I know how boring that sounds. But give me a minute, because this thing matters.

Nobody Wants to Build One

It’s not sexy. It’s not instant. It doesn’t go viral. It’s the literary equivalent of flossing. We know we should do it, we don’t, and then we regret it when our gums bleed at launch time.

And at first? It feels pointless. You put a form on your website and two people sign up, your mom and someone who meant to download a coupon.

But that’s how it starts for everyone.

It’s the Only Thing You Own

Social media is a rental. The algorithm giveth, and the algorithm taketh away.

Your mailing list? That’s yours. You can download it. Move it. Take it with you. Use it to launch your next book or tell your readers about your next weird project.

If Instagram bans your account, or Twitter catches fire (again), your list still works. And it’s still yours.

What a Mailing List Actually Does

Launches your book (people on your list are your warmest leads.) Keeps readers engaged between releases. Lets you test ideas, share bonuses, build loyalty. Creates long-term relationships instead of chasing viral moments. It’s portable, meaning you can integrate it into different platforms to feed into it. Also? It makes you look like a professional. Because you are one.

So Where Do You Get This Magical Mailing List?

Let’s talk mailing list services. These are the platforms that store your subscribers, let you send emails, and manage the behind-the-scenes stuff.

1. Mailchimp

The Coca-Cola of email platforms.

Pros:

Solid templates and automationsDecent free tier (up to 500 subs)

Cons:

Free plan has gotten stingierClunky interfaceNot author-focused

Verdict: Okay for beginners, but not the friendliest option for writers.

2. MailerLite

The indie darling.

Pros:

Author-friendlyGreat automationsFree for up to 1,000 subs

Cons:

Slightly fewer integrations

Verdict: A great option for most authors starting out.

This is what I use.3. Substack

You’re here already.

Pros:

Easy to useBuilt-in audience discoveryNo up-front cost

Cons:

Less control, no gated content or magnetsLimited segmentation or automation

Verdict: Excellent starting point. Can be paired with another service later.

4. ConvertKit

For the detail nerds.

Pros:

Powerful automationsClean interfaceFree up to 1,000 subs

Cons:

Slightly steeper learning curve

Verdict: Great for serious long-term growth.

5. BookFunnel (paired with MailerLite or ConvertKit)

For delivering free stories or samples.

Verdict: Ideal if you’re using reader magnets to build your list.

Even If You Only Have 10 People…

That’s 10 people who chose to hear from you. That’s 10 more than you had last week. That’s a village. A launch squad. A seed.

It grows. Quietly. Organically. And then one day, it matters more than anything else.

I also recommend downloading the list periodically to safeguard it. You can export and import email addresses.

TL;DRStart now. Don’t wait until launch week.Pick a platform that won’t make you hate your life.Put your signup link everywhere.Treat your readers like friends, not customers.Your mailing list is your long game.

It’s not glamorous. But neither is compound interest.

And both will carry you farther than you think.

Youthful Dreams of Greatness

Growing up weird and hopeful in a world that didn’t know what to do with either

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When I was young, my best friend and I started learning Elvish. Yes, that Elvish—Tolkien’s, complete with Tengwar script and breathy pronunciation guides. We kept a notecard tucked into our school stuff so we could pass secret messages in class, dreaming of other worlds just beyond the veil of this one.

I grew up in West Virginia in the late ’60s and early ’70s. No internet. No cable. We were about ten years behind the rest of the country in just about everything, except imagination. The mountains kept the signal out, but they also kept the magic in. And when you grow up surrounded by trees and silence, your mind fills in the blank space with stories.

I wasn’t learning Elvish just for fun. I was training. Preparing. Just in case someone showed up one day and whispered, “You’ve been left behind. But we’ve come back for you.”

I didn’t want to be Frodo. I wanted to be the elf who walked in halfway through the story—mysterious, ancient, and already fluent in the language no one else could speak. I didn’t want to be normal, because I didn’t feel like I belonged to the world around me. I wanted that to mean something.

Looking back, I think I just wanted to feel exceptional. Not famous. Not rich. Just…different in a way that mattered.

And maybe that’s the root of a lot of creative ambition. That quiet, childlike hope that the world is more than it seems, and maybe, if you write well enough, dream big enough, or stay strange enough, someone might show up and say, “You were right. You didn’t imagine it. You belong somewhere else.”

They haven’t shown up, yet.

But I still have the notecard. (Not really, but it felt like a cool ending to this.)