Hieronymus Hawkes's Blog, page 4

The Residence: How Netflix Snuck a Visual Masterclass Into a Murder Mystery

Visual Storytelling at its Finest

The Residence Official Trailor

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Have you ever watched something and felt like you could breathe in the storytelling? Like it wasn’t just happening on the screen. It was seeping into the room around you?
That’s exactly what happened to me with Netflix’s new show The Residence.

On the surface, it’s a murder mystery set inside the White House. But really?
It’s a full-on masterclass in visual storytelling. And honestly, it’s one of the most satisfying narrative experiences I’ve had in a long time.

The White House Isn’t Just a Setting, It’s a Character

One of the coolest things The Residence does is make the White House feel alive.
Every hallway, every servant’s passage, every grand state room, it’s all telling you something without a single line of dialogue.
Where a conversation happens matters just as much as what’s said. You can almost feel the weight of tradition pressing down in some rooms, or the slippery secrets hiding in others.

It’s the kind of environmental storytelling that sneaks up on you, where you’re absorbing more than you even realize.

Color and Light Do Half the Work (In the Best Way)

The show’s color palette shifts without ever slapping you in the face.
At first, things are warm, golden, inviting, but as the investigation deepens, everything starts cooling off. Blues, greens, and sickly fluorescents start creeping in, until you feel the tension in your bones, even before you know why.

Those Mid-Dialogue Cutaways? Absolute Genius

Another thing I adored was how the show cuts to other characters right in the middle of Cordelia’s (Uzo Aduba’s) dialogue. But it’s not random! Every cut gives you someone else’s perspective: a little flinch, a raised eyebrow, a silent judgment. It’s their version of events bleeding into the story, and sometimes not with words, but with glances and body language.

It makes the whole thing feel bigger and messier, and so much more human.

I’m usually wary of shows that mess around too much with timelines. It’s so easy to make it confusing just to seem clever. But The Residence nails it. The back-and-forth between the present-day congressional hearing and the flashbacks are so tightly woven that every shift pulls the story tighter.
You always know where you are emotionally, even if the facts are still fuzzy.
And when the two timelines start crashing into each other toward the end?
Chef’s kiss. Absolutely seamless.

The Congressional Hearing: The Secret MVP

Using the congressional hearing as the backbone of the story was such a smart move.
It gives everything this sense of gravity, like even the pettiest little slight or screw-up back then could have massive consequences now.
It turns what could have been a standard whodunit into something way sharper and more cutting.

Also? It’s Really, Really Funny

For a murder mystery, The Residence is surprisingly funny, but never in a way that cheapens the tension.
It doesn’t take itself too seriously, even though we are talking about a murder in the White House. The humor comes from sharp dialogue, sideways glances, awkward silences, and the kind of deadpan reactions that feel too real to be scripted.
Uzo Aduba in particular nails that balance. Cordelia is brilliant, awkward, blunt, and hilarious, often all in the same breath. And Capitol Police Chief Larry Dokes (Isiah Whitlock, Jr.) has some deadpan one-liners that are gold.

There are moments that made me laugh out loud, even as the tension was still thick in the air.
It’s not “joke-driven” humor. It’s character-driven humor, the kind that makes all the characters feel more alive and makes the gut-punch moments hit even harder.

So many moments of real humor that are perfect for each character.

I especially enjoyed the sidekick role FBI agent Edwin Park (Randall Park) plays. A perfect foil for Cordelia.

A Quick Shoutout to Paul William Davies

Also, can we take a second to appreciate the guy who built this whole thing?
Paul William Davies, who you might know from Scandal and For the People, is the creator and showrunner of The Residence.
The idea for the show apparently came after he watched a real C-SPAN hearing where a former White House Chief Usher described the inner workings of the residence.
Davies imagined the White House like a giant Clue board…and now I can’t see it any other way.

Fun fact: He wrote all eight episodes himself. Which explains why the tone and rhythm are so airtight; there’s this beautiful consistency throughout, even with the nonlinear structure and massive cast.

Also?
He made Cordelia a birdwatcher and worked with real birding experts to tie that into how she sees the world and solves the mystery.
Tiny touch. Massive payoff.

Why It All Hits So Hard

At the end of the day, The Residence works because it trusts you.
It knows you’ll notice the flickers, the glances, the shifts in light.
It lets the story breathe through you instead of yelling it at you.

It’s not just smart writing (though it is). It’s storytelling with depth, texture, and heart. The kind of thing that sticks to your ribs long after the credits roll.

If you haven’t watched it yet, I can’t recommend it enough.

What Happened When We Chased a Book Event to Cincinnati

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Last week, my wife and I took an overnight trip to Cincinnati. We love the Queen City, and we never need much of an excuse to go, but this time, we had a great one.

Jane Friedman was launching the updated edition of her book at the historic Mercantile Library.

Jane Friedman launching her “new” book at the Mercantile Library.

I say “new” in quotes because the book is a revised version of her excellent The Business of Being a Writer, which originally received a starred review from Library Journal and is widely used as a classroom text in writing and publishing degree programs.

But a lot has changed in the industry since it first came out. The rise of self-publishing, eBooks, and especially the explosion of social media, hello, BookTok, have reshaped the writing business in ways that few could’ve predicted. Jane wanted to refresh the book to reflect those shifts, and I’m so glad she did. (The new book releases on April 18th)

Also, I just really like Jane.

I started following her newsletter close to its debut nearly ten years ago, and I’ve been a fan ever since. She’s one of the most gracious, unassuming people you’ll ever meet, and yet she’s a total rock star in the publishing world. A respected industry veteran, she’s been guest faculty at creative writing programs across the country and has keynoted and taught workshops at hundreds of writing and publishing events around the globe.

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We had the chance to spend some time with her and her husband Mark after the event, and it was a truly lovely evening.

If you’re not familiar with Jane, she’s been the go-to authority on publishing industry news for over a decade. Her insight is always clear-eyed, practical, and generous, whether you’re traditionally published, indie, or somewhere in between.

The event itself was held at the Mercantile Library, a beautiful venue in downtown Cincinnati that regularly hosts top-name authors. I couldn’t help but imagine how cool it would be to do a reading in their stunning green room on the top floor.

If you’re curious about the space, here’s a little background:
Mercantile Library History

While we were in town, we also stopped at one of our favorite spots: Findlay Market. It’s Ohio’s oldest continuously operated public market, and the food options there are absolutely incredible. From specialty meats and cheeses to fresh produce and baked goods, the variety is flabbergasting. There are also some wonderful shops tucked around the perimeter. Every time we visit we find something new to love.

From there, we swung by Artichoke, a curated cookware boutique with serious culinary charm, then headed to the Cincinnati Art Museum. The museum features an impressive collection with a strong emphasis on the city’s contributions to American decorative arts. Cincinnati was once a hub for art pottery, silverware, and handcrafted furniture from the late 1700s through the mid-1900s, and the museum does a fantastic job showcasing that history.

After lunch, we wrapped up our trip with a visit to Joseph-Beth Booksellers, one of the most impressive independent bookstores in the region. (We were just a week too early to catch John Scalzi there. Next time!)

Needless to say, we can’t wait to return. Cincinnati never disappoints.

Hieronymus Hawkes’ Unified Theory of Fiction

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Where:

Ch = Characters (depth × relatability × arc complexity)

Se = Setting (detail × immersion factor)

Pint = Internal Plot (emotional stakes × character growth)

Pext = External Plot (action × consequence × suspense)

Cf = Conflict (intensity × complexity × resolution satisfaction)

POV = Point of View clarity (consistency × engagement)

Pc = Pacing (balance × momentum)

St = Structure (cohesion × logical progression)

Tm = Theme resonance (universality × insightfulness)

Kf = Coefficient of Fiction (degree of imaginative freedom × suspension of disbelief)

How it works:

Multiply characters by internal plot (emotional story depth) and setting by external plot (immersive action and excitement).Add conflict because conflict always makes stories juicier.Divide by POV, pacing, and structure, because poor execution here weakens the entire formula!Multiply by the resonance of your theme and the crucial “Coefficient of Fiction,” your wildcard for stretching imagination (the higher, the merrier, within reason).

Example Usage:

If your novel has incredibly rich characters and powerful internal arcs, but is hampered by weak pacing or unclear POV, the formula will yield a lower overall “Story” score, reminding writers that the devil’s in the details and execution matters!

When Your Side Character Grabs the Wheel (and Drives Off With the Plot)

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I gave them three lines.
That’s it. Three perfectly reasonable lines of dialogue. One was even just “Huh.”

They were supposed to walk on, deliver some exposition, maybe smirk enigmatically, and then disappear back into the narrative ether from whence they came.

Instead, they lit a metaphorical cigarette, pulled up a chair they were never offered, and refused to leave. They renamed themselves something cooler. They got better lines. And then, God help me, they started getting fan mail from my beta readers.

Meanwhile, my protagonist, who I carefully designed with trauma, goals, and a three-act structure, is now sitting in the corner like a sad loaf of sourdough, wondering why nobody wants to hear their character arc anymore.

Ok, none of that actually happened, but you get the idea.

Writers don’t always like to admit this, but sometimes, the character who’s supposed to be a side dish ends up being the main course. They show up with more charisma, more voice, and more unhinged energy than anyone else on the page. They are chaos goblins wrapped in charm, and we love them for it.

Unfortunately, they also make your main character look like an unpaid intern.

You know the one. The morally gray engineer with a tragic past and a smug look. The best friend who was supposed to die in Act II but won’t stop stealing scenes with sarcastic wisdom and suspiciously well-timed monologues. Or the bartender who got one paragraph and now has a love triangle and a five-book arc.

Because side characters are free. They don’t have to carry the emotional weight of the plot.

They don’t need to be relatable or reliable. They just need to be interesting. They get the punchy lines, the wild quirks, the surprise knife in their boot. And they don’t have to worry about emotional growth unless it’s sexy, tragic, or both.

Main characters, on the other hand? They have responsibilities. They have to have arcs and backstory wounds and make decisions that aren’t completely terrible (unless your protagonist is an antihero.) They’re under constant scrutiny. They’re the narrative equivalent of the designated driver. Important? Yes. Fun? Not always.

So, what do you do about it? That depends. If your side character is simply upstaging your protagonist because they’re more dynamic…it might be time to do some work on your main character. Give them more agency. Let them be weird. Let them say the thing out loud that they’ve been bottling up since chapter one. Let them bleed a little.

But if your side character has grabbed the story like it owes them money and refuses to give it back…well, maybe that’s your story now. Sometimes the spotlight shifts for a reason.

Characters tell you what they want.

And sometimes what they want is your entire plot outline shredded and fed to a space goat while they monologue from a balcony with excellent lighting.

A Cautionary Tale (from Me)

One of my side characters, let’s call her Kasia (because that’s literally her name,) was supposed to be an occasional voice of opposition. A little spice. A complication.

She ended up being my favorite character in Effacement. She said the things the other characters wouldn’t. She was smart (smart-assed mostly) and funny and was hella fun to write.

I didn’t plan for her to take over. But when she did? I ended up giving some of her scenes to another character to tone her down a little. Still not sure that was the right call.

Funny thing is, I’m now planning another book, with Kasia as the protagonist.
She’s finally getting her turn in the spotlight.

There’s a very real possibility that someone else, some scrappy, unpredictable side character with too much charm and not enough boundaries, is going to waltz into her story and steal it right out from under her. Poetic justice? Maybe.

I like to imagine her reacting the same way I did:
With confusion, mild offense, and a grudging admiration.
Maybe even a little pride.

“So, this is what it feels like,” she’ll say, scowling while someone else delivers the killer line.
“Tough gig.”

We’ll see how she handles it.

What’s the Moral Here?

Side characters are like raccoons. Fascinating, chaotic, and not to be trusted around your carefully arranged garbage. But sometimes, they find something in the trash worth keeping.

Your main character is the meal. But that doesn’t mean the side dish gets to run for office. You’ll have to find the balance or make your protagonist more interesting or rewrite the whole damned thing. Easy right?

Have you ever had a character hijack your story? Did you fight it, or give in and rewrite everything? Let me know in the comments. And if you’re reading this, Kasia, you still owe me an ending.

Dear First Draft: It’s Not You, It’s Me (Okay, It’s You)

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Dear First Draft,

We need to talk.

No, don’t panic, this isn’t that kind of breakup. We’ve come a long way together. You were there when the idea first lit up my brain like a busted neon sign at 3 a.m. You were patient while I fumbled around in the dark, throwing words on the page like spaghetti at a wall. You didn’t judge me when I used the word just seventeen times in one paragraph. For that alone, I thank you.

But here’s the thing, you’re…a hot mess. What we have isn’t working.

You’re soggy in the middle, your dialogue sounds like a soap opera written by a sleep-deprived AI, and let’s be honest, you don’t get to the heart of the story for two hundred pages. Your pacing has the grace of a drunk three-legged llama.

And yet, I love you. Or at least I love what you represent.

You’re proof that I showed up. That I committed. That I fought through the blank page and said, “Cram it, inner critic.” You’re the ugly, glorious, necessary step between nothing and something.

But now it’s time.

Time to cut your overlong scenes and all those cliches and echo words. And so much telling instead of showing. All that backstory that we worked so hard on together. It really doesn’t all have to be in there. Time to kill that side character who added nothing but snarky one-liners and little else. Time to replace all those filter words that put distance between you and the reader. Time to get rid of all the descriptions of beautiful places we thought of together that have nothing to do with the story. You remember the ones.

And yes, it’s going to hurt. I’m going to curse your name. I’m going to wonder what I was thinking when I wrote that mixed-metaphor about hitting it out of the park before the ship sailed. But deep down, we both know this has to happen.

Because I want you to grow into your full potential.
I want you to be immersive. Tight. Unputdownable.
I want readers to love you the way I wanted to love you on page one.

So, thank you, First Draft. For being brave enough to be bad.
I’ll fix you now. (Or at least try)
And someday, we’ll look back on this and laugh.

(Probably.)

With deep affection,
Me

Are We Nearing Peak AI?

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I’m not too worried about the whole “technological singularity” thing, you know, the one where AI gets so smart it takes over everything and changes the world forever. That might be something to think about someday far off, but it’s not what’s been on my mind lately.

What I’ve been wondering is this: what if we’re actually closer to the high-water mark of AI than we think?

Not because the tech is running out of steam, but because the world it depends on is starting to show cracks.

We keep hearing about AI dominating the future, spreading everywhere, transforming everything. But what if those predictions are a little overblown? What if the real limit on AI isn’t how good our technological capability is, but whether the world can keep the lights on?

The Cracks in the Foundation

AI doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It runs on semiconductors, rare earths, high-bandwidth data networks, satellites, and server farms big enough to make a coal plant blush. And all of that? It depends on a global system that’s feeling more fragile by the day.

Between trade wars, tariffs, and the general messiness of international politics, we’re looking at some serious pressure on the systems that keep the tech world spinning. The current tariff landscape alone is enough to give economists indigestion, and there’s talk we might hit a global recession before the year’s out. That kind of squeeze makes it harder to keep building and powering the AI infrastructure we’ve come to expect.

The End of Calm Seas?

Since World War II, the U.S. Navy took on the job of keeping the sea lanes open. That was part of the Bretton Woods system, make trade safe, keep the world humming. It worked. For decades, American warships helped maintain peace on the water, and that meant reliable shipping routes for everything from coffee beans to cobalt.

But times are changing. The Navy’s aging. Budgets are tight. Priorities are shifting. And as Peter Zeihan has pointed out more than once, we might be looking at the slow sunset of the Pax Americana—the peaceful(ish) global order that made the modern global economy possible.

No Navy watching the seas? That means more piracy, more regional conflict, and more uncertainty in global shipping. And guess what needs stable shipping? Chips. Data centers. The entire AI ecosystem.

AI Is a Global Puzzle

Most folks think of AI as software, but the truth is, it’s hardware-heavy. You need silicon wafers from Taiwan, cobalt from the Congo, copper wiring, rare earth minerals, and massive data centers connected by undersea fiber. And to build just one advanced chip, you’re looking at supply chains that involve thousands of companies across dozens of countries.

Did you know? The semiconductor supply chain touches over 9,000 companies around the globe. That’s a lot of moving parts—and a lot of chances for something to go wrong.

We’ve already seen some warning signs: chip shortages, trade restrictions, nations starting to hoard key resources. And the tech world? It’s starting to split into rival camps—each with its own standards, rules, and systems.

If that trend continues, scaling up AI the way we have might become less feasible. Not impossible, but a lot harder, and a lot more expensive.

Are We Already Leveling Off?

Here’s the other thing: even the tech itself might be slowing down a bit. Some of the latest research is showing diminishing returns when it comes to training ever-bigger language models. Larger computers doesn’t always equal better results. You still need good data, smart design, and some human common sense.

And when you factor in rising hardware costs and geopolitical roadblocks, you start to wonder if we’re approaching a natural plateau.

Zeihan and others think we’re entering an age of deglobalization, where countries focus more on self-reliance, less on cross-border collaboration. That’s not exactly the best setup for building world-spanning AI systems, not to mention the ability to create the top end chips that AI relies on.

So, What Happens Next?

Don’t get me wrong, AI isn’t going away. It’s still going to shape the future. But we might see a shift from “bigger and faster” to “practical and more efficient.” Think less moonshot, more toolbox.

Instead of big, global AI, we might get lots of regional ones, each with its own quirks and rules. Some open source. Some locked down. Some focused on innovation, others built for control.

We don’t need AI to be godlike. We just need it to be useful, and maybe a little less dependent on a world order that’s looking shakier by the minute.

So yeah, I’m not worried about the rise of the machines. I’m more interested in whether the global conveyor belt that feeds them will keep running.

What do you think? Are we nearing the top of the AI curve, or just catching our breath?

Book Review: Between You & Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen by Mary Norris

Grammar has never been this funny (or this profane).

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Mary Norris spent more than three decades wrangling commas, hyphens, and the occasional authorial ego as a copy editor at The New Yorker. In Between You & Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen, she blends memoir, grammar geekery, and a delightfully salty sense of humor into one thoroughly entertaining read. It was a 2016 Thurber Prize nominee for American Humor, and yes—it absolutely earned the nod.

The first half of the book is a behind-the-scenes peek at The New Yorker’s legendary editorial process—complete with turf wars over dictionaries, style debates, and the kind of writer-editor dynamics that will feel very familiar to anyone who’s ever worked with words. Norris recounts these stories with wit, warmth, and just enough sass to make you want to pull up a chair in the copy department and stay awhile.

Then the second half of the book takes a turn toward grammar itself—but not in the dry, diagram-your-sentences way. Think grammar with edge. Grammar with personality. Grammar that swears.

Yes, there’s a whole chapter about profanity. And it is glorious.

One of my favorite anecdotes involved an internal contest among staffers to sneak curse words into the magazine. (Spoiler: her mother would’ve approved—apparently, she had quite the mouth on her.) Norris somehow manages to make even comma placement feel a little dangerous, and that’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d write.

What surprised me most, though, was how reasonable she is. For someone who’s spent her life enforcing the rules of the language, she’s remarkably forgiving of their flexibility. Norris offers guidance, not commandments, and she ultimately puts the responsibility back on the writer to make the right call. Which means: no more blaming your editor for that misplaced em dash.

I bought this book thinking it would provide a lot of grammar instruction. It does give some very good nuggets, but I would not qualify this as a grammar how-to book.

But if you’re a grammar enthusiast, a New Yorker devotee, or just someone who enjoys the kind of memoir that comes with red pens and F bombs, Between You & Me is well worth your time. You might even learn a few things—like when to use a hyphen, or how to make a comma sexy. And if you’re lucky, you’ll come away cursing like a copy editor—with perfect punctuation.

I enjoyed this book and can happily recommend it.

5 Things I Hate About Writing Revisited

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfettered Treacle

Written ten years ago. Still weirdly true.

I came across this list I wrote a decade ago, and it surprised me how much of it still feels relevant. The industry has changed. I’ve changed. But the core frustrations—the parts of writing that make you want to scream into a coffee cup—haven’t budged all that much.

Some things evolve. Others stay maddeningly the same.

Here’s what I wrote then—and honestly? I still stand by most of it.

1. Our schools don’t exactly set us up for success.

Let’s be honest, the way English is taught in most school systems doesn’t inspire a love for language. Grammar? Ugh. Studying writing felt more like punishment than discovery. I often wonder how many more people would enjoy writing if they hadn’t been made to hate it in high school.

When I decided to take writing seriously, I realized just how much I didn’t know. I had to fill in some major potholes in my skill set, and that realization eventually led me to pursue a Master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction. I even took an undergraduate grammar class along the way—and, believe it or not, I actually enjoyed it. No, really.

2. Even when you know what you’re doing, writing well is hard.

Getting the words in the right order is one thing. Making them sing? That’s something else entirely.

I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo for the past decade and have seen people write hundreds of thousands of words in a single month. One person logged over 400,000. How? I honestly can’t imagine the prose is remotely good—but maybe that doesn’t matter. First drafts are supposed to be messy. The real magic comes in revision.

Still, writing is hard. I’m not complaining—just stating a fact.

3. Selling your work is harder than ever.

Yes, self-publishing is an option. But doing it well is a massive undertaking all on its own (and probably deserves its own blog post). The traditional publishing industry isn’t much easier.

If my time in the Air Force taught me anything, it’s this: change is constant. The same holds true in publishing. We’ve watched the industry consolidate under massive conglomerates. Many publishing houses are now owned by corporations that care more about quarterly profits than good storytelling.

Instead of championing original voices, they push books that resemble last season’s hits—playing it safe. They misread the digital market entirely, leaving Amazon to capitalize on the eBook wave. And here we are.

4. Writers don’t get treated well.

You’d think that the people who create the content—the authors—would be the most valued part of the equation. But more often than not, that’s not the case.

What the industry does value is your Intellectual Property. Your creativity. Your stories. But not necessarily you. As if your work just appears out of thin air.

In the military, I spent the last decade of my career in leadership roles. I believed in taking care of the people who worked for me. I encouraged them. I supported them. I genuinely think there’s room in the industry for a company to rise up and do the same for writers—one that treats authors like partners, not just content producers. Whether that will ever happen? I don’t know. But I hope so.

5. Routine is the real Boss Fight..

Let’s face it—writing regularly is a pain in the ass. And it’s that same ass that has to be in the chair, doing the work.

Every professional writer has a different rhythm. Some write every day. Some write for hours on end, seven days a week. Most of us can’t (or don’t want to) do that. Some people squeeze in writing on weekends. Others grab 15-minute bursts whenever they can.

But creating a consistent habit is a struggle for many—and I’m no exception.

My biggest challenge? Setting aside regular, protected time to write. Life doesn’t stop. The internet doesn’t shut off. Family responsibilities don’t pause.

And when I do finally get the time, the temptation to check email or scroll Instagram or binge a show is very real. Writing takes discipline. It takes intention. You have to make it a priority—and then fight to protect that time and actually use it.

___________________________________________________________

So, how’s your writing journey going?
Are there things you hate about writing? Or maybe things you didn’t expect to love?

Here’s the funny part, a lot of the things I hated about writing ten years ago? I still hate them. But I’ve also made peace with many of them. Some have even become oddly endearing—like the constant learning curve.

That’s the thing about writing, it changes. We change. The tools shift. The industry evolves. Trends come and go. But the core struggles? The doubt, the discipline, the desire to tell a good story? Those stay the same.

And in a strange way, there’s comfort in that.
It means we’re not alone. We’re just part of a long, chaotic, beautiful tradition of writers—grumbling about grammar, wrestling with structure, and fighting for every precious minute at the keyboard.

Still writing. Still figuring it out.
Still showing up.

5 Things I Hate About Writing Revisted

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfettered Treacle

Written ten years ago. Still weirdly true.

I came across this list I wrote a decade ago, and it surprised me how much of it still feels relevant. The industry has changed. I’ve changed. But the core frustrations—the parts of writing that make you want to scream into a coffee cup—haven’t budged all that much.

Some things evolve. Others stay maddeningly the same.

Here’s what I wrote then—and honestly? I still stand by most of it.

1. Our schools don’t exactly set us up for success.

Let’s be honest, the way English is taught in most school systems doesn’t inspire a love for language. Grammar? Ugh. Studying writing felt more like punishment than discovery. I often wonder how many more people would enjoy writing if they hadn’t been made to hate it in high school.

When I decided to take writing seriously, I realized just how much I didn’t know. I had to fill in some major potholes in my skill set, and that realization eventually led me to pursue a Master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction. I even took an undergraduate grammar class along the way—and, believe it or not, I actually enjoyed it. No, really.

2. Even when you know what you’re doing, writing well is hard.

Getting the words in the right order is one thing. Making them sing? That’s something else entirely.

I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo for the past decade and have seen people write hundreds of thousands of words in a single month. One person logged over 400,000. How? I honestly can’t imagine the prose is remotely good—but maybe that doesn’t matter. First drafts are supposed to be messy. The real magic comes in revision.

Still, writing is hard. I’m not complaining—just stating a fact.

3. Selling your work is harder than ever.

Yes, self-publishing is an option. But doing it well is a massive undertaking all on its own (and probably deserves its own blog post). The traditional publishing industry isn’t much easier.

If my time in the Air Force taught me anything, it’s this: change is constant. The same holds true in publishing. We’ve watched the industry consolidate under massive conglomerates. Many publishing houses are now owned by corporations that care more about quarterly profits than good storytelling.

Instead of championing original voices, they push books that resemble last season’s hits—playing it safe. They misread the digital market entirely, leaving Amazon to capitalize on the eBook wave. And here we are.

4. Writers don’t get treated well.

You’d think that the people who create the content—the authors—would be the most valued part of the equation. But more often than not, that’s not the case.

What the industry does value is your Intellectual Property. Your creativity. Your stories. But not necessarily you. As if your work just appears out of thin air.

In the military, I spent the last decade of my career in leadership roles. I believed in taking care of the people who worked for me. I encouraged them. I supported them. I genuinely think there’s room in the industry for a company to rise up and do the same for writers—one that treats authors like partners, not just content producers. Whether that will ever happen? I don’t know. But I hope so.

5. Routine is the real Boss Fight..

Let’s face it—writing regularly is a pain in the ass. And it’s that same ass that has to be in the chair, doing the work.

Every professional writer has a different rhythm. Some write every day. Some write for hours on end, seven days a week. Most of us can’t (or don’t want to) do that. Some people squeeze in writing on weekends. Others grab 15-minute bursts whenever they can.

But creating a consistent habit is a struggle for many—and I’m no exception.

My biggest challenge? Setting aside regular, protected time to write. Life doesn’t stop. The internet doesn’t shut off. Family responsibilities don’t pause.

And when I do finally get the time, the temptation to check email or scroll Instagram or binge a show is very real. Writing takes discipline. It takes intention. You have to make it a priority—and then fight to protect that time and actually use it.

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So, how’s your writing journey going?
Are there things you hate about writing? Or maybe things you didn’t expect to love?

Here’s the funny part, a lot of the things I hated about writing ten years ago? I still hate them. But I’ve also made peace with many of them. Some have even become oddly endearing—like the constant learning curve.

That’s the thing about writing, it changes. We change. The tools shift. The industry evolves. Trends come and go. But the core struggles? The doubt, the discipline, the desire to tell a good story? Those stay the same.

And in a strange way, there’s comfort in that.
It means we’re not alone. We’re just part of a long, chaotic, beautiful tradition of writers—grumbling about grammar, wrestling with structure, and fighting for every precious minute at the keyboard.

Still writing. Still figuring it out.
Still showing up.

“Get in There!” — Learning to Write in Deep POV

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing

I was trying to explain what it felt like to write in Deep POV the other day and this image popped into my head that was a perfect analogy. Flash back to early 1987. I’m sitting in the left seat of the tandem T-37 jet trainer. It was my first formation flight, and I was on the wing. That meant the pilots in the other T-37 were flying lead and it was my job to stay on the tip of their wing. Literally.

The T-37 was first delivered to the Air Force in 1959 and had the highest G onset rate of any aircraft in the inventory at the time and was used for the first phase of Undergraduate Pilot Training, focusing on aerobatics and spin recovery. It was a blast to fly, despite being very basic.

Later, I flew this jet again in the ACE program. Accelerated Copilot Enrichment—for B-52 and KC-135 copilots to stay sharp. Mostly, I used this to fly to Muncy, Indiana to eat at Foxfire, Jim Davis’s restaurant (Yes, Garfield Jim Davis.) You could park your jet right in front.

But back to the story.

There I was…

(That’s how a lot of pilot stories start, usually with hands replacing the aircraft. Some referred to this as “shooting your wristwatch.”)

But there I was, sitting in the left seat, but not in control of the jet. My instructor was flying and had us in a loose trail position, behind lead, and he was about to show me how to move into position. Lead was flying straight and level. The IP accelerated, moved up, slid in—closer, closer—until we were 3 feet off of their wing.

Three. Feet.

Going a little over 200 mph.

He held us there, calm and steady, then asked, “You ready to take it?”

I said yes, nervously, and took the stick. “I have the aircraft.”

Within seconds our aircraft was like a ribbon in the wind, moving up and down and slowly but steadily away from the other aircraft.

I don’t know how many students my instructor had before me, but he was quite impatient. “Get back in there!” he barked.

20 feet away felt much better. I could stabilize.

Fifteen feet? Still okay.

But three feet? That was a whole different level.

And honestly, that’s exactly how it felt when I was writing close point of view before I understood Deep POV.

I tried to edge closer, to get tighter into the character’s skin, but I kept slipping out. I’d float into safer distance, into that 15 or 20 foot range of perspective, where it felt more comfortable, less vulnerable.

My instructor took the jet from me and quickly repositioned us at 3 feet. “Ok, take the jet.”

Once again, I maintained position for a microsecond and then we waffled out to 10 or 15 feet.

“Get in there,” he shouted again.

Rinse, repeat.

If only Deep POV was that easy. Just have someone else get me in there and help me stay there. But the first writing efforts mirrored those training flights, lots of drifting out, lots of pulling back. On each subsequent pass I could almost hear my IP yelling at me.

“Get in there!”

Eventually, I figured out how to stay at 3 feet. It just takes calmness and steady attention. And lots of practice.

(For the record: Close trail in the T-38—way faster than the T-37—was maybe the most fun thing I ever did with my clothes on.)

My editor had me do some Deep POV exercises, with my clothes on, and after half a dozen tries it started to click. I’m still learning, still refining. But I now understand what it feels like to really be in there, inside the character’s head, experiencing the world from three feet instead of twenty.

It’s not magic. It’s a skill.

And once you’ve got it, it’s yours for life.