Stan R. Mitchell's Blog, page 38

Writers are crazy, and I’m crazier than most

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” – Ernest Hemingway

I want to be the greatest writer ever. 

Yikes, did I really say that out loud? 

Crazy, right? More importantly, just why the hell did I publish that? 

I could’ve deleted it as I have hundreds of other things I didn’t have the guts to say. I could’ve avoided the ridicule by critics if I had simply deleted it. 

But I haven’t because — well, frankly — it’s the truth.  

It’s scary putting yourself out there, but I want to say some things. I’m not even sure where I’m going with this. It’s like a novel: you don’t know where it’ll end. You simply write it. One sentence, one paragraph, one page at a time. You let it flow out of you. Characters choose left or right, and you follow, to see where that leads. 

Let’s continue then, with this little beauty as well. I want to be the greatest writer ever. There, I’ve said it a second time. See? Not an accident. 

But where might this end? Let’s see what happens when you rip open your soul and lay it on an examination table for all to see. 

I’ve been reading Barack Obama’s newest book (A Promised Land) and its honesty and rawness — at least in the beginning; I haven’t finished it yet — will knock you flat to the floor. Or maybe it’s the most clever set of lies ever, but they certainly aren’t flattering to the man himself. And yet this authentic honesty, even when it’s embarrassing, is so engrossing, so gripping, and so engaging, that it’s kind of shaken something loose in me. 

After all, if a former President can lay it all on the line, then surely an ambitious author can lay it out for all to see. Surely, he can state what he’s felt (and kept secret) since childhood. 

Write one true sentence.

That’s what we’re aiming for. And yes, let’s keep going. Let’s see where this ends. This could be good. After all, a few of you have brought the popcorn. And a few of you might be a little nervous for me.

Could this turn into an epic meltdown? The kind of thing that happens so often in our internet age? (And I see those cynics and critics over there. They’re eyeing the situation, like vultures in a tree, analyzing the animal that’s circling in confusion, acting ill on the African savanna.)

Let’s ignore the cynics and vultures a moment. Let’s start with a premise. A simple premise. Another “one true sentence” if you will.

That premise is this: writers are crazy. They really are. Also musicians, artists, and professional athletes. They’re crazy, too. But let’s stick with writers. They are what I know. Hell, even better, let’s stick with me. 

I literally wrote the following a mere dozen or so paragraphs earlier: “I want to be the greatest writer ever.”

How nuts is that? What kind of madness abides inside my head? What kind of person would say such a thing? (I can’t blame youth. I’m 43. Not some nineteen-year-old mouthing off in a college English lit class.)

Want to know something scarier? I was pretty much thinking this thought at the age of 8 or 9. That’s the first time I slammed a novel shut and thought, “This book is terrible. I know I could do better.”

And the most crazy thing about this story is that I actually tried. Little old Stan, still in elementary school, started scribbling a story in pencil in his spiral-bound, school notebook. I remember it perfectly. And somewhere, out in some of my boxes in the garage, I still have it. I think in my wildest dreams I imagine those pages being held in some museum, with literary geniuses studying them some day. 

It won’t happen, but there. I admitted another truth. I told you writers are crazy. 

The story I wrote back then describes the courageous story of four young Native American men, who fought a valiant campaign against encroaching white settlers, after their village chief capitulated and signed a lop-sided, unfair peace treaty. The tale spanned more than twenty pages and was crammed with action. (Sound familiar?)

I didn’t finish it, but even at the age of eight or nine, a small part of my soul (or something) told me I was meant to do this. That I could be great. That indeed, I wanted to be the greatest writer ever.

What nine year old says such a thing? How can you feel (or be haunted by) such a thing at such a young age?

Let’s return to the writers are crazy part of this post. Let’s broaden things a bit. Because if I’m going to admit to being crazy, then I damn sure want some company in whatever boat I’ve shoved off from shore on. 

Let’s start with Ernest Hemingway. A hell of a writer, but also a man who volunteered for war as an ambulance driver (where he was wounded), a man who married four times, and a man who survived two plane crashes in two days. Yes, I’m saying he had a plane crash on one day. Then decided to fly again the next day. And he crashed the second day as well. He also once shot himself in the calves while wrestling with a shark (Google it) and committed suicide with a shotgun at the age of 61. 

I’m going to say that Hemingway makes a pretty compelling case for proving that writers are crazy, but I could easily point out a dozen other authors to add to the ledger. And we’ve all heard the theme of how much most writers drink, correct? “Psychology Today” even had an article in it titled, “Why Do Writers Drink So Much?” That article listed roughly twenty names, including the likes of Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Edgar Allan Poe, and John Steinbeck. 

So, if you’ll grant me that most writers are crazy (and/or drunks), we’ll get this show back on the road. Wouldn’t want to bore the vultures, after all. They’re still in the tree, but starting to look elsewhere. No one wants to read a literary thesis.

Where were we? Oh, yeah. Just write one true sentence.

Writing is a madness. It’s a disease. It’s a curse. 

That was three, but I’d stand by them. 

I’ve learned that you can’t really run from this calling. It ruins your showers. It afflicts your soul. It eats at you in the darkest parts of night. 

When I’m not writing, I’m miserable. My conscience won’t stop pestering. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes screaming and shaking me. But he always says the same thing: You should be writing. 

Also, when I’m not writing, my head goes into dark places. At the worst of times, it can plummet to scary depths. I’ll ask myself, “What’s the meaning of life? Is this all there is? There has to be more.”

My writing mania plagues me unabated. 

I’ll grab books to read, because they are some of my greatest escapes. But I find I can’t read for long. My head whispers, “You should be writing.”

There’s no getting away from it. Not for more than ten minutes, when it’s at its worst. 

Writing is a madness. It’s a disease. It’s a curse. 

I’ve come to accept the three sentences above. 

I believe them to be true, and if you’re afflicted with the calling to be a writer, I’m confident you agree. 

But writing has a flip side. It can be the greatest high in the world. I’ve gotten so into the zone of writing a story that I will lose all track of time. I will enter an almost fictional world, where I’m dodging bullets or chasing down enemies. I have no idea what my opponent will do. Or even what my main character will do. But I’m there. I’m watching this movie and excited to see where it will go. And I don’t want to stop it. I don’t want to exit this world. 

Crazy, right?

There are also times I try to write and it’s like I jump into the driver’s seat, remembering the day before when I was really into the story and wrote for hours, but I find that I’m not sitting in that space machine anymore. Instead, I’m sitting on the hard metal seat of a 1940s tractor. It’s raining and cold, a whipping wind blowing across the land. And the tractor will only go about two miles per hour. Sometimes, the tractor doesn’t move at all and after screaming in rage, I look down and realize it’s up on a jack, one of its wheels leaning against a fence, flat. There’s also wires hanging out the side and I realize a thief has stolen the electronic ignition and the distributor cap.

These times can be as maddening as when you’re not writing. You’re miserable when you’re running from your dream. And you’re miserable when you’re chasing your dream, but the instant results you crave are nowhere to be found. 

It’s infuriating. Like, if you’re meant to be a writer, if you’re destined to be the greatest, then why is it so hard? Why aren’t you a natural? 

I’ve been chasing this dream for a long time. I started several books in high school. Finished a novel with another writer in college. (That one was never published because at the wizened age of 21, we refused to listen to a publisher who suggested we change a chapter. Ah, the arrogant confidence of youth.)

Years later, in my thirties, and with dozens of half completed books laying around, I finally wrangled to completion my first successful book. That one took me 12 years to write.

About half of the time, I actually think I’m going to make a boatload of money. I’m driven as hell and my friends will tell you I’m as determined and stubborn as anyone you’ll ever meet. On paper, I at least have a shot. Desire? Check. Writing degree? Check. Typing speed? I can type faster than a cheetah with a race car on his ass. 

But on other days, I think of just how many writers have tried this gig. This isn’t the first time a tractor has plowed this field. It’s a community lot, and it’s been plowed and worked for at least a couple hundred years. It’s depleted of any good soil. The land is exhausted and consumed. There’s little incentive to plow the dry, parched earth. And that’s assuming you can get the tractor running. And that’s further assuming you don’t look across the land, and then to your left and right, and notice the literally thousands of fellow writers staring at their own tractors. They see the same poor, parched land. They also see the desperate craving of those writers, fiddling with their tractors, starting their morning in this field.

To be lucky enough to do this as a full-time gig would be one of the greatest gifts in the world. To attempt to get into the zone every day — for a full day — instead of dealing with the day job and all the rest of life’s interruptions? That would be heaven. 

And for most, that would certainly be enough. But apparently, my variant of this disease is far worse. Because frankly? That is not enough.

I want to be the greatest. And I’m honest enough — as well as stupid enough, clearly — to be willing to just come out and say it.

What gives me the right? What gives me the gall?

Partly, it’s what I said above. Writers are crazy. And they drink a lot. See earlier graph (and the internet) for more evidence.

Of course, part of the problem for me is I don’t drink at all. I’m scared to death of alcohol. (Long story.) But besides being scared of it, which I am, there’s also at least an equally large problem. I couldn’t possibly enjoy drinking because deep down, either in my soul or in my head, I would hear the words: You should be writing. 

Maybe other writers hear those words, too, when they’re drinking. Maybe that’s why they drink so much? I can’t say. 

Back to my desire to be the greatest. At least I’ve put in the work. I have, after all, written ten books. That gives me some standing.  I’ve also made a lot of money one year. More than six figures. In my hometown of Knoxville, if you can make a hundred thousand dollars in a year, you’ve done something.

And I’ve done that, which is beyond-words-awesome, but only once. And I did that when I only had a couple of books published. The books went viral, the fire burned hot, but I lacked the inventory to keep it going. So the throngs of readers moved on to pastures with more sustenance. 

I went on believing they’d return. You don’t quit when you’re hungry. Nor when you’re crazy.

Back when the money was good, and I was full-time, I thought I was on top of the world. I thought I was lined up nicely to actually become the greatest. (How crazy is that? One good year, and you think you’re the shit? Yeah, I really did.)

But that’s when it happened. In that moment, I learned another painful truth to this crazy dream: it can all end tomorrow. A drought can arrive. And that drought may last for years. The throngs may not return. Sometimes, despite how optimistic and regimented I remain, and despite how many times I climb on that tractor full of determination and fire, I fear the drought could last forever. The people may never return. 

My writing might always remain a side income. A mere tantalizing love that I have to bridle down and downplay at parties. Also, something I have to deal with on my taxes each year.

Even in the slow times, you’ll have sales bumps. And they’re maddening. Or maybe they’re fuel. Or maybe they’re both. Because they usually go away and you find yourself blathering to your spouse and best friend about how close you are to making it, despite the fact that the sales are falling back down again. 

Sometimes, they look at you with love. Sometimes, they look at you with concern. 

Writers are crazy. We know. 

Thankfully, my sales are trending upward. No, they really are. It’s not a bump. And no. I won’t report on them next month. 

And even if they go ballistic and high, I’m going to be a quivering, gun-shy dog, balled up in the corner. Because I know a truth. A painful truth. It can all go away.

That fall in sales? That plummet? It’s the thing of nightmares. Many writers have gone through — or are going — through it. 

Do you know how hard it is to keep your confidence up when your sales are dropping?

You’re the star Major League Baseball player, who was thinking about becoming MVP, when suddenly your stats nosedive. You think it’s a fluke at first. But it’s not. And then people on your team stop talking to you. And then you’re being warned by management that you better get your numbers up. 

You can’t believe this. You reach and flail. You seek advice. You even change your swing.

Nothing stops the crash. 

You get the talk. You get cut. You’re sent down to the minors. 

You go from being envied for your big salary to making less than 20k a year in the minors. 

One day you’re playing for the Chicago Cubs. The next, you’re playing for the Akron RubberDucks.

As you play in front of miniscule crowds, the voices in your head clamor louder. There’s the desperate side of you that just wants to go back to making big money. You were good before. What happened? The voices say you got lucky. You were a fluke. It’ll never happen again.

Your mind and body say submit. Why are you doing this? Why are you killing yourself for 20k a year? What are you, stupid?

I’m betting most writers know that voice, as well. 

I’m also betting most writers trudge on. Writers are crazy.

Every writer needs a schtick. Some writers craft lines that are exquisite and supple. You read them because they seduce and lure you forward, page-by-page. Some writers blast you with a foghorn. Or put a dozen twists in a book. Or use an unreliable narrator. 

The only schtick I have is brevity. A couple of my books barely top a hundred pages. But they work. At least according to the readers who’ve read them. 

I learned brevity in journalism school. And in ten years of newspaper writing after graduation. You only had a small amount of space in the newspaper. You damn well better make good use of it. 

And that brings me to my second skill. I hate boring books. Can I say that again? I HATE boring books. Even those with exquisite and supple writing. That kind of writing can work for a page or two, but something needs to happen. Blood needs to flow. Relationships need to start. Or relationships need to end.

This is the 21st Century. We live in a world of tweets, Vines, and TikToks. You can’t be screwing around and padding your books with fluff. 

I firmly believe this is the formula. And it’s one I try to follow. I do my best to write fast-paced, exciting mysteries and thrillers. And I also firmly believe that these things are going to make me boatloads of money. 

Of course, I’ve also admitted to being crazy, so there’s that.

But part of me just knows that tremendous success is going to happen. 

Call it confidence. Call it madness. It’s probably a bit of both. 

Write one true sentence, right? One sentence, one paragraph, one page at a time. Climb on the damn tractor. Listen to the voice in your head: You should be writing.

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here: http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

Happy New Year 2021

Hey guys!

Here’s to a new year, along with a quick message from me and the family.

Hope you enjoy!

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here: http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

Killer writing by Truman Capote

I really enjoyed this spectacular description and opening by Truman Capote in his book “In Cold Blood.” (Commissions earned from links.)

The true crime novel was one of the first of its kind and its still the perfect example for how it should be done. See if this writing from Chapter 1 doesn’t just grab you:

 “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote. (Commissions earned from links.)

THE VILLAGE OF HOLCOMB STANDS on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call “out there.” Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the countryside, with its hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than Middle West. The local accent is barbed with a prairie twang, a ranch-hand nasalness, and the men, many of them, wear narrow frontier trousers, Stetsons, and high-heeled boots with pointed toes. The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them.

Holcomb, too, can be seen from great distances. Not that there is much to see—simply an aimless congregation of buildings divided in the center by the main-line tracks of the Santa Fe Railroad, a haphazard hamlet bounded on the south by a brown stretch of the Arkansas (pronounced “Ar-kan-sas”) River, on the north by a highway, Route 50, and on the east and west by prairie lands and wheat fields. After rain, or when snowfalls thaw, the streets, unnamed, unshaded, unpaved, turn from the thickest dust into the direst mud. At one end of the town stands a stark old stucco structure, the roof of which supports an electric sign—DANCE—but the dancing has ceased and the advertisement has been dark for several years. Nearby is another building with an irrelevant sign, this one in flaking gold on a dirty window—HOLCOMB BANK. The bank closed in 1933, and its former counting rooms have been converted into apartments. It is one of the town’s two “apartment houses,” the second being a ramshackle mansion known, because a good part of the local school’s faculty lives there, as the Teacherage. But the majority of Holcomb’s homes are one-story frame affairs, with front porches.

Down by the depot, the postmistress, a gaunt woman who wears a rawhide jacket and denims and cowboy boots, presides over a falling-apart post office. The depot itself, with its peeling sulphur-colored paint, is equally melancholy; the Chief, the Super-Chief, the El Capitan go by every day, but these celebrated expresses never pause there. No passenger trains do—only an occasional freight. Up on the highway, there are two filling stations, one of which doubles as a meagerly supplied grocery store, while the other does extra duty as a café—Hartman’s Café, where Mrs. Hartman, the proprietress, dispenses sandwiches, coffee, soft drinks, and 3.2 beer. (Holcomb, like all the rest of Kansas, is “dry.”)

…

Until one morning in mid-November of 1959, few Americans—in fact, few Kansans—had ever heard of Holcomb. Like the waters of the river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama, in the shape of exceptional happenings, had never stopped there.

*****

Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did. And again, the writing above is from Truman Capote in his book “In Cold Blood.” Go check it out if you’ve never done so.

I’ll try to post some great writing again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so.

Just as importantly, if you’ve read a few great paragraphs lately, let me know and I may feature it. (You can reach me at the following address: stan@stanrmitchell.com.) And if I do, I’ll give you a shout out and make you famous. Or maybe not famous, but your name will be on the internet for something other than getting arrested on that Spring Break trip years ago, so there’s that.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

A strong character introduction by James Patterson

[image error] (Commissions earned from links.)

I really enjoyed this character introduction by James Patterson in “Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross Book 1).” (Commissions earned from links.)

Patterson’s first book kicked off a successful 28-book series into the main character Alex Cross, and also led to a successful movie franchise.

The following passage isn’t an introduction of Alex Cross, but rather another major character in the first book named Jezzie Flannagan. Hope you enjoy it:

(Commissions earned from links.)

*****

A GLEAMING, black BMW K-1 motorcycle squeezed between the low fieldstone gates of the Washington Day School. The driver was I.D.’d, then the bike sped down a long narrow road toward a gray cluster of school buildings. It was eleven o’clock.

The BMW K-1 streaked to sixty in the few seconds it took to get to the administration building. The motorcycle then braked easily and smoothly, barely throwing gravel. The rider slid it in behind a pearl-gray Mercedes stretch limousine with diplomat’s plates DP101.

Still seated on the bike, Jezzie Flanagan pulled off a black helmet to reveal longish blond hair. She looked to be in her late twenties. Actually, she’d turned thirty-two that summer. Life was threatening to pass her right by. She was a relic now, ancient history, she believed. She had come straight to the school from her lake cottage, not to mention her first vacation in twenty-nine months.

That latter fact helped to explain her style of dress that morning: the leather bike jacket, the faded black jeans with leg warmers, thick leather belt, the red-and-black checkered lumberman’s shirt, and the worn engineering boots.

Two D.C. policemen rushed up on either side of her. “It’s okay, officers,” she said, “here’s my I.D.” After eyeing the identification, they backed away quickly and became solicitous. “You can go right in,” one of them said. “There’s a side door just around those high hedges, Ms. Flanagan.”

Jezzie Flanagan managed a friendly smile for the two harried-looking policemen. “I don’t exactly look the part today, I know. I was on my vacation. I race the bike. I raced it here.”

Jezzie Flanagan took the shortcut across a pristine lawn that was lightly coated with frost. She disappeared inside the school’s administration building.

Neither of the D.C. policemen took his eyes off her until she was gone. Her blond hair blew like streamers in the stiff winter wind. She was definitely stunning to look at, even in dirty jeans and work boots. And she had a very powerful job. They both knew that from her I.D. She was a player.

As she made her way through the front lobby, someone grabbed at her. Someone caught a piece of Jezzie Flanagan, which was typical of her life in D.C.

Victor Schmidt had hooked onto her arm. Once upon a time, and this was difficult for Jezzie to imagine now, Victor had been her partner. Her first, in fact. Now he was assigned to one of the students at the Day School.

Victor was short and balding. A stylish GQ sort of dresser. Confident for no particularly good reason. He’d always struck her as misplaced in the Secret Service, maybe better suited for lower rungs of the diplomatic corps.

“Jezzie, how’s it going?” he half whispered, half spoke. He never seemed to go all the way on anything, she remembered. That had always bugged her.

Jezzie Flanagan blew up. Later, she realized she had really been on edge when Schmidt stopped her. Not that she needed an excuse for the flare-up. Not that morning. Not under the circumstances.

But Jezzie Flanagan had already walked away, at least partly to keep from saying anything else to Victor. She did feel nervous. And ill. And mostly, wired as hell. 

“Vic, do you know that two children have been taken from this school, maybe kidnapped?” she snapped. “One is the secretary of the treasury’s son? The other is Katherine Rose’s little girl? The actress Katherine Rose Dunne. How do you think I’m doing? I’m a little sick to my stomach. I’m angry. I’m also petrified.”

“I just meant hello. Hello, Jezzie? I know what the hell has happened here.”

But Jezzie Flanagan had already walked away, at least partly to keep from saying anything else to Victor. She did feel nervous. And ill. And mostly, wired as hell. 

*****

Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did. And again, that is from “Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross Book 1).

I’ll try to post some great writing again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so. I love writing and I love reading, and I want to spread the passion that I have for the written word as much as I can. So, please consider subscribing to the site so you can enjoy some great writing on a regular basis.

Just as importantly, if you’ve read a few great paragraphs lately, let me know and I may feature it. (You can reach me at the following address: stan@stanrmitchell.com.) And if I do, I’ll give you a shout out and make you famous. Or maybe not famous, but your name will be on the internet for something other than getting arrested on that Spring Break trip years ago, so there’s that.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

A character’s past shaped by war

[image error] Commissions earned from links.

“The Deserter” by Nelson DeMille and Alex DeMille had some great writing that grabbed my attention. (Commissions earned from links.)

The thriller, written about an unorthodox Army investigator named Scott Brodie, had the following lines in it:

“Brodie understood something about the stress of war. Before joining the Criminal Investigation Command, he’d served as a rifleman in the 2nd Infantry Division in Iraq and taken part in the successful drive to retake Fallujah from the insurgents in Operation Phantom Fury.

“He fought along dusty alleyways and sunbaked roofs and houses blown open by mortar shells.

“He saw people ripped apart by bullets and bombs and artillery. Most were the enemy. Some were civilians. A couple were his friends. He’d seen action before that, and he would again, but that battle had changed him.”

I’ll try to post some great writing again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so. I love writing and I love reading, and I want to spread the passion that I have for the written word as much as I can. So, please consider subscribing to the site so you can enjoy some great writing on a regular basis.

Just as importantly, if you’ve read a few great paragraphs lately, let me know and I may feature it. (You can reach me at the following address: stan@stanrmitchell.com.) And if I do, I’ll give you a shout out and make you famous. Or maybe not famous, but your name will be on the internet for something other than getting arrested on that Spring Break trip years ago, so there’s that.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

‘Three-Ten to Yuma,’ even 70 years later, still defies explanation

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I recently re-read “Three-Ten to Yuma” and Elmore Leonard punched me in the face again with the strength of his writing. (Commissions earned from links.)

Leonard writes so well that every time I read him, I wonder why I even try. His writing reaches artistic levels of perfection that only a few authors have ever achieved. His sentences flow and his dialogue astonishes me, no matter how many times I read him.

“Three-Ten to Yuma” contains such power, even as a 23-page short story, that the classic Western continues to sell well today, and Hollywood has TWICE made it into a movie. How can such a short account reach such acclaim? (Especially given it was hastily written as a short story for a magazine, and this is back when Leonard woke up each morning at 5 a.m. to write a few lines before working his full-time job and caring for his kids and family at night.)

I don’t know the answer to that question, but I regularly try to study it to improve my own writing. And I thought we’d re-visit some of the writing and dialogue from this flawless tale in the hopes that it brings you half as much joy as it brought me.

In the story, lawman Paul Scallen is taking a high-profile criminal (Jimmy Kidd) to stand trial. All Scallen, the sole marshal, has to do is get Scallen, the murdering fugitive, to a train in just a few hours.

He’s only a few blocks away, but seven men from Scallen’s gang stand between the lawman and the train.

I won’t give more of the story away, but here’s some of the crisp, sharp writing, which grabs you.

“Nobody’s going to blame you with the odds stacked seven to one,” Kidd said. “You know your wife’s not going to complain.”

“You should have been a lawyer, Jim,” Scallen replied.

And then later, with the seven men watching the lawman and their leader, the criminal says, “What do you want me to tell them?”

The lawman instantly responds, “Tell them you’ll write every day.”

Finally, I’ll share this bit from them walking along a deserted street.

“Scallen a stride behind with the shotgun barrel almost touching Kidd’s back. … There was a whisper of wind along the ramadas. It whipped sand specks from the street and rattled them against clapboard. Somewhere a screen door banged, far away.”

Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did.

If you’ve seen the film or read the book, and have any thoughts on it, let me know below. If you’ve not read “Three-Ten to Yuma” or seen the movie, which is just incredible, then I’d recommend you do both.

I’ll try to post some great writing again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so. I love writing and I love reading, and I want to spread that passion that I have for the written word as much as I can. So, please consider subscribing to the site so you can enjoy some great writing on a regular basis.

Until next time,

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

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About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

Revisting ‘Resurrection Bullets’

I thought today I’d share an entry from my friend and fellow author Mark Allen.

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While Mark’s more popular books, such as “Kane: Tooth & Nail” and “Kill Count: A Team Reaper Thriller,” have been smoking hot on the sales charts, I knew Mark before he was such a big shot and had signed a publishing deal. (Commissions earned from links.)

This was quite a while back — about eight years ago, if memory serves me correctly. And back then, we were both simply silly dreamers, stumbling about and trying to put out our first books. Mark helped edit some of my early books, and I did the same for him. And we also threw heaps of encouragement on each other as we took our first, mighty leaps of faith.

One of Mark’s first books was “Resurrection Bullets.” This book had a certain “dark poetry” to it, as Mark describes it. It was a short, revenge novella, and it was written in a beautiful way; especially to be so dark. (Commissions earned from links.)

I’ll share a short selection of “Resurrection Bullets” below:

“The pistol’s whispered report was like the raging roar of an angry lion to his ear, a roar that thundered into him, all the pain and sorrow of the world compacted into a single force that filled his vision in the torpedo shape of a bullet that struck him right between the eyes, prophecy fulfilled. The last thing he heard was a massive metallic shattering in the very well of his being, and the last thing he heard was an ancient voice whispering dark vows.

“And then the world turned blood red, and from the red came the blackness, and he at last gave himself to it in full surrender.”

Pretty powerful stuff, huh?

Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did the first time I read it.

I’ll try to post some great writing again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so. I love writing and I love reading, and I want to spread that passion that I have for the written word as much as I can. So, please consider subscribing to the site so you can enjoy some great writing on a regular basis.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen Hunter.

If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

Examining old wounds

[image error] Commissions earned from links

I love the way Craig Johnson describes an old bullet wound on the main character, in Book 1 of “The Cold Dish: A Walt Longmire Mysteries.” (Commissions earned from links.)

This description comes from the first book in the series that forms the basis for Longmire, the hit Netflix show.

But back to the description, it’s the perfect length. Concise and compact. Detailed and specific. And described well enough that you can almost feel the bullet rip through your skin.

Here’s Johnson’s description:

“I turned the water on in the shower and spent the time waiting for it to heat up by inspecting my bullet holes. I had four: one in the left arm, one in the right leg, and two in the chest. I looked at the one in my left arm since it was the closest. It was 357/1000ths of an inch with two clean, marbled white dots on either side. The one on the inside had well-defined edges and was about the size of a dime. On the other side it was blurred, had a tail like a tadpole that had drifted back to my elbow, and was about the size of a silver dollar.”

And then Johnson describes the incident brilliantly:

“It was a monkey-shit brown Olds Delta 88 with two hubcaps and a peeling, blond vinyl top. I could see they were kids and just flipped the lights on for a second so they would pull over. It took what seemed like a little too long for them to do it. The driver threw open the door and started back toward the car I was using at the time; I figured he was upset because I had pulled him over for what seemed like nothing. I was wrong. He was upset because he and his friend had robbed a liquor store in Casper and had gotten away with $943 when I stopped them en route to Canada. …

“Near as we could figure, the bullet must have ricocheted off the window facing of the car and passed through my left arm. People always ask what it’s like, and the only answer I can come up with is that it’s like having a red-hot poker shoved into your flesh. It burns, and it hurts like hell, but only after. I wondered mildly if Vonnie would think that bullet holes are sexy. Martha didn’t; she hated them.”

Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did the first time I read it.

I’ll try to post some great writing again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so. I love writing and I love reading, and I want to spread that passion that I have for the written word as much as I can. So, please consider subscribing to the site so you can enjoy some great writing on a regular basis.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. Some of my favorite authors and influences are Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn, Stephen King, John Grisham, James Patterson, Robert B. Parker, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, and Louis L’Amour. If you enjoy them, then more than likely you’ll enjoy my writing.

I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Want more? You can also find me on Twitter and YouTube.

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

Tim Dittmer and ‘The Valley Walker’

I thought I’d share some writing from author Tim Dittmer today. Not only is he a Vietnam vet and great writer, but I’m also honored to call him a friend. This passage is from “The Valley Walker,” which I can attest to being a great book. (Commissions earned from links.)

“He reached out, found the space that lay between places, slipped through it, and he was there. Mason, Michigan.

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“The contrast between the mountains of Laos and this town in the American Midwest was striking. He stood quietly for a while, feeling the rhythm of the place, soaking up the atmosphere and letting his memories flow until he was saturated with them.

“Many of the places looked the same as the last time he’d stood on this street. The grain elevator was still there. Beyond that, the County Courthouse remained tall and stately. North of the Courthouse, the tops of the trees in Maple Grove Cemetery were visible. Home.

“But everything was moving faster than he remembered. An endless stream of cars whizzed by. Horns honked and tires squealed in protest. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, racing ahead with cell phones to their ears. The pace of life had definitely changed here, but the men who’d used him hadn’t.

“They still exploited war and the suffering of fellow human beings for profit and power. The thought of people who could be so cold and heartless brought a weariness he didn’t think he could carry. It bore down on him until his spirit sagged under the pressure, weighed on him until it threatened to drive him to his knees.

“He caught himself before he faltered, reached up and pressed the shape of an object hidden beneath his shirt. The object was a red hemp bag that hung from a leather thong looped around his neck, the bag his mother had dyed with cinnabar and given to him in Laos. It was filled now with the essence of his heart, his need to do the right thing, the shining gem of his honor.

“Just pressing the bag tighter against his skin gave him strength and renewed his purpose. Gazing at the tops of the trees above Maple Grove Cemetery, he murmured the words he’d adopted as his mantra decades ago.

“Two salt tablets, a canteen of water and push on.”

“He shifted the weight of his weariness higher on his shoulders, leaned into it, and pushed on.”

Read any amazing writing lately? If you’ve read a great paragraph or three, let me know by emailing me and I may feature it. And if I do, I’ll give you a shoutout!

I’ll try to post something again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. If you like Tom Clancy, Lee Child, or Vince Flynn, then I’m your man. I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Want more? You can also find me on Twitter and YouTube.

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)

Some wisdom from ‘Game of Thrones’

Everything is instant, fast, and shallow these days. Drive throughs, microwaves, Twitter.

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But books are the opposite of that. And with all the nasty political stuff happening with the Presidential race, let’s go back and revisit just some incredible wisdom sprinkled among the passages of Game of Thrones, which rocked the world as few books have. (Commissions earned from links.)

“… a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.”

“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.”

“Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.”

“Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.”

(On dealing with your weaknesses, such as Tyrion dealing with his lack of height…) “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

(A young boy asking his father about bravery.)
“Bran thought about it. ‘Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?’
‘That is the only time a man can be brave,’ his father told him.”
“Fear cuts deeper than swords.”

“Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.”

“Winter is coming.”

“When you play a game of thrones you win or you die.”

“The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that.”

“Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.”

“Laughter is poison to fear.”

“What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms . . . or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.”

“What do we say to the Lord of Death?’ ‘Not today.”

“A bruise is a lesson… and each lesson makes us better.”

If you’ve read the book and have some thoughts to share about it, I’d love to hear them below. How it impacted you. Favorite parts. (Spoilers below, for those who haven’t read it. Proceed with caution.) Favorite characters. Etc.

Read any amazing writing lately? If you’ve read a great paragraph or three, let me know by emailing me and I may feature it. And if I do, I’ll give you a shoutout!

I’ll try to post something again soon, so subscribe if you haven’t already done so.

Until next time,

Stan R. Mitchell

—————————————-

About me: My name is Stan R. Mitchell, and I write exciting, fast-paced thrillers. Both military action and mystery whodunnits. Ten books penned. 70,000+ sold. If you like Tom Clancy, Lee Child, or Vince Flynn, then I’m your man. I also share great writing (from others) on my website, so consider subscribing for that. You can find all ten of my books here:  http://amzn.to/1brrc37. (Note: by clicking this link or others, I get a small commission. See below.) #USMC #SemperFidelis

Want more? You can also find me on Twitter and YouTube.

Please note: I get commissions for purchases made through links in posts on this website. As such, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. What that means in English is if you use a link from my site and go to Amazon to buy a qualifying product, then I might earn a small commission. (Given that I’m not much of a spender, that basically means you’re putting money in my savings account. So, thank you for that.)