The Birth of Evan Burl and Writing for the Right Reasons
Big news! Evan Burl and the Falling, Vol. 1-4 is being released tomorrow. I’ll be back to you with more details soon. In the meantime, here is a story about how Evan Burl came to be and the lessons I learned about writing over the last four years.
I shouldn’t have taken that last run.
In the fading Rocky Mountain dusk, I could barely make out the choppy slush as I sailed over it, struggling to maintain control of my skins as I raced to catch up to my brother Jeff. Cabin lights flickered orange like frozen fireflies lurking in the woods around the base of Sundance Ski Resort. We had rather foolishly, as brothers of all ages sometimes do, decided to race down the gorge despite the poor conditions. As I rounded the corner into a black diamond called Cotton Mouth, the edge of my ski caught in a groove. An eye blink later my head smacked the ice. Jeff hockey stopped a few feet above where I fell, spraying me with snow. I lay there on my side for a while, listening to the ringing as he called a snow patrol. Fortunately I was wearing a helmet, but the concussion gummed up my grey matter for months.
My family makes the fourteen hour pilgrimage from Seattle to Sundance with semi-regularity. Though I promise myself a chance to get a little work done in the passenger seat, it’s a promise I never really intend to keep. I should have been a long-haul truck driver, always a little jealous of their open highways brimming with a galaxy of possibilities. The road, snaking up distant mountain passes, was made for man to conquer. And even though I know millions have gone before me, road trips always somehow feel like I’m heading out West to a great, unknown and untamed land. If sitting behind the wheel on a long road trip somehow brings me closer to the part of me that wishes I was Lewis or Clark, then riding in the passenger seat is like watching a re-run documentary of the Lewis and Clark expedition. It just ain’t the same.
The Red Cross medic warned me to avoid driving and “unnecessary thinking”, whatever that means.
Cognitive activity after a concussion can increase recovery time and the risk of permanent damage. But that didn’t scare me. Not as much as spending the next fourteen hours with nothing to do but watch and old re-run documentary on Manifest Destiny. So I consoled myself by turning the passenger-seat-prison-sentence into an opportunity to start my long put off novel. And that is how Evan Burl was born. Yes, I started my first novel somewhere in the Rocky Mountains while I was following doctor’s orders to avoid driving and “unnecessary thinking.” In short, if you think Evan Burl and the Falling sucks, or if during disconcerting stretches of prose you begin to question my sanity, please remember that I was concussed when I began and therefore have a good excuse.
That road trip was nearly four years ago. Since then, dozens of versions of the novel have been splattered all over the web and hundreds of the most wonderful people in the world have spent countless hours sifting through pages of utter rubbish to provide feedback instrumental in my personal growth. It’s been said that most authors write ten books before one of them escapes into the court of public opinion where well meaning writers are drawn and quartered for offenses such as cliffhanger endings. I took a different route, opting to write the same book ten times. Okay, so it was more like a hundred.
Through those thousands of hours and millions of words, I found I was changed in a way that surprised me.
I figured I would become a better writer with practice—gag-inducing glimpses at early drafts confirm that this indeed was the case—but I learned more than that. I learned to write for myself.
I set out to write a novel because… well, I don’t know exactly why I set out to write a novel. I didn’t really like writing in school, nor did I get very good grades in English. I’d never tried my hand at so much as a short story. I’d lost interest in reading. Noveling was simply something on my list of things to do someday and I don’t like it when things stay on my list too long. Since i figured writing a novel couldn’t be all that hard, and that nasty to-do was right there, staring at me from my task management software interface, I figured I might as well get started. Not only did I discover that completing a novel is a bit harder than expected, especially if you intend for this novel to actually be consumed by people who are not paid handsomely to consume it—hard like running a marathon… up Mount Everest… carrying your grandmother piggy back—but through the process of writing for all those endless hours, I fell in love.
It seems like all the cool writers, the kind who wear ridiculously oversized glasses that they somehow pull off and dark turtlenecks and knit scarfs, all those writers have this whole writing for oneself thing down. They ooze big ol' tears of authenticness out their pores. I have friends like this, people who have been writing for years—have whole hard drives full of provoking prose (actually, the really cool writers do it longhand in black Moleskins)—friends who have little intention of ever sharing their work with anyone. This is either an incredibly nobel gesture, or they’re scared. Either way, they make me feel like a big commercial, compliment-fishing whore. The truth is I kind of was when I started. But somewhere along the way, I changed. I think it was the feedback that did it; the good, the bad and the indifferent. The multiple 2-star reviews on the same day that I was sure was some kind of coordinated attack designed to ruin my career and the kind-hearted emails I’d get from readers with variations on, “Dear God, please stop re-writing this book” and the people who went to creative lengths to tell me what an ugly little baby I’d conceived. Eventually, I learned not to care. And then I learned to do whatever I damn well pleased. And then I learned to do what I loved. Now I believe the closer I get to this—still have a bit of the old commercial whore to kill off I admit—the better, and more true my writing will be.
I’m tempted to apologize for the changes, for the multi-year drawn out process that I’ve asked my readers again and again and again to endure with me, but that wouldn’t be honest. Because I’m not sorry—in the best possible sense. I’m thankful. I don’t think it matters how you get there. It might take a concussion, or misplaced motivations, or writing ten books before sharing one of them, or writing the same book a hundred times and releasing all of them on the internet for publish bashing. The best writing plumbs the deep and unsearchable human heart, reflecting something about ourselves in a way that makes us strive to become better at being human. You can’t get to plumbing if you’re fishing for compliments. At least, I’ve discovered, I can’t.
So I guess I’m glad I took that last ski run.
If I hadn’t knocked my head, Evan Burl and his mentally unstable friends might forever have been locked up inside my own unstable brain. And I wouldn’t have discovered my cathartic love for writing. However, I am hoping for a less risky form of inspiration for my next novel. Maybe I should try running a marathon up Everest with grandma strapped to my back.
I'd love to know what you think about the final product. Let me know in the comments!
More about the Evan Burl Book Release and Our Weekly Giveaway
Amazon shopping spree and book giveaway
The winner of our last giveaway is Gloria Macioci Blaney!
Click here to enter now for your chance to win, plus get the free eBook instantly, just for entering!
Here is a list of the semifinalists for the $250 Amazon giveaway!
I shouldn’t have taken that last run.
In the fading Rocky Mountain dusk, I could barely make out the choppy slush as I sailed over it, struggling to maintain control of my skins as I raced to catch up to my brother Jeff. Cabin lights flickered orange like frozen fireflies lurking in the woods around the base of Sundance Ski Resort. We had rather foolishly, as brothers of all ages sometimes do, decided to race down the gorge despite the poor conditions. As I rounded the corner into a black diamond called Cotton Mouth, the edge of my ski caught in a groove. An eye blink later my head smacked the ice. Jeff hockey stopped a few feet above where I fell, spraying me with snow. I lay there on my side for a while, listening to the ringing as he called a snow patrol. Fortunately I was wearing a helmet, but the concussion gummed up my grey matter for months.
My family makes the fourteen hour pilgrimage from Seattle to Sundance with semi-regularity. Though I promise myself a chance to get a little work done in the passenger seat, it’s a promise I never really intend to keep. I should have been a long-haul truck driver, always a little jealous of their open highways brimming with a galaxy of possibilities. The road, snaking up distant mountain passes, was made for man to conquer. And even though I know millions have gone before me, road trips always somehow feel like I’m heading out West to a great, unknown and untamed land. If sitting behind the wheel on a long road trip somehow brings me closer to the part of me that wishes I was Lewis or Clark, then riding in the passenger seat is like watching a re-run documentary of the Lewis and Clark expedition. It just ain’t the same.
The Red Cross medic warned me to avoid driving and “unnecessary thinking”, whatever that means.
Cognitive activity after a concussion can increase recovery time and the risk of permanent damage. But that didn’t scare me. Not as much as spending the next fourteen hours with nothing to do but watch and old re-run documentary on Manifest Destiny. So I consoled myself by turning the passenger-seat-prison-sentence into an opportunity to start my long put off novel. And that is how Evan Burl was born. Yes, I started my first novel somewhere in the Rocky Mountains while I was following doctor’s orders to avoid driving and “unnecessary thinking.” In short, if you think Evan Burl and the Falling sucks, or if during disconcerting stretches of prose you begin to question my sanity, please remember that I was concussed when I began and therefore have a good excuse.
That road trip was nearly four years ago. Since then, dozens of versions of the novel have been splattered all over the web and hundreds of the most wonderful people in the world have spent countless hours sifting through pages of utter rubbish to provide feedback instrumental in my personal growth. It’s been said that most authors write ten books before one of them escapes into the court of public opinion where well meaning writers are drawn and quartered for offenses such as cliffhanger endings. I took a different route, opting to write the same book ten times. Okay, so it was more like a hundred.
Through those thousands of hours and millions of words, I found I was changed in a way that surprised me.
I figured I would become a better writer with practice—gag-inducing glimpses at early drafts confirm that this indeed was the case—but I learned more than that. I learned to write for myself.
I set out to write a novel because… well, I don’t know exactly why I set out to write a novel. I didn’t really like writing in school, nor did I get very good grades in English. I’d never tried my hand at so much as a short story. I’d lost interest in reading. Noveling was simply something on my list of things to do someday and I don’t like it when things stay on my list too long. Since i figured writing a novel couldn’t be all that hard, and that nasty to-do was right there, staring at me from my task management software interface, I figured I might as well get started. Not only did I discover that completing a novel is a bit harder than expected, especially if you intend for this novel to actually be consumed by people who are not paid handsomely to consume it—hard like running a marathon… up Mount Everest… carrying your grandmother piggy back—but through the process of writing for all those endless hours, I fell in love.
It seems like all the cool writers, the kind who wear ridiculously oversized glasses that they somehow pull off and dark turtlenecks and knit scarfs, all those writers have this whole writing for oneself thing down. They ooze big ol' tears of authenticness out their pores. I have friends like this, people who have been writing for years—have whole hard drives full of provoking prose (actually, the really cool writers do it longhand in black Moleskins)—friends who have little intention of ever sharing their work with anyone. This is either an incredibly nobel gesture, or they’re scared. Either way, they make me feel like a big commercial, compliment-fishing whore. The truth is I kind of was when I started. But somewhere along the way, I changed. I think it was the feedback that did it; the good, the bad and the indifferent. The multiple 2-star reviews on the same day that I was sure was some kind of coordinated attack designed to ruin my career and the kind-hearted emails I’d get from readers with variations on, “Dear God, please stop re-writing this book” and the people who went to creative lengths to tell me what an ugly little baby I’d conceived. Eventually, I learned not to care. And then I learned to do whatever I damn well pleased. And then I learned to do what I loved. Now I believe the closer I get to this—still have a bit of the old commercial whore to kill off I admit—the better, and more true my writing will be.
I’m tempted to apologize for the changes, for the multi-year drawn out process that I’ve asked my readers again and again and again to endure with me, but that wouldn’t be honest. Because I’m not sorry—in the best possible sense. I’m thankful. I don’t think it matters how you get there. It might take a concussion, or misplaced motivations, or writing ten books before sharing one of them, or writing the same book a hundred times and releasing all of them on the internet for publish bashing. The best writing plumbs the deep and unsearchable human heart, reflecting something about ourselves in a way that makes us strive to become better at being human. You can’t get to plumbing if you’re fishing for compliments. At least, I’ve discovered, I can’t.
So I guess I’m glad I took that last ski run.
If I hadn’t knocked my head, Evan Burl and his mentally unstable friends might forever have been locked up inside my own unstable brain. And I wouldn’t have discovered my cathartic love for writing. However, I am hoping for a less risky form of inspiration for my next novel. Maybe I should try running a marathon up Everest with grandma strapped to my back.
I'd love to know what you think about the final product. Let me know in the comments!
More about the Evan Burl Book Release and Our Weekly Giveaway
Stay tuned for more info on the book (releasing Dec 10), book giveaways, a Kickstarter, and more!
Amazon shopping spree and book giveaway
To celebrate (1) the launch of Evan Burl, (2) the Kickstarter campaign that aims to fight fatherlessness with fiction and most importantly in January, and (3) you, I'm giving away $1000 in prizes including more than 50 signed books, a $250 Amazon shopping spree, and dozens of other gifts from great authors around the world.
The winner of our last giveaway is Gloria Macioci Blaney!
Along with winning a signed copy of Evan Burl and the Falling, Vol. 1-2 Gloria joins the other semi-finalists in the $250 Amazon gift card giveaway. Claim your prize by emailing
Click here to enter now for your chance to win, plus get the free eBook instantly, just for entering!
Watch for my next blog to see if you've won. These are some places to read the blog: Facebook, Twitter, in your email, on my website, on Amazon, or on Goodreads.
Here is a list of the semifinalists for the $250 Amazon giveaway!
Jessica Mamac, Kristen Patinka, Lou Scott, Scott Bothel, John Wargowsky, Tammy Dalley, Carl Smith, Heather Miles, Sally Hannoush, Christopher Burrell, Cathy Smith, Blake Goldstein, Katrina Epperson, Janae Schiele, Vanessa Rasanen, Katrina Umland, Deanna Wiseburn, Hope Clippinger, Rebecca Ann Baker, Lisa Whitten, Gavin Imes, Robin Baker, April Reynolds, Gloria Macioci Blaney
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