This is probably the most common question that any professional writer (or any writer really) gets asked. And the answer is usually the same: You read, you write. But beyond that there are some questions you need to answer for yourself.
The first, and most important, is why do you want to write? Most people don’t want to be writers. They want approval, recognition, money – all things that there are easier and better ways to get. Pretend, if you would, that your future self showed up on your doorstep tomorrow and told you that you’d never get published, your work would never be shared outside of whatever reading group you joined, and you would die in a house fire that would also consume all of your works, preventing any from being published posthumously. Would you still write?
If the answer to that is yes, then the next question you need to decide on is what type of writer do you want to be. There’s an attitude among those that make a living at writing that unless you’re drawing a paycheck then you aren’t a “real” writer. And they can’t be blamed for this. It’s a tough racket and you need to tell yourself something to feel good about it. But it’s also hogwash. Emily Dickinson didn’t make dime one off her writing and if you want to tell me she wasn’t a writer I’d say you deserve a slap in the face. Conversely, Stephen King is a writer and he’s got more money than Algeria.
So do you want to write for you? Or for someone else? The most successful writers ultimately write for themselves, but spend years writing for other people. Stan Lee spent decades writing what other people told him to write until he got so fed up he finally wrote one book the way he wanted and was stunned to find that it was an outrageous success. But he wouldn’t have been able to do that if he didn’t have the tools writing for other people had given him. Another writer I’m acquainted with spent years writing copy for a wood catalogue (wood, as in planks of) until he finally developed the skills he needed to successfully write his own stuff. Trust me, spending a few years figuring out how to make wood sound interesting will sharpen your pencil better than an MFA.
My only advice in this regard would be that if you want to make a living writing, never write for anyone else unless they are paying you. Otherwise, thank them for their time and go back to your copy editing job. Can’t find a job writing? Find a job that’s interesting (EMT, lawyer, teacher) and write about that.
If you want to write for yourself, your task is really no less difficult. Although, if you’re in this situation your either an insomniac or you’ve carved out a chunk of time every day to write, you’ll ultimately be beset by doubts that you are wasting your time. And that may be true. There are over 7 billion people on the planet, a good chunk of which want to be writers (or perhaps just creators). What makes your voice unique? What do you have to say that isn’t being by said by everyone else?
Even thinking about the enormity of that task makes me want to cry a little. You’ll spend years in solitary work trying to answer that question. When you find the answer, though, it will be no different than the monk who awakens from his daily meditation to realize he knows who he is. When you figure out who you are and how that informs your writing, validation from outside sources just doesn’t have the meaning or weight it once did.
So there’s the simple fact that what type of writer you want to be has a lot more dimensions to it than the type of financial success you want to achieve. So start with deciding what type of writer you want to be, which is about as complicated a question as deciding who you want to be as a person.
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
Molly knew teenagers were difficult. She had raised three; Melissa, Sami, and Turk. All three of them were gone now, college or beyond. Travis had been a surprise, though, so he was far younger than the rest. In the beginning, it had been easier. Her other children were old enough to help raise him. A true blessing, especially with Tom away on business so much.
Maybe she’d been too reliant on them, though. The others had certainly been trouble in their teenage years. Nothing like Travis, though, and when his siblings left, he acted out and no form of discipline seemed to work. She spent a lot of time looking at photographs of her older children, sometimes talking to them on the phone, sometimes about Travis, sometimes even when she knew he was listening. Tom just said it was a phase he’d grow out of. He’d been right with the others, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Molly just didn’t know what to say to her youngest. He might have dressed like his peers, but there was a darkness around his eyes that Molly would swear was eyeliner, but she could never wipe it off, no matter how hard she tried. Travis would stand, hard as a statue, and let her wipe his face, saying nothing, but radiating fury. When she asked him why he was so angry, he would stare at her and say, “Look at what you’ve done.” Molly would ask what he meant, but he would say nothing, just stand there, burning with the intensity of a forest fire.
It made her feel awful, but every time she heard about another school shooting, she’d grab her phone to check the news. It was never Travis, which only made her feel worse, guilty, like she was failing him.
Not that she could tell. Travis spent most of his time in his room. In his younger days, each poster on the walls of his room was a chapter of his life, like a chart for his personal anthropology. Lego movies, Star Wars, K-Pop stars. Then that changed, and it became photos of Bigfoot, flying saucers, ancient warlocks whipping up the sea. Eventually these were papered over with images of monsters that bubbled eyes, things that could have been UFOs, but weren’t, and esoteric symbols that Molly couldn’t even guess at. Eventually, she talked about it with Tom, in private. They decided they’d have a word with Travis about the strange decorations when her husband got back from his next trip.
She lived in dread of her husband’s return until she picked him up from the airport. His relief to be home immediately changed to anger when they saw what Travis had done. Every bottle in the liquor cabinet was broken, every coat had been pulled out of the closet, cabinets ripped open, floorboards pulled up. The cellar door had been pulled off its hinges.
Tom stormed to Travis’s room yelling, but when he stomped through the threshold, he went quiet as a church at midnight. Molly summoned all her courage to follow him.
The bed had been flipped into a corner, the carpet ripped up. On the bare wood underneath, drawn in charcoal, was a symbol that might have been a pentagram, but was too intricate, so much so that it seemed to move when she left her gaze on it too long.
All of this fell away, though, when Molly saw the cellar door pushed up against the wall. It had been painted black, oozed the color even, until Molly saw it wasn’t a door anymore. It stood there like a hole in the wall, an opening to a headless maw.
It was late the next morning by the time Aggie arrived back at the office, but Gladys noticed the diminutive inspector was in high spirits. She moved with a spritely speed, slipping in through the door and hanging her belted cashmere coat on the chrome hatstand next to it. Gladys didn’t say anything, though, because she also knew the many masks of Aggie McPherson. This one’s smile contained an edge of cruelty that her never liked.
“The drive to the X’Komish reservation wasn’t a short one, but it was worth it. That ought to put them into a tail spin,” Aggie announced to Gladys as she finished shedding her coat.
Gladys fluttered her eyelashes. “You’ve got me guessing.”
Aggie strode closer, like she might plant a kiss on top of Gladys’ head, then diverted herself into her office, leaving a trail of words that Gladys didn’t care for either. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”
Gladys let her displeasure be known by saying, “You’re doing it again.”
From her office, Aggie called, “Doing what?”
“You had a phrase for it,” Gladys tapped her desk with a long fingernail, drawing out the words.
A second later, Aggie poked her head out, the longer hair on top of her head flopping out to the side. “Being a dick?”
Gladys wrapped her knuckles on her desk as if her boss had won a prize. “That’s it!”
Aggie straightened herself and now, free of her blazer, walked out in her gray slacks and white Oxford shirt. She smoothed her tie into her vest as she sat on the desk’s edge. She smiled kindly at her assistant. “Sorry, what were you asking?”
“Who’s in a what now?” Gladys asked simply.
Aggie grinned like the Cheshire cat. “A tailspin. The Legion of Silver Shields. Haddo Skull specifically. At least three of his men are currently fleeing the state. Haddo’s been dabbling in goetia and – “
“What?”
“Sorcery. Demonic magic. His men were using some of it to commit robberies. Haddo is going to wonder where they went. And when he learns about the robberies, he’s going to wonder where the money went.”
“Where did the money go?”
Aggie rapped her knuckles on Gladys’ desk, imitating her game show enthusiasm. “Excellent question. When he finds out they were sending the money elsewhere, he’ll know they betrayed him.
“Particularly one named Randall Wayne. He actually seemed like he could be dangerous. I’m guessing he’s one of Haddo’s top men.” Aggie emphasized the last adjective as if quoting a motion picture.
Gladys quirked an eyebrow at her boss. “I don’t understand. Didn’t Haddo hire you to find out about a Revenant?”
“He will as soon as he hands me those condo papers. But I’m not going to find out what’s up with this Revenant by asking it. It’ll become clear when I figure out what sin of Haddo’s birthed it. And Haddo isn’t too keen on talking about his past.”
“He’s hiding something,” Gladys nodded.
“He’s trying to hide everything. I seriously doubt Haddo Skull is his real name. So at least him being worried about Wayne and his crew will keep him occupied while I figure this out.”
Gladys crinkled up her nose in way she couldn’t help when she thought she might have bad news. “What was that name again?”
“Randall Wayne?”
“Oh,” Gladys let the word drop like it was going down a well. “I don’t think Haddo is going to have to worry about him.”
“What do you mean?”
Gladys laid out the morning paper on her desk. Aggie had arranged for Slakterquay’s only remaining newspaper to be delivered through the office door slot. It was a kindness as Gladys often found she had little to do before her boss’s arrival.
Gladys flipped past the front page story concerning a kidnapping plot against the governor. She smoothed page three out, displaying the headline, 3 Dead in Fiery Interstate Crash.
“The car was registered to a Randall Wayne. There were two others with him that haven’t been identified yet.
“It burst into flames while traveling down the highway. The authorities haven’t figured out why, but it closed the road for hours.” Gladys kept her eyes on the paper. She could feel Aggie lean closer, scanning the article quickly for the details.
“Well,” Aggie said, the word propelling her back to standing. “Now I guess I have to attend a funeral.”
Gladys couldn’t’ keep the surprise out of her voice. “For these three?”
Aggie responded with a chop of her head and a, “Yep.”
Normally the unexpected was one of Gladys’ favorite parts of working for Aggie, but those surprises didn’t usually include fascists. “Why?”
“Whoever killed them might show up.”
“Haddo didn’t? Kill them, I mean.”
Aggie smiled at Gladys in a way that made her feel like a particularly bright student. “That’s a logical conclusion. Haddo would have had to figure out who stole the rod pretty quick, though, and I’m not sure he would have gone right for his head guy. So it’s possible we have a new player.”
“And you think they’ll show up at the funeral?” Gladys’ surprise became doubt.
“Maybe. Even if they don’t, whoever he’s been sending the money will likely be there.” Aggi concluded, hands on her hips, eyes still on the paper.
Gladys responded, “Well, you’d better get your mourning suit out. It looks like the funeral is already scheduled.”
“That was fast.” The corner of Aggie’s mouth twisted down, a mixture of concentration and confusion. “I wouldn’t think that the Silver Shields would be holding a service until Haddo figured out what happened to Wayne.”
Gladys crinkled her nose again. “Well, there’s more bad news.”
“News is how you look at it,” Aggie’s voice went up, willing positivity.
Gladys drew a finger to the last paragraph of the article. “The service is being held by the Urquhart Fraternal Order of Police.”
Aggie blinked, smile vanishing. “Wayne wasn’t a cop.”
“Well,” Gladys considered all the bootleggers she had known and how tight they all were with lawmen. “Someone in Urquhart thinks enough of him to give him a send off.”
Aggie tapped the desk, eyes wandering to her office door and the Slakterquay skyline that rose beyond its windows. “Gladys dear,” she said in a way that Gladys knew meant something unpleasant. “Would you mind going downstairs to the stacks and seeing if you can find anything else on Randall Wayne? I think we’re missing some pieces from our puzzle.”
“Ugh. Do I have to? I hate it down there. It’s so dark and musty.”
Aggie leaned forward and fluttered her eyes in a weird way that reminded Gladys of a girl she had met once in Greenwich Village. “Please?”
Gladys recoiled playfully, “Stop that. What are you, Bonzo the Dog?” Aggie leaned forward until Gladys replied with a prolonged, “Fine.”
“Thanks. I need to get ready for a funeral.” Aggie pushed herself off the desk and headed back towards the door.
“You’ll have to ankle it. It’s in three days and Urquhart is in the eastern part of the state.”
“Well, at least that means Haddo won’t be there then. That might bring him closer to the Revenant.”
Gladys frowned. “Yes. What a shame that would be.”
“Think of Reverend Taggart, Gladys. At least this is all keeping Haddo busy.”
“It’s just,” Gladys tried to keep judgment out of her voice, “from what you’ve told me, Haddo is an odious man.”
“He is,” Aggie agreed. “And if Taggart won’t do something about him, then I will.”
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
Ashamed to have lived. Those will be the words on my tombstone if I wasn’t destined for a potter’s grave. My entry into the world exceeded the family quota on natural born children. After all, embryos that had been genetically edited were disease-resistant, free from genetic disorders, more intelligent, and able to endure climate calamities better. They were also easier to track and control. That last part was what made mom and pop the rebels they were – they didn’t want their children tracked, didn’t want them controlled.
That also meant that I wasn’t planned. And hiding two children is a lot harder than hiding one. My earliest memories are of moving constantly, avoiding security, avoiding immigration, avoiding law enforcement, moving from unregistered hovel to undocumented shelter to refugee camp. When I became old enough to realize that these mad, chaotic movements were made because I existed, that I had the temerity to be born into a world where I was little more than a burden, I couldn’t understand why I was here.
I just knew I didn’t have a choice, running from shadow to shadow to avoid government surveillance apparatuses. They weren’t even looking for me, just those like me. It wasn’t until I met Sarah that I realized why. The unregistered, the unedited, could do something their engineered peers couldn’t do: We could have children. The one thing that I swore never to do was the only thing that made me special. As much as I love Sarah, that passion isn’t worth bringing another soul into this broken world.
Select the play button above for an audio reading. To start with the first chapter, go here.
The Duke fell back into my arms as his life fled. I left my blade in him to keep blood from pouring out, pulling him behind the altar. Chand stood there, eyes agog, managing to stammer out, “What are you doing?”
I continued to pull the Duke’s corpse, his weight preventing me from making speed. “Help me with him!” I commanded.
“Are you mad? Can you not hear the RedCrosse Knights butchering these fools?”
Of course I heard. Every scream and clash echoed through the high-ceilinged chapel. From under the Duke’s weight, my eyes must have made this clear for Chand added, “Drop him and let’s make haste away!”
I spit, “If he’s discovered as a part of this, her Ladyship and family will meet the Requiter’s ax.”
Chand stared at me as if I were mad. “She’s tied to the altar! They were going to – ” He recoiled from the Duke’s corpse as I dragged it toward him, clearly eyeing whether he still carried the monstrosity between his legs.
“That won’t matter!” I yelled, “They’ll blame the whole lot if they know he orchestrated this. Now help me!”
His eyes dodging to the tabernacle wall and the altar beyond it, I could see the hatred for her Ladyship burning in Chand’s heart. “So let her meet her fate.”
I glared at Chand, weighing him anew. “And her son? Will you let them murder the child as well?”
This freed Chand from his hostility. His eyes did dart down, making certain that whatever possessed the Duke had left his mortal flesh. I didn’t dare look, but whatever Chand saw must have been enough for him. He grabbed the corpse under its arms to help me.
A small door behind the reredos led to an opulent rectory, the room meant for a humble servant of God, instead gilded and draped in velvet. While holding up his end of the Duke, I believe Chand still found a way to palm a few valuables on our way out.
More importantly, the vicarage had another door that let out into a courtyard, not dissimilar to the one we entered by, complete with a tunnel that led onto the street. We pulled him into the center of this small terrace where I dropped him and removed my blade, causing blood to spill out in earnest onto the cobblestones. As it pooled darkly around him, I couldn’t help but smile. “There. Now the Redcrosse Knights will think the noble Duke of Glevum was murdered so his estate could be used for this heretical ritual. That will spare her Ladyship and her child from the Requiter’s ax.”
I turned my smile to Chand whose dark eyes practically glowed in the pale moonlight that pierced the Dunhill sky. “Then let us fly before the Redcrosse find us standing over the corpse!”
The voicing of this obvious concern roused me from my revery, and we both rushed into the tunnel. We bounced off its narrow walls and into each other, almost like boys blagging, rather than a pair fleeing from conspiracy and murder. I felt like we could fall into each others arms at any moment.
The Redcrosse Knights must have all been inside, for the street we stumbled out into was as empty as before when we entered. Or so I thought. Our roughhousing turned to laughter, spilling out into the street’s emptiness, catching the eye of a Blackcoat hidden in the fog. An, “Eh! You! Stop right there!” was as all the constable got out before we disappeared into the dark. We ran, our laughter trailing behind us.
We ran far and fast, until not even our laughter could catch us. We awayed from Knights Crossing, dodging down alleys and up Dunhill’s hills, and along the Tamesis. We ran along the docks, making our way through the ladybirds and sodomite sailors that roamed there, plying their trade or looking for forbidden companionship. We ran until Chand pulled me into an alley by the nape of my cloak, so strongly my hat nearly flew from my head.
Pushing me against one of the walls, Chand leaned back to peer out of the alley, searching for any pursuers. His manic smile returned to me, telling me we had none. “What was that?” he asked, the question encompassing the entire wild affair.
“The ritual in the chapel?” I asked, unsure of how to answer such a broad question. I was unable to take my eyes from him as I felt his hot breath on my pale face. He nodded, his brown eyes looking into mine. For the first time, I didn’t turn away, letting him see the infatuation in which I studied him. Unwilling to let the moment pass, I answered his question with another, “What is the first rule of the Church?”
Chand blinked, the concrete question giving him pause. As if I were trying to trick him, he cornered me by putting a hand against the brick wall of the alley on either side of my head. “Thou shall have no other gods before me.”
“Exactly.” I smiled, burning at his proximity. “Such a pronouncement does not forbid the existence of other gods.”
“What was that thing the Duke became?”
“I know not, but from the words I could understand, I would wager they tried to bring something into this world from another. I suspect Lord Guillem’s good fortune in life may have been attributable to such an agreement.”
“Well,” for the first time, Chand broke his gaze from mine as I stared at him. “At least there’s a few less devil-worshippers in the world.”
“Perhaps we can figure out a way to move to robbing nobles rather than molly houses,” I smiled at him, his sudden uncertainty emboldening me. “It would certainly be more profitable.”
“Certainly. And more dangerous.” Glancing towards the alley entrance again, a ghost of fear crossed Chand’s face. “You’re certain he’s dead?”
“Yes. And soon we shall receive payment from her Ladyship.” With Chand’s hands on either side of me, I dared slide mine under his cloak and onto his hips.
My hands drew his attention back to me. He pulled himself up to his full height, taking a hand from the wall to remove my hat. “I’ll take my reward now I think,” he whispered and leaned forward, his lips slightly parted.
I had never kissed anyone before. Not in this manner. I had lost anything resembling purity long ago and never felt myself worthy of such a gentle offer. Even with the stubble on his chin, it was softer than I expected. Chand leaned into me, his lips covering my own until his tongue moved into my mouth. That was wholly unfamiliar, sweet, and awakening in a way that made me yearn for him like I didn’t know was possible.
After what felt like a sweet eternity, Chand pulled away from me, leaning over me from his greater height, one hand back on the wall as the other reached up to caress my cheek. “I knew you were that kind of boy.”
That phrase, almost exactly as my uncle had uttered to me my first night in McDowell Hall, skinny, frightened and naked, snuffed out my yearning and desire. My eyes must have gone cold, for Chand’s disposition changed, becoming wary. “Look, mate – ”
I found this reversal to be even more provoking, slapping his hand away and snatching my hat back from him. “I’m a man!” I pronounced loudly, feeling my voice did not sound much like one as it cracked. Stuffing the hat back on my head, I felt the flush leave my skin, my pale flesh cooling from hot desire to a cold anger that asphyxiated thought. I pushed Chand away, surprising him with my strength and force, knocking him onto his backside, landing roughly on the hard alley ground.
He looked at me in hurt and surprise, and I found this angered me even more, the vulnerability in him making me hate my own shame. I wanted to say something, something defiant and angry, or at least something that made sense, but my lips were sealed. Unable to control whatever had seized my soul, I stomped out of the alley. I could feel Chand’s gaze following me. He said nothing more, though, and did not follow.
I roamed Dunhill until dawn, unable to shake myself free of the emotions warring inside me. I had wanted what Chand had freely given, even teased it out of him, and yet I was walking alone, cold, hungry, my feet attacking the cobblestones with each heel-strike. I did this for many hours before I began to feel the presence of my uncle in every gas lamp shadow and the dark of every portico. This only grew until I turned to one, convinced I would find him there, naked and waiting for me, with the Duke’s snake reaching out for me from between his legs, pulling me to his putrid flesh.
When there was nothing there but a shadow and my uncle continued to be dead, it was only then that I realized he had nothing to do with my desire for Chand. But he had ensured that I could not feel the touch of others without his stain. My anger became shame at how I had treated Chand. Finding him in the crushing crowds that rose with the dawn of Dunhill would be impossible, making me feel infinitesimal as the mills of the city ground on.
The air was clear enough that when I returned to McDowell Hall hours later that I could see Inspector Rotella outside it. I dodged in through one the side entrances, opening the front door for him from the inside.
Under the portico of my Hall he stared at me, no doubt fatigued and cross from being up all night. “Master McDowell, where have you been? I’ve been waiting for an answer for quite some time.”
“I was asleep,” I did not care if he believed me.
The inspector’s dark eyes did their job and appraised the state of my dress, the black of my cape unable to completely hide the sweat and coal dust. He did not press this matter, though, instead continuing with, “I have need to speak with your uncle, Master McDowell. The invitation that you say he received has opened a matter that demands answers from him.”
I stepped back, enough that the Inspector could step into the Hall if he wished. He did not move even when I answered, “Lord McDowell will not be returning. His actions have besmirched the family name to the extent that we have chosen to handle the matter internally.”
“We?” Rotella peered past me into the vast emptiness of the Hall. “There are others of you to make this decision?”
“No,” I answered plainly.
Rotella returned his eyes to me. His uncertainty at my discombobulated form and emotionally vacant state was clear. With Chand sitting on the alley’s cobblestones still in my mind, I would have stabbed Uncle Daman right in front of the Inspector if it would rid me of his ghost. Even if it meant meeting my end in the Requiter’s Square.
Whatever he found in my countenance caused his consternation at having waited so long to cool into a practical decision. He let me know this with the words, “You are either the most honest noble in all of Dunhill, or you can hold a candle to the Devil. I’m uncertain as to which.”
Remembering that I was still wearing it, I took off my hat, pulling my dark hair into a messy halo around my skull. “Perhaps when you decide, you can let me know.”
Another long stare from Rotella ended with, “Indeed.” Stepping back from my threshold, he continued, “Perhaps we will see each other again.” He paused, then added, “Lord McDowell.” I nodded and closed the door.
I was deep into my cups when an escorted coach bearing the Guillem heraldry arrived at McDowell Hall. Even before I stepped out into courtyard, yeoman were taking a lockbox from the carriage and placing near the gate house. I waited until they left before inspecting it. Aaron and Erin delighted to find the chest was filled with gold crowns.
Along with the many coins, there was a note. Judging by the handwriting, I surmised it belonged to Lady Pawlett. It simply read, “I know of others that may require your services.”
Chaos is a wave, unpredictable but moving in a pattern. When it went out in the late 20th century, people panicked because it revealed things on the shore of reality that it had covered before. Grant knew that this was nothing, though, compared to what was coming when the wave came back in.
