P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Listen up and engage like a journalist

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I’d like to believe I bring some skills to the conversations and other interactions in which I engage. If not skills, then at least experience.

As a newspaper journalist, I’ve spent 42 of my nearly 63 years on the planet getting paid to talk to people and listen — really listen — to what they tell me. That’s a lot of practice. While it hasn’t necessarily made me a perfect conversationalist, I’d assert it’s made me better one.

It’s also made me something of an anachronism in an age when people are more connected by technology than ever before, yet struggle to connect personally. It’s perplexing, because I can’t think of a more crucial ability, one that applies to nearly every aspect of life. While many factors go into success, never underestimate the importance of relationships.

I don’t claim to offer any expertise. I’m willing to lay a bet, though, some of what I’ve learned in my career applies to interactions. The next time you’re involved in an interaction — a business meeting, family gathering or just lunch with friends — engage like a journalist.

Here are four tips — call them talking points — to consider:

Be prepared. I never go into an interview without first conducting as much background research as time allows. And then planning not only the questions I’ll pose, but also their order. Think about what you want to talk about. If you need to ask for something, contemplate the reasons why. Even with a script of sorts, I don’t necessarily stick to it. Remain flexible enough to steer in a different direction and discover where that takes you. I conclude interviews by asking if there’s a question I DIDN’T pose. This affords an opportunity to bring up other and perhaps even more important information.

Ask the right questions. I’m interested in finding out not only the who, what, when and where, but also the how and especially the why. Ask people what motivates them and chances are good you’ll gain insights that prove valuable in developing deeper relationships.

Demonstrate your interest. This might be easier for me than others because I really am interested in the people I interview. They’ve got news I want to gather. That attribute extends beyond sources, though. Everyone is a subject matter expert on something. They’ve got fascinating information they’d love to relate if only someone would ask them. You might discover a shared passion that could serve as the beginning of beautiful friendship. 

Above all, listen. Intently and purposefully. My work as a journalist has trained me to listen to what people tell me — not the next opportunity to interject my thoughts. Listen not only to what others say, but also the ways in which they say it. Are they animated, reticent or something in between? Watch, too. Not all communication is verbal. I make it a point to turn off my phone before an interview so I’m not interrupted. Turn off your phone and then listen as if you’d have to subsequently write a story about the conversation.

There are differences between journalism and life, of course. Not every encounter should turn into an interview. But there are also similarities in the opportunities journalism and life afford to glean information and, more important still, establish rapport and build trust.

Want to connect? Really connect? Engage like a journalist.

I feel the need. The need for speed.

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I’m reluctant to quote lines from a movie because of the nearly ubiquitous convention of so many who do. I’m willing to make an exception, though, because these particular lines encapsulate the sense of urgency I so often confront.

I feel the need. The need for speed.

Not as a jet fighter pilot, obviously. But as a writer.

From my vantage point, everyone writes more quickly than I do. They churn out whole novels — entire series of novels — in the time it takes me to plod through a single chapter. If other writers proceed at what seems to me like the speed of light, I move at a geological scale. A few million years of character building here, a few million years of plot development there.

So it was with considerable envy I read a story by Thu-Huong Ha posted on Quartz.

She describes romance novelists as the true hustlers of the publishing industry. They’re busy not only writing books, but also marketing and interacting with fans. They must work quickly.

She quotes as a poster child of sorts H.M. Ward, a self-published author whose novels have sold more than 20 million copies. Ward says she writes two hours a day and averages about 2,500 words an hour. What? By comparison, this little lament is just 620 words. And I can assure you I spent far more than an hour writing it.

Then there’s Katherine Garbera, who writes four or five novels a year and has completed more than 100 novels over the course of her career.

I’m fortunate to know several romance novelists. I’m not familiar with how fast they write, but I’m impressed nonetheless with their prolific output. I’m thinking of you, Christina Hovland. She’s written more than a dozen romantic comedy and contemporary romance novels and has more scheduled for release this year. I recommend her work. It’s funny and compelling. And frequently steamy.

There’s an element of romance in my work, but none of the stereotypical bodice ripping found in historical romances. Or, for that matter, any rock hard abs. That’s what happens when your protagonist is a middle-aged newspaper editor whose once athletic physique long ago slid into disrepair. Besides, my characters remain pretty busy solving murders and finding treasure. That and avoiding getting killed in the process.

I suspect, though, the measure of romance in my work bears no relationship to the pace at which I write. I’m just slow. That’s all.

I attribute part of the problem to my approach as a pantser rather than plotter. Writing by the seat of my pants affords freedom and accommodates serendipity. But I waste a lot of time backtracking because I’m uncertain of which direction to head next.

I attribute another part of the problem to the habits I’ve developed in my day job as an editor and the incompatibility of two processes. I believe writing is a constructive process — assembling something out of bits and pieces. Editing is a deconstructive process — dismantling something to replace it with something better. What slows me down is trying to engage in both processes simultaneously. To deploy yet another analogy, I’m like a bricklayer who can’t move on to the next course until the one before is as perfect as I can make it.

I realize I’d be better off remembering Aesop’s fable of the tortoise and hare and the promise slow and steady ultimately wins the race. I can’t help thinking, though, of Chuck Jones’ more modern fable of the coyote and roadrunner.

I still feel the need. The need for speed. But I’m resigned to the likelihood I’ll never catch up to faster writers. Not even with Acme rocket-powered roller skates.

Can writing be hazardous to your health?

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Add to death and taxes another certainty in this world. At least in my world. Writing is difficult. Damned difficult.
As if any additional consternation were required, there’s evidence writing also can be dangerous. Deadly even.
I suspect one thing has everything to do with the other.
I like to complain to anyone willing to listen I’ve long suffered for my art. Of course, that depends on the definition of suffering. And especially, I suppose, on the definition of art.
I’ve stared at a blank computer screen unable to contrive even a single coherent sentence until my eyes burned in their sockets. I’ve smacked my forehead over stupid mistakes so often I’ve risked concussion. Worst of all, I’ve read through my flawed first drafts with sufficient disgust to make nausea a nearly chronic affliction and Pepto-Bismol a staple.
Still, I didn’t worry until recently that writing could be a dangerous occupation. Not dangerous as in bomb technician, mountain climber or tightrope walker dangerous. But potentially hazardous to your health. Enough so that perhaps word processing software should come with a surgeon general’s warning.
I came to this conclusion after reading a post by Emily Temple, managing editor at Literary Hub. She recounted with no small measure of gallows humor some of the famous fates that awaited famous authors as a result of their writing.
George Orwell, the author of “Animal Farm” and “1984,” compared writing a book to “a long bout of some painful illness.” Sure enough, Orwell grew increasingly sick as he wrote, coughing up blood and losing weight. He ultimately succumbed to tuberculosis.
Ayn Rand turned to amphetamines to help her meet deadlines. But drugs also left her emotional and paranoid. By the time she completed the manuscript for “The Fountainhead,” she was close to a nervous breakdown.
Then there’s my personal favorite — French novelist Honoré de Balzac. He ate coffee grounds on an empty stomach to stimulate his writing and reportedly died of caffeine poisoning. Try not to think about that the next time you gulp down your fourth cup of the day.
Cautionary tales of this sort give rise to a question: Why write? If it’s really so difficult and so bad for you, then why write?
In my experience, it doesn’t get you girls. And it doesn’t make you rich, although I’m still grasping onto hope for that prospect.
Here’s the paradox of writing: There’s nothing else I’ve encountered that’s half as rewarding.
The moments of delight that arise from a well-turned phrase, an unexpected plot twist and ultimately a good story well told more than make up for hours of frustration, doubt and even loathing.
Yet another famous writer — Ray Bradbury — put it in other and better words: “Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun at it.”
Is writing difficult? Unquestionably. Can it be dangerous? Apparently so.
But is writing also rewarding and even fun? I’d answer yes. With certainty.

Group efforts make writing fun

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Writing constitutes a mostly solitary endeavor. Armed only with a pencil, pen or computer, a writer faces alone some fearsome challenges. Empty pages and blank computer screens. Gaping holes in plots. Worst of all, the doubt that comes on little cat feet and sits looking over disappointment and frustration on silent haunches.

Fortunately, writing also involves group activities. Writers gather over coffee or beer or Zoom meetings. They commiserate, for sure. But they also compare processes. What motivates them and what doesn’t. Best of all, writers in critique groups offer their appraisals of works in progress. Sometimes scathing. Sometimes flattering. Always honest.

I’ve experienced writing both on my own and in the company of others. There’s joy in singular achievement, in crafting a well-turned phrase or compelling scene. But there’s also shared enjoyment in collective efforts. For a journalist, there’s nothing like the camaraderie of a newsroom and joining in the hurly-burly of deadlines. For a novelist, there’s nothing like the camaraderie of a critique group and joining in the inspiring exchange of ideas.

I’ve been especially fortunate over the past year to gather with a group of writers in weekly Zoom meetings hosted by Kevin Wolf, a novelist who’s received praise — and awards — for his published works.

Participants in the group are an eclectic bunch, as creative as they are diverse in what they write. Meetings feature readings from compelling memoirs, chilling horror stories, intriguing fantasies and thrilling westerns replete with gunslingers. Private detectives hunt down killers, intrepid women journey across the American West and children frolic in neighborhood adventures. An accomplished poet shares compositions at once clever, funny and thought-provoking. The author of a series of guidebooks for national parks offers excerpts both educational and entertaining.

I’m envious of the flagrant talent. When I read from my mystery, I’m reminded what it must have been like for the guest who followed the Beatles on the “Ed Sullivan Show.”

Writers in the group offer criticism, but always in constructive fashion. Would that really happen? Have you considered having your character do this instead? What sounds and smells could you add to further immerse your readers in the scene? There’s a point to it all: Here’s how I believe your work might read even better.

That’s what makes group activities so rewarding for writers. There’s the admission we all struggle, but also the assurance we’re struggling together. The encouragement becomes addictive.

We also celebrate milestones. Entries in contests. Pitches to literary agents. And the ultimate milestone: the completion of projects.

To that end, here’s a shout-out to three participants in my writers group who’ve recently completed projects: Axel Gearman for his memoir “Two Ways Out of Stockton,” James Kaiser for his guidebook to Rocky Mountain National Park and Jason Van Tatenhove for his horror novel “Colorado’s Chance: The Firewalker.” Those books are available on Amazon, by the way. I highly recommend them.

James’ remarkable guidebooks also are available at bookshop.org. For more information, visit his website at https://jameskaiser.com.

It’s comforting to know as I continue my journey to write and publish mysteries, I’m not alone. At least not all the time. I’m grateful for the company.

What happens when a kid in a candy store drinks from a fire hose?

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It can be risky business to use idioms in writing. Nonetheless, two come to mind in describing the annual conferences staged by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. That’s what happens when a kid in a candy store drinks from a fire hose.

At the beginning of the latest Colorado Gold Conference in Denver, I rubbed together eager hands in anticipation of the assortment of presentations scheduled there. By the end of the weekend, I was soaked by the information in which I’d been inundated.

In other and better words, the conference offers something for all writers regardless of the genres in which they work or the stages of their careers. More, in fact, than can be assimilated over a couple of days.

I attended presentations on pitching to literary agents, structuring novels and writing thrillers. 

I also attended a presentation on the duties of coroners in Colorado. I did so to more accurately portray in my novels the elderly owner of White Mountain Mortuary who serves as Diamond County coroner. Contrary to what appears on TV, coroners only rarely bring medical training to their duties. Why are funeral home owners frequently elected coroners? Simple. They have a place to store bodies.

But wait, there was even more to my experiences.

I was thrilled to join other finalists for the 2021 Colorado Gold Rush Literary Awards presented at the conference. An entry based on my novel “Delve Too Deep” didn’t win, but I really was honored to be mentioned among such admirable writers.

The annual contest for unpublished authors constitutes one of the best ways I’ve encountered to polish manuscripts and, in turn, agent submissions. Judges provide critiques that help me make progress on my works in progress. Win, lose or finish somewhere in between, the ultimate reward of the competition is the process itself.

By virtue of winning the mystery and thriller category in 2020 with “Small Town News,” I was invited to join other Gold Rush winners at a presentation to read the openings of our novels. I never imagined I’d one day stand before a hotel ballroom chock-full of the most talented writers in the region and read my work. MY work. How incredibly cool is that?

Of course, some of the most rewarding events of all at the conference aren’t scheduled. They’re the impromptu conversations with other writers about their work and where they draw their inspiration. Everyone I met was generous in sharing advice and encouragement. Every one.

Last — but certainly not least — I pitched “Small Town News” to three literary agents. Two were gracious enough to agree to look at pages. I realize the long odds I face. Agents might review a thousand submissions in a year, yet take on only a handful of clients. But an at bat is an at bat. And I’m excited for the opportunity to step up to the plate and take a big swing.

I suppose that’s yet another idiom. One I’m pleased to use in my writing.