P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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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.

Writing fiction an educational effort

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In the ongoing evaluation of the pros and cons of writing fiction in which I engage, the pros always outnumber the cons.
It’s not so much the fame or big piles of money, if you can believe that.
In all seriousness, I count myself among the fortunate few who’ve discovered something they enjoy and finagled a way to pursue their passions.
Granted, I haven’t yet explored all the other possibilities. But I remain convinced there are few things more satisfying than the act of creation involved in writing fiction. You invent some characters, plop them into a setting and then ponder the implications of a question that begins “What if … .”
What if a reporter who’s laid off at a Denver newspaper takes a job as editor of a small town weekly in northwest Colorado? What if a search for gold bars hidden a century ago in a mountain lake results instead in the discovery of a ghastly corpse lashed to rock?
Then the magic begins. Characters take on lives of their own and insist on doing things their way. Their story turns out differently than what you expected, but is all the more compelling as a result.
There’s yet another pro to writing fiction, though. And that’s the opportunity it affords to learn new things. Let me explain.
By definition, fiction involves imaginary people and events. It’s possible to fabricate nearly everything. J.K. Rowling proved that in the wizarding world she built for her Harry Potter series. The most inventive fantasy and science fiction writers do.
I prefer in my own endeavors to write mysteries to mix fact with fiction.
That sort of approach requires research — but as a welcome byproduct, the collection of an eclectic assortment of information.
In the process of writing two novels featuring an investigative journalist and history professor, I’ve learned about transmountain water diversions, business incorporation filings and the factors that go into establishing time of death for corpses recovered in water. I’ve also learned about the outlaw Butch Cassidy, the Overland Trail in Wyoming and the operation of the San Francisco Mint in the late 19th century.
I’ve spent a lot of time recently researching dinosaur fossils and even dinosaur evolution. And, no, I’m not trying to write some sort of sequel to “Jurassic Park.” Like I could even if I wanted to.
Realistic details and historical events help make the implausible seem not only plausible, but also likely.
In making characters more authoritative, they become more believable. If your novels feature a driven investigative journalist and brilliant history professor, then those characters better know what they’re talking about and, especially, what they’re doing.
Of course, a lot of what writers pour into their fiction comes from personal experiences. You really do write what you know. In that respect, every novel is autobiographical to a certain degree.
I chose my protagonist and setting in large part because I used to work as a small town newspaper editor in northwest Colorado.
I was excited as well to incorporate some of my experiences as a scuba diver into my latest work in progress. I know what it feels like to dive into a lake with poor visibility and nearly freezing water temperatures. Spoiler alert: It’s mostly miserable.
Although I’ve covered some murders as a newspaper reporter, I’ve never solved one. Come to think of it, I’ve never found any treasure, either.
But that’s where research comes in handy.
There are a lot of pros to writing prose. But if I’ve learned one thing from writing fiction, one of the best pros of all is the opportunity to learn new things.