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.
Dive right in, the water really is fine
I have no memory of my birth. I was too young at the time, I suppose. Sixty years later, I can’t help but wonder if birth was like another event in my life — only in reverse.
With birth, I emerged from the fluid realm of the womb and pulled into new lungs a first breath of air. With scuba diving, I returned to an aquatic environment and pulled through a regulator a first breath of air under water. There’s a commonality, though: Just as birth heralds discovery, so does diving.
That’s why it’s been all the more rewarding to combine two of my passions in including scenes involving scuba diving in my second novel. I hope you’ll enjoy following my two protagonists into a cold mountain lake in search for gold bars hidden there more than a century ago by outlaws. What they discover instead is a ghastly corpse lashed to a rock. My protagonists will have to get wet again before discovering the treasure or truth.
Unlike birth, I recall with clarity my first breaths under water — initially in a dive shop swimming pool, then the dark depths of the Homestead Crater in Utah and finally the warm and welcoming sea off Cozumel in Mexico. Each breath was a tentative one in a bigger universe and came with the growing realization of what a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus affords. That’s freedom to explore the vast expanses of Earth accessible only to those with the right equipment — or gills. There’s another benefit no less significant: the opportunity to share the adventure with family and friends.
Scuba diving is nothing if not varied. Each dive is unique with its own conditions, depth and time logged. One dive could be as warm and shallow as the next cold and deep. Visibility ranges from crystalline to murky, from hundreds of feet to mere inches. Calm waters invite leisurely investigation. Ripping currents provide a thrilling ride. A quick dip might take only 20 minutes. A longer foray could extend more than an hour.
Dive sites are no less varied. I’ve toured spectacular coral reefs off the Cayman Islands, giant kelp forests off Catalina and foreboding shipwrecks off the Florida Keys. I’ve plumbed the depths of flooded quarries in Illinois and Kentucky, roamed the halls of a submerged lead mine in Missouri and watched snaggletoothed sharks make the rounds in a massive aquarium in downtown Denver.
Nothing fascinates or rewards more than observing life under the sea up close and personal. Nowhere are the creatures more intensely colorful or more frequently bizarre. Angelfish and butterfly fish dazzle like neon signs with their ostentatious displays. Eagle rays soar as majestically as any bird. Conversely, stonefish blend in with their surroundings so masterfully they remain undetected to all but the most wary passersby. In a place where some animals look more like plants, anemones bloom like flowers and worms pop up like tiny Christmas trees. When small fish swarm in tightly packed schools, they can form gigantic bait balls that roil like storm clouds and blot out the sun.
Jacques Cousteau, the pioneering oceanographer who helped develop scuba diving, famously warned: “The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”
I say this: Let the net tighten.