Hello reader, and welcome.
Thanks, too, for dropping by. Though it’s been a minute, you can’t miss me if I don’t make a habit of going away.
Of far greater concern is my being here too often. For I know too well how familiarity breeds contempt.
Likewise, I understand that cost defines value. Thus, the act of giving something away without charging a fee soon enough renders that item worthless. As a result, I spent the last few months thinking over pay-per-view options for future editions of The Practice.
To no one’s surprise, there are now places (Medium, Patreon, Substack, etc.) that make paywalls and give subscriber-only access to stuff much like this for writers. My review of them continues.
Of the answers proposed to date, discontinuing The Practice leads. So, with the future unclear, I suggest enjoying this one.
You’re welcome to weigh in on this, too. Email and let me know what you think about pay-per-view access to this type of writing. Would you pay a one-time or recurring fee to read The Practice if it were behind a paywall? Why or why not? Thanks for sharing your thoughts.
Meanwhile, I’m back, and away we go.
Despite the exciting and productive summer, I enjoy fall best.
Now, I can only pine for warm afternoons spent working with friends in the sunshine. After all, between making music on stage and shooting film on the street, it was about as much fun as I’ve had, with boots on my feet.
But all good things must end, and so my summer of fun, disguised as work, is done.
The crisp edge in the September morning air soon enough clears up my view of the world, and me, too. Even for a hard-shelled nut, most times, it’s a sobering picture.
Of course, with the change in season, my respite from the keyboard also nears an end. Soon, for better or worse, I must return to my chosen life as a writer of novels.
So, to ease my return to the daily grind of writing fiction, I’m sharing a few thoughts on the writing craft with you today. Between the usual confounding digressions, that is. Lest we forget, the meandering nature of my prose composes much of what passes for literary style in these parts.
How’s that for irony at arm’s length?
Truth is, over the years, I have perhaps sacrificed as much to form and style as any other aspect of my practice. And though I mean no offense, reader, what is the point of writing if not to please its writer? Here, despite the popular failure of my efforts to date, I believe the work of making this brand of non-traditional Indigenous literature must continue.
This, despite learning that, after disappearing for a decade, the man from Harwill still commands more for a night on stage than my novels earn in a year.
Well, despite the obvious trouble posed by that sorry fact, I’m no less committed to staying the course. For reasons other than health or money, too.
Because, and lucky for me, success, like spacetime, is relative.
Not only that, but my desire to write and publish novels that challenge the literary status quo still outweighs all else, including either need or want. What’s more? I live better staying away from the many things that might prevent me completing them, too.
And yes, the longer I work at writing, the happier I am with the results. Sadly, the numbers tell me that so far, I can’t say the same for you, reader.
Oh well. The work of creating a literary frame of reference that shows how it was for a group of people forgotten by history, who yet helped shape certain moments during always uncertain times, maintains its strange hold over me. I remain compelled to write these stories.
For there, I believe, is the actual method by which the sum of a whole might exceed that of its parts. Likewise, the true proof for evolution is how changing moral standards always provide the rules for tomorrow’s society. Though not the only reasons, to me those are important aspects of what makes writing about us worthwhile.
Like many who write, reader, I too have an agenda. Mine is challenging yours. I believe that’s how writers contribute to the process of evolution.
Despite the lofty aim, and though grounded in realism and based on experience, my novels are pure fiction. Like most works of this type, they’re entertainments, but reflect the philosophy and expose a worldview held by their author. For I believe, too, that only books that do are worth reading.
Their writers, meanwhile, should ever linger on the outskirts of memory, either dead or living as anachronisms. These days, I count myself among the latter.
Did you note the ease with which I digressed there? Is that style? Or a hint of something more nefarious?
Let’s get back to our craft talk.
The first, and perhaps only, strict rule for learning how to write is to read a lot. To be a writer, you must first read. Books are, after all, the how-to manual of writing. From there, in spirit if not practice, you’re on your own.
The second one is big, too.
This writing thing is a solo deal. Did I mention that? Well, if not, there you go. A writer must spend most of their time alone. When writing, of course, but also while not writing, too.
Aloneness is a skill, you see, and like any other, you both acquire and improve it with practice.
For a writer must learn to see the world with their own eyes.
By now, I believe the in-between times are far more important than the hours spent at the keyboard, too. Though I’ve also learned discipline is key to everything, not just writing. That’s why I stick to methods and plans, while ignoring the ebb and flow of desire and inspiration.
Despite beginning this flight, as did many before me, with only the seat of my pants. If that works for you, keep on keeping after it. If it doesn’t, find another way. In the internet age, information abounds.
See, I believe the thing called a writer’s voice comes from life. And while desire and intent help, a cook needs the right stuff to make soup, too. Thus, a big part of a writer’s job is making sure they’ve lived enough to gather the proper ingredients for the meal they plan to serve.
Recall, too, that much like a cook, a writer improves by practice. So, if the souffle falls, or your latest story gets rejected, try again! Refuse to quit. Teachers of writing call that process finding your voice.
Given enough living, practice, rewriting, sweat, tears, and time, if one lives in you, you’ll grow into it. Though what you discover may not be what you hoped for when the search began. As many writers learn, the life seldom lives up to the dream.
Here, I write when I’m writing. I call it the training-camp approach. As much as possible, I live during the time of a novel until done writing it, too. And while in camp, I see few people, and seldom if ever speak about the work. I instead rely on the strict discipline of a six-day-per week routine, with early mornings spent working at a desk with my laptop, followed by exercise, and Sundays off. A perpetual soundtrack plays at low volume in the background. To avoid unwanted influence, I don’t read fiction during the time I’m writing. Instead, I watch plenty of movies and, if in season, baseball on television. I augment the simple plan with a healthy diet, and get plenty of rest, too. Then, for the months and weeks needed to write or rewrite or edit a draft of a novel, my calendar is full. I’m not a complete whack job, though, and remain in the present when not working.
That process provides for me and my abundance of psychoses. But years of practice went into discovering those methods. So, I encourage writers to start young and take plenty of time to figure out what’s best for themselves.
I spent decades working at other things while learning to write novels.
Not only that, but when I started out, pulp fiction was the writing to which I aspired. A career writing paperback novels is what I wanted. I figured on writing what I liked to read, and in those days, that was cowboy and detective stories. To me, it looked but a short step to the bestseller lists.
Then stuff like high school and puberty arrived, and most everything, including writing, changed for me. Along with chasing girls and playing sports, came awareness of myself and the place my family and I occupied in the world. Though I didn’t know it then, writing a fictional version of that place and its people would grow into the genuine passion of my lifetime.
How am I doing with the craft talk? Are the ideas clear enough to make sense to you? Or have I strayed too far into the obscure once again? Maybe ‘as usual’ is a better choice? I am, after all, a master of the oblique reference.
You’ll have to let me know.
As ever, I’m too easy to find, but email is best if wanting a reply. For now, it’s almost time to wrap up our writing chat.
This next thing is most important, no matter what your level of desire or experience. It applies regardless of genre, talent, or skill besides.
All good writing is rewriting. Those who wish it otherwise aren’t writers. If rewriting a sentence a few dozen times doesn’t bring you great joy, it’s not your bag.
In short, if you can’t live without doing it, you’re a writer.
Now here’s a personal insight, using the egghead-speak you won’t find in my books.
My novels use an outsider’s perspective defined by Metis heritage, combined with literary techniques including constrained writing, minimalist prose, noir humor, and realism to explore the impact of moral relativism among the post-colonial peoples of western Canada. Each of them challenges the prevailing historic narrative by sharing visceral portraits of unreconciled aspects of postmodern life. For in the twenty-first century, I believe only as an outsider, a minority among minorities, and a man without a country, is a writer freed from the ever more severe limits imposed by censorship and decorum.
Some folks might call that an artistic statement. I think of it as the writer’s manifesto. See, along the way here, I came to believe a writer’s actual job is showing how it was. I also consider fame, fortune, and popularity as not intrinsic to the métier.
How’s that for a frame of reference?
There’s always more, but for now, I’ll stop. The way I figure it, that’s plenty, but not more than a reader can digest at one sitting. While a writer, of course, will suggest edits. And, like I said before, enjoy this as the last of these, for at least a while.
Because it’s time to get to work on the second draft of my ninth novel.
Thanks again for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.
TFP
September 20, 2025