Maine Crime Writers

Best writing tip I have ever gotten?

Jule Selbo

Her words still haunt me – and I use them almost every writing day.

Where did the best writing tip I have ever gotten come from?

Back up twenty or so years. When I was working in Los Angeles as a screenwriter. I had a great friend in my book club. I admired her because she seemed to read three books a week, see every studio and independent movie that came out, raise her daughters to have a passion for art and literature, she was tall and blond and had married a short, funny guy – and she loved writing. I admired her because I found her to be warm, smart and a no-bull-shitter.

And she gave me this advice and although she’s moved to Australia and we don’t even correspond anymore – I’ll never forget her.

I was working for the networks and studios as a screenwriter and had been doing projects on assignment (meaning I had a lot of executives with their fingers in the idea/execution of the script I was getting paid to write and I, by contract, had to seriously consider their notes and thus I often felt I was writing to make someone else happy) and I was desperate to find out what was in my head. I wanted to write a story that belonged to me – with “no interference”.

So I gave myself a few months “off” to do that. Basically to write what is called a “spec” screenplay.  One that you are not getting paid to write and that, after its completion, you hope to take into the market as an example of “your own voice”.

Not to say that the screenwriting assignment jobs weren’t fun (for the most part I had a blast) and I was very happy to have them – (pay the mortgage, send the kid to school, put gas in the car and all that) but we writers – the reasons we put pen to paper or fingertips to our computer keys are often deeper than ‘it’s a job’.

Joan Didion if often quoted as saying: “I write to find out what I am thinking.” I looked up her quote and the Huffington Post actually noted that she went on a bit longer: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I want, what I fear, what I see and what it means to me.”

So I set out to do that. I wrote the spec screenplay (it was a Western that explored personal justice and dreams of early settlers). I had a great time, creating characters with ideas and actions, conflicts and dreams and struggles to find their place in a new America.

After I completed a pretty good first draft (100 pages, screenplay format), I asked my tall, blond, no-bull-shitter friend to read it.  Overall, her response to the script was positive and she had a lot of thumbs-up on the pages. But there were two pivotal scenes that she circled in red pen and wrote in the margins:

“YOU CAN DO BETTER HERE.”

Her note threw me for a loop at first.  I stared at the screenplay pages and remembered how hard I worked to find the right words and actions to make the scenes come to life. And if she thought something needed changing, couldn’t she be more specific? What exactly did she think needed changing? Plot? Character? Action? This comment was way too general!

After I settled down from the irritation, I looked more closely at the scenes.

Hmmm.

And I realized what my friend had given to me was really amazing advice. Because she was telling me that she had confidence in me and that I should have confidence in myself that I could make these two pivotal scenes “better”. That I had the capability, the skills, the determination and discipline to do BETTER.

The first word started to get to me: You.  Not “it”.

And “better” in my own way.  Think about it, it’s your story. Your characters. Your themes.

I’ll never forget those words she wrote in thick red felt pen. So simple. But her confidence fed my confidence and it worked for me.  When I hit a bump and I’m searching for the right word or sentence or plot point and come up with one that is almost okay, I circle it and write next to it in large letters:

Jule – you can do better.

Sometimes it reads:  Hey dingbat, you can do better.

Or: YCDB

Or: Fix later –  ‘cause you can do better.

Or: You lazy sack of doubt, just remember, you can do better.

Maybe not in that exact moment at the computer, maybe not a hour later when frustration or exhaustion or hunger or laziness or aggravation at the world is sitting on my shoulder. But LATER, when I am in a space to be nicer to myself and ENJOY digging deeper into that plot point or sentence or paragraph or idea…

You can do it.

I have the confidence that I can do it.

And when I do go back and work it again,  it usually—at least in my opinion—it does get better.

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**Joan Didion: Year of Magical Thinking, Play it As It Lays, Notes to John and more: novelist and journalist.

Writing is often a chance to escape. But, if writing contemporary mysteries and thrillers, wouldn’t it be a crime to erase the world in which the characters are interacting?

I do not get up on a soapbox and preach politics, religion, or social issues. But they do exist. If my goal is to bring the people of the pages to life, well then, these people must have beliefs and opinions. They do not live in a vacuum. The characters need to have passion, to love, to hate, and most of all, to live.

My writing often reflects the issues of the Long Past or the Real Now. In Love in a Time of Hate, I take the reader back to Reconstruction New Orleans. Reconstruction always sounded like too humdrum of a title for an era that was defining, tumultuous, brutal, and chaotic. My novel focuses on the fight for social and economic equality that took place at that time and that place. The book is raw, brutal, and pulls no punches. It was a tough time, and my protagonist, Emmett Collins, is fighting for something worthwhile against forces of hatred and oppression.

My contemporary novels, those in the Real Now, take on many social issues. Just a few so far are the impact of Big Pharma, cults, genome editing, Covid, private interest groups, and the separate laws and rules for the ultra-wealthy.

The Not So Merry Adventures of Max Creed has Max and the band taking on a morally corrupt billionaire with aspirations to the presidency with swirling foreign complications. The sequel, EveryThing vs Max Creed, out in May, finds the enemy to be a social media mogul looking to combine his information gathering sites into world domination. Impossible to believe? I think not.

I believe that the popular opinion is that writers, much like a Thanksgiving dinner gathering, should avoid pitfalls of social issues, politics, and religion. The opinion of your protagonist promises to alienate half the readers, well, maybe I offend half the people, but I doubt it is half the readers. Still, it is stepping onto a precipice to take a stance with the opinions and values of my protagonist. But how can they be real people of the pages if they don’t have opinions and values?

My current work in progress is tentatively titled Mainely ICEd. You get the gist.

What say you, readers and writers? Would you rather shy away from the Real Now? Or do you feel that the people of the pages resound stronger and with greater impact for having opinions and values?

About the Author

Matt Cost was a history major at Trinity College. He owned a mystery bookstore, a video store, and a gym, before serving a ten-year sentence as a junior high school teacher. In 2014 he was released and began writing. And that’s what he does. He writes histories and mysteries.

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Cost has published six books in the Mainely Mystery series, starting with Mainely Power. He has also published six books in the Clay Wolfe Trap series, starting with Wolfe Trap. There are two books in the Brooklyn 8 Ballo series, starting with Velma Gone Awry. For historical novels, Cost has published At Every Hazard and its sequel, Love in a Time of Hate, as well as I am Cuba. The Not So Merry Adventures of Max Creed began a new series this past April. Glow Trap is his eighteenth published book.

Cost now lives in Brunswick, Maine, with his wife, Harper. There are four grown children: Brittany, Pearson, Miranda, and Ryan. Cost now spends his days at the computer, writing.

Vaughn C. Hardacker

Winters up here in The County are long. Here we are near the end of our forth month, with two and a half left to go (I don’t care what some groundhog in Pennsylvania says, his six-week forecast is closer to ten here). Since October, the only time I spend outside is when I use my snowblower to clear the drive and the front walk.

So, you may ask, “How is it that you spend your time?” I read a lot of books (I am nearing the end of book 9 in a 10-book series about the effects of 10 Civil War battles on a Virginia family). I watch sports (I don’t have much interest in television programs, especially series. I don’t want to spend eight weeks watching episodes only to discover I’m on season 1!) If I want that, I’ll start watching the soaps. Tell me a story and finish it!

Unfortunately, my favorite pastime is diving into my head. I contemplate all the crazy shit that bounces off my skull. In a few months, I will complete my seventy-eighth trip around the sun and embark on my seventy-ninth. Even I’m amazed at some of the stuff in my head.

For example, there’s death. Many people my age feel they are at their last rodeo (This winter alone, I’ve lost close to ten family members and friends). I’ve come to the conclusion that death can’t be all that bad. I’ve known a bunch of people who’ve died, and none came back. Not a single one was the type who would stay someplace if they weren’t having a good time. I’ve done some research on people who have gone on and miraculously returned. Most, if not all, of them passed over again. Now, would you go back to someplace where you didn’t have a good time?

Then there’s the other question. When I get to the gate, will they let me in? I believe I can’t lose. If I am allowed in, I’ll have all the dogs I’ve ever known waiting. I’m not so sure about some of the people I’ve known. On the other hand, if I’m cast down to the other place, I won’t be bored–I’ll be too busy shaking hands and hugging people that I hung out with.

I’ve already mentioned blowing snow. Has anyone out there who uses one of these cursed machines noticed that no matter what, the wind always blows at you? Every time I do the drive I understand where the inspiration for Frosty, The Snowman came from.

On a more serious note. You may notice that I did not say writing. Last month, the publisher of my last two books returned the rights to them to me. Since then, I submitted the third novel in my Houston & Bouchard series to my other publisher. The publisher of them has, by contract, the right of first refusal for sixty days. I sent the manuscript to them and waited. No reply, either way. After 60 days, I sent an email telling them that I assumed there was no interest and that I would be submitting elsewhere. No reply. The other publisher (who returned the rights) informed me that he was changing to a hybrid publishing model. I was unfamiliar with what that was, and he explained. “It’s where the author shares the expense of publication. For instance, I would need you to pay $4,000 for me to publish your book,” I replied, “I haven’t made that much money on the total royalties of both.” So, now I have to find another publisher or self-publish. I am not looking forward to the whole agent/publisher thing. What I know about self-publishing you could shove up an ant’s hind end, and it would rattle like an iron ball in an empty boxcar.

So, what was that section about? Inside my head, I’m asking: “Why bother?” I worked in hi-tech for over forty years, and those companies had no retirement plan. They had stock options, and we were all going to retire with millions of dollars. Then all of them went out of business or were bought out by a company that would not honor the options. If it were not for social security and a VA pension (I am rated 80% for type 2 diabetes–thank you, Agent Orange–and PTSD–all of you who thought I was a bit mentally imbalanced were right). I’d be pushing a stolen grocery cart and living under an overpass (located much further south than here). Thus far in my not-so-illustrious writing career, I’ve spent more than I’ve ever earned. Every day is an internal struggle. Do I continue on or just say F— it and move on? Kaitlyn’s post a bout phishing emails, AI-generated, was terrific. Just this morning I received four. All were deleted. One, however, was different. It supposedly came from a published author, which she was. We corresponded for a couple of days, then I got the sales pitch (carefully hidden to look like she was offering help). She has a friend who does PR and promotion. Did I want her put me in touch with her? I responded: “It will do no good. I am not in a financial position to take on anything more.” I’ve not heard from her since.

In closing, what I really wanted to write about was the last item. I am considering throwing in the towel. Memberships to writing organizations, running back and forth across the state, buying copies of my books to sell (I am my own best customer) has me seriously thinking about giving it up.

See you next month?

Being laid up with the knee, I’ve had a ton of time to watch the Olympics, which put me in mind of this piece from a while back. Hope you don’t mind a rerun.

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In 1985, David Halberstam wrote a small lovely book called The Amateurs, chronicling the work and sacrifice of four American Olympic-class scullers. Given the subaqueous profile of their sport, none of these athletes had any prospect of extrinsic reward. Even Olympic medals are not real gold. The achievable end of their physical pain and dedication was exquisitely symbolic. So why did otherwise intelligent and ambitious people endure indifference, ignorance, daily pain, and all the markers of stalled –out personal and professional lives? For love.

Love, to love, amare, is the Latin root of amateur. And doing something for its own sake, not for profit or attention or glory of others, is the mark of a lover. An amateur craves the gift of the activity more than the outcome and the activity is somehow purified by the lack of reward. Amateurs do it, whatever they do, for the love.

I like my work, even the boring and tedious parts, and can lose myself in it with joy, but I’ve never enjoyed publicizing, selling, “branding” myself in the hope of more success. I’d rather spend the time being a writer than an author. Which leads me to suspect I might be an eternal amateur.

I come to the state honestly.

Mark Twain once said: “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

From the time I established myself, my work and my passions, as separate from my father’s, I’ve appreciated the truth in that. But knowing how sons push back at what our fathers stand for, I’m surprised to see how much I resemble the man I pushed against so hard when I was a boy.

The year my parents marriage turned fifty, I took my father striped bass fishing off of Cape Cod. I knew he’d been to the Orvis School for fly-casting instruction the year before but I didn’t know how much had taken.

As I feared, watching the fly line whistle back and forth, a weighted Clouser once or twice conking our guide, he hadn’t learned much. But we were deep in a school of bass and I was too busy with my own gear to pay much attention to what was going on aft, except I was aware of the flailing and some mild curses, his, not the guide’s.

“Ha!” I heard finally and turned to look.

Terry, the guide, was helping him gingerly unhook a toothy but very small bluefish.

“Got the little bastard.”

“Emphasis on the little,” I jabbed.

But the beatific smile beneath his red ball cap was enough to warm the cold windy ride back to Plymouth. He’d come to his fishing day without expectation of reward and been pleased. And that day I learned that being an eternal amateur was an honorable legacy, that not having to be an expert at everything meant not needing more and bigger successes every time.

If amateurism is rooted in love, it also springs from a passionate curiosity. One of my best friends built a national consulting business around athletic shoes: manufacture, styles and trends, financial and corporate analyses of the companies that make and sell them. It’s a serious business, even if it doesn’t sound like one – he’s been called the Sneaker King – and he’s the preeminent expert in his niche. He traveled a lot, found the work consuming and interesting, and it made him plenty of money.

So why, on Thursday afternoons, does he drive to a rickety white house on the edge of a university campus and broadcast a volunteer radio show presenting funk music? Passion – he may be an amateur in  the music and the radio ‘businesses,’ but he’s passionate about the music, curious about its history, its players, development.

I bring all this up because at eighty-six my father, the erstwhile fisherman, taught himself American Sign Language. For no particular reason – he didn’t want to stand up in front of his church and translate the service for members of his congregation. He hadn’t made new friends who were deaf. He wasn’t simply keeping himself busy: he had water aerobics, the food committee, the woodshop. He was doing it for the best of all reasons – he got curious about it.

As anyone who’s lived to eighty-six knows, curiosity doesn’t kill any cats – if anything, it feeds them. If anything, it’s certainty that kills things.

As a society, we revere specialty. We respect what appears to be a deep expertise in almost anything: business, financial, athletic, even romantic. But that kind of monomania requires certainty – you must always know you are on the right path, that nothing outside the path is interesting or can contribute to achieving your goals.

Curiosity is the dead opposite of certainty. It is the acknowledgement there are things we don’t already know that might be important, useful, or even just interesting. Curiosity is fed by that attitude of perpetual amateurism: what happens if I do it this way? Why is this like that? Why do we have to think this way?

Certainty takes things and people for granted. Curiosity is the daughter of doubt. We could use a little doubt, a little less certainty we know everything we need to know.

There is, after all, only one important certainty, that we die. When and what happens after, who knows? And who cares, really? And this thing we should be so certain of is the one thing we pretend will not happen to us. That itself is a strong enough argument against too much certainty.

So if we’re uncertain about what we ought to be certain of, maybe we also show too much certainty around things we cannot or should not pretend are knowable: relationships, politics, religion.

A politician is always a fat dumb easy target, but most politics is nothing more than certainty carried to a ridiculous degree, when even an individual’s positions can become mutually exclusive. Our politicians are certain evolution is a hoax, that old white men know best what women should do with their bodies, that homosexuality is an abomination (unless their son or daughter comes out).

All this certainty makes me yearn for a citizen legislature again, underpaid, supported by its own work outside the body. As messy and inefficient as it is – and I’ve seen the New Hampshire one at work, so I know – can our current governing bodies claim more success? Maybe amateurism can return some joy to the process – letting people with passion serve, the curious, the open-minded. Let’s bring back that perpetual amateur: in love with the work for its own sake, the process and the product, competent without being narrow, curious for what he or she knows and, most especially, does not.