When I first started writing a book I did it with the goal of being traditionally published, that is, a publishing company liked my book so much that they would be willing to take a financial risk on me and publish it. In pursuit of that goal, as I learned more about what publishers are looking for and what it takes to get published, I had to adapt my story in order to try and fit into a mold, so to speak. I wrote at length about this in an earlier post, so I won’t rehash it all here except to say that in the end, I was never able to achieve that goal.

One positive aspect to come out of the experience of attempting to get traditionally published was that while I was trying to sell The Path of the Synthesizer I continued working on the rest of the story. I split my original story (part of the trying to fit into a mold thing) into multiple parts–The Path of the Synthesizer being part one–and as I continued working on it I realized there was more to story to tell. When I made the split I thought I was going to have a trilogy but I ended up with a fourth book instead (yikes!). And the good news is that in large part (minus some revisions and editing) the series is complete!

Another thing that happened while I tried to sell book one, was that I slowly warmed to the idea of self-publishing. To some the very thought of self-publishing is taboo but to many (especially in today’s day and age of ebooks) it is the only way to go. I didn’t want to self-publish, I resisted the idea because I wanted to be traditionally published. But the idea slowly grew on me.

Which brings me to my recent announcement. I am going to publish The Path of the Synthesizer myself. I’ve made the decision to self-publish. I want to tell my story. I made this decision in part because I feel as though I have been spinning in circles for the last several years not getting anywhere with my writing. My story was written, but I couldn’t tell it (except to the select few who read it and provided me with valuable critique). I have other ideas and things I want to write (I already have a detective novel I wrote and am very excited about) but have had a hard time moving forward without finishing what I started.

Having made the decision to self-publish, I have committed myself to provide those of you who may soon read The Path of the Synthesizer with the best product I can. Which is why it is not yet available. Currently, the manuscript is in the hands of a skilled editor. When she is done with it, I will review her work and make revisions as necessary. I am also working with a professional cover designer to make an awesome cover. Once those boxes are checked I can begin the process of converting the material into both an ebook and a print edition.

The awesome news is that when The Path of the Synthesizer is ready you’ll be able to purchase it from just about anywhere you want. Whether it is ordering a print edition from your local independent book store (wink wink) or instantly download an ebook version onto your favorite e-reader.

Excitement is starting to build in me as I have taken a step forward. Something I have envisioned for several years will soon come to fruition.

As many of you know, for the last several years I have been striving to publish my first novel. Well, I’m here to announce that in the very near future I will be publishing The Path of the Synthesizer, book one of The Blessed of the Dragon!

The details are still wrinkled and in need of ironing but I promise that as I zero in on a publication date I’ll let you know. Right now I’m tentatively hoping for early fall.

In the meantime, follow me on Facebook and this website to keep up to date with news and announcements!

In the process of developing my world, I invented a lot of characters. Many of them are characters with actual roles in the present story, and many of them are historical characters that, although they don’t specifically appear in the novel, played crucial roles in the world’s history. Most of them I made up as I went. One of them was inspired by a four-legged friend (who, due to his wish to prevent large crowds from descending upon his domain for autographs, wishes to remain anonymous). All of them were invented as I developed this writing project except for one: the protagonist.

His name is Yolken, and his history transcends the world in which he currently exists. The tale of his origin is a tale worthy of telling. It began more than twenty years ago with a thick-rimmed, eyeglass wearing adolescent in a small town situated in the middle of a high desert and surrounded by a sea of sage brush.

So, grab a glass/mug/stein/cup of your favorite beverage, a small snack, your favorite electronic device, and settle in for the brief telling of Yolken’s epic beginning.

Please note that what ensues is meant only to be a dramatized recreation of actual events. It’s accuracy is subject to the mediocre memory of the raconteur.

***

It was a typical Saturday morning that began with network cartoons, “After these messages, we’ll be right back!” sung during every commercial break, and a bowl of cereal sans milk.

After the cartoons were over and my breakfast eaten, I cut across our front yard lawn kept green in the arid climate by an automatic sprinkler system to the sidewalk. I walked to the end of the block, crossed the asphalt parking lot, and joined a couple of friends at the small town high school.

I pulled open the heavy doors and stepped into the unfamiliar hallway. Then, I opened the first door on the left and entered a room filled with the gentle humming of two dozen computer fans. A few people–big scary high schoolers–were already sitting in front of the large, cubed-shaped monitors, clicking away on rectangular keyboards.

I sat down in front of one of the computers and connected it to the NovaNET. While it’s modem squealed loudly, I thought about what kind of character I wanted and what I was going to name. After the modem successfully connected me to the outside world, I logged into Avatar for the first time.

I followed the prompts on the monochrome screen and created my character. I chose to be a warrior, and I named him Yolken. After establishing his initial attributes–such as strength, wisdom, charisma, and dexterity–I set off with my level one warrior to explore the dungeon lurking below.

Using the one inch by one inch view-finder, I learned to navigate the hallways defined by trapezoid walls and slowly memorized my way through each level. Yolken gained experience points with each monster he killed. After gaining enough, he returned to the city above and leveled up. Every time he gained a level, his attributes improved and he became stronger. As his strength increased, he ventured deeper and deeper into the dungeon and fought stronger and stronger monsters.

As the weeks passed, Yolken gained many levels. He joined parties that combined their strengths and traveled deep into the dungeon together where he faced monsters he wasn’t strong enough to fight himself. By participating in parties, he gained experience and leveled up faster than he otherwise could alone.

Traveling deep into the dungeon and back up becomes more and more time consuming the deeper you go, so parties typically had a wizard with the ability to teleport the party deep into the dungeon rather than navigating it level by level. It saved time. A lot of time. Teleporting, however, did not come without risk. The possibility existed for a wizard to accidentally teleport your party into a rock. As you can imagine, finding yourself stuck in the middle of a rock is not good. In fact, it completely devastates your character.

As a level three-hundred warrior, Yolken had become a formidable warrior. The once fierce monsters of the first several levels were now nothing more than annoying gnats. Teleporting was now a necessity. However, as a warrior, he couldn’t do it himself. With the ever present drive to gain the requisite experience for the next level, I relied on others to take Yolken deep into the dungeon to the monsters he needed to face.

Then, one day, another player asked if Yolken could take part in their party in my absence. I agreed, thinking it would be free experience for Yolken. Unbeknownst to me, this seemingly innocuous decision would change everything.

I don’t remember there being anything remarkable about the next time I went in. It probably started the same as it always did–early morning cartoons with memorable jingles during every commercial break, dry cereal, and the excitement of spending the morning vanquishing evil monsters. However, when I sat down in front of the monochrome screen and logged in, I immediately knew things were not as they should be.

Rather than venturing off for another day of monster slaying, I stared at the screen in shock. Yolken’s attributes were a fraction of what they once were. I thought to myself, What happened? But I already knew the answer. Yolken had been teleported into a rock. Rocked. Everything I had spent countless Saturday mornings working for was gone. Yolken, for all intents and purposes, was back to square one.

I stared at the screen, unable to imagine myself doing it all over again, starting over at square one. I don’t remember if I actually played that day, or if I simply logged out and left. What I do remember, however, is that I walked away from my fallen warrior, left him bleeding in the back alley of an unnamed medieval city, and never played Avatar again.

***

I know not what became of Yolken, but for the next twenty years, I carried with me the memory of a once great warrior.

I’ve wanted to write for a long time–I have documentation of trying dating back fifteen years–and each time I attempted to plot a story Yolken was in the forefront of my mind. As mediocre as my memory is, I couldn’t forget him. I yearned to give him life anew. Then, when I started my current writing project–the only project to actually get off the ground–his reincarnation was complete. From my project’s very inception, before I even really knew what the story was about, I knew Yolken was my hero.

I’ve wanted to write a book for a long time–longer than I can really remember–but I was never able to come up with a good idea. Now, I know this might come as a surprise, but I think this was in part due to the fact that I’ve never considered myself to be a very creative person. This is especially true if I’m trying to force myself to be creative–such as trying to put together an idea for a book.

Over the years I’ve I tried brainstorming ideas, but my efforts always ended up being unproductive. Ugh. I’ve always hated brainstorming. I still remember absolutely hating being put into groups with the assignment to brainstorm such and such a topic. I cringe just thinking about them. I’ve just never been good at spontaneously coming up with ideas in a forced environment.

My lack of creativity is evident in other areas as well–such as art. I’m also not very good at drawing or painting something from memory. If I tried to draw a horse, for instance, I’d probably stare at a blank piece of paper and never draw anything, or if I did, it would be horrendous. But if you put a picture of a horse in front of me I could draw a fairly decent picture of it. I do this with my kids today; I can pick a picture of Ernie and Bert out of a book and draw a decent picture of them, but if I had to do it from memory…well, that’d be another story.

I’m comparing drawing with brainstorming ideas here to show that it’s the pulling ideas out of thin air that I’m not particularly good at. It’s probably a right brain/left brain thing, and my left brain definitely runs the show.

However, given what I’ve accomplished over the last few years, I’ve conceded that I am in fact creative. I just learned that I’m creative in very specific, and sometimes fitful, ways.

As I said, I’ve wanted to write a book for a long time but always lacked an idea. The problem was that whenever I sat down with the specific intention of trying to come up with an idea, I felt like I did when I was in school and put into brainstorming groups. I don’t know how many hours I spent staring out the window of the airplane as I flew along–the cruise portion of the flight with the autopilot engaged can often be boring–trying to come up with an idea and never getting one. More often than not, those experiences left me frustrated and feeling the opposite of creative.

Then, one day toward the end of 2013, when I wasn’t specifically trying to think about it, and certainly not expecting it, the seed of an idea popped into my head. I don’t remember the exact moment it happened, but I remember that I jotted it down. I didn’t try to force myself to be creative and build on this idea, but whenever something related to the seed came to me I wrote it down. Without trying to force myself to be creative, ideas randomly came to me and my notes slowly began to grow. Sometimes it happened while I was staring out the window at 25,000 feet, and sometimes it happened while I was washing my hair in the shower, or most annoyingly, it happened right before I fell asleep. Slowly, the basic plot of my novel began to grow.

Since I was planning a fantasy novel that takes place in a world of my making, as I worked on my plot I also had to develop my world. It needed a history so my story and characters had depth and purpose. There had to be a reason my protagonist needed to do what needs to be done. So, before I started actually writing the novel, I spent about six months fitfully piecing together my world, its history, and its problems.

Not only did the world I was creating need a history, but it needed everything a world needs–land, water, mountains, rivers, forests, cities, etc. I tried sitting down with a blank piece of paper and sketching out a world map, but those sheets always ended up crumpled into wads and thrown away. I was facing a similar problem I have when I draw with my kids.

And then it happened! One day I was eating fajitas for dinner with my family and my creativity decided to strike! I looked down at the fajita drippings on my plate and knew what I was looking at wasn’t simply fajita juice; it was my world map!

I snapped a photo and later used it as a guide to make a sketch of my world. After that, I was able to slowly start filling in the details of the world as the details came.

This is by far the biggest creative project I’ve ever undertaken, and over the last few years I’ve learned to work within my own creative limitations. I’ve read a lot of advice on writing–you know, from those that know what they’re doing–such as being deliberate and regular with your writing by scheduling yourself time to write and establishing a goal to write a specific number of words a day, but I don’t work like that. I’m not creative if I have to force myself to be. If I sit down to write and the creative juices aren’t flowing I don’t try to force it. Doing so just makes me frustrated. Some days I’m able to write three to four thousand words and others I stare out the window of my motel room and don’t write anything. If that happenss, I stop and do something else.

In the end, as fitful as it was, it worked. Now I have more ideas for stories in this world I’ve created than I know what to do with. And as I write this, I’m sitting in a motel and feeling the creativity. I’m currently about 60% of the way through editing and revising book 2 in my trilogy and I’m approaching a particularly exciting part of the story. I still have a few hours before I have to report for duty, so off I go!

I’m sure this comes as no surprise, but writing a book takes A LOT of time.

I bet if you took a quick poll of a bunch of random authors they would unanimously agree. And I’m not saying that I didn’t already know this when I started thinking about writing a book, or thought that I could just sit down and pop one out real quick, but until I actually started writing, I didn’t really understand exactly how big of a commitment I was making.

For many published authors, writing is their full time job. But for someone such as myself–someone that has a day job and dreams about one day becoming a successful writer–writing is done in my spare time. Because by day I try (emphasis on try) to be a responsible adult–you know, provide for my family and pay the bills–I couldn’t in good conscience quit my job and pursue writing full time.

Everybody’s experience is different when it comes to finding time to write, I’m sure. I’ve found through reading various writing forums that people like myself write by carving bits and pieces of time out of our daily lives, foregoing other activities that we might otherwise want to do, and consciously choose to use it to write. Fortunately, for me I have a job that provides me with quite a bit of free time. I write at home when I can–I often write in the morning when the kids are watching cartoons, or during nap time (if they nap), or after they go to bed–but mostly I write at work.

By day, I’m an airline pilot, which means I’m away from home A LOT. On average, I spend about 3 nights a week in a motel. I also find myself sitting around in airports a lot between flights–it’s not uncommon that I have 3-4 hour breaks between flights. As much as I dislike how much my job keeps me away from my family, it provides an aspiring author such as myself a much needed commodity–time.

A given overnight in you name the city can range from 10 to 24 hours (and even higher sometimes) between when I arrive in that city and when I leave. On the shorter overnights–the 10 to 12 hour ones–a large part of my time is spent sleeping, but on the longer ones I have more free time to do pretty much whatever I want.

Many of my peers like to go out and explore the city they are in and others are what are referred to as “slam-clickers”–they slam the door to their room, click the lock, and don’t emerge until they report for duty the next day. I enjoy getting out and socializing with my coworkers, but more often than not, I’m a slam-clicker–not because I’m anti-social, but because my goal for the last couple years has been to do some writing when I got to my motel room.

Here are a couple pictures of what it looks like for me to write on the road:

Writing during one of those 3-4 hour breaks between flights. In this photo, I set up shop at a business center at Portland International Airport and typed away on my roll-up silicone keyboard. Sometimes, if I can’t find a good place to sit in an airport, I set up shop on the airplane–drop down a couple tray tables, grab a pot of coffee, put in the ear buds, and go to town.

This is one of the more picturesque locations I found myself writing. I’m at a motel in Walla Walla Washington on a gorgeous day. The majority of my writing didn’t look like this, though–most of it occurred at the desk in my motel room.

Of course, despite my intentions, I often ended up not writing at all. If I found myself walking into the motel after a 12 hour day, it wasn’t uncommon that I was simply too tired to concentrate and just wanted to go to bed. Other times, I didn’t have the motivation and I didn’t like trying to force it. And then, all too often, I’d get hooked on a TV show and could think of nothing else until I binge watched the entire thing. But even though I was often too tired or guilty of wasting time watching Netflix, little by little, bit by bit, the words got typed and the pages piled up. It took 20 months from the time I wrote chapter 1 until I finished the first draft of my story–which is now a trilogy. In the end, I averaged writing about 450 words a day.

So there you have it. It didn’t happen over night, but I was able to carve out enough time in my life–a lot of time–both at home and at work, and in just under two years I wrote a book (well, I guess three books, actually). And I’m not done. Far from it. I’m presently re-writing and editing the portion of my story that will eventually be book 2, so I still spend as much time as I can while at home and at work working on this project.

It’s hard to believe how much time I’ve spent on this–I’m not trying to be overly dramatic here–but seriously, it’s almost like a second job. Fortunately I’ve very much enjoyed the process and don’t regret it for a second. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be so successful that I can quit that day job and, if I can convince my wife to let me, grow a beard.

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