I woke up at 2:30 AM today and really couldn’t get back to sleep, so I’m feeling a bit philosophical right now. If the following makes it seem as though I’m under the influence of some mind-altering pharmaceutical, it’s not that. I’m just a little punchy. But I promise, every word of this post is completely sincere…

I’ve been thinking a lot about the future lately. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about my future as a writer. I’ve spent the past year marketing and selling my first book, focused almost to a fault on reaching a specific goal. After spending so much time among the trees, now that this year has passed, I’ve had occasion to step back and look at the forest again. I won’t know for certain what the future holds until next week when I head out to Portland for BizarroCon, but until then, I’ve been able to refocus on and reaffirm a number of things.

I’ve also put to words what I want. What my goals are. I wrote some of those things down, and those words have been stuck in my mind since. It’s easy to think you know what you want, what you’re about, what your goals are, but it’s another thing to actually put those ideas to words. To crystallize them in your mind and lay them down on paper, as if you’re making it official. Until then, you’re subject to change, maybe a little unsure of the specifics, that what you think you want might turn out to be different from reality. I thought I’d share these with you because the more I read these words, the more firmly I believe in them, and the more resolute I am to prove them true.

First, some thoughts on what I try to accomplish with my writing:

I tend to focus my writing around interesting characters, first and foremost. I think strong characters trump everything else when it comes to what makes a book entertaining and memorable. I understand and agree that title, cover art and concept play a huge part in catching a reader’s eye and opening their wallets, but if you don’t deliver a story that holds their attention, gives them characters they can believe are real, and entertains them, then you don’t gain fans or build a readership that will run out to buy your next book. Story and characterization must be as strong as concept, otherwise a writer’s readership won’t grow.

That leads into the next point, the specific reply to something I’ve been asked many times, and perhaps never given as succinct an answer as this until now – What are my goals as a writer?

My main goal as a writer is to entertain and connect with readers in a meaningful way. I want readers to come away with something that stays with them after they’ve finished reading my stories. I want them to remember the characters and wish their time together did not have to end.

Pretty simplistic, really. But there’s not a whole lot more to add, at least not at this point. People change, life has a funny way of altering your opinions and perceptions, but at this point, it really all boils down to that statement for me. If you believe in what motivates you, what drives you to succeed at whatever it is you’re going after, it doesn’t have to be a long-winded dissertation. Goals can be simple and clear. At least mine are. No extraneous bullshit needed. I want to write books that you have to read, and I want them to be books that you will remember.

I hope to continue doing this for a very long time, and I look forward to sharing the experience with all of you. To everyone who has read my stories, bought my books, told people about my work, and especially, told me personally about what they took away from it, I want to again thank you.

You are why I do this.

Note: The following was originally posted on June 26, 2009. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, because there was no innocence to be had in this butchering.

I received this weekend, as a well-intentioned gift for our garden, a bucket of dead fish, courtesy of my sister, Sara, and her burgeoning brood, Nathanael and Cassidy. The fish were intended to be planted. No, dear reader, not to grow more fish as I initially mistook, but to be buried as fertilizer to assist in the abundant growth of our vegetation, a tradition, my elder sister assured me, dating back to the American Indians. As a history major (and apparent good student, though details remain sketchy), I took her at her word.

In advance of this new gardening task, as I was not familiar with theproper way to prepare and bury dead fish in the ground, I placed the offering, bucket and all, into our chest freezer for a later date. With Tuesday’s rain washing out the sporting contest I was scheduled to cover, I seized the opportunity to plant my fish, but first, like any good journalist, or gardener, or responsible home, pet, car, and child owner should always do, I turned to the Internet for research. My findings were shocking.

Like a latter-day soothsayer bewaring me the Ides of March, the Internet showed me a sinister world where fish are not our friends, or mere morsels of delicacy or even fertilizer, but rather a race poised to attack us at our weakest moment, when we least expect it. Long have we known of gilled creatures that prey on human flesh, but until now, these attacks have occured mainly in maritime settings. However, led by fiends the likes of which many of us can hardly imagine, the day is coming when fish will take to the land and reap their revenge upon us. In this hour, it will be every man and his family for themselves. All the more reason to plant your garden now and await the coming apocalypse. Therefore, I took this as an opportunity to prepare.

I retired to the yard with my bucket of frozen captives, an axe, my children armed with the camera, and our morbidly obese beagle to prepare the carcasses for internment in our yard. I will save the more faint of heart in the crowd the specifics, other than to note that within 10 minutes, my bucket was filled again with an assortment of thawing fish hunks. Holes were dug around a foot deep in three separate areas of the garden. Fish parts were tumbled in and covered over with soft, packed Earth. Each spot was marked with a pile of rocks. While I toiled, the obese beagle scoured the grass for any overlooked remnants of the axe-wielding carnage that I wrought. I would like to say that I took no pleasure in this gruesome task, but that would not be truthful. You see, these desiccated interlopers from the sea have more than one purpose. As fertilizer for our garden, yes, but also to serve as a warning for the future invading hordes:

Abandon hope, all ye fish monsters who enter.

With this task complete, I must now go bathe said morbidly obese, and smelling awfully of fish, beagle.

NOTE: Over two years have passed, and Northern Indiana has not had a single recorded incident of dryland fish army attacks in that time. I do not consider this a coincidence.