From 'The Black' to 'The Derelict Saga'

There is an unlovely truth about being a full-time author: you have to produce. When I was working full time and writing on the side, every book seemed to take forever to finish. And yet, they seemed to fly. I would come home from work at whatever hour I could get away, or I would take lunch in isolation at the bar, and type my words in a frenzy of desperation. Desperate for the story to take hold, to take shape, to take flight.

There wasn’t time to get bogged down in details or worries. The book had to be finished so I would have content for the podcast, an entry for the next year’s Parsec Awards, and new worlds for my readers to travel. I wanted to make all those goals. I wanted to publish at least 2 books a year and try and get this damned career off the ground.

When I sold The Black, I had no idea what I was doing. But it didn’t matter. I wrote the book in a month and a half of hours stolen away from work. And if I’m honest, I sometimes wrote AT work as an escape from the ridiculous bullshit I had to put up with from management and my most troublesome co-workers. It helped dispel the anger. It helped me cheat the rage boiling within. But more importantly, I had a feeling. This book was my salvation. It would lead me to something more than cleaning up after others’ messes. My value no longer a “headcount” number. My sleep no longer constantly interrupted by fools who shouldn’t be allowed near a keyboard.

And when I finished it, I was elated. It was bliss, merciful confidence at last in both my writing and my ability to sell a book. And The Black sold. It flew off the virtual shelves. The audiobook did as well. And everyone clamored for another tale. And I was happy to oblige.

I left my job and started a new one, but always with the secret understanding that this new position was also temporary. I was marking time before the next major sale, the next book to ply my growing readership, expand my reach, and cement a new career.

The problem, of course, was the old problem. The problem that nearly destroyed my marriage so soon after the rings were placed on fingers. The problem was work. I was sucked into wanting to perform, to carry my team as far as I could, as well as I could, learn new skills to be the best and brightest. The writing, it seemed, was no longer my chief goal. I had a new one. And I could do them both.

But that was the cruelest self-delusion. After finishing Arrival, I knew I couldn’t have it both ways. I had to decide whether I was going to be a software developer who knew the ins and outs of every piece of code we used, learn new languages, become expert at solving new problem domains, or if I was going to be a writer.

I did my best to straddle the two worlds, my depression and isolation driving me to panic attacks and self-delusion. Every virtual meeting was clothed in fear that I would be let go. I knew my performance wasn’t where it needed to be. The new languages seemed like gibberish that I just plain couldn’t understand. I no longer knew how to learn. Or, worse, the core part of me no longer cared.

Outbreak was the death of one career and the final decision for the new. I nearly died while writing the novel. And after nearly dying, after being stuck on the last 8k words for over a week, I finished it in one marathon blitz, heart racing, nicotine and caffeine driving the fingers to slam down on each key with authority and steely confidence. I knew that night that the old me, the me that wanted to be the best at code, the best at my job, had died with the final few words in Outbreak’s epilogue.

We pretended, my employer and I, for a few months that this was all a phase. That somehow I would get my shit together and transform back into what they wanted when they hired me to begin with. But the company had transformed too. Instead of being a welcoming place for nerds and geeks, the management became increasingly corporate. Increasingly destructive. And morale was shattering everywhere. And it was enough to drive the final spike through both my resolve and theirs.

I was fired. I had five months to find a new gig. Five months. Five months of being tortured by a day to day existence, pretending I had responsibilities, pretending I cared, and pretending I would be around long after my terminus. Fuck that.

It was over. Outbreak was published. It was selling. I had books to write. I spent the next two months getting my shit together, pulling together every last dollar I could and saving it for the lean months or years ahead. I did my job as best I could without killing myself. I let my team know I’d been let go. And most importantly, I started to regain my sanity and some sense of self.

I said my goodbyes to my coworkers, people I’d done my best to assist even as incompetent as I’d been. I’d loved them. I’d been afraid of their intelligence, their skills, much as I’m sure a 40 year old felt intimidated by my own passion when I was in my 20s. Now it was time to focus on the future.

I started three new novels, not sure which way to go. I spent time converting my audiobooks for TB and TBA into YouTube videos. I spent time planning my next moves. Yet nothing was really happening. None of the books I was working on were fulfilling me. And indecision was creeping in.

New pressures to make money had clouded things. Outbreak didn’t sell as well as I’d hoped. The Black series would probably make no more money than it already had, regardless of writing a fourth book. Garaaga wouldn’t sell. I was lost. I wasn’t going to be able to write three or four books a year, much less six or seven. This wasn’t working.

It wasn’t until DragonCon when I spoke with my mentors, Sigler and A, that I realized I did have a plan. I could write something VERY commercial for Severed Press and then work on another project that interested me very much. The story for Severed Press was Derelict. It would be a quick write, a quick read, and a quick strike for cash. Funny how those kinds of plans always end up in the dumpster.

Derelict wasn’t going to be a single book. It couldn’t. I had too much to say, too much to include, and too much of humanity’s history to cover. I was elated I finally had a platform for futurism and hope amidst the air of our species’ ultimate extinction. Perhaps I was looking for a reason for my writing to exist, or for ME to exist. Derelict became that for a time. And when I finished the first book, I knew I had a winner. Of sorts.

The Black had taught me how to write so-called commercial fiction. But even in that series, I had to do things MY way. Incorporate social commentary. Incorporate, as much as possible, literary sensibilities and take risks. Derelict, of course, followed suit. Instead of being a simple monster book, I wanted to plumb the depths of the society, or where humanity was and where it was headed. And I wanted to put forth a theory of existence and creation.

Marines has sold fairly well. Beyond my usual cadre of excited readers, it has attracted a fairly large and new following. I imagine that the second book will be received far better than the first and, hell, maybe it will sell better. We’ll see. Regardless, I’ve set my sights on finishing the entire series this year. Why? Because I want it done. Closed. Finite. So I can move on to something else.

It’s April. I finished Derelict: Marines in November, although it wasn’t published until January. I started Tomb in December, writing in fits and starts around my father’s horrid 10-day stay in the hospital, and then doing my best to drag myself from the pit of a two-month depression. Tomb didn’t get rolling until February.

The result? By the beginning of April, I had a 106k word book. Very fast writing, if you ask me. The problem was getting into the mental space I needed to be in to make it happen. Upon finally writing the last words of that book, I didn’t feel depressed or abandoned as I usually do. Instead, I felt elated and filled with a want, a desire, a need to write the next book in the series.

The next novel, Destruction, is calling to me. But so are new stories. I’ve already started working on Quantum Personality Disorder (working title), and it’s flowing ridiculously easily. Not sure why. Maybe it’s the fact that the fear has dissipated. I don’t feel as though I have to publish six books this year. Three will be enough. Maybe four.

But finishing the entire Derelict Saga in a single publishing year is exciting. It’s the chance to push out an entire legacy, hopefully entertain and satisfy an entire readership, and set up the Sol and Beyond universe for success. The truth is, however, I just want to write these stories. I want to say what I need to say. Finding the backdrop, the plots, the characters to say these things is what I’ve been missing. And now I have the mechanism and have figured out the way to scream them from the rooftops.

Signal Decay will wait. TB4 (Evolution) will wait. Derelict and QPD will not. So off we go to another book, another tale, another race against my mortality to finish. Complete a series in one year. That’s the goal. And I’m well on my way.

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