Word Purge

You have to write around life. Sometimes someone is sick. Sometimes your government is sick. You can still find 15 minutes every day to do the work you love. What you can’t do is to retreat into silence. I don’t know who wins if you do that, but it certainly isn’t you.

I’ve tried to comfort myself lately with the thought that, given the immense sweep of geological time, humanity is barely a finger snap and all human misery will soon be forgotten, but somehow that hasn’t helped.

So today I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing on my summer vacation, by which I mean since I finished the first draft of my novel in October.

I knew I had to forget the book I’ve been living with since time began so I could someday return to it fresh. I turned instead to the numerous scraps, starts, and dead ends I’ve accumulated in my files. Honoré de Balzac would call these scraps & etc. evidence of my “itch to scribble.” I call what I’m doing now my Word Purge.

The first thing I did was to consolidate all the fragments in one file where I could keep an eye on them, even if it was just a teensy idea (John Muir’s “An Adventure with a Dog” set in space) or a reminder about a mental-health professional I met with twice and fired (Sandy the Self-Absorbed Psychotherapist).

The second thing was to examine the longer pieces in their individual files and see if any of them sparked anything or should I give up and shut them down. One of them must’ve been channeling Cthulhu because it immediately called me. It was 909 words long and I had abandoned it in 2022. I took it up again in December and I am surprised to say that I now have 4,200 words. Will this be my second novel? Will it be about a dog in space or a tough-love look at a man in the wrong profession? William Zinnser said it best: “Don’t worry about labels. We’ll figure out what it is after you’ve written it.”

I’ll return to my first novel on Feb. 1. And I’ll keep scribbling, no matter what happens in the world.

Tango will never retreat into silence.

Land of a Thousand Meatballs

I had a wardrobe malfunction on New Year’s Eve. I was struggling to get into my tuxedo when a button that helps hold my suspenders to my pants decided to go somewhere on its own. This is what happens when you’re working with 1960s technology. I was wearing more moving parts than anything my wife ever wears. Deborah once again saved the day, this time with a safety pin she found in the junk drawer, and I was soon cleared for action.

When I was writing a music blog I sometimes wrote about our adventures on New Year’s Eve. I will only briefly do that here, as this is not a music blog, this is a serious blog about a serious subject, writing. Which is why I’ll start with meatballs in BBQ sauce.

The local American Legion post hosting the dance we attended went all out with the steam tables, including the meatballs. I may have eaten more than my share. Like maybe 19 of them. I worked up an appetite dancing inside a tux! Deborah responsibly enjoyed dinner and the liquid refreshments. When I returned from the bar with her first glass of wine, which was full almost to the brim, we had this exchange:

DEBORAH: That is a generous pour.
ME: It should be. I paid $5 for this.

The Motown Cruisers started early, played like they meant it, and displayed a superior sense of what makes a song danceable and how to perform it. And they weren’t afraid to leave the bandstand and perform from the dance floor. This is always a gutsy move. You never know how much your customers have had to drink and how they’ll react. I’ve sometimes seen singers and guitarists enter a crowd, but this was only the second time I saw a saxophonist try it. You can’t defend yourself while you’re blowing into a sax.

The first time, the sax man was built like Usain Bolt and he also walked the bar (he had a spotter). This time, it was a middle-aged woman named Susan in a black dress. We were a good-natured crowd (they picked me out to sing the nah, nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah part of “Land of a Thousand Dances” because of how I was dressed, and everyone applauded), but still, this was beyond brave.

So here are my lessons for this new year of 2026:

If you only wear an outfit annually, remove it from the closet ahead of time and let it enjoy some fresh air. Also, practice putting it on.

Never eat meatballs in BBQ sauce again. Or if you do, practice first.

Be brave like Susan.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Festival of lights fights back

There’s a scene early in the film Gallipoli when two young Australians learn that the British empire has gone to war with the German empire. They are loyal British subjects who, like too many young men, hunt for glory. They make up their minds to join the army and join the fight. They confide their decision to a man who’s been mining in the Outback for so many years, he barely knows that the outside world exists. The miner can’t comprehend what they’re talking about. He finally says, “I knew a German once. Seemed like a nice bloke.”

I don’t lament the way the news ricochets around the world and knits us together. I lament the way hate leaps the oceans and breaks us apart.

After the shooting at Bondi Beach in Australia, after the people trying to celebrate the first night of Hanukkah were murdered, what could we do in our little corner of the world except light our own candles. But first we went to a public menorah lighting at the mall, sponsored by our local chapter of Chabad. It was odd to hear the ancient Hebrew blessings sung between the food court and the bottles of supplements in the window of the GNC.

But it was good to be part of a crowd. The rabbi reminded us that we light candles in the darkest days of the year not just to commemorate a victory from deep in the past but also for the simplest of reasons: To dispel the darkness. Traffic at the mall can’t stop us. The weather can’t stop us. Misguided men with guns can’t stop us.

When I launched this writing blog, I intended to keep world events out of it, but events happen and then the world demands our attention.

Blessing the Hanukkah dogs. We haven’t had a dog yet who didn’t know to report to the menorah as soon as it was fired up to receive my blessing and an Alpo Snap.

Back to the writing next week. Events permitting.

If my life was a novel, I’d take it back to the library

I’ve been reading Honoré de Balzac. What that man couldn’t do with the character of the miser! Also the suffering, self-sacrificing mother; the young man scheming to catch the attention of a rich married woman; the rich married women who can juggle a husband and a string of lovers while dancing with the king and wearing 10 layers of clothing; the hopeless pensioners and small-time grifters; and, amid all this 19th-century claptrap, the most cynical character I’ve ever met in literature. What a feast.

Balzac (he added the “de” because it was awesome) was probably the first writer to write about life as it was actually lived, which explains his knowledge of and fascination with money: francs, sous, livres, and gold gold gold. Balzac died in 1850, but whatever year he was writing in, in his head it was 1825. This makes him a tough sell for modern readers, given our lack of knowledge of post-Bonaparte France and our low tolerance for an author who loved to intrude with his thoughts on life, love, and morality. When I read his books I want to yell, “Good God, man, get on with your story,” but when I read them they own me.

Lately I’ve been wondering how I could replicate Balzac’s success. The obvious answer is “talent.” Other answers are discipline (Balzac wrote from 1am to 8am) and nutrition (he supposedly drank 50 cups of coffee a day). Zut alors, am I stuck? Like the typical Balzac hero, could I succeed instead by inheriting or marrying wealth?

A quick check with my wife gave me the answer to that question (no), along with the request that I do something about the bathroom fan. But, in my own way, I have been pursuing a shortcut to success. Over the years, I’ve applied for grants (“Here are your gold francs, Monsieur Bieler”), fellowships (you get the gold francs, but you also get an assignment, for example, throwing a ring into a volcano), and residencies.

The closest I’ve come to winning was the year that a judge wrote to me to say how much he enjoyed my writing. His voice was the minority voice on the panel. Also, a grant I missed went instead to a young Sherman Alexie, so I can’t get too upset about that one. I was recently informed that a writing residency I had applied for—and they really regret this, seeing as how I’m such a nice guy—was going instead to someone a little bit nicer. They hope I will think of them next year.

At that point I put down my 42nd cup of coffee and thought, What am I doing? These arts organizations and their donors are generous people. They genuinely want to do the most they can for the most deserving artists they can find.

Why would they want to help someone as old as me?

Balzac would see this clearly. (He would also, of course, burst into the narrative to deliver a lecture on the passage of time and the depths of denial as well as my endless self-regard.) If you had cash to dole out or a room you’re funding at a beach house or a ranch house or a townhouse, whom would you rather help? A writer who could have a 20- or 30-year career if she just caught a break, or an aging white male who has escaped into a comfortable retirement complete with a wife, two dogs, most of his hair, and a bathroom fan that makes too much noise?

No more applications for me.

Merci, Honoré.

You can’t have egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam

There wasn’t much money in writing when I stumbled off the starting block and there’s not much money today. Unless you’re running an email scam. When beginning writers discover that success in the creative arts is elusive and might take years, some start searching for a short cut. That’s what scammers are waiting for. They arrive in your inbox like promises for weight-loss drugs and erection extenders. This problem has become so pervasive that there’s now a site dedicated to sharing data on scammers and fighting them.

Scammers are clever, but they’re also morons. A U.S. lawyer in Tokyo recently published a book about the history of the gold standard. This lawyer’s name is my first name and my middle name. So naturally the scammers latched onto me. Like leeches. They’ve leeched onto me.

The emails I receive about the gold standard book I didn’t write are well-written, because the scammers scooped the text from the book’s jacket copy or from reviews in Kirkus or Publisher’s Weekly.

“In my work with a trusted network of over 10,000 active book clubs, I see a consistent appetite for meticulously researched works that combine academic rigor with compelling narrative,” Evelyn Carter, Book Club Placement Specialist, writes. “Readers in history, economics, and political science-focused clubs, particularly adults aged 30-65 who enjoy thoughtful, discussion-driven texts, will find your book both illuminating and provocative. The way you illustrate how nationalist concerns and imperial ambitions shaped the adoption of the gold standard provides numerous entry points for conversation.”

Ms. Carter doesn’t mention her employer. Her address is from gmail, where there are already 413 other Evelyn Carters. Spam spam spam spam egg sausage and spam.

“If this sounds like an opportunity you would like to explore, simply reply with the word Interested, and I will share the details of how we can connect your book with engaged book club readers. There is no obligation, just a chance to ensure that your work is read, appreciated, and discussed by audiences who will treasure it.”

No mention of money. Guess she doesn’t want any. Her name changes with each email. It’s always Anglo-Saxon. It’s never Carlos Danger.

I’ve decided not to ask Ms. Carter to pretend to promote a book I didn’t write, won’t read, and want to forget.

Another man, whose name is the informal version of mine, Steve Bieler, self-published a science fiction novel a few years ago. Scammers came after me on that one, too. A college friend read the book, which was a big deal for him because he has dyslexia and reading costs him something. You can imagine his aggravation when he found out he had wasted his time.

What are the lessons here? You already know them. Never engage with scammers. If it’s too good to be true, it’s not true. And keep your hopes up! Even if you never make a dime at writing, if you want to write, write.

Hello distraction my old friend

Last week I received an email with this subject: HOW TO LAND A JOB IN INDIE LIT. I read about a class I could take, taught by a person who is a fiction editor for one literary magazine, a guest editor for two others, and a non-fiction editor for a fourth. She could’ve listed a fifth litmag where she was the editorial intern, but that zine stopped publishing in 2018. To land the job you love in literature, you must be prepared to work hard, not just at one job, but several at the same time. Be prepared not to make a pile of money, either.

And then I thought, why am I reading this? I have a job: Writing novels. So far it pays nothing, but guess what? I’m retired. The last thing I need is employment.

But I get distracted.

A newsletter arrives and offers me a list of 13 DAMN FINE LITMAGS WITH 5-10% ACCEPTANCE RATES. Later lists up the ante to 22 and 51 of these things. Literature moves slowly, but not if I submit a story to 13 LITMAGS THAT RESPOND IN 7 DAYS OR LESS. How about something prestigious: 10 LITMAGS TO LAUNCH YOUR WRITING CAREER and 9 INDIE PRESSES THAT WIN AWARDS FASTER THAN TAYLOR SWIFT.

I haven’t submitted anything to any of these places, but I think about them. Time is money. Thought is, too. Thinking about DAMN FINE LITMAGS and editors who respond to submissions in seven days or less because they live in another dimension is wasting money.

But then I received a newsletter from Barrelhouse (“Serious writing. Pop culture. News about things and stuff.”). If you’re wondering where the cool kids hang, it’s here. I would love to see my byline in their pages. The newsletter was a call for submissions for their “Dirty Issue”:

Barrelhouse wants the dirt. From playing in the dirt, to dirt on a rival, to the filth of humanity, to the grime or greenery of your particular locale, we want it all. Go ahead, tell us everything, you dirty birds! We want the kinds of stories and poems whispered behind cupped hands, the ones that giggle and scatter when you enter the room, the ones that draw grimaces and gasps. The stuff you find scrawled on the bathroom walls of a dive bar. Talk dirty to us, if that’s your thing. Talk about the feeling of “dirty” or being labelled as such. Got a dirty job? Tell us about it. Take us back to our childhoods, digging for worms and building mudpies; talk about the spaces, sensations, and memories full of dirt that mean a lot to you. 

By the Flaming Sword of Taylor Swift! That set me scrambling. I didn’t want to write something new, but what did I have that was old that I could fix up and that was about dirt, dirtiness, dirtitude? This wasn’t one of those times where I gave the submissions call 15 or 30 minutes of my day. I read my old blog posts. I read the files I had stashed in my SALVAGE folder. I considered past jobs where I couldn’t stay clean. I considered secret things I knew about people, but there weren’t many people or things and some of these folks are still capable of stabbing me in the pancreas. I considered secret things I knew about me, but those things are secret because they’re boring, not dirty. Where’s the dirt? Where’s the beef?

At last, I waded into my GIVE THE FUCK UP folder. And gave up.

What did I learn from this exercise? That when you’re occupied with something you shouldn’t be doing when you have something you should, two hours can pass like the snap of your fingers. That I should stabilize my rear deflectors, stay on target, and watch for enemy fighters. Because they can come at you even while you’re congratulating yourself for outrunning another day of internet distractions.

Contending with the distractions of Red Five and Gold Leader.

What do you do when you finish your novel ?

I’ve been so focused on writing my novel that it never occurred to me to wonder what life would be like when I was no longer writing.

True, I’m not finished. I wrote a first draft. I spent several days at the library, reading it and marking it up with different color markers and highlighters and attaching Post-It guideposts. It was exceedingly pleasant, in the fall weather, to walk the half hour downtown to the post office and then back again, with my book tucked into its own cardboard box, stopping for coffee and maybe a nosh somewhere along the route.

Then I took a week to revise based on my edits. This took longer than I thought it would. I’m a former copy editor. I’m accustomed to editing other people’s work and to following other people’s edits in my own. But there are many types of editing (check out this list) and I was never trained to edit for structure. Grammar, word choice, tone, dialog, rhythm—that I can look for. How it all fits together—for that I need help.

So I printed a fresh copy of the manuscript and handed it off to the head of my order. No, not my Chief Rabbit. My wife. Deborah has so far said, “It reads like a book.” She’s still immersed in it. Maybe she’s also consulting a marriage counselor. Haruki Murakami, in his memoir Novelist As a Vocation, mentions his wife exactly once, and not by name. He does say that she reads his early drafts. Then they argue and “harsh words are sometimes exchanged.”

In our house, we reserve harsh words for the occasional canine caper. I’m eager to hear what Deborah has to say. I’ve worked on my book almost every day for a year and I feel bereft without it. What am I supposed to write now? What do I do with all my notes, background material, and writing that led me down detours or into a cul-de-sac? Or do I pivot out of the book and into all of my abandoned stories and narrative misfires? Maybe I should write a memoir. Say something nice about my wife.

When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

When I was working, Theodore Bernstein was my brother, my captain, my king. His books would seem antiquated now; this one, his last, was published in the 1970s. But for me he was a far more readable helper than Henry Fowler of A Dictionary of Modern English Usage.

Tale of the tape

When Ann Patchett finished writing her first book, she placed the manuscript on the floor, took off her shoes, and stood on this pile of paper to see how much taller it made her. Patchett did not reveal her new height.

Last week, I reported that I had finished writing my first draft. I thought I would put it away for a couple of weeks, but of course I kept playing with it, and the story stretched a few hundred words. When I hit 74,000, I said, Enough, and uploaded it to FedEx Office. I picked up the boxed manuscript today. I am 3/4″ taller. (If I had selected double spacing instead of space and a half, I would’ve been 1″ taller.)

I admit this is not the equivalent of the young Mickey Mantle launching a baseball on a 565′ parabolic course into baseball history, but it’s a momentous event in my little life.

On October 1, I’ll start reading. I’ll know going in that the quality of my work was checked by FedEx Office employee 6499086. FedEx wouldn’t have let my book out of their shop if it hadn’t met their high standards.

Today’s recommended reading

The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on Poetry and Writing by the poet and teacher Richard Hugo. This is a well-lit look under the hood of our weird craft, and so charming that it made me want to write poetry, which is not something our world needs. They don’t need it on Earth 2, either.

Hugo (1923-1982) was an original thinker and I’m sure he was an inspiring teacher. I’m inspired by Triggering Town, even though only a small part of the book is about triggers and towns and some of this stuff didn’t interest me and didn’t belong here (for example, politics in academia). Overall, it’s worth your time.

Random lines that spoke to me:

Give up what you think you have to say, and you’ll find something better…say nothing and just make music and you’ll find plenty to say.

You may object that the meaning has changed, that you are no longer saying what you want to say. Never want to say anything so strongly that you give up the option of finding something better. If you have to say it, you will.

…the single-syllable word with a hard consonant ending is a unit of power in English.

25 years of memory can kink a lot of cable

Some things are just meant.

[On notebooks:] Don’t use blank paper. Lines tend to want words.

Next week: I turn to chapter 1, page 1, and try not to be triggered.

How I broke on through to the other side

“The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something.” –Randy Pausch

I’ve discovered that when you’re writing a book, you lose some of the filters you’ve set up against the world. Words, sentences, ideas, thoughts, feelings, colors, moods, the weather, and the shit your Dad says all strike you as inspiring or instructional or something you should steal. These words, sentences, etc. can come from anywhere.

It’s no secret that I love trains. The characters in my novel work on trains, ride trains, try not to get run down by trains, would enjoy consensual sex on trains. I was reading the latest newsletter from Lance Mindheim, the man to go to if you want to hire a craftsman to build your model railroad, when I found this gem:

At some point, there will be folks who want to transition from casual recreationalists to modelers. Doing so entails moving out of your comfort zone and learning how to use new tools and new techniques. The techniques are usually pretty simple. The moving out of your comfort zone? It’s a lifelong roadblock for many.

Mindheim was talking about using an airbrush (“Using an airbrush isn’t like running a nuclear power plant. You push a button, and paint comes out.”), a barrier that forever restricts casual recreationalists to paint brushes and rattle cans. But I immediately thought of my career as a writer.

My comfort zone was writing short fiction. Novel-writing was my airbrush. I had to break out of that zone to write a novel. It was indeed a roadblock, and that roadblock stood fast for a long time. Mindheim described it more succinctly that I could.

One thing writers don’t have to worry about but modelers do is using too heavy a touch when painting or weathering your work. One coat too dark and you are screwed. But in writing, we can counteract too heavy a touch with two handy inventions: the backspace key and your editor.

“Have fun!” Mindheim concludes. It is fun. It’s too good to miss.

Word count: 73,548.

I’m done.

I began writing this book in the window of Common Grounds Coffeehouse in Portland, Oregon, and finished writing it on a late-summer afternoon, under the enormous Oriental plane tree outside the FireHouse Arts & Events Center in Bellingham, Washington.

Between “Once upon a time” and “The End,” I wrote in the basement of our Portland home and on the top floor of our Bellingham home. I wrote in many more coffee shops, where I mostly enjoyed the music. I wrote at the Clark County Public Library in Vancouver, Washington, with its glass face, astounding sunsets from the fifth-floor terrace, and its pleasant and good-looking librarians. I wrote in the lobby of our car dealer while our car was being looked after, and in the waiting rooms of doctors and dentists, where the music can only be endured.

Now all I have to do is read this damn thing.

The kind we grow here.