Jason Andrew Bond

I’ve recently been listening to the audio book of Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One (HIGHLY recommended).  Wil Wheaton does a superb narration.  Having recently watched the newest reboot of Star Trek (totally impressed by the way) I got to thinking about other reboots or future possibilities.  Suppose war breaks out (as is suggested in some futures) and Wesley, now a captain, goes rogue through horrific PTSD.  I imagine him in a Khan-esque, haywire rampage in which he would be totally unstoppable.  Let’s face it—in The Next Generation, whenever stuff got REALLY heavy, the experienced officers always had to rely on the wünderkind Crusher to save their butts.  Now he’s the predator, and vicious he will be.  Here are five reasons he’ll crack in the future and make Khan’s rampage look like a Tokyo soundstage:

1. An overbearing/absent mother.  Statistically doctor’s kids freak out more often (ask me, I know).
2. Dead father.  Nuff said.
3. Crap father figures.  Give me a break; he never had a chance.  Picard hates anyone under thirty-five, and Riker’s only gonna teach him how to pick up blues house slinkers (an important skill perhaps, but character building it is not).
4. The sweaters.  Anyone forced to wear those sweaters is doomed to crack.
5. Sexual repression.  Hot mother leads to Freudian denial leads to confused feelings.  (Note #4 adorned with prevalent rainbow patterns.)

It’s gonna be a bloodbath folks. 

-Dreadnaught Crusher.  Let the carnage begin.

This has been a strange summer.  I feel as though my second novel is eating my brain.  Seriously… it’s taking over my life.  Even with the help of a professional editor, it feels like a wall of work towering up into the sky and slowly tipping over.  Despite this feeling, I have to admit that I’m almost done.

Before I started the project, I had heard that writing the second novel would be more difficult than the first.  That has been true in some areas, and not so much in others.  In some ways it has been easier.  During the writing of my first novel, I learned a great deal about how I work.  I learned that when I review my rough draft material, if I expect it to read well, I feel absolutely depressed when it doesn’t.  To prevent this feeling, I lowered my expectations of my initial work and began to trust in the editing process.

Due to those lowered expectations, I felt much more freedom writing the second book’s rough draft.  I wrote down what was in my head, good or bad, with the understanding that I could fix it later.  Upon reviewing the draft, I found it to be as expected… rough.  I had major surgery to perform.  Whole characters had to be added, changed, and/or removed, sometimes by pain of death.  As I learned to trust the editing process, I became more comfortable with it, despite the workload.

But not all problems are so easily solved.  One area that has been especially difficult in writing this second novel is worrying about readers’ expectations.  Writers should concern themselves with being entertaining to readers, but in this second book I felt I second guessed myself far too many times.  I continually wondered if those who gave me positive feedback on my first work would like this current book.

This second book does take some risks.  I have published a successful sci-fi action story.  The publishing houses would have me write another one like it.  I will… next.  However, the one theme that comes up time and time again when reading books on writing by best-selling authors is that a writer must not chase a market.  Instead, the writer must chase his or her heart.  This time round, my heart gave me a modern day horror/thriller/action hybrid.

So to follow my heart, I have to fly in the face of what the professional publishers would advise.  It’s a risk, but I didn’t become a writer to be light-hearted and timid.  All the best paths require at least some degree of bravery in the face of possible failure.  If not, there’s no sense of adventure, no thrill.

As I finish initial editing on Mortal Remains, the feeling of something completed and honed overwhelms me.  It’s my pay off, why I keep writing.  The process can be thankless and tiring, and I have often doubted my convictions, but in the end, no matter how long it takes, that moment of completion fills my heart to overflowing.  To anyone who is compelled to dedicate his or her life to writing—the road is steep and stony, but the view on the summit is wide and beautiful.  Climb on.

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Sen. Sundin: Thank you for meeting with me.

LCDR Zack: Commander said I had no choice.

Sen. Sundin: I see.  If I had given you a choice, would you have come?

LCDR Zack: No.

Sen. Sundin: Why not?

LCDR Zack: Because this is a waste of my time.

Sen. Sundin: How so?

LCDR Zack: (sighs)  We all know what you’re looking for, and you’re not going to find it.  Admiral Cantwell made one mistake ten years ago.  He was totally open about it.  There’s nothing more to find.

Sen. Sundin: And how would you know there is nothing more?

LCDR Zack: I was there.

Sen. Sundin: Not in the beginning.

LCDR Zack: Yes, of course, not in the beginning, but—

Sen. Sundin: Let’s stay focused on my questions.  When you’ve answered them to my satisfaction, we may have time for a personal statement.

LCDR Zack: (mumbles under breath) Waste of ******* time.

Sen. Sundin: Excuse me?  (pause)  Lieutenant Commander Zack, let me remind you that you are still under oath in these proceedings, and failure to cooperate—

LCDR Zack: Okay, I get it; just ask me your questions so I can get back to work.  I don’t have a desk job where I can sit around talking all day.

Sen. Sundin: Ms. Zack, the goals of this inquiry are not malevolent.  We simply want to know if the President’s nomination is an acceptable fit for the country.

LCDR Zack: Lieutenant Commander.

Sen. Sundin: What?

LCDR Zack: I didn’t bust my *** for the last 12 years for you to talk to me like a little girl.

Sen. Sundin: I believe you’re thinking of “Miss” M-I-S-S.

LCDR Zack: Lieutenant Commander.

Sen. Sundin: Fine, Lieutenant Commander.

LCDR Zack: Thank you.

Sen. Sundin: Let the record show that all references in this conversation to ‘Admiral Cantwell,’ or any variation, will refer to one Admiral Samuel William Cantwell, service number XXX-XX-XXXX.  Now Ms. Zack, please let me know the first time you met Admiral Cantwell.

LCDR Zack: (sighs) I met him well after the incident.  If you read the reports—

Sen. Sundin: Let’s just focus on the question, shall we?

(pause)

Sen. Sundin: I’ll take your silence for agreement.  (papers shuffling) When you interacted with Maxine King, did she discuss Admiral Cantwell?

LCDR Zack: No.

Sen. Sundin: When you first interacted with her, of what did you speak?

LCDR Zack: Of what did we speak?  We didn’t really talk.  I bit her ******* face off.

Sen. Sundin: Ma’am, I’ll ask you to keep an appropriate tone.  (pause)  Last month we interviewed Mrs. King at the Puget Sound Naval Brig’s Psychiatric Facility, and she suggested that you two had had detailed conversations regarding Admiral Cantwell.

LCDR Zack: Maxine King is insane.

Sen. Sundin: Some consider her mentally unstable, but she has made a great deal of progress over the last decade.

LCDR Zack: The only progress I’d like to see her make is toward the grave.

Sen. Sundin: So you have hostile intensions toward her?

LCDR Zack: No.  Don’t put words in my mouth.  What I’m saying is, the day she dies, I’ll raise a glass to see her off to Hell.  Beyond that I’m not suggesting anything.

Sen. Sundin: I see.  Well, let’s move on.  Mr. Jeffrey Holt is—

LCDR Zack: I thought this was supposed to be about Cantwell.

Sen. Sundin: Well, we must discuss the credentials of the Admiral’s social circles and Mr. Holt—

LCDR Zack: Is the only reason we didn’t spend the last decade in a guerilla war.  You know, this is exactly the kind of ingratitude I expect from people like you.  We save your ***** so you can turn around and judge us.

Sen. Sundin: No one is judging you Lieutenant Commander.

LCDR Zack: Right.

Sen. Sundin: Lieutenant Commander, your attitude is—  (door opens)  Excuse me, this is a private session; I asked to not be disturbed.

CDR Stringer: I apologize, Senator.  I’m Commander Stringer of Naval Special Warfare, Lieutenant Commander Zack needs to come with me right away.

Sen. Sundin: No.  I have unanswered questions.

CDR Stringer: I do apologize sir, but this is the end of the interview.  We have a situation.  The Lieutenant Commander and I must leave.  Your interview will have to wait for another time.

Sen. Sundin: No they will not.  This is absolutely unaccept—

CDR Stringer: Let’s go Zack.

Sen. Sundin: If you leave this room, I’ll have you both court martialed.

CDR Stringer: Zack, I’m giving you a direct order to come with me.  I hold full responsibility.

Sen. Sundin: And you’ll answer for it.

CDR Stringer: Senator, if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about your political aspirations at a time like this.  I’d go home and tell your children you love them.  (door slams shut)

Writer’s block is an interesting beast.   It would be something like a stone mason suddenly being unable to lift a rock, or move a trowel.  I understand that writer’s block is a real thing.  I’ve talked with people who’ve had it and read essays by bestsellers who’ve been trumped by it.  However, when asked if I get writer’s block, my answer is, “no, never.”   That’s a bold claim, but it’s true.

My immunity was given to me by an infamous, local high school teacher named Robert Baldwin.  He was an “against-the-grain” kind of guy.  Every day he violated the school dress code with sandals and jeans.  He added to this a tan suit-coat with leather elbow patches.  While that attire brought him close to a stereotype, day after day he broke down our assumptions of him.  Once, a linebacker from the football team—an intelligent young man—argued his case as to why an assignment wasn’t worth his time.  Baldwin heard him out and then offered a deal.  They would arm wrestle for it; if the student won, he didn’t have to do the paper.  If he lost, he’d have to double the word content.  We learned two things that day:  One, Baldwin used to be a logger; two, if you want to keep your dignity, do not arm wrestle a logger.

While that’s a great story, Baldwin gave me much more than fun stories to tell; he gave me the single most important wrench in my writing toolbox:  freewriting.  One of the requirements of his class was to write in a spiral notebook every day.  There were no content guidelines, only quantity.  If we hit a certain number of pages at the end of the term, we’d receive an ‘A’ on the notebook.

When I opened that spiral notebook and inked the first word, I had no idea of the impact it would have.  That first freewrite flowed into thousands of hand-written and typed pages, and over the next twenty years, it would permanently destroy writer’s block.

One of my rituals as I begin writing for the day is to freewrite:  a one-page, single-spaced brain-dump.  When I’m done, I open the documents I am currently working on, be they editing or rough drafting, and begin work.  I’m in no way saying I don’t get stuck, because I do.  It’s what I do the moment I feel stuck that saves me from the dreaded block.   I leave my journal open as I work, and when I find myself at a dead end, I go back and freewrite.   I’ll write a short story about the character’s past, or imagine what’s happening in the room adjacent to the scene I’m working on—ANYTHING related to the story.  There are no right or wrong answers.  Invariably I find my characters opening up to me with long forgotten secrets that send my plots off in unexpected directions.

Over the past twenty years I’ve spend hundreds of hours freewriting.  Today, I can type at 100+ wpm and essentially record what I’m day-dreaming in real time.  Freewriting has allowed me to open the gateway to that well of creative dark matter that is so difficult to access during a spell of writer’s block, and for that I will be forever in Robert Baldwin’s debt.

So what good is, “Do this for twenty years,” for new writers who want to write well today?  Here’s the reality:  When starting out, there is no way to write well today.  That doesn’t mean you should shut the laptop and move on.  The following applies to any pursuit in life:  You should work today for where you can be next year and the year after that.  What can you do today and every day from here to the New Year?  What effect would daily work have on the desired skill if you did this for the next decade?  Is putting forth that level of dedicated effort worth it?

You damn well better believe it is.

I’m a bit late to the party talking about Michael Monsoor, but I want to mention him; maybe not so much to discuss what he did, but to discuss those like him.  Monsoor, a U.S. Navy SEAL, died in Al Ramadi, Iraq on September 29th, 2006.  His official U.S. Navy biography (www.Navy.mil) states:

• On that day, Monsoor was part of a sniper overwatch security position with three other SEALs and eight Iraqi Army (IA) soldiers. An insurgent closed in and threw a fragmentation grenade into the overwatch position. The grenade hit Monsoor in the chest before falling to the ground. Positioned next to the single exit, Monsoor was the only one who could have escaped harm. Instead, he dropped onto the grenade to shield the others from the blast. Monsoor died approximately 30 minutes later from wounds sustained from the blast. Because of Petty Officer Monsoor’s actions, he saved the lives of his 3 teammates and the IA soldiers.

I will not attempt to interpret the above event.  I don’t want to disrespect it in any way.  What I will say is that I am humbled by the sacrifice.  When I think about the day-to-day decisions we face stateside (burger or sandwich) or that which causes us stress (jerk neighbor with a barking dog) and compare these with the risks and related decisions Monsoor lived and died with… the conclusion seems obvious.

What struck me more powerfully than Monsoor’s actions was what his sister said during an interview with CNN.com.  When speaking of her brother, she asked us to be mindful that events like the one that cost her brother his life happen every day.  This is what causes me pause.  Michael Monsoor stands out because his sacrifice was so dramatic, and I’m glad to remember him, yet he is far from alone. There are thousands of men and women with the dedication and willingness to leave the safety of their hometowns and risk their lives.  Surely none want to be injured or lose their lives, but they all know it is possible and sign on despite the risks.

When the soldiers complete their tours and return home, I believe we, who live in the peace created by their efforts, should step up and support them.  That’s why I have decided to dedicate a portion of the profits from Hammerhead to support disabled veterans.  I love my country and the life my family and I have here.  I may not always agree with the politicians making decisions, but I will always support those who go and risk and sacrifice.  When these men and women return home, they need and deserve our support.

I ask those reading this to consider their lives, and hold them up in light of those who leave behind coffee stands, tablet computers, and Saturday nights on the town in order to fight so we may have those things.  Picture yourself in their shoes for a moment.  Imagine yourself parked on a mountain road, sitting in the canvas seat of a Humvie.  Sunlight scatters off the shattered rear view mirror.  You haven’t showered in three months, and you still have bloods stains on the right shoulder of your BDU’s from the soldier who used to ride beside you.  Michael Monsoor gave his life so that his teammates could come home.  His struggle is over, and may he rest in peace.  But as his sister asked of us, we must remember there are thousands like him, and when those men and women come home—injured and tired, with a head full of memories—we need to be there for them.  We should be.

www.JasonAndrewBond.com/veterans

I’m floating thirty feet under the surface of Puget Sound in a diffuse, sage-hued light.  As I breathe in, my regulator’s second stage feeds me a cybernetic rush of air.  Exhaling, roiling bubbles surround me, billowing past my mask, ears, and neck.  I’m hovering three feet above a tire reef, and my sphere of visibility fades away to nothingness fifteen feet away.  Five minutes earlier, swimming out to the reef, I found myself with fifteen inches.  Surrounded by suspended muck and bits of kelp, I kept up steady fin kicks as I held my compass close to my mask.  After a few moments, I broke out of the clouding turbidity into an experience I will remember the rest of my life.

At forty-seven degrees, I can feel the water leeching heat away from the core of my chest through fourteen millimeters of neoprene wetsuit.  William, a dive master with more than a decade of experience, motions me over to a tire, towering white anemones crowning its upper tread.  I give a gentle kick and glide toward him.  As I approach, he reaches into the tire and draws out an eighteen-inch-long sea cucumber, green-brown in the filtered light and bristling with fleshy spikes.  He sets the little beast in my hand.  It has almost no weight here, and I can’t really feel its softball sized girth through my neoprene glove.  But still, it’s there in my hand, a living creature from the floor of the ocean.

Given the context of my life, I cannot quite convince myself that what I’m experiencing is real.  As a child, I spent years living on the Oregon coast and would often sit on the docks staring at the cold waters of Yaquina bay.  I’d look beneath the bending surface, down the length of the submerged piers, slick with sea weed and barnacles, my gaze stopping where the stout supports faded away in the jade-darkness.  I felt a siren’s song rising up from that unknown, hypnotic and malicious.  Something evil and unknowable lay down there, something that would swallow me whole if it could just get me close enough.

But now I’m down here, surrounded by life, holding it in my own hand.  I was right to think this place would consume me, but not as I expected.  I understand now that the sirens who called to me when I was young, while dangerous, aren’t evil.  Down here the heartbeat of the world pulses in a deep rhythm, perilous and beautiful.  It fills my heart, and makes me feel young.

After a few moments, I set the sea cucumber back in the tire where William found it.  I look over at him, and he gives me a thumbs-up.  Above him, I see a school of some kind of fish, no idea what they are, drifting past.  The fish seem tropical in shape and formation but have the hard-core, rock-faced coloring of this northern Pacific Ocean.  William turns away and kicks his fins.  As he exhales, flattened bubbles rise away from him.  I watch them loft toward the soft glow above.  The bubbles vanish beyond our line of visibility as they continue on toward the surface.  Looking back at the sea floor, I see a crab scuttling by, claws up.

I float over the crab like a wraith in the fog of an old church graveyard, watching it side-step away.  As the crab disappears among white and rust-colored anemones, I think of what a strange career I have chosen.  I had to write about diving and couldn’t figure out how the scene would feel, so I had to come out here and live it.  Writing has drawn me out into areas of life I otherwise would not have experienced, and this bitter-cold place is no exception.  In sinking down into this world, I am confronted with a truth, and I can already feel it driving me forward anew.  Hovering over this reef, suspended in the wild, I have no doubts that there is absolutely no way to fail when you are whole-heartedly chasing your dreams.

…

Here’s to dive masters William, Larry, and Jim for an amazing experience.  I appreciate you sharing your love of diving with me.  I also appreciate the excellent course material put together by PADI.  If anyone is interested in diving, I cannot recommend this organization highly enough.  www.PADI.com

Now to get that diving scene re-written…

Jason

I find myself troubled by many female characters in action novels.  Many land too wholly in only yin or yang, deference or aggression.  These women are either delicate, high-heeled fashion foils, serving as a mark of success for the leading man, or are stark bitches, taking on the worst aspects of the male ego and masquerading that as real strength.  While these types of women do exist, I don’t think they are typical and are definitely not well-rounded.  I want to overcome this limitation by presenting both the yin and yang in one character, broad and more true-to-life.  My goal is to show strength in women, while still allowing them to be loving and sensitive.  I’m not claiming to have succeeded in that goal, but I will continue to strive to get it right because I feel compelled to express through these characters the depth of ambition, love, and bravery the women in my life have shown me.

My understanding of women began, as with most boys, with my mother.  However, her example wasn’t typical.  In my early teens, as my friends and I stood waiting for the bus in the Oregon fog, cars would pull up to the stop-sign and accelerate away—exhaust pipes billowing in the cold, damp air—carrying men and women to typical jobs:  admin-assistants, salespeople, nurses, teachers, mechanics.  Some parents would drive by with a wave, but not my mother; she would have gone to work before dawn, leaving me to get myself ready for school.  However, I didn’t mind as I felt so much pride in what she did.

As the bus pulled up, brakes squealing and wind-blown mist streaked across the side windows, my thoughts would be on her.  I’d take one last look at the sky, hoping to see faint-blue burning through the December clouds, and climb the steps.  As I sat down on the green vinyl seat, the heat on the bus wrapping around my face and neck, I’d imagine her walking underneath the high tail of a twin-engine, turbo-prop Beechcraft King Air, inspecting the plane for damage, streaks of oil, low tires.  In the cabin, she’d greet the executives as they came aboard.  Then she’d make her way to the cockpit.  Fastening her seatbelt, she’d put on her headset, pick up her clipboard, and go through the last elements of her preflight.  I’d imagine her popping open the side window and calling out, “CLEAR PROP!”  Then she’d fire the engines, and the props would blast to life, blurring to smooth, circular sheets.

Back on the bus, the driver lurched out onto the highway, and the streaks of mist across the glass began to drain by again.  But I wasn’t there, not part of the trip to middle school with its bullies, dismissive girls, and white-faced, clicking clocks.  In my thoughts, I was in the right seat of the King Air, the mist on the widows blasting away as the acceleration of takeoff sank me into the seat.  The wheels would track the tarmac, rumbling, jolting, and then the seat, the floor, the instruments, the whole cabin, would go vague, freed from the diminishing Earth.  With the horizon below our heels, the sheet of clouds would descend on us.  We’d fly into the grim stratus, grayness folding close.  But the dimness held no power over the wicked turbines, and with each second, the mist surrounding the plane grew brighter.  Then we’d cut free into brilliant sunlight, a flawless blue sky, and glowing cloud-tops.  I’d look back down through a cloud-break to the shadowed highway and forest.  From up there a freeway bound tractor-trailer was the size of my finger tip, and more importantly, so were my troubles.  I’d look back at my mother, sunlight glinting off the dark-blue frames of her sunglasses, her hands guiding the plane.  In those moments she showed me how to overcome and thrive, and that filled the fissures that invariably run through a young heart.

Back on the bus, that lesser world surrounded me, but held no sway.  Looking out the square, split window of the bus at the thinning fog, I was seeing only the clear, blue sky.

My mother asked me once in a moment of self-doubt (which we all have as parents) “Was I a good mother?”  The question seemed ridiculous to me.  This from the woman who had shown me, not only her own strength, but the very possibilities of life.  Whenever I see a picture of Amelia Earhart, without fail I think, “like mom.”  How many sons do that?  Was she a good mother?  There is no question in my mind that no mother has ever set a better example for her son.

Now I have to get back to work.  I’ve got character development to do…

Jason

I’ve been training in martial arts since I was eighteen years old.  That’s twenty years of cracked shins, pulled tendons, and bruised forearms.  I’ve trained under the former U.S. Taekwondo Olympic Head Coach, a Muay Thai heavyweight champion, and a U.S. Martial Arts Hall of Famer.  Believe me when I tell you, it all hurt.

During those years of training I had a critical problem; I’m not very good.  I’ve got poor timing, weak balance, and slow reaction time.  Rather, I had those things.  After twenty years, I can block or dodge most punches and kicks, my balance is much improved, and I can land a few good shots.

It’s important for me to qualify that I still feel like an idiot compared to some of my more talented training partners.  However, if you watched me spar or grapple, you’d probably think I knew what I was doing.  You might just see me win against some pretty talented fighters… might.  There’s a lot you won’t see though.  Buried in what I can do are years of losses and injuries.  In younger days, I went home many times with my ego so bruised I could barely look in the mirror.  Seeing only the skill a person has and not what he or she went through to get it is a dangerous misperception.  To successfully walk a path one must be aware of the entire journey, not simply the destination.

It is critical to understand that anything done well must first be done badly.  This truth is often where people struggle.  I’ve seen it for twenty years in martial arts.  New students arrive with images of themselves stronger, fitter, and able to defend themselves.  That’s all great.  However, the truth is that training hurts the body and ego.  People feel awkward when they try to throw their first punches and weak because they can’t keep up with the class, even that 12 year old with the yellow belt.  These physical and mental challenges cause most people to quit within the first few months because they did not expect nor appreciate those feelings.  Yet, it is exactly these feelings of apparent failure we must pass through to find success.

The same reality of skill development applies to writing, but there is an even deeper failure rate due to a key problem.  Most people will look at a martial artist throwing kicks and blocking punches and think, “Wow, that’s a different level of skill.”  It’s not always that way for writing.  Many people—and I’ve heard this sentiment several times—think that they can write a good story on the first or second go, and that simply isn’t possible.  If you gave me two challenges, holding off a friend of mine named Jacob—a 265 lb. recent local MMA cage fight winner—and writing a story I can guarantee people will like, I’ll take the fight.  It’s so much easier to control.  Let me reiterate that.  A 265 lb. cage fighter is easier to control than a reader’s perception of a fiction story.  In a fight, I know when I’m winning.  I know when I’m losing.  Writing is in no way that clear.  It’s a shadowy art in which you paint in the darkness of another person’s mind.  You will never know the exact impact your words have.

Most aspiring authors don’t realize how difficult fiction writing is until they get their first reader reactions.  The author is excited and sure the reader will love the work, and the reader winces and says, “Well, it was okay, but…”  The realization that the aspiring author has not been able to create a masterwork can be demoralizing and defeating.  Don’t let it!  I’ve said it many times, and I’ll say it many more:  The only time we truly fail, no matter how many rejections we receive or how many matches we lose, is the moment we stop trying.

So what should you do?  Write.  Write badly.  You will at first.  Unless you’re that one lightning bolt—odds are you aren’t—you’ll need practice. How much?  Malcolm Gladwell has written a book on what makes people successful called Outliers.  I highly recommend it.  I’ll leave the specific details to your reading, but the core comes down to hard work.  How much?  10,000 hours.  That may sound like less than it is.  Trust me, it’s a LOT.  I’ve been tracking my writing time over the last several years, and I’m still nowhere near that mark.  However, if you want to compete with King, Rowling, and Sparks, you better be willing to put in that level of time.

Now I’m going to offer my most important advice: Don’t listen to me.  You don’t want advice from a guy who doesn’t have his 10,000 hours in yet.  Go to the experts.  During my martial arts lifetime I’ve learned from first degree blackbelts and ninth degree blackbelts.  I’ve attended seminars with a local stick fighter and seminars with world class fighters like Danny Inosanto.  The first degree blackbelts can get you off the ground, but they can only raise you up so high.  If you want to be competitive with the big names of writing, if you want to perfect your voice and art, then you need to be mentored by those with 10,000 hours.

The good news:  That mentorship is there for you.  I begin each writing day by reading from a how-to book by a bestselling author or professional editor.  If you focus on the advice of these people, you will find valuable wisdom and—much more importantly—an intensely positive energy.  As a starting point, I recommend the book Stein on Writing by Sol Stein.  You want to be a skilled writer?  Become a skilled editor.

So the secret to great writing presents itself as 10,000 hours of work, and many, many failures.  But when you fail, if you see it correctly, you will move toward success.  Believe me, when that boxing glove comes through your guard and connects with your face, your motivation to block the next punch is fairly intense.

Now stop reading this and get back to writing!

All the best,

Jason