Dogs, Manuscripts, Parallells, and Other Seemingly Obscure Observations

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of psychological thrillers

It’s kind of funny. Well, actually not funny, funny, but more, it’s interesting.

I’m talking about parallels and how life can often hurl them when least expected. I’ve always known this but still manage to sort of forget.

Sort of.

And when I sort of do, life sort of responds by sending me a gentle reminder. Actually, it’s more like a gentle kick to the ass.

Case in point: I recently adopted a new member to the family, a fuzzy, adorable ball of cuteness named Trick. I got her for my other fuzzy, adorable, ball of cuteness (brown variety) named Caleb, who seemed lonely and in need of a playmate. The other fuzzies wanted no part of him (Two of those. I know a 1:4 human-to-dog ratio. Don’t even ask)

Unfortunately, my good intentions didn’t work out as expected—that’s actually an understatement. What actually happened during the introduction, was a rather unpleasant and disagreeable scene. There was some growling. Some snarling. Perhaps even a few bared and pointy teeth. In other words, there was a problem.

I can’t quite remember clearly, but here’s how the events played out soon after: friends were called, a trainer was called (two of those). There was some panic, some frantic begging, and possibly some delirious and angst-ridden pleas for help (I’m not sure. I can’t remember).  In essence, the panic button had been pushed. Sirens went off. Red lights twirled and flashed. Mayday was officially declared.

The first trainer arrived.

And after Caleb maliciously attacked a stuffed Rottweiler (apparently the gold standard for ferreting out bad seeds among the pack), said trainer delivered a grim prognosis, along with a lot of frowning, hand wringing, and labeling.  In effect, she called Caleb a deeply troubled problem child with an irreversible, aggressive nature, and (gasp!) even dangerous. After throwing her hands up (well, she first used them to slap me with a hefty bill), off she went.

I didn’t like that.

Enter the second trainer, who presented an entirely opposite theory. According to her, Caleb got a bad rap. He wasn’t aggressive at all, just a bit overzealous in his excitement, and Trick misinterpreted it. A simple case of two dogs sending off the wrong signals. Her prognosis: good to excellent.

A few weeks later, as evidence of persistence (and testament to staying calm under adversity), I present to you, the bone chewing contest.

Yep. Two inseparable friends-for-life, who can’t stop playing and loving on each other.

Now, the parallel.

As all this was playing out, the timing couldn’t have been worse for dad (that’s me) who was in the throes of trying to complete his work-in-progress. A fast-approaching deadline was looming. My story and characters were being disagreeable and combative. The situation was tense, and nerves were fraying. To put it mildly, I was a wreck. To put it in context, the dogs wouldn’t hunt.

I didn’t like that, either.

Once again, there was some growling. Some snarling. Perhaps even A few bared and pointy teeth (This time, mine).

And again, I pushed the button and called in the trainer (well, actually, a good friend and trusted advisor), who had a look at the manuscript. We kicked some ideas around, and after intense, restructured training, the dogs were off and running, the kingdom safe from near-impending doom.

The lessons here (other than my apparent ability to string two seemingly uncommon events together).  I present them in numerical fashion for more cohesive and clear impact.

1. Persistence always pays.
2. Strong people ask for help.
3. We can learn a lot from the dogs
4. Never trust anyone who hates on your kid.
5. Don’t panic!

Oh, and when all else fails? There is always (always!) coffee. And chocolate.

Got Junk?

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of psychological thrillers

I’m in the middle of overhauling my kitchen. I didn’t mean to—it was an accident, but really, it was one that needed to happen.

It all started when I decided I needed a new fridge. One by one, the shelves had been busting until there was only one left, and I found myself cramming everything in at the bottom. Each time I’d open the door, food would come tumbling out onto the floor, and in some cases, even spilling. In addition to that, Old Fridge was starting to make weird noises, and I noticed the chill factor wasn’t exactly, well… chillin'. I knew it was junk, that I needed to replace it, but for some reason I tolerated the inconvenience until I no longer could.

Then I looked at Tired Old Dishwasher. I’d been tolerating him for quite some time as well; in fact, each time I ran a load, although the dishes were—in theory—clean, a lot of them still didn’t look so great, and I’d end up having to re-wash them by hand. I also couldn’t ignore the fact that Tired Old Dishwasher would look like hell next to Shiny New Fridge.

Then I glanced at Sad Old Stove and frowned at my shameful neglect.

Before I knew it, I found myself at the appliance store, swiping the card, biting the bullet, and kicking myself in the rear.

Once the new stuff arrived, I smiled. I was excited. Then I eyed my dishes, and again, I frowned—so many of them had outlived their usefulness, many with chips, and through the years I had added to the chaos by purchasing more, only to have them end up in much the same condition.

I opened my silverware drawer and through weary eyes, looked inside. The flatware was akin to what one might find in a college dorm, some mismatched, some bent, and some Just Plain Ugly.

How had I let all this go for so long? In the back of my mind, part of the reasoning was based on financial concerns. I could also blame my neglect on the fact that I’ve been working too hard, didn’t have time—but it only took One New Thing to make it painfully clear that the Avalanche of Neglect had started tumbling long before then.

So, why am I telling you this? For good reason. Bear with me.

I’m all about finding the lessons in life—I even see them in the smaller and seemingly mundane things. What was my lesson here? Junk accumulates, and while it’s often right in front of us, we sometimes fail to notice it until we’re forced to. Granted, some people are better at taking care of things than I, but on some level, and to some degree, I think we all do it.

The kitchen project happened to be running alongside my writing project—I was working on the new manuscript, and all at once the parallels were difficult to ignore. How much junk was hidden among the pages? How much of it had I failed to see? Granted, this is why we have editors—to help us see what we can’t, and that in itself is a strong indicator of why they’re so vital. But even so, as writers it’s ultimately our job to find as much junk as we can before the work falls into their hands—not doing so only makes the job that much harder, forcing them to focus their effort and energy on smaller things when they need to concentrate on the larger ones.

In many cases I’ve noticed that some authors even skip that step. They don’t bother hiring an editor (and sadly, in some cases, don’t even bother proofreading their work) before sending it out into the world, junk and all. Sometimes I’ll read entire passages—even chapters—and think, “Why is this even here? It’s junk.” I guess the reason is much the same as the one that caused me to allow my kitchen to fall into such sad shape. I neglected it.

And really, when it comes right down to it, ultimately, the responsibility is ours to not only see the junk, but also to get rid of it.

How about you? Got junk?

Rewire

By Andrew E. Kaufman

I’ve been thinking about doing some rewiring lately. Not in my house, but in my brain: my writer’s brain. It seems to have gone a bit wonky.

Because I’ve realized that being a good writer isn’t just about grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Plot arcs are crucial, but they don’t mean a damned thing if your own story is out-of-whack. Writing is about being in the right place emotionally, not just on paper, but in your head.

So in doing my rewiring, I’ve identified some short-circuit issues—places where I seem to be getting in my own way, where a fuse or two got tripped. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

Comparing Myself to Other Authors 

I don’t do this as often as I once did (not really), but occasionally, I find myself slipping down that slope. It’s a bad one. Here's me reading a book. It goes something like this:

Me: (First chapter)“Damn, what an awesome passage.”

Me: (Fifth chapter) “Damn, the dude can write.”

Me: (Tenth chapter) “Oh, Damn….”

Me: (Midbook) “Oh Sh#*… I’ll never be this good,”

Me: (End of book) “Ohgoodlord. I seriously suck.”

Coveting thy author: bad move. It’s a prescription for failure. It’s a trap, a self-imposed esteem ambush. Even worse, it’s the fastest way to kill inspiration and creativity. I can’t compare myself to other writers because quite simply, I am not That Writer. 

Worrying About Numbers

I’ve decided to decide that numbers don’t matter—not in the overall scheme of things; or at least in the little one, that worrying about them doesn’t do a damned bit of good. Worry all you want, but whether you do or not, numbers are still going to happen. They’re a unit of measure, not a way of life. Sales rankings, book units, word count, my age, my checking account balance: all unhealthy obsessions. Life matters. Numbers don’t.

Forgetting Why I Write 

I still do this.

Sometimes (he said, grudgingly) .

I get so caught up in deadlines, book deals, sales, and everything else that writing isn’t about, that I forget why I do it in the first place. And then I remember the times when none of those things existed, when it was just  me and the written word, and the more I do, the more I realize, those were the best days of my life. It’s so easy to get caught up in the business of writing instead of the passion that drives it.

Not Trusting My Process

The moment I’m about to give up--when I’m chewing the ends off pencils, throwing things, and doing the primal scream--is always the exact moment before I make my biggest breakthrough, when the most amazing things happen. I’ve come to accept that this is part of my process. It’s how I roll. I can’t change it, so I’m going to learn to live with it and accept that I have to go There before I can get Here (even if it sort of sucks sometimes).
    

All Work and No Play:

That’s me.

I’m the first to admit it.  All do is write. I don’t mind that all I do is write, because I love being a writer—but still, it feels like all I ever do is write. And it feels unbalanced. And unhealthy. And it feels like I have no life outside of writing.  So my goal this year is to make time away from writing (After my deadline, of course--just in case Thomas & Mercer is reading this). To take Caleb to the beach more often and to simply enjoy. To live more.  Writing is my passion, but my passion can’t thrive in a vacuum; I have to feed it with living.

Fear of Failure

'Nuff said.

How about you? Got any bad wires that need fixing? Here’s the place to come clean.

Promise, I won’t tell ;)

I Wasn't Putting Myself First (Or, Deconstructing Superman)

By Andrew E. Kaufman

This post isn’t going to be about crime fiction or even about publishing—not really, anyway. This post is about life. About being human, realizing we’re not perfect, that we can’t do it all.

Sometimes, I think, many of us forget that.

It’s easy to do. Life can often get in the way. I remember before I published my first novel, things seemed a lot less complicated. That’s not a complaint; it's an observation. Juggling my personal and professional life is more of a challenge now, and with that, it’s easy to get caught up in the swell of activity and forget what matters. It’s not unusual—it’s just life.

But sometimes too, if we’re lucky, we get reminders, warnings, even, to slow down and stop trying to be everything to everyone, because quite simply, we can’t.

It’s not like anyone was asking anything extraordinary of me. I was doing a good enough job of that myself, getting tangled-up in Life’s Rut. I wasn’t selling enough books, needed to write better ones, was worried about pleasing my readers, my family, my friends.

Pleasing everyone, that is, except for me.

“Yes” had become a staple in my vocabulary, and “no” a word I hardly recognized anymore. I wasn’t eating right, not working out, getting very little sleep. It’s a familiar theme in my life, a slippery slope I often unknowingly fall down. And usually, it takes a slap in the face to bring me back down to earth, make me realize that I am, in fact, not Superman, that I can’t do it all.

I got my wakeup call.

And then, a question: What the hell are you doing? I didn’t have an answer, didn’t even remember how I got here, and suddenly, felt kind of foolish and a little bit angry. I just wanted to be the successful author, the good son, the reliable friend. But at what cost? Compromising my health? Giving away a little of my self-esteem each time I said yes when I should have said no? Admittedly, I’m an overachiever, but sometimes—actually quite often—that means taking things too far and pushing my own needs toward the back of the line.

So I stopped everything. I slowed down, took a deep breath, and I looked around. I played with my dogs, took some walks, and sometimes I did absolutely nothing just because I felt like it. I also learned to say, “I’m sorry but I’m just not able to do that right now,” to the people who matter to me; it wasn’t easy, but it was important.

Did my book sales suffer? Yeah, some. Did people get upset with me? Probably. Will my next novel take a little longer to finish? Maybe, but I also had the foresight to realize none of that matters—none of it—because I’m no good to anyone if I’m not happy, healthy, and whole. And here’s the hook, folks, something we all know: there are people who will be disappointed no matter what you do.

So my advice, if I can be so bold to give it: don’t get caught up in the small stuff, and try to catch yourself when you do. Put yourself at the front of the line when you need to, and don’t feel guilty about doing it. Look out the window and really see what’s out there, then enjoy the view. And smile.

Because, as Sir Max Beerbohm once said: Nobody ever died of laughter.