Writing Other

After a holiday break (with a bit too much drinking, if there is such a thing), I’m back at editing my WIP, The Obsidian Pyramids. With some helpful feedback, I’m pushing toward the fourth draft.

One of the comments I received was a request to add a POV for one of the secondary characters. I was hesitant at first, but I’m giving it the old college try, and I think if it works, it can solve multiple problems with the MS.

As a quick aside, one of the things I’ve discovered about myself as a writer over my last two novels is this: I enjoy writing women characters much more than men. Am I good at it? Ha, lol, probably not. Though I do personally feel like my ladies are better than the boys, I’m very much a dude, and I probably don’t get it.

In my previous book, Daughters of Darkness, most of the characters were women. I was scared, figuring I would fuck it up, write ridiculous, unbelievable, or offensive characters. But I was pleased with how it turned out (even if lit agents seem to disagree with me). Now, as I look to add this new POV, I’m faced an even scarier proposition: writing the character I understand the least, and probably will get horribly wrong, forever shaming myself…

A popular, charismatic dude.

Seriously, I have no idea how these people work. I’m an enginerd, and I’ve recently learned that I’m probably mildly autistic. I have a PhD, I write algorithms to trade hundreds of millions of dollars in institutional money, but ask me to initiate a friendly conversation at a bar/party/whatever, I’m like, uh… I don’t… what?

So getting inside the head of this magically (in a literal sense) charismatic guy  is daunting. Fuck, even writing him from other character’s perspectives was scary and hard (and I’m not sure I succeeded).

I figure I’ll do what I always do in these situations: focus on the magic. Royne is a Charmer, which means his magical ability is to instinctually understand what other people want to hear, how to stroke their egos, how to connect with and impress them.

We’ll see how it goes.

No NaNoWriMo For Me

I won’t be doing NaNoWriMo this year, for the first time in several Novembers. Personally, I always looked at NaNoWriMo as a cute little thing, something to talk about on social media a bit. I’ve never been a fast writer or a binge writer, so I never came close to winning.

But I’ve also never (at least from a certain age) had a problem sticking with my writing and getting to the end of the draft, even if it took a little time. When I’m writing a first draft, I write six days a week, skipping very few schedule days during the drafting process. It usually takes me 5-6 months to produce a first draft in the range of 100k-120k words.

Last year, I made a mistake by forcing myself to start writing on Nov 1st. I clearly wasn’t ready, and should’ve spent another month or so on pre-writing. A mistake that’s led to more needed revision on the book – I’m currently finishing up the third draft. I’m trying to take my time and make sure I don’t rush things. Quality over speed for me these days, even if I feel a little impatient now and then.

For everyone that is participating, good luck this year and have fun.


A Million Words

I’m currently finishing up the second draft of my current WIP, The Obsidian Pyramids, still working to get better, still struggling to work through rejections and stay positive. I recently remembered the old adage, the first million words is practice, and I figured, once I hit a million words, I’ll magically become a great writer, yes?

Seems like I should be getting close, so I decided to run the numbers and see where I am.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a short story, but I used to do so more often, before I got into writing novels regularly. I don’t think I have copies of them all, so I just have to guess at how many words these count for. I’m going to say 50,000 total, though that might be a little conservative. But we’ll start there.

Current total: 50,000

My first attempt at writing a novel came when I was a senior in college. It didn’t go well. I stopped after 20,000 words and didn’t attempt another novel for almost 6 years.

I have three other unfinished novels, none of which I’ll ever return to. In more than one case, leaving the project was me acting strategically rather than simply quitting, so I think I should be able to count these in my total. My estimate is that those four incomplete projects account for about 75k words.

Current total: 125,000

Then we have my completed novels:

  • The Doorway: 105k
  • Starcatcher: 160k
  • The Book of Terrors: 180k
  • Wizard’s Curse (YA): 50k
  • Blood Price: 115k
  • Daughters of Darkness: 115k
  • The Obsidian Pyramids: 105k


Final total: 955,000 words. So close!!!

Review Roundup 8/17

Historically, I haven’t written a lot of book reviews, but I’m trying to get myself to do more. I’ve read some good books and some bad books recently; here’s a roundup of the reviews I’ve given on Goodreads lately:


Red Sister by Mark Lawrence – 4/5 stars

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders – 2/5 stars

The Obelisk Gate by N.K. Jemisin – 4/5 stars

Control Point by Myke Cole – 1/5 stars

Zeroes by Chuck Wendig – 2/5 stars

Next Round

Finally, at long last, the wait is over. It’s time for…

The next round of rejection. I mean querying.

I’ve spent the last couple months working on more edits for Daughters of Darkness (after several months of writing the book I’m now calling The Obsidian Pyramids), and I’m finally ready to send out the next round of submissions. My changes to the query were minimal, but I think it’s clearly stronger than the previous versions.

For anyone who’s curious, here’s the body of the query:


High Lady Iris LaRose always knew she would become one of the most influential women of the Dianic Empire – until her sister brought shame upon the entire family by harboring a failed assassin. After years of struggle to prove their love and commitment to the empire, Iris and her mother have nearly erased the family’s tainted past. Then Iris’s mother murders her daughter’s groom on the couple’s wedding day.

When Iris flees the scene, she’s accused of conspiracy by Empress Elena Flora, a woman with little sympathy left for the LaRose family. But Iris won’t believe that her mother is truly guilty – an imposter must be responsible. Faced with execution, Iris’s only option is to lie, claiming she can bring the imperial guard to her mother.

Her lie buys her just enough freedom to seek the hidden killer, but when answers prove difficult to find, she turns to the most unwelcome of allies: Violet Zino, a brash and charming pirate who can access the criminal underground.

As new assassinations threaten the stability of the empire, Iris and Violet uncover clues that lead them to a shadowy group called the Daughters of Darkness, women who plan to destroy the empire by replacing the empress with a saboteur. Now Iris must choose to risk her life and her freedom to save Elena Flora, or watch as the empire she loves crumbles.

DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS, complete at 112,600 words, is high fantasy that will appeal to fans of The Lightbringer Series by Brent Weeks and The City Stained Red by Sam Sykes, as it shares their adventurous tone and touch of irreverent humor.

Thank you for your time and consideration.


It’s a bit longer than I wanted – and quite a bit longer than the first draft – but I think this is the best possible version.

So I’m off to put together and send out those submissions. Then on to the initial reading of the first draft of The Obsidian Pyramids. No summer vacation for his writer.

Writing Ambitions

November will mark the ten year anniversary of the day I started writing The Doorway, the first novel I ever completed. I knew when I started it that I would never have a chance of getting it published – though I pretended that wasn’t the case as I wrote it. But I still had a great time writing it.

Over the years, I’ve become more and more serious about trying to get a book deal with one of the big publishers. It hasn’t gone like I’d hoped, but I’m working on it. I still enjoy writing, but I’ve found the rejection on my query submissions to be more painful than I’d like.

Recently, I came across an older blog post by one of my favorite authors, Mark Lawrence:


Mark talks about failure in writing, and how difficult it is to become a successful author, especially at the level of a bestseller. His main point is that most writers will never reach the level of success they desire, and that writers should view anything they do as an accomplishment. You, if you’re a writer, shouldn’t allow yourself to fail, simply by not allowing yourself to feel like you’ve failed – no matter what.

This strikes me as wise, and good advice. And yet…

And yet I don’t believe I can ever view things this way. It just isn’t within my personality to think like that. I suppose that’s a weakness (and it really does lead to a lot of pain and disappointment), but it’s just how I operate.

I’m rather competitive and goal-oriented. I often set my goals high (too high?), but that’s how I motivate myself. I’m just not sure I can take the mentality that I’ve succeeded just by trying, just by writing, even if it’s the wise thing to do. Even if not doing so hurts me.

The best I can do, I think, is to believe that the rejections I get are more due to bad luck than my own failures, and keep going. Keep writing, keep submitting.


P.S. While Mark’s advised mentality may be good for writers, I would get eaten alive in my primary career if I adopted it.

P.P.S. If you haven’t read Mark Lawrence, and you like fantasy, I highly recommend Prince of Thorns. It’s a bit of a tough read for some people, but it’s worth it. It’s pretty unique within epic fantasy for it’s short length and consistent fast pace. The main character, Jorg Ancrath, is one of my favorite of all time – If you’ve read this, or do in the future, don’t judge me for that 🙂

Broken Fantasy

I wrote my first book when I was 28. Finishing up grad school, trying to figure out, at a late age, what I should do with my life. Not my first attempt at writing an entire novel, but my first success.

Success? Hahaha, no, it was crap. Just a total piece of garbage.

But it was an amazing feeling, just to write those last words. To think to myself, holy shit Kevin you just wrote an actual, real novel. All the way through from beginning to end. Even if it does suck.

Last Thursday night, I finished my seventh novel. I’d say the feeling that night was more relief than elation, given that I struggled through this one, but that’s not right. I mostly felt… nothing.


My job’s been especially stressful lately, though in truth, my job is especially stressful all the time. It’s just the nature of my career. Two and a half years ago, the day of the company holiday party, I had the worst day of this ridiculous job. I woke up, saw I was losing many millions of dollars, and immediately reached for a beer and my book, the one I was writing at the time. It was my fifth book. The alcohol comforted my a little, but writing for hours comforted me a lot.

Back then, I was able to use writing as an escape from my failures, in my job and in my life. I could fantasize about becoming a great writer. Not strictly about becoming famous or rich by writing – that’s reserved for a handful of people per generation. Just about creating something wonderful that a bunch of other people would like and recognize as something great. Flawed, sure. Not for everyone. But beautiful. Amazing in some way.

But as my career continues to go to hell (I’ll figure it out, somehow, I think, maybe), I haven’t been able to escape into that writer fantasy. It hurts, because I don’t know where else to turn – I mean, alcohol obviously, but I think that may be less healthy.


Seven books. The first two were total crap. I was just starting out, messing around, hadn’t learned much about writing. The third, The Book of Terrors, I genuinely liked. The first book I queried agents on, even though I had no idea what I was doing in that regard. No requests. Eventually I realized it just wasn’t good enough. Not big five material.

My fourth book was meant to be a practice book, a shitty attempt at writing YA. I’m not sure if I learned much from it, but hey, it was a thing. If nothing else, a chance to practice sentence-level writing.

Book five, Blood Price (not a vampire novel), I queried on with… zero requests. Again, after getting some distance, I realized it wasn’t great material, didn’t stand out the way I wanted. Sure, another practice book.

Then came Daughters of Darkness, which I’ve blogged about here before. I still believe in this book, in the characters, in the world. Twenty-four queries so far and… zero requests.


During the query process for Daughters of Darkness, I realized I’ve made a big mistake throughout my writing non-career. I haven’t solicited enough feedback. I’ve had a few critiques, but mostly partial or informal. One of those partial critiques was from a freelance editor for DoD, and a couple comments she gave me were very useful, but rather embarrassing for me. Pretty fundamental shit that I should’ve understood/learned years ago. Sophomore year kinda stuff (In my defense, I was an engineering major, I only took one semester of writing in college, come on).

But even with my mistakes, I believe I’ve progressed as a writer over the years. Not as much as I could have, if I’d done all the right things. Still, it seems like real progress. But I don’t see it in the results. The proof, as they (old people?) say, is in the pudding. And there’s been no pudding for Kevin.

I’m not done trying to find an agent for Daughters of Darkness, and I haven’t even begun to query on book seven (no title yet), which will be months from now, after much revision. But…

It gets harder to keep going. To believe. To keep the dream, the fantasy, alive.

Yes, yes, I’ve heard it a million fucking times, every writer experiences rejection. NEVER GIVE UP. But…

If you let the rational mind leak in for just a moment, it’ll tell you that the probability of landing a legit agent is low. Very fucking low. (Self-publishing is a thing, it works for some people, but I know myself well enough to know it isn’t for me)

My rational mind thinks about selection bias (or survivorship bias, if you prefer), and all those stories about writers getting rejected so many times and then breaking through. The thing is, these are the success stories. For every one of those, there must be hundreds, maybe thousands of writers who kept getting rejected, kept trying, and… kept getting rejected. Without success. Just because most/all successful writers experienced a lot of rejection, that doesn’t mean that most writers who experience rejection and keep going will be successful. Sorry, that’s not how it works.


As writers, we’re not supposed to think about giving up. That’s the only way you fail, guys!

But I don’t agree with this sentiment. Most of us have “regular” jobs. In better days, mine used to pay me pretty well. At some point, I may have to accept that it might be better for me to give up the dream of becoming a bestselling author. Doesn’t mean I can’t still write for fun, right?

Over the last couple years, as I’ve tried to work toward doing all the “professional” things that published authors need to do, I’ve found so much to not like about “writing.” I don’t mean the actual writing of a book, or even the editing. I mean things like learning about the business, writing/revising/perfecting the query submission. Figuring out which agents are good fits for me, which agents rep my stuff but are, um, let’s just say, not what I consider quality agent material.

What if, just what if, giving up on the dream of getting a book contract, saying fuck it and just writing for the fun of it, even if no one will ever read it… what if that’s honestly the best thing for me? Does that make me weak, a quitter, a failure? Or pragmatic?

Letting go of the dream… forever… sounds painful. But it could be freeing, as well. Hell, I wouldn’t have to go through the terrible, no good, very bad feelings I get every time I send out a round of queries and get nothing but rejections. When I write just for myself and no one else reads it, I can be proud of my story, of my characters. I can pretend that it’s super fucking great!

But when I continue to query and revise, query, fail, learn and start over, query again and get nothing but a cold shoulder, there’s a voice in my head that I have a hard time ignoring. It doesn’t just say I’m not good enough. It says I’m downright terrible. No, far, far worse than that. The absolute, unfathomable, serious fucking worst ever. So bad I shouldn’t tell anyone I’ve failed this much just to save myself the embarrassment.


Seven books. Not a single request. I still believe I can get better, that I can break through. I don’t want to give up the dream yet, whether the rational part of me says I should or not. I’m looking back at the mistakes I’ve made, working out in my head how I can learn from them. I wouldn’t be the first author to query on several books and fail before making it. But…

It’s hard to keep believing. And then I see things like:


Because apparently, it’s so fucking easy for every white male in the publishing industry. You don’t have to be good, if you’re a white male, scratch some drunken shit on a napkin and BOOM – big five contract. If only everyone else had the crazy advantages I have! I shouldn’t be able to fail even if I try!

Yet after ten years, after seven books, this white male still can’t get a single request from an agent.

And that voice? The one that says I’m so bad, so over-the-top embarrassing level incompetent that how is this even possible? It gets louder every day. Even the beer and whiskey don’t seem to quiet it.

But I’m not giving up. Not yet.

Not ever? I don’t know.