How much of a story do you have in mind before you start writing it?

I start with a protagonist and his conflict; most times I have the ending in mind and simply write to it, although often the ending is amended depending on what happens prior to my getting there. Everything before that — the digressions, the journey — are discoveries that, hopefully, translate as discovery for the reader. I’ve never written from an outline. I haven’t even tried to work from an outline; I feel it would be too restrictive to me.

What is your writing schedule like? Do you strive for a certain number of words each day?

Raymond Chandler, one of my favorite novelists, despite Faulkner (no stranger to drink himself, Faulkner butchered the screenplay for The Big Sleep) calling him a “world class drunk,” wrote Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off. My writing schedule is like that: the first sentence is magic, the second intimate, the third settles me in for the session, and after that it’s like taking the girl’s clothes off. I used to set a word count but learned to accept what comes. Some sessions produce more word count than others; but I focus on the content as my goal. Certain parts of the story are going to be more difficult to put down on paper than others. Some sessions result in 1,500 words, while others end with 4,000 words. I’m grateful for it all.

Do you have any rituals that you follow before sitting down to write?

Oh, yes, I do. We laugh at our pets for being creatures of habit, but we are, too, if we’re honest. My morning sessions start with a pot of coffee and a trip to my humidor to select a cigar. (In the evening, substitute bourbon and beer for the coffee.) The cigar is all about the ritual — selecting the right cigar to go with my mood, the time of day; taking it out of the cellophane, inhaling the fragrance of the wrapper, admiring the label, the workmanship (the better cigars are still handmade by someone with skilled hands in another culture thousands of miles away), snipping its head, lighting it, those first few draws, and watching the smoke infiltrate my den. The ritual helps get my creativity flowing.

Do you prefer to write at a particular time of day?

Yes, my preference is for Sunday morning. I schedule my entire day around my session. During the week, in the evening, I’ll polish or edit what I wrote on Sunday; but sometimes, if I’m really humming along, I’ll push the story forward during the week. But it’s difficult to do that consistently with a day job, especially one that puts me in front of a laptop writing. Sometimes the last thing I want to do when I get home from work is switch on my own laptop and be creative.

What are you working on right now?

I just finished a major project — A Retrospect in Death. It begins with a man’s death, and the reader is taken to the other side where the narrator encounters his higher self—the part of him that is immortal and is connected to the creator. The protagonist learns (much to his chagrin) that he must return to the lifecycle. But first he must be “debriefed” by his higher self, and so they set about discussing the man’s previous life — in reverse chronological order: knowing the end but retracing the journey, searching for the breadcrumbs left along the way. I’m just now tinkering with a concept for my next novel, a period piece during the golden age of motor racing—the 1960s—with the Indianapolis 500 as the centerpiece.

What is the most difficult part of the whole writing process?

When I started my first novel, nearly twenty years ago, the hardest part was sitting down to write the first sentence—even though I’d written it in my head several weeks previously. I was intimidated by the whole process and feared that I’d never complete it. I only talked about it to friends. Finally, someone asked me when I would stop talking and do something. It was the kick I needed to set pen to paper. Now, when I near the end of a project, I begin to worry about my next one. What’s the story? Who are my characters and what are their conflicts? How can I top my last novel? Today I find the revision process the most difficult part. I love polishing a text; but sometimes I get carried away with the tinkering. At that point I go back to the original draft and determine whether the tinkering adds something, some new dimension, or does it get in the way?

What is the easiest part of the writing process?

The late great sports writer Red Smith wrote Writing is easy. I just open a vein and bleed. Opening a vein is never easy, but it’s essential, in my opinion, to great writing. It separates the great writers from the mercenaries, who write simply for the masses, for profit. Unfortunately, that seems to go against what many creative writing courses are teaching young writers today. They’re told that they must allow the reader to experience the text in their own way. I understand that, but one must still lead the horse to the water. What if your reader has never experienced what you’re writing about? For example, I’ve never fathered children, so it does me little good to read about a character’s joy over holding his newborn son for the first time by writing, “He was proud.” I like metaphor and so I could relate to something like, “Holding his son for the first time he felt as if he’d just hit the walk-off homerun in the seventh game of the World Series.” Raymond Chandler was one of the greatest stylists ever to write, and I consider myself somewhat of a stylist, too. It comes natural to me. I love language, and to me how something is said is as important as what is said; yet sadly, the publishing industry seems to frown on anything that might take a reader out of the story. Well, commercials do that on TV; but it doesn’t lessen our enjoyment of our favorite shows, does it? If the industry is losing money, perhaps they should reconsider the cookie cutter mold stories they seem to want to publish.

Does writing come easy for you?

It comes a lot easier today than it did when I started twenty years ago! That’s a product of experience — like an exercise routine, the first few workout sessions are difficult as your muscles rebel against the abuse you put them through. But in time, your body craves those workouts. Writing is like that for me. The more I do it the more I feel the need to do it. Raymond Chandler wrote Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say. I hope I never reach that end because every session is an adventure. I learn something about the craft of writing and, more importantly, about myself.

What, in your opinion, are the essential qualities of a good story?

For me, the most essential quality of a good story is characters with whom I can connect. Finding a good story to write is easy; but writing about characters the reader cares about is more difficult. Hannibal Lecter is one of the most demented characters ever conceived, yet he was fascinating, a train wreck away from which we want to look but can’t.

Where can we learn more about your books?

My third novel, One Hot January, is soon to launch, through Second Wind Publishing. You can learn more about me and all my literary endeavors at my website.

LB:       Thanks so much to both of you for agreeing to speak with me.  I was just curious, Magnus, as to how the young woman you found on the beach is doing.

MT:      Lisa Faucet is her name.  She’s got quite an extensive time of recovery ahead of her, what with rehab and all.  But before that she’ll have to have surgery—

DS:      I’m sure Mr. Magnus doesn’t want to divulge any personal information about the victim.

LB:       Oh.  Is that because of the ongoing investigation?

MT:      The investigation is over.  Lt. Stipling always has to play things close to the vest.  I suppose she’s right, though.  There is no need to violate Lisa’s privacy.

LB:       You call her “Lisa.”  Is it true you saved her life and that the two of you have become close?

DS:      Go ahead, Magnus.  You should answer that one.  Talk about me playing things close to the vest.  Ask him about the portrait he painted, Laz.

MT:      You mean the portrait I painted of Lisa—or the portrait I painted of someone else.

DS:      You know exactly what I mean!

LB:       Say, I feel almost as if I walked into a lover’s quarrel here.  Sounds as if you two have a fair bit of unfinished—

MT:      No.

DS:      No, we don’t actually.

LB:       . . . Okay.  Uh, so this story that’s about to be published by Second Wind—

DS:      East Light.

LB:       Right.  East Light.

DS:      So ask Magnus what that means.

MT:      What the hell is it with you?  Look, Laz, let me tell you the whole story in a nutshell.  I was walking along the beach one day, minding my own business, when I heard somebody call to me.  It turned out to be a young woman in very bad condition.  I phoned the paramedics and the police.  When they got there—and for several days afterward—I did everything I could to help them, because I knew that helping them was helping Lisa.

LB:       Well something must’ve broken down somewhere, because you and the chief of detectives here have more than a little friction going on.

DS:      So is it my turn, Laz?  This is pretty characteristic of mister “let me tell you whole story.”  He’s right, though.  His story is full of holes.  Here’s one thing he left out: when he found the girl on the beach, he covered her with his jacket.  So ask him what was in the pocket of his jacket.

MT:      Now there’s something that always makes me hot for you, Dot.  You love humiliating people for their own good.

DS:      I’ll do whatever I have to do to save a life.

LB:       Save a life?  You mean Lisa, or do you mean Magnus?

DS:             [standing up from the lunch table]  Excuse me.  I have to get back to work.  Magnus has the answers to all your questions, although you may find him rather evasive.  [walking out of restaurant]

MT:      Sorry if you didn’t get what you needed, man.  [standing up and dropping cash on the table]  I’ve had it with her walking away from me.  [hurrying after Dot]

            For me, most ideas pop into my mind in an instant.  Way (and I mean way back) in 1983 when my three children were very young, I was standing in line at the spelunker ride at Six Flags Over Texas and happened to see a sign adorned with an image of a unicorn; the sign said, “Your wait from this point is twenty minutes.”  By the time we got on the ride, one of my first novels had been “written”: the story of a girl whose dreams of a unicorn are so vivid she comes to believe the creature is real.  It took me four or five months after that to get the story on paper.

            Over time, being the sort of guy who spends sixty hours a week working at my day job, I accumulated a lot of story lines I had not put down on paper.  It came to me a couple years ago I should record these storylines (for fear my “between-the-ears” hard drive might get full).  I was stunned when I compiled all the storylines.  There were fully two dozen (since then I’ve acquired several more).  Two of these ideas became Lacey Took a Holiday and The Medicine People.  Another of them, East Light, has been submitted to the good people of Second Wind Publishing and I have high hopes for it.

            Still another of those ideas is a book I’m working on feverishly because I’m hoping the 2W people will accept it and have it available for sale by April 15, 2010—and it has nothing to do with income tax.  The novel I’m writing is called The Boston, and it’s the story of the first native born American citizen to win the Boston Marathon in a couple decades.  There—I’ve spoiled the surprise: my hero, Ron Jerdin, wins the race.  Because the outcome of the story is clear (you know, just like a romance or a murder mystery), the real tension of the story has to do what obstacles Ron encounters on his journey to the Boston starting line, and the relationships that cause him to develop as a person.  It’s also a wonderful challenge to create enough tension in the final description of the race to draw readers in and compel them to read the finish—of the book and the race.

            One of the most fun aspects of this project for me is where I “cooked” the book—that is, what I was doing when the storyline developed between my ears.  I’m a runner . . . well, sort of (I didn’t say I was fast runner; just a runner).  I’ve run 1000 miles a year nearly every year going back to 1996.  And I’ve competed in several hundred races, including three marathons, over same period.  The Boston came into being over the course of many cool mornings as I plodded for mile after mile down North Carolina roads and running trails.

I seriously doubt I’ll ever qualify to actually run the Boston Marathon (I said to a fellow a couple years ago, “All I have to do to qualify for the Boston is take an hour off my best marathon time.”).  Thus my homage to running, racing and the greatest marathon is a book I hope to have on sale before the next running of the race.  And I have to make the fictional Ron Jerdin win it before an actual American runner does.  –Laz Barnhill

A few years ago I bought a book called The Devil Never Sleeps authored by Romanian ex-patriot Andrei Codrescu.  I had listened to Codrescu for years on NPR, and I was interested in reading his essays (which, by the way, did not disappoint).  As I read his observations about Romania and Eastern Europe under Soviet control, I was struck by his adoration of and faith in poetry.  It’s no exaggeration to say, from Codrescu’s viewpoint, poetry was the source of hope to those who suffered decades of communist despotism as well as a subversive force undermining the monolithic government. 

He made such a compelling argument for the purpose, power and necessity of poetry, I had to stop and ask myself what ever happened to poetry.  I loved poetry as a young person and even continued to write poetry as an adult.  Of course, half of being a poet is relishing the poetry of others—and I couldn’t remember the last time I read a volume of verse. 

[So I’m giving in to temptation here; this is a poem I wrote when I was sixteen after moving back to my hometown following an absence of four years; do you have adolescent poems you’re still willing to share?

“All The Animals”

I left something here,
            a childhood memory, a melody,
            a bit of soul chipped from the tenderest part.
I thought it was refound
            but something different,
            something animal,
            was in it’s place.
So it does no go to come home
            to all the animals,
            the souls of my childhood changed.]

For a while, I had a sad, empty feeling when I thought that I had “lost” poetry.  Moreover, I had the sinking feeling that as a people, our culture had lost poetry as well.  Where was the Edna St. Vincent Millay, Walt Whitman or Robert Frost of this age? 

Then one day I was driving down the road listening to Bruce Springsteen and the “aha moment” burst upon me: I haven’t lost poetry; as a people we have not lost poetry—we just set it to music.  I hereby predict that coming generations will “read” the songs of our greatest songsmiths and judge them more as writers than musicians.  Annie Lennox, Sheryl Crow, John Prine, Jackson Browne, Michael Stipe, Natalie Merchant, as well as hosts of R&B and hip-hop artists will be required reading for our great-grandchildren fifty years hence.

This great realization made me reflect back over the songs I’ve written over the years (yes, acoustic guitar and harmonica; but nothing to brag about).  Some of mine, I’m afraid, will not rise to the level of literature (“Harmless While I’m Sober” comes to mind).  But some others—recent as well as distant—may actually be worth reading in coming ages.  Herewith, a song of unrhymed verses I wrote in the early 70’s while I was a college student.  It is like poetry, sort of.  

“Early in the Sun”

Early in the sun I see those high red clouds
            like contrails of some angels God is sending somewhere.

I think of you for minutes, hoping that you will remember me
            without these chains I have been wearing.

I will not ask you lightly for the things you will feel pressed
            to give from loving, for they are yours.

But if you understand our loves are shorter than our lives,
            then love me quickly, before they pass.  

—Lazarus Barnhill, author of The Medicine People and Lacey Took a Holiday. 

Then she opened her eyes and it was dark. She was in the bed beneath the quilt in the little room where she slept, and it was well into the night. It was astonishing to her–who so frequently woke the men who fell asleep in her bed, yet who herself never fell asleep no matter how much she drank, unless she passed out–that he had been able to pick her up without waking her and put her to bed.

-John Berryman, 1968, quoting Kierkegaard, who in turn is quoting Hamann.

            Just to be on the up-and-up, I too am quoting someone here — Peter Davidson from the Atlantic Monthly.  The great irony of this is that all these people are writers.  What is it about writers?  We are storytellers and lovers of language-the manner in which words can be used not only to express any circumstance and situation, but also gradations of truth and radiations of perception.  Somehow we never consider the backdoor that old saw, “a picture is worth a thousand words”: the thousand or ten thousand words we spend unpacking a picture create a reality, a new and actual dimension that pixels and even the atomic substructure of creation cannot express.  Writers are re-creators, people for whom possible realities are all “variations on common themes.”

            At some point somebody is going to figure out what makes a writer need to write.  It may be a geneticist who discovers some funky mutation of a certain chromosome; they’ll “fix” us with gene therapy in order to give us back our lives-and then wonder three months later why all the joy and mystery went out of the world.  Or maybe it isn’t genetic.  Maybe it’s behavioral.  Maybe a human organism, exposed to the extremes of emotional experience in infancy before verbal ability is acquired, seizes the creative initiative over the course of a lifetime to put into words an experiential cataclysm that is no longer consciously remembered.  Third choice-and this is my favorite: it’s an addiction.  Here’s my definition of writing: compulsive creative behavior combined with an obsessive mental state of storytelling resulting in the inability to function without ever increasing doses of literary acting out.  Of course, as William Glasser pointed out, there are both positive and negative addictions. . . .  So, which is writing?  Depends on how tolerant one’s family and friends are, I suspect.

            Anyway, whatever the source of the condition that afflicts us, the important thing is to determine whether or not you are indeed a writer.  Here is a simple list of ten characteristics in the form of questions.  If you answer “yes” to three or more of these . . . well, I really don’t have to tell you, do I?  [By the way, wherever the word "story" appears below, feel free to substitute the words "poem" or "essay."] 

1. Do you have the ability to tell what a character in a book, play, movie or TV program is going to say long before it’s actually said; or the ability to tell what’s going to happen to each character before the story is half-over; or the desire to rewrite the ending of the story before it’s over?
2. Does it irritate you that professional critics often don’t understand the most basic elements of the books, movies, plays or stories they are critiquing?  [I'm still waiting for any critic to notice and figure out Spielberg's use of the colors red and blue in the remake of War of the Worlds.]
3. When you sit down to write a story or to describe a character, does he or she take on a totally unexpected life or “say” something you never consciously intended?
4. Have you ever had difficulty “killing off” a character in your story because she or he was so intriguing and full of possibility for you, his or her creator? [This is why I'll never be a great crime writer; what use is a dead character?]
5. Have you ever been unable to sleep because a character or story was creating itself in your mind; or awakened from sleep because a character or story needed your consciousness to develop itself; or stayed awake and focused for hours while you were driving, walking, run or pretending to work as a story wrote itself in your mind?
6. Did you ever write or create a story and afterwards discover that it fit a genre you had never written in before; or created a character who was totally unlike anyone you had ever known, and yet was totally believable?
7. Do you consider the finished stories you have written to be creations you value somewhere between children and friends; yet do you yearn with each new story to “get it right this time?” [So, does this mean that best selling authors who basically recycle their stories with ever diminishing creativity are no longer writers?]
8. Do you have mental list or a computer file or a spiral notebook with the ideas for or outlines of stories that you have not written but intend to one day?
9. Have you ever had the experienced of a family member, acquaintance or friend being totally amazed at the world you created in a story you wrote and then regarding you differently; and then did you feel as if you had “exposed” yourself?
10. When you consider Berryman’s command to write for the dead whom thou didst love, do you know immediately for whom you write? 

If you did not answer yes to three of more of these questions, good for you.  If you did, then you know.  Go back now and try to put it into words.

-Laz Barnhill

Well, let me fill in a few more blanks: Andy is actually a WWI veteran (the story takes place in the Blue Ridge Mountains of northwestern North Carolina in the mid 1920’s) whose wife and only son both died during childbirth. Eventually the reader discovers that nearly everyone Andy has loved throughout his life has died tragically. He’s really a bitter and jaded fellow. He kidnaps Lacey on impulse because—well, okay, not only is she a prostitute, but an alcoholic. Andy recognizes that she is drinking herself to death. In a perverse sort of rescue attempt, he takes her out of “Curly’s” the bordello where she works and spirits her away to his mountaintop.

The problem with the story is this: who ever heard of a romance where the two main characters were so flawed, so downright “sinful.” On the other hand, the love that develops between them is so sweet. Not to give away too much, the romance that emerges becomes the one pure, innocent part of their lives. Of course, there are some dangerous and difficult complications. I’m not promising that they live happily ever after.

So can Lacey find a home in the midst of the other romance novels of Second Wind Publishing, LLC and on the bookshelves of Amazon and other places? Is it too realistic to be a romance novel? Does love redeem even people as abused and used as Lacey and Andy? I suppose only time will tell.

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