My heroes have always been cowboys

     The Western genre has always contained peculiar elements. Whether it be in film, literature, or art, images of horses, guns, and broad brimmed hats are often what identifies the western as such. There are other elements though, which are more fundamental than the set dressing, which make a story great no matter the genre.
     The hero is a recurring element in stories which have charged our imagination since time immemorial. One might argue that every story has a hero, but when I use the word I don't simply mean the protagonist of a particular tale, but an actual hero. They don't always look alike, or act alike, but the hero has been turning up in stories since man first put pen to paper. That they don't often look the same is probably why Joseph Campbell called his book 'The Hero with a Thousand Faces'.
     When I think of a hero, I think of characters like Conan, James Bond, Josey Wales, and Jack Reacher. While I recognize that there are real heroes in our world, (support our troops) I am a book lover and I have the tendency to gravitate to those heroes which only exits within the pages of the novels I read.
     What makes me (us) love our heroes so much? In my case I think it might be that I never let go of the child I once was. The adolescent male world of muscles guns and machinery has never completely lost it's glitter, though the dullness of the adult world has done its best to tarnish the gleam.
     It seems that the concept of an ultimate hero is one that I forget at my peril. As I write my latest novel, I might delve too deep into the historical aspect of the project. In my quest to deliver realism in my work, I am in danger of making the hero just a little too believable, and thus quenching the fires of romance. So, as I try to stay rooted in the historical accuracy of my time period, I will remind myself to cut loose once in awhile and have my hero open up a fresh can of whoop ass.

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Aug 10, 2015

Elevation

     I reached a milestone today, and I hope you will celebrate a little with me. I have just finished the first draft of my (as yet untitled) fourth novel!
     I call it a milestone as opposed to an accomplishment because there are still weeks of work to be done editing, and polishing, before the work is ready to face the world. Nevertheless, I feel some sense of accomplishment getting the draft finished.
     The process of writing a novel is a long and lonely one. I think Stephen King said it best when he likened it to crossing the Atlantic in a bathtub saying: 'There is a lot of room for self-doubt'. Over the course of months of writing, I often find myself despairing over whatever story I'm working on. There is a certain point in every story (usually toward the end of act II) when I think that what I've written is garbage. If left unchecked, the 'stinkin thinkin' snowballs into the thought that I have wasted several years of my life working on nonsense that no one should have to read.
     Regardless of how strong this feeling grows however, I find myself getting up every day and typing my quota of words. There is something inside that drives me on that is stronger than my doubts. What this thing is, I have no idea. It could be my faith in Jesus. It could be my often noted mulishness, or it could be something as simple as momentum. I simply do not know what drives me in those dark moments.
     A similar thing on a much smaller scale happened to me today after I had finished my draft. By way of celebration, I took a bike ride up a long winding country road (yeah, I'm that guy). When I say 'up' I mean this literally. The road climbs steadily for two miles. To say that I struggled would be putting it mildly. My recent move (see my post two weeks ago) included a gain of approximately 6,000 feet in elevation, making the air feel rather thin to my tobacco ravaged lungs. Several times during the ride, I felt the desire to turn back. I was alone, so I didn't have to convince anyone that it was time to turn around, and there was no one around to fault me for throwing in the towel.
     Yet I endured.
     That nameless thing within me reared it's head and I struggled on, until I reached the end of the road and the top of the hill. I won't bore you with a description of the dazzling view because no matter how beautiful, the view would not have been worth the pain I endured to get there. The only thing that made the ride worth it was the sense that I had done it. With no encouragement nor promise of accolades, I had climbed the hill.
     That is the same feeling that I have when I think about my newly completed draft. It is not my longest work, and only  time will tell if it is my best, but I have finished. I will sleep well tonight knowing that I overcame the high hurdle of my own self doubt, and accomplished my goal.

See you next week,

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Aug. 3, 2015