I was talking with someone recently who was considering writing a book, but they were worried that someone would steal their book idea.

I’ve heard this surprisingly frequently from new writers.

They have an idea that feels precious, one that maybe they’ve been carrying for months or years, and they don’t want to share it with anyone. It is a common fear and one that may feel reasonable, but in reality, is not something you need to be concerned about.

That idea at this point is only a premise, a jumping-off point. And here’s the thing, if you gave ten writers that same premise you would get ten completely different books, not merely different, radically different.

Each writer would make different choices about what matters, what to investigate, where to start, what to leave out and how to shape the material. In fiction writing, they would create different characters, settings, conflicts, and consequences.

The originality comes from an accumulation of choices. Those choices reside with the writer, with their specific and unique life experiences and perspectives that will shape the narrative.

The more you write the more you will realize that the ideas are the easy part. It’s the execution of the idea, writing the story, that really makes the difference.

Ideas multiply through use. The more you write the more ideas you find. One idea has a way of making three more.

Here’s another truth. Everything is derivative.

Most writers begin with ideas that aren’t remotely original, but we don’t reject ideas because the premise has been done before. Scholars have tried to reduce storytelling to a limited number of fundamental plots, and whether that number is seven or twenty or thirty-six, it hardly matters. We keep telling variations of the same stories and we have yet to run out of books worth reading.

Originality doesn’t require inventing a premise nobody has thought about before. It comes from what you bring to it and the thousands of choices you make along the way.

I’m not saying books never get stolen. Manuscripts get plagiarized, published books get pirated, but stealing someone’s completed work is very different from hearing a premise and writing your book from it. Someone may be able to take your idea, but they cannot write your book.

Leave a comment

So, a few things converged for me recently. My wife and I attended the Midwest Writers Workshop in Muncie, IN, and I started rereading John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee stories.

The workshop was great. I made some new friends and learned a few things and got inspired by John Malnor to try drafting the old fashioned way, with pen and paper. John showed us …

Read more

These are all books that I own. I haven’t read every single one—there are 3 or 4 that I haven’t gotten to yet—but I have read the rest.

Do I have a problem? Maybe.

This is my best attempt for putting them into some kind of order that makes sense. I don’t know whether any of this is helpful to you, but it certainly is…

Read more

My wife and I attended the Midwest Writers Workshop #MWW at Ball State University this past weekend and it was fabulous. I had been before and didn’t enjoy it nearly as much. That could be entirely because she came with me, but there was more to it than that.

What makes these types of events magical comes down to a couple of things, but mostly one: Makin…

Read more

Part of that is because I started a new part-time job out of state. I’m back teaching in the KC-135 schoolhouse, something I also did back in the ‘90s, only now I’m on the simulator side instead of the flightline. It has been a lot of relearning. Teaching brand new pilots mean…

Read more

…

Read more

The first o…

Read more

The first …

Read more

The first o…

Read more

Read more

The first one …

Read more

The first one …

Read more

The first one…

Read more

The first one…

Read more

My wife and I finally started watching Shrinking. I have no idea why we waited this long. I love Harrison Ford. I love Jason Segel. This should have been automatic, but we just don’t watch that much TV.

I was not prepared for just how damned good this show is. I love it so so much!

It’s one of a very few shows that I want to binge. We rarely watch just on…

Read more

The first on…

Read more

I don’t know when it happens for you, but for me it’s usually right when things get hard.

Beginnings are easy and fun. Beginnings are all promise and possibility.

No, this usually happens somewhere in the middle of the current manuscript. Right when the story starts asking something from …

Read more

The first one is free, but the rest will be under the paid subscription. I have a sale going on now where you can get a permanent 75% discount for annual subscriptions now. Sign up here: Annual Subscription Sale 75% off!

I hope you join Will on his ride north.

The morning had the feel of bad luck that was not done with them yet.

Benji’s body laid wrapped in a blanket under the wagon, tied neat and tight. Tucker sat beside it a long while before sunrise, hat low, head bowed as if he might speak but never found the words. When Cutter and the others left to chase the rustlers, the camp shrank by half. The silence that followed felt bigger than the prairie.

Amos and Dutch loaded Benji into the back of the wagon. They were not leaving him behind.

Will saddled the pinto in a haze.

Tucker took his time mounting.

Red rose from where he had been checking a lame steer and swung into the saddle at right swing, giving Will a look that said, you are not alone.

Will nudged the pinto forward and took his place on the left.

The drive moved on, the morning heavy as wet canvas. And for the first time, the weight of the herd settled square on his shoulders. The cattle stepped out uneasy, edges loose, shoulders rolling too much, the kind of nervous sway that warned of a blowout. They felt the missing men same as the crew did.

Tucker called to the front of the herd, steadying them, though sometimes it sounded like he was steadying himself more than the cattle.

Will moved to check the left bulge, pinto stepping sure beneath him, shoulder angling just right. Doing the thinking for both of them.

The steers complained and slid back into line.

Dust rose behind them where Amos and Tom Reed worked drag. Amos coughed into his sleeve.

Will kept glancing back, wanting to be everywhere at once. Hold the herd, watch Tucker, stop thinking about what happened.

Midmorning brought heat and a rest break. Tucker dismounted and leaned against his saddle horn, head down.

“You good?” Will asked.

Tucker nodded once but said nothing.

When they started again, the herd found a slower rhythm.

Shadows stretched long when a rumble and cloud of dust appeared ahead of them and to the right.

Will squinted through the fading light.

The crew came in as shapes first, dust silhouettes. Four riders, spread wide, hazing a tight bunch of cattle between them. Maybe a couple dozen head.

Cutter looked carved down by the ride, his face lined, shirt streaked with sweat and dust. Ortega’s hat was bent wrong. Cole’s horse limped a little. Holt looked sober. They pushed the reclaimed cattle into the main herd, easing them in slow so as not to spook the others.

When the cattle settled, Cutter swung down and went straight to the wagon. Tucker followed at a distance, hat in his hands.

Will stayed mounted, watching.

Cutter checked Benji’s wrapped body. Put a hand on the blanket and held it there a moment. Ortega stood beside him, head lowered.

Then Cutter turned toward the men. “We’ll bury him come morning. Get yourselves fed.”

The sky above them was the color of cooled ashes. Smoke, cattle, dust, and sweat. By evening it all came together into one smell that belonged to the trail.

They made camp quietly. No one talked much. No one laughed. Dutch cooked in silence. Tucker sat by Benji’s wrapped body until Cutter gently told him to sleep.

Will didn’t sleep for a long time. He kept thinking this is what grown men carry out here.

The stars came out sharp and cold overhead, but Will kept his eyes on the dark line where Cutter would choose ground in the morning.

Tomorrow, they would bury Benji. Just thinking his name hurt.

#

Read more

There’s a grammar rule you follow. You use it all the time. You’ve probably never been taught it. And if I asked you to explain it, you’d look at me like I’d just asked you to define “blue.”

But you know it.

Try this.

Which one sounds right?

a wooden old big house

a big old wooden house

You didn’t hesitate.

The second o…

Read more

The first one is free, but the rest will be under the paid subscription. I have a sale going on now where you can get a permanent 75% discount for annual subscriptions now. Sign up here: Annual Subscription Sale 75% off!

I hope you join Will on his ride north.

The days that followed the fire were uneventful. On the fifthth day after the fire, they camped on a flat stretch where cottonwoods thinned. Toward evening, a knot of riders came down the trail from the north, four men.

Cutter hailed them and stopped at the wagon.

The strangers passed along the trail gossip without being asked.

“Night riders out there,” one said, jerking his chin toward the darkening horizon. “Hit a herd up north a week ago. Came in fast, loud. Peeled off a mess of cattle before anyone could roll outta their blankets.”

Another man spat. “Two drovers dead. Weren’t even time for boots.”

Will helped Dutch spoon out beans for the visitors. Men talked in low voices. Cole muttered that any coward who had to shoot from the dark wasn’t worth the powder.

Holt sat apart near the horses, polishing his coffee cup with a rag. If the talk bothered him, he didn’t show it.

Cutter doubled the watch. “No fires bigger than a hat,” he said. “Keep your ears open.”

The riders left before moonrise.

Will had taken third watch the night before. He was plum tuckered. He crawled into his bedroll, rehashing what Ortega had said, “Listen for rhythm. Trouble has its own beat.”

He slept light despite how tired he was, with the low grunts from the herd settling around him like a hum.

Something woke Will. He sat up. Hooves, fast and heavy, coming from the far side of the herd, shouting and then a gunshot broke the night open. Horses screamed. Cattle lurched up in panic.

“Up! Up!” someone yelled.

Will kicked free of his blankets and ran barefoot to the pinto. He swung up without saddle or boots. The muscles of his horse were tight as fence wire.

There were maybe six riders, yelling and firing, trying to spook the cattle into running wild.

Benji had been riding on patrol and was suddenly at Will’s side, eyes wide and white. “Left! They’re breakin’ left!”

Will pushed the pinto that way, trying to drive the edge of the herd back in line. A steer slammed into his stirrup and jarred his knee.

Gunshots boomed.

So much dust Will could barely see.

Holt rode out of the dark on his gray, no hat. A steer slammed into his stirrup and nearly tore him out of the saddle. He grabbed mane, righted himself, and kept fighting to turn the animal before it sent another cowhand flying.

He threw a punch at a rustler rider who got too close, but the man ducked and swung a pistol in Holt’s direction. The gray skidded sideways, and Holt barely kept his seat.

He looked once toward the wagon, hesitated, then turned back into the fight.

Shots rang through the dark and the whole herd lurched.

Benji didn’t peel away. He hauled his rifle up from the scabbard and fired twice into the shadows.

Read more