May 27, 2025 – 6:37 am
I want to write what sells. I really do. Who wouldn’t want that? But that’s not what comes out. The words that end up in your brain are what I’m finding in the ether. It’s not for me to explain. The hidden magic brings the meaning. Even now, early morning, looking out at the lake—so calm, deceiving—I cannot decipher how I’m seeing below the glassy surface into green water. There are bass and perch, snails and crayfish, lost lures, discarded bottles, and a rifle wrapped in a rug. Down there for years. As the result of nefarious behavior. I see it. I know there’s a story there. A familiar one. It’s come up before.
The rifle in the rug. When Aden and Jake were dragging hooks along the bottom of Thunder Bay River in search of answers they couldn’t handle if they found them. The live in Pilgrim’s Bay. Fiction. A book released years ago, then picked up by RedRaw, a publisher in the UK, and released as Black.
I wonder what it is about that story that encouraged an editor to take a chance on such a dark little book. But then I stop my wondering. I don’t want to know. If I did, I would spoil my writing and then I’d write toward that end—to get the result—become the type of writer that churns out the same story over and over again.
Knowing what you want—writing to fill your belly, quench your thirst, ease your aches—that’s cheating. I’d rather peer into the lake and share what I see under the surface where boats float and ducks swim. I want to get to work. Dive deeper. Drop enough weight so the lines sink, and we drag up what’s hidden up and then hold it for you to see. Because that’s what this is all about. Getting up and at it. Observing and reporting. Getting it together. Into simple letters. So you can do the feeling.
~ KJ
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