Philosophic ramblings

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The Seeds of Destruction

I was an omnivorous reader of history long before I started researching and writing historical novels. Indeed, it was that love for the stories of the past, and for what they can teach us in the present, that led to my current writing focus. Those who don’t learn from history, the old saying goes, are doomed to repeat it. In my books, I try to cast a spotlight on issues that are relevant today by showing them through the lens of a different place and time.

I write about a time when Napoleon had built an empire that had absorbed most of Europe as well as their colonial outposts, when the British empire was just beginning to flourish, when the nascent empire of the United States was less than half a century old as an independent political unit, when the empire of China was attempting to retain autonomy against the encroaching western newcomers. I try to write about real people facing eternal issues against genuine backgrounds.

The world has seen many empires rise and fall. Like the humans that build them, they’re all different and at the same time, all share common characteristics. They’re based on power and economic inequalities that allow some people to accumulate more wealth and leisure than others. This wealth and leisure permits a flowering of art, literature, and science that those in power celebrate as the result and evidence of their manifest worthiness. They exploit others, both inside and outside of their borders, to maintain their uneconomic lifestyle. They justify this exploitation by dehumanising and blaming those exploited. Over time, the gap between the poor and the wealthy grows until it become untenable. The Vandals pour over the borders. The colonies rebel. The sans-culottes storm the barricades.

(NOTE: I’m using the term empire to mean a sovereign political entity and its subsidiary nation states, including client states rather than those directly ruled. By this definition, I’m calling the hegemony of the United States an empire. Its boundaries shift and morph as nation states move in and out of client status. Empires also have a cultural impact far beyond their borders. As far as I can see, most empires have happily used their cultural influence for political and economic gain.)

The unworthy poor

Empires, then, thrive on two factors–wealth accumulation through exploitation, and institutionalised discrimination against the exploited–and these two factors will eventually (within two or three hundred years, commonly) pull the empire to pieces. This is how predatory capitalism (defined as economics for the benefit of a few) is inevitably linked to racism or some other form of discrimination by stereotype.

Think of the British Empire: one of their management strategies was to demonise the Irish as poor, shiftless, and unworthy; the Chinese as crafty and near-demonic; the natives of the Indian sub-continent as lazy, stupid, and child-like. But never fear, oh inadequate people of the world. The British Empire was prepared shoulder ‘the white man’s burden’, and take over those places, stripping them of their resources and reducing said sub-human lifeforms to tenants in their own land (or worse).

I’m not picking particularly on the British. All empires do it. But I’m five generations from British ancestry, and those attitudes came down to me through my cultural ancestry. I had the good fortune to be born to a man who was a reverse racist; who collected people of all races to flaunt them as part of his rebellion against his family, and who insisted that all men (I choose the pronoun advisedly) were equal. I grew up with a much broader range of acquaintances than most white middle-class females of my age. Even so, I have spent a lifetime shedding preconceptions that I picked up from my elders and from the books made available to me.

To take just one example, my people were colonists. It was to their advantage to believe that they were on the side of the angels in New Zealand’s Land Wars. My elders were certain that Maori deserved to be on the bottom rung of our society because they were poorly educated and unsophisticated. It took more than a 100 years for New Zealand as a political entity to acknowledge that the government and the colonists were the aggressors in the Land Wars, and that repeated racism at every level of society, including in education and health, had maximised the impact of the theft of land by blocking any opportunity to succeed except by becoming a pseudo white person. (This is another standard strategy. Allow a few carefully selected individuals to fight their way into white positions and then blame everyone else for not doing so.

The Waitangi Tribunal provided a venue for hearing historical injustices. For all its faults, it has performed sterling service. Nearly 50 years on, we are still working our way towards reconciling the two views of history; that of the oppressors and that of the oppressed; but we’re trying.

Ancestral guilt

I’m inclined to think that guilt underpins our reluctance to believe in the ills of the past, or to deny their impact on the present. I’m not guilty of the casual racism of my ancestors and successive governments that ruled before I was born. I can’t take responsibility for things I can’t change. I am guilty of actions of my own that display unconscious bias. I am guilty if I support others in their bias. I can do something about those, so they are my responsibility.

Is this the reason why discrimination and racism are often strong in those cultures whose ancestors practiced the worst forms of chattel slavery? Ancestral guilt? The link between predatory capitalism and slavery is obvious. History tells us to expect slavery to be justified as being economically necessary and, in any case, for the good of the slaves. Justifying the last means regarding the slaves other and less; claiming that they are less than human, less than adult, dangerous to ‘normal’ people, morally defective, and so on and so on. The greater the guilt, the stronger the justifications that come rippling down through the centuries into the hearts and minds of descendants.

(Ironically, in both the United States and South Africa, DNA tests indicate that many who consider themselves both white and superior have unrecognised slave ancestors. But that’s another story.)

Where to from here?

Anger is growing, and so is fear. Is it too late to learn from history? We’re well into the decline. Is the fall inevitable? What do you think?

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If we only had time

Daylight saving started in New Zealand in the early hours of Sunday morning, which led to a conversation in the work kitchen this morning about time.

Time is a construct, said the engineer among us, given importance by trains. He then whisked out of the room with his coffee, leaving the rest of us to discuss the concept.

He is, of course, quite correct. Once, everywhere in the known world took its time from the sun (translated into candle time or water time, but the reference point was the sun, as translated through some form of sun dial).

In fact, that’s still true today, since all the timekeeping in the English-speaking world relates back to Greenwich Mean Time, which is calculated from solar time — in fact, average solar midnight at Greenwich. (There’s a whole lot more history, but that’s enough for now.)

The thing is, up until the invention of railways, solar time was good enough. Even though clock technology improved, a clock was only as accurate as its reference point. Every village, every ship at sea, every point East to West across the map, calculated its own solar time. You could travel from the East of Kent to the West of Ireland, and have to put your watch back an hour.

Since the whole trip would take a couple of weeks, what did it matter? A few minutes between overnight stops made very little difference.

Then came the railways.

All of a sudden, exact times mattered. Not only were people travelling at four times the speed — and for longer each day; those controlling the railways needed to know when trains were going to be where, and know it precisely. It was a matter of life or death.

Here’s a fascinating map that shows how far out from solar time various parts of each time zone are. https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2572317/Are-YOU-living-sync-Amazing-map-reveals-manmade-timezones-countries-false-sense-sun-rises.html

You’ll see that in China, where all clocks are set to Beijing time, solar noon takes place at 3pm in the far west of the country.

On a related point, we think of a moment as a very brief fraction of time. This reflects our business, perhaps, because — for our ancestors — a moment was longer than a minute. How long? It depends. The word comes from a Latin root meaning movement, and the movement in question was that of a shadow on a sundial. A moment was the time it took the shadow to move between the two smallest marks. With 40 marks to an hour, at the equinoxes, a moment was 90 seconds in our time. A moment was longer in the summer, and shorter in the winter — something to tell your kids when you ask them to wait just a moment.

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You can’t please all of the people all of the time

 

Following on from last week’s discussion about the different ways of writing a historical romance, and particularly a Regency, the other morning I got two emails, one after the other, both about Unkept Promises. Unkept Promises is a different take on a historical romance – set mostly in Cape Town with a couple seven years married who haven’t seen one another since the wedding day. Set in Regency times against the background of the long war with Napoleon, it’s not so much a Regency as a storyabout two people drawn to one another despite their reservations, and about the importance of family.

The first said:

I am honored that you would consider me for an ARC of your upcoming release.  But unfortunately, I won’t be reading this book – I do not read books with unfaithful heroes/heroines  – I was completely hooked until I read the “dying mistress and children” – I am not naïve, I know men had mistresses and it seems like their marriage was never consummated and some might absolve him from breaking his vows based on that – but I am not in that number – that behavior is not something I want to read in my fictional romances.

The second was a review of the same book.

I admire Jude Knight’s rebellious author streak, for her novels are never run–of-the-mill plots. Unkept Promises is no exception, in which Mia and Jules’ encounter one another in the strangest of circumstances.

Whilst events unfold that lead to marriage, Mia is far from ignorant to Jules’ former life and the subsequent responsibilities he has elsewhere. Although their marriage is not unusual for the period, the circumstances of it require gentlemanly retreat in honour of her young years. In some respects Jules is a reluctant hero, though is most definitely a man of his period in history and has borne no guilt in acquisition of a mistress. After all, he is a bachelor when he meets Mia, and as a British naval officer in the years of the Napoleonic Wars he is well travelled. Nonetheless Jules unfailingly bears responsibility for all that his cohabiting with a mistress has entailed. Thus a long gap ensues from Jules sailing out of British waters 1805 to 1812, when Mia now all grown up takes ship to Cape Town (South Africa).

Initially her discovery is disheartening, and sadness prevails within his home, and most of all anger boils over and she takes command of the household. Upon on his return from sea hidden truths gradually emerge and soften her heart toward him. Strong minded she is and ultimately determined to make of the marriage she entered into with sense of due purpose. Even when things go awry back in England Mia’s stoicism and love wins through despite frightening and deadly experiences that threaten both her and Jules very existence, neither knowing if the other is safe and alive. As always a thoroughly enthralling read from Jude.

I write historical fiction with a large helping of romance, a dash of Regency, and a twist of suspense. Read me if you enjoy determined heroines and decent heroes, a story with a braid of plots that take unexpected twists and turns, and loads of characters. I don’t deliberately defy ‘The Rules’, but I don’t follow them, either. All I promise is that eventually we’ll get to the happy ending.

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Historical Modern, Historical Traditional, and Historical that happens to be Regency

Zombie hunters

A category all its own

 

As you know, I’ve thinking about how to categorise what I write. I’ve also been talking with a friend about the apparent great divide in what historical fiction readers, particularly Regency era readers, like to read.

We’ve noticed that some readers are passionate about stories where the heroes and heroines behave in ways they understand — like modern men and women — and even totally reject stories where heroes and heroines follow the dictates of the time. Other readers are the opposite. They will be very hard on an author whose heroes and heroines don’t behave as they think a Regency-era person would have.

I read and enjoy both kinds. All I ask is a good writer and a convincing story, and I know I’m not the only one. But in the interests of those who are disappointed by the wrong book, perhaps we need some new genre segments so that readers can find what they want.

Here’s my attempt at some definitions.

Historical modern

This describes a large group of popular Regencies and many Medievals. The focus is on the romantic relationship. Any subplots are completely subsidiary to the romantic plot. The heroine thinks, talks, and often acts like a modern woman. She is sometimes castigated or shunned for this, but she has support from either family or a close knit group of friends. The hero respects and supports the heroine’s right to be an independent thinker and to act according to her principles, even if this brings her straight up against those who hold a more traditional line. The landscape abounds in dukes and other peers, and even seamstresses of dubious origins can expect to marry one.

I love these. At their best, they are perfect escapist reading. Every heroine is beautiful in the eyes of every charming hero, and they are all charming. Cinderella will go to the ball. Marriages of convenience prove to be love matches, and rescued chimney sweeps (every heroine is charity personified and an environmentalist as well) go on to join the household of happy servants whose lives revolve around our lovely couple. The best authors provide reasons why this particular man has missed the misogyny and arrogance of his class, and why this particular woman is better educated and less restricted by her social conditioning than hers.

If you haven’t read Tessa Dare, Eloisa James, Sophie Jordan, Sally MacKenzie, Katherine Ashe, Lisa Kleypas, Courtney Milan or any of their peers, now’s good! Suspend your disbelief and settle in for a gay romp.

Historical traditional

Do you like your story to focus mostly on the romance, but for your characters to be truer to the historical setting? This segment of the historical romance genre gives us heroes and heroines who act within the constraints of their Society, but who nonetheless give us a charming story and a happy ending. Expect a focus on Society and on events such as morning calls, balls, house parties, and other entertainments.

Again, I love them. Expect a lovely light touch, delightful heroines, and a variety of heroes not all of whom carry high titles. In these books, our heroines might defy Society, but they pay the price. Or, they hide their real selves in order to fit in.

Try Candice Hern, Mary Balogh, some of Carla Kelly, Jo Beverley, Edith Layton, Carola Dunn, Anne Gracie. These were where I started. I read every traditional historical I could find, and only later moved outside of that genre..

Historical that happens to be Regency

I think this is what I write. In one of these, the historical events, whether fictional or non-fictional, are true to their times and have a strong presence in the book, often even shaping the plot. In such books, the romance plot line is still important, but might not be the only important plot line. The characters act according to their times, though of course some people in every time have been forward (or backward) thinking, and personal circumstances can shape a person to stand against social expectations.

They tend to be grittier and more confronting than the other two types, and you come out of them thinking again about attitudes and events you thought you understood. If you haven’t read Caroline Warfield, you’re missing a treat, though her Victorian series is stronger in this than her Regency series. That said, most of the other authors I can think of are writing Victorian, too. Meredith Duran, anyone? We could apply the same segmentation to other eras, I guess.

Historical modern can overlap into Historical that happens to be Regency. One of my all-time favourites is Grace Burrows’ Captive Hearts series. Out of era, but Elizabeth Hoyt’s Maiden Lane series and Jessica Cale’s Southwark series are both in this part of the spectrum. I’d put much of Mary Jo Putney in here, too.

Historical traditional can also overlap. Carla Kelly does this wonderfully well.

Which one has the steam?

The simple answer is: all of them. I’ve read authors in each of my segments who write at the ‘sweet’ end of the scale, and authors whose characters set flame to the pages. The same applies to cursing, expletives, and rude words for anything to do with copulation. Violence? You’ll find that across all segments, too.

I’d love to do a diagram, but I’ve run out of time.

Your turn to comment

What do you think of these categories? Do you agree with where I’ve put certain writers? Can you think of others? Do you read them all? Which do you prefer?

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The art of reading reviews

Okay. I confess. I’ve been reading reviews of my books again. People are always advising authors not to do it, but I always do. My books tend to get good ratings, but not everyone loves them. I’m good with that. I write the books I like to read, which means a large cast of characters, lots of everyday life, convoluted plots, serious and dark complications, nasty villains, and nice heroes and heroines.

A good review is a great morale boost, especially on the days that the plot elves go on strike, the weather is lousy, I’ve eaten something that disagreed with me, I haven’t had enough sleep, I’ve taken a dislike to both my current protagonists, and I have a deadline looming and too much to do between now and then.

Good reviews are not just ones that say the book is marvelous; that’s nice, of course, but what I love to read is why the reader thought so. Even a low rating can be rewarding to read, if I come away thinking, ‘yes, I see where they’re coming from’. I can either learn from it or agree to disagree, but at least I know!

Mostly, reviews of any kind are one person’s opinion, and they’re entitled to it. We don’t all enjoy the same things. I’m okay with that. In fact, a review only upsets me for two reasons.

Reason one, I’ve done something stupid and now that it is pointed out to me it’s really obvious, even though no one in the whole development process–from my first readers, through the beta readers and editor, to the proofreader and ARC readers–has noticed. That has happened a couple of times, and I hate it. The mistake in the title of one of my key repeating characters. Aaaargh! I’ve had to come up with a complicated backstory to fix it.

Reason two, the reader castigates me for getting the research wrong when I didn’t. I hate that. I do try hard to get things right, and it rubs me the wrong way when a lofty reviewer informs other readers that my book is unbelievable because ‘a woman back then wouldn’t have [insert the independent action of your choice]’/’the writer should have done some basic research into [almost anything that the reviewer has a prejudice about–one review was a lecture on church tithing based on modern, but not Regency, practices]’.

But what can you do? The facts are the facts, but I can’t change people who base their facts on opinion.

I’m writing a couple of reviews at the moment. I don’t, usually, mostly because I don’t have time. I’m never tempted to spend that time writing a review of a book that I rate as three star or less, because I’m not about to spoil another writer’s day, and it is, after all, only my opinion.

I do, occasionally, write four and five star reviews. And when I do, I post them on my website as well as in the usual places. I like to do it, because reviews matter to authors, and I feel I should do my bit. When I can.

What do you think? Should authors review other authors’ books?

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We are all story tellers

I’m a story teller. It isn’t just what I do; it’s an intrinsic part of who I am. That said, it is a matter of degree. I’m more infected by the need to make stories of all I see, think, and experience than most, but to a degree, all human beings are storytellers. It’s part of our nature to seek patterns, to join things together in our minds in order to make sense of them, and what is that but a story?

We don’t experience life; we experience our story about our life, and in that story we are always the central protagonist. We may be the victim, the triumphant champion, the martyr, the beloved—we probably change roles depending on who we’re with, in fact. But we are the heroine of our own story.

It probably can’t be avoided, given we can never know all the facts. Our senses—even the instruments we make to extend our senses—can’t detect beyond certain wavelengths of light and sound. We know of animals with senses we cannot even name, and have to describe in terms of those we have: feeling sound or smelling light. Even with our limited range, we can’t handle the constant sensory bombardment, and have to learn to filter out what our brain classifies as unimportant, in order to comprehend what is left.

That’s why police interview more than one eye witness to a crime; why historians seek more than one contemporary account of an incident; why three people can each take a completely different message from a conversation, and all swear that their own is the only true report.

What we can do is avoid embellishing. I can only report the facts as I experienced them, but I don’t have to add to them (at least in real life—in story space, adding to them is my job).

What we can do is be gentle with one another. I tend to be cautious about telling someone else they are wrong, or suggesting that they lie. All I can say for certain is, ‘that is not how I experienced it.’

What we can do is remember that every other person on the planet has just as much right as us to regard themselves as the centre of their story, and those around them as the supporting cast, the characters dignified with personal names and backstories. I am the heroine of my own life, with my own personal romantic hero, friends, relatives, and neighbours. But to other people, I’m just part of the faceless crowd.

After all, that’s their story.

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Honour, selfishness, and social groups

 

On one of my author discussion groups, someone has asked whether honour is a lost virtue for today’s readers. Her general thesis was something to the effect: In today’s society, every one is out for themselves, without thinking of the impact on others. This makes for selfish heroes in romance, who pursue their own wants and needs without thinking of others.

Honour doesn’t have quite the same ring to it for me. It all depends what it drives people to do. Do we agree with Richard Lovelace, poet of the English Civil War, who wrote, in To Lucasta, Going to the Wars, “I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more”? To our ears, formed by the culture of our times, it sounds like he’s using honour as a convenient excuse to do what he wanted to do.

What about the touchy aristocrats of the eighteenth century, duelling — even killing — because of a perceived insult?

Or, in our own times, look at honour killings. A loved sister or daughter, murdered to restore the reputation of the family.

I’ve been thinking about this in the light of the hero I spent the last couple of days creating for a newsletter subscriber short story. I wanted someone almost ethereally beautiful and brimming over with charm and seeming confidence. He lives a life of hedonism, and appears to care for nothing and no-one, himself included. That isn’t the whole story, of course — he is a Jude Knight hero, and a fundamental decency is a given. But it got me thinking. He is not so much selfish as self-centred — an issue that afflicts some of my other heroes, and that they need to overcome for their lives to take a turn for the better.

I’ve long seen human behaviour in terms of care circles. People behave differently to those they regard as human (and for human, read ‘like them’). People will make tremendous sacrifices and do incredible tasks for those within their closest care circle. For most people, this is their partner, parents, and children. For others, it might be comrades-at-arms, or best friends. In the next circle out might be casual friends, and then (perhaps) work colleagues, or neighbours. Beyond that, depending on the person, are those of the same ethnicity, or belief system, or gender, or some other classification. Or, it might be, animals, or the amorphous network of life people most commonly mean when they say ‘the planet’. (The actual planet is not at risk from human activity, short of some as yet unknown technology for blowing it to smithereens — otherwise it will survive, even as a vaguely spherical inanimate object, with a crust of lichen covered rock and dead seas.)

Some poor unfortunates have a single care circle, and it comprises one person: them. But even those with an every increasing number of circles encompassing the universe still rank some circles closer than others.

In many historical novels, we leave the poor, people of colour, those with a different religion, even servants, outside of the care circles of our hero and heroine. Or, we include a single representative of those groups, or political action on behalf of those groups, as signs that the protagonist is morally responsible.

My protagonists do their best for others, but only because I have to make them that way. I don’t see it as a virtue, but as a part of being human ourselves. Virtue is stepping outside our care circles to look after those we don’t love. Those who ignore the problems of others just because they are not me or mine are a step closer to the other end of a continuum that leads to terrorism and genocide.

Thinking about honour has led to me to envisage another circle entirely. The brother who kills a sister for action that brings the family into dishonour (or the Regency father who claims to have thrown his daughter into the street for the same purpose) believes they are doing it out of care — care for other members of the family that overrides care for the ousted sister. Lovelace and the motor cycle gangs give me a different perspective. When we talk about honour, whether in the current day or the stories we love to read (and write), we see an ethic that transcends the care group.

I call it an ethic, but I’m not entirely sure it is ethical. At its base, honour is about being true to one’s sense of self — “I am the sort of person who…” the hero or heroine says, when they are impelled take a certain action, even if it hurts those close to them. Their honour circle includes those who agree with the value of being that sort of person, and who therefore support the actions.

So no, I don’t think honour is a lost virtue, because whether or not it is a virtue depends entirely on what it causes us to do.

What do you think?

 

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What do women want?

In the classic Arthurian legend Sir Gwain and the Green Knight, the quest was finally over when the heroic knight had married an ugly old woman to get the answer to the question ‘What do women desire above all else?” (The answer was, ‘to govern their own lives’. In the video above, it is expressed as ‘their own way’, but self-governance is the point.)

In romance, which is mostly written by women, that answer is a given. The trick is to create a readable and believable story in which a desirable hero is prepared to be the heroine’s partner, rather than her owner — to let her, in other words, govern her own life. The journey is particularly fun if the story is set in a historical era or a culture where women are possessions and status symbols, but not really people. The journey is harder for some types of hero than others, but if the hero doesn’t make it to Gwain’s conclusion, the book’s a hurler for me (as in hurl it at the wall).

Here’s a version of the eight hero archetypes, and the challenges they face in accepting a partnership with their heroine. (Any given hero might have elements of more than one, of course, and if you look on the internet for hero archetypes, you’ll find lots of different sets.)

The king

This is the alpha hero, the leader. He’s in command. He looks after his own, which includes his entire family and the heroine. He hates making mistakes, can’t admit he’s wrong, won’t share, and is protective to the point of smothering. His challenge is to recognise that his mate is his equal, and that he needs to listen to her, and let her go into life’s battles at his side.

The bad boy

He’s the rebel, the crushed idealist who hates authority and fights for freedom: often only his own. He’s bitter and moody, but also charming and clever. His challenge is to accept himself as worthy of love, which makes him a romance favourite.

The best friend

The beta hero, and a nice responsible, decent, fellow. He doesn’t like to hurt people’s feelings, so he comes across as a bit of wimp, but he is dependable. He always puts others first. He’s practical and responsible. His challenge is to get the heroine to notice him, because he doesn’t have the confidence or the showy glamour of some of the other archetypes.

The lady’s man

Or the jester, or the playboy, or the rogue. He’s fun, but he’s not dependable. He avoids hard work, using his charm to slide into easy situations. His challenge is commitment, and also convincing the heroine that he’s able and willing to commit.

The recluse

This guy is secretive, brooding, and a loner. He’s also wounded and vulnerable. He’ll commit to the heroine, but he’ll never tell her because why should she be interested in an emotional disaster like him? His challenge is to let the heroine into his life far enough that he can discover how she feels about him.

The professor

On the surface, the professor seems cold and hard. He’s logical, introverted, and inflexible. He likes facts. One fact he isn’t too fond of is that he is in love with the heroine. Love means feelings, and he’s not good at feelings. His challenge is to accept that feelings — hers and his — are also facts, and that a lifetime without them isn’t going to be a lot of fun.

The swashbuckler

Who doesn’t love an action hero? The swashbuckler is daring and brave. He loves danger and adventure. He takes risks for the sheer fun of it. His challenges in fiction are often external — his adventures put him and the heroine in danger. He can rescue her, of course, but the danger of a lifelong commitment? Isn’t that a risk too far? Or might it just be life’s greatest adventure?

The protector

Our warrior hero is brave, noble, and relentless. He always sticks up for those who need his help, and he acts according to his conscience, not the rules. He wants to win, and fears being constricted. His challenge is to see his growing love for the heroine as an opportunity, not a prison.

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Is it news if not much is happening?


I’ve not been doing much writing. Instead, I’ve been doing a heap of reading, quite a few tasks around the place, a modicum of socialising, and thinking. Mountains of thinking.

The thinking is partly about plot and character. Unkept Promises needs more work before it is ready for someone else to edit and proofread. I’m rewriting large chunks of To Wed a Proper Lady to tighten the story and introduce plot elements that will work themselves out over the series (the Duke of Haverford and his slow demise, for one). I keep seeing scenes from the next two books in the Mountain King series. I’ve worked out plot motivations for the next Redepenning book. And I’m about to set down and do a Hero’s Journey for Maximum Force, the contract killer, and his heroine, Serenity Christian.

It’s also partly about my own motivations. Somewhere in all the discussion about how hard it is to be seen in the bazillion book marketplace, with its pirates and its scammers and all the barriers put up by the retailers and social-media companies in their bid for world-domination, I’d lost track of the fact I don’t care.

It isn’t that I don’t want my books to be read. I do. I really, really do, and I humbly thank all of you who have followed me and supported me. But that isn’t why I write.

I write, and I publish what I write, because telling stories is a huge part of what I am, and a story isn’t real until a reader or listener recreates it in their own imagination. To put it in religious terms, this is my vocation. I need to tell the stories that are in my head to tell, and to do so with all the skill and imagination at my command. I need to slave and fret over them till they’re the best they can be. That’s my calling. That needs to be my focus.

I’m not going to ignore marketing, because to do so would be stupid. I’m not going to worry about it, either. My job is to write.