Category Archives: All about me

The 12 Steps to Writing Success, Part 04: My History As A Failure and A Scaredy-Cat

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I was born modest; not all over, but in spots.
— Mark Twain
This is where I tell you why I’m the perfect guy to blog about despair and artistic angst and writers’ block like a cinder block smashing down on the keys of your laptop.

Bottom line is this: my credentials are more about the internal wounds I’ve overcome than the external honors I’ve been given. Which are sparse. It took me five years to finish my first novel, and I was too afraid to try to seek a publisher. The fact that very few people could read it didn’t quite bolster my confidence. It took me another seven to finish my next novel, and I was still unwilling to get help from anyone. And I still kept my writing life a secret from everyone. My wife would knock on the door, and I’d shuffle away my papers.

“What are you doing, Aaron?”

“Nothing. Not writing. Not me. Uh huh.”

Let’s fast forward? Or rewind. Or both. I always wanted to be a writer, ever since I was little. That was the dream. Aaron Ritchey, writer. On the first day of kindergarten, when the teacher told me to get out my crayons and paper, I asked, “Is this going to help me read and write?”

The answer was no. We were going to color. “Well,” I said, “I can color at home.” So I packed up my grip and walked home. I was five. It was clear what I wanted.

And I wrote Indiana Jones/Conan fanfiction. Of course, I combined them. Jase Kilner and his race through the lost city of whatever. Still a cool name, Jase Kilner.

 

I re-did Little Bo Peep, but added a hardboiled bounty hunter to help the luscious Bo Peep get back her sheep. There were wolves, but our hero had a shotgun. He was too cool to have a name. Too Clint Eastwood-y.

I loved to write stories, and my parents would eagerly wait to read what I had written. I had a fan base in the 3rd grade. My mom and dad. Garsh.

But then fear took hold. Bad fear. In high school, we had a literary magazine, and we’d vote on which stories we wanted to include. I always voted for myself, and I always lost to Pat Engelking, who was a better writer than me. But I hated that feeling, voting for myself. It felt horrible and I felt cursed to lose.

In the next twenty years, I wrote twelve novels. But was too afraid to shop them around.
Which brings up an important lesson. Always vote for yourself and vote with pride. Sending out query letters is voting for yourself. Now, if someone else has something better, vote for them, but if you’re all about the same, go for it, baby. We have to be our biggest fans because writers spend most of their time reading and re-reading their own work. It’s called revision. Be your own fan. Hell, be your own groupie. I won’t go any further on that.

So here I was, twenty years of writing, full of fear and regret. But I finally worked through the angst and terror and I sent out sixty queries to agents, editors, and presses, and I got picked up by a small press. That is my story. Along the way, I’ve spent 20 years working the 12 steps with my sponsor, and I’ve guided dozens of people through the 12 steps as a sponsor. I’ve been in recovery, without a relapse, for 21 years. As of today, everyone knows I’m a writer. And I keep on spreading the word.

I have overcome many of my deepest, darkest fears and self-limiting beliefs, and I can help others do the same. Hopefully, you can do it in a couple of months and it won’t take you decades. Hopefully.

A little bit more about me. Just your typical stuff because in the end, I’m just a typical guy. Oh, how I long to be so much more. But I’m not. Just a writer who plods along. Do-de-do-de-do.

In the middle of all that novel-writing, my wife and I spent 15 months traveling around the world. We settled down in Colorado where we raise two James-Bond-Super-Villains-In-Training who pose as little girls and who adore American girl dolls. Which of course is a plot to transfer wealth out of the middle class into Mattel’s evil laboratories.

When I’m not writing or speaking at writing conferences, I work at a computer company troubleshooting software, which is far more dull than it sounds.

I say all of that to say this. I failed at a deep level with my writing. Because of my own fear, because of my doubt, and because of my overly-dramatic self. I can “should” all over myself, all day long. I should have joined a critique group right away. I should have worked on short stories. I should have studied craft. I should have queried every day for years on end. Ray Bradbury had thousands of rejections before he published anything. Stephen King, same story.

But just because I failed yesterday, doesn’t mean I have to fail today. As long as I work through the angst to get to the other side. And there is another side for all of us. But it takes work and effort.

That’s what the rest of my blog posts are going to be all about. Working through the angst and trauma to get to the other side.

Next week:  Step one. Admitted we were powerless over our art and our creative lives had become unmanageable.

The 12 Steps to Writing Success Part 3: People Love Artists Like They Love Astronauts

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I read my own books sometimes to cheer me when it is hard to write, and then I remember that it was always difficult, and how nearly impossible it was sometimes.
— Ernest Hemingway

 

 

 

People love to tell artists that they’re jealous of them. Wow, you write, that’s great. I wish I had something like that in my life. Generally, I grab them, slap them a few times, dunk them in a nearby lake, hook them up to a motorcycle battery, and then torture them until they take it back.

It’s like when people say, “You’re so lucky you got recovery early.” Uh huh, so lucky I was suicidal at nineteen, a monk at 20 (celibacy vows intact), and I celebrated my 21st birthday watching a bad movie with people who didn’t really give a crap that it was my 21st birthday. Yeah, so lucky.

I think the reason why people are fascinated by artists is that everyone is an artist, deep down, but doubt, fear, general angst, drive them away from it. So it’s like when you say you’re an artist, it’s like saying you’ve just come from visiting a distant planet. Everybody likes an astronaut because they’re tough, skilled, blessed. Artists, writers, same thing.

These series of blog posts are for those who want to be astronauts of the spirit, who want to overcome whatever madness drove them away from creating. The 12 steps have helped millions of people overcome life-crushing, heart-wounding addictions, and they can help those who want to create art but find themselves caged by their own deluded, self-centered fear. The genius behind the 12 steps is that they give us a choice on what we want to do, rather than having us running away whenever some compulsion hits.

And it’s 12 steps. Just 12. Simple. But not necessarily easy. And for those not suffering from a crippling addiction, they can pretend they are. What are you doing tonight, Ed? Working the 12 steps. For your gummy bear addiction? No, I’m a writer. I have a writing addiction I want to nurture. How cool is that?

In 1955, Bill Wilson wrote a series of essays on the 12 steps and 12 traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous that was published in a book, in AA circles called the 12 by 12, and of course, there are a bunch of fascists who are always there to correct people. It’s 12 and 12, not 12×12, ya drunk yodeling idiot. This series of blog posts is going to have a similar format. Next week we’ll have a brief biography, which of course, won’t be hard for me. It’s the old, “I’m not much, but I’m all I think about.” I know, last week I promised a biography, but well, um, the internet breeds disappointment. I’m just doing my job.

Again, I want to be clear, I’m going to keep whatever fellowship I belong to anonymous because the point of this is not to promote any one 12-step program, but to show how people can use the 12 steps to improve their creative lives. And my story is just an example, a kind of, “If this yutz can do it, you can too.” And the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are in the public domain, though I plan to change them, just a bit, because we’re not dealing with alcoholism, or narcotic addiction, or gambling, or sex, or overeating. Ha, reads like a list of ‘these are a few of my favorite things.’ We’re dealing with the generic problem of artistic angst and how to overcome it.

I’ll be using stories from my own life as well as other writers I’ve met, because at the heart of things, 12-step programs are about storytelling. “We heal through our mouths,” or so the saying goes.

And this isn’t going to be a blog series of advice, tips, blah, blah, blah. It’s going to be instructive. Do this. Do this. Do this. In 12-step talk, we take the actions and our thinking changes. You can’t fix a broken mind with a broken mind. It takes action. Bring the body and the mind will follow.

I’m goin’ biblical, Faith without works is dead. Bill W. loved that little piece of quotation magic.

Next week, I promise, the biography of me, or “Why I should be the one to blog about this stuff!”

Mondays Are Hell: The Demons of Novels Past Pt. 1

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Okay, I’ve been writing for 20 years. Yes. Well, actually, I’ve been writing all of my life. But twenty years ago, I wrote my first novel. The Dream of the Archer. If you can call it a novel. Actually, it was an experience. Like climbing Everest. Like drinking Starbucks until you can’t feel your teeth. Like watching Firefly.

An experience. Are you experienced? The Dream of the Archer was David Lynch meets Lord of the Rings meets Pulp Fiction. It was postmodern Shakespeare, part novel, part play, first person, third person, in verse, shattering the third wall. And it had a demon in it. Jezerel Stone. My villain, Eljer Wetnight, summoned him. Eljer, as in the toilet. I used to name all my villains after toilets. Eljer Wetnight. Feral Sloan. St. John Regal. Toilets.

 

(My friend would go into a bathroom and laugh because as he did his business, he would see the name of the toilet and think of my villains. Ha.)

Anyway, Jezerel Stone has a quote in The Dream of the Archer, and of course, this is wordy, and won’t make sense, and is in the guts of a book that will never be published. Oh, how my writing has improved. However, it is one of my most favorite passages, and as any writer can tell you, throw nothing away. And it captures what I want to say about demons today.

A little set up. Jezerel Stone has possessed a boy whose parents were slaughtered and who is in pain. And the boy is about to watch soldiers from this horrific army do terrible things to our hero and his princess. And this is what Jezerel Stone says to this poor boy:

Look boy, look at what they will do, and watch carefully. This is not my doing, this is not the work of the devil, this is done by your own kind, and really, these men are good people, though you won’t remember such things when you see them cutting off the fingers of the man and raping the woman. You will forget that, but I shall not, because that makes it all the more enjoyable, all the more ironic. These same men have given food to the poor, have helped old people with their houses, have been caring and kind to their family, and now they will do these evil things and hate themselves for it. Watch, boy, and learn, and remember too, the men who did the evil things to your family, were good people as well.

I’ve said it before in my other demon post that demons are a nice idea. We can put the evil on fictional characters of pure darkness.

But in this world, the truth is far more mundane. The most terrible crimes imaginable have been committed by simple human beings. Not demons. Human beings who were good, gave into evil, and were most likely good after that. Hitler probably liked to pet puppies.

Ah, how confusing, this hard, old world. How tragic. And yet, how grand. Because 98% of the people you will meet are just trying to get through and aren’t evil at all. The other 2%?

My father was a policeman for over thirty years and most of the time, he saw police work as being a lot like working those mean streets of Mayberry. When asked which show captured police work, my dad wouldn’t say The Wire, or Hillstreet Blues, or NYPD Blue. Nope. He would say The Andy Griffith Show.

However, my dad did help arrest true evil. I won’t go into this man’s crimes. I don’t want to haunt you, but they were horrible. He did demonic things to old women. You can connect the dots.

True evil is out there. Soulless. Destroyed. But human. And perhaps that is more disturbing than any demon we can come up with.

I’ll leave you with a passage from The Dream of the Archer, from that same scene.

The Americans would find the archer and the princess and they would do things to them, things that Jezerel Stone knew all about. The demon understood the great secret, the secret that even Eljer Wetnight and his magic would never discover. That even though demons and other things were expert torturers and killers, the blackest things on the Stair had learned their arts from people; that without humans, in the end, none of the demons and their kind would have known what to do. Wetnight and his people would do terrifically horrible things to the archer and the princess, and Stone would watch and learn and perhaps centuries later he would imitate them. For now, he would watch and enjoy the revulsion the boy would feel as he looked at them. Not the pain the boy would feel, remembering what the American soldiers had done to his own family, not that sick pain which would send Stone scurrying on top of the boy, out of the suffering, but the revulsion as the boy understood that this is what people could do to one another.