The book business is brutal. With my grand total of sales somewhere around 4,500 for all books combined, I won’t claim to be any kind of expert, but in a lot of ways, it’s no different than selling dog food or electronic components. You have to get out there and flog the damn product.

The Sand Box is moving very slowly right now, but it is moving. I’ve been editing Hartz String Theory and distracted by my job situation. Part of the problem is summer, my productivity will go up once the Pacific Northwest rain starts again.

It’s been a long time, what have I been doing? I moved my lab/office/music studio and sold the house in the hills, now we live in the city limits. We transported twelve years of crap crammed into every nook and cranny. The horror of this move cannot be minimized. It was hell for Judy to leave her custom-designed house and her friends at the lake. However, we survived this physical and emotional turmoil and both have better work environments. Judy has a sewing room/gallery and art studio and I have an isolated basement writing room which looks out into a green belt. Now all I have to do is set aside the endless distractions and chores and sit my ass down and crank up the writing machinery. Slowly, I’m making progress.

I’m not usually so flighty, but I’m changing the title again. Affectionately, Iraq is known as the Sandbox to our soldiers. The Sand Box. I like it.

The book continues to evolve. I’m thinking that the introduction, following the four buddies screwing around in Baghdad, might expand to be 20 or 25% of the novel. That’s a long damn introduction. Can that work? I have no idea. Basically, I expect the reader to get emotionally attached to four guys who are doomed (well, not all four, one will survive).

I have a short attention span, that’s why I bounce around so much. All my novels have multiple points of view with short sections and massive schizophrenia. This is how I view my stories. The overall picture must be assembled from fragments. I like this. A handful of books have amused me and given me permission to write these stories the way I do. Like Boy Wonder by James Robert Baker. A man’s life story assembled from the observations of those around him. Brutally funny and insightful from JRB, RIP.

I finished editing Glen Wilson’s Bad Medicine got it out and on the market. I fixed all the problems I could find. How many spelling errors escaped my attention? How many mangled sentences? I’m proud of it and think it has merit, but who the hell am I to judge? I do the best I can, put my babies out into the cold cruel world and hope for the best.

As another example of my creeping madness, take a look at http://www.suvagabonds.org/ and tell me what you think.

I’m writing very slowly. I don’t mind, my writing time is very limited and I’m trying to improve the quality of my work. Taking more time can’t hurt. I could spend the rest of my life working and reworking a single paragraph. Playing with it. Perfecting it in a selfish form of literary masturbation.

I read when I can create a spare moment. Iraq war blogs, the Quran (according to Muhammad Zafrulla Khan’s translation: “They go on to say: These are his confused dreams; nay, he has invented it all; he is but a poet with a fertile imagination.” According to Abdullah Yusuf Ali’s translation: "Nay," they say, "(These are) medleys of dreams! —Nay, he forged it! —Nay, he is (but) a poet!). Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities (how I admire his verbosity, the elegant man goes on and on), my 1974 Europa Middle East and North Africa review (“No doubt, too, Libya was emboldened by the fact that Iraq had been able to nationalize the Kirkut fields in June 1972 and finally reach a settlement with its owners in February 1973 which, in effect, legitimized the seizure.”, and magazines. The Atlantic, National Review, Time, The American Spectator, electronics trade magazines and Skeptic all read in bits and pieces here and there.

Then there’s the proofreading of Glen Wilson’s Bad Medicine. Reading carefully through a printed copy, I found six definite typo/grammatical errors. Shocking and troubling. Then editorial board member #1 found an additional 10 definite errors and chastised me ruthlessly for not using it’s/its to her satisfaction. I do know the difference between the possessive and the contraction. Aren’t there cases where either form is correct? How do the professionals achieve a high level of quality? Probably by spending endless hours poring over their work. Hours that my schedule does not permit.

I read an article recently that suggests writers are prone to depression. I can’t speak for others, but I do have dark periods. Days when the sun does not seem to shine. Days when everything seems futile and pointless. I’ve learned to ignore the destructive influences and carry on. On the other hand, I live in Seattle and often the sun does not shine. I’m a typical dot-bomb casualty slowly rebuilding a career and I make about 75% of the money I made in 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002. My car has 210,000 miles on it and I can’t afford to buy a new one. I’m 52 and my literary work has disturbing quality control problems. My beloved 15-year-old watchdog is dying. Why the hell shouldn’t I be down? A man would have to be insane to pass through my life the last few years without often feeling oppressed and bedeviled. That said, I feel like I’m on an upswing. The days are longer. The family is propping me up. The car keeps running. I’m making a little more money than last year. I’m grinding out pages on my 7th novel. Screw it, man, life is good.

Cripes, this has been a long dry spell. I’ve been working, but not so much on Sandstorm. I got a proof copy of Bad Medicine back and read through it. This is depressing. Many people have proofread the damn thing; the book has been around since I finished the first draft in November of 2005. Still, I found six or so definite spelling errors and a ton of things I don’t like, for example, the extreme overuse of words like some, really, just, and even. I must decide if I like whiskey or whisky. In fact, I could use some whiskey right now. See, there’s that word ‘some’ again. It will chase me to my grave.

The good news is, I finished the review and Glen Wilson’s Bad Medicine will be on the street soon, for better or worse.

I worked a bit on Sandstorm and had an epiphany. There will be a girl with a horrible scar on her face. But that’s for later, much later.

My writing habits are poor. For example, if I come to a section where I need a protest sign, I have to work on it until I get one. I could insert a TBD and let inspiration hit me at 3:30 on a sleepless morning. But, I had to daydream and brainstorm until I got something usable.

Does this nail what I want? Not exactly, but it represents over an hour of work. Writing a book is like grappling with a huge ugly beast. The beast always wins, but I keep fighting.

Wow, what a haul. To those who have experienced the glory of Powell's Bookstore in Portland, then I need say no more. For those who have not, then words are useless. If you love books and you haven't been to Powell's, then put it on your to-do list and get after it. When we pass through Portland, we always try to factor a Powell's stop into the schedule.

After a scone and latte at Peet's, we stood with the small crowd waiting for the doors to be unlocked. We had precisely one hour and it's so damn easy to get sidetracked. I was looking for the geography books and started reading Isacc Asimov's autobiography. The next thing I knew, 35 of my 60 minutes had dissolved into history. Time to get busy.

It’s absolutely the pinnacle of idiocy to think that me, a fledgling writer with dubious and questionable talent, could do any justice to a novel set mainly in Iraq. Write what you know, that’s the central tenet of literature. However, the dice came up as 8 and 8 was this novel called Sandstorm, so I’m going to do the best job I can. That’s where Powell’s, amazon.com and the Internet come into play. In the Middle East section, among the usual left-wing liberal crap (books by Norm Chomsky and his ilk) I found a couple of books that made the cut. Crescent in Shadow by English novelist Henry Gibbs. A first edition published in 1952. This is a memoir/travelogue with 38 photographs, $8.95. Next a thick Europa Publications book called 21st Edition of The Middle East and Africa, 1974-1975, a survey and directory of Middle East countries, including, of course, Iraq. This is an economic and historic survey including a nifty Who’s Who section filled with delightful Iraqi names I can mix and match to create my own characters. Beautiful.

Now time is definitely running out and I have about eight minutes. I'm so desperate, I even ask for directions. "Where is the map section?" In two minutes I've collected two maps, one of Iraq and one of Baghdad. Then the Bradt City Guide of Baghdad catches my eye. $12.95. Onto the growing stack it goes.

Finally, I would like to get a printed Koran/Quran. I’ve downloaded an electronic one (English Translation of the Meanings and Commentary by Abdullah Yusuf Ali), but I’d still like a printed one, preferably an older one. Among the hundred or so of Powell’s stock, I found a lovely one, alas, $30, too damn much. Ah, here’s one, The Quran with Arabic and English text, collected by Muhammad Zafrulla Khan. A 1978 reprint of a 1971 book, $9.95. That will do. From this, I can tell that Arabic is a very efficient language, a few lovely and flowing characters get expanded into two or three times as many English words. Interesting. “They will have as companions maidens with lovely black eyes, pure as pearls well guarded; a recompense for what they did. They will not hear therein any vain or sinful talk, but only the salutation: Peace, peace.” Chapter 56, Part 27.

In my downloaded Quran, this is expressed as:

Completely fascinating.

One hour consumed and $70 lighter, Judy and I meet in the cashier’s line in the Orange room. I’ll spend 30 or 40 hours reading through this pile marking useful sections and phrases. When I’m done, I’ll know more about Baghdad. Is this enough to create a credible and interesting story? Probably not, but just try to stop me.

I was absolutely determined to get to 10,000 words today, but I'm not going to make it. One of the advantages of my current job is that almost always, my weekends are free. Free for me to lock myself away, be antisocial, and work on my writing. Except for today: I have a circuit board project I need to work on. This has made me grumpy. Actually, this is an improvement in my mood, since, lately, I've been depressed. I read recently that most writers are depressed, hence their addictions and alcoholism. It's been raining for weeks, the days are short and I crave the sunlight of Mazatlan. The initial reader evaluations of Hartz String Theory are negative. My reading at the Village Book Store was pretty much a bust. Sandstorm is progressing with painful slowness. Woe. Despair. But I'm over all that, now I'm grouchy and irritable. A great improvement, I'm sure you'll agree.

After a scone and latte at Peet's, we stood with the small crowd waiting for the doors to be unlocked. We had precisely one hour and it's so damn easy to get sidetracked. I was looking for the geography books and started reading Isacc Asimov's autobiography. The next thing I knew, 35 of my 60 minutes had dissolved into history. Time to get busy.

We, all of us, will be depressed without a mission. Someone better give Steve a mission quickly, he seems to be on a terrible slide.

There is a lot of evidence that I will fail in my mission to re-invent myself as a successful novelist. The odds are long. There are many fellow scribblers and few that make any real money. I’ve heard various numbers, but something like 200 novelists make their whole living by writing. On the other hand, I educated myself enough to become an electronics technician. I liked what I saw of the engineer’s perks and value on the job market, so I went to school at night for five years and worked my ass off, and then I was an engineer. I decided to try sales and I’ve been doing it for five years. Not necessarily making a huge amount of money, but the Coffman ship still floats. It’s been 10 years now (damn, that’s hard to believe) that I’ve been compulsively writing on weekends and on vacations, I’m ready to become an overnight sensation.

Yesterday, someone asked me how many books I’ve sold. I said none of your damn business. I don’t tell people what I’ve sold. Why? Am I embarrassed because the numbers are so small? Not really, I don’t care so much what other people think. Prentice-Hall sold 4207 copies of my FPGA book. Not bad. At $80 a shot, that’s over $330,000 of sales. To date, I’ve sold a grand total of 85 copies of my fiction with all the novels added together. That’s not very many. However, sales are slowly increasing, so that’s good. I can’t think of any reason that I can’t sell 10X as many novels as technical books. After all, there should be a much wider audience and the books are a lot cheaper. The real point is to show that there is a market for my work rather than trusting the judgment of an agent or publisher. Data talks. Money talks. I’m a long way from being anywhere and if I had any good sense at all, I’d hang it up. I wrote six novels, didn’t sell much, I suck, I’m done.

However, I’m too dumb to give up. I believe my work has merit and there is a big lucrative audience out there somewhere. I’m going to keep plugging.

The Sandstorm project stumbles along. I bailed out of a bowling adventure and smoked a cigar, had a couple of drinks, and wrote another thousand words. Some of the words were alright, nothing too inspired, but some progress was made.

I suppose this is inevitable, but sometimes the writing goes poorly. I get distracted and lose confidence. Why did I ever think I could do this? It's complete madness. However, at this point, I have some experience with doubt and despair. Even if I can only get a few hundred words down, I keep working at it. Here it is, 6:00 on a Sunday morning and I've been at it for a couple of hours. I've written 300 words, maybe. Listening to classic Gentle Giant, Sad Happy and the wind battering the trees outside.

Sometimes I surprise myself. I think that's what keeps me going.

I'm such a slob. Too damn many typos and grammatical errors, it's embarrassing. But, I do agonize over the words. They are important to me. I massage and manipulate them. I drive myself crazy with them.

Coffee, that's what I need. And more sunlight, that's the ticket. More time to write, more money, more brain matter and inspiration, that's what I need. However, I'll just keep writing, screw it.