Although I didn’t serve, the Vietnam War was a defining event for my generation: nightly news reports with grim body counts, a military draft littered with loopholes that was later replaced by a starkly random lottery system, scattered protests morphing into mass demonstrations threatening to split the nation. It was a tumultuous time to come of age.

I learned of Operation Babylift over twenty years ago and immediately imagined what the life of an American soldier and Vietnamese orphan might look like years after the war’s last shots were fired. What happened to them? Who did they become? It’s taken me this long to feel confident enough to tell their stories.​

To better understand what my characters might have experienced, I immersed myself in research before a single word of A Confluence of Fates was written. This included reading memoirs, historical accounts and novels, as well as watching countless hours of documentaries about the Vietnam War. Additionally, I was lucky enough to interview several people who shared their stories, including Operation Babylift pilots and orphans, Vietnam combat veterans, and others whose lives intersected with the events depicted in this book.​

When people ask how much research goes into writing a historical novel, my answer is always, “More than you can imagine.” One book led to another, documentaries provoked more questions, and interviews opened doors to stories and experiences I’d never heard about before. Before long, I was swimming in facts, dates and details, and shedding many tears along the way. Very few events, at least for me, were and continue to be as complex and emotionally charged as the Vietnam War.​

After months immersed with the generals and politicians, with the historians and commentators, I finally started hearing Richie and Linh’s voices. I found myself wondering less about historical events and their details, and more about how two ordinary people, a young soldier and an orphan, navigated life long after the war was over. What scars, seen and unseen, remained? Which memories refused to go away? Which ones hid behind protective veils? I needed to listen to my characters, get inside their heads, feel their fears and desires, and share their tears.

That’s when I stopped gathering facts and figures about the Vietnam War and Operation Babylift.

I was finally ready to tell their story.

When writers talk to readers at book clubs or book signings, they are invariably asked more questions about their writing process than about their characters and scenes. I am no exception. Is there a preferred time for writing, a specific space, a ritual? My answers: yes, yes, and yes.

I’ve been known to randomly pick up my phone—at any time or place—and start typing words or phrases that seemingly come from nowhere, but I prefer dedicated writing time in the morning. Although caffeine likely has a role, it seems my energy levels and creative juices are at their highest levels after a refreshing night’s sleep. My preferred writing time is 8 A.M. until 1 P.M. and I use the small office in our home in Whitefish. It’s cozy and comfortable—the perfect space to be quiet with my thoughts and computer. I begin each and every writing session with a brief (2-3 minute) meditation where I offer my thanks for such a wonderful life, and pray for guidance and inspiration. And then off I go, with a goal to write 1,000 words (about four pages) during the session.

Most writers have quirks and those are but a few of mine.

But there’s another important aspect to the process I’d like to discuss. It has to do with writing the first draft and capturing the story. I’ve read several how-to books about writing fiction and most favor a formal, more regimented approach with completed outlines and timelines and character histories before any prose is created. This method gives the writer a roadmap and guideposts, and helps to reign in stream-of-consciousness writing that can threaten to run wild. I do use this method . . . but only after the first draft is complete. I build character histories (with descriptions and page number references), I check dates and timelines, and I look for inconsistencies (historical and story related), after I’ve celebrated finishing the first draft with a special bottle of wine.

So here’s the thing: my favorite part about writing fiction is allowing the characters, trusting them really, to tell me their story. Other than knowing the protagonist’s major conflict and having a vague sense of how it resolves, I know little else when I begin writing. It’s cool because I am much like a reader at this stage; I am so eager to find out what happens next! With Love, Lizzie, for example, I knew Emma’s conflict dealt with the serious health issues surrounding her pregnancy, and the societal pressure to have a family in the 1950’s. But, as I listened to Emma, the story became so much more. Once she set the general direction of her journey, I trusted the supporting cast of characters to tell me their roles and backstories. Chapter by chapter, my characters wrote the book.

Experiencing what many authors refer to as The Muse, the “where did that come from?” and “aha!” moments—when a scene or details or storyline progression magically fits—are a writer’s reward for perseverance. I imagine it is similar, in some respects, to a runner’s high. I crave those moments. They are addictive. And they typically appear while writing the first draft.

An analogy might be useful.

Compare constructing a house to creating a garden. Precision is required for the building. Architectural designs and blueprints, exacting measurements, specific materials and strict timelines are all essential components for a safe, well-constructed and aesthetically pleasing structure. Creating a garden is different. You have an idea what the finished product should look like, and you plant flowers, trees, and shrubs that hopefully transform that vision into reality. But colors and sizes and textures are not perfectly predictable because they depend on nature; you don’t know for sure what the initial outcome will look like until the plants grow and the flowers bloom. Certain plants will be smaller or larger than you imagined, colors might vary, some species might be more dramatic than you thought, others less. But, much like trusting characters to tell their story, gardeners trust nature to bring their creations to life before they prune and shape the final product.

Layers upon layers of rewrites and revisions follow my first draft—crafting the manuscript into a book—and I follow a regimented and disciplined approach. It’s like washing and waxing, and then detailing a car; it has to be perfect. But gardening my first draft, listening to the characters and allowing, even appreciating them veering in an unexpected direction, is a crucial (and fun) part of my process.

Writing fiction is often thought of in terms of language and creativity (along with the discipline and dedication to run the marathon), but there’s something else on my mind that I’d like to share. I’ll warn you . . . it’s a bit out there. I spend a surprising amount of time living inside other people’s minds—people who don’t exist.

​It’s essential to understand and appreciate that my characters are different from me. How they think, what they feel, how they react to the obstacles I continuously put in front of them—they create insights for me that extend beyond the pages I write. And I’ve come to appreciate that.

A writer not only tells the reader what characters do; he should communicate why they do it. Compelling characters have to be developed—their fears and desires, their histories and contradictions—and woven into the fabric of the story. Characters shouldn’t be reduced to me telling you that they are handsome or pretty, that they’re smart . . . or whatever. My job is to communicate emotions. What do they believe? What are they afraid of? How do they justify choices that might seem irrational or even wrong? These questions often force me to explore perspectives that are not my own.

​The irony of this process is that the challenges my characters face are of my own design. I put them into conflict, I subject them to loss—and I must guide them through it honestly and realistically. Convenient resolutions are a no-no, so I take them to places where they are sometimes uncomfortable, then allow them to tell me (and therefore you) who they are, what motivates them, and what their emotional struggles are. Their flaws and vulnerabilities are exposed. I feel them—and I want you to as well.

​I’ve found that, over time, the habit of listening to my characters and letting them tell me their story has carried forward in real life. After too many years, I’ve learned to become a better listener and, hopefully, more empathetic. Just as no fictional character is purely good or bad, neither are people in real life. Writing fiction has taught me that there’s a payoff to digging beneath the surface, that there’s always a backstory.

​A final admission—one I didn’t expect when I started writing.

​Writing from the characters’ different perspectives throws me into their emotional reality. It’s surprisingly vivid. It’s immersive. Isolated, hopeful, emotionally fractured, joyously celebrating—I engage deeply with all those emotions as the characters tell me their stories. I laugh out loud. I cry out loud (some scenes get me every time). It reminds me that a fictional act can connect me to something deeply human.

​Creating characters and telling their story is not passive observation; it’s active engagement with the inner lives of others. True, I’ve invented the characters and their stories, but the emotional truths are tangible, and can be applied to the real world.

For me, writing fiction is a lesson in empathy. It turns out that by listening to the characters I create, I’ve become better at listening to real people too. Another reason to keep writing.

When thinking about this Musing, the word “intention” came to mind. Good writers are intentional when applying their craft; specific words arranged in a particular order, punctuation that dictates rhythm and cadence, chapter breaks that tempt readers to turn the page. There are many tools in a writer’s toolbox, but they must be used correctly and for a specific purpose—no hammering of screws allowed—and applied with a vision toward the finished manuscript.​

As I began tapping at my keyboard, I found myself focusing on thoughts beyond writing, and with loftier applications of intention. I recently suffered the painful loss of two wonderful friends, a husband and wife who passed within six months of one another. Both died relatively young (early seventies), both were extremely fit, and both took on an unforgiving opponent called cancer. It’s always a wake-up call when this story repeats itself with a personal connection, a reminder of our own mortality. Both my friends had time (albeit limited) after their terminal diagnosis, so thankfully, I had a chance to say goodbye. And during those separate visits, each of them told me they had no regrets. None.

We’ve all heard admonitions about living life to the fullest and treating each day as if it were your last . . . but no regrets? Wow! It’s a powerful statement.

​Because we all make mistakes, probably several a day, I believe having no regrets about your life has a deep and more consequential meaning, way beyond the daily faux pas…career, spouse, and lifestyle decisions come to mind. But there’s something else. Not regretting those big decisions implies that you actually made a choice and didn’t just “let life happen.” It’s a simple truth: if you don’t choose, if you don’t decide—life chooses for you.

​As I think of my dear friends, it strikes me that their “no regrets” comments spoke to what was so very special about each of them. They made choices that aligned with their values (they used their tools properly) and lived full lives with intention.

​Rest in peace, Gary and Susan.

One of the perks of writing fiction is you get to make up stuff. Better yet, if you’re any good, you get paid to make up stuff. True, you have to actually write down words in some semblance of order, they need to create a coherent and intriguing plot, they should flow, sometimes be witty, (mostly) grammatically correct, and—

Okay, fine, you get the idea. You can’t spout off just anything and call it writing.

But. . . you get to make it up! Yup, pretty much all of it. You, the writer, become an omnipresent force, the decider of fates and foibles and fortunes, the creator of a world and the people who live in it. Does the girl get the boy? You decide. Does the girl even want the boy? You decide. Does the asteroid hit Earth, does mankind survive, does Elle get into Harvard? You decide!

My grandmother used to tell my parents, “Oh my, John has such a vivid imagination.” I think that was code, her nice way of saying that I exaggerated or embellished, which was not a good thing . . . especially in the Midwest. So I learned to tone the stories down and tame them into more believable versions that adults would accept. But deep down, my imagination ran wild. My “little voice” and I shared and kept secrets as we imagined ever-twisting plots about dogs and baseball and cowboys. It was a heady thing deciding people’s futures, their lives, and I was a benevolent puppet master. Well, mostly. But now I realize my grandmother’s observation and declaration was, in fact, a profound compliment.

A vivid imagination! Yippee!

One of the perks of reading fiction is—okay, wait for it—you get to make up stuff! Granted, not as much as the writer who dictates the plot and develops the characters, but being immersed in a world where you, the reader, relate words and sentences and paragraphs to your own experience, where subtle images are hatched, where nuances, perhaps not even considered by the author, are noticed and add personal, private layers to the story. How you, as a reader, envision fictional people and places is different than every other reader because your imagination takes the story beyond the author’s words and colors it with your human experience. There is a special relationship between writers and their readers. They’re partners; a writer’s unspoken promise to entertain relies on readers using their imagination.

I love watching (and rewatching) movies: the actors, the dialogue, the cinematography, the popcorn. I find myself losing track of time and being completely immersed experiencing a good movie. The same time warp is true with a good book, but with two important differences. First, reading a novel is a slow burn, and the reader knows up front it’s more than a typical film’s two hour commitment. Second, with movies you experience someone else’s vision, his/her interpretation. Directors and actors can captivate and enthrall and excite you, and these people deservedly make gobs of money providing this form of entertainment. But, to use a cliché, what you see is what you get; there’s not a lot of room for your imagination.

So here’s a question for you: after watching a movie that was adapted from a book, how many times have you said, “The movie was good, but I liked the book better.”

Embrace and enjoy your imagination . . . especially while reading.

I enjoy meeting with book clubs, both virtually and in person, because it’s a great way to connect with readers. I’m fascinated to hear where my stories took them, how they related to specific characters, and what kept them turning the pages. I’m asked questions about my writing process (there’s another Musing dealing with that), how story ideas originate (a future Musing), and whether I always wanted to be a writer (not until I was in my forties). But there’s another question that I’m always asked: what books would you recommend? That one is tricky. Everyone has different tastes and preferences—genres and styles, new or established authors, quick reads versus slower paced narratives—so my recommendations always come with disclaimers. But the question triggers another point. Seeking book recommendations from someone who reads a lot makes sense, and writers read a lot, a whole lot.

It’s been said that not all readers are (or want to be) writers, but that all writers must be readers. I agree.

​Despite movies that sometimes depict the contrary, most people understand that writers’ fingers don’t just fly across the keyboard and poof—a page is written, and then another, and then another. Yes, sometimes writers get a rush and a couple pages easily materialize, but those times are rare. Mostly, writing is a grueling process. Writers agonize over the perfect word, juxtapose sentences, cut and paste, break paragraphs, and sometimes (ugh!) delete entire chapters. We read our work out loud, listen for tempo and cadence, and try not to be too critical too early. So, while it is widely understood that the craft of writing is honed by rewriting and revising, there’s an important ingredient, a crucial tool, that most people don’t always consider. Reading.

Like many things in life, we learn from others. We’ve all had teachers or mentors who shared their knowledge and experience—school, sports, music, business—and writing is no different. From the basics of grammar to the specifics of composition, others have taught us how to communicate through the written word. Creative writing takes all this to a different level. Yes, there are creative writing classes, there are advanced degrees (MFA), and thousands of how-to books for would-be authors. They’re terrific resources, and anyone considering writing fiction would be well-advised to study anything and everything relating to the field. But beyond the standard instruction model, reading well-crafted books—plot, pacing, turning a phrase, character development—is like listening to Santana if you’re a guitar player. It’s fun, and you learn from an expert.

​I am not a voracious reader (there needs to be time to write), but I average three books a month. And, after having just expounded on the benefits of learning from top-notch writers, I will say I’ve also slogged through a few clunkers along the way. Interestingly though, I’ve benefited from (but not enjoyed) reading those books too. What not to do can carry the weight of a sledgehammer.

That said, here a few of my recent favorites:

Great Circle and Astonish Me by Maggie Shipstead. Mad Honey by Jodi Picoult, Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus, A Visit from The Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan, The Lies I Tell and The Last Flight by Julie Clark, and Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano. And, like millions of others, I occasionally sneak a quick fix with John Grisham, Harlan Coben, and David Baldacci.

Happy reading!

Some of you who have read Love, Lizzie know the story was inspired by my aunt who suffered from rheumatic fever as a teenager that later developed into rheumatic heart disease. Like the book’s main character Emma, she was warned by doctors to never have children. Love, Lizzie is not my aunt’s story, but as I said, she was my starting point—and then imagination took over. Perhaps what you don’t know is that Love, Lizzie was written more than fifteen years after my first novel, A Dedication, was published.

Why so long? What changed?

The “why so long” answer is practical—and a bit humbling. Although A Dedication received positive critical acclaim (including a Blether gold medal and Best Men’s Fiction for 2005 from RebeccaReads), it struggled commercially. Even with multiple book signing events, and several television and radio show appearances, the publicity surrounding the book never managed to attract a wide enough audience. Adding insult to injury, the publisher, Synergy Books, declared bankruptcy less than a year after my book was released. I received a fraction of the royalties I was due.

So, the practical answer to why I didn’t write for fifteen years is that I didn’t make enough money to justify the sacrifice—and I had three children on the cusp of college. In other Musings on this website, you can read details of the blood, sweat and tears involved with writing a novel but suffice it to say I wasn’t eager to run that gauntlet again, especially with a bruised ego.

What changed?

Two things: not caring about the money side of writing and having lots of free time (yes, retirement) were big factors, but there was something else.

​I admit to being somewhat of a golf fanatic (friends might eliminate the “somewhat” in that sentence), and the thought of hitting the links several times a week was initially enticing. That’s what retired people who love to play golf do, right? But interestingly, the discipline (I could say “dedication” but that would be too corny) to spend another year of my life facing the daily rigors of writing Love, Lizzie was inspired by another family member. Our young granddaughter put me back in the starting blocks.

I was relaxing after a particularly good round of golf, feeling a bit sassy and imagining how low my handicap could go, when the reverie was interrupted by a FaceTime call from my daughter and granddaughter. Without question, FaceTime calls with grandchildren are the best (only?) perk of growing old, but two questions kept jabbing me after that call. Who really cares about my golf score (easy answer—no one), and how can I still connect to my grandchildren long after I’m gone? The second question got me thinking.

​The pieces to write again were in place: I’d run this marathon before, I didn’t need to make a living from writing, and I had time to write during “normal” hours (no more four a.m. alarm clocks!). But there was something else to consider. Could I stay motivated to endure the grueling solitude of writing another book?

​The answer to that question was yes. The reason? GRANDCHILDREN!