The esteemed novelist, playwright, and short story author, W. Somerset Maugham, famously wrote, “There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

Well, I respectfully disagree, except there’s five…not three.

When I teach creative writing, whether I’m focusing on short or novel-length fiction, I always start with what I’ve come to call The Five Rules of Writing. A couple of these are borrowed from Robert Heinlein’s writing rules but are modified to better fit the modern publishing arena. Writers then and writers now face different challenges.

And with that pesky preamble and disclaimer out of the way, here they are.

Rule 1: Write
Simple, huh? Try it. Sit down and write something, something creative. Go ahead. Do it now.

Rule 2: Finish What You Write
This is the one where most writers stumble. How many out there have unfinished novels hidden somewhere on your computer? And be honest: Did you really start to write something after Rule 1, only to give up?

Rule 3: Edit What You Write
80% of what I do as a writer consists of editing my own work. In general, no piece of fiction penned by Yours Truly goes out before the sixth (and sometimes seventh) revision. When you put your work in front of an editor, you have one brief window of time in which to make a good impression. So, polish, polish, polish!

Rule 4: Submit What You Write for Publication
It’s scary, I know. Consider Emily Dickinson, who published just seven poems in her lifetime. Then, upon her death, a thousand more were found throughout the house. If you’re okay with being Emily Dickinson, then fine, keep your work to yourself. But if you’re anything like me and eagerly (sometimes desperately) wish to be read, then you must submit your polished work to every market that fits!

Rule 5: Go Write Something Else
The wheel never stops turning, my friends. Being a professional (or even semi-professional) writer means creating a body of work and then putting that body of work to work. I am always either writing or editing something. I always have a project.

Our avocation isn’t an easy one. It makes demands on us, on our time, our imagination, our commitment, and our self-esteem. Out of any group of novice writers, the ones who succeed are not the ones with the most talent; they’re the ones with the most drive. Never, ever, ever, ever give up.

Now, as I’ve said many times before, go write something.

​- Ty Drago

I know. I know. I hear it all the time. I don't blog enough...

What can I say? I'm 62-years-old and journaling doesn't come that easily to me. I'm a storyteller, and my own story just ain't that interesting.

But, for the sake of my fanbase, I'll let everyone know what been going on with me of late. Please forgive the bullet points.

• Since RAGS was published earlier in the year, I have sold what I think of as "Dad's book." The final work is entitled THE NEW AMERICANS. This long but (I think) compelling novel will be released in two volumes by Gray Rabbit Publishing started in late 2023 or possibly 2024. For those of you don't know, THE NEW AMERICANS is based on a series of cassette tapes that my father left me after his death in 1992. It took me a long time to find the strength to listen to those tape, much less muster the wherewithall to write the book he outlined therein. If you're interested in a deeper dive into the project, I suggest the podcast that Helene and I did called "Legacy: The Novel Writing Experience." It's kind of loose "how-to" series on novel writing told through the lens of this particular work. You can find it wherever to get your podcasts. THE NEW AMERICANS is one of my proudest achievements, and I share the byline with my dad.
• I'm currently negotiating with the publisher of both DRAGONS and RAGS for another novel. This one is a near future retelling of "The Scarlet Pimpernel." It's called CHECKMATE, and it's the story of a brilliant and resourceful LGBTQ+ vigilante and exposes corrupt politicians in Trenton, New Jersey.  I promise you've never met a hero quite like this one! More to come as things unfold.
• I've just finished ST. DAMNED, a horror novel set in Camden, New Jersey. This is a spooky, gruesome haunted house story. I'm currently fishing it out to prospected literary agents. As some you might know, I haven't had representation since TORQ and I thought I'd dip my toes once again those waters. We'll see what comes of it...
• I'm going be starting a novela for the SYSTEMA PARADOXA cryptid series published by the amazing folks at NeoParadoxa. This one I'm calling VISITOR, and it recounts the little known "Van Meter Visitor" events, which took place in Iowa in 1903. Look 'em up if you're so inclined. It shoud be a blast to write.

Well, my friends, I think that's it. Thank you for your support and encouragement as this working writer continues to pursue his demanding and uncertain craft. 

I promise to...try...to blog more often. Please be patient with me.

All the best, Ty.

FOREWORD
 ON DECEMBER 10, 1982, THE FAMOUS STEEL PIER IN ATLANTIC CITY, New Jersey was destroyed by fire. The pier, with its music hall, exhibitions, world-class entertainment—and, yes, a diving horse— had been a tourist staple and the crown jewel of the Atlantic City Boardwalk for almost a century before the first casino was built.

To this day, the actual circumstances behind the fire remain a mystery… 


DECEMBER 7, 1982
ATLANTIC CITY, NJ

Chapter 1
THE FIRST ONE TO GO DOWN
 
—IS THE PIMPLY-FACED GANGBANGER IN THE LEATHER JACKET. ONE second, he’s laughing with his crew, getting off on how scared I look, and how Corinne’s just gone and passed out at my feet. The next, he gets grabbed from behind and yanked into the shadow of one of the big steel pilings, the move so sudden and swift that it almost seems like a magic trick.

A moment later, Pimples screams. 

A moment after that, his body gets tossed out from behind the piling as if he were a rag doll instead of 160 pounds of wiry muscle. He flips end over end and lands with a loud thump in the sand. There he writhes, groaning and clutching his face with both hands. Despite the patchwork of shadows beneath the pier, there’s no mistaking the blood.

His face has been slashed.

Wait. Did I say “slashed?” Well, that’s wrong. 

His face has been all but peeled away, like an apple skin.

And the whole thing took maybe five seconds.

For several more seconds, nobody moves. Not me. Certainly not poor out-of-it Corinne. And not the three other bangers encircling us, either.

They’re all in their late teens or early twenties, stoned out and itching to hurt somebody. A teenage girl like me coming out here was foolish, plenty foolish. But bringing my nine-year-old foster sister along cranked “plenty foolish” up to “outright stupid.” While being under Steel Pier at midnight wasn’t exactly safe at the best of times, running into these dudes was the kind of boatload full of bad luck that could rachet “outright stupid” all the way up to “stone dead.”

Except, suddenly, that boatload of bad luck had turned on the tide.

“What happened to you, man?” one of the bangers yells. He stares at his homeboy, who’s still wailing piteously. Then, realizing that Pimples has got nothing to say just now, he looks fearfully around. He’s still
clutching an open butterfly knife, the one he planned to use to cut away my coat and clothes to “get a peek at the candy.”

Another of the gang yells out a stream of cusses that would have had Aunt Kell grounding me for sure. Then this third dude draws a gun—a snub-nosed .38 revolver—from inside his coat. He starts waving it around, scanning the gloom for a target. 

A figure emerges from behind the pillar.

He’s still bathed in shadow, but I get the impression of old clothes, mismatched and well-worn—a mixed bag of dumpster pickings from behind a thrift store. Most of it looks tattered, little more than rags. He’s not a particularly big dude, and his shoulders are pretty slim. But, for all that, there’s something about him—a “presence”—that’s hard to overlook. It seems to run through the air like electricity.

Oh, and he’s holding an enormous bloody knife.

“Who the hell are you?” Butterfly demands.

“Who cares?” Thirty-Eight adds. Then with another imaginative cuss, he fires. The muzzle flash is blinding and the noise deafening, bouncing off the concrete underside of the pier and momentarily drowning out the surf’s constant rumble. 

But when the noise and flash subside, the figure’s gone. Not dead.

Not shot. Just gone.

Only now, something sticks out the front of Thirty-Eight’s chest, jutting through his coat. It takes me a moment to get what it is—the point of a knife. His knife. Rag’s knife. It’s got a long blade of black metal that gives back none of the lamplight leaking under the pier from the nearby Boardwalk. The blade’s darkness is so complete—so perfectly empty— that it almost looks like a triangular bit of Thirty-Eight’s chest has been somehow erased. 

But the truth is way simpler.

The banger’s been impaled from behind.

I try to scream, but I can’t seem to make a sound.

Thirty-eight’s eyes roll up inside his head. He topples over, revealing Rags, who leans down and smoothly pulls his knife out of the banger’s back.

My mind reeling, I take in the raggedy man’s moth-riddled wool coat and the heavy hood he’s wearing that completely conceals his face. I can’t tell anything about him. I can’t even say for sure it’s a “him.”
Two gangbangers remain. One is Butterfly, who’s taken to bobbing and weaving in a way that I guess is supposed to look badass. The knife he’s waving is hilariously small compared to the one Rags wields. Nevertheless, the dude does his best to compensate.

“Back off, man!” he screams. “I’ll cut you! I’ll cut you wide open!” Rags doesn’t reply.

The last banger, the youngest of them, who hasn’t said a thing so far—and who didn’t seem all that psyched about joining in his homeboys’ rape/murder party in the first place—just stares. 

Then he turns and runs face-first into a steel piling.

Sounds dumb, I know, but it’s easier to do in the dark than you’d think. He staggers back from it, moaning and cupping his palms over what’s got to be a broken nose. Then he drops to his knees in the sand.

Butterfly apparently sees this as an opening and charges forward, yelling like an Apache in one of those old John Wayne movies Uncle Nick likes to watch. His knife is raised, his eyes wild from dope, desperation, and a double-sized portion of fear.

Rags kicks him—hard. 

He does it like it’s nothing, just lifts his foot, wrapped in an army boot that looks about fifty years old, and drives it straight into Butterfly’s sternum. The gangbanger’s Apache cries downshift into an agonized wheeze as he doubles over and then goes flying. Three feet. Six feet. Nine.

Jesus, how strong is this dude?

Butterfly’s body slams into a piling—the same one that Pimples’ was pulled behind—with terrific force. Despite the surf and the sound of Broken Nose’s nasal sobs, I hear the dude’s ribs crack. He manages a kind of broken wheeze before he drops to the sand, either out cold or close enough for it not to matter.

I try to scream again. Nothing. I try to move. Can’t. I want to throw myself over Corinne’s body. She’s still unconscious, though how the girl—this sweet, precious little girl—can stay fainted through all this noisy carnage is beyond me. I’m not even sure what good I’d be doing, shielding her like that. I mean, this dude’s knife is more like a machete, easily long enough to pin us both to the dunes.

But she’s my foster sister, and I have to do something!

Except I can’t freakin’ move!

Fortunately, the raggedy man isn’t interested in us. Instead, his attention turns toward the only remaining banger.

Despite his whimpers and obvious pain, Broken Nose is doing his best to crawl away.

“Abby?”

It’s Corinne. When I glance down at her, her eyes have opened. She sounds groggy, disoriented.

“Shhh!” I hiss.

“Abby? Where are you?”

I start to reply. But before I can get the words out, I hear footsteps in the sand behind me—light, almost silent—and my heart freezes up. I glance over my shoulder. I don’t want to. It’s more reflex than conscious thought. After all, if Rags has decided it’s my turn, there’s probably not much I can do about it, and something tells me I’d rather not see it coming.

But it’s not coming, at least not yet.

Instead, the raggedy man walks past us, slow and with an eerie grace, almost close enough to touch. He doesn’t even glance at Corinne or me but instead approaches Broken Nose. The last banger is still crawling, but when he sees what’s coming after him, he manages to scramble to his feet and stumble desperately forward, making for the open beach beyond the pier.

He doesn’t get there.

Rags explodes into motion, a patchwork blur that tears up the sand, dodging one piling after another. Then, leaping up and vaulting smoothly sideways off a third, he pivots in mid-air and lands less than a foot in front of Broken Nose.

Dude’s a freakin’ acrobat!

Broken Nose shrieks and tries to backpedal, but he’s nowhere near fast enough. A grimy fist snaps out, cobra-quick, catching the banger’s coat and pulling him up and off his feet like he weighs nothing.

Broken Nose starts wailing.

“Please…” he stammers. “Please don’t …I didn’t hurt nobody! I don’t even know those guys!” He covers his bloodied face with trembling hands and sobs.

I don’t blame him a bit.

For several long seconds, Rags just studies the dude. Then, as I watch, he slowly raises his knife.

And before I even realize I’m going to, I yell, “No!”

To my surprise—scratch that, astonishment—Rags stops. He tilts his head past the banger he’s so easily holding up and looks at me from under his cowl.

My mouth goes dry.

Even so, I steel myself and say, “Please. Enough.” 

He seems to consider a little longer. Then he drops Broken Nose, who lands hard in the sand, blood spraying across his already messedup face. But, for all his terror, he’s no fool, and he’s up and running a moment later. Okay, maybe “staggering” is a better word, but at least he’s getting away—abandoning his homies, sure. But getting away.

And Rags is letting him.

The whole fight, start to finish, lasted maybe forty-five seconds. Now, around us, one dude’s dead, one’s broken and unconscious, and one’s sobbing and trying to keep his face attached.

My breath catches as Rags comes toward us. My first instinct is to run. But it’s like my legs are rooted in the sand. The best I can do is try to twist my body and put myself between him and Corinne. I’m only partway successful.

“Abby?” Corinne asks again.

“Shut up,” I murmur. Shouting doesn’t seem like the smart move right now.

Rags stops about four feet away, looking at me with eyes I can’t see. Under his hood, his features are a complete void, the shadows so deep that there might as well be nothing there at all. 

I swallow, looking at the blade. Rags clutches it tightly in his right fist, which is mostly buried inside the long, wide sleeve of his ratty wool coat. I can’t even tell the color of his skin. 

For the first time, the smell of him hits me. Coffee grounds, urine, mildew, and rotting food. It’s almost like he’s made of trash!

Then he speaks.

It’s the first time he does, and his voice sends the mother-of-all-chills down my spine. It’s raspy, like fingernails on a blackboard, and hard to listen to. It seems wrong, not quite human, and just the sound of it sets my teeth on edge. It doesn’t help that his words are bullshit.

“Vanyan sòlda.”

I almost reply, “What?” But then I catch myself. The last thing I want to do is strike up a conversation with this head-case.

He raises his hand, not the knife hand, but the other one, his left hand. When he points, I get a quick glimpse of his skin. Except I don’t. What I see is totally caked with grime, oil, and sand. I still can’t tell what color he is. But it’s not a big hand. That much I’m sure about. 

With one finger, he points up the beach, the way we came, toward the same set of stairs that Corinne and I used to get here.

He’s letting us go.

With a ton of effort, I gulp down what little spit I’ve still got. Then, glancing around one last time at the carnage, I whisper, “Thanks.”

For a long moment, Rags doesn’t respond. Then his head nods ever so slightly.

And he’s gone.

I don’t mean he leaves. I don’t mean he runs off, cat-quick like I’ve seen him do. I mean, he just kind of vanishes. Like a ghost.

Seeing it turns me cold in a way the December midnight air can’t explain.

My heart’s going wild, and I’m sweating. 

Can you be freezing and sweating at the same time?

Seems you can.

“Abby?” Corinne says. She pulls herself weakly up to a sitting position. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here,” I tell her, a little irritably. Is she blind? I think, immediately feeling bad about it. Corinne’s not brave. She never has been. Fainting was like her go-to response when the bangers surprised us— not much of a defense mechanism, but the only one she’s got. Besides, maybe she hit her head when she dropped. There are all kinds of things in the sand beneath the pier: rocks, discarded chunks of concrete, broken beer bottles, and worse stuff.

I’ll have to check her for cuts or bumps—once we find some light.

“It’s cool,” I tell her. Then, finally, I get moving. “Keep your eyes closed,” I say, reaching down and taking her hands. “Don’t look around. You hear me, pumpkin?”

Corinne doesn’t argue. She just lets me pull her up. Then she hugs me, hard and desperate. I hug back. Nearby, the Atlantic Ocean roars and crashes.

Moving in slow, halting steps, I lead my foster sister away from the bodies and toward the somewhat safer Boardwalk, our little midnight adventure cut short.

I could say that’s how the whole thing started.

I could, but I’d be lying.

​That’s just where I’ve decided to start telling it.
 

On June 1, 2021, my ninth published novel was released by eSpec Books.

DRAGONS is a science fiction YA thriller that puts a new twist on the "dragons" mythos. His whole life, 18-year-old Andy Brand has been taught to hide his true self from everyone around him, for his own safety, and that of his Kind. But all the pretending in the world can't shield him from powerful people who already know what he is...and what he can do.

Kidnapped and pushed beyond his limits, Andy comes out blazing.

However, all is not as it seems and he soon finds himself struggling to navigate a maze of lies, otherworldly wonders, and deadly betrayals that will test not just his power, but his courage and intellect as well.

For lives are at stake, and only a Dragon can save them...

***

This one was a lot of fun to write, in no small part because some of the main characters are named for my kids!  If you're into an exciting adventure with strong characters that Publishers Weekly dubbed an "ambitious genre-bender," I hope you'll give it a shot. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere in paperback and ebook formats.

But, just to get the juices flowing, here's the first chapter for FREE!

***
ONE – Day 1 

I wake up with a start, thinking three things in rapid succession.

First: This is a weird dream.

Second: Wait a sec. This doesn’t feel like a weird dream!

Third: Oh… furk.

My mom wouldn’t approve of that last one.

With a gasp, I sit up on the mattress.

I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit. On my feet are these little white gum-soled canvas pull-ons, without a doubt the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen. Don’t ask me why, but it’s those pull-ons that tip me from “confused” to “scared.” But when I look around, “scared” ratchets up to “terrified,” and my stomach tries to crawl right up my throat.

I’m in some kind of futurey-looking cube, maybe twelve feet to a side.

Glowing squares in the ceiling cast an artificial light that makes the flat gray walls look, if possible, even flatter and grayer. Nearly every inch of every surface, ceiling and floor included, is made up of featureless metal tiles.

There’s no door, no windows, and no furniture. In fact, the only things in the room, besides the foam mattress, are a square pedestal sink and a somewhat shorter, square toilet. No soap, no towel. Both the sink and john look like they’re made of the same gray tiles as the walls.

I climb to my feet, half-expecting something bad to happen when I do. 

When nothing does, I try the sink faucets. The water’s cold. I cup some in my palms and drink. It tastes clean. In fact, it tastes almost too clean. Sterile. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but it’s the impression I get.
The toilet works—well, like a toilet. No answers there. With no towel in evidence, I dry my hands on the legs of my jumpsuit.

Above the sink is a small mirror. Except it’s not really a mirror, just a rectangular grouping of those same square tiles. Only these are polished somehow so that they show me my own reflection.

More futurey weirdness.

My complexion’s sallow, the way I get when I spend too much time playing vid games. If this was home, my mom would be all over me with epithets like, “You’re not getting enough rest!” and “You’re not getting enough sun!” I once considered asking her if she wanted me to take long afternoon naps in the backyard. 

But, as I recall, I kept that particular snark to myself.

Where are my folks? 

Do they know I’m missing? They must, and are probably crazy with worry, even crazier than most parents would be in such circumstances, given—everything.

My heart’s hammering and the sweat on my face and hands has nothing to do with the temperature. A part of me wants to lay back down on the palette, curl up into a ball, and—well—hide.

Instead, I say aloud, trying not to sound scared, “Okay, what’s the deal?”

I don’t expect an answer.

Which is probably why a shock shoots up my spine when I get one.

“You’re in no danger.”

I don’t scream. Honestly, I don’t.

But I do whirl around, searching for the source of the voice. It sounds mechanical, disguised. That could be a good thing. If my captors don’t want me to be able to ID them, then maybe they don’t intend to murder me after they get the ransom.

You know…the ransom my folks can’t afford to pay.

Except a ransom motive is only the best-case scenario.

Questions tumble through my mind, lots of them. I pick the most obvious. “Where am I?”

The reply is both immediate and unhelpful. “Safe.”

“Great,” I say. The voice seems to come from everywhere at once. I can’t even tell if the speaker’s male or female. “Not what I asked, though.”

“All your questions will be answered eventually. Are you hungry?”

“No.” Though I am.

“Thirsty? We can do better than tap water.”

“No.” Though I am.

“Then what are you?”

“Pissed off.”

“This must all be very confusing.”

“Confusing? You furking kidnapped me!”

No immediate response. So, I wait, trying to ignore the twist in my gut.

“All this is for the greater good. Soon, everything will be explained to you.”

“Why not now? Doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere.”

“Not quite yet.”

“Listen, if you’re looking for a ransom, you snatched the wrong kid.”

“We know exactly who we ‘snatched.’ You’re Anthony ‘Andy’ Brand, eighteen-year-old senior at Haddonfield High School in New Jersey, Class of 2099.”

My mouth goes dry. “If you know all that, then you know that my folks aren’t anything like rich!”

“We’re not interested in money, Andy. But we’ll address that later. For now, I’d like you to do something for me.”

Here it is. The big ask. Will they demand that I strip naked? Could all this be some kind of perv party? I can’t spot a vidcam, but they know I just used the sink, so they must be able to see me. Besides, they changed me into this jumpsuit, which means they’ve already seen my junk.

Unfortunately, bad as a sexual angle would be, there are worse possibilities.

“What kind of something?” I ask, trying to sound more impatient than scared.

I hear a gentle swoosh from above. I glance up in time to see something drop out of a square hole in the ceiling and land at my feet. A moment later, a tile slides over the hole and blends in with the rest, indistinguishable.

Do all these tiles move?

Warily, I look down at a crumpled piece of paper.

I reach for it.

“Don’t bother. It’s blank.”

“Then what’s it for?” I ask, though I know. Of course, I know.

“I want you to burn it.”

My stomach lurches.

“What?”

“I want you to burn the paper,” the voice repeats tonelessly, as if reciting the time of day.

“I…don’t understand.”

“You understand perfectly, Andy. I’m aware of the rules of your people, but these are extraordinary circumstances. As far as any potential damage goes, these walls have an extremely high heat tolerance. Believe me when I say that there’s zero risk.”

“Believe me when I say that I don’t care.”

“I can appreciate that. However, we do need to see it.” 

“See what?”

“See you burn that wad of paper.”

“Okay. Fine. Whatever. But you’re going to have to give me a lighter.”

Silence.

“Or, I don’t know, a match?”

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t play this game.”

I look balefully around, struggling to seem genuinely confused. “I don’t know what you want from me!” I whine. It’s a good whine, one of my all-time best. “How am I supposed to start a fire without even a lousy match?”

“I’m disappointed, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

I do a dance of exasperation. I scowl. I huff. I throw up my hands, putting all the “What the furk do you expect me to do?” into it as I can.

“Burn the paper, Andy.”

“How?”

“Burn it.”

“I can’t!”

“Of course, you can, and we both know it.”

With a frustrated cry that I think sounds genuine, I kick the wad of paper into a corner of my cell. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re a lunatic!”

“All right. Obviously, this was too much too soon. Let’s try again later.”

“What? Furk later! I want to go home!”

“The fastest way for that to happen is for you to cooperate.”

“How can I cooperate when what you’re asking doesn’t make any sense?”

“Why don’t you get some rest? I suggest you lay down on the pallet. I don’t want you to get hurt when the vector takes effect.”

“The what?”

“Lay down. For your own sake.”

“I’m not doing anything for you! I don’t know what any of this is about, but I want nothing to do with it!”

“Your call, I suppose.”

A moment later, the world starts spinning. Alarmed, I try to steady myself. I can’t. Whatever’s happening to me happens fast. Darkness closes in. As it does, a single horrific understanding wracks my already overtaxed brain.

They know! My God… they know what I am!

Then I hit the floor hard and stay there.

Once again, a lot has happened since the last time I blogged. 

DRAGONS, my science fiction YA adventure (the book I finished right before completely The New Americans) has been picked up by eSpec Books. This wonderful indie publisher, run by the amazing Mike and Danielle McPhail, has since jumped into the project with both feet. They immediately added it to Kickstarter than did very well for itself, fully funding on just my books but a number of other projects as well. I really very impressed with these folks. Full disclosure: we go back a ways. :)

Dragons tells the story of eighteen-year-old Andy Draco, who finds himself kidnapped by a billionaire and sent via spacecraft millions of miles from Earth to aid in a rescue operation. However, to accomplish this, Andy must first admit to, and then embrace, a power he’s spent his life hiding.

Andy is a Dragon, a vanishingly small subspecies of humanity capable of generating incredible amount of thermal energy at will. Relegated to myth and embellished and romanticized by legend, Dragons are people, not giant lizards, who seek quiet lives and devote themselves to concealing their true nature.

But now terrorists have seized a mining colony on remote Europa, and a Dragon is needed to melt a shaft through the twenty-mile ice shelf to affect a rescue. All is not as it seems, however, and Andy soon finds himself embroiled in a deadly political struggle that will test not merely his power, but his courage and intellect as well. There’s more at stake here than he can imagine.

(Taken from the query, btw.)

Needless to say, I'm honored and crazy excited right now. This makes my ninth published novel and I'm fiercely proud of it.  I hope all of you will look for it when it comes out and pick up a copy! I promise you won't regret it.  

Oh, and don't worry ... I'll remind you. ;)

2020 has been rough year for everyone, me included. But I did manage to get some stuff accomplished. And, at the top of that list, is the completion of my dad's novel, which I'm calling The New Americans.

It's a big one. 240,000 words and 1,000 typewritten pages!  But it's a great story and I've very proud of it. Now, however, comes the challenging task of securing a literary agent and then, hopefully, a publisher. In that spirit, today I sent out 35 queries to various agents across the country who handle this type of book. Fingers crossed!

What's that you ask? What's a query? 

Well, the short answer is that a query is a sales pitch for a novel. They tend to be just one page in length, and they're less about storytelling then about salesmanship. The idea is to entice aneditor or agent into requesting the entire manuscript. And, believe me, that's not as easy as it sounds!  Most publishing professionals, at least those who work with book-length works, see dozens (maybe hundreds) of queries in a single day! So, to stand out, you need to "cook with gas," as the old saying goes.

So, in the spirit of transparency, I thought I'd share with you all the query I drafted over the past weekend. This is what I hope will earn me an agent for The New Americans.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore…”

Philadelphia, 1915. For the last twenty years, five million Italian and Sicilian immigrants have poured into the city, bringing with them their food, their languages, and their culture of honor and family above all. But, on arrival, they’re met with derision, distrust, and often outright violence. They’re called “guineas,” “wops,” and “fucking dagos.” Some have fled poverty, some politics to reach this new land. And some are simply trying to stay alive.

This is the story of three of them.

Meet Peter Donatello, eldest son of a widowed peasant woman in central Sicily. A young man of honor and obligation, when the local don conscripts him into la mafia, Peter chooses to flee to America. There, he tries to find his place in a startlingly alien new world, first as a shipyard riveter, then a bootlegger during Prohibition’s early years. But when he loses his heart to a beautiful young American teacher from a wealthy family, their romance will send shockwaves through their respective societies, and ultimately force Peter to redefine who and what he is.

Meet John Donatello, Peter’s middle brother, whose desperate act of violence results in the death of the don’s son and the exile of himself and his brothers. In America, his own struggle will take him first to the trenches of World War I, and then later into a position of power within the rising underworld spawned by the Eighteen Amendment. His violent path of guilt and anger will draw him into inevitable conflict with Peter, the brother he both idolizes and resents.

Meet Angelu, the youngest Donatello. A true innocent, Angelu is forced by circumstance to emigrate with his brothers to a land he finds overwhelming and frightening. Ever a creature of kindness and joy, Angelu will watch as his beloved Peter and John are pulled further away from him by their respective destinies – leaving him alone in a world he can never understand.

At 240,000 words and spanning ten years, The New Americans is a saga of courage and adventure, betrayal and retribution, honor and love. It walks us through a turbulent time in our nation’s history, as these three young men strive to discover what it means to be American.

Based on cassettes my father recorded just before he lost his battle with cancer in 1992, this novel is a unique father-son collaboration separated by almost thirty years. For my own part, I’ve authored nine professionally published novels, including The Franklin Affair, a historical mystery about Ben Franklin, and The Undertakers, a five-book middle-grade horror series that has been optioned for a feature film.

The full manuscript of The New Americans is available for your review with an eye toward representation. 

Thank you for your consideration.

- Ty Drago

That's it! Often the agent will ask for sample pages or even sample chapters as well. But really it's the query that will make or break you.

While this letter's already gone out to those aforementioned agents, that's only the FIRST wave! So if any of you have suggestions to offer, I would certainly welcome them. Query-writing is kind of an art within an art, if you take my meaning, and there's always room for improvement.

In the meantime, keep writing!

I know ... I don't blog enough, not near enough.  Call it a boomer thing.

Right now, Helene (wife/first read) has "The New Americans" and is busily editing it for content and readability.  But it's a long book, and she'll be at it a while, which has left me time to do ... other stuff.  This has included practicing martial arts, teaching chess to elementary school kids, turning my novel "Torq" into a audiobook podcast, and teaching.

Honestly, while I enjoy them all, I absolutely love teaching.

As of this writing, I've taught three evening adult education classes at nearby Haddonfield High School.  The first two were a six-week course on short fiction authorship that I developed called "Practical Creative Writing."  In this curriculum, students learn not just writing techniques but also how to submit one's work for publication.  Best of all, one student in every class is guaranteed publication in an online magazine.  I'm sure I don't have to tell you which online magazine I'm referring to. :)

I've just finished teaching my third class, which I called "Novel Writing 101."  This ten-week course was met with some skepticism by the fellow who coordinates adult education for the borough of Haddonfield.  He wasn't sure there would be enough local interest to support it. So, I was astonished when he informed me that, not only had the class sold out, but there was a waiting list! 

Well, waiting list be damned!  I insisted that he let everyone in.

That's how I ended up spending one night a week throughout this past autumn teaching a curriculum of my own design to eighteen aspiring novelists.  It proved to be a wonderful, enriching experience ... for me, at least ... though I certainly hope they enjoyed it, too! :)

I'm always surprised by the breadth of ideas that writers can produce.  I won't share them here for privacy's sake, but they ranged from fantasy, to romance, to comedy/horror.  During the course of the class, each student was asked to write three chapters, which I then edited for content.  I firmly believe that, while storytelling is an art, writing is a craft and can, to some degree or another, be learned.

Naturally, ten weeks isn't enough time to write a full-length novel, at least not for most people and certainly not for me.  But I hope that each of my students came away with the tools and necessary momentum to finish their projects.

The feedback I received from this class was gratifyingly positive.  In particular, several students asked me what I'm teaching next.  "How about 'Novel Writing 102'?" someone suggested.

So, after some consideration, I've pitched an eight-week follow-up class that I'm calling "Writing for Writers."  It'll focus less on lecture and more on workshopping and one-on-one mentoring to help authors who may be struggling with a writing project to keep moving forward.  Once again, I'll be offering it at Haddonfield High School and, while I have no idea how well it will be received, I'm hopeful.

Honestly, for the first time in my life, I think I understand why teachers teach.  I've never felt such satisfaction from any job.  It's been an amazing experience, and one I hope to take further as time goes on.  Toward that end, I've been offering "Practical Creative Writing" and "Novel Writing 101" to other local municipalities.  Maybe, down the road, I'll even find myself teaching at a community college!

In any event, I'm imparting knowledge, empowering newbie-writers, and having a blast doing it ... and that's the point, isn't it?

Those of you who have been reading this blog and following me on social media will have heard about "The New Americans." This is the novel I've been working on for the past eighteen months, based on an outline that my father recorded on a series of cassette tapes just before his death in 1992.

"The New Americans" chronicles the lives of three Sicilian brothers who are forced by circumstance to flee their homeland and emigrate to America in 1915.  There, they find themselves embroiled in everything from World War I to the early years of Prohibition as they struggle to find their place in an impossibly alien land.

It's a long, complex novel and I'm very proud of it.  If you'd like to know more, I suggest you check out our podcast "Legacy: A Novel Writing Experience." 

Anyway, yesterday I completed the third draft, which means the book is now ready to go to my First Read.  What's a First Read, you ask?  Well, basically my First Read is the first person to read the work other than me.  It's a critically important job.  It can be anyone, from a friend, to a fellow author, to a loved one - as long as it's someone who will be honest.  You see, the First Read's task is to edit for content, and to be effective, this must be done objectively and, yes, ruthlessly.

My first read is my wife, Helene Boettcher Drago, and it's a job that she takes very seriously.  While I admit her comments can sometimes rattle me a bit, there's no denying that, every time I incorporate her suggestions, the book shines all the brighter for it.  She's the best editor I've ever had and I couldn't be more grateful.  I love you, sweetheart!

Once she's done her bit, I'll polish "The New Americans" a fourth time, and then likely a fifth, before it'll be ready to submit to agents and publishers.  So, it'll be a while yet before you see it on your bookstore's shelf.  Writing a novel is a long process, and patience is key - not always easy, but definitely key.

I'll keep you all posted!

So, I've started the third draft of "The New Americans," the book that I'm co-authoring with my deceased father.

I know. There's a lot to unpack in that sentence. But, rather than tell the story yet again, I'm going to humbly suggest that you read some of my earlier posts on the topic or, better yet, check out the podcast that my wife, Helene, and I do called "Legacy: The Novel Writing Experience." For more info on that, check out www.twooldfolksdoingstuff.com.

This post isn't about the novel itself so much as my process for writing it.

This is the draft I intend to give to Helene. She's both my First Read and the toughest editor I've ever met. So, I've been doing my best to give her the cleanest book I possibly can. This is a big one. "The New Americans" currently weighs in at about 240,000 words, which is a lot, but not outside the ballpark for the type of story it is. But such a length presents certain challenges, with time being at the top of the list. My goal is to give her this story to read by the end of August. That's a tall order.

So, how do I move quickly through a book this size? Well, for this draft, I've elicited some AI help. I'm letting the computer read it to me.

It's a technique I can't recommend strongly enough. It's a line-editing tool rather than a copy-editing one. You don't want to go down this road until the story you're writing is past the point of major changes. This is for catching those little word choice errors and other typos that plague our novels like fleas on a dog. And it works!

Eighty percent of what I do is editing, which means reading and re-reading the same words until, frankly, I can no longer readily recognize my own mistakes. Fortunately, Word 365 has a wonderful feature that allows it to read whatever is in the current document. Yes, the voice is robotic and sometimes lacks inflection. But I'm not making an audio book here; I'm simply endeavoring to catch things with my ears that my eyes have missed. 

To activate it, you simply open your document in Word 365, go to the Review tab, and click "Read Aloud" on the Ribbon. This will open a little control box in the upper left, one which frankly gets in the way sometimes, but allows you to start and stop the reading easily. By default, there are three voices to choose from. All are native Microsoft and all have that tinny, robotic aspect I mentioned earlier. But they work for me.

However, if the tinny voice bothers you, you can try TextAloud. This is a third-party app that includes a nice Word 365 add-on and allows access to more "natural sounding" voices. It costs money, though and, from my experience, isn't as easy or efficient to use. If you'd like to try it out, visit nextup.com.

The trick, while I'm doing this, is to watch the screen. Word 365 moves word-by-word as it reads, making it easy to pick out discrepancies. Whenever I find one, which is often, I pause the reading, manually fix the problem, and then restart the reading at the beginning of the sentence to make sure I fixed it right. If it sounds tedious -- it is, but it's a powerful tool for "late stage" line editing.

Writing ain't easy. It takes a ton of time, a ton of work, and a ton of drive to make it happen. Anything that helps me produce the best product I can is a welcome addition to my author's toolbox. So, if you don't already do this, I suggest you give it a try!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a book to listen to...

I do not blog enough!

I know this and I have no real excuse.  It's not a lack of news; I've got a lot going on that I could share.  It's not a lack of time; I'm busy, but not so busy that I can't make this more of a priority.  The simple truth is that with everything I am doing, it just doesn't occur to me to blog about it.  I really need to work on that.

A couple of days ago I finally completed the second draft of "The New Americans."  This is the book that's based on the outline my father recorded on cassette tapes before he died in 1992.  Helene and I did an entire podcast show about it called "Legacy: The Novel Writing Experience"  if you simply must know more!  You can find it wherever podcasts are available.

Every writer has a "process," and the nature of that process is a very personal thing.  My first draft is usually me just hammering out the words, not worrying about silly things like pace or even logic to do so.  Then, in the second draft, I endeavor to ... well ... add pace and logic. I like to think of the first draft as deciding on the words I'm going to use and the second draft as putting them in the right order.

Then, with the third draft, I start detailing -- fixing mistakes, adding consistency, and firming up the Voice.  For those of you who don't know what I mean by Voice, I'll do a blog post about it in the near future ... hopefully.
With the fourth draft, I tighten up the book.  What's that mean?  Well, whenever you hear someone say, "That book was a quick read!" or "It was a page-turner!" or "I couldn't put it down!" it means that the author took the time to review the language he or she is using in every single sentence.  Too much passive voice?  Too many verbs "to be?"  Too many adjectives or adverbs?  This exercise usually shaves about ten to fifteen percent off the book's word count.

When the fourth draft is complete, I give the book to Helene. She's my "First Read."  Her job is to read the book with a critical eye and tell me, in detail, what's good or not so good about it.  She's wonderfully and sometimes agonizingly good at this.

With "The New Americans," however, the process is somewhat accelerated.  Because I was working from my father's outline, I was able to kind of merge the first and second drafts.  So, when I say I've finished the second draft of this particular novel, I've really finished my third -- since everything I usually do with the third draft I was able to do with the second in this case.  Does that make sense?

Bottom line: Helene will be getting the third draft of this novel, not the fourth.  And, with luck and hard work, she'll be getting it by the end of August.  The idea of her feedback both thrills and terrifies me.  I'm very  close to this story, maybe too close.

Anyway, that's the news I wanted to share with all of you today.  I'll be back with more soon.  Really.  I will.

Honest.