Tag Archive for James Preller on writing

Let’s Hear It for Very, Very Short Chapters!

June 22, 2026 / / No comments

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A friend recently picked up This Is Happiness by Niall Williams. 

That’s a book I often praise. I love its deep Irishness and humor.

She laughed at the opening chapter, which I had forgotten:

It had stopped raining.

That was it.

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There are many, many more words that come later, but there are just those four in that first chapter. I guess in Ireland, and certainly for this book, that one sentence was momentous enough to merit its own chapter.

I remember in college reading William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. It contained an extremely short chapter that kind of blew my mind: 

My mother is a fish.

That was all, just five words — a playful idea that appealed to me enormously. I’m not sure why, because you could easily dismiss the short chapter as gimmicky. But to me, then and now, I thought of it as clever and refreshing.

That idea stuck into my head for years and years. Maybe someday I’ll write my own very, very short chapter. And I did fulfill that Grand Ambition in my well-reviewed, absolutely ignored novel, Better Off Undead. Which is too bad, because I think it’s one of the most entertaining books I’ve written. Anyway!

The previous chapter, “Fight,” described a confrontation between Adrian (who is a zombie) and a group of tough middle-schoolers. It ends this way:

And then, right there in front of Leonardo di Pizza, fueled by the strength of the undead, I feasted on their flesh.

The next chapter is titled, “Not Really.” The entire contents of that chapter: 

Kidding.

That’s it, one word.

The following chapter is titled “Actually,” which goes on to describe what really happened. Hopefully a reader finds it all playful and amusing, in the same way Faulker’s short chapter pleased me, or Williams’ opening salvo elicited a laugh from my friend.

But what about you, Dear Reader? Can you think of other examples of extremely short chapters in literature?

I’ll give you one more favorite. This is from Stephen King’s It: 

Nothing much happened for the next two weeks.

Ha!

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Category: Better Off Undead, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , ,

One Memory of My Father

April 1, 2026 / / 2 comments

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In an era of great book covers, this one strikes me as pretty bad. But just wait till you get inside!

I’m reading Susan Orlean’s extraordinary memoir, Joyride. She is, quite obviously, one of our greatest living writers. The book is largely about her writing life, which one gathers is not at all distinct from her life in general. I find it vastly inspiring. She makes me want to be a better writer. A truer writer. Highly recommended to anyone who cares about writing or admires Orlean’s work. Which of course you do, because how can you not?

But I keep putting this book down after a page or two. Over and over again. Long ago I determined that was a very positive sign. The poem that has me staring out the window. The book that elicits memories, new ideas, inspirations, eureka moments. I think of these as source books. Deep wells from which the imagination drinks its full. I suspect it will take me forever to finish it. I also suspect that I’m going to need to own this one, scribbling in the margins. Returning the book to the library just won’t suffice.

Oh, right, my dad. Orlean was writing about her mother and a memory of my father leaped into my head. He passed in 2006, long ago, and I suppose days go by when I don’t think of him. I also suppose that such streaks rarely happen. He’s always there, as anyone with a deceased parent understands. 

My father was an insurance man. A practical man. A man of his time. Smart about things, like money and the stock market and when to rotate the tires. He loved mucking about on his boat. In fact, as I think of it now, “puttering around” was his prime activity. Pruning a tree limb, slathering it with tar. Setting down an imperfect line of Belgian blocks along the driveway. Playing bridge and doing jigsaw puzzles and pouring a scotch. He had a minor but persistent artistic streak, a flag that he never truly unfurled. It came out in different projects, a late-period adult education painting class, that sort of thing. He never took me to a museum or read novels or did anything that I recall to cultivate an artistic sensibility in his children, which includes me, his youngest. 

So I think when I became a writer it sort of baffled and intrigued him. He might have even admired it a little, I’m not sure. He wasn’t supportive or not supportive. It was just sort of like, okay, whatever. So long as you can put food on the table. I think he felt that way about all his children. Go live your life; I’m here if you need anything.

The memory is this: He would sometimes come across an article in the newspaper. Something that tangentially tied into what he thought I did for a living. Maybe he just came across a news item that made him think of me. I imagine him at the kitchen table, an unfiltered Camel burning in the ashtray. He’d grab the scissors, clip it out, fold it neatly into an envelope, and send it my way. If there was a note attached by a paper clip, it would be brief, “I found this interesting.” That sort of thing.

We don’t live in that world anymore. When folks stuffed newspaper clippings in envelopes. It used to happen, I’m sure some readers remember, but not anymore. That time has largely vanished from the earth, living only in memory. How the mailman would arrive and lo, here was a letter from my father, unbidden and unexpected, containing some odd miscellany he felt I’d enjoy. 

This was a man, a veteran of World War II, who didn’t express a lot of emotion. Or, like, any? I’m searching my memory and nothing shows up. Oh, well, no bother. But those clippings in the mail, delivered days later, were his attempts at connection. Saying, I am thinking of you. Saying, I now understand, I love you. 

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Thank you, Susan Orlean, for somehow mysteriously summoning up that memory for me. You wrote another great book. 

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Category: Family, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , ,

WRITING PROCESS: “Writing Is Structure.” — Vince Gilligan

February 12, 2026 / / No comments

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“The cherry on top

does not support

the ice cream sundae.”

— Vince Gilligan, creator of BREAKING BAD.

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Last week I posted about my writing process for a book I was working on, the second in my “Survival Code” series (May, 2027). The deadline was on my mind, a clear line in the sand. A friend asked me how the writing was going and it stumped me. 

Was I even writing yet?

I knew I was working, circling the story, reading and thinking a lot, but I wasn’t actually writing. At least, not in the sense we commonly know it, that whole unpleasant business with words on a page. 

Yet I knew this was essential to the final product. Possibly the most important stage. 

If you are curious, you can click here to find it.

The very next day, I came across this 30-second clip featuring a snippet of Vince Gilligan’s thoughts on writing. He powerfully and simply verbalized something I was dithering about. 

I even transcribed it. But first, to be clear, Gilligan is at first talking about writing for the screen, which is why he begins by discussing dialogue, whereas a writer of novels might describe it differently:

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“Oddly enough, people think of writing as dialogue, and to me writing is structure. Dialogue is the cherry on top. The cherry on top does not support the ice cream sundae. It’s a delicious little added thing, but the real storytelling, the real structuring, which is often something in TV we do, all the writers together in a room, working and not actually typing anything, but just talking. Just verbalizing. That to me is the hard part of writing: the structuring, the building of the scaffolding, the skeleton of the story, if you will.” — Vince Gilligan, creator of BREAKING BAD.

 

 

 

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Category: The Survival Code, the writing process / Tags: , , , , ,

On Writing: Body Language & Character

February 26, 2025 / / No comments

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I want to talk about writing today. Let’s begin by looking at this famous image of John F. Kennedy, which I came across & posted yesterday in connection with a quote:

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As writers, we need to try to see people and convey that in words. I’m not great at this by any means. It requires effort, a struggle, as it doesn’t often come naturally in my writing. But as writers, we must try to notice things, mannerisms, telling details. Why? To help the reader see. And also: as a way into character. 

Look around: People are everywhere. Ask yourself, how would I describe that posture? The woman in the coffee shop. The kid on the slide. How do it quickly, efficiently, in a sentence or two?

Back to the Kennedy image. It could be, simply:

He stands with arms crossed, neck bent, head down.

Or a little more:

He stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. He is reflective, feeling deeply. 

Yuck, okay, the voice feels wrong — I might be trying to avoid the “lost in thought” cliche — or, say:

Arlo stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. This is the Arlo I love. When he is quiet and reflective. I long to know what is in his heart. 

Or that last bit in the 3rd person: 

Esme longs to know what is in his heart.

Or inject more story into it:

Arlo stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. This is classic Arlo. A performance. He is such a fraud. I can’t wait to hear what utter bullshit he’ll say next.

Or, okay:

He tucks his hands beneath his crossed arms, stands quietly, head down, considering. 

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And on and on and on, endlessly. There are a million options, a million ways to get at it. Or to paint it, if you will. 

Try to do that today. Watch people closely. Notice how they hold themselves. At first, try to strictly describe only what you see: the ankles crossed, the fingers touching a necklace, the mouth a thin line of disapproval, etc. 

The truly amazing thing is how entire characters, entire world views, can grow out of this simple practice. The posture is a seed that flowers into a fully-formed, “living” character.

For example, say, this: 

The way Anna fidgets with the bracelet on her thin, right wrist. The bracelet was her mother’s, a gift before the cancer took her away. It was a year ago but feels like yesterday. Anna reaches for it when she feels nervous, or insecure, or just bored and lonely. A habit of the heart. It seems to help. She remembers the love that is gone and, almost magically, the love that persists.

I just made that up. Beginning with an image of a physical act.

Now it’s your turn. 

Go deeper, if you wish. But mostly, as an exercise, try to describe what you see. A sentence or two. The crossed ankles. The twirling of the hair. The setting of the shoulders. The forward-leaning walk, arms swinging. It all begins & ends with the seeing. 

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Don’t miss my newest middle-grade novel, Shaken. Now also available on Audible, read by Caitlyn Davis. 

 

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Category: Shaken, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Upon Wanting “The Third Thing”

February 13, 2025 / / No comments

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If I’m honest, I think I’ve always wanted the third thing.

And now here in the gloaming of my career, I’ve come to understand that that wanting, that longing, has been at the core of my discomfort as a writer.

Foolish or not, I wanted more from the world.

Of course, it applies to every aspect of life. 

I first heard it explained in this way via a brief video, which I believe featured Ryan Holiday, the philosopher and writer. Some months later, I tracked down his book, The Daily Stoic, co-authored by Stephen Hanselman.

A week ago I Googled “the third thing” and found this entry from a 2020 Daily Stoic email:

You want it, don’t you?

That “I told you so.” That “Thank You.” That recognition for being first, or being better, or being different. You want credit. You want gratitude. You want the acknowledgement for the good you’ve done, for the weight that you carry.

What you want is what Marcus Aurelius has called “the third thing,” because you’re not content enough with the doing. “When you’ve done well and another has benefited by it,” he writes, “why like a fool do you look for a third thing on top—credit for the good deed or a favor in return?”

Now, “fool” is a strong word, but the point stands. Why can’t the deed be enough? Was a pat on the back really the reason you decided to value the truth? Is that why you helped someone? Did you leave a big tip to that waitress or driver who was clearly struggling so they’d run out and thank you—or did you do it because you knew that it was right? Do you take your lonely stand because it will look cool, or because it was unconscionable to you to throw in with the mob?

You don’t need a favor back. You don’t need to be repaid. You don’t need to be acknowledged. You don’t need the third thing. That’s not why you do what you do. You’re good because it’s good to be good, and that’s all you need.

 

Aurelius and Holiday are focused here on daily life. Holding a door open for someone. Shoveling a neighbor’s driveway. Pausing to let a car enter into a busy traffic lane. The little things one does or does not do in the course of a day. 

Why do we do it? For the accolades?

And aren’t the accolades, when we stop to think about it, irrelevant?

But professionally, I confess that deep down I’ve always hungered after it. The acclaim, the attention, the invitations & engagements. We all want to be seen, I think. And for a writer, that means to be read. Plus, of course, to be praised & loved by those same readers.

While I’ve had a long career, in which I’ve enjoyed many rewarding experiences — fan mail, school visits, awards — I’ve never achieved that highest level of success. By and large, the third thing has been elusive.

Maybe the lesson here is that there is always a third thing, no matter what you achieve? So many artists experience that nagging dissatisfaction. That great Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?” I could listen to it and nod all day long.

I realize that I have nothing to complain about — there are so very many aspiring writers who would love to enjoy my success — but I’m trying to share a little nugget of wisdom I’ve learned along the way, or at least something I am trying to learn. 

I’ve always wrestled with it. Ego is the enemy. The wanting is the thing to distrust. Despite being an actively published author for 39 years, I don’t feel like a success. However, I tell myself, that can’t be the measure of my happiness, or my worth. Wishing for the dubious third thing.

That’s the outside stuff. The part that I have no control over. The awards and accolades and articles and interviews that don’t come. All the stuff that isn’t me, isn’t in my domain: that’s not why I do what I do. 

I am trying to let go of that third thing.

Trying to get my mind & heart right.

Trying to do the work in front of me. Be my best. Write as well as I can. Control what I can control. Feel peace and contentment and gratitude.

And let go.

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To sign up for the Daily Stoic email, click here. 

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Category: Readings, the writing process / Tags: , , , , , , ,
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