Category Archives: Evan Braun

September on Tap

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A month of stranger than fiction stories were promised… and, well, promised delivered! I’ve been friends and colleagues with the many writers of this blog for years, and yet I found myself consistently surprised, amused, and horrified by September’s crop of posts.

One of the dominant stereotypes about writers is that we’re all J.D. Salinger types, antisocial nerds who shut themselves up in their dark little basements and slowly grow pale from lack of direct sunlight. Okay, that might be overstating things somewhat. The point is that it couldn’t be further from the truth. In order to write resonant, exciting, and cathartic prose, you have to get out into the world and live. September was certainly a showcase for that.

In case you’ve missed any of our excellent posts this month, take a few minutes to browse what’s on offer.

Stranger than Fiction, by Nancy DiMauro.

Hair Popsicle, by Clancy Metzger.

The Self-Cleaning Dog, by Gregory D. Little.

What’s Up, Doc? by Kim May.

A Hangman’s Tale, by Karen Dudley.

The $80 Mission Bank Heist, by Jace Sanders.

The Thin Line Between Memoir and Realistic Fiction, by Kristin Luna.

The Longest Ten Minutes, by Evan Braun.

My Close Encounter, by Robert J. McCarter.

Based on a True Story, by Kevin Ikenberry.

The Strangest Part of Real Life Is that It Happens Every Day, by Matt Jones.

Life vs. Story, by Frank Morin.

Haunted Hospital, by Paul Genesse.

Texas Heart Shot, by Quincy Allen.

Hell in an Elevator, by Scott Eder.

Perfectly Harmless Lake Flies, by Gama Martinez.

From Plane to Progress, by Colette Black.

When Life Is Larger than Life, by Mary Pletsch.

In the Company of Giants, by Lou J. Berger.

Webbed Toes and Dream-Memories, by Nathan Barra.

Come on back tomorrow, as Leigh Galbreath begins a journey into our more angsty writerly psyches. For October, we’ll be tackling Fear and Loathing in the Writing Life.

The Longest Ten Minutes

Evan Braun Reflection Self-Awareness The Writing Life 1 Comment

About a decade ago, I worked for a short time at a small Bible college in Huntsville, Alabama. My main job was to film the various classes, then edit them so the courses could be made available for online correspondence. I intermittently worked on this project through three school years. During this time, I lived onsite at the school’s dormitories, and as a result I became friends with a lot of the students who stayed in dorm.

Around the time, a very strange incident happened to me which I’ve tried several times since to figure out. I’ve even tried to purvey the details into various stories and books. Every time I’ve done so, an alpha reader ends up scoffing at it: “Ridiculous. That’s so implausible.” Somehow the fact that it happened in real life doesn’t make it any more plausible. As a result, the following anecdote has yet to actually be immortalized in the written word, until now.

One evening, after dinner, I accepted an invitation from a group of students to join them at a favorite park of theirs. First, we stopped for some smoothies and milkshakes, and then we started to drive. The park was near one of the students’ home, about twenty minutes away, so it necessitated a short drive. The sun was already down at this point, so the only illumination was the street lights. In the near-dark, I sat in the back seat next to a friend of mine—a male student—while two women sat up front. We exchanged some quiet chatter, but we were mostly kind of tired from a long day, content to listen to the music playing over the stereo.

Suddenly, I felt a hand land on my leg, just above the knee, and rest there. At first, I thought this was an accidental grazing. Maybe this friend had meant to lower his hand onto the seat beside him, and somehow missed. Maybe. The strange thing was that the hand did not pull away. It stayed… and stayed.

I was fairly speechless at this point, but also kind of terrified of what it might mean, so I resisted the urge to turn to him and very politely say, “Excuse you, but your hand is resting on my leg.” I mean, what if this was real, intentional? I didn’t want to embarrass him, but in retrospect I obviously should have said something right away, because my silence only seemed to encourage the behavior.

Because it didn’t stop. One minute passed, then two. To my shock, the hand inched up, up up up, until it found my inner thigh. This was clearly no accident! And he did not move his hand. If anything, he groped tighter.

This went on for an agonizingly long time as my mind raced to find the perfect, tactful solution. Five minutes. Seven, eight. Ten? Yes. Ten minutes. This is the part people can never believe, because ten minutes is an insanely long period of time in this context. But I distinctly remember checking the time at least three times. And I’m sure it can’t have been much less than ten minutes, because I later drove that route many times. The timeline is not in dispute.

“Excuse me,” I finally whispered as we neared our destination. “Your hand’s on my leg.”

His hand lifted immediately. “Oh, sorry!”

And we never spoke of it again.

…And That’s Okay!

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The first time I put serious thought into publishing my work was the summer of 1995, at the age of twelve. I’d been writing longer than that, but in 1995 I completed work on my first novel. Naturally, I was very proud of it. I’d given it to my English teacher to peruse, and he told me it was promising (it wasn’t; this was a blatant lie, told in the interests of not discouraging me from continuing my burgeoning hobby, which I suppose makes it okay). My family said it was great, as did some family friends who had taken the time to look it over. All lies, all of them. Either that or these people had seriously poor taste in literature. I’d much rather prefer to believe they were all lying to me.

The internet was a relatively new innovation at this time, one to which I did not have access at home. Our family had recently purchased our first home computer—a 386-something-or-other that ran Windows 3.1, if you dared enter that rabbit hole, but most of the time I stayed in the safe, warm embrace of black-screened DOS and its easy-to-navigate list of ten games I played over and over again. These were simpler times, and the internet hadn’t yet punctured them.

The internet had, however, made its first appearance one street over from mine.

Armed with my rave reviews, and the promise of finding answers to my publishing questions on this new-fangled world wide web, I paid an afternoon visit to a friend’s house. My friend’s mom sat down with me in front of the computer and together we ran a search—on Lycos, I think, or maybe AltaVista?—for how I could publish my first novel. I was no noob; I knew things. For example, I’d written a Star Trek novel, and thus I could limit my inquiries to one publisher in particular—Pocket Books, who had an exclusive deal with Paramount to handle the Star Trek novel line.

I’d been promised answers, and answers I got. And they were very discouraging. I learned that Pocket Books would only accept my novel and give it consideration if I had an agent to represent me. Next, we tried searching for information on how to get an agent, but there were no clear-cut answers to be found. Well, at least some things haven’t changed in the intervening twenty years!

My discouragement struck hard and fast because I had a whole slew of questions about how to make it as a bigtime author, and I intrinsically knew that the answers to these questions, as they related to me, could be summed up in two simple phrases: “You’re screwed. Don’t even try.”

I’ve learned a lot since then, and there’s so much advice I would give to my twelve-year-old self that it’s hard to know where to begin. In short, though, I’m not sure I would offer myself specific advice as I would offer reassurance that I wasn’t, in fact, screwed and that I should, in fact, try—and try very hard.

In the wake of my preteen despair, I remember wondering if all the people around me were lying about the quality of my writing. Future Evan goes back in time and says, “Yes, they are… and that’s okay. You’ll get better.”

I remembering wondering if it was going to take much longer for me to become a published author—after all, one of my favourite writers at the time, Gordon Korman, was published when he was twelve. Future Evan goes back in time and says, “Yes, it’s going to take you a very long time, much longer than Gordon Korman… and that’s okay. It’s not a competition.” It’s pretty easy to see now that Korman was just a hell of a lot better than I ever was at the same age. Seriously, that man was put on this earth by demonspawn to torment me.

I remember wondering if I was writing fast enough. It had taken more than a year to write that first novel, and I knew a lot of writers who were churning out books much more quickly. Future Evan goes back in time and says, “No, you’re not fast enough… and that’s okay. You’ll get faster. Probably.” The truth is, I’m still not writing fast enough today, but then again, what is and isn’t fast enough to compete in the present marketplace is an open question. And it’s highly individual.

In closing, I guess the morale of all this is that I’m not sure I would change anything. When it comes to writing, there just isn’t any shortcut. Over time, there are a number of basics you have to figure out for yourself: you have to find ways to write when you don’t want to, and be productive; you have to lean on the advice of successful people who have already achieved what you are aiming for, and disregard most advice from those who are on a different trajectory entirely; and finally, you have to accept that this process is going to take a lot of time.

Seriously, a lot of time. But if you’re persistent and good—yes, you do have to be good—then you’re well on your way. Keep chugging away, Preteen Evan, you’ll get there yet.

Without Them, I Wouldn’t Be Writing

Balancing Acts Evan Braun Interacting With Fans Motivation Reflection Self-Awareness The Writing Life Work-Life Balance No Comments

There are many advantages to being a writer, especially a self-employed one like me. True, my income is highly variable and no one throws me a staff Christmas party at the end of the year, but I get to wake up late, work in my pyjamas, and take time off whenever I like. I get to go trips, use them as research opportunities and attend writing workshops, and then write off all those flights, hotels, and restaurant dinners on my taxes.

I also get to have fans.

I’ve written before on the Fictorians about the day I first realized that I had a fan club. That was one of the best moments of my life, and certainly one that I wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t poured so much time and energy into being a writer.

Having fans is incredibly inspiring—but more than that, it comes with a greater sense of responsibility. No longer can I get away with just writing anything I want and hoping it’s good enough. I have people who read carefully and care about the characters and settings I have invented. And if I don’t give it my all, they know. They call me on it.

During a question-and-answer session last year at a reading for my latest novel, an astute reader in the audience stood up to identify a plot hole I had never noticed before. She didn’t do it in a mean-spirited way; she had assumed the seeming inconsistency was intentional, and that it was part of an elaborate setup for a future book. If only that were true. Knowing that people are reading carefully and paying attention means you gotta work twice as hard.

Well, lesson learned.

This week, I went to the doctor’s office for a checkup. While in the waiting room, someone sidled up next to me and asked when my next book was coming out. When I refused to give him a straight answer, he tried to fish some spoilers out of me. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and more than once I’ve pulled a Robert-Jordan-esque “ROFL.” Even two years ago, I never would have imagined something like that happening.

Another reader once asked me if I could write her into the next book. She may have been joking, but when she picks up said book when it comes out she may have a surprise in store.

Perhaps it’s because I’m from a small town, but people seem to know me where I’m from. They recognize me, they turn out in relatively large numbers when I have an event, and they ask me about my upcoming projects while I’m picking up the mail or waiting at the deli counter at the grocery store. This most likely wouldn’t be the case if I lived in a big city, which makes me all the more grateful for the experience. I’m in awe of it.

Like I said, it comes with responsibility.

When I sit down at the beginning of a new writing session, my mind invariably turns to the latest handful of people who asked me when the next book is coming out. I want my writing to be worthy of their interest and attention, and as a result I strive hard to take my craft to the next level.

What makes me love being a writer? Indisputably, the fans. Without readers, there cannot be books. If all these dedicated and persistent readers in my life didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be pushing as hard as I am right now. I wouldn’t be writing. I’d be popping in a DVD, sitting down to watch another episode of Game of Thrones for the tenth time. I’d be playing yet another game of Minesweeper.

So here’s to the fans—who came to my reading despite having to drive fifty kilometres through one of the worst snowstorms of the worst winter since the 1800s, who put me on Winnipeg’s bestseller list two weeks in a row during the Christmas rush, and who pester me constantly when I’m feeling down. They make this whole miserable and glorious experience worthwhile.