Martin Roy Hill's Blog
December 7, 2025
The Genius Soldier and the Stupid Spy
As I said in my last blog, I have done a great deal of research into WWII espionage activities both in the U.S. and abroad for my wartime thriller Codename: Parsifal, and my new spy thriller, The Last Saboteur, due out next year.
One of the facts no one talks much about these days is that prior to the U.S. entering the war, there was a substantial pro-Nazi movement in this country. In the aftermath of the Pearl Harbor attack and Germany's declaration of war on the U.S., the movement’s leaders were rounded up and deported or imprisoned. However, most of its rank-and-file membership went underground, becoming for all intents and purposes, a potential traitorous Fifth Column.
Two of these American traitors were Dale Maple and William Colepaugh.
Dale Maple was born in 1920 in San Diego, California, where I now live. By all accounts, he was a genius, graduating from San Diego High School at the age of 16 and winning a scholarship to Havard where he earned a degree in comparative linguistics, specializing in German. His choice of language wasn’t arbitrary, because by the time he graduated from Havard, Maple was a confirmed Nazi.
In fact, when Maple enlisted in 1942, both the Army and the FBI already had files on him. As a result, the Army assigned him to the 620th Engineer General Service Company, one of several special labor units for soldiers with suspected loyalties. Maple was stationed at Camp Hale, Colorado, where a German POW camp also existed. Soldiers like Maple often worked labor details alongside German prisoners.
Security at Camp Hale was notoriously slack, and fraternization with prisoners was widespread. (Many local women and Army WACs had affairs with the POWs.) In 1944, Maple and three other soldiers from the 620th plotted to help German POWs escape from Camp Hale.
On February 15, Maple loaded Afrika Korps Sergeants Heinrich Kikillus and Erhard Schwichtenberg into a 1934 REO sedan he recently purchased and headed for the Mexican border.
Maple was a genius, but he wasn’t a criminal mastermind. Seventeen miles shy of the border, the REO ran out of gas. The three men crossed the border on foot but were apprehended by a Mexican customs officer and turned over to American authorities.
Dale Maple faced court martial on charges of “relieving, corresponding with or aiding the enemy” which the Army considered the “closest equivalent” to a treason charge. Found guilty, Maple was sentenced to hang. However, President Franklin Roosevelt commuted his sentence to life imprisonment. That sentence was later reduced to ten years. Maple and his three 620th coconspirators were all released in 1950. Maple died in El Cajon, California, in 2001.
While Maple was considered a genius, William "Billy" Colepaugh was considered an idiot. Born in 1918 in Connecticut, Colepaugh attended the private Admiral Farragut Academy and later flunked out of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. By the time he left MIT, he was known as a fervent antisemitic, launching into tirades against Jews with little provocation.
Colepaugh joined the Navy Reserve but was quickly discharged for his pro-Nazi beliefs. In 1944, he signed on to a Swedish merchant ship to get across the Atlantic. When the ship docked in Lisbon, Portugal, Colepaugh jumped ship and presented himself to the German Embassy offering his services to the Reich.
After weeks of vetting by the Gestapo, Colepaugh was recruited as a spy by the Sicherheitsdienst, the foreign intelligence arm of the SS.
After receiving limited training, Colepaugh was matched with Erich Gimpel, an experienced agent who had spied for Germany in South America and Spain.
Gimpel had been assigned a mission to sail to the U.S. by U-boat and collect information on the American atomic bomb program, the Manhattan Project. Though Gimpel spoke English, he felt he needed someone well acquainted with American customs. Colepaugh, who didn’t speak German, was selected as that man.
At that point, Gimpel’s mission—called Operation Magpie—was doomed.
The night before the two men left for the States, Colepaugh got drunk in a public restaurant and loudly bragged about being a spy. Things only got worse once they reached the States.
The two men were given $60,000 in cash for living expenses. While Gimpel set to work on his mission, Colepaugh threw money around on floosies and booze—not an ideal way of remaining anonymous.
One day, Gimpel returned to their New York apartment to find Colepaugh had absconded with all their money and suitcases. While Gimpel tracked down and retrieved the suitcases and money, Colepaugh disappeared. Gimpel, the professional, continued his mission alone.
While Gimpel continued his spying, Colepaugh started getting second thoughts about being a Nazi spy. Still drinking heavily, Colepaugh looked up an old friend who convinced him to turn himself into the FBI.
Agents at the Bureau immediately recognized Colepaugh for what he was—a flake. But armed with his descriptions of Gimpel and his habits, they were eventually able to track down the German spy and arrest him.
As Gimpel was taken into custody, an FBI agent told him, “You made only one mistake. You should have given Billy a shot between the eyes as soon as you landed.”
Colepaugh and Gimpel were both convicted of espionage and sentenced to death. Their execution was stayed by the sudden death of FDR.
By the time the national period of mourning was over, Germany had surrendered. President Harry Truman commuted each man’s sentence, with Colepaugh serving 17 years and Gimpel 10. Gimpel died in 2001 at age 100; Colepaugh died four years later.
Dale Maple doesn’t appear in my new book, The Last Saboteur, but he did inspire one of the characters, a Nazi sleeper agent codenamed Introvert.
Colepaugh and Gimpel both appear in the book in a fictionalized version of their failed mission. Espionage historians have long wondered why the Germans assigned an unqualified, mentally unbalanced person like Colepaugh to Operation Magpie. In The Last Saboteur, I speculate on that reason.
(The Last Saboteur is now available for preorder here.)
One of the facts no one talks much about these days is that prior to the U.S. entering the war, there was a substantial pro-Nazi movement in this country. In the aftermath of the Pearl Harbor attack and Germany's declaration of war on the U.S., the movement’s leaders were rounded up and deported or imprisoned. However, most of its rank-and-file membership went underground, becoming for all intents and purposes, a potential traitorous Fifth Column.
Two of these American traitors were Dale Maple and William Colepaugh.
Dale Maple was born in 1920 in San Diego, California, where I now live. By all accounts, he was a genius, graduating from San Diego High School at the age of 16 and winning a scholarship to Havard where he earned a degree in comparative linguistics, specializing in German. His choice of language wasn’t arbitrary, because by the time he graduated from Havard, Maple was a confirmed Nazi.
In fact, when Maple enlisted in 1942, both the Army and the FBI already had files on him. As a result, the Army assigned him to the 620th Engineer General Service Company, one of several special labor units for soldiers with suspected loyalties. Maple was stationed at Camp Hale, Colorado, where a German POW camp also existed. Soldiers like Maple often worked labor details alongside German prisoners.
Security at Camp Hale was notoriously slack, and fraternization with prisoners was widespread. (Many local women and Army WACs had affairs with the POWs.) In 1944, Maple and three other soldiers from the 620th plotted to help German POWs escape from Camp Hale.
On February 15, Maple loaded Afrika Korps Sergeants Heinrich Kikillus and Erhard Schwichtenberg into a 1934 REO sedan he recently purchased and headed for the Mexican border.
Maple was a genius, but he wasn’t a criminal mastermind. Seventeen miles shy of the border, the REO ran out of gas. The three men crossed the border on foot but were apprehended by a Mexican customs officer and turned over to American authorities.
Dale Maple faced court martial on charges of “relieving, corresponding with or aiding the enemy” which the Army considered the “closest equivalent” to a treason charge. Found guilty, Maple was sentenced to hang. However, President Franklin Roosevelt commuted his sentence to life imprisonment. That sentence was later reduced to ten years. Maple and his three 620th coconspirators were all released in 1950. Maple died in El Cajon, California, in 2001.
While Maple was considered a genius, William "Billy" Colepaugh was considered an idiot. Born in 1918 in Connecticut, Colepaugh attended the private Admiral Farragut Academy and later flunked out of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. By the time he left MIT, he was known as a fervent antisemitic, launching into tirades against Jews with little provocation.
Colepaugh joined the Navy Reserve but was quickly discharged for his pro-Nazi beliefs. In 1944, he signed on to a Swedish merchant ship to get across the Atlantic. When the ship docked in Lisbon, Portugal, Colepaugh jumped ship and presented himself to the German Embassy offering his services to the Reich.
After weeks of vetting by the Gestapo, Colepaugh was recruited as a spy by the Sicherheitsdienst, the foreign intelligence arm of the SS.
After receiving limited training, Colepaugh was matched with Erich Gimpel, an experienced agent who had spied for Germany in South America and Spain.
Gimpel had been assigned a mission to sail to the U.S. by U-boat and collect information on the American atomic bomb program, the Manhattan Project. Though Gimpel spoke English, he felt he needed someone well acquainted with American customs. Colepaugh, who didn’t speak German, was selected as that man.
At that point, Gimpel’s mission—called Operation Magpie—was doomed.
The night before the two men left for the States, Colepaugh got drunk in a public restaurant and loudly bragged about being a spy. Things only got worse once they reached the States.
The two men were given $60,000 in cash for living expenses. While Gimpel set to work on his mission, Colepaugh threw money around on floosies and booze—not an ideal way of remaining anonymous.
One day, Gimpel returned to their New York apartment to find Colepaugh had absconded with all their money and suitcases. While Gimpel tracked down and retrieved the suitcases and money, Colepaugh disappeared. Gimpel, the professional, continued his mission alone.
While Gimpel continued his spying, Colepaugh started getting second thoughts about being a Nazi spy. Still drinking heavily, Colepaugh looked up an old friend who convinced him to turn himself into the FBI.
Agents at the Bureau immediately recognized Colepaugh for what he was—a flake. But armed with his descriptions of Gimpel and his habits, they were eventually able to track down the German spy and arrest him.
As Gimpel was taken into custody, an FBI agent told him, “You made only one mistake. You should have given Billy a shot between the eyes as soon as you landed.”
Colepaugh and Gimpel were both convicted of espionage and sentenced to death. Their execution was stayed by the sudden death of FDR.
By the time the national period of mourning was over, Germany had surrendered. President Harry Truman commuted each man’s sentence, with Colepaugh serving 17 years and Gimpel 10. Gimpel died in 2001 at age 100; Colepaugh died four years later.
Dale Maple doesn’t appear in my new book, The Last Saboteur, but he did inspire one of the characters, a Nazi sleeper agent codenamed Introvert.
Colepaugh and Gimpel both appear in the book in a fictionalized version of their failed mission. Espionage historians have long wondered why the Germans assigned an unqualified, mentally unbalanced person like Colepaugh to Operation Magpie. In The Last Saboteur, I speculate on that reason.
(The Last Saboteur is now available for preorder here.)
December 3, 2025
The Not-So-Secret Manhattan Project
The Manhattan Project. Anyone who stayed awake through high school history class knows about the Manhattan Project. The American WWII super-secret research-and-development program to develop the first atomic bomb. But was it really all that secret?
Funny thing about that.
I recently finished my new WWII spy thriller, The Last Saboteur. Its plot was inspired by a recently declassified wartime British intelligence report stating that despite claims by the American FBI that it had captured every Nazi spy and saboteur sent to the U.S., one had actually escaped. In my novel, this “last saboteur” is part of a last-ditch Nazi attempt to sabotage the Manhattan Project.
But how would the Germans know about such a top-secret program? Simple, they read about it in an American newspaper.
While doing research for the book, I came across the story of Cleveland Press reporter John Raper. In early 1944, Raper was vacationing in New Mexico when he noticed an unusual amount of military traffic, military personnel, and Europeans in the state’s capital city of Santa Fe. He also learned that just outside Santa Fe was a mysterious hilltop military establishment called Los Alamos.
Los Alamos, if you’ve forgotten, is where the first nuclear bombs were manufactured and, as such, it was the most secret and secluded of the Manhattan Project’s facilities. Being an enterprising reporter, however, Raper decided to take a drive up to Los Alamos. That, of course, did not sit well with the U.S. Army which detained him, interrogated him, and … released him.
Returning to his newspaper in March, Raper wrote an article titled, “Forbidden City: Uncle Sam’s Mystery Town Directed by 2nd Einstein.”
The article began, “New Mexico has a mystery city, one with an area from eight to 20 square miles … a population of between 5000 and 6000 persons, not more than probably half a dozen of whom can step outside of the city except by special permission of the city boss.”
Raper described Los Alamos as “a thoroughly modern city. It has fine streets, an electric light plant and waterworks … a service department that really services, public library … schools, recreation centers, hospital, apartment houses, cottages, dance hall, an enormous grocery, refrigeration plant, factories and (a) jail.”
The article even provided Los Alamos’ location. “This city’s site, or at least part of it, at once time was occupied by a private school for boys, and is not far from the village of Los Alamos, which is 53 miles almost due east from Santa Fe.”
“Mr. Big of the city,” Raper wrote, “is a college professor, Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer, called ‘the Second Einstein’ by the newspapers of the west coast.”
The article provided any curious intelligence service with enough information to identify the location (there was only one boy’s school outside of Santa Fe) and to guess at its activity. Even back then Oppenheimer, now famous as the father of the A-bomb, was already a well-known theoretical physicist, and an associate of Dr. Werner Heisenberg, Nobel laureate and director of the German nuclear bomb project, as well as many other famous physicists. Comparing him to Albert Einstein, father of the E=MC2 equation which led to the A-bomb’s development, was simply another piece of evidence as to the type of activity at Los Alamos.
Did the Germans see this newspaper article? In my opinion, without a doubt. Even if the FBI’s dubious claim that it had captured all Nazi spies were true, there were other ways German intelligence could obtain the article. Though supposedly neutral, fascist Spain’s intelligence service had agents throughout the United States who worked closely with the Nazi spy services. There were also Nazi spies in Mexico, and despite the war, the U.S.-Mexico border was still wide open. Perhaps most appalling, there was still a Fifth Column of American Nazi-sympathizers in the U.S.
Of course, after the war U.S. intelligence agencies learned how deeply the Soviet Union had infiltrated the Manhattan Project, but that’s a story for another time.
Funny thing about that.
I recently finished my new WWII spy thriller, The Last Saboteur. Its plot was inspired by a recently declassified wartime British intelligence report stating that despite claims by the American FBI that it had captured every Nazi spy and saboteur sent to the U.S., one had actually escaped. In my novel, this “last saboteur” is part of a last-ditch Nazi attempt to sabotage the Manhattan Project.
But how would the Germans know about such a top-secret program? Simple, they read about it in an American newspaper.
While doing research for the book, I came across the story of Cleveland Press reporter John Raper. In early 1944, Raper was vacationing in New Mexico when he noticed an unusual amount of military traffic, military personnel, and Europeans in the state’s capital city of Santa Fe. He also learned that just outside Santa Fe was a mysterious hilltop military establishment called Los Alamos.
Los Alamos, if you’ve forgotten, is where the first nuclear bombs were manufactured and, as such, it was the most secret and secluded of the Manhattan Project’s facilities. Being an enterprising reporter, however, Raper decided to take a drive up to Los Alamos. That, of course, did not sit well with the U.S. Army which detained him, interrogated him, and … released him.
Returning to his newspaper in March, Raper wrote an article titled, “Forbidden City: Uncle Sam’s Mystery Town Directed by 2nd Einstein.”
The article began, “New Mexico has a mystery city, one with an area from eight to 20 square miles … a population of between 5000 and 6000 persons, not more than probably half a dozen of whom can step outside of the city except by special permission of the city boss.”
Raper described Los Alamos as “a thoroughly modern city. It has fine streets, an electric light plant and waterworks … a service department that really services, public library … schools, recreation centers, hospital, apartment houses, cottages, dance hall, an enormous grocery, refrigeration plant, factories and (a) jail.”
The article even provided Los Alamos’ location. “This city’s site, or at least part of it, at once time was occupied by a private school for boys, and is not far from the village of Los Alamos, which is 53 miles almost due east from Santa Fe.”
“Mr. Big of the city,” Raper wrote, “is a college professor, Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer, called ‘the Second Einstein’ by the newspapers of the west coast.”
The article provided any curious intelligence service with enough information to identify the location (there was only one boy’s school outside of Santa Fe) and to guess at its activity. Even back then Oppenheimer, now famous as the father of the A-bomb, was already a well-known theoretical physicist, and an associate of Dr. Werner Heisenberg, Nobel laureate and director of the German nuclear bomb project, as well as many other famous physicists. Comparing him to Albert Einstein, father of the E=MC2 equation which led to the A-bomb’s development, was simply another piece of evidence as to the type of activity at Los Alamos.
Did the Germans see this newspaper article? In my opinion, without a doubt. Even if the FBI’s dubious claim that it had captured all Nazi spies were true, there were other ways German intelligence could obtain the article. Though supposedly neutral, fascist Spain’s intelligence service had agents throughout the United States who worked closely with the Nazi spy services. There were also Nazi spies in Mexico, and despite the war, the U.S.-Mexico border was still wide open. Perhaps most appalling, there was still a Fifth Column of American Nazi-sympathizers in the U.S.
Of course, after the war U.S. intelligence agencies learned how deeply the Soviet Union had infiltrated the Manhattan Project, but that’s a story for another time.
November 13, 2023
Codename: Parsifal The True Story Behind the Story
My latest thriller, Codename Parsifal, recently Codename Parsifal: A WWII Thrillerarrived on bookshelves. My eleventh novel and my twelfth published book, Parsifal is the story of three commando teams—American, Nazi, and Russian—racing to find the legendary Spear of Destiny in the last days of WWII.
The Spear, which according to legend was used to stab Christ’s chest as he hung on the cross, is more than a historic relic. The myth surrounding the spear claims that whoever possesses it will control the destiny of the world. General George Patton wants it. SS leader Heinrich Himmler wants it. And Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin wants it.
Codename Parsifal, of course, is fiction, but the Spear of Destiny is not. It has been part of the Holy Roman Relics since Emperor Constantine, the first Christian ruler of Rome, carried it into battle. And in the waning days of WWII, there was a very real search for the spear—and that search was the inspiration for Codename Parsifal.
So, this is the “story behind the story.”
During the heyday of the Holy Roman Empire, the Holy Roman Relics—bejeweled swords, crowns, and other items used in the coronation of new emperors—resided in Nuremburg, in what is today Germany. In the 1800s, French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte coveted the Spear of Destiny, and as his army marched toward Nuremburg, the relics were moved to Austria for “temporary” safekeeping. Unfortunately for Nuremburg, the Austrians decided to keep the Roman relics. They remained in a museum in Vienna for decades.
Nazi dictator Adolf Hitler, who grew up in Austria, also coveted the Spear of Destiny. In March 1938, the Nazis marched into Austria unopposed, an event known as the Anschluss. Within hours, the SS packed up the relics and shipped them to Nuremburg, where they stayed on public display until American and British bombs began to pound the city. The relics were removed from public display and disappeared.
In February 1945, Lieutenant Walter Horn, a German-born American Army officer, was interrogating German prisoners of war when one POW, eager to gain favors, mentioned he knew where the missing Holy Roman Relics were hidden. The Nazi SS had hidden them in a secret underground bunker built beneath a bakery in an area of Nuremburg known as Blacksmith Alley. The POW knew this because his parents owned the bakery.
The information stunned Horn. As a professor of art history at UC Berkeley, Horn knew well the value and historical significance of the Holy Roman Relics. He dashed off a report to his higher ups, then went on with his mundane interrogation of German POWs.
Horn’s report landed on General Patton’s desk. Patton believed in reincarnation and that he had lived several past lives as a warrior extending back to the Roman Legions. He also had an interest in the Spear of Destiny, having written a poem in which he fancied himself as the legionnaire who stabbed Christ. Before Horn knew it, he was standing in front of the general receiving orders to recover the spear—oh, and the other relics, too.
There was one problem, and it was a big one. The Germans were still in control of Nuremburg and were fortifying it night and day. Recovering the relics would have to wait until the city’s capture.
Or maybe not.
The Battle of Nuremburg was one of the most vicious battles of the European war. The fighting was literally street-by-street, house-to-house, door-to-door. Still, as the battle raged, on Patton’s orders an infantry company was ordered to fight its way to Blacksmith Alley and capture and secure the bakery and its secret underground bunker. They succeeded, but at a high cost in blood and lives.
Horn arrived at the bunker after the battle and found that the vault holding the relics was still sealed. After some wrangling and dickering, Horn persuaded local city officials to open the vault. What he found stunned Horn. The Spear of Destiny was there, but many of the most valuable relics were missing. Where did they go and why? And why wasn’t the spear taken with them?
It would take Horn weeks of dogged investigation to finally discover there was a second secret underground bunker only a hundred yards away from the first. There he found the missing relics. But that didn’t end the story.
Patton, a notorious collector of war “souvenirs,” wanted to keep the relics as war booty. General Dwight “Ike” Eisenhower, Allied supreme commander, wanted them returned to the museum in Vienna. Only after receiving direct orders from Ike did Patton reluctantly release the relics for return to the museum.
Of course, the plot to Codename Parsifal is nothing like Horn’s adventure, though the young lieutenant does make a brief cameo toward the end. Instead, the book's plot and telling parallels the story of Camelot's Sir Percival (renamed Parsifal for Wagner's famous opera) and his search for the spear and the Holy Grail.
And what about the Spear of Destiny itself? Does it possess some kind of mystical power as legend suggests? Who knows? Unlike other books or movies featuring the spear, I purposely avoided bringing the paranormal into the plot.
The fact is, the Spear of Destiny taken from the Vienna museum may not even be the “True Spear.” Another spear said to be the Spear of Destiny resides in the Cathedral Museum in Poland. And the Vatican claims the True Spear is held in secret in St. Peter's Basilica.
Which, if any, is the real Spear of Destiny? That may be a mystery never to be solved.
The Spear, which according to legend was used to stab Christ’s chest as he hung on the cross, is more than a historic relic. The myth surrounding the spear claims that whoever possesses it will control the destiny of the world. General George Patton wants it. SS leader Heinrich Himmler wants it. And Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin wants it.
Codename Parsifal, of course, is fiction, but the Spear of Destiny is not. It has been part of the Holy Roman Relics since Emperor Constantine, the first Christian ruler of Rome, carried it into battle. And in the waning days of WWII, there was a very real search for the spear—and that search was the inspiration for Codename Parsifal.
So, this is the “story behind the story.”
During the heyday of the Holy Roman Empire, the Holy Roman Relics—bejeweled swords, crowns, and other items used in the coronation of new emperors—resided in Nuremburg, in what is today Germany. In the 1800s, French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte coveted the Spear of Destiny, and as his army marched toward Nuremburg, the relics were moved to Austria for “temporary” safekeeping. Unfortunately for Nuremburg, the Austrians decided to keep the Roman relics. They remained in a museum in Vienna for decades.
Nazi dictator Adolf Hitler, who grew up in Austria, also coveted the Spear of Destiny. In March 1938, the Nazis marched into Austria unopposed, an event known as the Anschluss. Within hours, the SS packed up the relics and shipped them to Nuremburg, where they stayed on public display until American and British bombs began to pound the city. The relics were removed from public display and disappeared.
In February 1945, Lieutenant Walter Horn, a German-born American Army officer, was interrogating German prisoners of war when one POW, eager to gain favors, mentioned he knew where the missing Holy Roman Relics were hidden. The Nazi SS had hidden them in a secret underground bunker built beneath a bakery in an area of Nuremburg known as Blacksmith Alley. The POW knew this because his parents owned the bakery.
The information stunned Horn. As a professor of art history at UC Berkeley, Horn knew well the value and historical significance of the Holy Roman Relics. He dashed off a report to his higher ups, then went on with his mundane interrogation of German POWs.
Horn’s report landed on General Patton’s desk. Patton believed in reincarnation and that he had lived several past lives as a warrior extending back to the Roman Legions. He also had an interest in the Spear of Destiny, having written a poem in which he fancied himself as the legionnaire who stabbed Christ. Before Horn knew it, he was standing in front of the general receiving orders to recover the spear—oh, and the other relics, too.
There was one problem, and it was a big one. The Germans were still in control of Nuremburg and were fortifying it night and day. Recovering the relics would have to wait until the city’s capture.
Or maybe not.
The Battle of Nuremburg was one of the most vicious battles of the European war. The fighting was literally street-by-street, house-to-house, door-to-door. Still, as the battle raged, on Patton’s orders an infantry company was ordered to fight its way to Blacksmith Alley and capture and secure the bakery and its secret underground bunker. They succeeded, but at a high cost in blood and lives.
Horn arrived at the bunker after the battle and found that the vault holding the relics was still sealed. After some wrangling and dickering, Horn persuaded local city officials to open the vault. What he found stunned Horn. The Spear of Destiny was there, but many of the most valuable relics were missing. Where did they go and why? And why wasn’t the spear taken with them?
It would take Horn weeks of dogged investigation to finally discover there was a second secret underground bunker only a hundred yards away from the first. There he found the missing relics. But that didn’t end the story.
Patton, a notorious collector of war “souvenirs,” wanted to keep the relics as war booty. General Dwight “Ike” Eisenhower, Allied supreme commander, wanted them returned to the museum in Vienna. Only after receiving direct orders from Ike did Patton reluctantly release the relics for return to the museum.
Of course, the plot to Codename Parsifal is nothing like Horn’s adventure, though the young lieutenant does make a brief cameo toward the end. Instead, the book's plot and telling parallels the story of Camelot's Sir Percival (renamed Parsifal for Wagner's famous opera) and his search for the spear and the Holy Grail.
And what about the Spear of Destiny itself? Does it possess some kind of mystical power as legend suggests? Who knows? Unlike other books or movies featuring the spear, I purposely avoided bringing the paranormal into the plot.
The fact is, the Spear of Destiny taken from the Vienna museum may not even be the “True Spear.” Another spear said to be the Spear of Destiny resides in the Cathedral Museum in Poland. And the Vatican claims the True Spear is held in secret in St. Peter's Basilica.
Which, if any, is the real Spear of Destiny? That may be a mystery never to be solved.
Look. Up in the Sky. It's a Bird. It's a Plane. It's a ... UFO?
I recently filed my first UFO report.
There, I said, it. I actually, officially, authentically, for real filed a report on a sighting I had two years ago of an unidentified flying object. Well, I guess they’re called unknown aerial phenomenon (UAP) now.
The sighting occurred in March 2021 right outside my house. Why did I wait two years to report it? I considered filing a report back then, but I had no photo and no fellow witness (that I know of) and, frankly, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen something strange in the air.
The first time I saw a UFO, I was in third or fourth grade—and, yes, there were flying machines way back then. A classmate and I were dragging our feet returning to class after recess when something in the sky caught our attention. It was a sleek, black rocket ship like nothing we’d ever seen. It was flying very low, so we got a good view of it. In fact, we thought it might be landing. Frightened that some bug-eyed, alien monster might eat us, we ran back to class and told the teacher, but she thought we were making it up as an excuse for being late.
A few years went by, then I saw it again, the same strange, sleek, all-black aerial craft. This time it was displayed on the top of a model airplane kit. The model was of the SR-71 “Blackbird” spy plane, successor to the U-2 spy plane. The Blackbird was a variant of the USAF’s secret A-12 aircraft, a jet plane with multiple variants, including a bomber and an interceptor, and which first flew out of Area 51 in 1962. Eventually, the A-12 bomber/interceptor program was cancelled, but the streamlined, radar-evading design lived on as the SR-71 reconnaissance aircraft.
Usually, the A-12/SR-71 aircraft flew at extremely high altitudes, well out of view of observers on the ground. But occasionally during test flights, mechanical problems occurred that forced the aircraft to fly low over well-populated areas. The result was always an increase in reported sightings of UFOs.
My second sighting occurred in my junior or senior year in high school. I grew up in Redondo Beach, California. My friend, Charlie, and I were attending a beach party one night and spotted a single bright light making strange maneuvers over the ocean. We watched in fascination as it soundlessly made zig-zag turns no known aircraft could make. At the time, Charlie and I were both enrolled in a two-year aero-science college prep course, so we understood the dynamics of flight. Not even a helicopter could have made those turns.
At this point, try to imagine a calendar with its pages being torn off one after another indicating the march of time, like in those old black-and-white movies. Somewhere around my forties, I learned that the Redondo Trench, a subsurface canyon that runs along the coast of southern Los Angeles County right where Charlie and I had our sighting, was known as a hotspot for sightings of both UFOs and USOs or unidentified submerged objects. (If you want to read more about USOs, check out my sci-fi novel, Polar Melt.)
That sparked another memory. In the 1970s, I was stationed at Los Angeles/Long Beach Harbor with the U.S. Coast Guard running small boat search-and-rescue missions. On more than one occasion, we were called out at night or in the early morning to search for aircraft that reportedly crashed in the ocean just off the coast where the Redondo Trench resides. Each time there were multiple reporting witnesses, including police officers, who said they saw the lights of an aircraft enter the sea. Each time, we’d respond along with local lifeguard and harbor patrol boats. And each time we’d find no evidence of a plane crash—no debris, no oil slick, nothing.
Once I learned about the Redondo Trench’s reputation as a UFO hotspot, I remembered those reported airplane crashes and thought, “Well, that would explain it …”
So, I never reported my 2021 sighting. At the time, I made a contemporaneous Facebook post. But it wasn’t until this month—after the Pentagon’s admission it was still investigating UFO/UAPs, and Congress’ hearing on UFOs—that I decided to file a report. I went back into my Facebook archives and found my original post and used that to reconstruct the sighting. I filed my report with both the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) and Enigma Labs, another reporting service.
If you’d like to read the report, you can find it here: https://enigmalabs.io/incident/279098
There, I said, it. I actually, officially, authentically, for real filed a report on a sighting I had two years ago of an unidentified flying object. Well, I guess they’re called unknown aerial phenomenon (UAP) now.
The sighting occurred in March 2021 right outside my house. Why did I wait two years to report it? I considered filing a report back then, but I had no photo and no fellow witness (that I know of) and, frankly, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen something strange in the air.
The first time I saw a UFO, I was in third or fourth grade—and, yes, there were flying machines way back then. A classmate and I were dragging our feet returning to class after recess when something in the sky caught our attention. It was a sleek, black rocket ship like nothing we’d ever seen. It was flying very low, so we got a good view of it. In fact, we thought it might be landing. Frightened that some bug-eyed, alien monster might eat us, we ran back to class and told the teacher, but she thought we were making it up as an excuse for being late.
A few years went by, then I saw it again, the same strange, sleek, all-black aerial craft. This time it was displayed on the top of a model airplane kit. The model was of the SR-71 “Blackbird” spy plane, successor to the U-2 spy plane. The Blackbird was a variant of the USAF’s secret A-12 aircraft, a jet plane with multiple variants, including a bomber and an interceptor, and which first flew out of Area 51 in 1962. Eventually, the A-12 bomber/interceptor program was cancelled, but the streamlined, radar-evading design lived on as the SR-71 reconnaissance aircraft.
Usually, the A-12/SR-71 aircraft flew at extremely high altitudes, well out of view of observers on the ground. But occasionally during test flights, mechanical problems occurred that forced the aircraft to fly low over well-populated areas. The result was always an increase in reported sightings of UFOs.
My second sighting occurred in my junior or senior year in high school. I grew up in Redondo Beach, California. My friend, Charlie, and I were attending a beach party one night and spotted a single bright light making strange maneuvers over the ocean. We watched in fascination as it soundlessly made zig-zag turns no known aircraft could make. At the time, Charlie and I were both enrolled in a two-year aero-science college prep course, so we understood the dynamics of flight. Not even a helicopter could have made those turns.
At this point, try to imagine a calendar with its pages being torn off one after another indicating the march of time, like in those old black-and-white movies. Somewhere around my forties, I learned that the Redondo Trench, a subsurface canyon that runs along the coast of southern Los Angeles County right where Charlie and I had our sighting, was known as a hotspot for sightings of both UFOs and USOs or unidentified submerged objects. (If you want to read more about USOs, check out my sci-fi novel, Polar Melt.)
That sparked another memory. In the 1970s, I was stationed at Los Angeles/Long Beach Harbor with the U.S. Coast Guard running small boat search-and-rescue missions. On more than one occasion, we were called out at night or in the early morning to search for aircraft that reportedly crashed in the ocean just off the coast where the Redondo Trench resides. Each time there were multiple reporting witnesses, including police officers, who said they saw the lights of an aircraft enter the sea. Each time, we’d respond along with local lifeguard and harbor patrol boats. And each time we’d find no evidence of a plane crash—no debris, no oil slick, nothing.
Once I learned about the Redondo Trench’s reputation as a UFO hotspot, I remembered those reported airplane crashes and thought, “Well, that would explain it …”
So, I never reported my 2021 sighting. At the time, I made a contemporaneous Facebook post. But it wasn’t until this month—after the Pentagon’s admission it was still investigating UFO/UAPs, and Congress’ hearing on UFOs—that I decided to file a report. I went back into my Facebook archives and found my original post and used that to reconstruct the sighting. I filed my report with both the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) and Enigma Labs, another reporting service.
If you’d like to read the report, you can find it here: https://enigmalabs.io/incident/279098
October 18, 2023
Not So Intelligent Artificial Intelligence
Artificial intelligent apps have the writing world in a tizzy. To listen to AI proponents, writers—book authors, content writers, journalists—will soon be going the way of the buggy whip. But before we wordmeisters throw out our computers and style manuals, let’s take a deep breath and consider some facts.
AI refers to a form of intelligence created by humans and, let’s face it, humankind isn’t the brightest bulb in the cosmic chandelier. That also goes for software engineers who program the AI apps. The idea that humans can create anything intelligent is laughable.
I worked with programmers for many years when I was a Navy research analyst. They exist in a world of algorithms consisting of “if this, then that” statements. Programmers are not omniscient (who is?), so they rely on “subject matter experts” like me to tell them what those algorithms should do. And the one thing algorithms can’t do is think—at least not yet.
Any writer who relies on AI to produce novels, journalism, or online content will end up with mud on their face just as happened to the attorney who got caught relying on AI to write his inaccurate court filings.
Recently, I tested one of the better-known AI content mills by asking it to write a Wikipedia entry about me. The results were interesting—and entirely wrong. Here are a few examples:
“Martin Roy Hill is an American author and former military officer known for his gripping and suspenseful thriller novels. With a background in law enforcement and military intelligence, Hill brings a unique blend of experience and expertise to his writing.” (Not really. I was a medical service corps officer then later converted to military police.)
“Martin Roy Hill was born on March 12, 1970, in Chicago, Illinois.” (Wrong date, year, city, and state).
“Hill pursued his academic journey at Northwestern University, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature.” (I received a BA in journalism from CSU Dominguez Hills).
“Following his graduation, Hill joined the United States Army, where he served as a military intelligence officer.” (I joined the US Coast Guard Reserve after high school with subsequent enlistments in the USNR and the California Guard).
“After leaving the military, Hill transitioned into law enforcement, joining the ranks of the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD). He worked as a patrol officer and later as a detective in the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division. (I served as a volunteer medic with the San Diego Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Reserve. I made my living as a journalist and, later, as a military analyst).
“In 2012, Hill published his debut novel, "The Killing Depths," which introduced readers to his recurring protagonist, Peter Brandt, a former Navy diver turned investigative journalist.” (“The Killing Depths” features Linus Schag, an NCIS special agent. Peter Brandt, an investigative journalist, is featured in another one of my series. Neither is a former Navy diver.)
The AI-produced bio went on to credit me with authorship of several short stories written by other authors as well as writing awards I never won. Yet, it only listed four of the twelve books I’ve published and none of the writing awards I actually have won.
I made several more attempts with this robo-writer, all with similar wrong results. The similarity in the writing of those attempts led me to believe the AI was simply using a pre-established template, which is not how artificial intelligence is supposed to work.
Now, a real writer—by that I mean a human—could get a pretty good idea of my background and my work by simply visiting my webpage (martinroyhill.com), which includes a lengthy biography. But even when I directed the AI to my website, it continued to regurgitate inaccurate information.
Which proves my point: As stupid as humankind is, we are still smarter than artificial intelligence. At least for now.
AI refers to a form of intelligence created by humans and, let’s face it, humankind isn’t the brightest bulb in the cosmic chandelier. That also goes for software engineers who program the AI apps. The idea that humans can create anything intelligent is laughable.
I worked with programmers for many years when I was a Navy research analyst. They exist in a world of algorithms consisting of “if this, then that” statements. Programmers are not omniscient (who is?), so they rely on “subject matter experts” like me to tell them what those algorithms should do. And the one thing algorithms can’t do is think—at least not yet.
Any writer who relies on AI to produce novels, journalism, or online content will end up with mud on their face just as happened to the attorney who got caught relying on AI to write his inaccurate court filings.
Recently, I tested one of the better-known AI content mills by asking it to write a Wikipedia entry about me. The results were interesting—and entirely wrong. Here are a few examples:
“Martin Roy Hill is an American author and former military officer known for his gripping and suspenseful thriller novels. With a background in law enforcement and military intelligence, Hill brings a unique blend of experience and expertise to his writing.” (Not really. I was a medical service corps officer then later converted to military police.)
“Martin Roy Hill was born on March 12, 1970, in Chicago, Illinois.” (Wrong date, year, city, and state).
“Hill pursued his academic journey at Northwestern University, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature.” (I received a BA in journalism from CSU Dominguez Hills).
“Following his graduation, Hill joined the United States Army, where he served as a military intelligence officer.” (I joined the US Coast Guard Reserve after high school with subsequent enlistments in the USNR and the California Guard).
“After leaving the military, Hill transitioned into law enforcement, joining the ranks of the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD). He worked as a patrol officer and later as a detective in the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division. (I served as a volunteer medic with the San Diego Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Reserve. I made my living as a journalist and, later, as a military analyst).
“In 2012, Hill published his debut novel, "The Killing Depths," which introduced readers to his recurring protagonist, Peter Brandt, a former Navy diver turned investigative journalist.” (“The Killing Depths” features Linus Schag, an NCIS special agent. Peter Brandt, an investigative journalist, is featured in another one of my series. Neither is a former Navy diver.)
The AI-produced bio went on to credit me with authorship of several short stories written by other authors as well as writing awards I never won. Yet, it only listed four of the twelve books I’ve published and none of the writing awards I actually have won.
I made several more attempts with this robo-writer, all with similar wrong results. The similarity in the writing of those attempts led me to believe the AI was simply using a pre-established template, which is not how artificial intelligence is supposed to work.
Now, a real writer—by that I mean a human—could get a pretty good idea of my background and my work by simply visiting my webpage (martinroyhill.com), which includes a lengthy biography. But even when I directed the AI to my website, it continued to regurgitate inaccurate information.
Which proves my point: As stupid as humankind is, we are still smarter than artificial intelligence. At least for now.
October 8, 2022
The Secret Life of a Novelist's 'Mews'
Hello, my name is Princess Amber Francesca of Tabbivor, felioness and fur daughter to the man you know as Martin Roy Hill. Father is somewhat indisposed today—I warned him about too much catnip—so he, ah, asked me to write this column for him.
And why shouldn’t he? I know as much about his work as anyone. That’s because unlike my siblings—Princess Seeley Alexandra of Calico and Prince Samwise Harry of Kittiton—I am father’s writing muse. Or maybe I should say "mews."
You know, all the great writers had cats for their muses—Mark Twain, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells. Ernest Hemingway had those six-toed cats Those freaks! I mean, what do when they count? What do they use—base 12 math?
Anyway, father relies on me to break him out of his writing doldrums and inspire him to write his fanciful tails—er, tales. I tell you it is not easy being a writer’s muse. Mostly it’s just long boring hours of staring out his study window or napping behind the computer screen or under the desk next to his feet. Okay, sometimes I knock over his waste basket and pull everything out so I can nap in it. What’s a muse to do?
Most of the time that’s all the inspiration he needs. But sometimes when he’s struggling with a scene, I walked across his keyboard and leave him suggestions. This is one of my personal favorites: “lkjlksfduihnlkakSHOFJPLKMLHlkjfdsljn!” When he saw that, he pulled on his hair and declared that it had replaced an entire chapter of his book Chimera Island. Imagine ... and he never credited me as his co-author.
It will soon be two years since my siblings and I came to Hill House. We were young and carefree then. We hadn’t yet taken up our royal household duties, such as holding court so father, mother, and our furless brother, Brandon, can pay us tribute. These days it’s one royal chore after another: waking father up for breakfast (our breakfast); shedding fur to make sure he gets plenty of exercise pushing around what he calls “that g-damn carpet sweeper;” and following him into what we call “the big water bowl rooms.” We call them that because of the big water bowls that we're not allowed to drink from. In fact, father often sits on the bowls to keep us from drinking from them.
Seeley and I split up that last chore; I’m responsible for the two upstairs water bowl rooms, and she takes care of the tiny one downstairs. No matter where in the house father is, our brother keeps him on his toes by insisting he follow Sam into the kitchen several times a day and pet him while he snacks on kibble. Dear sweet, oversized Sam…
But we love father, especially at dinner time. He's working very hard to learn our language. He tries to repeat what we say to him, and he even sings little songs for us in our language. But his accent is so bad he might as well be speaking Siamese. Still, father works very hard writing his novels in the morning and editing books for other writers in the afternoon in order to, as he says, “earn kitty food.”
After father’s work is done, he likes to play one of his guitars or, as he puts it, “torture the strings.” He calls me his Number One fan and groupie because I stay with him in the study as he plays. What father doesn’t know is, just as cats have a third eyelid, we also have little flaps inside our ears that can shut off noise we don’t want to hear, which is why cats never come when you call them.
Oh, dear. I hear daddy coming up the stairs. I better finish up and send this newsletter out before he realizes I rewrote what he originally had written—some gibberish about the lonely life and solitude of a writer. Lonely? How could he be lonely? He’s got three of us! It’s enough to make me hack up a fur ball into his shoe.
Oops, here he comes. Gotta go!
And why shouldn’t he? I know as much about his work as anyone. That’s because unlike my siblings—Princess Seeley Alexandra of Calico and Prince Samwise Harry of Kittiton—I am father’s writing muse. Or maybe I should say "mews."
You know, all the great writers had cats for their muses—Mark Twain, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells. Ernest Hemingway had those six-toed cats Those freaks! I mean, what do when they count? What do they use—base 12 math?
Anyway, father relies on me to break him out of his writing doldrums and inspire him to write his fanciful tails—er, tales. I tell you it is not easy being a writer’s muse. Mostly it’s just long boring hours of staring out his study window or napping behind the computer screen or under the desk next to his feet. Okay, sometimes I knock over his waste basket and pull everything out so I can nap in it. What’s a muse to do?
Most of the time that’s all the inspiration he needs. But sometimes when he’s struggling with a scene, I walked across his keyboard and leave him suggestions. This is one of my personal favorites: “lkjlksfduihnlkakSHOFJPLKMLHlkjfdsljn!” When he saw that, he pulled on his hair and declared that it had replaced an entire chapter of his book Chimera Island. Imagine ... and he never credited me as his co-author.
It will soon be two years since my siblings and I came to Hill House. We were young and carefree then. We hadn’t yet taken up our royal household duties, such as holding court so father, mother, and our furless brother, Brandon, can pay us tribute. These days it’s one royal chore after another: waking father up for breakfast (our breakfast); shedding fur to make sure he gets plenty of exercise pushing around what he calls “that g-damn carpet sweeper;” and following him into what we call “the big water bowl rooms.” We call them that because of the big water bowls that we're not allowed to drink from. In fact, father often sits on the bowls to keep us from drinking from them.
Seeley and I split up that last chore; I’m responsible for the two upstairs water bowl rooms, and she takes care of the tiny one downstairs. No matter where in the house father is, our brother keeps him on his toes by insisting he follow Sam into the kitchen several times a day and pet him while he snacks on kibble. Dear sweet, oversized Sam…
But we love father, especially at dinner time. He's working very hard to learn our language. He tries to repeat what we say to him, and he even sings little songs for us in our language. But his accent is so bad he might as well be speaking Siamese. Still, father works very hard writing his novels in the morning and editing books for other writers in the afternoon in order to, as he says, “earn kitty food.”
After father’s work is done, he likes to play one of his guitars or, as he puts it, “torture the strings.” He calls me his Number One fan and groupie because I stay with him in the study as he plays. What father doesn’t know is, just as cats have a third eyelid, we also have little flaps inside our ears that can shut off noise we don’t want to hear, which is why cats never come when you call them.
Oh, dear. I hear daddy coming up the stairs. I better finish up and send this newsletter out before he realizes I rewrote what he originally had written—some gibberish about the lonely life and solitude of a writer. Lonely? How could he be lonely? He’s got three of us! It’s enough to make me hack up a fur ball into his shoe.
Oops, here he comes. Gotta go!
January 11, 2022
What Makes You a Writer?
Recently, I saw a Twitter post from an aspiring writer who asked if she was wrong to consider herself a real writer if she didn’t make her living writing. It’s not an uncommon thought. I think most people who identify themselves as writers have been asked, “But what do you do for a living?” Such a remark can shatter our fragile writer’s ego and send us scurrying for our little writer cubbyholes. But the truth is, very few—let me emphasize that, very few—book writers make a living off their book sales. That includes best-selling, traditionally published authors.
Notice I said “book writers.” For close on to thirty years I did make my living writing. I was a journalist—a newspaper reporter, magazine writer, and newspaper editor. For sixteen years after that, I was a U.S. Navy analyst. I authored technical papers and the occasional article for peer-reviewed journals. During most of those years, I was actively writing novels and short stories. Even though I’ve now published ten books and dozens of short stories, I have never lived off any income from those sales.
I retired in 2018, and now with the help of Social Security and additional income from teaching a few writing-related courses and from freelance editing other writers’ works, I can say I’m a full-time—or at least near full-time—author.
A friend of mine, the late G. M. Ford, wrote best-selling mysteries published by some of the nation’s largest traditional publishing houses for thirty years. But he couldn’t write full-time until he retired from his teaching career. Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, only worked on his spy novels parttime. For most of the year, he worked as a newspaper editor in London. Each summer he would take a leave of absence to write his Bond thrillers.
If you saw Ken Burns’ video-biography of Ernest Hemingway, one thing stood out: even the Nobel Prize for Literature laureate need financial help to support his writing. During his Moveable Feast salad-days in Paris, Hemingway worked as a newspaper reporter to support his writing (not to mention his first wife and baby). After marrying his second wife, he lived off her substantial trust fund.
Of course, in the Twenties and Thirties, even a few dollars went a long way. Unfortunately, book advances and royalties haven’t much changed since then.
Some writers can make a living from their novels, but they work extremely hard at it. My late father-in-law, Robert Wade, and his late writing partner, H. Billy Miller, made a comfortable living writing mysteries and thrillers in the post-WWII years. They were most famous for their mysteries published under the penname Wade Miller, but they also wrote under at least a half dozen other pseudonyms and published several books each year. And they were good enough—or lucky enough—to have several of their books turned into movies for the big and little screens.
Prolific contemporary authors like James Rollins and Jonathan Mayberry make their living publishing several books year. Mayberry, in particular, is a writing machine. Sci-fi and military action writer Bob Mayer makes a living producing several books a year and sponsoring writer retreats. James Patterson has sold enough books to live off his living, but he also has his own publishing endeavor and a popular thriller writing course. The late Tom Clancy stopped writing books himself and set up a production line for novels written by other writers from his ideas. Novels with Clancy’s name on the covers are still published nine years after his death.
These are the exceptions, however.
In 2018, the Author Guild published a study revealing that the median income of all authors surveyed for all writing-related activities (writing, teaching, etc.) was $6,080 in 2017. That was down from more than $10,000 in 2009. Median income for book-related activities (royalties) dropped 21 percent in the same period, going from $3,900 to $3,100. About a quarter of responding writers reported making no money at all from writing activities in 2017.
Writing is an art forum, perhaps the loneliest and least available art form at that. Musicians and singers perform in public spaces—concert halls, saloons, even public parks—and can received instant gratification in the form of applause if not money. Painters can have their work displayed in public spaces such as art galleries, museums, restaurants, and parks, and receive feedback such as approving looks and nods, if not money. But writers work in solitude then must sit back to see if the result of that work—their books—can wind their way into the hands of readers. They never get to see the expressions of approval from readers. If lucky, a reader will leave a review on Amazon or GoodReads. And, most likely, they will never make a lot of money.
So, if you are writing daily and diligently, if you are doing the demanding work of rewriting and editing, and rewriting again, and being a true artist but not an artiste, you are a writer. You may not be making a living off your writing, you may not make any money at all, but you are a writer.
Notice I said “book writers.” For close on to thirty years I did make my living writing. I was a journalist—a newspaper reporter, magazine writer, and newspaper editor. For sixteen years after that, I was a U.S. Navy analyst. I authored technical papers and the occasional article for peer-reviewed journals. During most of those years, I was actively writing novels and short stories. Even though I’ve now published ten books and dozens of short stories, I have never lived off any income from those sales.
I retired in 2018, and now with the help of Social Security and additional income from teaching a few writing-related courses and from freelance editing other writers’ works, I can say I’m a full-time—or at least near full-time—author.
A friend of mine, the late G. M. Ford, wrote best-selling mysteries published by some of the nation’s largest traditional publishing houses for thirty years. But he couldn’t write full-time until he retired from his teaching career. Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, only worked on his spy novels parttime. For most of the year, he worked as a newspaper editor in London. Each summer he would take a leave of absence to write his Bond thrillers.
If you saw Ken Burns’ video-biography of Ernest Hemingway, one thing stood out: even the Nobel Prize for Literature laureate need financial help to support his writing. During his Moveable Feast salad-days in Paris, Hemingway worked as a newspaper reporter to support his writing (not to mention his first wife and baby). After marrying his second wife, he lived off her substantial trust fund.
Of course, in the Twenties and Thirties, even a few dollars went a long way. Unfortunately, book advances and royalties haven’t much changed since then.
Some writers can make a living from their novels, but they work extremely hard at it. My late father-in-law, Robert Wade, and his late writing partner, H. Billy Miller, made a comfortable living writing mysteries and thrillers in the post-WWII years. They were most famous for their mysteries published under the penname Wade Miller, but they also wrote under at least a half dozen other pseudonyms and published several books each year. And they were good enough—or lucky enough—to have several of their books turned into movies for the big and little screens.
Prolific contemporary authors like James Rollins and Jonathan Mayberry make their living publishing several books year. Mayberry, in particular, is a writing machine. Sci-fi and military action writer Bob Mayer makes a living producing several books a year and sponsoring writer retreats. James Patterson has sold enough books to live off his living, but he also has his own publishing endeavor and a popular thriller writing course. The late Tom Clancy stopped writing books himself and set up a production line for novels written by other writers from his ideas. Novels with Clancy’s name on the covers are still published nine years after his death.
These are the exceptions, however.
In 2018, the Author Guild published a study revealing that the median income of all authors surveyed for all writing-related activities (writing, teaching, etc.) was $6,080 in 2017. That was down from more than $10,000 in 2009. Median income for book-related activities (royalties) dropped 21 percent in the same period, going from $3,900 to $3,100. About a quarter of responding writers reported making no money at all from writing activities in 2017.
Writing is an art forum, perhaps the loneliest and least available art form at that. Musicians and singers perform in public spaces—concert halls, saloons, even public parks—and can received instant gratification in the form of applause if not money. Painters can have their work displayed in public spaces such as art galleries, museums, restaurants, and parks, and receive feedback such as approving looks and nods, if not money. But writers work in solitude then must sit back to see if the result of that work—their books—can wind their way into the hands of readers. They never get to see the expressions of approval from readers. If lucky, a reader will leave a review on Amazon or GoodReads. And, most likely, they will never make a lot of money.
So, if you are writing daily and diligently, if you are doing the demanding work of rewriting and editing, and rewriting again, and being a true artist but not an artiste, you are a writer. You may not be making a living off your writing, you may not make any money at all, but you are a writer.
September 22, 2021
Have You Met Jack?
According to reader reviews of my latest Peter Brandt mystery thriller, The Fourth Rising, the most popular character in the book is Jack. Jack is a big guy. He wears his red hair long. He has a hardy appetite. He’s tough and doesn’t like strangers coming around his digs. And he likes to have his tummy rubbed.
Jack is a cat.
Jack came into Peter’s life as a tiny, rain-soaked kitten he found howling on his front doorstep. Little did Peter know that Jack—named after Peter’s favorite author Jack Kerouac—was a Maine coon. Maine coons grow, and grow, and grow for up to four years. When we meet Jack in The Fourth Rising, he’s fully grown and the size of a small dog. He’s also spoiled because, as Peter states, “he has sharp teeth and claws. He might kill me in my sleep.”
Jack offers a little lightness in a book about a dark subject—the rise of modern-day fascism around the world. Like many of the human characters in my books, Jack’s character was inspired by a real-life feline … well, actually six of them.
Both my wife and I have had cats our entire lives. Together we raised three generations of feline siblings and all but one of them were long-hair red tabbies. (One, Molly, was a tortoiseshell calico, which is how most females with orange tabby genes come out. Actual female orange tabbies are rare.) All of them were the inspiration for Jack.
Max, a red tabby, and his sister, Molly, the tortie, were part Maine coon and grew from tiny kittens into outsized adult cats. When I held either under their shoulders, their bodies stretched from my chin to below my knees. Harry and Alex, our last two orange tabbies, were highly territorial. It was not unusual to be waken in the middle of night as the two of them howled and hissed at visiting raccoons.
Our first two sibs, Teddy and Franny, were average in size but huge in personality. Franny used to hold court for all the neighborhood male cats who came to pay homage to her. She loved to pose for photographs. She once appeared on a magazine cover after the professional feline model had a hissy fit. Teddy, whose courage was unmeasurable, once faced off with a full-grown German Shepard while his sister dashed for safety in our house. (All our cats since Teddy and Franny have been house cats.)
When The Fourth Rising was published last year, I dedicated the book to these beautiful fur-babies who honored us with their love and gave me the inspiration for Jack. Unfortunately, Harry—whose brother passed a few years earlier—died at the age of seventeen before I finished the book.
That’s not to say we are catless today. As far as I’m concerned, a house without a cat is not a home. We have since adopted three kittens, all sibs and all long haired, but not a red tabby among them. Amber is a gray and black tabby with crop-circle striping and amber highlights.
Her sister, Seeley, is a calico and their brother, Sam, is simply black-and-white with a black patch over one eye. (We call him the Dred Pirate Sam.) They are at least part Norwegian Forest Cat which, like Maine coons, grow exceptionally large. They recently turned two and are still growing—especially Sam. When he finishes growing, I’m planning to buy a lion tamer’s costume and join the circus with him. But that’s another story to tell.
Jack is a cat.
Jack came into Peter’s life as a tiny, rain-soaked kitten he found howling on his front doorstep. Little did Peter know that Jack—named after Peter’s favorite author Jack Kerouac—was a Maine coon. Maine coons grow, and grow, and grow for up to four years. When we meet Jack in The Fourth Rising, he’s fully grown and the size of a small dog. He’s also spoiled because, as Peter states, “he has sharp teeth and claws. He might kill me in my sleep.”
Jack offers a little lightness in a book about a dark subject—the rise of modern-day fascism around the world. Like many of the human characters in my books, Jack’s character was inspired by a real-life feline … well, actually six of them.
Both my wife and I have had cats our entire lives. Together we raised three generations of feline siblings and all but one of them were long-hair red tabbies. (One, Molly, was a tortoiseshell calico, which is how most females with orange tabby genes come out. Actual female orange tabbies are rare.) All of them were the inspiration for Jack.
Max, a red tabby, and his sister, Molly, the tortie, were part Maine coon and grew from tiny kittens into outsized adult cats. When I held either under their shoulders, their bodies stretched from my chin to below my knees. Harry and Alex, our last two orange tabbies, were highly territorial. It was not unusual to be waken in the middle of night as the two of them howled and hissed at visiting raccoons.
Our first two sibs, Teddy and Franny, were average in size but huge in personality. Franny used to hold court for all the neighborhood male cats who came to pay homage to her. She loved to pose for photographs. She once appeared on a magazine cover after the professional feline model had a hissy fit. Teddy, whose courage was unmeasurable, once faced off with a full-grown German Shepard while his sister dashed for safety in our house. (All our cats since Teddy and Franny have been house cats.)
When The Fourth Rising was published last year, I dedicated the book to these beautiful fur-babies who honored us with their love and gave me the inspiration for Jack. Unfortunately, Harry—whose brother passed a few years earlier—died at the age of seventeen before I finished the book.
That’s not to say we are catless today. As far as I’m concerned, a house without a cat is not a home. We have since adopted three kittens, all sibs and all long haired, but not a red tabby among them. Amber is a gray and black tabby with crop-circle striping and amber highlights.
Her sister, Seeley, is a calico and their brother, Sam, is simply black-and-white with a black patch over one eye. (We call him the Dred Pirate Sam.) They are at least part Norwegian Forest Cat which, like Maine coons, grow exceptionally large. They recently turned two and are still growing—especially Sam. When he finishes growing, I’m planning to buy a lion tamer’s costume and join the circus with him. But that’s another story to tell.
January 31, 2021
Three Tips for Moving Your Writing Forward
There’s an old saying that goes, “Every novel has three parts—the beginning, the end, and the muddle.” Anyone who has ever written or tried to write a novel knows this saying is as true as it is humorous. You start off knowing how the book begins and how it ends, but somehow no matter how much you plot, the middle remains amorphous. You know where you’re going but you’re not sure how to get there. It’s like your writing GPS has suddenly shut down.
As a freelance book editor, I frequently find my clients lose their way as the plot nears the halfway mark. They either push too hard to get through the “muddle” and end up leaving out necessary plot points, or they wander through it as if seeking escape from a maze and end up with page after page of pointless prose.
Here are three tips I use to get through the middle without it becoming a muddle.
To tell or not to tell: Writers often get bogged down writing more than they need. For instance, if the hero develops a plan to accomplish a certain mission, they spend pages explaining the plan before he executes it. Then in the following pages, the writer describes the hero doing what the author previously told the reader what he was going to do.
Here’s a tip: If your hero’s plan succeeds, don't tell the plan beforehand. If the plan is doomed to failure, do tell the reader the plan beforehand. In the former, you build tension because the reader is anxious to discover what the plan is and whether it succeeds. In the latter, tension is built as the reader sees the plan falling apart. Only if the reader knows the plan beforehand can they know when it begins to falter.
Scene vs. narrative: Every writer has heard the old saw, “Show, don’t tell.” But what about scene vs. narrative? When do you use a scene to move the plot forward and when do you use a narrative summary?
In scenes, the reader experiences events as they happen rather than being told about them. A narrative summary tells the story rather than letting the story unfold through the actions of the characters. In a scene, the character is actively doing something to move the story forward. A narrative summary is used to move the story forward when the characters are inactive. One reason to use a narrative summary is to skip over a period of time in which nothing pertinent to the plot occurs.
If you're, stuck on writing, do something else: Many writers scoff at the idea of writer’s block. They barrel through the writing despite not knowing where they’re going, leaving that “muddle” behind them. Often, it’s because they face a publisher’s deadline. However, if you find yourself having problems moving the story forward and you have the luxury of not facing a deadline, give yourself a break. Put the book away for a day or two, maybe a week. Work on another writing project or just putter around the garden—anything to let your head clear and your subconscious work on the problem.
Every writer has their own way of working, but I find these tips work for me and my author clients. I hope they help you, too.
As a freelance book editor, I frequently find my clients lose their way as the plot nears the halfway mark. They either push too hard to get through the “muddle” and end up leaving out necessary plot points, or they wander through it as if seeking escape from a maze and end up with page after page of pointless prose.
Here are three tips I use to get through the middle without it becoming a muddle.
To tell or not to tell: Writers often get bogged down writing more than they need. For instance, if the hero develops a plan to accomplish a certain mission, they spend pages explaining the plan before he executes it. Then in the following pages, the writer describes the hero doing what the author previously told the reader what he was going to do.
Here’s a tip: If your hero’s plan succeeds, don't tell the plan beforehand. If the plan is doomed to failure, do tell the reader the plan beforehand. In the former, you build tension because the reader is anxious to discover what the plan is and whether it succeeds. In the latter, tension is built as the reader sees the plan falling apart. Only if the reader knows the plan beforehand can they know when it begins to falter.
Scene vs. narrative: Every writer has heard the old saw, “Show, don’t tell.” But what about scene vs. narrative? When do you use a scene to move the plot forward and when do you use a narrative summary?
In scenes, the reader experiences events as they happen rather than being told about them. A narrative summary tells the story rather than letting the story unfold through the actions of the characters. In a scene, the character is actively doing something to move the story forward. A narrative summary is used to move the story forward when the characters are inactive. One reason to use a narrative summary is to skip over a period of time in which nothing pertinent to the plot occurs.
If you're, stuck on writing, do something else: Many writers scoff at the idea of writer’s block. They barrel through the writing despite not knowing where they’re going, leaving that “muddle” behind them. Often, it’s because they face a publisher’s deadline. However, if you find yourself having problems moving the story forward and you have the luxury of not facing a deadline, give yourself a break. Put the book away for a day or two, maybe a week. Work on another writing project or just putter around the garden—anything to let your head clear and your subconscious work on the problem.
Every writer has their own way of working, but I find these tips work for me and my author clients. I hope they help you, too.
September 13, 2020
Want to Be a Writer? Adhere to the King’s Advice
According to Stephen King said, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things: above all others, read a lot and write a lot.” This advice is straightforward and simple advice. But unfortunately, it’s advice often ignored by beginning and experienced writers.
I know people who spend their time attending writing courses and conferences, participating in writers’ groups, or spending day after day “planning” their Great American Novel rather than writing their Great American Novel. They think they’re writers, but they haven’t written anything.
The only thing that makes you a writer is writing.
You don’t need to create perfect prose; you just need to write. The way to do this is to set a daily word count and aim at getting that word count written each day. Some days you may not meet that word count; other days you’ll exceed it.
So how many words should you aim at?
That all depends on you.
Stephen King aims at writing 2,000 word every day. On the other hand, Ernest Hemingway’s goal was 500 per day. The late Michael Crichton wrote an incredible 10,000 words a day. Yet Crichton realized writing so fast didn’t generate publishable prose. “Books aren’t written,” he said, “they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”
That’s also the mark of a good writer—reworking your pose. As a freelance book editor, I can’t tell you the number of aspiring authors who hire my services and present me with what is obviously a first draft. Rewriting is the core of being a writer. As I always say, the art of writing is in the rewriting.
My writing schedule is this. I write in the morning for about two hours (after that I edit other people’s books). I aim for 500 words a day. I chose that number because when I worked a “day job,” I only had an hour a day to write. Now I usually write more than 500 words, but I still limit my time to just two hours.
My practice is to review and revise the previous day’s work before launching into new writing. When I finish a chapter, I rework the whole chapter again before moving on to the next chapter. When I finish the first draft of a book, I put it aside for a couple of weeks before starting the second draft. When that’s finished, I again put it aside for a while before starting the third rewrite. As part of the third rewrite, I run the full manuscript through ProWritingAid, a grammar checker and more. (There are similar programs, such as Grammarly. I recommend to all my clients they invest in one.) Only then do I send it to my editors.
When I’m not working on a novel, I write short stories and posts for two blogs—this one you’re reading, and a blog about politics with a historical perspective.
But still there are days when I just don’t write. Usually it’s due to illness, sleepless nights, or just because I don’t want to do s**t. It happens. Don’t hate yourself. Sometimes we all need a break. Just suck it up and get back into your writing groove the next day.
The second part of King’s advice— “read a lot”—is just as important as writing every day. Read books or articles about writing. Research your plot. But most of all, read books in your genre. How can you write a mystery if you’ve never read one? Don’t confuse watching a mystery movie or TV show as the same as reading one. Scriptwriting has entirely different requirements than book writing.
Don’t just read for pleasure. Study how successful authors in your chosen genre develop their plots and characters, structure their story lines, and write dialogue. Don’t just read one or two of your favorite contemporary authors; explore the history of your genre. If you write private eye novels, read Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Robert Parker. If you write sci-fi, reread some of those greats you were forced to read in high school—Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and Robert Heinlein.
Besides looking at writing style, look for the theme. Every great book needs a theme. Chandler wrote about the corrupting effects of wealth. The theme of Wells’ classic War of the Worlds was the evils of imperialism.
If all this sounds like you’re going back to school—well, you are. You are learning skills and training for a profession. To be a writer, act like a writer—and write.
I know people who spend their time attending writing courses and conferences, participating in writers’ groups, or spending day after day “planning” their Great American Novel rather than writing their Great American Novel. They think they’re writers, but they haven’t written anything.
The only thing that makes you a writer is writing.
You don’t need to create perfect prose; you just need to write. The way to do this is to set a daily word count and aim at getting that word count written each day. Some days you may not meet that word count; other days you’ll exceed it.
So how many words should you aim at?
That all depends on you.
Stephen King aims at writing 2,000 word every day. On the other hand, Ernest Hemingway’s goal was 500 per day. The late Michael Crichton wrote an incredible 10,000 words a day. Yet Crichton realized writing so fast didn’t generate publishable prose. “Books aren’t written,” he said, “they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”
That’s also the mark of a good writer—reworking your pose. As a freelance book editor, I can’t tell you the number of aspiring authors who hire my services and present me with what is obviously a first draft. Rewriting is the core of being a writer. As I always say, the art of writing is in the rewriting.
My writing schedule is this. I write in the morning for about two hours (after that I edit other people’s books). I aim for 500 words a day. I chose that number because when I worked a “day job,” I only had an hour a day to write. Now I usually write more than 500 words, but I still limit my time to just two hours.
My practice is to review and revise the previous day’s work before launching into new writing. When I finish a chapter, I rework the whole chapter again before moving on to the next chapter. When I finish the first draft of a book, I put it aside for a couple of weeks before starting the second draft. When that’s finished, I again put it aside for a while before starting the third rewrite. As part of the third rewrite, I run the full manuscript through ProWritingAid, a grammar checker and more. (There are similar programs, such as Grammarly. I recommend to all my clients they invest in one.) Only then do I send it to my editors.
When I’m not working on a novel, I write short stories and posts for two blogs—this one you’re reading, and a blog about politics with a historical perspective.
But still there are days when I just don’t write. Usually it’s due to illness, sleepless nights, or just because I don’t want to do s**t. It happens. Don’t hate yourself. Sometimes we all need a break. Just suck it up and get back into your writing groove the next day.
The second part of King’s advice— “read a lot”—is just as important as writing every day. Read books or articles about writing. Research your plot. But most of all, read books in your genre. How can you write a mystery if you’ve never read one? Don’t confuse watching a mystery movie or TV show as the same as reading one. Scriptwriting has entirely different requirements than book writing.
Don’t just read for pleasure. Study how successful authors in your chosen genre develop their plots and characters, structure their story lines, and write dialogue. Don’t just read one or two of your favorite contemporary authors; explore the history of your genre. If you write private eye novels, read Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Robert Parker. If you write sci-fi, reread some of those greats you were forced to read in high school—Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and Robert Heinlein.
Besides looking at writing style, look for the theme. Every great book needs a theme. Chandler wrote about the corrupting effects of wealth. The theme of Wells’ classic War of the Worlds was the evils of imperialism.
If all this sounds like you’re going back to school—well, you are. You are learning skills and training for a profession. To be a writer, act like a writer—and write.
