Doc Pruyne's Blog

When we came to the house it was a wreck. Empty for almost two years. Painted dull colors, with peeling wallpaper. Full of cobwebs. Dusty. Unwanted.

All the windows were rattling in their casings, including those in the kitchen. They looked to be sixty years old, the sashes askew in their jambs.

The work goes on. The house grows ever more modern. Each job, long-lasting or quick, is another piece of my life embedded in the zeitgeist of the old farmhouse.

Now there are improvements I no longer rem...

The second novel of The Sword of the World Trilogy will appear in six weeks. Most of “Persimmon Tree” has been written for quite some time…maybe even twenty-four years.

“Persimmon” and “Persimmon Tree” were first birthed as one novel. It took several years to write and ran to 742 pages. Too big, I knew it, yet I hadn’t even started to rewrite and whittle it down.

The book was big and had a magnificent title. Sky Opening Day. That’s a national holiday celebrating the birth of the Korean peoples....

Why do I write? To be the perfect ham sandwich.

When I was a little boy I had a crew-cut and a beer belly. My mother went to church, she didn’t let me drink beer. It was potato chips. I was a potato chip piggy in front of the boob tube. Then one night, instead of watching “Lost in Space” I went to my desk and began to write…and something odd happened. I saw myself, as I wrote at my desk, from five feet behind my right shoulder.

No kidding, I watched myself write. From outside of myself. I was h...

I’ve been at a loss. How do I open the next novel? No clue what to write, so I tried something new.

Twenty minutes of chaos.

The opening of a novel is extremely important. It has to function smoothly, without the feeling of contrivance, and perform many tasks. Not easy, but it’s the single most important decision a novelist makes.

I couldn’t find my opening. The angst sharpened. I’ve been grumpy with my wife. I started cursing when a piece of wood took too long to split. A few nights ago I dream...

Build furniture out of old pianos? Why not?

I first had that idea twenty-some years ago, but couldn’t put the notion into motion. Good idea, right? Save beautiful instruments from the landfill and create nice pieces for the house…and maybe sell a few.

A desk with the shape of a baby grand piano struck my fancy, so we picked up an old John Wanamaker baby grand, free of charge, from a Catholic school in Fitchburg, MA. Believe it or not, we picked up three pianos that day, two baby grands and a...

The Joker has me by the neck and he’s slapping me around, so I can’t write. Or maybe I’m just afraid.

Of my novel.

A novel is a huge undertaking. Writing a novel is a commitment at least as serious as marriage. No kidding, I’m not being dramatic.

I’m under contract to write three novels for the Sword of the World trilogy. Two are written. They were written as one narrative, non-stop, and are seamless. All well and good.

The third novel is still a mystery. It demands an extension of the characters...

The Joker has me by the nape of the neck and he’s slapping me upside the head, so I can’t write.

Or maybe I’m just afraid. Of my novel.

A novel is a huge undertaking. Writing a novel is a commitment at least as serious as marriage. I kid you not. I’m not being dramatic.

I’m under contract to write three novels for the Sword of the World trilogy. Two are written. They were written as one narrative, non-stop, and are seamless. All well and good.

The third novel is still a mystery. It demands an ext...

I’ve been a writer all my life. Now, at the ripening age of 54, I’ve finally secured a publisher.

My good friend and former student, Scott Cramer, released Night of the Purple Moon, and enjoyed solid success by publishing it himself. Thusly encouraged, I thought it might be the right time to go back to marketing my books.

I saw a quick listing on CraigsList calling for writers to submit their books to an agent. I sent Michael Caputo an email, he suggested I send samples, and he liked both Persi...

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, somebody got hungry. Since he was ignorant, he got real hungry. Then he said, “Fuck it, I need something to eat now!”

He was in the woods, since everybody lived in the woods back then, and so he grabbed the nearest thing that looked like he could chew it. A mushroom.

He chowed down that mushroom and…well…I’d like to say he lived happily ever after but, no, he didn’t. He died. He died writhing violently on the ground.

But the guy watching from fifty feet...

The salad days. I never knew, really, what that meant until I moved to the country and started gardening.

First we got basil, easily mistaken for a weed but for its lovely smell. The stems bled pale

Harvesting basil leaves such a delicious smell on my hands that it’s one of my favorite moments in gardening.

green sapwater when Cheri harvested them, lay them into her basket and brought them in the house. Moist leaves beginning to dimple, young plants yet to flower.

Pesto. She made thick pungent pe...