For me, writing novels is an erratic undertaking. I'll think I know what I want to do but will be unable to do it, or maybe only glancingly able, which leaves me with something wide of what I'd hoped for. Occasionally, though, every once in a great while, I'll open the spigot, and the thing I imagined comes out. The right voice and tone, the right characters, the right story. Everything in good order.

It's a rare occurrence. I've had the experience maybe three times in total. I can usually rewrite well enough to sort of spackle over problems, but I'd rather not need to. I'd rather have succeeded the first time through. I'd rather just tidy up.

That's exactly what I'm doing with this new novel. I was leery to try a western. I can't really say why. I've certainly been thinking about this one for a while, which is maybe why I was so ready to write it when the time came.

Whatever the reason, it works in ways I'd hoped it would, and I'm proud of it. I'm eager to get it out in the world, but a bit more tidying first. Mid-February probably. Here's the copy:

In the spring of 1879, a sixteen-year-old boy from the Virginia uplands finds himself alone on the Great Plains with a Colt Navy revolver and the family mule. What was meant to be a frontier adventure with two of his friends has turned into a solitary ordeal as he makes his way across a sparsely settled and largely lawless piece of the world. He’s bound for California and narrates his journey in harrowing and hilarious detail, making Devil Up the story of a farm boy from back east who becomes -- through pluck and heart and more than a little gunplay -- a man.