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About wolfdevoon

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    Wolf DeVoon
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  1. It bothers me, and it undoubtedly annoys readers, that my published work past and present is full of cursing, especially the F word. My latest novel has 44 F bombs, which is quite a lot, almost all of them spoken by honorable men and women. Why on earth? I rarely use the F word in conversation nowadays, although I admit having said it frequently as a young man at war with the world. Later in life I kept company with a Russian who used it in every sentence, as bizarre as that may seem. Orlin Grabbe once chastised me for overuse of the F word and suggested that I "use another adjective, please." I retaliated by putting his words into a character's mouth, mocking him, and he probably cursed me when that chapter of The Good Walk Alone went to press. I had 40,000 readers following a weekly serial loaded with bad language and outrageously graphic sex scenes, another signature foible. What the fuck is up with me as an author? (so to speak) I fear there is more wrong than overuse of bad language. My people carry weapons and kill. They recognize no power greater than individual judgment and autonomous action, entirely divorced from legal process and lawful authority. This is the reality of warfare. Warriors are hardened and truculent. Confronted by an unexpected obstacle, a fierce enemy or sudden surprise by politicians, they are apt to curse. "You can stuff that fucking Leavenworth snake back in your pocket," Chris says to his father in A Portrait of Valor, and he means it. How else should one express contempt for that kind of threat, to be imprisoned if he refuses a deadly and unwanted assignment? Suppose it was said more politely. What sort of hero says: "Oh, father, I don't wish to do that, please don't threaten me with prison, I dislike it." In The Tar Pit, my latest, African American detective Ellie Vereen uses the F word constantly, almost every sentence of her dialogue. "Fuck no," she grouches when Chris suggests another black p.i. could back her up on a dangerous assignment. Ellie would be an entirely false and ridiculous character, if she replied: "No, thank you, Chris, I prefer to handle this individually, rather than worry about Mr. Little's propensity to screw things up and blow my cover." Book editors complain about more serious literary problems, concerning multiple points of view and sudden lapses of mood. Written largely in first person past tense, I indulge textual liberties: Ow. (an existential reaction) Shut up, Cable, and go eat a hamburger. (self-talk) That's why I'm stuck with the ignominy of being self-published. Bad languge and bad grammar go hand in hand, a freedom of expression that enlivens story, gives it verisimilitude and authenticity. What I write is largely preposterous. There are very few autonomous heroes. My chief concern is believability. I have little to offer except the hard business of courage under fire. My people are not geniuses or "cosy" elderly women suggesting with a wink that the butler may have tinkered with the grandfather clock and threw a candlestick in the duck pond. It is an unhappy truth of life that people in Hollywood curse, especially private eyes and LAPD homicide detectives. In comradeship and frustration, at the scene of a grisly murder, a cop is likely to say: "Aw, fuck you. You know what I mean." This is how men speak to one another. So -- here we jolly well are -- unable to fix anything without diluting its truth. I apologize for terrible coarseness. My F bombs annoy and interrupt the flow, unless you too know about death and danger, ill-equipped to stop the horror of a serial killer who leaves no evidence of his identity at crime scenes. The police are baffled. The FBI are baffled. Tempers flare. Better to read another author, I guess.
  2. Good laugh. My wife stopped talking to me over a year ago. I'm sleeping in an unheated tin barn with a little electric space heater, sleeping in my clothes with a knit hat to keep my head warm. My laptop sits on a tiny folding table, just big enough to park a cup of coffee if I push the laptop catty corner part way off the edge. My credit cards have been shredded. I have $25 in my wallet and a couple bucks in loose change on a cluttered tool bench. I live on cold cuts, Ritz crackers, peanut butter and jelly, and Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits -- none of which seems guaranteed next week. Maybe I'll sell my car. It's worth $1000, if I can find a buyer. Today, I used it to drive to town and drained my last drip of credit to pay for car insurance and the Post Office box, so I can drive back on Friday and get 3 copies of my new novel to attempt some sales promotion by bugging friends to help spread the word. Normal people have a flock of buds and pals. My email list is small, less than a dozen people around the world who think I'm a writer. Print-on-demand is a bad joke. Sales are nonexistent. A word of advice: Ingram Spark and PW ads are no better than Lulu or CreateSpace. On the other hand, Google seems to think I'm a public person. I've written a dozen books. My latest was completed and sent to market self-published yesterday. A very nice man in Alaska interviewed me in January, reached dozens of radio listeners in Fairbanks, sold no books but that didn't matter. For three hours on a neighbor's landline, I spoke about liberty and the rule of law, topics I'm supposedly famous for, calmly in favor of both. My book on government is dedicated to the men and women of law enforcement and national defense. All of my novels feature cops and private eyes, twin brothers in arms who pay a steep price to defend us from bad guys. Most of them are ex-military. I made zero dollars and zero cents honoring them. So -- why do such a thing? -- spend years in isolation, burn job opportunities, credit, family, and my health and welfare for unwanted literary product? I don't know. Convinced that I've done something stupid, occasionally I re-read my work, and I find it to be undeniably good. Far better to have written crap. Then I could quit. Have a good laugh -- jeez, what a dope! -- and maybe get a job at Walmart pushing carts from the parking lot, or another factory job, although the last time I quit writing and deleted my Facebook page, it didn't turn out well. Lasted only 8 days on graveyard shift, had to drive 50 miles each night, got hurt on the job, and discovered that I couldn't keep up with a noisy conveyor belt of cast iron widgets. It is a profound privilege to be an author, no matter what it costs. Other better writers can do both, hold a job and create very successful work. I'm unable to do either of them. Yet, when I die there will be a legacy left by Wolf DeVoon, one of the silliest pen names ever chosen, an anarchist who defends the rule of law and can't seem to write action-adventure without sex scenes, the worst possible eroticism! -- straight hetero fireworks shared by married people, one white guy and one white babe who adore each other. Silly, huh? This is what bad authors do, after a wonderful new unwanted novel is completed. We blather about any old thing, unable to start another book. A blank future -- like the blank pages that novels always are, challenging me to create something no one else can, one word at a time. http://www.lulu.com/shop/wolf-devoon/the-tar-pit/paperback/product-23100837.html
  3. Hi, A few words about my latest, the second in my series with Chris and Peachy, a modern Nick and Nora Charles. Sometimes authors use images to help them see the characters, or waste time while facing another blank page. 200 blank pages is sort of a big deal, though not as big a deal as The Fountainhead, right? The mind boggles what Rand might have looked at. The Tar Pit is 80% less sex and 100% more crime mystery by popular demand. Anyway, meet Chris Cable It would be swell to have a review on Lulu or Amazon. The cheapest is Lulu, if you'd like to buy a paperback.
  4. Thoughtful remarks. Thank you.
  5. Alternative tastelessness, a 3-hr radio interview https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfvLfuNS9pk&feature=youtu.be
  6. Salem Radio Network headliners are Michael Medved, Dennis Prager, Hugh Hewitt, Michael Gallagher, Larry Elder, and Eric Metaxas, 100% wall-to-wall Zionist + Evangelical Christian agenda. Medved and Prager are relentlessly mystical. Undoubtedly clever men with the exception of Gallagher and Elder. I monitor them to gauge what's up with conservatives in Congress. My local Salem affiliate also plays Mark Levin, distributed by Cumulus, a multi-market station conglomerate that gave Hannity his start in broadcasting. I don't watch TV and have zero interest in listening to mainstream news or reading newspapers, although I scan Zero Hedge and Drudge. What conservatives care about is religion, abortion, and Israel, period. They wanted Ted Cruz to be the Republican nominee and got their clocks cleaned by blue collar voters in the Rust Belt. We're down to survival issues. Cut all foreign aid, shut the border.
  7. Nope. I agree with Heinlein and Churchill: women and children first, but let's move along to Dennis Prager's civil war thesis. I heard him say it because I monitor the bad guys, all types, including the toxic Salem Jews. Undoubtedly, Donald Trump's presidency will amp up (shit, already has amped up) majority Left militancy that will segue to street warfare this summer. It has been mooted that police will contain it. I doubt it. Police are outnumbered, no better than garbage collectors with sidearms, as evidenced by their inability to stop thug wars in Detroit, Chicago, Baltimore. Los Angeles, Philadelphia, etc. We're on our own as individual men. Stopping immigration now is like bolting the barn door after millions of dangerous animals have escaped, politically and physically impossible to recapture and deport, without the kind of "nazi" rule that the Left already hurled as an Trump epithet. Prager's war was lost during Rand's lifetime, and Prager's Judeo-Christian mystics stupidly fought on the wrong side, enabling the secular Left.
  8. Heroism comes at a price. There's no free ride, unless you start as a bartender like Sean Hannity or Mark Cuban, service with a smile.
  9. I read all three pages with interest, although I confess to skimming some of the posts, a privilege of perspective. Let's agree that life is an unchosen gift, each of us challenged with a unique latent character to evolve, an awkward situation to grapple with. I know about physical, psychological, financial, and social utility (pleasure and pain). Marginal utility bores me (maximizing pleasure or longer-term profit). I feel the same indifference about book reviewers and grammar nazis. It took a long time to find my voice, to write freely and personally and uniquely. I understand Ayn Rand in those terms -- and more importantly Scott Fitzgerald, the only author I've found who had the gift of literary genius. Like Ayn Rand, there was a little gap of daylight in the fortunes of cultural hegemony that let Fitzgerald slip through, and both writers were promptly ridiculed, repudiated, and scorned. It's fine to say that Rand's work still lives, and Fitzgerald remains an icon of his time. Has nothing to do with their experience of pleasure and pain. Nor did they move the world in any meaningful sense. Creative work is individual. In the broadest sense, living is just so. Each of us is an unrepeatable dice roll of physicality and an unchosen time and place.
  10. Agreed, defacto anarchy, complicated by women and children.
  11. Right, a new day, for now. I expect it to get worse. Dennis Prager, Salem Radio star, has openly called it civil war, likewise evoked by Sen. Schumer during his Inauguration speech. (Why the hell Schumer got to speak baffles me.) What we've seen so far is nothing compared to a long hot Black Lives Matter summer.
  12. Thanks for your reply. I see it similarly. One head to direct the work of our hands, one mouth to feed according to the productive work we do, and so on. Except that it doesn't grant any right to act, or to live at all. My old mentor, the late Gerald MacCallum would ask what are the rights of children?
  13. Hmm. Do you mind explaining why individuals have a right to freedom of action? (without citing God or utility)
  14. Noted. Jews and gays, Hollywood in a nutshell, protected. Yes, it grinds, an old personal grudge. First I find myself envying MSK's grace, and now yours. Rats.
  15. Maybe I'm mistaken. I think she was in favor of platinum dresses heated by the fireplace and smashing up museum pieces.