Author: rchazzchute

Robert Chazz Chute writes full-time from his blanket fort in Other London. The winner of fifteen writing awards, he pens apocalyptic epics with heart and killer crime thrillers with muscle. A graduate of the University of King's College journalism program, he studied book and magazine publishing at the Banff School of Fine Arts. He has worked as a crime reporter, science journalist, editor, book doctor, speechwriter, and magazine columnist.
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Haters, Trolls, and Vengeance

Today, I reminded my sister that she made me her enemy on my twenty-fifth birthday. She sent me a birthday card that said, “Happy 25th!” I opened the card. The inside message was: YOU ARE NOW OLD.

“You remember that?” she said. “Holding grudges isn’t good for you! You should let that go!”

“I don’t know how to do that. Anyway, my point is, you shouldn’t sleep so well. My enemies often end up in my books. Bad things happen.”

I placed highly in s short story contest put on by The Toronto Star. A lot of positive feedback came my way. The morning after it was published, a woman tracked me down. She asked me to be her co-author on a non-fiction book. She was not simply asking. She was adamant because she had such passion for her subject. It was to be about how her son was an addict. His addiction, she told me, was weed. Boy, did she seek out the wrong writer! I have trouble sleeping, and such supplements help me. My first anthology was Self-help for Stoners. I turned her down.

Next up was my father. He wanted me to write the story of his life. At that time, I was in the middle of putting out four novels a year. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” I told him. “Writing your book means a huge opportunity cost. I don’t have the bandwidth to write your book and cater to my readership, too.”

In the end, he did write his auto-biography. I edited it and helped him publish it, but I didn’t allow his hobby to swallow all my career aspirations.

Most of the interactions I’ve had with readers have been overwhelmingly positive. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that.

After publishing This Plague of Days, someone reached out to me on Facebook to congratulate me on completing the trilogy. “Thanks!” I said. “Very kind of you to say so!”

It would have been fine if it had stopped there. This person then asked me repeatedly to recite everything there was to know about the book. It seemed they wanted the outline, no matter how many hours it might take from me. I replied that I don’t give out spoilers. What I meant was, just go buy and read the book! I wanted to ask, “What did your last slave die of?” That person had no social skills and ulterior motives. After I turned them down, I never heard from them again.

Most of the interactions I’ve had with readers have been overwhelmingly positive. Sadly, I remember the negative ones best. I have an eidetic memory for every insult. I am still debating about dispatching assassins to those who have wronged me. One fellow had a very high opinion of himself. He tried to blackmail me into working with him as an editor. No, thanks!

Oh, and that win for the Toronto Star contest? It stirred up a couple of trolls. One went on a diatribe of “That’s not how hypnosis works!” (A) I never said it was hypnosis, and (B) I know all about hypnosis, thanks.

Another grumpy guy insisted I didn’t deserve the prize. They also made sure to let everyone know they had not participated in the contest and lost. Sweetheart, methinks thou dost protest too much. Go beat up a leaf.

I read negative reviews not at all or only once. When I’m feeling down (which is often), I reread my happy reviews many times. That is therapeutic. Readers will never know how many times I went to bed, pulled the covers over my head, and decided it was time to give up. But what else am I going to do? Hypnosis, maybe, but that’s it!

So many times, I wish I said the right thing in the moment. “I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with that,” is a great go-to. Unfortunately, that vocabulary didn’t exist yet in the late ’80s and ’90s. People have that phrasing now, and it’s useful.

Since the pandemic, many people have been more mindful of their time and energy. For instance, office workers who want to continue to work from home are clinging to that status. If they are no less productive and happy to ditch the commute to work from home, why not?

Those who have the privilege are more careful about how and where they spend their time and energy. Energy vampires will take advantage of you if you let them. I try not to dwell on what the trolls spew. Hurtful words are always usually more about the person hurling them. But my memory is too good for this sort of thing, and sometimes that’s awful.

Have you figured out how to let go of insults and hurt feelings? If your strategy works without giving me a lobotomy or a serious blow to the head, let me know. I’d be very curious to hear how you manage that.

No wonder I write novels about clever revenge and vigilante justice.

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This Is How It All Ends

If you want a happy ending, it depends on where you stop the story.

– Orson Welles

Once upon a time, several years ago, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were lolling on the couch discussing happily-ever-afters (or HEA, if you’re a savvy reader).

Writers are often told to write what they know. If that were too solid a rule, too much excellent science fiction would vanish from existence. I say, write what you care about, and great things will follow. Similarly, it’s not my aim to provide a HEA every time so much as give readers a satisfying ending.

“So maybe I’ll cry, maybe I won’t?” my wife asked.

“You may turn the last page shuddering in tears of joy and recognition,” I replied in an arch English accent (because that’s my villainous voice). “Even if the resolution turns into a Pyrrhic victory, I dole out some hope. It’s not a downer ending I’m looking for, just a real one.”

“So bittersweet, dripping with verisimilitude?” SWMBO asked.

“Yeah, but not too much.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because fiction should be an entertaining escape. Real life is too harsh. In real life, our endings are all too tragic and full of fear. Take this moment,” I said. “You and me are on the couch, and the kids sleeping peacefully in bed. This will all end in tears, but right now is our happily ever after.”

Her eyes widened.

“This is it, baby,” I said. “Our happy ending! Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Cherish this time. I do.”

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Fall of Empires: The Psychology Behind Apocalyptic Fiction

You know I write novels about apocalyptic events. I’ve always been fascinated by the ways in which empires fall. But what’s at the root of end-of-the-world stories? I saw the seed of it so clearly during the pandemic. Too many fools who failed high school biology and claimed to be big strong patriots were unwilling to suffer the mildest inconvenience of wearing a mask.

That’s how you get this:

And this:

A former CIA agent was asked what will cause the downfall of civilization. He answered, “Sophistry.” Add in a dearth of empathy, and I think he’s right. Too many people figure, “Hey, it’s not happening to me, so I don’t care.” They are too confident they aren’t next on the chopping block. For instance, universal health care doesn’t poll so well with Americans who have not dealt with private health insurance companies. Those must be the same folks who are mystified by the lack of interest in prosecuting the killer of a health insurance CEO.

People who do deal with private health insurance companies understand. There are too many horrific stories out there. The main cause of bankruptcy in the United States is medical debt. That’s a broken system.

The best metaphor I’ve heard comes from the Cognitive Dissonance podcast:

An emergency room doctor was treating a patient. You run in and pin the doctor’s arms to their sides. You’d be responsible for the patient’s death. Stopping doctors from doing their jobs is too often what private health insurers do.

Farther afield:

IDF snipers shoot children in the head. They target children, yet there are barely whispers of objections in the mainstream press. For those who do object to the murder of children are told, “That’s war. Grow up.” Children are conflated with terrorists. Meanwhile, it’s clear Israel’s leaders care nothing for the hostages. If they cared, they wouldn’t bomb Gaza to rubble.

That level of carelessness is how you get this:

Let’s try a little thought experiment:

If a terrorist is using your mum as a human shield, do you shoot, or do you try to find another way?

Sit with that a moment before you answer. It’s a monster test. Are you a monster?

Meanwhile, closer to home:

Donald Trump disrespects Canada and threatens our sovereignty. Too many write it off as a joke. The melon felon also wants to end birthright citizenship and weaken American forces by expelling democrats and transgender people (among a plethora of other offenses to morality and reason).. Many democrats who serve are officers, but damn the consequences so the Dear Leader’s fee-fees aren’t hurt.

The point is not whether DJT can or will do these things. The point is he wants to do these things and is threatening his best ally. He is careless with his words and actions. That is not something anyone sane wants to see from anyone holding the nuclear codes.

I predict a wave of regret much bigger than Brexit. FAFO.

Idolizing elites is how you get this:

My fiction explores the psychology of the underbelly of society. When I watch the news, I’m so often reminded of a Christopher Titus joke:

Civilization is a train. All the doctors, engineers, builders, and scientists are up front in the locomotive. The engine pulls a long train of cars carrying the goofs, the conspiracy theorists, the science-deniers, and flat earthers. One smart person at the back of the engine is looking down at the coupling responsible for hauling all those dumbasses. And he’s thinking, if I pull that pin, we could go so much faster and farther.

Yeah. The only thing saving the smooth brains is our empathy as we desperately try to drag their heavy asses into the future instead of retreating into the dark past.

If you’re looking for hope in the end, there’s this:

And this:



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Five Times Art Imitated Life

Some readers mistake a fictional character’s opinion for that of the author. Were that true, I’d be in prison by now. My plots are full of characters living on the edge of society…okay, that much is me. Let’s start again: Not every thought a character espouses reflects my values. However, some books strike closer to home than others.

My mission is to entertain. I’m not trying to predict the future. I do extrapolate plenty, and in the last few years, reflecting reality has become more unsettling. Inevitably, my political views slip in where appropriate. No apologies or regrets on that front.

“I don’t try to predict the future. All I want to do is prevent it.”

~ Ray Bradbury

Here are five times my work reflected reality closer than I expected:

In Our Alien Hours, the alien threat rises from ocean. Seen the news lately? Nobody seems to care, but I’m prescient!

The Night Man cover

In The Night Man, the dad is a drug smuggler, but he’s just trying to get cheap Canadian drugs to Americans who are in need. The protagonist is a wounded veteran with few choices after he is medically discharged.

The genesis of Endemic is a virus that kills billions. Many of the survivors suffer cognitive impairment. Long-COVID (and repeated infection) gives some people brain fog, and since the disease is now endemic, we will continue to see such ill-effects to brain health.

In This Plague of Days, paramedical professionals were recruited to make do and join the fight against a pandemic. Long ago, I sat in a meeting about pandemic preparedness. This was part of the plan. I informed those in charge that this was a terrible idea and gave multiple reasons why. I was fired for it. In This Plague of Days, a non-medical person works in a hospital. She and her baby are infected because of that ill-conceived strategy.

Citizen Second Class is unfolding now. The uncaring elite are building bunkers and fortifying their islands, while the lower classes worry about providing for their families.

Then, of course, there’s my upcoming thriller, Vengeance Is Hers.

Given all that’s happening in the news and the many failures of the justice system, I predict there will be an appetite for vigilante justice thrillers.

Coming in 2025. Buckle up!

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Tales of Humiliation

Recently, an author posted about how an up-and-coming writer’s book had failed to launch. The author claimed to be a bestselling writer, and boy, was she a scold! She was all up in her feelings about a self-published author’s debut that failed to sell many copies. Her core message was, “If only they’d done what I had done! If only she knew better!”

This demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding some folks have about publishing books. There are too many variables outside the author’s control and no guarantees of success. You can do everything right, and still fail. In fact, trad or self-published, most books fail to find an audience. To become a bestseller in Canada, you have to sell a few thousand in a week. Less than 0.5% of the 100,000 hardcovers published each year make the New York Times Bestseller List. Novels have a spectacular failure rate (if your only metric is sales and reaching a wider readership. Some authors do not share those aspirations).

The bestseller criticizing the debut writer attributed her success to herself, her publisher, and her skill. There are many more factors than that. When people succeed, very few have the perspicacity to admit they were just plain lucky. Instead, they rationalize their genius moves after the fact.

You can optimize your chances of success, but the headwinds against you are enormous. The Netflix documentary featuring Fran Lebowitz was originally expected to air earlier than it did. Netflix put that off, and that turned into a happy accident for Lebowitz. That delay meant the show aired during the height of the pandemic. Many more people watched than otherwise would have because everyone was stuck at home.

Arrogance and ignorance can really drag an artist down.

During book promotions, many authors freely give away books to boost the store algorithms and garner more reviews. When my dentist asked about my work, I mentioned that I was running a promotion at that moment for my new book.

“You can pick it up for free right now,” I offered. Nice and generous, right?

“You’re giving it away?” His tone suggested I was making a rookie mistake in devaluing my work.

I still run into that attitude among some authors, but it’s a tried and true marketing tactic.

“Objection! Stephen King doesn’t have to do that.”

Ahem. You’re not Stephen King. Neither am I. There can be only one!

To be found, loss leaders are common and not at all shameful. It’s incredibly difficult to get people to review a novel, and harder still to sell a novel with few reviews. Many authors decide to give to get to increase their long-term sales. There are other approaches, but this is far from outlandish. Give a few hundred, and potentially gain a few thousand new readers and maybe a couple of dozen fresh reviews. Simple marketing, right? (It is, I’m not really asking.)

It gets worse.

On a Zoom call with fellow alums from my university, I discovered how I’d stumbled into a rather insulated clique. First, one woman didn’t believe I had attended our alma mater at all. “I don’t recognize you,” she said. It was a challenge. Amazing how casual some folks are about making an enemy for life, huh?

We attended a small university, but I wasn’t one of the cool kids. I recognized her from the cafeteria, but saying so would have made me feel even more inconsequential. She was active in clubs, at the bar, and getting lots of pictures of herself with friends she would keep for life. I was up in my dorm room reading and happy.

(Stay tuned. My humiliation continues below the graphic)

All that content solitude in university was one reason I got to do this:


mybook.to/TheEndemicExperience

It got worse.

On the same Zoom, an old friend said he had picked up Endemic for free. The other people on the call laughed at me. The friend asked if giving away books was worth it. In that moment, it sure wasn’t. I was in the wrong group, talking to the wrong people. Hurt feelings aside, I’ve never put hurt feelings aside.

Whatever you’re choices, there will be people who don’t know your journey, but they are certain you are doing it wrong. Don’t just agree to disagree. Disagree to disagree. Keep going, and do you, Boo.



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Weekend Reads: Embracing Literature for Escape

Coffee and a book or two are great ways to start a Sunday morning. I’ve found my escape from the news, at least for a little while.

I just got these this morning, and I already know Writers and Lovers is a binge-read.

Sunday Morning, back home in Nova Scotia

When we weren’t arguing about whether I should be imprisoned in the car and taken to church, Sunday mornings used to be magical. Sunday mornings meant listening to CBC’s Sunday Morning and Dad cooking up a hunter’s breakfast. The theme music was “English Country Garden,” a very civilized and incongruous opening for a series of radio reports about the state of the world. My clearest memory of the show comes from November 1978. I know the date because it was when I first heard the gritty details of the Jonestown massacre. Many years later on the same program, they read a letter I wrote on air. It was an ode to my beloved journalism prof, Walter Stewart, upon his death. Read the second paragraph under Early Life and Career on his Wikipedia page, and you’ll understand why I loved him.

Sunday morning: today.

This morning, I awoke to news of rebels capturing Damascus and Bashar al-Assad fleeing to parts unknown. I had to shovel the end of the driveway again because the plows came through. That done, I headed out as CBC reported on the abuse of First Nations people by police. As I drove home from the bookstore, the cantankerous and fun Fran Lebowitz was interviewed. “English Country Garden” is long gone, but the journalistic standards remain.

I was once a journalist and columnist. Now, when I get a weekend newspaper, I skim the news and head for the Books section. I wonder if I’ll pay so much attention to politics and world affairs for the next couple of years. I love to be informed, but I write fiction. It occurs to me that many of my happiest times were when I retreated into the safety of books.

Books are Milestones of Nostalgia

One Christmas, when all I wanted was a train set, I was sick. I went to bed with a tall canister of Smarties and read Chitty Chitty Bang Bang by Ian Fleming. Later, I would read all the James Bond books. They had so little to do with the movies I loved, but I loved the books no less.

University was me putting off toiling in the workforce for four years. It meant hiding in my dorm and reading In Cold Blood and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Once I graduated, I moved to Toronto to work in publishing. I was selling American Psycho and arguing with my bosses about censorship (Them: for; Me: Against).

I ate up Bright Lights, Big City, and related to the story so hard. On a summer night on the 28th floor of my apartment building in downtown Toronto, I devoured my favorite novel, The Color of Light by William Goldman. When I realized he had fooled me again, right down to the last line, I threw the book across the room, partly in exaltation, partly in admiration.

Chase the Cozy

Losing oneself to a novel, there is a coziness that feels like sitting by a crackling fire as a storm rages, a storm you don’t have to face. If you have the privilege of ignoring the violence and disappointments of current events, even for a little while, cherish it.

I encourage you to check out my books and retreat into fictional worlds for some solace. There are plenty of links to your right.

Failing that, here’s a link to Lily King’s Writers and Lovers. Think of it as Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman. I’m only 30 pages in, and it’s delightful.

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Vigilante Justice and the American Healthcare Dilemma

The murder of a health insurance CEO in New York is an interesting moment in American history. It is a little surprising (but not shocking) how many people don’t care that this person was killed. (Read reactions to Brian Thompson’s killing on Huffpost here.)

I’m not condoning murder. However, the more you learn about the practices of his company, the more you understand the impulse to dismiss the crime with, “Oh, well.”

I write stories about vigilante justice.

I prefer those stories to stay within the confines of fiction.

I spoke with an American friend recently who needed medical tests. They had insurance, but the co-pay was usurious. Another American friend had a series of worrying symptoms. He couldn’t afford to visit a doctor. He had to choose groceries and rent over the possibility of a horrible death.

I see my doctor a few times a year. I couldn’t afford to be a hypochondriac in the United States. Medical bankruptcy is not a thing in Canada. Here, there are no such things as pre-existing conditions. We just call that your medical history.

Non-Americans look at the richest country in the world and wonder, “How are you okay with this?”

We rarely visit the United States. We wouldn’t consider stepping south of the border for a moment without medical travel insurance. Going without insurance is one thing. Paying for insurance and still not being able to access healthcare anyway is especially galling.

People feel the way they do about this murder for genuine reasons. This one rich man’s death will get much more attention than the deaths of others. His company’s policies deny care to people in need, but that is already known. It doesn’t seem the demise of so many patients will be investigated with half as much vigor as the CEO’s death.

I am so grateful for universal healthcare.

I have had surgery to save the vision in my left eye. In 2023, I had two hips replaced. The care was excellent and timely. The most I had to pay for all that excellent care was parking fees. There is nowhere on Earth where universal healthcare is perfect. I prefer less-than-perfect to the confusion and deceit present in the American healthcare system.

What does that murder mean, though?

This murder, this moment, is not a cultural shift on its own. It’s a symptom of a sick system. When justice fails, people give up on norms. This has been coming a long time. In the middle of a stump speech to a conservative crowd years ago, Ron Paul spoke of providing healthcare to the poor. “Should we let them die?” Paul expected a resounding no. Instead, someone yelled, “Yes!” The assembled burst into a round of applause.

This is an increasingly dangerous time. When empathy disappears, society fails.