Category: Musings

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Better Safe Than Sorry Part I

You’re in the audience of a supper club waiting for the main act to take the stage. A young man approaches the microphone to warn you a fire has broken out in the building. What do you do?

If you answered that you would head for the fire exits, maybe not.

Remember “Better safe than sorry”?

It seems that aphorism has lost its power. When the scenario above played out in real life, 167 people died. Why? Because when a relatively uncomplicated life and death decision popped up, many in the audience did not trust authority. Instead, they looked to each other.

The phenomenon and the scientific basis for it is detailed in an excellent podcast I’m sure you’ll enjoy. It’s called “Cautionary Tales.” Here’s the link to the relevant episode:

CAUTIONARY TALES – FIRE AT THE BEVERLY HILLS SUPPER CLUB

Look around, look around

I had to go to the grocery store last night. The supper club disaster was much on my mind. A good number of people wore masks, but quite a few did not. We look to each other for affirmation. When people are better safe than sorry, they wear masks. The more people wear masks, even more people will wear masks.

“Nobody else is wearing a mask so I’m not going to,” really means, “If I see other people being careless about other people’s lives, I can, too.”

Nobody likes being told what to do. I knew an old guy who cut the seatbelts out of every car he owned. One of my kids went through a phase where he would run off, sometimes into the street. We put a harness and leash on him until the feeling passed. He got over the impulse before he started to shave. He didn’t like the harness at first. It soon became normal. That’s how he survived.

Suggestion: Make masks cool and free and supply them everywhere.

I want a black mask. They look badass.

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COVID-19 is a zombie pandemic

GO GET ‘EM

Don’t believe COVID-19 is a zombie pandemic?
Please consider the tropes of the zombie genre:

  • Zombies represent a force of nature, indifferent to your pain, suffering, and death.
  • As the contagion spreads, many people are in denial at first. “This can’t be real. It’s a hoax!”
  • Scientists who warned of the looming disaster are not believed.
  • Then, “It’s a plot!”
  • “It’s not my problem until the infection comes for me.”
  • Normal life as we know it is over, yet some try to pretend otherwise.
  • Two tribes: “Working together, we can save more people,” versus “I take care of me and mine.”
  • Traveling large distances is suddenly a huge challenge.
  • Healthcare systems become overwhelmed and economies collapse.
  • Though the virus can infect everyone and anyone, the privileged try to cling to their privilege.
  • Riots. When the rich do it, it’s called scavenging for survival. When the poor do it, it’s called looting.
  • People with power and/or authority abuse others.
  • People who were previously undervalued are suddenly prized for their survival skills.
  • People without useful expertise experience a sudden plummet in their self-esteem and question their role and identity in these new, dire circumstances.
  • Many hoard and hide, determined to wait it out “until this thing blows over.” (But it doesn’t blow over unless you’re watching Shawn of the Dead.)
  • Some turn to religion, others to drugs. Coping styles vary widely. Some don’t cope at all and hurt themselves and others.
  • Weapons, weapons everywhere.
  • Bored and frustrated, some act out in very unhelpful ways.
  • Governments respond too little, too late, or not at all while reassuring their frightened citizenry that everything’s going to be okay.
  • The dead we know personally are mourned. We become numb to the huge statistics of the butcher’s bill.
  • People try to hold on to normalcy, focus on minutiae, and cry in private.
  • Some infected deny they’re infected, endangering the rest of their group.
  • With no end in sight, depression and anxiety are heightened while we put on a brave face for the benefit of children.
  • Some vocal and angry slice of the populace is pissed off at Nature but instead aim their rage at the brilliant virologist who is trying to save them.
  • Conspiracy theories, conjecture, and rumors replace the news media.
  • Some take change as a chance at a reset, aspiring to change the world for the better.
  • Others, looking backward through a rose-colored lens, reject the fresh start, wanting nothing more than to get back to their routines as they were.
  • People value their units more, whether that unit is family, friends, or loyal connections.
  • Some regret what they didn’t do with their lives. Others find new meaning in rising to meet the challenges of their new circumstances.

Years ago, someone on a Facebook webinar dismissed me as “just one of those zombie writers.”

Three things about that bit of dickishness:

First, neener-neener-poo-poo. I’m not “just” anything, balloon head. Read a little more and a little deeper and toss your assumptions in the trash. This Plague of Days is the slow burn that strikes at the heart of our highest hopes and our greatest failings when confronting a pandemic. AFTER Life is packed with fast-paced action and still digs deep into the choices we make and what it means to be human. There’s more going on here than meets the eye, dumbass.

Second, z-lit can serve as a rich metaphor for Nature, uncaring and brutal as it can be. Infection and contagion are unrelenting existential threats, and they are always with us. Life and its mortal limits are the constant subtexts of the human condition. World pandemics elevate those threats so they are no longer subtextual. Unless you’re reading this post from New Zealand, you’re soaking in a zombie apocalypse scenario right now. (See above.)

Third, zombie novels are not about zombies. It’s the human response to existential threats that makes the drama. How we respond to stress, whether we help or hurt, die with grace or go out in pain and regret…these are all human stories in which thoughtlessness kills, cowards are exposed, and heroes rise.

So, what’s it going to be today?

Will you bravely and carefully venture out into the Badlands to beyond your walls in search of food? Will you shelter in place and act in the spirit of kindness to comfort others to ease our collective burdens? Or are you going to be a selfish superspreader who goes out without a mask to spread disease and add to the suffering, death, and mayhem?

Hint: In fiction and in real life, things often do not end well for the cowards and malicious disease spreaders. Choose wisely and wear a damn mask. After all, if you’re an unthinking, unfeeling creature who lacks empathy and forethought, you’re already a zombie.

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You are not a cog

I used to do this thing when I was a kid. Pillows go down first. Those were the hills. Then a blanket went on top. That was the battlefield. After that, I set my little green plastic soldiers, tanks, and cannons in place. WWII went on for years in my basement. The fun was in setting the pieces up for the bombing raid.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Fun!

Then I’d reset until Gilligan’s Island came on the TV (the snowy channel from Bangor. Maine).

One day, my father burst into the room looking irritated, frantic even. “You’re playin’ all the time! Every time I see you, you’re playin’!“

And I was like, “Dad, I’m nine.”

The mindset became ingrained, though. Protestant Work Ethic, we called it, as if work wasn’t hard enough we had to bring religion into it. As if people of other faiths weren’t all busting their asses, too.

The core concept was this: If you aren’t doing something to make money, you’re valueless.

Given a single quiet moment, my father would announce it was time to mow the lawn or clean out the garage. When you’re ordered to clean out the garage every five weeks, you really want to torch the place.

Mom was no different. I don’t recall her sitting down until she was confined to a wheelchair. She hated it if anyone dared to have a nap. Her favorite line was, “The day’s a-wastin’!”

We are blind to the things we take for granted. The sky is blue, grass is green, and we’re put on Earth to rise and grind, life’s a bitch and then you die.

We don’t know what we don’t know.

The Epidemic of Busyness

A friend of mine organized a TEDx Talk in Chicago. I watched it this morning. The first speaker observed that we are suffering several epidemics: COVID-19, of course, but racism and economic challenges, too. She spoke eloquently about busyness and her speech really got me thinking how much I’ve messed up the first half of the year. I’ve indulged in bad thinking that does not serve me, but I’m working on it.

When we went into quarantine, many of us didn’t know how to handle it. We were unprepared for the pattern break. Lifting our noses from the grindstone, many of us thought, what do I do with myself? If I’m not working and producing every hour, this must be sin. And was it necessary to commute to work to put my nose to that grindstone? It hurts.

Have you seen this meme?

We have to stop talking as if we’re “working from home” when we’re actually living where we work.

My wife, the thoughtful psychologist, prefers this: We’re not working from home. We’re living at home and trying to get work done.

It is quite a privilege to work from home, of course. While the rest of us complained about confinement and got deeply into making sourdough bread starters, nurses, doctors, delivery people, and grocery store workers didn’t get to have that “time off.” There’s understandable guilt in allowing essential workers to take the biggest hit, especially when they don’t receive hazard pay and adequate protection. (That issue is a whole other blog post.)

There’s also the guilt of feeling we should be doing more with our time. I’d like to absolve you of that last bit. I’m still trying to break those chains myself.

You have value even when you aren’t working

“Playing video games is not wasted time.”

The first time I heard that sentence, it was a genuine challenge for me. After all, the day’s a-wastin’! But you know what? Those video games were fun. Lots of dopamine hits. Relaxation. Relaxation is healthy. Going for a walk without a particular purpose in mind is healthy.

We often fail to value relaxation because Capitalism doesn’t value downtime. “Downtime” as in, “The production line is down! Quick, pull that injured worker off the line, toss in another sacrifice, and crank ‘er up again! We’re losing money!”

If you don’t think about it too hard, it’s easy to call poor people lazy. When you do think about it for more than a second, you realize that the poorest among us tend to be among the hardest workers. How many jobs, gigs, and side hustles does it take the average person to cobble together a decent living? How much downtime do they get from their non-living wages? How much of living do they get to enjoy?

Answer: You won’t find poor people on the golf course unless they’re mowing it.

Hardcore proponents of everlasting economic growth aren’t comfortable with you having any fun unless they’re selling it to you. “Don’t just stay home! Get out there and feed the economy!” Idleness, in any form, is suspect.

When we fall for this trap, we fail to value ourselves.

Dad’s become a little wiser in his later years. Now, when I feel like I’m not writing enough or selling enough books, he says, “Even birds don’t fly all the time.”

I’m not lazy, but I still berate myself for not getting more done. I’m trying to break that habit. I don’t have the toy soldiers, anymore, but sometimes, when my son is out, I get on his computer and play Sniper Elite 4.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Fun!

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Wait for the turn this takes

This morning I was up early, brewed some coffee, and sat on my front step. Listening to news of the latest mayhem, I started spiraling down into despair. I titled one of my apocalyptic books All Empires Fall because, well, they do.

The death of Elijah McClain broke me. This was George Floyd all over again. Mr. McClain was a slight, 23-year-old massage therapist choked out twice by three police officers and administered a sedative by a paramedic after he was subdued. It was murder, no doubt. If you have any doubt, search up Mr. McClain’s last words. This was a gentle spirit and agents of the State murdered him.* Colorado officials have no plans to take any responsibility. The DA on the case refused to prosecute, in part because the victim “was not injured.” You know…except for the part about him being dead.

*Note: Don’t ‘No angel’ victims of police brutality. Even if he wasn’t a gentle soul, the authorities should still bear responsibility for such callous mistreatment and the unnecessary death of anyone in their custody.

Then I spiraled down further

The more I listened to stories of violent, selfish, and greedy people who don’t believe in science, people who don’t know what empathy is… Let’s just say my empathy drained away, too. I know a minority is ruining everything, but that is a powerful minority and they’re in charge. A racist is president and a lot of people voted for him. A lot of people will still vote for him! The insane are running the asylum.

Hearing all this grim news I thought, it’s not just that America has become a failed state. It is that we are a failed species. Things are so far off the rails, I don’t know when that train will run again. The poor are not protected. They’re vilified and criminalized. The helpless remain helpless. God damn it, people can be mean.

I flirted with a grim conclusion: There’s a lot of evil and stupid out there. Maybe, as a species, we don’t deserve success. We could have created a utopia, but we fucked it up. Maybe New Zealand or Iceland has a shot at getting things right but sometimes it feels like we’re too far gone. Maybe Vonnegut was right. The species is suicidal.

Then I turned to Facebook

I came across a post that swung back the pendulum. It was a series of pictures with brief captions telling of random acts of kindness:

A guy on a subway playing on his phone shared a game with a kid.

A woman in a wheelchair couldn’t get down to the shore to place a rose in the water where her husband’s ashes had been scattered. Someone took care of it for her.

Dropping off a passenger at an amusement park, a cabbie mentioned he had never had the experience. His passenger invited the cabbie to join him for the day and paid for his entry.

A teacher visited his ill student every day in hospital to make sure he kept up with his homework.

Story after story, I saw short, simple tales about everyday people being kind to each other. And I wept again. Big, ugly cry, too. It was a great relief to be pulled from the brink, back from the cold chasm of despair to the thin ledge of hope.

I don’t believe God’s coming to save us. We’re going to save ourselves or depend on a rescue mission from benevolent aliens. Or maybe, you, reading this, have a part to play in being kind and acting to find solutions. What if it’s you?

Whoever can turn things around, I want to send up the same signal flare.

Know this:

We are worth saving.

We are. I know it doesn’t feel that way sometimes, but we are worth saving.

Please…begin.

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Every Evil Thing

Seen on the internet: Did you have a happy childhood or are you funny?

Last night I went on a long walk. Usually, I have my earbuds in. Craving stimulation, I listen to podcasts (mostly about how the world is falling down and the landing won’t be a soft one). If I want to walk faster, I’ll pump music into my head and swing my arms faster. On this stroll, I was in a mood to ruminate. I walked in silence for a change, listening for what my brain offered up. Unless I’m at my keyboard engaging in the writing life, this is generally a bad move.

Sunny people see a sunset and enjoy the beauty. I move on from those feelings quickly. The looming sunset in a silent sky served as an existential reminder of Nature’s cold indifference. I can be funny, but my nature is not sunny. Irony and dark humor? A lot of that comes from a dark place.

And so I plunged headlong into the past

Passing through a stand of trees, the green aroma pulled me back to memories of Nova Scotia, where I grew up. I ran through a lot of woods in those days. If I did that now, all I’d think about would be ticks and Lyme Disease. (I’m fun at parties, but that’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?)

We like to think we are proactive, a cause in the world. Sometimes, history condemns us to little more than an effect. My father refers to Nova Scotia as “God’s Country.” I would say it is a nice place to visit. It’s not all bad, not at all. I miss the sound of foghorns lowing to each other when a thick white blanket falls over Halifax Harbour. I miss Atomic Subs on Jubilee Road (sadly and inexplicably, long gone). In my hometown, the #4 Special at the House of Cheng was special. There are kind people there, but my mind doesn’t allow me to remember much of that.

Years ago, I met a fellow at a party who was born in the same hospital as me. Though he never actually lived there, he rhapsodized about how great our little town was. He became irritated when my lived experience didn’t match his fantasy. He seemed eager to overlook the casual racism, for instance. I could never watch an episode of Trailer Park Boys. I knew too many guys like that in real life to find it funny. I recognize that people are just as different and also the same everywhere. Human failings and mental deficits are certainly not unique to that place. However, painful memories specific to me lie there in the shadows. I am haunted.

When I wrote The Night Man, the town of Lake Orion, Michigan is just as much a character as it is a setting. I grew up in a small town. I know what it’s like when everyone remembers you from when you were in diapers. I remember how gossip is an engine that never stops revving. Growing up where I did informed Ernest “Easy” Jack’s experience of coming home to Orion. I have plenty of ghost voices in my head. They’re useful for what I do for a living.

History is generic, trauma is personal

The writing life is a sedentary one. I aim for 10,000 steps a day. Last night was a 14,000 step walk, plenty of time to dwell on regrets, unforced errors, my own shittiness, and the shots not taken.

Unfortunately, I have an eidetic memory for every negative thing I’ve witnessed. In perfect, excruciating detail, I remember the look on my mother’s face the last time I saw her. On her deathbed, she was furious, angry that she was dying, at how unfair it was. Loathing any display of weakness, she seemed most rageful that she was not immortal.

I remember every unkind word spoken to me like a fresh wound. I have always had a problem with authority and giving up control. In childhood, the locus of control is always elsewhere. Perhaps that’s why that time can feel so terrible. Everything feels important, even when it isn’t. Every failing is the end of the world. Everything is taken personally. (Still is.)

Indoctrinated into ideas I now find abhorrent, young adulthood was difficult, too. I couldn’t get hold of all the variables that might allow me enough independence to be left the hell alone. I was told I was too young to have a valid opinion, that my thoughts and feelings did not matter. I think some people might be getting better at valuing children so they learn to better value themselves and others. Sadly, there’s still a better than average chance you were told the same things I was. Maybe you got over it. I hold grudges.

I’m still resentful of the interview for the publishing job where I was told that, if hired, I couldn’t possibly have a valid opinion for the next seven years. Shit, why not just go train to be a brain surgeon? I’d get to a position where I counted as a human being a lot faster that way. Or how about those job interviews for newspapers where the interviewers tried to bully me? That didn’t go well for them and I learned that I was truculent. (That’s also how I learned the word truculent.)

I know grudges are not healthy, but I don’t know how to unring that bell.


In silence, my busy brain breaks open the floodgates: the crazy Spanish lady I should have fired, the landlord who cheated me, the boss who scooped up my commission bonus, the thousand little affronts, the threats of assault, the bickering, the anger that’s always simmering…the constant grating sense that for every little win I might eke out, I’m still behind and losing ground. The near-certainty that I WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH.

Thinking about it last night, I will never return to Nova Scotia. Though I enjoy being in faraway places, I hate the process of traveling. The last time I flew, my left eardrum burst. With a pandemic burning across the world, staying in my blanket fort is best. I still have family Down East, but it’s a long way to go to be told I’ve gained weight and my hair has turned white (as if I didn’t know).

I don’t feel a desperate need to be underestimated and condescended to in person. I outsource my self-esteem and moods to strangers on the internet (AKA book reviewers). Besides, there are lovely tourist destinations calling. Why go for awkward personal interactions where criticism is mistaken for love? Some families write off cruelty as “teasing” or “banter” where they are rude to relatives in ways that would rightly earn them a bloody nose from a stranger. Exposure to conflict does not breed warm feelings. It often breeds anxiety and hypervigilance.

Conflict used to be a steady diet for me. My interactions with the public are rare now. Through careful choices, astonishing luck, hard work, and seclusion, I’ve edited out most potential for conflict. It’s a peaceful, contained, and controlled life wherein I often manage substitute humor for anger. I write in a literal blanket fort, for God’s sake! However, since I worked in retail from the age of 13, I’ve got plenty of drama to draw on to spin my stories of murder and mayhem.

I remember very well the urge to commit homicide, for instance. That coworker deserved it. That feeling is still handy, anytime I reach out to fire up those neurons. Humiliation, rage, and fear are all on call, ready to flow into the keyboard. All our experiences can be rewoven to create new patterns, new characters. To weave plots, to tell engaging and relatable stories, pain is useful.

Despite time and growth, I remain hypervigilant and anxious. I still feel that I will never be enough and that I am losing ground. If you are, like me, a writer who can’t let go of every evil thing, use that shit.

If you’re a reader, enjoy it.

~ Interested in reading The Night Man? Find out what happens when the prodigal son leaves the war abroad and finds a new, more insidious plot at home.

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The Writing Life: Vicissitudes

The writing life has its ups and downs. As I was closing up shop yesterday, my editor, Gari Strawn of strawnediting.com, noted, “It’s been a week of a day.”

Amen, sister! Yesterday felt like Thwart Day. Whatever could go wrong, did.

First, I discovered that Google Docs can’t be trusted. Editorial changes we’d made to a book I’m doctoring did not necessarily take (as detailed today on my writing blog, Chazzwrites.com.)

But the hijinx didn’t end there. Besides getting a new word processing platform together for the editorial team’s collaboration, my internet connectivity became sketchy. (See that, right there? That’s what you call foreshadowing, partner.)

Working furiously to meet a deadline, other projects I thought I was going to get to faster had to be pushed further back. Not happy about that, but to pay the bills, the writing life often has to be about short-term and long-term.

My son’s PC crapped out on him so I consulted (AKA did the heavy looking on as he poked through the machine’s innards). I nodded sagely as he diagnosed the need for a new power supply.

Which got me thinking, when was the last time I did a full manual backup of my computers?

Backup

I once belonged to a writing group where some odd questions were often posed. Most memorable: “Who here writes with a quill pen?” Settle down, d’Artagnan. Write or type, but don’t be so precious and extra.

My son’s computer issues spurred me to be more proactive about the health of my desktop and laptop. Both are climbing into the age where they are antiques. It was past time to protect them better. I’d used Sophos before. This time, I installed AVG tuneup on both machines and eliminated many gigabytes of duplicate and useless files. Then I did a full backup, updates and virus scan. The process took some time, but it was inexpensive. It felt good to clean up my babies. My living does depend on their health, after all.

Finding balance

The writing life isn’t just about tickling brains, sly jokes, and meteoric wordplay. Because my brain navigates a meatwagon through the world, I’m also trying to find balance for my health. Despite some all-nighters recently (because of looming deadlines and tech glitches I couldn’t plan for) I try to stop work by 9 pm. After that, my brain is too overstimulated and I’ll be up for the night. Though the day had been an example of Murphy’s Law, I made time to go on a long walk with She Who Must Be Obeyed. Sometimes that’s the only time we have for long talks, as well.

I’ve gone back to vegan eating. There’s a long theory about the relationship between ingestion, temperature, and sleep, but the short answer is, for me, more vegan = less insomnia. Since I’ve gone vegan, my energy is up and I’m not schlumping around like a wounded animal quite as much.

I even made time to give myself a haircut last night. I shave it tight on the sides. Any tighter and I’d look like I have mange. It’s kind of a Peaky Blinders vibe.

Despite yesterday’s frustrations, it turned out better by the end. I’m more calm than I might otherwise be. Thwart Day was tough, but I was determined to make today better.

Then the internet totally crapped out on us this morning.

Thor…damn…it.

And so … we begin again. When I mention my frustrations to a friend, he always comes back with how much harder he has it. I’m not sure whether he’s bragging or complaining, but he’s not wrong. There are vicissitudes, but the writing life is still pretty sweet compared to all my other options.

Breathe. Repeat. Continue.

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What I talk about with readers

At the end of each book, I have a link to my Facebook fan group. These are kind readers who elect to hear from me reporting in from the blanket fort daily. I make jokes, talk about the writing life, and sometimes opine about the gap between the way things are and how they ought to be. It’s a safe space for those who dig what I do and I truly enjoy it. They do, too. Friends are the family we choose. Interest, fun, and empathy are the glue that holds it together.

In the past few weeks, I’ve posted amusing memes, linked to fresh blog posts, talked about the ongoing fall of civilization, and discussed the challenges of foraging and scavenging in the apocalypse. We also engage with questions like the following:

What’s your blocking policy on social media?
What books would you consider contemporary classics?
What has COVID-19 done that took you by surprise?
Who are the celebrities you’ve met and what were your impressions?
What concerts have you attended that stood out?

In other words, Fans of Robert Chazz Chute is all over the place and I like it that way.

The vibe is hanging out with friends. I’m not leaving my blanket fort for the next two years, so this is pretty much my only social interaction. (She Who Must Be Obeyed, Musical Son and Business Daughter don’t count as social interaction. They’re contractually obligated to listen to my latest bout of hypochondria.)

Here’s a sample post from the Inner Circle:

Today, a little review. Also, with one question, I shall demonstrate that I am incapable of pleasant small talk.

I finished watching the second season of After Life on Netflix. The depiction of the psychotherapist will annoy She Who Must Be Obeyed. I know the character is supposed to be a counterpoint and comic relief, but he’s a sour note struck too often. For dramatic purposes, is psychology ever done right on screen? (I, too, have written short stories featuring Dr. Circe Papua that thankfully don’t reflect the happier reality of the profession.)

On the plus side of After Life, Ricky Gervais makes a strong choice I admired. He knows he’s wallowing in grief for his deceased wife. He says he’s wallowing. Then he wallows. He tells and shows and risks annoying the viewer by actually wallowing. He’s stuck. This is what stuck really looks like.

The other aspect I appreciated was that he resolves to be a better person. To do so, he can’t be who he is. Fiction and non-fiction are packed with aspirational stuff about how to change. (I’ve written about that, too.) The unpopular slant here is that his character discovers the limits of how much he can change. A total revamp is too ambitious.

People can and do change. Can they get a full personality transplant, though? For me, I don’t think I’ve changed all that much since I was in my 20s. As a little kid, I distinctly remember worrying about burning in hell. I was an atheist for a long time, went through a brief religious period, then settled back on atheism.

Is there something fundamental about you that’s changed over the course of your life?

Further thoughts for fellow writers

If you’re a writer trying to engage with fans, I’d encourage you to open up and be real. Not everyone will be equally comfortable with honesty and your boundaries of privacy will vary from others. I don’t worry about that overly much. I don’t hide the fact that my political leanings are to the left, for instance. That’s the subtext of some of my fiction, too, so I doubt I will shock or offend many of my hardcore readers. If someone were to be mean, I’d simply eject them, but I haven’t had to do that yet. My readers are a lovely bunch of people. They’re supportive. I love writing books for them. I love the creative outlet of reaching out to the group.

I would also say to fellow writers that posting daily on a platform you don’t enjoy for a fan base that isn’t there wouldn’t make much sense. If you write middle-grade novels, your target audience probably isn’t on Facebook.

Keep in mind that anyone on my fan page is part of my core readership. They know my books. They don’t come to critique. They come because they love the books (and probably stay for the jokes.)

Regular readers who don’t want that much interaction beyond the pages of my whimsy might sign up for my newsletter and leave it at that. I avoid bothering newsletter subscribers often. Certainly, gurus would have me sending emails and setting up sales funnels but I decided a while back that is not for me. It feels too artificial and bothersome for the more casual reader. Unlike the Facebook group, all the newsletter group generally wants to know is when the next book is coming out or if there’s a promotion going on. That’s fine with me, too. I only take volunteers for the Inner Circle. No one is drafted.

For readers

Please so subscribe to my newsletter if you’re of a mind to do so. I promise I won’t bother you often.

If you’re hardcore, here’s the link to that Inner Circle: Fans of Robert Chazz Chute.