Blog post #15 – The Otero County Disclosure: A novel for our times. Welcome to Huey’s world…

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‘A great book. I can see all its merits. But… I wouldn’t know how to place it in the market’.

This was from a literary agent. Perhaps, on some level, I knew this was coming.

Let me quickly share an abridged version of the letter this statement was in response to (the following is from me):

Hi XXXX,

Attached you’ll find a sample of my first completed manuscript, The Otero County Disclosure, a novel that’s inspired by my disabled brother, Ru, and the growing UFO phenomenon in the US in recent years.

I was really excited to read your profile on the XXXX website; that you’re a graduate of XXXX. A theme of my book is the military industrial complex. I note you’re looking for ‘speculative worlds that expose complicated truths about our own world.’

Here’s a summary of the novel:

What does wheelchair-bound Ex know that others don’t? How could anyone know if she’s never been able to talk. She doesn’t realise, but this super-bright British seventeen-year-old has someone’s attention.

Her widowed dad, Norman, working away for a renowned corporate client in the Arizona desert, has challenges of his own; anxiety, and a tricky programme rumoured to involve ‘exotic’ materials. He hasn’t noticed yet, but his biggest problem is a daughter back home.

The Otero County Disclosure is an exploration of the nature of our reality, wrapped-up in a father-daughter relationship that might just have the potential to change everything, for everyone.

I completed a creative writing course at the University of East Anglia (UK) a few years ago under the tutelage of The Otero County Disclosure’s editor. The novel could be comparable to The Ministry of Time, by Kaliane Bradley, in terms of potential cross-genre appeal (speculative/soft sci-fi, commercial, thriller). Or the work of Michael Chabon and Terry Pratchett, had they co-authored Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

My brother, my inspiration, had cerebral palsy. And I spent six months working on the set of a Netflix show. Both details being relevant to The Otero County Disclosure. I’m also a student of the current UAP (UFO) phenomenon in the US news cycle.

I’m a communications, culture, and behavioural change consultant, a former news journalist, magazine editor and advertising copywriter.

And so on and so on. For a further page.

On reflection, looking at the above through agents’ eyes, I too would be bewildered by the information here, so perhaps there’s no surprise they were unable to pinpoint the novel’s potential. It was a lesson learned. In fact, the whole process to the present has been a lesson learned. From purchasing ISBN numbers, building websites, understanding book promotion tactics, the world of book promo social media, building an author online presence, reader magnets, author networking, building a fanbase, book festivals, all the way to cover design, book formatting, book distribution and retail platforms, pricing strategies… I could go further, but that would be boring.

Back to the point of the agent’s response, above, and the time immediately prior.

So it was that in the autumn of 2024, three years after I’d begun writing The Otero County Disclosure, I sent off four agent representation query letters over a three week timeframe, including the one above. Each letter written from scratch and personalised to take account of the agents’ interests and tastes. I had already spent months researching potential contacts. It was hard, as I shall point out, because of the nature of the novel (witness the evidence, above). These four queries would be the only submissions I sent. It was just a few months since I’d completed the editing process. A period spent writing and honing my blurb, synopsis and cover letter (for the purpose of getting an agent). And then ripping the materials up and starting over. I got my editor, Steve, to review everything, since the two of us had spent a year during the editing process toing and froing over the novel’s genre, audience, and everything in between. It was tough.

By the time last December rolled around I could give you an elevator pitch in my sleep. And the hook. The setup. The payoff. The character arcs. The twists and turns and beats to get you salivating. The whole, detailed plot and synopsis.

And you would likely know nothing about the book I wrote. That I wanted to read, and which I took more pleasure from writing than I had any right to. It had felt almost sinful, such was the joy. All of life is poured into this book. Thus, when scribing the necessary elements for the purpose of submission, it was impossible to distil the nature of the novel. Was it a conspiracy thriller? Coming of age tale? Speculative fiction? Satire? Contemporary fiction? Try all of the above.

Well, it doesn’t matter now. To take a quote, from the movie, Field of Dreams; ‘If you build it, he will come.’ At least that’s what I hoped. And still hope for.

I read another great quote last week, from Lee Child, that illustrates my approach to writing the book, in which Child said he too began writing to give pleasure to himself first, writing the book(s) he wanted to read. He judged if he enjoyed the stories, others would too, and these tomes would eventually find their audience.

I took a similar view. However, in my case, this is a huge risk. I am a nobody author, without pedigree or contacts – or a large social media following. I haven’t written to formula, or with an ideal reader in mind (other than me). To a sweet spot book length, with template tropes and telegraphed beats. I admire folk who write this way, and every author is different. These are the authors who’ll bag an agent and have wildly successful careers.

Me? I prefer the road less travelled. That’s just the way I behave creatively, and how I write. Call it ‘discovery writing’, as editor Steve would term it. Knitting together the appealing bits (in my opinion anyway) of different genres to construct a narrative that is very different, and yet very familiar. There’s no rhyme or reason. Only the desire to write the best, most enjoyable book I could. For myself. In the hopes others would follow me into my world. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

So it was I posted those four query letters well aware an agent was out of the question. Probably. Because I hadn’t written and played by the rules. I get it. And I’m comfortable with that. But the tools available to indies like me enable us to compete with the traditional publishing houses. It means I can publish the book I want the world to read and move on with my life, to the next novel, without spending months and years in the querying trenches seeking representation. And for what? Likely a small advance and the dismantling of the story I spent two years creating. To put it neatly in a genre box for ‘marketing’. Which brings me to my other consideration for going it alone; book promotion.

It seems whether you’re indie or trad, as an author you still have to do the promo legwork. I’m lucky. I spent quite a while working in PR and marketing, and advertising. I have the skills. Before this, I was a journalist. Even if I didn’t have this experience, it’s easily learned. All of which is to say, where is the downside in 2025 to going it alone? To retain some semblance of control over your creative process; from inspiration, through perspiration, to publication. Really, there isn’t one.

So anyway, those letters (read ‘emails’) went out. One I didn’t hear from. Two sent me polite declines. The last offered me the constructive feedback. The very next morning, right after my last response, the decision to go indie was made and I was outlining my website and thinking of a pen name, whilst strategizing the book’s launch, six months hence. I had known all along this was the path I would take. I wonder now whether the letters I sent were deliberate self-sabotage on my part, as if drawn by an invisible thread to the lure of indie authoring, and those letters only a token gesture. But then, I think, ‘heck, I’m a middle-aged man’. I have a few miles on the clock. I don’t want the hassle, or timewasting, that comes with a process that will ultimately favour bright young things. On a good day I can just about pass for mid-forties, but I don’t have the thirty-plus-year career ahead of me. Besides, life’s too short and I have books to write.

I must credit editor Steve here too. He it was who said I must publish the novel, that it ‘deserves’ a readership. I’ll take that and build a little hope around it. You see, by going indie I can avoid the relentless rejection that I know would harm my fragile self-confidence. The isolation of writing favours the reflective introvert, but publishing is all about putting yourself out there and being vulnerable. Something that doesn’t rest comfortably upon my shoulders. The day job’s one thing. But writing. Writing is so very private and any criticism seems like a personal attack. I guess I’ll just have to toughen up a bit!

The hardest part of the process to date has been the promotion. Laying the groundwork, building a following. It’s also the most fun. Building relationships and receiving feedback. Talking and writing relentlessly about the book. The method. But at the end of the day it’s a small price to pay for getting The Otero County Disclosure out, into the light, and, fingers crossed, read.

As practice, last week I spoke at the UK’s Stratford Literary Festival to soft launch the book. What a blast! And what a wonderful, warm and supportive group. It seems I needn’t have worried about the ‘public’ thing so much. No-one cares about me. They do care about my inspirations, mind, and why I wrote the book I did. And of course, they want to know about the novel itself, The Otero County Disclosure. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea (there were many cosy romance and fantasy authors on the bill) but everyone was respectful enough to hear us all out and offer words of encouragement.

I also met a spy. A former MI6 field officer. He was there promoting his traditionally published non-fiction book released last year; about learning lessons from the secret services. Essentially, how to get people to do your bidding. I laughed and told him I wished I’d met him several years earlier. He’d have saved me months of research! (The novel’s not a spy thriller, but there is conspiracy writ large, and references to clandestine government and corporate practices). So we chatted and, when my turn was done, and I stepped away from the microphone, returning to my seat, he said to me, ‘that sounds really interesting, can I have more details?’ (about the novel).

Hell, yeah!

I may not have written an easily pigeonholed novel that favours marketeers over readers. But. It’s a book I’ll stand behind and sell, one eBook or paperback at a time. Welcome to my world.

At the time of writing, publication day is just 55 days, four hours and 39 minutes away.

Thanks for reading.

Huey.

May 2025

Blog post #14 – Life, Death, and Creativity: A Personal Reflection on Writing

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Warning. This post meanders.

Six months ago, at my then place of work, someone started a thread on Yammer (like Facebook, for businesses) on the subject of staying safe. The company I worked for is big. Very big. It handles enormous energy infrastructure projects running to the tens of billions of pounds and dollars every year. By its very nature, the health and safety of such an organisation’s employees is paramount. Not only in the field, but in the office too.

Leaders shared thoughts on how they keep themselves, their teams, families and friends, safe. How their outlook towards the subject – including physical and mental wellbeing – has changed down the years. I was encouraged by others to share my own ideas and experiences.

And so I started writing about wearing high visibility clothing when out running. Not wearing headphones when I’m out running. Selecting running routes that are unlikely to harm me and fellow road users (I mostly run trails, but many routes entail at least several miles of quiet but fast roads).

I switched focus halfway through my piece and discussed chaperoning my young charge while filming the Netflix show for six-months (she has severe allergies and so entrusted me with observing the strict protocols necessary for her safety. Namely checking all food prepared on set, and so on). Then, as if something dormant had been stirred, at the end of my thread I made a statement about becoming ‘more risk averse’ as I’ve gotten older. I finished by veering off into declarations bordering on the existential. Discussing family tragedies. My older brother and his disability. How precious life is. Why you wouldn’t find me today doing the things I did a decade or two ago.

Strangely, the post received a lot of likes.

Why am I saying this here? Well, I often wonder why I write the fiction I do. The books I read and the stories I love, are oftentimes far removed from the narratives I put down on the page. Fifteen years ago, as an exhausted parent of young children, and studying creative writing, those great expansive American novels from the likes of Franzen and Chabon were my thing. A comforting, thoughtful place of escape. I loved the style and sharply observed characters. The holding of a shiny mirror in front of the world we inhabit and staring back to find and identify myself – and my mores – and the environment around me, among the panoply of protagonists and villains. Then I transitioned through darker, more dystopian, sometimes satirical fiction; Dave Eggers, Kurt Vonnegut, Don DeLillo. Cormac McCarthy. I found some of these shadier novels unsettling, leaving me feeling unbalanced and disquieted. McCarthy in particular is the type of author I can only read once a year. In small doses, if you will. His vivid yet pared-back storytelling is fiction concentrate. They would write about the big stuff. What it is to be human. Life and death. I would tell myself I could never write like these particular authors do. I want to write light, and bright and breezy. Accessible stuff. The sort of fiction I read as a youth. Boys’ own adventures. Gripping but simple thrillers, such as Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps, and escapist fantasy, a la The Lord of the Rings. Or family sagas from the likes of Franzen. Perhaps the absorbing contemporary worldbuilding of Chabon, or Donna Tartt, packed with fully realised characters following meandering plots. Nothing so challenging as Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, or Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Too much risk involved. A lot of deep stuff. Sometimes just a plain old tough read.

However, whenever I sit down to write, whether a short story, or with the hopes of a novel, no matter what I’ve outlined I find myself returning to themes of life and death and the purpose of existence. Every novel I’ve started (and I’ve completed two) has at least one soliloquy devoted to a deep or spiritual theme. I can only think these notions were sowed as seeds a long time ago. Perhaps in my childhood or youth. Seeds that have lain buried but very much alive. Fed and nurtured by the ups and downs of my own life over the subsequent decades.

Most certainly we all have our fair share of tragedy and triumph, we all have our crosses to bear, as the saying goes. But I do wonder why I choose on some conscious level to focus on such ideas of mortality, and night and day. If you ever read my short stories you’ll see what I mean. In one, a man approaching retirement loses his job. But he doesn’t just get made redundant. It becomes a fundamental situation discussing the beginning, and the ending of things. A prelude to death with a final triumphant moment in the sun.

I wrote a few ghost stories (there isn’t anything in literature more aligned to death than a ghost story!). A Western written in vernacular parlance with cowboys discussing their purpose on this green and blue planet of ours. A father on a Scottish mountainside with his young son reminiscing about his own, dear departed dad.

And so it goes on.

All of which is to say, despite my perceived obsession with death, and the life preceding it, I have embraced danger and risk (to some extent) in putting these stories, and this novel, The Otero County Disclosure, out into the world. To be read and critiqued, possibly savaged, hopefully enjoyed.

This brings me to my final point.

Purpose.

I have always loved writing. It is, in its own way, the essential intangible ingredient of who I am. Suppress my ability and opportunity to write and you will see a very different Huey Hawke. And in order to maintain the opportunity to write, I will face all risks. Perhaps some risks are just worth taking? Some risks are less likely to cause physical harm. What danger, after all, is there in publishing a novel for all the world to see, other than wounded pride if things go south. I feel like fiction, and writing more generally, is my purpose. It may only satisfy me, readers may take a different view of my work. But that’s okay. I suppose it’s repression of this purpose that fills me with real dread. To not do it would be tantamount to a large part of me being sacrificed (yes, it really does feel like that some days).

But still. I’ll return to the beginning of this post, and that work Yammer thread, keeping safe and sound and those others around you. I am risk averse, at a very basic human level. And yet I find myself routinely writing on themes of life and death, perhaps light after death. Who knows. I do know I write to understand; myself and the world we inhabit. I’ve discussed this in previous musings, here on this blog. It’s very true that when you come to read early drafts of a story, long or short, hidden themes, not always apparent in the process of scribing, leap out at you, like those optical illusions when staring at a page and an image reveals itself. I don’t know what all this means other than the mind works in mysterious ways indeed. The Yammer thread was like catnip for me, I had to write something about health and safety, and yet for some reason I took that discussion to some place else. Somewhere darker and deeper, more profound. I almost can’t help myself. I mean, look what I’ve done with this post!

Thanks for reading.

Huey.

April 2025