Writing a book is a good way to reveal how stupid you are. You
have an idea, and you start writing. Soon, you realize you don’t know what
you’re writing about.
Take my latest novel, Pinebox Collins. I thought it would
be a good idea to tell a story about a man who moved from place to place in the
Old West, using his travels and encounters to tell other stories about actual
events and people from history. I decided a footloose undertaker might move around
like that. And, for some reason, that he should be missing a leg. I don’t know
why.
I soon realized there had to be a reason for his missing leg,
which took some study of Civil War battles that might fit the bill. Then I had
to learn about Civil War hospitals, surgery, amputations, prosthetics, and the
like.
Then I had to learn about the history of undertaking, embalming,
and building coffins—none of which I knew anything about.
Pinebox’s travels required buffing up my knowledge of cattle
trails and cowtowns, mining strikes and boomtowns, stagecoaches and railroads,
and historic incidents and events in those places.
Then there were people. Charley Utter, Calamity Jane, Jim Levy, Joe
McCoy, John Wesley Hardin, Phil Coe, Jack McCall, Porter Rockwell, and others,
mostly “Wild Bill” Hickok—many of whom, but not all, I knew something, but not
enough, about.
I enjoy writing. Even the parts that make you realize how stupid
you are. With every book, I learn something—many somethings. And I hope the
people who read those books might learn something too.