Four Best Books by Wolf DeVoon

These four books are certainly representative, three novels and a volume of short stories, written during the past few years. There are many more that I care about, but these four in particular were mature and deliberate, as if each might be the last.

Chiseltown is my most recent, the story of a fictional filmmaker and a feature film. There's quite a lot of humor, some mildly adult intimacy, and an accessible narrative of how a "low budget" movie is created and completed, almost always a question of Who Knows Who.

Charity was part of a series (The Case Files of Cable & Blount) told in first person, a parable of privilege, discovery, black ops, and a cryptocurrency caper that destabilizes global banking. I like it because it deals with an important truth, that love is unchosen destiny.

Partners is set in 1975, an icy Wisconsin winter, an intimate struggle of triangles and tragedy. Men are killed. The stakes are as high as humanly imaginable in a war of innocent romance and steely determination.

Four Strange Stories is a collection of dreams, truths, seduction, and a complex portrait of a free society in the future, the widest possible mirror of what I think and feel as a man.

It cost quite a lot to create those works, plus twenty other self-published books, a half dozen screenplays, and thirty or forty miles of film and video. I started as a teenage filmmaker, learned to write along the way. My first job in Hollywood was an original screenplay. The last one was a cubicle at Disney, spending six figures of Mickey's money. I felt it was time to quit the "fillum" business. There are a couple recent video lectures, if you care to see what I look and sound like at age 69.

It stuns me when I apprehend that there's another story to tell, doubting my ability to write another full length novel -- however I am certain of this much: I cannot disown my literary legacy, nor the ideas that I endeavored to communicate, right wrong or purple. Like Popeye the Sailor, I am what I am and that's all what I am.

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Becker

In the novel Partners, there are three principal characters: Kyle, Karen, and Becker. The story could not have been told without Becker -- no transformative challenge for Kyle, no romantic crusade for Karen. Although the story is told from Kyle's perspective and his love affair with Karen is both superlatively sweet and often terrible, the mysterious gunslinger Jimmy Becker is the fulcrum of every scene, whether he's in foreground or not.

I painted Becker's family, a trio of sharply drawn personalities, father, mother, sister, and a dead twin brother, to show that everyone descends from a chain of life and circumstance. I also indicated that Becker served as a U.S. Marine Corps officer in Germany. That's all I dared to explain, in drips and drabs, because I detest exposition, cardboard confessions that recite one's backstory, purpose, and notable achievements in junior high school. Absolutely NOT something that Becker would do. He's as tight as a closed vise, incapable of schmoozing.

Because that renders Becker somewhat opaque, revealing behavior nothwithstanding, it's fun to chat about this interesting man. He's almost a monk, sacrificing himself as an angel of vengeance. He's controlled by his cold hearted parents and corrupt family friend Lt. Lepsky, fairly obvious from dialogue and description. Kyle is a shrewd observer. He sees that Becker is an unstable paper tiger with an emotional glass jaw, desperately in need of a partner to support him and a woman to love him, which Becker denies. He shoves everybody away in anger, won't let them join or compromise his crusade to dominate. Simple Kyle sees through it. Becker needs him and Becker cares about Kyle and clever little Karen. He does this by cursing Kyle, pointing a gun at him, ordering him to go away, and in the finale abandoning Kyle to face death alone -- after making Kyle his wealthy heir in bank documents!

Are there other characters like Becker? Sure. They're thriller heroes and odd ducks consumed by blind, insatiable revenge after losing a loved one to the bad guys, a See Spot Run motive for Charles Bronson to sleepwalk through "justifiable" violence. In the film Bad Day At Black Rock, it was Spencer Tracy's turn to avenge a death and to kill. It bored Tracy. He sleepwalked through pasteboard scenes, let the talented ensemble of snarling bad guys shine.

In reality, are there men like Jimmy Becker? Fewer now, but yes there are and were in 1975. Marines are devil dogs prepared to fight and die, steeped to the bone with one imperative -- to obey orders unquestioningly -- and trained to fight as a team. The smallest possible team is two. Becker needs a partner at his side. Lepsky and Judge Verhoeven issue the orders.

That's why I wrote Partners, to show what partnership is, why it exists.

https://www.amazon.com/Partners-Wolf-DeVoon/dp/1722608595

Wildcat

Karen Breyer, the heroine of Partners

My first novel was written 30 years ago, first screenplay 40 years ago, first 16mm film almost 50 years ago. I wrote an original stage play in grade school, performed by the entire 5th grade class. Nonfiction books and paid professional writing attracted more readers, but my lifelong purpose was fiction. It took a long time to get good at it. I speak of it today to emphasize the depth of commitment that creative writing requires. It cannot depend on the good opinion and good offices of others, if your aim is signature work. There are many who believe what I write is disgusting and annoying. What they cannot say is that it echoes another novelist or plows a popular patch of turf. I paid a heavy price to write about life on life's terms. My heroes and heroines are clever and white, disinterested in the general welfare, minority rights, or democracy. They care about themselves.

That's the proper concern of self-respecting individuals in a free society. I recognize that life in America today is unfree and destined to be progressively less autonomous, if you follow the rules. My fictional people don't obey the law. They do whatever is necessary to evade it, which is fairly easy. Government is an illusion, unless you voluntarily obey like sheep. Liberty consists of thinking of and for yourself, without consulting the neighbors.

The first of our Founding Fathers, James Otis, argued that an act of legislation against natural equity was void. He was attacked and beaten senseless by tax collectors, igniting rebellion to colonial governors who enjoyed popular support. Rebels like Otis were called traitors.

Among all the stories told today, none are more dramatic or compelling than white wildcats in selfish pursuit of liberty, the unconquerable thirst for individualism, a natural right. The character of Karen Breyer, a fake name that she adopted to escape an oppressive family who dissed her ambition to be a writer, epitomizes the theme of rebellion.

https://youtu.be/HRGX2FiHOS0

The Third Rail

The curtain is about to go up on the third act of 'Partners.' The women have been sidelined, by voluntary withdrawl or exclusion for cause. Now it's just the fighting men, principally Kyle and Jimmy and their adversaries, but also Lt. Greg Lepsky, who has lurked in the background throughout the story and will become a fulcrum bidding for authority and power. Lepsky is not a naturally powerful individual, mature and worn, overweight, dull, cautious, and corrupt. In 1976, the entire Milwaukee police force was corrupt. Lepsky was senior enough to survive, provided that he played ball with the mob. He is nominally an ally, but diverted Jimmy into an endless series of 'good works' to keep Jimmy busy, distracted, and in danger.

In the third act, all bets are off, all assumptions and routine gone. Lepsky and the mob think that Jimmy is dead and that Kyle is indulging matrimonial bliss and sensible cowardice, making a new life for himself and a devoted young pregnant wife. Only one man in Milwaukee knows that Kyle and Jimmy are back, running dark, active only at night, about to unleash total hell after they were both murderously assaulted in separate incidents and in revenge for a car bomb years ago that left Jimmy's father a homebound cripple. The only man who knows that Kyle and Jimmy are back, armed with a submachine gun and a high-power hunting rifle, is an elderly servant. It would be obscene literary evil to expose a vulnerable servant to danger.

Jim is a wounded warrior, one arm in a sling, a smashed shoulder that will never heal, still wearing a bandage on his face to close a gaping tear from buckshot. It will not be restored by plastic surgery. Jim does not survive the third act. And that brings us to Kyle, the narrator and main character of 'Partners.' When Jimmy is killed, the balance of the story is Kyle's bizarre struggle to defeat the Milwaukee mob and its pawn Lt. Lepsky, who attempts to kill Kyle in the name of the law, to stop his homicidal threat to a fragile status quo.

I don't want to introduce any other element, for instance the FBI, who are investigating the Milwaukee mob in parallel, always have been throughout this gritty, twisted skein, unacknowledged and dramatically unimportant. It will take the feds another two years to indict the chief Cosa Nostra figures that Kyle and Jim come to town to kill. They will fail in that mission. Jim will be killed and Kyle will be forced to fight lesser capos and mob enforcers launched against him. There is a tooth grinding final crisis, followed by a denouement that resolves Kyle's status as a soldier of fortune defending his beloved partner, in life and in death's solemn honor.

That's the broad theme of 'Partners.' When men bond in wartime, there is no limit to what a partner must and will do to protect a brother in arms. If he falls, his body will not be left on the field of battle, and his valor must and will be avenged. In that respect, my novel explores no new ground. It is an old story of comradeship forged by unit cohesion that becomes total when it exists as an unbreakable bond between two operators working in tandem.

So much I already understand, but the third act is something more than its structure or story resolution, ratcheting up a thrilling climax as a technical matter. "I hate these slot machine people!" the comic duo in a celebrated Fitzgerald romp say to each other, speaking for all writers and all readers. The third act of my novel must have the feel and pace of a completely new story, unexpected and shocking, because mechanical action is NOT what the third act of 'Partners' is about. Whatever Lepsky and the mob do or fail to do has no significance, a foil to the greater story of men who love one another. We've seen them squabble and individually embrace the women that each one loves privately and separately. We know their failings and foibles as individuals. None of it matters in the third act. When men bond, it is an act of love that transcends time itself. It cannot be killed by mortal death, cannot be withdrawn for light or transient causes, and will withstand almost every temptation to walk away.

I had such loves many times for comrades who were my partners. I think of them every day, a silent element of who I am, an inextinguishable otherness that war forged. Some of my war experience was metaphorical and civilian, some was not. I had a partner who is no longer in my life, trust shattered by racial animus that neither of us wanted. Some of my partners are dead. More will soon be taken by advancing age. 'Partners' is a tribute to them, to the best of heterosexual male life, capable of loving and defending one another as brothers in spirit.

- Wolf DeVoon

The real Peachy

Not much distance between my fictional heroine and the real woman I modeled her on.

She's a multi-engine jet pilot, flight instructor, secret squirrel, Ph.D. and head of a law enforcement agency, after a long career in the field carrying a sidearm. A gifted poet, whose prose and poetry often made me gasp in admiration. Out of all the people who encouraged me to write, this beautiful brainy patriot stepped up candidly, warmly and courageously. I've never met her in person, and very much want to, however awkward it will be. I'm old and ugly, a small civilian who hasn't had to face much evil. I write about good and evil, of course. I saw just enough in prison and out to have an opinion.

I know this remarkable redhead from her writings -- hundreds of long posts -- and her private letters by email that I cherished more deeply than all others I've received. It's hard to describe how much this lady inspired me, not only as the real-life reference for my projection of an ideal woman in The Case Files of Cable & Blount, but likewise an unexpected ally in the hardship of writing novels. The work is intensely difficult. She had my back, freed me to write.

A confession

I'm an emotional novelist, with little notion of what will happen in advance of the stories I tell. All I know is characters and a little oomph of a situation, a few scenes, a place to begin. It came clear as glass by re-reading O. Henry, whose plots are worked out in reverse, a tidy ending in mind which all else must chug along to achieve as a chortle. Despicable John Irving and John Steinbeck did it too. I don't.

For example, in A Portrait of Valor all I knew was that Chris and Peachy must meet. His war buddies would stand by him. She would cleave to him and fight at his side. What began as passionate sexual chemistry would evolve into lasting love.

In The Tar Pit, all I knew was that Nick would be in the wrong place at the wrong time, falsely accused of killing a movie studio big wig. I didn't know who the real culprit was until the 5th or 6th chapter. My plots evolve by discovery, one clue at a time.

In Charity, I wanted to send them on an escapade, pay the price of charity, period.

My current project was a 2 cent idea, to show the same series of events from his POV and hers, without knowing anything about Finding Flopsie or who Flopsie was. Once begun, my stories tell themselves. One step into the unknown forces another, until the expanding edifice of necessity impels dramatic outcomes, because it must be so.

As an emotional author, every word matters, every moment of fictional life, even the bit players like taxi drivers and hotel clerks. My principal players grow into roles that they themselves shape and often regret. They make foolish mistakes. They gamble and they love life as voyagers who kick down obstacles and break their bones if necessary to win, lose, or draw. Most of life is a draw, nothing gained or lost. We always get what we pay for. So Chris remains Chris, and Peachy remains Peachy, bonded as they began many hundreds of thousands of words ago, a chemistry I honor with every hour and in every syllable. Spinning tales is fairly easy for me, it's the writing that vacuums my heart and all the literary skill I can muster, exhausts me, begs to be edited and tweaked and re-read many times to find and fix a single word. Every word matters.

By comparison to writing, the flow of life on the page, story is pff.

Characterization in signature work

I've created a lot of fictional characters over the years, many of whom I liked and respected. A few were modeled on people I knew, supporting characters whose personalities were frozen -- well, that's a bit harsh, let's say inflexible, unable to transform. It happens in life to most people. Their formative battles were fought long ago, and it shaped how they think and live. All of them deserve honorable mention to acknowledge their strengths and sorrows. It's important always to treat a character with respect, even the tawdry ones, the bit players and stock figures -- tailors, waiters, uniformed cops, cab drivers. Little glimpses need to be three-dimensional and real. It's never wrong to be honest about where they are in life, how they move, talk, think, hide themselves from others. Characters who transform, undertake challenges and put their future at risk, are "principal players." There is no story without such people. Some of them are heroic men and women, some are dangerous villains. It's possible to see virtue in a villain, no different than a hero with inner conflicts and limitations. I'm speaking mostly of male characters. Women seldom deliberately do wrong, although it's good to see the extreme and exceptional. One of my favorites was a film star -- Ophilia Opfir -- always outrageous, mercurial, a comic figure. Now that I think of it, all of my women were wonderfully complicated. The Good Walk Alone had several female characters, no two alike, vital to the story line. In Mars Shall Thunder, Wendy and Emma Churchill played pivotal supporting roles, far more important than the men. Leading ladies are important to me. Sorry, that's an understatement. The Good Walk Alone is Janet DiMarco's story. Mars Shall Thunder is Laura Oak's story. Chris is nothing until he meets Peachy in A Portrait of Valor. Chris and Peachy are the subject of this essay. For the rest of my remaining days as a writer, I will author stories about them, as they mature in life as a married couple. It's interesting how they emerged in a tutorial of screenwriting on Zoetrope, to explain a method of organizing and creating scenes. Movies usually have 40 scenes. It's not important to start at Scene #1. Scenes can be written out of sequence, if you have a good outline, each scene with a unique dramatic action, no two scenes alike. The method of organizing a movie using Scene Cards is something that I was blessed to get from a profoundly talented mentor a long time ago. It's explained in Screenwriting Form & Structure, and there's a video on Vimeo that shows how Scene Cards are useful in story rewrite, to identify and resolve problems. To demonstrate Scene Card logic, I offered to write a screenplay out of sequence. Members of my private office at Zoetrope could pick a number, any number, from 1 to 40 in a story outline, and I'd write that scene to a budget of pages for that particular scene. Some were simple and quick, others were long dialogue scenes, or tense action, or lonely monologue. No two scenes alike, remember? The result was a completed screenplay called The Case of The Empty Case, and it introduced Chris Cable, private detective, and Mary Blount, Ph.D., a spectacularly stunning babe he orders to scram, go away, while he's dealing with a suitcase bomb parked in front of his office door. He doesn't know her name, calls her Peachy. It wasn't supposed to be a good story. It was a practical demonstration of a movie structure, how to conceive and execute individual scenes. Years later, at a watershed moment in my writing career, I thought of Chris and Peachy again. They deserved a series of novels. I risked everything to do it -- personally, financially, artistically. I don't regret it, although I doubt that Chris and Peachy will be well received by readers. I'm writing purely for myself, something I felt drawn to do after 30 years of storytelling, some of which was work for hire, a polite term for prostitution. It became important to give Chris and Peachy a voice of their own, in honor of their exceptional lives and exceptional challenges. A narrative novel is supremely expressive. Every word matters. I cringe whenever a typo or an ill-chosen word appears in print, self-published. It's humiliating to be self-published; I do it to archive the work. Others can make Kindle or POD successful. I can't. Please don't offer suggestions about marketing, or writing popular material in well-grooved genres. Chris and Peachy matter more than money. Christopher Cable, P.I., is a better man than I am, far more complex, far more courageous. He was an only child born into a military family. His birth took his mother's life. His father was a stern naval officer who became a powerful member of the Deep State, if you know what that is. Chris was raised by colored servants, if you know what that is. He went to Ivy League prep school, a sprig of privilege. He spent summers in New York with show people, his mother's clan of Broadway actors, dancers, musicians. When he was 18 years old, he was accepted in Marine Corps Officer Candidate School to honor his father and follow in his footsteps. Combat changes people, always, and Chris fought with courage that could not erase sorrow and guilt and revulsion. He hated killing. As an officer, his duty was ever-present and clear, ordering men to their death and dismemberment. Rising to the rank of Captain, partly on merit, partly because his father pulled strings, Chris couldn't continue. He resigned, changed his name, and fled to Los Angeles -- a disgraced black sheep who abandoned his duty and his father's iron sphere of influence and expectations. Ex-military is where most of our cops come from, and Chris had friends in L.A., ex-Marines who went into law enforcement, well-paid private surveillance, and medicine. None of those jobs were right for him. Chris couldn't deal with fussy paperwork or take orders, especially an order to do nothing, to drop a case, let the guilty skate because they had political pull. When the story opens in A Portrait of Valor, he's alone, lonely, miserable, age 38, jailed for killing a man, which he regrets but was compelled to do, to save a crowd of laughing drunks and doped-up chicks at a Hollywood nightclub. Terrible karma. The man who hates killing, forced to kill as a licensed private eye, working alone, financially strapped, hardened to life, expecting nothing but trouble. Not handsome, covered in battle scars, Chris cleans up every night and tries to be cheerful, drinks in nice nightclubs and dinner joints, hoping to meet a single woman his own age or thereabouts. He's ignored, night after night, year after year. Enter Peachy. I don't think I want to talk about her, a truly exceptional woman among women, beautiful, brilliant, elder daughter of a billionaire nuclear physicist (a horrible father), turned her back on wealth and made her own way in the world, a Stanford Ph.D. plugged into Silicon Valley. Wonderful couple who saved themselves for each other, wouldn't settle for less than ideal romance, astounding sexual chemistry, risking their lives for each other repeatedly. This is the glory of heroic fiction, to paint the beautiful. What other people write doesn't matter.