The Case of the Accidental Writer by Gabriel Valjan

  I call myself an accidental writer because I’m not one of those authors who wrote their first novel with crayons. Personal circumstances forced my fingers to tickle the keyboard. There were signs, though, that I was destined for a love affair with words. Elements were there. As an only child, I read books to combat loneliness. I read above my age group. I excelled at what was then called—in the Seventies—Language Arts. A teacher infected me with the addiction to mysteries when she supplied me with Agatha Christie novels from her personal library. I returned to her like Oliver Twist and wanted more. 

 

I would earn excellent grades, enough to warrant acceptance to a prestigious secondary school. Delbarton offered a rigorous and demanding liberal arts education, such that I missed most of the early Eighties. No Miami Vice, no LA Law, or Cheers for me. I read and read and read more. Reading and writing became like breathing and drinking water for me: essential to life.

 

I majored in biology at USC but decided I would become a professor of literature, specifically medieval literature. I went so far as to obtain a master’s degree in Medieval Studies at Leeds University. Alas, mounting student debt and deciding whether to stay abroad or return to NYU to complete my doctorate killed that dream. I would earn my keep doing legal and medical research, work as a systems engineer, and then as a nurse. The common thread to my successes in those disparate fields was an ability to communicate complex ideas in emails, presentations, and technical documentation. A researcher, like an editor, has to sort what is crucial from what is irrelevant. An engineer analyzes why something doesn’t work and offers a solution. A nurse is a detective who fields conflicting data. They ‘read’ people. My employment history was a lesson in foreshadowing.

 

I’m hard of hearing due to an adverse reaction to antibiotics as a child. It affected how I interact with people. I am cautious and reserved by nature. I learned how to read lips, how to interpret body language. I experience words as colors. Years of observing people and hearing words on the page inside my head helped me with dialogue. Because of the auditory deficit, I’m sensitive to the musicality inherent in language. You will find instances of alliteration, assonance, similes, and other poetic strategies throughout my writing. I play with language, often in subtle ways. The poet in me turns the phrase. I’m told that I have an eccentric sense of humor.

 

It wasn’t until I’d had cancer in 2010 that I began writing in earnest. I had dabbled in writing short stories every weekend from September 2009 to February 2010. My second publication, “Back in the Day,” was a finalist for the 2010 Fish Prize in Ireland. While dealing with the fallout from radiation (pun intended), I turned to writing novels. I wrote to outrun depression and mortality. The more I experienced physical adversity, the more my mind worked to create an escape into words and images. Writing provided endorphins. My first novel appeared in 2012. I was 42 years old.  When my second novel arrived later that same year, the cumulative physical damage to my health compelled me to leave the work force.

 

I’m a storyteller, not an author. I love to write. I don’t do daily word counts. I don’t outline or use special software. I don’t experience Writer’s Block. I sit down and write the scene that is inside my head. I do it until it is down on the page, and I take a knife to it later. I murder my own words. I had taught myself to edit from reading Dave King’s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. Decades of turning the pages have taught me plotting. As for ‘influences,’ I have been influenced by everyone I have read, consciously or otherwise because I opened myself to the music of life and allowed the language of the tribe to merge and mutate my DNA.

 

I write historical and crime fiction because the Past speaks to me and because I have found ‘literary fiction’ wanting, static and stagnant. Nothing happens for pages, and there seldom seem to be any stakes. I prefer movement and momentum. I write forward, leaning into the action. Crime is a game. It’s the human sport of survival. Someone commits a crime for whatever reason, and there’s a universal need for justice. Clio, the muse of History, is always present, always vigilant and reminding us that we are not as civilized as we think we are.

 

And these words to close the Case of the Accidental Writer:

 

To understand me, know this: all my novels concern themselves with friendships, the faith we have in others we trust because the world is a dark and unforgiving place. I’m not explicit with violence because I’ve witnessed awful things in my own life. In terms of style, I’ve been compared to Robert B. Parker, but I think it’s because I write about Boston in the Seventies. I try to write in a manner that appears simple but isn’t. I’d much prefer the fluidity and the smooth carriage return of James M. Cain. I respect my readers and consider their time spent with me a gift. Profanity happens on occasion between the pages, but be assured if it is said, it’ll count for maximum impact. The mystery is the pretense, but Love is the Grail. Kindness is the antidote to cruelty. To render how I see the world, I’ll paraphrase C.S. Lewis who wrote that the modern person looks at the stars overhead and feels alienated in the dark night, whereas there was a time when a person gazed at the heavens and felt awe to be alive and a part of a wondrous universe. I am that person.