While considering the best way to start these newsletters, I turned to the sage advice of a film that continues to give so much. “I like to start my notes to you as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we’re the oldest and dearest friends.” Who am I to argue with such wisdom?
WHY DROP IN A LOCH?
This was the original name of my Instagram. The idea being only 1% of people who start a novel actually finish so I was proud to add my “drop” into the collective literary waters. Why loch? My wife and I spent three years living in Scotland where it became home to us. It was the place my first novel took a lot of its shape and where I really began to take writing more seriously. So, as I searched for newsletter names, it felt appropriate to continue to add more drops into the world. Though, if an entire novel counted as a drop, maybe droplet would be a more appropriate word?
The Endless Sea of the Internet
One of my favorite walks in Aberdeen took me by the beach where the North Sea meets the Scottish coast. On a calm day, there’s something so tranquil about staring out across the waves and into the horizon. When the weather is rough, however, that same sea turns unpredictable, violent, and unyielding.
This is the internet.
Writing a novel is one thing, trying to market it…something else entirely. Dozens of social media platforms all vying for your attention and asking you to plumb the depths of their mysterious and elusive algorithms. Some require you to post multiple times a day, keep it simple but engage within five seconds or you lose their attention, be original but not confusing, offer quality but also quantity. In short, be everything, everywhere, all at once. 🤪 No wonder our mental health is struggling.
For anyone who never quite fit in during their high school years, it can be very familiar recognizing people who want to be accepted and validated. I don’t fault them. In a business where it takes a great deal to get noticed, that leads to people taking more extreme measures to do so.
Can you avoid it?
In 2026, it’s near impossible not to have an online presence. It’s almost proof of legitimacy. To be fair, if I was recommended a book and looked up the author to find nothing, I’m not sure how likely it is I would read it.
As of right now I’m not sure I have an answer. Having a Substack felt like a natural fit since it allows me to connect to others by…writing. Everything else I will figure out along the way. In the end, I want it to feel natural, like you’re getting to know me as a person. I want my energy to go into the stories that I write, not the song and dance of vying for a bit of attention. Besides, there’s only one man who can multitask like that and there’s no sense trying to compete with him.
Out of the Grave
Not so long ago, movies came with bonus features: deleted scenes, outtakes, etc. It was a way for the filmmakers to share things that were interesting that didn’t fit into the movie. Being and elder millennial, I find it my duty to continue the tradition.
When you write a book about people who dig up bodies, it’s hard not to come across fascinating trivia. I’ll try to steer clear of the more gruesome bits. We’ll start basic this week and clarify some terms. When I write, I try not to use the same word too often but that can get tricky when words that I thought were the same actually aren’t. For example: cemetery vs graveyard.
The included pictures might highlight the more obvious distinction between the two. While both are places to bury the dead, graveyards have churches while cemeteries don’t. 🌈The more you know.
Road to Publication
In regards to getting Gravebound out of my head and into readers’ hands, I am contemplating the question of self vs traditional publishing. While writing, I couldn’t make space in my head to consider undertaking self-publishing. But now that I’ve learned things, it’s not as daunting as it used to be. Both have their positives and negatives so I’ll hopefully figure that out soon.
In the meantime, here is a snippet to enjoy.
She wrapped the criminally stiff blanket around her as she pulled out one of her few possessions, a tattered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. The scarlet cover had faded into a less vibrant hue, and the embossed gold letters on the spine only had flecks of shine remaining. It was one of the two things she had kept from her past, both serving as painful reminders she didn’t wish to forget.
The cover fell open as easily as worn fabric, its pages paper thin, miraculously still bound and intact. Margin notes, smudged words, bent corners, and food stains marred her most-studied paragraphs. She flipped through the book, fingers tracing the pages, stopping at the familiar chapters. The words forming on her lips before reaching the pages—whole passages drifting up from memory. Images formed behind her eyes as they grew heavy: horses galloping through the French countryside, the glittering palaces of Paris, the waves—endless, crashing, fading—beneath the lonely, wind-swept Château d’If.
Until next time,
~Rob~