Edward D.
McAbee, Jr.
I did not set out to become a writer. I started by trying to write one science-fiction book and learned, mostly by doing it wrong, how much there was to learn.
A failed book that was not a wasted effort.
Long-Term Observation: Humans began as my attempt to write science fiction. I wrote it, revised it, expanded it, and eventually self-published it. It never became the novel I wanted it to be, and it is not currently in publication.
I consider it a failed attempt at writing a good science-fiction novel, but I do not consider the experience a failure. It taught me the process of writing a book from beginning to end: developing an idea, organizing a manuscript, revising it, formatting it, building covers and supporting material, creating a website, and figuring out the mechanics of self-publishing.
Sometimes the first project succeeds because it becomes a great book. Sometimes it succeeds because it teaches you how to make the next one better.
Different subjects. The same habit.
Fault Lines: Physical and Otherwise grew out of my habit of looking at the places where rules, roles, assumptions, systems, and reality stop lining up. Much of it comes from years spent working inside technical, business, and organizational systems and noticing the distance between how those systems are designed to work and how people actually use them.
I’ve Been Remembering… went in a very different direction. It is a collection of family memories built around childhood, work, places, people, and ordinary objects. A pair of scissors, a coffee cup, an old tractor, a bicycle, or a Mason jar may be the starting point, but the object is rarely the real story. The point is to preserve the people and moments connected to it before those details disappear.
I also write shorter observations about work, contracts, rules, systems, habits, family, and everyday life. The subjects move around quite a bit, which is part of the reason this website does too.
Pay attention to the ordinary things.
The subject changes. The habit does not.
Most of my writing starts with something small enough to overlook: a rule nobody follows, a process that stopped making sense years ago, an object that quietly disappeared, a memory attached to something sitting on a shelf, or a detail that seems unimportant until you look at it long enough.
I notice it, turn it over for a while, and eventually start wondering what it says about the people involved—or about all of us.