Jacob Peppers
Well, hello there. Haven’t seen you around these parts before.
I’m Jacob, husband to a wife I do not deserve, father to four wonderful children of whom I am equally undeserving.
Oh, and I write things. Fantasy things, mostly. And shopping lists—but don’t worry. I only charge for the first.
Usually.
I am one of those rare people that always knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a writer—I knew that since I was a kid, around eight years old, the same age as my oldest son, Gabriel.
The problem, though, was that I was very bad at it.
So I grew—as people do—and with high hopes and dreams scraping the clouds, I went to college to get a bachelor’s degree in English. Assuming, all the while, that I would write the next great American novel or, failing that, my degree would help me get all sorts of jobs.
Spoiler alert—I didn’t. And extra spoiler alert—it didn’t.
I substitute taught for a time, worked in sales for a while (a very long while, or at least it felt that way). And during it all I would spend my nights, after my wife went to bed, writing, working on what I was sure would, finally, be the great American novel.
It wasn’t. In fact, it was very, very bad. Blithely unaware of this, I went to a writer’s conference in New York City, and it was about the third day of a five-day conference when I realized that my treasured, carefully collated and valiantly protected manuscript was, in fact, garbage. Or, if not, then it was doing a fine job of masquerading as garbage.
But I didn’t mind. Nor did I mind that I had already written the sequel, Garbage Part 2: The Trash Files.
At least…not much.
I just went home and started again. And again. And again.
See, a recurring theme in my life has never been an overwhelming abundance of talent or cleverness but pure stubbornness. That stubborn streak has seen me clear of trouble more often than I can count. Of course, it has also seen me into trouble, but we have to take the good with the bad, don’t we? Mostly because we don’t really have a choice.
So I wrote and wrote and wrote, an assembly line of poor pacing and plot tangles, a manufacturing powerhouse of slow beginnings and unending endings. Until eventually—to my surprise as much as anyone’s—I wrote something that didn’t suck.
At least not completely.
So, excited once more, I spent a couple of years querying agents, eager to hear them sing my praises.
They didn’t. No doubt embarrassed by their poor singing voices. This is where my pride wants me to say that I had some close calls, but then agents, in my experience, are sort of an either-or, situation. They’re like hand grenades in that way. Maybe in several ways.
I was still slogging through those querying trenches when a friend of mine told me I should try indie publishing. I said no. And queried. And failed. And failed again. (Stubborn streak, remember?) Then, finally, I said yes.
And that was the beginning of my career in writing, such as it is. I am blessed that I get to do this thing I love and people pay me for it. I don’t know why. Maybe they don’t either—but until they or I figure it out, I’m going to keep doing it.
As well as I can for as long as I can.
I’ve got nearly forty books now, and I’ve got an agent—two, in fact. Really great ones. That’s Andrea Hurst and Lydia Caudill at Andrea Hurst Literary Management, in case you were wondering. Soon after they began representing me, they worked a three-book deal with me and Hatchette UK (first book coming in August).
That’s exciting. Part of the dream, at least, fulfilled. But plenty more to go, and I think that’s a good thing. After all, wasn’t it David Gemmell (a far greater writer than I would ever hope to be) who said “May all your dreams but one come true, for what is life without a dream?”
So I’ll keep dreaming and keep writing. And if you want to come along for the ride, then hop on in—the wagon has a space, just for you.
But be warned. Adventure awaits.
And we ride to meet it.
I’m Jacob, husband to a wife I do not deserve, father to four wonderful children of whom I am equally undeserving.
Oh, and I write things. Fantasy things, mostly. And shopping lists—but don’t worry. I only charge for the first.
Usually.
I am one of those rare people that always knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a writer—I knew that since I was a kid, around eight years old, the same age as my oldest son, Gabriel.
The problem, though, was that I was very bad at it.
So I grew—as people do—and with high hopes and dreams scraping the clouds, I went to college to get a bachelor’s degree in English. Assuming, all the while, that I would write the next great American novel or, failing that, my degree would help me get all sorts of jobs.
Spoiler alert—I didn’t. And extra spoiler alert—it didn’t.
I substitute taught for a time, worked in sales for a while (a very long while, or at least it felt that way). And during it all I would spend my nights, after my wife went to bed, writing, working on what I was sure would, finally, be the great American novel.
It wasn’t. In fact, it was very, very bad. Blithely unaware of this, I went to a writer’s conference in New York City, and it was about the third day of a five-day conference when I realized that my treasured, carefully collated and valiantly protected manuscript was, in fact, garbage. Or, if not, then it was doing a fine job of masquerading as garbage.
But I didn’t mind. Nor did I mind that I had already written the sequel, Garbage Part 2: The Trash Files.
At least…not much.
I just went home and started again. And again. And again.
See, a recurring theme in my life has never been an overwhelming abundance of talent or cleverness but pure stubbornness. That stubborn streak has seen me clear of trouble more often than I can count. Of course, it has also seen me into trouble, but we have to take the good with the bad, don’t we? Mostly because we don’t really have a choice.
So I wrote and wrote and wrote, an assembly line of poor pacing and plot tangles, a manufacturing powerhouse of slow beginnings and unending endings. Until eventually—to my surprise as much as anyone’s—I wrote something that didn’t suck.
At least not completely.
So, excited once more, I spent a couple of years querying agents, eager to hear them sing my praises.
They didn’t. No doubt embarrassed by their poor singing voices. This is where my pride wants me to say that I had some close calls, but then agents, in my experience, are sort of an either-or, situation. They’re like hand grenades in that way. Maybe in several ways.
I was still slogging through those querying trenches when a friend of mine told me I should try indie publishing. I said no. And queried. And failed. And failed again. (Stubborn streak, remember?) Then, finally, I said yes.
And that was the beginning of my career in writing, such as it is. I am blessed that I get to do this thing I love and people pay me for it. I don’t know why. Maybe they don’t either—but until they or I figure it out, I’m going to keep doing it.
As well as I can for as long as I can.
I’ve got nearly forty books now, and I’ve got an agent—two, in fact. Really great ones. That’s Andrea Hurst and Lydia Caudill at Andrea Hurst Literary Management, in case you were wondering. Soon after they began representing me, they worked a three-book deal with me and Hatchette UK (first book coming in August).
That’s exciting. Part of the dream, at least, fulfilled. But plenty more to go, and I think that’s a good thing. After all, wasn’t it David Gemmell (a far greater writer than I would ever hope to be) who said “May all your dreams but one come true, for what is life without a dream?”
So I’ll keep dreaming and keep writing. And if you want to come along for the ride, then hop on in—the wagon has a space, just for you.
But be warned. Adventure awaits.
And we ride to meet it.