IslandDriver
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Anyone write an aviation book?
- Thread starter IslandDriver
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Kharma Police
Don't mess with Texas
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PBRstreetgang
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IslandDriver
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The Drizzle
I is a Airline Pilot!
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Pasturepilot
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If you're going to write a book, start by finishing your questions with a question mark instead of a period. Nothing personal, it just sets a bad tone for the idea of you writing an entire book when your first sentence is structurally flawed.
I've got a lot of stories from general aviation up to the airline world, and they're all written down. I used to write for a living, but not aviation writing. About the only thing keeping them from being a book is my lack of motivation to shop them to an editor/agent or self-publish. Maybe one day.
I've got a lot of stories from general aviation up to the airline world, and they're all written down. I used to write for a living, but not aviation writing. About the only thing keeping them from being a book is my lack of motivation to shop them to an editor/agent or self-publish. Maybe one day.
HAL
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I have my first novel at the publisher, being edited. It's an alien invasion technothriller from the viewpoint of an airline pilot. It should be out around Christmas. And yes, I did have to run the manuscript past our corporate communications department because the airline in the book had some 'similarities' to HA. They said it was fine, and didn't request any changes.
In connection to the spirit of your question, I am working on a book about the job. I think it will end up as sort of a memoir, but focuses on the beauty of what we see from the cockpit. Hopefully if the novel does well, the publisher that accepted that book will take the memoir too.
As for writing ability, the more you write, the better you get - as long as you are willing to look at it critically, and make sometimes drastic changes to the prose. I've gone back and looked at some of my earlier work - that I thought was well done - and cringed at how easily I slaughtered the English language. Keep writing. The best book in the world isn't worth a penny if it exists only in your head.
HAL
In connection to the spirit of your question, I am working on a book about the job. I think it will end up as sort of a memoir, but focuses on the beauty of what we see from the cockpit. Hopefully if the novel does well, the publisher that accepted that book will take the memoir too.
As for writing ability, the more you write, the better you get - as long as you are willing to look at it critically, and make sometimes drastic changes to the prose. I've gone back and looked at some of my earlier work - that I thought was well done - and cringed at how easily I slaughtered the English language. Keep writing. The best book in the world isn't worth a penny if it exists only in your head.
HAL
Pasturepilot
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You hit the nail on the head. I started writing out some of the stories when I was little more than a kid, and when I go back to read through them, I'm horrified at the writing, but I'm forever grateful that I captured enough details to make it worth revising and polishing.
IslandDriver, have you considered publishing a blog with some of the stories? That's how a lot of writers are getting their start these days.
Thanks to the magic of kindle and amazon, there are a lot of "airline pilot genre" books out there. I enjoy them. A recent good one was Dangerous Lessons and Guardian Angels by P J Spivak. Not that professionally written, but a good story about a career in the non skeds. On the other end of the spectrum was The Life of Captain Reilly. Gawd, it was awful and centered around flying for an European LCC. Thought I would like it, but I couldn't finish it.
Some out there from some Aussie pilots that are interesting, kind of cool to read about their flying.
Looking forward to your book HAL!
Some out there from some Aussie pilots that are interesting, kind of cool to read about their flying.
Looking forward to your book HAL!
Flyby1206
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ATRCAPT
Livin' the...dream?
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Thanks for this, Dan. I've been on the fence about both these book, I may try the PJ Spivak one now. I just finished "Marijuana Smuggling for Fun and Profit" by Robert Bach. Best flying story I've read in a long time. Sorry for the thread creep. Carry on...
dicko
"It's a formidable scent"
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An AirTran pilot wrote a a book called 'The 4 Day Follies'. It's hilarious. You can read many of the stories on the site, but I'd recommend buying the book - God knows, the poor bastard needs all the help he can get 
(No, I didn't write it. I'm just grateful that I'm not mentioned in it)
http://4dayfollies.com
Some other funny reading from the mullet sporting French Canadian pilot Henri -
Henri and the female Captain Part 1 -
http://www.avcanada.ca/forums2/viewtopic.phpf=54&t=68755&p=649363#p649363
Henri and the female Captain Part 2 -
http://www.avcanada.ca/forums2/viewtopic.phpf=54&t=68961&p=650994#p650994
(No, I didn't write it. I'm just grateful that I'm not mentioned in it)
http://4dayfollies.com
Some other funny reading from the mullet sporting French Canadian pilot Henri -
Henri and the female Captain Part 1 -
http://www.avcanada.ca/forums2/viewtopic.phpf=54&t=68755&p=649363#p649363
Henri and the female Captain Part 2 -
http://www.avcanada.ca/forums2/viewtopic.phpf=54&t=68961&p=650994#p650994
dicko
"It's a formidable scent"
- Joined
- Jun 7, 2007
- Posts
- 1,432
Here's part 1 of Henri and The Female Captain:
The figure in front of me was speaking, but I wasn't really listening. She had been the lucky recipient of a wink and some finger-gun shots, of course, but had appeared indifferent, so the radar had been deployed elsewhere for more receptive targets. Despite my best efforts at refocusing on the other ladies in the terminal building, that voice kept resonating in my head. "going to Montreal with you, laying over in Ottawa, which leg do you want..?" Just like the laws of the wild, chaps. When the other potential mates think you are paired up already, they will flock to the more available looking partners. With this hanger-on stationed in front of me, there was no way I was going to get any action! I struggled to keep the look of desperation out of my face as I nearly pulled an ocular muscle trying to obtain eye contact with a passing blonde. No joy. Quick pelvic thrusts directed at a nearby seated brunette yielded nothing. Blazing finger gun shots and rapid clicking from the side of my mouth failed to draw in more than a single look of adoration from the clerk at the Hudson News adjacent to the gate. Zut Alors!
Exasperated now, I turned to look at the constant source of chatter before me. Pleased that she had my attention, she actually stopped talking and took in the sight in front of her. Take your time, Cherie. Starting at the recently polished cowboy boots, she clucked her tongue, in awe as she drank in the snug polyester dress pants held firmly in place by the powerful lower body of a French-Canadian not afraid of a little gym time for his hammys and glutes. The Fleur de lis emblem on the belt buckle gleamed and winked at my new fan as her eyes ran over the gentle convex curve of my ab before taking in the pencil thin mustache adorning my upper lip. An impressive coating of stubble on my cheeks (about the consistency of 80 grit sandpaper) scored me huge points for ruggedness. Why shave, gents? Show them you mean business and have the testosterone to back it up!
The diameter of her eyes noticeably changed as the piece du resistance flowed into her view. The mullet up until now had been waiting patiently, crouched on my neckline before being called into action to seal a potential mate. Other than the odd curious curl peeking out to survey the crowded airport, it had been largely dormant. Now, however, it caught the scent of pursuit, and with a quick whip of my neck it sprang forth like an excited child at Christmas. My standard issue airline hat groaned under the pressure, and then conceded as it was pushed north, making my already impressive 5'6" frame seem positively enormous in the perfect backlit effect I had positioned myself in. Allowing my audience time to absorb it all, I studied my nails as one of my immaculate boots rose from the floor and came to rest on my flight bag. Taking a page from the cool pilot book, my case was covered with every kind of sticker you can imagined, from Celine Dion to Rocky Balboa.
Rotate that bag, fellows, and study all the aircraft stickers. The entire family of Cessna singles are represented, the 182 encircled with gold stars. The Mighty DHC-8 lives on top, just near the handle on which I fasten my steely grip. Message? I have flown lots of airplanes. Impressive .. You bet! I had been politely waiting for her inspection to be complete before opening my eyes and nodding slowly and removing my elevated boot from my bag. Beaming. Spreading my arms. Waiting for the praise to be heaped upon me. I waited. And waited. The praise was taking some time to get to me.
The source of the voice was now standing quietly, and had folded her arms while my eyes had been closed. "Did you hear me" she said. Was that a tapping foot .. What was going on here ? "Of course not, Cherie. Please say again" I responded. On the outside I was exuding pure calm, but on the inside I was starting to feel confused. Nervous. A brief wave of fear bubbled up. It quickly passed through my Louis Vittons and the polyester. It sounded like a far-off Vuvuzela and smelt like camenbert. A nostril twitched in an act of betrayal. She sighed. It sounded like exasperation. How could this be? Did she not see the epaulettes? The hair? The barndoor lats? How could she resist? "We are flying together" She began slowly. Aha! That's who this little vixen was! A flight attendant! Of course. I casually wafted a masculine hand to push the scent of the Axe body spray her way. Phoenix is my odor of choice, men. Never fails. Line in the water! I waited for her to bite. "and I am Captain Wilson" The sentence was finished, but I couldn't comprehend it. This ..female creature was claiming to warm the left seat of the Mighty 8. I had her pegged for a cookie tosser, but now I saw the folly in my assumption. I had seen what had looked like four bars when she sauntered in, but just assumed we were getting a really qualified in-charge. It was only now that I noticed the telltale signs of the professional pilot, the same ones I accidentally forget to take off before hitting le discotheque: the hat, the pen-in-pocket, the glinting wings. Ray Bans swinging from the lanyard, flight crew ID clipped to the shirt. Could this be true? I had heard about lady pilots before, but kind of assumed they were a mystical creature, like a unicorn, and didn't really exist. Could she resist me, Not likely. Time for the secret weapon. Impromptu Dancing with the Stars audition coming up! The only foreshadowing of the treat about to be bestowed was a slight bend in the knees before I sprung skyward into a tight double axel. The mullet bowed to the laws of centrifugal force and obediently arced out in a graceful semi-circle of golden happiness. I caught sight of myself in the window at the top of climb; with my clenched buns and pirouetted toes I looked like Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Sweet ! The landing was classic two point, and I quickly unfolded my arms from my chest, my breathing noticeably quicker now. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the nasally roar of the loudspeaker: "Gate change, flight 347 to Ottawa will now be departing from Gate 56." I looked at her.
"That's us."
My eyes narrowed to slits and the signature toothpick appeared out of nowhere to set up camp on my lower lip. My hand flexed on the handle of the rolly bag.
She stared back.
"Yes. It is."
Her eyes also narrowed, and she put a stick of gum into her mouth. Slowly. Her jaw started to move as she stared at me like a fighter in the ring. Yikes!
We stood there for a long four seconds before exploding into action. My quads pumped furiously with the pedigree of a sprinter as I departed for Gate 56. The Lady Captain had pulled out in front, and I lost precious seconds trying to sabotage her start efforts by trying to kick her one foot behind the other. (It worked like a charm in Grade 9, chaps. I did that to that bully Pascal St. Jermaine-de-Mer back in the day, and he went down like a ton of bricks in the cafeteria as the roar of approval from my peers rang loud in my ears. I did some time with le Principal after that little episode, but the damage was done and old Pascal never pulled on the mullet again. Prenez votre medicine, Pascal!)
My technique did not work this time though, folks. Lady Captain had a boat-length on me now. She was freakishly fast. I desperately searched for something to throw at her, but nothing presented itself. The Tim Horton's double-double sloshed painfully behind the muscular wall of my ab as I forced the rolly-bag's wheels to spool far in excess of their certified design speed. I could smell the burning of the bearings as we rounded the first corner. My calves and glutes squealed in protest, after all, they were accustomed to moving staggering amounts of weight in the gym in Trois Rivieries, not support an all-out cardio effort like this. In contrast, the Lady Captain looked like she could bang off 10k any day of the week, and barely looked like she was breathing heavy. That wasn't the case in my camp, chappies. Without warning, the #2 wheel packed it in, and smoke started to pour freely from beneath the rolly. The toothpick fell from my mouth in a receeding trail of drool, and the Balboa sticker bobbed and weaved in encouragement as my flight bag bounced over the terrain of the lounge. Gate 56 was now in view, but all I was focused on was the retreating head of the Lady Captain as she pulled further away. She had a smooth motion to her running, almost gliding back and forth like a speed skater. This was unfolding like a Road Runner cartoon, and I was playing the hapless coyote!
To be continued ......
The figure in front of me was speaking, but I wasn't really listening. She had been the lucky recipient of a wink and some finger-gun shots, of course, but had appeared indifferent, so the radar had been deployed elsewhere for more receptive targets. Despite my best efforts at refocusing on the other ladies in the terminal building, that voice kept resonating in my head. "going to Montreal with you, laying over in Ottawa, which leg do you want..?" Just like the laws of the wild, chaps. When the other potential mates think you are paired up already, they will flock to the more available looking partners. With this hanger-on stationed in front of me, there was no way I was going to get any action! I struggled to keep the look of desperation out of my face as I nearly pulled an ocular muscle trying to obtain eye contact with a passing blonde. No joy. Quick pelvic thrusts directed at a nearby seated brunette yielded nothing. Blazing finger gun shots and rapid clicking from the side of my mouth failed to draw in more than a single look of adoration from the clerk at the Hudson News adjacent to the gate. Zut Alors!
Exasperated now, I turned to look at the constant source of chatter before me. Pleased that she had my attention, she actually stopped talking and took in the sight in front of her. Take your time, Cherie. Starting at the recently polished cowboy boots, she clucked her tongue, in awe as she drank in the snug polyester dress pants held firmly in place by the powerful lower body of a French-Canadian not afraid of a little gym time for his hammys and glutes. The Fleur de lis emblem on the belt buckle gleamed and winked at my new fan as her eyes ran over the gentle convex curve of my ab before taking in the pencil thin mustache adorning my upper lip. An impressive coating of stubble on my cheeks (about the consistency of 80 grit sandpaper) scored me huge points for ruggedness. Why shave, gents? Show them you mean business and have the testosterone to back it up!
The diameter of her eyes noticeably changed as the piece du resistance flowed into her view. The mullet up until now had been waiting patiently, crouched on my neckline before being called into action to seal a potential mate. Other than the odd curious curl peeking out to survey the crowded airport, it had been largely dormant. Now, however, it caught the scent of pursuit, and with a quick whip of my neck it sprang forth like an excited child at Christmas. My standard issue airline hat groaned under the pressure, and then conceded as it was pushed north, making my already impressive 5'6" frame seem positively enormous in the perfect backlit effect I had positioned myself in. Allowing my audience time to absorb it all, I studied my nails as one of my immaculate boots rose from the floor and came to rest on my flight bag. Taking a page from the cool pilot book, my case was covered with every kind of sticker you can imagined, from Celine Dion to Rocky Balboa.
Rotate that bag, fellows, and study all the aircraft stickers. The entire family of Cessna singles are represented, the 182 encircled with gold stars. The Mighty DHC-8 lives on top, just near the handle on which I fasten my steely grip. Message? I have flown lots of airplanes. Impressive .. You bet! I had been politely waiting for her inspection to be complete before opening my eyes and nodding slowly and removing my elevated boot from my bag. Beaming. Spreading my arms. Waiting for the praise to be heaped upon me. I waited. And waited. The praise was taking some time to get to me.
The source of the voice was now standing quietly, and had folded her arms while my eyes had been closed. "Did you hear me" she said. Was that a tapping foot .. What was going on here ? "Of course not, Cherie. Please say again" I responded. On the outside I was exuding pure calm, but on the inside I was starting to feel confused. Nervous. A brief wave of fear bubbled up. It quickly passed through my Louis Vittons and the polyester. It sounded like a far-off Vuvuzela and smelt like camenbert. A nostril twitched in an act of betrayal. She sighed. It sounded like exasperation. How could this be? Did she not see the epaulettes? The hair? The barndoor lats? How could she resist? "We are flying together" She began slowly. Aha! That's who this little vixen was! A flight attendant! Of course. I casually wafted a masculine hand to push the scent of the Axe body spray her way. Phoenix is my odor of choice, men. Never fails. Line in the water! I waited for her to bite. "and I am Captain Wilson" The sentence was finished, but I couldn't comprehend it. This ..female creature was claiming to warm the left seat of the Mighty 8. I had her pegged for a cookie tosser, but now I saw the folly in my assumption. I had seen what had looked like four bars when she sauntered in, but just assumed we were getting a really qualified in-charge. It was only now that I noticed the telltale signs of the professional pilot, the same ones I accidentally forget to take off before hitting le discotheque: the hat, the pen-in-pocket, the glinting wings. Ray Bans swinging from the lanyard, flight crew ID clipped to the shirt. Could this be true? I had heard about lady pilots before, but kind of assumed they were a mystical creature, like a unicorn, and didn't really exist. Could she resist me, Not likely. Time for the secret weapon. Impromptu Dancing with the Stars audition coming up! The only foreshadowing of the treat about to be bestowed was a slight bend in the knees before I sprung skyward into a tight double axel. The mullet bowed to the laws of centrifugal force and obediently arced out in a graceful semi-circle of golden happiness. I caught sight of myself in the window at the top of climb; with my clenched buns and pirouetted toes I looked like Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Sweet ! The landing was classic two point, and I quickly unfolded my arms from my chest, my breathing noticeably quicker now. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the nasally roar of the loudspeaker: "Gate change, flight 347 to Ottawa will now be departing from Gate 56." I looked at her.
"That's us."
My eyes narrowed to slits and the signature toothpick appeared out of nowhere to set up camp on my lower lip. My hand flexed on the handle of the rolly bag.
She stared back.
"Yes. It is."
Her eyes also narrowed, and she put a stick of gum into her mouth. Slowly. Her jaw started to move as she stared at me like a fighter in the ring. Yikes!
We stood there for a long four seconds before exploding into action. My quads pumped furiously with the pedigree of a sprinter as I departed for Gate 56. The Lady Captain had pulled out in front, and I lost precious seconds trying to sabotage her start efforts by trying to kick her one foot behind the other. (It worked like a charm in Grade 9, chaps. I did that to that bully Pascal St. Jermaine-de-Mer back in the day, and he went down like a ton of bricks in the cafeteria as the roar of approval from my peers rang loud in my ears. I did some time with le Principal after that little episode, but the damage was done and old Pascal never pulled on the mullet again. Prenez votre medicine, Pascal!)
My technique did not work this time though, folks. Lady Captain had a boat-length on me now. She was freakishly fast. I desperately searched for something to throw at her, but nothing presented itself. The Tim Horton's double-double sloshed painfully behind the muscular wall of my ab as I forced the rolly-bag's wheels to spool far in excess of their certified design speed. I could smell the burning of the bearings as we rounded the first corner. My calves and glutes squealed in protest, after all, they were accustomed to moving staggering amounts of weight in the gym in Trois Rivieries, not support an all-out cardio effort like this. In contrast, the Lady Captain looked like she could bang off 10k any day of the week, and barely looked like she was breathing heavy. That wasn't the case in my camp, chappies. Without warning, the #2 wheel packed it in, and smoke started to pour freely from beneath the rolly. The toothpick fell from my mouth in a receeding trail of drool, and the Balboa sticker bobbed and weaved in encouragement as my flight bag bounced over the terrain of the lounge. Gate 56 was now in view, but all I was focused on was the retreating head of the Lady Captain as she pulled further away. She had a smooth motion to her running, almost gliding back and forth like a speed skater. This was unfolding like a Road Runner cartoon, and I was playing the hapless coyote!
To be continued ......
Last edited:
airbrush
Well-known member
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2001
- Posts
- 146
One of the best
For those of you more recent users of Flightinfo, this thread was started several years ago by a guy who had had not only an amazing and diverse flying career, but an absolutely unique gift at putting his experiences into words....and one of the best pen names ever:
http://forums.flightinfo.com/showthread.php?t=29428&highlight=duke+elegant
Some great reading here....you'll laugh and you'll cry. I've read some of the best: Gann, Penrose, Bach, and countless others, and this guy was right there with them. Such a shame he never finished.
For those of you more recent users of Flightinfo, this thread was started several years ago by a guy who had had not only an amazing and diverse flying career, but an absolutely unique gift at putting his experiences into words....and one of the best pen names ever:
http://forums.flightinfo.com/showthread.php?t=29428&highlight=duke+elegant
Some great reading here....you'll laugh and you'll cry. I've read some of the best: Gann, Penrose, Bach, and countless others, and this guy was right there with them. Such a shame he never finished.
Dornier 335
Well-known member
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2005
- Posts
- 1,089
"Moondog's Academy of the Air and Other Disasters" by Peter Fusco was a pretty fun read. If you need some help, why not contact some of the authors?
"The First Officer's Report" by Shawn Rhodes is another great book.
If you do write a book, don't forget to dedicate it to your awesome friends at FI. We ARE a psychologist's wet dream!!
"The First Officer's Report" by Shawn Rhodes is another great book.
If you do write a book, don't forget to dedicate it to your awesome friends at FI. We ARE a psychologist's wet dream!!
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