Blood Red Sky Now Available on Kindle Vella

I’ve just published my sci-fi YA novel Blood Red Sky on Kindle Vella, which is a new e-publishing format where parts of a story or novel are released incrementally. As I type this, the first half of the novel has already been published and the remainder will be released weekly until Sept. 11 2021. I’ve always loved this book though it never broke through into traditional publishing and I’m excited to see it available in the world. You can read the first three chapters for free before you need to buy Kindle Vella tokens to keep reading.

Sixteen-year-old Hash Owens, a survivor of a brutal childhood attack that left him with a cybernetic arm, finds himself stuck in afternoon detention with eleven other students on the day his planet is suddenly attacked by a malevolent alien race. As their school and city are rapidly destroyed, Hash and the other students in detention must band together in order to survive.

Lost In Translation Essay

Written for the awesome film review podcast Flahertys On Films!

Lost in Translation (2003) came out about a year after I graduated from college. I remember seeing it in the Highland Park movie theater in St. Paul with friends (remember when you used to go to a movie theater with friends?) and just sitting there amazed when it was over, letting what I’d seen wash over me. I was in love. In love with Bill Murray and in love with Scarlett Johansson and in love with the gleaming version of Tokyo I’d just witnessed.

It may or may not surprise those who know me that for all my gruff talk and dark jokes that I’m secretly a romantic. By the time I’d seen Lost in Translation I’d already done a fair amount of traveling to places like China and Russia and the Caribbean and Italy and England. I knew what it was like to be both homesick and lovesick while culturally at sea and here was a movie that presented much of what I’d experienced in a funny, beautifully filmed package. And the soundtrack, Jesus, the soundtrack alone buzzed through me.

Listen to the girl

As she takes on half the world

Moving up and so alive

In her honey dripping beehive

-The Jesus and Mary Chain

And, at the heart of all this beauty, was the burgeoning friendship/courtship of Bob Harris and Charlotte, which somehow managed to feel innocent despite both characters being married, which felt both high stakes and low stakes at the same time, which felt like a friendly cosmic joke played by the universe. A relationship that was as much a conversation about existential loneliness and how to deal with it as it was about anything else. How to keep laughing, even when eventually you have to say goodbye and fly back to America, likely to never see a newfound friend again.

Generally I don’t watch a movie more than once or twice. Lost in Translation (along with Wonder Boys and Office Space) is one of my few great comfort movies. I have watched it many, many times. Sometimes I’ve watched it when I was sad and lonely. Sometimes I’ve watched it when I was fresh to new love. At this point, it’s basically a warm comforting film bath I can slip into when I feel the need. Existential loneliness may never totally go away, but it’s always good to have company when you can’t sleep.

Some Writing Quotes

I’ve been teaching an undergrad class at Hamline University this fall on the craft of fiction. Now that everyone has submitted to the workshop process, which can be a grind and gut-wrenching experience, I’ve emailed them a few writing quotes I like hoping to give them some additional pep. I’ve always liked how a good quote can cut straight through the writing fog.
“When your story is ready for rewrite, cut it to the bone. Get rid of every ounce of excess fat. This is going to hurt; revising a story down to the bare essentials is always a little like murdering children, but it must be done.” -Stephen King
“A book is a dream you hold in your hand.” -Neil Gaiman.
“A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist.”  -Vladimir Nabokov
“Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic.”  –J. K. Rowling.
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” -Anton Chekhov
“You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it. That’s why I say one of the most valuable traits is persistence.” –Octavia E. Butler
“Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.” -Ray Bradbury
“The writer is by nature a dreamer— a conscious dreamer.”  –Carson McCullers
“Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.” -E. L. Doctorow
“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” -Ernest Hemingway

“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”
-Anne Frank

Getting Married at (Almost) 40

Tomorrow I’m getting married one month shy of my 40th birthday. Getting married is an event I never really thought would occur in my life, nor actively sought. I don’t think you need to get married to somebody to be partners for life and I’ll never be one of those people who pesters their single friends to settle down. I think everyone should live the life that makes them happiest, period. Some people do best as lone wolves, crossing the prairie on their own, hunting when it suits them, enjoying their time and space as their own.

That said, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how calm and happy the engagement process has been for Jen and I. Lots and lots of planning when it comes to the wedding, but that I expected. People have asked me if I’m nervous. I’m not, really, just a calm buzz in the back of my mind, along with some sorrow when I think about my mother and other loved ones who are no longer alive.

A lot of this happy calmness has to do with Jen, who is great, but I also credit the mellowing and experience of age. Almost forty is a fun time to get married, I think, because you have this entire of life of people to include now, this history of ups and downs. Also, I’ve already slain my greatest dragon, getting a novel published, five times over. I’m not a rich, best selling author, but that’s never really what I really wanted (would be a nice perk though). I just wanted a decent number of people to read my work, for the dreams in my head to be put down on paper. And I have accomplished that, and will hopefully do so some more before I die.

I just feel lucky, overall. Lucky to have found Jen, lucky to still be writing novels, lucky to be alive.




Researching My New Novel

On Sunday I drove up to the Sax-Zim Bog (about 45 min northwest of Duluth) to research the setting for my current novel. It was rainy and beautiful and reminded me a little of Ireland. I basically tromped around and did my best to soak up the general bog atmosphere. You never know what detail might pay off when you’re writing later on, including general conversations you might have with locals, etc.

Film Rights Renewed for TOWN

Happy to announce the film rights have been renewed for my novel The Town Built on Sorrow for another 12 months. Last I heard, it’s being pitched as a TV series-I put together a 5 season outline for the show and everything. But the wheels of TV are well known for turning slowly. But hope springs infernal!


On the Passing of My Grandmother

My maternal grandmother Betty (Kline) Davis passed away yesterday afternoon at the age of 94, on about the most perfect summer day in Minnesota you could imagine.
What can you possibly say to sum up this force of nature in my life? When my grandpa died when I was 12, she chose me to accompany her on a Caribbean cruise and we got along like gangbusters, partying with other cruise friends, eating too much lobster, and ballroom dancing. She loved to laugh and I teased her with a teenager’s gleeful joy. She couldn’t cook to save her life and we hid her baked gifts in the freezer until we chucked them out. She thought that a little Debbie Nutty Bar with slices of Kraft American cheese wrapped around them was a pretty good lunch. She loved Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune and crossword puzzles. We played about 5,000 hands of UNO and 10,000 hands of Skip Bo when I visited her at the lake. She water skied into her 70s, giving up only when her hands lost their strength to hold on.
She once called me at the St. Olaf computing center desk, first thinking it was Target, and it was my buddy and co-worker Mike Mensink who answered the call, much to his amusement. She helped put me through grad school at Hamline-without her I probably would never have gotten my MFA in Writing. She gave me The New Yorker every Christmas for twenty years straight (1998-2018). Just recently this spring a scam artist told her I was in jail in an obscure foreign country and she sent $1,000 to bail me out, no questions asked. Obviously she was mentally fuzzy on that one, but how many people would bail you out like that? Right away? When I called her to let her know I was safe and sound, she sounded upset about being scammed. I laughed softly and told her I love you, Grandma, and that was the last time we spoke.

Death Dreams (A New Short Story)

Death Dreams

By David Oppegaard

          You are riding on a train. You’re alone and the seat across from you is empty. An old man in a dark business suit is sitting across the aisle from you, reading a newspaper while the window behind him is a blur of sky and scenery you can’t quite make out. You can tell it’s a beautiful day, though. You can tell there’s never been quite such a beautiful day in all of human memory. A day made for picnics, bare feet, and lovers. For lying on a soft blanket and peering upward into the firmament, for observing how patches of sky placidly drift around like floes of ice on the ocean.

The train is moving fast. You can feel the hum of the rails rising up through your seat, the friction of energy transferred. It’s a purposeful feeling. Driven. You are on your way to somewhere and you will be there soon.

The old man looks up from his paper to look out his window. The train begins to lift, liberated from its track.


          Everything is dark and hot inside your hood. Your hands are bound and your back is pressed against something flat and immoveable, either a brick wall or a mountain. You can hear your own ragged breathing. Your heart beating in your chest. Someone shouts something in a language you can’t understand, though you can sense the anger in their voice. The stern reproach.

A flood of light and fresh air. You gasp, grateful for the reprieve. Your hood has been removed.

Four soldiers dressed in army green stand in a line twenty feet away, rifles raised and pointed at you. The soldiers are young. Practically teenagers. There’s no mercy in their eyes. No light. You open your mouth, trying to speak, but you can’t think of anything to say. A man you cannot see barks an order and the young soldiers fire in unison, filling the world with noise, and what feels like a giant’s punch hits you in the chest.


          You are standing on the roof of a tall building, which is consumed by fire. In fact, the heat from the building’s fire is so great your clothes are already smoldering and you can feel your shoes melting into your feet. You inch up to the edge of the roof and cautiously peer over. You know you have to jump, though it so far down. The people on the street look small, like pepper sprinkled on a sheet of paper.

Something in the building explodes behind you. You step off the roof without additional thought. You can hear the flapping of your untucked shirt as you plummet through the sky, that very specific rippling of windblown fabric as your soft belly is exposed.


          You’re sinking through dark water. Something big and hungry has wrapped itself around your foot, pulling you down. You can tell it doesn’t care how much you plead with it, or how violently you thrash.

Actually, it likes it when you thrash.


          You’re very old. You’re lying in bed, in your own bedroom in your own house. You are about as comfortable as possible beneath a pile of beautiful, heavy quilts, your back gently propped up by a small mountain of feather down pillows. Everything is a little fuzzy because of the pain meds you’re taking, but not too fuzzy. You can still see your loved ones, gathered around your bedside, their faces filled with love and kindness, their eyes soft with tears. They all look so beautiful, like candles burning on a dark night. Your faithful lover, your lifelong companion, is holding your hand and wiping your brow with a cool washcloth. Your children and grandchildren are smiling, trying to be brave because they are brave, because they are everything you could have hoped for and more.

You tell everyone you love them and close your eyes, ready to go. Someone coughs. Someone else sniffles. You hear someone at the edge of the room mutter “fucking asshole” as you exhale one last time, your soul already rising from your body.


          You’re sitting at a sidewalk café in Paris. It’s the middle of the afternoon in August and the city is half-asleep. Beautiful men and women saunter past your table, holding hands and smiling, their shared joy so obvious they feel no need to speak. You’re nursing a glass of red wine and nibbling at a plate of bread, cheese, and prosciutto. You’re alone at your table, but you’re content with your aloneness. You have a notebook and a pen and you’re writing down thoughts as they occur to you. Future plans. Little poems. Random observances of the city. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and you sit back, basking in its warmth like a cat.

Your café table has a view of Notre-Dame, set grandly on an island in the middle of the Seine River. You’ve already visited the cathedral earlier that day and marveled at its beauty, inhaled the centuries of burnt incense. You’re not religious, but visiting Notre-Dame made you feel religious for a few hours, as if you’d unexpectedly brushed up against a truth greater than anything you could put into words, anything you might convey in a journal entry.

You drink the last of your good French wine and look around, hoping to catch your waiter’s eye. There’s a flash of bright light in the far distance, like lightning but not, and a wall of fire rises up beyond Notre-Dame, surging across the city and toward your table. Your heart flutters in your chest as the heat consumes you, consumes everything around you. It’s like being devoured by beauty.


          You sit by her bed while she dies, and when she’s gone you are the last living person on the face of the Earth. You wander the fallow croplands and the swampy jungle cities and listen to the wolves howling and the birds trilling. The wind sometimes sounds like it’s forming words, even full sentences, but you know it’s only the wind and your lonely madness speaking.

One day, during your endless wandering, you find an old train sitting abandoned on a track overgrown with weeds. You board the train without a ticket and choose a seat. The seat across from you is empty. Your entire compartment is empty.

You look out your window at the verdant landscape beyond. You mutter a small prayer, feeling unreasonably hopeful, and wait for the track to start humming.

From Novel to Screenplay

I recently adapted my novel The Firebug of Balrog County into a screenplay in hopes of getting it turned into a movie one day.  The producer who bought the film rights to The Town Built on Sorrow was kind enough to say yes when I asked him if he’d read a screenplay if I wrote one, so here we are-FIREBUG is now in splashy feature film format.

My readers have said my fiction is very cinematic as far back as twenty years ago when I was a dewy-eyed freshman at St. Olaf College.  I always assumed this was a good thing, since it meant readers could easily visualize the scenes I wrote, which meant I was at least doing a serviceable job of description, but I also wondered if this could be taken as a bad thing as well-maybe cinematic meant I’d never be a great literary writer, maybe I was just doing splashy hack work, painting with bright colors while leaving the heavy lifting behind.

But now, seventeen novels in, I find that I don’t give a shit one way or another-my writing is now simply my writing, my voice is my voice.  That’s one of best things about getting older, I’m finding. There’s just so much you don’t give a shit about that once you would have let bother you, or allowed to put you off from trying something new. As the years add on, you become more YOU than ever, and hopefully you’ve cultivated your own internal and external life enough you’re able to live with, and even enjoy, your developed self.

It’s a strange experience, to say the least, adapting your own novel (which itself adapted many things from your own life) into a screenplay.  You suddenly look at the 300 pages you wrote several years ago and find yourself mining it for only the most crucial scenes, the snappiest dialogue. All those beautiful descriptions and churning internal passages now most be crystallized into what can be seen and absorbed on-screen.  There’s no more deluding yourself:  THIS is what your readers came to the dance for, THESE are the juicy bits of your story. Sure, that’s a fun scene, but is it good enough, and necessary enough, that it should cause an entire crew of people to film it?

On one hand, the formatting of a screenplay feels liberating compared to the textual density of fiction. So much blank space! So much crispy dialogue! How amazing! You can write fifteen pages in a day without wanting to gouge your eyes out! How easy it is to imagine the masses viewing your work on the big screen! On the little screen, too, maybe in an airplane soaring 10,000 feet above the earth!

But it also feels kind of dumb. Or dumbed down, more accurately. You need to write a screenplay so it can be easily accessed by a multitude of readers for a variety of purposes.  For practical, creative purposes, like sound design and cinematography.  So actors can repeat the sentences you’ve written and deliver them as if they’ve come up with them themselves. So a producer you’ve never met understands what you’re going for and can visualize it all working on the screen and being sold to the public. You need to be broad, basic, and to the point.

I enjoyed adapting my book into a screenplay, and I think the screenplay turned out well, but by the time I was ready to send it off I was also ready to go back to the dense embrace of fiction.  Candy is tasty, and can deliver a hell of a sugar rush, but, at least in my specific case, I need to eat wild rice and broccoli, too, lest I turn into the mental equivalent of Eric Cartman.


Gaps in the Fabric

When I was about six months old, I was given over to foster care by my birth mother to a couple named Alan and Kayc Oppegaard. My original name was David Bolt, so I believe I’ve retained the same first name all my life. Alan and Kayc were fostering several children at the time I arrived, but I was the one they eventually chose to adopt in the early 1980s. My aunt told me once they had a big party when I was officially adopted—she said the celebration felt like the 4th of July.

By almost every measurable standard, being adopted was like hitting the jackpot for young David Bolt. Alan, and his hefty last name Oppegaard, was Norwegian, and if you see us together, or even see pictures of us together, you’d swear that he was my blood father, that this whole adoption story I’ve been told my whole life was a huge lie, an inversion of the standard “You’re adopted!” revelation you might see play out on daytime television. My brain is always thrown for a loop when I spend time with my father—witnessed together, we’re a strong argument for nurture over nature, for one’s environment affecting them as strongly as genetic code, even though he is seven inches taller than me.

When I compare my story to other adoption stories, I feel a little guilty about how well I blend into my adopted family, including how early on in my life the process was completed. I have no memories of my birth mother that I can access—as far as my own memories go, I might as well have appeared on Alan and Kayc’s doorstep in a basket. I know adoption can be so much harder, especially for those adopted later in life, and for those with noticeably different physical attributes than the other members of their adopted family. I once told someone when I was attending St. Olaf College that I was adopted and she paused, astonished, and said, “But you’re white!”, as if no one would ever think about giving up a white baby.

I suppose the ease and early age of my adoption has lessened its importance in my mind over the years, turning it something closer to a neat fact I can mention at parties than something I spend a great time pondering. Strangely, this little essay, written for this book release party, is the only time I can ever remember writing about being adopted at all, though I’ve been writing all my life. I don’t even think there’s been an adopted character in any of my seventeen novels or various short stories, though I can remember feeling a special connection to Luke Skywalker, himself adopted from a shadowed past.

The one true anchor to my pre-adopted past is my younger sister, Tia, who was also adopted by Alan and Kayc, two years after I came along, from the same birth mother, though most likely from a different father (though even this is unclear). Unlike me, she was damaged by our birth mother in a noticeably significant way and suffers to this day from mental disorders that have been attributed to our birth mother’s use of drugs and alcohol.

While physically healthy as a horse, Tia has no sense of right and wrong, is self-absorbed to the point of cartoonishness, and is unwilling to hold down a job, instead relying on government welfare and disability checks. She has done so many terrible things, and behaved so appallingly, that just thinking about her causes my blood pressure to rise. It is probably the greatest irony of my life that my only blood relation is someone I’m ashamed to be related to at all. I say this even while being fully aware of the chemical origins of her personality, which is perhaps one of my greatest faults as person and as a writer—a lack of empathy on my own part that exists beyond the golden lands of reason and forgiveness, my least Buddha-self.


I suppose there’s another, more positive anchor to my adopted past. Thanks to fairy tales and myths, I’ve always felt there was something a little magical about having been adopted. Something special I had over all the non-adopted people around me, who were allowed to live Plan A lives with their Plan A parents. My adoptive mother, my mother, Kayc, certainly never did anything to disabuse me of this notion. She always encouraged me, nurtured me every step of the way with an abundance of love, and when I got into writing she became my greatest champion and critic, the person who I wrote to impress and make smile. If I’d somehow supernaturally adopted my father’s physical traits and mannerisms, I like to think I adopted her sense of humor, toughness, and style. Every day, I try to remember her kindness to everyone she encountered, whether they deserved it or not.


One of the most common questions I get when I tell people I’m adopted is whether I’m interested in meeting my birth parents. I’m honestly not interested. Even when my mother, Kayc, died when I was twenty-one, an event you might think might propel a young man to seek out his blood roots, I still remained uninterested. I saw a picture of my birth mother once when I was a teenager and felt a strong, instantaneous sense of revulsion—she had auburn red hair and I thought she was ugly, though, looking back, she probably was just an average-looking person with crooked teeth and a sad smile. Nobody, including my birth mother, was ever exactly sure who my biological father was. I like to joke it was Ray Bradbury, maybe visiting St. Paul for a reading. Maybe that’s why I ended up becoming a writer.


This all said, I suppose one adoption-related thought has been in the back of my mind lately. I know my sister was adopted by my parents almost immediately after her birth, but there was a six-month period before I was put into foster care that I must have spent with my birth mother. I’ve always been a healthy person, physically, so it’s hard to imagine I suffered too much physical deprivation in her care. I don’t know how deeply chemical use already had its talons into my birth mother at the time, how much she was able to focus on nurturing an infant, or how much experience she had by the time I came along, but I do know she felt incapable of the responsibility to the point of giving me up. The first six months of an infant’s life, which science tells us are so crucial to their development, will forever remain a hole in the fabric of my story. Is this period of time the original dark seed planted inside me, the core reason that the adult David so often writes such dark novels, novels about suicide plagues, teenage serial killers and firebugs and other broken souls? Or would I have been drawn to this material no matter what? Were strange characters and apocalyptic landscapes in my DNA from the start? Do I, in some strange twist of chemicals, actually owe a creative debt to my birth mother’s habits during my incubation?

I guess I’ll never know for sure, and maybe that ambiguity is the defining characteristic I’ve accumulated from being adopted. The bone-deep knowledge that the world is an uncertain place, with gaps in its narrative fabric that are not always meant to be filled in.