Why I Wrote The Salzburg Executioner as Fiction
Slowing down the pace of reality can help us better understand the complex world around us.
The forthcoming novel The Salzburg Executioner is a dual-timeline psychological thriller work of fiction, primarily set in modern-day Seattle and Salzburg, while weaving in unnervingly relevant moral and societal issues society faced in 18th century Salzburg. My primary goal in writing the story is to increase awareness around the secretive and dangerous nature of content and behavioral manipulation algorithms. Algorithms that too often deeply (and negatively) impact mental health, youth development—even society’s belief in what is true and what is false.
When I explain the premise of The Salzburg Executioner to strangers, two questions invariably enter the conversation:
How and why did you make the connection between an 18th Century executioner and a modern day tech executive?
If the book is about the dangers of online content manipulation algorithms, based on your background, why did you write the book as fiction?
To the first: Great question. Check back in a later post.
For the second: Understandable. After all, I spent most of my career as a tech entrepreneur and CEO. I’m new to fiction writing. When it comes to the current environment and the gravity of the topic my novel addresses, nonfiction seemed, ironically, impersonal and temporary.
Let me elaborate.
I don’t think I’m alone in my belief that nonfiction serves as mortar for brain and body, while fiction serves as mortar for consciousness and soul.
But in confronting the true impact of secretive, highly powerful algorithms, I didn’t want the novel to appear as a rock skipping across a pond—a moment in time, evolution, or technological progress—that ultimately passes. Because I believe society is just beginning to understand the long-term implications of these technologies, which will continue to become more powerful and elusive over time.
As I think about nonfiction books that have avoided the rock-skipping-on-pond metaphor (works which enter and remain in the zeitgeist) I think of titles one might mention in conversation with a new acquaintance. Titles that serve simultaneously as comparability tests and conversation starters. Like two canines meeting in the park for the first time, sniffing to gauge if they’ll enjoy a frolic through the field.
Although a quarter century has passed since its release, Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point is one of those works. More recently, Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens became a solid choice for the sniff test. Others like Levitt and Dubner’s Freakonomics, Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Tara Westover’s Educated, Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In, and Matthew Desmond’s Evicted also come to mind.
More recently, Jonathan Haidt seems to be providing an effective wake-up call in America to the growing levels of anxiety and the need to dramatically curtail youth device and smartphone use in The Anxious Generation, and The Coddling of the American Mind.
With these notable exceptions (I’m open to learn from others in the comments) the nonfiction category, I believe, faces an uphill battle if the intent is to serve as a rallying cry for real societal awareness and change of a slowly evolving, critically important issue.
On the fiction side, a number of notable, timeless examples have maintained broad staying power among the minds of readers, as well as serving as a persistent burr under the saddles of their detractors.
Works like Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, George Orwell’s 1984, Paul Lynch’s Prophet Song, or Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven deliver fair warning to readers and leave detractors grimacing—in the best case. Or give them motivations to sequester or ban the work—in the worst case. In my opinion, these works (and others like them) have done more to keep their overarching message top of mind than most works of nonfiction in similar plot categories.
At the beginning of my novel The Salzburg Executioner, the reader is introduced to the protagonist, James Wohlmuth, a tech executive known for inventing cutting-edge content recommendation algorithms. One evening, James arrives home from a conference to discover his wife has taken her own life. In an instant, the reader is vaulted into a horror no one would wish upon their own worst enemy: the sudden, intentional loss of a person he cared deeply about. But unlike other types of loss, self-harm delivers a second knockout punch to loved ones left behind: guilt that comes from wondering what signals were missed. And the bad luck of not being in the right place at the right time to prevent it.
As sensational as the media often is, they would only be able to report an event similar to the one I describe above. The media often doesn’t have the time or flexibility to detail or relive it in service to their readers (or the subject). And when we’re exposed to the same kinds of headlines, over and over, one device to the next, one platform to the next, it’s no wonder we’ve become desensitized and numb.
The protagonist in my novel knew his wife, Sara, had been experiencing mental health issues. Don’t we all know someone currently or at some point previously experiencing struggles? Empathetic, caring humans offer their time, ears, shoulders to cry on, random check-ins, treatment recommendations and so on to those they care about. In the real world we offer authentic presence to our loved ones. This is normal.
As the story of this tragedy evolves, we witness James hit with a third knockout punch as he cleared out his wife’s laptop, and reviewed her social media behavior and search history. She was triggered into self-harm after being inundated across devices and platforms with manipulative content—content recommended by the very algorithms he invented. This is also happening in the real world today. But it is not normal.
In nonfiction, the above ‘anecdote’ might be used to support a statistic about the dangers of at-risk individuals being manipulated by content recommendation algorithms. In the news, it might earn a minor local mention, accompanied by a burst of social media posts expressing condolences and shock. And then the world would move on, leaving James, her family and friends to endure the long grieving process.
Fiction allows storytellers to carry forward, connect, and expand on events in a way few other mediums can. Slowing down the pace of reality ever so slightly, so we can better understand not just how Sara arrived at the place she did, but how broader society has arrived at the place we have. And from there, carry forward, connect, and expand on the future emotions, motivations, and actions experienced by those left behind.
In developing the narrative for The Salzburg Executioner, I wanted to offer readers a more raw, intimate view of reality at a time when society has become increasingly—and alarmingly—numb. By writing fiction, and weaving in lessons from the distant past, the problem of “reporting” falls away. While the warnings and the lessons—the core argument of the book—are given room to remain intact. The core warning which is: we are being controlled more than we think, and we are at risk more than we know.
If the goal of any written work is to stand the test of time, society finds itself at an unnerving crossroads. As do writers. Attention spans are condensed. Facts are twisted. Context is distorted. The sheer volume of stimulus is staggering.
In my opinion, it is fiction, and storytelling, that remains one of the last, most effective channels of distribution for big thoughts, big issues, big lessons—and big warnings. The kind that enter into—and remain within—our collective consciousness. And considering the signals the world is sending us, that should never be taken for granted.
I am excited to read this.