Evolution in Writing

My oldest child is 15, at the stage of life where much of his time is spent in his room brooding over the meaning of his existence-wondering how these strange people he calls his parents could have produced one such as him: normal.
It is with awe that I watch him change from boy to man, from child to adult-the change in interests, the difference in how he solves problems, relates to his siblings. I am proud.
This summer, he will be left over a thousand miles from us. We will drop him off and trust that the teachings and lectures and discipline we've offered over these 15 years have served their purpose. He will be with friends in the city.
As I think about that trip-the importance of it, the reality of it, the necessity of it for a boy on the threshold of manhood; I don't think about the trouble he could get into. I don't worry that he will make bad decisions. I don't worry that he will be homesick. I know too well his level of responsibility, the dry wit that sees him through every situation with his own warped form of optimism.
Rather, I worry about how he will experience these friends he left behind two years ago. I think of the things they did at ages 12 and 13 and recognize that the gap from there to here is a big one. Friendships evolve as children evolve. As adult features push out from childlike faces, so too do the mannerisms and points of view of the adult emerge from the personality of the child.
And I suppose this is what I worry about as my son prepares to spend weeks away from me this summer. We talk a lot, he and I...about everything. And as he has grown, I have grown. And so, our relationship has evolved. But what about these friends he has not seen for years. Will they relate to one another in the same way? Of course not. Without being present in their lives, he has missed out on the evolution that has no doubt taken place within the workings of the group. And although I know this will not be a disappointment to him, I know he will, on some level, feel the strain of it and wonder if all childhood friendships end after one moves away. Perhaps he will mourn a little. Perhaps they will find new ground on which to build a friendship. Only time will tell.
As I think about my oldest child today, I think about the lessons he can teach me about my work; my writing. As much as I hate sitting with my hands on the keyboard some days, I know it must be done. Without the discipline, evolution in my work cannot occur. What I write today will never improve unless I work at it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.
And so, I'd better stop all this musing and get back to work...or I'll stay a monkey forever.

Inspiration from the Dugout

Baseball

A game was played last night in the mist and rain. Spectators sat huddled under umbrellas and blankets, trying to keep dry. The players were all aged 11 or 12 and growing frustrated with the wetness of the ball, how hard it was to throw and catch. Those of us with children on the team watched from the stands, hoping they would pull it together to get through the last inning.

The pitcher was having none of it. He grew more and more frustrated as the ball slipped from his hand during his pitches. He’d throw his arms in the air, sink to his knees, moan out loud. And all the while, the parents in the stands shouted their reassurances. “It’ll be alright. You can do it. Hang in there.”

His mother wrung her hands, wondering if she should be embarrassed about his behavior. Be embarrassed why? I wondered. Because he is behaving like he is 12? So the parents, dripping and wet and miserable, reassured her too.

At last, the pitcher dropped to his knees with an “ankle injury.” And, truth be told, it was the most mysterious ankle injury I’d ever seen. It happened while he was merely standing there, very still, on the mound.

We were disappointed, but what could we do? He’s only 12. He was frustrated and cold and wet. And I’m sure he could smell the hot dogs and the popcorn that all of us were eating. That had to add to the frustration. One can’t exactly eat a hot dog out on the pitcher’s mound.

So the coaches put the player in right field, where he made an immediate and miraculous recovery. And they called my son to the mound. My son doesn’t pitch. My son, I thought at the time, can’t pitch.

But there was no worry on his face, just a wide-eyed expression and an eager grin, despite the cold rain and the late hour. He warmed up for five or six pitches, the ball sailing over the catcher’s head at one point, veering widely outside at another. But his face was all smiles. From all the way up in the stands, I could see his teeth as he grinned, oblivious to the water dripping into his eyes, the wetness of the ball, the misery of his teammates.

He walked his first batter. But everyone cheered for him anyway. I think I cheered the loudest…because he was so obviously thrilled to be throwing that ball. There were two outs…achieved by the pitcher before his “injury.” A batter stepped up to the plate. My son wound up. And pitched.

Strike one! I squealed. I actually squealed.

By the third strike, I was better composed. I stood and yelled and cheered. Just like everyone else.

My son’s team totally lost that game. Their hearts weren’t in it. But I felt pride for my boy. And I felt envy and admiration too. He was able to smile when the rest of the team was faltering for their determination and the will to go on. He slapped the catcher on the back and said he was sorry that ball was so high. He’d try to do better. He knew he wasn’t a “born pitcher.” There were others on the team better qualified for the job. But the coach chose my son. Perhaps he knew that this was the boy to turn to when everyone else was in the gutter…this was the boy who would finish the game just for the sheer joy of playing.

I’m thinking of my son today as I try to find the will to write the next scene for my book. I’m trying to smile as I throw the pitches out…watching them veer wildly in all directions. I think of his face out on that mound and look for the joy in what I do. Who would have thought that inspiration could come from a baseball game on a rainy day?

Good Luck, Chuck

Charlton Heston, world class over-actor, is dead at age 84. The NRA will never be the same. The Planet of the Apes will have no one to throw feces at. Soylent Green will no longer be made of people. And the chariot races are history. As for the parting of The Red Sea? Forget it. Never again.

There’s a movie I remember; about a plane crash on a Kansas runway. Charlton Heston played the pilot. I never watched the movie. But I watched the “made for TV trailers” that ran on local stations during the commercials while I watched Fantasy Island or The Love Boat or something equally cool and fascinating. In the trailer, Heston looks at the camera and says in that tight-jawed, intense way of his, “Of all the places we could have landed, I thank God it was here.”

Yessirree. If I ever end up in a firey plane crash, I, too, hope it is in Kansas. Because nothing says “flammable” like acres and acres of dry wheat fields. And if you’re gonna die, burning up fast is probably preferable. That’s all I’m saying.

We watched The Ten Commandments every Easter when I was young…because there was no such thing as cable, it was all that was on, and my mom had a thing for Heston. I preferred Yule Brenner, so it all worked out. I can’t think of a single person in my family who hasn’t seen Planet of the Apes, Soylent Green, or Ben Hur. I think some distant relatives, like in Kentucky or somewhere, may own rifles too, but I’d have to check on that.

I was in a commercial for Wayne State College in Wayne, Nebraska, once. (I lived in Nebraska for years, that’s how I know so much about Kansas.) The producer was a woman who wore sunglasses even though it was cloudy, and we were filming inside. She was pulling my hair over my shoulder to give me a sort of Lauren Bacall look-because everyone knows that sells spots at colleges- and she said, “I did this for Charlton Heston once.”

Her eyes got sort of misty back there behind her sunglasses when she mentioned his name. Ever since then, I’ve felt really sort of bonded to Heston, because he and I shared that same producer with the big sunglasses and the coffee breath. And now it’s gone. The tie is severed and I don’t even know where that producer is. I don’t even remember her name.

I like to think of her standing at the end of a runway in Kansas hoping that a 747 carrying talking apes in possession of great stone tablets pulled by a chariot will careen recklessly down the runway, coming to rest in the fields of non-flammable wheat as Heston staggers out, carrying apes and tablets and soylent snacks to safety, so she can be there to touch his hair one more time.

Good-bye, Charton Heston. I can honestly say that the world will be much less dramatic without you.

Hard-Case Crime and the Revived World of Noir

It started with Brick. Then came Black Dahlia, which was actually a "true" twist of an unsolved murder in Hollywood. Close on its heels was "Hollywoodland" with the pseudo-reality look at the death of Superman star, George Reeves. Of course, everyone remembers L.A. Confidential...that was a good one too.

But you gotta love that writers are getting in on the action now. I just finished Linda L. Richards book, Death Was The Other Woman...a nice read. Simple, but nice. Gas City is another new one by author Loren D. Estleman. Add to that the Hard Case Crime tales by various authors and it's easy to see that Noir is back...and even in demand in some respects.

So what is it about these titles that tickles our fancy? Is it the crime? Nah. We can read about crime in 8 out of every 10 fiction works sold. Sex? Nope. Not that either. If one out of every two fiction books sold is romance, clearly, the sex reader could just pick something up from the romance section of the book store. But increasing numbers of people are picking up books on Noir...with their pulp-like covers sporting scantily clad femme fatales and their catchy "Up Yours" titles. Maybe it's the marriage of sex and crime that draws us in...but if that was the case, why not just read about prostitution?

The truth? Noir is situations. Noir is character. Of course noir has plot, but plot comes AFTER the character dilemma. Flawed characters drive the plot. And that makes Noir. Maybe a happy ending. Most likely not. Crime? Of course. Murder? Hell yes. Sex? Maybe, but it isn't necessary. A good detective is getting some someplace. We don't need to read about it to know it.
Reading Noir is like belching through your nose after drinking straight Coca-Cola. It burns like hell but, in a strange way, it offers clarity...and it makes your eyes water.

Amazon.com...Shame on You!!

Shame On You, amazon.com

If you’re human, and you can read, chances are good that you’ve purchased something, at some time, from amazon.com. And who can blame you? Their prices are excellent, they allow readers to write reviews, and they’ve lived up to their claim of being the “largest bookstore on earth.”

But have you heard the rumors? Have you felt the earth tremble with the groans of small publishers?

Amazon feels it would “better serve” its online community by printing and publishing POD titles from its own subsidiary, BookSurge. Currently, the bookstore giant is attempting to strong arm independent and small publishers into printing only at BookSurge…using language typically reserved for thugs and hit-men. Print with us or we de-activate the sale buttons on your titles is only slightly more eloquent than Pay us the protection money or Vinnie here will break your thumbs.

So what’s a small publisher to do? Sit back? Let Amazon rule the world….One bookstore to rule them all, one bookstore to find them, one bookstore to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them…?

There are those of us who enjoy reading things besides John Grisham and Janet Evanovich and Nora Roberts and Stephen King. Not that these guys aren’t great. They are. They are fabulous. But by cutting off the small publishers, Amazon tightens the noose around the mid-list novelist’s neck…and the necks of those not on the mid-list.

Come on, Amazon, lighten up. Read something. Read something good. Something original. Something non-formulaic. There are a lot of great writers out there. And the world wants to hear what they have to say. So back off.

Is This Life Worth It?

I suppose when one begins a career in writing, it doesn't happen all at once. A writer doesn't just wake up one morning and say, "OK, this is it, I'm a writer." There has to have been something inside at the beginning to lead to the decision.
Some of my more "poetic" friends would call it a seed, waiting inside for the time when it can blossom to its full potential. In my experience, those people watch a lot of reruns of "The Waltons."
In actuality, and what most writers don't know, is that they are all crazy. They won't admit this, not to themselves or anyone else. What lurks inside a writer are many things. There is no "seed" of inspiration. There's a nauseating poisoned piece of meat that was swallowed sometime ago and needs to be purged as soon as possible. Once it's out, the writer feels better for a time, until the next rancid meal needs to be puked onto the keyboard or into the journal.
Can this feel good? Oh, sure, it can. It feels good in the way getting a cavity is fixed feels good...in the way hemorrhoid surgery feels good...in the way giving birth feels good. There's an overwhelming need, almost biological, to get whatever is inside to the outside, so the torment will end. Before and during, there is apprehension, fear, trepidation, even dread...along with nausea and a slight headache combined with loss of appetite of course.
It is only afterward, when you look at the new life you have brought into the world, when you look at the shiny new cap on your tooth, that you realize it was worth it. Because that is when the sense of relief comes. And with the relief comes a twisted sense of joy...until the symptoms start up again.

A Dame Named Doris

Saturday, March 29th was blustery. Everyone who toppled in through the bookstore's front door was windblown. Haggard looking. They all had those bright pink cheeks, red hands, and clear snot running from their noses that comes from standing in the wind on a clear spring day. And that's what it was. A clear spring day. But it was also cold. And, as the bookstore rests three blocks or so from the Daffodil Festival festivities, I knew anyone showing up in such a state was truly determined to buy my book...or a book written by one of the other two authors offering signings.
I prefer to think they were after my work. Because the work is good. And honest.
I'd worn black for the occasion. I like black. It was the color of my hair in my youth. It's how I take my coffee now. And it's the color of treachery. Let's face it. In the book business, treachery is everywhere.
It started out innocently enough. A few signings, inoffensive Celtic music over the in-store sound system, a few sips of coffee. It was nice. Almost too nice. But I was on my toes, pulling books and signing them as fast as people stepped to the table, barely catching names as my pen flew.
She showed up just before lunch. Typical for a dame like her. From my position in the mystery section, I couldn't see her at first. But I heard that voice. Like a pack of unfiltereds washed down with a shot of sulfuric acid. "Where's J.B. Kohl?" It wasn't a question. It was a demand.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. My fingers, posed in the middle of an autograph, froze. I'd been found. Discovered. The jig was up.
"She's up there," the owner said. Was that a tremor in her voice? Was it so easy to sell me out?
Apparently so.
I finished the signature and handed it to the star-struck fan standing before me. "Get someplace safe," I said, taking a swig of coffee, wishing I had something stronger on hand.
Already, footsteps drew near, shiny dust jackets shivering with the heaviness of the tread.
The mystery section was clearing out fast, patrons hurriedly taking their books (all of them signed copies from yours truly) to the register to pay and then get the hell out of dodge. Danger hung thick in the air.
As the steps drew closer, I stood, ready to guard my coffee and my books--with my life if necessary.
I saw the straw hat first. Huge. Its width cut a swath through the crowd with ease. The room vaporized. I focused on that hat. That huge hat creeping closer to me as I stood, dressed in treacherous black, to face whatever came next.
"You Kohl?"
In my mind, I lit an unfiltered and offered one to her. In reality, I nodded. "Yeah. I'm Kohl."
She gave a nod and stared at me with cold eyes. "I been looking for you."
I squared my shoulders. "Really. Well, you found me."
She almost smiled. Almost. Her cheeks were red. She swiped at the clear ooze running from her nose. I reminded myself not to shake her hand. I wondered if she needed me for a job. What would it be? What distasteful task would she demand? Copyrighting? Editing? Proofreading? I could take it. Whatever it was, I could take it.
She sneered a little as she sized me up. She was bigger. But I was scrappy. I could tell she was figuring that out.
The owner peeked from behind a shelf, her eyebrows raised in silent question. Is everything ok? But I didn't dare break eye contact.
Slowly, I sat, my eyes never leaving her face. She dropped a copy of The Deputy's Widow on the table.
"Make it to Doris," she said.
Now it was my turn to almost smile. "Right."
I scrawled my signature out for this dame in the big straw hat and, despite my earlier promise not to, I shook the very hand she used to wipe her nose. It was then I realized that fame is just as dirty as anything else.
As I watched her leave, the owner stopped by my table. "Everything ok?"
I leaned back and drank some coffee. "Everything's just fine," I said. "Just fine."