Author: Writer guy

So it’s a sad note

Writer guy

After a very long battle with dementia, my grandmother passed this Easter Sunday. Everyone likes to say their grandmother was the sweetest woman who lived, but in her case it was probably true. A trove of stories have circulated among family members that attest to her gentle nature for many years. This one will always be my favorite:

My parents had a rocky marriage. When I was seven, they decided to tackle the issues they had as a couple. Knowing  they needed space away from the routine to work through their situation together, they asked my grandparents to watch me for a month.

As planned, my parents returned for me in four weeks, refreshed and ready for a new beginning. However, after weeks with a steady supply of cookies and access to a BB gun, I was pretty set in my new digs. When my parents came to the door for me, I stayed on the couch. I didn’t budge.

My dad thought I was joking, so he started the car. My mom, more familiar with my stubborn nature, realized this was a matter of some consequence. She spent more than then fifteen minutes pleading and bargaining with me to come home.

But I didn’t budge. I staked my claim to a patch of couch next to my grandfather as he worked a New York Times crossword puzzle. A long cigarette burned in the astray next to him.

When it became clear I wasn’t going, my grandmother conferred with my Mom in private. Then my Mom went outside and waited in the car.

Grandma sat next to me on a divan. “Your parents are pretty upset about this. Maybe you could  go with them? They miss you an awful lot.”

“I like living with you and Grandpa,” I said. “I’m staying here.”

“Well,” Grandma said, “If you go with your parents now, I promise that we’ll come and visit you very soon.”

“Really?”

“I’ll call your Mom tomorrow and set it up.”

I hugged Grandma goodbye, and shook my grandfathers hand. Grandma sent me off with a few cookies for the road. My parents said nothing about the incident.

My grandparents came to visit me, just like Grandma promised. When we moved to California, I returned to Kansas for a summer visit. And I kept coming back. Part of every summer between the age of 8 and 22, I stayed with them. Grandma always had the cookies ready. And even though Grandpa swore to my parents he had sold the BB gun, Grandma let me know which closet he had “hidden” it from me.

When I think back to the great couch standoff now, I realize the depth of Grandma’s love. She respected my parents enough not to undermine their authority, yet recognized how much I liked being around her and Grandpa. And she came up with a way for everyone to win.

My grandparents are both gone now. But like in life, Lawrence and Barbara are together again.

And I remember the sort of unconditional love only a grandparent can give, only a child can receive, and only an adult can understand how unfortunately rare it really is.

Email matters

Writer guy

Sometimes email can prove that it’s every bit the relevant medium its inventors intended, rather than just an homage to a distant era. After Facebook, the merit of email seem to be eroding–almost daily. And yet three particular electronic notes in as many weeks suggest otherwise.

The first was from a graduate student doing a research project on literary marketing services that today’s author might consider useful. The discussion led to a more formal interview. A rather indirect way into the academic curriculum, to be sure, but humble beginnings are steps all the same.

Speaking of interviews,  all the Q&As for The Last Track have been a good experience. Mostly because the interviewers forced me to consider what I was trying to do with writing. In a few years, I’ll have a well practiced stable of answers that will cover the standard battery most interviewers ask, but for now it’s all new. Which leads to note number two.

In the interview vein, there’s a possibility of an interview about writing on a very popular site. I’m pretty excited about the prospect, especially since it would be conducted by an accomplished writer. That’s all I can say now. That and the details came via email.

Last, an email appeared from a vary exotic locale, where the publisher has no distribution. She had read about The Last Track and wanted to know how she could get swag. Because she was so polite about it, I put together a little package. Hopefully it reaches her in good condition.

So that’s three very different developments, all three of born from emails.

Maybe even in these days of spam, database hacks, and phishing scams, email still has a place in the writer’s toolkit.

Oh, it’s on

Writer guy

Following some final tweaks to the outline and synopsis during the holidays, began writing The Cropsey Effect this morning. It’s the second book in the Mike Brody series. After spending a solid year of writing The Last Track before falling into the story–entirely by accident–this time around I opted to tackle such considerations earlier. My apologies to everyone who got drafted into off-line discussions these past few weeks.

Writers have long argued over how much preparation is necessary before starting a novel. For instance, Ray Bradbury skips pre-production completely, arguing that “plot is the footprints left in the snow.” Write it first and then worry about getting it right later.

At the other extreme, John Grisham works everything out point by point on legal pads, months before writing word one. Make your mistakes on the legal pad, rather than the page. Why torture the reader as the writer stumbles his way through a murky plot, his thinking goes.

Both strategies have their merits. Certainly I respect Ray Bradbury. His collection of work is vast and in many ways without equal. He has written several classics, one of which will be taught in schools hopefully in perpetuity.

John Grisham approaches a project like a lawyer preparing for trial. Those battles are won or lost eons before the bailiff calls everyone to order. Since there is nothing a lawyer hates more than a surprise in the courtroom, he puts a tremendous energy into the advance preparations.

Regardless of the model, each author rules at their respective genre.

That being said, there’s serious sense of relief in having the critical plot points out in the open now. Because the who and what’s going to happen is settled, my energy can focus on how to get where the characters want and need to go. And in their journey, they just might detour from the path I forecast. Which is an unintended bonus to the outline process.

Because giving the characters enough space to run with their own script is where the best stuff comes from.

Electa: now fifty percent heavier

Writer guy

Sometime in August, the very fuzzy gray and black Maine Coon named Electra lost a perilous amount of weight and nearly died. Her ailment manifested quite suddenly and without warning. One day she was fine, the next she could barely stand. The evil culprit: Hyperthyroidism.

Fortunately the condition–which is quite common among her breed, unfortunately–often responds to treatment. Two Tapazole pills a day, keeps the hyperthyroidism in check. Which really means smelly blobs of Whiskas cat food wrapped around pill bits; otherwise Electra refuses the medication. And since the Cat Army won’t stand for one member of the ranks receiving special treatment, they all get a bit of Whiskas. Clever Cat Army.

Saturday she visited the vet and according to their records, she’s fifty percent heavier than in August. Thank you, Whiskas blobs. And Tapezole.

I also feel fifty percent heavier since August, but I’m not nearly as cute.