Campfire Reflections

I’m writing this blog in advance of a camping trip I’m taking with two of my sons. I’ve really looked forward to this. When I was five-to-nine years old my dad took the family camping in the redwoods north of San Francisco where he spent time with relatives as a child himself. We drove an old Plymouth and pulled a trailer for all the camping gear. Of course, the drive was long, and I remember my parents once getting into an argument over something, probably whether we should be taking the trip at all. Dad liked to go because it gave him an opportunity to go deer hunting. Mom thought it only gave her a chance to do her regular housework without benefit of modern appliances.

I doubt that I enjoyed the trip itself, because it required hours of riding in the back seat with my sister. But I did love the camping. We stayed in an army surplus cabin-style, canvas tent. Once we set it up on top of a nest of yellow jackets, or wasps. One or two of them made their way up my pantleg. We had to move the tent, and I had to suffer the effect of their painful stings. We slept on the ground beneath heavy covers, and I still remember the exotic smell of the tent. Mom didn’t think it was so exotic. I don’t know what my sister thought about it.

In the mornings, my sister and I usually ate cornflakes covered in canned milk and served in a tin plate. I didn’t like the taste of the milk that way, and the plate made the meal somewhat tippy, but it was better than breakfasts of eggs and bacon. At that time, I didn’t like either eggs or bacon and it seemed to take hours of chewing before I managed to swallow the last required mouthful.

So, why did I love camping? It seemed almost magical. There was a fallen redwood tree nearby that provided a mammoth bridge to anywhere my imagination could conjure. Mom carved a tiny “truck” from a small branch, and I spent hours “driving” it along the mountain roads I formed along the rise of soft dirt at the bole of the fallen tree. And that tent smell! It reminded me of the gear my returning uncles from WWII brought with them to our home. Add to that the sounds of the sputtering of our Coleman lantern, the hiss of our gas camping stove, and the soughing of the wind in the branches far above us, and most of all, the voluminous quiet engulfing the entire campsite, and it was indeed magical.

After we moved to our farm in the foothills, I did very little camping until I was an adult living in Los Angeles. As a child in the hills, I pretty much lived outdoors. As an adult in the Los Angeles area I felt stifled by houses, traffic, and endless streets and highways. I needed to connect with something that seemed real and not man-made. Camping provided a means toward that end. Bobby Navarro, my series protagonist, feels this way too. Motorcycles and camping provide him with needed connections to his sense of the way life should be.

Although it might be different if I had to do it, cooking over a campfire or camp stove adds to the enjoyment of camping for me—as for Bobby. He honed his culinary skills working for a cook on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. And, while I won’t say everything I’ve prepared under primitive conditions has tasted wonderful, I’ve always maintained that another hour on the hiking trail, or another hundred miles on the back of a motorcycle will improve the taste of any campsite culinary creation.

It’s ironic, I suppose, that something always so magical would help me stay grounded in reality. Well, not any reality. The streets and highways of Los Angeles were real enough. But they didn’t give me any sense of being in touch with a world I loved, the outdoors. Compared to a birdsong or the fragrance of wood smoke, Los Angeles traffic didn’t make me feel grounded at all. Maybe that’s part of the lure of camping for me still. Looking up at the stars at night, I feel an appreciative awareness of the universe. What keeps you grounded in the things that matter most to you?

Campfire cooking

Upstate Spring

We’re back in upstate New York enjoying the spring routine. Well, some of it is very enjoyable. Some, not so much. We were able to take credit for bringing warm weather with us up from the south, but that only lasted two days. Then we had freezing temps, ice on the pond, sleet and snow. At a lake we enjoy hiking around in the summer, the ice on the surface was sixteen inches thick. Nevertheless, I got outside and started the routine of  yard work. Getting the leaves out from under trees, plants and bushes is not my favorite job, but it felt good to be out in the fresh air.

Birds are out and active as well. We enjoy the songbirds we get up here, robins included, and love the return of the Canada geese. The trees on the hillsides are still bare, but their tops are showing hints of new leaf buds developing, and there is a reddish shading in the treetops as a result. Willows along streams in the valleys are showing chartreuse indications of new growth. On the ground, shoots are popping up everywhere and early flowers like crocus, grape hyacinth and daffodils are bringing color to the scene. All-in-all very pretty.

The last several days have been in the eighties, and I’m wondering if those first couple of days of spring weather were all we’re going to get. Eighties? Really? That’s summertime weather along with the rain and humidity. Still glad to be able to get outside between showers, though. I won’t start complaining…yet.

I know what Bobby Navarro would be doing this time of year. He would be getting his Harley ready for the road and another adventure. The seasonal changes are important to me. I enjoy the changes in the trees, the movement of wildlife, the changes in the air and temperature. I think Bobby would have to love the changes too, and not just be in a hurry to get his bike out of winter storage. Most people have a favorite season of the year, but I wonder how many enjoy all the changes, as I do. How about you? And, what are your thoughts about characters in novels showing, and reacting to, seasonal changes? Think about it, seasons and seasonal changes can be useful metaphors.

If Truth be Told

These days I’m hearing and reading a lot about people lying. Worse, I hear it’s becoming normalized. It’s in our ads, the statements salespeople and contractors make. Top government and business officials seem to do it with impunity. While lying for self-interest is not new—e.g. the ancient principle of caveat emptor—its current normalization has me concerned for several reasons. Obviously, I want to be able to trust elected officials who work for us, and for the good of the country. I want to receive the value for which I pay when I buy something. But most important, I want to know truth is still an important value in our country, not an antiquated bit of culture. Sometimes people lied when I was growing up. At the same time, a person’s word was supposed to mean something. A deal could be sealed with a handshake. If you were caught lying, you got punished.

Now, this concern may seem strange coming from someone who places so much importance in writing fiction. I’ve heard fiction writers referred to as people who lie for a living. But, I think that’s far from the truth. It would be a lie to write something, claiming it was true when it was not. That would be unethical. It would also violate the point of fiction. Fiction is an effort to capture more than a literal snapshot of some people or event. Fiction is an attempt to say something about life, about people, about ideas principles—and truth. Truth of character. Decent behavior. Justice. Things which we should care about.

I write murder mysteries. But, they are always more about personal and social crisis and response. And, good wins out. They are works of fiction I’ve crafted to say something about people, communities, situations and events. My protagonist, Bobby Navarro, is a fictional character, but he is not a lie. His stories support decency, not murder. I don’t want to see lying normalized. That would be giving up on ideals I think important to us and to society. Any thoughts on the matter?

The Core of a Protagonist

We were talking with friends the other night, and I mentioned I was reading a Jack Reacher novel. This produced an immediate outburst regarding the movie and our friend’s opinion that Tom Cruz was all wrong for the role. He was great in Top Gun, but just wrong for Reacher.

I’ve heard this conviction before. Several times. As in the past, I suggested Jim Caviezel, who plays the role of the tall, quiet man in a suit in the Person of Interest series, for the role of Jack Reacher. Our friends immediately agreed, he would be fine. I’ve heard this before, too. The way everyone seems to agree on this matter intrigues me. It’s not that they have been saying Tom Cruz doesn’t do a good acting job, but rather that he isn’t Jack Reacher. When I press the issue, I usually hear that Cruz is not tall enough. Well, size is certainly a major part of Jack Reacher’s character, but I insist there is more. He’s a street fighter who has won most of his fights. He has fought all his life. He had to. And, as an Army MP, he’s had to stand up to a range of opponents in his military career. He has. Without concern for the outcome. It’s part of who he is. Tough. Principled. With his own code for behavior and no room for deviation or hesitation no matter the consequences. Even if the consequences alienate him from everyone and everything he has enjoyed, mainly the Army. And, it shows. It’s part of his core.

 Tom Cruz could play Top Gun, because that role called for a young, dare devilish man with a great smile and irrepressible charm. That’s not Reacher. John Reese (Jim Caviezel) in Person of Interest is tall, athletic with mature good looks, but seems isolated from everyday society. He carries a dark side born from a painful past. Caviezel brings the necessary mystique required to fulfill the part of Jack Reacher. He could achieve this requisite core of the Reacher character.

Naturally, my own thoughts after this discussion leaped to writing. Not all characters are written with a deep and essential core in mind. For me, these characters are less memorable in the same way some stories entertain for the moment and are quickly forgotten. I like those with a main character who is memorable and has depth. That’s also what I want for my own protagonist. I like it when readers find Bobby Navarro memorable, and when they do I think it has something to do with who Bobby is at his core.

Bobby is written as a biker who rides alone, he is not part of a club or gang. However, the highway, not the Harley, is at the core of who Bobby Navarro is. Bobby rides into town as an outsider. Eventually, he will leave town again—once he has fulfilled his obligation to the victim. He is at home on the road, and that is where he seems destined to remain. The highway is in his blood, and colors his soul. It is essential to his core.

What core characteristics define your favorite protagonists? And, who do you like for Jack Reacher?

 

Managing Memories and Memorabilia

A friend of ours is getting ready to move after twenty years or more in the same house. I’ve been through that process. It’s astounding how much accumulates over that length of time. It amounts to a lot of work. There are the forays for packing boxes, yard sales to set up, things to take to Goodwill, and hours to spend sorting though everything. However, from an outsider point of view, it’s like catching glimpses of someone’s life never suspected before. Memorabilia from times we’ve heard about but briefly, and otherwise didn’t share.

It also made me think about my series protagonist. I don’t see Bobby Navarro accumulating boxes, closets and rooms filled with stuff to be disposed of someday. After all, he spends his travel time on the back of his Harley. One doesn’t accumulate a lot of souvenirs riding a motorcycle. An old helmet, maybe a worn leather vest or pair of boots. Perhaps a tee-shirt with the Route 66 logo on the back. Not boxes of nearly forgotten things tucked away, out of sight for years. There must be a few things though. Something from his days in the Marine Corps? A piece of camping gear no longer used, but not discarded? An old knife? I wonder. He lives in a furnished apartment. He could probably throw all his belongings into sea bag or large duffel. It’s fun to speculate as to what he might hang onto.

The thing is, these artifacts of our existence were important to us at one point, and trigger memories about who we have been and the roads we have traveled. In that context, it’s important that our fictional heroes have a past, a collection of events and encounters that helped define them in the same way a prop room contains elements from past theatrical sets that made a former play come to life. Remnants of our past were props constructing who we were and help explain who we have become. However, as writers, we have to be careful how we bring forth the past belonging to our protagonists; a little bit can go a long way. Dredging up the old memories of our characters can easily become an unwanted data dump. It’s tricky. At the same time, a little glimpse into the past life of our protagonists can give them depth and add to the things that make them real and interesting. I wonder what memories Bobby will uncover if he ever does go through his accumulated belongings, however meager the stockpile.

The Second Rule of Writing

For cozy mysteries, the first expectation I usually hear is the story must be set in a small town or village. The second is that the protagonist is an amateur sleuth. Now, in real life it seems unlikely a murder would be solved by an everyday person who becomes curious, gets involved and solves the murder. That’s okay. I’ve understood for a long time that a suspension of disbelief is part of enjoying an amateur sleuth novel. No problem. I enjoy Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, for example. She has a curious disposition, and it’s both part of her charm and a reason for her involvement.  Most of her sleuthing amounts to eavesdropping and applying her considerable wit. Over time, she has gained a reputation for her abilities, and people ask for her help. You see? No problem–however tenuous this scenario might be in real-life.

On the other hand, I recently put down a book I’ve been trying to get into, and I probably won’t pick it back up. Over-all, the story is well-written. The reader can have fun making guesses as to what’s coming, but the story is sure to play out with unexpected twists and turns, and some of the early scenes are filled with suspense. Problem is, I just don’t think the protagonist had believable reason to become that involved in the first place. The deeper the involvement, the less believable it becomes, and the harder it is to develop liking and concern, or caring, for the protagonist.

When I began learning the basics of writing it seemed there were myriad rules to be religiously adhered to. After a while I got used to that. Until now, I had pretty much taken it for granted that an amateur sleuth must be given a credible reason for his or her involvement in a murder investigation. I remember an editor asking about my protagonist’s reason for involvement when I was pitching an early novel. I felt a great sense of relief when I could give a good answer, but I knew beforehand that a good reason needed to be there.  Now, I understand why. It makes all the difference. Coming across a novel that appeared to violate this basic principle has been an epiphany. 

In the book I was attempting to read, a small voice in the back of my mind kept challenging each unfolding scene with the question of why the hero was doing what he was doing. Not surprisingly, his involvement became riskier and more suspenseful as the story progressed. But for me, it didn’t progress. It just kept getting more unbelievable. That small voice got louder. The frustration of trying to suspend disbelief grew and was ruining the story for me. The hero just wasn’t believable.

I think most of us who are writers have spent many hours learning the craft. When someone hasn’t, that fact usually stands out when you read what they have written. I’ve encountered this over and over when reading something written by a writer still in the novice stage. When it happens, it reinforces the rules of the craft, and I try to help the writer learn them. The book I was reading that set this train of thought into motion was not written by a beginner with great potential. He is well-established and a good writer—usually. For me, this was a glaring discovery of what happens if the basic expectation of the need for a reason for involvement is missing or breaks down.

I wonder how many others have discovered the importance of some basic tenet of writing by encountering an established author’s failing to follow it in some instance. Have you had a disappointing experience reading the work of an author who should have known better? Any pet peeves to share?

Zen, Archery, Fly-fishing, Motorcycles and Writing

One of my sons was talking about archery the other day and described shooting his new longbow in terms suggestive of a Zen experience. He is an instinctive shooter, as am I, which means that the aim and release is a subconscious process rather than mechanical alignment and control of machinery. Struggling for adequate descriptive terminology starts to sound a bit flaky, but the archer experiences the event instead of deliberately committing the act. It’s far different from lining up the sights and target using a compound bow constructed with wheels, pulleys, and cams. The reward is that it provides the archer a Zen-like aesthetic experience.

While I’m only a beginner, I think fly fishing offers similar relief from the cacophony of everyday life in modern society. There is something meditatively rewarding and peaceful in presenting a fly at a desired spot on a burbling trout stream. You can escape the high powered motors of a fishing boat throttled-up to cover the next twenty five or fifty miles to an intended fishing area as quickly as possible. You can simply enter a stream in a pair of waders then carefully move toward a likely spot without alerting or disturbing any trout lurking ahead,. When you do you feel more in touch with fishing as it has occurred over millennia and less deluded with a sense of having power over nature. The fishing becomes a Zen-like experience.

Things I’ve read about Zen often seem paradoxical. You have to abandon yourself and give up trying to be in control of your bit of the world in order to find yourself and the truth of what is. But then, much of what I’ve encountered in life has been paradoxical—good/bad—win/lose—right/wrong. In literature, I think interesting fictional characters are complex, and such complexity reflects the paradoxical and dual nature of our universe. They are not all one thing. Heroes are good, but not entirely good. Villains are bad, but not completely bad.

But, you can’t simply toss a contradictory set of behaviors into a story and end up with a more interesting character. The complexity must emerge from some underlying truth about the character. I suspect that emergent truth is often discovered by the writer as well as the reader rather than planned at the outset. In a sense, the writer must discover and experience the story as well as write it. More paradox.

Of course, a writer must dutifully sit at the keyboard and write, but you cannot wring a good story from a mind crammed with rules and literary prescriptions by sheer force. You have to lose yourself in the story to write a good one. The Zen of writing? Perhaps so. When it happens, it feels real and truthful, and that is a very precious experience to have these days.

I remember leaving the fast-multi-lane freeways and putting the tires of my motorcycle on the narrow, undulating pavement of old Route 66 on a book promotion tour for my first novel, Murder on Route 66. I felt an instant sense of being in touch with the fields and ranches alongside the roadway, more in tune with the skies overhead, the smells of the fields I passed, and the cool shade thrown onto the road by trees growing close alongside. I had let go of my schedule and purpose and became more in touch with both it and myself. I remember taking a deep breath of air, smiling at how good I suddenly felt, and how fortunate I was to be on that ride. I knew my series protagonist Bobby Navarro had that side to him as well. I knew it was something I wanted to be able to communicate in the stories I would write about his adventures on the road. Riding Route 66 wasn’t about overcoming the traffic ahead or powering past a row of eighteen wheelers blocking my lane. There was no traffic. There was no hurry either. By slowing down, I captured some of the magic and allure of that old, iconic highway I had pushed hard to reach.

Writing a story is a tremendous amount of work, but it is also rewarding when the words set down on the pages reveal the story you have been struggling to bring to life. Paradoxically, it is sometimes when you let go of your attempted control and let the story emerge that the tale you’re trying to write appears. The Zen of writing? What are your thoughts?

 

Upstate Trout Stream

The Waiting Game

This week included a day when my wife and I had several appointments that involved a lot of waiting. It made me think about how much time we spend waiting and the many situations requiring that we wait. Those of us who have commuted to work in a large city are all too familiar with waiting in traffic or waiting for a bus, train or airplane. Anyone who shops in a supermarket knows about waiting in a checkout line. Most of us probably try to shorten the wait time by seeking the shortest line. If you’re like me, the shortest line gets held up by some glitch just after we join it.

And, how about waiting in a telephone queue? I’ve spent hours in this situation. Sometimes it seems like anytime I call a customer service number I’d better be ready to wait an interminable amount of time while the automated system runs through all the announcements and options available before I’m given a chance to seek whatever service I’m after. Then I must wait forever in a queue while some recorded messages assure me my call is important. Our ancestors had to wait for rain, or for the crops to ripen. That took months, but at least it made a lot more sense than the waiting we are put through today.

Of course, there are things I can do to make the waiting time more enjoyable or productive, such as taking a book along when I visit the doctor’s office. Of course, nowadays we have books available on our cellphones. That’s handy. But, waiting for highway delays to clear, or at traffic signs? That’s another story. Although, come to think of it, I’ve seen people reading while sitting behind the steering wheel of their car. I don’t recommend the practice. Unfortunately, people are all too likely to be texting on their cellphones while driving, walking, or even sitting at a table in a restaurant while presumably enjoying a meal with someone.

I hate it when the car in front of me fails to take advantage of a green light because the driver is on a cellphone. I hate it when someone sitting behind a desk or counter is texting on their cellphone instead of doing whatever their job calls for while I stand there waiting. I suppose I could just take out my own cellphone and busy myself while I wait. Maybe I could call the person on the other side of the desk or counter and let them know I’m waiting.

I used to look forward to reading magazines while waiting in a doctor’s office. They used to provide magazines. They might have been old issues, but they were still entertaining, and I might not have seen them. Now, I notice a lot of waiting rooms only have magazines offering information about available services. Sometimes there are no magazines, only a television with infomercials playing while you wait. I’d be happy to settle for an old issue of a magazine at this point.

With all my thoughts about having to wait, I suppose I should feel guilty about subjecting my series protagonist, Bobby Navarro, to waiting. I do though, but not too often. I think he should have to wait in line at the supermarket occasionally just like we do. Years ago, I had nearly completed an all-day ride on my motorcycle when traffic came to a halt. Naturally, it started to rain. I got soaked. Needless to say, I’ve let Bobby get wet a time or two as well. It’s only fair.

What pet peeves do you have about waiting? Any favorite stories? And what do you do to handle the waiting game?

 

Where Have All Those Resolutions Gone?

It’s the middle of January, and my understanding is that half the New Years resolutions have been abandoned. I’m proud to say this is not the case with mine. I decided to be careful what I resolved to do and pick something I might have a real chance of accomplishing. To that end, I came up with a short list of things I wanted to resolve, but put off the final selection and commitment until now. That way I wouldn’t overshoot reality in the frenzied days of New Year celebration and set out to do something I had little chance to achieve. So, while others have given up already, I’ve just begun. Pretty clever, don’t you agree?

I really like making New Years resolutions. I guess I’m an eternal optimist, believing people can improve. Not that many seem to. This New Year season seemed to generate a larger than usual number of articles on how to make and keep resolutions. I have to say, no one I read came up with the approach I took, however. In general, advice seemed to center on laying out specific, attainable goals. I think that may be part of the reason people have already given up on their resolutions. With such specific goals to live up to, it’s easy to see right away that one has failed. If I had resolved to lose two pounds a week, I’d certainly be able to tell by now that I’d been a miserable failure. I gained a bunch over the holidays. No, I’m much better off resolving to recover the body I used to have, back when I could eat anything and not gain an ounce.  Instead of facing failure at not having lost a couple of pounds, I still have my goal to look forward to achieving—someday. In fact, think I should celebrate. Ice cream anyone?

That brings up another point, rewards. Those articles I read mentioned a reward system for good performance. In my case, being able to eat anything I want without gaining weight is reward enough. I love to eat. I don’t need other reinforcement. I admit I don’t have that ideal body back yet, but I haven’t given up. You see, I don’t have to say I’ve failed. Without specific, measurable goals I’m better able to maintain the vision and stay the course. Not that I don’t expect difficulties ahead. I am willing to be realistic, after all. I’m aware that I ought not to go clothes shopping just now, for example. A lot of the clothes I might like to buy are either too snug, or pooch out over my belly. Actually, I have lots of those clothes I’d like to wear already—in my closet. They’ve been there for years. I keep waiting. . .

I wonder what my series protagonist, Bobby Navarro, would have resolved if he gave in to the New Year pressures to do so. Certainly, he wouldn’t need to resolve to take another great cross-country ride on his Harley. That is something that is just going to happen. And, resolving not to get involved in another murder investigation would be useless, too. You and I know that’s going to happen as well. And, he doesn’t need to worry about his weight. He manages to stay in great shape all the time.

 So, fellow New Years resolutionists, how are you doing? If you’ve had trouble keeping your resolutions, it’s not to late to take up the approach I used, and enjoy the success I expect to have someday. Share your thoughts?

A Poem for the New Year

It’s a naval practice to write the New Year’s log in verse.
That can be good.
Although, sometimes it’s worse.
So, I’m keeping the tradition,
Although I cannot say
Whether this particular rendition
Will carry the day.

It was not my intent
To leave out so many
Troublesome events
From the world and at home.
But that would amount to a book.
A very big tome.
I couldn’t stand to write it
Too long for a poem

And, it wouldn’t have read well
So, I did what I could
And, as for the rest, well…
You can read it. And comment
And I hope that you do.
And thanks for your visit
And sharing, if you do.

So, the new year’s upon us
The holidays about over.
But, despite the promise, we’re not
Knee deep in clover.
We can’t tell our children
Things soon will be better.
That floods will let up,
And dry places get wetter.
We’re just left with alternative facts to arrange,
And truth to deny
Like, the climate won’t change.

But, politics aside…
I know for many, this year’s been quite a ride.
I feel pretty lucky not to have died.
So, good people, I wish you all well.
And, those others I allude to, they can just go to hell.

‘Round the world it’s been Murder, rape and plunder.
Terror attacks from Europe to Down Under.
Victories exclaimed over cities devastated,
Children starving. Hordes evacuated.
People fleeing. Many turned away
From one wall or another
Father. Brother. Child. Mother.

It’s not peace and good will
We’re bringing to each other
When we even do battle
Over the definition of one’s lover.
So, lock your doors. Board up your chimney.
‘Tis no time to get jolly.
Not this season, by Jiminy
And stay away from Santa,
At the office soiree
He thinks he has privileges
And can do what he may.

Think about it. . .
When for strangers or brothers.
We show no respect,
When the keepers of our country
To the dark side defect,
It’s time to talk and to listen
Time to rekindle some light.
So good luck to us all.
And, for now, a good night.

Our cat asleep or at prayer