You Search for It Until It Finds You

When I was a young hormone, I once asked my father for advice on winning a girl's heart. I must have really liked that girl, because broaching such a topic with my father, at that age, was about as uncool and desperate an act I could imagine.

He started well.

"Chase her," he said. "Until she catches you."

That took me a minute. Gradually, strategies no doubt completely at odds with my father's meaning started  taking shape within the lines of my one-track mind. Show interest, but not too much. Call her, but a little later than you said you would. Look cool, not needy. I thought that maybe the old man was on to something. Then he blew it. He suggested I ask her to meet me at the library. 

The library? A girl? On a date? Um, right. Thanks, Dad.

I was reminded of this scene the other morning when something I'd been pursuing finally caught me. For weeks, I'd been trying to nail down the premise for a story. My efforts included exhaustive lists of themes that I find most interesting, the things I most like to read: relationships, betrayals, redemption, coming of age, death, change, sex, character development, endurance, individualism, families, friendships, loneliness, regret, hope, fear, triumph, defeat. Nothing seemed to be working. I started paging through my advice books: Lamott, Lerner, King, Zinsser, Burroway, Truby, Brande, Goldberg, Gardner. I outlined Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces, Vogel's Writer's Journey. I started and abandoned outlines, made notes on plot, character, conflict, inciting incidents, climaxes, cute meets, story beats, red herrings, beginnings, endings, middle acts. Created and discarded dozens of index cards. Scribbled madly in my writer's-block journal. And with each attempt, doubt grew. I saw the road ahead. Depression. Surrender. The writing on the ash-filled urn: Close, But No Cigar.

And then, as I stared out the window after staring at the blank computer screen after staring at my empty coffee cup after waking that morning convinced I was the Sahara of Inspiration, the Death Valley of Compelling, the Blue Hole (Ohioans will understand) of ideas: Boom. It slapped me a few times so that I could see it clearly. And in answer to my question, it said, "Been here the whole time, dumb ass. You were just too needy."

So wish me luck.  Bon voyage. Safe trip. Happy trails. Here we go.

And thanks, Dad.

Inspiration: What's On Your Desk?

Nazareth 1979                                                                                                           © James King

Several centuries ago I was in Israel and found myself sucked into a soccer game with these young Arab athletes. Afterward, they insisted I take their picture. The result is probably the best photo I've ever taken. I framed it and keep it and on my desk. I smile every time I look at it.

Some days, when I'm casting about for what I'd like to write next, I stare at this picture. I want to go back, find this street again, locate one of these kids, and find out what happened to him and each one of his friends. I've a feeling their stories are more compelling than any fiction I might write.

Until then, I use this picture and these kids to inspire me to try to capture in words the immediacy and the emotion of a moment, the way I did by chance and nearly not at all but for their loud and exuberant insistence that day in Nazareth.

What do you keep on your desk for inspiration?

Irish Surprise

I wouldn't describe myself as superstitious, but sometimes something happens that causes me stand back and wonder: Is this a sign? a message from the gods?

When my daughter returned from a recent trip to Ireland, she brought me a nice bottle of fine Jameson whiskey, along with coasters bearing the King family crest. I was surprised that a book was part of the crest. I was also intrigued by the motto under the book, "Maireann a sgrioghtar." According the coasters' package, the words mean, "History cannot be destroyed."

Kinda boring. (Just the motto, Katie. I love the coasters!) So today, while struggling to complete a sentence and wondering, once again, what kind of nut case actually chooses to become a writer, I was staring at one of the coasters. I then Googled the King name and family motto. I found the same Irish words but with a different translation. This one read: "That which is written, lives."

I'm taking that one as a sign.

What are the signs that you are fated to do what you do?

Getting Tense About the Present

Does anyone else get irritated when television news reporters use the present tense to describe events that happened in the past? It makes me want to go all Elvis on the TV set.

This present-past tense is the preferred style used on those true-life murder "mystery" shows--the ones in which you know before the first commercial that the husband did it. As in, "It was a hot August night in 1986 in the small town of Dry Stream when Joe Beater decides to run off with his little girl's Sunday school teacher. But the day before he leaves, he goes into Big Daddy's Gun and Tackle shot and buys a 12-gauge shotgun and ammo. Two days later, his wife is found dead in what police call..."

Much to the chagrin of my family, I call out corrections, louder with each one. As in: "It was a hot August night in 1986 in the small town of Dry Stream when Joe Beater decides ("Decided") to run off with his little girl's Sunday school teacher. But the day before he leaves ("Left"), he goes ("Went, you idiot!") into Big Daddy's Gun and Tackle shot and buys ("BOUGHT!!!) a 12-gauge shotgun and ammo. Two days later, his wife is found dead ("WAS FOUND DEAD!!! OH MY GOD WHEN DID YOU DROP OUT OF SCHOOL?!!")

Needless to say, by the end of the show, I'm watching alone.

Unfortunately, this grammatical irritant is no longer confined to those magazine-y shows. On NBC News with Brian Williams tonight, aired two hours ago, one of the reports used the present tense to describe an event that happened over the weekend. Or perhaps I should have written, "On NBC News with Brian Williams tonight, aired two hours ago, one of the reporters uses the present tense to describe an event that happens over the weekend."

I guess I'll soon be watching the news alone, too.

I Can Not Not Write. Not.

I enjoy reading articles and interviews with writers about the writing process. Inevitably, the writer is asked, "What would you do if you couldn't write?"

The answer that knocks me out of my chair, ROFLMA-style, is, "I can't imagine not writing."

Really? As a full-time writer, I can most definitely imagine not writing. In fact, I spend a good deal of my writing time not writing. I believe it's a Newtonian Law of Physics: the more time available for the written word, the fewer words written.

Why the seeming contradiction? In my case, the explanations are as logical as they are numerous. For example, I have bookshelves. These bookshelves hold many books. These books are of varying height and width. How can one write when yesterday's arrangement is no longer satisfactorily aligned with the creative pathways?

I also have a desk. Pens, notepads, coffee mugs (see pic), more books, aspirin bottles, and a variety of other items must be rearranged, put away, or used to sharpen my stacking-items-of-different-shapes skills before I can focus properly. I also have a dog who pretends to sleep contentedly at my feet when I know she is just dying to go on a four-mile walk. I have a Facebook page that needs face time; a twitter account that needs tweeting. Have I mentioned that I have fast-growing fingernails? Before you know it, it's the cocktail hour. And it is very bad karma indeed for a writer to ignore the cocktail hour.

And, oh yeah, there's the fact (for me, anyway) that the writing process itself tends be a wee bit painful.

So why do I do it? Beats the hell out of me. All I know is, when I'm finished not writing, I just can't help myself.

What about you? Can you not not write? If not, why not? (Extra points if you can figure out that question. I can... not.)

New Cover Part II

The new cover was developed by the talented artist and illustrator Jim Tierney. I thought you might enjoy seeing some of the other covers he submitted.

In this first one, I like the road leading... perilously but eventually... to a new day. (Or is it setting?)

 

 "Walking Bill" below will grace the back cover of the new paperback.

 

 I like April in the one below, but not nearly as much as the April on the final.

 

Here's another sun that raises the question: rising or setting?

 

And because I love it so much, here's the final again:

Letter to a First Love

Dear SC:

Surprise! I know it's probably weird hearing from me after all these years. But the other day I was on the internet and your picture came up on a Google search and all of these memories overwhelmed me and, well, I just had to write.

Remember the day we met? High school graduation, June1973. I knew from the moment I opened that big, black Smith Corona carrying case and saw you for the first time--sleek, blue, and ready to qwerty--that  you and I were going to do great things together.

Sure, you were a bit heavy and, true, a lot of writers would have preferred an electric. But you seemed to know, somehow, that I wasn't like other writers--probably because you found out, first hand, that my writing sucked. LOL!

But you stuck with me through college, waited patiently for me to return from overseas, and then came all the way out from Ohio to join me in San Francisco. I couldn't wait to get my hands on you. The Great American Novel awaited our combined talents.

You were so kind not to tell me how truly awful that first novel was. Supportive, too, through all those query letters to agents and all the follow-up letters thanking them for their consideration of my manuscript and apologizing that it did not meet their needs at this time. So many of those letters! I tried not to let it bother me, but I admit I sometimes took out my frustration on you. I still cringe when I think of the night I  picked you up and nearly threw through the window at a passing cable car. That must have been terrifying for you. I'm sorry.

Actually, SC, the real reason I'm writing is to explain why there came that awful day when I couldn't bring myself to open your case, place you gently on the rickety table next to the bay window, and stare at you for hours. I let you think that I was working late, building my career. Oh, I was at work all right. But the fact is that I was staying late to write my novel... on the office IBM Selectric. It was wrong of me, I know. And I know I was in way over my head: Those suckers cost about $600, which was a ton of money back then. But I simply couldn't resist the auto-correct, the limited memory, the magical font ball. An office fling. It was cliche. It was shameful. I'm sorry.

I guess you could say I've had problems with commitment. After Selectric, I had a fling with Kaypro until the operating system went obsolete about five minutes after we'd met. There was Apple II, until I thought I'd discovered my lifelong writing partner in Macintosh. But then I met Toshiba, a laptop with the siren song of writing in the Great Outdoors. I fell hard. It's a sickness, I know. With each new partner, each new bell and whistle, I was convinced that novel would simply take shape, practically write itself. It didn't.

I've been with Dell for quite a few years now, and finally realized the dream that you and I worked toward all those many years ago. But here's the thing: Dell tends to get a bit restless and insists on taking me me places that working writers should best avoid: Facebook, Blogger, Twitter, LinkedIn. (And I keep hearing about this place called Farmville.)

Will you feel terribly awkward if I say that I miss you? But I do. I miss your nonelectric ways. I miss the sound of your tiny hammers against paper--so much more satisfying than the geeky clacking of a computer keyboard. I miss the ritual and promise of rolling in a blank sheet of paper, of resting my fingers on your keys, of gently returning your carriage at the end of each sentence. Pure writing. No distractions.

Would you mind terribly if I tried to find you? I think it's worth another shot together. Please don't say no. I'm going to do my best to track you down... right after I check out this new MacBook Air I keep hearing so much about.

Until then,
Jim

My Brush With Eternal Damnation: A Fib-Free Mini-Memoir

Tired of discovering that a memoir you read and enjoyed and perhaps were inspired by is more fiction than fact? Me, too. And so I've decided to try my hand at the genre. Here, then, is a fib-free mini-memoir... on fibbing. It is the harrowing story of an untruth that quickly grew into such a pack of heinous lies that my very soul was dangling, Sinners-in-the-Hands-of-an-Angry-God-style, above the fiery pit of hell.

I was nine years old.

Here's the situation. I had been in training for several weeks to make my First Confession with my third-grade class at St. Luke's school in Lakewood, Ohio. First Confessions are a watershed event in every Catholic's life, and the nuns had been running us hard: making sure we had memorized the Act of Contrition, suggesting potential sins to confess (mainly lies and disobedience; impure thoughts and acts came a few years later), and warning us, above all else, to make sure we didn't make a Bad Confession.

A Bad Confession is one in which you knowingly lie, omit mentioning a sin, or confess your sins but aren't really and truly cross-your-heart sorry. A Bad Confession is a sin that transcends the rather pedestrian venial sins of, say, kicking your sister or making faces at your parents' backs. It is, in fact, a Mortal sin. If one dies with an unconfessed and, therefore, unforgiven Mortal sin on one's soul, the afterlife options available are extremely limited. Heaven is out of the question. Purgatory is reserved for those doing time for venial sins. Limbo only accommodates unbaptized babies. One option is left: the place Sister Jerome spelled with double hockey sticks.

About a week before I was scheduled to make my First Confession, one of my brown-nosing older brothers announced to my mother that he was going to confession and, oh, too bad Jimmy can't go because he hasn't made his First Confession yet. Now, if you're the near-middle child in a family of seven boys and two girls, you may have a teeny tiny propensity toward competitiveness. I recognized a challenge when I heard it. I immediately spoke up and said that I had, in fact, already made my First Confession (Venial Sin #1: Lie) and that I would go with him. I believe I also called him a butt-face (Venial Sin #2: Uncharitable name-calling).

I went in the confessional, got on my knees, and when the Priest slid back the screen separating my crew-cut head from his, said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my last confession." I then proceeded to tell him that I had lied five times and was disobedient five times. The priest assigned me my penance--five Our Fathers and Five Hail Marys--and sent me on my (still sinful) way.

If you're keeping track, the tally at that point was more than a few venial sins and, thanks to ensuring that my First Confession was a Bad Confession, one whopping, ticket-to-hell Mortal sin.

I tried to rectify the situation a week later, when I made my official "First Confession" with my class. But when I said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been one week since my last confession," the priest stopped me. "Isn't this your First Confession?" he asked.

Having a priest actually ask you questions while you're kneeling in a dark confessional at the age of nine is terrifying beyond words. I started to explain that a week earlier I had lied to my older brother about making my First Confession when the priest stopped me. "Then you should just confess a lie," he said. He had misunderstood. I knew that. God knew that. My duty at that point was to set him straight, to explain the situation more clearly so that I could make a good confession and be free of the black spot of damnation that had been staining my soul for a week. But all I said was, "Yes, Father."

The tally now: A mountain of venial sins and TWO bad confessions. The next possible opportunity for me to expunge my soul would be in a week. It was the longest week of my life. On my way home from school, I was especially careful when crossing the street. At home, I couldn't tease my sister, much less hit her. Any slip up--uttering a swear word, for example, or even the thought of uttering a swear word--and I was doomed.

And so it was with great relief that I was able to make it into the confessional alive the following week. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my First Confession." So far so good. I saw the silhouette of the priest's head nod encouragingly. I decided to get to the really bad news first. "I have made two Bad Confessions," I said. The priest stopped me. "Didn't you just say you made your First Confession a week ago? How could you have made two Bad Confessions?"

This was like having the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost yelling at me as one. But there was no way I was leaving that dark and dank confessional with three Mortal sins weighing down my soul, so I started at the beginning. After awhile, the priest held his hand up. "Son, I can tell you are truly sorry for all your sins, and in Jesus's name, I forgive you of your sins. I repeat: all of them." I'm not sure, but I think I heard him chuckling as I closed the door to the confessional, free at last.

I hope this serves as a lesson to any memoirist tempted by the riches of this world to travel along the dangerous path of exaggeration and fabrication. It is not worth it. Honest to God.

Memoir update: My brother is still a butt-face.

Reading for the Writing

It happened again today. A friend mentioned the title of a novel I'd read recently.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked.
"Very much," I replied. And I had.
"What's it about?" he asked.

And that's when it happened. Even though I had read the book less than two months ago, I wasn't able to provide much more information other than the uninteresting and unhelpful fact that I'd enjoyed it. Plot? I might have been able to scare up a sentence or two. Names of the main characters? Gone. 

Certainly every novel needs a plot, with interesting characters developed in memorable ways. When it all works together well, it's like a wonderful symphonic piece. But what I remember most about reading a good novel is the experience of it: the author's word choice, the variety a rhythm of the sentences, the emotional impact evoked from what is written and, importantly, left unwritten.

Do you suffer from forgot-the-plot syndrome?

Marital Reading Habits

I just received another of those gifts that every writer lives for: an email from a stranger, writing to tell me how much he or she enjoyed my novel. Whenever I get one of these, I always think of what Mark Twain once said: "I can live for two months on a good compliment."

This message, though, was a little different from the others. "This is the first book my wife and I read together, aloud to each other," the sender wrote, "and  it couldn't have been a better choice."

They read it to each other? Aloud? I tried to imagine a similar scene with my wife, Joanne. And as I did so, I felt a stab of guilt. I've worked out of my home for the past 24 years and, as a result, I not only have dinner with Joanne almost every night, we also often have both breakfast and lunch together. (And, yes, we still get along; in fact, we celebrated our 26th anniversary last month.) At breakfast and lunch, my nose is usually stuck in a book; hers, a newspaper or magazine.

Here's the problem: Joanne is a vocal reader. She loves to share what she reads. A health tip. An inspiring profile. A sad story. My reaction, I confess, is more impatience than interest. My attention span is so short that I must guard it jealously. Interruptions that take me away from a story I'm immersed in are just that: interruptions.

There's more. If I appear to be enjoying whatever I'm reading, Joanne will ask me to read a passage to her. Any guesses as to my response? If you guessed something along the lines of, "You can read it yourself when I'm finished," you win the Spot-the-Insensitive-Spouse award.

So when I received the email from the read-aloud couple, I envisioned a happy husband and wife, laughing and cuddling over a good book. I made a vow to respond more enthusiastically when Joanne reads something aloud to me. And I intend to keep that vow... right after I finish this page...