A Long Long Wait

It has been 22 years since I had a new book launch. I've done a lot of writing during those years. I've had an agent, well, two agents actually, who have worked with me, one I found and one who found me. I've written book reviews, lots of them, for newspapers and for Amazon. I've written a screenplay that's being passed around, and I've kept this blog (granted not as much in recent years) since 2009, but that kind of writing doesn't count much to readers. It's book they want. And it's books I want too. 

At my core, I'm a novelist. I need that long form to create a believable world, and that time to bring characters to life. I will never be a mystery writer, or a horror writer, or anything that requires a heavy plot line. That just isn't my style. It isn't even the kind of books I read. I don't fit easily into a category. My novels are too literary to be genre romance, even though they are romantic. But they're not literary enough to be classified in that category either. They're historical, but not generic historical romance. They don't always had happy endings. Sometimes I like to write from the male point-of-view. A few times, the entire book has come from the male point-of-view. The main thing for me is it has to hold my interest. I figure if I can hold my own interest -- someone so easily distracted by life -- then maybe it will hold a reader's interest, too. 

Anyway, the point of this blog post is, my 22-year drought is about to end. I have a new book, my fifth one, finally coming out in just a few weeks. The official pub date is April 26. Here's the cover art. I have to admit, I'm pretty excited. I'll let you know when you can go buy a copy, because I just know you will want to do that, right? 

I started working on this novel in 2000, made two research trips to England, read a hundred-gazillion books on World War II. I sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire, and watched one fly in an airshow in Duxford where the Americans of the 8th Army Air Corps were stationed. I met the president of the Hurricane Fighter Pilots Association, who showed me all around the south of England to what remained of old airdromes. And I made friends with an American WWII fighter pilot, a real-life one, who flew and fought over the skies of Europe, a generous gentleman who gave me so much material it overwhelmed me. He opened his home to me after a single email, showed me his war chest full of souvenirs like his flight helmet and his bail-out kit, all still intact. We became real friends, phonecalls, lunches, library visits. He lived in San Antonio, it wasn't a far drive for me. I do so wish I could give Jack a copy of this book, but sadly he passed away a few years ago. I know he would recognize some of the good ideas he gave me. Our WWII heros are passing quickly. We have to cherish and honor them. They saved the world. (I believe the world is going to need saving once again. And soon.)

But back to the journey I traveled writing this book. In the middle of it, I got a divorce. My 34-year marriage, when it ended, stopped the writing. And then I met a new man, fell in love at age 54! and that stopped the writing, again. Who has time for writing when you're falling in love, learning about a new person, making trips together to places like to Ireland, and Montana, and Alaska? Oh, and did I mention getting a "day" job, which required, you guessed it, hours and hours on a computer. Last thing I wanted to do when I got home was sit in front of a computer for another few hours. In short, for the past -- let's say 15 years anyway -- I have been living my life, and mostly daydreaming about finishing this book. I even took to calling it The Endless Novel before I heard a line in an old WWII song and the real title finally came to me: 

"It's still the same old story, a fight FOR LOVE AND GLORY, a case of do or die, the world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by...."  

That's all. My big announcement. Next, comes the part I hate -- promotion. But that's a little bit of what this blog is all about, promoting. So I hope I haven't bored you to tears, or seemed too full of myself. It's more relief that it finally got done than beating my own drum. Now, let's see what happens with it. Keep. your fingers crossed for me!

Onward...

The Need for Stories

 I have been told I should get back to blogging, so here goes:

I've been thinking a lot lately about this whole business of reading, writing, yearning for stories and knowledge, and what drives it inside of us. Stories have been around since man came along. Our ancestors told stories through folklore and cave paintings. The need to hear and learn about other people, places, adventures is part of being human and having big brains. Our big brain is what separates us from other creatures on earth. Other animals have the capacity to learn. You can teach your dog to fetch or to do his business outside, but humans are unique in having stories in our brains that we retain, enjoy, repeat. (On another note: I would really love for my Sam-cat to tell me a story. The thought of that gives me a smile.) 

I found this need for story when I was a young child. I loved hearing my grandparents tell about their childhoods, or my parents tell about theirs, hearing Daddy's "war stories." Since I was a baby boomer, those war stories abounded in my childhood. I can't think of a single man in my orbit who had not taken part in some way in World War II, so it was still all around me, and I was curious for the details. 

Before I could read I pestered everybody in my house to read for me. My mother once told me I drove them crazy on car trips asking what every sign we passed said. Back then, people didn't expect children to learn to read before they started to school. I think I was probably ready to learn much earlier, but I didn't come from a scholarly family. They were Depression era, hardworking, public-school educated rule-followers. If the rules were that kids learned to read in first grade, then they weren't going to start any sooner, and kindergarten was something unheard of in my world. 

Two weeks before I started first grade, my mother sat me down to the kitchen table with a piece of paper and a pencil and taught me to write my name. She made me memorize our address and phone number, and the address and phone number of my grandparents, since they lived in the same city and could substitute in an emergency. I learned those lessons so well--TE5-0170 and TU2-6926, respectively--that there are still stamped in my brain, 60-plus years later. 

My first grade teacher, Miss Hopper, sat the class in small circles, handed out our primer, See Spot Run, and we learned slowly how to sound out the simple, LARGE print words on the pages. I adored that part of our classes. As far as I was concerned, I could have sat in that circle for the entire day. I couldn't wait to read that whole book to see what happened. I'm sure it was predictable. I didn't care. 

However, I didn't come from a family of readers. We had a set of World Book Encyclopedias and that was about it. Once Daddy went up in the attic and brought down a battered, water-stained children's picture book called Water Babies. He must have known it was up there and climbed up there to find it for me. I read that one book over and over, memorized it backwards and forwards. Mom set me up with a subscription to Highlights for Children. It came once a month, and within a day or two, I had read all the stories, worked all the dot-to-dot puzzles, and colored all the pictures of farm animals, etc. I loved my Highlights! I really think my accountant parents didn't know what to make of this child of theirs with the hunger for books. I'm pretty sure they would have better understand if I had been a math-whiz like they both were, but they did their best for me. The whole family did.

Twice a month, my brother walked me down to the end of the block to the church parking lot where the book mobile stopped. He helped me get my first library card there, and allowed me to check-out three books. He was five years older and thought he knew what was best for me. I thought he knew, too, so I followed his rule, but I was always ready for three more books within a couple of days. 

By third grade, the family was giving me Nancy Drew books every birthday and at Christmas. By the time I outgrew them, I had the whole set. And by the time I was through with all six years at my elementary school, I had read most of the books on the shelves in our tiny library room. By about 5th grade, I started to write my own stories, in a spiral-bound notebook I bought at the drug store. Oh, how I wish I still had all those early writings. Only one has survived--a romanticized version of Ponce De Leon. I was already writing historical fiction, even way back then. 

There is no point to this narrative, other than to come back around to the need people have for story, for the neatness a story gives--beginning, middle, end--to help us make sense of the world we live in, the people we encounter, to escape to places we may never go otherwise, to situations far afield of our own lives. And of course, to learn. The smartest people I know are readers. My dad probably never read an entire book, but he was always reading something, science journals, stock market reports, newspapers and all those magazines he subscribed to. His accountant mind required that he date-stamp the upper right corner of those magazines, and check off the articles in the Table of Contents as he finished them. 

When Dad was in his late 80s he was still learning. We had long backyard conversations over a beer maybe, or a glass of wine, while watching his dogs. We discussed astronomy, foreign wars, foreign places, politics, and the psychology of human nature. Often, he surprised me with his knowledge of current fads and trendy subjects. I remember he watched the entire royal wedding when William married Kate, and talked about it for days afterwards. Another story, understanding the world, and always striving for knowledge. I hope to do the same.

Onward...

The Last of My Trilogy of Tributes: My Pop

Most people in my generation were lucky to have two sets of grandparents. But because my dad was a "caboose" his parents were older, born in the 1880s, and they were both gone before I was born or shortly after. Which left me with one, younger set of grandparents. Since Mother was a working mom, even way back in the Fifties, and since the idea of day care hadn't occurred to anybody yet, I stayed with my grandparents during the day while Mother worked. I adored them. They contributed greatly to my happy childhood.

My brother was the oldest of their grandchildren, and Pop was a name my brother could say at an early age, so Pop he became. Pop was a lay Baptist preacher. He told me he found his calling on watch on a Navy tender ship during the Battle of Leyte Gulf in World War II. The ship was the USS LaSalle, and Pop promised the Lord if He would get him through the battle, he would turn his life over to preaching the gospel. The Battle of Leyte Gulf was the first battle where the Japanese sent kamikaze pilots to commit suicide by divebombing their planes into the decks of US ships. I would imagine that after watching a few ships sink in this way, quite a few seamen said quite a few prayers and made many promises to God. Pop kept his promise.

A lay minister usually is adopted by the poorest churches, the ones who can't really pay much if anything at all to their preachers, so Pop also had a regular job during the week. When I was a child staying with them, he would come home every day for lunch, or dinner as they called it then. Supper was the evening meal. Pop's arrival mid-day was a big treat. When I heard his car pull into the driveway, I would race to hide behind the refrigerator--which we called the icebox back then--and when Pop came in the kitchen door, I would leap from behind the icebox with a loud "Boo!" Without fail he put on a big show, trembling all over and moaning like I had scared the dickens out of him. After we ate our dinner, I would sit on his lap and he would sing songs to me. I always thought he sounded like Tennessee Ernie Ford. Then he would go to the back room and lay down for a short nap. He called it "resting his eyes" but more often than not, we could hear him snoring clear up in the front room.

Unless he was sick, Pop always wore a white shirt and often a tie. On weekends if we stayed with them, my brother would also be there, and we slept on pallets in front of the black and white TV set. Pop never missed "Gunsmoke." He wanted all the lights in the room turned out, and we watched without speaking. I didn't know it then, but learned later in my life when I became a writer, that Pop was a great student of Western history. He knew all the stories of the outlaws, the marshals, the feuds, and the Indian tribes. In fact, he claimed to have Indian blood running in his veins, and he did have their jet black hair and dark eyes.

Pop could speak Spanish. He and my grandmother had eloped to Mexico and he told me once he wanted to be able to read their marriage license. He was self-taught. He also taught himself to play the harmonica, or mouth harp as he called it. He tried to teach me "You Are My Sunshine" but I never got the knack.  For a while he had a Sunday morning sermon broadcast on the local radio, which he recorded on a big reel-to-reel recorder on Saturday afternoons and took to the station for airing on Sunday. When I was about six, I sang on his radio program: "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands," complete with the arm and hand gestures. I didn't think about it being played on the radio where nobody could see me. My youngest aunt accompanied me on a little portable organ.

In church, Pop was a pound-the-podium style preacher, had a powerful voice, and his congregation adored him. They payed him with eggs and vegetables from their garden. I once helped my grandmother pluck a chicken a member of the church had given to them. That was really hard work. I remember telling her I never wanted to have to do that again, and I haven't!

After my grandmother died in the late 1980s, I moved back to Corpus Christi for a few years, and Pop and I got together several times for lunch. By then he was preaching in nursing homes once in a while. I enjoyed those lunch visits. We talked about old memories, but also about the Old West. I was astonished at how much obscure history he knew. We always seem to underestimate the people in our lives. He had a fierce intelligence and interest in life, past and present. We had our last lunch the week before he died on February 5, 1991, twenty-seven years ago today.

After Pop died, we had a big garage sale before their house was put on the market. My mom and all her siblings and in-laws were there. My aunt gave me one of Pop's Bibles, and an old antique Mr. Peanut desk tray I remembered on his desk when I was a kid. I still have both those things and cherish them. When the sale was over, as I headed to my car, I spotted a heavy old metal sprinkler lying by the side of the garage. I recalled playing in that sprinkler on hot summer days when I was little. I picked it up and put it into my trunk, afraid it would get thrown to the curb if I didn't take it. It's heavier than any sprinkler you can buy today, and puts out a big spray as it rattles around in a circle. Wayne, even though he came into my life long after Pop was gone, calls it Pop's sprinkler whenever he sets it up somewhere in our yard. I hope it never breaks.

Onward....