"If you ain't where you are, you're no place."

These profound words, uttered by Colonel Sherman Potter of one of the greatest TV shows ever made, M*A*S*H, have always rung true to me and they hit home more than usual this morning when I read a snarky comment from someone on Facebook.  I don't know this person and wouldn't share the name even if I did, but she was commenting on the fact that a mutual friend, someone I do know, had moved to a big city from our hometown of Parkersburg, WV.  Her response was essentially that it was great that she had gotten away and she should never come back.  Maybe I'm becoming even more of a curmudgeon than I think I am, but that person's words really rubbed me the wrong way.

I was born in Parkersburg very nearly 50 years ago and, aside from short periods when I went away for schooling, I've lived here ever since.  Sure, there are things about it that I might change if I had the chance, but not many and I have a feeling I would regret it afterward if I were given the power to make those alterations, because every action has consequences, many unforeseeable.  Sure, it would be nice to have a bigger venue for sports and concerts here so we could get some famous names in and maybe a minor league baseball team.  But what do we get along with that?  More traffic, more crime, more noise.  In other words, more of the stuff that I live in Parkersburg to avoid.

I think of my beloved hometown as being kind of like Goldilocks.  Not too big, not too small, but just right. There's plenty to do, with some sort of events going on nearly every weekend.  I'm a runner and there are enough races to keep me broke paying for registrations on a regular basis.  There are concerts every single week during the summer in any of several scenic parks in and around Parkersburg.  In the fall, there are football games every weekend and in the spring you can watch track, softball, baseball, and tennis.  No, they aren't professionals, but they're something better--people who play their sport for the love of it.

And we're Goldilocksian in another way.  We're an hour's drive from Charleston and about two hours from Morgantown, Pittsburgh, Huntington, and Columbus, all places with those big-city amenities so many people moan that we lack.  Major college sports and even professional sports, big-name musicians, Broadway-quality theater, and so much more are just two hours away.  And when the show's over, I can come home to my quaint, quiet, friendly hometown.

I love this place so much that I made it the setting of my books.  My heroes could live anywhere, but like me, they chose to come back here after their education and try to make Parkersburg a better place rather than do the two things that too many people do: leave, taking their skills and energy away from here or stay and complain about how much they hate it.  If you really do hate where you are, by all means, go somewhere else.  It will make you happier and it will certainly bring joy to those who don't have to listen to you rant about this place we love.  Hearkening back to the words of the counter-counter-culture of the 60's and 70's, I end with these words:

Parkersburg--love it or leave it.  

A lovely sunset from Point Park

A view of the Belpre Bridge from Fort Boreman Park 

Blennerhassett Island as seen from Fort Boreman Park

Some Things That Are True

I am, like nearly all Americans (I assume it's still true), a mutt.  I'm party British.  Everybody named Stephens or Stevens can trace at least part of his or her lineage back to the same village in England, if what I'm told is true. I like to think it is. I'm also aware of being part German. I might be a fraction of some other things, but I think I'm mostly Irish. From the Holleran clan.  Hope I'm spelling that right. Actually, it's the O'Holleran clan, though they apparently dropped the O when they came to America. In my mind it's full of romance--my ancestors came here to flee the great potato famine, searching for a better life. I have no idea whether that's what actually happened, though I could probably find out. I think I won't try. Better a romantic fantasy than a boring reality.

I said I think I am mostly Irish, but what I should have said is that I FEEL mostly Irish.  There's nothing really intellectual about it.  I don't know that my ancestry is more Irish than anything else.  I just feel Irish.  I have been drawn to all things Irish since before I really knew what all things Irish were.  Even as a child, I was fascinated by the sad lilting strains of Celtic music.  The first time I heard Enya, I thought that she was speaking my language, even though she was singing in a tongue I didn't know.  Same with The Chieftains. The mixture of a loud, boisterous exterior and a brooding melancholy interior is, well, me. The pipe and it's guttural, crying voice speaks to me like no other instrument.  A close second would be the cello, for much the same reason, though the two couldn't sound much different.  It's deep.  It's dark.  It's pensive.

I think that's part of why I love West Virginia so much.  The foggy, dark mountains look like so many of the pictures I've seen of Ireland. If I can't live on the Emerald Isle, give me West Virginia. I talk of moving to the beach when I retire, but I don't believe I could ever fully leave my beloved home state behind--unless it meant moving to Ireland.  But even then, I would have to come back from time to time.

Being Irish isn't all good, to be sure.  My Irish temper is quite pronounced.  I like to say I've learned to control it and become more contemplative over the years, but I fear I'd be lying if I did. Like I sometimes say to my students, some things are just baked right in. I guess my friends and family would have to say whether I'm better than I used to be.  I do know I'm quite mercurial.  I'm quick to anger, but also quick to forget. I can be in the throes of misery one minute and in the throes of laughter the next. It's just me.

Not sure exactly what the point of this ramble was. Not sure there was one.  Not sure there needs to be one. Just had some things in my head that wanted to come out and here they are. If I didn't let them out, they probably would've given me a headache and then eventually have leaked out, taking some of my brain cells with them, and I need all I can keep.

Last Week of Freedom?

Writing is my secret identity.  By day I'm a mild-mannered English teacher at a large metropolitan school. Actually, it's large suburban school, but that doesn't fit the Superman phrasing, and anyone who knows me at all knows I love anything Superman.  School starts for teachers a week from today and for students a week from Thursday.  That means this is, according to many of my teacher friends, our last week of freedom.  I guess that's true for me in some ways, but not so much in others.

It is the last week I get to sleep as late as I want on weekdays.  The odd thing is, I'm a morning person and don't sleep late much anyway, so that's kind of lost on me.  What I will miss are the leisurely mornings lingering over a third (or fourth) cup of coffee while doing my morning devotions, reading the news online, checking my Facebook and Twitter pages, answering emails, reading a good book, and writing a  good book. At least I hope it's good .  I guess I could still do all that if I want to get up at 5:00am, but even I'm not that much of a morning person. So I guess it's back to slamming coffee while doing my devotions and then getting ready for school, where I'll try to answer urgent emails before first period and continue to slam coffee until lunch time, when I'll give my kidneys a break and start slamming water.  It's a good thing my room's across the hall from the boys' potty.

I guess the main thing I'll miss is being able to have almost unlimited time to read for pleasure and to write. I'll still do both of those things, but I'll have to work around reading what I've assigned my kids to read and also what I've had them write.  That's one of the elements that nearly all English teachers have to contend with, especially AP English teachers.  We have them read and write a lot, which means we read a lot.  But I wouldn't do it if I didn't love it.

One thing I'm looking forward to is seeing my teacher friends.  I've been in touch with some over Facebook and such, but nothing can replace face-to-face human contact.  Sadly, some dear old friends are no longer with us.  No, they didn't die--they retired.  But many didn't and who knows, maybe the people who replace them will soon be dear old friends.

On the most positive of all notes is that I get to meet a new bunch of students with whom I'll most assuredly fall in love with, adopt as my sons and daughters for nine months, and tearfully bid goodbye to in May.  I know I'll be crushed on that last day, but only because I've had such a good time with them the previous weeks and months.  I'll laugh with them, cry with them, talk with them, eat with them, celebrate with them, mourn with them, and just enjoy being with them.  I'll go their games and plays and concerts and tournaments and recitals and be amazed at how talented and dedicated they are  So it's worth a few tears.  Okay, several tears.  I'm a crybaby.  I own it.

So yeah, it's a loss of some personal time, but it's bigger gain of personal fulfillment.  I'll take that trade anytime.  I'm a teacher.  I love my job.    

Writer's Voice

I'm a huge Robert B. Parker fan.  If I haven't read all of his books, I've read the vast majority, some of them multiple times.  I've even read the non-mainstream ones without his three well known main characters, though Spenser is where I met Parker and is my first love among his characters.  I was saddened when he died, not just for the loss of him, but also for the loss of Spenser, Jesse Stone, and Sunny Randall, who had become like dear old friends to me.

So it was with mixed emotions that I heard that Parker's widow Joan had tapped two people to carry on the Spenser and Stone series.  I was excited to have more exploits of my two favorite good guys to read, but how could someone else possibly capture the voice of one of crime drama's greatest writers?

The answer is that they couldn't.  No disrespect to Ace Atkins and Michael Brandman, but the writing is simply a pale shadow of the quick narration and sharp, witty dialogue that was Parker's trademark.  The characters are flat and unappealing in some cases (How in the world do you make Hawk feel smaller than life?), while in other cases they are just not who they used to be.  Jesse Stone is completely unlikeable in Brandman's iteration.  And Susan Silverman is, to quote a friend and fellow Parkerite, just plain snarky.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.  It would be like going to a Yo-Yo Ma concert and hearing the following announcement:  "Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry to announce that Yo-Yo Ma is not feeling well tonight.  However, his parts will be played by this other really good cellist.  He's just as good, really." Or like going to a New England Patriots game only to find that Tom Brady's uniform would be out there, but it would be filled by Tim Tebow.  They were going to run all the same plays, so the fans should expect Brady's uniform to be able to play just as well despite being filled by another player.

It's not the cello--it's Yo-Yo Ma.  It's not the uniform--it's Tom Brady.  It's not the names of the characters and locations--it's Robert B. Parker that makes them who they really are.  They just aren't the same without him.

Not to get all teacher-y, but the lesson here is that voice is important and each writer's voice is unique. I'm sure Mr. Atkins and Mr. Brandman are fine writers.  Atkins is a highly decorated author; I know less about Brandman.  But I'm 100% certain they are better writers when they are using their own voices than when they're trying (unsuccessfully) to imitate someone else's.  And the same is true for me.  You may hear echoes of writers like Parker and Craig Johnson in my voice because I love their writing so much and read it voraciously, but I write best when I write as me.  And I hope that's pretty good.

Lazy Perfectionist

I have a problem.  I'm a lazy perfectionist.  Not sure if that's an actual thing, but it's the best description for me.  If I can't do something really well, I don't want to do it, but I'm often just too unmotivated to do it well. It's not that I don't have time.  It's that I just find myself vegetating rather than doing it.  I think that I don't really feel like sitting down and knocking out a whole chapter, so I won't bother working at all.

The weird part is that when I do get myself to do a little work, even if I think I don't have the time or energy to get a lot of writing done, I end up getting at least a little done and often do more than I think I will.  But even if I don't get lots done, I've moved forward. A step is better than no steps.

I also have this issue with setting goals and, when it becomes clear that I won't completely reach them, I decide it's easier just to give up rather than seeing how close I can come.  I'm that way with weight loss and with writing.  I was just on vacation and had this grand plan of writing and exercising every single day I was there.  I did a lot better on the exercising.  By the fourth day, I hadn't written a word, so I did what I usually do--I gave up.  I wrote two times and barely did that.  I probably didn't write 500 words.  They weren't bad words, but they weren't what I could have done if I had said to myself that I wasn't going to meet my goal, but I could still get good work done if I would just start from wherever I was.

That's my goal for the coming days.  I want to write every day, but if life gets in the way and I miss a day, my response will not be that I might as well give up.  Instead, I'll start new each day with the goal of writing THAT day.

Here are a few pictures from my family's trip to the Outer Banks:

Sunset over the beach

Ocracoke Ferry!

Hungry seagulls flying in formation

My niece and great nephew on the ferry.  He's a happy guy. :)

The family on the Rodanthe Pier.  It was nice, though they charged us just to go out on it. 

My Writing Process: To Be a Better Writer, You Have to Write More

I know, I know--not exactly a quotable quote.  But it's true nonetheless.  There are lots of tips and tools out there to help us all become better writers.  I get magazines full of them every month and the web has a seemingly never-ending supply of sites aimed at making better writers.  But all those tips in the world really boil down to one overriding idea: if you want to be a better writer, write as much as you can.  Practice, practice, practice.  

Let me back up a little, though.  If all I do as a writer is just pile word upon word and page upon page, I will become a highly prolific bad writer.  So I guess it should say, "To Be a Better Writer, You Have to Write More Reflectively."  If I think about what I've written and ask others to think about it and report their findings, the next time I sit down to write, I'll be better and more efficient.  And the more often I go through that reflective process, the faster I'll become better.  

What prompts this, possibly nonsensical, entry is what's happening as I write my second novel.  The editing process I went through with my first book is most definitely informing the writing of my second book.  I have a strong feeling the first draft of my second book will look a lot more like the final draft than the first draft of my first book did.  The amount of time I spend on description, the way I write dialogue, the general economy of my prose is so much better now as I write the initial draft of Kisses and Lies  than it was when I was drafting Harsh Prey, in which the final version ended up nearly 11,000 shorter than the first.  I'm sure there's going to be a need for editing and revising, but I am also sure they won't be as drastic and that will become more and more true with every book--as long as I reflect on my writing every time I do it.  Practice without reflection is useless.  Reflection without practice is equally useless.  

Harsh Prey Excerpt

I just thought that, since I feel like it's ready to hit the public, I would give anyone who may be reading my blog a short excerpt from my debut novel, Harsh Prey.  This is the chapter in which Harry and Dee Shalan, the dual protagonists, reunite after she had gone away to contemplate whether she could deal with the dangers of Harry's life as a private detective.

I hope you enjoy it.  If you have questions or comments, please feel free to leave me a comment.

This is from chapter 7:

After the cleaning and repairing went as far as it could, we got Eddie onto his leash—somewhat akin to leashing a big hairy Super Ball—and took him for a walk around our neighborhood.  The rain had ushered in a cold front, so, while the air was still damp from the storm, the temperature had become much more clement than usual for this time of year.  It also seemed to make everything instantly greener and lusher.  Ours was a generally well-tended neighborhood of historic homes.  Some, like the one where we lived, had not been as well maintained, but many were showplaces, with long front yards festooned with ornate landscaping. The flowers and shrubs were in their full glory after a second storm in two days, which had broken a brief dry spell.  Augmenting the visual beauty was the almost cloyingly perfumed air, thanks to Bea Taylor’s prize-winning rose garden. 

As we walked, Dee took my hand in hers, raised it to her lips and kissed it gently.  Something clicked deep in my soul.  She was home, so I was home too, for the first time in three months. 

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

I kind of let it hang for a bit, mostly because I had no idea how to respond.  Eventually, words—clumsy, useless words—came. “I’m not.”  Beautiful, Shalan.  And you used to be on the speech team. 

She ignored my moronic reply. “I wasn’t sure I could go on if you were gone.  I didn’t even stop to tell Mom and Dad where I was going.  I didn’t pack, I didn’t do anything except get Eddie and his leash and run for the car.  I had to know, I had to be in your presence.  I knew then that my need for you and my connection to you is more vital to my survival than anything else in the world.  And part of being in your life is accepting that you are, more than anyone I know, what you do.”

“A big chunk of what I am is you, Dee.  I am not me without you.”

“I know, but you are also not you without doing what you do.  It’s what attracted me to you in the first place, and it’s what draws me inexorably in now.  I can’t live without you and I can’t live with myself asking you not to be a detective, a hero.  It’s like asking Superman to turn in his cape.  You help the helpless, support the weak.  You do heroic things because you are, with every fiber of your being, a hero.”

“I just try to help,” I replied sheepishly.  I never knew how to respond when she talked like this.  I hated and loved hearing every word she said, not because I loved the thought of being a hero.  What meant so much to me was that the person who made my heart beat thought it about me. 

“It’s that beautiful, self-deprecating manner that I know is not put on, that makes you all the more irresistible.  I’m pretty sure I would simply cease to be if you died, but I’m equally sure that I cease to be, in any way that is meaningful or attractive to me, if I cease to be with you.”

“So what you’re saying is you love me.” I smiled and bumped my hip into hers as I waved at Ike and Corabeth Godsey, who were enjoying the cool air and brilliant sunshine from the shade of their broad front porch.  Ike smiled from his oak swing, which was suspended by chains from the porch ceiling, and raised a glass of lemonade as if to propose a toast to us.  In response, Eddie barked and leapt high into the air.  He pretty much loved everybody, but he especially loved Ike and Corabeth, not in small part because she gave him bites of her homemade bread every time we stopped by on walks. 

“My love for you was never in question, Mr. Studly.” She skipped over a chunk of broken sidewalk.   “The only question was whether the fear of losing you was too much to live with.  Now I know the fear is just part of the price I pay.” She squeezed my hand. “And it’s more than worth the price.”

We stopped.  Eddie stood with his front paws against the trunk of Ralph Parker’s hickory tree staring with utmost concentration at what I assumed to be a squirrel only he could see.  Squirrels were Eddie’s mortal enemies. 

I turned to face Dee and pulled her into my arms.  “I love you, Dee.  More than anyone has ever loved anyone before.”

Our lips met and the whole world went away.  No Eddie, no neighbors mowing lawns, no kids shouting and running—just her and me. At least until a car horn pierced our bubble of passion and simply would not stop. I guess we should’ve picked somewhere other than Old Man Parker’s driveway to declare our eternal love for each other.  We smiled and waved, unembarrassed, and re-commenced strolling down the walk.  As we reached the corner, Otis Campbell’s city-issued Crown Victoria pulled up beside us.