Everything I Know About Writing, I Learned From My Dogs

By Beth Terrell

I originally wrote this post as a guest blogger for "Working Stiffs," but I decided to repeat it here because I wanted to share it with you, and I don't think the two groups share many of the same followers. (It's a great blog, though, if you want to check it out.)

There is an old bumper sticker floating around that says, “Dog is my co-pilot.” As a writer, I could say “Dog is my muse,” or “Dog is my inspiration.” My husband and I share our home with two papillons: Luca (a.k.a., His Lordship of Eternal Cuteness, Light of a Thousand Suns) and our new puppy, Willow (a.k.a., She Who Seeks to Topple the Throne). While they never remind me to use the active voice whenever possible or to write 1,000 words a day (4,000, if I want to keep up with the tireless Joe Konrath), I have learned much about writing from them. Here are just a few of the lessons my dogs have taught me.

Love unconditionally. At first glance, this seems like a lesson for living, rather than a lesson for writing, but think about that manuscript you’re working on. Parts of it are polished and elegant, while others are awkward and rough. You give birth to a first draft that seems like the most beautiful baby in the world. Then you realize it’s a red, wrinkled, colicky creature that leaks at both ends and squalls like an air raid siren. You love it anyway. It’s that unconditional love that allows you to shepherd your little darling through the gangly, acne-pocked stage and mold it into the magnum opus you always knew it could be.

Take the time to do things you enjoy. Even a work-driven border collie occasionally takes a few minutes to gnaw on a bone or roll in a rotting squirrel carcass. We writers should do the same. Well, okay, not the rotting squirrel carcass. I lean more toward a Hugh Jackman movie and a box of Godiva chocolates. But you get the point: balancing work and play is important.

Savor every moment. We writers spend a lot of time in our own heads. I sometimes get so caught up in plans for the future (If only I could afford to write full time…Just wait until that hungry young agent comes to his/her senses and decides to offer me representation) that I forget to appreciate the wonder of creating worlds and people on paper. When Luca is sniffing the neighbor’s mailbox, he isn’t thinking about what he’s going to do when he gets home or which halter he’ll wear to his clicker class. He’s completely immersed in the messages left him by that sweet little terrier mix down the street. He’s living in the now. It’s easy to focus so intently on the goal that we forget to enjoy the journey.

Feel everything intensely. Can any creature express such utter happiness (“ahhhh, belly rub”) or such utter misery (“Crate? What do you mean, crate?”) as a puppy? It’s easy to fall back on facile descriptions of emotion, but a writer who can convey genuine emotion has a rare gift indeed. Watching the sincere emotion of my dogs reminds me to strive to be genuine in my writing.

Be gregarious. Luca loves people. On our walks, when he sees a stranger in the distance, he wags his whole body as if to say, “Look, Ma. Somebody over there wants to meet me!” His joyous greetings elicit smiles and outstretched hands. As a shy writer, I watch him work the crowd and realize that folks really aren’t so scary. All I have to do is show an honest desire to get to know them. (Of course, just to hedge my bets, I wrote Luca into my second book so he could accompany me to signings and attract the crowd.)

Don’t pee on the carpet. Okay. I already knew that one, but let’s think about it for a minute. Couldn’t we metaphorically equate our dogs’ soiling the carpet with the kind of self-sabotaging behavior some authors engage in (procrastination, missing deadlines, badgering his or her agent at all hours, boasting about his or her accomplishments ad nauseum, etc.)? A dog who can’t control his bladder misses out on opportunities to visit public places and other people’s homes, while a well-mannered, housebroken pup may go to the dog park, to a friend’s house, on puppy play dates, and outdoor craft festivals. Likewise, a writer who can’t control his or her behavior may alienate agents, editors, and potential fans. I know of at least one well-known author whose obnoxious behavior at a signing ensured he would never be invited back to the bookstore that held the event. On the other hand, readers will often buy books by authors who have been kind to them, even if those books might not ordinarily be in their sphere of interest.

And finally: Carpe diem, because no one can seize the day quite like a dog, especially one with literary aspirations.

Authors and Musicians

By Mark W. Danielson

Authors and musicians share a variety of tribulations. On the one hand, both groups possess an innate creative urge, which for most part, extends beyond any profitable merits. On the other, most musicians and authors will always struggle for notoriety in these popularity-based businesses. Sadly, neither group has much say in how their work can get noticed.

In a book store’s defense, authors must realize that managers base what books will be carried on their sell ability, thus name recognition is essential. Furthermore, when publishers don’t offer returns, there is no incentive for book stores to stock unknown authors’ works.

Not surprisingly, this same bias applies to musicians where radio station managers determine what songs receive air play. In spite of their nauseous repetition, disc jockeys must constantly replay the same songs in order to appease their station's sponsors. Unfortunately, we all lose where there is no musical or reading variety.

What’s interesting is seeing how rock icons like Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, and John Fogerty are facing these same problems. Although all three have released interesting albums in the last two years, few receive airplay among conglomerate radio stations. Springsteen's lyrics in his song Radio Nowhere echo his frustration: “I was spinin’ round a dead dial, just another lost number in a file, dancin’ down a dark hole, just searchin’ for a world with some soul. This is radio nowhere, is anybody alive out there?” Imagine singers like Bruce, Tom, or John finding themselves suddenly too old or outdated to compete with The Jonas Brothers, Lady Gaga, and Kid Rock. Then again, authors like Tom Wolfe would probably face similar difficulties in getting published in today’s market. Whether we’re talking about books or music, we have minimal input in what’s available to us.

This means that consumers must step up to preserve their freedom of choice. Readers must support their independent bookstores before they’re all gone, and music lovers must support PBS and satellite radio. All over America, independent book and music stores are closing because of a down economy. Add to that the Kindle electronic readers and IPod downloads and it's a wonder how any of them can stay in business. E-book sales are up 150% and climbing because people prefer downloading to strolling a bookstore’s aisles. Some may call this progress, but I’m sure we’ll be sorry when book and music stores are gone.

Although some say published novels will soon become relics of the past, I remain cautiously optimistic, for many people still prefer holding a book. Printed books can be loaned, read in direct sunlight, and their pages flipped and marked to their owner’s desire. They do not depend upon external power, and they can dry after being dropped in water. And while these electronic readers provide endless no-bulk libraries, I’m not convinced that Kindle’s advantages outweigh its disadvantages. So even if Amazon’s dream of cataloging every book ever printed comes to fruition, there will still be a demand for real books. The only difference is these books will be printed on demand, so the only thing sold in book stores will be really expensive coffee, Kindle batteries, and IPod earphones.

Ultimately, writers and musicians will continue producing because they love doing what they do. Recall that Stephen King has retired more than once, but he’s still writing today. The same can holds true for Springsteen, Petty, and Fogerty because performing is in their blood. So, perhaps authors and musicians should write and/or perform for the love of it, remembering that having a small following is as important as a large one. But most of all, if your creation has brought fulfillment to yourself and your fans, then your efforts have been worthy.

Memories of High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.


The poem “High Flight” by RCAF Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr. is a familiar one to those of us old enough to remember when TV stations signed off at midnight. The poem was recited as jet fighters swirled through the sky. But it goes back even further for me. I carried a copy of it when I was an Aviation Cadet in the Army Air Forces during the latter part of World War II.

I can’t remember exactly where I got it, though I think it was in something my mother sent me. I had dreamed of flying since early childhood, and that poem was a real inspiration. I never realized my dream, as the need for pilots became less and less with our success in the air war. I was discharged as an Aviation Cadet about three months after the war ended.

The poem always fascinated me, though, especially after it began showing up on nightly TV. When I ran a trade association back in the 70s and 80s, I used the movie version with the Air Force fighters at conventions.

I hadn’t thought of “High Flight” in a long time until I read Pat Browning’s weekend posts about the downing of a B-26 in Wales in 1943. I looked up the poem in Wikipedia and learned a lot about the young poet pilot and how his verse has spread over the years.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr. was born in Shanghai, China, in 1922, the son of an American Episcopal priest and a British mother. He attended school in England and the U.S., winning Rugby School’s Poetry Prize in 1938. He earned a scholarship to Yale University in July of 1940 but spurned it to enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force. After receiving his wings in July 1941, he shipped out to a unit in RAF Llandow, Wales to train in the Supermarine Spitfire.

Assigned to the 412th Fighter Squadron at RAF Digby, he flew fighter sweeps over France and air defense missions over England against the German Lufwaffe. On Sept. 3, 1941, while on a high altitude test flight of a newer model Spitfire V, he received the inspiration “to touch the face of God.” He composed the verse soon after landing and wrote it on the back of a letter to his parents.

A few months later, on Dec. 11, 1941, three days after the U.S. entered the war, Magee died when his Spitfire collided with a training plane in clouds while descending near his base. At the age of 19, he was buried at Holy Cross, Scopwick Cemetery in Lincolnshire, England.

According to Wikipedia, “High Flight” is the official poem of the Royal Canadian Air Force and the Royal Air Force, and it is required to be recited from memory by first year cadets at the U.S. Air Force Academy. Passages from the poem have been quoted in many books. John Denver adapted it and put it to music in his 1983 album It’s About Time. Parts of it have been used in movies and a TV series, and President Reagan quoted from the poem in a speech following the Challenger disaster.

I still get goose bumps reading the vivid imagery in the verse.

Summer Shorts: A Mountain in Wales

A propeller from the "Lil Lass" memorializes the crash of a B-26 on Carn Llidi during World War II. Shirley Wetzel and Gwen Scoggins traveled to Wales for a memorial ceremony in 2005.

By Pat Browning

This is really Shirley Wetzel’s story. She writes:

“In late summer, 2003, while skimming through my hometown newspaper, the Comanche (Texas) Chief, I was surprised to see a name I recognized. A man in England, I read, had written in search of relatives of 2nd Lt. Hulbert H. Robertson, who served in the Army Air Corps in World War II. I knew that name well. Hulbert was my mother’s first husband, father of my half-sister Gwen. He died on June 4, 1943, when his B-26 Marauder crashed into a Welsh hillside. He was buried in the American Cemetery near Cambridge, England.

"Gwen was not quite two years old when her father died, too young to remember him. My dad raised her and loved her as his own, but from early on I knew that my big sister and I had different biological fathers. Her daddy was the smiling young soldier whose picture hung on the parlor wall of his parents’ old dog trot cabin in the country near Comanche.”

The “man in England” turned out to be Steve Jones, a firefighter and aviation history buff living in Port Talbot, Wales. He had spent 10 years researching World War II military aircraft crashes in southern Wales, and had copies of the accident report and other official documents that included details of the crash. He invited Shirley and Gwen to visit him, so on March 15, 2004 they flew from Houston to London, and Steve was there to meet them.

In an e-mail, Shirley told me of meeting people who remembered the crash:

“(The Lil Lass) was in heavy fog and never saw it coming -- we talked to a couple of people who'd been children at the time and remembered hearing the plane coming -- "my father heard it and said ‘that plane will never make it over the mountain’-- then there was a crash, and silence. All the farmers around ran up the mountain (a hill, really, 600 ft.) to see if they could help, but there was nothing they could do. They took the bodies down to St. Davids Cathedral as a sign of respect while waiting for the Americans to come for them.

"My mother, who never knew much more than that his plane crashed in Wales, has been so thrilled to get all this information. She had always worried that he'd been all alone high in the mountains, but that wasn't the case at all. We brought back a stone, some dirt and a few pieces of metal that's still on the hillside so she can put them under a marker in his family cemetery.”

Shirley wrote an excellent account of her visit, calling it “A Mountain in Wales.” I posted it on my blog (Morning’s At Noon) in April this year, and not a day goes by without someone from Europe (mostly the UK) landing on her story. A couple of days ago I had a visitor from Bratislava. Now there’s a name to conjure with.

Shirley’s story, with several photos, can be seen on my blog at
http://tinyurl.com/mneqjm.

Here are some moving excerpts from her visit to the Cambridge American Cemetery,where many American soldiers are buried, and to the British Museum.

***
… Arthur took us to the Memorial building, which is separated into a large museum room and a small devotional chapel. A glass wall overlooking the cemetery contains stained-glass replicas of the seals of all the states and U.S. territories represented in the cemetery. On the opposite wall are large maps depicting the Atlantic and Pacific theaters.

A magnificent mosaic by Francis Scott Bradford of Connecticut is the most striking part of the building. On the wall above the altar, the Archangel trumpets the arrival of the Resurrection and the Last Judgment. The mural continues across the entire ceiling, with depictions of World War II aircraft flying into the arms of angels. An inscription runs around the edges:

“In proud and grateful memory of those men of the United States Army Air Force Who from these friendly skies flew their final flight and met their God. They knew not the hour the day nor the manner of their passing. When far from home they were called to join that heroic band of airmen who had gone before. May they rest in peace.”

***
… the British Museum … our final stop. As we walked in, I noticed a carved panel on the front wall, a memorial to museum employees who “went from this museum and fought and fell in the war 1914-1918.” Ten names were listed. At the bottom, under the dates 1939-1945, four more names had been added.

In between was a stanza from a poem by Laurence Binyon, “The Fallen.” It captured perfectly the purpose of our journey:

“They shall grow not old/
As we that are left grow old/
Age shall not weary them/
Nor the years condemn/
At the going down of the sun/
And in the morning/
We will remember them”
***

Many thanks to Shirley Wetzel for sharing her stories, which remind us of the great debt we owe to those who paid for our freedoms.

Summer Shorts - Raised From The Dead

By Pat Browning

Three years ago I asked if anyone on the DorothyL mystery listserv knew whether a small book or journal in a pocket could deflect a bullet.

Shirley Wetzel of Comanche, Texas e-mailed me a true story of a World War II steel-covered New Testament that saved her uncle’s life.

Shirley wrote:
***
He had his steel covered N.T. in his shirt pocket when he was shot multiple times in France in WWII. He woke up in a room full of very quiet men, with a tag on his toe. A nurse heard him groaning and ran to get the doctor. Uncle had more than a bruise on his chest, but the bible did stop (a bullet) before it penetrated his chest.

When they opened (the book) it was to a verse about "the young man was raised from the dead.” My wild and rowdy uncle became a preacher after the war -- he took it as a Sign.
***

In a follow-up e-mail, Shirley told me the rest of her uncle’s story.

***
It is a favorite story in our family. There's a bit more to it -- right after my aunt told him goodbye, she found (the New Testament) in a store she was walking by. Something told her she needed to get it for him. It arrived in the last mail shipment he got before the ship sailed, and he kept it next to his heart until the day he was shot. He lost most of the possessions he'd carried with him, but the docs saved that for him.

There was one more thing that made him decide he should become a minister -- his unit was under fire, and one of his soldiers was wounded just a few feet from the others. They couldn't get to him because of heavy gunfire, but my uncle was close enough to talk to him. The young man began reciting the Lord's Prayer, calmly making his peace with death. That made a big impression on his buddies.

And one more part to (my uncle’s) story – his unit was on the way to the Battle of the Bulge, and stopped in a small French village. He parked his tank near a farmhouse and got out. A little girl saw the soldiers and starting screaming. He slowly walked over to try to comfort her, and he gave her that GI staple, a Hershey bar. Her mother came out and explained that some German soldiers had come a few days before and shot her father in front of her. My uncle's unit stayed there a few days and made friends with the villagers. On the morning he was preparing to leave, he heard a knock on the door of the tank. It was the little girl -- she took a barrette out of her hair -- probably the most prized possession she had left -- and gave it to him. It's one of the things he lost at the hospital, but he never forgot that little girl.
***

Shirley and I both have an interest in World War II and one thing led to another …

She sent me photos and material about her trip to Wales, where her mother's first husband, Lt. Hulbert Robertson, died in the crash of a B-26 Marauder bomber on June 4, 1943. The crew had left North Africa on the last leg of a flight that began in Cuba, and they were headed for an RAF base in England. They ran into fog and crashed on the coast of Wales. Shirley included a wonderfully detailed and poignant story she wrote about her trip and about the crew. I finally got the material sorted and organized and it is now on my blog.

And that is a story for tomorrow – Sunday – as part of this Fourth of July holiday weekend.

The Adventures of Bill Cody II

by Jean Henry Mead

Buffalo Bill's grandson not only followed in his boot prints as showman, dude rancher, soldier and entrepreneur, he made history of his own. The unpretentious Harvard Law School graduate surrendered the most American troops in Europe during World War II, married more often than the average American, and lectured to more students about their heritage than any of his fellow countrymen. Among his many accomplishments, he learned to downhill ski at 65.

William Cody Garlow was born at the Scout’s Rest Ranch in North Platte, Nebraska, January 4, 1913. His mother, Irma, (Buffalo Bill’s youngest child) returned to Cody, Wyoming, with her two-week-old son and his older brother Fred and sister Jane. The children were orphaned in 1918 when their parents died two days apart during the influenza epidemic. Their grandfather, William F. Cody, passed away the previous year and his wife Louisa adopted their grandchildren and reared them until her death in 1921.

Bill Garlow was four when his illustrious granddad died. “I remember him distinctly only three times,” he said. “Once at the TE Ranch west of Cody, on his deathbed, and at his funeral on Lookout Mountain.”

Bill and his brother Fred were "installed in a military school" in southern California by their grandmother when they were six and nine. Bill continued his education at the Riverside Military Academy in Georgia, where his grades fluctuated according to the season and he studied six years, instead of four, to graduate. “Periodically I was excellent,” he said, grinning. “And other times I got lousy grades. It all depended on hunting season which started about the same time as school. I had to go hunting first.”

The trim six-footer studied pre-law at the University of Nebraska, graduating in 1936. He then enrolled at Harvard Law School. “Very early in high school I decided to become a lawyer. I visualized justice, equity and all that I wanted to participate in, but when I became a lawyer, I found that it was an entirely different ball game, so I practiced two years and quit.”

Following graduation from Harvard, Garlow enlisted in the army as a reserve commissioned second lieutenant. A platoon leader, he was later promoted to the ranks of captain, company commander and major. In 1944, he was transferred to the 106th Infantry Division and sent to Germany where his troops were caught in the Battle of The Bulge. Surrounded by German artillery troops, Garlow’s 423rd regiment, commanded by Colonel Charles Cavender, was stationed on the Schnee Eifel, attempting to fight its way west to the German town of Schoenberg.

Just before daybreak on December 19, 1944, Cavender gathered his three battalion commanders and staff in a small open field to discuss their next line of action when a German artillery shell fragment killed the officer standing next to Garlow. After the initial volley, American troops assembled to coordinate an attack westward across the hilly Schnee Eifel, but the entire command was caught in the open where artillery fire was inflicting heavy casualties. Colonel Descheneau of the 422nd gathered field officers in a bunker to discuss the graveness of their situation. Food and ammunition supplies had been cut off, and the colonel concluded that the only way to save the lives of the 5,000 men was to surrender.

Garlow volunteered to negotiate the surrender although he and several other men had planned to escape through the woods, with the colonel’s permission. He decided to hand over his gun and borrow white handkerchiefs to wave as he ran an erratic path down the side of the hill into German-held territory. There he was grabbed and stripped of “his most prized possessions.” He spoke no German and was unable to communicate his intent to negotiate a surrender until a young German lieutenant, who spoke English, came to his rescue and ordered his men to return Garlow’s watch, pint of bourbon and candy bars. He was then taken to a major who also spoke fluent English.

John Eisenhower describes the scene that followed in his book, The Bitter Woods:

Turning to the lieutenant [the major] snapped orders in German which Garlow soon learned charged the lieutenant with conducting a patrol of nine or ten men to accompany Garlow back to the American positions. Faced with a tense situation, the young volksgrenedier’s personality instantly changed. He jabbed Garlow in the back with his Schmeisder burp gun. “If this is a trick, Major, you’re dead.” Garlow winced under the painful blow: later turned out his chivalrous enemy had broken two of his ribs. But the lieutenant’s former friendly attitude returned. Keeping Garlow covered, he let the American guide his patrol up the hill to Descheneau’s CP on the Schnee Eiffel, where they found that Descheneau had prepared everything. Weapons were broken . . .

And many American soldiers were in tears. Garlow, therefore, held what he termed “the dubious honor or having negotiated the surrender of the largest number of American soldiers in the European theatre;" surpassed only by the Bataan surrender in 1942. Members of the 422and and Garlow’s 423rd regiments spent the rest of the war in German prison camps and were awarded purple hearts for the frostbite they suffered as a result of their capture. Garlow was also “unofficially shot in the leg.”

Following the war, he returned to “Cody Country” where he practiced law for two years and helped establish the local radio station. He was one of the founders of KODI, later serving as owner-general manager and on-the-air personality. He then moved to Texas where he “got into the oil business,” the drilling end of it. He went broke after a while, he said, because of his preoccupation with “having a good time and chasing girls.” So he once again returned to the town of Cody, where he established a river float business, later run by his son Kit. In 1969, he married for the fifth time.

His first marriage lasted six months. He married again while a law student at Harvard. The union produced four sons: Bill and Jack Garlow and Barry and Kit Carson Cody. He remarried after his sons' mother died, but was divorced after only a couple of years. A fourth marriage also failed, but he remained happily married to his fifth wife Barbara, some forty years his junior, until his death. Together they purchased a rundown guest ranch and established it as one of the most highly rated resorts in Wyoming. Located on ten acres of leased government land, it lay halfway between Cody and the east entrance to Yellowstone Park, adjoining millions of acres of national forest.

He began making public appearances for the Daisy Air Rifle Company in 1968 when a new line was introduced called the “Buffalo Bill.” The promoters insisted that he legally change his name from Bill Cody Garlow to Bill Cody for the television and radio commercials as well as public appearances. “Bill Garlow just wouldn’t do,” he said. “But I may have already been a Cody because my grandmother adopted me. I never thought to check the courthouse records. So with all my marriages and the change in name, I have the Cody family book well fouled up.”

Buffalo Bill’s grandson appeared on some 3,000 television shows, thousands of radio programs and various promotions during the next nine years. He also lectured to junior high and high school students about their “American heritage” while on the road making public appearances. He talked to “more youth in person than any other American” during 1,171 lectures in forty-two states. At the time of the interview, he still had hopes of speaking to students in all fifty states.

He said, “That’s my kind of pony express.”

(Excerpted from my book, Westerners: Candid and Historic Interviews)

Resource for Writers

By Beth Terrell

Yesterday, Mark wrote about finding gems in our backyards. Today, I'm going to share a gem I found on the Internet a few days ago.

You may be familiar with a mystery writer named Joe Konrath (J.A. Konrath). Joe is a writing machine, cranking out 4,000 (or more) words a day. He's also a marketing machine: he visited more than 500 bookstores the year his first Lt. Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels book came out. He also blogs, does speaking engagements, and engages in a multitude of other marketing strategies. Pretty effectively, I might add. It doesn't hurt that he's a darn good writer.

Joe's blog, http://www.jakonrath.com, has always been a treasure trove for writers, and he's made it even better by adding a free download of an e-book called The Newbie's Guide to Publishing. That's right, free. He compiled the book after realizing that he had compiled over 300,000 words about writing and publishing, and it was getting difficult for his readers to sift through the archives for the answers to their specific questions.

The Newbie's Guide to Publishing may be the most comprehensive book of advice for writers ever written, and as an added perk, Joe has added links to each section (post) so that you can go to the original post and read the thread of comments that goes with it. You can even add comments of your own.There are a number of other perks as well. For instance, in the post about outlining, there's a link to his outline for Bloody Mary, one of his "Jack Daniels" mysteries.

I wasn't able to download the book to my hard drive, but I have it on my "favorites" and can click to it whenever I want, which is often. Among the topics he addresses are: Avoiding Plodding Plotting. Salable Characters, How I Got My Agent and a Three-Book Deal, Six Things You Should Never Put In a Query, Bad Promotion Techniques, How to Make a Disastrous Book Signing a Success, and many, many more.

Did I mention this e-book is 751 pages long? That's a lot of good advice.

Wherever you are on the writing continuum (aspiring to bestseller), Joe's e-book has something that will help you become a better writer and a better marketer.

Many thanks, Joe.