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A Man of His Word

A Man of His Word
(Character Study)

 
Jason Crawley was a man of his word. But, of course, you already knew that. It would have been impossible not to know; Jason himself made it a point to remind everyone he met nearly every time he opened his mouth.

"I'm a man of my word," he would say in that bulky voice of his, one that had been worn smooth after fifty years of lubricating it with well-aged scotch and tempering it with the finest Cuban cigars.

Oh, don't let that puzzle you. Just because Cuban products are illegal in the States doesn't mean you'd have cause to doubt Jason's word. The fact is, he never had to provide a single word about how he happened to come into the possession of Cuban cigars. Apparently, no one ever asked. It's possible no one ever cared to ask. It's equally possible no one ever dared.

But it's not that he had a particularly frightening presence about him. In fact, he could be downright congenial. That smile of his was not only genuine, it was permanent; and it was typically accompanied by anything from a friendly giggle to a gut-busting guffaw.

No, Jason was never frightening. But he certainly did have a presence. You couldn't help but feel dwarfed by his energy if not by his size, although his size alone was sufficient. I can't remember anyone ever dwarfing him. That meaty hand of his would engulf yours no matter who you were. Believe me. I saw it swallow everything from ballerinas to linebackers.

You see, Jason Crawley got around. He was a friend to everyone from politicians to protestors. I honestly can't imagine anyone not liking him, with that genuine smile, those giggling guffaws and that comforting embrace of a handshake he would never fail to extend, especially when he assured you he was a man of his word.

And he was. If he told you he would give you the moon, you'd better start making room above the garage.

I don't know how he managed to accomplish the things he did. He wasn't born with that proverbial silver spoon. He was never at the top of his class. And yet he exuded a kind of influence so powerful you might believe it was magic. Jason Crawley made things happen. It was almost as though all he had to do was envision something and then ‘presto’ it would come to pass.

If you want an example, let me tell you about his niece. At fifteen years of age she was tall and lanky, lacking the kind of curves most of her friends were beginning to display. To top it off, her skin was never clear and she exhibited all the grace of an ox.

Jason came upon her one day in the park. She was sitting on a bench far from the field where the rest of her friends were playing a pick-up game of softball. She was all curled up, trying to make herself as small as she could. And she was crying.

"Aw, now what's this about, Angel?" He said in that scotch-smooth voice of his, that smile never leaving his face.

He sat down beside her and tried to push long strands of brown hair away from her eyes, a task that could not have been easy with those sausages he had for fingers.

Before long his angel explained how she had tripped over her own feet while trying to make it to first base. And then she confessed that she hated being who she was. She was nobody.

"If you want to be somebody," Jason said to her, "all you have to do is hold your chin up, keep your back straight and greet the world as though you own it. And then you know what? You will own it."

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

"Sure I am," he said. "But you know I wouldn't lie to you, don't you? You ought to know by now that I'm a man of my word. If I say it, then you better believe it. Now I'm telling you that you can have anything you want, and you can be anything you want. All you have to do is want it bad enough to believe it."

Of course, she had no choice but to believe him. And within a year she blossomed. To this day she holds her chin up, keeps her back straight and makes things happen just like her uncle used to do.

Sometimes I wonder why he didn't envision himself living forever, why he didn't give his word to make sure it would come to pass. And then I look in the mirror, holding my chin up and keeping my back straight. And I realize that he did, after all.

*   *   *

Dreaming

Dreaming

Dreaming in that way I do, I melt into the mist

where edges fade, and darkness too, and I need not resist.

My journeys there are safe and warm, for I have full control

in that place where wild adventures form – amusement for the soul.

It takes me to the Amazon, or some new, exotic land

for a dangerous liaison with old foes there, close at hand.

It takes me into forests dark, and deserts harsh and wide;

it shows me stars that fade and spark, then leads me deep inside

to find the damsel in distress, or the brave and noble knight,

or perhaps the warrior at rest from some preempted fight.

I might find a crumbling ruin or perhaps an ancient tome,

or the chords of some forgotten tune meant to guide ancestors home.

Whatever lies in wait for me in that netherworld of mind,

it gives me hope to wander free through portals locked in time:

a trip into the wild west with a horse and holstered gun,

like cowboys on some desperate quest to avoid that setting sun;

or a journey down the Nile, where the pyramids still shine

like castles reaching skyward along the river Rhine.

The stories never cease to rise, the heroes never die,

and they yield the greatest prize when they let me see them cry.

Dreaming in that way I do, I find a kind of peace.

Reality might be the glue, but I prefer the crease

between what is and what can be and perhaps what never will—

the place where legends climb with me to the top of every hill.

I have to take this time to dream before tomorrow comes

and challenges the things that seem the fear of all our sums.

 

Aspiring Writers' Tips

Aspiring Writers' Tips

This was written to provide a small group of aspiring writers in 2005. I am sharing it here, now, simply for the sake of sharing.

*   *   *

What follows are tips I've picked up during my own, personal journey.  I have traveled this road at a slow pace, and have made many stops along the way as I contemplate, absorb and build upon the lessons I have found along the way.  My own ultimate goal has been an uncertain one.  To simply say "I want to write and become published" is not enough.  I have had to determine exactly what I want to write for myself, as opposed to what I want to write for publication.  I have had to establish targets showing me when I want to present my writing to the public, and to learn how that challenge could best be met.  Other writers are far more focused at a far earlier stage in their development.  They move quickly, knowing exactly what 'brass ring' they are looking to grab. 

We all have our own maps and timelines.  In reviewing these tips, use what you feel might work best for you in developing yours. 

A: Getting Started

1. Find out who publishes material similar to yours:

1.1  Spend time at bookstores, both large chains and independents.  Peruse the shelves to discover who publishes what.  Make notes of:

•         Publisher's company name

•         Titles & Authors they publish

•         Review "About the Author" sections to get a feel for who their authors are

•         Pay attention to cover designs: do you like how this publisher's material is presented?

•         Read the back cover notes

•         Read the first & last page of the stories, and a random sampling of other pages:

o   Are they edited well? Do you see a lot of typos and other mistakes?

o   Are they written well?

o   Does the writing bare any similarity to yours, in style or storyline?

1.2  Get a copy of the Writers Market, a hard-cover volume that is published annually by Writers Digest.  Review publishers who list under your genre.

2. Keep informed about the writing market via Writers Digest magazine (available at all bookstores) and website (www.writersdigest.com)

3. Join internet writing groups.  Do online searches to find groups that interest you, especially to locate groups that cover your genre.  Writing groups will keep you informed about who has experienced what in their attempts to become successfully published.  You can learn from postings of success stories, nightmare experiences and everything in between.

3.1  Try to find groups tied to your geographic area.  This will give you a future option to meet face to face with people you get to know first on line (although as with all online communities, please exercise internet safety precautions when establishing meetings, and never divulge personal information).  For example, I am a member of the Detroit Writers Group and Motown Writing Network (both of which have associated Yahoo Groups).  Finding a locally based group will also present opportunities to meet in person for deeper discussions about writing, publishing, etc.

*** Whether or not you get involved in active discussions with your online groups is entirely up to you.  You can learn a lot simply by reviewing other members' posts.  However, you can learn more through active involvement.

4. Find a critique group you feel comfortable with.  It may be nice to share your work with family and friends.  However, you will never get a real objective critique of your writing unless you find the right critique group.  Such a group may be an off-swing of your writing group(s) selected above.

4.1  Be careful in choosing a group.  Some critique groups are too gentle (never focus on someone who says "it's perfect!"  While it's great for the ego, it's not helpful with improving your writing); others are too rough.  Beware of "flamers," people who will tear your writing apart for no good reason.  Some people simply like to feel superior, and they get affirmation by picking apart other people's writing.  Also, look for people who focus on different parts of your work: some people have good eyes for bad punctuation; others are good with identifying poor word choice, redundancy, grammar, etc.; still others are great at catching inconsistencies or plotting issues.

4.2  Critique groups may be found online or locally.  Online groups will open the doors to a wide variety of styles, talents and professionalism.  

4.3  Avoid groups that focus too heavily on a genre within which you do not write.  If a local writing group focuses on Romance; a writer of Westerns will not likely find much benefit in participating (although there may be exceptions).

4.4  Make sure you develop a thick skin.  It may be hard at first to hear someone tell you that something you love did not turn out as great as you thought it did. However, you should soon find such advice to be extremely helpful and even necessary to your ongoing development as a writer.

•         Be prepared to have to cut something out of your work if it doesn't: a.) effectively move the story forward; or b.) fit. 

•         Some of my best, most poetic material survives only in file folders because it failed at both a. and b., above (for one thing, "poetic material" typically does not belong in an action-heavy story).  While you might love the writing, it might not be the 'right' writing for your story.  Cut it, but don't get rid of it.  Save it in a special file for future use.  You never know; you might just find the perfect home for it later.

5. Look for websites that post other helpful news and information about your genre, the publishing industry, and opportunities to improve your writing via classes, conferences, etc.  Writers Digest publishes an annual list of best websites for writers; check it out.

6. Join writers' networks and/or associations, which can provide useful resources such as legal and copyrighting advice in addition to providing you with networking opportunities.  To find the right one for you, start by visiting authors' websites.  Check out bios and links to see if they list associations to which they belong. 

•         Be sure to focus on authors who write materials in your genre.

•         Many associations will only be open to traditionally published authors (as opposed to authors who are yet to be published or who are self published).  Don't let that disappoint you.  Just note it as a target for after you reach your initial publishing goals.

B: Initial Self Promotion Online

1. Establish a web presence.

1.1  Research your options for resources.  I have had good experiences with iPage, Yahoo and Netherweb.com, but have recently eliminated my cost-based web presence, relying instead on blogger and other free journaling sites. 

1.2  To create a web site, many internet services will provide free software.  You may also try MS Publisher or FrontPage software -- but be aware that some internet browsers will not properly recognize the MS coding.

1.3  Post a brief bio.  Keep it short, simple and professional.  This should not be an autobiography, but rather a brief introduction, enabling agents, editors and readers to make a quick decision as to whether or not they should consider reading what you have to offer.

1.4  Share information about your writing.  What do you write?  (Provide examples.)  How long have you been writing it?  If it's non-fiction: What purpose does the writing serve?  Which authors/books/etc. are your greatest influences?  What makes your writing different?

1.5  Link with interesting and/or useful resource sites and other author websites (as long as you have their permission to do so). 

1.6  Include a message board, guest book and/or other methods for your visitors to enter into discussions with you.

1.7  Provide your contact information.  If you have a PO Box, include it; but for reasons of internet safety, never include your home address or phone number.  It is entirely possible that your contact information will be limited to an email address.

2. Post "free" material on your web site and in discussion communities online.  Although you have joined 'writers' communities, you will also want to find 'readers' communities to begin to build an audience for your work. 

•         Authors Den (www.authorsden.com; however, you may find more writers than readers here)

•         Yahoo Groups

•         Other online communities frequented by readers.

C: Looking for Agents, Editors

1. Conferences, conventions

•         Writers Digest

•         Local

•         Genre-Specific

2. Annual listings, published by Writers Digest
3. Writers associations

SImon "Bullnose" Walker

Simon "Bullnose" Walker: A Character Study (fictional)

 

Setting: Early to mid-1800s, somewhere in the Sierra Nevada

*   *   *

 

Simon Bullnose Walker was a hunter. He hunted to survive. But sometimes, as now, it wasn't about survival at all. It was about something else, something…bigger. 

Some might call it vengeance; others, justice. Still others might call it murder. Simon didn't much care if it had a name. Names were just words. And words were the creation of men. The world was much bigger than words, and words restricted men's thinking, locking them into seeing only what they could define. Words made men blind to the bigger reality, the truer reality around them.

It was a lesson Simon had learned early in life. Folks were always looking for words to say what he was. Whatever word they chose would dictate how they would talk to him, how they would respond to him…and how they would treat him. Those who called him darkie expected him to do their fetching; when he walked away as though to oblige them, he just kept walking, and never looked back. Those who called him greaser expected him to be a thief; and so he took what was theirs, and then disappeared into the night, leaving them to chase nothing but shadows—because the word they'd used had no reality within it. Those who called him injun expected him to be a savage; and so he was. No one ever used any of those words on him more than once. 

Simon didn't much care if there was a word that spoke truly about him. The old trapper who'd found him had always said Simon shouldn't abide by men's words, because Simon was more than just a man. In fact, according to that trapper, Simon might not even have been born of woman. He'd been found caterwauling in a cradle, in the middle of the forest, an infant child left alone and hungry. When no human soul came forth to claim him, the trapper took him in. He was called Simon for the trapper's baby brother, whom the trapper had abandoned to venture west in search of something that had always seemed elusive in the society of men, something grander than words could ever describe—something Simon had found even when the trapper couldn't; he'd found it whenever he gazed out over things no man could ever create—or recreate—valleys and gorges and waterfalls that defied even the greatest artists' pallets…or the greatest poets' words.

Simon's second name came about as he grew into the man he would become. His wide face and nearly equally wide, flat nose earned him the name Bullnose. Like Simon, it was a name he had never been inclined to argue against. Like Simon, there was a purpose to it. It was a name that gave him strength, and he wore it well.

His third name, Walker, came about much later, after the old trapper had died and Simon was left to walk in the world alone. It was then that he became a hunter. He lived in the forest with the other animals, and he came to respect them as they came to respect him. He would not use an animal to serve him. Just as he would not fetch for those who called him darkie, he would not expect an animal to fetch for him. He rode no horse. He conscripted no mule to haul for him.  And though the trapper had been good to him, Simon did not respect what the trapper had done. Trapping was not hunting. Trapping took animals. Hunting was different. Simon hunted only those animals who called to him, those that were willing to give what they had so that he might survive. They gave him food. They gave him clothing. And sometimes, as now, they gave him shelter.

At the first signs of rain, Simon had tucked himself into the niche between the rocks he'd taken as his home as soon as he'd caught up with his recent prey. The niche was small enough for most men to overlook, yet large enough to enable him to stretch out in comfort. And throughout the storm, that's exactly what he'd done. He'd pulled a thick bear skin over the opening, providing him with warmth as well as protection, and he'd settled into a sleep deep enough to revive his body as well as his spirit.

When he woke, he could easily sense the change in the weather. The smell was crisp, the sound…soft. The lonely howl of the wind might seem hard to most men, but to someone like Simon, a man so unlike other men, it was comforting. It was the kind of howl that reminded Simon he was where he belonged, the kind that sang to him like a lullaby…the only lullaby he had ever known. He breathed in that crisp scent, that soft lullaby, and then he pulled aside his bear skin door to find the entrance of his niche nearly obscured by new fallen snow.

It was a sight that gave him succor. Dawn was hours ahead yet, but it would be a good dawn, a good day. Weather such as this made other men weak, men such as the two-legged prey he'd been tracking by smell for the past three weeks. Yes, they would be weak, but he was now rested, and strong as the bull that had given him his second name.

The day to come would surely mark the last day of his latest hunt.

Ripples

One pebble tossed into the center of a still pond can turn its smooth, glasslike surface into a mess of ripples.

No, that's not quite right, is it? It's not a mess of ripples at all. There's nothing messy about it. It's just a whole bunch of circles, one after the other. Perfect, little circles…and circles within circles.

It really is amazing how many rippling circles a single pebble can cause, circles that have no beginning and no end. They just go on and on. Even when the surface goes smooth again, the circles are there, just waiting for another pebble to wake them up.

But the pebble…

The pebble sinks to the bottom, and then gets buried under muck and silt.

Now when I look at my reflection in that clear, glassy water, I can't help but wonder whether I'm the circles, or the pebble.

 

Lee Carroll (October 21, 1932-February 7, 2012)

My Eulogy to Lee

I met Lee Carroll at work. I can't say exactly how long ago it was. The count of years seems insignificant; the count of value he gave to those years is immeasurable.

I encountered Lee one day in a small, office lunchroom. I had gone in with my home-packed lunch and settled down to read a book. I don't remember the title or author; but the genre was science-fiction.

Anyone who knew Lee Carroll would be able to predict what happened next, without my having to say a word. I'll say it anyway:  Lee, drawn by the nature of the book, struck up a conversation.

It was an odd pairing, he and I. He was two years older than my father, a man of a completely different generation. Of course, if you knew Lee, you also know that age had no bearing on anything he did, or anyone he welcomed into his life. But there was another disparity, too. I was raised to hold my emotions in check, while Lee was the most expressive, emotive adult I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I have seen him so proud, often of his youngest son—whose name in those first years was generally given over to "small boy"—his eyes would honestly fill with tears of joy. I have also seen him teary-eyed over tales of heroism. Lee was always in awe of heroes, whether their stories involved wartime feats of bravery to save others, or rescues at sea. Lee, too, was a hero, although he would be loathe to acknowledge that fact. it is only right, after all, to do whatever clearly needs to be done, no matter the personal risk.

Lee's life was so full of wonder it always seemed to me I was speaking with a living book. He spoke of events of his past and people he'd met with enough passion to pull me into each tale. And his tales weren't only about his own past. He spoke of ancestors in a family tree that branched far and wide, from the era of King Arthur to the battlefields of the Civil War. He was also a font of knowledge, teaching me about things I'd never thought to learn, such as flint knapping, or the nature of chainmail, or the manner in which Roman soldiers advanced on their enemies in battle.

Lee had a passion for learning. This was a passion he continued to pursue long after earning degrees at Harvard, Cambridge and Tufts, a passion he never lost, he never could lose, and one that would pull people along, encouraging a similar passion in them. I found it fascinating to see that he used all that knowledge in ways every adult I'd ever encountered before would shun. The adults in my young life had taught me that adulthood by its very nature meant no longer playing make-believe, but Lee turned these lessons around. He never stopped making believe. In addition to role-playing games, he went to cons and donned costumes and the personalities those costumes represented. At Halloween, he was the scary man who spoke with cats and served up eyeballs to trick-or-treaters (the chocolate kind, of course). At Greenfield Village, in a con to celebrate steampunk, he was the Sandman.

Lee could tell you how to navigate the sea using a sextant, and why the same methods cannot be applied in the sky. He explored flint knapping as a means of understanding the technologies of primitive cultures. People might ask: How could he use such knowledge; what purpose could it serve? I can only answer by saying this: If knowledge is power, Lee was the most powerful man I have ever had the privilege to know. The world would be a much better place if there were more Lee Carrolls within it.

Lee was a navigator. It wasn't just what he did; it was who he was, as natural to him as breathing. Yes, he had a career as a navigator for the Coast Guard. He also had one as a coach, helping children and young adults to navigate their way through life by focusing on reaching  and exceeding their personal best. The literal course was a runner's track, but his coaching extended to the much broader course of life itself.

I have never been an athlete, and I was quite past young adulthood by the time we met. But Lee was my coach as well. More specifically, he was my navigator. He guided me through world building, to help me set the stage for an epic tale told over the course of three novels (never yet publicly shared). He taught me things of history I'd never known before, or forgotten, or had never bothered to understand. And he taught me things of people, of human nature, of culture and society, and politics at its best as well as its worst.

On a personal note, Lee helped me to understand things my father endured and continues to endure as a result of a stroke, because Lee knew intimately what challenges my father faced. Lee never once stopped fighting the effects of his own stroke. He refused to allow the impacts that stroke left on his body to interfere with his active participation in life. His strength of mind gave him a strength of body that undoubtedly left physicians scratching their heads in bafflement.

In many ways, Lee was like a surrogate father to me, filling a role my own father had never managed to assume, a role that made him my teacher, my coach and my navigator. But more importantly, Lee was my friend. I've never known another living soul with whom I could debate the course of humankind. Our conversations ranged from the bizarre to the profound. There were plenty of times when he told me my insights helped him to reach answers to complex questions he'd been unable to resolve; but I know, without a doubt, his insights gave me more than I could ever give him in return.

Even so, I like to believe we were equals when it came to friendship.

In recent months, our conversations were, by necessity, more grounded by realities we could neither ignore nor philosophize our way around, realities of life that simply demanded our attention. Lee was facing life without the love of his life at his side, and my mother was facing the end of her own life. In recent weeks, we lost touch, as I found myself resurfacing from the fog of my mother's death, and he found himself, unbeknownst to me, facing the end of his life on this earth. It could be said that the past year spiraled around us like the outer edges of a black hole. February 7, 2012 marked the center-point, Lee's own, personal event horizon, the day on which he was pulled to the other side. I like to imagine him there now, in an alternate universe fueled by his own, broadly colored imagination, crossing galaxies with Anne at his side, and both of them taking my mother under their wings.

Lee, my friend, travel well. May your journey among the stars sate your soul and help fuel the imaginations of intelligent dreamers for millennia yet to come.

I like to believe the following poem, written for my mother, describes Lee's Heaven as well:

http://dmkraft.blogspot.com/2012/04/my-mothers-heaven.html 

I also came upon this wonderful tribute to Lee that I want to share here:

http://blogetrypoetry.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-memory-of-lee-carroll.html