Apparently your characters aren’t the only things who change over time…
Eight years ago this Monday, I signed my first book contract (above left). It was for a collection of my syndicated humor columns called “Humor at the Speed of Life.” I was still a journalist at the time and had finished a 16-year run of my column in 50 newspapers.
Just LOOK at that guy! The youthful joy and hope in the face of a budding author! His eyes are bright! Full of anticipation for the future! I have ARRIVED! he’s thinking. The world is my oyster!Sure, I actually hate oysters because they initiate my gag reflex so bad I can launch one onto the wall from 6 feet away with surprising accuracy. But still… it’s my oyster to gag on!
Ahhhh, it seems like a lifetime ago. Especially when you include the COVID vortex that bent time and aged us all 20 years like when you leave half an avocado out over night.
Admittedly, I feel like that guy who has every intention of being a good boyfriend but still ends up being a shmuck. Not because he’s cheating or manipulative or always eats the last strip of bacon without even offering to split it. But I have definitely allowed everything else in my writing life to take precedence over this blog, which was the cornerstone to so many of the good things that transpired IN my writing life since we first met back in 2004.
But like a lot of long-term relationships, we’ve grown and changed over the years — some of it resulting from the daily, monthly and yearly challenges of life, some from a shift in friend circles and constantly evolving social and cultural pressures, and some because (sigh…) I found myself attracted to younger, flashier platforms.
See? Schmuck.
Truth be told, my needs have changed. And while I will always find comfort in this blogging relationship, I recognize that neither of us are the same as when we first met. Not that it’s a bad thing. In fact, if I was still the same person I was 20 years ago, I’d be worried. Or at the very least a case study at mental health conventions. A lot has happened since those first blog posts. I was two years away from divorce and hiding my unhappiness beneath layers of humor — something that was both my fallback position and coping mechanism. Certainly better than drinking, lashing out, withdrawing or binge-watching Wrestle Mania reruns. Or all of the above for that matter.
My writing and editing partner, Ella, is really great at attacking dangling participles
A year ago today, I received my official Oregon business license establishing Easy Writer Editing Services as an LLC and, most importantly, a source for the IRS to tax. It was a big leap, especially for someone whose best mark in the long jump was about 4 feet. But sometimes you have to take a risk in order to follow your passion and do what you love rather than just doing what you must.
I’d spent 23 years as a journalist, columnist and eventually newspaper editor before semi-retiring and taking a job as a postal worker delivering mail and packages for the next year-and-a-half. During that time, I met and worked with some amazing folks who perform a very difficult job. I learned — and delivered on — nine different routes, getting know which dogs (and people) would bite and which ones just wanted a cookie. But all along, I felt something was missing. My mind wandered a lot. Story ideas kept nagging, along with my love of working with others who lived there lives in pursuit of utilizing words to communicate, educate and inspire.
I spent the last 6 months as a postal worker formulating and laying the groundwork for my exit strategy. I needed a business name, logo, alcohol a brand, website, alcohol a list of services and a fee structure, not to mention state and federal licensing, a business bank account (can’t cross the money streams without a good money launderer), a computer, business phone, printer, more alcohol an invoicing and payment system — so many details. And what if, after that investment of time and money, it failed?
A subtle reminder that my retirement may be in jeopardy.
Writing and publishing a book is a lot like making a pizza. You decide on what kind you’re going to make, then knead it until it’s ready to rise. Next comes the secret sauce, followed by the intricate layering of perfectly placed ingredients (and don’t you dare say pineapple) in order to give it just the right flavor — and finally, sprinkle it with herbs… like it’s fairy dust!
All DONE!
Well… sort of.
I mean, technically, you could eat it at this point.
But you really should bake it first. So, now you need to decide what temperature? How long? Pizza stone or sheet pan? And after it’s done baking, should it be cut into 12 pieces? 10? 8? Folded over and eaten like a giant calzone dripping down your shirt? What about ranch dressing? Pepper flakes? Parmesan?
Your completed book manuscript is like the uncooked pizza; all the ingredients are there but, until it’s baked and cut into publishable slices, no one is going to read it without running the risk of salmonella. (Did I mention I was a chef for 10 years back in the ’90s?)
On Aug. 16, my Northwest-based mystery/suspense novel No Safe Harbor officially went from pages of paper manuscript to 297 pages in a hardcover novel. It was initially met with the level of fanfare one would expect for a humor columnist releasing his first self-published crime novel [insert crickets here]
[NOTE: No crickets were harmed in the making of this blog post]
When I retired from journalism and started my own book and memoir editing service last October, one of the primary reasons was to binge-watch Yellowstonetry new vodkasbecome a TikTok sensation get back to my roots of fiction writing. At the top of the list was dusting off an original manuscript for a suspense novel I had written a draft of back in 1996 called No Safe Harbor.
I was living in Atlanta working as a chef, but spent the better part of a year interviewing detectives, crime scene technicians, and members of the Smyrna Police Department’s Internal Affairs office in my free time. Among those I interviewed was a private investigator named JR Noland who would only speak with me from pay phones. To this day, I still have no idea what he looks like. And since the book was set in Seattle — my absolute favorite big city — but I was in Atlanta, I had to research it the old-fashioned way: by catching a stagecoach to…
Ok, I’m not THAT old. But I did contact the Seattle Chamber of Commerce and lied pretended I was moving there and needed all the information I could get.
Hey, Google Maps and internet searches weren’t things back then.
Now in protective custody, Shane and Jacob share what they know, helping establish the details surrounding Lynda Bettington’s murder by Seattle Police officers Perkins and Taylor. With that knowledge, FBI agent Jack Dalton devises a plan to close the noose around them, and Rick Sparlo — with help from Shane.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shane and Jacob were separated, each of them accompanied by a handful of investigators from the FBI, Internal Affairs and the Washington Bureau of Investigation. Also on hand, at the official request of Russ Braden, were James Kazad and Walter Aames. In each interview room was a video camera recording their accounts of the events leading up to yesterday’s incident on 35th Street. The debriefing took nearly three hours, with Shane and Jacob elaborating on every question in as much detail as possible. Along with Mead’s testimony taken earlier that day, a timeline began to form and, by late afternoon, a picture of Lynda Bettington’s final hours came into focus.
The night of her death, Lynda was definitely leaving her husband. The car packed with suitcases, along with Jacob’s testimony that he and his mother were on their way to his grandmother’s in Oregon, supported that. As did the evidence of child abuse recorded by Hollins in the crime lab. The decision to stop at Sharon Reese’s, whether to stay the night or say goodbye, was the turning point.
Lynda was obviously unaware of Reese’s activities, and certainly any connection to Rick Sparlo.
When officers Taylor and Perkins arrived, Lynda found herself hiding with Jacob in the bedroom where, together, they overheard the threats and struggling that prompted Lynda to rush to her sister’s aid — a move that made her a potential threat to Perkins and Taylor.
And ultimately Rick Sparlo.
When Lynda left the condo with Jacob and raced away in their Dodge, she probably wasn’t aware Perkins and Taylor had seen her. Fearing what she could expose, they began pursuit shortly after. It was doubtful murder was their intent at that point. What wasn’t in doubt was their lack of knowledge concerning Jacob; they had no idea he existed, and Lynda managed to keep it that way by letting him out in Lincoln Park. It appeared her plan was to come back for him or, at the very least, draw them away from Jacob. Unfortunately, the crash in the industrial district changed everything.
As detectives Kazad and Aames prepare to expose what they know to Internal Affairs, new revelations change everything they thought they knew. Meanwhile, Shane and Jacob’s captors turn out to be something unexpected as the tables begin to shift against Rick Sparlo.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When the door to Braden’s office opened, both Kazad and Aames were surprised by the sight of Tabitha Mills standing in the far corner of the room. Braden rose and motioned to a cluster of chairs around the edge of his desk. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
As Kazad sat, he noticed a thick manila folder held closed with a wide rubber band resting on the desk in front of Braden.
“Gentlemen, I know you’ve met officer Mills before.”
“Officer?” said Kazad. “I thought she was with Child Protective Services.”
“She works for me, at least for the time being. I asked for help from the state attorney general’s office because I needed someone who wouldn’t be recognized from I.A.”
“I’m not following you, Russ,” said Hammond.
“There’s a lot that we’ve kept from you,” Braden confessed. “You have two officers we believe are murderers. But that’s only part of it.”
“Only part of what?” said Hammond, his shock quickly shifting to anger. He didn’t like being blindsided. “You’re telling me you suspect dirty cops in my percent — cops you think might have committed murder, for Christ’s sake — and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”
“There’s more to it than that, Chief. Much more. Enough to involve a team from Washington, D.C.”
“The feds are part of this too?” Hammond suddenly stood from his chair.
“It’s their show, Russ. We became involved when your officers became involved. Since then, we’ve been working together and trying hard to keep it under wraps. You’ll understand why after I explain, so please — have a seat.”
With The Nook destroyed by an explosion and Shane and Jacob missing after being abducted into a mysterious black van, detectives Kazad and Aames are convinced Shane is innocent — and make the decision to reveal their suspicions to Internal Affairs.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sparlo stood at the window of his office. He’d purchased the space more than two years ago and never tired of the view. From his vantage on the 12th floor, the entire stretch of West Seattle was before him, including a large portion of The Sound and nearby ferries that connected the mainland to Vashon and Bainbridge islands, as well as those traveling to Vancouver, B.C. Beyond that, due south, he could see the tip of Magnolia Bay.
With contentment, he watched rising smoke drifting eastward, driven by strong bay winds.
“That should get your attention, Mr. McPhearson,” he said, tapping his finger against the glass. A knock came from his office door. “Come in,” he said, still looking out the window.
A tall, well-tailored man with glacier-blue eyes entered, his mood casual as he walked to the Italian leather chair opposite Sparlo’s massive cherrywood desk. He sat and crossed his long, Armani pant legs. “How’s the show?”
“Nicely done, Oscar.”
“I called first. Made sure she was there. A couple others ended up as part of the equation but it couldn’t be helped. The whole place fell into the water.”
Sparlo gave a final look out the window before settling into his dark leather wing-back chair. “How long until someone other than our friend realizes it was deliberate?”
“Hard to say. A week? Maybe two? What’s left of the detonator is halfway to the Pacific by now. The rest is at the bottom of the bay.” Spotting a piece of fuzz on his pant leg, Oscar Tarretti brushed it off with one, smooth motion. “Even if they drag it, they’ll find Jimmy Hoffa before they find anything conclusive. It was designed to obliterate the structure.”
With few options remaining, Shane decides to risk capture by arranging a meeting with KIRO reporter Patty Mead to expose the truth. When they meet, he has no way of knowing Kazad and Aames are there as well — or that Jacob will be thrown into the middle of a high-stakes chase through the streets of Seattle as their meeting goes terribly wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The corner of S.W. Avalon and 35th streets was a steady exchange of commuters, some crossing against the light at a quick pace, others leisurely strolling the parameter of the West Seattle Golf Course, and a few pushing battered shopping carts in and out of traffic. Yellow cabs darted around lumbering busses. Business suits and designer jeans dodged outstretched hands extending from the sleeves of frayed sweaters and faded tee shirts.
Half a block away in a shaded parking space at the Pecos Pit Bar-B-Que restaurant, Shane watched with binoculars, studying the activity and looking for Patty Mead. She was late and it unnerved him. He’d give her two more minutes, then they were leaving.
“She there yet?” Jacob asked, peering over the dash.
“Not yet.”
Shane swept the lenses over street corners and along the sidewalks, stopping suddenly to adjust the focus. “Wait. I think I got her.” He leaned forward and brought Mead into focus. “Yep. That’s her.”
Mead was moving through the crowd almost at a trot as she crossed the intersection, making her way to the trash receptacle on the far corner. She waited there, slightly out of breath and nervously glancing at strangers.
“We’ll give her a minute or two and see if she talks to herself,” said Shane.
Jacob squinted as he looked through the windshield, trying to see her. “You want to know if she’s crazy?”
A grin spread below the binoculars. “That would be good to know,” he said, chuckling, “but it could also mean she’s wired and talking to someone we can’t see. Then we’d know it’s a trap.”
Wisdom isn’t about knowing everything—or searching for it on a smartphone—but about understanding what you don’t know.
To the graduates, faculty members, parents, dignitaries, misinformed wedding crashers, and Visa/MasterCard representatives who have gathered here today, I am honored to have the opportunity to address this group of graduating seniors and impart the wisdom I have gained since my own graduation from high school nearly 150 years ago.
Standing before you today, I see the anticipation on your faces as each of you realizes what sharing my wisdom with you means: Possibly the shortest commencement speech in school history.
Before long, you will step forward and receive the culmination of 12—possibly 14—years of education. You will shake hands with some of those who have helped guide you to this milestone. And unless your last name begins with a “Z,” you will return to your seat as the rest your classmates step forward to receive their diplomas. That’s when you silently think to yourself, “I really shouldn’t have had that second bottle of Mountain Dew.”
But you will sit quietly, probably cross-legged, and deal with it. You are now officially your own person—making your own decisions, embracing the rewards and accepting the consequences of those decisions—as you embark on a journey of independence in a world of your own making.
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