Bookselling, Publishing, Writing

Semicolons, colds, and Troll Valley

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No book review tonight. Instead, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Or to put it another way, whatever comes into my head.

I read a good article about the semicolon today in Writer’s Digest. The author courageously defended the old s-c, and I applaud him. I myself love the semicolon. Aside from its delightful precision as a punctuation mark, when wielded skillfully, I have a happy memory of it.

The memory is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure it’s true. I was writing some kind of an essay or report in school – elementary school, I think. The “new” pale brick building on the south side of town.

I was composing, as I recall, some kind of a complex sentence. I had a complicated thought I was trying to express. I wanted to tie it all together, but it had a lot of working parts going, some of them more important than others. “What I need,” I thought to myself, “is a punctuation mark that indicates a major division in in my train of thought, but also retains a connection to the previous thought.” (Or words to that effect.)

And it occurred to me – “Hey! That’s what semicolons are for!” And I triumphantly put down a semicolon, intentionally for the first time in my life. The semicolon belonged to me now. I was its master. I had summoned it; it had not been forced on me by my teacher.

It was a moment in my evolution as a writer, though I didn’t understand it yet.

Jumping to the present, I haven’t been feeling well lately. My plan was to be doing a lot of stuff to promote the audiobook of Troll Valley right now, but I haven’t been up to the effort.

I’m embarrassed to say it’s just a cold. I see friends on Basefook and Xwitter talking about their mothers dying, or themselves being diagnosed with cancer or breaking a limb or something. And here I am, bellyaching about a common cold. So let me stipulate that I’m not competing for your sympathy. If you have only compassion enough to spare for one person today, it shouldn’t be me.

But I haven’t had a cold in years. I used to get them regularly, when I ran the bookstore at the schools. All that human contact – couldn’t avoid it. And for a while there, it seemed like every time I got that annual cold, it would settle into my chest and in the end require antibiotics.

But I don’t think I’ve had a serious cold since I retired, which is a few years now. And this one has knocked me over. Sunday was the worst day – I spent it mostly in bed, and didn’t even make popcorn for supper, which is my sacred Sunday custom. Since then I’ve been feeling a little better each day, and right now I’m actually eyeing my work load again.

I was delighted to discover I have an old stock of zinc tablets that I’d forgotten about, on a shelf. Hate the aftertaste, but they seem to help. And my ribs don’t hurt as much from coughing today.

To sum up – buy the audiobook of Troll Valley. My Norwegian accent alone is worth the price.

(And you can admire the cover – designed by Phil Wade – in both versions! Collect the whole set!)

Fiction, Reviews

‘Departure 37,’ by Scott Carson

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He didn’t answer. The sun was to the west, across the pond, putting a glint on the face of his father’s watch. The wind stirred crimson leaves, scattered a few to the water like flower petals tossed into a bride’s wake as she passed, honeymoon-bound.

As Scott Carson’s (Michael Koryta’s) Departure 37 begins, on an October morning later this year (2025), the skies over the entire US are empty of air traffic – early this morning, every pilot in the country got an impassioned phone call from his mother, begging him (or her) not to fly today. Some of these mothers are dead, which does not reduce the calls’ effect at all.

On a remote peninsula in Maine, a 16-year-old girl named Charlie Goodwin is dissatisfied with her life. Her widowed father has brought her here from Brooklyn to build a brewery, but she’s bored to death with small town life. Her only amusement is filming an old local named Abe Zimmer, who has a thousand conspiracy theories to share, centered on a famous military bomber crash that happened nearby in 1962. She posts these films online, and is getting considerable attention. She’s less happy about the presence of Abe’s grandson Lawrence, whom she considers a hopeless dork.

On this particular morning, Charlie’s father is away, which leaves the three of them the only human beings on the peninsula, in the area of the old airfield, when the military cordons the area off and a plane that’s been missing for 60 years suddenly appears in the sky over the airstrip.

Departure 37 is actually a complex story, following not only contemporary events but the events and characters that led up to the original 1962 air crash – the true story of which has never been revealed to the public.

The story gets pretty technical, in terms of theoretical and science fiction technology, and I have to admit I had trouble following it sometimes. It seemed to verge on technophobia at points. And I’m not entirely sure how to think about part of the story’s resolution.

But the characters were fascinating, the plotting tight (as always with Carson/Koryta), and the drama level high. This wasn’t really my kind of book, but I’m sure many will like it more than I did – and I liked it pretty well.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Those Who Wish Me Dead,’ by Michael Koryta

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You’ve got to observe the world you’re in to understand what parts of it may save you. At first, it may all seem hostile. The whole environment may seem like an enemy. But it isn’t. There are things hiding in it waiting to save you, and it’s your job to see them.

I keep saying I’m cutting back on reading thrillers, but then I get sucked in by good authors like Michael Koryta. And wowee, what a ride Those Who Wish Me Dead (which has since been made into a film with Angelina Jolie) was.

Jace Wilson did nothing wrong. The boy was in the wrong place in the wrong time, and he witnessed a murder. The two murderers didn’t catch him at the time, but now they know about him, and they want him dead. His parents decided, for his safety, to send him to Montana, to Ethan Serbin, who runs a sort of bootcamp program for troubled boys. The program involves camping up in the mountains, far off the grid. He ought to be safe there.

But no one is safe from men smart enough, and wicked enough, to figure out who to torture and what questions to ask them. Before long Jace will be alone in the wilderness, armed with just a little survival training, the prey in a seemingly hopeless game. Only he’s not quite alone. Outside his awareness, people who care are going to do more than anyone should ever be asked to do, to save his life – and perhaps their own souls.

I might not have read Those Who Wish Me Dead had I been aware that it involved two elements that particularly trouble me in stories – danger to children and danger to women. But I persevered, and got my reward in the end. Koryta is a master plotter, and he pulls all the tricks here – each new level achieved turns into a deadfall; there are traps within traps. Heart in your mouth stuff.

Highly recommended, but intense. Cautions for language, violence, and torture.

Music

‘My Grandfather’s Clock’

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It’s more than a week since my landmark birthday (which will remain terra incognito, because I’m not telling you the number), and this morning I finally hit on the song I wanted to post to mark the occasion. On the day itself, I was looking for something traditional, but relating to the passage of time and the brief span of our lives. I ended up posting a Sissel song, because I couldn’t find what I wanted. But now I know just the piece, and I’ve posted it above. It’s called “My Grandfather’s Clock.” You may have heard it, at least if you’re old. I’ve been familiar with it all my life, but had no idea it was as old as it is.

“My Grandfather’s Clock” was published I 1876, the year of the American Centennial, Custer’s Last Stand, and Wild Bill Hickok’s murder in Deadwood. Its composer was Henry Clay Work (1832-1884), a prominent songwriter of the day, especially remembered for his Civil War songs.

He was born in Middletown, Connecticut, into a strongly Abolitionist family, participants in the Underground Railroad. He became a printer, and worked at that trade in Chicago, while also writing songs for minstrel shows.

The Civil War brought him his greatest success. He wrote “Marching Through Georgia,” which you’ve probably heard if you have any interest in the war at all. He also wrote a song called “Kingdom Coming,” which is less well remembered as such, but you’ve probably heard the melody, a standard upbeat number often used in political campaigns to this day.

His star waned during Reconstruction, though he turned his attention to the next big moral crusade, Prohibition. But his sentimental song, “My Grandfather’s Clock” was a big hit, and is still heard today here and there.

Give it a listen. It still works, in its way, if you’re able to relax your sophistication.

Fiction, Reviews

‘It Dies With You,” by Scott Blackburn

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It appears that when we read It Dies With You, by Scott Blackburn, we are dealing with an author’s first novel. That does affect my evaluation – new authors get some slack from me, especially when they show promise. Which is certainly true in this case.

Hudson Miller is a boxer, temporarily suspended from the sport, surviving on bouncer gigs. He hasn’t talked to his father for years, so when he misses a couple of his calls, he doesn’t return them. Not long after, he learns his father has been murdered, shot to death in the office of his auto salvage yard.

To his astonishment, Hudson soon learns that the old man left him some rental properties and the salvage yard itself. He figures he might as well learn what he can about the yard before he sells it off, so he travels the short distance to his home town, and moves into one of the rental houses. His guide to the world of auto salvage is Charlie, an old curmudgeon who worked for his father. Hudson is not greatly concerned about his father’s murder, as he seems to have been trafficking illegal guns.

Then Charlie digs up a crushed car, buried behind the shop, and finds a human body in it. The body proves to be that of a young, missing Hispanic man. Soon the young man’s feisty teenaged sister shows up, asking embarrassing questions, determined to find her brother’s murderer, because the cops aren’t doing anything. And Hudson and Charlie are shamed into helping her – in part just to protect her.

I quite liked It Dies With You at the beginning – partly because I’ve become such a timid reader. Author Blackburn provided good writing, interesting characters, and good dialogue, without a lot of dramatic tension, and if the mystery of Hudson’s father’s murder didn’t carry a lot of weight, that suited me fine. But once the teenaged girl appeared, the story (in my opinion) went downhill. She was such a stereotypical “spunky girl,” and so prickly about her ethnicity, that I had trouble liking her, or believing in her. The final scene where the mystery is revealed was theatrical and implausible, and the murderer’s identity no great surprise.

On the other hand, the Christians (except for the Baptist pastor) are treated pretty respectfully.

So, my final judgment is that It Dies With You was, it’s an imperfect book by an author who shows promise. You might enjoy it.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Tricky Business,’ by Dave Barry

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When I saw a deal for a comedy mystery written by Dave Barry, I figured it was worth a try. Who doesn’t enjoy Dave Barry, in moderation? In my innocence, I imagined something like an updated Wodehouse story, maybe with dirty words.

And I won’t say Tricky Business wasn’t quite funny – in places. But mainly what I found myself reading was a gritty crime story, with plenty of killing and torture, plus a lot of potty jokes.

It’s a little difficult to identify the main character in the complicated plot, but I guess it would be Wally Hartley, an otherwise unemployed guitarist in a gig band, currently living in his mother’s house. His band plays regularly on the Extravaganza of the Seas, a sleazy cruise ship that does the popular three-mile run from Miami into international waters, for legal gambling. Then there are Arnold and Phil, a pair of bickering buddies from a retirement home. They take the short cruise just to ease the boredom of their lives. There’s Fay, a struggling single mother working as a cocktail waitress. And there’s Lou, a mobster who’s on board to oversee the drug smuggling that is the ship’s real reason for operation.

They’re all a little concerned this time out, because a hurricane is blowing up, and the authorities are telling everyone to stay at home. But somebody insists that the Extravaganza has to sail tonight.

I laughed more than once reading Tricky Business, but I was a little embarrassed to do so. I’m extremely uncomfortable with very black humor, where real cruelty is juxtaposed with buffoonery. I read the book all the way through, but honestly I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

It did come out all right in the end; I feel obligated to admit that.

Bookselling, Publishing

Paper Troll

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HOT TIP: Hurry out and buy paper manufacturing stocks now! Because my acclaimed novel, Troll Valley, was released today in paperback, and surely those presses will be running till their gears smoke, turning out copies for a hungry public.

[NOTE: This is the paperback version I’m talking about. The audiobook, about which I’ve written so much, is still in the pipeline. The instructions at Amazon ACX say the approval process may take as long as ten days – but a look around in online forums tells me six weeks isn’t uncommon, and it can take months. So your patience is appreciated.]

I’m planning to accompany the audiobook release, if I’m still alive when it happens, with a five-minute video short, to promote it. I’m intrigued by these short videos I see all over (on Facebook and YouTube; I do not visit Tiktok). Just as I taught myself book recording on Audible, I’m now teaching myself video editing. The result, when I have accomplished it, will be posted here.

In personal news, I got word of a recent death that made me thoughtful. It was that of a man who had been one of my schoolteachers. He never liked me, and at one point he singled me out for a humiliating punishment, in front of my classmates.

I forgave him, formally in my heart, years ago. As a matter of spiritual obligation. But I couldn’t help recalling one of C. S. Lewis’ letters (or it might have been a journal entry, but I think it was a letter, perhaps to his brother). He wrote it as a young man, recalling the sadistic, insane headmaster he had endured at one of the boarding schools he attended as a boy. But now he was a young man, and enjoying life and freedom, while his old tormenter was long dead “and in hell.” (This, I should mention, was before his conversion). I must admit that I had anticipated this teacher’s death with… what shall I call it? Interest. But he lived quite a long life. I may not outlast him by much.

Loni Anderson died too. She was a native of St. Paul, and a lot of people around here (not me, I must admit) remembered some local commercials she did here (as a brunette) before she upped stakes for Hollywood.

Like most people, I remember her best for the brilliant comedy series, “WKRP In Cincinnati.” I remember my astonishment as I found myself increasingly drawn to her as the series went on. I was always a firm Jan Smithers supporter – her character, Bailey Quarters, was the girl of my dreams – drop dead gorgeous, but so insecure I could imagine her going out with a dork like me. But Anderson’s brainy glamor grew on me, in spite of myself.

I’m already on record as being in favor of commercialized glamor. Loni Anderson carried it off well. R.I.P.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Envy the Night,’ by Michael Koryta

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“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Frank said, “You know what he does. You know what he is. So how the h*ll do you love him so clean?”

“Hon,” she said, “whoever said anything about it being clean?”

Frank Temple III, hero of Envy the Night, by Michael Koryta, is the son of a former hero, a decorated US marshal who disgraced himself and his family when he was revealed to have become a killer-for-hire. He killed himself, leaving his son – who had adored him, and whom he had trained in the martial arts – disillusioned and rootless in the world.

Frank III kept possession of the cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin that held some of his favorite memories of his dad, though he never visits. His father’s old friend Ezra also maintains the nearby island cabin belonging to Devin Matteson, the colleague who corrupted and betrayed Frank’s father. They left Devin alone, but they have an agreement – if Devin ever tries to come back, they’ll kill him.

Now Frank has gotten the word – Devin is on his way. So Frank is headed to Wisconsin, to a showdown with Devin, and with the truth of his father’s life and death, and to his own destiny.

You want to learn how to write mystery thrillers? Read Michael Koryta. Reading Envy the Night, I marveled at the way every story element – prose, characters, dialogue, plot – all worked together to produce a perfect payoff. I find no fault with this book (except for Koryta’s idiosyncratic approach to paragraphing, which seems to be a lost cause).

Highly recommended.

Music, Poetry

‘Solveig’s Song’

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It’s Friday and I have neither a book to review nor a useful thought in my head. Therefore, I shall post a Sissel song.

(And there was great rejoicing.)

Yesterday, I might mention, was my birthday – and one of the big milestone ones. I won’t say which one, of course. Suffice it to say that I’ve outlived 3 of my grandparents, and one of my parents. The meditations this fact arouses in me are not, generally, comforting.

I pondered what kind of song would be suitable to commemorate my oldness and fullness of days. Nothing really commended itself, so I finally figured, well, just post a Sissel piece. What haven’t I done yet?

And I realized I’d never posted “Solveig’s Song.”

(I think. Checking would be too much trouble.)

Even if you’re not Norwegian (unlikely as that is), you’ve probably heard this melody somewhere before. It’s one of the classics from Edvard Grieg – part of the incidental music he wrote for Henrik Ibsen’s controversial, experimental play, “Peer Gynt.”

I will confess – I’ve never read “Peer Gynt.” It appeals to me more than most of Ibsen’s works (I’m not a fan), but from all I hear, it’s a “challenging” and obscure work, about a man who seems to be – like Ibsen himself – obstinately difficult and antisocial. He kidnaps a bride from her wedding, abandons her, and then is joined by Solveig (the Solveig of the song), the daughter of Haugean pietists (my people). He runs away from her too, in order to spend his life in foreign parts, seeking wealth, which he loses in the end. In the last act, he returns to Solveig, who has remained faithful to him, and tells him that he has committed no sin. Then she (probably) dies (the script isn’t clear).

Anyway, “Solveig’s Song” is a solo earlier in the play, in which Solveig expresses her faithful (I might say stupid) love. I suppose Solveig is meant to represent the mercy of God in some way, though (lumpkin that I am) I don’t really see it.

But Sissel sure sings it beautifully.

Have a good weekend.

Religion, Uncategorized

In defense of young men

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Photo credit: Drew Dizzy Graham. Unsplash license.

Should I comment on the Sydney Sweeney controversy? Let’s see – I’m an aging, lifelong celibate male with a shyness disorder. Obviously well qualified to opine on issues of sexuality.

First of all, I shall declare myself entirely on the side of American Eagle. I salute a return to traditional, sex-exploiting advertising. People (even women) like to look at beautiful women, and beautiful women sell product. I’ve missed that crass commercialism. Not only is it good for business, it makes the world (I think) a happier place.

Many Christians, I’ve noticed, strongly disagree. They caution against the display of sexiness, arguing that it incites men to lust in their hearts.

I’ve agonized over that issue all my life. Now that it’s pretty much an academic one for me, I want to say this publicly (many will disagree, I’m sure): When Jesus said that lust in a man’s heart was equivalent to adultery, I don’t think simply seeing an attractive woman and being sexually interested, was what he had in mind. I think Jesus was speaking in hyperbolic terms here, to demonstrate to us our complete inability to be clean before God. He certainly wanted us to curb our lust, but I don’t think He intended to demand asexuality of men, except for when they’re alone with their wives. (I think the sin is in actually contemplating an adulterous act.)

I’ve spent a lot of time lately with my novel Troll Valley. The audiobook version is being evaluated by the Amazon ACX people, and I’m almost ready to release a paperback version too. This is my most autobiographical book, despite the fact that almost none of the events in it bear any relation to my own experience. It’s autobiographical in terms of the Haugean, pietist community in which I grew up. I hope the book expresses, to some extent, how much I appreciate that heritage, but also the problems I discern in it.

One of those problems, I think, is the guilt it lays on boys and young men, the impression conveyed that just being a functioning male is somehow a shameful thing. Sadly, that view of manhood finds support in our time among the feminists, who say the same sort of thing, even more emphatically.

I have never solved the problem of “lusting in the heart” in my own life. In my youth, as an interested non-player, I was an outlier – a weirdo. But in more recent times – to my horror – I see young men rising around me everywhere who seem just like me. Sometimes they’re called Incels. Basement dwellers. There are probably other nicknames for them I haven’t heard yet, but they all describe much the same thing – unfinished young men who are too terrified to find a mate in a world that seems determined to portray them as subhuman losers. I am, in a sense, a father to those young men; I am their avatar.

I think the church needs to offer something to those young men. Something stronger than what we’ve got. Something a little more dangerous. Something edgy.

But I don’t know what that is. I certainly never found it in my own life.

The ideal solution, I think, would be arranged marriages. Historically, arranged marriages have an excellent track record. However, I don’t think the young people would go for it. Also, it’s probably illegal.

But we need something new. I want to see young men swaggering like Kirk Douglas. Grinning at women like Burt Lancaster. Sweeping the girls off their feet like Clark Gable.

I think – personally – that (generally speaking) that would please God, who made Sydney Sweeney beautiful, not without reason.

Book Reviews, Creative Culture