Martin Dugard's Blog, page 13

SUPER POWER

My son asks about my super power.

I don't really think of it as a super power, just the ability to hit a deadline. I got too precious/ambitious with the first two books in the Taking series. Delivered late. First time in my writing career that I missed deadlines and I blew through them pretty hard. I delivered tight, well researched copy but weeks past the due date. That impacts all sorts of people: editors, copy editors, printers, fact checkers, marketing folk, publishers . . . the list is long. I'm a pleaser. It feels wrong to put all these people out.

So seven days from now I'm going to deliver Taking London.

This will not be without pressure. The beginning of a book is confusion and deep thoughts, wondering how to make all the facts into a story. The middle of a book is hopeless confusion. Just brutal. A desert wilderness. But the end is tying things together, adding a chapter, emphasizing a fact. And words. Always, the words. Many words I have not yet written.

The super power is the sudden ability to reign in my wandering mind and submit it to hyper focus.

Whether Survivor island or right here in my own backyard, I somehow go from five hundred words a day to several thousand with the flip of a mental switch. Not sure how that works. If I could summon that super power every single day, I'd be writing about ten more books a year.

I tell Calene this is the week I'm going to say no to everything. All functions of daily life must submit to the deadline. But there's track practice two mornings a week and every afternoon. The Tuesday morning therapy appointment. And the sudden stuff that blows up when I need it least: that coffee spilled on the laptop, my Rover and its sudden expensive oil leak, the woman poking her head over the wall as I step into our outdoor shower. Nothing says awkward like 6 a.m., nudity, cold rainfall immersion, the illusion of privacy, and a curious door-to-door leaflet distributor. I'm not sure what she saw. I hope she was impressed. But then, the water was very cold. I'm comfortable in my own skin.

All of these, of course, are sacrifices in the name of getting paid. Like my friend Sean Scott who runs his own shoe company, Steve the TV producer, and people everywhere who get a check for their labors just twice a year, "getting paid" is a very big deal. Say "getting paid" to a creative type and a solid fist bump is sure to follow. Creativity is commerce and crossing the finish line is a very big deal. Getting paid means funding the Defined Benefit, summer travel, cash flow, Springsteen tickets, and a break from those dreadful 3 a.m. wake-ups when the demons come out to play.

So this week is going to be intense. But I'm going to do it right. I'm enjoying every word (today's word: Luftstaffe!), every nuance, every research nugget that begs to find its way into the manuscript. I will do a few saunas at Perspire (more solitary nudity, although this time in an infra-red strip mall chamber), sleep intelligently, enjoy the super power.

And this: ask Calene for tight long hugs when I'm about to lose my shit. Because that moment will come this week. At least once. Probably more. Loving arms wrapped around a frantic, scared writer go a long way toward hitting a deadline.

It's a gift, this writing life. A super power.

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IN TIME

Just back.

We spent the weekend in Paso Robles, attending a wedding. Wine country. Cypher Winery, to be exact. The most amazing rolling green hills. Vineyards. A casual lake in a hollow, wooden dock perfect for sitting. So gorgeous the topic of conversation was selling our house and moving — not just us, but at least a dozen other couples we spoke to. The best time to buy was twenty years ago but there's still a lot of good land and righteous zoning.

We left Paso after breakfast at Joe's. Ate there yesterday before the ceremony and the plates were so big I had a hard time squeezing into the suit coat I last wore five years ago. Sushi and beer after the pre-wedding dinner the night before might have helped. This morning's drive south along the 101 through California's Central Coast past Santa Barbara and then LA and finally into the OC is among the most beautiful on earth: hillsides blanketed in yellow mustard and large black cows against that forever green grass that made me think of Ireland. I drove hard and fast, trying to beat traffic. Stops were optional though not preferred. My car kept telling me to pull over and take a break. My watch vibrated that it was time to stand.

So now we're home. Not much traffic after the merge of the 101 and 405. Beer and a sandwich at Selma's and all is good. But my thoughts keep going back to that wedding. The bride and groom were so perfect for one another. Every guest seemed handpicked for chemistry. Calene and I sat at a table with the father of the bride's fraternity brothers. Their bond was immediately apparent. We were instantly brought into the fold. It felt like I was sitting at a party with Dan Brown, Sean Railton, Matt Laforet, Ian Aalsgard, George Goldasich, Randy Gerwatowski, Bruce Marshall, and the phantom Terry Sheridan — my brothers in arms from Northern Michigan University.

My Achilles Heel is that I never knew what I wanted to do for a living until I was almost thirty. I came to writing late. So when I am in the presence of two people like yesterday's bride and groom I feel deficient. These were individuals who knew what they wanted to do even before they began high school, let alone college. They focused. Studied. Sacrificed. Watching them bask in the loving glow of their wedding day just before beginning their first residence, a big part of me wondered what I would have been like if I'd known that determination. I have long joked about taking seven years to finish college. My wife did the math the other day and reminded me it was nine. Nine? What the hell was I doing with myself?

Waiting for her. That will always be my go-to.

Before I even left for college, I told my Dad I wouldn't accept a spot at the Air Force Academy's prep school, which would have gotten me into the Academy itself one year later. I went to Northern instead, to run cross country at first, and then just try to finish the semesters without partying too hard with Dan, Sean, Matt, Ian, George, Randy, Bruce, and Terry. I still cherish long Friday nights in Terry and Matt's dorm room, drinking Stroh's and talking our own brand of philosophy. Matt flipping the record on the turntable after each side. SIde One. Side Two. Sometimes a Side Three or change the record. Terry, legs crossed and smoking a cigarette like one of Smiley's spies. Matt the turntable owner. Ian, Randy, Sean, and Bruce, pleasantly stoned. George, the hulking Nordic presence from the football team, dropping in late, cracking a beer and plopping down in a battered armchair like he'd been there all night long. Me feeling guilty about the whole thing, knowing there was a long run in the morning but also sure this was all important. Somehow, we were figuring out life — though each of us used the label "fuck-up" to describe ourselves on a regular basis, as if we would never transcend beer, smoke-filled rooms, and contemplations about "The River."

But if I'd gone to Air Force instead of Northern I would never have met Calene. I would not be a writer. Our boys would still float somewhere in the ether.

My buddies from NMU are hardly fuck-ups. They've all lived large. Each has become a top professional in their fields. A few millionaires. It's the same with those guys Calene and I shared a table with last night. They talked about the stories they could tell, and I had the feeling they were just as turned around as my Gant Hall buddies were back in the day, but they were all just fine in the big scheme of life.

The wedding music was provided by a four-piece quartet. I did not cry during the ceremony. But after, as we were walking to our table for the reception, Calene nudged me as we walked past the quartet. "Listen," she said.

The strings were purring "Can't Help Falling In Love." Our wedding song. The only Elvis song I ever loved. Mist filled my emotional Irish eyes. I choked up. "Yeah," I said to Calene. "Wow. Nice."

Raise a glass to the fuck-ups.

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GOOD FRIDAY

It's been a week.

Let's start backward. I was thinking this morning about the Resurrection, in particular about that first breath. The first breath. Whether you believe it happened or not, the world has not been the same since.

I'm a little off my axis these days, overwhelmed with this and that, trying to keep all the balls in the air. I used to have a pretty set pattern when I threw myself into a project, ignoring my health, eschewing shaving and showering in the name of focus, and setting aside personal connection as a distraction. Everyone would be there when I rowed the boat back to shore. We could rekindle and reconnect. That was my thinking.

But I've been doing books a long time now. If anything, my focus on the story has increased. But it's only lately that I got tired of letting myself go in the name of creativity and putting stories about the past take precedence over people here right now. So that's the juggling. Those are the balls in the air. I am trying to be in the here and now, shave and shower and sweat a little, and love the one I'm with.

People do this all the time. It's not that hard. It's called balance. This is a trait that I have never, not once, possessed. I am completely unbalanced.

But it's new to me and my introvert ways. So it's a struggle. Focus on the writing. Focus on the fitness (at some point in life, with good friends literally dropping dead from sudden physical issues, this is a real thing). Focus, above all, on loving the one I'm with.

And our wonderful sons.

But Calene had a little mammogram scare this week. One extra band of mutant cells, of a whole new variety than were used to dealing with, were all the shock we needed to turn the week sideways. But that turned out to be a false positive, which is amazing news anytime you receive it.

I mean, way more amazing than you can ever know. Takes your breath away. Tears of happiness in my eyes walking out of that doctor's office.

Then I woke up Friday morning — Good Friday — which has traumatized me ever since working on Killing Jesus. Once you really dig into the amazing pain someone endures during crucifixion, it will forever leave you scarred. This is not a religious observation. Crucifixion was the most heinous form of murder in the world for a thousand years. Reliving that in my head this weekend each year stops me short.

So I woke up Friday morning delighted in having a full day to do nothing but write. No practice with my runners. No pressing obligations. Just me and my laptop, laying down a few thousand words on a project I've been researching for a year.

I go in my office, sit down at my desk, place my venti Starbucks far to the right. Someplace where I can't knock it over.

But in the process of placing that large paper cup of coffee on a very nice leather coaster that I pinched from the Four Seasons in Budapest, I faltered. My mind is in a million different places. The entire scalding hot contents of that black dark roast no room coffee floods my desk. The tsunami rolls over the laptop keyboard and then keeps going, dripping like a waterfall onto the carpet.

I did an immediate cleanup and a Google search of how to deal with spilling coffee on a laptop. Unplugged the power, turned off the laptop, threw a big terry cloth towel over the whole mess to soak up every last drop. Then, heeding instructions to turn the laptop upside down and let it dry for at least two days, I leaned way back in my chair and tried to breathe.

I was wrecked. Three-fourths of a new book were gone. A year of work. A completed edit of another book, also gone. Kindle research library, gone. Photos and scraps of ideas and a whole bunch of other stuff in that big file folder I call "Filing Cabinet," gone.

I hadn't backed up anything in a month.

I have a small secondary computer for travel. Have not used it for months because I actually preferred the larger one. Calene now uses the smaller one. It's hers.

But I powered it up. Watched my user screen. One by one, that blessed iCloud restored every document. The books live.

I still need to buy a new laptop. This one is far too small for daily use. But in a week of confusion, that was a nice moment.

Good Friday, indeed.

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WRITING BOOKS

Sometimes I show up for track practice in jeans without hot sauce stains and cashmere sweater. Polished red Doc Marten's. Hair combed. This, as opposed to running shoes, shorts, a hoodie, and hair gone astray from a workout. It's getting pretty gray. I'm thinking the tousled look makes me years younger. It doesn't but that's what I tell myself.

Here's what my runners say: "Wow. You look like an author."

My runners are only slightly aware of the life I lead when not clicking the stopwatch. What I want to tell them is that my version of looking like an author is padding around the house until midday in slippers and sweatpants. It's six cups of coffee by ten, when I switch over to water. It's promising myself I'll knock off every day by noon so I am assured of a long healthy trail run or weight session. This invariably gets pushed back to one because the words won't let me go, whereupon I'm rushing to get a smidgeon of fitness before practice.

I sometimes wonder what it must be like to be Robert Caro, wearing a suit and tie to a Manhattan office for each writing day in a most Ronald Reagan-like way. I also wish I could turn out pages as quickly as the late William F. Buckley, who would write a book in eight days while holed up in the South of France. But I am who I am, writing in the clothes that make me comfortable, at a pace that makes me pick the words I want with ease and calm.

That's one of my personal rules for writing a book. I spent years copying the habits of other writers, thinking they were the one true way to put words on the page. So, since the great amount of email I receive comes from people who want to write a book of their own (or have me ghost for them), here are a couple other things I've picked up along the way.

Office hours: I write from 8-ish to noon-ish. Sometimes five days a week and sometimes six or seven. Like training to become a great distance runner, one of the best ways to become a better writer is consistency.

Create Your Own Space: My office is a small room in the corner of my garage. It's filled with the things I love, as well as heat, AC, carpeting, bookshelves, and a stereo. It wraps its arms around me when I step inside and sit down at my desk. But for the next five or six hours of writing, all I see are the words in front of me.

No excuses: Even if you don't have an office, find a way. I think I learned this trait when my boys were very young, pre-office, when the house was Nickelodeon on the TV and Jungle Book on the VCR, but I can write anywhere. I wrote two books while using the crew compound for Survivor as my writing area. I write in planes, airports (sitting on the floor, leaning against a column for a plug-in), doctor's offices, and pretty much anywhere I can open a laptop. Any place but a Springsteen concert. That's where I draw the line.

Write, then edit: If you want to make the writing process overly slow and methodical, edit as you go. Much better to write a whole bunch of papers, realizing they will be a mess, then go back after a week or so to clean them up. Pages are progress and progress is motivating.

Sleep: I used to think it would be more productive to get up a couple hours early to squeeze in more writing time. But I would be groggy and half-awake, writing words that I would end up deleting because they SUCKED. A couple extra hours sleep makes the writing day flow.

Easy on the commas: This is a personal thing but commas are a breath. Sometimes a breath slows the pace. I am merciless in cutting out commas — especially when Microsoft Word tries to use that squiggly blue underline to tell me my grammar is off. I decide when my grammar is off.

Be prepared to be that guy who doesn't pay attention: Once a story gets inside your head it doesn't want to let go. This means 3 a.m. wake-ups, conversations you can't follow, remembering a date from 1940 but not remembering the important event my wife told me about last night. Then someone you love will say those truthful words: "You never pay attention" and you just have to admit they're right because you're barely paying attention as they state that simple fact. Just be ready to beg forgiveness.

Read aloud and let it go: I print my pages for clean-up (see #4), read them out loud as I edit, make the corrections, then move on. Sometimes this might mean ten versions of a particular edit but when it's done it's done. I will read the final version of the manuscript when the publisher sends it to me for First Pass, then never again. I've got a copy of each book I've written in my office but I never go back and reread. What's the point? A new story owns me.

Silence the critical parent: There's going to be someone looking over your shoulder, telling you the work is shit, or that you have no business attempting to write a book. That someone is figurative, but let's just call them a critical parent. They only live inside your head. They're not real. It's tough but you have to tell these invisible people to shut the fuck up. Find your voice. Be the ball, Danny.

There's more. But let's stop. Good luck with your writing. As long as you're putting words on the page, you look like an author. Because you are,

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CLUBBING

I wrote a great sentence this morning.

Actually, it began as something completely different a week ago, something mundane but enough to move the narrative. Then I edited the chapter a dozen times. Sentences got moved around. The "good enough" came under scrutiny. Then right around nine this morning, deep into my coffee, the words of that sentence started to look just OK. The sentence before it had to go because suddenly it was just dumb. And then I fiddled and tweaked and somehow made myself curious enough about a couple details that I researched a couple historical nuggets and dropped them nicely into a single twelve-word collective followed immediately by a period.

My heart soared.

I don't know what any of you do for a living, but I'm sure you have something like that in your work now and again — one of those simple pleasures causing great delight that rallies back for the next hour or so, like remembering from out of nowhere Kirk Gibson's 1988 home run against the A's in Game One of the World Series, in all its fist-pumping glory.

That sentence carried me through church. And brunch, a new addition to our Sunday since the boys are grown. But then it was time for grocery shopping at Pavilions. Calene headed off to the pharmacy, leaving me alone with the cart. This is an important point.

Somewhere between the Pico Pica hot sauce and the sugar-free ice cream, droning around as I waited for Calene to circle back to the Space Shuttle, I overheard one of those random grocery store conversations that make you stop in your tracks.

Right next to me, a couple moms were making faux nice, comparing their club sports experiences. One looked competitive and fit, as if she was the glamour mom. The other one was eager to keep up.

I was intrigued. They looked like high school moms. This is my world. What would they say next? I circled around the coffee pods, reminding myself that I must never leave this area for any possible reason — waiting right here for Calene was the most important thing I could do today.

These were not high school moms. I heard the words "fourth grade" and "nine-year-old," which is never a good thing for long-term athletic development. I made a horse race loop around the tortilla aisle and chicken thighs over and over to hear more. Don't judge me. Okay. Judge me. Because what I'm about to say might be perceived as unkind.

Still waiting for Calene, I listened to long uninformed naivete about the best local club teams in a number of sports (a hallmark of the club parent is going from one team to another by season — soccer, basketball, baseball, lacrosse — until their kid finds a specialty or is Darwin-ed out of a sport forever). Club sports are a money grab designed to play on parents' hopes and lofty dreams that their kid will earn an athletic college scholarship. Some are even sure their child will play pro. Because that's what many coaches promise.

I have coached AYSO, Little League, and then a couple decades of high school track and cross country (full disclosure: I also serve on the board of the USA Track & Field Foundation, overseeing youth runner development). I am also a parent who has paid thousands in dues to club soccer, lacrosse, baseball, basketball, and youth track teams. So I know this world.

And it's broken.

Let your kid have fun. Relax about the scholarship. The sport will find them. Norway has some of the most successful athletes across numerous sports in the world and they don't allow specialization until age fourteen. They just roll out the ball and let kids play. By the time I get most athletes into high school running as freshmen they are burned out. Sports are no longer fun. Children never just go to the cul-de-sac and play sports anymore — not catch, not interception, not even hopscotch. Everything has been subsumed into cultural fear, helicopter parenting, and that dangling promise of a scholarship that rarely comes to pass.

I know some amazing club coaches. The guy coaching the women's team at the high school where I coach distance is a boss. A truly amazing coach. But most, let's face it, can't deliver on the scholarship promises and social pampering that make parents write a big check to be on their team. Kids tell me about coaches who do nothing but yell. Denigrate them. Threaten them with being kicked off the team if they miss a practice for any reason whatsoever.

Now, I know some of you think your kid is the exception. He or she is so amazing that every D1 school in America follows their every head fake. When you are disabused of that fantasy, please come have your athlete run cross country. The stopwatch is not some "college showcase" money grab (there's that term again). The stopwatch never lies. You're fast or you're slow. Nothing subjective. No need to travel across the country for a showcase: Coaches will find you, thanks to this crazy thing called the Internet.

Back to Pavilions. Those women were still sweetly one-upping each other as Calene found me. There was asparagus to buy. Frozen peas. I tried to get back to feeling good about that morning's sentence, but something as stupid as thinking fourth grade sports actually matters never left my mind.

High school is the proving ground. Few sports offer scholarships before puberty. Let your children play a little football, a little soccer, maybe splash around in the pool with a water polo ball. Then, when they've developed some aerobic strength, functional musculature, and hand-eye coordination, let them experiment with the sport of their choice for real. Above all, encourage your child to have fun, knowing this involves hard work and sacrifice.

They're called "games" for a reason.

Permalink

CLUBBING

I wrote a great sentence this morning.

Actually, it began as something completely different a week ago, something mundane but enough to move the narrative. Then I edited the chapter a dozen times. Sentences got moved around. The "good enough" came under scrutiny. Then right around nine this morning, deep into my coffee, the words of that sentence started to look just OK. The sentence before it had to go because suddenly it was just dumb. And then I fiddled and tweaked and somehow made myself curious enough about a couple details that I researched a couple historical nuggets and dropped them nicely into a single twelve-word collective followed immediately by a period.

My heart soared.

I don't know what any of you do for a living, but I'm sure you have something like that in your work now and again — one of those simple pleasures causing great delight that rallies back for the next hour or so, like remembering from out of nowhere Kirk Gibson's 1988 home run against the A's in Game One of the World Series, in all its fist-pumping glory.

That sentence carried me through church. And brunch, a new addition to our Sunday since the boys are grown. But then it was time for grocery shopping at Pavilions. Calene headed off to the pharmacy, leaving me alone with the cart. This is an important point.

Somewhere between the Pico Pica hot sauce and the sugar-free ice cream, droning around as I waited for Calene to circle back to the Space Shuttle, I overheard one of those random grocery store conversations that make you stop in your tracks.

Right next to me, a couple moms were making faux nice, comparing their club sports experiences. One looked competitive and fit, as if she was the glamour mom. The other one was eager to keep up.

I was intrigued. They looked like high school moms. This is my world. What would they say next? I circled around the coffee pods, reminding myself that I must never leave this area for any possible reason — waiting right here for Calene was the most important thing I could do today.

These were not high school moms. I heard the words "fourth grade" and "nine-year-old," which is never a good thing for long-term athletic development. I made a horse race loop around the tortilla aisle and chicken thighs over and over to hear more. Don't judge me. Okay. Judge me. Because what I'm about to say might be perceived as unkind.

Still waiting for Calene, I listened to long uninformed naivete about the best local club teams in a number of sports (a hallmark of the club parent is going from one team to another by season — soccer, basketball, baseball, lacrosse — until their kid finds a specialty or is Darwin-ed out of a sport forever). Club sports are a money grab designed to play on parents' hopes and lofty dreams that their kid will earn an athletic college scholarship. Some are even sure their child will play pro. Because that's what many coaches promise.

I have coached AYSO, Little League, and then a couple decades of high school track and cross country (full disclosure: I also serve on the board of the USA Track & Field Foundation, overseeing youth runner development). I am also a parent who has paid thousands in dues to club soccer, lacrosse, baseball, basketball, and youth track teams. So I know this world.

And it's broken.

Let your kid have fun. Relax about the scholarship. The sport will find them. Norway has some of the most successful athletes across numerous sports in the world and they don't allow specialization until age fourteen. They just roll out the ball and let kids play. By the time I get most athletes into high school running as freshmen they are burned out. Sports are no longer fun. Children never just go to the cul-de-sac and play sports anymore — not catch, not interception, not even hopscotch. Everything has been subsumed into cultural fear, helicopter parenting, and that dangling promise of a scholarship that rarely comes to pass.

I know some amazing club coaches. The guy coaching the women's team at the high school where I coach distance is a boss. A truly amazing coach. But most, let's face it, can't deliver on the scholarship promises and social pampering that make parents write a big check to be on their team. Kids tell me about coaches who do nothing but yell. Denigrate them. Threaten them with being kicked off the team if they miss a practice for any reason whatsoever.

Now, I know some of you think your kid is the exception. He or she is so amazing that every D1 school in America follows their every head fake. When you are disabused of that fantasy, please come have your athlete run cross country. The stopwatch is not some "college showcase" money grab (there's that term again). The stopwatch never lies. You're fast or you're slow. Nothing subjective. No need to travel across the country for a showcase: Coaches will find you, thanks to this crazy thing called the Internet.

Back to Pavilions. Those women were still sweetly one-upping each other as Calene found me. There was asparagus to buy. Frozen peas. I tried to get back to feeling good about that morning's sentence, but something as stupid as thinking fourth grade sports actually matters never left my mind.

High school is the proving ground. Few sports offer scholarships before puberty. Let your children play a little football, a little soccer, maybe splash around in the pool with a water polo ball. Then, when they've developed some aerobic strength, functional musculature, and hand-eye coordination, let them experiment with the sport of their choice for real. Above all, encourage your child to have fun, knowing this involves hard work and sacrifice.

They're called "games" for a reason.

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LAGUNA

Sunday afternoon. Fire in the hearth. NCAA tournament as background noise. Spending the afternoon engaged in one of my favorite pastimes: checking track stats.

We raced yesterday at the Laguna Beach Trophy Invite, a lovely competition on a track where the first turn offers a bold view of the Pacific. The sun was out, the weather just cool enough for the distance runners to clock fast times, and I nostalgically recalled running at this same meet 43 years ago. The track was dirt, the ocean view was no less beautiful, and I broke ten minutes for the two-mile for the first time.

Parking is tough in Laguna. It's a pricey oceanfront city on a hill, with no apparent zoning or city plan, just a bunch of swanky houses arranged cheek by jowl with a high school somehow plopped right down in the middle of it all. One would have to believe this is some of the priciest educational real estate in America. Someone, somewhere, has to be thinking about making a major fortune by relocating the school, selling the real estate, and building a gated development. Two things about that: they would never be able to rebuild the high school within Laguna Beach, if only because there's no more land; and, the town would lose some of its charm if their 1934 campus, which looks like an old-time Hollywood studio was their architectural inspiration, were to be uprooted — and Laguna is nothing but charming.

So I arrived at 5 AM, an hour before sunrise. Even after two decades of coaching, I like to be early. Got my parking space (though, in case you think me obsessive, I was perhaps only the tenth or eleventh to arrive). The racing wouldn't start for three hours so I took a walk down steep Cleo Street, across PCH where the old Taco Bell is now something new called the Taco Stand, and then a cliff overlooking the ocean. I carefully clutched the iron handrail as I walked the steep downward steps to the Pacific. Looking north and south, I could see the oceanfront city lights. But the westward horizon was completely dark and, behind me, the sun gave no intimation it planned on rising anytime soon. Trust me, the night really is darkest before the dawn.

The tide was too high to step down onto the sand, so I sat there on the cold concrete steps in the blackness, listening to waves crashing onto the rocks. It's easy to think profound, solitary thoughts when it's just you and the ocean and the dark and no one to whisper something sexy or profound. I took out my phone. The sudden light was like a claxon. Breaking the spell by checking email felt like heresy. I put my phone away.

And sat. For a long time. I talked to God but He was in listening mode and did not respond.

The morning didn't get any closer to the poetic seafront sunrise I was waiting to see. I got the feeling I was meant to be quiet and listen. I thought about my worries, which always seem so much more troublesome than my fears. I'm not afraid of much but it's a habit born in childhood that I ruminate even when there's nothing to worry about -- though, to be honest, right now I've got a few little daggers poking at me that are quite legitimate. The Elephants, if you look back to the end of last week's piece.

But right there was this timeless ebb and flow of the ocean. The crack of a sudden large wave snapping. And the black of night, wrapping its damp cold self around me like I was an intruder.

I had brought Starbucks. Finishing a coffee is like finishing a meal or downing a beer — the universal symbol to move on. My legs were stiff and my butt was cold from the damp concrete as I stood back up, reaching for the handrail to make sure I didn't topple backwards down the steep stairs leading to the surf.

The track meet went well enough for me to dream of a longer season for the runners. Forty-three years ago, I finished my race and did my somewhat euphoric cooldown run down Cleo Street and walked down the concrete beach steps with the cold metal handrail to jog in the surf. It was March. The sun was out and the water was bracing. Yesterday I just drove home, reveling in the riot of a green Laguna Canyon Road. Track stats are for today. They represent hope, speaking as they do of workouts to come, miles to be run, and the distant whisper of glory. The world knows me as a writer but coaching distance runners is what makes me whole. One of these days this gig, with all its revelations, will end.

And I will miss it dearly.

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ELEPHANT

Jason Isbell has a haunting song titled "Elephant." If you have not heard it, I suggest you give it a listen. For anyone who has lost a loved one due to a chronic illness, are standing alongside someone battling something (anything), and for just anyone who has experienced a complex relationship, there's a vault of nuanced emotion waiting to be flung open.

Isbell sings,

"She said, ‘You're better than your past’

Winked at me and drained her glass

Cross-legged on a barstool, like nobody sits anymore"

Elephant, of course, refers to the Elephant In The Room, that hulking presence we all feel but choose not to acknowledge. No, I'm not talking about the divisive Ted Lasso episode "Coach Beard's Night Out," which I think is genius but many find a very awkward detour in the show's otherwise linear narrative arc.

Instead, fifteen years into my writing partnership with Bill O'Reilly, I think it's time to acknowledge our friendship here in the blog.

Bill is definitely the Elephant, a media presence so powerful that the mere mention of his name elicits either anger or a most passionate admiration. As the audience for this blog has grown over the years, I am well aware that many read in the hopes of some political diatribe or perhaps fawning admiration of a public authority or two. Please know that's never going to happen. I am not paid to talk politics. That's Bill's arena. I am an historian and writer, more than happy to talk at length about both. In the many years since Bill and I formed a partnership, I can honestly say that's all we've ever discussed. We never talk politics. And for the record, he's one of the most hard-working, loyal, and smart individuals you will ever meet. Do we argue? Occasionally. Do we talk over one another? Perhaps. Do we work outrageous hours? No, not outrageous. But we work very hard. I should also add that I was very lucky to land this gig — as would any author with a wife, sons, and a mortgage.

I think I've reached the NDA limit of what I can say about Bill, but suffice to say he changed my life. For a history geek like me to have the luxury of writing a thirteen-book series about all manner of subjects, immersing myself in the research at an obsessive level of detail, is a dream come true.

And it's made me better. Not only does the intensity of the writing and research grow with every book, but it has made my own solo projects more complex. I have become obsessive about commas and word repetition. I prefer the more emotional aspects of history, for which there's little room in the Killing books, so it feels wondrous and self-indulgent to put those raw moments on the page. There is a luxury in honing your craft through a long, successful series — a challenge to not only get better but tell a story in a different way each time to make it unique and let it stand alone, as if the other books had never been written.

So there's the elephant. That's as much of a glimpse inside the world of the Killing series you'll ever see. Eighteen million sold and counting. I am happy to be far more expansive about the Taking series (Taking Paris, Taking Berlin, and the upcoming third part in my World War II trilogy, Taking London). They're pretty great, elephants unto themselves.

As for other elephants, there's just enough Catholic in me to give up beer for Lent, which is a whole other discussion. Then there's Ted Lasso and Coach Beard, with Season Three starting this week. And then there's that other elephant, the one I've mentioned briefly here before but we're not talking about.

"We just try to ignore the elephant somehow," Isbell sings.

"Somehow."

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ST. PAUL

Photo Credit: Frank Stefanko

I want you to know that I am not alone.

"Here for the show?" the waitress asked at brunch yesterday.

Calene and I were dining at the St. Paul Hotel, a century-old fortress just across from Rice Park, where U.S. Grant once paid a visit. When we acknowledged that we had, in fact, flown in from California to watch Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band perform, she smiled as she refilled our coffee. "I could tell."

We came from all over, usually in pairs — husband and wife, two dudes in old concert shirts, party cougars — to see the Boss. It didn't use to be like this. Back during The River tour in 1981, you waited until Bruce came to your town. Setlists were a vague rumor, not something posted nightly on the Internet. Tickets were a few bucks. A scalper once tried to sell me a front row seat for $50 and I told him he was crazy. I was a college student. Five dollars was a fortune. Fifty was a regret waiting to happen.

Last night's show was ridiculously amazing. Bruce is fit enough to bare his chest during the encore. The E Street Band is tight, with a talent and connection showing their half-century as a unit. I'm not here to compare them with any band, anywhere — because there is none. Seeing Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band live in concert is the best show you'll ever see. And yes, I'm including non-rock shows like Hamilton.

Calene and I paid a little more than fifty bucks for our seats. A look around the arena before the lights came down showed teenagers, young parents, and a whole lot of people my age who saw the band back when our lives were a lot of tomorrows instead of a lot of yesterdays (stole that one from a Bruce rap last night). The guy next to me, singing along to every word just like me, leaned over and yelled in my ear a few songs in, "When was the first time you saw him live?"

"August 21, 1981. LA Sports Arena. You?"

"Ames, Iowa, 1978. Darkness tour."

We both knew the code. No explanation needed. Instant brotherhood.

Over the years and literally hundreds of shows around the world, I've wondered more than once what draws the legions of faithful back, decade after decade. It's not just the live act. When you see grown men cry over the words to “Thunder Road,” there's something far more than just entertainment. For me, Springsteen has been a North Star since my teenage years. I can't explain it any other way. Whether life was hard or easy, there was always some line to some song that connected to the core of my being. Back when I was very alone and trying to find my way, there was Bruce. The hope in the guy winning the girl in “Thunder Road,” the defiance of “Badlands,” that promise in “Born to Run” ("someday, girl, I don't know when, we're gonna get to that place that we really want to go — and we'll walk in the sun"), and literally a hundred of other throwaway lines have carried me.

When my writing career needed a reminder to plumb the depths of my soul to find the right words, there was Bruce. And a look around the arena last night showed me that a very large percentage of the crowd had their own version of that relationship. We know the words. All of them. And when Bruce throws the mic our way, we sing them right back to him. And by "we," I mean almost the entire arena. There is a wonderful communal energy in being our own version of the E Street Choir.

I met Bruce one time before a 1981 show at the Rosemount Horizon in Chicago. I was with my friend Terry. We had driven down from Northern and were drinking Schlitz with some guys from Notre Dame. Showtime was hours away. A panel van parked next to us. Bruce got out and talked with us for fifteen minutes. It was so easy and casual that asking for an autograph would have been weird. And then he was gone. "See you after the show," he said, stepping into a side door of the arena. That scene was so ephemeral that I sometimes wonder if it happened at all (it did).

The subtle theme through last night's show was death. Lots of wistful words about ghosts, the death of friends, and preparing for the afterlife. It was sweet, not morbid. We all got the message and wiped away a tear, just as we've understood the code through so many other phases of life. Then it was back to the hotel, walking through a driving snow storm. I found myself wondering, as I'm sure so many of my fellow Springsteen travelers filling the hotels of downtown St. Paul were also wondering, when Calene and I might next get on a plane to see the E Street Band. They don't come to LA until December. That's a whole lot of months from now.

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MAN OF LEISURE

I'm sitting in my office on a Sunday afternoon. Rode the Peloton, went to church, Ricardo's in San Juan for crunchy tacos and refried beans, a little time re-reading The Winds of War, and now here I sit. Sadie, the two-year old black lab who behaves like the teenager she is, keeps trying to steal from the stash of Jujyfruits beneath my desk. She farts a lot.

Django, the nine-year-old hound, sleeps on the green carpet next to the guitar I keep telling myself I will someday learn to play.

It's nice to have a day like this. I would even say vital. I'm in that no-man's land of a book project, unable to remember the beginning and trying to figure out how the story will end. It's a funny thing about writing history in these days of historical reinvention — media outlets and crackpot theorists either pretending events didn't happen, politicizing every comma, or acting as if current events have no connection to the past. Writing non-fiction is now much more than assembling the facts and writing a good story. Every word is potentially fraught with controversy. Taking a moment to step back and appraise next week's work from a remove feels as much strategic as creative. Sunday off recharges me for Monday morning.

But the mind never really rests. I'm reading Winds of War because I think it would be a fun challenge to someday write historical fiction. Something sweeping and epic, with romance and daring characters. Reading Wouk is an attempt to learn from the best. I have a nugget of an idea in my mind about a narrative arc, but in reading this book (there's always something to learn from great authors — it’s like sitting down with a very entertaining textbook) I am amazed at how such a dense piece of description can be such an addiction. Wouk's not in a hurry to get anywhere and I am more than happy to go along for the ride. The little idea rattling around my brain needs to grow up and grow out if this historical fiction idea becomes reality. Scorcese reminds me that it’s my job to “get the audience to care about my obsessions,” which is a tall order, but an exciting thought to chase.

And, I should admit, I am afraid.

Writing an epic is strong labor. I know what it's like to inhabit the mindset of historical figures, but it's a whole other thing to invent them from scratch and build a fable around them. We're talking about hours of daydreaming, falling in love with people who don't exist, and inventing a story that comes to life with detail. I am not a writer who believes in outlines but it feels very much like this sort of work requires a clear head, hours of alone time, and writing the dreaded outline on a large piece of white butcher paper and hanging it on my office wall.

Which is what Sundays are for.

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