Sam Hilliard's Blog, page 3

Y is for Yoda

Maybe like Captain Willard, I was looking for a mission, and for my sins they brought me one. Only the messenger in this case was a friend and the particular sin was a failure to commit.

Ah, a lack of commitment. For the past few years, I've bounced around in the study of martial arts, training with different instructors, in both group and private settings. I attended classes with zero thought for either the journey of self-discovery or earning belts or badges. If I learned something new, that was a sufficient milestone–even if I was the only one who recognized the advance.

One night, something remarkable happened. During an in-class demonstration, a rather frail looking older gentleman knocked a man half his age and twice his weight more than six feet from the point of impact with a strike that appeared to require no more effort than a waiter dropping a bill on a table. After realizing what happened, I took away three things from that night.

First, size did not dictate the amount of energy a person could channel in the right circumstance. This Grand Master was 130 pounds dripping wet and on the short side. Second, certain skills defied a conventional explanation and therefore later people might doubt what happened, even those people who witnessed it. Unlike a boxer or MMA fighter, this martial artist barely moved, yet caused tremendous response from his target. Last, I wondered if I would ever have the chance to learn to focus energy with such precision.

Years later the chance appeared. And like Willard, the mission came up to me like room service. Of course I agreed. When the universe offers a chance to learn from Yoda, the only answer is yes.

So the holidays came early in New Jersey.

Just like Oed

Two things about the one they called Bandito were obvious at first sight: one, he was the tiniest kitten in the litter, and two he needed a name change before coming home.

Number two was easily fixed, and the first issue resolved itself. Bandito, the short hair black kitty, son of two random stray cats who stumbled into a rental together one night in New Brunswick, became Oedipus Maximus. And thus began my relationship with a cat who eventually tipped the scales slightly south of twenty pounds. Maybe a bit more north during the Holiday season.

Oedipus saw me through college graduation, a divorce, a novel release, and a host of situations my mother shouldn't learn about by reading this public entry. But there many good times to be sure. There were moments I will never forget. There were thousands of days and nights. And there were so many lessons.

For instance, Oedipus taught me how to live more fully. To love the people who matter most without conditions. He taught me that pats were good for everybody. And to take a nap each day. More than one nap when possible.

He also taught me about the kind of sorrow one can only experience when truly loving someone. Because without warning, Oedipus developed a serious kidney issue last week and the best option for treatment was no option at all.

So after nearly fifteen years together, this morning I placed Oedipus on the examination table at the vet's office. I held both of his front paws as the vet shaved down his right rear inner leg. Before the syringe found its mark on a fresh patch of exposed skin I kissed Oedipus one last time, and told him I loved him with all my heart. Then the life in his eyes faded away like a lit flare tumbling down a black well.

Oedipus Maximus is gone now. His spirit will begin the journey his body could no longer manage.

And I am certain that the one they once called Bandito has again found his way to a new home.

The oddest things to remember

Even years after my grandfather passed, certain moments we shared seem very new. For whatever reason, something triggered a favorite memory.

Grandpa loved fishing. Whenever he was able, for as long as he was able, he grabbed the gear and headed to his favorite spot in Missouri. If I was in town, he took me along. Since his favorite spot was a 1000 acre lake, having some way to move between points quickly made sense. There was one wrinkle: Every trip meant hauling a 57 pound motor and gas tank down to the dock.

One time we started unloading the car in the parking lot. I grabbed a tackle box, a homemade anchor and half the rods.

"Hey Grandpa," I said. "Have you ever thought about buying a bass boat? That way we can just launch and go."

"Well, I looked at a few." Grandpa nodded, a wistful look in his eye.

"Are you going to buy one?"

To the end, Grandpa had a way of relating his logic in a such a way that made it feel like a conversation instead of a monologue. And so his answer began plainly enough. "If I buy a boat, I need a slip and somewhere to store the boat in the winter. Also I'll have to have a trailer to haul it, which brings me to another problem: I need another car to attach to the trailer. Something with four wheel drive."

"That sounds expensive," I said.

"It's something to consider."

"You know if you had a boat though it would be easier to get out to the lake. And we could fish longer because we wouldn't have to return the rental."

"I suppose we could. You know your grandmother gets awfully lonely if we're not back by five."

We finished the first trip between the car and the dock. I caught my breath.

"Hey, what if we rented a boat that had a motor attached? I've seem them at the dock. That way you don't need to get a boat, a slip, trailer or a new car." This I said, very certain that I made a few points with my own logic.

Grandpa unlocked the trunk. He smiled.

"Get the gas tank, son."

Memories like those make it feel like he never really left. But he is gone now. And wherever he is, I hope he's got the throttle wide open on a shiny new bass boat, before he has to head home for dinner.

Unexpected

By accident I found a nice review of The Last Track online. I guess that means I'm still alive. Margot Kinberg says it better than I can, so check out her review.

In other news, I survived Hurricane Irene. Compared to much of NJ, my town weathered the maelstrom easily–less than 16 hours without power. Not too shabby. Also, half of the outage occurred overnight, so it didn't feel like a hardship. Not when my employer only got back online Thursday night.

Really the "downtime" was welcome; it allowed an opportunity to finish reading a book that had been crowding out the bookshelf for too long. The ending wholly redeemed all the narrator issues that slowed down the story; I'll read another entry from the author.

Right or wrong, I have a strict one book at a time rule. Occasionally this is a painful course of action; not every book hits a home run. Nor should every book, really. But I'd rather take a little longer finishing something challenging than leave a trail of half read books all over the apartment.

Besides, some authors really do pull it out from the drink in the last mile.

Amazon to NY: Oh, it's on

After clicking the last brick into place, Amazon.com now has made its intentions to become the largest book publisher walking the earth clear. That's a presumptive assertion, perhaps, but consider a few facts about Amazon.

First, Amazon is already the largest e-tailer in the world. As of byproduct of being the biggest, they maintain the largest known mailing list of book buyers and the buying patterns of these readers–be they frequent and occasional. Through the Encore program Amazon culls self-published authors who sell well on Kindle and then re-release titles on hardcover, complete with a marketing campaign and professional reviews.

Today Amazon game ratchets the game up a notch. Amazon just signed a best selling author–away from Crown Publishing, a division of Random House. Like other authors Amazon backs, his new title will appear on hardcover, e-book and paperback.

But now for the first time, Amazon will also push an author's wares into bookstores. With the arrival of Tim Ferriss, it's clear Amazon anticipates big sales online and at the register.

Oh sweet

As a child, of the seasons I liked summer the least, which is the exact opposite of convention. After all summer meant vacations, warm weather and long nights. What was not to love?

Well, we seldom vacationed, the AC often broke, and the long nights mean very little to a kid whose primary mode of transport was a ten speed. Thankfully, perspectives change. And a working AC helps.

Now as an adult I like summer because it means vacations, which really mean longish writing sessions. I guess that means I live to work. Or at least for some kinds of work.

Towards that end, here's another picture of the undisclosed location that figures into the next book. This one is from the other side of the fence. No laws were broken to obtain these photographs. * whistles *

First photograph

Pretty good field trip to an undisclosed location this past Saturday. More photos to follow later this week.

Anything but that

It's a blessed time, indeed. Eleven more business days until the students graduate and the business of breaking the school down for the summer break begins. And more importantly, I get to take a day or two off, which means more time for writing.

Speaking of writing, have a field trip scheduled in the next few weeks for research the next book. Many people have warned that the terrain in question is treacherous not because it's difficult to cross–though portions of the excursion involve blatant acts of trespass–but more because of the denizens that live among the abandoned structures. Since I trance out now and again in the fresh air, I'm bringing an extremely large friend along for the hike.

Spiking deeper into the research vein, I'll also be visiting my favorite drop zone in a few weeks to get some technical advice about a skydiving scene. Last I've decided to begin a correspondence with an individual who has generally resisted all contact with the outside world. Just getting them a letter is going to be a task in itself, but I'm working on it. Their perspective could add a certain something to the book.

That last bit is a long shot, but so is everything else these days.

So it's a sad note

After a very long battle with dementia, my grandmother passed this Easter Sunday. Everyone likes to say their grandmother was the sweetest woman who lived, but in her case it was probably true. A trove of stories have circulated among family members that attest to her gentle nature for many years. This one will always be my favorite:

My parents had a rocky marriage. When I was seven, they decided to tackle the issues they had as a couple. Knowing  they needed space away from the routine to work through their situation together, they asked my grandparents to watch me for a month.

As planned, my parents returned for me in four weeks, refreshed and ready for a new beginning. However, after weeks with a steady supply of cookies and access to a BB gun, I was pretty set in my new digs. When my parents came to the door for me, I stayed on the couch. I didn't budge.

My dad thought I was joking, so he started the car. My mom, more familiar with my stubborn nature, realized this was a matter of some consequence. She spent more than then fifteen minutes pleading and bargaining with me to come home.

But I didn't budge. I staked my claim to a patch of couch next to my grandfather as he worked a New York Times crossword puzzle. A long cigarette burned in the astray next to him.

When it became clear I wasn't going, my grandmother conferred with my Mom in private. Then my Mom went outside and waited in the car.

Grandma sat next to me on a divan. "Your parents are pretty upset about this. Maybe you could  go with them? They miss you an awful lot."

"I like living with you and Grandpa," I said. "I'm staying here."

"Well," Grandma said, "If you go with your parents now, I promise that we'll come and visit you very soon."

"Really?"

"I'll call your Mom tomorrow and set it up."

I hugged Grandma goodbye, and shook my grandfathers hand. Grandma sent me off with a few cookies for the road. My parents said nothing about the incident.

My grandparents came to visit me, just like Grandma promised. When we moved to California, I returned to Kansas for a summer visit. And I kept coming back. Part of every summer between the age of 8 and 22, I stayed with them. Grandma always had the cookies ready. And even though Grandpa swore to my parents he had sold the BB gun, Grandma let me know which closet he had "hidden" it from me.

When I think back to the great couch standoff now, I realize the depth of Grandma's love. She respected my parents enough not to undermine their authority, yet recognized how much I liked being around her and Grandpa. And she came up with a way for everyone to win.

My grandparents are both gone now. But like in life, Lawrence and Barbara are together again.

And I remember the sort of unconditional love only a grandparent can give, only a child can receive, and only an adult can understand how unfortunately rare it really is.

Email matters

Sometimes email can prove that it's every bit the relevant medium its inventors intended, rather than just an homage to a distant era. After Facebook, the merit of email seem to be eroding–almost daily. And yet three particular electronic notes in as many weeks suggest otherwise.

The first was from a graduate student doing a research project on literary marketing services that today's author might consider useful. The discussion led to a more formal interview. A rather indirect way into the academic curriculum, to be sure, but humble beginnings are steps all the same.

Speaking of interviews,  all the Q&As for The Last Track have been a good experience. Mostly because the interviewers forced me to consider what I was trying to do with writing. In a few years, I'll have a well practiced stable of answers that will cover the standard battery most interviewers ask, but for now it's all new. Which leads to note number two.

In the interview vein, there's a possibility of an interview about writing on a very popular site. I'm pretty excited about the prospect, especially since it would be conducted by an accomplished writer. That's all I can say now. That and the details came via email.

Last, an email appeared from a vary exotic locale, where the publisher has no distribution. She had read about The Last Track and wanted to know how she could get swag. Because she was so polite about it, I put together a little package. Hopefully it reaches her in good condition.

So that's three very different developments, all three of born from emails.

Maybe even in these days of spam, database hacks, and phishing scams, email still has a place in the writer's toolkit.