It fills the hole …

By Johnny D. Boggs

Frank Luksa was a longtime sports columnist when I joined the Dallas Times Herald staff in 1984. And I have used one of his sayings a lot over the years.

It even came to mind now and then after Charlotte Hinger talked me into blogging for Type M for Murder every other week for six months. As many of you know, it’s hard to tell Charlotte NO!

Well, six months ends today.

And this Western novelist-magazine writer-photographer-wannabe songwriter-film historian-former newspaper journalist and hack – the same guy who used to tell anyone who asked, “I write for a living. I don’t have time to blog.” – figured something out.

I can blog.

Well, maybe it was never provocative, awe-inspiring or halfway good, but I hope you got something out of it once in a while. A laugh. Or … If This Guy Can Write For A Living, Anybody Can.

Shucks, I even told Charlotte to hit me up again if she needs to. Just let me get through the projects I must finish this year. Including one deadline that, oh boy, is tomorrow.

Sure, I didn’t always figure out how to get the blog posted right. But that’s because my college-junior-techno-savvy son wasn’t around to help. Hey, I started out on a manual Smith Corona. (Sometimes I wish we still used typewriters.)

And I found myself reading Type M For Murder blogs, too. Learning. Laughing. Nodding. Blogging has a purpose.

You folks have talent. Keep it up. I might not be posting, or even commenting, but you can bet I’ll be reading when I can.

Back to Frank Luksa.

Frank had also worked at the Fort Worth Press, Fort Worth Star-Telegram (where I went after the Times Herald folded). After the Herald was being turned into a parking lot, he moved to the Dallas Morning News, where he kept sharing his opinions till he retired in 2004. He died at age 77 in 2012.

He covered the Dallas Cowboys, beginning with their inaugural season in 1960, and kept writing about them throughout his career. It didn’t take me more than a year in Dallas to grow to hate the Dallas Cowboys and loathe football in general. Frank covered the Seoul Olympics in 1988. He would file his column, call in, and if I happened to be editing his piece, as soon as we had OK’d everything, he would have me transfer the call to his home so he could talk to his wife.

When the newspaper closed three years later, I wondered if those long-distant charges had something to do with it.

But I always liked Frank. Hey, I liked columnist Skip Bayless, too. Both were professionals.

Skip was a wordsmith. You went over any changes you made with him. Frank, well, he had seen just about everything. And often, when he filed a column, he would tell me:

“It fills the hole – if not the need.”

Borrowing Frank’s saying and the newspaper symbol -30- (for END OF STORY) is a good way to sign off. 

-30-

Proofing and Public Speaking

By Johnny D. Boggs

Yesterday was one of those days I dread.

First, I had to get the final proof of a forthcoming novel for Kensington titled Longhorns East – shameless self-promotion – back to the production manager.

That’s never fun. Well, it’s fun to know that you’ll have a book coming out – in September – but that also leads to all sorts of stress.

Did I hit my goal? … Am I catching everything that needs fixing? … Does it read the way I want it to read. … Bigger question: Will anybody actually want to read this? I mean, it’s about a cattle drive to New York City and it opens in 1840 England! … It’s also my first original trade paperback. If the sales aren’t there, that’s when novelists get dropped.

There’s no job security in this business.

And you never know what the reading public will like and buy.

For me, the deadline for final corrections is more nerve-racking than the deadline for filing the manuscript. I’m confident that copy editors and main editors will catch the silly mistakes, question the parts that need questioning, offer erudite suggestions (or orders) and turn what I’ve written into something better.

But once I send in the final fixes, it’s all over but the worrying.

And then there was the rest of the day.

I had to give a talk for the Friends of the Santa Fe Public Library on the newest nonfiction book, American Newspaper Journalists on Film: Portrayals of the Press During the Sound Era (McFarland), at the Santa Fe Woman’s Club.

I know. It’s not that big of a deal. And I speak in public often. Have for decades. I’ve acted in theater (still waiting for some company to announce auditions for Mary Chase’s Harvey (Elwood P. Dowd or any part!), Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee’s Inherit the Wind (the Reverend Jeremiah Brown) or Sam Shepard’s True West (either brother, but I’ll do the producer, too). I’ve been a talking head on documentary television shows. I get interviewed by newspaper reporters and magazine writers fairly often.

Besides, this is a library fundraiser, and I’ll do anything to help libraries. But then, paranoid as most authors are, I worry about trivial things like How Many People Will Show Up (maybe more this time, since they serve alcohol) … What Kinds Of Questions Will They Ask? … And I have to give a talk. Keep them entertained. Remember not to say anything that will turn them off. But what if they don’t laugh at my jokes?

High pressure. Maybe even more pressure than writing a Western novel that opens in England and focuses on a pre-Civil War cattle drive from Texas to New York City.

It’s a lot less stressful sitting in a room all day just typing ... with nothing to disturb you but doggies that demand attention and spam telephone calls that interrupt your train of thought.

But – and I tell every beginning author this when I’m speaking to beginning authors (which I have to do March 26 for New Mexico Writers):

It’s part of the job.

Superstitions

By Johnny D. Boggs

I just made an emergency run to the grocery.

I was out of blueberries. Had gone days without any. Which explained why this week has been so lousy. 

Sources for magazine assignments blowing me off. Outlining a novel not coming together as I’d hoped. Sentence I just wrote reading like crud.

Here’s my morning ritual: Get up. Let the doggies out and feed the big one. Hit the coffeemaker. Shower. Get dressed. And, most importantly, make myself a smoothie.

The ingredients vary, depending on what’s available. Raspberries. Strawberries. Blackberries. Spinach. Celery. Tomatoes. Oranges. Peach. Grapefruit. Lemon. Chile. Carrots. Apple. Cucumber. Zucchini. Brazil nuts. Protein powder.

And 20 blueberries.

For good luck.

I am not so insecure and insane that I must have a 20-blueberry smoothie when I’m on the road. When I’m home, however, I remain fairly certain that failure to include those 20 blueberries dooms me to a frustrating day at the Mac. That the Kansas City Royals and South Carolina Gamecocks will stink if they’re playing. That the check I’m expecting won’t be in the mail. 

If I happen to have only 23 blueberries left, I’ll likely add the extra three. Maybe.

A 20-blueberry smoothie could be a ritual because I happen to like blueberries, though, as a native of South Carolina, I’m a much bigger fan of peaches. Maybe the specific number is just a tradition. Perhaps it’s comforting.

Or I could be superstitious.

But I have no problem stepping on cracks in sidewalks. I don’t worry if a black cat walks in front of me. Thirteen is just another number. There’s no rabbit’s foot around. I won’t walk under a ladder, but that’s because my dad was a building contractor, and there might be someone on that ladder, or there might be a hammer or a gallon of paint atop the ladder, and I don’t want a carpenter or a hammer falling on my head or being bathed in paint if I accidentally slip and hit that ladder.

When I coached Little League, I would try to wear the same socks, shoes, etc., if we were winning. Once we lost, the mojo was gone and I’d find new duds or wash the luck back into what I had been wearing. I would chastise anyone who started packing up equipment before the game was over.

And I will never step on a foul line.

Superstitions apply to writing, too.

The first book I ever sold was mailed (back when we actually mailed typed manuscripts), per the publisher’s guidelines, in 12-point Monaco. Most people that I run into these days have never even heard of Monaco, but I use it all the time. Well, if a publisher demands 10-point Times New Roman or 14-point Calibri, I’ll try to comply. If I happen to forget, I just think, Hey, Editors, all y’all have to do is hit “Select All,” and change the font and point size, silly.

Then when the editors have a bad day, they have only themselves to blame.

A Leap of Faith

 by Charlotte Hinger

I'm building on Johnny D. Boggs's blog this week. He wrote about a series of seemingly bad breaks that were catalysts to better developments. He's at the top of his game today and a multiple award winning author. In every conceivable genre. Except songwriting, I think. This man has awesome credentials.

He's where he is today because he didn't quit. I've read a number of articles he's written about writing and at no point have I read that he considered quitting. 

Once in a while when I give talks or presentations I come across a person who tells me they submitted a manuscript--either a book or a short story--once, and if they were rejected, they never sent it out again. 

That's fatal, of course. Writing is no arena for the faint-hearted. Yet, I remember, I remember, when I was beginning, when my heart was in my throat, and my anxiety increased every hour while I waited for the postman. This was in the days when manuscripts were always mailed. I printed my books on pristine white paper of a certain weight and mailed them off in a double box manufactured especially for manuscripts. My labels were perfectly typed.

I decided it was the secret to eternal life. I couldn't imagine dying when I had a manuscript off to a publishing house. The suspense would keep me alive forever. This of course, was a lifetime ago, when editors always responded to submissions. Usually, negatively, and with a form rejection. But it was a response, nevertheless. 

It was possible for editors to participate in this kind of courtesy because they were not inundated with the insane volume of submissions they deal with today. At the time my first novel was published, there were about 55,000 novels published a year in this country. With the invention of the internet and ebooks, self publishing has exploded and the annual tally of novels is close to four million. No wonder personal comments from editors are a thing of the past. 

Nevertheless, this truth will always remain: those who succeed never quit. 

Connections

 

Connections

By Johnny D. Boggs

The telephone rang last week, and I pushed away from the keyboard and answered. The news stunned me.

Karl Cordova died after cardiac arrest the day before. He was 52.

Karl worked for, and loved, the National Park Service, serving as superintendent at Casa Grande (Arizona) Ruins National Monument and Pecos (New Mexico) National Historical Park. I met him after he moved to New Mexico to take the Pecos job. His two sons and my son were in the same Boy Scout troop -- Karl eventually became Scoutmaster, and I was one of several assistants -- and all three boys played baseball. I coached baseball with Karl, sometimes against him, and umpired a few ballgames in which the boys played.

                                                        Karl Cordova at a naturalization 

                                                        ceremony at Pecos National His-

                                                        torical Park in 2016.

I have never met anyone as calm and collected as Karl. He never lost his cool -- hard to do when you're wrangling pre-teen and teenage boys.

The sad news also had me thinking that as a writer, you often never know if you touch readers, and it's a blessing when you have. It's a bigger blessing when you realize how a reader can touch you.

The last time I say Karl was in March. He invited me to bring the family to a dinner in Pecos with Friends of Pecos National Historical Park on the eve of the park's annual Civil War Encampment (the 1862 battle of Glorieta Pass, in which Union forces turned back a Confederate invasion, was partially fought on what's now park property). I'd talk a bit about writing historical novels and answer any questions.

Over the years, I had given Karl some of my novels, and he had bought others. His father, he said, was a big fan of my books and loved Westerns. When you write in this genre, you hear that fairly often: My father reads ... My grandfather reads ... my great-grandpa reads. ... Well, Karl said he liked my books, too, though I'm pretty sure his sons had no interest in reading Westerns.

But that night, Karl told another story.

He was visiting his father in the hospital. His dad was reading Hard Winter, if my memory's right. I said, "I kinda like that one myself." They talked about my my writing style, how they liked the way I told different kinds of Westerns, how I did my research, how I made my characters realistic, believable, human. I was wondering if my hat would fit when I had to leave.

And then Karl said:

"My father passed away that night. So I'll always remember that the last conversation we had was about your books." 

Readers have written letters or emails or even telephoned to say how much they like something I've written, or why they didn't like what I'd written. But I'd never heard anything like what Karl said that night. I signed a copy of the book in memory of Karl's dad.

This morning, I'll be at Karl's funeral. This afternoon, I'll be back in the office, writing a novel with a deadline fast approaching. But I've already rewritten part of that book. A few days ago, I called up the Word doc and went to the dedication. Deleted what I had written, then replaced it with:

In memory of Karl Cordova (1970-2022),

fellow baseball coach, Scout leader, and friend;

and his father, Bill (1936-2020),

who liked my novels.

Preventing Brain Fade

By Johnny D. Boggs

             Brain Fade.

My favorite bit of sports jargon/slang comes from my newspaper days. If you include college, part-time work, freelancing and almost 15 years in what was then a highly competitive/drive-you-to-drink market in Dallas-Fort Worth, that covers 1980-2001. The phrase comes from NASCAR – stock-car racing – which I found myself covering and editing during much of my career. You see, when Dallas Times Herald and Fort Worth Star-Telegram editors learned I came from South Carolina, they figured I knew all about goin’ racin’. Well, I did attend school with NASCAR Hall-of-Famer Cale Yarborough’s daughters.

             Covering races or editing articles about races, I ran across Brain Fade a time or two.

There’s not much a driver can do at 190 mph when his car throws rod or a tire blows, but when a driver does something completely stupid – and maybe wrecks other cars – that, folks, is Brain Fade.

So whenever an editor or proofreader (yikes, or even a reader after a book/article is published) calls my attention to a stupid mistake, I chalk it up to Brain Fade.

Most Brain Fades I attribute to newspaper training: Write fast. File on time. Pray that the copy editors catch anything that will get you in serious trouble. Make it better for the next edition.

Sure, when I sit down at the desk, I think: This book isn’t due for months, take your time, don’t type so fast. I remind myself of the advice a high school writing teacher gave Robert A. Caro, who went on to have a successful newspaper career before becoming a two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer:

“The trouble with you is that you think with your fingers.”

For a few minutes, I slow down. Then that newspaper DNA takes over and I’m back at 120 words a minute.

My goal always is: Cut down on Brain Fades.

In Working: Researching, Interviewing, Writing, Caro recalls that when he moved to book-length works he started writing his first drafts with pencil in longhand – just to slow that write-fast instinct. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says, “but you get calluses.” My handwriting, however, stinks.

One night on the sports desk at the Dallas Times Herald, a fellow copy editor theorized on why we caught more gaffes on paper proofs than while editing on computers. His reasoning: The eye-to-brain connection rebels from a computer screen. So print your proof out on paper. And recycle so we don’t kill as many trees.

Another tip I’ve heard: Read your work aloud. (But I hate my voice.)

Or change your point size and your font before proofreading.

Hey, we’ll try anything.

Benjamin Dreyer, copy chief of Random House, had an interesting essay in the September 25 New York Times Book Review. One line, as writer and editor, especially struck a chord:

“I still aim for unadulterated perfection, at least as far as books are concerned. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t.”

I’ll keep on trying.

 

Good news!

This week I received the happy news that my historical novel, The Healer's Daughter, is a finalist for the High Plains Book Award. I'm absolutely thrilled. And astonished!

I realized, too, that I'm so used to hearing bad or disheartening information that my expectations have become grey. That's too bad because lovely things are happening all around us. I'm amazed at how many organizations have pulled themselves together and soldiered right on via Zoom and other media offerings.

It's not the same. I've decided not to go to the annual convention of Western Writers of America this year. It breaks my heart because Johnny D. Boggs will receive the Wister Award. Johnny is a wonderful writer and I can't think of anyone else who has contributed so much to this organization. I would love to be there when he receives the Wister.

I find that Fort Collins, especially Larimer County, is very conscious of the dangers of COVID. Here, and next door in Weld County, we've been hard hit. I pretty much fall in line with our governor's Safer At Home instructions.

Normally, I would be anticipating attending the High Plains Award ceremony in Billings, Montana this September. I would be fussing around over clothes. My shoes, my hair. Everything having to do with grooming. My heart would be in my throat as the chairman announced the winners. But as with Mystery Writers of America and nearly all organizations, the awards ceremony will be virtual this year.

Isn't it wonderful that we've found a way to work around this limitation? A couple of weeks ago, the Rocky Mountain chapter of Mystery Writers of America had another outstanding program, via Zoom. I've missed our local Sisters in Crime meetings due to conflicts, but the group hasn't cancelled a single meeting.

I realize substituting media for personal interaction is not as satisfying, but it's keeping things together. I've had four events cancel. Then yesterday I realized that I could be copying some the techniques used by the major publishers. I could contact the persons and arrange for a presentation via Zoom. It wouldn't be the same as being able to sell and autograph books, but I could let them know how much I appreciate their support.

Who knows? By the time we develop a vaccine and work our way through the COVID crisis, we may discover new promotional techniques for our books.

Hang in there!

Level of Squirreliness

Oh never mind spellcheck. I know squirreliness is not a word. It's my own term. It seems to me that we all seek the maximum level of activity we can handle without being overcome by stress. That's your level of squirreliness.

I've reached mine again. Although most of my "stuff" is related to writing, I'm also on the church finance committee and my homeowner's association board. And there's that book study I will help lead. And a number of other things that are clogging the creative flow.

No one ever tells wannabe authors about the business/busyness of writing. It's never-ending and with increased success the pressure mounts. Social media can be a soul-sucker that will drain every spare minute. I once heard a speaker say she set her alarm to wake up every two hours all night long just to keep up with emails and to respond to media opportunities. She looked like she was auditioning for the role of Morticia in the Addams family. She was also very very successful.

Many of the Type M'ers are involved with preparing for Bouchercon which will be help in Toronto this year. I'm going and so looking forward to my first trip to Canada. But I've been involved with the grunt work of conferences in the past and know the effort involved. I've developed spreadsheets, scheduled interviews, organized judging....well you get the drift. The potential for volunteer work is endless. I so admire all of you who are helping with this conference. Whew!

I love writers' conferences. They are a time of renewal. I learn something every time I attend one. I just got back from the annual Western Writers of America convention which was held in Kansas City this. Some of my dearest friends are in this organization. But I didn't get a bit of writing done. I have friends who do, including fabulously productive best-selling Kat Martin who is simply amazing and has over sixteen million books in print.

It was a pleasure to see Johnny D. Boggs receive his seventh Spur award. It's an all-time record. And this man can write!

My built-in high pressure valve is when I can't seem to find time for fresh composition. Therein lies restoration and renewal. The most joyful part of being a writer is the experience of unexpected characters showing up for a book or the ah-moment of a plot finally clicking.

I know how to fool myself that I've spent adequate time on my writing. I can transfer hand written pages to the computer or fiddle with improving a story or part of a book. And spend too much time doing research.

So it's back to reality and saying "no" and resisting any activity that pulls me away from the blank screen.