Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part III)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

Stephen sat up on one of those thick Barnes and Noble tables, and his Sigma Ki brothers gathered around. His store contact offered to fetch him something from Starbucks, which he accepted, and an impromptu Q&A took place. I wasn’t part of this group, but if words of writing wisdom were being dropped, I wasn’t going to miss out. Jonny must have been thinking the same thing, and we soon edged in on the periphery.

One of the perks of being short is that you can finesse things like that.

To be honest, I can’t remember a lot of what he said. I was a little too amped. He talked about how when he started out, he wrote 5 hours a day after work every day for 6 years, and did not sell a thing. I had heard him say this before, and I think this has inspired me more than anything else he’s said. His wife would hold dinner until 10:30 for him. Wow. That’s dedication, and I can’t believe that anyone who is willing to be that committed can but succeed.

And it is a choice. I tell my students all the time that people find the time to do the things they want to do.

And I’ve done it in my own life. When I had it in my mind to play piano professionally (I was a piano performance major at Ball State), I was practicing 5-6 hours a day during the week, on top of my classes, assistantship, and homework. I told myself that other people may have more talent, but they will not outwork me. When I entered competitions, it was always in the back of my head that one of my competitors was out there practicing, right then. That right there motivated me to get my ass to a practice room.

I became very good. Yeah, my priorities changed when I met my wife, and I realized that I didn’t love the piano enough to make it my career, but what the experience taught me was that a person’s ceiling is far higher than they ever suspect, given enough work. People are really bad judges of what they’re capable of. Better just to assume no limits.

I guess that’s why what Stephen was saying resonated so much with me. Because I knew it was true. And if I’m not where I want to be, a large part of it must be that I simply haven’t worked hard enough yet. It’s not going to come to me. I have to go get it, like he did. Plus, unlike Stephen, I’m not fighting dyslexia, so what’s my excuse? Exactly.

After the event, my buddy said that the amount of work he put in after a full day on the job made him feel like a pussy. Ditto, Jonny, ditto.

Gustave Flaubert said that talent is a prolonged patience. Dorothy Parker said the secret to writing is getting your ass in the chair. It’s all true.

About twenty minutes before seven, Jonny suggested that we find a seat. It was a good thing he did, because mentally, I was swimming. As fortune would have it, there were two seats available right in front of the podium. I had a fleeting thought that we should take a pass on them so someone elderly, hard of hearing, or disabled could sit there, but it was only a fleeting thought. The idea of being less than 10 feet away from one of my few living literary heroes made me grab that seat like it was the last one in a game of musical chairs.

I started thinking about the question I would ask.

Next time: Ice Spiders!

For the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part II)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

The day went by quickly, and at the end of school I was gone as if I had been shot out of a cannon.

On to Chicago, normally two hours away. I am an idiot, and it took me three.
Why? Sleep deprivation is the most likely culprit. I can’t begin to justify the route I took, although at the time I thought I was going to save money on tolls. (The last time I went to O’Hare, I think I wound up spending about $10, but that’s a different story.)

Have you ever pulled an all-nighter to write a paper? Sure, when you’re writing it, all jittery from No-Doz, you’re thinking, “Hey! This shit is brilliant!”

Then you wake up, read it again, and wonder what six-year old hijacked your paper.

My wife had to guide me in via cell phone and internet. As it turns out, I could have taken I-294 basically all the way to the Barnes and Noble where the book signing was being held. For the whopping cost of 80 cents.

Hitting the B&N with an hour to spare, I ran into my old college roommate Jonny, rocking his black motorcycle jacket pretty hard. He’s a little stouter these days, as am I, but he’s a guy who’s never been ashamed to like what he likes, and the perfect wingman for an adventure like this.

We asked each other cordial questions about each other’s lives and families, the kind of things adults do when they get together, but if I’m going to be honest, I was pretty distracted. I’d like to think of myself as a fairly focused, heady guy—-not the kind of person who gets star-struck—-but frankly my radio was all over the dial. I started noticing the oddest things:

This Barnes and Noble is huge!

I wonder if they carry Strategy and Tactics here, and if so, if they have the version that comes with the game.

Why does my finger hurt so much?

Yeah, that last one…about ten minutes after I arrived, I mindlessly put my hand in my pocket. My debit card was in there, and I bamboo-chuted myself with it. I pulled a bloody finger out of my pocket. It hurt like crazy.

Idiot.

We found the corner of the store where the shindig was to take place. I hadn’t known what to expect. Perhaps a rope line. There was a podium, a heavy rectangular table, and maybe a dozen rows of chairs. There were some older people already seated, and a number of well-dressed gentlemen milling about near the back. We settled in over by a post, standing and watching.

Then it happened. Quickly.

I turned, and there he was in front of me. This is not hyperbole. It was as if he had beamed in right next to me.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asked, shaking my hand vigorously.

Stephen Cannell is a tall guy. Or I’m a short guy. Probably both are true. He’s seen a lot of California sun, and has grayed, but is still good-looking for his age. He was wearing a jacket, which Jonny would shortly afterward describe as “pimping.”

“Great, great,” I gushed, responding in kind.

“You Sigma Ki?” he asked.

Click! Now I understood who all these people were. He had come early to meet and greet his Sigma Ki brothers.

“Uh…no?”

Well, that’s me. Always there with the mot juste.

Next time: Ice Spiders!

To read the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part I)

The alarm went off at 6 a.m. This was a concession, an unhappy one, to the fact I couldn't get to sleep the night before—and I didn’t want to be dead on my feet for the big day. I had gone to bed at midnight and…

Hold on! Not midnight! Magically, 1 a.m. What?

Yes, time change. In northwest Indiana, spring forward, fall back. I was born here, and it still takes me by surprise.

I lay there, thinking, staring at the red numbers. If I blinked, I knew that it would suddenly say 6:30. The alarm was set for 6 a.m. Not 4 a.m., the time the ideal me got up. Not even 5 a.m., the compromise time.

I am one of the faceless millions in this country who have an alternate identity.

I call myself a writer.

In my vainer moments that’s what I do, anyway. I think it was Faulkner who said, “Don’t be a writer. Always be writing.” It’s good advice. Goes right to the heart of the matter. Anybody can string sentences together (although as a high school teacher, I can attest that that number is sadly diminishing). Still fewer can do it effectively. Fewer still get recognized for their ability, and a very small number can make a living off it.

That is my dream, my hope, my fervent wish. It’s the canker sore in my mouth.

Compared to a lot of people, I have a good life. I have a job, which in these economic times, is not insignificant. I try not to complain about things that go on at work because it seems people are queued up to tell me that at least I have a job. My wife and kids are provided for, admittedly not in the manner I’d like for them to be, but adequately. At least for now.

Whatever.

It’s not enough. And I don’t care who it offends.

And believe me, it's not about the money. I love to write. I love to see my words on the page. I love to see other people see my characters as real as I see them. And I would love nothing more than to have the freedom to do it full-time.

So I’m lying there, and as my familiar, depressive thoughts--the chasm between my dreams and my reality--start crowding in on me, I start my mantra: “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening…” I’m one of those people who think the Universe can be commanded. Whatever ye shall bind on earth and all that Mathew 18:18 business. Maybe it can, maybe it can't. But if it can, and I'm not trying to command it, then shame on me. Today, it’s especially important that I think positively, because I am horrifically nervous. Just stultifyingly, pit-in-the-stomach on edge.

It’s a big day.

I’m going to go see Stephen J. Cannell.

More than once today I will think to myself, “After school, just go home. You can lie and say that you went. You have a fertile imagination. There’s all kinds of things you could say. Going to Chicago on a school night is a big deal, and you’re not twenty anymore. People will understand. Go home. Play Madden on the PlayStation. Roughhouse with the kids. Watch reruns of The West Wing.”

The thing is, I knew that I would be thinking things like this. So, as a precaution, I’ve been telling anyone who would listen what my plan was. Coworkers. Friends. My wife. My kids. Facebook. All the girders and supports I have in my life, I told. If I backed out, there would be a backlash. I would be called on it. Even if I wasn’t, an unspoken contempt.

Besides, I had pressed a friend of mine to meet me up there. It was on.

Fear and doubt is not a luxury I can afford.

So I get up to do my morning routine, and whenever I feel the negative feelings rush in I chant, “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening.”

Next time: Stephen Cannell Beams In.

This is the first installment. To read on, click here.

Confessions with Dr. Reed Robaire

Part III of IV in a series of "interviews" with characters from my upcoming novel, Ghosty: An Inappropriate Tale for Young Girls.

Today's interview is with Dr. Reed Robaire, dashing man of SCIENCE!


Your main fault: Remembering that most people are not as brilliant as I am. They can't understand the SCIENCE!

Your idea of misery: Teaching high school SCIENCE!

If not yourself, who would you be? I see myself as Captain Nemo, anti-hero of SCIENCE!

Confessions with Rot Thammavongsa

Part II of IV in a series of "interviews" with characters from my upcoming novel, Ghosty: An Inappropriate Tale for Young Girls. (BTW I could use some major help with the title.) Also check out the interview with the novel's protagonist, Bingo Elkins.

Today's interview is with Rot "Rose" Thammavongsa, Bingo Elkins' personal assistant/bodyguard/assassin.

Your idea of happiness: Serving my employer. What else? I dare not speak it.

For what fault do you have most toleration? There's an old Thai proverb, Nam-dtann-glad-mod...krai-ja-ohd-dai. ("Sugar near ants...who can restrain themselves?")

Your favorite heroine in fiction: Moll Flanders.

Confessions With Bingo Elkins

I'm impatient for NaNoWriMo to start, so I've included a preview of some of the characters who will be featured in the novel I'll be writing next month: Ghosty: An Inappropriate Tale for Young Girls. (I may tinker with the title.)

The questions are taken from an English-language confession album which was later answered and made famous by French author Marcel Proust. Vanity Fair adopted and adapted the "Proust Questionnaire."

The first interview is with the novel's protagonist.


What you appreciate the most in your friends: Loyalty, old egg! It's a rummy shame when a chum lets you down, what?

How you wish to die: As I've been toddling along in the afterlife for nearly eighty years now, this question gives me the pip somewhat.

Your favorite occupation: Well, I can tell you it's not running my corporation and what not! I have coves that can do that for me. If I had my rathers, I'd be biffing the old tennis ball or having a round of golf. Alas, noncorporeal hands make that dashed difficult, so I have to seek other adventures.

NaNoWriMo in 11 Days!

Only 11 days until NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)! If you don't already know, it's a month-long writing contest to produce a 50,000-word novel...in a month. The prize?

Having written a novel.

I'm extremely excited about getting started. I've written a novel before, but it took me 6 months to write it, and a dozen failed attempts before that. As a writer, I tend to worry too much about things being perfect (why else would it take me a month to write a simple short story?) so I'm going to take Stephen J. Cannell's advice and throw that albatross out. Knowing that what I produce on such short turnaround will largely be crap seems decadently delicious to me for some reason. I'm ready for rock'em-sock'em, freewheeling fun!

My buddy is a 3-time winner as well, so I have to admit...the competitive juices are flowing, too. Unfortunately, he's not entering this year. Too bad! That would have been cool. However, my lovely girlfriend is also an entrant, as well as my little girl (in the Young Writers Program--she's 7).

More to follow.