Cold Case In Ellyson

My 6th-grade son has to write an essay. He writes it online. He submits it to some program. He gets a grade. What? Really? How ridiculous!!

Since when did computers come with the ability to read and interpret creative writing? That would be just before they take over the world. And just to show you how ridiculous that grading system is, you can increase your score by adding exclamation points! Really?? How crazy! His grade still wasn’t high enough with the !! so he added some nonsensical fluff. Eureka! Those sentences give him the A he is seeking!! Yeah!

No computer nor program will ever be a substitute for a teacher of English. Can’t happen. Computer programs are a wonderful tool for the writer, but they can never be the audience.

Never really expected it; secretly hoped; utterly taken aback by it! Cold Case in Ellyson won the Commercial Fiction category for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. The word “commercial” really struck me. We all know what that word means, but I looked it up anyway..”suitable or fit for a wide, popular market.” As a writer, you can’t imagine how sweet those words are. People buy my book, people tell me they can’t put it down, but it’s not until an independent organization confirms all I’ve been told do I really, truly believe it.

What will it mean? Who knows, but let me say I just love being commercial…

That’s right…my dad was (and still is at 82) an oil and gas producer. Some of my childhood was spent in the backwoods of Mississippi and Alabama checking out his wells. He’s proud to tell strangers that he had to change out some equipment on a well and needed just one more hand on the rig. His then seven-year-old daughter volunteered – me. My dad’s geologic endeavors in the business allowed my family to travel the world. But it was boom or bust…still is. I’ve seen my dad rich and I’ve seen him poor. The oil and gas business is a huge gamble, especially for a small producer.

I’ve talked to him about BP’s spill. Like all of us, he hopes the impact remains small. Most producers care a great deal about the environment. But disasters like this give – even the good guys – a black eye.

Readers, I never blog twice in one day, but the Eric Hoffer Book Award Short List of the finalists was just announced, and my book, Cold Case in Ellyson, is among them. It’s one thing to have friends and family support me, but it is indeed another to have strangers who know writing to acknowledge my work. Whether or not I win the grand prize, today is a fine day. Here’s the link for the list: http://www.hofferaward.com/HAbookshortlist.html.

When you have a teenage son and one nearly there, you find that communicating with them is not how it was. Some of our best conversations have happened phone to phone. It’s sad, in a way, but I’m grateful that to have some way of getting through to them.

After they head out to school, I send them a text, some words of wisdom, that I hope they carry with them throughout the day. Today I quoted Aristotle, one of my favorite philosophers: “Quality is not an act. It is a habit.” I chose that particular one because yesterday my oldest suffered a humbling defeat on the mound. There were tears (not new but also not a frequent occurrence), threats of quitting pitching (never heard that before), followed by a mumbled four-letter-word I pretended not to hear. I think he hit his nadir this weekend, and I hope Aristotle’s texted words will remind him of what he must do.

One of the main characters in my book, “Joe,” is loosely based on my partner who worked the streets with me when we were on the force. He is now with the FBI working white collar cyber crime. “Joe” was a very good officer – smart, fast, strong – that it surprises me he’s content to keep his work now confined to a computer screen. I asked him about it…he said he does miss getting “out there” but he’s also sure he would get bored from it should he ever return to the streets.

“Joe” will be transferred soon to a bigger city with bigger headaches and probably bigger, more complex crimes. He can handle them, of course. But when I think of “Joe,” I will always think of the man leading his K-9 on chases or, more than likely, taking care of them all on his own.

That’s right – a baseball game is so similar to police work, it’s scary…Think about it – moments of routine and boredom punctuated by seconds of chaos and drama. Maybe that’s why I love the game so much; I’m willing to invest the time to share in those flashes of excitement.

I shared one of those moments yesterday with my youngest son in the backyard. He wanted to throw; we threw. He wanted popups; I gave him popups. It was all so wonderful and ordinary. I wanted him to practice hitting; I pitched little marbles at him to give him confidence. And then the bat slipped from his grasp and straight into the master bedroom window. It was all so ordinary, until then.

Listening to Tim Tebow last night as he defended his first round pick to the Broncos, rather than savoring that moment for the pure joy of being an NFL drafteee, he had to answer questions about why him and why there. Bradford didn’t. Pouncey didn’t. Their moments of limelight were pure celebration. But Tim did what few do – he took those questions as an opportunity to tell the world how hard he will work to do what is asked of him. He didn’t bite back. The smile never left his face. Last night I became a Bronco’s fan because the Broncos chose Tebow and Tebow smiled.

So why does this matter to a writer? I listen to words. I watch for silent sneers and body language that says something different. Tebow has none of that. Tebow is pure – not perfect of course – but he is as pure of a young man as I’ve seen. Tebow’s not fodder for a mystery or drama. He is an inspiration.

Driving home from an unsuccessful baseball tournament this weekend, my 13-year-old said to me that his teammate “acknowledged that he needs to work on…” Maybe I shouldn’t have been taken aback by his use of the word “acknowledged,” but I was. He’s a teen. He’s growing up. But the beautiful thing is that his language is too.

My younger son, by one year, ignited car-full laughter as I drove when he was the tender age of 4. His older brother said something to him, to which little bit replied, “Be quiet. I’m concentrating.” Now mind you, he didn’t pronounce the word quite right, but we knew exactly what he meant.

Our children hear us. They file away our language and our actions. Every now and then you’ll hear yourself in their voices. It’s a cautionary tale…but it can also be quite amazing.

I met with a group of ladies last night, a spirited bunch who had me giggling from beginning to end. They were my readers, full of great questions about the book, writing and police work. All but one were strangers to me in the beginning, and now none are. I shared in their enthusiasm for reading and they celebrated my love of writing over tables speckled with white and red wine bottles. They are a diverse group, from moms to construction managers and head hunters. Some are teachers with their own tales to tell.

Today, however, will be different. A local independent bookstore is hosting a book signing. I don’t know who or how many. I don’t know if they’re my readers or just curious. And I expect it to be quiet. No wine, just water. Two different days, two different ways, I get to share my work. It has been a very good week.