Cold Case In Ellyson

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.

Worn your bullet-proof vest lately? Probably not…At our department, we wore them on the job. The vests were low profile but definitely dense. Sitting at the ballpark (again) this weekend, feeling sweat drip down my back, I was reminded of a hot July night when I was pretty sure I was going to die. A little thing turned into something big, so big that another department from a neighboring county finally showed up for backup. Alone, surrounded by scores of rowdy, drunk people, my 40 cal Glock and kevlar were my only allies for what seemed like a very long time. The cotton T-shirt I wore beneath my vest was drenched past the point of saturation because I could feel the droplets of sweat streaming down my chest.

Obviously I survived (there’s more about that night in my book), and although kevlar isn’t cool, it is oh so very cool.

The director of the police academy I attended was one tough hombre. He really did scare me, probably because I was so out of my element there, but he was a make you or break you kind of man. Super smart, too. Witty with a deadpan delivery. I have already told you that I love to read the classics, but occasionally I’ll get my hands on something more contemporary. Back then, I read A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. This may be the only book I ever read where I laughed out loud at times. And the beauty of the book is it’s not a funny book. It’s Irving and his story-telling prowess. Something told me the police academy director might just like that book.

One day I got up the nerve to bring it into class. It was a thick, hard bound book. I walked up to his desk and said, “I think you might enjoy this.” He took it from me with neither a thank you nor a smile. Weeks later, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye, he said he read it. He realized I pegged him as something more than one tough hombre. Oh, and he still has my book.

u never no what 2 expect. With the evolution of technology comes the destruction of language, and taking the greatest hit is spelling. I am one of the wacky ones who loved spelling, loved vocabulary, and clearly loved writing. But for those of you math wizzards or business people who never much cared for language, texting must be a dream. For me, though, it’s not easy. It’s harder for me to text l8r than to type those two extra letters.

Now phat has been around for a while, and it’s wrong on two levels – it sounds like corpulent but it means good looking. But phunky’s my new word. The meaning’s the same, but if we’re going to be different, why not change the spelling! In fact, I insist! It looks better that way, don’t you think?

Times change, lives change, so why not let language change, too? gtg. c u l8r.