I've been busy, okay?

Just under 16,000 words into the new youth novel. I'm having fun with it, whether it's marketable or not.

And last night I gave a talk at the Red Dragon Canoe Club about sailing in the Bermuda 1-2 race. That took a bit of preparation and a lot of help with others -- photos from some, technological assistance from others. I think we all had a good time -- about 30 attended -- and there was plenty to laugh about when you consider how much of a sailboat racer I am. (I told a few stories on myself, all true, most including boneheaded maneuvers.)

Above are some photos I showed. I particularly like the first one. To me, it's haunting, Mirari, Dan Stadtlander's boat, leaving Newport for the open ocean.

Almost there with stripping paint from Robin's mast. Good thing I'm wearing safety goggles. The circular wire brush is rated for 4,500 rpms. The angle grinder is rated at 11,000 rpms. I keep getting pieces of wire brush shot into my clothing and exposed skin.

Just about to go over and work on the mast, but for anyone who might have wondered where I've been the past week, here's the answer.


I got rolling on a new youth novel. Into it 10,000 words, or about one third of the way if my estimate is accurate. The process of writing is trying and, at times, triumphant. I start out telling a story, realize that it isn't very exciting and then stumble on a way to inject conflict that I didn't start out envisioning. I started this one with a beginning and an end. I knew the middle more or less, but not the details. So I started writing, and the muse is apparently nearby, helping me out when I don't have an original thought. I guess that might feel creepy in a different setting, but I'm glad for the assist.


I wanted to end the week where I am, so now I'm free to grind some paint etc. until the work resumes Monday -- or sooner. It's more fun than the Super Bowl when it's going well.

Every morning, I read something called The Writer's Almanac, which is the written version of a radio program hosted by Garrison Keillor. It starts with a poem that is followed by nuggets about people who were born on this date or historical events that happened on this date.
A few days ago, it was the birthday of John Grisham. The item related that Grisham wrote his first blockbuster, The Firm, after reading Brian Garfield's Ten Rules for Suspense Fiction.
I'd never read the rules so I looked them up, not because I admire John Grisham's writing but because I know that I'm deficient in my understanding of the structure of writing and appreciate that suspense is probably an important ingredient in all writing, if you really want it to be read.
For a few months, I'd been struggling to find the right approach to the next youth novel I wanted to write. It is a story based on my own summer at age 14, and I didn't know how to make it compelling, since although it was a wonderful summer, it didn't lead to anything terribly suspenseful.
Now I'm off and running, having written the first two chapters after reading Brian Garfield's rules. I'm excited by the story and the way it is pulling me along.
Here you can find the rules:
Well, if I could figure out how to link you to the web page, I would. Since I can't, just search Brian Garfield's 10 rules.

Crocuses blooming

in the back woods,

clouds of lavender

just above

the dried leaves.

It must be February.

Snow falling

on grass and gravel,

then melting before the sun sets.

It must be New Jersey.

The "pirates" we met back in August finally had their day in court. See below.

http://www.thebostonchannel.com/news/30397480/detail.html?taf=bos

Just got back from walking Lexi and Samantha to the river at the end of the street. Walking two exhuberant puppies on 16-foot retractable leashes is quite similar to flying two model airplanes on control lines.
That's a guess. I never did fly two model airplanes on control lines simultaneously. In fact, I think the only time I ever got my hands on a set of control lines, I put the model airplane in a magnificent arc that ended in a nose dive and a wreckage in a cow pasture.
The similarity is limited to the challenge of controlling two objects -- dogs or model planes -- without geting their lines entangled.
Were our just-completed walk actually model plane flight, there would have been several wrecks. Not a few neighbors have asked, when encountering the three of us on an outing, who was walking whom.
My childhood friend, Johnny, was a model airplane enthusiast. (I don't think we said people were "into" a thing back then.) He made model after model, but he seemed to be more interested in flight than in actual model making. I once saw him put an engine on a two-by-four and fly it.
Johnny's father was an engineer who had worked, in the 1950s, on the earliest nuclear generating plants. Johnny had the makings of an aeronautical engineer, although I don't know what path his life took after high school because our courses diverged in adolescence.
Beforethat, we'd go out behind Johnny's house with one of his models, a tiny internal combustion engine screwed into a block of wood at the front. He would pump some fuel into a miniature tank. I can recall the smell of the fuel -- intoxicating stuff, but we weren't sniffers. I suppose I was relegated to holding the model while Johnny took the handle joining the two control lines over to the place between the cow flaps which would become the center of his plane's circular flight pattern. Then (although I don't recall if this is true) I probably would release the plane and it would climb into the sky.
Johnny and I did any number of things together. We shot frogs in the woodland ponds with our .22 rifles. We made watercraft, some of which floated.
One in particular that did float was called a coracle and consisted of a tarp, a large wreath made of sticks and grass, and some twine. You placed the wreath on the tarp, tied the tarp edges up over the wreath and laid some sticks or boards across this doughnut-shaped thing to make a seat. Then you tried to paddle it.
The coracles always floated, but getting them to advance in one direction was tricky. They wanted to spin in place.
The highlight of our boating career came when Johnny bought a kayak that his classmate, Skippy, had made with firring strips and Larro feed bags. Skippy had done a remarkably good job. The kayak was pointed at both ends, it was light, its frame was sturdy and he had painted the feed bags white and blue, as I recall. The paint made the bags waterproof.
I say Johnny bought the kayak. He may have traded something for it. But I coveted it and so I asked him what he wanted.
"Your pup tent," he said.
My Uncle Donald had given me a little, two-man Air Force pup tent that seemed like it was state of the art. It had a built-in mosquito screen and windows at either end. I was willing to give up the tent because I had secret knowledge about its shortcomings, and the trade was made in the cluttered garage at the rear of Johnny's home.
We had, a few days earlier, taken the kayak to one of the woodland ponds some distance away from Johnny's house, and he had paddled it successfully. The pond was nothing more than rainwater captured in a depression in the granite outcroppings at the top of a hill. It was filled with rotting leaves and sticks, but it was good for watersports in the warm months and skating in the winter.
So I knew I could navigate the kayak successfully when I handed the tent over to Johnny.
We were about to take the kayak to a small water hole behind his house where the cattle drank when Johnny's mother came around the corner. She had an axe in her hands.
"You boys take this and chop that thing to pieces," she commanded.
The scowl on her face left no room for argument, and we did as instructed. Satisfied that she was not going to have to attend our funerals, she went back in the house.
It might seem like I got the bad end of my deal with Johnny, but I didn't.
I didn't have a kayak.
But the tent leaked.