About Joe Hartlaub

Joe Hartlaub is an attorney, author, actor and book and music reviewer. Joe is a Fox News contributor on book publishing industry and publishing law and has participated on several panels dealing with book, film, and music business law. He lives with his family in Westerville, Ohio.

Made in New Orleans

Posted on September 24, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

I received a small envelope from an old friend in June of this year. It contained a silver dollar in a plastic collector’s case. I collected coins a long time ago and am still surprised at how much I remember, including where mint marks are located (or, in the case of the Philadelphia mint, absent) on each coin. The silver dollar in question, minted in 1885, bore the cryptic inscription ‘O’ on its reverse, or “tails” side, under the, um, tail of the eagle. The ‘O,’ I knew, stood for “New Orleans.” I called my friend, an antique dealer of some local renown, and thanked him for the unexpected gift. He advised that he had come across the item and, after making sure that it wasn’t one of of only two hundred minted, sent it to me with the thought that I could take it with me to New Orleans next time I went. I did that when I returned to New Orleans for business and Bouchercon last week and raised him one. I took that silver dollar back to its birthing room, if you will.

The place where I was born in no longer in existence — that covered wagon, alas, was attacked and set afire by Indians, but I digress — but the United States Mint in New Orleans still is. It is imaginatively and accurately known as “The Old Mint,” and does not refer to that unwrapped peppermint that James Scott Bell found in the pocket of a winter coat he hadn’t worn for a few years. No, The Old Mint is at the very edge of the French Quarter, tucked into a corner by the Mississippi River east of the French Market. It’s not a place that is close to tourist interests, so it is quiet, dim, and cool, the entrance way overseen by a somewhat sleepy-looking guard who seemed secure in the knowledge that there was nothing in the building that no one would be interested in stealing, unless steel coin presses weighing around twenty tons were to suddenly become valuable. There were, interestingly enough, a number of people there, and they weren’t drawn by the cost of admission (free!) or the promise of air conditioning on a New Orleans late summer day where the temperature was flirting with 95 degrees by 11:00 AM. No, they were coin collectors, past and present, and by dipping into conversations here and there I learned that they were serious about their hobby. They ranged in age from pre-adolescent (looking like I probably did back then, only skinny) to geriatric (um, looking like I do now, though not as vigorous and virile) and, one and all ,they were as excited to be there as the members of a bachelor party would be at Temptations on Bourbon Street, only quieter. I waited until the herd passed through and then quietly brought my silver dollar over to a press, reached across the barrier, and laid it down on the surface.

And…something connected. It was almost electric. I had set off to do the errand as a lark, and was still inwardly laughing over my good fortune of having literally run into British publishing giants Ali Karim and Michael Stotter, both of whom were in town for Bouchercon, on Chartres Street, and then being the subject of one of Ali’s recorded street interviews. The trip to The Old Mint at that point was almost an afterthought…that is, until the mission was accomplished. It felt as if a circle had been completed, and I suppose it had.

I put the silver dollar back into my pocket and left the Mint museum, though not The Old Mint building. The building is the location not only for exhibits pertaining to the Mint — which was used by both the United States and the Confederate States (at different times, of course) — but also The New Orleans Jazz Museum, which contains a great deal of memorabilia of musical greats who have come and gone but whose influence is still felt, though unfortunately generally forgotten. When I finally left, everything seemed just a tad different. I am at the age where I am deleting material goods rather than acquiring them, but I will hang on to that silver dollar. And it will come back with me to New Orleans when I return, again and again.

It was my favorite trip to New Orleans — and I had just been there three weeks previously — and my favorite Bouchercon to date. I really want to go again so I’m planning another trip near Christmas. My friend recently stayed at the InterContinental Hotel New Orleans so I will have to ask her what it was like. There were many high points…from seeing Laura Benedict at a publisher’s party and meeting Elaine Viets as she tried to sneak past me at a book signing, to meeting and having dinner with a couple of anonymous TKZ fans who have become my new best friends; from taking author Kelli Stanley and Tana Hall to Meyer the Hatter, to getting detained by security at the host hotel (don’t look like Tony Soprano and carry a shotgun bag into a crowded hotel lobby. It has the potential to ruin your day); and of course, running into Ali and Michael just about everywhere…but that silver dollar still carries a faint bit of electricity as it rests in my pocket.

That’s me. What did you do last week?

The Streetcar I Desire

Posted on September 10, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

Barring something unforeseen, I will be turning 65 tomorrow. I will spend most of the day driving to New Orleans where I’ll be doing some business next week and occasionally popping into the Bouchercon host hotel (as well as assisting Jim Born with his excellent Weaponry panel at 9:00A on Saturday September 17, for both of the attendees who do not drink even when they’re in The Crescent City). The major milestone for me, however, will be riding New Orleans’ iconic streetcar line…for 40 cents a ride. Senior citizens in New Orleans get to do that.

An elderly friend told me that getting older is actually like aging in reverse. When you’re just a few years old people are constantly taking things away from you or putting them out of reach, a practice which we now call “childproofing,” You get trusted incrementally with objects, privileges and responsibilities until one day you wake up and you’ve got a whole collection of those, which include but are not limited to driving and automobiles, jobs, voting, drinking, military service, intimacy, and child rearing. You think you’re overdue for most of them by the time you get them, but the truth is that you’re probably not ready. Experience is the best teacher, however, and we all muddle through a continuum that runs between success and disaster and all points in between.

After several decades, though, things begin to change. People start taking things and choices away from you again. The guy at the hardware superstore asks if you need help carrying any purchase that weighs more than a pack of light bulbs. Your children think that you have early dementia if you are unable to keep their schedule and yours straight without a calendar. The question “How is work?” is replaced with “When are you retiring?”. Your first birthday congratulations at 65 is from the federal government: it’s a red, white and blue Medicare card. And that driver’s license that was so important to obtain five decades ago is possibly only an accident or three from being retired. As for me…everything still works. I can carry an old-fashioned microwave up two flights of stairs without sustaining a heart attack (though it was a very near thing). I can drive nine hundred miles in one day (though I’m split it up out of caution). Things aren’t being taken away from me yet, even though I am more Mickey Donovan than Harry Coombes at this point. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I am going to ride those streetcars next week —on every line I can — for 40 cents a trip like they are a pack of 3-dollar government mules.

So let’s open it up. What was your favorite birthday celebration? Do you have a tradition? What would you like to do, but haven’t had the fortitude or the ability to do, at least at this point in your life?

Lost Volumes, Missing Pages

Posted on August 27, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

(Note: Before we get into today’s post…I am writing this while sitting in a very nice, dry place, probably somewhat similar to where you are reading it. Over 100,000 households were destroyed in the Baton Rouge area last week leaving people without nice, dry places to do anything. The area needs contractors, money, and building and cleaning supplies. It will be YEARS before the area recovers, and it might never recover totally. IF you can help, please do so: http://www.samaritanspurse.com; also, Billy Graham Ministries has sent a rapid response team to the area: https://billygraham.org/what-we-do/evangelism-outreach/rapid-response-team/about/.) Thank you.

What follows will no doubt seem depressing, though I don’t mean it to be. I’ll bookend what I’m about to tell you with the proposition that we should each and all count our blessings and not waste one moment of one day. Each minute counts. Things as we age will eventually get worse or they’ll get over. It’s just how life works. Live in the now and enjoy it.

I returned to New Orleans this week after an absence of about three years. I’m attending a legal seminar that is held annually and visiting my many friends here, some of whom attend the seminar and others who reside here. Many are in the process, alas, of leaving the building. The change, which seems more dramatic after having not seen them for nigh on three years, is sudden. One, a goodhearted guy who jousts tirelessly at windmills and is often unappreciated by those he champions, has skin cancer which continues to advance despite painful surgeries. Another has had two strokes which have left him debilitated but nonetheless cheerful. A third, a woman who means well but who has suffered from a lifetime of impulsive choices, has succumbed yet again to addiction.

The saddest, however, is a friend in nearby Baton Rouge who has experienced a sudden onset and subsequent rapid decline secondary to Alzheimer’s Disease. His twin brother died with the condition in December of last year. My friend said to me then, “Gee, I hope that doesn’t happen to me.” He started slipping away in April. I visited with him at his home and then drove him around Baton Rouge, where he has lived all of his life. He pointed out many familiar landmarks but couldn’t remember the restaurant where he had eaten lunch several times a week before he had to stop driving. He’s an author who at one point co-owned a publishing company and was a mover and shaker in state politics. He had a million stories, including one where I accidentally almost got both of us arrested during a visit to the state capitol building. A conversation with him now jumps and drops and skips. I listened to him and thought of pages missing from a book, library volumes lent and never returned, with only gaps in the shelves to mark their presence. His decline is such that when I come back in three weeks he may no longer recognize me or otherwise remember me. That’s not a big deal, in the general scheme of things, but it marks a deterioration for him (even though he is only somewhat aware of it) and for his family. The term “tragic” doesn’t quite cover the extent of it.

So, that bookend: let us each and all count our blessings and not waste one moment of one day. Each minute counts. Things as we age will eventually get worse or they’ll get over. It’s just how life works. Live in the now and enjoy it.

I will be unavailable for most of the day today but will attempt to respond to comments intermittently or later. Enjoy yourselves. And visit someone you haven’t seen for a while, or with whom you’ve lost touch. You don’t know how much longer you’ll have them. Time, alas, is short and the sand runs ever more quickly through the hourglass.

The Stories That Endure

Posted on August 13, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

As you sit there, struggling to turn the great white blank in front of you into a short story, novel, or screenplay, take heart from these three words: people love stories. Yes, I know, writers are competing for entertainment dollars and time like never before, what with video games, televised sports, news, music, concerts…but nothing beats a good story. Good stories endure, whether true or otherwise.

Some of the best and longest enduring stories are urban legends. You’ve heard them, everything from the one involving the choking doberman to the women on the elevator at a Vegas hotel with the big guy and his big dogs. They are stories which are not true, but which endure. We often know not from where they come but come they do, repeatedly. This was true well before the internet became so prevalent. One of my favorites involves the little hamlet which I live near which the natives call “Columbus.” It happened in June 1993. The internet was there, but it was hard though not impossible to find. AOL was a big deal; an online bookseller called “Amazon” wouldn’t start up for another year. Many people didn’t have cell phones (they were often called “car phones”). That didn’t stop the following story from spreading throughout the city, sans benefit of news media coverage.

The story involved a local celebrity. He was — is — a merchant who sold his wares via a series of television commercials which featured a two word catchphrase which found itself being heard in conversation all over town. Indeed, he even used it at the wedding of at least one of his children. A story began to spread near the end of June that said entrepreneur had been jumping the marital fence and that his wife, when she found out about it, had applied a hot curling iron to his smaller brain, if you will. People who spread this story swore that they had learned it from a friend who who was a nurse’s aide at a local hospital where the now-repentant victim was recovering in a private room. The story was put to pasture, however, when the celebrity — not manifesting any damage — accompanied by his very attractive wife, were seen smiling and grinning, hand in hand, at the local July Fourth festivities. The local newspaper, which had never reported the rumor, debunked it after the fact. The commercials continued and all was well, with the businessman’s wife taking a role in the selling as well. I happen to know quite well a relative of the people involved in this story, and have been told that the first question people always ask is, “That curling iron story…is that true?” The answer is always “No.”

Here is the rub, however. This same story with different principals cropped up across the country at about the same time from Pennsylvania to Oregon. In one city it involved a politician; in another, a well known doctor; here an attorney; there a restaurateur. The common elements were infidelity, commercials, and fame. These stories did not occur simultaneously, but rather over the course of a few weeks during that particular summer. And no, I never saw it mentioned in an AOL chat room, either. Someone playing telegraph, perhaps? How? It would be fascinating to try to trace its relatively modern incarnation, though well nigh impossible.

One more thing. The story did not originate in 1993, interestingly enough. As with most urban legends, it goes way back. Chaucer writes of a similar though not identical occurrence in “The Miller’s Tale,” and that story in turn may have been based in part on a persistent rumor involving a politician. As Douglas Adams has been credited with stating: “If you can think of it, it has already happened.”

So…for today’s exercise…tell us your favorite urban legend. Give us your own spin, if you wish. All that we ask is that you don’t use political stories. We all want to stay friends here. Thank you.

It Came from…

Posted on July 30, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

Life imitates art, which imitates life, which then imitates art in what seems to be a never-ending cycle. Orwell’s 1984 came around, late, but it came around. Contemporary (as opposed to historical) thriller novels were transformed by the terror attacks of September 11, 2001. Arthur Bremer’s diary was the inspiration for the film Taxi Driver which in turn inspired the actions of John Hinckley, Jr. which to this day has launched variations of jokes about Jodie Foster. And so it goes.

Accordingly…submitted for your perusal, here is an article with an embedded video regarding a discovery made off of the California coast. Please take a moment to read the article and particularly to watch the video, which looks like a mashup of The Blair Witch Project and Alien. We’re going to base our exercise of the day around this, but you will be mightily entertained by the article and video, regardless.

The video spooked me badly for a couple of reasons. The first is the resemblance of that orb to a spider egg. Contrary to the assertion made by one of the scientists, “most” spiders don’t carry around the eggs on their stomachs. Many, though not the majority, wrap the evil little demon spawns in silk and hang them in webs, though if they are smart they don’t do it at my house. So…where did that thing come from? The second is the reaction of Little Sebastian to the egg. Sebastian at first appears to be curious, then frightened of the orb, more frightened than he was of the duct taped suction on the end of the ten-foot pole that the team used to, probably unwisely, suck that thing up. Put it in a biobox? You bet! And who gets to open it? I won’t suggest anyone, other than to note that John Hinckley, Jr. appears to have been released from custody just in time to do the job. The thing just looks…wrong: the color, the location… that video looks like the beginning of any one of a hundred science fiction films where after a half-hour of buildup things go badl, where the folks who are happily chatting and giddy-up giddy with the joy of their discovery are suddenly gouging their own and each other’s’ eyes out and getting ready to release God knows what upon a world that should be expecting it but which remains totally clueless and unprepared.

And that is where today’s exercise comes in, my friends. Tell us what happens after the team sucks the orb up, like one of those vacuum things they sell in the catalogs showing the smiling woman vacuuming the giant spider off of the curtain from a discreet, Hartlaub-approved distance. Be scary, funny, happy, or sad. Here are a few of mine:

— It is discovered that the orb is a lost extraterrestrial artifact. The ETs, not being European, have never heard of the principle of abandonment and they want the orb back. Now.

— The vacuum sucks the orb up, revealing a drain. The ocean level starts dropping.

— The act of jarring the orb sets off a signal which is transmitted to an extra-orbital missile launching station, which slowly begins to turn toward earth..

—Suddenly, the sound of trumpets is heard simultaneously at all points on Earth. Then the clouds part and a bright light appears.

— At least three different groups blame the project for contributing to global warming and demand research money to counteract the effects. Facebook goes crazy.

— The crab scuttles back to its lair, where a female voice is heard asking, “What’s wrong, Sebastian?”

— The crab, after a series of events and mishaps, finds itself in the mustache of a biker on a Harley doing 80 mph on I-10 E out of Houston. The crab tells the biker what is happening and convinces him to turn around and save the day, but…what? Oh, sorry. Wrong crab. Forget that one.

You get the idea. Be serious. Be playful. Be whimsical. But please be creative. And share. We have the nine year old antichrist with us today so I may be awhile getting back to you but I shall do so eventually. Thank you.

Poke-what?! by Joe Hartlaub

Posted on July 16, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

I vaguely remember my older daughter becoming briefly infatuated with something called “Pokemon” in the mid-1990s. I bought packs of cards at toy and drug and grocery stores, and I think many of them are still around the house, languishing in in a box mislabeled “silverware” or something under a bed or in a closet underneath some books. The internet wasn’t quite as pervasive back then as it is now; cell phones were the next generation of car phones, and an “app” was what you filled out when you heard about a job opening somewhere. Much has changed, and I thought that Pokemon had gone the way of eight track tapes, replaced by games that you played on your computer or phone called “Warcraft” or “Minecraft” (no, I don’t know what the difference is either).

Two weeks ago my nine-year old granddaughter mentioned Pokemon to me. I let it pass because she then started talking about reading BLACK BEAUTY and I wanted to encourage that over some role playing game. A few days later, however, I started hearing about something called “Pokemon Go.” It’s a smart phone application game that intersects with the real world and it seems to have taken over the minds of a segment of the population. People are breaking into buildings, jumping across rooftops, falling off of cliffs (Darwinism in action, perhaps?) and running through graveyards chasing the Pokemon. The news about it is all-pervasive. And that bothers the hell out of me.

Here is why. Did you know that James Patterson has launched two new book imprints? One is called “Jimmy,” and is aimed at getting younger people to read. The motto of this imprint is, “We want every kid who finishes a Jimmy Book to say: ‘PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER BOOK.’” Nice, huh? Patterson could have gone for the plug (notice how nicely “PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER JIMMY BOOK” would work) but he didn’t. Please give me another book. Like BLACK BEAUTY. Or The Hardy Boys, or Warriors. Or a Shell Scott… well, wait a few years on that. But give me anything but chasing some cyberworld construct around the city. Jimmy Books. Patterson launched this imprint about a year ago, and has been aided collaboratively by Chris Grabenstein, a fine and talented guy in his own right who has been fighting the fight for children’s literacy for awhile as well. Did you know about this? No? Are there headlines all over about young folks reading these books? No? I know that a new book imprint for kids is not as exciting as falling into the ocean chasing some monster that doesn’t exist, but please. Patterson is tackling incipient illiteracy here. Isn’t that important too? And he’s pouring his share of the lucre back into reading programs. That sounds like dedication to me.

I said two imprints. The second was just launched a month or two ago and it’s aimed at adults who don’t read. It’s called Bookshots; each book features Patterson with collaborators such as Maxine Paetro or James O. Born (as well as a host of others) working across a number of genres. The books are around one hundred sixty pages apiece and and are priced at about four bucks. I know a lot of folks who have four bucks in Starbucks drive-through window change rolling around on the floor of their cars. They are designed to only require a few hours to read. And these books are entertaining. They’re not in the league of Cormac McCarthy or James Lee Burke, but your average adult who doesn’t read much anymore isn’t going to reflexively reach for a classic when the mood strikes them. Did you know about this? I just heard about it around a week ago. Where are the headlines? Patterson is launching this for the same reason he launched the Jimmy books: as he has indicated elsewhere, he wants people to exercise their brain muscle. God bless him. What he is doing may not be as glamorous or newsworthy as the fallout from a new phone app, but it’s certainly more important.

So, my fellow readers and authors: how do we get the word out? It obviously takes more than Facebook and Twitter. What can publishers do? What can we do? I’m not interested in what the book industry has been doing wrong recently…I want to know what you think could be done right, to help make reading a valued activity again. Any takers? Or is it a lost cause?

Incident at the Derby

Posted on July 2, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

Photo by Eliot Kamenitz, The New Orleans Advocate

One more story, offered with the hope of sparking inspriration. There is nothing odd or supernatural about this one. It’s ironic and tragic, but there’s some justice, too. Bear with me.

The annual New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival takes place over the last weekend in April and the first weekend in May, just as spring is beginning to heat up the city. The event is held at the New Orleans Fairgrounds — known as “The Derby” by the city’s residents due to the horse races which occur there — which is in the middle of the Gentilly neighborhood, a relative stable working class area, at least by New Orleans standards. The track during Jazzfest is given over to several stages at various points, each of which feature live music being performed over the course of several hours. There are also merchandise and food vendors — come for the music, stay for the eats — and various places to take a break from the energy of the event, including a set of bleachers off to one side the track.

I attended my first Jazzfest in 2000. I got there early on opening day and after seeing a few acts that I had waited all of my life to see (Clarence “Frogman” Henry, The Dixie Cups, and my now-deceased pal Frankie Ford) I took a mid-afternoon break. I got a shrimp po’boy and, dislike of heights notwithstanding, got a seat near the top of one of the sets of bleachers, where I proceeded to, as it’s said, fang down on lunch and watch the party swirl below and in front of me.

I was about halfway finished with my meal when a man and woman ascended the bleacher steps near me. The woman wore one of the distinctive vest-apron combinations that the Jazzfest employees customarily wear. It was a hot day, and the woman, somewhat slight in body type, appeared tired and weary, no doubt from working in the sun and humidity that day. The man, for his part, manifested the kinetic energy usually seen in the nervous or those who are “hyped” for one reason or another. His arms were corded with thick veins and ended in large hands that he bounced off his knees in an odd rhythm as he walked, sticking his elbows in and out to the side. He hummed and nodded and looked all around without appearing to see anything. The woman was carrying a styrofoam go-box similar to the one that my lunch had been in, and I assumed that she had earned it under the policy that provides a free meal for each Festival employee while on shift.

As they passed the aisle where I was seated the man grabbed the box from the woman before turning down the row of seats behind me. The woman emitted a tired but still audible “hey” in protest, one which the man ignored as he sat down behind me. I heard him proceed to eat whatever was in the box, gulping, lips smacking, and grunting all the while. The woman, after about a minute, asked him softly, “Ain’t you gonna give none of that to me?” The man stopped eating just long enough to spit out a “no” before continuing his repast. The woman waited a minute, and then said, “But they gave that to me for workin’ here.” The man made a statement to the effect that she could eat when she got off work, and that she needed to lose some weight anyhow.

I am an interventionist. I make neither excuses nor apologies for being so. If someone yells “help” or looks like they need help my impulse is to respond. My impulse to intervene in a bad situation, however, is tempered by situational awareness. I won’t get involved if I don’t see a positive outcome, short or long term, in my actions. Some things are in the end irremediable, and intervention by a stranger can make things worse. I considered this to be one of those situations. I could have 1) give the woman money for lunch; 2) given her the rest of my lunch; or 3) told the guy that he was a miserable waste of skin for treating someone with whom he was apparently in a relationship (more on that in a moment or two) in such a manner and fashion. I also concluded, however, that any of those actions would have rebounded back on the woman sooner or later, and thus I wouldn’t be helping her. The third action would also have probably gotten me my ass kicked (not that such has ever stopped me in the past) and not just once. I have learned, via payment in dear and bitter coin, that everyone in New Orleans seems to be connected or related to someone else, so that creating a beef with one person multiplies the participants in said dispute quickly and exponentially. Additionally, I was concerned that the woman would get a beatdown in the bargain as the price of attracting the attention of a stranger. I didn’t feel good about it but I quickly finished my lunch and walked away without doing anything. And in case you are wondering…I of course never for a moment considered turning around and suddenly shoving the guy off of the bleacher seat in the hope that he would fall fifteen or so feet to the ground. That would have been wrong. I think.

Flash forward two days. I was reading the Sunday edition of the New Orleans newspaper in the lobby of my hotel when I saw a small news item buried in the nether regions of the back pages. The story concerned a man who had been killed in a domestic incident. As the story went, he and his significant other had been arguing throughout the day, starting at Jazzfest where she worked. Their argument reportedly continued after she arrived home in the evening and was apparently fueled by the man spending the afternoon fortifying himself with alcohol. The article stated that he had been upset that she was “late” and as a result beat her twice over the course of the following few hours. Having exhausted himself during his busy day, the man went into the bedroom and fell asleep. The woman used the opportunity creating by his unconsciousness to pour gasoline over him and, in her words, “I lit him up.” Indeed. The article noted that there had been a history of domestic disturbance calls to the household going back for over a year prior. The woman, however, had declined to either press or pursue charges in each incident. The article was accompanied by a mugshot of the woman who had been seated behind me.

How did things turn out? The woman was initially charged with second degree murder. I got on the phone and started calling around to the prosecutor, public defender, and an attorney I know in New Orleans who enjoys arising each day to joust at windmills on behalf of the downtrodden. I won’t bore you with the details but the upshot was that I offered to testify at trial as to what I had witnessed on that particular day, hoping that my version of what I saw, and my reaction, would be received as evidence of mitigating circumstances. I didn’t need to, as it turned out. The woman, who did not have so much as a traffic ticket against her, pled guilty to a lesser charge and was sentenced to time served and probation. The judge, with the prosecution’s blessing, took into account her history with the deceased and the fresh evidence of his violence that night (don’t ask). That the deceased was a multiple offender with several violent crime notches on his belt — enough that he had been awarded the title of “career criminal” by the time he reached his nineteenth birthday — was not considered, of course (wink wink).

I don’t know what happened to the woman, and I never really met her. But I think of her frequently, particularly when I am woolgathering instead of sleeping. I wish her the best, wherever she is, and would tell her that I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more. But I think things turned out okay for her. God, I hope so.

What would you have done in such a situation? Have you ever been in a situation where it was better to walk away than step in and defend someone? What did you do? What was the aftermath? And as far as a starter for a novel goes…it’s a great one. Colin Harrison uses it in BODIES ELECTRIC to frightening effect and, of course there’s a series involving a guy named Jack, an ex-MP, who wanders around the country getting involved in things. What do you think?

A Dreamless Summer Night

Posted on June 18, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

Just to be blunt: I’m not a teacher. Unlike my goombahs here at TKZ most of what I offer every other Saturday is not going to help you to write your best seller or even your mid-list seller. I’m still struggling with that myself. I will offer advice from time to time, but today isn’t one of those times. I have another unusual story for you today, and I hope that at the least you enjoy it and at the most it burrows under your brainstem for a few days and maybe inspires you to delve back into your own respective histories and spin some random thread from your past into gold.

A bit of housekeeping first: I have heard nothing further from the person who sent me the cryptic text two weeks ago, warning me not to play with their grandchild. I’ll advise if something occurs but for the moment it appears to be a case of mistexting or mistaken identity.

Onward. I was blessed mightily with a childhood in which I lived in an upper middle class suburban neighborhood. It was quiet, peaceful, and the police were primarily used to fill a few float spots in the annual Fourth of July parade. Cue the music to The Andy Griffith Show, move the show up north and triple the average household income, and you’ll get an idea of what it was like. Nothing ever happened. It was 1960, I was nine years old, and the only times my pulse really quickened was when the new comic books came out on Tuesday and Thursday. I happened to awaken very late on a warm and perfect summer night. I sat up in bed, listened to the sound of the attic fan — this was before air conditioning was as common as it is now — and got out of bed. Lassie, our collie — if you had a collie back then it was named Lassie — half-heartedly wagged its tail in the hallway but otherwise didn’t stir as I walked past my parents’ room on the one side and my sister’s on the other. We had a spare bedroom that my dad used as sort of a half-assed office that had a back yard window and for some reason I headed back there to look out the window, but not for any particular reason that I can remember now.

There were three men standing at the far corner of our yard, looking at our house. They each wore coats, ties, and, for some odd reason, overcoats. I couldn’t hear them but they were gesturing at each other and toward the house. I could see them clearly in the moonlight and they frightened me like I have never been frightened before or since. The villain featured in the Dick Tracy newspaper comic strip at the time was a character named Rhodent (sic) and one of the men looked almost exactly like him. I was frozen in place; I would probably still be sitting there, but one of the men suddenly looked directly up at the window where I was watching. I turned around and ran back to my room, jumped into bed and laid there awake for the rest of the night.

The following morning brought what seemed to be clarification. I thought that maybe I had just dreamed what had happened, the result of a little too much Dick Tracy. The main thing was that Lassie, whose territorial domain consisted of a three block radius and which required that she bark at everything, never made a sound. I accordingly didn’t say anything to my parents. Later that day, however, I happened to run into a kid in the neighborhood who was what we would now call a backdoor neighbor. The kid, who we will call “B” and was my age, came up to me with uncharacteristic somberness. He said that during the night he had looked out of his bedroom window, which was in the back of his house, and had seen three men standing and gesturing in our backyard. B said he watched them for a few minutes until one of them pointed at one of our upstairs windows, at which point the three of them turned and walked away in between B’s house and his next door neighbors. B thought he was dreaming, too, but thought the dream was interesting. He never told his parents either. For my part, I didn’t look out of that back window for the remainder of the time that we lived in that house.

I hadn’t thought of that story until last night, when I happened to wake up at 2 AM and for some reason thought of it, and also thought of B, with whom I hadn’t seen or spoken in over fifty years. I wondered about it and fell back to sleep. This morning, I saw B’s obituary in the morning paper. He died early yesterday, unexpectedly.

If you have an odd story like this and would like to share it I would love to hear it. I don’t know how to describe how I feel. I’m wondering who those three men were and why they were standing in my backyard and what happened to B and how people drift apart for no good or bad reason. Talk to me.

Sometimes, the Story Is You…

Posted on June 4, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

I have this very handy app on my phone called MightyText. You put it on your phone, link it to your computer, and you can answer texts directly from your laptop without having to pick up your phone which of course also displays the messages. Texts people send you show up on your computer screen and you can read scan them while you are doing what are (usually) more important tasks or answer them right away. I can also use the keyboard instead of swype typing. I am not good at Swyping, which on occasion has caused me to text “why don’t you stick it where the sun doesn’t shine” instead of “sure! I would be happy to help you with that.” Or something like that. We’ve all done it. Anyway…

…what follows is still unfolding, since it just started this morning. I got my first cup of coffee, went into my home office, and brought the screen up on my laptop. While I was waiting for my emails to load I looked at the text messages I had received overnight, including the following, which nestled among the others like a brown recluse spider hiding in a closet full of Christmas sweaters:

Stop playing with my grandchild.

Now…I am what might generally be described as a hermit. I avoid talking to anyone if I am able and can stay comfortably in my house and yard for days at a time without leaving the premises. I don’t do things like coach the local grade school wrestling team, play a clown at parties, offer to take the neighborhood kids up to Dairy Queen, or hang around the city parks offering to push children on swings. So…my initial thought was…“Why me?” I waited a minute to see if a SWAT team would come busting in through the front door, confiscate my computer (all of the above notwithstanding, I really don’t want my computer confiscated) and frog march me into a van where I would be driven downtown and thrown into the bowels of what has been mislabeled as the “Franklin County Hall of Justice.” Which is my I am writing this from my ce…just kidding. Nothing happened. After a minute or two I calmed down. Usually when I hear hoofbeats I don’t think that it’s herd of zebras; the thinking part of my brain kicked in and I came to the conclusions that 1) the message was sent to me in error and 2) the person who sent it was in any event concerned about a potentially devastating situation involving a child. I decided to contact them. I did not recognize the originating text number; I have learned that people who initially contact you are more comfortable if you respond via the same medium, so I replied by texting the following:

Either 1) you texted your message to the wrong number (mine) or 2) there is a grievous misunderstanding here, but I have absolutely no idea who you are or what you are talking about. In any event, your text has been misdirected. If you have texted to the wrong number, you might want to send it to the intended party. If you think I have anything to do with your grandchild, you are wrong. Contact me directly and out in the open. I am more than willing to assuage any concerns you might have. I am a grandparent myself and can sympathize. Kind regards.

As I write this (Friday evening, EDT) I have not received a response. While waiting, however, I got to thinking…what would have happened if my door had gotten knocked in by the local gendarme, and I had been arrested, and the police found all sorts of reprehensible crap on my computer that I had not downloaded to it, but, by gum it was there, and the complaining person was someone who, as it turned out, I knew very well indeed? From the “who” and the ‘what” I got to the “why” and the “how” in fairly short order (the “when” is kind of irrelevant at this point). I started streaming a first page, then a second, and then a third, then realized that I had better start an outline, given that there are so many different ways to go with this (which is why I don’t mind sharing this little gem of an idea with you). I don’t know where this story will go, whether it will wind up with its feet propped up on a railed balcony in New Orleans’ French Quarter or end up with a broken axle by the side of road in Cut Off, Louisiana, but it’s going somewhere.

What I would like from you is five dollars to crowdsource this effort. Not really. I would like for you to share the oddest text you have ever received, either in error or by design. Please. And thank you.

Playing to Your Strengths

Posted on May 21, 2016 by Joe Hartlaub

My wife Lisa’s greatest joy — after her husband, of course, and our ungrateful, unappreciative daughter — is her enjoyment of wild birds. We (well, she) has a couple of large, impervious-to-squirrels feeders set up outside of our kitchen window, and Lisa will spend hours photographing the birds that come to take advantage of the seemingly endless supply of seed that is there for the taking. One characteristic of birds, however, is that they are slobs. They drop seed, they leave husks, and…well, you know the rest. We as a result get a nightly show in the form of nocturnal creatures gathering at night beneath the feeders in a heartwarming tableau. The opossums are first to arrive. They get there early to begin eating the seed that has been left on the ground. They eventually, however, are rudely shoved aside by the raccoons, the neighborhood bully boys who push aside the opossums as if they aren’t even there. The collective attitude of the masked bandits changes quickly, however, when the skunks arrive. Their “outta my way, kid” demeanor quickly changes to, “Oh, my, hello, Mr. Skunk! How nice to see you! We’ve been saving this pile of seed just for you.” Skunks are just so gentle and shy and cute as they walk up and begin eating. They don’t take any mess, however. I did see a young raccoon, one who apparently didn’t get the memo, try to nudge a skunk out of its way. The skunk engaged in some non-violent resistance, turning around and putting his tail up, resulting in three raccoons setting new distance and reaction records for standing side jumps. I didn’t know raccoons could jump sideways. They apparently can, if properly motivated.

What do those cute vignettes have to do with writing? Quite a bit, actually. After you’ve been writing for a while, you’re going to get the sense of what works and what doesn’t for you. Write what works for you. If you are good at writing action scenes but poor at writing dialogue, go with the explosions and karate and make you characters strong and silent. If you’re not able to write a convincing love scene without embarrassing yourself, don’t entangle your character in anything other than barb wire. If you can write great sex scenes but drop the thread on complex mysteries, keep the mystery simple and secondary to the amorous scenes in the bedroom or elsewhere. Our friend the opossum’s main strengths are to convincingly play dead (we’ve all run into folks like that, haven’t we, heh heh) and get places early. If you are good at writing action scenes, start with a strong one and jump from one to another. Your story may be best served by letting the plot drive it. As far as the skunk goes, we’re talking cute but dangerous. “Dangerous” isn’t too strong a word; making that midnight run out to a Sam’s Club for several five-gallon cans of tomato juice to erase the scent of skunk spray will make a believer out of you. So…the character is going to drive your story. Cute but dangerous? Think of Jack Reacher as played by, uh, Tom Cruise. If you are blessed with the ability to let plot and characters drive your novel, you’re like a raccoon. You can sense your story’s weaknesses and strengths, and sense when something can play out a bit or, alternatively, when it’s time to wrap it up.
Which animal are you when you write? One of the above? Or another? And why?…oh, and the animal at the top of my humble offering today? To paraphrase Raymond Chandler…”What. The owl? Oh. I forgot about him.” Not really. Owls are skunks’ natural predators. The reason? Owls don’t have olfactory glands.

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