A writer whether I want to be or not.

Woke up at 6:00 this morning with the words, "John is planning to kill you," running through my head.

I tried to get back to sleep, but the scene kept going.


"She spoke softly, but I never doubted what she said. I didn't ask why or how or when. I went to my room, opened the top drawer of the dresser, and pulled out the Beretta 92. I put on my lab coat, which was as white as the snow outside and still wrinkled from shipping. I slipped the gun into the right front pocket. The bulge was barely noticeable."


Come back later, I told myself. But the words kept coming.


"When I returned the kitchen, Karen was standing in front of the Keurig machine, still pumping out dark coffee in soft spurts. She didn't look at me. The windows were iced over, reflecting the harsh florescent lights, which had the opposite effect of softening her sharp features, making her dark eyes softer.

It was early Thursday morning, February 15th. Last flight out had been Tuesday."


What the fuck is this? If you're going to write something, make it a Hart Davis story!


"John came into the kitchen a half hour later. In a trance, he went to the coffee machine, not even replacing the pod. He gulped down a quick six ounces, groaning softly. "Damn, I love this machine."
He slipped his cup back in, put in a fresh pod, added some creamer. He sat down across from me at the long table, which was big enough to service a fully staffed station. There was just the three of us for the next nine months.

"Weird how it never snows," he said, glancing at the windows. "Two kilometers of ice and it never fucking snows."  


I give up. I throw on my bathrobe, grab my laptop and start writing.


Karen was leaning against the counter, still not looking at either of us. Neither of us answered. My hand was in my pocket. I hesitated for a moment, then left the safety on.

"What the hell?" John asked. "This is going to be a long winter if you two aren't going to talk."

Karen snorted and poured her coffee into the sink. She rinsed her mug and hung it from one of the hooks. There were twenty-five other mugs lined up, waiting for their owners to return. She turned and left without saying another word.

John glanced over at me, his eyebrows raised. "You guys have a fight?"

I almost answered. Karen and I never fight. We just get even.

She's just grumpy in the morning. As you well know."


Linda wakes up, I read to her what I've written.


John looked toward the door, then suddenly hunched forward, hugging his coffee mug. "She's going to kill you, Iain."

Karen's words hadn't surprised me, but this did. John wasn't the confiding type. You two need to get your plans straight. "Literally or figuratively?" I asked.  

"I mean it, man. Watch your back. I'll be watching mine."


"Cool," Linda says. "Where are they?"

"Hell if I know. Antarctica?"


John stared at me as if he knew my right hand was on the butt of the Beretta. I took a deep breath, then put both hands on the table. It wasn't going to happen this moment. These were just the preliminaries. We'd all been thinking about it ever since Jennifer Maslow had left with the others, diagnosed with the first signs of Multiple Sclerosis. We'd all been expecting her to keep the peace.


What the hell is this?

A cut and paste poem,
taken from the book,
"America," by Robert Goodwin.


"Conquistadors"

Tierra, Tierra, Land Ahoy,
God and Glory,
His Catholic Monarchs,
Hand in iron glove.

An infinite army,
gathered on the dunes,
beautiful arc of
emerald archipelago.

Vassals of poor,
dogs of war,
brimming swagger,
no quarter given.

Christian civilization,
cannibal princess,
feathered headdress
and sacred rattle.

New flock of lambs,
natural slaves,
deprived of liberty,
by Faith in Jesus Christ.

Rusty-ochre hues,
blackened skin,
anarchic shackles,
and rattling chains.

Merciless caiman,
hogs and goats,
ballasts of gold,
cities on a far off plain.

The swamp's revenge,
cowards in the rain,
a company of cripples,
jetsam on winter waves.

The broken army,
transported back to Spain,
Bourbon impositions,
pearly sails glistening.

By the way, WE are the immigrants.

And I'm not just referring to the obvious fact that Native Americans were here first. The Hispanics were also living in the western US for hundreds of years before white Europeans showed up.

I've begun researching my epic fantasy. Working title is "The Feathered Serpents:" plural to distinguish it from all the other books with that title. As I say, it's a working title.

I'm going to give myself a full year to research. The book is going to be incredibly complicated, so I want to have a full plan in place before I start writing. 

Anyway, the story starts with the first meetings of Spanish conquistadors and Native Americans. The first book I'm reading is called, simply enough, "America" by Robert Goodwin. Subtitle: "The Epic Story of Spanish North America."

Right away I'm realizing this is going to be harder than I thought. For one thing, all the Spanish and Indian proper names are hard to distinguish from each other and simply don't stick in my mind. I forget from one page to the next where, when, how, and who the action if referring to.

I'm pressing on because I am getting the gist of it.

I'm about a hundred years into the Spanish explorations of North America and they've made hardly any progress. Most of the expeditions to the north are disasters. The leadership is incompetent, compounded by greed and arrogance. (This is N. America, so Cortez and Pizzaro haven't entered my research yet.)

Many of the problems come from the long distance direction of the Spanish rulers back in the old world. The cruelty to the Native Americans only compounds their problems--almost always coming back to bite them. There's a constant motif of priests volunteering to stay behind with the Indians and then being immediately slaughtered as soon as the soldiers are out of sight.

Between starvation, disease, and warfare, the mortality rate is incredibly high. Meanwhile, this is still a couple hundred years before the USA was established. The Spanish were trying to tame North America for longer than our country has existed. When I say "Spanish" I'm referring to the already 'Creole' culture that was happening.

(The whole immigration argument is insane--take a look at the place names in the Southwest and tell me who was there first!!!)

The only real surprise so far, besides the length of time it took for all this to take place, is that there were a few Spanish explorers who were somewhat enlightened and tried to stop their fellow soldiers from slaughtering everyone in sight. There were rules in place--the Spanish at the time were very legalistic--but of course, once out of sight of civilization, the conquistadors did what they wanted.

On one hand, they seem to our eyes to be incredibly naive about "Cities of Gold." On the other hand, they did find riches beyond their wildest imaginings.

The premise of my story--that the Indians not only fight off the Spanish but gain supremacy, isn't that far fetched, frankly. I posit that the Europe is ravished by plague and thus the explorations are held off by a hundred years or more. And that the Indians take the technology of the first Spanish explorers and improve on it.

It'll be fun, but also very challenging to write. 

Tarantino's ode to the creative life.

What I enjoyed most about Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is the job that DiCaprio's character takes in a TV western. It's a comedown from his starring role in his own show, and his interaction with the star of the new show only rubs that in. He's warned by his new agent that by taking on the "villain" role, he is taking a step down and it's going to be a long slide.

Yet DiCaprio gives it his all. We see him doubting the makeup and then embracing it. We see him struggle with his lines, we see his doubts.

But in the end, his pride of craftsmanship comes to fore and he nails it. Maybe most people won't notice it, but he knows he's done it.

In the end, he gets praise from the little girl in his scene. "That's the best acting I've ever seen." And he swell up in pride, tears coming to his eyes.

The irony is that his acting about acting is the best acting in the movie.

That's it, man. That's what it can feel like. Small praise can seem big indeed. And you know it when you've done it right, even if it's a small role and maybe few others will take notice. Except for the rare genius and the extremely lucky, most creative endeavors are that way. The "role" is never as big as we'd like, it's filled with struggle and doubt, and yet when you finish, you know when you've nailed it, and you swell with pride if even a few others notice.

One really great thing about working in Pegasus again is that every once in a while I meet someone who's read my book and seems happy to meet me. A single encounter like that, or even a single good review, can keep me writing for another month.

It's pride in the craft and doing it right.

I've taken a long break from writing.

It's only as I come around to the idea of writing again that I realize how hard it is to do. I mean, for most of the six years I was writing, I considered myself somewhat lazy. Sitting around all day, putting a couple thousand words down, didn't seem all that hard.

But now? You know what? I don't know if I'd call it hard work, but it is certainly intensive and all-consuming. It's intimidating to know that my life will be completely taken over by a story, by doubts, by fiddling with words, by ignoring everything else around me so I can concentrate long enough to feel the story.

It takes true dedication. It isn't something I can do on a whim.

And that's daunting. Much easier to just drift through life.

I spent the same kind of effort at the store for decades. It isn't something that can be seen by others. It's all internal, the constant worry and trying to make it work.

Year in review.

It was a good year. We were up overall by 7% from last year, with much of that happening in the second half of the year, so the trends are good. We were even up on comics in the second half, which have had a three year slide. They've dropped 30% since 2016. Comics have always done these kinds of thing, wild fluctuations. It's why I've always tried to be diversified. That and the fact that comics (along with graphic novels) only get us halfway to prosperity. 

Meanwhile, graphic novels were up significantly. We gave them more room this year and it really paid off. The two categories combined have actually increased from 2016. So it's just a matter of ordering monthly comics correctly.

"New" books have done very well. The more I bring in, the better they sell. Every time I find a good seller, I can add that to the permanent inventory. So I'll be doing more of that in 2020. Graphic novels and new books have converged, to the point where Sabrina and I have had to figure out whether a sale is one or the other.

This trend confirms the idea I've always had that books are a continuum, that they are not separate categories. Books with all words, books with all pictures, and everything in-between. 

All along I've had the sense that "quirky" is better. We have out-of-towners in the store who are looking for something different, not just the latest bestseller. We'll sell a few copies of the big sellers like Where the Crawdads Sing, but we'll sell just as many if not more of old-standards like The Princess Bride or The Man in the High Castle.

I'll be reorganizing the shelves again later this month. I'm finally taking out used books completely. I should be able to add the equivalent of four new five-shelf book racks next year without having to cut back on anything else.

It's amazing, considering how packed the store is that we can still find ways to make the store even more ergonomic. 

This store has really become a forum for Sabrina and my tastes. If we like something, we bring it in, whether or not or it meets anyone else's idea of what Pegasus Books might carry.

All of this is possible because downtown Bend has become a real draw. There was a time when my store survived on the local regulars. We still want and appreciate those customers, but we have such a steady flow of tourists that the ups and downs of business have leveled off a bit. I mean, there are still the February and November slowdowns, but Bend has definitely been discovered. (Whether this is all good is another question.)

We brought in jigsaw puzzles this Christmas and they paid off enough to keep carrying them. I've been trying to bring in more toys whenever possible. Games continue to be a good category though we are facing increased competition and a deluge of new product to choose from. D & D has had a real Renaissance over the last few years. Magic continues to be a solid category. My trick is to carry as many brands at regular price as possible, as long as we can make a small profit.

2020 is the 40th Anniversary of Pegasus Books. (I've owned it since 1984. To my great surprise, it turned into a career...)

The store is solid. This December was a record month.

It took a long time to get here, but it feels very good.

Nostalgia for a story not yet told.

Reading Lord of the Rings was probably the most important influence on my life, not counting family and (possibly) my ten year bout with depression. That may sound like I'm overstating the case, but really--I own a bookstore and I am a writer because of Tolkien's creations. I met Linda in a writer's group. I've been chasing the feelings that book aroused in me my entire life.

It was the summer of either 1966 or 1967, so I was either 14 or 15 years old. My brother, Mike, was in a local production of The Fantasticks, so the soundtrack of that summer was the (off)Broadway album. To this day, the song Try to Remember gives rise to waves of nostalgia.

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain so yellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a young and callow fellow,
Try to remember and if you remember then follow.

Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That love was an ember about to billow.
Try to remember and if you remember then follow.

Deep in December it's nice to remember… 

 

At the time, I didn't know how to articulate the feelings that LOTR's evoked. But looking back, it was an overwhelming sense of nostalgia for a time and place that never existed. When I turned to writing in my early twenties, there was little modern fantasy to be found on the bookshelves.  As hard as that is to believe. (I won't get into the thickets as to what is modern fantasy and what isn't--just to say, nothing scratched my Hobbit itch). There was about a five year gap between the uncountable times I read LOTR's and when other fantasies started coming out. 

So I set out to recapture that feeling in my own books. By the time Star Axe, Snowcastles, and Icetowers were published, there were plenty of fantasies, but I'd done my best. If the books were a bit derivative of LOTR's, that was purely intentional. (Though I tried to avoid using elves and dwarves and such.)

I married Linda and bought the store and that was the end of my writing for 25 years. 

To my great surprise, when I came back to writing, it wasn't to write fantasy. I wanted to avoid the traps I'd fallen into in my previous attempts. I tried to write stuff that wasn't quite so familiar to me. It was a challenge to tell a story well without resorting to nostalgia. 

But always, in the back of my mind, I planned on someday trying to write an Epic Fantasy Trilogy. 

I've taken a few months off from writing. I'm ready to get going again. When I was going to sleep last night, I realized that I want to capture the nostalgia of LOTR's again. I want to capture the nostalgia of a book not yet written. Which is weird, but I intuitively sense that's what I'm after. 

But how do I do that without copying the elements of the books that evoked those feelings? One of the reasons I've avoided fantasy (mostly) is because the elements of Epic Fantasy are pretty much set in stone. If you try too hard to avoid the tropes, you end up writing something contrary for its own sake or a different genre altogether. I have personally stopped reading most epic fantasies. Only a few authors have managed to pull it off to my satisfaction. (Martin, Rothfuss, Bujold.)

 

Nevertheless, inside me is that deep well of nostalgia that I can summon at any time. My goal is to use that feeling to create something new. If that is possible. I'm hoping to avoid the traps that seem to develop each time I try to do that. Combine the craftsmanship I've learned over the last few years and the feelings of longing that is constantly there. 

 

I'll probably fall short, but hopefully some of that nostalgia will come through. We'll see. I always think I'm going to write one thing, and then another thing comes along. 

But that nostalgia for a story not yet told is as strong as ever.