P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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It’s a bird, it’s a plane … it’s Pedantic Man

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What kid — or retired newspaper editor turned mystery novelist, for that matter — hasn’t dreamed of becoming a superhero and wielding superpowers?

Superman or Wonder Woman? Captain America or Captain Marvel? Batman or Iron Man? Who would you choose? What abilities would you possess? Strength? Flight? Invisibility? Or would you rely instead on advanced technology and immense wealth?

As a nerd growing up in the 60s and 70s, I wanted to be Spider-Man. I related to the teen-age science wiz who was bitten by a radioactive spider and developed spider-like strength and agility on a superhuman scale.

More than 50 years later, I still want to be Spider-Man. But I’ve come to terms with the realization it’s increasingly unlikely. Short of my own nuclear-powered metamorphosis, I’ve grown too old to crawl up walls or swing from webs shot from my wrists. Much less combat the likes of the Green Goblin, Kingpin or Doctor Octopus.

That leaves me wondering what attributes I could bring to a role as a superhero.

Let’s see. I type quickly, and I’m familiar with the Associated Press Stylebook. But that makes me more like mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent than the indestructible Man of Steel. I enjoy scuba diving, but require an air tank and regulator to breathe underwater. Moreover, I exert no control whatsoever over fish. Trust me. I can’t even cajole fish to fin in one place long enough to photograph them. Not exactly Aquaman material.

What’s left then? The only thing that comes to mind is my penchant for pointing out the harmless grammatical missteps of others while drawing attention to my perceived authority. Learn the differences between their, there and they’re, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention affect and effect and farther and further. Don’t get me started on subject-verb agreement. And don’t you dare misuse literally in a sentence unless you actually want me to slap you silly. Because I will.

I’m no less exasperated by incorrectly used words, phrases and idioms. You whet an appetite, not wet one. You title a book, not entitle one. It’s sneak peek, not peak. Those who know me well also know the other pet peeves for which I care. It’s bison, not buffalo. It’s Smokey Bear, not Smokey the Bear. Despite what TV announcers proclaim at nearly every Broncos football game in Denver: It’s elevation, not altitude.

If I were a superhero, I’d be Pedantic Man. My superpower? Identifying mistakes and ridiculing those who make them as I fight a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the sanctity of the English language.

I’d be faster than an impending deadline. More powerful than a convoluted sentence. Able to review long manuscripts in a single sitting. Look. In his office. It’s a critic. It’s a know-it-all pest …

It’s Pedantic Man.

For Christmas, something worthy

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I’ve longed admired the “The Gift of the Magi,” the short story written by O. Henry and published in 1905. The story tells how a young wife and husband deal with the challenge of buying secret Christmas gifts for each other with little money. The ironic twist at the end reinforces the moral: Sacrifice in the name of love is far more precious than watch chains and decorative combs.

To continue a tradition of writing short holiday stories based on the works of favorite authors, here’s my take on “The Gift of the Magi.” With posthumous apologies to O. Henry. I hope you enjoy it. I hope more you enjoy a merry Christmas and happy new year that brings you every good thing.

Something Worthy

Della stifled a sob as the tow truck yanked her car from a corner of the parking lot where it had been rooted for years. The car trailed the truck for a block west down the street in front of her shabby Denver apartment building and followed right at the stop sign. Tears blurred her last look, then the car was gone in the dwindling twilight of a frigid January evening. Gone forever.

The decrepit old car was more a dust-covered home to stray cats than a means of transportation. It refused to start, much less run, the balding tires nearly flat on the bottoms. Cherry red paint faded to Pepto-Bismol pink, the white vinyl upholstery cracked and ripped. Nonetheless, the car was the last tangible link to her dead father, at one time his pride and joy. Della felt the disconnection in the pit of her stomach.

The Polaroid photograph she held in her hand pictured her dad washing his 1964 Mustang convertible in the driveway in front of the suburban house in which she was raised two decades ago. Shirtless and tanned, her father’s brown hair hung nearly to his bare shoulders and glistened in the summer sun. A smile stretched wide beneath his thick mustache. That happy moment was captured a year before she was born and many years more before the bad times. The drinking. The divorce. The cancer that turned the man she was once certain was the strongest in the world into a shriveled caricature, then drained the last of his life from him.

Della always intended to restore her father’s beloved Mustang to its original glory, but could never afford the undertaking. She was grateful for steady work that enabled her and her husband Jim to pay for rent and groceries, but there was little left over. If they scrimped, maybe an Uber Eats delivery and a candlelight dinner served on their thrift store kitchen table. Their latest Christmas was no less meager for a young couple with more love than money.

Della wiped the tears off her cheek with the back of her hand, then smiled. She took solace in that love. More in the surprise she’d finally reveal when Jim came home after his shift tonight. Not another inexpensive token of her love, but the kind of amazing gift she’d yearned to give him since their wedding three years ago. Something worthy. She’d considered it for months, and everything fell perfectly into place over the past week. Like it was meant to be. She turned to look again at that last place she’d seen her father’s car. A garish sunset illuminated orange clouds in the blue sky. She interpreted the scene as a promising omen.

#

Jim alternately whistled and grunted as he completed his last task for the day: hauling boxes of televisions stored in the back of the Denver electronics store to a gigantic display at the front of the store. The boxes contained TVs almost as wide as movie theater screens. With the Super Bowl less than two weeks away, he expected most of the boxes would migrate into the homes of well-heeled customers with the means to watch the game in style. Demand for bigger and better TVs always surged this time of year. But even more so because the Denver Broncos would play for the championship.

Jim grinned as he pushed the last of the boxes into place. He understood exactly what Broncos fans anticipated because he counted himself among the faithful. Jubilant as a young boy when the Broncos won the Super Bowl in 2016, frustrated as a teen-ager when the team failed to make the playoffs for the next eight years, now exultant as a young man at their resurgence. He was too young to remember the halcyon days of John Elway and back-to-back Super Bowl titles, but recalled every moment of the magical September Sunday his father took him to a game. The green grass on the field and the orange that filled the stadium. The smell of popcorn and hamburgers. The thunderous roar of the crowd.

Peyton Manning threw seven touchdown passes that Sunday. Jim still had the Manning jersey his dad bought him to wear. Too big for a 12-year-old, but just right for a 24-year-old who pulled it out of his closet on game days to don as a fitting talisman.

Jim heaved a sigh. He wished he could afford a bigger TV to watch the Broncos. Better still, a trip to the Super Bowl and the opportunity to savor that magic again on an even bigger stage. The biggest stage. If he watched the Super Bowl at all this year, it would be on the TVs at the store. He talked the manager into allotting him extra shifts, but only if he agreed to work Super Bowl weekend, too. The manager had just walked by to remind him of the arrangement — and what would happen if Jim broke his promise.

Jim had worked all the shifts he could get over the past three years, although he resented every minute away from his bride. All that time would be worth it, though, when his plans for the money he’d earned were realized. Plans he’d finalized and would finally reveal to Della tonight. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise on her beautiful face. At last he’d be able to give her the gift he’d wanted to give her since their wedding. Something worthy.

He glanced again at his tarnished gold pocket watch. It was absurd anachronism in an age of smartwatches, but it had belonged to his father and grandfather. Plus, it kept good time. Soon, he thought. Less than an hour now.

#

Della and Jim met the front door of their cramped apartment in their usual way, but with unusual enthusiasm. A passionate kiss followed by a heartfelt hug. The tighter she squeezed him, the tighter he squeezed her. Neither questioned the reason for the long embrace. They both believed they knew the answer.

Della finally let go and gazed at Jim. Her moist eyes sparkled in the dim light. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She pointed to a white envelope on the kitchen table with Jim’s name written on front in her flowing cursive handwriting. “Open it up.”

Jim’s eyebrows arched as his mouth dropped. “A surprise? That’s funny, cause I’ve got a surprise for you.” He pulled a white envelope from his jacket pocket with Della’s name printed on front in his messy scrawl. He handed her the envelope. “Open it up.”

“What should we do?” Della asked. “Open them together?”

Jim nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Della tore open the envelope and unfolded the papers inside. It was work order for the off-frame restoration of her father’s Mustang. A lengthy list detailed all the parts, materials and labor that would be required for the project.

She looked up at her husband and shook her head. “You can’t do this.”

Jim smiled. “Course I can. It’s all arranged. I’ve been making payments for years. Couple more weeks of extra shifts, and the balance will be paid off. Can’t wait for you to give me a ride after it’s all fixed up.”

Della shook her head again. “You don’t understand. I just sold Dad’s car to a collector I found on the internet. He had it towed away an hour ago.”

Jim jerked back. “Sold your dad’s car? Why would you sell your dad’s car?”

Della pointed to the envelope in her husband’s hand. He’d ripped the top open, but had yet to remove the contents. “Read.”

He did. The itineraries for airline flights between Denver and San Francisco. The reservation for a hotel in Santa Clara. And, finally, the confirmation of the purchase of one ticket to Super Bowl LX at Levi’s Stadium.

Jim gasped. “Oh my God. I don’t believe it. You did this for me?”

“Sorry I only had enough money for one ticket. But I want you to go and have the best time ever. Go and cheer for your Broncos.”

Jim slumped into one of the mismatched chairs that sat around the kitchen table. The pages fell from his hands to the floor. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can. It’s all arranged.”

“You don’t understand. I promised the manager I’d work that weekend. Part of a deal to get extra work to pay for the restoration. You know how he is. If I go back on my word, he’ll can me.”

Della sat cross-legged on the worn carpeting beside Jim’s chair. Her head rested on his lap while he stroked the long hair that fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters.

After a long while, she spoke. “I never told you how much I resented all the time you spend at the store. All the weekends. I was worried you’d rather be there at work than home with me. I had no idea what you were doing … . Thank you.”

Jim shook his head. “I know how much your dad’s car meant to you … . Thank you.”

Della sighed. “So what do we do know?”

“Any way you can get your car back?”

“Not now.”

“Get your money back from the airline and the hotel. Sell the ticket. I’ll get my money back from the repair shop.”

“Then what?” Della asked. “What about our gifts?”

Jim shrugged. “We don’t have to decide on anything right away. We’ll talk about it. We’ll talk so something like this never happens again.”

“Talk?” Della asked.

“Yeah. Talk. And listen. Like it means something. Cause it does.”

“So you’re saying we give each other the gift of talk?” Della asked.

Jim reached down and gently turned Della’s face to his. “The gift of understanding,” he answered. “Something worthy.”

More blessings than I can count

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It’s easy to maintain an attitude of gratitude with my proverbial cornucopia overflowing with ample food, good health and the love of those I cherish most. I’m doubly fortunate, though, as a retired newspaper journalist turned mystery novelist. I write every day. Flex my creative muscles. Best of all, I continue to pursue my lifelong passion to tell compelling stories.

In this season of thanksgiving, here are a few of the many blessings I count as a novelist:

  1. The English language and its more than 170,000 words. That’s a lexicon large and varied enough to supply the right word for every occasion without settling for the almost right word. It’s a distinction Mark Twain compared to the difference between lightning and lightning bug.
  2. Writing that conveys in clear and convincing fashion exactly what you want to convey. The vivid description that immerses readers in a scene. Authentic dialogue that not only propels stories forward, but also reveals character. What Ernest Hemingway described as “the truest sentence you know.”
  3. The good idea that materializes out of thin air and twists your story in a way you never expected. As a pantser — someone who eschews planning and writes instead by the seat of his pants — I discover how my plot unfolds the same time as my characters. I’m invariably surprised and supremely grateful for something more interesting than anything I could have devised ahead of time.
  4. A good editor with a keen eye for details, a deep understanding of what makes stories good and a collaborative approach. I’m blessed beyond measure to work with a skillful and experienced editor who makes my writing better than I ever thought possible. She’s both muse and mentor in providing inspiration and guidance.
  5. The camaraderie of writers who’ve been there, done that and understand the persistence required to write fiction. I meet weekly with an eclectic group of writers as talented as they are supportive. They criticize, but always in constructive ways. There’s an implicit admission we all struggle, but also the assurance we struggle together.
  6. Beta readers who provide valuable feedback on manuscripts before they’re published. My mystery novels feature an amateur sleuth in a history professor. Imagine how fortunate I am, then, to know a real history professor willing to share his time and expertise to read my pages and tell me what I’m doing right and wrong.
  7. Novels that offer proof of what’s possible, set examples to emulate and provide motivation to keep working on my craft. That makes me grateful to Ray Bradbury, C.J. Box and Robert McCammon. That’s not to mention Mark Stevens and Kevin Wolf.
  8. Google and other internet resources that make research easy and provide quick answers to strange questions at the push of a few buttons. I’m sure I’m not the only mystery novelist who wonders how fast corpses decompose in cold water or what poisonous mushrooms grow in Colorado.

I’d love to add to my list literary agents who respond promptly to queries. While I’m at it, how about a three-book deal with a big-five publisher that includes a six-figure advance?

For now, though, I’ve got more than enough for which to be thankful and maintain my attitude of gratitude.

 

In remarkable company

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I was honored an entry based on my novel “Dive Into Peril” was selected as a finalist in the mystery and thriller category of the 2025 Colorado Gold Literary Awards. I was doubly honored because of the other two finalists: Maria St. Louis-Sanchez and Brooke Terpening. Maria and Brooke won the award in 2023 and 2021, respectively. Maria won again this year with an entry based on her novel “A Woman’s Algorithm for Murder.” Congratulations to these two wonderful writers. And thanks to Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers for offering this exceptional competition for unpublished novels and hosting the annual conference in Denver.

Because I have to …

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Why write?

The answers are as numerous and unique as writers.

My answer for more than 40 years was simple: I like to eat. I wrote for a total of seven newspapers in that span to earn money to buy food. Not to mention pay for housing, beer and other necessities. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my jobs. I was paid to talk with interesting people and tell interesting stories. Thousands of them over the course of my career. But I never could have done so without also paying the bills.

During the past decade, my answer became more complicated. In addition to news stories, I wrote two novels. The first installments in a mystery series set in the rugged northwest corner of Colorado. And now that I’m a recovering journalist — retired, that is — I write mostly fiction. I’m blessed to no longer write as a means of subsistence, but for other reasons.

The fun of it, for starters. Joy springs from choosing exactly the right words, arranging them in elegant sentences and conveying ideas in compelling fashion. Writing fiction is a bit like describing the movies playing in my head and hoping readers see what I see. The more detailed and vivid the descriptions, the more likely they’ll want to follow along.

It’s no less enjoyable to discover where creativity leads. As a pantser — someone who avoids planning and writes instead by the seat of his pants — I get to tag along with the characters in my novels and find out what they do as the plot unfolds. I’m almost always surprised. And grateful, because it’s usually something more interesting than anything I could have devised ahead of time. Believe it or not, the process works that way.

More than anything, I write to bring my characters to life and share their stories. I want readers to join my small town newspaper editor and my history professor on their adventures. To endure their setbacks. To celebrate their victories. To foster a deep personal interest in their well-being.

Author Judy Blume emphasizes this internal compulsion and emotional connection in her advice to writers: “The best books come from someplace deep inside. You don’t write because you want to, but because you have to. Become emotionally involved. If you don’t care about your characters, your readers won’t either.”

But that also induces my recurring fear. If I don’t introduce the characters from my novels to the world, they’ll die when I die, unknown and unappreciated figments of my imagination. I worry they’ll gather around my deathbed and press for an explanation.

Why write? Because I have to.