P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Countless possibilities start from a cluttered desk

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I’ve heard a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind. I’ve also seen the evidence for just the opposite: a cluttered desk is a sign of genius. A quote attributed to no less a genius than Albert Einstein poses a good question: Of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?

My desk isn’t so much cluttered as it is disastrous. I’m talking well beyond what the British might describe as a dog’s breakfast. Picture instead the aftermath of a tornado that’s ripped through a trailer park.

It’s not like there’s any shortage of storage. That’s no excuse. My rolltop desk features eight drawers and no less than 19 cute little cubbies. But each is crammed full of junk, most of which I haven’t touched since I stuffed it there years ago.

The surface of my desk is no less crowded with not only my laptop computer and printer, but also files, books and paperwork. The crowing touch, so to speak, are the baseball caps I brought back as souvenirs from scuba diving resorts.

I taped quotations and admonitions to a spot at eye level where they serve as ready reminders. 

“Write with confidence and authority,” one sign commands. “Show, don’t tell.” There’s more good advice. “Bring your characters to life.”

I also clipped and displayed comic strips.

My favorite “Pearls Before Swine” strip by Stephan Pastis pictures in the first panel two characters talking. 

“Where were you last weekend?” one asks.

“I went to a writers retreat,” the other answers.

The next panel shows four writers sprinting away, the pages of what are presumably their works in progress flying behind. One writer screams. “Run. Run. Writing’s too hard.”

Exactly.

In one sense, it’s a shame the bric-a-brac on my desk covers a beautiful 19th century heirloom. The desk belonged to my beloved late wife and before that her father and grandfather. I expect my sons will one day treasure their mom’s desk as much as she did. I’m just borrowing it until then.

I suppose it might be more efficient to maintain a militaristically clean desk. Still, there’s an argument to make for the benefits of a workspace that’s both comfortable and comforting. I’m distracted by the odds and ends that surround me, but also reminded of all the blessings I have to count. And that’s a good place, at least for me, from which to tell stories.

Is my mind cluttered? Do I boast an IQ of 160? Neither.

Thankfully, this much is certain: My mind’s not empty.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

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Nearly everyone has been asked that question — usually starting in elementary school, if not sooner. Nearly everyone asks that question of themselves — sometimes regardless of age or the stage of their careers. Although there are probably exceptions, I suspect the answers almost always change.

As a kid who grew up in the midst of the space race in the 1960s, I wanted to become an astronaut. Who didn’t? Subsequently inspired by what I read about Isaac Newton and Marie Curie, I wanted to become a scientist and make important discoveries. Those of a certain age will remember the chemistry sets that used to come in metal boxes. I got one for Christmas. And a microscope, too.

Then I discovered something completely different. I took a part-time job in high school covering sports for my hometown newspaper and found out how much I enjoyed writing and reporting. I pursued computer science in college, but switched to journalism at the beginning of my sophomore year and fared considerably better — academically, thank goodness, but also personally.

Although I’m now past 60 years old, my vocational aspirations remain pliable. Every bit as pliable, I suppose, as my definition of what constitutes growing up. I’m still in love with journalism. But I still wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up. 

Fighter pilot is probably no more a realistic goal at this point than lion tamer. Mountain climber sounds exciting, but also dangerous and, even more daunting, like a whole bunch of work. Still other possibilities come to mind. Maybe dive master? Leading scuba diving excursions through warm and clear water to tropical coral reefs seems like an enjoyable way to spend the workday.

If nothing else, I remain determined to change at least one of my job titles — from aspiring novelist to published novelist.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

What are you waiting for? I hope it’s not inspiration

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It’s time to reveal another trade secret — and, hopefully, some insights that could prove useful in newspaper journalism, writing fiction and other noble pursuits. The moral of my latest story? The importance of NOT waiting for inspiration to strike. It’s a cautionary tale.

I arrived at this subject after wandering again in what I envision as the desert of my mind. It’s a wasteland in there, one where no novel thought grows. That’s problematic, especially for an aspiring mystery novelist.

There’s this hopeful belief that somewhere out there in the universe awaits a source of inspiration. When I worked at an agricultural journal in Oregon, I used to joke with a newsroom colleague about sharing the muse when weekly deadlines loomed. “Aren’t you done yet?” I’d ask her with the same urgency as someone waiting outside a locked bathroom door. “Hurry up. I’ve got to go … write a story.”

You know what? I’ve yet to find the mythical Pierian spring that inspires whoever drinks its waters. And none of the muses has ever offered to lend a hand. Not once. They’re fickle that way.

That’s the thing about inspiration. You can’t wait for it — at least if you expect to ever accomplish anything. If I’ve learned anything in more than 40 years of writing to earn a living, it’s the fact you can’t force inspiration. Try it and see what happens. Go ahead. Open a file on your computer. Better yet, pull out a blank sheet of paper. It’s counter productive.

If it does occur, inspiration is far more likely to drop by when you least expect it — to come in like fog on little cat feet. Think “Back to the Future” and how Dr. Emmett Brown slipped while hanging a clock in his bathroom, hit his head on the sink and conceived of the idea for the flux capacitor that makes time travel possible.

The alternative in the meantime? Work your butt off and hope for the best. The prolific inventor Thomas Edison knew well the proportionality involved in describing genius as 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. By the way, Edison also said most people fail to recognize opportunity because it’s dressed in overalls and looks a lot like work.

The most important thing of all about inspiration isn’t so much where it comes from or when, but what you do about it. It’s difficult enough to come up with good ideas. For heaven’s sake don’t waste any of them.

I wasn’t initially inspired to write about inspiration. But now that I have, I’m glad I did. I can only hope you are, too.

As a matter of facts: some useful, some not

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Call me a collector. Not of priceless artwork, tragically. Or even, for that matter, of baseball cards or beer cans. Rather, I collect facts. Some of them useful. Some not. And some so arcane few others appreciate their value. 

It’s an occupational hazard, a byproduct of working in print journalism for more than 40 years. Newspaper editors have to learn certain facts to do their jobs. The Associated Press wrote the book on the subject in compiling a style manual and what’s essentially a long list of facts editors and reporters use in writing for newspapers and other media outlets.

While a lot of facts become anachronistic, editors seldom forget any. Consequently, our brains become full of them, nearly to the point of bursting like water balloons filled with too much water. 

Even if editors can’t use put all those facts to good use on the job, then by God the curmudgeonly ones like myself draw them like a gun to assert our intellectual superiority. Yeah. Right. While I’ve long fantasized about becoming a “Jeopardy” champion, I’m only smart enough to realize the unlikelihood of that occurrence.

For now, though, here are a few of my favorite facts, kind of like my version of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

It’s Canada goose, not Canadian goose. It’s Smokey Bear, not Smokey the Bear. And those big shaggy animals that used to roam the plains are bison, not buffalo. By the way, it’s sneak peek, not peak. It’s free rein, not reign. And you whet an appetite, not wet one.

Books, movies and other works have titles. They’re not entitled to a darned thing. I’ll have words with anyone who suggests otherwise. 

Every time I read or hear something’s “totally destroyed,” I wince. Then I want to throttle the offending writer. Something’s either destroyed or it’s not. It’s certainly not destroyed to any greater degree with the addition of an adverb. The same thing holds true for other binary conditions. She’s not completely blind any more than she’s partially pregnant.

I suppose I could go on. And on. And on.

But a good editor knows less is more. In my case, a lot more.

Metaphorically speaking, a kiss is more than a kiss

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I once worked for a weekly agricultural journal in Oregon. Along with cows and plows, I occasionally covered the State Legislature. I used to joke — and, to be honest, complain  —  the boredom of covering long committee hearings was interrupted only by the tedium. 

The exception was covering a House committee chaired by Chuck Norris. I’m not making this up, although this Chuck Norris was a retired Army colonel from north central Oregon. Norris was well known in the Oregon Capitol for two things. The first was his extensive knowledge of water issues. It was said he knew every drop in the Columbia River. The second was his frequent use of metaphors. He was forever opening a can or worms or tilting at windmills. Sufficiently inspired, he could became a metaphor Mixmaster going hammer and tongs like a bat out of hell. To the extent it’s possible, he made the arcane measures governing water rights interesting and the legislative process entertaining.

I don’t always use metaphors myself. But when I do, I try to use them sparingly and judiciously.

Metaphors get a bad rap, justifiably so if they perpetuate meaningless expressions, they’re mixed or both. Consider, for example, the imagery this account evokes: It was raining cats and dogs the day I went to visit an old flame. Did the cats and dogs extinguish the flame? Maybe if they were flabby tabbies and pudgy poodles. Ouch.

At the same time, metaphors offer an effective shorthand for complex concepts. Consider what Shakespeare had to write about the drama of the human condition: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Better yet, consider the lyrics made famous by Elvis Presley: “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog.”

One of my favorite metaphors reminds me of the importance of word choice. According to a quote attributed to Mark Twain, the difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and lightning.

To borrow yet one more metaphor, good writing is a lot like kissing. It can be just as engaging and improves with practice.