P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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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.

When the going gets tough, the tough get writing

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I’ve always believed that when the going gets tough, the tough get writing. Sometimes about writing.

While there are no doubt prolific writers who crank out copy as if they’re making sausage, don’t count me among them. I’m more like Sisyphus, the mythical Greek guy condemned to forever roll a boulder up a hill only to have that big rock come tumbling down every time he nears the top.

For me, at least, writing is no less a Sisyphean task. In my day job as a newspaper editor, I no sooner complete stories and columns in time to meet one deadline than another looms. It’s almost always a struggle. And the whole troublesome process invariably starts with the same quandary: What do I write about this time? 

After putting it off for I don’t know how long, I once wrote a column about avoiding procrastination. Stymied by writer’s block, I wrote a column about writer’s block. It’s not especially surprising, then, to fall back on a familiar strategy in writing about writing. 

So what makes writing good? After working as a writer for 40 years, I’ve reached one immutable conclusion: I have no idea. It remains a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Nonetheless, I know good writing when I read it. Nearly everyone does. 

To that end, three general attributes come to mind.

Writing is compelling enough to keep readers reading. Otherwise, what’s the point? There’s the risk they’ll move on to more interesting pursuits — flossing their teeth perhaps.

Writing offers the stuff of revelation. Good writing provides insights and draws conclusions that leave readers scratching their heads over the implications. Great writing leaves them slack-jawed in realization.

Writing is personal, inimitably so. Good writers bring to their works not only their distinctive styles and voices, but also their unique experiences and perspectives.

Writing can be tough, an unrelenting struggle to turn thoughts into words and arrange them artfully on the page.

But when the going gets tough, the tough get writing.

It IS a mystery — and, thankfully, a winning one

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I’m thrilled to report my entry in the 2020 Colorado Gold Rush Literary Awards competition based on “Small Town News” was selected as the winner of the mystery and thriller category.

Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers conducts the contest, which offers the best practice I’ve yet encountered for preparing submissions for publication. Polish those first pages and refine that synopsis. Judges score the entries to select finalists that are evaluated a second time by editors and agents. Terri Bischoff, senior acquisitions editor for Crooked Lane Books, judged the mystery and thriller category.

Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers conducts the contest as part of its annual conference, which this year is offered online. The objective of the contest and conference — the entire organization for that matter — is to educate and encourage writers, whether they’re aspiring authors working on first drafts or seasoned professionals who’ve been published multiple times. Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers offers an impressive breadth and depth of information on the craft and business of writing.

Gold Rush 2020 Award

As a newspaper reporter and editor, I’ve been blessed to make a living as a writer for more than 40 years. Still, nearly all I need to know about writing fiction I learned from Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. I’ve benefited professionally and personally from the presentations, the conferences and especially the contest. The critiques from judges have been more helpful than anything else in making progress on my work in progress. Here’s the other thing: Every member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers I’ve met has been invariably gracious in sharing their advice and offering their encouragement.

Mark Stevens, a remarkable mystery novelist and one of those gracious members, advised me four years ago to join Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers — that my membership would constitute the best investment I could make in my writing endeavors.

How prophetic.

Fun can be a funny thing

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I’ve often wondered about the nature of fun.

What is fun, really? We’re constantly encouraged to have it. More than a barrel of monkeys, if possible. Work should be fun. Weekends should be fun. Theme parks should be a whole lot of fun. And wedding nights … now those should take fun to a whole new level. Even if it isn’t supposed to be all fun and games, life clearly should include at least some fun. At least that’s the message.

Google “fun,” and the same terms show up: a source of enjoyment or pleasure, an amusing diversion. Yet, an image never accompanies the definition. Now, Google digestive system and follow the route from esophagus to rectum. Google warthog and take a good look at the wild African pig, wartlike protuberances and all. Fun, however, can’t be illustrated in a diagram or captured on film — or explained in a few words, for that matter.

An ephemeral thing, fun creeps up when least expected, tweaks a nose and then disappears without a trace.

Don’t look for fun in the obvious places. I’ve already tried, and it’s seldom there. As a child, I searched candy aisles and amusement parks. When I was a bit older, I was certain I’d find fun at Disneyworld. What I found instead was too many Snickers upset my stomach. So did roller coasters. Disneyworld was fun, but also required waiting in lines. A lot. Older still, I looked for fun in bars. I recall fragments of my 21st birthday and drinking something that was orange and served in a pitcher and set on fire. Big mistake. Huge. And definitely not fun.

I’ve rarely had fun at special occasions, either. My high school prom was supposed to be fun. My college graduation was supposed to be fun, too. Holidays like Christmas and New Years are supposed to be fun year after year. The problem is, events hyped as fun free-for-alls infrequently are. And I’ve waited, disappointed, for the fun to begin.

Fun is funny that way. Because places and activities considered dull, even dreary, turn out to be fun. I’ve had fun listing the principal exports of Brazil on a geography test. I’ve had fun at the office on a Monday afternoon. I inhaled so much nitrous oxide during one visit to the dentist, I giggled my way through a root canal.

Most often, though, I’ve had the most fun when I wasn’t trying to have any fun at all. The realization took me by surprise. I remember summer evenings spent riding bikes with friends in the small town in which I grew up. We didn’t have any plans or destination. We were just pedaling and talking until darkness fell and we had to go home. The start of school seemed like a million years away, and the summer break stretched ahead in an endless succession of carefree days. Everything just felt right.

These days, I experience the same feeling of contentment in scuba diving with my family or catching up with friends at a coffee shop — or, on those rarer occasions, writing a well-turned phrase. Neither a picture nor a thousand words quantify the pleasure of those moments.

It’s fun.