P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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2020 vision: A look at the best and worst of times

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’Tis the season. For, among other things, holiday newsletters. You know, those annual missives you receive, typically from distant relations.

You only met once, and that was at a family reunion 15 years ago in Iowa. But every year since, they’ve confided in intimate detail what’s occurred in their lives. And it’s always amazing. Too good to be true, in fact.

Your second cousin Fred won the Ironman World Championship. And Aunt Ethel, bless her heart, received Nobel prizes for both chemistry and physics.

Before I poke too much fun at holiday newsletters, let me confess two things. First, I enjoy newsletters. If only for the reassurance at least once a year family and friends are doing well. Incredibly well, judging by what they write. Second, I send out newsletters myself.

My bragfest this year includes announcements my oldest son, Zach, received his MBA from Dartmouth and went to work for Goldman Sachs. My youngest son Alex — the CPA — was promoted at the big accounting firm where he works. Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. An entry based on my novel “Small Town News” won the Colorado Gold Rush Literary Award in the mystery and thriller category. 

No kidding. As humor columnist and author Dave Barry reiterates so eloquently: I’m not making this up.

Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of blessings to count. And I do. With gratitude.

Near the end of what might charitably be called an interesting year for holiday newsletters, I’m reminded of the opening line by Charles Dickens, one of the best in literature: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

For me, the best of 2020 exceeded the worst. Best of all, family and friends remain safe, even those who tested positive for COVID-19. I’m relieved. 

I’m also reminded that for many people, this isn’t the case. For some, 2020 has been one long nightmare from which they can’t seem to awake. And for those who’ve lost loved ones, the pandemic has been heart-rending.

I can only hope 2021 will be better. For everyone. And by this time next year, we’ll all have happier news to share in our holiday newsletters.

As for Cousin Fred and Aunt Ethel. Well, what can I say? You guys rock.

Choose wisely: lightning bug or lightning?

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One of my favorite Mark Twain quotes describes the gulf between the almost right word and the right word: “’Tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Invariably clever and frequently profound, Twain draws a distinction that couldn’t be much bigger. What’s more powerful? A tiny insect or fearsome force of nature?

No wonder I fret over my choice of words. Or is it brood? Or, better still, agonize? See what I mean?

That’s the blessing and curse of the English language. There are so many words from which to choose — by one estimate more than 170,000 in current use. Yet, each word conveys a different meaning.

It’s possible, I suppose, to write with almost right words — to even make a point in some vague fashion. It’s impossible to write with clarity without the right words.

There’s an added benefit to using the right words. They usually work better than a boatload of almost right words.

That’s particularly true in replacing adverbs — words that modify other words, usually verbs. Novelist Stephen King once proclaimed the road to hell is paved with adverbs.

I could recount appallingly how I ran quickly around the track until I tired badly and struggled mightily to catch my breath. In other — and, I’d contend, better — words, I sprinted until I crumpled spent and gasping.

Word choice sometimes comes down to big and little. In most cases, less is more. I admit, though, I sometimes succumb to the temptation to use bigger words when it would be better to eschew obfuscation.

Ultimately, the best choice remains the right choice, that one, wonderful word that conveys exactly the intended meaning.

’Tis the difference between the lighting bug and the lightning.

Just let comma sense prevail

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While far more unites us than divides us, I realize how easy it is these days to segregate the world into different camps. Those who drink Pepsi and those who prefer Coke. Those who wear who pajamas to bed and those who, ahem, don’t. And though I’ll never understand it, those who cheer for the Broncos and those who root for the Raiders.

But I’m writing about a contrast far more stark and of far more consequence.

Those who use the Oxford comma and those who don’t.

Count me among the latter.

For those who have better things to do with their lives than obsess over punctuation — meaning nearly everyone, with the possible exception of mystery novelists and English teachers — let me explain. An Oxford comma appears after the next to the last item in a list of three or more items. For example: red, white, and blue.

The Oxford comma is so named because it traditionally was used by editors, printers and readers at Oxford University Press. Extra credit goes to alert readers who noticed I didn’t use an Oxford comma in a sentence about the Oxford comma. What delicious irony.

I developed my distaste for the Oxford comma over a lengthy career in journalism. The Associated Press style newspaper editors and reporters follow in producing copy requires the use of commas to separate elements in a series, but not before the conjunction in a simple series. No Oxford comma. Moreover, I believe the art of writing lies in thrift — that there’s a genuine risk of running out of words if you use too many. The same goes with punctuation. Less really is more.

Enthusiasts argue the Oxford comma prevents ambiguity. Consider this sentence: I arranged on my desk framed photos of my two sons, Christopher Walken and Nicholas Cage. Clearly, I didn’t father Christopher Walken or Nicholas Cage.

OK. I’ll admit it. An Oxford comma would clear up confusion. But so would better writing. Consider this simple revision: I arranged on my desk framed photos of Christopher Walken, Nicholas Cage and my two sons.

Ultimately, rigid beliefs all too often separate those who are more alike than different. So when it comes to punctuation, perhaps we’d be better off following more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules. I’m OK with that.

Just don’t get me started on semicolons.

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 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.