SHAKESPEARE WROTE THAT we are all actors on a stage. I can't disagree. However, I believe that he might have agreed that not all of us are equally good actors. I'm not referring to our goodness or badness in a moral or ethical sense. Rather, I am commenting on our ability to play a role that anyone else would pay to see. This lesson was driven home to me this week as I attempted to record myself reading a passage from my novel, Rebels on the Mountain, to produce a book trailer.

During a previous life, when I was in the advertising and PR business, I had the opportunity to direct many commercials. This gave me the privilege of working with some fine talent. One of the best was a voice actor named Brad Crandall.

Brad moved to Fort Collins, Colorado, where I was apprenticing at an ad agency, after wheedling out of his contract with NBC in New York. Brad had been a host on NBC's hugely successful Monitor that aired for 40 continuous hours every weekend. It was the forerunner of talk radio that dominates AM programming these days. It took me several years to sift through the various excuses that Brad gave for walking away from his lucrative contract. The truth is, I don't think that he felt that he deserved the success.

Brad had been born into poverty. His father was a railroad conductor and the family lived in poverty near the tracks that stretched across Kansas. He outgrew their resources and quit school to join the Marines just as World War II was ending. Stationed in China, he was assigned to the Armed Forces Radio network and became an on air news reader. While there, Brad studied the voice of William Conrad who was then appearing as Marshall Matt Dillon on the radio production of Gunsmoke. Brad practiced emulating Conrad's magnificent baritone until it became his own voice.

Upon completion of his tour of duty, Brad became a gypsy radio host. He hopped from one station to another across the country, pausing only to enlist for a brief tour of duty in the Army and serving in Korea. When the war there ended, Brad landed in a station in Montreal, Canada. He told me that he lived on peanut butter sandwiches and milk that he kept on the window ledge outside the radio station's studio. I never did find out where he slept. He worked there until producers at NBC heard him and invited him to New York.

The poor boy from Kansas now found himself hobnobbing with famous personalities in the New York theater district. Their favorite eatery was Sardi's (I'm guessing that his caricature still hangs there among those of still famous personalities). He spoke of the antics of his Monitor co-hosts, Art Buchwald, Henry Morgan, Skitch Henderson, and others. One of my favorite tales is when the staff at Sardi's took revenge on one of their company. The man would always jokingly order a peanut butter sandwich in a voice that could be heard throughout the restaurant, and then quietly place his “real” order with the waiter after the “gang” had their laugh. One day, the waiter took off with the order before he could change it. Soon, an entourage emerged from the kitchen: two busboys pushing a cart with a huge carved-ice bear cradling fresh berries in its cupped paws; two others pushed another cart bearing a heated chafing dish; and a third contained a silver tray covered by a large silver dome. Four chefs followed the procession.

Upon arrival at their table, one chef created preserves from the berries. Another took roasted peanuts from the heated chaffing dish and hand ground them using a mortar and pestle. The third sliced the bread. And, the fourth assembled his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The waiter happily presented him with his very sizable bill. 

I know that Brad enjoyed his riches – to a point. Unfortunately, he never reconciled himself to such success without laboring for it. Much like Clark Gable, whose father never approved of “play-acting” as respectable work, Brad looked for other ways to make his life seem purposeful. Thus, I believe I became one of his many “projects.”

He salvaged me from a disastrous marriage and sheltered me while I recovered. He then went so far as to arrange a meeting with the woman who became my wife (now married almost 36 years). Unfortunately, once I began achieving my own success, he went in search of other projects and we lost track of each other.

Several years after his death, I heard that Howard Stern had honored Brad. Howard was asked who had influenced him as a role model in broadcasting and he mentioned Brad.

Over the years that we were active friends, I employed Brad for many of my projects. “One-Take” Brad we called him. I only ever heard him flub a line once in many hours in the recording studio. I wish I could say the same.

I suppose that I wouldn't be as critical had I not worked with a great talent like Brad. I needed nineteen takes to get an acceptable recording of myself reading a passage from my novel, Rebels on the Mountain. Even then, I cringe when I listen to it. I'm no Brad Crandall.

Still, I feel that I have a better chance of connecting to my readers if I present myself, warts and all, reading my own work. Click here to hear me.

I HAVE A NEW PLAN and I hope that you approve. I'm going to devote each day of the week to a different topic in my blog: Short Story, Opinion, Book/Author Review, and the periods/topics of history that inspire my writing such as The American Revolution, The Cuban Revolution, The Korean War, and personal memoirs from Vietnam and more. 

I had thought that my reflections on Sea Scouting, inspired by their 100th anniversary, would last a few installments, maybe a dozen at most. However, it has become apparent that there is a lot of grist in that mill. Just one posting each week devoted to this life experience may span the rest of the year. My wife has long encouraged me to write a book about that period of my life and I believe that with a little editing, these blog posts may be joined into one continuous narrative that will satisfy her.

Currently, I am writing a novel about the war in Korea. My research has unearthed a wealth of material for blog posts, history that I believe holds important lessons that could help us better cope with current events. You will see my first installment this week.

Also this week, I will begin posting my personal memoirs from Vietnam. These will serve as the basis for a new novel, one that will help readers view that war from a totally new perspective.

I suspect that my Opinions will draw the greatest ire inasmuch as I am neither Republican nor Democrat nor a member of any fringe political party. I am neither liberal nor conservative. I find myself ducking from trench to crater in a war of ideologies without many allies. Thus, I suppose that I may offend everyone with my opinions. However, if I cause anyone to think outside the boundaries set by their political and ideological leaders, I will be grateful.

Lastly, I believe that there is no more important topic than the continuing American Revolution. I believe that the Revolution has entered a new campaign that may well decide the fate of the Republic. Unfortunately, most citizens are ill-prepared for it. Schools and media have failed miserably in their roles of educating and informing us about it, and forces who wish to recast it in a new mold find little opposition because the masses do not understand the value of what has been handed down to them. My goals in commenting on American history are to dispel the myths created for political and ideological advantage, and to help citizens once again feel proud of their heritage. I was raised on those myths. Inasmuch as my birthday coincides with that of George Washington, I was exposed to them at a very early age. As I grew and matured, I sought out the real man and found him to be a far more interesting, compelling, and inspiring personality than the mythical one.

I will not gloss over our mistakes and missteps. Anyone who has read Rebels on the Mountain knows that I was brutal in my assessment of the role of racial prejudice in our foreign policy, especially as it has been applied in Latin America. If we do not confront our mistakes and missteps honestly, we will be forever condemned to suffer them again and again.

Ultimately, I am compelled to write. It is as necessary to my well being as eating and breathing. I could no more still the voice of the storyteller in my head than I could still my beating heart. As I write, I hope to become a better writer, one who you will continue to read in this blog and in my books. 

BEFORE LENO AND CARSON, Jack Parr hosted the Tonight Show. One night he told the story of the Army's new “Atomic Grenade.” “It has a bursting radius of twenty-five meters,” Parr related. “Unfortunately, you can only throw it fifteen meters.” 

I never saw an “Atomic Grenade.” We only had ordinary grenades when I was in the Army. However, filmmakers seem to have an ample supply of them. Think back over the war dramas you have watched. How do those explosions compare with these actual demonstrations?

A grenade does a good job destroying a washing machine. But, where was the giant fireball? Why didn't it level the surrounding dirt piles? Would that explosion have blown out an entire store front? I doubt it.

The terrific explosions that filmmakers portray are great theater and probably excite most audiences. However, for those of us with any knowledge of weapons, their artistic license makes it difficult to suspend disbelief and enjoy the show.

Generally, audiences are eager to accept almost any fantastical element that a storyteller throws at them. Even trained scientists are vulnerable to their fantasies as evidenced by the recent announcement that they discovered a particle traveling faster than the speed of light. Oh, how they dreamed of hitching a ride on it to the stars until they found the data error that led to the erroneous conclusion. 

However, every story must have some semblance of truth. Storytellers must throw their audience a bone of reality here and there to help them out.

People who read books or listen to radio dramas are the easiest to appease. They are, after all, helping the storyteller by providing the visual images. Name a monster, and the audience will visualize whatever is believable for them. However, in film and on television, the audience are passive viewers and an actor in a rubber suit isn't going to cut it, especially not with modern audiences. Serious dramas will turn into comedies at the drop of a hat.

I have much the same problem watching modern police dramas featuring female detectives. Now, before you dismiss me as a knuckle-dragging chauvinist, allow me to explain that I have nothing against women serving their communities on police forces and fire departments. However, in all honesty, I would not expect that such women are physically challenged as are the anorexic models who star in these roles in film and on TV. I cringe when I see one of them kick in a balsa wood door. Actually, I'm surprised that they aren't injured attacking props.

I once had a friend, a Marine aviator. Our sons were members of the same Cub Scout den. We were demonstrating “Indian Wrestling” for the boys wherein the opponents hold one hand behind their backs and clasp the others while attempting to throw their opponent off balance. I had a fifty pound advantage on my friend and threw him about easily. Imagine what that does for my ability to suspend disbelief when I see a model-turned-actress portraying a detective taking down a rampaging biker dude.

I don't suppose that I helped things very much when I wrote Rebels on the Mountain. I not only took great pains to portray weapons and tactics in a realistic fashion, but also, I took the time to educate the audience. Inasmuch as I surmised that Fidel's few trained soldiers must have had to teach the recruits the weapons and tactics of organized warfare, I included scenes inspired by the infantry training I received in the Army. In my book, readers learn what a grenade is and how it is employed in battle. They learn about rifle squad tactics and the use of demolitions. I not only infused my story with a sense of reality, but also, I made it harder for my audience to suspend disbelief when they see these elements poorly used in other stories. Why should they have it any easier than me?

Ultimately, I believe that audiences read historical fiction because they find reality far more fascinating than pure fantasy. Like me, they must find real heroism more exciting than imagined feats of daring. After all, who inspires us more, an imaginary person facing imaginary danger, or a person like ourselves, confronting their fears and doing what is good and necessary in spite of those fears?

MARK TWAIN, in his recently published autobiography, relates how he once attempted to start a magazine dedicated solely to reprints of old newspaper and magazine articles. He opined that people would rather read stories of historical interest that were written when the events were still fresh and foremost in peoples' minds rather than dusty tomes of academic studies. I think he may have been correct. 

I have had a fascination with history (actually, our story) almost my entire life, and have preferred reading historical fiction for much the same reason, so long as the author is true to the milieu of the story and uses fictional characters to gain insight that academicians cannot provide. Well-written historical fiction has the same timber and presence as well-written journalism, if the author of historical fiction relates to the story with the same sense of immediacy as a journalist reporting a current event.

James Mitchner fairly leaps to mind. I first became acquainted with him while reading Hawaii as I relaxed on Waikiki Beach during R&R from the Vietnam War. The insights that I gained from that novel helped me more abundantly enjoy the almost five years I lived in Hawaii following my tour of duty in Vietnam. However, I believe that The Source was Mitchner's greatest work. It provided even greater insights into the nature of the people living in the Middle East; insights that are invaluable in deciphering current events there.

Some may not agree that the Camolud series by Jack Whyte is historical fiction. Although they may argue that his interpretation of the legend of King Arthur is pure fiction, I believe that he is true to the milieu of time and place; Britain at the time the Roman Empire is contracting and the legions quit the nascent island nation. I cannot imagine anyone more accurately nor more interestingly portraying this period of history, than to imagine Roman equestrians who remain behind to attempt to build a unified nation on the ruins of a crumbling empire.

Unfortunately, there is a flaw in Twain's concept; it only works if there are good journalists to record history as it unfolds. There may be some out there today, but I haven't seen them. Some argue that a bad thing happened during the Vietnam War; journalists became performers vying for popularity ratings on television screens as news became a profit center in the broadcast industry, and political correctness drew larger audiences than factual correctness. 

The degradation of the journalistic profession continued as this philosophy found its way into universities. Whereas journalists had traditionally worked their way up the ranks of the newspaper business learning their craft along the way, modern journalists graduated from institutions that shielded their students from reality and exposed them to the progressive philosophy. Indeed, journalism professors became ring leaders using their students to bully anyone who dared stray from their chosen views of society and social order. Thus, the product of modern journalism may seem well-crafted, but it is hardly to be trusted as the foundation for understanding the milieu or the characters of any stories that are their subjects.

All things considered, I will continue reading historical fiction (and writing it). Hopefully, I will remain true to my story and people will find it insightful as well as entertaining.    

I CAN'T REMEMBER when I first heard the word “bodega” used. I'm sure it was on a television show – probably a mystery thriller set in New York – maybe Law & Order. It was a long time before I learned that it referred to a store – usually a neighborhood mom and pop shop. Here too I can't remember how I discovered this.

It wasn't until I began writing Rebels on the Mountain that I took time to research it and discovered that the word is derived frombodega de carga – cargo compartment or ship's hold. I laughed at myself – I should have known this. 

I was a member of the volunteer crew on the Brig Pilgrim in the mid-1980s. It's a replica of the two masted sailing ship that Richard Henry Dana sailed on in the early 1830s, in the hide trade between Boston and California. The ship carried manufactured goods packed in barrels: china, boots, fabrics, saddles, etc. that they traded for cow hides.

Thousands of cattle roamed freely in the virgin territory and there were few people needing the beef. So they slaughtered them by the thousands and traded the hides to the New Englanders. A ship like the Pilgrim could load thirty or forty thousand of them. The carcasses were left on the land to be consumed by carrion-eaters (which explains why so many crows and vultures soar above my house even thought the pickings here are slim these days).

The crew anchored about a mile or two off shore and brought barrels of their trade goods ashore. They set up shop on the beach where the locals came to select their purchases. In the Spanish variation of this story, in places like Cuba, people referred to these trading places on shore as bodegas inasmuch as the cargo being sold was coming from the ship's hold – bodega de carga. Later, when the cargo was traded to merchants who sold it in the towns and villages, their shops also became known as bodegas.

During the three years that I sailed on thePilgrim I also acted as as docent when visitors came aboard to tour the ship. I told them about the bartering that occurred on shore as the ship cruised the coastline and, really, I knew about bodegas, I just didn't know that's what it was called in Spanish.

HISTORY IS FULL of heroes and villains, saints and scoundrels, and a lot of ordinary folk. Anyone who dares classify individuals runs the risk of being called to task for their judgments, even if the person they are writing about is dead. Although lawsuits for libel and slander historically were reserved for living persons, some states permit the estates of the deceased to bring such actions in court and award damages when the dead are treated unfairly. Anyone who would dare write about history either in an academic treatment or historical fiction must be careful. 

In writing Rebels on the Mountain I characterized many historical personalities including Fidel Castro and Ernest Hemingway. I treated only two harshly, the dictator Fulgencio Batista and the rebel, Ernesto "Che" Guevara. Fidel seems to me to have been an admirable leader of the insurgency, although I might have judged his performance as a national leader somewhat differently had my book covered that period of Cuban history. Che, on the other hand, appears to have been guilty of more reprehensible behavior and there is plenty of extant testimony implicating him in crimes against humanity during and after the hostilities that brought about the downfall of the dictator.

Hopefully, I will not be called upon to defend myself for anything I have written, but I could not have written the story any differently just to be safe and still have been honest as a storyteller. 

Follow me at your own peril and hope that your publisher has a good legal staff to advise you.

MY VIETNAM STORY is on hold. Nick Andrews, the protagonist from Rebels on the Mountain, refuses to die in my head. So, I'm now embroiled in the Korean War when Nick came of age as an Airborne Ranger. No, it isn't going to be a war story. It's going to be the story of a young man coming to grips with his past, present, and future while fighting for his life behind enemy lines during the Korean War. 

The research phase has begun and I'm already fascinated with the history of Korea. Little did I know that Korea's enmity with Japan began long before World War II. Japan's vision of a united Asia with themselves at the top evinced itself during the First Sino-Japanese War (1894-95) during which time they began their dominance of the Korean peninsula while the Western World watched with approval. Of all the Asia nations, Europe and America found Japan to be the most civilized after their own fashion.

Besides Nick, I have every intention of introducing a character from my past who has long intrigued me. He was an old sergeant who came under my command when I was assigned as Special Services Officer at Tripler Army Medical Center in 1968 after my tour of duty in Vietnam. When I met him, I couldn't help but be curious about the fact that he wore only one ribbon on his uniform, the Silver Star with Oak Leaf Cluster indicating two awards of it. I stopped one day at the personnel office and requested his 201 file. It was the thickest service record I had ever seen. From it I learned that he had lied about his age to join the American Expeditionary Force in Europe during The Great War (WWI), then rejoined to serve in World War II, and again during the Korean War. After returning to the service to participate in the Vietnam War, he accumulated the last of twenty years service, all in time of war. Buried deep in that record were two sets of orders, yellowed and crispy dry with age, awarding his the Silver Star. Both were signed by General John J. (Black Jack) Pershing.

The title is selected – Behind Every Mountain – and the Prologue is written. Actually, I wrote the Prologue for Rebels on the Mountain, but there was too great a gap between the events it describes and the beginning of that story. Some may argue that I am writing the new book just to salvage it. That may be true, however, as I begin my research, I am finding a great new story taking shape in my imagination.

TOWARDS THE END of my training at Infantry Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, a senior officer addressed our class one morning on the subject of arrogance. He was for it. To be more accurate, he opined that arrogance was a necessary quality in a successful infantry officer. He had a point. When artillery shells are exploding around you and hot lead fills the air, it takes a peculiar form of arrogance to stand up as though you alone know what is to be done and say, “Follow me!” 

Fortunately, war has a way of winnowing away incompetent officers. Those who lead the troops into battle – as opposed to senior officers who send men into battle – and do it poorly, tend to die first. Unfortunately, war has a way of winnowing away the unlucky ones, too, even though they may be competent.

Writing has its own way of winnowing away authors. Novels fail long before agents, publishers, critics, and the reading public have a crack at them. Those who are not arrogant enough to believe that someone might actually read their stories, simply fail to complete them. It is believed that there may be hundreds, maybe thousands of unfinished stories for every one that is completed and submitted for publication. If so, countless unfinished manuscripts must be collecting dust in every attic and hope chest. 

Some subscribe to the view that manuscripts languish unfinished because of the author's lack of endurance. Granted, writing is hard work. In my life, I have worked at manual labor, as a sailor and as a soldier, as an office worker and a computer programmer, as an artist, and as a writer, and as a business consultant and a teacher. Writing is the most exhausting. Once I unleash the characters in my head they take over the body. Unbound by normal human needs for rest and sustenance, fictional characters can deplete a body's resources with impunity. Indeed, I have, on occasion found myself typing gibberish because my hands have become numb, and my fingers failed to press the keys in response to the commands of my brain. Once, I over-strained my eyes and couldn't look at television, read, or work for three days until colorful geometric shapes stopped dancing in front of my eyes. However, through it all I have completed my novel. So, it would seem that endurance is a necessary quality in a writer, especially one who writes as laboriously as I do.

I've also been blogging. Now, there's a real act of arrogance. I've been adding an average of two postings each week, and people are coming in growing numbers! Are they coming to be entertained? Informed? Annoyed? Who knows, few respond. They simply lurk. I'm not surprised. I lurk on many blogs myself. 

Some may argue that maintaining a blog requires far more arrogance than writing a novel, because a blog is more often than not a fount of opinion. I disagree. Every novel is riddled with opinions or it isn't worth reading. My first novel, Rebels on the Mountain is full of them. In my opinion: (1) Fidel Castro won the revolution in Cuba despite the fact that he was not a very good military leader; (2) people excuse their shortcomings by supposing that all others harbor the same failings; (3) U.S. Leaders are rarely in command of foreign relations – they barely react to them; (4) white Americans have more self-inflicted wounds from racism than they have inflicted on black Americans; (5) Che Guevara was a humorless sociopath who used ideology to camouflage personal vendettas; (6) … need I go on. Why would I write a novel if I didn't have opinions to offer? 

Some argue that arrogance is a personality defect or , worse, a sinful attitude. I argue that little would be accomplished without it. Every great edifice is a monument to man's arrogance. Every great undertaking to cure a disease, conquer a frontier, defeat an aggressor, build an industry, excel in sports or the arts, or lead a nation is the supreme act of an arrogant man or woman. To volunteer in response to any call to action requires the assumption that the individual matters and can make a difference. How does that not fit the definition of arrogance – an attitude of superiority.  

I grew up in a city that benefited greatly from the arrogance of one man, Enoch Pratt. Surely he was a superior man. The fruits of his industry allowed him to endow the Enoch Pratt Free Library, the Shepherd-Pratt Hospital, and the Pratt Institute. Imagine the arrogance of him attaching his name to each of these gifts to the citizens of Baltimore. How many other cities have benefited from the largess of arrogant men such as Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, Jay Gould, and J.P. Morgan? These are the men who created the supereconomy that catapulted a nation to preeminence in the modern world. Their efforts allow even the poorest Americans to live better than the vast majority of the world's population. They also created libraries, museums, theaters, schools, hospitals, and parks as monuments to their arrogance – monuments that we and our progeny will continue to enjoy for generations to come. 

Unfortunately, there is a dark side to arrogance. It is called hubris. Countless men and women have fallen victim to it. Political leaders, popular icons of the arts, and all others who rise to their positions through popularity without apparent talents and ability to sustain them, are especially vulnerable. The hubris of Adolph Hitler led him to inspire the greatest war of aggression in modern times. The hubris of recent leaders of the U.S. Congress led them to disclaim the Constitution repeatedly in recent sessions to excuse the legislation that they adopted. 

Hubris is particularly virulent when people rise to prominence in one field and then attempt to expand their sphere of influence into areas for which they have no talent or expertise. Elected officials attempting to dictate the minutiae of personal lives when they were chosen to administer governmental operations, and actors becoming proponents of revolutionary ideologies, are two of my favorite examples of applied hubris. As a writer, I must pause to take special note of the L. Ron Hubbard, a pulp fiction author who founded a religion on his science fiction fantasies. Now that's hubris on an epic scale.

Pausing here to reflect, I can imagine the congregants of Scientology accusing me of hubris. It's possible that I am guilty as charged. This whole piece is, after all, simply my opinion and I'm just arrogant enough to post it. 

"HOW DO YOU sculpt a horse?” a man asks an artist in an old parable. “It's easy,” the artist is purported to have answered. “Start with a rock and chisel away everything that doesn't look like a horse.” I feel that this is the method I used in writing my first novel, Rebels on the Mountain. During the first two years, I wrote approximately a quarter million words. In the past six months, I have been chiseling away to free the story trapped within all that excess verbiage.  

Obviously, I'm no Mickey Spillane. In an interview a number of years before his death, I heard him describe his process. He dictated his stories to a stenographer who made fair copies and mailed them to the publisher. He completed the dictation for each story in about a week. Given the fact that I've waited until my sixty-eighth year to create my first novel, I doubt if I have enough time left to live to develop that level of proficiency. Still, I hope to write more than one book. I have two planned for the protagonist, Nick Andrews, who appears in Rebels on the Mountain, as well as one based on my experiences in Vietnam during the war.

“I'm a commercial writer, not an author. Margaret Mitchell was an author. She wrote one book.” – Mickey Spillane

I might make it. Look at Louis L'Amour. He started writing novels late in life, at about age 40 – still a young man compared to me. Yet, he was able to turn out more than a hundred novels and collections of short stories. I know – I read them all.

Although I have just completed my first novel, I am not a novice to storytelling. I've been writing and telling stories since my late teens. A half of century of writing advertising copy, documentary film and radio scripts, press releases, technical journals, a novella and a computer guide, has given me some facility with the craft. I created short children's stories that I narrated in my daughter's elementary school classes. It wasn't until after I retired from the daily grind of earning a living, that I had time to turn my hand to a novel.

Hopefully, my next novel won't take as long. I believe that I began to discover my voice as a novelist towards the end of writing Rebels on the Mountain. It is a voice planted in my head during my teenage years by the greatest storyteller I ever knew, Dunaway Walker. Dunaway was a teacher of Greek, Latin, and rhetoric at an exclusive prep school for boys in Baltimore. No, I wasn't allowed anywhere near the place – not with my academic record. I met Dunaway at the Baltimore Yacht Club, where he was a member and the Sea Scout group to which I belonged kept their boats.

We cruised the Chesapeake Bay with the yacht club fleet and Dunaway frequently rode with us. His vessel was laid up for repairs just as frequently. During these cruises, the fleet visited other yacht clubs and coastal towns all over the Bay. There usually was a cocktail party and dinner for the yacht club members while the Sea Scouts explored other opportunities for fun and mischief ashore. However, almost every evening ended with Dunaway holding forth in the aft cockpit of one yacht or another while we and the yacht club families sat on the surrounding docks and catwalks being entertained by his stories. His endurance was legendary. He would continue into the wee hours of the morning so long as someone kept his beer refreshed.

During my last year as a youth member of the Sea Scouts, I was the Boatswain – Senior Crew Leader. As such, the duty fell to me to emcee the annual community dinner celebrating the anniversary of Boy Scouting, and to invite a guest speaker. My choice was obvious.

Dunaway enthralled the audience that evening. Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Explorer Scouts, and Sea Scouts as well as their parents, grandparents and siblings remained enraptured by his performance from beginning to end. Even the toddlers seemed happy to listen to his sonorous voice though they could not possibly comprehend the content of his tales. One of my greatest regrets is that recording equipment was not as popularly available and portable as it is today. I would love to hear his voice again.

You may well wonder at the connection between the spoken word and the written story. However, that is the connection that I am attempting to forge – that is the voice that I hope to develop as a novelist. Although I don't have recordings of Dunaway Walker's tales, I hope that there is still a strong enough echo of his voice in my head to guide me in this journey. Then, instead of sculpting a tale, I may come to simply tell it.

I HAVE A literary agent nibbling at the hook, and she wants another rewrite of Rumba. "Lose the prologue" and "make it a 'page turner'." Okay, who am I to argue.  

I had used the prologue to introduce the protagonist and his internal conflict, and thus allow me to proceed at a more leisurely pace at getting into the story beginning in chapter 1. Well, it seemed like a good idea.

Hemingway is reputed to have said that a writer should "write drunk and edit sober." I wrote Rumba sober; I wonder now if Hemingway would advise to edit drunk?