Writers Write, Then What?

 

Writers write. Their biggest Achilles' heel is marketing. I learned this early on at book fairs and feeble attempts at selling my books on Facebook, etc. There’s a reason the real money to be made in self-publishing is in the ancillary services offered writers to help them move their product.

Over the years, I’ve developed a small but consistent following for my weekly blog postings. With that audience in mind, my editor and I have developed a mini web site which we hope will be the first of many for my individual novels.

This first one is for the ‘Debris’ trilogy series. We’ve packaged the three books together in one Kindle package and are offering discounted prices on the print books. I’ve begun posting this mini site in select Facebook groups and that seems to be working out well. So, now I’m expanding that reach and hoping to reach even more viewers.

My simple one-line introduction and the link are below:

Hi, I'm Denis J. LaComb, a local author. Interested parties can check out my 'Debris' trilogy of novels set in the Coachella Valley by visiting this site.

Debris Trilogy by Denis J. LaComb 

https://sites.google.com/view/debris-trilogy-palm-springs

Jump Seat Jesus

The story is common enough; repeated down through the ages. A young boy is raised Catholic by a very devout German Catholic woman who embraced her faith and never questioned the teachings of the church. In her mind, what the church preached was sacrosanct and could never be questioned. Nuns and Priests were ‘blessed people’ and thus immune from earthly faults like the rest of us.

That was the environment so many of my generation were raised in. At a relatively young age, I broke free of that stifling dogma and stumbled my way through the minefield called organized religion.

A recent read from BWB (Better World Books) caught my attention for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my own experiences with that early introduction to what would eventually become my take on faith. The back jacket pretty much sums up the theme of the book.

‘With his unique brand of erudition and wit, Christopher Hitchens addresses the most urgent issue of our time: the malignant force of religion in the world. In this eloquent argument with the faithful, he makes the ultimate case against dogma (and for a more secular approach to life) through a close and learned reading of the major theological texts. Hitchens tells the personal story of his own dangerous encounters with religion and describes his intellectual journey toward a secular view of life based on science and reason.’

This separation of church and life began for me a very long time ago but was brought back into focus again during the COVID-19 pandemic. I was piloting a Chevy Suburban cross country back to Minnesota. Since neither Sharon nor I are techno-files, the dashboard wide-screen menu offered us little more than confusion despite all our finger-tapping from one icon to the next.

With our combined ineptness, we only managed to find Country Music, Christian Music and religious radio stations as we trekked across the country. The most consistent of those radio signals was from EWTN (the Global Catholic Radio Network). We also kept coming across stations that were part of Covenant Catholic Radio Network because it had the strongest signal as we were passing through their area.

I’m not a practicing Catholic. The closest affiliation I can now claim is the fact that I’d already written the lyrics for a contemporary song about Christ entitled ‘Jump Seat Jesus.’ (an alternate title was: Shotgun Jesus’).  It was meant to be a song in a similar vein to ‘One of Us’ by Joan Osborne. While this didn’t entitle me to membership as a faithful Catholic radio listener, I did find solace in a strange kind of mental return to my youth and Catholic upbringing.

The station followed a pattern of call-ins with a psychologist dealing with listener’s questions about their emotional issues surrounding the Catholic faith. There were religious music sections and choir music. Another call-in segment dealt with questions about theology and Catholic practices and church teachings. These call-in sessions were broken up with hourly news reports from a Catholic perspective. It was a lot to feed my brain with thought.

I was raised a Catholic in the fifties and early sixties. Like many young people of my generation, it was the faith of our parents and grandparents. It was tradition and history and how we were expected to be raised. For all of its foibles and shortcomings, it was as good a religion as any around. Religion began for me and then gradually lost its luster in grade school.

St. Louis Grade School was a small French (Catholic) grade school located in downtown St. Paul. It was run by nuns who wore their iron will and strong philosophy of discipline as tightly as their starched white face wraps. Catholic teachings were an integral part of their curriculum. Reflecting back, I can now see their pattern of teaching that didn’t require a lot of thought but memorization instead. Group think was the norm and it fit most of the student’s just fine, me included.

Cretin High School was run by the Christian Brothers who could match the nuns with their focus on discipline and curriculum. Religious teaching wasn’t their strongest suite but it found a place in weekly classes. Those classes required us to think a little more about God and goodness and the Catholic faith and overall presented a more present-day approach to our faith.

During that time period, the Catholic Youth Center in downtown St. Paul was supposed to be a place for Catholic youth to congregate and mix with the opposite sex. Most of the sponsored dances were lame and overly controlled by either traveling nuns and priests or parental sponsors, all intent on making sure the boys and girls didn’t mix it up too much. Father Sweeney ran the place and focused on an old fashion approach to religion and youth.’ Listen and learn’ was his motto. Questions didn’t seem to be encouraged there.

St. Thomas College offered a few mandatory religious classes but mainly during freshman year. Most of those classes were rout repeats of the same message we had hammered into our heads in high school. The saving grace for me during that period was the Neumann Center on the campus of the University of Minnesota. The Neumann Center was run by hip, savvy priests who were able to communicate with young people and earn their respect at the same time. They spoke plain English about God and being a good person verses just a faithful obedient Catholic. Their message resonated with me on a very visceral level.

By the time I’d returned from the Army and was back at St. Thomas, the Neumann Center had evolved into Hippie Central and attracted a large swath of hippies, artists, bohemians, and other radical youth. There was popular music and singing during each mass and social gatherings afterwards. It became a wonderful home away from home for me and Susan, my girlfriend at the time.  ‘Suzanne’ by Leonard Cohen was our favorite song. Perhaps we should have been singing a sad lament for the Magdalene Laundries in Ireland instead.

Now, as the cross-country miles piled on, many of those thoughts about the strict nuns and Christian Brothers and neighborhood priests swam though my brain. I thought back to my mother’s strict devotion to her faith and how it was never my approach to religion. I will admit those Catholic institutions gave me a good solid educational foundation for which I am very grateful. Yet even back then I felt some guilt because I could never grasp and accept their approach to Christ. I had too many questions and challenges to ever become an obedient servant of their God. In truth, I was becoming a cafeteria Catholic.

During my Lost Years (1961-1971), I explored Buddhism, Hinduism, Transcendental Meditation, yoga, and a lot of mind-calming exercises we now label ‘mindfulness.’ It was searching for solace and comfort and meaning in an ever-changing world. Gradually, I found what I was looking for.

Now, many of my generation seem to have gravitated back to the faith of their youth. They’ve become practicing Catholics once again and attend mass every weekend. I expect for many of them, there is a comfort and security as their thoughts shift to the possibility of ‘life after death.’

Mine is a more simplistic approach to faith and belief and God. The questions I ask myself are pretty straightforward. Did I live a good life? Was I a good person? Did I do right by others? For me, it’s not one specific religion or label or moniker. I’d much prefer to be called a good person rather than a Catholic, Christian, Agnostic, Buddhist or Jew. In the end, I don’t think it matters one bit. If God is what others claim him (or her) to be, then I think my approach still makes the grade.

God is still my Co-Pilot. Only he knows when this journey of ours will end and he’s not telling me. So, I guess I’ll just continue trekking along, trying to do what’s right and enjoying the scenery and serenity for as long as I can.

I Was a Younger Man Then

When the sands of time begin to pile up in your driveway, it’s probably an opportune moment to reflect on the quantitative past you’ve been collecting over all these years. Maybe the fact that you’re still here and others from your past life aren’t, make it a good time to look in your rearview mirror and savor the fleeting images there.

Last summer, I discovered a ceramic running mug from my first marathon. It was buried deep on some dusty shelf in my office downstairs. It was from the 1982 Twin Cities Marathon. Back then, I had been running for about eighteen years, having started out an asphalt virgin at the ripe age of twenty-one. My PB (personal best) wasn’t that great but at least I was consistent, usually averaging five or six days a week of solid running. This would be my first marathon.

I remember, I began running with a group of loud, somewhat obnoxious, unruly veteran runners. Our first mile was clocked at a sub-six-minute mile and I knew immediately that if I didn’t slow down, I’d be dead (figurative speaking) by mile ten. I slowed down and actually got to mile twenty-four before everything in my body shut down and I died right there on the spot. Embarrassment kept me on my feet but I was done for the day.

Just then, a couple of young healthy women ran by me and their respective gait was something to behold. I began stumbling, running, keeping close in their wake. My eyes focused on their afterdeck until about a half mile from the finish line and then I imploded inside again. Fortunately, this time around, it was the sight of the Cathedral and a downhill sprint to the finish line that brought me home.

My time was a sub four-hour marathon and I’ve never been able to duplicate that again. I’ve notched two more marathons under my belt but survival was my main focus on those two. A sub-four marathon was once in a lifetime. That experience and others like it were memorable and never repeated in my younger years.

Education was a disjointed venture after high school. Rife with distractions and detours, it took me a while to finally finish that jaunt. The Army generously handed me two years going in another direction. Then it was back on campus to finish my degree, moving to Denmark as an ex-pat for a while. Finally returning to Minnesota and stumbling upon a lifetime career in television. Oh, I was a younger man then.

Now my books, plays, movies, blogs, children’s books, and more keep me working well into my senior years. I’m no longer a younger man physically but fortunately my mind hasn’t given up the ghost yet.

Writing has been a life-saver in terms of offering me almost daily cognitive twists, turns, and gyrations that elude a lot of older folks. Unbridled interest in a plethora of topics, sane and not so much, keep my curiosity probing outlets for topics of many different interests. Weekly discourse with friends, especially in Minnesota, has become a welcome opportunity to explore topics of every color, flavor, and subject matter.

Perhaps I’m not alone.

Last summer, I noticed that one of the recurring threads that wove through my C & C sessions was a sense of gratitude. My friends and I found a certain level of comfort in sharing the new, interesting, mundane, common and not so common. It was sharing at the most basic level and very gratifying, not the least of which was because none of us are younger men now.

The State of the Stage is

Theatrical performances (plays) have always been a part of our communal gathering traditions down through the ages. Even the caveman, without the benefit of a thrust stage and lighting, carried on that oral tradition. Shakespeare created his dramas for the common man. Cole Porter did his for those seeking distraction from the Great Depression.

Before radio and television, that was how we did our storytelling. Then, over time, technology advanced ever further and new means of storytelling grew in popularity. Now with podcasts, blogs, and YouTube videos, almost anyone can have a voice in the mixed-up world of storytelling.

These technological advances have all made inroads into the storytelling appeal of plays. Counter-balance that with a whole new generation of playwrights eager to pass on their own messages of current times and tribulations to audiences, and therein lies a volatile mix of depleted audiences, newfound message bearers, financial challenges and social thoughts screaming for attention.

Then out of the blue, Covid-19 showed us we could be alone and that was okay. Working from home was possible and for many, it became an attractive alternative to the corporate office/campus. Media devices at home provided a cheaper, more convenient means of seeing plays, movies, etc. It all came down to a matter of control. The more control passed on to the consumer, the more the consumer had multiple options to choose from. Theater became just one of dozens of entertainment options available to them at their fingertips.

Another factor in this seismic shift was initiated by the “Dear White American Theater” letter posted in June of 2020. It was signed by theater practitioners from across the country. In it were a list of demands around racial representation and combating racism within the theater and safety.

Adding to the challenges; theaters were faced with a growing body of creatives who wanted their voices added to the mix. LGBT, BIPOC, and trans groups began to demand recognition and a platform in which to share their hopes and concerns that up until then hadn’t been well represented in a theatrical environment.

‘Being more relevant for today’s audiences’ is now the mantra for many theatrical directors. They want to explore themes that until just recently would only play on off-Broadway and select venues. And while they try to carve out a demographic that would appreciate their offerings, other theaters know their demographics and play it safe. Whatever it takes to fill the seats, make payroll, and stay alive.

As a newly minted playwright, I’m feeling the pressure from all these changes taking place in the theater. While it’s always been difficult to find a venue for one’s play, it’s gotten experientially harder now. Quite honestly, most of the time, I feel that straight old white guys are definitely out favor/flavor today. It’s never stated outright, but the feelings persists that we are: ‘out of the loop,’ ‘aren’t hip,’ and ‘have nothing to say of relevance to a younger generation.’ I guess the truth lies in the eyes of the accuser.

I don’t think creativity has necessarily taken a hit but rather it’s been molded into many different forms when presented as theatrical material.  I have to remind myself that there are now, more than ever, social trends, cultural pressures, financial concerns, and competition from sources that weren’t around even a couple of years ago.

I do understand that it is very difficult for theaters to take a chance on new unproven playwrights and in some instances new concepts, ideas, and approaches to story-telling. It’s always much safer to go with the tried and true; the sure thing; the play with a proven track record or easily recognized by the theater going public (think Neal Simon, anyone).

‘So, is playing it safe the same as playing it smart?’ I guess it’s all in the eye of the producer.

Certainly, financial and sociological challenges exist. I would argue they’ve always been there. It’s unlikely you’ll ever get a group of creatives together and find agreement on many items or issues. That’s part of the creative process. My task is to find my own path through this ‘brave new world.’ A journey I relish and dread at the same time.

It all comes down to good storytelling and may the best story win.

Corcovado Adieu

It had to happen. A beautiful national park being dragged into the modern-day era of adventure tourism with a promise of fine wine at the end of each evening and brilliant sunsets at no extra cost. I really can’t complain. Costa Rica, like so many other Central American countries, is simply trying to cash in on the beauty of this treasured piece of God’s handiwork.

I was fortunate enough to have been there at the beginning. Back in the early eighties, the park had been carved out of thousands of acres of pristine jungle on the Osa Peninsula in south-western Costa Rica. National Geographic has called it “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.”

Adventure tourism has gotten in bed (literally and figuratively) with health and wellness eco-tourism to form a new brand of travel. Exotic locations are now the scenes of breathtaking views, fine accommodations, health and wellness curriculum; all in a jungle environment. It had to happen even to a true jungle wilderness.

Some describe this new kind of travel tourism as a kind of wellness utopia where thermal bathing blends in naturally with family-friendly water-based activities. Most of these new health resorts and lodgings feature both ancient and contemporary treatments – from acupuncture to IV vitamin cocktails along with a ready mix of well-being practitioners, fitness trainers, and health coaches, all promising personalized care for mind, body and spirit. From that perspective, Costa Rican planners got it right. The Corcovado landscape is gob-smack in the middle of paradise.

The landscape was always that way even back in my time. It just didn’t offer up high-count Egyptian sheets and fine wine at sunset. In fact, my first view of Corcovado National Park was the sight of a crashed aircraft at the end of our rough grassy runway. At that time, 1983, the only way in and out of the huge park was by flying in on small aircraft, four passengers each.

The park had just been created by the National Department of Tourism. That agency was anxious to get the word out on the wonders and beauty of the park. They focused on journalists from around the United States, especially those associated with local public television outlets. My boss was contacted by them and I was given that assignment; to tell the story of Corcovado National Park.

Gathering up at the airport in San Jose, I could see it was an odd collection of photographers, journalists, newspaper veterans and a few old well-seasoned salts thrown in for flavor and intrigue.

Our accommodations were primitive at best. We were each assigned tents and sleeping pads and mosquito netting if we were lucky. Sleeping in tents, no ground pads, took several days to adjust to the hard ground surface.

Every morning after breakfast, we hiked a different route through the jungle. The rules of jungle hiking are really quite simple. First, jungle terrain is seldom flat. That only happens in Tarzan movies. It’s usually hilly, rugged and laced with jungle vines that can send you sprawling down a slope in nothing flat. Caution was the word.

Our guide told us right up front there were a wide variety of ways to get killed in the jungle. In our case, that could have come in the form of six different varieties of poisonous snakes, anyone of which could have killed us with just one small nick of their fangs. Yet on we trudged through the nearly impenetrable jungle in search of some great cinematic shots, which unfortunately, we never got.

Secondly, we were told to watch out for spider monkeys. They love to pee on you as you pass underneath. Howler monkeys just yell a lot. Most frogs are poisonous so don’t touch.

The third rule is also pretty simple. Snakes will kill you if they can. Watch where you step or be prepared to die. Never step over a log or object on the ground. Never lean up against a tree. Always step on top of the log then step over to the other side. Look at the tree first before you lean against it or sit next to it.

There were many species of venomous snakes in the park. The Fer-de-Lance and Bushmaster were tops in their game. One bite…thirty minutes…hello, heaven. Even the poison dart frog could do you in.

I can still hear them, almost 40 years later, scrambling above us and howling at our presence down below. It’s like a musical refrain cemented in my brain; haunting yet so familiar. The jungle can do that to you. It can enlighten, threaten and even kill you in a heartbeat.

On the first day of a long hike, I casually asked our guide if he had snake bite serum with him after he described the numerous poison snakes that abounded in Corcovado. He said no, he’d left it back at base camp, a four-hour hike away. I guess when your time comes, it comes. We all walked a little more gingerly back to camp that day.

Foresight isn’t my forte. Yet, even as I was trudging through the jungle, I knew this was the chance of a lifetime. I tried to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I could. That included the stifling heat, humidity, insects, poisonous snakes, sharks in the rivers, strange sounds day and night, sleeping on rocks, listening to the barking of the Howler Monkeys, and drinking warm beer.

Those three weeks in Corcovado produced many wonderful experiences and great memories with some fascinating folks. I should be so lucky to hear those howling monkeys ever again.

Now, fast-forward forty plus years and Brian’s family just returned from a wonderful vacation trip to Costa Rica. While, they didn’t visit Corcovado they did get a true taste of a Costa Rican jungle and beach front fun.

As the saying goes, time changes all things. Even that impenetrable jungle finally fell to the joyful sounds of kids just having a good time. Not quite my experiences there but still a wonderful feeling for all. Corcovado has a brand-new audience to savor its charms and enjoy spectacular sunsets.