All 8 of the Jim Stanton Mysteries are now available in Paperback or E-book wherever books are sold

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Big deep breath and a sigh…

My personal saga of the book that took forever and wouldn’t die hit another milestone this afternoon as the 91st submission in the seemingly endless quest to attract an agent went winging off in the ether.

The book, working title, “Chasing Regrets” was born in the throws of the 2016 election season, and the first draft finally came to -30- after 130,000 words. Now, as a newspaper editor I had answered the question “how long should this story be?” from hundreds of reporters, and my answer was simple, “whatever it takes to tell the story and not one word more…” But that was in a climate where we turned around 70-150 thousand words in a 24 hour cycle. A 130,000 word work of pulp fiction, a pro finally advised me, will never be published — it would cost too much and the book folks know what the top dollar price tag on a book will be, and it’s not you, get it?

I got it, and started editing, a sensation that might be a distant relative to having to choose which of your eight children you’re going to save and which one(s) have to go….

Then, we moved. Most of 2017 was consumed with preparing the house for sale and planning the move, and then 2018 and part of 2019 was consumed with finding a place and then re-building it. My role in that heady rebuilding operation was “gofer.” We had a pro’s pro carrying the load, but still no time for the writing.

So this year dawned with a determination to bring the book into the word-county realm of fiction, and we got it under 100,000 words. The came the intense search for likely agencies, and then the crafting of “a pitch” which was a lot easier in my baseball days. Now we get to wait. Agencies advise authors that they’ll only respond if they want to see more, and then they put timelines on how long the author should wait before providing a “gentle nudge.” The wait times cover the gamut from 1 week to 8 months on my list of 91 queries.

Stay tuned; we’re now turning our attention to another book that got started in the era I call “TYBA” as in “The Year Before Alma.”

dave

Easter Sunday, a snow storm and a milestone…

A great day for solemn gratitude and serene blessings as we hunker on through the Covid-19 pandemic; got the tv satellite cleaned up in time to take advantage of all the great movies Dish delivered today, and found once again how poignant movies about loyal, smart, and honest leaders seem today, even more so than when “Clear and Present Danger” and “The American President” were first released… but now, the memory of feeling pride and loyalty for the holders of offices of power is just flat overwhelming. Just finished what we hope is the final draft of “Chasing Regrets,” a 99,540-word novel that encapsulates the final quarter of the 20th Century and first decade of the 21st through the mysterious travails of a retired community newspaper man’s family…There is no firm release date, and we haven’t found an agent yet, so this is just one milestone in a book’s journey.

The hunt for a “new normal”

Covid-19 is changing the way so many of us are approaching our “normal” day to day activities; and most of us are accepting those changes grudgingly hoping these new ways will not eventually become the “new normal.” But some things that bring a silent, wonderful smile to our hearts aren’t really all that different, like when Susie got a text that said, “I’m in your driveway, bearing gifts.” Susie, and the dog, approached the front door and found a single carnation on the step along with a cute, hand-made Easter card from one of her new Alma friends, Barb Secrist. I think generous gifts of love and friendship on the front door step would be a “new normal” we all could get used to…

The Call for Humility

Anyone who even considers the idea of running for president of this country should take a real close look at the job and measure that against the human being they know themselves to be — the only real honest question must be “am I qualified to lead a country full of the kind, caring, dedicated citizens who are hanging out their apartment balconies singing praise for the dedicated fellow citizens who are pitting their lives against Covid-19? Can I really be the one to lead the legion of talented civic minded servants that comprise the mayors and governors of this nation?” This shouldn’t be the time for political bombast or gamesmanship, but this should certainly be a time for self-inspection: If a 20-second hand wash seems to you to be too much sacrifice for the health of the neighbor you don’t know by name, then you better keep your hat out of the ring. And, each and every one of us should be taking notes, just in case their self inspection fails them.

Beating isolation as best we can

Anti Covid-19 activities are creating a caring, sensitive attitude of cooperation in this country, and it’s spreading like, well, a virus! In that spirit, we’re joining a special program at Smashwords through April 20! This sale is the direct result of several Smashwords authors requesting that Smashwords run a special sale. These authors wanted to show their support to readers who now face unprecedented social isolation, anxiety and economic hardship as a result of the world response to the Covid-19 pandemic. So, read a book or order one for a friend who’s at home and alone. Shop at http://www.smashwords.com

After years of writing…

This blog was initiated back before the first Jim Stanton mystery was even ready for its first full edit. In the way this home/business operates, I research, draft and edit my story until it gets the formal -30- at the end of the last paragraph; then, and only then, my loyal editor gets her first glimpse of the story — we never discuss it, whine about it, or fuss over it. I learned the tough lesson of going it alone until its written back when writing my weekly column had to fit into an otherwise crammed schedule, often on Fridays, between putting out that day’s edition and preparing for the night crew to put out the Saturday paper. I discussed an idea I had for a column over breakfast and was unable to generate a verb, noun, or preposition when the time came after lunch. I call it the “curse of the story teller.” My curse, my title; if you’ll let me tell the story without having to “open a vein” (another quote I can recall, but the source? Not so often.) and I’ll settle for that venting every time. That reality has followed me throughout this fiction process. Now, after years of neglect, Tales From Out There is being drafted into the larger world of Jim Stanton Mysteries. Hope you’ll enjoy following along as we (Susie, Dave, Kris Kringle and Jim) share our love of the outdoors and words. -30-

Fourth Jim Stanton Mystery goes live

The Fourth Jim Stanton Mystery, “Song of suzies,” has just published with Kindle Direct Publishing and Smashwords — the book will undergo the usual human vetting to make sure that it is what it claims to be, and then it’ll be sent around the world by Kindle and to all the other e-book retailers and libraries by Smashwords. If you want to jump the gun, you can purchase the book at http://www.smashwords.com in whatever format your e-reader or computer requires.
And, of course, work on the next story has already begun…

Hunter’s Journal, Part 5

Nov. 19

Temperature 25, wind out of the north 20-25, gusting to 35

Cabin fever took over, and with the moderation in temperature, I took Kris for his first-ever pheasant walk. We flushed four birds — one wild rooster and three tight-sitting hens in the first two minutes of our walk, but I could see as Kris sniffed where the hens had been that he was interested.

He and I had bumped a couple of birds during a scouting trip earlier this year, but he hadn’t paid too much mind, but then, about an hour into our walk, he actually went on point, the bird ran out, he followed and then flushed it. I didn’t fail him, and when I walked over to where the bird had fallen, Kris was standing over it, looking at me. I said, “fetch” and he picked it up and actually pranced over to me, really excited and seemingly proud of himself. We had a hug-a-thon.

Really special moment.

A Hunter’s Journal, Part 3

Sunday, Nov. 9 through Tuesday, Nov. 11

Balmy and breezy, high in the 60s to howling gale, high in the 20s

Every year in commemoration of Armistice Day, Lisa Farrell Schwarz’s birthday or just the plain love of bird hunting, the Farrell/Schwarz partnership celebrates The Great Pheasant Hunt. It’s a 5-6 hour drive from my home in Southeast Iowa to Jim Farrell’s homestead at Camp Jiggle View in the village of Wahpeton on the shore of Iowa’s Lake Okoboji.

I arrived in the dark and found Jim readying the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters for the arrival of his son, Jon; his son-in-law, Dave; and Jon’s friends Dan and Caleb. We had a quiet time over coffee, catching up before Jon, Caleb and Dan arrived. They had been hunting in Danforth, some hour southwest of Okoboji.

Dave Schwarz arrived later after visiting his folks in Spencer. As we laughed and talked about the exciting events of the day, we were aware that the weather forecast for the rest of our hunt was not as inviting. Dave and I had planned a morning duck hunt for Wednesday, but after reviewing the forecast, we decided against it.

“I had a limit (three roosters) by 11:30 this morning,” Dave said with glee. “It’s been a long time since that’s happened.” The total take for the day was five, and each bird elicited a story from several points of view. The stars of the show were, naturally, the “Three Pointer Sisters”: the Vizsla, Buhda; and the German Shorthairs, Storm and Ruby.”

“Good dog work bordering on the heroic,” Jon summarized.

As we found our ways to bed none of us were really prepared for what we’d endure for the next two days, but because of modern improvements in weather forecasting, communications and outdoor apparel, it would be nothing like the Armistice Day Storm of 1940, but the similarities were haunting…

Abridged from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Armistice Day Blizzard (or the Armistice Day Storm) took place in the Midwest November 11 and 12 1940. The intense early-season storm cut a 1,000-mile-wide swath from Kansas to Michigan.

The morning of 11 November 1940 brought with it unseasonably high temperatures. By early afternoon temperatures had warmed into the lower to middle 60s over most of the affected region. Conditions quickly deteriorated. Temperatures dropped sharply, wind picked up, and rain and sleet and then snow began to fall.

 The result was a raging blizzard that would last into the next day. Snowfalls of up to 27 inches, winds of 50 to 80 mph, 20-foot snow drifts and 50-degree temperature drops were common in the path of the storm. In Minnesota, 27 inches of snow fell at Collegeville, and the Twin Cities recorded 16 inches.

A total of 145 deaths were blamed on the storm.

Along the Mississippi River several hundred duck hunters had taken time off from work and school to take advantage of the ideal hunting conditions. Weather forecasters had not predicted the severity of the oncoming storm, and as a result many of the hunters were not dressed for cold weather. When the storm began many hunters took shelter on small islands in the Mississippi River, and the 50 mph winds and 5-foot waves overcame their encampments. Some became stranded on the islands and then froze to death in the single-digit temperatures that moved in. Others tried to make it to shore and drowned. Duck hunters constituted about half of the 49 deaths in Minnesota. 13 people died in Illinois, 13 in Wisconsin, and 4 in Michigan.

Prior to this event, all of the weather forecasts for the region originated in Chicago. After the failure to provide an accurate forecast for this blizzard, forecasting responsibilities were expanded to include 24-hour coverage and more forecasting offices were created, yielding more accurate local forecasts.

Nobody died in our party, but our 40-degree temperature drop was breath taking; the 16-inches of snow in St. Cloud, MN must have had older folks reminiscing. Let me try to describe the experience of hunting pheasants in 20-degree temperatures and north winds of 10 to 20 mph gusting to 30-35: Exhilarating.

Once your cheeks went numb, you couldn’t feel the tears freezing on them, and the walk wasn’t that bad. The dogs seemed impervious to the elements. They hunted their hearts out daily, showing no signs of fatigue from the constant effort other than a torn pad here and a runny eye there – the usual wear and tear of their profession. And they found birds.

They pointed birds and two hens even sat still in front of the dogs long enough so that we got to walk in and flush them. The roosters? Not so much.

“I really thought they had that one,” Jon exclaimed as we clustered around the trucks after Dave and I had watched the three girls point, brace, hold, chase, point again, brace again, and on and on for some 20 minutes before their quarry simply disappeared. “They had that bird for some 600 yards before he snuck out for good,” Jon concluded.

Walking in the wind with a blaze orange stocking cap pulled down to the eyebrows and over the ears puts a hunter in a seeming bubble of unintelligible noise. Hunters often hear the flush of a bird before they see it, and such hearing was out of the question. The sound of the dogs’ bells toning as they move are a beloved part of the hunt, but when they were downwind of you, they were as soundless as when they were on point.

The 5-foot-tall blue stem grass that covers so much of that plains habitat danced madly under the influence of the gale, whipping and slashing at my glasses. I watched hunters on either side to make sure that we were in line, a critical safety measure, and when I turned my head to look at the guy on my left the guy on my right disappeared from my consciousness because of the wind.

In my gale influenced cocoon of silence I thought about that infamous Armistice Day storm that I’d read about and wondered at all my life, and felt happy to have solid ground under my feet and friends at my side.

And then I went back to humming that song that wouldn’t leave my mind, Gordon Lightfoot’s haunting first line, “The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the Big Lake they call Gitche Gumee; The lake, it is said, never gives up its dead when the skies of November turn gloomy…”

God, I love to hunt…

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