When Book Clubs Read Your Book

            In the past couple of months I’ve had the pleasure of being invited to two book club meetings that were discussing one of my mystery novels. It was a great experience, and one that gave me a bit of an insight into how the books are being read by typical readers.

            The first book club met on January 10 and was discussing my second novel, Wash Her Guilt Away. The meeting began with the playing of the video trailer for the book, and, since he had a cameo role in the trailer, the retired local police chief was also invited to the event.

            About a dozen people were on hand, and it turned out a couple of them were fly fishermen. As the book is set during a fly-fishing vacation, that gave something to talk about, and they showed pictures of fish they had caught. They were bigger fish than I usually catch, but let’s skip the sour grapes.

The Question I Didn’t Expect

            A certain amount of the discussion at this meeting (and at the other, as well) had to do with questions about how I write the books and where I get my ideas. My general answer to that question is that as a writer I’m always stockpiling material and ideas and that once I start to map out a story line, things begin to fuse together into a semi-coherent whole.

            Even so, there were questions I wasn’t expecting. One that threw me for a loop came from a man in the group who said he didn’t understand why a successful 55-year-old businessman would be attracted to a 27-year-old woman. (They were already married when the story began and were two of the key characters.)

            Of all the things in the book that I never expected to have to explain, that would top the list. As I sat there trying to formulate a tactful response, one of the women in the group came to my rescue.

            “Oh, come on,” she said, and made a hand gesture with an unmistakable meaning. I thanked her under my breath.

Just Among Rotarians

            Last week, I went to the second book club. It was formed by members of a nearby Rotary Club (not the one I belong to) and was discussing my first novel, The McHenry Inheritance.

            The club has ten members, but on that blustery, rainy winter night only four showed up. I knew them all, and it was a convivial experience. They had some good questions and comments.

            The lone man in the group analyzed the ending of the book, using the Rotary Four-Way Test: Is it the truth; is it fair to all concerned; will it build goodwill and better friendships; and is it beneficial to all concerned. It was a way of looking at the ending that hadn’t occurred to me, but at the same time showed that he had been considering the moral complexity of it.

            And there was a make my day moment, too. One of the women in the group said that when I published the book three and a half years earlier, and sent out emails to everyone I knew, she decided to buy it, even though she’d never bought an e-book before. It took her a while to get it on her iPad and be able to read it, but she persevered and said she loved the book.

            Now that’s what I call a loyal customer.

Fishing Days: Fall River

            The first time I went fishing on Fall River, I thoroughly embarrassed myself. It was June of 1984, and I had been trying fly fishing for only two years. Linda and I went out with a guide named Carl Jaeger, and it probably wasn’t very long before he realized he would be earning his money that day.

            To call Fall River a difficult stream would be understating the case, and a novice angler who’s all thumbs has no chance. After an unproductive morning (despite a good insect hatch and plenty of rising fish), Carl tactfully suggested that we take a long lunch break and do a bit of practice casting. In a short time, he pinpointed my critical problems, and that was the beginning of my path to becoming reasonably competent at the sport.

            Over the next few years, I went out with Carl several times, generally with respectable results. But five years later, in the spring of 1989, I finally had my breakout day.

You Could Look It Up

            At the beginning of the year, I had become editor of the newspaper, and had been working at an insanely intense level for four months. I knew from the outset that that would be the case, so early in the year, I blocked out a week of vacation to go fishing at Hat Creek, with a day on Fall River with Carl. That day was Wednesday May 17, 1989.

            Weather in that country at that time of year can be a crapshoot, so I was holding my breath. It could be wintry, summery, changeable, or something between the three. It ended up being a wonderfully sunny day — not too hot, and with no wind to speak of. Sometimes, on a bluebird day like that, the fish go to the bottom and refuse to feed. Not so on this day. They were hungry all day long, and there was rarely more than a brief interval (30-45 minutes) that we weren’t getting action.

            A couple of hours into the day, I sensed that this might be something special. I hadn’t brought a camera, so I have no pictures, but I began keeping track in my head, and at the end of the day, before driving off, I wrote down a list of fish caught in a notebook I kept in the VW camper. That yellowed piece of paper was still in my desk when I looked just now.

Knowing When to Quit

            It shows that we landed 21 trout that day, 15 of which were 14 inches or longer (and they were fat and scrappy). And for every one we landed and released, there were probably two that got away. It was the kind of day you always imagine you’re going to have when you set out on a fishing trip — before reality intrudes.

            A little after six o’clock, Carl took me to a place he called “The Office,” where there were usually a few large fish feeding along the bank in a tight current. It took a near-perfect cast to have a chance of catching one, but he thought I might be able to make it. I did, and hooked and landed a 17-inch rainbow. (A slightly fictionalized version of that fish appears in my mystery novel, Wash Her Guilt Away.)

            After taking the hook out and letting the fish go, Carl turned to me and said, “You probably won’t make a better cast or catch a better fish. What do you say we call it a day and head back?” And though there was at least an hour and a half of fishing light left, I agreed. In doing that, I learned a valuable lesson. A good fisherman, like a good athlete, has to know when it’s time to quit, and because I stopped then, I’ll remember that last fish to my final breath.

           

The Last Trip to the Ranch?

                  When Nick turned 16 in October of 2006, I bought him a fly rod for his birthday and took him fishing. He’d fished with a spinning rod on earlier summer vacations, but some experts I consulted with said 16 was a good age in terms of having the maturity to handle a fly rod.

                  That autumn we made the first of several trips to a ranch in the Mt. Shasta area of Northern California. We were there a day, and the fishing wasn’t good at all. The fish, as they are wont to do, simply weren’t feeding, and nothing we tried worked very well. But the weather was pleasant, the ranch is a singularly beautiful place (no relation to the one in my mystery, The McHenry Inheritance), and we had a good time. Fishing can be hugely pleasurable, even without the fish.

                  We returned in subsequent Octobers, and the fishing was better, which made the trip even more fun. The birthday fishing trip became a father-son ritual that we both looked forward to. I was starting to think about this year’s fall fishing trip in late March, when something unexpected happened.

He’s In the Army Now

                  On the first of April, Nick announced that he was joining the Army, where he’d been promised an assignment to the training program for Blackhawk Helicopter mechanics. Linda and I never saw it coming, but in hindsight, we should have. He’s crazy about planes and flying and wants a career in aviation, so some military background would be a real plus.

                  After the decision sunk in, I made an executive decision. Since we wouldn’t be able to do the fishing trip this fall, I booked it for the end of April, just before Nick had to leave for basic training. I don’t generally believe in “fronts,” but this clearly was a case where an exception was called for. I booked the guest cabin on the ranch for the nights of April 29 and 30, which meant we would have two days of fishing between Monday and Wednesday afternoon.

                  Spring weather in the mountains can be unpredictable; I’ve experienced snow as late as early June. But we caught a break. Monday afternoon was warm and a bit overcast, and Tuesday and Wednesday were bright, warm and breezy.

The End of a Tradition?

                  We had a really good time. There was no dry-fly fishing when the wind came up, but the fish were still feeding on nymphs under the surface. When that activity slowed down, I taught Nick how to fish with a Woolly Bugger, which imitates a leech or minnow, and he caught and released several nice fish that took it.

                  At the time I booked the trip, I thought maybe this would be a good chance for me to give my son some fatherly advice, but when we got there, I decided to forget about that, and simply let this be a fishing trip. It could turn out to be one of those instances where what wasn’t said is every bit as profound as anything that could have been said.

                  For the next six years, the Army owns Nick’s time, and there’s no way of knowing when, or if, we’ll be able to do a fishing trip. It also turns out that the ranch we’ve been going to for eight years now is for sale, and there’s no guarantee that the new owners will be amenable to fishing guests. Either way, this trip could be the end of a tradition. But what memories we’ll always have!

Talking to Students About Fly Fishing

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            This week I sat down with Ron Kinninger, a retired school administrator, to talk about meeting with the Reading Buddies next month. Ron and I are both members and past presidents of the Rotary Club of Watsonville, which sends club members into E.A. Hall Middle School once a week to read with the kids who go there.

            It’s a great way to get them interested in reading and to expand their reading skills. Reading a book aloud with an adult who can ask questions and point things out can dramatically improve a student’s reading skills in a short period of time. It’s not uncommon to see kids who have read with a Rotary reading buddy for a year show a dramatic increase in standardized test scores.

            Ron had invited me to speak to the students and Rotary reading buddies on Dec. 5 about my mystery novel The McHenry Inheritance. He felt it would be a good idea to show the kids that real people write the books they’re reading and to have the kids hear something about how it’s done. And since I’ll stand up in front of an audience any time, I was an easy “get.”

Relating to 12-Year-Olds

            The students in the Reading Buddies program are sixth and seventh graders, so we’re talking about an average age of 12. That’s younger than my usual crowd, but I’m not going to be making any special preparations for the age group. Even when I speak to a roomful of college-educated people, I try to use simple, direct language. That ought to be good enough for the kids, as well, and in my experience, kids appreciate being talked to as if they’re adults and hate it when someone talks down to them.

            To begin the presentation, I thought we could show the video trailer for my book, which is two minutes long and starts with an explanation of where the idea for the story first began. Then I could talk a few minutes about writing the book and open it up to questions from the audience.

            Ron suggested something else that I hadn’t thought of. Since my book has a fly-fishing backdrop (the protagonist is on a fishing vacation in the High Sierra when he becomes embroiled in all the crime and drama), why not bring some fly-fishing paraphernalia to the presentation and talk about that as well?

Now We’re Talking Fishing

            Great idea, but all of a sudden I’ve become transformed from an English teacher talking about writing a book to a science instructor explaining how fish feed, the various stages of the insect development cycle, and the mechanics of casting a fly rod.  What the heck. In the new global economy, we’re all required to be multi-taskers.

            Still, it was an inspired idea of Ron’s to add this to the presentation. I could begin by asking how many of the kids have ever been fishing with their parents or an older sibling, then ask about fly fishing in particular. My guess is that most will have been fishing but none have been fly fishing, so it should all be new, yet related to something they’ve done and enjoyed. It’s a good way to get the audience involved.

            It even occurred to me that if the weather permits and the school authorities were agreeable, we could go outside for a fly-casting demonstration. Then I had second thoughts. It’s hard enough to make a good cast when you’re alone, no one is watching, and there’s no pressure. Doing it in front of an audience all but guarantees the yips. Besides, they can see me casting in the video.

The Town That Time Forgot

            My son, Nick, and I are back from three delightful days of fly-fishing in Northern California. We stayed at a ranch about 13 miles from the town of Burney, which itself is about 55 miles east of Redding. There’s a lot of lonesome between the two towns.

            As predicted in the last post, we saw quite a few political signs on the way up, all of them Republican or Republican-leaning in nature. The big difference was that four years ago, there were a lot of McCain/Palin signs in that rural part of the state, while this year there were relatively few Romney/Ryan signs and a lot of signs with the general message that it’s time to get rid of Obama. To my keen political mind, that suggests that the prevailing sentiment is less pro-Romney than it is anti-Obama, but the vote should come out the same in any event.

Coming Back to the Same Place

            But enough about politics; let’s talk about the all-too-brief vacation. Short version: We had a great time. The fishing wasn’t red-hot, but it usually isn’t. The trout showed enough interest in our offerings to keep things interesting, and we caught and released a number of nice fish.

            Like the protagonist in my mystery novel, The McHenry Inheritance, we stayed on a ranch (alfalfa, not cattle). The ranch owners were gracious hosts and let Nick drive their John Deere Gator, which they leave parked near the house with the keys in the ignition. The first two days were clear, sunny, and downright hot in the afternoon; the last day was overcast with a chill wind, a harbinger of the winter that will soon be upon the mountains.

            During the course of our all-too-short stay there, I got to thinking about the fact that this marked the 28^th straight year I’ve been fishing in the Burney area. (No, it’s not the setting for my book, but it might make a future one.) And that got me to thinking about what’s changed since I first visited the area in 1984, six years before Nick was born.

            It’s not the population or the traffic. The town still has about three thousand people, and the traffic is so light that Mister Magoo could drive there without fear, though come to think of it, he did that just about anywhere. What I really notice now is the sense of economic constriction.

A Tough Place to Make a Living

            As in most of California, the lumber industry has been scaled back, which pretty much leaves agriculture and tourism as the local industries of note. Considering that there’s not much of the latter from November to April, the margin for every small business in town (and except for Safeway, Rite Aid, and a couple of banks, that would be all of them) is exceedingly tight.

            In 1984 the town boasted a Holiday Grocery (part of a small regional chain), a Chevron station, a specialty fly-fishing store, a general sporting-goods store, two first-class steakhouses, and one of the best breakfast joints ever, BJ’s Coffee Hut, where the waitresses never let a coffee cup get empty. Only one of the steak houses, The Outpost, remains.

            I got into a conversation with a few locals Wednesday evening, and they told me that the owner of Vaughn’s Sporting Goods had wanted to retire and tried for a couple of years to sell the place. No one would buy, so he finally just quit, leaving another empty storefront on the main drag. In a market that small, one bad year can finish off any merchant, and I guess nobody wanted to take the chance.