Quotes and dialogue: 10 tips on how to use them effectively

Quotes are great. They’re often my favorite part of a novel. In the form of dialogue, they move a story along like almost nothing else, and they break up those chunks of heavy gray description that can weigh a book down if the author isn’t careful.

But quotes don’t write themselves. Some authors use them well; others, not so much. So here are some simple, practical suggestions about how to use quotes effectively.

1

Emphasize dialogue

A good novel should have both, but there’s an advantage to dialogue: It lets you inside a character’s head without a lot of tedious description. When the characters themselves tell you what they’re thinking, you get their thoughts from their own lips. And the way they tell you what they’ve got to say gives you even more insight: into their motivations, their emotions, their biases, their limitations.

In practical terms, quick-hitting dialogue is a lot easier on the eyes than dense blocks of text from an author who presumes to know what his characters are. Of course, the author does know. After all, those characters were born in the author’s head. Still, a narrator who describes what a character is thinking seems like a secondhand source. Readers want a front-row seat; at least, I know I do, and dialogue provides that.

This does not mean dialogue is the only way to get inside a character’s head. In a first-person story, especially, you can get inside the character’s head without it. But it’s still the most natural, direct way of communicating what’s on the character’s mind.

It’s also a good idea to break up dialogue with description, and vice versa. Extremely long sections of dialogue can feel more like a screenplay than a novel, while extended description can feel static, like a visit to an art gallery.

2

Write conversationally

Remember that the people are talking. Writing dialogue is not just taking some description and slapping a couple of quotes around it. It’s a way of describing what characters are thinking, what they want to communicate, and who they are without some third-party analysis.

This isn’t as easy as it seems. In watching a well-reviewed TV show the other day, I noticed a teenage character say something like, “We will need to trek over to that mountain.” What teenage uses the word “trek” in a sentence (unless the character’s a science fiction nerd talking about Star Trek)? This was probably a case of description masquerading as a quote that was placed in the character’s mouth — a particular risk with screenplays, which lean heavily on dialogue.

One of the most important things to keep in mind when writing dialogue is that it’s meant to be spoken. That doesn’t change just because it’s on a printed page. As you’re writing, recite it to yourself (or even aloud) to be sure it sounds natural to your own ear. But be careful: Don’t go to the other extreme and rely on buzzwords and catch phrases you’ve heard just because they sound like dialogue. Stay original.

3

Define each character’s voice

This can be one of the biggest challenges for a writer. You know how you talk, so it’s easy to simply transfer your own conversational style to your characters. But if you do that, they’ll all sound alike — and like you.

Be sure the words spoken come from the mind of each particular character. If you’ve put a lot of effort into developing a unique character, you’ll have an easier time defining his or her voice. If, however, the character is two-dimensional or poorly developed, it will be tempting to fall back on stereotypical accents and rely heavily on clichés as crutches when writing dialogue.

Strong character development is the key to engaging and convincing dialogue.

4

No speeches, please

You’re not writing a speech for some self-important politician. You’re writing for someone who’s reading to be entertained or informed. Long blocks of text, whether they’re descriptive or in quotes, can seem daunting to a reader — especially in the age when tweets are in and Shakespearean soliloquys are out.

Just looking at a dense block of gray on a page can feel exhausting. (This is another reason snappy dialogue, with its frequent paragraph breaks, can move a story along so effectively. It’s like running a treadmill instead of struggling up a hill.)

Besides, it’s not realistic. Most people in a conversation don’t drone on ad nauseam. Those who do tend to get tuned out, right? So why should you expect a reader to keep paying attention to a character who does the same thing?

If you have to break a quote up over two or three paragraphs, ask yourself whether it’s worth it — and whether there might be a better way to present that information.

5

Make clear who’s talking

Don’t keep the reader guessing about this. How often have you seen a quote go on for four or five sentences before finally identifying the speaker? “She said,” shouldn’t always go at the end of the paragraph. Inserting the attribution after the first sentence breaks up the quote and keeps things moving.

It doesn’t hurt to change things up occasionally by leading with the attribution, either.

Just don’t leave readers wondering who’s talking if it’s not clear in the flow of the narrative. It can become a distraction. The more they focus on trying to answer that question, the less attention they’ll be paying to what’s on the page.

6

Minimize dialogue tags

On the flipside of No. 5, if it’s already clear who’s talking, you don’t need a dialogue tag. If you’ve got a back-and-forth between just two characters, inserting “she said” after each line slows the section down and quickly becomes tedious. Don’t be condescending to the reader. Let the dialogue speak for itself.

For the most part, dialogue tags (aka attribution) should be reserved for cases where it’s not clear who’s talking. If three or more people are engaged in a conversation, they can be helpful in sorting things out. The same is true if you’re starting a section of dialogue and it’s not clear who’s going first.

If you decide to use a dialogue tag, “said” is usually fine. You don’t need to switch things up by using words like “criticized” or “gasped” or “enthused.” These are fine occasionally, but they’re often overused in a quest for variety. (If you must use “exclaimed,” please don’t use it with an exclamation point. That’s redundant.) The main point to keep in mind is that these varied tags draw attention away from the dialogue itself, which is the last thing you want to do.

The best writing lets the dialogue speak for itself, conveying the speaker’s tone, emotion and vocal inflections without relying on dialogue tags and exclamation points.

7

Avoid jargon (except…)

On the one hand, a character’s words should reflect his or her background. On the other, the reader should be able to understand them. There can be a tension between these two goals if the reader and character come from two different worlds, and it’s up to the author to bridge this gap as seamlessly and effortlessly as possible.

Sometimes, genre can help your audience make the necessary connection. Readers of science fiction are likely to know what a character means in referring to wormholes, cyborgs and quantum drives are. Fans of noir fiction will probably understand a character who talks about a “button man” or a “canary.” But in general fiction, you can’t make those assumptions.

Unfamiliar and unclear jargon will stop readers in their tracks or send them scrambling for a dictionary. But explaining that jargon in the author’s voice will slow things down, too. That’s why the jargon is used best when it 1) flows naturally from the character and 2) can be understood based on the context.

The same thing goes for accents. If your character’s accent is so thick you have to convey it with multiple odd spellings, readers may feel like they’re reading something in a different language. The energy it takes to translate thick accents inside the reader’s head can be tiring or distracting, and may or may not be worth it. Use accents sparingly and with discretion.

A related topic: Swearing. You have to balance how natural, and expected it might be from mouths of certain characters with how acceptable it is to your readers. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. So, be true to your characters and trust that your work will find an audience that appreciates your authenticity. Or, write to your audience and create characters who will speak naturally within that framework.

8

Avoid fads

Remember the mullet? Maybe you do. What you might not remember is that it was actually popular for a while (at least in some circles). The same goes for beehive hairdos, per rocks and The Partridge Family.

It may be popular today to write in the present tense, but will it be a decade from now?

Characters don’t speak in computer shorthand. They’re not going to go around saying “LOL” or “AFK.” You might want to think twice about using here-today, gone-tomorrow pop culture references. If you try too hard to make your characters sound hip or trendy, you might accomplish just the opposite. It’s entirely possible for something to be all the rage when you’re writing Chapter 1 and yesterday’s news if your book’s published months later.

Another downside: Such references often look forced. Don’t try too hard.

9

Quotes shouldn’t boring (even in nonfiction)

You don’t see much dialogue in nonfiction. Quotes, however, serve the same primary purpose: They allow the source to speak directly to the reader.

In nonfiction, though, the author doesn’t have as much control. You’re not dealing with a fictional character, so you can’t simply make something up or change it to suit your purpose. You have to remain true to what the person actually said.

Even if it’s awkward. Or grammatically incorrect. Or boring as hell.

Nonfiction does have a reputation as sleep-inducing. The authors of those tedious textbooks from your school daze made them educational, but not engaging. (No wonder kids don’t like homework.) So, it’s become almost come to be expected. Many authors use an “academic” tone because they’re writing for an academic audience; but still others emulate that style because they want to sound impressive or knowledgeable.

That’s not good if you want people to actually read what you’ve written: About only thing more boring than academic writing is the fine print in a contract.

The way quotes are used in nonfiction doesn’t help. They’re not usually part of a dialogue. Most authors include them for the sake of authority: “If Dr. So-and-So from Harvard says it, it must be true.” But even if the author isn’t writing a textbook, quotes from professors, scientists, lawyers or other experts will likely seem like they belong in one.

Yawn.

Those experts are not, generally, professional writers. If you, as the author, devote too much space to quoting them directly, your writing won’t seem professional — or original. It’ll seem dense and derivative.

The solution is to limit the use quotes from such sources, and to choose those quotes that are the most lively and conversational. If you know what they’re saying and can say it more clearly, do so. There’s nothing wrong with paraphrasing, as long as it’s clear that’s what you’re doing, and the message isn’t lost in translation.

10

Nothing is absolute (even this rule)

There are exceptions to almost any rule you can come up with. It all boils down to this: If you keep your dialogue compelling, authentic and easy to understand, you’ll be golden.

Recommended reading for highway history buffs

I’ve been researching America’s highways for nearly four years now, traveling more than 10,000 miles in my search for history.

When I’m not on the road, I spend hours combing through newspaper files, online articles and books for sources for the most interesting stories.

Many of the books published on historic highways — especially Route 66 — are travel guides, but a few offer extensive information on the history behind the roads, and those are the ones I’m spotlighting here. Titles are arranged alphabetically.

America’s First Highways

Stephen H. Provost

Dragon Crown Books, 2020

Paperback, 290 pages, 8 x 10 inches

I set out to write this book after discovering I couldn’t find a single volume that examined the auto trails movement as a whole. There were a few books (some of which are on this list) that focused on individual trails, but I came up empty looking for any comprehensive work on these privately funded roads that preceded the federal highway system.

My research took several turns and resulted in two-part story. Part One looks at what led up to the trails: 18th-century stagecoach routes, the railroads, the Good Roads movement and early automakers. Part Two examines the trails themselves, with full chapters on the Lincoln and Dixie highways, along with extensive sections on the Jefferson and Lee highways, the Yellowstone and Ozark trails, among others.

There are stories of the “great race” from Paris to New York, the old plank road east of San Diego, Dwight Eisenhower’s Army trek over the Lincoln Highway and the auto camps that lined the early roads.

America’s First Highways includes more than 200 photos, some by the author but many vintage images from university and government archives. Pick this one up for a detailed and enjoyable overview of the auto trails phenomenon. It’s the second installment in my America’s Historic Highways series, a companion to Yesterday’s Highways (see below).

The American Highway

William Kaszynski

McFarland & Company, 2000

Hardcover or paperback, 237 pages, 8 x 11 inches

A very good overview with lots of black-and-white illustrations, Kaszynski’s book is divided chronologically, with sections covering “The Early Days” (1900-1919), “The First Generation” (1920-1945), “The Golden Age” (1946-1969) and “The Interstate Era” (1970-2000). There’s a good, though short, section on auto trails that follows a brief overview covering the history of roads.

Another plus: Each of several major gasoline chains and roadside eateries gets its own short section, and there’s a good section on motels, too. The photo captions are sometimes a bit long, but they pack in some good information that augments what’s in the text.

The paperback is $39.95, but it’s also available for less on the secondary market, where you can find it in hardcover.

The Big Book of Car Culture

Jim Hinckley and Jon G. Robinson

Motorbooks, 2005

Paperback, 320 pages, 8 x 11 inches

This is a glossy-paged book packed with photos and brief articles on a variety of subjects arranged in six sections:

• Only Twenty Miles to ...

• Safety, Comfort and Style

• The Ride

• The Culture of the Road

• Gasoline Alley

• The Open Road

This isn’t the book to get if you want a comprehensive look at any aspect of the highway, but if you want a grab bag of diverse topics ranging from gas pumps to license plates, from the Lincoln Tunnel to the Las Vegas Strip, this is a breezy, fun read. None of the articles is particularly long, and most don’t go into much depth, but there are lots of illustrations — with color throughout — fun bits of trivia on the expected and the unexpected alike.

Dixie Highway: Road Building and the Making of the Modern South, 1900-1930

Tammy Ingram

University of North Carolina Press, 2014

Hardcover, paperback or ebook; 272 pages, 6 x 9 inches

This very readable, yet information-packed book is divided into five chapters:

• Building a Good Roads Movement, 1900-1913

• The Road to Dixie, 1914-1916

• Roads at War, 1917-1919

• Modern Highways and Chain Gang Labor, 1919-1924

• Paved with Politics: Business and Bureaucracy in Georgia, 1924-1927

Of them, I found the first two chapters the most fascinating, and the final chapter the least so. Of particular interest to me was information on how the highway routes were chosen, Carl Fisher’s role and the fights among various towns for a place on the highway. The sorry state of roads in the South, along with the role of World War I and chain-gang labor in improving Southern highways are also examined.

The research is thorough and the writer’s tone is conversational. The text is illustrated by a few photos, old advertisements and postcards. Several maps are also included — and particularly useful.

This is probably the definitive work on the Dixie Highway, a road that doesn’t get nearly as much attention as it deserves for the role it played in developing our highway system — and our nation.

Gas, Food, Lodging

This trilogy by John A. Jakle and Keith A. Sculle examines, in turn, service stations, roadside eateries and motels/inns. If you’re interested in American road culture, I challenge you to find more information in one place on any of these subjects.  

The three I’ve read in the authors’ Gas, Food, Lodging series have all been excellent, and I can recommend all three. They’re a little more academic than some books out there, which makes sense because the authors are both professors: Jakle specializes in geography and landscape architecture at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, while Sculle teaches history at the University of Illinois at Sprinfield. Each volume is packed with more information on chains and trends, along with statistical information, than you’ll find most places:

The Gas Station in America

Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994

Hardcover or paperback, 288 pages, 7 x 9.5 inches

The Motel in America

Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996

Hardcover or paperback, 408 pages, 7.5 x 10.5 inches

Fast Food: Roadside Restaurants in the Automobile Age

Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999

Hardcover or paperback, 416 pages, 7 x 11 inches

Highway 99: The History of California’s Main Street

Stephen H. Provost

Craven Street Books, 2017

Paperback or ebook, 233 pages, 8.5 x 10 inches

I set out to write the definitive history of U.S. Highway 99 in California and drove the length of the road, from the Mexican border to Yreka, taking photos, doing interviews and collecting information. I grew up along the highway, riding with my parents from Fresno to Orange County and back again several times a year and I wanted to preserve some of the memories I had — and find out more about California’s north-south version of Route 66.

I walked the cracked concrete on the Old Ridge Route between Bakersfield and L.A. I hiked out to the ruins of San Francisquito Dam. I drove Golden State Boulevard and San Fernando Road, old alignments of the modern highway.

I researched scores of news articles, books and other sources to create a three-dimensional portrait of the highway in two parts. The first tells the story of the road’s history, complete with the disasters that altered the shape of the road and the Dust Bowl migrants who traveled it. Gas stations, coffee shops and motels get full chapters. Then, the second part provides a tour of the highway, from south to north, stopping briefly in each town along the way.

The first book in the California’s Historic Highways series, this glossy-paged tome includes a section of color photos by the author. The text throughout is illustrated by historical and modern images.

Highway 101: The History of El Camino Real

Stephen H. Provost

Craven Street Books, 2020

Paperback or ebook, 270 pages, 9 x 10 inches

The second book in the California’s Historic Highways series follows much the same format as Highway 99. Part I tells the story of Highway 101 in California, from its origins as a wagon road connecting the Spanish missions to its new era as a federal highway. Part II offers the reader a literary road trip with stops along the coast in Carlsbad, at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, the eclectic and eccentric Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo, the Golden Gate Bridge and the majestic redwood along the Avenue of the Giants.

There’s even a section about the Pacific Coast Highway, State Route 1, which parallels and sometimes joins 101 as it meanders up the coast. You’ll find out about “muffler men,” Disneyland and the short-lived Pacific Ocean Park marine amusement park in Santa Monica. You’ll learn about the fancy gas station that was targeted in the only Japanese strike to hit the U.S. mainland during World War II.

Like Highway 99, this companion volume comes complete with a central color well of vibrant photos from the author himself (yeah, that’s me).

Highway History

Richard F. Weingroff

U.S. Department of Transportation, Federal Highway Administration — fhwa.dot.gov

Online

This isn’t a book, but it might as well be. In fact, there’s probably enough material here for several books, and the best part is, it’s free.

Richard F. Weingroff has written numerous articles about highway history, all of which are available for viewing on the site. Weingroff is information liaison specialist for the FHA/DOT and became the agency’s “unofficial  historian” in the 1980s. He’s written articles on the Jefferson Highway, the Lincoln Highway, and several other auto trails; the interstate highway system; President Eisenhower’s role in improving the nation’s highways, and dozens of other topics.

The Jefferson Highway: Blazing the Way from Winnipeg to New Orleans

Lyell D. Henry Jr.

University of Iowa Press, 2016

Paperback or ebook, 220 pages, 6 x 9 inches

Henry’s book is to the Jefferson Highway what Ingram’s work is to the Dixie, with a heavier dose of historical photos, which is welcome. Did you know the guy behind this particular road was also the publisher of Better Homes & Gardens? Or that the Jefferson Highway was born in Iowa? You may never have heard of the highway at all, and if you haven’t, you’ll find a host of interesting information in Henry’s book.

The author is a professor of political science, but he writes in a conversational and easy-to-read style. The third and fourth chapters, which cover how the highway was built and marked (with signs) contained the most interesting info, at least to me, with the latter chronicling the decline and eventual fall of the road as numbered federal highways took its place.

The book is divided into two parts. The first five chapters delve into the history of the highway, which, for the uninitiated, ran from Winnipeg up in Manitoba, Canada, down to New Orleans. The last three chapters focus on “Looking for the Highway,” which is great if you want to take a tour. The section also includes photos of notable roadside sites and sights.

Ridge Route: The Road that United California

Harrison Irving Scott

Independently published, 2015 (updated edition)

Hardcover, 410 pages, 6 x 9 inches

This book was a labor of love, and it shows. Scott has devoted decades to preserving the concrete pavement across the Tehachapi Mountains that first united Northern and Southern California, starting in 1915. The Old Ridge Route is a relatively short road (compared to, say, Route 66) that served motorists for a brief period of time — it was bypassed less than two decades after the first concrete pavement was laid down. Is there enough information on such a road to fill an entire book? Rest assured, there is, and Scott does a great job of covering all the bases.

Scott says in his preface that eight years of research went into this book, and it shows. A full 25 chapters cover everything from road construction to roadside inns, with sections on the tragic yet intriguing Saint Francis Dam disaster and a crazy winter snowstorm in 1922.

At $39.95, this book is a bit pricier than some, but its glossy pages and plethora of fine historical photos make it worth the investment for any highway buff.

Route 66: The Highway and Its People

Susan Croce Kelly (text) and Quinta Scott (photos)

University of Oklahoma Press, 1988

Hardcover or paperback, 210 pages, 9 x 10.5 inches

This is a hybrid book, featuring lots of great photos and plenty of illuminating text. It includes some great historical background on the formation of Route 66, along with interviews with many who lived along the road — a perspective you don’t find in most books of this type. Chapters focus on how the road was conceived and paved, and the impact of the Dust Bowl and World War II, among other subjects.

The main text is sprinkled with photos, but there’s also a 61-page glossy section at the heart of the book that’s just photos. They’re all in black and white, which adds to the nostalgic, wistful and sometimes almost ghostly feel of a highway that’s disappearing, piece by piece. There are scores, perhaps even hundreds of books out there on Route 66. If you have to choose just one, get this one.

That Ribbon of Highway

Jill Livingston (text) and Kathryn Golden Maloof (photos)

Living Gold Press, 2010

Paperback in three volumes, 288, 288 and 252 pages, 8 x 6 inches

A solid overview of Highway 99 in three volumes, this series offers plenty of photos and some interesting facts, presented in brief sections that are similar to what you’ll find on the Living Gold Press website (which is, incidentally, a great resource on highway history that goes far beyond U.S. 99, with sections on such diverse topics as Woody Guthrie and Dorothea Lange, Giant Oranges and water towers).

These books include a nice selection of photos and graphics, which reproduce well, and the short sections make for easily digestible reading, almost like a trivia book. The illustrations are also strong and helpful. The shape of the book itself is a little odd — it 8 inches horizontal by 6 inches vertical — which takes some getting used to for those accustomed to more standard formats, but on the plus side, makes it easy to pack if you’re going on a road trip.

Yesterday’s Highways

Stephen H. Provost

Dragon Crown Books, 2020

Paperback, 264 pages, 8 x 10 inches

This book was an outgrowth of a 2019 road trip along Route 66, Lincoln Highway (mostly U.S. 30), and several other highways across the country. I envisioned this project as a photo book and took hundreds of photos with that as my goal. After I got back and started researching those photos, however, I found so much information that I decided to expand my mission to create a book with plenty of historical info, as well.

This book doesn’t stop at the edge of the highway, but focuses on the landmarks by the side of the road, delving into the history of service stations, motels, eateries and roadside attractions. Sections on the old Whiting Bros. gas chain along Route 66, White Castle, Howard Johnson’s, the Valentine diners and the Pig Stand are among the bits of information you’ll find here.

This isn’t a travel guide, but anyone who wants a preview of what you’ll see on a trip down Route 66 or the Lincoln Highway will find this book interesting. I chose to focus on those two highways more than any others because, taken together, they represent the best — and most iconic — U.S. highways from the golden age of the American road.

10 keys to productive writing, from an author of 30 books

There’s a ton of advice out there for writers, some of which I agree with and some of which seems like utter B.S. I’ve been writing professionally for 35 years, and I’ve written 30 books in the pass decade, and I’ve heard good and bad advice from authors both more and less productive than I.

Terry Pratchett said, “The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.” That strikes me as simple, profound and altogether true. So does this one from Walt Disney: “That’s what we storytellers do. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope again and again and again.”

But then, Roald Dahl said, “Writing is mainly perspiration, not inspiration.” While this can be true at times, I find it deflating. I want to have fun when I’m writing, not just “grind things out.” In that light, it may seem ironic that some of the following tips deal with disciplining yourself to write.

If you think about it, though, discipline is the opposite of exhaustion (and perspiration). It’s a means of setting up a system so that, once you start following it, it becomes almost second nature. It might never be entirely effortless, but it sure won’t be exhausting. It should be less so.

With that in mind, here are my 10 tips for staying productive and fulfilled as a writer.

1

Don’t try to multitask

Think you can multitask? One study found just 2.5% of people can do so. Others say it’s altogether impossible. You can’t do two things at once, so don’t try. My theory is that multitasking is just a euphemism for being distracted as fast as you can. Have you ever done wind sprints during sports training? I have. You get real tired real fast.

Now, imagine that your mind is doing wind sprints, darting back and forth from one thing to another. You’ll feel worn out before you know it. It’s even tiring to remain alert to several things at once. Ask a gazelle at the watering hole or a mom trying to keep tabs on several kids at once. This level of alertness can’t be sustained for long before you wear yourself out. And if you’re worn out, you can’t be productive.

Worry is a form of attempted multitasking, which is why you can’t get much done when you worry.

2

Live in the moment

Since you can only do one thing in any given moment, focus on that thing — whatever your current priority is. If you’ve plopped yourself down at your computer, that priority is writing. Now, extend that moment. Set aside a block of time, a series of moments, and focus exclusively on that priority for the duration.

We do this all the time in 8-to-5 jobs, so it’s nothing new. You might set aside a 25-minute block of time, then take a 5-minute break. Or write for 50 minutes, then take 10 minutes off. Set your clock as you see fit, but I suggest making your “on” time at least twice as long as your “off” time. Otherwise, you’re setting yourself up to get sucked in by distractions.

3

Create specific goals

Some editors charge by the word, others charge by the hour. As a writer, you have the same choice: You can set goals based on time or volume. You might want to give yourself a goal of producing 3,000 words in a day, for example, or you might want to set a deadline: “I want to complete this book in two months.” (If you do the latter, be sure to leave time for editing and, if you’re self-published, formatting, etc.)

Either method can work, and they can work together: If you decided to write 3,000 words a day, you could finish the first draft of a 90,000-word novel in a month if you worked every day, straight through — or in a little less than a month-and-a-half if you took weekends off.

A personal note about deadlines: I work best when I have an external deadline. If I set my own deadlines, I don’t take them as seriously because I know I can change them whenever I choose. But if I know my publisher needs a manuscript by a specific date, I’ll almost always submit it well ahead of schedule.

If you don’t have a publisher, you can create your own external deadlines. Maybe you want to finish a self-published book in three months because you’d like to start earning extra income for Christmas gifts by September. Or, you could set a release date on Amazon for kindle copies that can be preordered in the meantime (you can’t do this with paperbacks at this point, unfortunately). Either way, you’ve created an external deadline — a “finish line” to keep you motivated.

One word of caution: Don’t overwhelm yourself. Don’t create goals that are so unrealistic you’ll throw up your hands and walk away. You might try setting goals that are just a tad beyond what you think you can do, in order to stretch yourself.

4

Then, follow through

Goals won’t help you much if you don’t work to achieve them. If you’re continually blowing deadlines, missing writing days or falling short of target word counts, you should probably reassess either your goals or your method for achieving them.

On the other hand, if you don’t hit a goal every now and then, don’t sweat it. Just start over again the next day. It’s easy to get discouraged and give up altogether. But if you really want to pursue writing consistently and you’re in it for the long haul, you can’t give in to that discouragement. This isn’t a diet or a New Year’s resolution.

If you’re a writer, that’s your professional identity. It’s not just what you do, it’s a huge chunk of who you are. Take pride in that. I don’t get to stop being a 6-foot-5 bald guy just because I don’t feel like it on a given day, and I don’t get to stop being a writer, either.

5

Set up a schedule*

I include the asterisk here because all writers are different. For many, it will be helpful to designate specific writing days. Do you want to write five days a week? Six? Seven? If you’re a full-time writer, starting work at the same time each day can accomplish two things. First, it gives your writing the respect it deserves, because this isn’t just a hobby, it’s your profession. Second, it will get you into a routine and give you one less thing to think about.

Where does the asterisk come in? It’s for those writers who are so continually inspired they don’t need the external motivation of a schedule. Maybe a deadline or word-count goal is enough. Or perhaps you’re the kind of writer who often wakes up in the middle of the night with an awesome idea, heads directly to your computer and churns out 5,000 words like it’s nothing. For you, flexibility might actually help your creative process. Don’t be afraid to play to your strengths.

6

Immerse yourself in the story

Don’t be afraid to put yourself in the world you’re creating or writing about. There are two advantages to this. First, if you’re “there,” you’ll be able to describe the world you’re creating more vividly, because you’re experiencing it — which is what you want the reader to do. Second, you’ll insulate yourself from distractions, worries and other issues associated with the “real world.”

For me, immersing yourself in a story is like diving into the swimming pool, rather than dipping your toe in to find out whether it’s warm enough. When I’m having trouble motivating myself to write, I’m dipping my toe in to see whether “I feel like it” or if “it’s worth it.”

Without exception, I’ve found that, in order to be productive, I’ve got to dive in. Otherwise I’ll think or worry yourself out of it. Or, I’ll wear myself out doing so and, by the time I’ve finally decided to start writing, I’m too tired to do so.

One great thing about creating a world, for me, is that I’m in control of it. If my real life feels out of control, I can find a refuge there — plus I’m creating something and might even be able to sell it. What could be better than that?

7

Have more than one motive

Some authors say they write to make money, while others say they write for pure enjoyment. But what happens if you’re books aren’t selling (on the one hand) or if you’re not enjoying writing (on the other).

If you’re like most writers, both of these things will happen. That’s why it’s helpful to view writing as a two-cylinder engine. Sometimes, you’ll be firing on both cylinders: You’ll be enjoying what you write and making money from it. Other times, only one cylinder will be functioning on one, but you’ll still be moving forward, and that’s what counts.

You can also think of it like an alternating current: Sometimes, the energy will be flowing toward sales. At other times, it will be flowing toward inspiration. But the important thing is that it’s always flowing.

In practical terms, I love immersing myself in a story, and I’ve also dedicated myself to completing a certain goal on such-and-such schedule. If one of those two motivations don’t work on a particular day, I can fall back on the other, and that keeps me going.

8

Distinguish distractions from new inspiration

I have, at times, been inspired by more than one thing at the same time, which has led me to work on two projects concurrently. I write blogs while I’m working on books, for example. I also wrote The Only Dragon and Please Stop Saying That! concurrently. The point is, it’s all writing. And no, it’s not multitasking: I’m still focused on one or the other for a sustained, if shorter, block of time.

You may still want to prioritize one project over another based on your own criteria (deadlines, potential for sales, etc.). But it’s different than being distracted by non-writing-related stuff like social media, online gaming, music playlists, and scrolling the net.

That doesn’t mean you never do that stuff, it just means you confine it to before or after hours, or during those 5- or 10-minute breaks between your writing blocks. As long as you do that, you’ll be golden.

9

Don’t be afraid to revisit an idea — or not

Sometimes, you might set a story or idea aside when it’s partly done. If you’re looking for inspiration, consider combing through old files for half-finished stories or work you might have put on the back burner.

I wrote A Whole Different League in three chunks over about three years, starting with about 20,000 words, then going back a year later and adding more, then finishing it up with a flurry. When I was writing a collection of short stories called Nightmare’s Eve, I went back to my files and found an unfinished tale that I found intriguing. I’d started it so long ago I hadn’t the faintest idea how I’d planned to end it, but I supplied a new ending and included it in the book.  

It’s also OK to abandon a project if it just isn’t working (unless you’ve signed a contract for it, that is). I’ve started a couple of stories that just hit dead ends, and a couple of others that would have required more work to fix than I would have spent on starting something else from scratch. You’ll have a good idea what’s worth revisiting, what’s worth salvaging, and what isn’t. Use your judgment.

10

Figure out what works for you

Know thyself. Some of these tips, and tips from other writers, may work for you. Others may not. Figure out what works for you — and do that! Just don’t use it as an excuse to ignore everyone else’s advice. You don’t know everything. You might find something you’ve never considered fits you better than anything you’ve tried so far.

Staying true to yourself probably seems obvious, but I find it’s worthwhile to remain aware of it, so I can remind myself that I have my own unique strengths, and my own reasons for writing that aren’t exactly what anyone else’s are. I’m not the best writer in the world, but I know I’m good, and I also know I can tell a story the way no one else can. The same is true for you.

Reminding myself of these things, and staying true to my skills and vision helps me stay productive more than anything else.

New book tells the story of America's First Highways

What did highways look like 100 years ago?

It’s hard to tell these days. But one thing’s for sure, they didn’t look a thing like today’s interstates.

You can still see vestiges of what highways looked like in the middle of the 20th century. If you drive down Highway 99 in California, you can cruise along old segments like Golden State Boulevard in the San Joaquin Valley or San Fernando Road south of the Tehachapi Mountains. You can see old U.S. Highway 101 on the Avenue of Giants through the Redwoods or along the coast south of Oceanside.

Then, of course, there’s Route 66. Traces of the iconic road from Chicago to Santa Monica are slowly disappearing, but road trips are still on every highway enthusiast’s bucket list. I crossed it off mine in 2019, but I’d gladly do it all over again. The excursion helped form the basis for my book Yesterday’s Highways, a look at the federal highway system founded in 1926: the roads, filling stations, diners, motels and the legacy of our nation’s first official road network.

But what about the roads that came before that?

There’s not nearly as much left of them to find, in part because they were usually dirt or gravel paths— sometimes nothing more than rutted paths through sagebrush carved by narrow tires on Model T’s. (The Old Ridge Route south of Grapevine in California is one example on an early concrete route, which I featured in my book on Highway 99.)

These early roads gave birth to privately funded auto trails. Marked by paint on telephone poles and fence posts, they bore names like the Jefferson and Jackson highways, the Pike’s Peak Ocean to Ocean Highway, the Red Ball Route and the Yellowstone Trail. The most ambitious of these were coast-to-coast projects, intended to give early motorists an alternative to the railroad.

At the turn of the century, most country roads were built for horse-and-buggy outfits intended to travel just a few miles. They took you to or from the train station — and no farther. But as automobiles started to become more common (and more reliable), there was a growing clamor to drive them more than just “into town.” To hit the open road.

In response, a group visionaries, entrepreneurs and opportunists arose to create a chaotic network of trails that crisscrossed the country. Sometimes they shared the same road. Sometimes the road shifted from one route to another — more than once. Sometimes the only road was a line on a map that amounted to wishful thinking and hopes for the future.

America’s First Highways

A friend suggested that I focus on the history of these auto trails in Yesterday’s Highways, but I could tell they deserved a volume all their own. I was surprised to find that no one had written a comprehensive history of this period (at least as far as I could find). There were books about the Jefferson Highway, the Dixie Highway and, especially, multiple volumes on the most famous auto trail: the Lincoln Highway. But I couldn’t find anything that told the whole story: from the people who paved the way for the trails to the creation of the trails themselves and their ultimate demise.

So I decided to write one. The result is America’s First Highways, a companion volume to Yesterday’s Highways and, thus, the second in a series I’ve decided to call America’s Historic Highways.

You’ll read about the first person to drive from coast to coast in an automobile (with a goggle-wearing bulldog) and the around-the-world contest that inspired the movie The Great Race. And about the man who built a road of wooden plants in Southern California across the kind of sand dunes you’d find in the Sahara Desert.

You’ll also find stories of Dwight Eisenhower’s 1919 cross-country trip that helped convince him of the need for an interstate highway system; and the auto camping craze that led to the first motels.

Did you know Henry Ford once set the land speed record ... on a frozen lake? Or that the National Football League was founded in an auto dealership? Or that the man behind the Lincoln Highway built the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and made Miami Beach a winter resort?

I uncovered stories like these. Then, I scoured the internet for historic photos in the public domain, retrieved few pictures from my own cross-country journeys and took a few more for good measure. Then I contacted the Boca Raton Historical Society & Museum for permission to use a classic photo of a camel-shaped highway arch, and the University of Michigan Library, which graciously granted me permission to use a number of Lincoln Highway photos from the Transportation History Collection in its Special Collections Research Center.

The result is a volume packed with details and more than 200 historic and modern images. It’s my fourth book on the nation’s highways and my 30th book overall, and I’m pleased to present it for sale at Amazon.com and look forward to displaying it at fairs and book shows here on the East Coast in the coming year.

What’s next? My book on U.S. Highway 101 is due out May 19, and I’ve already got an idea for another highway-themed book. It’s in the conceptual stage now, but stay tuned for details in the coming months.

Knowing when to quit: Why I decided to stop writing fiction

Less than 12 hours ago, I hit “send” on my latest book. It just appeared for sale on Amazon, and I’m very pleased with how it turned out. It’s my fourth book in four months this year, and I’ve got another one coming next month.

It’s No. 30 overall for me, if you include four short educational workbooks I produced a while back. I’m happy with that, too.

Which is why this may come as a surprise, at least at first blush: I’ve decided to stop writing fiction.

And I’m OK with that.

To clarify: My latest book is a nonfiction book. So was my first published work, and roughly two-thirds of my books overall.

But the decision to stop working on novels wasn’t an easy one. I’ve wanted to be a novelist since my junior year in high school, when I wrote a short story called The Adventures of Krack, the tongue-in-cheek tale of a medieval knight. The story itself has long since been lost or discarded, and the only things I remember about it are the title and the theme — and the fact that the assignment called for three handwritten pages, and my story wound up being 11.

I knew then and there that I enjoyed doing this, that I wanted to do this for a living.

The challenge

I also knew that writing books as a career was, shall we say, challenging, and I wanted a steady paycheck. So I became a journalist. This was, I thought, a reasonable compromise: I’d still be working with words, but I’d also have a guaranteed income. It worked out nicely until the bottom fell out of the newspaper business and I found myself unemployed.

Suddenly, I had time to pursue my real dream of being a novelist.

It didn’t work.

Let my qualify that: I’ve published eight works of fiction, including a children’s story and a short-story collection. My traditionally published work has gotten good reviews in the press. So has my self-published stuff. My books get between 4 and 5 stars on Amazon. People generally tend to like my stuff ... if they read it. And there, as they say, is the rub, as it is for many of my peers. In three words: not enough readers.

One review of Memortality declared that “readers will assuredly want — if not expect — more.” I gave them a sequel, but alas, neither book sold particularly well, so the third installment in the planned trilogy languished as my motivation waned, even though I had it all plotted out.

I’ve tried since then, gotten excited all over again about another original idea and a new cast of cool characters — only to meet with the same result.

Same old story

Stories of disappointing sales are not unusual among authors. They tend to elicit one of two responses: Either you should keep writing for the sheer love of it, and the money be damned, or you should keep writing precisely in order to make money (even if you're not making any now).

The first message goes like this: “It doesn’t matter whether your books sell or not, as long as you enjoy it. If you can afford to write, do it. Don’t sweat the sales figures.” The folks who say this sort of thing are well-meaning, and there’s some truth to what they say, but what they miss is that writing is about communication. If you’re not communicating with anyone, what’s the point? You might as well write a diary.

The second group says money does matter. The reason you haven’t broken though, they kindly suggest, is that you’re doing something wrong. There are plenty of people in this category just itching to make money off your desperation to succeed: “All you have to do is buy my how-to book (one of several thousand on the market), take my masterclass, pay me to market it. ...”

The vast majority of these ideas are regurgitated and repackaged common sense that most serious authors have already tried dozens of times. It’s like picking up a greatest hits collection from an over-the-hill band when you already own all their releases. Pointless.

These two groups have one thing in common: They both think you should keep writing. Plaster those rejection notices on the wall. Look at how many J.K. Rowling got before she hit it big with Harry Potter. It’s a popular and “positive” message, but it creates a false narrative: If you love what you’re doing, you’re dedicated and you’re good, you’ll succeed. As Journey sang, “Don’t stop believin’. Hold on to the feelin’!”

Sometimes, though, you can’t hold on. Or, maybe, it’s better not to. To quote John Lennon from Watching the Wheels: “No longer riding on the merry-go-round. I just had to let it go.”

Crisis? What Crisis?

That’s the point I’ve reached.

For years, I’ve been listening to that second group and flagellating myself for not getting it right, even as some of my peers have hit upon success. Online book tour? I’ll try that. Snazzy cover? Hey, that looks really good. It’s bound to sell! Self-publish? Sure thing. Get an outside publisher? Check.

Send a press release? TV appearance? Radio show? Convention? Book signing? Networking? Reviews? Cool blog? (Hey, that’s what this is!)

But what if none of that works? At what point do you realize that not everyone is J.K. Rowling — that she’s the exception to the rule, not the template? This should be obvious. How many authors, after all, are worth nearly $1 billion? Yet bestselling authors routinely “encourage” their less successful peers with assurances of “if I can do it, you can, too.”

They mean well, but they’re not telling the whole truth. It’s almost like a lottery winner saying, “If I won the Powerball, you can, too.” That’s technically accurate, but the odds against it are overwhelming.

Now, I’ll grant that writing a book takes a lot more skill than buying a lottery ticket, but so does (for instance) playing basketball. At one point, I practiced more than 200 days in a row. I’m 6-foot-5 and reasonably athletic. Does that mean I’m going to be the next Stephen Curry? That I’m going to make the NBA? That I’d even be the best player in a playground pickup game? No, no and no.

My point is, we’re so determined to hold on to our dreams, we indulge in a kind of magical thinking, assuring ourselves that if we work hard enough, get good enough and check all the right boxes, we’re bound to succeed.

Until we don’t.

Decisions, decisions

Now, you may think that I’m writing this out of resentment. I’m announcing to the world that I’m giving up on writing fiction. Isn’t that like the guy who rage-quits on social media or, to use another timeworn basketball analogy, takes his ball and goes home?

Not this time. There’s no doubt, I’ve gone through a lot of resentment, bitterness and frustration over this, and I know some of it’s still there. But that’s not why I’m writing this. For one thing, I’m under no illusion that this blog will be widely read, or that many people will care about whether I keep writing fiction or not. I don’t have that expectation.

In fact, this is all about letting go of false expectations and looking at things with a clear eye and a positive outlook going forward. I realized that I don’t have a positive outlook about fiction anymore, to the point that it’s no longer even enjoyable. So why keep doing it? Why not devote my time and energy to things I do enjoy? There’s no shame in that, despite what the “don’t stop believin’” crowd may tell you.

That’s the reason I’m writing this: To tell you that it’s OK, if you’ve come to the end of your creative journey, to move on to something else. Even if it was your childhood dream. Even if you were sure this was what you were destined to do in life. Acknowledging that is unbelievably hard — harder, in some ways, than continuing to fight for it.

Don’t stop because you’re bitter or resentful. Don’t rage-quit in a bid for sympathy. Quit because you see a better path, and then go for it!

Never say never

Every writer is on a unique journey. You shouldn’t quit just because someone else suggested it as an option, any more than you should keep trying because someone else encouraged it. Those are your decisions. They shouldn’t be made by trolls who write scathing reviews or con artists who try to sell you a bill of goods about being “the next big thing.”

Yes, it’s a good idea to look at what works and what doesn’t — and to adjust your approach to writing or your marketing strategy based on that. But you know what? You can try so hard at so many different things that, if they don’t work out, you spend more time second-guessing yourself than you do writing. Then you’ll start beating yourself up over it, which can send you into an endless roller-coaster that’s not good for your mental health or your productivity as a writer.

I realized I’d reached that point, and I didn’t want to be there anymore, which is why I decided to stop writing fiction. I’d started another novel and, 12,000 words in, I realized my heart just wasn’t in it, and I didn’t see a pathway to making it a success: to communicating with actual readers.

That’s when I decided to stop asking endless questions and making endless adjustments, because I realized it wasn’t doing me any good. At a certain point, I had to feel good enough about myself to stop asking why it didn’t work and just accept the most frustrating answer of all:

I don’t know.

And I may never know.

And, I realized, that’s OK.

I still reach readers with my nonfiction and, while I can’t make a living with that alone, at least I’ve developed a small and somewhat dependable niche.

None of this is to say I won’t write more fiction at some point in the future, but it’s not to say I will, either. If I come up with a killer story idea that grabs me by the throat and demands to be written, who am I to argue? But I’ll have to feel like it’s worth my while.

Right now, it simply isn’t. I’ve got better things to do.

So, at least for now:

The end.

Highway author's top 10 road trips (plus 2)

I’ve spent bits and pieces of the past few years traveling around the country on various highways, and now, here I am, confined to quarters by the coronavirus outbreak. Fortunately, I’ve got my memories and a few photos to keep me company, so I thought I’d share a few of those with you in the form of my favorite stretches of highway ... so far. (I’ve still got a lot of road trips ahead of me, once this thing lifts.)

So far, I’ve produced three highway books: on Highway 99 and Highway 101 in California, and a tome called Yesterday’s Highways about the federal highway system founded in 1926. Next up: America’s First Highways, a look at America’s auto trails, the privately run hodgepodge of half-built highways that crisscrossed the country in the early days of the automobile.

So, without further ado, here are my top 10 stretches of highway, in reverse order, and certainly subject to change once I’m back on the road again.

12. Old Plank Road, California

This isn’t exactly a trip on a highway, it’s more a trip to a highway. The Old Plank Road is a stop along Interstate 8 in Imperial County, Southern California, heading east toward Arizona. There’s not much left of it today, but you can still see some of the original wood planks from the roadway, as well as a reconstruction of what it once looked like, The wooden road was built in 1915 to help cars traverse the shifting sands of the Algodones Dunes, then rebuilt a year later. There’s a fascinating story behind it all, including a road race to establish the best route for the road, which you’ll find in Highway 99: The History of California’s Main Street, as well as in America’s First Highways.

11. National Old Trails Road, California

This stretch of highway was known as Route 66 for four decades, and there are still highway shield signs stenciled into the road along the way, but these days, street signs (and Google Maps) call it the National Trails Highway. It’s a variation on its earlier name, the National Old Trails Road — a series of “old trails” pieced together to provide a way across the continent. Some were little more than rutted wagon-wheel paths, and there’s that same feeling of loneliness to this stretch of highway that there must have been back then. It almost feels like you’re driving on the moon, until you come to an old, abandoned filling station or Roy’s Motel and Café (pictured above), which is still open in the otherwise abandoned hamlet of Amboy. It was 114 degrees when I was passing through on this section of road in a car without air conditioning. Needless to say, I bought a lot of water at Roy’s. You’ll find more about this trip in Yesterday’s Highways.

10. Lincoln Highway, Pennsylvania

I got a chance to explore this section of what’s now called U.S. 30 but started out as the Lincoln Highway, the early 20th century’s most ambitious cross-country route. Planned by Carl Fisher, the same man who built the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and transformed Miami Beach from a backwater hamlet into a booming resort, the Lincoln Highway ran from New York to San Francisco. There’s a lot to see on many sections of the road, but Pennsylvania was my favorite. You’ll pass through historic Gettysburg — and past the site of the historic battle (pictured above) — and you’ll cross one of the most impressive Columbia-Wrightsville Bridge. When it was dedicated in 1930, it was the world’s longest multiple-arch concrete bridge, and the fifth built at that location. The old Lincoln Highway will also take you past Latrobe, childhood home of Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers, and birthplace of pro football and the banana split. But the highlight for me was the beautiful Allegheny Mountains, rolling hills that find the perfect balance between repose and majesty. For more on the Lincoln Highway, check out Yesterday’s Highways and my forthcoming book, America’s First Highways.

9. Old Ridge Route, California

You can drive some of the way along the first highway to span the Tehachapi Mountains, linking Northern and Southern California, although part of it’s blocked off by the U.S. Forest Service. What you can see is fascinating. When it was established back in 1915, a number of local businesses set up shop along this narrow, winding path at the top of the world. Most of them abandoned it when an alternate route went in at a lower elevation to the west in the early 1930s, and only a very few remnants of that first era remain visible. Still, you can imagine what it must have been like to drive along the concrete road at 15 mph (the speed limit) and hope you didn’t run into a truck coming the other way around Dead Man’s Curve, which you can still see from above if you take a detour through Lebec. You can travel portions of the 1930s-era alternate route, too, although it was eventually bypassed itself by Interstate 5. Part of it’s down at the bottom of manmade Pyramid Lake. For more details on the Old Ridge Route, check out Highway 99: The History of California’s Main Street.

8. Highway 101, San DIego County

If you want a look at what the first federal highway system was like, before the age of the interstates, this section of highway is a great example. Sure, you can continue down Interstate 5 if you’re traveling from L.A. to San Diego, but why not take your time and drive south from Oceanside through, Carlsbad, Encinitas and Del Mar on a section of road that’s still signed as U.S. 101. The 10-mile Oceanside-Carlsbad Freeway at the north end of the route was started in 1950 to improve the flow of traffic and was the first modern highway in the San Diego area. Still, it passes directly through both cities’ downtown area and, farther south, offers beautiful views of the ocean. The section through Del Mar and past the historic racetrack/fairgrounds is gorgeous, and you’ll pass iconic businesses like the 1928 La Paloma Theatre in Encinitas and the 101 Café (pictured above), built that same year in Oceanside. The latter is worth a stop to check out the cool ’50s-throwback mural on the side of the building. More: Highway 101: The History of El Camino Real.

7. Blue Ridge Parkway, Virginia

This 469-mile parkway through Virginia and North Carolina runs along the spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Most of what you’ll see is natural beauty, and boy, is there a lot of it. Green rolling hills, scenic overlooks, trees and wildflowers abound. Mountain ridges hug rolling meadows on this scenic drive. There’s aren’t many historic buildings along the way, but it’s worth stopping to check out Mabry Mill (pictured above), a site that features a sawmill, blacksmith shop and other buildings that date from the early 1900s. I haven’t driven the North Carolina section of this road yet, but I suspect it’s every bit as beautiful.

6. Highway 99, Dunsmuir, California

The town of Dunsmuir is a hidden gem, where you’ll find some of the cleanest water around. The old alignment of former U.S. Highway 99 takes down of Interstate 5 as you head north into town along Dunsmuir Avenue and past the historic California Theatre, which dates back to 1926. We stayed outside town at the Cave Springs Resort, a historic auto camp with cabins that date back to 1923 but that’s still running as a motel today. Railroad Park Resort, just south of Dunsmuir, offers lodging and eats inside refurbished railroad cars. Also south of town, you can check out the wild rock formations known as Castle Crags, which live up to their name. And the pine trees? They’re all around! More: Highway 99: The History of California’s Main Street.

5. U.S. 11 / Lee Highway, Virginia

This section of highway follows the course of an early cross-country auto trail called the Lee Highway, named for Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee. But west of Wytheville, it doesn’t seem much like a highway at all. Long since bypassed by Interstate 81 just to the north, it’s one of the most enchanting two-lane country roads you’ll find. Out of the blue, you’ll pass an old drive-in theater like the Hiland in the aptly named Rural Retreat. It opened in 1952 and is still operating today. Or you’ll find yourself passing the 1832 Old Stone Tavern in Atkins, that dates back to the time when the highway was a stagecoach route. There’s another historic theater in Abingdon, the Moonlite, which opened in 1949 and was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2007. Unfortunately, it closed six years later. Abingdon itself is a treasure trove of history, featuring an old theater, an 18th century tavern (foreground above), a grand 19th century women’s college and much more. This highway would make the list for Abingdon alone. More: America’s First Highways.

4. Pacific Coast Highway, California

It’s hard to pick a specific section of this highway, which is routinely rated as the nation’s most picturesque. The section through Malibu is plenty interesting, too. But this segment, which features Big Sur, the iconic Bixby Creek Bridge, an elephant seal rookery, and the ever-intriguing Hearst Castle (with zebras grazing by the side of the road!), is everyone’s favorite. I lived a couple of miles away from State Route 1, as it’s technically known, for about six years, so I got spoiled. While working as a journalist, I even covered the road’s reconstruction after a couple of big mudslides washed sections of it into the ocean. The road north of San Simeon is full of curves and hairpin turns that offer breathtaking views of the ocean. It will take you a lot longer to get up the coast than it will if you travel the inland route (U.S. 101), but the scenery you’ll see is worth the extra time. More: Highway 101: The History of El Camino Real.

3. Route 66, Desert Southwest

It’s about 500 miles from Glenrio, Texas to Winslow, Ariz., and you can make the trip in about a day. If you don’t stop. But you’ll want to stop many times along the way to check out what’s left the heart of Route 66. Glenrio’s a ghost town at the Texas-New Mexico state line, where you can find dozens of abandoned businesses: motels, diners and homes. It was an entire town, but virtually no one lives there now that Interstate 40 made Route 66 an afterthought – except to nostalgia buffs. Just a few miles west in Tucumcari, you’ll find plenty of old motels and service stations, some of them refurbished and plastered with colorful murals. The highlight here: the still operating Blue Swallow motel, with its distinctive neon sign, that opened in 1940. You’ll see plenty of other old Route 66 businesses along this stretch of highway, including several of the now-abandoned Whiting Bros. service stations that once dominated this section of road. The chain was once based in Holbrooke, and just west, in Winslow, you’ll find a statue inspired by the Eagles’ song Take It Easy, with its reference to “standin’ on the corner in Winslow, Arizona.” More: Yesterday’s Highways.

2. Redwood Highway, California

There’s simply nothing like the 140-mile section of U.S. 101 through Northern California known as the Redwood Highway. Starting at the south end of this segment in Ukiah, you’ll pass by the historic art deco Regal Ukiah Stadium 6 cinema, built in 1948, and the World’s Largest Redwood Tree Filling Station, carved out of a tree felled in 1936, when the station started pumping gas. Then, in Willits, you’ll pass beneath the distinctive neon arch. But the real attractions are the trees themselves, which line a section of the older U.S. 101 (now State Route 254) called the Avenue of the Giants. It parallels the current 101 from Phillipsville north to just short of Stafford. Before you get there, stop at the Benbow Inn in Garberville which dates back to the 1920s and offers some high-class atmosphere and the best hamburger you’ve ever eaten. Trust me. Other stops along the way include the drive-through Chandelier Tree and Confusion Hill, a 1949 tourist stop in Piercy. There’s too much to mention here, but there’s plenty in my book Highway 101. More: Highway 101: The History of El Camino Real.

1. Road to Hana, Maui

This will always be my favorite. I’ve driven it three times, at three different times of my life, and it never fails to disappoint. Yes, you have to make your way carefully over nearly four-dozen one-lane bridges and around more than 600 curves, but that’s part of the road’s charm. It will take you four hours to get to Hana, which might take you an hour if you could take a straight shot. The thing is, you can’t. Besides, Hana Highway is about the best evidence ever that it’s about the journey, not the destination. There’s not really much in Hana, a sleepy town of barely 1,200 people, but along the way you’ll pass through the nation’s only true rain forest. Along the way are gorgeous seasonal waterfalls, eye-popping ocean overlooks, bamboo forests, black sand beaches and lava tubes. Plus, it’s just fun to drive. It’s almost like a roller-coaster: Merchants even sell T-shirts that proclaim you’ve driven the Road to Hana. This one should be on everyone’s bucket list. (For a bonus trip, drive up the crater road to Haleakala, Maui’s extinct volcano. You’ll view the island and surrounding ocean from above the clouds. But take a jacket. It’s cold up there!)

All photos © Stephen H. Provost, 2015-2020

Dixie dilemma: Old highway names and slavery’s stain

It was easy when I lived in California. I wrote books about highways marked by straightforward numbers (Highway 99 and Highway 101). No controversy there. They had names, too, but “El Camino Real,” “Golden State Boulevard” and “The Hollywood Freeway” are pretty benign.

Then, I moved to the South, and I wanted to keep writing about highways. My first offering, Yesterday’s Highways, dealt mostly with numbered roads on the federal highway system, like Route 66. But before those roads had numbers, they had names. Nothing else, just names.

They were called auto trails, privately funded highways that were part gravel, part pavement and part dirt that crisscrossed the country in the early years of the 20th century. They’re the subject of my forthcoming work, America’s First Highways.

The highway builders promoted them by naming them for larger-than-life figures like Lincoln and Roosevelt, Jackson and Jefferson. Or for geography, adopting names like Yellowstone and Pikes Peak.

In the South, however, highway builders paid tribute to figures like Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee, “heroes” of the Confederacy. I put “heroes” in quotes, because I can’t fathom ever applying such a term to men who fought a bloody war for a system of government that brutally enslaved human beings.

When I shot the cover art for my book Martinsville Memories, depicting this Southern town’s historic courthouse, I purposely excluded the Confederate monument on the front lawn. As I’ve written in the past, I don’t believe the Confederacy should be celebrated.

Yet I did want to celebrate the auto trails that bore the names of these men. The question was how to do so without celebrating the men themselves. For one thing, I view the monuments alongside these roads more as tributes to the roads’ builders than to slavery. 

Carl Fisher, a man who built the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and developed Miami Beach, would have been an impressive figure even if he hadn’t started the two most significant auto trails: the Lincoln and Dixie highways. The names would seem an interesting contrast. The first, running east to west was named for “The Great Emancipator,” while the second, oriented north and south, bore a name many associate with the Confederacy.

“Dixie” was, after all, the title of the most famous Confederate anthem, often performed my minstrels in blackface. Yet Lincoln himself deemed it “one of the best tunes” he’d ever heard, and the term “Dixie” started off as a geographical reference to the Mason-Dixon Line separating Pennsylvania and Maryland. Many today still view it in purely geographic terms, and Fisher’s group saw their Dixie Highway as a bridge to  tie the nation back together after the Civil War.

Not that Fisher himself was a saint, by any means. He was sometimes a drunk who, at the age of 35, ditched his fiancée of nine years to marry a 15-year-old girl. And his main purpose in building the road was to give northerners a way to reach his resorts in Miami Beach. It was, for him, a money-making proposition.

When writing about these old roads, it’s impossible to simply ignore their names — even though many conveniently ignore that the Jefferson Highway’s namesake was a slaveholder, too. (A visit to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s estate, can be an eye-opener for its tour of the slave quarters and is highly recommended.)

I’m happy that the Jefferson Davis Highway has been renamed the Richmond Highway through part of Virginia, and it’s fine with me that a portion of the Dixie Highway through Florida is now named for Barack Obama. Another president’s name on an old auto trail is a perfect fit. Plus, I have to say I enjoy the fact that it must have galled Lee Highway boosters that their road passed by a historic African-American church in Marion, Va.

But history is seldom simple. I don’t believe the names of these roads should obscure their importance to the development of our nation’s road system. Nor do I believe that huge turning point in our history should overlook the fact that highways in the South were often built by chain gangs of inmates — most of whom were black and many of whom were unjustly imprisoned.

History should shine a light on virtuous and vile deeds alike, so we can know how to replicate the former and avoid repeating the latter.

That’s what I hope my writing does. It can be a difficult line to walk, but it’s always a worthy goal, and one I intend to keep pursuing.

Photo: An exit for U.S. Highway 11, aka the Lee Highway, in western Virginia (author photo)

Quest for book sales a Catch-22 for most authors

“To him who has, more will be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”

— Matt. 13:12 (RSV)

Originality? What’s that?

If you want to make money, I mean really make money, you’ve got to do just the opposite: Find what’s sold in the past, repackage it, then sell it again to an eager audience.

This isn’t a new technique. Recycled ideas are a lot older than recycling aluminum cans and plastic milk bottles. I first noticed it back in the 1970s. Products from detergents to deodorants would tinker with their formula just a touch, call themselves “new and improved,” and put on a marketing blitz to gain new customers and win back old ones.

It’s not new, but it is more popular – especially in entertainment.

Take the movies, for example. There’s still original stuff out there. Movies like Get Out and Bird Box come to mind; and a Japanese-language film called Parasite even won the motion picture cast award from the Screen Actors Guild this year.

But it’s getting harder for them to find traction amid a sea of reboots, sequels and franchises. Consider: In 2005, sequels and prequels accounted for less than 10 percent of the 100 top-grossing movies in the United States. By 2017, the figure had more than tripled, to 30 percent.

Heck, Disney’s got it all figured out: Another Star Wars film. Another Marvel movie. Hey, I know, let’s repackage all those uber-profitable Disney animated classics as live-action movies! Even without Robin Williams, we can get Will Smith to play the genie in Aladdin, and voila! Another cool billion in the bank.

Biopics are big business, too: Freddie Mercury, Elton John, Judy Garland... People love what’s familiar to them, and they’ll eat it up.

Formula won

Which brings us to my line of work: writing books. The same thing seems to be happening there, too. Familiarity rules.

What’s most familiar to most readers is an author’s name. If you’re “known,” you’ve created a reliable brand that can serve as your formula for success.

The rest of us have to latch onto an existing formula and hope against hope we catch on. The idea is simple: Choose a formula or subgenre that bears a strong resemblance to something that’s worked before, and crank out the stories. (For the record, the romance genre had nearly twice as many earnings as any other in 2016, followed by crime/mystery, religious and fantasy science fiction. Horror was in fifth place, but with just 5 percent of the earnings raked in by romance-erotica.)

So, say you’ve decided to write in a popular genre or subgenre and you’ve started writing.

Your first obstacle will be the fact that other writers have done their research, too, and have targeted the same popular genre you’ve identified as “yours.” And more people there are cranking out the same kind of stories, the harder it is to choose among them.

Some readers will read any story in a given subgenre, just like some moviegoers will see any Marvel movie. But there are a lot more books in a subgenre than there are movies in any given franchise, and it takes a lot longer to read a book than it does to watch a movie. So, sooner or later, the market will get flooded, and only tried-and-true authors need apply.

The rest of us? Well, we’re back to Square One.

“The poor stay poor, the rich get richer. It’s just so disproportionate. ”

— Marshall Mathers (Eminem)

The sin of originality

Maybe you don’t want to focus on formula. Maybe you’d rather try to break through by writing original stories. That’s still possible – if you can catch someone’s eye. Someone who isn’t looking for the same-old, same-old, and who has the connections it takes to put your books in front of readers. (Oprah Winfrey’s book club is an example.)

I don’t know whether it’s more difficult to do that, or whether it’s more difficult to write formulaic novels and hope they somehow find an audience in the sea of other formulaic novels out there.

There is a third option: Write an original story and tie it up nice and pretty in a familiar looking package. But you’ll face the same challenges here, too, plus another potential obstacle: Readers looking for originality might never give your book a second glance, and those looking for pure formula might feel tricked and protest, “What the hell is THIS!?”

None of these options is bad. I prefer to write original stories, but I’ve also seen all the Star Wars movies and most of the Marvel flicks. I’ve also tried to package original stories within the framework of a subgenre.

The point is, whatever option you choose, the odds are never in your favor. Or, at least, not very often. And that can lead to desperation...

...which attracts con artists like a dying animal draws vultures to the side of the road. You hire a marketing guru. You pour money into Amazon and Facebook ads. You buy into “sure-fire” systems for increasing profits, but the only “sure-fire” profits wind up going to the self-proclaimed experts selling those systems.

Catch-22

In one sense, authors face the same Catch-22 (that started out as a book title, by the way) anyone faces when getting started in a business. There’s an old saying that you have to have experience to get a job, but you have to have a job to gain experience.

The writing world is similar: You have to have exposure to sell books, but you have to sell books to gain exposure (unless you want to give them away, which kind of defeats the purpose).

The difference lies in how hard it is to break into this specific field. At the start of 2020, the overall unemployment rate was 3.5 percent. Now, a lot of people had to work two or more jobs to make ends meet, but that still leaves them in better shape than the typical author. According to the Authors Guild, that was $6,080 in 2017, or less than half the poverty level for a single person living alone.

To put it another way: If you worked half-time (20 hours a week) at $10 an hour, you’d still make one-third more than the median author’s salary.

And while other industries are seeing a slow but steady climb in wages, author earnings actually fell by 42 percent from 2009 to 2016.

Snowball effect

In this kind of environment, success stories from big-name authors are less than comforting. A successful author telling a struggling writer, “If I did it, you can too,” might as well be a lottery winner conveying the same message.

Unlike a winning lottery ticket, however, there’s often a snowball effect with writing a bestseller or two. Big-name authors who have been around any length of time have made the vast majority of their money off their reputations, not their talents – which is not to disparage their talents. It’s simply proof of my original premise: Familiarity is a goldmine. It may breed contempt in some quarters, but obscurity breeds indifference, which is far worse if you’re trying to sell books.

I like to write stories with happy endings, but I haven’t found one here. Not yet. I guess if I want that, I’ll have to go see another Disney movie.

On second thought, maybe I’ll see an indie film instead. If I can find one playing within 200 miles of where I live, that is.

Yes, the struggle is real.

Harry Potter meets Doctor Who in new academy fantasy series

The mind is a trippy place. It can be like a maze, especially when you’ve got a fertile imagination.

It’s easy to jump from one idea to the next, from fanciful to intriguing to exciting.

All this got me thinking: What if a place like this existed in the real world? And what if there were a school to teach us how to navigate it?

That’s the idea behind my new series, Academy of the Lost Labyrinth. Each person must navigate the labyrinth of his or her own mind, but we’ve got people to help us: schoolteachers, parents, friends-for-life. They’re all with us on the journey, even if they can’t take it for us. That’s what happens at the magical academy I’ve created, and it’s the kind of journey I’ve set before my characters – and my readers.

Life can take us almost anywhere, and so can the Lost Labyrinth. That’s what makes writing this series so much fun. My characters can visit Mount Olympus, the River Styx, a dragon kingdom in the heart of a mountain, the North Pole, Stonehenge, Easter Island... even a planet halfway across the galaxy. The possibilities are endless, thanks to the labyrinth.

Why is it a “lost” labyrinth? You’ll have to read the books to find out! But I will give you a sneak peek into what you’ll find in their pages.

If you’ve read my Memortality books, you know I’m fascinated with the ideas of time and memory, so there’s a lot of time travel in the series opener, The Talismans of Time.

I started by thinking of time as a circle, rather than a straight line. This allowed me to create a unique narrative that begins at the end and ends at the beginning... but still spins a fast-paced, exciting tale. How does that work? Again, you’ll have to read the book.

It tells the story of how two very different teenagers – Alex and Elizabeth – from very different times find themselves caught in the labyrinth, and how their journeys lead to the founding of a new academy. He’s from Iowa in 1991; she’s from Yorkshire at the turn of the 20th Century. They wander into the labyrinth by chance, and in order to get out again, they have to collect all seven Talismans of Time... and help each other along the way.

The fate of the Academy in the present day is at stake. It’s a special school that accepts students with four main magical talents: time travel, memory magic, shapeshifting and dream walking.  

But it turns our those aren’t the only such talents – and the Academy of the Lost Labyrinth isn’t the only school for the magically gifted in my alternate universe. One of those other schools, the Academy of Enchanted Arts, plays a pivotal role in the second book, Pathfinder of Destiny.

Set on a remote island in the South Pacific, it’s a haven for painters, writers and musicians whose art can literally come alive.

Yet another school, the Astral Academy, is on a planet hundreds of light years from Earth and accessible through the labyrinth. It’s the basis for a spinoff book called (naturally) Astral Academy.

Pathfinder of Destiny, meanwhile, continues the story of the main Academy in the present day and features many of the characters from Talismans. It also introduces two new protagonists: Cassidy Parks, a 13-year-old girl from Detroit, and her best friend, Stefani. Together, they must save the Academy from a familiar villain who wants to seize control of the labyrinth – and exact revenge on Elizabeth (who’s now the headmistress) in the process.

I’ve written these books for the same audiences that enjoy the magical, whimsical and adventure-filled worlds of Harry Potter, The Wizard of Oz, Mary Poppins, Doctor Who and Alice in Wonderland. They’re suitable for all ages, but you don’t have to be a kid to enjoy them. (My father, the political science professor, loved the Harry Potter books, and these are designed to be in the same vein.)

Oh, and be on the lookout for fun, semi-hidden references and tributes to a number of fantasy and science fiction works. See how many you can find.

The books in this series are available on Amazon in paperback and ebook form, and are also accessible through Kindle Unlimited. Check them out today!

Books are a better value than today's newspapers — and it's no contest

Authors and print journalists have one thing in common, and no, I’m not talking about writing.

Today’s “print” journalism isn’t so much about print. More and more, it’s about posting videos online, then finessing keywords and creating vague headlines to ensure they get hits, page views, visits or whatever. None of that has much to do with writing, and none of it does anything to help with literacy. Neither does laying off copy editors, line editors and staff writers (note the word “writers” in that last title).

We who write books still – gasp – actually write. Sure, we put out ebooks, utilize keywords in marketing and go after a “target audience,” but we don’t obscure or massage the facts in order to do so. Authors were never meant to be public watchdogs. Some of us are, but we take that mantle voluntarily, not because it’s part of our job description.

It is – or was, once upon a time – part of what it meant to be a journalist. Ever wonder why attacks on journalism as “fake news” have gained so much traction? It’s easy to blame ego-driven politicians, but not so easy for media companies to look in the mirror. The more these companies sacrifice their own credibility at the SEO altar (that’s “search engine optimization,” for the uninitiated), the less reason people have to believe them. Or to buy what they’re selling.

The fewer journalists actually attend public meetings, the less reason anyone has to believe they know what’s going on. You can’t be a watchdog if you ain’t watchin’!

This isn’t the fault of front-line journalists, who, increasingly, are asked to do more with fewer resources. They’re heroes, in my book. It’s the fault of the companies that employ them. While they’re tasked, increasingly, with things that have less and less to do with writing and reporting, we authors are doing pretty much the same thing we’ve always done: Looking for interesting stories (in our own heads and in the world at large), and doing our best to entertain, inform and challenge our readers.

That doesn’t mean authors are better than front-line journalists, merely that we are given more freedom to pursue our craft than today’s journalists enjoy. That wasn’t always the case.

Shared struggle

No, writing isn’t what we authors have in common with journalists. Not anymore. What we share is a struggle to remain visible in a world that offers an explosion of media choices. Anyone who wants to can publish a blog and call himself a journalist, and anyone can self-publish a book at proclaim, “Hey! I’m an author!” Her books might be good – or they might not. But who has time to weed through all the pig slop to get to find that diamond in the trough?

In truth, we have less time than ever for such pursuits. And the world has catered to our increasingly frenetic lives by serving up fast-food information via iPhones and sound bites, condensing complex issues into Twitter-pated bullshit that can be spewed by anyone in 280 characters or fewer.

Media companies have responded by mimicking their own worst enemy: posting on Twitter, adapting their format to fit “handheld devices” and making news more disposable than it used to be when the morning paper got recycled at the bottom of a birdcage in the opening sequence of Lou Grant.  

By contrast, we authors are doing what we’ve always done: writing.

Media companies, faced with declining circulation despite their “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” embrace of social media, go out begging potential readers for attention. “You can subscribe to our online service for just $9.95 a month!” they declare. “It’s a bargain!”

Authors make similar pitches: “You can have hours of reading pleasure for just $9.95! You can’t beat that!”

Both products are worth about the same as a couple of cups of coffee at Starbucks or a ticket to a movie matinee. So, the question arises: If you only have $9.95, which one should you buy?

My answer is: the book. And I’ll tell you why.

More bang for your buck

Prices have gone up for both products. That’s inflation for you. But what are you getting for your buck?

Books are still about the same length as they’ve always been, with just as much content and just as much work put in on the front end.

The opposite is true for newspapers. With all those writers and editors being shown the door, the breadth and depth of newspaper content isn’t anywhere near what it used to be. Newspapers have become the fast-food burger of reading: The price gets bigger as the product gets smaller. And not just when it comes to the number of pages. If you’re not covering the city council meeting, the school board or the Friday night football game, seriously, what’s the point?

Yeah, local newspapers are still putting out some good content, but it’s a small fraction of what you used to find in their pages. And it’s nothing close to comprehensive. By contrast, a 340-page book in 1979 is still a 340-page book 40 years later. You’ll find as many vivid characters, as many twists and as much good information between the front and back cover as you ever did.

None of this should be taken as an argument that books are intrinsically better than newspapers. This is about value for the consumer’s dollar, not an assessment of the two media’s inherent worth. They perform different functions, both essential – and that makes the decline of the daily newspaper even more lamentable.

Three decades ago, I probably would have deemed newspapers a better value than books. Given the Draconian cuts in staffing, resources, content and the number of pages in your daily paper, I simply can’t say that now. Compare a six-section, 72-page paper of 30 years ago to a two-section, 16-page edition today.

Is it any wonder subscribers are heading for the exits?

Newspapers are being made – and, it could be argued, have already been rendered – obsolete by the internet. That’s tragic, and it’s certainly not the fault of front-line journalists, but it won’t do us any good to bury our heads in the sand and pretend it hasn’t happened.

Harsh reality

But here’s the good news: Books are as robust and relevant as ever.

So, if you’re offered a choice between a monthly newspaper subscription and a book for that $9.95, my advice is to buy the book. Newspapers have already lost the battle to the internet. And, with their decision to abandon comprehensive local news coverage, they offer very little in the way of content you can’t find online. We authors haven’t given an inch in our battle to stay both evocative and relevant. That’s why I’m proud to be one. I’m still a journalist; I just find my stories in the past these days, digging up nearly forgotten nuggets to share in the realm of historical nonfiction.

And I’m actually writing. Imagine that! It’s a hell of a lot more fun than spending most of my day plugging in keywords, filming videos and sweating bullets in the increasingly desperate hope that someone out there is still paying attention. That’s what the current media culture demands of many good, hardworking journalists who would much rather be writing and reporting. When they do, their work still shines. It just shines far less brightly than it once did. That’s not their fault. But it is, unfortunately, their reality and ours.

For more on the decline and fall of journalism in the 21st century, check out my book Media Meltdown, available on Amazon.

The story behind "Martinsville Memories," a new book about a unique Virginia city

I can imagine Martinsville residents noticing my latest book, Martinsville Memories, and asking themselves, “Who’s this author? I’ve never heard of him. It’s weird we’ve been living in Martinsville all this time and never run into him.”

Not as weird as you might think, considering I’ve only been here a year – and I spend most of my time in my upstairs office, writing. But I got out into the community enough to be intrigued by what I found there. Green trees embracing blue skies. Winding roads. And historic buildings with, I knew, a wealth of stories to tell.

Being a storyteller, I took that as a challenge. Who had traveled these roads before me? What had happened in those buildings on Church Street, and who built those mansions on Mulberry Road? What about the buildings that used to be there, but aren’t anymore? What had happened to them?

A parade of questions ran through my mind, and of course, I had to find the answers.

Why should a relative newcomer tell the story of Martinsville? I don’t have an answer to that beyond the fact that I wanted to. And this is what I do. It’s pretty much what I did for more than three decades as a journalist, except these days I’m reporting on the past, digging up stories from history, rather than finding them in the present.

I became a newspaperman after resisting the temptation to switch my major to history midway through my college career. But I took plenty of history courses, anyway – almost enough to earn a minor. And now, writing books like Martinsville Memories is the perfect way to blend these two passions; to have the best of both worlds, as it were.

I enjoy discovering stories I haven’t heard before. I have a particular passion for old roads, which led me to write two highway books (Highway 99 and Highway 101), and to embark on a journey that took me 7,500 miles along the Blue Ridge Parkway, Lee Highway, Lincoln Highway, Route 66 and the Ohio River Scenic Byway this past spring. So, it should come as no surprise that I’ve included a bit, in the first chapter of Martinsville Memories, about local highways.

I love learning about the places I’ve been, too. I wrote about my hometown in Fresno Growing Up. So, I figured, why not write about my new home, too? I’ve really enjoyed living in Martinsville, and was curious to know more.

This book is the result of that curiosity.

In this volume, I took a slightly different approach than I have to previous books. I’ve always thought of myself as, primarily, a writer. But for many years, I’ve enjoyed photography, too. I started taking photographs for the newspaper at my most recent stop, and I took numerous photos for several books I’ve written, too. So, this time, instead of starting with the text and finding photos to illustrate it, I went about things from the opposite direction: I built the book around the photos.

I took hundreds of them in Martinsville, Ridgeway, Collinsville, Axton, Fieldale, Bassett and along the rural roads that connect them.

In fact, I initially intended Martinsville Memories to be, primarily, a picture book. Of course, being a writer, I’d have to explain those pictures – and, the more I found out, the longer and more detailed those explanations grew. The end result is a book that’s fairly well balanced between words and pictures, and I’m very pleased with how it turned out.

What did I learn along the way? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out. But here’s just a taste:

I learned about a gunfight that took place on the streets of Martinsville that was every bit as dramatic – and deadly – as the famed gunfight at the OK Corral. I learned that a Hall of Fame baseball player started his career in Martinsville, and that another Hall of Famer once managed the city’s minor-league team. I read some colorful stories about bootlegging and its connection to NASCAR. I found out that Martinsville had once produced more sweatshirts and been the home to more millionaires per capita than anyplace else in the nation. I learned the history of some old gas stations, restaurants and fast-food chains that have become mere memories and, in some cases, begun to fade from memory altogether.

I consider it one of my callings to preserve those memories. To remind some of what they might otherwise forget and to share these stories with those who have never heard them. I enjoy hearing those stories, and that’s why I write them down.

I hope you enjoy them, too.

Note: Martinsville Memories is now available on Amazon! If you live in the Piedmont or Triad areas, come to one of the following events to meet me and get a personalized, signed copy : 40th Annual Martinsville Uptown Oktoberfest, on Church Street near Broad Oct. 5; Dragon Festival 2019 at the Virginia Museum of Natural History on Oct. 19; or the 2019 Fall Craft Show at Bassett High School on Nov. 23-24.

Don't ask a new friend to like your Facebook page

If they like me, they’re sure to like my Facebook page!

Right?

Uh, not so much.

I’m active on Facebook, and I’m also interested in marketing, so I have handful – well, maybe three handfuls – of business pages to promote my work.

Other authors and creative types do, too, and I get a lot of friend requests from would-be networkers in my field.

Most seldom, if ever, interact with me online. But more and more of them are sure to do one thing the moment I accept their friend request: They invite me to like their business page.

I used to accept most of these as a sort of favor to build up their egos, but that’s really all it does. I seldom visited these pages after I “liked” them, and I don’t think I’ve ever bought anything based on something I’ve seen there.

That’s the hard reality of Facebook pages: The overwhelming (and I do mean overwhelming) majority of people who like pages do so for the pretty pictures and funny memes. I’ve used pretty pictures and funny memes to accumulate thousands of likes on some pages, even tens of thousands on a few. But do these translate into sales?

Again, not so much.

Still, more and more authors and artists on Facebook seem to have adopted a new commandment. It goes like this: The very first thing thou shalt do when someone accepts thy friend request is invite them to like thy page.  

Unfortunately, this is all kids of stupid.

For one thing, page likes seldom translate into sales. Yes, they will get you exposure, and yes, it can’t hurt. But if you expect to get more than a couple of sales for every thousand likes, you’re deluding yourself.

And more important than that: It’s just plain rude. People who accept friend requests from folks they’ve never heard of, let alone met, are taking a chance. There are a lot of bots, spammers and idiots out there on Facebook, so if you accept a friend request, you’re putting yourself out there. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t accept any requests unless we’ve got mutual friends and the person seems like a real person with at least some common interests.

If it’s someone from Nigeria or Saudi Arabia, a guy with a girl’s name, a “well-endowed” woman with bare-bones profile info ... sorry, but you’re not getting in.

The people who send out instant page requests are none of those things. They’re legitimate Facebook users with credible profiles who obviously don’t realize how intrusive – and presumptuous – they’re being by sending you a page request before so much as bothering to say “hello” on your profile. Imagine answering a knock at the door only to be pushed aside by a “visitor” you’ve never met. He brushes past you, makes his way to your kitchen and says, “Got any beer?”

Same principle.

Another analogy: It’s kind of like the guy in the parking lot who goes around putting leaflets on every car. That hungry landfill down the street might say “thank you,” but will any of the drivers? It’s doubtful. And they sure as hell won’t consider the leaflet-distributor a “friend”!

The instant-page-request strategy would still be rude if it generated business, but I’ve seen no evidence it does that. If I don’t know you, why should I care about your business? It’s far more likely I’ll do business with you if someone else I already know recommends you. You know, word of mouth.

On the other hand, if I’ve known someone for a while, chances are I already know what they’re selling without having to visit their page.

Finally, it’s far easier to build up page likes by spreading those pretty pictures and funny memes than it is by inviting every new friend you make on Facebook. You still aren’t likely to build your business exponentially, but you will increase your reach a lot more quickly and effectively than you can through invitations.

And guess what? It’s not rude. Because when those people like your page, they’re doing so voluntarily, not because you’ve nagged or guilted them into it.

So, please, the next time you’re tempted to send out an immediate page invitation to a new friend on Facebook, stop and think for a moment. Remember: It’s poor way to build a following; page likes don’t translate into big sales; and the person may well think you’re a presumptuous ass – which means she’s unlikely to have a positive impression of what you’re trying to sell.

Think about it. And try, at least for the moment, just being what you said you wanted to be to that person in the first place.

A friend.

Photo by Dave Wild, used under Creative Commons 2.0 license.

Writing an Amazon book review: worse than a root canal?

Note: With reluctant apologies to J.K. Rowling, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, I following is a lighthearted look at why most writers not bearing those names find turning readership into Amazon reviews more difficult than transmuting lead into gold. Difficult, but not impossible: I’m immensely grateful for readers who take the time to leave reviews of my books. You are a rare and precious breed. I love you eternally.

The Amazon book review. Authors covet them nearly as much as Gollum longs for his precious and Wile E. wants that Roadrunner. Short of the New York Times bestseller list, they’re the Holy Grail for writers. And they’re just as elusive, too.

For the longest time, I wondered why so few readers bother to leave them. But then I hit on something during a recent trip to France that I think explains it all better than even Clarissa could. I’ve never been to France, but that didn’t stop me from traveling there in my mind to visit the abode of famed alchemist Nicolas Flamel. As it happened, the door was unlocked and the place was empty when I arrived, which afforded me the chance to do a little snooping. And, while rummaging around in Flamel’s credenza, I made a notable discovery.

How did I obtain access to the famed 14th century alchemist’s credenza, you ask? Have you ever heard of the phrase “suspending disbelief”? Well, Flamel figured out how to do it: When I arrived in his domicile, I found disbelief suspended a good three feet above the aforementioned credenza. Its arms and legs were flailing madly in the air, a look of, well, disbelief on its face. My point is this: If Flamel can suspend disbelief, literally, you can, too!

“Why a credenza?” you ask? Because the word sounds damned cool, that’s why, and because I don’t believe I’ve ever used it on the printed page (or unprinted screen) before. So, if you would be so kind, please stop asking irrelevant questions and try a query that gets at the heart of the matter. Like – repeat after me – “What did you discover?”

Yes. Now that’s more like it. I think you’re getting the hang of this.

Within said credenza, the alchemist had deposited a caisson – another word I’ve never used in print – and within this caisson was a parchment scroll in a most delicate condition. Upon this scroll was written the following. No, not in English, in French, silly. I could decipher it because I had four years of high school French (actually three, but I skipped ahead to French 4 halfway through my senior year). Or perhaps because I’m making this whole thing up. I’ll let you figure out which. You might derive a hint from the fact that modern French is probably as different from 14th century French as modern English is from Beowulf. You know, that epic poem about the first werewolf that exhorted its readers to “be a wolf!” Talk about inspirational! I will tell you this much: I really did skip ahead to fourth-year French.

Flamel’s plot

However any of that may be, here’s my translation of what Flamel allegedly wrote: “I have discovered the key to immortality, the famed elixir of life!” This elixir, Flamel continued in scrawled, archaic French script, was in fact no elixir at all, but the written word. “It is through the written word that man shall transcend death and vanquish mortality! Thus shall his mind be known throughout eternity!” Flamel knew this, he said, because the philosopher’s stone (not the sorcerer’s stone, you dumbed-down Americanized Potterheads!) was inscribed with, yes, written words!

The stone was the source of all ancient wisdom and treasured lore. Kind of like the emerald tablet of Hermes or the collected scripts of Star Trek: The Original Series. If its secrets were to become known, anyone who might read them could live forever!

Flamel, however, didn’t want that. He was a jealous sort who coveted immortality for himself and himself alone, so he destroyed the philosopher’s stone and made it his sacred mission to limit the spread of the written word thenceforth, in perpetuity.

Being able, like Nostradamus, Agnes Nutter and Grandmama Addams, to see into the future with uncanny accuracy, Flamel deduced that, at the dawn of the third millennium (common era), a “river of words” would begin flowing from something called “the Amazon.” Flamel, like most men of his age, was a bald-faced chauvinist, so he dismissed the idea that this prophecy might refer to a powerful woman, such as, say, Diana Prince or her alter egos, Lynda Carter and Gal Gadot. There had to be another interpretation.

This being the 14th century, no European had yet visited the New World (which was really no newer than the Old World was old). Nevertheless, Flamel, foreseeing the future, knew that this would occur when, in the midst of a prophetic reverie, he penned the following: “Therefore shall the Amazon be dammed up, that no man may review its course, denying all men access to the font of eternal life!” (the “font” in question being Times New Roman).

Flamel did, in fact, speak of “men” repeatedly because he was, as noted above, a bald-faced chauvinist. (Whether the top of his head was bald, too, is unclear, as his famous portrait shows him wearing a hat.) Despite being an alchemist, he wasn’t particularly enlightened. But then, the Enlightenment was still a few centuries away back then.

It should come as no surprise, when this is considered, that no evidence was found in his credenza, the caisson therein or anywhere else that he foresaw the equal rights movement. Even prophets see what they wish to see. Moreover, Flamel was not, by any means, perfect (unlike Agnes Nutter, who was not a man and who was considerably more accurate – and nicer – in her prophecies). But he was accurate enough, if not very nice about wanting to hoard all of immortality for himself!

Yes, indeed, he was accurate enough, even though his prophecies had nothing to do with a then-yet-to-be-discovered river, as he imagined. For at the dawn of the third millennium, a river of words did, indeed, begin flowing from “the Amazon.” A virtual river, to be sure, but still a river, it must be admitted. And that river became dammed – or was it damned? – by Flamel’s curse so that men (and women) had a devil of a time reviewing the words that flowed from “the Amazon’s” digital headwaters. Swimming against the current, so to speak.

I speak, naturally, of the aforementioned book reviews on Amazon, which readers are so hesitant to provide that it became quite clear to me something supernatural was afoot – Flamel’s curse being the most rational explanation. Without even the most curse-ory reviews, fewer books would sell, and a greater share of the eternal pie (or pi) would be reserved for Flamel, who, even though long dead, would continue to benefit (don’t ask me how; I haven’t figured that part out yet) even in the form of his formless specter.

Testing my theory

It seemed a reasonable enough conclusion. Still, I had to be sure. So, seeking confirmation of my theory, I sought to interview a few random readers who had failed to post reviews even though they were known to have purchased books from Amazon. Here are some of the responses I got.

• “I decided I’d rather clean the toilet.”

• “Oh, my significant other offered to do the dishes, but I realized that would leave me no excuse for reneging on my promise to post a review. So, I did the dishes and two loads of laundry on top of that!”

• “I spilled cod liver oil on my hands so I would have an excuse not to gum up my keyboard! Don’t ask me why I was drinking cod liver oil. I had my reasons. Besides, it was better than posting a review!”

• “I got a written excuse from my doctor. Or nurse practitioner. Or next-door neighbor who happened to be wearing a white T-shirt that would pass for a hospital uniform if you saw him from the other end of a football field. It’s all the same.”

These responses were suspicious enough, but what really got me were the next few:

• “It’s against my philosophy.”

• “Dude. Chill. I was too stoned.”

• “I decided I’d rather reread the last four chapters of my philosophy textbook.”

• “I was afraid authors of competing books would stone me.”

• “I’d rather have a kidney stone that write a review!”

• “I got stuck at Phil and Sophie’s house.”

A definite pattern was emerging around philosophy and stones, and that could only mean one thing: Flamel’s curse was working. And it was working so well that readers would rather do anything except write a book review! Eat kale. Have a tooth extracted or even a root canal. Watch endless reruns of The PTL Club. Beat – or be beaten by – a dead horse. Anything!

(Among the excuses offered, tooth extraction seemed particularly apropos: Extracting reviews from readers can feel like pulling teeth!)

I looked at the parchment again and wondered: What if I were to burn it? Would that remove the curse? I struck a match and held it to the corner, which I was about to set ablaze when it occurred to me: This might be exactly what Flamel was counting on! I would be burning words on a paper, the very instruments of immortality he was trying to destroy (even if they were in French). I would be doing his work for him! I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. Or dammed. Probably both.;

Dejected, I returned the parchment to the caisson and the caisson to the credenza, hung my head and departed. It was plain that I would have to go back to begging and pleading for reviews, crawling to readers on my hands knees like some penitent medieval scribe, for all the good it would do me. Flamel was simply too accomplished an alchemist. I was beaten.

But I vowed, even so, that I wouldn’t stop writing. I’d even thumb my nose at old, dead Nicky Boy and write a little philosophy now and then. That would show him! I might not be able to beat him, but I could still grab a few crumbs from his precious pie of immortality for myself. Reviews or no reviews, I’ve still got a little bit of Harry Potteresque magic in my pen … er … keyboard, and I intend to use it!

Amazonus Scriptorus!

That’s got a nice ring to it. Now if I could just get J.K. Rowling to review one of my books! Who am I kidding, though. I may be a philosopher, but I’m no sorcerer!

In Genesis, as in life, we see what we expect to see

“They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple, but man, I ain’t goin’ for that.”

— Bruce Springsteen, Pink Cadillac

Virtually everyone knows the story of the Garden of Eden. We learned it in Sunday school, or from our parents.

We know from this story that Satan persuaded the first woman, named Eve, to eat an apple, which Jehovah had forbidden. We know that Eve then seduced the first man, Adam, into doing the same.

Except none of that is true.

I’m not saying it’s false in the sense that, “that’s just a myth, so it never happened” – that’s a different discussion. I’m saying it’s not in the story. No apple is ever mentioned. Neither is Satan. There’s no reference to the woman seducing Adam, and she didn’t receive the name “Eve” until after this all went down. Also, the divine presence in the story is Elohim, not Jehovah. Most of what we thought we knew about this story, it turns out, is a mixture of commentary and assumption that we simply accept as fact because it’s become part of our popular culture.

A god by any other name ...

How did it get that way?

When the story was written, the deity credited with creation was named Elohim – a Canaanite word meaning “the gods.” Plural. That, however, didn’t square with the worship of the Hebrew god Jehovah (singular), in Judeo-Christian tradition that became dominant later on. The name Jehovah, or Yahweh, doesn’t even appear in the Book of Genesis, which was written in its earliest form before this deity was widely worshipped.

When the worship of Yahweh became not only dominant, but exclusive, something had to be done to reflect that. The creation story was already so widely known that it couldn’t simply be erased from the public consciousness. So, it was reinterpreted. “Elohim” was suppressed, and the word itself was passed off as just another name for Jehovah. Both are translated as simply “God” in our Bibles, even though they’re entirely different words.

As to the apple, it’s never named as such in Genesis. The text only mentions “fruit from the tree in the middle of the garden.” There weren’t even any apples growing in the Middle East at the dawn of civilization (the first were cultivated in Kazakhstan, far to the northeast).

Bruce Wayne is Tony Stark

This brings us to the serpent, a central player in the little drama. The snake is never named as “Satan” in the story. This Satan first appears in the Book of Job, and is applied to a figure who is not a tempter, but an accuser.

In fact, satan (lowercase) is not a name at all; it literally means “the accuser,” and appears in 10 out of 12 Old Testament references as “the satan.” It could have been applied to one figure in one place and an entirely different figure somewhere else. To assume that “the satan” referred to the same individual every time it occurs would be the equivalent of inferring that “the actor” always referred to, say, Bill Murray. Or that every reference to “the painter” meant Picasso.

How thorough has this transformation from general accuser to specific person been? If you were sitting  behind me at my computer as I write this, you’d know: Every time I lowercase the word “satan,” my software responds with a squiggly red underline, indicating that I’ve got it “wrong.” The word, in the opinion of Microsoft Word, should always be capitalized as a proper noun!

It is only in the Book of Revelation, written thousands of years after the folktale that served as the basis for the Eden story, that “Satan” is referred to as “that ancient serpent.”

The satan was further identified with another character, Lucifer, which meant “light-bringer” and was just another name for the planet Venus, the morning star. According to the Book of Isaiah, however, Lucifer had “fallen from heaven” to “weaken the nations.” The author had, perhaps, heard a reference to Venus descending toward the horizon (falling) and/or appearing to fade as the sun rose. He then equated that with a moral failing or fall.

(For more on this, see my book Forged in Ancient Fires: Myth and Meaning in Western Lore.)

It’s not hard to see how this Lucifer became conflated with the serpent, who had himself fallen in the Eden story when he was cursed to crawl on his belly and eat dust. The serpent was also a light-bringer, in the sense that he promised enlightenment to the woman if she were to eat the fruit: “You will be like the Elohim, knowing good and evil.”

But equating the serpent with Lucifer and, hence, Lucifer with the satan, is like saying Batman and Iron Man are the same character. Both are genius billionaires who disguise themselves in fancy suits decked out with loads of techno-gadgets, then go around playing vigilante to fight the bad guys in comic books. Never mind that one’s named Bruce Wayne and the other is Tony Stark. Such minor details are as easily overcome as the difference between Lucifer and Satan, or Yahweh and Elohim.

Built-in bias

None of what I’ve written here would be surprising if we’d read the story itself before we heard the modern commentary. If we had never known about the story before, had never attended a Sunday school class and knew nothing about the rest of the Bible, we would have no basis for ever even guessing that the serpent was “Satan” or that the fruit was an apple. If we encountered the word Elohim for the first time, without any modern context, we might look it up and find that it meant “the gods.” If we read a separate passage about Yahweh in Exodus, we’d assume it was a different figure.

But we see what we expect to see, because someone has pointed us in that direction. We see gospel truth, when the author intended something else entirely. The story of Eden is, at the heart of it, a fable meant to convey a moral lesson and knowledge about how the universe came to be the way it is. Such stories are called etiological or origin stories; more recently, they’ve been referred to as just-so stories.

Rudyard Kipling wrote a number of them at the turn of the 20th century. Many of the titles are similar:

How the Camel Got His Hump

How the Leopard Got His Spots

How the Elephant Got His Trunk

The Eden account is based in part on just such a story. You might title it, How the Snake Got His Slither. The story offers an explanation, however fanciful, for why the serpent doesn’t have legs and crawls in the dust. It didn’t adapt to thrive in its environment. It was cursed! The tale also purports to explain why people wear clothes (they became ashamed of being naked after eating the fruit), why women experience pain in childbirth, and why the earth in the ancient Near East was hard to cultivate (more curses, which can be fixed by anesthesia and irrigation, respectively).

You can’t fight city hall

In addition to an etiological story, however, the Eden account served as a cautionary tale. The moral of the story, translated into modern terms, would be “You can’t fight City Hall.” (Secondarily, to paraphrase heavyweight champ Joe Louis, “You can run, but you can’t hide.”) The conclusion is that all the knowledge in the world won’t help you if you find yourself fighting against the gods. Only obedience, not wisdom, will save you. This wasn’t an uncommon theme in the ancient world: The story of Zeus punishing Prometheus for stealing fire from heaven and giving it to humanity is a parallel example.

The moral of the story isn’t spiritual and enlightened, but pragmatic and a cynical. It also served those in power well, as they could use it to keep their subjects in line.

But because our culture is so steeped in the false context created for the original story by the priests of Yahweh, by the author of Revelation, by Sunday school teachers and others, we don’t see any of this unless we look at the story with fresh eyes – and dare to challenge the cognitive dissonance that arises when we do so.

Admitting we misunderstood something as basic as the story of our own creation can be a bitter pill to swallow, but there’s a bright side to that realization. We get to create our own awareness and, as a result, our own destiny. That’s a happy ending in my book.

Stephen H. Provost is the author of several books about myth, religion and spirituality, including Forged in Ancient Fires, Messiah in the Making and Timeless Now.

History matters even more if the past is but a ghost

Timeless Now: The Empyrean Gate is my 20th book, with two more completed and in the pipeline for release next year. It marks a return to subjects touched on in some of my earlier projects, including philosophy and spirituality., and in a sense, it has brought me full circle –while at the same time collecting a series of insights gleaned over the years into a new, cohesive whole. It’s available on Amazon in paperback and ebook form, and I’ve made it as affordable as I can because I believe in its message.

“If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.”

— Rudyard Kipling

How can a historical writer dismiss the past as a mere shadow, a ghost, a phantom? It seems more than a little ironic on the face of it, I have to admit. Contradictory, even.

I spent nearly a decade researching a 1,000-page book on ancient history – my two-part Phoenix Principle, a look at the development of Western religion from the perspective of myth and politics.* It was the first book I ever wrote. More recently, over the past four years, I’ve written five books about 20th century Americana and the biography of a sports legend.**  

But my latest book, Timeless Now, begins by declaring, “Time does not exist,” and makes the point that all we really have is the present moment; the past itself is nothing but a series of ghost stories preserved, imperfectly, through memory. That might seem to diminish the importance of history, but for me, it makes it all the more precious. Because, without those memories, it simply vanishes, as though it were never there – and that would be a shame.

I love those stories, which is why I’m so passionate about history. Besides, stories of the past contain valuable lessons and, as George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Memory-stories provide context for the present, and they do exist in the present, even though the events they describe are proverbial dust in the wind.

The very fact that the past no longer exists makes preserving memory-stories that much more important – even though the stories are often flawed, or preserved at a slant because of the storyteller’s agenda. If the past itself existed in the present, we’d have no need for these stories; we could just check the facts directly. The stories preserve a crucial link to what was; they tell us where we’ve been.

Old friends and cold meals

The problem is not with the stories themselves, but with how we treat them. Do we welcome them for brief visits, like old friends and teachers who drop by for afternoon tea? Or do we cling to their coattails and beg them to stay, even as the evening meal grows cold and friends from the present wait outside on the doorstep?

The point is not to forget the past or the stories it has bequeathed us, but rather to refrain from attempting to make it our present. And that temptation is all too real. Instead of looking around us at the single moment we inhabit, at all the joy and wonders that surround us, do we focus instead on the guilt and regret and blame for things that can never be changed? Do we relive these things a thousand times in the hope that we might keep them from happening once in the future?

Or in seeking refuge from the pain of the present, do we retreat to the illusion of a better time, a golden age that no longer exists? Do we live inside our fond memories, hoping that the pain will go away?

We may visit museums or the graves of our loved ones, but we cannot live there, any more than we can live in a future that has yet to happen – and almost surely will not happen in the ways that we expect. We must surely grieve and honor that which took place in our past, but the ghosts of that past are like shadows, only existing in the light of the present.

The point of Timeless Now is not to forget the past, but to appreciate it for what it was – and this moment for what it is. The past can never be now, but now will soon be past, and no longer accessible to us as it is in this brief instant. It’s not something I want to miss out on.

We must remember the past, but seize the day. In this, there is no contradiction.

“Be here now.”

— Ram Dass

*The Phoenix Principle is available in two parts, Forged in Ancient Fires and Messiah in the Making.

**Those five books are Fresno Growing Up, Highway 99, A Whole Different League, Highway 101 and a forthcoming book on the history of department stores and shopping malls. The biography is The Legend of Molly Bolin.

Treasure maps don't inspire me — real people do

If you’re successful, please resist the urge to utter these five words: “You can do it, too!”

You may think they’re encouraging, but what if they have the opposite effect? How many J.K. Rowlings or James Pattersons are there? I can do it, too? Really?

Still, I’ve heard this kind of statement often enough from writers who’ve found success. I’m sure other creative people – visual artists, musicians, poets – have heard it, too. But let’s change it up for a moment. How would it sound coming from a Wall Street executive telling someone in the inner city how to succeed in business? Do the words “presumptuous” or “clueless” come to mind?

But for some reason, it’s considered OK – even “inspiring” – to speak to creative people like that. Kind of like the old saying that anyone can grow up to be president of the United States. Well, no, not just anyone can. Only people who receive millions of dollars in donations, are nominated by a major political party and receive a majority of Electoral College votes can do it. Oh, and you’ve got to be a citizen by birth and at least 35 years of age. If you’re a naturalized citizen or wind up dying before you hit 35, you’re out of luck.

I know this sounds cynical, but I’m not writing this from a cynical perspective. I’m trying to illustrate how people who have “made it” often view the world through the lens of their own narrative ... and then try to apply it to everyone else. Yet how they feel about their own success is informed by their hindsight; they might remember how hard it was to be a poor or struggling artist, but they no longer feel things from that perspective (not would they, I suspect, wish to do so).

Some people do this intentionally, to augment their income. They want to make everything seem “easy peasy” so they can sell you how-to books containing a “sure-fire” formula for success. But the only thing sure-fire about these books – even those that contain helpful advice, and some of them do – is that the author is going to be making money off each sale.

Most successful people, however, do it unintentionally. Some may suffer from impostor syndrome and can’t believe they deserve what they’ve achieved. They see themselves as frauds, and if they can fake their way to stardom, they assume others can do the same. Others look at how far they’ve come and sincerely want to encourage others – to share the “secret to their success.”

But the effect can be just the opposite: Instead of instilling hope, it can encourage people to place expectations on themselves that they have no way of ever fulfilling, because every situation is different, and everyone has a unique story to tell.

I’m not you

Whenever I hear someone say, “You can do it, too,” the little voice inside me says, “No, I can’t. Not the way you did it.” I want to tell them not to sell themselves short with false humility, because they have a talent I can’t replicate. Nor would I want to, because I’m not them. I can’t do what they’ve done, because what they’ve done is uniquely amazing and should be recognized as such, not downplayed as some sort of happy accident that can be duplicated by me or anyone else.

That being said, there is luck involved in any success, and I’m just as likely to duplicate a successful person’s luck as I am to match their skill.

What most people probably mean when they say, “You can do it, too,” is that they worked their asses off, and they view their success as the payoff for that hard work. Our nation’s Protestant work ethic has drummed it into us: We believe that hard work is the key to success, as though one automatically follows the other. Of course, it doesn’t. Any more than innate talent or even a single stroke of luck does. It’s just not as simple as that.

A successful person’s story can, indeed, be inspiring. I’m not for a moment suggesting that those who have found success “shut the hell up about it.” On the contrary. Those stories are part of what made them who they are, and they should be told – so we can get to know that person and celebrate their successes along with them.

But to suggest that “you can do it, too” is to cheapen those stories, to make them seem more pedestrian than they really are. I can’t live another person’s life or achieve someone else’s success; I can only live and achieve my own. When all is said and done, it will look different than that of another author who made more or less money, sold more or fewer books, became more or less well-known than I did. That’s not only OK, that’s how it should be.

Even if we don’t write books, each of us has a unique story to tell. It’s not a template for someone else’s story, because we aren’t cookie-cutter clones of some ideal. Each of us is unique, and each of our stories is, too. Someone once compared my writing to Stephen King’s, which is certainly flattering, but I’m not the next Stephen King ... and no one will be the next me.

When we stop trying to follow someone else’s treasure map, we stop trying to adopt their expectations as our own. Then, we’re free to appreciate their story as truly theirs, and learn about what makes them uniquely who they are. That’s authenticity, and it’s how we really get to know one another – not as “role models” but as real people.

And it’s real people who inspire me, whether they’re authors working their asses off, people juggling two jobs to make ends meet, stay-at-home parents or scientific geniuses. I’m encouraged by hearing about their unique life journeys, not by listening to two-dimensional success stories that end with false promises that “you can do this, too.”

I already know I can’t. And that’s part of what makes life beautiful.

The crucible of open dialogue and the echo chamber of fear

There’s a school of thought that’s gaining currency. It states that people don’t have a right to an opinion about things that don’t directly affect them.

The argument usually goes something like this: “You can’t possibly know what it’s like to deal with this, because you’ve never gone through it, and you never will. You’re not one of us, so you don’t get a say!”

This is dangerous for more reasons than one.

First, it sets up an adversarial mentality between two “sides” before anyone even gets a chance to express their ideas. It perpetuates the “us vs. them” attitude that has become so pervasive in today’s culture.

Second, it makes identity more important than the substance of what might be said. It assumes that a particular group is unqualified to weigh in, not because of what they might say, but because of who they are. If any member of the “out” group dares to speak, he or she had better parrot the party line – thereby adding nothing to the conversation – or risk public censure/alienation.

When identity is codified into law as the basis for inclusion, things get ugly. People aren’t allowed to vote because of their gender or skin color. This is both bigoted and undemocratic.

Third, depriving a segment – any segment – of the population of a voice makes dialogue impossible and casts the status quo in stone. Conforming to a status quo without question makes growth impossible, because it shuts down the marketplace of ideas. Only through dialogue can we bounce ideas off one another and find better solutions than any of us might have arrived at on our own.

Shutting people down makes greater understanding impossible, too. But when any group that shuts out people who “aren’t like us” isn’t interested in understanding other points of view. Members of such a group think they know everything already, and that other perspectives hold no value moving forward.

Free speech

Finally, it violates the spirit of free speech.

In the Skokie case, courts ruled that neo-Nazis were allowed to march through a heavily Jewish community that included a number of Holocaust survivors on the grounds that freedom of speech trumped their feelings. They were, essentially, trying to create a “safe space” for themselves. I, personally, disagree with the court on this. I think speech and events designed to provoke an incendiary response add no value to the public discourse.

But the point is, the court thought so highly of free speech it allowed an event most considered repugnant to go forward.

Now, before someone decides to lecture me about the First Amendment applying to governmental limits on free speech, rest assured, I get that. Shutting people down based on their identity doesn’t violate the letter of that amendment, but it sure as hell undermines the spirit of it. That spirit is founded on the notion that we’re all better off when we feel free to share openly – and when we make the effort to listen. Even – and perhaps especially – when what the other person’s saying might challenge our prejudices.

Most places aren’t Skokie, and most people aren’t neo-Nazis. This essay isn’t about such extremists, or anyone whose views are so clearly worthy of disdain. It’s about ordinary, rational people who are being told to STFU because they belong to a specific group – regardless of what they might say. Not a group like the KKK, but much larger groups, many of which aren’t joined electively and hold no abhorrent or even unified views. Not all (fill in the blank) are alike!

Imagine if someone said sports fans had no right to an opinion on free agency because it only directly affects players and owners. Or if people without children were told they had no right to speak their mind about the condition of our schools. Many people are affected by actions indirectly, and many of those people have ideas about those actions. Do they have as much insight as those with direct experience? Perhaps not. But those outside a situation can bring valuable perspectives that, in some cases, offer ideas based on a more detached view. Pre-emptively dismissing such ideas because of their source rather than their merits is short-sighted and foolish.

The crucible

Conclusions and prejudices may turn out to be well founded, but they still need to be challenged. And those challenges need to come from people with different perspectives. Otherwise, how will we know for sure whether they’re valid? We might still believe in a flat Earth, a geocentric model of astronomy, that dinosaurs lived alongside humans and that masturbation leads to blindness. Forming a hypothesis and conducting an experiment are crucial to the scientific method. But how can you form a reasoned hypothesis if you’ve never considered alternatives? And why bother to experiment if you already (think you) know the answer?

When you shut out people you worry might have opposing views based on nothing more than the messenger’s identity and the fear of being offended, you set the table for the kind of insular thinking that spawned Jonestown. An extreme example? Sure. But the principle is the same. And if the principle operates unchallenged for long enough, that’s the kind of thing that ends up happening. The frog will boil.

So, the next time you tell someone they don’t have the right to an opinion because they’re not like you, ask yourself whom you’re hurting. They won’t be the only losers, because it’s not a zero-sum game. Your conclusions might be right. Them might be wrong. Or, just maybe, greater truth and understanding might arise from the crucible of open dialogue.

Without such a crucible, nothing new and beautiful will ever be fashioned. Increasingly, out of fear, we’ve chosen to replace this crucible with an echo chamber.

There are no “safe spaces” when it comes right down to it. The world is a brutal and dangerous place, which is precisely why we need to stop alienating one another. We may not achieve safety, but we can find hope for a better world – not by ostracizing and dismissing others before they even open their mouths; only by engaging.

Like it or not, we’re all in this together.

Book reminded me why I admire the "Father of Christian Rock"

I met Larry Norman once, backstage after a concert at a church called Bethel Temple in Fresno, California. It was sometime around 1980, and the encounter was brief, but it stuck in my memory.

Others were gathered around, wanting to greet him, and when my turn came, I asked him a question I’ve long since forgotten. What I do remember was his response – not to the question, but to me personally. He stepped forward, and I must have either taken a step or leaned back. He said something to the effect of, “You value your personal space.”

I was maybe 17 years old at the time, and I’d never even thought about that concept before, but I immediately knew he was right. What I later learned about Larry – and seems apparent, as I look back on it – was that he took pride in being “invasive.” In challenging the status quo. It was one of the things I liked so much about his music.

It’s not an exaggeration to put Larry Norman up there with Dylan, Paul Simon and Lennon as a songwriter. In fact, I consider him the most gifted of the lot. The Great American Novel may be the most literate protest song ever written, all the more so because it straddled two worlds, critiquing secular society and Christian culture with equal candor. That’s something Larry did throughout his career.

Reintroduced in print

After that single meeting, I never got another chance to talk to Larry or to know him beyond what he revealed in his lyrics. He died of heart failure in 2008 at the age of 60. But recently, I got the chance to know him better via Gregory Alan Thornbury’s superb biography, Why Should the Devil Have All the Good Music?: Larry Norman and the Perils of Christian Rock (Convergent Books, 2018).

Thornbury’s evenhanded approach to Larry’s life stands in contrast with a documentary called Fallen Angel: The Outlaw Larry Norman, released the same year as the musician’s death. One writer described the video as a piece of “postmortem character assassination,” which doesn’t seem far wrong, considering it contains a number of vicious rumors that range from unsubstantiated to provably false. I won’t repeat those here. The video included interviews with an assortment people who had axes to grind against Larry and took the opportunity to do so; after all, the target of their criticisms was no longer around to answer them.  

Thornbury, by contrast, didn’t rely on recollections that might have been colored by the passage of time and the deepening of grudges. Instead, he was granted access to Larry’s personal archives – a collection of letters, notes, recordings, news clips, etc. – which contain accounts of events as they happened. The result is a sober picture of a man who was at once blunt and enigmatic, who fought a war for awareness on two fronts, challenging both secular seekers and the Christian establishment to look at themselves in a new light.

Two-front wars are hard to win, as reflected in songs such as Shot Down, his response to “rumors and gossip” from the church establishment that he was “sinful,” “backslidden” and had “left to follow fame.” “They say they don’t understand me, but I’m not surprised, because you can’t see nothin’ when you close your eyes.”

But the secular establishment was no more friendly. They didn’t want to hear songs about Jesus unless they were one-off fluff pieces like Jesus is Just Alright. Larry didn’t write fluff pieces.

An intentional enigma

On some level, Larry made himself hard to understand on purpose. But was that such a bad thing? It forced people to think for themselves rather than just accepting someone else’s easy answers. Jesus had done the same: In Larry’s words, “he spoke in many parables that few could understand, yet people sat for hours just to listen to this man.” Larry’s provocative lyrics and concert monologues had much the same effect.

That’s one big reason I related to him – and still do. In my own writing, I strive for originality. Repeating “the same old story” holds no appeal. If all I’m doing is reinforcing others’ biases, that’s neither loving nor illuminating. “I am only a ringing gong or a clanging cymbal.” I don’t know whether Larry ever quoted that verse from 1 Corinthians in this context, but he might as well have. He refused to write songs filled with popular Christian catch phrases, and Thornbury relates that he once said, “I believe that clichés are a sin. Maybe not to God, but to the muse of art.”

Larry wrote in one of the letters Thornbury quotes: “Music is powerful language, but most Christian music is not art. It is merely propaganda. It never relies on – in fact it seems to be ignorant of – allegory, symbolism, metaphor, inner-rhyme, play-on-word, surrealism, and many of the other poetry born elements of music that have made it the highly celebrated art form it has become. Propaganda and pamphleteering is (sic) boring and even offensive you already subscribe to the message being pushed ... which is why Christian records only sell to Christians.”

The second album in Larry’s trilogy of albums was pure allegory, focusing on man’s past in the Garden of Eden. It didn’t mention Jesus by name at all, so the Christian audience assumed he’d “gone secular,” finding further “proof” in the album cover, which featured a naked Larry playing the part of Adam. Never mind that he was only shown in a silhouette that was overlain by the image of a lion: You couldn’t even see his skin. What mattered was the self-righteous Christian establishment didn’t want allegory; it didn’t want to think. It wanted its spirituality spoon-fed in black and white, which was something Larry refused to do.

Outsider looking in

Larry lived his life as a perpetual outsider who once said, “I don’t feel like belonging to anything or anyone.” The cover of his most acclaimed album shows him scratching his head in bewilderment, and its title proclaimed he was Only Visiting This Planet. Lost behind the obvious Christian message was the sense that he must have felt that way on a personal level, too. Indeed, he once said he felt “like an orphan with a small, isolated voice crying out in a cultural wilderness.”

The cover to Gregory Alan Thornbury’s book.

Perhaps Larry’s childhood helps explain why he apparently felt so out of place. Thornbury writes that Larry grew up in a Christian household, but that he found church boring and street preachers joyless. His conversion at age 5 was personal, “without benefit of clergy.” It wasn’t to please his father, with whom he had a strained relationship, but to fill a void left by the man’s absence during a childhood where bullies outnumbered friends. Jesus became his best friend, and he “didn’t feel so alone after that.”

From then on, Larry knew Jesus was the answer, but he still felt he had to ask the questions, and this is what set him at odds with a church establishment that wanted people to accept its proclamations on faith. But Larry’s faith was in Jesus, not doctrines. Never was this more apparent than in the early ’80s, when his Phydeaux record label issued a T-shirt with the slogan “Curb Your Dogma!” (With Phydeaux being a faux-French spelling of Fido, the dog’s name. More wordplay.)

Larry even questioned “sacred cows” like the church’s knee-jerk condemnation of homosexuality. “Is homosexuality a real issue?” he asked. “Well, (in the church) you can’t talk about it on the grounds that the gay (community) wants to discuss it. They say, ‘We were born this way.’ But we ‘know’ that it’s not natural, that they’re not born that way. But do we know that? Have you thought about it?”

The implicit answer was no, they hadn’t. Congregations were merely parroting the judgments they had been thought, rather than thinking for themselves.

Larry didn’t fit in with either the secular questioners who didn’t like his answer or the religious establishment, which didn’t like his questions.

A time of hope

For a while, though, his approach appeared to be working. In the heady aftermath of the 1960s, there was a degree of synchronicity between American culture and the type of Christianity that Larry was espousing. He shared the egalitarian goals of the civil rights and anti-war movements, and listeners were at least open to songs about spirituality by mainstream artists such as George Harrison (My Sweet Lord), Blind Faith (Presence of the Lord), Norman Greenbaum (Spirit in the Sky) and Ocean (Put Your Hand in the Hand). The Andrew Lloyd Webber-Tim Rice musical Jesus Christ Superstar made Jesus “cool” and helped open the door to a certain degree of cultural commonality between Christians and non-Christians.

Grassroots movements such as The Vineyard, which started as a Norman-led Bible study, helped make Christianity more accessible to those who didn’t care for the formality or hierarchy of a traditional church. This wasn’t really anything new: The concept of the priesthood of all believers (translated in modern language as “a personal relationship with Jesus”) dated back to Martin Luther’s insurgent campaign against the Catholic Church. The 1970s were the same thing happening all over again.

The upstarts weren’t entirely innocent. There was even some ugly, even vicious anti-Catholic propaganda created by, among others, Keith Green, an incredibly gifted but often very judgmental musician whom Larry had steered toward Christianity. There was plenty of animosity to go around. And just as the Catholic Church had struck back against Protestantism in the Middle Ages, the mainstream church struck back against Larry Norman and others like him, branding them wolves in sheep’s clothing who were willing to “compromise with the world.”

Scapegoat and change

It didn’t help that egalitarians like Larry had no idea how to take their movement to the next level. They started out as critics of structure and organization, but when they tried to adapt this model to business, it created a series of misunderstandings and bad feelings. As a result, Larry’s vision of a record label built on a community of artists came quickly crashing down.

When one band signed to Larry’s label wanted to jump ship for a secular record deal, Larry was, by Thornbury’s account, willing to eat his own investment. But he said the band would have to keep its agreement to release an already-recorded album because he’d made a commitment to his label’s distributor. This wasn’t good enough for the band, which led Larry to dig in his heels on other points, as well, and although he wound up with nearly everything he fought for, he was subsequently blamed for much of the acrimony that ensued. This happened in part because of a failed business model and in part because the establishment was just itching to blame Larry for everything that went wrong.

Case in point: Thornbury relates that Larry fought to save his first marriage despite his wife’s drug use, visits to the Playboy mansion, multiple alleged affairs and admission that she had cashed thousands of dollars in checks made out to him. Larry was never accused of being unfaithful himself, but when he slept with a woman as a single man after his second marriage collapsed, he was castigated for it. Years later, the woman claimed he had fathered her child. That claim was never definitively proven (or disproven), but just the possibility it might be true confirmed everything the established church wanted to believe about the old thorn in its side – and provided the ammunition it craved to discredit him.

This all happened even as it embraced such “leaders” as Jim Bakker and Tony Alamo, both later convicted of major crimes, and Jimmy Swaggart, who was forced to admit his own infidelity. But however egregious their actions might have been, none of these people committed the ultimate transgression against the Christian establishment: asking too many questions. This was Larry’s cardinal sin, and even though he arrived at the same answer as they did (Jesus), they cared far more about how he got there. And because it was different than the way they’d gotten there, they condemned it.

At the end of the 1970s, Larry Norman appeared at the White House to play for one of his fans. President Jimmy Carter was a socially conscious Christian who shared many of Larry’s views. But when the ’70s ended, a different kind of Christianity rose up on the wings of Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority. This more judgmental, less inclusive movement ushered in a new establishment that slammed the door shut on egalitarian brand of Christianity that Larry espoused.

No room at the inn

There was no room for questioners like Larry Norman in the new world of black-and-white Christianity, and he never again attained the level of popularity or acceptance he had achieved during the 1970s. In the end, he died young and relatively unknown to many, despite being recognized as the “Father of Christian Rock” and the man behind the most critically acclaimed Christian album of all time.

Larry may have engaged in a degree of self-pity at times, but that’s a natural human response to the kind of attacks he faced. Given his immense talent, he could have probably made a fortune as a musician catering to either secular or Christian tastes. But he refused to cater to anyone, and that brought both scorn and frustration from both sides of the fence.

As an artist myself, I can relate. I’ve always insisted on asking the hard questions, refusing to settle for clichés in place of real answers. When it became clear the church didn’t want to listen, I stopped going. Unlike Larry, I didn’t start out with the ultimate answer. When I became a Christian, it was a trial run rather than a leap of faith. I recall saying to myself, “I’ll give this thing a chance. If it works, great. If not, at least I’ll know why.” Ultimately, it didn’t work for me, and what drove me away is the same narrow-minded intransigence Larry encountered all of his life.

The same evidence led us to different conclusions. Larry chose to continued the battle, while I stepped away from the war zone. I couldn’t understand why people who followed a prince of peace felt the need to remain continually at war with those they said they loved – even those who shared their core beliefs. I still can’t. And in the years since I left the church, those wars have only intensified. The conformist Christianity that marginalized Larry’s message during the 1980s has, if anything, gained a firmer foothold. The same people who excused men of dubious character like Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart now place their hope in a similarly corrupt president, sacrificing their principles for the sake of a worldly kingdom no god would ever claim.

Larry Norman, prophet

Larry’s lyrics from The Great American Novel turned out to be prophetic": “The politicians all make speeches, while the newsmen all take notes. And they exaggerate the issues as they shove them down our throats.” Such are the times we live in, and we need voices like Larry’s today more than ever – voices that challenge us to be a better version of ourselves. Articulating that challenge was Larry’s greatest gift, and it’s why I still listen to his music today, long after I stopped going to church.

Consider this lyric from the same song: “You kill a black man at midnight just for talking with your daughter. Then you make his wife your mistress and you leave her without water. And the sheet you wear upon your face is the sheet your children sleep on. And with every meal, you say a prayer you don’t believe, but still you keep on.”

Few others had the insight, integrity and guts to write lyrics like that, even at the height of the protest era. I can only imagine how many evangelicals would react to them today, in an era when most congregants admire a president who also enjoys the ardent support of the KKK.

My affinity with Larry stems in part from the fact that I, too, feel like I’m fighting a war on two fronts, with two things at stake: my personal integrity and my artistic vision. I have no desire to be either a religious robot or an embittered existentialist. Like Larry, I feel like a voice in the wilderness fighting an uphill battle. I refuse to conform for the sake of conformity or stop asking questions for the sake of “peace” – not when that peace is really a thinly veiled form of oppression.

I like to think, in some ways, that I’m following in Larry’s footsteps. Whether that’s the case or not, there’s no arguing that he inspired me.

I’m sorry I didn’t get another chance to talk to Larry Norman after that night in 1980, but I’m grateful to Gregory Thornbury for letting him speak to me again.

“A prophet has no honor in his own country.”

— John 4:44

“The church doesn’t think I’m a Christian.”

— Larry Norman

Writing the biography of a legend: Molly Bolin

Some people read romance novels for pleasure. Others read science fiction. In my youth, I was smitten by the Tolkien bug and went on a binge of epic fantasy, but these days, I have a different guilty pleasure: I read rock star biographies. Sammy Hagar. Freddie Mercury. Zeppelin. All four members of KISS.

For a while, I’ve wanted to write a biography of my own. Not a memoir, and certainly not an autobiography. I’m not in the business of putting people to sleep.

My friend Anne R. Allen, an author one of the premier bloggers on the business of writing, makes some good points in a recent piece on memoirs. The three that stood out to me were:

• Tell a page-turning story.

• Focus on significant and unique personal experience, especially when tied to a well-known person or event (emphasis mine).

• Remember that a memoir, like a novel, is read for entertainment.

The first and the third points are closely related, and all three together are the criteria I use when deciding to read a biography. Plain and simple: I want to find out more than I already know ... about someone I already know about. And I want that “more” to be entertaining.

But as an author, I want my stories to be original. I don’t have much interest in writing yet another biography about Freddie Mercury, no matter how big a fan I may be (and I am). That story’s been told, and no one needs me to tell it yet again. One of my main objectives as an author has always been originality. I wanted to write the definitive history of Fresno in the Baby Boom years in 2015 and of U.S. Highway 99 in 2017, because no one else had done it.  

As you might imagine, this quest for originality becomes more challenging in the realm of biography. If you write about a regular, average person, who wants to read that – unless the story is knock-your-socks-off incredible. But most well-known public figures have already been featured in biographies written by better-known authors than I. So, my desire to write a biography has always been unfulfilled as I waited for the “perfect” subject I suspected would never come along.

Then, she did. The result is The Legend of Molly Bolin.

Out of the blue

The irony is that this book came about because of another project that was more a labor of love than anything else. I didn’t write A Whole Different League (AWDL) to be a big seller; I wrote it because I had grown up as a sports fan and had always been fascinated about leagues that didn’t quite make it. I’d spent a decade working as a sportswriter at daily newspapers, yet I’d never written a sports book. I figured it was time to do so.

Writing AWDL, like reading rock star biographies, was something of a guilty pleasure for me – so much so that I wrote it in fits and starts over the course of two years, putting it down to write something I thought would be more marketable before picking it up again between projects. I had the first draft all but done when I remembered the Women’s Basketball League from the late 1970s, which had lasted three years and featured the likes of Ann Meyers, Carol Blazejowski, Nancy Lieberman ... and Molly Bolin.

The odd thing was, I’d never heard of Molly. But what made that even stranger is that she had scored more points than any of them. More points in a season. More points in a game. More points in a playoff game. More points in a half. More points in a career. The fact that the premier scorer in the first women’s pro basketball league had somehow flown under my radar piqued my interest, so I started doing some more research. I found out that she had remarried and was now Molly Kazmer, so I took a flyer and looked her up on social media.

Lo and behold, she answered my request and wound up providing me with some great firsthand information about the WBL for that final chapter. But the more she told me, the more I became convinced that her story alone would make a fascinating book. Had anyone else written one on her? Had she ever considered writing one herself?

By fortuitous happenstance, the answers were “no” and “yes,” respectively. In fact, she had been accumulating a wealth of photos, newspaper clips and other memorabilia to someday document her life and career. I suggested to her that “someday” might be now: Would she consider working with me to tell her story?

Again, the answer was “yes,” and for the next 10 weeks or so, we communicated almost daily as I wove together her life’s story from a combination of her many recollections, media resources and interviews with contemporaries – many of whom had amazing stories of their own to tell. There was Tanya Crevier, the 5-foot-3 ballhandling wizard who played three years of pro ball with Molly and still performs an amazing and inspirational show worthy of the Harlem Globetrotters for people around the world. Then there was Greg Williams, the only person to coach women’s championship teams in three different pro leagues, on top of an impressive Division I college resume. He not only was kind enough to sit for an extensive phone interview, but he agreed to write the foreword.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

An amazing story

Even with all that, though, Molly was the star of the show. Not only was she the top scorer in the first women’s pro league, she was the first player to ever sign. She went from a benchwarmer during the first half of her rookie season – to the team’s offensive star, even though she was young enough to have been a junior in college.

She adapted her game from Iowa’s old 6-on-6 rules (three offensive players always in the frontcourt; three defenders confined to the other half of the hardwood). But not only that, she turned it to her advantage by using a quick stop-and-shoot style that presaged the modern jump shot practiced by the likes of Stephen Curry – to whom she’s been compared. Or, perhaps, he’s been compared to her.

She even won a precedent-setting court case and helped pave the way for today’s merchandising boom by pro athletes such as Michael Jordan and LeBron James, when she came up with a marketing strategy that made her basketball’s answer to Farrah Fawcett. Stars like Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Pete Maravich, Martina Navratilova and Rick Barry play a part in the narrative, too.

I won’t give anything more away (you’ve got to buy the book!), but I will say this: The Legend of Molly Bolin is everything a great biography should be – and not because I wrote it. It was simply a great story waiting to be told, and I had honor of being the one to tell it.

The story isn’t just about Molly. It’s about all the players, coaches and executives who made history by taking part in the WBL and other early women’s leagues. People like Althea Gwyn, Doris Draving, Cardte Hicks, Connie Kunzmann, Robin Tucker, Rita Easterling, Janie Fincher and Tanya Crevier. The league was inducted as a whole into the Women’s Basketball Hall of Fame last year as Trailblazers of the Game, and deservedly so.

But there are at least a few members of the old WBL who deserve to be inducted individually, as players like Meyers, Blazejowski, Lusia Harris and Lieberman have been. After all, if a Stevie Nicks can join the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a member of Fleetwood Mac and a solo artist, it only makes sense to bestow the same kind of honor on a Molly Bolin.

Like one of her jump shots, it ought to be a sure thing.