tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60563424294836484092024-03-13T03:20:46.394-07:00Rick JustThis is the official blog of author Rick JustRick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-7930317426345399592017-05-22T08:12:00.003-07:002017-06-01T15:05:07.948-07:00How many Idaho state parks are there?<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="6q1u1" data-offset-key="b4hgo-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 24px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="b4hgo-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">One of the most common questions I get is, how many state parks are there in Idaho? Right now, 30 with an asterisk. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6p6tm-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Idaho has always had a hard time defining the term state park. For decades one meaning was something like: any land owned by the state of Idaho that invited citizens to use it. That included rest areas and roadside stops that happened to have a picnic table. As a result, state parks were managed at various times by the Idaho Department of Transportation, Public Works, and the Idaho Department of Lands. It wasn’t until 1965 that a dedicated state parks agency was formed.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bgskn-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Today’s “30” state parks include at least one you’ve never heard of and is difficult to visit and one that isn’t actually managed as a state park anymore.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7848t-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Mowry State Park, on Lake Coeur d’Alene, became a state park in 1972 when the Mowry family made a partial donation of the property to the state. It’s the one you’ve probably never heard of. The property is on two small peninsulas with a beautiful beach between the two. The problem is that the state doesn’t own the beach. It hoped to acquire it, but was unsuccessful. That left one peninsula that is two high about the water and two small to be of much use, and another peninsula that can be reached only by boat. That one, called Gasser Point, is managed as a boat-in picnic site by Kootenai County Parks and Waterways. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="b6av0-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Veterans Park in Boise used to be known as Veterans Memorial State Park, beginning in 1982. The Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation (IDPR) turned management of the site over to Boise Parks and Recreation in 1997. You won’t see signs there calling it a state park, but it’s still listed as such in statute, and is still owned by the State of Idaho.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="em33g-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Another thing that makes counting state parks confusing is local usage. Many people call Malad Gorge, Billingsley Creek, Box Canyon, Ritter Island, and Niagara Springs state parks. IDPR calls them “units” of Thousand Springs State Park. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8b176-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">Even this nifty IDPR poster created by Boise artist Ward Hooper shows only 27 state parks, which is off from the “official” count of 30 in statute. Why? Well, they didn’t bother creating a logo for Mowry or Veterans because see above. And—I’m just speculating here—they didn’t order a logo for Glade Creek State Park because of the nature of the place. Glade Creek, on Lolo Pass, was where Lewis and Clark first made camp in what would become Idaho. IDPR manages the site as a natural area and doesn’t encourage use other than brief visits to the interpretive overlook. So, you do the math!</span></span></div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-4525375922104171922017-05-22T07:47:00.000-07:002017-05-22T07:47:20.032-07:00Dorthy Johnson<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Largely because of the activities of the now defunct Aryan Nations, there is a lingering perception nationally that Idaho is not a place that welcomes diversity. Statistically, it is not a very diverse state. According to the Census Bureau, African-Americans made up just .06% of the state during the most recent census in 2010. It was about the same in 1964, when an African-American woman from Pocatello was chosen as Miss Idaho.</div>
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Yes, right in the middle of the civil rights mov<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">ement, Idaho sent a woman of color to the Miss USA pageant. Nineteen-year-old Dorthy Johnson was not the first African-American woman to compete in the pageant. That distinction went to Corinne Huff who served as an alternate for Miss Ohio in 1960. But Johnson was the first African-American semi-finalist in the pageant.</span></div>
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There have since been six African-American winners of the pageant, since. The first was Carole Gist, Miss Michigan, in 1990.</div>
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Idaho’s Dorthy Johnson would go on to become an award-winning educator. She was the Los Angeles Reading Association’s Teacher of the Year in 1992, listed in Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers, and nominated for the Disney Teacher of the Year Award in 2002. Dorthy Johnson LeVels passed away in the town where she was born, Pocatello, in April 2017.</div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-38194798496042559932017-05-22T07:45:00.000-07:002017-05-22T07:45:56.048-07:00The Swinging Bridge<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Picnickers from Spokane used to take a train to Coeur d’Alene, then catch a paddlewheel steamboat to Heyburn State Park in the early part of the 20th Century. This shot on the left shows the swinging railroad bridge in action, letting a steamboat through into the park.</div>
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This is the same swinging bridge today, though it doesn’t swing anymore. Engineers raised it high enough to let sailboats beneath it when Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes was built in about 2004. The 72-mile trail goes from Plummer to Mullan on the old railroad bed. It’s paved all the way, including this section that goes across the lake and the old swinging bridge in Heyburn State Park.</div>
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For more Idaho state parks history, read Images of America, Idaho State Parks by Rick Just. Now available online and in your local bookstore.</div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-75449170571608626632017-05-22T07:43:00.001-07:002017-05-22T07:43:28.929-07:00Joe Albertson<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
When Joe Albertson started working for the Safeway chain of supermarkets, he may have dreamed of owning the store someday. In a sense, he ended up owning the store and the Safeway chain.</div>
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From the time he attended the College of Idaho, graduating in 1925, all Joe Albertson wanted was to be a grocer. He worked for Safeway, a chain that started in Idaho, for several years, then borrowed $7,500 from his aunt and matched that with $5,000 of his own savings to start his own grocery<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"> store on State Street in Boise. That was in 1939. Joe added a store and another and another until he had a string of Albertsons stores. It was a well-known chain throughout the West when he died in 1993.</span></div>
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Albertsons all but disappeared for a time after his death, but former employees of the company reorganized under the Albertsons name in 2006. The company is a now a retail giant, reportedly the fastest growing retailer in May, 2017 (see link at the bottom of this post).</div>
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Joe Albertson would probably be proud that the company he started now owns the company he first worked for, Safeway, as well as many others. Perhaps he's best remembered, though, for his philanthropy. The two best examples are his donation of Katheryn Albertson Park in Boise, and the Albertson Foundation, which still gives millions to Idaho projects, particularly in the field of education.</div>
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<a href="http://www.fooddive.com/news/grocery--albertsons-is-the-fastest-growing-retailer-in-america/442820/" rel="nofollow noopener" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">http://www.fooddive.com/…/grocery--albertsons-is-th…/442820/</a></div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-88507360795884583572017-05-18T11:19:00.000-07:002017-05-18T11:20:40.951-07:00The River Between the Lakes<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
This is Idaho’s famous “River Between the Lakes” in Heyburn State Park. It is and isn’t a natural feature. Prior to installation of the Post Falls Dam in 1908, Hidden, Round, Benewah, and Chatcolet were individual lakes, except during high water when they merged with the larger Lake Coeur d’Alene. The dam holds the lake at is high-water level, so the St. Joe River, which winds between the southern lakes, has now all but disappeared, leaving just a thin strip of bank on either side through Heyburn State Park.</div>
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For more Idaho state parks history, read Images of America, Idaho State Parks by Rick Just. Now available online and in your local bookstore.</div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-82808516243099658562017-05-18T11:18:00.000-07:002017-05-18T11:18:05.385-07:00Early Mail Delivery in Idaho<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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One of the most frustrating problems facing early settlers was the lack of a dependable mail system.</div>
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Getting letters to friends and family in other areas of the country was often a matter of luck. Whenever early settlers met a packer or some unhappy emigrant heading back east, they grabbed the opportunity to send mail with them, often composing letters on the spot.</div>
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One early-day traveler through Idaho, a man named Wakeman Bryant, described such an incident:<br />"We met ... a party of trappers, some of whom intended to return to the states. They were carrying mail back, receiving 50 cents a letter. They had some thousands of letters. I stopped long enough to write two, and committed them to their charge."</div>
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Often, pioneers had no choice but to leave their precious mail at a trading post, with no more than a hope that someone would come along to carry the letters east.</div>
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By the 1860s, the federal government was awarding postal contracts to private entrepreneurs. But it wasn't until the highways linking all parts of Idaho were finally finished, that mail service became dependable.</div>
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Nobody knows how much mail was lost during the early days of Idaho. One thing seems sure, though. At 49 cents per letter today, the system is vastly improved from the days when a stranger going east was the mailman.</div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-35052133244454861592017-05-18T11:16:00.002-07:002017-05-18T11:16:23.184-07:00Harmon Killebrew<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Today's feature is about the only Idaho-born baseball player ever to make it to the Hall of Fame, Harmon Killebrew.</div>
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When the major league scouts hear about a boy playing semi-pro baseball with an .847 batting average, they take notice. In 1954 several teams sent scouts to watch a 17-year-old from Payette, Idaho play ball. The scout from the Washington Senators watched the kid come up to the plate 12 times. He struck out once, hit four singles and doubles, three triples, and f<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">our home runs.</span></div>
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The scout couldn't wait to get the signature of Harmon Killebrew on a $30,000 contract.</div>
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Over the years, hundreds of fans have sought that signature too, on programs and baseballs. Idaho's Harmon Killebrew was, quite simply, a phenomenal baseball player.</div>
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In 1959, during his first full year with the Senators, he tied the home run record for the season. He eventually slugged away 573 homers in his career. In the American league that was second only to Babe Ruth in his time. He spent 13 seasons in the top ten.</div>
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Killebrew, who played first and third base, was the premier home run hitter in the 60s and 70s, leading his league six times. In 1984, the Payette native was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.</div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-5474679597608831902017-05-18T11:15:00.001-07:002017-05-18T11:15:05.407-07:00I'm combining my new Facebook page, Speaking of Idaho, with this long neglected blog. My plan is to post daily, with few exceptions. Here's the first Speaking of Idaho post.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;">The Railroad Ranch saw its share of celebrities during its history, before becoming Harriman State Park. This picture shows then Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation Director Steve Bly with Elliot Richardson at the ranch in 1974. Richardson was US attorney general during the Nixon administration. He famously resigned rather than fire special prosecutor Archibald Cox during the Watergate scandal. This was probably a better day for him.</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-moQF3gvWz4w/WR3kngXvAPI/AAAAAAAAEd0/gFiqPzeTO6M45yoDrkOhNn5oBlvERIeYACLcB/s1600/Elliot%2BRichardson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-moQF3gvWz4w/WR3kngXvAPI/AAAAAAAAEd0/gFiqPzeTO6M45yoDrkOhNn5oBlvERIeYACLcB/s320/Elliot%2BRichardson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"><br /></span>Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-9170855070562141242015-11-11T06:35:00.001-08:002015-11-11T06:35:16.900-08:00Awards
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So, last night was a good night. At the Idaho Author Awards I won first place for Young Adult Fiction, first place for E-Book, and second for over all fiction (that darn Anthony Doerr). Yup, right there in second place behind the Pulitzer Prize winner, and only about 10 million books behind!</span></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-21903643023198871442015-10-24T07:50:00.002-07:002015-10-24T07:50:33.876-07:00What the story is about<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Every writer gets the question, “What is your book about?” If that writer has been to a seminar on writing, she probably tries to pull up that elevator pitch she’s been working on. That’s probably what they want to hear.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So, for my book <i>Ghost Writer</i> they would hear something like this: </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Sam expected a new phone for her 14th birthday. Instead, her dad gave her a leather-bound diary he had found in the home his great grandparents had lived in. She hates the diary, but at his insistence scribbles something in it, then tosses it aside. Later, she retrieves the pen she’d closed inside the diary and sees that someone else has been writing in it. Sam and her friend, Hailey, learn that the person making the entries is a 14-year-old girl from 100 years ago. At least, she says she is. They think it’s a hoax and go about proving it. They get the “ghost girl” to send things into the future--stamps, lipstick, a lock of hair--by sealing them in a Ball jar and hiding it in an ice cave near the old house.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Funny thing, though, that isn’t what the book is about. That’s the story, but the book is about the consequences of the anti-vaccination movement. You wouldn’t get that from the story synopsis. Although there is a big hint there, which I slyly removed from the paragraph above to help make my point. The missing sentence is the last one: “But there is something invisible riding along on that tube of lipstick.” </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Every book is about something. It can be so subtle that the reader may not even notice it, simply enjoying the story without picking up on the lesson. Not all writing is overtly didactic, but all writing comes from a teaching tradition. Writers are story tellers. Story tellers who plied their trade around an open fire always had a point to their story. They were passing along knowledge. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">You do not have to agree with the lesson of a book to enjoy that book. I’ve enjoyed countless novels about the dangers of scientific overreach. I don’t lose a lot of sleep over it. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In <i>Ghost Writer</i> the lesson is about trusting science, even in a story that relies heavily on readers who enjoy the improbable. Will they agree with the lesson? Maybe. I only hope they enjoy the story and that they give a little thought to what the story is about.</span></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-58361493227309823502015-10-23T10:13:00.000-07:002015-10-23T10:13:10.809-07:00<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 15px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Ye gawds, I can’t believe I’m defending Donald Trump. He’s such an easy target for political humor, but an attempt at same today totally misses the point of the Flesch-Kincaid reading scale.</div>
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The scale rates ease of reading based on a number of factors including word and sentence length. I write mostly young adult books, so I’m happy when my work ranks around the fourth grade level. But, I’m equally happy if my adult novels come in about the same.</div>
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Flesch-Kincaid is not an intelligence test, as an article <a href="http://ifyouonlynews.com/" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.298039); background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(68, 68, 68, 0) 50%, rgba(68, 68, 68, 0.247059) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 1em 2px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0.15em; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">ifyouonlynews.com</a>seems to imply. They ran <a href="http://www.ifyouonlynews.com/politics/rofl-heres-a-professional-analysis-of-the-grade-level-of-a-donald-trump-speech/" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.298039); background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(68, 68, 68, 0) 50%, rgba(68, 68, 68, 0.247059) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 1em 2px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0.15em; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">speeches</a> from Democratic and Republican presidential candidates through Flesch-Kincaid. Sooo hilarious that Trump’s speeches came in at grade level 4.1. The implication was that his followers are stupid.</div>
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Someone who wants to reach a broad audience is wise to keep their speech at about that level. It is a sign that they <i style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">may</i> be clear and concise. It is not a guarantee that they are making sense.</div>
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BTW, the above paragraphs came in at 6.2 on the scale. If I had more time, I’d work on getting that a little lower. Fool that I am.</div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-77561250170109396952014-06-25T15:12:00.001-07:002014-06-25T15:12:41.805-07:00Skymaster<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 36.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Skymaster<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From the series Uncle Oz Explains
Things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By Rick Just<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I was
maybe ten when I took my first helicopter ride. It was memorable mostly because
the helicopter was made out of a Buick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
Higgins was handy that way with just about anything that had a bolt. He’d found
the Buick—practically new—in a junkyard over in Blackfoot. Ralph loved
junkyards, because he could see the possibilities. There would be a Thunderbird
that had flipped end-to-end through the lava rocks and he would hardly notice
that the body looked like metal cats had clawed it. What he would notice was
how perfect that one bucket seat was. New, practically. Perfect to replace the
seat with on his D-9 Caterpiller.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So,
Ralph was naturally drawn to this 1956 Buick Roadmaster hardtop. It was the kind
with the chrome swoop on the side that would make the folks at Nike jealous,
and four—FOUR!—portholes in the front fenders. It had also had fender fins.
Pretty good ones, though not as good as Cadillacs about that time were
sporting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Now, you
probably think I made a mistake when I said it “had also had.” That’s awkward
grammar, to be sure, but it is accurate awkward grammar. The Roadmaster once
had finned fenders in the rear, but that was before it, let’s say, backed into
a telephone pole going about 75 miles an hour. Hit the thing square on like it
was aiming to kiss wood with the trunk emblem. This had turned the back of the
Buick into a U-shape that was nearly an O-shape, with the fenders about to
touch tips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
saw none of that. Through his eyes this was a shiny new Roadmaster with 536
miles on the odometer, drastically reduced in price. He haggled that price down
a bit, getting the guy at the yard to throw in a used rear axle that would fit
the Buick, since the one it had was compromised in that the differential was
full of wood splinters and dirt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But it
wasn’t just the Buick that caught Ralph’s eye that day. He also took a shine to
an army helicopter that had taken what they call in the military a “hard
landing.” Ralph bought the whole thing, though he had his heart set mostly on
the blades and the gears and shafts that made them turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Now,
this is all just backstory to help you understand how it came to pass that I
took my first helicopter ride with Ralph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I was in
the habit of visiting the man on dull summer days because he always had
something going on and it usually involved noise and sparks. Occasionally,
explosions. Ralph let me putter around in his shop making useful things like a
go cart that could, in a pinch, cut grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When I
skidded to a stop on my Schwinn that morning I was most impressed with the
gleam coming off the fenders that were sticking out of the front of Ralph’s
shop. It was unusual for anything to gleam in that building, which itself was
constructed from tarpaper and warped planks that Ralph had scavenged from
rotting sheds and barns that were peacefully returning to nature before he came
along. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
Buick, bright red except for the roof and the area below the aforementioned
swoop on the side, the color of rich cream, was the newest machine that had
ever graced the shop. This was in 1956 and the car was <i>a 1956!</i> I thought my heart would about stop. I thought Ralph had
won the lottery, or I would have thought that, had there been one back then.
This was so uncharacteristic of the man that I wondered if maybe he’d had a
stroke and couldn’t keep himself from spending money on a new thing. Ralph
spent a lot of money on old things and broken things and wrecked things, hoping
to turn them into something better than new through the alchemy of an acetylene
torch and liberally applied bailing wire, but to buy a thing when it was
already new would, in Ralph’s mind, bring down the wrath of the duct tape gods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
confess my jaw was hanging down like the tailgate of the 1937 through 1940 cut-down
and pasted together almost-a-Ford that Ralph called his pickup. Then I saw
Ralph, working his way forward along the driver’s door with a clean rag—an item
as rare in that place as a badger in the Safeway—polishing the paint until he
could see himself, which was also amazing because upon glimpsing his reflection
Ralph did not startle and shriek. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I was
used to the way Ralph looked, but I suspected he was not himself well
acquainted with the countenance he put forward to the world. Ralph had enough
of his fingers left to establish a quorum, but just. He was missing the lobe of
one ear, from the base of which ran a ragged scar down along his jaw on the
right hand side, which did a quick U-turn before it got quite to his chin, then
meandered across his cheek to one eye, jumped the socket of same, burrowed
under his eyebrow and ran out of gas halfway across his forehead. That eye, the
one on the right, was the easiest of the pair to look at. It was perfect glass
and sported none of the yellowing and—I swear—throbbing veins of its head mate.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Point of
fact it took a fair amount of looking before one could make out these details.
Ralph found “mechaniking,” as he called it, easier to do if he were thoroughly
greased from his matted locks to the flapping sole on his left shoe. To say
that he was dirty was to give grime too little credit. To this day I don’t even
know what race Ralph was. The only color associated with his body that I could
attest to was the aforementioned eye, which was red, white, and blue, and yellow,
and the pink of his tongue, which sometimes appeared between the two
nicotine-stained teeth that made themselves known by their jaunty angles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So,
Ralph. He noticed me and gave me his impersonation of a grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“’Lo,
Ozzie,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“’Lo,”
said I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You
wanna go for a ride in this baby?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I nodded
that I did, just short of the moment I spotted the helicopter blade. To be
fair, I would have agreed to go for a ride if I knew all about the tacked on
rotor. Thanks to Ralph I had already experimented with locomotion through three
of the four elements, earth, water and fire—the latter on a rocket powered
sled—so air seemed like the next logical step.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
slipped behind the wheel of the Buick, started it up, and drove, and drove, and
drove it out of the shed. The car had acquired a tail and a tail rotor from the
slightly used helicopter. Where once fins flared behind the rear whitewalls
there now grew rebar braces and scab welding which indelicately mated the
automobile with the stabilizing end of the aircraft. Sprouting from the roof of
the Buick was the main rotor, one blade facing forward and the other facing
back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In a
laudable attempt at aesthetics, Ralph had used red barn paint to tie the tail
in with the color scheme of the car. He had also added a touch that I would
have found charming, if I knew then what charming was. He had pried off the
“Road” from the Roadmaster nameplate on the side of the car and replaced it
with a word in a slightly different font. The word was “Sky,” probably borrowed
from a Buick Skylark. Thus, Skymaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hop in,
then,” Ralph called.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hop I
did not. Get in—cautiously, with much trepidation—I did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
revved the big V-8. It was quite a lot louder than necessary, which met with my
immediate approval.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
re-routed the exhaust pipes through them portholes in the fenders. You like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
revved the engine again. It backfired once when he let off the gas, shooting a
little ball of flame from the passenger side fender. I liked it very much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Now, I
don’t know where the term “bucket seat” originated, and I won’t make a claim
that Ralph had anything to do with it. I will point out, though, that the
passenger seat in the Buick was an actual bucket, turned upside down and
secured by bailing wire disappearing through holes in the carpet. Ralph’s side
had a cut down kitchen chair—one of those chrome things so popular in the
50s—welded to the floorboards. This was necessary because there was little room
for anything else because of the mechanism for the rotor that loomed in the
center of the passenger compartment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
rolled out onto the gravel road that ran along in front of Ralph’s place. He
had the radio on because, though he didn’t go to a lot of dances, Ralph did
enjoy the music of the day. The Platters, at that moment, were singing “My Prayer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The car
moved along pretty much as any car of Ralph’s would, which is to say quickly,
noisily, and with little indication of shock absorbers. We were doing about 70
when we left the gravel and hit the paved surface of the farm to market road
which, I am almost certain, had not been engineered as a runway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
speedometer needle was quivering around 90 when Ralph asked, “Are ya ready?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I don’t
recall answering, and I’m not sure what ready would have looked like.
Nevertheless, Ralph reached forward and grabbed a lever I hadn’t noticed. It
looked like it had spent its better years as the key feature of a dump rake. He
yanked the lever back hard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
blade that stuck out in front of the car had to that point bounced quietly up
and down with the rhythm of the ruts. Now, it shot to the left and came around
again before I could turn my head. By the third rotation it was just a blur. At
the same time I noticed a draft fluffing up my short sleeve shirt on my left. I
turned my head just enough to see that there was a mass of gears, chains, and
shafts all in manic motion inches from my 75 pound body, threatening to reach
out and claw me into its maw. OHSHA was years away, so there was little hope of
rescue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
gave a cry that was close enough to “Yee-haw!!” for the telling of this story.
It was in celebration of the nose of the Skymaster lifting off the ground. I
could tell this because the ground was no longer there in front of me. I might
have glimpsed it out the side window if my neck weren’t locked in place. I
dared not look left because I knew what I’d see. I dared not look right because
I did not know what I would see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So, eyes
straight ahead, unblinking, I joined the Platters in prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well,
dang!” Ralph shouted over the mechanical clatter between us. “I did forget
that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I might
have asked what he had forgotten, but I could see from the corner of my eye
that he was spinning the wheel back and forth to no effect. Steering. He had
forgotten to include some method of controlling the direction the airborne
Skymaster might take. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">This was
of immediate importance, though from my perch atop the galvanized bucket I was
not aware of it. It seems we were coming up on the bridge. It was not a
noteworthy bridge in any aspect before that day. It crossed a canal, holding
itself up by a grid of steel girders on either side. There was room for two
cars to pass coming in opposite directions, though most people tended not to
test that when they came to the bridge and another car was approaching from the
other side. Depending on the age and/or maturity of the drivers, the cars would
either race to see who crossed the bridge first, or slow to let the other guy
pass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We were
not slowing. We were, in fact, flying, albeit low. I estimate we were at that
moment about a foot off the ground. At our apogee, we might have reached the
height of a horse, though Ralph would argue for many hands higher. Still, with
no steering and no tires on the ground to facilitate braking, we were somewhat
at the mercy of physics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Clean
living—probably my own, since I was the only possible candidate—allowed us to
thread that needle. That is, the Skymaster centered on the bridge as we shot
across it in the air. All things added up, this was a good thing. Ralph might
argue that a few feet in any of three directions, including up, would have
improved the outcome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
whirling blade of the horizontal rotor smacked into the sides of the bridge at
something like a zillion miles an hour. The bridge didn’t budge. The rotor of
the Skymaster dematerialized in that memorable instant, dropping the Buick to
the pavement. So, now we were going 90 miles per hour with a churning
conglomeration of gears and metal shards exploding in the interior of the car
with us. But, we were on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
momentum of the Skymaster blades hitting the immovable bridge supports pulled
that precision mechanism out of the car like God himself had reached in and
plucked it away. With it came the roof of the car, or the better part of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
had the presence of mind, or more likely the animal instinct to stand on the
brake pedal. He may even have been doing this before we hit the bridge. It was,
however, to no avail. The exiting rotor mechanism that was so intimately
connected to the car had pulled much of the mechanical niceties away with it,
including the brake lines. The engine of the Buick stayed more-or-less in
place. As we careened along, Ralph recovering from an endless series of skids
by spinning the steering wheel left and right, I heard the V8 sputter to a
stop. Eventually, so did we.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In the
years that followed I would ride in several helicopters, sometimes hearing
ominous pings of ricochet off the fuselage. At those times I would think of
Ralph and my introduction to the glorious air in the Buick Skymaster and say a
silent prayer of thanks that this flight was so much better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-61799611435174739362014-06-16T09:04:00.003-07:002014-06-16T09:04:42.513-07:00Word Count<div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 13.066666603088379px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
A fellow writer asked a question yesterday in the Idaho Writers Guild (IWG) forum regarding how long a novel should be. The snarky answer, and maybe the best one, is: As long as it needs to be.</div>
<div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 13.066666603088379px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
However, there’s the market to consider. At recent a IWG writers conference a panel of agents addressed this question. They said the market is looking for books in the range of 40,000 to 60,000 words. Books over 100,000 words are strongly discouraged. The three books in my YA series <em style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; outline: none 0px;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wizards-Trilogy-Rick-Just-ebook/dp/B00IKY4FFO/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1402934411&sr=8-3&keywords=the+wizards+trilogy" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.298039); box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; outline: none 0px;" target="_blank">The Wizards Trilogy</a> </em>ranged from 100,000 to 125,000, so I broke that rule. <em style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; outline: none 0px;">Gone With the Wind</em> has more than 425,000 words, so Margaret Mitchell broke it, too. Rules change.</div>
<div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 13.066666603088379px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
Cruise the internet for a minute and you’ll get all kind of answers and quibbling on this subject. Well, any subject. It does seem that the big five publishers are looking for shorter books these days. My latest book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Anjel-Rick-Just-ebook/dp/B00IHJCAFO/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1402934453&sr=1-1&keywords=anjel" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.298039); box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; outline: none 0px;" target="_blank"><em style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; outline: none 0px;">Anjel</em></a>, has just short of 70,000 words. The one I’m working on right now will have about 45,000 words.</div>
<div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 13.066666603088379px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
As with most things in life, the slimming down of novels has aspects both good and bad. Clearly, it’s good for publishers to keep the page count down, especially for books sold online where you don’t get to heft them. It’s bad for readers who want to wallow in the next <em style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; outline: none 0px;">Game of Thrones</em>, or who are listening to a book on a 10-hour trip.</div>
<div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 13.066666603088379px; outline: none 0px;">
Overall, the trend is probably positive. The best advice a new writer can get is to cut their manuscript mercilessly. If shorter books mean writing is sparer, that’s usually a good thing. It worked for Hemmingway. I hope it doesn’t discourage the next Dickens. </div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-28062786191430773402014-06-13T07:28:00.003-07:002014-06-13T07:28:32.255-07:00Squirm<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s how it usually goes: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Interviewer asks a pointed question, often one that can be
answered with yes or no. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Interviewee does a rumba that is, perhaps, within a light
year of answering the question, but does not answer the question at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Interviewer moves on to the next question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, NPR’s Terry Gross strayed from that time honored
script and kept asking Hillary Clinton a question until Clinton actually
answered it. It took some persistence on the interviewer’s part, and it
ultimately irritated Clinton. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why Clinton didn’t just answer the question in the first
place is a mystery. Gross, essentially asked, Did you personally support gay
marriage when you served in Congress, but feel you had to publicly oppose it
because your constituents did not support it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clinton has always supported gay rights in general, and today
supports the right for gays to marry. Admitting that she changed her mind over
time would have been simply admitting that she was human. Prevaricating did
nothing for her politically except to brand her as yet another dissembling
politician.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m disappointed in Clinton. But there is someone here to
celebrate: Terry Gross.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If more interviewers would emulate the persistence of the <i>Fresh Air</i> host, we would have a much
clearer understanding of what our politicians believe. Don’t just give them a
pass when they fail to answer a question. It is not rude to rephrase the
question and go after them again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Idaho, we want to know where politicians stand on adding
the four words, sexual orientation and gender identity, to the Idaho Human
Rights Act. They refuse to tell us, going so far as to keep the amendment from
coming before committee for eight years. You see, if they let the amendment be
heard, then they will have to vote on it. They will have to take a stand. This
will upset some of their constituents, no matter which way they vote. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boo hoo. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is in our best interest if we know where our elected
leaders stand. Making a decision about important issues is what we elect them
for. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I encourage all politicians to be honest and open with their
constituents about this and every other issue. Yes, I actually wrote that.
Assuming that sentence will not have the power to move mountains, I’ll try
another. I challenge all those in the media to emulate Terry Gross and stop
letting politicians squirm away from answering. Further, I challenge
constituents to ask the questions themselves during this political season, and
keep asking them until you get an answer. If they answer honestly, thank them
for that, even if it isn’t the answer you hoped for.<o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-2000428856372674982014-06-06T09:03:00.001-07:002014-06-06T09:03:17.606-07:00Countdown Deals<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m doing a couple of countdown promotions on Amazon for
Kindle books, both beginning June 8 and running for five days. <i>Anjel</i> will sell for 99 cents starting
June 8, and the price will go up a bit each day until it is back to its regular
price of $5.99. The deal for the <i>Wizards
Trilogy</i> runs for the same period, but only in the UK. <o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-4203570749588723762014-05-30T16:58:00.000-07:002014-05-30T16:58:07.530-07:00The Physics of Firth<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: 21.33333396911621px; line-height: 24.53333282470703px;">I'm a bit between books, right now. With one out to beta readers I'm reluctant to start a new, long project. So, I've been entertaining myself by writing short pieces. Here's one I hope you'll enjoy.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: 21.33333396911621px; line-height: 24.53333282470703px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: 21.33333396911621px; line-height: 24.53333282470703px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The Physics
of Firth<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A triptych
of Wasted Youth<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">By Rick Just<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There are more than 31 million
seconds in a year. Using that math, I estimate the caution light in Firth,
Idaho had blinked about 1.6 trillion times before Chuck and I noticed it. We were
not oblivious to the light, but when was the first time you noticed your
heartbeat?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We sat on Main Street inside my 1963
Galaxy XL with the top down, backed up against the curb in front of the lumber
yard. It was long after midnight in the summer of 1968. We were out of high
school, finally, experiencing freedom and boredom in equal parts. Semis went
through town about every 15 or 20 minutes, marking the major events of the
evening. The only other thing moving was the caution light. Okay, not moving.
Blinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The <i>Twilight Zone</i> was a part of the childhood from which we had so
recently extricated ourselves, so when we noticed the light we began to wonder
what would happen if it ever quit blinking. Would Firth disappear? Would the
convergence of astronomical forces dictate that two cars would, finally, enter
that intersection at the same time, incautiously, causing a major bending of
fenders?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This was by far the most intriguing
thought we’d had all night, a night spent contemplating our destinies in college
and radio. In honor of the latter we were listening to KOMA in Oklahoma City,
the big boomer that pointlessly told us about dances coming up in Kansas and
Colorado, and kept us current on the top forty. We aspired to be Robert W.
Morgan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But the light. Chuck got out of the
car to go examine the pole from which the wire hung in a gentle arc with the
four-lens light dragging it down in the middle. There was a switch bolted to
the pole. You could just reach up and pull a lever to turn off the light. So
convenient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">At Chuck’s moment of contemplation a
pair of headlights appeared at the south end of town. Fearing prison, or worse,
the disappointed look on his mother’s face, Chuck made a run for the car, the
electrical box untouched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The lights were on a Greyhound bus.
This was nearly exotic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Chuck slid into the bucket seat next
to me and pretended he hadn’t moved all night, which wasn’t a real stretch of
his acting talents. The bus rolled by in front of us at a sensible 35 miles per
hour, pinning the night in our memories forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I don’t know why I flashed my
headlights. Maybe we were just being friendly. To our surprise the brake lights
of the hound flashed on. The bus came to a stop about a block away. We looked
at each other wide-eyed. We had affected something! Our lives were not
meaningless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The bus waited a few seconds, marked
only by the orange light still counting them off in the center of town. It
waited some more. It dawned on us that the driver was waiting for a passenger. He
was waiting for us. We became unnerved with the responsibility of what we had
done, so decided to get the hell out of there. I turned on my headlights just
as the bus started to pull away. The driver stopped the bus, again, when he saw
my headlights. I realized what had happened, so I turned my headlights off. We
waited. The bus waited. We got nervous, again, and turned on our headlights to
drive away, just as the driver gave up and started the bus rolling again. He
saw the lights of the Ford. He stopped. I turned off my lights, again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This happened three or four times. We
realized that not only had we caught a bus, we now owned it. We had to do the
responsible thing and set it free. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I started the car, turned on the
headlights, and drove toward the bus. Like a good public servant the drive
watched us come up from behind him. He waited, eager to help out. We drove by
and headed out of town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The movie <i>Duel</i> was a few years away. That was a good thing. It was scary
enough seeing those brights coming up behind us at speed without having that
particular cultural reference to amplify our fear. The Greyhound was catching
us. Never mind we had a 390 V8 under the hood, the bus was bearing down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Our hearts beat twice for each blink
of the light, now a couple of miles behind us. The chase lasted only until I
found a side road and did a hard right, vaulting up over the railroad tracks as
the bus jetted by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It had just rained for the first time
in weeks and the highway was treacherous with pools of water glittering with a
sheen of motor oil. I was going 110 coming into town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The motorcycle I rode was borrowed.
It was a Honda Superhawk owned by my friend, Monty. I was going a 110 because
it would not go faster. My rule at that time was to move from place to place as
fast as the vehicle I was piloting would go. Always. This was possible because
the population of Firth was 245, and all roads that led to or from it were
usually safe to sunbathe on if you didn’t mind ambling out of the way of
traffic every 20 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On this post-rainy day I had the good
sense to ease off the throttle coming into town. The speedometer read 90 when I
noticed that about a block ahead of me, at the flashing light, some farmer was
easing out onto the highway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One thing about borrowed motorcycles:
You should really check the brakes before going far. I gripped and stepped to
engage the front and back brakes to nearly no effect. They worked pretty well
when the weather was dry, but lost interest in their job when wet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had just enough time to tip the
bike left a fraction and slide by the pickup which, thankfully, did not have
extended mirrors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I stopped at the far edge of town and
looked back. The pickup had stopped, too, in the middle of the road. I barely
registered it. The orange light that had blinked faithfully at that
intersection since the beginning of time was now black. Then it was orange
again. Then black. Then orange. But that first black was a long, leisurely
blink that felt very personal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It is probably long past time in this
tome to describe the way Main Street in Firth worked. To this point, you have
probably imagined a street lined with businesses on both sides, with that one
flashing light marking the single intersection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Not so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">US Highway 91 ran through town for
the single mile of the Village of Firth. Not content with that stretch of
pavement as the town’s Main Street, another, wider stretch of pavement
paralleled it. This created something like a parking lot. It also created much
confusion for those unfamiliar with the arrangement. If you were traveling on
the highway, you were expected to keep on the right side of the dotted white
line. If you travelled on Main Street, you were expected to not hit other cars.
There was no helpful demarcation to let you know where you were supposed to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh, and businesses—the dozen or so
that existed—lined only one side of the street, the west side. The east side
was mostly an extended borrow pit between the highway and the adjacent railroad
tracks. In the center of town on the east side, you could find a parking lot.
It was meant to service the needs of patrons of the train depot. In fact, it
more often serviced the needs of teenagers who parked there in the evenings to
watch traffic and practice baseball inside their cars, since there hadn’t been
any patrons of the train depot after the demise of passenger service in the
1950s. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This large expanse of highway/Main
Street/parking lot was the scene of fist fights, early experiments with crude
skateboards, and spontaneous bicycle rodeos. In so much as this story has a
point, the point here is that it was widely viewed by teenage locals as their
personal playground. I was both local and teenaged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When winter came, the asphalt turned
into ice courtesy of the packing capabilities of just the right number of tires
to mimic a Zamboni. To those of us with wheels, this presented the perfect
opportunity to cut cookies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This particular night I was driving
my ’65 Mustang and Monty was riding shotgun. We would get up a little head of
steam on Main Street—carefully avoiding the actual highway stuck up against it—and
crank the wheel to the right, sending the car into a skid, then a spin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had perfected this move until it
was a thing of beauty worthy of an E ticket. Of course, I wanted to share the
experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Three of my cousins were in town that
night, fresh from the farm. I had Paul and Ted and Rich piled into the back
seat to experience the thrill of their lives. With five of us now on board I
revved the engine and took off, building up speed. As I had done a dozen times
that night I cut the steering wheel at the perfect point to execute the ballet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had not considered the physics of
the thing. Monty and I were renowned as the shortest kids in high school. My
cousins were among the tallest. Some of that height expressed itself in weight.
The mathematics of adding 450 pounds to the maneuver occurred to me only as I
saw the Texaco station looming in my rearview mirror as the Mustang careened toward
it backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We kissed the corner of the
cinderblock building with the back bumper of the car, coming to a rather abrupt
stop. We all got out to look at the damage. Even in the dark we could see fresh
cracks in the mortar. There was a little gouge in the concrete at the same
height as my bumper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The first order of business was to be
somewhere else, quickly, so we jumped back into the car and drove it up Main
Street and across the highway to the parking lot. There, we got out again to
examine the damage to the Mustang. Clearly, it would need a new bumper, a
little sheet metal and a couple of pounds of body putty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We concocted a plausible story about backing
into a post at the Frostop in Idaho Falls. That stupid post was famous for
eating cars, and I had actually backed into it before acquiring damage so
slight it was beneath mention to my mother. This would require some mentioning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The commiseration took place under
the throbbing orange illumination of the nearby caution light. It looked on, beating
the seconds away as it always will. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">-0-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-27955169944216688132014-05-27T09:06:00.001-07:002014-05-27T09:06:08.593-07:00YA Beta Readers<div class="MsoNormal">
What are your kids going to read this summer? May I make a
suggestion? I’m looking for beta readers for my next book tentatively called <i>Diary</i>. This young adult novel is about a
14-year-old girl who wants an iPhone for her birthday, but gets an old diary,
instead. She hates the diary, until she discovers someone from 100 years ago is
writing in it. She finds out the past was a dangerous place that we cannot
ignore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beta readers, adults and young adults, will take a short,
online survey when they finish the book. They will get an autographed copy of
the novel when it is published.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book is available in printed manuscript form (in the Boise area)
and as a PDF. Please let me know if you or someone who eats your cereal would
be interested. Message me on Facebook, or find my email address at <a href="http://www.rickjust.com/">www.rickjust.com</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-23040050093913710712014-05-23T09:19:00.000-07:002014-05-24T08:30:26.152-07:00Sunbeam Summer<div class="MsoNormal">
This a short story, in the sense that it is relatively short
and one might call it a story. One might also call it a memoir, as most
non-fiction seems to be these days, but it probably falls short of the French
root of that word. It is appallingly lacking in romance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We wonder what part of our bodies will go first as age
looms. Will it be a fatal failure, such as a heart that simply quits, or merely
an irritation like that persistent map of liver spots growing ever closer to
each other as they change the hue of our arms? Since I told you there is no
romance in this tale, your mind might go there. You know, <i>there</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, the first failure of age started when I was 13. There
is a lot we don’t know at 13, and this precursor was one of those things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I might digress—hell, this is my memoir, I <i>will</i> digress. The male members of my
family seem to have a penchant for losing digits. They are not merely misplaced,
but removed by force. I have several cousins in the ranching side of my family
who can count backwards on their hand and tell you the number of times they
failed to move quickly enough when wrapping a rope around a saddle horn before that
horn took the weight of an 800 pound steer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My immediate family, of which I often claim to be a member,
was more likely to opt for mechanical dismemberment. My older brother played
one day next to the well pump, an electric motor with an open pulley and belt
system. Mom caught him kicking at the whirring mechanism with his foot and
warned him strongly not to do that anymore if he didn’t want to lose a toe. At
the same time he heeded her warning, he decided to test it. With his finger. It
turned out Mom was right. Kent has since made the
I-was-just-stirring-my-coffee-with-my-finger-and-look-what-happened joke a part
of his regular routine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father—we called him Pop—was a cowboy, so might have been
expected to de-digit in that time honored way mentioned earlier. He was a
careful cowboy, though. Not so much when it came to mowing the lawn. The
sidewalk between two sections of lawn was raised up about three inches above
the grassy surface. There were probably a dozen ways to move the lawnmower
across the sidewalk that did not involve picking it up while it was running,
but none of them occurred to him at that moment. Somehow in lifting it, Pop
turned the mower upside down. As he turned it back over it occurred to him how
foolish it was and that it he could have lost a finger. When he looked down to
count them, he found them all there, but one of his favorite thumbs was missing.
More accurately, the first joint of his right thumb was now being carried off
by ants. Or something. We never found it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the way, Pop traded the rotary in on a self-propelled
reel mower about the time he got the stitches out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My oldest brother, Kim, has so far avoided the family curse,
though he was once hit by lightning in about the same spot where Pop lost his
thumb. Don’t call him an underachiever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which brings the story, inevitably, around to me. When I was
13 lawn mowing technology had advanced considerably. I was now the chief
operator of a snazzy little blue mower made by the optimistically named Sunbeam
Corporation. The powder blue machine was probably 20 inches across and sounded
more like a vacuum cleaner than an appliance for cutting grass. It was
electric. I received an ample ration of ribbing from my best friend about
operating such a wimpy little mower. I remember turning it over while he was
there one day to clean out the build-up of caked grass beneath the deck,
revealing the two tiny sets of blades
beneath. They were pitted and dulled from hitting rocks. This inspired Monty to
ridicule the little machine, and by extension me, for its petite little
choppers. He speculated that one could just reach in and stop the blades with
one’s hand, if one had donned a heavy set of leather gloves. I disagreed. If he
had taken the opposite tact, claiming the blades would tear off one’s fingers
without even slowing down, I would have disagreed with that. Our relationship was,
and still is, based on arguing. We never agreed about anything. I would
probably have challenged him on the spot if we’d had a pair of heavy leather
gloves handy. We did not. Which is why people still call him Monty instead of
Lefty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a way, my looming misfortune was Monty’s fortune, because
it happened shortly after the development of his reach-in-and-stop-the-blades
hypothesis. He was still searching for appropriate gloves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When mowing with an electric mower of that vintage, one
mowed a little differently than with a gas powered mower. Rather than going
round and round until the last plot of grass in the middle of the lawn was shorn,
you went back and forth. You started up close the house, mowed straight ahead
until you came to the end of the lawn and, with a practiced flip of the handle
release, you pulled the handle over the mower to push the machine back the
other direction. This complicated ballet was necessary so you didn’t mow across
the cord which grew out of the end of the handle. It worked well, reducing the
number of times you ran across the cord to maybe three or four a season.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As with all things rote one tends to pay less and less attention
to the mechanics of the movement. In my case I was probably singing “Help Me
Rhonda” enthusiastically inside my skull while pushing and flipping and pushing
the mower. Which is why I didn’t notice the cinderblock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had moved into town from the ranch that summer after Pop
died. The little house where Mom and I lived was perched on a two-foot hill.
That is, the lawn was built up all around it and sloped down to our neighbor’s
lawn on one side. I had an ongoing disagreement with the neighbor kid about
where the property line was. He insisted that it was at the top of the hill
because the previous owners had planted some bushes at the top of the hill,
clearly—to him—indicating the property line. I was of the opinion that the bottom
of the little hill was the property line, reasoning that if it were otherwise
we would have a little cliff between the houses, not a little hill. It mattered
not at all except when it came to mowing the grass. A smarter kid might have
just acquiesced to the dim-witted neighbor kid and let him mow the grass on the
side of the hill. I chose to claim the property by attacking that strip of
grass every week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure the cinderblock wasn’t a trap set by the amateur
surveyor next door, but I can’t say what its reason for being there on the
neighbor’s lawn was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Given the nature of electric lawn mowing I would push the
mower down the little hill, flip the handle, jigger the mower to the right, and
push it back up the hill. Much of this little dance would actually take place
on the neighbor’s lawn. That is, my feet would be on the lawn though the mower
never crossed that magic line to “their” grass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was mowing along expertly, imploring Rhonda to get her out
of my heart, when I made that handle flip/dance step and encountered the
cinderblock. I started to stumble over it backwards. To catch myself I pulled
back on the mower handle, which brought the deck of the little grass whacker up
over my foot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember if I actually fell down. I do remember
calmly turning the mower off by the little red switch on the handle. I walked
calmly to the side door, avoiding the nearer front door because I didn’t want
to get blood on the carpet. I was inadvertently trying a new fashion, the
open-toed cowboy boot. With geyser.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom rushed me to the hospital, which was about 10 miles away.
I remember making a comment about a passing car from the back seat where I
rested with my foot in the air wrapped in dish towels. For some reason it made
Mom feel better that I could identify the make, model and year of the car, even
as the dish towels were soaking red.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emergencies weren’t as popular back then, so that didn't have an actual room devoted to them. We just went in
the front door of the hospital. Some lingering toe flesh was inexpertly cut
away and the whole thing was wrapped in a cartoon bandage, which I would wear
for the remainder of the summer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Technically, I did not quite follow the family tradition,
because I did not lose a digit. I lost a nail and associated structural support
of same. Eventually the nail grew back and you would be hard pressed to find
any evidence of the old injury today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You would be hard-pressed. I would not. As you’ll recall, if
you haven’t drifted off somewhere between here and the beginning of the story,
this is about finding out which part fails first as one ages. That’s my part. I
frequently get an echo of that summer of the Sunbeam as it shoots up from my
toe in the form of persistent arthritis. It doesn’t always hurt, but I am
excruciatingly aware of it when it does.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When that old ache is jabbing at me I think back to those
days and can’t help wondering if Monty has found that glove, yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-706121655163528842014-05-06T09:12:00.002-07:002014-05-06T09:12:40.744-07:00Boys and Books<div class="MsoNormal">
At a writers conference this past week we learned that 80
percent of book buyers are women. My guess is that more than 80 percent of food
buyers are also women. Men still eat. But, do they read books? Sure, some do.
Most in the publishing business lament the lack of male readers, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another statistic is that after high school, only about half
the population ever picks up a book. Then, it’s only to dust around it. Wait,
no. About half do read for pleasure. So, using statistics loosely, which is the
most common way they are used, that means there are about 150 million readers
in the US. Discounting the existence of libraries and the fact that men may receive
gift books (I said this was loose), only about 30 million men in the United
States reads. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From a publishing standpoint, 30 million men is a pretty big
market. So, quit whining, publishers. From a literacy and a we’re-going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket
standpoint, it’s pathetic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why don’t men read? They like stories. They go to movies and
watch TV. Do books simply weigh too much? Okay, that was snotty. I prefer to
read on my Kindle for exactly that reason. Big, clunky books are hard for my
delicate self to deal with when I’m relaxing on the couch. I could fall asleep
and break a rib.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women out-watch men when it comes to movies, though not by
much. According to a Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) <a href="http://www.mpaa.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/MPAA-Theatrical-Market-Statistics-2013_032514-v2.pdf">study</a>
52 percent of those watching movies are women. Women make up 50.8 percent of
the population, so that’s not a startling statistic. What is startling,
according to the MPAA study, 85 percent of the movies are <i>about</i> men. Does this mean women are going to movies because they
just can’t get enough of the hunky-hunks on screen? For some women it probably
means exactly that. Most, though, just enjoy movies. And guess who makes
movies? Mostly men.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this is about books. Why aren’t men reading books? They’re
writing them. A recent <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/feb/04/research-male-writers-dominate-books-world">study</a>
found that 83 percent of the books reviewed by the New York Times were by men.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, the men are telling most of the stories and the women
are listening. And reading. The entertainment industry, like so many industries,
is still dominated by men. It takes generations to turn something like that
around, though women are making great strides. I applaud and admire them for
doing so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The question, which concerns me as a writer and citizen,
still remains. Why aren’t more men reading for pleasure?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To me, reading is the best thing in life. I have to wonder
if there is something about our educational system that discourages other men
from reading. Are we making it chore rather than a joy?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t have the answers. I may even be part of the problem.
Of the five young adult novels I’ve written (one is not yet published), four of
them feature girls as the lead characters. Boys don’t even exist in one of
them. Hummm. I hesitate to take the blame, though. I’m writing for the larger
market, yes, but I’m also writing simply because I find girls and women more
complex, particularly as young adults. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I expect a few boys read <i>Alice
in Wonderland,</i> <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>, and
<i>The Hunger Games</i>, so it’s not as
though they boycott a good story about a girl. Do we need more fiction about
boys? The Harry Potter series had a few male readers, so it’s not as if there’s
nothing out there. My friend C.J. Box writes adult novels that also attract a
lot of male young adult readers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Explosions. We need more explosions in books. Okay, that
might be creeping up to the edge of simplistic. But, do you have a better
answer? I’m stumped. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-23852442885809666562014-04-28T09:30:00.001-07:002014-04-28T09:30:30.625-07:00Mapping the Past<div class="MsoNormal">
Every writer puts some of their own life in their books. This
might seem challenging if your book happens to take place on Mars, but it turns
out not to be the case. Writers depend much on research, but they can’t help
drawing from their own experiences.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the forthcoming book, <i>The
Crappy Used Diary</i>, an important component of the book is an old family
house located in a fictional river valley. In my real life there is a similar
house in a similar valley, and this week marks a big event in that house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My great grandparents, Nels and Emma Just came to Idaho as
teenagers with their parents in 1863. They would not have thought of themselves
as that, because the word “teenager” wasn’t invented until the 1920s. They
married in 1870.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In 1887 they built a brick home near the banks of the
Blackfoot River in eastern Idaho. To celebrate the completion of the home, Nels
hung a brand new map of the United States in the hallway. It has hung there
ever since, admired by generations of Justs, Reids and visitors to the house
that was the life-long home of regional writer Agnes Just Reid, my great aunt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tomorrow, the map comes down. I cannot stress enough the
consternation this causes for family members, none of whom have ever seen that
bare hallway wall. The map is a touchstone across the years to Nels and Emma. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We will be taking the map down with reverence and the help
of a textiles expert. Over the years, the 4’ x 6’ map has been damaged by hands
that wanted only to touch it, learn from it and feel the past. The varnish,
commonly applied to maps of that vintage, has yellowed and the map is flaking
in places. It is in need of restoration.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ll be shipping this treasure off to New York City for the
specialized work of bringing it back to life. When we get the restored map
back, it will be professionally mounted behind conservation glass in a solid
display case. After a little tour to selected places in Idaho, it will find its
way home where it will once again hang in the hallway for generations to come. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-53087535281651119872014-04-26T08:04:00.001-07:002014-04-26T08:04:59.726-07:00Chewing up the Jawfish<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve never been much of an athlete or participant in any
sport. Bowling hardly counts. Maybe motorcycle racing does, but I got over that
fairly quickly and only limp once in a while nowadays. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I like games, though. I’ve played a jillion rounds of
pinochle, rummy and hearts. I’ve become briefly addicted to a couple of
videogames, i.e., that Laura Crofts series and a car racing game. I play Words
With Friends. I’m pretty good at that, but I get beat plenty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wasn’t a star at anything until Jawfish Words came along.
It was like Boggle, except there were randomly selected challenges, such as
being the first to get a full blackout or double blackout, the first to find a
word, the most diagonal words, etc. Reaching higher game levels was logarithmic.
It was easy to get to level 2 or 7 or 12, but became increasingly difficult
with each level. Most players hovered around 20. I’d reached level 61. I never
saw any player higher than 70. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was great fun for me to enter a tournament with 15 other
players and get 25% of the total points made in the game. I won about 95% of
the time. I was an elite player.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, of course, Jawfish went out of business. If I lived in a
cave and held mystical beliefs I might think that I caused that. The way the
company intended to make money was by charging players 8 coins every time you
played. The problem, for them, was that some of us made enough coins every time
we played that we never had to buy any. I had more than 22,000 when the company
went bust.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I recall putting several magazine publishers out of business
in the 80s. I would send them an article, which they would accept. Then they
would promptly go out of business, often before the article even appeared.
Goodbye Broadcast Programming and Production, National Retired Teachers
Journal, and Vortex. You were apparently cursed by the pen of Just.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know it wasn’t about me. The demise of Jawfish wasn’t
about me, either, but I regret that they have gone away. It is a real rush to
be one of the best in the world at something. I guess I’ll move on to a similar
game that doesn’t have some of the elements I so excelled at. Watch for Word
Hero to go down in flames any day now. <o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-10857494040324138572014-04-25T06:59:00.002-07:002014-04-25T06:59:14.178-07:00Guest BlogI'm guest blogging today on <a href="http://www.elizabethcovart.com/wp-content/cache/page_enhanced/www.uncommonplacebook.com/_index.html_gzip" target="_blank">Uncommon Place</a>. Please check it out.<br />
<br />
<br />Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-42179684108568130082014-04-23T08:57:00.001-07:002014-04-23T08:57:10.800-07:00Another Range War<div class="MsoNormal">
When I wrote <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Private-Idaho-Rick-Just-ebook/dp/B00GQGWZPA/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1398268532&sr=1-1&keywords=keeping+private+idaho" target="_blank">KeepingPrivate Idaho</a></i> in the mid-90s, I focused on xenophobia. Idahoans then seemed
bent on keeping non-natives out of the state. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, an issue in Nevada seems ripe for parody. The standoff
over the Bundy cattle and years of unpaid grazing fees has all the elements of
political theater. Bundy claims he’s a patriot while refusing to acknowledge
the authority of the United States Government. Meanwhile, his supporters say
they are willing to lay down their lives for a fuzzy principle, which boils
down to “government bad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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It does not seem to occur to the “patriots” that they are
proposing anarchy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mostly unasked in the reporting is whether grazing should be
taking place there at all. That’s a complicated subject. At one time, the
answer probably should have been no. Had we known in the 19<sup>th</sup>
century what we know now, the federal government would have been wise to
prohibit it. Those who grazed cattle back then assumed the grass would always
be there and their cattle would have little or no impact on the ecosystem—a word
they would not recognize. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ve been grazing those public lands for about 150 years.
The land has changed because of it, and usually not in a good way.
Counterintuitively, removing cattle from public land would not necessarily
improve it. Modern grazing, which includes critically timed movement of animals,
is now one of the better tools in the management toolbox for public lands.
Correctly done, cattle grazing can help beat back invasives, encourage native
species, and assist in fire management. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Once you start messing with an ecosystem, you’re stuck with
managing it forever. If we walked away from public lands now that they are
over-run with invasive species, those species would quickly dominate. If you
think sagebrush is boring, how do you think you’d like a desert ecology based
on cheatgrass, tumbleweeds and fire?<o:p></o:p></div>
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The BLM, which moves slow as a snail to recognize innovation,
is poorly equipped to manage grazing. Local managers are hamstrung by bureaucracy
and lawsuits. Meanwhile ranchers, who are often well educated in range
stewardship, experience deep frustration year after year when they advocate for
innovation with little effect. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s a lot for ranchers to complain about. Claiming some
imaginary birthright and refusing to pay reasonable grazing fees doesn’t help
their cause. Most of them realize this and will keep themselves far away from
this particular scuffle.<o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-62385511585180411302014-04-19T12:42:00.000-07:002014-04-19T12:42:03.575-07:00Jumper<div class="MsoNormal">
With more than 4,500 books published every day, I suppose it’s
not surprise that I’ve missed one or two. I recently took a chance on one from about
1990, because Audible had it on sale. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d not heard of the book or, as it turns out, the movie. I
didn’t know there were sequels. I feel a little foolish for all that, but check
that number-of-books-published figure again, before you think me hopelessly out
of touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I expect <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jumper-Steven-Gould-ebook/dp/B003Y5HCXG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1397935196&sr=1-1&keywords=jumper" target="_blank">Jumper</a></i>, by Steven Gould, is often shelved as
science fiction. This, despite the fact there is no hint whatsoever that
science is in any way involved in the hero’s new-found ability to teleport at
will. Genre labels drive me crazy, mostly because my own books, which often
straddle the fuzzy lines between science fiction, speculative fiction and
fantasy, are so hard for people to categorize. I pegged this as science fiction
from the first incident of teleportation, not because technology was involved,
but because it was so reminiscent of the trigger for teleportation in Alfred
Bester’s classic, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Stars-My-Destination-Alfred-Bester-ebook/dp/B0054LNIQS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1397936483&sr=1-1&keywords=the+stars+my+destination+by+alfred+bester" target="_blank">The Stars My Destination</a></i>. In jumper, David Rice “jumps” to
safety when his life is in danger. In the Bester book, Gully Foyle puts himself
in imminent danger of death with no way out in order to trigger teleportation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gould does give a nod to the earlier book that people who
had not read it would miss, but I appreciated his acknowledgment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And, I’ve said so little about the book itself, to this
point. Okay, it’s mostly plausible and very well researched. The reader can
easily empathize with the protagonist and it’s a fun adventure. It’s also a YA
book, defined as such because the protagonist is 17 when the book starts. Don’t
let that scare you away from this or any other YA book. You were 17 once, too,
and you haven’t forgotten how that feels.<o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6056342429483648409.post-23029504269724575982014-03-23T08:41:00.000-07:002014-03-23T08:41:47.025-07:00What a deal, deux. <div class="MsoNormal">
Recently I admitted my vast store of ignorance about a tiny
area of book publishing, i.e., used and collector books available on Amazon.
Today, I continue exploring that realm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I “unpublished” my book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Anjels-Rick-Just/dp/0965353974/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1395589101&sr=8-1&keywords=blood+anjels" target="_blank"><i>Blood Anjels</i></a> a couple of days ago,
meaning that new copies of it are no longer available. Before you reach for
your hankie, this was simply a marketing decision. I decided the title and
original cover weren’t working, so, new title, new cover. The book is now
called <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Anjel-Rick-Just-ebook/dp/B00IHJCAFO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1395589163&sr=8-1&keywords=anjel" target="_blank">Anjel</a></i> and is readily available on Amazon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I only printed a handful of these with the original cover
and title—maybe a couple. Some were sold through Amazon’s print-on-demand
service. Maybe there are 100 of them in existence. I still have three. That
means there might be 97 copies floating around out there. If you’re a collector
and you have one, this is probably cause for minor celebration. Don’t buy the
spendy bubbly, though. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Amazon likes to keep titles up on their site even when they
don’t have any to sell. It gives used book dealers the opportunity to sell copies
they may have, from which Amazon makes a commission. There are six copies of
Blood Anjels being offered, all by the same dealer, ranging in price from
$42.38 to $42.54. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The physical descriptions of the books vary a bit. Two
mention light water damage. One mentions a bit of shelf wear. One says it is
brand new and unread. Another claims it is in good condition, including the
dust jacket. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I suspect that this company might have a single copy of the
book. It probably doesn’t have any shelf wear, because how much shelf wear
could it have after a month of existence? I doubt it has water damage, but who
will complain if it shows up in better shape than advertised? Also, I’m pretty
sure the description of the dust jacket being in good condition is bogus. This
is a trade paperback and doesn’t have a dust jacket.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s tempting to purchase all six copies to see what
happens. I’m guessing I would receive one copy, in good condition, along with
five emails telling me they’re sorry but they’re temporarily out of stock.
Tempting, but I think I’ll go another route. I’ll put my three copies up for
$39.95 each, undercutting the dealer. Will their asking price go down? Will it
go up? Will they suddenly discover another 200 non-existent copies and offer
those for sale?<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, here’s the big question. If they suddenly had 200
orders for this book, would they be able to fill them? Remember, something less
than 100 printed. However, it was a print-on-demand book. If additional copies
began appearing, someone would have some explaining to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
Rick Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05578386112087607724noreply@blogger.com0