Interestingly enough, it was a conversation at my job that got me to thinking about fine art, even though those words—"fine" and "art"—never came up when my colleagues and I were batting around the notion of work-life balance and what it really means to each of us.

I'm always doing this, by the way. I'm always rocketing off from one topic to another, with little connective tissue, as my mind stretches one thing into another. This elasticity largely serves me well—the entirety of my career as a fiction writer can pretty much be accredited to this tendency (or this tendency can be blamed, depending on your view of things)—but I sometimes end up in choppy waters when I blurt out where my head goes without giving the person I'm talking to some kind of road map.

So here, in the confines of this little blast of words, I'll try to reconstruct how one thing led to another. "Work-life balance," to me, is a moving target, subject to the tides of age, interests, location, current events, etc. When I was in my twenties and never turned myself off from my career, I thought I was supremely balanced. I worked, I slept, and I road-tripped in almost perfect proportions. (I also moved a lot, having not yet figured out that wherever you go, there you are.)

Thirty years down the line, I'm a different guy. I turn off work—my job, my writing, the many other things I do to make a buck—when it's time to step away. I'm not idle, though. I rarely watch TV. On evenings and weekends, I'm reading, or having lunch with friends, or exploring, or attending events. Sometimes, all of that.

This is where fine art comes in. I have, in all surprise to myself, become a collector of paintings. Not an investor; I'm not buying low and selling high. I'm buying and holding, forevermore. I'm dressing my walls with work that moves me emotionally, intellectually, and aesthetically. I'm learning everything I can about the creators of the works I buy—how they work, how they think, what moves them, why they answer the call.

I'm learning what I like and don't like, what speaks to me and what doesn't. I'm learning to articulate those things, lacking any sort of background in technique or criticism. I look for beautiful things. The definition of "beautiful"? That's all on me. I'm figuring it out as I go.

So here's the thing: When I was a younger man, paintings didn't interest me in the least. I'm not sure why, except that I was always in such a hurry to get to the next thing that I never stood in front of one long enough to let it sink into me.

Is it age, a moderating temperament, a need to stand in silence for a while, something that would have rattled me in those days when I equated frenetic activity with being alive? I'm not sure. What I do know is that it's a loud world getting louder, and so many of the people populating it are moving through their lives with their attentions divided, as if their brains are spread out over eight dozen browser tabs. I'm not above that. All too often, I'm right there with them.

Art is my shelter from that, a place I can slip into and let my thoughts settle. No pleasure these days is richer than the one that comes from standing in front of a painting and letting it work me over.

​I wasn't always in this place. But I'm here now. Balance has been redefined.

I also know this: Putting up art in the the place where I create has a real, if immeasurable, effect on my work. It opens the creative pores, if you will. I want to contribute to a world that, amid its many horrors and bafflements, also contains such beauty. It makes me want to be better at what I do, not for aggrandizement or fame or riches, but because I can think of no higher calling than to brighten the corners of dark places with art.

Not a bad way to find balance, eh?

In some quarters of the art world, sentiment is mocked, derided, downgraded, disdained. R.E.M. frontman Michael Stipe, whom I would follow to any frontier of creation he cared to visit (and I did!), once said, "I despise nostalgia and I’m a naturally sentimental person so of course I abhor sentimentality." (He also said all of this in a highly nuanced way, so please read the interview.) Reviewers of serious literature—whatever that is—often take away points when sentimentality is present or even sensed.

What's a sentimental guy—a lover of It's a Wonderful Life, someone who cries when Rocky calls out for Adrian, a music lover who mists up when a McCartney song reminds him of when he first heard it and what life was like then*—to do?

I was thinking about this during the past week as I re-read a novel I'm calling Jane, Divided (those who remember the song I poached it from will recognize this as a sentimental title). The story is set in near present day (well, 2016), with a main character who is back in her Texas hometown, which just so happens to be my Texas hometown. She is pushing forward, as we all should, and grappling with her past, as we all do. Jane comes from my generation, if not my specific year of vintage, and thus some of her memories are mine, or at least from the same vicinity.

I'm not sure how sentimentality is to be avoided, in this case. And that's fine, because I'm also not inclined to avoid it.

What I am inclined to avoid, however, is the laziness that often accompanies the sentimental lookback. Who among us hasn't said "times were simpler then"? But were they, really? Simpler than now, certainly, but the versions of us who existed back then had no way of knowing that. In those bygone moments, the times were as complicated as known time has ever been, technology was on the cutting edge, attitudes were shifting in dizzying ways, etc. If you're in 2025—and you are, if you're reading this—and you pine for 1975, just remember that each day and each development, each heartbreak, each triumph was new to you fifty years ago. The times, man, they were crazy. Not like they were in 1965 (yeah, they were crazy then, too) or 1955 (ditto) or 1945 (are you kidding me?).

If we don't strive to see the fuller picture of where we are and how we got here, that simple yearning for a simpler time can be corrosive to a thoughtful consideration of matters.

Sentiment, however, is not the problem. If one strives for art—and I should say here that I don't, at least not as the driving motivation for doing the work**—the manner in which sentimentality is conveyed can be the problem. It can be clumsy and cloying, but that's a fault of the writing, not the sentiment. I could pull every book I've ever written off the shelf and find you some sentence, paragraph, or chapter that causes me to cringe in the face of its bald-faced sentimentality. (I won't, but I could.) But what difference does that possibly make now? If I've been true to myself, if I've written the best thing I can write at the time I've written it, I'm good. The only thing that matters is the next thing.

In this sense, I'm with John Irving (In Defense of Sentimentality, 1979): "When we writers—in our own work—escape the slur of sentimentality, we should ask ourselves if what we are doing matters."

*—That's the thing about the past. I don't have a full picture of what life was like then, because I'm relying on memory. The lens aimed backward is attached to an unreliable camera. Interestingly enough, it's the malleability of those memories and the transformative power of imagination that often combine for good fiction.

**—I consider myself a storyteller, not an artist. On occasion, if I do my work well and faithfully, art emerges.

It's an audacious undertaking.

I'm going to try to stitch together episodes from two parts of my life that are wildly different, separated by 20-plus years, a thousand-plus miles, and uncountable shifts in perspective.

I'm going to try to make a case for compassion, tolerance, and loosening up by reconsidering a time when I was not particularly compassionate, tolerant, or loose.

I'm going to add to a voluminous collection of anecdotes from my life that I like to call Geez, Maybe I'm Becoming Less of an Asshole by Accounting for What an Asshole I've Been.

Let's start with now and work toward then.

I live and work—happily, in both cases—in an 873-square-foot modern apartment (photo above). Nearly six months ago, my wife and I sold our much larger house, paid our debts, and headed to where our hearts are. She went to New England. I moved across town. Then I moved again, in September, to this place.

I really like here. It's quiet (I prefer quiet), it's comfortable, it's just enough for me. I was able to start from scratch, so nearly every design choice was a deliberate one, from the stoneware dishes (black) to the bedroom furniture to the rugs. The few things that came from my former life—the L-shaped desk and the bookcases with the industrial design, notably—were fortuitous fits with the overall aesthetic.

Because everything of note in my life happens here (work, leisure, mealtime, bedtime), I'm meticulous about keeping things tidy. I have a daily chore list—just one thing each day—that I work through week after week, ensuring the place never falls too far out of sorts. I make the bed every morning after Fretless the Dog has finished his post-breakfast nap. It makes me feel good, having everything in its place. It makes me feel proud. And the place is beautiful. So, yeah, you could say I'm fixated on upkeep. Anal-retentive, even. I wouldn't argue. Also, put a coaster under that glass, please.

​This is my life. This is how I'm living it.

I lived in California. I was a sports editor (or a deputy, or something). I never made my bed. I washed dishes when I didn't have any clean ones left. I mopped a floor when I spilled something on it. I cleaned a bathroom...sometimes. I sent my laundry out to a service.

I was a different dude, with different priorities.

I also had a lot of online dates. A lot of first dates, I should say. Second dates were rarities, on my part or on the woman's. I could tell you about the time my offer of a second date was spurned because, in her words, "I called my ex-boyfriend last night and told him what a good time you and I had and how nice you were and asked him why he wasn't that nice, and he said he'd try, so we're back together." Or I could tell you about the time I turned down a second-date offer of a trip to Cabo and was told that I had no sense of adventure. Guilty. But maybe I had a sense of proportion, anyway.

But this isn't about those.

This is about a quiet first date at a sandwich shop near my office with a nice woman whose name I can't remember, who told me about the house she had just purchased, and how proud she was of it, and how she had a list of daily chores so she could always keep the place beautiful, and how the thing she feared most about a possible relationship was that some man wouldn't love her place the way she did and wouldn't respect her need to keep it pristine. She didn't think she could handle that level of discord.

I remember asking about parents, siblings, high school, college, how she got into her line of work, which I don't recall. Banking, maybe? That would be funny. It wouldn't have given us much conversational fodder then, but we'd probably have much to talk about now.

It didn't matter, though, because every question was met with a pivot back to her beloved house and chores and her fear of having to share that with someone who didn't care about those things as much as she did. I nodded a lot. And when the date was over, having gone on long enough to be respectful but short enough to be perfunctory, I lit out of there with my uncharitable thoughts.

2002, 2003, 2004 me: What a bore. What a dullard. What a waste of a half-hour.

2024 me, looking back: You know, I get it, her thing about the house. I really can respect that. Probably wouldn't have been a love connection in any case, but I salute her.

Time, man. Eventually, it flips everything.

Several months back, when I accepted an invitation to appear at the inaugural Southern Utah Book Festival, I was excited. My sponsor, Kase Johnstun, has become a good friend these past couple of years, and a chance to do two of my favorite things—travel and talk about books and writing—was not to be missed.

But there was something else, something that had weighed heavily on my thoughts for most of my life. Being in the book festival's host city, Cedar City, would put me less than an hour from a little town called Milford, a place I'd been hoping for decades I might return to, a place that had proved elusive in that it's not really on the way to anywhere else. I've lived in the West most of my life, and save for the summer when I was nine years old, Milford had been vapor trail in my memories, a place I could close my eyes and picture, a place that sometimes slipped into my dreams, and a place that remained out of reach through the 45 years that stood between me and it and our one season together.

I pined for it sometimes, which is strange, because the memories it holds for me are not happy ones. Life that summer in 1979 seemed like the edge of the knife, or a bullet chambered in a gun. The adults in my immediate sphere—my dad and my stepmother and her son and a host of others—were angry and unreasonable, at each other like crazed dogs, wild and vituperative and ugly. And I was just a boy, one who cherished those summers with my dad, away from the suburban life I knew the rest of each year. I sensed the danger around us that summer but didn't know how to escape it.

​We'll get to all that. But first, I had to get to Milford.

Upon arriving in Milford around 8 a.m. on October 20, I spun through town, reorienting my memories—and, truly, it was like an unstoppable rush—and then I found the little gas station/convenience store I'd mined in my memories nearly 15 years ago as I wrote The Summer Son and the bit above. The building frequented by my then-stepbrother and the townie girlfriend he met in Milford was still there; I'm certain of that. But time has its way, even in a place as cast in amber as Milford seemed, and that old store had been upgraded and rebuilt, and perhaps given a sense of humor it had lacked 45 years ago when I had nuked a refrigerated burrito into hard carbon, to the ire of the proprietor.

On this day, I found a bored, talkative store clerk named Dayna who wanted to know who and what I remembered. I pitched her a few surnames, and she said, yep, we have some of those. She assured me I'd get no trouble from the locals while I walked around town, as long as I wasn't from California. I thanked her for her time and took off. I knew what I wanted to see.

​Knew what I was a little frightened to see, too.

We lived that summer—Dad, his wife, me—in a motel room that was clean and tidy but nothing special, exactly the kind of place Dad preferred when he was on a drilling job and whatever his housing cost was would come off his own bottom line.

Problem was, there wasn't enough oxygen in that little room, not with the way the two of them were fighting. It wasn't particularly physically violent—that's the imagination part taking hold of the memory for fictional purposes—but it was, in its way, almost worse, because it was ceaseless. They knew every button to push with each other, and they did so in a way that seemed to me, even then, to be addictively gleeful. 

I spent a lot of time that summer in the parkway strip across the street from the motel, where I stood again 45 years later as I took the picture above, capturing a motel that's neither clean nor tidy nor recommended, Dayna told me.

Dad and his wife's separation from each other—the first one, anyway—came not in Milford but back at their home in New Mexico, during a weeklong break from Dad's work. He spilled an ashtray and told me to clean it up. His wife told him to clean it up himself. A wildly grotesque fight ensued, with each screaming at the other that it was time for divorce, and all the while I thought it was my fault because I just didn't do what I was told fast enough. 

​That's in the book, too. Sometimes a memory is enough and you can just hold imagination in abeyance. You don't need it.

Things turned dark for Dad when we came back to Milford absent a wife and a functioning marriage. His yearning for drink, frequent back then in the best of times, became unquenchable. He began leading with violence in his encounters with fellow drillers, his stepson, acquaintances, hired hands. I've always said the biggest victory in his life is that he never rolled physical abuse downhill at me after suffering it in his own childhood. But I still took it in from the cheap seats.

The first time I saw him punch a man came in Milford, in an alleyway after an old drunken fool who'd been teasing me in the bar followed me outside when I chased after the bar owner's dog. The old man grabbed me by the wrist, and I screamed, and Dad came flying to where we were, uncuffed me from the man's grip, and deposited him on his ass. Justified, I'd say.

The second time, I didn't see the punch, only heard it. Again, we were back in New Mexico, that same summer, and a fellow rancher with whom Dad had been feuding came to the house to renew the beef. I was in the kitchen with the wife of one of Dad's friends when I heard the slap of an open hand against a soft cheek, then the pathetic sobs of the struck man. I don't know whether he had it coming or not, but I felt the shame that man felt, the emasculation. Dad chased him out of there, into the night, and told him not to come back unless he wanted to know what dead felt like. I'm certain he meant it. I went to sleep that night whispering a silent wish into the air that the guy would have the good sense to stay away.

Again and again that summer, I walked with my father as he plodded to the precipice of rage and violence. Sometimes, I could walk him back without incident. Sometimes, I watched in horror as he plunged in against a world he thought was mistreating him.

​And I never said a thing, to anybody. Whom could I tell? Who could stop it? Had I told my mother in one of our weekly phone calls, there would have never been another trip to be with my old man, and that I could not bear. Little boys love their daddies. So I shut up and took it.

As chaotic and crazed as that summer was, as unhinged from any kind of healthy living as Dad was, he was a worker without peer. I don't recall his missing a single day out in the field, digging exploratory wells. Rides out to work, early every morning, were contented and quiet, with my sleepy head bouncing between the shoulders of my dad and my adult stepbrother as I rode in the middle of the pickup's bench seat.

Forty-five years later, I reveled in seeing that route again, of driving past the ruins of the mining town of Frisco, of looking at and remembering the scrub brush and the rugged peaks, of recounting the particulars of the work at which Dad was so good. He started earlier than everyone else, and he stayed at it later, and that made him valuable to the companies that wrote the checks, until the money stopped flowing. Four years after that summer, in 1983, the drilling economy bottomed out, and by 1985 repossession had come for Dad's drilling rig, casting him into a crisis of work identity that he never managed to surmount.

In 1979, though, he was a deeply troubled man possessed of a work ethic that might have been the one thing that kept him from entirely spiraling away from me. He taught me to drive a stick shift that summer. He trusted me to do it, too, and pressed me into duty after firing a helper in a rage and having no one else to drive the pickup. He sometimes laughed at my jokes. He was usually nice about it when he told me to shut up. Usually.

I deeply admired him. I sometimes feared him. I daily feared for him. And it would be years yet before I felt as though I'd started to understand him, a process that stumbles along even as I lay down these words today. Back then, I couldn't have imagined he'd make it to 45, let alone 85. Sometimes now, I wonder if time has forgotten to swoop in and collect him.

But it hasn't. What's coming for him is coming for all of us.

This terrible, beautiful view. That's Milford at the end of the road there, as seen from the Ely Highway as you're coming back into town. This is what I saw at the end of every workday as we returned to hot meals and hot showers and the many entanglements my father could find, even in a town of fewer than 1,500 souls.

The work was rote, predictable, pleasurable in its way. Dig a hole, move the equipment, dig another. Each return to Milford, on the other hand, came as a wild card. Drunkenness? Maybe. Fighting? Certainly. The worst human impulses, on full display, allowing no escape? Yes. I saw things no child should see. I mourn for the kid I was, to have those hard things visited upon him without a choice in the matter, even as I'm thankful for the fodder. Much was taken from me in Milford. Much was given to me that I've been able to lean on in my life and my work, and for that, gratitude sprouts among the shattered pieces.

Two days after I saw Milford again, I sat in Dad's little dining room and asked him if he remembered that summer. He did, but not with the clarity I possessed. Perhaps that's not surprising, given the gulf in our ages and our divergent roles back then. He had a mind for work and a crude method for blunting his pain. My mind, then and now, sops everything up. Pain is the straw I try to spin into...something. Understanding, in the best moments. Acceptance. Empathy. I need all of it.

I told Dad what I'd seen, the town fixtures that hadn't changed much, the highways stretching to horizons, the memories that whispered from every vista. He shook his head. "I don't remember much about Milford," he said. It's the constant tension in our relationship. He leaves the past where it is. I dredge it, looking for lessons and shiny objects amid the wreckage.

Here's one: Despite it all, I wouldn't trade my summer in Milford for something else. There's not enough in anybody's pockets to shake me loose from it now.

The big news I've been sitting on awhile is now out. My second full-length play is making its premiere in November, following on the heels of last year's Straight On To Stardust:

I began writing The Garish Sun almost immediately after the final performance of Straight On. Partly, I'd had so much fun writing my first play that I wanted to see if I could do it again. Partly, I wanted to write a play. Yes, yes, we staged Straight On as a play, but in terms of canvas and characters, I'd really written a movie script. The thing sprawls, taking place in four states and involving upward of a dozen characters. I wanted to strip a story down: five characters, max, having to deal with each other on one set. (Side note: Any filmmakers out there interested in taking a look at Straight On To Stardust? I have a script! Call me.)

The Garish Sun is a race-the-clock-and-the-rampant-corruption thriller about the last three people standing at a newspaper that's being put out to pasture. They decide to go after one last important story. The Yellowstone Repertory Theatre cast—led by Chas Llewellyn (editor Sonny Sturgis), Haley Sielinski (reporter Randi Hutch), and Adam Roebling (recent graduate Dexter Collins)—is breathing life into it in surprising and beautiful ways.

How I know they're nailing it: In rehearsals, I feel like I'm back in a newsroom, a place where I spent the first 25 years of my working life, a place where I was most at home, and a place that used to be filled with the people in the world I most admired and loved.

The aggregate effect of these two plays is that I now feel as though the "playwright" descriptor I've taken on legitimately sits alongside two other professional appellations I carry: "novelist" and "editor." I can't imagine sustaining the kind of creative life I want without writing more plays. They're fun. They're affirming, when they work. And I have so much to learn.

So how did I get here, at the relatively advanced age of 54? I've had no formal training in the dramatic arts, unless you're willing to count a few weeks when I was 9 and 10 years old and attended acting classes at Casa Mañana in Fort Worth, Texas. (I'm not willing to count those; I was a ham as a child but had little talent for acting.)

What I have, still, is an abiding love of live performance. Of seeing actors, without a net, spin a world into which I can disappear. Of beholding the magic drawn out by a director and an ensemble who take words on the page—something I can create—and apply their own interpretation to them, thus creating something else entirely. It's so different from the solitary art of creating a novel. Certainly, readers subsequently absorb it and interpret it as they will, but that happens out of the view of the writer. The performance of a play is available to all who attend. And in the case of The Garish Sun, there will be nine such performances, each different from the others in ways subtle and obvious. I can't wait.

It was a YRT performance of The Glass Menagerie that made me think I'd like to try to write one. Beautiful words, beautiful performances, the breaking of the fourth wall. Magic. That's what it was. 

So now I've written two. If there's any regret at all, it's that I didn't find my place in theatre as a much younger man, with more energy, more ideas, and presumably more time to get to them. I envy the theatre kids and what they get to experience, and though I think there's little point in wishing for a return to one's youth—it wasn't as great as it seems in the backward look, and it'd be even harder now—I wish sometimes I'd been one of them.

​But I wasn't. I'm a theatre middle-ager. I got here at the time that was right for me.

The Garish Sun will be staged at NOVA Center for the Performing Arts, 2317 Montana Ave., Billings. Performance dates: Nov. 8, 9, 10, 15, 16, 17, 21, 22, 23. Please join us!

*--Yeah, yeah, these are supposed to post on Saturday mornings. In my defense: (1) The prompt came on Saturday night, as I lay me down to sleep. (2) I don't want to wait till next Saturday to post it. (3) Time is just a construct.

The prompt came over the transom, flung by a writer for whom I have great affection and respect:

I was chuffed to be asked. I have all of two full-length plays (one produced, one not yet) and a handful of one-acts to my name. Obviously, there are far better exemplars for the form. But I do have gumption and want-to, and those count for a lot when it comes to setting down words with the self-indulgent hope that they'll someday be read or heard.

More than that, I have thoughts. I told my friend I'd get back to him after I bagged some Z's.

Here, then, is my response from this morning (edited for taste):

For me, the fun and the challenge lie in the stripping away of setup, exposition, and backstory: It's an act of propulsion using dialogue and a confined setting.

I think Straight On To Stardust, proud as I am of it, was more a screenplay than a play. My new one is much more minimal: one setting, five people, three of them doing the heavy lifting. It's a lot of damn dialogue, plus the moving around each other in a small space.

When I write a novel, I'm often thinking of the big canvas, the limitless aspects of time, and the freedom I have to get where I'm going. It's often a much smaller viewfinder on stage.

So there, I think more about how what people say to each other moves things along, the triggers in the speech, how things can turn on a word. What might come gradually in the pages of a novel is often like flash paper on stage. It's really cool when you can catch that ride.

Now...

If I wished to pull apart every sentence above, I could launch into endless digressions. About how writing a play isn't limiting at all, that the bounds exist only in the imagination of the dramatist. About the endless ways of pulling the marionette strings. About the fixation of place and the ceaselessness of time.

The timing of the prompt was interesting because I'd just had an evening of drinks with one of the finest actors in my town, and we'd spent time talking about these things. I was primed to provide an answer when my friend came calling.

In the end, all I really know about any kind of writing is the composition of the intrinsic gifts found only in the doing. I have fun writing plays; it is pure joy. When you have that, in anything, you want only one thing: to experience it again and again and to get better through those experiences.

Onward.​

*--I used this phrase in my most recent newsletter, and one of my dearest friends wrote me a wonderful email with it as the subject line. Consider this a case of virtuous recycling.

It has been nearly two months since I put something new up here. Sorry/not sorry, as the saying goes. So much has happened, and I have so little to say about it, and that's a strange combination. Confronted by this dynamic in the past, I've found it best to turtle up and wait until something worthwhile comes to mind. If you're seeking mindless blather, surely there's a high-frequency, low-content Substack site out there for you.

And yet, enough has changed, and enough good intentions have been met with poor follow-through, that an accounting is in order. Let's do this scattershot style:

Elisa covered this beautifully in her own newsletter, so I'll neither say a lot more nor take issue with any of it. She now lives in New England, her other heart earth, and I still live in Montana, mine.

I'm renting space in a lovely old rambling house in my favorite Billings neighborhood, pushing on with life and art. I have a beautiful office setup that is a joy to pile into each morning. My primary work, which I find interesting and fulfilling, continues apace (you can read a piece I wrote for PaymentsJournal here). Fretless and I take walks, sometimes alone, sometimes with my roommate and her dog. I tend to my dad. I have lunch with friends. It's a good life but also a different life, and I think Elisa would say the same thing.

Once I decided to spring Northward Dreams loose from its intended publisher, spring became a blur as I pushed out a retitled, re-jacketed version of the book and embarked on an ambitious series of appearances. Those have largely subsided as summer has come on, and it will probably be fall before I rev up again. The paperback comes out in November, and that's a good opportunity to hit the road again. I had so much fun with the hardcover.

What hasn't been fun—and I'm only being honest here—is going through the wringer of publishing, which can be a heartbreaking business. Writing is the best kind of joy—challenging, yes, but also a test of self, of the quality of ideas, of endurance. Publishing...Well, if I can't say something nice, and I can't, best not to say anything at all. It's not like my travails register as important in the larger scheme of things; hell, they're not even all that interesting to me given all the ways the world is on fire (literally).

But if I'm going to write stories—and I am—I will have to resolve my attitude one way or another. Right now, I feel three impulses:

1. Forget publishing altogether.
2. Find another partner like the one I just dispatched, something I never wanted to do, and approach the altar again.
3. Do with every subsequent book exactly what I did with this one.

Until my heart settles, I'll do nothing.

After the final curtain closed on Straight On To Stardust last fall, I set about writing a new play and turned it around quickly. It's called The Garish Sun--know your Shakespeare—and I hope to have some interesting news to pass along soon. #deliberatetease

At this juncture, I'm much more interested in and satisfied by working as a dramatist than I am in writing another novel. These feelings, of course, are subject to change (and always do), so I wouldn't read anything into that declaration. Just something I wouldn't have predicted, say, three years ago. Life, man.

At the beginning of July, I joined at the speaker roster at Humanities Montana. I'm thrilled about this, as a longtime admirer of and sometimes participant with this organization that advances the humanities in Montana's public life. 

My program, titled Where Memory and Imagination Meet, draws on subjects that have long held fascination for me—the roles of memory as an ignition point and imagination as the building blocks of fiction—but expands the idea to take in such diverse topics as family, background, community, even citizenship. When we talk about our memories of the things that shaped us and marry those with imagining different ways of talking and connecting, great things can happen.

My program, like all the others sponsored by Humanities Montana, is available to schools, libraries, civic groups, and other such gatherings. Information at the link above. If you have a group in Montana that would benefit from this conversation, let's talk!

Oh, you mean Craig Reads the Classics? The Saturday craft talks? General keeping in touch?

What can I say? I've been quiet lately. But I'll be back.

That's a promise.

I wrote about my home* state several weeks ago. It was a wide-angle, pulled-back view, and I thought I'd unloaded what was in my heart and my head. But here I go again...

No, really, here I go. It's a quick trip this time, not my usual two-day drive down, weeklong stay, and two-day drive back. I'm going for a reading and signing at a bookstore in Keller, the once-sleepy town just north of where I grew up. Like other parts of the North Texas I once knew, it doesn't really match up with my memories anymore. It's bigger, more congested, more diverse, more interesting.

The book I'm taking with me, Northward Dreams, is the most personal piece of fiction I've ever written. The best thing I've ever written, too, not that anyone should trust me to judge such a thing. I'm proud of it. I'm proud of how I willed it into existence. And I really, really want to share it with the people who underpin it, in ways subtle and overt. They're in the book, all of them, whether they would recognize themselves or not. They're in it because they're in me, in the memories I carry around.

To that end, I sent out about 100 postcards earlier this year, addressed to people from across the years I spent in Texas: classmates, old neighbors, former bosses, teachers, colleagues, friends, former lovers. I asked them to come out and see me and to meet this book, to renew acquaintances or to prolong friendships that never ran dry. 

I'm hoping to see a constellation of faces I recognize come Saturday, but I've also put this event squarely in a holiday weekend, so who knows? I haven't always done a wonderful job of staying in touch as I've wandered the country, looking for the place I'd call home. 

I found it, years ago. But I've also come to realize that the place I'm from—as much as I'm from anywhere—is also home and always will be.

When I say Northward Dreams is my most personal book, I'm thinking, among other things, about this snippet from one of the four timelines the novel covers. Here, in 1972, Electra and her little boy have arrived at their new home in Texas:

After they’ve gone downstairs, after Electra has made her assessment of the pantry, after she’s pictured the days stretched out before them, after Nathan, red-faced and watery-eyed, has come down and asked for a glass of water, after Charley has fetched the rest of their things and stacked them by the door for sorting out later, after they’ve come back up the stairs, quieter, the three of them lie askew on the king bed. Charley is on his side, head propped up by an angular arm. Electra lies far opposite of him, attentive to her son, and Nathan sleeps in between, curled like a kitten’s paw and under a loose blanket.

Electra reaches across the distance, and Charley takes her hand.

“Probably not what you expected.”

“It’s everything I expected,” he whispers. “You?”

“It’s what I want,” she says.

“Me, too.”

“He’s really a good boy,” she says.

“I know.”

“It’s a lot to deal with.”

“It is.” Charley sits himself up, careful not to jostle the boy. “Kids are resilient, though. I ever tell you about when we moved from Vernon to Wichita Falls?”

“No. I’d remember.”

“You went through both towns,” he says.

“I know.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

“I know,” she says.

“Fifty-some miles, might as well have been moving from earth to the moon. I was nine. Everything I knew, every friend I had, they were all in Vernon, but my dad, he was a history teacher, and the high school in Wichita Falls, they offered him $15 more a week, so we moved. I didn’t have any say.”

“Had to be hard at that age.” She’s thinking now of Nathan’s best friends, the Miles boy two doors down and the Fletcher kid, the one she doesn’t much like but whom Nathan adores, and how she plucked him up and took him away without his getting to say goodbye. She hurts for him in a way that she hasn’t allowed herself to think about until now.

“Hard at any age,” Charley says. “But the thing is, in the end, I made new friends. Wichita Falls became home, every bit as much as Vernon had been. I adjusted. He’ll adjust, too.”

“Tomorrow,” she says, more thoughts she’s held at bay rushing toward her now. Enrolling Nathan in school. Finding a job. Learning where the supermarket is.

“It’ll all get done,” he says, as if inside her head. It’s a talent he has.

She leans across and kisses him for the first time.

Where all of that comes from is both imagination and memory, little snippets that I heard, others I conjured, all of it front and center in my brain, ready to be accessed when I got hold of a story that needed it. This story. This place. Another time of life, forever salient because the decisions that were made had such gravity to them that their effects radiated out to lives yet to be launched.

​It's powerful stuff, fiction. Often more powerful than the real life that informs it.

We've been headed here all along, haven't we? The book's first full chapter begins with Nathan. The book's last interceding chapter ends with Nathan. He stands as the pivotal character in an ensemble, the one who can still change his course, if only he has the courage. Others have made their choices and lived, or died, with them. A lot is behind Nathan. More could yet be ahead.

There's not much else I want to say, except this: For me, the suggestion of future change is the most satisfying part of literary characters. I'm far more interested in the idea that they could change than the actual shape and scope of that change. It's why I like open-ended endings so much: Presumably, life goes on, until it doesn't. While we're sentient and breathing, it's within us to deviate our path.

Thanks for reading.

Of these nine timeline-busting chapters—just one to go after today—this one is the anomaly. It features a character who never appears on camera, as it were. Brandon Ray, son of Nathan, grandson of Ronnie, interacts with his father in phone calls that are clipped, distant, and loaded up with tension.

And yet, he's essential, in that the book traffics heavily in fathers and sons and what gets passed on and where the fault lines lie.

Brandon and his father are mirrors and opposites, a dynamic that also follows daughter (Cherie) and mother (Anna) in another timeline. Brandon was largely raised by another man—quite successfully, Nathan knows, and that's a source of pride and an unwanted memory, given his own path.

And there's something between them—something bigger and more immediate than their shared past—and in this chapter Brandon lays out the choice the older man has in the matter.

It's in the book.