Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

The Red Mug

Wednesday evening. I’m teaching Paralegalism and Ethics at the University of Wisconsin-Superior later tonight. I could drive home after my “real” work day is over at the courthouse. But it’s a half-hour jaunt each way. And then there’s the fuel factor. I also teach Environmental Law at the college on Tuesday nights, so if I want to set a good example for my students, the less wasteful driving I do, the less gasoline my blue Pacifica consumes, the better.

Besides, writers are all about ritual, right? I mean, you’ve read my essays describing  my 5:00am obsession. About how I get up every morning, put on the coffee, fire up the iMac, and try to spin yarns. Oh. Don’t forget rubbing the belly of the little synthetic jade Buddha my sister bought me for good luck before beginning to tap away at my keyboard. There’s nothing that says an old writer can’t adopt a new ritual, which is why Wednesday evenings between 5:00pm and 6:30pm, you’ll now find me slurping soup and drinking hot chocolate at the Red Mug Coffee House in Superior.

To be honest, I hadn’t been a frequent visitor to the Mug until recently. My coffee house of choice is located on my side of St. Louis Bay. I’ve been a loyal patron of the Amazing Grace Bakery in Canal Park ever since I first heard folk great Lucy Kaplansky sing there over twenty years ago. Along the way, I became casual friends with the owner, Chip,and a host of the characters that frequent the funky little Greenwich Village-inspired venue. Sadly, Chip’s gone, a victim of the Big “C”. But the place he founded and nurtured still serves great soup and sandwiches alongside some of the finest live music in the Twin Ports.

But back to Wednesday evenings at the Red Mug.

Deciding where to park my keester and write between jobs on Wednesday evenings wasn’t all that difficult. I mean, it’s Superior, right? That is to say, the choices for a clean, quiet, humble, and quaint place to write are pretty limited in a town better known for its cheap ass tap beer than its literature. But I’d been in the Mug a couple of times, so I knew the layout. It’s also right on the way to the campus from the courthouse, making it the perfect location for an OCD afflicted author who craves consistency and order. About a month ago, I started hauling my new Mac Air along with my books, notes, and supplies for my class to my day job every Wednesday. Before class, I find an empty table at the Mug, fire up my notebook, and order dinner. The soup’s very good. The Paninis are filling. And the Mug’s hot chocolate, after too many cups of coffee to start my 5:00am writing obsession, seems a calming elixir.

Inside the Mug

This is only the third or fourth week I’ve been hiding out at the Superior coffee house, which means I haven’t made any new friends or got to know the staff. But that will come. Superior, despite its lack of big hills and scenery, is a friendly place, filled with hard working, gregarious folks. Over time, I’m sure I’ll feel as comfortable at the Mug, tapping away at my prose, as say, William Kent Krueger is at the St. Croix Broiler. I don’t know if Minnesota’s mystery icon still hovers around that venerable St. Paul eatery. But that was once his haunt, the place where he sat for hours, spinning tall tales into his word processor, sipping hot coffee, and trying to remain nondescript. I, of course, don’t have similar worries here at the Mug. No one in the coffee house knows who the hell I am.

The Work Goes On

After three solid years to researching, writing, editing, feedback, and more editing, my novel-in-progress about the Finns and Estonians during World War II, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, is nearly finished. Oh, there will be a final edit sometime later this summer when I send the manuscript to Scribendi, the Internet editing service I’ve used for my last five books, receive the comments and changes suggested by Scribendi’s editor back in the form of Track Changes to my Word document, and make adjustments as need be. But if I’ve done my homework and put together a story that flows, the final edit’s not an arduous task. It’s all of the sweat, blood, tears, frustrations, and swearing that come before the final edit that causes a writer’s gray hair. Or, at my age, more gray hair.

I used to worry about which version of a manuscript floating around on my computer was the most current. Then there was the disaster of waking up and discovering that my Windows computer had experienced a hard drive crash. That’s serious business, as I learned working on Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story when a year of work vanished in the ether. I know, I know, I should have been backing up my work on an external hard drive or on the Internet. Or both.  Attempts to recover that year of work were unsuccessful but I learned a valuable lesson. I bought an external drive and also began saving my work on the Cloud. Redundancy is apparently a good thing when it comes to data. My eldest son Matt then cured all my ills by a) convincing me to switch to a Mac, a machine much less prone to disintegration; and b)Using Dropbox to secure my work on the Web.

The hour runs late. I save the changes to my manuscript not only on the flash drive of my Air, but also on Dropbox. At home, when I’m using my iMac, security is even more rigid. My documents are saved to the hard drive, to an external hard drive, to Dropbox, and also Carbonite. OCD folks learn lessons well. I shuttle my dirty bowl, plate, and cup to the bin, pack up my computer, and wander outside on this beautiful spring evening, ready to talk to kids about ethics, my manuscript secure in numerous disclosed locations and ready for a final edit. And then? Stay tuned…

Leaving the Mug

You’ll find information about the Red Mug at:

http://redmugcoffee.com/

Peace.

Mark

The Blue Pacifica

Saturday. 6:15am. I’m on the road again in my blue Pacifica, the newly paved asphalt and concrete of I-35 rumbling beneath the floor (my apologies to Steve Goodman). The title of this piece was stolen from friend, musician, and memoirist, Paul Metsa. I’m not off to much of a start here in terms of originality; I’ve ripped off Goodman’s lyrics and Metsa’s book title and we’re not even through the intro! Oh well. That’s what we writers do; we collect ideas and scenes and characters and themes that other folks aren’t using and we adapt them to our own warped little view of reality. Anyway, as I’ve recently written, I’m all but done for awhile with the writer/author/lecturer circuit. Except…

When you make a commitment to do a thing, well, you’re not much of a man or a woman if you bow out and leave someone hanging. I’d agreed to be on a panel of authors at the Bloomington Theater and Arts Center at the 10th Annual Writers Festival and Book Fair. So far as I know, there are only two of these writerly events left in Minnesota: The Bloomington Writers Festival and Book Fair, the one I’m headed to, and the Twin Cities Book Festival in October sponsored by Rain Taxi Magazine. There have been others I’ve participated in over the years: the Deep River Writers Festival in Mankato and the Great Northern Festival of Words in Duluth. But these other events no longer exist, having followed many local festivals and art fairs into retirement on the heels of a damaged economy and diminished volunteerism. I’ve attended most, if not all, of the festivals hosted by the lovely Bloomington Theater and Arts Center and, in return for a table to sell books and the proverbial free lunch, I’d agreed to join three other authors and moderator/publisher Tom Keyes to discuss the topic of “Pathways to Getting Your Book Published”. I’d made the promise before I decided to pull back from marketing. Hence, the early Saturday morning drive down I-35.

Location. Location. Location. Last year, my table was at the intersection of two hallways packed with authors and books: A great spot in terms of traffic flow and visibility. This year, I’m at the far end of a secondary hallway: a dead end. It’s sort of like being the last bar in a dark and dreary alley. By the time the drunks realize there’s one more tavern to visit, they’ve blown their wad. Oh well. I’m getting the space and lunch just for talking, right? Who can complain? I set up my table, which, given that I am down to stock of only two of my books, Laman’s River, my latest novel, and Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story, a brick thick biography of my dead legislator uncle that I have cartons of stacked in my basement back home, takes very little time. In short order, I’m open for business and I settle in to read. It’s a bit after 9:15 and the doors have been opened to let folks in to hear the keynote address at 9:30.

The Festival

Folks wander in and begin browsing tables stacked with self-published and subsidy published books. Each passing customer is a potential reader, a future fan for the hundreds of amateur authors like me sitting patiently behind their rented tables ready to discuss their work. I’ve never sold many books at this particular event but I’ve always made a new friend or two. Because I’m at the tail end of the hallway, the crowd thins by the time it reaches my table. But that’s OK. It gives me time to dig into Shelter, a nifty little memoir by Minnesota author (and friend) Sarah Stonich. I just started the book and already, I’m hooked. It’s a tough balancing act, reading someone else’s prose while trying to sell your own, but it’s a trapeze wire I’m well adept at walking, having sat in hundreds of events like this in hundreds of locations over the decade I’ve been a published author. Over time, I’ve acquired a second sense, an innate ability, to discern, from body language alone, when a person stopped in front of my books is actually interested or simply curious. The simply curious I leave be. I keep reading. For the actually interested, I lift my head, place the book I’m into on the blue cloth covering my table, and engage. Sometimes this connection with a potential customer results in a sale. More often than not, it doesn’t. But the conversation is always cordial, sometimes illuminating. And it comes with the territory.

A 10:40, I wander down to the Bloomington City Council Chambers where our panel will be presenting and meet Tom Keyes, the panel’s moderator. Tom and I are joined by authors June Anderson, Dave Fingerman, and Steve Filippini. After receiving preliminary instructions, the four author/panelists head back to our tables with the promise that we’ll all be on time for the 11:00 start of the panel. Despite the notion that most novelists are irresponsible drunken louts, we’re all in our places and behind our microphones when the cable access guy starts the video rolling and the panel discussion begins. As with most of these sorts of events, the hour flies past. Unlike some of my more recent blogs about my publishing efforts, which have tended to the dark and depressing, I try to remain upbeat, to give hope to the aspiring authors in the seats across the room. After all, who am I to step on someone’s dream, right? Besides, sitting in those chairs filled with college kids, retired grandfathers and grandmothers, and all sorts of folks in between, there may just be the next Sarah Stonich: a first-time novelist who lands a deal with a national publisher. One never knows. And so, I display a sunny optimism about the world of self-publishing in hopes of keeping the authorial aspirations of the audience alive. The panel ends with a few questions from the audience and we’re released by Tom to engage in personal commerce.

I trade a comp ticket for a free box lunch-a turkey wrap, assorted condiments, and a bottle of water-and return to my chair behind my table at the end of the line. I sell a few books. I chat with Randy and Kath McCarty, two friends from Grand Rapids who are insanely supportive of my writing, and then, when the traffic begins to dwindle with the shifting afternoon sun, I climb back into Stonich’s story, lost in her description of single motherhood, building a wilderness cabin, and trying to find a place in the world. Before too long, it’s 3:30 and time to pack up and wheel my boxes of words and thoughts out to the blue Pacifica for the ride home.

Shelter by Sarah Stonich

You can find Sarah’s work at: http://sarahstonich.com/home.html. You can track Paul’s comings and goings and buy a copy of his memoir, Blue Guitar Highway, at:

http://www.blueguitarhighway.com/.

Buy a book and help a Minnesota author out!

And for those of you who don’t know who Steve Goodman is, shame on you! (Check out: http://www.stevegoodman.net/)

Peace.

Mark

Snow shoveling brought me to my senses. That’s as plain as I can state my circumstances as I sit in front of my iMac, typing away, velvet ebony surrounding the windows of my studio, a Norwester’ whipping snow into unseen dervishes across our invisible hayfield.

For twenty-three years, I’ve been pursuing my muse. It started with spinal fusion surgery in September of 1990. My wife, a fine artist in her own right, urged me to use my recovery time after my week-long hospital stay, to cobble together the novel I’d always dreamed of writing. And so, I did. That book, The Legacy, took ten years to find a publisher and was born into the world in October of 2000. Since that fateful exercise, I’ve gone on to write nine books in all, some I’m proud of beyond measure, some I’d rather not claim. But not a one of those efforts had the support of an agent or a mainstream publisher. They have all been self-published. And therein lies the reason I find myself awake at four in the morning.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. Early on, I queried literary agents and publishers across the United States and Canada hoping and praying that one of my projects would spark an interest in the cultural doorkeepers that control the printing presses. Didn’t happen. I came close with The Legacy. Closer yet with Pigs. But my best work, the work I am most proud of, never generated any enthusiasm from the powers that be. Undaunted, fueled by ego or hubris, and propelled into my writing studio each morning by a rare combination of ambition and OCD, I typed away, spinning my yarns across the decades. To facilitate my tall tales being read, I founded a small press of my own and began to release books to bookstores and over the Internet. Folks seemed to like my work. I thought that, with vocal appreciation from fans and a little luck, my stories would spark interest in the larger world and my writing would find a home with a “real” publisher. Didn’t happen.

Debts mounted. A paltry attempt at financial rescue through Kickstarter was a bust. I managed to scrape together enough money to try one last time. Laman’s River came out a year ago. My most “commercial” effort and the slimmest of my novels never moved the needle on the success dial. Yet, I kept at it. Words poured out of my brain, through my fingers, and propelled the keyboard. Sukulaiset, my biggest challenge as a writer, emerged from piles and piles of research. I was on a mission with this book, a mission to craft a stunning and evocative story of love, loss, and the Holocaust that would solidify my reputation as a thoughtful and intelligent writer. But that didn’t happen. Some who pre-read the book, like my friends Randy in Grand Rapids and Alexis here in Duluth, had high praise for the effort. My wife thinks Sukulaiset is the best writing I’ve ever done. Others expressed less enthusiasm for the book’s plot and characters. The feedback I received was a mixed bag but the overall impact was devastating. It caused me to seriously doubt the path I’d stubbornly chosen.

Back to the snow shoveling and my eureka! moment. March has brought a ton of snow to our neck of the woods. It won’t likely be a record snow year. Duluth averages, according to the Internet source I checked, about 86 inches of snow a year. Hardly competition for Houghton-Hancock, or Bridger Bowl, or Killington, Vermont. A recent article in the Duluth News Tribune placed our snowfall to date at 75 inches. Ahead of last year and many recent years but still below our annual average. But we have had, in the past three weeks, a late awakening of winter. New snow has been accumulating on the roof of my house along nooks and crannies where, if undisturbed, it will form ice. Which will in turn form ice dams. Which in turn, will cause the roof to leak. So yesterday, I crashed my Pacifica through accumulated drifts that had reclaimed our road and driveway, spun my tires, and made it home before dark intent on shoveling the roof. I bundled up in my insulated Carhartt bibs and coat, tugged on an old orange stocking hat and matching gloves, and trudged outside.

The view from the roof of our house was astounding. The yellow globe of the sun stood above the leafless aspen and maple forest defining the western edge of our pasture. Wisps of cloud danced to a fresh Manitoban wind across the blue vaulted sky. The snow I was set to move was a mixture of light fluff, hard corn, and solid ice. The ice proved impassable and the snow was thigh deep. I was soon sweating inside my bibs. At fifty-eight, I know the statistics. I stopped to catch my breath and let my pounding heart rest. The weight of the snow tested my left shoulder where Doc Klassen stitched me back together. The shoulder’s not perfect. But it works. It stood the test. And as I shoved shovel after shovel of snow over the frozen gutter and onto the ground, I came to a decision.

Take some time off. Give this self-publishing thing a rest.

I am quite certain that creative types share the same demons, the same fears. One of those fears is that, if we stop what we’re doing, whether it’s painting or sculpture or writing, we’re toast. The fickle muse that propels us will vanish like the last breath from a gasping trout in a creel. And we will never be able to start the engine of creativity again. But as I pushed snow over the edge of the roof into the thin, cold air of the Cloquet River Valley, I came to the conclusion that I must take that risk. For me. For my sanity. For my wife and the son who remains at home. The fear, that if I stop promoting and selling my work at festivals and events,  my name will be forgotten by those who’ve read and enjoyed my writing, is an irrational one. It is not founded on common sense or reality. That’s the clarity that came to me yesterday as I stood on the roof of my house watching the black water of the Cloquet push against the weight of a Canadian wind.

And so, I have cancelled all my appearances for the summer as well as the June release of Sukulaiset: The Kindred. My future as a teller of tall tales is, at this moment, uncertain. I do plan to re-format some of my older novels as eBooks over the upcoming year so that they’re available to folks who haven’t read them. Beyond that, I hope to find the time and the inclination to slip on my waders and wet a line in one of those little trout streams along the North Shore I used to write about. Maybe take a trip out west to visit my second son and his girlfriend at their new home, with a stop at Yellowstone and the Custer Battlefield as well. And maybe float in a canoe on the Cloquet in search of peace, contentment, and a walleye or two.

Stay tuned for the next chapter.

Peace.

Mark

Helsinki Station January 2006

Sex (got your attention, didn’t I?). A cold beer on a hot day. Seeing your children born. Merlot. Slow food. Friends. Family. Good health. Brisk winter air. Spring rain. Cool rivers on hot summer days. Flaming autumn leaves. Grandchildren. A job that you love. Faith. Bald eagles. Osprey. Wolves. Moose. White pines. Mountains. Lake Superior. Springsteen in concert. Discovering new music. Sibelius. History. Old buildings (like the one above). Traveling to new places. Reading. Writing. Finishing a manuscript. Helping. Being helped.

I haven’t been diligent about keeping up with this blog thing. I’ve been preoccupied. There’s work. There’s teaching. There’s fathering. There’s husbanding (OK, I’m pretty sure I just made that verb up). And yes, from time to time, even OCD crazed writers like me need sleep. And exercise (not enough, my tummy tells me!). So I apologize to you, loyal readers, for not putting out a bit more effort to keep you engaged. Anyway, I’m here now, typing away, trying to think of something profound to say about what’s been going on with Sukulaiset: The Kindred my latest fiction effort. A big project, no doubt. Three countries. Eight decades. Three wars. Hundreds of characters. And, at last count, 160,000 words. My words, all lined up in order, ready to meet the world. Or not. But a column about the book can wait. Something’s been rattling around in my brain that needs to be explored. Here goes.

All creative types have doubts and demons. The trick for writers and artists and musicians is to try and keep the little specters that bedevil us on a short leash and not let them loose on the world. Sure, we need those demons close by, nipping at our heels, propelling us forward. But the consequences of releasing the clasp and letting our inner beasts roam at will, well, that can be catastrophic, sometimes deadly. Remembering the good stuff can help keep a tight leash on those nasty beings that bedevil creative types, can help defend against the ordinary self-doubting that is part and parcel of any creative process.

Here, in a bucolic small town alongside one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, two Minnesota writers chose to end their lives nearly a decade apart. Now, I won’t pretend to understand suicide. This isn’t an essay about loved ones’ recognizing the signs of depression and getting their family members, who just might be writers or artists, help. I’m an ordinary human being possessing ordinary thoughts and musings, trying to make sense of what happens around me. When I ran into a piece entitled “The Secret Lives of Stories” in the most recent issue of Poets & Writers  magazine (Jan/Feb 2013) it got me thinking. A dangerous thing, getting me thinking but something that happens from time to time.

Anyway, in the piece, contributing editor Frank Bures describes an encounter he had with beloved Minnesota essayist, Paul Gruchow (The Necessity of Empty Places) when Frank was a wide-eyed student in a creative writing class taught by Gruchow. Bures’s essay is part of an annual effort by Poets to instill a sense of joy and inspiration in would-be authors (like me) who buy the magazine. Hence, the title of the entire issue: Inspiration. Bures has written a solid, reflective piece about not only how generous and open Paul was with his time and his wisdom: He also laments, upon learning of Gruchow’s suicide years later, how unknowable and unpredictable human nature can be:

What I heard from Gruchow was this: Writing, creating, something so beautiful that it may outlast you is so important that you must be prepared to suffer for it, and then keep going on…That may also be why the news of Gruchow’s death, so many years after we met, filled me with a deep and unexpected sadness. It was sadness born of the realization that while I thought he and I had been reading from the same script, perhaps we weren’t…

Paul Gruchow (B-Montevideo, MN; D-Duluth, MN)

Powerful language, that. And it reminded me of a recent funeral I attended of another Minnesota writer, Duluth News Tribune and Minneapolis Star Tribune journalist Larry Oakes. Larry too, apparently, succumbed to his demons. Like Paul, Larry was in his fifties (Paul was 56, Larry was 52) when life, apparently, became too much. I never had the pleasure of meeting Paul Gruchow but as you can tell from this piece, I greatly admired his work. I did meet Larry Oakes a couple of times. Our most recent contact occurred when Larry and his wife Patty, a childhood friend from the neighborhood, were in front of me as parties in a court case. Beyond that, Patty introduced me to Larry at a public event or two and that was the extent of my connection to Larry Oakes. Except that I knew his writing. In fact, one of his articles about my uncle, Willard Munger, made it into Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story ( p. 515). Of the hundreds of articles and editorials written about my uncle over his 88 years of life, Larry’s piece stood out. His writing compelled me to include it in the last section of the book, “Afterword: Remembering Willard”, an elegy to one of Minnesota’s most ardent conservationists. Like I said, I didn’t know Larry personally. But from the anecdotes told by friends and family and co-workers at his memorial service, it seems abundantly fitting that a guy who loved to canoe and fish and camp had his writing included in a biography about “Mr. Environment.”

Larry Oakes (B-Mpls., MN; D-Duluth, MN)

Working on my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset, I’ve followed my time-tested formula of spewing words on paper through my keyboard (hopefully in some sort of order that makes sense) and then imposing my half-cocked story upon friends and strangers. As I’ve written before, this book, this project, and all the feedback, both negative and positive, has prompted the kind of internal struggle…No, that’s not the right word. Journey. That’s it…the kind of internal journey that sorely tests a writer of sound mind. I can’t imagine the psychological torment a project like Sukulaiset would have on someone battling depression or other serious mental illness. All of us can recount the names of artists and writers and poets and musicians who have left this world by their own hand far too soon. And we can recount, from a distance, the diagnosis that each of those souls wore as a label. But we can’t really understand. We can never answer the question why. We can only remember. And appreciate the gifts they gave us, the good stuff they shared with us, during their short lives.

In honor of these two fine writers, I’d ask that you follow this link:

http://www.pw.org/content/ben_arthurs_bone_and_heart

Author and musician Ben Arthur has fashioned a beautiful tribute to Paul, Larry, and all the other writers who’ve passed on using Paul Gruchow’s own words.

Peace.

Mark

Matt, Chris, and Dylan Munger at Bridger Bowl

So here we are once again in Big Sky Country on a ski vacation with Duluth’s quintessential ski shop family, the Ski Hut. There’s some debate how many years Wes Neustal, and now his son Scott, have organized this mass exodus of Duluthians to ski Bridger Bowl, Big Sky, Moonlight Basin, and, at times, Showdown and Red Lodge. It’s something more than twenty and less than forty years. That’s all that’s known for certain. My wife Rene’ and I have made the trip at least seven times over the past decade, usually with our oldest son Matt, his wife Lisa, and Jack, our youngest son. This year, grandson AJ is along for the ride (he’s 9 months old and he’s a couple of years away from skis). Dylan, our second oldest, was here for a few days, down from his home in Williston, ND with his significant other, Shelly. Chris, our third son, drove out with us. He’s been here before. My mom and my step-dad, my sister and her husband and their two girls, and a host of their friends are among the 200 plus Minnesotans taking over the Bozeman Comfort Inn. Gene Cook, the owner of the place, always greets the mob from Duluth with a smile and a warm handshake. And his staff…what can you say? They are simply the best. Year after year we tromp through the hotel, dragging ski and snowboarding equipment behind us, all with the knowledge that we are as welcome in Bozeman as if we had been born here.

Jack brought along a buddy, Nate Sich, who, on his first trip to the mountains, has boarded everything in sight, including the Headwaters at Moonlight.

Jack Munger and Nate Sich at Moonlight Basin

My wife Rene’, who broke both her tibia and fibula in a nasty slip and fall just before Christmas, isn’t in any shape to ski. But she’s a trooper, making lunches for the boys, doing babysitting duty with AJ when asked, and reading a novel during the quiet moments at the hotel or in the chalets. She’s gone right now, as I type this blog, to Big Sky with Matt and the crew. Next year, she’ll be back on skis, cruising the blues and greens at Bridger on her silver skis.

Just before we left Duluth, I got the OK from my doc to ski. I haven’t been able ski all year because I had shoulder surgery in October and ended my PT just a week ago Monday. It was exactly a week ago today that Doc Klassen at Essentia saw me and cleared me to go on this trip. Since we left the next day, I was pushing the envelope a wee bit. But that’s the Munger way. The shoulder has, due to Doctor Jeff’s surgical prowess, held up fine. Other than a twinge here and a sore night there, it’s handled the best skiing Montana has to offer. And since this is the first time all four Munger boys have been in the mountains with their father, I am grateful beyond measure for the good doctor’s skill.

Last night, Rene’ and I and my mom and step-dad drove to Livingston, just a short jaunt down the freeway, after another snowy day at Bridger. Given that my last book, Laman’s River is partially set in Montana, I scheduled a couple of events at bookstores in Big Sky Country. The folks at Elk River Books in Livingston were kind enough to set up a reading at their store last night. Though the weather was a bit tough and the crowd was meager, I had a great time reading from and discussing the book with fellow poets and writers. If you are ever in downtown Livingston, check out this cozy, sweet little bookstore featuring new and used books. You won’t be disappointed.

In a couple of hours, I’m slated to be at Montana State University at the bookstore for a signing. Hopefully, it won’t be just me sitting there, staring at the walls. But one never knows when one schedules events in places far from home…

The highlight of the trip has been spending time, even “cozy time” in the car, with my sons, Nate, my wife, and the rest of my family. Seeing my grandson’s smile against the bright Montana sunshine is an image that eludes description. He’s the light of my life, along with my boys. And what can I say about Rene’, the rock of my crazy life as a semi-famous writer from Minnesota?

Before I forget, I wrote a little piece for “Reflections West”, a literary radio program on Montana Public Radio that is airing twice during this week on MPR (that’s Montana Public Radio for you Minnesotans!). But those of you in places other than Montana can listen to the essay at:

www.reflectionswest.org

One more day of skiing and then, the Munger clan faces a long ride home. Here’s hoping the box of books in the back of the Pacifica is a bit lighter on the return trip!

Peace.

Mark

It’s been a while, loyal followers. The best that can be said is I am one tired lad. I started teaching at UWS again at the end of January. Two classes a week, two nights a week. In addition, I’ve taken on the role of Assistant Scoutmaster at my son’s Boy Scout Troop, which eats up another night of the week. And of course, I’ve been working hard on the editing of Sukulaiset: The Kindred, my sweeping novel of WWII Finland and Estonia. I went into that project with trepidation as to the scope and breadth of the potential story and, so far, my fears have proven valid. It is a big story and a big book that needs a trimming, just like Governor Chris Cristie could stand to lose a few pounds. Recently, I spent three nights at Amazing Grace meeting with pre-readers, getting valuable feedback on story, plot, character, and all things Finnish and Estonian from folks I trust. I also received much feedback via email from folks who couldn’t meet with me personally.

Here are a few choice comments from people who’ve read the manuscript:

“There are too many breasts.”

“You dwell on menopause waaaaay too much!”

“I was confused by the changes from first person to third person.”

“You need a character list and maps.”

“Maps would be really good.”

“Have you thought about some maps?”

“What’s with all the breasts?”

“You need more about Elin and Matti at the end of the story.”

“I didn’t get the link between the opening and the main plot.”

“Has anyone said that maps would be a good idea?”

And so on…

Anyway, with all that’s going on in my personal and professional life, the novel has taken second stage. I think part of the reason I’ve put it on the back burner is the very fear and dread that loomed when I began to work on the massive story some three years ago: I just don’t know if I can pull it off. This is, after my uncle’s biography, the biggest, most demanding project of my twenty-plus-year writing career. I need a breather. I need to stop and consider whether the story can be salvaged in a format that will make me proud to say “Yes, I wrote that book.” Right now, there are bits and pieces and characters and scenes I can say that about, which would be fine if I wasn’t trying to hammer the thing together for a summer 2013 release around Finn Fest in Houghton-Hancock. But that’s my goal and, if I can’t do it, well then, I can’t do it.

Once I get in the groove of teaching (don’t get me started about all the technological challenges I’ve faced teaching an ITV course), I hope to be able to pull myself together and get back at the novel. Hope does, as is often said, spring eternal. In the meantime, I’ll strap on my cross country skis (nearly done with my shoulder rehab), head out for the woods and the new snow, and consider what it is I want out of this writing thing.

Say a prayer for me, will you?

In the meantime, if you want to hear an excerpt from the manuscript, head out to Beaner’s Coffee Shop on Central Avenue in Duluth this Sunday, February 10th, from 1-3. Lake Superior Writers is sponsoring a series of readings by local poets and authors (including me) entitled “Fire and Ice.” Should be a wonderful afternoon of quality readings from quality folks, including former and current Poet Laureates of Duluth.

Also, you can catch up on what I’ve been up to by logging onto the Rural Lit R.A.L.L.Y. website where there’s a feature interview with me. The link is:

http://rurallitrally.org/

And by the way, since when have there ever been too many breasts?

Just wondering.

Peace.

Mark

I was nervous. Usually the programs I do at libraries or writing groups center around my gig as a self-published author. Not this time. The Program Committee of the Grand Rapids Library wanted something different from me, something relating to the inner struggles and demons of  creative writing. So, as I prepared to give my talk, working on an outline and drawing considerable expertise from Bird by Bird by Ann Lamott, and The Writing Life by Annie Dillard (with a little Julia Cameron thrown in for good measure), I was nervous.

Who am I to be giving writing advice to anyone? I have a history and political science degree, not an MFA.

There’s this thing that happens to all writers, I think, and I am no exception, when we have worked at our craft for a few decades without achieving commercial success or fame. While all writers harbor self-doubt, for those of us who choose to self-publish and then talk about the experience, well, the term “self-doubt” isn’t an adequate measure of the level of inadequacy we harbor. So putting it all out in front of twenty to thirty relative strangers is a daunting experience for even someone as brash as me.

Driving from Duluth to Grand Rapids last night, I managed to calm my nerves by listening to the Black Keys, a CD my third son gave me for Christmas. He’s a creative soul like me still trying to find his muse in words or music. He understands what makes me tick when it comes to putting words out into the world for public scrutiny and the Black Keys wasn’t something he shared on a whim. The music helped and soon, I was pulling into downtown Grand Rapids to grab a bite to eat at the Chinese buffet.

Before eating, I stopped in at Village Books, the town’s only independent bookstore, and chatted with Mike, the owner, about the state of indies in a world dominated by Amazon, Walmart, and Barnes and Noble. It’s tough duty, selling books retail these days, especially in the midst of a recession and against the recent tidal wave of eBooks and eReaders. The indies, including Village, are dear to this writer’s heart, because they are the little engines of local commerce that put my work into the hands of avid readers. Sure, I sell through Amazon and the other giants, and my latest novel, Laman’s River is available for eReaders. But the indies are where I meet my loyal fans face to face and as I left Mike and his wife to their work, I was saddened to think that progress may include the disappearance of such places.

My friend Randy and his wife Kath met me in the library parking lot as I was hauling in a bin of books to sell after my talk. I got to know the McCartys when Randy and his book club selected Suomalaiset as a book for their group some years back. I’ve been blessed with their support for my writing for nearly a decade; support that includes a bed at their lovely home on Lake Pokegama whenever I’m passing through. Their presence on a dark night, as snow flurries danced around us in the parking lot, did much to buoy my spirit and reassured me that the evening wouldn’t be a total disaster.

And then, it was time to begin. My anxiety lifted as the crowd laughed at the appropriate times and seemed genuinely engaged by my presentation. I finished my talk in exactly one hour, the marker I was hoping to hit. A dozen or so folks asked serious and well-reasoned questions at the end of the lecture. By then, I was completely relaxed and at ease with what had transpired.

It was a good night, a very good night.

The library was closed, the public had left, and the lights were off when Randy, Kath, and I made our way outside. We said our goodbyes in the parking lot.  I loaded my unsold books into the Pacifica, took off my coat, climbed into the car, and headed home. The snow had stopped. The Black Keys were playing again. And I was happy I’d agreed to share my time and my passion with the good folks of Grand Rapids, Minnesota.

Peace.

Mark

Rene’ Munger, First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton and Hermantown School Board (1998) @ Hermantown Middle School

If you look really, really close, you’ll see my wife holding her copy of Madame Secretary’s bestselling book, It Takes a Village. The occasion? Students from the Hermantown Elementary School were invited to meet then First Lady Clinton, along with their teachers, a few local politicos, and select volunteers who helped set up the event (including me: I was a lowly attorney at the time and my price of admittance was some labor and sweat the night before the event) to talk about the challenges facing educators and children. Senator Wellstone and Congressman Oberstar were also there, sitting on chairs next to Hillary, the three adults surrounded by a sea of little kids, including my son, Christian. Chris even got a hug from the First Lady: At the end of the event, as she was walking out of the middle school gym, Hillary spotted Chris’s big brown eyes and sweet dimpled smile. She couldn’t resist and somewhere in the family archives, their encounter is preserved for posterity. But that bit of family trivia isn’t the point of this little blog.

The day Hillary came to Hermantown, my wife was a long-serving member of the Hermantown School Board. Hillary was (and is) a role model for Rene’ and many other women around the world. So when my wife heard that the First Lady was coming to visit, well, you can guess the level of excitement in our home. Unlike other political events of recent memory involving our area featuring national figures, Hillary’s visit was not one based upon ideology or party labels: She was visiting Hermantown as an ambassador for children, promoting parental and community involvement as a means to nurture kids. Her message was that teachers, even the best and most dedicated, cannot lead our children to adulthood on their own: It truly takes our communities, our villages, acting in concert to rear our young.

When the above photograph was taken, my wife was working on her Master’s in Art Therapy at UWS. She was already committed to focusing her life’s work on kids. She was further inspired by Hillary’s example and for the past 13 years, Rene’ has worked as a mental health therapist in some of NE Minnesota’s most challenging schools.  But, just a few weeks ago, my wife suffered a horrific fall on ice, breaking both bones in her lower left leg and dislocating them to the point she required surgery and the placement of two metal plates and twelve screws to help her bones mend. Rene’ will eventually be healed enough to return to her work. It’s not an issue of if but a matter of when.

Hillary, of course, went on to be elected Senator from New York. Then, in 2008, she ran a classy and tough-as-nails presidential campaign against a young upstart named Barack Obama. She didn’t win but, given her popularity and appeal across political lines, her powerful intellect, and her knowledge of world affairs, President Obama’s selection of her as his first Secretary of State was a prudent political statement. Now Hillary too, her time as Madame Secretary coming to a close, has fallen ill. The blood clot in her head is an unfortunate turn of events for a great woman, a female role model likely poised on the edge of another presidential run in 2016. Even though the situation may seem serious, I believe that Hillary will also heal and return to her life of public service.

Two great women. Down, but not out.

Pray for them both if you are so inclined.

Peace.

Mark