Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

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

Dawn Hochsprung, Principal, Sandy Hook Elementary

It has been happening all too often in America. Men and women, mostly women, have been gunned down in our schools by folks who have grievances, real or perceived. In what should be a place of sacredness and quiet and contemplation or, alternatively, a place of lively discourse and love and vibrant excitement, our public school teachers (and I include in that label anyone, including the custodians and lunch ladies who work in our schools and serve our kids) are being killed by madmen with assault rifles and handguns. No one can gauge the loss that the most recent shooting in Newtown, Connecticut inflicted upon that small suburban community. No one who was not there can theorize what the last moments of life were like for the twenty first graders who were brutally executed by a gunman who, with seeming ease, killed his own mother while she slept, took her assault rifle and semi-automatic handguns, and set out to wreck murder and mayhem on the most vulnerable of our society. But we do know that, with those twenty little children were six teachers who, as reported by survivors and the physical evidence, perished in that maelstrom trying to save the lives of their students. Notice that I have emphasized the word “teacher”. I have been troubled by news reports of the shooting that tell us twenty children and six adults died in the tragedy. Yes, they were adults. But more importantly, they were women who had dedicated their lives to ensuring the education and safety of our children. They were grandmothers, mothers, sisters, and wives who had chosen to become educators in the public schools. To simply label them as adult victims, in my view, diminishes who they were and the importance of their role in American society.

We all, I think, can remember a teacher, or two, or three who made a difference in our lives. As a writer, I have dedicated a number of my novels to English teachers I had in junior high and high school, so large was the impact of those women (yes, they were all women) upon my urge to write. This is not to discount the men who also instructed me and provided me with an education through my thirteen years of public school, four years of public university, and four years of private law school. They too made a difference in how I viewed the world, how I came into my own, how I chose to live my life. But there’s something about great female teachers and young students, a bound that forms, I think, akin to the bond of mother and child, that is unique and amazing. I mean no disrespect to the fine men who teach in elementary schools by making this observation: It’s just something that seems to me to be true.

Today, please take a moment to remember the teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary School and pray that the folks who shepherd our children from infancy to adulthood never again have to shield students from gunfire in our schools. I’ll leave it to others to begin the much-needed dialogue about weapons and mental illness and video games and the like. I am simply too sad, too heartbroken at the images of teachers being taken from their students (and little kids being taken from their families) to engage in political discourse on this gray and cold December morning along the banks of the Cloquet River.

Some of the Victims (Students and Teachers) of the Sandy Hook Shooting

May the teachers and children of Sandy Hook find eternal peace and rest and their families and friends find comfort in knowing that all of America mourns with them.

Mark

Rene’ eating her pie

Over the years, the Christmas traditions enjoyed by my wife’s side of our family, the Privette side, have changed. When Rene’ and I first dated (and early in our marriage) my mother-in-law, Mercedes. and my father-in-law, Don, had their six children, spouses, significant others, and their sole grand child, Amy, at their old house on West 3rd in Duluth’s West End to celebrate Christmas. But when Rene’ and I moved to the country in 1984, Christmas moved with us. Over the years, out here on the banks of the Cloquet River, we’ve snowmobiled, ice skated, cross country skied, had visits from at least two different Santas, and watched our kids and those of Rene’s brothers and sisters get married and have kids of their own. Accomodations have been worked out so that now, instead of celebrating Privette Family Christmas on Christmas Eve, we schedule it on a weekend before Christmas that works for most, if not all, of my wife’s family.

Yesterday, they were here in en masse. Greg, Rene’s older brother, Diane, her older sister, and Sharon and Colleen, my wife’s younger sisters, and most of their families joined us for a potluck celebration of family, tradition, and old stories. But things were different this year for me; and likely also for my lovely wife who usually orchestrates the entire event to ensure over two dozen folks are happy and well fed.

First off, this year’s gathering took place on the one year anniversary of the shooting in the Cook County Courthouse. Many of you know that I was the judge in the middle of that horrific event. Now, as I’ve said before, I wasn’t a hero on 12/15/2011: No, not at all. I was simply a bystander to tragedy when a disgruntled litigant (who’d just be convicted of criminal sexual conduct by a jury of his peers) decided to vent his upset with a handgun and shoot the lead prosecutor on the case and the father of the young victim within close proximity to where I was standing, talking to the jury. I think I would have been OK, essentially untroubled by the anniversary, but for two things that occurred recently.

You’ve all read, I’m sure, that the prosecutor in that case is alleged to have been involved in similar, if not identical, conduct to the actions he prosecuted. That news not only threw the bucolic community of Grand Marais into a tizzy; it struck me very, very hard since I’d developed a professional admiration for the prosecutor during the course of the trial and its unscripted aftermath.The news of these new suspicions and allegations against someone I respect caused me to begin to relive the events of December 15, 2011.

Then, just this past week, we learned of the inexplicable shootings in Newtown, Connecticut. Again, coming as it did within days of the anniversary of my own involvement in a shooting, any reported instance of madness involving guns and innocents would have hit me hard. But this one was so evil, so manifestly wrong, well, there’s just no way to measure the impact it will have on all of America, let alone me. Seeing school children in tears, their teachers scrambling to move them to safety, and hearing of the twisted events one man orchestrated inside what should be a place of kindness, peace, and learning for children; well, the affect on all of us is indescribable.

Then there is the personal. My wife, as you can see in the above photo, is on the mend. On Monday, she slipped and fell on black ice, severely fracturing her left ankle. Understand, as I type this, I’m still recovering from shoulder surgery, just beginning the long process of rehab myself. So we found ourselves (once Rene’ had her ankle pieced back together with plates and screws and the skill of surgeons and nurses), two cripples trying to pull together Privette Family Christmas with a dark cloud hanging over the world. But it all worked out. Rene’ had much of the planning done before her accident so there were only a few errands left for me to run.

There are also the factors of age and time to contend with. The patriarch and matriarch of the Privette clan, Don and Merc, both passed on within the last two years. Their absence is obvious and palpable whenever their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren gather, but the loss of Rene’s parents is even more noticeable at Christmas.

Addison and Sara Privette and Mya and Amy Bourdeau

Still, in the face of uncertainty and angst, the gathering came together. Despite my wife’s precarious condition, despite the inclement and treacherous weather (rain, snow, sleet and then ice), and with the help of our son and daughter-in-law Matt and Lisa, our son Jack, the inspired cleaning abilities of my sister-in-law Diane, and the willingness of all the Privette clan to pitch in and bring more food than an army division requires for a month long campaign, Privette Family Christmas, including the relatively recent tradition of playing the dice game for wrapped, undisclosed presents, came off with out a hitch. Against the backdrop of Cook County and Connecticut, for a few brief moments, there was a nothing but love, laughter, and the promise that little children bring to this season in our home.

For that, I am truly thankful and feel truly blessed.

Sue and Cloe Privette and AJ and Lisa Munger

Here’s praying that you have a glorious Christmas and New Year.

Peace.

Mark

I came across the following blurb in the Proctor Journal this past week and it got me to thinking:

10 Years Ago (2002)

Judge Mark Munger will sign his books Ordinary Lives, River Stories, and The Legacy at Northern Lights Books and Gifts…

That passage brought me back to where this all began. My first novel, The Legacy, was published in October of 2000 by a local publisher other than Cloquet River Press (CRP) and had a print run of 1,000 copies. That run was sold out before Thanksgiving, leaving the book’s original publisher and me (the newly-discovered author with the puffed out chest) with no books to sell over the holidays. I suggested a second run. The publisher agreed on one condition: 2,000 additional copies of the book would be printed but, if at the end of the year, any inventory remained unsold, I would buy the books back from the publisher. The deal sounded good to me but then, as a first-time author having just sold out the first run of my debut novel, anything that kept my name in the public eye sounded good. Over the next year (2001) we sold another 1,200 copies. Not bad for a regional writer and his first novel. But as the year drew to a close, the publisher still had 800 copies of The Legacy in inventory: 800 copies that I was responsible to purchase at cost. With my wife’s permission, I borrowed money from our son Chris’s college account (the money was paid back, honest) and fulfilled my half of the bargain. But what to do? I was now the proud owner of boxes of fiction stored in my basement that I had no idea how to sell.

That’s how CRP got its start: as a vehicle to sell copies of The Legacy. I managed to figure out how to obtain a business name from the Minnesota Secretary of State, make contact with distributors get my novel into bookstores, open a business bank account at Wells Fargo, and eventually, with my eldest son Matt’s help, set up this blog site.

But what to do about the two collections I had sitting in the hard drive of my computer? How was I supposed to get my other stories formatted and printed into books if I didn’t know squat about the craft of creating a book?

Early in 2002, I stumbled upon a company called InstantPublisher.com (IP), an online printing service that started as a firm dedicated to printing church cookbooks and, with the advent of digital laser printing technology, entered into the world of book publishing. I figured out how to submit my drafts to IP and my wife Rene’ figured out how to create cover art that fit IP’s templates. We then went to work creating books.

The first two CRP titles, Ordinary Lives, a collection of short fiction I’d been writing for a decade, and River Stories, a collection of essays I’d written for the Hermantown Star, were the beginning of my adventure in the world of self-publishing.

Both books were printed in very limited (25 copies per title) runs so that I could ensure myself that the quality of IP’s process was at least equal to the traditional offset printing process that had created The Legacy. When the books arrived at our house on the banks of the Cloquet River on a windy, rainy day in May 2002, I was nearly as excited as when I’d first held a completed copy of The Legacy. For those of you who’ve not poured your heart out on the page and waited patiently for the words you’ve written to return in the form of a finished book, well, the only experience I can equate holding a brand new title in your hands with is that of holding a child, your child, for the very first time. Don’t get me wrong: It’s not quite the same. But it’s close.

Though I’d ventured into the world of self-publication in 2002, I still tried mightily to locate a literary agent who could connect me to a mainstream publisher: a big New York operation that would pay me a fat advance and publish my work. Despite dedication to task, it didn’t work out that way. I have enough rejection letters to paper the room I write in with several hundred left over for alternative use in the commode! My big break never came so I plowed ahead with CRP, churning out books like nobody’s business, oblivious to the mountain of red ink I was creating.

For you see, the vanity book business isn’t generally susceptible to get-rich-quick schemes of its authors: Even those of us who (and I say this with as much modesty as I can muster) achieve a small measure of artistic success and a loyal following don’t usually see a return on our financial investment. Never mind being paid for the time we spend writing, editing, and creating our books, labor which will never, ever be compensated. No, for us, the little guys and gals dreaming big dreams of fame, fortune, and success at the end of the self-publishing rainbow, reality is being satisfied that your work is being read, not financial stability.

Oh sure, I know. John Grisham started as a vanity author. He had thousands of copies of A Time to Kill sitting unsold in his basement when he optioned his second book, The Firm, to a New York publisher through a literary agent (the traditional path to writerly success). Dickens. Clemens. Woolf. These are all folks who walked the self-publishing path at one point or another in their careers. So it is possible for someone like me, someone whose words flow into the world of ideas by means of my own sweat, to make it, to become financially viable. But for every Grisham, I’m afraid, there are a thousand Mungers. That’s just the reality of today’s literary marketplace.

After my two collections tested the water, I found there was a modest demand for my writing without an established publisher. So I kept at it. And at it. And at it. In early 2003, my second novel, Pigs, A Trial Lawyer’s Story, came out. My best selling work to date (Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh) was released by CRP in 2004 and led my wife and I to Finland in promotion of that historical novel. A second collection of essays from my days as a newspaper writer (Doc the Bunny and Other Short Tales) followed. My first foray into contemporary, book club-style women’s fiction, Esther’s Race, was published in 2007. Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story, my first (and I promise, my only) stab at biography hit bookstores in 2009.  And this past March, a sequel (of sorts) to The Legacy (Laman’s River) came out both as a trade paperback and, for the very first time, as an eBook.

9 books in 12 years. Some might wonder whether I’ve spent enough time crafting each story, each manuscript, cramming so many words into so many books in such a short time frame. But here’s the thing: I began writing seriously in 1990. While I worked on and marketed The Legacy to agents, I also wrote the short fiction that became Ordinary Lives, submitted essays to the Hermantown Star for eight years (stories that were compiled later in River Stories and Doc the Bunny),  and hammered away at the lengthy and autobiographical Pigs, so that, by 2002 when CRP was formed, I had a body of work in reserve, ready to be transformed into books. After that, other than the biography (which was a five year endeavor of love in memory of my late uncle) each novel has taken, on average, 1 and 1/2 to 3 years to create and release.

To be sure: Not every story or essay or chapter or scene I’ve written over the past twenty-two years has been great, or, in some cases, even good. And I’ve learned to rely upon friends, experts, and relatives to function as first readers; to self-edit my work using their criticisms; and then hire a professional editor to put the finishing touches on my sentences and paragraphs. Still, there are errors. Still, my books venture out into the universe in less than perfect form. And still, the red ink flows. But here I am, on the cusp of sixty years old, nine books to my credit and a tenth being vetted by my trusted first readers as I write this piece. Why do I insist? Why, after a decade of butting my head against the concrete wall of the world’s greater indifference, do I continue on, do I allow CRP to continue its existence? The answer is very simple: I have stories to tell and folks seem to enjoy them. It’s as simple as that.

So, in this tenth year of Cloquet River Press’s existence, despite the red ink, despite the frustrations of being undiscovered (or barely discovered), me and my little press will continue on so long as there are folks out there who want to read my words. If you like what I write, it wouldn’t hurt to tell other folks about CRP, its books, and this blog.

One never knows.

Peace.

Mark

Silver Creek Tunnel

The week began with my iMac being left at CW Technologies in Duluth for a new hard drive courtesy of Apple. It ended with me selling a couple of books to a childhood friend at the Bookstore at Fitger’s in Duluth. Between those two events, I spent a week of my vacation becoming intimately familiar with the controls of my 2008 Chrysler Pacifica, rekindling old acquaintances, reading from my books to strangers, and making new friends.

Monday, November 26th. I’m on vacation. I drive from our house on the Cloquet River into Duluth to drop off the computer. I received an email from Apple advising me that my iMac had been flagged as having a defective drive. The nice lady at CW Technologies sees my arm in a sling (shoulder surgery) and offers to carry the iMac from the van into the store. The errand done, I head home, load bins and boxes of books into the Pacifica with one hand, and begin my week long book tour to promote Laman’s River. I drive the back roads to the Silver Bay Public Library, meet Julie, the librarian, and set up a small display of my books. A dozen or so folks (including fellow author Wayne Johnson, and his former law partner, Pete Morris) show up to hear me read from and discuss my latest murder mystery. It’s dark when I begin my trip back down the North Shore, towards home, a cold wind buffeting the van as I negotiate the twists and turns of Highway 61.

Tuesday, the 27th. My morning begins at the West Duluth Kiwanis Club. I was invited by Tom Ward to give a presentation about Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story to the group. I eat breakfast and read the paper at McDonald’s and then show up at Asbury Methodist Church around 9:30am, ready to regale Kiwanians with stories of my uncle’s life. Thirty or so folks, including my cousin Patsy (Willard’s daughter) are in attendance and seem to enjoy learning details about my legislator uncle’s personal and early life. Then I head north on US 61 (again!) in the steel blue Chrysler, the cargo bay loaded with books to sell.

Grand Marais Harbor

Grand Marais. I pull into downtown, intent on talking to Beth Kennedy, owner of Birchbark Books, one of two independent bookstores located

Coast Guard Station, Grand Marais

in the sleepy little fishing and tourist village. A week before, as I was finalizing an event at the Grand Marais Library, I learned that the town doesn’t allow

authors to sell books, even their own work, without obtaining a peddler’s license and passing a background check. Linda, the librarian, apologized for the mix-up: She understands that the purpose of doing a reading and discussion of Laman’s River is twofold: To educate the public about the ins and outs of writing and publishing and to sell books. The second half of that equation (the selling books part), along with an occasional mileage stipend from a sponsoring library, keeps me moving forward. Without being able to sell books, my trip to Grand Marais won’t fund itself. Linda suggested I approach Beth and see if she wouldn’t be willing to step in and sell my books at the last minute: Beth, being a bookstore owner and all, means she doesn’t need a peddler’s license. Beth agreed to attend the event and hawk books for me. I find her shoveling snow off the sidewalk in front of her bookstore and thank her profusely for her kindness. Then I drive to the Cook County Courthouse to drop off excess inventory: My next gig is across the international border where I’ll participate in a reading at the Mary Black Library in Thunder Bay, Ontario and I don’t want to pay duty on books I won’t likely sell in Canada.

Beth Kennedy and Birchbark Books

At the border, I hand a nearly expired passport to the Canadian custom’s guy. He asks if I am bringing anything into Canada. I tell him, “yes’ some books to sell”. He flags my entry and I have to talk to immigration. An immigration official has me take a seat inside the border station while he determines whether or not I’m a dangerous character. Cleared by whatever internet protocol Canadians use for that sort of thing, I bring my passport and duty sheet to a cashier. While waiting for immigration to clear me, the cashier and I talked about my arm being in a sling and his own need for shoulder surgery. When the cashier discovers the small number of books listed on the duty invoice, he looks at me and says, “What the hell” before crumpling the paperwork into a ball and tossing it in the trash. “Have a nice stay,” he says, waving me through without requiring me to pay duty on the books.

I check into the Prince Arthur Hotel in downtown Thunder Bay, an old railroad hotel that I always stay at when I’m in town. After settling into my room, I cross the street to eat at Armando’s, my favorite Italian restaurant in Thunder Bay. I learn from the owner that this will be my last meal in the place: At his wife’s insistence, he is retiring from the business. I eat my penne pasta with sausage and mushroom, slowly sipping a nice glass of Merlot, and lament the passing of an institution. After dinner, I fire up the Pacifica, travel across town to the library, where I share a few short passages from Laman’s River with a crowd of 20-30 interested members of NOWW (Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop). I meet up and have a nice discusssion with some old friends and fellow members of NOWW including author Lyle Nichol. Lyle and I make plans for breakfast at Hoito on Wednesday morning. I drive back to my hotel room, the sky black, the wind howling in from Manitoba, call my wife to say goodnight, and read a bit before exhaustion leads me to sleep.

Mary Black Library, Thunder Bay, ON

Lyle and his wife, Vicki, came down to Duluth in May of 2009 for the launch of Mr. Environment, a touching show of support for an American writer they barely know.

Hoito (“Care”): Finnish Labor Hall, TB, ON

I remember their kindness fondly as Lyle and I eat pancakes and eggs and drink thick black coffee the next morning at Hoito, a cafe located in the basement of the Finnish Labor Hall on Bay Street. Sadly, Vicki is not feeling up to par and unable to join us but Lyle and I talk writing, politics, and life, rekindling our fledgling friendship.

Back in the States, I stop in at the Cook County Courthouse in Grand Marais and retrieve co-workers Kim and Nancy for lunch. Jean, a young lady who works in the county attorney’s office, tags along. We have a nice meal and then, I head over to the library for another reading from and discussion of Laman’s River. I am worried as I meet Linda, the librarian, and set up my book display. It’s nearly 2:00pm, the time for my talk, and there are only a handful of hearty folks milling around, waiting for me to begin. And then, the room begins to fill until every seat in the place is taken. The talk goes well. Beth sells some books. All is right with the authorly world as I pack up and head south again on No. 61, tired but extremely fulfilled.

Thursday. I meet my Aunt Susanne (a fellow writer) and her husband Wayne at Blackwoods Restaurant in Two Harbors. I’m the guest of the Friends of the Two Harbors Library: I’ll give yet another reading and participate in another discussion of my new murder mystery. The impetus for my sojourn up and down the North Shore is obvious: much of the story takes place on the North Shore or in Duluth. A nice crowd shows up at the library. I take questions and try to answer them as best as my road-weary mind can, and then, with darkness hanging over the road, I head home to my wife and son.

Friday, November 30th. The end of the month and nearly the end of my travels. I kiss Rene’ goodbye, tell Jack to “listen to his mom”, and put the Pacifica through its paces once again. This time, I’m headed west, to Grand Rapids, to sign and sell books at a nifty little independent bookstore in town, Village Books. I wander into the mall a bit ahead of schedule. The clerk and I make an executive decision to move the table I’ll be sitting at from inside the store to the corridor in front of the store’s display cases. Business is slow at first but then, as I talk to two ladies bell ringing at a nearby Salvation Army kettle (and convince them to order copies of my Finn novel, Suomalaiset from the store because I’m sold out), I begin to sell books to Itasca County folks. Randy McCarty and his wife Kath show up near the end of my shift. I’m staying at their lovely home on Lake Pokegama. In return, I’ve offered to buy them dinner. Randy rides with me to a nearby hotel where we have a great meal accented by lively and intelligent conversation. At the McCarty estate, I meet Maggie, a 14 year old yellow Labrador and stroke her soft fur as the McCarty’s and I drink hot chocolate and talk some more. In the study where we sit, we’re surrounded by a private library of 4,000 books, all of which, I believe, the owners of the house have read. After exhausting the topics of books, politics, and life, I find my borrowed bed and sleep hard, as if drugged.

Leech Lake

Saturday. It’s a new month. I rise before the McCarty’s, make myself a pot of coffee, take a hot shower, read a bit, and wait for my guests to awaken. When they finally wander into the home’s study, we gather in the kitchen where I eat hearty oatmeal and gulp down more coffee. After breakfast, I hug Kath, shake Randy’s hand, and vamoose. The morning is foggy: Driving to Park Rapids proves taxing but manageable. On my way to Beagle Books, I stop at the casino in Walker to deliver one of my wife’s mosaic garden benches to a resort owner. Rene’ met the man and his wife in Hackensack, at a local art fair, during the summer. The couple commissioned Rene’ to make a bench and, over the fall, Rene’ pieced together a beautiful display of a blue heron on a northern lake. The guy lifts the bench and legs from my car into his pickup. “She did a great job,” he says. I’m on the phone with Rene’ so I hand my iPhone to him so he can thank my wife. He chats for a while, says goodbye, pays the rest of what he owes, and we part. I fire up the van and head west on Minnesota 34.

Time passes slowly when you have no customers. I sell a single copy of Laman’s River during the course of my two hour stint in Park Rapids. After the success of my North Shore trip and my time in Grand Rapids, I am disappointed that my event at Beagle Books isn’t more productive. But I’ve driven as far as Cleveland, OH and spent time at the Barnes and Noble there selling no books. So I gather my patience, wait out my time, and then, once again, the sky shrouded in gray, I head home.

Finally. It’s Sunday morning, December 2: The last event of my week long book tour is at hand. Jack, Rene’, and I attend worship at Grace Lutheran and then I am off to the Bookstore at Fitger’s in Duluth. Sally  (the manager of the store) promotes local authors: stocking the shelves of the quaint and vibrant store with the work of dozens of relative unknowns like me. My childhood friend Monica wanders up and buys a couple of books. Some strangers peruse the titles on my table and buy as well. Sales are modest but enough to satisfy my need for assurance that my work has value. And then, near the end of the afternoon, near the conclusion of an exhausting week,  it happens. St. Nicholas himself saunters up to my table, picks up a copy of Suomalaiset and begins talking to me in Finnish. I don’t know the language beyond a few pat phrases but I sense Santa is intrigued by my book. And that’s how I my book tour ends: I gain Santa Claus’s endorsement. What more could an author ask for?

Peace.

Mark

Santa, the Author, and “Suomalaiset”

Mark, Rene’, and A.J. Munger

I am thankful for life, that I have been able to experience this wonderful thing we call existence.

I am thankful that God, Jesus, and my faith provides me with tools to live a good and ethical life.

I am thankful for having made the decision in 1977 to ask Rene’ Privette Munger to share my life with me.

I am thankful that Rene’ Privette Munger said yes.

I am thankful for my four sons-Matt, Dylan, Chris, and Jack-young men who have made me laugh, cry, and swell with pride as they mature.

I am thankful for my brother Dave and my sister Annie who make my life so much richer and fuller.

I am thankful for my parents and their partners, all of whom have given me, my wife, and my children, love.

I am thankful for my mother and father in law (both now gone and at rest) who gave their lovely daughter to me in marriage and who were part of my life for nearly forty years.

I am thankful for my daughter-in-law Lisa who has blessed Matt her love, understanding, and companionship (and who has brought some stability to the crazy Munger clan).

I am thankful for my grandson A.J.: the light of our lives and the beacon of the future.

I am thankful for my son Dylan’s partner, Shelly, for giving him direction and purpose.

I am thankful for all my friends, old and new, who have meant so much to me and who have supported me throughout life’s many twists and turns.

I am thankful for my nieces and nephews and their parents.

I am thankful that, 28 years ago, I chanced upon a want ad for a 1921 Sears home and hobby farm for sale: This place, and the black water that surrounds it, are now a part of my being.

I am thankful for my health and the health of those I love.

I am thankful for my aunt Susanne who inspired me to put pencil to paper and for all the other relatives in the Kobe and Munger families (most of whom are no longer with us) who mentored me and showered me with their love and understanding when I was growing up.

I am thankful for all those I have worked with over the years: my law partners; the employees and judges and staffs of the courthouses I serve; and those who I worked with at various jobs while going to college and law school. I learned so much from them as I made my way to the bench.

I am thankful for our president and other leaders who, though I may not always agree with their decisions, have chosen lives of public service.

I am thankful for the men and women of this nation who, every morning, put on uniforms as soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen or women, members of the Coast Guard, law enforcement officers, or first responders to serve and protect the rest of us from harm.

I am thankful for my readers, folks who are willing to take a chance and read what a “semi-famous novelist” has to say.

I am thankful for the volunteer coaches and leaders who mentored me in Boy Scouts, on athletic fields, and at church. I am thankful for the folks who have done, and are doing, the same thing for my sons and other young men and women.

I am thankful that, on this Thanksgiving Day, 2012, I can sit at my computer overlooking my beloved Cloquet River and anticipate the arrival of family.

May you also have a wondrous and thankful day of good food and companionship.

Peace.

Mark

The Author at Festival of Trees (Photo by Steph Balmer)

I’ve been doing craft shows since Mike Savage of Savage Press published my first book (The Legacy) in 2000. I sat in Mike’s booth at the Junior League’s Festival of Trees at Lake Superior College and signed books for customers as Mike sold them faster than flapjacks at Denny’s. By 2002, I had my own small press and my own booth at the Festival. I’ve been back, through blizzards and economic downturns and Vikings’ Sundays and rain storms and beautiful late autumn days and changes of venue every year since.

Last spring, I signed up for a booth space at the Festival that could accommodate my books and my wife Rene’s mosaic art work. That was before I had shoulder surgery. If you look really, really close at the photo of me in my booth at this year’s FOT, you’ll see the sling and immobilizer on my left shoulder. So, when Friday rolled around and it was time to set up our exhibit space, Rene’ had to enlist our son Jack to help load her very heavy concrete garden benches into her Matrix. I’d already taken a tumble in the shower and landed on my left shoulder (thankfully, I was smart enough not to extend my left arm to stop my fall) and I really wasn’t in a position to help move concrete. Instead, I set up my book display, left plenty of space for Rene’, and headed up to Barnes and Noble over the hill to kill time before joining Rene’ and Jack for dinner at Perkins.

Saturday. Traffic was heavy once the doors to the Festival opened at nine. There were so many women (the crowd was 99.9% female) packed into Pioneer Hall, the flow of traffic was something akin to the LA freeway at rush hour. Sales were brisk up until early afternoon and then, the crowd thinned and I began to pass the time by reading.

I had picked up a copy of The Writer at BN. It’s a nifty little magazine (that I don’t subscribe to but should) about writing. Duh! Flipping pages, I came across an interview with mystery writer, Lawrence Block, a man who has penned more than 100 books dating back to the 1950s and who has won four Edgar and Shamus Awards for writing excellence in the detective/mystery genre. I’ve not read Block but I know of Block and I respect his views on the art and business of writing fiction. I was intrigued to find out that, at 74 years old, Block has embraced self-publishing and digital publishing as ways to make his work available to the public. One passage from the interview hit home for me as I sat in the concrete shell of Pioneer Hall surrounded by crafters and customers:

I’ve found self-publishing enjoyable and satisfying, and it seems to be paying off for me. It is, as I’ve said, a slow way to get rich-and if you’re hoping for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, there may be more fertile fields for you to plow…

His thoughts regarding ebooks versus print were similarly succinct:

The set-up cost is low, and the marginal costs are zero. So whether you do it yourself or enlist an e-publisher, its economically possible to e-publish and keep in print a book that would otherwise not return its costs…(I)ncreasingly, readers love e-books. For all the crap you hear about readers wanting to smell the paper, more and more readers find an e-reader more user-friendly than a printed book…The I-wanna-smell-the-paper-crew had grandparents who were similarly wary of the automobile; I’ll leave it to you to figure out what they wanted to smell!

I chatted a bit with a neighbor in an abutting booth and marveled at how well behaved the sight-assisting Labrador bedded down behind her table was during the commotion of the show. When I asked the dog’s name, I was politely told that, because some folks try to gain the dog’s attention when she’s working, her name had to remain unspoken. Having read Steve Kuusisto’s excellent memoir on blindness and canine companions, I understood the point being made.

The working dog at rest.

Rene’ carried in another mosaic table to add to her wares and an extra box of books to replenish my dwindling supply. The author of nine books, I had only four titles available at the beginning of the show. By the time Rene’ handed me a carton full of copies of Mr. Environment, all that I had left were copies of my newest novel, Laman’s River, and the Munger biography. That’s of course both good and bad: It shows I’ve been selling books; that’s the good. But, like Block’s article points out, the margins in printed books are so small, that when you add the costs of a booth at a festival like the Festival of Trees, factor in lunch, and gasoline, and parking, well, there’s simply not enough profit to re-print my beloved stories. That’s the bad: some of my best work is not in print. The enterprise that is Cloquet River Press is sort of like having a son or daughter in youth hockey: a never ending sea of red ink. Block’s article points to a possible solution for small operators like me: Go digital with your older work and stock only your new work in paper. Maybe he has something there.

After a long day at the FOT, I hauled my ass out of my chair, picked up Chinese at Huie’s on 4th street, and headed home. Jack, our fifteen year old, was with about five hundred other ELCA kids at a retreat in Brainerd, which meant Rene’ and I were alone. Tired to the bone, full up on good Chinese, I fell asleep trying to watch Saturday Night Live, any other intentions I might have had lost to sheer exhaustion.

Sunday morning, feeling the need for redemption, I attended early service at Grace Lutheran. Rene’ was scheduled to meet our son Matt, our daughter-in-law Lisa, and our grandson A.J. at the later service. The plan was for Rene’, Lisa, and the baby to take in the Festival of Trees while Matt went to St. Scholastica to work on his master’s degree. I made it to my booth after worship a few minutes after the show opened because I stopped in at the St.Louis County Jail to deal with prisoners in custody, part of my “real” job as a district court judge. Traffic for the first hour of the FOT was heavy and then, apparently the sun came out and the hordes of women who had been intent upon shopping found other things to do. From noon until the close of the event, the concrete cavern of Pioneer Hall was empty of anyone other than vendors. Sales were bleak and, as always happens when I am not selling books, my spirits declined. Rene’ brought me lunch from Bridgeman’s, which, of course, was a positive. Nancy, Jack’s godmother, stopped in to say hello. 3:00 arrived. Rene’, Lisa, and A.J. found their way back to the booth and we began to pack. Within a short while, everything was tucked away in my Pacifica and I was out the door.

But, for this part-time novelist and full-time dad, my day wasn’t over. As Rene’ and Lisa drove to meet Matt at the college to exchange vehicles, I climbed the hill to Grace Lutheran where Jack was waiting. I picked up my son and then stopped in at St. Raphael’s Catholic Church (where Jack’s Boy Scout troop meets) to pick up Christmas wreaths Jack sold to raise money for summer camp. Two nice folks helped cram sweet smelling balsam into the bulging cargo area of the Pacifica. And then, it was time to head home.

Peace.

Mark

KAXE, Grand Rapids, MN

Wednesday afternoon. My left arm and shoulder are killing me and I can barely keep my eyes open and on the road. I’m driving northwest on US Highway No. 2 to attend a pot luck and discussion of my latest novel, Laman’s River at one of northern Minnesota’s beloved cultural icons. Duluth has KUMD. Ely has WELY. And the great north woods, from Crow Wing County to the boondocks north of Bemidji has KAXE, or, as the station likes to label itself, “Northern Community Radio”. I’m on my way to eat with and talk to the KAXE Bookclub which selected my latest murder mystery as their October read. Though I am dog tired and weary, I didn’t think of letting the fine folks in Itasca County down. They’ve been alongside me for nearly every step of my journey as a writer and I wouldn’t want to disappoint such loyal fans.

In 2001, shortly after the release of my first novel, The Legacy, I got wind of a radio show run by a perky little blond gal, Heidi Holtan, in the Grand Rapids area. I’m not sure how we connected but Heidi had me on Realgoodwords with that first book and has had me back on her show with every book thereafter. She was even nice enough to drive down to Duluth with a friend and MC the book launch of Laman’s River this past spring for the price of a good dinner at the Zeitgeist Cafe’. And, sometime after connecting, Heidi also introduced me to serial reader and all around good guy, Randy McCarty. Randy then convinced his pals to select Suomalaiset as a read for their book club. Anyway, Randy is also the culprit who convinced the KAXE Book Club to read my latest and it was Randy who enticed me to take the long drive from Duluth to ‘Rapids to share a meal and talk writing at KAXE.

Bleary eyed and dragging after a day of conciliation court, I pull into a convenience store in Floodwood for a restroom break and a cup of coffee. With my arm in a sling post-shoulder surgery, getting in and out of a seat belt and my Pacifica is a challenge, but nothing near what many disabled folks face every day. My impairment is a temporary inconvenience, nothing more. Back in the van, coffee steams from a Styrofoam cup as I roar out of the station back onto No. 2. I tune the FM dial to KAXE (91.7) and listen to news as I make my way west.

Once in town, I pull into Village Books, the local independent bookstore in Grand Rapids, to see whether or not the store has Laman’s River in stock . It does. I spy a copy of the latest novel from Hibbing writer Pat McGauley, A Passage of Redemption, and, after confirming that it’s a signed copy, I purchase it. Supporting brother and sister authors and poets (along with independent bookstores)  is a mission of mine. Hopefully, my fellow authors return the favor! I confirm with the clerk that I’ll be back at Village Books for a book signing on November 30th and then, I head to the radio station.

Fortuitously, Randy pulls up just as I park the Pacifica in front of KAXE. After hauling in a steaming pot of goose stew, he helps me lug books to the conference room where we will gather. I set up a small display of my work, complete with credit card imprinter and signage, and mingle with book club members as they arrive singularly or in couples. Soon, the smell of hot food and the garbled conversation of book lovers fills the small room. Heidi is there, seemingly no worse the wear from her stint as a blocker on the local roller derby team. We sit down to a smorgasbord of great food and lively conversation. Not everyone in attendance loves Laman’s River but the discussion is engaging and enlightening for me, the author, as I listen to thoughtful questions and comments and try to respond without stepping over my tongue. I sip a glass of wine, sell and sign a few books, read from my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, and then, far too soon, it is time to pack it all in and hit the road.

Not too far out of town, with the sky blackened and moonless, a shooting star; not one of those fleeting, little dashes of light one usually catches out of the corner of an eye, but a brilliant, white ball of fire with a matching tail, plummeted to Earth just ahead of the Prairie River. Don’t know what it means, as a metaphor against the evening with my friends at KAXE, but it sure was cool!

If you want to catch me at an event in the near future, check out the calendar on the upper right hand side of this blog. Click on any date in red to see where I’ll be that particular day.

Thanks, Randy, Heidi, and all of the KAXE Book Club for making my short visit memorable and worthwhile. See you on November 30th from 5-8 at the Village Bookstore!

Peace.

Mark