Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

The Skier, the Buddha, and Papa

It’s now ingrained, a habit. Every morning I get up as soon as my tired bones let me rise from that soft warmth I occupy in bed beside my loving wife and I pad my way in stocking feet down the carpeted hallway of our house towards the kitchen. Once there, I draw cold water from our well (through the faucet kids: we’ve got power and running water out here in the sticks!), grind beans in the coffeemaker, push the “on” button, and wander off to my writing studio. An iMac waits for me in that little room surrounded by tongue and groove cedar and two walls of single-pane windows overlooking the tired hay field that surrounds our house and the lazy black flowage of the Cloquet River. Even the ceiling of my writing space is aromatic cedar, making my creative retreat essentially a cabin in the wilderness.

The computer slumbers overnight: I rarely turn it completely off. Hell, you never know what you might miss if the magic box is disconnected from the Internet! I tap my mouse and the screen lights up. I log onto Firefox, my browser of choice. I don’t like Safari. Maybe that makes me an Apple heretic. I really don’t care-I like Mozilla better. I check my email, my Facebook page, maybe Huffingtonpost.com and the Duluth News Tribune’s website. Ego usually compels me to Google myself. I know: how horrifically shallow of me. What can I say? Folks without egos don’t become trial lawyers or District Court Judges or bloggers or writers, at least, not in my experience. Then, when the electronic alarm on the coffeemaker sounds, I get up from my cushy office chair, walk back into the kitchen, open a cupboard and select just the right cup for my morning jolt of caffeine. Not just any cup, mind you. Writers, as you are likely beginning to fathom, are the personification of pattern. No, my morning coffee is usually (unless the dishes haven’t been done) poured into either my Sloppy Joe’s cup (pictured above along with a wooden skier by my artist friend Jan Flom and the little red Buddha my sister Annie says I need to rub every day) or one of two Barnes and Noble cups I own. The B&N mugs depict likenesses of Hemingway, Tolstoy, Hurston, and other famous writers. I got them long ago when the economy was better and the corporate bookstore gave out premiums to writers who did book signings in their stores. No more. Today a writer doing a B&N signing is lucky to get a paper cup of way-too-strong coffee as he or she sits in the middle of the sprawling bookstore signing books for strangers. These are the only cups from which I drink my pre-dawn writerly coffee: For it is in the morning, my friends, that I write. Every morning I am home and not ill, I write. It’s been my obsession now for over two decades. For me (and for other authors, essayists, and poets I’m sure) this daily routine is something akin to breathing air: If I was unable to do it, I would likely give up the ghost.

How did this all get started? My wife. She did this to me. Some of you know the story. Hell, like most stories remembered and told by old men, the tale’s been told so often that my children and my wife know the punchline as well, if not better, than I do. But if you haven’t heard it, here’s the Cliff Notes version:

In 1990 I was facing a back fusion and three months away from my work at the time as a trial lawyer (think John Grisham without the money and the accent). I’d been a voracious reader and a sometime writer of poetry and the odd essay or prose piece since I was old enough to hold a pen. My wife knew this about me, knew, it turns out, more about my creative DNA than I did. “You’re a type A personality,” she said as I was recovering in St. Luke’s after having my spine cut apart and reassembled, “why don’t you get a start on that Great American novel you’ve always wanted to write?” That was it. That was all it took: One person (albeit the person I most love in the world) urging me to pick up a pencil and follow my heart. And so it began.

In the early going, I wasn’t a solid, every-morning-writer. Our kids were young and there was a lot more going on in our lives so I wrote whenever I had a chance. Morning. During the day. At breaks on the job. Late at night. For a time, I was able to piece words together into sentences and sentences together into paragraphs and paragraphs together into chapters in this haphazard fashion. Novels were born. Short fiction was written. For eight years, I also wrote a “slice of rural life” column for a weekly newspaper. But gradually, as I began to find the rhythm in my craft, mornings became an obvious preference. Some folks who write are night owls: They scrawl long into the evening. Others, confronted by life’s realities, do as I did as a beginner: They write when they can. I found, over the years of following my muse, that mornings are for me. Mornings with my Papa Hemingway cup ( provided to me by my ever-encouraging eldest son and his wife) brimming with hot java feed my obsession and drive me to words.

The funny thing, throughout the now 21 years I’ve been at this crazy lunacy: publishing books on my own because no reputable press will have me; hawking my stories to strangers in places as far flung as Helsinki and Calgary; pecking away at keyboards of successively sophisticated computers; is that I’ve never, not once, been afflicted by the dreaded curse of the writer. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, depending upon your opinion of my work) I’ve never had writer’s block. Never. Oh, I’ve stepped away from my writing to regroup. I’ve fought off minor illnesses, fatigue, and depression. But the words have never slowed to the point where I could not, on a bright sunny morning like January 2nd, 2012 take my proper place at the keyboard and begin anew.

Peace.

Mark

Wishing all brightness and light in the coming year...

OK. So the photo I’m using in this blog isn’t really from today, New Year’s Day 2012. It’s a shot taken of the field around our house from a week or so ago: You know, the last time we saw the sun in this neck of the woods. I’m using the photo today, the first day of our new year, to make a point: I want to be upbeat and rarein’ to go as we enter 2012 and I hope you do as well. Oh, I could recount all the bad stuff that impacted the Munger Family in 2011. But you know what? Like my buddy Dave Michelson (a smart guy, one I usually listen to) says: “We Americans, no matter our politics or our economic station really don’t have much to grouse about when compared with say, Columbia (a country Dave’s done charitable work in).” Dave’s right. That’s why I ‘m using a photo with the sun prominently displayed in this article. I’m hoping that I catch Dave’s optimistic mantra: Let the little things slide and devote your energy to family, friends, and God; the things that really matter.

Right now, as I type these words in my writing studio overlooking the field depicted in the photograph (but facing north, towards the Cloquet River), I’m mindful that my “little” sister Annie has been concerned about me. Mostly since the shooting in Grand Marais. Concerned enough that, as part of my birthday/Christmas present, she enclosed a small statue of the Buddha in the package. The little figurine now stands next to my iMac. Dwarfed by the big white machine, the replica holy man stands no more than two inches tall, fashioned from some synthetic material to mimic natural stone. He’s not much to look at but I am intrigued by the Buddha and his Noble Eightfold Path, a path which the Buddha claimed would bring an end to personal suffering:

Right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gautama_Buddha)

Fairly simple. Sort of reminds me Jesus’ Beatitudes: Though whereas the Buddha’s words turn one inwards, towards the self, the message in Matthew’s Gospel is more worldly, more “other directed” if you will:

³ “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
⁴ Blessed are those who mourn,
   for they will be comforted.
⁵ Blessed are the meek,
   for they will inherit the earth.
⁶ Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
   for they will be filled.
⁷ Blessed are the merciful,
   for they will be shown mercy.
⁸ Blessed are the pure in heart,
   for they will see God.
⁹ Blessed are the peacemakers,
   for they will be called children of God.
¹⁰ Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

(See http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+5%3A3-12&version=NIV )

I re-discovered the Beatitudes while working on my historical novel, Sukulaiset: The Kindred. The story is set in Finland, Estonia, and Karelia (Russia) during the Great Depression and World War II. There’s much angst and pain and loving and dying in the book thus far: Pretty grim stuff in spots. So when I needed a bit of light, a bit of spiritual uplifting in the tale, I turned to Matthew and once again fell in love with Christ’s words. Alexis Gustafson (a character reprised from Suomalaiset: People of the Marsh) is the instrument through which I re-introduce myself and my readers to the Beatitudes: As wonderful a passage of scripture as has ever been written. I’m hoping that, as one of my own personal petitions for 2012, I am able to keep my fingers on the keyboard and find out what happens to Alexis and those she loves. We shall see.

Back to the main theme of this piece. My sister, sweetheart that she is, wants me to rub the Buddha’s belly “for good luck” whenever I feel the need. As a Christian, I know that’s akin to idol worship; something that’s been frowned on since Moses blew his stack over the golden calf. Still, what harm can it do? I mean, despite my pal Dave’s admonition that “we Americans have it pretty damn good”, who couldn’t use a little luck or grace or divine guidance? Am I right? So, I’ve been rubbing the little statue a bit and praying a bit more. Not only selfish petitions (like the one about my manuscript); not only pleas for myself; but also requests  for peace on Earth, good health for my family and my friends, and healing for those who are troubled and in need of love.

Does God hear me? Is He or She moved to action by my small, distant voice?

Perhaps: After days of faux winter, fluffy white flakes have begun to fall outside the windows of my sanctuary, covering our field in a blanket of much needed snow. A bald eagle (a year-round neighbor because the Cloquet River stays open all winter in front of our house) just drifted into view beneath the thickening squall, gliding effortlessly on a heavy wind. Watching the graceful bird, I find myself asking another question:

Is the eagle a symbol of good luck as my Native American friends believe?

I tend to think so. It’s a talisman that’s worked for me in the past: I’m hoping that’s the case today and that God is indeed paying attention.

Here’s to hoping that your 2012 is as glory filled as the waning sun in the photograph at the beginning of this essay.

Peace.

Mark

Dr. Paul G. Theobold the Dean, School of Education, Woods Beal Endowed Chair, and chair, Department of Social and Psychological Foundations of Education, Buffalo State College, had his assistant, Ms. Cynthina Anthony, ask whether I would be willing to allow a link from their site, Rural Lit RALLY (Reinvigorating American Life and Learning through the Literature of Yesteryear) to my essay, “Reading Herbert Krause” (see above under the “Other Writings” tab). The Rural Lit folks are apparently trying to catalog and, through the use of their new website (http://rurallitrally.org/) begin an online dialogue about the importance of rural writing, notably the “forgotten” writers of the dust bowl days and before, including my personal favorite, Minnesota native, Herbert Krause. Dr. Theobald and the Rural Lit RALLY folks sum up their mission this way:

There is a saying:  “You don’t  know what you’ve got til it’s gone.”

Out of print for decades, and long-since discarded from all but research university libraries, wonderful works of rurally based literature are disappearing every day.  Variously called “farm novels,” “regional novels,” or “local color fiction,” these works portray farm life perceptively and in great depth.  To lose them is to lose a piece of our collective history; a piece of who we are, as a people and as a nation.

This Rural Literature Initiative seeks strategies for building demand for rural literature in rural and urban schools such that academic/university presses can put this literature back into print or, short of this, that digitized collections might be created.

As a lover of Krause and the not-as-yet-forgotten Cather and Rolvaag, I welcome Dr. Theobald’s interest in my essay. I hope to participate in the online discussion that takes place regarding Krause’s importance as a regional writer in January on the RALLY site. I’d also urge all my blog readers who enjoy finely wrought prose to give Krause and the other authors featured on the Rural Lit RALLY website a try. Most of the books are out of print but you can find these gems online (at the usual suspects) or in the dusty corners of you local used bookstores. You won’t be sorry for trying these forgotten authors. Old is not to be confused with outdated: the themes in these stories are as relevant and timely today as they were when they were written. Who knows, if you look hard enough, you might even find an autographed copy for a reasonable price! Holding literary history signed by the author is a treasure to be relished and read. And, if after reading Wind Without Rain or some other long forgotten classic, you feel like joining in the online conversation, I’m sure your input would be appreciated by the folks behind RALLY.

Peace.

Mark

Thanksgiving on the Cloquet River

This week was one of mild disappointment. There, I said it. I released the anxiety and the minor upset and the bitter taste that sits in your mouth after you’ve tried for something and, through no fault of your own, you’ve failed. The details are wholly irrelevant and unimportant. What is important is that, despite my OCD nature, I am ready to put that failure, that upset, behind me and move on. Part of why this is so is because of last night.

You see, every year, many (not all) of the churches in Hermantown, MN; the little city that has been the center of our family’s life for the past 27 years (mostly because that’s where our sons have all gone to school) gather together for an ecumenical Thanksgiving worship service. It’s one of the only times when the Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, ELCA Lutherans, Presbyterians, and even (on at least one occasion) the Latter-day Saints worship together. I won’t pretend I’ve attended every one of these ecumenical celebrations. But whenever I have gone, I have carried away with me a sense of hope and promise that, despite the petty grievances and debates over ritual between denominations, is sustaining and real. Last night was no different. Thank God. It’s been a tough year and I needed the boost.

I am now at that age when my parents’ close friends, folks that were like extended uncles and aunts to me through nearly six decades of life (writing that phrase is daunting!) are passing away, one after another, leaving my parents behind. Now, don’t get me wrong: It is a real blessing to have Mom and Dad around. They’re both in their eighties, living independently and in good health. That, alone, is more than enough to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day. But the recent deaths of some of their closest friends, folks who had a huge influence on who I am as a person, have taken some of the wind out of my sails, so to speak. Then there was, as I’ve written in detail, the loss of Mercedes, my mother-in-law, a woman who raised six children on a railroadman’s salary and did her very best to see that they all became good Christians and good citizens. That was a tough one because, even though she was 86, her passing was very unexpected. But the blessing in it is that, for over 35 years, I got to love her as my second mom and she (hopefully) got to love me.

My daughter-in-law Lisa has had it rough this year, rougher than me by a long shot. She lost her father, a guy not much older than me, to a sudden heart attack, and also her maternal grandfather, all in the span of four or five months. Though I didn’t know either man well, their passings touched me because of the pain I could see, and still can see, in Lisa’s eyes when we talk about the men who made a difference, who held her up, in her young life.

All of this loss, this passing (even though, outside of my mother-in-law’s death, I haven’t been touched by gut-wrenching, knock-you-on-your-ass sadness) is sort of like being bit by mosquitoes: The bites don’t have the sting of a hornet’s barb but they begin to bother you over time. Still, even with all that’s happened over the past year, I am a thankful man, though it took last night to reinforce that notion.

Cheryl and I have known each other since we were four years old. We’ve been church friends, work friends, and friends at large for most of our lives. She has had her ups and her downs over the years but, in the end, she’s turned out to be a hell of human being. She’s a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a civil servant, an Episcopal Priest, and an artisan. She was one of the guiding lights in the little Episcopal church that Rene’ and I and the boys attended for many years. Her preaching is powerful yet compassionate. Her singing voice is steady and true. Her ministering is fair and even-handed. So, when she and I talked in my judicial chambers about my decision to leave the Episcopal Church and attend an ELCA Lutheran church closer to home, there were tears and hugs and quite a bit of sadness. I was, and am, despite the transition that needed to be made for our family, so grateful, so thankful to have sung by her side and listened to her wisdom for all these years.

So last night. I wandered over to our new church, Grace Lutheran, for the ecumenical Thanksgiving service because, well, because I had to. The minor disappointment of the week, sitting as it was, on top of the larger losses of the past year, compelled me to seek solace in faith. I know, from year’s of casting petitions to the great beyond, that not every wish or desire or whim I send up to God in a prayer comes to fruition. But I also know that sitting in community with others, listening to sacred music, hearing the words of the Savior, never hurts. And so I went. I am so glad that I did.

It wasn’t a huge crowd, maybe eighty or so Christians from all faith traditions worshiping together. But the vibe was so calming and grace-filled, the size of the congregation really didn’t matter. The sermon was rock-solid, like Peter roaring at the crowd on his best day. Each pastor or priest played a part, no matter how large or how small, in the service, giving the ceremony legitimacy in ways that an ordinary service, conducted by a singular man or woman of God, cannot. But the best was yet to come.

Cheryl and the musical director of Grace stood shoulder to shoulder by the keyboard and sang a duet, so spiritual and soothing, so thanksgiving laden, that tears came to my eyes. The music moved me to understanding, to releasing my burdens and bowing my head in a gentle, calm, and sincere prayer:

“Thank you, God, for I am truly blessed.”

The faces of all those who have departed (and those still with us), the dozens if not hundreds of friends, family, teachers, religious leaders, co-workers, Boy Scout leaders, coaches, and all the others who have carried me this far in my life came into focus during my silent contemplation. And with that prayer came the reinforcement of spirit that I so desperately needed and this realization:

I know I am a blessed man; the father of four beautiful sons, the husband of a wonderful wife, and the son of two caring and loving parents.

Nothing life throws at me can change that truth.

Peace.

Mark

Rene' and Mark Munger at FOT 2011

I’ve done the Festival of Trees (FOT), an event sponsored by the Junior League of Duluth, ever since I became a published author. My first novel, The Legacy was published by Savage Press of Superior, WI in October of 2000. That November, I sat in the Savage Press booth during the FOT and sold books alongside the owner of the press, Mike Savage. I did so well that, the next year, I had my own booth space. Over the ten years CRP has been a presence at the craft show, it has done well. I’ve sold hundreds of books to folks (mostly women). This year’s event, sad to say, was not very productive.

Now, I’ll readily admit, that part of the problem is that I haven’t had a new book released since Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story came out in March of 2009. So It’s been over two years since a new “Munger” product has been released. And book buyers, whether they are purchasing for themselves or others, want a new book, something unique and never-before-seen, to either read themselves or give as a gift. I get that. But, with stock of four book titles on hand (out of eight), one might assume that there would be something for everyone interested in buying a book even without a new title. But it’s more than that, dear readers. It’s also, as someone during a debate once said, “It’s the economy, stupid.” To be fair to the estrogen-driven female shoppers at this year’s FOT, I’d say my poor sales this year are a combination of not having “new” on hand to entice shoppers and the hard economic times we find ourselves in. I can remedy the first problem by releasing a new book (though, right now, I can’t afford to print it). But, like President Obama and Congress, I am clueless as to how to turn our dismal economy around.

Rene's Benches FOT 2011 CRP Booth

Thinking  about this weekend (two days of not many sales), maybe there’s more to this story than just product fatigue and global economic malaise. I come to this conclusion because, as the title to this piece says, I spent much of the weekend in my booth with Steve Jobs. No, I didn’t become delusional as I sat alone, waiting for customers, asking the perennial question I always ask: “Did John Grishom start this way?” (Actually, he did. A Time to Kill, his first effort, was self-published and languished in boxes in his basement until The Firm went ballistic.) I was reading, as I always do during down time at festivals, and my book of choice was the new biography of Apple icon and founder, Steve Jobs. I’ll save the review of the book for another blog but, suffice it to say, with all Jobs’s peculiarities, there’s one thing that has impressed me about the man’s story so far: He was always concerned with the aesthetics and the utility of his products. Keeping them beautiful and simple, while retaining functionality, was and is the hallmark of Apple’s product line. Reading the book got me to thinking (always dangerous, as my wife will attest): What if Cloquet River Press adopted the same business philosophy? What if, instead of perennially hitting my head against the wall, trying to break into a mainstream publisher through force of will, churning out manuscripts, sending out queries to agents and small presses, I simply took a step back, gathered my breath, and changed how Cloquet River Press does business? Interesting. What if, instead of trying to do things that big publishers are very, very good at (though their profit margins suck these days due to the onset of e-readers), like getting books into bookstores for strangers to read, I concentrate on my loyal fans, as small a base as that may be, and simply give them the best product I can produce? What if, when the next Munger book is released, it is done not with an eye towards pushing Mark Munger to a new level, but is released on a limited print basis (with e-book versions on all the major platforms) so that, in the end, I am not running hither and tither trying to sell books in the rain beneath my beloved EZ-Up? Craft shows were once the mainstay of what I did to sell books. Over the past three years, that avenue to sales has, even with a new book on the table (Mr Environment) dried up. Maybe the message that is being sent is: “Munger, it’s time to re-think, to re-vision what it is you’re trying to do.”

Over the next year, I will ponder more and travel less in an attempt to figure out what model makes the most sense for CRP. I’m tired of swinging for the fence only to hit pop flies: Better to wait for the right pitch and take a single. Steve Jobs likely wouldn’t be happy with that analogy: He’d urge me to swing for the fence. But in this changing world of print media, with a down economy and all the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring, maybe taking a deep breath and actually thinking about where I want to be with my writing and my stories is the right thing to do.

Peace.

Mark