Walmart to Wolf House: Sonoma County Essays

by Rob Loughran

  Despite my seven-part-proofreading-routine I’d mis-quoted Homer and made a host of other faux pas: grammatical sins of commission and omission. It’s nearly impossible to get a manuscript operating-theater- clean but following these steps will keep you out of trouble with most editors.

  1) PRINT OUT A HARD COPY TO PROOFREAD

  You can write on it. Scratch words out, compose margin notes. Erase, amend, and if need be, incinerate an offending manuscript. Not only is it difficult to compare margins and distinguish mis-used homonyms (spell check won’t underline: Deer Mom, I’m baroque please send me a Czech four fifty dolors…) but I suspect that we also laze a little mentally while proofing on a computer because it’s so easy to change things.

  2) READ IT AT A DIFFERENT LOCATION

  Get out of your house (the backyard will do) and read with a fresh perspective in a re-freshed environment. You’ll be amazed at the bonehead mistakes that will jump out at you.

  3) READ IT ALOUD

  First, and most importantly…this…will…slow…you…down.

  Secondly, reading aloud is the acid test for dialog. A knock-down-drag-out spousal spat you thought sounded like Mamet sometimes sounds like a 2-For-1 Yoplait coupon when actually enunciated.

  4) READ SPECIFICALLY

  Especially if it is a screenplay or a novel make several passes through the script. Like an orthodontist straightening teeth (while emptying your wallet) it takes more than one attempt and takes time. The proofreads must be methodical and can’t be hurried. Our minds have an amazing capacity to fill-in missing words and correct spelling (“Daerest Marge…”) in order to glean the meaning from the written word. Take one trip through your novel and read just the dialog, paying particular attention to proper positioning of quotation marks and all the he said, she saids. Make another trip through checking tabs, margins, indents, pagination, and headers & footers. Check for widows, orphans, and proper paragraph spacing. Then read the narratives. Triple-check tables of contents and other graphs and footnotes.

  5) USE A STYLE SHEET

  If you are writing for a magazine (even if it’s a query letter asking for an assignment) download and printout their latest style sheet. If there are two queries, all else being equal, on an editor’s desk the query following the magazine’s style sheet will get the nod. It’s sooo simple. The style sheet tells you whether “1st” or “first” is preferred; “Staff Sergeant” or “SSGT”; accepted abbreviations: “etc, ibid, ASAP” and whether you need to e-query or snail mail with an SASE.

  If you are writing fiction just be consistent with all abbreviations and how you use cardinal and ordinal numbers.

  6) READ BACKWARDS

  Get a #2 pencil and using the eraser end start at the end of your manuscript and, proceeding backwards, touch each word and look at it. Misspellings will jump out at you because you’ve temporarily short- circuited the Syntax Monster that provides mental White Out while you’re reading. The bad news is you need to be aware of Booby Trap Words. There, their, they’re can be spelled properly but used out of context. They’re, Their There are other Booby Trap combinations; most nettlesome and so often misused are its and it’s. It’s is the contraction for It is. Its, though lacking an apostrophe, is the possessive.

  It’s It is an ice cream sandwich: vanilla, mocha, or mint chip.

  The word Its’, despite the fact it shows up fairly regularly in print, doesn’t exist. For more Booby Trap Words check out The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. & E.B. White.

  7) UTILIZE CRITIQUE GROUPS

  If you can’t find one; start one. Post an index card at the local bookstore or a message on-line. Two simple rules: The writing is really secondary; do you enjoy the company and respect the opinion of (not the same as agreeing with) the people in the group?

  If you don’t the experience will suck and your creativity will suffer. Nuns shouldn’t date bikers (actually, now that I think of it, nuns shouldn’t date anybody, but you know what I mean) and vice-versa. A critique group is not a competition. Kate, Linda and myself are all together in the same leaky rowboat: fending for our lives. Sometimes I row and they bail. Sometimes they row and bail and I cry. But we’re all in it for the long haul. Respect the work that you critique, be honest and when in doubt remember Robert Brault’s saying: “Today I bent the truth to be kind, and I have no regret, for I am far surer of what is kind than I am what is true.”

  Rule Two: Give more than you get. The fact that grammar and spelling and proofreading aren’t my forte prompted me to write this article. I make a lot of piddling (and glaring) errors that the group catches and I try to repay them with my strong suits: plotting, dialog, character development and, well, catering.

  Today we had twice-baked potatoes and a fennel, goat cheese and leek frittata.

  The girls brought pastry and copies of Tomorrow & Tomorrow & Tomorrow that were winnowed and weeded. Proofread and dog-eared.

  Thank you.

  * * *

  I am an obsessive and dedicated re-writer. I don’t trust first drafts. This is the only— ever—first draft I’ve ever submitted. It just came out right. From the Press Democrat:

  THE BEST VIEW IN SANTA ROSA

  The best view in Santa Rosa, it is said, is from Paradise Ridge Winery. The tasting room looks westward toward the semi-organized suburban sprawl where we live and thrive and call home. There is, however, another view from just a tiny bit down the mountain from the winery.

  On Round Barn Circle.

  A slightly different view.

  Sutter Oncology Clinic has the same view, just not as high on the mountain. And the people who get to see it truly appreciate the vista. Sutter Oncology Clinic is the place where people go to receive a drip, drip, drip that will hopefully cure their cancer.

  I have had the opportunity to savor the panoramic splendor of

  Santa Rosa, California from the glassed-in aerie of this clinic.

  It’s a beautiful view. It’s a beautiful city.

  We, from here, can see the city sprawled out before us. We can also see the clouds and storms from the Pacific bringing us fog, drizzle, rain.

  Today as I waited, patiently and hopefully, for the juice to enter my veins for my specific illness I savored the view of this city of Santa Rosa.

  From up here, as the medicine seeps into my veins, I have a sense of distance from the ant farm that is the modern American city. There is another community, another city, brought together because we are in the same leaky rowboat, of cancer patients who see this panorama–this beautiful city of Santa Rosa–while accepting the latest and hopefully most effective and propitious drug.

  Drip, drip drip.

  An impromptu community.

  I have been coming here since June for my particular problem and I have to say that I have never been more welcomed, befriended, and accepted as I have been every time I show up for my chemotherapy.

  And I think it might be the view.

  Today I walked in and two of the nurses greeted me by my first name and asked if the restaurant where I worked, The Farmhouse, was busy. I said yes, indeed, we were. Booked until Thanksgiving. They nodded and efficiently, elegantly, found a proper vein for the drip, drip, drip, that I would be receiving for the next seven hours.

  In those seven hours I would learn that I am, indeed, the luckiest guy on the planet. I do have a bit of cancer that’s circulating, perambulating, goofing off in my bladder. This little drip, drip, drip, of chemotherapy that I receive will address and resolve that problem.

  I wish it were so simple for the people in the chairs surrounding me. I’m here for seven hours and I am one of the few without a port. A port is a plastic junction where the chemotherapy is injected. It is a semi- permanent appliance where cheerful and smiling nurses inject merciless, hopefully effective, drugs for deadly and mysterious ailments.

  A beautiful young lady sat next to me and had her elixir administered through such a plastic port. This
thirty-year-old woman endured visits from in-laws and friends. Obviously in pain, she perked up whenever someone visited. She was the perfect hostess in English and Spanish as the visitors arrived and left.

  Until her children arrived.

  The boys, aged nine and eleven, spoke perfect English to the nurses and myself when I said “Hey” but they spoke in Spanish to their mother and their aunt who had accompanied them. Their mother had been on her medication for about two hours before they arrived. I could tell by her breathing that it was not a comfortable situation. But when her boys appeared she became a vibrant and caring mother. She transcended the side effects of whatever drug, whatever poison, for whatever malady was in her system and she became a mama. In Spanish the youngest son said, “My baseball game is at 10 o’clock on Saturday.”

  Auntie raised a finger and said in Spanish to her sobrino, “There are more important things right now.”

  The young man fought back tears and said, “You are right.”

  This stuff that they are pouring into my veins is truly miraculous. Whether or not it snuffs out what is growing wildly within me really doesn’t matter. Today, because I had to be here in this place, at this time, I watched a boy become a man.

  That is the best view in Santa Rosa. Because of the people who are in it.

  * * *

  THIS STUFF WE WRITE

  While searching through my office to check publication dates on articles for this book I found four copies of Beowulf, a dusty and almost empty bottle of Christian Brothers Brandy, and this article which was written for Runner’s World’s “Finish Line”: personal essays published on RW’s last page. It protruded from a copy of Galloway’s Book on Running and was accompanied by a signed rejection slip (returned in an SASE—remember those?) dated March 20, 1989:

  MENDING HEART, SWOLLEN KNEES

  Running has always been an integral part of my life: a mildly successful (but highly enjoyable) high school career, then 10Ks in college, and the occasional marathon. Like most recreational runners I have years of running journals, bad knees, and enough race day t-shirts to clothe a medium-sized Third World nation.

  But I never realized how important running was to me until after my wife died.

  She died following a three year battle with cancer. Even though you are prepared for the death of a spouse, the reality doesn’t hit you until the dirt hits the coffin.

  Then it hits you.

  Old friends look at you with sad eyes. Fellow workers trip over their

  tongues trying to talk about safe subjects. Clergy you’ve never seen before (or since) call with condolences. Even your children look at you strangely: but that’s probably because they now have to eat my cooking.

  During the time immediately after my wife’s death the only thing that was stable and safe to me was my daily run. My legs burned the same on the hills. My heart beat in my ears during interval work. My lungs still pulled in the cold morning air. Sweat and tears are both salty.

  Looking back I see that running enabled me to deal with a difficult situation more effectively than support groups, uncontrolled weeping, or alcohol.

  I tried all three.

  But I took to running long slow distances. Every Wednesday I routinely ran a slow, easy 20-24 miler.

  I work weekends and my Wednesday is most people’s Sunday. The kids were in school. I had the whole day (until 3:00 PM) to myself. I would slip off into the morning fog and run to town—eight miles away. Once in town I would run two or three miles on Casa Grande’s track then jog cross-town to Petaluma High for another eight to twelve laps. I’d stop at gas stations and the library for water. I’d pit-stop at my cousin’s or my parents’ for a Seven-Up.

  Then eight miles back home.

  I got into real good shape, the best shape of my life. I started thinking about taking a weekend off, paying the registration fee, and running another “real” marathon. I thought about adding some fast mile intervals for speed work. I considered a new PR: 2:30? Maybe?

  Then I did the only sensible thing and ran my Wednesdays without my Casio.

  PRs had nothing to do with this phase of my running life. I loved my weekly runs. They were quietly important and essential to me. They sustained me, emotionally and physically, for the entire week. The exertion was sublime and the accomplishment—every week—was a thrill but the most important thing was that these runs afforded me a socially acceptable reason to be alone.

  I craved solitude.

  I needed to be completely alone and unfettered for X number of hours a week. In retrospect it wasn’t the miles run but the time alone that was crucial.

  To view these long slow ambling runs as the means to a 2:30 marathon would be sacrilege. They were important in and of themselves. They were real and alive.

  Unfortunately we often see ourselves, not as we are, but as others view us. At work (and by family) I was viewed as a creature deserving sympathy: “Poor Rob,” they’d say, “five kids, no wife, up to his eyeballs in debt.”

  Bullshit.

  I am single with five kids and a stack of bills but I will never be deserving of pity. When I am alone and running I am the person I know I am: Quirky but solid. Kind of funny.

  Running has allowed me to weather a tremendous storm. It’s maintained my self-esteem after my world came tumbling down. It has always been a part of my life. But during these last few years it has saved my life.

  * * *

  “Mending Heart, Swollen Knees” was never published; only had, as an unsolicited submission from an unknown writer/runner, a slim and meager shot at publication. But reading it 26 years later I’m kind of proud of the fledging writer who typed and proofed and retyped and sent it away (with an SASE, of course).

  This stuff we write.

  * * *

  This was published in Sonoma County’s Upbeat Times:

  TWICE AS FAST

  I’ve been a freelance writer for 27 years and people always ask two things about the profession: 1) “Where do you get your ideas?” and 2) “How do you get published?” The first question is impossible to answer: ideas are inspired by a TV commercial, fall out of the ether, or pop into your head while mowing the lawn. As for the second question, people really don’t want to hear about the mundane world of market research, query letters, Self Addressed Stamped Envelopes, keeping track of submissions and making deadlines; I suppose it removes the imagined glamour and austerity of The Writing Life. But the last time my grandson visited he asked me question number two, so I showed him the market listings for several children’s magazines in the Writer’s Market and he decided to send a joke into Highlights. I explained about proofreading and neatness and the importance of an SASE. So he wrote down his favorite joke, addressed both envelopes, and dropped his submission in the slot. He called me last night with the news that the joke was accepted and he’s a published author. Then he asked me how old I was the first time I got published. When I told him “Twenty” there was a short, commiserating silence before he said, “I’m ten.”

  THE JOKE:

  How do you make dinosaur bacon? You use Jurassic pork.

  My parents brought me to Jack London’s Wolf House in Glen Ellen when I was ten years old.

  I was mesmerized.

  All I ever wanted to be was a writer and here I was—skinny, whiney little me— walking around this famous writer’s backyard. After strolling the grounds my mom bought me Brown Wolf and Other Tales in the park’s bookstore. As I get carsick I had to wait until we were back home in San Francisco to start reading. (Question: is there an app on Nook or Kindle “For New Book Smell”? Didn’t think so; but I digress.) During those tedious ninety minutes of travel time (yes, there was traffic in the olden days too) I anticipated the delights that this new book by this famous writer might contain.

  Turns out it sucked.

  Anthropomorphized (didn’t know the word yet, but quite familiar with the smaltzy technique from crappy 1960s Walt Disney m
ovies) animals in impossible situations performing outlandish feats. I gave Jack the benefit of the doubt and read it cover-to- cover. To paraphrase Mark Twain’s quip about The Bible: “Those who revere Jack London’s writing probably haven’t read much Jack London.” At St. Vincent’s High, Petaluma, I was made to suffer through more of the same in the forms of White Fang, Call of the Wild, and worst of all, The Sea Wolf.

  But the more I deplored Jack London the writer the more I have had a lifelong fascination with Jack London the man. In the 1990s I dedicated several years of my life to researching and writing a screenplay, Voyage of the Snark, that tells of Jack’s life from his wife Charmian’s point-of-view. I actually formed a production company and had industry sit-downs, lined up a Director of Photography but that’s another book, another time.

  * * *

  I wrote this article on-spec for the Bohemian but they only published a snippet.

  Here’s the entire enchilada:

  THE SAGA OF GENTLEMAN JACK LONDON