Changing the game

Don't look now, but we've reached the start of another baseball season. At this very moment, the Brewers are getting shelled by the Cards. So some things have carried over from last year, no matter how much has changed in the world otherwise. I've spent the last few weeks focusing on what's just down the road for my book, Pelting Out. Some really good doors have opened, amazing connections within the narrative I'm researching have proven worth the effort to seek them out, and I've scheduled some exciting travel during the next few months. Up next for me is a road trip through parts of the Northwest I've never taken the time to see - expect loads of pictures of those sights (among many other things) to come. Soon thereafter in May and June, I'll be hitting the road again for more than two weeks in both Canada and the northeastern U.S. That's by no means the end of my field research. It merely gets me to where I wanted to be so that I can fill in the bigger pieces of this story. I'm not yet frosting this cake. But I at least have a good idea of what shape it will be. We'll see how it tastes after everything gets mixed in.

I hope it's obvious that I'm extremely excited about lies ahead. It's taken a great deal of will power to hold back some of the compelling stuff that I've found and all the new angles I've learned to use in looking at this very particular slice of life. From here on out, the content on this blog paired with what I offer in other places such as through my Twitter feed might appear to change somewhat. I think you'll see what I mean as it unfolds. Shorter, snappier observations will show up more regularly to start with, followed by more of the grand reveal as we head into the summer and onto fall. Consider yourself forewarned. And thanked - for checking in thus far.

Letting go of Hitch. Then picking him up anew.

I'm seldom shocked by the death of someone known to be terminally ill. And Christopher Hitchens was famously sick. His most-recent writing for "Vanity Fair" delved into his diagnosis of esophogeal cancer and the contemplation that followed. As serendipity would have it, I just read his latest article therein yesterday afternoon. I was surprised by the sense of optimism I took from this last piece. He'd survived the radiation and hadn't lost those things he feared being without most - his voice and the ability to type. Coupled with his famously unrepentant atheism, Hitchens provided a window through which to observe something almost too intimate. Cancer and the treatment currently used to combat the disease are twin demons that consumed and weakened him. My first read of the news of his death yesterday came in the form of a text message from a friend and fellow fan. Since then the reflections have come from all over the map, but with the same general angle. Hitchens lived hard, wrote voluminously, defied convention and walked the thin highwire required to be consistently original. My recent hunger for essay collections has proved rewarding (John Jeremiah Sullivan's Pulphead and Jonathan Lethem's The Ecstasy of Influence are both fantastic and highly recommended). Now I've decided to dive headlong into the latest mass of essays from The Hitch (Arguably, which landed on so many people's "best of the 2011" lists). I'm sheepishly pleased to name drop that Christopher Hitchens and I share the same literary agency. I'm sad to think that I'll never meet him, even though I realize how presumptuous it sounds to think that might have happened. Still, I'm wholly saddened by his passing. Because I truly admired him as a writer who so totally slashed his way through the wilds of this age we live in. The Hitch will absolutely be missed.

Thanksgiving in Sconnie, post scriptum

I'm back home after a weeklong visit to the land of deer hunting and Packer loving. The things I saw in - or, rather, near - the woods opened the memory gates in ways grand and teeny tiny. One of my everyday urban activities that I brought with me was to go out running in the mornings, before the sun had risen. One time along my daily route, I saw a bald eagle perched in the highest branches of a tree right next to the prevailing county highway in my childhood neighborhood. Old Glorious swiveled her head to look down at me, passing a brief judgment before returning to all things otherwise more interesting far above the forest line. Another day, what could have only been a bat flew directly into me, striking the iPod earbud anchored in my right ear. As of now I see no need for rabies shots since not a mark was made on anything other than my previous sense of species superiority. My last morning conjured a memory like a lightning strike of the first season I was counted among the ranks of official hunterdom. I passed by the spot where I'd seen a truly majestic buck three decades ago. I told that story of the deer's nonplussed and safe run across an open field to my daughter as we drove back to the Twin Cities on our way out of the Northwoods. There were copious other lessons learned or at least hinted at during the past week - some for this book, others just for the sake of what might be humility. For example, I struggled with how to best cook a surprisingly decent hunk of fresh bear loin given to us by a family friend to add to our Thanksgiving bounty. No, it tasted nothing like chicken. The whole visit went something like that. Amidst nearly constant reminders to grasp anew things I've long since forgotten. Being reminded of that is one of the things I'm humbly thankful for this year.

Back with good reason. And a first clue for why that might be.

The time has come to quote that most overused of Al Pacino lines (no, not "Say hello to my little friend"). I'm speaking, of course, of that widely-paraphrased bit from "Godfather III" where Michael Corleone says "Just when I thought I was out...they pull me back in." And so it is with me and blogging. I'd been out. For a year, in all but the rarest of circumstances. Aside from my beloved (albeit small) audience from past ventures, I don't expect that the world is missing my contributions to the world of blogging. After all, aren't we over this and other similar venues by now? I've said so myself - in the future, no one will blog. Is this the future? Well, not yet. I've still got some work to do.

In particular, I'm writing a new book. One that was always my "Plan A" for a big, personal, unique and meaty tome. Non-fiction. With a major league first person narrative hook. After writing two novels and countless words on subjects that I suppose in retrospect largely stand as somewhat contrived or at least not nearly as personal as what I've got planned with this project, the time has come to redirect. I'll explain myself a bit from this - the utter outset of my blog "Pelting Out". But don't expect this will be an entirely above-board examination of a particular subject in a particular way of framing. Do, however, expect this will be a place to see a mystery unfold. One that I fully intend to be worth following. Those of you with a sleuthing instinct will dig down deep pretty quickly. Still even those searchers will be flummoxed by what I've got in store. Because this is a blog about a world I expect few (if any) of you know a thing about. Oh, sure - you may think you know something about it. I'm amazed how many people do. They are often at the very least misguided, though. Usually wrong - painfully so. Almost always missing an important piece of the whole puzzle. And without a doubt set up for a sucker punch of hidden truth. Or a volley, delivered not with an ulterior motive other than to educate and entertain. Slice this or any of my past work to its core and the intent remains the same - I am here to tell stories.

Does this sound like something you might be interested in following? I certainly hope so. Then, please, do so and come back. The clues will present themselves daily - a rather cumbersome gambit, but one that I expect will make more sense as time goes by. I'll even set up some of those mechanisms to alert you when a new piece has fallen into place, especially for subscribers to this blog. For today - this first post and my first step back into blogging - I will offer one thing:

Alice Munro may be the only writer who has proceeded me on this path. I don't claim to have a thing on her as a writer. A person on the perennial Nobel Prize short list stands far above the twittering, blogging mass of New Century voices. I'm only speaking of her past. For this one, our shared old friend Wikipedia can surely give you all that's necessary to see the landscape. The pieces of "Pelting Out" after this won't fall into place so easily. So you're welcome. But, more importantly, thank you for checking in.

Until the next page turns...make way for time at the pool, with a daughter who has recently found her way to being a happy, confident swimmer.