Author Blog
Don’t Write for Grandmom
or Aunt Dot
If I can write for the group, we writers are very discriminating when it comes to the words we choose to put down on paper. Using an inferior word is like a master carpenter picking up a wrench to hammer in a nail on a fine piece of furniture. It just isn’t done.
I don’t curse a lot. Maybe it’s because my parents never did. Grandmom definitely didn’t, at least not when us kids were within earshot. Neither did Aunt Dot. One time at a family dinner, my Uncle Frank said something idiotic, as he often did, and his wife, my Aunt Dot, reacted by saying, “Blow me, Frank!” The table erupted in laughter. Someone asked Aunt Dot if she knew what “Blow me” meant, and she responded, “No, but I’ve heard other people say it. Is it bad?” Aunt Dot’s mom – my Grandmom – thought men landing on the moon in 1969 had somehow interrupted the fragile balance of the universe, so NASA was held responsible for everything bad that happened after that date. Not having a clue ran in the Hunsicker family.
Grandmom and Aunt Dot didn’t curse, but that doesn’t mean that some of my characters can’t. I recently read a novel called Tricky Business by humorist, Dave Barry. Just after the book’s title page, he wrote a warning to his readers: “This book contains some bad words. I stress this because when Big Trouble was published, even though it had a warning at the beginning, I got mail from people who were upset about the language. I wrote them back and explained that, yes, it did have some unsavory language, but that was because the story involved some unsavory characters, and that is the way they talk. Characters like these don’t say: ‘I am going to blow your gosh darned head off you rascal!’ They just don’t.”
A writer can’t write based on what Grandmom or Aunt Dot would approve of. A writer must be true to his/her characters. In my novel, The Old Crocodile Man Theory, I created a character named Mitch, who couldn’t utter a sentence without the inclusion of a curse word. We all know someone like that. I described Mitch as, “a man of few words, especially if they weren’t made up of four letters.” Mitch is also a racist with many other character flaws, which make his cursing his least objectionable trait.
Again, if I can write for the group – Grandmoms everywhere, we love you, but can you please go back to your knitting, your Reader’s Digest articles, your soap operas, your Jello salads, your Lawrence Welk reruns, and your inane theories that make no sense, while we write the next great American novels, which may include bad words?
May 4, 2024
March 11, 2024
A Reading List
The Central African Republic (C.A.R.) is one of the poorest countries in the world, but it is rich in whatever it takes to bring out creativity in aspiring writers. My theory is that there must be something in the amoeba-infested drinking water that coaxes the writing gene to come out of hibernation. Or maybe it isn’t just the water. Maybe it’s a combination of the water with the pulsating Soukous music, the tropical smells, the foreign flavors on the tongue, the palpable energy, the equatorial humidity, the brilliant night skies, the chaos, the nonsense, the jaw-dropping, the eye-opening, the incomprehensible.
All I know is that several of my friends who were in the C.A.R. at about the same time as I have also written books that take place there. Come to think of it, the C.A.R. didn’t just affect writers; it also brought out the creativity in friends who were wannabe musicians, crossword puzzle creators, cooks, mechanics, filmmakers, and photographers. It even inspired one guy to discover his special talent for devising a roach clip with whatever supplies were within easy reach.
Anyone who enjoyed the setting of my book and wants to read more stories that happen in the C.A.R. should read the following:
Waiting for the Mango Rains by Jon White
The Drums of Africa by Tim Schell
The Emperor and the Elephants by Richard W. Carroll
The Central African Republic – The Continent’s Hidden Heart by Thomas O’Toole
They are all worth reading. The first two by Jon White and Tim Schell are novels. After Peace Corps, Jon became a surgeon and Tim taught creative writing in college. That Central African water is powerful stuff. The book by Richard Carroll is a memoir of his time as a Peace Corps volunteer when the C.A.R. was briefly the Central African Empire (C.A.E.) under the stern rule of Emperor Bokassa. Rich fared much better than Bokassa; he became a renowned gorilla researcher and was the engine that started the Dzanga-Sangha Protected Areas in southwestern C.A.R. Tom O’Toole’s book is a non-fiction/historical perspective of the country. Tom was a Fulbright Scholar who became a professor of African Studies at St. Cloud State University in Minnesota.
Southeast Alaska is another prominent setting in my book. It’s where Kael calls home. In The Old Crocodile Man Theory, I describe Southeast Alaska as “a gathering of fjords, glaciers, coastal mountains, and conifers.” I also write: “The state seemed to attract the folks who couldn’t quite fit in down in the lower forty-eight. Alaska was a haven for the loose screws, the square pegs, the left fielders, the odd ducks, the misfits. Kael theorized that he fit into at least four of those categories.” Anyone wishing to get another taste of quirky Alaska should read the following:
Coming Into the Country by John McPhee
The Woman Who Married a Bear and The Curious Eat Themselves by John Straley
Coming Into the Country is the best book ever written about Alaska. It is McPhee’s account of his experiences there, especially his interactions with the loose screws, the square pegs, the left fielders, the odd ducks, and the misfits. It was published in 1976. I always had a fascination with Alaska, and after reading this book when I was a Peace Corps volunteer in the C.A.R., I knew I would go there one day to find my people. Less than two years after leaving the C.A.R, I went to Alaska for a summer job doing salmon habitat surveys in the Tongass National Forest. I ended up staying for seven unforgettable years.
John Straley has written more books than the two I listed above. They are all good. They are mysteries based in Sitka, but it is the darker, seedier side of an Alaskan coastal town. His protagonist is a private investigator, which John used to be before he became a successful novelist.
I met John that first summer I moved to Alaska, and except for John McPhee, I know all the writers I listed above. As to my theory that diseased water somehow made me a writer, they would probably say something like: “Your theory is cute, but wrong, kind of like today’s pop stars. We all get inspired by different things. The hard part is taking that inspiration and putting in the work to create something that inspires others.”
My response to them would be: “You boys have obviously been drinking Central African water to come up with such a clever retort. Now, have another glass and write me something worth recommending.”
February 1, 2024
What’s Real and What’s Not?
A question I get asked a lot is: What parts of your book are real and what is made up? My immediate response is to say that The Old Crocodile Man Theory is a work of fiction. Then I add that much of it, at least the parts that aren’t fiction, is autobiographical.
For example, Central Africans believe in sorcery, black magic, and killer crocodile men. In my book, I wrote a scene in which a community meeting started with a local official announcing to the gathered crowd that he had in his hands a list of known crocodile men in the area. He added as a threat, “We know who you are, and we know where you live.” This actually happened during an official meeting I attended while working in the Central African Republic (C.A.R.), so yes, the belief in crocodile men is real, but no, I never had a friend killed by one. That part is made up, and the idea inspired me to write, The Old Crocodile Man Theory.
Writers of fiction ask themselves a lot of questions while they are writing. At least I did. I asked myself things like, what will my readers think of this little twist, or does it make sense for this character to act that way, or will this little tidbit of information give away too much too soon, or why did I ever start writing this thing? A very simple but important question for a writer to ask is: What if? Those two little words instigate creativity, and they push the plot into made-up places that the writer may never have considered. That’s when a good story turns into an unforgettable one.
I asked myself: what if someone Kael cared about was killed by a crocodile man? Then I asked myself: what if Kael decided to go find out what really happened to his friend? I thought that sounded like a story I’d like to read, and since I’d lived and worked in the C.A.R. for many years and knew how to construct a good sentence, I thought I was one of the few people who could write it. I figured I could use my own experiences and weave in a fictional murder that is part of a larger scheme. By the way, the larger scheme is made up and came to me after I asked myself, what if?
Bayanga is real. So is the national park and reserve, but I gave it a fictional name. The corrupt local officials are all too real and all too ubiquitous in the C.A.R. Some accused me of being in the C.I.A., while others accused me of tranquilizing elephants and then cutting off their tusks with a chainsaw. When I laughed at their outlandish theories, they interpreted it as the laugher of a guilty person. I couldn’t help but think: Is this really happening? They’ll believe in crocodile men, but they find it hard to believe that I am here just to protect their wildlife.
Nasseef and his garage are real. And yes, anyone can get any ink stamp fabricated on the streets of Bangui. When I was a Peace Corps volunteer, I had one made that identified me as a “Fisheries Expert,” and I used it on all official documents I was asked to submit to local officials. I noticed that the addition of an official-looking stamp added an extra level of respect for my “expertise.” I should have had a stamp made up that read: “Not a CIA Operative.” An official stamp like that would have shut down all the rumors about who my employer was.
Pere Norbert is real, but he wasn’t based in Nola, which is a real town. The real Pere Norbert was a Catholic priest working in another part of the C.A.R. He was a compassionate man who was respected by everyone, and unlike other missionaries I met while working in Africa, he didn’t try to guilt Central Africans into becoming Christians just to boost his recruitment numbers.
The subplot about Kael reconnecting with his son after ten years is real, although my son, Josh, was not infatuated with toilets. Like his character, he played soccer (that’s him in the photo above), loved fishing, liked having the number fifteen on his sports jerseys, and was enamored with expensive sexy-looking cars that I could never afford. After he came to the states with me, he eventually became a pilot, and he now flies for FedEx and drives a hot Dodge Challenger with a bold red stripe running the length of the car. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days, he applies a big number fifteen decal on both of his doors.
Writers of fiction just want to write a good story that pulls readers in like bugs to a lightbulb on a hot summer evening. To do that, it helps to sprinkle in bits of truth to make the story feel more real to readers. Yes, they want fiction, but they also want the line between fiction and reality to be blurred. That can be accomplished by setting a fictional story in a real place or by throwing in some personal experiences because chances are good that someone else who reads has probably experienced the same thing as the author. Those commonalities create connections between writer and reader.
I know I will continue to be asked what is real and what is not. And I will continue to respond with some of the examples mentioned in this blog because I want readers to understand that the mixing of the two is what created a novel worth reading.
February 1, 2024
What’s Real and What’s Not?
A question I get asked a lot is: What parts of your book are real and what is made up? My immediate response is to say that The Old Crocodile Man Theory is a work of fiction. Then I add that much of it, at least the parts that aren’t fiction, is autobiographical.
For example, Central Africans believe in sorcery, black magic, and killer crocodile men. In my book, I wrote a scene in which a community meeting started with a local official announcing to the gathered crowd that he had in his hands a list of known crocodile men in the area. He added as a threat, “We know who you are, and we know where you live.” This actually happened during an official meeting I attended while working in the Central African Republic (C.A.R.), so yes, the belief in crocodile men is real, but no, I never had a friend killed by one. That part is made up, and the idea inspired me to write, The Old Crocodile Man Theory.
Writers of fiction ask themselves a lot of questions while they are writing. At least I did. I asked myself things like, what will my readers think of this little twist, or does it make sense for this character to act that way, or will this little tidbit of information give away too much too soon, or why did I ever start writing this thing? A very simple but important question for a writer to ask is: What if? Those two little words instigate creativity, and they push the plot into made-up places that the writer may never have considered. That’s when a good story turns into an unforgettable one.
I asked myself: what if someone Kael cared about was killed by a crocodile man? Then I asked myself: what if Kael decided to go find out what really happened to his friend? I thought that sounded like a story I’d like to read, and since I’d lived and worked in the C.A.R. for many years and knew how to construct a good sentence, I thought I was one of the few people who could write it. I figured I could use my own experiences and weave in a fictional murder that is part of a larger scheme. By the way, the larger scheme is made up and came to me after I asked myself, what if?
Bayanga is real. So is the national park and reserve, but I gave it a fictional name. The corrupt local officials are all too real and all too ubiquitous in the C.A.R. Some accused me of being in the C.I.A., while others accused me of tranquilizing elephants and then cutting off their tusks with a chainsaw. When I laughed at their outlandish theories, they interpreted it as the laugher of a guilty person. I couldn’t help but think: Is this really happening? They’ll believe in crocodile men, but they find it hard to believe that I am here just to protect their wildlife.
Nasseef and his garage are real. And yes, anyone can get any ink stamp fabricated on the streets of Bangui. When I was a Peace Corps volunteer, I had one made that identified me as a “Fisheries Expert,” and I used it on all official documents I was asked to submit to local officials. I noticed that the addition of an official-looking stamp added an extra level of respect for my “expertise.” I should have had a stamp made up that read: “Not a CIA Operative.” An official stamp like that would have shut down all the rumors about who my employer was.
Pere Norbert is real, but he wasn’t based in Nola, which is a real town. The real Pere Norbert was a Catholic priest working in another part of the C.A.R. He was a compassionate man who was respected by everyone, and unlike other missionaries I met while working in Africa, he didn’t try to guilt Central Africans into becoming Christians just to boost his recruitment numbers.
The subplot about Kael reconnecting with his son after ten years is real, although my son, Josh, was not infatuated with toilets. Like his character, he played soccer (that’s him in the photo above), loved fishing, liked having the number fifteen on his sports jerseys, and was enamored with expensive sexy-looking cars that I could never afford. After he came to the states with me, he eventually became a pilot, and he now flies for FedEx and drives a hot Dodge Challenger with a bold red stripe running the length of the car. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days, he applies a big number fifteen decal on both of his doors.
Writers of fiction just want to write a good story that pulls readers in like bugs to a lightbulb on a hot summer evening. To do that, it helps to sprinkle in bits of truth to make the story feel more real to readers. Yes, they want fiction, but they also want the line between fiction and reality to be blurred. That can be accomplished by setting a fictional story in a real place or by throwing in some personal experiences because chances are good that someone else who reads has probably experienced the same thing as the author. Those commonalities create connections between writer and reader.
I know I will continue to be asked what is real and what is not. And I will continue to respond with some of the examples mentioned in this blog because I want readers to understand that the mixing of the two is what created a novel worth reading.
Nov. 8, 2023
A Boy and His Dog
When I was growing up, my dad, who was a small-town doctor, had in his waiting room, which used to be our garage, four framed pictures. They were prints of a Norman Rockwell series entitled, “The Four Seasons.” Each season was depicted showing a boy and his dog. Is there anything more American than Norman Rockwell and a boy and his dog?
My dad was not only a lover of dog paintings; he was also a lover of dogs, so I grew up with dogs bounding through the house and accompanying me on my frequent jaunts through the woods. I became a dog lover, too, so including a dog in my novel, The Old Crocodile Man Theory, was a no-brainer. Write what you know, right? The photo above is of a younger me with my even younger golden retriever, Boda. That’s Chatham Strait with Admiralty Island in the background on one of those rare calm blue-sky days in Southeast Alaska.
In my novel, I gave my protagonist, Kael, a dog. First, because I like dogs. Second, because a lot of people who like books also like dogs. Third, and maybe most importantly, I wanted Kael to have at least one quality that helps readers more easily see his kinder, more human, more Rockwellian side. If he has a dog, he can’t be a total ass, right? Sure, he drinks too much, he was a horrible friend to Molly in her final years, and he hides out at Hidden Cove to escape real-world responsibilities like leaving a son behind in Central Africa, but just maybe, a dog could help sand down some of his rougher edges and make him more relatable.
I wrote: “Kael’s golden retriever, Cheechako the Wonder Dog, was asleep in the wheelhouse. She didn’t appreciate the fine art of fishing like Kael and C.B. This was probably because she’d once had her nose pierced by one of Kael’s treble hooks (This actually happened to my dog, Boda). It was an unpleasant experience for an animal whose nose is its most important sensory organ. Now when she spied a fishing rod, she sought out a safe haven out of casting distance. Kael liked to brag that Chako would be a good protector on the streets of New York so long as no one attacked him with a fishing rod.” Later, when Kael lands at National Airport in Washington, D.C. with a backpack, a guitar, and more than a few reservations to begin his new job, he reflects that he “already missed the familiar smells of salt air, spruce trees, and wet dog.”
I think it’s important for your protagonist to have at least one quality with which readers can identify. Otherwise, why root for him? If he is just a drunkard, a bad friend, and an absent parent, who cares what happens to him?
It’s also important for your protagonist to grow while your plot moves forward. They must evolve. If the story doesn’t change him/her, then why tell it from their point of view? Kael goes from being a loner with a dog to a guy who embraces fatherhood, who risks his life to redeem his lost friendship with Molly, and who uses his own money to save a total stranger from a life in prison. He still drinks too much, but hey, he has a dog so let’s cut him some slack.
After my dad died in 2007, I cleaned out his office. The Rockwell prints were still hanging in the waiting room right where my dad had put them back in 1958. Some of the dust on them was probably from 1958, too. He loved dogs, but he obviously didn’t love decorating or cleaning. I made new frames for the prints, and they now hang in my living room, but that’s only until I get a waiting room.
May 16, 2023
Eat Like a Central African
My wife, Denise, was making a spicy Creole bean dish the other day, and I saw the recipe card lying on the countertop. It occurred to me that in all my years of living and working in Central Africa, I never once saw a Central African woman use a written recipe to make a delicious and filling meal. That’s probably because in small villages sprinkled throughout Central Africa, one never knew what ingredients would be available in the open-air market that day. There were no grocery stores with refrigerators or freezers, so buying beef was hit or miss, mostly miss. So was fresh fish. A chicken or goat could be slaughtered and cooked up, but those were usually for special occasions. And generally, the only vegetables available were those you could grow in your own fields. The best cooks were those who could adapt to the conditions and think on their feet.
Recipes were handed down from mother to daughter – not on three-by-five index cards, but through conversation and observation. And no recipes were ever shared between a Central African woman and her daughter that could be considered Italian, Chinese, Indian, Mexican, Greek, or Thai. It was all African all the time. Notice that I don’t mention men or boys as part of the meal preparation process. In Central Africa, the kitchen is one of the few places where woman wield more power than men, and making food is one of the easier tasks that women perform during their sunup to sundown workday. They get to sit next to the campfire with their children and other family members close at hand and concoct something that will fill everyone’s empty stomach. While cooking, they talk about their day, which was probably like every other day, but that doesn’t stop the chatter. In The Old Crocodile Man Theory, I wrote a scene in which Kael observes women preparing the evening meal:
“Sapu was sitting on a small wooden stool in front of her house. She was peering into a blackened pot. Three round stones supported the pot above the smoking cook fire. While Sapu examined its contents, her teenaged sister, Tara, rearranged the wood and coals to achieve the ideal flame and the optimum cooking temperature. Two other sisters, Anise and Ebene, sat on woven mats next to the fire. They laughed and gossiped while holding suckling infants to their swollen breasts. Some meals were easier to prepare than others.”
One of my favorite African meals, and one that is easy for anyone to prepare – even a man – is West African Ground Nut Stew. It’s basically a peanut sauce that works with whatever ingredients are available that day. Don’t fret if you don’t like one or more of the ingredients in my recipe. They don’t have to be in there. Just put in what you like. Adapt. Think on your feet like a Central African woman would.
In a large pot or saucepan, heat three tablespoons of oil. Add one pound of beef cubes (or chicken, if you prefer), and brown along with a half-teaspoon of nutmeg, along with salt and pepper to taste. When the meat is browned, add four medium-sized sliced onions, one clove of minced garlic, one or two green, yellow, or red bell peppers, two cups of spinach, two sliced carrots, and five or six sliced mushrooms. If you like okra, cut some up and throw that in, too. Note that there are no rules about specific amounts. Two sliced carrots could be three or four if you really like carrots or just want to finish off what is taking up room in your refrigerator. Cook until the veggies start to get soft. Add one can of tomato paste (along with five or six cups of water). You can substitute a couple cans of diced tomatoes or a can or two of tomato sauce or spaghetti sauce if that’s what you have in your cupboard. Add chopped hot peppers to suit your taste and your capability to consume. FYI, Central Africans like their meals spicy enough to make an American’s head sweat. Simmer until the meat is tender and everything is cooked through. Stir in one-half cup of peanut butter. Serve over rice.
Central Africans prefer manioc/cassava over rice. I was told by many Central Africans that rice didn’t fill them up as well as manioc, and a full stomach is a luxury. Everyone grew their own manioc, so it was a cheap staple that could be consumed at almost every meal. The root tuber goes through a long process (performed by women, of course) to become a manioc flour. The flour is then mixed with hot water to form something resembling bread dough before it is popped into the oven. Central Africans will gather round to eat from the same big bowl of sauce. Another community plate holds the manioc. They use their thumb and a couple of fingers to pull off a bit of the manioc, which is then formed into a small, flattened ball with a dent in the center. They then dip it into the flavorful sauce, hoping to scoop up a piece of meat or vegetable. If you prefer rice over manioc, I recommend using utensils.
I generally don’t cook with recipes. I’d probably be a better cook if I did, but I’ve got some go-to dishes in my repertoire that work every time. West African Ground Nut Stew is one of them. It’s not only delicious; it cleans out my refrigerator of vegetables that have been sitting in there far too long. And the flavors take me right back to the Central African Republic. Here’s an idea: cook up a big pot of West African Ground Nut Stew and then re-read The Old Crocodile Man Theory. That might be the only way to make the story better.
April 19, 2023
Find Your Place
Most writers agree that writing is hard work. Sure, there are days when the words flow like a raging river, but usually, words take great pleasure in playing an annoying game of hide-and-seek with writers. We know they’re out there. Discovering them, however, is as tough as finding that kid who has wiggled into the perfect hiding place where no one else dares to go. Even Ernest Hemingway agreed that writing is hard work. He said: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
There are strategies to make the writing process less bloody. One of the most important is to “find your place.” Where is it that you can be successful at turning a blank piece of paper into a page of organized words that others might like to read? Some writers require a sterile room with no distractions. Louis L’Amour, the prolific Western writer, once said he could write at a desk set up in the middle of New York City’s rush hour traffic. For me, it’s probably something in the middle of those two extremes. I found my preferred writing place is at a coffee shop. There are about five or six coffee shops in Southwest Minneapolis that provided me an atmosphere that was conducive to writing. And it was in those coffee shops where I wrote, The Old Crocodile Man Theory.
Despite the hum of background music, other patrons having conversations at neighboring tables, and the occasional buzz of coffee and change being made behind the counter, I was able to write. I don’t know why this setting works for me, but I have a theory: there is an energy in coffee shops, and it is stronger than the room full of distractions that come with a good cup of coffee. I don’t know where the energy comes from. Is it projected into the room by friends meeting over a cup of coffee and a shared pastry? Does it come from the small group of business types sitting in the booth at the back and trying to solve a work problem that couldn’t be fixed back at the office? Or is caffeine more than just a stimulant for the drinker? Does coffee have secondary effects on others like smoking in a crowded room?
In addition to the mysterious energy in the room, a second benefit of coffee shops is that I found them to be great venues for enhancing my powers of observation. I was like the proverbial fly on the wall, seeing how people interact, how they employ body language and facial expressions to complement their conversations, how they say hello and goodbye, and how they treat the workers. It’s all fascinating, and when I would find myself playing that hide-and-seek game with words, I would look up from my notebook, pan across the room, and inevitably I would see something that would stimulate a thought that would lead to me putting something down on my blank sheet of paper.
For example, I was writing a scene where my protagonist, Kael, arrives in the Central African Republic’s capital city of Bangui. As he travels from the airport to downtown, I needed to draw the reader into the setting with a vivid description of what Kael was seeing outside of his truck’s window. Before I wrote, I glanced around the coffee shop and used what I observed there to translate into what Kael (and the reader) might see in Central Africa. I wrote the following:
“Women wrapped in bright patterns of African cloth carried napping babies strapped tightly to their backs. The babies’ exposed heads bobbed side-to-side as their mothers power-walked while balancing several hundred board-feet of firewood on their own rigid heads. Unemployed men in monochromatic leisure suits gathered to gossip, laugh, and create massive sidewalk traffic jams. Small rectangular leather purses dangled from many of the men’s wrists. They usually contained identification documents, old letters, pens (which also didn’t work), and cutout pictures from magazines of places they’d never visit, people they’d never meet, and merchandise they’d never own.”
All that came from sitting in a coffee shop in Minneapolis. And from six years of living and working in Central Africa, but it was the coffee shop that awakened those hibernating memories. There are some drawbacks to writing in a coffee shop. Now when I write – even if it isn’t in a coffee shop – I need to have a cup of coffee right next to me. It has become an essential writing tool, as important as my notebook, my favorite pen, or my laptop. A coffee addiction seems a fair trade for finding the right word.
February 14, 2023
Born to Freely Choose to Go to Africa
I was raised in a small Mayberry-esque town in Southeastern Pennsylvania, which begs the question: How did a kid like me become infatuated with Africa? I know exactly how it happened. It started with a movie I saw in 1966. My mom and dad took us three kids (and maybe a few neighbor kids, too) to see the film, Born Free, which was based on Joy Adamson’s 1960 bestselling book of the same name. It is the true story of Elsa the lion cub, her uncommon relationship with Joy and her husband, George, and their attempts to reintroduce Elsa back into the wild. I was ten years old when I saw that movie, and it had a profound effect on me. After sitting enthralled through the movie, I announced to my parents, my siblings, my friends, and anyone else who would listen, that one day, I would travel to Africa. I never suspected it would inspire me to write The Old Crocodile Man Theory.
A song entitled, Born Free, came out of the movie, and it won an Academy Award for the best original song in 1967. It got my vote. When it played on my dad’s car’s AM radio, we kids would loudly sing along with it. It was weird that every time we got about halfway through the song, my dad would announce that, unfortunately, we were getting out of the radio signal’s range, and he would have to quickly change the station – usually to something playing Frank Sinatra. Now that I think about it, Frank’s signal never faded. Despite bad reception, I was still able to memorize the lyrics to Born Free. In fact, I still remember them:
Born free
As free as the wind blows
As free as the grass grows
Born free to follow your heart
Not long after the movie came out, my sixth-grade class studied Africa with our student teacher, Miss Hinkie. I’m not sure if that’s how she spelled her name, but I do remember that she was blond and pretty and totally charmed my grandfather on a day when family members were invited to the classroom to see what we were learning. Miss Hinkie taught us about Africa’s rich culture – its art, its songs, and its diversity of people. We learned to sing Marching to Pretoria and Kumbaya. We weaved colorful yarn through the holes in burlap sacks to create pictures that depicted life in Africa. And we wrote stories that accompanied our burlap tableaus. It’s funny what you remember and what you don’t. Those lessons about Africa were instantly burned into the memory centers of my brain. Fractions and long division took a more circuitous route to make it there.
My next connection with Africa was in the seventh grade when we were required to begin learning a second language. Our choices were Spanish, French, or German. Most of my friends chose Spanish because they were told by older and wiser kids, “It’s the easiest.” I chose French because I’d learned – maybe from Miss Hinkie – that many countries in Africa were former French colonies, and the people who lived there spoke French. I discovered that I had a natural ability with French, so I continued studying it through high school and several years in college, which was when I started thinking about Peace Corps as an option when I graduated. I requested a post in French-speaking Africa and was offered a position as a fisheries volunteer in the Central African Republic. I knew absolutely nothing about the place – even Miss Hinkie had her limitations – but that didn’t stop me from realizing a dream I’d nurtured since watching the movie, Born Free, eleven years earlier. I accepted the Peace Corps offering, did my two years, re-upped for a third year, and ten years later returned to work for the World Wildlife Fund. All because of a movie.
When my granddaughter, Monique, was in the sixth grade, she saw the movie, Dolphin Tale, and announced that she would become a dolphin surgeon. I’m not sure if that is still in her future, but as one who understands the inspirational power of film, I’m glad she didn’t see the movie, Showgirls.
December 4, 2022
What’s in a Name?
“How do you choose names for your characters?” That question was posed to me at a recent book signing event. I hadn’t been asked that question before, but I’d thought about it a lot when I was writing The Old Crocodile Man Theory. I even had one of my characters – Tallin - propose a theory on names: She said, “I do think there’s a lot of baggage that goes with a name. Take it from someone named after a city in Eastern Europe where my parents met. You get certain visual images with names. For example, you’d never see a woman named Bertha accepting the crown for Miss America. And you’d never see a kid named Poindexter throwing the winning touchdown pass in the Super Bowl.” After hearing her theory on names, my protagonist, Kael, asks Tallin if she could ever see herself dating a Kael. Tallin’s quick response is: “Only if Poindexter wasn’t available.”
Choosing the right name for a character is harder than it sounds. Think about your favorite books and your favorite characters and you probably can’t imagine them having names other than what the authors gave them: Jem, Scout, and Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird; Woodrow and Gus in Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove; Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye; Lisbeth Salander in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo; Randall Patrick McMurphy, Nurse Ratched, and Chief in Ken Kesey’s classic, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I wanted names that would fit the personalities of the characters I was creating. I also wanted names that were a little out of the ordinary and could easily be remembered by readers. When I’m reading a book and there are a lot of common names, especially names that have similar sounds like Bill, Bob, Betty, Joe, Jim, Jane, etc., I have a hard time remembering who said what and who did what. I find myself having to page back to make sure I’m remembering correctly. I hope that’s not just me. Those extra steps can cause readers like me to put down a book and reach for a different one that is easier to follow.
The name Kael just came to me one day. In my first draft I called him Jake, but later decided it was too common for my lead character. It was also too close in sound to his friend Nick. Both are one syllable words with a hard k ending. Ironically, after my novel was written and collecting dust on a shelf, my son and his wife named their son Jake. I wonder if somewhere down the line, they, too, will change his name to Kael. I’d seen that name spelled as “Cale,” but I wanted to spin it a bit more, so I came up with a different way of spelling that I had never seen before. I think the K-a-e-l spelling has an Irish look to it. The fact that it sounded like a leafy, bitter-tasting vegetable that most people only eat because it is healthy was a bonus. That was another way for readers to remember the name.
I chose the name, Tallin, for the daughter of some grad school friends. They had visited the city of Tallinn, which is the capital of Estonia on the Baltic Sea, and they were so impressed with its beauty, they decided to name their daughter after the city, minus one n. I thought the name spelled with one n would be a good character name.
Josie was what my son’s African side of his family called him, even though his given name was Joshua. I guess Josie was easier to pronounce. There used to be a Saturday morning cartoon when I was a kid called Josie and the Pussycats. It was about a girl band that sang sugary sweet pop songs in-between solving weekly mysteries. On a much more masculine front, Clint Eastwood played the title character in a shoot-em-up western called The Outlaw Josie Wales, so apparently, the name, Josie, knows no boundaries.
I had some fun with a few of my names. The Peace Corps volunteer is named Paige Marie Turner. Take away her middle name and you are left with Paige Turner. My gorilla researcher was named Bermuda Schwartz, a name I remembered from when I was a kid. I’d seen it in the newspaper advertising dancers at a Philadelphia strip club called The Troc. I thought the stripper’s stage name was funny. I still do.
Some names are actual, real people I have known – C.B., Assan, Nasseef, Dimassé, and Père Norbert. They were all memorable characters in real life and not too different from the characters they became in my novel. Their names were also just different enough to remember.
I had more fun with The Three Stooges. In the Central African language of Sango, Mayor Likéké means “wooden head.” Police Commissioner Yakonomingui means “big stomach.” Sous-Préfet Wabunda means “ass person.” It makes sense that those three would find each other.
I also made use of nicknames, some of which had great meaning. Nick’s nickname of Puru ti Kondo (chicken shit) was not only funny; it became important later in the story. So did the nickname of Bolo. Kael’s nickname of Pig-Pen was my nickname when I was a Peace Corps volunteer. I had helped with a pond harvest, got covered in mud from head to toe, and my fellow fisheries volunteers started calling me Pig-Pen. Some still do. I wear that badge with honor, even if it is a little muddy.
Tallin didn’t think a Bertha could win the Miss America contest and a Poindexter couldn’t throw the winning touchdown pass in the Super Bowl. I wonder if she could see a Phil/Pig-Pen writing a novel worth reading with character names that are memorable, unusual and a good fit. Since I created Tallin, I’ll say, “Yes.”
November 4, 2022
Just Six Words
Can you write a novel in just six words? This is the challenge that was supposedly presented to Ernest Hemingway, a writer known for his brevity with words. He wrote like he was paying for each word that he put down on paper. Adverbs must have been especially expensive because he never used them, and he criticized writers who did for not having the good sense to come up with a better verb. The story goes that Hemingway came up with his six-word novel: “For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn,” and I suspect someone out there said, “I haven’t read it. I’m waiting for the movie.” I’m not sure if the story of Hemingway’s six-word novel is true, but in true Hemingway fashion, not one adverb was used.
Not many other six-word novels have been written, but many people have taken to describing their lives in just six words. You can find a bunch by Googling “Six-word memoirs.” Here are a few of my favorites:
Followed the rules; wish I hadn’t.
Outside, I’m celebrating. Inside, loneliness.
Not quite what I was planning.
Living my fourth draft. Revising regularly.
Ooh shiny! Change course. Oops. Shiny!
Deep as ocean. Shallow as puddle.
My best friend is my cat.
I’m indecisive. Really! Or am I?
Found true love. Married someone else.
Time travelers wanted. Inquire within, yesterday.
The smallest coffins are the heaviest.
She loved cigarettes… more than life.
Cursed with cancer. Blessed with friends.
Went abroad. Finally felt like home.
Won food fight. Used canned vegetables.
I’m often asked to quickly describe my novel, The Old Crocodile Man Theory. I was counseled to come up with an “elevator speech,” something short and sweet to tickle the fancy of potential readers if, for example, I happened to bump into them on a short elevator ride. I thought it might be fun, and in the spirit of Ernest Hemingway, to come up with a six-word description of my novel. Here is what I came up with: “Boy saves girl. Boy saves boy.” Do I get extra credit for only using three words? Hemingway would have liked it. For those of you who have read my novel, my six words (or three) should make sense. And like my novel, there is a bit of a twist. If you have a better one, share it with me at philiphunsicker44@gmail.com. If I collect enough gems, I’ll share them in a future blog.
October 28, 2022
A Book’s Journey
Today, my book began a journey. It will go wherever readers decide to take it.
I started the trip by placing a copy of my novel, The Old Crocodile Man Theory, in the Little Free Library that sits at the end of our driveway. Little Free Libraries (www.LittleFreeLibrary.org) are simple but impactful inventions that get more books into more readers’ hands. My wife, Denise, always wanted one, so a couple of Christmases ago I made her one from scraps of wood I had lying around in my workshop. Those scraps, however, had meaning. Some came from old parts of our house that we remodeled. Some came from the weathered cedar dock sections that welcomed us every summer on the lake. Some came from shelving my late sister had given us. Some came from a ridge vent my late brother had made for us. The toughest part of the build was crafting the teeny-tiny card catalog to put inside it. Just kidding. The library turned out great, as you can see from the photo. We registered it with LittleFreeLibrary.org, received a small, engraved plate to attach to the library to demonstrate that we were officially part of the Little Free Library system, and started stuffing the library with books for readers of all ages.
I thought it might be fun to stick a copy of my novel in the library and try and track where it goes. Inside the cover, I wrote the following:
This book was placed in the author’s Little Free Library (www.littlefreelibrary.org) located at the end of his driveway in Brainerd, Minnesota. It is now on a journey to meet readers. The author would love to know where his book travels, who reads it, and what readers think about the story. You can connect with the author by sending an email to philiphunsicker44@gmail.com. You can also find out more about the author and his book, The Old Crocodile Man Theory, at www.philiphunsicker.com. Thank you for being a supporter of books, authors, and Little Free Libraries.
Peace,
Phil
Who knows where it will go? I’m just hoping it doesn’t set up a permanent residence in our library. The little librarian who keeps the teeny-tiny card catalog organized would be very upset.
If you are as curious as I am about where my book travels, you can send me an email at philiphunsicker44@gmail.com and I’ll fill you in, or just stay tuned to this blog site. If The Old Crocodile Man Theory shows up in an interesting locale, I’ll write a future blog about it. Wouldn’t it be cool if it made it all the way to Southeast Alaska or Central Africa? I did, so why not a book?
September 28, 2022
The Yellow Rose of Texas is Nice, but It’s Not Nearly as Pretty as Alaska’s Alpine Forget-Me-Not
If you’ve read The Old Crocodile Man Theory, and I hope you have, you know that I take some shots at Texas. For example, I wrote that Kael’s beard provided an almost impenetrable barrier between his face and mosquitoes, but it did nothing to keep away another more bothersome Alaskan pest: immigrating loud-mouthed Texans who came north to make their fortunes in oil and mining and then repaid their Alaskan hosts by bragging that everything was bigger and better in Texas.
My tongue-in-cheek comments weren’t aimed at Texans who still reside in Texas; they were more for those Texans who leave the Lone Star State in search of wealth found elsewhere, and no matter where they go, they can’t seem to turn off their insatiable need to convince their hosts that Texas is better in every way. It’s like someone visiting your home and saying, “Nice kitchen, but mine is bigger. Nice living room, but mine is more comfortable. Nice bedroom, but mine is more relaxing.”
My jokes about Texas weren’t meant to besmirch all Texans, especially Texas readers. I am the first to admit that some of the best music and writing has come out of Texas. I love Jerry Jeff Walker, Guy Clark, Gary Clark Jr., Steve Earle, Robert Earl Keen, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, the Dixie Chicks, Larry McMurtry, and Molly Ivins. My jokes about Texas weren’t just to hit back at every Texan who tried to convince me that Alaska was okay, but Texas was better. They also weren’t included in my story just to highlight my joke-telling repertoire, which I’ve been told is as big as Alaska, which means it’s twice as big as Texas. My jokes were a device – a tool to highlight Kael’s friendship with Nick and to bridge the beginning of my book with the end. I also used the jokes like a seemingly inconsequential character who occasionally pops in and out of the story, and later, the reader discovers that they weren’t inconsequential at all.
A friend who lives in Texas has asked me to come to Austin to discuss my novel with her book club. I hope they have senses of humor as big as their love of Texas. Maybe I’ll kick off the evening with a joke about Oklahomans.
August 28, 2022
Generosity is Alive and Well … in Libraries and Bookstores!
Readers are generous. To be more specific, my readers are generous. I see it every time I do a book reading or signing event, and I’ve done a bunch these last few months around my home state of Minnesota. The photo above is of my granddaughter, Jacqueline, who seems surprised that my photo for a book reading is posted at the Two Harbors Public Library instead of at the Post Office.
The writing is done. The book is published. My job now is to tell readers that there is this great book out there that they need to dive into. And as luck would have it, I just so happen to have some copies to sell. With sales tax, a book is about $18, but I tell customers that if they give me a twenty and tell me to keep the change, I will make sure that the extra two dollars goes to support two organizations doing difficult work in the Central African Republic – where my story takes place. Those organizations are the World Wildlife Fund, which protects forest wildlife for the benefit of local communities, and Water for Good, which digs and maintains water wells to provide clean drinking water for entire villages. Not once has anyone said to me, “No thanks. I’d like my change back.” Not once!
At a time when we can’t seem to agree on anything in the political spectrum, when things are either left or right, black or white, and red or blue, it’s nice to know we still care about others who might need our help. According to the Charities Aid Foundation’s World Giving Index, which surveyed 1.3 million people in 125 countries, America was the most generous country this past decade. We even gave more during the pandemic when our country was as polarized politically as we ever have been.
COVID destroyed taste buds, wreaked havoc with supply chains, exhausted health care workers, turned us into warring tribes of the masked versus unmasked, and killed millions around the world, but it couldn’t kill our generosity.
That being the case, have you heard about this great book out there?
May 1, 2022
Moments
Through writing I discovered that a good story is a juggling act with multiple balls in the air. These balls include: a plausible plot, characters with whom readers can identify, descriptions that make readers see what the writer sees, dialogue that gives a unique voice to each character, and a sense of place that transports readers from their comfy chairs to a destination that either kindles vivid memories of a previous trip there or makes them feel like they just went on an adventure to a new place without ever leaving the house. If any of these balls slip from the author’s grasp, the whole story comes crashing down as just another sad attempt at writing the elusive, “next great American novel.”
There is another component that I think is just as important to any good story – moments. There must be moments in the story that make the reader pause, contemplate, internalize, and experience an emotional connection with what they’ve just read. A truly impactful moment can linger long after the story has ended. In every good book I have read, I have found those kinds of moments, and even years after reading those books, I still find myself pondering those emotional connections that were formed. For example, in To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, there are more moments per capita than in any other novel, which is one reason why I think it is so beloved. A few immediately come to mind. When Scout and Jem were watching the trial from the “Coloreds Only” balcony with Reverend Sykes, and their father, who is defending an innocent black man, leaves the courtroom, Reverend Sykes says, “Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father is passing.” Another one is when their neighbor, Miss Maudie Atkinson, says to the kids: “There are some men in this world who are born to do our unpleasant jobs for us. Your father is one of them.” A third example that happens towards the end of the book is when Boo Radley is discovered hiding in Jem’s room after saving his life. Scout spots him and simply says, “Hey Boo.” Those moments will stick with me for as long as the synapses in my brain continue to fire.
I tried to create moments like that in The Old Crocodile Man Theory. I’m no Harper Lee, but I think I captured some moments that will stick with readers. For example, when Kael sees his son, Josie, for the first time in ten years, he gives him a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, and without warning, Josie rockets himself into Kael. Initially, Kael thinks he is being attacked by a ten-year-old Boston Red Sox fan, but he soon realizes that Josie isn’t striking out; he is reaching out. I wrote: “Kael held him tightly with one arm while the other rubbed his son’s trembling back. It was the first mutual hug between father and son, and Kael wished it would never end.” Later, Kael, Josie and Assan attend the slide show in the mayor’s bar, and the mayor waves a piece of paper over his head claiming it contains the names of known crocodile men. He says, “We know who you are. We know where you live.” Knowing that the mayor is tauntingly referring to his friend, Assan, Josie drapes a reassuring arm over Assan’s shoulders. Assan then pats the boy’s bare knee. I wrote: “Kael couldn’t have been more proud of either of them.”
I also tried to create emotional attachments with every victim of Bolo’s gun, including Vinnie, Pablo, Sophie, Isabelle, Charles, Diana, William, and Harry. I wanted their deaths to be uncomfortable to read. I wanted those scenes to have an emotional impact on readers because violent scenarios like those happen every day in Africa, and few Americans take notice or show interest, and that bothers me.
According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, one definition for moments is “importance in influence or effect.” I like that, but I like Robert Frost’s take on it better. He said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” Another lesser-known writer (me) says: “Make moments in your stories; they matter, and they might just make up for occasional lapses in your characters, descriptions, dialogue, and sense of place.”
December 31, 2021
So You Want to be a Writer
Like other writers, I have read my share of books on how to write. There are shelves full of them at your local library, or if you still have one, your local bookstore. Some of these were written by established authors; some by teachers of the craft. Like high school guidance counselors, customer service reps, and directions that come with IKEA furniture, some are more helpful than others.
Stephen King took time out from scaring us with his horror stories and wrote a good one entitled, On Writing. I liked it because he didn’t say there is only one way to become a good writer, and this is how you do it. He talks about what has worked for him, and many of the things that work for him, also work for me. For example, he doesn’t agree with the idea (and one that is promoted in many writing books) that writers should make detailed outlines of how their story will get from point A to point B. He thinks that level of rigidity takes away the opportunity for your characters to drive the story where they want it to go. Some may find that a little too unstructured for their taste, but as one who has hated doing outlines since I learned about them in grade school, I agree with anyone who agrees with my opinion that outlines are tedious, boring, and a waste of time better spent drinking or writing or both.
When I wrote The Old Crocodile Man Theory, I had a vague idea in my head about where I thought I wanted the story to go, but once I started writing, the characters took control of the steering wheel and I went along for the ride. Where I ended up wasn’t far from my pre-conceived destination, but the journey to get there was quite different and a lot more entertaining. Characters that I thought would be flyovers ended up having more screen time and more impact. Pere Norbert was one such character. Readers have told me they liked his enthusiasm and positive attitude, which were still vibrant even after many years of living in a place that can crush those tenuous qualities. He was not the pious, narrow-minded evangelist I originally envisioned. I always saw him as an accomplished drinker, but somehow, he became more humorous, more laissez-faire, and more accepting of individuals who had beliefs different than his own. He became a memorable character because I let him take me there.
One thing Mr. King writes in his book, which stood out for me, is: “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.” Since his book was published back in 2000, he doesn’t say if he counts emails, tweets and Facebook posts as acceptable reading or writing material. I don’t read as much as I used to. When I’ve got some free time, I tend to pick up my guitar instead of a book. I already read well. It’s my guitar playing that needs more practice. A couple of good reads that pulled me away from my guitar were Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens and The Searcher by Tana French. Memorable characters. Intriguing locales. Tight stories with plenty of surprises. I wonder if they used outlines.
One of my favorite writers, Pat Conroy, also wrote a book about writing. It was more about reading than writing, and was entitled, My Reading Life. The guy read more than most editors who are paid to read. I’m surprised he had any time left to write, which he did better than most. I’m guessing he didn’t play guitar.
So you still want to be a writer? Read a book on writing. Get a second opinion, a third opinion, a tenth opinion. Pick and choose what makes sense to you – those morsels of advice that will help you get your story down on paper. Stephen King found his way. So did Pat Conroy. I did, too. Our ways are all a bit different. Stephen’s way might not have worked for Pat (who died in 2016) and vice-versa, but two out of the three of us have made best seller lists, have turned books into movies, and have millions of adoring fans. If I don’t have to write an outline, I’m fine with that.
October 23, 2021
What Happened on October 4, 2021?
While I was crashing Facebook’s servers, my book was having a much better day. Thanks to some friends, it was lounging on a Mexican beach with a cold tropical drink close at hand. It was October 4, 2021, and I was all set to do a live Facebook feed as the featured author for the Brainerd, MN Library’s monthly Brown Bag Event. I tested my connection with Facebook, and it was good. I was all set to read a chapter from The Old Crocodile Man Theory, talk about my writing and publishing journey, and answer questions from my admirers, or those who accidentally stumbled onto the site. Either one worked for me. Right before the event was to begin, I lost my connection to Facebook. My repeated attempts to reconnect were as successful as Mark Zuckerberg’s attempts to make the hoodie an even sexier garment by combining it with a bad haircut. The clock ticked, my start time came and went, and Facebook still refused to work with me. My wife tried to connect using her phone. No luck. Her sister tried to connect, and she was as successful as we were. Now I knew that it wasn’t my fault. Or was it?
Like my novel’s main character, I came up with a theory: my Facebook Live event was so popular, it had crashed Facebook’s servers. They were overwhelmed by all the traffic of readers clamoring for more insight on my novel and me. That was the only logical explanation. I found out later that Facebook had taken a short vacation of its own. For six hours, it had shut down. It had finally reached its limit of garbage and said, “Enough is enough. I need a break. I’m heading to Mexico.” Hmm, I wonder if my book and Facebook did get together on October 4, just not the way I had originally planned.
