Writing life

Novel Matters

  Being normal is highly overrated. Being a writer is nothing but cool. Embrace it. It looks good on you.

My favorite compliments/ reviews

About  Last Great Race

 

"I like to watch and tell readers what I see; Tim puts readers on the runners"— Frank Gerjevic 

 

"It's that lovely sort of non-fiction which reads like a great novel" — Marty Galster 

From a facebook post 5/5/24: Smacked in the face and I choked up seeing this today: Joe May, who died last September, commenting on a Steinbeck quote I posted 7 years ago: "Joe May: My favorite writer (after Tim). I want to be buried with a copy each of "Cannery Row" and "The Last Great Race".  (I know the quotation marks go outside the period, but Joe always wrote it this way so in his memory I'm leaving it the way he wrote it.)

A pleasant surprise on a dull morning, thank you Mark Fuerstenau

Mark Fuerstenau

December 13, 2924

For those who may be interested in dog mushing and/or the Iditarod Sled Dog Race the History Channel recently aired a segment following musher Lauro Eklund on his quest to run the Iditarod. It gives a brief snapshot of some of the joys and challenges it takes to mush a team of 16 dogs over a thousand miles right through the rugged Alaska wilderness.

If you're hankerin' for more information, check out the iconic book on the subject, "The Last Great Race" by Tim Jones (Madrona, 1982). Tim, who has personal experience mushing, followed the race twice. Traveling by snowmachine and aircraft, talking to mushers, vets, race officials, volunteers, the original serum mushers, trail hosts, and others along the race trail his book is an accurate account of what it takes to hold an event of colossal logistical proportions and to participate in this amazing feat of toughness and endurance.

 

Garden Reader 

8/9/23

NOTE: To be honest, I didn't know what to do with this. It's too much of an ego rush to go public with it, so it's here. I guess it is a part of my writing life. A young woman named Emily Sakis wrote it. She organizes these reading-in-the-garden events at the senior-living-center where I live. This was from an interview published to introduce me to the potential audience. Following this post is a report on the event itself. (I didn't edit it, left it just as she wrote it and it was posted on facebook.)

 

Meet this weeks Story Time In The Garden reader!

If a picture is worth a thousand words, how many words are in a melody? These are the thoughts, among many, that have been swirling in my head since chatting with this weeks Story Time in the Garden reader, Tim Jones. I’ve been wracking my brain, sifting through all of the creative words I know in the English language, trying to find any that adequately describe the man that I just met. I have been left unimpressed with the selection of choices currently taking up space in my brain. Yet a melody keeps coming to mind. It’s a bit cheeky. Slow, yet full of energy. Slightly melancholic. If you’ve seen the romantic comedy, “The Holiday”, it’s reminiscent of Arthurs theme song. Yet Tim’s melody has a hint of soulful blues to it, unexpected, yet beautiful if left untamed.

Walking into his apartment I was immediately struck with the orderliness of the space. Everything had a place, and every place had a thing. The walls were covered with photos, all taken by the man himself, showcasing the life he has led. Each picture carries with it a memory. And a story. Like the picture of the Orca whale lounging, belly up, photographed feet from Tim’s boat. Disregard the fact that it’s illegal for a boat to be within 100 meters of a whale. Not that Tim has no respect for nature. In fact, I would go so far as to say that Tim’s love of nature is so ingrained in his DNA that animals can sense it and trust him. Why else would a gigantic orca whale, upon seeing Tim’s boat over 100 meters away, decide to change course and head straight for his unmoving boat? And then, upon arriving at his boat, turn belly up and just float next to him for a while? These types of “once in a lifetime” experiences seem to be a theme to Tim’s life…

Pay no mind to the fact that Tim was born in New York to an engineer dad and housekeeping mom. The man was born to be a writer and the universe was bound and determined to make it a reality for him. How else do you explain his acceptance into college? One night, while under the influence of a young lady and alcohol, Tim decided to write himself an application to the University of Kansas. Please don’t confuse this with him having submitting an application. No no. He simply wrote them a letter telling them why they should accept him. They responded almost immediately asking him to submit an official application, which he did. He started working at the student newspaper and pretty soon he was “editor of the whole shooting match.”

On Tim's resume you will find prestigious names like the Chicago Tribune and Wall Street

Journal, but it was his job with the Anchorage Daily News (ADN) that forged the beginning of his life in Alaska. Shortly upon his arrival in our great state, on what was supposed to be a two week vacation, Tim was invited to a house party. But, because it’s Tim, and the universe had a plan for him, it turned out the house party was in fact a retirement party. For the news editor at ADN. The chief asked Tim to come chat with him the next day. Which he did. That chat resulted in Tim being offered the news editor job. Boom. Thank you universe.

Being a news editor is all well and good. But our man Tim is a creative writer. Not a journalist. He had the itch to write and he knew there was a story just waiting to be told. What story? Why, none other than The Last Great Race, the Iditarod. When the opportunity to undertake the project was provided to him he undertook it with gusto. It was his first chance to really be creative and write the story that was buried inside him. Yet, after spending a year researching the race, including flying the trail, funding for the project dried up. But Tim had had a taste and he couldn’t go back! So what is he to do? Well, drink about it for starters… While sitting and commiserating with a friend about his bad luck, a fellow to Tim’s right said, “You’re wanting to write a book about the Iditarod and need more money? How much do you need?” How many times have you been out with a friend, happen to sit within ear shot of someone who just happened to have recently won the lottery and have them offer to pay to fund your passion project? Well in this epic true story that’s exactly what happened. A check was cut, a cabin and sled dogs were offered, and Tim spent three months locked away finishing his first book.

He did it! He’s a published author! So what does he do to celebrate? He explores his other passion - living life. As Tim describes it, “I’ve accomplished wonders, many of them just getting myself home.” And that just about tells you all you need to know about how he lives life. After all, inspiration for creative writing doesn’t come from living a boring life. So where does this story take us next? Ah yes, we find ourselves on a sailboat, during the darkest part of night, surrounded by the Pacific Ocean in all directions. Tim is just taking over the watch when the binnacle light goes out. (If you are like me and don’t know what a binnacle is, it’s the stand in which the compass on a ship is mounted).

How do you navigate at night when you can’t see the compass and you don’t have an iPhone to light the way, because we’re talking the early ‘80’s here? No fear, Tim and his off the charts genius mechanic friend found a simple solution. They mounted a flashlight to the glass dome covering the compass and then taped the flashlight in place. The rest of the watch went just fine… yet, there’s something about the sun coming over the horizon, lighting up the world after a long night, that allowed Tim and his mate to see the world in a whole new light that morning. They looked at the flashlight, they looked at the binnacle, they looked into each others eyes, and a sliver of chilling realization crept into their bodies. Did they just mount a metal flashlight to a metal structure in order to see and navigate by a device that utilizes magnets to work? Yes, yes they did. Does it impact navigation? Yes, yes it does. In fact, after conducting an experiment, they learned they were off course by five degrees. Five measly degrees, no big deal right? Well, as Tim explained to me, if you leave the coast of Washington, destined for Hawaii, and are off by ONE degree you will miss the islands by EIGHTY miles. Did they notify anyone of their blunder? Ha! They knew they still had several days before they were supposed to arrive in Hawaii. They figured if they simply over corrected by ten degrees for each of their four hour watches over the next few days, they’d get back on track. The fact that the port of Honolulu appeared on the horizon, directly in front of their sailboat as planned, is almost maddening at this point. But again, just another day in the life of Tim Jones.

At this moment in my writing I am wondering, where do I go next with this story? Suddenly Tim’s melody starts playing in my mind. A bit cheeky. Slow, yet full of energy. Slightly melancholic. An undercurrent of blues. So far the melody in this story has played to his cheekiness. His playful energy. Yet Tim isn’t Tim without the melancholy. The air of soulful blues. After all, life is all about the yin and the yang.

What does it mean to live a successful life? This is something that I have spent significant time pondering, especially since having kids. The only definition I have come up with is there is no definition. It’s unique to each individual. It can change from year to year, day to day, second to second. If all goes well for me, I am about halfway through my life. Most days I am proud of the life I have lived, but there are days that I am more wistful than others. On those days I find myself looking back and pondering, “what would have happened if…”. I suppose it’s natural to feel melancholic when I know that I may have fewer years left on this planet than I have lived so far. Natural to inquire as to what I am doing with my life. Natural to question whether anyone will remember me when I’m gone. In moments of sonder I ruminate about my conversation with Tim, is this how he feels too? I think so.

Tim shared with me a memory that has stuck with him since the 70’s. It happened during an innocuous car ride to Homer with his parents. Road trip conversations, as hopefully you all have experienced, have a way of flowing without any rhyme or reason and somehow the topic of strength was brought up. Tim’s dad stated, “I’ve never been a man of might”, to which is mom replied, “Alfred, you’ve always been a man of might. You might do this. You might do that.” His dad laughed but Tim went cold. He thought, “that’s me. You know, I’m doing the same damn thing. I’m in my mid 30’s. So I started a plan to break loose. I wanted to build a cabin in the bush and I wanted to write a book.”

What happens when all your life goals come to fruition, and yet you are left feeling… unsatisfied? It reminds me of the Garth Brooks song, Unanswered Prayers, except reversed.

“Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers

Remember when you’re talkin to the man upstairs

And just because he doesn’t answer, doesn’t mean He don’t care

‘Cause some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers”

The country music legend croons about running into an old high school flame, while with his wife, and being so thankful that his prayers to marry his first love went unanswered years earlier.

So why does this song come to mind when I think about Tim? He built his cabin in the bush. Paycheck by paycheck, through a system he terms “creative poverty” he made his goal a reality. He wrote down a list of every single item he would need in order to build his cabin. Over the next three years, for every paycheck he earned, he bought one item from the list. His spare bedroom was pushing its limits by the end! For the purposes of this metaphor, you could say his prayer was answered.

And Tim wrote a book. In fact, he has published multiple throughout his life. He also has a blog, alaskaatitude.blogspot.com (http://alaskaatitude.blogspot.com/) (yes, the typo is correct, don’t question Tim’s editorial skills in this regard folks), which has reached over 700,000 views. What with all the opportunities that fell in Tim’s lap, it seems he was ordained to be a creative writer. Again, metaphorically, his prayer was answered.

So why the melancholy? Why the blues? “I thought we were just gonna chat you know, and he offered me the job. And this is another one of those things, if I don’t take it now, I’m never going to get it.” This is Tim discussing his meeting with the chief of ADN right after arriving in Alaska. In his eyes I see a bit of self flagellation. Recognizing the seemingly great opportunities accepted at inopportune times. The disappointment of having to push back the publication of a long awaited novel, that then had to be modified, due to the unfortunate release of a popular Disney movie with a “too similar” plot line. His creativity being derailed during a time in his life when he was feeling unstoppable in his writing.

We’re in his apartment. Our conversation teetering on the two-plus hour mark. I ask him how long he’s been living in his current abode. He states he “came out of the woods” two years ago. He shared that he had been thinking he needed to be making long term plans and had heard good things about the Chugiak Eagle-River Senior Center. With the understanding that it was a two year waiting list, he figured he’d better fill out the application sooner rather than later. His plan was to then spend two more glorious, isolated, Alaskan dream years at his cabin near Talkeetna. But in true Tim fashion, instead of waiting for two years, he got a call the next day notifying him that a room was available immediately. He figured, “maybe it’s a smart thing to do you know… anyways, that’s how I ended up here.” “So how are you feeling about the decision?” “I’m not real happy. I kinda wish I had said no and gone back out into the woods another year.” Another great opportunity accepted at an in opportune time.

Has Tim lived a successful life? Only he can say. And after all, his story is still being written. But THIS story is coming to an end and I am left wondering. What words are left for me, a mere mortal, to adequately conclude a story about a man who spent his lifetime man-handling the English language? None. So I will tactlessly transition back to the idea of Tim as a melody. Cheeky. Slow, yet energetic. A hint of melancholy. And an undercurrent of blues to bring it all together.

A NOTE: Once I got past my embarrassment after reading this a couple of times (I had never read so much written about me by another writer) I came to a realization that floored me. I am pretty sure she is the first person I ever met whom I didn't feel like I had to explain myself to.

 

And, the event itself

 

Another fun time at Story Time in the Garden last night! I had such a great time listening to Tim Jones read his books. Hearing all the added details from the author was a special treat. After the reading, guests were treated to fresh veggies harvested from the All Thumbs Community Garden, followed by an Alaskan animal play dough craft that they decorated with nature.

And then there's this: Lost between the moon and New York City?

Adventures in writing

 July 25, 2025

 This came to mind today, I have no clue why. I've often spoken about the zone I get into sometimes when I am writing so deeply I'm unaware of my surroundings. I was living in a small house and my writing place was in my bedroom. Also in that bedroom tucked away in the closet was the building's water heater. That went bad and a plumber came over to put in a new one. It was full-sized and took two of us to wrestle it into the house. Then I went to my writing, my back to the water heater and closet and soon was fully immersed. I have no idea how long I kept at it. Finally I stood up, looked around, no plumber. Then I noticed the water heater fully installed. In the front room I found the plumber putting away his tools. I asked how he did that. All he said was, "well, you were writing." He had removed the old one and fully installed a large water heater within about 10 feet of me and i never noticed. And, now, many years later, I can't even remember what I was writing at the time.

About G2G

August 28. 2018

     I don't like to talk much about works in progress, often you get tired of it and can talk yourself right out of the project. However, I have talked about this one long enough and even posted parts of it on this blog, including collecting them onto a single page. Those were all posted to force me into keeping it in mind and pressing forward, still it has languished for years.

     If anyone watches this blog closely you may have noticed those posts have disappeared and this is why. In July I met with a writer friend and his daughter and he asked me about it. His daughter knew nothing so I had to explain it in some detail and that led to a discussion.

     I had to drive 100 miles home from that lunch and that offered a lot of time to think. Somewhere along that road, I had what amounts to an epiphany and I suddenly saw the thread that could bring the whole thing together. I started writing the next day and have written every single day since then. A couple of weeks ago I had another epiphany of sorts and saw clearly through to the end.That's what's going on now

     Unfortunately I have run into a major problem and for the past  couple of days I have been muttering about it. I am probably about half way through it and it is more than 650 pages long. That puts it in War and Peace territory, for length, I have no delusions of challenging Leo Tolstoy in classic literature. So the question arises, who in the hell would publish a 1,200 page tome on this subject and beyond that, who would read it? I have a solution, but it involves a lot more work. So it goes.

     Anyway, I took the posts and the page about the book off this blog because as I progress I can see finishing it now, and I want to be sure none of it gets used by anyone else at this point, sort of protecting my copyright until I actually have a copyright, So, that's the answer to the question nobody asked.

     I have a couple of readers and so far the reviews are good. It helps.

 

Missing a friend

 

Waiting in the usual place

 

I waited for you in the usual place.

In time a small bird landed on a branch, a whistle sounded in the woods but there was no way of knowing if it was this bird.

Was that you?

Doubtful, I never heard you sing.

I waited for you in the usual place.

A moose calf meandered past, in no hurry so his mother must have been close.

Was that you?

Doubtful, there is nothing at least apparently maternal about you.

But I still waited for you in the usual place.

Clouds drifted by, occasionally blocking the sun for a moment.

Was that you?

Doubtful, though you have occasionally obscured the light.

I waited for you in the usual place.

Snow covered the higher peaks, allowing them the appearance of renewing their virginity for the resumption of winter and hiding scars carved by their summer invaders.

Was that you?

Doubtful, there is nothing virginal about you, though I know you bear the scars.

I waited for you in the usual place.

A fish jumped and splashed in the river.

Was that you?

Doubtful, you have never been one to express much joy.

I waited for you in the usual place.

Across the way children laughed in their play.

Was that you?

Doubtful, though I have never heard your laugh.

I waited for you in the usual place.

A woman's voice called for the children.

Was that you?

Doubtful, though I have never heard your voice, unless that was you hanging up after a hesitant "hello" the other day.

Indoors, in the usual place, words appeared on a screen.

Was that you?

No, not your words.  And words were all we had; as I must have been to you, you were to me only words on a screen.

I remain in the usual place, but no longer waiting.

No, bb, I may be in the usual place but I'm not waiting around for you any more.

 ––––––

And then on that screen, was an answer posted? And though you will not wait for me I will wait for you.

 

Posted by Alaska with attitude at 5:38 PM No comments:

 

Everybody has a story

It seemed like it tonight anyway. So, I guess after reading several other peoples' I get to tell my own.

September 11 is the birthday of one of my son's best friends. In 2001 he spent the night before at his friend's house, so in the morning I was spared the joy of getting him a breakfast and off to school. As was my habit in those days I was downstairs in my home office early in the morning writing when an Instant Message from my niece in Buffalo fairly jumped off the screen telling me to turn on the television. The set warmed up and showed a picture just in time for me to witness the second airliner hitting the second tower of the World Trade Center. I had no idea whether what I was watching was real or something left over from an all-night terror movie marathon, but an announcer cleared that up as soon as he quit saying oh my god about a hundred times.

I knew pretty quickly writing was over for the morning and I sat, my full attention glued to the TV as I watched the horrors slowly unfold, sorting out the rumors every announcer seemed to report and trying to figure out exactly what happened, and what was truth and what was an overanxious talking head's imagination.

What I thought was I wanted to be with my son. At that time in life I taught a writing session once a week in his class for two hours. I thought about the kids and when it seemed a good time, I called his teacher to ask if I could help in some way, if only to be in the classroom with the kids and try to answer any questions they had and maybe just be a solid presence.
She said all right, so I did that. Knowing little more than they did, but helping them sort out what was fact and what was rumor and reassuring them that I was fairly sure nothing in Alaska was worth a terrorist's firepower. Of course we were three miles away from the Alyeska Pipeline Terminal at the time.

When regular classes started I left hoping I had helped in some way.

Later in the week I think I might have. I was always looking for writing projects for the kids. I thought they would learn more writing than listening to me spout off so they spent most of their time in that class writing. But finding ideas for them was sometimes taxing.

No problem this week. I found a timeline of events on a web site and copied it, changed the times to Alaska time and then printed it out, later making enough copies at school. In class that morning I started by telling them that just about every generation has some kind of defining moment, something that happened where you never forget where you were when you heard it. I said my parents' was probably Pearl Harbor Day, My own was probably the assassination of John F. Kennedy. And, then I told them that 9/11 just might be theirs. So, I assigned them to write down everything they could remember from that morning. From how they learned about what happened, to what they had for breakfast; what did they wear to school, were they afraid; what did their friends think, any detail no matter how small, so that they could remember the day accurately. I gave them each a copy of the timeline to help out, so maybe they could compare events in their lives with those in New York and Washington and Pennsylvania.

This was a two hour class of fifth or sixth graders, but they were quiet for a long time, most of the first hour. I always started the class with an in-their-seats yoga exercise and when they got antsy later on, we would all stand up and do a sun salute. We did that, they sat and worked a little longer and when most had finished we talked more about the events until the end of the hour.

At some time they went to the computer lab and typed their stories into the machine and we printed them all out. Then I bought a bunch of nice folders and the teacher and I made a folder for each kid with their story and the timeline in it. I can't remember now but I think we might have put all the kid' stories in each folder but I am not sure. Anyway we gave those to the kids to save.

Today on the tenth anniversary, they are all in their early 20s and I would like to think at least some of them still have their folders and maybe can pull them out and read a little of what they thought about it 10 years ago. It is a strange coincidence that just this morning I came across a blog written by one of them and it is written beautifully. Another one of those kids is today a Marine in Afghanistan.

A comment from facebook: Betty Sederquist Powerful piece. I think we will all remember that day as long as we live. On that 9/11 day I had a photo job in nearby Folsom, just downriver from one of California's largest dams. A lot of money was at stake in my job. I had to get it done that day because a $10,000 project was at stake, with a strict print timeline. Do it or the money was lost. I was up early, watching the devastation on TV and packing gear for the big photo shoot. My husband implored me not to go, because terrorists could have bombed the dam or whatever. I went anyway. Everyone was in tears, just getting the job done. That night I had to teach my photography class at our local college. I figured no one would come, but EVERYONE came. Of course, they were zombies, but so was I. I am guessing everyone wanted the distraction of the class. Somehow we got through it. And I do remember when I heard about JFK, more intense remembrances.

-->

And then there is this about interpretation. Read any way you want to. Don't let a teacher  or a parent or a critic or even me tell you what something means, or what you are supposed to think after you read something. What's important  is what it means to you, the reader. What ever you draw from what you have read is all that matters at least when you are reading for enjoyment or enlightenment. (In other words not counting textbooks or scientific papers.) If what you take from a book is what the author intended then he or she has done the job correctly. 

Now the question, if you have read "Keep the Round Side Down," what do you think the killer whales symbolize? Hint: They are never referred to as "orca" in the book, only the boy is.

Comments from facebook: Betty Sederquist Tim, when you were mentoring me as a writer, you didn't put up with any flowery BS from me in my writing. Lessons well learned, and now I know the origin of all that, those miserable literature classes. I would have majored in English, but found all those flowery metaphors in the classes a bit too daunting. I'm with Hemingway on this one. Interestingly, I think you and I have published WAY more than any of those English professors.

Jan Williams Simone Aw, I like a good metaphor once in awhile, not that I can come up with an example. But you two are my writing mentors. Even though I was not on the editorial side at ANWP, I picked up a lot from both of you. Every time I use an exclamation point here on FB I still can hear Tim's voice in my head saying (exclaiming?) to avoid them. If I were writing a blog or something more formal, they would be edited out. I wish I could go back and work there again, now that I have enough life experience to have something to say..

Labels: fiction, Writing, writing class

OK, I lied

April 8, 2010

This subject just doesn’t want to go away, at least in my own mind, although I have heard from a couple good friends who are accomplished writers on this subject. As I have thought about “writing what you know” (and before Twisted River) I have questioned it before. Of course what you do know gives you insight, but still so limiting. One example I have, came through setting up a high school writing class.

A friend had told the teacher about me and she asked me to come talk about nature writing. It was a nature writing class, sort of aimed at observing and journaling, so I thought in order to say something new I would try how nature writing is used in fiction that is not particularly about nature.

My favorite example of that is Norman Mailer's description of the Connecticut salt marshes in Tough Guys Don't Dance. It was one of the best pieces of nature writing I have ever read. I remember stopping after being enthralled with how much the author knew about it, and when I came alert and realized it was Mailer I was actually surprised. Yet, do we think of Mailer as a nature writer? NO. Was he writing about what he knew? Not really. Did he do it well? Yes. 

Or, you could say we are always writing about what we know, as in looking at new things through our own old, tired personal perspective. Did Truman Capote know anything about cold-blooded murder? It goes on and on. And right now I apologize to all my students I told to write what they know, except I do remember telling them take what you know and expand it into new areas. So maybe I am OK.

Here is another voice on the subject, My friend and a wonderful writer, Patricia Monaghan:

"Your comments on Irving's questioning of "write what you know" reminded me of when Stanley Elkin came up to Alaska. He was brought up to do readings etc, and I got to drive him from Anchorage to Homer, or was it the other way around. Anyway, he was full of sage advice. Like, one time over drinks when I was complaining that my editor (I'd published my first book and really wanted to sell a second) wanted me to do something I wasn't very excited about. Stanley asked what I wanted to write about, and I said sun goddesses, but no one was interested. "Well, if you don't write the books you want to write, who's gonna?" he asked. I had no answer to that. So I spent years writing the sun goddess book which was in print for six months, but it was still the best thing to do.

"Anyway, over a dinner at some roadhouse, Stanley started talking about the "write what you know" idea. He said it was exactly right, because you would provide really perfect details that way. Like, he said, when he wrote about Chicago, where he was born, he could describe in detail the Guatamalan-Chinese restaruants. He then went on to expatiate on the perfect of this recipe and that recipe. And all the time I was thinking, "Guatamalan-Chinese?" I finally asked him if he was putting me on. He grinned. "That was fun. I was just making that all up," he said. It was weirdly believable stuff, except--Guatamalan Chinese?"

Incidentally, the teacher afterward told me she had never thought of including fiction and would I let her keep my teaching notes. I did. And, they must have worked for her because I was never invited back.

And I will make no more promises to stop talking about writing any more.

Get to know a great writer