Part One Of two parts Chapter One

Part One

Of two parts

Chapter One

I had an impulse, when I was nineteen-years old, to become the editor and publisher of a small town weekly newspaper in Stillwater, Minnesota, it ended up being a little more complex than I had expected. I think inside of most men they think they could be a singer, own a restaurant, or be considered a small town editor, and I was no different.

Formerly, when I lived in St. Paul Minnesota, I knew a good many newspaper men and women, met them through contacts when I was quite young, seventeen, eighteen now nineteen. Each of them dreamed of getting away from the lower tone, hustle and bustle of things in these Midwestern conservative cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, and owning their very own little place, running it the way they wished to, and writing books in their spare time, or moving onto Bay area or New york, something bigger, nothing like a generation before them, when now, the old folks, stumbled on the town, and all they wanted was to own a corner ma and pa grocery store, that's all but gone now. With change, comes new generational goals, comes new dreams, or maybe it is only one dream for me, the dream I always wanted, to become a writer, a novelist, and in the interim, a newspaper man, also it all would start at nineteen years of age for me, and it was starting.

This so called writer, a want to be writer, wished to be a good writer, and write short stories, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, novelettes, novellas you name it, I desired to write it, articles, essays and so forth. Just to write. I asked an author once, "What qualifies an individual to be an author, or writer? " and he said, firmly, and stoutly, "He or she's got to have a lot to express, or come up with. " And I suppose now I am acquiring that.

There it is, I said it, in a nutshell, you see; a windy call to the brotherhood of ink slingers, and plot builders, and theme moulders. I am among them, few hear their calling at nineteen, but Used to do, I really did, maybe not for vanity sake, yet I guess I had a small amount of that who doesn't. I mean it is among the seven great sins I hear, but was mine any worse than anyone else's? I'd say no; perhaps an objectionable vice, not a Christian teaching, however, not in the bible by itself, I had never read it, nothing to put me into the Dante's 'Divine Comedy, ' surely not just one of the seven virtues also. I did so not have another six, if indeed Vanity is one: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, envy and pride. Woops, pride, might be the other word for vanity. But I had kindness also, and humility, a raw sort of humility. My mother once said, pride is the most serious of all the deadly sins, and the ultimate way to obtain which all the the others arise. She said it really is trying to compete with God; Lucifer tried that i mean, perhaps not me. I am aware that is what caused his fall from heaven. Anyhow, I'm talking too much on this subject.

In my case, I had that impulse; I really, undoubtedly felt I did so. But I knew I would have to learn the trade, I think that also, my head feels numb, but I will write on: I had to make a living, and this was my main reason to get a job as a newspaper editor, and in the process of all these elements, I'd become a writer, because I had a great deal to say, a whole lot to say and reveal. And the job just type of made itself available. Nearly like genetic manipulation since I think of it. Guess what happens I mean, like, environmental pollution; it just seeped in, like drug trafficking-it was there, available.

And I did have the job, in the little town-ship of Stillwater, after birthday party, having its deep history dating back to the around sometime in the 17th Century; Stillwater, about twenty-five miles outside St. Paul.

(The Narrator: ) I hate to pop in at this kind of occasion, but I must explain something psychological, behavior change ways to improve behavior, such as for instance altering an individual's behaviors and reactions to stimuli through negative and positive reinforcement of adaptive behavior and/or the reduction of maladaptive behavior through punishment and/or therapy, this my dear readers can all be reversed. )

Just earning money had not been truly the big issue, because back then when I got the job, work was plentiful in the usa, and Minnesota above all, perhaps only a little better off than most states.

I suppose I felt generating an income needed to relate genuinely to what I wanted to become, and once you understand this I spent many hours at making my living, and writing during the night, and attempting to head to college, after my nineteenth birthday, I quite college, at the University of Minnesota at that point and time, never heard from their store again either, they never tried to contact me, and so I left them be, I had one year behind me, and the owner of the newspaper overlooked having a degree. And I figured since Ernest Hemingway, and William Faulkner never had degrees, why would I need to have one, I mean I was in good company. Just before this job, I had worked as a labourer, wandering from foundry to factory, only a common employee, for the most part; I needed money only to buy my one room apartment, and my college tuition.

The sad thing was, I lost the impulse to create after i took that job in Stillwater, unknowingly why, and my new feelings were simply to publish, drink, make an effort to do my college studies through the mail, Mr. Scriber, the newspaper owner fixed that up for me. Some college I never been aware of but it was accredited, and that also took time far from my personal writings, no time for sending out manuscripts of my short stories, and so forth and so on. Oh I did so sit inside my desk and write out a few stories now and then, less then, than before, and less now than ever before. What I'm trying to say is Used to do not have much time, or asleep time, cheating my human body and mind of rest, for work and socialization. Mostly work and the socialization was with components of the newspaper. But I was young and wild and like everyone else at my age, which's to express I was any different.

My employer was naturally unaware of the thing that was going on, because I played the overall game quite nicely, my time management skills were good. Or if he knew, I didn't know he knew, and that he was then, or I will be inclined to thing he was endearingly sympathetic, with such a fellow like me, but I was growing up. My mother and father had passed on before my 16th birthday, and I was the only child. Therefore i had nobody to actually keep close experience of but several friends.

All youth have that edge to be the unscrupulous once in a while, to do the unthinkable, like Used to do at the party once and drank twenty-shots of whisky, and my buddy ran down in his car to Ramsey Hospital, to have my system washed, I remember he'd sad eyes, where ahead of this he previously, or we'd joyful faces, or we had something like that. It was like my friends became my caretakers, in the place of nurtures. And I wanted to show my appreciation, whenever we had the contest of who could drink much more; funny the things we do to obtain attention.

My first book a novel, had sold very well, "Formless Darkness, " not sure where I came up with that name, it had been in my head when I woke up one morning, just like that, as though someone had planted it there, like I was under a spell, and the name imprinted onto one of my genes. And now I had money, and I bought myself a duplex, three apartments to it, rented two out to friends of Mr. Scriber, this paid for the heat and electric, although it seemed I was spending money on more the electric, to keep the area cool, and the summers were longer and winters shorter. I thought of myself as settling down now, leading the easy life, I was twenty-three years old. Already had published Visit our Website a book, now I really could consort with nature, read, and loaf about, as long the royalties kept to arrive, and I held my job.

Whatever occurs in my own life, I thought at this juncture, I mean with my career as an editor and novelist, I would when need be, do all I had to do to live in this simple, and independent, fashion.

Over these years between nineteen and thirty, I was kept busy. It was at thirty-one, I began to pay heavily for my indiscretion, or better put, lack of direction. I was drinking too much, seeing too many lovers, they found my door, at the job, and I had so many affairs one right after one other, I had no time to call my friends, and I had not written my 2nd book yet, had it contracted to take action in a year, the year was up, it had been a year and half, six months past the deadline, and I was told do or die. Meaning, for an American, grind the book out... I am going to leave that out for later.

Anyhow, I had to try to do what I thought was the impossible. I guess as I look straight back now, folks usually speak about leisure, I had it at such a young age, I didn't think it might ever fade, but it does. And also to be honest with myself, it turns into laziness, and nobody likes to go through the lazy people, and I was as lazy because the day was long, lazy, lazy, and it was a sinful laziness.

My friend was writing eight to twelve hours a day, everyday, seven days per week, so the postcards said; he now changed from phone calls to postcards said he was travelling a lot of, all over the world, so he had to write by postcards. I was sleeping those hours away at night, and get up at noon and partied, drank and well, basically got one hour in to write, I was succeeding. Like many writers, I could not write at all like C. E. my pal. What was I doing with Greg Hamilton, my agent, who had the contract in my own face every other day? I was avoiding him that's what I was doing.

I wandered through the town-let, went fishing, never did tramp around in St. Paul, or go to those night clubs I used to anymore, stayed in Stillwater. I used to visit my buddy in Oakdale, Diane Horn, was going to college to become teacher, at the time, but we only now talked within the phone; her voice changed from year to year.

My country neighbours talked a lot of, gossip, so i couldn't ask for their advice, not like I used to in High School with Diane but she gave it within the phone. They certainly were shopkeepers, farmers, restaurant owners, antique dealers.

These told gossipers, were the old idlers sitting along on benches along the street. They talked among themselves as if I was a millionaire; definately not it. They thought I was a young man going right through life no longer working, and even suspected me of bring a crook, connected to the mob, or mafia. But if anyone looked suspicious, it was them, not me. I type of felt I was an open book, perhaps not closed.

The one thing I suppose I liked mostly was that many of them read my book, and asked, "When's the next one coming? " And so i had forces focusing on all sides of me, and I asked myself, "How was I to get out of it. "

I do not know how to explain how I felt, but perhaps I can in this manner, it absolutely was exactly the same feeling I had when I was nineteen years old at the party, when I drank those twenty-shot cups of whiskey: here now, I was living in or near a fat agricultural region, one sits in the cornfields, or the carrot fields, or the wheat fields, or out in his backyard on his grass, you acquire a sense of pulling at whatever is in your area, pulling it roots, grass roots, in my case, you see the main, you learn in the united kingdom, is really the organ of the plant, in cases like this grass roots, an average of lie below you, under you, under the surface of the soil you are laying on, not at all times but most often, the root is the main plant's body, it bears no leaves grant you, nor is visible, however it is an crucial internal structure, in the event that you pull on it way too hard, you will kill the plant, unless you give it water to soak up, you will kill the plant, absorption is really a main factor in its life. In a like manner, I had not been being nurtured, absorbing anything. How may i write, I had nothing more to create about, as the man had said: he who wants to be considered a writer, should have a lot to say. I had nothing more to state; evidently I said it all at nineteen. And that's how I felt, as though all my roots were being pulled out of its soil. Like I had not been being watered.

Chapter Two

As was my policy in those days in living, and running my life at the newspaper, and drinking, I can say almost certainly that I have no policy at all apart from amusing myself, making the entire world around me pay, and keeping myself busy. Maybe I only had one book in me. And so i asked myself; because I couldn't, or wouldn't and didn't find time for that, to publish it.

You should understand, a little town newspaper isn't like a big city paper, we did not handle any National or International sensational dilemmas, like murders, and there was to rush generally, such as a deadline. In general, the paper was filled with the comings and goings of the community, its inhabitants, along with: long death notices (or obituaries), marriages, High school commencements, the events at the churches, lodges, etc.

I did most of the work myself, the editorial work and reporting. And now at this juncture of my life, at 35-years old, I still had not written my 2nd book. And my agent had all but forgotten me, and only on Christmas did I get a card from him. The publisher sent me one also, saying, "If you ever do write that second novel, it mush arrive at us, other than that, you're a jerk, " signed, "the Publisher. " But he was very kind in that, he kept me in your mind, and I liked that, because I didn't have to go looking for a new publisher, god forbid.

It absolutely was now per year from then on last Christmas Card, I might be 36, come October, the matter of my drinking was brought up at a meeting, Mr. Gene Weatherbee (who lived in one of my apartments inside my house), the head of the town council, spoke very emotionally of me, my condition. That he said, in so many words: I hate to go home some nights, alone in that big, dark house. It would be alright, he said, if he (meaning me) might have an occasional evening of quiet. On a few evenings, he said: "I came out in the hallway, and turned on the lights, Mr. Ernest Hem had invited the devils into his room and they were all dancing, there was a song they sang, but I can't remember it. "

A counsel member said (the local judge, Judge Albemarle): "You must, Mr. Weatherbee, think rational on what you are saying, and think wisely over your words. It's not necessary to injure Mr. Hem's reputation, just arrange for the money to leave. "

"The priest (Father Jose) from the local church said, in a humorous tone, "We are quite sure everyone here will be happier if you go out, and be gone, leave poor Mr. Hem, to his business, and start to see the local psychologist. "

I was needless to say in shock, thinking: where was I all this time, I do not remember having parties, and this was all surprising news to me-and his tone of voice increased amazingly. I knew my dignity was at stake, yet the judge and Father Jose, and the remaining portion of the counsel members, all became contributors on my behalf, I did not have to say a word, plus it made me feel I suppose more indebted to the well-known group.

You may already know, Minnesota is just a God fearing state. And such thing like what had been said at the meeting is not taken lightly. The voices of my supporters were hot. And I had never been through one of these simple ordeals within my life. And Used to do escape this element of Mr. Gene Weatherbee's accusations.

In the following months, the newspaper acquired 20, 000 subscribers, I felt all of it was going to be disastrous: too many too much, too quick, therefore i told Mr. Denny Scriber anyhow, the owner, and that individuals needed to hire more workers, and I wanted to get onto my second novel, I had half of it written already. But he'd no need to reform the paper to my liking, and simple said, "I'll double your pay check. "

"Fine, " I said, but I asked myself: however was I going to escape this editorial master-head. I felt naked, and nailed to the paper, and that he said something weird, Mr. Scriber, "I liked your party, that Friday. "

It was all new to me, what Friday was he referring to, and as far when i know, or knew, the past party I had was on the nineteenth birthday. But I did not say anything, or ask for a conclusion, it had been perhaps a mix-wording of something. I had parties in the newspaper room; I stayed at the paper because I needed to produce a living. And he overlooked them, and I did so not want to bring that up to his mind, lest that he say I could not have anymore female companionship all through late hours at the job.

Chapter Three

As you see, I have got myself into something, first because I was young and wished to earn a living, then found I possibly could not connect the dotes to my writing, thinking I would, by taking this job. It appeared to me, after being at it for way too long, I lost the fun out of life. I do not see anymore writers, publishers, or agents. It's or was, as if the devil gave me a gift, and was slowly cooking me alive just like a frog.

I knew if i left the paper, writing stories for magazines, or pushing out enough novels to make a living, an acceptable income to live on, was a dreary life, but so was this one. I had never married, and now had begun to feel the curse of the hack writer; I must be alone for 2 months, solidly alone to publish. Having already written a novel, half done with my 2nd, now at middle age but basically left my job would I starve? It had been a thought that came to mind usually. I felt a needed go beyond this job but I hadn't yet.

The initial half of my book really was kind of hurried; my craft was at its low peak. It was sad, I no longer had the desire to write-that is, in contrast to I had 13-years prior, or even act as an editor. But I felt I wanted to do something more that I was doing something nonetheless it was less, not a challenge anymore, but I did not know what that something more was about.

I did discover one thing, and maybe a way out; by reading all the local newspapers and the bigger ones of course, the Minneapolis Star, the Chicago Tribune, the New York Times, the St. Paul Pioneer Press. I discovered most of the writers in the newspapers nowadays, were very skilful. And some became writers. And some were better than novel writers. I really would put a chapter of my book into the paper once a week, this way I'd kill two birds with one stone. And who will make a fuss.

It was a new impulse, and I was in close connection with the community everyday of the year. What could any writer requests. The name of my new book could be, "The Un-industrialist Town. " A funny name, it just came to me as if a bird dropped it within my ear while sleeping one night.

I agree it absolutely was a flare-up of labour and desire to get the book done, and I had practical information, information at my fingertips now. It had been hold-up much too long; it had been in a way, to be very ugly the book. In the following months, I wrote everything I heard, overheard that's, from every one I saw, talked to. I did not give names, just accounts, but I did not need to everybody knew everyone anyhow. And the paper changed into a scandal like paper, the counsel liked it, but the town folks complained, as I expected somewhat. That they had a love hate relationship with it, and with Mr. Denny Scriber.

The town's folk had said, "Look here, we have been in a lovely town, everything works here, good organizations, working women. Interesting people, and now we're getting news of all little secrets of everybody we realize. " How true that was, the book had thirty-nine chapters of it.

Mr. Denny Scriber, that he even came up to me on Mondays now and said, "You must have yet another good party, Hem. " Like it was part of a tale. Again I figured it must be the winsome girls I was having over during my night work on the office.

I was thinking of moving to Illinois or Ohio, or San francisco, and sometimes even Seattle, just to get away. Here was a town, twenty-five miles away from a metropolitan area, and its paper was selling nearly up to the big city papers were. We even got big soap advertisements in the paper now, and I changed the name of my book, called it "The Shockingly Young, Old and Feeble of a Little Town" now because the last ten chapters discussed all the youth in the town, what they were doing, drinking, and all the corruption no body saw, the girls they got pregnant, the small boys on dope. It was changed during the second edition, as if it was a fresh book, with ten new chapters in it.

I discussed the poor, from the hills nearby; and I scorned the older ladies for having nervous debilities, and stooped shoulders, and thin legs. I was going out of my mind in this book. And in 1985, my second book was published.

The critics said it was a combination of the terrible with the magnificent. Whatever meaning, believe it or not, the young girls of the town, half fell in love with me after the second book arrived, and the second edition did not phase anyone in town, certainly not, their parents hated me, but the hate was brief, and there is always the old question "Make men rise to nobility, for them to start to see the nobility of its towns people. And pray they don't disclose their findings, " and in my case, I told them what I saw and felt, they'd no nobility, that was the bottom line. But I liked, or even adored the admiration I was getting, stopped planning to church, and Father Jose, and never chased me to obtain back to the any prayer studies or so forth.

Chapter Four

The town's folks were not organized as they thought these were. And the book sold 83, 000 copies, the first edition. A shrike flared up starting they called it. And I starting to sell more copies of my old book, signing books, and my old publisher, and agent, were happy concerning pigs in a muddy pen.

But the town began to organize, Physician Headman, was the newest city counsel's leader, the Mayor was my friend, and employer, Mr. Denny Scriber. Somehow it seemed those two failed to get on. Don't know if it is called some characteristic stupidity, or what, they argued over pretty much everything, every issue, like two devils in a pie, and one wasn't getting it share. Scriber did not like the town organizing, or the labour or the industry, or the factory, and he had the neighborhood psychologist-I never did get his name, the priest and the judge on his side, and I suppose he previously me. But Physician Headman was getting everybody else. He told Headman, he would definitely throw him out of office.

You can't throw a man out of town because that he comes up with a new organization, or thought processes, or gets a following. I felt we needed an even more moderate, if not intelligent mayor, but I never spoke up, he was my bread and butter, type of speaking, but I really did not need him anymore, somehow I just thought I did so.

So here were folks now organized that never were, and underneath the leadership of Headman.

Scriber wrote in his paper, "All of Stillwater is apparently being organized by Doctor Headman... " Now this can be a peculiar thing, that he writes, "how often I go to dine at his house, and he has parties, and they dance wildly, like devils, and not just I nevertheless the good Father Jose, and our Psychologist, and Mr. Hem's friend and international writer, C. E. and our good judge, Albemarle, we were all guests, and saw his devil worship. "

It was all a lie of course. None of these folks, meaning, Father Jose, the Psychologist, Albemarle, protested this, C. E., said that he didn't know what that he was discussing, as i did not know. Mr. Headman, had to lock himself in a college accommodation, the towns folk desired to lynch him. They had lynched someone years prior, the wrong man they learned.

I still didn't know my position in life, but I had not been the writer I desired to be, and I accepted this, however found out there was a secret meeting, on the list of few elite of the city, again the Psychologist, I could not name him because I had perhaps not met him yet nor did I come to know his name as of this point-as you well know, nevertheless they called him Mr. Psycho, and the judge, the priest, and my boss, and several others, merchants of town, these folks all said to me, a lot of them that is, believed to me, many just wave at me-not saying anything, there was a big meeting to be held in the back room of the newspaper, this wasn't real news, I mean it was often held there, and everyone that came thought to me: "Good party Hem. "

People keep on saying that, it's getting an as yet not known mockery almost, like they certainly were laughing within my face, somewhat laughing, so I sensed, if they said that.

The meeting, there is no doubt in my own mind: this was in connection with Mr. Headman.

I thought my boss would i want to in, but that he didn't, that he never did, that he locked the doorway behind him. There was no doubt in my own mind again; harm would definitely come to Mr. Headman. There clearly was a wicked side to any or all these men, I sat outside and did could work as usual.

I needed very much to go within, I saw some more people, town's folks that are, escorted into the backroom, also it smelled mildew, dirt like. He never allowed me right back there, although he told me it absolutely was alongside the sandstone walls, old mushroom caves, Stillwater is fabled for them, therefore forward went the meeting.

I obtained the impression, Mr. Denny Scriber, my boss, had a submit everything around, and the longer I got eventually to know him, the more I witnessed this, he was involved with workers from the: factories, and merchant shops, the local gas station, in classrooms, the older kids. He had girls and even his sisters, come over and go in that backroom with him, I believe he was a dirty old man, delicately featured. I had more money in the bank now than I needed, near- $760, 000-thousand dollars. I said at one million, I'd quite my job, I even told Mr. Scriber that, and he said, "Well, be that as it can, the games over then, " and laughed, I wrote a note to myself in my diary, here it is:

see Part II