Fatherhood

My father was old school, an anachronism from another era. He was born in 1942, technically not a baby boomer, but he married one. His view of the world formed in the 1950s, and his approach to fatherhood mirrored that wistful era when America prided itself on the sheen of progress that it projected despite disturbing realities that were locked in an attic somewhere rattling chains. He was a working man who came home and expected a meal on the table and left the care of his brood to the woman he married.

He didn’t have time to be philosophical or think too deeply about much other than the decision to switch from regular Salems to Salem Lights, which he smoked one after the other. He expected his three boys to behave enough so that it didn’t bother him. Children were best seen, not heard, and if we got out of line, the rise of his voice was enough to put us back in our place. He didn’t kowtow to whining and he didn’t care if we were bored. There was a great, big world outside the door to the small, old house we all shared, plenty enough to consume the attention of young boys.

If we were lucky, he’d feel like joining us outside on the weekends in between his naps and treks to the store to buy more cigarettes. We’d toss the baseball back and forth or shoot baskets at the tattered basketball goal that leaned at the end of our driveway. Those were great moments, however many there were. As we grew older, those moments stood out as the ones that defined our childhood in some idyllic way, probably more so than they actually did.

Many years later, in the waning moments of his life, when he lay in a hospital bed writhing in pain from the cancer that had slowly robbed him of his strength and dignity, he had a moment of clarity. He had grown more sentimental in the intervening years as our childhoods had faded into memory and grandchildren gave him a joy that seemed familiar. Maybe he felt something had been missing or that he had missed something. We never really discussed it because, like I said, he didn’t veer too much into the philosophical, but in that moment of clarity he uttered, “I did the best I could.” He didn’t say much more because he was drowning in pain and sedatives. It was a hell of a way to die and a haunting last few words to say to his oldest son.

His words felt like some sort of apology where none was needed like he had somehow come up short in his 45 years as a father. None of his sons would ever say that Dad had something to apologize for. Even when things were their most difficult, more times than we’d like to admit, we never doubted that he loved us. He didn’t have to say it or announce it to those passing by on the street. We knew it in our heart of hearts, an internal gravitational constant that guided us without fail. Our father loved us and that’s all we ever needed from him.

I never really understood it until I became a father myself. The love you feel for your children is unequivocal and incomprehensible to those who are childless. This visceral feeling manifests itself in many ways nowadays, often missing the mark. Too many parents set out to be the best, to win the parent of the year award for the sake of the trophy. They spend so much time obsessing over the perfection of parenthood to the point of self-inflicted misery that they forget the point, they miss the most important aspect of being a parent – love.

My dad  was not perfect. I doubt he ever changed diaper. He didn’t attend parent-teacher conferences and he infrequently went to the games I played. I remember seeing him at some baseball games when I was in Little League and a handful of basketball games, but he didn’t attend a single tennis match during my four years of high school. He did show up at my graduations, but he always had the look of someone who’d rather be somewhere else. While these events or milestones were important, they weren’t as important as knowing that I had a father who loved me. That’s all I really needed.

I keep this in mind with my own kids. If they know anything, it is that I love them without fail. I’m not the perfect father. I don’t always get it right, but I don’t beat myself up over it either. I’ll always love them, and that’s all that matters in fatherhood. That much I learned from my dad.

Something Totally Different

In two weeks, I’ll finish my residency for the Fifth Semester program in New York City with a final four-day weekend where we’ll spend time learning more about the craft of writing and the path to publication. I’m excited to meet up with the others in my cohort and hear how their work has progressed. Everyone was jazzed and inspired at the end of the Chicago residency in July. I wonder if it has carried them through the intervening months.

For my part it has been hot and cold. On the one hand, I’ve learned a lot about writing a novel, but on the other hand, I’m tired of my current project. I’ve had moments of furious writing where I’ve been excited about a new direction, and I’ve had other moments where I felt the project had met its end, a dead end to be exact. I’ve landed somewhere in the middle for now. The project has totally changed in terms of tenor and direction. What was once a story of a flawed heroine exacting revenge on two clueless men has now morphed into a more complicated story of two best friends, one beset by jealousy, whose life-long relationship comes apart at the seams when they both fall for the same woman.

The current story line sounds cliche, but it’s more complicated than that. The irony of this entire process is that I started out wanting to write a psychological thriller, and I did, but it has morphed into a literary novel studying the complex psychology of what motivates us to do the things we do. In the first draft, the male characters were essentially cardboard cut-outs, while the female protagonist had this intricate backstory that drove the whole novel. Now, things are reversed, in a sense. The two male characters are thoroughly fleshed out, while the female character has become a secondary one. It’s too early to tell if this works as I’m still piecing the story together from the many parts I have written. Needless to say, it will be a very different story when I’m done.

The residency program has helped me through this process. An exercise on actions-reactions helped me ensure that my plot stood up to logic. A chart on novel organization helped me put the necessary pieces in place for a solid story. My mentor’s unvarnished assessment of my work gave me some much-needed perspective on what was working and what was not. I think it helps to have someone challenge your work early in the process so that you can make it better. In the past, I’ve worked with editors who have fulfilled this function beautifully. I feel I have the same support from my mentor. She makes me think about what I’ve written, and ultimately, her feedback makes my work much better. I need that, and that alone has been worth the cost of the residency program.

While I don’t feel I’m close to publication at this point, I have progressed, and that’s all I wanted from this program – to take my work to the next level. The road to publication is long. It rarely happens in the whiz bang fashion often parlayed in the press. What’s often missing in those stories of literary success is the years-long slog of working to improve and perfect the art of the written word. Every author is different, but a truly dedicated writer will reach his or her point of perfection and add to the tapestry of literary achievement. Eventually. And so will I.

The Battle of the Bench

When you find the right partner in life, marriage can be a joyful union of best friends. It helps when you don’t take things too seriously and you can find the humor in the mundane and absurd. Sometimes, the most inane things can take on comical proportions when two people play off each other perfectly. Such is the case in the battle of the bench.

It all started over two years ago when my family moved to a new house. We had purposefully downsized to a smaller home because we had grown tired of the large yard and unused rooms in our old house and the infinite upkeep that it required. We found a delightfully right-sized townhouse that had no yard but sizable common areas that were maintained by the homeowners’ association. This change allowed us to spend our free time in more enjoyable ways (Yay! No more weekends of yard work!), but it also presented space challenges since the new house had less space.

Shoehorning our lives into the new house was less of an issue for us since we’re the opposite of pack rats, except for our son – he has inherited my mom’s penchant for keeping everything he lays his hands on. Nevertheless, we efficiently pruned our furniture and other belongings until we had the perfect balance in each room. The only room that looked even a little over-stuffed was the master bedroom because neither my wife nor I were willing to part with our suite of furniture, much less the glorious bed we called home for eight or so hours every night. We’d more likely give up one of the kids before we cast aside the siren call of that sweetly-plump, king-sized mattress.

We made the furniture fit in a room half the size of our former bedroom with enough space to move freely around the room without clipping our toes on the sharp, wooden edges our our bed posts. In fact, there was enough space to put a bench at the foot of bed so that I could sit down while putting on my shoes each morning. I suggested as much to my wife, but she deftly rebuffed my suggestion stating that there wasn’t enough room. I ignored her logic and pleaded my case, going as far to break out my measuring tape and miming how said bench would fit in said space. She couldn’t be convinced.

Failing at using the precision of measurement to persuade my wife to add a bench to our collection of bedroom furniture, I made a big deal of putting on my shoes each morning – from the floor. My histrionics reached epic proportions miming back pain or pretending that I was part of one of those Medi-Alert commercials where the protagonist had fallen and couldn’t get up. None of my bad acting swayed my wife. A bench was not in my future. As long as we stayed in that house, I’d be benchless in Seattle. I’d be lacing my shoes for eternity from our bedroom floor. Such conditions affronted my sense of self and condemned my manhood on some level I’m sure.

These antics went on for two years, and my wife would just smile each time I brought it up or politely ignore my inciting comments much like she’d ignore the kids when they were toddlers and had one of their implacable moments that thrived on attention. I felt defeated, deflated, but then we had to move again.

The circumstances of our cross-country move left me searching for our next home alone with only photographic or video reports back to my wife in Seattle. She had to rely on me to choose where we’d live, which meant I could chose a home with a master bedroom plenty big enough for a bench. I was unnaturally excited about the power I had. I’d get my bench. This much I knew. Each home I walked through required a long stop in the master bedroom to picture my new bench at the foot of our bed. I felt like the Grinch plotting my descent into Whoville except instead of taking things away, I was adding something.

I finally decided on a house, and after seeing the pictures and video, my wife agreed. I could feel the soft cushion of my bench already and we hadn’t moved in yet. As we moved our stuff into the house and settled each piece of furniture in its rightful place, I couldn’t help but smile when one of our sofas landed in the master bedroom. I finally had my bench – not only that, it was a significant upgrade to the original bench I had envisioned two years ago. As I settled into the sofa on that first morning in our new house to put on my shoes, I soaked in the victory. I felt like doing a lap around the bedroom with my arms raised in boastful pride. I had won the battle of the bench. I tried not to gloat, but I can’t help myself. It’s been a few months since we moved in, and I still bring it up. I’m lucky my wife has a great sense of humor (but I still won).

The Legend of Loowit

I love Indian legends and the Pacific Northwest, so it’s only natural that the two would come together in my writing. Here’s the new opening chapter for Into the Caldera.

Jenn Wallace stood frozen in her tracks, her feet firmly planted on the rocky path beneath her. Her shoulders slumped forward and her hands hung loosely by her side as she glared ahead. She felt sullen, agitated. Her mother, and her mother’s boyfriend, Carl, walked up ahead, fingers intertwined. He had leaned in and kissed her mother on her forehead in a way that Jenn had not recognized before, and her mother had fawned, eyes blinking and upturned, at him as he smiled back at her. They had paused for a moment to make this exchange and then moved slowly further up the trail that winded beside Mt. St. Helens. They did not notice that Jenn had stopped. She exhaled a low whine.

Jenn looked down at her scraped shin, speckled with dry blood and bluish skin. She winced and bent down to touch it. The press of her finger tips sent a current of pain to her brain and she whimpered. Anger replaced the pain. She wanted to yell out to her mother for forcing her to go on this trip. She didn’t want to go camping. She didn’t want to climb over the endless sea of rocks. She had wanted to stay home.

The adults kept moving forward, ignoring her. She looked away in anger and scanned the space around her. Tears welled in her eyes blurring the landscape, but the sheer vastness of it all made her feel isolated and alone, even more than she did at home with her mother and Carl. Before Carl came along, her mother had mostly focused on her in spite of a long line of boyfriends who dipped in and out of her life. None of them ever stuck around, like her faceless father, and Jenn was secure in the knowledge that she remained the center of her mother’s world. She savored the attention like a warm blanket on a cool fall morning when she cuddled up next to her mother on their back porch. Then Carl entered their lives.

The adults stopped moving, and Jenn swiveled her head toward them in time to see her mother glance back at her. “Sweetie, are you okay? Does your leg still hurt?” She broke away from Carl and walked back toward her daughter, a somber sheen covered her overt happiness. When she reached Jenn, she squatted down in front of her and looked at her rash-covered shin. She touched it gently. Despite the pain, her mother’s warm touch made her feel instantly better, but Jenn didn’t betray her predominant emotion.

“It’s obviously bruised but there’s no more bleeding and I don’t think it’s swelling,” her mother said, her voice lapsing into the caretaker mode that always made Jenn feel warm inside her chest.

“It hurts,” Jenn pouted.

“Sweetie, it’s going to hurt for a while, but you’re fine otherwise. It’s just a bad scrape. Those rocks are nasty,” she said nodding back the way they had come.

“I want to go home.”

“Sweetie, we have to go back that way over those same rocks if we go home now.”

“I don’t care. I want to go home.”

Her mother sighed. Jenn recognized the sigh as one that she used to tamp down the emotional hailstorm that would come if her daughter kept pushing. She had pushed her mother past that point many times. She both feared and savored the reaction. Making her mother lose control satisfied her in a way that she had yet to understand. She liked the power she had in those moments like the bitter taste of blood after biting her lip.

“Come on, Jenny, you’ll feel better once we set up the campsite and you can lay in your sleeping bag,” Carl interjected still standing in the spot where her mother had left him. Jenn glowered at him beneath the wisps of blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail. She hated that he called her Jenny. She hated that he was here at all. She wanted him gone so that she had the totality of her mother’s attention.

Carl’s expression turned serious and he tugged his head to the side indicating that he wanted to keep moving forward. Her mother nodded and turned back to Jenn. “Sweetie, we have to keep going. We’re almost at the spot where we can set up camp.” She unfolded carefully to balance the backpack strapped to her shoulders and stood up taller than her 12-year-old daughter. Her mother’s dark hair, so unlike hers, swung freely as she righted herself on the rocky trail.

“I’m tired. I don’t want to walk anymore.”

“We’re almost there. Once you get a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel so much better,” her mother pleaded. “I promise.”

Her mother took a step forward but held out her hand to her only child. Jenn refused to take it. Her mother held her gaze for a moment longer before she sighed again and walked ahead without her daughter. Jenn twisted her face into an angry scowl as she watched her mom hold her hand out for Carl up ahead. Carl stared hard at Jenn, but her mother said something she couldn’t quite hear and they resumed walking ahead.

Her mom and her boyfriend grew smaller on the trail before Jenn finally caved and trotted forward in their wake. She didn’t run, but she shortened the gap enough to keep them close without appearing too cooperative.

She watched Carl from behind. His backpack jostled side-to-side with each step he took. He stood a good foot taller than her mother, but he was lumpy and balding. His hair, dark like her mother’s, receded in the front and from a spot on the crown of his head. He vainly tried to disguise his hair loss with long strands of hair that he combed over both gaps on his head. He looked goofy, unkempt. It didn’t help that he had a bushy, walrus-looking mustache that curved around his upper lip like a prickly caterpillar. He also wore round-frame glasses that darkened in the sunlight and looked like cheap sunglasses.

He strutted forward hand-in-hand with her mother. They hardly noticed her. Her mood simmered around Carl. She hated the way he dressed, too. Normally, he wore ill-fitting jeans and a ratty t-shirt that hung off his growing gut. He often sported a white pair of tennis shoes that, despite being scuffed and worn, shined brightly whenever he wore them, often outshining the fading white socks he wore. Jenn wrinkled her nose as she thought of all the times Carl had taken off his shoes in their living room to watch a movie with them and she could smell the taint of sweaty feet that filled the air.

She didn’t understand why her mother liked Carl. She could get better. Way better. This was the man that stuck out of all of the men her mom had dated. What did her mother see in Carl that she didn’t see in some of the others. She raffled through the ones she remembered, and almost all of them were better looking than Carl. She imagined her dad looked much better than Carl, too, but she could only imagine it since she had never seen him.

These thoughts beat a path through her mind as she reluctantly trod through the deepening sand that encircled the sweeping blast sight on the north side of Mt. St. Helens. She hated Carl. That much she knew. A bird call distracted her and pulled her attention toward the mountain. The trail clung to the hillside that had bore the brunt of the eruption many years ago, and as she came to a stop, the sand swallowed the tips of her shoes.

A lone black bird flew overhead and she watched it do a couple of loops under the steel-gray clouds that hung overhead. Most of the summer had been sunny and pleasant, but the day they had planned this camping trip had been unusually cloudy and threatening, an umbrage to the anger she felt, but something in the lonely call of the singular bird flipped her mood momentarily.

Carl had been good to her mother and to her too. He tried really hard to help her on her homework, and he picked her up from softball practice more often than not. He said goodnight to her every night and kissed her on the forehead in a way that she imagined her dad would do were he around. He made her mother laugh and smile, and he made her brim with a happiness that Jenn had not seen in her earliest memories of her mother. In many ways, he had done things that her dad would have done.

“How about there?” Carl said, puncturing the quiet that had fueled Jenn’s thoughts. She followed his chubby hand to the top of the sandy hill. Long grass waved above them in the light breeze that ran up the hill and danced circles around them.

“Looks good to me,” her mother replied, but Carl was already halfway up the short incline as if he’d made the decision and had only asked as a means to further their conversation.

Jenn watched her mother climb up the sandy hill, her feet slipping. She remained upright in spite of the loose footing and the pack that threatened to pull her backwards. Once she stepped on the plateau above Jenn, she turned toward her daughter. “See, I told you it wasn’t too far.” Her voice sounded apologetic, conciliatory.

Jenn trudged up the hill and dropped her backpack near the edge. She watched as Carl and her mother began to unravel their big packs on the grassy area beside her. “This is going to be a gorgeous view in the morning,” her mom cooed. She used that overly-pleasant voice that irritated a certain pre-teen.

Jenn spun back around toward the mountain. It looked glum under the stark grayness that swallowed the sky. The pale earth that clung to its sides looked like the skin of a dead person, or at least how Jenn imagined a dead person’s skin would look. She squinted into the distance through the gaping hole left by the eruption.

“Where’s the cone?” she asked aloud.

At first, no answer came behind her, but before she could ask again, Carl replied, “It’s there. We just have to get closer.”

“Can we get closer?”

“Of course.”

“Can I go there now?”

“Hold on a moment and we’ll all go,” her mother replied before Carl could answer.

Jenn thought that she’d challenge her mother and beg to go by herself, but the gaping hole in the mountain looked lonely and scary in a way that unsettled her. The whole area around the mountain was beautiful, but the mountain itself was something else. She had seen the video of the eruption and its aftermath, and she had read stories of that day in May 1980, but it felt like ancient history to her since she was born 17 years later. Nonetheless, the destruction that happened then left her in awe, scared her. She suddenly felt an irrational fear that the volcano would erupt at that very moment and that she and her mother would be eviscerated like that old man who had lived on the lake that had sat at the base of the mountain before it erupted.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. “You ready to climb closer?” her mother asked.

She nodded, and Carl appeared in front of her and began the trek down to the mountain. He leaned back against the downward-sloping incline to keep his balance making his gut stick out even more. Her mother fell in behind him and she nipped her mother’s heels as she joined the winding path downhill. After they reached the bottom of the hill, it began a long arc upward. Jenn bounced up the hill despite the irritation on her shin, but Carl and her mother labored as each step up revealed another and then another. The climb wasn’t particularly steep, but it was enough to wear down an adult.

Finally, they reached the top of the gap in the north side. Jenn arrived first and stood up straight looking into the mouth of the volcano. Carl joined her moments later and bent over to catch his breath. He wheezed so loud and dramatically that Jenn thought he would throw up, but he gathered himself enough to help her mother onto the ledge that teetered on the edge of the caldera.

“Wow, it’s so beautiful!” her mother exclaimed. Jenn ignored her; she just stared into the giant bowl formed by the eruption. The landscape looked foreign, like Mars, if its soil were gray. The cone stood off-center in a sea of pallid rocks. The breeze that had swirled around them earlier had fallen still as if the cavernous caldera had swallowed it. Jenn felt insignificant in that spot, like a grain of sand in an endless beach. Despite standing next to her mother and Carl, a loneliness overwhelmed her, a familiar feeling that made her wonder about her place in the world and whether she really belonged in it.

“What do you think, Sweetie?” her mother asked breaking away from a conversation with Carl that Jenn had largely tuned out.

“It’s lonely,” Jenn replied. Her mother’s smile faded as she turned from her daughter and looked into the mountain again.

“It is, but we’re here with you.”

“I know, but it’s still lonely.” She took a deep breath. “And scary.”

“Don’t be such a downer. It’s beautiful and amazing at the same time,” Carl interjected.

Jenn frowned at him, but he seemed undeterred in his enjoyment. She remembered that she hated him, and as he stood there on the ledge overlooking the vast gap in the mountain, she wondered what would happen if she pushed him over the edge. She eyed the sea of rocks beneath them rippling with sharp edges. If Carl were gone, her mother would have no choice but to return her attention to her only daughter. His deep voice shook her free of her sordid fantasy.

“Do you know the Indian legend behind Mt. St. Helens?” Carl asked. She shuddered to the present and looked at him, but he kept his focus on her mother.

“No, tell me,” her mother replied. Her smile grew as she looked at Carl.

Carl looked at Jenn. “What about you?”

Jenn pursed her lips. She wasn’t in a mood for one of Carl’s stories, but she relented. “Yeah, sure.” Carl seemed very pleased with her response.

“The Puyallup Indians tell a story of two braves who fell in love with a beautiful maiden named Loowit. They were powerful and courageous and they both wanted the love of the maiden,” Carl began. He paused for a moment before he continued. “They were gravely jealous of each other because they thought the other had the attention of the fair maiden. Well, both of them couldn’t have her, so they fought over her destroying villages and killing people in the wake of their battles. Finally, a great Chief, angered by their behavior, decided to punish the braves and the maiden, too. He cast a spell that turned all three into stone. The two braves became Mt. Adams to the north and Mt. Hood to the south. Loowit became Mt. St. Helens. Mt. Adams and Mt. Hood both look toward St. Helens in perpetual desire for something they can never have.”

“Oh, that’s such a sad story,” her mother said.

Jenn had followed Carl’s gestures to the north and south looking for the mountains he had named, but the clouds obscured her view on the horizon. “It’s a stupid fable,” Jenn said.

Her mother looked at her like she was offended. “Jenn, don’t be so cynical! I love Indian legends. They’re always so in tune with the natural surroundings.”

Jenn bit her tongue and returned her gaze into the gap below. Her mother and Carl chatted beside her but she ignored them. Instead, she thought of the story Carl had just told. What must it have been like to have been Loowit? Why was she punished because of the behavior of two stupid boys? It made no sense. None of it did. It was silly to think that someone could be turned to stone, much less a mountain, but it wasn’t silly that a girl would suffer because of the actions of a boy. That really happened. All of the time. She kicked the earth with her right boot, and tiny rocks skittered over the edge and bounced down the mountain. She vowed to never let it happen to her. Ever.

The Editing Struggle

There are many phases to writing a novel. There’s the moment when an idea strikes, often at inopportune times, where a surge of inspiration can stop you in your tracks and make you wish you could spend the day fleshing out your story. Then, there’s the joy of putting those first few words on the page when the momentum really starts to pick up like a heavy boulder rolling down a hill and the words just fly from your fingertips as if the story is writing itself. The first draft is particularly enjoyable since it’s about discovering the characters for the first time and really getting to know them. Yes, there are the occasional stops and starts as the story trundles through the middle, but overall, the first draft is exciting and thrilling like a close ballgame that isn’t decided until the last few seconds of play.

I wish I could say the same about editing. Unfortunately, editing is by far the longest and most important part of writing. It’s also the most tedious and least exciting part of writing a novel. Many a novel has died on the vine in the editing phase. The first draft is about getting your story on the page and telling it in the way you think makes it most enjoyable for readers. Editing is about taking that lump of half-formed clay and turning it into a beautiful piece of pottery worthy of display. Sometimes, after much spinning and forming, you just want to pound the clay into some malformed lump and toss it as far away as possible. Editing can make you hate your own story because you’re so sick of working on it.

There are not shortcuts in editing. It’s basically a grind-it-out task that, if done correctly, is worth the Herculean effort, but the payoff doesn’t make it any less exasperating. I’m on my third re-write of Into the Caldera. The first draft came easy; it only took three months to get the basic story down from foreboding beginning to the harrowing ending. The problem is the story didn’t really work in that first draft form. The characters were sharp-edged or too flimsy to be likable. The dramatic backdrop was the most memorable part of that first draft. While I wanted the scenes around Mt. St. Helens to capture the stark nature of that almost alien landscape, I also wanted the characters to be memorable as well. After all, the story was about jealousy and revenge, something the magnificent mountain could neither feel nor embody beyond the Indian legend that is shared in the book.

My first round of major edits sought to soften the sharp edges and fill in the gaps for the characters, but instead of turning my half-formed lump of clay into a pretty vase, I turned it into a bowl made by a third-grader in his first go-round on the pottery wheel. It was a little lop-sided, but if I turned my head sideways, it looked upright. Maybe. Sort of. Okay, maybe not.

Now, I’m on my second round of major edits, and it has been a struggle to keep my faith in the story. What had once been a surefire story of revenge and redemption has morphed into a story mostly about perils of jealousy. I don’t know if it still has the oomph that once ran through the story like a bright red line cuts through a page of black letters. The original story had that stark craziness to it that kept the reader thinking “WTF?,” but it required readers to ignore some important questions that I hadn’t really worked out in that first draft. As I worked out those questions, it changed the very nature of the story.

Into the Caldera is not in my wheelhouse in terms of genre. I had stepped away from the literary genre to try a psychological thriller thinking that it would expand my writing capabilities. To some extent it has, but the irony is that as I rewrite each part, it becomes more and more literary and much less thriller. This is not what I had in mind when I first conceived the story. I guess I’ll have to wait and see what the editing struggle begets.

Then There Were Five

We added a new dog, a four-month-old Boston Terrier, to our family this past weekend. Her name is Luna, and she’s tiny and cute and all of the things you’d expect from a sweet little puppy. She gets along with our nine-year-old Boston, Pearl, who has only had to put her in her place a few times since she arrived. I think it’s clear who’s boss in that hierarchy of two.

I’ve always had dogs in my life except for two brief stints – when I was in college and when I lived in China. They’re as much a part of my life as any human relationship. From Sam, who occupies the furthest reaches of my memories from my childhood, to Pearl and Luna today, I could chronicle my life based on the dog or dogs I had at the time. Growing up, my dogs were mostly mutts my Dad acquired from a guy with whom he worked. They were outside dogs, all of them, and they came and went with the perils of being outdoor dogs living along a rural, two-lane road. If the speeding cars didn’t get them, something else did, but I never lost my love for dogs in spite of the heart-wrenching losses.

My kids have only ever known Pearl as their dog because she’s been with our family for seven years, and they were young when we she arrived. Since our dogs are indoor dogs, they are less prone to the inexplicable disappearances or tragic endings that often beset my dogs when I was a kid. Pearl has taught my kids kindness and responsibility, something that I also learned from my dogs as a child. Most importantly, she’s given them a sense of joy that only dogs can deliver. When they had a rough day, Pearl was there to lick them and snuggle with them and make it all better. When they needed someone to talk to or to dress up for an impromptu tea party, Pearl was there. It’s hard not to smile when you look into that face with the big ears and bulging eyes atop the short nose and drooping jowls. Her solemn and serious look belies an innate sweetness that defines her.

She has grown with our family, and as the years have slipped by, she has been aging gracefully. Despite being in her tenth year, she still gets excited when we go on a car ride. The gray on her muzzle and the occasional missed jump are the only indications of the passing of time. She’s gone from being the patient puppy (yes, there is such a thing and Pearl exudes it) to the grand dame of our family, a dog so spoiled and well-loved that her life has to be the envy of dogs everywhere.

It is in those few moments that I recognize her age that I lament the fact that dogs don’t live longer. Even removed from the dangers of living outdoors, dogs have such limited time. While it could be a tragedy, it’s also a gift. Making the most of that limited time is the essence of any life, dogs or otherwise, and we’ll certainly make the most of it. Luna, the fifth member of our family, reminds us of Pearl’s younger years, and she promises to bring many more happy moments to our family. We’ll enjoy every moment.

Perspective

At some point when we reach our late 20s, our perspectives harden like freshly-poured concrete forming a sidewalk or a driveway. From there it’s unlikely that our perspective will change much despite evidence that suggests it should. As we get older, confirmation bias stretches its dark tentacles deeper into our brains and squeezes harder making it even more difficult to shift our perspectives. Everything that supports our view of life is acknowledged; everything else is ignored. I imagine there’s an evolutionary reason for this. We keep doing what has kept us alive thus far, and if we’ve made it this far, then we must be doing something right. Right?

As a writer I spend a lot of time observing what’s happening around me, how people are reacting or not reacting to the world around them. I play a game of “What if?” quite often as I’m always thinking about story ideas. I’m inherently a skeptical person, so when I’m presented with rigid dogma or thoughtless conventional “wisdom,” I habitually ask myself “What if the opposite were true?” The most interesting stories often lie at the intersection of two different perspectives, or as I like to muse, two different realities.

When I reached my 40s, I realized something had subtly happened to me over the prior decade, something that had not really dawned on me until it was too late. I had lost touch with the rest of the world in a way I couldn’t explain much like flotsam on the beach gets buffeted by the waves until it is dragged out into the middle of the vast ocean far from any land. Age does that to you. The world belongs to the young, a collective consciousness that surges into the mainstream and spits you out the other side like a remnant of a bygone era. What was once a fresh and engaging perspective becomes tired and worn.

Writing allows me to assume different perspectives, to step into another’s skin and try it on for size. It also forces me to consider what it’s like for someone else in a very real way, not in some superficial attempt at empathy. To make the story authentic, I have to be deeply thoughtful of perspective. How would it feel to be this character? How would this character react to this situation. The opportunity to do this is rewarding in its own right, liberating even. I feel subtle shifts in my own perspective because assuming another’s is so taxing that I cannot help but be affected. Is it possible to break free of our own constraints?

Years ago I moved my family to China for my job. Before I interviewed for the job, I had never been to mainland China. My vision of the nation was exactly what you’d expect from an American, exactly what is displayed on the myopic television news. I imagined staunch Communists parading in the streets in abysmal outfits drooling the party line, but the reality was anything but that. Instead, I found an engaging culture with a rich history bursting at the seams. Sure, there’s the creepy big brother government lurking in the background, but that wasn’t the only thing that defined the nation. My perspective shifted. Being there and putting myself in the shoes of Chinese citizens changed my perspective. The same thing happens when I write.

It is possible to change my perspective in spite of the gravity of confirmation bias. I’ve come to the conclusion that only a fool would go through life and not change his perspective based on new evidence, even if it were anathema to him at another point in time. The world belongs to the young, but even a middle-aged writer can test the waters of something new. It’s all a matter of perspective.