Brand New Day

Although I understand the inclination to start a new calendar year with a new plan, I've never been one to make resolutions. There's nothing wrong with specific goals concerning diet, exercise, creative output, etc., but I don't like to stuff all of that into the beginning of January and hit start. I'd rather take some time to think about my intentions for the coming block of time we label a 'year.' How do I want to feel? What do I want to happen over the next twelve months?

Of course it's easy to get carried away, over-promise and take on too much...I'll do Daily Burn every day, and write a blog post every day, AND send out pitch letters every week...uh yeah...maybe I'll start will realistic goals. I do want to continue to make time to write, which means making space for the muse, who as any artist knows, will show up when (s)he damn well pleases.

Looking at the blank slate of the first month of the coming new year, I'm setting the following intentions:

·         Listen more than talk

·         Make time and space for the muse

·         Observe rather than react

·         Make more time for friends and family

·         Celebrate more

Resolutions need to be kept or we've failed. Intentions can be meditated upon and unfolded as we move through time. The empty page of a new year simmers with possibilities and shines with unlimited potential. 2015, bring it.

Everybody’s Talkin’

As much as I like to joke about the devolving of language being a sign of the coming apocalypse, I have to admit that I'm fascinated by slang. Typing that sentence made me think I should look into the source of the word itself. A quick search of a few online dictionaries revealed that the origin is uncertain, but I did run across a great quote by Carl Sandburg: "Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work." I'm inclined to agree; sometimes, the perfect word is an informal one.

OxfordDictionaries.com's recent quarterly update resulted in about 1000 new terms, including abbreviations and acronyms. So where do these new words come from? What makes a given term come into popular use over another? Social media is obviously the chief instrument in the perpetuation of new slang, but why do certain words become so popular? Do they show up in song lyrics? Celebrity tweets?

Here's a partial list of some of my favorite new additions:

Al desko: Adjective and adverb. Food eaten at one's desk in an office. I've done this way too much lately.

Crony Capitalism: Noun. An economic system characterized by close, mutually advantageous relationships between business leaders and government officials. Did it really take this long to be recognized?

Five-second rule: Noun. A notional rule stating that food which has been dropped on the ground will still be uncontaminated and therefore safe to eat if it is retrieved within five seconds. Again, I thought this one would have been recognized years ago.

MAMIL: Noun. Middle-aged Man in Lycra. A very keen road cyclist, typically one who rides an expensive bike and wears the type of clothing associated with professional cyclists. Anyone who has been on the American River Bike Trail has seen these creatures.

Here are a few I could do without:

Duck face: Noun. An exaggerated pouting expression in which the lips are thrust outwards, typically made by a person posing for a photograph. No. Comment.

Tomoz: Adverb. An abbreviation of 'tomorrow.' You're seriously too busy (or lazy) for that extra syllable?

Xlnt: Adjective. An abbreviation of 'excellent.' Buy a vowel. PLEASE.

I don't necessarily want to see slang creeping into formal communication, and I'm well aware of the fact that the reading level of the average daily newspaper has fallen to about sixth grade, but slang is fun. Language is a living, evolving thing, endlessly fascinating to the word nerds among us.

Cold Realities

I just finished reading The Missing Place, by Sophie Littlefield, and I know it's going to stay with me. After so many decades of voracious reading, twenty-plus years in the book biz and a lifetime achievement award for book geekdom, I've read countless fabulously, well-written, totally engrossing books. I can't necessarily tell you exactly what it is about a given story that will ensure I keep thinking about it after turning the final page, but I always know when I'm reading one and The Missing Place is such a book. 

The cold, empty landscape of North Dakota is the perfect backdrop for Littlefield's tale that brings together two very different women and makes them unlikely allies. In fact, the harsh, desolate landscape of Lawton, ND is as much a character as rough-around-the-edges Shay and genteel, cashmere-clad Colleen. United by the pressing, panicked need to find their missing sons, Colleen and Shay navigate unfamiliar territory, dead ends and corporate bureaucracy as they search for their sons who disappeared from their jobs as workers on an oil rig. Littlefield has created complex characters that are at once sympathetic and bordering on unlikeable. Sharp, streetwise Shay is quick to judge and not shy about speaking her mind, and yet she insists Colleen share her tiny, rented motorhome moments after they meet. Privileged, well-heeled Colleen spends her first hours in Lawton in a daze, as if she cannot believe people live that way, and yet, she recognizes that Shay’s quick wit is the key to her survival.

As the women delve deeper into the mystery of their sons' disappearances, learn how far the oil company will go to keep secrets and discover their boys have secrets of their own, they begin to understand that their love for their sons and the need to discover the truth makes them far more alike than either is comfortable admitting. The Missing Place is not only a story of revenge and redemption, but also of confronting the realities of the self, especially those that may be at odds with what is seen in the mirror.

Paperback Writer

Book geek that I am, I still get a little thrill from meeting an author and getting an autographed book. I walked away from last month's NCIBA trade show with a nice stack, thanks to the author reception after the show. One of the writers I met that night, Sophie Littlefield, included a little note of encouragement with her signature, as my friend Cheri told her I'd written my first book. I fought the impulse to argue, to offer some sort of disclaimer, instead giving an uneasy smile. This woman is a real, published author. Proof of her craft was in my hand. My "book" is still just a word doc taking up space on my computer. Can I really call it a book? Ms. Littlefield told me she'd sent out over 80 pitches before she'd landed an agent and her first book wasn't published until she'd written another.

I wonder if she knows how far her saying "keep at it" went toward re-kindling the fire that got me to the end of my submission draft. I pushed hard, for a long time, to finish the first draft, then a second, and then another. Then, after a flurry of agent pitch letters, some that went unanswered, some that resulted in, "Thanks, but no thanks," and two that expressed a desire to see more of my work (but ultimately went nowhere), I just had to set the whole thing aside. I was tired of re-reading and fussing with it, tired of thinking about it, tired of reading about yet another "fool-proof" way to land a book deal. But something happened that night at the author reception. I looked around the room and told Cheri, that I wanted to sit in that room, next to a publisher rep (many of whom are friends) and sign copies of my book. "So make it happen," she said with a smile.

That's the plan. Authors must be their own marketers these days, and as much as I dislike marketing—I get quite enough of it in the day gig—if I really want this as much as I say I do...back to it I go. Coming up, more agent letters. Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? 

I'm so Tired

In in the midst of yet another retail holiday, I'm trying to balance left brain tasks (keeping track of the production schedule and managing the site change calendar) with right brain (writing copy and creative for graphics). Rapidly switching between the two can be challenging on a good day. On a crazy-busy day full of executives changing direction and mindset it can feel nearly impossible. My brain (both sides) is tired. I needed to write some email copy yesterday morning and I had nothing. Not a great state to find myself in at the beginning of November.

After years in marketing, I'm mostly used to trying to be creative on demand and fit into given parameters. A unique, compelling email subject line in 36 characters or less? Okay. Headlines for site graphics, six words maximum? No problem. But I'm going to be grammatically correct if it kills me, and yes, it does matter. A boss I worked for years ago liked to tell me, "This is advertising, not English class." Um, okay...but I'm not going to perpetuate any word crimes just because everyone else does. My current pet peeve is the overuse of "gift" as a verb, as in "holiday gifting." Really? My boss wanted me to use the word in that context in an email subject line the other day. I told him it would cost him and I wasn't kidding.

As I was pondering why I care, and wondering why I can't just churn out mediocre copy about products I'm not emotionally attached to, I remembered a story I heard on NPR a few years ago about a technical writer who had just won a national poetry prize, in the first contest she'd entered. The interviewer wondered how a technical writer had come to be a poet and asked if it was difficult to go back to a cut and dried tech piece after writing a poem. The writer's response has stayed with me: "You have to engage your audience no matter what you’re writing." Oh. And duh. It doesn't matter what I'm writing about, or who is (or isn't) going to read it. I just need to work my craft and keep getting better at it.

Once, Therefore Always a Bookseller

This year's Northern California Independent Booksellers Association (NCIBA) trade show took place Thursday and Friday of last week. I was once again able to attend, thanks to a dear friend at Penguin Random House. I've attempted to explain to a few non-book people why it's so important to me to go to a trade show for an industry of which I'm no longer a part. The simple answer is that I want to see the people I used to work with and be in a room full of books.

The more complex answer has to do with being part of the community of booksellers. Humans naturally seek out other humans they like to be around to form tribes, and I knew I'd found mine less than a month into working at a bookstore. Perhaps people in every industry feel this way, but it seems to me that booksellers are the most consistently warm, funny, intelligent, articulate and just generally good-natured people I've ever encountered. I still marvel at the fact that I used to get paid to sit and talk books with the folks I saw on Friday. It was my job to listen to them tell me about the books that would be published in the upcoming season and decide how many to buy for my stores. That I've been able to stay connected with them (and that they still consider me part of the gang) means the world to me and proves there are friends who can't really be separated by time and distance.

I often tell my current boss that bookselling is a noble profession. I say that (mostly) tongue in cheek, and generally as a response to his telling me that the beauty industry is based on vanity, hope and fear. But it's true...and also true that being a bookseller isn't just something that one does, it's something that one is. A friend from my bookstore days is fond of saying that she was once, therefore is always, a bookseller. She's right. No matter what else we end up doing.

Take These Broken Wings

I've been reading Man on the Run, by Tom Doyle, which is a detailed look at Paul McCartney in the 1970s. The question could be posed, how much more could an obsessive fan like me possibly learn? A boyfriend once asked, "Are you really reading another book about the Beatles? Don't you know everything there is to know yet?" The answer was, and still is, "No." There's quite a bit left to learn, apparently.

Man on the Run takes readers from the ugly, angry last days of the Beatles through the dissolution of the final incarnation of Wings. It's a great read for me since I missed the original tide of Beatlemania, becoming infatuated with Macca about the time Venus & Mars was released. I remember what huge news the Wings Over America tour was. The first opportunity to see Paul in concert since the Beatles' 1966 Candlestick Park show! But it was an opportunity I missed, as my father didn’t care who he was, or how long it had been since he'd toured, there was no way I was going to L.A. to a (expletive deleted) rock concert. Oh, the thirteen-year-old angst...  

Journalist Doyle (lucky enough to interview Paul several times) deftly illustrates just how devastating the end of the Beatles was for Paul and how lost he was, at 27, suddenly without the thing that had driven him since the age of 15. What a gig to lose, no? And I thought the end of Tower was rough. Having retreated to the farm in Scotland, Paul shut out everything but Linda and the kids and turned to whiskey and other substances to numb the intense feelings of worthlessness he was drowning in. Who was he if not Beatle Paul? Would he ever work again? How could he think about working when he could barely get out of bed? It was Linda, hated by fans for daring to marry the last single Beatle, and later dogged by the press for her role in Wings, who recognized that her husband was in serious trouble and she was frightened beyond belief.

The reality is that Linda not only saved Paul, but it was her love, support and encouragement that made him try to, and eventually believe, that there was in fact life after the Beatles. Thanks to her, Paul put down the bottle and picked up a guitar. Linda was harshly criticized after joining Wings (at her husband's insistence), dealing with everything from fans deriding her to Paul's contemporaries like Mick Jagger wondering why Macca would "put his old lady in the band." Linda stoically dealt with public and private criticism (from the other members of Wings), but the truth is, without her, Wings would never have happened.

After a rocky beginning, Wings eventually took flight, and in a big way. The Wings Over America tour broke records and put Paul back into the spotlight he was accustomed to, though he had seriously doubted his ability to get there. Doyle captures the doubt that lingered behind the "cute one's" smile. The man who dreamed Yesterday (he woke up with the melody nearly complete in his head) and is responsible for countless timeless classics spent many a tortured moment wondering if he still had it or if he was past his prime.

Perhaps it's part of Paul's everyman appeal that he seems never to have forgotten his working class roots, nor does he take anything for granted, including his other-worldly ability to crank out hits. There's a line in Alligator, a song on his latest studio album, NEW, "Everybody else busy doing better than me," that means just what it sounds like: Macca’s ever-present worry about measuring up. The 70s were a bit of a rollercoaster for Paul, bringing him loss, uncertainty, unexpected hits, painful misses and embarrassing busts, but two things never wavered: His love for Linda and his need to keep making music. Lucky for us he's still going strong 40 years later, with no plans to slow down. After taking the world by storm barely out of his teens, then having to start over, he did learn to fly.

And in the End...

Every year, I think the date might slip by unnoticed. I should know better. Twenty-two years is a long time to stay in one place. Eight years ago today, my Tower career came to an abrupt and jarring end. Plenty was written in the press during our final days, about mismanagement, our mistakes, our outdated business model, etc. To that I say, shut up, you guys weren't there. Granted, we did make our share of mistakes, but, fiercely embracing a double standard, I'm allowed to say so, and if you didn't work there you aren't. Period. Plus, we did a lot of things right, for a very long time.

I spent my last three years at Tower in the buyers building, as a member of the Tower Product Team, or #TPT, surrounded by a great group of people. After a stressful nine-year stint in the advertising department, buying was a welcome respite. Every day was filled with amusing banter, good-natured ribbing, and of course, music. Buyers are a happy lot, and why shouldn't they be? What could be better than buying music, books and videos with someone else's money?

2006, as it turned out, was not our year. The final few months were tough. I'd grown up at Tower and the idea that it might really come to an end had me at a loss. What the hell was I supposed to do next? I really had no idea. I worked on my resumé, but had nowhere to send it. (My wonderful friends in the Northern California bookselling community had already shared it). I bought grownup clothes (yes, my first suit). I longed to stay in the book world, but that proved difficult as I wanted to stay in Sacramento, being unwilling to try to sell my house, as I could only deal with so much change at once.

Friday, October 6, 2006. We got word that afternoon that we'd been purchased by a liquidation firm that had outbid the retailers who'd been interested in acquiring us. That was it—it was really over. I looked around at my friends and colleagues as the news sunk in. Tears, hugs, more tears. We were told to come to work on Monday. Really? To do what, exactly? The plan was to let the bulk of the main office staff go and keep a skeleton crew on to mind operations as the stores wound down and sold everything. We came in on Monday and just...hung out. HR/Payroll was processing final pay for over 300 people so it was going to take a few days. We decided to make the best of it. A few of the guys went home to get their hibachis. Someone made a store run. We had a parking lot cookout, played wiffle ball, liar's dice, and of course, listened to music. People from other departments dropped by to hang out. TPT was the fun building to the end.

Wednesday, October 11. We were herded into the main conference room where the interim CEO told us we were done. HR handed out final paychecks and I felt bad for them. The woman who handed me mine looked like she was about to cry and just kept saying, "I'm so sorry." Tina, we all knew you were just doing your job. The CEO tried to say something about what we were losing. I don't have many regrets, but to this day, I wish I'd asked him what the hell made him think he had any right to talk to us what we'd just lost. He'd completed another job, collected his big fat bonus and was ready to move on. We'd lost our livelihoods, our extended family and our shared history. And it fucking sucked. I cried more in those final days than I had in the previous 22 years. I drove away from 2500 Del Monte for the last time that afternoon, still sniveling.

After eight years, it's finally sunk in that you can't have new beginnings without endings. I'm finally at peace with how it all unfolded and happy to have been part of history. I'm grateful for all the wacky, eccentric, wonderfully awesome people in my extended Tower family, who I'll love forever. I've been searching for a way to sum up what those relationships have meant to me, but I'll just let the lads from Liverpool say it for me.

Something in the Air

According to the calendar, it's autumn, though the only evidence, apart from deliciously cool mornings, is the days growing markedly shorter. Both seem at odds with afternoons in which the mercury creeps into the 90s; not at all unusual for the valley, it's just noticeably incongruent. I'm not sure what it is about fall that makes me so reflective, but right on schedule, I find myself thinking about my childhood in the mountains, people I've known and lost touch with over the years and of course, Tower.

Part of this nostalgic bent might be hastened by the fact that my writers group recently expanded to include more women I worked with at the bookstore. So predictably, we can't help but revisit our shared past, talking about our fellow employees and rehashing favorite customer stories. It's more than that though. Fall feels like a time for new beginnings, whether a new school year, a new semester, or just time to double down and refocus, after the relaxed pace of summer.

For me, looking ahead to anything new comes with a generous helping of looking back at where I've been and the twists and turns of the paths traversed. I seem to fall into such reflection more and more with each passing year. Whether that's an introvert thing or just human nature, I don’t know, but here I am. The path to being a writer went through the bookstore, took a hard right turn though the advertising department, then a sweeping curve into purchasing, where I spent my final three years at Tower. It all came to an end eight years ago this month. With each passing year, I expect the anniversary to have less of an effect on me, but it hasn't happened yet. Perhaps it's finally time to tell that story too...  

Captured by the Moment: Tower Books, Part 3

Looking back on my bookstore years, it's amazing how many things I remember with perfect clarity. Mundane, everyday moments are captured for eternity. I'd worked retail before Tower, but not consistently 40-hour weeks. That was new territory for me. I had naïvely thought that everyone who came into the bookstore would be nice. People who like to read are polite, aren't they? Not necessarily. That was rude awakening #1. People, whether they're readers or not, are just plain cranky if you don’t have what they want (even if they don’t know exactly what it is). Our being out of the book of the moment was the most common complaint. Never mind publishers underestimating print runs or distributors failing to deliver. It was our fault if we didn't have a given book.

The phones kept us as busy as the customers in the store. The following might seem scripted, but we really got calls like this every day.

Clerk: Tower Books, may I help you?

Customer: Is this the record store?

Customer: Do you have the book that was on Oprah today?

Clerk: Which book?

Customer (incredulous): Didn't you watch Oprah?

Customer: Do you have (Book of the Moment)

Clerk: No, I'm sorry, we're out right now.

Customer: How can you be out of it? It's so popular!

Clerk from Watt Avenue: Can you do a book check?

Sunrise clerk: Sure, what's the title?

Watt clerk: The Donner Party Cookbook.

(There was a certain amount of hazing when new employees were hired. Our neighboring record store used to send their newbies over to borrow the shelf-stretcher).

As anyone who has worked retail can attest, dealing with the public can be...challenging. And while I have enough rude customer stories to make me inclined to agree with Ron Swanson, there were plenty of nice customers too, our regulars, who just enjoyed hanging out in the store, browsing away an afternoon, looking for the next book to put on the must-read stack. Rainy days were especially busy. There's something about a stormy afternoon that makes a bookstore the perfect respite. The old Sunrise store was small and cozy, with dark wooden racks in the aisles and along the walls. Away from the sales counter, away from the ringing phones, beeping registers (the best of mid-80s technology) and clerk/customer exchanges, there was, at times, an almost library-like hush, as if people thought they could keep the clamor of the outside world at bay a little longer if they could preserve that peace.

I've always said I'd have stayed at the bookstore forever if I didn't need to work to make a decent income. The harsh reality is that retail doesn't pay a living wage. I mean, if your idea of "living" includes fewer than three roommates and a vehicle that runs. It was clear that the managers at my area stores weren't going anywhere, so I made the decision to transfer to the main office in West Sac. It was the right move, but it took a few years to embrace. I was still technically a bookseller while working in the advertising department, then later as a buyer, but the immediacy was missing. What I've come to realize in the nearly eight years since Tower's doors closed for good is that for those of us who truly love books, being a bookseller isn't just something we do, it’s something we are. 

Fear Factor

Fear is a complicated, multi-dimensional emotion. We can be afraid of specific things, like spiders or public speaking. We might fear new situations; the unknown is nearly a universal phobia. There's even the fear of fear: phobophobia. But what of primal fear? That paralyzing feeling that emanates from our animal brain, chills our internal organs and triggers the fight or flight response?

The raging wildfire burning in El Dorado County, about 60 miles from here, is triggering that response in me. As of this morning, it's still only about 10% contained, has burned over 82,000 acres, caused 2800 people to evacuate and is being battled by 7800 firefighters. The smoke is lending a surreal yellow-orange cast to the sky that was particularly vivid around sundown last night. Intellectually, I knew I was perfectly safe. But as my growing anxiety illustrated, the deepest part of my primitive brain was trying to tell me when the sky is that color I'm in danger.

So why does fire do this to me? Like anyone with Southern California roots, forest fires set off warning bells, but one extremely traumatic incident is forever imprinted. During the fall of my third-grade year, a large fire broke out in Big Bear, just below the dam. Like the King fire, it was determined to be arson, making it all the more difficult for an eight-year-old to understand. Someone did this on purpose?? I woke up that Friday morning (the 13^th) to my family hurriedly preparing to evacuate. It was the first time I'd ever seen my mother scared and I'll never forget what that felt like. It was a terrible moment of realizing there were things my parents couldn't do anything about. As I packed a box with diapers and baby food for my toddler brother, I watched my father dash in and out of the house, packing the car. We were going to stay with my grandparents in the valley, but we had no way of knowing how long we'd be there and if the house would still be standing when we got back. My mother told me I could bring one "special thing" I couldn't part with, but we just didn't have room in the car for much. Looking back, I have no idea how they packed three kids, a dog and our suitcases into a Volkswagen bug but they did.

My grandparents made us very comfortable, but I didn't have the vocabulary to express my unease. My parents were glued to the TV, wanting to catch every bit of news about the fire, but I couldn't stand to watch—I didn't even want to hear them talk about it. I left the room every time there was an update. We stayed there for nearly two weeks, and then, thanks to the mercy of shifting winds, my hometown was spared, and the fire was finally extinguished. We could go home. We still had a home to go to.

Driving up the mountain, through the burnt-out moonscape that used to be the San Bernardino National Forest is another vision permanently etched in my brain. A forest decimated is a harsh reality to witness. Our house was unscathed, save for a layer of ash on the patio furniture and the lingering smell of smoke in the air. I had no way of knowing what else would linger. But over the years it became apparent, as a siren in the distance or a single whiff of smoke would trigger the impulse for flight. I didn't know what a panic attack was; I just knew that I suddenly needed to be elsewhere. I got better at dealing with my fear as I got older, and don't think about it much until an incident like the King fire occurs. Then I remember the utter helplessness and panic. And send prayers of safety and success to the firefighters.    

A Day in the Life: Tower Books, Part 2

I loved everything about the old Sunrise bookstore (called such even though it wasn't actually on Sunrise Blvd. It was a holdover from the days when the original record store was in fact on Sunrise, about a block away. That was the case with a number of Tower stores—the names didn’t make much sense until you knew the backstory).

I settled into being bookseller immediately. I shadowed veterans at the register the week of my training, and was given the Home & Garden and Crafts sections to take care of, the latter of which was in complete disarray and hadn't been looked after in over a month. I was to arrange it by subject, alphabetical by author within those subjects, and make it look nice and neat. Oh, and it would be a bonus if people could find books they were looking for. I jumped in with both feet my first day and got lost in that little alcove, arranging, rearranging, alphabetizing and bringing order to that wonderful chaos that was now my responsibility.

I'd found my home for sure. I was around other people who loved books. I met publisher representatives who came in to sell to the buyers (I desperately longed to be a buyer. What could be better than buying books with someone else's money?), who were witty, intelligent, articulate and fun to talk to. I so wanted to be part of that world. And, as I re-filed misplaced books (the best way to get to know that store), cared for my sections, worked the registers and helped customers find books, it happened: I became a bookseller. A soul-stirring, life-defining moment, every bit as powerful as the moment I realized, "I'm reading, I can read now," in first grade. I was a bookseller and it was a perfect fit.

We're Going to Cite You for That

Not that anyone would take them seriously, but at least a few times a day, I wish I could issue citations for criminal disregard of punctuation, capitalization and basic grammar rules. I realize I'm among the minority who bother with capitalization and punctuation in texts and IMs, but I'm really annoyed by the use of all lower case text. Is it that difficult to hit the shift key? I work in an industry in which quite a few vendors follow that lead and insist that the "correct" spelling of their brand name is all lower case. The subject was mentioned in a meeting today, and half of the people at the table, including the president, turned to look at me. I'm glad my predictable irritation is so amusing...

Then there's the abuse of punctuation. I have long had the urge to bust people for horrific misuse of apostrophes. News flash: they do actually have a purpose, they aren't for decoration, and for the love of all that is holy, do NOT use them to make a plural! I realize that interoffice emails aren't regarded as formal communication, but is it too much to ask for a little basic punctuation for the sake of clarity? A few colleagues like to taunt me with the idea that upper case letters and "unnecessary" punctuation will be phased out as fewer people bother with such formalities. (Insert joke about prying my Chicago Manual of Style from my cold dead fingers). Yes, language is dynamic, and popular usage does bring about change. But don’t think we grammar geeks are going down without a fight.

From the Beginning: Tower Books, Part 1

I've read that the path to anything worth achieving is anything but linear. That rings true for me. It hit me the other day that I've been at my current gig—copywriter at an online beauty & skin care store—for seven years. Seven freaking years. How is that possible? It means that as of this October (the 11^th to be exact) my Tower career came to a jarringly abrupt end eight years ago. It still feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago simultaneously. Were it not for Tower, my life would be remarkably different. I'd still likely be a voracious reader, but I believe the personal connection to the book world would be missing. Would I have found my path to being a writer? Possibly, but then again, perhaps not. I really have no idea what I would have ended up doing instead. So how did I get here, to this writing life? To answer that question, I need to start with how I came to be a bookseller. So after eight long years, it finally feels like it's time to tell my version of the Tower Records/Books/Video saga; my Tower story. The more I talk with my compadres and see their various posts and comments, the more I realize how different it was for all of us—even those I worked most closely with. Tower was an amazing experience, but it unfolded differently for each and every one of us. I'll attempt to avoid being a revisionist; I'm well aware of the power of nostalgia to soften sharp edges and brighten sheen. What follows is my best recollection of how it happened for me...

The year was 1985. Springsteen and Michael Jackson dominated the charts. There were no cell phones, a gallon of gas cost about $1.20 and the internet was still years away from even being a fanciful what if.  It was January, and I needed a job. My skill set consisted of retail experience and little else. Most companies had just let their holiday help go, or weren't looking to bring anyone else on board. What to do...I'd shopped at the Tower stores on Macy Plaza Drive and two people I had classes with at Sac State worked at the bookstore. One of them let me know they were hiring if I was interested. Well why not, I reasoned, I like books. I had no way of knowing that simple thought would introduce me to worlds I couldn't even imagine, make me part of the community of booksellers, bring me the people who would become my extended family and truly change my life forever. So I walked into store #323 at 7830 Macy Plaza drive in Citrus Heights to fill out an application. A week later I came back as employee # 10836. 

New Frontiers

 "Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words." - Mark Twain

For months now, I've been thinking about launching a new blog. I've grown bored with the old one, as my dwindling number of posts no doubt illustrates. It served its purpose as my intro into the blogging realm, but it just felt like it was time to move on and reinvent. Perhaps I’ve just said everything I had to say on that particular platform. I’m not sure, but what I do know is that I want to keep writing—I need to keep writing. Blogging seems the obvious way to do that, between freelance projects and the big project (read: novel). The first thing a new blog needs is a title, of course. Trying to come up with a clever, unique title that fits just right is enough to hone my procrastination skills to an even finer edge. Doesn’t that closet need cleaning out? Shouldn’t I mop the floor? The cats definitely need brushing...

Browsing blogs and searching domain names is not my idea of a good time. (See procrastination techniques above). Luckily, inspiration struck when I ran across the Twain quote at the top of this post. How much of writing is getting rid of the wrong words to make room for the right ones? Quite a bit it seems, especially for one so prone to edit as I write. (I’m getting better at writing first and editing later, but it’s still not second nature). And I couldn’t resist the old-school imagery of putting pen to paper that such a title evokes. Like the other one, this blog will focus on writing and language, a love of words, and of course non-sequitur observations and snarky commentary. As far as writing being easy, it’s a simple truth that one gets better at something by doing it. Will it ever be easy? Not likely, but I’ll keep at it. Game on, Mr. Twain.