“Even the Losers”

Since Tom Petty’s untimely death a few months back, I’ve gone back and listened to a lot of his stuff. All of it, really. It takes a while to digest that many songs, but I started to notice patterns and tropes and themes. He’s always enjoyed telling stories in his songs, and he populates the lyrics with characters who are flawed and funny and all-too-human. Let’s take a quick spin through some of it, shall we?

First and foremost, Tom Petty characters are very flawed. Narrators are open about their foibles — the guy in “The Waiting” openly admits, “Yeah, I might’a chased a couple women around/All it ever got me was down,” while the narrator of “Don’t Do Me Like That” receives a warning from his friend: “Then he said, ‘You better watch your step/Or you’re gonna get hurt yourself/Someone’s gonna tell you a lie/Cut you down to size,” clearly implying the narrator thinks far too much of himself and his abilities with the ladies, but even he won’t be immune when a woman far more clever and uncaring than he rolls around.

We can especially see the flaws when Petty tells a story. In “Something Big,” the main character — known as Speedball — checks into a hotel while he works on…well, something big, just like the title says. There’s no indication of what that something is — it’s implied to be less-than-completely-legal and probably along the lines of a get rich quick scheme — or what, exactly, Speedball is doing to hit that something big, but he’s definitely working on it…until he simply disappears. As the maids clean his room, one of them wonders who he was and what he was doing. Her coworker dismisses Speedball as just another guy “workin’ on something big,” and leaves it at that.

There’s a world-weariness to a lot of Petty’s characters. Even the ones who start out optimistic and full of hope — Eddie in “Into the Great Wide Open,” for instance — end up getting chewed up by the machinery of life and left cynical and apathetic. We see it clearly with Eddie: the youthful optimism as he moves out to Hollywood, gets a tattoo, and learns to play the guitar from his girlfriend, which all gives way to increasing disconnect from his roots as he becomes a big deal and gets a “leather jacket” with “chains that would jingle,” while his A&R representative starts to chide him for not creating a radio single. Eddie, like so many other Petty characters, has the optimism and naivete worn out of him. His wide-eyed enthusiasm for being a big star is ground down to a weary apathy by the end of the song.

Petty himself was no stranger to the corporate cogs that ground down the likes of Eddie or the nameless rocker from “Money Becomes King” (who might well have been Eddie himself). His famous fight with his record company over album pricing, his resistance to the corporatization of rock and roll and radio, his insistence on retreating from the big shiny pop of Full Moon Fever and Into the Great Wide Open by following it up with the stripped-down Wildflowers…Tom Petty always did things the way he wanted to do them, the torpedoes be damned.

And despite it all — despite the cynicism and world-weariness in his characters, despite the victory of corporations over people so many times, despite the dehumanizing effect of so much of modern society — Petty always seemed kind of hopeful. He was a guy who truly believed in the power of music, especially rock and roll. While The Last DJ is by no means a good album (despite what my brother keeps insisting), the title track does send a thrill down the spine and remind you of the redemptive, almost religious power of music. Find the right song, sing the right words, and you can free the mind, body, and spirit. “Even the losers get lucky sometime,” he sang. “You can stand me up at the gates of Hell but I’ll/Stand my ground/And I won’t back down.” He may have sung songs about the downtrodden and the weary, about folks down on their luck and out on their asses, but he did it with a wry grin and the belief that you could recover from failure. It’s explicit in songs like “Climb That Hill,” with its admonition to “Get up/Climb that hill again.”

Back when Wildflowers came out, I listened to the album obsessively. It came out in 1994, when I was fourteen and the perfect age to obsessively listen to something. At the time, my least-favorite song on the album was the closer, “Wake Up Time.” It was slow, meditative, and not what a 14-year-old who wasn’t quite convinced of his own mortality yet really wanted to listen to. The album was, if I’m honest, too mature for me. I wasn’t ready for it. But that just means I’ve gone from giggling about the line about rolling a joint in “You Don’t Know How it Feels” to really, truly appreciating how heartbreakingly beautiful some of these songs truly are. I’ve been given a blessing, in a way: the opportunity to grow up with this amazing piece of music, to gain new insight and understanding into its songs as I’ve grown older and (hopefully) wiser. And now, I’m better able to appreciate “Wake Up Time.” The first half of the last verse goes like so:

Well, if he gets lucky, a boy finds a girl
To help him to shoulder the pain in this world
And if you follow your feelings
And you follow your dreams
You might find the forest there in the trees

Wildflowers is a sad album, a lot of the time. It’s one of those divorce records that so many artists have made over the years (Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks, Beck’s Sea Change, & etc.). But, like so much else that he did, Petty couldn’t help but slip a bit of hope in there. Things are falling apart, yes, but there’s a chance you can put yourself back together afterwards. Not all is lost. And, ultimately, I think that’s the legacy of Petty’s songwriting: he was a guy who told stories that gave us hope. What better legacy could there be?

Not Giving Up

I’ll be honest: the past couple of months, I’ve thought about giving up on writing.

It’s all very self-pitying. Book Two has not been selling. At all. And that’s had my depression whispering in my ear that I’m not good enough and that I should just quit. It’s a seductive, nasty voice, one that I’ve worked hard over the years to learn to ignore. Nonetheless, it still pops up from time to time, still tells me I’m not good enough and that giving up would be so much easier.

Then I got a call from my brother over the weekend. He’s been one of my patrons over on Patreon, which is apparently in the middle of revising its approach to patron fees in a way that really screws over the folks who are supporting you. He wanted to let me know he was going to cancel his pledge due to the fees issue, but he still wanted to send me money every month.

“That’s not really necessary,” I said.

“No, it is,” he replied, and proceeded to explain:

Apparently, my niece, Annabelle, enjoys reading my comics every morning, but she really got excited when she found out I write books. She’s been trying to read one of them (which, um, she really shouldn’t. It’s not meant for five-year-olds), and has even started trying to write a book of her own.

And it just…well, I might’ve cried a bit, as I am wont to do.

It was encouraging, and reminded me why I enjoy writing so much in the first place. I love telling stories. I love inspiring people. And I love that my niece wants to write and read things I’ve written.

So, maybe I need to take a break from writing hard-boiled detective stories. I’ve got two more already written and ready to send to an editor, so I could take a break from Eddie and company and work on things more age-appropriate for my niece. I already have an idea. I already know what it’ll be about. It’ll be right up her alley, and it’ll be written so that she can read it and enjoy it.

And then, when she’s older, maybe she can read the Hazzard Pay books. Maybe.

Regardless, I’m not going to stop writing. I’m not giving up. That voice in my ear is strong and cruel, but I’m stronger. And I’m stubborn. I’ll keep plugging away until I accomplish what I want.

Tom Petty

tompettyWhen my wife and I first got together, we went to a Tom Petty concert at Jiffy Lube Live (nee Nissan Pavilion). It was a great show, as every Tom Petty show I’ve ever been to was: he played the hits, running through them with the Heartbreakers like they were brand new songs. Everything felt fresh. It always did. I sang along as loudly as I could, which I also always did at Tom Petty concerts.

Tom Petty was one of the first musicians I developed a strong liking for independent of my father’s musical tastes. Sure, dad like Tom Petty, but I really dug the guy’s stuff. Dad got me Damn the Torpedoes! on tape, as well as Full Moon Fever and Into the Great Wide Open. I listened to them until the tapes warped.

greatwideopentour.jpegThe first time I saw Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers play live was in Oklahoma City in 1991. I was all of 11 years old, but my dad had managed to snag front row center tickets for us (I think Uncle Randy had actually got the tickets for us, since dad was usually on the road working and couldn’t be at the phone the second the tickets went on sale). Regardless, it was the greatest concert experience of my life. Petty and the band danced around the stage — which featured a massive inflatable tree with a doorway in the trunk — and Petty had some antics with a storage trunk and that hat he wore a lot in the ’80s and early ’90s, then he got chased around by guys in Nixon and Reagan masks in a bit of political theater 11-year-old me was definitely not tuned in to. It was a hell of a show, and I sang along to every song. At the end of the show, Tom Petty leaned down from the stage and handed me his guitar pick. I was stunned. I was ecstatic. I was grinning so wide my head just about split in half. I’ve still got that pick, tucked away in a baggie with a second edition Boy Scout Handbook at one of my parents’ houses.

The-Traveling-Wilburys.jpgTom Petty’s death has hit me hard, harder than Bowie or Prince did. It hits as hard as George Harrison’s death back in 2001. I listen to his work on a pretty constant basis. No matter what other music comes into my life, I know that Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers are always there with their chiming guitars and nasally vocals. Petty always seemed like he was having such fun making music, even when it was about serious stuff. The Heartbreakers were the band I wanted to be in — sure, there were better, more popular bands out there. There were even a few with better songs, though not many. And no one seemed like they enjoyed their work more than these guys. Petty had this laid back, chill vibe, and an aw-shucks sort of approach to his own super-stardom that was very endearing. The shots of him in the behind-the-scenes video about the Traveling Wilburys — the supergroup he was in with George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, and Roy Orbison — made it clear he felt like he’d hit some sort of undeserved jackpot. There’s always a “what the hell am I doing here?” grin on his face. He was the fan who became an equal.

Damn The Torpedoes.jpgPetty’s songs are going to outlive us all. “Free Fallin’,” “Don’t Do Me Like That,” “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” “The Waiting”…there are so many classics on every album they put out. Damn the Torpedoes! especially would be some other band’s greatest hits. Any other guy would’ve put out Wildflowers and coasted on it for the rest of their career. Not Tom Petty. He kept cranking out well-crafted tunes that other musicians would’ve killed to have written. Tom_Petty_Wildflowers

 

Tom Petty was and remains one of my all-time favorites. In the hypothetical desert island discs top-5, Wildflowers or Damn the Torpedoes! would definitely be on there. He passed too soon. The great ones always do. And while his death leaves a massive hole in my life, at least I have all the music he created to try to fill that hole.

 

 

 

Influences, Part 2: Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes

I loved the comic strip Calvin & Hobbes.  Growing up, it was always the one comic I looked forward to reading more than any other in the newspaper.  My freshman geography teacher in high school read them to the class first thing every morning.   He also – mind you, this is just speculation – added a bit of something extra to his coffee every morning.  But it was his last year before retirement, so I think he was a little beyond caring at that point.

My own comics reflect more than a little influence from Bill Watterson’s masterpiece of sequential storytelling.  I’m nowhere near his mastery of facial expression and body language, and I’ve struggled to achieve his seemingly off-hand skill at suggesting a very detailed background with a few simple strokes, but he gives me something to aim for.

Above all, though, I fell completely, head-over-heels in love with the Tracer Bullet character.

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(c) Universal Comics Syndicate

A lot of my approach to the tone and rhythm of dialogue and narration in the Hazzardous Pay books owes a pretty massive debt to Calvin’s imaginary private eye.  When I imagine Hazzard’s world, there’s more than a healthy dose of Tracer Bullet in there.

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(c) Universal Comics Syndicate

Tracer Bullet may not have been the most frequently-recurring character in Calvin & Hobbes, but he was always one of my favorites.  Tracer’s look, his implied heavy drinking and chain smoking (crazy to think this was a comic strip that ran in thousands of papers, was viewed by millions of people, and featured a kid imagining he was smoking and drinking), his over-dramatic narration…they’re all pieces of Hazzard now.  Just as Watterson was doing an over-the-top homage to the film noir of the Golden Age of Hollywood, I like to think Hazzard is an homage to the beautiful absurdity of things like Calvin & Hobbes.

And they’re a damn-sight better than any of Frank Miller’s noir-influenced comics.

Paperback Writer

The Beatles were my first musical love.  It’s not that unusual, of course.  Lots of folks claim the Fab Four as their favorite band.  They’re one of the most popular bands in history, with scads of #1 hits, platinum albums, and a sound that, while it evolved from album to album, was always clearly and definitively them.

The first song I can remember singing is “Yellow Submarine.”  I couldn’t have been more than four or so, singing along with my dad while he strummed his guitar.  I’ve memorized their lyrics, listened to their albums over and over and over until they are etched upon every fiber of my being, watched the movies…hell, even Magical Mystery Tour, and that thing is difficult to watch.  I tear up at the end of Abbey Road with those final lyrics from “The End.”  And I’m a little bit obsessed with “Paperback Writer.”

Is “Paperback Writer” the reason I want to be a writer?  Maybe.  I’m not entirely sure.  But it doesn’t really matter, honestly.  It’s a bit of a mission statement for me, at this point.  I’m building up quite the backlog of written work now.  I’m well into book 5 (I know, book 1 isn’t going to be published until December, but hey, why wait to get ahead?), figuring out how to get the short stories back out there so folks can read them, and thinking ahead to what I can do in the future with Hazzard and maybe even some other characters and settings and genres.  Maybe I’m getting too far ahead of myself.  I still don’t know how well the first book will even sell, if there will even be a market for what I write.  But I kinda hope and think there might be.  Everyone likes snarky protagonists, right?  And mysteries that have actual, genuine clues scattered throughout, so the twist feels earned instead of just being a, “Haha, the killer was this character who had never even been mentioned until just now!”

I guess I’m saying I think I’m a pretty solid writer, and I think folks will like what I do.  And it’s probably all because of a song about a guy writing novels in his spare time.

Influences, Part 1 of Many: Terry Pratchett

As a writer, I sorta have to acknowledge my influences.  There are many, and I wouldn’t be who I am today as a writer if it weren’t for them.  So, to assign credit/blame where it’s due, this will be the first of several posts outlining my influences and what they’ve done for me.  Today, it’s the work of Terry Pratchett!

Sir Terry Pratchett is, of course, the beloved author of the Discworld series, 40-odd books set in a world where magic is real and the world is a flat disc sitting on the back of four elephants that in turn stand on the back of a giant space turtle, the Great A’Tuin.

It’s still hard for me to talk about Sir Terry, who passed away last year from complications related to a rare form of early-onset Alzheimer’s.  He

The Discworld, Art by Paul Kidby

Art by Paul Kidby, the definitive Discworld artist.

wrote right up until the end, crafting books with speech-to-text software when his brain betrayed him and forgot how to read and write.  But his sense of humor, his love for the absurdity in the world, was still as strong as ever.  So was his sense of anger.  Neil Gaiman, his friend and writing partner for the novel Good Omens (one of my absolute favorite books of all time, and the novel that introduced me to both Pratchett and Gaiman), described Sir Terry as a man driven by a deep sense of anger with the injustice of the world.  Whatever else Pratchett wanted, he wanted justice to be done and for good to win in the end.  It may not be a clean win – in many of the Discworld books, the “good guys” win, but with compromises and conditions.  Pratchett was, behind the jokes and the satire and the fantasy tropes that he constantly subverted, a bit of a realist about human nature.  Folks aren’t usually good or evil, right or wrong.  There are gray areas, and you have to acknowledge them if you want your writing to have any real depth to it.

I guess the biggest thing I learned from reading Terry Pratchett’s novels was that you can tell a ridiculous story, one with fantasy elements or bizarre sci-fi elements, and it can be funny and affecting and emotional and real in a way that non-genre fiction often can’t be.

Favorite Terry Pratchett Novels:

1. Small Gods.  Sir Terry’s beautiful examination of the value of faith and belief, not just in some higher power, but in yourself.

2. Thief of Time.  The Monks of History are tasked with making sure effect follows cause, that past comes before present, but the building of a mysterious clock in Ankh Morpork (where everything big always happens) and the weird powers of a thief-turned-novice-monk might not mean the end of the world, just the end of Time itself.

3. Witches Abroad.  The Witches novels are my favorites, but that’s because I’m partial to Granny Weatherwax and her pragmatic approach to magic (or what she calls “headology”).  This isn’t the first Witches novel, but it’s probably the best, and it carries the idea of the power of stories and narrative causality to a perfect conclusion.  Someone is using stories to get their way, and it’s up to the Witches to stop them.  Assuming some jerk doesn’t drop a house on their heads first.

4. Reaper Man.  Death takes a holiday as Bill Door, works on a farm, and sorta ends up saving the universe from the Auditors.

5. Guards!  Guards!  The first of the Commander Vimes novels.  Ankh Morpork’s Night Watch is where the worst of the worst end up, the folks too lazy, dumb, or not-self-aware who can’t hack it in the daylight.  But when a dragon mysteriously starts appearing around the city and causing random havoc, it’s up to Vimes and his small team of nearly-useless fellows to solve the case and save the day.