Prior to marrying George Custer a good friend of Libbie’s gave her some sage advise. “General Custer has elements of character which will develop…and, dear girl, some of that development rests with you.” Any character Libbie was unable to develop while they were married, she improved after he was killed. I’m fascinated with Libbie’s story because it shows how blind many people in love truly are. Just prior to the pair getting married, George was forthcoming about his vices. He told her that he drank (although he made a pledge to quit), cursed (because it was satisfying), was prone to eye a pretty face, played cards for money, and bet on horse races. These were all things that would eventually cause problems in their marriage, but she looked passed these particular faults. Actually, she not only looked passed them, but shared with her cousin that they were non-existant. In January 1864, she wrote, “I do not say Armstrong is without faults. But he never takes liquor, nor frequents the gaming-table, and though not a professing Christian yet respects religion.” Young love is intoxicating, but prone to overlooking flaws that could be big obstacles later on. It’s a glorious sickness. I know how George and Libbie’s story begins and ends, but filling in the life in between is what holds my interest in writing their story. Maybe I’ll learn something in the process.

Nothing has been the same since my brother went to prison five years ago. Not only is has his constant care become a responsibility I never would have imagined I’d have to deal with, but it has eroded away at my hope. No matter what I was involved in prior to this life altering experience I had hope that things would work out for the best. That’s all gone now. Years ago when I entered the writing profession I knew it was going to be hard, but that hope and persistence would be the keys to any success. Even if that notion was naïve it was still the spark that enabled me get through difficult days of rejected book proposals and screenplays. I also had hope that good guys won once in a while. Now all I see is that bad guys have everything – and so much of it. I continue to write because I enjoy it, but I no longer think it matters. I see for my future more visits to federal prisons, more money spent on medical care and feeding of my brother, a front row seat in which to watch his ultimate demise, a divorce, because who would want to willingly take part in this, and a Hemingway style ending to a writer who once hoped to inspire and entertain readers. I still have just enough hope to think I can pull out of this tail-spin, but I’m growing impatient for it to happen.

Inspiration. Webster defines it as a “high level of feeling or activity.” Wikipedia defines inspiration as the “arousal of the mind to special activity or creativity.” However it’s defined I don’t feel I have it anymore. I used to have such dreams about writing. Lack of true success in that area has left me uninspired. I can trace the decline of my inspiration to the day they arrested my brother and took him away shackled and handcuffed. When that life altering event took place I realized that many individuals probably never meet their definitive destiny. I used to want to try in spite of that, but I lose a little bit more inspiration everyday. I’m worried about those misalignments in life. What is the greatest military strategist of all time was born a watchmaker in Switzerland, or what if the most brilliant medical mind in history was housed in a man selling shoes in Oklahoma? Well, look at the sun. It gives us our very life and sustenance, but there must be many other suns, which are no different from our own directing their sustaining rays at lifeless rock formations, or at nothing at all. They must feel a little gypped. That’s how I feel to some extend. Kind of like a video game would feel without a T.V. set. I don’t want to be one of those people who approach life with the exuberance of a curb, but I’m rapidly beginning to fall into that. I will continue to write because I love the craft, but I’m not inspired. I just don’t believe anything turns out like you plan. I don’t believe dreams come true. I believe some of us struggle and fight for a place in line and are told the “window is closed” just when you get to the counter with your dream. I believe you can work hard all your life an never realize a damn thing. Still, I can’t give up. I just wish I knew a way to ignite that small, flickering light of hope back into an inferno of inspiration. I’m open to suggestions.

I began this section of the website a few years ago to journal the daily life of a writer. By now the average visitor to the site is painfully aware of just how boring it can be. I enjoy writing – right now I’m working on a biography about Elizabeth Custer. The research is enjoyable and her story is fascinating. Combing over personal letters and digging through artifacts at the National Archives that once belonged to Libbie is thrilling. No one was more surprised than I was to find out that much of your day as an author would be spent building press packets, writing press releases, placing ads about the books in various magazines, contacting radio and television producers to arrange interviews, phoning individual book stores to tell them about your books and ask them to consider carrying it, and arranging scheduling book signings. Actual writing is secondary to all of this. If you do the job well, book sales increase. If you aren’t staying on top of that particular aspect of the job, sales fall off. I hope sales for Thunder Over the Prairie, the new book that just came out in June, will increase as the film’s executives get closer to the day we begin production on the story, but for now sales have slowed down considerably. Instead of working on chapter two of the Custer biography today, I’ll be trying to correct that problem. I am frequently approached by aspiring writers with great stories they want to put down on paper. They have the same look in their eyes I used to have. And I suspect that like me, they will hold onto their exuberant naiveté until they have to draft the a proposal to an editor explaining what the book is about and how the work will make money for the publishing house. That’s when the dream of writing the perfect story that will change – when dreams runs head-long into commerce. I’ve never seen any pictures of Hemingway struggling over the business aspect of writing. Yes, I know he was Hemingway, but the industry has changed substantial since then. Few things live up to what you have them built up in your mind to actually be. The few exceptions for me are as follows: Disneyland. I’m still just as excited to be there as I was making all the preparations to be there. Falling in love. Nothing comes close to that glorious sickness you feel when you know you can’t wait to see that special someone again. Of course nothing hurts worse than learning that same love of your life eventually married and his wife happens to be kind and beautiful. Rocky Road ice cream lives up to the hype. Pizza never disappoints. Bolgna. I’d wear Bolgna if it were socially acceptable. Holding my kids I teach at Wednesday night Bible study lives up to the hype. Harry Potter movies, Lanai, Hawaii, Bodie, California, and Christmas all live up to the hype. I’ll try to keep that in mind today as I phone stores across the U.S. to discuss my books. To add balance to the activity be assured I’ll be eating a carton of Rocky Road while I dial.

A week ago I was doing a book signing at Linda’s Old West Books in Tombstone, Arizona. While I was there I met a writer who had co-authored a book about the place many refer to as “the town too tough to die.” At some point during the signing the affable author mentioned that she was a researcher as well as a writer. Evidently she has done extensive research on a variety of frontier subjects for many western authors. When the topic of old west cemeteries came up she shared her knowledge of Tombstone’s Boot Hill. The author explained that most of what is currently known about the graveyard, it’s location and occupants, is incorrect. She said she knew the truth about the cemetery because she has the deed and some other original documents for Boot Hill. She added that she was not going to write about it herself, nor was she going to share the information with anyone other than one of her friends who was going to pen a book about the legendary spot. The entire discussion got me thinking about the accuracy of history as a whole. When you write non-fiction books about the old west you strive to use original source material. If original source material is in private hands, like the deed to Boot Hill for example, how accurate can any history be? At best, history writing can only be an unfinished work in progress. Even when the facts are reasonably well established, historians may differ radically in their interpretation of those facts. Some historians take those interpretations too seriously. Prior to the signing I’d received a couple of emails warning me not to come to Tombstone because of what I wrote about Wyatt Earp in the book Thunder Over the Prairie. The number of men I said Earp gunned down in his vendetta ride differed from theirs. This difference was so substantial to them they felt the need to threaten me. I can’t imagine being that upset about something that happened more than 125 years ago. When I told author Glenn Boyer about all this he was outraged. He called fellow author and Tombstone resident, Ben Traywick and asked him and a few of his hands, to be my body guards while I was in town. Mr. Traywick did not disappoint. I believe I’m in for more trouble when the book about Libbie Custer comes out. I already know that more than 6,000 personal documents on or about Libbie and her famous husband are in the hands of a gentlemen living near the Little Big Horn. And he’s not going to let me see them. I’ve asked. So, the book will only be as accurate as the material available. Oscar Wilde once said, “the one duty we owe to history is to rewrite it.” If many historical records are privately owned and only a select few are allowed to examine them, history will always be rewritten.

Some of the finest writing I’ve ever read was penned by screenwriter David Webb Peoples. Peoples wrote the Unforgiven and I think it’s a brilliant piece of film writing. I couldn’t help thinking about one of the final scenes in the screenplay this morning. Seeking vengeance isn’t right, but in a well written western it’s so satisfying. I fear for my brother’s life everyday and knowing he’s fading away while the guilty parties continue on without a worry makes my blood boil. And so I turn to David Peoples and his spectacular work Unforgiven for a taste of justice. Little Bill is holding court in a saloon with his deputies. Outside the saloon, in an upright coffin is Ned, Munny’s friend, a man that has been as close to him as a brother. Little Bill tells his men, “Now if we divide up into four parties and hit all the farms and trails in a circle, we’re bound to find someone who seen them skunks (referring to Munny).” Little Bill is suddenly conscious of his own loud voice in a sudden silence that has swept the bar like a brushfire and, turning, he sees what everybody is staring at. Munny, with his 10-gauge shotgun leveled from the shoulder, is standing thirty feet away in the doorway. Taking a couple of sideways steps to get the door behind his back and sweeping the twin barrels in an ominous arc, he surveys the scene. Munny, a little drunk say, “Which one of you owns this place?” Nobody says a thing. Skinny stares pop-eyed from behind the bar and the sweat starts on his forehead and Little Bill is thinking coolly and everybody else is swallowing hard and looking at the shotgun. Munny, to an overweight man in front of him, “You there, fat man, speak up.” The man gulps and then Skinny screws up his courage and steps from behind the bar and gives it every bit of dignity his fear will permit. “I?I own this establishment,” Skinny says. “I bought it from Greely for a thous?.” “Better step clear, boys,” Munny says to the men around Skinny. And Skinny looks from side to side as people step away from him and he wants to say something desperately he wants to live, he wants?. “Hold on, mist?,” Little Bill interjects. Bah-whoom! Munny fires and smoke belches and Skinny is blown back against the wall and he falls to the floor a bloody mess. Little Bill is furious. “Well, sir you are a cowardly son of a bitch, because you have just shot down an unarmed man.” Munny points his gun at Little Bill. “He should have armed himself if he was gonna decorate his saloon with the body of my friend.” That level of animosity is how I’m feeling this morning. There’s nothing I can do about any of the wrong done to Rick though so I’ll just replay that section of this western masterpiece over and over again – changing the names of the characters in an effort to quiet the desperate pleas for help I hear everyday.

Although I was able to reconnect with some wonderful people from my past this Labor Day weekend, my 30 year class reunion was not without its awkward moments. The most memorable of the awkward moments occurred when I was asked to read a note I had written in one of my former classmate’s yearbook. Alfonso was a foreign exchange student at Buena High School. He was charming and personable and is very much the same now. I began the brief not to him in his yearbook with “Dear Pancho.” I asked him if that had been his nickname back then. He told me I was the only one who called him that and I named him after Pancho Villa. He neither looks like Pancho Villa nor was he from Mexico. He’s from Columbia! Evidentially, I was some sort of low-rent Don Rickles at 17. Another awkward moment came when I touched base with someone I dated a bit my senior year. Given how badly I treated him then he would have had every right to be rude to me now, but Jeff Bess was gracious and kind and behaved better than I deserved. The reunion gave me the opportunity to thank certain people for the positive influence they had on my high school years. Karen Derr was always sweet and no matter how busy she was she would stop and ask me how I was doing. And she was sincere. So were Susan Trick, Steve Smith, Janet Helton, and Tom Fair. Hopefully I’ve arrived on the other side of this historic occasion with not only a list of awkward moments, but new friends – people I never want to lose touch with, people that will make me a better person. I want to develop deeper friendships with Tracy Brown, Kate May, Cathy Hougham, and Robyn Hammon. You can never have enough friends. A friend is someone who can watch twelve straight hours of the Cartoon Network Jonny-Quest-a-Thon without uttering one word then get up and leave and not even say good-bye to me. A good friend is someone who can keep a secret, someone who likes to eat real food and not just salads, someone who’ll let me store some of my personal effects at their place, no questions asked, someone who doesn’t judge my mood swings, no matter how extreme they get, and most important, someone who will jerk the pen out of my hand should I begin any note with “Dear Pancho”.

Author Chuck Parsons forwarded a sonnet to me by Michener and I wanted to share it. “When people saw that I might be a writer a wise man gave advice profound and sane: I know that you by nature are a fighter but when the critics blast, you can’t complain. For that’s their job so think of something brighter. Don’t try riposte or struggle to explain, you’ll not succeed, just make yourself look slighter. And I advise you never to disdain the critic, for he boasts a clout that far surpasses yours: brains, style, facts and the use
of that huge daily paper. He’s the czar
with force to hammer you with harsh abuse. You’ll find recourse in the only one true shot: That you have writ the books and he has not.”

Another week with Libbie Custer and Nellie Bly? I’m going to be tracking down a story I heard last week about a court case involving Libbie and her nemesis, Frederick Benteen. According to my source she sued him for defamation of character several years after he had passed away. In all the writing I’ve done I don’t think I’ve ever researched a woman more dedicated to a single purpose than Elizabeth Custer. She fought everyday to bolster her husband’s reputation. Her motives were not simply economical either. She believed George had been accused of something he didn’t do and was willing to go to great lengths to prove it. I promised my brother I would do the same thing. Even if he dies where’s he’s at I will not stop. Libbie Custer will be my inspiration. I’m off to Tombstone at the end of the week. Historical writers Glenn Boyer and Ben Traywick will be there with me. No one knows more about Wyatt Earp than these men. It will be a thrilled to meet them in person and get their take on today’s history writers. Hope to hear something back about the film projects this week, but with all the fires in and around Los Angeles all decisions might be delayed. I’ve got a lot of work to do today so I will put into practice the best advice I ever received, “Shut-up and write.” Thanks Dad.

Yesterday I had the unique privilege to speak with author Gail Kelly-Cuter. Gail is a descendant of George Armstrong Custer and the information she provided about her family was invaluable. I’m writing a book about Elizabeth Custer for Globe and got some great stuff about George’s relationship with an Indian woman name Monahsetah. Monahsetah knew George was married and eventually Elizabeth found out about Monahsetah. Historians will no doubt argue George’s involvement with Monahsetah. Gail has already taken a few hits for the book. When I say hits I mean people have been rude and insulting to her. The woman has been hurt and publicly ridiculed. Whether or not you agree with her story she deserves better than that from so-called educated people. I believe the fountainhead of all this bad behavior has got to be daytime talk shows. What an intergalactic freak show these are. You tell me, what Rusty the Bailiff Fan Club meeting do they go to harvest these losers? Ricki Lake? Richard Bey? Jerry Springer? These people should be not be allowed to own a TV, for crying out loud, much less be on it. And you know their guests not only aren’t ashamed of their asinine antics, they positively revel in their own grand mal ignorance. Screaming in people’s faces, screaming at the audience, the audience screaming back?. There have been so many times over the last five years I just want to say forget this culture, pack up some jerky, and go time-share with Jeremiah Johnson. I don’t want some vacant-headed Quaker land. That’s not civility, that’s banality. And I’m not talking about Martha Stewart civility either, where there’s nine forks arranged around your dinner plate like some cutlery Stonehenge. I’m simply saying, treat people with some decency. You don’t agree with what someone wrote in a book, try to engage them in a grown-up conversation about where they got their information. Don’t make fun of them in front of a large group of people or carry on about their work on a website. I guess people feel they don’t have to be civil when they hide in the dark behind a keyboard in their home or office. I believe when civility breaks down, the fall of civilization is close behind. It seems we’ve all turned inward and in the process have forgotten there are other human beings on the other side of the insults we hurl or lies we tell that put a good man in jail. That’s where civility comes in.