Journal Notes

I began my work week reflecting on a conversation I had yesterday with one of my favorite authors, Jane Candia Coleman. Jane is a two time Spur Award winner and an exceptional writer of the Old West. It was a pleasure to speak with her about her work (Doc Holliday’s Woman, Tumbleweed, and Silver Queen just to name a few) and share with her how inspired I am by her talent. She encouraged me to keep writing regardless of the challenges and invited me to her home next month when I’m in Arizona. There’s a quote about encouragement that I keep near my desk. It’s by pastor and author William Arthur Ward. I dusted it off this morning to give it another read. “Flatter me, and I may not believe you. Criticize me, and I may not like you. Ignore me, and I may not forgive you. Encourage me, and I will not forget you. Love me and I may be forced to love you.” Life is exceptionally hard. We all need a boost from time to time, an encourager to help us through the rough patches. Jane Coleman was that for me. I hope to pay that kindness forward today. I’ll be writing about Elizabeth Custer and her efforts to preserve her husband’s memory. Should anyone want a copy of Thunder Over the Prairie I have two to give away today. Just drop my an email and let me know you’d like one. I’ll get it off to you.

There’s a very good possibility that I’ll be leaving the Grass Valley area in 2010. Maybe a change of scenery will help to shake things up in my life. I’ll miss my church family and friends, but I guess I’ve never been a cradle to grave kind of person. As an army brat I was always on the move. It seems natural to me. I’ve lived in Northern California longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. The more books I work on the more isolated I become. I don’t think I’d mind the isolation living by the beach in Monterey. It’s something I always dreamed of doing anyway. I’m juggling two books right now and am going to begin a third next month. I’ve been putting the third title off for a while because I know it’s going to be emotionally difficult to put all that happened on paper, but it’s time. Who knows, maybe I’ll find this thing called “happy” everyone has told me so much about.

I felt well enough yesterday to make a pilgrimage to the library to review microfiche that had just come in from the Kansas State Historical Archives. One of the books I’m working on is about women journalists from the Old West and Carrie Nation is the current focus of study. Throughout the late 1800s and into the early 1900s, Carrie led a crusade against alcohol. She published a newspaper called The Smasher. She named the paper after one of her most violent crusading actions, smashing up barrels of liquor with an ax. She was dedicated to the idea that alcohol was the root of all evil. She was married twice and both husbands drank to excess. She took her intolerance of the beverage to the streets and saloons. She was arrested several times for her violent actions, but it never deterred her in the slightest. One of the sections in her newspaper was dedicated to the many letters she received. The letters were both in favor and against, what she stood for. She bravely ran all the letters from readers and drinkers who opposed her position that liquor was the “devil’s tonic.” The letters criticizing her behavior were published under the heading “From Hell”. The letters praising her bravery were published under the heading “From Heaven.” Whether or not you agree with what she did you have to admire her spunk and dedication to a cause. If Carrie Nation were alive today she would come face to face with a faction of the public who believe that alcoholism is disease and that some individuals need help with their problem. I have an uncle that falls into that category. I’m trying to trivialize the nightmare that is addiction. It’s a difficult thing when you start to notice that someone close to you has a drinking problem. You see little signs, like when they ask the waitress what wine goes with a grand slam breakfast. Or when they go to a liquor store and bring their own hand truck. Or when they walk up and down the bar pointing at people’s drinks, asking, “Are you gonna finish that?” I realize that some people get dealt a lousy genetic hand. I’m sure there are some physical predispositions to alcohol abuse – maybe lacking certain chemicals in your brain, maybe a problem with your metabolism, maybe just being a Kennedy. Many people go for decades without addressing their steadily worsening problem. Occasional cracks in their armor may leave them shaken but not stirred to action. Others, however, get tired of French-kissing the gutter drain and join Alcoholics Anonymous. I think that Alcoholics Anonymous is truly a wonderful, lifesaving organization, and Carrie Nation would have been proud of the group. Not everyone with a problem believes that AA is the solution. Some of my relatives are still in denial about their addition. Anyone in AA will tell you that first and foremost, you have to admit to having a problem. Here are some blurred signposts that might signal you’re weaving down the road to alcoholism. 1. If you walk out of the movie Leaving Las Vegas early because you’re thirsty. 2. If Boris Yeltsin asks you for your autograph. 3. If you have to paint the words “don’t panic, you’re at home” on the ceiling above your bed. There’s no doubt Carrie Nation was an extremist, but sometimes that’s what it takes to get someone’s attention.

I had no idea how many anti-Earp people were in the world until Thunder Over the Prairie came out. The bulk of the book is about the “most intrepid posse” of the Old West. I spent years researching the material and made sure the book included was a comprehensive bibliography, as well as numerous end-notes, and a foreword by the Director of the Kansas Heritage Center, explaining where the information came from. Even with all that, there are still a handful of people who insist the story is fabricated. The one that is making the biggest noise is very upset about a quote used in the book from an 1881 edition of the Dodge City Globe about Wyatt’s vendetta ride. The report from the paper notes that Earp and his men killed 150 men in that ride. The outraged critic insists I made that up. Without bothering to check the facts for himself or contact the Director of the Kansas Heritage Center himself, he has taken to openly blasting me on a website dedicated to complaining and knocking various authors. Dealing with that individual consumed a big portion of my work day. I passed his complaints on to my editor. His hope is to get the book taken off the shelves. He’s furious that it’s been optioned for a screenplay too. There are those days when writing isn’t everything I dreamed it would be. People who say you lied never have to back it up. They only have to say it. I happen to believe if Wyatt Earp was alive he would have called this guy out. That’s the way they settled things in the Old West. I’m a fan of frontier justice. I’m also a fan of truth. I don’t see frontier justice making a come back, but I’d certainly like to see truth become commonplace. I’ve often wondered what happened to truth. How did it become so unaccepted. I read a quote that explains it better than I ever could. It’s from Joan Beck of the Chicago Tribune. “Lying is commonplace in our society – government, courts, churches, and homes. Sometimes for what may seem the best of reasons, often for personal gain, almost routinely for social or business convenience (?Tell him I’m in a meeting.’) We cannot assume that honesty is a way of life in our country – or the world. The forces of society have subtly squeezed us into new definitions of honest and morality. Absolutes of right and wrong have largely disapproved and have been replaced by a fuzzy, gray fog of inconsistent moral choice.”
Excellent quote! If anyone would stop to contemplate the notion perhaps things would change. But I guess to a lot of people it’s easier just to call someone a liar without having to prove your case. Someone like Earp wouldn’t have bothered to wait for the motive behind the lie to come to light. I like to think he would have stared him down the barrel of a gun and just before he turned the coward’s head into a canoe told him, “You’re a blackguard, a hypocrite, and a stench in the nostrils of honest men.” It’s extreme, I know. Guess you can’t get rid of all the dogs just because one has fleas.
I’m sure I’ll hear from this same flea invested dog when the book about Elizabeth Custer comes out. What else does he have to do?

Sales for Thunder Over the Prairie continue to drop off aas quickly as visits to this site. And talks with Walter Hill have stalled while the remaining funds to make the film are being raised. We have partial funding, but getting another entity to committ to additional money is slow going. We are told quite often that “Western movies don’t sell.” If you can’t open a picture with the kind of revenue a film like Harry Potter makes it isn’t worth the studio’s time. It’s exhausting. This pneumonia I’ve had since July 14 continues to drag on. My condition was further aggrevated yesterday by a close family member who insists I “let go of the past.” She was referring to my brother. It is a past event to her and those around her. Her investment in the tragedy is a letter to Rick every now and then. There is no real emotional tie and no respect for the devotion I have for him. My brother is not gone yet. He languishes in a prison, hurt, with broken teeth the prison will not allow me to help fix. Since his beating his teeth have been broken and all efforts to get him dentures have failed. In fact, the prison dentist told Rick that she “would confiscate the teeth he has remaining if he didn’t shut-up about it.” That kind of treatment makes it hard for me to put this “in the past.” Of course, my loving family don’t get the calls about such hardships and hurts. I believe when she says “let go of the past” what she is really saying is “don’t mention this situation to me anymore because it interferes with my life.” The situation with my brother is my past, present, and future. His continued care is my responsibility. Where he lives, if he lives, is of utmost concern to me. I won’t let him be tossed out onto the street to be thrown into the gutter. And so we learn that aunts, neices, cousins, grandmothers, do not want to be bothered with your hurts. Their motto is “Don’t deal, forget,” and their family crest is a drawing of several people sitting around a television, never dealing with what is. So I shall leave them to themselves. I think I’ll make a trip to Custer’s Last Stand next month. I have more research I need to do on the book about Elizabeth Custer. For a little while maybe I can surround myself with people who know how difficult it is to leave things in the past. At the very least I have that in common with Libbie.

According to Amazon.com, sales for Thunder Over the Prairie have begun to slip a bit. Perhaps things will pick up once everything is in place for the film. Award winning director, screenwriter Walter Hill will be writing the screenplay. He does westerns better than anyone I know. I loved the Long Riders, Broken Trail, and Geronimo. While I wait for all that to come to pass, I’m focused on the Elizabeth Custer book and lining up more speaking engagements. I thought I’d pass on an email I’ve received about one of the other books. Thunder, however, is my favorite book that Howard and I have been able to write and I hope it has a long shelf life. “Hi Chris, I met you last year when you came to speak to a 7/8 grade Social Studies class. My daughter was in that class and really enjoyed your presentation. At the end of the school year one of my students gave me a gift certificate to the Book Seller, so my daughter and I picked out one of your books, A Beautiful Mine. I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed reading the book and look forward to purchasing more that you have written. I think it would make a nice gift for girls heading out on their own in the world to encourage them to work to achieve their goals. Thank you for such well written books on a fascinating era! Helen
Cope” Thank you, Helen. You’ve made a pneumonia ridden gal very happy.

I’ve been able to get a lot of writing done since I’ve been sick. Usually I breakup my work day with a routine trip to FedEx or the post office, but I’m unable to do that so I’ve just concentrated on the next book. For a little while I’d hoped this bought of bronchial pneumonia would take me out of this world. I tire of the struggle. I continually worry about my brother that’s in prison and it’s too painful to hear the hurt in my parent’s voices over what happened. My mother is justified in how badly she feels. Her execution?let’s just say she’s like a mother lion that has her mouth around her cub’s neck – sometimes she clamps down a little too hard. Maybe all mothers are like this, but my mother can work a 48 years-gone umbilical cord like Zorro lighting matching with a whip. She’s got the psychological and emotional drop on me. And you know what, a mother’s claim on your psyche is wholly substantiated because you love her so much. My mom has been right there for all the investigation into the accusations made against Rick. She’s seen the letters from officials who confirm everything Rick has said and can backup his side of the story. She’s seen the medical reports that show there’s no way he ever raped the accused in the manner she claimed. She knows and it’s killing her. She wants to be heard, but no one is listening. And the sad sorry truth is no one ever will. My mom wants to protect her kids from anymore hurt. That’s her job. There’s a very good explanation for why cult leaders force members to cut off all contact with their families. Because they know that their spell will be broken and all the mind control will disappear the instant you hear your mother saying: “And I suppose that just because your new friends are having themselves castrated so they can go on the spaceship, you have to do it too, right?” The relationship between mothers and children never changes, and that’s because no matter how rich or powerful you are, your mother still remembers when you were three and put SpaghettiOs up your nose.

Today I took some time from thinking about the demands of my job, missing family members, and loved ones currently incarcerated, and concentrated solely on what the heck I’m going to wear to my high school reunion. In contrast to the sad events in my recent past I thought it would be a nice break. It wasn’t. It just brought up a lot of self esteem issues. I think everyone has low self-esteem to some degree. Because no one can ever take a compliment. They either totally dismiss it or they confess some really horrible thing about themselves that you would never have otherwise known. You’ll tell someone, “Oh, you have a beautiful smile.” They’ll say, “My back tooth is completely black.” “Oh. Well. That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing.” “It was a dollar.” Fashion. People have been obsessed with fashion ever since the Garden of Eden when Eve said to Adam, “You know, that fig leaf you have on is so last season.” During prehistoric times everyone wore the same thing every day. I mean, look at Wilma Flinstone. She’s always sporting the same tight, short skirt with that shredded zigzag cut three inches above her knee. Where does she shop? Fashion is commerce built on envy. Know why fashion magazines are always thicker than a Tokyo phone directory? Because they’re full of ads that are tying to make you think that if you use this raspberry/kiwi/placenta thigh cream, your life is going to change, and articles that are trying to make you believe that if you wear this Dolce and Gabbana dress, you’re going look just like the ninety-five pound heroin addict who’s modeling it. I don’t know what I’m going to wear yet, but it won’t be anywhere close to a size 2 or 4, although it will have a 2 or a 4 as the second digit if that counts for anything. Here are two basic rules of fashion I will adhere to however. Never wear a Budweiser cap with a Coors T-shirt. Commit. When using a Magic Marker to color in your ankle to cover a hole in your pantyhose, make sure the Magic Marker color matches the hose. Now, where did I put that J.C. Penneys catalog?

I took my research books to the emergency room yesterday. I didn’t know how long I’d be waiting to see a doctor and I hate wasted time. I’m trying to find the necessary sources to back up information I have that notes that General Custer had a child with a Cheyenne woman named Monahsetah. I have numerous books on the subject, but the bibliographies are woefully lacking. I’ll need to go to the source and try and locate Custer’s great, great, great, great granddaugther Gail Kelly Custer. There’s nothing like actually going to the source of a story to find the answers you need. I decided yesterday that I’m going to have to employ the same method when it comes to getting to the bottom of the accusations against my brother. As distasteful as it may be, I’ve got to go to the source. I made an attempt at doing just that yesterday. I’m trying desperately to think things through this time. I don’t want to make another costly mistake. I’m struggling with broncial pneumonia at the moment and it’s reeking havoc with my emotions. Not that they weren’t running high to begin with, but this just makes the situation seem all the more desperate. I can’t let my brother die without a further fight. I got a letter from an attorney this past week that suggested I do just that. He had my best interests at heart, but I know I can’t let Rick die like that. I doubt this source I’ve contacted is reliable and I’ll be afraid for my life should a meeting come about, but I am compelled to do this.

Today is the next to last day on the eight week promotional tour for Thunder Over the Prairie. It’s too early to tell if the blitz had the long term effect I’d hope. The book has done well in the short term. I appreciate KNCO Radio. They are always enthusiastic about doing interviews with me on the material and both reporters had actually read the entire book prior to the broadcast. So today the signing is at a fabulous western clothing store in downtown Grass Valley. I’ll have to resist the temptation to spend any profit I make on the merchandise at the store. I’m broken hearted today, so I could be persuaded to believe that kind of spending is justifies. I received a letter yesterday about my brother Rick informing me that “there is simply nothing left to be done to save him and that it is time to allow myself to heal.” That seems like an impossibility. In the right now my hands are filled with bitterness and it’s all I want to taste. Hatred for the mother and daughter who brought about this ending washes over me. I’m living a nightmare I can’t wake up from. The ongoing horror is punctuated with book signings and talks of motion pictures, but it does little to ease the pain or rage. I want to look my tormentors in the face and ask why?