Colour-code your characters. It’ll save a lot of confusion.

The Nebraska Sandhills, where most  of the new novel takes place

‘What is writing a novel like? The beginning: a ride through a spring wood. The middle: the Gobi Desert. The end: going down the Cresta run.’

That Edith Wharton knew a thing or two, didn’t she?

I surprised myself by starting a novel in Scotland. I got 20,000 words down in quite a hurry. And I fooled myself into thinking it really was going to be that easy. Twenty thousand a month, I calculated, meant 60,000 by midsummer. Another month for straightening out the bends, and bingo. Should be done by about August.

Yes. I know. And thank you to that part of my brain which always – always – wants to reduce everything to simple mathematics. Will you please shut up?

The beginning was such an easy ride. I had a character on a long journey, by car. Portland, Oregon to western Nebraska, in a winter storm. He’s eighty years old, so he can think about all kinds of past experiences as he ticks off the miles along Interstate 80. He can spin yarns, reminisce, express opinions. All good entertaining stuff. When he arrives in the Panhandle, he puts up in a hotel, and thinks about the ordeal ahead of him: a visit to the ranch where he grew up sixty years ago, and to the nursing home where his sister has had a stroke. I skipped through that lot. It was a piece of cake. Not so much a ride through a spring wood as a barefoot run across warm sands towards a tropical sea.

And then. Then I started to ponder how to take it forward. How to account for my man’s life over the past six decades. How to explain his refusal ever to return home over the same period. What exactly was the unspeakable act by his father that drove him away? Why didn’t he even come back for the old man’s funeral? And so on.

Over the past six weeks I have written endless notes to myself. I have compiled  timelines for several major characters, both living and dead. I have stared out of the window even more than usual. I have sweated over a huge wall-chart where all my characters’ lives are laid out in parallel. (It’s a pity the wallpaper I used didn’t let the post-it notes adhere to it, meaning that half of them are now on the floor. How I wished I’d stuck to my plan and colour-coded them.)

And then the problem of how to relay all the information I have about the guy’s father (dead these thirty years), his grandfather, who conked out in 1953 when my protagonist was thirteen. Throw in a character we have yet to meet who may be my man’s real father and will most likely have to be murdered before I’ve finished – or at the very least ‘disposed of’. And weave in a role for the author Mari Sandoz, who was courted by pop for twenty years until she shook him off.… These things can tax a fellow’s brain.

However. I have somehow squeezed out a further 12,000 words and am ready to set out across the Gobi (see Wharton, above).

Still crossing sand, and no whiff of the sea. Yet.

The cowboy looked me up and down. 'What did ya, lose a bet?' he asked.

So Labor Day has come and gone. Despite being preoccupied with Brexit, and the unseemly behaviour of the grotesque toffs that have infested British politics, I did note the passing of the USA’s last public holiday before Thanksgiving. It marked an anniversary.

Twenty-five years ago, on Monday 5^th September 1994, I set off on a journey to get the measure of Nebraska.

I’d been studying the state’s literature and history for some time, and had made two road trips, in 1991 and ’93 – first along the Oregon Trail, then into the Panhandle to visit Mari Sandoz’ sister Caroline.

Listening to her talk about the old days in Nebraska, I decided I needed to know the place better, to get the feel of it. I came up with a journey. State line to state line, from the banks of the Missouri to the Wyoming border, from the lowest point, 840 feet above sea level, to the highest, 5424. On a bicycle, which I would have to borrow. I'd not, at this stage, heard of the annual Bike Ride Across Nebraska, or BRAN.

I started in the little town of Rulo, and over the next ten or twelve days made my way along the Republican river valley, north to the Platte, finally following Lodgepole Creek towards Kimball. As the temperature hovered around the mid-90s, parts of my face and arms turned a dark shade of brown. I developed white crow’s feet. My ankles got burned, as did the tops of my ears. My front tyre blew at seven one morning and I found to my horror that there was nothing out there to lean a bike against – no fence, no wall, no telegraph pole. I was chased by dogs, several of them. I talked to strangers in bars, cafés, in the shade of grain elevators, in small-town museums and family-run diners. I camped in State Parks and in city parks. I was haunted in my tent at night by cackling maniacs – and only realised years later that I’d been listening to nothing more sinister than a bunch of coyotes. I sheltered in whatever shade I could find: under lone cottonwoods, rustling cornstalks, and on one occasion in the shadow of a little camper-van beside Highway 30 – after asking the driver’s permission.    

After several days with a balmy wind behind me, the weather turned. At Ogallala a storm blew through town, flooding the streets and re-arranging the trash cans. By next morning the temperature had dropped fifty degrees, the wind had made an about turn. And it had freshened up some. Fifty-five miles an hour, I was reliably informed by the guy in the pick-up who rescued me from the ensuing dust-storm, took me into Chappell in his pick-up and handed me over to his mother. She fed me, then put me up for the night. Cowboys, eh?

At Kimball, you have to turn off the highway onto dirt roads to find Promontory Point. That was the best part of the ride. Now convinced that I would make it, I enjoyed myself. There was no traffic, the weather had settled down, and the fields were full of wheat stubble and sunflowers. I passed a delightful old schoolhouse, and saw a herd of deer cross the road in from of me and disappear - like water sinking through sand.

I arrived at my destination around midday and found a concrete obelisk marking the state’s highest point, over a mile high. They had a metal desk there, and inside it a notebook filled with signatures. I added mine, after checking through a few pages to make sure I was the first Brit.

Back in England, I wrote a book about my trip. I called it Mountaineering in the Sierra Nebraska. I briefly thought I’d sold it to a Midwest publisher, but for some reason they pulled the plug. It languished under my desk for many years, and then, three years ago I re-branded it and published it myself. The new title was a gift – from an old-timer I met on a seat outside a barber shop in Red Cloud. I had a cracked bearing and wanted to know if there was anyone in town who fixed bikes. ‘We-ell, there used to be a guy,’ he said, pausing to light a cigarette and scratch his head. Then, with superb timing, he added the words which gave me title. ‘But he died.’

 

If you’d like to read There Used to Be a Guy… But He Died, it’s available from amazon in hard copy at $10.95, or on Kindle at $4.33: http://amzn.to/1T3XxRP

 

Memories of Nebraska (2)

The passage of time

 

 

One of the things I enjoy about Nebraska is that so much of its recent history is on the surface. I took this picture on a neighbour's ranch when I was staying in a hunting lodge in Cherry County. That was 2011. I'll be interested to see whether the wagon is still holding up. I kinda doubt it.



 

Memories of Nebraska (1)

The Wildcat Hills. (Don't believe what they tell you:  Nebraska ain't all flat.)

I've been thinking a lot about Nebraska recently. It's coming up to 25 years since I borrowed a bike and rode across the state from east to west, and on that entire trip I never took a single photo. I was travelling light.

 

I'm planning to re-visit my favourite haunts next year and collect images of the many places that still live with me. In the lead-up, I'll be publishing a few of my favourite pictures from the other 15 or 16 visits I've made to the Cornhusker state. Or is it 17? I have a list somewhere....

A short break in rural Nebraska

I left Red Cloud Saturday morning and drove for five hours, mostly through fog and drizzle, to arrive midday at Ainsworth, where I visited my good friends Keevin and Dottie Arent. Keevin's dad grew up in the red house (as featured in my book The Red House on the Niobrara) and later bought land in the Ainsworth area.

After taking it easy Saturday afternoon we hit the road Sunday morning and took a tour of the ranch land where my host grew up. He knows that area intimately and is a mine of information on the people who used to, or still do, live there. Of course, as in any agricultural area, it's often a story of the way things used to be - where the apple orchards were, the peaches or mulberries, the fishing lakes, the best hunting spots, the old wooden houses now completely erased, the occasional barn still standing. We grow older, and things change. Sometimes it's really quite poignant.

Before we left Highway 20 we swung by the site of the old Army Air Field, now the municipal airport - which is where I photographed this rather amusing picture:

From there we drove a little further west, and called in at Johnstown, where the 'Hanover' scenes for the movie of Willa Cather's 'O, Pioneers!' were shot. More relevant to our immediate needs, the town still has an active bar, The L-Bow Room, where we enjoyed a cool beer. So nice not to be in a hurry - or driving, for that matter.


The L-Bow Room a handy place for a quiet beer on a Sunday morning.

Leaving Johnstown, we went on down to cross the Niobrara at Norden Bridge and follow the north bank. The scenery was all blue (sky) and yellow (leaves), a delightful outlook. We drove as far as Meadville, where we stopped at a wonderful riverside joint I remembered from a previous visit.

 



Great place for a lunch - if they're open.

 

We lingered over a beer (Fat Tire in my case), a steak sandwich (with cheesy potatoes), a drop more of the good stuff and a plate of cherry pie a la mode. It's a super place, and although the sun was shining there was a nip in the air, so we were glad they'd had the good sense to fire up the cast-iron stove. Speaking for myself, I could easily have put my head on the table and had a little nap, but, to reference Robert Frost, we had 'miles to go before we slept'... back over the river.

.

 



This morning it was definitely Monday - no disputing the fact -, and back to work for this writer. I took my leave around 9.30 and drove slowly down to Kearney where, this evening, I entertained a small gathering at the city library to the story of how I ended up being a debut novelist at 67. Before they dropped off I made them listen to a few extracts from Cody, The Medicine Man and Me. Tomorrow I head for Omaha, where I'll be giving a talk at the Bookworm, 6 p.m.. It's meant to be quite the happening place in town.

 

More in due course.



 

Back in Nebraska and ready to work - and talk.

I've had my break. Been to New Mexico. Had the quick weekend in San Francisco seeing my old college buddy after 18 years. And breathed a lot of wood smoke. The air down there was thick with the stuff, and seasoned with flakes of black ash.

Two days' driving brought me back to Red Cloud, where the good folk at the Willa Cather  Foundation have housed me in what was the author's second childhood home, on the corner of 6th and Seward. It is like moving into a museum. It is exquisite.

It's not the first time I've had a literary hero watching my every move: it happened when I was resident in the Kerouac House in Orlando, 2004.

I gave my talk at the Foundation last night. For a town of barely 1,000 we didn't do badly at all. I spoke about my early life and career and explained how I came to be a debut novelist in my late 60s. Then I talked about Cody, The Medicine Man and Me, and read a few passages.

Today has been a rest day. Rest and laundry day, I should say. It soon stacks up. Tomorrow I drive north to visit friends in Alliance, and on Monday it's back to Kearney for an evening talk at the library (7.00 pm). From there it'll be Omaha for the Tourism Conference, Aurora for the Nebraska Writers Guild, with further addresses at Omaha's Bookworm bookstore and Francie and Finch in Lincoln. That's Saturday night before I fly out of Lincoln Sunday morning - and home.

It is just great to be back in this state. It may be provincial, it may be slow, but people have time. When I went for breakfast at the Bowling Alley this morning the guy was about to close the kitchen down, but he cranked it up and cooked me an eggs, bacon and hash browns meal before telling me about his own writing ambitions in the horror and fantasy genres. I got chatting too to the owner, a retired school teacher who doubles as a Sunday morning pastor, provider of activities for the town's youngsters - 'And oh, just excuse me while I go pay my beer man. Been waiting for this delivery.'

After that I rested, then drove out to Bladen for a lunch which has filled me so thoroughly I doubt I'll eat again until tomorrow morning on the road.

The sitting-room.

 

‘I was Maya Angelou’s bongo-player’ – or, I’d Forgotten All About the New Christy Minstrels….

 

The River Inn Resort, Brownville Nebraska

People are so kind. On Wednesday I happened upon the River Inn Resort in Brownville (pop 143, give or take a few). It’s an old river-boat – a barge, I guess - fitted out as a floating hotel and tethered to the bank of the Missouri river about half a mile from the town. Upstream you have a view of the iron bridge that connects Nebraska with Missouri. Downstream you just watch the quiet water slide down south with its cargo of mud and driftwood. I chatted with the owners, who also have the Lyceum bookstore and restaurant in town, and told them my story. Within half an hour we had agreed that a reading might be a good idea when I come through next year for the Sandoz Conference up at Chadron. And, since I was in town, why not accept the offer of a room for the night? Oh, and join them and a few friends for dinner?

Among the friends was 82-year-old Randy Sparks, founder of the New Christy Minstrels. He had some great stories to tell over a few beers. My favourite was the one that began with the wonderful opening line, ‘I was Maya Angelou’s bongo-player.’ This was back in the late 1950s, down in California,  when they were on the same bill at some night-club - he as a singer, she as a dancer (to calypso music). She told him that for her act she could do with a bongo-player. Nobody in his band could play them so he spent four days practising and went to it.

 

Today, Saturday, I'm in Red Cloud for my reading at the Willa Cather Memorial. More on that tomorrow, or when I get home.