Blog guest - Jack Owen, journalist, novelist

My guest today is British journalist Jack Owen who transplanted himself to the colonies – that is, North America, the United States. He’s been writing for a long time (we won’t ask how long!) Most but not all of his writing has to do with historical – mostly nautical – events.

He says that his books, anthologies, articles and short-stories are available online in ‘E and Tree’ versions, adding that ‘in the course of seeking information for stories about everything from Mushroom Growing to Murder, he has sailed oceans, climbed mountains and bent the ear of many bartenders. Cops and crooks have shoved guns in his face, society dames have hired him to ghost-write their life-stories. Editors have hired, fired and hired him again.’

Jack has written for publications as diverse as the National Enquirer to the National Fisherman and Sports Digest to Modern Maturity, ‘while playing many roles Upstairs and Downstairs to get the story.’

In a parallel life, sometimes serendipitously merging one with the other, he has fostered a second love and livelihood in antiquarian and contemporary books. As an active bookseller and appraiser in the late 1970s he has been a charter member, officer and former president of the FABA (Florida Antiquarian Booksellers Association).

Jack's 'Old Book Shop'

Welcome, Jack!

As a fellow Brit, I’m interested to know where you originated – doubtless some seaside resort?

London, but raised in the deep south at Eastbourne at war's end. It is promoted by PR people as the 'Suntrap of the South'. They are far less keen to record nearby Beachy Head, which shelters use from Atlantic storms from the west, as the Suicide Leap Site of the World. A fun place to scramble around as a child. Also, while every schoolboy can tell you the date of the Battle of Hastings. 1066, its location close by where Pevensey Castle ruins still stand to the east, was a playground too.

I served in the Royal Navy and I understand you did too. Tell us about that, please!

My time in the service came to an abrupt end shortly after the incident of the chipping hammer which broached the hull of a very famous frigate. She had been instrumental in sinking six U-Boats on one sortie. Honest, it was an accident.

Jack buried in a book en route to Suez...

Presumably, when you left ‘the Andrew’, you became a journalist. Or did you tackle lots of other writerly-useful jobs before that?

While on one Christmas leave out of Pompey (Portsmouth, UK – Ed) the editor of the Eastbourne Gazette allowed me to accompany staff reporters working court cases, council meetings, fires, accidents, and sob-stories. It also exposed me to the news-room hierarchy, and how to prop up a bar until my round had been bought in. (I wonder if any of my tankards still exist?) It made a change from being a temp at the Post Office sorting greeting cards and filling the coffers of local pubs with the cash money earned.

BTW, my first published news story was a three-paragraph squib about a UXB I found at the foot of Beachy Head, while beachcombing.

You were an investigative crime reporter and boating columnist in south Florida for half a century. Any tales you can tell about that? How did you get those jobs?

Working as a general reporter at the Camberley News when I got out of the service introduced me to the crime beat. My area included Broadmoor Institute for the Criminally Insane, and Sandhurst Military Academy, where the Windsor Royals and Hussein of Jordan did their square-bashing and got into trouble. Neither place readily doled out information, so tipsters were imperative. My expense accounts were sometimes a tad beer-stained and inventive. I broke several 'Stop Press' stories for Fleet Street evening papers, ahead of staff and freelance reporters, despite the Union edicts.

My greatest challenge was extracting a civil word from the spokesman for Scotland Yard, a Scot. He once acknowledged I would have to haul a multi-stabbed body across his threshold before he'd confirm foul play to any query I posed

America, with its 'Freedom of the Press' mantra in the early 1960s, was like happy hour for an alcoholic, for anyone working the police beat.

Jack on the job...

I’m about to start reading your first Porter saga, Midshipman Porter – In Harm’s Way. Is the Porter family based on actual persons?

Very much so. He's been my naval hero since I discovered him in the mid-1970s and accumulated quite a collection of and by him. His stepson was David Glasgow Farragut, of 'Damn the Torpedoes' legend, and his son David Dixon Porter was the second American Admiral (after his stepbrother) and Superintendent of the newly-created U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. He also was gung-ho writer of boys’ adventure stories.

 

Have you been tempted to use fictional and real characters in your Porter saga?

Family members percolated through the navy and political scene at a time when it was a very small pond and, seemingly, everyone knew everyone of consequence. The kid who became commodore was no squeaky-clean character, got into plenty of physical and political scrapes, but had more chutzpah than Horatio Hornblower and John Paul Jones combined.

I see that you like delving into so-called faction. And I take it that The Jekyll Island Enigma is a case in point. Can you tell us about that?

Jekyll Island as a winter resort for society was a precursor to Palm Beach by half a century. The 19^th century clientele preferred solitude among their own kind. The 20^th century generation, which faced, fought in and survived the First World War, tried to squeeze as much life out of every day – and night – as it could. Both upper levels of society, at home and abroad, were highly motivated to make the most, and keep it, as they could. Cutting corners, at the risk of other people's lives was part of the cost of doing business. Patriotism was fine and dandy, providing it didn't interfere with profits.

Wow. That sounds like today's breaking news!

There are plenty of examples on file of businessmen dealing with the enemy. In the Jekyll Island Club, the primary character of the story is a living example of a bygone era,. So are the menus and mores of an affluent, structured society where wealth, not accent, separated Americans.

On a more general note, it is said that ‘A life without books isn’t a life.’ As a book-seller, you’re bound to endorse that, I think. Do you know how many books on average you read in a year?

Maybe 30-40 fiction, but hit-skip, rummage, note, copy, post-it, hundreds of non-fiction books, manuscripts, files, ledgers, whatever in research. I prefer hard-copy versions to on-line cut and paste. I can have a semi-circle of books open to the appropriate place, ready to pounce on, instantly, several layers down a pile. I still don't trust computers. They too often get hiccups, freeze and die.

What are you reading at present?

Have three Kindle high-octane (shoot 'em up – sai 'em down) books on the go, at various stages. Have just read hard copy of J.K. Rowling's play The Cursed Child. Good luck with that. It seemed forced and recycled, but as a play for a night out in the West End, on a par with 'Peter Pan' in panto.

Currently on the coffee table: John Le Carré's The Night Manager; Stephan Talty's Empire of Blue Water (Henry Morgan's pirate army) and e. john robinson's(cq) Paint the Sea and Shoreline in Watercolors Using Special Effects. So far, I've spent the past two days painting the roof!

The Night Manager is one of my favourite books, Jack. I hope all that roof-painting won’t be affected by Hurricane Matthew!

As you clearly have a nautical bent, the prospect of being stranded on a desert island must have occurred to you before. What book would you take to a desert island?

Can you recall what book gave you the reading bug?

Probably Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Cruel Sea, or C.S. Forester's The African Queen for pleasure, and any Mother Earth Catalog from the 60s for survival..

Ah, Monsarrat. I read quite a few of his, and particularly enjoyed The Cruel Sea and The Kappillan of Malta. I was fascinated how Forester’s book and the film differed, too. 

What book left you cold?

James Joyce's Ulysses.

Say no more… In most cases, writers are also avid readers. Some readers stick to a particular genre of fiction, or even eschew fiction and prefer non-fiction. Besides local history and nautical fiction, what other books do you gravitate towards reading?

Basically, if it’s a book, I'll dip into it. As a former bookseller I had to get the gist lodged in my brain box for inquisitive customers posing inane questions like. 'Have you read every book in here?'

'Only the ones written from left to right', was my stock response.

In real life I have an eclectic range of interests and an interest in what makes other people tick, so I can pass it on in stories or articles.

Writers were readers first. Then they decide to write. Your naval career probably didn’t draw you to writing; if so, then what did?

Frustration, possibly. When I'd run through all my favourite authors’ books and nothing fulfilled my need, I began writing what I wanted to read.

Can you describe your writing process? What comes first, for example – the character, the plot, or a central theme or idea?

It’s taken a while to wean away from the reportage and journalism formal formula and the 'crop to the top' pyramid where the essence of the story is contained in the first paragraph. I always thought that was an evil plot schemed up by headline writers to make it so much easier for them to absorb the essence to conjure up the type font to fit the column count.

The bridge from newspaper stories and articles based on fact, to readable entertainments built upon figments of my imagination, was creating short stories. Fact and fiction is the difference between a judge recording the specs to choose a fishing tournament winner; or measuring the applause for the same story as told by the fisherman - after a few pints.

My previous non-fiction transition to faction books have been built around real, but embellished, incidents. Currently I'm twenty-three chapters into a 'pantser', and I'm having a blast. Nothing is planned. When it’s finished and I read it I'll find out whether its worthwhile putting into print.

In the past people asked: “What’s your motivation?”

My response has been: “The mortgage payment, works for me.”

Today it would be: “I can’t not write.”

I’d agree there, Jack. Many writers are driven to write. Who is your favourite character from one of your books and why?

Ballsy people who survive and inspire despite the odds. The much married Millie Talmadge in The Jekyll Island Enigma and the stowaway kid and his cat – Sammy Taylor and Bambino aboard The Yacht America in Florida's Civil War play second fiddle in the story, but remain admirable characters in my heart.

Where do you find inspiration?

Wherever and whenever a 'What if?' question comes to mind.

Some can be quite mundane; conjecturing about the mom in the check-out line using food stamps: are the kids a burden or a bonus? Others might be: Does all the Florida Lottery Money really go toward education? Or: Why do dogs chase squirrels?

When pitching for reporting jobs, freelance working around the USA, I’d offer to find a story before the editor finished his/her cigarette. Just a look around the newsroom was inspiring enough: the little guy in the sports section, the overweight gal working the Women's Department; the retired Veteran newsman writing daily obits. Never had to leave the heat/AC to make a point.

We’re not talking Pulitzer stuff here. Although I may be one of few newsmen to get a tummy-rub from Roxanne Pulitzer – on record (see pic below).

Are the covers (and interior illustrations) of some of your shorter, humorous titles drawn by you?

Yes they are. One scornful columnist lauded Palm Beach – An Irreverent Guide, adding the caveat 'though, ineptly illustrated by the author'. It sold 1,000 copies per season for a decade on The Island, before Palm Beach Scandals – the First 100 Years was launched on the Joan Rivers Show. No illustrations – it died after a year or so in print.

Launch of Palm Beach Scandals on Joan Rivers' Show

Do you have a favourite quotation?

“They Also Serve Who Only Stand and Wait”, a Noel Coward patriotic slogan meant for non-combatants during WWII. But it also worked for me undercover, if you added “And Listen.”

And it was a pleasure listening to you, Jack. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.

Jack's author-page on Amazon is here

Writing anatomy lesson: Know the secret of our hearts

My latest crime thriller from Crooked Cat is Sudden Vengeance. For a couple of blog posts I thought I’d provide a little autopsy of a few scenes. So, here goes:

Once the Prologue has established a rather unpleasant nameless villain, Sudden Vengeance moves to a cemetery, where the Knight family is burying Gran, who died while being burgled. The Knight family comprises Paul, a policeman, Mark, Stuart, Lisa, Mum (Cathy) and Dad (David). The narrative is sometimes omniscient, the better to view the whole picture, then at particularly emotional moments it drops into the point of view of the main character in any scene. We’ve seen Paul described here and there follows David and Cathy.

Treating the descriptions and character studies in a similar fashion to a film director, the camera lingers on their appearance and then delves into their thoughts – and hearts. Each character sequence then segues into another in the family, so the ending of Cathy, the Mum’s sequence runs: ‘Standing next to Paul was Mark, the young rebel who, surprisingly to most people but not to her, was taking Gran’s death hardest of all the family.’

***

Mark was almost Paul’s height, with the same though considerably longer dark hair, partly covering his left earring. He also had his older brother’s sharp penetrating brown eyes. There the similarities ended, for where Paul was heavily built and big-boned, Mark was lithe, narrow-shouldered and possessed a lighter frame; an inheritance from his mother. His crooked nose was the result of a childhood accident – Paul had fished him out of the harbour after he fell off the Alverbank ferry pontoon.

Mark’s face was grim, a cast of features unusual for him, as he tended to be happy and carefree, with the beginnings of laughter grooves at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

He was bitterly angry. For all his seventeen years, his life had been wound up with the family and especially with Gran. She’d nursed him when Mum went off to work. She’d shared his interest in books and nurtured a deep-rooted love of reading.

He felt cast adrift, without a sea anchor – a term he’d picked up from Hornblower. Gran had wanted him to become a writer, but it seemed to him to be a bit precarious as a profession – even if your name wasn’t Salman Rushdie – as was acting, the career he really wanted to follow. Maybe Gran’s prejudices against the stage were due to her interpretation of J.B. Priestley’s The Good Companions? He didn’t think it strange to be mulling over these subjects. Gran had always said, “Enjoy reading, my boy, and you have the world at your fingertips!” How right she was. Though now his fingertips itched to get round the neck of the bastard who had murdered her!

He glanced away guiltily as the vicar’s words impinged, “...deliver us from the bitter pains of eternal death. You know the secrets of our hearts: in your mercy hear our prayer, forgive us our sins, and at our last hour let us not fall away from you.” 

Oh, Gran, Mark thought, I’m sorry, but I can’t forgive him, whoever he is.

For all his rebellious attempts to break away from parental expectations – such as long hair, an earring, and studying arts instead of “proper useful technical subjects” – Mark was conservative deep down, and Gran had sensed this all along. “You may fool all your pals, and even your sister and brothers, Mark,” she said, “but you don’t fool me!”

Mark’s fingers tensed into knuckles at his side.

God, he was so angry – with everyone, especially those he loved, including Gran for getting herself robbed and killed in the first place!

He let his tears run freely, and blinked to see Lisa standing next to Paul. Why can’t you get the bastard, you’re the oldest, the cleverest, and the best? What are you doing about it, Paul?

Mark stared down into the dark grave, feeling amidst his family alone with his anger and his grief.

* 

Legs suddenly feeling weak, Lisa linked her left arm through Paul’s as Reverend Dorner said, “We have entrusted our sister, Dorothy, to God’s merciful keeping, and we now commit her body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who died, was buried, and rose again for us...”
 
Through a mist of tears, she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. She tried telling herself, without conviction, that Gran wasn’t in the ground, her soul had left her shell; now she was with Grandad.

Soil scrabbled down and made an awful resonant thudding sound on the coffin. There was also the damp smell of freshly-turned earth. Dimly she could hear sobbing and hiccoughs of grief.

 
It didn’t seem right. Barely a month ago, she’d celebrated her nineteenth birthday, with Gran in attendance – “let out for the day and for good behaviour,” Gran had remarked, winking.

Gran had been proud of Lisa’s offer of a place at Sussex University. “You take full advantage of this women’s liberation, my girl!” Lisa had refrained from saying that phrase was passé; now it was feminism. “I had to make do – very well, mind you – with reading about the world beyond Hampshire, but if you get good marks at your studies, the world can be yours!” Lisa hadn’t the heart to mention the many unemployed graduates, or the large debts most students built up while on campus. Think positive, that’s what Gran always advocated.

For the few days around the funeral, Lisa had left her friend, Viv, to take notes at their lectures.

For most of her young life Lisa had resented being endowed with similar genes to Paul. She wanted to be feminine and petite, but being big-boned and tall – five-ten – with a full figure – (Warren said he liked proper curves in a woman), Lisa resigned herself to becoming the best Human Sciences student the university had ever had. She was also a good sportswoman, being successful at swimming, discus, fencing and javelin. Right now, she would dearly love to hurl a javelin at the junkie freak who’d murdered Gran!

 
Again, Gran had said, “Think positively, my girl! Think what you can do, not what you can’t!” Lisa smiled without humour and wondered what Gran would have said about her sleeping with Warren, a fellow student. Probably applaud it, but hand out useful advice as well. She’d taken Aunt Sarah’s sexual preference in her stride, after all, which had surprised even Mum and Dad.

Lisa’s long auburn hair blew in the wind, even though swept back under a black bandeau. The freckles she detested over her nose were finally starting to fade. Her big blue eyes, which usually sparkled, were now awash with tears. She thought her full mouth was a little on the large size, but Warren disagreed completely and enjoyed what she could do to him with it.

She shook herself guiltily, dismissing erotic thoughts of Warren just as Stu on her right linked her free arm.
 
… which leads on to Stuart – and the end of the first chapter.

Each family member is important to the story-line in a number of ways. This method of revelation helps establish them at the outset, and hopefully provides enough insight and emotion to draw the reader into empathising with some if not all.

There are many ways to start a book. This felt the right way for me. Creating atmosphere, suppressed anger, and grief and showing a family unit being strong together in adversity. 

***

 

 

Sudden Vengeance published by Crooked Cat - here

Amazon UK here 

Amazon COM here 

Smashwords here