So I thought it would be interesting to write a blog. That was then. Now it seems daunting. Don’t make it boring, I tell myself. Don’t write too much. Don’t take yourself too seriously. For Heaven’s sake, don’t be a know-it-all. And be myself.
In some way or another it’s going to be related to writing, at least in the beginning, including my slow, slow process of learning how to write. I welcome comments of any kind and hope you’ll feel free to post them. I’m happy to give the space over occasionally to anyone who feels compelled to create an appropriate missive. If you want an email notification of posts, just let me know via the contact page on this website.
When I get a new book, I jump to the back cover to learn about the author. I suspect I’m not alone in such behavior. Under that assumption, I thought I’d mention a little of my background.
I was raised in East Orange, New Jersey in a school system that at the time was recognized as one of the best in the country. My college days found me in the Boston and New York City areas. I spent a year in Australia, worked in industry for about 12 years, and then switched to academia for the perfect life from which I retired in 2004.
I learned a lot about writing from my high school teachers, but more from my father. In dreaded hour-long sessions we would sit side-by-side at the dining room table going over every phrase, every sentence, every paragraph, every organizational approach. In college I realized how much that had paid off, and how much I owed my dad.
“Er, Bob.”
What? Oh. Excuse me a moment. What is it Elmo?
“You said I could write to these fine folk.”
Not now. I never said now.
I’m sorry for the interruption. Anyway, I was about to say I’ve been writing most of my life with over a hundred published articles having such captivating titles as Some Properties of Binary Counters with Feedback, Computationally Efficient Bounds for the Catalan Numbers and Graphs Simultaneously Achieving Three Vertex Cover Numbers. Makes you want to rush to the library, doesn’t it?
You might have guessed it. I’m a mathematician, but please don’t let that put you off.
“Why should it?”
Elmo, go away.
I apologize again. Elmo’s a mathematician too, and unlike me he’s well renowned. Certainly he’d be a fan of the papers named above. He’s a wonderful guy, but he’s high maintenance and tends to make me lose my train of thought. Let’s see, where was I?
Oh, yes, I was about to say when I started writing fiction I wrote like I would a technical paper. Honest evaluation: It was terrible! So much I had to learn, and I hope to cover some of that experience as our get togethers continue. But that’s enough for…
“Bob, tell them something about me.”
Oh my! I’m afraid I’ll have to say something or he won’t give me any peace. Elmo hopped into my first mystery Math Is Murder (coauthored with James Reed). Then through no fault of my own he reappeared in Murder By the Numbers. When I wrote “You’re Almost There,” based in the running community, I was sure I’d lost him. You see, he never exercised and was more than somewhat pudgy. All of a sudden there he was. He’d trimmed down and decided he’d run a half marathon. Fortunately he was out of the country when I wrote Patriotism, but he’s making noises about getting into my present book. I tell you, he’s a trial. Here’s a short excerpt from Murder By the Numbers to show what I mean. Elmo was visiting the home of friends Jim and Donna Albright:
“What’s that?”
Running water.
A moose reciting a ditty?
Old MacDonald had a farm,
Ee i ee i o,
And on that farm he had a basenji,
With a here and a there,
Here a there a everywhere a ,
Old MacDonald had a farm,
Ee i ee i o.
Donna, between giggles, gasps, “Elmo’s singing in the shower!”
She’s triggered my laughter. “I know the song. But something happened to the tune.”
“I know. He’s trying to make it operatic. I realize, Jim, he’s an amazing mathematician, but he has the worst voice I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s with all those spaces where the animal sound should be? All I could hear was the running water.”
Donna’s in tears, “Jim, you know …” The attempt is valiant, but she can’t stop laughing.
“What?”
“The animal in the song. It’s a …” Another breakdown, then a renewed attempt. “It’s a …, it’s a basenji!”
“O-kaaay. A kind of dog, isn’t it? So can’t he say, ‘arf, arf’ or ‘bowwow’ or something?”
“But it doesn’t …”
“Doesn’t what? Donna, you’re driving me crazy.”
She finally spits it out. “That kind of dog, it … it doesn’t bark!”
Typical Elmo. Adorable but definitely a little strange—make that a lot strange. If you want to have more contact with him, follow this blog and maybe catch up with him in some of my books.
In some way or another it’s going to be related to writing, at least in the beginning, including my slow, slow process of learning how to write. I welcome comments of any kind and hope you’ll feel free to post them. I’m happy to give the space over occasionally to anyone who feels compelled to create an appropriate missive. If you want an email notification of posts, just let me know via the contact page on this website.
When I get a new book, I jump to the back cover to learn about the author. I suspect I’m not alone in such behavior. Under that assumption, I thought I’d mention a little of my background.
I was raised in East Orange, New Jersey in a school system that at the time was recognized as one of the best in the country. My college days found me in the Boston and New York City areas. I spent a year in Australia, worked in industry for about 12 years, and then switched to academia for the perfect life from which I retired in 2004.
I learned a lot about writing from my high school teachers, but more from my father. In dreaded hour-long sessions we would sit side-by-side at the dining room table going over every phrase, every sentence, every paragraph, every organizational approach. In college I realized how much that had paid off, and how much I owed my dad.
“Er, Bob.”
What? Oh. Excuse me a moment. What is it Elmo?
“You said I could write to these fine folk.”
Not now. I never said now.
I’m sorry for the interruption. Anyway, I was about to say I’ve been writing most of my life with over a hundred published articles having such captivating titles as Some Properties of Binary Counters with Feedback, Computationally Efficient Bounds for the Catalan Numbers and Graphs Simultaneously Achieving Three Vertex Cover Numbers. Makes you want to rush to the library, doesn’t it?
You might have guessed it. I’m a mathematician, but please don’t let that put you off.
“Why should it?”
Elmo, go away.
I apologize again. Elmo’s a mathematician too, and unlike me he’s well renowned. Certainly he’d be a fan of the papers named above. He’s a wonderful guy, but he’s high maintenance and tends to make me lose my train of thought. Let’s see, where was I?
Oh, yes, I was about to say when I started writing fiction I wrote like I would a technical paper. Honest evaluation: It was terrible! So much I had to learn, and I hope to cover some of that experience as our get togethers continue. But that’s enough for…
“Bob, tell them something about me.”
Oh my! I’m afraid I’ll have to say something or he won’t give me any peace. Elmo hopped into my first mystery Math Is Murder (coauthored with James Reed). Then through no fault of my own he reappeared in Murder By the Numbers. When I wrote “You’re Almost There,” based in the running community, I was sure I’d lost him. You see, he never exercised and was more than somewhat pudgy. All of a sudden there he was. He’d trimmed down and decided he’d run a half marathon. Fortunately he was out of the country when I wrote Patriotism, but he’s making noises about getting into my present book. I tell you, he’s a trial. Here’s a short excerpt from Murder By the Numbers to show what I mean. Elmo was visiting the home of friends Jim and Donna Albright:
“What’s that?”
Running water.
A moose reciting a ditty?
Old MacDonald had a farm,
Ee i ee i o,
And on that farm he had a basenji,
With a here and a there,
Here a there a everywhere a ,
Old MacDonald had a farm,
Ee i ee i o.
Donna, between giggles, gasps, “Elmo’s singing in the shower!”
She’s triggered my laughter. “I know the song. But something happened to the tune.”
“I know. He’s trying to make it operatic. I realize, Jim, he’s an amazing mathematician, but he has the worst voice I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s with all those spaces where the animal sound should be? All I could hear was the running water.”
Donna’s in tears, “Jim, you know …” The attempt is valiant, but she can’t stop laughing.
“What?”
“The animal in the song. It’s a …” Another breakdown, then a renewed attempt. “It’s a …, it’s a basenji!”
“O-kaaay. A kind of dog, isn’t it? So can’t he say, ‘arf, arf’ or ‘bowwow’ or something?”
“But it doesn’t …”
“Doesn’t what? Donna, you’re driving me crazy.”
She finally spits it out. “That kind of dog, it … it doesn’t bark!”
Typical Elmo. Adorable but definitely a little strange—make that a lot strange. If you want to have more contact with him, follow this blog and maybe catch up with him in some of my books.
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