Pete Fromm

I met Pete at Tomales Bay in late 2007, where he was leading a fiction workshop. We sat together at breakfast one morning, talking about the things we have in common -- or, rather, the things he and my husband have in common (swimming and wildlife biology). I liked Pete, and when I got home, picked up a copy of his memoir, INDIAN CREEK CHRONICLES, which I have since shared with my hairy wildlife friends.

Pete's got a Story of the Week in Narrative this week, "Peas," which you can access here. (If you're reading this after May 10, search the archives, instead.) I know you'll enjoy it as much as I did, so check it out and leave a comment on Narrative's board; it's definitely worth your while.

Litcomm -- A New Genre?

I was reading The Sacramento Bee recently, which featured a piece on Roger McGuinn, the founding member of the folk-rock band The Byrds. I was interested in the story because McGuinn commented that the folk-music establishment in the '60s viewed the Byrds as little more than “barbarians at the gate” because they weren’t purists. McGuinn attributed the folk establishment's attitude to a “kind of snobbishness.” Which got me thinking that this is sometimes how writers of literary fiction view writers of commercial fiction. Which got me thinking about those of us who fall between those categories; who write commercial fiction with literary qualities. Which got me thinking we need a new category for this genre, and that we ought to call it Litcomm.

I Googled “litcomm” to see what was out there, and it appears the term is most often used as an abbreviation for “literary comments” or “liturgy committee” or “liturgical commission.” A search for “genre litcomm” brought up no hits (none!) while “genre litcom” brought up “literary community” and not much more. There was nothing anywhere about a market inhabited by the likes of Larry McMurtry, Pete Fromm, Ron Carlson, Dennis Lehane, and, well, me. (Why should boys have all the fun?)

And get this. Type in www.litcom.com and you’ll find that the domain name is parked, but available for $4,350. (Why stop there? Why not shoot for $5,000?) Oddly, www.litcomm.com has been purchased by a guy in Wappingers Falls, NY, though this name too is parked. Why? Is he a writer? And if not, what’s he’s going to do with it? Type in www.litcom.net however and you’ll see that it is a parking space reserved (gereserveered) for (voor) a Scandinavian company providing “services.” And then there’s www.litcom.org -- which is ahem, best left alone.

I’m curious about other writers’ feelings on this. Is anyone willing to share? Are you a litcomm writer, and if so, should we band together and form a group and maybe march on Washington? Or at the very least, New York City? Let publishers know we’ve got a voice and wish to be heard and that dammit our numbers are huge? Or are there only five of us, one of us unpublished? In the words of Scout Finch, “Shoot me a beet, Pete,” and let’s see where we go.

Big Bunch of Laughing Coyotes

I was reading DRY RAIN STORIES by Pete Fromm, and had gotten almost through "Sage and Salt," when the protagonist hears the "lunatic yippings and laughings of coyotes" and then realizes he isn't hearing coyotes at all, but shouting and laughing, coming from a park.

About a week after our family moved onto Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge in south Texas, Jena (who was 13 at the time), came busting into the house at dusk, complaining that a bunch of partiers were whooping it up at the Overlook, which had closed at sunset and was therefore off-limits to visitors. Steve stepped out of the house and walked down the dirt road to investigate, returning a few minutes later, smiling. Turned out the revelers weren’t trespassers at all, but a bunch of coyotes. We all laughed at that. We still recollect that story sometimes -- how funny it is that coyotes and humans sound so much alike.

Indian Creek Chronicles

Just finished Pete Fromm’s INDIAN CREEK CHRONICLES, a story about the seven months Pete spent alone in a tent in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness guarding salmon eggs. There is much to love in this book, and several times I laughed out loud, as I thoroughly related to Pete’s fascination in his younger days with the mountain-man mystique. In describing himself as a nineteen year old about to embark on his winter-long endeavor, he says:

“At the last instant I remembered to buy a percolator and a few pots and pans, things I’d never owned or used. And finally I added a hundred pounds of potatoes, saying I’d dig a food cache to keep them from freezing. I didn’t really have any idea how to make such a thing, but the word “cache” was always creeping up in the mountain man books. It had a certain sound to it.”

I remember years ago reading a paperback based on the movie “Jeremiah Johnson,” and thinking warm biscuits slathered in bear grease must be the best thing going. I even fantasized about homesteading in Alaska, going so far as to buy a laundry basket and a spatula and other items I’d need for my new life in the wilds. I too was 19, and had never held an ax or caught a fish or picked a berry from a vine. But life in Alaska sounded divine.

The thing about Pete’s book is that it makes me realize how completely insane my plan was, and how much I missed by never having tried.

Buy this book, and when you’re done with it, stash it alongside Ron Carlson’s. Then sally forth and write your story!