In Memoriam | CW Hawes

One Bullet At A Time

Writing one bullet at a time.
—Caleb Pirtle III

In this age of hyper-narcissism, Caleb Pirtle was that most rare of human beings: a selfless man.

His passing has left a huge hole in the writing community. Yet, he continues to speak to us. He does so through his books.

And what you find in his books is a man with an incredibly deep well.

He knew life. He knew people. He knew the nastiness and he knew the sublime. His years of talking to people and observing them comes through when he tells his stories. They are always about people and what they do and don’t do. The lies they tell and don’t tell.

Caleb’s writing was always centered around the human factor. Fiction, or non-fiction. Didn’t matter. People were at the center.

He used to say he was writing one bullet at a time. That bullet could be literal or metaphorical. And its impact depended on where it hit. And how hard. Literally or metaphorically.

He was an incredibly optimistic man. If you talked with him, as the song goes, never was heard a discouraging word, and the skies were not cloudy all day.

Yet, Caleb was no Pollyanna. There is a darkness to his Magnolia Bluff books that is not present in any of the other books I’ve read. And that might be due to the Magnolia Bluff stories being told in the first person. They are told by a person who has seen a lot of life. And a lot of it wasn’t good. Or especially nice.

I have found that third person puts distance between writer and reader. First person erases that distance. The first person story is intensely intimate.

And it is that intimacy that gives his Magnolia Bluff books such incredibly deep insights into human nature.

I find the last five lines of Death in the Absence of Rain enigmatic. I’m not sure what they mean, and I didn’t get a chance to ask Caleb.

Graham Huston, the narrator of the story, says:

We as a people are what we bury inside of us.
I believe it with all my heart.
Don’t know about you.
But, frankly, I’ve buried about all I can bury.
I’m running out of room.

There’s an observation about people in general. Then there is the application by Graham to himself.

That is one doggone penetrating bullet.

We are what we bury inside of us.

Death in the Absence of Rain is a book about lies. Lies we tell others and lies we tell ourselves.

It’s a theme Caleb explored in Last Deadly Lie.

There is a darkness that surrounds us. All of us. Even so, Caleb chose to see what was good and positive — even if he had to rummage around in that darkness for a while to find it.

Caleb was a pantser. Pull up a blank Word doc — and start typing. The story will flow from the subconscience, through the fingers, and onto the page.

The downside to being a pantser is that there are usually no notes or outlines lying around. Which means we will never know if Graham found a way to make more room, or somehow stopped burying.

We are what we bury inside of us.

Graham was burying a lot of crap. Most of us are.

I don’t think Caleb was.

Just a day or two before he went into the hospital, I spoke with him on the phone. He was optimistic as ever, even though he was in great pain. He was looking forward to conquering whatever the heck was the problem and getting back into the saddle.

We are what we bury inside of us.

Unlike Graham Huston, but very much like Caleb Pirtle, I hope I’m burying good stuff.

I want to end my days looking to get back into the saddle.

If you missed the Underground Authors tribute to Caleb, take a watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trjgrs0Qkwk

May we all take a life lesson from Caleb Pirtle. Write one bullet at a time. And do our darnedest to get back into the saddle.

Comments are always welcome! And until next time, happy reading!

CW Hawes is a playwright; award-winning poet; and a fictioneer, with a bestselling novel. He’s also an armchair philosopher, political theorist, social commentator, and traveler. He loves a good cup of tea and agrees that everything’s better with pizza.

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In memoriam: Caleb Pirtle III

A week ago, on Wednesday, August 2, the writing community lost a great soul: Caleb Pirtle III.

Caleb was an indefatigable writer of non-– fiction and fiction, with some 90 books to his credit, in a writing career spanning some six decades.

He was an untiring supporter and encourager of his fellow writers. Aside from telling a good story himself, he did his best to help other writers to tell their stories.

And Caleb was a wonderful person to have as your friend. You could find none better.

Our paths crossed sometime in 2019 on Twitter. As near as I can recall. I was flabbergasted when he named me one of the top 25 mystery writers people should be reading. That pronouncement certainly captured my attention.

Who was this guy? Obviously, someone who’d been around the block a few times. But I’d never read anything he wrote. I promptly remedied that by reading his Man on the Run trilogy. I loved it and I was hooked.

Caleb Pirtle is easily the best writer who is not a household name — but should be.

A year later Caleb invited me to join a writers co-op he was putting together. Serious writers who were looking for ways to market their books. And this began a path that eventually led to a friendship with a wonderful human being.

I don’t think I exaggerate when I say Caleb Pirtle was a giant among men. And as far as I’m concerned, remains a giant among men.

For the past nine months I had the incredible privilege to be in a writing critique group with Caleb. Those nine months were nine master class sessions on the art of writing. Not only was his advice each session a pearl of great price, but his own writing was a priceless example of how to tell a story.

As great a writer as Caleb was, he was perhaps an even greater human being. He never had an unkind word to say about anyone. He saw beyond a person’s limitations to the good that was inside them. He was a kind and gentle soul who understood people where they were at and did not judge them for their failings.

Life is often unrelentingly hard and difficult. It is often nasty and brutish. Caleb Pirtle was a ray of brilliant sunlight parting the black clouds. He made the rough places plain.

One of the greatest privileges of my life was to have this man as my friend.

In Memoriam

above the pines the full moon floating
on morning’s humid heat
brightly burned our friendship for too brief a time

Comments are always welcome! And until next time, happy reading!

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In Memoriam: Joe West

Joseph A West
(14 January 1922 – 11 December 2019)

Every now and then someone enters your life and has a profound impact on it, although you don’t realize it at the time. It’s only years later that the impact becomes apparent.

A few days ago, I learned that a friend of mine, Joseph A West, or Uncle Joe to those of us who knew him, passed away in December, a month shy of his 98th birthday.

Reflecting on the four decades that I knew Uncle Joe, I came to realize that if it wasn’t for him I’d probably not be a writer today. I would not have written the couple thousand poems I wrote, nor have had hundreds of them published. Most likely not a single one of my 30 books would have been published and available for sale on Amazon, Apple, Kobo, and other vendors.

In fact I think I can honestly say if Joe West had not entered my life, it would be a very different life indeed. I seriously doubt I’d be a writer.

Way back in 1973 Weird Tales made a brief 4 issue reappearance, and was edited by Sam Moskowitz. I wrote a letter to the editor welcoming the return of “The Unique Magazine”.

Uncle Joe saw my letter, tracked me down (which took a bit of sleuthing on his part, as I was living with my parents and wasn’t listed in the phone book), and called me on the phone to invite me to a meeting of a local group of horror and pulp fiction aficionados. And the rest, as they say, is history.

The first meeting I attended was held in the home of Jack Koblas, the group leader, and Joe introduced us. Jack subsequently became a well-known biographer and historian. Jack also supported my fledging writing efforts and years later said to me one day: “I believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself.”

I can thank Uncle Joe for being the one who truly launched my writing career, because he introduced me to Jack and other writers such as Carl Jacobi and Donald Wandrei.

Uncle Joe was an artist and a poet. He drew creepily humorous pen and ink drawings and wrote darkly humorous poems. Everyone loved Joe’s art and poetry and we always looked forward to his hilarious readings of gruesomely funny poems.

My first published poem was in the fanzine The Diversifier, and Uncle Joe graced it with one of his wonderful drawings. An honor indeed!

Aside from his poetry and art, what made Uncle Joe so loved was his kindness and gentleness. To be sure, he had plenty of opinions, but he never let them get in the way of a friendship. He was always supportive and encouraging of other artists and writers.

I will miss him, but he will not be forgotten. His bright smile remains with me.

Joe once told me his favorite book was Rogue Herries by Hugh Walpole. I think I’ll pick up a copy and on his birthday read something that gave my friend pleasure.

Comments are always welcome! And until next time, take time to reflect on, and thank, those who influenced you.

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