Jerry Jamison's Blog

My current historical fiction writing project is centered on a battle that took place in December of 1943 in Bari, Italy almost exactly two years after Pearl Harbor and featured a surprise attack by Nazi planes on an Allied base with eerily similar parallels and an equally horrendous outcome. Using actual newspapers from the time as sources, I’m still knee-deep in research on the topic—it’s rich in both history and drama—but I have made some of the characters slightly autobiographical and based them in Imperial Beach—my beloved hometown.

For those of you across the country who are unfamiliar with “IB” as it is universally known, here is an excerpt from my book, Swimming in Jello that I believe does a relatively good job of describing the town that will forever hold a place in my heart.

Imperial Beach is a small town tucked in one of the hintermost corners of America. This has earned it the singular distinction of being able to promote itself as “The Most Southwesterly City in the United States,” a claim that they have historically maximized at every turn and in every possible way. Imperial Beach is bordered by the Pacific Ocean to the west, Mexico to the south, restricted military property to the north, and to the east by a tiny strip of San Diego which inches like a tributary south from the rest of the big city basically straight down to Tijuana. We were therefore cut off from the rest of the world and unable to ever expand, a fact that has kept it relatively underfunded and underserved to this very day.

Imperial Beach, unknown by many and overlooked by virtually all residents of San Diego County, has an interesting if undistinguished history. Nestled nine miles south of downtown San Diego and literally touching the borders of Baja California, it first found its way on the map as a beach playground for those seeking to escape the heat of the inland Imperial Valley to the east (hence the name).

In 1887, real estate developer R. R. Morrison purchased the area—complete with a one-mile stretch of beach—to create a breezy, seaside retreat for wealthy farmers. The people came for summer-long vacations, bought property, built small, low-lying wooden houses with porches, and developed friendships based on the blazing sun, temperate zephyrs, and an endless supply of cheap Mexican cervezas.

There, in the evenings, they would watch the setting sun flicker on the ocean swells as dolphins frolicked in the surf and children ran screaming with glee from the crashing waves. With sand under their feet, and now quite impressive tans, they’d barbecue the day’s catch of halibut, bonito or shark. Mixed with the ever-present cilantro salsa fresca, the meal was scooped up with giant fresh tortillas and then washed down vigorously with blue agave tequila. The last swig, by tradition, involved swallowing the marinated worm that was included in each bottle. All would explode with laughter as mariachi-influenced guitar sounds followed and the nights slowly but surely drifted into dawn.

Against this backdrop, some chose to give up the farming life entirely and remain permanently in this beachside paradise, putting down their roots in humble Imperial Beach. By 1909 the first sidewalks were installed and eight years later the U.S. Army developed an aviation field nearby. Civic progress was soon like a runaway train. An ocean boardwalk and bathhouse were installed alongside a magnificent pier, which in turn launched a modest deep-sea fishing commercial enterprise. More importantly, it featured an unusual contraption known as the “Edwards Wave Motor” that was designed to generate sufficient electricity to serve the area’s needs. It didn’t and was subsequently sent to the scrapheap.

For me as a writer, however, Imperial Beach delivers a rich heritage to me and as I write on this early Saturday morning, I can almost smell the salt air and feel the sea breezes because those memories never leave even after seven decades.

I recently finished a new novel (yet to be published) titled, “Eyes Edged with Tears.” It’s about a harrowing road trip in the WW2 era between a man and a woman—previously strangers—and the terrors they encounter…or create for each other. I was happy with how it turned out and I think it will be a classic thriller.

I usually don’t share my literary reviews, but this well-written one—from a European critic no less—I especially appreciated:

“I had nothing but fascination for the protagonist of the manuscript from the get-go. Her adaptability and ingenuity are illustrated splendidly, especially in the moments when she finds herself in a pinch physically but also when struggling with her own wants and situation. Still, no matter the trouble, she is level-headed and resourceful.

This does not mean she is devoid of emotion. There are certainly traces of remorse and attachment toward the people she interacts with, but she has her own survival in mind, which trumps any other emotion she feels, and that is what sets her apart and also defines her humanity so very well.

Ultimately, this proves the double-sided coin of a complex character. Speaking of a coin, I think there is also a cyclicity that is noteworthy to observe both in the characters and in the paths they take in their lives, which I found especially intriguing.

Lastly, I want to mention the panorama of captivating characters. Both the male secondary characters the heroine interacts with are outstanding, and I found them interesting, with extremely complex backgrounds that always left me wanting for more. Although there was a shift in perspectives at some point, I still think that the suspense and mystery were well-maintained while also continually building on the world and the vibe of the times. This was done flawlessly and helped paint a very lively and unique picture.

What a truly remarkable manuscript. It will certainly stay with me.”

As a child of the 1950s I was dumbstruck when one of my fourth grade  classmates took me over to his house after school one day and pointed to a heavy, square metal plate embedded into the front lawn of his home. It looked a bit like a manhole cover—thick and immovable—but I really had no idea of its significance until Timmy explained it to me.

“It’s the hatch to a Fallout Shelter. That’s where we will go if the Russians drop an atomic bomb on us.” Then he added, “And they will be dropping a bomb on us, my dad says.” Now in all fairness I had no idea at the time what “fallout” was, though I did assume it wasn’t good, and I had very limited knowledge of what “atomic” meant, though I knew for a fact that that wasn’t good.

What I did know was fear—fear of the evil Russians, fear of being bombed, fear of having to eat peas. Now, with this revelation, Timmy was adding “fear of living underground like a gopher” to my list. The schools were already doing their part through having us practice “duck and cover” drills by hiding under our twenty-year-old wooden desks when the terrifying alarm sounded.

At least we had the assurance we’d be safe if a bomb exploded on our shingle roof.
I never got a chance to look inside that Fallout Shelter (who knows, it may have been a made up story to scare the hell out of his kids) but the concept never left me and 60 years or so later I wrote a story called Where Shadows Run From Themselves which centers around one of these structures that had so captured my attention.

The story is a heart-pounding morality tale set in that era and I hope it provides some fodder for thought in our current times. Also, a bit of a shout out to the sixties’ power trio Cream whose song, White Room, included the tantalizing lyric that I used for my title. Shadows has yet to be published but it will soon be so please stay tuned for that.

Because I have a background in both writing and graphic design (I’ve owned a Southern California advertising agency for nearly 40 years), often I have as much fun and fulfillment art directing the covers to my books as I do writing them. Fortunately I have a group of skilled designers and artists at my fingertips so I have the resources to do anything I want. There are times when the cover is meant to be quite simple, while others must necessarily be complex.

For “Fall From Graize”—a full-length novel about a flawed private investigator, named Garrison Graize, who becomes the subject of an investigation himself—I had a vision for a unique cover that would require delicate photography and design work. This assignment fell to my grandson Ethan, who was volunteered for the project by his father, Corey.

One of the unique features of Mr. Graize was the custom den he had built into his home with walls that featured hundreds of “shadowboxes”—small cubbies—that held souvenirs from each of the cases he had solved over his career. To produce this fictional shelving systemic an image, Ethan had to create the grid itself by assembling pieces of photos of frames and then find old (ancient) wooden type font blocks to spell out the text.

Next he had to locate more than a dozens small individual objects to be placed within the slots to replicate scenes from the story itself. Adjusting lighting, shadows, angles, and antiquing the entire image to give it a vintage look, completed the project.

I’m sure you’ll agree it is a masterpiece and, equally exciting for me, the cover actually provides a hint into the story itself for the reader.

Before television became the king of all American living rooms, there was a time when radio held that title. Throughout some of the most important decades in our nation’s history, radio broadcasts represented the lifeblood of families for anything and everything from live sporting events and inaugurations to slapstick comedies and heart-pounding dramas (Photo above is Agnes Moorehead on “Suspense Radio—The Theater of Thrills”).

Today, the role of radio—other than political propaganda and sports talk—has been assumed by podcasts and audiobooks which, undoubtedly, is a sign of our fast-paced, ever-on-the-go culture. For a writer of books—those old-school, hardcover things with pages that don’t swipe—this is a bit of a distressing development.

So instead of fighting them, I decided to feed them.

After my dentist told me that he hadn’t read a book in 40 years, after one of my best friends said he had barely completed a book since college, and since a younger individual said that—although she liked to carry and collect books—she didn’t necessarily ever read them…well, I decided to begin creating audiobook versions of my stories. They all swear to me they will listen to them.

But this has led me into an infinitely more challenging project than I ever expected.

I decided to start with my “Tales of Suspense” Series. These are generally shorter in length than a feature novel, though there are 14 of them. Still in the midst of the project, the task has proven to be Herculean but thoroughly fascinating. In a subsequent post, I’ll go into some of the trials and tribulations—primarily the humorous ones—but for now, I’m interviewing voice talent from around the world to match up the right voice with the right story. Again, harder than I thought it would. To date, I’ve lined up the following voices:

Sophisticated British Male VoiceFolksy Southern Texas Male VoiceLight and Airy Female Millennial VoiceGruff and Older Male Voice1940’s Movie Star Female VoiceAll-American Housewife Voice1960’s Young, Preppy Female VoiceMiddle-Aged, Professional Male Voice

It all feels like casting a movie which, at the moment, is both exhilarating and exhausting. Stay tuned…so far it’s all been a grand adventure. We’ll see if it continues to be.

While I was doing research on the life and career of an actress—Susan Peters—from the 1940s Golden Era of Cinema for a biography, I stumbled across the world of what has come to be known as “old time radio.” Miss Peters was renowned and celebrated in her day but is completely unknown to today’s generation, which made her—in my thinking at least—all the more fascinating.

The aforementioned research and writing project will eventually result in a two-volume biography on the young actress, respectively entitled Miss Fortune and Sitting Pretty—an incredible story of an amazing life that I hope you will check out once it is completed and published.

In the course of authoring those books—and the hundreds of hours of researching newspapers and magazines of the day—I came across the fact, insignificant as it was, that Susan had performed in a radio play written by Cornell Woolrich while she was in a wheelchair after a tragic hunting accident nearly two years earlier.

The episode aired in late December of 1946. Since that time it has never been repeated and is now largely lost to history and no script of it exists anywhere. For all intents and purposes, it has disappeared. Reading a synopsis of it, however, I was intrigued with the basic plot, although as a radio script it had little depth and even less development as a story.

It did seem to me, however, that there was the potential for a true, fully developed story that needed to be written based on this concept. Even deserved to be written, perhaps. Caged Canary has since been published. As you read, hopefully you will feel the flavor of radio drama—suspense that builds and then delivers.

This month I was honored to be selected as one of the award winners of the 2022 Short Story competition for original works under 3,000 words. For me, that is really, really short. I think to that point, my shortest work was in the vicinity of 86,000 words. Ouch. Hard to edit something like that down.

I thought I’d never written a short story in my life…until I remembered that one time, a few years back, I had woken up in the middle of the night, staggered out into my office and sat down and pounded out one of these critters. I promptly filed it away, never reread it, and completely forgot about the thing until this little competition came up. Retrieving it from the dust pile, I submitted it and was humbled to have been selected as a winner.

A week or so ago, I was honored at a reception and participated in a panel discussion on writing along with the other selected writers. It was a fun evening and a great way to dip my toe into a different form of writing. Sometime I’ll figure out a way to post it and you can see the fruit of my labor from 2am to six in the morning in the dark.

As the owner of an advertising agency for nearly 40 years at this point, I’ve found that throughout my lifetime I’ve admired the twin attributes of curiosity and creativity. They seem to stride hand in hand. They inspire, they find new roads, sometimes they even lead to dead ends…but they never fail to enrich your life.

On my Mt. Rushmore of curiosity and creativity, one spot is reserved for Walt Disney. There’s no purpose in going into detail on the man. Everyone knows of him. If you are reading this, he has already impacted your life.

Walt Disney once said, “I resent the limitations of my own imagination.” I get that. I get that when it comes to storytelling it feels like there is an entire universe out there to explore and so little time. A world of words just waiting to be assembled into a story.

I don’t allow myself to think about genres, or word counts, or commercially hot topics, or even what themes are in demand. I just enjoy creating. Enjoy crafting a story that makes readers continue to want to turn the page. Enjoy building up to a satisfying ending. The best book is the one you want to never come to a close because you hate to say goodbye to the characters.

Disney also said, “What we storytellers do is provide hope with imagination. We instill hope again and again and again.” I thank you for visiting my site and exploring my books. I believe you won’t be disappointed and I believe you will be entertained with each story. And if I’ve added some hope and a smile to your life, I’ve done my job.

Lately I’ve been fascinated by listening to old broadcasts of 1940’s radio dramas. You probably heard about them. It was during an era when the whole family gathered around the RCA radio console to thrill or terrify themselves nightly. I especially have been intrigued by a program simply entitled, Suspense. Aptly named, it delivered taut, well-crafted half-hour dramas for 22 years on the CBS Radio Network.

One of the premier drama programs of the Golden Age of Radio—it was subtitled “radio’s outstanding theater of thrills”—it focused on suspenseful scripts, usually featuring leading Hollywood actors of the era. 945 episodes were broadcast during its long run, and even today they hold up well for their overwrought dramatic sound effects and hyperactive organ music.

I fell in love with the pace and melodrama of the episodes and that inspired me to create a series of short stories that pay homage to those. You will find these on my site as individual—non-connected—stories of “mirth, mystery, and madness.” At present they are only available as Kindle downloads but plans are in the works to publish collections of them as anthologies.

They are quick reads, fast-paced, and feature memorable characters. Hopefully I’ve done those mid-century writers proud.

When I was in second grade, my teacher, Miss Warner, was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I hadn’t had much experience, of course, in sizing up mature women—certainly no grading system to speak of—but I inherently knew she was a looker. I had no idea how old she was, nor did that matter, and didn’t know or care if she was married. I knew she had no kids because she constantly reminded us that we were her children. Sigh.

What I did know was that she looked exactly like the women in the Sears catalogue—tall, shapely, slender and with high heels and a string of pearls around her neck. Oh, and had a southern accent that daily knocked me off my feet.

I’m not saying that I planned on marrying her or anything, but then again, I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have.

That year at Central Elementary School in Imperial Beach, California, the focus was on reading. And it was at that time that Miss Warner—with her long, brown hair falling alluringly to her shoulders—introduced us to Dick and Jane.

For those of you that did not grow up in the 1950s, these two individuals may be as foreign to you as a Slinky, Play-Doh, and the Magic 8-Ball—all staples of life in my household. But Dick and Jane were at the cornerstone of education when I was beginning to read and they have proven to serve me well throughout my lifetime.

During this period of time, more than 80 per cent of early elementary students in the United States used books based on these characters to learn to read. They were exceedingly simple (“See Dick run. Run Dick run.”) and featured watercolor illustrations that depicted perfect, white, middle-class Americans before that was a concern. I wonder now if my classmates at the time—at least half of which were Spanish-only speaking Mexicans from nearby Tijuana—felt the same.

Before long Dick and Jane’s family grew to include “Mother” and “Father,” a younger sister named “Sally”, their dog “Spot” and the family cat “Puff” along with a toy teddy bear named “Tim.” It was a wonderfully happy family that always got along tremendously and never had issues like the ones facing the rest of the country on a daily basis: poverty, racism, the threat of nuclear war, joblessness, and inflation.

The books also taught American middle-class values to school-aged children. Storylines described the lives and experiences of a stereotypical American well-heeled, white family in their suburban home where Father always wore a suit, worked in an office, mowed the lawn, and washed the car.

Mother stayed at home, of course, did housework, and raised the children. Dick, the oldest of the family’s three children, was active in sports, was popular in the neighborhood, presumably got good grades, and was always well-behaved. Jane, the second oldest child, was pretty, exhibited good hygiene, loved to help mom, and had a fun, carefree spirit. As the big sister, she also helped care for Sally, the baby of the family.

It’s safe to say that Spot never pooped on the carpet and Puff never dragged a mangled sparrow into the living room.

Yes, growing up we all knew what perfection was supposed to look like…it’s just that it didn’t necessarily turn out that way.

The world of Dick and Jane is at the core of a new story that I am currently writing entitled, Pleasant Valley, USA. In this case the perfect little midwestern town is set in northwestern Nebraska. Thom, the father, does indeed wear a suit to his office every day. Mother Maggie dresses immaculately and gets guidance from Miss Tillerton’s Guide for the Modern Woman as any good American housewife would.

Perfect in every way—except for that dark, dangerous secret they are harboring that threatens to ravage them and everyone within their circle. Perhaps even big enough to destroy America as everyone knew it.