Paul Dage's Blog

Question: When you read a work of literature are you more inclined to try interpreting the author’s meaning, or do you lean more toward freely imposing your own meaning? Do you “receive” meaning, or “give” a meaning of your own? For example, beginning in the 17th Century, after its publication most devout Christians read Milton’s Paradise Lost as a proclamation of Milton’s vindication of God’s justice: “I [Milton] may assert Eternal Providence, / And justify the ways of God to men.” These readers “received” Milton’s supposed intent. But in the late 18th Century Romantics like Blake and Shelley cast Satan, not God, as the hero. Satan is the only character who doesn’t act out of blind obedience to a divine plan, who’s bold, daring, defiant and prideful–qualities many associate with heroism. Satan, speaking from Hell: “All is not lost; the unconquerable will, / And study of revenge, immortal hate, / And courage never to submit or yield.” These Romantics “gave” their own interpretation.

When I taught high school lit students were encouraged to “interpret with textual evidence.” That is, I didn’t mind if they “received” or “gave” as long as they could back it up with relevant textual support. Hamlet could be a melancholic intellectual to one reader, or the victim of the Oedipus complex to another.

When I write fiction the question of my readers “giving” or “receiving” seldom, if ever, enters my mind. It’s hard enough to write an engaging story without worrying about how it might, or might not, be interpreted. That’s why, after one of my novels is published, I love hearing what readers have to say, especially book groups who invite me to hear their thoughts.

About the cover … Debra, my beautiful wife (Debra Meadow Art), did the cool artwork. Those are periwinkles, or caddis flies in their larval stages. They live in streams; they gather tiny pebbles and, using silk-like secretions from their bodies, they bind the pebbles into tiny “tubes” that protect them from preying fish and crawdads. Some of the “pebbles” here depict photos and snippets of documents from the Dage family. For example, on the left of the cover is a photo of my youthful mother, Helen. The Eddy Trout Series of novels is about Eddy’s family’s tragic history, and how his discovery of it changes him.

Debra, my beautiful wife (Debra Meadow Art), did the cool artwork. Those are periwinkles, or caddis flies in their larval stages. They live in streams; they gather tiny pebbles and, using silk-like secretions from their bodies, they bind the pebbles into tiny “tubes” that protect them from preying fish and crawdads. Some of the “pebbles” here depict photos and snippets of documents from the Dage family. For example, on the left of the cover is a photo of my youthful mother, Helen. The Eddy Trout Series of novels is about Eddy’s family’s tragic history, and how his discovery of it changes him.

When writing a 3-novel series that follows Eddy Trout’s adventures over a few pivotal months of his life, and those story lines are rather tangled and complicated, and several years separate the release of one novel from the next–4 years, in the case of Trout Kill and Trout Run–and many readers (especially ones like me) have short memories, how do I keep them “in tune” with previous key developments from the prior novel (s)? Well, ideally, readers would begin the Series with Trout Kill (#1). It’s a damned-fine story, if I do say so myself, and the Cliff’s Notes aren’t available yet. Ha! But it’s not absolutely necessary to start there. For those who don’t, or those who do and have now forgotten a lot of it, I tried hard (really, really hard) to write Trout Run (#2) so readers would be reminded of prior, relevant developments. Eddy lives in a context, as we all do, and that context needs to be fresh in readers’ minds. I hope I’m achieving this “fresh” context now, too, as I begin working on Trout Love (#3). It’s a challenge, and I hope I’m up for it, and that I can craft each story in a way that readers find stylistic and entertaining. Those of you who do read #2, I’d love your feedback about whether I crafted #1 into it in a satisfactory way.

Haven’t blogged for a couple of years now [“now” being February, 2017], and I’ve got lots of good excuses: been finishing up my second novel in the Eddy Trout Series, Trout Run; have moved from Portland to the McKenzie River, where I’ve been converting an above-garage space into a guest room; have welcomed more grandchildren into the world; have been attending music festivals; have been sampling craft beers; yada-yada. So, what does all this this have to do with the photo taken from the stern of a cruise ship? Maybe nothing at all.

Haven’t blogged for a couple of months, mostly because I’ve been working on completing the first draft of the second novel in the Trout Trilogy. In the first part, Trout Kill, Eddy Trout “kills” his old heart, and in the second part  he “runs” after a new heart. Are you keeping up with the flying metaphors? So, what does all this this have to do with the photo taken from the stern of a cruise ship? Well, I took an Alaskan cruise July 14-21 with my wife’s family, and on that cruise I finished the first draft of Trout Run. Talk about mixing business with pleasure! Now I’m midway through writing the second draft, but that’s going to slow down while I help a friend build a house. I’m considering that “research” because the third book in the Trilogy, Trout Love, will include a lot about house building. Build a house, build a heart!

So, today I’m substitute teaching for a health teacher at Canby High. We’re watching a video entitled “Teen Dreams,” which tells the story of Natalie and Darren as they make their anguished ways through puberty, all those hormones raging. Remember? During the viewing, I’m sitting at the back of the classroom revising my second novel, Trout Run; it’s this tricky scene involving Eddy’s cover-up of a murder [tentative!]. I’m tuning out the video, focused on the scene. Then narrator of the video says, “Darren’s penis has swollen to five times its normal size” and the whole class titters with nervous laughter. Then: “In the past weeks, Natalie’s body has grown sixty feet of arm and pubic hair.” The class groans. It’s hopeless. I’ll save my revisions for later, when fewer hormones rage.

My wife and I plucked this handful of hair in about 15 seconds from Tucker’s left rear leg: A “Tuck pluck.” Don’t let his laid-back demeanor or handsome mug fool you: He’s a shedding maniac, a four-legged furball. He scoffs at combs, brushes and Furminators. He weighs in at about fifty pounds and masquerades as mostly a Norwegian elk-hound mix, but sometimes I wonder if a tiny Chihuahua lurks underneath all his soon-to-be-shed-on-our-carpet coat. Of course, he grows new hair as fast as he sheds the old. Tucker’s like my second novel, Trout Run. He’s in the middle of shedding season, and TR is in the middle of “shedding” words; he’s growing new hair, and TR is growing new images, characters and such. After all is said and done, will TR turn out to be an elk-hound or a Chihuahua?

The yellow sign with the bent black arrow said to slow down, there’s a curve ahead, but I knew the corner well enough—a blind and banked twenty-five—and the tires on my pickup had a fair bit of tread.

The headlights cut through a night heavy with the ocean’s scent, with sweeter traces of the winter woods, spruce and cedar, mostly. The trees crowded thick to the shoulders, their boughs overreaching, and it seemed we were driving down a ragged tunnel. A steady mist fell.

Beth’s hands lifted from her lap and grasped her seatbelt: Her way of saying Eddy, slow down, you’re speeding; I’m afraid; please slow down. She was bundled in a coat and sweater against the draft shooting cold through the hole in the floorboard.

I eased off the gas; the needle dropped toward forty, maybe forty-five and we entered the curve.

A doe stood at the edge of the pavement. She was stiff-legged, tail up, neck graceful, alert and beautiful, caught full in the sweep of lights. Her eyes gleamed yellow and she snorted fog. Maybe that was when I fell in love with her.

But a startled deer, I knew, might do anything. She might just stand there and, glassy-eyed, watch us pass, or she might turn and bound away into the woods, or she might trot straight ahead onto the road. I shifted down a gear and to give her more space, veered left and across the yellow line.

Beth gasped.

All the doe had to do was nothing. Just stand there.

She spun on her rear legs and bolted—a dun-brown flash that struck the right front fender. The steering wheel shuddered; the jolt of impact shot into my hands, up my arms and into my chest.

Beth screamed—maybe. In that crystalline moment, it could have been me.

The doe flipped into the air, banged off the windshield directly in front of Beth and disappeared over the cab.

The pickup slewed across the highway, crossed the centerline, spun a one-eighty and came to rest in the far shoulder of the southbound lane.

The engine idled smooth, indifferent, as if something hadn’t just died. A headlight pierced the night. The doe, I knew, had busted out the other one. I held onto the wheel with both hands, scared, afraid to let go, knowing it had been me, not Beth, who’d screamed. Or maybe it had been both of us. I took my foot off the brake.

Beth sobbed—a great shiver that came through the bench seat. Her face was pasty white, her hands tight around her seatbelt.

I said, “Are you okay?”

One hand fluttered away from her seatbelt, stalled in mid-air, fell to her lap and curled up. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus!”

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Jen Gibson has notified me that her book group will be discussing Trout Kill in July, and they’ve invited me to join them. I’m eagerly anticipating the fun! Thanks, Jen, for helping to make this happen. Your group is the very first to invite me, and if any other groups would like me to join them, just let me know!

I’ve recently revised my website’s Book Group Page as follows:

Hey, fellow bibliophiles, if your book group is looking for an interesting read, check out Trout Kill. For those who may prefer a bit of structure to help guide discussions, the questions below may be helpful. And I’d love to join your discussion! As many of you know, I’m a high school English teacher (mostly retired), but if you invite me to join your group’s discussion I promise I won’t make you take notes … and there will be no test afterwards. I’ll bring along a bottle of cheap wine, of course. Simply contact me to arrange a mutually convenient time.