I admit I was a bit taken aback a few months ago when Deuce Richardson approached me about writing for The Cimmerian. My first impulse was to turn him down.
After all, I have a lot irons in the fire: I edit a weekly newspaper for a living, front a Western folk band, have a family I love dearly and jealously guard my woods-running time.
All that wasn’t really the cause of my hesitancy. I wasn’t sure I could meet the high standard that kept me coming back to TC over and over again. I wasn’t worried about the writing chops; writing is what I do. No, I was afraid I couldn’t match the analytical skills of Al Harron, the hawk-like eye for the scoop of Miguel Martins (thanks for putting the X where it belonged Miguel) or the mythic sensibilities of Brian Murphy. I told Keith Taylor that I felt profoundly under-credentialed in his company and the same goes for Bill Maynard. I wasn’t sure I could match Barbara Barrett’s erudition (thanks for the kind words Barbara) and I am noways the scholar Jeffrey Shanks is.
And, of course, over all loomed the ghost of Steve Tompkins, the man who brought me back to Howardia (you gonna let me get away with that Steve?).
Besides, I thought, I’m really a guns-and-historical-adventure kind of guy, not a sword-and-sorcery guy. Outside of REH, Tolkien and a taste for the epic grit of A Song of Ice and Fire, I hardly touch fantasy. (I do love Conan. Named my dog Conan, though he has a hard time living up to it). Of course, Howard wrote more boxing and Western yarns than he did fantasy and the Del Rey El Borak volume was proof that REH was the master of the Oriental adventure. I always loved best that El Paso gunfighter adventuring in Afghanistan.
For me, Howard was an historical adventure writer above all. But I figured most Howard fans and TC readers love his fantasy first and foremost and I just wasn’t sure my bent would serve the readers or the blog. I felt like a gypsy in the palace. Surely the invitation had been misaddressed?
Fortunately, my wife is much wiser than I. When I told her about Deuce’s offer and said I thought I should say no, she looked at me with that cute little “why are you so stupid” look and said, “I think it would be good for you.”
Crom! but she was right.
I’ve loved every minute of my short run on The Cimmerian. Turns out that my interest in the historical and things “frontier” was welcomed and encouraged. I should never have doubted it; a vibrant diversity and wide-ranging intellectual curiosity are, of course, hallmarks of The Cimmerian. Nothing makes me happier than being told that I was an asset to this blog. I am proud to have ridden for the brand. And I know my friends will miss my weekly reminder to head this way for a dose of historical arcana.
The short ride brought me many joys in exploring the varied and distant fields of my historical interests, some that had lain fallow for a time. Working on TC helped me understand and reconcile the deep connections that mark my various passions — musical, historical, even spiritual. Passions I share with Robert E. Howard, the man who first inspired me to become a writer.
Studying his letters, I found proof of what I had felt in my bones since I was a youth: here was a kindred spirit. Like Howard, I have always felt out of place and time, regretted that I did not live on the American frontier. It is hard to explain, this intense, painful nostalgia for a time I never saw; yet Howard understood.
If I could choose the age in which I was to live, I can think of no better epoch than this: to have been born about a hundred years earlier than I was, to have grown up on the Southwestern frontier, to have fought through the Texas Revolution and taken a part in San Jacinto, to have served as a soldier in the war with Mexico, to have gone to California with the ’49ers, and to have fallen in some great battle of the Civil War. If I could have grown up and lived in primitive virile surroundings, if I could have taken part in stirring events, if I could have shot straight, lived like an Indian, run like a mustang and fought like a grizzly, I would not care whether I could read a line or write my own name.
–To H.P. Lovecraft, ca. August 1931.
I want, in a word, the frontier — which compassed [sic] in the phrase, new land, open land, free land — land rich and unbroken and virgin, swarming with game and laden with fresh forests and sweet cold streams, where a man could live by the sweat of his hands unharried by taxes, crowds, noise, unemployment, bank-failures, gang-extortions, laws, and all the other wearisome things of civilization.
– To H.P. Lovecraft, ca. July 1933
No one has ever expressed the longings of my own heart more clearly. Writing here helped me figure out how I might incorporate that longing into tales of my own. For that, I am profoundly grateful.
Finally, I must make clear my appreciation for Deuce Richardson and Leo Grin. Having myself spent years in a volunteer capacity building something of great worth with no financial recompense, I am acutely aware of the mixed feelings of pride, weariness and regret that must accompany a decision to let it go.
I will miss standing in the shield wall with my fellow bloggers. On the flank. With a rifle. I hope to see you all down the trail.
Bid ’em all adieu
We can’t turn the world about
The cowboy left the country
The campfire has gone out– “The Campfire Has Gone Out” — Traditional cowboy ballad as performed by Don Edwards
*Art by Frank Frazetta
