Holiday labor

For the first time in nearly 13 years, I will work New Year's Day. No complaints. But somehow my career has sidestepped holiday work shifts. I will likely work on Christmas Day in 2014.

Speaking of labor during the holidays, I have started the next book. The idea is to bundle a collection of short stories about life as a local musician. The working title is "Song for the Local Musician." The book is for any musician - amateur or professional - who chased dreams of rock stardom and curtain calls.

That's the direction I'd like to go. The status of local musician extends beyond guitar bands that blast up the bars. How about the social worker who moonlights as a jazz trumpeter? Or the high school choir teacher who wished she were a concert pianist at Carnegie Hall?

"It's a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll," according to AC/DC. That rings true whether you play a guitar, piano, harp, fiddle, flute or drum kit.

Reprogramming my brain

Toward the end of my time in Federal Way, the job was routine. The to-do list was infinite. I did what needed to be done, and I did what I wanted to do.

The adjustment in Olympia is the specialization, so to speak. In Olympia, one reporter handles crime, while another covers business, and another tackles the school district. I cover everything else about Olympia. What's interesting is that all those other "beats" are intertwined with the community fabric. The challenge is to find my place in the machine and help maximize output. The other reporters own their beats. I must learn the best way to own mine.

One thing I've learned in my career is that the newspaper must act as a catalyst for community discussion. If the community is talking about an issue I've written about, then I consider that article a success. I've got a couple of ideas to riff on, and I hope they keep the city talking.

Olympia

I am three days into my new gig as a reporter for The Olympian. I work with a mellow and good-natured staff. I look forward to growing as a journalist, and I will learn a lot from my new colleagues.

I am impressed by the love that Olympians show their city. It's an easy city to love. I love the view of the Olympic Mountains and State Capitol Building behind the office. Breathtaking scenery - especially when the morning fog wraps its tendrils around the cityscape's torso. I need to post a photo.

The commute is reasonable, especially in the morning. Smooth sailing the whole way. It will take time to learn the nuances and find the pulse of Olympia. That is the frustrating part. The best stories come from experience in covering a city's trials and tribulations.

I recently heard an old saying, so it's new to me: In life, the test comes first and the lesson comes later.

New job

My last day at the Federal Way Mirror was Nov. 22. I start at The Olympian on Dec. 3. Until then, I am temporarily free from wage slavery!

I look forward to learning a new beat and making an immediate impact. The staff is talented and could teach me a few things about journalism. It has been nearly eight years since I worked for a daily newspaper. The pace and deadline pressure give me a buzz.

Throughout my career, I have always worked to improve my craft. The key thing to practice is consistent production — as in producing something every day for people to read, outside of my daily demands in journalism. In my 20s, I wrote songs and poetry with my rock band. In my 30s, I write fiction.

As long as I exercise that writer's muscle, and explore my curiosities through writing, I will have a satisfying career.

I should have been dead

I should have been dead already. When I first got the keys to mom's car, I did my best Dale Earnhardt imitation, cutting through the country roads, pushing the speedometer needle to the limit. I was invincible. I turned on the car's bright lights and reached 110 mph. A deer could have pranced into the road and we both would have died. What if a black car had stopped in the road and turned off its lights, and I didn't see the car until crashing into it? Strangely enough, the bright lights gave me a false sense of safety, as if someone else were watching over me like a co-pilot.

The novel is here!

I'm pleased to announce that "Walter's Searchlight," my first novel, is now available on Amazon. For the Kindle version, click here.

"Walter's Searchlight" explores education, racism, religion, drugs, sex and stereotypes through the eyes of an unlikely homeless celebrity in a Seattle suburb.

Special thanks go to my lovely wife, Amanda Hobbs, for her support and design skills. Not only did she design the novel's cover, but she also built the novel's website. Check it out at andersonhobbs.com.

I am donating November's proceeds to Reach Out Federal Way, which operates winter homeless shelters for men and women. It costs $220 to house/serve one homeless client for 10 days, or $660 for a month.

Homelessness is the link between the novel and Reach Out. The protagonist, Walter Wadsworth, is cut from the same cloth as the late Walter Backstrom, a genius freeloader who died homeless in Seattle. The real Walter was a fixture anywhere he was accepted.

The story is fiction with real-life inspiration. Some of the scenes in the novel reflect actual anecdotes and experiences. But please don't look for hidden clues. I conjured all the dialogue, and the settings are a cornucopia of personal sensory experiences.

In full disclosure, this art imitates life in spirit rather than facts. The novel tries to harness Walter's complicated likeness without masquerading as his biography. The real Walter was one in a billion. I wanted to show that beyond the con-man was a genuine soul with a moral compass all his own. I put the character into situations that most humans face at some point. The key was to test Walter and see how he survived. Did he really show up stoned to high-profile meetings? Yes. Did he really sleep on an all-night bus? Yes. Did he love his daughter and wear it on his sleeve? Yes. These traits describe a flawed human being with good intentions, sort of like us.

What falls in the fall?

Fall has always been my favorite time of year. More than any other season, fall brings about a sense of change. The leaves turn yellow, red, orange and brown, then fall down. The frost teases and the fog takes over in the mornings. The harvest represents Mother Nature's final push before the winter, and in a way, I think the human soul ripens too. Urgency blends with tranquility as we let go of the summer and hunker down for the winter.

One of my recent favorite fall memories is William's holiday concert during his kindergarten year. They sang a children's song called "What Falls in the Fall." The lyrics are tattooed on my brain:

What falls in the fall
Leaves fall in the fall
Down, down, down, down, down
When the summer ends
You've got to hug a friend
To keep your body warm in the fall

On the brink

When we learned that William was on the way (aka, that he was a fertilized egg inside Amanda's uterus), we knew a cross-country move was imminent. About a month after the pregnancy test proved positive, Amanda scored a job in Tacoma. We left Arizona and never looked back.

That was nearly eight years ago. Exciting times!

Now we're at another crossroads. This time, it involves my career. Any day now, I will learn whether my career will enter the next chapter or continue at a climax. Along with this, my first novel is ready to print. I feel the pressure. If everything falls into place, the novel will be ready to read by the time I move forward in the journalism world.

I am on the brink of an exciting time in my career. Some people might not understand why this move needs to be made. But I have goals. I can see the arc. I must follow the path.

On the brink ...

Gossip's emotional grip

Covering local politics for the newspaper is a lot like hosting out-of-town relatives. At first, it's fresh and exciting, but by the end, everyone wants their life back.

I love the high-stakes reporting and unexpected detours that accompany the silly political season. The local hijinks seem trivial in hindsight, but in the moment, they make or break the direction of both the government and the gossip.

Gossip is defined as "casual or unconstrained conversation or reports about other people, typically involving details that are not confirmed as being true." We are quick to dismiss gossip, yet gossip galvanizes groups into action. Forget about the facts. Yes, facts matter, but the facts lack the emotional grip of gossip. Gossip aims for the jugular, facts be damned. Gossip inspires people to find the facts, but do facts send people searching for gossip? Gossip sparks interest. Gossip motivates people to talk. Gossip starts with a whisper with the potential to swell into a collective yell.

Speaking of gossip, did you hear the rumors about a local councilman's sordid affair with the intern? Or would you rather hear about the councilman's recent awards for distinguished service?

That's what I thought.

Off to the presses

My first novel, "Walter's Searchlight," was sent to the printer today. I plan to hold a release party/gathering in November. Stay tuned.

It was hard to pull the trigger. It was harder to admit there was nothing more to improve, nothing more to edit, nothing more to say. I'm sure I will want to change something every time I look at the thing.

I know this much: I wrote the book with love. And if you write with love, you'll never be wrong. This book was written to express the emotions of a downtrodden soul in search of his purpose in life. The book was not written to impress anyone, and this book is not a veiled autobiography.

On a strange side note, I felt as though Grandpa was there with me during the process. I wrote the book for me — because I didn't want to leave this Earth without seeing if I could do it. I wrote the book for my family — on the slim chance that it could help pay for my children's college. I wrote the book for Grandpa — because this was a story I never got to tell him, and I wanted to make him proud.

Pumpkin fever

Autumn has always been my favorite season. The change in weather invigorates my soul. The days shrink, the night expands, the clouds stay longer and the rain wakes up.

This year, I have an unusually strong craving for pumpkins. Pumpkins are worth so much more than jack-o-lanterns and Thanksgiving table settings.

I want pumpkin pie, pumpkin beer, pumpkin cake, pumpkin candy, pumpkin doughnuts, pumpkin spice lattes — anything pumpkin. I want to roll up pumpkin pulp and smoke it. I want to melt a pumpkin and inject it. I want to pulverize a pumpkin and snort it.

The family and I will travel to Oregon later this month for a pumpkin beer festival. I look forward to guzzling pumpkin porters and gorging on pumpkin products.

I will return with orange skin and a stem sprouting from my crown.

Birthdays, vaporizers, power tripping, Seahawks

• Today is Amanda's 35th birthday. She went shopping this afternoon, by herself, with a giftcard from her boys. I wonder what she liked better: the clothes or the peace and quiet.

• Ever since voters legalized marijuana last year, I have noticed people puffing vaporizers everywhere in public. Everywhere. It's hard to tell if they're puffing tobacco or weed, but vaporizing is apparently the latest trend in smoking, according to media reports. I see people puffing while driving, crossing the street, waiting at the bus stop, sitting at the game and walking into Target. Whatever happened to puffing in private? I remember back in the day when we would ...

• Stop power tripping! This means you.

• Seahawks fever is contagious. The region's team is the best in the NFL and is the early Super Bowl favorite. I still love the Colts, and still pay attention to the Bears, but I root for the home team. I look back at our time in Arizona, when we lived a few blocks from Sun Devil Stadium, former home of the Arizona Cardinals. Because everyone in Arizona is from somewhere else, they bring their team allegiances to the Valley. We went to one Packers-Cardinals game, and the stadium was packed with cheeseheads and Brett Favre jerseys. It might as well have been a Packers home game. Also, Brett Favre rules. I think he played that game with a broken neck.

Fiction by the seat of my pants

I am making the final edits for my first novel, "Walter's Searchlight." It is a tale about education, race, politics, sex, drugs and parenthood, all told through the eyes of a homeless father who loves his daughter. I plan to self-publish this fall.

Let's rewind to May 2012. I was returning from my grandfather's funeral in Ohio when I heard that Walter Backstrom died. Few people in my life have fascinated me as much as Walter, who wrote a column for my current newspaper.

Anyone who knew the guy knew there was no such thing as a little bit of Walter. He was as volatile as he was brilliant. He was a scholar, a saint and a sinner.

The book is not about Walter, per se, but attempts to capture the essence of what a human like Walter is all about. It is neither a biography nor a roman-a-clef, nor is it a memoir. Just a story that needed to be told without any intention of making money - and those are the best kinds of stories to tell.

I plunged into this project without any fiction writing experience beyond a few silly newspaper columns. The process has been liberating, but also difficult and lonely work. Sometimes it felt like swimming into a dark ocean with only my instincts as a compass.

I have invested hundreds of hours into this project. I hope people read it.

Soccer dad

My 7-year-old son plays in a youth soccer league. I love to watch him play. I love to cheer from the sidelines. Sometimes I think the games are for the parents, not the kids.

When it comes to sportsmanship, kids set the best example. A couple of weeks ago, one of the boys on William's team was feeling winded and queasy. As the boys ran laps around the field, the coach yelled, "Last one to finish needs to run an extra lap."

The ill boy lagged behind the rest, frustrated and on the brink of tears. Another boy noticed, deliberately slowed down and took over last place. That boy ended up running the extra lap instead.

I saw the whole scene unfold, and it about put a tear in my eye. Only a child could be so unselfish. Only a child could be so sincere and pure at heart.

I've grown more cynical in my adult years. The world will never be as nice and forgiving as I once hoped it could be. That's why I'm grateful for the lessons children teach. Children really are the last bastion of innocence and sincerity.

BREAKING NEWS: You shouldn't have eaten that third chili dog

FIRCREST, Wash. (AP) — A routine family dinner took a turn for the worse Saturday night after you ate that third chili dog.

The fateful decision took place at 7:28 p.m. Sept. 7 during an informal dinner at your house. The menu consisted of Hebrew National jumbo all-beef hot dogs with chili and spicy pickles, along with macaroni salad from the Fred Meyer deli.

After eating two chili dogs in quick succession and smacking your lips in delight, you asked your wife if she wanted the last hot dog. She declined. According to sources, that's when you approached the kettle on the stove where the lone frankfurter floated in greasy water. Armed with a fork, you stabbed the hot dog, wrapped it in a bun, then slathered it with warm chili sauce that came from a can.

The third hot dog was allegedly devoured in five gluttonous bites. Overall, you consumed three days' worth of calories and sodium at this dinner, experts say.

Witnesses reported that when your children asked for dessert, you instead wished for a DeLorean time machine like the one on "Back to the Future," with the intention of traveling 15 minutes into the past to prevent yourself from eating the third chili dog.

As of press time, you were moaning on the toilet while reading a National Geographic.

In your old house (2009)

In your old house
Where you learned to crawl
And wrote your name upon the wall
A wooden bat, a glove and ball
In your old house

In your old house
Smells like cigarettes
Acts of faith, last regrets
A portrait of your favorite pets
In your old house

In your old house
Around Christmastime
You spent every dollar, nickel and dime
On a man who sang but couldn't rhyme
In your old house

In your old house
Wrapped in wedded bliss
And a cold betrayal with a kiss
Today I cry because of this
In your old house

In your old house
Where you grew up poor
A rifle hangs above the door
A camera makes you smile more
In your old house

Look into my I's

The most effective way to deliver a persuasive message or write an effective opinion piece is to minimize - or eliminate - yourself.

That means losing the word "I." The more "I" gets used, the more the reader can lose focus on the message, all in an effort to include the messenger somewhere in the picture.

There is no harm in using I when done sparingly to serve the message. Likewise, if the message is delivered more effectively with a fistful of I's, then so be it. But when I leads to navel gazing, it's time for a rewrite.

3 albums to check out

Here are three albums I've introduced into the rotation in recent months.

• The Civil Wars, "Barton Hollow." Their new self-titled album is worth picking up, but this debut is the purest form of the duo's musical chemistry. Their delicate harmonies swell, soar, dance and fade with perfection in a dozen emotional folk-country ballads. The voices ache and make love, often at once, and are best enjoyed in candlelight. The voices of John Paul White and Joy Williams twist like double-helix DNA. White's muscular guitar is the horsepower behind these fragile slices of Americana.

• Norah Jones, "Little Broken Hearts." Most know Norah Jones by her mega-selling debut with jazz-lounge flair. The follow-up was "Feels Like Home," where the tight songs roadtripped through the country. "Little Broken Hearts" is the mid-1990s alt retro album she's been dying to make. Nothing on this new album sounds like "Don't Know Why." The lyrics reflect a distraught view of past relationships. Danger Mouse's production techniques add a classic sitcom sheen to the songs' hooks, which complement Norah's ethereal delivery.

• Queens of the Stone Age, "Rated R." For some reason, when I want something stronger, I light up the speakers with these guys. Their stew of screw-you guitar thrashings refuse to take themselves too seriously — and occasionally surprise with moments of warm clarity. This particular album from 2000 is trippier than their successful follow-up, "Songs for the Deaf." There is more art for art's sake, like the trumpet oddities that close the album in "I Think I Lost My Headache."

3 books to read

Of the books I've read recently, here are three that I liked, in no particular order.

• "1984" by George Orwell: This timeless novel confirms your worst fears about government. Even if you are a status quo establishment worshipping eunuch, you'll be impressed by the depth at which Orwell portrays the media's presence in modern life. This story was written in 1948, long before TVs (referred in the story as telescreens) lived in every home. I bought the book out of curiosity over recent media buzz over government surveillance. I was amazed at how much of an impact "1984" has had on everyday thought and even speech, especially in the political world. This story transcended entertainment with a parable about intellectual integrity and the pursuit of happiness. I could go on. This is a must-read.

• "The Shipping News" by Annie Proulx: The main character, Quoyle, starts a new life in Newfoundland as a newspaper reporter. This story puts coastal Canadian province on my bucket list. The prose and metaphors turn this harsh environment into a supporting character. The humans in the story live and die by the elements in a rural Newfoundland village where no secret hides. Quoyle is haunted by memories of his dead wife as he raises his daughters in the small fishing town where his ancestors settled. He learns a dark side to his ancestry and finally unties all the mental and emotional knots in his life. Armed with a gift for painting breathtaking portraits of nature, the author also has a way with funny names like Wavey Prowse and Beety Buggit.

• "Breakfast of Champions" by Kurt Vonnegut: I love everything about Vonnegut. His stories are a freewheeling ride on the meaning of life. There are better entry-level Vonnegut books, but "Breakfast of Champions" is one of the best. The book is filled with the author's rudimentary drawings (like an asterisk, which is a self-portrait of his asshole). The deadpan pictures are equal parts hilarious and functional. He cross-references characters from past novels, with Kilgore Trout taking the lead as a failed science writer. I devoured one other Vonnegut novel in the past year -  "Galapagos," which he published in 1985. That was a fun tale about evolution, but "Breakfast of Champions" delivered a purer dose of that trademark wit.

Coffee shop singer

Lee was a self-taught folksinger whose second love was music. He was a starving green-eyed romantic with a uniform of ripped-knee jeans and plain white T-shirts. His hundred-dollar peroxide haircut was mussed up enough to suggest he had mowed it himself.

Born with Ivy League blood in New Hampshire, he skipped Dartmouth and caught the interstate west. He declared himself destitute, free from the trappings of wealth. For backup, he relied on a small trust fund.

I met Lee at a coffee shop where teens and old hippies waited their turn to play. Lee swaggered to the corner stool with his battered guitar. The lacquered wood glistened with hairline scratches. His calloused fingertips had gradually faded the fretboard, especially the frets closest to the tuning pegs.

The microphone was set up in an area normally reserved for paying customers. I hung onto every word and let the chiming guitar strings lead me with their leash.

With a tambourine jangling beneath his tapping foot, Lee rasped a folktale about a card game and the woman who got away. Between verses, his strumming swelled and subsided. After four verses, most coffee shop customers chatted to the background music and responded with scattered applause after the seventh and final verse.

Wish he would have recorded that one. All I remember is the aching chorus:

You're the queen who steals the hearts
An ace is up my sleeve
You aimed and fired two poison darts
What a mangled web we weave

How I learned to be patriotic

The foundation of my patriotism was built and inspired by my grandfather, a World War II veteran who died in May 2012. As a kid, I thought Grandpa had won the war by himself. As a grownup, I realize he had some help. He shared few stories until the last years of his life. By then, he wanted to unload his testimony to history, valor, heartbreak and all.

As a child, you're told to love your country. As an adult, you learn how to love your country. At a local Flag Day celebration, senior veterans pushed their raspy voices full throttle as they sang along to God Bless America and military anthems. Their patriotism had matured over a lifetime, enough for them to harness the beauty in those military marches. A few old-timers were moved to tears as they saluted.

And never have I heard music that simultaneously ached and warmed my soul than when I heard the lone bugler playing Taps at Grandpa's funeral.

The marching beat of "Stars and Stripes Forever" vibrates in my bones. I feel it in the fireworks that spiderweb across the sky. I sense it in my children as they sleep in the backseat on the way home while still holding their little U.S. flags.

You're fired

Most of us know what it's like to get fired. My collar heats up just thinking about the painful whips of rejection. The first employer to ever fire me was McDonald's. I deserved to get fired. I stole food, showed up late, and treated the managers with disrespect. I had it coming.

Some of us have watched a firing, and some of us have done the firing. If you're about to be fired, you sense it coming. I dreaded the confrontations, yet each one was surprisingly civil. The only employee who ever heard me say the words "you're fired" moved on to a higher wage with a shorter commute. Three years later, that employee's tenure was a blip to both of us.

The second employer to fire me was Dairy Queen. A manager once told me that if I didn't pick up the pace with the grill, I would be moved to the drive-through. Every guy got stuck working the grill, which had the longest list of cleaning duties. At least in the drive-through, I could practice my Kermit the Frog impression. That's not why I got fired. I don't fully remember why I got fired. But I probably deserved it.

Don't write that down

Sometimes when I interview people, I take notes. Sometimes these people think I am writing down everything they're saying. Sometimes they're right. Sometimes they're too self-conscious about saying the right thing when the right thing is going to come out anyway. Sometimes they say, "Don't write that down," as if that's what I'm doing. Sometimes they're wrong. Sometimes I have no interest in the interview's subject matter. Sometimes I do.

Aristocrats

Next time you think about the president of the United States being the most powerful human on the planet, consider the presidents who were more powerful than others.
How many blue-blooded aristocrats have ruled the White House in the past century? Franklin Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, both Bushes. Obama and Clinton are not American royals, no matter how close they get. The aristocratic presidents were born into wealth and privilege that spanned generations.

Walter's Searchlight

Below is an excerpt from "Walter's Searchlight," the upcoming novel by Anderson Hobbs (release date: January 2014)



This time, I mean it

     Time stood still the moment I first saw my child. In those frozen seconds before baby Lilly cried and opened her eyes, I witnessed the meaning of life.

     Exactly ten years later, my daughter sends me over the moon and brings me to my knees, sometimes in the same breath.

     I wonder if my father thought the same of me. I miss him, but I'm glad Pops can't see the way I live today. I am one big bundle of disappointment, wrapped in shame and tied together with regret. If I could turn back the clock and make better decisions, I would.

     I take full responsibility for hurting my baby girl. All I want to do is make things right. Like my father, I'm not perfect, but I will do the best I can. I will set an example for my daughter and prove I am more than what my failures suggest. I will fix what I broke, or die trying. This time, I mean it.

- Walter's latest journal entry