​As I promised you here is a picture of my baby covered in her winter coat. To be more explicit, this boat is often referred to as a Classic Plastic; O’Day 27 foot sailboat. Like most vintage boats or humans, myself included, after a long and sometimes trying life she has bruises and scars, but I love her nevertheless. As soon as the weather warms, I will get busy repainting her and fixing the myriad of problems that exist in an old boat. As Shakespeare stated, she “has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”.
 
I’d like to propose a contest. I bought her last year from an old gent in Harbor Beach, Michigan and I want to change the name of this elegant gal. What I propose is a contest for my devoted readers. Whoever comes up with the winning name will get a signed copy of a novel I hope to publish this year. I get to choose the winner.
 
So, put on your thinking caps and give me your best shot at a name. I promise to be fair in my selection and will announce the winner by April 15th.
 
Thanks
 
Hilton

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3:00 AM.  At camp. February 11, 2021
 
As some of you may know I am an insomniac and on top of that recently had a surgery, so adequate sleep was not in the offing this evening. Instead I am one finger typing on my cell phone at camp as I have no internet here. Not complaining, just describing the situation. 
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It has been bitterly cold this week. On Tuesday night the thermometer hovered at -22 degrees, not wind chill mind you but actual temperature. My septic line froze up and I spent most of Wednesday trying to thaw the damn pipe. Successful finally.
 
Fired up my still yesterday and made a batch of moonshine which I am patiently filtering in the middle of the night while listening to classical music on NPR. 
 
Wood stove is cranking away and is comforting on this very cold night. 
 
Everything is stark white here and the absence of color is a constant reminder that winter will be with me for sometime regardless of what a damn groundhog might indicate. I will include several photos of the camp and you can judge for yourself.
 
I am still working on my novel Rabbit Girl and for a change of scenery, I am revisiting a play I wrote several years ago which I hope to rewrite as a screenplay. It is a dark comedy I named The Buddha Trout, as if I needed another project. 
 
By the way I always look forward to company here at camp so if any of you need a break from the rat race —and you have had your Covid19 shots please drop me a line and we can sidle up to the wood stove and swap lies and sip whiskey. 
 
Take care.
Hilton

An author I know recently remarked to me that he was tired of promoting his own work, a task he felt his publisher had abandoned. While I am new in the writing game, I could understand his point completely. Publishers used to be flush with cash to promote quality work. However now, according to publishing sources, this is no longer the case. Publishers now expect many authors to promote their own writing. I guess you could call this process, self-preservation, or perhaps, pragmatic self-promotion. While writers could be accused of picking sour grapes over this issue the buying public may mistakenly assume that writers are acting out of an excessive sense of vanity.  Writers need to sell books to make a living and they are under siege by economic misfortunes, not entirely of their own making. So, if you like a book, please buy it, and later, also leave a comment, either good or bad on whatever social media platform you use. The world desperately needs books--they are food for hungry minds. 
 
Thanks,
Hilton 
 

We had a snowstorm last night that left the lake covered with a layer of fresh snow; probably a foot or better. Winter has an iron grip on the U.P. now and will hold onto us till well after the spring equinox. There was one lone snowmobile buzzing around the lake the other day; I suppose a fisherman trying to catch a meal. The lake often yields a nice pike or a mess of blue gills. The isolation at the camp is not for city folk, sometimes it even is a bit much for me, especially now with the pandemic. I remain apart from most human contact. I will head back to Marquette soon for a minor operation which, allowing for recovery time will keep me in town for over a week or so.

Enclosed you will find several pictures that a neighbor shot of me and the camp the other day. If you are wondering what the wooden contraption is on the deck, it is my wood-fired hot tub which when I have company I fire up. My design, which I had built by a local contractor uses an old wood boiler I bought from a miner in Negaunee. I got the inspiration for this unit from a website on the internet. The water storage is actually a 300 gallon cattle trough that I purchased at Tractor Supply. There are no fancy water-jets or circulating pumps as the unit operates efficiently without electricity by what is generally referred to as thermo-syphoning. I don’t use it much in the dead of the winter as it takes 4-5 hours to heat up and seems frivolous if I am there at camp by myself, which is often the case. Still, in summer, and in the colder seasons it is wonderful to lie in the tank and stargaze. I will take better shots of the unit next summer and post them here.

Well, time to sign off. Will post another letter soon, so keep looking for a new letter.​

Hilton

Greetings,

There is a dusting of snow at the cabin. Fortunately, my wood is all stacked and ready to go including a pile of split kindling that my neighbor, Chris, put up for me.

Some of you may be aware that my short story, "The Silent Mistress" was published by Illinois State University's journal, "Euphemism". There is no charge for reading this story and I hope all of you that have an interest in my writing will do so. Hint: you may see that short story show up in a collection called, "North of Nelson" at some time in the future.

I am working diligently on a new novel entitled, "Rabbit Girl" set in the near wilderness of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

The sail boat parked at my camp needs to be covered as soon as possible as deep snows will be with us soon. I hope all of you had a Happy Thanksgiving. If you get a chance, drop me a line and let me know what is going on in your life.

Greetings,

After taking a hiatus for the summer I am back in the saddle and writing again.

We have had our first snowstorm of the season at the cabin. Thankfully, it has melted but we know more will be coming our way.

I have some encouraging news to share. My short story, "Silent Mistress" has been accepted for publication in the Illinois State University digital journal, "Euphemism" in late November. I will put my nose to the grindstone and proceed on my newest writing endeavor, "The Rabbit Girl", which is another novel set in the North Woods. I will try to write more frequently as the winter season will be upon us very soon and I will be consigned to the indoors.

In my last letter dated February 2, 2020 I wrote that I would include a synopsis of my short story collection, "North of Nelson". Here is that synopsis as follows:

SYNOPSIS: “NORTH OF NELSON”; Hilton E. Moore
A collection of Eleven Short Stories from the Great North
This fiction collection is commonly referred to as a story cycle or linked stories in which the characters and events are intertwined in some manner, much like the popular and award winning  commercially successful collections of short stories titled Olive Kitteridge and Jesus’ Son.
The setting for this series of short stories is a mythical village called Nelson in a remote area of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. This village in a vast and near-wilderness is the origin for a series of tales that span more than a hundred years and incompass a swath of humanity that live in or near Nelson. The characters and themes in this novel transcend a narrow geographical area and as such are universally accessible to readers both rural and urban.
In the first short story, A Beast Called Fate, Mark Johnson and his teenage daughter Kate have an idyllic life in a wilderness gorge until a developer threatens to close the road to their farmstead. A confrontation ensues and in a twist of fate the issue is resolved.
In the second short story, Woodsmoke, William Martin, a retired social worker must confront his own mental illness and the tortured delusions he has of a long dead classmate. Ultimately his poor health and his unpleasant memories push him to take his life.
In the third, Ditch Dog, Bryan’s young life and faithful dog Ellie May are entangled with Bryan’s irritable Uncle Al, a former pipeliner. Al had made a promise to Bryan’s late father, to instruct Bryan in the art of pheasant hunting. In the midst of a snowstorm Bryan must travel from the Upper Peninsula to Al’s hunting camp in Miller, South Dakota. Bryan’s former girlfriend and a tragic character in an old novel haunt him as he struggles to have a meaningful relationship with his uncle. In a fateful hunt Ellie May is shot by an angry farmer and Bryan returns heart sickened to the Upper Peninsula. Later, in a redemptive act Al tries to make up for the death of Ellie May.
In story four, A Shotgun Wedding, Cassandra relives her life as a reluctant prophet, unable to affect the outcome of her parents’ difficult relationship and the suicide of her biological father. She struggles throughout her life with her “gift” aware that the world never accepts the word of an unwilling soothsayer. 
Story five, In a short story titled Silent Mistress, set during the Great Depression, Lizzie, a Native American, must deal with her disdain of Catholicism, abject poverty and finally, the tragic and fatal alcoholism of her husband.
Story six, Requiem For Ernie, opens in the village of Nelson where the young male protagonist, beset by untreatable polio, finds solace with his chubby friend Ernie and the game of baseball. 
In the seventh short story, Ode To A Lone Wolf, Randy Johnson and his young son cattle farm in the isolated Sturgeon River Gorge near Nelson, where they are in a constant battle with the elements and the hated wolves that prey on their livestock. Randy’s girlfriend, Laura Kingsley, a conservation officer, assists in Randy’s arrest after he illegally shoots a protected wolf.
Short story eight, The Cell Tower, is a startling tale of incest and guilt set in a isolated cabin in the stark frozen winter. The female protagonist, Micah, is torn between saving herself from her own shameful acts, or saving her mentally ill brother, Edward, from the buffoon deputy sheriff Larry. Edward’s illogical obsession with shooting out the lights of a remote cell tower and consequent possible imprisonment come to a deadly head as Larry confronts Edward. 
In story nine, A Dog Named Bunny, Robbie, a young man is incarcerated for murder of a neighbor lady and his younger brother Alan, both of whom he accidentally poisoned. The crimes were prompted by Robbie’s anger over Mrs. Larsen’s insistence that his dog Bunny be destroyed for killing her prize chickens. Robbie’s father, Reverend Hank Martin, a minister in the village of Nelson is deeply affected by an unfortunate lie that led to the tragic consequences and the fate of their pup and to Robbie’s fateful incarceration.
Short story ten opens in the year 1883 as The Irascible Pedagogue, Horace Nelson, a rural school teacher, becomes captivated by an intelligent and beautiful student, Lilith. A covert but unromantic courtship ensues as Horace privately teaches her the French language. Horace, who is unable to find suitable employment due to a charge of immoral turpitude at Yale sees a marriage with Lilith as an avenue of respectability. Horace and Lilith attend a dance at the Grange Hall and Horace rebuffs Lilith’s requests to dance. Lilith asks a young, handsome and prosperous farmer named James to dance and Horace’s fate is sealed. Lilith marries James, and in anger Horace has a small house built just up the hill from James and Lilith’s farmhouse. Lilith undresses seductively in front of her bedroom window, and over time slowly exposes her body to the unremitting gaze of Horace. Horace eventually becomes enraged by jealousy and murders James. Horace is sentenced to life in prison and Lilith sells her farm and sails to France. In a letter from a former lover, it is related that Lilith died of complications due to syphilis having spent her youth as a model for impressionist and passionate painters. 
Short story eleven. Lust And Lightning, is set in the early 1970’s and chronicles a young college student, Duane’s life and loves in a tourist city in Northern Michigan. Duane is infatuated with a small town girl, named Judy as well as a wealthy college student named Heather. Duane buys an old sailboat from Heather and a relationship ensues despite his occasional sexual trysts with Judy. Judy’s boyfriend is Roger, Heather’s former boyfriend and a self-proclaimed poet. This entanglement in relationships plays its way over the course of the summer as all parties involved work out their respective needs. Judy is gang-raped by Roger and his cohorts and she disappears leaving Duane alone. Heather and Roger marry and Roger becomes an acclaimed poet. Duane, in turn opens a bookstore in the resort town and silently refuses to sell Roger’s books.
I hope this synopsis has piqued your interest. Please don't forget to subscribe to my website to keep updated on upcoming additions to my blog.

Regards,
​Hilton

Welcome back!

I took a long hiatus from my website as I needed a break from writing. I apologize if this left some of you out in the cold.

Time to get back into the saddle. I recently finished revisions of my short story collection "North of Nelson", which Carol Gaskin, my line editor intends to get to in March. Then I will need to complete her revisions and start the process (again) of seeking out an agent. Whew!! Much work but that is how the publishing business is these days.

I will include a synopsis of "North of Nelson" in my next letter.

Thank all of you for your insights and patience.

HIlton

This week my family and I will be headed to Oregon for a vacation. Should be back to the UP in a couple of weeks. We will attend a wedding at a vineyard near Salem, then off to Mt. Hood, where we are renting a beautiful log cabin almost in the shadow of that great mountain. We will hike and loaf; though for myself the loafing may be more my style.

Was at camp for several days. Mowed the lawn; er, maybe I should call the yard what it is, a weed bed. Anyway, it got mowed. Keeps the black-flies and mosquitoes down. Or, at least that is my theory. If the UP has one thing in plenty that we could use less of, it’s biting bugs. Damn things.

Fixed my leaky 14 foot pram. It isn’t an expensive high dollar bass boat, but I seem to catch a few fish with it. It isn’t purty, but if you don’t mind a little bit of water seepage it does the trick.

While at camp I sometimes frequent the local VFW for a snort. The Covington VFW is open to the public, if you call the general group of locals, maybe 5 or 6 old coots like me the public. Whiskey always tastes better when your swapping lies with the lumberjacks and truckers that haul the heavily loaded logs to the mills. By the way please drink your whiskey neat the way God intended.

Till I get back. Have a good one and toast to a better tomorrow.

Hilton

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At Camp. There is a slight drizzle this morning, like a melody on the forest canopy. The drops make a pleasant sound, like an articulation made by some amiable mythic god. The irregular tempo of the rain on the the red maples invite me to listen carefully as if mother nature had something she wished for me to hear. I try to listen.

As I pay attention to the sounds I am aware of the cascading trill of a robin, whose vociferous insistence is surely a defense of his territory. His call is pleasant with a hint of stridency. As I once read this is a sign of a territorial imperative. His mate must certainly be near and listening to his demands. Other male robins should heed his warnings.They are truly his adversaries.

The drizzle is intermittent. I suppose it would be reductive to say that mother nature was in control, as what nature does is rather chaotic and unpredictable. Although the turn of the seasons seem to be a reliable predictor of nature’s patterns this really seems to be as much happenstance as a anything else. In case you live in a bubble it is plain that weather patterns are changing and the end of quasi-predictability may be at hand--although the climate deniers are rampant. I live with an apprehension of the future of the human species. It makes me sigh.

I suppose the drizzle also makes me melancholic but I will shake off this blase mood when the sun comes out. At least I hope so--but only time will tell.

Till next time.

Hilton Everett Moore


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