the Old West and a photo of Cody, WY

So much of my story is based on the Myth of the Old West, the western frontier, and I try to reinvent that myth. I don't try to destroy it, I use the pieces I view as truthful, and try to retell it in a humanistic way. I focus on the characters and the way in which they interact, and yeah, the West was known for it's mix of culture, and today, we're still living in that mix and dealing with our own misgivings and mistakes, like the physical and cultural genocide of American Indians at the hand of our government. On one hand we love the western frontier for its ruggedness, freedom, and personal responsibility, and that is still hugely a part of the American West, but on the other hand, gone unchecked, we've destroyed our pristine environment through mining, logging, and personal development of property. The West in essence is the irony of our nation, of our entire world-view, and at the center of that world-view is our national parks, and our first one, Yellowstone, is at the center of it all. What happens in Yellowstone, happens to us all. We reintroduce wolves there, fifteen years later, Montana has it's first wolf hunt. We pollute the air bother the wildlife by running snow-machines through the Park, we essentially say there is nothing sacred about this land, and if there's nothing sacred here, then there's nothing sacred anywhere --it all should be used in any form. The goal in my novel, is to embody those contradictions in the characters, setting, and plot. I wanted it as an underlying element for the reader to discover. It makes the story real, and at the same time, it gave me a place to sort out my own opinions on the matter. There of course, is not wrong or right in the end, because all decisions involve sacrifice. We must be happy with a compromise, one we can live with, not against.

From Drop Box

a waiting game

So, I've been waiting for a reply, and I'm still waiting, but hey, I know that's the process. In the interim I've been reading and collecting ideas for another novel. I haven't even had a bite on this manuscript, but it's a labor of love, and I just like stories and crafting them. The next one's based in eastern Montana, small town, and a real on this time, I'm just not sure which. Glasgow would be easy because I lived there, but some of the events of my story are real, even though fictinoalized, and happened right there, so I'm torn, but that doesn't matter so much yet. I'm really looking at the characters. I'm trying to hone them into realities, and then let them play out their roles through a basic plot structure and see how the story turns out. Any way, every where I look, I'm collecting ideas: news papers, events at work, people in line at Costco, or just stuff I read on the internet. I'm also researching stories for inspiration, like Shakespeare or Ovid. I try to shy away from contemporaries because I want to write my own thing, not like anyone, but if it happens my forethought, oh well. So the story goes...

Video

The story of Truman Everts, the true story, the one I stole to make my own story is told beautifully through this clip from Ken Burns' upcoming documentary on PBS: The National Parks, which seems like it's going to be awesome! Enjoy the clip:

Another Letter Sent

I just sent off another letter to an agent, so again, it's a wait and see. They say 4-6 weeks on this one. Any way, that's what's happening. I've been running ideas in my head for my next project, and there are pieces falling into place.

Rejection #1

"Dear Jesse Franzen, Thank you for sending us your query. We pass on most queries (and in this case yours) as we are only able to review and take on a few new projects each year. We wish you all the best and thank you for thinking of us. WALES LITERARY AGENCY, Inc."

So, I return to my list of agencies to begin again. So is the life. :)

A View

If you haven't noticed, I also like to take pictures. This one is from the top of Bunsen Peak in Yellowstone, looking southeast toward the Gallatin Range. The ponds below are where many people stop and watch waterfowl, buffalo, and the occasional bear or wolf tromp about. The hike is moderate, short but slightly steep, and in June when we hiked it, there was a snowfield that had to be traversed with no sign of the trail. Just go up, and once at the top, the trail is obvious. I suggest A Ranger's Guide to Yellowstone Day Hikes. It is incredibly accurate and easy to follow. On all the estimated times, we were dead in the middle of their given range. Any way, enjoy the photo and go and enjoy Yellowstone!

From Drop Box

About a Raven

A couple of years back I spent a wonderful few days on the far side of Lake Yellowstone, where I wrote and wrote, camped, ate great food, and shared stories with many great writers. The opportunity was provided through the Yellowstone Institute, and they have many great classes. If I could spend all summer with them, I would. During that time, I wrote a poem about a raven. I started with an idea of drawing in words the life of a raven. I had a few images in mind: a black bird in a night sky soaring, placing itself between me and the stars making them twinkle; the raven on a wintery limb of an aspen tree, watching wolves hunt. I wrote it in the first person perspective, and yeah. I took it home, edited a bunch of times over the course of two months or so, and I came up with what you see here. I came back to it about a month ago, read it over, and thought it pretty good, so I shared it with my writer's group. They urged me to publish it, so today, I looked up a few online nature poetry sites, and submitted it. I plan on submitting it to the Cutbank too. Any way, here's a poem for your enjoyment!

Portrait of a Raven
Winter, spring, summer and fall

are my favorite season.

I am a raven. I steal because I need.

My family make no excuses

for our actions; we live

how we live and we let

others know we’re alive.



Lamar snow and chilly forty below,

four-thirty sunset

with week empty-stomach,

we lean close-in --

my three brothers and I –

on a bleached aspen limb.

We watch three silent

dirty white wolves stalk.

A spiraling circle,

separating buffalo,

the old and slow,

to deep fields

where plucking is easy.

There is no fear,

this is our late dinner.



My throaty caw startles the world awake.

From low within winter’s shallow silent bed,

I bring Yellowbells back to life.

Rare spring calm, tonight,

cloudless, circling, stirring the wind,

shielding stars – twinkle.

I dance in my vespers.



In the early hours, I hop sideways

down main street of Mammoth.

On the sun-warmed concrete,

in a world disconnect from mine.

I find not what is true, real, or natural.

I scream hell at three million passersby.

I apologize for nothing.



One eye looks to the future

and one eye to the past;

with the low slung noon sun,

perched in a Cottonwood carcass

high above a red-leaved Bog Bush,

I use Winter’s breath

to tell how it is:

I am the running blue

of both river and sky,

purple perfume of flower fields,

whispering campfire smoke

that trails you around the rock ring,

and you’ll not guess,

but I am the void

of the starry sky,



and after black storms,

I am the rainbow.