What We Risk in Forgetting the Lessons of World War II
If you’ve ever been to New Orleans, as I was last week, you know that NOLA’s National World War II Museum is a must-see experience, one that immerses visitors in the scale, sacrifices, and stakes of history’s costliest conflict. Why the National WWII Museum Matters Today More Than Ever It had been a few years since my last visit. This time, the museum felt even more expansive and more timely. The campus has grown dramatically, with new pavilions, interactive exhibits, and deeply researched storytelling that brings history to life. A could’ve spent days there and still left feeling like there was so much more to learn. The museum excels at balancing scale and intimacy. Combat aircraft hang overhead. Tanks and artillery pieces anchor a maze of exhibit halls. Yet what really hit home are the personal stories—letters to loved ones, recorded interviews, photographs of young men and women who stepped into the breach of history and, too often, never came back. More than 400,000 American service members died during World War II. Among them was my cousin Joe from New Jersey, a co-pilot on a B-17 bomber shot down over France a week before D-Day. Like so many others, he fought to defend democracy and the fundamental freedoms we often take for granted—including the freedom to speak our minds. That idea—freedom of expression—followed me into one of the museum’s most striking special exhibits. Inside “Degenerate Art” and Nazi Censorship Titled “Degenerate! Hitler’s War on Modern Art,” the exhibit showcases more than 65 works by prominent modern artists—painters whose only “crime” in the eyes of the Nazis was daring to express themselves beyond Hitler’s bizarre, state-approved norms. The exhibit also shows how the Nazis vilified jazz musicians, whose art can is rooted predominately in Black American history, nowhere more so than in New Orleans. The Nazis labeled jazz as “degenerate,” condemning it as immoral. To be sure, the exhibit is not just about the arts. It’s about control. It’s about what happens when a government decides what is acceptable to create or say. It’s about the fragility of intellectual and creative freedom when confronted with authoritarian power. Walking through the gallery, you can feel that tension. You see not only the boldness of the artwork, but also the chilling consequences of a regime determined to erase it. It was in that context, having just absorbed the dangers of suppressed expression, that I encountered something particularly unsettling. A Jarring Discovery in the Guest Book Near the exit of the exhibit, the museum invites visitors to express their thoughts in a guest book. Most of the entries were what one would hope for, offered appreciation for the men and women who fought to stop the spread of fascism and imperialism, and that the horrors of Nazi Germany represent a cautionary tale, never more relevant than in America today. In various iterations, many echoed the warning, often attributed to Ronald Reagan, that freedom is never more than a generation away from being lost. But then there were other entries that left me shaking my head in dismay: “Hitler was cool.”“Hitler was right.”“It’s all a lie.” The Paradox of Free Speech It’s one thing to study history and recognize the atrocities committed by Nazis. It’s quite another to see, in a place dedicated to remembering why we fight such atrocities, comments that dismiss or even endorse them. Yet here’s the paradox: the very freedom that allows someone to write something so offensive or ignorant is the same freedom that hundreds of thousands in World War II fought valiently to protect. I respect the constitutional rights of whoever wrote those comments to do so. That’s the point of a free society. But that doesn’t make their sentiments any less troubling. The walkways outside the museum are paved with thousands of red bricks, each memorializing a military veteran. Did the author of “Hitler was cool” not walk over those same bricks and read some of those names before paying admission to a place that stands as the very antithesis of authoritarian rule? What We Risk Forgetting What such comments suggest is that the lessons of World War II are not universally understood, or perhaps not universally remembered. Institutions like the National WWII Museum exist not just to preserve artifacts. They preserve understanding. They remind us of what can happen when intolerance, propaganda, and authoritarianism go unchecked. They show us the human cost of indifference. Indeed, an exhibit displaying so-called “degenerate art” underscores a profound truth: that when a society begins to dictate what is acceptable to think or create, it is already on a dangerously downward trajectory. And that guest book? In its own way, it becomes part of history itself—a snapshot in real time of how Americans today, faced with the very real threat of homegrown authoritarianism, are processing (or failing to process) those lessons. History doesn’t disappear, but it can easily repeat itself if we stop paying attention and expressing ourselves. Walking out of the museum and into a lovely afternoon in New Orleans’ French Quarter, I found myself thinking less about weapons of war and more about their respective purposes—of freedoms defended and freedoms denied, and of the responsibility we all share in making certain the difference between the two is never forgotten.
Why Cordell Logan Lives in Rancho Bonita–and Not in Santa Barbara, Where I Live
Readers sometimes ask me why Cordell Logan, the reluctant sleuth of my mystery series, makes his home in Rancho Bonita, California—a town that does not appear on any map, travel brochure, or DMV registration form, yet somehow exists vividly enough in at least some readers’ minds that they’ll insist they once drove through it. This question is usually followed by a comment from them that Rancho Bonita looks suspiciously like Santa Barbara, where I live in real life. Yes, I see the resemblance. Yes, it’s intentional. And no, Logan will not be moving to Santa Barbara anytime soon. Fictional Towns Don’t Get Mad at You (Real Ones Do) To start with, fictional towns don’t get mad at you. Real towns, on the other hand, absolutely do. Santa Barbara is full of lovely people—cultured, friendly, and quite capable of reading—which presents a problem. If you describe a café whose coffee tastes like warm hydraulic fluid filtered through a gym sock, someone here will inevitably ask if you meant their café. Then they’ll squint at you every time you walk in, forcing you to start tipping like a drunken Rockefeller. In Rancho Bonita, nobody confronts you. Nobody says, “Hey, you know that one really snarky guy in Deep Fury? Did you base him on…?” Truth be told, it’s a town constructed entirely of plausible deniability. Rancho Bonita Municipal Airport: The Perfect Fictional Home for Cordell Logan Then there’s the airport situation. Rancho Bonita Municipal is an aviator’s dream: sun-soaked and a little rough around the edges. It’s the perfect home base for the Ruptured Duck, Logan’s noble and occasionally cantankerous Cessna. Santa Barbara has an excellent airport—clean, civilized, and busy with commercial airliner traffic—not exactly the kind of facility that would appreciate the kind of hijinks that tend to follow Cordell Logan. If I’d placed him at the Santa Barbara Airport and written half the things that happen at the fictional Rancho Bonita airport, TSA and probably the FBI would’ve already asked to “speak with me” by now. Fictional airports are wonderfully tolerant of fictional behavior. The Creative Freedom of Inventing a Fictional California Coastal Town Rancho Bonita also lets me bend geography with the kind of creative freedom the real world stubbornly refuses to allow. When you set a story in an actual place, you are beholden to maps, landmarks, and people who know where everything is. Readers will happily message you to say the alley you described is not actually behind the bakery, and that the sun cannot possibly set at the angle you suggest unless the Earth’s axis shifts. But Rancho Bonita? I can slide the coastline a little closer when I need an ocean view, conjure an industrial district for a chase scene, or create an alleyway where two thugs can corner Logan without interference from tourists wielding frappuccinos. Fiction lets you remodel the world without filing a single zoning request. Protecting Santa Barbara from Cordell Logan’s Habit of Attracting Trouble Another key reason Cordell Logan doesn’t live in Santa Barbara is simple public safety. If I put him here, the city would by now have endured multiple explosions, a handful of high-speed chases, a suspicious number of aviation incidents, and enough gunfire to prompt federal intervention. Hotels would empty. The Chamber of Commerce would despair. The mayor would ask me in a very calm voice to leave and never write about the place again. By sending the mayhem to Rancho Bonita, I spare Santa Barbara the annual destruction that comes with being home to a trouble magnet like Logan. How Rancho Bonita Is Inspired by Santa Barbara—But Not Limited by It Perhaps most importantly, Rancho Bonita lets me hide in plain sight. I get to borrow the best parts of the place I call home—the stunning coastline, the mountains, the airport camaraderie, the laid-back beach-town rhythm—without dragging my neighbors, local officials, or favorite restaurants into Cordell Logan’s orbit. Santa Barbara provides the inspiration. Rancho Bonita takes the blame. Why Authors Use Fictional Towns in Mystery Novels Ultimately, fiction lets you capture not just the look of a place, but the feeling of it. Rancho Bonita is Santa Barbara seen through a slightly mischievous lens: a little quirkier, a little stranger, more dramatic when the plot needs drama and more peaceful when Cordell Logan needs to lick his wounds. It’s shaped not by accurate cartography but by mood, character, and the kinds of people who drift through small coastal airports and stick around because the weather is good and the trouble is interesting. So why does Cordell Logan live in Rancho Bonita instead of Santa Barbara? Because one is where I live—and the other is where I get to play.
Why Cordell Logan Is a Pilot: How Aviation Makes Him a Better Detective
If you’ve followed Cordell Logan across the pages of my mystery novels, you’ve probably noticed something early on: Logan can’t turn off his pilot brain. Even when he’s nowhere near the cockpit of the Ruptured Duck—his aging but stubbornly reliable airplane—he’s mentally scanning, evaluating, cross-checking, and trying to stay three steps ahead of whatever might go wrong next. It’s a habit that saves his life outright in Flat Spin, nearly costs him in Deep Fury, and quietly governs the way he moves through danger in Voodoo Ridge, Hot Start, The Kill Circle, and The Three-Nine Line. Readers sometimes ask why Logan is a flight instructor rather than a conventional detective. Why not make him an ex-cop or former government special operator? The answer is simple: flying is at his core. It shapes how he thinks, how he handles pressure, and how he interprets incomplete information. It turns out pilots make surprisingly good detectives. The cognitive overlap is real. Situational Awareness: Why Pilots Excel at Reading Danger Every pilot learns early that when everything starts falling apart, the first priority is simple: fly the airplane. But in truth, you’re flying far more than that. You’re flying the situation. Weather, terrain, traffic, systems, fuel, airspace, radio chatter, and your own mental state all compete for attention. Miss one variable and the whole picture can unravel. Logan lives inside that mindset. He enters rooms the way a pilot enters unfamiliar airspace—quietly, alertly, taking in what doesn’t announce itself. In Voodoo Ridge, he realizes a seemingly cooperative character is anything but—not because of what’s said, but because the surrounding details don’t align. It’s the narrative equivalent of flying into air that feels wrong before the instruments confirm it. That instinct mirrors real flying. I once descended toward a mountain airport as visibility steadily degraded, making constant micro-adjustments—airspeed, descent rate, terrain clearance—without panic, just processing. Logan processes danger the same way. He doesn’t call it situational awareness. He simply knows when something is off. Checklists and Detective Work: Why Discipline Matters in Both Aviation and Investigation One of aviation’s most important inventions wasn’t a faster engine or better avionics. It was the checklist. Pilots use checklists obsessively: before takeoff, in cruise, on approach, during emergencies. They exist because human memory degrades under stress. Logan doesn’t carry a literal checklist, but the philosophy governs his investigations. In The Kill Circle, when multiple explanations appear equally plausible, he refuses to lunge toward the most dramatic theory. Instead, he works methodically—timelines, motives, opportunity—until one detail refuses to reconcile. It’s the investigative equivalent of an instrument warning light that shouldn’t be illuminated. I’ve relied on that discipline myself. Taxiing out from a high-altitude desert airfield not long ago, a minor anomaly during my engine run-up forced me to stop, recheck, and shut down. Mechanics later confirmed a problem that could have ended badly had I ignored it. Aviation teaches you that small oversights become catastrophic quickly. Logan understands that truth at a cellular level. Risk Assessment: How Pilots Anticipate Trouble Before It Happens Good pilots operate with quiet paranoia. Not fear—but preparation. They assume systems can fail. They build margins. They plan exit strategies. They accept that today’s calm conditions may deteriorate without warning. Logan carries that mindset everywhere. In The Three-Nine Line, he survives situations that appear manageable on the surface because he never trusts surface calm. He anticipates escalation. He assumes deception. He prepares for the moment when stability gives way to chaos—because flying has taught him it often does. By the time Logan reaches The Impossible Turn, the eighth novel in the series debuting in spring 2026, that instinct becomes more than habit. It becomes survival. The margins are thinner. The consequences steeper. The question he has always asked—What am I missing?—becomes less theoretical and more urgent. It’s no longer about avoiding trouble. It’s about choosing which risks can be survived. Pattern Recognition: The Hidden Skill That Makes Pilots—and Detectives—Effective Flying, at its core, is pattern recognition. Engines have normal sounds. Aircraft respond in predictable ways. Weather follows recognizable behaviors. With experience, you sense abnormality before you can explain it. Logan’s investigative instincts operate the same way. In Deep Fury, he notices behavioral inconsistencies—hesitations, rehearsed reactions, details offered too quickly—that mirror the subtle cues a pilot notices when an engine runs slightly rough. His intuition isn’t mystical. It’s trained. By the time of The Impossible Turn, patterns emerge faster and collide harder. Logan has less time to analyze and fewer clean answers. He must rely on judgment refined through years of near-misses—both in the air and on the ground. Why a Pilot Makes a Unique and Believable Mystery Protagonist Cordell Logan isn’t effective because he’s fearless or superhuman. He’s effective because he brings a pilot’s mindset into situations where most people rely on instinct alone. He is structured without rigidity. Skeptical without cynicism. Disciplined without losing adaptability. Those qualities define the best pilots. They also define the most compelling fictional detectives. Which is why Logan, even when firmly on the ground, is never truly done flying. The cockpit follows him wherever he goes. And eventually, it asks him to make a turn he’s spent a lifetime preparing for.
From Los Angeles Times Reporter to Aviation Mystery Author: How Journalism Shaped Cordell Logan
Long before Cordell Logan ever taxied onto the page in his beat-up Cessna 172, the Ruptured Duck, I spent my days—and too many nights—chasing leads as an investigative reporter for the Los Angeles Times. Back then, my world smelled like newsroom coffee and the faint whiff of panic as another deadline closed in. Today, the aroma tends more toward avgas and the warmth of a sunbaked runway. But the truth is, the journey from newsroom to hangar wasn’t a reinvention. It was an evolution. The skills I sharpened digging for stories are the same ones I lean on every time Logan finds himself in trouble—which is to say, constantly. I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, but investigative journalism—and later, work in the intelligence community—was the best possible training ground for writing aviation-driven crime fiction. Curiosity: The Investigative Reporter Trait That Defines Cordell Logan The best reporters share one simple trait: they’re nosy. Professionally nosy. Pathologically nosy. Tell us “no comment,” and we dig deeper. Tell us something doesn’t add up, and we’ll spend weeks trying to reconcile the math. That instinct lives at the core of Cordell Logan. He’s a character who can’t ignore inconsistencies—the dent that couldn’t have come from where the witness claims, the alibi that feels rehearsed, the subtle tone of someone concealing the truth. Logan’s pilot instincts keep him alive. But his investigative instincts help him understand why danger exists in the first place. Curiosity might kill cats, but in investigative reporting and mystery writing, it’s the engine that keeps everything moving forward. Why Precision and Detail Matter in Both Journalism and Aviation Fiction As a reporter, I learned early that the difference between an ordinary story and a front-page investigation lies not in volume, but in precision. I once spent weeks tracking down a law-enforcement source who could confirm a small but crucial procedural failure inside a major investigation. The detail occupied only a single sentence in the final article—but without it, the story lacked credibility. Flying reinforces the same lesson, only with higher stakes. Miss a detail in the cockpit and you aren’t getting a phone call from your editor. You’re getting a visit from the NTSB—assuming you’re fortunate enough to survive. In the Cordell Logan series, I try to honor both disciplines. Aviation is inherently technical, but readers don’t want a pilot’s manual. They want immersion. They want to feel the vibration of uncertainty, not read a dissertation on aerodynamics. Journalism taught me how to identify the details that matter—and discard the ones that don’t. How Investigative Reporting Teaches You to Listen for What Isn’t Said One of the first lessons journalism teaches is that truth rarely arrives in neat, declarative sentences. More often, it hides in hesitation. In tone. In what isn’t said. As a pilot communicating with air traffic control, you learn the same skill. A controller’s phrasing, cadence, or subtle tension may signal changing conditions long before the situation becomes obvious. Cordell Logan listens the same way. He reads tone. He interprets silence. He understands that people reveal themselves not only through words, but through their absence. That instinct came directly from my years as a reporter. The Real-Life Characters Who Inspire Cordell Logan’s World Spend enough time in newsrooms or airport hangars, and you encounter more characters than fiction could ever contain. The line mechanic who knows every airplane’s personality. The editor who dismantles weak logic with a single glance. The retired pilot whose stories always begin with improbable calm. The confidential source who insists on meeting in dimly lit corners. During my reporting career—at the Los Angeles Times and at newspapers in Colorado before that—I met whistleblowers, military veterans, law-enforcement officers, political insiders, and ordinary people caught in extraordinary circumstances. In aviation, I’ve met instructors, mechanics, and pilots whose courage, eccentricity, and humor define general aviation. These individuals don’t appear directly in the books. But their essence shapes Logan’s world. Fiction thrives on authenticity, and authenticity begins with observation. Accountability and Consequences: Shared Truths in Journalism, Flying, and Fiction Both journalism and aviation demand accountability. In flying, mistakes carry physical consequences. In reporting, errors can damage reputations, destroy trust, and distort truth. That’s why accountability defines Cordell Logan’s world. His mistakes matter. His decisions carry consequences. This isn’t melodrama. It’s realism, shaped by professions where precision isn’t optional. How Investigative Journalism and Aviation Naturally Lead to Writing Mystery Novels At their core, journalism, aviation, and fiction share the same foundation: pursuit of truth. In reporting, the reward is uncovering the missing piece. In flying, it’s lifting into a sky that demands respect and awareness. In writing, it’s the moment when a story achieves lift—when character, plot, and tension align. Looking back, the path from investigative reporter to pilot to novelist wasn’t unexpected. It was inevitable. Each discipline sharpened the same instincts: curiosity, discipline, observation, and respect for consequences. The same instincts that define Cordell Logan. And frankly, the same instincts that still define me.
Why Cordell Logan Flies a Cessna 172 While I Fly a Cirrus
Readers often assume that because Cordell Logan flies a creaky, seen-better-decades Cessna 172—the Ruptured Duck—I must fly something equally geriatric, dented, and emotionally complicated. This could not be further from the truth. In reality, I fly a first-generation Cirrus, a sleek, exceedingly comfortable aircraft with glass avionics, a side yoke, and a temperament suggesting it was designed by psychologists intent on making flying feel therapeutic. Logan’s airplane may not resemble mine, but it closely resembles the airplanes I flew for many years before upgrading. The Real Aviation Experience Behind Cordell Logan’s Cessna 172 Before transitioning to the Cirrus, I logged several hundred hours in a Cessna 172—the very aircraft upon which the Ruptured Duck is modeled. The kind with sun-cracked plastic, earthtone interiors fashionable during the Nixon administration, and avionics that proudly declared themselves state-of-the-art sometime around 1973. For more than a decade afterward, I flew a Piper Cherokee 180 built in 1965. It was simple, sturdy, and unfailingly loyal. I bought it believing it could carry my wife, two kids, and full fuel. In practice, life intervened. The kids grew busy. My wife had better things to do than indulge my aviation obsession. These days, I fly solo far more often than I carry passengers. But those hours gave me intimate familiarity with airplanes like the Duck. How Real General Aviation Aircraft Inspired the Ruptured Duck Duck-like airplanes aren’t fictional inventions. They’re affectionate composites of real machines I’ve flown and trusted. I know the feel of their control yokes at rotation. I know the smell of heated oil and aging vinyl. I know the mysterious rattle behind the instrument panel that every mechanic acknowledges and none ever entirely resolves. I know what it feels like to coax them to life on frigid Colorado mornings. I know the particular anxiety of departing short runways on scorching afternoons, calculating density altitude and silently negotiating with physics. The Ruptured Duck is not imaginary. It’s built from memory. Why Cordell Logan flies Airplane Reflects His Character Cordell Logan isn’t me, and fiction isn’t autobiography. Logan is a man shaped by hardship, experience, and scars he doesn’t advertise. He belongs in an airplane that reflects those qualities. A Cirrus wouldn’t suit him—not because he couldn’t fly it, but because both pilot and airplane would feel out of place. Logan needs an aircraft that challenges him, frustrates him, and occasionally refuses cooperation. The Duck is stubborn. Loyal. Loud. Temperamental. It mirrors him perfectly. In fiction, airplanes aren’t merely transportation. They’re characters. Why I Fly a Cirrus Instead of a Cessna 172 or Piper Cherokee My Cirrus suits me precisely because it simplifies life rather than complicating it. For one thing, it moves. Anyone who has flown older general aviation aircraft understands that “cross-country flight” often requires patience and snacks. The Cirrus, by contrast, allows you to reach destinations before nightfall without elaborate planning. The avionics represent an even greater leap forward. After years of flying behind steam gauges and aging radios, stepping into a glass cockpit felt like entering a different era. The Cirrus provides information, clarity, and confidence. It also provides something older aircraft lack entirely: a parachute. Every Cirrus aircraft comes equipped with a whole-airplane ballistic parachute. Pull the red handle, and the entire aircraft descends safely to earth. Logan, of course, has no such luxury. And that’s exactly why he shouldn’t. Cirrus vs Cessna 172: How Aircraft Choice Shapes Aviation Fiction The biggest difference between Logan’s airplane and mine isn’t technological. It’s narrative. The Ruptured Duck complicates Logan’s life. The Cirrus simplifies mine. The Duck forces Logan to remain vigilant, adaptable, and humble. It introduces uncertainty. It raises stakes. It creates tension. The Cirrus allows me to focus on the journey rather than survival. That distinction matters in fiction. Stories thrive on uncertainty. Reliability, while comforting in real life, makes for dull storytelling. Why Airplanes in Fiction Become Characters, Not Just Machines After hundreds of hours flying Cessnas and a decade in a faithful Cherokee, I can say with confidence that airplanes develop personalities. They have quirks. Moods. Habits. The Ruptured Duck is not comic relief. He is Logan’s partner. He challenges Logan. Protects him. Tests him. And occasionally, saves his life. Just as every pilot remembers the airplanes that shaped them, every writer remembers the machines that gave their characters wings.
What Whale Watching Taught Me About Writing a Novel
https://davidfreed.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/whales.mp4#t=0.01 I recently went whale watching with family off the coast of Santa Barbara, where I live, and had an epiphany. It struck me after several close encounters with humpbacks—one so close its exhale misted us like an enthusiastic carwash—and only later, when a few modest Minke whales zipped past our boat like plus-sized dolphins on a schedule. The epiphany was this: whales are a lot like writing a novel. Both are massive, mysterious undertakings that make you feel tiny and awestruck in equal measure. Both demand patience, humility, and a tolerance for long stretches where nothing appears to happen—until suddenly, something breathtaking does. Writing a Novel Requires Patience You Cannot Force There’s nothing like staring into the small, dark eye of a humpback surfacing beside your boat to remind you that you, the observer, are not in control. The whale decides when to appear. How long to stay. When to vanish. Writing works the same way. You can sit at your desk for hours, scanning the blank horizon of the page, hoping inspiration will breach. When it finally does, it feels less like invention and more like discovery. You didn’t create it. You found it. The Myth That Writing a Novel Is Easy At first glance, whale watching seems simple: buy a ticket, board a boat, look at the ocean. Writing begins with similar optimism: open laptop, pour coffee, type “Chapter One.” Then the horizon stretches endlessly in front of you, and you realize you may be here for a while. This is when doubt arrives. You question the decision. You wonder whether shorter forms—haiku, grocery lists—might offer a more reliable emotional return on investment. But then something stirs. The First Breakthrough: When Your Story Finally Comes Alive Just when you’re convinced you’ve made a terrible mistake, a humpback appears. It exhales. Your heart follows. The first sentence emerges. Then the first scene. Then something unmistakably alive rises from the depths of your imagination. It’s magnificent. It’s also fleeting. The rest of the writing process becomes an act of faith—waiting for the story to surface again in recognizable form. Why Every Writer Has “Minke Whale” Drafts Eventually, the Minke whales appear. They’re smaller. Faster. Less dramatic. These are your serviceable chapters. Your functional scenes. The parts of the novel that do their job without announcing greatness. No one applauds them. But they matter. These quieter moments sustain momentum between breakthroughs. Without them, you’d lose heart waiting for the next great breach of inspiration. Every novel is built not just on brilliance, but on persistence. Writing a Novel Is a Long, Slow Migration Whales travel immense distances across unseen depths. They surface just often enough to remind you they’re still there. Novels behave the same way. They migrate slowly from vague idea to finished manuscript. They resist schedules. They ignore deadlines. They operate according to forces you only partially understand. On good days, writing feels like steady forward motion. On difficult days, it feels like drifting. Both are necessary. Why Writing Requires Trusting Your Own Instincts On a whale watching boat, everyone believes they’ve spotted the whale first. Writing attracts similar commentary. Editors offer guidance. Readers offer opinions. Friends offer suggestions shaped by books they imagine writing someday. You listen politely. But ultimately, only you know when the whale has surfaced. Only you know when the story is ready. Writing Is an Act of Sending Your Voice Into the Unknown Whales communicate across vast oceans using sound. Writing works the same way. You release your words into the unknown, hoping they resonate with someone you may never meet. You trust that your voice, if honest enough, will travel farther than you expect. Writing is an act of faith in unseen connection. Every Writer Faces Days When the Story Disappears Every whale watching captain admits uncertainty. The whales were here yesterday, someone says. They may not appear today. Writers understand this perfectly. Some days, the story vanishes. The page remains empty. Progress feels impossible. But the only guaranteed failure is abandoning the search. Stories reward persistence. The Breakthrough Moment Every Novelist Chases Eventually, if you remain patient, something extraordinary happens. The humpback breaches. Your story clicks into place. Characters align. The narrative lifts free of gravity. This is the moment writers pursue through months or years of effort—the instant when creation transforms into something undeniable. It makes every false start worthwhile. Why Writers Keep Returning to the Page Then it ends. The whale disappears. The ocean closes. The moment passes. You review the evidence—drafts, notes, fragments—and realize they only approximate the experience itself. So you return to the page. Because that’s what writers do. We show up again and again, not because success is guaranteed, but because the miracle occasionally reveals itself. And when it does, there’s nothing else like it.
How Robert Redford Inspired My Career as a Journalist, Pilot, and Writer
I once met Robert Redford. I was a young reporter in Denver, covering the state legislature and governor’s office for the now-defunct Rocky Mountain News. I’d received a tip that Redford was scheduled to have breakfast the following morning at the Governor’s Mansion with then-Governor Dick Lamm. I showed up early and met Redford at the door. After introducing myself, I asked why the two men were meeting. He brushed me off politely and suggested we could talk later at a public function where he was scheduled to speak. When I approached him there, he brushed me off again—equally politely—with that effortless mix of charm and distance that defined his screen presence. I never did learn the purpose of that breakfast. But I remember him vividly. He was shorter than I expected, and even more handsome. He wore a wool sportscoat, cowboy boots, a western shirt, and aviator glasses with a tiny chip in one lens—a small imperfection that somehow made him more human. Robert Redford’s Films Helped Shape My Early Ambitions What stayed with me even more than that encounter was how much my life seemed to intersect, in unexpected ways, with the characters Redford portrayed. As a teenager, I took up winter mountain camping, inspired largely by Redford’s performance in Jeremiah Johnson. That romantic illusion ended abruptly after I fell through the ice of a mountain stream near Guanella Pass during a blizzard. Cold, wet, and snowbound for days, I realized quickly that I was not Jeremiah Johnson. And never would be. How All the President’s Men Inspired Me to Become a Journalist If Jeremiah Johnson taught me humility, All the President’s Men gave me direction. Watching Redford portray Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward was transformative. He made journalism look meaningful. Purposeful. Essential. It wasn’t just a job. It was a calling. Seeing Woodward pursue truth with relentless focus inspired me to pursue journalism myself—a decision that would define the early trajectory of my career. Robert Redford, the CIA, and My Unexpected Intelligence Community Connection While still in college, I watched Three Days of the Condor, in which Redford plays an intelligence analyst caught inside a lethal conspiracy. Not long after graduating, the CIA recruited me for a series of interviews in Washington. The job they envisioned wasn’t one I wanted, and it never materialized. But years later, after leaving daily journalism, I found myself working under contract for both the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency. My work bore little resemblance to Hollywood thrillers. Still, carrying a top-secret clearance and operating within the intelligence community felt, at times, like stepping briefly into a Redford film. How Robert Redford’s Aviation Film Influenced My Own Flying In The Great Waldo Pepper, Redford plays a reckless, barnstorming pilot. I, too, eventually became a pilot—though a far more cautious one. Unlike Waldo Pepper, I preferred airplanes that landed reliably and avoided unnecessary drama. Still, aviation became an enduring part of my life, and later, the defining element of my Cordell Logan mystery series. My Brush With Hollywood and Redford’s Film Production Company There were other intersections. At one point, I was invited to audition for a small role in The Electric Horseman, starring Redford and Jane Fonda. The audition required showing up at a modeling agency wearing a flannel shirt. When I arrived, I saw a group of impossibly handsome men who looked like professional actors. I realized immediately that I did not belong among them. I left without auditioning. Years later, as a screenwriter, I pitched several projects to executives at Wildwood Productions, Redford’s development company. None went anywhere. More disappointing still, I never saw Redford again. I always wanted to ask him about that breakfast with Governor Lamm. Robert Redford’s Legacy Beyond Acting: Sundance, Activism, and Independent Film When news came that Robert Redford had passed away at 89, it felt strangely unreal. He had always seemed timeless. He was more than a movie star. He was a cultural force. Redford used his success to elevate independent voices, founding the Sundance Institute to nurture emerging filmmakers and storytellers. He advocated for environmental preservation and civil discourse, demonstrating that influence could be used responsibly. His legacy extended far beyond cinema. He helped shape the stories that shape us. How Robert Redford’s Films Influenced My Life and Writing Looking back, Redford’s work provided more than entertainment. His characters embodied curiosity, courage, and independence. They reflected a world larger than fear or routine—a world open to exploration. For a poor kid from Colorado, his films suggested that life could be an adventure worth pursuing. In ways both obvious and subtle, his stories helped shape mine. That is how I’ll remember him—not just as an actor, director, or producer, but as a storyteller whose work inspired countless others to find their own voice. Myself included.
Why I Don’t Like Bananas (And Never Will)
“Why don’t you like bananas?” This is a question I used to get constantly from my children, and now get constantly from my grandchildren—all of whom are militant banana enthusiasts. These are people who consume bananas straight from the peel, sliced onto cereal, blended into smoothies, and baked into muffins. They view the banana not merely as a fruit, but as a cornerstone of human civilization. I, meanwhile, view bananas as an evolutionary miscalculation that somehow slipped past quality control. Explaining Banana Aversion to Banana-Loving Grandchildren Banana-related conversations with my grandchildren tend to unfold like interrogations conducted by very small, very persistent prosecutors: “Poppy, why don’t you like bananas?” “Because I don’t.” “But why?” “Because they’re weird.” “No, they’re not.” “Yes, they are. They’re squishy and smell funny.” “But they taste good.” “To you.” “But why don’t you like them?” This is what I’m dealing with—a relentless coalition of fruit loyalists demanding scientific justification for what is, at its core, a deeply personal and entirely rational stance. If I claimed a banana-related trauma involving a chimpanzee and a tricycle, perhaps they’d show mercy. But honesty—namely, that bananas make me mildly nauseous—is apparently unacceptable. Why Some People Hate Bananas: Taste, Texture, and Smell Bananas are the only fruit that manages to be simultaneously mushy, chalky, stringy, and gummy. That’s not flavor. That’s a design flaw. And the smell? If bottled, it would be marketed as Eau de Overripe and sold exclusively in truck stop restrooms. Bananas also possess an alarming tendency to transition overnight from edible to hazardous waste. One moment, they’re yellow and optimistic. The next, they resemble forensic evidence. The Strange Appearance of Bananas Compared to Other Fruit Bananas don’t resemble any other fruit in existence. They’re shaped like punctuation marks. They bruise easily. They age poorly. Other fruits maintain dignity. Apples remain apples. Oranges remain oranges. Bananas, meanwhile, seem to deteriorate emotionally as well as physically. Why Bananas Became the Default Fruit of Modern Civilization Despite their many shortcomings, bananas have achieved astonishing cultural dominance. They appear in fruit salads. They infiltrate breakfast menus. They’re offered as optional oatmeal enhancements, often for an additional fee. No, thank you. Bananas have become fruit’s equivalent of background music—unavoidable and rarely requested. How Rare It Is to Dislike Bananas Disliking bananas places one in a statistical minority. According to a YouGov survey, only 5% of American adults dislike bananas. Meanwhile, 86% approve of them, and 8% remain neutral—presumably the Switzerland of fruit opinions. This leaves banana skeptics isolated and unsupported. There are no banana aversion support groups. No advocacy organizations. No “Banana-Free Since Birth” bumper stickers. We endure quietly, declining smoothies and discreetly removing banana slices from unsuspecting fruit salads. Click: ideosparkleonnesha The Lack of Celebrity Role Models for People Who Dislike Bananas Every movement needs a spokesperson. Unfortunately, the only celebrity I’ve found who publicly shares my banana aversion is Kendall Jenner, who reportedly dislikes bananas due to childhood associations with their smell. While admirable, this falls short of the kind of leadership required to unite banana skeptics worldwide. We remain, for now, a leaderless resistance. Read more: Why pilots make good detectives A Message to My Grandchildren About Bananas To my grandchildren: I love you. I respect your choices. If bananas bring you joy, you should embrace them fully. But I will not be joining you. Not a bite. Not a nibble. Not even under intense peer pressure. And when you ask again why I don’t like bananas, I will give you the only honest answer available: Because I don’t. And that should be reason enough.
Why I Still Wear My SpaceX T-Shirts (Even If It’s Complicated)
Anyone who knows me knows I have a soft spot for anything that flies—with the notable exceptions of mosquitoes and those terrifying winged monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. As a child, I was convinced one of those flying demons would swoop down and carry me off in broad daylight. That said, if it flies and doesn’t drink blood, I’m a fan. Airplanes hold my deepest affection. Helicopters fascinate me despite their apparent disregard for common aerodynamic decency. But rockets? Rockets (SpaceX) have always occupied their own orbit in my imagination. Growing Up During the Golden Age of Rockets and Spaceflight As a kid, I built and launched model rockets powered by what were optimistically called “engines,” but were essentially controlled explosions with branding. Despite several close calls—including at least one near miss involving my sister—I somehow survived with all fingers and eyesight intact. I grew up during the Apollo era, when astronauts were not merely explorers but mythological figures. They wore white suits and bubble helmets and traveled to the moon, which at the time felt less like science and more like destiny. Years later, as a newspaper reporter, I covered the landing of Space Shuttle Columbia at White Sands Missile Range. Watching it descend from the sky felt like witnessing something divine—human ingenuity returning safely from the void. Know Robert Redford Watching SpaceX Falcon 9 Rocket Launches from Vandenberg Space Force Base Today, I live near Vandenberg Space Force Base, where SpaceX regularly launches Falcon 9 rockets into orbit. The sonic booms from returning boosters rattle windows and reverberate through the neighborhood with unmistakable authority. (Pro tip: a Falcon 9 sonic boom sounds like God kicking a dumpster full of anvils.) These launches serve as reminders that spaceflight is no longer historical. It’s present tense. Why Rocket Enthusiasts Love SpaceX and Modern Spaceflight Naturally, my enthusiasm for rockets led me to acquire several SpaceX t-shirts. They’re comfortable. They’re affordable. They have rockets on them. What more could a lifelong aviation and space enthusiast want? For a while, I wore them proudly. Then things became… complicated. How Elon Musk’s Polarizing Reputation Complicates SpaceX Fans As most people know, SpaceX is owned by Elon Musk—a man widely regarded as either a visionary, a provocateur, or some complicated blend of both. Regardless of one’s opinion, he is undeniably polarizing. In my household, let’s just say his approval ratings lag behind those of household appliances. My wife, who is thoughtful, perceptive, and politically aware, has gently suggested that wearing SpaceX apparel in public may send messages beyond my intended enthusiasm for rocketry. She hasn’t banned the shirts outright. But she has mastered the art of the meaningful sigh. The Social Risks of Wearing SpaceX Merchandise Today My SpaceX shirts now occupy a category shared by other rarely worn items, including vintage Denver Broncos jerseys and a Jimmy Buffett “Parrot Head” tank top of questionable dignity. Even wearing one inside the house occasionally draws looks suggesting deep marital reconsideration. I try to explain that my admiration is for the rockets themselves—the engineering, the physics, the improbable elegance of controlled explosions escaping Earth’s gravity. But nuance rarely translates well onto cotton fabric. Why Rocket Enthusiasm Isn’t About Politics—It’s About Wonder I wish appreciation for rockets could exist independently of politics. Can’t a person admire the marvel of spaceflight without issuing a disclaimer? My enthusiasm isn’t ideological. It’s gravitational. I like machines that defy gravity. That’s all. If those machines happen to be built by controversial billionaires, that’s incidental to the miracle of flight itself. Click: ideosparkleonnesha Why Rockets Still Inspire the Same Awe They Did in Childhood Being a rocket enthusiast today sometimes feels like navigating cultural turbulence. Yet the feeling hasn’t changed. Putting on a shirt with a rocket on it reconnects me with the child who believed astronauts embodied courage, curiosity, and possibility. That feeling transcends controversy. It belongs to the sky itself. Why I’ll Always Look Up When a Rocket Launches Marriage, like flight, involves constant course correction and compromise. My wife tolerates my eccentricities. I try not to advertise them excessively. But occasionally, when the house is quiet and the coast is clear, I’ll put on one of my SpaceX shirts and step outside. I’ll look up, just in case something’s launching. Because in that moment, none of the surrounding noise matters. There is only the sky—and the possibility of escape.
Book lovers, thrill-seekers, and snack enthusiasts—unite!
This Saturday, come hang out at Tecolote Book Shop (1470 E. Valley Road, Montecito) for a reading and signing of my new Cordell Logan adventure, DEEP FURY. Logan’s a former government assassin turned flight instructor.I’m the guy who keeps making his life complicated—for your reading pleasure. We’ll have books, snacks, drinks, and hopefully a few laughs.Hope you can make it—it won’t be the same without you!