Some Might Call Him Contradictory

Much to my surprise, being a land baron is no guarantee of being financially successful or secure. At least, that was the case in the 1800s in Santa Barbara County, as I discovered while researching the setting of my new novel*.

The local history of land ownership goes something like this: without individual land ownership, the Chumash indians lived and thrived for thousands of years, until a few centuries ago when the Spanish and Mexican conquistadors arrived. These interlopers – eventually joined by the 800-pound bully of the U.S. government – stole land from the Chumash and then from each other. The scant few surviving Chumash scattered to live in hiding, deep in the mountains and back country.

The various interlopers gifted and sold huge swaths of land as ranchos, in exchange for favors, bribes, service rendered, and money. By the late 1800s, some ranchos had changed hands many times – sold, subdivided, and sold again. Farming and ranching have never been easy ways to make ends meet.

Consider the Rancho Ortega. The first documented owner was one Apolonia Zuniga, who fell on hard times and sold his rancho to a Santa Barbara doctor and rancher who sold to two Englishmen, who raised sheep on the rancho but no profits. During this time, on the rancho and nearby, various men dug for oil with disappointing results.

In 1883, the Englishmen sold the 1,049-acre Rancho Ortega to Henry Lafayette Williams (photo; Santa Barbara Historical Museum). He paid $17,000 ($16.20 per acre). Another business venture left him with less cash than he expected, so he made good on the rancho purchase by borrowing some money and giving the former owners a hefty note for the rest.

That was a lifelong pattern for Williams, who had an amazing instinct for being in the right place at never quite the right time: he would take a gamble, prosper temporarily, succumb to debt, take another gamble. But I’m jumping ahead of his story.

Williams was born the son of a financier in Ohio in 1841. He joined the Union Army just in time to fight under General Grant in the battle of Shiloh. A 19th-century biographical sketch asserts, “They were in the three day’s fight at Stone River, where one half of the regiment was lost, and were also in many small skirmishes. Mr. Williams, however, did not receive a scratch, although his clothing was many times pierced with bullets.”

After the U. S. Civil War, he married his childhood sweetheart Katie and job-hopped from government pay agent to coal salesman to special agent for the U.S. Treasury to copper mining entrepreneur; from Ohio to Pennsylvania to Arizona to Rancho Ortega.

The rancho came with cattle but he sold these and bought pigs. Heavy rains in the next winter decimated his pig population and washed out his lemon orchard. After that, he diversified crops and enlisted his whole family to help out. For example, his father dried apricots, his mother and aunt sewed bean sacks. All this wasn’t enough to make ends meet. He had to borrow from a fellow rancher to pay interest on the original note that got him the rancho.

Briefly, he enjoyed a thin financial cushion from the sale of some pigs. His accounts looked to finally move into the black when he devised a new – as always, complicated – partnership to sell most of the rancho at a big profit. Alas, that deal fell through and when he tried to sell more pigs, they went rogue and eluded capture. He bank-mortgaged the rancho and got into yet another complicated partnership, this time to convert part of his rancho into a town with its own railroad stop. In Southern California, land sales were booming, thanks to railroad expansion and more.

Williams platted the easternmost sliver of his rancho – about 100 acres – into blocks with lots measuring 25 feet by 60 feet, and began to sell the lots in this new town which he called Summerland.

The town may have started as a way to pay debts, but its development took an unexpected swivel from debt reducer to utopian community. It may be that Williams was the only one in his town-building partnership with this intention.

Summerland. The name was probably a tip-off. Although, like other key pieces of Summerland’s lore, the origin of the town’s name is today uncertain. Modern-day articles speculate but the intention isn’t confirmed in documents from the town’s early days.

Anyway. The town was likely named after the summer land, which, according to some spiritualists, is an interim world where spirits first stop after death.

The spiritualist movement was widespread during Williams’ time. It included intellectuals and academics and professionals as well as ‘plain’ folks. They all depended on mediums who claimed to contact the dead during seances. Some spiritualists sought to use scientific methods to understand what happens after death. Some wanted to improve humanity. Some simply yearned to connect with dead loved ones: interest in seances spiked after the Civil War and again after World War I.

Williams’ beloved wife Katie was a spiritualist and she got him interested in the movement, at least for a while. He was inspired to write letters to his deceased brother and father. And he began to invite settlers to his new town with newspaper advertisements like these:

– The Reconstructor,
June 12, 1890

Wife Katie had been ill for several years and died shortly before the launch of Summerland’s spiritualist colony. Williams soon remarried, and his second wife was not a spiritualist. Still, the whole town attended the wedding; and, for a couple years, Williams continued to lecture and write about his uplifting ideals for the new town. In addition, he became known for his kindness and flexibility when settlers needed help with the costs of joining the colony.

He seemed remarkably comfortable with mixing spiritual and material concerns, such as in this speech to spiritualist conference attendees:

We can render a double service: assist in the development of higher, stronger mediumship, and help poor spirits out of darkened conditions. The angel-world has seleced this locality in which to perform this beneficent service, for in no place I have ever visited or read of can be found its equal in natural advantages accessible by both railway and steamship.

Even while he was welcoming spiritualists, he attracted speculators looking to exploit Summerland’s resources. The speculators were encouraged by Williams, which set the colony members to complaining: about the gas and oil drilling in their streets; about the new, nasty smells that earned their town nicknames like Smellerland and Stinkville.

After a brief surge in popularity, Summerland’s lot sales slowed, then stopped. Now, spiritualist colonies rarely lasted more than a few years so it’s not definite that Summerland’s colony would have persisted, even without the oil and gas drilling. Certainly, the colony’s founder lost interest in attracting more spiritualists. As Williams wrote to one of his bankers in 1894:

I have had a big load of debt to carry. I started a town which invited a lot of cranks to it who have fought me in every way possible, until I have been forced to abandon the idea upon which the town was founded in order to get rid of them. The recent discovery of oil in the town is going to create some excitement and demand for lots and land, this with the early completion of the gap in the S. P Ry [Southern Pacific Railroad] making or placing my property on its main line will enable me to pull out nicely within the next 18 months.

He must have held mixed feelings about the speculators, as well. Williams loathed drinking and when he established Summerland, he forbid – upon forfeiture of your land! – the sale of alcohol and saloons, which he called criminal education schools. Such restrictions might be palatable to spiritualists. But did Williams try to make teetotallers of the oil drillers, too? I’m guessing that he did not, because there don’t seem to be news stories of civil unrest in Summerland during those years.

Summerland’s beach by about 1920. Photo: Library of Congress.

Despite years of false starts and drilling strikes that didn’t amount to much, Williams remained enthused about Summerland’s gas and oil prospects. He was the first to try to cement a claim stake into Summerland’s shifting beach sands. Meanwhile, he joined yet another complicated partnership, this one intending to run an electric train between Santa Barbara and Summerland. That project installed some power lines before it fell apart.

Life continued to be rough for Williams, financially. He had long been defensive about colony terms and prices. And now he began to sue people for harming his town’s prospects, beginning with a libel lawsuit against a publicly unhappy lot purchaser.

His own oil drilling did eventually bring him prosperity, for a time. But then his health failed him, and he died at 57, on the downslope of one his endless repeating cycles: restless optimism spurred by bold innovation undercut by debt-driven haste leading to limited success and blustery chagrin.

Endless repeating cycles. That’s my opinion and I don’t presume to understand anyone well enough to proclaim such claims as fact. I have read what little writing survives, by and about Henry Lafayette Williams, and my reading has jumped me to many conclusions…

… And has left me feeling considerable affection and respect for the man. In fact, I discovered that I could not write a novel* set in the early days of his town, without making Mr. H. L. Williams a character in it. And when I came upon this obituary, it broke a piece of my heart.

– Los Angeles Herald, 1899


* My new novel is The Summer Land, an historical drama from a supernatural time. Here’s a thumbnail description:

1891. A runaway boy happens upon a mysterious young girl, all on her own with amazing powers. He brings her to Summerland, California, so that she can learn to live safely around people and he can hide from his past. Summerland is a brand new town, a spiritualist colony attracting many kinds of seekers, including psychic investigators, oil speculators, the recently deceased, and these two stray children in need of a family.

Currently, you can get The Summer Land from Chaucer’s Bookstore in Santa Barbara, from Amazon, and from your preferred ebook store on-line.

Over the next couple months, copies will be trickling into other stores and libraries.

[This post pulls from numerous historical sources, listed in the bibliography at conclusion of The Summer Land.]


My first visit to The Summer Land

They say we have different kinds of memory and we each have our specialties. I don’t recall what the kinds of memory are, but the concept fits my experience: I’ll recognize your face before your name; I only have to see a word once to spell it forever; and every time you ask me whether I live on Second Avenue or Second Street, I’ll need to look it up.

Also, I can’t quote a lyric to save anybody’s life. (Fortunately, the stakes are never that high.)

Back when I had to take required classes, history classes lifted a rock and revealed my worst squirmings of memory. History stuff. Past names and dates and factoids. (Eventually I discovered that I remember past stuff just fine when the topic interests me, say, uprisings in Ireland or famous earthquakes. But that’s another digression entirely.)

Anyway. After I made Carpinteria my new home town, I immediately sampled most of its locations and events, stores and restaurants, parks and (of course!) beaches. However, it took me more than a year to visit the Carpinteria Valley Museum of History, because. You know. History.

I was only steps inside the museum when I turned sheepish about my delay. The first exhibit informed me that there used to be natural gas just below the surface, hereabouts. Kids would pound holes in the ground and set the gas on fire to light ballgames after sunset.

Which gave me a rush and a chill. That’s the opening of a novel.

Another few steps into the museum, I learned about the oddball bedfellows who had launched the town next door. Summerland was founded as a colony for spiritualists, and may have been named for the Summer Land, which – according to some spiritualists – is the place we initially go after death. No sooner had the spiritualist colony formed, however, than gas and oil got discovered and speculators swarmed in. What a combination! Note to self, there’s the setting.

(It was a single individual who welcomed both spiritualists and oil speculators to Summerland. Henry Lafayette Williams. A man with a complex world view. More on him, soon.)

When I left the museum, I set my discoveries aside, with all the other shards of ideas that might someday build themselves into something. The image of that gaslit ground did keep poking at me, though.

Some people say that coincidences aren’t.

Not long after, as serendipity would have it, I went for a walk in a sweatshirt from the elementary school my kids had attended, some 25 years and 800 miles away. The sweatshirt caused a woman to stop and chat. She used to teach at that school and now took classes at a place called Pacifica Graduate Institute. I recognized the name because writer friends had recently recommended dream tending there.

I began attending workshops on dream tending, which led me to take a tour of Pacifica’s research archives, OPUS. Among OPUS collections are the books of Henry Barnes, a 19th century judge who became interested in the spiritualism movement after the sudden untimely death of his wife. It turns out that in the 1800s, many intellectuals and professionals were spiritualists.

The rush-and-chill returned. Same novel. Barnes collection plus gaslit ground.

And the next thing I knew, I was spending hours in the back rooms of the Carpinteria Valley Museum of History and the OPUS Archives, marvelling at 19th century life, locally, and spiritualist ponderings, globally. So many fascinating aspects to the local history and the global movement. In posts to come, I’m looking forward to sharing some of what I learned.

As serendipity or impatience would have it, I didn’t do on-site reading of the archive materials, I took phone photos to read later. The pandemic gave me plenty of time to catch up on that reading, and to write most of the rough draft of the novel that first snagged my attention at the museum.

I’ve written ten other novels, and the writing experience has been different each time. “Writing” this novel, I wasn’t quite taking dictation, but the characters kept making all the big decisions, even when I initially disagreed.

I’m proud and excited about the result, The Summer Land, an historical drama from a supernatural time. I hope you’ll give it a try! I’ll be trickling copies out, on line and in stores, over the next couple months. Right now you can check it out on Amazon.

Patience and Photo Cubes

The last couple months, I’ve been working on an oddball project that is proving quite time-consuming. I’m maybe half done, and already I could have written another novella in the hours I’ve spent on this. Sue’s folly?

It turns out that there are different kinds of patience, just as there are different kinds of intelligence. For example, I am quite happy to clock countless hours using Adobe Illustrator to mangle innocent bits of text. However, when I confront what will probably cost mere minutes to solve a print/sizing glitch, I stall out.

And it’s all for the love of photo cubes. Sue’s folly.

You’ve probably seen a photo cube. It sits on a desk with a picture on each face. Typically it lives in a cubicle. It’s a cheap plastic thing and yet. It’s awesome in a special way.

For a while now I’ve been preoccupied, pondering the possibilities of photo cubes. I used one to make a 3D collage of beach tar photos. Not an easy cube to like, apparently. Not many of us did:


Yet my fascination with the cubes persists. Once upon a recent beach walk, I realized that I could put a poem on a cube, 1 verse on each of the 6 sides. I further realized that Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky would be great for this. (True, it has 7 verses. But the 7th matches the 1st.)

I next realized that I could combine my loves of typography and Adobe Illustrator:  I could mess with text to decorate the cubed poem. I would not presume to attempt illustration, as John Tenniel’s originals are among the greatest illustrations ever. Here is his Jabberwock (tinted by Fritz Kredel) from the 1946 Random House edition of Through the Looking Glass:


Armed with my realizations, I got to work. First I took the cube template from my beach tar cube and made that a background layer:


When I print something designed within this template, I can cut-then-fold the paper to create a cube… Hmm. Does such basic paper folding qualify as origami?

Early on, I had to decide rotations – how each verse would flow into the next on the cube:


That turned out to be the only engineering aspect that I enjoyed.

I’ve had tons of fun with the decorating – with interpreting Carroll’s special words and pondering the details of this fantastic unique poem.  I’m astonished at how many hours I’ve happily spent, taking unsuspecting text (mostly in the Didot font) and doing strange distorted things to it. I typically try and scrap 10 effects, for every 1 that I keep. Here is a snapshot of the current draft of the 1st verse:


On every cube side I’ve still got many tweaks to make. Relocating, resizing. For example, I need to rearrange this text, because the bloody bbs need to end at burbled (No wonder I love this project. Where else would I utter that phrase?):


I really like how I portrayed the death of the monster. Oh. Spoiler alert. The Jabberwock gets chopped by a blade. Here’s a snapshot of the death scene:


I don’t usually discuss my work in progress, but in this case I’m going public in hopes of nudging myself to the finish line. Part of me wants to give up and set this cube aside – it feels, I dunno, frivolous. Not what I should be doing. Whatever the hell that is…

(I’m a writer, so I should be writing, right? Okay, I am writing. I’m working on the final book in my speculative detective series, FRAMES. I’d also like to be writing something that deeply resonates in Our Situation. But when it comes to our pandemic. Woah. Dude. is as far as I’m getting.)

I’m frustrated by some of the things that aren’t going well in my Jabbercube project. For example, the printed, cut, and folded draft cube has some faces that are a titch too wide. The paper cube buckles when I slide it into the plastic cube. This didn’t happen with the tar project. I thought I’d done everything the same. Sigh. I hate that kind of fussy refinement stuff.


Also, early in the project I knew I was making effects that were too subtle to show up on a 3.5 inch cube. I opted to keep going, to find designs that worked best, and think about format later. But now it’s time.  I need to smallify some of the existing decorations so they will play well on the cube. But I don’t want to scrap any of the existing decorations. Which means I’ll need to expand those and move them into a larger format like a poster or booklet.

So! How about that! The one enormous project has split into two branches!

For both branches, I still need to come up with the right, overall design element. Something that sets off each cube face, something that says “Hi, I am a cube face” (or “Yo, I am a page”). I’ve tried/discarded several elements already. No clue how long until I hit upon one that I like. Now, this is a kind of experimenting that I do enjoy. But. I’m starting to hear a clock tick when I sit down to work on this. I don’t have a deadline but I’ve got so many other projects I want to start!

Admittedly, part of my impatience to be done comes from a fantasy that I had, when the world went into lockdown and many of my favorite musicians began performing music at #livefromhome. This hashtag gave an open invitation for anybody to share what they’ve done while stuck at home. I love that idea! Nobody wants to hear me sing or play an instrument. However, I listen to #livefromhome music while I work on this cube. So I imagined that I would share the cube. But the rate things are going, the lockdown will come and go and I’ll still be cubing.

(I assume I don’t need to add: of course I want the lockdown to end!)

OK, maybe it’s time to go move some bloody bbs.

(I wrote this in response to Discover Prompt Day 21: Instrument.)

Chickens, Eggs, and Other Dimensions

There are chickens, and there are eggs, and I don’t actually care which came first, yet sometimes it’s fun to do a few laps with circular questions. For example, I’m attracted to photographs that suggest windows or views into other worlds. It can’t be a coincidence that I’m writing a series of speculative fiction novels placed in an infinite set of dimensions called FRAMES. The attraction probably preceded the writing but I no longer remember. Of course, that’s because I’ve been just-about-finishing the latest/second book in the series for longer than my memory stretches, but I digress.

On a recent trip to Dallas, I came upon a building that may be a Grand Central to many other realities:

2015-07-14 08.02.04

In writing FRAMES I have also indulged or created my belief that buildings have personalities. This summer in Chicago I caught some buildings in another dimension, smoking…

2015-07-21 17.44.31

And who could not want to chat with this guy? Gal? Whose voice do you hear when you imagine a conversation with this building?

2015-07-21 18.56.17

(The WP photo challenge was Boundaries.)

When Anything Could Be Anything

I loved the days when my kids could take just about anything and convert it to something fun to do. For example,

giant-boxes-on-board-screwed-into-two-sets-of-skateboard-wheels +  gentle-incline => tandem go-cart race


On your mark…


And awaaaay they go…


I probably thought this was horribly dangerous. If only this had remained the pinnacle of risks that my now 19-year-olds would ever undertake.

The Value of Shards of Writing Time

More progress with less time.  That seems to be the bottom line. Yesterday, the middle of three days off, I had all day to write. I frittered and chilled and squandered all those hours on doin’ nuthin’ (which has its own rewards but that’s another story).

This morning, crammed between the trip to the mechanic and the shuttling of kids – first items on a long must-do list – I knew it was now or never and I got a weekend’s worth of writing done in a couple hours.

These are recurring refrains. The tighter the time span, the more I get done, especially when preceded by a day of “nothing”, during which some part of my brain figures out what I need to write: when I sat down today I had it all figured out, but yesterday I had not a clue.

An Ode to Repetition

On one level, I hate routine. I’ve made important life decisions based on a futile attempt to avoid repetition. Changes of jobs, homes, cities – and probably relationships. I have to fight feeling trapped once I exhaust the options for fresh experience. But that time will always come. There are only so many ways you can drive to the store, if you are going to the same damn store from the same damn house.

Yet, concurrently, repetition and routine provide essential foundations to so much that matters to me. While it is always great to share a new experience with my kids, the comforting patterns of family life are constructed of routine. There is no question that I plan most of my writing during mundane tasks like toothbrushing or weeding. And one of the richest benefits of travel is how much I appreciate home when I return.

I have a friend who talks about Buddhist intent to stay fully present in each moment – aware of the give of the keyboard as I type, conscious of the flow of water and the scratch of the scrubpad as I wash a plate. She strives for this awareness to feel grounded and calm. I try it and discover subtle variations that make each repetition unique. Doing this seems to be as close as I can get to meditation -with all my Western impatience and resistance to organized faith.

Unknown and Unread…?

In 1967 Delacort published a novel by Patricia Cooper called In Deep. Ever heard of it? Probably not. I read it waybackwhen, remembered liking it, now I’m re-reading.  It. Is. So. Good.  My Dell paperback reprint wants to portray it as a sex romp through swinging Manhattan. Actually it is an edgy and suspenseful family drama, full of wit, insight, and memorable turns of phrase. As far as I can tell, this is Cooper’s only novel. She may have written a couple other, non-fiction books. (She doesn’t have much of an on-line footprint  and there may be more than one author with her name.)

Wonder why she stopped writing fiction. Hope it was because she was done, not thwarted or demoralized. It can be hard to distinguish between done  and done in. I hope she didn’t give up.

As I write about her, I think about me, and I hope I don’t give up. Twenty years between novels makes me a first time novelist twice over. And the publishing world of the early ’90s was so different that memories of it can be liabilities today. But I’m not done. So I’ve decided to believe that Cooper pulled a Harper Lee and stopped because she had said what she wanted to say.

Now I had better sign off to go get some writing done.

You Can Talk About Writing – Too Much

If I talk about what I am writing – or planning to write – I make the writing more difficult and put the piece at risk of getting set aside, ne’er to be finished. It doesn’t matter what the listener’s reaction is – enthusiasm or boredom, support or disdain – sharing the ideas damages my process of converting ideas to fiction.  After I talk about writing, I simply feel less urgency to get it done.

Seems like it would be fun to brainstorm with other writers or use them as sounding boards. But  I’m not sure I could even talk to the cats without jeopardy. Maybe I could talk to a mirror? Never mind about that. Creepy.

Am I the only one in this situation? That doesn’t seem possible. Other writers, which side of this fence are you on?