My career as a freelance writer began with a bluff. Shortly after I left Salomon in the spring of 1987, the eminent ski editor John Fry, who was launching Snow Country Magazine, called and asked if I had written any consumer oriented articles and if so, would I forward a sample? Of course, I replied, let me dig one out. So I thrashed together some rant on ski length and we were off and running on a roughly nine-year jaunt.
Snow Country was a New York Times Magazine Group company, meaning they had standards. A Yale education in metaphysics is all well and good, but having one’s prose doctored by real pros is training with tangible value. I went from being a plodder intent on making some blunt argument to having some subtlety and cyclical flow to my short pieces. I developed my skills by accepting all assignments, from white papers on accounts payable software to video scripts. I wrote screenplays (all as yet un-procured), a novel (ditto) and brochure copy for everything from risk assessment data to smart football helmets. Scattered as well about the timeline of my so-called career were scripts for three Warren Miller Entertainment features, another WME vehicle modestly entitled The Truth About Skiing and two frolics with Greg Stump in roles too bizarre to recount here.
It was while working with Stump for the second time that I discovered I had some facility with lyrics. Not that I’m musical. Four years of piano lessonsresulted only in my teacher qualifying for some civic award for forbearance. But I’m awfully fond of language, and one day while pondering how to convince the good Mr. Stump to overcome inertia, I hit upon the idea of cooing some ditty into his voice mail. I wrote about 20 songs in as many days. Progress on the movie remained in irons, but meanwhile I’d connected with the Muse of Popular Verse. I still can’t carry a tune, but my bright illusions as a songwriter proceed undimmed.
What remains of my circle of friends will tell you that I often adopt poorly researched yet staunch positions on whatever subject happens to come up. This omnivorous opining extends to the page, whether in the form of political satire or riffs on relationship foibles. I particularly enjoy skewering the current cadre of buffoons in the Republican Party, partly because it’s my civic duty but mostly because it’s fun.
One might think that because I am now a Published Author, I won’t be able to fit all my amazing thoughts in a tiny blog or even full-blown web site. I share your concerns, but let us not forget how lazy I am. Long-form literature, whether incoming or outgoing, gives me hives. My wattles inflate like a prairie chicken’s. On the other hand, saying the absolute minimum is not my style. The literary equivalent of a Navy Seal operation—get in, beat the crap out of the target in short order and get out—suits not only the modern, instant-message Zeitgeist, it also suits my wavering attention span. Expect large doses of small ideas administered in brief, pungent paragraphs.
You will find in these pages all manner of my scribblings. I have a more recent screenplay, Three-Day Weekend, which might leak into the proceedings. (It’s a teen musical comedy set in the early 80’s. The second song is called, “Hookers and Blow.” It’s a paean to innocent youth.) I have on hand some spoken word versions of my verse that I may inflict on any of you who don’t behave. Any of my work magnificent enough to merit publication elsewhere may be excerpted here, but I would much rather you step up like good lads and lassies and buy the e-books. Remember, thanks to Google, I now know where you live.
Jackson Hogen, aka the Pontiff of Powder
