I Miss Kids

I miss raising kids. It was probably the hardest, but most satisfying job I've ever had. It was also the most fun. (My warped personality even liked the teenage years) I think that is why I had a teenager as the narrator in The Possessor.  In my new novel, The Urn, I have another teenager as narrator. I miss their black and white interpretation of the world. They know how the world works and they have all the answers. How they think their parents are clueless. My daughter was certain that I was clueless. No matter how hard I tried to prove otherwise. I remember one time I was watering a flowerbed under my daughter's bedroom window and saw several footprints. Since my daughter had an overnight the night before, the only conclusion that this clueless dad could come to was they'd sneaked out during the night. I thought about telling their mom, but that would mean a confrontation, and those were never much fun. So, I decided to wait.

Sure enough, two weeks later during a sleepover, I heard the girls sneaking out the window. Being a clueless dad, I didn't stop them-I followed them. They walked up the street, giggling and laughing, as if they'd pulled off the biggest scam in the world. I followed them to an old streetcar trestle four blocks from our house. I saw the lighters come out and the red glow from cigarettes in the distance. I watched for approximately twenty minutes when they started back home. I raced back and was in bed when I heard them sneak back in the bedroom.

I thought long and hard about what to do. They weren't getting into trouble although I didn't like my daughter smoking. I'd learned a long time ago that telling a teenager not to smoke is like throwing down a gauntlet. About a month later, my daughter had another sleepover. I was ready. Late in the evening, the girls were inside and I was outside with the hose watering the flowers. I made sure that the plants near my daughter's bedroom window were watered thoroughly.  Later that night, the girls sneaked out the window and were gone about forty-five minutes. I waited patiently by my bedroom door until I heard them return. Sure enough, a few minutes, my daughter said she was going to the bathroom. When she opened her door, I open my bedroom door. We met in the middle of the hallway.

"What are you doing, dad?" she asked, a dumbstruck look on her face.

"I'm thirsty," I said walking into the kitchen.

I waited for her to come out of the bathroom  and I met my daughter in the middle of the hallway.

"Good night, dad," she said.

"Good night. And Caitlin, after you wake up in the morning and the mud on the carpet is dry, I want you to get the Bissell out and clean it. Okay?"

I smiled. Caitlin eyes went from my loving face to the evidence on the floor.

"Make sure your mother and I are up. I don't want the Bissell to wake us up. After all, it's the weekend."

Clueless dad went back to bed. The Bissell came out at ten the next morning. Caitlin tells me she never snuck out again after that. And I, being a clueless dad, believed her.

I miss those days. They are embedded in my memory. They bring a smile to my face and warmth in my heart.

That's why I've started  to put teenagers in my books.

A Homecoming

A Homecoming

I've traveled down this road a hundred times in my life and in my mind. Usually in an old red Mercury covered in the red dust of Polk County. The road is asphalt now, but in my memory it is gravel. My cousin, John McReynolds, sits behind the wheel with an old briar pipe clenched in his teeth and a pouch of Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco rests between us on the bench seat. The cloud of red dust trailing the car obliterates the road behind us. In some places we have to slow down and pull to the far edge of the narrow road as a pickup or tractor approaches. The car has no air conditioning and your mouth has a gritty feel from the open windows and the hot August air. We reach a fork and turn left to navigate the rutted and bumpy road that jolts your insides and leads down to the bridge over Mile Branch. As we cross, the water is clear and alive with minnows, perch, sun fish, and even a bass or two if you know where to go. Once across, the road widens but is edged with deep gullies filled with thistle, blue stem, and wildflowers.  As the car accelerates toward the small farmhouse that sits on the ridge, I feel giddy because I realize this is the last vestige of part of my heritage. Some of my family lived in the east before the Revolutionary War and they were farmers. All my families were farmers and followed the migration down the Appalachians through the south and into Southern Missouri. My great grandfather farmed and was a county judge. My grandfather left the farm to work in a lumberyard. My father moved to Kansas City and worked in a defense plant.  I knew that after John died, this heritage would end, but while I could, I wanted to embrace it.

I was lucky that I got to share it with my children for a short time. We visited the simple stone foundations belonging only to history, small mounds where Indians pitched their tepees on the south side of a hill, and my children played in Mile Branch, but the clear water had long since gone.

What better place to bring alive the characters of Mac, Dory, and Aunt Holly and Uncle John. I enjoyed writing The Possessor because in a sense, it was a homecoming

Good Reviews for The Possessor

“Great book from a real storyteller. Anyone who knows and loves America’s heartland will nod and smile at the fine details woven delicately through the tapestry of this story’s Missouri setting. Anyone who loves characters who are as real as the people you have actually met will appreciate the way Hooper’s characters come to life and stay alive in your memory.”
--Robin Blakely, author of SIX HATS and PR THERAPY

I read The Possessor this week and really enjoyed it.  I don't usually pick books about "feelings", but I completely identified with Mac.  Once I started it I didn't want to put it down and read it in two days. It was also fun to read a period book that I could really relate to.  I spent summers with my grandparents in a small Iowa town.  Although I thankfully did not have the type of experiences of Mac, the attitudes and behaviors of the adults were so similar!

Jim Hix

Why Do I Write?

I write because I want to entertain people. I will never write a classic. All I want is someone to say they enjoyed what i've written. Here is an example I received from a friend:

My mom & I are both enjoying The Possessor, David.  You are truly gifted - wonderful style.  It's rather a miracle that mom has been able to concentrate on the story as she has had difficulty with reading.  I credit your unique story-telling talent.
Looking forward to Tanglewood.
Thanks... and thanks again.
Mary Kay

When people find out I've written a novel, many tell me they have a great idea for a novel, or it is half-finished. The first question that comes to my mind is why are you writing? Some people say they have to write, and that I can understand. I have to write, but what is your overall goal to write a novel or short story? Mine is simple. I want to entertain. I think you write that novel or finish the one you have started if you figure out why you want or need to write it.