December, 1919 – Chapter 9

Welcome to chapter nine of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 9

He introduced himself as Reginald “but you can call me Reggie” Buckner. He announced on licorice tainted breath that he was here at the behest of the Internal Revenue Service, and would be performing a final inventory. He smelled like musk left to dry on old paper. He smiled like a card shark about to drop a royal flush on an unsuspecting table of players who were all in.

The brewery staff lined up like weary soldiers; Virginia, William, and myself as front line vanguards, scouting out the inspector’s tactical positions. His pacing was methodical and practiced, the deliberate, probably counted steps of a dangerously bureaucratic man who took his job very seriously and liked it very much.

“I know this may be uncomfortable, but if we can simply review what is in stock against your final purchase orders, we can have this done quickly.” Buckner said, flipping through sheets of paper attached to a clipboard. His pencil darted across the page, grating graphite engraving an epitaph on our legal tombstone. “First things firsts, let’s discuss raw ingredients.”

The hired laborers had piled the remaining bags of uncracked malt into a tidy pyramid directly in the middle of the brewery floor. Loose kernels spilled from small tears in the cloth, the sugary life blood of the brewery seeping out through a hundred tiny cuts. Buckner kicked a sack,covering his shiny black shoes in yellowish dust. “Malted barley first. The confirmation slip from your last delivery says you accepted forty five, one hundred pound bags of American two-row barley from Shipley Malting Company. I only count 32 bags. Where are the other 13?”

I spoke up. “We brewed a stock ale two weeks ago. It used nearly twice the malt of our normal recipes.”

“And who are you, boy? I’ll take my information from someone in charge, thank you.” He said, nose turned skyward, as dismissively as possible.

Virginia’s knuckles stretched white. “This is Jack Cooper, sir.” Her voice slashed through the tension in the room, a delicate but deadly axe. “And he owns this brewery.”

Buckner looked down at his papers, then back up at me, then back down at his papers. “This is Jack Cooper?” The condescension fell off his face while incredulity climbed up it. “I’m sorry. I just…I expected someone…older.”

Virginia snapped, defensive and bitter. “Jack’s plenty old enough.” A fire, hard to define as anger or angst, flashed across her eyes.

“No need to get upset, ma’am, I’m just trying to do my job. Anyway, Jack, you were saying about the missing malt?” His tone shifted back to hard and professional, but the subtle change in his body language betrayed embarrassment.

“The stock ale took extra; about 300 pounds worth. We lost a batch of English style barleywine to infection last month, too, which should account for the difference.”

Buckner scribbled something hastily on his paper. “And do you have anything to account for this loss?” He asked, locking his eyes to mine. Grey, cold, probing.

“Nothing on paper,” I said, ” but our logistics manager, William, can verify.” William fidgeted, cracked his knuckles, and looked straight at the floor.

Buckner ran his finger down the paper, stopping abruptly and tapping when he reached William’s name. “Ah, Mr. Johnson. Can you verify?”

William sputtered, his words tripping over his tongue like a drunk on a midnight stumble home. “Er, yes. We brewed with it all. It’s gone.” William could barely make eye contact, and his fidgeting grew more pronounced the longer he stood at attention.

“You seem nervous, Mr. Johnson. Are you not feeling well?” He asked. Virginia’s elbow nudged mine subtly, but noticeably.

“Will cut his hand badly yesterday; I think he’s still shaken about it.” I said, deflecting.

Buckner walked closer to William, and asked to see his hand. Will raised it up, chest high, turning his palm over to show the dark red stains of dried blood on the white linen mummied around his fingers. “What happened? That looks serious.” Buckner said, keep his distance from the bloody hand.

“I…I cut it on the grist mill. There was some sharp metal and I wasn’t pay attention…” Will trailed off.

“I told him he should be resting. He’s afraid of blood. Last year our cooper snapped a hoop on one of the barrels, and it nearly took is arm off. I thought Will was going to faint.” I said, ” Unfortunately, we were all frantic to prepare for your visit, and, like my dad always said, a brewery is a dangerous place to rush.” I nodded at William, and he seems to calm down. A little.

Satisfied, Buckner walked back to the pile of sacks, scribbling more notes. “If Jack can answer the rest of my questions, feel free to go home and rest, Mr. Johnson.” Will looked at me, and I nodded. He quickly made for the door, thanking our dutiful inspector before grabbing his hat and coat and vanishing into the snow globed afternoon.

“He’s an odd one.” Buckner said, looking at the doorway.

“Yea, but he worked for my father for years, and is great at keeping orders straight.” I said. “What’s next?”

The rest of the inspection played out smoothly, all the actors knowing their roles, remembering their lines. The hop leaves, all sticky with yellow powder, were placed into large wooden boxes, and hauled out by two of Buckner’s behatted lackeys. After explaining that our yeast was nearly older than the brewery itself, and that to destroy it would be to destroy a piece of Philadelphian history, Buckner decided to let me take a small bottled culture home, on the one condition that I deliver it to the University of Pennsylvania’s biology department within the week. His men made quick work of the sacks of malt, loading them onto the back of a wooden framed truck, to be hauled away as contraband to warehouses unknown.

I signed the papers. Buckner seemed pleased, and thanked me, on behalf of the US government, for my understanding and cooperation during this period of transition. With a tip of his hat, he said, “I’ve always liked your beer.” He turned and looked at the kettles. “It’ll be sad to see this place turned into a stinking fish den. But I have to do my job. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None.” I said. “The law is the law.” Buckner seemed very pleased with the obedient nature of my last comment. He turned and left, head down, reviewing his papers one last time.

Virginia grinned at me. I threw a smile back.

Beneath our feet, tucked under some old planks and almost forgotten rusted grates, hid thirteen pristine sacks. Just shy of 650 pounds of American two-row barley.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 7

Welcome to chapter seven of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 7

The wind whipped, fierce and angry, in random blusters that felt like ice-cold fists to my face. I’d known some cold winters in the city, but the weather now seemed crueler, more foreboding than a typical New Year’s eve in Philadelphia. I shrugged the wool of my coat up higher, to cover some of the exposed skin of my neck. I hadn’t had time to grab my scarf.

Mayor Moore plodded beside me. Behind, Berman lurked, collar up and hands in pockets, hat pulled down to the point where his eyes looked like a snake’s. Moore’s mustached lip curled ever so slightly up every time another gust cut across our path; the only sign he felt the cold at all. Nate would be furious I was gone, but who was I to deny two such lofty and prominent branches of the Philly tree of law?

We walked in silence for some time, Berman herding us at cross streets, leading us to destination unknown. We crossed the Schuylkill on 3rd, made a left on North 20th, and then sauntered past a ghostly, snow-dusted Logan’s Square. No one in their right mind would be in the park on a day like this. No one except the mayor, a detective, and some poor confused kid, that is. Just as I’d had enough, and was about to demand some information, we stopped at the bleach-white steps of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.

“Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” Moore said, lithely bounding up the steps. Berman lingered behind, the ever loyal sheep dog. I couldn’t refuse, and my bones wouldn’t mind the warmth.

The towering stone of the cathedral swallowed us up like spiritual down, wrapping me in soft, yellow, candle-borne glow and subtle waft of incense. I’d never been much for religion but always loved the churches themselves; such grandeur and sophistication, equal parts welcoming and isolating. A priest shuffled near the altar, arranging a piece of purple cloth, while another disappeared into the under croft through a tiny side door. The church hummed with latent energy, drowning out the whispers of the two docents near the entrance.

“I always come here when I need to think.” Moore said, leaning closer to me. He moved down the aisle towards the front of the room, gently waving, coaxing me to follow. Berman leaned against a pillar, but didn’t remove his hat or coat. I felt nervous but safe, somehow protected by the sanctity of the building, if nothing else.

“Father Donovan knows me well. My family has been coming here for decades.” Moore said, kneeling and quickly crossing himself before leaning back against the pew. “Do you go to church, Jack?”

“No…well not for a long time.” I said. “My mother was raised Anglican, but my father always said he was too busy to waste a Sunday morning away from the brewery.”

“A shame,” Moore whispered, “no man should ever be too busy for his spirit.”

I took a bite of the irony in his words. “My father was never too busy for his spirit. I’d say it was his spirit that drove him. He was just never one for genuflecting at someone else’s altar.”

“Hmm, having met him, I can believe that.” Moore turned around and looked at Berman. He hadn’t even shifted his stance. “I’m sorry about him,” Moore said, “He’s harsh, but effective. I needed to talk to you, and in private.”

The oddness of the situation made my head swim. Why would a man who directly worked for President Roosevelt need to talk to a seventeen year old nobody from Philadelphia? The dimness and heavy warmth of the church made the situation feel surreal, a dream Nate would snap me awake from any minute when he found me asleep on my desk. But Moore refused to dissipates into nothingness, and Berman refused to go with him.

“I know you’ve been following McGuire, and I know McGuire’s been looking into my office and associates.” He tilted his head backwards, starting straight up at the bas-relief dotted dome. “I know you’re looking for some closure, Jack. Your father was a good man, and the way he died was…regrettable.”

My mind dropped its clutch, shifting from confusion to anger. “Regrettable?” I nearly yelled, rippling an echo all the way down the nave and back. The priest at the altar turned, demanding silence with a steely look. I nestled back into the cushion of the pew, heart pounding, rage rising. “He was murdered.” I whispered, though gritted teeth.

“No, he wasn’t,” Moore said confidently. “It was an accident. The sooner you and McGuire accept that and stop hounding my colleagues, the sooner we can all move past this mess.” He turned his head, settling his square-framed eyes on mine. “You have to drop this and focus on taking care of your mother. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, or your family, or even your livelihood, Jack.”

My brain fumbled, and I dropped my words.  Moore raised his arm, beckoning Berman over. The sullen trenchcoat obliged, slowly.

“Berman will take you back to the Gazette,” he said, crossing his hands on his lap. “This is the last I want to hear about any of this. You do not want to see me again, understand?”

I forced a nod, as Berman grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me out of the pew. He jerked me back down the aisle and out the door, into a gentle flurry of the year’s final snow.

“Get lost, Cooper.” Berman all but threw me down the church stairs. “You know where you stand now, and it’s on the wrong side,” he said, knocking my shoulder as he walked past. “I’ll be watching you.”

I spit on the street behind him, but he didn’t turn back. The wind threw itself at my face yet again, nearly freezing the tears welling in the corners of my eyes. The church bells tolled, on and on and on, out into the coming storm.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 6

Welcome to chapter six of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 6

My days in the newsroom drag. The constant ringing of telephones and smacking of typewriters used to annoy me, but now they act like a journalistic lullaby. If not for some particularly potent coffee from Marco’s down on Market street, I’d probably be waking up with indentations of keys and fresh ink on my face.

The echo of Virginia’s gunshot keeps me awake. As I heard it crack all the bones of that quiet night three days ago, back turned, unsure who fired or from where, I imagined it zipping straight for me, like father, like son, fates cruelly twisted together like some defective DNA. Even though it hadn’t hit me, or anyone for that matter, it still played tricks on my subconscious, and as I lay in bed, watching the moon’s silvery fingers through the windows, all I could hear was the explosion of powder and my heart beating.

I had since avoided the brewery, hiding beneath piles of notes that needed transcription, occupying my mind with the minutiae of McGuire’s notes, hoping to find some new information about the murder. The police hadn’t changed their story, but McGuire was certain that the details had been washed, dried, and folded within the walls of the precinct before ever being made public. That was the game I played of late; burrow as deep down into the prosaic as possible to shelter myself from the bomb blast of reality that had scorched my earth near clean.

Virgnia’s gun and George’s fist weigh heavy, but not heaviest. It had been two weeks since my father had slipped from this life to the next, but I hadn’t really mourned. There had been no time. At least I tricked and then convinced myself that there had been no time; I’d actively thrown myself into anything and every activity I could find – financial paperwork, business plans, supply orders – bent on filling his shoes without taking the time to fully realize that he wasn’t there to wear them anymore. Besides, it seemed like mother was doing enough mourning for two. She wouldn’t eat much and slept as much as the cat, curled up on the chaise in the front room, endlessly staring out the window like his salt and pepper stubble might come up the front steps any minute now. Andy the little silver tabby, had rekindled his love affair with her lap, and I could pretty much always find them, an unaffected pair, dodging waking life by not participating in it.

I’d only seen Ginnie from a distance. I could see the purple on her cheek, the limp in her left leg, but she was alive, and had somehow placated her father’s wrath. Her body looked pained, but her eyes and spirit seemed as determined as ever.

“Are you almost done?” The voice broke my concentration, and I realized I had been staring blankly at nothing, fingers not moving on the keys. Nate stood in front my my desk, shoulders slumped in disappointment. “I know you’ve got a lot in your head, Jack,” he said, trying to inject some wisdom, “but we can’t fall behind here. I don’t want to have to hire someone else.You’re too good to easily replace.”

“I’m sorry, Nate,” I said, “I did finish Thompson’s and Pine’s notes though.” I handed him a dense pile of crisp sheets still stinking of the iron and carbon of fresh ink.

“And those?” He nodded to the even bigger pile to the left of my elbow.

“Not yet.” I said. “McGuire’s is still in here, before you ask, plus a few things Anderson asked me to transcribe for the story they’re running tomorrow.”

Nate’s face contorted in a mixture of panic and pain, like a dog who had just bitten down on a bumble bee. “You haven’t type up that story yet?” His raised voice cut through the din of the newsroom; a sour note so out of time with the majors and minors of business as usual. Voices dropped, eyed turned. “They gave that to you days ago! It should already be blocked by now!”

“No one asked me about it. I’ll do it right now if it’s so important.” I said. “Give me an hour.”

“An hour! Well don’t let anything distract you. I don’t want to have to fire you, but not even McGuire can stay my hand if you end up delaying the entire press.” His last puff signaled the end of his huff, and the switchboard operators stuck their heads out of their stained wooden doorways to see him march down to his office, still raving to himself about topics unintelligible.

I began to type, slowly at first, mopping the emotional clutter from my brain. The metal letters crashed through the silk ribbon, one heavy clank and thud at a time. “M-a-y-o-r  J  H-a-m-p-t-o-n  M-o-o-r-e  t-o  S-h-u-t-t-e-r  A-l-c-o-h-o-l  E-s-t-a-b-l-i-s-h-m-e-n-t-s  P-e-r-s-o-n-a-l-l-y.” I slung the ribbon back across to the other side with a satisfying ching. “J-a-n-u-a-r-y  T-h-i-r-d  1-9-2-0.”

As I energetically hammered the return key to begin the body of the release, my phone blared a hello, nearly shaking its own hook. “This is Jack,” I answered.

“Mr. Cooper?” A bright female voice on the other end said. “There is someone here to see you. Can you please come down to reception immediately?”

I assumed it was Ginnie, or mother, or possibly even Elmer, who’d been hounding me about a signature for days. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot spare even a minute now. Can you tell the caller to try me again later, or leave me a message?”

“Erm, Mr. Cooper, I don’t think that will work. You should probably just come down here.” Her voice trembled ever so slightly.

I could picture Nate’s face, near exploding, red, contorted, if he came back to find my chair empty. “Well I’m sorry, it’s just not a good time.” I could hear someone in the background, a low voice bearing the rasp of a smoker. The receptionist’s voice faded, and I could hear a slight “oh!” as someone took the receiver from her hand.

“Jack Cooper?”

“Yes, sir?” I said.

“This is detective Keith Berman, Philadelphia Police. I am here with Mayor Moore. You have two minutes to get down here, or I’ll send two uniforms up there to escort you down less than amiably.”

The phone clicked, and went dead.

To be continued…

Craft and Draft: The Most Important Tool of the Writing Trade

Writing advice tends to focus on ways to improve wordplay through seductive syntax, elegant editing, and creative applications of your personal brand of writerly insanity. The sentence sages of the internet kingdom give (and have given) solid suggestions for how to augment ideas and the words, and should be thanked and showered with gifts for their contribution to improving the stories of the writing collective. But even among such varied and abundant advice, I rarely see anyone transcend the theoretical, to advise to writers beyond the writing, to perhaps talk about some of the more practical aspects of being a prolific letter bender.

There’s one niche topic that seems all but wholly ignored, probably because it falls very low on the priority list of most writers who are investing free time to refine their craft. One niche topic that plays a role in everything you write, eventually. One niche topic that I, as a technical writer, hold very near to my heart:

Keyboards.

I know, I know, all that build up for keyboards? But belay your disappointment for a moment and think about the importance of that chained click-and-clack: even if you draft stories on paper, one day, sooner than later, you’ll have to transcribe that onto your computer to get it published. Your keyboard is your gateway to the written world, your concept manifester, your irreplaceable partner in the literary dance of life. The sooner you embrace your relationship with your keyboard, the sooner you’ll be a happier (and potentially healthier!) writer.

I upgraded my keyboard after fighting daily with a dying Logitech for a few months, and suddenly realized how much I’d been involuntarily handicapping myself by using a keyboard that didn’t work well, and didn’t fit my typing style. Since I starting smithing on my new board, not only can I write more quickly and accurately, but actually find I enjoy typing, to the point that I want to sit down and write simply for the satisfaction of feeling my fingers on the new keys. Like a new pair of running shoes, a new keyboard offers more comfort, fits your body better, and rejuvenates your mind for the tedious task at hand.

But before you just jump on Amazon and buy the prettiest little QWERTY out there, remember that not all keyboards are created equal, and just like shoes, you have to find the right fit. Fortunately, I’m about to condense 6 months of keyboard research into a single blog post, which should hopefully take some of the guess work out of choosing the right board.

To start, there are two types of keyboards: mechanical and membrane. Mechanical keyboards echo the earliest generation of computers; large, heavy, noisy slabs with that either very satisfying or very annoying plastic clatter. Membrane keyboards, the more modern of the two, are much more common, and nearly every laptop has this style hidden underneath its alphabetical layout. There are advantages and disadvantages to both, but the decisions really comes down to preference and comfort.

Mechanical Motoring

Cherry MX Brown Switch

Partly due to their popularity with gamers, mechanical keyboards have seen a contemporary resurgence. They tend to be very easy to type quickly on, and include fancy, technical features like full N-Key rollover (a jargony way of saying that it will recognize all key presses even if multiple keys are hit at once; an advantage if you’re a very fast typist). These boards have an individual switch under each key that translates your keystroke to the computer as soon as the key is pressed. Most modern mechanical keyboards use “Cherry MX” switches, which come in a variety of colors.

These “colors” translate to different tactile feelings when you type; some are linear and need to be pressed all the way down, while others, like the “blue” switch includes a “bump” when you press the key, so you know when the keyboard has registered the letter. They also vary in terms of the force needed to push the key all the way down; a keyboard with “black” switches needs a surprising amount of downward pressure for each stroke, which may turn off writers with a lighter touch, who don’t (like me) attack their keyboards with much vigor.

The good news: there are many types of switches, offering varying levels of speed and comfort depending on your preferences. I won’t bore you too much with tje technical details of each switch, but if you’re curious, more information can be found here: Overview of Cherry MX Switches. If you’re curious about how the keys actually feel when pressed, visit a computer supply store that displays keyboards (read: not Best Buy). You can also buy a tester kit online.

Now for the practical stuff: as a writer, I found the linear black and clear switches too heavy/stiff for daily typing, and the blue too noisy. I found the red switches too flighty (leading to more mistakes the faster I wrote) and was thus torn between green and brown. I preferred the brown overall, for the tactile response and significantly reduced noise. I also find I have less tension in my hands and arms when typing on this keyboard. YMMV.

My new keyboard is mechanical, and I’m coming from a membrane style. I find that my writing is smoother, with fewer mistakes, and that I really enjoy typing on this thing. Several companies sell mechanical keyboards: mine is from WASD, but Das Keyboard, Razer, Logitech, and Corsair (plus a few others) also make variations.

Pros:
Fast, accurate typing
Heavy, so it doesn’t slide around on your desk
Satisfying key strokes that encourage more writing
Easy(ish) to clean

Cons:
Very noisy; not very good for writing in a quiet environment
Relatively expensive compared to membrane keyboards
Time investment needed to learn which switches you like best

Membrane Malleability 

My old (and filthy) membrane keyboard. The membrane is beneath those dome keys.

A large portion of modern keyboards sit on top of a gummy rubberish membrane, which in turn sits on top of a circuit board. When a key is pressed, the membrane contacts the circuit board, sending a signal to the computer that translates it into a letter. Each key is not its own moving part, but instead a pressure pad that is part of the entire membrane. Where the mechanical keyboard provides immediate tactile response, a membrane keyboard provides very little (sometimes none at all). There are two sub-types of membrane keyboards: “flat” like the one on your microwave, and “full-travel” like the one on your laptop.

On that note: membrane keyboards are featured on almost all laptops (as the space and weight of individual switches would be cumbersome for the form factor). They tend to be very gentle on your fingers and hands, very quiet, and preferable for light typists. They’re pretty resilient, too, as the membrane acts like a shock absorber that can withstand a lot of daily use. Many people prefer membrane keyboards because they take next to no effort to type on, and over years of using them by default, they’ve adjusted to the relative lack of physical response.

Nearly every company that makes keyboards makes membrane versions, but some feature media keys (to control music and movies), and other gizmos, gadgets, and assorted colorful knobs. There isn’t much difference between the actual keyboards based on manufacturer (like there is with the mechanical switches), so you’ve got more freedom in terms of design and additional features.

Now that I’ve made the jump, I wouldn’t go back to a membrane keyboard unless I had to (like when using my laptop). That’s solely personal preference; I’m a pretty aggressive writer, and hit the keys hard and fast when I’m in the proverbial zone. I’ve obviously written many, many things on membrane keyboards and found them comfortable for a very long time, so don’t take me as a followable example. You do you.

Pros:
Quiet
Easy on fingers and hands
Relatively cheap

Cons:
Little tactile response can lead to mistakes in typing
Gets dirty very easily, and can be difficult to clean
Key replacement proves difficult without proper tools
Lightweight means it can slide around your desk

Advanced Keyboarding

Tweet me if you’ve got questions! @OliverJGray

Keyboards also come in variations of form factor. If you experience pain while writing, or never feel comfortable on a flat keyboard, several companies sell ergonomic keyboards that split the keys down the center, supposedly to improve hand placement and typing accuracy while reducing wrist stress. The traditional keyboard has 104 keys (including a number pad), but if space is limited, you can also buy an 88-key version that sacrifices the number bad for a shorter body.

For the adventurous hipster, there are also other key layouts, including DVORAK and COLEMAK, all of which purport to be superior to the traditional QWERTY layout in terms of speed and accuracy (if modern typing lore is to be believed, QWERTY was actually designed to slow a writer down, as to not jam up the then completely mechanical type writers). I’ve only ever played around with DVORAK and abandoned it pretty quickly; it seems like a lot of work to erase QWERTY from my brain all to learn a completely new layout for a relatively minor bump in typing speed. Plus, the majority of the English speaking world uses QWERY, so you’d then have to play mental Twister anytime you needed to use a keyboard that wasn’t yours.

Virtual keyboards on phones and tablets add another layer of complexity to the puzzle; I, as a matter of preference, loathe typing anything on my phone. I even dislike sending texts. I sit there plucking at letters thinking, “this would be so much better and faster on my computer.” They do have the added feature of predictive text, which as we all known, can be a mixed blessing, and always seems on its worst behavior when you’re texting your mom or your boss. I know some people swear by Swype, and actually enjoy writing using the relatively new digital interfaces, so if that’s your jam, go for it!

You have a world of possibilities at your finger tips (ba-dum-ching) when it comes to selecting the right keyboard. I’m not suggesting any one way is the best, but I do implore you to consider the medium through which you forge your wordy worlds. A painter would painstakingly select her brushes and a soccer player tests many types of cleats before he plays in a game, so why would you not do the same for what is arguably, the most important physical tool for a modern writer?

If you’ve got any specific questions, either Tweet me at @OliverJGray, or leave them in the comments below. If you can’t tell, I’ve got keyboard fever.

December, 1919 – Chapter 5

Welcome to chapter five of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 5

“Are you insane?”

My voice bounded and then rebounded off the tinny walls of the malt warehouse like it was playing tag with itself. Virginia had asked me to stay late and help her organize the malts for the upcoming inspection, promising George we could handle it and all but demanding he go home. It felt strange to be alone with her when the kettles were cold and dormant, but it was hard to refuse her when she got her heart and mind set on an idea.

“Maybe. But what else are we going to do with this place?” she said, holding her arms up and spinning around. “I’ve been thinking about this since they first took that nonsense before Congress. We’d never be suspected of anything, given your age.”

I shrugged, unsure what to say. She kicked a sack of malt, sending a puff of dust out across the floor. “I thought you’d be more into it. You’re the perfect cover,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine, “well you and the fish.”

A simple plan. A stupid plan. But a plan, where I’d thought of nothing. The smell of the fish would mask the smell of malts and hops, but continuing to brew, right here, under the nose of investigators, seemed crazier than trying to give a rabid wolf a bubble bath. “Aren’t you worried?” I said.

“About what?” She jumped up onto the miniature pyramid of sacks. “I’ve been reading about the Caribbean rum runners,” she said, looking half a pirate herself in the subtle glow of the moon. “They got away with it by being sneaky. So we brew at night, when no one can see the steam. You keep working at the paper,” she said, nodding inclusively at me, “and make a formal statement that the brewery is complying with the federal mandate to close down. We give the fish monger a cut, and he says nothing. We roll the finished barrels and bottles down the docks, and load them onto a boat.”

The confidence in her voice resounded, filling the entirety of the space. She stood atop that malty throne like nothing in the world could touch her, like she was the queen of the quaff, the baroness of bootlegging. For a fleeting second I wanted to jump up there with her, grab her, kiss her, throw all my inborn caution to the winds of illegal fate. But I hesitated. My mother’s rationtionality ran thick in my marrow, and my bravery scurried off into the shadows.

“What about George?” I asked, mining my brain for any excuse to temper her. “He’ll catch us way faster than the police, and, um, how exactly are we going to brew without him?”

“Leave my dad to me,” she said, as if she had any control over George. “His pride won’t let him go without work for long. Soon enough he’ll be too busy to keep up with what I’m doing. If I’m bringing in money, he’s not likely to care where it came from. As for the brewing, you and I have been doing this long enough to make a few batches ourselves.”

I shrugged again. “It all sounds pretty wild, Ginnie, but,” my voice dropped. “Why?” I turned and look around at the kernels of malt strewn near the mill. “If the government wants to ban alcohol, that’s what they’re going to do. We can find other work, and move onto something else.”

Her expression shifted from conviction to dejection. She clambered down from her makeshift throne and over to me. Taking my hand, she guided me back into the main room of the brewery, to the rows of fermenter, the gleaming kettle, the maze of pipes like the nervous system of the brewery.

“Why?” she whispered. “This is why. Your grandfather built this place, and your father made it his life. This yeast soaked mess is our home, Jack. We break the law so we don’t break our spirits.”

She ran her hand along the kettle. “I don’t know anything or anywhere else, really.” I locked my eyes to hers in a brown and green tango of romantic shyness. “I don’t know anyone else, either.” She moved in closer, putting one arm around my back and resting her head in the nook of my shoulder. “This place is my everything, and I can’t just let it disappear like it never existed.” I hugged her, relishing the closeness.

“OK.” I said.

“OK?” She looked up at me.

“But we take it real slow. And give it all up at the first sign of trouble. And don’t drag anyone else into it unless we absolutely have to.” I said, trying to build in some insurance. “Deal?”

“Deal!” She threw both arms around my neck. I thought, as her face moved near mine, that she was going to kiss me, but she instead dropped her head next to mine, filling my mouth and nose with a bushel of sweet smelling hair.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” a voice growled from near the main doors. Even George’s shadow, that massive creeping silhouette, seemed angry. You could almost smell the whiskey in his words. “I leave you two alone for a minute and this shit happens. I should have suspected it. Go home, Jack, before I take you there myself.”

“George, we were just…” I said.

“I don’t want to know.” he said, almost sounding disgusted. “I’m sure it’s Virginia’s fault anyway. Always with the boys.” He stomped further into the brewery, eyes red and glossy. I could feel Virginia tensing against me, bracing herself for the coming onslaught.

“Dad, it’s Jack. We’ve known each other forever. Let’s just go home.” she said, trying to plead with the man behind the drunk.

“No. He’s not the same old Jack. Andrew made sure of that when he left the brewery to him, not me.” His words slurred slightly, like his tongue was caught in a fishing net.

I stepped forward, putting myself between father and daughter. “George, I didn’t choose how this worked out, it just did. Don’t blame me or Ginnie.” George dominated the space, looming at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me.

“I’ll blame who I want, boy.” The emphasis on the last word hovered in the air, a poisonous cloud of hate and anger. “Now move. I need to discipline my overly familiar daughter.”

“No.” I said.

George spoke next with his fist. A quick jab dropped me to my knees, ribs aching, air rushing out of my lungs. I tried to recover, but couldn’t move or catch my breath. George pulled me up by my hair.

As he pulled his fist back, knuckles white with rage, breath reeking, ready to single-handedly put me to bed, a sharp gunshot split the night in two.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 3

Welcome to chapter three of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 3

Yellowing teeth snarled from chew-scarred gums, billowing hot, noisome breath inches from my face. The beast crept forward, thick skin partially obscuring dark, bloodshot eyes. If not for a wall of chained links, it would have been on top of me, tearing my clothes and skin. I kicked  the fence near it to try to scare it off, but it only seemed to get more angry, dropping its head and growl to a lower, more serious pitch.

“Why do we always have to go this way?” I said, trying to refill my lungs. “You know that dog hates me.” I had toppled clumsily over the fence to avoid being mauled, landing awkwardly on my right shoulder. It throbbed in time with my panicked heartbeat.

Virginia laughed, watching me struggle to my feet as she sat on a trashcan at the end of the alley. “It’s a better way to the Inquirer,” she said right before crunching into an apple she’d magicked form her pocket, “you gotta get to know the city, Jack; the main roads will never teach you anything. Besides,  I wanna make sure you haven’t gone soft, sitting at that desk all day, writing.” Her inflection on the last word pierced my pride. She scribbled her hand in the air in a condescending pantomime.

“I haven’t gone soft,” I said, “there’s a lot of hard work in reporting a story, you know.”

Virginia rolled her eyes. She’d known me long before I was infected with the journalistic bug. She remembered a version of me who spent hours scouring rooftops for perfect blackbird feathers, a version of me who’d rather have explored, and adventured, and gotten into trouble than sit at some desk being tutored by old men in suits. We’d slipped apart as the years got leaner, meaner, cursed by war. She’d never been happy that I’d snubbed my father’s chance at apprenticeship in the brewery, mostly because she couldn’t see me as anyone but the 13 year old boy who lived in her memories. I couldn’t get angry; I was guilty of the same. It was difficult for me to look at her freckles and not see the girl I’d swooned over in the throes of adolescent love, difficult to see her now, made hard and cold, all that playful jeux de vie snuffed out by the world. By the world, and by George.

We popped out of the alley and turned left onto Fayette street to cross the bridge over the Schuylkill. The frozen water caught the sun’s reflection and distorted it like a broken mirror. I imagined the individual droplets rolling on in unrelenting mass exodus to the ocean, only to be scooped up by our little brewery, forever married to malt before moving into a new, glassy home. Father always said that life began in the water. Looking off at the horizon and seeing the little river disappear into some impossibly remote unknown, it was easy to believe him.

“This is where I leave you,” Virginia said, throwing her arms around me in the most platonic of hugs. “Gotta get back before the mash rest is done, or George’ll have my ass.”

I watched her hair bob down another alley near Bar Harbor. Sometimes she seemed incapable of walking down the side walk like a normal person.

The Inquirer building loomed. I used to think the current building was architecturally impressive, but I’d recently been by the site of the new building, a massive, 18-story behemoth that was still under construction. It’s skeleton towered over everything around it, monolithic, austere, a monument to news that could not be ignored, especially by the neighbors who now lived in its shadow.

The old building heaved under the energy of too many people into too small a space. The entrance saw younger valets running around trying to move cars, older valets handling the occasional horse and carriage. The coat-check revolved nonstop as visitors, reporters, and assorted law enforcement officers paraded in and out of the building on errands secret, private, or both. The hallways, lined with tiny one-desk offices, sang a cacophony of ringing telephones, tapping telegrams, scribbling pens, and enthusiastic conversation.

My desk was near a window; which, according to the senior staff, was incredibly lucky for someone of my age and inexperience. I flopped my coat over the old chair someone had found for me on one of the upper floors, and began the tedious job of transposing my colleague’s hand written notes into the clean click-clack-ching of typewriter pages. I’d barely finished a single paragraph when a stack of papers fell directly over my flying fingers.

I looked up. Nathan smiled. “More for you kid. I left numbers on each in terms of priority,” he said, pointing his pencil at the tops of the sheets. “You’ve got something from McGuire in there, so I suggest you do those first unless you want him barging in here in a huff like he does. He’s been such a pain in the ass since he won that award.” I wanted to like Nathan, but he always dumped his workload on me, usually so he could cut out early with that blonde who worked in the telegraph office. I nodded at him, pushed the papers to one side, and tried to finish what I was working on.

“Hey, Jack?” Nathan posed the question with that sympathetic intonation that heralds an uncomfortable conversation. “I heard about your dad. We all liked him around here. Great guy. Great beer. I spoke to Mr. Knight about it; if you need a break, we can cover for you.”

I looked up again. “Thanks, Nate. I think I’ll stay though. The work keeps my mind off of it,” I lied, “I might like to take this Saturday off though, to be with my mother.”

Nate winked. “Saturdays are slow in here anyway. I’m sure Mr. Knight won’t mind.” He cancelled out most of his kindness with a second pile of notes that he dropped on my desk just before he turned to leave.

I grabbed the stack of papers, and began to quickly scan the titles to put them into a workable order. McGuire’s piece found its way to the top, partly to placate him, partly because the stories he worked on were usually packed with local intrigue. As I loaded a new ribbon and set to my sisyphean labors, a few hastily scribbled lines in the middle of the notes caught my eye:

“Spoke to detective Berman about the “accidental” death of Andrew Cooper. Claims he wasn’t aware of Cooper’s politics. Story doesn’t add up. Will follow up in the next few days.”

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 2

Onto and into the second chapter of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 2

I’ve always likened the brewery to a newsroom; a teaming hive of lives all running about on singular errands, but working towards the same ultimate goal. But where the newsroom housed literal lives, men in ties making phone calls and attacking paper with pen, the brewery overflowed with the sensation of life, pungent yeasts procreating, malt melting into sugary wort, nature allowing us to ever so briefly throw a bridle over its power. I’d spent most of my youth in that warehouse off of Market street, not so much helping as observing. My dad tried to instill a sense of work ethic in me, but there’s only so much seriousness a ten-year-old can stomach. Darting between copper kettles, across grated floors, over the new woven linen hoses, I watched men – no – titans, impossibly large and ribboned with muscle, heave bags of malt. They towered over me, sweaty, menacing, rough-hewn and dangerous, until they flashed me a smile. Sometimes, father would scoop a tiny bit of cracked malt into my hands as an odd, but welcome treat.

Nothing had physically changed, and the kettles still steamed their work into the cold morning. My father’s ghost hadn’t found its way back here yet, apparently, and his normal spot, next to the brew log, looked shadowed and sad. The boil bubbled subdued and doleful; even the birds who normally chirped and wrestled over strewn grain sang some subtle sorrow. The brewery itself, the building and all the equipment my dad has poured his life into, was in mourning.

Will spotted me first. “My boy, oh my dear boy. I’m so glad you came. You didn’t have to, you know. We can all take care of this place until you’re ready.” he said, clearly trying to be gentle.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, “I needed to get away.”

William turned and ushered me onto the brewery floor. He waddled, his knees unsure, and occasionally reached down to pull up the belt that was desperately trying to slip off of his huge belly. What he lacked in physical coordination, he made up for with wit and business savvy. “We’ve still got several orders to fill. Dobbin’s on 9th needs another barrel, but we’ll be late on our orders for Petsworth” he said, trailing off as he looked upward at the rays bouncing through the skylights.

A voiced boomed from the catwalk near the grain hopper, “Not that any of that will matter in a few weeks!” To those who didn’t know him, George looked frightening. A burst pipe and a fist of steam had badly burned the side of his face five years ago, and left his right eye milky and dead. He towered too, over six feet, built like some mythological hero. Father joked that George was descended from Hercules. “So, Jack, I guess you’re it now?” he said, venom sneaking into every word.

“Oh nevermind him,” said William, slightly under his breath, “before the war, he’d thought your father would leave him in charge, is all. I’m sure you’ll work together to get this mess sorted.” This mess. Now it was my mess. Twenty-three states had twisted closed the hydrants of free-flowing booze before the US had trenched into Europe, and now, even the capital had pulled the plug on any form of distillation. In part thanks to a dozen or so politically smart and stubborn brewers in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania had stayed sane, and our brewery had survived the initial drought. But that “nonsense about the 18th” (as my father called it), stood signed, ratified, a hydra snarling its prohibitionist and protestant heads at our entire operation. It was only a matter of time before the gavel cracked, and the statist fingers of the law, supported by the Anti-Saloon League and the Temperance Union, crept in to ruin the business.

My mess. The only conversation I’d had with father about the coming tide amounted to, “don’t worry about it,” which was proving decidedly unhelpful now. I’d overheard him talking about using the brewery to make “near beer,” exploiting a loophole to skirt under the listed alcohol limits but still make beer and turn some, if much lesser, profit. There wouldn’t be much else to do with a brewery in a world where alcohol was illegal, aside from dismantling the copper and selling the space to some cannery or fishmonger.

“It’s not just that.” George had come down from the catwalk and now stood in front of us, massive arms locked across his chest. “He’s too young.”

I didn’t argue. This past October had been my seventeenth. While standing in for father during the war had tempered my boyish immaturity, I was terrified at the prospect of being in charge. I was my father’s son, especially temperamentally, but I had a fair share of my meek mother rattling around in my genes, too.

“I know, George. I need your help,” I said, stifling tears. The last thing I needed was to cry in front of him. He slapped a huge hand on the back of my head and pulled me forward until our foreheads were touching.

“Your father was a brother to me. I can’t change his decision now, but I can and will tell you what’s best for this brewery.” he said. I could see the pain in his one good eye. As tough as he was, the loss had lodge a knife into his heart. William batted at George. He let go of my head before nearly crushing me in a hug.

“We do need some sort of plan.” William said, “none of us quite know what Andrew was going to do.”

“We keep brewing.” The newest voice lilted in sharp opposition to William’s shrillness. Brow covered in malt dust, plaid sleeves rolled up, walnut hair tucked up and back, Virginia appeared from behind the kettle like a Venus just emerged from the fermentation tank. “We do what we do,” she said, a playful madness flashing across her green eyes.

“We brew. We mash and boil and ferment until they come in here with guns and force us to stop.”

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 1

Welcome to the first chapter of  “December, 1919”, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday.

Chapter 1

Face red and flecked with sweat, he held his cap chest-height, scrunched between fidgeting fingers.

“G’d morning ma’am. That’s not to say it’s a good one. I’ve just come from down the docks,” the boy said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if trying to buy time before speaking again. “I’da telephoned you see, but then I remembered y’ain’t got one. I came running when I seen it. There’s been an accident ma’am.”

“Yer husband…” he said, dropping his head.

Mother’s face completed his sentence. Sickly pale and expressionless, like her spirit had already moved on to join my father, leaving her body behind as a barely breathing husk. We both lingered in the kitchen as seconds sludged by in agonizing silence. I wanted to speak, hug her, lie, conjure some linguistic magic to tell her we’d be OK without him. But instead I just stood, watching the sky turn rotten apple orange in a cloud-muddled sunset. At some point, my mother broke her silence, and left me alone at the kitchen table. Her shock faded into sobs, which, as the night’s shadows sank ever deeper, crescendoed into unrestrained wails. I couldn’t do anything except listen to her mourn and refill my glass.

The boy had offered little in his bumbling description of the events, just a blunt announcement that my father would never come bounding through that door into our home again. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know what really happened, he’d come of his own accord, in a rush, in the face of a situation that would have taken the heart of most boys. The police didn’t come to report his death for several hours, but when he hadn’t come trudging down that side alley after work the previous day like he did with machined consistency, we had braced ourselves for bad news. Part of me felt something change in the energy of our little home that night, a goodbye winked in the streetlights reflecting on the snow, in the quiet mewling of Andy, our alley cat, like the world was letting me know he was already gone.

It was hard to tell whether I’d fallen asleep, or if the bourbon had eloped with my consciousness at some point in the night. Solar knives cut through kitchen, piercing the Philadelphia air, highlighting the emotional hangover that had slung itself over the house. My mother still sobbed, but now her cries sounded pathetic, not angry. I cracked three eggs into a bowl. I wished I could do the same to my brain to relieve the pressure. As the clear turned white against the black of the cast iron and my mind focused back on painful reality, I heard a knock on the front door.

Before I could take the eggs off the heat, my mother emerged from her room, wiped her face, and forced a smile through puffy cheeks. She’d changed into a black dress. Sharp juxtaposition to her normal vibrant purples and blues. “I’ll get it,” she said.

I followed, not wanting her to be alone with anyone quite yet. I could see a man through the side window, but the sun glared at just the right angle to obscure his face. I was wary it might be the police again, or some nosy neighbor that wouldn’t want to leave my mother in peace until she has all the details to share with the church gossips. She cracked the door slightly, hiding most of her body behind the wood and hinges like a shield, and peeked out into the morning.

In perfectly pressed tweed stood my father’s oldest friend, Elmer Green. I hadn’t seen him in years. He’d put on quite a bit of weight, but those wrinkles – the natural tattoos of a man who smiles and smokes too much – gave him away. He took off his hat. “Sorry t’ bother you so early Meredith. And you, Jack. I was in New York. Came down as soon as I heard.”

Mother made some tea. Earl Grey. His favorite. Elmer slurped it thankfully, trying to shake December’s romantic advances. “I can’t believe it,” he said, steam from the cup obscuring his eyes, “Shot? And by the police no less? What did the inspector say? I just can’t believe Andrew made it through that hell for something like this to happen.” He stopped talking when mother’s eyes went dewy. “I’m sorry Mere, it just seems so…unfair.”

It was unfair. My father, the proud and loquacious Corporal Andrew Cooper, served two years in the blood-slick mud of the French countryside. He’d beaten the statistical odds and returned relatively unharmed, save for a shrapnel scar on his right cheek and some memories he’d rather have left on the other side of the Atlantic. He’d faced down Germany and death, emerging from the stink of the trenches victorious.

All to be mistakenly gunned down by some flatfoot who thought he’d make a name for himself by catching a thief.  “They thought he’d robbed a bank,” I said, trying to fill in some details for Elmer, “he was lugging a sack of barley. In the dark the police thought it was a bag of money.”

From the police recount, my father had acted suspiciously and refused to step out into the light to show himself to the officer. The officer in return felt threatened, and was forced to fire. This version of the story conflicted greatly with my father’s personality and with what the dockboy had told us. I didn’t know what to believe, except that a man had killed my father and wouldn’t face any justice for doing so.

Elmer reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of papers.

“I hate to do this now, but it’s important,” he said, shuffling through the mess of yellowing sheets. “Before we left for the War, Andrew asked me to witness for ‘im. I’ve got all the correspondence. He was worried he’d never come back from France, and wanted to make sure you and Mere was taken care of.”

“A will?” I asked. It was unlike my father to think so far ahead.

“Of sorts,” Elmer said, handing a careworn, fold-marked letter to me. “More like a contingency. Not officially legal, but a judge wouldn’t be denying these if you presented ’em. He left the house and service pension to Meredith. What little is left of his grandfather’s money is hers, too.”

I couldn’t handle it anymore. I’d forced the idea of his death from my mind when he went to war, imagined my father a modern day Achilles, nearly invulnerable, incapable of succumbing to a force so common as death. And now, after celebrating his return, finally settling back into some kind of familial normalcy, I had to face the senselessness of it all. I thanked Elmer for taking the time to see us, and excused myself before the dam behind my eyes gave way to the building torrent.

“Wait, Jack, there’s one more thing,” Elmer fished around in a separate pocket of the bag for another, much cleaner and official looking document.

I turned.

“He left the brewery to you.”

To be continued…

The Session #94: The Way I Role

(DING is back as our host for The Session #94, this time asking us to consider our individual roles in the beer community/industry)

As I downloaded the pictures we’d taken in Gettysburg after my wife’s birthday-turned-photoshoot, I had to briefly pass through hundreds of shots of bottles and cans of beer in front of our guests. I’d hooked my laptop up to the TV, and my previously imported beertography spilled out all over Lightroom, too fluid and legion to clean up or hide quickly. My wife’s friend noticed, and laughed. “Did you really need to take so many pictures of beer?” The rest of the room laughed with her.

I felt a flush of embarrassment. There are a lot of photos of beer on my computer. Nearly 200 GB, if I’m being honest. Lots and lots of photos that are nearly identical, short of a slight change in depth of field, or a minor adjustment in framing. The nested folders of images translate to many hours behind the viewfinder, and exist as proof of my obsession that few people ever see.

Did I really need to take so many pictures of beer? Yes, I did.

To me, every photo contains a story, or at least the potential for one. The old adage parrots “a thousand words” but to me there’s more than just the details in the arrangement of the pixels. I spend so much time and take so many pictures trying to capture that one fleeting second, the one perfect microcosm of me, in our culture, at that exact moment, all so I can tell a story.

Not so I can promote a brewery. Not so I can earn money. Not so I can show off.

Only to tell a story.

It’s the same reason my mind builds narratives when I’m scanning beer labels, or wandering around a brewhouse, or ordering another round for friends. Beside all those proto-photos rest skeletons of stories, bones and structure with no meat, frameworks waiting for an infusion of reality to reanimate them.

I’m a writer who lives in a beerish world, and as a result, I’m always trying to mine the veins of our culture for some literary truth. I feel obligated to tell the stories that make up my world, that make up our world, so writing about beer becomes a literal manifestation of “writing what I know.”

Contemporary beer writing has been plagued by a decided lack of storytelling. It’s not completely systemic, but I do see a lot of writing that, while functionally fine, reads like technical documentation or corporate copy. The latent sex-appeal of beer has been supplanted by a strange utilitarian slant, where brewing details, tasting notes, and arguments over semantics have wrestled importance away from engaging a reader and potentially teaching them something.

We’ve gone full-throttle on the science and the details, but forgotten that industry need not be mechanical and cold, and that a lot people have difficulty connecting with data and flat exposition. We’ve forgotten that humans are hardwired to follow narratives, connect to characters, to start at the beginning and stop at the end.

In short: we’ve built the rituals and canon of beer without developing any of the mythology. Joseph Campbell would be pissed.

I try to populate the empty pantheon. I try to weave all the loose threads into cohesive forms, move past the liquid in the glass to stories that people want to read. I’m not always successful, I know, but that’s my “role” if I had to pick one.

Writers have more competition for attention than ever in the history of writing, so I feel it important, if not downright necessary, to write something that’s free from errors, creatively composed, fundamentally worth reading. Either because it has a point that makes one challenge presupposition, or because it’s legitimately fun to read or intrinsically beautiful.

That’s it. No other secret plans or ulterior motives or special considerations. I’ve always enjoyed reading stories (I might even argue that I participate in them), so it only makes sense that I’d enjoy writing them, too. To me, human history is one big book, and American beer is a chapter that’s still being written. Let’s make sure it’s a good chapter, a chapter worthy of all this cultural passion, one story at a time.

Birthday-turned-photoshoot results. Worth way more than a 1000 words, I think.

Why Blog?

This post is part of a prompt from my fellow Mid-Atlantic beer bloggers. The idea is to get introspective, take some time as we hide under blankets from winter’s chill to think about how blogging (or writing about beer in general) has changed, or influenced, or mangled our relationship with the beer itself.

I’m going to argue that this blog hasn’t changed my relationship with beer.

It has changed my relationship with everything.

When talking writing, blogging, or any unpaid word mining and sentence smithing, the same question always seems to sneak out: why do it? Why spend so many hours, so much energy, keeping a digital journal of your thoughts and stories? It’s a legitimate query, and one that doesn’t always have a good answer. Blogging (well) involves more work than most people realize, and unless you win the internet lottery and ride the viral train to hits-town, there’s often very little return on investment (especially if you’re measuring said ROI in actual dollars).

So if not for fame or fortune, why? Writing can be its own reward, a cathartic outlet, a salvage yard for ideas not meant for commercial consumption. But there’s more, something fundamental, something formative in creating and curating your own online space.

Like a symbiotic organism attached to your parietal lobe, your blog alters your brain chemistry, slowly changing how you view the world. Experiences aren’t just one-offs anymore, they’re potential stories, or lessons, or photo-ops. The blog nudges you, encourages you, reminds you to dig deeper, to pull as much viscera from the everyday as you can without killing the poor thing. As it grows, you grow, teaching you just as much as you’ve taught it. The jumble of HTML and CSS behind a URL is more than just the sum of its pages, of its posts. It becomes an extension of you, a tangible and important aspect of your life like a digital pet who needs your love and attention.

Long car ride chats about sociology and philosophy lead to Eurekas and light bulbs, followed shortly thereafter by the powerful declarative, “that’s a blog post.” Simple conversations with new friends offer new perspectives. The blog overhears and records, for later use. After some time it takes partial control of your eyes, showing you details overlooked before, angles and blind spots obscured by privilege or naivety. Given more time it moves to your ears, filtering, noticing, listening for what matters in a multimedia cacophony of what doesn’t. Eventually, even your mouth will succumb, asking questions the blog wants answered, promoting, teaching, rambling at the behest of the ever-whirring gizmo inside your mind.

Running this blog rewired my brain. Rejected the old reality and injected a new one. It made me more attentive, more detail-focused, more interested in the whys and whos behind the whats, because the blog is picky, and will only eat the finest of meaty knowledge.

So of course, despite my earlier statement, this blog has changed my relationship with beer. But not only beer, and not because that’s what I write about most often. It changed the relationship with the drink because it changed me, forced me to see the poetry in the prosaic, the delicate dance happening between hop and water and malt. Beer is just a medium; it could have been anything. It just so happens I really like fermentation. The blog found the beer, not the other way around.

So why blog? Because it gives you a reason, a catalyst, to take a different look at the world. You do it for the constant creative companion to your inevitable individual evolution. You don’t run a personal blog for celebrity or cash (although if you’re lucky those things may come in time), you do it for you, to mature, to teach yourself, to grow.

Scroll yet further southward for the other posts on this prompt:

• Josh from Short on Beer: Beer blogging has ______ my relationship with beer.
• Douglas from Baltimore Bistros & Beer: Beer Blogging and My Relationship With Beer
• Bryan from This Is Why I’m Drunk: It’s My Relationship and I Can Cry if I Want To
• Jake from Hipster Brewfus: Verbose Validation of Verbage
• Liz from Naptown Pint – Which came first, the beer or the blogging?