Next Book - 13 Story Writing Tips

James reveals 13 secrets to the art of writing family stories, memoirs and storytelling. The tips are especially important for those writing their first novel. This easy-to-follow guide provides writing tools and insight to create stories others will enjoy reading.  Each chapter is short, easy to read and concisely written. The systematic process illustrates how professional writers create stories.

The following is an excerpt that appears in the Secret Formula chapter. For those who remember J. Edgar Hoover, you will appreciate this. Reader feedback is welcomed.

Growing up with J. Edgar Hoover

by Robert James

As the Second World War ended, the family returned from Lima, Peru. Within a month, we secured a duplex in the Housing Projects of Cleveland, Ohio. Back then, “The Projects” were reserved for those who had actively supported the nation’s war efforts. At the start of that war, my mother went to work in a nickel-smelt­ing foundry, and my father trained Army Air Corps pilots.

Deemed too old for combat flying missions, my father accepted an assignment with the Office of Special Services (OSS). After a brief orientation at Langley, the entire family of three relocated to South America. His secret mission was to help track Nazi activity in places like Bolivia and Brazil. Ironically, many of those same Nazis would later find a safe haven in the United States.

When the war activities subsided, the returning entourage included an extra child, Robert. Even though the war had technically ended, a battle continued to rage over what constituted true Americans. This would not become a personal issue until I entered the fourth grade.

Men like Joe McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover quickly defined for us who true-blue Americans were and those who were not. I grew up with the understanding that no one argued with J. Edgar Hoover—nobody. As far back as I can remember, whenever Mr. Hoover’s name came up in polite conversation, everyone displayed great reverence.

The family lived in The Projects until I was half way through the fourth grade. Then we moved to Lakewood, a Cleveland suburb. My parents had to re-enroll me in school, and we had to fill out paperwork identifying who I was. This included a brief notation as to my place of birth. School officials referred to the document as my “permanent record.” Little did anyone realize that single notation would be the genesis of great controversy.

By the time I entered the fourth grade, the reigning director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had already outlasted foes and political tyrants alike. According to Walter Winchell, a Hollywood gossip columnist, Mr. Hoover’s accomplishments were nothing short of breathtaking.

Hoover had ordered the deportation of thousands suspected of being disloyal. During the war years, his agents, who Mr. Winchell dubbed G-men, had single-handedly tracked down and smashed all the Fifth Columnists who were sabotaging our way of life. Every true American was pound of that mindbogglingly accomplishment.

After the war, Hoover’s Red List identified which Hollywood actors were Communists. Now, in 1951, he came up with another awesome contribution. Some referred to it as the ultimate crime-fighting tool of the century. Hoover called it his Ten Most Wanted List. In my father’s eyes, Mr. Hoover was an American born marketing genius, and he held the man in high esteem.

Nineteen-fifty-one delivered an exciting year. That year, my father brought home our first multimedia con­sole, which my mother referred to as “the monstrosity.” The console arrived at our house in a red, four-wheeled trailer, attached to the bumper of the family car. A guy named Henry helped with the delivery. I remember Henry because he was the first black man I had ever met face to face.

The monstrosity required three able-bodied men to carry it up the one-step slab porch, through the lino­leum-covered kitchen and straight into the square-shaped living room. My sixteen-year-old brother and father handled the front end, while the dark-skinned Henry held up the other. Everyone seemed to like old Henry. When he spoke, he sounded just like Rochester from Jack Benny’s radio show.

The new console occupied one wall. At one end, there was a lift-top record player. You could stack a dozen records and play music half into the night with­out having to attend to it. The problem with the record player was that we only had two unscratched records, one of which played popular Christmas music sung by Bing Crosby. That was fine during winter holidays, but this was July. Mother did not want us playing off-season music—what with the windows being open all the time. Mother worried a lot about what the neighbors might think. She was not alone in her fears of what others thought.

At the opposite end of the console, a multi-band radio had more channels than anyone could listen to. Before television arrived, my favorite programs were Superman, The Lone Ranger, and of course, Amos and Andy. Everyone listened to Amos and Andy. Those who really wanted to know what was going on turned into Walter Winchell on CBS radio news.

In the middle of this piece of mahogany furniture, two doors swung open when you pulled the brass knobs. Behind the doors was a 9-inch round television screen. We were excited about the possibility of being able to see the world in true black and white.

We sat gathered around the new piece of furniture and overnight, stopped listening to popular radio. In the alternative, we began the ritual of starring at test patterns waiting for something to appear. Little did we realize how drastically our lives were about to change. Not since the invention of movable type was anything going to alter basic family values.

Much to our surprise, television brought Mr. Hoover’s alarming messages about communism right into our living room. One of the first things we learned was that the entire nation had been infiltrated. Com­munists were hiding everywhere and everywhere you turned; that is all people talked about. Neighbors who had known one another all their lives began spying on each other. Even in my fourth-grade class, Miss Higgins told us to be on the lookout. Naturally, I wanted to stay in Mr. Hoover’s good graces, so like everyone else, I kept a sharp vigilance.

That same year, I began accompanying my father to our local Post Office. Once there, I could see for my­self the photos of criminals who had committed heinous atrocities. Some had stolen pieces of U.S. mail, or assaulted a federal employee, but most of the criminals were wanted for bank robbery.

At first, there was a line of people waiting to see whom Mr. Hoover had identified as the country’s most ruthless lawbreakers. After a half dozen Post Office visits, I noticed the line kept getting shorter. By my ninth trip, I became the only one in line. I was shocked. It was one or two visits later when I asked my father, “How come there are no pictures of war fugitives or communists on the Ten Most Wanted List?”

Father mumbled something under his breath I did not understand, but his demeanor told me he was not pleased about something. The Ten Most Wanted List was supposed to solve the nation’s crime problems. My father, who had put all his faith and trust in the most respected man in America, no longer wanted Mr. Hoover’s name mentioned in his presence. Again, I was shocked.

I suspected my father and Mr. Hoover might have had a falling out. With all the budding curiosity of an inquisitive fourth-grader, several inquiries proved fruitless. I was unable to obtain a straight answer.

In grade school, things were different. We started each day by singing God Bless America. When that was over, we turned and faced the Stars and Strips to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

As a constant reminder to impending danger, each week air raid sirens sounded a wailing alarm. We prac­ticed duck-and-cover procedures in the hallways in the event those filthy communists decided to sneak up and drop an atomic bomb on us. My homeroom teacher, Miss Higgins, took these rituals seriously. She warned us to report anyone whom we suspected of being a communist. The implication was that any information we provided would be turned over to none other than Mr. Hoover himself.

We had a notorious troublemaker in my home­room. The kid’s name was Billy, but I referred to him as Billy the Bully. In addition to his eagerness to fight, Billy also liked to brag a lot. One day, Billy boasted that his father knew who the communists were because his father was a member of a secret order. According to Billy, the organization was so secret; it was only to be referred to by repeating the letter K three times.

Puzzled by this new revelation, I raised my hand and asked Miss Higgins, “What do communists look like?”

My question brought a scowl to her face. Finally, after what seemed like a lapse in time, she replied to my question. “A communist could be anyone. He might be a Negro, or someone who speaks with a funny accent.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Or he could be someone foreign born.”

With that, my jaw dropped and my eyebrows jumped to the top of my forehead. Oh-my God! I was foreign born. I had to be a communist! A sleepless night followed: How could I have lived so long and never realized this?

The following day, Miss Higgins pointed to me and announced to the class, “Roberto over there was born in Lime-ma, Pare-u.” The way in which she mispro­nounced my place of birth was annoying, but I was powerless to correct her. Like Mr. Hoover, Miss Higgins did not appreciate being challenged on anything. She instructed me to say something to the class in what she referred to as my “native language.”

Time froze. I was speechless. I knew that if I said anything that remotely sounded foreign, my question­able identity would be exposed. I replied by shaking my head, hoping she might change the topic of conversa­tion. It was not to be.

“Say something in Peruvian,” she ordered.

All eyes were upon me. I wanted to run out the door, but my legs refused to cooperate. Finely, in an effort to end the inquisition, I said, “Solemente locos dicen la verdad.”

On cue, troublemaker Billy turned to those closest to him, and in a loud whisper said, “I’m telling my father. Roberto is a communist.” Those who heard him gasped in horror.

Miss Higgins’ eyes narrowed with renewed suspi­cion. At recess, she summoned me to her desk by wiggling her index finger. The wiggling ‘come see me’ gesture usually meant you were in trouble.

“Tell me, Roberto, what exactly do your parents do for a living?” This was followed by, “Where were they born?” Finally, she asked, “Do you know any other for­eign aliens like yourself?”

She asked the questions politely, but she carefully recorded my answers. That troubled me. She ended our five-minute session by mentioning that the information would be made part of my permanent record.

I was certain she would alert Mr. Hoover and that would result in my being deported. For that brief moment, I felt a distant bond between Henry and my­self. He could no more change being black any more than I could change my place of birth.

Before my father passed away, I discovered why he had turned against Mr. Hoover. Some of it had to do with Hoover’s Ten Most Wanted List. Apparently, Hoover missed a few criminals like Nazi war fugitives, Mafia aficionados and Ku Klux Klan members. As far as the Fifth Columnists were concerned, they never posed a serious threat. Hoover had used the illusion of a threat to hire additional agents. Those truths did not emerge until long after Hoover’s demise.

I had not given much thought to my growing up years with J. Edgar Hoover until one night while watching television. Comedian, Flip Wilson, summed up those years and brought back a flood of memories. Flip, in his beguiling smile quipped, “A lie is just as good as the truth if you can get enough people to believe it.”