Tail between my legs, I sought the safety of a life in academia and for nearly fifty years left it only for temporary incursions into the real world of risk and reward. Credentialed with degrees — Ph.D. (LSU history) and J.D. (Duke law) — that opened doors, I enjoyed a comfortable living so long as I engaged in the requisite professional publications and networking. During those years, I still hankered after writing fiction but had not overcome the lingering doubt that I had anything of experience to draw on. What an “Aha” moment I had when a novel caught my eye: A Sense of Honor. Looking at the blurb about the author, I saw he was like me, a lawyer. Like me, he attended the Naval Academy. Like me, he had fought in the Brigade championship in the 145-pound weight class – a year after I had dropped out (against Oliver North). His novel (a good read) is about boxing at USNA. His name – James Webb, later Secretary of the Navy and United States Senator. Had I possessed more imagination, it’s the novel I should have written in Copenhagen – when I thought I had nothing to write about. Now I understand the literary device of “Lost Opportunity” (cf. Edward Rowland Sill, Opportunity) (opportune – timely). I had missed my time. Check out my treatment of kronos and kairos at the end of Cannons at the Gate.

            So, now I’m making up for lost time – and writing about things that I can profess to know something about.

            When not writing I have many children and grandchildren, not to mention hobbies: model ship building, horse riding, scuba diving, motorcycles, and archery. Most important in my life is my very dear wife, editor, and travel companion for more than forty-two years, Ann Hingle Martin, Ph.D., who teaches English at LSU.

            The first advice given to aspiring writers is always “Write what you know.” What lad of twenty accepts even sage guidance? Certain that my talents exceeded the disadvantages of youth, which included a shortage of funds and zero income, I set forth on a journey to find my place of literary fame. I dropped out of the United States Naval Academy after two years as a reluctant midshipman, having achieved limited success as the runner-up boxing champ in the 145-pound weight class both years (the second year, losing in a split decision to a graduating senior). If Hemingway had Paris, Henry James London and Joyce Trieste, Pat Martin would make Copenhagen his own. A month passed. I wrote two short stories, played clock-timed chess in a coffee shop with a one-armed chess master, walked the streets, including the famous Strøget, sampled smørrebrød (open-faced sandwiches) and pølser (hot dogs), and until the wee hours haunted night clubs where I could hear the likes of Stuff Smith, the noted African-American jazz violinist (check out the YouTube recordings of his Copenhagen period). 

            Then came reality-check. Search as I might, I concluded (wrongly) that I just didn’t have any experiences to draw on for my writing. And what if Esquire and the New Yorker rejected those stories I had dispatched so confidently via air-mail envelopes covered with stamps? Would payment arrive in time as money was running out and I couldn’t find a bank that would exchange real krone for my $1100 bank draft drawn on the Bastrop National Bank of Louisiana?  Perhaps it was not too late to enroll at LSU for the following January. With my remaining money, I purchased a return flight to New York City on Loftleidir Air with a stopover in Reykjavík, Iceland.