Hello all you loyal followers of Murder Books. Bruce Robert Coffin here wishing you a joyous summer.
This month I thought I’d discuss the struggle of moving from one career to a completely different endeavor. In my case that is the ongoing transition from police work to novel writing. I used the word ongoing because it has finally occurred to me that this is a slow process.
As anyone who has ever worn the badge can attest, those old routines and mindsets die hard, if ever. So deeply engrained into my psyche was the necessity of keeping a charged cellphone on the nightstand each night as I crawled into bed, ringer on of course, that shutting it off now seems verboten. Like I’m committing a mortal sin by killing the ringtone. I think “Thou shall not kill the ringtone” was actually contained within the pages of my department’s SOP. This was one of the realities of my job, the twenty-four seven nature of detective work. It was never a question of whether or not the phone ring after I’d called it a night, it usually did. The only question was what time the call would come and would said call necessitate me driving into work.
As a novel writer, I don’t receive many urgent late night communications. Most everything these days can wait until morning, or at least until my 3A.M. muse slaps me upside the head and orders me to get back to the work in progress.
But authoring full time doesn’t let me off the hook from all of my programming. Nope, I still back the vehicle into wherever I’m parking, in case there’s need to respond quickly. I still pick the table or booth that affords me a view of the room with my back to the wall. I still carry things in my left hand, keeping my gun hand free. Still unfasten the seatbelt as I turn into the driveway, allowing for quick exit. Whenever I’m in public I still watch for furtive actions on the part of everyone around me. Hell, I still write about police work. The cop’s sense never goes away, and for safety’s sake I guess I wouldn’t want it to.
I still remember sitting on the beach in Saint Martin, with some fellow law dawgs, watching as three wolves descended on an unsuspecting couple. The middle-aged man and woman were seated on lawn chairs and mesmerized by the brilliant turquoise-colored Caribbean. The woman had stowed her pocketbook and shopping bags behind her chair, in full view to all who passed by, including the three wolves. By now you’re probably wondering how we knew they were wolves. For one they had nothing with them. No towels. No suits. No chairs. No Jimmy Buffet tee-shirts. No adult beverages, although they hardly looked old enough to legally consume anyway. What they did possess were running sneakers on their feet, bodies that looked extremely fleet of foot, and clothes that identify them as locals, not tourists. As we watched they surrounded their mark, moving ever closer to the couple, while trying unsuccessfully to look disinterested. It was obvious to us that they had done this many times before. Finally, before the curtain fell on this little drama, we walked over and let the couple know what was about to go down. Turns out they were on the same cruise ship. They thanked us and the woman moved her valuables around to the front where they could both keep and eye on them. Eventually, the three wolves moved on. One at a time, still trying to look as if they belonged, they rose and wandered away, each one fixing us with a look of contempt. I tell you this story because it’s what every cop does. None of us, regardless of our “after cop life” career, can ever completely shut off that part of us.
So while I may spend my days writing, or traveling to libraries, bookstores, conferences, and colleges to talk about writing, my inner cop still lives. And he still struggles with shutting off the ringtone.