about this author

The accidental author: Thomas Steinbeck tells the story behind Down to a Soundless Sea

It has been requested that I divulge the peculiar lineage of my modest volume of short stories, Down to a Soundless Sea. I can only assume that there is some hint of the mysterious expected. If that is the case, then I’m afraid there will be disillusionment to spare, and for that I apologize in advance. Down to a Soundless Sea can claim only the most unassuming nativity as a book, for in fact, it was never intended to be such. The truth, though mundane in the extreme, seems to possess some charm for people, so I will confess and throw myself upon the fickle mercy of my readers.

Some years ago, while working on a screenplay for Disney, I happened to make the acquaintance, through my friend and attorney, Phillip Rosen, of a gentleman named Michael Freed. Michael was, at that time, beginning work on a beautiful little resort project on the coast of the Big Sur in Monterey County, California. The location of his small hotel was centered about the homestead of the famous Post Ranch perched on the rugged coast overlooking the vast expanse of the Pacific from a remarkable altitude.

Michael Freed appeared to have expended great effort, energy and considerable funds into seeing that the new Post Ranch Inn fit artistically and environmentally into this ancient landscape. This meant a great deal to me because as I am an old denizen of the Big Sur, and have habitually taken a rigid stance on the encroaching tourist desecration of that magic stretch of mountainous coastline.

One evening, while enjoying the marvelous views from Michael’s home high in the Sur, Michael informed me that he had come across an old letter from my father, written as a young man and addressed to the Posts who owned the ranch. The letter concerned the reimbursement of funds advanced to my father for the stage journey to Monterey. Michael asked if I knew anything of my father’s history as it pertained to the Post Ranch, and I said that I did.

I informed Michael that my father, along with many other boys from Monterey and Salinas often came to work the ranches in the Big Sur during the summer hiatus from school. This was rough and very dangerous country for herding cattle and the additional help was eagerly appreciated. There had been a saying in circulation that indicated the value of these young cowhands to their employers. It was said that young cowboys bounced, but old skinners break. And it was pretty much the truth. I told Michael that my father knew the Post family well, and occasionally rode for them in that same capacity. I went on to tell him the story of my father and the Great Sur Bear, which took place while he was working for the Posts one summer.

Michael appeared amused. He refilled my glass with a dash of excellent and ancient tequila, and asked if I knew any other stories about the characters that once inhabited the Sur in the old days. I proceeded to spin out several yarns I had been told by my father or my aunts and their friends. As the evening closed, my host asked whether, for a small financial consideration, I might write down a few of the stories for the edification of his hotel guests. He thought it might be interesting to self-publish a few volumes for the hotel and allocate them to the various suites. I assumed they would eventually take their places next to Gideon’s ubiquitous Bibles.

I told Michael that if he would refrain from holding me to a tight deadline, I might eventually get around to the project when I could spare time from making a living as a Hollywood hack. And I did ultimately, after several years of starts and stops, come up with the requested material. Michael seemed pleased with my efforts, so my wife, Gail, a very handy person to have around on such occasions, began to prepare the work to be self-published with a small company out of New Mexico.

In spite of the friendly enthusiasm for the work, it remained my considered opinion that virtually nobody north of Santa Cruz or south of San Louis Obispo would be remotely interested in reading stories about the Big Sur, so I put no effort into finding an appropriate commercial publisher for the volume. Then one day, my New York literary agents at McIntosh & Otis asked if they might read the work solely out of curiosity. I had not requested their services professionally concerning the book, and saw no harm in letting them peruse the manuscript. I was stunned, therefore, when everyone at M&O professed to really enjoy the work. Elizabeth Winick even asked my permission to send it out to a few publishers. I acquiesced only with the friendly admonition that it appeared to me to be a total waste of her valuable time considering the market for regional short stories. Though it has always been my particular favorite literary format, I was well aware that my tastes represented a minority viewpoint when it came to publishing and marketing.

I thought nothing more about this exchange for several months, so it came as a total shock when one day my lady-wife came up to my studio to proudly inform me that Elizabeth Winick had garnered a very interesting offer from Dan Smetanka at Ballantine Books to publish my short stories. Since my lovely wife takes rare delight in sparking my fuse on occasion, I, of course, assumed I was being done over for some childish prank I had pulled earlier. It took a while for her to convince me that she was on the level, if only because the news was so handsomely timed and totally unexpected.

From the mists of regional obscurity Down to a Soundless Sea emerged standing on its own wobbly legs like a newborn colt. I was proud to speculate upon the possibility that perhaps this new creature would have a life of its own. Though I am still charmed by the image of my modest endeavors sharing the bedside drawer with Gideon’s Bible in a small coastal hotel in the Big Sur. In that regard I would have always thought myself in the very best of poetic company.

I have been additionally invited to compose a few passages about my volume of short stories, but the request came plumed with a caveat that indicated some reference to my father’s tacit literary influence would be appreciated. This is by no means the first time this subject has been broached, I assure you.

In fact, I have been plagued most of my adult life, like the myriad progeny of other famous parents, with the same question. And I have long since wearied of inventing amusing and cunningly misleading answers to satisfy the curious inquisitor. The “question” is inevitably sincere, but the falling axe still rings in my ears like a peal at an execution, “What was it like growing up in the shadow of a great American author like John Steinbeck?”

In response, I usually force my right eye to twitch rapidly, arch my left brow menacingly, hitch up my shoulder like Walter Brennan and politely ask the way to the lavatory. I rarely reappear.

To begin with, the whole concept of growing up in someone’s shadow implies something rather prodigious and plant-like in habit. We speak of elder generations as though they were light-hoarding redwoods instead of life affirming bastions of care and concern. So, I’m afraid what follows will have to pass for an answer to this perpetually posed “question”.

As I recall I was never really faced with the dilemma of growing up in my father’s shadow, in fact, the whole concept was foreign to me until strangers started asking the “question”. And though I know this must prove something of a journalistic disappointment, and contrary to everyone’s evident expectations, I was a relatively happy child by present standards. In fact, I grew to become emotionally robust, and survived and thrived on the sunlight and growing room my father created for me. I romped and was nurtured in the richest available pastures of literature, poetry, history, theater, humor, and thanks to my mother’s relentless contributions, was immersed in an exceptional library of music of all kinds. It was her extensive record collection that scored my childhood sorrows and daydreams of glory. To this day I can rarely read without hearing music behind the words, and vice versa.

At every opportunity that I can recall with certainty, my father, with great humor and generosity, endeavored to hone and encourage my youthful perception of apparent realities, broaden my spiritual and navigational horizon and always encouraged me to interpret what I witnessed through the eyes of common sense and rudimentary compassion. Though John Steinbeck believed that universal compassion was a painfully acquired skill, and as such, required a lifetime of practice to master. He didn’t advise it for novices.

The most remarkable aspect of my father’s skills as a parent can be illustrated by the most powerful of all my memories of him. In all the years of his concern, tutelage and care I cannot recall hearing one mean-spirited or soul-crushing criticism, and I never witnessed his hand raised in anger regardless of provocation. This by no means reflected the purity of my youthful character, but rather my father’s forbearance and patience with fools. He was a man of mature years who had not forgotten one detail of the confusing struggles of his own boyhood, and tailored his parenting skills accordingly. In short, I received from my father as much as any son has a right to expect, and much more by some standards. It would appear to me that only a deeply disturbed father would want to see his progeny fail at anything in life. It is in the nature of most fathers to fervently yearn for their children’s success in everything. It appears to represent one of the imperative bonding codes necessary between fathers and children, especially if an offspring shows a particular interest or inherent skill in his father’s trade or profession.

In a Newtonian sense, as my father was so fond of reminding me, all creative humans stand upon the shoulders of giants, and I assumed it was always his expectation that I would make resourceful use of the numerous artistic shoulders available to me, and in my turn lend a modest shoulder upon which others might stand if necessary.

These simple reflections bring me to at last “answer” the “question”. To table the phrase in the simplest terms, growing up with John Steinbeck was an absolute blast. And I will be forever grateful for every moment I had in his company. Aside from those traditional foxholes that fathers and sons are destined to occupy from time to time, John Steinbeck was the most entertaining and rewarding character I ever met. He was a man of infinite curiosity, borderless interests and a sense of humor that mimicked Mark Twain’s fascination with the absurdities of the human condition. I can’t remember one moment of boredom or disinterest. He made sure my world was constantly exposed to new and wonderful ideas, and saw to it that I kept myself occupied with rewarding projects. In short, my father gave me all he could, and more. If there is something more a father can do to earn a son’s love, loyalty and respect, I do not know of it.

The writer: Thomas Steinbeck began his career in the 1960s as a motion picture cinematographer and photojournalist in Vietnam. He also has taught college courses in American Literature, creative writing and communication arts. He serves on the board of the Stella Adler Theater in Los Angeles and the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas. He has written documentaries and numerous dramatic adaptations of his father’s work, mostly recently writing a screenplay for Travels with Charley. Thom Steinbeck published Down to a Soundless Sea (Ballantine), in October 2002 and lives on the Central coast of California with his wife, Gail. “I write because I enjoy writing,” he says. “I enjoy the storytelling.”

The stories: In the seven stories that make up Down to a Soundless Sea, Thom Steinbeck traces the fates and dreams of an eccentric cast of characters, from sailors and ranchers, to doctors and immigrants — as each struggles to carve out a living in the often inhospitable environment of rocky cliffs, crashing surf, and rough patches of land along the California coast and the Big Sur. In Blind Luck, a wayward orphan finds his calling at sea, only to learn that life must concede to the whims of authority and the ravages of nature. In Dark Watcher, with the country at the start of the Great Depression, a professor craves a plausible discovery to boost his academic standing — and encounters the Indian myth of a shadowed horsemen that may ruin his career. An Unbecoming Grace tracks the route of a country physician who cares for an ill-tempered cur ” but feels more concern for the well-being of the patient’s beleaguered young wife. The collection concludes with Sing Fat and the Imperial Duchess of Woo, a novella that follows the tragic love story between a young apothecary and the woman he hopes to marry. Read an excerpt.

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