The CRCC library. Escape from Alcatraz, not allowed.

Corrections Center is a delicate way of saying prison. It's not a Supermax. Nor is it even old-school like Walla Walla. But it is a real-deal federal penitentiary where nearly 2,400 inmates are serving sentences from five years to life (and as Prince once said, "Electric word, life, it means forever and that's a mighty long time").

I was invited by a wonderful prison librarian named—actually, her name is identical to an actor on Little House on the Prairie. I'll let you figure it out. Only this is a Big House on the Prairie, with biometric key-logging and concertina wire.

And oh, how I wish I could show you pictures, but phones, cameras, and wallets, aren't allowed—nothing that could be MacGyvered into some other device. And yes, the security was impressive, but not necessarily foreboding, even when I visited one of the units (cell blocks) where more than one-hundred and fifty prisoners were hanging out.

The book gig itself was held in the Visitation Center and honestly, it was a joy to be there. I was impressed by how interesting, well-read, and thoughtful these guys were. They had deep questions about metaphor and symbolism, race relations, and of course, queries about the craft or writing. Granted, everyone was on their best behavior, but it was apparent that books are an amazing common denominator. And prison libraries (and the people that work there) are making this sad, battered world a better place.

Readers are readers, wherever they are, regardless concrete walls and razor wire.

It started when I was researching flop-houses in Seattle during the depression. This is one of those weird, esoteric moments like in Ghostbusters where Harold Ramis says with complete seriousness, "I collect spores, molds, and fungus." So...YES...I was eagerly reading about the economics and practical realities of flop-houses (don't judge me), when I stumbled upon an interview with one of my old art teachers—the late Bill Cumming. He grew up during the depression and waxed poetically about that time and those humble four-penny hotels (actually about 15¢, inflation, I suppose). Two weeks later I step off the elevator at some strange, nameless hotel, and there are three of Bill's paintings. I swear they were winking at me.

Known for his shoes, Louie Gong has created a few skateboards as well.In between those moments I happened to purchase some artwork. First was the original cover drawing for DC Vertigo's UNWRITTEN #14, by Yuko Shimizu.

And later I picked up a painting by Seattle artist Kathy Liao, and also this skateboard deck by Salish/Chinese artist Louie Gong.

Plus I donated to Molly Crabapple's Kickstarter campaign for Shell Game, her series of paintings about the pending/ongoing/future economic meltdown.

Now if I can just finish this new manuscript I can get around to buying that Bill Cumming painting I've had my eye on...

Yuku Shimizu, not to be confused with the Hello Kitty creator with the same name.

The more I thought about it, the more these names kept popping up. Sure, I’m a fan of Shakespeare, and Stan Lee & Jack Kirby, or Amy Winehouse and Erykah Badu, or just my older brother, Kirk, or my grandfather.

There are everyday heroes, in life, sports, or pop culture. But as a writer, for me, there’s these three. I guess they’re my literary heroes:

Harlan Ellison

To avoid the stress of my job and the struggles of my unhappy first marriage, I’d escape to a local bookstore that stayed open until midnight. While some guys drown their sorrows at the corner pub, I’d hit the bookstore and drank hot chocolate with mint, reading Harlan Ellison until they kicked me out. I’d discovered his seminal short fiction years earlier, but in my late 20s, I stumbled upon what I would argue is his best work, his non-fiction, his collections of essays (rantings, ramblings, spleen self-extractions—choose your own descriptor) that ran in the LA Free Press.

His voice, his rage, his humor, his…utter vulnerability, was unlike anything I’d ever read. These stories were unprocessed. Unvarnished. And as a young man I had struggled with my own inability to keep quiet—to fit in. Because of this, I found fellowship in Harlan’s writing.

Sure, when I finally spent time with Harlan, I told him it was his writing that made me want to become a writer, but truth-be-told, it was his honesty that made me take the blinders off my own life.

Sherman Alexie

The one comment that follows a lot of my book gigs is, “You were so funny!” 

I guess this is a surprise to many people because my writing (admittedly) is rather melancholic and also because most authors are expected to be as dry as a stale slice of unbuttered wheat toast—like an uninflected NPR announcer, droning on and on and on and on and on. Sadly, many are like that.

And I had the same reaction the first time I heard Sherman Alexie give a talk. He was so irreverent, and charming, and hysterically funny, it gave a whole new layer of authenticity to his writing—because I’m a firm believer that humor comes from emotional pain. Suddenly I saw the non-fiction roots of his made-up tales.

I’m funny. But Sherman is hilarious.

Pat Conroy

Conroy once said, “The greatest gift a writer can ever be given is an unhappy childhood.” If you’ve ever read The Great Santini, or My Losing Season, or The Prince of Tides, you’ll know that Pat was indeed a gifted child.

In my own case, I lost both of my parents in my early 30s—that alone was painful. But long before they passed, whether by sins of commission, or omission, they managed to leave cracks in my foundation that I still struggle with to this day. That Pat turned so many perceived weaknesses into strengths is a wonder to behold.

Okay, that’s me. Who are your heroes?