With regard to ESPN lingo, I hope to be politically correct when describing my son's 2012 high school football debut at tailback by stating the following... "Boy Wonder toted the rock for a buck-thirty-four this past weekend, including a thirty yard dance to Pay-Dirt, while dragging two defenders on his shirt tail." (Needless to say, I took the day off from editing "The Fall," to watch my son tear up some sod on the gridiron. He made the most of it.) ...catch him if you can ;) El
...perched conveniently off the curb along Highway 174, and only a mile or two inland, boasts the only literary hot spot on the entire Island of Edisto. "The Edisto Bookstore" http://www.edistobookstore.com/
We were scooting along under a row of shaded elms, their branches groping overhead, forming a canopy of branches and moss, when the store's neon magenta sign lured us into a parking spot. Upon staggering into air conditioning from an outside world suffering in drought, we were greeted by the owner, whose first impression appeared more than fitting for the role of one's typical high school librarian, or in this case, proprietor of one's book-cluttered establishment. She offered my younger kids a grimace, then, as politely as she could muster, ushered them toward the back room where a children's play area awaited. My son reacted with a scowl, yearning to stay and browse in the adult section, but I nudged him forward, whispering into his ear that our visit would be short. That matter settled, my wife and I parted ways, scanning the shelves in search of whatever chose to catch our eye. Highlighted on display was a collection of work from the Low Country's local writers, the majority of covers splayed in beach scenes. Then I spotted one I recognized, and a thought, far too ornery to pass up, led me to action. "South of Broad," I said aloud, my forefinger running along the glistening hardback. The fifty-something shop owner glanced up from her Toshiba lap top, resting upon the counter, then back, mumbling something to the effect of, "hmmph." I wasn't deterred. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a copy of, "South of Charm," by any chance?" "South of what? Broad? Why...your finger's restin' on it." "Not Broad. Although Conroy did a marvelous job with it. Charm. 'South of Charm,' by Elliot Grace." At this, a giggle caused her lips to part before a wiry hand could wipe it away. "I'm sorry, it's just that, my cat's name is Emily Grace. For a moment there, I pictured her in front of my computer, paws just tapping away." I lowered my brow, watching her shoulders rise and fall with a second bout of muffled laughter. Then mumbled, "Well, we're a large family, so who knows. Anyway, it's written by a writer from Ohio...Elliot Grace. South of Charm. It was released about a year ago." "Never heard of it. And we pretty much only stock the best sellers and some local flare. Nothin' else would do very well, I'm afraid." "Oh yeah? Well..." I felt an elbow in my side, turned to my wife, who'd caught the tail end of our conversation. "Stop playing games with the lady. We're on vacation." I huffed, then grew quiet, carousing the "Best Sellers!" shelf. A minute later, I spotted one I recognized, yanked it from its home, flipped to page 2 out of memory, and read aloud the grim paragraph that I knew would still be there. "I pulled back too hard on the wheel, which sent me once again towards the guardrail. The cables snapped and flew everywhere at once, like the thrashing tentacles of a harpooned octopus. One cracked the windshield and I remember thinking how glad I was that it hadn't hit me as the car fell through the arms of the convulsing brute..." I stopped reading, looked up at the whimsical librarian, whose grin had faded with the mood. A moment passed before she lifted both palms in defeat. "Well...it sold over a hundred thousand copies." "Yes," I agreed. "Life indeed throws us turnips at times...or something like that." My wife claimed a couple of books for the long ride home. I decided to leave empty-handed. We paid, offered our good-bye's, and were about to leave when the shop owner held us up. "What did say that book was called again?" "South of Charm. Elliot Grace." "Well, maybe I'll give it a look-see. And who knows?" I couldn't help but grin. "Tell ya what...I'll run out to the van and sign a copy for you..."
...so is that circling seagull up there preparing for launch, or is he just happy to see me?
The family's headin' south!
I'll be signing a few books in Charleston, dropping by an auction or two that caught my eye, adding a few touches to "The Fall," and most importantly...some R & R on the beach with my lady and the kids ;)
Anyone up for some laughs? Hit the link below for a highlight from our last southern excursion...the day we ran into Captain America on Siesta Key.
"...it had been a day or two since watching the fireworks fill the night sky with spider webs the color of a rainbow over Walnut Creek Park. Later, I swore I could still hear the cannon blasts, like distant gunfire from across the county.
I was nine years old, enjoying summer break, sweating through a July heat wave. Humidity in the shape of a giant mushroom cloud, hovering over the state of Ohio. Its intensity was enough to make our cat pant like a dog and scurry for shade by ten a.m.
I'd sneak up on him, a lazy orange tabby, its fur twisted and matted together from a territorial dispute with the neighboring tom, and blast him with the garden hose. He'd spring into the air, his back arched, a guttural screech causing every nearby sparrow to flutter about in graceless circles, and stumble for the bordering maples in the distance.
Then I'd giggle to myself as he'd stop, just out of firing range, and offer me a grimace from across the yard as if to say, "Between you and me, that hit the spot..."
...I'd planned on sleeping in. After all, if ever it were possible to do so, one would think this day, of all days, the odds were in my favor.
The dog apparently never received the memo however, and by seven a.m, decided his bladder was full enough.
Boxing him one in the chops would only result in a day's worth of guilt, so I bit my tongue, rolled out of bed, and followed a stubby tail to the back door.
I read a line from a book once that said, "once you're up, the damage is done. You might as well make something of it."
The hour called for caffeine, and with it, the promise of a sun's grin. I obliged...
By eight o'clock I was on the back deck, finishing up the first round of edits on, "The Fall." (Watch for it soon on Amazon ;)
Nine-thirty found the dog prancing around in the back yard as if he owned the place. Who am I kidding? His name's Prince for a reason.
Watching him chase frantic robins to higher elevation got me to thinking...
By ten, I was at the high school track, MP3 in hand, rounding the asphalt at a faster clip than I'd earlier anticipated.
At two miles I eased to a walk, feeling cocky, tossing around such thoughts as, "Getting old? Not on this day."
Found myself no longer alone at the track. Watched a married couple, likely my age, give or take a year, begin speed walking from the 400 meter dash mark. I considered their pace, thought, "yep, I got some left," and decided to show off a bit. (At 38, one savors such opportunities.)
Home by eleven. Was greeted with a hug by my daughter, who so graciously ignored the sweaty t-shirt. (She'd used the last of her allowance to buy me a watch for Father's Day. That talent for giving, I do believe she gets it from her mother ;)
My young Hoopster managed to crawl out of bed while I was busy lapping those walkers, and decided on surprising his pop with breakfast. I returned home to waffles.
A few hours later found us at the gym, The Hoopster working up a sweat at his weekly basketball clinic, showing up the high school boys, (he's twelve and learning fast.)
And it was then when my phone began jittering from my pocket.
"Hello?"
"Hey Dad."
"Hi Son. How was your day on the lake."
"Awesome. The waves made for some wicked tubing."
"Good to hear."
"Hey Dad, I just wanted to call and wish you a Happy Father's Day. Hope you had a good day."
"Thanks Son. That means a lot. And yes, I did. Wanna watch a movie or something tonight?"
"Yep, I'll be there!"
...maybe I'm growing soft with age, perhaps even nostalgic. But those three, and this day, that's what it's all about ;)
...edit work can be enjoyable if not swallowed whole. Any attempt at cramming the entire process into a 24-hour marathon session in order to make one's deadline, will only create further migraines, (literally,) and a finished product that will mirror the quality of work that was put into it.
So says my editor..
His advice? While trudging through the pains of edit work and re-writes, allow some spare time to read something...anything, from one of the greats. It may be a sacrifice, but one worth gambling on. For that book, whatever is chosen, be it good, or not so much, may in fact guide one's re-write along the journey as if holding one's hand while crossing a busy intersection.
Lingering doubts? Trust me, it works ;)
My choice for reading material while editing "The Fall," is Stephen King's "11/22/63," an eight hundred page monster that asks the question, "what if you really could go back and undo the past, armed with the knowledge of our future?"
Would it be possible to re-write a wrong? To change the world as we know it? Or would that only restructure the inevitable?
After all, as rumor has it, the past doesn't want to change...
And sometimes, if cornered, it bites back.
Enjoy King's interview, and ask yourself, if it were possible to go back, just once, what would you change? Think about it...
El
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
...I found myself enjoying a little "me" time over the holiday weekend, and managed to pump out the final touches on a project that's been keeping my fingers in tune with the Piano Man for the past three months.
My novella, a story I've hesitantly titled, "The Fall," (odds are weighing heavily on a name change prior to signing on the dotted line ;) is finished, with edits soon to follow, which, come to think of it, I'm looking forward to.
Edits are indeed a necessary evil. They soak up available writing time in the same manner that my lab can lick her water bowl clean during these blazing temps. Looking back on past trials, the endless months that were sacrificed fine-tuning "South of Charm," brought me close enough to my characters to smell the flavor of chewing gum balled up under Danny Kaufman's tongue. Simply put, the art and challenge of an awe inspired edit, is where a story's soul is created. It's that important.
...and so I celebrated this weekend, sharing a toast with the wife, a movie with the little ones, a game of H-O-R-S-E with my hoopster-crazed son, and roasting 'smores over a late night bonfire.
Good times.
...and then I felt the urge for some quality reading material, and thought of my friends.
