In October, excited to learn that The Coal Tower was short-listed for Faulkner Society prize!
As you might imagine, feeling gratitude for all the support, sharing, and hugs that have made this year so much fun. Thank you to everyone who helped get these words out in the world, to those of you who read and talked up my work, and especially to my family, who have tiptoed around the house for years, while this typing got done. For 2020, all I can say is: Write On!
I have a friend
who, through some combination of depression, online curiosity, and bad choices,
has found himself in a low security federal prison on a 7-10 year bid. He’s past the halfway point now, on the
downslope to reentry, and just as I have since he got there, twice a month I
send him a short stack of paperback books.
Which is pretty much the only thing anyone is allowed to mail a federal
prisoner. I keep a list of these books,
so I won’t send the same one twice, a total of over 400 so far. He says the library at his prison is pretty
good, but appreciates the packages, because the books I send haven’t been
dog-eared or dropped on the disgusting toilet floor yet, and sometimes he can
barter them for instant coffee or a favor, or just hand them over to the
library when he’s done.
By all accounts, he’s a model prisoner. Stays out of trouble, helps out other guys with letters home. Served as commissioner of the prison baseball league. Even organized a Spanish-English course that he and a Hispanic prisoner taught together. But the prison administrators don’t understand his benevolence, fear that he may gain some influence, and they punish him for his efforts. Ordered him to give up the language course, busting him to janitorial duty. They even called him on the carpet over the books I send. Several times the packages disappeared, or they came back to me. Under the current arrangement, I can only send two or three at a time and they must be wrapped in white butcher paper. He says when a package arrives, a guard tears open the wrapper, thumbs through the books and then tosses them out on the floor as if they’re garbage, so my friend has to pick them up. I’ve asked him if he wants me to stop, but he says no. He says they offer him the one escape he has, the respite provided — even in a noisy, smelly, zero privacy environment — by a story on a page.
Where do I get
these books? Well, I buy some new, send
some from my own over-stocked collection (having decided that I’ll only hang on
to my few first editions and any rare books not likely to be in the VCU
library), but most of them I get from a nearby Goodwill warehouse at 25-cents
each. Visiting this warehouse has become
a guilty pleasure, since I can’t seem to leave the place without a dozen or more
books, until this winnowing I’ve been attempting has begun to run in
reverse. The attic of our house is at
risk of sagging from the boxes of books stored there. My wife says if my friend were doing a
25-to-life bid, I’d still never run out of books to send him.
I can’t help it,
though. One of my favorite things,
across my whole life, really, is discovering a new book. I still remember coming across Richard
Price’s dazzling first novel The
Wanderers atop a garbage can on 6th Street in the East Village. Had never heard of the guy. But wow.
Sometimes at Goodwill it’s pretty clear that a whole collection has been dumped at once. One day I came home with a half dozen zen classics, another time it was travel books ranging from Muir to McPhee, another time a whole bookshelf on Native Americans. I find review copies of novels that will compete for the Pulitzer before they hit the shelves. A lot of them are in good shape. Walking out with $3 worth of books (that’s a dozen!), I feel like a rich man.
Of course, I’m not the only one who has discovered this treasure trove. One day I found a man filling up three shopping carts with books (slim pickings for me that day). He said he boxes them up and sends them to a school in Africa. There’s this one guy who cut a deal with Goodwill to buy whole pallets of books sight unseen, and a crew that descends like locusts, combing through the bins with ruthless speed for whatever they can sell online. So, sometimes, I find nothing of interest. But when I do, woo-hoo! I haul them up to the attic, read them as fast as I can, send 2-3 at a time off to my buddy, drop the children’s books at an inner city elementary school, and recirculate the rest to the local library, where likely as not they end up eventually back at Goodwill.
It’s an inexpensive vice, is how I figure it. And like my friend says, when he’s finally released from his no-Internet/sports tv-only imprisonment, he’ll be better read than most professors. Will that in any way assist his transition back to the real world? Who knows? If it helps him and his cellies stay sane for now, that’s enough, right? But I’ve got to do something about that attic.
(By the way, I keep a blog for my friend, too. He hasn’t posted in a while, since breaking his writing hand playing basketball, but here’s the link: http://federal-bidding.blogspot.com/.)
PS – I try to send books that I love, classics and those that deserve to be. If you’d like to see the list, put your email in a comment and I’ll send it to you.
My best friend John Wahl and I were on a Southern culture road trip, driving my girlfriend’s boaty 1970s-era Oldsmobile along the perfectly straight and empty highway up from New Orleans to the Mississippi towns of Jackson and Oxford, stopping at the homes of Eudora Welty and the late great William Faulkner, arriving at the peak of our trip on the front porch of Elvis’ birthplace in Tupelo, and returning on Dylan’s Highway 61 through Robert Johnson’s Clarksdale, and the storied Greenville of Doe’s Eat Place, arriving back home in New Orleans wearing pants stained by the grease from Doe’s storied tamales and unstoppable grins advertising the fun we’d had. All this tale to be told another time.
this one, it’s night time in Memphis, after a bucket of ribs, in our hotel
room. We’ve each taken one of the double
beds, and we’re lying there staring up at the ceiling laughing our asses
off. We can’t stop. To this day I remember that episode as the
most irrepressible bout of hysterical laughter ever. One of those where you’re almost done, but
then your friend cracks up again and you’re back at it, and then he’s almost
done but you snort, etc. One of those
where snot comes out your nose and your joints ache afterwards. What was so funny? John had told what he introduced as the
perfect joke, one that even in his telling left him helplessly doubled over. For a very long time, for years, all either
of us would ever have to say was, “That joke,” and we’d at least chortle, and
sometimes tell the whole thing over again for a good, head-clearing guffaw.
John’s gone now, yet another tale for another time, but I carry his joke with me, and I’ve shared it with my wife and sons, to a mixed reception. My older son Nick didn’t get it at first. The punning phrase on which the joke pivots confused him, but then when he got it, he really got it. His brother Stephen, ever the rationalist, concurred that the joke was funny, chuckled a bit, but demurred on my insistence that it is somehow the best. My wife Chris, who, it must be said, finds South Park unwatchably disgusting, shook her head and judged, “That’s not even funny.”
have just described for you our family dynamic in a nutshell. We get along.
At some point I ran across a humorist’s essay, which used this funniest joke ever of mine as an example of how jokes work. The essayist agreed that the joke John had told all those years ago in a shabby hotel down the street from Graceland was in fact perfect. Of course, I shared the essay with my family, each of whom responded exactly as they had when I first shared the joke at dinner. Yet my conviction grew that John had nailed it. The Ur-joke. I knew, of course, that he had not invented it. Part of the fun on our road trip into the funk of Deep Southern-ness was uncovering the magic in old stuff.
Fast forward to last night. From that rib-stuffed, rib-tickling evening in Memphis we have to jump, this is hard to say, forty years. I’m at our local gym on an exercise bike watching a movie on my iPad, well, actually an episode of the old Monty Python tv show, when – I almost slip off the bike – this Python troupe, that has in some ways defined for us what we think of as funny, tell the joke! They not only tell it, they build one of their extended, multi-narrative skits around this joke that in their version makes anyone who reads it die laughing. If you know Python, then you may recall it, and now you’re nodding your head, going, “Oh yeah, that one.” I don’t recall ever having seen this episode, however, wonder if John had, if the comedian who wrote the essay had stolen the idea from Python without attribution, or if perhaps this was and always will be the funniest joke ever, so that these disparate humorists independently arrived at the same conclusion.
Does it matter? The thing, as my family so clearly demonstrates, is that, like pornography, you know funny when you see it. And if it makes you (ahem) respond, with laughter in the case of a joke, then it works. If, like my wife, you combine an eye roll with a slow headshake, it doesn’t. Though in the case of this particular joke, barnacled as it now is for me with a long ago sweet memory of that Southern road trip with my best friend when neither of us had a care in the world, with the shaggy dog dinner table conversations it has sparked, with sober analysis by comedians, and now, I find, with the imprimatur of comedy’s ultimate arbiters Monty Python, the joke has far surpassed John’s original claim. It is no longer just the funniest joke ever, it has become a monument to laughter, and thus, in a way, irrefutable. Though one might add, somewhat dulled by a nostalgic patina that — rather than a belly laugh — leaves me wistfully grinning. The most wistful joke ever, what a concept!
The joke? I’m sure you’ve heard it, and that you’ve made your own determinations as to its comedic value. It’s the one about the dog with no nose. Like the punch line, my wife says it’s awful. What do you think?
ps – Please recite the following in a John Cleese as news anchor voice: Just read this essay out loud to my wife, who would like you to know that she does in fact have a sense of humor, that the joke is sort of funny, but she just took exception to my claiming it is unusually special.
One of the few gratifying things to emerge from America’s
nearly two decade-long 9-11 driven engagement in the Middle East is a community
of powerful, tell-it-like-it-is writers.
On this Veterans Day, wanted to list ten works by these authors that anyone
who claims to care about veterans should consider reading. I’m not ranking them. They’re listed in alphabetical order by the author’s
last name. Most are still in print, and
I hope they stay that way.
Elliot Ackerman, Waiting for Eden.
Ackerman served 5 tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, has Silver
and Bronze Stars and a Purple Heart.
This isn’t the only book he’s written about the wars, but in its brief,
searing and lyrical 173 pages, he screams the aftermath of war, as a grievously
wounded man, on full life support, lies dying in the company of his young wife
and the ghost of a buddy who didn’t survive their battle (and who narrates the story).
Bleak, yes, but I couldn’t put it down.
Brian Castner, The Long Walk: A Story of War and the Life that Follows.
During three tours in the Middle East, Castner led an
Explosive Ordinance Disposal unit. His no
holds barred memoir intersperses nerve-wracking anecdotes from the front with his
equally compelling experiences post-discharge, trying to raise a family while
dealing with PTSD (which he labels “going Crazy”).
Dexter Filkins, The Forever War.
Filkins is not a soldier, he’s a war correspondent, who has covered the tortured conflict in Afghanistan since way before 9-11 (when we were arming the same combatants we now fight). This history of our longest war goes straight to the streets, showing the human cost on both sides of a conflict no one seems to understand or know how to end.
David Finkel, Thank You For Your Service.
Finkel is a war correspondent, too, the author of one of the best books about the Iraq War, Good Soldiers. This one’s just as thought-provoking, focusing on what happens when combat veterans come home, as they struggle to make their way, coping with PTSD, the lure of suicide, and the needs of loved ones in a nation that doesn’t understand.
Sebastian Junger, War.
The author of the riveting tale The Perfect Storm and other books about men and women in extremis, Junger imbedded himself with a platoon on a remote mountain outpost in Afghanistan for over a year. In this book, you get to know these guys and the gritty, nervy fraternity they make for themselves out on the wild frontier. As close as we couch potatoes are likely to come to being there.
Marcus Luttrell, Lone Survivor.
Co-written with a writer named Patrick Robinson, this is
probably the most famous tale to emerge from the war in Afghanistan, thanks to
the movie of the same title and several other books that tell pieces of what
happened the day Seal Team 10 set out to capture an al Qaeda leader and everything
went sideways. Knowing that Luttrell was
later shot and killed back home by an Iraq war veteran with PTSD, who he was
trying to help, well, I don’t even know what to say about that.
Phil Klay, Redeployment.
A Marine in the Iraq War, Klay’s story collection reads like
a kaleidoscope of the battlefield experience and its aftermath, each tale a
bleeding shard of the whole spinning wheel.
These stories have been compared to Hemingway and Conrad, and for good reason.
Jennifer Percy, Demon Camp: A Soldier’s Exorcism.
Percy, a young MFA-writer, took it upon herself to follow
one man as he bravely and desperately seeks relief from the horrors of his
post-conflict experience back home, where he is haunted by the ghosts of
friends he’s lost and a hulking imaginary monster he calls The Black Thing.
Kevin Powers, The Yellow Birds.
Powers is a native of Richmond, Virginia, and attended the
same high school as my sons. He joined
the Army at 17 and served as a machine gunner in Iraq. This novel follows two friends amidst the
battle of Al Tafar, as one unravels and the other tries to hold him
together. This book has been made into a
Gary Trudeau, The War Within & Signature Wound.
Trudeau, yes the Doonesbury cartoonist, early on committed to the lives of the men and women in the desert conflicts and their families back home. He’s published collections of wartime letters and set up a blog sharing eye witness accounts, for instance. But his comic strips, tracking the post-conflict struggles of former jock, now amputee war veteran, B.D., and the young brain injury survivor Toggle, are some of the most moving, somehow funny, and on point accounts to emerge from these wars.
My friend Rosemary Rawlins, the author of the well-known memoir Learning by Accident (https://amzn.to/34K3zjO), an account of her husband’s brain injury and recovery, has just this month released her debut novel All My Silent Years (https://amzn.to/34STKQH), the story of a young girl caught up in the terror of the Cambodian Civil War. I wanted to share this interview, along with thanks to Rosemary for the discussion:
As an author based in Nags Head, NC, what first interested you in writing about the Cambodian Civil War, events from years ago on the other side of the world?
All My Silent Years grew out of a friendship that started in
Richmond, Virginia, and the story of that friendship is unique. The inspiration
for the character of Sokha was my hairstylist, who grew up in Cambodia. She
wishes to remain anonymous, so I will refer to her as Sokha in this interview.
We would often chat while she cut my hair, and one day I asked her about her
life before she came to America. She stopped what she was doing as a look of
intense sadness crossed her face. “You don’t want to know,” she said. “My children
don’t even know. If I tell you, would you write it down for me?”
Over several months, we talked. Sokha’s
children learned about her story, but I wanted to know more about the
conditions that led up to her family being forced from their home. I began reading
about Cambodia’s history and read several first-hand accounts of Khmer Rouge
survivors because I found their stories so compelling. I’ve always been
interested in resilience—the qualities, beliefs, and strategies that help
people survive and cope with trauma—and I found a common thread in many
stories. That thread is family connection and a driving urge to survive for
For people who are forcibly displaced, the
memory of home may grow in
significance, too. Home, in this sense, is a place, but it’s more than a
physical house with belongings. It encompasses moments and milestones, sounds,
and aromas. To many people, home represents
security, routine, and comfort. Home is where we feel a sense of belonging and
Your novel is quite richly imagined, with
exquisite, sometimes excruciating details about everyday life on a Cambodian
farm and in a work camp during the Cambodian civil war. How did you go about researching all of this?
My research came about organically as I became
obsessed with learning more about the Vietnam War, the Khmer Rouge, Cambodia’s
culture, Buddhism, and America’s role in this geopolitical quagmire. I read
many non-fiction books on these topics. One bit of knowledge would lead to another
batch of questions, so I also watched videos, looked up images, and scoured the
Internet seeking information wherever I could find it. I have probably
forgotten more than I’ve learned, there’s so much information and data out
Cambodia is an ancient country with a mystical
quality and captivating culture. I could read about the Neak Ta and the meaning
of the spirit houses, or see photos of rice fields, but my imagination could
take me only so far. My breakthrough for writing this book came when Sokha
invited me to join her on a trip to Cambodia. We visited the killing fields,
the site of her childhood family farm, Battambang City, and her old temple
school, The White Elephant Pagoda. I walked a path that she walked as a laborer
under the Khmer Rouge. I was finally able to see, hear, and smell a country I
had only been able to imagine before the trip. I gave offerings to monks and
received blessings in return; drank coconut milk from hand-picked fruit hacked
open by a farmer with a machete, shopped in the street markets, and felt the
morning chill burn off by an unrelenting sun. Spending time in Cambodia allowed
me to discover a place and culture utterly unfamiliar to me. I could not have
made the setting of All My Silent Years
as vivid and real if I had not been there.
The novel’s protagonist is a young girl who
grows through her teen years amidst the horrors of the Killing Fields. Do you intend this novel for young readers,
or do you see its readership more in the mainstream? When you were writing the book, who did you
imagine reading it?
The novel is intended for older teens and
adults. In my opinion, it’s too violent for elementary or middle school
students. I included historical wrap-up notes for readers who wanted to know
more about some of the historical figures in the book, like Prince Norodom
Sihanouk, General Lon Nol, and Pol Pot. I hope this book will be read by students
and people who like learning about history and other cultures. I also feel it
will interest reading groups (there is a discussion guide in the back of the
Your first book — a memoir of your own
experience as the spouse of a man with a traumatic brain injury — has attained
a wide readership in the disability community.
What correspondences do you see between the two stories?
Both stories have to do with people managing
circumstances beyond their control. Fear is a factor in both stories. Although
the two books are quite different, they both deal with a quest for independence
and belonging. Both stories underscore the incredible capacity for human
Your novel deals with events from fifty years
ago. What do you think this story says
to our current day?
Although this story took place fifty years ago,
I see parallels playing out today. One point I want to make clear is that I did
not write this book to be political, judgmental, or to take sides. I did not
include any quotes from American generals, presidents, or Henry Kissinger, but
I did that intentionally. Their stories have already been written and shared.
This was a chance to explore the living experience of citizens caught up in
wars they have no control over, the unintended consequences of geopolitical
I don’t wish to argue about who won, or who was
right or wrong. Rather, I see how much everyone lost. Lives were lost or
forever transformed by injuries, both mental and physical. Honor was lost.
Freedom was lost. Ancient temples were destroyed, sacred texts were burned, and
Buddhism in Cambodia was nearly wiped out. The collateral damage of war is
never-ending, and the horror of what happened in Cambodia still lives on in the
minds and hearts of the people who fell victim to these atrocities. Sadly, it
goes on today in places like Syria, Somalia, Sudan, and Yemen. There’s an
actual website that tracks genocide: http://www.genocidewatch.com. This site exists to “predict, prevent, stop,
and punish genocide and other forms of mass murder.” I find it tragic that
there are so many countries on this list.
One of the great gifts of your novel is the way
it offers a deeply immersive, almost tactile, experience of your heroine’s day-to-day
life amidst horrific challenges in a Cambodian work camp. What do you hope your readers will take away,
when they turn the final page?
When readers turn the final page, I hope they
see all people as they see themselves—not as refugees, or immigrants, as
displaced, or illegal—but as people with families who want to live in peace to
raise those families in a place they call home. We are all products of an
“accident of birth.” We could be born rich, poor, in a peaceful nation or a
nation at war, or to parents who nurture us or abuse us. None of us is given a
choice of where or to whom we are born. We are, however, ultimately defined by
the choices we make, no matter what the circumstances of our birth.
What have you learned in writing this book?
One of the most striking things I learned from
my travel to Cambodia was that here in the United States, we talk a lot about
sustainability, but many farmers are living a sustainable existence in the countryside
of Cambodia. Homes are made of wood, clay, and dried leaves. Fruit trees fill
yards; gardens and ponds supply vegetables and protein. There are families who
live in much the same way as farmers who lived hundreds of years ago. They
manage with little or no indoor plumbing by capturing water in cisterns. They
raise their own animals and food, and bargain for essential tools or spices at
outdoor markets. People have very little in the way of conveniences, yet they
are joyful and generous.
I learned that cross-cultural friendships
enrich our lives in ways we never anticipate. I had never imagined that when I
asked Sokha about her family in the hair salon, I would later travel with her
to Cambodia for the eco-tour of a lifetime. I also learned how difficult it is
to settle in a foreign country after enduring unspeakable hardship. For most of
us, surviving a war would be unbearable enough, but then to move across the
world to an unknown culture when you don’t speak the language and immediately
have to find a job and support yourself…it’s a monumental achievement to
assimilate and move forward. I have great respect for immigrants who build a
new life from the ashes of their lost one.
Just a couple miles away from the New River Gorge Visitors Center in West Virginia, the aptly named Endless Wall hiking trail offers vista after vista of the gorge, the famous arched bridge, and the rapid-churned New River far below. It’s a well-marked, mostly flat four-mile out-and-back that your grandmother could do in sneakers, but its rewards belie its accessibility. The trail begins amidst a surprisingly robust stand of hemlocks, some of the few left from the hemlock borer blight that has devastated so much of the Blue Ridge forests. These graceful conifers stand tall and limbless up to a high canopy where their piney needled tops sway in a breeze. At ground level, rhododendrons run riot across the stony ground, with nothing to block the view between them and the hemlock heads. Chris and I walked in an almost cathedral quiet, sunlight shafting in between the narrow columned trunks, just a tinkling stream and the caw of crows to mark the stillness.
Half a mile in, as we approached the “endless wall,” the hemlocks give way to the usual mixed deciduous forest of white oak, maple, and sycamore, their mustard, pumpkin, and occasional cranberry-colored leaves littering the path made a tunnel by over-branching rhododendrons (must be so fragrant here in springtime when they blossom!). I thought of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural trick, of narrow passageways opening onto high-ceilinged rooms as we emerged from this tunnel onto our first vista, a rock outcropping directly at the edge of the ridge, with a magnificent view of the fgracefully arching rusty bridge that spans the gorge. Just far enough away not to hear the cars rushing along its arrow straight roadway, but not too high to miss the distant hushing churn of the river below. We stood as if on the edge of the world up there, and the steeply sloping hills, dappled in autumn colors, seemed like some rumpled shag rug, hawks and buzzards swirling below and then swooping past us to circle even higher in the sky.
Every hundred yards or so for as long as we wanted to walk, another spur trail offered another outcropping and yet another magnificent gorge view. One path goes to a climber’s ladder that disappears down a rock crack to a narrow ledge far below. We didn’t see any climbers on our walk, but what a series of challenges that miles-long wall of rock must offer! No kayakers on the river rapids either, as temps dipped down to freezing overnight, but it was easy to imagine our son Nick and his Passages Adventures crew blasting through the narrow white water channel there on that storied trip he took I think 3 years ago. The brisk air and the bracing vistas made me feel almost brave enough to consider taking up white water kayaking and rock climbing myself! Eventually we turned around, not even halfway through the hike, stopping on a broad flat rock and letting our legs hang over the edge, for lunch. Here’s my favorite picture from the hike:
The Richmond, VA based literary journal Bottom Shelf Whiskey has published one of my poems and one of my stories. Had a whiskey (natch!) recently with the journal’s estimable young publisher Hunter Reardon and he got me thinking about his new 5-7-5 syllable haiku contest (https://bottom-shelf-whiskey.com/). So here are a few I came up with (illustrated) – message me your own, or better yet, send it in to BSW (you don’t need to illustrate them, of course)!
As I was selecting the dozen tales for my debut story collection Last Rites, I imagined sequencing a record album, seeking both an overarching theme and a variety of style and perspective. The stories in the book have to do with fate, about the choices and circumstances that take us where we end up, and about the reckoning we face when we turn around and examine the path we walked to get there. That’s the theme, as I see it. The variety comes in length – one story is a page long, another runs to 30 – and perspective – a cancer cell tells its origin story, the ghost of a Confederate general walks his old stomping grounds in modern-day Richmond, VA, the First Lady deposes the President, and war veterans try to make sense of peace, among other tales.
Story: One of the Ways. Song: Fields of Gold (Eva Cassidy’s version). In real life, I tear up whenever this song comes on, remembering picking flowers in the yard and walking the field in front of our house with Mama. In the story, a farmer walks off his drunk in a field at night, and when he comes back in the house, his young son sneaks out to walk the field, too.
Story: Measured in Sips. Song: Hello in There (John Prine). To my mind, Mr. Prine is America’s great story teller. His poignant plea to converse with old folks fits my story, in which a war veteran widower lives his last days alone with his swarm of memories, each breath like the ticking of a clock.
Story: Confederate General A. P. Hill Opines. Song: The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (The Band). In my story, the ghost of A. P. Hill climbs down off his monument to walk about modern-day Richmond. He could have written this song. By the way, Richmond literary journal Bottom Shelf Whiskey has posted this story online here: https://bottom-shelf-whiskey.com/confed-gen-a-p-hill-opines/.
Story: Cancer: A Bildungsroman. Song: We Are The Champions (Queen). The memoir of a cancer cell (hat tip to dear Italo Calvino) — imagined as an arrogant, rogue, relentless mogul — might be sound-tracked by this football anthem.
Story: The First Lady’s Confession. Song: You Know I’m No Good (Amy Winehouse). One journal rejected this story as too hot to handle, though no President or First Lady is mentioned by name. At one point I’d subtitled it “What it Might Take.” I can imagine my heroine humming this song, as she sees her husband off to jail when his bill comes due.
Story: Debbie Hamilton. Song: First Glimmer (Replacements). It’s a first kiss story, and it’s a first kiss song, maybe the best first kiss song ever.
Story: River of Dreams. Song: River of Dreams (Billy Joel). In my story, middle-aged Jersey twins sing this song at the start of an ill-fated canoe trip. New Jersey loves Billy Joel, and his quasi-religious doo-wop tune neatly complements a tale that is pretty close to what really happened on a river trip I was on a couple years ago, including that last part with the ghost.
Story: Forgetting. Song: I Forget (Carly Simon). A flash fiction, derived from some of the patients I saw as an occupational therapist at UVA Medical Center in Charlottesville some years ago. Simon’s song might have been written by the old self-lobotomized pharmacist in the tale. This one’s been published online, too: https://madswirl.com/short-stories/2019/03/forgetting/.
Story: The Jazzman’s Lament. Song: Miles Runs the Voodoo Down (Miles Davis). This story and the one that follows derive from patients I saw in my first OT job at the Manhattan VA Medical Center. Davis’ haunted, percolating, urban soundtrack neatly matches the nightmare my protagonist lives while awake.
Story: The Bird Man of Central Park. Song: Born in the USA (Bruce Springsteen). I had a patient at the VA who was this guy; hope he’s still alive and feeding the birds. A Vietnam veteran with a thousand yard stare, he was also the sweetest, most gentle person, but alone, so alone.
Story: Let it Snow. Song: Both Sides Now (Joni Mitchell). I’ll admit it here; this story is a deliberate homage to Joyce’s monumental Dublin tale The Dead, transferred to middle-class suburban America. A young woman at my Christmas party sings Mitchell’s tune, and it returns to haunt the hero at the end.
Story: Grandpa and the Bear. Song: Nothing Compares to U (Sinead O’Conner version (natch)). I titled the book Last Rites, because the stories negotiate life and death issues. This one considers the “highly individualized and unshareable derangement that is the mourning of a spouse.” O’Conner, reading Prince, understands.
If you haven’t picked up my book yet, it’s for sale on Amazon (https://amzn.to/2ATYsAA), or you can ask for it at your local bookstore. Hope you enjoy it. Now you can sing along!
When I started work on my debut novel The Coal Tower (https://amzn.to/2HcegCg) ten years ago (there were previous novels, of course, piled in that proverbial drawer), one sweet dream that drove me to get up at 5 am, brew some coffee, and sit down in the light of my laptop to write before work was the possibility that someday the book would come out, and when it did, maybe I’d be fortunate enough to launch it at my favorite bookstore, the linchpin of Charlottesville’s literary scene, New Dominion.
Living in Charlottesville, working as an occupational therapist at UVA-Healthsouth, then starting a community reentry program for people with brain injuries connected to Martha Jefferson Hospital, then starting up an early tech company Cerebreon, along with acute care practice at UVA Hospital, while also starting a family with my amazing wife Chris and our two boys (both out of their teens now), the ideas and characters for this novel did what I guess you’d call germinate. An autocratic neurosurgeon at UVA, one of our brain injury clients who tended to drift off to a homeless camp on the edge of the river, teenaged patients emerging slowly from comas caused by car crashes or shootings, and so on, all this swirled around my busy days with no place to land.
Then there was that tragic shooting at the old coal tower downtown, when a young man with mental health problems killed two teenagers. That event struck me as a metaphor somehow for what I felt about Charlottesville, and its disparate communities, but it took me the writing of the novel to place it. I hope that’s what I’ve done.
Anyway, next week that sweet dream comes true. New Dominion is holding a launch party for The Coal Tower. And what’s even sweeter, they’ve scheduled it during Game Week. The novel takes place in one day – the day of UVA’s first football game of the season – and my reading will be held that same week (on Wednesday August 28, from 7-8 pm). Much of the action in the book takes place on the Downtown Mall, just outside the doors of the New Dominion Book Shop. How sweet is that?
So, if you live in the Cville environs, hope you can come and share in my dream come true. It’s been a decade in the works, but now tastes to me as delicious as a scoop of Chap’s coffee ice cream in a waffle cone!
Daddy said yes to the pool with that girl so I finished the sign Watermelons for Sale$1.00: that green and red slice made a half-moon with bug-like LEM on top.
Oh my in that frilly bikini then her slim legs churning the bubblegum sheen of a ramshackle motel’s lukewarm pool on I guess my first sorta halfway date?
Hair damp and heart thumping back at the store we locked the door for an hour not to watch but to buy eggs sold cheap down a dirt road in the woods. Was the truck’s radio on? Pretty sure I knew it was coming up,
but Daddy didn’t seem to care a whit. It would happen or not was just his way. Something else the war schooled him over that he couldn’t unlearn is what I think.
The eggs rattled between us on the seat while I sniffed the chlorine on my fingers and in my hair and the dust plumed behind I’d like to imagine all the way up
to where those clunky boots we later learned stepped down from a ladder to a sea where even now on full moon nights it all seems jumbled up like something I must have dreamed
thin legs that splatter a pool’s blue water fat cleats imprinting a virgin beach in the eggshell gleam of the moon’s reflection half forgotten, except everything’s changed.