Gasp!

Reaction Junkie

"In its purest form, truth is not a polite tap on the shoulder; it is a howling reproach."
--- Ted Koppel

Is truth always an ice cold bucket of water thrown onto an unsuspecting public? Can truth be a gentle recognition as well? Does a more genteel reaction make the revelation less significant?

Maybe this is where things got tangled up. The reaction to the revelation became more important than what was being revealed.

How many times have I thought something I wrote was good because the audience reaction was immediate rather than contemplative? Or maybe there was no immediate reaction at all, and I thought what I wrote didn't work. (Only to have the reaction come days later, after people thought about it for a while.)

In theater, the delayed reaction is harder to take. I want the applause now. But in publishing, the reaction doesn't have to be immediate because the form is more personal.

Theater is a communal form. If I'm the only one in the audience, I feel odd. The actors will hear me laugh, even it's not a laugh line.

Books are more personal. It's about reaching one person at a time. And I won't see the reaction as easily.

(BTW, I essentially agree with the above quote. And I also think that the reaction to a howling approach can be silence as well.)

Got fragments?

It's an odd process. I didn't realize that this is how I write.

It's like this: I spend years writing fragments. Then one day, for no particular reason, I'll start piecing the fragments together.

When I wrote the fragments, I didn't think of placing them in a larger work. There was no intent, other than writing in the moment.

These fragments are a jigsaw puzzle. I usually have to edit the passages a bit, but it's as if I had it in my mind all along. This is how it's going to turn out. Except I didn't know it until I strung the fragments together.

I suppose that's the way it is with life as well. Each experience is part of a larger body of work, even if I didn't know it at the time.

Burning the Blues

I’m having a hard time coming back to Gasp. Maybe its due to the death of my cat. Or maybe its because I’m grieving the death of my Grandmother. I feel like I’m on an alternate plane of existence. If I told you what I’m really thinking, you might think strange things about me.

It’s not that I’m depressed, but I struggle with finding meaning in debates. Philosophical discussions are empty, especially if they relate to matters of life and death. People tell me that, at some point, I’ll create powerful writing from everything that’s happened.

I don’t have time for symbolism or similes. I’m not sure any of us do.

What I’m trying to tell you is this: my tolerance for shooting the bull is even less than normal. Call it my Holden Caulfield moment.

The Hated One by Don Tracy

The Hated One
by Don Tracy
Permabooks, 1964. 198 pages. Paperback.

In less than 200 pages, Don Tracy weaves a complex tale that involves segregation, Southern Culture, class differences, and Freedom Riders.

Lawyer and practicing alcoholic Frank Coombs has come home to Tangerine County, Florida to sign over the last piece of property in his inheritance. Years earlier, he left town in disgrace, with a wreckage of relationships and bad checks behind him. As he attempts to settle his accounts, he unwittingly becomes involved in the case of Coralee Preston. Coralee, a young black woman, has been charged with the murder of a white man. It is up to Frank Coombs to prove Coralee innocent – if indeed she is truly innocent.

This tightly structured novel is successful because it interweaves a number of universal themes.

Two wounded misfits, meeting through unlikely circumstances, rescue each other. Each characters needs the other in order to heal. The challenge is that they don’t like or trust each other. Coralee doesn’t trust Frank enough to tell him the truth. Frank doesn’t trust Coralee enough to ask. Both are imprisoned by their current situation: racism and alcoholism.

The artwork on the cover reinforces this theme. Frank and Coralee are pictured behind bars, with Frank’s hand steadying himself. Frank is penciled in grey while Coralee is painted in color. Like many other mass market books from the era, the artist is officially uncredited in the book. He did, however, sign the work. Unfortunately, his signature is illegible.

A majority ruled by an evil minority. Will the main character be able to free the majority from the evil minority? His success confirms the concept of individual responsibility; each individual has to confront injustice on his or her own.

A main character in search of redemption. The novel opens with Frank looking for redemption from his past. It ends with Frank searching for forgiveness. Will he be able to go beyond the past and present and begin a new future? It’s an intriguing question considering the events taking place in 1964.

The historical elements both inside and outside the novel make this a valuable addition to any book collection.

The Hated One is included in Orange Pulp, a collection of Florida Crime Fiction. Otherwise, a copy of this book can be purchased through alibris or Amazon.

Book Review

Have I not posted here all week? Sheesh. Sorry about that.

My review of the book LARRY BOND’S FIRST TEAM: FIRES OF WAR. By Larry Bond and Jim Defelice is published in today's Decatur Daily. Pick up a copy at your local Tennessee Valley newstand, or you can read the online edition.

More this week. Honest.

Book Review

While I was out of town, my book review was published in the Decatur Daily. It's probably too late to pick it up at Tennessee Valley newstands, but you can still view it online. The book is The Ravaging Tide: Strange Weather, Future Katrinas, and the Coming Death of America's Coastal Cities by Mike Tidwell, and it's all about global warming and the environment.

Again

The most influential people in my life have been the ones I've had the most sporadic contact with. I didn't see my first mentor all that often, but I still contemplate everything he ever told me about writing and life.

Another friend taught me about serenity through his persistant gratitude. I've since lost touch with him. Even when we lived in the same city, I only saw him every now and then.

So it was with my Grandmother, who kept believing in my writing when no one else did. She was 95 when she died, and lived on her own until the very end. Through various moves across the country, I tried to stay in touch with her as much as I could. She encouraged me to hop on a train and move to San Francisco, despite my lack of employment or housing. I guess she had complete faith in my ability to survive on my own.

When I moved back to New York, she gave me a small amount of money so I could buy furniture. She went to Walmart and bought towels. blankets and black socks so I could stay warm in the winter.

If you asked me if I was close to her, I don't know would've said back then. Nor do I know if she was close to me. But she must have been, since she plays such a prominent role in two novels and other assorted projects. I didn't realize the extent of her involvement in my life until I thought about it. She wasn't just a grandmother; she was far more than that.

Even in death, she's taught me a tremendous amount. Far more than I could detail here.

My Grandmother saw 17 presidents take office. She lived through the Great Depression, a number of wars, two waves of feminism, and mind-boggling technological changes. The Internet thrilled and frightened her. She insisted that I had a cold everytime I called her on my cell phone. It was usually just a bad connection.

I loved her, and I told her each time I said goodbye on the phone. But I never realized the impact she had on my life until now - artistically and spiritually. It's going to take a long time to understand the things she taught me.