Craig Lancaster's Blog, page 9

Q&A: Kevin Morgan Watson

I'll start with a disclaimer: I'm a bit of a fanboy about Press 53, a small publisher of poetry, fiction and nonfiction. As one guy running a small publishing house in his living room, I'm always on the lookout for small presses that get it right, that stick to what they're good at and toss off the conventions of the large-press approach of covering the world with books it may or may not want. The more I heard about Press 53 — from friends whose books have been published there and by others who, like me, admire it from afar — the more I realized that this an outfit that has a plan for survival in these turbulent publishing waters and the discipline to stick to it.

In other words, Press 53 is a role model.

So I was delighted when Kevin Morgan Watson, the leader of Press 53, agreed to field some questions. Let's get to it …

Kevin Morgan Watson

First off, tell us a bit about Press 53. What is it? When was it established? Where is it based? What are you trying to do?

Press 53 is an independent publisher of poetry, fiction and nonfiction based in Winston-Salem, NC, that opened in October 2005. I started the press for a few reasons: I had lost my job in the airline industry and decided to try and do something I enjoyed; I wanted to learn how to design and layout books; and I wanted to find readers who liked the same writing as me and share my books with them. My basic business model is to ignore market trends, and I ask my series editors, Tom Lombardo (poetry) and Robin Miura (novel/memoir), to do the same. We find writing we love and then set out to find readers who agree with us. What I'm trying to build is a community of readers and writers who share similar tastes but aren't afraid to sample something new from time to time.

What is your background? How did you come to this line of endeavor?

I grew up in Kansas City, MO, and was a bored student who excelled in photography, running, and daydreaming. I sold my saxophone in high school, bought a guitar and began writing songs. I moved to Nashville when I was 30 and spent 5 years actively writing and pitching songs, and the next five years transitioning from songwriting to short story writing. I found I preferred short stories over songs because people can't mess with the stories without your permission, unlike songs where everything is open to interpretation and style. When the airline company I worked for at night closed their Nashville office, I transferred to Winston-Salem and began seriously writing short stories. I also decided to go to college to earn my BA in English, so I enrolled at the oldest all-women's college in the nation, Salem College (est. 1772). While there, I noticed that I was finding fewer and fewer short stories that I liked; they all seemed too dark and hopeless and depressing. I got an idea and approached a New York City arts foundation, that had published one of my stories, and asked if they would be interested in publishing an anthology of short stories that held to some sense of hope, with characters trying to do something meaningful in a messed up world. The arts foundation approved the project so I spend all of 2000 reading every short story I could find that was published that year. In 2001, they published the Silver Rose Anthology. Since I worked for an airline, I was able to travel and attend readings I had set up for the authors, which included folks like Robert Olen Butler, Julie Orringer, George Singleton, Patry Francis, Sally Shivnan, and three authors who would be the first I signed to Press 53: Doug Frelke, Tom Sheehan, and Al Sim. That experience gave me the publishing bug and I decided that someday I would like to operate my own small press. When I lost my job at the airline in 2004, I jumped into publishing.

One of the things I've been struck by, being friends with some of your authors, is that you seem to have an organic community of writers, rather than the traditional write-acquire-publish model employed by larger publishers. What have been the advantages of this?

Besides a great manuscript, we look for writers who are active in the writing community, who are earning recognition through publication and awards, and who understand that a small press can offer a platform upon which to build a career. This gives us a family of writers who champion one another and support each other. We have a Facebook group that is only open to Press 53 authors and editors where we can all share ideas and concerns. When one of us succeeds, everyone benefits from the added publicity. The challenge for me is keeping up with all the successes and taking advantage of all the energy created by our writers.

Another tack you take: Unlike many publishers, you don't do returns. What's the thinking behind this?

I allow returns on books ordered directly from Press 53 because I am able to encourage a bookseller to order a reasonable number of books which reduces the number of returns. Returns kill small presses. Our authors are encouraged to always carry extra copies with for readings at bookstores, just in case they run short. Our books are distributed through Ingram, but they are nonreturnable to avoid returns that could bankrupt us. I made a few of our books returnable early on to accommodate a writer who was convinced his or her book could only be sold if it was returnable. In every instance, the author spent weeks and weeks traveling to bookstores for readings only to end up in the hole after returns. It's a wasteful model and an expensive one, for the author and especially the press. I chose to no longer participate, and I only work with authors who agree to this. There are better ways today to operate than to shotgun books to bookstores and hope our readers find them. I love booksellers who embrace our authors and their books and will hand sell the book after the reading. Stores that order books for readings and them immediately return what didn't sell at the event are not the stores for us. We're looking for partners.

The publishing landscape these days, in many ways, seems almost dystopian. What are the opportunities for a small literary press in an era of blockbusters, e-books and newbies and midlisters alike testing the waters of self-publishing?

I don't see it as dystopian. It is chaotic, but also full of opportunity. The Internet and new printing and publishing technologies now offer writers the opportunity to take back creative control and offer numerous ways to find their readers. I know exactly who our readers are at Press 53, I just don't know where they all are. But thanks to the Internet, we are able to find our readers, rather than waiting for them to hopefully discover one of our books on a bookstore shelf. And thanks to ebooks, writers are able to put their work out there at no real cost and find their readers. Of course the result is a glut of material, good and bad, all mixed together. Our model is to create an oasis for readers via our website where they will return to discover new voices and experiences, and to use social media to encourage readers to seek out our authors wherever they buy their books.

Could you hazard a guess at what the future looks like for books and publishing?

The book will be around for a long time. Books will go out of style when blankets go out of style, and for the same reasons. They are comfortable and reliable and don't need to be plugged in. Still, there is a place for ebooks and it's a format that should not be ignored. Here is a glimpse at the future. I got an email recently from a bookstore manager in New England who will be hosting one of our authors. He wanted a couple of books to display in preparation for her visit. When I checked out his website, I noticed the store had an Espresso Book Machine. There are currently only 19 EBMs in the U.S., and this machine has over five million titles available on it using print-on-demand technology. The EBM can print, bind and trim a paperback, perfect-bound book on acid-free paper in three to five minutes. And since we exclusively use POD for our books (as do most larger publishers to some extent), this bookstore manager already had access to all of our titles. So he printed out a couple of copies for display and began selling them from his EBM. Now that is exciting! Imagine having a machine that takes up the space of an old IBM copy machine that can deliver, literally hot off the press, over five million titles to your customers. That solves a lot of problems and opens up whole new worlds of opportunities for readers, writers, and booksellers.

What do you look for in a submission? Can you quantify or describe what constitutes that moment of "I have to publish this book"?

I get a bit spiritual here, in that everything is energy, including the words on the page. And those words either connect with me or they don't; they either flow freely or they stall and fizzle. I've read lots of manuscripts by some fine writers who have a very interesting story to tell, but after a few pages I find myself drifting, not connecting with the way the words flow. I know I've passed on some excellent pieces, but I have to trust myself to know what I like and what I want to share. And I ask my editors to do the same. What I like are stories and poems that have strong, natural, conversational voices that allow me to witness the story; writing that trusts me to get the subtleties and doesn't explain everything. I want my senses engaged, and I want to be taken to new places. That's probably why I've published a few more women than men.

What does Press 53 have cooking? We know about Anne Leigh Parrish's book. What else is coming up?

I'm very excited about Anne's story collection. We always have lots and lots of great things going on. To name a few, new poetry from Kathryn Kirkpatrick, Katie Chaple, Richard Krawiec, and John Thomas York. New short story collections from Okla Elliott, Darlin' Neal, Steve Mitchell, Stefanie Freele, Kurt Rheinheimer, and Clifford Garstang. A publishing guide for writers by Kim Wright, Your Path to Publication, based on 30-plus years of her experience as a published author. A spunky memoir titled, My Life as Laura: How I Searched for Laura Ingalls Wilder and Found Myself, by Kelly Kathleen Ferguson. Three novels for our Press 53 Classics editions: Lion on the Hearth, by John Ehle; The Scarlet Thread, by Doris Betts; and Molly Flanagan and the Holy Ghost, by Margaret Skinner. We've just launched our 5th annual writing contest, the Press 53 Open Awards, with five categories and three winners in each. Oh, Surreal South '11, edited by Laura and Pinckney Benedict, that comes out every odd year on Halloween. Limited edition hardcovers (limited to 53) that are numbered and signed by the author, and a new program for our friends, "Press 53 Friends with Benefits," with special offers and window stickers and pens and other fun stuff. I know I've probably forgotten something, but I have to stop. I'm suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

Thanks so much for taking the time to do this, Kevin.

Thanks for the opportunity to share my press and our authors with your readers.

Q&A: Anne Leigh Parrish

Anne Leigh Parrish

The next couple of days are going to be a real treat around here. Today, Anne Leigh Parrish, the author of the new short-story collection All The Roads That Lead From Home, is here to talk about her new book, literary fiction, breaking through into publication and where her stories come from.

Tomorrow, Anne's publisher, Press 53 editor Kevin Morgan Watson, will chat about where fiction and publishing are going, and how his highly regarded press is getting from here to there.

First up: Anne Leigh Parrish. Anne writes the kind of fiction I really like to read: about everyday people and their struggle to get along with themselves and with each other, to find some direction in a world that often seems ready to swallow them whole. And Anne's own story is one of persevering, of remaining committed to craft.

Here's what C. Michael Curtis, the longtime fiction editor for The Atlantic, has to say about Parrish's work: "Anne Leigh Parrish has written a collection of stories that deserve a place on the shelf next to Raymond Carver, Tom Boyle, Richard Bausch, and other investigators of lives gone wrong. Parrish writes with painful clarity about marriages turned sour, children at war with their parents, women drifting from one damaging relationship to another, and about unexpected acts of generosity—an impoverished woman giving her battered piano to a priest who had befriended her, a schoolgirl who bribes a boy to pretend an interest in an overweight classmate, then finds that her kindness has disastrous consequences. These are potent and artful stories, from a writer who warrants attentive reading."

Your stories seem to be full of people who are not only not happy but also seem uncertain how they got into the circumstances that make them unhappy, and little idea of how to confront their pain and arrive at constructive resolutions. What draws you to such fundamentally broken people?

Well, at the risk of sounding glib, it makes dull reading to write about happy, healthy people.  And I've known my share of misfits and oddballs.

How did you find your writing voice? You have the craft and discipline and literary sensibility of the kind of short-story writers who hold MFAs, yet you haven't been in an MFA program.

I take that as a fine compliment!  Writing takes practice, and I've practiced a lot. That said, I think the voice I have now isn't far from the one I began with.  It's something inherent in me, I guess, that all the years of hard work didn't really change.  What has changed is the degree to which I feel comfortable managing all the things that make a piece of fiction work, and finding the confidence to go out on a limb now and then.  When I think of an MFA program, I think its highest value is to get feedback from people "in the business."  I got that without enrolling in a single MFA class, from the editors I submitted my work to, and most notably from Mike Curtis at The Atlantic, who read my work for nearly eight years.

The agents and editors who approached you after you won some noteworthy fiction contests all said they didn't want to consider a story collection, but a novel.  How did they explain that? And how have you chosen to deal with that?

Simply put, they didn't feel they could successfully market a story collection to the larger commercial publishers.  I have to think that they know their business, so I take them at their word.  I put off writing a novel for a very long time.  I began one about two years ago, and let it sit, then worked on it, then let it sit.  Now it's nearing completion, and I'm excited about that.  I actually feel that I could write another, which is far cry from the attitude I held for years and years.

The stories in your collection are all set in Dunston, which I take it is a fictional stand-in for Ithaca, New York. But you've painted a town that isn't necessarily what most people would expect of the hometown of an Ivy League school. What is the real Ithaca, and what do your stories say about the divide between the perception of any given community and its everyday reality?

I was a part of that Ivy League world, by extension.  My parents were professors at Cornell.  Yet most of the kids I went to school with were from less exalted circumstances.  They were often poor, or lived out in the country, or in the "flats," which was essentially the downtown area, not where the professors tended to be, in a neighborhood called Cayuga Heights.  To me the real Ithaca is part of northern Appalachia.  After my father moved out of the house, my mother invited a series of girls to live with us on a temporary basis.  They were from very bad family situations, and I guess we were providing informal foster care.  One of these girls and her sister lived in a trailer with no indoor plumbing.  They hauled their water from a nearby creek. My classmates were often farm kids.  I remember one boy coming to school with his rubber boots on.  When asked why he dressed like that, he explained that he was up at five-thirty in the morning to muck out the cow barn.  I'm not sure there's a real divide between how the locals see Ithaca and how it really is.  Everyone who lives there knows what the surrounding country is like.  By the same token, they also know that Ithaca is either "town" or "gown," (as in graduation gown), meaning either you're a part of the university or you're not.

Short fiction seems to have been increasingly marginalized in the literary community, with most collections not selling well and many periodicals no longer publishing short stories (or no longer paying for them). Should we be alarmed by this? What is the best argument you have for the need to read and support short fiction and help it find wider audiences?

Well, the story is the classic American literary form, and I don't think it's exactly languishing.  While it's true that there a fewer print venues for short fiction today than there used to be, there's been a surge in online publishing – literary journals of very high quality, such as PANK Magazine, Storyglossia, and Eclectica Magazine.  If you read their list of contributors, you see that they're publishing some of the best and most successful short story writers around.  As for an argument to read stories, I'd say that they're often more powerful than novels, simply because they have to present a world in a much smaller space.  I think readers can take a great deal away from a short story.

One of the recurring motifs in your stories is the inability of your characters to verbally communicate their unhappiness. They'll edge up to it, or circumvent it, or use silence as a communication tool, or act out. In your experience and observation, why is it so hard for us to just talk to one another?

For a number of reasons.  Trust is a big one.  But we also often lack a proper vocabulary for what we feel, or are too timid to really confront what's painful.  People act out their misery more often than they describe it in words, I think.

Despite the strained conversations and thick silences between characters in your stories, you impressively avoid sinking your characters into slogging interior dialogues. How do you communicate the unhappiness in prose that the characters themselves cannot communicate in dialogue?

By showing the reader what they're focusing on, or what's in the background.  Maybe the sky is grey and dreary.  Maybe a character is thinking about how ugly a sidewalk is.  He might be wearing a dirty shirt because he's too upset to notice or to do better.  A college student who's extremely stressed out comes to hate the sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, and attempts taking a shower in the dark, until a floor mate asks what she's doing.  Things like that.

What are you working on now? What's next for you?

I'm finishing the novel I referred to earlier, Pen's Road.  It draws from one of the stories in my current collection,"Pinny and The Fat Girl."  Then I'll return to my second collection of stories, a linked group called Our Love Could Light The World.  This, too, draws from a piece in the collection by the same name.  I hope to find a publisher for both next year.

 

Thanks so much to Anne for taking the time. Remember to come back tomorrow to hear from her publisher, Kevin Morgan Watson of Press 53.

Anne Leigh Parrish's website: http://www.anneleighparrish.com/

Anne Leigh Parrish at Press 53: http://www.press53.com/BioParrish.html

Fort Benton travelogue

Last week, I traveled to Fort Benton to talk to the Friends of the Library group there. I love every chance I get to explore Montana, but Fort Benton holds a special place in my heart — for its history, for the folks I've met there, for its beauty. It's the kind of place — nay, it is THE place — where I'd love to live.

And you know what? Getting there is pretty damned dazzling, too.

Won't you join me?

I left Billings just before noon Tuesday, climbing 27th Street to the top of the Rims and heading out into the rolling plains and buttes of central Montana.

Wide open spaces ...

At the little town of Lavina, about 45 miles from Billings, I encounter my first junction. Turn right, and I'm headed to Roundup. I'll turn left.

Lovely little Lavina.

For the next 65-70 miles, there are just a few towns — Ryegate and Harlowton are the largest of these — and lots of buttes and grazing land. It's a pleasant stretch of highway. At Harlowton, I head dead north and run into the Judith Gap wind farm and its impressive sea of triple-bladed turbines.

Windmills in the distance.

A closer view of the windmills.

Next comes another junction, where Highway 191 terminates perpendicular to Highway 12. Here lies Eddie's Corner, the crossroads of central Montana. To my right is Lewistown. Also to my right is Eddie's Corner. To my left is Great Falls. I'll be going left, but after I slip into the store at Eddie's Corner.

Everybody stops at Eddie's Corner. Everybody.

At Eddie's Corner, it's expected that you'll take a picture of yourself in the restroom. Actually, I just made that up. Probably, I'm now the focus of a sting operation. Forget you ever saw this.

My traveling uniform. Go team!

A driving man works up a powerful thirst.

Look, Ma! Sugar-free!

OK, back on the road. Thirty miles beyond Eddie's Corner brings Stanford, where I make a couple of turns and see a welcome sign.

Sixty-five miles to go ...

I love the last stretch of this trip. It's equal parts grandeur and stark beauty, with rolling plains, buttes, badlands and, on a clear day, mountains in the distance.

Square Butte in the distance.

A closer view of Square Butte.

Into some badlands.

Finally, I descended into Missouri River Breaks, crossed the bridge and turned right into the heart of Fort Benton. One of the first things I see: my hotel, the Grand Union.

The Grand Union Hotel, my host for the evening.

In a town chock full of history, the Grand Union fits perfectly. Opened in 1882. Continued for more than a century. Closed. Was resuscitated and refurbished and is now a showplace in this wonderful town.

My room. My overnight bag made itself right at home.

The Mighty Missouri burbles just outside my window.

But Fort Benton and all its wonderful history could wait. I came a day early for one reason, and one reason only: golf.

The view from the 9th tee at the Signal Point golf course in Fort Benton.

My golf game at Signal Point was unremarkable: lots of bogeys, double bogeys, triple bogeys and — for shame — quadruple bogeys. Two pars. Great scenery, though.

Just off the ninth green, you can see the town below.

The next morning, I woke up early and absorbed the news of the (previous) day. Heartburn set in quickly.

"Oregen"? You did not coat yourself in glory, Great Falls Tribune.

Luckily, breakfast was much more appealing.

Eggs, bread, fresh plum, coffee, orange juice, granola. Yum!

After breakfast, I went for a stroll. Just outside the Grand Union is a sculpture dedicated to one of Fort Benton's most famous figures, Shep. (Seriously, I love this story so much!)

Commemorative Shep.

Later that day, during my talk to the Chouteau County Friends of the Library, I asked if anyone had known Shep. One gentleman raised his hand and said, "I fed him." That was a story I had to hear (quick summation: Shep did not like kidneys). I felt like I was in the presence of reflected greatness.

Shep's story.

Just down from Shep is a footbridge across the Mighty Missouri. A must-walk, even on a blustery morning.

The Mighty Missouri from the bridge.

About the bridge.

Now, Fort Benton is a friendly town, one of the friendliest I've ever seen. But back in the day, you could find trouble there, if trouble was your cup of tea.

"The Bloodiest Block in the West"

The bloodiest block now sports a supermarket. Not all change is for the worse.

Meet Thomas Meagher ("Marr"). Fortunately for Fort Benton and its historical ways, the good governor was not the sort to fade away quietly. No, he was presumed drowned after tumbling off a steamboat on July 1, 1867, along this stretch of the Missouri. But given Meagher's colorful life, I don't think any of us can be certain he's not in an Irish tavern at this very moment, lifting a pint.

Thomas Meagher plaque.

Thomas Meagher, preserved.

More on Meagher.

After reacquainting myself with the governor's story, I left the riverside and dived deeper into town.

I love spooky old abandoned churches.

The Chouteau County Library, one of many Carnegie libraries in Montana, all of them showplaces.

The Banque, a terrific steakhouse. This is Front Street in Fort Benton.

Then, it was back to the Grand Union to clean up and prepare for my library gig.

The Grand Union dominates the downtown area.

The lobby of the Grand Union.

After my library gig, I just had to see more Shep stuff. So I drove up to his resting spot.

The marker atop the hill.

I didn't see a headstone, per se, but I'm guessing that cairn marks Shep's resting spot. He was a good boy.

Here's Shep's eternal view of the town that took him in.

Shep's train station. Passenger service to Fort Benton ended long ago.

One last nugget from Fort Benton, a house that pays tribute to its paddleboat past.

Giving houseboat a whole new meaning.

So began the long drive back home, 200-plus-miles of stunning views.

Still wondering why it's called The Big Sky State?

At Eddie's Corner, I stopped again. This time for some dinner.

Liver and onions. So good.

Sometime later, the traveler returned home.

Billings, as seen from atop the Rimrocks.

Let's do it again sometime.

The Word: Couth

The drill: Each week, I ask my Facebook friends to suggest a word. I then put the suggestions into list form, run a random-number generator and choose the corresponding word from the list. That word serves as the inspiration for a story that includes at least one usage of the word in question. This week's word is contributed by Benjamin Cooper. For previous installments of The Word, click here.

My mother, she had a particular saying that nettled me when I was a kid. If I was acting up, giving her trouble and whatnot, she'd say, "Leon, you're being uncouth." Lord, that used to torque me off something fierce. It wasn't just that I didn't really know what she meant. It was the way other people, adults, would look at me, their eyes all narrowed and accusing. I'd hang my head and sulk, and Mother wouldn't look at me for a while, and I'd think how much I hated her for making me feel that way. Now she's twenty-five years gone and I'm older than she ever was, and I think maybe I should have enjoyed her overly corrective ways while I had the chance.

It was her favorite word, uncouth, and she wasn't one to use it sparingly to preserve its power. By the time I bothered myself to look it up—or, rather, its brother couth—I could only chuckle at the airs she was putting on. Sophisticated and refined? Hell, we didn't live in a house without wheels until '74 and then only because my daddy crawled out of the bottle long enough to hook a union job working the coker at the refinery. For the first time in my life, I didn't have to go to school in the same threadbare clothes my brother Lawrence wore a year earlier. My point being, nobody in our house was couth, Mother included. We all were what she continually accused only me and Lawrence of being, and I don't care who you are, that's pretty funny.

It tore us all to the marrow when she passed on. It was one of those things that you don't even get to see coming. I'm standing there at the kitchen counter, making a bologna sandwich. Friday afternoon. I'm minutes from leaving the house, thinking about heading up to the hill and drinking some beer and maybe seeing if Linea Arroyo's gonna let me into her pants. Mother says, "I don't feel well," and behind me I hear her hit the floor, and before I turn I know. She's gone. I go down there and I hold her, and she's at peace. I never saw that before.

I probably don't have to tell you that daddy found his way back down to perdition. Lawrence, he took the refinery job that daddy vacated, because somebody had to make some effort at keeping our heads above water while we were bereft, and I was still in high school, a fact that didn't seem to matter much to anyone, least of all me. Come May, I went straight from the graduation to the county community college, because I figured I had three options: start pouring my own drinks out of daddy's bottle, go join Lawrence on the line, or keep my ass in school. What's that thing that makes a dilemma different from an ordinary old problem? The fact that every choice is unappealing? That's where I was. Burying myself in a book seemed the least bad way to go.

In the end, it made sense, I guess. It kept me here but gave me a little bit of direction. I've never been much beyond this patch of earth, except for the occasional ride over to Rock Springs for a nice dinner, but I latched on with the sheriff after I got my associates degree in '89, and I figure I've got a good shot at his chair here in a few years when he finally gives himself over in full to that damn garden he's always puttering around in.

I'm not going to say it's been without its good points. Every day after shift, I can stop by and see daddy. I'd be lying if I said I thought he'd be around this long, but if I learned anything from Mother, it's that every moment is a gift. He can't much see anymore, and he talks more and more these days about when he'll get to be with her again. I figure that one's in the hands of the man upstairs. When the time comes, I won't begrudge it. I've watched Lawrence's kids grow up, and looked the other way a couple of times when I found them in a bit of malfeasance. We've spun off another generation of Harroldses, and that's something, I guess.

Every now and again, I'll meet eyes with Linea. She's got grandkids now, and they're always hanging off her cart at the IGA. I look at them, and I see traces of her and of Warren, her husband, and I think, hell, she and I could have done a little better than that, if things had broken another way.

Giveaway: 'Quantum Physics' e-book

My new book, Quantum Physics and the Art of Departure, comes out December 6th.

But now — today, and on through the end of the month — I'm giving you the opportunity to download an e-book version for free.

Completely and totally free.

Monstrously free.

Here's the book trailer. Check it out:

So, you want a copy, right? Here's what you do:

Go to this link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/81312
Select the format you want.
Go to checkout.
Enter this coupon code: EY63S
Commence downloading and reading.

If you don't have a Smashwords account, you'll have to sign up for one. But don't let that dissuade you. It, too, is free, and there are a lot of good e-book bargains on that site. It's a panoply of reading pleasure for the story enthusiast.

Please pass this along to your friends with e-readers. The offer is good until Sept. 30, and I'd love to see as many free copies as possible sent out into the world. After you read the book, if you're so inclined, please offer up a review at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble or Goodreads or LibraryThing, if you frequent those places. Or tell a friend.

Thanks for reading!

What I'm Reading: 'The Sourtoe Cocktail Club'

If I've triggered this damn thing to autopost at the proper time (8 a.m. Mountain, Wednesday, September 14th), I should, at this very moment, be sitting (or perhaps lying down) in a wonderful old hotel in Fort Benton, Montana, reading this extraordinary book by Ron Franscell:

I started The Sourtoe Cocktail Club about 10 days ago, but because of several factors — a vacation, my own projects, vast swaths of time lost to Facebook — I've been making incremental progress on it. But you know what? That's good. Because this book, at least over the first 100 pages or so, is so damned good, so damned thought-provoking, so damned deeply felt that I really don't want the experience to end.

The title is clever and on-point enough; Franscell and his son, Matt, set out for the Arctic a few years back in search of a bar where the drink specialty has a mummified human toe at the bottom of the glass. It's the sort of title that is sure to attract attention, and that's part of the game in bookselling. A big, hairy part of the game.

But you know what? The title doesn't come close. This book should be called Life, The Whole Of It.

Franscell has written an unusually intimate, penetrating book about fathers and sons and how to get out in front of generations of screwed-up relationships. It's a road book, a heart book, a deconstruction of many lives. It's some of the most absorbing reading I've done in a long, long time.

Just read it.

You can whet your appetite here, with the book trailer:

He had questions; I had answers

Please allow me to commend to your attention this story at Self-Publishing Review, in which A Life Transparent author Todd Keisling says some very nice things about my new book and is kind enough to toss me some questions about writing and publishing.

While I was more than happy to chat about Quantum Physics and the Art of Departure, the best part of the interview, for me, was the opportunity to chat about Missouri Breaks Press, the little publishing house I run out of my living room. I started this little business because my professional background is rooted in the production side of publishing. I've spent most of the past twenty years as a copy editor and designer (a layout man, to use a waning term), and it's because of that background that I've been as interested in the physical construction of my books as I have been in the writing of them. When I branched out into the book business a few years ago as a novelist, starting my own house and looking for work to put out there was a natural extension of things.

I've had extraordinary good fortune with the projects I've chosen. My good friend Carol Buchanan, whose first novel, God's Thunderbolt, was an indie sensation and a Spur Award winner, was kind enough to cast her lot with me for her follow-up, Gold Under Ice. And that book has been every bit the wonder that her first book was, becoming a Spur Award finalist.

My second book, Ed Kemmick's The Big Sky, By and By, has been a hit around these parts, where Ed is well-known as the City Lights columnist at The Billings Gazette, where he and I both toil.

In both cases, I've had the privilege of working with terrific writers and better people. As I said in the interview, those successes have given me the confidence to release my own work through Missouri Breaks Press, as I will with Quantum Physics. My first two novels, published by other houses, have allowed me to build the relationships with booksellers and readers that make going it alone a little less fearsome. And, of course, I'm not alone. I had a lot of help and input in these stories, and I turned them over to the steady hand of a terrific editor. I'd no sooner do my own editing than my own heart surgery.

And that's what I have to say about that.

Speaking of Quantum Physics …

Thursday is the final day to get an advance, signed print copy of the book for the low price of $10.50. That day, right here, a new promotion will be announced, this one of interest to folks who brandish e-readers. You don't want to miss this.

Monday media musings

Vacation's over. Also, how 'bout them Cowboys? Wait … don't answer that.

Did I ever mention that the wondrous R.J. Keller and golden-voiced Todd Keisling teamed up to create a book trailer for Quantum Physics and the Art of Departure? Well, they did. Check it out:

Pass it on to your friends. Also worth noting: This is the final week to get an advance print copy of the book (which releases Dec. 6) at the low, low price of $10.50. Details here.

If you're in Montana, please check out the latest issue of Montana Magazine, which includes a feature story about my books (written by Chèrie Newman of Montana Public Radio) and a wonderful review of Ed Kemmick's "The Big Sky, By and By," which I published. The magazine is on newsstands now.

Finally, a travel advisory: Tuesday, I'm headed to Fort Benton, where the next morning I'll meet with the Friends of the Library to talk about The Summer Son. Just a little more than a year ago, I was there with my first novel, 600 Hours of Edward, and it was a great group of people and a great town (my first trip there).

Tuesday, I'll be playing golf here. And staying here. You're free to be envious on both points.

On vacation

Even though I'm nowhere near an ocean and do not own a hammock, this in NO WAY mitigates against the wonderfulness of my vacation.

Glorious, glorious vacation.

Posts will resume on Sept. 12.

Be good to yourself — and each other — in my absence.

The Word: Spores

The drill: Each week, I ask my Facebook friends to suggest a word. I then put the suggestions into list form, run a random-number generator and choose the corresponding word from the list. That word serves as the inspiration for a story that includes at least one usage of the word in question. This week's word is contributed by Adrianne Hurtig. For previous installments of The Word, click here.

I heard that song yesterday, the one where the guy talks about wanting to open his mouth wide enough for a marching band to come out of it, and it got me to thinking about some things. If I could spread my mouth open that wide, I'd like to think that all the words I've never found at the moment I needed them would be right there, queued up perfectly, waiting for the chance to come around again. Maybe Kate would tell me again that I'm incapable of real love, and instead of standing there, struck dumb as she walked away, I would open wide and hear myself say, "No, just incapable of loving you." I thought of that on my own, a half-hour later. Not that it did me any good.

People talk about "real love" the way politicians talk about the "real economy." It doesn't mean anything, except in their own heads. Even then, the idea of "real" is specious at best. It's not a measure of authenticity, just a reflection of their desire that it be something other than what they have. That's what it was with Kate. After three years, she didn't want me, didn't want my troubles, didn't want what I could give, despite everything that happened. She wanted something else—what, she had no idea. That mythical thing became "real love," and I became another guy on a park bench, looking for something that was gone, gone, gone.

I loved Kate once, and though she's probably been telling her friends otherwise, she loved me. For a while there, we had dreams—and while anyone can have dreams, we also had plans. It all seems moot now. The life we built together exists in parts, like in a scrap yard. Our house, hers. Our car, mine. The crib we bought, given away. I sealed off the room we'd painted blue with clouds on the wall, and I moved the crib into the garage. I couldn't stand to look at it, couldn't stand to accept money for it. Just take it, I told the man and his wife, who looked for all the world like Kate and I did a year earlier. Effervescent. Apple-cheeked. In love. I hope it lasts.

I think I could love again. Not now, but someday, maybe. I have to learn to live with regret, and that's not easy when you pile up new ones every day. Today included. I'm sorry that I wished to say I was incapable of loving Kate. That's not what I want, and I take it back.

I wish I could pluck a dandelion from the grass below my feet and blow on the flowering part, and the spores I set free would float around on the wind until they found someone who needed love or comfort or a friend. They would ride in that person's hair or on her clothes, all the way home, and would become what she needed, the way I could not.