It’s a lovely Saturday morning, not that I have so much as cracked a door to sniff the chill wind. My confidence relies on the sunlight flickering through the blinds behind me. The outside world flickers, also, affected by the various blinds of the programming I happen to be using.
I read Sarah Palin’s Facebook post about Mitt Romney, thus preparing me for the rest of the day’s fantasies.
My first novel, The Audacity of Dope, was about a pot-smoking songwriter who kept the bad guys from blowing up a plane, and then he got pressured into playing the role of a national hero, and found out that the bad guys trying to blow up the plane weren’t the bad guys he thought they were.
I’m glad it was published a little over four years ago. The plot is too predictable for what’s going on now, but that is a blog for another day on my other website.
As a fourth novel, Forgive Us Our Trespasses, nears its own appearance in the e-cosmos, my thoughts take me back to how I began this madness. Damnable evidence exists to prove that I started writing fiction before I stopped bouncing around the country writing about race cars. I cannot thus relegate the novels to desperation. The slaughter of my old job was quick. Nothing like being called in for a meeting and told the job one has occupied for 16-1/2 years has been eliminated as of that day. That moment when the keys are turned in and the access denied.
It’s a great experience. Memorable. Vivid.
When I said to myself, I know, I’ll write novels, I had already headed in that direction. My haste increased. My pace quickened. I didn’t cast the old career completely aside. It’s still good for some W-2s. In some ways, I’ve returned from a void. Last night I found myself writing about a high school baseball game, which is what I was doing two decades earlier. When I got home, I noticed that Byrnes had defeated Irmo in a state championship basketball game, and it occurred to me that Tim Whipple, the Irmo coach, is one of few ties that binds the void. I’ve seen a few snapshots. Neither Whipple nor I looks the same.
I can’t help but consider the possibility that the world has passed me by. When I chat in the dugout with kids who are now drawing closer to being grandsons than sons — theoretically, mind you — I realize, through my mind’s nettlesome back door, that my favorite players had all stopped playing long before they were born.
I remember Jerry Remy from when he played second base instead of fiddle. Charlie Craven, the Clinton High School second baseman, likes Dustin Pedroia. The first time my dad took me to a big-league game, Willie Mays hit a home run.
I’m not sure whether this gig makes me feel forever young or breathe harsh reality.
Maybe it just keeps me grounded … like a bouncing ball to second base.
As you may have noticed, I use these blogs as a promotional tool for my novels. One, Crazy of Natural Causes, has been out since late July of 2015. If you haven’t read it, I’d appreciate you considering it. It’s a freewheeling fable on the absurdity of life.
Another, Forgive Us Our Trespasses, will be out soon. I’m expecting to be given a release date soon. It’s a crime novel about corruption and patronage in a small town. The tale unfolds across two generations at the same time.
Crazy and Trespasses are my third and fourth novels. The Audacity of Dope was published in 2011, The Intangibles in 2013. I’m working on a fifth, Cowboys Come Home. Most of my books can be examined and purchased here: http://www.amazon.com/Monte-Dutton/e/B005H3B144/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1416767492&sr=8-1
My nonfiction, much of which involves sports, is on display here: http://montedutton.com/
Follow me on Twitter @montedutton, @hmdutton (about writing) and @wastedpilgrim (more humor and opinion). I’m on Facebook at Monte.Dutton and Instagram at Tug50. Look for me by name at Google+. Whew. It’s too much.