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I’m writing from the sixth row in The Center for the Arts.
Which is just a fancy name for the Russellville High School auditorium. It is pretty fancy, though. The whole façade is glass. There are three different seating levels. Zack Williams came for a concert recently, but not today.
Today, my baby girl is on stage.
My daughter is six going on sixteen but not in a bad way. She’s probably more responsible now than she will be at sixteen. She’s in this golden window of time where everything is still rainbows and butterflies but she can also read and have long, curious conversations about things I’ve never thought of before.
In other words, she’s perfect.
And now she’s on stage, staring down almost cross-eyed at the microphone. The music is already going, the intro bit. I notice her fingers moving, counting the beats before she comes in.
A few weeks ago, I won a writing award. My daughter learned she’d got the “solo” for the kindergarten production the same day. When my parents picked her up from school that day (my wife and I were still out of town), my mom said, “I hear you’ve got some big news?”
And my daughter said, “My daddy won an award!”
It broke my heart a little. This was a huge moment for her. There were only two solo singing spots and over a hundred kindergarteners. She’d memorized her lines, practiced in front of the mirror, and nailed the tryout. But when asked about her “big news” she talked about my award.
Okay. It broke my heart a lot.
So, for the next two weeks, I made an extra effort to help get her ready for the performance. I learned the lines. I sang them with her. I whistled the melody constantly. I even came up with hand motions, something to add an extra flare to her performance (she did not go for this, at all).
And then, finally, it was showtime.
As I watch her, I’m thinking about how I had that girl on stage at the First United Methodist Church before she could really talk. How she’d just stand there beside me and hum the tune to “Bind Us Together.” Then, when she could talk, she’d sing. She got up in front of the whole congregation, at three years old, and sang her little heart out.
She’s got this, I tell myself. She’s ready, but she looks so small on that gigantic stage. She’s not even four feet tall. She still rides in a car seat. She might act sixteen, but she’s not. She’s six. She’s not ready for this. I’m not ready for this—
—until she starts to sing.
The stage fades as her voice rises, hitting every note just like she did in the bathroom, the shower, her bedroom, the front drive as she rode her bike in circles. All the practice she’s put in is paying off. It’s incredible. Pitch perfect and confident like I can’t believe.
Thirty seconds later, it’s over. Just like that. Like the past six years. Like the next six, and the six after that. A lady to my right leans over and says, “Blink, and she’ll be graduating.”
Before I can respond, the crowd erupts. The applause is louder than a Friday night, more boisterous than a hard rock show, or some stuffy literary banquet. My baby girl grins as she lets go of the mic and skips back to her spot on the stage.
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
• Writing from Summer
• Writing from Mom
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
• My second novel’s publication
• A New Marriage Milestone
• An Invitation to the Party
• Writing from a Thunderstorm
• Writing from a Soundbooth
• Writing from “Jazz Beach"
• Writing from the Sabbath
• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
• Writing from the space between breaths |
• Writing from 2022
• Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree
• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
• Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school
• Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
• Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
• Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
• Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
• Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
• Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
• Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
• Writing from a pirate ship
• Writing from the airport
• Writing from the hospital
• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
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