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I’m writing from 16 stories above Times Square.
I’m in New York for the Edgar Awards, but we’ll get to that later. First, I want to tell you about the car horns, and how, despite being nearly 200 feet in the air, I can still hear them blasting.
It was the first thing my wife noticed when we got off the plane and into an Uber outside LaGuardia airport.
Mal and Eli Cranor
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Every time one went off, Mal flinched as if each sonic boom were directed at her. What surprised me the most was the duration of the blasts. Just how long some of these drivers were willing to lay it on. There were short honks too. And weird robot-bee-buzzy police sirens. It felt like we were in a whole new world, complete with its very own language.
Add the strange sounds to the cityscape rising up through the passenger-side windows, towering so high above us we had to hunker down to see the tops of the buildings, and one thing became clear — we weren’t in (Ar)Kansas anymore.
Mal is a small-town girl, through and through. But she’s worked her butt off preparing for this trip. She’s not a fan of flying, or large crowds, or confined spaces. So, yeah, New York City isn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
Much to her surprise, and mine, we’ve loved every second of the four days we’ve spent in the Big Apple. We covered a lot of ground too, trekking over ten miles each day, wandering from Chinatown to Tribeca to Soho then all the way back to Times Square again.
We didn’t have an agenda, no checklist of things we wanted to see, we just ventured out of our hotel each morning, straight into the heart of the “concrete jungle.”
And, yes, the streets of NYC were a wild, alien land to us Arkansawyers, but we found serenity in the midst of so many people. New Yorkers get a bad rap; we've encountered some super nice folks during our stay.
Maybe my St. Louis Cardinals cap gave us away. Maybe that’s why people seemed to be looking out for us. Or maybe it was just the starry look in my eyes, the pure wonderment of finally being in Empire City.
For the last six years, I’ve dreamed of one day making the trip north. My infatuation mainly had to do with publishing. New York City is the epicenter of the book world. Mal kept telling me to go. Just book a ticket and go see all those agents and editors I’d been fawning over forever.
But I wanted a reason to come to New York. Deep down, I wanted my work to get us there. And this past week, it did.
Don’t Know Tough was nominated for the First Novel Edgar Award, which is basically like the Oscar of the mystery/thriller/crime genre. Nearly all of my literary heroes were crammed into the ballroom, along with my agent, publisher, and editor.
Nobody talked much about whether or not I would win. Nobody said much of anything about the award at all. The competition was stiff. Honestly, I didn’t feel like I had a chance.
It was close to midnight by the time they finally started naming the nominees in my category. I was tired. My throat was dry. My agent punched me on the knee, but didn’t say anything. Nobody was saying anything except the presenter, and he was saying my name.
What came next still doesn’t feel real. Mal said a few words I can’t write in the newspaper then jumped up and kissed me. I hugged the rest of the team before sprinting to the podium. I didn’t write a speech. I’m too superstitious. I was afraid if I actually put pen to paper, I’d jinx it.
If you want to hear me ramble, you can find the video on YouTube.
The speech isn’t important, though. The award isn’t either. Not really. It was an honor just to be nominated, to see a part of the world I’d never seen, to get to take a trip I’d been dreaming of for half a decade.
All of that was great. Sure. But the most important part of this whole wild adventure were the people.
Because I didn't write a speech, I wound up not naming some of the very most important people in my literary life: Juliet Grames, Bronwen Hruska, Paul Oliver, Johnny Wink, Mike Sutton, and every other person who’s made this possible . . .
. . . thank you.
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 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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