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I’m writing from my office.
The same office I’ve written the previous 92 “Where I’m Writing From” columns, but the next one will be different. The next time I pen a column, story, or novel, I’ll be doing so from a new space.
The new office will be on the other end of our recently remodeled basement. The eastern side of the house, that’s where I’ll set up shop.
The view is different over there. The wall facing the lake will be floor-to-ceiling glass. I’ll finally have real, built-in bookshelves, instead of the crumbling particle board ones I’ve hauled around since college. If the carpenter can pull it off, there will also be a secret passageway built into the shelves that leads to my "archives" (which are really just a growing collection of filing cabinets full of first drafts).
Yes, of course, I’m excited about the upgrades (I’m also still on the hunt for a stained-glass door; if you have one you’re looking to unload, let me know), but the new office is also terrifying.
I’m a creature of habit and superstition. I come by these traits naturally. My dad rides his bike twenty-some-odd miles, first thing, every morning. My mom still tosses spilled salt over her shoulder and spits anytime a black cat crosses her path.
As I’ve gone about packing up my old office — taking down the dartboard, the framed Portis letter, and pulling my kids’ art from the walls — I’ve worried about damaging the magic inherent in my sacred space.
What if, even though all the old parts are there, the new office doesn’t have the same juice, the same soul?
My old office was simple. It had concrete floors and unfinished walls, yet I wrote thousands — no, millions — of words in that place. What if, when the new construction is complete, the words won’t flow?
Stephen King speaks of a similar fear in his memoir/craft book “On Writing.” For King, the problem was a result of a new desk. Out went the “child’s desk" he’d written on for years, and in came “a massive oak slab that dominated the room.”
For six years, King wrote on that desk “like a ship’s captain in charge of a voyage to nowhere.” Somewhere in there, he finally sobered up, got rid of that “monstrosity,” and replaced it with a much smaller desk. The rest, as they say, is history.
My situation is a little different. If the new office doesn’t work out, I can’t start tearing down walls and ripping out bookshelves — my wife would kill me.
So, what’s a writer to do?
Write.
If you’re a reader of this column, you know I’ve written from many locations outside my office. I’ve written from row 15, seat F aboard a Delta Airlines flight. I’ve written from the car while my wife was in Sam’s Club. I’ve written from a juvenile correctional facility, a pontoon boat, and hotel rooms across the country.
Though the view from my new office will be different, the process remains. As superstitious as we authors are about our craft, the truth is every book, every page, every line is written in the same way — one word at a time.
| Books authored by Eli Cranor |
Broiler
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The troubles of two desperate families—one white, one Mexican American—converge rest in the ruthless underworld of an Arkansas chicken processing plant in this new thriller from the award-winning author of DON’T KNOW TOUGH.
Gabriela Menchaca and Edwin Saucedo are hardworking, undocumented employees at the Detmer Foods chicken plant in Springdale, Arkansas, just a stone’s throw away from the trailer park where they’ve lived together for seven years. While dealing with personal tragedies of their own, the young couple endures the brutal, dehumanizing conditions at the plant in exchange for barebones pay.
When the plant manager, Luke Jackson, fires Edwin to set an example for the rest of the workers—and to show the higher-ups that he’s ready for a major promotion—Edwin is determined to get revenge on Luke and his wife, Mimi, a new mother who stays at home with her six-month-old son. Edwin’s impulsive action sets in motion a devastating chain of events that illuminates the deeply entrenched power dynamics between those who revel at the top and those who toil at the bottom.
From the nationally bestselling and Edgar Award–winning author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs comes another edge-of-your-seat noir thriller that exposes the dark, bloody heart of life on the margins in the American South and the bleak underside of a bygone American Dream. |
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: |
• I'm writing from the shadow of a total eclipse
• I’m Writing From Columbus, Ohio
• Writing from a Dusty Floored Gym
• Writing From: My office with an icepack on my lap
• Writing from the Waffle House
• Writing from: Two-years into this "author" gig
• Writing from: Trut grit county
• Writing from: The rafters in the basement
• Writing from: A land of dripping noses and all-night coughs
• Writing from: Another Dimension
• Writing from Fearrington Village, North Carolina
• Writing from My daughter’s basketball game
• Writing from My thirty sixth year
• Writing from Forrest City, Arkansas
• Writing from Nap Time
• Writing from Winter Park, Colorado
• Writing from the end of the year
• Writing from First United Methodist Church
• Writing from the end of the first semester
• Writing from the cusp of another visit
• Writing from a Razorback Game
• Writing From: The End
• Writing from Oyster Island
• Writing from Jayne Lemons
• Writing from Bed
• Writing from Witherspoon Hall
• Writing From: Coco
• Writing from the Beach
• Writing From: Crooked Creek
• Writing from a Nursing Home
• Writing from a Firework Tent
• Writing from a Boat
• Writing from the Stars
• Writing from the Pool
• Writing from the Kitchen
• Writing from Summer
• Writing from Kindergarten
• Writing from Mom
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• 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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