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I’m writing from the rafters in the basement.
I had to climb a filing cabinet to get up here. I like to slink around the insulation and over the air ducts then pounce down on unsuspecting victims. Like Eli, who’s currently perched in his red leather chair, the same place he sits every morning. Sometimes, I’ll curl up between his legs. Sometimes, I bite his pen.
My name is Binx, and I’m an office cat. I’m black like Mark Twain’s “Bambino.” Apparently, writers have a thing for us felines. Ernest Hemingway had a house full of polydactyl cats. I’ve never been to Key West, but I’ve heard from others in the office-cat community that there’s a whole colony of six-toed kitties still roaming Mallory Square.
Nobody tops Charles Dickens when it comes to cat-scratch fever, though. After his beloved cat Bob died, the Victorian novelist had his pet’s paw stuffed and mounted on an ivory letter opener.
I wonder if Eli’s ever heard that story? I hope not.
Speaking of dismembered animals, I found a nest of rabbit kits yesterday. Have you ever heard one of those little guys scream? Eli has. I brought him the runt of the litter after he’d let me out for my morning hunt.
He was not impressed.
Watching Eli sweep up the gift I left outside his office door, I started to wonder why writers like cats in the first place? Is it our independence? We are low-maintenance pets, as long as you don’t mind cleaning up the remains of small, furry mammals.
Or maybe it’s the fact that we fit so perfectly in a person’s lap. I cannot tell you how many hours I’ve spent in Eli’s lap, listening to him scribble on his notepad or type on his computer, but lately, it’s like Eli doesn’t even know I’m here.
Like now.
I’m still in the rafters, skulking directly above Eli’s bald head, but he hasn’t looked up once. I wish I could read what he’s writing. Heck, I wish I could read. Maybe then I would understand my master—I mean, my servant—a little better.
More than anything, I’d just like to know what he’s thinking. What compels a man to sit in the same chair day after day, week after week, for hours on end?
Ray Bradbury, another ailurophilic author, once said, “As soon as things get difficult, I walk away. That’s the great secret of creativity. You treat ideas like cats; you make them follow you.”
Me? Follow?
I don’t know what sort of kittens Mr. Bradbury kept around his office, but I follow no man. Not even Eli, who’s finally out of the chair now, out of the office. Wait. Is he going for the Meow Mix?
I’ll be right back . . .
| 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: |
• 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
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
• My second novel’s publication
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• 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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