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I'm writing from the Waffle House.
The one on North Arkansas across from the PDQ. The diner that's just like the one on East Parkway, or the one in Clarksville in front of the X-Mart.
Greasy tile floors, syrup-stained windows and red vinyl stools. Every Waffle house is the same, and they never close. In fact, the "Waffle House Index" is a metric used by the Federal Emergency Management Agency to determine the severity of hurricanes. Craig Fugate, former head of FEMA, explained it like this: "If you get to a town and the Waffle House is closed, that's really bad."
The Waffle House on North Arkansas was open when I arrived about an hour ago, the diner's foggy windows orangish in the predawn gloam, but not so dingy I couldn't see my good buddy Josh Wilson sitting in the back corner booth.
Josh is tall, six four or five, and likes to wear three-piece suits and wide-brimmed fedoras to the Waffle House, Walmart, any and everywhere, really. In another life, Josh was a youth pastor and I was a football coach. We've come a long way since then. Josh lives in Texas now, a hat-friendly state.
We're at the Waffle House to talk books and movies, wives and kids. Our waitress, whose name tag reads "Jan," is a hoot. A few years back, a Waffle House waitress in Forrest City (my hometown) made national news after videos surfaced of her "doing her hair" in the kitchen sink.
A sink like the one where Jan stands now, barking out orders to the cook: "Hashbrowns, smothered, covered, chunked . . ."
I turn back to Josh and ask if he's willing to let me read him a new story. He is. I produce a stack of paper up from beneath the table and start to read.
If this all sounds strange, it is.
Writing is weird and often unpredictable. Similar to a Sunday morning spent in the Waffle House. There are no rules, no true code of conduct, which can all be forgiven as long as the food is good.
When it comes to books, the words are what matter in the end, the lines that form a story like the one I'm reading to Josh.
When I'm done, I look up, surprised to see our food and a burly man one table over staring at me. His shoulders are turned so I can read his shirt: "TRUST GOD NOT GOVERNMENT."
"For a second there," the man says and hooks an elbow over the top of Josh's booth, "I thought y'all was having a Bible study."
I brace myself. Josh bites his bottom lip.
"But then I and realized you're some kinda writer, huh?"
I nod.
"Well, listen," the man says. "Your dialogue ain't bad, but if you wanna get serious, I've self-published a couple books and . . ."
The man pitches his novels then invites me to a writers' group at something he calls "The Manga Hut."
I offer my thanks, and he says, "You bet. My name's Steve."
Josh, who has his back to Steve, grins.
I say, "I'm Eli," and shake the man's hand.
A few minutes later, Steve is gone and I'm halfway through my All Star Special, thinking about my dialogue, wondering if it's any good.
| 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: 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
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
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• 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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