The Last Road Home (29 page)

A writer spends innumerable lonely hours of thought, frustration, and self-doubt before a novel is completed. But the absolute joy of accomplishment is like no other. The tendency is to sit back and say to yourself, “I did it. I did it when nobody thought I could, and I did it all myself.” Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The accomplishment belongs to so many who have loved and supported you while you ignored them, slammed doors in frustration, and withdrew from life in general. There are many fingerprints on this novel, and my biggest fear is I will leave out someone who has provoked a thought, an idea, an unusual facial expression, or simply allowed me to sit and talk my way through issues I was having. You are many, and any I fail to publicly recognize, know I am grateful and will not forget.

My heartfelt thanks to my wife, Sandra, who has put up with my follies for forty-five years. My personal hero, my son Eric. The one person who never let me give up, encouraged me, and even threatened me on occasion, my best friend and fantastic southern writer, Jan Parker.

To Laurel Goldman, the best mentor an idiot like me could have. She had a temporary lapse of good sense when she allowed me into her writer's group, but it was the luckiest day of my life. Laurel is the most insightful and caring person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing; she is determined for each of her writers to succeed, and gives her utmost to that end. I treasure every minute I am in her presence. To our writer's group: David Halperin, Chrys Bullard, Martha Pentecost, Kathleen O'Keeffe, Linda Hanley Finigan, and Alice Kaplan: They taught me the difference between telling a story and writing a story.

To my amazing agent, Renee Fountain, who took a giant leap of faith on a first novel. Italia Gandolfo of Gandolfo, Helin, and Fountain Literary Agency, who is proof you never know who you are talking to on FB.

A particular thanks to wonderful poet and songwriter Jules Riley, who allowed me to use his words “put some meat on the ground” from his poem “Waist Deep in Winter Water.” To all the wonderful instructors, friends, and participants at WildAcres, where I learned to love the writing community.

Many years ago a little group of hope-to-be-writers came together to begin an Open Mic night in a wine store in Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina, and yes, it's a real city. We were all naïve and without a bucket full of talent between us, but we practiced, embarrassed ourselves, and got better. I am proud to say we are all still dear friends, still root for each other's success, and still drink a lot of wine. That special group is made up of Jan Parker, Laura Towne, Jack Lloyd, and Robin Miura. Thanks to all of you for helping make my dream come true.

To my warrior brothers from Japan and Vietnam. A special nod to my great friend Mike McBride, with whom I flew so many missions. We will always stand faithful.

Lastly, I want to pay tribute to the writers who have most influenced me. They represent the best of southern literary fiction: Ron Rash, Rick Bragg, Harry Crews, and the great William Gay. Through their work they have set the bar high, and stand as an example of how far the rest of us must reach.

 

Like most folks in this business, I simply wanted to write, and the only thing I knew to write was a novel. By that I mean I knew very little about short stories or flash fiction, and hated poetry, so I just dove in and hoped for the best, which, of course, was awful. I knew I had a lot of stories to tell, but soon discovered I knew absolutely nothing about how to actually write them.

 

 

As much as it surprises me, I am now addicted to the literary genre. I say surprised because all I read growing up were comic books, John D. MacDonald, Harold Robbins, books of that nature. I had no idea what “literary” fiction meant.

 

 

It was purely by accident. The initial title was
Junebug and Fancy,
then as I was doing my last major revision, and in the scene when Fancy comes home for the visit from France, there is the line when Junebug is relating the horrors of his war experiences to her and he says, “It felt like I was crossing
the last road home,
” and I thought,
That's it!!
That was the title I'd been looking for during the whole process.

 

 

There is more than one, I hope. The first being the fact that children only begin to see racism when it is taught to them, the example being when Lightning is run off the neighbor farm when he asked to collect Coke bottles; racism does not occur naturally in our DNA. The other is about the power of love and how folks will sacrifice almost anything to hold on to it, and I think that is demonstrated by the relationship between Junebug and Fancy. The next is the horror of war and how men in desperate situations will revert to almost an animal state in order to survive, and most never fully recover from it. The final one I think is that veterans of such horrors sometimes spend the rest of their lives in some form of apology, an example of which is Junebug giving Fancy's mother the house so she could be near her son.

 

 

I think all of it is realistic in as far as fiction represents reality without identifying real people, but there's nothing in it that I would consider fantasy. I think most literary fiction is based on truths of one kind or another, and the magic for the reader is to figure out what they are. I believe it is the responsibility of literary fiction writers to present the reader with something new each time, i.e., a new idea, a new thought, a new reality about something they are not familiar with.

 

 

Some of them I do, or have known. I do have some experience with some of the events, but not to the extent described in the story.

 

 

Wow, tough question. I've read hundreds of books of all kinds in my life, but, as a writer, I think the one that influenced me the most was
Serena
by Ron Rash. I don't think it would have been such an “aha” moment had I not been moving forward with my understanding of literary fiction. I group
Serena
with William Gay's
The Long Home
as the two most influential books in my pursuit as a southern writer. And that's not to fail to acknowledge the many greats, Rick Bragg, Harry Crews, Flannery O'Connor, Harper Lee, Jill McCorkle, Lee Smith, and so many more who are fixtures in southern literature.

 

 

That's an easy one—Ron Rash, he's a friend and the absolute best “place” writer I've ever read. If he would just pick up a tab once in a while, I would like him even better.

 

 

I just finished Rick Bragg's biography about Jerry Lee Lewis, and it is a masterpiece.

 

 

Yes, one comes to mind, and that is James Scott and his debut novel,
The Kept.

 

 

I am working on a novel with the working title of
A Time of War, The Journey of Billy Cole,
which I'm sure will not be the final title.

 

 

Easy, my writers' group has been the most amazing support group I could have ever hoped for.

 

 

Well, at this point and at my age, if I don't I'm pretty well screwed.

 

 

Like most writers, if I went through the manuscript a hundred times, I'd change something, or many somethings, every time; some small, some major . . . as you grow as a writer, you are better able to see bigger ideas.

 

 

I was pretty much a loner as a kid, and books gave me an outlet for my imagination, whether it was comic books or adventure stories or magazines, I just simply loved reading. It let me go anywhere, visit any country, live any lifestyle, all vicariously through the characters, and they still do to this day. My tastes in literature have changed, but that magic in a well-written book has no equal, regardless of the genre.

 

 

Never being satisfied with the work. I wish I could simply get to a point and say, “That's the best it can be,” but I don't think any writer ever reaches that point. I heard Ron Rash tell the story about his latest book, and this is a guy who could write the dictionary and sell a million copies, that he was 100 pages deep into the manuscript when he looked at it one night and said, “This isn't working,” chucked it and started over. Now, if a guy like him is willing to do that, how can I not face up to my work in the same way?

 

 

Hearing criticism from my writers' group, and believe me, it got downright ugly at times and I took it personally, my feeling were hurt, and I would walk out of class and say, “I'm never going back to that damn place again,” but I stuck it out. Each time when I went back to the manuscript and compared what I had to what they suggested, they were right every time. I'm sure if Laurel knew beforehand what a lousy writer I was, she would have never let me in the group. I will forever be grateful she did, and I will forever be grateful for the amazing feedback of our group. Writers owe other writers only one thing: the truth. I always tell folks who want me to read their work that I don't mind, but if they don't want the hard truth, they need to find someone else. It's the only way one can improve his ability.

 

 

I learned the value of constant learning through reevaluation, being able to look at your work with a critical eye, and being willing to change what needs to be changed, no matter how big it might be or how brilliant you thought it was.

 

 

My biggest challenge was learning my craft. As I said earlier, I knew I had stories to tell, but no idea how to write at a level anybody else would want to read them. Once I was embarrassed enough, once I had been kicked in the ass enough, there was no workshop, no class, no writers' conference, no open-mic opportunity I missed. And I listened. And I learned. And I practiced. To me, fiction writing is total imagination, it must come solely from your mind, and while I might read Jung or look up facts to base the fiction on, by which I mean things like what actually happened on a particular date, etc., I find little need to do a lot of formal research. The biggest fear I have is I will begin, or by accident, take on another writer's phrases or point of view or character or descriptions or style. It is absolutely important to me that I provide my own everything by thinking about my characters and who they are, imagining their surroundings in my own unique style and voice, being able to bring at least one single new thought to the world of readers, because that is the beauty of writing, that is the honesty of the craft, and it's one of the few honest professions left in this world, I think.

 

 

Learn your craft, practice your craft, develop a thick skin, appreciate the talents of other writers and figure out what makes them successful, and take every opportunity to embarrass yourself.