granville burgess

April 29 2022

Photos of the Day: Smoking

Chickadee Prince Art and Photography, Entertainment, Fiction aaron leibel, alan n. levy, Alon Preiss, donna levin, granville burgess, mark laporta, photographs of smokers, smoking in literature, steven s. drachman

Look, I am not an advocate of cigarette smoking, if such a person exists in today’s world.

I do not myself smoke cigarettes. I know that big corporations hid the truth for years, and many died for their malevolent subterfuge, maybe millions.

But I am a novelist, and my characters smoke. They smoke and they smoke and they smoke. Smoking is good for drama.

The excerpts below show the uses for smoking in literature. Smoking represents freedom; rebellion; sophistication; a youthful rite of passage; noirish danger. Or buffoonish ignorance. Cigarettes can mean anything.

As Steven S. Drachman notes in his short story, Smoking Girl, as government regulations drove smoking into the shadows, the shadow-dwellers found each other, poignantly. Or as Mark Laporta shows, a cigarette can be shorthand for a sort of idiotic, thuggish villainy. A cigarette sets the scene, almost any scene, perfectly. Smoking says it all.

In real life, smokers are unattractive. They smell bad. They have smoker’s face, yellow teeth. Even their hair, it’s smoker’s hair. But in photographs and and films, smoking is photogenic. Smoking looks good in movies and photos. The hand holding the match, cupped against the wind, as the tobacco ignites; the cigarette between two beauteous lips; a lovely face, engulfed in a cloud of smoke.

These excerpts and photographs are beautiful. It is deeply irresponsible to romanticize smoking. So here we go.

— Alon Preiss

I imagined that Willie, as I liked to call him, since his first name was Cyril, who wore bow ties and smoked dark, foreign cigarettes, was charmingly eccentric, urbane; a modern-day Noel Coward, but more educated.
Extraordinary Means, by Donna Levin

Cigarette me, Cossack!
Mae West, Goin’ to Town

[Eden] remembered waking up, as she had a few weeks ago, to find Roger asleep beside her, the television blaring white noise, a lit cigarette hanging between his fingers. She imagined what would have happened if she had not woken up, if the cigarette had dropped quietly onto the sheets and she and Roger had died in the fire, their skeletons wrapped together like Esmeralda and Quasimodo at the end of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.… She stared through the window, shut her eyes and let the darkness wash over her, felt herself sink into it.
In Love With Alice, by Alon Preiss

Long about 11:30 that same morning, a dark figure skulked toward the Skudderton bus terminal, passing empty lots, stepping over broken concrete slabs — with the stub of a cigarette clinging to his lips…. “Work your ass off for a guy and he goes and clones you,” muttered Blade…. “He’s gonna hear about that,” Blade added, lighting up a cigarette. Cigarettes still made sense, even if he couldn’t remember why.
The Changing Hearts of Ixdahan Daherek, by Mark Laporta

Daniel was smoking, and Susan was holding a lit cigarette between two fingers and taking a puff every once in a while, not inhaling, just looking strangely innocent and beautiful with a cigarette in her left hand, not really smoking, and talking about God.
A Flash of Blue Sky, by Alon Preiss

My fellow soldiers and I sat around in the camp smoking cigarette after cigarette and growing increasingly worried about being in the first wave of soldiers sent into Lebanon, as we had little doubt that Israeli troops would be heading north. We were clearly a second-line infantry unit consisting of older men, not the kind of soldiers that the army brass would want to send into battle. But we understood that we had one advantage for the army: we were already in uniform.
Figs and Alligators, by Aaron Leibel

“You understand what I’m sayin’, don’t you, Mrs. Wolensky?” He released her arm and took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped the pack on his hand and slowly pulled one out with his mouth. He offered her the pack with a questioning look. He shrugged when she didn’t respond and put away the pack. Then he pulled out a lighter and thumbed a flame to life…. He lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply and slowly blew smoke toward the stroller. After a few moments, he stood up, tugged at his jacket and turned to stare down at her. “You don’t wanna see me again, now do ya’, Mrs. Wolensky?”
“Oh, please, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then we ain’t gonna have any. S’long as you understand you made a mistake.” ….
Hawkins turned and walked slowly away, trailing smoke.
The Inevitable Witness, by Ed Rucker

Charlotte shed her nightgown and dressed in a shirtwaist and skirt…. Later she would dress her hair in a chignon, how she had worn it for years, despite the changing styles. First, however, she would smoke a cigarette, a less-than-genteel habit for women, but a freedom, Charlotte swore, more important than the vote.… She rolled a cigarette, licking its thin edge, and then lighted it with a match scratched on the sole of her shoe. She inhaled, feeling guilty, because she knew she must quit … but in her guilt, she also felt at home. She exhaled and watched the plume of shame rise toward the ceiling.
Bloomsbury’s Late Rose, by Pen Pearson

Sergio sat across the table from her, and Carly was holding both his hands, playing idly with his fingers. He had a carefully maintained two-day growth of beard, long hair, and a flatteringly and expensively casual wardrobe. His faux-Communist cigarette hung from his lower lip at an impossible cockeyed angle.
In Love With Alice, by Alon Preiss

I am watching Westworld while smoking a cigarette. This is a phase of my life.
Kalyee Srithnam

“We are not monsters,” [he] said at the opening press conference. He was so tiny in this huge room, miles below its towering ceiling with intricate gold leaf. He lit a cigarette. The room was already filled with smoke. Then, to emphasize his point, he repeated himself. “We are not monsters.” He looked angry. The Western reporters began scribbling, and his eyebrows knit crossly. “I know what you will do,” he said. “You will all lead your story in the same way. ‘We are not monsters, said the little man with the cigarette.’ The implication will be ironic.” ….. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, held it in his lungs for just a moment, then blew it out rebelliously.
A Flash of Blue Sky, by Alon Preiss

“Standing here, in the street, in this light rain,” she said, and then she stopped and took a long drag on her cigarette. It was almost done, her cigarette, but she didn’t flick it into the puddle just yet, she stared at it, the little glow in the dimness. “Standing here like this, in the rainy night,” she continued, “it reminds me of one rainy night in the forest, when I was little, behind my house, hundreds of miles away from here. Maybe thousands, I don’t know.”
Smoking Girl, by Steven S. Drachman

I know I don’t smoke. I don’t inhale because it gives you cancer, but I look so incredibly handsome with a cigarette that I can’t not hold one.
Woody Allen, Annie Hall

Jimmy took the hand rolled cigarette, and Rhoda produced a book of matches and lit it. He puffed the smoke tentatively. “You can inhale it,” she told him. Jimmy tried and coughed violently. Rhoda grabbed the cigarette and handed him a glass of water. She took a drag and exhaled the smoke. “Don’t take in so much till you get used to it.” She handed the cigarette back to Jimmy. He took another puff and managed it better the second time. Then Rhoda rolled one for herself, and they sat there, smoking contentedly, and gazing out across the fallow field at the pine woods on the other side.
The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, by Granville Wyche Burgess

Irina threw her carpet bag into the middle of the living room floor underneath his big TV. She sat down on the floor, and she lit a cigarette. “I will never feel guilty about this,” she said. “Smoking. I will never apologize.” The room filled with smoke. “Just so you know.” The room looked better filled with smoke.
A Flash of Blue Sky, by Alon Preiss

One of the SEALs noticed a lone Iranian soldier standing there smoking a cigarette, for the moment oblivious to the carnage around him. The SEAL adjusted his aim slightly upward and deftly beheaded the man from more than a hundred yards away. “That’s for more than twenty years of Jihadist bullshit, asshole,” mumbled the SEAL….
The Tenth Plague, by Alan N. Levy

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Photos and Art from Pexels and Pixabay, and by Petar Stacevic, Cottonbro, Max Knoxville, Roman Odintsov, Oleg Magni, Masha Raymers, Kam Pratt, Merlin Light Painting, Megan Forbes, Dishan Lathiya, Ukeiri, the Digital Artist, Jessica Nunes, John Mor, Brett Sayles, Steven S. Drachman, Kalyee Srithnam, Kool Shooters, Amir Hashemi, Thais Silva and Hiew Nguyen Trong.

March 7 2020

Granville Wyche Burgess: Put Shoeless Joe Jackson in the Hall of Fame

Chickadee Prince Sports baseball hall of fame, granville burgess, granville wyche burgess, shoeless joe jackson

Dear Commissioner Manfred,

I write to add my name to the growing list of people who are outraged at your treatment of the Houston Astros, especially in light of your refusal to re-consider the case for removing Shoeless Joe Jackson from the Ineligible list and thus allowing him to be voted into the Hall of Fame, which he surely would, given his outstanding career.

In two 2015 letters from Arlene Marcley of the Shoeless Joe Jackson Museum in his hometown of Greenville, SC she requested that you remove Jackson from the ineligible list. In denying her request, you wrote that your research into the historical record meant that you could “not be certain enough of the truth to over-rule Commissioner Landis’ determination” that Shoeless be banished for life. With the Astros, you can be certain of the truth-they have admitted it! Yet you granted the players immunity before doing any research. Why have you reached a conclusion to continue the punishment of Jackson after research and refused to punish the Astros players without research?

You cite Landis’ decision as precedent. Let me note that he banished Jackson despite the verdict of innocence by the jury. (In another trial, the jury awarded Jackson over $16,000 in back pay from White Sox owner Charles Comiskey). If Landis is to be your guide, then I humbly suggest it is incumbent upon you to banish the Houston players for life.

Or you might consider this: Jackson was banished for life. His life is over, and thus should be his banishment. If you cannot rectify your treatment of the Astros, at least remove Shoeless Joe Jackson from the Ineligible list and allow him to assume his rightful place in the Hall of Fame.

Respectfully,

Granville Burgess
Author, The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe

^^^

Granville Wyche Burgess is an Emmy-nominated playwright and novelist. He is the author of The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a novel about Shoeless Joe Jackson, published by Chickadee Prince, and which is available on Kindle, and in paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and your local bookstore.

April 23 2019

On the 100th anniversary of the Black Sox Scandal, GRANVILLE WYCHE BURGESS declares: Shoeless Joe Was Innocent

Chickadee Prince Entertainment, Sports black sox, granville burgess, granville wyche burgess, shoeless joe, shoeless joe jackson, world series

What inspired you to write his story and why now?

When I played baseball as a youth in 1950’s Greenville, SC, nobody ever mentioned that Joe Jackson, whom some considered the “greatest natural hitter of all time,” lived in my hometown! Such was animus towards Shoeless Joe because of the Black Sox scandal. I think Joe himself wanted to keep a low profile. Years later, when I read about the scandal, I became convinced of Joe’s innocence and wanted to put the truth, as I saw it, out into the world. An added plus: I love baseball, I think it’s a great game! As to why now, what better way to commemorate the 100th Anniversary of the Black Sox scandal than to publish a novel about it?

You believe that Shoeless Joe is innocent in the Black Sox Scandal. What makes you draw this conclusion?

First of all, we have Joe’s word, and there is nothing I have read about this Christian man that would lead me to believe he is a liar. Joe went to his grave believing “The Supreme Being will be my judge.” He says he told Comiskey about the fix and Comiskey ignored him—and plenty of what I have read about Comiskey would lead me to believe he was primarily interested in protecting his reputation and his money. As someone who could neither read nor write, I believe Comiskey’s lawyer, Alfred Austrian, tricked Joe into testifying the way he did. He certainly got him to sign a waiver of immunity that he could not read. What many people do not remember is that in a 1924 trial where Joe sued Comiskey for back pay, a jury believed him and awarded him the money. Then the judge, noting discrepancies in Joe’s 1920 testimony and his 1924 testimony, overturned the decision. What is indisputable is that Joe Jackson played his heart out in that World Series: no errors, the only home run, a .375 batting average, and 12 hits, which stood as the record until 1964.

Growing up in times of segregation, what draws you to stories about injustice, specifically this one?

Growing up, I saw the injustice of segregation all around me, from Whites Only drinking fountains to the squalid housing of what was euphemistically called “Nickletown.” Also, I was familiar with the ethos of the people who, like Joe, worked in a textile mill: they worked hard hours, loved their families and their communities, and were very religious. I was drawn to this story not only because I think Joe is innocent, but also because I think his hometown should celebrate, not ignore, this iconic baseball player. Happily, they now have. There is a Shoeless Joe statue in downtown Greenville and a Joe Jackson museum across from the minor-league ballpark.

What are some similarities and differences you find between writing plays and novels?

For me, the main similarity between writing plays and writing novels is story, story, story! I love a good story and try to write something that has people constantly wondering “What happens next?” As a playwright, I tell the whole story in dialogue, and dialogue is an important part of my novel-writing. I believe it is harder to depict character in playwriting because action is the best means of depicting character, and action in the theatre is limited. I can’t have a baseball game onstage—or at least only in a very limited way. I can’t do a scene sliding down a rocky river, as I do in the novel. Finally, the sheer number of words you can use writing a novel makes it a form in which one can more easily expand upon ideas and where one can spend time describing scenes and, especially, the inner emotional life of a character than one can in playwriting. I find the restrictions inherent in dramatic writing make it a much more difficult genre, for me, than narrative fiction, where I can let the words more easily flow.

March 16 2019

Granville Wyche Burgess: Take Me Out to the Ballgame (Part 2)

Chickadee Prince Sports baseball, granville burgess, granville wyche burgess

The Orioles vs. Rays game begins at 1:05 pm on a cloudy day in Sarasota. We are seated behind first base, which turns out to be a pretty good place to see some action. The O’s turn a nifty double-play: a grounder to the first baseman, who throws to the shortstop covering second, quickly retreats to the bag, and is there to take the throw to put out the runner at first. This is not easy to do, but as with many things professional ball players do, they make it look effortless. So does the center fielder as he grabs a hit on one hop and throws a perfect strike to third base to get the runner there. And this is just the first inning!

In the second, an Oriole batter draws a walk and the speakers burst forth with Fats Domino singing “I’m Walkin’,” another example of the good-natured humor to be found at a baseball game. Can you imagine such light-heartedness at, say, an NFL game? No, football is serious business! The Oriole player reaches third base, then the pitcher throws a ball in the dirt, which bounces out of the catcher’s glove, the guy on third breaks for home, the pitcher covers the plate, the catcher backhands a flip of the ball to the pitcher, who swipes it across the runner as he slides…. “safe!” signals the umpire, throwing his arms wide. I love the sudden drama of a baseball game. You’re just casually watching, nothing much going on, then—bam!—everything goes into high gear, 5-10 seconds of intense action. Unlike football or basketball, where the dramatic action is pretty continuous, baseball, for me, is more enjoyable because there are stretches of time when you can relax, look around, soak in the scene, anticipate the next pitch.

You also have a very good chance of leaving with a baseball when you go to a spring training game. Fans are always begging to be thrown a ball and players often oblige. If the right fielder catches a final out, he will practically always throw it to a fan lining the small stadium wall as he trots back to the dugout. When the first baseman throws the ball back to the dugout after he finishes tossing ground balls to warm up the infielders at the top of each inning, the player collecting it will probably throw it back into the stands, over the netting that protects the fans. Boys are especially blessed with baseballs, it seems. When a man catches a foul ball near me, he immediately signals to a nearby boy and gives it to him when he comes over, eliciting applause from nearby fans. And another fan shouts every time someone captures a foul ball: “Give it to a boy, give it to a boy!” He succeeds in shaming quite a few fans into giving up their hard-earned baseballs.

I have my moment of glory with a foul ball, too. It’s hit nearby and bounds off the cement right at me. I reach up with two hands, no one is trying to grab it from me, it’s spinning easily, piece of cake catch, I see it descend into my hands… and I flinch and it bounces off my hands and someone else scoops it up. I had it, it was right there, how could I blow it? For a moment I feel bad—I wanted that baseball! But I soon realize that I wouldn’t have kept it, I don’t need a baseball, and a kid gets it anyway, so what? I also realize that the fact that I had 3 x 5 notecards in one hand and pen in the other—I am taking notes for this column—probably has something to do with my fumbling the ball. But I also think with a smile about my days at second base in Little League, where I had made untold miscues on batted balls. Yep, still making errors, decades later! Some things never change.

The game ambles on and the time drifts by. The O’s turn a classic double-play, Tinkers to Evers to Chance-like. A batter breaks his bat and the pitcher ducks as half of it flies over his head. Chris Davis, the Orioles’ highly-paid first-baseman —something like $100 million for three years—earns some of his pay by blasting a homerun over the center field fence. How can a ball player be worth $100 million dollars? Then, again, how can CEO’s be worth the millions they are paid, even when their companies are losing money? But this is not the time to be unsettled by thoughts of income inequality. The O’s are winning, 4-1, it’s the top of the eighth inning, and we are getting closer to the real reason I have chosen to come to this particular game. Today is “Seniors Run The Bases” Day. Anyone over 60 gets to run the bases at the end of the game. I can’t wait. I have never been on a professional baseball diamond. This is going to be fun.

Then it happens, as it so often happens in a baseball game. The karma completely changes. Suddenly the Orioles can’t get anyone out. The Rays score a run, then another, and the score is soon tied. The manager brings in a relief pitcher and he gives up back-to-back homeruns. It’s 7-4, then 8-4. Another pitcher in, and they still can’t get the final out. How can it be that, batter after batter, you can’t get one more out? Especially since you’ve been leading all afternoon? This is one of the great unanswerable questions of baseball, one that, I muse, makes it a lot like life. Sometimes you just can’t find the answer, you just can’t get un-stuck.

What’s worse, the sky is getting very dark. The rain that was predicted seems to be on its way. Jim, Barb, and I decide to leave, the heck with running the bases, it’s not worth getting soaked. On the way out of the stadium, I watch the Rays score even more runs, until it’s 9-4 as we leave and the Orioles still haven’t gotten the final out. Barb and I reach the bushes and retrieve our umbrellas. Then the heavens open up. I mean, it rains not just cats and dogs, more like elephants and hippos. I am trying to protect Jim, who did not bring an umbrella, but mine is really only suited for one person. After a while, Jim gives up and simply plows ahead through the rain. Barb decides her socks and shoes are so wet she begins walking through puddles instead of around them. I think about the cost of trying to save that $10 parking fee by parking at the far-away CVS.

Finally, we reach the car. Fortunately, we have towels to place on the seats. A homeless person knocks on our window in the pouring rain and launches into some story about needing money to get somewhere—“What’s your cell phone number, I’ll call you when I get there and you can tell me where to send the money back?” Barb is too miserable to listen and gives her $10. So that’s where the parking fee ends up! At last they drop me off at aunt Anna’s house and I peel off my drenched clothes and jump in a deliciously warm shower. Once I’m in warm clothing with a drink in hand, I think back on the day. The home-team got clobbered, I got soaked, I didn’t get to run the bases and imagine I’m Jackie Robinson, I blew my chance at grabbing a foul ball. On the other hand, I saw double-plays, several homeruns, plays at the plate, met The Elephant Man, had a beer, and enjoyed several hours of stress-free fun. All in all, it was a great day. Of course it was, it was baseball!

CODA: As I left the stadium at the Orioles/Rays baseball game, I heard the announcer say that Seniors Run The Bases Day would be held at the game against the Pittsburgh Pirates. I made sure to be there. It was a sunny day, a bit brisk, but no rain. Jim and I joined at least 100 seniors as the Orioles mascot led us onto the baseball diamond. I took off running, not fast but slow enough to enjoy touching each base, making sure to step on it purposefully, especially home plate. Truth to tell, it was over much too fast. But, as with so much of my life loving baseball, I had the memories.

***

Granville Wyche Burgess is an Emmy-nominated playwright and novelist. He is the author of The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a novel about Shoeless Joe Jackson, to be published by Chickadee Prince in May, and which is available for pre-order on Kindle, and in paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and your local bookstore.

July 1 2018

On the Amish commitment to “simplicity of being”: A Conversation with Granville Wyche Burgess

Chickadee Prince Entertainment, Lifestyle amish fiction, amish lifestyle, amish romance, christian romance, granville burgess

Granville Wyche Burgess’s latest novel, Fork in the Crick, will be published September 15, 2018 by Chickadee Prince Books. It is available for pre-order right now, along with the first book, in paperback and Kindle from Amazon, and in paperback from Barnes and Noble, and your local bookstore.

Interviewed by CPB author Donna Levin

Donna: Fork in the Crick is your second in a series of novels set in Pennsylvania’s Lancaster County. Tell us how you came to write Amish fiction.

Granville: My wife, Reba Beeson, was raised on an Amish farm in Lancaster County, a farm we still visit at least once a month. In marrying outside her faith, Reba had to confront certain “challenges” from her family, and a few years ago her cousin Howard suggested we write up these challenges as a series of humorous family anecdotes. The stories just naturally morphed into an Amish romance, and, as we worked, we added a subplot of mystery and danger. The root of the series, however, is definitely autobiographical: a young man from South Carolina, like me, meets and falls in love with an Amish woman and together they struggle to follow their heart’s desire.

Does Reba read your drafts and give you input?

Yes! Reba tells me anecdotes about her life on her Amish farm, the meanings behind the coverings that Amish wear, the church services, recipes. She answers who drives a buggy and why some buggies are covered and others not and what it was like to harvest tobacco and how hay was put in the barns. She is my fountain of knowledge about Amish culture and faith, one from which I drink greedily and often.

One of Rebecca’s chief conflicts is over whether she can express herself as an artist through her talented quilt-making, but in the process risk committing the sin of pride. As an artist yourself, I doubt you consider pride in one’s artistic endeavors a sin, or even a mistake.

As an artist myself, it never occurred to me not to be proud of my art. The artistic ego is the engine that drives the artistic process. But the more I thought about it, the more I saw the beauty in the idea of not drawing attention to oneself, and to focus more on my thanks to God for having been given the gift of artistic expression. I think the Amish cautions about the sin of pride are very valuable because they help to keep the focus on the work, and not on the person who created the work.

There are hints that Rebecca’s love interest, Gregory, might have Amish roots. Can we predict that this couple will have to choose between the Amish life and the “English” world?

In my third book, they will definitely have to choose between the two worlds. I’m leaving open the possibility that the choice I think they will make now, before I begin writing, may not be the choice the characters actually make once I start writing and they take on a life of their own. Characters can really surprise the writers creating them.

Do you personally find the simplicity of Amish life attractive?

I admire very much the Amish commitment to simplicity of being. I have lived most of my adult life in the fast-paced Northeast, but I try as often as possible to get back into nature by taking a quiet walk in the woods, to go to church and find peace in prayer, to appreciate the pure taste of a vegetable grown in my own garden.

How do you envision the future of the Amish community in the age of globalization, when technology is a bigger part of our lives than ever?

When I go back to Reba’s farm, I see the Amish in the fields, I hear them speaking their Pennsylvania Dutch dialect, I watch the school children march happily by our window, and I tend not to worry so much. The Amish will always have their deep faith in God, and that will sustain in these globalized and tech-driven times.

You’re known for teleplays and stage plays. Why write a novel, and an Amish one at that, at this stage of your career? How has it been to shift from the play to the prose model?

It was a challenge and I love challenges, especially artistic ones. An Amish romance was a good fit for me because I am extremely romantic and I have an abiding faith in God. And it surprised me how easy is was to shift from dramatic to narrative writing. The words just flowed, I am happy to say. Of course, saying less is oh-so-much-harder than saying more.

You’ve had at least 10 plays and musicals produced, and they represent an extremely wide range of subjects. Why these far-reaching interests?

My writing simply reflects who I am. My mother loved Winnie-The-Pooh, so I adapted it to a musical. I was born and raised in South Carolina in the days of segregation, and I felt keenly the injustice of how African-Americans were denied the basic rights that I enjoyed, so I have written about this injustice. My next project is a play about Maine, because a friend of mine wants me to adapt her favorite book, and so I am going to challenge myself again by writing about something I know nothing about.

Tell us about one of your most acclaimed works, the musical Conrack.

It’s based on Pat Conroy’s memoir The Water Is Wide, about a white teacher who goes to teach on an island off the coast of South Carolina in 1969 only to discover that the children there have been terribly neglected. In fighting “the system” to get his kids the education they deserve, Conroy—called “Conrack” by the children—discovers his own path through life.

The original composer, Lee Pockriss, wrote 18 gold records, among them Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini. I wrote a musical with the composer of that classic? Wow! And when we presented it at Ford’s Theatre, then President George H.W. Bush came to see it with his wife and the Prime Minister of England and his wife. Another wow!

I have just finished directing it in Pat’s hometown of Beaufort, SC, and the people there loved it, including Pat’s immediate family. Pat’s widow gave me a closing-night gift that brought tears to my eyes: a ballpoint pen. Her card said: “This is one of the pens Pat wrote with. I only give them to very special people.” So you see, Conrack has brought me so many wonderful memories, as well as the incredible pleasure of seeing audiences respond so enthusiastically to my work.

When can we expect to see Book 3?

When the characters start writing it! I shall just have to trust that, when I sit down to write, God will speak and the words will flow.