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~ The hopes, dreams and random projects of author Stephen Roth

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Tag Archives: plot for pridemore

Georgia on My Mind

08 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in A Plot for Pridemore, my life

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atlanta, barnes & noble, columbus, fiction, foxtale book shoppe, georgia, lagrange, lagrange memorial library, mercer university press, plot for pridemore, Stephen Roth, woodstock

One thing I have learned in my three-plus months as a published author: sometimes things don’t work out exactly as you had planned.

PlotForPridemore (2)I was originally slated to speak about A Plot for Pridemore at the Georgia Literary Festival in Augusta on the weekend of November 7-9. Last week, I learned that the festival had been canceled for this year. This sent me scrambling to set up new gigs to fill up my weekend visit to Georgia.

Thanks to some understanding folks who were willing to work with me on just a few weeks’ notice, I have been able to pull together a few appearances in the Peach State:

At 6:30 p.m. on Saturday, Nov. 8, I will sign books and possibly do a reading from Pridemore at FoxTale Book Shoppe in Woodstock. FoxTale is one of the top independent bookstores in the Atlanta area, and has hosted many Mercer University Press authors over the years. I am thrilled that FoxTale is willing to fit me into its schedule on such short notice.

At 1 p.m. on Sunday, Nov. 9, I will be signing books at the Barnes & Noble in Columbus. This will not be a formal author appearance, but I will be in the bookstore’s coffee shop to meet with people and chat.

Finally, at 6 p.m. on Monday, Nov. 10, I will be speaking and signing books at the LaGrange Memorial Library as part of its “Author Talk” series. This is especially meaningful because it is the first author event I have done in my hometown of LaGrange. I am really looking forward to catching up with friends I haven’t seen in a few years.

So that’s the plan for my trip to Georgia next month. If you happen to be around those parts on that particular weekend, or know someone who is, I would appreciate some company at any of my scheduled appearances. Can’t wait to get down there!

Book Review: Modern Baptists

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in book review, fiction, Uncategorized

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confederacy of dunces, james wilcox, louisiana, modern baptists, plot for pridemore, reviews, southern fiction, Stephen Roth, tula springs

untitled (5)Poor Bobby Pickens. His doctor has diagnosed him with malignant cancer, his half-brother, F.X., has moved in after being been released from Angola Prison, and Bobby is in danger of losing his job as assistant manager at the Sonny Boy Bargain Store in Tula Springs, Louisiana.

If that doesn’t sound particularly funny, read on for a few pages and see why Bobby Pickens (or “Mr. Pickens” as he is usually addressed) might be the most amusing Southern anti-hero since Ignatius Reilly in Confederacy of Dunces. James Wilcox’s Modern Baptists is filled with small-town dreamers: the handsome and Hollywood-obsessed F.X., the stuck-up and leggy red-head Toinette, and the big-hearted and big-boned Burma, who is about to be married but can’t shake her longing for another man.

We see all of these characters through the very shallow lens of Mr. Pickens, a chubby, middle-aged man with a bad comb-over, several layers of self-pity, and an unfortunate talent for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. We follow him through one awkward social encounter after another. Bobby Pickens is like most of us on our worst days: unsteady, unkempt, self-conscious but yet hopelessly unaware of that piece of toilet paper sticking to the bottom of our shoe. That’s every day for Mr. Pickens, and it’s sometimes a wonder he can pick himself up from the plastic-covered love seat in his elderly mother’s house.

James Wilcox wrote Modern Baptists in the early 1980s, and many critics have hailed it as one of the finest novels you may not know about. GQ magazine’s 45th anniversary edition rated it as one of the best works of fiction in the past 45 years. It certainly must be one of the funniest. Wilcox has a dry delivery that lets you in on his characters’ flaws without being heavy-handed about it. Watching two residents of Tula Springs interact is like watching a chess match between a pair of barely sober checkers players. Each has a different agenda, and each is certain that he or she is achieving it. Yet Wilcox gives you just enough information to know that no one is winning much of anything. I haven’t laughed so hard reading a book in a long time.

Bobby Pickens suffers countless indignities. The other characters beat on him like a tetherball through most of the 239 pages. In one scene when Mr. Pickens kneels with another man to pray in a darkened bedroom, you cringe in anticipation of the embarrassment that is sure to come.

Through all the defeats, however, the main character of Modern Baptists carries on and maybe even earns a smidgeon of dignity along the way. If not a hero, he at least becomes someone you can root for. That is what makes Wilcox’s book a study in humanity as well as humor.

They Always Bring Food

08 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in fiction, humor, Uncategorized

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author, casseroles, death, family, fiction, food, insurance, marriage, mourning, plot for pridemore, Stephen Roth

images00YJIS6P

Cynthia had been gone less than a week when the casserole ladies starting showing up at Frank’s door.

Deborah Rhinehart was the first one. Frank had just dropped the last batch of relatives off at the airport and was looking forward to spending some time alone. Pulling onto the gravel drive, he spotted Deborah’s beige Chrysler New Yorker parked in front of his house. He thought about shifting into reverse and heading back into town, but it was too late. Deborah was already trotting toward his pickup, a deep glass dish brimming with chicken enchilada casserole in her hands.

“Frank, I am so sorry,” she said as he stepped out of the truck. “This was so sudden.”

Frank nodded, not knowing what to say. Cynthia had battled cancer for two long years. That didn’t seem very sudden to him. He knew Deborah meant well. She was a portly woman in her early 60s with a quick, gleaming smile. Her husband, Emmett, died of a heart attack six years ago. He collapsed behind the register of that liquor store his family had run for more than 60 years. A hell of a way to go.

“If you ever need someone to talk to about it, you know I’m a pretty good listener,” she said, offering up a cautious smile. “I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I think I have an idea.”
untitled (2)
“Thanks, Deborah. I really appreciate it.” He took the casserole, which was still warm, and gave her a half-hug with his free arm. He had no idea where he would put the dish. The refrigerator was crammed with food from four days of eating, drinking and reminiscing with family members after Cynthia’s funeral. He might just eat the casserole tonight. Enchiladas were not his favorite, but they smelled good.

His next visitor appeared the following day, a Wednesday. Sandy Richardson was a slender, emotional woman who did a lot of communicating with her hands. Frank knew the minute he opened his front screen door that Sandy would insist on coming into the house and having a chat. Frank took her green bean casserole, which he had sampled many times at church picnics and other gatherings, and set it on the kitchen countertop. He returned to the living room with two cups of Folger’s Black Silk Blend.

“Shit, Frank. I don’t know what to say,” Sandy said, already tearing up. “Cynthia was a great woman. A great woman. The service last week was just beautiful. She would have been so happy. She was so happy.”

Frank smiled and looked down at his coffee. He knew Sandy well. They even dated for a short while in high school until Sandy caught him at the Highway 65 Drive-In with Tamara Brewer and kicked out one of the tail lights on his Pontiac. That was a long time ago and it was a story both of them enjoyed retelling every once in a while. Still, Sandy was crazy as bat shit. Both Frank and Cynthia knew it, as did Sandy’s longtime husband Trent. He put up with her antics for four decades before finally keeling over a couple of years ago while changing a car tire. Folks said the massive stroke was due to Trent’s chain smoking, which was probably a symptom of his turbulent, up-and-down marriage.

“I just want you to know,” Sandy Richardson said, placing a well-manicured hand firmly on Frank’s knee (it almost looked like a claw). “I’m here for you. Always have been. Always will be.”
untitled (3)
After 30 more minutes of tears and sudden, unnerving laughter, Frank ushered Sandy out the door and returned to his newspaper. He had barely gotten through the business section where there was another knock on the door.

“Are you home, Frank?” He recognized the voice. He could curse himself for not shutting the front door.

“Hello, Brenda,” he said, smiling and lifting the massive dish of three-cheese lasagna from her hands. “You are too kind.”

She walked into the house without being asked, which was Brenda Fink’s typical way of operating.

“God, Frank, it is so dark in here,” she said.

“Well, Brenda,” he said, “I am in mourning.”

She cocked her head and fashioned a concerned look. “Oh honey, I know. I know she meant the world to you. I am so, so very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“That would be wonderful,” Brenda turned on a couple of lamps and picked up the scattered newspaper to make herself a place on the couch. She was a tall, athletic woman who liked to wear bright-colored lipstick and pencil skirts that accentuated her legs. Everyone at Frank’s insurance agency was a little bit afraid of Brenda Fink, who was the office manager. She was twice-divorced and childless, yet Frank and the staff often called Brenda “Mother” because that’s the role she played at the agency. She kept the books, hired and fired, maintained Frank’s calendar and led all other administrative functions while her boss spent time with his clients. She planned the office Christmas party, remembered everyone’s birthday, and brought in donuts and pulp-free orange juice every Friday.
untitled (4)
When Frank returned with the coffees, Brenda pulled a fat manila envelope from her pocketbook and plopped it on the coffee table.

“Sympathy cards,” she said. “I have another bag full of them at the office. I sorted through all of them and brought you the best ones.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, pulling out a greeting card with a water-colored rose on it.

“So when do you think you’ll be coming back?” she asked.

Frank tipped back his cup and took a sip. He had been thinking about that. Frank was 62 and didn’t want to run the agency much longer. He had always planned on retiring at 65, but Cynthia’s painful decline made him wonder if he wanted to wait even that long.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a week from now?”

“Brenda smiled. She was sitting across from Frank, cup and saucer balanced on her well-sculpted knees. She moved the coffee to a side table and leaned toward her boss, the little gold crucifix on her necklace dangling over her freckled chest.

“Frank, you take as long as you need.” She clasped both of her man-sized hands around one of his. “You know I’ll keep things ship-shape and in good working order while you’re gone.”

She rose, brushing lint from her skirt. “I take good care of you, don’t I, Frank?”

He picked up her cup and saucer, and shuffled into the kitchen. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon and he was still in his pajamas.

“You do, Brenda,” he said, dumping the cups into the sink with a considerable clank. “You’re top-notch.”

She smiled and nodded at Frank, turned on her orthopedic wedge heel and headed out the door.

He watched her cross the yard, rev up her car and speed off, a cloud of gravel dust in her wake. He closed the front door, locked it, then returned to the couch and his business section.

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Thru-hiking. Truck-driving. Miles.

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Deidra Alexander's Blog

I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.

Five More Minutes.....

I am a mother of five active, sometimes aggravating children that drive me crazy, provide me with lots of entertainment and remind me constantly about the value of love and family. I am married to my best friend. He makes me laugh every day (usually at myself). I love to eat, run, write, read and then eat again, run again…you get it. I am a children's author, having published four books with MeeGenuis (The Halloween Costume, When Santa Was Small, The Baseball Game, and The Great Adventure Brothers). I have had several pieces of writing published on Adoptive Families, Adoption Today, Brain Child, Scary Mommy, and Ten To Twenty Parenting. I am also a child psychologist, however I honestly think that I may have learned more from my parents and my children than I ever did in any book I read in graduate school. This blog is a place where I can gather my thoughts and my stories and share them with others. My writing is usually about kids and trying to see the world through their eyes, a few about parenting, adoption (one of my children is adopted) and some other random thoughts thrown in… I hope you enjoy them! So grab a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, depending on what time of day it is (or what kind of day it is) and take a few minutes to sit back, relax and read. Please add your comments or opinions, I know you must have something to say, and I would love to hear it. Thanks for stopping by. Anne Cavanaugh-Sawan

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