Sneak Peek: Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood St.
My dad was between agents right now, exactly how and why not too clear in my head. But I knew agents were important from conversations I’d overheard my dad having with other writers. They talked about agents a lot, way more than the stories they were dreaming up. “How’s the novella going?” I said.
“It’s actually more of a memoir, but with a fictional interface, clearly distinguishable, of course.”
I failed, one hundred percent, to understand. My dad was a brilliant writer, had already published two books. The first one, All But the Shouting, had come out the year I was in kindergarten, and . . . what was the expression? Made a splash? So books that failed made no splash, just sank to the bottom? And books that succeeded made a splash and then sank to the bottom? My dad’s second book, published last year, was On/Off, a huge novel, over a thousand pages, that I’d heard him calling “kind of an experiment, in retrospect” on the phone not too long ago.
Memoir was about memories, right? “Memories of what, Dad?” I said.
He smiled. My dad had a very nice smile, except lately there’d been some question about tooth grinding in his sleep, and now he needed some implants. And wasn’t he supposed to go easy on those late-afternoon espressos?
“That’s what I’m working on now,” he said.
Welcome Johnny from Virginia, Lucy, Paula the hunter.
Tonight at 6, Spencer Quinn 0r possibly Peter Abrahams, but almost certainly not Albert Pujols, at the Courthouse Center for the Arts, 3481 Kingstown Rd., W. Kingston RI.
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