July 30, 2010 The truth was there before me from that first event at my local bookstore, when two devotees of a book they have never read—a man and a woman—got in a slugfest over who would be last to meet me, and the woman won. Somehow in the commotion, as the staff was ushering me out a side door, I knew in my heart that this was going to be a long book tour.
July 23, 2010 Killer Nashville began in 2006 when Clay Stafford, a Franklin-based writer and film producer, threw a conference together in about four months, given a last-minute boost by the attendance of bestselling suspense-author Carol Higgins Clark. Stafford soon had a successful series, the goal of most mystery writers, on his hands. Now an international affair, Killer Nashville still pulls in big names—this year’s guest of honor is Jeffery Deaver—and offers four tracks: writing, forensics, marketing, and a fan track for public book signings and author events, as well as a contest, the Claymore Dagger Award, to honor an unpublished work worthy of publication. Chapter 16 contributor Chris Scott gives an inside look at the conference, which this year will be held August 20-22.
June 28, 2010 It was a late winter day in February when Bruce and I were sitting in the Country Boy having lunch. Laura Weaver came in looking for Bruce and told him that it looked like a horse was down over at the Big Farm. Bruce is an old-timer himself, and he knew that people often mistook sleeping horses for sick or dead ones, but he also knew that Laura was a good judge of horses and was not apt to make a mistake. He was calm, but he looked worried.
June 17, 2010 My father is buried there, in the lovely and quiet hilltop cemetery at the end of the road, the Hedgecoth family cemetery with its guarding meadow of Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod. He has patiently lain for decades on his side of the big bed of which the gravestone is headboard. Overhead, fox and vole, wasp and cricket, perform the rote gestures and fatal spats for which nature programs them. Us. Moles bump their heads on his pillow. Roots embrace him, trying to reach his nutrients. I will be nutritious, too, some day.
June 11, 2010 It’s been nearly three years since I heard the eulogy, the hymns, and the loving testimony my father gave at my grandmother’s funeral. The first female Baptist minister in Dallas, her love knew no boundaries or obstacles. She simply followed God’s calling—registering the homeless to vote, working tirelessly to defeat George Bush—and she upset a lot of people at the time. Eventually she had to join the Methodist faith in order to preach from the pulpit. And while her sermons were always moving, it was the way she lived her life and loved indiscriminately that changed so many lives, including my own. It’s because of my grandmother that I have decided, at age 23, to undergo a preventative double mastectomy with reconstruction.
May 24, 2010 My daughter was born, grew, sat up, ate mush, and all the while I was happy with the books I’d carefully selected for her. Thalia, however, seemed not so terribly interested. I began to wonder if, horror of horrors, my squirmy kid was not going to like reading. But she grew some more, and I watched her reading enthusiasm grow, too. Only it was growing for books I didn’t choose—books I considered problematic.
