Refreshment.

It was a late evening in Spring when I first had occasion to visit what is now my favorite haunt. The night air was surprisingly warm and muggy, and a drink would come most appreciated. There was no sign, no neon entreaty to partake of this or that, not even a simple placard. The windows were not a place for advertisement of specials or events, but of concealment--which was an advertisement in itself. For when I had passed through the humble green door that was the only invitation to The Crow and Quill, I knew instantly--having never even been--that I had arrived at the right place.

I was delighted to find myself in another era, a lounge of a century past, with its walls of rough brick and Edwardian floral print, beautiful antique settees, broad wooden tables, all warmly lit by candles and fringed lamps. The sensation is more than superficial. It is a true gathering place for people to meet, discuss, and indulge in liquid refreshment.

To call The Crow and Quill a bar is to cast an impression that is decidedly false. The music is ambient, not endemic. The scene is genuine rather than kitsch. It is technically (and in a bygone era, ought to be called) a club. But that, too, has such modern connotations that are woefully inept at describing its essence. The most fitting appellation for this place is parlor.

The denizens are of every stripe--a true distillation of that local flavor that embodies Asheville so well, and yet something markedly different than the standard fare, illustrating progress need not be at the expense of decorum. For a place so newly minted, it is still difficult to inhabit without feeling a sense of history of the place. One gets the impression that the next great ideas and works of our generation--in literature, philosophy, journalism, politics--could and may well be born in this place.


The lifeblood of any parlor is its inebriants, and here The Crow and Quill does not disappoint. The alchemists at the bar (for what they do is nothing short of sorcery) will welcome your offer of “Surprise me”, and surprised you shall be. They were able to weave for us spirits and flavors as an embroiderer would cloth and thread, the culmination of which was a libation that transported the senses, not only across distance but time. My compatriots and I found ourselves in faraway Thailand, drifting along the canals of old Bangkok as we sipped the drinks before us. And though such magic may suggest that one would pay highly for these indulgences, it is a great surprise and delight to find that the prices are practically the best I’ve seen for such quality concoctions.

As the night waned and our conversations drifted through many and sundry topics, we settled into the plush chairs and lamented that not all cocktails could be so crafted, and not all lounges so inviting. But that lamentation would be for us easily hushed, instead the cry of less fortunate souls; we had The Crow and Quill.

Gratitude.

I'd like to offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to all who came to see us at 5 Walnut last night, and those who have offered their congratulations all the same. If any similar happenings should be on the horizon, I'll be sure to make their existence known here.

Until next time.

Publicity.

Hello, dear Readers. Should you be a follower of my doings (or at least my scribblings), and also a resident of my native city of Asheville, then it may interest you to know that I will be appearing at 5 Walnut Wine Bar, located at--conveniently enough--5 Walnut Street. I'll be there on the 19th of January, 6:00pm, flogging The Endlands with fellow contributor (and author of Progeny) Patrick C. Greene.

Students of graphology may be pleased to learn we will even be offering to sign copies of the works. Most everyone else should be pleased to learn there will be wine.

See you there, dear Readers.

Highlights.

Behold: I have been highlighted. Highlit? Whatever the conjugation, the article in question will undoubtedly speak for itself, so I shan't dilute it in a rehashing. The odds are strong that if you enjoy these scribblings, you will assuredly enjoy those scribblings.

So go forth and enjoy the authorial phosphorescence.

Until next time.

Progeny

I must preface this by stating it is not a review. You will find no literary critique herein, no philosophizing about the ways in which the novel in question relates to our fundamental understanding of human nature. It simply can’t be done, not by me. As the author’s son, I must of course recuse myself from any such notions of objectivity. But all propriety aside, I still would not be able to even attempt spying through the lens of objectivity when it comes to the novel Progeny.

So I throw that notion to the winds, and give you this full and unabashed view of my own subjectivity. This is nothing more than one man’s treatise on a profoundly personal connection with his father.

Much of my childhood resembles that of Chuck Sterling, and it hasn’t escaped me that these experiences perhaps informed much of the relationship between Owen and Chuck Sterling. They aren’t us, but rather like an overexposed picture of us from my childhood; it isn’t quite what we look like, but the resemblance is obvious. Still, while reading Progeny, I was transported to the times when I, too, would spend many weeks of Summer with my father in the mountains, and many of the interactions between these two characters are things I could easily see transpiring between a younger version of my father and I.

But more than simple events and memories, Progeny conjures feelings. I know that there is some measure of my father in this work, that he has conveyed feelings real and personal. There are passages that leapt out of the page right to me, the echo of my father’s voice, speaking to me, and they told very intimate fears. Not the fears of nature, or the unknown (as Progeny has in spades) but of his own fatherhood.

It is because of this sincere emotional weight that I believe the novel succeeds at the representation of its characters. I know that, if nothing else, it shines at showing a father’s love for his son.

My father has dedicated Progeny to me. If I can be said to have inspired this work, then I am deeply humbled.

This is an odd turning point for me, as I have always thought of my father as a writer, but--until now--not a novelist. Seeing his work shift from the screen to my own chosen medium has given me pause as I ponder what strange fate conspired to ensure that three generations of our line found their way into print. It is a legacy that I had not previously considered, and one that I am now both proud and awed to bear.

If my writing achieves any measure of success, it will be due in no small part to the strident and unyielding support of my father.

Happy Birthday, Dad, and thanks for everything.

Published.

It would appear, dear Readers, that some of my scribblings have made it to print. For that, I must thank my very gracious and helpful publishers at Hobbes End, and urge you to consider the other works of their many talented authors.

The path that led me to this point is not what I expected it to be, nor do I believe the path before me will turn out quite the way it seems at present. But with one story now in the ether, the only palpable obstacle to any greater feats is my own will. I suppose for any writer, that's really the truth of it all along, but it is a realization that is all the more compelling on this side of the submissions letter.

With such compulsion, I am resolved to produce further tales, such as the circumstances in which I find myself might allow. If news and apocrypha related to such matters is something that interests you, dear Readers, then might I suggest you allow not your attentions to stray far from this space?

Until next time.