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****Mike Burrell’s THE LAND OF GRACE is #105 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where
the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC)
focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction
writer wrote that specific excerpt. All INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links
are at the end of this piece.
Name of fiction work? And were there other
names you considered that you would like to share with us? My novel deals with a
religious cult founded on the worship of Elvis. I finally settled on The
Land of Grace because of the religious reference, the irony (there is
no grace in this land) and the setting inside a replica of Elvis’s Graceland. And,
you know, I had to call it something. Titles are tough. During the first draft,
I used That’s All Right, Mama as a
working title because of Elvis’s first hit, because he was a mama’s boy, and
the cult’s matriarch is known only as Mama. But the story outgrew that title.
Besides that title had already been used in Elvis fiction, and it obscured what
I was trying to say in the book. I also passed on The Passion of the King because it was so one-sided I felt as if I
were beating the reader across the head with a title. I am gratified by people
gleaning some commentary from the book, but essentially, I wanted to tell a
story
Fiction genre? Ex science fiction, short
story, fantasy novella, romance, drama, crime, plays, flash fiction,
historical, comedy, movie script, screenplay, etc. And how many pages long? Genre? I’d say satire if that’s an actual
genre. I never see it listed anywhere. Literary agents said they had a problem
with it because it seemed to be a cross between comedy and horror. It’s 253
pages in length.
Has this been published? And it is totally
fine if the answer is no. If yes, what publisher and what publication date? The Land of Grace was published by Livingston Press in
July, 2018.
What is the date you began writing this
piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of
fiction? When
I started writing this story is a harder question than it appears. I won’t go
into the weird inspiration for it. You can find it on my website. But I started
dabbling with this idea as a short story back in 2003. After it failed as a
short story, I picked it up as a thesis project in the MFA program at Queens
University of Charlotte in 2010. I pounded away on it for about a year and
produced around 120 pages. It was pretty good but not a publishable length. It
was more like a fairly well-written rough draft, looking for a purpose and an
ending.
It lay dormant in my hard-drive till 2015 when I was trying to
come up with a secondary submission for a workshop I was attending at Tinker
Mountain Writers Workshop. Maybe I’d learned something in all that time because
I saw the problem was my character. Once I chose Ol’ Doyle Brisendine from San
Angelo, Texas, I was hooked. I finished it sometime in 2016.
Behind me is a clunky teacher’s desk that my wife bought years
ago. I keep a notebook on that desk along with a cluster of pens and pencils big
enough to arm a schoolhouse full of scribblers. Sometimes I wheel around and
sketch out a scene or a character if the writing isn’t going well on the
computer screen. I haven’t smoked since 1986, but my pipes still rest on that
old desk. They are amazing dust magnets, but for some reason I find them
interesting.
The desk is flanked by a printer/fax/copy machine on the left and a barrister’s bookshelf on the right. Beside the bookshelf, on the other wall near the door is a closet where I keep some office supplies and a few items of clothing.
My only real extravagance in this room is my Herman Miller chair.
I figured if I’m going to spend a lot of time sitting, I might as well save my
back. But the real focal point in the room is the picture of me and my wife,
Debra over my writing area. It reminds me that even if I fail miserably and
make a complete fool out of myself, I’ll still have someone who loves me far
more that I’ll ever deserve.
What were your writing habits while
writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write
in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I usually write in the mornings,
beginning with reading the first two or three pages from the book. Then I read what
I’ve written the day before. Since I’m writing in the voice of the point of
view character, I may read it two or three times. If the point of view
character has changed, I’ll go back and make sure I’m consistent with the one
who’s doing the looking and thinking.
I compose directly into a laptop. Occasionally, I’ll turn around
to my desk and work on some stuff with a pencil.
While writing I drink a lot of black coffee. I’m not sure that’s
relevant because while I’m not writing, I drink a lot of black coffee. They say
Balzac (Above Left) drank 50 cups per day. I’m not up to his level of writing, but I’m at
least making a dent in the coffee drinking part.
Can you give the reader just enough
information for them to understand what is going on in the excerpt? This excerpt is
the beginning of the novel (pages 1,2, and 3). It finds my Elvis impersonating
protagonist, Doyle Brisendine at a crossroads in his life. As he’s waiting to
go on stage, while he’s performing, and after the show, he experiences a roller
coaster of emotions.
1
LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE
From
where he stood, backstage at the Willow Ruth AMVETS, the murmur of female
voices and the clamorous shuffling sounded like a pretty lively crowd swarming
into the club. And after a few minutes all the clapping and the foot-stomping,
accompanying the furious chant of “WE WANT ELVIS! WE WANT ELVIS!” had him
imagining a standing-room-only throng of rabid Elvis fans. It even ignited an
old, familiar spark down in his gut that he thought he’d lost somewhere on that
long road he’d been traveling.
“This
is why I do this,” he told himself under his breath. “By God, this is what gets
me up in the morning.”
As
if he’d recited some magical incantation, the memory of the latest string of
skimpy, unresponsive audiences across the plains of Kansas and Nebraska faded
into a mist. But when he drew back the musty stage curtain and peeked down on
all the white hair and wrinkled faces scattered over a dozen rows of metal
folding chairs, his sudden euphoria dissolved into the trickle of bile he felt
rising up in his throat. He washed down the bitter taste with a hard slug of
his Pepsi and wondered if this was what seven years of lugging his King of Kings
Elvis Tribute through
every little Walmart-raped town to-hell-and-gone had finally come down to:
senior night at the AMVETS.
“Well,
what the hell,” he said, shrugging. “It’s show time, and they got out of their
rocking chairs to see Elvis.” He crushed his Pepsi can, dropped it at his feet,
and cued his backing tracks with his remote. The club lights dimmed, the
overture to 2001:
A Space Odyssey swelled
through the room, and the unruly knot of old ladies fell as silent as
pallbearers. But as the overture segued into the “That’s All Right, Mama” vamp
they sounded like a cage of hungry animals about to be fed. When the curtain opened
and he walked onstage through a swirl of lights in the white Aloha jump suit
with the E-L-V-I-S sign flashing red behind him, turning while spreading out
his cape to let the spangled eagle on the back glitter like the Las Vegas
Strip, he felt as if he were in the middle of a prison break.
Except
for one old lady in a wheelchair, they all bounced out of their seats and
jammed in around the foot of the stage. A couple of the club’s employees tried
to get them to sit down but gave up when it looked as if they were going to
have a riot on their hands.
All
the excitement and the beat of “See, See Rider” kindled a firestorm inside of
him. Next, he kicked straight into “I Got a Woman,” already soaring on a hot
wave of senior hysteria.
Right
in the middle of his hunka, hunka move in “Burning Love” he experienced that
rare moment all the great entertainers speak of in whispered reverence; that
moment, often compared to lightning being captured in a bottle, when singer and
audience magically become one. And the magic stayed with him all the way to the
end, though one granny had thrown off his timing a little between “Teddy Bear”
and “Don’t be Cruel” by pulling up her dress and ashing her black panties.
If
anyone could tell his vocals had stumbled for half a minute, they didn’t show
it. All through his performance they stood, squealing at every wiggle of his
leg, every curl of his lip, sounding as feral as any mob of hormone-charged
teenage girls he’d ever heard.
As
the final notes of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” faded and he handed out the
last of his scarves, it dawned on him that the youngest one out there had to be
somebody’s great-grandmother. So getting laid was way out of the question. But
he figured that loss was more than compensated by knowing that these ladies
were the King’s contemporaries, the only audience that could appreciate a truly
artistic interpretation of Elvis’ persona.
While
taking his final bow to raucous screams and applause, he felt as if they had
given him the power to rise up from that drab little club and take his place
among all the stars in the galaxy. Before he could make his exit, one old
woman was ailing away to
swing her leg over the stage apron. Afraid she might fall, he bent over to help
her to her feet.
A
squad of AMVET employees jogged over to intercept the invader, but he waved
them off. She looked harmless enough, and from the way she tilted her head
back, he figured she was just excited from the concert and wanted a kiss. But
when he dipped down to give her a little thrill, she said in his ear, “You were
purty good out there, son. But you wouldn’t make a pimple on the King’s ass.”
Now,
he knew he wasn’t Elvis. Not really Elvis. Nobody had to tell him that. But as
he tossed back another cold Pepsi and rested his haunches on a ragged lawn
chair in what passed for a dressing room, he had to admit that the old woman
had kind of hurt his feelings. And it wasn’t so much what she said, although
that was bad enough, it was the trouble she went through to deliver her
message. He felt a sinking sensation accompanied by a wave of nausea as if he
were on an elevator that dropped a little faster than he expected. It was a
feeling he often had anytime he suspected he’d never be anybody but ol’ Doyle
Brisendine from San Angelo, Texas.
The
only thing left was for Mr. Parker, the club manager, to deliver the rest of
his fee. Dressed in jeans and a red and blue plaid sport shirt, with the Aloha
airing out on a rack behind him, Doyle waited. “What does that old bitch know,
anyway?” he snarled. “The rest of them liked me. Hell, they loved me.”
The
room was powdered in dust and carried the faint scent of a wet dog. The spotted
mirror in front of a cluttered table told him it had tried to be an actual
dressing room at one time. But all the broke-leg chairs and cracked table tops
piled in the corners made it look more like a storm-littered beach on Galveston
Bay.
He’d gone over the
graffiti on the walls a couple of times and didn’t find any of it very
interesting—just a few numbers to call for “a good time” and the names of a
some people who were “here” on various dates. The art work, mostly crudely
drawn genitalia, did have one sketch of a vagina that, to the best of Doyle’s
memory, looked like a pretty convincing representation of the real thing.
Something
written over the mirror caught his eye, but the lettering was too small to make
out from the chair. When he got close enough, he saw that the words were drawn
in such a fine calligraphy that he figured it must have taken its author a long
time to write. It declared simply, “If you’re reading this, you are standing in
the heart of my broken dream.” And it was that inscription along with the old
woman’s harsh assessment of his act when he exited the stage that made him wonder
if it was too late to go back home and take his uncle up on that grocery clerk
job at Albertsons.
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you
as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of
writing this specific excerpt? I
wanted to launch the story by tossing my
character right in the middle of the action. Right up front, the reader learns
that he’s an Elvis impersonator, waiting to go onstage. It’s revealed that he’s
from west Texas and that he’s been at this so long that it’s become drudgery.
While waiting, while performing, and while in the dressing room afterward, his
emotions range from enthusiasm to disappointment to euphoria to despair. This
emotional roller coaster rolls on through the first chapter until he lands in
the Graceland replica. The roller
coaster effect continues through the book, but it slows down a bit until the
end.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt
that you can share with us? I don’t keep deletions. I begin with a MS Word file and keep banging
away at it until it reads the way I want it. There were a lot of changes that I
made on my own. A substantial number of changes suggested by my wife, who’s an
amazing critical reader. Then several changes suggested by my publisher. I made
the changes or didn’t if I didn’t agree. I didn’t keep the uncorrected or
marked-up drafts. I can see where that might be instructive for someone. But it
gets kind of cluttered in my office, and I just recycle all the old pages.
Other works you have published. The
Land of Grace is my
first novel. I’ve published several short stories. One of them can be read
online at http://www.stilljournal.net/mike-burrell-fiction2018.php
Anything you would like to add? Only that I apologize for photos. I am
not a photographer.
I am a native
of DeKalb County, Alabama. I am a former criminal defense lawyer. I earned an
MFA in creative writing from Queens University of Charlotte. My short fiction
has appeared in: Still: The Journal;
Southern Humanities Review, The MacGuffin, and the Livingston Press
anthology, Climbing Mt. Cheaha: Emerging Alabama Writers. I live
in Birmingham, Alabama with my wife, Debra. The
Land of Grace is my first novel.
INSIDE THE EMOTION OF
FICTION links
001 11 15 2018 Nathaniel
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002 11 18 2018 Ed
Protzzel’s
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https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/11/98-inside-emotion-of-fiction-god.html
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/11/98-inside-emotion-of-fiction-god.html
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