Why the villain?

397541_3076315628340_1277195365_3343239_2143172509_nWhy are the villains often so much more fun to write and so much more enjoyable to read about than our angels?

Consider John Milton’s dilemma—the most exciting parts of his great epic poem, Paradise Lost, all involve Satan, the Fallen Angel. Look at Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. When the Duke of Bilgewater and the Late Dauphin board the raft, we are almost midway through the novel (Chapter 19) and in dire need of some villainous chicanery.

The crime writer might say we thirst for justice, this after delivering chapters on chapters of delicious, glamorous evil. Now in the best of the noir genre, even the good guys, the protagonists of the stories are flawed and capable of making ruinous decisions and wreaking much havoc on those they should love and protect. How many times reading the great Daniel Woodrell’s Tomato Red do you say to yourself, “Sammy, no! This is a terrible idea!”

Maybe as writers we circle those questions that William Blake threw down so unforgettably in “The Tyger.”

Tyger, Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

The writer constructs a world, and the conventional reader hopes in that world the heroes will prevail, justice will be done, and the outcomes will be universally good. But then a world perfectly constructed does not at all mirror the world we know, and, maybe worse, a perfectly constructed world does not hold our interest. We want to circle the tiger. We want to know why she is there, and we want to understand how she can be so beautiful.

I have a critic and reader in my hometown, one I am beginning to trust above all others. (And add this to the almost impossible miracle of being able to say “I have a reader”—this reader is not another writer from an MFA program, but an actual reader of fiction by choice and for pleasure!) He was kind enough to read an early draft of The Teeth of the Souls due out from Moon City Press in March 2015. I was both frightened and pleased at once to hear my reader’s comment, “There’s no doubt about your bad guy in this one.”

CoverShotThat inspired me to make absolutely sure I knew my bad guy and write him more clearly. Once after enduring a really boring presentation made to a group of new state employees in Arkansas, I couldn’t help myself and asked the auditor and presenter what kept him coming to work each day. From what the auditor had said so far, I thought his lot in life crushingly, mortally dull. He smiled and eyed first me, and then the rest of us blushing new state employees with a palpable, joyous suspicion. “It never ceases to amaze me,” he said slowly, “how I can set up a series of safety checks, accountings the employee has to file, and then some criminal, creative someone will find a new, incredible way to outsmart me. Something I would never think to do with money and property. They outsmart me. They get away with it.” He paused and watched us all. “But only for a little while.”

I had to circle the villain one more time and ask all the old accounting questions again. This is the opening to the final section of chapters called “Easter 1906.”

    Book IV, Chapter 1

All around Springfield and Moon City, in buildings Archer Newman designed and built, he left himself a cubby, a flop, or a loft, and stayed silent on this deviation from printed plans. He trusted and used only three contractors, all matriculated as lads from the last days of masked riding, and they hung on Archer’s every word and vested his secrets like acolytes before Nikola Tesla. Buried in the real estate contract, the codicils describing dimensions, access, and ownership of these niches were sometimes overlooked by faraway or careless landlords. Careful readers of abstracts, usually hired attorneys, called these to attention, crossing out the strange descriptions and initialing alongside, or circling and flagging with a waxed sliver of ribbon. Then the transactions languished until buyers’ representatives could corner him. He smiled and said blandly, “Another purchaser can be found.” Never did he telegraph, write, or telephone so that outside the abstract—eventually tucked away in the courthouse, which like so many in the Ozarks might any day burn to cinders—no other written record of these spaces came to light. On the surface, it would seem easier for him to retain ownership of a building and do as he pleased with all its square footage. But then others might readily find him and he might be held responsible to someone! In this way Archer Newman retained many options of ducking complications or making liaisons on the quiet, such as today’s with the rowdy agitator, the blacksmith Doss Galbraith, who hated the Negro and held many potentially useful opinions.

Archer waited in one of his favorite of these nooks, in a foreclosed building between Moon City and Springfield, The Chesapeake it was called, one of the owner’s many follies. The confusing, irrefutable, and infungible presence of Archer’s anomalous walk up on the far northeast corner of the four story brick building ground a bank sale of the property to a halt. When the bank failed soon after, the Chesapeake became just one more empty shell following the 1901 panic.

His favorite smell, as it preceded a system in collapse—the agitated, cordite-like unseen fire of blocked rotors humming in a St. Louis electric motor. At the Chesapeake, Archer kept a veritable museum of electric engines, specimens ranging back to Farraday’s Mercury Rotator, Double Barlow Wheels, a Sturgeon’s Interrupter, and forward to Tesla’s Coil and Edison’s Rotors. On oak work tables the zinc electrodes, copper coils, rotators, stators, and commutators ensnared one another in hedgerows of experimental brush.

His favorite sound—the low moan of the wind caused by a window not properly framed, never completely to be shut. Winter wind circulated furiously against an ell he created in the Chesapeake. His favorite sound because when the North wind hit at anything above ten miles per hour, that skewed window moaned like Aureole the night he first discovered her. A whore in Providence. Some sailor had beaten her unconscious. Archer watched the assault from a closet where he had crawled in to sleep off the brothel’s dreadful gin. With scientific detachment, he witnessed the Briton gag then pound her and stumble away. Fascinated—this would be the first human he witnessed in the act of dying—he observed her rib cage rise and fall and then diminish. Such a waste, she bore high, round cheekbones, a doll-like face, tremendous breasts, and now she would die. A pity. But after an hour of insensibility, she used both palms to push herself off the hard-swept puncheons. Scanning around with wet, brown eyes, she realized she was not in Heaven, not dead. And, naked and beaten, seeing where life had at last taken her, she made the terrible low, winter moan coming from the window now.

His favorite sight—out the window near Fassnight Creek clung a forest copse on undeveloped land that still retained the wild look of the Ozarks woods. And, even now in winter, staring deep into the tangle of oak and hickory and cedar and poison ivy and sumac and creeper to the shadowed point that from chaos truly formed the wode brought his mind’s eye closer and closer to that moment of blank, black void where there was no one and nothing but only his own mighty, whirling, vicious conceptions.

In every of his secreted cubbies across Springfield, he kept two trunks beneath the panels of the floor or resting upon deal wood nailed between rafters in the attics. In each trunk two locked compartments. In the compartment oriented northeast, patents of which he proudly held several, other pending or failed patent applications, journals, sketches, drawings, and plans. In the compartment facing southeast, a duplicate set to the undiscerning eye, but, upon close inspection, falsehoods, flaws, fatal turns, mercury added befouling formulas.

His least favorite sight now came into the window that looked out on Fassnight. He reached to turn down and then extinguish the lamp. Leighton Shea and Gustasson Morkan strolled West Grand in clear, exultant communion, the father guiding the son in some matter, the son absorbing, relating back, and delighting Archer’s aging rival. In the dark of his warren, Archer brooded on their promenade—were they meeting with Phenix Lime and colluding; where were they strolling? How had fate dealt him three unmarried daughters that floated like swollen airships from room to room, from bakery to café to dinner club to church then weeping to the confectionary with no callers or prospects? He had, after all, rescued a whore from sure death and an unmarked grave! O, to grip a son’s shoulder with that exuberance and point to some future that was his, that was theirs together, the power of the gesture mightier than a standing wave in the lee of a mountain! And not just one son, but two, the secret son Archer knew in the Negro Holofernes Lovell. Bundled like a deadhead against the chill of the otherwise abandoned Chesapeake, he did not register the St. Louis motor’s final kick at the screwdriver he had jammed in it. And in the ascent of the Morkans along Grand, he could not relish the rise of smoke and valence from the cataclysm he had made of a perfectly sound little system.

When he heard boots scraping the stairs, he wondered how often Doss Galbraith had thought of Leighton Shea Morkan, who loved the Negro race so well.

Cats2 (2)I would love to quote feline jazz philosopher/poet Thomas O’Malley here, but I know how jealously his parent company guards his lyrics and wisdom, even though I doubt that alley cat was much of a company man at heart.

At a sales reps’ meeting in New York City, the last of the December meetings I believe, I concluded the presentation of University Press of Mississippi’s list and was gathering up my gear. Bruce Joshua Miller, UPM’s Midwest sales representative, lingered at the conference table, and began talking buoyantly about a book he was going to edit for Minnesota Historical Society Press. “It’s about research and writing and maybe the value of non-digital research, interviews, archives, libraries. I have a lot of discretion.”

Right after I make an hour-long presentation, I am not always at my best. Dizzy, spent, dry of mouth, sopping at the brow… I hope my reaction was kind and congratulatory, but… I may well have said, “Who’s gonna wanna read that?”

Whatever I said, Bruce pressed on (he’s really great at that). For this book he was planning, he wanted me to write an essay about the research it to took to create Morkan’s Quarry: A Novel.

Here’s the thing about Bruce. Everybody who cares about literature in Missouri, about books in Missouri, about Missouri’s story and who tells it, owes Bruce whatever he asks. In an unforgettable fight, he and author Ned Stuckey-French saved University of Missouri Press from being shuttered. You can trace much of what they did at the Save the University of Missouri Press Facebook page. If Bruce asks, I answer.

Subtext3And I’m really glad I did. Below are two videos/vimeos from likely the largest gathering there ever will be of the contributors to the resultant book that Bruce edited, Curiosity’s Cats: Writers on Research. These were filmed from a stationary KODAK touchcam at St. Paul’s SubText Book Shop, which filled with sixty-plus people, a larger crowd than I have seen at many a book signing. Bruce was exactly right: people need a book that affirms the magic of research beyond The Google. Below are two videos shot by my wife, Tamara Gebhart Yates, who traveled the many miles to St. Paul with me.

The first video is of the five contributors reading three-minute excerpts from their essays.

The second is the lively question and answer that followed.


In the story, it all happened in the Ozark Mountain country,
many miles from what we of the city call civilization.
In life, it has all happened many, many times before,
in many, many places. The two trails lead afar.
The story, so very old, is still in the telling.

—Harold Bell Wright, The Shepherd of the Hills

CoverShotThat’s how The Teeth of the Souls could have opened. Sequel to Morkan’s Quarry and due from Moon City Press in March of 2015, The Teeth of the Souls: A Novel has four sections or “Books.” Book 1: I Dream You; Book 2: The Curtain of the Future World; Book 3: How Merry Are We; Book 4: Easter 1906.

Previous to final editing, each of these “Books” started with a quote from something that had inspired me on the long road to writing and publishing The Teeth of the Souls. I started writing it in 1994! And originally there was not going to be a Morkan’s Quarry. There was going to be one giant novel called “The Teeth of the Souls,” an opus maximus like The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All or Soldier of the Great War or Dog Years. Thankfully there arose a chorus of voices that intoned, “DUMB DUMB DUMB DUMB!” (sung to the theme song of Dragnet).

There have been so many revisions along the way. And so many tricks I played on myself to make sure that storylines had a chance to tighten and became more intense and interesting. The Teeth of the Souls is the story of a marriage that was a lie and a lie that became a marriage. It spans the years 1865 to 1906 in my hometown of Springfield, Missouri. Almost as much had to be written as had to be shed.

Four quotes stuck with me, and yet in the end stuck out from the manuscript like big pinfeathers. One was a quote from Vance Randolph about lucky stones and nightmares, one was a favorite sentence of mine from Donald Harington’s The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks, another was a quote from that heartbreaking essay Mark Twain wrote after the 1904 lynching in Pierce City, Missouri, “The United States of Lyncherdom.” And one, right smack at the beginning, was the quote above from arguably the first and most famous fiction ever written about the Ozarks.

Why do writers stick quotes from other writers in their books? Sometimes, especially in historical fiction, multiple quotes at the beginnings of chapters clutter the works, violently, archly interrupt the seamless dream, and actually put an intimidating distance between the storytelling and the reader.

Quotes at the start of each chapter can read like a plea: “I swear to you I read all this arcane stuff! I did my research, I promise!” Or the quotes can sound like the writer protesteth too much: “This hugely unlikely circumstance really happened, I swear, I swear! See, here! Some old Colonel wrote about it!” Or, worst of all, quotes can be perceived as the writer saying to the reader, “I read all this stuff; I am so smart. Kneel before my brain shines!”

Ugh. And so I ditched those four pin feathers to deliver unto the reader four meaty and clarified servings instead.

I was surprised and gladdened when the editors at Moon City put up a fight to keep the quote above. These quotes, once I had severed them in my heart from The Teeth of the Souls, came to mean for me only private lights, small votives that lit a personal path. But one editor protested, the quote from “Wright is so, well, right” where it is in the manuscript.

That editor saw some flickers of what I felt then in the light of that votive. The story of the marriage that was a lie and the lie that became a marriage begins in Book 1 I Dream You. Happily in the case of more than one of the lost quotes, some character in the book says them aloud anyway. Judith, struggling with Leighton’s pending marriage plans, says to him, “I used to dream about you when you was at the war. I dream you through fires and bullets and mens that came running towards you. They part and turn like birds at a steeple in my dream.”

And it was the commencement of this dual story that made those four sentences from Wright stay with me. “In the story, it all happened in the Ozark Mountain country, many miles from what we of the city call civilization. In life, it has all happened many, many times before, in many, many places. The two trails lead afar. The story, so very old, is still in the telling.”

I will confess, I have a lot of trouble appreciating The Shepherd of the Hills. In my first year at the writing program in Arkansas I forced myself to read it—I was home in Springfield to get my wisdom teeth out. High on hydrocodone and diet coke, I wrote the part of Morkan’s Quarry that was published in the Ontario Review, where Leighton with Looney’s Home Guards travel the White Hills to hunt Sam Davies and end up killing “men of no renown whatsoever.” And I read The Shepherd of the Hills, in which all the killing, the main climax of the novel, happens while the protagonist (or at least the current point-of-view character, the person the story should be about) has fainted.

I figured you could not be a writer of the Ozarks without confronting this book. And along with St. Augustine’s City of God, Plato’s Republic, Marx’s Das Kapital, Duane G. Meyers’ The Heritage of Missouri, and Njal’s Saga, The Shepherd of the Hills was indeed a prominent book on the family shelf.

Published in 1907 The Shepherd of the Hills was Harold Bell Wright’s second fiction, and it was among the first American novels to sell over one million copies. If the stats at Gerry Chudleigh’s very thorough website about Wright are to be believed, The Shepherd transformed Harold Bell Wright into the Nicholas Sparks of his day, a writer with that magic-touch ability to thrill, move, and entertain a mass of readers while making his fiction conform to all the comfortable values and sentiments current in the mainstream. Charming, heartwarming, tear-jerking, sometimes thrilling, but never challenging to commonly held sentiments and sturdy beliefs, The Shepherd of the Hills was prototype of a kind of mass consumable American novel. And there is nothing in the world wrong with what me and a bookseller friend from Mississippi coined as “Cozy Comfort Fiction,” which is I think the most apt description of this ultra-portable, non-threatening genre. That I can’t get a kick out of it doesn’t mean a thing. Too bad for me.

But in The Shepherd of the Hills Harold Bell Wright achieved something beyond what Nicholas Sparks or Olive Ann Burns or Robert James Waller have ever created, something that few writers of Cozy Comfort Fiction ever manage to do. Wright, who was neither native nor from the Ozarks, left in the wake of his book a pious Western mountain ethos and a lasting log-cabin and overalls industry to those of us who are both native and from. In many ways Old Matt and crew gave the world its first handle on the Ozarks, a region which previously cast no substantial figure in the national imagination aside from lead mines and headlines of Balkanized, internecine killings. Even today a handy meme map of the nation had its cartoon determination of us Ozarkers as “NO IDEA.”

The sturdy, courageous yeoman Hillbilly, in many ways that we Ozarkers still have to deal with, was born in Wright’s pages. Vehicles as divergent as an outdoor play and the “Vigilante Zip Rider” both draw upon, maintain, and project the power of this old novel.

I can think of only a few other mass-consumed fictions that so permanently fashioned the broader world’s image of one place or region. Forks, Washington, may one day find there is a twilight to the bloodsucking, undead legacy currently feeding like a lamprey on its ferny forests and Spartan high school. But more than a century later, Wright has in the Ozarks living carriers and advocates of his metaphor, ambassadors that continue to stamp all of us hillbillies even if his actual novel is no longer read by anyone but writer/scholars newly missing their wisdom teeth and jazzed on codeine.

So there’s the now lost quote, curled on the editing floor, one of the most interesting sections of that Wright novel that marked this Ozarks forever, and certainly the one riff of his that stuck with me. Of course, excising this quote does not mean I’ll never confront (or embrace) Wright and his legacy again. The story, so very old, is still in the telling.


This is the front cover to The Teeth of the Souls, sequel to Morkan’s Quarry and forthcoming from Moon City Press in March 2015.

            The front cover art comes from a photographer I have long watched and admired, Springfield, Missouri’s Jeffrey Sweet. The cover is a detail from a really spectacular photograph Jeff took one morning out at Lake Springfield when early light was searing off bare trees in that wintry transition between water and ice. With recent weather in the Ozarks, my parents and friends back home may know this winter light all too well this past year.

            I spotted the photograph when Jeff had turned to blogging. Jeff runs Jeffrey Sweet Photography. In the lull during the recession, Jeff wisely started a photography blog, sharing tips, techniques, and insights about taking photographs. These blog posts were irresistible to amateur/moron shutterbugs like me. In one post Jeff featured this photograph as an example of practicing texture.

Jeffrey Sweet Photography: Nature &emdash;

            I knew the photograph meant way more than a mere practice shot taken to learn texture as a technique. And Jeff immediately knew which photograph I was talking about when I visited him in December of 2013 at what was briefly his home studio in Nixa.

            Wode, wood, and woods. These words for a wilderness are all related in ways that we have only recently shunted aside. On the whole, even the profoundly suburban among us tend to look on all wilderness with a post-Teddy Roosevelt glow. The wilderness is a semi-sacred place to be conserved, revered, and protected. A place to return to, to be rejuvenated by. We now carve out nature centers to tap what we believe is an ancient connection to the wild.

            But within living memory, many of us can recall relatives who thought very differently about the wild. My grandfather, Roma Yates, a tenant farmer from Dallas County, Missouri, actively loathed cedar and hackberry trees. To Roma, a dense stand of hardwoods had a value once cut, milled, the lumber sold, and the ground beneath them tilled, planted, and a crop harvested. That was the rational answer to the madness and chaos of a wood. There were also practical considerations about the woods. The wilderness contained bobcats in my father’s lifetime and cougar in grandfather’s memory. Even my father can recall the disturbance to the home after hearing the scream of what had to be one of the last cougars in the Ozarks, and all three brothers kept ready the story of the axe at the door—The Yates’s did not own guns. The woods were far more wild to my grandfather than they ever will be to me.

            Roma’s conception of wilderness was more near the meanings of wode and wood that come up in The Teeth of the Souls. In the sequel to Morkan’s Quarry, Leighton Morkan and his companion Judith negotiate the vigilantism that reigned in the Ozarks after the Civil War. Many times characters reflect upon the wode, the madness of the anti-horse thief committees, which often quickly devolved into vendetta and greed and had more to do with power than law and order. Shane Peale, Leighton’s old buddy from the Home Guards days of fighting and shirking bushwhackers, chides his tainted pal: “We about let it all get away from us again here, Leighton. Almost let it all slide back into that ole wode. Riding, avenge, revenge. No God but Death.”

            That’s what I saw in Jeff’s photograph, that old wode, golden and shining like the gilded age that arises in The Teeth of the Souls, but also mad and treacherous.

            Getting permission to use Jeffrey’s art as the cover to my own attempt at art represents a tremendous circle back, one that I find really inspiring. In the summer of 1987, Jeffrey (bass) and Erin Mayfield (drums and vocals) and I (guitar and vocals) started a basement band we called The Resonators. Ah, we were doomed by the usual clashes of young men trying to make original rock music—I thought the most important thing we could possibly do was finish a six or seven song demo tape on Erin’s four-track Fostex, thus making and selling art; Erin thought that was madness and that the most important goal was to practice until we had a marketable set and then play live and score girls. Looking back, I have a strong feeling Erin may have been right, or at least that he was surely the sanest of us.


            But Jeff, playing the bass, stuck with me, and together we learned a lot about recording and making music. We finished the demo tape, and even manufactured some with cover art. And Jeff stuck with me while we flailed around trying to find a new front man. Neither of us could really sing, months of trying people who would never work out. By that time, poor Erin was rightfully infuriated. I had borrowed his Fostex long enough to consider the loan to be an outright theft, and then I think I even lost the instruction manual to it. Ugh, I am so sorry, Erin. Obsessed, determined, I was also criminal.

            Yet, guilt aside, Jeff and Erin and I (along with some drumming and advice from Jeff McNabb and Tony Nimmo) had created something that was not previously in the world. We had something to hand people, though admittedly not many people latched on to it, to hand people and say, Here, this is us. This is what we make. And even though neither of us can find the demo anywhere—we called it “Chasing a Big Coyote,” after some crazy Native American book I was absorbing—there was still that notion of success: we tried to make art together, and we did in the end make something. The one showed at left was uncovered by Facebook friend Lisa Wagner Haefner. Thanks, Lisa!

            I tried really hard to tie Jeff down for the cover art for Morkan’s Quarry, and then again for the cover art to Some Kinds of Love: Stories. But busy photographers are REALLY hard to tie down. So I was thrilled that he said yes, and then later approved the designer’s use of a detail from his larger photograph.


            There it is finally. Circle back and we are about to make something together again. While it won’t be any blockbuster (it’s a literary novel about some really hard times in Springfield; get a grip!), it will reach more people for sure than did “Chasing a Big Coyote.” How do I know that? Trust me on the sales projection here.

            I’m pretty sure Jeff and I were meant to attempt art together, and now clearly more than once. We just didn’t know then what we know now. And we weren’t yet who we were meant to be. Thanks, Jeffrey Sweet. This cover song is ours now.




On the northern border of Springfield, Missouri, there once was a great house surrounded by emerald woods, lake, and meadow, a home place and farm that, to the lasting sorrow of its owners and heirs, acquired a nonsensical legend marring all memory of its glory days. The estate became known and is still known, if it is remembered at all, as The Albino Farm.

Hettienne Sheehy marked that summer of 1946 on The Old Sheehy Place with unfamiliar anxiety. All her summer visits here had been golden, and this one especially should be—she was thirteen, a World War had just ended in victory, all her uncles and aunts and cousins were quarrelsome and safe on the farm. Yet beneath the tan sunlight lancing through wide-flung windows, something was breaking open, she could feel it, like the rupture of peeling skin beneath which shined startling, white flesh.

At the oak table in the library, the three Sheehy brothers hung on every bit of news Hettienne’s father released about the closing of the Office of Price Administration and what that could mean for wheat and oats. Uncle Simon, Uncle James, and her father, John, were so tall their chairs and tumblers appeared miniaturized. The three brothers seemed carved of the same tree. Their blocky hands overflowed their knees. When resting, their small mouths perched in sated but flat smiles on their square faces, which were all three topped with full, reddish-brown hair. Hettienne imagined them as rough children Picasso might have painted in cubes and earth tones. Fashioning them in that Spaniard’s brute light brought something of Chicago here to the Ozarks and calmed her.

On this summer stay at The Old Sheehy Place it was becoming obvious how she was the only child to bear the last name Sheehy. Those men scheming at the table, the acres of forest, lakes, and fields of wheat and oats, even the storied glory of Emerald Park tacked a kind of claiming tag on her. It might be that the joyous sprint of her childhood was nearing its end. On the train down from Chicago, her mother had used the term “young lady” so frequently that even her father had rolled his eyes.

The heart-shaped face of cousin Johanna Ormond loomed toward her now with urgency. Seven of Auntie Kate Sheehy Ormond’s eight kids surrounded Hettienne on the library couch and grew loud and insistent. Waiting for supper, her Ormond cousins wanted a story told. They chiefly cajoled David Ormond, Hettienne’s favorite and the eldest.

“Nineteen ships blowed up by one bomb!” Hal held a finger up then spiraled it downward. “Spooky decks! Two sailors abandoned to fate! Tell that, David.”

“Flying Saucers!” Brent pounded his thighs with his fists.

Both David and Hettienne wondered why it was so often David Ormond asked to tell stories. He wasn’t particularly gifted at storytelling, and his Ozarks accent made even tear jerkers seem like comedy to Hettienne.

“Flying Saucers. Really?” Johanna grunted. “And who cares a red cent what Harry Truman blew up in The Middle of Nowhere Atoll?! I want a story with a Celtic princess. A castle besieged. A mysterious white knight from far off lands.” She reached out her freckled arms and round fingers. “Hettienne, tell a tale of olden days, please, please?” Johanna was a year older than Hettienne, and was never comfortable with the special attention and doting heaped on her Chicago cousin. Hettienne watched her closely.

On the big sofa in the midst of the library Hettienne had drawn her long legs up to her. Surrounded by her Ormond cousins, she seemed to David Ormond like a sparkling white vein of quartz embedded in dull, red chert. Now that she was thirteen, though, something strange was come over her. Those blue Sheehy eyes watched Cousin Johanna as if the Ormond girl were a foreigner. Instead of clasping Johanna’s hand and starting on a legend about castles of yore, Hettienne stretched out her thin fingers. In the mote-strewn sunlight of the library, they were a pearl’s white. She hovered at but did not touch Johanna’s palm with her fingertips, while her long face fell into a strange, slack-jawed gape David had seen on the faces of Aunts Agnes and Helen when they dozed. It was not the Sheehy family’s most pleasant aspect. On Hettienne’s normally poised face, the expression proved unsettling. Her silence continued until the Ormond siblings glanced at one another. Then Johanna, usually bullish, jerked her hand back as if it had met ice.

“Hettienne?” David whispered.

Her father, John, stood. The men at the table quietened.

Hettienne’s face lost its slackness at David’s voice. “It is…” But then she halted like a locked engine, an excruciating pause. John moved quickly to stand behind the sofa and be nearest his daughter. “Tell about Emerald Park, David,” she gasped at last, as if she had surfaced from deep under the lake. “How all Springfield loved to come. Everyone likes that olden day’s story. Please. Tell that, David.”

* * *

It was Hettienne that the Sheehy’s worried most about. The young girl had been vigorous, giddy, with fine and flowing blonde hair and symmetrical if very long proportions and a penchant for any game that involved running and screaming. But in her thirteenth summer she suddenly exhibited episodes of catatonia, somnambulism, and jags of mystifying talk. Lost in these fits, Hettienne saw what was coming for the family—a chaos, a curse, the legend that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

From the moment she stepped down from the train, it was clear to Aunt Helen and Cousin David that she had transformed. She had certainly experienced some of the Sheehy’s predictable growth spurt. But from the way she accepted the conductor’s hand, surveyed the North Town train station, signaled to and thanked the porters, then strode to Aunt Helen and David Ormond ahead of her mother and father, she seemed to have sidestepped awkwardness and retained an athletic poise. In her white and flawless skin, in the hint of muscle at her shoulders and forearms, in the sure movement of this stately girl both Cousin David and Aunt Helen could project a stunning, tall woman soon to be. How disturbing, then, that an outward grace would house such an inward turmoil.

Among the Sheehy’s, children had become a treasure not to be spent. Of four daughters of the family founder, Mike Sheehy, only Kate wed, early and verging on scandal and to an Ormond, a sheet metal worker and volunteer fireman. Adding insults to injuries, Kate’s marriage proved exasperatingly productive—nine live births, eight living children, all of them thoroughly Ormond’s. Of the three sons of the late Mike Sheehy, only John, Hettienne’s father, married. He promptly removed from Springfield, Missouri, to Chicago. But that union produced only one child, Hettienne, to keep the Sheehy name alive.

Once Old Mike died, Uncle Simon Sheehy ran the farm and household. Sticking with tradition, every one of Simon’s nine nieces and nephews returned to the twelve-room sprawl of the farmhouse at Emerald Park for the long summer visit.

But on the Eve of the Feast Day of Saint Maelmuire O’Gorman, the teen Hettienne lost all connection with the activities around her. Amidst preparations for fireworks at the lake and plates of food steaming from the kitchen, she froze stock still like a rambler who has mistaken a shadow for a serpent.

Then at dinner, her eyes capsized into a void. She stared so long in torpor at Cousin Lilliana Ormond that the toddler plunked her cornbread into her milk bowl, pointed, then wailed. When Hettienne did not relent, the toddler grew hysterical. The rest of the dinner table hushed. Bolting up like flushed quail, Agnes, Margaret, and Helen, the three spinster aunts, murmured urgently.

Simon stepped behind Hettienne and placed both of his broad, knotted hands on her shoulders. Everyone halted. “All of you, help Agnes clear,” Simon said firmly. “Dinner has ended. Children are excused.”

Wide-eyed, they cleared rapidly, aunts whispering sharp instructions. At last it was just Uncle Simon, Uncle James, and her father and mother with Hettienne. Tears of embarrassment streamed down her cheeks, silvered droplets wetting her white-collared blouse so her pale flesh now showed there in oval washes. She made no move to wipe her tears, but stared straight forward at the empty tablecloth.

“Child,” said Simon, “tell me that you know where you are.”

Hettienne swallowed. So much was expected of her all the time. She looked at her Uncle Simon coldly. Then, still with a trace of that daze, she droned like a sleepy young man reciting at the schoolhouse: “Up the Aerie Mountain, down the shady glen, / We daren’t go a’huntin’ for fear of opal men.”

At the long cherry wood table decorated with its red, white, and blue table cloth, for a long time the only sound was the simmering hiss of the wind passing through the wands and leaves of the three willows that sheltered the house.

“Sídhe,” Simon whispered. “You have taught her the old legends, John?” he asked, his voice hinting at approval, one hand now stroking the poor girl’s head. Blonde, straight hair, from her mother, the first Sheehy ever to carry such a head of hair.

“I don’t know what she means. It’s 1946. I’m not trying to make her more Irish.”

Simon frowned. “She has read that poem somewhere, then?”

“She’s a very popular girl at Our Lady of the Angels,” her mother inserted. “No time for silly, blaspheming books. Tell your uncle, Hettienne!”

When Hettienne did not answer, her father stepped forward and held a hand out to her. She took it and rose from her chair. “She has been speaking in rhymes lately. Losing her concentration. Day dreaming.” Turning, he pointed at her mother. “Once we are back in Chicago, Mother will get her to a doctor.”

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Curiosity’s Cats: Writers on Research

Edited by Bruce Joshua Miller


“Each morning I would strike out for this temple of learning in the crisp autumn air . . . with a sense of purpose and the conviction that this was where I belonged.”—Marilyn Stasio from Your Research—or Your Life

            Inspired partly by Richard Altick’s The Scholar Adventurers, the fourteen writers in Curiosity’s Cats offer powerful arguments for the value of hands-on research, be it chasing documents, cracking mysteries, interviewing long-lost subjects, or visiting exotic and not-so-exotic locales.

Available from Minnesota Historical Society Press and better bookstores in April 2014





            Bruce Joshua Miller



Stay Here as Long as You Like

            Ali Selim


Ali Selim is a writer and director of television commercials, documentaries, music videos, and the Independent Spirit Award–winning film Sweet Land, named one of the Ten Best Films of 2006 by over a dozen critics. Recently, he has directed episodic television for HBO and CBS. A native Minnesotan, he now resides in Los Angeles and no longer shovels snow.



To Understand You Must Break In

            Steve Yates


Steve Yates is the author of Morkan’s Quarry (Moon City Press, 2010). The Missouri Review has thrice featured excerpts from that novel and its sequel, The Teeth of the Souls, forthcoming in 2015 from Moon City Press. Pieces of both novels have also appeared in Ontario Review, South Carolina Review, Kansas Quarterly/Arkansas Review, and Elder Mountain: A Journal of Ozarks Studies. Yates is the winner of the 2012 Juniper Prize in Fiction, and the University of Massachusetts Press published his collection Some Kinds of Love: Stories in 2013. Richard Russo and the editors of Best American Short Stories distinguished one of his pieces among the Notable Stories of 2009. Yates is assistant director/marketing director at University Press of Mississippi and lives in Flowood with his wife, Tammy.



Dating Albert Einstein

            Alberto A. Martínez


Alberto A. Martínez is the author of four books, including Science Secrets: The Truth about Darwin’s Finches, Einstein’s Wife, and Other Myths (2011). He was born and raised in Puerto Rico. He earned his PhD in history of physics at the University of Minnesota while he lived in Dinkytown and worked at Vescio’s Italian restaurant. He now teaches history of science at the University of Texas at Austin. Although he is often sidetracked by interesting things, he prefers to work on important things. He also prefers cats over dogs, because dogs stare and drool. His favorite dogs are pretzel dogs.



Research Can Be Murder

            Katherine Hall Page


Katherine Hall Page is the author of twenty-one adult mysteries in the Faith Fairchild series and five for younger readers. She received the Agatha for Best First (The Body in the Belfry), Best Novel (The Body in the Snowdrift), and Best Short Story (The Would-Be Widower). She has been nominated for the Edgar, the Mary Higgins Clark Award, the Macavity, and the Maine Literary Award for Crime Fiction. She has also published a series cookbook, Have Faith in Your Kitchen, and Small Plates, a collection of short mystery fiction. A native of New Jersey, she lives in Massachusetts and Maine with her husband.



He Liked Custard

            Margot Livesey


Margot Livesey grew up in Scotland and has taught at several American colleges and universities, including the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the Warren Wilson MFA program, Brandeis University, and Bowdoin College. She is the author of a collection of stories and seven novels, including Eva Moves the Furniture and, most recently, The Flight of Gemma Hardy. She now lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and teaches at Emerson College.



Prospecting the Past

            Theodore Kornweibel, Jr.


Theodore Kornweibel’s latest book is Railroads in the African American Experience: A Photographic Journey, which won the Hilton Prize for best railroad book published in 2011. After earning undergraduate and master’s degrees in history at the University of California, Santa Barbara, Kornweibel earned his PhD in American studies at Yale. He is retired from a thirty-six-year career teaching African American history, the last twenty-nine at San Diego State University.



A Good Turn Every Day: A Boy in Duluth in 1926

            Bruce White


Bruce White is a historian and anthropologist who lives in St. Paul, Minnesota. He is the author of two award-winning books, We Are at Home: Pictures of the Ojibwe People and Mni Sota Makoce: The Land of the Dakota (with Gwen Westerman). He has researched and written widely in the field of the Native and early European history of the Great Lakes region, subjects on which he works as a consultant for Native communities and government agencies through his firm, Turnstone Historical Research.



Curious Encounters in My Search for Vinland

            Annette Kolodny


Annette Kolodny completed her PhD at the University of California, Berkeley, in 1969 and has since become an internationally award-winning scholar in American literary and cultural studies. She is currently professor emerita at the University of Arizona, where she previously served as dean of the College of Humanities. Among her most important books are The Lay of the Land (1975), The Land Before Her (1984), and Failing the Future: A Dean Looks at Higher Education in the Twenty-First Century (1998). Her most recent work concentrates on Native American literatures and early transnational contacts with the Americas.




Comanches, Cowboys, and a Political Rock Star

            Jan Reid


Jan Reid won the Texas Institute of Letters’ lifetime achievement award in 2014. Let the People In was honored as the book of the year in 2012 by the Texas State Historical Association, and the Houston Chronicle rated it one of the ten best nonfiction books published in the United States that year. His novel Comanche Sundown won the Texas Institute of Letters’ 2011 award for best fiction, an honor whose previous winners include Cormac McCarthy, Larry McMurtry, and Katherine Anne Porter. Reid is nearing completion of his thirteenth book and third novel, Sins of the Younger Sons. He lives in Austin with his wife, Dorothy Browne, and their collie, Gus.


The Mad Bomber Guy

            Bruce Joshua Miller


Bruce Joshua Miller has edited two books and written for public radio, the Chicago Tribune, and other publications. He has worked in the book industry for thirty-five years.



Pilgrim Voices: Puritans, Immigrants, and Historical Research

            Philip J. Anderson


Philip J. Anderson is professor emeritus of church history at North Park University in Chicago, where he has taught since 1979. Since 1989 he has served as president of the Swedish-American Historical Society, also chairing its publications committee. His published writings have included studies in British, American, and Swedish American religious history and culture. He lives with his wife, Karna, in Hovland and Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota.



An Essayist’s Guide to Research and Family Life

            Ned Stuckey-French


Ned Stuckey-French teaches at Florida State University and is the author of The American Essay in the American Century, coeditor of Essayists on the Essay: Montaigne to Our Time, coauthor of Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, and book review editor of Fourth Genre. His essays have appeared in magazines such as In These TimesThe Normal School, Tri-Quarterly, culturefrontGuernica, and middlebrow and have been listed five times among the notable essays of the year in Best American Essays.


Your Research—or Your Life!

            Marilyn Stasio


Marilyn Stasio is the Broadway theater critic for Variety, a columnist with the New York Times Book Review, and the author of several books. 


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Thoughts on the scale of regional publishing and the sage advice of businessmen
Originally published on University Press of Mississippi’s blog as part of University Press Week 2013

The first time I fully realized the value of what I do for a living, I was stricken with the stomach flu. Illness is the one excuse to stop when you work at marketing anything. At that time I marketed books for the University of Arkansas Press in Fayetteville in my native territory, the Ozarks.

This was 1997, three years after I had completed an MFA in creative writing at UA Fayetteville. While working in publishing was never boring and far less hazardous than anything I had tried before, the value of university press publishing had not yet registered. Much of it seemed a struggle. In my worst hours, I found myself disheartened, reminded of the thankless chore of teaching grammar and sentence structure and eventually short stories and poems to classrooms filled with flinty-eyed, grim undergraduates, my fellow Ozarkers. Selling what no one seems to want—teaching Chekhov to ruffians from Roaring River and cheerleaders from Chadwick—seemed a lot like publicizing poetry and literary criticism to the rushing masses at Book Expo America. Even if you were peddling excellent paperback reprints of President Jimmy Carter’s nonfiction (and we were at Arkansas), at BEA your reward was a glassy-eyed glance at best. Almost at all times you could count on the cold shoulder, the customer’s hurried determination to be elsewhere. No one seemed interested at Chicago’s McCormick Place or New York City’s Javits Center, or at the Los Angeles Staples Expo Center. No one.

Your no one is my everyone. I’ve been longing for the chance to use that phrase on the smug businessmen who will sometimes cast an eye to what we do at university presses and then declare, “No one knows what you do. No one knows who you are. No one knows about that book.” Even for books that we have sold 15,000 copies of in three years, I have heard the cry, “No one knows about this book!”

One of the extraordinary impositions of American commerce is a zany, optimistic arrogance and an unstoppable willingness to share it. Because I have run a business, I can tell any other professional how to run any other enterprise under the sun. Hmm. I have earned a wage as a law office gofer, a sportswriter, a construction inspector and surveyor, a teacher of grumpy Ozarkers, and a publisher. And I have yet to identify that profession to which the American businessman will defer and not offer his certain opinion of how you ought to run your operation. Sometimes it’s well-meaning, unmotivated, clear-eyed observation, freely shared, and then the feedback is well worth the listen. But sometimes it’s the kind of wisdom that gets grocery executives hired for top dollar to run your giant bookstore chain… into the ground.

No one knows about this book. You would think niche and scale would make all kinds of immediate sense to the business mind. But despite some flickers of refined reasoning from Seth Godin and Chris Anderson and David Meerman Scott, American business advice on the whole remains fixated on mass success, worldwide, blockbuster sensation. Everything regional publishing is not. When we hear feedback, it’s as if scale was taught and forgot at business school, like scansion at the English department!

9781118027929 cover.inddFor the restaurateur who puts a new item on the menu that turns only one thousand plates in a year there will surely be some urgent considerations. Some menu mix analyses set the bar for “workhorses” and “stars” of profitability at around 47 plates sold each night, depending on food costs. Just a glance at Running a Restaurant for Dummies, 2d Edition (Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. 2011) yields several power-point-ready questions: How much does the dish cost? How does the menu describe the dish? How adventurous is the dish? “Is the item intimidating to your diners?” is the exact and metaphorically amusing Dummies phrase. How well does your staff know the dish?

A restaurant attempting to launch a new menu might budget only eight percent of forecasted annual net sales on all of marketing (and I mean everything from defining a target audience to public relations to mailing a coupon or flyer or running banner adverts on websites or boosting a Facebook post). The Small Business Administration advises companies with under five million in sales (and that’s a lot of us university presses) to spend five percent of annual net sales to maintain awareness and ten percent to grow the business. So really in raw dollars of marketing spend, we may not be so different from the restaurateur, who insists no one knows about us. No one knows about a book.

It is in that magic of defining a target audience that things get very different. The local restaurateur relies on a market (“butts in chairs,” say the Dummies) attracted from an audience frequently within defined metropolitan borders. Sometimes a regional book can astound by its performance and service to a market in just one metro area. See any number of books from The History Press, Arcadia Publishing, and even such books by University Press of Mississippi as The French Quarter of New Orleans, or The Garden District of New Orleans.

9781604731248But most often the regional book serves a market from a broad swath of audience territory that a restaurant cannot (dare I advise should not?) dream to target effectively. Our book Blues Traveling: The Holy Sites of the Delta Blues has served its market in three editions, with over 15,000 shipped in twelve years. And while a restaurant in Helena or Clarksdale might market itself to the blues travelers once a year, I have trouble believing it will survive on one weekend’s take per annum. Something is different here.

Now I would never dream of taking Blues Traveling and targeting an audience of all the wage-earning lunchtime diners in a metro area. Food is a very different and more reliable consumer need than say content describing some aspect of the history of blues music in Jackson, Mississippi and elsewhere in the state. And while the best restaurants do market some signature dishes as a strategy, they largely market a whole menu and a dining experience, which is atmosphere and service. At UPM, we market every dish, signature or not, in a mostly singular fashion. And while I appreciate the utility and safety of our fifth floor in a ten-floor state office building, atmosphere is not UPM’s most appealing selling point. We do have fine customer service to our direct customers and vendors, but we don’t have full control of what the business types call the whole value chain. Our books reach consumers more often via someone else’s hands on shelves, in displays, in cardboard boxes with smirking smiley faces, all way beyond our control.

Despite these departures from standard business practices, UPM has in every year but one (during the recent recession) met or exceeded its budgeted sales goals. We set record sales in 2008 of $2.3 million, and have maintained $2.1 million in sales per year every year since 2009. Surely someone must know about us? Surely someone knows about our books?

When the advice begins with, “No one knows about you. No one knows about that book,” I think we have unfortunately arrived at a point when perspective on scale and niche is just too disparate to communicate kind, critical advice, freely given. Or, heaven forefend, we’re being prepped for say a little marketing of consultancy or food services. As Running a Restaurant for Dummies sagely submits, “Sometimes, the feedback represents a preference and doesn’t shine a light on an actual problem.”

faubusNo one knows about your book. On the couch, reeling with the flu, I was stopped long enough to read a whole book at one sitting, one that University of Arkansas Press was just about to publish. Nothing like the misery and isolation of the flu to set the advices of restaurateurs and indifference at Book Expo America and all that far aside. It is so rare for me to read a whole 408-page book in one spell; yet it is such a holistic and wondrous cognitive experience. The book was Roy Reed’s Faubus: The Life and Times of an American Prodigal. I knew who Faubus was—a monster to my father, who graduated from a small high school in the Missouri Ozarks the very year that Governor Orval Faubus shut down Little Rock Central High School rather than seeing it integrated. Faubus was one of the rare governors from the Ozarks elected to the highest executive office in either Missouri or Arkansas. And he had unleashed the very worst.

Reed took the whole life of the man to task in the biography. From his masterful political acumen, to his sappy prose poetry about hills and trees in our Ozarks, to his one sadness—the death of a pet dog in Faubus’s dotage—nothing was spared. And then came the conundrum in a final chapter exemplary of the biographer’s art. “The one big thing that Faubus got wrong was colossally, biblically wrong. But it was not simple,” writes Reed. And then at the close, the paragraph so electric I held the book trembling like a sparking wire: “He won four more elections because of the momentum that gave him.” And, “Even George Wallace finally apologized for the harm he had caused. Faubus never admitted that he had caused any.”

In that moment I recognized we, a team of but a dozen publishing professionals on a hill in McIlroy House had joined with an author to give the Ozarks, the whole state of Arkansas, even some of the nation an ineffable, unflinching expression of complexity and human frailty exposed in the hunger, the raw greed for power. No publisher in New York City would have entertained its production. The numbers were not there. The scale was different. But now I could return home to my father with this wonder of a book and say, Father, this is my work, and it answers your questions. Maybe dismiss it to fever and dehydration, but truthfully I saw for the first time in my working life the whole arc of value in what I was now doing. That I can sell you this, and it could be an answer.

The book succeeded, beyond any book in the five years I was at Arkansas, succeeded beyond what many regional books will. But by no means was it a worldwide, blockbuster sensation. Even in metro Little Rock, it was certainly not in a majority of households. And yet it is still read, sold, taught, and talked about. It still cautions. It still changes if not transforms minds. I’m sure some colder heart than mine (which was changed forever by that day’s read) would look over the sales reports and say, No one knows about this book. No one knows who you are. No one knows what you do.

Sure. Sure.

Your no one is my everyone.


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