My first book, St. Peter’s Monsters, is set in and around St. Paul and Castlewood, my home towns. When people from the area find out, they say “nothing ever happens here.”
I say, “Something is always happening.”
Your duty is to take the time to notice it.
Think about it. At any given moment, a woman is giving birth (or a man is working on the conception). Someone else is dying. Another person is lying or stealing or – not very often – killing. Down the street, couples are worrying about the kids and the bills. Families are enjoying dinner. Boyfriends and girlfriends are fighting. Businesses are making money . . . or losing it. A mother is crying. Teenagers are gossiping, texting, sexting. Children are playing. A wife has been hit. Another has been hugged. A man is praying. A baby is laughing. A young person is studying.
The very fact that we’re breathing means something is happening!
Yes, my book is fiction. The things that happen in it are not real. That doesn’t mean real life in my town is any less dramatic than the stories I’ve created.
It seems we believe that what happens to each of us every day is not noteworthy because it happens to US . . . EVERY DAY. We find our own lives boring.
I challenge you to take the time to notice what’s happening within you and outside you. Notice life!
My Town
This is my town. At St. Paul’s edge, ducks flank the downy banks of Oxbow Lake. Poplars, maples and cedars shade its mile-long trail. On this Friday evening, the sun touches only treetops. I find a rock outcrop and soak up its heat like a lizard. In late September, the mountains hunch down around us and spread their blue shadows until the air grows cold.
Summer’s weariness is apparent here. A drought has left foliage brown. A single withered leaf floats on the lake’s current, spinning in the wake of a line of ducks. They paddle by me, their tails jacked up in the air, their feet pumping the dark water. The leader quacks orders and the sound makes me think of old men laughing at a dirty joke.
The birds waddle toward a family perched on a bench. The man removes his baseball cap and shoos them away from his child. The little girl tosses a piece of bread to the ducks, screaming with delight when they gobble the treat. When her mother tries to pull her to the car, she cries.
“I’m going to drag you if you don’t come on!” the woman threatens. The father stumps up the wooden stairs swinging his arms slow and wide. For a moment, the scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, before a gentle wind whisks it into the mercury sky.
In the distance, a coal truck’s Jake brakes punctuate the air with a shrill ellipsis. The driver is shifting gears as he prepares to drop his last load. That coal will go out of Wise County’s hills on a train, the one I hear sounding its horn now. The clatter of its wheels drowns the chatter of a squirrel somewhere above me.
I cruise through St. Paul. Many of my town’s thousand residents appear outside. “Better enjoy these last warm days,” a heavyset woman calls out. I shiver at the thought of coal-blackened snow.
Three teenage boys rib each other as they walk toward the high school grounds. They look like a small army: black t-shirts, cargo pants and dog tags. The football field’s loudspeakers echo across town as the announcer prepares for the game.
Some of us forgo Friday night lights for other pleasures. An old man carries his guitar into a storefront church. Across the street, a woman sells apples from her truck bed. The golden fruit blushes, looking pretty in stiff white paper sacks. An old woman worries her collar as she negotiates price with the vendor. She rests her hand on her paunch as if she is pregnant.
I pass a clump of political signs posted in an empty lot. A discarded lottery ticket flutters in the street. On a backstreet, kids congregate in muscle cars. As I pass, I hear the low, lazy laugh of a young man. It’s a sound full of desire and life and audacity.
I wonder if he’s ever known defeat or the frailty of the soul at 2 a.m.
What Readers Say about St. Peter’s Monsters June 8, 2009
Tags: book, comments, critiques, fiction, neva, Neva Bryan, novel, novelist, readers, reviews, St. Peter's Monsters, writer, Writing
“It’s one of the best novels I’ve read that uses this area as the frame around the story. You captured the beauty of . . . Southwest Virginia in a love story filled with twists and turns, and an ending that, like a fine dessert, left the reader satisfied. Good work.” — M.A.
“The book was so well written! You are an excellent author and I hope you will continue to write and write and write some more. This was the first book I have read in a long time that kept my interest so well that I did not fall asleep after reading 4 paragraphs.” — C.R.
“It was wonderful! I couldn’t put it down. I was reading it every chance I got. The story left me with a great sense of hope. I missed reading it after I had finished.” — D.C.
“It was a delight to read this book. The characters are well-defined. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I did.” — P.B.
“I absolutely loved your book and I read at least four novels a week!” — G.F.
“It is awesome; it was hard to put down. You are a very gifted author. I love to read and I will be looking forward to your next novel.” — C.R.
“I am becoming so absorbed in your book. I’m loving it!” — A.P.
“I thoroughly enjoyed reading the book and I did not want it to end. Keep up the good writing, and I can’t wait until your next book will be published. Keep writing!!” — P.L.
“The book was very good. It read well. The best phrase: ‘Home is not a place, it’s people . . . people who love you.’” — B.D.
“I enjoyed your book very much. I worked faster because I could hardly wait to get back to Peter and Wren.” — M.B.
“I loved the flow of your book. You jumped around in time so seamlessly. I also loved the way you used newspaper clippings to cover a broad period of time. Again, congratulations on a job well done!” — C.O.
“I let a few of my friends read my copy and they are all CRAZY about it!! They loved it and wanted their own copy and some even said they wanted to order one for family/friends.” — K.G.