Excerpt:
While Taryn and Miranda discussed writing equipment, unbeknownst to them their boss, William W. Tatum, Senior Vice President of Information Services, had finally arrived. Rarely speaking in the morning unless spoken to, he would trudge into his office sometime before 8:30am. He acted older than age 56 – the unseen burden of his many years in the noisy ancient computer rooms of countless banks and the innumerable meetings with coworkers who could never make clear their demands slowed his each step into his office. As his well-traveled briefcase did not stand upright very well on its own, it was leaned against the faux-fruitwood credenza behind his desk. Later in the day he would curse it for being in such an inconvenient place and drop it unceremoniously onto the credenza before rifling through it.
To combat mid-morning drowsiness, he brought a thermos of coffee from home – home being a large modified Victorian in the “Whitestone at Waverly” neighborhood in Raleigh. Tatum sighed many times during his commute as he thought about the house with too many bedrooms and too few occupants, then sighed all the more heavily whenever he looked at the walls of his office. Dull off-white paint on which hung cheap pastel lakeside scenes. Certificates of service from other banks. His diploma from Mankato State University in Minnesota (occasionally he could muster a smile when he thought of his college days – “the freest time of my life,” he would admit).
Facing him daily on his desktop were photographs that morphed randomly from memories into reminders of failures and then back again. There was a photo of his wife and his two boys outside a cabin by a Wisconsin lake. Nearby was a photo of his two sons in a bear-hug after his eldest son Shaun graduated from college. An 8 x 10 of his youngest son Brad posing with his snowboard on a Colorado ski slope soon after he had dropped out of engineering school, before he signed up to take some course in computer animation. Without fail, after studying that picture he would ask himself the same questions. How much did I spend on that massive computer with that gigantic flat-panel monitor? All that specialized software? And is he working for Disney or Pixar yet? NO!
Finally, his eyes rested on a portrait of his wife, Joanna. If he gave the picture any amount of attention at all, emotions pulled at his heartstrings to the point that he would want to hang himself with them. The photographer’s lighting and the processor’s airbrush made her more attractive than she had grown to be. They had so many years together before the decades of their marriage – all those years back in Minnesota when they rode the bus together through grade school and junior high. Taking turns with other teens in the neighborhood driving to high school. Holding hands in the hallways. Sneaking kisses after dances and sporting events. Fumbling with sweaters and blue jeans in speeding cars during double dates and thrilling to the touch of maturing flesh. Finally, the Main Event one magical night at her parents’ home when they were away for a college reunion and her older sister got drunk with friends in the basement.
The Tatums enjoyed an active sex life even while raising two boys and despite moving from state to state and job to job when the next best opportunity came along. Somehow, somewhere between Racine and Raleigh the flame turned to ash. His wife took care of the house, the mail, her flowers and kept in touch with the boys. Tatum was appreciative and let that be known each year at their anniversary. He would kiss her forehead and tell her that he loved her. There would be a fancy dinner and the exchange of cards. Maybe some music. Maybe some friends over. Maybe gifts. Maybe some nudging during the night in the king size bed that no longer shook. When did it all get so old? When did she get so old?
Tatum would gaze at himself in the mirror each morning. Not much hair, and it’s getting a bit gray like my moustache, but I’m not old. It can be colored. There’s a spare tire around the middle, but I’m not old. There are diets and gyms for that. Then, a tug at the undershorts to outline each middle-aged man’s Fountain of Youth. It’s not what it could be, but it still works and I’m not old. There are always those pills, just in case.
Then he would look back at the bed where Joanna lay sleeping. I’m not old. I need more.
Bill Tatum had a plan. More would be coming his way very soon. More than he had ever had. More than his parents ever had. More than even the snootiest show-off two-income couples in his neighborhood would ever have. If everyone just does their job.
By the end of October.
After the last ride is shut down. After the last stuffed animal is purchased. After the last funnel cake is sold. After the last stinking sticky dollar bill is counted.
After the close of the North Carolina State Fair.
Interview:
Where did you grow up?
I changed ages in Fairfield County, CT. I grew up in North Carolina.
What legacy do you hope to leave?
I would like people to remember me as a writer who chose to preserve the English he was taught despite the best efforts of those holding multiple doctorates and Masters of Fine Arts degrees who tell authors to write however they want since English is “evolving.”
Tell us about your next release.
It’s not going well, but I want to tell the story of a woman from Kentucky who endured a childhood of abuse but still came to live her childhood dream of owning a bed and breakfast with a man who truly loves her.
What group did you hang out with in high school?
I had no group. I had only a few true friends. In fact, the wife of one of those true friends gave me a 5-star review of Shrike on Amazon.com.
What does your significant other and family think of your writing career?
My lady friend Kim supports me completely. Kim’s kitty Jet Bird inspired the picture book that bears her name (The Jet Bird Collection). Years ago, I tried to get my parents involved in my writing to no avail. Sadly, Shrike might be a little too “spicy” for their tastes.
Does your significant other read your stuff?
Indeed she does; she still has Shrike and The Jet Bird Collection on her Kindle.
What are the pitfalls you’ve discovered along the way?
Literary agents. Even those agents featured in Writers’ Digest articles with titles such as “These Agents Will Take You On As Clients Or We’ll Eat A Bug” found a way to humiliate me when they answered my queries.
What advice would you give to those considering taking destiny into their own hands?
Make your own breaks.
Do you believe in the Muse? If so, why? If not, why not? Anything you’d like to share about your Muse?
To an extent, I do. I’ve had several. They made sure I didn’t get ideas but that ideas got me.
What are your hobbies?
My XBOX, ice hockey, traveling and bowling.
Favorite author?
Nelson DeMille. I wish I could write in the first person like he does.
Favorite movie?
Animal Crackers with The Marx Brothers.
Favorite song?
If You Know What I Mean by Neil Diamond.
Where do you see yourself in five years?
Writing in my dream house on North Carolina’s Outer Banks.
Links:
Author page: Author Page
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