Serpent Box
My friend and I sling drinks in a post-1906 quake building, an historic ex-brewery within a Bermuda Triangle of upscale nightclubs. Places with no signs and big doormen manning the velvet ropes stretched out into panhandler territory. We're on the no-man's edge between San Francisco's Silicon Gulch and its self proclaimed advertising ghetto south of the Financial District. Friday afternoon, we have about an hour of serenety to peruse the newspaper for movie times or catch up with each other before the rush hits. I usually scroll through my voice mail and make a call or two, read a bit or fill a page of the Moleskine. The first regulars come through the door at the chime of six and that's our starter pistol; we won't stop moving until closing.
A couple of blokes take a seat by the taps. They're the first to arrive and the music's low, so I catch bits of their conversation (word to the wise: bartenders can hear you). They're talking books, one book in particular, a book by one of the blokes talking. Vincent Loius Carrella had just finished his first novel, Serpent Box, the story of Jacob Flint, a young faith healer growing up in a family of Pentecostal snake handlers in Leatherwood, Tennessee.
That was last summer. A couple of months ago, a galley shows up at my p.o. box. I read and am dumbstricken. I've made a number of attempts at doing book reviews before, and each one has died on the vine along with my every other effort to slap my byline on as much paper as I can. I've given up. I'm not a book critic and I work too slowly to produce anything other than short novels at a snail's pace. So, in lieu of an insightful dissection of Vincent's book, I'll simply repeat myself: I am dumbstricken. Serpent Box hit the shelves last month and I've been remiss in shouting it from the rooftops, for the reasons I've just stated. I've taken up in a shared office space across town where I hide during my non-bartending days. No phone, no internet. I'm still writing book number three and have shifted gears to working longhand. Things like this blog and all of my sundry tentacles on the internet get pushed aside as a result. Anyway, yeah, Vincent. Serpent Box. Faith healers and rattle snakes and some beautiful, beautiful musings on god and faith. Go forth and read.
I'm back on the Cult, once more. I'm teaching another six-week intensive so, if you've ever wanted to learn from a guy who takes longer and longer to write each book, refuses to use MSWord and uses a razor blade to edit hard copies, well, now's your chance.
That's all. I'll be gone for a bit. Then I'll be back. Etc.
Semper fi,
Craig
My friend and I sling drinks in a post-1906 quake building, an historic ex-brewery within a Bermuda Triangle of upscale nightclubs. Places with no signs and big doormen manning the velvet ropes stretched out into panhandler territory. We're on the no-man's edge between San Francisco's Silicon Gulch and its self proclaimed advertising ghetto south of the Financial District. Friday afternoon, we have about an hour of serenety to peruse the newspaper for movie times or catch up with each other before the rush hits. I usually scroll through my voice mail and make a call or two, read a bit or fill a page of the Moleskine. The first regulars come through the door at the chime of six and that's our starter pistol; we won't stop moving until closing.
A couple of blokes take a seat by the taps. They're the first to arrive and the music's low, so I catch bits of their conversation (word to the wise: bartenders can hear you). They're talking books, one book in particular, a book by one of the blokes talking. Vincent Loius Carrella had just finished his first novel, Serpent Box, the story of Jacob Flint, a young faith healer growing up in a family of Pentecostal snake handlers in Leatherwood, Tennessee.
That was last summer. A couple of months ago, a galley shows up at my p.o. box. I read and am dumbstricken. I've made a number of attempts at doing book reviews before, and each one has died on the vine along with my every other effort to slap my byline on as much paper as I can. I've given up. I'm not a book critic and I work too slowly to produce anything other than short novels at a snail's pace. So, in lieu of an insightful dissection of Vincent's book, I'll simply repeat myself: I am dumbstricken. Serpent Box hit the shelves last month and I've been remiss in shouting it from the rooftops, for the reasons I've just stated. I've taken up in a shared office space across town where I hide during my non-bartending days. No phone, no internet. I'm still writing book number three and have shifted gears to working longhand. Things like this blog and all of my sundry tentacles on the internet get pushed aside as a result. Anyway, yeah, Vincent. Serpent Box. Faith healers and rattle snakes and some beautiful, beautiful musings on god and faith. Go forth and read.
I'm back on the Cult, once more. I'm teaching another six-week intensive so, if you've ever wanted to learn from a guy who takes longer and longer to write each book, refuses to use MSWord and uses a razor blade to edit hard copies, well, now's your chance.
That's all. I'll be gone for a bit. Then I'll be back. Etc.
Semper fi,
Craig