Celebrate The Sinner
by
Steven Merle Scott
Welcome
to BK Walker Books Etc. I'm so happy you could join me today from
outside Cedar Breaks Monument in Southern Utah
BK:
Looking out the nearest window, describe the scene you see.
It
is a perfect morning outside. The sky is the color of the bluebirds
nesting nearby. We’re in a rustic cabin high in the mountains,
above 10,000 feet. The snow is nearly melted, although a few patches
remain. The wildflowers are blooming and a light breeze is toying
with the spring grasses.
BK:
Tell us about your office. Is it a mess like mine, or is everything
in its place?
I
write at the cabin and also at home in the basement. The view from
the basement doesn't rival the mountains, but it's not as bad as it
sounds. I have a lovely tiled workspace with area rugs and an old
black Labrador. I write in one of two spots: seated in front of an
ancient oak desk or semi-upright in a cracked leather reclining
chair. When I'm working on a first draft and need to get into a
creative zone, I tip back the recliner and work at my laptop—almost
in a fugue state. When it's time to edit and use that other part of
my brain, I put on a coat and tie (metaphorically speaking) and belly
up to the desk. Having two different 'spaces' for creative work and
editing work helps me keep the two processes separate. I always have
clutter around my feet: dictionary, newspaper clippings, folders for
research etc. I also have photos of characters and settings tacked
onto the wall to help me visualize places and people.
BK:
What is a must-have, such as coffee or a favorite pen, that you need
to write?
My
laptop computer and dictionary are fundamental. I never write
longhand and rarely dictate unless I'm hiking and want to preserve an
errant thought.
BK:
Do you like to write in silence, or do you need music or background
noise?
I
have to have silence--especially when I'm trying to place myself
inside a scene. That's why I banished myself to the basement, and
wife didn’t object. When I’m the dungeon, I close the door and
usually work three to four hours at a sitting--except to periodically
let the dog in and out.
BK:
Tell us a bit about your hero/heroine, and their development.
I
can’t honestly call Teddy a hero—he is much too flawed for that
designation, especially by the end of his life. Sadly enough, the boy
I created and the man he becomes is based on the life of my father.
The reader first meets Teddy when he is an innocent lonely young boy
trying to find some connection outside of himself. Connecting with
others, either due to his nature or his environment is extremely
difficult for Teddy. In the first person, we see Teddy’s
intelligence and insight. We journey with him as attempts to make
sense out of the world. Perhaps the effort he makes, his attempt to
understand, is cause enough for us to celebrate the person he
ultimately becomes.
BK:
As a writer myself, I'm always curious how other writers get through
stumble blocks. When you find a story not flowing, or a character
trying to fight you, how do you correct it?
I
take a hike, and the harder the hike the better. When I’m hiking
and typically a little oxygen deprived, my brain cuts through the
clutter. I find that the physical process of hiking frees up the
subconscious, allowing it to wander around the blocks and come up
with fresh solutions. If and when ‘clarity’ arrives, I pull out a
notepad or Dictaphone and record it before it can vanish.
BK:
Using the letters of your first name as an acronym, describe your
book...
Searching:
All of us search for connections that might give our lives meaning or
help make sense out of the world. CtS celebrates that search,
regardless of ultimate outcome.
Troubles:
Teddy’s mother acknowledges, “We all have troubles. Enough of
them will add up to heartache.”
Echoes:
Echoes from the past shape the present. No adult can avoid the words,
sounds or screams heard as child.
Victories:
Even in the grayest of places, victories can shine through. Teddy
comes to know several wonderful characters that confront and
ultimately overcome their troubles: what is different about them? Can
Teddy learn from other people’s victories?
Environment:
Is context primarily responsible for shaping a person’s character,
do people and events create the sinner? Or is it some powerful force
that resides inside even the most innocent child?
Narcissism:
You can’t expect to have an anti-hero without a little narcissism
thrown in.
BK:
How did your writing journey begin?
I’ve
always wanted to write; I enjoyed writing as a kid and in high
school. After college and professional school, work and life
suppressed the desire, but didn’t kill it. The day I turned fifty,
I decided that I would try to write. I bought books about writing; I
attended seminars; I joined a writing group and I started writing. I
did not want to die with the regret that I never tried. I’m still
at it, and I think I’m getting better.
BK:
Using the letters from the word, Summer, how would friends and family
describe you?
Sunny
Disposition! Occasionally.
Uptight
in the operating room at times. Also during the parenting process.
Musically
marooned, stuck in the 60’s and 70’s, still listening to The
Big Chill
soundtrack.
Maudlin.
I cry during Sleepless
in Seattle. My
teenage boys can’t take it and leave the room.
Earnest.
I take most things seriously, unless they prove to be too ridiculous
to do so.
Rummage
around. What I do in my office when I can’t find an incredibly
important piece of paper.
BK:
What is the craziest thing you've ever written about, whether it got
published or not?
I
wrote a short story, entitled Hard
Rock, Blue Ice. It
was about climbing Mt. McKinley and getting lost in a whiteout,
nearly falling in a crevice. When things are at their worst, with the
protagonist thinking he is about to die, he blames his mother.
BK:
Tell us one thing you've done in life, that readers would be most
surprised to know.
I
climbed Mt. McKinley and got lost in a whiteout.
BK:
What can we expect from you in the future?
I
am writing a medical suspense novel, using my background in surgery
and biotechnology. It is a plot-driven thriller with fresh eccentric
characters. My heroine is tough and resilient, a character to cheer
for!
This
or That...
Coke
or Pepsi?
Beer.
Night
Owl or Early Bird?
Early
bird. I get up a five, usually exercise and am at work by seven. I’m
also asleep by ten.
Fantasy
or Mystery?
Mystery—except
for The Lord of the Rings. Had I not limited myself to two chapters
of TLOTR each night, I’d have flunked out of college.
Pen/Paper
or Computer?
Laptop
computer in a semi-reclining position if preferred.
Pizza
or Burger?
Mex.
Rock
or Country?
Rock
without the metal.
Chocolate
or Vanilla?
Vanilla
Bean
Beach
or Mountains?
Thank
you so much for having us as one of your stops today. It has been
great getting to know more about you and your book, and wish you the
best of success!
BK
Walker
About
The Author:
S.M.
Scott was raised and educated in Oregon, Alaska, France and Africa.
Born in the Willamette Valley, his father, grandfather and great
grandfather were Oregon lumbermen. When he was eight, his parents
packed up the family and their portable sawmill and moved to
Anchorage, Alaska where they began cutting homesteader timber in the
summers and teaching school each winter.
He later returned to
Oregon to pursue undergraduate studies at Linfield College. Along the
way, he has studied economics, biology, French and medicine. He
attended medical school in Colorado, undertook surgical training at
the University of Utah and completed his cancer training at the Mayo
Clinic in Minnesota. He and his family now live in Salt Lake City in
the warm company of Saints and sinners. He is a practicing
orthopedist and cancer surgeon.
Genre:
Historical Fiction
Publisher:
Blue Amber Press
Release
Date: January 30, 2013
Book Description:
“Unsettled
conditions anywhere give rise to fear,” Old Ted remarks. “Fear
finds scapegoats and easy solutions.”
In
1924, Marie walks through the Waverly Baby Home and chooses Teddy
because he looks like the child she deserves...but the boy has hidden
defects. Five years later, against a backdrop of financial ruin, KKK
resurgence, hangings and arson, Marie's husband, Merle, struggles to
succeed, Marie loses her way, and troubled seven year-old Teddy
begins to see what he and his family are missing.
CELEBRATE
THE SINNER unfolds with the onset of The Great Depression after
Teddy’s father buys a bankrupt sawmill and moves his small family
to an isolated Oregon mill town. Merle feeds his hunger with logs and
production, while his young wife feels like rough-cut lumber,
unworthy of paint and without a future. When a conspiracy threatens
the mill, Merle adds the powerful KKK to his business network.
Untended, Teddy strays as he searches for a connection outside
himself. He loves the machines that take the trees, but he also
worships his new, young teacher. He discovers the Bucket of Blood
Roadhouse and begins spending his Saturday nights peering through its
windows, gaining an unlikely mentor: Wattie Blue, an ancient, Black
musician from Missouri, by way of Chicago, plays the lip harp and
calls out square dances. When Wattie faces the Klan and his past,
Teddy and his family are confronted with equally difficult choices.
Framed by solitary,
narcissistic, ninety-year-old Ted, this story of desperate people
contains humor, grit, mystery and an ending that surprises, even
stuns. "Spines and bellies soften and round off with the
years," Old Ted muses. "Thoughts, too, lose their edge, but
secrets scream for revelation. Perfect people, after all, don't hold
a monopoly on the right to tell their stories.
Excerpt:
YOUNG
Teddy with his mother:
“Teddy,”
Mother called through her bedroom door. “I need you.”
I
left the front window and knocked on her door. She insisted I do
that. If she answered, I could come in. If she didn’t answer, it
meant I should go away.
“Come
in,” she said.
Mother
had just finished bathing. She was at her dressing table, sitting on
the chair with the soft embroidered seat, staring into the mirror,
studying her image. A white towel bound her hair. I stood in the
doorway and watched her pat and squeeze the towel. Her hands traced
its length from top to bottom, working the moisture into the fabric.
As she let the towel fall, with a single hand, she carried her thick
braid forward and laid it beside her breast.
“Sit
here, Teddy, and brush my hair.” She patted the seat cushion and
inched forward. “We can make room.”
I
climbed onto the chair behind her, my legs astraddle her naked hips,
my spine pressed against the hard wooden back. The wet length of hair
seemed to swell against the loose braid that held it. I released the
braid and watched the strands fall apart. As I picked up the
hairbrush and started with the damp ends, I knew that when I
finished, when her hair had dried, it would ruffle and fan out like
the tail feathers of a bright red bird.
I
was Mother’s spectator, her silent confidant, forever held by the
promise of more. Small secret jars, some pink and lavender, some with
gold lids, others with glass stoppers, she arranged across her
dressing table like figurines. She touched a shade of color with her
fingertip and carried it to her cheek with the love of an artist
completing a masterpiece. She reached for a second color, sampled it,
but chose another. Rarely did she move her eyes from the glass in
front. And rarely did I.
Mother’s
eyebrows were slender because she plucked them, but her lips were
full. When she looked down, lids masked her eyes like shades lowered,
but the aching green behind them was always present. She wore her
makeup bright red across the lips for the world to see, but more
subtly along her cheeks and at the angle of her jaw. In her jewelry
box, she kept gold hoops and bobs to wear when she and Father went
out. During the afternoons at her dressing table, I chose the
earrings she wore.
“You
are the best little man,” she told me as I worked the brush through
her hair.
“I
know I am.”
I
carried the brush higher and used it to massage her scalp the way she
had taught me. She tilted her head to the left and then to the right
to change the angle of view, the cast of light, and I followed her
movements, careful not to pull. The thin muscles at the front of her
neck tightened and released and slid beneath her pale skin like silk
ropes under tension.
Held
between the chair back and her spine, I barely moved, the warmth of
her bath rising against me, damp like the rope of hair between us.
“I
am so lucky to have you,” she said.
I
searched her mirror for an echoed smile, a flickered glance, the
small treasures she’d hide for me to find, me alone.
Mother
stood and moved away, but moisture from her thighs remained on the
brocade cushion, altering the color of its fabric from blue to
purple, which, after years, became an imprint that stayed.
“Go
play, now.”
I
left with only the scent of her bath.
