Writing On The Fine Line

Writing novels is a dicey business. At least it is for me.

I rarely know what’s coming next in a novel I’m writing, let alone what the next novel may be. And yet.

And yet, I do have a story knocking on my door. Since I’m into it more than 7,000 words so far, I’m guessing it’s going to stay around. But it’s an odd one, for me, in some ways. In other ways, it’s right in my wheelhouse.

Like my novella, Big Love, it’s turning out to be written in alternating first and third person. First for the strong main character, Jug Garrett, and third for everyone else.

Most of my characters are at least nominal Christians, but from the beginning Jug has claimed to be an atheist. But is he? He had a strong conversion experience as a junior high student, but—events conspire. I don’t know, yet, if his earlier life will be his later life. The story is his journey, his transformation. And I’m only 7,000 words in.

Also odd for me—and you might have guessed from the title of this page On Deck—but a major theme of this tale is baseball. I’m not a baseball guy, but Jug definitely is. So right away that means more research than I prefer. Fortunately, I have a couple brothers-in-law who are also baseball guys.

Before you get too worried, I’m not against baseball. I love a good baseball game as an excuse to go to the ballpark, eat a couple hot dogs, and quaff some cold ones. If I can also have some peanuts and Cracker-Jack, well, then I don’t care if I never get back. Root, root, root.

Just don’t ask me to watch baseball on TV. Yawn.

Stay tuned for updates on my progress—and Jug’s journey. In the meantime, here’s a little sample from the current opening. I can’t say it will still be in the book when all is said and done. However, I can say I’m rather fond of it, even with its rough edges.

“What you lack in talent can be made up with desire, hustle, and giving 110 percent all the time.”

Don Zimmer, MLB player and coach

My name is James Urban Garrett, but call me ‘Jug,’ everyone does. Baseball is my life. I love it. Love it. I even call games for the local television station. Well, I used to.

I play—badly—in local pickup games whenever I can. If I ever find a woman who gets me, she’ll understand the significance of the Chicago Cubs winning the 2016 World Series. Wouldn’t that be something?

My therapist, if I had one, would say baseball is my escape from the world. But I don’t have a therapist and it’s not. It is my world and there’s no escaping the heart-pounding thrills or the dirt-kicked-in-your-face tedium.

Well, there is, but I’m not ready to hang up my cleats for good—not yet.

But, you know, neither was my Dad. When I think about the cancer that took Dad all I see is a behemoth. The darkness its shadow casts on my family is overwhelming. 

“Jug, think about the light,” Mom says whenever I mention the shadow that is suffocating me. “Think about what is casting the shadow, not about the shade itself.” 

I know what she means. But I can’t. I just can’t.

How could I? Not after that summer.

Sometimes a moment hangs up in time and you get the chance—or in this case the obligation—to examine it over and over. What if you’d leaned this way instead of that? Or, what if you’d said “yes” instead of “no?” Maybe your life would be different.

Moments like those fill the days of fathers and sons and lead to huge honkin’ Grand Slams of Regret. We all know this, but the knowing rarely changes it.

Funny thing? Those days often start with such promise. Sunshine, cool winds, new cleats that absolutely eat the ground, and broken-in, molded-to-your-hand, baseball gloves that snag balls from the heavens. Days destined to end with ice cream or watermelon—maybe even a sweet summer kiss.

As I approached the plate that day 22 years ago, on the verge of a critical roster change, I felt invincible. My feet barely touched the ground and my bat burned with an unquenchable fire.

I’d give anything to feel that way again.