Author: Richard L. Fricks

Richard L. Fricks is a novelist, former attorney and CPA, Fictionary Certified StoryCoach Editor, and creator of The Pencil-Driven Life. He lives in rural North Alabama near Boaz, where much of his fiction and reflection remain rooted. His work explores story, inherited purpose, faith and doubt, family pressure, moral contradiction, consciousness, ordinary life, and the practice of beginning again with a pencil.

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 14

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 14

“Mother, when are you going to let me start dating?”  It was a question I had repeatedly heard from Cullie since the first of her eighth-grade year.  Until now, she had said it, smiling her gorgeous smile and telling me with her eyes that she knew she was too young.  Today was different.  It was the first time she had asked the question since we arrived in Boaz.  I had come out to Papa’s barn late Tuesday afternoon.  The loft had become her favorite spot on the forty-acre plot to hangout and ponder her future.

“When you are old enough?”  I said settling back against a stack of hay bales Mr. Crocker kept stored above a half-dozen abandoned cow, pig, and goat stables.

“You always say that but never discuss.  I am old enough.  All the popular ninth grade girls and probably half the mediums are dating.”

“Mediums?  What the heck is a medium?”  I said, looking over at Cullie stretched out on a bed of unbaled hay.  She was tall, lean, and shapely.  She was no longer my little girl, the one in pigtails in middle school, especially the sixth and seventh grader who secretly spent hours alone playing with Barbie dolls.  Now, her too-tight jeans revealed a female who had evolved and shed her baby flab.  I predicted within a few months her body would be as perfect as that of Brooke Shields in Blue Lagoon.  I still could not understand why I had watched this 1980s movie two nights ago on Netflix curled up in my bed after midnight.

“Alysa explained to me those are the girls, midrange if you will.  They are not popular or gorgeous.  Not all popular girls are pretty, you know.  And, the M’s are not homely either.  They make good grades and show promise of someday transforming into a prospect.”  Cullie said shifting backwards and up on her elbows.  “Mediums are always girls, prospects can be boys or girls.”

“Prospect?”

“Someone who’s a real candidate for dating.”

“My gosh, I’m so out of touch.  Now, I semi-understand more of the snippets I’ve been overhearing from my tenth Graders.”

“Grandmother was dating when she was in the ninth grade.”  Cullie surprised me.  Not so much that she had referred to Darla as her grandmother.  That was truly accurate but also rare.  Cullie did this when she used her subtle ability to play with my emotions.  She knew how I had always longed to have had a normal, maybe an extraordinarily wonderful, relationship with my biological mother, like Emily Fink had with her mother in New York City.

“Did you hear me?”  Cullie prompted as I sat beginning once again to feel sorry for myself.

“How exactly do you know that my dear?”

“Nanny told me.  You know, sometimes when I get home from school and after you have visited a few minutes, I sit with her.  About every other day she seems normal.  Yesterday, I had asked her when she had let you start dating.  She didn’t hesitate and said at the Valentine’s Dance in your tenth-Grade year.  I didn’t like her answer, so I said, ‘what about grandmother?’  Her words, exactly, ‘that was Papa’s doings.  Beginning of the ninth grade and it was the worst thing we did.  She spread her wild oats and never stopped until she was pregnant with your mother.’”

“Nanny said all that?”

“Yep.  Now that I know when grandmother started dating, isn’t it time I know who your real father is?”  And I thought the, ‘when will you let me start dating?’ question was what I feared.

“Honey, I’ve told you a hundred times that I don’t know.”

“Katie, I’m not as dumb as you sometimes think.  Miss Cindy told Alysa and me that most people tell you the minimum.  She said this over pancakes Saturday morning when we were discussing A Good Man is Hard to Find.  She said they rarely tell you all they know.  Miss Cindy gave the grandmother in O’Connor’s story as an example.  Said the old woman was highly manipulative with her son.”

Cullie sometimes called me Katie, always when she wanted to have a full conversation, one uncolored by our mother-daughter relationship.  “I’m confused, are you studying Flannery O’Conner’s most popular story?”

“No, but Miss Cindy was lab-ratting us.  Some angle she intended to explore with her students.  So, show a little respect for your only child.  Tell me who got Grandmother pregnant.  I wish I’d tried out for cheerleader.”  Cullie was now standing up and doing knee bends and arms rolls and kicks that looked like they would touch the weathered tin overhead.

Oh, the mind of a teenage girl.  “Darla was wild no doubt.  Believe me my baby, I don’t know, and I don’t know if Darla ever knew, who got her pregnant. It was during her graduation party.  She was at a place where she shouldn’t have been doing things she shouldn’t have been doing.  There were six guys present.  The story is that Darla had sex with five of them.  That’s where I got started.”

“Only one of the five can be your father.  His little sperm found Darla’s little egg.  Humans can’t have multiple fathers.”

“You now are an expert embryologist?”

“Something like that.  No, but Alysa and I are pretty good researchers.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why Darla never sought a paternity test.  I think she would have if she hadn’t gotten involved with Raymond Radford.  It was her way, I think, of showing a weird sort of respect.  You asked so I will tell you, but please keep it very secret.  Raymond’s son, Randall, the one who is still missing or simply ran off, was one of the five who Darla slept with that fateful night.”  I said not believing my little girl and I were having this conversation.

“Who were the other four?”  I knew this was coming.  Cullie had for weeks been revealing the makings of a future attorney.

I hesitated.  What good could come of Cullie knowing who her grandmother had sex with and who might be her grandfather?  On the other hand, being truthful, even when it hurt, couldn’t hurt the most important relationship in my life, one that needed to be grounded on a deep and wide foundation of trust.  “Wade Tillman, Fred Billingsley, James Adams, and John Ericson.”

“And, Warren Tillman, Fulton Billingsley, Justin Adams, and Danny Ericson are their sons.  So, Wade Tillman could be my grandfather, and his son, Pastor Warren, could be my cousin?”  Cullie asked.

“In that scenario I think he would be more like a step-brother once removed, but I’m not really sure.  I’d have to sketch that out.”  This conversation was going nowhere fast.

“I think you need to find out who your father is.  I’m glad I know Colton is my dad.  Is he still coming for Christmas?”  I almost envied Cullie’s ability to pivot.  Her mind was so alive and spontaneous, hungry for knowledge.  I hoped she someday found a real purpose to channel her intelligence and energy.

“We’ll have to see.”

“You never answered my question.”  Cullie brought us back full-circle.

“Now if you want to, but with rules my dear, strict rules.  Maybe a double date with Alysa at a cook-out.  Cindy and I are getting pretty good at grilling chicken.”

“Yuck.  To the chicken and the six-way. I’m okay with Alysa, me, and two prospects, but no parents allowed.”  Cullie said, headed for the loft’s ladder.

“Rules my dear.  I’m not about to turn you loose.  No way.  Men can be animals.  Boys are just less imaginative and brave.”

In a sense I was trapped.  We were now into the third week of my first-year teaching at Boaz High School.  After my long and scary conversation with Cullie, and nearly two hours watching The Walton’s and eating from TV trays, I had come to my room, propped my pillows up on the headboard and started reading.  I both loved it and hated it.  I was caught in a schedule that required at least an hour, often two, per night, reviewing and commenting in the five Facebook groups I had created.  I had been surprisingly pleased that the majority of my 150 students were actively participating.  I enjoyed learning.  I enjoyed being surprised by how teenagers thought, sometimes revealing intelligence that I could only envy.  At midnight, reading and responding to the final student comments from my Creative Writing class, I was glad I hadn’t yet disclosed my plan to add five more Facebook groups, all focused on one class’s major writing project.  Lying back and dozing my subconscious kept telling me it was too much, ‘just limit this novel writing project to your Creative Writing class,’ and one more Facebook group.  Stick to short stories or even some flash fiction with your other four classes.’

I didn’t know where she came from but by Wednesday morning I was in full agreement with the wise and wonderful subconscious woman who resided deep inside my head.

The Marginalian: Legendary Cellist Pablo Casals, at Age 93, on Creative Vitality and How Working with Love Prolongs Your Life

Here’s the link to this article.

BY MARIA POPOVA

Long before there was Yo-Yo Ma, there was Spanish Catalan cellist and conductor Pablo Casals (December 29, 1876–October 22, 1973), regarded by many — including Yo-Yo Ma — as the greatest cellist of all time. The recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom and the U.N. Peace Medal for his unflinching dedication to justice and his lifelong stance against oppression and dictatorship, Casals was as much an extraordinary artist as he was an extraordinary human being — a generous and kind man of uncommon compassion and goodness of heart, a passionate spirit in love with life, and an unflinching idealist.

And yet, like many exceptional people, he cultivated his character through an early brush with suffering. In his late teenage years, already a celebrated prodigy, he underwent an anguishing spiritual crisis of the kind Tolstoy faced in his later years and came close to suicide. But with the loving support of his mother, he regained his center and went on to become a man of great talent, great accomplishment, and great vitality.

Pablo Casals

To mark his ninetieth birthday, Casals began a collaboration with photojournalist Albert E. Kahn that would eventually become the 1970 autobiography-of-sorts Joys and Sorrows (public library) — one of the most magnificent perspectives of the creative life ever committed to words.

Straight from the opening, Casals cracks open the essence of his extraordinary character and the source of his exuberant life-energy with a beautiful case for how purposeful work is the true fountain of youth:

On my last birthday I was ninety-three years old. That is not young, of course. In fact, it is older than ninety. But age is a relative matter. If you continue to work and to absorb the beauty in the world about you, you find that age does not necessarily mean getting old. At least, not in the ordinary sense. I feel many things more intensely than ever before, and for me life grows more fascinating.

Recounting being at once delighted and unsurprised by an article in the London Sunday Times about an orchestra in the Caucasus composed of musicians older than a hundred, he considers the spring of their vitality:

In spite of their age, those musicians have not lost their zest for life. How does one explain this? I do not think the answer lies simply in their physical constitutions or in something unique about the climate in which they live. It has to do with their attitude toward life; and I believe that their ability to work is due in no small measure to the fact that they do work. Work helps prevent one from getting old. I, for one, cannot dream of retiring. Not now or ever. Retire? The word is alien and the idea inconceivable to me. I don’t believe in retirement for anyone in my type of work, not while the spirit remains. My work is my life. I cannot think of one without the other. To “retire” means to me to begin to die. The man who works and is never bored is never old. Work and interest in worthwhile things are the best remedy for age. Each day I am reborn. Each day I must begin again.

For the past eighty years I have started each day in the same manner.

With great elegance, he contrasts the dullness of mindless routine with the exhilaration of mindful ritual — something many great artists engineer into their days. In a sentiment Henry Miller would come to echo only two years later in his own memorable meditation on the secret of remaining forever young, Casals writes of his daily practice:

It is not a mechanical routine but something essential to my daily life. I go to the piano, and I play two preludes and fugues of Bach. I cannot think of doing otherwise. It is a sort of benediction on the house. But that is not its only meaning for me. It is a rediscovery of the world of which I have the joy of being a part. It fills me with awareness of the wonder of life, with a feeling of the incredible marvel of being a human being. The music is never the same for me, never. Each day is something new, fantastic, unbelievable. That is Bach, like nature, a miracle!

Casals, indeed, finds great vitalization in bearing witness to nature’s mastery of the self-renewal so essential for the human spirit over the long run:

I do not think a day passes in my life in which I fail to look with fresh amazement at the miracle of nature. It is there on every side. It can be simply a shadow on a mountainside, or a spider’s web gleaming with dew, or sunlight on the leaves of a tree. I have always especially loved the sea. Whenever possible, I have lived by the sea… It has long been a custom of mine to walk along the beach each morning before I start to work. True, my walks are shorter than they used to be, but that does not lessen the wonder of the sea. How mysterious and beautiful is the sea! how infinitely variable! It is never the same, never, not from one moment to the next, always in the process of change, always becoming something different and new.

In the same way, Casals argues, we renew ourselves through purposeful work. But he adds an admonition about the complacency of talent, echoing Jack Kerouac’s fantastic distinction between talent and genius. Casals offers aspiring artists of all stripes a word of advice on humility and hard work as the surest path to self-actualization:

I see no particular merit in the fact that I was an artist at the age of eleven. I was born with an ability, with music in me, that is all. No special credit was due me. The only credit we can claim is for the use we make of the talent we are given. That is why I urge young musicians: “Don’t be vain because you happen to have talent. You are not responsible for that; it was not of your doing. What you do with your talent is what matters. You must cherish this gift. Do not demean or waste what you have been given. Work — work constantly and nourish it.”

Of course the gift to be cherished most of all is that of life itself. One’s work should be a salute to life.

Hence Ray Bradbury’s famous proclamation that he never worked a day in his life — further testament to the magic made possible by discerning your vocation.

Casals lived and worked for another four years, dying eight weeks before his ninety-seventh birthday. Joys and Sorrows remains an invigorating read — a rare glimpse into the source of this creative and spiritual vitality of unparalleled proportions.

Flash Fiction: The Unlikely Columnist

Born and raised in the heart of Georgia, Nathan had always been surrounded by the comforting embrace of Southern Baptist tradition. From a young age, he attended church every Sunday, his faith unwavering in the face of life’s uncertainties.

But as he grew older, Nathan found himself questioning the beliefs he had held dear for so long. He yearned for answers that seemed to elude him, grappling with doubts that gnawed at his soul.

It wasn’t long before Nathan’s journey led him away from the pews of his childhood church and into the realm of agnosticism. He no longer found solace in the certainty of faith; instead, he embraced the ambiguity of doubt, finding freedom in the exploration of life’s mysteries.

Armed with a pen and a passion for storytelling, Nathan embarked on a new chapter of his life as a sports columnist for a small-town newspaper in North Alabama. It was a far cry from the religious upbringing he had known, but Nathan found solace in the rhythm of the written word, channeling his thoughts and experiences onto the pages of his column.

Week after week, Nathan’s columns captivated readers with their raw honesty and introspective insight. He wrote not only about the triumphs and defeats of the local sports teams but also about the complexities of the human experience—the joy of victory, the agony of defeat, and everything in between.

But it was Nathan’s willingness to confront his own doubts and uncertainties that set his columns apart. In a region where faith was as much a part of life as sweet tea and fried chicken, Nathan dared to challenge the status quo, exploring the intersection of sports and spirituality with a keen eye and an open heart.

His columns sparked conversations in living rooms and coffee shops across town, igniting debates that often spilled over onto the pages of the newspaper’s letters to the editor section. Some praised Nathan for his courage and candor, while others condemned him as a heretic and a blasphemer.

But through it all, Nathan remained steadfast in his commitment to honesty and integrity, refusing to shy away from the difficult questions that lay at the heart of his own journey. He wrote not to convert or condemn, but to provoke thought and inspire reflection—to shine a light on the beauty and complexity of the human experience, both on and off the field.

And as the years passed and Nathan’s columns continued to resonate with readers far and wide, he realized that his journey had come full circle. From the shores of doubt to the hallowed halls of faith, he had traversed the landscape of belief and disbelief, finding truth not in the certainty of dogma but in the uncertainty of the human heart.

For Nathan, the path to enlightenment was not found in the pages of a holy book or the walls of a church, but in the simple act of living and learning, loving and growing. And as he sat down at his typewriter each week to craft his next column, he knew that he was exactly where he was meant to be—writing his own story, one word at a time.

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 13

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 13

The idea had come early Monday morning as I was drafting a scene in Real Justice.  Stella Gibson (a place-holder name I had temporarily borrowed from The Fall, a British-Irish crime drama television series filmed and set in Northern Ireland) my protagonist, was the new editor of the Times-Courier newspaper in Ellijay, Georgia (in a prior scene I had described her as simply ‘a secretary.’  Oh, the fluidity of fiction writing).  Stella, my Stella, made The Fall’s Stella look like the grandmother in A Good Man is Hard to Find.  I, as her creator, wasn’t the only one who had taken notice of the stunningly beautiful Stella Gibson.  The five most influential leaders of Ellijay, Georgia also were noticing and commenting on the Chicago transplant.  Why did it always have to be five?  This is what had triggered my idea. 

I was at the beginning of writing another book.  It seemed I simply couldn’t get away from my own life experiences, especially the barbaric attack I had endured.  My first book, Out of the Darkness, had its roots in what had happened to Darla, but it had, unknowingly to me at the time, foreshadowed my own traumatic experience during the 2002 Christmas holidays.  Out of the Darkness II or Real Justice, whatever I ultimately decided to call it, seemed deeply rooted in not only the gang-rape I had suffered, but what followed.  I didn’t know what was coming.  Just like my Stella didn’t.  Just like real people in real life don’t.  This was only part of my new idea. 

A most exciting component was to cross-pollinate the thought into my teaching.  I had been struggling over what type of writing project I would assign to my Creative Writing class.  For nearly twenty years I had guided my students in two major projects for the school year. I had guided them, a semester at a time, to create a publishable-quality short story.  Now, as the thought of what Stella might have to do—I already knew her life in Ellijay would not be enjoyable to put it mildly—to serve real justice on five prominent men in her community, I felt compelled to involve my students.  Why couldn’t they help write a novel instead of a short story?  Why not let this assignment be an all-year project?  I would have about 150 co-authors.  Better put, each student’s novel, Real Justice I could call it now, would no doubt be unique. 

As I left the basement I liked my idea, but it was a little premature to announce to my classes.  I had to further analyze the pros and cons.  A discussion with Cindy would be a good place to start. 

I didn’t see Cindy until lunch.  We normally saw each other for at least ten minutes during our separate planning periods.  She said she had been summoned to Assistant Principal Wilkins’ office during the break at 10:30 a.m.  I could tell she was not herself.  Her face was more red than usual even though she was a natural redhead, meaning she had a few freckles, each one adorable and uniquely beautiful.  She also seemed a little disheveled.  Something totally unlike the prim and proper Cindy.

“Where have you been?  I missed you during planning.  I had a world-changing idea to run by you.”  I said as I unpacked my lunch box continuing to eye Cindy sitting across my desk looking at a bottle of Sprite, as though she was trying to figure out how to open the lid.

“It finally happened.”  She said ignoring her Sprite and looking at herself in a little compact that appeared from nowhere.

“What are you talking about?  What happened?”

“The sex pervert Wilkins assaulted me.  In his office.”  Cindy was fighting a losing battle.  She was trying to freshen-up her face but was overcome with the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?”

“I am, but it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever endured.”

“What can I do to help?  Go with you to report it to Mr. Harrison?  Go with you to see the police?”

“No, I’m not doing anything.”

“Cindy, you have to.  This confirms it.  He is a predator.  He’s been grooming me.  I think that’s what it’s called.  Almost since the first day of school.  Nothing overt, but definitely improper words, touches, looks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?  I thought we were friends, real friends, and could tell each other anything and everything.  Don’t you see what I’m doing here?”  Cindy said, starting to gain control of her crying.

“I should have.  I now wish I had.  And, we are friends.  I am so thankful for you, Steve, and your triple A’s.”

“I need to tell you how he pulled this off.  I’m not talking about my blouse.”  Cindy said standing up and straightening her top, tucking it deeper into her skirt band.  “Since I’m not telling Harrison or the police I want someone to know what happened before time passes and my memory fads.”

“I understand and I’m listening if you want to talk.”

“At the end of Third he sent a note by one of the student volunteers for me to come to his office at the end of class.  The note didn’t say anything else.  Just as I walked into his office the fire bell rang.  You know that.”

“I do.  It was a madhouse.  Our second fire-drill of the year.”

“Wilkins ignored it as everybody in the main office was rushing out.  He told me to come in that it was urgent and would only take a minute.  I walked in and he closed his door behind me.  Locked it and looked at me from foot to head.  I can’t describe his eyes, but they were like those of a shark racing to devour an injured child, thrashing about in the ocean, bleeding and helpless.  I knew right then I was in trouble.”  Cindy sat down, as her face turned white as snow.

“Cindy, you don’t have to do this right now.  You look sick.”

“I’m okay.  He then pushed me against the wall across from his desk and planted a big sloppy kiss on my lips.  I tried resisting but he was way too strong.  His left hand pulled up my blouse and, in an instant, was fondling my breasts.  I tried to scream but he kept kissing me.  I tried to knee him but the way he had me pinned I was helpless.  Then, he switched hands.  His left did most of the pinning and his right pulled up my skirt on my left side.  He was trying to pull down my panties when two things saved me.  His desk phone rang, and someone knocked on his door.  One of the student volunteers said, “Mr. Wilkins, are you okay?  Mr. Harrison is looking for you.”

“What happened next?”  I said not wanting to be too anxious to hear.

“He said, ‘organize yourself and sit down.’  I didn’t do either.  At first.  He then said, ‘you better not report this, or you’ll regret it.  I’ve known for over a year that you’ve been wanting me.’”

“Oh my gosh, the arrogance and evil of the man.  To think, he is always playing his Christian card.  On top of that, he’s the Education Director at the Church.  I said, not sure why I told Cindy what she already knew.

“Do you mind if I say a prayer?”

It wasn’t a statement I expected.  Something like, ‘I’m going to kill the bastard,’ or worse, whatever that would be, was much more anticipated.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Cindy called for us to bow our heads.  She breathed a beautiful prayer, even asking God to help her forgive Mr. Wilkins.  The part I could not agree with was Cindy’s confession of all sins she had committed including someway teasing Mr. Wilkins by how she had dressed and acted.  It was like Cindy was blaming herself.  She also asked God to help Mr. Wilkins surrender his urges and walk the high road of decency and respect.  Cindy was a beautiful example of a child of God.  Certainly, she was unlike me and probably most women who, placed in similar shoes, would be sharpening their knives.

When she ended her prayer, she looked over at me and said, “let’s eat, I’m starved.”

We did not get much planning done during our remaining twenty minutes.  She continued to talk about how good a friend I am, and that she was always there for me, always available to listen.  Something shifted inside me, like a tectonic move.  I believed her every word.  I was relieved when the bell rang because I was as close to divulging, for the first time, the biggest secret of my life.  I was that confident I could tell Cindy anything and she would guard it with her life.  Thankfully, I resisted.  Today wasn’t the day.

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 12

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 12

It was Saturday morning before I watched Darla’s videotape.  I had been so eager Wednesday afternoon coming home with the School’s VCR I hadn’t considered the how and where.  How was I going to watch it?  I think I had that part figured out.  I had researched how to connect the VCR unit to the TV.  I was thankful Patrick had handed me the cable even though our hands had touched.  The bigger question was the where.  Where was I going to watch it?  There were only two TV’s in the house.  One was in the den, the big screen TV.  The other was in Nanny’s room.  That was easy enough.  I rarely thought as good as I wrote.  Writing is the tool of thinking someone had said long ago.  I wished I had taken the time to explore the simple activity of me watching Darla’s tape.  I would have discovered earlier there was a third relevant question.  When was I going to watch her video?

After church Wednesday night (my promise to Cullie), a parent-teacher open house at school Thursday night, and pizza and a movie at Cindy and Steve’s last night there hadn’t been any good time for me to sneak inside the den after everyone had gone to bed.  I was glad Cullie had stayed overnight with Alysa.  I was also thankful that Saturday morning had two other routines: Sammie’s pancakes, and her and Nanny’s weekly trip to Walmart.  The when had been answered without a hitch.

The VCR/TV hookup was easy.  The tape was clear.  And, shocking.  For some reason I had contemplated the tape would be a copy of an old movie, maybe something one of Darla’s friends had recorded for her.  Darla had packed it in her suitcase to share with Cullie and maybe even me.  I had been wrong.  Thoughts often are.  Darla’s tape was almost as horrible as the time it happened.  It made me relive the worst two to three hours of my life.  Ryan did all the taping.  He was the only one not visible at any time on the video.  That certainly didn’t mean he wasn’t there.  It would have taken much more than a black hood over my head to prevent me from knowing it was his body, his big, hairy body, that hurt me the most.  His voice, not his words, but his groans and moans, breathing into my ear was nearly as bad as enduring the two times of unprotected sex.  The first of the taping was done outside the tent, like Ryan was recording a scene in a horror movie.  He followed behind Warren and Fulton and Danny and Justin.  All of them, either leading me by the hand or groping my butt.

I watched the tape two times, often fast-forwarding.  That itself showed I was an idiot and once again intent on leaping off life’s track into the abyss below.  Why did I choose to watch certain portions of the tape and avoid others?  Wasn’t it all equally horrible?  A glass-breaking sound from the kitchen was the disturbance I needed to refocus.  It turned out it was only Sergeant Tibbs, Nanny’s cat, named after the cat in 101 Dalmatians.  He had knocked over Cindy’s bouquet that I had brought home from school and placed on the kitchen table.  After rearranging the flowers and mopping a half-gallon of water off the floor, I returned to the den and disconnected the VCR.  After returning it to the trunk of my car, I hid the videotape in my room behind my collection of Literature textbooks I had collected over my twenty-year teaching career.  Sammie and Nanny would return within an hour from their weekly trip to Walmart’s Smart-Style Hair Salon, and grocery shopping.

I grabbed a Blue Book, my standard 12 sheet, 24-page stapled notepad I had used both in and out of the classroom since I first started teaching.  Many of my college professors had used these for student exams but Emily Fink had, as usual, expanded my thinking, learning, and teaching horizons.  Emily had said to keep a healthy supply of these, at home and in your classroom.  When a question arises that isn’t as simple as whether to buy vanilla or chocolate ice-cream, pull out a Blue Book and find yourself a quiet and private corner.  Write your way to solid rationality.  I descended the basement stairs and headed to the most stable corner of my world.

Only writers would know the feeling.  Writers write.  Many things can prompt them to write but when something startling happens, the need to make sense of it is something, I suspect, akin to the chemicals at work in an athlete just before the start of a championship game.  Testosterone?  I’m not sure.  Discovering this video was life-changing.  That became the first sentence I wrote in my Blue-Book.  Words came.  I let them flow out of my mind, through my hand, and onto both sides of every one of the 12 sheets of paper.  Some writers called it free-thought writing, others called it brainstorming, and even others called it stream of consciousness writing.  I called it framing.

After nearly an hour of near none-stop writing I sat back and closed my eyes.  For five minutes.  Then, I reread what I had written.  Yes, not only for me, but also for the five men, those I now readily referred to as the Faking Five.  Obviously, they had known about the video, at least of its original creation.  But, they had never known that I had known of its existence.  They still didn’t know.  The second time re-reading my Blue Book scribblings I stopped on a question that I had underlined, ‘do the Faking Five now know I have the video?”  I had tried to answer this question over the next page and a half.  I had not reached a definitive answer, but I realized the likelihood that Darla had somehow discovered the video and had intended to share it with me.  Why else would she have packed it in her suitcase?  My second rereading spawned a new question.  ‘Had Darla actually watched the videotape?’  My answer leaned towards a no.  How would she?  Had she had access to a VCR?  Now, I was seeing the possibilities she had.

Was this tape what Ryan and Justin had been looking for?  Was it why Darla had called, almost begging me to come get her?  I recalled the urgency in her voice.  She had truly wanted me to come immediately to get her.  If I hadn’t been so selfish, Darla might still be alive.  As I walked slowly up the basement stairs all I could think about was how the lives of five local leaders, highly respected Boaz citizens, would never be the same.  I didn’t have a clue what I would do with or about the videotape but now I had proof, tangible proof, that I had been raped during the 2002 Christmas holidays.

Sunday morning came too quickly.  Even before the discovery of Darla’s videotape I had a nagging feeling of regret, of regretting promising Cullie I would give church a try.  Her interest started the last year in New York City.  She was in the eighth grade and several of her friends had inspired her to start attending St. Bart’s on Park Avenue, an Episcopalian church that was not only architecturally beautiful, but in all appearances, was fully committed to providing comfort, challenge and inspiration to a growing crowd of people in search of meaning and hope for their lives.  I had attended a few times but had always let Emily shoulder the responsibilities of carting her daughter Ellen and my Cullie to and from the historic church.

As I drove Cullie to First Baptist Church of Christ I recommitted to fulfilling my promise.  Promises were vital to a healthy mother-daughter relationship.  Following through was even more important.  As I dropped Cullie off for Sunday School youth group I told her I loved her and that I would be back for preaching after an hour in my classroom.  “When are you going to come to Bible Study?”  She had asked while grabbing her Bible and getting out of my car.  “Soon, maybe.  I promise I will ask Cindy about her Sunday School class.”  Driving to Boaz High School I realized I had made yet another promise.  I had to be careful what I said, the commitments I made.

The worship hour took on a whole new meaning.  Sitting in the balcony with Cindy and Steve gave me the perfect vantage, one any assassin would envy.  Although I wasn’t a killer physically, I was beginning to cozy up to the friendly characters who had slithered into my head since watching Darla’s video.  Everywhere I looked, I could see one of the Faking Five.  Ryan and Justin sat on the back row in the choir loft, probably singing bass.  Fulton sat on the second row in the section to the right of Warren behind the pulpit.  Danny was one of ten men who took up the offering, and the only one a few minutes later who stood by Warren and prayed that “Christ be honored through our pastor today and that many would surrender to His loving promises.”  I let it go but was confused whether Danny had referred to the pastor’s or Christ’s loving promises.

The sermon was from the book of Acts and Saul’s Damascus Road experience.  I only half-listened.  I kept trying to determine whether I needed to make any type promises.  To myself.  Should I promise myself that I would carefully consider whether to take Darla’s videotape to the District Attorney, or whether to simply let it be?  These were the first two options that sprung quickly to my mind.  I knew there were others.

As Warren concluded the altar call, unsuccessful from my vantage, I reached the temporary conclusion I wouldn’t do anything.  That changed when I palmed Warren another message as I followed Cindy and Steve out the front door.  This time, eight words.  “Videotape quality is amazing.  Perched like an assassin.”  The reason that convinced me I needed to update Warren and thereby his other four comrades was to lessen the danger to Cullie and me, and possibly Nanny and Sammie.  After my “I know” message (which was rather stupid of me) they would have every reason without caution to eliminate me.  Now, they might be reluctant.  If they knew I had the tape and that it was strategically located they might keep their distance, worrying that if they harmed me they would automatically be exposed.

This time, I investigated Warren’s eyes after I handed him my note.  No deer in the headlights had ever looked so frightened.  It was priceless.

The Marginalian: How to Keep Life from Becoming a Parody of Itself: Simone de Beauvoir on the Art of Growing Older

Here’s the link to this article.

BY MARIA POPOVA

How to Keep Life from Becoming a Parody of Itself: Simone de Beauvoir on the Art of Growing Older

We live in a culture that dreads the entropic inevitability of growing older, treats it like a disease to be cured with potions and regimens, anesthetizes it with botox and silence, somehow forgetting that to grow old at all is a tremendous privilege — one withheld from the vast majority of humans populating the history of our young species (to say nothing of the infinite potential humans who never chanced into existing).

“For old people,” Ursula K. Le Guin wrote in her sublime meditation on aging and what beauty really means, “beauty doesn’t come free with the hormones, the way it does for the young… It has to do with who the person is.” Another way to say this, to feel it, is that to become a person worthy of old age is the triumph of life. Henry Miller, in his reflection upon turning eighty, located the triumph in remaining able to “fall in love again and again… forgive as well as forget… keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical.” Grace Paley instructed in what remains the finest advice on the art of growing older: “The main thing is this — when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.”

Life is largely a matter of how we hold ourselves — our hearts, our fears, our forgivenesses — along the procession of the years. Hardly anyone has furnished a more elegant and robust banister for the holding than Simone de Beauvoir (January 9, 1908–April 14, 1986) in her 1970 book La vieillesse, published in England as Old Age and in America as the characteristically cottoned The Coming of Age (public library).

Simone de Beauvoir by Barbara Klemm. (Städel Museum)

Two years before she came to consider how chance and choice converge to make us who we are, De Beauvoir observes that contemporary Western culture winces at old age as a “semi-death.” With an eye to the biological privilege of getting to grow old, she writes:

Old age is not a necessary end to human life.

[…]

A particular value has sometimes been given to old age for social or political reasons. For some individuals — women in ancient China, for instance — it has been a refuge against the harshness of life in adult years. Others, from a pessimistic general outlook on life, settle comfortably into it… The vast majority of mankind look upon the coming of old age with sorrow and rebellion. It fills them with more aversion than death itself.

And indeed, it is old age, rather than death, that is to be contrasted with life. Old age is life’s parody, whereas death transforms life into a destiny: in a way it preserves it by giving it the absolute dimension.

Only one thing can keep the final chapter of life from becoming a parody of itself. Growing old, she cautions, is not a project — not something one can endeavor to do industriously, to ace. It is a fact — something to be met on its own terms, something for which we spend our whole lives practicing as we learn to control for surrender.

Art by Carson Ellis from What Is Love? by Mac Barnett

She writes:

Growing, ripening, aging, dying — the passing of time is predestined, inevitable.

There is only one solution if old age is not to be an absurd parody of our former life, and that is to go on pursuing ends that give our existence a meaning — devotion to individuals, to groups or to causes, social, political, intellectual or creative work… In old age we should wish still to have passions strong enough to prevent us turning in on ourselves. One’s life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation, compassion.

Complement with Bertrand Russell on how to grow old and Thoreau on the greatest gift of the winter years, then revisit Simone de Beauvoir on the ultimate frontier of hope and the artist’s task to liberate the present from the past.

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 11

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 11

Wednesday morning, I got up at 4:30 a.m. as though yesterday hadn’t happened, and I had slept soundly for my usual four or five hours per night.  I had hardly slept at all, but I knew the more I allowed my routine to change the more likely I would slide off track, into the abyss that had almost destroyed me more than once.  I grabbed my coffee and descended the basement stairs.  It was one of those glorious mornings.  They didn’t happen every day but when they did I already knew the gods had favored me.  I already had a scene bouncing around in my head.  It had come forth during the night, gently settling into my subconsciousness.  The scene virtually wrote itself.  My only regret was it was only 700 words, 300 short of my daily goal.  I would accept it with unconditioned thankfulness.  My justification was I needed to ponder what had prompted Darla to choose Out of the Darkness as one of the novels she had packed inside her suitcase.

It was the copy I had given her when she and Nanny had flown to Washington, D.C. to see me awarded the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in the Great Hall of the Folger Shakespeare Library.  That was April 2002.  I couldn’t recall a single time Darla had ever mentioned my first and only bestseller, much less ever had engaged in a discussion of its contents.  I had always assumed she hadn’t read it.  I almost hadn’t brought it down to the basement with me.  For some reason I had willingly violated my most important rule: never get distracted before you’ve written your daily goal.  The rule was negative.  Don’t do this, don’t do that.  Don’t check my email.  Don’t check Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.  And, even more negative than that, don’t carry anything into my writing space that could tempt me to distraction.  This morning, Out of the Darkness had figuratively blocked my bedroom doorway before I could head to the kitchen for coffee (not a distraction).  It’s like the book had jumped from the old rocking chair beside my bedroom door, spread its wings, and leaped into my arms.  It had said, ‘I’m here for a reason,’ and then it had asked, ‘is it a positive or a negative reason?’  I never ceased to be amazed at how my mind worked.  How it seemed I had little control over my thoughts.

The dust jacket had been removed.  I could have easily spent the remaining thirty minutes in my writing closet pondering why.  What was it about the long, winding driveway leading to the faint image of a cabin in the woods that Darla hadn’t liked?  She had thrown away the full colored, thick covering.  Or, maybe it had just gotten lost.  Either way, there was a message or two here, one I would likely never discover.  Inside the hardback book, on the first blank page, Darla had written, “But for the darkness I would not recognize the light.”  I quickly concluded this was a quote, but Darla hadn’t used quotation marks.  Unsurprising.  She likely was unconcerned about the niceties and nuances related to the rules of grammar.  She had read the phrase somewhere, maybe heard it on Oprah or some other talk show she loved.  Or, it was Darla’s attempt at being religious.  I did seem to recall from my long-ago days in youth group at Tillman Temple (another phrase that hadn’t entered my mind in over twenty-five years) Jesus had said something similar. ‘The light penetrates the darkness; it can’t resist it’ or something like that.  I think it was in the Gospel of John.  I’d check later.

On the next blank page Darla had written.  “Unlike Trevor, I will never escape the darkness.”  She had read the book, at least enough to know my protagonist and how my story had ended.  After I was so viciously attacked in December 2002 I often had thought that Out of the Darkness had been an omen of sorts.  I had written it and received national awards and acclaim for it months before the worst experience of my life, yet the entire book seemed to foreshadow what I would endure.  It was like I had a premonition all during the years it had taken me to create the novel that had spent ten weeks on the New York Times Best Seller’s list.  Ultimately, I had concluded it was a mere coincidence.  Doesn’t everybody have a dark time in their life?  One emotional trauma, often one born out of physical trauma, that defines that life?  An event that changes everything about them?  Even though Trevor’s experience, being falsely accused of killing his girlfriend and spending ten years enduring sexual abuse in prison, was radically different from Darla’s, it seemed from her statement that her nightmare continued.

“I can’t believe you are here.”  Cindy said at 7:00 a.m. coming into my classroom.  She was carrying a beautiful bouquet with white lilies, white roses and white mini carnations, all interspersed with some lush greens.  The blue glass vase was stunning.

“The last thing I need is sitting around feeling sorry for myself as I wait on the autopsy.  That may take a week.”

“I hope you are okay with flowers.  I also hope you know how truly sorry I am.  The bouquet was Steve and Alysa’s idea.”

“They’re beautiful.  Thanks for caring.”  I hugged Cindy and gave the flowers to Cullie coming out of my office.  “Honey, please put these on my desk.”

“Did you know that Darla was sick?”  Cindy asked.

“She had told me yesterday morning that she couldn’t drive right now, that her doctor had told her it was state law after a person passes out.  No driving for six months, then only if no further incidents.  She had called me to come get her at Raymond’s house.  I’m hating myself this morning for not caring enough for my own mother to fulfill one simple request.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.  God is mysterious.  He already knew it was Darla’s time.  You couldn’t have stopped Him.”  Cindy said as though she had just gotten off the phone with the God of the universe.

“I wish I had your faith.  It looks as innocent and beautiful as those gorgeous flowers.”  When I said this, my ‘I wish’ statement, I truly meant it.  It shocked me.  For nearly twenty-five years I had been like Jonah in the Old Testament, running from God.

“It’s coming dear.  You just wait.  I’m praying for you every day.  I got to run.  See you at lunch?”  Cindy said walking towards a growing crowd of noisy students beginning to interact around opening and closing lockers.

“Lunch it is.”

My first three classes were good in two respects.  Many of the students had heard about Darla’s death.  They had shared their condolences, Clara and Ben had even come to the front, hugged me, and asked if there was anything they could do.

The second good thing was from a literary standpoint.  Student participation in our class discussion of O’Connor’s A Good Man is Hard to Find was widespread, something I had not seen or even imagined so far in nearly two weeks at Boaz High.  I think it might have had something to do with the teams I had established, student assistants as secondary teachers.  More likely it was the Facebook groups I had set up, requiring one-hundred percent student participation.  I owed the idea solely to Emily Fink, an award-winning English teacher at Eleanor Roosevelt High School in New York City.  She had shown me the art of student engagement by revealing how she interacted with every one of her students.  She said it was like having a one-on-one private session.  The gist of it was a private group was formed for each class.  Every student was required to join.  I would pose a question to the group.  Initially, responses were voluntary.  The hope was for viral like participation.  If that didn’t occur I would call on my student teachers to weigh in.  At least half of them had to or I would start calling names.  At the end of a student-teacher response (the Facebook term is ‘Comment’) she would simply tag one of her assignees.

Yesterday’s question was, ‘what makes a person good?’  I had added, ‘if you choose, comment on whether the grandmother in A Good Man is Hard to Find, was good?’ Emily Fink was not your typical Literature instructor.  Nor was I.  Neither of us believed a student had to deliver an answer, one that reconciled with most literary scholars.  Each student’s thought ignited a conversation that made Emily Fink the envy of the most creative high school English teacher.

Tenth-grader Clara Ellington had been the first to respond, “it depends on who you ask.  I suspect everyone thinks herself good.  It’s easier to say the Misfit was bad, pure evil.  Good and evil are opposites.  Treating everyone with respect makes one good.  The grandmother was not evil, but she annoyed me to death.  Therefore, she wasn’t good, or, at least, was missing some necessary ingredient.”  Ben Gilbert had responded.  He was one of Clara’s students.  “Asking a person whether he is good is like asking the fox if he is guarding the chickens.  You won’t receive a reliable answer.  There must be a standard.  For me, the Bible sets out what makes a person good.  Without it, all is relative.  It is subjective.  The grandmother was not good.  But, she did think she was good.”

From there, forty other students had chimed in.  Before coming to class this morning, I was speechless over the response from my first Facebook question.  I made a mental note to email Emily and thank her.  This new teaching method wasn’t going to be easy.  If I did my job right, I needed to read every comment and reply often when it seemed some thread was going derailing.

By the end of the day, I decided to expand my newly discovered teaching nugget to my other two classes.  Cullie was already in my room after the last bell rang when I remembered I wanted to borrow a VCR to watch Darla’s videocassette tape I had found in her suitcase.  For once, I was glad to see Patrick Wilkins.  He was more than eager to accompany me to the dark little room behind the drama department’s stage. After ten minutes of the two of us alternately climbing a step-stool, reaching up and over a dusty inventory of mostly antiquated stereos, reel-to-reels, and RCA camcorders, he eyed me from the tips of my shoes to the top of my head as he peered down at me holding an old Panasonic.  Walking to my car with the heavy VCR with Cullie complaining it could not be as heavy as the book-bag she was toting, I no longer doubted Patrick Wilkins entertained erotic desires for every inch of my body.

Snowflake Summaries–Love Songs, by Lawrence Sanders

The primary aim of the "Snowflake Summaries" blog category is to showcase the creative writing of great authors. I use Randy Ingermanson's 'Snowflake' method to create these summaries. Here's a brief description of the one-sentence, one-paragraph, and one-page summary method.

Hopefully, these posts will motivate you to read great fiction and to write your own novel, whether your first or your fifteenth. 

The first great novelist I'll start with is Lawrence Sanders. Here's a short biography.

Love Songs, by Lawrence Sanders

**”Love Songs” by Lawrence Sanders** explores the tumultuous world of a talented but tormented pop singer, delving into themes of passion, betrayal, and the darker sides of human relationships.

### One Sentence Summary:

**”Love Songs”** follows the intense and chaotic life of a pop singer as she navigates a world filled with passion, betrayal, and the destructive consequences of fame and personal demons.

### One Paragraph Summary:

In **”Love Songs,”** Lawrence Sanders tells the story of a deeply troubled pop singer, exploring her complex relationships and the industry’s intense pressures that both elevate and devastate her. As she returns to her small-town home in Maine after a grueling tour, she is confronted with unresolved issues from her past, including a fraught relationship with her family and the lingering effects of old romances and rivalries. The novel portrays her struggle with substance abuse and her attempts at recovery, set against the backdrop of her volatile music career. Sanders weaves a narrative that is as much about the internal turmoil of his protagonist as it is about the external forces of the music industry, examining how fame and the need for artistic expression can lead to self-destructive behavior.

### One Page Summary:

**”Love Songs”** by Lawrence Sanders is a poignant and gritty portrayal of a pop singer’s battle with her inner demons and the external pressures of her career. The novel begins as Bobbie Vander returns to her hometown in Maine, seeking solace after a particularly exhausting music tour. Her return is not a happy reunion; it dredges up old pains and conflicts, particularly with her family, who are wary of her success and the lifestyle it entails.

Bobbie’s life has been marked by a series of intense relationships, both romantic and professional, that have molded her music but also led her down a path of addiction and frequent personal crises. Throughout the novel, Sanders skillfully depicts Bobbie’s complex interactions with her band members, producers, and lovers, highlighting the often toxic dynamics that can emerge in the competitive world of entertainment.

As the story unfolds, Bobbie faces numerous challenges, including dealing with a manipulative manager who is determined to control her career and personal life, and a series of betrayals by those she once trusted. Her struggles with addiction are portrayed with brutal honesty, depicting the cyclical nature of her attempts at rehabilitation and relapse. Sanders does not shy away from showing the darker sides of the music industry, including the exploitation and manipulation that artists like Bobbie can endure.

Amid these tumultuous relationships and professional pressures, Bobbie’s journey is also one of self-discovery and artistic expression. Her songwriting serves as a therapeutic outlet, where she channels her pain and experiences into her music, earning critical acclaim but also exposing her vulnerabilities. Sanders explores the paradox of fame—how it can offer immense rewards yet exacerbate personal failings and vulnerabilities.

The climax of the novel occurs as Bobbie prepares for a major comeback concert, aiming to revive her career and prove her resilience. This pivotal event forces her to confront her past decisions, the people who have shaped her, and her own role in her downfall. It’s a moment of reckoning, both publicly and privately.

In the end, **”Love Songs”** offers a somber yet insightful look into the life of a woman whose world is as captivating as it is destructive. Lawrence Sanders provides a narrative that is rich with thematic depth, exploring how the very drive that propels individuals to greatness can also lead to their undoing. The novel is a compelling exploration of fame, creativity, and the costs of living life in the relentless pursuit of one’s art.