When
someone enriches your mind, it’s very overwhelming and amazing and
can’t be put into words. However, this is my feeble attempt to do
just that – pay homage to a fabulous and wonderful writer. I hope
to do him justice, without causing embarrassment.
We
all have our favorite writers. When I was a kid, Laura Ingalls Wilder
dragged me along the prairie. I gathered eggs and firewood with her,
froze with her in the meager cabins that sheltered them from bitter
and harsh winters, and cried when her sister Mary went blind. As an
adult, Rick Bragg makes me laugh at the impoverished rural people of
the South and the situations which befall them (simply because I can
relate), and I even cry at their heartache, grit, and loneliness.
Now, I found another author who affects me just as much but in
different ways.
Eddie
Stack takes me on magnificent journeys to far away places, journeys
which always include cast after cast of humorous, flawed, and
down-right crazy characters full of the quirks we all possess (some
to a larger degree than others). Borderlines is the title of
his latest work. In addition to Laura Ingalls Wilder and Rick Bragg,
Eddie Stack is now in my category of favorite writers.
Places
I’ve visited include: a classroom inside a monastery, a
psychiatrist’s office, Irish pubs and streets, a train station, a
living room of a downtrodden wife, a bedroom of a confused wife, a
wild and wet carnival, an Irish cottage, a riverbank where boys fish,
a dole office, and so many more places; places which may remain
physically foreign to me, but not foreign in my mind. Not anymore.
Not only do I get to go to wonderful and exotic new places via this
writer, my emotions tag along on a roller-coaster of experiences. I
love the characters, hate the characters, both empathize AND
sympathize with them. I laugh with them, cry with them, get mad with
them, cuss with them, and find myself saying aloud, “Oh no you
didn’t,” when a character surprises me!
All
writers have his or her voice, that “something special,” that
specific and personal creativity, that “way with words” which no
one else can claim. Stephen King. James Lee Burke. Nicholas Sparks. I
could list many more. If you’re a reader, then you have your
favorite authors. As a fan of each of these writers, I love their
individual styles. Yet, I don’t wish to write like they do. I
treasure my own voice, my own writing style. Whatever it is, it’s
mine and belongs to no one else. In the thousands, and I do mean
thousands, of books I’ve read in my life, only three writers have
ever made me think, “Man, I wish I could write like that.” One I
won’t reveal (it’s my secret), the others are Sam Shepard (yes, THAT Sam Shepard - the one from The Right Stuff) and
Eddie Stack.
The
rhythm of sentences flows like subtle poetry, the kind of poetry you
don’t even realize IS poetry until someone tells you. The diversity
of sentence lengths keeps your attention. Some are long. Some are
short. The vivid, spot-on descriptions – never too much, never too
little - are always perfect. Action comes from all over in his
stories. Funny action. Silly action. Romantic action. Mean action.
It’s all there. The masterful use of alliteration, similes, and
metaphors are as soothing as a hot bath. The foreign word choices
from a different culture pulls me in like a magnet drawn to metal. I
cannot get enough of the humor, the dark situations, the crazy chaos,
the surprises, the realness, the fresh takes on ordinary
circumstances, the twists, or especially the Irish jargon. Yes,
sometimes it confuses me, but I figure it out. It’s so awesome!
(Wait...I’m wondering if I should use words like mighty or
brilliant here, instead of awesome?)
Sometimes
I read so fast (and don’t absorb the material, the situation, the
conversation, the “whatever the hell is going on”), just to get
to the end of the page and turn and see what happens next that I’m
lost because I don’t understand what I just read. Who said what?
What did they do? Wait? What’s happening? My eyes simply skim to
get to the end. It’s ridiculous! The writing is so good and smooth,
that my eyes and brain unconsciously trick me. But I don’t mind
having to go back and reread. By this time, I’m a kid in a candy
store trying to decide if I want a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup or a
Three Musketeers (and both are my favorite!). In other words, it’s
ALL good.
The
way Eddie Stack writes about the Irish, in no way demeans or
belittles. A quiet pride smiles between the words and peeks out in
his prose. The way Laura Ingalls Wilder shares being poor, and the
way Rick Bragg discusses southern living, neither writer ever offends
because you can relate if you’ve ever been in similar
circumstances. Eddie Stack does the same thing. Although I can’t
relate to Irish living, I get the same easy and comfortable feelings
from his work. To remember people, to talk about them, to write about
them is the best homage one can pay, and as bizarre as the stories
are, I’m sure his fiction is rooted in at least a little bit of
reality, which is why the stories are so golden.
So,
if you are inclined to be carried away to funny lives, fanatical
pubs, desperate people doing desperate things, sadness, elation, wild
and real characters, or even if you wish for a new and colorful
vocabulary, I encourage you – no I beg you – to read Eddie
Stack’s work. He offers free stories on his website if you would
like to sample the fabric first before buying yards of it. I am
beyond thrilled to both endorse and support his work and consider
myself a fan for life.
Visit
his website at www.eddiestack.com
where you can find links to all his work. Plus, not only does he
cater to paperback readers, he offers ebooks and spoken word stories
as well.
Photos snatched from his website! But I snagged the picture of Borderlines off the Internet! :)
