When you are
writing a story or a novel, the writing is the easy part. Getting it out to as
many readers as possible is the difficult part. Now this is where Mark comes
in. A generous supporter of his fellow authors, I had the good fortune of
meeting Mark online. We both follow authors we enjoy and root for.
Two novels
under his belt, his latest story is garnishing many positive reviews and
generating a lot of excitement.
It’s a
pleasure to have Mark join us this week for a 4Q Interview and is sharing an
excerpt from his newest novel – The Old Block.
Mark Scott Piper has been writing
professionally his entire adult life. He is a longtime freelance writer and
video director/producer. Mark holds an M.A. and a Ph.D. in English from the
University of Oregon, and he has taught literature and writing at the college
level for several years. His debut novel, You Wish, was the 2019 American Eagle
Book Awards first-place gold winner. His second novel, The Old Block, has just
been released.
Mark's bookshelves are overflowing. Among his favorites are Christopher Moore,
John Irving, Barbara Kingsolver, Stephen Crane, William Faulkner, Tony
Hillerman, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Anne Lamott--all of whom successfully
conspire to keep him humble.
His stories have appeared in Short Story America, The California Writers Club
Literary Review, and several online literary magazines, including, Scrutiny, Writing
Raw, Fabula Argentea, Animal, Slurve, and others. In addition, two of his short
stories have been Honorable Mention selections in Short Story America Prize for
Short Fiction contests.
4Q: Thanks
for being our guest this week, Mark. Before we chat about your latest work,
please tell us about winning gold in the American Eagle Book Awards for You
Wish. This must’ve been exciting. And can you give us a brief synopsis?
MP: Yes, winning the top prize in the
2019 American Eagle Book Awards was a complete surprise, especially given the
circumstances. We were forced to evacuate our home because the raging wild
fires in Northern California were getting dangerously close. That meant I
didn’t have access to my computer for a while. Thankfully, we didn’t suffer any
fire damage. Once the air became breathable again and we were settled back home,
I checked my email. That’s when I found out I’d won. At first I thought it was
another scam. Turned out it wasn’t.
Since You Wish was
my debut, I had no idea how people will respond. So I’d already steeled myself
for possible rejection. But the reaction to my novel was the opposite.
Here’s the
elevator pitch for You Wish.
Imagine you are granted three-wishes—and
your second wish is captured by a television news crew and broadcast across the
globe. That means the whole world knows you can wish for absolutely anything,
and it will come true. And they’re all watching. Now imagine you’re only fourteen
years old.
4Q: Please
tell our readers what to expect when they pick up a copy of The Old Block.
MP: You Wish was a YA crossover novel, featuring magical
realism with a large dose of social satire. The Old Block, on the other
hand, is a literary novel that touches a lot of subgenres—father-son
relationship, mystery, adventure, humor, even romance. I’ve always had trouble
staying strictly within a single genre,
Here’s a
quick synopsis:
What would you
do if you discovered that your father might not be the person you always
thought he was?
Shortly
after his father dies, twenty-four-year-old Nick Castle discovers what seems to
be a draft of the novel his dad had always hoped to write. But a clue at the
end causes Nick to fear that this story of a serious federal crime and escape
from the U.S. may not be fiction at all. When Nick sets out to find out the
truth about his father’s past, he learns more than he ever expected—about his
father and about himself.
The Old Block is essentially
two parallel stories. The manuscript Nick discovers is the tale of a federal
crime committed during the student anti-war demonstrations in 1970, the
subsequent escape from the U.S., and fifteen years in exile in Central America.
The overall narrative of the novel, which takes place in 2012, is Nick’s reluctant
quest to find out if his father’s tale is fiction or autobiography.
Here’s
an interesting side note. I found a cover artist for The Old Block
online. Designers were listed by first name and final initial. The one who’s
work impressed me the most was “Nick C.” He was in London, and when we exchanged
messages, I discovered his full name was Nick Castle—the name I’d already
chosen for my protagonist. Didn’t see that coming.
4Q: Share a
childhood memory and/or anecdote with us, Mark.
MP: One that’s stuck with me took place
just before Christmas when I was eight. Everyone was asleep but me, and like
kids everywhere, I wanted to know what I was getting for Christmas. Our tiny
duplex didn’t allow much room to hide things. But we did have a storage space (not
a full-on attic) above the ceiling in the bedroom I shared with my younger
brother and sister. The only thing between me and my goal was a thin slab of
plywood covering the hole in the ceiling from the inside.
I climbed
atop the dresser and carefully pushed the plywood up out of the way. I leaned
it back against one side of the framed opening. As I eased myself up into the
crawl space, I accidently bumped the plywood lid with my knee and it dropped
back into place with a thud. I was suddenly swallowed up in pitch black.
Photo by woodleywonderworks.
I tried to
get a hold on the edge of the plywood, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to
do, but I did know I had to escape back to the safety of the bedroom before I
found out exactly what other living things might be in the dark watching me. I did
the only thing I could think of. I stomped on the slab with both feet, hoping
to knock it loose. The board cracked just enough to allow me to get a grip on
the edge and pull it back up. Back on the dresser, I put the injured board back
in place, hopped down and dove back under the covers.
My parents
didn’t seem to notice the minor structural damage, and they never said anything
about it. I was tremendously relieved, sure that I’d gotten away with it. That
confidence didn’t wane until may years later when I had children of my own.
That’s when I discovered that parents know so much more about what their
children are up to than they let on. Mine knew I’d learned my lesson without
their having to teach it to me. Maybe there’s a short story in there somewhere.
4Q: You are
also the recipient of two Honorable Mentions for your short stories, which
have appeared in many publications. What appeals to you about short stories?
MP: Like many of us, I started with short stories. In some
aspects short stories are more difficult to writer than novels, often you’re
working with a tighter narrative than with a longer work. I like the way a
short story can be open ended, leaving the reader to fill in the blanks.
For me, short
stories are snatches of life. Snatches that have meaning in the moment and may
even have long-term consequences, but the focus is on the moment, on the
particular event. Then again, a short story can do whatever the author wants it
to. That’s freedom, but that’s also a challenge.
4Q: What can
you tell us about your writing habits? Do you have a favored spot to write? Has
anything changed because of the pandemic?
MP: My alarm goes off at 5:00 every morning, and that means I
have a quiet work environment every day for four hours or so, until the rest of
the house is awake. I have an office where I do my writing. It’s my creative
sanctuary. Afternoons can be full of errands and family, but the mornings are
mine. If I’m really on a roll with something new or editing a manuscript, I
sometimes go at it again in the evenings. You have to strike when the iron is
hot, or some other appropriate cliché.
I’m retired—as
much as any active author can be. My partner is retired and she’s also disabled.
So, we didn’t go out much before the pandemic struck. Our daily routine hasn’t
been affected as much by the restrictions—I still spend most of my time
writing, re-writing, and editing. Although I try to keep my trips to the market
to once a week, and we buy a lot more things online than we used to. As it is
for most people these days, being cut off from family has been difficult.
4Q: Favorite
authors? Novel?
MP: Disclaimer: I have advanced degrees are
in English, and I spent the bulk of my academic career studying and teaching
literary works. So, it’s not surprising that most of my favorite authors generally
fall into that category. I have many favorite authors, and it’s tough to pick a
single novel from my favorites. Christopher Moore’s Lamb is the
novel I’ve most recommended and given as a gift. Here are some of my favorites
who came up when I tossed
a few darts at my bookshelves.
John Irving
Barbara
Kingsolver
Christopher
Moore
Anne
Lamott
Stephen
Crane
William Faulkner
Fyodor
Dostoevsky
4Q: What are
some of your interests outside of writing?
MP: I have four grown children, all of whom live near me. Of
course, we’re all stuck inside at the moment, but we try to keep in touch
through texts and emails. But I have one-year-old grandson, which makes staying
away that much more difficult.
I’ve been a
big baseball fan since I was a kid, and I still follow it, though not as
closely, these days. While in graduate school in Eugene, Oregon I played
softball in local leagues and in state-wide tournaments on weekends. When I
moved to California, I continued playing as long as my creaky joints allowed,
and until I’d reached the age where playing in an “Over-50” league became too
much a misnomer.
When I’m not
working on my own writing, I read and review the fiction of others as much as
I’m able. I like to focus primarily on independent writers. Indies like us
especially need reviews to help promote their work.
4Q: What is
the most surprising thing you’ve discovered as a writer?
MP: I’ve discovered several things by trial and error along the
way. For instance, in a very real way publishing a book is just the beginning.
You think the job is done when you see your first novel in print, but it’s only
the beginning. If you hope to sell you have to market constantly and well. I’m
getting better at it, but posting on social media and begging others for
reviews can be draining.
But the most
surprising thing I’ve discovered is how much I enjoy editing. I’ve heard that
it’s like chewing gum twice, something dreaded. Yes, it’s a constant chore that’s
never completely finished, but every time I edit a section I can see how much
I’ve improved it beyond catching typos or grammar slip ups. It may be that I’m
simply coming to the manuscript with new, rested eyes by the time I sit down to
do a comprehensive edit, but it’s a wonderful experience. And I get to repeat
it with each book or story I write.
Something
you’ll appreciate, Allan. When I posted the excerpt from the first chapter of The
Old Block below, I had to constantly stop myself from making edits—and it’s
already published.
An Excerpt
from The Old Block.
(Copyright
is held by the author. Used with permission)
Chapter
1
May
2012
I
splashed cold water on my face to shock some life into it. I should be doing
better than this. Over a month since the funeral, and I still wasn’t getting
much sleep. I glanced at my reflection, eased out a sigh. Every time I looked
in a mirror I saw Dad looking back at me. Easy enough to see why: same dark
eyes, same jawline, same smile. A smile that didn’t come easily for me these
days. At least I didn’t break into tears this time.
I
ran a palm over my cheek. I’d either have to shave or commit to growing a
beard. I flicked on the Norelco and started in on my six-day-old stubble. The
buzz of the razor wasn’t loud enough to block out the voices that still
wouldn’t leave me alone.
t t t
The clamor of a hundred simultaneous
conversations overwhelms me at the post-funeral gathering in the Shoat Valley
Presbyterian Church. The whole town has turned out.
The barrage never lets up. Everyone
feels compelled to corner me, pay their respects, share their fond memories of
Jim Castle—his kindness, his gentle way with people, his humility, his
willingness to step in and help. As if I somehow didn’t already know what he
was like.
Mary Ellen Camp, our mayor, pumps my
hand with her two-handed candidate’s grip. “Nick, your dad’s smile always lit
up the room. He will be missed.”
Charley Hanson, the town pharmacist
and Dad’s frequent golf partner, leans in close to remind me: “Jim Castle was
truly an honest man. Might be the only guy I know who never once cheated at
golf.” I reward his hearty guffaw with a forced smile.
Mom’s sister, Eloise, sincere as
always, drunk as always, covers me with sloppy kisses and tells me, “Your dad
was one of a kind. He could make anyone feel special … even those of us who weren’t.
I’ll never forget the time I’d had too much to drink, and I started to sound
off about how life wasn’t fair and …”
I tune her out. I’ve heard that story
so often, it’s embedded in my brain.
t t t
Okay, they were going to miss him. I
got that. But now that gathering and those songs of praise were long gone.
Those well-wishers had moved on as if nothing had happened. Their day-to-day
activities shifted back to normal. Mine wouldn’t. My mentor, my role model, my
best friend … my dad was dead. And
now, my life had a cavernous void in the middle of it that would never be
filled.
Dad and I did everything together. I
was his shadow. For my whole life, the adults in Shoat Valley have referred to
me as “Little Jim,” “a chip off the old block,” “the apple of his dad’s eye,”
or “a spittin’ image of the old man.” Some still applied, but tired clichés
couldn’t begin to describe our relationship.
As a young child, I was a fixture at
Dad’s side at our family bookstore, Book Castle, and I tagged along while he
ran errands. Even when I was only three or four, Dad would let me “help” by
carrying packages back to the car, including some that were probably too big or
awkward to trust me with. A proud moment. When I was older, I realized he most
likely secretly spotted me the whole way, but he never let me know that.
I still remember, early on—I must
have been five or six—my first Little League game. I’d failed miserably that
day. I missed a couple of grounders, made a bad throw, and my performance at
the plate should have earned me the nickname “Whiff.” On the way home in the
car, I stared straight ahead trying to hold back tears.
Dad pulled over to the side of the
road and stopped the car. After a moment, he laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Nick. It takes time to master this game.”
I looked over at him, my lower lip
quivering my response.
He pulled me into a hug. “You’ve got
to remember, Kiddo, baseball is a game of failure.” He ruffled my hair. “The
best hitters in the big leagues average only three hits for every ten at-bats.”
“Wait. So, they fail seven out of ten
times? Really?”
“Yep. But don’t worry, you’ve got the
skills. You just need some help developing them.”
“What does that mean?” I wiped away
the remnants of tears with my sleeve.
“Means you need some personal
instruction.” He chuckled. “And you’re in luck. I know just the guy who can do
it.” He threw his hands out to the side, grinned.
We both knew who he was referring to.
When we got home, he took me out to
the backyard and showed me the basics of playing the game. We laughed, kidded
around, had a lot of fun. No pressure, no disappointment. It was just the two
of us. And we were out there nearly every day for weeks.
He taught me plenty of skills—how to
place my feet in the batter’s box, how to generate power when I swung, all that
stuff. But most of all he taught me how to have fun playing the game. It was a
lesson in baseball and in life that I’ve tried to hang on to ever since.
I’ve never been as close to anyone in
my life. Guess that’s why it’s been so hard for me to let go. Even at Sonoma
State, I regularly Skyped with my parents, most often Dad on Book Castle’s
computer. And when I returned to Shoat Valley with a degree, we picked up right
where we left off. My degree was in English, which, if nothing else, made me a
good candidate to run a bookstore someday. But Dad made sure I thought my
career options through. Even an English major has some choices. I’m sure he
knew all I really wanted to do was follow in his footsteps. Same as I always
had.
But now, his footsteps were gone
forever, and I wasn’t sure what that meant for me. Everything I did, everything
I believed in, everything I hoped to become was a reflection of Dad.
Being Jim Castle’s son defined
me—like being Batman’s sidekick defined Robin. And now? Well, now it didn’t.
Robin without Batman was just some weirdo in tights waiting for instructions.
Thanks again
for taking the time to share your thoughts. Wishing you much success with your
future writing endeavors.
Thank you
for asking me. This was fun.
For all you
wonderful visitors wanting to discover more about Mark and his writing, please
follow these links:
Website
www.markpiper.net
You Wish
https://www.amazon.com/You-Wish-Mark-Scott-Piper-ebook/dp/B07QPW5S2Z
The
Old Block
https://www.amazon.com/Old-Block-Mark.../dp/B08J89TKYR
Amazon
Author Page
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Scott-Piper/e/B07QKCX82F
Goodreads
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19021722.Mark_Scott_Piper
BookBub
https://partners.bookbub.com/authors/5763068/edit
Twitter
@mpiper_writer
Facebook
Author Page
https://www.facebook.com/markscottpiper
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