Bøger af Stan Dotson

The old folks say Memory is quair. A young preacher boy discovers that the eccentric old woman is that and a whole lot more. Uncovering the mystery of Memory is the only way he will resolve his own crisis of calling. Praise for Poor Memory: Dear Stan, The best I can say is that your book reads like Will Cambell's-with its absurdities, its celebrations of the red-necks, and its exposure of organized religion. -G.McLeod Bryan, author Dear Stan, We drove to Asheville and I took five manuscripts to respond to, intending to skim each one. I began with yours and didn't skim. Read every word. . . It is obviously something Baptists ought to read. Not many reading Southern Baptists left, however. . . Anyhow, it's good preaching and should be heard. -Will Campbell, author Dear Stan, Your novel. . .makes me wonder why the South seems to turn out so many writers in a sort of "ain't--life--strange--cruel--funny" Flannery O'Connor/William Faulkner/etc. genre. (That was a compliment.) -Joyce Hollyday, author

I  began writing this book on a rainy night in August 2015, eight months to the day from the historic speeches of these two Presidents, signaling a thaw in diplomatic relations after fifty-six years of Cold War enmity. It was almost three months after my return home from an eleven-month stay in Cuba with my spouse, Kim. December 17, a date stuck right in the middle of our stay, could well prove to be one of Cuba’s most celebrated dates, establishing its place in the history of a Caribbean country whose calendar is already filled with many red-letter days. We could not have chosen a more interesting or significant chunk of time to be there, given the tremendous changes that the completely unexpected December announcement began to unleash.            With all the stories of the year still percolating in my mind, like strong, fresh roasted Cuban coffee grounds brewing in a stovetop cafetera, I finally resolved on that August day to go home and start pouring them out onto the page (the computer screen, to be more precise). I turned into the driveway in the late afternoon and got within shouting distance of our home on “The Old Place,” our name for the plot of Appalachian mountain land that has been in my family for generations. As it turned out, shouting distance was as close as I could get. Three large trees lying over the road hindered further progress.