 I'm Katya and I'm the relatively new owner of Bridgesite Books and I'm happy to welcome anybody Samantha recommends. He was the very first person that I met in the book world and I'm so thankful for that. So, Samantha Colbert is the owner of Bridgesite Publishing, which is based right in Montpelier. So this is a hyper local event. Vermont authors, Vermont publisher, Vermont Buster. And I will let her introduce the authors. Thank you. So I'm also a new owner of Rootstock Publishing. I took over last year, one year ago actually. That's very exciting. Happy to have you. Thank you. The press was founded by Stephen MacArthur and Ricky Gard Diamond in 2017. They started by publishing two books. And now when we close out 2023, we will have almost 60 books published. So I'm very thrilled and honored to keep growing Rootstock Publishing. At the end of our reading, if you have any questions about publishing, I'm happy to answer them. I also hope you'll have questions for our authors. As Katya said, these are three Vermont authors. They've all published their books this summer and fall. We have a July date, October date, oh excuse me, September date and October date. So these are all recently new, super new as the reason to run which we'll hear from first. So maybe I'll just go right into my book intros. And I want to thank Korka Media for filming today. We are being filmed just to let you know. And then if you want your face on camera or not, you'll have to be aware. So first, as I said, we'll hear from Mike Magluello. He'll be reading from his debut novel, A Reason to Run, which Kirkus Reviews calls a gripping, highly nostalgic dive into a decade and a high school sport. And it's not a spoiler alert, but I'll let you know the decade is the 1980s. So it's really fun getting to relive, there's a lot of music. There's a lot of pop stars from that era mentioned. And so that's, it is a fun, highly nostalgic dive. Mike Magluello is a writer and recovery finance professional, father of three, and husband of one. His work has appeared in zigzag lit mag, cold lake anthology, and flash fiction magazine, where his story, The Golden Boy, took first prize in its 2023 summer writing contest. He lives in the Middlebury area. And one of his inspirations for writing this book was to share life lessons with his young sons, who, it turns out, Mike says, enjoys story, they enjoy stories more than speeches. So please help me welcome with his story, Lake Magluello. Thank you. Great to be here, thanks. And I just want to thank Bridgeside Books for putting this on. They're doing so much great things to make coming into the bookstore relevant and so much more satisfying than going online to buy your book. So thanks for, thanks for being a great example of a local bookstore. Yeah, as Samantha said, Mike Magluello, I live in Cornwall, Vermont with my family. I write long and short fiction about growing up. My main characters tend to work through relationships with siblings and parents. I like to say, you know, I write about tragedy, recovery, and hope as a result. The book I wrote today is my debut novel, Reason to Run. It's a fictional coming-of-age story set in 1980, Chicago, about a teenage boy, his bike, a devastating accident, and the healing power of running. I started writing the book in 2020. Really, I got the idea back in seventh grade, however, after reading The Outsiders. I read that book and thought, you know, wow, there's something powerful about being able to capture life on paper and bring some sense of control to your life at an otherwise chaotic time. I am originally from Chicago, hence the setting for the book. But as of this past weekend, I do consider myself a Vermont author. Anyone curious as to why? Sure. Well, on our way to my launch party this past weekend, I made my family stop at the town dump to drop off for garbage. And I am pretty sure that doesn't happen to authors outside of the Playville State Mail. So good to be here tonight. And maybe if there's questions, I'll take any questions after reading page or two from my novel. Great. So the setup to this short reading is this is the first page of my book. And the scene is the 1989 Illinois High School Track and Field Regional Finals. And this is minutes before the start of the 3,200 meter race. So that's eight laps around a high school track. And you can't see the font with the font sets off this selection as a flash forward to a climactic scene later in the book. So this is kind of how it starts. Nine months ago, I was dead. That's no excuse if I fail today. I need to place in the top four to make it to state next weekend. Before rehab, I never ran continuously for more than 10 minutes. Today's race will be over in nine. I toss my warm-up here behind coach rep and slip through the carnival of athletes crowding the grass infield on my way to the starting area. The buzz from the stands makes it all so real and confirms I have nowhere left to hide. Family and friends look on as I join my competition in a final shakeout of pre-race jitters. Lots of people helped me get here. Many are everyday heroes. Some are everyday assholes. The taste of iron in my mouth triggers a fear of what awaits, like in the minutes following my accident. Questions of survival have become questions of identity. I began running to recover. I kept running when I discovered I was good at it. I'm running today to slay the self-destructive flaws that led me to the sport in the first place. The starter takes his position and calls us to the line. On your mark, I lean forward, draw a deep breath, and smile in the torturous pause between the starter's command and the firing of his gun. Bang. So that's page one. How are we doing on time? Should I read another page? I have more minutes, and I think we should hold all questions until the end. Oh, OK. Go over. Sure. I'll read one more short excerpt. It'll just take a minute. This is maybe a quarter of the way into the book, and it's the introduction of one of my favorite characters to write. I think I'll just let it speak for itself. So here it goes. The background noise in my head has tormented me since childhood. An inability to ignore my thoughts kept me awake at sleepovers long after the lights went out. And my wandering mind earned me a slow learner badge and that seat in Sister Kenneth Agnes' remedial reading class in grade school. At some point in an effort to manage my restless mind, I created an alter ego and called him Bad Gorilla, a fanatic play on my last name. The main character's name is Sam Bagliorello. So Bad Gorilla. I feed Bad Gorilla all my negative thoughts. Worry, fear, insecurity, anger, envy, you name it. While this helps quiet the chaos in my head, now and then Bad Gorilla busts out of his cage, following with all the negative energy I've sent his wet and forces me to grapple with him on the wrestling mat of my mind. Clearing my head while tearing down the narrow two lanes of Spirit Hill is one way to calm Bad Gorilla when he throws his weight around. The noise in my head tonight is an endless loop of negative thoughts about Charles O'Toole, my family, and where I fit in the world. As usual, Bad Gorilla is no match for the hill and the ride to the bottom leaves me with a temporary feeling of freedom and detachment, like a little kid enjoying the simple thrill of a bike ride. Oh, there we go. I'll leave it there until there's any questions later. Thanks. Thank you. Thank you. I love the names. There's a lot of fun nicknames in the book. So next, we'll hear from Chris Lincoln and his debut novel, The Funny Moon. Funnily enough, there is one thing in common with a reason to ride, and that's golf. There's a caddy. My major. His main character is a caddy, and one of his main characters is a golf player. So a little bit, but other than that, they're very different. And so it's going to be exciting to hear next. So herself. What's that? I'm not a golfer. Can you tell? Yeah, so I'm not a golfer. Halloween, so. Are they now called golf players? No, they're called golfers. Just golfers. I get it wrong with my husband who's a fly fisherman, and I don't know if I say fly, fisher, or fisher. He makes flies, and he catches fish. I got that for him. So let's talk about Chris Lincoln. He's a graduate of Middlebury College, and he also studied at the Bread Loaf Writers Conference. He's an award-winning copywriter and creative director who was recognized with a clio, which is known as Advertising Oscar. He's the author of Playing the Game, Inside Athletic Recruiting in the Ivy League. And he originally wrote the first draft of The Funny Moon as a birthday gift for his wife. And I'm so happy he did because here it is as a gift to all of us. Let's welcome Chris Lincoln. Thank you. Thank you, Samantha. And thank you very much for hosting. It was just great to be here. We drove really fast because I was a little late, but now I think I'm settled and all is good. I'm going to read from a really section of the book. The book is about a, Mike's is a coming of age story. This is a coming of middle-age story. I'll put it that way. A long-married couple, their relationship. You're supposed to write what you know about. So this features a lot of what I know about. The hero of the book is a copywriter. He's burned out. His wife is a massage therapist. That's what CeCe's done for a long time. And her family has actually got some psychic abilities. So I know about those. And in this particular scene, the wife, the massage therapist, communicates with somebody from the other side. This scene takes place shortly after the couple has decided to split up for the summer. They've had a tough time. So they decide to separate. And I will say at this point, it is a novel. It's not a memoir. People ask me, I didn't know you guys were separated. No, it's a work of fiction. It's a vagination. So in this particular scene, Claire is going to speak with this visitor from the other side who happens to be her grandmother. And this is Claire. Frustrated. She looked up at the leaves shivering in the late morning sun and suddenly saw an image of her grandmother, the indomitable Mama Betty, the source of her ability to communicate with the other side. Mama Betty wore one of her silver wigs, sent slightly askew on her large head. As if she had grabbed it off a hat rack on her way out the door. Stolely built with the jowls of a bulldog, she wore a mottled mix of pancake and rouge. And her lips were covered with a thick coat of bright red lipstick. Behind her cat eye glasses, her deep brown eyes smiled at Claire. Looking mighty blue there, sugar pie, her grandmother said in her sweet southern drawl. Why the long face? I don't know, said Claire. Oh yes, you do, Lonnie Child. Claire knew she could never fool her grandmother and said, do you remember the time we were driving in your car and you were mad at Papa and I asked if you were ever thought about divorcing him? Sure do, sweet cheeks. Sunny day, right about noon. Smell of dogwoods in the air. You were driving on low road or road. Claire recalled the scene like it was yesterday. Mama Betty continued, you were wearing one of your pretty little shirts with no bra. Mama, you had a pair of titties. Not that I approved of you being brawless. No sir, but you were the baby of the family and been through enough already losing your mama. What was leaving your bra off going to do? Turn you into a holla? I don't know, said Claire. The sense of freedom was pretty liberating. When I was younger, they showed women out of the television news burning their bras. Y'all Papa said, Betty, you burn your bra. We'll have a three-long fire. Mama Betty threw her head back and laughed. How is Papa Claire asked? Oh, he's cooking away. You know how he is. Chitlins and gravy, sweet potato souffle, chicken with giblets, peach codla, homemade vanilla ice cream. He feeds 20 people every Sunday just like always, finds the strays and fills their bellies. Mama Betty nodded, are there strays in heaven? Ask Claire. Oh, there's strays everywhere, Sugar Pie. Not everyone has a big happy family. Claire considered her single friends, the people who were estranged from family members, the clients who were closer to their pets than to their adult children. She thought of Wally and said, I've been thinking a lot about what you said about Papa that day in the car. Oh, I remember Mama Betty said, and pointed a finger at the sky. Divorce, never, murder, yes. Did you really need it? Oh yeah, woulda killed him, given him mouth to mouth and killed him again if I could. That man would drive me so crazy I could plead insanity and win. Well, Wally's driving me crazy too. What a poison Papa's food, but he did all the cooking. I don't cook much either, said Claire, thinking about how she would miss Wally's dinners. These days women can leave a marriage just like that, Mama Betty snapped her fingers. Was it like that in my day? No, sir, you had to work at marriage. It was for life. Well, it shouldn't be a life sentence. Fair enough, honey child. That Wally, he's going through his trials no matter what you do. Besides, you know what they say, you wanna change someone, change yourself. And with that, Mama Betty blew her a kiss and vanished into the ether. Fool. How am I doing with the time? And we got five more minutes. Do you wanna do another? All right, well, so Wally's moved out. He's with his friend Bear. But there's another scene that I think might be a little more fun. It's one of the things that Claire can do is communicate with the animals. And I don't know if any of you have experiences, but her sister can communicate with the animals. So if people are having trouble with their dog, or their cat, I'll whisper. Yeah, basically, and she can do it over the following, so you can do it for Wally distance. She's kind of a shaman, really. So this is a little bit based on T-she's sister, yeah. So, let's see. Okay, so in this particular scene, Claire, she's helping with this dog rescue place and there's a dog that needs to get, we placed it in another spot. So, she's trying to help solve this problem. She took another sip of water and thought of Gus, that's the dog. She had taken Roz's advice today before it had driven the dog to her studio for a chat before dropping him at the turnbills. She asked Gus what had happened at his previous home, posing her question telepathically, while beating gently on a drum to induce a hypnotic state in both of them. Gus laying out his side on the wide pine floor of Claire's studio. He looked up at her with one brown eye, peeking through a tuft of his long black rasta hair. Totally dysfunctional family, relayed the dog blinking once. How so? They had a boy and a girl, both addicted to their screens, video games, texting, social media. It was like watching a slow motion fat farm. The kids never went outside, never threw me a ball or took me for a walk. They tried to feed me Cheetos. I don't want cancer. What about the parents? If the mom wasn't in front of a mirror, she was at yoga, buying new clothes or going to the hairdressers. Totally vain. She left me locked up in the house. There was no outside run or electric fence, which I've heard will fry your nuts by the way. That's not true. Well, I don't want to find out. Was there a dad? Yeah, total workaholic. Classic case of winning his family. We dogs see that all the time. He'd show up late after work and his wife would bolt, saying it was his turn to have the kids while she went out with her girlfriends or who knows where. He'd put the kids to bed, pour himself a big scotch and take me for a walk. Finally, some fresh air. But then he'd dump all his promos on me like I'm some freaking shrink. Sorry to hear that. He was buried in debt. His wife didn't like sex. His kids hardly talk. They just stared at their screens. He'd scold them about that and do the exact same thing. He made more eye contact with his phone than with his children. That's sad, Gus. Yeah, they had all the trappings. Big fancy house, big car and their lawn would've looked even better if they let me do my business on it. There's a lot of fertilizer in dog shit, you know? But everyone scoops it up like it's poison and drops it in plastic bags that don't decompose. Humans, I swear. So what got you in trouble? Oh, I needed to get outside that they never let me out. So I barked. I pissed. I pooped. They didn't want a dog. They wanted a Christmas card. Happy family in front of the roaring fire with faithful Gus, the imprisoned dog. Fuck that. I'd rather be the main course at a Chinese restaurant. Gus, cancel that. It's true. Give me liberty or give me death. Thank you. Thank you, Chris. I do realize we were getting impersonations and then character voices. Thank you. Next, we'll hear from Marilyn. This is going to slow things down, I think, a bit because this is a lyrical memoir, a different style. I don't know if we'll get different voices from Marilyn of the Spun. It's a lovely memoir called Attic of Dreams by Marilyn Webb Negli. Bill Schubert, the author of LaMoyle Stories and Other Novels, calls this memoir a very compelling memoir written in a unique style that covers Negli's fascinating life. Marilyn served as president of Shelburne Farms from 1976 to 1988. She is the author of two previous books and co-editor of another. Her 2007 book, Walking Through the Seasons, received an icky gold medal for best northeastern nonfiction, excuse me. She has been a Vermont public radio commentator and has written essays for her local newspaper. Raised in a Scutney, Vermont, she currently lives with her husband in Shelburne. Please welcome Marilyn Webb Negli. Welcome. Thank you very much for the introduction, for arranging this and for a bridge side. Bookstore for letting us be here. It's a wonderful opportunity for us to be here. It could be said that writing my memoir began about 40 years ago when I recorded memories of my childhood on index cards. That was before we had computers in everyone's homes. But I never found the courage to write it until my husband Mark and I invited a foster child to live with us for about three months. It wasn't a long-term thing. It was just giving respite to the home that she was in because the people were not getting along. Her mother, like mine, suffered from alcoholism. And so I took her to Allen on an AA meetings. And we saw people telling their stories that were untrained speakers. They were just regular human beings and telling their stories. And one man, in particular, was sobbing at the fact that he had let his children down so many times. And he went into the list of Memorial Day and Fourth of July at Thanksgiving and Christmas and how he described their faces, looking up at him and their disappointment. And there was something about that moment that gave me the courage to then think about writing my story even though I didn't start for several more years because I just didn't have time to focus on it. And but what happened in that moment and with that story was it told us that it wasn't because of us that our mothers were alcoholics. It was that they couldn't help it, that they were sick. And so that just made me realize that every single person, everybody has a story. And I've come to believe also that everyone should tell their stories, especially around the kitchen table or write them in journals, because stories are one of the things that really bind us together as a society and we're becoming more and more separated and generationally more and more separated. So I'm just making a plea for storytelling. So Attica Dreams is written in three parts. It's the first part of my life, the middle, which is the courier phase. That's the Shelburne Farms part of it mainly. And then there's the part I mean now, which is a very short part of the memoir. But it deals with the aging process a bit. The reader will notice that there's a change in voice from a child's voice, a simpler language in the beginning of the book. And then it becomes a little more developed and more complex as we go along. And short chapters in the book are written as vignettes. And I came to realize that when you remember something, just picture some time when you pick strawberries or apples or something, and you go into your memory vague, you kind of see it almost as though you're looking through a telescope. It's almost a shape, like a round shape. And I just realize that really vignettes are more the way we remember. We don't remember in whole episodes. We remember scenes. And so that's how it was written. But there are other reasons why I did short chapters, which I will go into right now. So my story begins in the village of a Scutney, Vermont, where my parents had a restaurant. And it was a lively night spot called the Toppat. But at home, we just referred to it as the club. I think that's because when they bought it, it was called the Casa Club. And they just kept that name. So because those earlier memories that I had recorded about my childhood were there, I began to assemble them as time went by. Created a timeline first. But then I assembled them the way one might create a quilt out of scraps and bits and pieces. And then together, when you finally put it all together, something happens. So I will now just read a few short chapters. But I won't read all of it up. I'll read the entire chapter in the beginning because it's so short. And then the others will be excerpts. The first chapter is called Spring Peepers. And you can see how short it is. And also attention spans are shorter. And also that's another reason why short chapters. I'm five. It's my bedtime. But mom and dad want to take me for a walk. They say the restaurant isn't busy, so they can leave for a while. We cross route five and turn toward a dirt road that has no name and no lights. The road is wet and spongy. The air is full of steam. My whole world seems soft and safe. Listen for the spring peepers they whisper. At first I hear nothing. Then as we near a pond, I show, I hear them. I hear the peepers. We stop to listen. My parents' quiet sounds tell me they are smiling. I inhale their happiness with one big breath. We walk a mile or so, hand in hand. It's dark. Even the stars are hidden. But I feel safe and happy. We turn toward home, there again, their head. I'm sorry. I see our restaurant's neon lights. A mist has lifted their red glow to warm the blackened sky. I'm only reading from part one because I don't want to give the whole story. So this is just to give a sense of the restaurant, this lively nightclub. It's really a restaurant that had a five piece band on weekends and that kind of thing, playing jazz. The club is a buzz. Customers are pouring in, dressed in their best clothes. The dance floor shimmers with color as the band begins to play. Now that everyone has arrived, I sit near Monk to watch the show. And MC steps up to the mic. He tells off color jokes. One of the waitresses covers my ears before each punchline. That embarrasses me, but for only a minute, there's so many other things to think about. The magician confuses everyone with his tricks. The fancy dancers finally appear. Everyone, especially the men, claps and hoots. The show has ended. Everyone has eaten. The band begins again. Couples swarm the floor like dancing bees. Women step out of their high heels. Some dance so freely that they tear through their seemed stockings. This kind of pleasure is beautiful to see. As midnight approaches, the dancers stop to hold hands. They encircle the dance floor. At exactly midnight, the band begins to play all langzang. Everyone sings along. As the music ends, couples kiss, enveloped by the warm, bubbly light. They're wishing each other a happy new year, and they mean it. Mom whispers, a lot of complicated things are happening out there. I don't know what she sees. Happiness, the kind that makes you smile with your whole body, is all that I can see and feel. And this one ends darker. But I want everybody to understand that I felt like I had a really good childhood. Even though there were sad and imperfect parts to it. Somehow there was a richness because of all the people in my life. Dad had made a long rope swing for me behind the club. I find myself standing there next to a clump of sumac. Time slows. I blindly stare toward the neighbor's dairy bar below. My hand reaches for a sumac branch. I shave its leaves with one downward movement. The leaves gather into my hand. I let go. They fall somewhere. I sense a shadow. My quiet Russian grandfather is standing next to me. He has come from Springfield with Grammy. She must be tending to mom. Tears stream down grandpa's rugged cheeks and jawbone. His lips quiver against the ruthlessness of grief. What has become of his beautiful daughter? He says nothing. He does nothing. He simply stands there trying not to sob. I look over my shoulder toward the house. Mom is being lifted into an ambulance. She is lying on a gurney in a straight jacket. Dad tells me that she is going to Waterfairy, the state mental hospital. I don't know what that means. I'm simply relieved that others are helping us. Mom will come home in two and a half months near the end of summer vacation as I enter eighth grade. I sometimes wonder why no adult ever holds and reassures me with everything will be all right. Although my grandfather did stand with me. He offered all that he had in that moment, his presence and his own vulnerability. This is called oil leather, it's in honor of books. Wednesdays are the best days. The Bookmobile arrives with new books for our library. Friends and I hurriedly bike there to get first pick. Our library has an air of dignity causing us to whisper inside. I love the scent of its waxed floors and oil leather. Whenever they are with all of these books, I feel a sense of importance. Biographies of Claire Barton, Benjamin Franklin, George Washington Carver and others enlarge my world. Nancy drew mysteries and novels like Lana Dew or Little Women, Uncle Tom's Cabin carrying me to new places and ideas. On our way to the library, my girlfriends and I keep our ice peel for returnable bottles. Loose change comes in handy at Marston's store. For a nickel or dime, we can buy a comic book or candy bar. We can sit outside on the edge of the porch with bikes dangling over the sides. I looked down at my young girl's legs. Shins are scraped and bruised from playing hard. Today, we and a few boys have just played a game of touch football on the village green. And Polly doing tons. I've got one more short, we could do one. Marston's store, I thought since I mentioned it. After climbing several steps to a broad porch, I entered Marston's store. I entered Marston's store through a large screen door stepping inside onto wide, unfinished floorboards. I'm greeted by a mixed aroma of canned coffee and spoiling vegetables. A white cat is sleeping inside the glass candy case. Granny Marston is also napping behind the wood stove. When up and about, she fusses with the merchandise, slowly moving from hair to there. Her figure is slim and stooped. Her white hair is drawn back in a knot. Rimless eyeglasses slip down on her nose. Her son is seated in the far corner wearing a green visor and glasses. He's sorting and placing mail in postal boxes. The black and brass postal boxes are the fanciest part of the store. I once paid Granny Marston a dime for a comic book, classic comic book. Halfway home, I remembered that classic comic books cost 25 cents. I turned back to give her the extra 15 cents. She wasn't known for her friendliness, but with a slight smile, she handed me a small paper bag and said, choose any candy you want. It's safe to say that we young people regard this old general store as the heart of our village. Nobody wants it. Well, it's such a cozy, like, Vermont feeling. Thank you. We've heard from our authors, and we were going to do, like, a Q&A. If anybody has any, we can also do book signing, and I also have a few prizes for the audience. I don't know if I should do it, but if you ask a question, you get a prize. And if you're a question, you get a prize. What do we do? That's the best question. Maybe we'll do it that way. If you ask my question, you'll get a prize. I have T-shirts. They have a little, whoops, something in my bag, a little Publish Indie T-shirt. This is from IngramSpark, which is what we use to publish our, they're called POD books, or Print on Demand. So T-shirts as a prize, and then I brought, she said, two books that are arxed, known in the business as Advanced Reader Copies. This is by Nancy Stone, and she's from Williston, and this is a book of poetry and art, and this is by Michael Pavarnik. This is True Cry. Michael Pavarnik is a retired DEA agent for Worcester Mass, and so this is about a 1994 drone case that he worked on for a year that really cleaned up that town. So two arxed, or T-shirts for prizes. You'll get to pick one that you'll want. So it's open for questions. Ask a question, get a prize. A bit odd. My question for all of the audience would be, I once saw Pat Conroy in Miami Beach, had topped with him, and I said, how much of your story is true? And he said 125. He said it. He said all my stories were true, and I had to weed it down because it was so unbelievable. So I always ask Gossers, how much of your story comes from true life, do you think? What percentage of your stories comes from true life? Do I start? Because yours is prime. Oh my God. That's tired of writing memoirs. Totally. I've been over that. I mean, one of the rules of writing memoir is to tell the truth. Right. So it's my truth. And you know, people remember things differently if I had siblings, which I don't. Right. Your sister would say, it's my time. I would say, your sister would say 75%. Exactly. So I just say it's my truth, but I really have worked hard at honesty. And then, oops, okay. So Wally, who's the character that Claire's all upset about, is an aspiring writer, and he does write. And at one point, he's in an interview situation, and he's asked the same thing. How much of this is you? And he says, well, it's actually what I do is I lie to tell the truth. When you're a fiction writer, you're making stuff up. But it has to be true. If it doesn't reveal truths, if it doesn't share insights, if it doesn't capture emotions, it's not going to resonate with the reader. So that would be my answer. It's all true, but it's also made up. Yeah, I'd answer it slightly differently. Consistently, but differently. In my case, a lot of it's true, but it's exaggerated. Writing your first novel, writing one that takes place in a fictionalized version of my hometown. The internal narration of my character very much on point with how I perceived, how I remember I perceived life as a 17, 18-year-old kid, but also kind of a range around that, from probably middle school through college. And that feeds into the internal narration, but again, exaggerate it to make it more interesting as a work of fiction. But then the events in the book, in my case, a teenage boy who discovers an exceptional talent for running after a tragic accident on his bike, that part of it's all fictionalized to make it. Now, I like running, and that's why I wrote a story, a love letter in a sense to running, but as opposed to my character as talent, I end up kind of bringing up the rear in those group runs. But a lot of the scenes are based on my experience, riding bikes, running, swimming, that sort of thing. So it's, like I said, it's inspired by real life, exaggerated. Great question. Great question. What would you like? Do you want to say the word about that? Oh, the Haiku book said it in Harris' name, this word. This one, actually the release date was yesterday, so wow, it was, okay, great. Yeah, thank you. I'll be not in need for it. Oh, you know, I had a t-shirt running, I didn't see it, plenty of marks. I was in free Maryland. What was it like to be writing about your life, knowing people you knew would be reading it? I'm always very obsessed with that. Like were there things you were like, ooh, do I really want so-and-so to know this? Or were you just like, I'm just gonna put it out there? That's a very, most difficult part. But my parents are no longer the thing, so they're the main characters, and it's so much of the early life. And I did reach a point where I got so nervous about, I've been married three times, which is what I think is partly because I lived in an alcoholic household. And so, one of the scary things was, what does this husband think when I'm writing about the eyes and what do those husbands think about me writing about my life now and all of that? So one day, I just tell you quickly that one day I had emailed my first husband who was married to for four years and just sent him a rough draft as the earliest part. I heard of this and the clock was a terrible one. We could see that. He didn't know. Yeah, we could. But anyway, and then I didn't hear from him, and normally we communicate once a year, once every two years or so, and then, but when we do, he responds quickly. That's usually because I'm telling him somebody we knew died. That's it. So he wrote, he didn't write back, and I thought, I said to Mark one day about walking into the house, gosh, Jerry hasn't gotten back to me. I'm really worried that, you know, I was offended him somehow. I stepped in the door and the phone was ringing. I ran over and looked at the phone and there was his last name and I'd call her ID. And I picked up the phone, I said, Jerry, I thought I'd given you a heart attack. Your feet are getting heavy. And he said, Marilyn, I couldn't email this to you. I had to call and tell you this is the most beautiful thing I've ever read. And he meant, not my writing, he meant the way he showed up in the book. And so that sort of pushed me forward to the next stage, you know, there are rough spots all the way along, but that was one of the big ones. Really beautiful. No, but the pot's ideal over there. But I wanted to add a little thing, just as a reader, a publisher of memoir, you know, you talk about how hard it is to be true and be honest, but there's also a way to treat your story so that it's yours and you're not assigning, you know, attributes or feelings or emotions or blame to other people in your life. And I think Marilyn does a fantastic job of that where it's her lens. You're right there with her and it's her lens. And so, yeah, there's ex-husbands and there's her parents, all these other characters, but there's no voice going, oh, they were such a bastard, you know, none of that and kind of stuff. And so, maybe that is the difference when people are like, oh, I'm so afraid to write about people in my life. And yes, if people treat you badly, you have a right to your story, but I think there's a way to do it through your own lens so that it comes out as a beautiful story as your ex had said, so I just wanted that. The name's Jake, the name's Chris Sandlin. T-shirt. He he he. Ha, ha, ha, the name. I only got one size, they're all extra, but they're comfy to sleep, I was just gonna say it. Any other questions? Pen. Ask a question. How did the three of you actually get started in writing and how long have you been doing? Yeah, what you said, how did that matter? I don't know, I guess my father taught English that he could talk writing and he published a best-selling textbook on college writing and so maybe I was born with it. I wanted to be a writer from the time I was in college. I worked as a journalist for a while, then I worked in the advertising business for a very long time, writing copy, short copy, law copy, all kinds of it. This is not my first novel, it's my first published novel, but it's my fifth novel that I've written and so I've been a writer for my whole life and I sold an option to the movies on another novel that was never published and the movie was never made, which is usually what happens. So it's just been what I like to do and have done it all the way through and then I did publish a nonfiction book 20 years ago, but nonfiction didn't really, it wasn't gonna be my thing. I mean, I could have published many other nonfiction books, but it just didn't excite me the way the challenge of writing fiction does. So it's a process as Cece knows that can be pretty all-consuming when you're in the midst of it and you kind of go into your own world and then I'm perfectly happy there. Yeah, look, I'm happy that he's there. I'm happy that he's there. I'm happy that he's there. Thanks for your life, Easy. That's right. In my case, I guess to expand upon what I was saying, earlier about being inspired to write after reading The Outsiders in seventh grade, I wrote through high school, including being on the school newspaper. And then when it came time to choose a major in a career, I passed on the creative arts and chased the paycheck and put to the side this dream of writing a novel. But every couple of years, I'd sketch out a scene or a character or send myself an email with a snippet of dialogue. But then you get off a plane and family and work and life would kind of collide with self-doubt and I'd file it all the way. But then 2020 arrived and we all remember that shit show. And I spent the summer on my front porch taking Zoom meetings while my two sons who at the time were seven and nine spent the summer literally beating the tower out of each other in front yard. I'm like, you know, I better write these guys a letter. And it was a love letter about growing up. And later that year, I decided, you know what, I'm not, I have no interest in returning to a career that requires me to travel three, four days a week. And that letter snowballed into what became a story, a reason to run. And the more I worked at it, the longer it got, the writing became more fictional, but the words became more heartfelt and honest. And so that, I guess that's how I got into writing, if you will, it was, right, I rediscovered it three years ago. I would say I like the name, the title, a reason to run, because it makes you want to read the book to fight out the reason, you know? So that was a clever title, I think. Nice. Now I had 80s. And from five. The little, the racing strategy. Yeah. That's right, right, a hack seat. Yeah. Did you want to mention about, well, you're writing for your couple? Yeah, well, I had to write quite a bit during my job when I was president of Shellware, as far as I was doing newsletters and essays and that sort of thing. And then, when my children left home, I just, I remember there was one day when I was driving to the Lincoln Gap and the river was rushing, it was a march. And I was thinking about how everything is about water. You know, it's a sap in the trees and this and that. And I got really excited about water. And I ran home and wrote a little short piece about March and the waters. And then I submitted it to the local newspaper. And actually my first book, Walking Through the Seasons, was a compilation of all of those nature columns that I sent to the town newspaper. And that's one thing led to another. And it got that little gold medal. And so it encouraged me to keep going with writing. That's basically it. I didn't have a kind of background. He's so happy. Yeah, but like you said, I truly believe this also. We all have a story to tell. And whether you've been writing your whole life or you start a few years ago, you know, you get it out there and it is a craft. You can perfect it, right? You keep doing it. Reading a lot is also a way to perfect your craft because you're taking in words and voices of writing styles on the craft. So it helps you to put that out, too. You get a prize. T-shirt or the true crime? I want the true crime. Yeah. I don't know if they knew that. Browse. It's truly fascinating. I learned a lot. You learned how? No, I learned a lot about the hiding places that drug dealers use in the cars. There's a whole cast of characters. We had to make a chart. We had to make a map. I mean, you're like in it. You're like, you're in the drug deals. I had to laugh. It's a very good deal. It's intense. And it spans. He travels to, so he's in the Worcester Mass, but he ended up going to Puerto Rico. He ends up, I think, out in L.A. He's in Brooklyn. There were so many moving parts to this one case. And it turned out that Worcester Mass, too, was like the biggest heroin trafficking town of the whole Easter Seaboard. And you're like Worcester, but this is a tiny little New England town. So it's pretty fascinating. Thank you. Questions or maybe we'll do book signings if anybody would like to get a book? Please support British Side Books. Anyone? And oh, yeah, writing. But when your last name is WED, and then you're a part of the show burn WED? Right, I was. Oh, my middle name. I, Marilyn Webb Nagley. My last name, Alice Nagley. But it's the same family. That's why. That's interesting. Yeah. Yeah, cool. The connections there, which, so when you get to it in the book, it'll make sense. OK. Fantastic. Well, thank you. Very good. That's it. Come on.