Location, Location, Location

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I’m in Bethesda Maryland today at Malice Domestic!  Whoo hoo! And photos to come.

Where are you? The wonderful David Burnsworth—who I met years ago in one of those serendipitous meetings at some conference and we instantly bonded—has changed his location for his third book.

Moving is a big deal—you get comfortable, then you have to pick up lock stock and book collection, and hope for the best in a new place.

Where was your last move? Where are you now?

David’s Brack Shelton is sticking with the south.

Home is Where You Keep Your Sunscreen

                   David Burnsworth

Charleston, South Carolina will always be home to my protagonist, Brack Pelton. My first two books, SOUTHERN HEAT and BURNING HEAT were set there. But with the third installment, BIG CITY HEAT, Brack gives Charleston a break and heads to the Capital of the South—Atlanta!

Realtors will say, “Location, location, location.” I couldn’t agree more. Some (probably even me) have called setting another character of the book. I now consider it more than that. Setting influences everything about the story. Winter in northern Maine or Wyoming could freeze appendages off. Certain parts of New York City or Chicago require bullet proof windows. The solitude of Denali might trigger introspection or loneliness.

I love Charleston because it is like no other place on earth. Antebellum homes on lower King Street, crabbing in the waterways of Johns Island, shopping in the Market, and sipping sweet tea at a beach bar on the Isle of Palms while overlooking the Atlantic Ocean are just a few of my favorite things. 

So is exploring the cobble stone streets or driving down Seventeen South toward Beaufort under the cover of live oaks bejeweled with Spanish Moss. The city’s part in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, and current events. Mix in the Deep South climate of humidity approaching a hundred percent in the summer and calling Charleston special doesn’t do it justice.

 

So why did I pick Atlanta for book three? Like Charleston, I also lived in Atlanta at one time in my life. I felt a need to return, to see how the city of my teens had weathered time. And what I found was what started in the late seventies and early eighties as a boom town transformed the city into a cultural powerhouse. Every corner brings something to the table. Music, art, food, progress…Atlanta is absolutely drenched in its own diversity.

For many reasons, including giving me a more worldly outlook, my parents uprooted from what I’ll call rural America to the big city. I have to admit it took me quite a while to adapt. The experience forced me to change and adapt. And it certainly exposed me to a bigger world than I had been used to.

So, Brack had to go, too. This new book was a long time coming for me. I needed to take myself and Brack out of our shared comfort zone. Like for me on my research trip, he finds things are different in the metropolis. While challenging to write, it gave me a new cast of supporting characters to choose from and a different world to play in.

I read some authors because of the consistency of the setting and characters. And I read other authors because they change things up. My series’ home is Charleston.

But I’ll not be afraid of mixing things up from time to time. BIG CITY HEAT is me living this out.

Where are your favorite books set?

HANK:  Oh, gosh, that’s too hard. It depends on the story.  I guess—they’re set in a place that feels real. How about you? And check in, Reds and readers!  Where are you today?

  

David Burnsworth became fascinated with the Deep South at a young age. After a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Tennessee and fifteen years in the corporate world, he made the decision to write a novel. He is the author of both the Brack Pelton and the Blu Carraway Mystery Series. Having lived in Charleston on Sullivan’s Island for five years, the setting was a foregone conclusion. He and his wife call South Carolina home.

BIG CITY HEAT is his latest southern noir.

Which Way To Turn?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Just saying. If you and I are ever anywhere, and we're lost, don't look at me. I have no idea. My husband has learned not to go the way I insist is the right way, because it just isn't. But I am right often enough, by chance, not to be infallibly wrong, so we can't even count on that.

My dear pal and admired colleague Norb Vonnegut's wife is just the opposite. But let him tell you. And there are prizes in store!

NORB VONNEGUT: It's great to be back on Jungle Red. The last time was in 2009, when I explained the meaning of "hornet gak" and described how 5,000 flying, stinging, angry insects almost ate my first novel, Top Producer. It was, as you might guess, a terrifying start to my career as a writer.

I survived. My third novel, The Trust, is coming out this July. And now I'm working on my first piece of non-fiction with a co-author, who spent two years in jail. But I digress. Today, I really want to talk about travel mishaps.

You know what I mean. You're going someplace fun, someplace exotic, someplace to stretch out and recharge the batteries. There's adventure in the air. And boom—everything goes wrong. "The Human GPS" is a true and heroic story about my wife, Mary, who once fended off a marauding band of Venetian pirates.

What better way to launch into the summer than a discussion about travel misadventures, right? The idea for this post actually came from my longtime friend, Mark Sheehan, who is a travel writer living in Sydney, Australia.

Mark compiled a series of travel stories for his new book: Are Those Your Underpants on the Conveyor? Most proceeds will go toward a cure for cystic fibrosis, a cause that Mark has championed for decades.

When he asked me to contribute a short anecdote for the book, I jumped at the opportunity. The Human GPS is an early look at what's inside Mark's book, which releases later this summer.

So here's my question: Do you have a travel story?

Post a few lines here about your own misadventures, and I'll send a free paperback copy of The Gods of Greenwich to five people chosen at random by Hank.

And let's spice up the offer. I'll send a galley of The Trust to the first person who tells me something I don't know about Charleston, SC, where much of my novel takes place.

Enough already. Here's what happened to Mary and me in Venice.

 *****THE HUMAN GPS****

               By Norb Vonnegut

You know how we all have one special talent: the gift big enough to fill a room; or so subtle only our id knows for sure? I believe everybody has a knack, a flair, call it what you want. We each enjoy our own superpower.

My wife is a human GPS. You could drop Mary in the deepest, darkest Amazon rain forest, and she'd find her way home no problem. Urban sprawl is a piece of cake. She pooh-poohs electronic navigation systems when we're driving somewhere unfamiliar, finds the voices annoying no matter the gender or the accent. Mary grabs a map and takes over the navigation, which is fine from my perspective because I could get lost in our backyard.

There have been the occasional mishaps. We once drove to Gatwick, when our return flight to the USA was out of Heathrow. But that's another story, and Mary was diagnosed with chicken pox the day after we returned. So I'm inclined to think the circumstances were extenuating. Even Superman runs into the occasional case of kryptonite, right? 

This story is about Venice. The city is to tourists, I think, what the Himalayas are to mountain climbers. Don't get me wrong. I love the place. There just happen to be enormous challenges when touring the canals. And some are more serious than the navigation.

Several years ago, we were driving through Austria en route to Italy. And true to form, Mary was scrutinizing maps and reading a travel guide that described “marauding bands of Venetian pirates.”

“Watch out,” the guide warned. “There are thieves are everywhere.”

Duly alerted, we resolved to keep our eyes peeled. But the "marauding bands of Venetian pirates" became something of a running joke during our drive. For that matter, the warnings seemed overblown upon arrival. There was a state-of-the-art parking garage on the mainland outside the water taxi stand. It was well staffed and well organized, the picture of efficiency. I think 747s would be lucky to receive the kind of guidance our parking attendants offered that day. No sign of bandits.

The drop zone for water cabs was our first hint something was amiss. Literally, it was a drop zone. The attendants—smiling and waving their arms in the manner that makes the Italian language so enchanting—guided us to the departure area, tossed our bags into the hands of the crew, and signaled for us to get in. Next stop Venice.

There was one problem. The drop was eight feet. There were no stairs or ladders, just lots of air separating us from the deck. It was, as you might guess, the kind of moment that gave us dry mouth.

We did it, grasping the walls, allowing our bodies to stretch as far down as possible, and finally dropping. Me first. I helped Mary, who stuck the landing, a couple of feet, no big deal. When we were both safe, we glanced at each other with knowing looks that said, "This isn’t right.”

Then we waited. Our boat captain explained that another family was arriving, which made me wonder what kind of monitoring system the garage used. After about 15 minutes, the couple and their kids arrived. They, too, stuck the landings, both Mary and me helping this time. The captain indicated we would go to their hotel first.

We drove across the harbor, breathtaking views of Venice, and exchanged pleasantries with the family. Like us, they were staying three days. Inside the city's canal system, a turn here and a turn there, the captain announced to our fellow passengers with the Cheshire cat smile, “We’re at your hotel.”

That’s when Mary kicked into action. She marched up to the front of the boat and stated, emphatic, resolved, 100 percent certain, “No we're not.”

Our captain pretended not to speak English. But he got the point. Mary gestured right, then left, and stabbed at her map of the canals with an insistent forefinger. He was cowed and, nodding his head with an expression that says "Yikes" in any language, started the boat again.

Mary tapped him on the shoulders when it was time to turn, her map and index finger always at the ready. After another twenty or so minutes, we arrived at the first hotel. The couple thanked us, packed up their kids, and disembarked. They told Mary, “Thank you. We would have been lost."

Then came our turn. The captain turned down one canal and proceeded to a dock, which looked like all the others. “We’re here.”

Mary folded her arms and shook her head, tapping her foot on the deck. The captain shrugged and started motoring again. He had this guilty look on his face, like he should have known better than to try a second time. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to our hotel.

Phew.

In retrospect, I think we charged right into the marauding band of pirates from the guidebook. They wanted a quick drop, a quick buck, and a quick getaway. I don't claim to have any special insights into pirates. But as pirates go, I suspect these guys were fairly agreeable. They just happened to meet their match that day, my wife, the human GPS, the modern equivalent of Red Chief in the famous hostage story from O'Henry.

HANK: Travel stories? Charleston? As we said, there are prizes in store, so let's hear 'em! Me? I just wanna meet the fabulous Mary!

**************************

"When the money talks, I listen," says NORB VONNEGUT. He is the author of three financial thrillers including The Gods of Greenwich, which the NYT calls, "A gleeful peek at the world of hedge fund moguls." Stephen Frey says The Trust (available July 2012) "reels you in fast…then goes like lightning." Published in eight languages, Vonnegut has appeared on Bloomberg as well as the Dylan Ratigan, Judith Regan, and Laura Ingraham shows. Currently, he is working on his first non-fiction project—a true story about the American dream colliding with American justice.

Vonnegut brings a unique insider’s perspective to his writing. Before turning to color commentary on Wall Street, he built his wealth management career with Morgan Stanley, Paine Webber and other icons of finance. A Harvard College and Harvard Business School graduate, Norb splits his time between New York City and Rhode Island and is a Trustee for the American Foundation for the Blind. LIKE Norb Vonnegut Books on Facebook to learn more.