I continue to get mail for impresario Gerry Boyle, brother of Susan Boyle, the endearing Scottish songstress. Gerry has a record label and he does get some interesting notes, like the one that came from New Zealand earlier this week and began: “Hi Gerry, You must be proud of Susan’s success.”
Well, of course I am. Who isn’t? Living with her cat and singing in the church choir and all of a sudden she’s vaulted to fame and maybe even to fortune. But this letter, unlike most of them, wasn’t pitching a rock band. David was offering a special programme that he said would help Susan overcome her panic attacks. David said it worked for him; he hasn’t had an attack in 21 years. He said he expected nothing whatsoever in return. He also said he respected Susan’s privacy. Nice guy, David. I haven’t had a panic attack myself but it made me almost want to write back and get the CD, just in case.
And I will, write back that is. I’ll explain to David Down Under that I’m Gerry Boyle the crime writer. And I’m from A Place Called Maine, which happens to be the title of a wonderful book that I was lucky enough to stow away in.
I don’t usually plug my work so baldly (well, maybe I do, but not this work). This is an anthology published last year. I tell people it was my one chance to be in the same book with E.B. White so when Wesley McNair called and offered a slot, I grabbed it like a winning lottery ticket. After some mulling, I wrote about a scrappy little place called Bellevue Street in the town of Winslow, where the view pretty much sums up why I live in this part of Maine.
But then the book arrived. I started reading and I didn’t stop. It was one wonderful essay after another, (I skipped mine, having already read it). E.B. White and Henry Beston. Rachel Carson and Carolyn Chute. Elaine Ford and Richard Ford. Richard Russo and Monica Wood. Wesley McNair and Cathie Pelletier. And a bunch of others, a couple of dozen all told. Some are long dead. Some I’ve had lunch with, and will again. All told remarkable stories about what makes Maine special to them. Geoffrey Wolff sailed into a blinding fog. Bill Roorbach was mired with worm diggers. Monica Wood wrote about being a child in Mexico, Maine. One excursion after another, all different, all transporting.
So that’s my plug. Here’s the link to the book. Like David with his anti-panic program, I don’t make a penny from it (I sold my essay outright, and, truth be told, would have written it for free.). But I encourage you to check it out. It’s a remarkable collection that truly is greater than the sum of its parts. I’m almost as proud of it as I am of Susan’s success.
In PORT CITY SHAKEDOWN, the first Brandon Blake novel, Brandon gets a full dose of bad guys. A brawl in a funeral home introduces him to Joel Fuller, a sociopathic hustler. Fuller is fresh out of jail and determined to take Brandon out—after Fuller and his sidekick Kelvin shake him down.
Rocky isn’t a tough guy. He’s a skinny little kid with crooked glasses, and he shouldn’t be homeless in Portland, Maine. When McMorrow and Roxanne pluck him from under the stomping feet of a gang of street kids, Rocky latches onto McMorrow–and drags him into a world of murder, both old and new. Why is McMorrow protecting Rocky? The cops want to know. Why is Rocky on the run? McMorrow wants to know. Why does death follow in Rocky’s wake? Jack and Roxanne need to find out before they’re added to the list. 
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Gerry, I was sitting here reading your latest post when, there on my t.v. appeared a piece on the news about Susan Boyle
I will certainly check out the book, it sounds like a wonderful gift for my mother who now lives in North Carolina. Thank you for the recommendation.
Hi Andrea: yes, Susan Boyle is everywhere. Do check out the book. A good reminder of why Maine is a special place.
Only came across your blog by accident and I am happy I did. Nice blog and informative posts. I will check back here often. Thanks!
And of course, we wish Susan Boyle all the best.