SNYDERMANIA: Jun 9, 2012

Saturday, June 9, 2012

ON NOT SELLING THE-EIGHT FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON AT THE MESA 2nd FRIDAY BOOKS ON THE BEACH PARTY

Last night I set up a booth at the Mesa 2nd Friday Books on the Beach Party, my first book festival. While it was an interesting experience, I didn't sell a single book. There were plenty of people, mostly teenagers dressed in black, but they weren't interested in buying books. There were a couple of guys playing guitar, singing Dave Mathews and Jack Johnson songs. They collected exactly three dollars in tips over the four hours I was there. One of the dollars was mine.
A friend suggested I bring tennis balls to the next festival. Tennis balls, yeah...

Friday, June 15, from 1 to 3 and Saturday, June 16, from 11 to 2, I'll be part of a Book and a Haircut Event at PAPA JOE'S BARBERSHOP in Chandler, Arizona. Each day the first 20 customers will receive a free copy of THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON with their haircuts. A quirky cool lounge singer will sing his lungs out and I'll be on hand to sign books. And I'm bringing tennis balls.

http://www.papajoesbarbershop.com/index.html

http://www.williamsnyder.biz/

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NORTHERN EXPOSURE

Goethe's final words: "More light." Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry: "More light." Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlight. Neon. Incandescent. Lights that banish the darkness from our caves, to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's field. Little tiny flashlight for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home- Lead Thou me on! Arise, shine, for thy light has come. Light is knowledge. Light is life. Light is light.

FIELD OF DREAMS

Well, you know I... I never got to bat in the major leagues. I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn't. That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That's my wish, Ray Kinsella. That's my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true?