Jesse Tieter, M.D. has carefully constructed the ideal life. But lately, neither his Chicago-based neurology practice nor his wife and son are enough to suppress the memories that have haunted him since he was a little boy. He can't stop thinking about that summer day in 1967 when his father died.
So Jesse is heading back. Back to the town and the place where a long-repressed horror occurred. Back to make sure his twin keeps the family's secret buried.
But what will he uncover along the way?
When I wrote the first draft, nearly 30 years ago, I was inspired of course by the desire to write, to create characters and stories––the usual writer stuff. Great writing (Steinbeck and Hemingway and others) inspired me to not simply “write a book” but also to paint with words (okay that’s a bit lofty, but you get the point, I hope). For this particular novel, I was also inspired by the quirky mix of people who live in or visit southwest Michigan’s beach country, as well as the secrets we all have.
Is there a message in your book and/or books?
Yes, there are a few messages in this particular book: People aren’t always who we think they are,
We’re all capable of both good and evil
We are all formed by our childhoods and sometimes those childhoods, well, are horrible.
Is there anything in your book and/or books based on real life experiences?
The characters and setting are obviously based on the people––rural rednecks and wealthy city folk––and environment in which I live. As far as the crime that drives the story, well, I’m happy to say nothing like that happened to me.
What books and/or writers have influenced you the most?
As I mentioned, John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway were the first to show me the profound power of fiction and the beauty of well-crafted prose. Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath” had a big effect on me in high school. I would be lying not to also add that contemporary writers––everyone from Garrison Keillor to Stephen King––showed me the value of stories built around real life in today’s middle America.
What has been your greatest challenge when writing?
I have been writing for three decades, primarily in advertising. The greatest challenge is still a blank page, a blinking cursor on a screen, the “what next?” It’s still a terribly difficult process.
What are you working on right now?
I still do quite a bit of freelance work in advertising and the occasional journalistic piece. I am also working on a new novel based on a fictional Michigan governor who idolizes George W. Bush. It’s political satire, I think.
What have you learned and do you have any advice for other authors?
“Dad? Daddy?”
“Uh? Wha’?”
“Pick up the pace. Chop chop. Move out.”
Now, as he snaked through the crush of other parents and children, he had to look down to convince himself the boy was there, attached to the hand, flesh and bone. The red hair, “his mother’s hair” everyone called it, was sliced by a crisp white part; his head bounced in beat with his sneakered feet. The child was so painfully real he couldn’t be a lie.
It amazed him that his son looked so much like his wife, especially the tiny mouth, the way it was set in a crooked, determined line. He was a kid who liked to have fun, but he could be fierce. Today, the challenge of a new school year, of third grade, had brought out the determined streak. This was good. They would need that streak, he and his mother would.
“Whoa.” The tiny hand now was a road sign, white-pink flesh facing him, commanding him. Far enough. He obeyed. Squatting, arms out for the anticipated embrace, he suddenly wanted to tell everything. Tears swam. His throat thickened. The earth tilted and threatened to send him skittering over its edge. There was the slightest of hugs, the brush of lips on his cheek then the boy was off, skipping toward the steps as though third grade challenged nothing, caused no fear, as though the world was in perfect balance.
He walked back to his Lincoln Navigator with the exaggerated care of a drunk who didn’t want anyone to know his condition. He got behind the wheel and suddenly was no longer in his 50s; he felt 16 and too small, too skinny and insignificant to handle the giant SUV.
He nosed the vehicle toward home, alternately trembling and gripping the wheel as he merged with the morning traffic. The plan struck him now as odd and silly, the challenges too great. His hands, already red and scaly, itched fiercely. Get a grip, he told himself. Get a grip.
His tired mind—when was the last time he’d really slept well?—jumped from one stone of thought to another. Was everything covered at work? The bills—had he paid them all? Did his wife suspect anything? Yes. No. Absolutely. Of course not. Relax. Relax. He left the expressway at the exit that took him past their church and wondered if the church, too, was a lie. What of the wedding there so many years ago?
Through a stoplight and past a Dunkin’ Donuts, his gaze floated around a corner. A flash of inspiration—hit the gas. Let the tires slide and the back-end arc around. Let physics have its way until the big vehicle broke free from the grip of gravity and danced head over end, coming to a stop with him bleeding and mercifully, gratefully dead inside.
No. He had something to do. Had he figured the angles right? Gotten the plan tight enough?
A horn jabbed through his reverie. He had drifted into the turn lane of the five-lane street. He jerked the wheel and cut across traffic into the right lane. Tires screeched, horns screamed. A black Toyota streaked past on his left, the driver’s fist, middle finger erect, thrust out the window.
Rage, sharp and bitter, bubbled in his throat. He hesitated, then jammed his foot on the accelerator, cut the wheel hard, and sent the Navigator careening into the left lane.
A staccato barrage of profanity pounded the inside of his skull. He bit his tongue to keep the words in. His heart hammered and a familiar, dizzying pressure filled his ears. The SUV roared ahead, past one car, past a semi then another car, quickly closing the gap on the speeding Toyota. He couldn’t see the car’s driver but he could imagine him, some stupid, simple-minded schmuck, eyes locked on the rear-view mirror as the lumbering Lincoln grew larger, larger, larger. The instant before he would slam into the smaller vehicle, he jabbed his brake and turned again to the left. There was a squeal of tires and more horns bleating behind him; the semi rig’s air horn bellowed angrily past. Ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead on the now-slow-moving car disappearing tentatively around a curve, he brought the Navigator to a shuddering stop in the center lane. He tensed and waited for the resounding WHUMP of a crash from behind. None came. Face flushed and eyes gleaming, suddenly rejuvenated, he accelerated quickly then eased the Navigator back into the flow of traffic—no looking back.
Now, as he snaked through the crush of other parents and children, he had to look down to convince himself the boy was there, attached to the hand, flesh and bone. The red hair, “his mother’s hair” everyone called it, was sliced by a crisp white part; his head bounced in beat with his sneakered feet. The child was so painfully real he couldn’t be a lie.
It amazed him that his son looked so much like his wife, especially the tiny mouth, the way it was set in a crooked, determined line. He was a kid who liked to have fun, but he could be fierce. Today, the challenge of a new school year, of third grade, had brought out the determined streak. This was good. They would need that streak, he and his mother would.
“Whoa.” The tiny hand now was a road sign, white-pink flesh facing him, commanding him. Far enough. He obeyed. Squatting, arms out for the anticipated embrace, he suddenly wanted to tell everything. Tears swam. His throat thickened. The earth tilted and threatened to send him skittering over its edge. There was the slightest of hugs, the brush of lips on his cheek then the boy was off, skipping toward the steps as though third grade challenged nothing, caused no fear, as though the world was in perfect balance.
He walked back to his Lincoln Navigator with the exaggerated care of a drunk who didn’t want anyone to know his condition. He got behind the wheel and suddenly was no longer in his 50s; he felt 16 and too small, too skinny and insignificant to handle the giant SUV.
He nosed the vehicle toward home, alternately trembling and gripping the wheel as he merged with the morning traffic. The plan struck him now as odd and silly, the challenges too great. His hands, already red and scaly, itched fiercely. Get a grip, he told himself. Get a grip.
His tired mind—when was the last time he’d really slept well?—jumped from one stone of thought to another. Was everything covered at work? The bills—had he paid them all? Did his wife suspect anything? Yes. No. Absolutely. Of course not. Relax. Relax. He left the expressway at the exit that took him past their church and wondered if the church, too, was a lie. What of the wedding there so many years ago?
Through a stoplight and past a Dunkin’ Donuts, his gaze floated around a corner. A flash of inspiration—hit the gas. Let the tires slide and the back-end arc around. Let physics have its way until the big vehicle broke free from the grip of gravity and danced head over end, coming to a stop with him bleeding and mercifully, gratefully dead inside.
No. He had something to do. Had he figured the angles right? Gotten the plan tight enough?
A horn jabbed through his reverie. He had drifted into the turn lane of the five-lane street. He jerked the wheel and cut across traffic into the right lane. Tires screeched, horns screamed. A black Toyota streaked past on his left, the driver’s fist, middle finger erect, thrust out the window.
Rage, sharp and bitter, bubbled in his throat. He hesitated, then jammed his foot on the accelerator, cut the wheel hard, and sent the Navigator careening into the left lane.
A staccato barrage of profanity pounded the inside of his skull. He bit his tongue to keep the words in. His heart hammered and a familiar, dizzying pressure filled his ears. The SUV roared ahead, past one car, past a semi then another car, quickly closing the gap on the speeding Toyota. He couldn’t see the car’s driver but he could imagine him, some stupid, simple-minded schmuck, eyes locked on the rear-view mirror as the lumbering Lincoln grew larger, larger, larger. The instant before he would slam into the smaller vehicle, he jabbed his brake and turned again to the left. There was a squeal of tires and more horns bleating behind him; the semi rig’s air horn bellowed angrily past. Ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead on the now-slow-moving car disappearing tentatively around a curve, he brought the Navigator to a shuddering stop in the center lane. He tensed and waited for the resounding WHUMP of a crash from behind. None came. Face flushed and eyes gleaming, suddenly rejuvenated, he accelerated quickly then eased the Navigator back into the flow of traffic—no looking back.
Title: The Redeeming Power of Brain
Surgery: A Suspense Novel
Author: Paul Flower
Publisher: Scribe
Publishing Company
Publication Date: June 1, 2013
Pages: 250
ISBN: 978-0985956271
Genre: Suspense
Format: Paperback, eBook (.mobi / Kindle), PDF
Buy The Book:
Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Redeeming-Power-Brain-Surgery-ebook/dp/B00DE4CQNS/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1425067768&sr=1-1&keywords=the+redeeming+power+of+brain+surgery
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-redeeming-power-of-brain-surgery-paul-flower/1115659168?ean=9780985956271
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18086368-the-redeeming-power-of-brain-surgery
Discuss this book in our PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads by clicking HERE
He has written and produced award-winning advertising for print, radio, television, outdoor, the Web––really, just about every medium––for business-to-consumer and business-to-business accounts.
His news features have appeared in regional and national magazines. His first novel, “The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery,” was published in June 2013 by Scribe Publishing. Visit Paul’s website at paulflower.net.
Connect with Paul:
Author Website:
paulflower.net
Author Page / Publisher Website:
Author Page / Publisher Website:
http://scribe-publishing.com/brain/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/paulflower.writer
Twitter:
Twitter:
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7137509.Paul_Flower
The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery Tour Page http://www.pumpupyourbook.com/2015/02/27/pump-up-your-book-presents-the-redeeming-power-of-brain-surgery-virtual-book-publicity-tour/
The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery Tour Page http://www.pumpupyourbook.com/2015/02/27/pump-up-your-book-presents-the-redeeming-power-of-brain-surgery-virtual-book-publicity-tour/
Thank you for hosting the tour. - Kathleen Anderson, PUYB Tour Coord
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