I don’t mind confessing before God and my readership (is it plural yet?) that I am a poacher. The envy that I bear for other writers outweighs my sense of propriety; when I see a good idea, I steal it. Such was the case the day I read Kiel Christianson’s post on Winter reading tips.

I’ve been fortunate to read a number of truly wonderful golfing books over the years. Rick Reilly’s two fictional pieces are smart reading.
Anything involving Kenny Lee Puckett, from the twisted mind of Dan Jenkins, is a must-devour. Turk Pipkin is a disciple of Jenkins, so his Texas stuff is above suspicion (or absolutely suspect, depending on your vantage point.) The Legend of Bagger Vance exists only in book form in my mind; any semblance of imitation on the part of the movie is pure fiction (irony!) Two of the best golf novels I’ve read are Sticks and Flatbellies. Go to www.abebooks.com to get a copy on the cheap of any of the afore-mentioned prose.

The misfortune of reading some absolute crap has also befallen me. What certain publishers and editors are thinking, I don’t know. Someone is sleeping with someone else, that’s for certain. After a sequence of drivel-driven novels, I often give up literacy for a time, focusing instead on tribal chants and urban movement. It doesn’t last long. That brings us to my present tense.

I wrote immediately to Dave Andrews, publisher of Pops and Sunshine, and begged him for a copy. The one he sent reeked of cigarettes, which convinced me that the guy is willing to sacrifice for his art. After staying up late to finish it in one set-to, I began a correspondence with the fellow, and came away sated.

Dave is aware that the initial printing of the book has flaws. He accepted my editorial critique and suggestions with a maturity that I often find lacking in me. I came away convinced that the book deserves to succeed, for the simple reason that the story is a good one.

The golf fiction that I abhor has a common, underlying and overwhelming thread: the story stinks. That is, if there is a story. Often, hack writers believe that a good character or an interesting anecdote are enough to warrant the birth of a novel. Wrong! The best thing that a colleague or friend can do is to drive home the worthlessness of the notion.

Pops and Sunshine has some shaky exchanges and at least one scene that breaks with consistency. The novel also contains an entrancing story of life and loss, of rediscovery, in addition to some damned attractive characters. There is a rise and fall to the pace, common in a mountain setting, that gives the work its character. It is one of the few books that you can purchase in its “before” form, in anticipation of its “after” articulation. I encourage you to do so. What better way to fill out your collection than with an original, self-published manuscript from the author, to be joined later by its more-polished rewrite, from a major editorial house?

Pops and Sunshine is already a better novel…I’ve been sent the unpublished prologue and epilogue by Mr. Andrews, and they enhance the text immensely. Sorry, but I won’t let you in on our secret.

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