Holbrook Campground

Recently, I attended my great aunt's funeral. She was my Papa R.C.'s only sister and lived a wonderful, loving, Christian life for 94 years. Her death ended a generation. All of the siblings of my four grandparents (also all deceased) are now gone from this Earth.

Following the funeral service, I made my way to the graveside service. My aunt Ellorie was buried in the same cemetery as my mother's parents and my daddy. The graveside service was short and then I visited with friends and family, celebrating my aunt's life.

And, that led to a conversation with my cousin Terry, my aunt Ellorie's oldest son. Terry told me about his mom's salvation experience as a young girl under a large oak tree in the Big Creek community of south Forsyth County, GA. The tree, now designated by the University of Georgia as the "revival tree," was the cornerstone of my aunt's faith experience. In recent years, Terry took his mom back to the revival tree, and she went to the exact location where decades earlier she was touched by the Holy Spirit and gave her life to follow Jesus. She knew exactly where she met God.

In Brookwood Road, I use two chapters (23 & 30) to communicate my own coming to faith. My faith story began with the death of my Papa Paul Yarbrough, and his death began a lot of questions. Then, I wrote about our family's annual summer visit to Holbrook Campground and its 10 days of worship services. It was there, when I was about eight years old, that in a supernatural way my questions of faith were answered. And, they were not answered by men, but by the very real presence of the Holy Spirit (God in spirit form) settling in and on my life. I was baptized a few months later at the First Baptist Church of Cumming, GA (now Cumming Baptist Church, pictured).

But, Holbrook Campground remains holy ground for me.

It's fresh on my mind this week because annual camp meeting services are occurring for the 178th consecutive year. Gatherings for 10 days of prayer and worship began in 1838.
Like my great aunt took her son to the exact location of her conversion, I could this very day take you to the exact location of my own conversion there within the open-air arbor of Holbrook Campground. I can even tell you - 48 years later - that the preacher that night used Matthew 19:14 as part of his preaching text, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them . . ." Pictured here is the Holbrook Campground arbor during an evening service. While this photograph is from more recent years, I would have been sitting in the back left corner of the arbor as you look at this photograph. Hundreds and hundreds of men, women, boys and girls have come to faith under the ministry of this annual camp meeting and its sawdust floor arbor.

I believe, as many believe, that the experiences of my aunt and me aren't that unusual. So life-changing is the conversion of an unbeliever to a follower of Jesus, every believer should be able to put a finger on the general details of his or her conversion. You may not remember every single detail - I don't - but every believer should be able to say, "It was at this place, about this time of year, about this age, when I knew for a fact that Jesus was real and I made the decision to follow Him."

Cynics scoff at it - this supernatural miracle of faith. I am sad for them. I am not a naive person. I know it's real, and I am prepared to share my story with anyone and everyone who will listen.

Order Brookwood Road, my boyhood memoir written as a novel, at Amazon.com in both paperback and Kindle formats. The book is also available at the Humpus Bumpus Bookstore in Cumming, GA and the Rainy Day Pals Bookstore in Lexington, SC.

Johnny Horton & The Sound Of Music

This past weekend I drove seven hours to Northern Virginia and, a few days later, I drove home again. On both legs of the trip I listened to my music library, which contains a lot of 1970s hits from when I was in high school and 1980s hits when I was a single journalist and newlywed. Like you, I can hear a song and two things happen - I go back to a specific time in my life and I remember something about that time.

Music defines us in a lot of ways.

Several readers have commented about enjoying the times when I listed a song's lyrics within the book. These readers have said the lyrics remind them of the time the book was written, but that the lyrics also call up memories from their childhood or young adulthood.

We were not a musical family, but music was important to us. We listened to AM pop radio - as it was - during the 1960s as we made the 20-mile round trip to our hometown of Cumming. I was not yet a teenager when I received that tape recorder for Christmas and also received some pop cassette tapes to play with it. Paul McCartney was one of my early favorites. Then, I was introduced to Grand Funk Railroad and never looked back. But, it's funny: I also had a Carpenters cassette and - forgive me - but I still enjoy listening to the late Karen Carpenter sing.

My Granny would walk through her house singing hymns of faith, and certainly music was a part of our faith life through our local church. I was in choir until I graduated high school.

Because I was born during the great television explosion of the 1960s, we were exposed to a lot of variety shows and sitcoms with big theme songs. In the book, I give a nod to those by listing more than a few of the lyrics from Petticoat Junction. I actually know the lyrics to Bonanza even though the show's musical intro never included them.

When we went camping with other families, we children went to sleep listening to our dads sing around the campfire. (That's all I'll say about that).

Music was everywhere.

That's why it was no strange thing when my daddy used a song to help me remember two state capitals: Johnny Horton's The Battle of New Orleans. (Chapter 21 - The Capitals Test) And, what a great song. I've heard from so many people who have said, "I sing that song all the time" or "I've taught my children that song." It's a great, fun song.

And, driving up I-77 last weekend to Northern Virginia, Horton's song came through my radio during my music shuffle. And, I could just hear my Daddy sing it. I would lie if I told you I didn't cry riding up the road.

All Things Baseball

Clearly, there are two large macro themes within Brookwood Road: Faith and Family.
If I could pinpoint an under-theme or a micro-theme it would be how much we boys loved baseball. Throughout the book there are these baseball seeds that keep coming up.

The book communicates how we created our own baseball games, playing in the yard with imaginary opponents. I loved the Saturday afternoon MLB Game Of The Week on Saturday afternoons because usually we got to see an American League team play. When the Tigers played, I loved to stand in front of the television and mimic 30-game winner Mickey Lolich pitching a baseball.

In the book, there's also mention of how we tried calling Henry Aaron, dialing up every Henry Aaron we could find in the Atlanta telephone directory. We even tried calling a few Tommy Aarons, believing if we stumbled upon Hank's brother then Tommy might hand the telephone over to Hank. (Despite being grown men, we assumed the Aaron brothers lived together just like we boys did). I have an autographed Hank Aaron baseball though I got it as an adult. Here's a picture.

Chapter 12, "The Baseball Card Locker" introduces how crazy we were about collecting baseball cards. We were introduced to baseball cards by our uncle, Buddy Yarbrough, who collected cards as a boy. We found some of his old cards one afternoon visiting our Mema. I'm not sure whatever happened to those cards, but I remember three of them - Gil Hodges, Carl Furillo and Roy Campanella. Furillo made a big impression on me because the photograph in the 1956 card made him

look so cool. Campanella entered the Hall of Fame in 1969; Hodges should be the but isn't; and Furillo should probably be there, too. (Tim has the 1956 Furillo card, pictured left).

When we boys realized our baseball heroes were on collectible cards - we went crazy for those cards. And, the card locker story came out of it. And, it's all true. I did work for my Papa R.C. to raise money to buy a card locker from a friend at school, and Papa R.C. did forget to pay me.

I still have that green baseball card locker, and it's pictured here. I still have the box it came in. It was one of the first things I really worked to have.

Chapter 18, "The First-Baseman's Mitt" is one of my favorite stories. As I stated in the book over and over (my editor said too many times) we only received gifts at Christmas and on our birthday. We might get a little trinket here and there, but largely we had two times each year to cash in (though that's all relative). That's why Christmas was a big deal. That's why our birthdays were big deals. It wasn't just us - our friends lived the same way. I remember Mema bringing me a small gift one year at Tim's birthday. She brought it as kind of a consolation prize. My mama told her she had to stop it. She did.

So, when my daddy surprised me with a first baseman's mitt during one of the years I played organized baseball, it was significant. I remember him giving Tim and me BB Guns one fall, and that's the only other time I ever remember getting gifted like that. My daddy just wasn't a gift-giver, and so for him to buy me something and to do it off the calendar was pretty darn special.

For me, that first-baseman's mitt was always a tangible expression of how much my daddy loved me. That mitt went with me to college (where I used it to play softball), and it's been with me along every stop of my life. It's been long retired from use, but several years ago I took it to a sporting goods store here in Columbia. I had it re-strung with new leather because the old strings were just rotted away. Here are some photographs of it today; I keep it on the side of my desk along with a catcher's mitt I used during my 20 years of coaching boys' baseball.

I still love baseball. I love to watch it live and on television. I love to throw a ball around with my boys though they are now grown. And, on occasion, you might find me standing in front of a television, winding up like old Mickey Lolich of the Detroit Tigers, and pretending to pitch to the Cardinals' Lou Brock. And, when I am really pondering something; deep in thought it's not unusual to find me wearing that old first-baseman's mitt while I do.

Easter Sunrise Service

In the book, I briefly reference that my mama woke me early on Easter morning, and she and I made a 20-mile round trip drive from Brookwood Road to a Sunrise Service on the shore of Lake Lanier at Bald Ridge Marina just outside the city limits of my hometown, Cumming, GA. It was the first - not the only - worship experience of our day.

If you are wondering why my two younger brothers and my daddy didn't make this pre-dawn journey, well, I have no idea.

That was almost 50 years ago.
That very same Sunrise Service continues to this day.
If you are a follower of Jesus, there's more than a little irony in that with all the seismic changes to my hometown of Cumming, GA (in the Atlanta metroplex) and to the Brookwood Road area - one very real constant is the Easter Sunrise Service at Bald Ridge Marina. (You know . . . the more our Earthly surroundings change the stronger the reminder that the love of God through His son Jesus remains constant).

The Sunrise Service has always been an ecumenical service. It is hosted by the Cumming United Methodist Church and open to all. Per the church's website, the Sunrise Service will begin this year at 7 a.m. and church pastor Jeff Ross will officiate it. The chapel at Bald Ridge Marina has been upgraded, and here's a photograph of it today. Here's a link to the chapel website.

******

To make that 7 a.m. service back in the 1960s, my mama would have to wake me about 5:45 a.m. because it took 20-30 minutes to make the drive from Brookwood Road to Bald Ridge Marina.

She would allow me to have one quick look in and through my Easter basket before we left home in the pre-dawn darkness. I loved those malted milk bird eggs, and I dug around in my basket until I had a handful of them for the trip to the Sunrise Service. I did notice the deck of playing cards that I received every single year as if my future was to be a Vegas Black Jeack dealer. Among the malted bird eggs, the marshmallow bunnies, the big hollow chocolate bunny, and M&Ms there was usually a Matchbox car or a puzzle. (I love jigsaw puzzles though I disdain group puzzling.) There was always a baseball or a wooden 28-inch baseball bat in or on my basket. Each year, I either got the ball or the bat, and my brother Tim got the other.

We got home from the Sunrise Service by 8:30 a.m., and Daddy usually was far along in his preparing a pancake breakfast. He loved pancakes with melted butter oozing down between slices in the pancakes. We had to leave home by 9:30 for a return trip to Cumming, where we attended Sunday School and worship at the First Baptist Church. The rest of the day was spent eating and hunting eggs with family and then with friends. It was a full, full day.

And, we wore our brand new "Sunday clothes" all day long because at any moment someone might shout, "Let's have a picture" and we would jump in formation as if it was the first Easter photograph of the morning. For 55 years, I've been a part of a family Easter photograph occurring just before or after Sunday church services. It's a big deal. Even today, no one changes clothes until the family photograph is taken.

Hope you and yours have a blessed Easter 2015, and celebrate the Resurrection of our Savior, Jesus. SDV

Surrounded By Readers

I wrote my first short story when I was in the first grade. It was about a boy playing football. It was not very long; it was not very good. I'm pretty sure it was written phonetically and without grammar, but I'm also pretty sure it was understandable. I don't have a copy, but I remember the gist of it. This boy wanted to play football, the team would not let him, and so he got mad about it.

Not exactly Rudy Ruettiger, who overcame lots of obstacles and persevered to dress with the Notre Dame Fighting Irish in 1975. My character, Johnny, walked off kicking a can.

I was never confused with the academically gifted. I was not a prodigy in the first grade. I was able to write that story - on ruled tablet-style paper - because I was surrounded by a family of readers, who loved reading to me and my brothers.

I bet I spent a hundred hours sitting on a sofa next to my granny, while she read books like "The Little Engine That Could" or read the notes inside Christmas cards sent to her by friends and relatives. (She may have started reading The Little Engine That Could after my rather dark tale of the sulking football player.) In my book, Brookwood Road, I write about Granny helping me pound out a letter to my mother, who was in the Forsyth County Hospital giving birth to my brother, Russ. That was June 1964. I was a few weeks short of being five years old. Granny was investing in me, and looking for every opportunity to do so.

My parents invested, too. They bought us a subscription to Dr. Seuss books, and a book arrived each month by mail. The first one in that series was Hop On Pop. My favorite was Look Out For Pirates! Early on, before we could read really well, Mama and Daddy tag-teamed every night, reading books to us. As we got a little older, we started receiving a subscription to Scholastic's Weekly Reader. Because book stores were not readily available to us, Scholastic made paperback books available for mail order through elementary schools. My parents bought 3-4 books every time and we read them.

(Here's a photograph of Piper's 1961 edition of The Little Engine That Could and a 1964 edition of Iris Vinton's Look Out For Pirates! I have both of these displayed in my office).

My Mema was a school teacher. You can only imagine. She bought us books by the set.

When you add my Papa R.C.'s story-telling over all of this reading, well, it wasn't a big jump for me to become a story-teller and to enjoy seeing those words on paper. As reading helped my vocabulary and sentence structure, my stories began to come easily. They weren't necessarily better quality, but they were legible and made my friends laugh. (I know some of them were laughing at me, but Papa R.C. used to say, 'Better they laugh at something than not laugh at anything.')

Then I discovered the school library under the direction of Mrs. Frances Mize, and later the Forsyth County Public Library. Mrs. Mize had me and my friend Lynn Raines (now McClure) reading 3-4 books every week. Mrs. Jean Potts, at the public library, encouraged me to read and write, read and write, and read and write. I spent hours at the library each summer with Mrs. Potts while my parents worked.

Then it happened. One day in the fourth grade, my teacher Mrs. Carolyn Hicks asked to read one of my stories (which I was probably writing during math). She asked me to read it during class. I did. And, she encouraged me to write and read my stories aloud all the way through seventh grade, when I became editor of the school's newspaper, FOCUS. My seventh-grade English teacher, Mrs.Teresa Day caught me drawing / designing / writing a one-page school newspaper. She encouraged me to make copies and sell them for a dime. I did that. Then, she encouraged me to pull together friends and put together a real school newspaper. We made enough profit that year to buy Mrs. Day a $20 wall clock.

The success of the newspaper led me to serve as editor of the school yearbook in eighth grade. Our yearbook sponsor, Mrs. Mary Daniel, pushed me to write and contribute to the local newspaper, The Forsyth County News. I ended up working there throughout high school; graduated and studied journalism at the University of Georgia. (I learned to type in the eighth grade, taking a summer school class at Forsyth County High School. Mrs. Wanda Bruce and Mrs. Gayle Martin (now Haight) taught me to type. I could not wait to type my stories, and I still have some of them.)

Fast-forward . . .

When our son Andrew was born in 1988, the late Bobby Gilbert was the Forsyth County tax commissioner. I ran into Bobby one day at the court house, and he congratulated me on being a new daddy. Then he said, "Never refuse to read a book to your children. Always make time to read to them."

I have never forgotten that. Every time my boys came to me with a book, I stopped whatever I was doing to read to them. And, I told them bedtime stories every night. I know that's what many people did for me. I was surrounded by readers . . . and a lot of encouragers, too.

Chapter 24: A Fish Story

Of all the book's stories, one of the most unblemished (or completely true) is the story of the Sunday afternoon Tim and I (Jack and Frank) were allowed to go fishing by ourselves. My grandfather's old lake had long been ignored by fishermen, and the catfish therein were apparently starving. Of all my childhood tales, when I think of what brotherhood means, I think of me and Tim on an independent mission together . . . enjoying success and celebrating proudly with one another. On many levels, it was a great Sunday afternoon. Somewhere there is a photograph of me and Tim with all the fish we caught. I hope to find it this summer.

*******

The old lake was built in 1955, and opened to the public for fishing on Saturday, June 15, 1957. (Daddy was 18, almost 19; I was born in 1959). The opening was chronicled by Bill Allen a staff writer for The Atlanta Journal and Constitution. Mr. Allen wrote a regular column titled, "Outdoor Georgia." (Above is a photograph of an original copy of the story that I have. Papa R.C. is pictured holding his own catch). On Saturday, June 1, Mr. Allen visited the lake and went fishing with my Papa R.C. and my daddy, Doug. In the newspaper story, Mr. Allen claims their fishing party caught 200 fish in five hours. He also applauds my Papa R.C. this way:

"R.C. Vaughan and his son, Doug, both enthusiastic fishermen, for a long time wanted a pond. This one is about eight acres large, and now it is in such powerfully wonderful health that they must open it to the public to (ensure) its future and continued productivity.

"After two years of watchful management and invaluable aid from state fisheries' biologists, the water now produces pound-plus bass and 1 1/2 pound bream wherever you pitch a book."

Of course, throughout the story, he spelled our last name incorrectly. You spell it Vaughan - not Vaughn. Darn newspaper people.

Papa R.C. opened a pier and a bait shack / concession stand at the lake. I barely remember it. In collaborating with daddy for the book, he said they got tired of the traffic and watching out for the safety of people. But, I do remember - later as a boy - going with Papa R.C. to visit fishing hatcheries in northwest Georgia and Alabama. He took me, Tim and our cousin Jeff on some of those trips, and I'm sure that's how the catfish came to be in the lake during our childhood.

Today, the old lake (pictured top in 1981 during my senior year at the University of Georgia) is the last landmark remaining from our life on the farm. All of the farm's buildings and roads were destroyed in recent years, giving way to a monstrous subdivision as Atlanta's sprawl continues its northward march. Today, the lake is located at the end of Raskarity Lane, which is the formal name given to what we called the unpaved lake road. The road was formally named after my Papa R.C. sold the property. Homes now surround the lake's shores. Here's a screen shot, right, from Google Maps that shows the lake today as Vaughan Lake. That's Google's formal name for it - not ours, necessarily. I am pleased with the extended courtesy, however. I put a star on the map where our home used to be.

In next week's post I will tell you about Stozier's Woods, which lined the lake road and was one of our favorite places to play.

Second Chances: Morning Exercise

Most of my research pointed me to a 100,000 word writing goal for a Memoir.

I wrote 103,000 words.

The editors - sifters - were kind, but would not let it slide. They pulled things back to 95,000.

During rewrites, I was able to ease back toward 100,000 words.

It's a struggle: What to keep and what to take out.

My son William said, "Look, dad, every writer I know understands that you might have to lose some of your babies." Don't wig out. It's a metaphor. Some stories, some tangents and some anecdotes just need to be left on the sifting table. It was painful.

But, I kept everything that I cut in a separate file. So, we'll call these periodic posts - Second Chances. They won't be presented in full chapter form, but as simple little tangents.

Morning Exercise

My Papa R.C. used to laugh and say, "We are genetically lazy people. And, we are really good at what we do." That was his way of saying, "Work smart and don't work hard," which you've probably heard from more reputable sources.

As boys, I can tell you that we weren't lazy. We had a huge yard to mow - one that took three little boys all day to cut working in shifts. We also had household chores to do. As we got older, we were asked to help out around the family meat house.

I don't know what caused my daddy to think that we three boys were becoming slothful, lazy bums. I think he was manipulated by the media (that's our go-to excuse for everything, right?) into believing - in 1968ish - that all young people were becoming drug-crazed hippies. We were in Atlanta one Saturday, at the Fox Theatre, and driving down Peachtree Street, daddy slowed and said, "Look at those damn worthless hippies."

I think he probably decided then and there that we were not going to become hippies. Not under his watch. Mind you - none of us had even reached puberty much less considered running off to California with Jefferson Airplane. I was in third grade before he let me have anything but a buzzed haircut. He buzzed it himself. (More about this in the 2016 sequel to Brookwood Road).

"We are going to start getting up every morning at 6 a.m. and running down the road," he announced one night. "I think it will be good for you to exercise and stay healthy." We thought he was crazy. I actually thought he was trying to run some pre-adolescent weight off me, and disguising his motive by forcing my brothers to run, too.

So, the next morning, no kidding, he rousted us out of bed, marched us out in the cold and dark to Brookwood Road. We began a forced jog up the road toward our grandparents' house and back. Daddy ran with us.

The next morning, he overslept and forgot to get us up.

The morning after that, he said we would just run in the late afternoon. I remember that it rained. We wanted to run in the rain. He said no. Dang.

And, I don't remember ever running more than that one morning.

In fact, honestly, the word exercise never came up again.

"Are we going to run anymore?" I asked him.

"Don't you have recess in school?" he shot back.

- Scott

Chapter 13 : Pulling The Pump

One of the things I want to do with this blog is to write some of the 'back story' behind the book's chapters. Without question, my favorite chapter to write - not necessarily my favorite story - was Chapter 13 - Pulling The Pump. And, I've had more than a handful of men who have said they enjoyed that story the most, and that they too knew what it was like to pull a pump out out of a well.

If  you've not read the story, we were on well water. Once every few years - not incredibly often - the pump's foot valve became clogged, and water could not be pumped out of the well and to our house. We had no water. Not a drip. So, our daddy - with three small boys helping him - had to pull the pump's foot valve up and out of the ground and repair it . . . within a small pump house. This was not a fun job. It was probably the worst chore that we ever had to do on the farm.

I hope you have visited the website (www.brookwoodroad.com) to see the photo gallery. If not, here is a photograph of the pump house pictured in 1981 - about eight years after our move. So, it really did exist. When I was little, and we pulled the pump, there was an old criss-cross board fence between the pump house and these big oak trees. By 1981, the fence had been replaced with a metal fence that you can't quite see here. Today, everything in this photograph is gone - replaced by a monstrous subdivision.

Some of the book's chapters are certainly embellished a little (or a lot) and I'll get to some of those in future posts, but the Pulling The Pump story is very, very true. And, while character conversations within the book are certainly fabricated, there was absolutely no fabrication of my daddy's use of colorful language when he got hot, tired, and frustrated. All three of those applied to pulling the pump so that our family could have running water in the house. When my daddy got frustrated, he could scorch the Earth. I kid you not. But, later, after he cooled down, we could poke fun at him and he would laugh at himself. When Tim and I (Jack and Frank) are lying in the bed, wondering what some of the colorful expressions meant, well, daddy would have thought that hilarious.

When I first wrote the story, I tried to dance around the language. My son, William, was reading behind me and he called me on it. 

"Are you writing about our grandfather?" William asked. "Because I don't recognize this character. You need to either tell it correctly or don't tell it at all." William would know. When he visited "grandfather" during the summers we often had to quarantine William when he got home. We called it a language detox.

So, I rewrote it, and quoted my daddy's colorful language amid frustration just as I remembered it. In fact, I wrote / typed this story with my eyes closed, visualizing the entire story and hearing my daddy's painful frustration over pulling that foot valve out of the ground and struggling to fix it. He was also frustrated with us because we were just little boys trying to step and do what one grown man could have done much more easily.

Once finished, I could not wait to read this story to my daddy, who by this time was blind and couldn't read off paper. (He could still read with the back-light of a Kindle). I read the story to him, and it was one of our precious times together. I was laughing so hard that I had to stop a lot, and he was laughing so hard that he was crying. Why? Because the story was true, and we both knew it. My daddy could

easily laugh at himself, which is one of the things I most admired about him. Pictured here is my favorite picture of my daddy, and how I loved to see him when I wrote or said something that made him laugh. I loved to hear and watch him laugh. Loved it.

When I finally finished reading the story to him, he said, "Oh my soul, Scott, you are crazy." And, that was his blessing of it. He went on to help me understand, simply and maybe over-simplified, how the pump worked so I could easily share those mechanics with readers. There are several places like that where his collaboration made the book better, and that makes the project even more special to me.

More on Independent Publishing

I've heard from a lot of people interested in writing and self-publishing a book.

Do it. Write it.

And, as I've said before in this blog: Write it for an audience of One - yourself.

Send it to FedEx Kinko's and have them print it with a spiral bound.

Voila! Your book is published.
I did this. It was a fantastic feeling to hold that first, unedited draft in a printed format. Back in April 2014, I sat in the FedEx parking lot and thumbed through that big old draft and thought, 'Okay, wow, I wrote this. And, I'm holding a copy of it.' Life is about the simple things. I celebrated with a Hershey bar.

Then you think, 'I wonder if anyone else will want to read it?' Actually, my Vicki was all over that question.
Now, you choose to publish it. As I've written, without a literary agent or a relative or former roommate working a publishing company's acquisitions, your best option might be independent publishing. That's how I went.

There are lots of options. Without boring you, I chose CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, which is owned by Amazon. I interviewed a lot of other companies and settled on CreateSpace. I liked the customer service. I also liked that I had price options when it came to putting together my publishing package. I had choices among graphic design services, interior layout services, line-by-line editing services, and marketing services. There was a carte blanch feel to it, and I liked it.

Many independent publishers, I think, want to print a book as cheaply as possible. And, quite honestly, it's easy to spot a cheaply published book. Readers really do judge a book by its cover. Skimming on good editing aggravates a reader. Sloppy interior layout isn't good. Just as no writer wisely edits his own copy, a good promoter should find promotion help for his own stuff.

Because Brookwood Road was a dedication to my daddy, and fulfillment of a 40-year promise, I wanted to go as first class as I could possibly go. So, I bought a premium package within CreateSpace. I remember telling my sales rep, Sara, "I know my book won't be in Books A Million, but I want it to imagine it being there, and I want to imagine it looking like it belongs there." I could hear her doing the happy dance . . . what fish jumps in the boat like that?

While I spent a lot on the publishing package, I didn't have to borrow money to do it. I didn't have to forego a summer vacation. It was expensive, yes, but it was not a financial burden. And, I was pleased with the outcome of the book. CreateSpace fulfilled its obligation to me, the customer service was great, and I am content with the book. (If it's ever reprinted, I may tweak one or two typing miscues that slipped past a horde of editors and proof-readers. Rarely is a book perfect.)

Did I worry about recovering my investment? No.
Have I recovered my investment? Yes.
Have I made a lot of money on the book? No, and I don't expect to make a lot of money. Vicki and I have had two nice dinners out that we attributed to the book.
I had a story to tell, I told it, and it didn't cost me anything in the long run. Break even never felt so good.

One of the most laborious things I had to do was price the book. The paperbacks and hardbacks are printed on demand, meaning I don't have a warehouse full of books. When someone orders it, the book is printed and shipped to them. I had to come up with prices for the paperback, hardback and Kindle editions that weren't far off the scale for books of this word count, but also provided a small royalty that I could apply back to the initial investment.

For the sake of business, I calculated my break-even at 500 sales. That was lofty. My own research shows that 600,000 to 1 million books are published each year. The average book sells about 150 copies. Think about how many 20-sellers are compared to 1-million sellers in order to get an average of 150 sales. That's a bunch of 20-sellers.

But, again, it was never about the money.
It was about telling the story, and fulfilling the promise to my dad.

And, as a writer, that's where your head has got to be. Write your story; tell your story.

In a future post, I'll write some about the marketing / promotion strategy behind the book.

About the Faith Chapters

There was never a question that Brookwood Road would recall my coming to faith in Jesus as my Savior from God's eternal punishment of my inherent sinfulness. It is the primary crossroads of my life, and a significant part of my childhood occurring on Brookwood Road.

I suspect the reader reaction has been interesting. As one reader wrote me, "I was caught off guard by the sharp turn into the seriousness of faith.

"Up until that chapter I was reading and laughing (and crying) at the adventures, life lessons and interaction between you and your brothers. The boyhood humor and the colorful language had me rolling in the floor. In a surprising way, you gave me whiplash and afterwards I was glad you did."

In Chapter 17, "The Pink Store," I fully introduce my Papa Paul: Paul Edward Yarbrough Sr. He died when I was almost 8, but he left a big impression on me. And, my mama's stories of him since his death further detailed a man that I would have loved to know in my adulthood.

A few chapters later, in Chapter 23, "Death and Life," Frank experiences the death of a family member - Papa Paul - for the first time. It's a poignant look at a young boy's first experience with death and its ritual in the Deep South. Many have written and said it is their favorite chapter because it touched their own similar experience so deeply.

When Papa Paul died, my eyes were opened wide to death, which often leads us to ask two big questions: Will this happen to me? What happens to a person when they die? Papa Paul's death, combined with our family's deep involvement in church life, opened up a very real conversation about faith with my mama. And, my mama, who was only 27 at the time, did her very best to lead me through a presentation of the gospel. I don't know if it was my mama's first time to explain the gospel, but I have to believe it was a somewhat new experience for her to share and certainly for me to hear.

The great theologians will read Chapter 23, and its follow up in Chapter 30, "Just as I Am" and perhaps shrug at the clunkiness of the gospel presentation. I wrote that way on purpose. As a gospel minister, full-time vocational minister, and 30-year Bible study teacher, I could have waxed eloquent the gospel presentation, but it would not have been authentic to a conversation between a 20something mama, grieving the sudden death of her daddy, and her 8-year-old son. What comes out in these two chapters, I believe, is a very real and honest and authentic and, yes, clunky explanation of the gospel as it really happened - and probably really happens - within many evangelical families. The gospel is supernatural; it's explanation can be anything but clinical.

Without apologizing for it, I tried to be clear that this is how evangelicals, specifically Southern Baptists, approach the gospel presentation and a person's acceptance and public profession of it. I know it made some people feel uncomfortable because the reader goes into these serious waters for a few chapters before re-emerging into the overall fun of the book. But, friends, the gospel is uncomfortable. The magnitude of themes like sin, salvation, eternal punishment, and grace are serious - and gravely serious. They are eternally serious. And, they are worthy of uncomfortable conversations and uncomfortable personal wrestling.

In these chapters, which are true to the coming-of-age theme of the book, I was not trying to preach so much as tell another big part of my childhood, hoping that readers might reflect on the gospel within their own lives and perhaps make a life-changing decision of their own.

With rich blessings to you and yours,
Scott

HOW TO ORDER BROOKWOOD ROAD: MEMORIES OF A HOME
BY SCOTT DOUGLAS VAUGHAN

Personalized, autographed hardbacks and paperbacks: www.shopsvministry.com.
Paperbacks and Kindle versions (unautographed): www.amazon.com
Limited Retail (autographed): Humpus Bumpus Books, Cumming, GA, and Rainy Day Pal Books, Lexington, SC.
Questions? E-Mail Scott at sharketing411@gmail.com.

Independent Publishing

I was moved in March 2014 to put my book on paper.

I did that. I took the first draft to my daddy, and explained the project to him. I explained it to my two brothers and to my mom. Because I held a spiral bound draft of the finished book - printed at Fedex Kinko's - everyone knew this was serious. It was done. No one pushed back and so I felt confident about moving forward with publishing it somehow.

Always write before you think about the publishing.

There are two general courses for book publishing:

1. A writer markets himself to a literary agent, who then markets the client's book projects to a major publisher. The publisher buys the projects through the agent, paying the writer for the book less a commission to the agent or whatever the contracts all stipulate. The writer may give up a little or a lot of the editorial control, design of the cover, and everything related to his book. You sell out, essentially, but the more popular you become the more leverage you have over your products. I don't imagine Stephen King gets messed with every much.

I wrote two literary agents, and they immediately rejected me. No big deal - I expected it. Even though I have a 40-year resume as I writer, I'm unknown in literary circles and have never published a book. I've rarely been published in magazines - most of my work is published in newspapers and ministry publications. I would imagine there are first-time writers who - through relationships and contacts - get noticed and picked up by an agent. Through relationships or just providence, I'm sure there's an unknown author somewhere that bypassed all this and was picked up by a major book publisher.

The odds would be against it. The odds against it would be similar to winning the Power Ball.

2. So, most writers - like me and perhaps you - get tired and bored with finding literary agents, and go the independent publishing route. I figured, all along, I would go the independent publishing route. Independent publishing is where the author becomes the publisher, creating a small business through which he pays to publish his own book. My decision was based on a lack of patience to find an agent and wanting to maintain all of my creative control. 

Independent publishing no longer has the "vanity" stigma it did say 10 years ago. It's possible to pay enough to churn out an independent book of the same general quality as a professionally published book. As I learned, major book publishers have even created independent publishing arms, which allows publishers to "spy" on prospective authors. If they see an independent's work having success or see potential, these book publishers can follow an author's journey from a distance, letting the author pay-to-play, and perhaps swoop in with an author to republish a book or pick up future work.

I actually made a decision not to use one of the self-publishing arms of a major book publisher. I did lots of research and ultimately chose CreateSpace - the independent publishing platform owned by Amazon. I was impressed with its overall approach to graphic design services, editing services, and marketing services. It was expensive, yes, but a good fit for me. By the way - you will always get what you pay for in book publishing. Go cheap and that's what you'll have. Invest money in it and you'll have a worthy looking, readable product. 

Blessings,

Scott

Chapter Two (You know you smiled at the title . . .)

If you've read or looked through the book then you realize I set the tone early with Chapter Two. That was intentional and subtle at the same time. I wanted you to see where I was going over 300 pages. I wanted readers to know that this was going to be my boyhood memoir, written as a novel, and that it was going to be just as authentic as I could possibly make it. I wasn't going out of my way to be this or that, but I was going to be real.

In the linear order of the book's beginning, I used the Prologue to explain why I was writing this book. Then, I used the Introduction to paint the larger scene of people and places. Chapter One - The Beginning - was a simple chapter about my birth. My Papa R.C. really did have a Welcome Home banner across the front of our house.

It was in Chapter Two that I wanted to introduce my two brothers, and show a glimpse into our relationships and the culture in which we lived. I also wanted the reader to know - up front - that this was going to be about real life: Skinny-dipping on a hot summer day, and the boyish humor that would certainly go with it. You throw three naked boys into a public swimming hole - it's going to get funny in a hurry.

The chapter opens with a little ditty about the Jaybird. It was one of the first songs I ever learned, and quite honestly is as close to a family anthem as we have. All of us know it. All of us have sung it our entire lives. We aren't 100 percent sure what it even means. Even today when my brother Tim calls me on my birthday he sings the Jaybird song if he leaves a voice mail message.

Speaking of Jaybirds, the phrase "naked as a Jaybird" is a prison term. Back in the 20s and 30s, prisoners were referred to as Jailbirds or J-birds. Upon incarceration, they were forced to march to the showers naked. Naked as a J-bird. Our Jaybird song is not about that.

Our Jaybird song was about "mean-ass" Blue Jays that would hide in shrubberies and get aggressive if you got too close to them. It's a song about revenge against them, too.

With regard to the skinny-dipping. We did go skinny dipping - more than once - off the McFarland Road (Parkway, now) bridge into muddy Big Creek. My great grandfather was William Perry McFarland - my Granny's daddy. Daddy Perry and Granny Mac lived in a big farmhouse in the northeast corner of what today is the intersection of Georgia Highway 400 / U.S. Highway 19 and McFarland Parkway south of Cumming, GA. Now, this is an industrial and commercial area of the Atlanta metroplex. Back during my childhood, McFarland Road (not even called that then) was a dirt road. Just below Daddy Perry's house was an old single lane wooden bridge over Big Creek. Here's a photo of what it looked like, but it's not an actual photograph of the old McFarland Road bridge. (Today, the road is widened, paved, and the bridge looks nothing like this, obviously). In addition to the skinny dipping what I remember is the dust cloud that followed someone driving down the road. It was awesome. It was suffocating, but it was awesome to watch.

My Daddy Perry wouldn't recognize any of that area today. And, honestly, I'm glad he didn't have to see all the change.

Have a great week - SDV

Q&A : Is the book written on a timeline?

Is the book written on a timeline?
The short answer is no.
I made a list of all the stories that I wanted to tell.
There were about 50. That would have made the book too long.
I trimmed it back to 39, but included short versions of other stories as tangents within the larger stories. That way, everything I wanted to tell, got told but I was able to keep the word limit around 100,000. (A 100,000 word count is the sweet spot for a memoir - so "they" tell me).

Then, I just started writing the stories. I didn't worry about the age of the characters, or the chronology of the stories. I didn't worry about seasons of the year or current events. All of that, to me, was unnecessary clutter.

I did bind the stories together with props.
For example, in Chapter 8, "The Green Bike," I introduced my new bicycle, which was then a prop I could use in future stories, like Chapter 25, "The Crossroads." In several stories, I reach back into previous stories for a prop or an event or a person. So, while not written chronologically or on a timeline, there are threads that make it a complete work and not simply a collection of random tales.

How did you choose the name Acorn for your hometown of Cumming?
Because I had already made the decision to change many of the names around, including my own, I wanted to carry that theme all the way through.

The reference to Acorn is in the first few paragraphs of the book's Prologue. I didn't labor a lot on creating the name. The book had placed me in a very nostalgic and reflective place, emotionally. I had thought through all those stories, which led me to think about the men and women who influenced my life - all of my life. And, I thought about all of my classmates, who have gone to do such great things with their lives. One of my best friends is a full-time missionary in Africa. Another is a tenured professor at Auburn University. Others are lawyers, doctors, veterinarians, teachers, principals, preachers, nurses - and certainly good dads, moms and meaningful contributors to society. You know, you take this little town north of Atlanta and look what greatness has come from it. And, greatness is certainly more than careers. I think the greatest life lived is the man or woman who loves the Lord, leads their family, has friends in faith, and lives God's plan for their lives. If you and I accomplish that we can have preached at our funerals that we "finished well."

As an acorn is to a great oak tree, I just thought 'there's been a lot of greatness that's come out of this small town - my hometown." So, I went with Acorn.

Writing involves sifting

Let me tell you something.

Writing this book was easy and a lot of fun. I wrote the first draft from March 13 to April 21, 2014. That was 97,500 words.

Now let me tell you something else.

From the morning bell of Tuesday, April 22 forward the editing process was hell.

I never knew how much I loved writing and how much I hated editing. I clearly know now. And, having now worked with professional editors, I realize that I am more of a proof-reader. There's a difference.

The editing / proofing process is like sifting flour. You sift and sift and sift until it's refined. Then, you sift some more. And, mostly,  you let other people - strangers even - do the sifting.

Dear Lord, it was agonizing . . . all that sifting. 

Back during my 20 years of writing for newspapers, we had a simple system. Writers were taught to get it on paper. Don't overthink the grammar and the spelling - just get it on paper and then move it to an editor. Editors do the sifting. Sometimes, editors kicked it back to writers and said, "Write this better . . . moron." Sometimes, I wrote stories for newspapers and didn't even recognize my work when it came out in print. Editors sifted the me right out of it. I once wrote a story for the Atlanta dailies and when it came out my only contribution was this: By Scott Vaughan. The rest was by someone else.

You know what? Even with all the sifting, editing and proof-reading that goes on in book publishing, there's still an estimated one error for every 200 words. Yep, even best-sellers, they say. And, so writing and editing and proofreading and sifting - this is not healthy territory for a perfectionist, the weak, the insecure or the passive. Writing and editing is one of those arenas where you do the hard work, sifting and sifting and sifting, and trust that in the end the cake will taste pretty darn good. 

However, would-be writers take note: You can be an All-Star shortstop, but if you make too many errors it will take the shine off your game. And, let me tell you - foolish writers edit their own stuff. Poor editing and lots of noticeable errors can make a great book . . . sloppy and marginal. There's no rushing a book project - the sifting must occur.

Let me give you an idea of what the sifting of my book was like. It was maddening.

As I wrote chapters, I kicked them to my Vicki and my son William to read behind me. I asked them to look especially for continuity. William and I spent 30 minutes one afternoon debating a single chapter's direction. 

Once completed, I read it all the way through . . . twice. The first read was a rewrite and the book expanded to 103,000 words. I caught a lot of mistakes along the way. Then, I read it again to catch what spelling and grammar I could catch.

Then, the manuscript went to Elizabeth in Cincinnati. She's the professional sifter who doesn't know me or, for that matter, anyone that I know. Heck, I don't even know her last name. She ripped through the book; she beat on me once or twice. The book shrank to 100,000 words. She got used to my style. In the end, she said, "I've read a lot of books, and this is one of my favorites." I wrote that in dry-erase on the bathroom mirror - I needed all the encouragement I could get.

After sending it to Elizabeth in Cincy, I woke up one night with this sick feeling. I hated two of the chapters, and I had one story to tell that I had left out. So, I rewrote those two chapters, and wrote - thank you very much - another 2,500 word chapter. The sifting then began on all of this and ultimately it went to Elizabeth, too.

When I got everything back from Elizabeth, I read the book all the way through again. (My fourth time). I kept about 98 percent of Elizabeth's suggestions. My writing style flies in the face of some grammar style. I kept my writing style. As I read through the book this fourth time, I made notes that I called "flinch spots" - things I wrote that didn't add to the stories. I either rewrote or took those out. Think of the hard bits of flour in the bottom of the sifter.

So, then I sent it to CreateSpace - the independent publisher - so those folk could format the book, knowing I would get another chance to proof. While waiting on this proof, I passed the book off to three trusted friends and asked them to read it. I have more than three trusted friends, but I couldn't let them all read it . . . for free. These friends read it through - sfited some more - and caught a handful of things: A word left out of a sentence, an extra word in a sentence, and an inconsistency here or there (tree house or treehouse - I had used it both ways). You would think with all this sifting, everything would be caught, right? Nope. That's the madness . . . for all the sifting, there are still those stray errors. 

Vicki said, "Scott, deal with it."

At the end of all the sifting, I found myself sifting the sifting, and that was when it was time to stop and publish. I was exhausted. The sifting process took SIX MONTHS. I was sick of it. When a writer is sick of his work, it's a good sign he's done the diligence and it's time to let it go.

So, here's what I will tell you:

• Write your story, but don't be afraid of the sifting. Embrace it. Other eyes and voices will make you better.
• Sift until you are sick of sifting; don't rush it. Let it happen.
• Not all of a sifter's suggestions are good, but the majority will be. Know when to keep your voice and when to let it go.

An Audience of One

I wrote the book for an Audience of One.
Me.

That's how it's got to be. And, that's the best advice I can give to anyone who is writing. Write for your own enjoyment and tell the story that you've been given to tell.

Then, if you desire, invite the world to join in through publishing.

When you take that approach to writing, it's very liberating.

• You don't worry about what other people will think.
• You don't worry about sales or circulation, or royalties or profits.

Don't get me wrong. I love to hear good, honest feedback from what I've written. Feedback makes me want to write more. And, yes, I'd like to sell as many books as possible. But, those can't be considerations when you are writing. Those are considerations that come with publishing. When you write, you have to write for yourself, and pretend that no one will ever read this book but you. When you do that you can write authentically and have all kinds of fun with the writing process. If you ever allow your writing to be manipulated by marketing, well, you probably won't turn out a very good and authentic product. Trust me - I'm a marketer, too. I know of what I speak.

I had these stories. I wanted to tell them. I wanted to fulfill a promise to my daddy.

I wrote the book. Then, I found a publisher, who helped me with the editing and marketing.

I like the book. Parts of it still make me laugh and make me cry. It really does take me back to my childhood. Vicki says it's helped her, even after 30  years, to understand why I am the way I am.

I hope people will want to read it.

I hope people who read it are blessed by it.

I hope people will share it with the ones they love.

What story do you have to tell?

Write it down. 

Don't worry about grammar and punctuation. You can pay someone to fix that for you.

Just get the story on paper.

Do it for yourself.

Then, you can make a decision whether to publish it or not.

And, if you are having writer's block, let me tell you how to get over it.

Read.

The more you read - the more the writer in you will be stirred.

Until next time - SDV