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My idea for a novel


zipazoid
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So here's the deal. A couple of years back I wrote a book. It was a 'vanity' book in that I self-published it thru Blurb.com. But it sold a few copies & I had some people say that I have a knack for writing. As my sig indicates, I also have a blog where I weigh in on whatever crosses my mind.

My 18-yar old son has been bugging me to write a novel. Well, today, on my drive into work, the idea hit me. The character is a struggling tour pro, but his struggles isn't with his game. It's with his demons, mainly his drug addiction. He was a prodigy, destined to greatness. Fast-forward 15 years, and he's an multiply-suspended, barely-tolerated Dalyesque sideshow. He's a great guy, but he just cannot win with the monkey on his back. But he's trying. As hard as he can.

Anyway, today I wrote this teaser -

It was a typical Midwestern late summer afternoon – uncomfortably muggy, air you wear.


Billy Edwards was toweling down his face for what seemed like the umpteenth time as he strode up the 18 th fairway at the Bear Creek Country Club in Joplin, Missouri. On this Saturday, Billy had played himself into earshot of the lead in the Show Me State Open with a bogey-free 6 under par. He knew that one more birdie and he would post a very satisfying 65, which would put him one shot behind the leader, and playing alongside him the next day with the title on the line. ‘Right where I want to be’ thought Billy, ‘I can stare down Phillips, and then take him down’.


Phillips was Freddie Phillips, three-time winner on the tour already this year, and gunning for his fourth win, and first-place on the Tour’s money list. The $800,000 first prize would all but assure that. Phillips was already in the clubhouse with an up-and-down round of two under 70. His four-shot lead at the beginning of the day could shrink to one if Billy could coax one more putt to fall.


As Billy approached the green, the gallery reactively began to applaud. But it wasn’t the typical swelling applause reserved for the, well, Freddie Phillipses of the tour. It was more of a ‘courtesy’ applause given to a player that is not a fan favorite but instead was a begrudging way to acknowledge a talented person doing his talented thing.


Billy recognized it. ‘I will get them back on my side. F**k them.’


He then turned his attention to his curling, 18-foot birdie putt. With the assist of Shakes, his weathered, much-younger-than-his-face- showed caddy, they got the read down. Two balls outside right lip, cup speed. Don’t get frisky with it. Die it in the hole. Billy went though his pre-shot routing he had permanently hard-wired into his psyche through rote repetition. Two practice swings. Deep breath. Place the Ping B-60 putter behind the ball, look at the hole, back to the putter, back to the hole, back to putter. Swing. Keep the head still.

The putt came off exactly as Shakes instructed – two balls outside right lip. For the longest time it looked like it would stay like that, not taking the break but sliding by on the right. Then in the last three feet the ball, almost on command, broke hard to the left, and tracked into the dead center of the hole.


‘Like it had eyes’ said Shakes.


The applause was sudden, powerful. Billy gave his trademark fist-slam move, where he started his hand at his temple and brought it down hard and fast, as if he was hammering a nail. He let out a ‘F**k yeah!’ that was, fortunately for him, drowned out by the crowd. Retrieving the ball from the cup, he turned to the crowd, took off his cap, and mouthed a ‘thank you’ as his playing partner finished out. Shakes came over and gave him a well-deserved hard handshake which Billy responded to equally. It was as if Shakes was saying ‘Great stroke’ and Billy was saying ‘No…great read, Shakes.’


Walking to the scorer’s tent through a line of fans, most were supportive – ‘Great round Billy! Take down Freddie tomorrow! Billy Edwards is back!’ But there were also a couple of wiseasses in there – ‘We’ve seen this before Billy…How you gonna eff this one up Cuz?’


Billy was used to it all – the good and the bad. And besides, he was just trying to get to the scorer’s tent so he could post his 65, answer a few questions, and then relax. He signed his card then took a look at the scoreboard outside that indeed confirmed he stood one stroke behind Phillips. He talked to a few reporters outside, and then decided he was going to hit the range for about an hour, grab the courtesy car back to the hotel, order room service and get plenty of rest. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.


When he got to the range he checked his cell, which had been shut off since before teeing off that morning. A few voice messages. A couple of texts. But there was one that caught his eye, and totally entranced him –


‘Nice round. Gonna need anything tonight?’


That was when Billy knew he had no chance to win the 2011 Show Me State Open.

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Do it.....I'll promise right now to buy a copy...good stuff

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"Getting paired with you is the equivalent to a two-stroke penalty to your playing competitors"  -- Sean O'Hair to Rory Sabbatini (Zurich Classic, 2011)

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I'd read it. I go through books like Tiger went through waitresses and it would definitely be on my list.

 910 D2 10.5  910F 3w  910H 19*

 712 AP1 4-GW  Vokey SM4 54* and 58*

  Select Golo  E5

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Seems interesting. Definitely a niche book. Personally I would try to use a story like golf, something no one cares about, and then bring them in through the story without going over the top on the golf stuff. I mean I don't care about lawyers and courtrooms, but I still enjoy a Grisham novel. You really should be talking to my wife though, she has content edited multiple published books.

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I'd keep reading as well.  Addiction stories are compelling to me, but most of them focus so much on the addiction itself or the negative impacts it poses on the people around them.  It seems your story would revolve more around drug abuse and its direct effects on athletic performance, which I find interesting and unique.  A great teaser!

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Thanks, guys. I really appreciate the support.

I've written about 40 pages so far this weekend. I have a draft of chapter 1 if anyone wants to see it. Just PM me. Thanks again.

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I really enjoyed the first chapter Zip. I will send you a message with more details, probably tonight when I have more time. But so far, a great read.

In the Ogio Kingpin bag:

Titleist 913 D2 9.5* w/ UST Mamiya ATTAS 3 80 w/ Harrison Shotmaker & Billy Bobs afternarket Hosel Adaptor (get this if you don't have it for your 913)
Wilson Staff Ci-11 4-GW (4I is out of the bag for a hybrid, PW and up were replaced by Edel Wedges)
TaylorMade RBZ 5 & 3 Fairway Woods

Cobra Baffler T-Rail 3 & 4 Hybrids

Edel Forged 48, 52, 56, 60, and 64* wedges (different wedges for different courses)

Seemore Si-4 Black Nickel Putter

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great avatar above. And good luck on the book, as I hope to publish one one day, good luck. I tried writing a golf novel, about 50 pages in realized it was stupid ans stopped. A college kid's dad dies, he goes into depression, gives up golf after being a star, then picks it up 5 years later, so he could win the open and save his former cc that remimded him of his dad, that's failing.

"It's better to burn out than to fade away." -Kurt Cobain

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Like was said before try not to get super golfy if you know what i mean.It was a very good read I just know that your trying to reach a large audience not just golfers. Great job with the beginning shoot me the next chapter or two if you can.

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I like it. And it seems like the perfect vehicle to throw in the unexpected - a very un-perfect, very much human main figure that has to overcome huge odds ala Dick Francis/Clive Cussler. In fact, your character might uncover some nefarious activity and have to prevail at great personal cost all while maintaining composure to win.... rinse, repeat... Dick Francis attracted many non-horse people to the horse world using this genre.

Put me down for an autographed copy.

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  • 3 weeks later...

Consider this a Bump I guess.

Status: I've written about 42,000 words so far, about 120 pages of manuscript. It's about haflway done. If I dont get a serious case of Writer's Block I should have it doen in the next couple of months, then the editing begins. I've contacted a couple of publishers. Here's a couple more excerpts:

Shakes was sitting on the huge staff bag emblazoned with ‘Billy Edwards’ on the side. Smoking a cigarette, he nervously kept checking his watch. “C’mon B.E. You said nine o’clock. Don’t let me down again. Don’t let them down again” as he peered over to the grandstand by the first tee that was starting to fill with patrons. Nine fifteen…9:30…9:45. ‘This will be the last time he does this to me’ thought Shakes, ‘I got five pros begging me to bag for them and I’m sitting here waiting on this crackhead.’

Finally, at 9:55, the black Buick roared into the parking lot. Billy stumbled out and motioned for Shakes to come over to the car. “Yo B.E., we ready to do this?” said Shakes as he approached the Buick. “Piece of cake, Shakes. But listen – go over to the player’s tent and grab me two bananas, a bottled water and some Tylenol. My head is killing me. I’ll meet you on the putting green.” Shakes shoulders slumped, his fears realized about his man and why he was late.

But before he left, Shakes had a demand – “Lemme see your eyes, B.E.” Billy was wearing his signature wrap-around Oakleys, which he claimed were to protect his eyes from the harshness daily exposure to the sun could cause. What was closer to the truth was that they were to keep the world at bay. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, well by God, Billy was not going to let anyone peer there.

Except Shakes. Billy obliged by flipping up the Oakleys for Shakes’ inspection. “You happy Shakes?” “Yeah, I reckon,” said Shakes as he handed Billy the putter out of the tour bag before placing it over his shoulder and trudging off in search of fruit and pain reliever for his man. Billy made his way to the practice green, ‘I should ditch Shakes.’ thought Billy,  ‘Motherf**ker is like a goddamn wife and parole officer wrapped into one – Lemme see your eyes – who the f**k does he think he is?’ then the rational voice kicked in - ‘Let it go, Bill. It’s Sunday and you’re one shot out of the lead. Game face time.’

Billy opened a brand new sleeve of Titleist ProV1s and dropped them onto the practice green. Starting with some six-footers, he ran three straight into the heart of the hole, retrieved them and repeated it two more times. ‘Nine in a row. Good, the nerves seem okay.’ By that time Shakes had returned with Billy’s order – two bananas, three Tylenol and a bottle of water. Billy wolfed down the first banana, washed it down with a swing of water, downed the Tylenol, another swig of water, and put the second banana in the golf bag. “Let’s see what swing I woke up with today, Shakes,” as they headed to the range.

Starting with some half wedges, Billy methodically worked his way through his bag, hitting every other club - nine iron, then seven iron, five iron, three iron, 3-hybrid, driver, then half pitch shots with the sand wedge. Every shot was purely struck, each one with the prettiest little right-to-left movement indicative of a tour pro draw, each iron landing softly within ten feet of the flags, taking two hops before dutifully spinning backwards. ‘The man is amazing’ conceded Shakes.

“Okay Shakes, what time is it?” asked Billy. “Ten thirty-five, B.E. We’re up in fifteen minutes.” “Good. Let’s hit some more putts.” Going back to the putting green, Billy, using only two balls this time, worked on his lag putts before ending with ramming in ten straight four footers. “Let’s do this,” said Billy.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” barked the announcer on the first tee, “This is the final twosome of the day. Now on the tee, from Orlando, Florida, Freddie Phillips.” The gallery exploded with applause interlaced with hollers of ‘Go get em Freddie!’ Phillips, a rail-thin but wiry six-foot, 165 pounds, acknowledge the crowd, placed the ball on the tee, took two practice swings, then unleashed a screaming hard draw that started down the right edge of the fairway before gently curving to the heart of the short grass, 290 yards away. “Now on the tee, from Las Vegas, Nevada, Billy Edwards.” The applause was also loud, but not with the same ferocity as for Freddie. Not that it mattered to Billy. He was into his zone. ‘He got the look’ as Shakes would say. ‘You could drop a screaming chicken next to Billy, but if he got the look, he won’t even know it’s there.’

Billy teed his ball, stood behind it with ‘The look’ as he picked out his target, ‘Right edge of right bunker. Commit’ was the only voice in his head at that moment. This is why Billy loved playing golf. The voices were silent when he was inside the ropes.

The ball cracked off the clubface with that unmistakable ‘whhhhhh….SLAP…pinnnnnnggggg’ sound seemingly reserved for only the best players in the game. The ball started exactly where Billy visualized it, right edge of right bunker, before gently moving about ten yards to the left; the same draw that Phillips put on his drive. With one exception – on the second bounce the ball leapt past Freddie’s drive and galloped out about thirty yards beyond. The gallery responded, first with the awe-filled ‘ooooh’ sound then with applause then with screams. “Go get him Billy! Way to Ronstadt him! Mashed potatoes!”

Billy gave a glance over to Freddie as if to say, ‘Get used to hitting first into the greens today, Cuz. It will be Blue Bayou all day,’ in confirmation of the Ronstadt remark from the gallery. Billy then strode confidently down the first fairway with Shakes three steps behind.

The final round of the Show Me State Open was underway.

---------

“What we got, Shakes?”

“I got 142 to the front. Pin fifteen back, six off the left. 157 total.”

“Wind?”

Shakes tossed some grass in the air and Billy followed suit. “A little in and from the right.”

“That’s what I got too. 157 yards eh? I’m thinking a hard eight. Start it about thirty feet right of the hole and let the wind bring it in.”

“You got that shot all day, B.E.”

Billy yanked the eight-iron out of the bag like a Musketeer pulling a sword. Shakes stepped to the side to let his man have all the space he needed. Standing behind the ball, Billy closed his eyes for a moment and visualized the shot – a low, penetrating iron that would rise halfway through flight where the wind would grab it and force it to drift to the left. Opening his eyes, Billy said softly to himself “Yes. Commit.” He strode confidently to the ball, took one practice swing, and then settled into the shot. With his trademark right knee kick-in, Billy took the club back, set it for a brief pause at the top, then ripped through impact, taking a good chunk of Missouri real estate that splayed end-over-end, landing about thirty yards away. “No! Dammit!” said Billy, as the shot started, not thirty feet right of the hole, but at the hole. “Leave it alone, wind…don’t touch it” Billy pleaded, to no avail. As he had feared, the wind caught the shot and forced it to the left. It was heading towards the bunker guarding the left side of the green. “Don’t plug,” was Billy’s last entreat for the shot as it disappeared into the bunker.

When they got to his ball, Billy’s fears were realized. The ball had landed and stayed in the impact mark in the bunker. “Fried egg. Dammit. And I short-sided myself to boot. Look at all that goddamn room to the right of the pin. I could have put it out there…”

“Forget about that,” said Shakes. “You got this shot. Remember the fifteenth at Memphis last month? Same shot. You stiffed it. Do the same thing here.” Billy chuckled and said, “This is why you’re my man, Shakes. I had totally forgotten about that shot.” “I know,” said Shakes. “You tend to forget the good ones. But I don’t.”

“Fifteenth at Memphis. Do it.”

Billy dug his feet deeply into the soft sand, making sure there was no way they could slip during the shot because he knew he had to swing hard at it. Squaring the face at the ball and addressing it right at the edge of the indentation, Billy took a couple of waggles, an exaggerated practice backswing to get the feel down, then swung, hard. A shower of sand exploded out of the bunker, followed by the ball. Unfortunately, the ball did not travel far enough, splatting into the lip of the bunker before meandering back down to the bottom, about three feet away from where Billy stood.

“Forget it” said Shakes. “Tough shot.”

Billy resisted the urge to smack his sand wedge down into the sand, as that would have been a two-stroke penalty since his ball was still in the hazard. He handed the club to Shakes who dutifully wiped off the face removing all evidence of the previous attempt, and handed it back to Billy. Billy then re-dug his feet back into the sand, but this time, with a good lie, opened the face of the sand wedge wide. Now with a standard bunker shot that pros excel at, Shakes said “Knock it close, B.E.”

“Close?” said Billy, “F**k that. I’m knocking it in the hole.”

Shakes loved it when his man talked like that. He knew that’s what made the great players great. Nothing was impossible, overflowing confidence.

Billy swung and executed the shot perfectly. It landed one inch to the right of the cup, damn near going in on the fly, took one big hop then stopped on a dime four feet away from the hole. “Shot, Pro” said Shakes. “Thanks” said Billy.

There was still some work left, as the four-footer was anything but automatic. “What you got, Shakes?” “Inside left lip, firm. It will break but don’t give up the hole. Trust it.” Billy implicitly trusted Shakes, probably more than anyone in his life, and followed his instructions. He stroked the putt firmly, but a bit too firm. As a result it did not break as much as it would have had it been hit softer. The ball caught the left lip, dove halfway into the cup, then horseshoed out, completing a 180-degree journey before rolling back at Billy. “F**k me running,” said Billy, as he tapped in for a double-bogey six. Now, instead of two back of Phillips he was four back. And time was running out. Only six holes to play. “Dammit Shakes, all I had to do was put that approach in the fat of the green, fifteen feet right of the pin. I pull it a touch and we got a double bogey…”

“Let it go, B.E. It’s over.”

“Hey Shakes I’ll meetcha on the next tee. Gotta hit the head.”

Billy went into a nearby port-o-let and took out the baggie that was in his back pocket. The baggie was filled with a white powdery substance. Billy unwrapped the baggie, took a key he had in his pocket, scooped out some of the substance, and snorted it into his nose. He repeated it. Re-wrapping the baggie, he felt the rush of adrenaline that only cocaine can provide, and damn near broke down the door leaving the port-o-let.

“You cool?” said Shakes on the thirteenth tee. “Yeah I’m good,” said Billy. “What we got?”

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