George Dilgunk, an everyman’s everyman, begins his life with tragedy knocking at the door. After the death of his best friend and the disappearance of his girlfriend, George embarks on a strange odyssey forgoing all the rational rules. He’s on a collision course with a weird finale—a story populated by rogue priests, wayward cinema owners, and kindly prostitutes.
Targeted Age Group:: 18-65
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
It's my first novel, and I wanted to challenge myself and see what could come out of all the years of devouring books and movies and music, and The Drunk'unn Boat turned out to be the result.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I approached writing the book as an exercise in growing and expanding sentences. The characters seemed to appear of their own accord when I found that the paragraphs and sentences worked well. It was partly a passive activity in this regard.
In the morning, George sat at his picnic table smoking and eating crackers. He saw a dice embedded in the dirt near the leg of the table and dug it out. He told himself that if he rolled a three or less, then he’d go for a walk by the cliffs; if he rolled a four or more, he’d venture into town and see Suzy. He shook the die and rolled a two. So it goes, and he went to the bathroom and showered in his flip-flops and got dressed and brushed his teeth. He saw Todd rummaging about the campsite, and he offered a nod, and then he was off—off to the cliffs, carrying with him his stick, fashioned with a sharp point, the roaster of wieners, and he plunged it into the earth like a great staff or a good walking aid.
The day was grey, and when he got to the cliffs, he spotted two pairs of couples: one old and one young (and attractive). He walked by the old couple and nodded to them, they smiled, but when he got a few paces away, he heard them call him a vagrant and a busybody. He imagined turning around and piercing them each in the heart with his stick; but instead, he let out a fart and hoped it’d catch a ride along the proper air current and sting those stodgy old folks’ nostrils. Both denouements seemed farfetched, and he retaliated against reality by kicking a stone over the precipice of the crag. He watched it fall and tumble along the rocky terrain; he heard it hit the water.
He dangled his feet over the edge and pulled out a notepad and a pen. He heard a shuffling behind him, and he turned to watch the old couple depart; he could hear them moaning about something—probably him—and then he heard the old woman yell, “And why don’t you just jump? Go ahead, you dang fool!”
"Shut up, you old bag,” whispered George, but somehow he was certain she had heard him.
After that, things quieted down, the young couple lay still, and George looked out at the horizon. Then a sudden gust of wind tore the notepad from his hand, and he saw it somersault and land in a nook near the cliff’s winding path. George steadied himself and began his descent, taking it slow along the steep downward trail. He crept forward, carefully, one hand on the rock face; he got to the notepad and pocketed it; he was midway down and decided to continue on. “Might as well.” He remembered the caves and entered the first of the pair and examined the graffiti he’d expected to find there. He entered deeper into the lair and was surprised to find that it kept going, far more profound than he’d remembered. He heard water dripping and was forced to rely on his phone for light, and then he saw it. A head? It looked like that of an elk or deer but bizarrely configured with its mouth jutting out—like the poor creature had some terrible underbite—and George got close to it and inspected it and noticed that its teeth were actually keys, marked with letters. A writing apparatus? “Exterminate all…” What was that thought?
But it was gone, and he was left alone with an empty brain and a horned and uniquely serviceable writing machine (or so he assumed based on its make and model and presumable function), and he got on his knees and wrote “hello” on the keys, and the type hammers swung the corresponding letters up to a point near the horns’ upper protuberances, and, lo and behold, George had found his new instrument. He grabbed the machine and carefully scaled the rock; he tucked it beneath his arm. When he got to the top of the cliff, he noticed the old woman far off in the distance; she gave him a thumbs-up, but the old man was nowhere to be found.
Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy The Drunk’unn Boat On Amazon
All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.