conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Blue Hole Back Home about TANGLED, MERCY, Nashville with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Literary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is the author of seven books, including the novel A TANGLED MERCY. She lives outside Nashville, Tennessee, where she writes full time and teaches occasionally as an adjunct professor of English lit. and creative writing. She and her husband have three children.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She lives outside Nashville, Tennessee, where she writes full time and teaches occasionally as an adjunct professor of English lit. and creative writing. She and her husband have three children.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Blue Hole Back Home
  Your novel involves the Ku Klux Klan and racism in America in general, and evidence that it still exists today. What specific bits of history are particularly relevant to ? How did that history drive your characters and storyline? What did your personal experiences teach you about such discrimination?
  The novel's scene with the KKK road block was inspired by one my family ran into driving back from swimming on the back side of the mountain. My father was driving. To that point, I'd never seen the Klan in person before, and I recall when we saw these figures up ahead all dressed in what looked for all the world like bed sheets and pillowcases, I thought it was a joke—until we got closer. And they were holding fast food chicken buckets. An utterly ridiculous image, you'd think. But there was nothing amusing about these guys. They were collecting money in the buckets, and they poked shotguns in the driver's-side window to encourage contributions. My father declined to contribute.
  At the time, it seemed only natural that he would calmly refuse—exactly what I expected, and I don't recall being as terrified as I probably ought to have been. But as a parent now myself, I realize how frightened he must've been, not so much for his own safety as for the safety of his family there in the car. He was declining to contribute to guys who'd just shoved a shotgun muzzle into a car with his family in it. That had to have quickened the heartbeat a little.
  Right. The novel's shooting spree down in the valley was inspired by an incident on April 19, 1980—again, while I was in high school. In response to some Klan members having met with leaders of the NAACP, three local Klan renegades who viewed this as evidence of the KKK's becoming too soft, drove through an African-American section of downtown Chattanooga with one of the three guys shooting randomly at the sides of the street. One of these guys, I'm told, graduated from my high school, though several years before I did. I'm happy to say we've never met.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know another paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: If anything, the character of Reverend Riggs comes from my own fundamental tendencies to value harmony, as in the lack of conflict or turmoil, over just about anything. It can be a very dangerous trait, and one I'm forever learning to battle. By nature, I just want the lion to lie down with the lamb 24-7 and be chummy so I can relax and digest my food.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: That's awfully kind of you. I've wanted to write ever since I learned to read, I think. And the more I read, the more I wanted to write, and keep reading, and write better.
  I remember in fourth grade, my teacher Mrs. Gross read aloud to the class a poem I'd written about having spotted a buck in the snow. Now, I don't know that I'd ever seen a buck in the snow before, and it was probably an atrocious poem. But it was a turning point, letting my imagination create this scene, then creating that scene for a group of other people, and having the teacher hang up my poem for everyone to see. I was never the kid who could knock the kickball clear out of the field, so it was a real gift to be noticed that way. For days, I'd pass my poem hanging there on the bulletin board, and just couldn't believe anyone else had taken notice of it, or that my words had actually connected with other people. In fifth grade, my teacher Mrs. Buckshorn quietly left me an article on my desk one day and whispered, "This is for you to read when you grow up and become a writer." I don't know that I'd told anyone about wanting to be a writer, and I've always been pathetically insecure, so, again, her insight was an enormous affirmation.
  I have times of wishing I didn't enjoy writing so much, since unlike lots of other professional endeavors, there's not necessarily a direct correlation between how much time you put in and how far you get in the field. I enjoy teaching on the university level, too, and I often try to convince myself that since I dedicated all those years to gathering the proper credentials, I should simply, and only, teach. But teaching, if you try to do it well, often crowds out time to write, and I become... well, out of balance, off kilter with the universe when I can't write. I just want to snarl and snap at anything that moves. So it's probably best for all concerned that I try to write on a regular basis.
  The lyrics are from the song "Gotta Get You Into My Life," written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
  The lyrics are from the song "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," written by Nickolas Ashford and Valerie Simpson.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The lyrics are from the song "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," written by Nickolas Ashford and Valerie Simpson..
  The lyrics are from the song "Gotta Get You Into My Life," written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. So it's probably best for all concerned that I try to write on a regular basis. I just want to snarl and snap at anything that moves. well, out of balance, off kilter with the universe when I can't write... But teaching, if you try to do it well, often crowds out time to write, and I become. I enjoy teaching on the university level, too, and I often try to convince myself that since I dedicated all those years to gathering the proper credentials, I should simply, and only, teach.
  I have times of wishing I didn't enjoy writing so much, since unlike lots of other professional endeavors, there's not necessarily a direct correlation between how much time you put in and how far you get in the field." I don't know that I'd told anyone about wanting to be a writer, and I've always been pathetically insecure, so, again, her insight was an enormous affirmation. Buckshorn quietly left me an article on my desk one day and whispered, "This is for you to read when you grow up and become a writer. In fifth grade, my teacher Mrs. For days, I'd pass my poem hanging there on the bulletin board, and just couldn't believe anyone else had taken notice of it, or that my words had actually connected with other people. I was never the kid who could knock the kickball clear out of the field, so it was a real gift to be noticed that way. But it was a turning point, letting my imagination create this scene, then creating that scene for a group of other people, and having the teacher hang up my poem for everyone to see. Now, I don't know that I'd ever seen a buck in the snow before, and it was probably an atrocious poem. Gross read aloud to the class a poem I'd written about having spotted a buck in the snow.
  I remember in fourth grade, my teacher Mrs. And the more I read, the more I wanted to write, and keep reading, and write better. I've wanted to write ever since I learned to read, I think.That's awfully kind of you