Grits n yogurt (nonfat; plain)

I must admit, I feel a little sheepish beginning this. Beginning? Hell, actually, I’ll feel sheepish once I’m midway through, and I’ll feel sheepish once I’ve finished. This’ll be one of those blog posts that requires an eyes-squished-shut blind pounding on the “enter” key to click the “publish” button, and then a force-of-will saying absolutely, positively DO NOT look back.

And, inevitably, because I always do exactly what I’m instructed no to do, particularly and especially if I’m instructed to not do something, I’ll hit the “back” button on Firefox, read this again, and cringe. When I cringe, it’s worth noting, I do so in a full-body fashion, critiquing myself aloud as though channeling my grandmother, who’d converse with herself most noticeably on Sunday afternoons while making macaroni salad, correcting her cutting form, discussing the politics of the day with her audience of self, or, more oft than anything else, reengaging in her 40+ year occupation, that of schoolteacher.

My rereading will then attract the attention of my girlfriend, who’ll look up at me from whatever activity she’s engaged in-reading a book, more than likely, probably her new favorite author-obsession: Darren Shan's Demonata books, the Young Adult gross-out series that’s filled the void in her heart cut by the lack of new Stephenie Meyer books to consume, and ask me what, exactly, my problem is.

And I’ll be unable to answer. When I finally do find words, they’ll stumble out of me, marching like clodhopper-shod antmoose (it’s an animal, look it up!) tumbling out of my mouth. As such, I’ll probably choose a more opportune time for explanation, such as after work some evening, when we’ve both had a little to drink (me: a glass of white that tastes like butter or red that tastes like jam; her: either, as long as it tastes like candy). Wine seems to, as has been observed and pontificated upon for years, loosen the tongue-and, more importantly, make the brain more understanding of things that lack sense.

Now that I think of it, it may, in fact, make more sense to have a glass of something right now, and then worry about composing this. Take the edge off, so to speak.

The “edge”, which, though tangible, is far from literal, comes from that fact that, scrolling through the list of authors tapped by Karin to man the helms of this blog, are all, well, authors.

(Oh, dear, I’m acknowledging form and format, here-no one’s done that, yet-everyone’s pressed onward and upward and here I am, hand-wringing and shaky and pointing at the curtain. Pay no attention to me.)

Me? I’m the farthest thing from an author.

Was that an appropriate enough lead-in, a good enough half-segue, to warrant this as the introduction? I hope so.

(Again: hand-wriging. Again: acknowledgment of form. Again: I am in the company of writers!)

Introduction? Here:

My name’s Russ Marshalek.

DUN dun DA Duuuuuuun!

That’s an auspicious introduction, right-sound effects and all? Authors and auspice go together like allspice and my morning coffee in autumn, or so I’ve been told. The dictionary defines ‘auspice” as:

“Auspice: noun. Definition: anything that doesn’t include the tired contextual trick of turning to a dictionary definition”.

Per the dictionary, I’ve failed yet again at crafting something that can stand up on this blog. I return, then, to my introduction, a bit head-hung, nail-bitten and defeated, but determined. Always and still, determined.

My name’s Russ Marshalek.

(no sound effects this time. Promise.)

In case that name’s unfamiliar to you-and, really, it should be, as I’d be more taken aback if you were familiar with me than if you aren’t-, it’s because if you go to your local bookstore and look under “M”, in any section, you’ll find the following:

See? Note what’s missing. Namely, ‘Marshalek”. It’s because I’m not, unlike the rest of the company I keep here, a published author. Or, as I’ve said, an author at all.

So, if you go to your local bookstore and look under “M’, you won’t find my books. You may, possibly, find me, though. If that bookstore is one very specific bookstore.

I’m the marketing and publicity director for Wordsmiths Books, AKA “the new bookstore”, in Decatur. The large marble building next to Twain’s “Yummy” pub (yummy is my addition to the name. Note to Twains: you can have this one for free).

Well, then, you’re thinking-surely you must be very, very southern, twangin’ like a banjo or some such. Nope, sorry-I was born in Albany, NY. I was raised in Marietta, though, and I often watch “Paula’s Party” on Food Network while scarfing down fried grits. That has to count, right?

(I won’t tell you those fried grits are topped with plain nonfat yogurt)

It’s flattering, an honor and a privilege, like I stumbled into a friend’s kitchen in the middle of a hot Atlanta summer to find cornbread ready, that Karin ‘Momma Hen” Gillespie, the ruler of this roost, invited me to participate. Scrolling through that list of my blog contemporaries (blogtemporaries?) here, it would seem that I’m a loner amongst Dixie Divas and the like.

This would be a good time to mention that I’ve given Patricia Sprinkle a gangsta rap name: P-Sprink.

(Patricia, you get that one for free, also.)

What, pray tell, am I doing here, then? Well, you realize that with that you’re asking me to assign myself a mission statement, and, if you look back up at the beginning, you can surmise that I’ll shirk any assigned responsibility just as quickly as I’ll look at something I’m not supposed to.

That’s a snarky way of covering, in a fashion akin to a schoolyard bully dumping friend grits with nonfat plain yogurt on your head, an insecurity, namely that, in terms of my purpose here? I’m not sure.

I don’t have a book to advertise, I don’t have an author tour to promote. However, working in a bookstore, I consume a great deal of southern literature-meaning literature that exists in the south. Working in a bookstore with authors, I encounter a great deal of southern authors-meaning authors who live and breathe their work, their crafting of thoughts into words, in the south. And, if I may be so bold, I’m the only one who can bring perspective of working in a Southern bookstore, who can tell funny stories about Dr. Ferrol Sams’ powderblue suits, and mean it all with the respect that’s due but also with the sense of humor that you have to have when you make your living from pieces of paper printed with ink and bound.

And, so, I guess my purpose here is my perspective-I have my own favorite southern authors. Some of my favorites are on here. Some of my favorites aren’t even published. But I’ll also be bringing the perspective of someone who’s on the inside of a bookstore, smack dab in the middle of south, for 37 hours a day, 10 days a week. My observations will, possibly, provide the fodder for those of you out there reading this who are authors to craft characters and stories, and then, of course, pay me handsome royalties, allowing me to abandon this city and move to a life of luxury in New York, where I’ll be on Galley Cat and Gawker every other day for table-dancing at book launch parties.

There’s no better perspective than that, is there? The observation, I mean. Not the table-dancing. That was a joke. There’ll be discussions of books, authors, and store goings-on, all filtered through the lens of region, through the lens of southern perspective-because there’s no other perspective it could have, really. I’m southern, yes. I’m also vegetarian, and shirk traditional collards-for obvious reasons. Consider that contradiction and maybe what I’m going for here will make sense. I hope so, because it doesn’t to me.

And if I’m on Galley Cat, you can believe you’re all getting excited calls from me at 3 in the morning.

Recommended wine to make this more enjoyable: Toasted Head Chard. It tastes like cinnamon vanilla buttered toast.

Russ Marshalek is Marketing and Publicity Director for Wordsmiths Books, the largest independent bookstore in the state of GA, operating in Decatur. He is a frequent contributer to Wordsmiths Books blog, as well as an at-times vehement discusser of things both literary and musical. His favorite southern authors include George Singleton, whose first name he often typos as "Georgia", Jack Pendarvis, and whoever it was that did the peacock feather short story thing. You know, the peacock lady. Also, he feels that the first hundred pages of Heart Is A Lonely Hunter are damn near perfect, and he wishes Paula Deen was his real grandmother instead of the one he's adopted via his imagination.