In the Thunderdome: Chris Deal
“He had this magic trick, my granddad. …” >> Read more
Chris Deal worked in a cigar shop before he married his true love. One Christmas he drew my name in a secret-santa gift exchange and I received a non-descript box of books that smelled like a secret-santa cigar exchange. I wasn’t supposed to know who sent it, which made me smile.
Recently someone in my home rounded a corner and caught me at my bookcase inhaling the inside spine of a book. There was a pause and a grimace. He finally asked what I was doing. I said I didn’t know.
I don’t usually go around smelling things. Nor would I ever try to smell Chris Deal himself, unless invited, but occasionally a connection is made; between my memories of funny times, things like cigar-infused gifts, and my fondness of a certain person, and there’s a feeling that no longer relates to writing or books. I talk about Chris Deal’s writing often. He’s a sort of pure talent who knows nothing but honesty and humility. But when I’m in the privacy of my home, and free to stop talking about books, and smell or taste whatever’s nearby, I like Chris Deal the person even more than the writer. Which, from me, all things considered, is quite a claim.