The Cry of the Cuckoos at Book Expo in NYC

An Inerview with Chris Redding

1. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?
When I enrolled at Kilgore College in 1963, I was asked what I would like to major in. I didn’t have a clue. I decided at that point I wanted to study journalism. The school had a good journalism department. While attending Kilgore, which is one of the settings in my book, The Cry of the Cuckoos, I free lanced with the Longview Morning Journal. When I saw my first byline, I was hooked and I’ve never looked back. After 40 years as a newspaper writer/editor, magazine writer/editor and book producer it’s been a rewarding career. When I was but 10 years-old, however, I wrote a short story about a dog named “Rinny.” I wish I still had the little notebook that I wrote it in.

2. How did you pick the genre you write in? The mystery genre actually picked me. I started with an historical romance novel titled, “Decoration Day.” The setting was World War Two, and the main characters were a soldier and female civilian who met in west Texas. It was based on my father and mother actually. When my mother died in 2007, the book took on a life of its own. I decided to scrap the historical romance novel for the time being and concentrate on a commercial novel which I thought would appeal to a wider audience. Some of the material gathered from “Decoration Day” seeped into “The Cry of the Cuckoos.”
3. What drew you to the subject of (The Cry of the Cuckoos)? I was toying around with titles, and I ran across a YouTube video that had the sound of the cuckoo bird in someone’s yard. I researched the cuckoo bird and found that it likes to fool other species in its race to imitate their chirping cry. The cuckoo bird is deceptive in the fact that it will fly into another nest and fool the rests that it is one of them. The Society of Southron Patriots, a radical right wing supremacist organization, became my platform in this mystery novel. The society was like the cuckoo bird in its deception. It is more than a whodunit story, but a story about a son separated from his biological mother for more than 61 years. The cuckoos in this book are more than just The Society of Southron Patriots and, beneath it all reveals the flawed personalities in our culture. The themes in the novel are deception and forgiveness. I hope I am not giving too much away (ha)!

4. What was the name of the first novel you wrote? Did you try to publish it?
Surprisingly, I wrote a novel when I was in my early 20’s. The title was, “Years the Cuckoo Claimed.” It had the same leading character – Henry Drummond. I had read “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest,” by Ken Kesey and “Siddhartha,” by Herman Hesse. I was really influenced by Hesse at the time. I was attending Samford University in Birmingham, Alabama majoring in religion and philosophy, and Hesse caught my attention in his writings. I think I did send out several query letters, but each was rejected. So, I gave up on it. I may resurrect it later.

5. Why did you pick the publisher that ultimately published your book? I had a literary agent at the time, and she suggested I look into a new company called AEG Publishing Group. They had several plans and I submitted my manuscript. They also have a group Eloquent Books, which is a Print On Demand publisher. After reading over the contract, I decided this was the best plan for me. I wanted to be in control of my own destiny instead of being controlled by big interest from a traditional publisher. It’s not exactly self-publishing, because you share 50-50 in the royalties and the printing. It’s a tough road, but in my book experience as a book producer and a sales manager with Bantam Books at one time, I felt I made the right decision. I don’t regret the decision at all. I checked with other writers using their service and they were happy with their decisions, too.
6. Describe your book
I think I will let Richard Blake of Reader Views describe my book. I think he analyzed it better than most:
"The Cry of the Cuckoos" is the story of a son separated from his biological mother for over sixty years. They were reunited for the first time after she becomes a suspect in the murder of his father. Donald Drummond, the main character, is a retired news reporter. Award-winning writer John Wayne Cargile incorporates similarities from his own life in this novel of romance, murder, and intrigue. Henry Drummond, Donald's father, was the leader of a rightwing supremacist group called the Society of Southron Patriots, whose goal was deception. It was also rumored that he had Mafia connections. After Henry's death, by arsenic poisoning, a terrorist plot aimed at killing Washington diplomats by poisoning the food at the concessions of the Super Bowl was uncovered. United Nations delegates were a target of this conspiracy. Donald and his wife Anne were recruited by the FBI to work undercover as informants to help untangle the web of deception surrounding his father's death. A fast-moving, complex plot took the couple from Alabama to Texas where they encountered another murder with surprise twists and turns along the way. Cargile carefully puts in place background details which provide interesting technical and medical information. His training in religion, psychology, and philosophy, as well as his strong interest in integral psychology and spirituality, are apparent throughout John's writing. "The Cry of the Cuckoos" becomes a platform for him to help people integrate their mind, body and Spirit into a Holistic lifestyle. Cargile's character development reflects his understanding of flawed personalities. His narrative provides a related analysis of their symptoms, motivations, and resulting actions. The strength of character of the genuine religious or spiritual person is contrasted with the lip service and lifestyle of deception in those motivated by selfishness and greed. These characters become colorful composites, expressions of idealism, reality, and deception. I was quickly drawn into the story of "The Cry of the Cuckoos" and the theme of deceit and forgiveness. Cargile's writing style is crisp, direct, and engaging. While I found this directness appealing, it may be seen as too simplistic for others. Transitions of locale or time-frame and the pacing of conflict and resolution confronted by the protagonists were well-paced, maintaining the suspense element of the story. I felt the story ended quite quickly, somewhat abruptly; however, an "afterward" wrapped up all the loose ends and gave closure to unanswered questions. The final chapters create the possibility of a sequel. "The Cry of the Cuckoos" by John Wayne Cargile will appeal to readers who enjoy mystery, intrigue, and romance. Cargile's writing is thoroughly entertaining and highly informative.
Tell me one thing about yourself that very few people know? I think I was a writer in a previous life, and I was sent here to complete what the previous writer did not finish. His name was Thomas Carlyle and he was a Scottish philosopher and writer. I was reading some of his works one night and something flew all over me about his writing. It felt to me these were words I had been flirting with for some time was my own. He was a satirical writer, historian and essayist raised by Calvinist parents during the Victorian era. He was expected to become a preacher, but while at he University of Edinburgh he lost his Christian faith. Calvinist values, however, remained with him the rest of his life.
What do you consider your strengths in terms of your writing?
Dialogue. Being a news reporter and magazine writer for years I loved to write people stories. When interviewing a person for an article I was able to ask the right questions, kind of get into their head, and was able to pull things from them no other person might know. When they began to tell their story, the dialogue flowed and essentially the story was written by me, but told by them using dialogue. You’ll see a lot of dialogue in The Cry of the Cuckoos. The characters are writing the book through dialogue.
What place that you haven’t visited would you like to go? Perth, Scotland. The sequel to my book is tentatively titled, “Mary, Mary Quite Contrary.” This is after the famous British nursery rhyme. Research shows that the innocent little nursery rhyme is not quite what people think it was. The Mary in the nursery rhyme was Mary Tudor. Her husband, one of the British Kings, wrote the little verse after she could not give him children. It actually has been interpreted by some people as a little racy. The character in my sequel appeared near the end of The Cry of the Cuckoos. Her name is Mary Kate O’Quinn. The beginning of the sequel has Mary Kate visiting Scotland with her new husband. They are on their honeymoon. You’ll also notice on most of my websites the Scottish plaid. I am actually wearing a kilt no one can see. Our family roots trace back to Perth, Scotland, and there is a little parish called Cargill in near Perth.
What is your favorite words?
Amazing Grace. When you hear this song played with bagpipes you get a sensation that is indescribable. It’s an old gospel hymn, something I grew up with. In Church, when the choir sang Amazing Grace, it gave me goose bumps. We are truly here by the Amazing Grace of God’s creation.

Interview From A Writers Group

This is an interview conducted by Joan Baratta. Thanks for asking, and I hope it helps other writers.


1)You’ve spent 40 years working for others, when did the idea for the book surface?


I have known since I was a university student that when I retired I would write novels. That has been my goal most of my life. I began as a journalist in the 60's and 70's, then opened a publishing company in the 1980's in Birmingham, Alabama. I was a printer for companies needing printing, but I also produced two slick magazines. I became a managing editor for a publishing company in Tuscaloosa, Alabama in the late 80's before creating my own company, Creative Services, in 1990. The company was designed for my work. I was publisher for a number of magazines, edited freelance work sent for publication, and sold advertising. I calculated my career in writing and publishing beginning in the 60's. The book, The Cry of the Cuckoos, surfaced only three years ago.

2)How long did it take you to write the book?

I've had the book in my mind for a long time. My biological mother who lived in Texas was divorced from my father in 1946. She was forced to give up custody when I was 1 1/2. Before she died, we spent hours on Instant Messenger talking about her life and mine. I have over 200 pages of conversations between the two of us. I began writing the book in 2007, but it was an historical romance novel with the setting in Texas between a soldier and a female civilian who meet at a dance hall in west Texas. But, after my mother's death, everything changed. I decided I wanted to write something contemporary and upbeat. I didn't know at the beginning it would be a mystery novel. When I began the story it just unfolded like I didn't have control of it. I completed this version of the book within six months, but the foundation was laid long before. I talk about being in the zone below.

3)How many revisions did you go through? Are there any ideas you would like to share to those aspiring authors about the process of revision?

Revise, Revise. Revise. This is very important. I believe I cut out nearly 8,000 words before I felt the story had been told. A professional editor is essential, and I hired one to set me on the right tracks. She didn't have much to edit, but it gave me a sense of my unique voice in writing. I cannot tell you how long I spent reading and re-reading the story. In fact, now, I don't want to read it again, but I probably will. I am writing its sequel.

4) Share with others your thoughts on social networking, Twittering, Facebook, Blogging, building a website to promote your novel.

I didn't know much about using social networking until I got into the marketing stage of the book. Now I am all over the Internet. I've joined so many writer's groups, I forget sometimes what group is what. I'm on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, and Gather.com. I was only last week named as an administrator at Red River Writers on Facebook. I built my own website, which is not eloquent, but it gets the job done. I created a book trailer, which I thought was impossible. It is adequate, but I didn't have to pay a professional to create it. I created a blog for the novel, and offered readers an opportunity to read the first chapter to get some reaction. I learned long ago as a journalist that if you don't capture your audience within the first three paragraphs, you most likely will lose them right there. They will put the book down. I received a great review before the book was published, and it is on one of the first pages after the dedication page, which was to my late mother and step-mother who actually raised me. Both of them are characters in the book, but with distorted and flawed characters that neither had.

5) Do you belong to a writers group? If not what are thoughts on belonging to a writers group?

Writer's groups are great, however, you take what advice they give you some times with a grain of salt. Everyone has a sense of how a book should read, and readers have odd tastes. I belonged to a critique group and became very frustrated. I learned from my publisher that you can have 10 editors sitting and reading your script and you will have 13 interpretations. It got to be too much, so I left the critique group.

6) Any general thoughts you have on the subject of writing?

There is writing, then there is writing. I've seen a lot of people blogging and to them that is writing. Journaling is writing. But not the type of writing a publisher is looking for. I could write a lot of deep, thought provoking pieces on the subject of metaphysics. Would it sell? Probably not. I decided to become a commercial writer. If it is worth writing, I wanted to make money for my efforts. One of the best books for commercial writers is "Techniques of the Selling Writer," by Dwight Swain, published by the University of Oklahoma Press. I hold a doctorate degree in metaphysics, and some of the thoughts and conversations in most of my writings deal with metaphysics in some facet.

7) What you would like to share about your novel, the process of writing?

Getting into the zone. People have heard that athletes get into the zone and are able to do things they didn't think was possible. I hardly ever get writer's block because I have trained my brain through the art of meditation to toss away things you don't need. You place them in the recycle bin. Use only what is necessary. My novel has been reviewed and the reviewer, I thought, said it best. He said my writing was crisp, direct and engaging. You won't find flowery words flowing constantly off the pages of my book, You'll find engaging conversation between characters. Actually, the dialogue between characters tell the story for you. You let your characters dictate what will happen next. You won't be far off if you let the characters take over your story.

As an Alabamian, and a southerner, I find our state has very few resources for the aspiring author; do you have any thoughts on the subject?

You mentioned the state of Alabama doesn't have resources for writers. I don't understand. We have the same resources as any writer on the globe. The South has produced some great writers, including Alabama. It doesn't matter where you live to become a writer. You can aspire to write, but a writer needs to write. He is an eccentric in most cases, and a loner. He wants his place on Earth to be marked when he passes on to the other side. Here stands old Joe, who was an author. God Bless His Soul. He has left someone, somewhere a legacy in his own words. He might not be famous or on the New York Times Bestseller list, but he had to write his stories. He didn't aspire to write. He had to write from a psychological and philosophical point of view. These type writers write from the soul.

I’d like to thank John for taking the time out of his busy writing schedule for this interview and to say too everyone out there reading this, go buy his book.

Happy Writing!
Joan Baratta at A Writers Group

The Cry of the Cuckoos -- Chapter One

Chapter One Midfield, Alabama He was in thick woods with grass taller than his four-foot-two body. He wanted to race away as fast as his legs could carry him. The burning wood crackled and lit up the cloudy night sky, illuminating the white-sheeted figures that circled a cross and chanted. A plea for help from a black man sliced through the ritual of the robed men. A long rope hung over a tall tree limb. The noose meant death to the nigger. “Noooo...Dad!”
He awakened from the dream in a cold sweat from the shrill ringing of the telephone next to his bed.
“Donald, come quick,” his mother’s voice exploded through the telephone line. “I think your father is dead.”
He rolled over on his pillow and glanced at the clock radio. It was 5:32 in the morning. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain still somewhere in dreamland.
“Stay calm. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he told her. The old son-of-a- bitch has finally croaked.
“What’s the matter?” his wife, Anne, asked as he threw back the bed covers and hung up the telephone receiver.
“It’s Dad,” he said, nearly falling onto the floor when his right foot tangled up with the bed sheet. He unsnapped his pajamas and grabbed his blue jeans.
“Mother thinks he is dead.”
“Really,” Anne said, sitting up in bed. “Do you want me to go with you?"
“No, honey,” he told her. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Donald reached into the closet, grabbed an old XX-large green plaid shirt with button-down collar and his sports jacket. His keys and wallet were in his jeans. He pulled on ankle top boots and raced out of breath into the garage and climbed into the Jeep. He opened the garage door with the remote device clipped to the sun visor. As soon as the engine kicked in, he reversed out of the driveway.
He was normally a safe driver, but today he was not in the mood to obey stop signs or red lights. He turned on his emergency flashers just in case he ran into a cop in the five blocks to his parent’s home. It was six days before Christmas and the houses in the small city he raced past were decorated with colorful lights. The lawns lit up the dark morning with sparkling scenes of the manger, plastic reindeer, Santa Clauses and snowmen. White bulbs glowing, outlining Christian crosses.
Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Goodwill toward men was not his father’s best characteristic.
He gunned the accelerator to the floor as the Jeep climbed the long, steep driveway. The black wrought iron gate was already open. No need to stop and punch in the security password. He parked at the front entrance of the mansion sitting atop the hill overlooking the city.
Rose Marie Drummond stood on the porch with the door half-open. Still in her pajamas she waved him in.
Donald turned the ignition and red emergency flashers off, got out and raced to her.
“He’s gone, son,” she said. Her eyes were pink and heavy, her face buried in her wrinkled cupped hands.
Donald gave her a quick hug and walked into the den where his father usually stayed most of the day. He found his father lying on the couch, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black tie. His black laced shoes polished to a spit shine. Donald cast his eyes toward his father’s face. It was drawn and haggard. His head, bald from radiation and chemotherapy. His body, gaunt and frail. The thin arms were folded across his chest. He knew before he took a pulse his father was dead; dead at eighty-two years of age.
Donald sensed his mother standing behind him waiting for a verdict.
He turned to face his mother and took her in his arms without saying a word. He nodded his head. Rose began to whimper softly, and Donald hugged her tightly.
“I know, I know,” he said, trying to console her. He stroked her solid gray hair as she laid her head on his chest.
He was unable to cry. His mind numbed, unattached to the body lying on the couch. With a strange dispassionate calm, as though he were his own guru, he tried to examine his final thoughts. He felt like he had been swallowed inside a giant vacuum and sucked into a higher state of mind. It was an emotion he never had experienced. Had the dream earlier that morning meant anything? He barely remembered it. It was more nightmare than dream. He wondered why death was in his dream and suddenly he awoke to the reality of his father’s death. Prophetic? Coincidence?
Finally, Donald asked her: “Have you called 9-1-1?”
She shook her head, “no.”
He walked into the silence of the dining room, switched on the light and found the telephone attached to the wall. His heart-beat raced. He dialed the emergency number. He gave his name and address to the house then dialed his home.
“Honey, it’s Dad,” he said softly, trying to stay calm. He was the oldest of the three sons and felt it his duty to be strong for his mother’s sake. His mother was the glue that kept the family together. Not this monster of a man lying prone on the sofa with a stiff face.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Anne said. “How’s Rose holding up?”
“She’ll be fine.” “I’ll call David and Daniel and tell them to come to the house.”
“He was lying like this when I woke up and came into the den,” his mother said. “I guess it was just before 5:30. The television was on. His eyes were closed and he was just like he is right now. I called his name, but he didn’t respond.”
Sirens from first responder vehicles screamed into the early December morning. The red and blue emergency flashers lit up the neighborhood. A police car was the first on the scene, then paramedics. The yard swarmed with activity. Neighbors stirred outside their homes.
Donald watched as the responders hurried into the house to examine the body. Thirty minutes later a coroner arrived and behind him a government agent he recognized from the FBI.
The den was covered with a stack of magazines spilled across the floor. The drawers of a desk had been emptied, and a closet looked as if it had been imploded, most of the hangars and clothing on the floor.
He watched as the medical examiner uncovered a sheet Donald placed over the body.
“He’s been dead for several hours,” the examiner said.
Donald turned to look at Rose, whose eyes were now alert. The tears were gone. She walked around the room, looking at the family pictures she personally placed in the room to help remind her husband of his offspring. Donald knew his mother was reminiscing. He had seen her like this before. His father hadn’t placed a lot of value on his children. Not what was expected from an old man near death. He hadn’t been the model father or grandfather. He placed more value on friends... and enemies. Donald remembered his father’s words, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer.”
“Mrs. Drummond, I am the county coroner. Do you want an autopsy of your husband?”
“Why would we need an autopsy?” Donald blurted out before giving second thought to the question.
“He might have died of natural causes but sometimes there are extenuating circumstances,” the coroner responded.
Henry Drummond was a familiar figure in Birmingham, Alabama and across the country for that fact. Even the coroner knew his name. His name appeared in newspaper articles and in court records, something Donald knew all too well. The Federal Bureau of Investigation listed Drummond as a former member of the Ku Klux Klan. He controlled the underground Southern mafia though the agency could never prove it. The Civil Rights Legal Center in Montgomery, Alabama listed his organization, The Society of Southron Patriots, a right wing supremacist hate group and a terrorist’s threat due to its philosophy as a Southern Nationalist organization whose ultimate goal was a free and independent Southern republic. He had been accused and acquitted of all charges in court of being an accessory to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombings which took the lives of four young, innocent black girls in 1963.
Donald spotted his friend and high school classmate. Midfield Police Chief, Jay Norris, was the first cop on the scene that morning.
“I’m so sorry, Donald,” Norris said, putting his arm around Donald’s broad shoulders.
“Thanks Jay.” Donald’s name was familiar in Birmingham for a different reason than his father. His bylines often made the featured headline story for the newspaper. Radio and television reporters often relied on him in order to get their leads for stories breaking in the court systems. He was the city’s expert on court news. Drummond’s death meant the media would be at the house in a matter of minutes.
“I don’t need this right now. It’s Christmas, and I am retiring on the 31st.”
Local television reporters appeared out of nowhere, setting up cameras in his parent’s front yard. Donald hesitated but walked out to greet them.
“Mr. Drummond, can I get an interview with you?” a TV reporter asked, sticking a microphone in Donald’s face. Other TV crews were on the scene, and a reporter from his newspaper was there with pad, pen and a tape recorder.
“My father is dead, that’s about all I’ve got to say,” Donald said.
“Was it a natural death, Mr. Drummond?”
“I suspect so, but I don’t know anything at this point. My Dad suffered from prostate cancer, so I assume it was cancer which caused his death.”
“He’s been linked to the mafia, and the Society of Southron Patriots is under attack by the Civil Rights Legal Center. Do you think it was a hit job?”
Despite the sobering death experience of his father Donald couldn’t help but see irony in the question and had to keep from laughing.
“Well, I didn’t see any signs of struggle. I don’t think we have a story here about the mafia going to the mattresses.” Donald said, alluding to a scene in “The Godfather,” movie. “That’s all I can say right now. You’ll have to interview the coroner and Chief Norris to get the information you need.”
He knew every one of the reporters and liked all of them. But this wasn’t the Birmingham Media Club. He didn’t feel like being sociable. Maybe another time and another place, he told them.
“This embarrasses me every time something happens with my father involved,” he thought as he dialed his editor’s cell phone to let him know the situation. He wouldn’t be in the office today.
“Don’t worry about it,” his editor told him. “Everyone knows the type man you are, and you are not your father.”
Donald went back into the den. He eyed the coroner who was finishing up his work. He noticed the coroner holding a pill bottle in a handkerchief.
“I found this,” the coroner said, holding out the bottle to let Donald read the label. “I found it lying under the couch.”
Norris overheard the conversation and looked at the bottle the coroner had in his hand.
“It’s empty,” he said. “I suspect these are sleeping pills, Norris,” the coroner said. “You might want to question Mrs. Drummond about them at the appropriate time.”
“It’s his sleeping pills,” Donald said, not surprised at the finding.
“Mr. Drummond, I also smelled alcohol on your father. Due to the findings we must automatically perform an autopsy.”
“We don’t have a choice. Is that what you mean?” Donald asked, knowing how the procedure worked.
Donald went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Norris followed behind.
“Donald,” Norris said. “Your father might have taken an overdose of sleeping pills mixed with alcohol. You know what that means?”
Donald stared blankly into Norris’ eyes.
“You think his death is more than a natural one?” Donald asked. “He had health issues. It could have been a heart attack.”
“Alcohol and sleeping pills, Donald! Are you listening to me?” Norris said again, making sure his friend understood what was going on around him.
“That’s possible,” Donald said, managing to regain his senses. “He liked to drink vodka, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You think he took his own life? He committed suicide?”
“It’s certainly possible, Donald,” the chief said.
Donald circled the kitchen looking for nothing in particular. He opened the refrigerator door, closed it, then checked on the brewing coffee. He went to the sink and stared absently out the window into the backyard where he had grown up with his two younger brothers throwing baseballs and footballs. His mind raced forward and backward with a hundred questions seemingly crashing down all at once.
He was dressed like he was going somewhere.
“Suicide?” he asked out loud. Chief Norris did not respond.
“You know what will happen if the lab finds the pills and alcohol as contributing factors to his death, don’t you?” Donald stated alarmingly.
“Yes, Donald, I do. Most insurance companies do not pay off on premiums involving suicide.”
“Exactly!”
“Donald, another question,” Norris asked.
“Yes.” “Why was your father already dressed in a suit and tie? Was he going some place in particular today?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Donald said tersely. “I guess he figured he was going to hell!” Donald watched as his mother returned to the den. He followed behind. She got down on her knees. Donald thought she was about to pray over her husband. Instead she was on all four’s, stretching one arm behind the corner of the couch as if she had been through this process more than once. She found what the coroner missed.
She pulled out an empty vodka bottle and a piece of paper. She held the bottle in one hand and the piece of paper behind her back in the other.
“What’s behind your back?” Donald asked.
“Nothing. Just nothing,” she said.
Donald saw the coroner return to the den. He looked to be hurried.
“Mrs. Drummond, under law we must perform an autopsy and have our forensic science lab examine his body for foreign substances.” Rose bowed her head in silence and closed her eyes for a moment. She nodded to the coroner she understood.