A slice of small town life tale that was very enjoyable. Headley's debut novel is full of characters I felt I have met before to scenes I know I have lived: Friday night high school football, the bonfire the night before the big game, high school parties out in the country, hanging out at the local bar filled with smoke and stale beer. It all felt a little reminiscent. ( )

It’s not everyday that a published novelist writes me suggesting that I read their novel, so Jason Headley’s email certainly caught my attention. Headley saw my positive review of a Richard Russo novel and mentioned to me that his debut novel, Small Town Odds, had been favorably compared to Russo’s work. That was enough to get me to read the book.

Small Town Odds documents a week in the life of the twenty-something Eric, a former brainy jock who’s one mistake five years ago forced him to abandon his dream of becoming something and getting out of his tiny rust-belt town. Through Eric’s interactions with his daughter (the product of his one mistake), her mother, his beer-guzzling old pals, his old high school sweetheart, and the regulars down at the bar he tends, Headley paints a pretty convincing picture of a down-on-its-luck community.

While Headley’s email was successful in getting me to buy his book, his mention of Russo also meant that I would be, no doubt unfairly, comparing a first-time author with a Pulitzer Prize-winning one. Small Town Odds does have the same low-key slice-of-small-town-life feel of many of Russo’s books, like Nobody’s Fool and Empire Falls. And just like Russo, Headley’s book has only the slightest of plots to move it along. Russo, like Anne Tyler (another favorite of mine), can rely on his excellent writing to push the reader along even when the story moseys along. Headley’s writing skills, however, haven’t reached that point yet. I often had a hard time staying interested in the story. It wasn’t the kind of book that made me want to read it every free minute I had, like a great novel would. Headley also seemed to have trouble writing dialog, to the point that whenever there was conversation between characters the book read more like a script than a novel.

But I think that these are problems that Headley can overcome as he grows as a writer. His story in Small Town Odds is a good one, and before the book is over you can already feel his writing getting better. Headley should take comfort (if he once again stumbles upon my book reviews and sees this one) that I also think that Russo’s first novel, Mohawk, suffered from some of the same problems and showed the same hint of a writer bound to continue telling interesting stories and getting better and better with each one. ( )

http://dhamel.typepad.com/book_blog/2...
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I got this email a couple of weeks ago from an address I didn't recognize and the subject just said: Richard Russo. I was curious, so I read it. Turns out, it was from Jason Headley, an author whose first book has been compared to Russo. He saw one of my reviews of Russo's books (at BookCrossing, I assume), and just wanted to know if I'd give his book a try.

I read the first chapter online. And I listened to the audio clip of him reading from the book. I was intrigued. So, I ordered it. When the book came, I noticed a cover blurb that also compared his writing to Tony Earley's (another favorite of mine), so I went ahead and put it at the top of the 200 or so other books on my to-be-read stack (shelves, really).

I read it over the past two days and really liked it. I even let the kids play an extra hour or two on the Playstation so I could read uninterrupted. After reading the book, I can see why he's compared to Russo- small town, lovable loser-type characters, excellent dialogue, wit- it's all there. And well done too.

If you like Russo or Earley (he's also compared to Haruf, but I can't speak to that as I haven't read any of his books), I'd strongly recommend this one. And I look forward to Headley's next book.

Here's a bit from the book...Eric's ex-girlfriend's father just died, and Eric's feeling a little introspective:

Eric sat and watched him, wondering if his dad ever thought about the meaning of it all. The way he was eating his pork chops didn't make him seem like a terribly introspective man. In fact, Eric had never really known his dad to talk about much beyond the practical, day-to-day things in life. There just never seemed to be a good time to start into heavy, reflective conversation. He watched his dad slather butter on a biscuit, which only made him realize exactly how little time he actually had. His dad was trading their precious time together for the salty taste of buttery biscuits. How many of those had he eaten in his lifetime? How many biscuits had already begun to steal away the days and hours between them? Time was ticking. But none of that time seemed to welcome a proclamation of love from a son to his dad. Unless that time was right now. He began to work the idea around in his head. "I love you, Dad." That was all he had to say. The words would float across the table and carry them both into a new realm of self-awareness. As the idea became more tangible in his mind, he could almost sense that his dad felt its presence. That he knew something grand and profound was about to change the fundamental nature of their relationship for good. His eyes lifted from his plate, but Eric didn't say anything. Instead, he allowed the moment to become full with the idea. When their eyes had locked long enough for the truth between them to be felt, it was his father who spoke first.

"What in the hell are you staring at?" ( )