Welcome to another installment of If My Book, the Monkeybicycle feature in which authors compare their recently released books to weird things. This week Eric Scot Tryon writes about I’m the Undertow, his debut novel out from Central Avenue.
If I’m the Undertow were an ocean wave it would be the small unassuming kind, overlooked by surfers. Its soundless crash would tickle the feet of toddlers, but its thin run up the sand would be fast and surprising. It would gently topple sandcastles and soak the towels of unsuspecting sunbathers.
If I’m the Undertow were a cat it would be the kind that unknowingly leaves it’s tongue out. Not in a comical way, but just enough to be seen. But as soon as you’d yell for your spouse to hurry, come see! the tongue would vanish and the cat would lift its back leg like a ballerina and lick its length with elegance, side-eyeing you like you’re the weird one.
If I’m the Undertow were a Tom Hanks’ movie it would be Joe Versus the Volcano.
If I’m the Undertow were a roadside attraction it would be the world’s largest pecan pie—fifty feet in diameter! You would smell the sugar two offramps away, but when you finally put your nose right up to the buttery flakey crust—sugar crystals the size of playing cards—they wouldn’t even let you dart your tongue out just for a quick little taste.
If I’m the Undertow were an indie rock band, they would all wear black Converse low tops, thin blue zip-up hoodies, and baseball caps with faded logos of the fishing shops in their home town. The guitar solos would be slow and swimmy and sad, and the lyrics would sound cool but not make much sense. Also, the drummer would be fighting a disease but he still hasn’t told anyone.
If I’m the Undertow were a kiss it would be on the neck.
If I’m the Undertow were candy it would be a Kit Kat from a vending machine in a hotel lobby after a long drive. You would find exactly three quarters at the bottom of the center console of the car. Although you had been dreaming about Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, their A-5 slot would be empty, so you would select C-2 instead, and when you open the Kit Kat, each piece would break off cleanly—snap! snap! snap!
If I’m the Undertow were a divorced family it would be the dad. The one who rents a one-bedroom apartment in a suburb of Los Angeles like Studio City or Glendale or El Segundo, who leases a red Camaro with too many miles on it, and who hangs out at all the hip bars he reads about on Reddit. It would also be his ten-year-old daughter who just wants him to watch and score her cartwheels from one to ten, one being the worst and ten being the best.
If I’m the Undertow were a lie it would be the kind told to protect your feelings.
Eric Scot Tryon is a writer and editor from San Francisco, California, where he lives with his wife, daughter, cat, and several poison dart frogs. His short fiction has been published in over 50 literary magazines, including Mid-American Review, Indiana Review, Glimmer Train, Ninth Letter, and The Los Angeles Review. He is also the Founding Editor of the literary magazine Flash Frog.
Order a copy of I’m the Undertow here.