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Many years ago, an old friend—he was an English professor at the University of Pennsylvania—gave me sound advice. He told me, “The world doesn’t care that you wrote a book.”

Pretty blunt advice, huh? But it was damn good advice, because no matter the outcome, the world will celebrate holidays, attempt to consume its way to happiness, and protest wars. In other words, say what you came to say, say it from the heart, don’t spare any feelings, and don’t worry about results. And that’s the way I approach writing.

I cannot claim to be widely read, but those who have penetrated my pages have praised me for my use of irony and the ability to turn human dysfunction and disarray into poetry. Often, I have picked up a novel, read a page, and put it down. It wasn’t because the subject matter failed to interest me; it was a flat narrative voice that hastened my departure. I don’t care about subject matter: my concern is, can you tell a story? And by “story,” I don’t mean plot-driven concoctions but micro-level human interest stories about “everyday” people trapped in the causes and effects of a madding world. That’s where all the “good stuff” takes place.

I had never heard of John Irving until, on a whim, I grabbed his second novel, “The Water Method Man” from the shelf. The title was quirky. The story chronicled a man with a urinary tract infection. It doesn’t sound like much, and perhaps wouldn’t have been if in the hands of a less artistic writer. I read the first page and was hooked. And that’s when I realized what good writing was: turning the mundane into magic. So would I turn the pages of “American Odyssey” based on the blurb? My answer is a qualified “yes.” I hope you enjoy my quirky opus as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for the opportunity to write this post.

Kindest regards,
Michael DeStefano

Set in Philadelphia in the mid-1970s, American Odyssey chronicles the coming-of-age journey of Addison Caldwell, Cillian James, and Joey Brosco. In their quest for independence, our trio encounters the recently widowed Leila Bennett, a former prostitute turned farm owner. For Leila, a sultry summer blossoms into an odyssey of hope and healing; for the boys, work and awakening. Leila—a girl discarded and rescued—teaches the threesome that virtue does not lie in the struggle for independence or what one must sacrifice for its behalf but in love that reinforces enduring friendship.

Enjoy an Excerpt

From Cyndy Pytlewski to Claire Caldwell, I went. Claire was waiting for me at the front door, or so it seemed, assuming her demeanor was any indication. Her mission was clear: to annoy me in a way only a mother can. She handed me a piece of paper known as “the dreaded checklist” and then proceeded to go over it one strenuous item at a time, and the list was longer than my goddamn arm! Next, Claire escorted me to my bedroom, where, waiting for me atop my bed was an open suitcase surrounded by an apothecary smorgasbord: eyedrops, nasal spray, mouthwash, nail clippers, sunscreen, ointment in case I forgot to use the sunscreen, aspirin, Band-Aids, talcum powder, and a dozen other items including what first captured my attention: a flat, rectangle-shaped yellow box containing anal suppositories. Able to follow my gaze, Claire defended this idiotic purchase by citing, “The water is sure to be different on a Western Pennsylvania farm, well water, most likely, and if you’re not used to well water, it’s liable to irritate your bowels and cause you to have some difficulty … down there.” Claire shilly-shallied with a schoolgirl’s embarrassment when pointing at my posterior; it was all very un-Claire-like. Then she unnecessarily added, as though somehow it could have slipped my mind: “Remember, you’re a city boy.”

I held my ground while wearing my game face; my expression was akin to Carlton glaring in at a nervous rookie. I rarely display such discipline. But had I let loose even a single utterance, the matter of the flat rectangle-shaped yellow box might have qualified as a conversation, and whatever misadventures that could potentially befall my hindquarters three hundred miles west of Philadelphia was not a subject I was willing to broach. Then, upon listening patiently to Claire’s rationale in support of her first aid just-in-cases and what-ifs, I handed her the checklist and escorted her from my bedroom. As I expected, she got all huffy and moaned, “Fine! I was only trying to be a good mother. But if you don’t want me to be a good mother, then hell with it!”

For a second, I felt a pang of guilt for having pooh-poohed Claire’s due diligence concerning motherhood, then called to her in the hallway while reexamining the smorgasbord, “What’s the matter; was the drugstore all sold out of Trojans?” If ever there was a just-in-case or what-if item meant to travel with a teen on his first summer away from home, it was a box of Trojans. Moreover, it was challenging to imagine Claire Caldwell too embarrassed to have condoms rung up at the local apothecary, which meant that she had every reason to suspect that I would begin and end the summer of ’77 a virgin.

“It’s not too late, Addie,” she called to me from the hallway, somewhat apologetic for the oversight. “I can still run out and get some if you think you’ll need them.”

“Never mind,” I sourly replied. I did not want condoms as much as I wanted Claire to believe I needed them.

About the Author: Michael DeStefano runs a hairstyling salon, where he has spent the past four decades beautifying the super people of Philadelphia. His past titles include the historical family saga The Gunslinger’s Companion, the comedy/tragedy Waiting for Grandfather, and The Bohemian. You can find these novels and other writings such as his love essays and perspective pieces at his blog site Michael’s Corner.