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Enter Now For Your chance to Win David Payne's All-New Novel, Back to Wando Passo- Courtesy of UNC-TV's North Carolina Bookwatch! Tune in to UNC-TV's North Carolina Bookwatch, Friday, August 4, at 9:30 PM, as Payne shares the ins and outs of his latest fast-paced adventure story. After watching this episode, answer the Back to Wando Passo trivia question located at the North Carolina Bookwatch Blog for your chance to take home this unforgettable new novel by this local literary talent.
2006 Season
 David Payne is the critically acclaimed author of Confessions of a Taoist on Wall Street , which won the prestigious Houghton Mifflin Literary Fellowship Award and Ruin Creek, a New York Times Notable Book. Payne is also the author of Early from the Dance and Gravesend Light. He lives with his family in Hillsborough, North Carolina.
Ruin Creek (1993)
Confessions of a Taoist on Wall Street (1996)
Gravesend Light (2001)
Early from the Dance (2003)
Back to Wando Passo (2006)
O n e
Ransom Hill had fallen hopelessly in love with his own wife. If there was any doubt of it-there wasn't, but had there been- it ended in Myrtle Beach, as he deplaned and found her waiting with the children at the gate. Tall and thinner than he'd been since high school, Ran had on his good black coat, which still stank of cigarettes, though he'd given them up in anticipation of this trip, the first of many sacrifices he was prepared to make. His slouching jeans were held up by a concho belt in which he'd lately had to punch three extra holes, and his Tony Lamas clapped along with a delaminated sole. His Stetson, though- the new three-hundred-dollar white one he'd seen and really felt he owed himself-was as crisp, serene, and towering as a late-summer cumulus. In its shadow, under memorable blue eyes, two dark crescents stood out against his inveterate New York City pallor, smudged as though by Christmas coal, the lumps that Santa Claus reserves especially for fallen rock stars and other habitual offenders. Ran, as always,was carrying two guitars, the ones Claire called "the Gibson girls" and, again, "the mistress and the wife." His roadworn but still handsome face seemed clarified by recent suffering for which he had nobody but himself and maybe God to blame. As he came up the ramp, a bit short-winded, with that slapping sole, he looked like someone who had served a stretch in purgatory, and now, there, in paradisal light at the end of the square tunnel, was Claire. And paradise turned out to be South Carolina. Who could have guessed?
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