HOT DAMN

From the South Florida School of American Literature, home to both Ernest Hemingway and Dave Barry, comes hard-working Hall: erstwhile poet, current thriller-writer, and sometime English teacher here undertaking a new form.

For three years, while he kept the action going in his spirited adventures (Blackwater Sound, 2002, etc.), the author also found a friendly format in the short essays he contributed monthly to a Florida newspaper. The collected pieces deal with a variety of subjects, but most are related to the splendor of the Peninsula State, from the myriad shells of Sanibel to the wonderful feeling of sunburn-grade warmth on the epidermis. “We have only two seasons in south Florida, summer and not-quite-summer,” he declares. But the sunshine is not unabated. There are the casinos in the Everglades, the feral Florida drivers, the young muggers, and don’t forget the Disneyfication. “Before we know it,” Hall warns, “we’ll be living in a place concocted by cartoonists.” But despite his holidays in the hills of North Carolina (that’s where native Floridians can be found in summer), the author’s devotion to the birthplace of the early-bird special is unfailing. Along with the fright engendered by hurricanes, his musings venture beyond the shuffleboard courts to describe unpleasant dealings with hustling TV producers and humiliating book tours. As seems de rigueur in an essay collection, Hall pays homage to the pleasures of books and reading, as well as offering appreciations of the Hardy Boys and Papa Hemingway. He provides a choice glimpse of James Dickey in action, and a heartfelt eulogy for his late father signals the author’s fundamental decency. But does he really go fishing for dolphin?

Laid-back and quite competent, if not consistently soul-stirring, certainly well-enough executed to be enjoyed in the shade with the sound of the surf not far away.