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thenewwei · 1 year

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Today is the 10th Anniversary of the publication of my second book, Good Americans (The Human Tragedy, Volume 1). As such, the Kindle ebook version will be free on Amazon from today Thursday October 12, 2023 through Saturday October 14, 2023. Anybody who wants to check it out for free just needs a free Kindle application for any device. You also have the option of buying the paperback from almost any online bookseller.

From a strictly "literary" perspective, I suppose it is my best published book, but then it is the only ostensibly literary book I've released (until its sequel comes out), a short story collection of 6 stories, a 3-part novella, and a creative introduction.

The collection has a crazy history which I could write a book on itself. The oldest story, "Bridget's Brother," was composed in the winter of 2001 at the University of Oxford in the UK, where I was studying abroad at the ripe age of 20, writing under a special light so I wouldn't get depressed, trying to read (and unsuccessfully like) Henry Green's Loving, biking around George Street, attending the Oxford Union and spying on conversations in Blackwell's Bookshop so I could pick up British slang to use in my work (I also once sat next to Chelsea Clinton, but was too shy to say anything, not to mention that 9/11 had just occurred, making her SS detail all the more apprehensive, I figured. This is also referred to in the story). The story is derived from a real life experience with my fellow students, both American and British, and it shows with its subject matter, "awkward" prose and loose/dynamic construction. The last stories I wrote, "The Apprentice" and the three part jackhammer "Malta: A Love Story," were pumped out the summer before its publication, meant to beef up the collection, and the Introduction was literally written that Fall.

I had been shopping around the book as "Dhan's Debut and Other Stories," sending it to book agents and literary contests I would find in the back of publications like Poets & Writers, AWP Chronicle and Writer's Digest's. I would pay fees, wait for months, and get rejections, over and over again. All the individual stories were being sent out to literary journals and were rejected too. The few journals without word limits were sent "Old Guido." The Florida Review editor sent me back a hand written note telling me how much they admired it--but they still wouldn't publish it. Even "The Mountain," a now praised story within most journal limits, was dismissed.

This was code to me that I was wasting my time with the conventional literary world, just as I had with The Brotherhood. At the same time, I had the revelation that the stories, as a whole, could work as a panoramic portrait of different elements of American society, as collisions of worlds, albeit focused on its dregs. That prompted the creation of the final two stories, and the change in title. For years the story "Good Americans" had been called "A Good American" (and also rejected). I decided to rename it and the entire collection after it.

So while I might have been successful, potentially, at shopping around the new beefed up "Good Americans," at nearly 400 pages, to lit agents, I had zero stomach to do so after so many failures. Instead, I wrote up the satirical Intro as a kind of internal joke, arranged the collection, had readers check typos, and DIY formatted the collection for both ebook and print publications.

It was self-published in Fall 2013 through my own company The New Wei LLC, a year after my first and most popular book The Brotherhood, which would eventually have two sequels.

The few indie reviewers who deigned to read it praised it mightily. Kirkus Reviews called it "a solid collection of rare caliber" that "speaks volumes about the human condition and modern life in America." The Indian reviewer Vault of Books, now deceased, which had dismissed The Brotherhood as a B novel, were amazed at it, calling it a "a great collection of short stories" where "each and every story" "stands out" and "leaves an indelible impression on the mind."

The other indie reviewers also left no doubt this was an important work of American fiction. And yet, still, even after a major publicity tour, radio, TV, print interviews and article publications in HuffPost and Publishing Perspectives, no major reviewers (or publishers) picked it up, simply because of its self-published status.

Other than regular readers somewhat confounded by the contradiction of its low subject matter and high fallutin' self-lauded aims, most of the criticism came on one story, the last one and the original title tale, Dhan's Debut, mostly disappointed or puzzled with its ending. I wasn't surprised by this because I had struggled with the story myself upon composition, rewriting it several times from scratch. It also didn't fit as solidly with the grittiness of the other tales. I had two alternate endings too. I actually think the original ending, a more conventional one, worked better, but a good friend preferred the crazier ending, so I used that one. I realized I could always go back, but I've decided to preserve the published, controversial version for historical purposes.

In any case, now that you know some of the history, perhaps you will be even more intrigued to check out this dynamic work. As Readers' Favorite wrote at the beginning of its mostly praising review, "this book won't be for everyone," but if you're interesting in challenging your perspectives and leaving your inhibitions at its cover, I don't think you'll be disappointed.

And its anthology sequel, Bad Americans, is only a few months from being completed!

Tejas Desai October 2023

#good americans #books #author #bookstagram #the new wei #queens #authors #literature #american literature

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yikesharringrove · 4 years

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Nb model Steve? Maybe Billy is a photographer who's known for his artsy and alternative photos and Steve is an up and coming model who has to deal with a lot of misgendering in the industry? But Billy is one of the first photographers who really respects their pronouns and what he's comfortable wearing

Read on Ao3

Steve didn’t know what to expect when they got on location.

They loved being a model, felt so comfortable in front of a camera, had even gotten to do some runway work for New York Fashion Week this year.

But the issue, is that they only get work as a male model, where they’re expected to be hyper masculine and all macho.

It’s the fucking worst.

But their agent had gotten them this shoot, promised that it wouldn’t be like the last one, or the one before that, or the one before that.

They took a deep breath before entering the building.

“Hi, Steve Harrington, checking in.” The woman smiled at them, tapping on her phone.

“Great, let’s take you through to hair and makeup. Mr. Hargrove will want to speak with you before you begin.” She led Steve through to the warehouse.

Steve had never worked with Billy Hargrove before, but his name preceded him. He was known for beautiful shoots with models way beyond Steve’s recognition and caliber. Shooting campaigns for high end designers.

“So, I was never informed what campaign this is for.”

“This is for Mr. Hargrove’s personal portfolio. He chooses to freelance various projects he believes in.”

“Wait so, this is like, just for him?” She pulled Steve aside.

“He’s putting together an art book, but do not tell anyone you heard that. He’s going to announce it in a few months. Limited run, all that. You’ll be getting a share. He feels paying models is extremely important.” Steve just nodded, they’re eyes big.

“Sorry, how did I end up on this project?”

“Oh, Mr. Hargrove is a fan of your work. Asked for you by name.”

Steve was in hair and make up now, being ushered into a tall chair. The woman, probably Mr. Hargrove’s assistant, took off again.

Steve closed their eyes, figured they would be getting a light foundation, maybe some contour to sharpen their jaw, that kinda thing.

They zoned out, just let the makeup artists do their work.

“Steve Harrington. Good to meet you.” Steve opened their eyes, was met with The Billy Hargrove.

“Mr. Hargrove, it’s an honor to meet you. I’ve a very big fan of your work, especially on the most recent Dior campaign, those images were beautiful.”

“Oh, call me Billy. And I loved your work with Jonathan Byers. I think that was about three years ago, now? I’ve been trying to make arrangements to work with you since those were published.”

Steve furrowed their brows. Those pictures featured Steve in a lot of makeup, and lingerie in most of them. Billy was studying their face.

“Have you done their hair yet?” Steve’s eyes were wide.

That was the first time they hadn’t been misgendered on a job.

“No, Mr. Hargrove.”

“If you can make it look like they just have it now, I like the kinda of, wild thing that’s happening. And maybe make the gold a little bolder. I really like the look.”

Steve hadn’t washed their hair in a few days, usually the hair artists would wash it before they began anyway.

Billy smiled at them one last time before leaving again, and Steve got a look at themself in the mirror.

Their eye makeup was a pretty ballet pink, gold glitter packed onto their eyelids. Their face was contoured to look feminine, the way the did their own makeup.

When they finished with hair and makeup, they met Billy in wardrobe.

He was flicking through a rack of clothes.

“Hey! You look great.” Steve flushed.

“So, what are you comfortable in? I’m looking to explore humanity in all forms. I’m working with artists that inspire me through their realities. You’re pretty much the top of that list.”

“Wait, I’m not following.”

“Your gender identity and expression, the way you wear your body in the most authentic way possible. I’ve seen your work. Those images with Byers are so beautiful, so much moreso than anything else I’ve seen of yours. Your confidence exuded through the image more than anything I’ve ever seen. It was inspiring.”

“So, you’re gonna let me do this my way?”

“Of course. I’m showcasing you, whatever that means.” Steve nodded at him once.

They began rifling through the clothes, making a pile of things they liked, what they thought would look good with the makeup.

“And I’m pretty much comfortable with anything.” Billy raised one eyebrow.

“Nudity?”

“If you want.”

“Could that cause you any dysphoria, though?” Steve blinked at him.

“Jesus, that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked that on a shoot.” Billy’s smile slipped.

“Seriously?” Steve shrugged. “Not even with Byers?”

“Well, I mean, that doesn’t count. We’ve known each other since we were kids, and I was just getting into modelling, and him into photography, so that was kind of to build up both of our portfolios at the time. I did my own hair, makeup and costuming.” Billy raised one eyebrow.

“But apart from working with a close friend, you’ve never been asked about dysphoria.” Billy said it as a statement, like he was trying to wrap his head around the idea.

“And it’s funny, because I usually get dysphoric in menswear shoots, but most people hire me as a male model.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry, Steve.” They shrugged.

“It is what it is. Not a lot of gender noncomforming or just straight up not cis models in the mainstream. There’s a few, don’t get me wrong, but not many, and very few household names. I just figured I need to be versatile for now, and eventually, I’ll have enough of career I can start making demands. Taking up space.”

“Still, it sucks that you gotta pick and choose like that. You should be able to just, do what you want.”

“That’s easy to say, mister photographer.” Billy smiled bashfully. “Look, thank you for taking time to research me and know what I’m all about. This experience has already been a lot better than most of my other shoots.” Billy clapped them on the shoulder.

“Hey, you’re my muse. I’m just excited to be working with you. I’ll leave you to get changed, we’ve got some wardrobe assistants standing by if you need help.” He swept out of the curtained off area.

Steve decided to begin with a light blue slip dress, matching silk panties.

They had help getting into the gold chunky heels, and made a bit of a show of walking those few feet to set.

Billy was staring darkly.

“You look beautiful.” Steve grinned at him, taking a seat on the white settee.

Billy was very easy to work with.

He let Steve take some liberties, try a few things out, and would direct from there, telling Steve how to adjust their body.

Steve felt in control, felt beautiful and confident.

Steve had taken off the slip, was posing in just the blue panties, now sitting on a windowsill, the New York skyline behind them.

Steve stood up, and dropped the little panties, kicking them away. Billy nodded, still looking behind the camera.

“Beautiful, Steve.”

They stood in nothing but the heels, had been given a piece of fabric to drape around their body, or not if they so pleased. Steve held it aloft, looking at the camera with their best bitchy I’m above you look.

Billy had them do the same with six other outfits, slowly strip out of them throughout the shoot.

The set was closed, only a handful of people in the room with them as Steve languished around.

Billy nearly lost his damn mind at an image of Steve, their back to the camera, in nothing but red pumps, sitting in a middle split on the windowsill.

“You’re a fucking genius, Stevie. Gorgeous!”

It was hours before the shoot had finished, and Steve was given a plush robe and a latte.

“Steve.” Billy jerked his head towards the table in the corner, Billy’s cameras and laptop sitting on top of it.

Billy pulled another chair up to the table, let Steve sit on the first one.

“I just want to go over the shoot with you. You can pick the shots you like the most, and we can see which ones are right for my project. I’m publishing an art book. I’m sure Miranda already told you, she tells fucking everyone.” He had loaded the images from the day onto the laptop.

They clicked through them, sitting just the two of them, everyone already having left for home.

“Oh, wow.” Billy had stopped on an image of Steve with the large piece of gauzy fabric. It was draped over their shoulder, put hung to the floor, doing nothing to cover their body. “Look at your face. This is what I was taking about. The confidence, you just exude don’t fuck with me energy. It’s beautiful.”

Billy would often do that, point out minute details in Steve’s body language or facial expressions and explain the ways they were captivating.

And it made Steve feel captivating.

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” Steve was far too aware of how close Billy’s face was to theirs.

“I really felt it today. Thank you.”

“You are ethereal. I’m not kidding.” Billy’s eyes flicked down to their lips. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

Steve sighed when Billy kissed them, just a light press of his lips to theirs.

“I’d like to see you again. Cook you dinner? Or take you out? You pick.” Steve sat back.

“Like a date?”

“Yes.”

“You wanna date me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you wanted to work with me?”

“I wanted to work with you because you are so beautiful it’s inspiring. I want to date you because on top of all that, you’re kind, and sweet, and driven.”

“Um, yeah, then. I’ll go on a date with you.” Billy beamed. “But I don’t put out on the first date, and just because you photographed me naked does not mean you get to fuck me anytime soon.”

“Oh, of course.” He looked serious. It made Steve melt a little.

“And I’d love it if you cooked for me.”

“Then my place. Friday. Seven o’clock. Wear something nice. I may not be able to resist photographing you.”

“Yeah, yeah, Sweet Talker. I’m allergic to bell peppers and I think mushrooms are gross, so steer clear.”

“Drat. There goes my idea for mushroom stuffed bell peppers.”

“Darn. Looks like we can’t go out, then.” Billy laughed.

“I’ll text you my address. And my house will be properly de-mushroom and bell peppered for you.” Steve smiled.

“I appreciate it.”

#yikes writes #lemon zest #steve harrington #billy hargrove #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #harringrove #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble #nonbinary!steve #nonbinary steve harrington #nonbinary!steve harrington #nonbinary steve #nb steve harrington #nb steve #nb!steve #nb!steve harrington

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folerdetdufoler · 6 years

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like my first trip to oslo, this one started with an impulse purchase of tickets: a performance of snøfall on november 30th. i didn’t have a flight or a place to stay or any kind of plan really, just the fact that i had to be at the theatre with haidee & nadège at 18:00 on friday. i knew they would be in oslo then because they were planning on going to the fan convention, so i guess there was that. i had also chatted with jenn and knew she was going too, and for a few days there were a flurry of messages and excitement. and then i stopped thinking about it.

which is how i, an adult, deal with things that stress me out. at some point i bought a plane ticket, and booked a hotel room, and bought a concert ticket for saturday, and talked to some more people about it, but i still managed to be wildly unprepared by the time wednesday rolled around. i managed to find my passport that morning and pull my suitcase down from the attic, but i was still in my pajamas trying to finish the last chapter of my fic by the time it hit 15, when i was supposed to leave for the airport. i threw a vague number of outfits into that suitcase and got out of the house before my ride (my brother) got too pissed off, but i was super stressed out and disappointed in myself before we hit the highway.

i had left so much behind: my fic on my computer, my gifts for haidee and nadege, the glucose tablets i bought specifically for the trip, half of my toiletries...and on top of that i was about to head into airport security with a new pump and cgm attached to me. i honestly was not sure if i was going to actually get on a plane that evening. i stood in line, sweating through my pajamas, dying to anxiety-tweet through the whole thing except i didn’t want anyone to know i was at the airport in case i didn’t make it out. on top of everything i’d managed to forget/give up on before leaving the house, i didn’t want to fail yet another thing.

i didn’t, obviously. it was stressful as hell, because i had to send my bag, phone, passport, everything through the x-ray scanner and wait for someone to escort me through for a physical exam. i stood in the middle of the room for what felt like hours (it was not hours) watching as people swirled around my entire identity at the end of a conveyor belt, out of reach, knowing that even if i saw someone lift my shit i couldn’t yell or run to intervene because i was surrounded by tsa agents just waiting to body slam the girl with a small black box attached to her to the ground. i felt like a threat even though i wasn’t. i had foolishly sent my only glucose tablets through the machine with my bag so if i happened to go low while waiting, turning into a sweating, shaking, suspicious mess, i wouldn’t be able to save myself or prove my medical needs because, lol, my medical ID was in my bag too. ugh. scratch that, i was a threat to myself.

i made it through. an agent finally helped me through and did my exam. my pump was deemed not an explosive device and no one stole my passport. i even had enough time to change my sensor in the bathroom before boarding. this, of course, should have been done at home in a sanitary environment and not immediately before ascending 30,000 feet above the earth but i think we’ve established how shit i am at planning so...moving on.

the flight was great. i had an empty seat next to me. we were delayed about an hour taking off, but that just gave me time to text with lizzie, who was also at the airport then but on a different flight to oslo. i had missed her in my tsa daze but it was a fun realization that right then there was a tiny migration happening to oslo, a bunch of fans starting their journeys all around the world and getting excited. my sensor warmed up and functioned like a dream the whole flight, and i finally felt like i could breathe again by the time we’d landed at gardermoen.

at the airport i bought most of the things i had forgotten (a bitch needs tweezers, okay?) and zipped over to the hotel. they were super busy so i couldn’t check in, but i dropped off my suitcase and went to meet up with jasmine and silvia. god it was so nice to see jasmine again, that amazing norwegian ambassador. it’s so wonderful, just in general, being able to hug a person who is part of your life every day. i wouldn’t say we talk directly, but a day doesn’t go by where i don’t read her tweets and like, have this awareness of her life in my own, so on the one hand it’s like oh my god i haven’t seen you since the beginning of the summer and on the other hand i was just talking to you so uh, has anything new happened in the last hour? anyway, we hugged, i screamed, the usual, and then we found silvia, and after that hugging mission was complete it was on to the lunch mission!

the first photo i took on norwegian soil was the bar was passed: angst. this was where the book release party was held just the week before and i took a photo to capture my missed opportunity. i forget where we actually ended up for lunch but we ate and jasmine handed off the elle magazine i’d asked her to pick up for me and we talked about the fandom and the show and just...life in norway in general. as i spend more time there and talk to more people who live there, i’m convincing myself that i would like to try finding a job and staying for a while. i understand that all of my experiences thus far have been terribly positive because they’ve basically been vacations, with no basis for a regular lifestyle, but it still feels like the day-to-day reality wouldn’t be so scary either. check back in 2025 to see if i’ve made any progress on that.

after lunch we walked around with no real purpose. i wanted to go to the new h&m that had just opened that morning to see what the fuss was about with the collection that henrik & lea had modeled for. the store was pretty big but there was zero fuss. we stayed on karl johans, visiting the bookstore and wandering through the christmas market. then silvia had to leave so we said goodbye. in the spirit of a 220-lb. woman who barely has any social skills, i managed to hug silvia and lift her off the ground without realizing, so Io chiedo sinceramente scusa. it was a weird note to end on but up until that point it was just so nice being able to hang out with someone you’ve never met but instantly get. girl, you’re fabulous. vi ses snart.

the only other thing i had on my agenda was to visit the publisher to pick up my script books. it was a mini-nightmare getting into their office, which i wouldn’t have been able to do without jasmine’s help, but we managed to figure out how doors work and got to chat with someone. it turns out my books were still at the bar, so they promised to send them over to the hotel once they could get them back. they also told us about the book signing at tanum the following weekend, which was nice. i was bummed that i had managed to miss both the release party and the book signing but at least we had the information and could share it with the fandom.

then it was back to the hotel, where i could properly check in. i was greeted with a bathrobe with my name embroidered on it, which made me laugh. jasmine and i didn’t have any further plans so we decided to go find dinner and walk around some more. we took the elevator down (duh) and walked to johnny rockets for some milkshakes, which was fun. despite it being an american restaurant, i’ve never been, so it felt like i was being a tourist in my hometown. when i couldn’t give our waiter a fun fact about new jersey for him to entertain us with, he just gave up and drew a snowman in ketchup. not for his lack of trying though, it’s just that i live in the armpit of the united states and i don’t think that’s easy to illustrate in condiments. after dinner we went to find akrobaten bridge, which was on my list of sights to see even though it was only in the show for exactly six seconds in a couple of transition shots. no moment from season three is too small in my mind.

after that i think it was still pretty early but a bitch was done. i didn’t sleep much on the flight or the night before, so i was running on empty and literally fell asleep in front of jasmine at the hotel. i sent her off on her train after a more appropriate hug and the general idea that i’ll see her again. it didn’t happen that weekend but that was okay, because earlier that month i impulse-bought another ticket, so i knew i’d be back next year.

it’s just never enough, is it?

#kerryinoslo #shit now that i'm writing it down i'm realizing how much i've already forgotten #and now i'm overwriting it to compensate #but to sum up thursday was just a lovely chill day with jasmine and silvia and it honestly felt like i was just coming home #i wasn't doing fandom stuff necessarily #i was just being in oslo #still being a dumb american #but i was comfortable #which is all anyone can ask for when traveling #and tbh it's what i deserved after the mess i made for myself at the airport #i prefer traveling alone because then i don't have to subject anyone else to my anxieties and dumb decisions #but i will admit it would have been helpful to have a companion at least like #holding my passport #well we hugged some folks and learned some lessons #great day one y'all

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perkoform · 7 years

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Opinion Piece:Copyright Issue:

FOREWORD

All my stories are called ‘you gave it away’. As in: you gave away the story line, do you get it? Haha, anyways, and they will be published in volumes with numbers indicating that they are in fact different to each uvahs, just with the same title, is all. So like, ‘you gave it away: vol. I’, ‘you gave it away vol. II’, etcetera. That’s the full pronounced etc., not the shortening. All my best sellers start with this title. All of them, oh yes. Hm hm. But don’t worry! I know what the public need in a good read, do you know what I mean, I mean, a good literary hook line sinker. Thrills. Spills. Also detailed explanations just for the prying eye to get every gory little cunt of a detail, strangle the last drop a juice outta there and make up rounds of hot steaming gossip served up on a stainless steel tray with little walls to keep one meal separate from the other. Oh yes, we keep that separation when we give it all away, like the ending and the climax, ha ha oh yeah…so, don’t. worry. I gave my editor a bow and arrow with a rope tied to the end one day to batten down best seller, cannot let giant escape. Must feed best seller many pigs and barrels of wine, for its gargantuan size proportion, sustenance and pleasure.

Bigger people have more blood in their bodies and the rotary pump fookin’ poomps weigh harderr too (heard in Scottish). It pumps over fields a kind of real-estate-agent n’ all them fields may grow. In this film clip I saw about man who had laid down on a beach and afterward cut out his heart. In this movie I saw where these people darnced around an bon fire then cut out mans’ heart and threw it in that fire and when sacrifice-man tried to call the cops they rock up and simply join in too. Morbid. In this song I heard about Hannibal Lecter, and this other one about ST. Martens College, he doesn’t know why but he started it somewhere, I think he gave it away. For a best seller. Damn capitalist. Hm hm. Anywho, do you like to party? Oh thank god the relief. A bit and above board, li’, well ajoosted an sooch (kind of English accentuation). Those nice guys who squat about tigers. When I take drugs they’re legal in my immediate consciousness, but the one less accessible consciousness of my mind must dabble only in prescription. Heh, do you get what I mean? Where do choice come from, is it same place as baby? Is it same place as glitter? Is it maybe same place as dog medication? Who knows. Msg me. 04 fuck sakes 789. 989 is the extension (of perfect friendship and harmonious incorporation). Do you get it?

The small man screamed, “I’ll leave you in HELL!!”

The big man whispers, and keeps you small.

You say, “ugh, effeminate!”

No I say it but with a different tone.

I am a…puppet. I am a…monster-mash. I am a…know what to say, gets a ‘very pleasing’ in reaction. I am a…1-2-3. I am a…quick be me! I am a…dabbler only in subconscious prescription. That’s right batter up, prescribe, next one in line, come one come all, one by one (eventually…).

Download as e-book, subscribe, fuck right off? You know, any…

This whole thing about human interaction is definitely “similar to predictive text”, I mean that’ll probably do hey. Like once I get to know you and everyfing…so like we’re just robots that kind of assume shit and are correct like 80? Percent of the time? Yeah? Yeah that’s so the Amedeo Path, pfft. I guess it depends how well you know some other guys’ reactions, your friends’ (reactions) I mean. Minimalism is go-wing two clean up this shit, and so is comedy made by Jewish (looking?) Americans, and also…I don’t know any writers…PLATO, yes, Plato will clean this up. This Nietzschery, like, stream of consciousness vomit nightmare like that is like, giving you a weird anxiety that seems to like, lie in the muds around here as well, though… unless you don’t feel that way, phew. Un-de-tectable hm hm…wink. It’s because of the heart cutting-outing cult mentioning thing. Awful.

I stop, I think, haha I do reeeeaaallly come on, I stop and think…REALLY! Heh reeeeeally…I found a piece of tyre on the side off the road from a big truck that…popped its tyre and so there were little bits of it left about the road…side. I got my foot stuck in a fence. I wasn’t fence sitting, my foot was stuck, had every intention of climbing right over, and everything. oh yes, right over to the ‘other side’ whoa…where grassy around around around, so much greener. Oh my god the worst thing in the fucking world happened to my housemate AGAAAAAIIIIN, OH NoooOOOO. That’s how I swear when I break an actual leg or like, lose millions in shares, not a spoonful of sugar…quen? Holy fuck the ridicule like stares back out at you from like where it is, staring, back at you…

You have less than 50MB left…I never read the rest of the sentence. I want to make up the rest of the sentence, it goes – on your credit account with Vodafone. Do you need money at the start of the week yet get paid at the end?

MAIN STORY

I went walking along the side of, then I found, and when I got there you’d never believe the size of the thing. So I was halfway across a bridge in town near a coffee shop on a hill with a view of a bridge and there was water underneath it. And so, I went strolling along the water there. I was over and under and over and under. All around my eyes followed on with the rivulets and the water flashed and trickled by the moonlight in the dark dark night near the house gate. Someone went on past me and ahead of myself, and they were walking quite quickly and I could not catch up unless by jogging rather briskly, and what long legs they had like they were ten feet tall, towering above me like a tree shadow, wobbly and faint. They turn a corner and no, not any longer.

Waiting a while. Bang bang. Rise flames.

Onward onward, when there was a hoot and a wing and a star. A fog rose and in I went, out from the cold into a place. (flaming tinkle). Bar at 9:30pm. Nineteen-eighties box television, heavy grey brown colour. (brown corn). Very fuzzy reception in the lobby for the waiting people to watch. Americans are good people. The folk in the village are good good.

I have no booking. Make one. Nearly home from about here. Still wondered why and got no response because the other guy thought it was okay and all the rest, if you know what he meant, to say to you when he saw you last time around. Never mind bother. Don’t. So up there on the stairs over through the carpeted hall where the key fits the right door and my head hit that ol’ pillow, nothing more said, it’s a done deal with a smile.

My father was always the early riser, heh heh, in the family. Awful stuff it was, sickly green muck, glop of some description, and it was definitely…oh my god is it dead? Ohh…it’s dead…outside is nice I thought today. Outside of this head mess! Get out banish bequeath, scatter, go! Around and around the chu-chu train for my pleasure was coming for me, I’m scared of. Not long now but that was just when and they were so delighted to find out and moon and sun and huff huff huff. Hello, they all said, utterly stoked. Laughter. In disbelief, took off his hat to his heart and so sincere a nicely man. Back I am at home in my cradle of memorial liveliness, with the souvenir I put on your shelf that had some space, atop of it. Oh you, there. Love. love.

The welcome mat, the doggy lil’ barking, Stolen. Bunt. Scone. Bread. Pancake. Jam drop ha ha ha oh yes mother fed me up. Big cuppa tea and my ol’ gurl who we love dearest always is where the heart is time to go fishing ,a spot of it. Off he went. Over the bridge, past one in every town (couldn’t get away quick enough little legs swollen swelt puffing, hanky, oh sir may I? Not). Everyone Isme. In Isme’s eyes. up and down and up and ohp, up there bit my pinky, it was fun for the whole family sunset.

Next day: long forgotten.

And the next day: to forget.

I still remember how to. Been a while, but I can remember, now. I spent so much of the time, doing it and all that time I have not forgotten yet, and tomorrow, to work, to make. And that is, this is the life. Hum de day, the life.

What about the time? That’s age old there, let ‘value’ have its way with you, making children humble and installed in all the hearts and minds you can get up to with a big stick and scream Pinata Pinata!

So I have this the work to do, the food in the ol’ bel’, but what about when did it last time on the news on the T.V. or at the homemakers centre? What year are we speaking with? Where is the day is it? Who? Flashing television drone I don’t know why this is happening. Pang so hard to fight it! Zap. Zap. Someone kill the button and get away from it! Snooze.

Getting to, it all came to a head one day when I found out by the familys’ friendly lawyer that the advertisement jingle was actually a 1920s show tune you’d bother with dead. I came up with that how did they fall on the same day? was I blanking a horrible panging memory back from, I demand a genius grant.(?) Prove it they said to the mystics, anyway.

The story is written that I exactly majicked the, very same tune in my own little head. So what would compel you to blimming, rip me off?! He said from his grave he enquires by channelling the lawyer in an office-style séance?! I never heard it before in me life. I swore. Who has the rights to this equipment, like the skills or the interest in investing, let’s take her for a spin. Jingling keys, ya know…and so I say, I don’t know sir why, I blimming ripped you off okay! A dabbler with no real musical talent or like that is something obscure. Like, so obscure, I couldn’t believe my very ears and sorry, which Dutch master wrote that? La la la buy – a – roasted – cock – from – joe’s cock – shop - la la la. Sounds just like it, a real chip off the ol’ jinglin’ block. Heh. But anyways I must’ve heard it, somewhere, definitely as a child. Would’ve got away with it. Plagiarism can not be sailin’ me away like hog in fat house. I whisper to you, “they tell me I’m crazy in about three seconds, three, two…”

“We’ll just get the right to the song and um, it’s like a reference.” Said the lawyer, “oh no, she’s dead, you killed her, they know…”

Ol’ Maud would have it, see, she’s families with the old Dutch Master ghost and she’ll put me out of work but in her Will. Score. I studied and have a music degree today, every day, really. Well when the gun went off I forgot. Heh. That’s what I remembered reading in the headlines and like the idea is that there’s a fetish and some thing about like, sound vibrations and humberts’ painful memories. All the rest, I shot her in her home on a Tuesday, in the sunshine while the house burnt down as I sputter some tear water and bite my lip and wring my hands like a good New Yorker Jew (not affiliated). Piñata Piñata! Ha ha this time, quietly…now I’m fit to marry. Said the Sir, who took me on my day trip from street to home van back down the rabbit hole. That’s where they put the trash can for faulty this and faulty that and it’s never really good fuckin’ enough fuckin’ is it?! Mutha fuckor.

But I can’t remember where I heard that, again when the scientists might want to know that. The first step is admitting that. Okay. Yeah, tell us how they found out you did killed ol’ glutton-for-royalties-Maud. I mean (I woke up like this) it’s flawless to the lie-detector anyways.

What I’m trying to say is ‘the fires of hell aren’t hot-hot-hot enough, to burn Maud’s skull till nothing’s left a ha’, to burn-that bullet hole, so, I was caught and arrested yah’, oh sing it with me. I suck at this, nice place the loony bin. Food water bedding, flash-television washing cars away, down live-stream.

It’s so pathetic story, it’s just about dodgey un-well-thought-out murder fraud, written all hweird (hwhiskey). It reminds me of guy who kill Peter Parker’s uncle’s life story or something. No one cares or goes that in depth into those character’s lives dude. Sub-psycho reptilian over fiend who’ll escape jail by opening an alternative plane of reality with crystal that play jingle on radio (while you escape, it’s a short walk) if you stick crystal in a lemon or however. And one day…he’ll resurrect Maud who has the knowledge of the sacred jingle songh, and is the key for the final throe. What about Dutch Master, has no problem with women after all. “Hey the reptilian totally mocked the human raaaaace…” ( I said that in slow motion, like, my voice sounded deeper heh)

Making me sound smart and funny and fresh, is how these medications work on yo system. They work and work like miners in a mine, mining. Through the brain cell around the memory of the jingles shape in my brain and the gun fire and the heart disease tablets are also very good indeed for my health. Well-being is most important, around, around, around, and rest. Nice and grassy, tall fence. The doctors wiping off sweat from brow, riled up, had altercation, but he’s okay now. Prescribed for me something…I can’t feel my face. Snooze.

I remembered today, I wrote it in pen on the poster with flower drawings and felt happy, do you?

Like staringat black.macks oueew forrgett

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ktliterary · 7 years

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Three Authors in Three Minutes! Adrian, Perkins, and Rogerson

We here at KT Literary are delighted to be celebrating three amazing book releases this week in the YA and MG age ranges, and to commemorate the occasion, we brought together all three authors for a round of Three Authors in Three Minutes! I’m thrilled to turn the blog over to Susan Adrian, author of NUTCRACKED (Random House Children’s Books), Stephanie Perkins, author of THERE’S SOMEONE INSIDE YOUR HOUSE (Dutton Children’s Books), and Margaret Rogerson, debut author of AN ENCHANTMENT OF RAVENS (Margaret K. McElderry Books).

What is your favorite character interaction in your book? Susan: I’m going to cheat blatantly (on the first question!) and list two. One is between the main character, Georgie, who’s 12, and a new friend-who-happens-to-be-a-boy, Noah, at a high school stadium while they’re killing time during football practice. It’s a friendship with just the underlying hint of a crush, and their conversation is so sweet and awkward, while they share an orange. It took me about 10 tries to get right. The other one is a heart-to-heart between Georgie and her mother, where Georgie is trying to get reassurance that everything will be okay without really telling her mom exactly what’s going on. Her mom nails it, I think. Stephanie: My new novel is a slasher, and I heartily enjoyed the scenes where the killer stalked the victims. And I’m not sorry for giving such a creepy answer. Margaret: My favorite interaction is without a doubt the scene with the teapot, which I can’t explain, because I don’t want to spoil anyone! But I think that scene really highlights the dynamic between Isobel and her love interest, Rook. What is the nicest thing someone has said about your writing? Susan: I don’t usually remember the nice things, but my current favorite is part of a review of NUTCRACKED: “It’s a wonderful, feel good story that pairs delightfully with a snuggly scarf and oversized sweater. It’s like this book was made to be read by the glow of colorful lights hanging from a Christmas tree.” I fist-pumped when I read that, because it’s exactly what I wanted to accomplish. Stephanie: A reader once told me that they could tell I put a lot of time and thought into every sentence. I do. That compliment meant so much to me. Margaret: A few readers have written to me saying that they loved An Enchantment of Ravens so much it made them cry, which means the world to me and always makes me cry as well.

What has been your funniest author moment? Susan: Mine are all me being awkward, but it’s probably my massive fangirl moment at BEA with Susan Cooper. I was the first one in her signing line, holding her name on a card–and when I got up to her I pretty much lost all words. I think I choked out something about being an author too, and how I memorized parts of her books when I was a kid. She was very gracious, thankfully. Stephanie: I could not possibly put it in writing, but ask again the next time you see me. It involves free socks and a radio interview that went horribly, horribly wrong. Margaret: When I was in Manhattan meeting my agent (hi Sara!) and editor for lunch, I left early but ended up being almost a full hour late due to the world’s worst Uber ride. It was absolutely mortifying, but funny in retrospect. At least, I try to tell myself that, because I’m the kind of person who still full-body cringes over every embarrassing memory I’ve accumulated since childhood. Speed round! Favorite Place to Write: Susan: At my desk, at 5:30 in the morning. Stephanie: At home. I can’t write anywhere else. Margaret: In bed!

Favorite Bookstore: Susan: So many! Maybe Tattered Cover, in Denver. They were so wonderful to me when I did an event there with my first book. Stephanie: My hometown indie, Malaprop’s in Asheville, NC. Margaret: Joseph-Beth in Cincinnati

Favorite Kiss Susan: “Is this a kissing book?” The Princess Bride Stephanie: I’ll go for real life with this question and say the first kiss with my husband. It was spectacular, and we had a crowd. Margaret: Definitely not my own first kiss, which I promptly described to my boyfriend as “sticky.” And to make it even more interesting, we asked each author to pose a question to one other!

Susan’s Question for Stephanie: Since THERE’S SOMEONE INSIDE YOUR HOUSE is horror, what’s your current favorite horror movie? Stephanie: I Saw the Devil, a South Korean serial killer revenge horror film from 2010, was the last one that felt like a masterpiece.

Stephanie’s Question for Margaret: If you could steal any idea from any modern YA fantasy novel and make it your own, what would it be? Margaret: THE ANCIENTS from the Kingdom on Fire series by Jessica Cluess.

Margaret’s Question for Susan: NUTCRACKED has me wondering, do you have any favorite holiday or seasonal traditions? Susan: Yes! Since I was in my first Nutcracker, I’ve been collecting them, and I put them all out together every year. This isn’t even all of them! I got a great Mouse King Nutcracker last year I think I’m going to bring on tour with me.

Thanks to Susan, Stephanie, and Margaret for joining us, and early congrats on their book releases tomorrow!!

Three Authors in Three Minutes! Adrian, Perkins, and Rogerson was originally published on kt literary

#AN ENCHANTMENT OF RAVENS #fantasy #magical realism #Margaret Rogerson #MG #Nutcracked #slasher #Stephanie Perkins #Susan Adrian #There's Someone Inside Your House #YA Fantasy #YA horror

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books-n-wine · 7 years

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~**~ Release Blitz for Chasing A Legend by Sarah Robinson w/ Excerpt & Giveaway ~**~

Today we have the release day blitz of Chasing a Legend by Sarah Robinson! Check out the release day festivities and grab your copy today!!

Title: Chasing a Legend

Author: Sarah Robinson

Genre: August 22nd

About Chasing a Legend:

The most soulful Kavanagh brother tackles the challenge of a lifetime—with a little help from the girl of his dreams. “Fans of Lori Foster’s SBC Fighters series will love the MMA atmosphere of [Sarah] Robinson’s Legends.”—Library Journal A topnotch manager and agent, Quinn Kavanagh pictures a life outside of his family’s renowned MMA gym. Beneath his sleek exterior, Quinn has a secret passion for sculpting. But after a nearly fatal motorcycle accident, he’s struggling just to walk again, let alone get back to the studio—and it doesn’t help that the doctor in charge of his physical therapy is his childhood crush. Quinn’s always ready for a fight, but the bittersweet sting of unrequited love has him begging for mercy. Dr. Kiera Finley is determined to make her medical residency a success. Six years ago, she gave in and shared a single passionate night with Quinn. Now she’s just hoping the cocky lover from her past doesn’t derail her plans for the future. Little by little, though, Kiera gets to know another side of Quinn. She knew he was a family man, devoted to his parents and brothers, but he’s also a free spirit trapped in a cage—and only she has the key. To heal both Quinn’s body and soul, Kiera’s tempted to give him a special kind of medicine.

Get Your Copy Today!

Read the Free Short Story Set Between Becoming a Legend and Chasing a Legend!

Catch up on the Series Today:

BREAKING A LEGEND:

Amazon | Audio | Other Retailers

SAVING A LEGEND:

Amazon | Audio | Other Retailers

BECOMING A LEGEND:

Amazon | Audio | Other Retailers

Advance Praise:

"Robinson concludes her Kavanagh Legends contemporary quartet (after Becoming a Legend) with a perfect blend of smoldering heat and gentle tenderness. After an accident, mixed martial arts fighter Quinn Kavanagh is placed under the care of physical therapist Keira Finley, his first and only love. She has no idea that she broke his heart when she left for college six years earlier. They’d been best friends since they were kids and never experienced life without each other’s unwavering support, but when Quinn didn’t ask her to stay, Keira needed to prove to herself that she could make it on her own. Quinn’s emotional scars run a lot deeper than the physical ones. He’s afraid to open himself up to Keira again, but with the encouragement of his boisterous, fun-loving family, he learns to give to himself as freely as he’s always given to others. This endearing story showcases Keira and Quinn’s easy banter, familiar warmth, and unquenchable heat. Quinn is the last Kavanagh brother to meet his mate, but subtle mentions of potential future love matches among their friends will leave readers eager for spin-offs." - Publisher's Weekly

Exclusive Excerpt:

“I’m leaving Legends now. My bags are packed, so be ready to go as soon as I get there,” Quinn said into the phone, his thick arm flexing as he twisted it to look at his watch. “UK, here we come!” his older brother Kane shouted through the line. Quinn could practically see him fist-pumping the air. “You’re the best manager ever, Q!” “Better believe it, Killer.” Quinn laughed before disconnecting the call and pushing his phone into a small interior pocket of the leather jacket that fit snugly over his chiseled back and broad shoulders. Straddling his prized possession, a classic Ducati he’d kept in pristine condition for years, Quinn pulled on his helmet and gloves. His shaggy black hair peeked out from under the edges of the helmet, framing his face. Though covered in leather, glimpses of his love of ink showed on his neck and hands. What could not be seen was how the tattoos continued onto his chest and back as well. He loved the images, and each one had a special meaning to him—a falcon across his chest in midflight to symbolize his yearning for freedom, a dragon wrapping his arm to mark the fire in his blood, the Kavanagh family crest and motto in Gaelic on his back to represent family pride, along with phrases and names of people and moments that had made him who he was. But the small metal bar through his eyebrow, or the piercings in his ear? Those were just for fun. The motorcycle roared to life beneath him, easily heard from blocks away, as he pulled out onto the main street and headed for his parents’ house to meet his brother. He might not live there any longer, but he’d grown up in that house, and it would always feel like home. The whole neighborhood was his home; he knew everyone there, and everyone knew the Kavanaghs—for better or worse. Quinn rode past the quaint houses in the Woodlawn area of the Bronx, going through a mental checklist of everything he needed to do before Kane competed next week. The International MMA Championship, held in London this year, was the biggest mixed martial arts competition in the world. Kane had won that championship the last two years, giving him the title of World’s Greatest MMA Fighter. Kane planned to win a third time next week and Quinn was eager to stand by his side when he did. It’d been three short years since his brother had been thrust into the public spotlight after winning his first U.S. National Championship in Vegas. Quinn beamed proudly at the memory. Even though he wasn’t the one in the cage, he still felt a part of his brother’s success, having managed his entire career from the beginning. Kane’s win was Quinn’s win. It was a win for all the Kavanaghs—something they each really needed after everything the family had been through. As he approached his parents’ street, he signaled with both his right hand and turn signal that he was switching lanes. A large truck whistled past, completely ignoring his signal. Quinn yanked the bike to the left, narrowly escaping a collision as his heart leapt into his throat. Asshole. Taking a deep breath to calm the adrenaline shooting through his body at the close call, Quinn carefully looked around, and once he’d confirmed that the right lane was clear, he again signaled his intentions. Sliding the bike into the right lane, he accelerated, eager to get to his childhood home. That was his last thought before it happened. His family. How happy he was. How much he loved his life. A silver sedan parallel-parked against the curb nosed out into the right lane, directly in front of Quinn’s bike. His eyes widened as the air left his lungs, and he attempted to swerve around the sudden obstacle. But there was no time. There was no space. The front wheel of his bike slammed into the front wheel well of the sedan, and Quinn was weightless. He barely had a moment to blink before he was twisting through the air—over the handlebars, over his bike, over the sedan. He heard the impact before he felt it. His body skidding over the unforgiving pavement as wind rushed past him—a crunching, tumbling screech. Car horns firing, people screaming—or was he screaming? The echoes inside his helmet both muted and deafened. But then he felt it, and it was fucking hell. The crack of bones, a searing pain shooting through him. Every nerve ending in his body set on fire at the force of impact, consuming him till he was certain he couldn’t stand another second of it. Sliding across the pavement, his skin burned against the grating asphalt, his leather gear no match for the unforgiving surface. And then it was quiet. So fucking quiet as he stared up at the sun and waited . . . for what, he didn’t know. He wasn’t connected to his body, but somehow trapped inside it. Quinn tried to call for help, tried to get up, but his lungs and limbs ignored his commands. Just as his eyes began to flutter closed, the pain overtaking him, pushing him beyond what he could ever handle . . . he saw her. Her strawberry-blond hair falling down past her soft pink cheeks, the sun creating a halo behind her. Her fingertips grazed his face, and she whispered to him so softly he barely made out what she said. Light blue eyes, nearly translucent in their brightness, told him to just hold on . . . don’t let go . . . don’t give up. And then she was gone. And so was he.

About the Author:

Aside from being a Top 10 Barnes & Noble and Amazon Bestseller, Sarah Robinson is a native of the Washington, DC area and has both her Bachelors and Masters Degrees in forensic and clinical psychology. She is newly married to a wonderful man who is just as much of an animal rescue enthusiasts as she is. Together, they own a zoo of rescues including everything from mammals to reptiles to marsupials, as well as volunteering and fostering for multiple animal shelters. Subscribe to her newsletter at www.subscribepage.com/sarahrobinsonnewsletter Visit the author's website for more information about Sarah and her books: http://booksbysarahrobinson.net/

Connect with Sarah:

Enter Sarah's Giveaway: a Rafflecopter giveaway

#Sarah Robinson #Release Blitz #Chasing a Legend #Romance #Contemporary #new adult #New Release #Must Click #Must Read #Second Chance romance

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lovehaswonangelnumbers · 6 years

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New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/mercury-retrograde-march-forecast-follow-the-heart/

Mercury Retrograde March Forecast ~ Follow The Heart

By Kathy Biehl

The last month of winter has a Janus vibe that has us looking both backward and ahead. And up and down and all around, come to think of it.

A nine-year process wraps up as the month begins. The personal revolution that’s been waging in you since April 2010? The hard-won sense of self that’s emerged out of the chaos and turmoil and foundation collapsing since then? All that has been ramping up in recent weeks as Uranus nears the end of his time in Aries.

It hits a breaking point on March 1, when Venus squares Uranus and puts desires and relationships through a graduation exercise. Situations simply cannot go on any longer as they have been. Tectonic plates lurched when Venus met with Pluto and then the South Node just after Valentine’s Day. Now the seismic activity completes. Continents reshape. Locks break; hearts open. Perhaps vice versa.

Almost on impact, everything hurtles into detachment as the goddess of love, money, and creativity immediately leaves Capricorn for Aquarius, land of the friend zone. The social mode responds with perspective and breathing room and scientific attempts to make sense of what just happened.

That philosophical vibe takes us into March 6, when the backward-forward action kicks in That day hosts an astrological triple-header: (1) the phase-launching Pisces New Moon, with illusionist Neptune hosting the cruise, which would be reality-bending by itself, but wait, we’ve also got (2) Mercury stationing retrograde in Pisces and (3) Uranus finally leaving the impulsive fires of Aries for the solid, steady ground of Taurus.

Neptune conjunct the Sun at the New Moon may deliver forgiveness of the self. With expansive Jupiter insisting “more, more, more,” visions of what’s possible for your life could fly off the charts. And, of course, we may all be walking around dazed, confused and unhinged from reality.

Mercury contributes the backward piece of the event. His retrograde takes him from 29 to 16 degrees Pisces and lasts until March 28. The starting point is critical. It’s the last degree of the zodiac, called the degree of ultimate sorrow, and the place where Chiron bided his time from the end of January till the middle of February.

This retrograde returns us to the issues, themes, and wounds that Chiron stirred. (Don’t everyone cheer at once!) It promises to immerse us in a non-logical understanding of what Chiron was up to. It also heightens sensitivity and telepathy, not to mention confusion and susceptibility to deceit.

Fly on instruments instead of what your eyes are telling you because fog is obscuring the true nature of what’s around you. The atmosphere is an elaboration on the warning on some car side mirrors: Objects may be closer than they appear. Only this time it’s more like: Objects may be further than they appear. Or not there at all. Or there but not reflected in the mirror.

Learn more in my Mercury retrograde guide here at OM Times.

And in the midst – or is it mists? – of this misdirection, radical change agent Uranus re-enters Taurus, which he first dipped into in mid-May 2018. Something is moving into a tangible, practical form that we’ve been processing and tweaking since November 6, when Uranus retrograded into his final sweep of Aries. A new mode of interacting with physical reality has arrived. Probably affected areas: money and finances, food production and consumption, expression of creativity, aesthetics, forms of relating and technology.

Look for a connection between the events of mid-May 2018 (particularly startling or unexpected) and situations changing and blossoming now.

From there we’re feeling our way forward, feet tapping the ground ahead of us and taking the occasional chance on faith. Mid-month brings the paradox of tightly refocusing our sense of self while simultaneously blowing out walls that have contained our personalities and possibilities. Practical action flows amid a meeting between the Sun and retrograde Mercury (on March 14), which could inspire letting ourselves off the hook, or bring home the personal meaning of Chiron at the end of the zodiac, or blur understanding of ourselves.

Mercury’s trickster ways hit critical mass when a square from Jupiter pumps him up on the Ides of March. Hard truths may get you through it. The messenger god’s sextile to Pluto puts ruthless candor (especially with yourself) on tap if you take advantage of it.

The Sun clears out of the water, moves into Aries and ushers in the equinox on March 20. The day sets the tone for the next three months. It offers opportunities to cut back on the fog and to stabilize and impose structure and practicality on thinking, information, and communications, with Mercury sextiling order-loving Saturn.

The day also challenges relationships, Thank a Full Moon at 0 Libra, with the Sun conjunct Chiron and Uranus in a tight adjustment aspect to the Moon. The relationship seesaw has the masculine wounded and acting out and allowances having to be made for the feminine, emotions and the role of women. The Moon’s ruler Venus has Jupiter whispering, “Go for it!” into her ear.

She’s not wasting time. The action comes the next day when she squares her counterpart, Mars. Push comes to shove; something’s gotta give. The pyrotechnics might be heavy on the verbal, screwball comedy style, but with Mars in earthy Taurus something more physical is likely.

The impact could bring bliss, or romance, or understanding, or magical thinking. Retrograde Mercury meets Neptune on March 23, and no one is likely to be rectifying bank statements. At least not with any accuracy.

The sweetness carries on till April 20, after Venus slips into Pisces on March 26. She’s exalted in this sign, which orients social interactions to the kind, compassionate, spiritual and artistic. She and Uranus offer a deal the next day – perhaps love does have the power to heal the fractures from the month’s start?

As she sails off into the sunset, the woozy atmosphere begins to lift. Mercury stations direct and begins his final pass over the waters Chiron stirred so. (He’ll clear them mid-April.) On the month’s last day, Mars leaves Taurus for freewheeling Gemini. Heaviness lifts. People are inclined to chatter, to gambol and frolic, even to multitask. Enjoy the freedom of movement.

~~~~~~~~~

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yellowspeed-gogo · 7 years

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Challenge - The Sorting Test - {01}

Personal Questions

1. What is your real, birth name? Any nicknames? When and where were you born?

Giovanna Tomago. Born in Daejeon, South Korea on February 23, 1994, but raised in Tokyo, Japan.

2. What is your Myers-Briggs Personality Type? (If you don’t know go here, this question is optional.)

INTJ - A “The Architect”

3. Do you have a nickname? What is it, and where did you get it?

There are two options. Gogo for close friends and Gio for everyone else, Giovanna is a mouthful no one should be tortured to say every time. I don’t really know if it counts as a nickname, but to cover myself incase of getting caught when out racing I go by Leiko Tanaka. So other fellow street racers know me by that name.

4. What do you look like? (Include height, weight, hair, eyes, skin, apparent age, and distinguishing features)

I’m short at just 5′4″, but I’m 128 pounds of compact muscle. My hair is black, but I’ve got a purple streak on the fringe. Eyes are a dark brown, often mistaken for black by others that don’t really pay attention to them. I think physically I look younger than I actually am, but if you interact with me you’d probably assume I’m older cause of my quiet nature. I’m a lot laid-back than I seem though, I just seem intimidating.

5. How do you dress most of the time? Do you wear any jewelry?

Uh, simple t-shirt with a leather jack thrown of top, some black jeans, shorts or leggings. Whatever I feel like wearing that day or find first, I don’t stress. I’m not the jewelry type, but I do have one of those fitness tracker watches. I like to know how many steps I’ve taken during the day, I always meet and surpass my daily goal.

6. What don’t you like about yourself? What kind of things embarrass you? Why?

My height. It’s an inconvenience because all standard cupboards are for people taller than me. Most of the time I have to jump onto the counter to reach things that others can easily grab. There isn’t much that embarrasses me apart from being wrong. It’s more of being on the spot though.

7. In your opinion, what is your best feature?

Physically or otherwise? Cause physically I’d say my hair, but like in a characteristic kind of way I’d say my drive.

8. Where do you live? Describe it: Is it messy, neat, avant-garde, sparse, etc.?

In a minimalist looking apartment, but somehow it’s still constantly messy. There’s books everywhere, clothes, my small inventions and of course my tools. Those are the only things I never put away.

9. What is your most prized mundane possession? Why do you value it so much?

A keychain. It’s my lucky item. I had it on me when I won my first race and since then it hasn’t failed me.

10. What one word best describes you?

I’d say adrenaline junkie, but that’s two words so I guess I’ll go with daredevil.

Familial Questions

1. What is/was your family structure like? (i.e. are you adopted, how many siblings, pets, etc.)

Well it’s my dad, my mom and me. We used to have a cat, but he passed away three years ago, so no current pets.

2. Who was your father, and what was he like? Who was your mother, and what was she like? What was your parents marriage like? Were they married? Did they remain married?

Dae-hyun and Aiko Tomago are my parents. My father’s a marketing manager for Mitsubishi and my mother’s a psychiatrist. They’re both alright even though they don’t like my habits. Maybe if I didn’t sneak out almost every night before they wouldn’t have hated it as much, but they wouldn’t have accepted if I had actually asked them so... Yeah they’re still married.

4. What are/were your siblings names? What are/were they like? (If you have siblings)

N/A

5. What’s the worst thing one of your siblings ever did to you? What’s the worst thing you’ve done to one of your siblings? (If you have siblings)

N/A

6. When’s the last time you saw any member of your family? Where are they now?

I visited them during spring break, but I’m going to visit them again after the Cancun trip, so this answer is only temporary.

7. Who is your closest friend(s)? Describe them and how you relate to them.

Probably Jella, so far she’s the only one who puts up with my crazy driving. But we get along really well because she’s just as energetic as me. If I had to pick someone to go with me on my races it’d be her.

Childhood Questions

1. What is your first memory?

Running around the house trying to get away from my mom.

2. What was your favorite toy?

Scooter.

3. What was your favorite game?

Red light, green light.

4. Who was your best friend when you were growing up?

...Can’t remember the guy’s name, but it was some boy from grade school.

5. What is your fondest, childhood memory?

Getting my first bike- no, it was finally taking the training wheels off.

6. What is your worst childhood memory?

When my bike broke, I crashed into a tree and the front wheel bent pretty bad.

Adolescent Questions

1. It is common for one’s view of authority to develop in their adolescent years. What is your view of authority, and what event most affected it?

Most often than not I tend to break the rules, so that should tell you enough about what I think about authority.

3. What “clique” did/do you best fit in with? (Royals, Dark Royals, Wallflowers, Bookworms, Punks, Hipsters, Rejects, etc.)

Punks or Rejects probably, if I’m being honest.

3. What were/are your high school goals? What were/are your uni goals?

Get into college, simple. Now I want to create one of the fastest bikes out there and finish university at the top of my class, while keeping my undefeated title in street racing.

4. What is/was your favorite memory from adolescence? What is/was your worst memory from adolescence?

Buying my Yamaha bike. Loosing an industrial designing contest. I lost because I made a simple mistake in my calculations.

5. Do you own a car? Describe it. If not, describe your dream car.

Not a car, but I do have a bike, or should I say motorcycle. It’s a black and yellow Yahama R6, with some upgrades I’ve done myself, so it’s the fastest bike ever invented.

Occupational Questions

1. Do you have a job? What is it? Do you like it? If no job, where does your money come from?

Yeah I do, it’s not a long term thing, just while I’m going to school so I have an income for books and everyday necessities. I work at a nearby repair shop. I already had the skills for taking the cars and bikes apart and then putting them back together, so it’s not bad.

2. What is your boss or employer like? (Or publisher, or agent, or whatever.)

He’s alright, laid-back guy who let’s us listen to music while we work.

3. What are your co-workers like? Do you get along with them? Any in particular? Which ones don’t you get along with?

There are just like three other guys apart from me and we get along well. We have an understanding that only I work on my cars, but if they run into some trouble with theirs I’ll lend a hand.

4. What is something you had to learn that you hated?

Changing the oil of a car, it can get real messy if you don’t do it right.

5. Do you tend to save or spend your money? Why?

Money is money, but the economy runs on it and I don’t want to be broke just cause I couldn’t save, so I don’t spend it unless I really need whatever I’m buying. Of course there are exceptions, but it’s not often so it’s fine.

Likes & Dislikes Questions

1. What hobbies do you have?

Racing, reading, jamming to some music, finding new ways to upgrade my bike to make it faster.

2. What bands/artists do you like? What song is “your song?” Why?

CNBLUE, F.T. Island and Girls’ Generation... yeah I’m into K-pop. Louder by Neon Jungle cause it gets me pumped when driving.

3. When it comes to politics, do you care? If so, which way do you tend to vote? If not, why don’t you care?

Not really, everyone has their own agenda. The only good president we’ve had in a long ass time was Obama and he’s gone now.

4. What time of day is your favorite? What kind of weather is your favorite?

Night, it’s when the city looked the most alive back in Tokyo, with all its lights. I like it when it’s sunny, but not hot. I can’t stand the heat, at least not excessive heat.

5. What is your favorite food? What is your least favorite food?

Fish cakes are the bomb! And mochi would have to be my least favorite food. Oh and don’t get me started on mochi ice cream.

6. What is your favorite drink? (Coffee, Coke, Juice, Beer, Wine, etc.)

Monster

7. What’s your favorite animal? Why?

Cheetah

8. Do you have any pets? Do you want any pets? What kind?

I used to have a cat, but he passed away a few years ago and I haven’t had one since.

9. What do you find most relaxing? (Not as in stress relief, but as something that actually calms you down.)

Messing around on the computer, writing codes and stuff. I once even hacked into some company’s website and though it was super cool I get more of a rush racing.

10. What’s a pet peeve of yours?

People assuming they know more than me.

Sex & Intimacy Questions

1. Would you consider yourself straight, gay, bi, pan, or something else? Why?

Well I’m definitely not straight if that’s what you want to know. [Pansexual]

2. Who was the first person you had sex with? When did it happen? What was it like? How well did it go? (If your character is sexually active, if not, skip this question)

That is honestly none of your concern, but I’ll tell you it was with some guy I met my freshman year of uni.

3. Do you currently have a lover/crush? What is their name, and what is your relationship like? What are they like? Why are you attracted to them?

Nah

4. Describe the perfect romantic partner for you and describe your perfect date with them.

Someone I can be myself around, who isn’t intimidated and can see past my ‘cold’ exterior.

5. Do you ever want to get married and have children? When do you see this happening?

Sure.. but not any time soon.

6. What is more important – sex or intimacy? Why?

I guess intimacy cause there’s no actual importance to sex.

7. What was your most recent relationship like? Who was it with? (Does not need to be sexual, merely romantic.)

It was just a couple of dates with a girl I met after a race. She wanted me to give her some pointers at first and we kind of just hit it off. We ended on friendly terms, so it’s all good.

8. What’s the worst thing you’ve done to someone you loved?

Disrespected them in some way.

Drug & Alcohol Questions (if your character’s a drinker/does drugs, iif not, skip to numbers 5 & 6)

1. How old were you when you first got drunk? What was the experience like?

Probably 18 or 19, I was already in college that’s for sure. It was whatever, the usual.

2. Did anything good come out of it? Did anything bad come out of it?

Sure, I met some point, but that’s about it.

3. Do you drink on any kind of regular basis?

Nah, just at parties or whenever I decide to go to a bar, but I don’t actually have alcohol at my apartment.

4. What kind of alcohol do you prefer?

Any kind of beer really. I occasionally like wine though. Sometimes I drink it while studying just to relax, it actually helps.

5. Have you ever tried any other kind of “mood altering” substance? Which one(s)? What did you think of each?

6. What do you think of drugs and alcohol? Are there any people should not do? Why or why not?

Would it really matter what I say? They already exist and will continue to do so regardless of my reply and people will keep doing what they do, so there’s no point.

Thoughtful Questions

1.What about you is heroic?

I put my friends’ safety before mine. Don’t mess with them because you’ll be dealing with me. And that isn’t an empty threat.

2. What about you is social? What do you like about people?

I’m always open for meeting new people. Commitment. If you’re someone who does what they say, when they say they’re going to do it, then you and me are going to get along just great.

3. If a magical being, describe the color of what magic you use, is it of a light color, bold and bright, pastel and sparkly, etc.

N/A

4. Are you a better leader or follower? Why do you think that? If you think the whole leader-follower archetype is a crock of shit, say so, and explain why?

Leader, I’m able to find ways to control a situation even when the odds are against me, which makes me a favorable candidate for leadership.

#wdpachallenge #about #hc #challenge

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thecosydragon · 5 years

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My latest blog post from the cosy dragon: Interview with Anne Montgomery

An Interview with Anne Montgomery, author of A Light in the Desert

Anne Butler Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. Her first TV job came at WRBL-TV in Columbus, Georgia, and led to positions at WROC-TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP-TV in Phoenix, Arizona, and ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award-winning SportsCenter. She finished her on-camera broadcasting career with a two-year stint as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery was a freelance and/or staff reporter for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archaeological pieces. Her novels include The Scent of Rain and A Light in the Desert. Nothing But Echoes will be released in 2020. Montgomery teaches communications at South Mountain High School in Phoenix, is a foster mom to three sons, and is an Arizona Interscholastic Association football referee and crew chief. When she can, she indulges in her passions: rock collecting, football officiating, scuba diving, and playing her guitar.

Is there one book that is your own personal favorite?

Asking an author to pick a favorite book is like asking a mother to choose her favorite child. While they might secretly prefer one, I don’t think they’d say so. That said, I don’t think I have a favorite, or even a favorite character, for that matter.

Everyone has a ‘first novel’, even if many of them are a rough draft relegated to the bottom and back of your desk drawer (or your external hard drive!). Have you been able to reshape yours, or have you abandoned it for good?

My first book is called The Integrity of the Game. It’s a thriller based on Major League Baseball and gambling. I spent a good chunk of my life as a sports reporter in both television and print and I umpired amateur baseball for about 25 years. I have taken the manuscript out of that bottom drawer occasionally over the years. I don’t know if I’ll ever try to publish it again. When I look at the copy, I realize I am a much better writer now. So, perhaps that’s the purpose of those first, and maybe second and third books. We get better as we go.

Over the years, what would you say has improved significantly in your writing?

I never had any training in creative writing. I learned to write by being a reporter. The editors I’ve worked with since I started publishing my books have been excellent teachers who helped me with dialogue and pacing. I couldn’t be more grateful.

Some authors are able to pump out a novel a year and still be filled with inspiration. Is this the case for you, or do you like to let an idea percolate for a couple of years in order to get a beautiful novel?

I’m pretty adept at getting novels done once I pick a topic that inspires me. The idea might roll around in my head for a while, but I can do the research and get a first draft done in about four or five months. The caveat here is that I have a day job. I’m a high school teacher, at least for one more year, so I do little novel writing during the school year. Books tend to occupy my summer vacation mostly.

I have heard of writers that could only write in one place – then that cafe closed down and they could no longer write! Where do you find yourself writing most often, and on what medium (pen/paper or digital)?

I have an office in my Phoenix home. As I am easily distracted, I need quiet and order. Also, I have horrible handwriting, so I am all in in regard to writing on a computer.

Before going on to hire an editor, most authors use beta-readers. How do you recruit your beta-readers, and choose an editor? Are you lucky enough to have loving family members who can read and comment on your novel?

The problem with beta readers is that they are often people who love us and who are uncomfortable critiquing our work. By nature, they think whatever we write is great. However, I am fortunate that I have a few friends who understand they won’t hurt my feelings with their comments and suggestions. I cherish them. I am also lucky that I have an agent who pulls no punches. She goes through my manuscripts and I rarely refuse her suggestions. Once she and I are in agreement, she sends it to publishers and I am assigned an editor who dives in with me. Before we go to print, I hand the manuscript to anyone who offers to take a look, in order to catch errors. I figure the more the merrier. Authors need new eyeballs on their writing. And we need to have thick skins.

I walk past bookshops and am drawn in by the smell of the books – ebooks simply don’t have the same attraction for me. Does this happen to you, and do you have a favorite bookshop? Or perhaps you are an e-reader fan… where do you source most of your material from?

I swore I would not read e-books and then I got a Kindle as a gift. The idea that when I finish reading a book I can just push a button and another one magically appears is hard to resist. Also, e-books make it easier to get my work out into the marketplace. I am happy when people read my book in whatever delivery system they prefer.

I used to find myself buying books in only one genre (fantasy) before I started writing this blog. What is your favorite genre, and have your tastes changed over time?

I didn’t read much as a young person. I am a low-level dyslexic and struggled with reading. When I did sort things out, I started reading historical fiction, much of it based on the World War II era. I then expanded to other times and locales. I read a wide range of historical fiction today. I also like thrillers and mysteries.

Social media is a big thing, much to my disgust! I never have enough time myself to do what I feel is a good job. What do you do?

Social Media! I could say it is the bane of every author’s existence, mostly because it takes up so much time. But there are no other options. This is how we sell books, until some new system appears. I am required, per my contract with my publisher, to have a website and blog. While it was difficult getting started, it is so much a part of my life now, that it has become easier. I did have to decide which platforms I could handle, and I suggest that authors who are new to Social Media start slowly. You don’t have to jump on every platform at once. Also, blogging needs to be done regularly, which means coming up with interesting articles that will pull people to your site. As a former reporter, I do pretty well with this part, but it does take planning ahead. It’s kind of like the care and feeding of a pet.

Tell us some quirky facts about yourself.

I have a lot of interests. One is that I’m a rock and mineral collector, a hobby I’ve had my whole life. There are pictures of me toddling around in diapers putting rocks in cups. I have about 400 specimens in my living room. Also, I’ve been an amateur sports official since 1978. I’ve called football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games over the years. Today, I remain a high school football referee and crew chief with the Arizona Interscholastic Association. I love scuba diving, especially with sharks, which are beautiful creatures in the wild, and I have recently rekindled my love of musical theater. I also play the guitar.

What are the stories behind your books?

I write realistic fiction, which means the stories relate to real-life situations. As a former journalist and news junkie, I take stories about issues and events that happen around us. My books cover a wide range of topics. I’ve written about mental illness, child abuse, polygamy, archeological looting and black-market sales of antiquities, a serial rapist, cults, and the deadly, cold-case sabotage of passenger train.

from http://bit.ly/2WRwL8M

#book bookreviews authorinterviews lovereading bookworm

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jenniferfaye34 · 6 years

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#Giveaway + Excerpt ~ The Soccer Player and the Single Mom by Kyra Jacobs... #romance #books

Meet the Author:

Kyra Jacobs is an extroverted introvert who has always called Indiana home. That means she’s well versed in fickle weather, pork tenderloin patties that don’t fit on a bun, and sarcasm. Putting her Indiana University degrees in Public Management to good use by day means Kyra does the bulk of her writing late into the night. Fueled by caffeine and funny memes, she weaves tales of love and relationships, including the humor and/or chaos both can bring. Kyra’s published novels range from sweet contemporary romance to chick lit and paranormal/fantasy. When this Hoosier native isn’t at a keyboard, daydreaming through her fingertips, she’s likely outside, elbow-deep in snapdragons or on a sideline somewhere cheering (loudly) for her sporty sons. Kyra also loves to go bowling, tries to golf, and is an avid college football fan.

Connect: Site | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

About the Book:

For most women, working for a sexy soccer star would be a dream come true. All except single mom Felicity Shaw. She has no interest in playing personal assistant for a stubborn, injured playboy—no matter how nice his abs are. But with bills piling up and mouths to feed, she can’t say no to the job.

That’s when it gets interesting.

The last thing Scott Gillie wants or needs is a persistent and entirely too distracting PA while he’s recuperating in his small hometown. Unfortunately, it’s not up to him. Then Felicity and her son end up temporarily moving in—all thanks to his meddlesome grandmother. Now temptation is right across the hall and it’s driving Scott crazy.

His only option is to fight fire with fire.

He never expects Felicity to do the same.

Purchase: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | AppleBooks | Kobo

Add to Goodreads

EXCERPT: Standing here toe-to-toe with Felicity, he found his resolve wavering. Not that it would matter. Another verbal joust or two, he sensed, and she’d be on her way. As much as he hated the idea of upsetting her, her staying bothered him far more. Across the room, a perky mambo-style song began to play. Felicity’s features quickly shifted from irate to worried. She spun from him to retrieve a phone from her purse. “Hey, Laur, what’s up? Wait, slow down. My duplex is what?” Felicity turned and hurried toward the foyer, her voice a quiet rush. As she did, Edna rose from her chair and came over to smack him upside the head. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she said in a hiss. “What? You always said honesty should come above all else.” That earned him a second wallop. “You can be honest and still use tact, you nincompoop. I expect you to apologize when she comes back.” “But—” “No buts. If she’s been hired to be your personal assistant, then you let her. Heaven knows the poor girl and her son need all the help they can get right now.” Scott hung his head. Saying it like that, Edna made him sound like some evil villain out to swindle a fair maiden. Not used to playing the bad guy, he tried to come up with a new plan. Maybe they could work together to trick J.B. into thinking she was doing the PA thing. Because, aside from giving him a ride to his weekly doctor visits, there really wasn’t any other reason for her to be around. All he had to do was convince her to fib to his agent, and they’d both be better off. For the first time since this crazy arrangement had been sprung on him, Scott actually looked forward to his next conversation with her. “Besides, that one’s a keeper.” Oh no. He needed to put a stop to that kind of thinking, ASAP. Scott threw his grandmother a warning look. “She’s not a date, Grandma. She’s my assistant.” “Mm-hmm.” Her cotton-ball brows waggled. “Wanna put a wager on it?” “Do we need to have another talk about your gambling problem?” “Bah, Ohio’s taken the fun out of you.” Felicity rushed back into the room, worry etched across her beautiful face. Wait, beautiful? “As much fun as it was arguing with you, Scott, I’m afraid I need to go. My penny-pinching landlord finally cut one too many corners, and the apartment connected to mine caught fire earlier. Our half is in the process of being condemned.” Scott could hardly believe his ears. She was leaving? And not because of him? He felt badly for her, truly he did. But silently? He did a mental fist pump. “Condemned?” Edna cursed, and not under her breath. “I always knew that Harvey Gregory was a no-good miser. But honey, where will you go?” “To my cousin’s, to see if she knows anyone who can spare us a room for the next few days. Or maybe she’ll just shoehorn us into her basement. I don’t know.” Guilt ate at Scott as Felicity’s voice wavered. As much as he wanted her gone, his heart went out to the woman and her smiley, shaggy-haired son. How much of their world had just been destroyed by the fire? “Is there anything we can do to help?” “No.” Felicity raised her chin, trying for bravado, but the sound was more of a hurt whisper. “My home, my routine. I’ll figure something out. I always do.” “Nonsense,” said Edna. She wouldn’t. His grandmother’s gaze cut to his. She couldn’t. “You can stay here with us.” She did.

Giveaway:

$15 Amazon Gift Card

a Rafflecopter giveaway

#The Soccer Player and the Single Mom #Kyra Jacobs #Contemporary Romance #Authors Pal #Hearts & Scribbles

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mysteryshelf · 7 years

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BLOG TOUR - Last Puffs

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Pump Up Your Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

LAST PUFFS by Harley Mazuk, Mystery/Crime, 293 pp., $14.95 (Paperback) $4.99 (Kindle edition)

Title: LAST PUFFS Author: Harley Mazuk Publisher: New Pulp Press Pages: 293 Genre: Mystery/Crime/Private Eye

Frank Swiver and his college pal, Max Rabinowitz, both fall in love with Amanda Zingaro, courageous Republican guerilla, in the Spanish civil war. But the local fascists murder her and her father.Eleven years later in San Francisco in 1949, Frank, traumatized by the violence in Spain, has become a pacifist and makes a marginal living as a private eye. Max who lost an eye in Spain but owes his life to Frank, has pledged Frank eternal loyalty. He’s a loyal communist party member and successful criminal attorney.

Frank takes on a case for Joan Spring, half-Chinese wife of a wealthy banker. Joan seduces Frank to ensure his loyalty. But Frank busts up a prostitution/white slavery ring at the Lotus House a brothel in Chinatown, where Joan was keeping refugees from Nanking prisoners.

Then Max sees a woman working in a Fresno cigar factory, who is a dead ringer for Amanda, and brings in Frank, who learns it is Amanda. She has tracked the fascists who killed her father and left her for dead from her village in Spain to California. Amanda wants Frank to help her take revenge. And by the way, she says the ten-year-old boy with her is Frank’s son.

Joan Spring turns out to be a Red Chinese secret agent, and she’s drawn a line through Max’s name with a pencil. Can Frank save Max again? Can he help Amanda avenge her father when he’s sworn off violence? Can he protect her from her target’s daughter, the sadistic Veronica Rios-Ortega? Join Frank Swiver in the swift-moving story, Last Puffs.

Praise:

.5 out of 5 stars Wonderful Read – Easy and Fun February 10, 2018 Format: Kindle Edition| Verified Purchase Frank Swiver is a detective. Murder investigations are his specialty. He likes wine, loose women and fast cars. Not necessarily in that order. Swiver inhabits an earlier world that is archaic and, without doubt, politically incorrect by today’s standards. Harley Mazuk recreates in Swiver a character from another era whose story is fun and entertaining. Mazuk has an impressive knowledge of wines and cars which permeate his narrative. As to his knowledge of women, I am not competent to judge. I do know that the geography and time period portrayed is well researched. There are many twists and turns to the plot as well as an injection of espionage that keeps the reader guessing. Fans of old fashion detective novels will enjoy this book. I know, I did. — Amazon Reviewer

Order Your Copy!

Aragón, Spain, March 1938

There’d been a dusting of fresh snow in the high ground during the night, and the captain wanted our squad, which was nine men, to relieve an outpost on the crest of a hill, just up above the tree line. Max Rabinowitz took point, and I followed, climbing steadily. It was a cold, quiet morning, and we talked between ourselves about the ’38 baseball season, and whether we’d be back in the States to see any games.

“I would like to see Hank Greenberg and the Tigers play DiMaggio and the Yanks,” said Max. Max was dark-haired and rangy, and I always thought he looked a bit like Cary Grant, though now after a year in the field, there was nothing suave nor dapper in his appearance.

“How about Ted Williams?” I said. “We’ve already seen DiMaggio play in San Francisco with the Seals.”

“We saw Williams play with the Padres. Besides, he isn’t in the big leagues yet,” said Max.

“Yeah, but the Red Sox signed him.” I walked along just off Max’s shoulder. I was about the same height as Max, six feet, six-one, a little thinner, and looked at least as scruffy that morning. I wore a burgundy scarf around my head and ears, under a dirty and battered grey fedora. I scanned the virgin snow ahead of us with heavy-lidded eyes. The wind was faint, just enough to pick up a feathery wisp of snow in spots and spin it around.

“He’s only about 19. I think they’ll keep him down on the farm for ’38.”

“I would like to see Bob Feller pitch to your boy Greenberg,” I told Max.

Smitty came up between us. “Feller throws 100 miles an hour, and he strikes out more than one per inning.”

“They say,” said Max, “he walks almost one an inning,”

“Keeps ‘em loose up there,” said Smitty, who was from Cleveland. “Hundred mile an hour heat and nobody knows where it’s going.”

As the three of us stepped out of the cover of the tree line, Smitty kind of hopped up on one leg and threw his arms out. I wondered what sort of a weird little dance that was; then I heard the automatic weapons fire coming down at us off the hill. It was a mechanical chatter, rather than gunpowder explosions, and the wind had blown the sound around the hills so that the bullets cut Smitty down before it had reached us. Branches near us started to snap off and tumble earthwards. Max hit the snow on his belly and rolled downhill to his right to get to cover behind a rock. I motioned for the others to get back into the trees, and dove into a low spot in the ground.

When we could look up, we saw that the fascists had overrun the outpost we’d been climbing up to the ridge to relieve, and the firing was coming from there. We returned fire. I heard cries in Spanish from behind me, a curse in a low voice, then a high-pitched prayer.

A potato-masher grenade came flipping end-over-end down the hill toward me. It seemed like slow motion. It hit a rock and bounced up. I could say a Hail Mary in about four seconds flat in those days, and I said one then. The grenade sailed over my head; I heard it explode, and felt a shower of dirt on my back. In front of me, Max was popping up and firing one round with his Springfield, then dropping behind the rock. I popped up and fired when he dropped down. I thought we were doing pretty well taking turns, but grenades kept arcing over our heads and bullets pinged into Max’s rock and raked the dirt beside me. Max tried lobbing one of his grenades towards the machine gun, but his throw was uphill, and he didn’t have an arm like DiMaggio.

After a few minutes of this, I tried to aim and squeeze the trigger instead of popping off quick shots. Then I didn’t hear anyone behind us firing anymore. I looked around and saw Rocco and Pete sprawled in the grass. I called to a couple of the others.

“Comrades…anyone…sound off.” Nada.

“Frank, this is bad,” Max yelled to me.

“I’d rather be facing Feller’s fastballs,” I told him. “Maybe it’s time for us to dust.” Then we heard an airplane motor. It grew louder, and the first plane, a Heinkel, zoomed over the ridge seconds later. Max had risen to his feet and was scrambling down the slope. He looked back over his shoulder at the plane just as a cannon shot from the aircraft hit the rock he’d been behind. The explosion flipped Max in mid-air and tossed him towards me. The ground under him ripped up and clods of dirt flew towards us.

The scene faded to black, but for how long, I don’t know. When I opened my eyes, I was facing the sky but I smelled the forest floor, earth and leaves. Truffles, perhaps? Max was on top of me, limp, and it was quiet. No planes, no shooting. “Max,” I said, “we gotta get up. Get off me.” I felt my voice in my head, but couldn’t hear it in my ears. Max didn’t get up. I rolled him over next to me, and saw that his hat was gone. The top of his head and the right side of his face were a collage of blood and dirt. I shook him, and he gasped for breath, earth falling out of his nostrils. He was still alive.

“Frank, Frank. I can’t see. I can’t see.” It didn’t sound like Max, but there was no one else there.

“Easy, Max.” I tried to rinse some of the dirt, debris and blood off Max’s head with my canteen, then I ripped open a compress from my pack and put it over his forehead and eyes. I wrapped more dressing around his head to keep the bandage in place “Hold this on your face, man. Don’t try to open your eyes.” I was afraid his right eyeball was going to fall out. “Hold it tight.” Using the slope, I maneuvered him across my shoulder, head down in front of me, and struggled to my feet. I took off at a trot along the tree line.

Our lines were behind us to the east but it looked like the whole damned fascist army was charging down from the outpost, headed that way, so I ran south. It was downhill and my momentum carried us. The going was easy, but I felt panic building in my gut so I tried to slow down. I slid on the snow, fell on my butt, and slammed into a tree and dropped Max.

“Frank, where are you? Am I dyin’?”

“I got you, Max. You caught some shrapnel in the head from that plane. Say an act of contrition or something.”

“I’m a Jew, you idiot.”

“Say it anyway.” I lifted the gauze off his forehead and looked under it. His wound didn’t appear to be deep, but the right eye was very bad, all blood and pulp, and the bone around it may have been shattered. “Press on this, Max.” I pressed the bandage back against his face and put his hand on it.

I hoisted him over my shoulder again, and stepped off, forcing myself to keep my pace steady and not too fast. We went on till the sun was high in the sky. I didn’t fall again, but my ankles were burning, and my toes were pinched in my boots from going downhill. I stopped twice, and opened our bota. I washed my mouth out with the wine, a rustic red from Calatayud, then I cradled Max’s head and opened his mouth. I squirted the wine in, squeezing the leather skin, the way I’d squeezed the trigger of my rifle. Max coughed. He seemed only half-conscious.

I carried Max down the hill and to the south, parallel to our lines, until we were deep in some woods. I was scared and it wasn’t easy, but I would have done anything for Max. We had been roommates and run around together at Berkeley. We fell out of touch when he went to law school, and I started drinking, trying to forget Cicilia. When Max re-connected with me in ’36, he tried to help me sober up and get back on my feet. I’d come around for a while, but always, I’d slip back into the abyss.

Max was a red, even back in our student days. I hadn’t been serious about my politics then. One evening to keep me from drowning my demons, Max took me to a meeting about the Spanish Civil War and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Before the night was over, we’d signed up to fight in Spain. Max didn’t have to. I think he did it to save me. Now I was going to save him.

When the sun dropped behind the hills, the woods quickly grew dark. There was a smell of pines, and the footing was better—no snow or ice on the ground, which was hard and covered with dry pine needles. Under the background din of war, the roar of artillery and airplanes, I heard water down to my left. I turned towards it and a few minutes later, came to a stream, probably flowing south to the Ebro. It wasn’t night yet, but it was so dark under the tall trees, I would have walked into the stream without seeing it if not for the sound of the water rushing over the rocks. I put Max down on his back, head and shoulders downhill toward the stream. The blood had dried; the gauze was stuck to his head. I scooped up water with my hat and poured it on his face. The icy cold shocked him into consciousness—and panic and pain.

“Morphine, Frank,” he moaned. “Gimme the morphine.” But I had used our morphine one night weeks ago on guard duty on a cold hillside. We did have a flask of Cardenal Mendoza Spanish Brandy, and I gave him some, then I drank. I rinsed his wound good and put a new bandage on it using Max’s kit this time. My legs felt weak and started to shake with cold or exhaustion. I don’t know if I could have stood up then if the Generalissimo had come down the hill waving his pistoles. We were down low, and there were some bare shrubs and young trees sheltering us on the uphill slope. I fought my exhaustion and tried to keep watch as long as I could. I had another swallow of brandy and pulled close to Max. My eyes closed, and I fell asleep.

Interview with the Author

What initially got you interested in writing?

One of the earliest tugs in the direction of writing that I can remember was from Mad Magazine. I liked their parodies and thought perhaps I could write good humor. I put together my own Mad-like newsletters for my grade school friends. Some years later, as an adult, I saw Walter Mosley at a book signing. There was a line out the door and around the front of the store, and a most of the folks in that line were young women. Mosley didn’t look like he was working too hard, and there were all these cute young gals lining up to see him. If that’s what writing was, that appealed to me.

What genres do you write in?

I have written primarily detective fiction—private eye sub-genre. Both my novels have been noir. Last Puffs is pulp fiction Sometimes I’m hard-boiled but mostly, I’m medium-boiled.

What drew you to writing these specific genres?

Reading. I loved Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain. I wanted to write stories that they might feel were familiar in some way.

How did you break into the field?

I had been working for some time on my first novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, and I needed a change, something fresh. Around that same time, I was going on a beach vacation with my family, and I thought I’d try to do a short story about Frank Swiver, the same p.i. who stars in my novel. It was my first serious short story attempt, “The Tall Blonde with the Hot Boiler,” and I sold it to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, where it appeared in the “Black Mask” section (just where I wanted to see it). I was thrilled, and it was very encouraging for a new writer. I’m sure the experience helped me finish the novels and see them through publishing.

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?

Well, I intend them to be entertaining, fun reads, so I hope readers derive some pleasure from my stories. I introduce as themes a number of ideas that I think are relevant to life today and look at them through the lens of 1948-’49. Violence, non-violence; violence against women; fascism, socialism; the voice of the working class, America as a nation of immigrants.

What do you find most rewarding about writing?

Hearing from people who like my stories. Especially if they go on to specify some detail they particularly enjoyed, or some detail I got right for them. I do put things in my books and stories that I think might be meaningful only to me, and sometimes I learn that some of them resonate with others, too.

What do you find most challenging about writing?

Finding a good market for your work. Ellery Queen declined one of my stories last week, and that can be tough to cope with sometimes. I’m a big boy and I can take rejection, but it’s challenging as to, what do I do next? There are not too many outlets for private eye stories. Do I send it somewhere else? Do I change it? Or do I put it aside and start something new?

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field?

Write what you like, as opposed to trying to write what you think the market wants. As I just said above, finding a home for your work can be the most challenging thing about writing, but it’s good to believe in what you wrote.

What type of books do you enjoy reading?

I like early-to-mid-20th-century fiction. Not just Hammett, Chandler, and Cain, but also people like Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Ian Fleming, Flannery O’Connor, Graham Greene, Somerset Maugham, John O’Hara, Eric Ambler. Among contemporary authors, I enjoy Michael Connelly. I just read Walter Mosley’s Rose Gold, and I thought it was his best since Devil in a Blue Dress, so he’s still got it.

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you?

Oh, sure—I could swap travel stories with some people, wine stories with others. I think what happens when you’re a writer is that many of the most interesting things about you find their way into your work—thinly disguised.

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

Leave a review if you read something of mine that you like. Comment on a blog post and I’ll get back to you. Or send me an e-mail if you have a question. [email protected]. I love to discuss my work. And you can always find out about me at my website, http://www.harleymazuk.com/.

Harley Mazuk was born in Cleveland, the last year that the Indians won the World Series. He majored in English literature at Hiram College in Ohio, and Elphinstone College, Bombay, India. Harley worked as a record salesman (vinyl) and later served the U.S. Government in Information Technology and in communications, where he honed his writing style as an editor and content provider for official web sites.Retired now, he likes to write pulp fiction, mostly private eye stories, several of which have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. His first full length novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, was released in 2017, and his newest, Last Puffs, just came out in January 2018.

Harley’s other passions are his wife Anastasia, their two children, reading, running, Italian cars, California wine and peace.

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BLOG TOUR – Last Puffs was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

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mredwinsmith · 7 years

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That Primal Feeling

I played Ultimate for eighteen years, from 1979 when I was a Harvard freshman, through many years in Boston, until the fall of 1996 when I went to Nationals with my Colorado team. The whole time I was also trying to write but I didn’t publish my first book until I quit playing. When that book came out in 1997, I moved from Colorado back to Cape Cod. The book was with a university press, nothing flashy, but it did land me representation with an agent who worked for a big agency called ICM. My ICM agent asked to see all the various projects I was working on so she could strategize about what book to do next. She was looking for a big book, a “break out” book. The projects I sent her included a new novel and a memoir and a book about birds. But she wasn’t interested in those books, but another, a simple proposal that I’d dashed off before mailing her the package.

“I think we should go with the one about Ultimate Frisbee,” she said.

The book proposal suggested that I would return, in George Plimpton fashion, and play with Boston, then both National and World Champs, for a season. Even though I’d played for almost two decades while simultaneously struggling to become a writer, two efforts that proved metaphoric mirrors, I had never really considered writing about Ultimate before. But now that my agent was excited so was I. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone and both win Nationals and write a big book. The year was 1998 and though I had been out of the sport for a couple of seasons I was a still relatively-young thirty-seven.

The Boston team was receptive, and I travelled with them down to a spring tournament in New Jersey. I went to the tourney as more of a writer than a player, and between games I interviewed as many of the players as I could. And while I was there to take notes and do research, I played okay for someone who had been out of the game for a while. But it wasn’t playing Ultimate that I was really excited about. I couldn’t wait to get back home and start writing.

The night after we won the Jersey tournament, I returned to Cape Cod and went to bed early, excited about getting up the next morning to type up the Ultimate notes I’d been accumulating. But I didn’t make it until morning. At midnight I sat up in bed, wide awake, and since I couldn’t sleep I decided to head to my study and get to work. I started typing and didn’t stop for the next week. I caught snatches of sleep but other than that just wrote and wrote and wrote, an experience unique in my writing life. Up until then the subjects of my writing had been nature, my father’s death, Thoreau, profound stuff. Now I was writing about Ultimate! It was perfect really: I might finally make people understand that Ultimate was not a joke but a real thing, a great thing.

* * *

During my years playing I was driven by a complicated mix of motives that included ambition, whimsy, love, and vanity. But it wouldn’t be until I hung up my cleats that I would start to recognize what I missed most about the game. What I missed most was not just camaraderie but camaraderie with a purpose. I missed all the moments, few and far between, when I lost myself completely in the game, when pestering thought disappeared and was replaced by a joyful thoughtfulness and a sense of being a strong animal.

Over the years I became interested in players who seemed in the throes of what I called “going animal.” More than once I saw a wild glimmer in the eyes of my teammate, Scott “Turbo” Conrad, for instance, and there were times when he could appear practically feral. But Turbo was naturally pretty wild and the story that most intrigued me was one involving a more unlikely Wildman.

It happened in 1997 while Boston’s team DoG (Death or Glory) was playing a North Carolina team, Ring of Fire, in the Semifinals of the National Championships. Boston was a team with immensely talented players, and when they were flowing, their offense was a ballet of nonstop running and jumping, the disc zinging from hand to hand. But now DoG was in disarray, down 6 to 1 in a game to 18, and after winning three championships in a row it looked like their dynasty was over. Their play looking more like comic opera than ballet: players overthrew open receivers, tripped and fell, let out anguished cries after dropping easy passes.

Ring of Fire couldn’t believe their good luck. Ring had always been a solid team, a top ten team, but no one had really given them much of a chance to beat Boston. Now they were playing out of their heads, diving and skying to snatch discs out of the air as the adrenaline pumped through their blood. As with any underdog that suddenly finds themselves way ahead, a part of them wondered when the magic would end, but for now they rode the wave.

Finally, Boston began to show a little life, and it was Jim Parinella who started to lead them back. Of average height with a slightly exotic blur to his eyes and dark curly hair, Parinella was a tireless runner and one of the game’s best players. He was also a self-admitted engineering geek, who could look at his own game as disinterestedly as a computer program that needed debugging. In fact, he worked for Raytheon, where he studied enterprise systems with an eye toward creating efficiency. Earlier in the tournament, after dropping a pass, he’d considered changing his receiving style and actually said, “I will probably adjust my pass-catching algorithm to incorporate this new information.” It wasn’t particularly surprising that Parinella would be a factor in Boston’s comeback. What would surprise everyone is the manner in which he did it.

Down 6-2, sensing the desperation of the situation, the Boston players began laying-out everywhere. Ring of Fire, however, still rode its early confidence; their offensive players dove, too, catching the disc just beyond the reach of the Boston defenders. Near the goal line, just when it looked like Ring would score, Boston’s John Axon anticipated a pass, threw himself through the air, and intercepted the disc with his outstretched hand. Boston now had it—this could have been what swung the game’s momentum—but suddenly there was yelling, confusion, and play stopped.

What had stopped the game is that someone on the North Carolina team had called a foul. Finally, after a long argument, the disc was returned to Ring of Fire, and, soon after, they scored to make it 7-2. But while Ring had won the battle, the argument seemed to have added fire to Boston. When Parinella caught the next goal, he became wildly excited, screaming and exhorting the Boston players.

“Come on, we’re still in it!” he yelled. “We’re not going to lose this thing! Come on!”

Boston’s Death or Glory (1998)

Later, Parinella would recall this as perhaps the most emotional moment of his entire life, and for a second his teammates didn’t know what to make of him. They were shocked. It was like watching the episode of Star Trek where Spock finally finds passion. But as Parinella continued, his face uncharacteristically animated, they got swept up in his emotion. That’s right, we’re not going to lose this thing, we’ve worked too fucking hard! The Boston sideline came alive, players pumping their fists and yelling encouragement.

And suddenly Boston had it. The defense made several spectacular blocks, and the gap in the score gradually tightened. 10-6. 11-6. 11-7. 11-8. 12-8. Soon Boston was in a kind of place where even bad plays turn good. Parinella, perhaps overamped by the endorphins pumping through him, put a little too much mustard on a throw to Chris Corcoran and the Frisbee sailed past him down the field. But Mike Cooper, a long-limbed man who was built to run, anticipated the screwup and caught up to the disc for a 40-yard gain. Jordan Haskell, who was running the team’s offensive substitutions, began to criticize Parinella’s throw, but Parinella uncharacteristically turned on him.

“Don’t even fucking think of pulling me,” Parinella snapped, and Haskell stepped back, slightly amused but also intimidated by this new creature. Parinella, meanwhile, was caught up in whatever it was he was becoming. The feeling surging up in him may be the real reason that people put so much into a sport that seems to give back so little of what’s usually considered important. This wasn’t about money or trophies or reputation, or even about that satisfying afterglow that can come once the game is won. Right then it was about feeling. He could suddenly hear the breathing of the man he was defending and knew where that man would cut before he did. It was a primal sensation: running, skying, diving, hucking. In his normal life he might study enterprise systems, but at that moment he was a strong animal who couldn’t be contained. When he caught a goal to pull Boston closer, he felt something he’d never felt on a Frisbee field before. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“I felt I wasn’t going to let the team lose,” he’d say later. Ring of Fire remained ahead by 2, but Boston would win this game; Parinella was certain of that now. And as great—as absorbing and enlivening—as this feeling was, it was made better because he was part of a team. For Parinella, it wasn’t hard to see a physical manifestation of the feeling that was welling up in his chest. He only had to look at the faces of his teammates, faces that shined with joyous savagery. They moved with one surging purpose, trusting their teammates as they trusted their own muscles and judgement.

It was, as Parinella sensed, a shared thing. They were part of something and they all felt it and it showed more and more in how they played. Steve Mooney, the team’s captain, flew around the field, directing traffic, throwing strikes, giving his teammates an easy target. Lenny Engel, the team’s emotional sparkplug, had been hobbled by a knee injury all year, but now he was suddenly sticking to his man, celebrating wildly after each goal, and breathing fire. At the other extreme was Jeremy Seeger, the man that my Harvard teammate Simon Long had once dubbed “God.” As a god Jeremy was fairly unassuming, certainly not the Old Testament one, closer to a wisp thin Modigliani Jesus with hollowed eyes. But if Jeremy sometimes appeared unassuming off the field, on the field he was set free.

For Ring of Fire, the goals were getting harder and harder to come by. What had been flow was now a trickle. Boston had many spectacular blocks, but the one that really seemed to break Ring’s back was made by a relatively unheralded player, Jeff Yu, also known as “Jethro.” Always quietly intense, Jethro would later admit to being even more fired up by what he’d come to call Parinella’s “primal scream.” He was ready when the man he was defending cut upfield and another Ring player got ready to throw. Jethro baited the thrower by pretending to be a little further off his man than he really was, and when the throw was made, Jethro pounced. He flew through the air, stretched out to his full length, and the disc stuck to his fully extended left hand. The Boston bench exploded.

It was gradually beginning to dawn on Ring of Fire that their little dreamtime was over. When Boston received the disc, up 15-14, they called a set play that involved Moons throwing to Alex de Frondeville who in turn would throw to Parinella who would throw to Chris Corcoran. But when de Frondeville received the disc on his own ten yard line, Parinella sensed that the Ring defender was overplaying him. He faked out, then in, and the defender bit hard. Parinella took off deep and de Frondeville launched the disc up and out. Eighty yards later, Parinella caught it for a goal. 16-14. At that point the game was capped. Ring of Fire scored to make it a one point game, but Boston could put them away by simply scoring one more time.

Then the inexplicable happened. The disc was worked up the field to Jeremy Seeger, who saw Parinella streaking across the end zone. This was it for the game, and when it left Seeger’s hand, it felt good. The man guarding Jeremy practically conceded defeat by saying, “Damn, nice throw, how’d you get that off?” But Parinella somehow didn’t catch the disc and, as there was no game film, the why of it would remain open to debate. To many spectators, it seemed as if the Frisbee could easily have been caught; it was described on the sport’s internet newsgroup as “an inexplicable drop on an easy lay-out catch.” Parinella didn’t see it that way. In his mind, he made a tremendous effort but couldn’t quite make a “best catch of the game” grab. But a mistake could no longer could send Parinella into a funk. He had become a different player, a sloppier player perhaps, but a better one.

Parinella’s miscue was soon rendered moot. A Ring player dropped a difficult blade, and DoG quickly converted for the winning goal. Parinella felt his chest starting to heave. They had won, despite his fucking up, and part of what he felt was relief. But it wasn’t all relief. His emotional high had been tailing off, but now the whole surge of it came back strong again, washing over him. The rest of his teammates raced onto the field, losing themselves in an orgy of high fives, hugs, and victory hoots. After calming down a little, they went through the ritual of shaking hands with the vanquished Ring of Fire players, before setting to the serious business of beer drinking, reliving great plays, and basking.

***

The next day Boston would beat Seattle in the finals and find themselves partying again. In Ultimate, there is no locker room to which players retire, so the celebration occurs right on the field. This tradition, which is known as “the milling period,” or simply “the mill,” can last as long as two or three hours after the finals. Most of the fans are usually players from other teams, and, drinking beer, they try to forget about their team’s losses or their own poor plays, and join in the carnival spirit of the mill. For Boston, it was time for pure revelry, with no need to forget. DoG players sought out friends from other teams who had watched the game, basking in praise (and occasionally fishing for a few more compliments) and beginning the endless process of reliving their greatest plays and gravest errors.

Though more and more games were being filmed, Ultimate was still a sport remembered not by instant replay, but through the oral tradition, through the retelling of great plays and heroic feats, and already today’s tales were being spun. We may live in a country where it’s hard for people to imagine the concept of glory and achievement without national television or magazine coverage, but at that moment you couldn’t convince Jim Parinella that what he had gone through has been anything short of glorious.

“I wish I could describe exactly what was going through my head,” he said, thinking back to that surge during the semifinals comeback . “But I can’t…I can barely remember it. At the time, though, every action looked perfectly clear, every motion was exaggerated. I have never before in my life been in such a heightened state of awareness.”

* * *

I wrote the above pages in approximately the same mood in which Parinella played the semifinals. For a week, in an unwinterized attic room of a house on Cape Cod back in the cold spring 1998, I kept warm by typing around the clock, not just scenes of the DoG team playing but games remembered from my own years playing. I was full or fire and energy and wrote with a fluidity I had never felt before. Could it have been that during my twenty years playing Ultimate I hadn’t been a player so much as a spy, a sponge, a reporter? That my real job had been to take the stories from the game’s oral tradition and put them on the page? Whatever the case, it felt great to get what I remembered down on paper. I sent some sample pages to my agent who was also excited. And sure enough there was interest in the Ultimate book from New York publishers! I drove down to New York to attend meetings, thrilled to think that I would finally be published by a big press. From my journal, I know that my wife and I had less than fifty dollars in our joint bank account at the time.

It was close, my agent told me later, they almost took it. Why didn’t they, I asked. In the end, no publishers would buy the book, mostly because the marketers and publicists were afraid no one would know what Ultimate was. There it was again. Is that the thing you do with the dogs?

That was almost twenty years ago. It hurt, I won’t lie, and it took a while until I moved onto the next subject, the next book. It wouldn’t be until another eighteen years that I would return to writing about ultimate.

But while I remember well the sting of the moment, I also remember the joy of first discovering ultimate as an unexpected muse. Most of all I remember losing myself in the subject, and that is a feeling that I know Jim Parinella understands.

There was one other moment during that long-ago Finals that I took notes on but never wrote about. Sometime during the mill after that ’97 Finals, a player from another team, who himself was eliminated early in the tournament, teased Parinella about having dropped what could have been the final pass of the semis the day before. At first, Parinella felt tempted to rush to his own defense. But, in his state of near blissful calm, he stopped. He could handle the teasing. Let the snickerers snicker, the hecklers heckle, the nitpickers pick nits. The appropriate attitude toward those who had merely watched, Parinella decided as he sipped his beer, was not defensiveness, but pity. Pity the poor observers. After all, they had not been in it. They hadn’t experienced that overwhelming tribal sensation that Parinella would always remember. They had no way to comprehend what it was like to be part of that surging whole.

More info about Ultimate Glory:

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thecosydragon · 7 years

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My latest blog post from the cosy dragon: Interview with Danielle Ellison

Danielle Ellison is a nomad, a lover of make-believe, and a bit of coffee snob. Always on the lookout for an adventure and the next story, she has had more zip codes and jobs than she can count.

In addition to writing, she’s the founder of the NoVa TEEN Book Festival in Virginia and a teen librarian. When she’s not busy with books, she’s probably watching her favorite shows, drinking coffee, or fighting her nomadic urges.

She is settled in Georgia (for now) with her cat, Simon, but you can always find her on twitter @DanielleEWrites.

I’m not going to be reviewing your newest novel, but from your other published novels, is there one that is your own personal favourite?

Honestly, they each have a special place in my heart. Besides the newest one, which is probably my favorite – I’d say Days Like This. I worked really hard on that one. Or Salt because it was the first one I published.

Everyone has a ‘first novel’, even if many of them are a rough draft relegated to the bottom and back of your desk drawer (or your external harddrive!). Have you been able to reshape yours, or have you abandoned it for good?

Oh goodness, my first book is in the proverbial closet forever and it will remain there. I learned a lot from that book. Parts of it have been reshaped into other stories that I’ve written, but I’ve never really gone back to it. I don’t think I would now either. While that was a fun story, I’ve grown as a writer and I’d rather move forward instead of going back. Sorry, first book.

It varies. Some stories take longer than others. The Sweetheart Sham was started two years ago, then shelved, then taken out and written with my editor. Other books, some published and not, have moved much, much faster and some longer. Unless I’m on a deadline, I try not to stress myself with writing in a certain timeframe. I don’t go seeking inspiration or any of that because I write characters, so as long as they are there, I’m writing them.

I write on the computer. It’s just easier for me. Sometimes I will venture into a notebook, but then it’s always typed up. I’m not really sure on the one place thing. I can write anywhere, I think. I do like having a go-to place, and when I lived in Georgia I had that. But here in Oklahoma, I don’t have that yet, but I only moved recently so I’m hoping to find it with my new routine.

Before going on to hire an editor, most authors use beta-readers. How do you recruit your beta-readers? Are you lucky enough to have loving family members who can read and comment on your novel?

My beta readers are always my agent and typically a friend or two, depending on the story and the kind of feedback I need. I have a beta reader, Traci, who reads EVERY book as I write it. We started that a couple years ago and now she can’t get away from me. She used to be a book blogger, and then when I was an editor at a small press, she was one of my editing interns. One day I asked her for an opinion on one of my stories, and ever since then she’s been one of my first sets of eyes. It’s great to have someone to talk to while drafting. I am very lucky.

I walk past bookshops and am drawn in by the smell of the books – ebooks simply don’t have the same attraction for me. Does this happen to you, and do you have a favourite bookshop? Or perhaps you are an e-reader fan… where do you source most of your material from?

I love bookstores. I was a bookseller for years and years, so bookstores hold a special place in my heart. I think indie stores, especially, are filled with passionate staffers and readers. My favorite bookshop is One More Page Books in Arlington, VA: great selection, atmosphere, awesome staff. (But I’m biased.)

That said, I love e-books too. I think there’s enough room in the world for both!

I used to find myself buying books in only one genre (fantasy) before I started writing this blog. What is your favourite genre, and do you have a favourite author who sticks in your mind from:

childhood?

Goosebumps. Hands down. Those were my jam.

adolescence?

VC Andrews – I read the first one in 5th grade (the Orphan girls/Runaways series)—and Lurlene McDaniel. I thought all books ended sadly.

young adult?

Harry Potter. I was a teen in love.

adult?

YA books, the whole genre really.

Social media is a big thing, much to my disgust! I never have enough time myself to do what I feel is a good job. If you manage your own profile, please tell me as much as you are comfortable with in regards to your preferred platform and an estimate of time you spend doing it [and whether you like doing it!]

I use twitter and instagram, and I have an author facebook, but I’m not as good about it as I want to be. I love using it because it’s an instant connection with readers and other writers. That’s the best part for me. I get why people don’t like it. Sometimes, it can feel like you’re shouting into the void, but if you shout enough then someone will hear you. It’s changed a lot the last two years, so I’m still figuring it all out for the current climate of things. As far as how much time I spend, probably not enough.

About The Sweetheart Sham:

In a small town like Culler, South Carolina, you guard your secrets like you guard your cobbler recipe: with your life. Georgia Ann Monroe knows a thing or two about secrets: she’s been guarding the truth that her best friend Will is gay for years now. But what happens when a little white lie to protect him gets her into a fake relationship…and then the boy of her dreams shows up?

Enter Beau Montgomery: Georgie’s first love, hotter than ever, and much too much of a southern gentleman to ever pursue someone else’s girl. There’s no way to come clean to Beau while still protecting Will. But bless their hearts, they live in Culler—where secrets always have a way of revealing themselves.

Disclaimer: This Entangled Teen Crush book contains a hilarious “fakeship,” a scorching-hot impossible relationship, and a heartwarming best-friendship that will make you want to call your best friend right here, right now.

Buy link: http://ift.tt/2B6P0vZ

Author Links:

Website, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Newsletter.

from http://ift.tt/2D1jtsB

#book bookreviews authorinterviews lovereading bookworm

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mysteryshelf · 7 years

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BLOG TOUR - A Wanted Man

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Pump Up Your Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Title: A WANTED MAN Author: Robert Parker Publisher: Endeavour Press Pages: 307 Genre: Crime Thriller

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

What initially got you interested in writing?

Time spent at my Grandma and Grandad’s house, in Eccleston, St Helens. The box room at their house, which had a little bunkbed in it, had the most brilliant bookshelves full of books: pulp, crime, adventure, thrillers, classics, encyclopedias, so on. When I was little it seemed that if there was anything in the world that wasn’t written about somewhere on those shelves, then it wasn’t worth knowing. And downstairs, Grandad had the most fantastic VHS collection – again not too vast, but the titles were all thrilling to a story-loving kid like myself. I loved the old adventure films he had, anything from Swiss Family Robinson to The Cat and The Canary through to Superman. James Bond films too. Anything that had a fantastic story, adventure and mystery, and he was there. And I spent hours watching these with him. Then, when I learned to write, I couldn’t believe that I could concoct my own tales. The power was thrilling.

What genres do you write in?

Presently, that would be crime thrillers. There’s nothing really off the table in terms of genres I’d like to write in though, and respect the differences hugely. However, when I set down to write something, I never really think of genre – I just write the kind of story I’d like to read, and see what comes out the other end. I’m writing something at the minute that is a whole different speed to the Ben Bracken books, and I’ve got no idea what genre it’ll be – but if I had to pick it, from how it’s shaping up, I’d have to say somewhere around the mystery category, although which way it’ll swing, I just don’t know! But for now, crime seems to be my thing, so I’ll stick to that.

What drew you to writing these specific genres?

Very good question. The freedom it gives me to look at darkness, and bring darkness to normal settings and situations. I love books that examine the quaint overlooked details in life, and then throws something truly horrible into the mix. It’s the fact that anything can happen in these worlds we create, and also that the darkness created is often overcome by the end of the story – there is redemption, and a brightness in crime when it is overcome. And there is an excitement in thrillers that is hard to match.

How did you break into the field?

Still trying to, I guess would be the correct way to preface my answer! In short, perseverance. For everyone who told me that my books were rubbish, I turned it into fuel. A longer answer would be that I had 3 double knee surgeries, one after the other, over the course of 18 months. I had plenty of time on my hands, while I was recovering all that time, doing rehab and resting, and my brain was crawling itself inside out with boredom. My business had taken over at this point, and writing hadn’t been as high a priority. I picked up a pen to alleviate the boredom, and within 8 weeks I’d written my first novel. I self-published to kindle, in its haphazard state, and connected with readers almost straight away. It was a heck of a thing. Before long, I’d written a second, and it won a couple of online five star awards things. That’s when readers started to suggest I send it to the literary world to see if I could get them published for real. I approached a lot of agents (possibly 250-300) and had so many varied responses – some ranging from the positive, some to the downright rude. The nasty, rude ones became my favourites, and it just made me want to try harder, get better and show them – fair enough, if you don’t like the work that’s fine, but to go out of your way to be rude and put someone down? I loved it. Rejection became welcomed. And I kept plugging away. Eventually had a brilliant conversation with Linda Langton of Langtons International Agency in New York. She was the first agent to show a real passion for my work, and was utterly lovely to deal with. We clicked immediately, and she was very kind, encouraging and thoughtful in the way she cajoled me through. That was three years ago now, and she has stood by me while I have rewritten my books countless times and found me a publisher. She is a guardian angel, and I owe her so much.

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?

I want them to close the book and say ‘wow’. I want them to feel satisfied. I want them to feel like they’ve been really entertained, and I want them to be happy they read it!

What do you find most rewarding about writing?

When people tell you they enjoyed it. That is just the greatest thing to hear as a writer – to know that you contributed to someone’s enjoyment and happiness (even though you’re making them read about all manner of crime and death!) is the best.

What do you find most challenging about writing?

Not having enough hours in the day! Knowing that some days the words will overflow like a boiling pan, but other days it’ll be blood from a stone.

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field?

Never dare give up. Never dare think it. Rejection is part of the deal, even when your book is out there. You can’t please everyone, so just write the story you want to write, and never ever quit scrapping until you get where you want to be.

What type of books do you enjoy reading?

Crime, thriller, mystery, suspense, ghosts, supernatural, adventure, legal, scientific – and anything at all that has a rollicking twist. I want my socks knocking off and the rug pulled.

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you?

I fight regularly at charity boxing events, training six days a week to do so. I do this to raise money for Cancer Research UK, a disease that affects us all in so many ways. I figured that people suffer so fiercely, I can definitely suffer the hard work of a training camp then a fight. It’s unlocked a part of me I didn’t know was there, and I love it.

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/RobertRParker45

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/robertparkerauthor

Website: www.robertparkerauthor.com

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7789447.Robert_Parker

And thank you so much for having me!

It’s down to fathers and fatherhood.Ben Bracken, ex-soldier, has just got out of Strangeways.

Not by the front door.

With him, he has his ‘insurance policy’ – a bag of evidence that will guarantee his freedom, provided he can keep it safe – and he has money, carefully looked after by a friend, Jack Brooker.

Rejected by the army, disowned by his father, and any hopes of parenthood long since shattered, Ben has no anchors in his life.

No one to keep him steady.

No one to stop his cause…

The plan: to wreak justice on the man who had put him in prison in the first place.

Terry ‘The Turn-Up’ Masters, a nasty piece of work, whose crime organisation is based in

London.But before Ben can get started on his mission, another matter is brought to his attention: Jack’s father has been murdered and he will not rest until the killers are found.

Suddenly, Ben finds himself drawn in to helping Jack in his quest for revenge.

In the process, he descends into the fold of

Manchester’s most notorious crime organisation – the Berg – the very people he wants to bring down…This action-packed and fast-paced story will keep you turning the pages.

Manchester is vividly portrayed as Ben races around the city seeking vengeance.

ORDER YOUR COPY:

Amazon

It’s not long before I am there again. Haugh Road, right in the middle. Everything looks the same, right down to the chewing gum on the pavements. There’s the old off- licence, the pub I used to drink in. There’s the phone box I’d call my mates from, out the front of the house I called home for thirty years.

My heart feels a hot stab at seeing it, worse than I expected. Home.

It’s a terraced house that could do with some work. The lawn is a bit longer than Dad used to have it, by quite a bit, actually, and the PVC window frames we had put in on a government grant to promote greener living a few years ago are a bit mucky. The door is still painted red, with a brass knocker.

What are you doing here, Ben? Are you going to invite yourself in for a cuppa? Or stand out here like a stalker?

I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But somehow, I needed to see it. I needed to see something concrete, to remind me where I came from… Christ, this fucking neediness… I don’t like it.

I feel abandoned by them, for sure, but they had their reasons. They were so proud, and suddenly all that pride was gone.

And now, with my visit this evening? I suppose I just need to know that, even though everything else is chaos, things back here at home remain the same. We wouldn’t even need to talk, just…

In fact, despite the curtains being open, it doesn’t look like they are home.

Wait. I can see in through the front window, despite the dwindling light. Something’s different: On the left-hand side, Grandma’s mirror is missing, the one passed down to Mum when she died. It had a gold frame – well, gold edging on top of tin – and it was Mum’s pride and joy. And the curtains that are open… there are no curtains. Looking closer I can see the tie-back hooks stand visible and empty.

I walk up the path, leaving prints in the long grass, and peer inside, and more and more of my past looms up in front of me the closer I get. But this nostalgia, and the stir of anticipation that has arisen despite my efforts to subdue it, is quickly replaced by something cold, something bitter.

The room is empty.

I can see through to the kitchen along the old carpet that runs right through the downstairs, which in the emptiness now looks more threadbare. There’s nothing.

They’ve gone. My parents have left here.

I stand simply staring into the hollow space, and feel as if I’m gazing into the very emptiness that has been abruptly carved inside of me. My feeling of loneliness is complete.

I have no way to contact them. They are gone, and from the look of things, gone for good. And considering that they never sent me a forwarding address while I was in prison, they clearly don’t want me to know where they are.

All I wanted was to see that they were ok, but as far as I can tell, they didn’t even want me to have that. They have disowned me. I should have guessed from their passive stares in the public gallery at my trial, fixing on any point but their own son’s searching gaze. I can’t help but stand and dwell.

I quickly decide that I’ve had enough. I walk away because there’s nothing for me here anymore, not for the first time. Rawmarsh is no longer my home. I feel I could cry, but I won’t. No chance – those bastards, they won’t get that from me.

I walk down the path to the scuffed, mucky pavement. The gum on the concrete beneath my shoes, some of it is undoubtedly mine. My DNA lies at my feet, inseparable from my town, my past. That DNA is now the only evidence I was ever here. Thirty years of love, life, family – all reduced to a dirty bit of gum on an old pavement.

This will steel me. Toughen me. It has to. Because this would, could, should break a lesser man.

Robert Parker is a new exciting voice, a married father of two, who lives in a village close to Manchester, UK. He has both a law degree and a degree in film and media production, and has worked in numerous employment positions, ranging from solicitor’s agent (essentially a courtroom gun for hire), to a van driver, to a warehouse order picker, to a commercial video director. He currently writes full time, while also making time to encourage new young readers and authors through readings and workshops at local schools and bookstores. In his spare time he adores pretty much all sport, boxing regularly for charity, loves fiction across all mediums, and his glass is always half full.

His latest book is the crime/thriller, A WANTED MAN.

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BLOG TOUR – A Wanted Man was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf

#shannon muir #pulp and mystery shelf

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