K.Z. Snow's Blog, page 8
June 20, 2013
HAPPY PRIDE, EVERYBODY!
Go out and celebrate!
June 12, 2013
Photoshopping with Words
Photoshop -- vanity's best friend! Have you all seen THIS recent instance of image-altering craziness?
The artificial slenderizing of Beyonce made me realize something. Authors frequently Photoshop themselves. Of course, they do it with words.
Award-winning! Critically acclaimed! Bestselling!
These are phrases you'll routinely see when authors try to Photoshop themselves. Certain words function like that program's nifty glamorizing techniques. But for any discerning reader (just as for any discerning viewer of a magazine ad), an author's glossed-up image raises more questions than it answers.
Which awards? Acclaimed by whom? Bestselling where and for how long? And why, exactly, should any of these high-flown descriptors impress me?
Frankly, I hate hype. I'm embarrassed to use it and put off when I read it (although that largely depends on the author; some just seem snootier and more pretentious than others). Like a Photoshopped image, there's something fundamentally dishonest about author hype. And fundamentally meaningless.
Yet perfectly understandable . . . and sort of poignant.
Given the plethora of awards in the book world -- from a popularity contest on Goodreads or some Yahoo group to the august Nobel Prize -- just about every author can, at some point in his/her career, be "award-winning." And the more contests s/he enters, the greater his or her chances are.
And what the hell does "critically acclaimed" mean? I honestly don't know. Does it mean a paid reviewer said nice things about your book? Or unpaid reviewers on Amazon said nice things? More to the point, why should that difference matter? Does the opinion of professional book critic Clarence Montrose Terwilliker III have more inherent value than the opinion of any intelligent reader? Fuck, no. So this in turn means that every author can claim to be critically acclaimed, because every author's work has been praised somewhere, at some time, by somebody. (And bless you readers for that!)
Bestselling? Yeah, okay. Tell me where. Your publisher's site, or within your genre (at which third-party seller?) or nationwide (according to which media outlet)? How long did your best-sellerdom last? And what ranking did your book achieve? Was it vigorously pimped by your publisher? By another, more famous author? In other words, did you spontaneously burst from the teeming horde of your peers, or were you somehow given a leg up?
These are the questions that have always popped into my mind whenever I've seen a writer Photoshopping his or her image. Unless the hype carries an implication of superiority, I just smile and shake my head and think, God, how badly we all want to look good! :-)
The artificial slenderizing of Beyonce made me realize something. Authors frequently Photoshop themselves. Of course, they do it with words.
Award-winning! Critically acclaimed! Bestselling!
These are phrases you'll routinely see when authors try to Photoshop themselves. Certain words function like that program's nifty glamorizing techniques. But for any discerning reader (just as for any discerning viewer of a magazine ad), an author's glossed-up image raises more questions than it answers.
Which awards? Acclaimed by whom? Bestselling where and for how long? And why, exactly, should any of these high-flown descriptors impress me?
Frankly, I hate hype. I'm embarrassed to use it and put off when I read it (although that largely depends on the author; some just seem snootier and more pretentious than others). Like a Photoshopped image, there's something fundamentally dishonest about author hype. And fundamentally meaningless.
Yet perfectly understandable . . . and sort of poignant.
Given the plethora of awards in the book world -- from a popularity contest on Goodreads or some Yahoo group to the august Nobel Prize -- just about every author can, at some point in his/her career, be "award-winning." And the more contests s/he enters, the greater his or her chances are.
And what the hell does "critically acclaimed" mean? I honestly don't know. Does it mean a paid reviewer said nice things about your book? Or unpaid reviewers on Amazon said nice things? More to the point, why should that difference matter? Does the opinion of professional book critic Clarence Montrose Terwilliker III have more inherent value than the opinion of any intelligent reader? Fuck, no. So this in turn means that every author can claim to be critically acclaimed, because every author's work has been praised somewhere, at some time, by somebody. (And bless you readers for that!)
Bestselling? Yeah, okay. Tell me where. Your publisher's site, or within your genre (at which third-party seller?) or nationwide (according to which media outlet)? How long did your best-sellerdom last? And what ranking did your book achieve? Was it vigorously pimped by your publisher? By another, more famous author? In other words, did you spontaneously burst from the teeming horde of your peers, or were you somehow given a leg up?
These are the questions that have always popped into my mind whenever I've seen a writer Photoshopping his or her image. Unless the hype carries an implication of superiority, I just smile and shake my head and think, God, how badly we all want to look good! :-)
June 10, 2013
Fragment from MERMAN
Now that Merman is at the galley stage, I can start posting snippets. (The entire first chapter will, of course, be available at the Dreamspinner site once the book is on their Coming Soon page.) The blurb is posted in the previous entry.
*
Troubled and restless when he left Taintwell, Marrowbone spent the predawn hours walking a deserted stretch of beach south of Purinton. He kept telling himself to move on, get away from here, travel farther inland, perhaps to Widger or Nittyville. He’d got the information he’d been after: Simon was doing well. Although Perfidor had encouraged him to stay in Taintwell for a while, Marrowbone knew that lingering in this area wouldn’t be wise—for a number of reasons.Fan’s parting words continued to echo in his mind. “It pained him, you know, that you left so abruptly. He didn’t regain even a semblance of his old bluster for at least three months. William is certain he misses you still.” Marrowbone had tried to dismiss these claims, blaming them on Will’s sentimentality and citing Simon’s resilience. “Nonsense,”he’d said. “I’ll wager Mr. Bentcross has enjoyed himself with half the denizens of Skipskin Mews, male and female.” Fan, watching his friend with an insightful smile, had replied, “Some, perhaps. But I’ll wager he hasn’t given a penny’s rim about any of them. Would you like to know why I think that, Clancy?”Marrowbone had demurred and instead said his good-byes.Stopping now, he stared out to sea. He hadn’t seen it in daylight for countless years, but he remembered Simon once saying, “I loved to swim when I was a boy in Kings Province. But here, the ocean is the color of sickness.” The ragged, grim hump of Floating Brick Island broke the line of the horizon like a reading on a sluggish seismometer. Far off to Marrowbone’s left, the carnival known as the Marvelous Mechanical Circus, shut down for the night, was a mass of shadows pocked here and there with dull light. The distant snap of windblown pennants occasionally broke the steady susurration of waves meeting shore.Although Purinton was at Marrowbone’s back, it made its looming presence known. He could smell its breath, a creeping stink of smoke and oil and tar, dust and dirt, overcooked food and the end result of its consumption. He could hear the relentless, thumping thunder of its voice, diminished though it was by distance and night. Most people would only catch traces of odor or hear a faint cloud of noise, but a vampire wasn’t like most people. So Marrowbone, if he concentrated, could tell that horses still clopped and streetcars still clattered and 24-hour mills and manufactories kept up their busy clangor.A bit inland, between sea and city, an aeropod flew over the train tracks. It seemed to be leading the locomotive that chugged rhythmically in its wake.Briefly, Marrowbone watched them over his shoulder. Beating rotors thrashed against the inky sky. On the ground, a line of black cars heaped with coal crawled along like monitor beetles on a march. Between the aeropod and the train, roiling steam and billowing smoke mingled, filling the air.His only thought was, It’s truly stupid of me to be out here.Marrowbone knew he could readily be identified for what he was and even who he was. No mortal glided over the littered sand, as if each grain were a tiny ball bearing. Few mortals resembled errant slips of moonlight. Not even another of his kind had hair that floated and rippled when the wind caught it, a bleached silk banner torn into gossamer threads.The briny breeze had felt so refreshing when Marrowbone landed on the beach, he’d chucked his hat into the sea. Now he regretted his impulsiveness. Wherever he went next, he’d have to pinch another hat as quickly as possible.Being obvious did not work to a vampire’s advantage. Only in Taintwell did Marrowbone feel completely safe.With that in mind, and in spite of being alone on the beach, he retreated to a low dune and sat. He’d be less visible if he weren’t standing.Yes, he might’ve been lionized in Taintwell—he’d put an end to the practice of branding Mongrels, saved Fanule Perfidor from an assassin’s bullet, and been a significant factor in stopping persecution of Taintwellians—but everywhere else he was feared and despised. Purinton’s government, in spite of its overhaul, still reeked of corruption and bigotry, by all reports. And its Enforcement Agency now had a Special Threats Unit dedicated to seeking out “unusual enemies of the people.” Were a team from that unit to come upon the infamous vampire Clancy Marrowbone, they’d be well-prepared. He’d never survive a confrontation.Resting his forearms on his upraised knees, he stared past the advancing lines of foam to Floating Brick Island. What kind of research, he wondered, would benefit from Simon’s “Bubble”? Or was the project more a salvage than an academic operation? Would Simon be safe inside his sphere? “Stop,” Marrowbone whispered to himself. He couldn’t become too caught up in this. Curiosity, interest, fascination—and certainly concern—acted as adhesives. He’d intended to peel himself away from the province of Purin as quickly as possible.Laden with flotsam, the low waves sloshed rather than broke on shore. Marrowbone had been paying them little mind. Now, though, with no aeropod chopping overhead and no train lumbering down the nearby tracks, he heard a different sound interrupt the water’s lulling, repetitive lapping. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head and listened more pointedly.Raspy, that sound, as if a piece of wood were being scraped across the sand. An unusual filament of odor accompanied the noise. Marrowbone couldn’t identify it.Much of the seacoast was redolent of marine as well as human waste. One not only grew accustomed to the stench but became familiar with it. Although this smell didn’t seem out of place the way a floral fragrance would, Marrowbone found it strange.Following his senses, he rose to investigate.“Ghosts alive,” he whispered in horror as he approached a shallow gully between a pair of dunes.
*
Troubled and restless when he left Taintwell, Marrowbone spent the predawn hours walking a deserted stretch of beach south of Purinton. He kept telling himself to move on, get away from here, travel farther inland, perhaps to Widger or Nittyville. He’d got the information he’d been after: Simon was doing well. Although Perfidor had encouraged him to stay in Taintwell for a while, Marrowbone knew that lingering in this area wouldn’t be wise—for a number of reasons.Fan’s parting words continued to echo in his mind. “It pained him, you know, that you left so abruptly. He didn’t regain even a semblance of his old bluster for at least three months. William is certain he misses you still.” Marrowbone had tried to dismiss these claims, blaming them on Will’s sentimentality and citing Simon’s resilience. “Nonsense,”he’d said. “I’ll wager Mr. Bentcross has enjoyed himself with half the denizens of Skipskin Mews, male and female.” Fan, watching his friend with an insightful smile, had replied, “Some, perhaps. But I’ll wager he hasn’t given a penny’s rim about any of them. Would you like to know why I think that, Clancy?”Marrowbone had demurred and instead said his good-byes.Stopping now, he stared out to sea. He hadn’t seen it in daylight for countless years, but he remembered Simon once saying, “I loved to swim when I was a boy in Kings Province. But here, the ocean is the color of sickness.” The ragged, grim hump of Floating Brick Island broke the line of the horizon like a reading on a sluggish seismometer. Far off to Marrowbone’s left, the carnival known as the Marvelous Mechanical Circus, shut down for the night, was a mass of shadows pocked here and there with dull light. The distant snap of windblown pennants occasionally broke the steady susurration of waves meeting shore.Although Purinton was at Marrowbone’s back, it made its looming presence known. He could smell its breath, a creeping stink of smoke and oil and tar, dust and dirt, overcooked food and the end result of its consumption. He could hear the relentless, thumping thunder of its voice, diminished though it was by distance and night. Most people would only catch traces of odor or hear a faint cloud of noise, but a vampire wasn’t like most people. So Marrowbone, if he concentrated, could tell that horses still clopped and streetcars still clattered and 24-hour mills and manufactories kept up their busy clangor.A bit inland, between sea and city, an aeropod flew over the train tracks. It seemed to be leading the locomotive that chugged rhythmically in its wake.Briefly, Marrowbone watched them over his shoulder. Beating rotors thrashed against the inky sky. On the ground, a line of black cars heaped with coal crawled along like monitor beetles on a march. Between the aeropod and the train, roiling steam and billowing smoke mingled, filling the air.His only thought was, It’s truly stupid of me to be out here.Marrowbone knew he could readily be identified for what he was and even who he was. No mortal glided over the littered sand, as if each grain were a tiny ball bearing. Few mortals resembled errant slips of moonlight. Not even another of his kind had hair that floated and rippled when the wind caught it, a bleached silk banner torn into gossamer threads.The briny breeze had felt so refreshing when Marrowbone landed on the beach, he’d chucked his hat into the sea. Now he regretted his impulsiveness. Wherever he went next, he’d have to pinch another hat as quickly as possible.Being obvious did not work to a vampire’s advantage. Only in Taintwell did Marrowbone feel completely safe.With that in mind, and in spite of being alone on the beach, he retreated to a low dune and sat. He’d be less visible if he weren’t standing.Yes, he might’ve been lionized in Taintwell—he’d put an end to the practice of branding Mongrels, saved Fanule Perfidor from an assassin’s bullet, and been a significant factor in stopping persecution of Taintwellians—but everywhere else he was feared and despised. Purinton’s government, in spite of its overhaul, still reeked of corruption and bigotry, by all reports. And its Enforcement Agency now had a Special Threats Unit dedicated to seeking out “unusual enemies of the people.” Were a team from that unit to come upon the infamous vampire Clancy Marrowbone, they’d be well-prepared. He’d never survive a confrontation.Resting his forearms on his upraised knees, he stared past the advancing lines of foam to Floating Brick Island. What kind of research, he wondered, would benefit from Simon’s “Bubble”? Or was the project more a salvage than an academic operation? Would Simon be safe inside his sphere? “Stop,” Marrowbone whispered to himself. He couldn’t become too caught up in this. Curiosity, interest, fascination—and certainly concern—acted as adhesives. He’d intended to peel himself away from the province of Purin as quickly as possible.Laden with flotsam, the low waves sloshed rather than broke on shore. Marrowbone had been paying them little mind. Now, though, with no aeropod chopping overhead and no train lumbering down the nearby tracks, he heard a different sound interrupt the water’s lulling, repetitive lapping. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head and listened more pointedly.Raspy, that sound, as if a piece of wood were being scraped across the sand. An unusual filament of odor accompanied the noise. Marrowbone couldn’t identify it.Much of the seacoast was redolent of marine as well as human waste. One not only grew accustomed to the stench but became familiar with it. Although this smell didn’t seem out of place the way a floral fragrance would, Marrowbone found it strange.Following his senses, he rose to investigate.“Ghosts alive,” he whispered in horror as he approached a shallow gully between a pair of dunes.
June 4, 2013
Blurb for MERMAN
The sequel to my fantasy-steampunk novel Mongrel.
When vampire Clancy Marrowbone returns to Purin province 22 months after his departure, he intends only to visit briefly with his Branded Mongrel friend Fanule Perfidor in the village of Taintwell. He also intends to avoid his former lover, the unfortunately mortal Simon Bentcross. What would be the point of rekindling their affair? Marrowbone merely wants to know how Simon is faring.
Quite well, it turns out. Bentcross, who now owns a machinery repair shop, has designed a submersible vessel for underwater exploration. He’ll be manning his “Bubble” for a marine research expedition shrouded in secrecy.
Vaguely troubled after his visit with Perfidor, the restless vampire stops at a deserted stretch of beach in Purinton, the provincial capital. He needs time to reflect before he moves on. But two unexpected turns, including a startling discovery, substantially alter his plans.
By the following evening, Marrowbone realizes his visit to the province won’t be so short after all . . . especially when Simon Bentcross reenters his life. In addition to their conflicted passion, Simon’s involvement in the mysterious Tower Hole project and Clancy’s involvement with a mysterious mutant lead to a growing host of complications and dangers. As if their affair weren’t star-crossed enough, both vampire and mortal become hunted men -- in Purinton, Taintwell, and beyond.
~ Excerpt Coming Soon ~
When vampire Clancy Marrowbone returns to Purin province 22 months after his departure, he intends only to visit briefly with his Branded Mongrel friend Fanule Perfidor in the village of Taintwell. He also intends to avoid his former lover, the unfortunately mortal Simon Bentcross. What would be the point of rekindling their affair? Marrowbone merely wants to know how Simon is faring.
Quite well, it turns out. Bentcross, who now owns a machinery repair shop, has designed a submersible vessel for underwater exploration. He’ll be manning his “Bubble” for a marine research expedition shrouded in secrecy.
Vaguely troubled after his visit with Perfidor, the restless vampire stops at a deserted stretch of beach in Purinton, the provincial capital. He needs time to reflect before he moves on. But two unexpected turns, including a startling discovery, substantially alter his plans.
By the following evening, Marrowbone realizes his visit to the province won’t be so short after all . . . especially when Simon Bentcross reenters his life. In addition to their conflicted passion, Simon’s involvement in the mysterious Tower Hole project and Clancy’s involvement with a mysterious mutant lead to a growing host of complications and dangers. As if their affair weren’t star-crossed enough, both vampire and mortal become hunted men -- in Purinton, Taintwell, and beyond.
~ Excerpt Coming Soon ~
May 31, 2013
Git 'er Submitted!
In the publishing world, that's the logical followup to "git 'er done."
As e-publishers become ever more flooded with submissions, the amount of time between submission and acceptance, and acceptance and publication, keeps stretching. And stretching. How might these facts -- the glut and the resulting lag times -- be affecting writers?
I'm starting to feel increasingly desperate to turn in a piece before it meets my standards, just to get a place card in a publication queue. Other writers probably feel the same way. Quick, get it in, just get this baby in so it won't be published next fucking year . . . or the year after!
The early days of e-publishing spoiled me. Acceptance of a manuscript often came within days, and publication, within two or three months. There were far fewer authors, too, and self-publishing was virtually nonexistent.
Now, though, there seems to be a panicked approach to authorship. Git 'er done! Git 'er in! Git on to the next one! Hustle, hustle, HUSTLE!
The current realities of publishing have been preying on my mind. I sank hours into finessing Merman (due out this summer) after I signed the contract. This is ass-backwards for me. Fortunately, incorporating changes into the manuscript hasn't been a big deal. It wasn't as if the text was mess when I turned it in, but it wasn't the best it could be, either. I couldn't rest easy until I did more sculpting and polishing.
How many writers, I wonder, might be falling into the "git 'er done and git 'er in" mindset and NOT bothering with any further self-editing? How many rely solely on their editors to make their work presentable? I've read/tried to read a number of books lately that seemed to have been submitted before their time and then promptly forgotten about as the authors likely rushed headlong into new projects. Hurry, hurry! Publish or perish!
The new publishing timeframe, a result of the increasing spate of new writers, might not be an issue for authors who either a.) don't depend on their royalties as a significant part of their income, or b.) don't have egos that continually need to be fed. But too many of us do depend on royalties or do have voracious egos that thrive on constant attention from the reading public.
It's a shame that speed now seems to be the name of the writing game. A frantic effort is rarely a careful one.
As e-publishers become ever more flooded with submissions, the amount of time between submission and acceptance, and acceptance and publication, keeps stretching. And stretching. How might these facts -- the glut and the resulting lag times -- be affecting writers?
I'm starting to feel increasingly desperate to turn in a piece before it meets my standards, just to get a place card in a publication queue. Other writers probably feel the same way. Quick, get it in, just get this baby in so it won't be published next fucking year . . . or the year after! The early days of e-publishing spoiled me. Acceptance of a manuscript often came within days, and publication, within two or three months. There were far fewer authors, too, and self-publishing was virtually nonexistent.
Now, though, there seems to be a panicked approach to authorship. Git 'er done! Git 'er in! Git on to the next one! Hustle, hustle, HUSTLE!
The current realities of publishing have been preying on my mind. I sank hours into finessing Merman (due out this summer) after I signed the contract. This is ass-backwards for me. Fortunately, incorporating changes into the manuscript hasn't been a big deal. It wasn't as if the text was mess when I turned it in, but it wasn't the best it could be, either. I couldn't rest easy until I did more sculpting and polishing.
How many writers, I wonder, might be falling into the "git 'er done and git 'er in" mindset and NOT bothering with any further self-editing? How many rely solely on their editors to make their work presentable? I've read/tried to read a number of books lately that seemed to have been submitted before their time and then promptly forgotten about as the authors likely rushed headlong into new projects. Hurry, hurry! Publish or perish! The new publishing timeframe, a result of the increasing spate of new writers, might not be an issue for authors who either a.) don't depend on their royalties as a significant part of their income, or b.) don't have egos that continually need to be fed. But too many of us do depend on royalties or do have voracious egos that thrive on constant attention from the reading public.
It's a shame that speed now seems to be the name of the writing game. A frantic effort is rarely a careful one.
May 28, 2013
Hop Winner!
BIG thanks to all who participated in this year's Hop Against Homophobia and Transphobia. Reading about your feelings and experiences was just as enlightening, just as encouraging as reading all the posts. Voices united have always managed to effect change, as long as the people behind the voices exercise patience and persistence.
Speaking of which . . . I also have to applaud the efforts of the hop's organizers: Erica Pike, NJ Nielsen (so nice to see both of you here!), K-lee Klein, Cherie Noel, and Sasha L. Miller. This was their second year of pulling this mammoth event together, and if that doesn't epitomize devotion to a cause, nothing does.
Anyway, the randomly-drawn winner of my humble giveaway is CAROLYN. I always hesitate to say "congratulations," 'cause it's not as if an ebook from me is like a free cruise. :)
May 16, 2013
Exposure Therapy
We’re disgusted by them, these divisive and destructive forces called homophobia and transphobia. We don’t want them to exist any more than we want war to exist. We hope our politicians and courts and schools work assiduously to eliminate both. But what's the real silver bullet that will guarantee eradication?
I believe it's what mental health professionals call exposure therapy. Granted, that's a frustratingly slow bullet, but it's an effective one. Enough of these bullets will eventually whittle homophobia and transphobia down to a religious anachronism, a prejudice to which only the most fervent fundamentalists will cling.
So how do we allies implement this strategy? By integrating the GLBTQ people we know into our everyday activities and conversations, thus exposing our relatives, friends, neighbors, and coworkers to the nonthreatening nature of a group they might be wary of. We do it by demonstrating, without either apology or fanfare, how our lives have been enriched by these associations.
Consider the powerful movie American History X. In it, Edward Norton's character, a vicious white supremacist, is shorn of his hatred by the simple act of working with a black man in a prison laundry. Sure, the film is fiction . . . yet it isn't.
Exposure therapy works. In terms of reorienting attitudes, it works better than classroom instruction and Constitutional amendments. How has any minority ultimately achieved genuine acceptance and respect? Primarily through this, the quiet and relentless stripping away of misconceptions born of ignorance; through believers in equality leading by example rather than strident exhortation.
So maybe, just maybe, if we think of the homophobic people in our lives the same way we think of other phobics -- those with irrational fears of airplanes or insects, water or heights -- and we try to “cure” them through exposure to what they fear, we can make significant inroads.
Even if it’s one person at a time.
*
If you feel like commenting on or tweeting this post (and I get ten or more responses), I'll gladly enter you into a drawing for a download of one of my m/m romance titles -- your choice. You can find them all HERE. The deadline is May 27.
Be sure to check out at least some of the other participants in the Hop Against Homophobia. Man, it's a big one!
Main PageFacebook pageTwitter: @HAHAT_HOP and #HAHATInternational Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia
May 9, 2013
My Guest, Jamie Fessenden!
I'm pleased to welcome fellow Dreamspinner author Jamie Fessenden to my blog today. If you leave a comment below, you'll be entered in a drawing for a free download of his latest m/m release, Murderous Requiem. (Honestly, I'm intrigued by this book. One reviewer has already told me she thinks it's fabulous!)
* * *
Murderous Requiem is a contemporary occult mystery that takes place in rural New Hampshire, but much of the mystery revolves around one of the key figures in the Italian Renaissance, Marsilio Ficino. Ficino lived from 1433 to 1499 in Florence, Italy. His father was a physician whose patron was Cosimo de Medici, the immensely influential figure about whom Pope Pius II once said, “He it is who decides peace and war. He is king in all but name.”Having such a powerful patron proved fortuitous, of course. Cosimo de Medici took Ficino into his household as a young man and later placed him at the head of his refounded platonic academy. But Ficino was a brilliant man, above and beyond the circumstances of his birth, and he excelled in several fields. He became a physician like his father and had a talent for music. It was Ficino who first translated the complete works of Plato from ancient Greek into Latin, along with several works on alchemy, including the Corpus Hermiticum, and throughout his life he worked to reconcile his knowledge of neoplatonism and alchemy with his Christian faith.
Unlike the Catholic Church, in which he became a priest, Ficino didn’t see any conflict between belief in these occult philosophies and Christianity. And when he was brought before the Inquisition under Pope Innocent VIII for his writings on astrology—twice—he managed to convince the inquisitors of his piety and saved himself from execution. Eventually, he and Pope Innocent became friends.
But one of the things about Ficino that fascinates me the most is the fact that he was gay and surprisingly open about it, considering the time period. He wrote often of the beauty of “platonic love”—the pure love that can be had between two men—and is credited with introducing the concept to the west. (Not that there was no “platonic love” going on in the west before Ficino, but he first wrote about it in a scholarly fashion and associated it with the writings of Plato.) It was only his condemnation of sodomy in his commentaries that prevented that from blowing up on him.
He appears to have had a long-term “platonic” relationship with Giovanni Cavalcanti, an Italian poet who studied at the platonic academy and lived with Ficino at his villa. Ficino dedicated his essay De amore (“On love”) to Cavalcanti and wrote several passionate love letters to the man, whom he referred to in the letters as Giovanni amico mio perfettisimo ("Giovanni my most perfect friend"). These were published while Ficino was still living. After Ficino’s death, it was only his well-known devotion to his faith and, no doubt, his influential friends, that prevented his homosexuality from becoming a scandal.
BOOK GIVEAWAY
I’m giving away a copy of Murderous Requiem this weekend! Just leave a comment on this blog with your email or email me directly at jamesfessenden@hotmail.com to enter the drawing!
Blurb for Murderous Requiem:
Jeremy Spencer never imagined the occult order he and his boyfriend, Bowyn, started as a joke in college would become an international organization with hundreds of followers. Now a professor with expertise in Renaissance music, Jeremy finds himself drawn back into the world of free love and ceremonial magick he’d left behind, and the old jealousies and hurt that separated him from Bowyn eight years ago seem almost insignificant. Then Jeremy begins to wonder if the centuries-old score he’s been asked to transcribe hides something sinister. With each stanza, local birds flock to the old mansion, a mysterious fog descends upon the grounds, and bats swarm the temple dome. During a séance, the group receives a cryptic warning from the spirit realm. And as the music’s performance draws nearer, Jeremy realizes it may hold the key to incredible power—power somebody is willing to kill for.
Buy Murderous Requiem HERE.
About the Author:
Jamie Fessenden set out to be a writer in junior high school. He published a couple short pieces in his high school's literary magazine and had another story place in the top 100 in a national contest, but it wasn't until he met his partner, Erich, almost twenty years later, that he began writing again in earnest. With Erich alternately inspiring and goading him, Jamie wrote several screenplays and directed a few of them as micro-budget independent films. His latest completed work premiered at the Indie Fest 2009 in Los Angeles and also played at the Austin Gay and Lesbian International Film Festival two weeks later.
After nine years together, Jamie and Erich have married and purchased a house together in the wilds of Raymond, New Hampshire, where there are no street lights, turkeys and deer wander through their yard, and coyotes serenade them on a nightly basis. Jamie currently works as technical support for a computer company in Portsmouth, NH, but fantasizes about someday quitting his day job to be a full-time writer.
Visit Jamie HERE.
May 8, 2013
Guest Post & Giveaway: Jamie Fessenden!
My fellow Dreamspinner author Jamie Fessenden has agreed to honor my blog with a visit on Friday, May 10 to discuss a contemporary mystery, an obscure bit of 15th-century Italian history, and the occult -- all of which happen to be interrelated. Sound intriguing? Trust me, it is!
Jamie will also be hosting a giveaway for his recent release, Murderous Requiem (the aforementioned mystery). I'll keep his post up through the weekend, so you'll have three days to enter.
See you then!
Jamie will also be hosting a giveaway for his recent release, Murderous Requiem (the aforementioned mystery). I'll keep his post up through the weekend, so you'll have three days to enter.
See you then!
April 22, 2013
A Song for Boston. . . and Beyond
This song by dear, sweet Richie Havens, who just passed away, makes me think of everything that's happened in and around Boston in the past week, and all the people who were affected.
All the people.
All the people.
