David O'Sullivan's Blog, page 33

A great writer

I had a chance

to open the notebook

of a man who wrote poems.

He had struggled all his life

and never been published

yet he wrote

and taught others how to write.

I had never taken his class

but I heard wonderful things

I thought there may be secrets I can find

within this black note book

I turned the pages

and sheet after sheet

were sketches

of naked men and women

joined in lust

of pointed penises

and revealed female genitalia.

I was amazed. There were no poems

only images.

Once, in an all boys high school

I hated a teacher and she me

I had drawn innocent cartoons in my books,

of cars and trees.

During class she caught me drawing and said;

stop drawing doodles in your books

your books are full of doodles.

She knew what she was saying.

Hey everyone- check out my new Facebook authors page at

https://www.facebook.com/DavidGOSullivan1

Please give it a like and help me gain a bit of support.

The Bomber will arrive June 24th from Pen Name Publishing, check it out at goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24910237-the-bomber?ac=1

The Bomber

davidgosullivan:

A review for my new novel The Bomber, I am so happy to read this, please have a look.

Originally posted on The Thoughts of Primrose:

Hello everyone,

Today’s post, I am happy to announce, is a review of a book by the name of The Bomber by David O’Sullivan, which is to be released on June 24th this year.

It is available for pre-order here:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VQHFI9E/ref=cm_sw_su_dp

David O’Sullivan, the author of this fantastic novel also has a blog which is most definitely worth checking out. It can be found here:

http://davidgosullivan.com/

So go and have a look at it after reading the review!

This book was a unique and fascinating read. It has a different tone and voice to other books that I have read, and concerns itself with new ideas that are not often explored.

Today’s destination: Soho, America.

If I were to sum this book up in a word, it would be:

Different – (adj.) distinct; separate

The Bomber is a tale of a soldier trying to fit back into a society that no longer makes…

View original 529 more words

Peter Monn Interview

Today I have my interview with Pen Name Publishing’s Peter Monn.  He is the author of The Before Now and After Then as well as a contributing writer to The Huffington Post and a lover of Halloween. (I also love Halloween).

1. Please tell me about yourself.

I love Halloween. The whole idea of dressing up as something else and going from house to house to either scare people or get candy is marvelous. I also am in love with old Hitchcock films. I am addicted to strong coffee, as well as alcohol, but I’ve been sober for 20 years. I’m married to a 30 year man from Venezuela so I can say I’m in an intergenerational, biracial, same-sex marriage. Oh, and I’m a writer.

2. What do you like to read?

It really depends. Because I’ve been writing a lot of young adult, I’ve been reading a lot of young adult books. I’ve probably read everything that came out in the last two years that’s been on the bestseller list. I also like reading pulp mystery novels, that have no depth but engage you in a great chase or story.

3. What are you reading right now and what do you think you will read next?

I’m currently reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. So many people have recommended it to me. I have to say, I’m not loving it so far. I’m also reading The Mysteries of Pittsburg by Michael Chabon and I’m totally loving it. Reading it feels like eating a juicy pear, the sweetness pouring all around my mouth and I have to eat it slowly because I want to savor every word.

4. Why do you like to write?

I like to lie. Not really. I write because I love telling stories. When I was younger I just loved the idea of writing stories or books and most of them were mysteries or chase scenarios but in the last year it has become very important for me to write with intention. I’m not willing to write a book anymore that doesn’t have some lesson or some aha moment in it because after all, what’s the point. Life is too short not to move someone emotionally. And in all honestly, I’m good at moving people emotionally. I suck at writing suspense and mystery novels. That is a true art form.

5. Tell us about where you come from and where you live now.

I was born in Chicago and moved to Indianapolis, Indiana in the middle of the United States when I was four. It is boring here, but a great place to raise of family and drive around late at night on deserted roads. My husband and I do not plan on raising a family but I do love a good night drive. Plus, our family is here so this is our home, although we plan to move to Miami within the next few years.

6. If you could invite any person, alive today or from history, to a dinner party who would you invite and why?

I answer this the exact same way every time I’m asked, which seems to be often. Oprah Winfrey. She is way too wise, way too creative, and has way too much power. Plus, I like to think she and I would make great friends.

7. What advice can you give people trying to achieve their dreams?

Honestly, I didn’t understand this until after I was 40, but you literally can achieve anything you set your mind to having. The trick is wanting it bad enough. You have to put action into anything you want in your life, but if you’re willing to do the work, you’ll achieve your dreams. So ask yourself, how bad do I want this?

8. Can you tell us about your book The Before Now and After Then.

It is a young adult novel about a gay teenager’s quest for himself after the death of his identical twin brother. It is also a simple teen love story, which is something I would have wanted to read when I was in high school. It has very cool musical references, original drinks from Starbucks, a righteous car and lots of kissing. It’s a cute story with a magical premise.

9. Can you tell us anything about the book you are working on and your inspiration.

The book I’m currently working on is based on lessons I learned from my mother, who passed away seven years ago. And even though she is my inspiration, it is probably more about making the most of your life, which I guess is my true inspiration.

10. Can you give us a quote from your favorite book?

“First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Atticus Finch from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

Peter’s book is available right now. It is published by Pen Name Publishing.

http://amzn.com/1941541089

The Bomber

The Bomber, my debut novel, coming June 24th is now available for pre release order on amazon. You can order the e-book now and have it delivered to your device the minute it becomes available.

Please follow this link to have a look:

http://amzn.com/B00VQHFI9E

If you would prefer the hardcover book it will be available on the above date.

I would love it if you would add me on goodreads, put The Bomber on your to read list and after you’ve read my debut novel leave a comment on goodreads and amazon.

I hope to have your support and hopefully I can get as many people reading my novel as I can.

Here is the goodreads link:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24910237-the-bomber

Letter to Sylvia

Dear Sylvia

I am sorry it has taken me so long to write again. I have been trying to finish two short stories I am writing for a magazine that has opened it’s doors for submissions.

I have been trying to write something of only a few thousand words but tells a big story. I am caught on the endings. A short story is difficult to tell, especially when the reader has such a limited time to become accustomed to the characters and setting.

I am writing away each night and I am thinking about trying to get up early and do some work then but for all my good intentions I cannot crawl out of bed so early.

A person I know who teaches at the university had his poem win an award. I was able to read his work and apart from my usual jealousy, I cannot bring myself to like what he has written. It is too pompous by far, the man is so wrapped up with his intellectual life he has lost the art of actually creating something worthwhile. Read this example, a stanza I have chosen:

Melting grace of far away reverences,

the crawling race of dirt-men

fall into the river

and pollute the water

their mud, their filth

fill the stream and choke

the clear waters

no one may drink now.

———————————-

Well I suppose it is not too bad. It may be that I would kill to work in a university so I look with envy on his work. He was flown to London last month simply to visit a poets’ conference.

All paid for, including a tour of Ireland.

I met your friend Johanna yesterday. She is still working nights in the mens’ club. She swears she does not have sex with them, only a massage and a hand job. She hates men now, she cannot stand them. It disgusts her to have to see them naked and smell them. It makes her angry when they are rude and demanding. I can only relate to this in that when I worked that job cleaning public toilets, I began to hate people too. Their smells, their noises, once I saw two women steal every toilet paper roll and sneak them out in their handbags.

I continue to look forward to seeing you. I hope the job is going well. It amazes me that they leave you to look after their children while they go away for weeks and weeks. Remember when we were seventeen and we were going to buy a caravan and live on the beach? Our dreams of sitting in the beach and working at what ever job came along for money and I would write and you would paint?

How is your painting going? I never thought writing would be such a struggle. It is worthwhile though. To thrust something you love into such an apathetic universe. To try and create a light and hope it will burn through the wet and windy night.

Write to me soon,

Love,

David.

Spotlight Interview: David O’Sullivan

Spotlight Interview: David O'Sullivan.

Letters to Sylvia

Dear Sylvia,

Thank you for inviting me to the summer house. I will be very glad to come. I hear the swimming is nice on the coast where you are and that they have an area fenced off in the ocean for safe swimming. (I am afraid of sharks)

I agree the sun and the salt water is good for health.

Who are the people who own the house? It sounds like a perfect job. You mentioned they have a huge library of books. That will give you time to study and write. I will bring the books I am working on at the moment. I have been going through a very rough patch with my writing all the month. I cannot seem to put down enough words, where I used to be creating 500-1000 a day I am now struggling to reach 300 or so. It rained here where I am and it is starting to get cold so I will be very glad to be in the warm weather with you.

I cannot wait to bicycle to town with you. The place sounds very nice, how far is the ride? sixteen kilometers each way? Good ride. Swimming, bicycling, eating at that restaurant in the bay, shopping in the farmers market and endless books. I am very glad to know you.

I will write again tomorrow and I will see you next week.

love, David

One of my favorite movie quotes

I’ve… seen things you people wouldn’t believe…

Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.

I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.

All those… moments… will be lost in time, like [small cough] tears… in… rain. Time… to die…

Spiritual Teacher

I found a guru on the internet

this guru I went to see.

Sixty dollars an hour

and that was reasonable

I had heard of people being charged a hundred.

Now carry the tourist’s luggage to the top of the mountain

and help them into their cabins.

I did this all day and when the cabins were full

I went to see him.

He had a sign that read

Luggage carried to the top of the hill

five dollars. Pay here.

It was a good lesson.

Hardy

I met Hardy when I was sixteen. He was new to my school and he stood in a corner behind the library and looked angry. We started talking and a friendship took off from there.

He was from out of town and he had a tattoo. He told me he had come home one night, late, and his father and some of his buddies were drinking in the house. His father had a far away look.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

Hardy sat and one of his old man’s friends had a tatto gun. Hardy had closed his eyes as the man cut into him. He told me to avoid any reaction to the pain he concentrated on the noise the gun made, a loud buzz, he said. The man had drawn a skull on his arm. He showed me, it was incredible.

His father drank a lot. The old man would be in the sitting room of their house when ever I came over with a bottle of something beside him. He would not look at you, only straight ahead, his face burning red. I was afraid. We would go to Hardy’s room and listen to heavy metal and talk about guns.

Once, with his father away, we opened the liquor cabinet and became drunk on vodka. I could not handle it and hurt myself walking home.

One night we walked along an old park in an expensive part of town. A white picket fence beside us.

“Watch this,” Hardy said and then using only his fist began to break the timber pickets. They snapped under each punch, the painted white timber with yellow innards shattering and flying off like broken teeth, the fence destroyed with each punch.

“Try it,” he said.

I punched one and it made no effect, my hand throbbed with pain, my knuckles red and swollen.

“You don’t have the knack,” he laughed.

A man from inside the house pushed a window up and yelled, I wanted to go but Hardy turned red and would have attacked him, I think, if i did not drag him away.

Once he turned up to my work in a large red car. A big V8 coupe. He was sitting behind the wheel laughing and smoking a cigarette. I knew he did not have a license.

“You drive,” he said.

“Whose car?” I asked.

“Mine.”

I could see the ignition was broken. It was a beautiful car, smooth and loud. It jumped at the twitch of my foot. We drove around town for hours until we found someone worth racing. We took off along a quiet road that runs past the town’s garbage tip. We were in the correct lane, our opposition next to us. Our car was too fast but I played with them until another car came along and ran off the road. I did not stop to see what happened, we took off. It was the first time I had seen Hardy scared and suddenly I felt I had gone too far.

I waited one night with him at the railway station. It was midnight and he was taking the train out of town to visit his mother. I had school the next day, he was going to be away for a week, he said. He’d catch up; “all the teachers are motherfuckers anyway.”

We stood under the bright lights of that cold night, a large beetle numb with cold, fell on it’s back and flapped it’s wings. The noise drew our attention to it and he righted it, but it rolled over again. “This is the life,” he spoke and looked at me, “we are young men, still boys, and it’s all before us.” His train pulled in and I watched him leave.

I left town at the end of the year. I told him goodbye. He had no idea what he wanted to do. “Maybe the army, I don’ know,” he said. “Come see me when you are back in town, you can use my weights, you need to work on your strength.”

I drove away and thought about it. We were just boys doing stupid things.

I saw him once when I came back to town. He was hanging out with a friend from the army, though he had never joined himself. We went swimming and then drove around town. A young man with long blonde hair stood in the old quarter of town. Hardy knew him, he rolled down the window and screamed: “Faggot!”

The young man looked away and folded his arms, afraid.

“We should get out and bash that faggot,” he said to us and we all laughed.

I never went back after that. It did not feel right. It was going back to something I wanted to leave.

A few years later, I heard about him, when we were adults living in a adult world. Hardy had been outside a bar when two thugs had jumped him, beaten him. I don’t know why they attacked him, but he died. It was in a strange city, not in our home town. It was a cold winters night and he died on the hard cement in the parking lot. I imagine that night where he lay, his breath in thick white clouds, blood on his face. I never thought he could be beaten, not Hardy.

My debut novel The Bomber is out with Pen Name Publishing on June 24th 2015 (one month before Harper Lee’s new novel)