Xavier Leret's Blog: Writer. Believes too many of his own dreams., page 4

How A Wish List Cheered Me UP

It's been a tough old day, lots of looking at my screen wishing that I could produce something new and fresh and exciting. I looked over works in progress that I haven't touched since I started to prepare Heaven Sent for publishing. I looked but I was unable to focus – actually I wanted to destroy what I had written. I guess I still feel quite drained from finishing Heaven Sent, I am certainly reeling a bit from the first stages of marketing the book. It is amazing how you can spend so long writing a piece, arrive at the end, feel that rush of euphoria and pride, forget the torment of creation – but then you start back trying to write, and you find yourself feeling worthless again, wracked with self doubt.

There is this wonderful passage from Solzenitsyn's The First Circle which beautifully expresses how I feel.

"There is a law that governs all artistic creation, of which Kondrashove had long been aware, which he tried to resist but to which time after time he freely submitted. This law said that no previous work of his carried any weight, that it could not be counted to the artist's credit. The focal point of all his past experience was always the canvas on which he was working at the time; for him the work in hand was the ultimate expression of his intellect and skill, the first real test of his gifts. But he was so often disappointed. All of his previous works had disappointed him but each time he forgot the despair, so here he was working on something else, and it was again his first work – only now was he really finding how to paint! And again he was in despair, convinced that it was a failure, that his whole life had been wasted and that he was totally devoid of talent."

And then, just as I was about to turn in, switch off my computer, caste the day aside, try to forget it – I get an email saying did you know your book is on a wish list – Freda's Voice 2011 Wish List to be precise. It might seem fickle but I shall now go to bed happy.

Heaven Sent is on Freda's Voice 2011 Wish List

It's been a tough old day, lots of looking at my screen wishing that I could produce something new and fresh and exciting. I looked over works in progress that I haven't touched since I started to prepare Heaven Sent for publishing. I looked but I was unable to focus – actually I wanted to destroy what I had written. I guess I still feel quite drained from finishing Heaven Sent, I am certainly reeling a bit from the first stages of marketing the book. It is amazing how you can spend so long writing a piece, arrive at the end, feel that rush of euphoria and pride, forget the torment of creation – but then you start back trying to write, and you find yourself feeling worthless again, wracked with self doubt.

There is this wonderful passage from Solzenitsyn's The First Circle which beautifully expresses how I feel.

"There is a law that governs all artistic creation, of which Kondrashove had long been aware, which he tried to resist but to which time after time he freely submitted. This law said that no previous work of his carried any weight, that it could not be counted to the artist's credit. The focal point of all his past experience was always the canvas on which he was working at the time; for him the work in hand was the ultimate expression of his intellect and skill, the first real test of his gifts. But he was so often disappointed. All of his previous works had disappointed him but each time he forgot the despair, so here he was working on something else, and it was again his first work – only now was he really finding how to paint! And again he was in despair, convinced that it was a failure, that his whole life had been wasted and that he was totally devoid of talent."

And then, just as I was about to turn in, switch off my computer, caste the day aside, try to forget it – I get an email saying did you know your book is on a wish list – Freda's Voice 2011 Wish List to be precise. It might seem fickle but I shall now go to bed happy.

On Going Indie

This is a piece that I wrote for The Write To Make A Living and is republished here with Stacey's kind permission.

When I decided to publish Heaven Sent in November last year I had no idea how much work would be involved. There was so much I didn't know. I thought, well hey, I've finished the book, lets get it out. I'd had my eye on the e-pub explosion and I was thankful that my novel was ready.

I look back and I see that I was all over the place. I was editing, copy editing at the same time as sussing the indie scene and social networking. I had a twitter account but I didn't use it, I think I had 20 followers and only 150 friends on FB. So I set about upping my profile. I started twittering like a loon and just friending everybody on the Creative Writing scene. I found that I actually preferred Twitter and now use that more for selling myself. Actually I have a much larger network of pals on FB but I've tended to step back a bit because it seems, to me at least, that FB is much more of a friend thing – it irritates the hell out of me when people try and sell me something on FB or post on my wall, whereas I love it on twitter. That's not to say that I don't use FB, I'm just careful about how I go about it.

The final editing process took a lot longer than I thought it would. I thought I had edited thoroughly when I was writing the piece. I might write 1200 words a day but there were a few times when I would cut 20, 000 words without blinking – ok, it would take me days to build up the courage to cut like that – it was a bit like pulling a scab. I must have cut at 120,000 words to produce Heaven Sent. Narrative threads thrown on the pyre, multiple point of views – so much. Then, when I sat down to copy edit I would discover little mistakes here and there – actually some of them were huge – once a paragraph just cut off (never cut whilst drinking wine). Daizee's dialect was all over the place too. Tidying her up took weeks because Bristolian is like another language and the more I began to play with it the more I shaped her character and her use of vocal poetry. Carlo also took a lot of time. There were moments where I had rushed over psychological motivations. He goes on quite a journey and to make it work each moment needs to be given its time. It was imperative to make his internal logic work, as he is the character that the reader is inside, it is his feelings and observations that provoke empathy and emotional contact. These are the elements that I think are so important in a novel. As a reader I want to feel. I want to be touched by the work. I want to examine the world and have the world presented in such away that I am forced to question what I see. Of course I also want to be entertained, books films and TV are essentially forms of entertainment. You don't want to set out and bore people with long rants, you need to entertain them into listening to what you have to say. Novels are powerful because, unlike the other art forms where you watch and observe action, as a writer you are mainlining the story and the experiences of your characters into the readers mind – that makes it extraordinary.

Through twitter I came across the term 'blog tour', checked it out on google, read a couple of writer's sites and thought, 'right, I'm going to do that'. This was about five or six weeks ago. I checked a couple of blogs, got a sense of what it would entail and then started to write emails to bloggers. Then I discovered bookblogs.ning and slowly a whole new world opened out for me. The important thing is to get your name out there, no one else will do it for you – even if you have a trade publisher behind you you still have to put in the leg work to sell yourself. Going indie takes away the pretense that someone will do it for you. There is no one to blame if it goes wrong.

Twitter introduced me to a whole bunch of writers and I've made some great friendships. Its good finding that there are others in the same boat, driving this e-pub revolution, removing the stigma of going solo and taking control of their creative destiny.

So far, I've been getting some really excellent reviews, the kind of reviews you dream of getting when you start out writing. Whether this will translate into sales I don't know, who can say? Many books get raves and then disappear. What I do know is that it is up to me to fight as hard as I can to get heard. I have spent a long time writing Heaven Sent. Now it is now time for it to be read.

I've Been Interviewed by the character Daizee from Heaven Sent

I wrote this originally as a guest post for the blog vvb32 reads. When you get a mo you should out Velvet's blog, its really great. But for now, I shall hand you over to Daisy Byatt.

DAIZEE: Orright Mistur Writers, I got you's owt ere ta tawk a bit abowt dis ere book you's az written, an I ziz in.

XAVIER: That's right Daizee.

DAIZEE: Ets nice ere ain't et, looken owt over dat sea. You's don't mind climben up dis tower, et woz a bit of a wey up?

XAVIER: I don't mind at all Daizee.

DAIZEE: Dat moon, Mistur Writers, etz like a jewel in some tart's ear, an dem stars ez like flicked up gizzum.

XAVIER: Well I guess that's one way of describing it.

DAIZEE: I'm fucken wiv ya Mistur Writers. So whir's dis book come from den?

XAVIER: I began it about six years ago.

DAIZEE: Woz I en et bak den?

XAVIER: Yes. You and Carlo. I began it with Carlo and you appeared pretty quickly. When you appeared I knew what the book was going to be about.

DAIZEE: Ev you's new wot et woz abowt, why de fuck did et take you's so long ta write et?

XAVIER: To begin with I wrote pages of prose without dialogue. I tried to change the tone of the prose to fit either your voice or that of Carlo's. I was floundering really, wanting to describe what was in your head and his, whilst also trying to create a story. I kept getting stuck. And I had other things that needed to be written. I wrote a couple of plays, directed a couple of plays and wrote and directed two movies. There was two or three years when I didn't touch the book. It was always there though, on the back of mind. There was a couple of times when I wanted to give up entirely.

DAIZEE: Why didn't you's?

XAVIER: You wouldn't let me. You were always there. Everyday of that six years you spoke to me.

DAIZEE: I knowz et.

XAVIER: You needed your story to be told and I wanted to tell it. I wanted to tell the world that you're not a lost cause that whatever happens you are someone worth fighting for. That so often kids like you are thrown on the scrap heap. My mother once worked in this secure unit and she told me this story of a girl who's dad sold her to sailors from out the back of his van when she was just three years old.

DAIZEE: Dat be I.

XAVIER: Yes, that be you. Well the model for you. I don't know what happened to that girl, but I've always worried about her.

DAIZEE: So who's Carlo den?

XAVIER: Carlo is the kid that I never was. I never had the guts that he has, to do what he does, for you. Like him I had a very religious background and like him I fought against it. I still do. I might be an atheist but I still battle with many of the questions that Carlo battles with. I can't get over the way the world is.

DAIZEE: How fucked up et ez?

XAVIER: The way people are.

DAIZEE: I knows et.

XAVIER: Yeah, you do.

DAIZEE: So why's you got I to tawk like you's as – I mean like dis funnee spellin an dat.

XAVIER: It's your accent Daizee. You're from Bristol and Bristolian is like another language and I really wanted to capture that. I didn't always write you like this, but I always heard you like this. I love the way it looks on the page, too. It makes you stand out. I know it is hard for the reader to read, certainly at first, I suspect that it makes the reader judge you too – like the other characters in the book. It makes your journey with the reader all the more real and in turn all the more powerful. And I hope transformative.

DAIZEE: Carlo doesn't see me like that.

XAVIER: Carlo loves you.

DAIZEE: Yah tis troo.

XAVIER: Yes, Daizee, it is true.

DAIZEE: Dat moon.

XAVIER: What about it?

DAIZEE: Et ain't wot I sed et woz.

XAVIER: No?

DAIZEE: Etz like your eye wotchen over I, when I's wiv Carlo.

XAVIER: Is it?

DAIZEE: Yah, tis troo.

 

Another 5***** For Heaven Sent. "Wham! this one hit me hard. I was glued to this one to the end."

Another fantastic five star rating for HEAVEN SENT this time from vvb32reads. I feel completely humbled. Check it out here and sign up to win a copy of the novel. Don't wait, go get!

Other news includes a story of mine has been selected for this years MIR8 collection. It will be coming out in September. I'm very pleased to have once again been selected and that my work will appear alongside that of some extraordinary up and coming talent.

Got to run as I am taking the kids for a picnic, by a brook, where I have promised them there is a troll.

The King Whisperers – Review

The King Whisperers by Doctor Kerwin Swint takes as its subject matter a vast array of some 47 characters including Machiavelli, Dick Cheney, the entire cast of Hitler's support act, and Rasputin. An impressive entourage of personalities that are, with the exception of Stalin, the figures behind the great political movers and shakers of history. It is a book that if one is to believe the marketing promises an enlightening and entertaining read. Unfortunately I found it overly simplistic, and more worthy of Fox News than a place in the historical cannon.

No better moment encapsulates this than the opening of the chapter entitled 'Truly Evil' where Swint brandishes the questions,

'Does evil exist? Or does it depend on whose side you're on?"

And then he goes on to quote from Deuteronomy the battle of Jahaz and the massacre that followed in which everybody – men, women and children – are put to the sword because God ordered it. Swint concludes this biblical account with the flourish, 'was this evil?' Well, it wasn't a very nice thing to do Dr Swint, but quite how this progresses the study of atrocity in some meaningful way escapes me. Neither do I think it is helpful to dismiss atrocity as simply an act of 'evil', or the 'madness' of individuals because when they are carried out by vast numbers of people – as is the case with the Nazis, Pol Pot, the warring factions of the former Yugoslavia or the butchery of Rwanda – I think perhaps some more robust analysis is required, and this cannot be achieved in three or four pages per lifetime. Also, Swint questions whether Saddam Hussein, Osama Bin Laden and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad are representations of evil but neglects to ask the same of Dick Cheney and his pals (who lied to bring about a UN resolution to justify their war and are responsible for a significant number of deaths and untold suffering – none of which is alluded to, by the way, in the section devoted to the former Vice President). Ultimately, however, the word 'evil', for me, conjures up visions of demons and devils and is more akin to the land of 'make believe', failing entirely to address the underlying conditions that precipitate bloodshed and wholesale slaughter.

I was surprised to find the section on the mythical biblical character Aman of the old testament in a book passing itself off as an analytical study of history. Placing biblical characters alongside characters that are known to have historically existed – in the real flesh and blood sense – is a little like teaching creationism alongside evolution – if that is not science then this sure is not history. It also struck me that elsewhere in the book quotations are naked of footnotes or the traditional use of numbered referencing, but golly does Dr Swint throw in his correct referencing to biblical verse, it's Deuteronomy verse this and Esther verse that, so much so that I thought I was trapped in some kind of Sunday School nightmare.

There were many moments that left me shaking my head, sometimes this was just the sweeping speed of years in a paragraph, which can only allow for a superficial reading of events and actions. Then there were statements such as the Byzantine Theodora, wife of Justinian, acted in 'Machiavellian' fashion when those ideas weren't currency until nearly a thousand years later. This strikes me as the misuse of rhetoric to create unnecessary effect – of all the things Theodora may have got up to, being 'Machiavellian' was certainly not one of them. What about the philosophy of her time? Conjure her world for me without superimposing the theories of a much later age.

On occasions the interpretation of events was just plain wrong for example Hugh Despenser was not castrated 'to send a message about his relationship with the king' (Edward II) he was castrated because that constituted the first cut when someone was hanged, drawn and quartered. It was a ritual humiliation, it happened to William Wallace and it happened to Guy Fawkes' corpse once he was cut from the gallows.

It wasn't all bad, the Cardinal Richelieu quote,

"If you give me six lines written by the most honest man, I will find something in them to hang him."

is a real, though rare, gem, but as the book went on I found them less and less.

But nothing more illustrates the lack of scrutiny in the research of this book quite like the section on the Egyptian Vice President Omar Suleiman, under the chapter "Spies". Of the nineteen paragraphs devoted to Suleiman, two of them are concerned with his appearance, typified by this example,

"'He is an impressive man,' an official who had met him said. 'He has

what the Arabs called Hava – meaning dignity. He has presence'."

This is a man that has gone on record as saying that Egypt minus Mubarak is 'not ready for Democracy'. Among the accolades heaped upon Suleiman by Swint is the claim that he is 'a favourite of some Egyptian newspapers'. What Swint neglects to add is that these newspapers are, or at least were, controlled by Mubarak's military dictatorship and were not free in the sense that we in the West would recognise, not by any stretch of the imagination. And considering it is Suleiman that is now pulling the strings, I would very much doubt that the press has been released of their bonds. It seems that because Suleiman flies a standard for the US and Israel and is a forthright ally against radical Islam this somehow makes him wholly acceptable. Acceptable despite the mounting evidence to suggest that not only did Suleiman oversee a state system of torture, sitting in on numerous interrogations personally, he was, according to Jane Mayer Of The New Yorker,

"the C.I.A.'s point man in Egypt for renditions—the covert program in

which the C.I.A. snatched terror suspects from around the world and

returned them to Egypt and elsewhere for interrogation, often under

brutal circumstances." Who Is Omar Suleiman by Jane Mayer for The New

Yorker Jan 29 2011

The King Whisperers feels more like a schoolboy project and not the work of a serious historian. The writing is dull and the storytelling unimaginative. I found myself reaching for the likes of Roy Porter, Robert Fisk and Jonathan Glover to remind myself what exciting historical writing should be – prose that fizzes with ideas, multiple points of view and a real attention to detail. It's not just that the author abandons detail in an attempt to run a dash through 47 characters in 281 pages, he abandons atmospheric and evocative storytelling as well. But far worse than this, his schematic sprint is devoid of any kind of reason or thesis. I kept wondering what was the point? Hoping that Dr Swint would enlighten me or at least provide a credible conclusion. But no, there is no conclusion. Not one. Dr Swint dumps the reader like Rasputin a one-night rut, and I for one felt somewhat sullied by the experience.

If you want a thorough historical analysis, written with real verve and multi-dimensional insight, then I would steer well clear.

 

Tour Notes:

Please vote for my blog in the traffic-breaker poll for this tour. The blogger with the most votes wins a free promotional twitterview and a special winner's badge. I want that to be me! You can vote in the poll by visiting the official King Whisperers blog tour page and scrolling all the way to the bottom.

The next word for the book give-away is SWINT. Learn more about the give-away and enter to win 1 of 3 copies on the official King Whisperers blog tour page. The other 2 copies are being given-away courtesy of the GoodReads author program, go here to enter. And don't forget to stop by the Q&A with Kerwin Swint Group to discuss the King Whisperers (including questions from the official book club guide), the author, and his previous works.

Book Trailers for the King Whisperers:

I've been interviewed by Roxelana

I've been interviewed by Roxelana, for her blog, about e-pubbing and my work. Check it out here. I always find it strange reading back what I have said, in fact I always quickly scan the interview, almost through half shut eyes, hardly recognising the person that I was, uncertain of my own voice. In this case I got my wife to read it over just to make sure that I hadn't said anything that might get me into trouble. It's funny, with the other interviews that I have done for Heaven Sent, I was sent the questions and was able to take my time and consider the answers. For this one I spoke to Anna over Skype. It was a really lovely conversation. We chatted for a good hour or so. I came away thinking, that went really well. But as soon as the link came through I thought cripes, what did I say? Please God, don't let me have ranted – I am prone to the odd rant, particularly after a few glasses of wine – not that I had any that night – no no no – sober as judge. After the interview I went for a long bike ride into the countryside surrounding where I live. It was late dusk and everywhere there was blossom. Anyway, I think I have done OK. Phew. Many many thanks to Roxelana.

The First Chapter of HEAVEN SENT – For Your Delectation

The last moult of a caterpillar is quite an event. The new skin of the organism is not the skin of before but a new form, the pupa. The dermal cells of a butterfly are trimorphic: caterpillar, chrysalis and butterfly are all the same. The pupa is a metamorphic transmorphification machine. The larva is dismantled chemically and the embryonic cells divide. Within hours of pupation the adult comes into being, its characteristics are formed, wings, mouth parts, thoracic muscles and legs. When the butterfly breaks free of the pupa haemoglobin is pumped into the wings and they expand and the hormone buriscon makes them hard. In the wind the wings twitch until they take command of the air and in a multi-coloured moment of self-expression the creature lifts, floats and flies.

1.

 

The first time he saw her a shudder passed through him like the word of God through a virgin. He was sixteen years old and on his way home from school, lost in thought thinking about Christ and pain and torment, scourges, blood, demons and eternal damnation; all the subjects that dominated his life as he had grown up. Walking with his head down, not noticing the empty street. The rise of the black tarmac in the road. The foundation brush of dirt. Or the crisp packet in a crinkle twist on the wind.

His lips were mouthing an argument he was imagining he was having with his mother, who had started berating him for watching a movie on a friend's mobile phone, that lunch time, involving two naked girls writhing one on top of the other. The argument had escalated, as it always did, into a full blown ecumenical onslaught, as his mother frantically fought for the safety of his soul, an organ he felt sure did not exist, by employing ever more complex theological debate, veering further and further from the issue at hand, insisting that there was no other God but Christ, who is the light and the truth and his kingdom is full of angels who can pass through this world, under the nailed down lino of our dreams, to walk though walls because they are of another dimension, without their intercession the world would be a far worse place and his love is a beauty that transcends and renders all else inadequate.

With his head shaking he told her that this cannot be true, that angels and demons, gods and sprites just couldn't be and that all the problems and solutions of the world were man-made. Not come from above. And that there is nothing more beautiful than the human form, or the human imagination. The sheer complexity of our organism is God-like. So entangled was he in debate that he didn't see the girl ahead of him in a short skirt and a tight t-shirt with a heart cut into it to reveal the crest of her young breasts, doing a little skitter with her feet, flashing the pantless dimple between her legs at the traffic, high as a kite; her figure tall and slender, her hair short, spiked and fiery red, her eyes emerald volcanic gems.

His mother yelled no, you blaspheme, there is nothing more beautiful or perfect than Christ, born of the virgin. It was at that moment that the girl turned abruptly and he crashed into her, found himself looking into her eyes and, feeling the kiss of the wind flush him of all the baggage of saints and sinners, he heard his inner voice say, no mum, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She is perfect. And when the girl said, look whir yer fucken go'en yer cunt, he saw the sun halo her and flash her hair with a gunpowder dance.

Later, when he got home, and his father said grace before supper, he hardly heard the long paragraphs of prayers or saw the saints nodding on the walls, or the Christ grimace on the cross behind his mother. He was watching the girl as she walked away from him, the sass in her buttocks and back, the bounce in her heels, teasing him on, and he imagined that she stopped and looked back and smiled at him and it was a perfect smile. A holy smile, the kind of smile the virgin gave to the angel before he had his way with her.

And he lay in bed that night and thought of her, tossing and turning, through the darkness of the night, once more beguiled by the fireworks that rollicked in her hair, crackling with all the colours of spring. When he woke, the next morning, he did so with a start. The day began as his life had jolted awake the moment he first saw her. He came in for breakfast but just stared at it and rose early and left, without saying a word to his parents who talked around him. After retracing his steps back to the street corner, he placed himself on the wall opposite to witness the in situ re-enactment of his bump with her and shot in for close ups when he transformed her curse to a smile.

At school he was shut off, staring out into the playground, and when he should have been writing down French, he wrote poems to her. That Sunday he prayed at church that he would meet her, he prayed even though he did not believe in God. In the bathroom, at home, he would stand in front of his mirror and practice what he would say to her, sometimes engaging in arguments so that they could kiss and make up. When he walked home from school he would loiter in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of her. And, more often than not, she was there, outside the old houses with big windows and man size bins, smoking cigarettes, laughing and chatting with the other girls working the afternoon traffic. But a flash of anxiety would cut through him and he would cross to the other side of the road.

One Friday afternoon, whilst engrossed in a phantom conversation with her, explaining that life was not exclusive to earth, but it might be that intelligent life was exclusive to our planet for this moment in time. When our time is done, he mused, a new intelligentsia may sprout into being in another cosmos millions of lights years away. Whose past light has taken whole extinctions to reach us. Giving us a snapshot of time at the birth of stars, heating into being new planets with whole new permutations of life, whose evolution was out of tick with our time. Turning the corner he stopped dead in his tracks. Under a wall that was painted with stars and a moon, ten metres to the left of a bin that looked like a docking pod with the number 1 on it, she stood in a short skirt with bare legs and a T-shirt with the words, heaven sent, embolden in gold across her breasts. At first she pretended not to see him keeping her gaze on something way off down the street. But when he didn't take his eyes off her she shifted her attention to him, scowled and said, fuck off.

He coughed, said, sorry, didn't know what to do, turned, felt her watching him, and, feeling like he was performing unrehearsed in a costume two sizes too small for him, he began to walk away.

Wait, she said.

He stopped and turned back.

Dew gone red.

Have I?

Yeh.

Afraid of the silence he said the first thing that came into his mind. What school do you go to?

The question made her blink. Scaw?

Yeah.

I don't go a scaw.

You don't?

Na.

How come?

Taint no scaw dat wonts I. Ets a fucker.

She took a drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke out.

Whir dew goes? she said.

Bart's.

She nodded.

My name's Carlo, he said. What's yours?

Daizee, she said.

That's a nice name, he said.

Ez et?

Yeah, it's a summer name like the flower.

She almost laughed. Wot, you's a fucken poet?

He felt limp with embarrassment.

Wot can I do's for you's den, Mistur Shakespeares?

I'm going to get a coke, Daizee. Would you like one?

Carlo began to hear music. Her hips began to hustle. A coke? She said.

He couldn't help but smile as he watched her do a little jig. The movement of her hips made her breasts sway. Yes, he said.

I dohn't jus go's wiv any ole cock, she said. I'm no dat sort o… Dew got enee dosh mosh?

Carlo had managed to save two days dinner money, which he planned to spend that weekend at the church youth club. Fasting to save was his parent's idea.

I got me's a righteous feelen bowt dew my sweetz, she said as she took what little Carlo had, like destinee jus poked I.

Have you?

Yah, tis troo, she grinned.

They went for a walk. He brought her an ice cold coke and they sat in a park with swings, a slide and a climbing frame, crushed in by houses and the main road that ran by it that was rammed with the rush hour traffic. They chatted. It was like a real date. For a brief moment he almost heard his mother's voice but Daizee managed to pull him back by saying that his time was up, he said, can we meet again, and she said yeah, shure fing sweetz, I'ziz ooked awl week but I can squeeze a bit of room for dews on Fridi, so ow's abowt dat?

Heaven Sent is available from Amazon and Smashwords

 

 

Check Out My Guest Post On The Write To Make A Living

Stacey Donaldson invited me to write a post about going Indian Jones and putting my novel out all on mi tod. Check it out here.

Another 5***** On Goodreads!

Fantatsic! Another humdinger review on GoodReads. I am doing a guest post on Stacy's site, The Write To Make A Living, which should be up later today, will keep you posted.

Heaven Sent is like Romeo and Juliet turned inside out. Two kids from two different worlds fall in love. Carlo is from a prudish Catholic family, while Daizee is a prostitute who has seen and experienced more than most adults. The sheltered Carlo finds himself thrust into the world that his parents desperately tried to shield from him – all for love. 

This book is not for the light hearted, as the subject matter is very dark. If you enjoy complex characters and you like pondering societal norms, morals, and ethics, this is the book for you. I was very surprised by how much I enjoyed the story. My eyes teared up at the end. 

The author did a fantastic job showing the contrasts of these characters, even down to Daizee's accent. Brilliant!

Stacey Donaldson

GoodReads