Selene Castrovilla's Blog
July 17, 2018
Ready for my Closeup in Newsday!
I was thrilled to be featured in a Newsday article about the Long Island Authors Group–at least, in the photos!
Alas, I was not eligible to be written about in the article, because they were interested in people who published their first book at age 50 or older, I was in my 30’s. This was one case when the early bird was denied the worm! But I will say that I look good. I put on makeup for the occasion!
I guess it’s a compliment, as the article was about what people do in their retirement–and I am far from retired.
I am also amused by being the youngest in the crowd, when I’m used to being with mostly kids and teenagers! The tables are turned with a vengeance!
That’s my friend Dan Mariani next to me, in photo below. From the article:
“Dan Mariani, 62, of Massapequa Park, whose 2016 debut novel, “The Road to Chapultepec Park,” falls into the genre of climate-change science fiction, or “cli-fi,” wanted “to get people to think about the climate a little bit more. I think something is happening to the climate, whether it is man-made or not.”
You can check out his book on Amazon
Read the article: (even though there’s nothing written about me in it, lol!)
May 14, 2018
Come See Me…
I have two exciting events on Long Island this weekend!
On Saturday I’ll be signing my Revolutionary War books as part of:
I-Spy “TURN: Washington’s Spies” Auction, Exhibits, Tours & Spy Themed Activities for the whole family!
May 19 @ 12:00 pm – 5:00 pm
$5 – $25
A fun filled, spy themed day for the whole family at Three Village Historical Society. Visit with costumed docents, Anna Smith Strong, Abraham Woodhull and Benjamin Tallmadge.
Your ticket gets you access to :
AUCTION, 12 pm – 5 pm: BID on memorabilia straight from AMC’s hit show, “TURN: Washington’s Spies” (bidding closes at 4:15pm)
WALKING TOUR, 12 pm – 2 pm: Tri-Spy, Culper Spy Ring Walking Tour with local historian, Margo Arceri
SPY THEMED ACTIVITIES, 12 pm – 4 pm: Costumed Spies leading Museum Tours, Book Signing with Children’s Book Author, Selene Castrovilla, Invisible Ink Demonstrations
WALKING TOUR, 2 pm – 4 pm: Historical Walking Tour with Farmer and Revolutionary War Spy, Abraham Woodhull, played by TVHS Historian, Bev Tyler
WINE, CHEESE & LIVE COLONIAL MUSIC, 3 pm – 5 pm: Complimentary Wine & Cheese served on the Three Village Historical Society Lawn with LIVE Colonial Music from The Three Village Chamber Players.
On Sunday, May 20, I’ll be signing books at the Bethpage Street Fair with LIAG: the Long Island Author’s Guild! Come check out our cool bookstore truck, and meet some of my fellow authors!
We have a mobile bookstore with signed books by Long Island authors!
May 8, 2018
“Brain Dead” Boy Awakens! Ala My Novel SIGNS OF LIFE
There’s big news about a thirteen year old so-called brain dead boy awakening. Trenton McKinley woke up a day before his organs were to be harvested! This undetected brain activity is not as uncommon as you think. Tragically, most of the “not-really brain dead” people can’t communicate that they’re in there in time to save their lives! Trenton’s doctors told his parents that there was no chance of him ever having brain activity again. It is appalling that they could be so wrong–and it is time for doctors to admit that they can’t tell things with such certainty. An inaccurate diagnosis is not fair to the families, and certainly not to the patients! But the fact is, you are worth more dead than alive. Brain dead, that is.
There are other documented cases of supposed “brain dead” people later awakening. There is also evidence that people being harvested feel pain as their organs are removed and they are killed. (There is no anesthesia or pain killer of any kind used when organs are harvested. The pulse of the harvester races–indicating tremendous trauma/pain.) This is what Robin Cook based his thrilling novel COMA on–which became a movie I was taken to see as a child. I was traumatized, and the idea of people in comas being harvested for profit haunted me for decades–until I wrote SIGNS OF LIFE.
Here’s the article about Trenton:
SIGNS OF LIFE is, among other things, a medical thriller– following a girl trapped in a coma, about to be turned off life support , as her boyfriend races to save her.
SIGNS OF LIFE came bursting out of me, as I considered my readers’ many requests to write a sequel to MELT. I realized that Dorothy was now in trouble–and it was life-threatening. All of my memories about COMA came flooding back. And when I did my research, I realized that this wasn’t far-fetched at all. Trenton was not the first person to return from “the dead.” How many people were harvested before they could find their way back out of their comas?
And did you know that the brain scan they perform on patients doesn’t even check all the areas of the brain? How is this allowed, you ask? I repeat: Because you are worth more brain dead than alive! If your heart stops, you’re useless–because your organs are destroyed. The transplant doctors urged Trenton’s parents to stop “bringing him back” (resuscitating him) because his organs were supposedly damaged each time. We can’t hurt the goods, of course. And there were five kids who matched his organs. Too bad about him still being alive. Why is it that no one cared about him? Because of the MONEY.
WAKE UP!!! This happens all the time in this country. The events which transpire in my novel are all things I took from my research. They could happen to you, or your loved one. BE AWARE!!!
Joey is on a race to save Dorothy before they kill her.
April 3, 2018
Welcome to My Stop on the Spring YA Scavenger Hunt!
Gold Team!
This bi-annual event was first organized by author Colleen Houck as a way to give readers a chance to gain access to exclusive bonus material from their favorite authors…and a chance to win some awesome prizes! At this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive content from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt. Add up the clues, and you can enter for our prize–one lucky winner will receive one book from each author on the hunt in my team! But play fast: this contest (and all the exclusive bonus material) will only be online for 120 hours!
Go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page to find out all about the hunt.
http://www.yash.rocks/2018/04/the-spring-2018-ya-scavenger-hunt.html
There are seven contests going on simultaneously, and you can enter one or all! I am a part of the GOLD TEAM–but there is also a RED, BLUE, ORANGE, GREEN, PINK, & PURPLE team -each with 20 authors, and each with a chance to win a whole different set of books!
If you’d like to find out more about the hunt, see links to all the authors participating, and see the full list of prizes up for grabs, go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page.
In addition, many of us are offering our own additional giveaways! Like me! Be sure to enter mine before you leave!
SCAVENGER HUNT PUZZLE
Directions: Below, you’ll notice that I’ve hidden my favorite number in gold. Collect the favorite numbers of all the authors on the gold team, and then add them up (don’t worry, you can use a calculator!).
Entry Form: Once you’ve added up all the numbers, make sure you fill out the form to officially qualify for the grand prize. Only entries that have the correct number will qualify.
Rules: Open internationally, anyone below the age of 18 should have a parent or guardian’s permission to enter. To be eligible for the grand prize, you must submit the completed entry form by April 8, at noon Pacific Time. Entries sent without the correct number or without contact information will not be considered.
My Hunt Post!
Today I am excited to host Lee Ann Ward, and her novel Glimpses of Wilderness. I read her exclusive material, and I am hooked! Check it out once you enter my bonus giveaways!
About Lee Ann Ward:
Lee Ann is an award-winning fiction author with a background in journalism and mass communications. She is also the former Senior Editor of Champagne Books, a digital romance publisher. Her love of books started at the age of three, and she’s been addicted ever since. She’s published nine novels and has written several more. She is currently published with Evernight Teen, Inkspell, and Champagne Books. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, singing, baking designer cakes, bowling and dreaming. She’s married to Joe (who also happens to be her publicist) and they have 4 amazing sons and a granddaughter who is the love of their lives.
So, what does Lee Ann like to read? Anything YA. Anything. And, she is addicted to Game of Thrones and Outlander. The struggle is real…
Visit Lee Ann’s website:
http://www.leeannward.com
(You can also order her books there!)
Check out her Facebook Fan Page:https://www.facebook.com/leeannwardbooks/
Follow her on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/LeeAnnWard1115
Join her on Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
About her book:
“No nightmares about my dad’s car crashing or my sister’s tiny face vanishing in a window of red. No, not anymore. Now when
I sleep I fall into an expanse of frozen wilderness, the other life I’ve lived…
The one I’ve lived with him.”
Anna experiences vivid dreams from a past-life she lived in the 1800s with her husband Robert and their children in the wilderness of the Michigan Territory. Much like her own mother grieving the man and child she lost, Anna can’t simply let go of the memories that haunt her.
But when she runs into Robert in this lifetime, a whirlwind of their past lives—and deaths—rocks her modern world to the core. What will she be willing to risk to spend every lifetime with Robert?
In the twists and turns of “repeating” their lives over and over through time, Anna must sacrifice everything for a glimpse of immortal love.
Stay tuned for Lee Ann’s bonus material, and the link to our next Gold Team YA author!
But first,
Here are my bonus giveaways!!!
Win a signed copy of MELT, Book One of my Rough Romance Trilogy!
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/75adb8625/?
Win a $10 Amazon Gift Card!
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/75adb8626/?
One thing more:
If you’re interested in receiving a complimentary review copy of Unpunished, Book Three of my Rough Romance Trilogy, please comment on this post or send me a message through my website.
Coming soon:
All the details about Unpunished, including the cover reveal!
Now, enjoy Lee Ann’s exclusive material,
the opening scene of Glimpses of Wilderness!
Drip. Drip.
If Mom were herself, she’d scream for me to turn the handle down tighter—stop the infernal torture of water collecting in the sink, one irrelevant drop at a time. But she’s not herself. She’s drunk. Again. Seventeen years later and she still misses them, can describe the smell of my sister’s hair like she’d just braided it for her yesterday. Earthy, like rain mingled with honeysuckle. And long, to her waist. My hair’s never been that long. Well, at least not in this lifetime.
Drip. Drip.
I can handle her talking about Paige—that was my sister’s name, Paige Marie Berkeley. But when she talks about my dad, the one who never held me, hugged me, or even loved me… How could he? He never even knew I existed. When it happened, my dad had just picked up my eight-year-old sister from ballet class and was on his way to a restaurant to meet Mom. She was going to tell them both about me, the three-month-happily-baking fetus in her belly, when the semi blindsided Dad’s Acura. Never knew what hit them. Mom was still in the restaurant when she got the call. It was a sushi restaurant. We never eat sushi.
Drip. Drip. Thud.
She’s missed the couch, again…probably slumped near the coffee table. I twist the handle for the cold water so tight it pinches my palm and the drips fade away.
“There’s my girl,” Mom says when my feet are three inches from her face. “Be a sweetheart and help me to the couch.”
“How about your bed?” I ask. “It’s one in the morning.” When she doesn’t protest, I drape her limp arm around my neck and lead her to the hallway. A combo of sweat and pee assaults my nose, but I can’t move a hand to cover it or she’ll fall. She’s already fallen hard enough tonight, too hard for me to let go.
“You would have loved them, Anna,” she mutters.
“I know,” I say. It’s what I always say.
“My Michael was so handsome. Best looking guy in…well…anywhere.” She laughs and I turn my face from hers to avoid the breath that’s worse than her B.O. Then the laughter turns to sobs. “He was so funny too, Anna. And my Paige. Oh my beautiful Paige.”
When she’s finally in bed, I sit on the edge and roll her to the middle. “There you go, Mom. You’ll be okay.” Before I can stand, she sits up and cups my face.
“Why don’t you look like him? You’re supposed to look like him. Your sister looked exactly like him, hair so blonde—”
It was almost white I mouth with her, but don’t say it.
Mom’s eyes furiously scan my face like she’s looking for evidence, proof that I’m part of the perfect world that was once hers before I came along. Then she does the one thing that calms her every single time this plays out. She looks past my ashy brown hair and tanned skin and stares me dead in the eyes.
“Oh, my Michael. There he is…those green eyes.”
“A perfect match,” we say in unison, and she lies down to sleep it off.
I close her door, careful not to bang it on the loose hinges, and head to my own room again. I hate it when she does this, but blaming her for missing them would make me the biggest hypocrite on the planet. After all, I’m missing someone too.
And I haven’t seen him in over two hundred years.
————
Love it!!!
And now, head on over to our next Gold Team author, Margot Harrison!
https://margotharrison.com/blog/
HAPPY HUNTING!!!
April 2, 2018
Get Ready for the Spring YA Scavenger Hunt!
Get ready for the spring YA Scavenger Hunt, starting at noon PST tomorrow! I’m on the Gold Team, along with many amazing YA authors. I love doing this hunt because it puts me in touch with so many amazing YA readers, and also because I’m introduced to YA authors I wasn’t familiar with. A perfect example of this is Lee Ann Ward, who I am hosting. I read the opening of her novel, and I am hooked! Tune it tomorrow and see for yourself–the opening is her bonus material.
You can win SO MANY BOOKS through this hunt!!!
And you will learn about so many YA authors!!!
Many of us will have our own additional giveaways, so be on the lookout.
My featured book is Signs of Life, Book Two of the Rough Romance Trilogy, and I’ll be offering a sneak peek at Unpunished, Book Three and the shocking conclusion, on Colleen Houck’s blog. Colleen is the founder and organizer of YASH. I can’t imagine how she manages this huge undertaking twice a year, but I’m quite grateful.
You can learn details to help you prepare for the hunt here: http://www.yash.rocks/2018/04/the-spr...
SPRING HUNT
April 3–8
Schedule of events:
April 3, noon PST: The hunt begins!
April 8, noon PST: The Hunt ends—winners selected.
April 11: Winners Announced!
And don’t forget to mark your calendars for the FALL 2018 Hunt which will take place Oct 2-7!
See you tomorrow,
Selene
Gold Team!
March 18, 2018
Coming out of Hibernation: What I’m Writing & Where I’ll be!
Greetings, friends!
It was the winter of my discontent, but I’m happy to be “almost” warm, sitting in my chair overlooking the water and nature’s creatures enjoying it, and writing. YES, WRITING!!!
You’ve been waiting…and soon your wait will be over. UNPUNISHED, Book Three of the Rough Romance Trilogy, is coming this fall! Look for the cover reveal and additional information.
http://www.selenecastrovilla.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/IMG_3382.mp4
More good news: I’ll be heading out to appearances staring next week.
Thursday, March 22:
As part of the New York City Teen Authors Festival, I’ll be joining the city-wide Big Read. My team includes fellow YA-authors Lois Metzger, Derek Milman, Rafi Mittlefehld and Melissa Walker! This is a closed session at a high school, but we’ll be sharing highlights. It’s always wonderful connecting with young readers!
Saturday, March 24,
Are you a children’s writer on or near Long Island? If so, come to my free Unique Critique, where I’ll read up to four pages of your story and give my feedback! This is presented by the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators Long Island Chapter, where I am co-Regional Advisor. Come on down, 1-4 pm at the Huntington Library. Please register–more information here: https://longislandny.scbwi.org/2018/0...
Saturday, April 7
Are you in or near Roanoke, Virginia? Join me at the Roanoke Author Invasion! #RAI18 https://roanokeauthorinvasion.com/about/
I may have some really cool swag! 
December 2, 2017
Is Howard Stern Depressed, and am I?
I’m listening to a Howard Stern Wrap Up Show from last week, and they’re debating whether Howard is depressed. I think “depression” is a label too frequently slapped on people—a blanket term which helps no one except doctors and pharmaceutical companies make money. Howard sees the world too clearly, and his problem is his inability, or unwillingness, to mask his pain with drug cocktails—or alcoholic cocktails, for that matter.
Howard is sensitive—a fact he spent much of his early career evading and diluting. He learned early that people betray you, and this is the lesson on which he built his understanding of the world. Howard’s father was largely absent, especially emotionally. He didn’t play ball with Howard; he didn’t even want to talk to him. This was devastating, and still is, as evidenced by Howard relating the song “My Hero” to his dad. We’ve heard recordings of his father’s treatment of him, in those rare moments when he did pay attention. “I told you not to be stupid, you moron,” is one of the Stern show mantras. Howard is not so unique in having been the victim of his father’s own issues, but he is unique in sharing both what happened, and how it affected him (and continues to do so).
Howard’s mother used him for companionship, making him a friend and confidante instead of providing the reassurance and psychological support a parent is supposed to. When he didn’t react like she wanted, she punished him by not speaking to him. Howard’s equating the song “Locked Out of Heaven” to this speaks volumes. She also failed to protect him, forcing him to continue attending an unsafe school—even on the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. I know Roosevelt well, and it is something of a miracle that Howard made it through unscathed.
But he is not unscathed. He walks around damaged, as as all do. We have all been hurt, largely by our parents and other influencers. I do want to make it clear that in most cases, these people were not aware of what they were doing. People carry out the patterns they were raised with, and they fool themselves. The largest problem Howard experiences is an inability to fool himself.
Therapy helps us see that things were not our fault, but it cannot take away the pain of betrayal. A father ignoring and raging, a mother confusing and endangering—these lead to a state which some might call “depressed.” But what does such a label do to help? Rather, this word weighs us down further.
Howard surrounds himself with many wounded people, who mask their pain in different (usually comical) ways. Is this a coincidence, that he found these people? Is it the Law of Attraction? Certainly it’s been his choice to employ them. Ronnie the Limo Driver is perhaps the most extreme example of a damaged person in Howard’s employment. Howard jokes about the letter scrawled in crayon, and the Playboy mud flaps. But he did hire him, and he’s kept him through various insults such as the petcock incident. How many people would put up with this constant refrain from an employee: “What the f’s wrong with you?” But Ronnie is rewarded for his bad behavior. Howard has joked about the absurdity of his limo driver’s image plastered on a billboard, and yet, it was Howard’s doing which led to it. Recently we’ve learned of psychological damage done to Ronnie, which may explain some of his deviance. Does the commonality of childhood scars bind Howard and Ronnie?
There is childhood pain behind many of the Stern Show “cast”; here are a few examples:
Robin: Molested by her father, and lost her foster little brother, who she’d taken care of. “One less egg to fry.”
Scott the Engineer: Electrically shocked for bed wetting.
Richard: Bonded with animals who then became meals.
Sal: So much pain and confusion resulting from his narcissistic father.
Gary: Mentally ill mom.
Jason: Psychological abuse by his mom.
I found Howard Stern when I was a teenager, on a day I was trying to escape the pain of my own upbringing. I’ve been listening to him since. What I loved, and still love, about Howard is that I can rely on him for the truth. No matter how painful it is.
Am I depressed? To depress means to push something down—to flatten it. In that sense of the word, yes. I’ve been flattened. But it was outside elements which did this to me. Just like Howard, I have been mistreated and I don’t have the capacity or willingness to pretend that nothing happened. Recently I went through something so traumatizing that I view the world in a worse way than ever, and I don’t see the point in getting up from the floor. I’ve been unable to write, which shakes me to the core, because writing has always been my saving grace.
In my writing, I’m always asking the question: “Why do people hurt each other?” This is what Shakespeare did in all of his works. There’s no way for me to answer this question, any more than Shakespeare. In the past I felt that by addressing it through consequences, whether in history or present, perhaps people would think. I felt that we needed to take a look at what we’re doing, and what we’ve done. But now, I’m not sure what the point is of doing this. I feel hopeless about the world. People didn’t listen to Shakespeare. Why would they listen to me?
But people do listen to Howard Stern. His show is not a display of depression. It is the brilliant work of a realist, who presents us with a divine comedy about ourselves.
An example of Howard Stern’s honesty.
October 29, 2017
Reflections on the Five Year Anniversary of Hurricane Sandy
It’s the five year anniversary of Hurricane Sandy, a storm which wrecked my home, town and view of life. But it also, in a strange way, saved me. You would think that I could write about it without crying by now, but no. That’s why I never got far in the memoir I was writing. And anyway, I didn’t think anyone would care about it after a while. Look at these days, when so many people have been devastated by storms, and life for everyone else just goes on.
Oh, my kitchen…
At the time, Rockville Centre was an example of this. Separated by one town (Oceanside, which was about half-affected), Rockville Centre was untouched by the storm. And the people went on with their lives like nothing, even though we were suffering so close to them. I don’t blame them–you really don’t know how bad a situation is unless you’re living it. It’s human nature to avoid suffering and pain. But I will tell you that out of all the horror of Sandy, the worst was the feeling of being alone. So when people reached out to me on Facebook, or sent cards…or, once in a while, came to sit with me as I shifted through the rubble…that was my emotional lifeline. I urge you to reach out to people in currently devastated areas, even if you can’t afford to help them. Just knowing someone cares makes a difference.
The government proved callus and unyielding to my pleas. I’ve stopped trying to get help. It was just killing my soul.
There were people who came from far to volunteer–mostly church groups. They were lovely, and did what they could in the time they were here. Mostly, they help spray for mold. We were all terrified of mold.
As I mentioned above, I started to write a memoir. And then, I was planning on incorporating other peoples’ stories. But I just couldn’t do it. Too upsetting. And I thought, what’s the point of getting so upset if no one is even going to care?
For the anniversary, I thought I’d share what I wrote. Take it for what you will.
I pray that the good in humanity prevails.
—Selene
Going potty was no easy feat post-Sandy.
More of my first floor post-Sandy. We sure used a lot of Damp-Rid!
Tough Love From God: Surviving Superstorm Sandy
Superstorm Sandy decimated the first floor of my house, my town, my view of life, and my relationship. The house and town rested too close to the water. My outlook on life leaned too close toward innocence. Michael and I teetered too close to the edge of an emotional abyss.
In one high tide, everything was washed away.
This is the story of weeping over things lost. The story of the residents in my tiny town of Island Park, Long Island, who wandered the streets like The Walking Dead, only to find ourselves on line at the food pantry for granola bars, pet food and toilet paper. This is the story of the help that arrived: The Red Cross that drove around with unpalatable food we Pavlovianly salivated for at the sound of the truck’s bell. The Tide truck that rolled into town and did free washes—for one week, and then wheeled toward the next PR opportunity. The 7-11 Slushee truck, giving away icy drinks to people who had no heat in their homes. So many trucks came and went, while we stayed, taking mold remediation classes and stock of our blighted lives.
This is the story of children without a school, of my thirteen year old son and his friends veering their bikes through the wreckage as days turned to weeks without lessons, except for this exceptionally brutal one.
This is the story of our decisions to stay in our town by the beautiful water that turned against us, the struggle to rebuild our homes torn down to their studs. This is the story of the memories and photographs lost, of some kid’s bar mitzvah pictures that washed up on my deck. I saved my own wet family photos by laying them all out on the thin cotton blankets the Red Cross gave us—blankets too flimsy to effectively wrap and warm a person. This is the story of sheetrock and kitchen rip-outs, of oil spills, of contents of homes becoming garbage—piled so high in the streets that dump trucks worked weeks to cart it away. It’s the story of the docks that sunk, and the boats that littered the main road in town—piling up at the car wash like they were waiting for their turn. This is the story of the nails, screws and glass in our tires—still, as I write this seven months later.
This is the story of the FEMA tent set up in the Long Island Railroad parking lot, and the circus that went on inside. This is the story of me sobbing, deemed noncompliant and ineligible for the funds that, according to FEMA literature, our government was even offering to undocumented people. I was glad they were getting help, but why couldn’t I?
This is the story of darkness, of driving through such a black town that I could see nothing past the edge of my high beams. It looked like the end of the world. It was the end of mine.
This is the story of the death of suburban existence. The conclusion of pretense. The letting go of things that could not be saved. But it’s also the story of redemption via tough love from God.
This is the story of how a natural disaster saved my life, and possibly all of ours.
MY STORY
It started with a phone call on Friday, October 26, from some woman at the nursing home where my dad lived in Long Beach. I stood on the doorstep of my friend Pascale’s house, about to go in when my cell rang. Now I hovered at the threshold, because Pascale’s basement apartment had no reception. “We’re evacuating our residents on Sunday, and we need to know if you’re going to bring your father home, or if you’d prefer us to take him.”
What a question. My father had a feeding tube and numerous health issues, including the fact that he hadn’t walked since a stroke thirty years earlier. I certainly couldn’t take care of him—even if I wanted to. But my dad and I were more strangers than relatives. This call came to me because my mom had died suddenly last January. I was all Dad had left. The one he’d abandoned now made decisions for him. Such responsibility made me squirm.
I didn’t address her question. Instead, I asked my own: “Why are you evacuating?”
“Because of the storm that’s coming.” Her voice had a tinge of irritation.
I traced my foot along the door saddle and stared at sunny weather. The sweet aroma of a butterfly bush wafted from a few feet away. “What storm?”
“Don’t you watch the news?” She was conveying full-scale annoyance now. Clearly I was an idiot.
“No, I don’t,” I confessed. I make it my business to avoid the news, so I don’t get sucked into the vortex of doom and tragedy that dominates our society. I always say, “If something I need to know happens, someone will tell me.”
This call was a case in point. “There’s a hurricane hitting next week.” You dumbass. She didn’t say the last part, but her tone sure did.
I can’t remember my thought process at that moment, but it was somewhere between disbelief and flat-out denial. So much had happened to me recently—something else bad simply couldn’t be coming, right?
And anyway, I’d freaked over Hurricane Irene. While we’d had damage—our dock snapped in two, and our crawl space flooded, destroying our oil tank—the storm, in my opinion, had been over-hyped and and I’d stressed myself into heart palpitations over nothing.
Life had worn me down to nonchalance. Having grown up with an undiagnosed but likely bi-polar mother and a largely absent heroin addict father, I was in charge of holding up the world during my youth. When I married, it was to a man who never thought past his own amusement, and I continued my duties. Now, at 46, I had finally put the world down. A myriad of shrinks through the years assured me that it would continue to revolve on its axis all on its own. Life would go on if I got a life of my own and stopped worrying.
So I shrugged it off. “Oh, come on. How bad could it be?” I asked the woman. I guess she was a social worker. They seem to do everything in those places.
She answered, “I wouldn’t know. But I do need to know if you want to pick up your father before Sunday.”
A purply butterfly fluttered over and landed on the bush. A sign of good luck, I thought. Purple is my favorite color. “No, thanks,” I told the woman. Then a beat later I thought to inquire, “Where are you taking him?”
“We’re not sure yet. We’ll be in touch.” Click.
And that was that. I didn’t give the storm a moment of consideration for the rest of the day. I went downstairs, greeted Pascale and her daughter Amanda, and we left to take Amanda for her road test. She’d requested the use of my purple PT Cruiser because Pascale’s ancient Saturn ran sporadically and was missing its nose.
During the ride to and from we talked about various things, but the impending storm was not one of them. It was an amusing journey, because we all share a biting, ironic wit. Pascale had a fever but a burning brow didn’t inhibit her sarcasm. The three of us were a rolling stand-up comedy team, addressing everything from the pointlessness of politics (the presidential election was upon us, Obama vs. Romney) to the Kardashian’s general pointlessness.
But the real irony was in what I was ignoring. For the first time in my life I wasn’t worrying. And it was the first time in my life that worrying – and preparing – might have made some difference.
Or, perhaps, not preparing was the thing that ultimately saved me. Just not in the conventional way.
That night I cooked dinner for Michael—my make-shift partner—and myself. The term “make-shift” is in deference to my continued struggle to make him shift into the role of mate. We had nothing on paper, yet he swore he wanted to spend the rest of his days with me. Years ago I’d sworn off marriage, after mine had gone sour and I’d learned how much harder it was to get divorced than hitched. But now that I was older, I wanted some kind of security; a contract. Michael refused to commit. After six years he still called me his girlfriend, and when I complained he’d say, “Girlfriend, partner, wife…what’s the difference?” He accused me of being anal.
When Michael had stomach cancer two years ago, his mother, he and I went to see a specialist in Manhattan. The doctor nodded toward me and asked, “This is Mrs. Forte?”
Michael and his mother both said, “Oh, no, no.”
Michael pointed at his mother and said, “This is Mrs. Forte.”
I left the room crying. Later, when I asked him why he couldn’t just let the doctor think I was his wife, he said, “Whatever.” And that was the end of the conversation.
Michael fell off our dock fixing it after Hurricane Irene (he was handy when and on what projects he wanted to be) and we went to the emergency room. He gave my name as his person to contact. The woman at the desk asked what our relationship was. He said, “She’s my companion.” I shot him a look that was both murderous and mortified, because that word conjured some sort of benign aide/nursemaid along on a journey. It was also the name of the cat food I bought at Stop and Shop. I was not hired help, or a pet. He said, “Okay, okay. She’s my wife. Whatever.”
We did have a companionship type of bond, which was not a bad thing. We loved each other in a way, but we didn’t agree on the way. However, we felt comfortable together, sheltered from the world.
These days we were in an unspoken detente. I would quit asking for more, and he would take care of me evermore, on his terms—which were undefined. I was dissatisfied, but not enough to cut our tenuous cord. I choked my unhappiness down like a piece of dry, over-cooked steak because Michael did more for me than my ex-husband or any other man I’d ever known (including my father), and because he was supportive of my writing career. He travelled with me to different parts of the country for appearances, helping as needed. In Albuquerque he was almost trampled by a pack of young adult librarians who all wanted the promotional gifts he was handing out—teeny rubber chickens in baggies with my business cards. Somewhere in Virginia, a Barnes & Noble didn’t have a poster advertising my signing the next day. Michael went to a craft store, bought supplies and painstakingly made one that looked professional.
And anyway, I loved him. It was so romantic, being in a tortured relationship— downright Shakespearian or Brontesque. I adored his sturdy chest, covered in wooly grey hair. I loved leaning against his frame at night, cuddled in the crook of his arm. I loved the scratchy scruff on his face, also grey to match what was left of his hair. It was a relief to rub against those rough bristles, like they scratched at itch on my soul.The real reason I stayed was the solace I found through Michaels’s arms, chest and stubble. Breathing in the scent of him was everything to me.
That night, we were alone in the house. My eighteen year old son was in his dorm room in Manhattan. My thirteen year old son was in his dad’s first floor apartment across town.
I cooked salmon on the George Foreman grill, and sautéed spinach with garlic on the stovetop. My kitchen had recently been re-done, also make-shift. Years ago, Michael had carved out the cracked marble floor, only to leave a black tarp over the cement instead of laying new tile as promised. He was so good at demo, but then he lost interest in projects.
The tarp was ugly to begin with, but over time it became frayed and ripped in spots – unbearable to me. While Michael was in the hospital for the cancer surgery I went to Home Depot and bought a roll of laminate flooring. I was going to try and lay it myself, but when Michael came back and faced the inevitable, he did it for me. I’d also painted my kitchen walls and cabinets purple. It wasn’t the most professional job, but I was pleased and soothed to sit in there, after years of unease. I’d bought furniture and accessories at Home Goods, and was making my house my home. It felt good.
Michael embodied chaos and I wanted peace. That was the heart of the problem. He left things undone, maybe because I was left hanging on his promise to complete them. I hated limbo. It was like I was bouncing on a tightrope, always afraid to look down. And scared of plummeting. Not to death, but to the despair that aloneness brought. So I allowed his disorder, and I tried to tidy his mounting hoarding. But my house and yard were filling up, and every time I cleared a space he claimed it for some other object. He collected discarded things, seeing possibility in garbage. And he could actual fix and make use of junk. He was brilliant. But he never did mend anything. He just added more and more to the mix.
The back room, which was supposed to be my office, had become a jumbled storeroom for his work supplies. Cameras, DVR’s, transformers…all sorts of electronics were mish-moshed in there. He was a jack of all trades, but his mainstay was security – for his clients, not for me.
He also compiled scrap metal in an area of my yard, behind the fence. It was pretty gross, and discomforting. When Pascale came over she’d hum the theme from Sanford and Son. Here I was with beautiful waterfront property, and he was dumping crap everywhere. I felt disrespected, but there was no talking about it.
So the fact that I’d reclaimed my kitchen – and living room, which I’d had carpeted and purchased leather furniture for – was huge. Until recently he’d had piles of things in both rooms. Now I was beginning to have clarity.
And I had my new deck outside the living room. Another victory. I’d hired someone to rebuild it last summer, top and bottom, because Michael kept promising but never did it. He’d ripped down the rotting upper deck, but instead of replacing it, he’d attached a tarp he’d found in someone’s trash can (Michael loved tarps and used them often.) This one was blue and it had the “American Idol” logo all over it. I hated that show, and I hated the tarp even more. Beneath it, I felt like trash.
So, finally, I took charge and the deck was built. Now I had my spot by the water to watch the rippling tide and the swans swim by – and write. It was just as my Aunt Olga wanted for me. She’d passed away a year and a half earlier, leaving me the house she’d built and cherished. Now her ashes sat on my kitchen table, in a decorative memory box. She’d wanted to be buried in the yard, but I couldn’t bear to part with her yet. She was the person who’d kept me sane and made me feel loved when I was a kid. And she’d taught me to believe in my dreams.
I liked being near my aunt while I cooked. I felt better being in the room with her.
The smell of fish and garlic filled my kitchen. I brought the food up to my bedroom (Michael never did call it ‘our’ bedroom, though lately he called the house ‘ours,’ and even, on occasion, referred to it as ‘home’) and we sat on the floor with giant throw pillows tucked behind us. We watched a DVR’d episode of some USA Network show (that’s pretty much all we ever watched) and we ate.
I wrote the next day. I was working on an erotic novel. The success of Fifty Shades of Grey disgusted me, not because it was filled with sex, but because the book wasn’t well written. My friend Nancy gave me her copy, and I leafed through it. On pretty much every page I looked at, the protagonist says either “holy crap” or “crap.” I wondered if I was the only one who noticed this, so I Googled it. Turns out someone counted: she uses these words 86 times.
Not exactly Nobokov.
The world was ripe for a contemporary, literary erotic novel – and I decided to write it. I was going through 50 Shades to see the plot layout, because those kind of books follow a pattern. I didn’t want to be formulaic, but a certain dramatic arc was featured in every romantic book—not to mention that I needed to know how soon I should introduce the sex, and how often they would have it.
That Saturday I sweated over sex scenes on my new deck, drinking coffee and trying to figure out new, creative ways to describe an orgasm. The first one is easy, but how many times can you use flight as a metaphor? Of course, I could always fall back on. “Holy crap!” The weather was perfect for me. I’m not summer, beachy person. Too hot, and too exposing. October 27 was sunny and cool – a sweatshirt day, which I loved. I’m most comfortable snuggled in cottony sleeves – a protective coating against outside elements.
This season was the first time in years I could relax on my deck, without crap (not holy, just plain old crap) piled behind me. The old deck had become one of Michael’s storage areas. He’d stacked storage bins, wooden shelving he’d taken from someone’s trash, and even an old Ms. Pacman machine that at first worked, which the kids liked even if I was appalled by the sight of such an atrocity. But it stopped turning on after enduring a few thunder storms – apparently the American Idol tarp was not adequate shelter – and also when our cat Sassy found her way inside Ms. Pacman’s base and bunked out on a bed of wires and mechanisms. Ms. Pacman was silent evermore. However, she remained on my deck despite my frequent confrontations with Michael about his rusty mistress. He promised to get rid of her, “When I get to it.” Ms. Pacman was moved to my rear lawn by the workmen who came to work on the deck. Michael covered her with a tarp and promised to get around to moving her soon.
My new deck was gloriously empty except for my teak writing table and chair (both recent purchases at Home Goods.) I sat in that chair and watched the current roll by as my thoughts churned inside. The swan couple who had been living nearby for many years rode by with this year’s offspring, who had turned white and spending their final days with mom and dad before setting off into the world. My dock, chopped in two by Hurricane Irene, had been fixed by Michael, who’d found the time to do that because he’d wanted to rent it out. Everything was in order on that day – for the first time that I could recall.
October 3, 2017
Welcome to my stop on the FALL 2017 YA Scavenger Hunt!
Welcome to YA Scavenger Hunt!
Welcome to my stop on the Fall 2017 YA Scavenger Hunt!
This bi-annual event was first organized by author Colleen Houck as a way to give readers a chance to gain access to exclusive bonus material from their favorite authors…and a chance to win some awesome prizes! At this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive content from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt. Add up the clues, and you can enter for our prize–one lucky winner will receive one book from each author on the hunt in my team! But play fast: this contest (and all the exclusive bonus material) will only be online for 120 hours!
Go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page to find out all about the hunt.
YA Scavenger Hunt
There are seven contests going on simultaneously, and you can enter one or all! I am a part of the GOLD TEAM–
Computer generated image with clipping path – Team.
but there is also a RED, BLUE, ORANGE, GREEN, PINK, & PURPLE team -each with 20 authors, and each with a chance to win a whole different set of books!
If you’d like to find out more about the hunt, see links to all the authors participating, and see the full list of prizes up for grabs, go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page.
In addition, many of us are offering our own additional giveaways! Like me! Be sure to enter mine before you leave!
SCAVENGER HUNT PUZZLE
Directions: Below, you’ll notice that I’ve hidden my favorite number. Collect the favorite numbers of all the authors on the blue team, and then add them up (don’t worry, you can use a calculator!).
Entry Form: Once you’ve added up all the numbers, make sure you fill out the form here to officially qualify for the grand prize. Only entries that have the correct number will qualify.
Rules: Open internationally, anyone below the age of 18 should have a parent or guardian’s permission to enter. To be eligible for the grand prize, you must submit the completed entry form by Sunday, October 8, at noon Pacific Time. Entries sent without the correct number or without contact information will not be considered.
SCAVENGER HUNT POST
Today, I am hosting Emil Sher
on my website for the YA Scavenger Hunt!
Picture books. Young adult fiction. Stage plays for young and old. Emil has his toes in many waters and most days feels he’s barely managing to tread. I’ve heard rumors that he has 9 projects going on at once.
About YOUNG MAN WITH CAMERA:
A picture is worth a thousand words – and with a unique photographic format, startlingly original voice, and provocative portrayal of bullying, Young Man With Camera is a debut to get people talking.
T- is used to getting grief. Grief from his mother, who worries about him constantly; grief from Mr. Lam, who runs the corner store and suspects every kid of stealing; grief from the trio of bullies he calls Joined at the Hip, whose cruelty has left T- so battered he fears even his whole name could be used against him.
But T- has his own strength too: his camera, which he uses to capture the unique way he sees the world. His photos connect him to Ms. Karamath, the kind librarian at school; his friend Sean, whose passion for mysteries is matched only by his love for his dog, Watson; and most of all to Lucy, a homeless woman who shares his admiration for the photographer Diane Arbus. When Lucy is attacked by Joined at the Hip, T- captures the assault on film. But those images lead him into even deeper trouble with the bullies, who threaten to hurt Sean if T- tells.
What’s the right thing to do? Do pictures ever tell the whole truth? And what if the truth isn’t always the right answer?
***I just want to say that this book sounds amazing, and I can’t wait to read it. I’m grateful to YASH for introducing me to Emil and his stark, unique voice!***
Find out more information:
Check out the book YOUNG MAN WITH CAMERA
EXCLUSIVE CONTENT
Young Man with Camera
Deleted chapter
(I have to tell you, I read this chapter was was really drawn in. If this is what he took out, I want to know what he left in! I’m going to read this book as soon as I can catch my breath from this hunt!)
A cemetery is a great place to hang out if you’re forced to eat grief all day long. Like when someone puts jam in your running shoes. Or a teacher looks at your handwriting and asks if your pencil is drunk and the whole class laughs. Or when you’re tied to a fire hydrant and told to imitate a horse. No matter how much grief you’re given, you can usually find someone standing at a gravesite, getting a real grief work out, making a racket with all their tears, their shoulders going up and down, up and down. It makes my grief about the size of a pea compared to their double-serving with all the toppings.
Besides, no one bugs you in a cemetery. No one dishes out grief because they’re too busy eating their own. It’s very quiet, so it’s easy to concentrate on getting my homework over and done with. The only distraction is the crying. Some people can barely breathe when they cry and that’s okay because that means I can barely hear them. But others are loud and go on and on, like they had stocked up on tears because they were afraid they were going to run out.
It’s very hard to do math or finish a geography quiz when someone is crying. That’s what happened after The Hitching Post Incident. There was a woman, I guess she was my mother’s age. It was hard to tell. She was wearing a lot of makeup, so she might have been forty hoping everyone would think she was thirty (as if thirty isn’t old). She was standing in front of a tombstone and crying and crying and crying. She sounded like a wounded animal with its leg caught in a leg trap. I’ve seen pictures: the animals have to chew their leg off to escape. This woman wasn’t chewing on her leg but she might as well have been for all the racket she was making. I was going to go up to her and say, Excuse me, but can you keep things down? I’m trying to finish my math homework. But I bet she wouldn’t have heard me. I’ve noticed that people who are very upset ― and cemeteries attract loads of them ― don’t hear very well. They nod their head and they may try to speak, but you can tell they didn’t hear a thing. Their minds are elsewhere. (That’s what Miss Migliarisi used to tell me in Grade 2: You’re mind is elsewhere, T―.) There’s no point talking to someone whose mind is elsewhere. That’s why I didn’t go up to Woman Wailing Like a Wounded Animal. There was no point. And if there’s no point, then it’s pointless, like a pencil without lead, which is useless. As far as I’m concerned, pointless and useless mean the same thing (though no one has ever said You’re pointless to me.)
I was doing some fractions ― which, like the taste of sour tomatoes, I’ve learned to like ― when Woman Wailing came up to me. Did I ask her to walk up to me? No. Was I sitting next to a sign that said Please Interrupt? No. Was I minding my own business? Yes. It didn’t make one iota of difference (Iota sounds like the name of an Indian tribe, but it isn’t.) She came right up to me, sniffing, strangling this tissue with one hand.
Excuse me.
I was going to pretend I was deaf. I do that sometimes. I pretend I can’t hear what people are saying. They get frustrated and then they know what it’s like when you speak but your words disappear like magic ― poof! ― only you weren’t doing a magic trick so there’s no one there to clap when it’s over. So instead of pretending to be deaf I ignored her.
Excuse me.
I looked up. The makeup around her eyes was all runny. It looked like she had been beaten up. Which was sort of true. She had been beaten up by her sadness. If she was stronger than her sadness she wouldn’t have been crying and wailing. Not everyone cries at funerals. There’s such a thing as invisible tears. Woman Wailing had been pummeled by her sadness. That was plain for anyone to see. Her sadness had pinned her to the ground and done a real number on her.
I’m busy.
I turned over my page of fractions even though I didn’t have to. If you look like you’re busy people get the message that you don’t have time to be interrupted.
I can see that. But I was wondering…
She stopped talking, like something was caught in her throat. Maybe she was hoping I would feel bad for her. She turned away. I stared at my fraction sheet.
What’s your name?
I lied and told her my name was Conrad, which was the name I saw on a tombstone.
Do you come here a lot, Conrad?
Yes. I like cemeteries because they’re full of grief and half-truths. A half-truth is like a fraction. You get half of the truth, but you don’t even get that in a cemetery. All you get is a name, and when the person died, and a few nice words about them. Beloved mother. Loving father. Cherished daughter. What does that tell you? Beloved? Not all the time. Cherished? More when they were dead than alive. A tombstone can’t give you the whole picture. It doesn’t tell you about all the times Loving Father teased his Devoted Son in front of everyone. Maybe Devoted Son melted every time he was teased so that by the time he died you could have poured him into his coffin. You’ll never read that on a tombstone. That’s another reason why I hang out in a cemetery. It reminds me that the world is full of half-truths and quarter-truths and 1/1000 truths.
Sometimes.
Woman Wailing smiled a little bit. I could see she had something up her sleeve.
Once a week?
She was beginning to bug me. You don’t have to know someone long before they start bugging you. They can bug you before they even say a single word. She had said a few dozen. That was all I needed.
Depends.
She crouched down to get closer to me, like I was the wounded one and not her.
Would you come here once a week if I paid you?
She pointed to where she had been standing and bawling her eyes out. She told me it was where her mother was buried. She wanted me to sit by her mother’s grave once a week to keep her company. Like I’m supposed to read to her or something? No thank you.
You don’t have to do anything. All you have to do is sit there.
Woman Wailing said if I sat by her mother’s tombstone once a week for half an hour she would pay me ten dollars a week.
Twenty-five.
I didn’t want to do it. I knew she wouldn’t pay me twenty-five dollars a week to sit by her mother’s tombstone while I wrote an essay on The Black Plague.
Thirty.
She opened her purse and fished out thirty dollars. She gave me the money and her business card and pointed to her mother’s tombstone.
You can start next week.
She told me to drop by her office once a month and she would pay me.
How did she know I would show up every week?
How did she know I would show up at all?
I trust you, Conrad.
What she meant to say was, I trust people with no chin who look retarded. She didn’t say that. She didn’t have the courage. She didn’t have the gumption (which is another word for guts, but no one has ever told me I hate your bloody gumption).
I looked at Wailing Woman. The runny makeup around her eyes started to dry up like the river beds we were studying in geography. She had Mick Jagger lips and talked like she had a clothespin halfway up her nose. Her face was full of similes (which we were studying in English). I asked her if I could take her picture.
You mean looking like this?
I nodded and pulled my camera out of my knapsack. I carry my camera wherever I go. My father says it’s my security blanket. Sometimes, he calls me Linus, the character from Peanuts who drags a blanket with him wherever he goes. I had a stuffed animal until I was fifteen, he says. And then he laughs and my mother gives him this look that pulls the plug on the laughter and it stops. He pats me on the shoulder like we’re friends but we’re not friends and the laughter I hear in my head is still plugged in. Sometimes he takes me for ice cream afterwards but that’s worse because we make small talk and the reason why it’s called small talk is because it can’t fill the big space between us, even though he’s close enough to try my ice cream with his own spoon (which he does, a lot). The small talk gets smaller and smaller and then it disappears and we don’t say anything.
I told Wailing Woman she had a really interesting face. She started to smile. Smiles and runny makeup don’t go together but I didn’t tell her that.
I’d really like to take your picture.
Wait.
She spent about seven years putting on lipstick and smacking her lips. Finally she put the lipstick back into her purse.
Click away.
I clicked. I took about twenty pictures. When I stopped clicking she looked super disappointed. Her face turned into this leaky balloon that was losing air real quick.
She said Thank you and walked back to her mother’s grave.
She didn’t even think of introducing us.
——-
Wasn’t that good??? I find this character to be so intriguing. I mean, who lies about their name just like that? And what’s going on with him? The format of this book–with pictures–sounds interesting, also.
Now, don’t forget to enter the contest for a chance to win a ton of books by me, Emil Sher, and more! To enter, you need to know that my favorite number is 9! (In case you didn’t figure it out from my clue above.) Add up all the favorite numbers of the authors on the blue team and you’ll have all the secret code to enter for the grand prize!
CONTINUE THE HUNT
To keep going on your quest for the hunt, you need to check out the next author! But before you go, why not enter my personal rafflecopter giveaways?
Here’s the link to your next author:
Amy Christine Parker!
Hunt on!!! Have fun!!!
September 8, 2017
Gratitude for my supporters
It seems like every post these days is about being grateful–and why not? Gratitude is an essential part of art. I could’t continue to write without it.
I want to mention more bloggers and reviewers who have been supporting Luna Rising. Some of these are current, and some are from Luna’s early review tour. MY life fell into something of a turmoil in-between, so I’m trying to make up for it now.
Joli is a long-time supporter, who really helped Melt get attention. I love you, Joli!
I will always be grateful for this quote from Melissa!
The Invisible Diva even casted LUNA RISING: the movie!
Plus, Zsus (AKA The Invisible Diva) responded to me in a comment: “Thank YOU for the opportunity to review this fabulous book. Sunny and Luna – the new Grace and Frankie!”
Let us pray…(I HAVE written a pilot, if there are any producers out there…Or, if Rosario Dawson is reading, and looking for a new challenge after The Defenders.)
Today, I’m featured on the Mythical Books blog in an provocative interview:
My interview with Mythical Books
Bookish Lifestyle wrote a lovely piece!
“I always make sure I read Selene’s books as soon as they come out. I almost missed this one but luckily I was still able to get an early copy. I am so glad I did. I absolutely loved it as I knew I would. Selene’s writing style never fails to impress me. She sucks me in from the beginning. This novel was a bit different than the ones I’ve read before but she still delivers a great story and even some funny quips along the way.”
A Leisure Moment also contributed a lovely review:
A Leisure Moment review of Luna Rising
Here’s an amusing review from Lisa on Goodreads:
An amusing review!
And Elizabeth Upton wrote on Goodreads:
“Award winning children’s book writer, Selene Castovilla, has brought her immense writing skills to her first adult novel, Luna Rising. Luna is a heroic character who survives a rough childhood and a tough divorce—and who at 38, is looking for real love. Love takes many forms. Sections of the book in which Luna’s wise-beyond-his-years son tries to process the divorce are especially poignant. Readers will be swept along though Luna’s funny and moving misadventures in the dating world. When something seems wrong–Luna takes unconventional and amusing paths to discover greater self-love and more authentic connection to others. Readers will find Luna Rising an earthy, raw, honest, funny and touching read about an imperfect person trying her best. National Book Award Winner, Jacqueline Woodson has said that “Selene Castrovilla is a writer worth watching.” Now is a good time to watch!”
Goodreads review by Elizabeth Upton
These are just some of the great supporters I’ve had for Luna so far. You guys rule!
