Selene Castrovilla's Blog, page 6

Independence: At What Cost?

A quote from THE MEMOIR OF COLONEL BENJAMIN TALLMADGE, in which he describes the result of our Declaration Of Independence

 

To declare our independence meant that there was no going back. It would have been the easier thing, to fade back and live under the rule of King George. The safer thing.

Instead, our founding fathers put themselves, their families and their countrymen into the line of fire. For this declaration meant that there was no going back. This contest could not be talked or negotiated to a conclusion. There would be blood spilled. And a lot of it would be American.

Benjamin Tallmadge is one of my heroes, largely still unsung. He is the subject of my book BY THE SWORD, titled from his quote. Benjamin, like most soldiers, was dedicated by untrained. Not a soldier by trade, but a teacher. He was part of Washington’s army at The Battle of Long Island, our first battle after declaring our independence. A battle in which we paid the price for our declaration and our desires – and we almost lost the war.

Today, I urge you to think about what it was like for the men who kew they faced death by this declaration. And think of Washington, ready to back up signatures with swords. Think of the people who gave their lives so we could be free. What do we do with our freedoms? Was it worth the price they paid?

What would you do, in their shoes?

 

 

 

 

This is my book BY THE SWORD, titled from Benjamin Tallmadge’s quote. Essentially, it describes the reality of what declaring independence meant. I’ll be sharing a post about The Battle of Long Island in the near future (the anniversary is in August.) It is perhaps our most under-celebrated and under-appreciated moment in American history.

 

On the Road Again! Where I’ll Be…(Part 1)

Greetings!

I have such a packed schedule that I’m daunted by the prospect of laying it all out. However, not only do I need to share it with you – I have to cement it in my own brain! Right now my journeys are scribble in my appointment book. (No, I CANNOT train myself to create a digital schedule – you know that saying about old dogs? I’ve put notes in my phone, only to never look at them again, and reminders have gone unnoticed.) What I really want to do is spend my time writing, then magically arrive at my appearances at the designated times. I love being there and meeting readers – but I loathe the planning. Nevertheless, the time has come for me to don my big girl panties, and begin:

First Stop:

BEA & BookCon!

Off to see the writers…

I love book conventions, but they also freak me out. There’s so much to see and do! Out of the myriad of possibilities, I hope you’ll stop by and say hi, pick up a signed copy of MELT & snag some swag! (I have really creative swag.)

I’ll be signing at Booth # 3046 (IBPA) on:

Wednesday, May 27 2-3 PM (JUST ADDED!)

Friday, May 29 3-4 PM 

Saturday, May 30 2-3 PM

Sunday, May 31 2-3 PM

#BEA15

You can check out MELT on display at the booth for the duration of the shows, and also at

Foreword Reviews (Booth #453) during BEA, where it is part of the IndieFab Book of the Year Finalist display!

I’ll be receiving my IPPY Award on the evening of the 27th, and something else extremely exciting is happening at BEA which I’m not allowed to reveal!

I’m the recipient of the IPPY Bronze Medal for YA lit!

#TheBookCon

In JUNE I will be in Yorktown, Virginia, where a replica of Lafayette’s ship The Hermione (no relation to Harry Potter’s bf) is landing! If you are in the area you should check this out!

My signing will be at:

The Gallery at York Hall, 301 Main St, Yorktown, VA 23690           (757) 890-4490

Sunday, June 7 11-4 PM

If you haven’t guessed, I’ll be signing copies of REVOLUTIONARY FRIENDS: GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON AND THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE. 

Let’s talk revolutionary heroes in Yorktown!

I’ll also be chatting about my next book: REVOLUTIONARY ROGUES: BENEDICT ARNOLD AND JOHN ANDRE, and signing advance postcards!

Further into June, I will be:

At the Children’s Book Fair, Mineola Memorial Library, 195 Marcellus Road, Mineola, NY 11501

Saturday, June 13 3-4:30

Join me and other children’s writers in this fun-filled event!

And at BooksNJ15 Sunday June 14 1-5 PM at the Paramus Library

With many superstar authors: check it out!

https://www.facebook.com/BooksNJ

Then I fly to Nashville for:

UtopYA Con! June 18-June 21

At The Millennium Maxwell House Hotel

I’ll be signing books alongside my pal & New School MFA classmate Catherine Stine! Look for us among the exhibitors

Check out the conference here: http://utopyacon.com

And at the end of June comes the mighty ALA!

I’ll be signing hardcovers of MELT at the IBPA booth (#3208) at these times:

Saturday, June 27th from 2:00-3:00 PM

Sunday, June 28th from 11:00-11:30 AM

Sunday, June 28th from 2:00-3:00 PM

Monday, June 29th from 11:00-11:30 AM

I am also proud to be an author at Yalsa’s YA Author Coffee Klatch on Sunday June 28 at 9:00. Get your tickets ahead of time!!!

AND, as I mentioned earlier: MELT is a finalist for Foreword Review’s IndieFab Book of the Year!!!

“Foreword Reviews will celebrate the winners during a program at the American Library Association Annual Conference in San Francisco on Friday, June 26 at 6 p.m. at the Pop Top Stage in the exhibit hall. Everyone is welcome. The Editor’s Choice Prize for Fiction, Nonfiction, and Foreword Reviews’ 2014 INDIEFAB Publisher of the Year Award will also be announced during the presentation.”

So please come celebrate with me if you’re at ALA!!!

MELT will also be on display at all times at the IBPA booth and the Foreword Reviews booth!

WHEW!!!

There’s more to come, such as NCTE in November, where I’m honored to be on a panel. And it’s safe to say there will be events before then as well.

It’s a joy to be with you all, but I truly wish I could be teleported there.

See you soon!

Bye for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perchance to Write: My Tribute to Shakespeare

In honor of Shakespeare’s birthday I’m sharing chapter seven of my novel SAVED BY THE MUSIC. It is my love song to Shakespeare. The handsome boy (Axel, a cellist who looks like Jim Morrison) lives on a boat called Perchance to Dream, and he is obsessed with Shakespeare! Writing this book was so much fun when it came to incorporating Shakespeare, and this chapter has a bunch of references. If you’d like to read more, it’s available on Amazon and other places as an e-book – so you can have instant gratification

Here it is:

I skulked along the rocking dock to the boat and tried to see in a window. I wasn’t tall enough, so I stood on my toes. I still wasn’t tall enough, so I leaned against the boat, gripping its ledge to pull myself higher.

The boat moved.

“AHHHH!” I screamed, as I was pulled from the dock. I dangled from the ledge, helpless.

I tried to pull myself up. My muscles burned from the effort, but I failed.

Jumping back down looked impossible. If I fell into the water, I could be crushed between the dock and the boat. Besides, I couldn’t swim. How long could I hold on?

A set of hands came from above and locked onto my wrists. Warm, strong hands.

They pulled, and I went up. My skin rubbed against the cold, smooth fiberglass, and a chill shot through me to my spine. My arms felt like they were being yanked from their sockets. I slid over the top, my body rolling across the thin metal railing as I flopped onto the deck: Willow, the catch of the day.

My fingers traced the grain of the wooden deck gratefully. Trembling and gasping, I looked up. “Th- th-thanks.”

Axel looked pissed.

“May I ask, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Good to see he’s was getting over the timid thing.

“Next time, could you just knock?”

This was a new Axel. One who spoke. One who could be sarcastic. One like—me.

He led me down the hatchway steps, offered me a seat on one of the two couches attached to the walls facing each other, and wrapped a blanket around me. Then he picked up a black T-shirt from the floor and slid it on, but not before I noticed some decent-sized slash marks across his chest and stomach—like he’d gone a few rounds with a box cutter.

After I warmed up, we moved to benches at his table, also attached to the wall. The benches were bolted to the floor.

“So, you always prowl around at one o’clock in the morning?”

“No, I never even leave my room at home, except to go to school. Kind of like you and this boat.” I remained a master of obnoxious observations.

Axel’s change in behavior might have had something to do with the citrus-flavored vodka he was kicking back shots of. He’d slugged down two in the few minutes we’d sat there. “Want some?”

I shook my head no. “How can you get liquor? You’re not twenty-one, are you?”

He laughed. “You kidding? You think they proof around here? I call up, and they deliver it for an extra ten. They’d sell it to a two-year-old if he had the cash and could make the call.”

“Do you realize you said more to me just now then in our whole first conversation?”

He tossed another shot down.

“Getting to know you now,” he replied.

Getting to know the bottom of the bottle was more like it.

“I’m eighteen, incidentally,” he said.

Behind him, behind me, and everywhere else were shelves and stacks of books. Only one side of the cabin—the galley—was bookless.

“You want something to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll take some tea.”

“A tea totaler, huh?”

“Well, I am fifteen.”

He laughed again.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Nothing. You’re right, you’re right. It’s just that all the fifteen-year-olds I’ve ever known—from Park Avenue to this dump—would never turn down a shot in favor of tea.” His words tottered a bit.

“Whatever,” I grumbled.

“Don’t get pissy. I like that about you.” He smiled, lopsided and dimpled.

Pretty heart-stopping.

He puttered around his galley, stumbling a few times, searching for the tea. The area was small, about the size of a closet. It was all done in shiny black granite.

Finally, he managed to put a mug of steaming tea in front of me. He threw the box of tea bags into a drawer.

“Safely stowed,” he said with a wobbly chuckle.

Actually, I felt a little shaky myself. You really knew you were floating on a sailboat. This was no fluttering. We were bobbing. Up, down; up, down.

Axel sat back down across from me and took another shot. He hiccuped, and then his face turned really serious.

“Not to sound parental or anything, but don’t ever do anything like that again. You could’ve been killed.”

He did sound parental, but his 80-proof breath overrode his voice. He took my hand in his and squeezed.

Jesus, is this the guy who could barely look at me before?

He sucked in some air, like he was getting ready. I could tell this was going to be an Aunt Agatha–type talk. That’s if Aunt Agatha ever decided to belt down a bottle or two.

“This yard is fenced in for a reason. At night, they lock the gate to keep trouble out. Don’t go looking for it inside.”

Yeesh, that was so an Aunt Agatha line. Delivered slurred, and with breath that could halt a charging rhino.

“You’re awfully deep for an eighteen-year-old,” I said, uncomfortable in his ultra-tight grip. Off the deep end was what I meant.

What was really bugging me, though, was this bubbling chemical sensation inside—a powerful reaction, a connection. That and the feeling that I somehow knew Axel already.

“Yeah, well, I . . . I grew up in a hurry.”

He let go. I took a sip of my tea, just to have something to do with my hand.

The mug quoted Hamlet in purple Elizabethan-type print: “To be or not to be—that is the question.”

Uplifting mug.

“I promise I’ll be good, okay?” I said it a touch snottily.

I didn’t like being told what to do. Especially when it made sense.

“What were you looking for?”

“Huh?” I’d been checking out his weird salt and pepper shakers.

“Is this supposed to be Julius Caesar or something?” I fingered the white one in a toga with a wreath in his hair.

“Yeah, and the pepper’s Brutus. Corny, I know. They were a gift.”

“Was this mug a gift, too?”

“No, I bought that.”

He asked again, “What were you looking though my window for?”

It seemed so stupid now.

“I heard a cello playing. This was the second night. And when I saw your light on. . . . I thought it might be coming from here.”

“It was.”

“It was?”

“Yeah, it was me playing. Why are you surprised?”

“I don’t know. . . . I guess you don’t look like a cellist.”

He sank his head into his hands, elbows on the table.

“What does a cellist look like?”

“Short hair, suit type of guy.”

He considered that. “Well, I do own a suit.”

His eyebrows creased in thought. “I think I left it back at the town house, though.”

“You look more like . . . like a rock star.”

He leaned back and gave me a tired look.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ve heard it all before. Let’s not bring Mr. Morrison into this conversation, okay? We’ll let the dead stay dead.”

“Okay, sure,” I said. “It’s just that I’m really into Jim. He’s kind of like . . . ” I looked into my tea, embarrassed. “He’s kind of like my only friend.”

“That must make for some exciting conversations,” Axel said.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, I made you smile. What do you know, I’m good for something.”

He took a shot to celebrate and slammed the glass down.

“I’m sure you’re good for more than that.”

He shrugged, like he wasn’t sure at all.

“I’m making that my mission,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m making it my mission to keep a smile on your face.”

This guy was loco. “Good luck with that.”

Before, he wouldn’t look at me. Now, I couldn’t break away from his stare. “Why do you care if I smile or not?”

Axel passed his shot glass back and forth a few times between his hands. “I feel like we’re kind of the same.” Suddenly, he sounded dead sober. “There’s this . . . kindred spirit thing going between us. You feel it?”

I’d felt it the moment I saw him. That, more than anything, had been what had sent me running. Who could stand still for a jolt like that? Now it sizzled, this current running through me. But admit to it . . . ?

I leaned back, shifting my shoulders and trying to relax the knot in the back of my neck. It made me uneasy, being kindred spirits with a manic-depressive nut job.

But his eyes were relentless, and I couldn’t deny it.

“Yes,” I finally replied.

“Well, I . . . I don’t want to see you lose your chance.”

“To do what?”

“To enjoy life . . . to walk around with a smile.”

“Are you saying that you have?”

He stretched his arms out and cracked his knuckles, staring at them.

“Yeah, maybe I am.”

Good lord, his mood swings were making me dizzy. Axel was eighteen, handsome, and rich. What the hell is his problem?

“I think you’d better lay off Hamlet for a while,” I said. “And vodka, too.”

“The play’s the thing,” he whispered.

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

He snapped out of his trance and looked at me with a sly, drunken smile. “Here’s the deal. If you’d like to hang with someone who’s actually breathing, I’m available. You’re the first person I’ve felt inclined to talk to in a long time. But no more comparisons to Jim Morrison. I have enough of my own shit without dealing with his.”

He held out his hand.

“Can you handle that?”

I shook it.

“I can handle that.”

The real question seemed to be, What was it HE couldn’t handle?

* * *

Axel could certainly hold a conversation drunk.

We talked for a long time, about books, mostly. I’d turned a decent number of pages in my life, but he’d read me under the table.

Shakespeare was his favorite. He had the entire collection, leather-bound.

Axel said that Shakespeare had explored every emotion—and that he’d said everything there was to say. According to Axel, everything after Shakespeare was regurgitation. Poetic rehashing.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve always thought they should use Lady Macbeth’s ‘out damned spot’ line in a commercial for a laundry stain remover.”

Axel considered that. “Hmm. Or for a carpet cleaner ad, maybe.”

I glanced out the window, and my eyes practically bulged out of my head. The sun was rising!

“Oh my God, my aunt’s gonna freak!”

I jumped up and looked frantically for the sneakers I’d kicked off. I only found one.

“I gotta run.”

Clutching my footwear, I rushed up the steps and out the hatchway. Axel’s head popped out after me.

“Hey, Cinderella, catch.”

He chucked my other sneaker at me.

“No more wandering around in the dark. You want my phone number?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Then just fluff up your pillow, go back to sleep, and see me in the morning.”

“I don’t have a pillow.”

“You don’t have a pillow?” he repeated. “Wait a sec.”

He dropped below, then reappeared a few moments later.

“Here,” he said, chucking me a pillow in a navy blue case.

I pawed into the feathers, pressed them against my chest.

“Thanks.”

I climbed down the ladder to the dock.

It sure beat the way I’d come up.

Happy Birthday Shakespeare!

On the occasion of Shakespeare’s birthday, I must once again express how much he has meant in shaping my life. It was MACBETH which connected my mind to my soul, aligning them – like Dorothy and her cohorts on the Yellow Brick Road – on the rocky, curving path to becoming a published author. In my case, “home” was my words – and yes, they were with me all along, but I was terrified to use them. I was the Cowardly Lion for sure. But this is about Shakespeare.

When my teacher, Mrs. Lenore Israel of Lawrence High School, read to us she became Lady Macbeth (in a good, non-murderous way.) She gave voice to those powerful words! She also assigned us the task of memorizing the “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” soliloquy, and we each recited it SLOWLY in front of the class. There was something about the timing – allowing the words to linger on my tongue – that made all the difference.

After that, I was hooked. Falstaff was next. I also studied him with Mrs. Israel, as I was graduating a year early and had her for three periods (11th and 12th grade English!) I then came down with pneumonia and, bedridden, spent my days reading Shakespeare. (I don’t recall doing any other school work, but I must’ve – because I graduated and went off to NYU.)

I’ve made two pilgrimages to Stratford-upon-Avon with my sons! The second time, when we were traveling in Europe together for three weeks, they took the long train ride from London without complaint because they KNEW how much Shakespeare meant to me!

I hope you all have something which connects with you as Shakespeare does with me. And I hope you will take a moment to reflect on Shakespeare’s beautiful words, and just how timeless they are.

Happy birthday dear Shakespeare!!! I love you.

Indie Publishing: To Thine Own Self (and Literature) Be True

 

Yesterday I received an unexpected phone call. It was from a Los Angeles number. I answered suspiciously. “Hello?”

“May I please speak with Selene Castrovilla?”

My mind went to telemarketer. I was terse. “Who’s calling?”

“This is Lin Oliver from the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.”

What??? This was like royalty calling. “Hi Lin.” This was odd!!!

“And Steve Mooser is on the line, too!” she added.

“Hi, Selene,” said Steve casually – as though we spoke often. (We are all Facebook friends, but still.)

My mind went to the awful possibilities of why these two giants in the children’s book industry would be calling. Had I forgotten to renew my SCBWI membership?

Lin sensed by discomfort. “Don’t be nervous. This is nothing bad.”

“Okay…” I managed. It was hard to let go of my anxiety. My mind is trained toward worse case scenarios. It was a survival technique in childhood, and it only got worse after Hurricane Sandy.

Then came the THRILLING NEWS:

“We’re calling to let you now that you’ve won the SCBWI SPARK Award!”

This was something, alright. Lin and Steve couldn’t know how much this was. Because I’ve been fighting my way into the children’s writing business ever since I joined SCBWI so many yeas ago. Around 2001 0r 2002. There were so many obstacles it was nuts. The only thing I had  was myself. I knew I was a good writer. Actually, Stephen Roxburgh told me I was a great writer.  And he knows writers. Mostly when I went to conferences it was to buoy myself, and to listen to other people’s success stories for reassurance. No one is born published.

And then I was published. Multiple times. And I still am being traditionally published. But I had trouble with certain manuscripts. Actually, the bulk of my manuscripts. I’ll save all this for later. I’m going to be interviewed on the SCBWI blog, and they’ll likely ask me about my journey.

But I do want to say this about indie publishing. It’s an uphill battle for anyone who’s interested in being taken seriously – as a literary writer. People assume you couldn’t be published elsewhere, and that you must suck. But the biggest problem is the amount of people who self-publish things that shouldn’t have been published. I’m not saying that they could never have been published, only that the authors failed to go far enough. (A term borrowed from Patti Lee Gauch – someone else who told me I was a great writer. I paid a lot of money to hear people reassure me!) If all indie publishers held themselves up to high literary standards and hired editors, copy editors and book designers, there would be no more problems. Quality speaks for itself.

In indie publishing, we must recognize the truth within ourselves that we are sharing with the world. Because this is the main hallmark of literature, which normally would be vetted by an acquiring editor and a committee. The story should contain a truth or truths that make us THINK. And for this to happen, the author must think long and hard before publishing. He must also think clearly and objectively.

I’m proud that MELT speaks to its readers. I’m also thrilled that this indie novel of mine is getting more recognition than my two previous “traditional” young adult novels. It’s cool to know that my instincts were right.

When I choked out my thanks on the phone Lin said, “Well, you wrote a great book.”

No matter how much I believe in myself, it was totally wonderful to hear her say that.

 

 

 

Bye for now.

Happy Birthday Aunt Olga!

Today is my Aunt Olga’s birthday.

Aunt Olga on the back deck of her barge. Note the twin towers in the background.

Olga Bloom meant a lot to the musical and cultural world. She founded Bargemusic, a floating concert hall which countered the standoffishness of more traditional concert halls, and brought music to the masses.

She meant even more to me. Like, everything. No disrespect to my parents, rest their souls, but without my aunt I’d be in a padded room with my arms wrapped around myself in a permanent hug.

My aunt, my son Michael and I celebrating Aunt Olga’s 80th birthday 16 years ago. I was pregnant with my son Casey.

Aunt Olga believed in her dream and never stopped until she created it – and then, she fiercely protected and nurtured it!

 

 

The interior of the barge, with wood from the old Staten Island Ferry!

 

 

The back of the barge, which provides a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.

 

I wrote an homage to our relationship in my teen novel SAVED BY THE MUSIC.

I also wrote a personal essay about her as part of a book called TRAVEL IN THE SIXTIES. The proceeds from this book go toward music & art therapy for Alzheimers patients (my aunt suffered from Alzheimers.) It’s available on Amazon Kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/Travel-Sixties-...

(Also available in print.)

Here’s the beginning, to whet your appetite:

The Seventh Floor

By Selene Castrovilla

The automatic doors open with a slight whir, and I walk in from the New York City winter. The Starbucks cups I’m toting have sloshed out many precious drops during the three block journey. I wonder how much coffee will be left for me and my Aunt Olga.

Tramping through this senior residence lobby, I pass several residents hovering like tragic Pac-Man ghosts.

At the desk, I ask admittance to the seventh floor.

The clerk uses the required elevator key. As long as I continually press the button the doors will open on my floor. The ascension is slow and rocky. The Starbucks carrier shakes; more coffee leaks.

My aunt, Olga Bloom, moved to this place only grudgingly. She didn’t want to abandon her barge.

Over thirty years ago she founded Bargemusic, a floating concert hall in Brooklyn. Gradually, she’d forsaken her bed at home for a lumpy but convenient couch on her vessel. She was afloat so much that she lost her “land legs,” stumbling without movement beneath her feet.

At 89, she couldn’t stay on board any longer. She’d fallen off the couch, breaking a rib. She moved here to the residence, planning to write a memoir with my help. But she stalled at the beginning, reciting the same anecdote every time we met.

I was frustrated, but not concerned. My aunt had always been odd.

In her, Alzheimer’s took time to get noticed.

Then, suddenly, the sturdy Aunt Olga who could do anything was gone, replaced by this diminished soul.

Confused, she wanted to go home – to the barge.

When she set out to do so, pussy-footing to the curb and hailing a midnight cab to Brooklyn with no money in her pocket, her fate was sealed.

It was time for the seventh floor.

The doors open. Two residents are waiting, but the hallway aide tells them, “No, no. It’s goin’ up. Y’all gotta wait for the next one.”

One of the residents snaps out, “You always say that.”

The aide answers, “What can I say? I guess they gotta fix these elevators. They always goin’ up!”

The resident huffs and heads into the activity room. I nod at the aide and follow the woman inside.

And there is my aunt – musician, scholar, groundbreaking visionary. Seated with several residents and another aide, she is playing Uno.

She used to have a Buddha-like serene smile. Now, she resembles a bewildered owl. She’s wizened, but that’s nothing new. Her skin was weathered by the outdoors long ago. But she’s shrunken now, hunched into her own skin. Skinny like her skin is melting and all that’s going to be left is bones.

It’s her turn at the game, which no one except the aide beside her knows.

When informed¸ Aunt Olga is alarmed.

“Don’t leave my side; I have no idea what I’m doing,” Aunt Olga implores the aide.

“We’re looking for a blue card, Olga.” The aide’s thick West Indies accent is warming. “Look! You got one! Throw it in!”

My aunt tosses the blue card to the pile.

The aide encourages the next player to participate. I move closer to Aunt Olga and smile.

She’s blank for a moment when she looks at me. Then she says, “Oh, it’s you!”

“It’s me, Aunt Olga.” I’m unsure that she really knows who I am. “What’s going on?”

She frowns and scans the room.

“Do you want to come sit with me?” I ask.

She stands. Her chair scrapes the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”

We plod down the hallway. She’s got her cane in her left hand and I take her other hand in mine. She pauses, gives me a long look, and I see her then – the real her, inside herself, glimmering.

She sees me, too. “Oh, Selene, I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too, Aunt Olga,” I tell her.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“We’re at the place where you live now. We’re going to sit and have some coffee.” The weight of the carrier means there’s enough left for us to enjoy, despite the splatter staining both cups and cardboard.

Her posture rises at the news. “Thank God!”

(IF YOU ENJOYED THIS, PLEASE BUY THE BOOK ON AMAZON AS A BIRTHDAY GIFT TO MY AUNT.)

Happy birthday, old chum! We miss you, and you are in our hearts always.

 

Cover Reveal for SIGNS OF LIFE: Sequel to MELT!

Today is a surprising day. I’m revealing a cover for a book I had no idea I’d write! I have you —my readers — to thank.

I wrote MELT a long time ago, and I thought I’d said everything there was to say about Joey and Dorothy. Reading it again as it was about to be published, I still believed I’d said everything. But so many readers wanted more! They wanted to know what happened next. I was of the opinion that this could be surmised, and that readers could even create their own future for our beleaguered pair. I wanted Joey and Dorothy to rest in their peace.

Still more intriguing and urgent, some readers didn’t think Joey and Dorothy had found their peace. At first I was still of the opinion that people could come to their own conclusions, good or bad. The point of literature is to raise questions, not necessarily answer all of them. What did it matter how the reader felt as long as he or she felt something?

But all these comments (I read every review and responded to e-mails) started me thinking.

What did happen after the Glock dropped? Had Joey really loud the redemption I’d thought he had? And what happened with his dad?

I decided to allow my mind back to that dark place, and explore some more. I figured I could write a novella, at least.

But once there, I saw more. So much more! It was like Joey and Dorothy had been waiting for me to return to them, to continue on their journey.

SIGNS OF LIFE is not only unexpected, but it is unexpectedly beautiful. It is the pregnancy I thought I couldn’t have because I’d already had my change of life. But, in literature, it’s never too late to give birth. I have a lot to share specifically about the writing process and themes, so stay tuned in the months to come before my November 10 release.

Thank you so much for your support, and your insistence TO KNOW MORE!!! It is because of you that this day has come. Cheers!

PS: There’s another surprise! SO MUCH STORY came up that it’s now a trilogy!!!

Look for UNPUNISHED, Book 3 in the Rough Romance trilogy, in 2016!

About SIGNS OF LIFE:

***Contains semi-spoilers about MELT***

No good deed goes unpunished…

The tables are turned with a vengeance in this tour de force sequel to Melt. Now it’s Dorothy who is fragmented and lost, while Joey keeps the promise he made her to better himself – even though she’s gone.

Joey tells his story “now ”—nearly a year after the shocking conclusion of Melt.

Dorothy tells what happened “then”— in the moments and hours after the Glock dropped.

This time the stakes are even higher, as Joey forces himself to move forward while Dorothy is frozen in place. But when he learns of a devastating decision, Joey races to find her before it’s too late. Truth, consequence, repercussion and modern medicine collide as pieces converge in this psychological, thrilling story which begs the question: Can love really conquer all?

The Sequel to MELT!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Bye for now.

Blast from Blog Past #2: What’s in a Name?

During rush hour on the Southern State, there isn’t much to do except stare at the back of the car in front of you.

Last week we were behind a cherry-red sports car with an engraved license-plate holder. The top of it read: “Viviana & Hugh.” There were hearts and a date at the bottom.

“I wonder how that happened,” I said to my son Michael.

“How what happened?” he asked.

“How a Viviana wound up with a Hugh,” I said.

 

 

 

 

“Why not?”

“Because a guy named Hugh is down to earth, reasonable and grounded. He might wear a little bow-tie.”

“And a Viviana?”

“Dramatic and flamboyant. A flamenco dancer would be named Viviana.”

“Who would put that on their car, anyway?”

“Viviana would. There’s no way Hugh did that, except at gunpoint.”

“Huh,” Michael said.

Shakespeare wrote:

Yes. But would we think of it the same way? Names do have certain connotations. Otherwise, we would all name our children “Jack” and “Jill.” (And even those invoke images of a hill and a bucket, and tumbling after.)

Names have flavors, like ice cream.

Some are vanilla – like Hugh. Some are strawberry banana kiwi fudge – like Viviana.

You can also tell a lot about a parent by what they name their child, and you can be sure that subsequent names will be in a similar vein. Someone who names their first child “Jade” might name their second one “Ruby.” Someone who names their first offspring “James” will not be considering “Zebulun” for their next.

I went to a play once, in which brothers were names “Albert” and “Cougar.” That simply did not ring true for me. No way did the same mother name those two boys.

Consider Frank Zappa’s children: “Moon Unit” and “Dweezil.”

I named by sons “Michael Ryan” and “Casey Quinn.” We aren’t Irish. I just love Irish-style names. My mother thought I used the name “Ryan” because when I was in sixth grade I liked the soap opera “Ryan’s Hope.” Yeah, that would be a stable thing to do. (I actually met a woman in the hospital who said she had to go watch her “show” so she could choose a name for her new son.)

For the most part, people I’ve met have fit their names. How does this happen? I wonder if anyone has done a psychological study about this. Maybe our upbringings match our names, if that makes any sense. But I suspect parents raise their children in a manner consistent with their names.

But what do I know? I’m just a writer who thinks too much about these things. What’s in a name? For me, it’s the first insight into a character. As a matter of fact, Willow, the narrator of my novel Saved By the Music, first appeared in my head ranting about how much she hated her wishy-washy name, and how her mother, Isodora, purposely named her Willow to keep her down, like a willow tree drooping.

For humans, a name is that first piece of the puzzle that makes us who we are.

For a cat who hears you calling him, it’s supper.

Bye for now.

 

 

 

Blast from Blog Past: Romancing the (Starbucks) Bean

I’ve been going through my files saved from the nefarious Cryptovirus (thank you Carbonite!), and deciding which ones to put onto my new Mac (I swore I would never get a Mac, but that virus destroyed by computer and I’ll never go through that again.) I’ve found some old blog posts which I’m excited to give new life to and share with you.

Blast from blog past #1: Romancing the (Starbucks) Bean

You have to hand it to those writers over at Starbucks. They really know how to lay it on. My mom bought me one of their mugs for Christmas. The box came with a poem which I initially found romantic and hypnotic enough to me want to not only keep the box, but display it – until I came to my senses. It read, in part: “The bean forever remembers its birthplace…The bean eternally harbors the nurturing touch of the farmer deep within. The bean gives back, blessing each warm cup with the mysteriously inviting flavor of its coffee-land origin.” Good God, that’s a lot for a bean, isn’t it?

But what does a bean actually remember? Nothing. It’s a bean! And it’s not even born, it’s grown – so there’s no birthplace to remember anyway! And even if it had the capacity for memory, how could it ‘forever remember’ anything once it’s been pulverized in a grinder?

As for the bean eternally harboring the nurturing touch of the farmer…If there is a word that could be more wrong for describing a bean than ‘forever,’ it might be ‘eternally.’ And ‘harboring?’ Such clandestine behavior for a bean. What other secrets does this clever little bean hold?

“The bean gives back.” Well, that would be true – if the bean ever got anything in the first place. But it’s a bean. It doesn’t understand the concept of reciprocation.

As a writer, I’m drawn to words. As a human, I’m particularly empathetic. Although I’m not unduly into horoscopes, I occasionally read my daily tarot report. I saved this one: “The lesson of the Pisces Moon is compassion, for we are all in this world together.” This is interesting because my name means “moon.” Selene is the Greek moon goddess and the personification of the moon itself. I am in fact the moon, and my calling is just that – to remind us that we’re all in this together. Humanity must unite if it is to survive.

And if we’re to believe the Starbucks Corporation, that even includes the coffee beans.

They give their all for us folks – making the ultimate sacrifice so we can have our daily joe and not go on a murderous rampage in a shopping mall.

Does PETA know about this? They might want to add coffee beans to their list. At the very least, those beans deserve a union. Wouldn’t they be cute on the picket line, bouncing around the side walk? Oh wait, that’s Mexican jumping beans (PETA really does need to protect the worms inside those beans, incidentally.)

If I’ve gotten carried away, please excuse me. I haven’t had enough coffee yet.

Bye for now.

Et tu, Howard? An open letter to Howard Stern

 

 

Dear Howard,

You don’t know me, although I’ve written to you over the years, and dedicated a book to you. I know how it goes.

Even though you don’t know me, you’ve been my anchor since I was in college – and I’m 48. When I discovered you, I realized that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one dissatisfied with so much of society. I wasn’t the only one who wanted a return to truth.

You were more of a jerk back then. I didn’t realize it, but when I listen back I’m surprised I liked hearing you. I must’ve been desperate for companionship. I’m an only child, and my upbringing was “odd” like yours. Yes, I guess it was your discussion of family that was a great draw to me. You were honest about the pain you felt. You dared to say that your parents weren’t perfect – and yet you did so with love. Your heart was in there, but harder to discern.

I also loved the characters like Mamalukaboobooday in the traffic copter. I loved Mrs. Rosselli carrying people’s possessions on her back. You gave me something to look forward to each day. It might’ve been the only thing I had to look forward to.

There was only one time I had to turn you off, after I got divorced. I was in my late thirties. You asked James Woods (that pock-faced, unattractive, older actor) why he dated young girls. He responded, “Why do people get puppies?” I was in despair, thinking no one who ever want me because I wasn’t a puppy anymore.

But people did want me, and life went on. I’ve been through a journey, and had six books published thus far – all while listening to you. You have been the one constant in all these years. You provided a home for the misfits. Your universe is like an Island of Misfit Toys. And there are people who became so much more involved with you than me. I’ve only had so much time to devote to you, due to raising my kids, writing and having a life. There are people who gave up having much in their lives to devote themselves largely to you. These people were your original Wack Pack. You rewarded them by giving them attention. You recognized them, and gave them purpose. You even gave them love.

And now you are kicking people out of the Wack Pack. Consolidating into the “perfect” Wack Pack. Isn’t this the type of thing Hitler was going for in Germany?

Not everyone is Bigfoot, or Beetlejuice. But people who have provided us with continuous entertainment at the sacrifice of pursuit of other things deserve the Wack Pack status they’ve had for all these years. They gave their all to you, and you are discarding them like older, worn-out dogs. You made Monotone Matt a Wack Packer after a couple of calls. Who the f is he? People have DEVOTED themselves to you – and if that’s not wacky, what is?

At the very least, call these loyal people who have served you faithfully “emeritus.” Have a heart – they gave theirs to you.

Why do I care so much? Well, I feel for them. I also feel like I know them. They are more family to me than many of my relatives.

But perhaps even more so, I care because your show has always been the same space for misfits. You’ve given them their place in the sun. If you shove them aside, you’re discarding us all.

We’re all a little bit Wack Pack.

Sincerely,

Selene

Bye for now.