P.C. Parn's Blog
March 13, 2015
New cover
Book one is being re-released with a new cover!
Pre-order now. Price will automatically covert to USD.
Book three, the final book, coming out soon!
http://bit.ly/1BBzwIS
Pre-order now. Price will automatically covert to USD.
Book three, the final book, coming out soon!
http://bit.ly/1BBzwIS
November 3, 2014
Blog Tour!
Check out my website to participate in my blog tour. Enter my raffle for a free copy of one of my books!
http://www.perrinpring.com/2014/11/bl...
http://www.perrinpring.com/2014/11/bl...
August 16, 2014
Tomorrow is Too Late, coming soon
I was a natural flier, I could take a punch, and I was smarter than most. Within five years I was a full-fledged pilot. On my last assignment, I was Master Pilot Eri Everfar, commanding pilot of a class B Federal war ship, the Seeker, and that’s where I met him, Drakier Lu…
Filion and his new friends have escaped Bok and are stuck in an asteroid field that isn’t supposed to exist. They’ve almost run out of fuel, their water supply is seriously depleted, all of their food has been destroyed, and the girl they’d just risked everything to save, Ryo, is dead.
Captain Eri’s former lover, Drakier Lu, has been promoted to Master Commander of the entire Federal Fleet, and his assignment is to find and capture the Dark Horse. Captain Eri has been identified as a Tiori, and she and her associates have just become the Federation’s most wanted. Things aren’t what they seem though, and the line between good and evil blurs as the players’ true motivations come to light.
Filion and the crew return, traveling the galaxy and dodging the Federation and the Tioris, all the while searching for a rogue planet that may or may not be harboring the one person who can save them all…
Stay tuned... Tomorrow is Too Late is coming soon.
Follow me on Facebook, G+, Instagram, and Twitter
Filion and his new friends have escaped Bok and are stuck in an asteroid field that isn’t supposed to exist. They’ve almost run out of fuel, their water supply is seriously depleted, all of their food has been destroyed, and the girl they’d just risked everything to save, Ryo, is dead.
Captain Eri’s former lover, Drakier Lu, has been promoted to Master Commander of the entire Federal Fleet, and his assignment is to find and capture the Dark Horse. Captain Eri has been identified as a Tiori, and she and her associates have just become the Federation’s most wanted. Things aren’t what they seem though, and the line between good and evil blurs as the players’ true motivations come to light.
Filion and the crew return, traveling the galaxy and dodging the Federation and the Tioris, all the while searching for a rogue planet that may or may not be harboring the one person who can save them all…
Stay tuned... Tomorrow is Too Late is coming soon.
Follow me on Facebook, G+, Instagram, and Twitter
August 8, 2014
Tomorrow is Too Late, coming this September
Book Two of the Ryo Myths is coming this September. Check out the cover at:
http://www.perrinpring.com/2014/08/it...
http://www.perrinpring.com/2014/08/it...
April 17, 2014
Interview with Jazz Drummer and Fiction Writer: Mark Kaufman
Hello! Today I'll be sharing an interview with Mark Kaufman - creative mind, jazz drummer, lover of lore, and flash fiction writer. Mark has been kind enough to share some of his outlooks on the more creative pursuits in his life, along with some photographs and a piece of original flash fiction! Read on to meet Mark then stick around to read his story Bewitched. (It's less than 400 words, you have the time.) Without further ado, let's meet Mark.
P: Hi Mark. Welcome to my blog. To start, can you tell us a bit about yourself? Who are you? Where do you come from?
M: Howdy! Somewhere around thirty years ago I undertook the audacious process of cellular division. Nine months later, and feeling especially bold now that I had grown limbs, I entered society in Los Angeles, where there are lots of faults in the earth's crust, but this is easily overshadowed by lots of great Mexican food. Two decades passed, and then I fell in love with the Rolling Stones.
P: You spend time working seasonally as a park ranger, and you’ve had other interesting jobs – do you think these ‘atypical’, so to say, jobs help bolster your creativity?
M: Without doubt. National Parks are inherently interesting places where one becomes immersed in mysteries, lore, stories----and bears! For instance, we've all heard fanciful tales of ancient dungeons on Alcatraz. But they're true tales. The prison, which housed depression-era bank robbers, was built atop the labyrinthine brick halls of a civil war fortress. I used to take visitors down there. Everyone wore hard hats. Even the ghosts.....
P: You play drums, and I know you’re into jazz. What can you tell me about your musical pursuits?
M: I play furious drums for an hour everyday. Minimum. It's inspiring, therapeutic, and it keeps me real limber. I've played with some special talent: Miss Erma, Tim Hassall, and Charles Darius, and will so again, because although this park ranger life is special, living in the woods is only cute for so long.
P: Favorite drummer?
M: Stanton Moore. A bona fide New Orleans groove and syncopation king.
P: Your story, Bewitched (featured below) is what you call ‘flash fiction’. Can you tell us a bit about flash fiction and about what inspired you to write Bewitched?
M: There's no rigid definition of flash fiction—I'd like to call it 1,000 words or less. It's a whole lot of fun to create a world, or a rich snapshot of someone's life---perhaps a dragon's, and then the story ends! Endings have such wonderful potential. I appreciate shocking and sometimes horrible endings, courtesy of the likes of Roald Dahl, or endings that leave one uneasy, unsure, and left to wonder, courtesy of the singular, the dark, the hilarious, and the unsettling, Franz Kafka.
P: A few weeks ago I interviewed David Bergner, a musician friend of mine. One of the questions I asked him was, How does he balance his ‘real’ bill paying life, and his creative life. Do you struggle with a similar balance? If so, how do you manage it?
M: I escape the uncertainties of a creative lifestyle by writing fiction and playing music. Wait a second...
P: I’ve read two of your stories, both take place in Los Angeles, albeit at very different times. As I’ve told you, I have a weird penchant for fiction taking place in L.A (despite having spent no real time there – does nine hours in a traffic jam count?) Do your L.A. roots inspire you? Do you consider Los Angeles your home, despite all the traveling?
M: Nine hours of traffic! Los Angeles, you should know, once had the most advanced electric railway system in the world. A city of red trolleys. How romantic. That was in the 1920's, before automobiles were considered to be the next big thing. Next time you hit that much traffic, get off the freeway and visit the La Brea Tar Pits. There, in the middle of town, you'll discover the earth's richest collection of ice-age bones. Mega fauna, like mastodons, sloths, and mammoths roamed Los Angeles in the not too distant past. And so did their terrifying predator—the saber-toothed cat. I always seem to find my way back here.
P: What's next?
M: A summer in Alaska's Katmai National Park. A place where brown bears outnumber people. A place where one can get some writing done....
Thank you for your time, Mark! All photo credits go to Mark. Now, for Mark's piece of flash fiction, Bewitched.
Bewitched
The witch jetted across town in the carpool lane. She shrieked hysterically in her rusted black Cadillac as she mocked the rules of the road. Such a derelict car couldn't possibly hit fifty miles an hour—but she found a way to hit a hundred: just add coyote blood to the transmission fluid. Her skin was swampy green, and her warts the size of tic-tacs.
In a matter of seconds she cut across across four lanes of traffic, eliciting curses, raised fists, and near heart attacks. Onto city streets the witch bounced, and with a snap of her reptilian fingers, green lights led her to the base of hill in Sylmar, California. Braking wildly, the witch skidded to a stop between two haunting oak trees. Her brakes smoked and engine sighed.
The witch moved hurriedly under the gaze of the moon - it was nearly midnight, and midnight it had to be. Up, up, up she traveled, following a family of deranged ravens to a perch over a raging river. She dug anxiously into her tattered black robe before pulling out vial about the size of a cigar. It was filled with a glowing red liquid, and when the witch thrust it into the air she let out a shrill demonic cry, and the ravens followed suit.
Eleven-fifty nine became midnight, and the witch poured the vial's contents into the roaring Los Angeles aqueduct. She watched as the mountain waters boiled and cascaded down as they made their final descent to the glowing metropolis below.
* * *
A week later, long time Hollywood resident Steve Hitch steadied a ladder as his son, Nick, covered their porch lights in red cellophane. All down the block, in fact, Steve Hitch's neighbors were removing superfluous outdoor lights, or covering the necessary ones in red. County officials demanded that street lights go dark after rush hour traffic, and even Walmart gave its giant glowing letters a reprieve from luminosity.
And this wasn't just happening in Hollywood: Santa Monica, Compton, Palos Verdes, and Pasadena were all determined to shut out the lights.
The beaches were packed full and the freeways empty. The beaches were quiet too, as everyone stared up, embracing each other as much as their own far away thoughts.
Because after quite an absence - and now reaching across a great expanse of sky, the great spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy had returned to Los Angeles.
See original post on www.perrinpring.com
P: Hi Mark. Welcome to my blog. To start, can you tell us a bit about yourself? Who are you? Where do you come from?
M: Howdy! Somewhere around thirty years ago I undertook the audacious process of cellular division. Nine months later, and feeling especially bold now that I had grown limbs, I entered society in Los Angeles, where there are lots of faults in the earth's crust, but this is easily overshadowed by lots of great Mexican food. Two decades passed, and then I fell in love with the Rolling Stones.
P: You spend time working seasonally as a park ranger, and you’ve had other interesting jobs – do you think these ‘atypical’, so to say, jobs help bolster your creativity?
M: Without doubt. National Parks are inherently interesting places where one becomes immersed in mysteries, lore, stories----and bears! For instance, we've all heard fanciful tales of ancient dungeons on Alcatraz. But they're true tales. The prison, which housed depression-era bank robbers, was built atop the labyrinthine brick halls of a civil war fortress. I used to take visitors down there. Everyone wore hard hats. Even the ghosts.....
P: You play drums, and I know you’re into jazz. What can you tell me about your musical pursuits?
M: I play furious drums for an hour everyday. Minimum. It's inspiring, therapeutic, and it keeps me real limber. I've played with some special talent: Miss Erma, Tim Hassall, and Charles Darius, and will so again, because although this park ranger life is special, living in the woods is only cute for so long.
P: Favorite drummer?
M: Stanton Moore. A bona fide New Orleans groove and syncopation king.
P: Your story, Bewitched (featured below) is what you call ‘flash fiction’. Can you tell us a bit about flash fiction and about what inspired you to write Bewitched?
M: There's no rigid definition of flash fiction—I'd like to call it 1,000 words or less. It's a whole lot of fun to create a world, or a rich snapshot of someone's life---perhaps a dragon's, and then the story ends! Endings have such wonderful potential. I appreciate shocking and sometimes horrible endings, courtesy of the likes of Roald Dahl, or endings that leave one uneasy, unsure, and left to wonder, courtesy of the singular, the dark, the hilarious, and the unsettling, Franz Kafka.
P: A few weeks ago I interviewed David Bergner, a musician friend of mine. One of the questions I asked him was, How does he balance his ‘real’ bill paying life, and his creative life. Do you struggle with a similar balance? If so, how do you manage it?
M: I escape the uncertainties of a creative lifestyle by writing fiction and playing music. Wait a second...
P: I’ve read two of your stories, both take place in Los Angeles, albeit at very different times. As I’ve told you, I have a weird penchant for fiction taking place in L.A (despite having spent no real time there – does nine hours in a traffic jam count?) Do your L.A. roots inspire you? Do you consider Los Angeles your home, despite all the traveling?
M: Nine hours of traffic! Los Angeles, you should know, once had the most advanced electric railway system in the world. A city of red trolleys. How romantic. That was in the 1920's, before automobiles were considered to be the next big thing. Next time you hit that much traffic, get off the freeway and visit the La Brea Tar Pits. There, in the middle of town, you'll discover the earth's richest collection of ice-age bones. Mega fauna, like mastodons, sloths, and mammoths roamed Los Angeles in the not too distant past. And so did their terrifying predator—the saber-toothed cat. I always seem to find my way back here.
P: What's next?
M: A summer in Alaska's Katmai National Park. A place where brown bears outnumber people. A place where one can get some writing done....
Thank you for your time, Mark! All photo credits go to Mark. Now, for Mark's piece of flash fiction, Bewitched.
Bewitched
The witch jetted across town in the carpool lane. She shrieked hysterically in her rusted black Cadillac as she mocked the rules of the road. Such a derelict car couldn't possibly hit fifty miles an hour—but she found a way to hit a hundred: just add coyote blood to the transmission fluid. Her skin was swampy green, and her warts the size of tic-tacs.
In a matter of seconds she cut across across four lanes of traffic, eliciting curses, raised fists, and near heart attacks. Onto city streets the witch bounced, and with a snap of her reptilian fingers, green lights led her to the base of hill in Sylmar, California. Braking wildly, the witch skidded to a stop between two haunting oak trees. Her brakes smoked and engine sighed.
The witch moved hurriedly under the gaze of the moon - it was nearly midnight, and midnight it had to be. Up, up, up she traveled, following a family of deranged ravens to a perch over a raging river. She dug anxiously into her tattered black robe before pulling out vial about the size of a cigar. It was filled with a glowing red liquid, and when the witch thrust it into the air she let out a shrill demonic cry, and the ravens followed suit.
Eleven-fifty nine became midnight, and the witch poured the vial's contents into the roaring Los Angeles aqueduct. She watched as the mountain waters boiled and cascaded down as they made their final descent to the glowing metropolis below.
* * *
A week later, long time Hollywood resident Steve Hitch steadied a ladder as his son, Nick, covered their porch lights in red cellophane. All down the block, in fact, Steve Hitch's neighbors were removing superfluous outdoor lights, or covering the necessary ones in red. County officials demanded that street lights go dark after rush hour traffic, and even Walmart gave its giant glowing letters a reprieve from luminosity.
And this wasn't just happening in Hollywood: Santa Monica, Compton, Palos Verdes, and Pasadena were all determined to shut out the lights.
The beaches were packed full and the freeways empty. The beaches were quiet too, as everyone stared up, embracing each other as much as their own far away thoughts.
Because after quite an absence - and now reaching across a great expanse of sky, the great spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy had returned to Los Angeles.
See original post on www.perrinpring.com
March 26, 2014
Kefi, Liminal Spaces, and Malaise
Today is my friend Stacey's birthday. Happy birthday Stacey. In honor of your birthday, I thought I'd do a post on a topic we've often discussed - liminal spaces.
I'm going to discuss these liminal spaces in terms of creating art, particularly narratives. What I mean is, I'm not condoning war or saying it's beautiful. I'm talking about creating narratives that grab at your reader. Narratives that tug on the heartstrings and not only make people think but make people remember. I'm talking about an idea that will cause readers, years and years after reading a successful liminal space narrative, not to remember its plot but to remember the feelings it evoked. I'm talking about bringing the scent of your grandmother's cherry pie to your nostrils on your deathbed. I'm talking about liminal spaces.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term liminal space. Let me attempt to define it for you.
Liminal comes from the Latin word Limen which means threshold. A liminal space can therefore be any of the following:
The quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs between one norm and another, i.e. - the time between a collapsing social hierarchy and a rising one.
The time before a marriage or the birth of a baby. The time after a divorce or at the time at the beginning of an empty nest.
The life led between meeting your mate and settling down with them (reference any Hollywood romantic comedy/romance novel).
While not all liminal spaces are seemingly positive ones (if a liminal space is the time between a collapsing social hierarchy and a rising one, that's usually war, but more on this later) in terms of writing, film, and human memories, liminal spaces are often positive. That's why there are so many romantic comedies. As humans, we love to re-live the liminal space that exists only between meeting your mate and settling with them. (I would say the story of young 'true' love isn't just specific to Hollywood.)
Traditional love stories possess a sense of untapped potential that make them irresistible. They take two people who are in uncertain waters - young people trying to find themselves and each other in a big, scary world - and then give them a partner who will support and love them for the rest of their lives. At the end of the story, the characters have a clean slate with a devoted partner, and the world is their oyster. The credits roll before 'real' life sets in - bills, babies, heartbreak, etc.
Liminal spaces are essentially our best memories. They are the summer days we had as a kid. They are our first kiss. They are the hug he gave you when your life was crumbling. They are your daughter's smile. They are the moments we look back on with happiness and a little (or a lot) of longing.
Longing. That's key in liminal space. That's why war often falls into the category of a liminal space. Strife creates longing. Longing for a time when things are simple and safe. Take the movie Titanic (I'm using this because it's pretty ubiquitous). Titanic was a smash hit not because it was just a love story, but because it was a tragic love story. The love that Cate Blanchett and Leonardo DiCaprio's characters experience exists only in the brief time frame of those few days on the Titanic. It is pure and can never be ruined by falling out of love or debt or wrinkles. It is an ultimate love story because it's too vibrant to last. DiCaprio dies, making it tragic - they can never live happily ever after - but that same limiting factor makes it liminal. It can never again be attained. It was a once in a life time experience. Hence:
Liminal spaces are a fleeting ideals in which most people are unable to remain.
I say most people because there are two types of characters who often get to 'stay' in a liminal space. Those like Leonardo DiCaprio's character (what was his name, Jack?) who die, and then those who aren't your main character.
Those like Jack gets to remain in a liminal space because they died either during the liminal space, or soon after. The whole 'die young' thing just perpetuates our infatuation with liminal spaces. Our last memories of said characters are often emotionally charged (Jack and Blanchett's character had an unsustainable fling. He died to save her. We love him!), and the character is usually young and healthy when s/he dies, making it doubly tragic.
The other characters who get to stay in a liminal space are usually those who your main character is attracted to (often in a romantic way but not always) but don't end up with the main character. Think the unattainable girl. She walks in, turns his life upside down, and disappears into the sunset. She's the one that got away, the unicorn. She exists in a place in his mind where she becomes more than what she was. Her flaws are overlooked, glossed over by his memory making her into more than any human could ever be. The last time he saw her was fifty years ago, but in his mind she's still 23 and full of life. She can't be the main character, she can only exist in the periphery. She is the chink in his armor, the hole that lets in the the idea that his life could have been different - he could have been great. He could have been happy. She isn't real, but for a few days or moments, she was, and that he will never forget.
Liminal spaces - imperative in a narrative. They transport our readers out of their own lives and into a life rife with longing, tragedy, and utter devotion and love. It makes people not only think but feel. Liminal spaces combat malaise.
There's another word for you - malaise. It's french and it means everydayness. In my mind malaise is a sunny Sunday afternoon in a sprawling suburb with a neutral color tone. Every day is the same. It's routine. It's unhealthily safe. It's never getting caught in the rain. It's not wearing lime green when khaki is more appropriate. It's eating plain toast because eggs with Tabasco is a little to spicy. It's Groundhog day without Bill Murray, and it's your life.
We write to combat malaise. We read to combat malaise. Liminal spaces are our out.
There's one final word I'd like to touch on - kefi. It's Greek and it's not something that fits easily into a box. It encompasses joy, frenzy, passion. I don't speak Greek, and I've never talked to a Greek person about kefi, but in my mind, kefi, malaise and liminal spaces are all related. Here's how:
Kefi - extreme joy/passion. It's a moment. That moment when you realize that she loves you back. It overwhelms you. It makes your legs weak. You want to cry, but you're laughing. You can't think beyond the immediacy the fact that your dream is coming true. The world blurs and all you can focus on is her.
Over time, that kefi dims and becomes a liminal space. You remember where you were standing when she told you she loves you. You remember her nails were painted, but you can't recall what you were wearing. The wind was blowing. She smelled like lavender. You remember feeling joy and relief. In your mind, that is the moment where it all started. You can trace your history back to that instant. You can look at that kefi with a more rational head. You can see now what you couldn't then.
What plagues the liminal space? Malaise. One day you wake up, you realize you're twenty pounds too heavy, working a job you hate, your love has her own life and her own issues. You sleep next to her, but you're both always so tired. It isn't to say your life is bad, but one day that liminal space, fueled by the kefi that created it, flashes in your mind, back to a time when the world seemed so much bigger and brighter. You remember the intensity of that moment, and then you look at your beige house in a sea of beige houses, and you wonder what happened?
We write because we have the power to create those liminal spaces. We read to combat the malaise. We remember because the kefi we've been lucky enough to experience stays with us, and we can't forget it.
Originally posted on www.perrinpring.com
I'm going to discuss these liminal spaces in terms of creating art, particularly narratives. What I mean is, I'm not condoning war or saying it's beautiful. I'm talking about creating narratives that grab at your reader. Narratives that tug on the heartstrings and not only make people think but make people remember. I'm talking about an idea that will cause readers, years and years after reading a successful liminal space narrative, not to remember its plot but to remember the feelings it evoked. I'm talking about bringing the scent of your grandmother's cherry pie to your nostrils on your deathbed. I'm talking about liminal spaces.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term liminal space. Let me attempt to define it for you.
Liminal comes from the Latin word Limen which means threshold. A liminal space can therefore be any of the following:
The quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs between one norm and another, i.e. - the time between a collapsing social hierarchy and a rising one.
The time before a marriage or the birth of a baby. The time after a divorce or at the time at the beginning of an empty nest.
The life led between meeting your mate and settling down with them (reference any Hollywood romantic comedy/romance novel).
While not all liminal spaces are seemingly positive ones (if a liminal space is the time between a collapsing social hierarchy and a rising one, that's usually war, but more on this later) in terms of writing, film, and human memories, liminal spaces are often positive. That's why there are so many romantic comedies. As humans, we love to re-live the liminal space that exists only between meeting your mate and settling with them. (I would say the story of young 'true' love isn't just specific to Hollywood.)
Traditional love stories possess a sense of untapped potential that make them irresistible. They take two people who are in uncertain waters - young people trying to find themselves and each other in a big, scary world - and then give them a partner who will support and love them for the rest of their lives. At the end of the story, the characters have a clean slate with a devoted partner, and the world is their oyster. The credits roll before 'real' life sets in - bills, babies, heartbreak, etc.
Liminal spaces are essentially our best memories. They are the summer days we had as a kid. They are our first kiss. They are the hug he gave you when your life was crumbling. They are your daughter's smile. They are the moments we look back on with happiness and a little (or a lot) of longing.
Longing. That's key in liminal space. That's why war often falls into the category of a liminal space. Strife creates longing. Longing for a time when things are simple and safe. Take the movie Titanic (I'm using this because it's pretty ubiquitous). Titanic was a smash hit not because it was just a love story, but because it was a tragic love story. The love that Cate Blanchett and Leonardo DiCaprio's characters experience exists only in the brief time frame of those few days on the Titanic. It is pure and can never be ruined by falling out of love or debt or wrinkles. It is an ultimate love story because it's too vibrant to last. DiCaprio dies, making it tragic - they can never live happily ever after - but that same limiting factor makes it liminal. It can never again be attained. It was a once in a life time experience. Hence:
Liminal spaces are a fleeting ideals in which most people are unable to remain.
I say most people because there are two types of characters who often get to 'stay' in a liminal space. Those like Leonardo DiCaprio's character (what was his name, Jack?) who die, and then those who aren't your main character.
Those like Jack gets to remain in a liminal space because they died either during the liminal space, or soon after. The whole 'die young' thing just perpetuates our infatuation with liminal spaces. Our last memories of said characters are often emotionally charged (Jack and Blanchett's character had an unsustainable fling. He died to save her. We love him!), and the character is usually young and healthy when s/he dies, making it doubly tragic.
The other characters who get to stay in a liminal space are usually those who your main character is attracted to (often in a romantic way but not always) but don't end up with the main character. Think the unattainable girl. She walks in, turns his life upside down, and disappears into the sunset. She's the one that got away, the unicorn. She exists in a place in his mind where she becomes more than what she was. Her flaws are overlooked, glossed over by his memory making her into more than any human could ever be. The last time he saw her was fifty years ago, but in his mind she's still 23 and full of life. She can't be the main character, she can only exist in the periphery. She is the chink in his armor, the hole that lets in the the idea that his life could have been different - he could have been great. He could have been happy. She isn't real, but for a few days or moments, she was, and that he will never forget.
Liminal spaces - imperative in a narrative. They transport our readers out of their own lives and into a life rife with longing, tragedy, and utter devotion and love. It makes people not only think but feel. Liminal spaces combat malaise.
There's another word for you - malaise. It's french and it means everydayness. In my mind malaise is a sunny Sunday afternoon in a sprawling suburb with a neutral color tone. Every day is the same. It's routine. It's unhealthily safe. It's never getting caught in the rain. It's not wearing lime green when khaki is more appropriate. It's eating plain toast because eggs with Tabasco is a little to spicy. It's Groundhog day without Bill Murray, and it's your life.
We write to combat malaise. We read to combat malaise. Liminal spaces are our out.
There's one final word I'd like to touch on - kefi. It's Greek and it's not something that fits easily into a box. It encompasses joy, frenzy, passion. I don't speak Greek, and I've never talked to a Greek person about kefi, but in my mind, kefi, malaise and liminal spaces are all related. Here's how:
Kefi - extreme joy/passion. It's a moment. That moment when you realize that she loves you back. It overwhelms you. It makes your legs weak. You want to cry, but you're laughing. You can't think beyond the immediacy the fact that your dream is coming true. The world blurs and all you can focus on is her.
Over time, that kefi dims and becomes a liminal space. You remember where you were standing when she told you she loves you. You remember her nails were painted, but you can't recall what you were wearing. The wind was blowing. She smelled like lavender. You remember feeling joy and relief. In your mind, that is the moment where it all started. You can trace your history back to that instant. You can look at that kefi with a more rational head. You can see now what you couldn't then.
What plagues the liminal space? Malaise. One day you wake up, you realize you're twenty pounds too heavy, working a job you hate, your love has her own life and her own issues. You sleep next to her, but you're both always so tired. It isn't to say your life is bad, but one day that liminal space, fueled by the kefi that created it, flashes in your mind, back to a time when the world seemed so much bigger and brighter. You remember the intensity of that moment, and then you look at your beige house in a sea of beige houses, and you wonder what happened?
We write because we have the power to create those liminal spaces. We read to combat the malaise. We remember because the kefi we've been lucky enough to experience stays with us, and we can't forget it.
Originally posted on www.perrinpring.com
February 11, 2014
Book Trailer
Check out An Appointment at the Edge of Forever's Book Trailer!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9imdi...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9imdi...
January 13, 2014
BOOK BLOG TOUR!
Hello All,
So, this is an exciting week. It's the week of my book blog tour! I'm excited to announce that thanks to a great group of bloggers, An Appointment at the Edge of Forever will be touring the virtual world.
What is a book blog tour?
A book blog tour is where different bloggers host An Appointment at the Edge of Forever on their sites. I've lined up a few book reviews, a couple of interviews, and a book feature. Each day a new site will highlight an aspect of An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
Here's the schedule:
January 13th: The Kabrini Message hosts an author interview.
January 14th: Erindipity hosts another author interview.
January 15th: The Book Drifter reviews An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
January 16th: Ink and Paper reviews An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
All week: The Bibliophilic Book Blog features An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
Check out these blogs throughout the week. Also, each blog will be hosting my Rafflecopter. What's a Rafflecopter? It's a chance to win a signed copy of An Appointment at the Edge of Forever or an e-version of An Appointment at the Edge of Forever. Check it out!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
So, this is an exciting week. It's the week of my book blog tour! I'm excited to announce that thanks to a great group of bloggers, An Appointment at the Edge of Forever will be touring the virtual world.
What is a book blog tour?
A book blog tour is where different bloggers host An Appointment at the Edge of Forever on their sites. I've lined up a few book reviews, a couple of interviews, and a book feature. Each day a new site will highlight an aspect of An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
Here's the schedule:
January 13th: The Kabrini Message hosts an author interview.
January 14th: Erindipity hosts another author interview.
January 15th: The Book Drifter reviews An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
January 16th: Ink and Paper reviews An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
All week: The Bibliophilic Book Blog features An Appointment at the Edge of Forever.
Check out these blogs throughout the week. Also, each blog will be hosting my Rafflecopter. What's a Rafflecopter? It's a chance to win a signed copy of An Appointment at the Edge of Forever or an e-version of An Appointment at the Edge of Forever. Check it out!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
November 22, 2013
Philip Roth vs. Ernest Hemingway: The Artistic Benefit to the Misadventure
When I was in college, my English department offered a class taught by Saul Bellow's wife. I had read some Bellow (Henderson the Rain King) in my high school Existential Literature class, which to this day remains the best English class I've ever taken. As a result of my high school experience, I tried to get into Bellow's wife's English class every semester while in college. I finally got in my senior year.
It turned out, that the class was mostly about Philip Roth (although we did read Henderson the Rain King, again). What I learned from that class were two very important things.
1.) I hate Philip Roth's writing
2.) I hate Philip Roth's approach to writing and art in general.
Now, you may think that the class was a great let down. In some ways, it was. I had been expecting an even better version of my high school Existential Literature class and what I'd gotten was a class about Philip Roth, who, in my opinion has a very narrow view point. In every book I read by him (The Plot Against America, The Breast, The Human Stain, Exit Ghost, The Ghost Writer and others which I can't remember) Roth seems to have the same character with the same issues. He writes about a middle aged Jewish man. The man is always from the East Coast. He is an academic who has a bachelors, Masters, and PhD in English. The man teaches, writes and cannot relate to women. The man struggles with his identity as a woman fearing, East Coast, Jewish academic and there you have it, the plot to every Roth book I've ever read.
Needless to say, initially, I was let down my my English 'dream class'. I failed to understand why we cared about Roth or his characters at all. My class, which was mostly full of East Coast Jewish women, seemed to love Roth. My professor loved Roth. I squeaked by with a B minus.
During the class though, we took a break from Roth to read a story by an author whose name I have since forgotten. In this story, the 19th century author states that in order to be a true artist, one must only focus on his art. Our professor then told us a story of how a friend of Roth's once thought he was working too much, and she gave him two kittens. Roth spent the day playing with the kittens, then gave them back because he stated 'they were distracting him from his work.'
Now, this is why the Philip Roth class was perhaps the most important English class I took while in college. I remember reading the 19th century story and then listening to my professor explain Roth's reasoning behind getting rid of his cats and thinking - These people are psychopaths. All of them. Why on Earth would locking yourself away and never coming into contact with the outside world make you a good artist? How could you produce anything relatable to anyone if you never interacted with anyone? If you never took the time to love anything, from a significant other to two kittens, how could you write novels that meant anything?
Now, obviously, not everyone shares my view point. After all, some consider Roth to be the greatest American author of our time. Others, like me, don't agree. Those of us who don't like Roth and his associates, tend to align ourselves more with Hemingway.
Several years after graduating college, I discovered one of my co-workers was also a writer. He offered to host a writer's group. We would meet occasionally and do exercises, talk about what we were doing, and most of all, listen to our mentor talk about Hemingway.
I learned a ton from this group, most importantly, how can you write about anything if you have never experienced anything? How can you have anything new or different or inspiring to say if you have never experienced hardship, adversary, love, or kindness?
Hemingway was an experiential guy. He got out into the world and got his hands dirty. He lived by tasting, smelling, hearing speaking, and feeling - not by sitting by himself and thinking. This is how I think a true artist is made. A true artist, whether a sculptor or writer, cannot offer anything meaningful if they have never had an adventure. Hemingway had adventure after misadventure, and he took those experiences and turned them into classic literature.
When people find out I write, most people assume I write about being a park ranger. People are often shocked that I write science fiction and not non-fiction. What people fail to understand is that there is no way I could write what I write if I wasn't a park ranger. While I may not write essays about my interactions with cougars, meth heads, bitter cold, blistering heat, sunrises, lost hikers, dead hikers, pine cones, and crazy mules, all of these things, and the rest of my experiences, allow me to write about real things through the lens of science fiction. Let me give you an example.
Recently, my partner and I were driving to a call in another part of the park. I was in the front passenger seat of our Tahoe, and I noticed something cross the road in front of us. It was dark, maybe 9 pm, and at first I thought it was a deer, no wait, a coyote. Then we both saw it for what it was - a very large adult cougar.
My partner stopped the car as it finished crossing the road. The predator moved into the brush then turned and looked at me over its shoulder. Remember, I was in a running Tahoe, with another adult, and the car was filled with a variety of weapons, ranging from mace to a rifle. The cougar stared straight at me, its dark eyes silently appraising me. This was the first time in my life I was aware of being studied as potential prey (I'm sure I unknowingly interacted with sharks while surfing, but as they say, ignorance is bliss). The cougar never broke its stare with me, and in that instance I knew, despite the machine in which I sat, the guns that I carried, and the person next to me, I was the weaker of the two of us.
I broke eye contact with the cat and told my partner to drive.
I experienced the fear of being prey, and you can bet that experience will work its way into my writing. The situation won't be the same, there may be aliens involved, but the feelings will be universal. Do you think Roth ever took the time to get stared down by a highly efficient killing machine? I doubt it. Did Hemingway? Well, he volunteered for World War One, so you probably know the answer.
In conclusion, I'm not saying that an artist needs to put themselves in dangerous situations in order to produce 'real' art. What I'm saying is, that through living a life imbued with some spontaneity, an artist will be more able to create real work with which people can identify. You don't need to become an ambulance driver in Iraq to 'get it'. Just take the time to play with some kittens, volunteer at a soup kitchen, or drive the long way home. You will never know what you'll experience if you don't give yourself the opportunity.
It turned out, that the class was mostly about Philip Roth (although we did read Henderson the Rain King, again). What I learned from that class were two very important things.
1.) I hate Philip Roth's writing
2.) I hate Philip Roth's approach to writing and art in general.
Now, you may think that the class was a great let down. In some ways, it was. I had been expecting an even better version of my high school Existential Literature class and what I'd gotten was a class about Philip Roth, who, in my opinion has a very narrow view point. In every book I read by him (The Plot Against America, The Breast, The Human Stain, Exit Ghost, The Ghost Writer and others which I can't remember) Roth seems to have the same character with the same issues. He writes about a middle aged Jewish man. The man is always from the East Coast. He is an academic who has a bachelors, Masters, and PhD in English. The man teaches, writes and cannot relate to women. The man struggles with his identity as a woman fearing, East Coast, Jewish academic and there you have it, the plot to every Roth book I've ever read.
Needless to say, initially, I was let down my my English 'dream class'. I failed to understand why we cared about Roth or his characters at all. My class, which was mostly full of East Coast Jewish women, seemed to love Roth. My professor loved Roth. I squeaked by with a B minus.
During the class though, we took a break from Roth to read a story by an author whose name I have since forgotten. In this story, the 19th century author states that in order to be a true artist, one must only focus on his art. Our professor then told us a story of how a friend of Roth's once thought he was working too much, and she gave him two kittens. Roth spent the day playing with the kittens, then gave them back because he stated 'they were distracting him from his work.'
Now, this is why the Philip Roth class was perhaps the most important English class I took while in college. I remember reading the 19th century story and then listening to my professor explain Roth's reasoning behind getting rid of his cats and thinking - These people are psychopaths. All of them. Why on Earth would locking yourself away and never coming into contact with the outside world make you a good artist? How could you produce anything relatable to anyone if you never interacted with anyone? If you never took the time to love anything, from a significant other to two kittens, how could you write novels that meant anything?
Now, obviously, not everyone shares my view point. After all, some consider Roth to be the greatest American author of our time. Others, like me, don't agree. Those of us who don't like Roth and his associates, tend to align ourselves more with Hemingway.
Several years after graduating college, I discovered one of my co-workers was also a writer. He offered to host a writer's group. We would meet occasionally and do exercises, talk about what we were doing, and most of all, listen to our mentor talk about Hemingway.
I learned a ton from this group, most importantly, how can you write about anything if you have never experienced anything? How can you have anything new or different or inspiring to say if you have never experienced hardship, adversary, love, or kindness?
Hemingway was an experiential guy. He got out into the world and got his hands dirty. He lived by tasting, smelling, hearing speaking, and feeling - not by sitting by himself and thinking. This is how I think a true artist is made. A true artist, whether a sculptor or writer, cannot offer anything meaningful if they have never had an adventure. Hemingway had adventure after misadventure, and he took those experiences and turned them into classic literature.
When people find out I write, most people assume I write about being a park ranger. People are often shocked that I write science fiction and not non-fiction. What people fail to understand is that there is no way I could write what I write if I wasn't a park ranger. While I may not write essays about my interactions with cougars, meth heads, bitter cold, blistering heat, sunrises, lost hikers, dead hikers, pine cones, and crazy mules, all of these things, and the rest of my experiences, allow me to write about real things through the lens of science fiction. Let me give you an example.
Recently, my partner and I were driving to a call in another part of the park. I was in the front passenger seat of our Tahoe, and I noticed something cross the road in front of us. It was dark, maybe 9 pm, and at first I thought it was a deer, no wait, a coyote. Then we both saw it for what it was - a very large adult cougar.
My partner stopped the car as it finished crossing the road. The predator moved into the brush then turned and looked at me over its shoulder. Remember, I was in a running Tahoe, with another adult, and the car was filled with a variety of weapons, ranging from mace to a rifle. The cougar stared straight at me, its dark eyes silently appraising me. This was the first time in my life I was aware of being studied as potential prey (I'm sure I unknowingly interacted with sharks while surfing, but as they say, ignorance is bliss). The cougar never broke its stare with me, and in that instance I knew, despite the machine in which I sat, the guns that I carried, and the person next to me, I was the weaker of the two of us.
I broke eye contact with the cat and told my partner to drive.
I experienced the fear of being prey, and you can bet that experience will work its way into my writing. The situation won't be the same, there may be aliens involved, but the feelings will be universal. Do you think Roth ever took the time to get stared down by a highly efficient killing machine? I doubt it. Did Hemingway? Well, he volunteered for World War One, so you probably know the answer.
In conclusion, I'm not saying that an artist needs to put themselves in dangerous situations in order to produce 'real' art. What I'm saying is, that through living a life imbued with some spontaneity, an artist will be more able to create real work with which people can identify. You don't need to become an ambulance driver in Iraq to 'get it'. Just take the time to play with some kittens, volunteer at a soup kitchen, or drive the long way home. You will never know what you'll experience if you don't give yourself the opportunity.
July 24, 2013
7-22-2013: The Day I signed my first publishing contract
Have you ever had a goal so unlikely, that as time progressed it became less of a goal and more of a dream? I have. My dream was to become published - to become a 'real' writer. "But Perrin," my friends and family would say, "You are a 'real' writer, no matter if you are published or not."
I can't argue with them. After all, a 'real' writer isn't just made after a spontaneous decision to sit down and write one's first, perfect novel. A 'real' writer is made after years and years of writing pretty shitty novels, or stories, or poems, or whatever. A 'real' writer is made after taking the hard criticism (from their friends and families brave enough to give it) and building off of it. A 'real' writer realizes that their first novel, their second novel, their third novel, and even the novel which is finally accepted, isn't perfect (can there truly be a 'perfect' novel? A question I first heard asked by Dennis Lehane). A 'real' writer is a person who has reached the decision that they will write, no matter what, because they can't not. When I came to this realization, when I knew that I would be writing for the rest of my life no matter if anyone was reading my work or not, that's when I realized I was indeed a 'real' writer.
I came to this realization a few years ago. I had chosen to work seasonally so that I could write in my off seasons. I thought about getting a 'real' job, about abandoning my writing for something more 'fruitful' (at least in terms of stereotypical societal success) but each time I hit that low, I always dragged myself back to the computer and began to work on my latest story. It was like an addiction. It controlled my life. Then finally, when my email was brimming with unanswered query letters, I decided I'd just self publish. Screw the publishing world. I was going to take control of my destiny as a writer.
Don't do it! People would tell me. Self publishing will be the end of your career before it starts! I did it anyway. Did I become the next Hugh Howey? No. Did my e-book languish and become almost invisible on Amazon's shelves? Yes. But did I feel empowered? Yes. People who I didn't know reviewed my book, and they gave me stunning reviews. People who I hadn't spoken to in years messaged me and asked when the second one was coming. People at work would surprise me by becoming my biggest fans. Finally, I had something I'd never had as a 'real' writer. Confidence. I knew that my work was good. I knew it was good because people who had no obligation to tell me they had even read my book were not only telling me they'd read it, but that they'd loved it.
Finally, my problem wasn't my writing (but let's go back to paragraph two, one's writing can only improve), but my marketing. People liked my book, but only the few people who knew about my book liked it. Did I want to spend the rest of my life married to my computer, chatting, tweeting, posting, liking, starring and the rest of it in order to move my good book from virtually obscure to visible?
This was the question I was asking myself, when I got the email. I'd been communicating with Glastonbury Publishing for several months. Glastonbury Publishing had treated me differently than any other agent/publisher I'd contacted. They had taken the time to answer my emails personally, but ultimately I knew what their final answer would be - Glastonbury Publishing isn't the right representative for your book and blah, blah, blah.
Then one day I opened my email, and my dream became reality. In something as anti-climatic as single digital sentence, I was told that Glastonbury Publishing wanted to start drafting a contract. A month later, on 7-22-2013, I signed that contract with Glastonbury Publishing. I was finally going to be a 'real' published writer.
And now, as a signed author, I'm back to the last hurdle I faced as a self published author. How am I going to self market my book and raise it from the invisible depths of Amazon's virtual shelves to the light of well received science fiction? I've got the backing of a publishing company now. I don't have to fight the uphill battle that faced me as a self published author, but if I don't market my work, my work won't go anywhere. I'm realizing I'm lucky though. My time as a self published author taught me the basics of virtual marketing. I learned how to build a blog, how to navigate Facebook and G+, how to participate in chat rooms. Most authors don't start with the knowledge base that I have because they didn't do the self publishing route. It turns out that what I learned from being a self published author, might be some of the most important knowledge I apply to being a 'real' published author. Who knew?
We'll see what the future brings. As excited as I am to hold that first copy in my hands, I am scared to death that my book will join the ranks of obsolete freshman novels that never got off the ground. That fear motivates me though. Often, when thinking about a task as huge as this, I think back to my first marathon. It was in 2007 in Boston, and I hit the uphill at mile 23. Everyone told me it was there, but I didn't believe them. I'd trained on mile 23 and never felt a hill. Then, on the day of the race, I hit that uphill. Everything inside of me wanted to stop, but I thought, Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot... and you know what finally happened? I finished. I got my medal, and now, no one can ever take that finish away from me. I put one foot in front of the other and got there. I'm going to apply the same strategy to being a signed author and see where it gets me.
My book, A Searcher Summoned, is going to be re-named and re-vamped by Glastonbury Publishing. I'll post details on its progress.
I can't argue with them. After all, a 'real' writer isn't just made after a spontaneous decision to sit down and write one's first, perfect novel. A 'real' writer is made after years and years of writing pretty shitty novels, or stories, or poems, or whatever. A 'real' writer is made after taking the hard criticism (from their friends and families brave enough to give it) and building off of it. A 'real' writer realizes that their first novel, their second novel, their third novel, and even the novel which is finally accepted, isn't perfect (can there truly be a 'perfect' novel? A question I first heard asked by Dennis Lehane). A 'real' writer is a person who has reached the decision that they will write, no matter what, because they can't not. When I came to this realization, when I knew that I would be writing for the rest of my life no matter if anyone was reading my work or not, that's when I realized I was indeed a 'real' writer.
I came to this realization a few years ago. I had chosen to work seasonally so that I could write in my off seasons. I thought about getting a 'real' job, about abandoning my writing for something more 'fruitful' (at least in terms of stereotypical societal success) but each time I hit that low, I always dragged myself back to the computer and began to work on my latest story. It was like an addiction. It controlled my life. Then finally, when my email was brimming with unanswered query letters, I decided I'd just self publish. Screw the publishing world. I was going to take control of my destiny as a writer.
Don't do it! People would tell me. Self publishing will be the end of your career before it starts! I did it anyway. Did I become the next Hugh Howey? No. Did my e-book languish and become almost invisible on Amazon's shelves? Yes. But did I feel empowered? Yes. People who I didn't know reviewed my book, and they gave me stunning reviews. People who I hadn't spoken to in years messaged me and asked when the second one was coming. People at work would surprise me by becoming my biggest fans. Finally, I had something I'd never had as a 'real' writer. Confidence. I knew that my work was good. I knew it was good because people who had no obligation to tell me they had even read my book were not only telling me they'd read it, but that they'd loved it.
Finally, my problem wasn't my writing (but let's go back to paragraph two, one's writing can only improve), but my marketing. People liked my book, but only the few people who knew about my book liked it. Did I want to spend the rest of my life married to my computer, chatting, tweeting, posting, liking, starring and the rest of it in order to move my good book from virtually obscure to visible?
This was the question I was asking myself, when I got the email. I'd been communicating with Glastonbury Publishing for several months. Glastonbury Publishing had treated me differently than any other agent/publisher I'd contacted. They had taken the time to answer my emails personally, but ultimately I knew what their final answer would be - Glastonbury Publishing isn't the right representative for your book and blah, blah, blah.
Then one day I opened my email, and my dream became reality. In something as anti-climatic as single digital sentence, I was told that Glastonbury Publishing wanted to start drafting a contract. A month later, on 7-22-2013, I signed that contract with Glastonbury Publishing. I was finally going to be a 'real' published writer.
And now, as a signed author, I'm back to the last hurdle I faced as a self published author. How am I going to self market my book and raise it from the invisible depths of Amazon's virtual shelves to the light of well received science fiction? I've got the backing of a publishing company now. I don't have to fight the uphill battle that faced me as a self published author, but if I don't market my work, my work won't go anywhere. I'm realizing I'm lucky though. My time as a self published author taught me the basics of virtual marketing. I learned how to build a blog, how to navigate Facebook and G+, how to participate in chat rooms. Most authors don't start with the knowledge base that I have because they didn't do the self publishing route. It turns out that what I learned from being a self published author, might be some of the most important knowledge I apply to being a 'real' published author. Who knew?
We'll see what the future brings. As excited as I am to hold that first copy in my hands, I am scared to death that my book will join the ranks of obsolete freshman novels that never got off the ground. That fear motivates me though. Often, when thinking about a task as huge as this, I think back to my first marathon. It was in 2007 in Boston, and I hit the uphill at mile 23. Everyone told me it was there, but I didn't believe them. I'd trained on mile 23 and never felt a hill. Then, on the day of the race, I hit that uphill. Everything inside of me wanted to stop, but I thought, Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot... and you know what finally happened? I finished. I got my medal, and now, no one can ever take that finish away from me. I put one foot in front of the other and got there. I'm going to apply the same strategy to being a signed author and see where it gets me.
My book, A Searcher Summoned, is going to be re-named and re-vamped by Glastonbury Publishing. I'll post details on its progress.
