Larry Benjamin's Blog: Larry Benjamin's blog - This Writer's Life, page 8
June 3, 2015
He Has Risen: Cover Release & Giveaway for Vampire Rising
Today is the day. We've revealed the cover and first excerpt for my novella, Vampire Rising. There’s also a giveaway of all three books from my backlist. You can check it out on my multi-blog Cover Reveal Tour starting here.
Vampire Rising will officially release on July 19, 2015 but if you pre-order now, you can get it for just 1.97 USD (eBook).
May 26, 2015
The Vampire Rises
If you follow me on Twitter or read this blog regularly you probably know I have a new book coming out this summer: Vampire Rising. It’s a novella, actually. We will be revealing the cover on June 3, the same day the book becomes available for pre-ordering. See the graphic on the left for a list blogs where you can see the cover, and read the first excerpt.
Read the full post here.
May 15, 2015
Talking Writing with Mark Lindberg
Today I'm chatting with Mark W Lindberg about my last novel, Unbroken, writing in general, and what's up next. You can read it here
April 23, 2015
On Music & Words
Like many people who work, I have a commute, an unpleasant, unpredictable commute. Some days it’s 22 minutes, others it’s 90. Music gets me through. The radio, more accurately the music—I hate people talking on the radio – blasting through the 10 speakers in my car is my salvation. Let me clarify, not just music but the lyrics married to the music—I hate music without words—is my salvation. Words are my freedom and my salvation. If you’ve read my books, or follow my blog, you will know, for me, words are the thing.
If I was at all musical, I’d have been a songwriter instead of just a writer. Thus, I love songs that tell a story, that paint a picture. Painting a picture with words is what I do—try to do.
I particularly love songs that tell a story. I started out writing short stories so I understand the challenge of telling a story, creating characters and setting a tale in context economically. Neither of my books is very long, and my next release, a novella is an ambitious undertaking, telling the story of man in 12,000+ words, so I appreciate brevity, economy of words.
In this post I will look at the lyrics of some of my favorite songs—some old, some new but all telling a story, painting a picture, economically, with words.
My current favorite song is “Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon.
A backless dress and some beat up sneaks,
My discothèque, Juliet teenage dream.
I felt it in my chest as she looked at me.
I knew we were bound to be together,
Bound to be together
She took my arm,
I don't know how it happened.
We took the floor and she said,
"Oh, don't you dare look back.
Just keep your eyes on me."
I said, "You're holding back,"
She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"
This woman is my destiny
I love this line: “A backless dress and some beat up sneaks” it paints a strong picture without a lot of detail but you get a feel for the sort of person she is. "Oh, don't you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me."—another great line. It allows you to understand where they are in their lives and that she is telling him to forget everything, to stop thinking and just feel.
Watch the video.
Then there is Imagine Dragons’, “I Bet my Life On You:”
I've been around the world and never in my wildest dreams
Would I come running home to you
I've told a million lies but now I tell a single truth
There's you in everything I do
In just four lines you get a couple’s history and a hard learned truth.
Watch the video.
An old favorite is “American Pie” by Don McLean. These lyrics never fail to bring a smile to my face; they are absurd, but vivid.
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book on Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
Watch the video.
And, finally, the brilliant “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel. Every lyric clearly paints s a specific spot in time, and the sense of frustration: “I can’t take it anymore.”
Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan
Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless Vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola wars, I can't take it anymore
Watch the video.
As I’ve said, I try to use words economically to tell my stories. Below is a collection of some of my favorite lines. Selections cover everything from a protagonist facing impending death:
Death holds me in its thrall as once the beauty of men enthralled me
I can see death gathering like the coming darkness: a confederacy of shadows, a blackness that is legion
―from “The Cross,” Damaged Angels
To sex—both solitary and coupled:
In the shower, I wash carefully, paying special attention to my asshole. I feel it pucker against my intruding finger. Open. Sucking. Greedy. Full of need. Quicksilver seed scatters. Sown on white tile. Fruitless. Sliding down the drain.
He steps forward. Holds my head between his thighs. A pulse beats against my temple. The masculine scent of him fills my nostrils. My open mouth. Welcoming. The triumvirate of his manhood.
―from “Precious Cargo,” Damaged Angels
To a midnight description of the man who would become my husband to a Winter afternoon.
Caught in a rectangle of lilac light, Val sat in a black leather and chrome chair. Sandy hair, sable soft, crawled like moss over the white rock of his body. He sprawled in the chair, a giant like Gulliver, too large for the room.
Outside, the afternoon had failed. A keening wind mourned the retired sun and kicked at stray sheets of newspaper in its loneliness, making them swirl like angry ghosts. Sheets of silver sleet angled down from the tarnished sky, lacquering the streets with black ice that made a comedy of ambulation.
―from “Intermezzo,” Damaged Angels
Watch the trailer for “Damaged Angels.”
If I was at all musical, I’d have been a songwriter instead of just a writer. Thus, I love songs that tell a story, that paint a picture. Painting a picture with words is what I do—try to do.
I particularly love songs that tell a story. I started out writing short stories so I understand the challenge of telling a story, creating characters and setting a tale in context economically. Neither of my books is very long, and my next release, a novella is an ambitious undertaking, telling the story of man in 12,000+ words, so I appreciate brevity, economy of words.
In this post I will look at the lyrics of some of my favorite songs—some old, some new but all telling a story, painting a picture, economically, with words.
My current favorite song is “Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon.
A backless dress and some beat up sneaks,
My discothèque, Juliet teenage dream.
I felt it in my chest as she looked at me.
I knew we were bound to be together,
Bound to be together
She took my arm,
I don't know how it happened.
We took the floor and she said,
"Oh, don't you dare look back.
Just keep your eyes on me."
I said, "You're holding back,"
She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"
This woman is my destiny
I love this line: “A backless dress and some beat up sneaks” it paints a strong picture without a lot of detail but you get a feel for the sort of person she is. "Oh, don't you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me."—another great line. It allows you to understand where they are in their lives and that she is telling him to forget everything, to stop thinking and just feel.
Watch the video.
Then there is Imagine Dragons’, “I Bet my Life On You:”
I've been around the world and never in my wildest dreams
Would I come running home to you
I've told a million lies but now I tell a single truth
There's you in everything I do
In just four lines you get a couple’s history and a hard learned truth.
Watch the video.
An old favorite is “American Pie” by Don McLean. These lyrics never fail to bring a smile to my face; they are absurd, but vivid.
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book on Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
Watch the video.
And, finally, the brilliant “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel. Every lyric clearly paints s a specific spot in time, and the sense of frustration: “I can’t take it anymore.”
Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan
Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless Vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola wars, I can't take it anymore
Watch the video.
As I’ve said, I try to use words economically to tell my stories. Below is a collection of some of my favorite lines. Selections cover everything from a protagonist facing impending death:
Death holds me in its thrall as once the beauty of men enthralled me
I can see death gathering like the coming darkness: a confederacy of shadows, a blackness that is legion
―from “The Cross,” Damaged Angels
To sex—both solitary and coupled:
In the shower, I wash carefully, paying special attention to my asshole. I feel it pucker against my intruding finger. Open. Sucking. Greedy. Full of need. Quicksilver seed scatters. Sown on white tile. Fruitless. Sliding down the drain.
He steps forward. Holds my head between his thighs. A pulse beats against my temple. The masculine scent of him fills my nostrils. My open mouth. Welcoming. The triumvirate of his manhood.
―from “Precious Cargo,” Damaged Angels
To a midnight description of the man who would become my husband to a Winter afternoon.
Caught in a rectangle of lilac light, Val sat in a black leather and chrome chair. Sandy hair, sable soft, crawled like moss over the white rock of his body. He sprawled in the chair, a giant like Gulliver, too large for the room.
Outside, the afternoon had failed. A keening wind mourned the retired sun and kicked at stray sheets of newspaper in its loneliness, making them swirl like angry ghosts. Sheets of silver sleet angled down from the tarnished sky, lacquering the streets with black ice that made a comedy of ambulation.
―from “Intermezzo,” Damaged Angels
Watch the trailer for “Damaged Angels.”
April 15, 2015
Guest Author...Andrew Q. Gordon
ABOUT THE BOOK
Title: The Eye And The Arm
Series: Champion of the Gods Book 2
BLURB:
After defeating Meglar at Belsport, Farrell returns to Haven to recover from his injuries, but Khron, the god of war, has other ideas. He gives Farrell a new mission: free the survivors of the ancient dwarf realm of Trellham from their three-thousand-year banishment. To fulfill Khron's near impossible task, Farrell will need the help of his distance ancestor, the legendary wizard Kel. But Kel has been dead for a thousand years.Farrell finds information hinting that Kel is alive, so he moves his search to Dumbarten, Kel's birthplace. To reach Dumbarten unannounced, Farrell and Miceral disguise themselves as mercenaries on board a merchant vessel. Their journey is disrupted when pirates attack their ship. While attempting to subdue the attack, Farrell is struck down by one of Meglar’s minions.
Unconscious and trapped in his own mind, Farrell's only chance for survival rests with Miceral and the peregrine king Rothdin entering his thoughts and helping him sort fact from illusion. To reach Farrell, they will need to rely on an untested spell from one of Kel's spellbooks. If they succeed, Miceral can guide Farrell home safely. If not, Farrell will destroy not only himself, but Miceral, Rothdin, and everyone around him.
DSP Publications
Length: 99,775 words/296 Pages
Release Date: April 14, 2015
Video Trailer:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bk6OfKOU6nc&feature=youtu.be
EXCERPT:
“Relax, my friend.” Klissmor’s presence calmed Miceral’s growing anxiety. “You won’t feel my presence.”
Miceral took a deep breath. “Will I be able to hear?”
“Every word. Ready?”
“No, but let’s do it.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“I need your eyes open for everyone to see.”
He snapped his lids open, blinking several times before could focus again. “Sorry.”
“Master Teberus.” Miceral knew the words came from him, but as promised, he didn’t feel anything. “I have Masters Erstad and Wesfazial as well as Wizard-Priestess Glendora. Ask your questions to Miceral and we four will also hear you.”
“Astounding.” The elder Arlefor glanced at the high priestess. “All four at once?”
“Wizard.” Miceral had heard that tone enough to know Klissmor’s mood. “Maintaining this link, this far away with this many minds, is a strain. If we are to save Farrell, you must focus on him.”
“Of course. My apologies.” Teberus bowed deeply. “My examination of the one who did this to Farrell confirmed that he is no wizard.”
“Then how in the eight gates of Neblor did that man defeat Farrell?” Even though Teberus couldn’t know, Miceral recognized the voice as Wesfazial’s.
“The obvious answer is the correct one. A wizard gave this man the weapon.”
“But Farrell could defeat all four of us and all the other wizards you brought with you and not be tested.” Erstad’s steady temperament sounded tested. “No weapon used by a nonwizard should be capable of this.”
Teberus raised the crest of his hairless eyebrow. “But since that is what happened, we must use it as the basis of our search for a cure.”
No one answered. As the silence dragged on, Miceral’s anxiety slowly returned. If Haven’s senior wizards didn’t know what to do, who could?
“Tell us what happened.” Erstad’s request almost didn’t register with Miceral.
“No,” Klissmor said. “Show them. Let them see the memory.”
Miceral closed his eyes and focused on reliving the attack. The clarity of the image caused his chest to tighten, making it hard to breathe. He knew the result, but watching it again, almost in slow motion, added to his agony.
When the image played over again, he realized Klissmor must have been guiding his thoughts.
“My apologies, old friend—the need is great.” Klissmor’s voice didn’t interrupt the stream of images.
“Do whatever you need. Just find a way to save Farrell.”
“Your friends are doing all they can. Have faith that Lenore will send us what we need.”
When the memory started for the third time, he didn’t find any comfort in Klissmor’s assertion. The Six wouldn’t—couldn’t—help. He needed something that didn’t exist—a great wizard like Heminaltose or Kel.
“In theory, I recognize the magic.” Erstad sounded confused. “But I’ll need to find a reference to be sure.”
“What about Farrell?” He knew he shouted, or at least what Farrell told him passed for shouting, but he couldn’t prevent it. “He could be dead before you find that.”
“It can’t be helped, Miceral. I need to be sure before I suggest a counterspell. If I’m wrong, whatever I try might kill him.”
“He is in no immediate danger.” Teberus put his hand on Farrell’s forehead. “But my fear is the number of spells that draw on him for power. I can only give him but so much. If he doesn’t wake, his body will burn out.”
“Do what you can, Master Teberus. We’ll begin searching immediately and contact you when we find the answer.” When Erstad stopped speaking, Klissmor’s presence left with him.
“Hurry. Please.” Miceral knew no one heard him.
BUY LINKS
DSPP Link: http://www.andrewqgordon.com/2015/04/champion-of-the-gods-books-one-and-two-available-now/
Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/The-Eye-Champion-Gods-Book-ebook/dp/B00VGZB6SS
Amazon UK Link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Eye-Champion-Gods-Book-ebook/dp/B00VGZB6SS
Are Omnilit Link: https://www.omnilit.com/product-theeyeandthearm-1773344-234.html
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Q. Gordon wrote his first story back when yellow legal pads, ball point pens were common and a Smith Corona correctable typewriter was considered high tech. Adapting with technology, he now takes his MacBook somewhere quiet when he wants to write.He currently lives in the Washington, D.C. area with his partner of eighteen years, their young daughter and dog. In addition to dodging some very self-important D.C. ‘insiders’, Andrew uses his commute to catch up on his reading. When not working or writing, he enjoys soccer, high fantasy, baseball and seeing how much coffee he can drink in a day and not get the shakes.
SOCIAL MEDIA:
Website: www.andreqgordon.com
Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/andrewqugordon,
Facebook Profile: https://www.facebook.com/dominic.andr...
On Twitter: @andrewqgordon,
Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+AndrewQG...
Email: andrewqgordon@gmail.com
GIVEAWAY
FIVE Winners will win one e-copy of ANY book* each from DSP Publication’s backlist.
*Giveaway is of any currently released DSPP book, which excludes the books that are on pre-order and “The Eye And The Arm”.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
March 30, 2015
I Write.
If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you know I’ve been working on a new book—a novella actually. This new book is probably my most ambitious work to date and may surprise readers who think they know my work. Though, if you’re one of the seven people who’ve read Damaged Angels, my collection of short stories, you probably won’t be surprised.
At any rate, for my novella which isn’t in my usual genre, I had to do a fair of research to create the world in the story. I researched everything from epidemics of the late 19th century to mockingbirds . One main character is a painter, but being a writer I really had no idea how a painter thought, so I turned to one of my best friends from college who is an artist. Not only is she a friend but she is a truly talented artist whose work I admire very much. I emailed her to ask if she’d be willing to talk to me about her art, and her creative process. In short, I wanted to be let into the mind of an artist. Her response was a brief, “of course.” Like I said, she is the artist; I am the writer, the wordy one.
A week later, we met for lunch at the White Dog Café in Wayne. We caught up on our lives over drinks, Race Bannons, to be exact. Then, as we ate, I peppered her with questions, and she explained the artist’s life to me. She told me how being an artist directed how she saw, and processed, the world around her. She also explained her medium—she’s an encaustic painter—and how she worked. As she spoke, I took notes and even as I wrote I could see how her artist’s temperament would influence and inform my character’s actions and view of the world.
As lunch wound down, she asked me what my book was about. I explained not so much the plot but what I was trying to accomplish with the story.
“Does this one have gay characters?” she asked.
I was bewildered by the question. “Yes,” I said.
“Why?” she asked.
I was startled. Why? Why? I tried to think of a reason. I’ve been asked why I write gay fiction before, so I’m used to the question but her question felt different. She and I have been friends since I was nineteen. We met at Penn when I was a sophomore, and she a freshman. I was probably the first gay guy she ever met. She didn’t witness me coming out so much as watch me find my place in the world as a gay man. I still remember The Conversation—one of our first. We were both slightly drunk.
“I love, Yone,” I blurted.
“Now, see,” she said, “I understand what you mean.”—she had gone to high school with Yone; in fact he had introduced us, asking me to keep an eye on her. “I know you don’t mean that in a sexual way.”
“Ah. See that’s the problem: I do.”
She’d stared at me, waiting for an explanation, much as she was staring at me now, thirty some odd years later, from across a table at the White Dog Café.
Why, Larry, why? I asked myself. She might as well have asked me why I’m gay. I don’t know. I just am. I just write.
I was reminded of a comment from a reviewer of my first book, “What Binds Us.” In it the reviewer observed that it was a gay story and an intensely romantic one but that either person in the relationship could have been female and the story would still have worked. I always wondered if that was her way of wondering why I didn’t write a straight romance, or if she simply understood that love was love. I remember thinking, at the time, “oh, I would never write a straight romance.” And the reason is quite simple: to me doing so would be selling out—sure I’d get a wider audience, and maybe sell more books, but what about the gay kids, the kids who are now as I once was? What of those kids who hunger to see themselves represented in books and movies? What of those kids who hoped to live boldly outside the shadows in other than the margins of society, but could not see how they ever would? And what about the adults still struggling to come to terms with themselves, still struggling to imagine a life other than the one others imagined for them, confined by what they could not imagine for themselves?
As a kid, and especially as a teenager, I was hungry to see myself in books and movies. Even when I got to college and found ready access to books about gay men, they were always other, always white, always described as handsome and desired. In short, they were not me. I was invisible.
Now decades later, I am lucky enough to have a voice, an audience, and my singular goal is to make sure that gay kids and adults can hear that voice, can see themselves in my stories, for they are not my stories; they are our stories. I merely voice them.
My stories are often riddled with tragedy and they don’t all have happy endings but they are always hopeful. And maybe that’s why I write what I do—to give others hope. Hope that it will get better, that they are not alone, that they are not invisible.
Hope may not be a strategy, but sometimes it is all that stands between us and utter despair. And maybe that is the real reason I write what I do—to fill the gap between hope and despair.
So now that I have figured that out, I am asking you, my fellow writers, why do you write what you write? Post your answer below, or post it to Twitter, or my Facebook page, using the hashtag #IWrite
If you’re a reader, tell me why you read what you read. Post your answer below, or post it to Twitter, or my Facebook page, using the hashtag #IRead.
BONUS: Watch the book trailer for "Damaged Angels."
At any rate, for my novella which isn’t in my usual genre, I had to do a fair of research to create the world in the story. I researched everything from epidemics of the late 19th century to mockingbirds . One main character is a painter, but being a writer I really had no idea how a painter thought, so I turned to one of my best friends from college who is an artist. Not only is she a friend but she is a truly talented artist whose work I admire very much. I emailed her to ask if she’d be willing to talk to me about her art, and her creative process. In short, I wanted to be let into the mind of an artist. Her response was a brief, “of course.” Like I said, she is the artist; I am the writer, the wordy one.
A week later, we met for lunch at the White Dog Café in Wayne. We caught up on our lives over drinks, Race Bannons, to be exact. Then, as we ate, I peppered her with questions, and she explained the artist’s life to me. She told me how being an artist directed how she saw, and processed, the world around her. She also explained her medium—she’s an encaustic painter—and how she worked. As she spoke, I took notes and even as I wrote I could see how her artist’s temperament would influence and inform my character’s actions and view of the world.
As lunch wound down, she asked me what my book was about. I explained not so much the plot but what I was trying to accomplish with the story.
“Does this one have gay characters?” she asked.
I was bewildered by the question. “Yes,” I said.
“Why?” she asked.
I was startled. Why? Why? I tried to think of a reason. I’ve been asked why I write gay fiction before, so I’m used to the question but her question felt different. She and I have been friends since I was nineteen. We met at Penn when I was a sophomore, and she a freshman. I was probably the first gay guy she ever met. She didn’t witness me coming out so much as watch me find my place in the world as a gay man. I still remember The Conversation—one of our first. We were both slightly drunk.
“I love, Yone,” I blurted.
“Now, see,” she said, “I understand what you mean.”—she had gone to high school with Yone; in fact he had introduced us, asking me to keep an eye on her. “I know you don’t mean that in a sexual way.”
“Ah. See that’s the problem: I do.”
She’d stared at me, waiting for an explanation, much as she was staring at me now, thirty some odd years later, from across a table at the White Dog Café.
Why, Larry, why? I asked myself. She might as well have asked me why I’m gay. I don’t know. I just am. I just write.
I was reminded of a comment from a reviewer of my first book, “What Binds Us.” In it the reviewer observed that it was a gay story and an intensely romantic one but that either person in the relationship could have been female and the story would still have worked. I always wondered if that was her way of wondering why I didn’t write a straight romance, or if she simply understood that love was love. I remember thinking, at the time, “oh, I would never write a straight romance.” And the reason is quite simple: to me doing so would be selling out—sure I’d get a wider audience, and maybe sell more books, but what about the gay kids, the kids who are now as I once was? What of those kids who hunger to see themselves represented in books and movies? What of those kids who hoped to live boldly outside the shadows in other than the margins of society, but could not see how they ever would? And what about the adults still struggling to come to terms with themselves, still struggling to imagine a life other than the one others imagined for them, confined by what they could not imagine for themselves?
As a kid, and especially as a teenager, I was hungry to see myself in books and movies. Even when I got to college and found ready access to books about gay men, they were always other, always white, always described as handsome and desired. In short, they were not me. I was invisible.
Now decades later, I am lucky enough to have a voice, an audience, and my singular goal is to make sure that gay kids and adults can hear that voice, can see themselves in my stories, for they are not my stories; they are our stories. I merely voice them.
My stories are often riddled with tragedy and they don’t all have happy endings but they are always hopeful. And maybe that’s why I write what I do—to give others hope. Hope that it will get better, that they are not alone, that they are not invisible.
Hope may not be a strategy, but sometimes it is all that stands between us and utter despair. And maybe that is the real reason I write what I do—to fill the gap between hope and despair.
So now that I have figured that out, I am asking you, my fellow writers, why do you write what you write? Post your answer below, or post it to Twitter, or my Facebook page, using the hashtag #IWrite
If you’re a reader, tell me why you read what you read. Post your answer below, or post it to Twitter, or my Facebook page, using the hashtag #IRead.
BONUS: Watch the book trailer for "Damaged Angels."
March 2, 2015
A Writer's Dilemma
This weekend I faced a dilemma. My dilemma was perhaps common to all writers: Should I write or do X? In my case I could work on my current WIP which at 8,000 words, and because I don’t write sequentially, is in serious need or being put into some kind of order. It was that or clean the house and do laundry. As it was, I could, if I wanted to, write my next chapter in the dust on the coffee table. To my mind, if I cleaned the house, it would remain dust-free for about a week, but if I wrote, the words I wrote would, hopefully, still be read decades from now. It was, after all, an easy decision: I wrote.
Going to work every day is an easier decision. My day job pays the bills and gives me the freedom to write what I want without worrying about achieving commercial success. So, I don’t often debate whether or not I should go to work or stay home and write, for nothing frightens, and motivates me more than the idea of being poor.
Perhaps as importantly, going to work every day exposes me to people and their stories and gets me out of the house—and my own head, which is a dark and tumultuous place.
We had dinner with friends Saturday night. The next morning they wrote to ask of anything was wrong because I’d been unusually quiet.
This writer’s dilemma: how do I tell them I was distracted by the characters in my new book who were whispering in my ear, and coupling in the corner of my eye. I generally try to be present in the moment but often I have a foot in each of two worlds and sometimes the world of my fiction is the more irresistible. Perhaps because I was so lonely as a kid, I learned to create worlds full of friends and playmates. Whereas in childhood it was more a place to retreat to when the real world became unbearable, now it’s a place I dwell in half the time, like a summer house. Stanley is used to my half presence and when I start to drift away he knows where I am going. The other night I was kneeling at the dining table frantically writing. He came up behind me, and tickled me; I snapped at him. Later I apologized and explained that I had written a scene in my head while we were walking the dogs and was trying to get it down on paper before I forgot it. “Yeah, he said shrugging, “I figured.” He figured. And that’s what I love about him: he is one of the few people who gets me, who can live with my divided attention.
And that’s why I am grateful for him, why my characters are grateful to him, and perhaps my readers will also one day be grateful, because he gives me the room to write.
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February 15, 2015
On Grammar, Words & Fifty Shades of Grey
I’ve been working on my current WIP. I wrote 2,300 words this weekend which is rapid fire writing for me as I tend to write slowly. I take my time, trying to get each sentence just right, trying to capture the rhythm I hear in my head. Words, you see are the thing.
Speaking of words, this weekend saw the release of movie version of E. L. James’ blockbuster erotic romance novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. Although it topped bestseller lists around the world, the book was widely panned by critics for its poor use of language. But that didn’t stop readers for gobbling up 100 million copies. I didn’t read the book, just bits and pieces so I won’t comment but will instead share an infographic from the wonderful folks at Grammarly who reviewed the book for spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors, and discovered similar mistakes in celebrated romances.
View a larger version of the infographic here
Infographic courtesy of grammarly.com/grammar-check.
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Speaking of words, this weekend saw the release of movie version of E. L. James’ blockbuster erotic romance novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. Although it topped bestseller lists around the world, the book was widely panned by critics for its poor use of language. But that didn’t stop readers for gobbling up 100 million copies. I didn’t read the book, just bits and pieces so I won’t comment but will instead share an infographic from the wonderful folks at Grammarly who reviewed the book for spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors, and discovered similar mistakes in celebrated romances.
View a larger version of the infographic here
Infographic courtesy of grammarly.com/grammar-check.
Follow me on twitter and Facebook.
February 7, 2015
Letting Go: Coping with the Reader’s Experience
Nearly three years after being published, and having published three books, I think the biggest lesson I learned—and perhaps the hardest to learn—was the fact that as a writer you don’t own the reader’s experience. Each reader experiences the book differently; they are free to interpret it how they want relative to their own experiences. Some will love it, so will hate it, others will have a reaction of “meh.”I read most reviews, and I admit I take them to heart. I won’t say they influence my future writing, but I do read them, mostly because I’m interested in what readers think of my work. Once in awhile, I’ll read a review and realize the reader really got my story. That happened the other day. I got a Goggle Alert for What Binds Us, my first book. It was a review by someone named Richard Green on a site I was unfamiliar with. (I should point out it appears to be a pirate site of some kind, offering PDFs of books, immorally if not illegally; but that is a whole other post....) Anyway as I was saying, this guy really seemed to get the book. His review in part is below:
What Binds Us is more a gay historical drama than an m/m romance. There is a certain degree of romance but it isn't what drives the narrative. At least it didn't feel like that to me. So, to that extend, the blurb isn't very indicative of the plot.
This is essentially Dondi's story as told by his ex-lover and best friend Thomas-Edward. I dare say it's the story as Thomas experienced it. The first person POV adds to that effect.
The book is divided into three parts: Sunrise, Eclipse, and Sunset and, as early as in the Prologue, we learn that this is a collection of "Memories of a love lost and a love found. Memories of a life shared and a life lost" and that there's tragedy ahead: "I must write it all down—quickly, before it leaves me. Like he did. Gone too soon."
So. It's the late seventies, and the two meet in college (they're roommates), Thomas a quiet middle class black guy from New Jersey, Dondi a loud and theatrical bon viveur, who uses his wealth to enjoy life to the fullest. Here's Thomas' first impression of Dondi: "He seemed about my age, but while I felt barely begun, he seemed complete, an epilogue to a fantastic story."
So I was really intrigued by his review and yes, giddy with excitement. Then he wrote:
Dondi shows Thomas how life should be lived, clubbing, shopping, drinking, smoking pot. "Dondi became my guide, my Virgil, on my personal odyssey of self-discovery. (It was Homer, by the way; the one who wrote the Odyssey. Virgil wrote the Aeneid.)
What? Wait a minute. Hold up! He is the second reviewer to make this mistake!
Homer did, indeed, write the Odyssey, and Virgil wrote the Aeneid. I know that. I read both. In Latin. In the sentence he quotes, I was referring to the Inferno by Dante, which I’ve read three times, in translation, in which, Dante, lost in Hell, is guided by the Roman poet, Virgil, through the nine circles. It is I’ve been told an obscure reference so I’ll have to cut him some slack, but still it rankles. Did these reviewers really think I’d confused the two? Did they think my editor and copy editors were also confused about who wrote what?
But as I say, the reader owns his/her experience and I have learned to accept that.
The rest of the review appears below—mostly because he quotes some of my favorite lines from What Binds Us. Unfortunately the review ends abruptly—it appears he ran out of space—which is unfortunate because I thought it was a well-written review and I really wanted to learn what his conclusion was.
At a certain point they become lovers, Thomas having almost instantly fallen in love with Dondi. But it doesn't last, because Dondi doesn't believe in love, he isn't the "forever-and-always, you-for-me and me-for-you-only" kind of guy. They remain roommates though and their relationship keeps evolving. Dondi keeps falling in love (his version of it, anyway) moving from one guy to the other, from an unnamed lad with sun-bleached hair to the son of his Latin professor to the next random guy in the endless line of his conquests. But Thomas remains the person Dondi considers his only true friend, the only constant in his extravagant lifestyle.
Then Dondi asks Thomas to spend the summer with him and his family at their summer house in Long Island and Thomas meets Matthew, Dondi's younger brother. They first become inseparable, and then they fall madly in love. And they're the real thing. If Dondi was an epilogue, Matthew was a prologue, a promise waiting to be kept. He seemed about to begin. He seemed to be waiting for something. I asked him once, years later, what he’d been waiting for. He surprised me by answering simply, “You.” and "Matthew was like the afterimage from staring at the sun too long. If Dondi was the sun, Matthew was cool water or the dark side of the moon." Thomas and Matthew remain together and, over the years, the reader sees how their lives span around Dondi.
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January 26, 2015
How Real Life Inspires My Fiction
My husband's company holiday party was Saturday night. So we slipped on blazers and bowties and went. It can be awkward going to a party where you don’t really know anyone, and Stanley is not often at ease in social settings but we went anyway. It was a chance to get out of the house on a Saturday night and he seems to like this job. We actually had fun. For me it was great to see him relax and enjoy himself. He and his favorite coworker, Loretta, played pool. 18 years together and I had no idea he could “shoot pool.” While he and Loretta played, I mostly stood off to the side, armed with Gin & tonic, and watched the people, which is what I tend to do. I’m a writer, but mostly I’m an observer. There was the woman in the red suede wedgies and too short white skirt (White! In January!) and the short, beefy guy who did one armed pushups with the owner of the company sitting on his back.
A few weeks ago, I started work on my next book. The other night I got up at 3 a.m. and wrote a pivotal scene which takes place at a high school reunion. I had the key characters in place, the scene set up and most of the dialogue which is pivotal to the story. What I was missing was the background, the color commentary that would flesh out the scene, give it authenticity, and bring it to life. We got home about midnight, and after we walked the dogs, I sat down and armed with yet another gin and tonic, wrote the rest of the scene—filled in the background and the minor characters and secondary actions based on what I’d seen. I thought about everything I had seen and heard all night, then I thought about what the scene needed to accomplish and the mood I wanted to convey. Because I like to keep my stories short and tight, I discarded a lot of what I’d noted because it didn’t drive the plot forward or contribute to the mood or foreshadow oncoming events.
Reading over what I’d written in my notebook (by hand in ink, of course) I thought back to other party scenes I’ve included in my books. Below are two scenes that remain my favorites. Let me know what you think in the comments below. Do you wish you had been invited to either party?
###
Dondi called a few months after our return to invite us to a cocktail party. He’d been living in New York, with Leonardo. He was feeling much better, had gained weight. Some days he could almost forget illness. The party was to celebrate their new house in West Claw. “I know you don’t like Leonardo, so come for my sake.”
“I don’t dislike Leonardo,” I said. “I think he’s silly and vacuous, but I don’t dislike him. Your brother dislikes him.”
Yet despite Matthew’s objections and my own misgivings—in this case, a certain nagging voice that said: “Don’t do this. You’re making a mistake. You’ll be sorry…”—we found ourselves, early the next evening, driving out to Dondi’s house on Long Island.
A twisting gravel drive pulled us up the side of the hill and a series of sharp left turns drew us within sight of the house. It was a sight to behold, lit from basement to roof. The house itself was a huge glass box hoisted into the clouds on stilts. It was massive, swollen with architectural self-importance and self-conscious wealth.
The driveway was littered with dozens of cars. Parking, we stepped onto the drive and looked at the house. Through its glass walls we could see men without jackets, in gaily-colored vests and cummerbunds of Kente cloth, darting through the vast house like exotic tropical fish, while exquisite women in jewel-colored gowns swept across the black marble floors, displaying themselves in the dark night like precious gems in a jeweler’s velvet box.
“C’mon,” I told Matthew, who stood staring at the house in disbelief.
Grim determination bore us across an enameled lawn into a wood—not of trees but of people, overdressed poseurs folding hors d’oeuvres down their elegant long throats, their elegiac eyes swimming with martini-induced vagueness.
We spotted the three furies. They stood together, Panther like a queen in a court of commoners. “Hello, fellas,” she said drunkenly. Her eyes danced away as she spotted a woman, an aristocrat’s daughter, moving through the crowd toward her. “Darling! You look fab-ulous,” she cried.
The two women lunged at each other, arms open. Stopping fully a foot shy of actual contact, they loudly bussed the air once, twice.
The aristocrat’s daughter regarded Panther’s bosoms. Nestled in her cleavage was a pear-shaped sapphire. The stone was as large as a bar of soap. Looking over her pince-nez and down her nose, the aristocrat’s daughter cooed, “Darling, don’t you think it’s a bit flashy?”
The model glanced at her bauble. “Mm, I used to think it was vulgar too,” she said. “Until I owned it.”
Matthew laughed.
The aristocrat’s daughter blushed, waved to someone in the crowd and beat a hasty retreat.
“Bitch!” Panther called after her, rather too loudly.
“Where’s Dondi?”
“In the house,” Clare said, rolling her eyes. “With that trashy boy.”
We continued across the lawn and, making a left at the apron of the drive, found ourselves in front of an alarmingly wide gray metal door.
“Is this the front door? Where’d they get it? First National Bank?” Matthew asked.
Inside, vast open spaces cantilevered over emptiness. Exposed pipes of shiny chrome and black matte snaked through its monstrous square footage, carrying hot water and electric current. Narrow circular staircases with treads of perforated stainless steel like wedges of lime, cartwheels of imminent danger, flimsy, noisy, spiraled up and down leading nowhere.
After wandering around for ten or fifteen minutes, smiling at people we’d never seen before, we discovered Dondi and Leonardo in the living room behind a pair of bronze doors.
“Why are you two in here,” Matthew asked, “when you have guests outside?”
Dondi waved grandly in the air then set about mixing a fresh batch of martinis. “Leonardo has tired of their company.”
“They’re boring,” Leonardo whined.
From Unbroken
###
The party was a carousel. The crowd revolved every few minutes so that someone who was a stranger glimpsed across the crowded room one minute, was an intimate, invading one’s personal space, the next.
They stopped for a moment on the periphery of a group prevailed over by a blonde god of such vitality that he drained everyone else in the room of color and interest.
“My God,” Smith breathed. “He has so much energy.”
Brooklyn dismissed the false god with a word, “Cocaine.”
Later when the blonde spun past him, Smith noticed the tip of his nose was dusted with a fine white powder and his eyes were so dilated that his irises appeared to be a narrow band of navy blue.
#
The crowd revolved, parted, allowing her passage into their midst. The crowd revolved again. A keyhole opening gaped. At the end of a tunnel of empty space stood a thin ravaged young man known only as Q. He was as spare and angular as the Mondrian hanging on the wall against which he leaned and whose spotlight he shared. A former hustler, he was but a dim memory of his former self. He now worked for IBM and had gone from hustler to trick, paying boys as he had once been paid. The older hustlers shied away from him for as they were, he had been; as he was, they would become. The crowd revolved once more, closing the gap. Q disappeared like an old memory.
#
The crowd rotated and revealed a small band of Lost Boys, inebriated, standing a little apart. Smith thought they did not seem as statuesque, as distant as they did in the night on The Merry-Go-Round. Relaxed, freed from the exaggerated poses of masculinity that usually paralyzed them like Rigor Mortis, they seemed oddly like broken, discarded dolls.
#
Late in the evening, Cocaine in mid-sentence, keeled over dead, startling his coterie of erstwhile admirers into shrieking silence.
The wailing cry of an ambulance flamed into the room. Red light evolved, painting shocked white faces with horror like splashes of blood. The paramedics loaded Cocaine onto a stretcher and rushed the corpse to a nearby hospital where a harried young intern pronounced him dead. The revolving light receded from the room, draining the life from the party. Joon, bereft, alone, robbed of his beloved shining god, trailed after the ambulance.
#
In the enervating aftermath of the party, the stale smoky air hanging about them like cerements, four vile bodies lay in state. Silence trumpeted into the room like “Taps.” Glad trash bags, half full, yawned like open graves. On the dining table, the corpse of the roasted pig awaited interment. An army of exhausted cigarettes lay dead and dying. In the dishwasher, a congregation of dirty glasses clamored for resurrection.
From “The Hunger,” Damaged Angels
A few weeks ago, I started work on my next book. The other night I got up at 3 a.m. and wrote a pivotal scene which takes place at a high school reunion. I had the key characters in place, the scene set up and most of the dialogue which is pivotal to the story. What I was missing was the background, the color commentary that would flesh out the scene, give it authenticity, and bring it to life. We got home about midnight, and after we walked the dogs, I sat down and armed with yet another gin and tonic, wrote the rest of the scene—filled in the background and the minor characters and secondary actions based on what I’d seen. I thought about everything I had seen and heard all night, then I thought about what the scene needed to accomplish and the mood I wanted to convey. Because I like to keep my stories short and tight, I discarded a lot of what I’d noted because it didn’t drive the plot forward or contribute to the mood or foreshadow oncoming events.
Reading over what I’d written in my notebook (by hand in ink, of course) I thought back to other party scenes I’ve included in my books. Below are two scenes that remain my favorites. Let me know what you think in the comments below. Do you wish you had been invited to either party?
###
Dondi called a few months after our return to invite us to a cocktail party. He’d been living in New York, with Leonardo. He was feeling much better, had gained weight. Some days he could almost forget illness. The party was to celebrate their new house in West Claw. “I know you don’t like Leonardo, so come for my sake.”
“I don’t dislike Leonardo,” I said. “I think he’s silly and vacuous, but I don’t dislike him. Your brother dislikes him.”
Yet despite Matthew’s objections and my own misgivings—in this case, a certain nagging voice that said: “Don’t do this. You’re making a mistake. You’ll be sorry…”—we found ourselves, early the next evening, driving out to Dondi’s house on Long Island.
A twisting gravel drive pulled us up the side of the hill and a series of sharp left turns drew us within sight of the house. It was a sight to behold, lit from basement to roof. The house itself was a huge glass box hoisted into the clouds on stilts. It was massive, swollen with architectural self-importance and self-conscious wealth.
The driveway was littered with dozens of cars. Parking, we stepped onto the drive and looked at the house. Through its glass walls we could see men without jackets, in gaily-colored vests and cummerbunds of Kente cloth, darting through the vast house like exotic tropical fish, while exquisite women in jewel-colored gowns swept across the black marble floors, displaying themselves in the dark night like precious gems in a jeweler’s velvet box.
“C’mon,” I told Matthew, who stood staring at the house in disbelief.
Grim determination bore us across an enameled lawn into a wood—not of trees but of people, overdressed poseurs folding hors d’oeuvres down their elegant long throats, their elegiac eyes swimming with martini-induced vagueness.
We spotted the three furies. They stood together, Panther like a queen in a court of commoners. “Hello, fellas,” she said drunkenly. Her eyes danced away as she spotted a woman, an aristocrat’s daughter, moving through the crowd toward her. “Darling! You look fab-ulous,” she cried.
The two women lunged at each other, arms open. Stopping fully a foot shy of actual contact, they loudly bussed the air once, twice.
The aristocrat’s daughter regarded Panther’s bosoms. Nestled in her cleavage was a pear-shaped sapphire. The stone was as large as a bar of soap. Looking over her pince-nez and down her nose, the aristocrat’s daughter cooed, “Darling, don’t you think it’s a bit flashy?”
The model glanced at her bauble. “Mm, I used to think it was vulgar too,” she said. “Until I owned it.”
Matthew laughed.
The aristocrat’s daughter blushed, waved to someone in the crowd and beat a hasty retreat.
“Bitch!” Panther called after her, rather too loudly.
“Where’s Dondi?”
“In the house,” Clare said, rolling her eyes. “With that trashy boy.”
We continued across the lawn and, making a left at the apron of the drive, found ourselves in front of an alarmingly wide gray metal door.
“Is this the front door? Where’d they get it? First National Bank?” Matthew asked.
Inside, vast open spaces cantilevered over emptiness. Exposed pipes of shiny chrome and black matte snaked through its monstrous square footage, carrying hot water and electric current. Narrow circular staircases with treads of perforated stainless steel like wedges of lime, cartwheels of imminent danger, flimsy, noisy, spiraled up and down leading nowhere.
After wandering around for ten or fifteen minutes, smiling at people we’d never seen before, we discovered Dondi and Leonardo in the living room behind a pair of bronze doors.
“Why are you two in here,” Matthew asked, “when you have guests outside?”
Dondi waved grandly in the air then set about mixing a fresh batch of martinis. “Leonardo has tired of their company.”
“They’re boring,” Leonardo whined.
From Unbroken
###
The party was a carousel. The crowd revolved every few minutes so that someone who was a stranger glimpsed across the crowded room one minute, was an intimate, invading one’s personal space, the next.
They stopped for a moment on the periphery of a group prevailed over by a blonde god of such vitality that he drained everyone else in the room of color and interest.
“My God,” Smith breathed. “He has so much energy.”
Brooklyn dismissed the false god with a word, “Cocaine.”
Later when the blonde spun past him, Smith noticed the tip of his nose was dusted with a fine white powder and his eyes were so dilated that his irises appeared to be a narrow band of navy blue.
#
The crowd revolved, parted, allowing her passage into their midst. The crowd revolved again. A keyhole opening gaped. At the end of a tunnel of empty space stood a thin ravaged young man known only as Q. He was as spare and angular as the Mondrian hanging on the wall against which he leaned and whose spotlight he shared. A former hustler, he was but a dim memory of his former self. He now worked for IBM and had gone from hustler to trick, paying boys as he had once been paid. The older hustlers shied away from him for as they were, he had been; as he was, they would become. The crowd revolved once more, closing the gap. Q disappeared like an old memory.
#
The crowd rotated and revealed a small band of Lost Boys, inebriated, standing a little apart. Smith thought they did not seem as statuesque, as distant as they did in the night on The Merry-Go-Round. Relaxed, freed from the exaggerated poses of masculinity that usually paralyzed them like Rigor Mortis, they seemed oddly like broken, discarded dolls.
#
Late in the evening, Cocaine in mid-sentence, keeled over dead, startling his coterie of erstwhile admirers into shrieking silence.
The wailing cry of an ambulance flamed into the room. Red light evolved, painting shocked white faces with horror like splashes of blood. The paramedics loaded Cocaine onto a stretcher and rushed the corpse to a nearby hospital where a harried young intern pronounced him dead. The revolving light receded from the room, draining the life from the party. Joon, bereft, alone, robbed of his beloved shining god, trailed after the ambulance.
#
In the enervating aftermath of the party, the stale smoky air hanging about them like cerements, four vile bodies lay in state. Silence trumpeted into the room like “Taps.” Glad trash bags, half full, yawned like open graves. On the dining table, the corpse of the roasted pig awaited interment. An army of exhausted cigarettes lay dead and dying. In the dishwasher, a congregation of dirty glasses clamored for resurrection.
From “The Hunger,” Damaged Angels
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