Rick R. Reed's Blog, page 65

Good Karma, Good Books--Spreading the Love SPOKES by PD SInger

Every Wednesday, I put on my pimp clothes (you should see me!) and help promote the new or old work of some of my favorite fellow authors. Be sure to stop by every week and see what’s new. This week, I’m all about SPOKES by PD Singer.

Here’s what PD Singer has to say about SPOKES:

My husband is a distance cyclist: his road bike has pride of place in our dining room over the winter because temperature fluctuations in the garage aren’t good for it. He eats, drinks, and breathes bicycle racing too, so I get to watch the Tour de France coverage in its entirety, and often with more than one repeat in the day. I haven’t dared tell him about streaming coverage of the entire racing season on the internet, because then I’d never see him. Sooner or later, I had to write a book about cycling. Besides, who can resist fit guys in Lycra?

Speed is important, and so is stamina, but strategy is the third leg of the winning tripod. That’s what I wanted to focus on, not only as part of the race, but as part of Luca’s life. Christopher’s understanding, or lack thereof, of the challenges Luca faces drives the book. Christopher’s a neophyte in the strategies Luca’s using to plan his future, and their mismatch of expectations kept me with them on and off the bike.  The climactic race in Spokes is not the Tour, but the Giro d’Italia, an equally import stage race, if less well known in the US, and no, I won’t tell you if Luca wins. The Giro is frequently run over some atrocious-by-any-standards roads, unlike the Tour, where the asphalt generally slants in only one direction.

As I write this, we don’t know who will win the Tour. Alberto Contador won the 2015 Giro and (at this moment, possibly not when you read this) is in contention for the Tour, which is a marvel of conditioning. Luca would be a contender, and Christopher yearns to write up the results for CycloWorld. To let you share the cycling love, Spokes is on sale for 99 cents through August 2 . Enjoy the ride.

BLURB
Pro cyclist Luca Biondi lives for the race. For the star of Team Antano-Clark, victory lies within his grasp—if he can outdistance 200 other hopefuls, avoid suspicion from race officials, and keep his lieutenant more friend than foe. Luca also has secrets, and eyes for amateur cyclist and journalist Christopher Nye.

Christopher understands Luca’s need to keep their relationship under wraps, but chafes at hiding in the shadows of his lover’s career. He’s ready to cheer Luca’s victories, but he knows too well how triumph can turn to tears. While Christopher’s heart sees Luca the man, his inner journalist—and his editor—sees the cycling world’s biggest scoop.

From the jagged curves of the Colorado Rockies to the viciously steep Belgian hills, Luca can ride out any bumps—except rumors.

A few words in the wrong ear could crash everything. With miles between them, hints of scandal, and Luca’s fierce need to guard his reputation, a journalist might have to let go of the biggest story of his career or risk forcing his lover to abandon the race. Christopher and Luca face a path more treacherous than any road to the summit in the Italian Alps.

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The Wizard of Oz and Coming Out in a General Way

My senior year of high school, back in East Liverpool, Ohio, my school put on The Wizard of Oz as the spring musical. It was a kitschy mix of the original with some songs from The Wiz thrown in to make--the director, a gay man, hoped--hip.

Since I have always loved The Wizard of Oz (clue #1 that I might have been gay), I had to audition. For the singing part of my audition, I sang "Sentimental Journey", an odd choice for a small town high school boy (clue #2).

For my stellar singing talents, I was cast in the farmer's chorus (swaying in the background as Dorothy sang "Over the Rainbow"); as a ghost in the witch's castle (I got to come through the audience in a sheet, dancing); and as one of the witch's generals.

This last part is what caused me to have a revelation. There were fifteen of us generals and we all said the same line to the single private in the witch's army. If we wanted to stand out, we had to do something to differentiate ourselves. I chose to do a nasal voice (thinking that's all it was). When my fellow cast members heard the voice, they cracked up. It took me a while to realize what they found so hilarious was that they thought I was doing a gay general.

Oh, a gay general? Sure, that was what I had in mind.


Not really.

But now I wonder if it was the subconscious, closeted gay boy yearning to be recognized for who he was coming out. Even though I hadn't intended to be a gay general, I went with it and added a lace hanky to my sleeve and a sashay to my march that was so effeminate it would make Paul Lynde look butch. It was probably a horrible gay Uncle Tom moment, offensive, but I plead ignorance--on a lot of counts.

The audience loved it; they roared.

Now I can look back at that thespian moment in my life and see it for what it was--an unconscious moment of coming out, a moment where I was recognized for who I really was, recognized and laughed at, yes, but appreciated all the same. And remembered. And, in an odd way, accepted--because I was entertaining. Bringing what I so loathed about myself and was desperate to keep hidden to the forefront was, now that I look back, revealing myself.

And the best part was, I was not hurt for it.

Life Advice from Ted Baxter

As I start this new day, I'm thinking about Mary Tyler Moore and Ted Baxter...and the profound advice he gives in the following exchange:

Mary: "it's not my furniture that needs rearranging, it's my life...my life is dull...how do i change that?"

Ted: "You want to know how to change your life, Mary? I'll tell you how to change your life. I've known you for six years now, I know exactly what's wrong with your life...[each of the following said in a more depressed tone] you wake up, you eat breakfast, you drive to work, you say hello to your friends, you work at your job, you go to lunch, you work some more, you say goodbye to your friends, you drive home, you have dinner, you sit down, you watch television, you read a magazine, you go to sleep. Am i right?"

Mary nods in agreement, head bowed.

Ted [getting up]: "You want to change your life completely, this is what you've gotta do starting tomorrow...[each of the following said in a more upbeat tone] you eat breakfast! [eating motions], you drive to work! [steering wheel motions], you say hello to your friends!, you work at your job!, you go to lunch!, you work some more!, you say goodbye to your friends!, you drive home!, you have dinner!, you sit down!, you watch television!, you read a magazine!, [dramatic finish] and you go...to...sleep!!! [applause]

Mary: "Ted, that was wonderful!...it was profound! And you're absolutely right, it's not what you do, it's how you do it!"

COVER REVEAL: A DEMON INSIDE (Now Available for Pre-Order!)

I'm so thrilled to reveal the cover for my upcoming romance/horror novel, A Demon Inside , from DSP Publications. The cover, I think you'll agree is amazing: the super-talented Aaron Anderson designed it and I bow down to his artistic sensibilities (and thank my lucky stars he's in my corner!).

The book, an alternately hot and chilling blend of love story and nightmare, will officially release on August 25, but you can pre-order it now at DSP Publications.

PRE-ORDER
Paperback: http://www.dsppublications.com/books/a-demon-inside-by-rick-r-reed-139-b  
ebook: http://www.dsppublications.com/books/a-demon-inside-by-rick-r-reed-138-b

BONUS: When you pre-order the paperback, you can get the ebook (in all available formats) for FREE!

BLURB

Hunter Beaumont doesn’t understand his grandmother’s deathbed wish: “Destroy Beaumont House.” He’s never even heard of the place. But after his grandmother passes and his first love betrays him, the family house in the Wisconsin woods looks like a tempting refuge. Going against his grandmother’s wishes, Hunter flees to Beaumont House.

But will the house be the sanctuary he had hoped for? Soon after moving in, Hunter realizes he may not be alone. And with whom—or what—he shares the house may plunge him into a nightmare from which he may never escape. Sparks fly when he meets his handsome neighbor, Michael Burt, a caretaker for the estate next door. The man might be his salvation… or he could be the source of Hunter's terror. <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} </style><br />--><br /><b>PRE-ORDER</b><br />Paperback: <a href="http://www.dsppublications.com/books/...   <br />ebook: <a href="http://www.dsppublications.com/" target="_blank">http://www.dsppublications.com/books/... </a><br /><br /><b>PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHARE THIS BLOG! </b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="187" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-awg6a7smFEc..." width="400" /><span id="goog_921447068"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/">&lt... id="goog_921447069"></span></div><b> </b><br /><br />

On My Birthday, the Top 10 Things I've Learned So Far

Gasp. I'm 57 years old today. I don't know how I got to be this age so fast, not when I can clearly remember childhood birthday parties and getting a wire-haired terrier puppy for my birthday when I was eight as if it was yesterday.

But I'd like to think, humbly, that life has taught me a few lessons in my 57 years here on earth. In no particular order, here are the top 10 that come to mind: 







1. That love is the world's most valuable commodity.
2. That family can be defined by more than blood.
3. That feeding someone can be a profound way of telling them that you love them.
4. That silence is often more powerful than words.
5. That, in the end, we do what we want to do.
6. That life is always a work in progress and that we can strive for perfection and strive for happiness, but can never attain them. Not completely.
7. That we should love ourselves for our mistakes as well as our triumphs and find forgiveness in our hearts for those who most need it, which often turns out to be ourselves.
8. That the bond between parent and child, for better or worse, can never be broken. Not even by death.
9. That creativity and art is what separates us from beasts and that, by telling our stories, we realize not only who we are, but our place in the universe.
10. That you should never, ever, refrigerate a good tomato.

Golden Girls and Golden Compassion, Way Ahead of Its Time

I like to think Sophia would have been thrilled with Friday's SCOTUS ruling. Remember, the exchange below is from a television show that aired during the 1980s.

DOROTHY: Ma, how would you react if one of your kids was gay?
SOPHIA: I know you don’t get many dates, but stick with what you know.
DOROTHY: Ma, I’m not gay, it was a question.
SOPHIA: To tell you the truth, Dorothy, if one of my kids was gay, I wouldn’t love them one bit less. I’d wish them all the happiness in the world.
DOROTHY: That’s because you’re the greatest mother in the world, and I love you!
SOPHIA: Fine. Now shut your fat mouth so I can get some sleep!

For Pride Month: Wise Words from Harvey Milk

“Every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your immediate family. You must tell your relatives. You must tell your friends if indeed they are your friends. You must tell the people you work with. You must tell the people in the stores you shop in. Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and for all. And once you do, you will feel so much better.”
― Harvey Milk

I think what Harvey Milk is saying is that by being honest about who we are, we move forward in eradicating the hate and fear that keeps us in the closet ("once they realize we are indeed their children").

I think that's the goal: if people see that being gay is just another variation on the human theme and not something to be hated, ridiculed, reviled, feared, or ashamed of, then we can wipe out the fear that keeps us hiding in the shadows in shame and in fear of what might happen if we are our true selves. It's lofty, I know, but by maintaining the status quo and hiding, we'll never move forward, never gain acceptance or equality.

And I don't think the quote encourages people to come out when they're not ready. It's just saying it's the right thing to do eventually for the betterment of everyone, especially the person in the closet.

DREAMBOAT A Fevered Erotic Dream

Sexy. Surreal. Short: My new story, "DREAMBOAT" now available in the Amazon Kindle store for only .99 cents!

BLURB
Do you ever wonder where the dream people come from? Those people who appear in our dreams yet we’ve never seen elsewhere? So begins the story of a young man visited in recurring dreams by his personal vision of a dreamboat. His exotic, Latin ideal man is swarthy, sexy, and ripped and knows exactly the right ways to please our hero. The dreams are surreal and sexy...but what happens when our hero encounters his dream man in real life? A short story by Rick R. Reed, a writer praised by the Lambda Literary Review as a "writer who doesn't disappoint."

EXCERPT
I turned and looked toward the mattress on the hardwood floor. A man lay amid the cream-colored sheets, his dark skin a contrast to the color and texture of the linens. His eyelids were at half-mast, looking both sleepy and lustful at the same time. The lids shadowed the palest green eyes I had ever seen, all the more brilliant in contrast to his dark (Latin?) skin. He smiled and his perfect white teeth and full lips lit up his stubbled face.

He patted the bed, inviting me to join him. I hesitated, the window at my back, feeling a strange sense of foreboding. He certainly looked inviting: his hard, muscular body sculpted from tawny granite and dusted with coarse, curly black hair. He cocked his head. “Come on, sweetheart.” His voice was deep as he sang a lyric from an old reggae song, “The bed’s too big without you.” He reached beneath the sheets and that’s when I froze.

ONTOPDOWNUNDER REVIEWS
Go in expecting the unexpected and I have no doubt you'll enjoy it as much as I did. Highly recommended.






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Joyfully Jay Reviews Loves Dinner at Fiorello's!

A rave for DINNER AT FIORELLO'S from Joyfully Jay Reviews!

"The wrap up ...is so freaking HEA...I cried..." Read the whole review here.

BLURB
Henry Appleby has an appetite for life. As a recent high school graduate and the son of a wealthy family in one of Chicago’s affluent North Shore suburbs, his life is laid out for him. Unfortunately, though, he’s being forced to follow in the footsteps of his successful attorney father instead of living his dream of being a chef. When an opportunity comes his way to work in a real kitchen the summer after graduation, at a little Italian joint called Fiorello’s, Henry jumps at the chance, putting his future in jeopardy.Years ago, life was a plentiful buffet for Vito Carelli. But a tragic turn of events now keeps the young chef at Fiorello’s quiet and secretive, preferring to let his amazing Italian peasant cuisine do his talking. When the two cooks meet over an open flame, sparks fly. Both need a taste of something more—something real, something true—to separate the good from the bad and find the love—and the hope—that just might be their salvation.

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Throw Back Thursday: A Second Look at An Early Book

This "Throwback Thursday," I want to throw back to my only (so far) full-length vampire novel, Blood Sacrifice, published by Untreed Reads. It explores not only the hardcore gruesomeness of the vampire "deathstyle", but delves into the meaning of immortaility, especially as it relates to art and love. 

BLURB
By day, Elise draws and paints, spilling out the horrific visions of her tortured mind. By night, she walks the streets, selling her body to the highest bidder.

And then they come into her life: a trio of impossibly beautiful vampires: Terence, Maria, and Edward. When they encounter Elise, they set an explosive triangle in motion.

Terence wants to drain her blood. Maria just wants Elise . . . as lover and partner through eternity. And Edward, the most recently-converted, wants to prevent her from making the same mistake he made as a young abstract expressionist artist in 1950s Greenwich Village: sacrificing his artistic vision for immortal life. He is the only one of them still human enough to realize what an unholy trade this is.

Blood Sacrifice is a novel that will grip you in a vise of suspense that won't let go until the very last moment...when a shocking turn of events changes everything and demonstrates--truly--what love and sacrifice are all about.

EXCERPT
The dead are inside and reveal a surprising likeness to living creatures. They can move and speak just like the rest of us. They have wants and needs. They go about fulfilling these wants and needs with the same kind of intensity and purpose as the rest of the world. One could even say they have jobs, even if their occupations would be deemed illegal and certainly immoral by almost everyone. But look beyond these superficial similarities and you’ll feel chilled.

 Touch their flesh and it’s cold. Lay your head at their breasts and hear…nothing. Look into their eyes and find yourself reflected back in a black void that you just know, if you linger too long in its embrace, you’ll be sucked in and it will be all over for you. Grab one of their cold wrists and it feels like stone, marble to be exact. There is no pulse.

But tonight, they are a merry band of three. Like the living, they are filled with anticipation. An evening out awaits them. They will, like so many others getting ready for a night on the town, meet others, exchange knowing glances and a mating dance of words. They will sup, but not on the gourmet offerings of the city.

Most houses borne of this period contain many rooms, perhaps more than necessary. Whoever designed this house had the presence of mind to create wide-open spaces, breathing room. Enter the double front doors and you come directly into the living room. Or is it a drawing room? A great room? No matter. What you do not enter is a vestibule or a foyer as other houses of this period would contain. The walls are parchment colored, but right now, that color is indiscernible to the human eye, lit as they are by dozens of flickering candles. Water stains mar the walls and give to them a trompe l’oeil elegance, a look of almost deliberate aging. The floors are dark, their hardwood planks, tongue and groove, blackened by the lack of light and dust accumulated over many years. Along one wall is a fieldstone fireplace, its mantel tall as a man, its hearth cold and empty. There is no furniture in this huge room. No chairs. No tables. No bookcases or desks. No divans or chaise lounges.

What does occupy the room, other than these three lifeless, yet curiously beautiful souls, is art. Paintings of every period lean against the wall and hang from their crumbling surfaces. Here is one after the style of Rubens, there another that looks pre-Raphaelite, here a Picasso…Jackson Pollock…Monet…Keith Haring…Willem de Kooning…Mark Rothko…Barnett Newman…plus the works of a legion of unknown artists, in every style and medium imaginable. The walls are crowded with it. The room is a gallery assembled by someone with vast resources, but tastes that go beyond eclectic. The only common theme running through these works is that all are unique. There is a respect for form, for color, for technique. Most of all, there is a certain indefinable quality that manages to capture the human spirit in its delicacy, in its discontent, in its hunger…. Perhaps it’s the hunger that appeals to them. And the floor is a cocktail party of human sculptures. Men and women carved from marble, granite, and alabaster, cast in bronze. There are later figures cast from polymers, smooth acrylic, welded metals. It is eerie…this empty house that has become museum or mausoleum. Or both. But art is what the dead crave. It sustains them…that and something else…something more warm and vibrant, but they are too genteel to admit to such hungers. Like animals, they simply feed when they are hungry and discuss it as little as possible.

The walls also contain long, leaded glass windows, through which, appropriately enough, a full moon sends its pale rays, distorted and laying upon the darkened wood like silver. The leaded glass has become opaque, obscured by layers of dust, grime, and accumulated smoke. And we can see the creatures now, gathering.

Listen: and hear nothing save for the creaking of ancient floorboards. First let us consider Terence, broad shoulders cloaked in a pewter zippered latex vest open just enough to display the cleft between smooth and defined pecs, tight leather jeans, and biker boots. Blond hair frames his face in leonine splendor: thick, straight, and shining, it flows to just below his shoulders. Glint of silver on both ears, studs moving like an iridescent slug upwards. Terence is the second oldest of the three. His skin, like the others, has the look and feel of alabaster. Dark eyes burn from within this whiteness and present a startling contrast. Terence is a study in symmetry, his wide set eyes match each other perfectly, his aquiline nose bisects dramatic cheekbones and his full lips speak volumes about sensuality and lust. Stare into Terence’s eyes and gain a glimpse—quick, like a jump cut in a movie—of cobblestone streets, horse-drawn carriages and the grime and elegance that was London in the late 1800s. Shake your head and the image disperses and you are left thinking it’s only your imagination conjuring up these images. After all, what does this post-punk Adonis have to do with the British Empire in the time of Oscar Wilde? Besides, Terence’s smile will have you thinking only of the present. And the present is what Terence lives for…the pleasure he can find, the communion of flesh and blood, seemingly so religious and yet sent from Hell. He throws back his head and does a runway model turn, for the benefit of his companion, Edward, who rolls his eyes and snickers. “Don’t look to me to be one of your adoring minions.”

Let’s shift our focus to Edward. Edward is musculature in miniature, stubbled face and a shaved pate. Leather vest, black cargo pants tucked into construction worker boots, no jewelry save for the inverted cross glinting gold between shaved and defined pecs. On his bicep, a tattooed band: marijuana leaves repeated over and over, rimmed with a thick black line. Edward’s look would be comfortable in the leather bars along Halsted Street and he is the only one of the three who prefers the embraces of men. He is relatively young, a newcomer to this scene of death and the greedy stealing of life. Watch him carefully and you will detect a hint of uncertainty in his handsome, rugged features. Melancholy haunts his dark eyes, which, unlike Terence’s, are not symmetrical: the left is a little smaller than the right and crinkles more when he laughs, which is seldom. Curiously, though, it is Edward’s features that look most human…because it’s humanity that lacks perfection and Edward hasn’t been of this undead world long enough to adopt its slick veneer of beauty that’s too perfect to be real or wholesome. Look into Edward’s eyes and you’ll see a beatnik Greenwich Village, a more personal vision: an artist’s studio which is nothing more than a cramped room with bad light with canvasses he worked on night and day, brilliant blends of color and construction for which Edward had no name, but one day would be called Abstract Expressionism. Shake your head, and—as with Terence—these images disperse. There’s nothing there, save for this macho gay clone boy with eyes that still manage to sparkle, in spite of the thin veneer of sadness and remorse deep within them.

And last comes Maria, on silent cat feet, moving down the stairs. A whisper of satin, the color of coagulating blood: rust and dying roses, corseted at the waist with black leather. Black hair falls to her shoulders, straight, each strand perfect, sometimes flickering red from the candles' luminance. Dark eyes and full crimson lips. Maria stands over six feet and her body, even beneath the dress, is a study in strength: muscles taut, defined, like a man save for the fact that the muscles speak a hypnotic feminine language: sinew locked with flesh in elegance and grace. Feline would not be going too far were one to describe her. There is the same grace, the same frightening coiled up power, perfect for the hunt, perfect for surprising and making quick work of her prey.

She pauses, turning slowly in front of the men, her men, waiting for an appraisal. And, unlike Terence, this move does not seem vain, but more her due. The men applaud softly and Maria stops, dark eyes boring into theirs. They do not see the watery streets of Venice, but you would, if you dared to engage her gaze for long. Dark canals and mossy mildew-stained walls, crumbling stairs at which black water laps, an open window through which one hears an aria. Smell the mildew and the damp.

The three take seats on the dusty floor, bring out mind-altering paraphernalia. Terence, first: “Whom will we lure tonight?”

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