Veronica Knox's Blog, page 8

WAITER… THERE’S A BOOKWORM IN MY DRINK!

[image error] No, of course there isn’t. I made that up.

Why? For some reason, I was thinking about things that shouldn’t be in other things like: sand in my shoes, a card up one’s sleeve, a crick in my neck, a fly in the ointment, a flea in the ear, and… please… peas and carrots in lime Jell-O? I don’t think so! And for that matter, who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?

Oh, wait, now I remember what triggered my odd chain of thoughts. My mind had drifted from a chapter I was writing, titled ‘Pigeons Among the Cats’, segued into how best should an unknown author attract success, and took a left turn into things inside other things. Don’t ask. This is how my mind works.

Which leaves me with another thought. Is it best to build something so success will come? Or believe it won’t and be surprised?

Surprise me! Go on. I know you want to.

SILENT K PUBLISHING promoting the indie books of V Knox – cozy time-travel novels for those in search of strange books to read as slowly as possible.

NEVER MESS WITH SEKHMET or A HOUSECAT WITH ATTITUDE

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Original oil painting by the author V Knox

NEVER MESS
WITH SEKHMET
or A HOUSECAT
WITH ATTITUDE
And never underestimate the power of a kid who loves books, especially if that kid is you, and you’re waaaaay past 37½.

 

 

Book 3 of my ‘Bede Trilogy’, ‘TOMORROW AGAIN’, is well under way, (estimated launch date, mid-August).

In the conclusion of their time-slip adventure, Kit and his twin sister Bash, newly-separated by 5,000 years, must face the same enemy after their telepathic link is severed. Bash has some surprisingly famous allies with creative inventions on her side, and Kit has some serious feline supporters at his back, including Bast and Sekhmet (that’s Sekhmet and Bast in the picture) to fight a supernatural enemy able to infiltrate small spaces, darting and stinging at will.

    Turning eighteen isn’t going to be easy.

Curmudgeonly, yet stately Bede Hall, nestled beside Hadrian’s Wall, houses earth’s vast network of time portals, with a mind of its own, but it’s the housecats of Britain that join paws with their cousins in the ancient land of Kem to perfect the art of time travel to landscapes that are positively ancestral, where the cats are Egyptian and royal and dispatch puny intruders like willow-the-wisps’ with their eyes closed.
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Hadrian’s Wall, Northumberland

This is Anubis, on evening watch for pesky intruders. The wall is the Roman Emperor Hadrian’s 80 mile building project c. A.D. 122 who thought it would keep out the Scots (silly man)

I hereby offer you a catty chapter from book one, ‘TWINTER – the first portal’ where the Hall’s head guardian, Anubis the cat, dispatches a fairly minor supernatural intruder – a pesky willow-the-wisp in order to prove that cats overrule the supernatural world, in case you didn’t know that already, and in the hopes of piquing your curiosity to discover all three books and their upcoming prequel written by the child ghost of Bede Hall:

[A predator breeze battered the ivy growing thick over Bede Hall so that its tendrils tapped hard like thin green fingers railing against the library windows. They picked the lead strips of the diamond latticework making a scritchity-scratching noise like rustling paper, but when the guardian crept in, the breeze held its breath and shushed the vines.

Anubis padded into the library, and in spite of himself, he balked at the overwhelming sense of unease that assaulted his bones. His ears instinctively flattened like radar panels to pinpoint the disruptive presence.

As he did so, the long halogen bulb of a banker’s lamp flickered to life under its cobalt-blue shade and made a high-pitched hum only a cat or a rogue vine could hear.

It was obvious to any cat worth dignifying, that the red library was inhabited despite anyone being seated at the table or standing at the window or browsing the bookshelves or lounging in the leather armchairs.

A warning shiver lowered Anubis’s sleek tail to stealth mode and he crouched low to the ground, gliding like a snake, slithering over the carpet – his whiskers twitching.

The cat’s senses were so finely-tuned he could sometimes detect the color of a particular sound or scent, so it was with some hesitation that Anubis explored behind the curtains.

As always, he sniffed the air for mice, straining for the sound of their shrill squeaks and the scurrying of their tiny feet. Nothing. He scanned again, this time noticing the slight quivering of the pixilated foliage waving at the window.

Anubis sprung soundlessly to the window-seat, tested each S-shaped handle with his paw, and tried to stare at the moon through the dense leaves, but all he could see was his own reflection.

Yellow eyes glared back at him, and it unnerved him to see himself looking frightened because Anubis prided himself on being fearless. Living feral had taught him how to survive by staying alert, not spooked the way he felt now.

It was his duty to earn his keep by making nightly rounds of the Hall and to hiss into any corners that reeked of magic – any crevices where a spell might lurk or a curse might hide.

His back trembled involuntarily as if some unseen hand had stroked it. He flinched, and focused his investigation on the alcove beside the fireplace.

The corner was dark and formless, but nevertheless a disruptive energy issued from it like a thinking shadow.

The emanation rippled like a transparent flag and passed through Anubis’s body making his fur stand on end, fizzling and snapping with blue static.

A chuckling sound caused the cat to spin around and hiss, landing on all four feet, claws and fangs flashing.

The sound turned a ghoulish shade of yellowy-green and disappeared out the door. Anubis followed it to the top of the stairs and watched it slip, whining and moaning, through the keyhole of the great carved doors.

He leapt back to the window and watched as the shining green string swirled into a ball and rolled past the sundial. It rose suddenly to a great height and unravelled, weaving itself into the shape of a funnel cloud, and swooped into the mouth of the maze.

A moment later a whiff of red fog flew out of its center like a smoke signal, buzzed the lake, and returned to the Hall to be sucked down the chimney.

It rattled the empty coal scuttle against the soot-encrusted bricks, settled back into the same corner where it had first drawn Anubis’s curiosity, and dissipated into the wall leaving a phosphorous cough of dust on the hearth tiles.

Anubis settled on the arm of a chair to guard the fireplace. The library shook off its ominous visitor as the first rays of dawn licked everything clean, leaving the room silently bathed in the hush of retreating moonlight. The vibrations from the curtains and the smell of antique leather-bound books alerted Anubis. He perked his ears towards a new sound – the squeaking of rusty-hinges and the unmistakable clank of a sliding deadbolt that came from the main door.

The willow-the-wisp swept up the stairs in a surge of power and met Anubis head-on.

The collision caused the cat to arch his back, doubling his size, and he gave it such a blood-curdling yowl that it evaporated in a puff of slime-green mist.

Anubis shook himself back to normal and slunk warily to his bed, mission accomplished, skittishly avoiding every creak and shadow, and once he had to stop and bat away an annoying remnant of green fog that still clung to his tail.

As he prowled through the living room a child’s face peered from the mirror over the fireplace looking for signs of life, and a window blew open knocking over a vase of flowers. An icy wind howled a cat-shaped ‘sending’ to creep up the servant’s stairwell.

There it loomed like a giant black stain with the stagnant odor of swamp-scum about it that wavered and sputtered like the light from a beeswax candle.

The last sound Anubis heard before he slept was that of a loose shutter banging in the wind that echoed the rhythmic blows of hammers shaping a huge sandstone block under a vivid blue sky.]

THE ‘BEDE TRILOGY’ – by V KNOX is a middle-grade to Y/A time-slip magical realism fantasy for advanced readers aged 12 and up that links Pangea, Ancient Egypt, Mars, and a mystical corner of present day Britain.[image error]

https://www.amazon.com/Twinter-first-portal-footprints-silence-ebook/dp/B00GQG583G/

LITERARY DISTANCING

[image error] Every time I create a post, Facebook asks: What’s on your mind? Here goes:
I am an indie author, ideally qualified for a Facebook platform because, well, I have a face and a book. In fact, I have ten books. When it comes to writing stories, I’m tenacious which is all very well, but here’s the rub…
I have trouble standing out in a crowd

The same way a character may be hidden-in-plain-sight within a ‘Where’s Waldo’ of red striped sweaters and black spectacles, a book title is easily overlooked in a library the size of the Amazon rainforest.

In short, there are too many books vying for the spotlight, and limelight isn’t what it used to be.

Given the literary population explosion, it’s tougher than ever to crow about one’s books with any certainty of being noticed. Still, Indie authors are compelled to give their books a fair hearing in an arena where the powers that be are spoiled for choice. More to the point, serendipity cruises the perimeters of super-hype to greenlight book projects.

After a flashbulb popped in my brain, it occurred to me that I should stop hiding in the tall grass of social networking and optimize the spotlight I already own (read: power up the search engines of my website.) It’s high time I made a stand. I can’t settle for being hidden in plain sight because success is due to living outside a box marked X.

Sometimes it takes a ton of books to fall on my head. It’s time to dust off my soapbox, give my books some white space, and wear a blue-striped shirt.

An author’s words are like breadcrumbs – not the easiest trail to follow on the forest floor of a jungle.

At this extraordinarily unstable time when humanity’s priority is survival, my thoughts turn to holding firm to rational self-publishing protocols during an unprecedented and somewhat insensitive blitz of book promotion.

There are too many books. What the world needs now, apart from love love love, is individual creativity. What there’s too little of is art art art. Meeting where X marks the spot where love and art collide may not be earth-shattering but it is life-affirming – because A BOOK CAN DIE. HUNDREDS OF BOOKS DIE EVERY DAY.

‘THE BIG 4’ of THINGS I REMEMBER ABOUT SELF-PROMOTION:

1) A human X factor is always the missing strand of dinosaur DNA that bridges the gap between  anonymity and success.
2) It only takes one bee to start a buzz.
3) If I don’t blow my own horn, no-one else will.
And 4) Serendipity needs white space to spot a Waldo wearing a blue-striped shirt.

It will help my VISIBILITY immensely, if after your visit, you would leave your footprint.  Any sign of human visitation will be greatly appreciated. Many thanks.

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SILENT K PUBLISHING – promoting the indie books of V Knox – cozy time-travel novels for those in search of strange books to read as slowly as possible.

V KNOX AMAZON author page

https://www.amazon.com/V-Knox/e/B0094K0Q7Y

V KNOX SIGN UP NEWSLETTER FORM

https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/f7e8a1

V KNOX LINKEDIN

https://www.linkedin.com/in/veronica-knox-233bb51b/

V KNOX FACEBOOK authors page

https://www.facebook.com/V-Knox-Author-307047433438123/

V KNOX FACEBOOK HOME PAGE

https://www.facebook.com/veronica.knox2

 

SCIENCE-FRICTION VS. ‘ART-OFFICIAL’ INTELLIGENCE

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I am the Mona Lisa

These days, life is a creepy puzzle. Who knew? Turns out there are aliens among us – some too small to see. But some have always been larger than life… I’m looking at you, LEO!

WHEN GENRES AREN’T US … and by us, I mean me

Sometimes an author has to step up. And by stepping up, I mean making use of one’s personal soapbox to speak out… and by speaking out, I mean writing outside the genres that continually fail to accurately represent (and by represent, I mean portraying favourably) their books. I don’t much like being caught in the crossfire of genre wars.

And by soapbox, I mean my newsletter and this website where I blog about the eccentricities of art history-mysteries and cozy ghost stories involving reincarnation and time travel.

When it comes to genres, I believe the words Supernatural and Paranormal should require a license. Artificial intelligence has broken out of the science fiction section of the library, and Supernatural and Paranormal have devolved into lewd tales of, and I use the term loosely, animal magnetism.

I write ghost stories that aren’t horrific, fanciful art history-mysteries that aren’t dry facts, and paranormal romances that never involve vampires wearing leather pants or shirtless werewolves. Antagonists don’t have to be predators. Ghost stories can be cozy. History is inherently, juicy. And art history can be inspiring.

CLASSIC OUTER SPACE, where spaceships and aliens go bump in the night, is too small a cyber space to contain unlimited tales where science and humanity play together nicely. INNER SPACE, where ‘outer limits’ imaginations roam free of limiting genres, IS THE FINAL FRONTIER.

Here is my personal definition of book promotion as an Indie Author:

UFO = Unidentified Fundamental Objectives: to turn a long time ‘hobby’ into a ‘going concern’ (as opposed to a growing concern) because cozy ghost stories are hard to find in the asteroid belt.
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‘The INDIGO PEARL’ a novel by V Knox

YOUNG LOVE… OLD SOULS
Delphi Sharpe, an abandoned girl with extrasensory abilities and a tenuous grip on reality, falls in love with a boy in a 500-year-old painting and strives to find the family she senses in dreams, believing her mother is the Mona Lisa and her father is Dr. Who.

 

 

 

ELEVATOR PITCH for ‘THE INDIGO PEARL’ and it’s follow up ‘PEARL BY PEARL’

 – an abandoned autistic child with a tenuous grip on reality believes her mother is the Mona Lisa and her father is Dr. Who.

EXCERPT:

[I begged Cecco to stay. “No, Carissima,” he said. He took my hands in his and shook them hard. His eyes were serious, almost cruel, and what he said next terrified me. “A ghost can still die, Cara.]

‘ART-OFFICIAL’ INTELLIGENCE
WHEN GENRES AREN’T US … and by us, I still mean me

Here is my personal definition of ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE as it relates to my ‘pearl novels’

AI = Autistic Intelligence… ‘State of the art’ time travel just became transcendental.
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‘PEARL by PEARL’ a novel by V Knox

Both ‘THE INDIGO PEARL’ and ‘PEARL BY PEARL’ are earmarked, and what I mean by earmarked is marketed under the genres ‘paranormal romance’ and ‘science fiction’. What it really is, is a TENDER LOVE STORY where a hybrid-android transcends the laboratory into the world of renaissance art. 

THE PITCH: When the consciousness of an autistic woman with the extrasensory ability to converse with paintings and birds is transplanted into the circuits of an android programmed to retrieve famous works of art lost in the distant past, intelligence is no longer artificial.

Two rivalling ‘art whisperers’, become single-mindedly obsessed to consummate the love of Delphi’s life – a teenage boy in a 500-year-old portrait. But while the spirit of Delphi wants to rest in peace with her beloved, her counterpart intends to exact revenge on the art syndicate that exploited them.
Sometimes ‘near death’ is the only road home… SOMETIMES IT TAKES TWO LIVES TO MAKE ONE WOMAN

PROLOGUE EXCERPT:

[When I was born my wings were too small to defend themselves… as if a white butterfly had alighted between my shoulder blades. Within the hour, they withered and fell like rose petals. At least, that’s what I assumed. But I was mistaken. They were folded tightly into an invisible bud, dreaming. And sometimes, when tropical breezes stir the treetops or I track a flock of geese across the sky, my phantom wings quicken and purr. When I’m angry, they bristle and hiss. It’s as if I’m carrying a kitten on my back.

I belong to the air… all humans do. We share a deep-seated fear of being caged. We are instinctive homing pigeons. Birds awaken deep ancestral memories of flight in us. They evoke the inherent joy of weightlessness and summon primal dreams of riding a perfect updraft in the clear blue. And even though you may have forgotten your natural habitat, you subconsciously display your inbred bird personas. I am a devoted human-watcher, and before you utter a single word, I see yours in plain sight.

A robin was my first friend. In my earliest years, I was treated like a dodo which led me to believe I was an ugly duckling. I was considered backward – an ‘indigo child’. But after I fell in love with a boy in a painting, my wings woke up and I became a swan.]

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fridge magnets by V Knox

‘I think, therefore I create’ – a sentiment that bears repeating

SILENT K PUBLISHING, a.k.a. the indie books of V Knox – promoting long ‘metaphysical’ novels for discriminating bookworms who savour reading strange books as slowly as possible

IT’S NOT EASY BEING GREEN

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the Green Man of Summer – original painting by V Knox

The Green Man is an ancient symbol of rebirth representing the cycle of new growth that occurs every spring – a nature spirit that incorporates certain aspects of the Greek, Pan. The Green Man is the embodiment of ecological awareness. When he is driven from cultivated gardens or if he retreats of his own accord into the wildwoods, drought and winter ravage the land.

 

In book one, ‘TWINTER’, of my Bede trilogy, the Green Man deserts the gardens of Bede Hall anticipating a supernatural event.

A catastrophic winter will ensue if twin teenagers fail to resolve an ancient curse and prevent a natural disaster foreseen after one of them time-slips through one of the Hall’s many time portals.

IT’S EVEN LESS EASY BEING BLUE
[image error] ‘TWINTER – the first portal’ (book one of the Bede Trilogy) is a middle-grade time slip adventure for ages 12 to 97½ 

Lady Nan, the matriarch of Bede Hall, lingered in her own impatient dreamtime. She dreamed purposely to forget, yet she dreamed selectively to remember something wonderful. It was easier to slip away to Egypt than face the heart-breaking truths that haunted her, but as hard as she tried, old-family loyalty was in her blood, and messages of responsibility crept in to disturb her night travels. The winter scene inside her old snow globe on the bedside table wavered between an English Christmas and a desert sandstorm that threatened to cover the Great Sphinx. And often, the flakes of fake snow swirled into warm rain.

Bede Hall, a disgruntled stately home, had a mind of its own. It fussed three hundred miles to the north, nestled next to Hadrian’s Wall in a mystical corner of England, mired in deep trouble. Please come home it called, and when Lady Nan drifted off into a lapse of deeper memories its pleas grew more demanding, sounding more like a father ordering his daughter. Come home this instant, young lady! But it was the fretful voice of a lonely little girl she once knew, calling out for help, who disturbed Lady Nan’s sanctuary the most, so she decided to wake up.

She always found it curious how the word ‘present’ had a double meaning, referring to a gift as well as the time called now. It was significant that the word ‘myth’ was ‘present’ in her family name, Stratford-Smyth. Truly amazing. The words ‘a maze’ flashed once and disappeared. Words delivered magic if you knew how to listen. Words were funny things. FUNNY STRANGE.

The over-excited little ghost rubbed a small hole in the window frost and peered down into a summer that shouldn’t be there. A thin slick of ice defied the blistering heat of August and crept over the sundial’s weathered face. Time in Bede didn’t always behave as it should. She saw the same things she always did: a marble sundial leaning slightly towards the stables, a maze that looked like a giant green puzzle, and a bright carpet of flowers that shimmered like jewels. Beyond them, a topiary sphinx basked under a blazing sun. A movement of green caught her eye as the sphinx made of leaves sprang to its feet, shook off a blanket of snow and ran behind the house. Bede Hall was a funny old place. FUNNY WEIRD.

 

Venture into Bede, a landscape where history is positively ancestral, and welcome. But remember… once through the portal, you may have to stay! Bede Hall is alive, but all is not well.

GO VAN GOGH!

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Vincent Van Gogh – self-portrait

“Mirror mirror on the wall. Who’s the greatest Indie of all?”
“You are, Vincent. You are!”

In celebration of indomitable independent spirits the world over and the quintessential poster boy of starving artists everywhere, let us be truly thankful.

This is tough times for creative artists. Indie writers, who a lot of people imagine are acing the self-isolating syndrome, are most often working two regular jobs to produce their works of art. Scraping by is an art form for Indies.

I’ve lost both my independent minimum-wage sources of income from the dreaded dream-killer Covid which is ironic, as my latest book is titled ‘DISAPP’EARRING TWICE.’ Who ever said the universe was profound and perverse at the same time… It was me. I say it all the time.

I say this, too: ONLY ART IS IMMORTAL! It’s right there on my Facebook banner, every single day.

Thankfully, the creative impulse survives everything.

‘DISAPP’EARRING TWICE’ – is a metaphysical ‘art history mystery’ of love, reincarnation, & sacrifice inspired by a true historical event.

[Aurelia Marcus, a troubled high school student, is singled out by Jakobina, the dispirited spirit of a teenage girl trapped in a painting, in a hostage bid to resolve their mutual issues of mortality.]

… I know how they feel. I wish you well in reinventing your livelihoods.

AURELIA MARCUS, A FRAGILE TEENAGER, DISAPPEARS LONG BEFORE SHE RUNS AWAY FROM HOME

Aurelia Marcus, a vulnerable teenager, top in her high school art history class, is singled out by Jakobina, the dispirited spirit of a girl in a famous painting, intent on living again.

Compromised by the threat of dementia that runs in her family, Aurelia nurses a flimsy death wish and toys with the notion of self-sacrifice that coincides perfectly with Jakobina’s bizarre suggestion that they exchange places at the appointed date in 2020.

Confused from wanting to avoid her inevitable fate and believing in a rosy future with Zee Carter, the young man who adores her, Aurelia leaves herself open to the wiles of a scheming ghost.

Aurelia caves to Jakobina’s relentless badgering and makes a semi-conscious choice to live in exile to protect the boy she loves, without fully understanding that ‘live’ is a misnomer that belies death, and lives before life, and lives after death, and especially, immortality beyond time and space.

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AN ART HISTORY MYSTERY by V Knox

now available as a Kindle for $2.99

MAY DAY or MAY DAY! … 6 degrees of separation

[image error] Is MAY DAY an international distress signal or a celebration of dancing and singing to honor FLORA, the Roman goddess of flowers? With human life balanced precariously on the tipping point of extinction, I guess there’s no earthly reason why it can’t it be both.

MAY DAY accompanied by an exclamation mark, stems from the French ‘m’aidez’ which translates as ‘HELP ME’. It is the audible counterpart to S.O.S. – Morse Code for SAVE OUR SOULS. Rescue is given priority to messages that repeat the words may day several times.

MAY DAY, the seasonal celebration of spring and rebirth, is an ancient festival of merriment and thanksgiving where a local Queen of the May is chosen and crowned with flowers on May 1st .

CROWN Perversely, the Latin word for crown is coronam. Biologically-ANATOMICALLY, it’s a part of the body resembling a crown. ASTRONOMICALLY, the sun’s corona visible during a total eclipse is a rarified gaseous envelope of the sun and other stars – a pearly shaped glow surrounding the darkened disk of the moon due to the diffraction of water droplets. DROPLETS can be injurious to one’s health. THE SUN’S CORONA is a small circle of shining light during a time of absolute darkness.

THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON – describes something mysterious and unknown. The side of the moon we never see. The side that faces away from Earth. The side that faces the cold, black expanse of space… say no more!

SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION is the premise that people (and words), are six, or fewer, social connections away from each other. Sounds eerily familiar.

The lovely lady in the painting is FLORA, THE GODDESS OF SPRING in Sandro Botticelli’s ‘PRIMAVERA’ – a title that echoes the words VERITY (Latin for truth) and PRIMA (Latin for ‘at first sight’). PRIMA has settled into our vernacular as prima donna and other references to number one.

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‘PRIMAVERA’ C. 1470 Sandro Botticelli

I could go on because I could segue into the fanciful novel I wrote about Botticelli but I won’t. You may, however, discover it here https://www.amazon.com/V-Knox/e/B0094K0Q7Y

 

 

BEES & CRICKETS… FRIEND OR FOE

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‘THE BEE ANGELUS; by V Knox

Someone recently ‘borrowed’ my original ‘Bee Angelus’ from this website without my permission and posted it on their own blog. Somewhere in the fine 6pt. print at the bottom, he posted an obscure credit that linked to my inbox which is how it came to my attention.

I was surprised at first, then annoyed. So I flapped my wings for a while like a seagull fighting over a breadcrumb. And then I had this thought: perhaps, inadvertently, stealing can create serendipity, and so I left my painting there, my footprint planted on a distant shore – a signature of sorts and may it bring both of us some positive buzz.

None of us can know what dreams may come from random acts of piracy. So, perhaps I will be able to thank the pirate someday for my sudden inexplicable ‘out-of-the-blue’ rise to fame. Still, I would have appreciated the courtesy of being asked.

CRICKETS & CRITICS

In the meantime, I pretty much hear crickets when I post a book promo, so it’s hard not to equate crickets with critics. And since silence is not always golden, it’s easy to assume that no feedback means something truly negative. I have to say, wearing an invisibility cloak is not the best fashion statement for an indie author.

And so, I continue to follow the advice of a famous girl fish: ‘just keep swimming, swimming, swimming’. Which proves even simpletons know important stuff. And since I can’t swim, I keep writing, writing, writing, and my mind continues to buzz with weird scenarios like what would happen if a peacock married a bee.

PROMOTING AGAINST THE STREAM… TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

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AN ART HISTORY MYSTERY by V Knox

Someone said, and I think it was me, that all’s fair in love and book promotion. If this was ever so, surely it must hold true during our current sensitive arena of self-quarantine where reading is being paraded out as the next best thing after Netflix burnout.
It isn’t, reading is hard work.

 

 

Someone also said that words are cheap. They aren’t, writing them is hard work.

TEASER ALERT: in a few sentences I’m going to get cranky about the publishing game (read real). I’m becoming more tetchy (read jaded) in my old age, and for that I apologize (albeit, not vehemently). The art of storytelling naturally transitions into the arc of writing – a craft that requires study, focus, and determination.

While not too many things are more rewarding than writing for the joy of it, I would never recommend writing a novel as a lucrative business move. You will likely (eventually) require a separate source of income (or two). And this I can firmly attest: it’s less than romantic to work for minimum wage in a day job (or two) and squeeze the passion of writing into the wee small hours of dawn and midnight. That said, I hereby offer you (tongue-in-cheek) the pros and cons of reading my latest novel:

Reasons NOT TO read my latest book: From the off, you should know it’s a ghost story with themes of art history and reincarnation, one of the protagonists is an old lady, and if that’s not daunting enough, it’s literary fiction. It also costs $2.99.
Reasons TO give my book a try: it’s a ghost story with themes of art history and reincarnation; the old lady protagonist time travels, so she’s a teenager for some of the time, and the dispirited spirit who haunts her is forever seventeen; it’s literary fiction, it only costs $2.99, and lastly, for the love of universal perversity.

During this time of Covid, both my sources of income have disappeared, which is ironic because my book is titled ‘DISAPP’EARRING TWICE’.

Introducing my inner curmudgeon… Free is so 2017. And not surprisingly, free is all the rage for readers. Not so much for indie authors, although rage does have more than one interpretation.

Bearing in mind that a full-length 400 page novel, duly edited and created by professionals is a steal at under $3, ‘in my books’, $2.99 is last years 99cents.

My friend, Yoda, says “read or read not”, and wants you to know that Kindle features affordable (read free) peekaboo previews.

https://www.amazon.com/V-Knox/e/B0094K0Q7Y

‘DISAPP’EARRING TWICE’ by V Knox

AURELIA MARCUS, A FRAGILE TEENAGER, DISAPPEARED LONG BEFORE SHE RAN AWAY FROM HOME. When a curse of immortality threatens eternal love, a pair of star-crossed lovers challenge time and fate. Love and death play out over centuries as the lives of succeeding generations evolve into an extended family saga where old promises collide with new comeuppances in a string of spectacularly untimely failures but there’s still a ghost of a chance that four people will meet again.

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE CLOISTER

[image error] I like to think that there are no clichés without fire. As an author, I’ve been coached (read commanded) by mentors and editors, to avoid writing clichés like the p l – g – e. (Nope, not going to give that word its full power).

And now, during our current Covid nightmare, clichés resurface as straws to cling to. Citing ‘light at the end of a long dreary tunnel’ is no longer a flippant remark. It is a beacon of hope. It is a positive mantra.

I’ve always loved seclusion. In days of old (barely a month ago) it meant a welcome respite from the anxieties of the world – a sanctuary infinitely more poetic than imposed separation.

In short, humanity is now cloistered. We are chastened… hastened back to our most familiar cloister – HOME.

In an effort to ‘ACCENT THE POSITIVE and ELIMINATE THE NEGATIVE’, I offer are a few old world definitions that come disturbingly close to reality, and their counterpart words, meant to illuminate. Perhaps that ‘light at the end of the cloister’ may just be a new (more holistic) way to interpret an old word written in grey ink:

CLOISTER OLD: a covered walkway or tunnel-like hall, typically with a wall on one side and a colonnade open to a quadrangle on the other (we wish). A religiously observed harbour where initiates must live away from the world, required internment.

CLOISTER – GOOD: hideaway, sanctuary, refuge, a place to purposely and purposefully withdraw, a self-imposed fortress of solitude, a space for healing, to contemplate, restore beliefs, to revive and renew and refresh the spirit. A home hearth to shelter a family from harm.

CLOISTERED – OLD: confined, secluded from others, shut-in, separated from and communicating little with the outside world, sequestered.

CLOISTERED – GOOD: sheltered, protected, a safe haven, hearth and home, family unity, pulling together, a retreat, forgiveness, regrouping, a refreshing pause, intimacy, renewing ties, reaching out, reconnecting with loved ones, positive quarantine.

PLATITUDES – OLD: clichés, inanities, commonplace banalities, prosaicisms, old wives tales, tired expressions, vapidities, triteness, pointless, superficial, wistful, trivialities, fripperies, empty quotes, stopgap measures, feeble advice, whitewashing, band-aids, worn adages, flip sayings.

PLATITUDES – GOOD: inspirational, optimistic, hopeful, confident, meaningful, telling, eloquent, significant, deep, true, pure, profound, philosophical, insightful, thoughtful, reflective, deep-seated wisdom, deep-rooted insight, rich, evocative, perceptive, astute, prudent, mantras.

CONFINEMENT – OLD: imprisoned, forced, punishment, clinical, loss of willpower, forced captivity, limited, in custody, evacuation, incarceration, locked up in a cell, freedom denied, policed curfews, arrested, fear based, held under lock and key to safeguard the public.

CONFINEMENT– GOOD:  an opportunity for creative study and research, writing, painting, reading, craftwork, hobbies, conversation, correspondence, ashram, quality time for contemplation, soul searching, a chance to heal, the ultimate unselfish quarantine for the greater good. Accepting reduced restricted freedom with good heart, social distancing for the highest good, willingness to comply with medical expertise, self-isolation, positive collaboration, participating in the collective strategy to rid the world of a virus out of control, safekeeping, protection, guardianship, regulation, guidance, administration.

SOLITARY– OLD: alone, irrational fear, anti-social, insular, friendless, unaided, abandoned, deserted, by yourself, lost, blinkered, reactionary, withdrawal, alienated, excluded, pariah, reclusive, agoraphobic, exiled, separated, retained.

SOLITARY– GOOD: meditative, thoughtful, creative growth, nurturing, contemplative, togetherness, personal time, sabbatical, tighten family ties, downtime, private time, clarity, ideas, think tanks, sharing, planning, restorative, therapeutic, peace and quiet.

ISOLATION – OLD: imposed solitude, unwanted, judged, shunned, excluded, ignored, refugee, running away, rejected, lonely, hermitage.

ISOLATION– GOOD: a thinking space, time for restoration, refreshment, recreation, a necessary pause to regroup, renew family ties, atone, make plans, heal, gain strength, recuperate, upgrade skills, focused.

QUARANTINE – OLD: locked up, fearful, shunned, overlooked, disregarded, discounted, dumped, forgotten, segregated, detained, incarcerated, sentenced, set-apart, dehumanized, abandoned, deserted, imposed medical isolation… and the only way to stem a murderous outbreak.

QUARANTINE – GOOD: hospitalized, safe zone, resting place, conserve energy, unselfish, compassionate, considerate, caring, stability, curative, remedial, health-giving, beneficial, altruistic, civilized, charitable, selfless, humane, noble act, self-sacrificing, humane, connected, a wise precautionary measure… and the best way to heal and protect humanity from a murderous outbreak.

The ‘GOOD OLD days’ (a few months ago) are a distant memory. There’s never been a better time for POSITIVE CLICHÉS TO LIVE BY.