But we men are more complex than the cliches written in COSMOPILITAN.
Sex. Lust. Love.
The first two are primal instincts. The third gives birth to legend and magic.
Every writer is in much of his work. But it is not as straight-forward as that.
J.R.R. Toilken rarely, if ever, wrote love scenes. Instead, he wrote distantly of Love, the concept with which Tennyson teased but never consummated in THE IDYLLS OF THE KING.
He was a shy man, and it shows in what he chose NOT to write.
He reflected his times -- as we must reflect ours in what we write and for whom we write.
But for whom do we write? And what exactly are "our" times?
We live in a lonely age. From teenager on up, we feel outside, misunderstood, and alone -- the three labor pains that give birth to the possibility of love.
A reader is drawn to a novel by what is lacking in her/his life.
We've already touched on some of the things most people feel lacking in their lives. It can be summed up in one word : intimacy --
Sex is only the tip of that iceberg floating in the existential void of our modern times. There is much more beneath the murky surface.
How many of us feels valued, loved for who we truly are - bulges, skin blemishes, and other imperfections not withstanding?
Not many.
How many of us have such passion and fire in the night that we tingle in the morning light?
Even fewer.
Many of us settle for half-relationships, tepid gropings in the dark that leave us feeling empty, not full, the morning after.
Why is that?
In the process of love-making, we leave a bit of ourselves with the other. If we make love without feeling love, the other fails to leave a bit of themselves within us.
Inside we have become less ... not more. Do that enough times and a void is carved within us.
That is why we have become the Hollow People, seeking to fill that emptiness within with all the wrong things :
Sex without satisfaction.
Passion without permanence.
Lust wearing the mask of love.
Think of the words of John Masefield :
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Why did I quote Masefield's poem?
We all long for that handsome, beautiful Other who will tenderly stroke our cheek,
fan the fires of our passions,
and fill our hearts and head with the laughter of two souls meant for each other.
Romance. Magic. Love.
Those are the stars a winning author steers by.
Fix them to your mast, and you will never go wrong. *** DON'T FORGET! THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH'S POSTER, T-SHIRT, AND COFFEE MUG:
But we men are more complex than the cliches written in COSMOPILITAN.
Sex. Lust. Love.
The first two are primal instincts. The third gives birth to legend and magic.
Every writer is in much of his work. But it is not as straight-forward as that.
J.R.R. Toilken rarely, if ever, wrote love scenes. Instead, he wrote distantly of Love, the concept with which Tennyson teased but never consummated in THE IDYLLS OF THE KING.
He was a shy man, and it shows in what he chose NOT to write.
He reflected his times -- as we must reflect ours in what we write and for whom we write.
But for whom do we write? And what exactly are "our" times?
We live in a lonely age. From teenager on up, we feel outside, misunderstood, and alone -- the three labor pains that give birth to the possibility of love.
A reader is drawn to a novel by what is lacking in her/his life.
We've already touched on some of the things most people feel lacking in their lives. It can be summed up in one word : intimacy --
Sex is only the tip of that iceberg floating in the existential void of our modern times. There is much more beneath the murky surface.
How many of us feels valued, loved for who we truly are - bulges, skin blemishes, and other imperfections not withstanding?
Not many.
How many of us have such passion and fire in the night that we tingle in the morning light?
Even fewer.
Many of us settle for half-relationships, tepid gropings in the dark that leave us feeling empty, not full, the morning after.
Why is that?
In the process of love-making, we leave a bit of ourselves with the other. If we make love without feeling love, the other fails to leave a bit of themselves within us.
Inside we have become less ... not more. Do that enough times and a void is carved within us.
That is why we have become the Hollow People, seeking to fill that emptiness within with all the wrong things :
Sex without satisfaction.
Passion without permanence.
Lust wearing the mask of love.
Think of the words of John Masefield :
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Why did I quote Masefield's poem?
We all long for that handsome, beautiful Other who will tenderly stroke our cheek,
fan the fires of our passions,
and fill our hearts and head with the laughter of two souls meant for each other.
Romance. Magic. Love.
Those are the stars a winning author steers by.
Fix them to your mast, and you will never go wrong. ***
Ever see a sniffling bear cub. Ever try to say no to it? Well, I couldn't say no. Call me a sap. Just not to my face.
This tale comes from when Roland died in the Shadowlands. I didn't take it well. He listens. He cares.
When I heard he died because of the ghost of Ernest Hemingway, hiding out in Roland's apartment ...
I didn't listen. I didn't care. I got even.
NO GRAVES IN THE SHADOWLANDS :
If you read GHOST OF A CHANCE, you know Roland was on the run in the Shadowlands, falsely accused of the murder of Hemingway’s ghost.
The same ghost who had been laughing up his sleeve in Roland’s apartment for a week, pontificating on how to write good literature.
Apparently, he forgot how to live a good life or be a good friend.
No, the truth was worse. He was too jealous of how the ghost of Marlene Dietrich felt about Roland.
Today, ironically, is Marlene's birthday.
Hemingway had been rubbing his hands in pure joy as the ghosts closed in for revenge and others in the darkness bayed at the kid’s heels, seeking to tear the secret of how to kill ghosts from him.
Now, where is Hemingway? On his way to Hell if there's any justice. But there isn't.
Word in the Shadowlands is that he is just walking aimlessly into the darkness, his eyes deep holes into nothingness.
I only have the cold comfort that I knocked him on his arrogant ghost-butt. How did a Hollywood hack like me do that? Easy. I cheated.
I surprised him. I walked into Roland's apartment looking clean, neat, and sober, smiling my best "ain't we chums?" smile.
Then, I let him have it with the blackjack in my fist.
He went down hard. Not hard enough.
"Good news, boxer," I grunted. "Word in the Shadowlands is that Roland's dead. Died in the arms of Marlene."
His eyes fought to focus. "Is she --"
"Yeah, hero. She's dead, too. Killed by the one who poisoned you. I hope you're --"
I didn't get the chance to finish. The most godawful yowling came from the head of Roland's bed. Then, I saw her -
Gypsy, his cat, all covered in sand. I could have sworn she hadn't been there when I first came in.
Her head was reared back, her eyes full of tears. Hell, his cat was crying.
Crying.
And Gypsy howled like her guts were being cut out of her. I can hear it still. It seemed to go on forever.
I pray to God I never hear such a sound again. She stopped abruptly and looked at me with eyes gone sick and insane.
Then she just slowly faded away into the darkness like an old photograph left out too long in the sun. I shivered. And I knew. I knew.
I would never see his cat again.
I turned to Hemingway as he struggled to his feet, and I managed to get out the words. "Roland trusted you."
My grief and anger were battling so inside my heart, it felt as if I was standing outside myself.
"You hid in his apartment, knowing he was being blamed for your murder, knowing he was being hunted by things that would make a pit bull puke."
I realized I was literally shaking with my anger. "You could have stopped this. You should have."
He turned hollow eyes to me. "Right on both counts."
And with that he walked out through Roland's door. And I knew something else. I would never see him again either.
So here I am, sitting in the dark at Roland's laptop.
What do I write that would express just what the kid meant to me? It's all too fresh. I - I can't.
There are no graves in the Shadowlands.
No place where I can lay one black rose. To die there is to disappear utterly both body and spirit.
But I have to do something. Something.
I will sit out on Roland's terrace and look out as the night fog slips away from the bordering bayou.
The rains are over. The fields this far south are still green.
And with my ghost eyes I will look out over the vastness of America to the Hollywood Hills and see snow on the high mountains.
The fur stores will be advertising their annual sales. The call houses that specialize in sixteen year-old virgins will be doing a land-office business.
In Beverly Hills the jacaranda trees will be awakening to spring to bloom.
And none of that will matter ... for my friend is dead.
The French have a saying that to say good-bye is to die a little. They are right. I am a ghost, and I thought I was past feeling dead inside. I was wrong.
I think I will always see him driving down lonely roads, sitting in lonely rooms, saddened but never quite defeated.
Down those mean streets he went who was not himself mean, who was neither tarnished nor afraid ... only mortal.
Hibbs back again, snuggling in Miss Jodi's backyard. I asked Roland where we would be going next. Of course I knew we'd be here tomorrow. But he gave me this news at all the places my poor feet would be sore from heading to :
has awarded me the "Versatile Blogger" where I have to reveal 7 things about myself.
Amanda Sablan and VR Barkowski awarded me and tagged me with similar awards. Ouch.
For one, I had to tell 10 things you don't know about me, and for the other, I had to answer 5 questions with 5 answers about myself.
I thought I would combine the three. Probably won't work. But hey, it could be fun. I think Custer said that same thing about that infamous stroll through some valley.
Question One : WHERE WAS I FIVE YEARS AGO?
Five years ago, Hurricane Rita was a category 5 hurricane. I spent the morning running rare blood to scrambling hospitals.
I drove back home to wolf down a hurried lunch. A mandatory evacuation was issued. I went downstairs.
Someone had siphoned the gas from my car. All the gas stations were shut down. I was stranded in the path of a killer hurricane. Alone.
Or not so alone.
Freddie, my supervisor, called checking in on me. He offered me a ride in his car as he drove beside his wife's car containing his two children.
So with the clothes on my back, my laptop on my lap, and Gypsy in a carrier, I rode with my friend into the darkness.
The highways were shut down. We drove the back roads, the cypress trees bending down over us in the blackness as if listening to our whispered voices. Freddie's eyes were hollow.
As we passed his wife's car, I saw she was frantic, on the verge of panic.
I winked at the pale faces of Freddie's two children, Allison and Abigail, pulled Gypsy out of the carrier, and picked up her front paw as if she were waving at the two girls. They giggled. And the grip of panic on their mother seemed to break.
She waved back and gave a valiant smile with a thumb's up salute.
Freddie studied me for a moment and said, "Dude, you're like Job."
"How so?"
"I mean you got your gas siphoned out of your car just when you needed it most."
"I bet a lot of people did."
"Yeah, but if Rita hits Lake Charles, this will be the second time you'll have lost everything.
You lost it all when your home burned. And before that you closed your business. Your mother died before that. And before that your fiancee died. And your childhood best friend died before Kathy. Damn, it's like you're Job."
I nodded, smiling sadly, "As I recall Job ended up pretty well."
"You've got a strange way at looking at life, dude."
"You're not the first to say that."
We made it to Baton Rouge where I worked delivering rare blood to all the hospitals reeling under the impact of Katrina. I drove to the hospital of Metairie, the first suburb of New Orleans. (It is a French term for a tenant farm.)
I saw people who had only thought they knew what having nothing meant. I smelled the stench of decaying human flesh on the breath of a too silent city. I saw young boys in uniform trying to be men under impossible conditions.
Late at night I typed the first draft of FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE, alone in the spacious suite afforded me by the blood center for which I worked. It had been leased for the board of directors to oversee the new center in Baton Rouge.
So for two months I slept in a prince's suite. Gypsy was, for once, satisfied with her accommodations, she being a princess and all.
I barely saw the suite. I was always driving it seemed -- down long, unfamiliar roads to strange hospitals protected by hollow-eyed young boys with automatic weapons and dry mouths.
Finally, the blood couriers were allowed back to our devastated city. It was like something from a post-apocalyptic movie. But these ruined streets and gutted homes I knew. Our city has never truly recovered. But my friends are a hardy bunch.
Me? I just fake it.
And there you have at least 7 things you didn't know about me. And I've answered only one of the five questions. Like Freddie says, I tend to talk a lot.
But he smiles good-naturedly when he says it.
Oh, and that time in Baton Rouge was the first time I saw my soon-to-be Viking friend, Eric.
And another thing about me : Each time I enter my apartment, Gypsy pads to me in greeting, and I say, "The Force is with you, young Gypsy, but you are not a jedi yet."
She seems unperturbed. And here are some scenes you will not believe from George Lucas' new creation, THE OLD REPUBLIC :
But we men are more complex than the cliches written in COSMOPILITAN.
Sex. Lust. Love.
The first two are primal instincts. The third gives birth to legend and magic.
Every writer is in much of his work. But it is not as straight-forward as that.
J.R.R. Toilken rarely, if ever, wrote love scenes. Instead, he wrote distantly of Love, the concept with which Tennyson teased but never consumated in THE IDYLLS OF THE KING.
He was a shy man, and it shows in what he chose NOT to write.
He reflected his times -- as we must reflect ours in what we write and for whom we write.
For whom do we write? And what exactly are "our" times?
We live in a lonely age. From teenager on up, we feel outside, misunderstood, and alone -- the three labor pains that give birth to the possibility of love.
A reader is drawn to a novel by what is lacking in her/his life.
We've already touched on some of the things most people feel lacking in their lives. It can be summed up in one word : intimacy --
sex is only the tip of that iceberg floating in the existential void of modern times. There is much more beneath the murky surface.
How many of us feels valued, loved for who we truly are - bulges, skin blemishes, and other imperfections not withstanding?
Not many.
How many of us have such passion and fire in the night that we tingle in the morning light?
Even fewer.
Many of us settle for half-relationships, tepid gropings in the darkness that leave us feeling empty, not full, the morning after.
Why is that?
In the process of love-making, we leave a bit of ourselves with the other. If we make love without feeling love, the other fails to leave a bit of themselves within us.
Inside we have become less ... not more. Do that enough times and a void is carved within us.
That is why we have become the Hollow People, seeking to fill that emptiness within with all the wrong things :
Sex without commitment.
Passion without permanence.
Lust wearing the mask of love.
Think of the words of John Masefield :
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Why did I quote Masefield's poem?
We all long for that handsome, beautiful Other who will tenderly stroke our cheek,
fan the fires of our passions,
and fill our hearts and head with the laughter of two souls meant for each other.
Romance. Magic. Love.
Those are the stars a winning author steers by.
Fix them to your mast, and you will never go wrong. ***
Dreamer. Writer. Believer in the worth of each soul I meet.
It is not so bad a thing to have been born with the gift of laughter and the knowledge that the world is mad.
Book 4: Victor Standish risks all reality to bring back from the dead those he loves.
WOLF HOWL HAS HIS OWN BLOG!
VISIT IF YOU DARE
THE LAST SHAMAN AUDIO BOOK!
Mankind's time is nearly up. Can the last Lakota shaman save the soul of the assassin he loves before the end?
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Let Heather McCorkle design covers and promo materials for you. You will be amazed.
ONLY $4.86!
Sometimes it is death, not life, that brings us love
A GHOSTLY WRITING MANUAL
Twain, Hemingway, Lovecraft & More!
An Age Is Ending & Ancient Evil Returning
Like PENNY DREADFUL? This is for you.
A SUPERNATURAL LONGMIRE
In Egypt, the dead never rest easy
NO ONE HEARS THE SCREAMS IN SILENT FILMS
An isolated Hollywood film crew is hunted by Nightmare
A SAMPLER OF MY HEROES
Mysteries Explained, Secrets Exposed
The Origin of Toomey Starks!
Hellhounds were never this much fun! Only $4!
VOODOO & LOVE IN THE FRENCH QUARTER
Now available in PRINT!
FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE AUDIO BOOK!
The supernatural predators come out after Katrina. Can two undead legends stop them?
AFTER KATRINA, THERE IS NONE BUT TWO TO STOP THE UNDEAD
ONLY $1.99 WHEN YOU BUY THE KINDLE BOOK!
LISTEN to GHOST OF A CHANCE
Can an author be drawn into his own fictional world and killed by his own characters?
HIBBS HAS FOUND HIS VOICE!
A tale of enchantment
Souls At The Crossroads
Where do you need to be?
THE DEADLIEST ENEMY IS WITHIN
What if Stephen King wrote of the life of a blood courier?
Listen to this haunting tale of horror and love
It is 1853. An undead Texas Ranger is on board a cursed ship in search of a murderer who is wearing the face of her last victim as a mask.
Listen to the LAST FAE
When the world is mad, there is little else to do but show them what true insanity is!
Can a man marry both the moon and the sun?
In the eclipse of myth, he can
What Defense is an innocent soul against the Powers of Darkness?
Let Hibbs, the cub with no clue, show you
Before Indiana Jones or Allan Quartermain
There was Sam McCord and his doomed love for Meilori Shinseen
Alice and Victor in 1834 New Orleans
Do a review and have a 1 in 13 chance to win a Johnny Depp autograph!
Buy_FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE
Hurricane Katrina has cast New Orleans into darkness. Predators, living and undead, close in on the helpless survivors. Can Samuel McCord and a vampire priest keep the French Quarter from being drowned in blood?
Buy_LET THE WIND BLOW THROUGH YOU
Enter the dangerous world of a Native American Noir thriller where forbidden love clashes with the politics of crime
You will never see the end coming
In his beginning is his end
My 1st SERIAL TRILOGY continues
There are none so lost as those who refuse to see
The 1st SERIAL TRILOGY!
In the dark, we are all orphans
In Memoriam - Maukie my cyber friend
RITES OF PASSAGE link
The earliest Samuel McCord adventure: Dare to board a fantasy Titanic as it sails into the Bermuda Triangle
VICTOR'S HERE!
BOOK 1: No one talks openly of the misty figures seen walking along New Orleans' iron-laced terraces, casting no shadow. Of the shapes seen rising from sewer grates. And no one willingly visits the crypt of Marie Laveau at midnight. Into this strange world arrives the street orphan, Victor Standish, from Charon's Greyhound. Charon has to keep up with the times ... the End Times. And the teen destined to be called the "Ulysses of the French Quarter" has come just in time for Hurricane Katrina, the End of All Things ... and the deadly love of the Victorian ghoul, Alice Wentworth.
VICTOR AND ALICE ARE BACK!
BOOK 2: Victor's a street kid. Alice is a Victorian ghoul Their love breaks the chain of reason. Their new adventures bring the French Quarter back from the brink of nightmare.
THE RIVAL
BOOK 3: Victor & Alice are in the French Quarter of 1834. Voodoo. Demigods. Revenants. And the hilarious Menage a Trois of Death! Oh, and someone we love dies at the end.
END OF DAYS is here!
St. Marrok's. The most eerie high school in which you will ever die. Its curriculum? The End of Days. Alice Wentworth plans to get an A+.
ADRIFT IN THE TIME STREAM link
SEQUEL to RITES OF PASSAGE: Come aboard the doomed DEMETER with undead Texas Ranger, Sam McCord, and sail with her into the depths of madness in ADRIFT IN THE TIME STREAM.
Buy_CREOLE KNIGHTS
SEQUEL to FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE: The dead rise. Elder Beings strain to enter our world through Katrina devastated New Orleans. And the Angel of Death is kidnapped to clear their way. Can Sam McCord stem the tide of madness in time?
Buy_THE LAST FAE
Once there was an age undreamed where legends walked this earth … and nightmares, too. Terrible were the battles, tragic the outcome of the wars. Until finally there were only two survivors : the nightmare and one bruised legend. These are the legend’s stories, each one a different facet of the same priceless gem – a jewel that has come to believe herself worthless. So come. Listen to her. Listen to THE LAST FAE.
GHOST OF A CHANCE
What if what you wrote became real?
BURNT OFFERINGS
When dreams are sacrificed, it is the soul that burns.
CHECK OUT THE FUN!
Explore if you dare
Buy_THE LAST SHAMAN
Journey with the last Lakota shaman, Wolf Howl. The white govenments call him Drew August. Those who hunt him call him Death. The last day of Man has dawned. Watch as Wolf Howl turns to meet his human hunters. Shadow, the love of his life, returns to aid his hunters. Then, Mankind's death descends. Can he save Shadow before the world's time runs out?
BRING ME THE HEAD OF McCORD!
Only 99 cents. C'mon. Take a chance.
GHOST WRITERS IN THE SKY
LEARN TO WRITE BETTER AND LAUGH ALONG THE WAY
LAST EXIT TO BABYLON
At the dawn of the End of All Things, the Last Fae finds there is no hope ... but love.
IT'S HERE TO BUY!!
The trilogy concludes. Not even the eclipse of myth is forever. But love is. And eclipses return. Listen. The voice of Blake, son of Man, is calling across the night skies.
Buy THE PATH BACK TO DAWN
Only in the eclipse of myth can a young man find himself with both the Moon and the Sun as his brides. Can he survive what follows?
Buy_LOVE LIKE DEATH
From the pages of THE LAST FAE springs this paranormal romance/thriller. Fallen, the last fae, discovers the name of the young teenager to whom she lost her heart : Blake Adamson.But she also discovers what happens when you believe your fears over your love : heartache and loss. And so Blake Adamson finds himself torn between two loves : one fae, the other an alien drinker of souls. Their love is deadly, but love, like death, will have its way.
THE BEAR WITH 2 SHAD0WS link
Based on the stories my Lakota mother told me as a child when I was deathly ill in a freezing Detroit basement apartment. Think a Native American LORD OF THE RINGS.
FROM THE GREAT BEYOND HOP!
You dare not miss it!!
ZOMBIE PREPAREDNESS!
LISTEN TO THE CDC
Thanks, Alex!
THE WORLDS OF ROLAND YEOMANS
Donna Hole astonishes with her insights on my linked worlds
FANTASTIC REVIEW OF THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH
Michael Di Gesu does a masterful review. I am honored by his friendship
LIFE LESSONS taught me by GYPSY
Dedicated to GYPSY
PAPYRUS PRODUCTIONS
Have Wendy make your book into a trailer that wows the reader!
HELP THE HURTING
100% of the profits for ALL my books this FEBRUARY are going to THE SALVATION ARMY. My Valentine's gift to the hurting.
Buy_BLOOD WILL TELL
One lone telepath finds himself a helpless spectator as the race of Man is subjugated into mindless drones by the very blood within their bodies.When the war is over, and he finds himself totally alone ... How can he go on and why?
CALL ME TOMBS
The last Lakota Heyoka faces voodoo and ultimate evil in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania with his Hellhound, Puppy
CATCH FIRE!
BLOG TOUR FOR ALEX J, CAVANAUGH'S NEWEST NOVEL
SIV'S BLOGFEST!
The Norse Gods Are Watching You!
NERDY IS THE NEW SEXY!
BECOME A JEDI KNIGHT FOR TEENS
THE SECRET OF SPRUCE KNOLL
Help save the endangered species of Earth by buying THE SECRET OF SPRUCE KNOLL!
AMAZON KEEPS SELLING OUT!
Written by the author who could very well turn out to be the new William Faulkner, Elliot Grace
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"Sex without love is a meaningless experience,
