Thursday, July 5, 2018 a writer or a man...

Working on edits for D Rose reboot, but also still intending to get Cucariva out there. A quick snippet...

The irony was hardly lost upon him, as a writer or a man, that he had misapprehended entirely his own life story. Remained fixed, in chapter and verse, in the bedrock gospel of his own heart, as the denouement had eased past. She was long gone. Wasn’t it supposed to be easier by now? Wasn’t time supposed to help?


He was its supplicant and its fool. She had moved on. Long ago, and far. But not time nor reason nor even the most constituent flickers of self-preservation, held a candle to his truth. It wasn’t just that everything reminded him of her; everything was her. She was the love of his life: not until the next one, not until he’d lost her, not contingent upon having her, not contingent upon anything at all. And so time lent not the slightest refuge, but served rather, with each passing moment, to merely strengthen his resolve.

Not to one day win her back, for she was never his to claim. But to simply love her. That if on one far day she called upon him, he would not fail her. He would stand his post. And she would see that he’d been standing it for time immemorial. I have been here all along, he would tell her. And will always. All you need do is reach out your hand, and mine will find it. Stop and hear the wind, and in it, my whisper. Read my words—these words—here, now, and for always—for they are spoken for you, from that heart long since given over. That heart whose inscription is yours, and yours alone. Indelibly, eternally. The book lays open, the page unturning, and even if it should, the next shall read likewise, and all in turn. Live your life, sweet girl, and if you may find it in somewhere within you, take it into your own heart that you are so very much loved…

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Of Time, and Seasons...

Wow, I hadn’t heard this song in decades. It harkened a passage from Cucariva, my literary-suspense manuscript....

It wasn’t so much that time had frozen, but that he had, while time moved on—she moved on—without him. She was gone—irrevocably—but still he tried to hug her to him, throwing his arms around one no longer there. Flailing hopelessly at the unyielding hands of an unheeding clock. It was the strangest thing. Years had passed, people come and gone, souls passed on and new ones born. World events, political elections, civil strife. Seasons changed, save that of his own heart, exiled into abiding winter.

The seasons had forsaken him. He loved her as he ever had, for this love abided no season, no gospel, but its own. That time marched on, that she was gone, diminished its ardor not the slightest. If only. 

And so be it. 

But interred well beneath the ice breathed eternal spring, for even without her, within him had she planted the seeds of the greatest love he’d ever known, and ever would know. For in her eyes, lived the light of the world, and even the hardest heart melted at her touch.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

A Rose by Any Other Name...David Rose to Set Sail Once More

I have described previously the labor of love that was--and is--The Awakening of David Rose. And some may recall some of the perils of the journey to this point: previous publisher folding, and how I republished it myself, but quietly set about in search of a new publisher.

I've found a good one, known for their exacting standards, and as of today I am under contract with Evolved Publishing, and to be welcomed by Dave to the "good ship EP," represented the next step in a sometimes arduous, but persistent journey. All I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by...I am excited and grateful to be aboard. The incipient novel should relaunch--new and improved--in November 2018, with 2-3 sequels hopefully landing a year apart thereafter.

It's also cool to announce this on Mother's Day, as finding the truth about his mom's disappearance is at the heart of the D Rose series.

And now, we set sail. As Holmes, whom I quote more than once in the books, would say, The game's afoot.

Thanks to all, as always, for your support, and stay tuned...

Image result for sailing ship

Sunday, April 22, 2018

No Myth: the Burden and Blessing of Lost Love...

Was sad to see some posts today from folks hurting, struggling in the throes of lost love, or love unrequited. I am focused now on D Rose sequel, but still shopping Cucariva, and these themes are at the heart of the story. Those things I read today, hearkened this passage:

He’d come to regard himself as some sort of modern Sisyphus, forever consigned to pushing the boulder of his anguish. But this, he realized, was sheer hubris. His was hardly the world’s first broken heart.  Yes, it was his boulder to push, his road to sojourn. But unlike Sisyphus, who managed to reach the summit, only to watch the boulder careen back down, day after day, he neared no summit. Found no refuge. The pain had set it in from the moment he’d read the truth in her eyes. Hard and cold and abiding, and abide it he must, silently, and without complaint, for such was the way of things, and somewhere deep in his faltering soul, where faith and hope had run out of him like blood, he understood to do any less constituted the greatest sacrilege. A lesson he wouldn’t wish upon his greatest enemy, but a lesson no matter: that love most enduring, lived not in possession, but in loss. How easy had it been when they were together, when their hands so readily found the other’s, when with each embrace they’d known they’d found home. How much easier it would be now if the pain would apportion away with the passing days. If his love would ebb out with the tide, receding into the night, as had she. Until it was at worst a bittersweet memory, a melancholic and maybe one day even whimsical chapter in a story which could at long last turn a new page.

It was not to be. It had gotten no easier. Sometimes he dreamt of her, and in his dreams there was love, and she was there, and those dreams, and the first unknowing moments before awareness returned, were small bits of the paradise he’d lost. The moments thereafter were like losing her all over again. No, he would push his boulder for the rest of his days, but as he eyed the star-laced firmament on this evening, he understood in his bones he dare not curse the heavens, for in his anguish lived a blessing for the ages. It was never about having her, just loving her, and with or without her, he loved her still, and she was there in that way, inside him, and in this she had bestowed upon him not the harshest burden, but the greatest gift, and he dare not bear it with anything but the most profound gratitude.

Image result for sisyphus

Friday, March 9, 2018

AllI Ask...

I so admire poetry, and poets—it is not my forte. But here is one of my favorites(you might recall a line of it from the original Willy Wonka). The theme plays heavily in much of my writing—not necessarily the sailing, but the resignation, the melancholy. Not despair, but loss, and the subsequent road ahead. Coping, and trying to appreciate the many blessings, often the simple things, which remain.

Are there common themes in your work?

Sea Fever

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, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
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.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Theme Party: The Rewriting of a Novel

About 1/3 through with revisions, trying to stay on pace. Or, get back on it. After letting it sit for several months, it's a challenge to immerse back into my story and characters, because it's really about waking them up, not me. But I've found the cooling off period in fact indispensable: the editing is easier, the flaws stand out more readily, this far removed from the blinders conferred  by familiarity and pride.

Really appreciating the power of purging--not just total words, but the right words--well, scrapping the right "wrong" words, and preserving the right "right" words(hmm, there were probably better words for that). Wondrous, though, how much more lustrous those words we retain can be, unencumbered by those superfluous ones we'd once been so sure of.

And, of course, it's never just about the words: character, story, theme, are paramount. Cucariva is literary-suspense, a pretty dark(but hopeful, hopefully) tale. A few overarching themes: human nature(what is is that, when all luxury and pretense are stripped away, truly authors our lives?), redemption, perseverance, and lost love. Imperative when rewriting, to ensure the themes are credibly, and impactfully conveyed.

A snippet:

A sensibility cellular in nature: she was the love of his life, this he knew in his blood and in his bones. The one person for whom he’d been procreated into existence—blood and bones and organs and musculature and tissue—his, in its precise assembling—that he might those decades hence meet and love this woman. Who until recently had professed a devotion no less profound. And so he brimmed with this imperative and wanted to tell her he loved her, for so he did. Not to persuade her toward some starry end, but simply, because it was truth, of the most unassailable type.  And truth had become an inestimable, if faltering beacon, upon the fringe of this fathomless sea.