My FB feed is flooded with ads where authors (or maybe it's their publishers) are giving away books for free. Nada. Nothing. After writing several books worth over the past three years, all I can think is this.
The phone rang four times before I was able to grope the handset out of the cradle. Groggy and hoarse, a muffled “Lo?” was as much as I could offer, my head still on the pillow. “Is Kitty there?” I heard the door of a phonebooth screech a few inches and thud shut. I needed to hear his voice again. Immediately. “Who did you want?” “Kitty. I don't know her last name. We met at the Hi-Lo the other night.” “Hmmm. The Hi-Lo, huh? She gave you my number?” “914-232-5646?” He was off by one. Close. So close. The acoustics of the phonebooth was intimate. His voice was like melted butter and dark syrup swirled together. Salty, sweet, smoothly overwhelming. “No. No kitty here. Just me.” I yawned. If I could purr, I would have. “So what number is this?” “And why would I give you my number if you weren't looking for me in the first place? I snuggled deeper into the warmth of my nest. “Hmmn?” “Solid point but can I have some slack cause I’m gla
There is little to know. It’s dark and I’m thirsty. It’s quiet. A soft, steady wind coming and going from different points of my compass. I’m floating on my back in water as warm as the air. It moves like the sea, lifting me closer to stars I don’t recognize. Lowering me down like it’s a living, breathing thing I’m inside of. Pain comes with those fake stars, stays too long, and wears out its welcome. If I think about place, position, or perspective, I get dizzy-sick, so I try not to think ‘there’ or ‘where’. At least pain is an anchor. There’s touch and smell. Kind, caring strangers peck at me, busy but gentle, all sharp with antiseptic over sweat. A woman who smelled like fresh dirt and green things held her hands to my face and bargained with strange gods. Another touched my hands, my hair over and over. She smelled like a party. I’m washed, dried, stabbed, dressed, undressed, stabbed. Repeat and again. Then he comes, holds my hand. A life force, a dragon. Steel, flesh, and fi
I've had the devil's own time figuring out how to market Prophets Tango and to whom. When I was filling out the categories offered by KDP, the reflex, without a lot of options, was Paranormal Romance. I've given readers a pretty comprehensive synopsis to keep away the people who went to that category looking for vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters, and other deviant shit like Tentacle Romances and Sex with Dinosaurs. Yeah, I'm judging. That is some fucked up stuff and they should look into therapy. Anyway, those who have read the entire serial know that something else is going on. I just wasn't sure what to call it. I had heard the term "magical realism" before and the only context I had was "One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez which I read years ago and liked. Now, add to that "Midnight's Children" by Salman Rushdie, "The House of Spirits" by Isabel Allende, and "Beloved" by Tomi Morrison. So
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