Thursday, June 20, 2019

The Book Tour Episode Five: Halifax




Episode Five: Halifax

I was on the bus, traveling to Halifax where I’d be presenting my book to a group at Dalhousie University, and I was quite excited. Yes, I know. I should have been wary—after all, it was Angela, my publisher’s ineffectual publicity agent who had arranged the event. She had also arranged those fateful talks in Ottawa and Montreal, the ones no one had shown up for or known about. Foolishly, I do tend to be an optimist.

Outside, it had started snowing. Serious snow.
“We’re running way behind schedule,” said the bus driver.
Well, no problem. My talk wasn’t until tomorrow afternoon. Because I was in a cheery mood, I made the mistake of saying something to the young woman seated beside me—how was I to know this very round, ruddy creature was a monument to logorrhea? That I had opened a sluice gate.

She was soon giving me the details of her recent wedding, the venue, the weather, the caterers, and the meal. Each bridesmaid was described, her dress, and hairstyle. There was information about the priest, about relatives who had attended — all one hundred and twenty-five of them, since mother is one of twelve children. Then came minutiae about her own wedding dress — how she’d made an effort to diet, but those pounds simply didn’t budge, and to think she hardly eats anything because she really has a small appetite. Throughout the monologue, she steadily pushed one M&M after another between her ruby lips: the package in her lap was giant-sized.
At one point, masticating heartily, she announced: “I’m on my way to Moncton for a conference. I’m a psychologist.”
***
Running very late, we wouldn’t arrive in Halifax before two or three in the morning. At that hour, the hostel where I’d planned to stay would be closed.
“And there’s a wine festival on at the moment,” said the driver. “You won’t find a free room anywhere. It would be best if you got off at the next stop. There’s a good motel close by, and you can catch the morning bus into the city.”

Always open to good advice, I stepped off the bus and slogged through the snow. Discovered the motel was closed. Now what? I schlepped back to the station. The bus had gone, of course. No, there would be no other buses heading east that evening. The woman at the ticket counter felt sorry for me; I felt sorry for me.
“Well, there is another motel way up the road,” she said. She picked up the phone, called them. Yes, they were open, and, yes, they had a free room.
 They were very nice people too, a Lebanese family who had arrived in Canada during the civil war.
“Our whole family immigrated. Well, almost the whole family: one sister can’t get a visa.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the fault of all those immigrants they’re letting into the country.”
***
At one o’clock the following afternoon, I trudged through slush and sleet, searching desperately for the building where I was supposed to give the talk. I found the street, all right, but there was no building with the number 116-42. Up and down I went, the brown sludge seeping into my boots. No passerby could help me, and, of course, there was no public telephone in sight. I didn’t have a cell phone with me—not everyone did, back then—but even if I could have reached dear Angela, I knew she’d be of no help.

Now what? The talk was supposed to have started, and here I was, with a heavy backpack filled with books, and a huge folder of photos mounted on cardboard that my publisher was certain would be useful.
Suddenly, through the sleety gloom, I spied a little knot of people stamping their feet, trying to keep warm and alive. I approached with much desperation. Did they know where number 116-42 was?
“No,” said one. “We’re looking for the same address, but we can’t find it either. Are you here for the book talk?”
“Actually…I’m the author.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief. But where should we go? The organizer hasn’t shown up.”
 We stood around for a little while longer. The organizer and Angela must be in cahoots, I thought grimly. Several would-be fans, fearing death from exposure, toddled on home. Then, finally, the organizer arrived.
“Well, I did notice the address was wrong,” she said breezily. “If you want, I can try and get the key to the Women’s Center.”
Soggy, cold, and disheartened, we survivors—about ten of us—plodded over to that little house. It was up to me to cheer things up. So pulling out a few good tales, and using a lot of exaggeration, I did manage to get everyone chuckling.
“You’re obviously not an academic,” said one.
In the end, all but one person bought a book: this was success, in a modest way. A very, very modest way.
***
The woman who hadn’t bought a book did offer to drive me back into town. Why did I accept? That warm and cozy car was a lure, and I, a mere captive, received all the details about a daughter, now in Europe, who had once been a dancer. Her former studio was described, her close friends, her wedding (it had taken place three years before) her wedding dress, and how cute and beautiful her baby is. I heard about feeling problems, allergies, and potential genius. I received intimate information about colic.

Eventually, I did manage to escape, and I headed for the highly interesting Maritime Museum. In the bookshop, were many books on nineteenth-century immigration. My book would fit in nicely here, I thought, and I asked the woman running the shop if she’d be interested.
“Why not talk to the museum director?”
            The director was charming. I told her about that afternoon’s book talk, the sleet, the cold, the incorrect address.
“What a shame.” She shook her head with sincere regret. “Why didn’t your publisher contact us instead? We have great success with author talks here at the museum. We’d love to have you come and present your book. Let us know when you’ll be back in this part of the world.”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” I said. But since it had taken me a whole lifetime to get to Halifax, I doubted I’d be back in the neighborhood anytime soon.

***
Back in the city center, I sat at the counter of a bar and dreamt about eating oysters (far too expensive). Two rich-looking men were sitting nearby. One was handsome and interesting-looking; the other wasn’t. The handsome guy was quiet; his chum wasn’t, and he did love boats. He told me all about boat design—okay, he did buy me a drink or two—but believe me, by the time I stumbled out the door, I knew all about mono and multihulls, design software, boat plans, fiber reinforced plastic, high-performance sailing, twin canting, T-foils, ballast, and roll stability at low speed.

I was becoming quite an authority on a great many subjects.

For more about my passionate life http://www.j-arleneculiner.com and http://www.jill-culiner.com

Monday, June 17, 2019

SUMMER READS, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer


Artwork Credit: Cats-napping, Rosehill Studio

This is the time of year when every bookseller platform is boasting a plethora of “summer reads.” Some are even more specifically “beach reads.” I’m not sure what these books are called for the rest of the year, but once the sun begins to shine, “summer reads” abound. 

What exactly constitutes a “summer read”? Something light, that doesn’t involve a lot of thought? Something with thrills and chills? Something romantic, where the handsome young Scotsman, after many trials and tribulations, is finally, passionately united with his lass? Something funny and a bit gross?

Art Credit: JP Ferrara - Scotsman Carrying Woman
Fact is, “summer reads” can be whatever someone might like to read while on vacation. Since many people read more books on a two-week holiday than they do in the entire year, they must pick their material wisely. 

I recently advertised my cozy cat mysteries as a “summer read,” to which one of my fans from the other hemisphere asked about reads for those who are now settling in around the fireplace for the coming winter. This got me thinking. Shouldn’t we have “winter reads” as well? Maybe something weighty with portent? Or poignant nonfiction? Poetry? The Classics? 

Or, as I suspect, are “winter reads” really the same as “summer reads”? Shouldn’t we be reading whatever we wish whenever we want? Let’s face it: these vague genres are a marketing device, nothing more. So go ahead and take that copy of “War and Peace” on your trip to the Bahamas.  Snuggle up in front of the fire with a romance or a faery tale. When it comes to reading, the choice is up to us.


  
Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:
Happy reading!







Wednesday, June 12, 2019

New Release — Journey of the Heart by Stephanie Burkhart

James DiMera returns to his home in California after World War II, only to find out he's lost his farm. His way of life gone, James becomes a journeyman, selling Bibles, looking for a sense of purpose. But after the loss of his dream, what can there be for him?

Rachel Santori's family winery is in trouble. She's looking for someone to trust. When Rachel meets James, she can't deny how he touches her lonely heart and soul with his kindness and the way comes to her aid. How long has it been since she had someone to depend on? Can James find a place of belonging in Rachel’s life? Can love mend both their weary hearts?

EXCERPT

     He cupped her cheek with his free hand, gazing into her eyes.  "Yes, you can." His words were soft and firm. His heart went out to her. It couldn't be easy trying to reconcile the pain of losing her parents, running her family's legacy, and then discovering that legacy was in danger. 
     "I hoped – oh, I hoped I could."
     "Rachel—"
     She turned away and a muscle in her jaw twitched. James dropped his hand from her cheek.
     "What's wrong?"
     "I don't want to hope too much."
     He arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

     "I know you have to leave."


Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Behind the Literature III - The Hardboiled Streets of San Francisco

I think a lot about my father, Bill Crider, who passed away a little over a year ago, and with Father’s Day approaching, his memory is even stronger than usual.  He is the person from whom I inherited my love of reading and writing.  He wrote his dissertation on the hardboiled detective novel.  I have read and watched my fair share of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler books and movies, so upon moving to San Francisco, I felt that Don Herron’s 4-hour Dashiell Hammett walking tour was a must see.  I highly recommend it for those interested and living in or visiting San Francisco.  Don is a great guy with a wealth of knowledge about Dashiell Hammett, the Continental Op, Sam Spade, and more.  When I told him I wrote a cat detective series set in San Francisco, he kindly gave me a shoutout on his blog.    

Although my Li’l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau mysteries are far from hardboiled and noir, Li’l Tom, cat detective, is a big fan of the genres, himself.  He revels in the fact that his offices are in the same building where scenes from the 1940s noir film, Dark Passage, starring Humphrey Bogart, were set.  


Considering my father’s background, I was delighted to take him to several of the famous Hammett spots when he visited San Francisco.  We traveled San Francisco-style by cable car and saw the building where Dashiell Hammett lived when he wrote The Maltese Falcon



We also saw the spot where Miles Archer was done in.


And the site of the Spade and Archer Detective Agency.



Finally, a tour through the hardboiled streets of San Francisco would not be complete without a stop at John’s Grill where Sam Spade dines in The Maltese Falcon.  




I’m fascinated by the literary history in the towns where I have lived and visited (see my prior posts, Behind the Literature and Behind the Literature II).  I’m grateful that I was able to share some of that history with my father.  What historical gems can you find where you live?




Angela Crider Neary is an attorney by day and writer by night. She is an avid mystery reader and especially enjoys reading novels set in interesting locales. She was inspired to write her first mystery novella, Li'l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau: The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos, by one of her favorite areas in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill.  Her second book, Li'l Tom and the Case of the New Year Dragon is now available.  To learn more, visit her on Facebook and Amazon.

Friday, June 7, 2019

Turtle Writers Club



#Authorconfession: I'm a slow writer. I always have been and I don't see it changing anytime soon.

You may be thinking "But Izzy, you told us in your last post that you're now retired. Doesn't that mean you have more time to write?" Yes, I guess it does. It also means I have more time to do other things like go through the boxes that have been piled in the basement since our move two years ago and keep my grandson. I've worked full-time for most of my adult life and at this point, I'm not willing to turn my hobby into another full-time job.

I would like to say that I'm okay with being a slow writer but I'm not always. Being a slow writer in the hurry, hurry, hurry, publish more, more, more culture created by Amazon is difficult. But, I'm not alone, there are other slow writers out there. There is even a Turtle Writers twitter account created to support and encourage slow writers; the account managers post writing prompts and more. You can also find other slow writers by searching on the #turtlewriters hashtag.

Image courtesy  of www.depositphotos.com
Slow writer or not, I'll keep plugging away as long as writing is fun. Once it stops being fun, I'll stop writing. I absolutely don't believe the old saw that a "writer who doesn't write goes crazy." A writer who doesn't write does something else creative: they paint, dance, sing, open an Etsy shop or any number of other creative endeavors.

So, until next month, I'll be over here slowly tapping away.


Sign up for my newsletter here:  http://madmimi.com/signups/112968/join

Sunday, June 2, 2019

"See your memories." by Michael E. Gonzales


I received one of those “See your memories” notices from facebook this morning.
“Three years ago…” and it displayed one of my early “art” works I used to advertise my first published book, Dark Moon Rising.
Three years and a few months ago I was just a guy writing in his spare time. A suggestion was offered that I might find writing cathartic. I had tried my hand at writing while still on active duty in the Army. As you might imagine an Army officer has very little spare time for any pursuit outside of his normal required duties.

Additionally, I wrote by hand, on paper, with a pen. Imagine.
Needless to say, that poor attempt was worthless, but I did enjoy it.
When I started writing again, I tried writing a fictional story set in WWII, drawing heavily on my own experience which, it turned out, was not a good idea.
That partially completed eight-thousand-word manuscript still exists, but it’s on a floppy disk and so lost to the world…thank heavens.
Sometime later I took my then young son to a science-fiction movie he wanted to see. The story concept was a good one but the movie was terrible. I thought to myself as we left the theatre, I could write that story better than that!
So, I put my computer where my big mouth is and sat down and did just that. I showed the completed work to friends who are sci-fi fans, and one fellow who’s a hard core “Trekkie.”

Every one of them said they really liked it, but I had a lot of punctuation errors and more than a few spelling mistakes.
Well, I started to generate stories and commit them to digital paper.
After I’d written over twenty stories a friend suggested I submit one to a publisher. I blew that Idea off. But, it sat, fermenting in my mind.
So, I started reading up on how to get published. I read all I could about query letters. I found gobs of Sci-Fi publishers who accepted these letters from unproven writers and started sending them out to all I could identify.
A couple actually asked to see the first three chapters. However, all ended up send me nice, boilerplate, rejection letters (I’ve kept them all).

Then by a happy circumstance I met Cheryl. I was only told that she used to be an editor and perhaps she could give me some advice.
We met one lovely afternoon for lunch. And we chatted for over two hours. She did indeed have great advice for me! I wrote it all down (still have the notes).
She asked that I send her my first chapter and she’d look it over.
After a few days she sent an email suggesting I get the manuscript professionally edited then send her the complete document.
After I learned what the editing was going to cost, I almost decided to let the entire matter drop.
        It was my wife who encouraged me and pushed me over the edge.
Once the editing was done, I sent the manuscript to Cheryl, all the while hoping I’d get it back loaded with advice and suggestions on how to improve my writing.
Some two or three weeks later I received an email from Cheryl explaining that she was with Prairie Rose Publications and offered me a contract.
I can’t begin to describe the since of surrealism that engulfed me at that moment.
I had to read the email and the contract twice more, then, I ran screaming out of the den looking for my wife to show the message to her.
“Are we reading the same thing?” I asked her.
Well…three years later and I have five books on the market, and a sixth awaiting publication.

With each published book I still get the same feeling, the same butterflies, as I did with the first.
And when I pick up any of them off my bookshelf and see my name on the cover it’s still surrealistic.
Was it fate, synchronicity, luck? I don’t know, may never know. But I do know that I owe a debt to Cheryl and the lovely people at Firestar Press who rolled the dice on me.
Thank you.










Fire Star Press Blogspot -http://firestarpress.blogspot.com/