My writing

Reviews

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Reviews are very important to an author in two ways: they can provide valuable feedback to the author, and they can arouse the interest of other potential readers.  Reviews can also come to the attention of a prospective publisher.  It goes without saying that authors want favourable reviews, but, in my opinion it’s better to have an honest, unfavourable review than no review at all.  After all, one wants to learn and grow as an author.

There are two measures of the value of a review: credibility and expertise.  A review by, for example, the book editor of the New York Times is far more valuable than a review by your aunt Martha.  The trouble, from an author’s perspective, is that its pretty easy to get a review by Aunt Martha, and it’s very difficult to get one from the editor of the Times.

So, how are book reviews used?  The short answer is that they are used in a myriad of ways to market an author and his/her book.   They appear on the Amazon book web pages and on Goodreads.  They are on the back cover of the book, inside the front cover and bits of a review may appear on the front cover.  Reviews are featured in billboard and newspaper/magazine adverts, and on promotional materials in book shops.

How do I get my reviews?  There are several ways.  I have an old friend who reviews my books; I think she does a thorough and objective job.  I have used paid review services like BookReview.com, but their credibility is fairly low.  There are book bloggers who offer to review books – mostly for free.  At one point I must have trolled through fifty book blogger’s sites to find three that said my book sounded interesting, would I please send it?  I think all this resulted in one review.  I have given away books on Goodreads as a part of the contests they run.  Theoretically, the deal is that if you win a free book from an author, the winner is supposed to write a review.  I sent out ten books to the winners and received one review.  Perhaps people just like to have free stuff! There are spontaneous reviews that one tends to get from readers who have bought a book on Amazon.  These spontaneous ones can be interesting.  There was a one-star review who didn’t like my book at all because it ‘wasn’t credible’. (That was the complete review.)  There was one that looked like a third grade book report.  And, of course, there are insightful, semi-professional reviews.  I have a practice of not commenting on reviews, except – where appropriate – to say ‘thank you’.

Yesterday, I signed onto a webinar that was put on by the Independent Book Publishers Association.  It featured a spokesman from Foreword Reviews who explained how they chose books that they review.  Having a review on Foreword Reviews would be very helpful.  Their quarterly magazine reaches plenty of librarians, publishers and editors – as well as the general public.  From my point of view, it also has the advantage or specialising in indie (independently published) books.  Two problems, though: first, there has to be intense competition to be selected: the magazine is published four times a year, and there are well over a hundred thousand indie books coming out every year.  And second, one has to submit the book near the publication date, so if a book has been out more than six months, it is probably of little interest.

If any of my readers considers himself/herself to be a budding reviewer and would like to have a go at one of my books, please choose a title on my website (www.williampeace.net), send me an email (bill@williampeace.net) with your address, and I’ll send you a copy.

Inside the Writing Life

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In the Winter 2015 edition of The Exeter Bulletin, the alumni magazine of Phillips Exeter Academy (the boarding school from which I graduated) there is an article Inside the Writing Life.  It is an interview of Roland Merullo (class of ’71, and quite a bit after my time).  Merullo has written 13 novels and four works of non-fiction.  He has been recognised for a Booklist Editors’ Choice, a Maria Thomas Award and was a finalist for the L. L. Winship/PEN New England Prize.  The interviewer is David Weber, who is Emeritus English Instructor at the Academy.

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Roland Merullo

Q: Does the act of writing allow you to enter a space where it’s only yourself you need to please?  Or do thoughts of agents, publishers, other writers, or readers enter in?

Merullo: I think you really have to work to keep agents, publishers and especially critics out of the room where you write.  At the same time, in order to improve, especially in the early going, you have to be open to criticism and suggestion, so it can be a tightrope sometimes.  I support my family only from my writing, so I can’t indulge myself and write a 2,000 page essay on the meaning of life, or golf, or learning to swim, or my love for my daughters.  But I’ve gotten pretty good at going into my interior room and mining my own truth, even if its eventually packaged in a way that will please publishers and bookstore owners.  Before I started on In Revere, In Those Days, I was well into another book, hundreds of pages, and it just felt false to me, as if I were writing to please  some outside critic and not from my center.  One night, I just said, “Screw this” out loud, put all that work aside and wrote 30 pages of In Revere in a couple of hours.  That felt right.

My comments: I agree that one needs to exclude external influences when one is writing, but that one has to be open to critiques at other times.  I, too, have scrapped whole sections of a novel that didn’t ‘feel right’.  I started over with what I felt was good and genuine.

Q: Do you think of writing as existing above all in its own realm, called art?  Or do you want your books to act in some way on the worlds of culture, politics, society – or even on the inner lives of readers?

Merullo: There is art to it, and art is essential to any healthy society, but I take a workmanlike approach to writing books.  It bothers me a great deal to hear writers talk about their work as if they have a special line to God or something, or as if it’s “torture” to face a blank page. People who value words should use that one more carefully.  Writing reminds me very much of carpentry, in both its methodical aspects and in the need to think ahead . . . though my body hurts less after writing a novel than it did after building a deck or a garage.  I’m all about the inner lives of readers, and the interior life in general – an area we tend to ignore as a society.  But I feel that for it to matter, the interior dimension should be linked to our outer lives, to things like politics, for example. . . .

My comments: I like the comparison of writing with carpentry, and I agree that both require methodology and planning.  I’m surprised by his comment, below, that he doesn’t outline.  To me an outline is essential to avoid the unnecessary and to include the essential, just as a carpenter’s drawing assures that the project will be completed as envisioned.  I sometimes feel that I have a muse – some external influence – because, occasionally, I will suddenly think, after I’ve written something: “Where did that come from?  That was brilliant!  I could never have thought of that!” I doubt that it was God, but maybe The Presence spoke up.

Q: By this time do you write intuitively, having internalised the skills you needed?  Or does technique remain a conscious focus?

Merullo: I write almost completely intuitively.  Early on, I’d study the work of other writers, but I’m not particularly analytical or scholarly.  I don’t outline, try not to over analyse.  When I taught in college – 10 years at Bennington and Amherst – it wasn’t especially enjoyable for me to analyse the great works of literary art, to break them down into pieces, and try to explain why they were so good.  Some of that is a teacher’s job, of course, necessary and good, but to me it was too often like eating a delicious piece of pie and having to sit there and talk about the ingredients in elaborate detail.  I just wanted to eat the pie.  And now I just want to bake the pie.  My feeling is that if you go down deep into yourself – beyond the purely intellectual level – you can maybe write something that reaches down deep inside the reader; you can connect with them in the most profound way.  I think about technique very little now.

My comments: I write pretty intuitively, but as I review what I’ve written, I think about details: technique.  I think his comment about reaching down deep inside yourself and thereby being able to reach something deep inside the reader is tremendously important.  I just wish I could do it more often!

Icarus as an Artist

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The myth of Icarus, who, with his father, Daedalus, tried to escape from Crete, using wings that his father made from feathers and wax, is subject to interpretation.  Icarus disobeyed his father’s instructions not to fly too high, because the heat of the sun would melt the wax of his wings.  Icarus flew too high, the wax melted and he fell into the sea.

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The usual interpretation seems to be that it was hubris – over-ambition – which caused Icarus to fall to his death.  The moral being that we should not fly too low in our lives, as that would not do justice to our capabilities, but we should not try to fly higher than or capabilities.

A few days ago, I heard another interpretation: that Icarus is a symbol of the artist, trying always to stretch and improve his art.  This was suggested by Jorg Widman, clarinettist, composer and conductor.  He was conducting the London Chamber Orchestra and introducing his own piece: Icarus’ Lament.  He said that his piece was inspired by Charles Baudelaire’s poem Lament of an Icarus:

Lovers of whores don’t care,
happy, calm and replete:
But my arms are incomplete,
grasping the empty air.
Thanks to stars, incomparable ones,
that blaze in the depths of the skies,
all my destroyed eyes
see, are the memories of suns.
I look, in vain, for beginning and end
of the heavens’ slow revolve:
Under an unknown eye of fire, I ascend
feeling my wings dissolve.
And, scorched by desire for the beautiful,
I will not know the bliss,
of giving my name to that abyss,
that knows my tomb and funeral.

Jorg Widman’s Icarus Lament was an interesting piece – quite unconventional- played only by the string section of the orchestra.  It began with the violins playing a very high note, pausing momentarily and continuing.  One could visualise a winged creature beating its wings laboriously in very high flight.  Then came the cellos, playing a more sombre melody, as a sort of counter-force to the violins.  Finally, the violas joined in playing a more lively melody.  One definitely had the feeling of the creative force (violins) struggling to assert themselves over the force of gravity (cellos), while the world (violas) looked on.

So I suppose that Icarus could stand as a symbol of the artist who is not content with the safe journey, and who yearns to stretch his talents.

For myself, I see it slightly differently: as a learning and development process.  With each novel, I feel well, I’ve done that; what can I do next that’s a little more challenging?  I suppose what I don’t do is to focus on what my readers would like, because that will tend to be ‘more of the same’.  Rather, I think, if I do this new novel well, my readers will probably like it.  And if they don’t?  I hope that they’ll tell me what they didn’t like.  But, if they do like it, and I feel I’ve met my challenge, I’m ready to move on to the next challenge!

Living the characters

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How does one, as an author, decide what a given character says or does?

For me, the answer is: I try to get inside the character’s skin.  What this means in practice is that I try to feel what the character is feeling at that particular moment, and I ask myself, ‘what is s/he thinking?’  While I don’t explicitly bring it to mind, I’m aware of the character’s background, his/her values, personality and ambitions.  This process is particularly necessary when a character is suddenly put in an unexpected or difficult position.

Fir example, in Efraim’s Eye, the principal character, Paul, is suddenly asked by Naomi, “Do you love me, Paul?”  By way of background, Paul and Naomi had become lovers two days previously.  She is a very pretty and sweet charity worker, a rootless, lonely, thirty-something.  Paul is a London-based widower in his fifties, a financial consultant who has a girlfriend his own age.  Naomi and Paul are not an obvious match, but Paul finds Naomi enchanting and Naomi sees Paul as a secure, reliable father figure, who, nonetheless, wakens her dormant sensuality.

The story continues:

 

Unprepared as he was for that question, Paul knew that there could be only one answer. “Yes, yes, of course I love you.”

Naomi’s head tilted, and her gaze fell to the table cloth. Uncertainly, she asked, “Why do you love me?”

Instinctively, Paul knew that his answer must not include the word ‘beautiful’ or one of its synonyms. He said, “You’re a very sweet idealist, Naomi. You are a woman with great talents as a linguist, as a musician, and in dealing with people. But for me, best of all, is your joie de vie. Life is a great, pleasing adventure for you, and it’s delightful to be with you.”

For some moments, Naomi gazed at him, apparently repeating his words in her mind. She asked, “So you think I’m a sweet, talented, adventurous woman?” She pronounced the word ‘woman’ awkwardly, as if it were a term unfamiliar to her.

He smiled. “For a four word summary, that will do.”

Paul knew the answer to the reciprocal question. She loved him as a daughter loves, and he had awakened her latent brilliance as a lover. But, for her part, she had wanted to know whether she, herself, was a person who could be loved.

 

Paul’s response, ‘Of course I love you’ leaves room for doubt about the depth of the feeling behind it, and in the days ahead, he begins to doubt the durability of the relationship.  His response to the question, ‘why do you love me, Paul?’ manages to avoid the artificiality of a ‘because you’re beautiful’ response.  He recognises that she has a hunger to be valued for more than her looks.  His answer, from his point of view, is both truthful and recognizes as strengths what she may have seen as weaknesses.

So this exchange between Paul and Naomi, while unexpected by the reader, helps to define these two characters, and begins to open a path to the future for each of them.

Topics for Novels

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How do writers choose a topic to write about?  What factors influence the setting, the characters, the time frame, the key events?

I suspect that every author will have a slightly different answer to these questions.  In my case, there was a different set of criteria which influenced the topic for each of my six (so far) novels.  I often think it would be easier if I had a consistent topic and some repeat characters, as the late P D James had with her detective stories.  The problem for me is that I get restless with repetitive tasks.  I would make a very poor assembly line worker.  I changed my major in college twice – from architecture, to mathematics – before settling on physics.  As a naval officer, every day was different.  As a salesman of heavy electrical equipment, every sale was unique.  As a manager and as a management consultant, every situation one faces is different.

Starting with Fishing in Foreign Seas, I tried to stay within my experience: romance, Sicily, the north-eastern US, raising a family and the sale of heavy electrical equipment.  I added some sex and some intrigue for seasoning.  For me, this worked, but I wanted something grander, more important.

What could be more important than sin?  What could be grander than six life stories entwined?  That was the premise of Sin and Contrition.  With a chapter devoted to each sin, I found that each character developed uniquely, and that my imagination could add interesting – but credible – surprises.

Efraim’s Eye came about because of a charity assignment I had in Mexico, where we suspected the chief executive of the charity of being corrupt.  I felt that a corrupt charity was interesting, but probably not gripping.  But, what if the purpose of the charity’s corruption was the financing of a terrorist attack?  And what if there was an intense love story?

The feedback from readers of Efraim’s Eye was very good: it was an exciting thriller with believable characters.  I decided that I wanted to write another thriller; this time about the drugs trade, and I decided that Afghanistan, with its huge output of opium for heroin, and being in the public eye, was the setting.  But, I also needed an immediate destination for the heroin, as very little of it is consumed in Afghanistan.  Some research convinced me to make Iran the home of the bad guy and the immediate destination of the heroin in The Iranian Scorpion. 

Before I finished Scorpion, I started on a novel in the first person about a bright, self-conscious boy who hears unfamiliar voices, which, over time, he attributes to representatives of God and the devil.  I wanted to write a serious novel which, through the life of Henry, explored psychological, theological, and sociological issues around the choices we make in our lives – for better or worse.  I wrote three chapters of Sable Shadow and The Presence before setting it aside: I had lost my way and needed to take a break.  But with the completion of The Iranian Scorpion, I came back to Sable Shadow with new enthusiasm, and I completed it.

In the back of my mind was another novel, slightly similar to Sable Shadow, but an allegory, told in the first person, set largely in the Middle East, with Middle Eastern characters, and dealing with the search for meaning in life.  I’m working full tilt on it now, but before getting really started, I wrote Hidden Battlefields, another thriller, this one about a huge shipment of cocaine from Peru to the ‘Ndrangheta mafia in southern Italy. Four of the main characters from Scorpion are in Hidden Battlefields.  The theme of Battlefields is how major conflicts in our values and priorities can affect who we really are.

As I look back on the progression of novels, two trends stand out, both of which amount to increasing levels of challenge for me as a writer:

First, my craft as a writer is being challenged on all fronts: character development, thematic subtlety, language, credibility and interest.

Second, I have to do more and more research, to the point now where I spend more time on research than I do on writing.

 

Do Characters Change?

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I suppose we enjoy seeing characters whom we like change for the better, and characters we don’t like fail to change and thereby suffer punishment.  Although, likeable characters with   defect, and who are unable to correct the defect, can earn our sympathy.  And then there are characters whom we dislike initially, but who win our sympathy through an act of kindness or a change of heart.   I think it’s fair to say that, as a general rule, a reader likes to see characters change: after all, this is what makes them interesting.  But, if a character changes too much, to quickly, or in completely unexpected ways, that character can lose credibility and may seem contrived.

As I look back at my novels, and think about how the characters changed during the story, I see some interesting points.  Fishing in Foreign Seas was my first novel – a kind of experiment.  It is a romance and a business challenge.  To me, with benefit of hindsight, the characters are somewhat stereotypical, and they don’t change much.  Rather, they learn and grow from the challenges with which they are presented.

Sin & Contrition, my second novel is a kind of morality tale about six characters, friends from the age of 13.  They are quite different characters, from different backgrounds.  As a result of the temptations each of them faces, a few of them change their values and priorities quite significantly; some do not change much (and probably earn the reader’s condemnation).

The next two novels, Efraim’s Eye and The Iranian Scorpion are thrillers.  In both cases, the hero and the villain do not change much at all, but in each case, the key supporting character changes almost beyond recognition.  In Efraim’s Eye, the key supporting character is Naomi, who starts out as a naïve, adorable nomad, and by the end of the book, she has become a pragmatic, tough-minded woman.  In The Iranian Scorpion, Rustam is the key supporting character.  When we first meet him, he is a frightened, insecure, Afghan boy of 15 with sexual fantasies. By the end, he is a confident, secure, married man with a pregnant wife.  How did these changes occur?  Each of these characters underwent a hammering in the forge of real life, and each of them had the mettle to emerge stronger.

My fifth novel, Sable Shadow and The Presence, is told in the first person by a character who is seeking his identity, and it follows his changes from early childhood to middle age.  In a sense, this is a story about the how’s and why’s of character change.

Hidden Battlefields should be published in about six weeks.  It is a sequel to The Iranian Scorpion, but each of the four main characters struggles with an internal conflict, the resolution of which changes his or her life quite dramatically.  This is a novel about what causes us to change, and how it comes about.  By contrast, the two main evil characters, do not change much at all.  You can probably guess what happens to them!

Subtlety

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One of my learnings as I’ve been writing and reading other authors’ work is the importance of subtlety.  Rather than spell out what has happened or what is going to happen, it is often better to imply and let the reader draw his/her own conclusions, or guess.  Obviously, there are times when it is necessary to be explicit: for example, when an author wants to elicit strong  feelings in the reader.  But there can be a fine line between developing strong feelings about a character and the reader developing negative feelings about the book.

Sex is one area where I feel, now, that less is sometimes more.  Presently, I feel that the use of explicit words can interrupt the reader’s attention, and force him/her to develop an explicit mental picture of what is happening.  Depending on the reader’s reaction, the explicit picture may or may not be erotic, or enjoyable.

Here is an example of the more explicit approach from my first novel, Fishing in Foreign Seas:

 

He stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him. They embraced, luxuriating in the delicious feel of wet skin against wet skin. He redirected the shower head so that it did not spray into their faces. They began a long, sensuous French kiss, their hands wandering over each other. Caterina’s legs had drifted apart, and his fingers found her black curls and then her secret cleft. “Oh, Jamie, don’t stop.” Her hand found his erection, and began to stroke. They moaned into each others mouths, their hearts racing and their breathing erratic, as they clung more strongly to each other, their eyes closed. She became rigid and stifled a cry of release.

“Oh, yes!” he groaned, and she opened her eyes to see his semen disappear in the streaming water.

They kissed slowly and lovingly, holding each other close.

“Oh, God!”

“What a beautiful way to start the day!”

 

And here’s a sample from my latest novel, which will be sent for final editing next week:

 

“Mary Jo, I must have tried to visualise you as you are now a hundred times.”

There was a slight giggle. “I didn’t try to visualise. I tried to feel your touch and smell your body. Now, it’s so nice to be real.”

He run his hand slowly and repeatedly from her cheek to her knee, pausing at her breast, her navel and her mound. “God, you’re a beautiful woman!”

“Well I’m not, but I’m glad you think so. Let me see your scars.”

She raised herself to a sitting position. She giggled again. “Rob!”

“What?”

“You know perfectly well what.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Nothing right now. Maybe later. How many stitches do you have here?”

 

Another area where caution is required is in descriptions of violence.  Violent scenes are sometimes necessary: they may represent an essential turning point in the plot; they may shed clarifying light on one or more of the characters, but too much clarity can turn the reader off.

Writing my latest novel, I discovered the importance of the use of ambiguity in the description of what has happened to a character, what she is doing, or what she is thinking.  Sometimes, if one paints too clear picture of these events, we are forced to develop a specific view of the character: strong approval, or disapproval.  What the author may want is a feeling of ambiguity about the character: I like her, but . . .  So,  for example, in my latest novel, one of the main characters may have become pregnant by her brother.  The circumstances and the symptoms are not clear.  What did she (and he) do?

Penny Vincenzi

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There was a full page article on the June 16 issue of The Daily Telegraph about Penny Vincenzi.  It was written by Byrony Gordon, who covers women’s issues for the Telegraph.  She says that “Penny Vincenzi’s books are an epic saga containing family secrets, romance and seriously strong women. ”  I’ve read one of Vincenzi’s novels (there are 17) and I would agree with this characterization.

Penny Vincenzi

One particular quote in the article caught my eye.  After saying that it takes her about a year to write a book and she never plots anything out, Gordon quotes Vincenzi, “I haven’t the faintest idea what is going to happen, ever.  I just get the kernel of the idea, which in this case was supposing a company was about to go under, and then the characters wander in.  I never have any idea what is going to happen at the end.  I truly don’t, which is why they are so long.”

Does she ever get writer’s block?
“Oh no,” she says with a shake of her head.  “I have a friend who does books, too, and he was party to a rather intense conversation about writing.  Someone asked, ‘What do you do when you get writer’s block?’ and he said, ‘I’m not clever enough to get writer’s block!’  I do think there’s an element of: ‘Oh, it’s my art, you can’t cut that bit out because  that’s the core’ .  I don’t agonise.  I do have terrible days when I realise I have gone down a completely blind alley and I’ve got to come back.  The only cure is to press the delete button, I’m afraid.  I once deleted 20,000 words and I felt much better after that.”

One has to admire this about Vincenzi: she has an extraordinary talent to write in what sounds like a stream-of-consciousness mode while at the same time having a keen awareness of what her readers like.  She is a successful writer and it works for her.

What caught my eye about this article was the contrast with my style.  I, too, take about a year to write a book, but I do a lot of charity work and my books are shorter than hers.  I write about 8 pages a week; she writes at least twice as much.  Part of the difference is that I do agonise, and I do a lot of editing in multiple stages.  For me, a novel has to be credible, and since I write ‘modern. real-world novels’, I spend plenty of time on research.  For example, I’m currently writing a novel which is partly set in north west Africa, and I want it to be accurate.  I also do quite a bit of planning: novel outline, chapter outlines, character portraits, and with my more recent novels: what’s the point of this novel?  what’s its message?  what would I like the reader to take away?  This message is, for me, the central nervous system of the novel.  The characters, the events all have to support this core sense.  If there is no core sense, the novel is just entertainment, but, of course, it can be delicious entertainment.

As to writer’s block, I would call it a barrier, rather than a blockage.  There are times, particularly in starting a new situation, when I’m unsure how to proceed.  I’ve learned that what’s necessary for me is to sit here and think about it.  An idea will present itself.  I’ll reject it.  Not good enough.  How about this?  I takes patience and perseverance, and sometimes – I agree with Vincenzi – it means starting over.

So, in a way, I envy the free-flowing style of Vincenzi, particularly when I’m trying to write something that engages our ideas, our emotions, our senses and our instincts all at once.  But the free-flowing style would not be me.

 

 

Love

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Love is a very complex human emotion. It comes in many forms.  Here are some examples from my novels:

 

From Fishing in Foreign Seas:  (Jamie and Caterina are on a sightseeing excursion to Erice, Sicily.  This is the kind of love that young people dream of; where two people fit together perfectly.)

He looked into a narrow gorge which was covered on the near side with vines and seemed to stretch down into infinity. “Yes, I see what you mean.  I can’t even make out what’s at the bottom.”

she pleaded.  She took a step backward and held out her hands to him.

He crossed over to her.  “The railing is quite strong.  You wouldn’t fall over,” he assured her.

She looked at him, her lips compressed: “I am afraid of heights.  When I get near a place like this, I am afraid I throw myself over.”

“But you’re not going to do that!”

“I know, but I still get the feeling. . . .  As if some demon inside of me will take control . . . and throw me over.”
“But you don’t have any demons inside,” he protested.

“I know of one,” she confessed.  Her eyes were misty: “. . . it is called ‘self-doubt’.”

He stared at her in utter amazement, then he felt her vulnerability, and he drew her close to him.  “Let’s get a bite to eat,” he suggested.

They sat at a table in an almost-deserted patisserie.  She would look at him for a moment and then she would look around her.  The corners of her mouth were turned down and her head was inclined to one side.

“Caterina . . .”  She looked at him, her face full of disappointment in herself.  He took her hands: “I love you!”

She took a deep breath, not believing what she heard.  Then the dam burst inside her.  “Oh, Jamie, I love you so much!  I never believed I could love anyone like this!”  Her face was streaming with tears.

“You beautiful, wild, wonderful girl!”  He got up and hugged her.  “. . . Do you suppose they have any champagne here?”

She wiped her eyes with a napkin.  “I doubt it, but they probably have some prosecco – which might be good.”

Jamie got up, ordered a bottle of prosecco and pointed out some assorted sweets to the waitress.  She came to their table carrying an unopened bottle and the tray of sweets; then she showed them the bottle.

Caterina frowned.  “Haven’t you got anything better than that?”

“Yes, Miss, we have champagne.”

“What champagne is it?”

“We have one bottle of Moet in the refrigerator.”

“Excellent!  We’d like that, please!”

They sat gazing at each other while the waitress went for the champagne.  “Jamie, are you sure you love me?”

“Yes, I love you because you’re clever, you have a sense of humor, you’re a little wild, because you’re the part of me that’s missing, you’re beautiful, and because you’re a bit lonely!”

Wordlessly, she got up from the table, knelt down and hugged him.

 

From Sin & Contrition: (Where Josie is swept off here feet by Dr. Bill Thompson, and while they love each other, there’s a major obstacle.)

Josie and Dr. Thompson were lying naked in her bed that Sunday evening.  He was nuzzling her breasts.

“Bill, have you ever been married?”

He looked up at her suddenly: “Why do you ask, my love?”

“Because I want to know.”

Dr. Thompson rolled over onto his back.  “I was married once – it didn’t work out too well.”

“When was that?”

“About eight years ago.”

“Did you get a divorce?”

“She doesn’t want to give me one.”

“It’s possible to get one in Pennsylvania, even if one person objects.”

“I know, but I haven’t had any reason to – until now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I love you, Josie.”

It was the first time he had said it, and she felt elation.  “I love you, Bill. . . . Would you get a divorce for me?”

“It’s complicated, Josie.  There are kids involved.”

“There are kids?”

“Yeah, four kids.”

Josie began to feel a knot in her stomach.  “How old are they?”

“Seven, five, four and two.”

“And you’re still living with your wife and the children?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s not what you’re thinking.  I’m just staying for the children.”

“Do you and your wife still have sex?”

“No. . . . Now, Josie, you’ve just got to be patient with me.  We’ll work something out.”

 

Josie slept very little that night.  She kept turning over in her mind her questions: could they work something out?  That would be absolutely heaven!  Could she convince him to spend more time with her?  If he got a divorce, could she handle four kids – even part time?  She thought so.

Finally, and reluctantly, she decided to do a little investigating.

 

From Efraim’s Eye: (Paul confesses his affection for Naomi, knowing perhaps that their relationship is not meant to be.)

The wind rattled the green canvas awning that covered the roof restaurant.  They were sitting side-by-side so that they could look out to sea.  A waiter had cleared away their breakfast plates of fruit and pastries.  Naomi was sipping her coffee pensively.  She turned slightly to face him.  “Do you love me, Paul?”

Unprepared as he was for that question, Paul knew that there could be only one answer.  “Yes, yes, of course I love you.”

Naomi’s head tilted, and her gaze fell to the table cloth.  Uncertainly, she asked, “Why do you love me?”

Instinctively, Paul knew that his answer must not include the word ‘beautiful’ or one of its synonyms.  He said, “You’re a very sweet idealist, Naomi.  You are a woman with great talents as a linguist, as a musician, and in dealing with people.  But for me, best of all, is your joie de vie.  Life is a great, pleasing adventure for you, and it’s delightful to be with you.”

For some moments, Naomi gazed at him, apparently repeating his words in her mind.  She asked, “So you think I’m a sweet, talented, adventurous woman?”  She pronounced the word ‘woman’ awkwardly, as if it were a term unfamiliar to her.

He smiled.  “For a four word summary, that will do.”

Paul knew the answer to the reciprocal question.  She loved him as a daughter loves, and he had awakened her latent brilliance as a lover.  But, for her part, she had wanted to know whether she, herself, was a person who could be loved.

She took his hand in hers, and they sat, quietly gazing out to sea, each lost for some time in his or her own sunny thoughts.

 

From The Iranian Scorpion: (Robert invites Kate to come to Dubai with him; they are lovers, but actually they are friends.)

“Kate, James has proposed that I come to Dubai for a couple of weeks R & R. Would you like to come along?”

“But what would I do in Dubai?”

“Well, you could lie on the beach, or by the pool, in your bikini.”

“I don’t have a bikini.”

“Well, you can wear your designer one-piece, then.”

“What else is there?”

“Well, we would be staying at the five-star Jumeirah Hotel.”

“I am sick of hotels.”

“We could stay in one of their tropical garden residences.”

“What else?”

“We could go shopping in the Mall of the Emirates.”

“I hate shopping malls.”

“Well, there are some nice little shops in the hotel.”
”What else is there?”

“Well, I see that Beyoncé is playing at one of the clubs.”

“I don’t like Beyoncé.”

“How about Randy Travis?”

“What else?”

“I see that the Amala restaurant has fresh oysters.”

Kate made a face.

“They also have fresh Maine lobster.”

“What else, Rob?”

“Well, there are a couple of new positions we could try.”

She looked away.

“Are you not coming then, Kate?” When he moved to look at her face, he saw that she was giggling.

“Of course I’m coming!”

 

And this from Sable Shadow and The Presence: (Henry reflects on his relationship with Suzannne.)

After that, we just couldn’t get enough of each other.  We didn’t move in together, but we might as well have.  I kept some of my business clothes at Suzanne’s place, and she kept some of hers at my apartment.  That way, we could always have dinner together, make love, sleep and have breakfast together.  My world revolved around Suzanne, and hers around me.  Anybody else was superfluous.  While we were at work, we spoke to each other two or three times a day.

I was really in love for the first time in my life: I would have done absolutely anything for Suzanne.  The miracle of it was that she felt the same about me.  It didn’t seem possible that anyone could love me so much.  This one, magical woman had wiped away all my self-doubts and my Angst.

Recent Award

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Sable Shadow and The Presence just received its sixth literary award: Reader’s Choice Awards 2014: Honourable Mention, Memoir/ Autobiography/Biography.  I am grateful for the recognition, but I’m not sure Sable Shadow and The Presence fits into the Memoir/Autobiography/Biography category.  As fiction, it isn’t an autobiography, and while my dictionary doesn’t say so, I think that, in common usage, the subject of a memoir or biography is a real person, living or dead.  Any way, thank you, Reader’s Choice.

Four of the awards were presented in Hollywood on the 22nd of March.  If Hollywood were a bit less than a 10 hour flight away, I might have gone to receive the awards.  I tried to call on family members in the vicinity of Hollywood to attend on my behalf, without success.  If someone had been able to attend for me, and if they wanted to know what to say in the way of an acceptance speech, I would have given them the gist of my acceptance at the London Book Festival (fifth award – runner-up – general fiction), which was:

When I started to write Sable Shadow and The Presence, I had in mind writing it in the first person (as a fictional autobiography) – something I had never done before.  I also wanted the story to be about a person, who, as a child, hears voices that he eventually attributes to representatives of God and the devil.  I wrote about four chapters and sent them to a friend of mine who is very well educated, a reader of quality literature and quite direct in his views on matters of interest.  He sent me an email a couple of weeks later in which he said: “Boring!”

I had to admit that I saw his point, and I, too, was struggling with the book.  I put it aside, and I wrote The Iranian Scorpion.  But, I still felt that, hidden in the basic idea, was a good book.  By the time The Iranian Scorpion was finished, I had some new ideas to add to the abandoned manuscript.  I wanted to say some things about existentialism, human identity, tragedy, religion and relationships.  So, I developed a new outline, re-wrote the first four chapters and finished the novel.  It was edited and published.  I decided to give the printer’s proof copy to my friend Peter, who had thought that my aborted attempt was ‘Boring!”‘.  About three days later, I got an email from him in which he said: “Congratulations Bill!  An outstanding achievement!  I couldn’t put it down, meals no meals, I swallowed the book in two days. Your prose has become self assured. you dominate it, rather  than being dominated by it.  The research, as ever is superb, and also completely open to being understood by the layman. . . . You have certainly managed to recreate  life as it is lived – even to the pertinent introduction of the meta-physical element – though a bit wobbly in spots, it stands solid, protected by Sartre. . . . I like it and feel close to it – I guess that’s one of the reasons why I think it such a  remarkable creation.  Your progressive development of style, skills and plot makes my mouth water for the goodies to come.Thank you from me, but really from all your readers.”

In London, I said I wanted to thank Peter for his two critiques, but, in particular, for the first critique.  And I thanked the London Book Festival for their selection.