Friday, January 22, 2016

"Patricia Esposito’s haunting and thoroughly cutting edge vampire novel Beside the Darker Shore effectively combines gay romance, political intrigue and paranormal horror in ways few writers would dare attempt.... The story asks the age-old question of whether Man’s highest ideals are shining beacons leading us into the future, or just fragile dreams that crumble before the hot blooded drives of nature. At times a drunken dance of shadows and a rapid descent into madness, the story spares us nothing, not that first taste of innocent blood, nor the burning rays of the sun, nor a fledgling vampire clawing his way out of his own grave."

Five-star review of Beside the Darker Shore by Thomas Olbert

Available for purchase

Five-Star Vampire Novel

Five-star review of vampire novel Beside the Darker Shore from GLBT Bookshelf

By Aricia Gavriel GLBT Bookshelf

Review excerpts:

"Here is the most unusual and original vampire novel I’ve ever read – I know of nothing else like it, and I’ve read numerous novels in this genre...The story is so complex, you’ll have to roll with it and take up the details by osmosis. I can image the author trying to fathom how to set up this scenario via a conventional backstory. It would have been virtually impossible, and the alternative would have been to dramatize the whole shebang, ending up with a novel bigger than The Lord of the Rings. So roll with it, let osmosis happen…"

"The writing style is also unorthodox, with a narrative so rich in detail, words often seem to dance off the page. When it works, it’s deeply evocative – I’m reminded of Poppy Z. Brite on steroids! Occasionally, the unorthodox nature of this 'freeform' narrative can be a mite hard to follow – sometimes it’s not clear who’s doing and saying what – but overall, the novel’s voice is so fresh, I was beguiled to the end...It’s complex, as I said … you’ll need to concentrate, because you won’t be spoon-fed. You know how there are books that lull you to sleep? This one flips your brain’s 'on' switch!"

Five stars out of five, highly recommended.


Another five-star review
Available as ebook or paperback

Saturday, January 9, 2016

If you don't want to be called greedy, don't be greedy

Investors Business Doesn't Like the Term Greedy

So people just redefine terms when they don't want to be called by them? The article linked above does.

Words have real definitions. Merriam Webster's says greed is "a selfish desire to have more of something (especially money)" and often power as well. So regardless of whether or not the writer agrees with Sanders's policies, the hook for this article doesn't work. "Selfish" is an important part of the definition and "more." It has nothing to do with how hard people work to get what they are greedy for. Many people work very hard for power over others.

So when the author says, "That's not Webster's," instead of trying to change the definition of "greed," why doesn't he address the real reason he objects to the use of the unflattering term "greed"?

Because it's an unflattering term? Because it's not a Christian (or any religion's) value? Because he believes that anything he has worked for is his to the degree he wants, regardless of whether others are working toward his profit, regardless of whether he's harming others in the process? Because he places the individual over society and greed enables the individual to no longer need society? Because if a person amasses enough, he is above the needs of the majority and so is not dependent on others for help or labor or kindness, virtuous traits that he would have to ignore at the risk of being called proud, callous, greedy?

Monday, November 30, 2015

Blurring the Line: Interviews with Horror Writers


Horror can range from stories that elicit heart palpitations to cringing and nausea to an unease that won’t let go. Horror that makes me jump and then laugh at the adrenaline rush can be fun, and I can appreciate the imagery of a well-done slasher scene—both designed to shake us, give us a quick thrill?—but I generally seek out horror that evokes that unnamable unease, that makes me think and wonder and try to establish how the horror might fit in myself or the world I’m part of. 

I think the unknown plays into most horror; however, I’m drawn to horror that remains a bit of a mystery, that entails the ambiguous, something that might lie within us if not without, or that we finally perceive with a sense of near awe because it is beyond our control and yet part of this world, not to go away. 

In the new anthology Blurring the Line, editor Marty Young, founding president of the Australian Horror Writers Association and an Australian Shadows Award winner,  has pulled together stories that blur the line between reality and fiction, reflecting the strange, often surreal, mystery of our world. Each day, upon the book's release, authors in the collection will answer some questions about horror, from what horror is to them to what writers have influenced them most. 

I will add links to each interview below as they appear each day. Blurring the Line is now available, in time for holiday gifts or for a taste of the more sinister during the winter season bustle! 

Interviews:




Patricia J. Esposito is author of Beside the Darker Shore and has published numerous works in anthologies, such as Main Street Rag’s Crossing Lines, Cohesion Press’s Blurring the Line, AnnaPurna’s Clarify, Timbre’s Stories of Music, and Undertow’s Apparitions,and in magazines, including Not One of Us, Scarlet Literary Magazine, Rose and Thorn, Wicked Hollow, and Midnight Street. She has received honorable mentions in Ellen Datlow's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror collections and is a Pushcart Prize nominee.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Apolonio's Light -- vampire novel start


Arturo -1-
I have had moments of pride. Ah, fine, if you listen to your century’s wide, wireless infidelity, you’ll say I’ve had many moments of criminal pride. Arturo de Rosa—I use a brief name now for all I’ve been.
I brush a fly from my face and it returns to crawl up the black silk strands that drape my shoulder. I wonder if my long hair will be bug infested. I am eternal but I am not a god. At night mosquitoes nip and spiders bite and in the day the damn flies crawl over a body that doesn’t sweat. Yet I have scent. And like you, I’ve had moments of pride.
Fear them—those prideful moments.
Wait! Do not sweep me away, nor turn the next page. I imagine you reading this tale on loose leaf, crumbling it now and high-fiving it to the tall chrome pail.
Because loss and fatigue have made me humble, do you look to your surroundings for reassurance? Yes, let’s look at what you’ve accumulated, how grand the house stands in exclamation of how well you’ve done. The family talks around the table of Cornish hen and apple stuffing and organic greens from the fresh-mart. “Toss it in the recycling, Maddy.” Yes, you are successful.
What blood will be drawn, what spirit diminished in self-reflection? I stood in the Mosque at Cordoba, having led good hearts to this place of transformations. I could not kill my conscience on my own. I needed the help of the righteous.
Let me walk with you in your true-green grass. Ice clinks with the soothing sound that only crystal can sing as we sip. Sip? I’m generous—I believe that was a full-mouthed gulp. But we deserve it after such a day. Such a day. Into your phone, you say, “They don’t matter. It’s the edge we need.” There is much configuring in the world of the mighty. Our polished shoes crush the grass. Good-soled, we don’t feel the worms beneath.
But I was talking about fear before these distractions. Though pearly with lack of direct sunlight, my skin has a glossy health. I take my fill of nourishing blood, only the best, as you feed your progeny at the table their gluten-free, pesticide-free, soy-free, freeing wholesomeness. It’s a good feeling, isn’t it? Providing security and health? It defines us. It names us good. We look in the mirror and see success. And all that configuring and all that power points toward us, center of the universe.
As dawn rose from the dead in its humbling ritual, the mosque began to drown me. I needed him, my nemesis, my conscience. To survive, I needed him slain. I needed his blood. How else is one to survive but on the blood of others? The naïve willingness of the masses to … ah, am I naming my conscience “the masses”? I admit I did not mean to. Another humbling experience, when our words speak truths we didn’t know.
In the mosque, the man was Alexandros de Mersecal, a vampire, and it is his ash that itches under my healthy glossed skin. His ash that the flies smell. Inside, I am deteriorating. Conscience. It does us all in. With time. Do you have time?
From the verandah of empty wealth, I watch you cross the grass, phone to your ear, drink in hand. I pretend we are one because I am going to kill you. Through treated floorboards, insects find me. The Mosque is an open, pillared structure, an ordered labyrinth with the illusion of chaos if you believe everything is yours—if you demand the sight be mastered. How we fight the world we are part of.
The cellular voice picks at you, picking, tick, tick, pick, like the borers infesting the maple. “Damn, that’s why I’m at the top,” you say. “Edge.” It’s all about the edge, how we make our space, control the pillar in the labyrinth, while the lost wander hollow in a hollow place. Poor souls. I’ve found it’s easier to kill those we pity. I am trying to pity you, but the day has worn me.
You fall into the padded lounge chair and I close my eyes. My own phone buzzes like the mosquitos. I don’t need to open my eyes to know its message. “Arturo, where are you?” they keep demanding, and I don’t answer. I prefer talking to you. You swat bugs and settle back, your drink at rest on your thigh. Your pestilence encourages my hunger. Hunger to dash your greedy desires, your disdain at my dream: the moon and the sun, a boy, the magnetic nucleus.
Mon Dios, that buzzing! I throw the phone at the verandah screen and it bounces back. It buzzes. You slap a mosquito on your arm and stare at your bloodied hand. Desire stirs, but I don’t move yet. The dream is coming again: a young man mirrored, unsure what’s real and what’s beyond. The phone buzzes as annoying as the insects.
I fly over green-grass ocean. “Success is inconsequential,” I say to you and fling your phone to the grass. You don’t know how to scream without preparing its presentation. The silence amuses me, just legs kicking for life against polyvinyl-coated fluff and foam. I will give you to the river. Your blood will take me to this family’s son. My dream follows the moon.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

"Adjusted for inflation, the federal minimum wage peaked in 1968 at $8.54 (in 2014 dollars). Since it was last raised in 2009, to the current $7.25 per hour, the federal minimum has lost about 8.1% of its purchasing power to inflation. The Economist recently estimated that, given how rich the U.S. is and the pattern among other advanced economies in the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, “one would expect America…to pay a minimum wage around $12 an hour.”

From: http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2015/07/23/5-facts-about-the-minimum-wage/

I hear people in the business world complaining about raising minimum wage. They say, "Get a better job if you want more money. Get an education." What I hear in that is fear that they're own position won't seem so lofty, that they want there to be a gap between where they are and where someone else doing a different job is. They want to feel they've been successful.

What many of these new employees in the business world don't realize is that their salaries (wage per hour) has slumped back to what the same job brought in twenty years ago. People looking for new jobs in their lifelong field are finding companies offering the salaries they began at twenty years ago. But younger employees don't have this gauge. They think making $17 an hour is, at least, well above minimum wage, so they should be satisfied.

Instead, they are making very little more than a minimum wage worker would be making if salaries and wages had kept up with inflation and management hadn't begun widening the gap with the majority of their workers making barely $8.00 an hour, while company leaders made $5,000 an hour and more.

If salaries were capped to something reasonable, imagine all the extra money that would be available to pay workers and offer benefits. Imagine a workforce that feels valued and valuable to their job, and has extra money to purchase washing machines, couches, TVs, cars, vacations, houses, and on.

To new businesses starting out, often management isn't making much more than employees. It's a struggle at the start and minimum wage is difficult. Yet in the past, it has been done. What if there were more incentives to starting new businesses? What if loans didn't have such high interest rates to feed the bankers? A business begins in the red and works its way out if loans are not designed to keep them in debt.

Through history, when people had more jobs and made more money, the economy thrived. If people would stop trying to keep each other down to raise themselves, maybe we could collectively stimulate all parts of the system. At the moment, I see a country clinging to whatever it has right now out of fear ... but I'd like to know what's so great about what they have. Simply that they're better off than the next guy?

Sunday, March 8, 2015

How Genre Influences a Story

The real event:

She walks with her sister down the apartment complex sidewalk. In the green, four guys bat a volleyball around. They look; she looks. She talks quickly to her sister about their visit. Rapid talk. And while  her mouth says things like "She looks healthy, happy." Her mind says, "Hotness. Don't look. Don't look." Their shirts are rolled up to their chests. Brown skin darkened already by summer sun. One's got the Bruno Mars hair (why, guys, why?) but cute nonetheless. Eyes flicker. Talking, walking faster. Past them now. Nearing the parking lot. At the first row of cars, she stops to give her sister a hug and kiss. The four, at a distance now, stand still in a line. Goodbyes, and she and her sister head to their row of cars. She gets in, sighs with relief. Phew, hot. And the volleyball comes winging, then bouncing over, through the lot, to roll in the car space next to hers. Bruno Mars comes jogging over to retrieve it, bending, standing outside her window. She rummages through her purse till he moves on. She drives away.

How genre might determine a story's unfolding:

Fantasy: As he bends for the ball, the string around his neck slips out of his shirt. A flash of turquoise. I gasp and look away. It's a polinar. There's nothing I can do but stare ahead as he tucks it back into hiding.

Western: He twirls the ball on one finger, and swaggers over. Sun glints off his buckle. He nods without a smile and moves on, taking the empty sidewalk into shadow.

Erotica: He picks up the ball but makes no move back to his friends. Standing, shirt rolled up his chest, he flips the ball hand to hand. His dark eyes stare. I unroll my window.

Mystery: It was a ploy. Obviously. The ball had to be kicked to reach this far. But they couldn't know what was in my trunk. David said he'd put it there before sunrise.

Literary: I looked away as he bent for the ball. His shoulders were too broad to call him kid anymore, but still, who wasn't susceptible to the mockery of peers? He deserved space to collect himself. In this complex, eyes pried through slitted window shades, and mean grins slammed the doors. He walked head up.

Romance: He snatched up the ball and sheepishly smiled. What had he done to his hair? I thought, and couldn't help but smile back. I could see him moussing it up, laughing at himself in the mirror. But that memory was two years old already.

How much does genre choice influence our stories? I know some people write a specific genre regularly. It's what they read; it's what they write. I jump all over the place. And I don't think we're necessarily aware all the time what genre we're aiming for. I think we might just be inclined more toward one than another. And it could be our mood, or an unconscious need that dictates what works best. Just thinking ..