‘Dragon Lord’s Mate’, by Eileen Troemel (A Review)

The gods rage tonight. Evil rises from the shadows. The gods rage tonight. See the swords of the noble defend the innocent…’

I just finished one of the strangest – and most interesting – novels I’ve ever read: Dragon Lord’s Mate, by Eileen Troemel.

The story centers around two women, Pena and Indirez. Pena is kind, and a powerful healer; Indirez is cruel, and a supernaturally talented manipulator. As one’s power grows so does the other’s; as Pena ascends to ever-greater feats of medicine, Indirez descends into ever-lower depths of depravity. The story reminded me a bit of one of my favorite films, Ralph Bakshi’s Wizards, in which twin sorcerers with opposing gifts vie for control of their world.

Where Dragon Lord’s Mate differs from Wizards is that it’s set almost entirely within the social realm of women. Whereas Bakshi’s Black Wolf sought power by brute force, Troemel’s Indirez seizes it through the use of seduction. Whereas Bakshi’s Avatar was known as a battlefield physician, Troemel’s Pena serves often as a midwife. While a casual participant in the story’s conflict might have viewed the war as a contest between the Raider Lord Davin and the Dragon Lord Arius, lurking behind the scenes – ever pulling the strings – stand Pena and Indirez, and Arius’ kingdom will stand or fall based on their actions.

Now, this story has a lot of sex. An awful lot of sex. If it’s ever made into a movie, Dragon Lord’s Mate should have a ‘70’s style, funky, slap-bass soundtrack. (You know, boom-chicka-wow-wow…) Also, much of the sexual content is violent and/or sadistic. But as one of my favorite journalists once pointed out, it’s not necessarily the content of a story that matters, so much as what aspersions the story casts upon the content. I liked that most of the sex scenes are within what I believe to be a healthy context: A permanent marital covenant, with sensuality being a by-product of the same. The violent/sadistic sex scenes are labeled as exactly what they are: Disgusting, and unconscionable. The sexual content is not so much an entity unto itself, as it is a natural extension of the characters and their relationships with one another – which is the distinction that separates fiction from pornography.

Now, this story does have a few quirks, as do all stories. Most notably, virtually all the babies born in the story are girls. Which means if there isn’t a sequel with lots of boys born, well… in a generation or so, the Dragon Clan will find itself being defended by an army of ladies and toothless old geezers. But that’s what sequels are for, right? Maybe there was some spell over the town the whole time, or the town’s magical patron dragon has a soft spot for little girls…

A writer could make something interesting out of that.

All in all, Dragon Lord’s Mate is a GREAT read! When I think a book is so-so, I eventually stop reading and skim to the end. I didn’t with Dragon Lord’s Mate, though. I read it carefully chapter-by-chapter, bookmarking my stopping point carefully whenever something rudely interrupted my reading time. (You know, the usual nuisances. Having to eat or sleep, having to get up for work… those kinds of annoyances.)

Something that really stood out to me, though, was this: The writing style was eerily similar to my own. Off-kilter and dream-like, kinda like a literary version of Pink Floyd: The Wall. I don’t often run into writing quite that surreal. (Although Alice Renaud’s novellas come pretty close. Highly recommended, by the way.)

It all made sense, though, when I read Eileen’s note at the end of the story: ‘During a period of extreme insomnia, Pena and Arius met, clashed, fell in love and faced all the adventures in this book. They helped me get through not being able to sleep. I hope you enjoy their adventures.’

Hell, that’s every story I’ve ever written! Insomnia leaves its indelible hand-print upon every story that it inspires. While that reality might be painful for the author (and it is), it’s a blessing to the reader. There are some thoughts that tease our minds only in dreams.  Because insomniacs are never really asleep and never really awake, they have access to facets of the human consciousness that escape most people. As Edgar Allan Poe so eloquently put it, ‘Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night’.

Dragon Lord’s Mate was a wonderful read; I should think that a bout of insomnia was a small price to pay in exchange for such inspiration. That having been said…

If you’re reading this, Eileen, I do hope you’re sleeping better now!

And thank you for the tale.

Regarding the Universal Singularity of Viewpoint

‘Most’ of us peg the ‘others’ of us as ‘selfish’, or ‘self-centered’. And we say it (or maybe just think it) with the slightest hint of smugness, as though sticking that label on someone else somehow absolves us of eligibility.

But no matter how quickly we slap that label on someone else, we find it firmly pinned to our own chest the very moment we turn around. We become predators of a sort, forcing the world to make sense as defined by our selves, by our own standards. We simply cannot let be, moving along and admitting that something befuddles us but trusting that it probably makes sense to someone else. We are so unable to shift our minds from their own tunnels, that we inevitably sacrifice the lives that we could have to the lives that we envision – because anything that we can’t understand can’t possibly be good, can it? Life itself falls prey to our own inability to see with eyes unfettered by own views, beliefs, opinions and ideas. And we can’t help it, not one of us, and probably never will. To quote Selene from the iconic film Underworld: ‘You will kill, and you will feed. It’s unavoidable.’

What we destroy and consume is often something beautiful, because we just couldn’t make ourselves see the value in it.

Why is that? Why must the world shrink itself to fit our consciousness? I am always surprised when someone I once knew pops up again, doing well, or perhaps not so well. Maybe they’ve married, or maybe they’ve divorced. Maybe they’ve been in jail, or maybe they’ve just returned from Timbuktu. Maybe my relationship with them – whether it was platonic, or romantic – ended amicably, or maybe its end was bitter. In any case, I am always shocked by the changes they’ve made to their lives. How could their life have gone on when it was out of my sight? They were, to my mind, nothing more than a part of ‘my’ world. So why then these changes, these adjustments to the person I once knew? A part of me, I believe, honestly expects that people cease existing when they move out of my knowledge.

I can’t grasp that life – anyone’s life – could possibly go on independently of me. I may say that I can, but I can’t because I am always surprised when they do.

We gauge the importance of everything by our own experience. We can’t help that, either, I think. James Joyce is a classic author, oft-quoted, widely-read, and generally beloved by aficionados of fine literature. Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t help but lump him in with inconsequential, dime-store hacks. Why?

Well, because I’ve never read him. That’s why! End of story.

Every once in a while, I’ll run across some band or another, playing out in a local bar. Sometimes I’m tempted to run screaming from said bar, clutching my ears in pain, finding their music unbearable. Yet those bands bring fans along, fans who like them and follow them and sing along to their songs. Are their fans tone-deaf? Can they not hear the sonic agony lingering in the very air?

Of course they can’t – because they are them, and not me. Yet somehow, I can’t wrap my little mind around this concept. They must simply be stupid. I like to hope that I’m charitable enough not to actually think that, but it’s floating in the back of my head.

On the flip side of the coin, my stepfather rolled up on me one day as I was writing, and listening to Avril Lavigne’s debut CD Let Go. ‘Wow’, he says. ‘She really can’t sing, can she?’

Phooey on him! How dare he?!

Now, my stepfather has been playing guitar for fifty years. He may have been a dud as a parent, but he does have a ‘perfect-pitch’ ear, and he always knows what he’s talking about when it comes to music. If he says ol’ Avril wasn’t such a great singer, then he’s probably right.

But I was indignant anyway, despite the fact that he was most certainly ‘right’, or at least more ‘right’ than I. Why was I annoyed?

Well, because I’m me, that’s why!

Years ago I was sitting in Emerson’s Tobacco Shop with a friend of mine, drinking the free coffee while he smoked a stogie with some old fart. (BTW, you meet the most interesting people in tobacco shops, and they always have a moment to chat.) He, my friend, and some other (slightly obnoxious) dude got into a debate about who made the best cigar. My friend was touting the merits of Puerto Rican black-leaf with a dark Connecticut wrapper. Old Fart was all about the Candela leaf, while Obnoxious was fervently preaching about Cuban seed product.

This went on for a while, as these sort of things often do.

And then Old Fart said something that I have never forgotten, and won’t as long as I live. He looked at everyone and smiled, and he said “You know what the best cigar in the whole world is, better than anything else you’ll ever smoke?”

And I asked, “What?” (I’m thinking he’s gonna point at the hundred-dollar stogie, the one they won’t even let me go into the humidor and sniff lest I get boogers upon its nicotine-laced goodness.)

He takes a big ol’ puff, and he says, “The best cigar… is your favorite. The one you like best. Ain’t nothin’ better than that.”

What a graceful, clever way of putting it. Such a candid acknowledgment that, for better or worse, our self-focused viewpoint is the only viewpoint that we’ll ever see. What a succinct way of saying that one should be always aware of one’s own never-ending failure to truly adopt another’s take on something, try as one might.

It is to the credit of both our specie and our culture that we have invented such social niceties as apologies, tactful conversation, and patience in order overcome this otherwise-crippling handicap.

I hate the rock band U2. Can’t stand the sound of ’em. And if you like ’em, well, you must be a dummy. After all, you don’t even exist if I’m not aware of your actions. That’s why I’ll be surprised when I see you again in two years, and you’ve started a business and your kid grew six inches.

And all of you – I said ALL OF YOU – are regarding me in a similar manner. But underneath our undying inability to truly see through the eyes of another, there lies an empathy that is our saving grace. Somehow we learn to keep silent, when we are tempted to be overtly disagreeable. It’s why we express remorse when we wound someone; granted, we’ll probably repeat the offense but not showing remorse would be even more unforgivable, wouldn’t it?

Despite the fact that all we have is our narrow, ultimately unchangeable thought processes, most of us learn to behave as though we can stand in the shoes of another. It is this trait that redeems the human being, an animal that would otherwise be damned. Yet we must be ever aware of our inescapable narrow-mindedness, lest it lead us to lay even bigger pieces of our lives upon the altar of Broken Dreams and Shattered Relationships… For then we would become the predator once more, and Selene’s grim prediction will come true (at least in the figurative sense).

You will kill. You will feed….

It’s unavoidable.

‘Autumn Allergies’, by Daniel Evans Jost

Pine needles swallowed

Rock slides for days

Pollen when inhaled like sucking in a blaze

Blurry Video

Tremors galore

Salt water spills like a baptized whore

Chilled winds by day

Humid hangovers by night

Visions so solid they pierce retinas like light

Esophagus collisions

 Skull pressure resumed

Best remedy is electrolytes consumed

Isolated by mandate

Yet introversion seduces

For autumn allergies produce the best creative juices

‘Happy Dance’ Time!!!

Didja ever have one of those days that just made you wanna jump up and do your ‘happy dance’?

Today… is THAT day! My return to the publishing world is now available for pre-order at this link: https://amzn.to/34NstC7 (And it ain’t just me, mind you. Check out the lengthy list of talented authors also featured on the cover!)

It’s been fourteen years. Fourteen long years of writing for no other reason than compulsion. Amusing myself and my loyal (and much appreciated) handful of online readers, sure, but utterly lacking the drive to attack the mainstream scene head-on.

The break wasn’t all bad, of course. I got married, and settled into a rewarding career… but something was missing. It took me years to come to this realization: For a writer without a tangible market, something will ALWAYS be missing!

So I started writing a little less so I could begin cracking the pavement looking for something I didn’t have, an author’s best friend: A publisher.

It’s too bad my rejection slips always came by email, because if they arrived in hard copy… Well, let’s just say I’d never have to worry about another toilet-paper shortage. But God rewards perseverance, and one day He finally blessed me with that magical message: ‘I’d be happy to offer you a contract!’

‘Course, God prefers to work through people. (I think He just likes involving us in what He’s doing.) That glorious email came from Richard Savage, the publisher of Black Velvet Seductions.

That was ANOTHER ‘happy dance’ day!

‘Desire Me Again’ will ship on October 1st, and my solo novel ‘When the White Knight Falls’ will likely arrive sometime this winter. (I’ll keep you posted on that one.)

So enjoy! God bless you all, and as always…

THANK y’all for reading! (Especially those of you who continued to read my obscure scribblings during those ‘missing years’; you have no idea how much all of you mean to me.)

Cheers! – Virginia

 

 

 

‘Garden of Eyes’, by Daniel Evans Jost

For the tender souls to whom this applies

Show courage in the leer of the garden of eyes

Their sight has been trained for millennia now

To see contempt for those who won’t bow

Their irises lost to eons of learning

From an entity who preys on the innocent and yearning

Their knowledge contains an unspeakable terror

That ingrains the notion that a husk is fairer

Those who dare tread through this swamp full of sludge

Are pierced by views that insidiously judge

And when the weak dry out from the heat of their gaze

They crumble into mulch providing food for the maze

There are those who have weathered their venomous stare

Whose lights are worn proudly devoid of care

To those lost in the vines heavily blinded

You must flip the switch to leave them all blinded

‘Eating Bugs and Drinking Lava,’ by Gerry Souter

This article was graciously loaned to virginiawallace.com by my friend and fellow author Gerry Souter. Gerry is a renowned photojournalist, with over fifty non-fiction books under his belt. He is also an author of fiction, having penned the pulse-pounding novel ‘A Thread of Sand’.  If you would like to follow Gerry’s work (or order his books), click on the links at the end of this post. As always, THANK y’all for reading!!!

Freelance photojournalism opens doors to many opportunities. I’d been at it for five years after spending two years documenting President Lyndon Johnson’s “Great Society” attempt at relieving poverty called the “Chicago Committee on Urban Opportunity.” My photo essays for that organization won me assignments for the Chicago Sun Time’s Midwest Magazine—stories that I photographed and wrote. My relationship with the magazine’s editor, Dick Takeuchi was cemented by his generous reveal of my blue-pencil-edited copy before it went to press—a crash course in feature writing. That friendship also bought me a trip to Africa.

SAS Airlines offered a free press junket to the Times for their inaugural Chicago-Copenhagen-Madrid-Tunis-Monrovia flight. Journalistic ethics forbade the Sun Times staff from accepting, but I, as a camera-typewriter-for-hire could accept the deal. Not having a passport was remedied by a frantic rush propelled by the Times though passport photos—my sweaty dash left my photo image looking like a captured Cuban gun runner—speedy form filling and a rush to the airport to have my camera equipment list sealed so what I took out of the U.S.A. I also brought back. Then came the injections for everything from dengue fever and malaria to a general-purpose cocktail, which would require booster shots in Copenhagen. In a week, I dropped into a comfy SAS business-class transcontinental airliner seat encapsulated in Swedish hospitality.

During those preceding days while I was converted from corn-fed local to international jet-setter, I had managed to piggy-back some paying assignments. For my client, Motorola, I would document their Liberian two-way-radio service center. For the Sun Times, my job was the story of a Chicago ex-patriot who owned a Copenhagen coffee shop. So far, the jet-setter life for this greenhorn was just swell.

I had also grabbed a handful of Dutch cigars from the airport hospitality suite. Later when I could light up in the aircraft’s smoking section, I reached into my inside jacket packet and withdrew a handful of… loose tobacco. Dutch cigars are incredibly dry. I smelled like a humidor for the rest of the flight.

Madrid slid past in a blur of airport gates. Two hours were spent in Tunis, sitting cross-legged outside an airport building in the blazing sun, noshing on mystery meat squashed between halves of challah bread. My lunch partners were three camels. One of them spit at me. Inshalla –Arabic for “In God’s hands”

Our plane finally touched down at Liberia’s Roberts Field late at night. Descending the steps to the tarmac was like being wrapped in a hot, wet towel. By the time I passed down a familial row of passport and entry form stampers, I was drenched in sweat and now smelled like I had slept with one those camels. The mayor of Monrovia—Liberia’s capitol city—was waiting for me. This large lady beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat barged me past the baggage examiners who were gleefully vandalizing the possessions of my equally tragic fellow travelers. I spent the next half-hour wedged into the back seat of a smallish French Peugeot taxi as my host extolled the virtues of her city. As I didn’t have the expense account for the only America-style hotel, I was dropped off at a “First Class Liberian Hotel.”

The rest of my first night in Monrovia was spent in a dark saloon knocking back bottles of Monrovia Club beer while two patrons—a Pakistani and a Jew—tried to beat the crap out of each other. I finished my third beer, paid the tab and left as two Monrovian policemen entered, holding what looked like cattle prods. After a stroll down a street where I was most likely the only white face for miles and the few acid-blue fluorescent lights made for deep, dark shadows, I cut short my curiosity and returned to my room. A half-hour was spent crushing cockroaches in the shower with my dog-eared Playboy Magazine. Another twenty minutes passed waiting for the shower water to turn from rusty brown to relatively clear. By then, I could have slept on a plank of nails so the mattress was no surprise.

Morning found me in telephone booth calling up my ace in the Monrovian hole. While studying at the School of the Chicago Art Institute, I made the acquaintance of Vanja Richards, a sculptor in my class. He had gone back to his native Monrovia and was now regarded as the National Sculptor of Liberia. This exalted title was aided by his wife being connected to the government of the newly elected president, William Tolbert. I’d sprung for a long-distance call to Vanja before I left Chicago, so he was ready for me.

Vanja lived in a charming bungalow in the outskirts of Monrovia and had delegated a leather couch on his screened porch as my crash pad. I mean pad in every sense of the word. His and his wife’s hospitality made me feel at home and meals of mashed cassava root (“fu-fu”) and rice mixed with meat or fish and chopped peppers washed down with cool-ish Club beer were excellent if a tiny bit churlish with my internal organs.

Over dinner, he asked me if I could shoot some photos of an artist friend’s fashion designs so she could build a portfolio. I thought they might make another story for the Sun Times and agreed. Vanja had found some beautiful locations including inside the Executive Mansion (equivalent to our White House).

Roberta Gray was beautiful and modeled her own striking designs: dashikis and elaborately embroidered gowns and pants-suits. The shoot and interview went well and Vanja finished the day with a visit to his open-air studio and atelier where he carved and assembled his sculpture. Many of the pieces were displayed in the Executive Mansion.

A family get-together was scheduled for the Easter week-end deep in the heavily forested wetlands far from the city. I was invited and accepted. After a long drive and at the end of a dirt road, the forest opened out into a cleared area down to a wide river bank and dotted with white, cement block houses and dominated by a white Methodist church. Everyone met our car, all dressed in western go-to-meeting suits and dresses. They made a fuss and hustled us off to the church for Easter services. The day was hot, the church was sweltering as the hymns rose to the rafters in English and Mandé.

After an hour of singing, chanting, praying and general Christian merriment, everyone hustled out and headed for one house where a dinner had been laid on. For another hour, we ate copious quantities of fu-fu, pork, duck, vegetables, hot peppers and rice all washed down with home-made ginger beer. By the end of the meal, I was almost faint from sweating away my salt and the Jesus-fueled energy around that table.

At the end of dinner, everyone made for the exits as if someone had hollered “Fire!”

In a half-hour, the suits, dresses and big sun hats had been shed for dashikis and shorts. The kids stripped to bathing suits and stampeded toward the river bank. I collapsed into one of a circle of lawn chairs around a growing bonfire as the sun disappeared into the tangle of trees. Vanja sat beside me stripped to the waist in khaki shorts.

His handsome dark face set off with a short beard grinned and he asked, “So, how do you like my Africa?”

I was afraid to speak for fear of burping and farting at the same time and setting fire to my clothes. I nodded with a contented smile. He nudged my elbow holding a glass of clear liquid.

“We call it ‘roots.’ It’s made from vodka with roots and herbs added to the bottle and buried in the ground for at least a month.”

I took the glass and he clinked his glass with mine and downed the shot in a gulp. I followed suit. All worries about inflammable farts disappeared, replaced by fear of ignition and blast-off as that lava made its way toward my abused organs. The heat that traveled up my white neck and suffused my white face must have alarmed him. A boy was passing around a basket and Vanja grabbed a handful of brown Cheetos and pushed a few into my unresisting cupped palms. They tasted salty and crunchy like Wheat Thins and I could almost feel the roiled turbidity of my digestive system… calming.

“Want to see where we get them?” he asked, tugging at my sleeve.

Down by the river, the boys were plucking cattails from the tall grass and hurling them like spears as the girls dodged and giggled. The bonfire crackled and the circle of brown faces basked in its glow, radiating community contentment. I followed Vanja to the deeply shadowed hedges behind the circle of gossip, chuckles and weighty conversations. He used a stick to dig into the black earth beneath a hedge. Three-inch long white grubs tumbled out. Another boy standing behind us reached down and scooped up the wiggling pupae into a basket. Satisfied, he ran over to the fire and dumped his bugs into the flames. Each one puffed up. He dug them out of the heat and before they could burn plucked them into his basket.

“Com’on,” Vanja said, “let’s get ‘em while they’re hot!”

As I said at the beginning of this story, “Freelance photojournalism opens doors to many opportunities.” That night, in a West African forest, I had the opportunity to drink lava and eat bugs at the side of an old school friend and be a part of a community who had taken me in. Sip. Crunch.

Epilogue…

On April 13, 1980, President William Richard Tolbert Jr. was attacked and captured by a military coup d’état led by Sargent Samuel Doe. Tolbert was tortured and murdered. Following the coup, Doe ordered Tolbert’s political allies and Liberians sympathetic to his regime arrested, stripped nude and marched through the city. My friend, Vanja Richards was among those seized. He was tied to one of many wooden posts driven into the beach sand just behind the Executive Mansion and executed by rifle fire from drunken soldiers in front of a jeering, cheering crowd for “political reasons.” I don’t know what became of his sculpture.

To follow Gerry’s impressive career in non-fiction literature, click here: http://www.avril1.com/?fbclid=IwAR2YgQpJZakTWnb58HyIPlQ6wOxlXXYPCIw0oy3ODHbxKkLeeWD5PNFmsJ8

To order Gerry’s breath-taking fiction novel, click here: https://www.amazon.com/Thread-Sand-Embracing-Love-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B07TTN5QYD/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=a+thread+of+sand&qid=1598204226&sr=8-4

 

‘Mystic Desire’: A Review

I signed on with Black Velvet Seductions (a romance publishing company) a couple of months back…

 Of course, the first thing you do when you land a gig with a new publisher is get to know your co-workers. (Seriously, I wasn’t born yesterday. That’s just common sense. If our publisher sinks, we all go down. If we all work to promote our publisher, we all win!)

So I picked up a copy of ‘Mystic Desire’, an anthology of supernatural tales that features most of BVS’ authors.

Whoa…!

Just… wow

Okay, some of these stories REALLY made me blush. But the diversity of subject matter/writing styles makes this book an EPIC collection!!!

So here, my dear readers, is my story-by-story review of ‘Mystic Desire’…

The Sweetest Magic of All by Alice Renaud – Witches are the backbone of many supernatural tales; everyone knows this. So to tackle such tried-and-true subject matter leaves one at risk of seeming trite… but Alice Renaud is anything but trite! Her heroine Sapphire is a genuinely sweet, vulnerable character, and her saga is truly one to savor.

Bewitching the Wolf by Zia Westfield – Like witches, werewolves are also the stock of supernatural fiction. If you’re gonna tackle the werewolf myth, you’d better know what you’re doing. Zia Westfield knows exactly what she’s doing! (I especially enjoyed her character Oggie, the drunken leprechaun. Very often, it’s the supporting cast that makes the story.)

An Awareness of Evil by Dee S. Knight – Psychics. A modern addition to supernatural archetypes, and a powerful one. This story would make a great ‘true crime’ TV special! Its twist ending is straight-up Alfred Hitchcock.

Love that Binds by Carol Schoenig – Sometimes it’s the unanswered questions that are the most intriguing. Is Ianthee a witch? Is she not? Honestly, do we really need to answer that question? The over-arching air of un-explained mystery really makes this one stand out.

Dream Catcher by Callie Carmen – This tale shines by virtue of its very unique subject matter: The Native American ‘dream catcher’ myth. Normally when you think ‘supernatural fiction’, you think werewolves, vampires, etc… but Callie took a completely different tack on the genre, and she nailed it. What really makes Callie’s tale stand out – even more so than her subject matter – is her writing style. Supernatural stories usually do – and should – have an ethereal, dream-like feel about them; they come across as kind of off-kilter. ‘Dream Catcher’, on the other hand, feels very, very real… like this is a story that might actually have happened.  

Life Saving by Anne Krist – I have to admit, this story was my favorite. Not because Anne is any more – or less – talented than the other BVS writers, but because her story was reminiscent of another writer whose work I have always held near and dear. Her tale is straight outta Ray Bradbury’s playbook! (And anyone who knows me knows that’s high praise!)

Unconditional Lust by Breanna Hayse – This one vividly captures the tension of sailing the high seas, and the fear of being pulled into the depths by unseen monsters. Except these monsters have an agenda, and they’re here to tell you that there are worse fates to suffer than death…

The Mortal Vampire by Suzanne Smith – What can I say? Real vampires are not supposed to ‘sparkle’! Suzanne’s vampire doesn’t sparkle; he’s terrifying, and intense. Suzanne’s writing is right up there with Anne Rice and Bram Stoker’s, in my book.

Love from the Mist by Patricia Elliot – Water Sprites? Who thinks of a water sprite when asked to write a supernatural tale? Patricia did, apparently, and thus her contribution is truly unique. Her tale begins with a pulse-pounding action scene, and ends on a sweet note. It’s a breath-taking narrative, one that earns ‘bonus points’ by virtue of its sheer originality.

Love’s Ghost by R.M. Olivia – The sad, mournful characters really brought this story to life; it has echoes of Edgar Allan Poe all over it. (And I don’t compare writers to Poe lightly; you gotta earn that praise from me!)

Love Knows No Apocalypse by Patricia Elliott – George Romero, eat your heart out! This one’s an imaginative, character-driven story set in a familiar dystopian setting. It’s challenging to bring your leading lady to life when her supporting cast consists of brain-munching zombies, but Patricia figured out how. She’s quite an original voice on the modern writing scene!

Calling All Angels by Lora Logan – A tale of celestial beings set in a deceptively picturesque setting… and therein lies the story’s brilliance; it’s the odd juxtaposition of characters and scenery that makes the story shine. (‘Calling All Angels’ reminded me of the years during which I lived in New York’s Adirondack Mountains.)

The Anniversary by Richard Savage – Certainly the most edgy tale in the entire collection. It made me uncomfortable, and yet totally captured my interest! Richard delves deep into the admittedly-skewed psychology of his characters, and succeeds in telling a very, very unnerving story! I really liked that he didn’t reveal what was really going on until the very, very end; that lingering plot-tease kept me on the edge of my seat.

Through the Veil by Jan Selbourne – Is this a ghost story? Historical fiction? Hell, do we really need to answer those questions? Sometimes using deliberate ambiguity is the best way to tell a story. One doesn’t always need to have one’s curiosity satisfied; sometimes, ya just gotta meet the story on its own terms!

And that’s my review. S’all I have to say. But I will end my review with this comment: Many of the world’s publishing companies have guidelines that are so strict that they leave no room for individual creativity; their books are so market-driven that they’re… sterile.

Stifling, market-driven guidelines suppress individual creativity, and inevitably make for forgettable fiction.

Black Velvet Seductions…? Here are their guidelines: Gotta be a love story. Gotta have a happy ending. No perverts, please, and other’n that…

TELL US AN AWESOME STORY!!!

Those broad guidelines are, in my opinion, why Black Velvet Seductions produces excellent literature. I am grateful beyond words to have been invited into their circle. Thank all of you wonderful writers for taking me on board; I am honored to work alongside such fine storytellers.

Here’s to a bright future for us all!

To order ‘Mystic Desire’, use this link for Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Mystic-Desire-Breanna-Hayse-ebook/dp/B07WPQX7HQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=mystic+desire&qid=1598052789&sr=8-1

Or this one for Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mystic-desire-alice-renaud/1133817315?ean=9781912768578

‘Hindsight’, by Daniel Evans Jost

So content was I in UV showers

On a desert ripe from salt

Neon smiles and shrouds of fertility

Then it all froze to a halt

I saw hail from clouds eons away

Yet drunk was I from sin galore

So drunk I was deaf to his supreme edict

Till He was crunching down my door

First came denial, then came dread

Knowledge was the first to go

Then kindness, then empathy and finally logic

Oh wait, they were already on Skid Row

He gave me safe passage to El Dorado

For not so hefty a price

Seven euphorias now shape reality

But everything else is a vice

Before the numbers were used for counting

And the air made fresh by trees

Now reality is run by cyberspace

And the outside made of fantasies

Looking back I remember that wish

To pause and think with sight so clear

And so He indulged my ignorance

Now all I see… vivid fear

‘One Step Beyond’, by Daniel Evans Jost

I dreamt I laid in fields of ash

My centerpiece had burnt and gone

Yet no slumber could ever predict

The day I woke one step beyond

I dreamt of floating in a body of tears

Though small, one can drown in the pond

Then I felt air pockets tickle my gills

The perks of waking one step beyond

A group of nightcrawlers launched an attack

My serotonin they aimed to abscond

They crumbled to dust when the stars exploded

Nirvana had called one step beyond

My instincts chained down by fleeting fear

Locked by distortion of right or wrong

A chorus erupted and the binds vanished

The song notes paved one step beyond

Sound came from an ethereal body

Who’s vibrations outshone the sun

Now our souls interlock indefinitely

All I gave was one step beyond

I once was paralyzed by thought Like twin suns crashing into a fawn

Now I bring the color in spectrums

Because I dared one step beyond

Livin’ La Vida Writer…

The dictionary defines the word ‘writer’ thus: ‘a person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc., especially as an occupation or profession; an author or journalist.’ That’s great, except that such a definition fails to capture the reality behind the noun, which is this: Writers are a breed apart…

Our own specie, if you will.

I began writing as a teenager; the genesis of my ‘writer’ days over-lapped the peak of my ‘artist’ days. (I made decent money in my teens by painting portraits, and making drawings for local advertising companies.) By the time I hit my twenties, I was completely hooked on the written word; my small-press debut novel was released in 2004, when I was twenty-six.

That novel did well enough to merit a follow-up release in 2005, and another in 2006.

It was around 2005 that I first began to falter. I was working as a kitchen designer, a job that requires insanely long hours and causes a fair amount of stress. I was also stuck on a chemical hamster-wheel: Alcohol to ‘come down’ in the evenings so that I could write, and coffee to perk back up the next day… followed by more alcohol, and then even more coffee… Sleep? Nah, I didn’t have time for that!

I survived my exhausting lifestyle only because I was young. If I tried that mess now, I’d end up with a heart attack. Or maybe in rehab. Or perhaps both. In any case, it would be sixteen years before I returned to the literary scene, driven more by compulsion than choice. See, the truth is this…

Writers ain’t happy unless they’re writing! Period.

It’s a balancing act. Being a writer is a lifestyle, and thus requires major life alterations in order to ideally suit the writer’s needs. So, my dear reader, I would like to share some tips that I’ve learned over the last twenty-plus years. Just a few thoughts on how to maintain a sustainable existence as an author without crashing and burning…

Tip #1: Choose your day job carefully.

The brutal reality is that most writers will not make a living with their writing. We’d all like to think that we’ll become J.K. Rowling someday, but there are simply too many of us for the reading public to make rich. Seriously, you can only expect readers to ‘pony up’ but so much, you know?

A good day job for a writer is this: A job that stays as close to forty hours a week as possible, pays reasonably well (to avoid the necessity of a second job), and above all else does not cause excessive stress! Some occupations require being on the phone even during ‘off hours’, or working odd/excessive hours. This is bad. Even if one has to spend a few years training (or studying) to acquire the ideal job, it’s worth the effort. (Notice that there are very few ER nurses or restaurant managers that moonlight as writers…)

Once the right occupation has been procured, the job will also serve as a welcome counter-balance. Writing is exhilarating, but it can also be mentally exhausting (especially when it’s combined with editing and marketing). I love my day job for that reason; it lets me re-charge my creative batteries by focusing on something else that I really enjoy doing.

Tip #2: Choose your spouse carefully.

Some people are already married when they decide to try their hand at writing. If that’s the case, you just gotta work with whatcha got. (I’m old-fashioned in my thinking when it comes to marriage: A deal’s a deal. You give your word, you keep it. If you said ‘I do’, then… well, do!)

I suspect that’s not most of us, though. Writing is like smoking, or drinking; most of us started pretty young.

A writer’s spouse should be about as easy-going as it’s possible for a person to be; a needy ‘prima donna’ is the last thing a writer needs! Mind you, there’s no excuse for completely ignoring one’s mate… but the reality is that writers are simply not as available as most people. An ideal spouse should be relaxed, fairly self-contained, and have a decent circle of friends to provide company when his/her partner is glued to the laptop.

Tip #3: Network with other writers.

I have two pet sugar gliders. Without each others’ company, they will become upset, depressed, and neurotic. Writers ain’t so different. We’re nutty enough without adding unnecessary isolation to the mix!

‘Nuff said…

Tip #4: Mind your chemicals.

Writing and booze go together like peanut butter and jelly, but that can get you into trouble. Getting sloppy won’t improve your work at all. It’ll also cause friction with other writers, and annoy your spouse. Worse, being constantly hung over will jeopardize your day job… you know, the one that feeds you while you bang away at the keyboard.

Over-drinking is an easy trap to fall into, because most writers – published or unpublished – are so adept at their craft that they can still type and compose stories even while completely shit-hammered. I call it ‘The Hemingway Syndrome’… but remember, Andy Rooney was still talking trash about Obnoxious Ernest well into the 1990’s. Nobody wants to be remembered like that.

If you can’t bring yourself to quit drinking, at least keep it down to a dull roar. Light beer has hardly any alcohol at all, and so do many fruity wines. Sipping on those instead of chugging hard liquor is definitely a good idea! Take it from someone who learned the hard way.

Tip #5: Mind your marketing.

It’s tempting to put all of one’s focus into writing, to the detriment of making sure that people have the opportunity to actually read what you’re writing. A story unread is just a stack of paper, or a random digital file.

Even if it means having less new material, marketing is worth the effort. It’s better to have five books out there that people actually read, than fifteen that are nothing more than Amazon listings.

Tip#6: Take time off.

This one I struggle with, because I’m a workaholic. I try to spend one afternoon a week with friends, and Sundays are reserved for the twin bedrocks of any stable life: God and family. There’s no point in being brilliant if it causes one to completely tank. ‘It’s better to burn out than fade away’ may sound romantic, but it’s also the reason that there will never be another Nirvana album.

Pace yourself!

Tip #7: LISTEN!!!

This is the most important point of all. Listen when your spouse complains, rather than waiting to be served divorce papers. Listen to your beta readers, rather than waiting to discover the same criticisms inserted into damning Amazon reviews. Listen to the advice of marketing personnel, rather than spinning your wheels generating no interest at all. Listen to your body, when it tells you you’ve had enough to drink.

So there… that’s all I got. If I happen to stumble across any more wisdom (or, which is more likely, borrow some from somebody else), I’ll pass it along. Cheers!