I've Signed on With Ellechor!

I've landed a deal with Ellechor, a Christian Publishing House, for the three kings' books, and two more books as yet to be titled... I'm thinking of "Echoes of the Nativity" or something like that for the theme. One does not have to read all books in order, but they do relate to one another.

It is a very exciting time!

The Spaces Between

Things come around full circle it seems! My publisher tried out a few cover concepts, which I absolutely loved, but we're back to the original, as it were. I think I like this one better:

Nasty old Ar'Zoth there in his tower, possibly eating chestnuts; patiently waiting to kill anyone who stops by for a visit. Or maybe that is someone else? One of the travelers perhaps?


--> Thanks to all the readers who have given great reviews. I appreciate it. Although I wish someone would mention the dirty little twist...

Glib-Glub Glibbitty Glub

Glib-glub, glibitty glub,

There is a man in my tub;

Sexy hot smoking little roly-poly bub:

Hair on his back. He’s got a mix-tape to dub.

Glib-glub, gluttony gub,

Rivers of cheez-whiz poured over snails;

Suds soak through and soil their tails:

                        Little Roly-Poly sucks the juice and hits Record.

Glib-glub, glistening tub,

            Upon the floor is a little shrub;

We eat the berries, though they shimmer:

                        Poison scars my throat; Meat Loaf croons.

Glig-glub, glibitty glub,

            A hot man in my tiny tub;

A bloated, stinking, slimy sub:

                        Not the prostitute that I had ordered.

[ I told you I was crazy ]

The Great Gatsby

So the follow up to "Voltaire's Adventures Before Candide" is a tale from the Great Gatsby; a riff on the piano player Klipspringer and his alcoholism, shoes, and gardening.

Rooster Republic Press is working on the editing and cover design, and we are getting there... though it would have been cool to have done by the time the movie came out, the book is still timeless and I don't feel bad. Here is an excerpt:

When you are eating, throw an Offal to the Dogs that are under the Table, lest they should be tempted to bite you.

Voltaire, Zadig, or “The Book of Fate”

Their kisses were frenzied, hot, and wet. His perfect curls were now loose, her bodice torn asunder by his frail philosopher’s hands, presently fondling her smooth, pale flesh. Emilie’s breathing was heavy, labored, while he merely groaned in pleasure, his lids nearly closed. Sunlight streamed into their bedchamber, catching dust motes in their perfect bars before alighting on the array of clothing scattered across the floor. The dawn’s bright light was reflected in the keen edge of the heavy-handled cleaver, resting quietly in the corner.

A soft knock at the door nearly stopped his heart, a knock most genteel and familiar. She whispered something in his ear as he continued his tender caress, slim fingers on the verge of parting her wet and waiting—

The knock repeated itself. Softer, yet more demanding and assertive this same time.

“My dear...” she purred.

“Ahh...” he sighed, her hands clasped around his rising—

The door began to buckle under a barrage of incessant knocks.

iWonder

iWonder

Martin Gibbs

His iPhone, clutched in a sweaty palm, hums;

Send photos, posts, updates, texts, text, texts—

meaningless bytes spewed into the ether,

helped along by a rusting cell tower.

An iPod dangles from its bleached-white cord

stuffed in the back pocket of his faded Gap jeans;

next to the Blistex and pack of gum.

The petite box blares a useless top 40 hit.

Inside his designer backpack, the iPad churns,

Beeps, chirps, peeps, and tweets.

A Fortune 500 executive beats him at Fruit Ninja;

he sends more texts.

A chimpanzee in man’s clothes; devolution.

iPhone, iPad, iPod, iTV, iCantdealwithreality...

neck permanently hunched; bowed as if he were 100.

He sends more texts.

Text, text, text, text; brainwaves are zero.

Faster, faster—doesn’t wait for a reply...

The iBeam falls from the nearby tower;

death is swift, heavy, and loud.

... His only reply.

Why Proust?

“Are you just reading that to be snotty?”

I looked up from the book, current Within a Budding Grove. Contrary to what you might think, the voice was not from a family member, but it came from inside my head. (Yes, there are many of them, but let’s just tackle one thing at a time.)

The voice had a point, and a very valid one. Why would someone choose to read the 3,000 pages of In Search of Lost Time, outside of a college course? What would the purpose be, if only to show to friends and family how special and manly they are by reading this monstrous work? Manly may not be the right word, actually.

Well...

There are many reasons for reading À la recherche du temps perdu, and it does not involve trying to be snotty. Or manly. Last night I hit a part in the book where I discovered a little seedling Proust had planted long ago; that seedling burst into life and smacked me across the face. I know there are many more, since I’m only on Volume 2 of 7. But this scene gave me pause, and now I can reflect on why I am reading this thing.

It began about fifteen years ago, while I was browsing the literature section of our local Borders bookstore. The building is now home to Books-A-Million, and the storefront is deceiving—there are too many bare shelves now. It makes one cry. Anyway...

I had heard of Proust through Monty Python and their “Summarize Proust Competition,” and, after seeing this sketch, I did a minimal amount of research. Knowing only that the 3,000 page epic was considered one of the best pieces of literature of all time, I sought it out in the bookstore. The first thing I noticed when I opened up Swann’s Way?

The book smelled good. It was clean and crisp, and it felt like it had just come off the press. (This was the Vintage Press edition.)

Yes, I’m a book-sniffer. I also read in the bathroom.

Moving on.

I read the first page: “For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say ‘I’m going to sleep,’” and I was struck immediately by this line. Here was the beginning to a very long, drawn-out memory of time gone by. But there was the hint of recapture in there, also, the overpowering feeling that the author was trying to go back in time, freeze it, put it in a bottle, if only for a moment. This I could understand; if I let my mind wander back over the good times and the bad times, I felt a tugging at my heart, the brewing of a hope that I could also regain what was lost. But one can’t regain time. And so, as I read the book, sniffed it a few times, and read a few more pages, I could feel Proust calling to me: “Read this. But not now.”

Though I could understand the concept, the idea, the power of the opus, I was not mature enough for it. I still needed to cut my teeth on other literature. But yet, every week I would visit Border’s, seek out Proust, sniff, read, and put him away gently.

... And here we are, fifteen years later, 920 pages in, and fully addicted. Am I reading this to be snotty? No.

I’m reading this because I have tried to recapture the past, the lost memories, the emotions; smells that drift across my nostrils carry me at once to another time and place, and a thousand swirling memories rush through my head. The taste of a perfect steak carries me back to a road trip on Route 66, the smell of fat fryers in an alley to Germany, and the sound of a mourning dove to my childhood: A boy asking his dad why the bird is crying..... As with Proust, these memories are not linear. To and fro; forward and backward, time slips and dives.

There is also something to be said about the man who wrote all of this. In today’s world of 140-character conversation, there is no way a work of this length could be accepted by modern readers. Which is a shame, since we really can’t appreciate how taxing it was to write this novel.

Why Proust?

Why not. It can change your life, and if you are able to see yourself within these pages, it will change your life. And not in a snotty way.

Who Wants to Read "The Untying" for Free?

I'm about ready to pull the trigger and release the last book in the Drunkard's Journey.

However, I still don't think that it is as clean as it can be. I know, I know, take a look at The Spaces Between. Boy, does that first installment need some work! I've learned so much through this process of writing, and have had the help of so many folks along the way.

So... who would like to have a free copy of this to give it one last go-through? All I'd ask is that you provide feedback on the story, point out any errors, or tell me to just quit now and never write again.

Send an e-mail to glyndwr99 (at) gmail (dot) com... if you are interested.

Description:

"We shall cease our fight with the Dark when the very underworld lies frozen."

The final chapter of A Drunkard's Journey races to its conclusion. Zhy, Fanlas, Wrenflang, and a host of strangely-named characters speed westward. Their goal: To find and blow up the very viaduct to the demonic underworld. But can it be destroyed?

Meanwhile, Bimb finds himself dead-but-not-quite-dead. Since it helps the plot, he can't be gone forever. Plus, he still has a hell of a big mess to clean up, since he started all of this. Dead, but able to control certain forces of nature, Ar'Zoth's usurper can either make things right or destroy the world himself.

A few Beldeners have decided to strike out at the demons. Some will have success, but others will die horribly.

The Untying is a fast, action-packed conclusion to the trilogy. Questions are answered, knots are sewn up, and men become heroes. Except... in bringing about the conclusion, there is one knot that needs to be untied.