Book Review: Repulsive by Brian W. Foster

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Last night, I finished reading Repulsive by Brian W. Foster. I regulated my reading of this book to the evenings before bed and this superhero tale kept me up more than a few nights of eager entertainment. I love the robe, and the fact that you can’t see the hero’s face due to his power, which causes some to be physically ill. I actually fell in line with the troubles and intrapersonal turmoil of the characters. I wanted to help them, I was engaged.

Description:

Zack Zurick loves superheroes. Lives them. Knows everything about them. And hey, he is a classic underdog and has an alliterative name, so maybe he could one day be chosen to join their ranks.

His life drastically changes when he becomes Repulsor. He’d hoped the fame and money would make Hayli see him as more than a friend. Instead, she can’t even look at him without literally getting sick. And the whole saving-the-world thing turns out to be harder than he thought, too. The villains have teamed up, and the heroes have a traitor in their midst. Zack must figure out who’s betraying them, defeat the bad guys, and, oh yeah, not get killed.

Right. Why not just go ahead and win the girl while he’s at it?

Maybe he could. If she weren’t dating the most popular, most famous, and most handsome superhero of them all. And if only he weren’t … Repulsive.  

Ok, so the description is less than stellar but I am not familiar with marketing in this genre so I do not know the expectations of presentation. I peered into this book anyway and was hooked.

The origin story of this character was great, and I was impressed with Foster’s detail when describing the hero’s superpowers. The personality is kind of like Peter Parker in high school but we don’t stay in that environment long. Zach’s powers are unique and Foster offers enough believable explanation for the reader to understand as far as the physics go. For all I know, the writer knows what he is talking about.

The fight scenes in this book were awesome. Not too much, not too little, and the timeframe between action verses drama was balanced. I had a feeling that the author was the dungeon master, and the way he allowed the action scenes to take place was almost turn based.

I did like the ending, but I didn’t like the Epilogue. I could use 3 whole books with Repulsor finding his way instead of introducing the new (and then again, not new) character but I do understand why the author made HIS decision and where he could be going with the opposite archetype.

Digital Layout: Perfect. read it on Samsung phone, Kindle Fire and Desktop.

Cover: Cool

Editing: Great

Writing: Smooth and easy. The author’s go to words bothered me by the end, the ever present “crap” and “freaking” and I could use better character names besides “Bob” and “Amber” but oh well.

This would be good among late-teens and anyone who likes visual, movie like descriptions and action, a staple in the genre. I identified with the main character and his silly jokes.

I do recommend that anyone reading this checks out the short prequel Repulsive Origins – The Captain: A Short Story either before or after. In my case, after. This gave a lot more info on how the superheroes are made.

I would like to see Repulsor and would, more importantly, buy more Repulsor books if I could watch him turn from squeamish boy hero to seasoned pro. We caught a glimpse of this character growth with every battle and I want to see him as a man.

I will also be willing to read more by Brian W. Foster and more from this genre as it is intriguing.

4 Stars

Brian’s contact info:

On the internet at http://www.authorbrianwfoster.com

On Facebook http://www.facebook.com/authorbrianwfoster

 

 

 

 

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I am a Survivor-Revised Edition

Here is another sneak peak at the revised edition of the short story I am a Survivor. This will be in my next book Worked Stiff: Short Stories to Tell Your Boss. This will be out before May. Critiques and comments are warranted and welcome.

 

I am a Survivor

 

I am a survivor. No, I don’t have bumper stickers and I don’t go on the walks. I absolutely hate the color pink. I’m just not that kind of survivor. Marjorie tried to get me to go on some kind of fundraising march to nowhere one weekend, only a short time after my hair started to grow back from the radiation treatments. Sure, I registered for the walk, I paid the fee, and I even received a packet in the mail with a t-shirt. But that crisp Saturday morning when Marjorie first texted that she was on her way to scoop me up, I tried for my good friend, but I just could not make myself go. Of course, that meant that she couldn’t go either, at least she felt that way because she never had breast cancer. She tried to convince me over the phone, caressing my wits, telling me that I deserved the recognition, that there might be more people like me. More people like me, I loathed the thought.

The truth was, I didn’t want to meet anyone else like me. I wanted to forget any of it ever happened. I didn’t want to go back to work until I could at least manage avoidance of my husband Bill, and most days I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I was in the bathroom one morning, Billy in the shower with the heat pouring out, covering the glass with his wretched steam. I feverishly tied the bathroom door shut with my bathrobe belt and managed to undress in front of the full-length on the backside of the door. I did not feel empowered by my survival as I looked at what was left of my body that morning, or any morning. Marjorie didn’t understand.

The problem with people around you when you’re sick is that they pretend to comprehend your level of suffering. The truth is that I never wanted anyone to care. All I ever wanted was someone to talk to me like I was normal. It made me wish that I never told anybody after I left the doctor’s office that first day.

That first day when they told me that I had a sixty percent chance of survival and that they would have to do more tests.

I thought later that maybe they didn’t tell me the sixty percent part but that’s what I heard. They told me that I had a malignant tumor the size of a key in my left breast and it was a very, very good thing that they found it then, at that exact moment. I was apparently lucky. I do not consider myself lucky and the truth, the truth that I could never tell Marjorie, was that I would rather have not known.

From the first day in the office, after my general practitioner felt a lump, I felt like I was a victim of one of those snipers in the movies on the big screen. A confirmed kill, that’s what I was. From that day, throughout the chemo, before and after the simple mastectomy, onto recovery, I truly wanted to be a survivor. I did make friends with some of the ladies there who were also getting the drip. I joined support groups before my hair started growing back, but little by little, I secretly wanted nothing to do with any of it.

Marjorie wouldn’t hear any of this sad talk, but I figured that she knew anyway. God bless her heart, she tried to do so much for me and she really cared about being there in a spiritual sense, support for my backbone. But the truth was that I had no backbone, not anymore.

Yes, I appreciated her rides when I was too weak to drive myself. I appreciated her talking to the nurses and doctors when I began to not care. She thought that I was too fragile when that simply wasn’t the case, not physically anyway. I just grew so tired of talking about me. How do I feel? How was I getting along? How is my digestion? Did I wake up in the middle of the night? How was my sex life?

Oh that, well, sex ended long before my first horrifying appointment. My sleaze ball lawyer for a husband and his 22-year-old paralegal made sure of that before they gave one of my love cups the old snip snip.

Sure, Bill was real nice when we were just coming up or should I say William S. Montgomery Esq. as he was known to his even more sleazy clients. Did I marry an injury attorney? No, of course not. I married the man that I met first, how stupid. Worse than that, I lost my virginity to him. Both my parents are dead and gone now so I am free to call them what they were, stupid zealot Catholics.

Growing up, I was what most people thought the opposite of the Catholic school girl, I actually was good. I truly believed that I was to go to hell if I did not behave. I also believed in that ridiculous princess story about saving myself for the right man. What all that religious fervor didn’t prepare me for was just what the right man looked like, acted like, how he was to speak to me. I thought when I was a freshman in college that he looked, acted and spoke like Billy. Oh Billy, with that swaying brown hair that he combed only to meet me, with that worthy smile that you could just pin down and capture.  Put that in a box and just look at it. He sure was charming alright, but William S. Montgomery was not doing any charming now, not to me anyway.

Bill was the first one that I told in a fire of foolishness. I rushed right on home, calling him all the way. He didn’t answer and I still have no idea why I expected him to pick up the phone. Sitting there, giving the urgent message to call me through my car’s Bluetooth, listening to his tacky, official voicemail greeting. That was when I knew I was alone. He could say he was in a meeting, with a client, or in court. Sure, he could say that, and did all the time. While that may have been true, I knew that at least half the time he ever gave me that line, he was porking Sandy, that little blonde heartache of a paralegal that sat out front, the gatekeeper for Billy’s office. She probably stopped wearing underwear to work after the first week, if ever at all.

I imagined him trying out his paralegals during the interview process. I could see Billy fondling them for youth, caressing their breasts, their breasts without tumors, their perky B-cups. No, perhaps he remained totally professional, an air of innocence until one late night of working and trial victory all fell into place. That’s what Billy was, a right-place, right-time man with the plausible deniability to boot.

I found out for the first time when I pinged his phone, called it too and she answered, got him to take the call and then he lumbered along, telling me some kind of excuse with a totally different location marked on the digital map. One must love modern technology and a shared phone plan.

Bill had been sleeping with Sandy, if not a few others, at least six months before that first diagnosis. He was cold to me long before, and my expectations weren’t any different after I told him I had breast cancer. No, I would’ve probably hated him even more if he promised to stop screwing Sandy and actually fell through with it. I didn’t even let him try. He told me in his lawyer tone that everything was going to be alright and that he was truly sorry and just when he started to say that he was going to stop seeing Sandy, empty promises of this and that, I held out my hand and told him to shush.

Bill thought I was looking for sympathy, just like the rest. How foolish. What I was ultimately trying to say, or rather, inform him was that I would be out for a while. Out of work, out of the house, out of life and that he would have to adjust accordingly. He replied by saying whatever you need and even tried to hug me, how sweet and what a sap.

All those people were saps. The only ones I really felt comfortable around were the nurses, especially the older, hardened ones. They had seen it all before and I wasn’t going to render any sympathy from them. For that, I was appreciative. All I ever got from those nurses had been tough love and medicine. That was all I ever needed.

I truly just wanted to give up. Just like other times in my life, finishing college, getting married, having a kid, I was just going through the motions of what was acceptable within modern society. Acceptable was getting senile. Acceptable was feeling like I wanted to die. Acceptable was losing my hair and better yet, losing one of my tits.

What I really wanted to do, after that first appointment, before ever telling anybody else about my problem, was go home, clean out all of our bank accounts and safety deposit boxes, set the house on fire and just disappear. I would take my seldom used passport and find some spot on the map where there was both sand and legal weed for someone in my condition. This was my right. It was my life, it was my tumor.

Why couldn’t I just take my tumor, left breast intact and sail off into the sunset? What the hell was wrong with that? How come the doctors and nurses didn’t give that as an option? Why wasn’t there a financial advisor after the appointment, hell along with the divorce attorney too? We could sit down and discuss my real options. Where was that box to check? Where was the form for my bucket list? Was I too young? Was forty-five too young to just step out, exit stage left?

At least I had Marjorie. I really appreciated her help but didn’t show it. She did more talking about me to other people I think than talking to me, something I hated but never told her. I knew that she meant well though. Marjorie and I talked about the affair and she was quick to give me advice on the state of my marriage. She had already been through a divorce and I was there for her, so she felt like she owed me or something. I was always interested in being there for other people in times of fright or injustice or a gun barrel or cheating. But if any of these things ever happened to me, I wanted to be like a good loyal dog, trot into the forest and be alone.

Marjorie had quite the run with her ex-husband too and I figured in the man department, neither one of us were meant for excellence. Her doctor husband had been cheating on her with an older woman, the thought of that, an older woman, can you imagine? His mistress was ten years older than Marjorie and a goddamn patient too. After the divorce and after Marjorie got nearly everything on account of one of my husband’s lawyer friends taking up her cause, her doctor man headed down a real slippery slope. Marjorie’s ex ended up getting sued for malpractice shortly after their divorce and was later found by one of their kids snorting coke off a stripper’s tits in the bathroom of a nightclub. Oh, the tangled webs we weave.

Speaking of tits, after the state-of-the-art treatment, I only had one. I remember a day or two after, when I was still laid up in bed, the first time I came out and sat on the couch and had some chicken soup, Bill tried to broach the subject of getting implants. I assumed he was on some kind of hiatus from Sandy or whatever else he was growing in his slick office. Out of a sense of posterity, he showed some type of concern for my body. He hadn’t shown that level of concern for my body in five years. Sure, we had sex during that time but not one of us was ever there. It’s difficult to say that it was his entire fault, or that he lost interest in sex with me because of me, but he must have been sleeping around for a long time. Money and power will corrupt any man.

The truth was that I lost interest in the subtle dance of our youth. Sure, I put on makeup, the same as everybody else. I wore nice dresses for an office party or anniversary. I played the part of the lawyer’s wife.  I worked out at least two or three times a week, I ate pretty healthy considering what most Americans call food these days. I was still pretty skinny too, no gray hair showed that a box wouldn’t fix. I was what most people would consider a MILF, that’s the term, right? Mother I’d like to…

The truth was that Bill didn’t lose interest in me, at least not right away, I lost interest in me. It is so cliché but I felt like there was something missing. I devoted my life to my husband, his career, our son Daniel. Our son is now in his first year of law school, a horrifying spitting image of his father.

I devoted my life and what did I get? A tumor, I got a tumor. I guess some might say that I got a big house in a nice neighborhood with no crime to speak of, a bank account that I never had to worry about, a Jaguar like I always wanted, and a walk in closet all to myself. For the people in this world that think that is justified compensation for giving my life to a sleazy, no good injury lawyer who put on the charms to my little virgin Catholic ass have got another thing coming.  Billy scooped me up with a wide shovel like a cleft of snow thrown out of the walkway and I let him.

To justify my existence by all those material things would basically label me as a whore, a prostitute begging for affection. Was I a prostitute? If I was, I was expensive. Sure, sure, I was a mother and that was important. I love our son Daniel but let’s go and cover what I accomplished. I was an instrument and I bread another identical copy of him.

Not only was Daniel following in his father’s footsteps, he spoke like his father, he smelled like his father, he drank scotch like his father, and he used the same phrasing that his father did on poor innocent women. Was this all the women were good for? A vassal for the preponderance of sleaziness? I beg to differ.

I bet nobody ever talked about this in the support groups or the walks. I bet all they ever wanted to talk about was how hard it had been, how afraid they were, how difficult it was to fit into a real bra now. How hard it was to go back.

I experienced just a taste of all of this, which was why I never made it to more of those meetings. I was never afraid, just heartbroken. I do miss my left breast but I didn’t want to go back, I was pissed.

For a while, when my hair started to grow again, all I really ended up doing was sitting by the pool. It was kind of nice. I had my Kindle. I had my morning smoothies that Greta, our new aging housekeeper would make. I listened to music and took a dip whenever I wanted. There were no mirrors by the pool. Splishing and splashing was kind of fun, it felt like summer vacation and I was a little girl again. Actually, what I really felt like was a teenager. I smoked some weed that I hid from Bill. I stayed up all hours of the night watching movies, eating ice cream. I swam and read all day and I had no inclination of ever going back to work. Life was great. I could have lasted a long time just like that.

Bill would come out in the evenings, smoking a cigar and always with his scotch. Sometimes, he would take notice of my toned body as the sun began to set. How do you wear a bikini with one breast? I didn’t care to ask. One could wear a special garment, but my C-cup right baby was just enough. I felt fine within myself, that didn’t mean I wanted to go stare at my body in the mirror and look at my empty left chest. But I felt dignified, tanned, even skinny from the chemo, and I knew I still had a nice ass and I knew that Bill was somehow curious about me. He must have known at least a little but I would never sleep with him ever again.

When I first came back from the hospital, an expensive bed was set up in the lower den which overlooked the backyard, the game room where Daniel used to play pool, watch movies, and entertain friends. I stayed put right there, even after I fully recovered, even after I could tie my hair in a small ponytail. I had better access to the pool from that room anyway.

I would have lunch with Marjorie and we would gossip, do our usual thing at Café Santa Monica, the absolute best place to get a tuna melt in a hefty pita that I’ve ever had. Even when I went through the chemo, I never lost my appetite for tuna. It was the only thing I could eat for a while. It was at Café Santa Monica where I saw him, or rather, he saw me first.

Marjorie said that a waiter assigned to another set of tables kept looking over at me. I told her she was crazy. I moved my hair behind my ear, adjusted my top and blushed anyway. I refused to wear a prosthetic which called for a few strangers looking here and there, especially when I wore a tank top like I did that day and figured it was just that, a double-take for the viewer’s satisfaction. A guess that the eyes saw what was actually missing.

His name was Edwardo. He was Dominican, young, and handsome. His shaved bald head and thin mustache gave him an out of place look as a waiter despite his youth. That first night and several others, I got a hotel room, only the finest would do.

Edwardo became a part of the luxury, an amenity that I did not care about, other than that he pleased me. He pleased me and I made him and I liked the cold, yet titillating feeling of using a man. He kissed my scar as he did my other breast and I loved him for that and only that. I cared nothing for his hopes, his dreams, or his future. I lived in the moment. I got massages by the pool, ordered Daiquiris and giggled with Marjorie and texted Edwardo when I wanted, when I felt like I could use him and steal his moments, make them my own.

I moved out and into the hotel shortly after I met Edwardo, but not because of him, I did it for me. I divorced Bill and put the squeeze on him so hard, that hidden money rained down like every day was Mardi Gras. It was all for me. Bill gave me everything I demanded, his guilt ruining his bottom line and I liked the feeling of putting the screws to him, getting what was rightfully mine and then some. I stayed at the hotel for a while until I had enough, until I felt full.

I live in the Bahamas now, the sand and the ocean and the fresh seafood with occasional joint all calm my soul, my own being. Marjorie visits, sometimes for a month at a time and we drink and laugh late into the night. I call Daniel on occasion, he even visited me once but he brought a girl, some floozy paralegal he thought he could impress by whisking away to the Caribbean.  I kindly asked him to leave and never return.

I see tourist come, tourist go. I have become a part of the scenery. I talk to some of them now and then, I take on lovers when I want and I swim, oh God do I swim. Every day, I move my arms and legs, pushing and pulling the ancient water to my will. I love the water with the fish and the crabs. The surf is there for my enjoyment.

I swim naked most of the time, letting the waves push me down the shoreline the way they do, away from my starting point, my permanently rented cottage in Abaco. When I emerge from the surf, tourists and fishermen gaze in astonishment. I show my wears, one pretty scar and one breast. I walk with purpose and not a care back to my towel left quietly on the sand. The towel always looks different when I come back. Saltwater returns to the ocean, dripping off my tanned, powerful legs. I just smile at them all and wave.

 

Book Review: Running Out of Time by A.M. Hounchell

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I recently read Running Out of Time by A.M. Hounchell on a fine Sunday morning.

The Monday after, I had to get my blood checked for a symbiotic parasite and my head checked for acid lumps. The swill was lingering somewhere in the back of my brain days after I read Hounchell’s confusing blunder of a masterpiece.

 

Description:  Running Out of Time is an absurdist novel about a man trying to see where he fits in space and time. As his two individual idealisms battle each other, probably to death. He’ll meet friends he never wanted, but will always have.

Like the Flamingo of Order

Ketchup the girl from the internet dating site

Les, a possessed demon teddy bear?

And a Pirate with a hint of insect

Can he stop something from happening? Probably, because that is vague.

Find out at the end of this book!

 

Ok…well then. I decided to dive into this crazy pool, feet first, damned be the consequences. I checked out his blog already and liked the sarcasm and big pills so I DID NOT get out of my pajamas, I was on coffee cup number two and ready. Wait, that’s right…

I actually started reading this the night before to my wife, out loud, in bed, three goblets of wine and whatever else in. It wanted me to read it out loud. I wanted to be a voice actor for this author’s entire body of work, and that is all the voice over acting I would ever have to do.

As I let the absurdity pour from my lips to my laughing wife, I got the sinking suspicion that she was entertained for once by the written word. She never laughed that much at my material…

I remember now, ah yes, Sunday morning, where did we leave off? Page 22, yes, just about the time I rolled over again  and…Did this book cause me to go for a round 2? How much time between rounds? 22 pages?

Sunday morning, again. I was sober. I was alone. I noticed the unedited blemished, the problems with layout on devices that plague, but I still couldn’t put the book down despite my chores, my mountain of papers, my coffee spilling onto the floor, turning into a pool of mud chocolate between my slippers and my happy dog. What is in this coffee? Did I find this book under my mattress or on top of the bus station? How much coffee should I make? Should I stop?

I wondered if the man behind this art would give up the act, he almost lost me at Chapter 10, he almost gave up the ghost. I trudged on, for the sake of the quest. The quest theme was good, then it wasn’t, then it was good again. Do I like Ketchup? Yes, yes I do.

I saw brilliance there between the errors and the I just don’t care sentiment. I saw someone who could write for days while I stayed there, my shoes in the mud, worried about one phrase.

This book is not for everyone. I was an English teacher, a Writer. Now, I am questioning my own ethics.

If you read a book and it changes the way you write for the better, you have read a good book.

5-Stars.

A.M. Hounchell’s blog: http://prosefessor.blogspot.com/

Twitter: @inferno4dante

REBLOG: 5 Ways Reading Influences Your Perspective — Pearls Before Swine

This is a really great post with a lot of valid points. especially #2, #3, and #4. I recently put out that I was open to reviewing books for Indie Authors and I received my first request from a Superhero novelist Brian W. Foster. I have never read this genre directly before and my eyes are opened. I also recently read an absurdist A.M. Hounchell which is a really good author despite the Indie pitfalls regarding editing and layout. I’m a HS English teacher, so I can’t get away from the classics…So many books, so little time. Reading outside “your” genre can really help to inspire.

 

I speak a lot on this blog about the power of perspective and not being limited in thought. It occurred to me, as I was making my coffee yesterday morning and thinking about a book I needed to finish, that I thought about reading and the deeper role that literacy plays in our lives. Perspective […]

via 5 Ways Reading Influences You

 

 

r Perspective — Pearls Before Swine

Who’s That Indie Author? Marc D. Crepeaux

Such a great blog for Indie Authors to discover and share. Thank you.

Book Club Mom

whos-that-indie-author
Author name
:  Marc D. Crepeaux

Genre:  Crime, Poetry, Letters and Correspondence

Books: Modern Waste; Worked Stiff: Poetry and Prose for the Common; Letters Never Meant to be Read (collaborative)

Bio:  Marc D. Crepeaux is a curator, editor and writer for Letters Never Meant to be Read. Marc has also authored the gritty, Southern crime novel Modern Waste and the poetry collection Worked Stiff: Poetry and Prose for the Common. He is from Killawog, NY and spent much of his late-teens and early twenties in NYC where he acted like a maniac. He now works as an English teacher and a Captain in the Army Reserves, among other entrepreneurial endeavors, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing. Marc lives in a more calming environment with his wife, two daughters, two dogs, and two fish in Rome, GA.

Favorite thing about being a…

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10 Reasons Why This Indie Author and Publisher Should Review Your Work

10 Reasons why Marc D. Crepeaux should Review Your Work on Amazon and Goodreads:

  1.  He will actually read your work and be completely honest. (Good for some, bad for others)
  2. He reads an entire week’s worth of newspapers on Sunday morning.
  3. He works as an English teacher, an Army Reserves Officer and moonlights as a Private Investigator, so there is a great deal of paid downtime while traveling, on stake-outs, or while pretending to proctor exams.
  4. He has a plethora of interests to include: business, entrepreneurship, book marketing, science fiction, speculative fiction, self-help, health and fitness, biographies, historical fiction, horror, absurdity, poetry, correspondence, thrillers, mysteries, crime, country noir, flash fiction…just about everything.
  5. He has an MFA in Creative Writing (poverty), if that sort of thing matters to you.
  6. He has an overused and abused Kindle and a backup just in case.
  7. He will actually buy your work with funds paid by the government in one form or another (Donations in the form of hotel matchbooks and review copies accepted of course).
  8. He has an Audible account and 2 ears that still work with Bluetooth in his car.
  9. He may find you or you may find him and want to collaborate on something later.
  10. He is an Indie Author as well, and knows how important reviews are. He likes to meet new people, runs on the beach, speaks Russian, that sort of thing.

If you want Marc to check out your work, he is easily distracted. Comment below or email rustywheelsmedia@gmail.com

Review Copies can also be sent to:

Rusty Wheels Media, LLC

attn: Marc D. Crepeaux

PO Box 1692

Rome, GA 30162

Sally’s Cafe and Bookstore – New on the Shelves – Modern Waste by Marc D. Crepeaux

Reblog: Such a nice introduction for the collection of my work!

Smorgasbord - Variety is the spice of life

new-on-the-shelves-update

The new featured author today is Marc D. Crepeaux and his novel Modern Waste, a thriller set in a small town in north Georgia.

413uvvutltl-_uy250_About the book

Modern Waste is a thrilling adventure of deception, murder, and corruption in a small town in north Georgia. The town’s gangs and old families control the county and its police. A rival from another town is taking over, and war is breaking out. As the title suggests, the book is filled with lives thrown away, and futures desecrated. This is about part of modern society that is often lost, people that live in the middle. They are on the fringe, between lawlessness and legitimacy.

A selection of reviews for the book

Fast-Paced and Intense  ByJ_T_D on September 30, 2014

If you’re looking for black and white crime fiction dripping with romanticism look elsewhere. “Modern Waste” is set in the backwoods of North Georgia far removed from…

View original post 994 more words

Late to the Party and Strange Writing Habits

On NPR last week, I was amused to hear that people were eating oranges in the shower. Yes, I listen to NPR, I listen to conservative talk radio, I listen to progressive talk radio, I listen to my ever growing Audible library, I listen.

I was even more amused to find that people were having a great time eating oranges in the shower and that it “changed some lives”.

This all started on Reddit a year ago, some mystical place on these interwebs where I have not yet dipped my big toe.

Well, I ate the orange in the shower. As an author and poet, I am always interested in trying new things, even if they seem silly. I am happy to report that it was fun. I did use a Halo. Are these real oranges? Was I cheating? Unsure, but I did smell the orange more and did receive a tingling, goose-bump feeling as I chewed the funny fruit with the hot water pouring down.

It was kind of cool to throw the peel and not care, but I certainly had to clean it up after or my dear wife would have said something. The kids wanted to try it too, and it became a family affair.

I must confess that I only sort of like oranges. I eat, or drink, a lot of fruits and vegetables, but the orange? It’s just alright and not my favorite all the time. Blueberries pack a punch for writing energy when the coffee well has gone dry. This did not spark in me any kind of life-changing event that would help my writing, but it was worth a go. Now that I am a teacher, I do like my red wine in the shower on Friday evening though.

When writing for the Letters Book, I often imagined the person I was writing to was in the room, or behind some secret curtain.

What about you? Are there any strange routines that help you with your writing? I joked around in a previous post about using gasoline and live animals to pump the primer, among other crazy notions, but do you have any weird writing habits?

 

Calling for Submissions

Dear Writers and Friends,

Rusty Wheels Media will be releasing the second of the Worked Stiff Series “Short-stories to Tell Your Boss” in the next month or so. For those of you who read the poetry book “Worked Stiff: Poetry and Prose for the Common“, this second and third will not be the same.
I am interested in alternating between the short-story/short/novelette collections and poetry books for the Worked Stiff Series from now until I die.
The first poetry book focused on the plight of modern man, blue collar troubles, and political common sense. While I am happy that this was the first in the series, themed-based books are going to be the norm.
The second, due out soon, is a short story collection that focuses on the working class and the fictional world in which they live. Some of those stories I posted on my blog as an experiment.
The third Worked Stiff: Back to the Land, we are calling for submissions here: This will focus on nature. Of course, anything loosely involving nature: working the land, camping, hiking, hunting, fishing, quiet moments in the forest…you get the idea. RWM will consider unpublished poems, short-stories, essays, etc.
As with Letters Never Meant to be Read, RWM believes in profit sharing with percentages based on poems/works that make it into the book. Some of you who are receiving your first royalty checks in the mail now from the Letters Project are not retiring to the Bahamas just yet, but it’s a start.
I will of course be taking letters as well and would like to put out the second in May/June. Some of you have already submitted new letters which is encouraging.

Send your poems and letters to:

rustywheelsmedia@gmail.com

or

Rusty Wheels Media, LLC

PO Box 1692

Rome, GA 30162

I look forward to your submissions and I will show you mine one way or another.
-Marc