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****Edward DeVito’s The Woodstock Paradox
is the thirty-ninth in
a never-ending series called INSIDE THE
EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris
Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction
genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt. All INSIDE
THE EMOTION OF FICTION links are at the end of this piece.
Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered
that you would like to share with us? The Woodstock Paradox
Fiction genre? Ex science fiction, short story, fantasy novella,
romance, drama, crime, plays, flash fiction, historical, comedy, movie script,
screenplay, etc. And how many pages long? The novel may be
classified Historical Fiction with an element of Fantasy, for the tale’s incidence
of time-travel. The Woodstock Paradox has
390 pages.
What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the
date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I
began writing The Woodstock Paradox in the late summer of 1990, and finished
it almost exactly twenty years later, in the fall of 2010.
What is the summary of this specific fiction work? I
volunteer at Penobscot Community School (K – 8) to help a teacher there with
her creative writing class, for three periods a week. It came up in December that the school was
having a “Read-In,” and since it was known I was an author, they invited me to
read some passages from my book. The
combined group took in students of grades 5 – 8. So, the task for me was to eschew sex and
drugs, and there’s a lot of that in the book – it’s about the months leading up
to, and including some of Woodstock, after all, <chuckles>
but it wasn’t nearly as difficult as one might think. I was able to gather a thread out of a few
chapters to convey in just 30 minutes a fairly good idea of the story, and only
had to skip over a few F-bombs to stay out of trouble. The reading was well received, and one of the
listeners, an adult, said I’d convinced her to buy a copy of the book! So,
that’s what I will provide for you below.
While running from a juvenile court-ordered group home in
Portland, Oregon, in 1990, seventeen year-old Arien Danner is catapulted to
another time as the result of a freak electrical accident. And so begins a tale of life in the
Haight-Ashbury (Right: in 1967), a pivotal experience of the People’s Park Riots in Berkeley (Below: May 15, 1969 Bloody Thursday headline),
and the adventures of a cross-country road trip. The tale concludes at Bethel, NY, the site of
the legendary Woodstock Festival in 1969.
“Why, Jason?”
“Because I would be free!” he declared.
“Why, Cullen?”
“It was beautiful; and do whatever you wanted.”
Regardless of the veracity of such a belief, here is what
has certainly become the underlying myth of that iconic festival.
As of a few years ago, Jason’s last address was the Oregon State
Prison. Cullen is a successful lawyer
who works on environmental issues. He is
currently raising two boys at an address in Manhattan.
I had to ask myself, what if Jason could have had his wish,
and get so far away from this place they would never find him again, and he, as
we said in the ‘60’s, “could be whoever he wants to be?”
Please include the excerpt and include page numbers as
reference. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. From Chapter 7 – Derby Street, p. 68-70:
The
Danner's kitchen was a bright and friendly place that had a large window with
yellow curtains. There was an archaic
refrigerator with a rather fat yellow porcelain owl cookie jar on top. The owl had great big blue eyes. A maple wood table was set in yellow place
mats with green cloth napkins and medium sized green glasses of orange juice at
every place. A half grapefruit rested in
small green glass bowls in front of every place too. Alex silently reached for the matching sugar
bowl as he sat down and spread a white pile of the stuff over the top of his
grapefruit. It was evident his mother
recognized that something important was in the air but she chose to say
nothing. She stood at the stove and
poured more batter on the griddle that spanned two of the four gas
burners. It hissed as the batter met the
surface. She kept looking at Arien, who
looked awkwardly back at her.
It seemed the gray drizzle outside was
lifting. The room brightened from the light of the window. Arien's eyes wandered from the woman at the
stove to the window. For a moment time
was suspended as a fragment of memory drifted by.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Tina was saying. “It's so nice of you to have us in for
breakfast.”
Arien snapped back to himself. He took the sugar bowl Tina passed to him.
“Where are you from, Arien?”
“Originally from Berkeley here, but I've
been living in Portland for a long time now.”
“What's your last name? It's amazing how much you look like one of
the family,” she blurted out, folding her arms.
“What a marvelous coincidence!
Why, now I understand why Alex asked me if he had a brother. If I didn't know better, I would think so,
too. Oh my.” She turned the cakes on the griddle.
Tina looked up from her grapefruit. Her spoon stopped midway to her face as she
looked at her companion.
“Yes.
It really is something, isn't it,” Arien said. He blushed.
He hoped she wouldn't press him.
“So what brings you two down this
way? Did you come just to see Alex?”
“We're visiting, Ma’am. Yes.
In a way, I came to see Alex.”
“Alex, you said nothing about this friend
who looks so much like you.” Mrs. Danner
stacked plates with the pancakes. She
moved efficiently around the room like an organist playing her instrument. The music smelled so good. Arien dumbly looked up at her as she set a
plate in front of him. She had to slide
his grapefruit over to make room. There
was another flash of distant memory where this woman was barely older. It was difficult. Tina reached to help her, but too late. Mrs. Danner already had it down. It was as if Arien had frozen solid. He blushed again. Nanna had touched his hair.
Her fingers stroked and lingered at the
back of his head as if disbelieving what was before her. Her son watched this intently.
Arien closed his eyes. His grandmother moved away to pick up two
more plates, but after touching this little bit of him it seemed she moved in
slow motion. Her expression changed. Words seemed to form on her lips but she held
them back until she sat herself down at the table.
“Tell me about yourself, Arien.”
“My parents died when I was young,” he
said, his voice edged with emotion.
“Oh dear.”
“So I never had any real family. I had foster parents. Lots of them.”
“You had no other family?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“I'm sorry.”
“So am I.”
Alex quietly stared at his visitors as he
ate, but now he dropped a bomb. “You
said we're related.”
Mrs. Danner seemed to apprehend the
obvious. Her face darkened. “Your father was a good man, Alex,” she
said. “He never cheated.”
“Maybe he did.” Alex rocked back in his chair like a little
boy, staring sullenly at Arien. “You
knew so much about me!
“Momma, this is the second time I've seen
him and he knew all about me!”
Arien blushed again. Tina shifted uncomfortably. “It's not like you think it is,” she offered.
“I should think not.” Mrs. Danner agreed, but her eyes betrayed
confusion.
“How is it then?” Alex asked her.
“You wouldn't believe it,” Tina responded
bravely, “but your husband was not Arien’s Dad.”
Mrs. Danner sighed. She smiled thinly. “Of course not,” she said.
From Chapter 21 – Clayboy, p. 177-178: The long night wore heavily on Arien
through the dim lights of the van and the painfully hesitant
slap of its single windshield wiper. It
barely revealed a hollow road through glistening fragments of broken light
smattering both halves of a windshield.
A dull, luminescent reflection from the speed gauge remained. It was a ghostly companion in some parallel
world hologram that hung suspended outside in the darkness. “Vdo,” he read. “Vdo.
Kaplunkit. Vdo.” Jeff once said the radio had been ‘kaput’
since he owned this magic bus. Man. Some tunes would be ‘gear’. What a quaint word.
He sang under his breath, “I have climbed highest
mountain / I have run through the fields / Only
to be with
you, / I have run, I have flown, I have scaled
these city walls, these city walls, Only to be with you…”
The rain drove in waves that lessened to a bare sprinkle and charged again in ferocious drumming drops, forcing him to slow down, as if that were possible without entirely stopping, so he could see. And then a moment's stark flashing revealed a world in its great halftone panorama; the shimmering, snaking road clinging to forested slopes in sheets of rain, the gray metal dash, the white of his knuckles on the broad wheel, dangling osprey feathers hanging from the rear view mirror, a glimmer of golden hair in the corner of his eye.
Incredible. You'd think the boom blasting through the air would wake everyone - but it didn't. They slept like sacks of damp grain. Andy snored a little. Otter wheezed. Jeff was invisible in his silence.
Arien yawned. The air was thick and humid. He could smell their bodies, especially the sweet one pressed against him.
“Only to be with you…”
Oh, Tina. His heart felt too full, like it would crowd his lungs and restrict his breathing. He tried to think back to how it happened; of when he knew. It was something he hadn't felt before, and it snuck up on him, a Robin Hood that brought so much floating good feeling to his poor soul he pitied the rich man it had to come from. He could not bear thinking what it would be like to lose that once it was tasted. His deepest dread approached when her Mom stole her away. It had to be the worst thing that could possibly happen. If it were not for Jamie Sun! Oh, in spite of everything, he acknowledged such incredible luck! God! So this was love! Am I really ready for this?
The rain drove in waves that lessened to a bare sprinkle and charged again in ferocious drumming drops, forcing him to slow down, as if that were possible without entirely stopping, so he could see. And then a moment's stark flashing revealed a world in its great halftone panorama; the shimmering, snaking road clinging to forested slopes in sheets of rain, the gray metal dash, the white of his knuckles on the broad wheel, dangling osprey feathers hanging from the rear view mirror, a glimmer of golden hair in the corner of his eye.
Incredible. You'd think the boom blasting through the air would wake everyone - but it didn't. They slept like sacks of damp grain. Andy snored a little. Otter wheezed. Jeff was invisible in his silence.
Arien yawned. The air was thick and humid. He could smell their bodies, especially the sweet one pressed against him.
“Only to be with you…”
Oh, Tina. His heart felt too full, like it would crowd his lungs and restrict his breathing. He tried to think back to how it happened; of when he knew. It was something he hadn't felt before, and it snuck up on him, a Robin Hood that brought so much floating good feeling to his poor soul he pitied the rich man it had to come from. He could not bear thinking what it would be like to lose that once it was tasted. His deepest dread approached when her Mom stole her away. It had to be the worst thing that could possibly happen. If it were not for Jamie Sun! Oh, in spite of everything, he acknowledged such incredible luck! God! So this was love! Am I really ready for this?
His shoulders ached. He tried to stretch and flex the
muscles in his arms and back without disturbing
her. He shifted his feet one more
time. The beating drone of the engine
wavered then restored its rhythm.
Another flash. Another crack and
boom. That one was really close! Rad.
He could still see the country in his head after the brilliant light
faded. And he hadn't even closed his
eyes! Candles would be brighter than
those stupid headlights, he mused. They
just pointed to where his eyes had to adjust to the darkness.
“Wow!” It was a low exclamation from behind him. He could feel a hand on the back of the seat and breathing push the sluggish air against his ear. “Are you okay?”
“Wow!” It was a low exclamation from behind him. He could feel a hand on the back of the seat and breathing push the sluggish air against his ear. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Andy. Thanks."
“If you see a place to pull over just do it.” Arien smiled to himself. “Who was Nike?”
“If you see a place to pull over just do it.” Arien smiled to himself. “Who was Nike?”
He knew Andy would likely know the answer. Andy was into that stuff.
“Oh, ah, a Goddess,
bro. Goddess of Victory. Greek. She had wings.
Why?”
Tina stirred and snuggled. She hadn't awakened. Arien stretched and flexed again, this time more
smoothly. The beating engine hardly
wavered. God it was fun to drive! Even this torture was fun. It was so new a thing. He rubbed his eyes. “I'm good,” he said. “I'll drive a little longer.”
His feet felt clammy in Keds. He hadn't worn his High Tops since leaving the city by the bay. They were stashed away in the pack. He'd cleaned them up and bought new
laces. They were being saved now for
special occasions. Arien didn't want to
wear them out. They were the only pair
of High Tops in the world.
Chapter 36 – Mother Shongo, p. 330
– 336: “Man, this is rad!” Clayboy declared with a
smarmy grin at
Arien, wiping his lips on a bare forearm.
The better part of a barbequed chicken leg dangled off the tips of his
fingers. He sat on the end of the bench
where he’d squeezed in at Arien’s picnic table, precariously balancing his
paper plate by the edge.
“The dead stuff always gets good marks,” Otter declaimed. He smiled wanly over the potato salad, a pile
of greens, three-bean salad and raw vegetable bits in front him.
Arien
had been nibbling all morning while he and Tina helped
Willow, Laurel and Sundew turn out bread and berry pies from the step van’s
oven, so his appetite was on hold at the moment. He did accept a cup of tapioca from Janie
Redeye, a kindly middle-aged woman in a light blue cotton dress and beaded felt
vest that was open in front. Her pudding
was excellent, like quality vanilla ice cream with tapioca pearls might be if
it could be served at room temperature without melting.
It turned out to be quite the gathering. Several native
families
besides Black Snake, such as Redeye, Shongo, Jimerson and Half Town were
represented so, with all the Tree People, there were close to sixty picnickers
at the site. The adults were warm and
friendly, especially after the Trees formed into a circle and Hawthorne
paraphrased their new circle’s invocation, blessing the gathering as a
statement of gratitude to the “Mother and Father of All Things… for the gift of
ourselves and our new friends among the Seneca.” All the while he’d held a smoldering smudge
stick of wild sage. One of the locals
responded by quickly unwrapping a broad drum, probably intended for later. He began to beat a steady rhythm out in a taught,
deep tone that had everyone silently standing in accord with it. Some of the older women lightly swayed or
tapped their hips and some of the men bobbed their heads. It was simple and gracious and Arien was
deeply impressed both with the beautiful, easy connection among the folks at
this happening and his amazing perspective as a part of it; how radically his
world and his outlook had changed from that of the boy he used to think he was,
and the impossibly limited options that other lad had been capable of seeing.
“Yeah, Clayboy, it’s out-a sight!” Arien agreed. Andy
looked at him over a fork laden with potato salad, dipping
it in a salute.
“Keep that up and you’ll be talking like the
hippies,” Jeff warned
with a wink.
The two groups basically sat by themselves to
eat but the native
kids were curious enough afterwards to hang around the Tree folks and some had
questions about their origins, their road trip, the up-coming festival at
Woodstock, and about Arien. Many of them
had long hair and wore a choker here and there and it didn’t seem like there
was much difference among them.
“So
the concert is free? I heard they’re
selling tickets for six
dollars a day,” a young teen-age boy in a black T-shirt and blue jeans
said. He stood behind Arien with a small
group of friends that drifted over.
Arien had a slug off his second can of Schlitz
to wash down
the last spoon of tapioca. The beer and
pudding made for a strange combination.
“But if you go it will be free,” he corrected.
“Believe it, he knows,” Tina assured them,
though they looked
like they didn’t quite believe it.
Arien watched as a big, swallow-tail butterfly fluttered erratically over to hover for a moment above the table.
It made him think of a line from that song by (what’s her name?) about Woodstock he’d heard in a future
time that by now, with every passing day, grew more fantastic and remote, and
were it not for the occasional incidents of current events, song fragments and
cultural instigations, Arien might have indulged a little self-doubt. “And I dreamed I saw the bombers riding
shotgun in the sky... turning into butterflies above our nation.”
But everything was making Arien think about Woodstock lately. And, when Aspen, Willow and Ben produced
their guitars they opened a set with “We Shall Overcome,” perhaps as a conscious
effort to connect with native people’s issues – which was well received – and
he was sure he’d recognized another song from the movie. In any event, the “Keepers of the Western
Door,” the title Ellison had told Arien his people proudly carried, appeared
pleased and a few drums that were produced by some of the people underlined the
song with a reasonably conventional rhythm.
There was a drummer that especially attracted Arien’s attention, a woman
among them, who was old enough to be his grandmother. She tapped-out a unique, complimentary sound
that would have been counter-point, or harmony, had it been song. She was very good.
When the song came to an end however, the drumming continued
and gradually altered to an aboriginal pulse.
Some of the people sang along with it in paradoxical cadences both
unfamiliar and timeless to the Western ear, to blend into the surrounding
forest and some of the deepest places of genetic recollection in the souls of
the listeners.
Arien was sure he heard modulations and breaks
in the rhythms
he’d never noticed or considered before and it came to him that it was not rote
and repetitive drumming he heard, but an articulation of the mysterious place
where nature and human experience come together. The rich awareness washed through him,
speaking through the beating of drums, heavy with a subtle yet fulfilling
substance of gratification, worthy pride, and as a bulwark of confidence like a
deposit of bullion to his account, and yet infinitely more precious than
anything real bullion could possibly obtain.
It was clearly a part of him and who he was and he could appreciate how
that justified the new and amazing proportions of his life.
When it got dark Coleman lanterns came out. Many among the Seneca families said their goodbyes
and drove away, but those who remained set up folding chairs and pulled benches
in to join the Trees in an intimate ring around a blazing campfire Thomas and
some of the young fellows built-up and fed.
Ellison said a prayer by the fire in a quiet voice Arien couldn’t make
out from where he sat, but he was excited to see Ellison wearing a small fur
cap with a single feather attached to it.
Arien nudged Tina, when Ellison sprinkled flakes
from his fingers into the fire. The unassuming
little cap suddenly seemed magnificent, its evocative feather appearing to come
alive in the firelight.
Ellison sat down in a deck chair next to Arien
when his prayer
ended. Thomas brought him a cold can of
beer. Carefully Ellison opened it with a
little folding can opener on his key chain.
Arien had seen these before at Andy & Bax, the Army surplus store in
Portland. Ellison made a small cut on
the edge of one side and then a longer one on the other, which he bent in with
his thumb against an edge of the opener.
The evening breeze was erratic and the musicians
had to move
occasionally to get out of the smoke.
Aspen, Ben and Willow, with the addition of a teenage Seneca girl,
introduced as Emily Half Town, played folk songs including numbers participants
could sing-along with. A few of Emily’s
songs, she announced, were by Buffy St. Marie.
In their breaks, the native lads with the drums beat out ancient songs
that easily resonated among the Tree Family.
“There’s someone waiting to meet you,” Ellison
said without
looking at Arien.
“I’m ready.
Where is he?” Arien had just made
eye contact
with Otter, who was a few feet away, along with Jeff and Andy. Arien’s dismissive expression begged another
question from his friend.
“She’s ready now, too. I see she’s put down her drum.”
Ellison stood with a motion for Arien to follow and together they made their way around the fire circle and the others there to a picnic table set back beyond a stretch of darkness. The table was covered with a red-and-white checkered oil cloth, starkly illuminated in the brilliant halo of a Coleman lantern. The woman drummer sat there by two other ladies with coffee cups before them and a stack of used paper plates at one end. They all smiled as Ellison with Arien approached.
Ellison stood with a motion for Arien to follow and together they made their way around the fire circle and the others there to a picnic table set back beyond a stretch of darkness. The table was covered with a red-and-white checkered oil cloth, starkly illuminated in the brilliant halo of a Coleman lantern. The woman drummer sat there by two other ladies with coffee cups before them and a stack of used paper plates at one end. They all smiled as Ellison with Arien approached.
“Mother Shongo, this is Arien, who is keeper of
his young family’s
staff.”
Arien focused on her eyes. They seemed to him bigger and deeper than they could possibly be, as if the night sky, itself, was somehow
locked in them. He’d been drinking beer
but hadn’t smoked pot at all today, and he wondered at the visual anomaly.
Ellison introduced the other women as Alice and Wendy. They
were all well into their middle age, which to Arien was as distant as a school
board. They were reserved, but carried a familiar quality, happening a lot lately, and though Arien was comfortable with
that feeling it always caused him to marvel.
“My compliments to Cypriano,” Mother Shongo opened. Arien
nodded, assuming Ellison must have told her about that, but this was the first
time he’d ever heard an outsider repeat the name of the voice in his head.
“So, the big fuss in the Catskills is what’s
brought you through
our Western Door, eh?”
Arien grinned.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“What do you bring there?”
Arien wasn’t sure how to answer that. He almost deferred the first thing that sprang to mind, but with no worthy alternative in the queue,
reluctantly gave it a voice, “We bring a circle for unity and peace.” It still felt so awkward to say that to
someone, especially an older woman he’d never met who was born a thousand miles
from his generation.
“Then yours is a gift for the ages,” she said
with a smile, both
to Arien and the others, who nodded in affirmation. “Tell me, young son, how well, then, do you
know the Great Mystery?”
“There’s a rad song the Beatles do,” he
thoughtfully answered,
“about the love within you and without you.
It’s like that.”
“Ho!” Her
smile broadened. “This one’s a gem, Ellison.” The
others agreed, smiling at Arien and one-another. “What place do you call home, Arien?”
It had grown quiet. Arien could hear Aspen’s singing from
the fire circle and she’d undoubtedly captivated her audience. He wished he were over there just then. He hesitated.
“Uh, Portland, uh, but really it’s here, with the Trees.”
“Hum, yes, I see,” Mother Shongo said. “That’s good.
Now, I’m sorry to keep you from the others, but
please sit down because there are some things we need to discuss and we don’t
have much time.” She patted the bench
along side of her and Arien sat down on the end while Ellison went around to
the other side of the table. “Would you
like a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks.”
Mother Shongo smiled patiently. She was a diminutive woman,
this time with eyes Arien saw as sharp as spears. Her double-braided hair was mostly grey with
streaks of white. She wore a necklace of
brightly-colored beads that hung in several strands on a blouse of crushed
green velvet. She projected considerable
strength and dignity, which Arien got, and his presence was finally bound to
her with a sudden and genuine curiosity.
“Arien,” the elder woman continued, “You
probably have some
idea of the forces arrayed against you, yes?”
“I do,” he nodded emphatically, like she’d
opened a door being pushed by a bear from the other side.
“It’s scary sometimes.”
“Yes it is,” she agreed, resting an elbow on the
table and her
cheekbone against her knuckles. “Tell
me, have you ever been struck by lightning?”
Arien felt a chill at the back of his neck as he
grasped for a
connection. His mind raced – lightning,
lightning… “No.” But he really wasn’t sure.
“Hmmmm,” the woman mused. “It’s simple, but it's complicated,
too. You know? I feel this about you. The lightning wants to try you again. It’s had some experience and knows the way
you can be taken.”
Arien searched himself for the storm but he
couldn’t find any. Yet something about this woman’s words
resonated and he suddenly felt so vulnerable.
He grasped his hands together on the table top. He actually began to tremble.
“Hmmmm,” Mother Shongo mused again. “Stay connected,
son. Reach and hold it. Relax.
Breathe easy. You’re safe here. I’m sure I can tell you that. And for what is to come, as long as you can
be connected to the Mystery, the life \that is within you and without you, the
oneness of all things, it will
be as the life ring is to the man on a sinking ship.”
Arien was silent for a moment, contemplating
this woman’s
words. Then, he had to ask her, “Is the
lightning my enemy?”
“No son, but it can be its weapon.”
“What am I supposed to do?” It was an honest question. Her
choice of the possessive adjective, ‘its,’ struck a chord. He’d always thought of his terror as a force
and not merely a person.
“Ah,” she said, flipping her hand back, away
from her face,
“strategy changes with your choices, young man.
I don’t have infinite advice for anyone, but a few generalities may
offer some guidance. There’s much, by
example, to be learned from the opposites that you see. They can be the stone and flint in your
hands.”
The word, paradox,’ came to mind. So far, Arien followed
this.
“Always find the high ground,” Mother Shongo continued. "Be as wise as you can. Allow the time to know the wisdom in your
soul to seep into your mind. Be as
honest with yourself and with others as you can be. Look in the mirror of your life and declare
that you know the truth!”
Arien said, “Wow,” under his breath. This lady was a trip!
“Be consistent,” she said next. “Be like the rock that everybody can be at peace knowing what it is. And
then, don’t forget respect; respect for yourself and all others, your brothers
and your sisters, your friends, and the little creatures that are just pieces
of the Great Mystery and that includes you.”
She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “Then it
will be right to use your power, to free your gifts, and when they come home, and they will
come home, like birds that have flown away for the winter, you will welcome
them with joy and gratitude in your heart.”
Arien laughed, not with disrespect but
excitement. It was a
strange feeling, like a sudden rush of energy. And
the woman smiled back at him. “You are
beautiful,” she
said.
“You are a butterfly and no longer
a worm.” She placed her hands on her lap
and Arien knew their meeting had ended.
“Who is she?” He wondered on his way with
Ellison back towards
the fire, his friends and his family.
“Mother Shongo is one of the Wisdom Keepers of the Onodowahgeh,”
Ellison explained. “She speaks with the
river of voices that go back to the beginning of time, and you know, young
fellow, it is now as it has always been; the true way will always come to you
through the spoken word. This is the
greatest gift of the Creator, so that you will know that he is still with us,
always.”
Other works you have published? Yes,
as mentioned, The Woodstock Paradigm – 338
p, Copyright © 2013 by Edward DeVito, ISBN 978-0-9910791-1-7
is the sequel to The Woodstock Paradox.
A pair of technical articles for antique car hobbyists have
also been published by the Horseless Carriage Gazette, and the Hupp Herald.
Anything you would like to add? I
believe this has been fairly thorough; however, if you find yourself curious…
Since relocating to Maine to
retire, I’ve found myself as busy as ever restoring a house in Penobscot, and
making new friends in the Down East area, where I may be seen sporting about in
a 1918 Hupmobile touring car. I’ve also been
volunteering at the Penobscot Community School, where I help with students’
writing and grammar lessons. And, at
this moment, I am a write-in candidate for an open seat on the Penobscot
Community School Board.
INSIDE THE EMOTION OF
FICTION links
001 11 15 2018 Nathaniel
Kaine’s
Thriller Novel
John
Hunter – The Veteran
002 11 18 2018 Ed
Protzzel’s
Futuristic/Mystery/Thriller
The
Antiquities Dealer
003 11 23 2018 Janice
Seagraves’s
Science
Fiction Romance
Exodus
Arcon
004 11 29 2018
Christian Fennell’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
The Fiddler
in the Night
005 12 02 2018 Jessica
Mathews’s
Adult
Paranormal Romance
Death
Adjacent
006 12 04 2018 Robin Jansen’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
Ruby the
Indomitable
007 12 12 2018 Adair Valerez’s
Literary
Fiction Novel
Scrim
008 12 17 218
Kit Frazier’s
Mystery Novel
Dead Copy
009 12 21 2019 Robert Craven’s
Noir/Spy Novel
The Road
of a Thousand Tigers
010 01 13 2019 Kristine Goodfellow’s
Contemporary
Romantic Fiction
The Other
Twin
011 01 17 2019 Nancy J Cohen’s
Cozy Mystery
Trimmed To
Death
012 01 20 2019 Charles Salzberg’s
Crime Novel
Second
Story Man
013 01 23 2019 Alexis Fancher’s
Flash Fiction
His Full
Attention
014 01 27 2019 Brian L Tucker’s
Young Adult/Historical
POKEWEED: AN ILLUSTRATED NOVELLA
015 01 31 2019 Robin Tidwell’s
Dystopian
Reduced
016 02 07 2019 J.D. Trafford’s
Legal
Fiction/Mystery
Little Boy
Lost
017 02 08 2019 Paula Shene’s
Young Adult
ScieFi/Fantasy/Romance/Adventure
My Quest
Begins
018 02 13 2019 Talia Carner’s
Mainstream
Fiction/ Suspense/ Historical
Hotel
Moscow
019 02 15 2019 Rick Robinson’s
Multidimensional
Fiction
Alligator
Alley
020 02 21 2019 LaVerne Thompson’s
Urban Fantasy
The Soul
Collectors
021 02 27 2019 Marlon L Fick’s
Post-Colonialist
Novel
The
Nowhere Man
022 03 02 2019 Carol Johnson’s
Mainstream
Novel
Silk And
Ashes
023 03 06 2019 Samuel Snoek-Brown’s
Short Story
Collection
There Is
No Other Way to Worship Them
024 03 08 2019 Marlin Barton’s
Short Story
Collection
Pasture
Art
025 03 18 2019 Laura Hunter’s
Historical
Fiction
Beloved
Mother
026 03 21 2019 Maggie Rivers’s
Romance
Magical
Mistletoe
027 03 25 2019 Faith
Gibson’s
Paranormal
Romance
Rafael
028 03 27 2019 Valerie Nieman’s
Tall Tale
To The
Bones
029 04 04 2019 Betty Bolte’s
Paranormal
Romance
Veiled
Visions of Love
030 04 05 2019 Marianne
Maili’s
Tragicomedy
Lucy, go
see
031 04 10 2019 Gregory Erich Phillips’s
Mainstream
Fiction
The Exile
032 04 15 2019 Jason Ament’s
Speculative
Fiction
Rabid Dogs
033 04 24 2019 Stephen P. Keirnan’s
Historical
Novel
The
Baker’s Secret
034 05 01 2019 George Kramer’s
Fantasy
Arcadis:
Prophecy Book
035 05 05 2019 Erika Sams’s
Adventure/Fantasy/Romance
Rose of Dance
036 05 07 2019 Mark Wisniewski’s
Literary
Fiction
Watch Me
Go
037 05 08 2019 Marci Baun’s
Science
Fiction/Horror
The
Whispering House
038 05 10 2019 Suzanne M. Wolfe’s
Historical
Fiction
Murder By
Any Name
039 05 12 2019 Edward DeVito’s
Historical/Fantasy
The Woodstock
Paradox
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