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In Medias Res II
I’ll post my query for Down to a Sunless Sea shortly ; apparently it has done the trick. It is a mixture of quotations from reviews of the book, my past credits or dumb luck in how it is phrased. Probably it is my citing that my first short story ever published was listed with Mailer, Oates and Singer. Couldn’t hurt? Perhaps Sondheim may write one of his sophisticated songs called, “Who do you know?” Some observations as I go about marketing in my own way. It seems that one has to probe magazines more than once; in fact, after…
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In Medias Res
Life has grabbed me intensely since the last blog. I am deeply involved in “marketing” Down to a Sunless Sea. I am concentrating, for those out there who are writers or want to live the writer’s life, whatever that is, on the “blogosphere.” Diligently, working with blog directories (see “litblog,” to wit)), I am discovering websites all over the world and apparently for those of us who want to market their self-published books, this is one significant way to explore. I have had almost 80 (!) requests for review copies. See the review of my new book by Kevin Eagen…
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ALLBOOKS REVIEW of DOWN TO A SUNLESS SEA
Shirley Roe, Allbooks Review Editor, just emailed me the first review of Down to a Sunless Sea. It is proof that the writer is often the last to know his worth as an artist. How do you follow a book such as The i Tetralogy? I moved from the Holocaust, to the holocausts within our lives as individuals, I imagine. I am very elated, and tearful, for at 67 a lifetime’s angst and agony is being rewarded not by filthy lucre but by the affirmation of others who I touch, in some fashion, as a writer. Here is the review…
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Juan Person’s Hands, from Down to a Sunless Sea, Winter 2008
The New York Times reported that the hands of Juan Peron had been removed from his body. A minister was quoted as calling the act “savage.” Seagulls. Are there seagulls in Argentina? Do they soar, catching the spiraling updrafts off the coast of the Argentine? And are there dwarfs, scurrying hither and thither, thumping creatures with squat wooden stools in their fat and pouty little hands? I wanted his head — only a thought. A head is too much to fathom. His hands, the huge ones that toyed with us in the grand plazas as he and the blonde one…