He's Back! And Wendy's Along for the Ride...

http://www.amazon.com/Secret-Diary-Wonderland-Three-Quarters-ebook/dp/B003BIGFSE/

You can't keep the Thugs Bunny down. 

He just made it through Kindle Customs.

He's back and he's badder than ever. 

http://www.amazon.com/Wendy-Fractured-Fairy-Silkstone-ebook/dp/B005FKHKTE/

Wendy's chilling - the Pirates are at hand.

Robert B. Parker

Robert B. Parker Author Bumping

Author Bumping is a talent I come by naturally. I have literally fallen into a full body bump with some pretty big name writers. These unplanned slams usually occur with hilarious results.

Robert B. Parker, was a lovely man. He was the Dean of American Crime Fiction and the creator of the wise-cracking, street smart Boston private eye, Spenser.  The New York Times said of the Spenser novels “ We are witness to one of the great series in the history of the American Detective Story.”

My first meeting with Robert B. Parker was not the auspicious event I would have preferred.  I slammed into him as if he were home base. All one hundred and twenty pounds of me hitting his chubby frame with an “umph!”  But let me back up and get a running start into this story.

I was attending a writer’s workshop in London. It was comprised of a small group of dedicated hopefuls who were there to hone their craft with instructors, Bob Parker, Stephen King and PD James. The event was quarterbacked by Gary Goshgarian, an amazing writer and professor of English Literature at Northeastern University.  Gary writes powerful crime thrillers under the pen name of Gary Braver. 

The workshop took place at the London Polytechnic  University campus located on  Marleybone Road across from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum and near White Chapel, home of Jack the Ripper.  It was summer and the inner city buildings were deserted. Red graffiti  decorated the walls, and swore at us in terms I’d never heard before. The buildings have since been renovated but at the time, the setting was pretty eerie.

I took a seat in the old lecture theater, laying my knapsack and duffle bag on the floor at my feet. I was pleased I had traveled light and finally got the hang of looking like a writer. I had dropped the sissy pink dresses and kitten heels after the last writers’ conference. I was determined to look like what I thought writers looked like.  Tough and ready to rock ‘n roll.

Someone spoke from the stage – can’t remember who – telling us where and how to find our room assignments in the dorms and that someone would be addressing the group, shortly. I settled back and admired the carved wood paneling and Phantom of the Opera ambience.

A professor-like woman turned to me in the dimly lit room. “Hi. My name is Shirley. I have really got to find a ladies room. Would you mind my bags for me?” 

“Sure.”  But even as I spoke I knew … I needed a loo trip, too. Now was as good a time as any. The lady on Shirley’s far side agreed to stand sentry over our bags .  My new buddy and I set out in search of a potty. The halls outside the auditorium were silent.  Slippery  polished marble floor, stone walls and dim lights but no restrooms. “Maybe they’re on the second floor.”

We walked up a level. Nothing. And the lights were dimmer.  Shirley and I agreed to take this up one more floor.  I was mentally kicking myself for not using the loo at the airport.  With the school abandoned for the summer, someone had taken to making a career out of polishing the marble floors. They were as slippery as ice.

No potty. No loo. “One more floor?” I asked. Shirley nodded, her eyes like two giant robin’s eggs behind her thick glasses.  It was awfully quiet. We made our way to the fourth floor clinging to the banister to steady ourselves.  A good tinkle was now at the top of my list of most desirable things to do in London.

On the fourth floor we finally found a ladies loo. We entered in the harsh light. The room felt like the men’s room scene in the Shining.  Jack Nicholson meets the long dead manager of the Overlook Hotel. The guy who slaughtered in family with an ax. Okay… my nerves were a bit prickly.

Shirley grabbed one stall and I hit another. I’d clicked the door shut and was in bladder emptying ecstasy when the door shook. “Open up or I’ll break the door down!” said a male voice with a cockney accent.

  Knowing it would do no good to scream, I said… “Absolutely not!”  (I’m notoriously polite.)

 “If you don’t open this bloody door I’m going to put it under the door.”  

I knew what he meant by “it.” Ick!  I said the first thing that came to mind. “You do and I’ll step on it!” Eww…

“Barbara! What’s going on?”

“Dumb question, Shirley!”

Then there was silence.  Not a word. Not a footstep.  Only the sound of Shirley whimpering from her position two stalls down.  More silence. He was either waiting outside the door with a Jack the Ripper Knife or he had run away.

I made an executive decision. “Shirley… at the count of three - let’s make a run for it. One…”

“Barbara, I can’t. I can’t get my girdle up. I’m too scared!”

Girdle? Who wears a girdle?  I was trapped in a farce with a woman in a girdle, and a guy who might be very large in certain bodily areas. “Shirley… ditch your girdle. We’re running for it! 2-3”

We broke out of our stalls like two race horses out for the Triple Crown. We hit the marble floor with Flintstone feet flying. Funny thing about running on slippery surfaces … you can build up some real speed.

At the second level… Shirley went reeling. “Turn into the skid!” I yelled at her as I grabbed the railing. She squealed and then righted herself.  By the time we hit the ground floor we must have been going a hundred miles an hour.

A group of people stood at the entrance to the auditorium. Robert B. Parker was among them. I lost control and went into a slide. I bumped into his portly belly.  Slam!

Bob and the others were concerned. Security came running. Shirley blubbered – I recounted what had happened. “What did this bloke look like?” asked the guard.  “I didn’t get a look at him. But he had a cockney accent and he must have a penis as big as a horse! The words were out before the Catholic girl in me could censor them.  I’ll never forget the look on Bob’s face.  He burst into a hearty laugh.  “He was going to put it under the door.” That made Bob laugh even harder. “I told him if he did, I would step on it.” I tried to sound rational, but it was too late. The laughter echoed off the stone and marble.

Bob Parker wasn’t my first Author Bump but he was one of my more memorable.

          

Author Bumping to be continued…   

Sample Sunday.... Wow! What a Week!

Sample Sunday

Wendy and the Lost Boys had some special first week!            

* She was published on Kindle on Tuesday.

* On Wednesday Wendy and the Lost Boys was featured on  Daily Cheap Reads 

* Big Red Chair featured Barbara Silkstone on Wednesday  Mesmered's The Big Red Chair

* Wendy made the top 100 Kindle books in humor and women sleuths on Thursday.

* Wendy made the Hot New Releases List in humor on Thursday.

And
Wendy's big sister Alice is about to release her new book cover.

For all those fans who were slightly freaked out by the Thugs Bunny, you'll be happy to see him modified and mollified... but still threatening. Now Alice and Wendy are a matched set in the Fractured Fairy Tales by Silkstone series.

But enough prattling. Let's get onto the excerpt from  

                                                    Wendy and the Lost Boys

It started almost two years ago as what had become a normal poison-ivy-like night for me. Standing at the window of our suite at The Plaza, I gazed out over the pink and white blossoms of June in Central Park wondering when I would learn to say “no.” It was a hellacious sacrifice to drop what I was doing, leave my clients in Miami and haul up to New York to be at my husband Croc’s side as he pursued investors for his hedge fund Privateer, LLC.

I thought I’d finally found a good man when I first met James Crocowski at a fundraiser for hurricane victims. We continued to bump into each other at a series of charity events over the next few weeks. After a few months of frantic dating, I woke up in the bridal suite at the Luxor Hotel in Vegas. I was Mrs. Crocowski, the thirty-nine year-old wife of a hedge fund manager. I was ready to admit I’d made a mistake.

“How do I look?” Croc did a spin in his tux.

I turned from the window to study him. The man was an optical illusion. He looked intelligent, hardly the picture of a guy who’d just lost triple-digit millions. And obviously to him he looked primo. I bit off a really nasty comment and settled for, “Stop panting. You sound like a dog.”

“Yeah, but how great do I look? We’re going to a Charlie Hook party. It’s important.”

The name meant nothing to me. This was not a charity event, despite the embossed wording on the invitations. Croc, aka the Crocodile, was set to snare a new pool of investors with his welcoming grin and promises of extraordinary returns. I was sick to my stomach with what I suspected were his less than honest guarantees. I regretted my last minute decision to join him, torn between wifely loyalty and rat-sniffing instincts.

Dressed in my size-six little black dress that screamed designer original, while I screamed inside my head, I grabbed my velvet coat and struggled into it. My highlighted hair swung loose on my shoulders. “You look fine.”

“Didn’t I buy you some bling to wear to these events?”

I shot him my dirtiest look, feeling unclean being in the same room with him.

The doorman helped us into the hired limo, and we headed to a private party in Montclair, a city in northern New Jersey. I settled back and watched the cars rat race along.

Somewhere on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge we were sideswiped by another vehicle. First there was a thump and then a shattering crunch.” What was that?” I yelled to our driver. The limo bounced over rough pavement, hit gravel, and came to rest against the guardrail.

Crack! A gun shot and then another ricocheted off the front right fender in a splash of sparks.

Croc threw his weight against the limo door but it didn’t open. I yanked his sleeve. “Don’t leave me here, you chicken-shit!”

We were still struggling when a tall thin man reeking of cologne and cigars got into the front passenger seat. He aimed a large gun at my husband. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”

I pegged his accent as Russian.

My precious mate tried for the door again, knocking me in the ribs with his right elbow.

The Russian flashed me a quizzical look. “You married this coward?”

“I was drunk at the time.”

He smirked. “I could never get that drunk.”

“Nobody asked you,” Croc snapped. His smart mouth was about to get us both killed.

I put my hands in the air and slid into the far corner of the car trying to fold into the upholstery.

The limo driver sat stone still, almost blasé.

“We told you three weeks. You have until Monday. Ninety-three million dollars,” the Russian said.

“I promise 18% on your money if you wait until Thursday!”

Had my husband lost his mind? Facing a gun he negotiates interest rates?

The Russian cut his eyes to me and left the car.

Croc exhaled in a whoosh. “I guess they want their money back.”

“Give it to them.”

“I don’t have it. We had operating expenses.”

It dawned on me. “Are you involved in a Ponzi?”

“No, it’s a creative new-age investment opportunity and my tireless efforts are under appreciated.” He avoided eye contact and stepped out of the car.

“Doesn’t this shake you up?” I asked the driver as I dialed 911 on the car phone. “By the way, shut off the engine.”

“Lady, welcome to the new Wall Street. You get used to it after a while.” He yawned.

Outside the limo, Croc puffed on a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoke before. There was a lot I didn’t know about this man I married after I’d downed three bottles of champagne. Drink in haste. Repent in leisure. I put my head back and closed my eyes. It was time to see a lawyer.

The police arrived in less than ten minutes. By then Croc had disappeared. Maybe he walked off into the night or maybe the Russians decided not to wait until Monday. Either way, my wish had been granted. I was Croc-less.

Along with the details of the mugging, I filed a missing person’s report then went back to the Plaza and did a happy dance in our suite. My husband had abandoned me. Confirming my morning flight back to Miami, I changed rooms and for safety’s sake registered under my maiden name… Wendy Darlin. 

                                                           ~

Wendy and the Lost Boys... Now live on Kindle!

Pirates, and Ponzi's, and ex-husbands at sea.

Special agents with Johnny Depp eyes.

Captain Hook overdosing on UpUGo

As Wendy tracks a murderer... or two.

Coming August 2011 on Kindle

Sneak Preview of Wendy & the Lost Boys

When a deathbed promise leaves Wendy trapped on a super-yacht with Ponzi-king,Charlie Hook, she's forced to join the pirate on a quest to recover his hidden treasure. Along for the adventure are SEC Investigator, Roger Jolley who kindles a spark in Wendy with his ‘Johnny Depp’ eyes, and Jaxbee a mysterious golden haired young woman. Milton the dog and Stillpork the pig add their passionate cross-species love affair to this tale of outrageous plot twists and over-the-top characters.

This is a modern morality tale that takes the reader on an action-filled ride with memorable characters and lots of laughs along the way. It’s Indiana Jones meets Romancing the Stone while still remaining faithful to the original Peter Pan and Wendy... Consuelo Saah Baehr

Author Bumping- Theodore Sturgeon

Author Bumping – Theodore Sturgeon

Newbies: Please check my blog archives for Author Bumps with the likes of Stephen King, Robert B.Parker, and James Michener. Just enter Author Bumpings in the search bar at the top.

~

It was 1984. I had just graduated magna cum chatterbox from kindergarten. Okay so maybe I’m off by a few years. J

Florida Atlantic University was hosting the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts. Begun in 1980, this celebration brought together some of most talented writers from Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy. Guests at this event ranged from Stephen King to Issac Asimov, Fritz Leiber, and my all-time hero, Theodore Sturgeon.

One of the legendary figures of the “Golden Age” of science fiction, Theodore Sturgeon was a regarded as the primary influence on Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut among other science fiction luminaries. Sturgeon wrote over 200 novels and short stories. He won the Hugo, Nebula and International Fantasy Awards. His book More Than Human (1953) was a classroom classic.

Science fiction writer, Damon Knight said of Sturgeon, “He was a superb stylist, and that was unusual when he began writing in the field. He had his own individual viewpoint of human relationships. I think he had a Messianic streak. He wanted to find ways that people could live together better.” Or to paraphrase Star Trek… to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Sturgeon wrote some of the early screenplays for Star Trek. The Vulcan Hand Greeting, “Live well and prosper” AND pon farr, the Vulcan mating ritual were all introduced by Theodore Sturgeon. When I bumped into him I had no idea about his Vulcan background - now it just adds to his mystique.

I discovered More Than Human when I was a child. I carried the paperback version with me everywhere. It became the seminal book that instilled in me the passion to write. Sturgeon  created a haunting, creditable last step in man’s evolution.

With my battered but much loved copy of More Than Human, I approached Ted Sturgeon as he sat in the FAU auditorium. A slight, wizard-like man he beckoned me to sit with him while he signed my book. Under his signature he placed a symbol… a Q with an arrow through it. He was wearing a pendant with that strange symbol on it. His explanation: “Ask the next question. And the one that follows that, and the one that follows that. That’s how we realize our potential.”

He offered me the seat next to him. “Join us when he’s done,” he nodded to the author on the stage who was graciously signing books for hundreds of his adoring fans.  It took Stephen King over an hour to sign all the books presented to him. Sturgeon beamed like a proud parent.

Steve then stepped from the platform and walked toward us. Sturgeon, frail, took my arm and we exited the auditorium - King walking on my right and Sturgeon on my left.

Theodore Sturgeon seemed to channel pure energy even as he needed to brace himself on me. He leaned over, nodded at Stephen King and said to me, “Barbara, someday the world will recognize this young man as our greatest living American author.”

Looking up at all seven-feet of Stephen King, I know he said something humble… but for the life of me I can’t recall it. I was doing an out-of-body somewhere on Mount Olympus between two creative gods. It was an awesome moment.

Sturgeon died the following year. I still have my copy of More Than Human. Each time I read it the book has a profound effect on me. Don’t we all wish we could create a story that would so mark our readers for life?

P.S.

If you ask me, I’ll explain the Vulcan Mating Ritual.

Chick Lit, Jock Lit, and D**k Lit

We can recognize Chick Lit with our eyes closed. It’s the scent of Pride and Possessions. In Publisher’s Weekly, Amy Sohn defines Chick Lit as being about women who can stand on their own two feet. The stories are frequently about females dealing with real issues we face or would love to face.

Do men have the equivalent?  Is there a male version of Chick Lit that parallels female frustration, fashion, friends and foes?  We have our pink book covers and snappy titles, but exactly where is the male literary hot button?  And if the godmother of Chick Lit is Jane Austen, then who is her male counterpart?

Curious, I bellied up to the Google search bar and plugged in “Jock Lit.” The wheels spun and up came Away Games: The Life and Times of a Latin Ball Player  by Marcos Breton and Jose Luis Villegas. The book chronicles Oakland A’s shortstop Miguel Tejada’s journey from shoeshine boy in the Dominican Republic to the major leagues in northern California.  Yawn.

I hit Search again and up popped - Those Damn Yankees: The Secret Life of America’s Greatest Franchise by Dean Chadwin.  More books about gents chasing little white balls with a stick. Is that the answer for all men?  Surely some guys veer off in another direction.  As I peruse these tomes I find no mention of a passion for fashion – it appears men only lust after uniforms. They have a genetic need to blend in and yet at the same time to excel at ball chasing.

Entering  “Jock Lit” in Google yet a third time I discover Jock Itch – cure for.  My quest is sliding downhill – fast.  Not one to give up easily, I take out the quote marks and slowly type in Jock Literature. Magically the answer appears: the godfather of contemporary guy literature, Nick Hornby.  

Hornby has elevated the Peter Pan figure to cult status, his protagonists are made even more lovable by the on-screen performances of his characters by Hugh Grant and John Cusack. I have found the male version of Chick Lit. This British author has mastered the art of combining the serious quest for male adulthood with that terrifying fear some guys have of growing up. He has an amazing talent for zeroing in on serious contemporary male emotions and serving them up in hilarious style.  His men walk with one foot firmly planted in childhood and the other touching lightly into the adult world.  They limp.

Jock Lit differs from Chick Lit in that the protagonists often don’t have successful jobs.  The men are usually card-carrying members of the Geek Squad and desire to live beneath the radar. If they have longings, they are a melding of careers beyond their reach and unattainable females. His lads look for love and success in all the wrong places, and unlike their female counterparts, they usually don’t apply themselves except in a hit or miss manner. Hornby’s  heroes are less than perfect, frequently neurotic and horny. In the beginning of his books, the guys are more interested in getting drunk and watching football on television. They’re often selfish and have lessons to learn about caring and sharing, usually taught by good women who see through their stumbling boyishness by novel’s end.

In a classic Hornby story, About a Boy, the central character (Will Lightman)  is a thirty-six year old slacker who lives off the royalties of an old Christmas song his father wrote. He’s not the kind of fellow who would get his jollies roaming the aisles of Home Depot or have an orgasm in the tool department of Sears. He’s a womanizer who has run out of hunting grounds. Envious of his friends who are all married and having children, Will continues to seek meaningless relationships that ensure he will be dumped by the gorgeous women he dates. He discovers SPAT (“Single Parents – Alone Together”) and passes himself off as a single widowed dad. “He was acting, yes but in the noblest, most profound sense of the word.”  He becomes the perfect catch for a young mother who should, according to his plan, be willing to dump him after an interlude of sex. She will discover that her child is not ready for a man in their life, allowing Will to run off into the arms of yet more ladies in distress.

The catch in Will’s plan, the thing that causes him to step over the line into adulthood comes in the shape of a twelve year-old boy (Marcus) whom Will meets while attending SPAT disguised as a widowed father. This boy is a victim at school and at home. In rescuing the child, immature Will eventually succumbs to what he has fought off for so long… he grows up.

In 1995, Hornby published his delightful analysis of contemporary underachieving males with High Fidelity. In many ways the opposite of Bridget Jones, protagonist Rob Gordon manages a used record store.  He recounts his top five breakups as if they were hits on the music charts. This is a comedy about fear of commitment, loathing your job, and falling in love. This is pure Jock Lit.  Men being the visual creatures that they are, Hornby’s characters fall in and out of love with the ease of a wiggly ferret in a toddler’s arms.

 Many people think men are less romantic than women. But men fall in love quicker because they are so visual.  Statistics tell us that men are two times more likely to kill themselves when a relationship ends. But according to my research as The Love Investigator, men are NOT willing to die for the woman they love.

Is love necessary in Jock Lit? Yes, but just a smidge. Is sex necessary? No, but that’s where D**k Lit enters the game. When I originally started my investigation of Chick, Jock and D**k, I was told that in the Australia I could replace “Jock” with “D**k” giving me D**k Lit. D**k means something entirely different in the US. I censored myself even as I researched the meanings of the three lits. Peculiar how some words don’t translate as well as others.

Women read Chick Lit to enter a Cinderella world where they have the option of pulling themselves up by their own strengths while falling in love. Men read Jock Lit to become – if even for a few pages – invincible. It’s a world free from concern with unemployment or cracking the ball over the back fence. At the end, they’ll rescue themselves while clearing the goal posts and making it into adulthood. Similar to the Chick Lit happy ending.

D**k Lit is basic mating drives without human bonding. The stories usually combine erotic descriptions of drive-by sex. Quick dopamine releases, almost but not quite pushing the protagonist over the threshold of falling in love. But it always comes short and leaves us turned off. Women need that sense of connection, that intense romantic love. So do most men. If it weren’t for those pink book covers more men might veer from Jock Lit to Chick Lit bypassing D**k Lit completely.

Now I’ll take comments from the floor.