NetGalley ARC readers of thrillers! The e-book version of my upcoming thriller, The Emerald Cross, will be available for review this month on NetGalley – stay tuned! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CPCJNX59
My thriller Eagle Bay earned 72,000 page reads on Kindle Unlimited last week. Unfortunately, that broad readership declined, and I don’t know why the spike occurred. But all readers are appreciated, so if you were part of that surge – thank you! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C17XWN4Y
A brief review of The Extraordinary Life of an Ordinary Man:
Public commentary and reader reviews on this Paul Newman memoir run the gamut. There were many people whose image of the man was significantly altered negatively. My perspective is different. Yes, he could’ve been a better husband to his first wife and father to their two children, but he also makes it clear he understands that. He made some really bad decisions in life – raise your hand if you never have. I found the book to be gut-honest and Newman to be surprisingly modest in some unexpected ways. Put simply, he was a very complex guy. He was laser-focused on being the best actor possible, and everyone would have to agree he achieved a level of stardom that few do based on his performances and accolades. He was also a very charitable man, even if he played that down to a surprising degree. On a personal level, I thought his acting in Cool Hand Luke should have won him an Oscar. The movie delivered one of my favorite all-time lines (though not spoken by Newman): “What we have here, is failure to communicate.” I recommend the book.
Doheny Drive (working title) continues to evolve! I’m halfway done and enjoying the journey. Below is the latest version of the first chapter:
Doheny Drive
Part I
Chapter 1
Just eleven houses lined Doheny Drive, but the dead-end street bustled with roving gangs of cheerful gradeschoolers and mischievous teenagers. A baseball diamond was drawn with chalk in the cul-de-sac, and if you could launch a ball onto the Johnson’s roof, then you just hit a home run. Doheny and the adjoining streets were developed during the ’60s in the pastoral foothills of South Orange County. Residents with backyards facing west enjoyed distant panoramas of dazzling sunsets and the shimmering Pacific. Towering eucalyptus, pine, and palm trees appeared as noble sentries standing guard over their scenic utopia. Colorful blossoming lantanas, birds of paradise, and rose gardens blended with indigenous plant fragrances to stir one’s senses in pleasing ways. Parents on the street sometimes debated the troubling geopolitical realities contrasting their seemingly idyllic lives in 1972, but the neighborhood kids lived obliviously and focused on much more important matters.
After best friends Andy Crenshaw, Peter Birch, and Tommy Kawasaki relieved themselves onto redwood fence panels, Peter stared at their designs. “Hey, the s-s-stains on the fence remind me of the c-c-cover of the Who’s Next album.”
Andy gazed at Peter’s artwork while zipping up his worn jeans and wholeheartedly agreed. He placed his arms over Peter’s and Tommy’s shoulders. “Cheers, young American blokes, my name is Roger Daltrey, and I love to whizz on English countryside monuments with my bandmates.” They chuckled and stepped over a lawn dotted with dandelions topped by yellow flowers and delicate white seed heads that splintered and floated away as the boys kicked them. After hearing the high-pitched squealing of school bus brakes, they raced to the sideyard that provided a hidden view of the bus and the extraordinary person sitting aboard.
Due to band practice, the venerated passenger took the later bus home this time of year. They watched her shrug her backpack for balance and comfort as she stepped off the big yellow and black vehicle spewing a cloud of putrid exhaust. Then they considered their good fortune of living on Doheny Drive, the only street in the world graced by Laurie Penrose, the prettiest, friendliest, and most excellent girl ever to walk the earth. Thick yellow-golden hair that fell to her waist. Green eyes that one had to see to believe. A fellow twelve-year-old who dominated their psyches most days and every night.
“Hi, Peter, Andy, and Tommy. Isn’t this a beautiful day? I counted eleven large butterflies on the way here. Six monarchs and five Western tiger swallowtails.” She strolled toward her home while speaking, her black clarinet case swaying in her right hand. “Do you boys like butterflies?”
Andy whispered to his buddies, “Sure, I like to feed the small ones to praying mantises. They eat their heads first.” Tommy punched him in the ribs, and Peter flashed the intense stare of an assassin. Andy glared back.
“I’m sorry, Andy, I couldn’t hear you.” She stopped and turned to face them; the strands of her long locks shifted gently amid a slight breeze. Even her elongated shadow was beautiful. Mesmerized and silent, someone needed to respond.
Peter stepped forward. “B-B-Butterflies are some of the most incredible c-c-creatures on earth.” He had stuttered for as long as anyone on Doheny Drive could remember, but there was an unspoken pact on the street—no one teases their beloved neighbor about his condition. “I think God put them here to remind us of the b-b-beauty surrounding us every day and to be thankful. There is nothing more g-g-gorgeous than a butterfly.” Peter turned to his friends and smiled with gleaming teeth ringed by silver braces, impressed by his impromptu skills at answering a tricky question from the most fantastic girl.
In a low monotone voice, Andy muttered, “Gorgeous? Who the heck says gorgeous?”
After hesitating, Tommy faced her with conviction. “Laurie, you are even more beautiful and prettier and gorgeouser than butterflies. And nicer than butterflies, too.” He was suddenly filled with dread; had he really spoken such incredibly lame words that might lead to a lifetime of well-deserved ridicule and social isolation? He hesitated loudly, “I mean, um . . .”
“Why, Tommy and Peter, I don’t think I’ll ever forget your lovely words. And I’m pleased you share my passion for butterflies. I need to get home, boys. My dad doesn’t like it when I’m even a little bit late. Have a wonderful rest of your day.”
She turned and walked toward her rambling West Coast ranch house in the cul-de-sac. The three inseparable buddies tracked every graceful step until she strode over the curb onto her front walkway.
Andy glowered at his two friends. “Peter, you told her butterflies are the most incredible creatures on earth. Really? What about king cobras? And Tommy, you said she was nicer than a butterfly? No one in the history of the world has said something that dumb, and now I’m probably stupider for hearing it. I hope I can forget it, or else my brain will be permanently messed up.” He pulled out his yo-yo and began “walking the dog.”
“Andy, first off, it’s impossible for y-y-you to get any dumber than you already are, so d-d-don’t worry about that. And no one c-c-cares if you do or don’t forget it,” Peter said. “Laurie said our words were ‘lovely,’ so that’s all that m-m-matters. And holy cow, Tommy, you sounded like a m-m-movie star. I can’t do that; there aren’t any movie stars that s-s-stutter.”
“Thanks, man,” said Tommy, slowly shaking his head in wonder. “But no one cares that you stutter, Peter. Especially Laurie.”
“That’s totally true,” said Andy. “She might think you’re weird for wearing the same green tee shirt almost every day or for burping every time you drink a Coke, but she couldn’t care less about the stuttering.” He watched his two friends grin broadly.
Tommy stopped smiling and asked, “Hey, Andy, you aren’t going to tell anyone what Peter and I said to her, right?
“No, I’d never do that. I really want to because people should know, so I’m doing you a huge favor.” Andy put his arm around Tommy’s shoulders. “Chill, dude, my lips are sealed forever. Even though you said Laurie is more beautiful and prettier and gorgeouser than butterflies. Three words that I guess mean the same thing, but they sounded kinda cool when you said them.”
“But a minute ago you said I sounded so stupid that I may have damaged your brain.”
“Yeah, forget that. I was just jealous, like Peter and Jan on The Brady Bunch.”
Judging Andy’s words sincere, Tommy glanced at both buddies. “You guys are the best friends ever.”
Peter spoke, and his gum shot out of his mouth onto the hot asphalt. He picked it up and popped it back in as if nothing had happened. “Andy, you were g-g-going to tell Laurie that you like to feed small butterflies to p-p-praying mantises that eat their heads first. You are so, so lucky she didn’t hear you. She might have c-c-cried.”
“Oh, come on, I’m not the only one who feeds butterflies to praying mantises. You guys have done that, right?”
Tommy said, “I didn’t even know praying mantises ate butterflies. I doubt they taste good.”
“Are you kidding me? Coyotes eat all the small animals in the neighborhood—do you think skunk or roadkill possum meat tastes good? Nature isn’t all about gourmet dining on Big Macs, Ho Hos, and root beer. So what if I hold butterflies close to hungry praying mantises that chow down on their heads for dinner? I know you’ve done it, too.”
“Eaten b-b-butterflies?” asked Peter.
Andy shook his head vigorously. “No, nimrod. I bet you guys have also fed bugs to praying mantises. I’m not the only one doing it—no way.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Tommy. “What place are the Angels in?”
They walked down the street in their jeans, tee-shirts, and Vans, discussing Nolan Ryan’s fastball, tarantula hawk wasps, and what their moms might serve for dinner. But later, their private contemplations returned to the human being they each considered the most remarkable girl alive.
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