all that’s left
all that’s left
My book is about a man who has sex with another man in a cemetery near a Catholic church.
My book is laced with profanity and the difficultly digested truth that darkness can worm its way through a weakened heart.
My book deals with piss and bleach and infidelity and marriage and drunkenness and slurred words and dried mascara and manipulative sex and co-dependent love and all those other things that would never work as a Facebook status or yearly Christmas letter.
My book is honest. It is real. It is humanity in its dirtiest form.
So how, then, can it be Good?
We’ve been indoctrinated to believe certain things about Goodness, especially about those who attempt to live in the name of it. They are close-minded, judgmental, bitter little individuals who would rather wallow in their self-righteousness than actually give two cents about you.
For some people is this truth? Unfortunately, yes. But is this what REAL Goodness is all about?
This is the thing: the world hurts which means we hurt. My characters are hurting in their own world. They feel disconnected and cut off and unloved. They feel alone and embarrassed in their attempts to connect. They feel scorned and hopeless.
They just want to be truly themselves and respected for it.
And my hope is that this book is a testament to what I believe. That even when things seem the most heartless and scary and downright suffocating, there are still Good people who want to lift you up and bring you to the light. They want to be the shoulder, the rock, the way. They just want to help, no strings attached.
This is what I want my book to teach. I want my writing to be a reminder that those same feelings of unworthiness boil in the bellies of all of us. And that no amount of make up and staged photos and new cars and cool clothes will ever be able to wash away that fact.
Because when we’re reminded of our humanity and seek it in others, we’re more apt to do the Good thing, the only thing: love.
I used to watch other people get published and then tweet the living crap about it on Twitter, and then I’d think God, I want to be them.
Because somewhere in my damaged brain, I had already reconciled with the fact that they were no longer human beings but gods of the universe who were given trained aliens on their publication date and these aliens would cook, clean, do the laundry, massage their feet and DVR Property Brothers for them while they were free to pleasantly market their new book.
But then I’ve suddenly become one of these gods of the universe, and as hard as I’ve searched for my aliens, the only thing I’ve found is a chewed up Lego and a tiny piece of bacon covered in dog hair.
Seriously. who cleans this place?
Instead of basking in the beautifully neon glow of an extraterrestrial, this is my godforsaken schedule on any given day:
You guys, I’m tired, I’m cranky and I’m flat out of aliens. But I’m working my ass off so my book will be READ.
Forget sales, forget curling up into Oprah’s lap while she pats my head (I’m just kidding. I could never forget something like that.), forget being what I think a published author SHOULD be.
I’m here to give you words, to change your mind, to free your heart. And I pray to God/Tony Danza, that I’ve done you justice.
Now if you don’t mind, there’s a head that needs staring at.
Look at what I did! Now you can pre-order the Kindle version of my novel, Unkept, here: http://amzn.com/B00SM090XI All the proceeds will go towards glittering cats. You have my word.
The name read: Allen Henry Buell.
Her heart, her joints, the sinewy tissue that aligned her spine popped and tore, so one moment Robin was flanked by the twins and the next she wasn’t inside her body.
She was inside her memory.
“Nothing good comes with babies,” her father had whispered when she first told him, and it was worse than if he had yelled it because Robin knew there was a tumor of disgust inside of him, and she wouldn’t be able to find it, to cut it out.
But Robin proved him wrong and gave birth to goodness personified: Eleanor Lynn.
Life was rougher but better. School (tenth grade) where the boys called her a slut, a job at Pickwick’s Pizza where the air moved heavy with oil, then to Mrs. Garrity’s next door to pick up her daughter who loved the woman with gnarled hands and a lovely voice still tinged from her British upbringing.
And then home. It was an interesting word, home, because it was where the blinds were always shut tight and the bitter taste of beer hooked her attention whenever her father said, “Trash. Needs to go out,” from back inside his cave of a bedroom. His doorway vibrated with color and sound from his always on TV set, and Robin would strap Eleanor to her chest to the beat of that noise, the baby clinging warmly against her.
She’d take the cans out in the broken ink jar of an evening and watch the stars, watch the skies for hints of her mother.
This went on for years, three to be specific. And everything was mapped out, rough but better, until the day Robin came home to find her father and daughter missing.
The past ripped through her, sewed her back together while the present battered her body like a pair of angry fists.
“You will pay,” Robin said, balancing on knees and hands in the wet cemetery grass, tempering her nausea against the bitter tang of beer in the air.
For the next part of the story, head over to My Write Side.