As some of you know, I published a book called Poets, Artists, Lovers: A Novel about a month ago. I’ve tried—and am still trying—to reach out to book bloggers for reviews, but as I gear up for other forms of promotion I’d also like to offer my novel for free to twenty readers on WordPress who enjoy literary fiction and women’s fiction and would like to read my book. Let me know your email and Amazon flavor (US, UK, etc.) and I’ll reimburse you its cost with an Amazon gift card.
PAL is about twenty- and thirty-something artists in 21st-century Romania, and their treacherous journeys to love and happiness.
Here’s an excerpt:
Costineşti, August 1993, almost eight years earlier. [. . .] [Sixteen-year-old] Anca returned to Costineşti that summer on her own; Marcel was away visiting his grandparents in Sighişoara. She occupied part of her time by roaming the alleys and promenade in the deafening sound of dance music blaring through the resort. The third day there, she was approached by a guy selling cassettes with psychedelic and progressive rock, blues and blues rock, and folk music, all British and American.
“Care to change the music?” the vendor asked, spotting Anca’s silken black hair and her slender silhouette in the crowd.
“Pretty much,” Anca responded, amused. “What do you have?”
“The crème de la crème of 1960s and 1970s rock and folk, and some blues,” he said, taken with Anca’s expressive eyes, green with flecks of hazel.
“Surprise me,” Anca said, basking in the stranger’s searching gaze.
“Okay . . . how about The Doors?” the vendor asked with a lopsided smile. “The Doors of Perception . . .”
Anca looked at him questioningly.
Pamfil, the vendor, gave a small laugh. “It’s a book by Aldous Huxley—who himself lifted the phrase from a poem by William Blake. Aldous Huxley is the one who wrote Brave New World. He took mescaline and entered mind-expanding trances. It inspired Jim Morrison to call his band The Doors—given that he aimed to be such a shamanic figure himself.” He then played a few songs by the Los Angeles band for her. They had Anca hooked—and stumped as to where to listen to that kind of music some more.
“You can come to my place,” Pamfil said, appraising her waifish silhouette. “I’m here with friends from the Conservatory,” he went on. “One of them left early, so we have a free bed. That way you can listen to everything.”
“You a musician?” Anca asked, suddenly very interested in Pamfil.
“I play the violin,” he responded with a smile, happy to see in her warm gaze that she might appreciate classical music as well. “So, are you coming?” he asked after a moment of reverie.
“To my place. To stay with us.”
“Okay,” Anca said, bringing her hands together with a clap in a thank-you gesture.
Pamfil smiled, charmed by her enthusiasm. “It’s a deal, then. I’ll tell the guys you’re coming.”
Anca smiled back, delighted. “Okay.”
With Pamfil and his music, Anca discovered a different intensity of being alive. She twirled in the room like a girl turning into a woman by magic as she listened to The Doors to her heart’s content, and several times she took that energy outside the dorm while playing their songs in her head. She didn’t know what to make of Jim Morrison’s poetry, but, like koans, his verse left her hovering in a space where she could receive new meanings and feelings.
She also fell in love with Joan Baez, and at noon, when Pamfil was selling his tapes and his friends were away for lunch, she went with determination after the folk musician’s soaring inflections, besotted with her purity of voice, richness of tone, the joy that swelled and ebbed in her music as she tackled sad stories, and her talent as a guitar player.
And then there was Led Zeppelin. Anca played their ballads over and over again, feeling them weave their way in, more beguiling with each turn and return, until they erupted from the pit of her stomach in bursts of guitar, voice, and drums. She couldn’t have enough of Jimmy Page’s guitar-picking and Robert Plant’s whispering and caterwauling, of all the drumming, strumming, screaming, and wailing.
Anca’s soul was metamorphosing in contact with this new music, and Pamfil kept the process going by supplying her with information and new songs. In the mornings, as she did stretching exercises, he provided the aural background, and in the evenings, as they took walks together, he introduced her to stories from the lives of her newly favorite musicians as well as from Woodstock—that four-day festival of August 1969, with its hundreds of thousands of flower-power hippies and the amazing lineup of musicians in their midst regaling them with some of the best rock and folk music of the late sixties, and capturing, as they did so, much of the spirit of that period. Anca soaked it all in, feeling, in turns, entranced, excited, and achingly happy.
And here’s the book. Again, email me and I’ll send you an Amazon gift card so you can read the book for free.