ADULTERY AND OPIUM DREAMS...

Hello World.

A heartfelt mahalo! (thank you) to readers who have purchased my new ebook collection, OPIUM DREAMS, PACIFIC STORIES, Volume III, a sequel to my previous collections HOUSE OF SKIN PRIZE-WINNING STORIES, and CANNIBAL NIGHTS, PACIFIC STORIES, Volume II.

First off, Huge Olas! and Kudos to Kathleen Valentine, of Valentine Designs, for the extraordinary cover. The author's voice is still the most important part of a book, but a beautiful book cover is what first draws readers. (If you're wondering why the peacock feather, you have to read the title story.)

Like my earlier collections, OPIUM DREAMS comprises tales set in islands across the Pacific ocean, portraits of men and women struggling with the same universal issues as people around the globe: Survival, dignity, identity. This volume speaks more of love in all its dark, tragic and even hilarious manifestations. Three of the stories deal with adultery.

Ah, ADULTERY... How many of us marrieds or have-beens have feared it, confronted it, even indulged in it? It can turn betrayed wives into salivating she-jackals, or calm, cold-eyed killers. Still, betrayed husbands seem to fare much worse. An adulterous husband is usually only temporarily reverting to the 'pack,' scatter-shooting his seed, and whooping it up. (80% of them come home, begging for forgiveness.)

But an adulterous wife suggests the blunt force of a loose cannon, an uncontrollable entity, her hormones and pheromones running amuck. And worse, it suggests an impotent husband, a man who can't please his wife, can't get it up, or keep it up. Women are erotic forces of nature. We embody sex all over - eyes, lips, breasts, butts, vaginas - whereas male sexuality seems tied up in that one organ...and here is precisely where a wife's adultery hits men. Their sense of masculinity is shattered.

(Call me crazy, but that kind of vulnerability should make us love them even more.) In the end, sex is always trouble. We are lost in the collision. Logic and conscience evaporate. That's why sex often gets a bad rap. It's too pleasurable, too powerful. And so we seek love, that milder form of lust. It steers us away from our genitals. We ascend to a more spiritual level, and give our baser drives a break.

A few words about love and lust in my collection, OPIUM DREAMS:

In the story "Night of the Worm," set in Western Samoa, a philandering husband who annually trysts with white women tourists, is suddenly threatened when his ungainly wife attracts the attentions of an Englishman, who falls in love, teaches her to waltz, and endows her with a 'majesty.' Only with the threat of permanently losing her, does the husband finally see her beauty and her worth. ***(A few years ago, I lived at the Vaisala Hotel in Western Samoa, and watched a similar story unfold.)

"Opium Dreams," a semi-novella, is set in an earlier century in Hawaii, and is a meditation on father-daughter love, or the lack of it, and how an unloved daughter plunges into opium addiction and suicide. It is also a glimpse into the 19th century opium-dens of Chinatown in Honolulu, how immigrants fleeing starvation in China ended up as addicts whose bones were used for fodder in the canefields.
A parallel story is that of a paniolo, a Hawaiian cowboy who has killed his beautiful wife for committing adultery, not understanding that polygamy was part of her Cowichan culture. His life is reduced to years of grief and guilt, until he is redeemed by the love of a boy, and a stranger.

"Maoritanga" is set in Aotearoa (Maori word for New Zealand). The portrait of a Maori woman mired in grief for her brother who dies in combat in the Gulf War, and how that grief drags her into years of drift, prostitution, even murder. Only the love of her clan resurrects her, and restores in her a sense of 'Maoritanga," Maori pride.

***(For several months while visiting Maori friends, I lived at a hotel in Auckland, New Zealand, patterned after Manners in the story. It was a haunt for young prostitutes from Asia and the Pacific Islands who had run away from home. The story is based on events that occured while I was living there: A Maori friend who lost a brother in the Gulf War, the murder of a pimp, the suicide of a young girl, and a playful shark that kept reappearing near the town of Te Kaha.)

"Bullets Over Hollywood" is another story of adultery. A mix-blood Hawaiian discovers her husband's mistress, tries to burn down her home, shoots up her teenage children's beds, and flees back to the islands, where she hides out with a friend who dwells on her own ex-husband's adultery. This is not just a story of betrayal. It is also a tale of a woman who has lost her identity through marriage and motherhood. Only a tragedy - a horror every woman dreads - saves her marriage, and helps her rediscover herself, and her ambitions. ***(Based on a true story, and the life of a dear friend.)

"The Speed of Light" takes place, not in the Pacific, but in the state of Georgia. A handsome mix-blood Hawaiian enters a small, bigotted Southern town and, forced to live on charity, infuses people's lives with poetry and magic. As he begins to die, people come to understand who, and what, he is. In that realization, they learn tolerance and acceptance. And a particularly bigotted and homophobic redneck learns what love is. ***(This story is based on the life of my beloved cousin, Will.)

It is easy to write about love. And very hard. We search, and find it, and lose it, and search again. The human comedy. Cliches abound. Still, our stories are important, and unique. Because love, the search for it, the failure of it, and especially the loss of it, is how we progress and mature, how we attain an inner nobility. An aristocracy of the heart.

CALL ME HUN

Hello, World. I've been thinking how for years book reviewers called Stephen King's novels 'trash.' King has described facing those critics: "I publish a book and I feel like a trapper caught by the Iroquois. They line up with tomahawks and I run the gamut while they whack me in my head, my back, my balls." Of course, by now most critics have acknowledged King as 'ahead of his time, something of a genius.' Still, I expect those tomahawk scars remain.

Is THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION trash? THE GREEN MILE? They are magnificent works, classics now, about the heart and soul of man, his eternal quest for truth and freedom. Each time I read them, I have wept. If they are 'trash,' then so is MOBY DICK, my favorite darling of all novels. Yet when MOBY DICK was first published, book reviewers called it a "depressing over-long tale about misfit sailors and a fish." Oh, my.

In their early years of writing, Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov, were ghettoized as writers of 'sci-fi trash' by book reviewers. Ditto, Eric Ambler, a 'writer of thriller trash,'who is now considered the founding father of brilliant espionage novels. Yet in their later years, each writer was inundated with literary accolades, declaring them geniuses. The wisdom of hindsight? Well, what about foresight? Who is to say what 'trash' and what is 'literature'?

Here is a brilliant description of book reviewers. "They are the ones who approach the battlefield in full body-armor, then stand on the side lines. And when the battle is over, they walk around shooting all the wounded." Lovely. For, how many book reviewers have labored for years over a novel? How many have lived below the poverty line while trying to convey the achings of their minds, their hearts, their souls? Not many. In fairness, sometimes reviewers change their minds. Ten years later they might deign to take a second look at a novel, see it with 'fresh eyes' and give it a semi-rave review. Of course by then, the author has died stark raving mad, after eating his children.

In the past, I have respected certain book reviewers. They gave us guidelines, they were the sentries at the gates, warding off 'mediocre works of low culture,' and of 'trash.' Alas! I see them now as an endangered species, fading into yesteryear along with so much of the traditional publishing industry. Why? Because book reviewers now have a very short shelf life. Their prestigious newspapers and magazines have a short shelf life. Compare that to the chatter about a book on the Internet.

Millions of readers now browse digitally delivered reader-reviews on Amazon and other venues, where uber-clusters of conversation sizzle back and forth between readers and readers, and between authors and their readers. This global digital populace is radically transforming the reviewing of fiction, and simultaneously the recommendations of other books, and promoting the purchasing of those books. In short, they have effected a whole new revolution in book marketing. To use an already hackneyed phrase...the playing field has been leveled. Book readers are now the arbiters of taste.

Readers are omnivores. We are now adept at switch-hitting with the push of a button from 'high lit' to 'low lit' from ebook to audio to print. What we look for in a book is what other readers look for: some kind of primal narrative engagement that makes us feel less alone, some little truth or assurance that characters in novels are as lonely, as insecure, as we are. We want to pick up a book that does not insult us, that makes us grow a little, and maybe end up a little wiser, a little kinder. And we want to express our appreciation(or condemnation) in our OWN online reviews.

Perhaps what we read is not a perfect book, but we give it a 3 or 4 star review because it speaks to us, and because we want to encourage the author, give him or her more time to grow and hone their talent. Reading, like writing, is a leap into the unknown, which makes it terribly exciting. Of course, not all books are great. Some are less than good. But I believe any book written with the naked drive of the writer's heart and soul deserves a chance.

Life is messy, so why should books not be messy and a little awkward? And as for reader reviews, some are amateur, even embarrassing, but like writers themselves, I believe that the more readers review books, the more accomplished they will become at judging what is good and what is mediocre, and how better to express that.

One could call this the Democratization of reading, writing, and reviewing. I call it a REVOLUTION in book marketing. I call it a long overdue recognition of the intelligence and taste of our READERS.

For the old-line critics and book reviewers, the 'keepers of the literary flame,' it must seem a scary time. Vulgarians are destroying their Ivory Towers. The Huns are storming the gates. As an author, and avid reader, and online book-reviewer, how do I feel about this shattering of old-time 'ethics,' this revolutionary and brave new world?

RAY BRADBURY, GENIUS

Hello, World.

Ray Bradbury, our Poet Laureate of space quest, died on June 6. He was 91 years old. On June 5, here in Hawaii we had a ringside seat to the Transit of Venus across the sun. I like to think that little dot I saw thru the telescope, dallying across the face of the sun, was Bradbury's soul. While his body slowly declined here on earth, his higher being was already voyaging into the galaxy.

He was a genius, a poet, a lightning-rod for writers, scientists, anyone who believed we humans were put here on earth to be witnesses and dreamers. That it was in our DNA to strive for the next dimension, the next star. He believed that the universe required this of us. "The Stars are Our Destiny," he said. And he was the beacon who guided us there.

When the Apollo astronauts were preparing for the first landing on the moon, Ray Bradbury was the man they asked to meet. And when they landed on the moon, Ray Bradbury was the one man Walter Kronkite asked to interview. He consented to the interview, and across the air waves and the ethers, the world listened as Bradbury wept. His dreams, his forecasts, had come true.

Novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, poet, he gave us works of genius: The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and hundreds of stories that changed our way of thinking about man's future in this galaxy, this universe. He predicted personal computers, Banking ATMs, earbuds, Bluetooth headsets, and most importantly, the concept of Artificial Intelligence.

He reshaped our minds, our culture, and expanded our world. He was the Godfather of science-fiction, the wizard who inspired Speilberg, Star Wars and every book, movie or comic book that followed.

"What are we doing on earth?" he asked. "We are here to be the audience to the magnificent. We are the witnesses to the miracle of the universe. We were put here by creation, by God, by the cosmos, whatever name you choose. But we are here. And, we too, are a miracle."

He said it was our duty to question, and to dream. To make the impossible, possible. Make each moment a Eureka moment. It was our job to celebrate. And to create.

FAREWELL, INTERCOURSE

Hello World.

My mind was recently blown when I read about THE FAREWELL INTERCOURSE LAW, an antiquated law in Egypt, whereby a husband is legally allowed to have sex with his wife for up to six hours after her death. Necrophilia,anyone??? The law was established generations(centuries?)ago to support the Islamist belief that marriage extends beyond this life. Today it is highly controversial, and many Egyptian women are marching to abolish it. To date, the Islamist-dominated Egyptian Parliament remains divided. Men can still have their way with dead wives as long as they observe the time-limit. Tick tock. Tick tock.

More radical segments of Egyptian women are calling a moratorium on marriage, refusing to consider a proposal until THE FAREWELL INTERCOURSE LAW is abolished. And even divorced women are vowing celibacy, not to marry again. They are calling themselves a word I can't pronounce or spell, but its the Egyptian equivalent of BORN-AGAIN VIRGINS.

Which brings me to the same CELIBATE-BY-CHOICE movement which seems to be gaining momentum here in the US, especially AMONGST WRITERS. No kidding. I did a recent survey of men and women divided equally, and 19 out of 20 writers queried were not having sex. At all. By choice. Maybe its the way life has speeded up in our cyber-age, or the recession, or the trickle-down fear of AIDS, but writers say they just don't have the time for sex these days. Or the energy. Or the inclination. I'm talking about men as well as women.

I asked half a dozen female friends, now hardcore BORN-AGAIN VIRGINS, how long their sexual abstinence would last, and four of them said 'indefinitely because curbing their hormones made them feel empowered.' The other two said they wanted to stay sex-free until they finished their next novels, which could be three-four years from now. Oh, my. These are not wrinkled, man-hating crones, they're sexy, vibrant women in their 30's,40's, 50's and 60's. (And one in her 70's, a former Born-Again Cougar).

Yes, the notion of celibacy is as old as Lysistrata but it seems to have taken on a new urgency for writers. It sounds dismal but its true, almost every male and female writer I talk to seems to be dropping out of the 'game.' My cousin, Tom, just spent five years completing his first novel, under contract with a big publisher. The same week he completed it, he started his next novel. And his wife filed for divorce.

She rightfully complained that for five years, 95% of Tom's energy went toward the novel, the other 5% went toward the kids. There was nothing left for her. "I was always exhausted," Tom says, then he says something more interesting. "But I noticed that the longer I went without sex, the BETTER my writing got." Now he's vowed to go without sex until completion of his next novel. Where will it end???

Wait a minute. What about those unexpected times when we're hunched at the keyboard and get hit with the 'urge,' when our eyeballs glaze with remembrance of sexual encounters past. Every BORN-AGAIN VIRGIN I talked to, men or women, had the same response. "No problem! I just take care of it myself, and I'm back at the keyboard in ten minutes." Oh. So they're not complete sexual teetotalers...they're onanists. Do-it-yourselfer's. (But, isn't masturbation sex?)

Let me say I believe in recharging one's batteries and one's spirit after a divorce, a disastrous relationship, or when you've been around the track too fast, too often. A lot of us remember the mindless, coked-up sex of the 80's and 90's that left us feeling numb, brain-dead and sometimes...dirty. But we grew up. We became selective. We fell seriously in love. Then out of love. But part of life is searching for that thrill again, even if its just a fantasy. We have to have that childlike gullibility, the blind belief in love and lust and passion and hate, or else the characters we create won't have it either. Without it, we're not really writers. We are cynics.

OK, its one thing to 'save yourself,' until the right man or woman comes along. Then opt to make the leap again, to take the chance. But serious BORN-AGAIN VIRGINS,again, including men, have the lifted-fist zeal of marching fanatics. They have a code: No dating. No kissing or petting. No eyeballing from across a crowded room. Nothing! Then there are the SEMI-BORN-AGAIN VIRGINS. Those who say you can date, and kiss and pet. But they draw the line at penetration. WHAT!!!??? In my personal lexicon, that is NOT abstaining. That is c-ckteasing. Or, in the case of anti-penetration men...c-ntteasing. It begins to sound rather cheezy.

I want to keep this on a semi-serious plane. I do believe that the total avoidance of sex really means an avoidance of all the emotional baggage between men and women that always causes troubles. Different hormones, different expectations. It's true, and I speak from experience, when you're celibate for a while, you really do feel fresh, renewed and clear-eyed. Its easier to sift the losers and the cads out of the human herd. It's when sex rears its head again, trouble seems to start. (But hey, men and women are different species, we've always known that. Just because you're having explosive sex with someone doesn't mean you're in the same zipcode emotionally.)

But, getting back to writers: We're in a frightening profession. For many of us, income is non-existent, or erratic, at best. There is the day-to-day pressure to produce, to hustle, to compete, to try to make the rent. Its especially competitive in this digital age, where some e-writers are producing a book a month. So, yes, in such a climate, sex might come in second, or even last.

Abstinence among writers is more common than we realize: most writers are probably on sexual sabbatical when they're deep into the writing of a book. We just don't announce it to the world! But it is not the same as banner-waving, trumpet-blowing BORN-AGAIN VIRGINS. These are people who are abdicating for other reasons, usually a broken heart, a broken marriage, low self-esteem. It seems to me they are swearing off something other than sex...they are swearing off all things emotional, which is a form of closing down, of psychic death.

Sex is how we got here. Its who we are. Its in our hormones and pheromones. It IS our hormones and pheromones. It makes us loose cannons, uncontrollable variables. Every act of sex is a truce. Another form of longing. It's very scary. But a deeper form of sex is love. It is what is required to finish the unfinished life. It is what renders us visible.

Humans are frightening things. That's why we need the touch of other humans. What comes from that touching is called life.

And we need to LIVE as well as write. So abstain all you need to. But don't shut down your heart.

EATING HER AFTERBIRTH

Hello World.

I wish I could blog more often than once or twice a month. I admire those who can. But I am in the midst of a new collection of stories and two novels, and don't have the brain capacity to juggle more than that. Nonetheless...

I've stopped work just now and am writing this blog because readers keep sending me articles about the growing trend of new mothers who are consuming their placentas as nutritional, post-childbirth snacks. This is a fascinating subject, but I am puzzled as to why readers think I should WRITE A NOVEL ABOUT IT. I have lately been sent photos of a big, liverish textured mass with a blue tinge about ten inches in diameter merrily bubbling away in a stew pot with ginger, lemon, garlic and jalapeno peppers. Yes, a placenta. But don't faint. For centuries women in diverse cultures around the world have consumed their placentas, which are chockful of vitamins, minerals and all that good stuff.

Consumption of placenta also alleviates postpartum depression, aids in breastmilk production, acts as a uterine tonic, and replaces lost nutrients. Suddenly, after centuries as a counter-culture practice, eating one's afterbirth has gone mainstream in the U.S.A. It's called PLACENTOPHAGIA, the practice of placenta consumption. Now, placentas have always carried a special spiritual significance to many peoples. In my Hawaiian culture, the placenta was often buried under a tree, so the newborn child would always find its way home. Or it was carried out beyond the reef as an offering to our gods, so they would always protect the child. Or, it was consumed.

And by the way, my state of Hawaii was the first state to explicitly require that hospitals allow women to take their placentas home. New York and Nevada followed. It is now becoming a
womens rights issue: OUR BODIES, OUR PLACENTAS. In ancient Egypt, the placenta had its own hieroglyph. Some African tribes treat the placenta like a child's dead twin with formal burial rites.

In my forthcoming novel, THE SPY LOVER (August) a Chinese-Creek Indian woman consumes her own placenta raw, after giving birth in the wilds. A common practice of Chinese of earlier eras. (By now, I'm sure men have their fingers down their throats. But think about it, we eat animal livers, hearts, brains, intestines. Some humans consume other humans. Yes, even today.)

These various articles I have received explain how, once the afterbirth is cooked it resembles a healthy hunk of liver, or even well-done brisket, to be cut up just like meat. Or chopped up and thrown in salads. Or freeze-dried, ground up to powder and put into pill capsules. They are even throwing chopped placenta into smoothies. All right, enough. You can Google Placenta Benefits for more info.

My point in writing about placenta-consumption going mainstream is, again, because of the many readers writing to me, suggesting I write a NOVEL ABOUT IT. Again, though I find the growing trend fascinating, I myself am not a placenta-eater. I am not personally engaged in the practice. It does not engage my interest enough to write an entire novel about it. As all good writers know, you don't have to experience every sensation in life to write about it. But YOU MUST BE PASSIONATELY ENGAGED with the subject matter. You must feel driven to write about it. I'm sure some passionate, talented man or woman will eventually write a brilliant book about
placentophagia, a gorgeous meditation on life in the 21st century, how we lived and died and fractured and loved, and consumed our own body parts. Alas, it won't be me.

In the same way I would not write a novel (another request from my readers!!) about Trent Devereaux, alias, Trentdog, the man who is currently donating his fresh sperm on the Internet. This is a legitimate form of philanthropy. I believed it's been OKed by the FDA, and he has posted dozens of photos of babies born to couples who have been the recipient's of Trent's free sperm. I support his generosity and his sperm, one hundred percent. Trentdog, you rock! The man is a hero in a way. He has changed the lives of dozens of infertile couples. You can read his blogs about being a 35 year-old virgin, and masturbating (with insatiable zeal, it seems) for the good of infertile couples across America.

Again, I'm sure inevitably someone will write an epic of gorgeous, profound, randy and visionary prose about marathon, onanistic fresh sperm-donors and their offspring (perhaps some of whom are females who consume their placenta.) It sounds like a fabulous, lusty work of art. I would look forwarding to reading it. But not writing it.

The reason is simple, one of the basic tenets of good writing, something I have often hammered into writing students: YOU HAVE TO WRITE FROM THE HEART. YOU HAVE TO HAVE ONE BIG, TRUE THING YOU ARE DYING TO TELL THE WORLD. Readers are more intelligent than we give them credit for. They know when we are scamming. Its passion in the writing that makes readers want to turn every page. If passion is missing, the words lies stillborn. A soporific read. This is how we lose readers.

For this reason, I advise against writing novels that piggyback cultural trends (eating afterbirth, donating free sperm) in the hopes of achieving a bestseller. This happens about one time out of a thousand. Better to build up a fine list of novels written from your heart, in your own unique voice, culled from your particular DNA. It will give you your signature in the world of readers.

Every novel doesn't have to be MOBY DICK or NAKED LUNCH. Genre is fine, mysteries, thrillers, romances are fine. Just make sure you pack passion into the work. And authenticity. Yes, research. Sometimes a whole day of online research will net you only two sentences you can use. But those two sentence may give your voice an authority that's otherwise missing. It will lead your reader to TRUST you.

Be relentlessly descriptive. Use details from every sense you possess. If you talk about food, make your reader drool. If you talk about nostalgic rock, think aural, make your reader envision Pink Floyd's lunatic in the hall. Or Mick Jagger's spangled, pillow-lips. Recently I read a bio about that too-soon dead genius, Luciano Pavarotti. The writing was graphic and brilliant because the author described Pavarotti's very viscera when he sang, the way his legs trembled, the way sweat poured off him in cataracts. I was so swept away, I dragged out the tequila and turned on Puccini's TURANDOT full-blast. I mean, the walls shuddered. I mean, I wept. THAT is passionate writing.

Speaking of great passion, let me detour here slightly to direct you to Tu'a Pupu'a, the 6'6" Tongan football player who sustained a terrible injury, retired from the NFL, and took up (believe it!) opera singing. He's a huge, beautiful speciman of a man, with a miraculous voice, and has become the new reigning tenor of the opera world. His depth and range are unbelievable.

Seriously, please check out Tu'a Pupu'a on YOUTUBE, performing from Puccini's 'TOSCA.' Your mind will be forever blown!!!! He's huge, sings like Pavarotti, and is a true Polynesian native. As a Polynesian myself, my heart bursts with pride. He possesses what I wish forever for myself, and for each of you.

GREAT PASSION

MARRIED TO THE HIT MAN

Hello World.

Recently a writer friend called and, with jolly sarcasm, asked me, "How does it feel to be married to the hit man?" I had to sit down on that one. Then I had to backtrack. Several months ago, Businessweek Magazine ran a lead article and photograph of Larry Kirshbaum, once powerful and well-liked Chairman and CEO of The Warner Book Group in New York City. The article was headlined "AMAZON'S HIT MAN."

Back in May, 2011, Amazon announced they had hired this same Larry Kirshbaum to run Amazon Publishing, their new New York based imprint aimed at publishing fiction and non-fiction books which would hopefully rival traditional (or legacy) publishers, i.e., the Big Six. Well. Kirshbaum was instantly reviled as a "turncoat," a man who had "sold out," who had "gone over to the dark side." The venom and rancor and name-calling will no doubt volley back and forth for several years, as we are in the midst of a major battle while the tectonic plates of publishing heave and shift, and change the industry, and perhaps our lives, forever.

Insiders are calling it the Legacy Wars, pitching Amazon – the upstart, the innovative toughie – against the century-old NewYork publishing world, so lagging behind in foresight, efficiency, in equitable author's rights. So sadly in need of CHANGE. This escalating bloodbath has left writers with the sensation of a temporal-spatial deficit disorder: Unsure of where we stand in this, we don't know who to root for, who to condemn, or where to turn. We don't know our right foot from our left. Yes, it's war. And Kirshbaum, the penultimate New York publisher, has gone over to Amazon, the "enemy. "

(In his defense, the forward-thinking Kirshbaum was predicting the advent of electronic books – even attempting to launch an electronic reader – a decade before anyone else in the industry.)

So, what I wonder is this: if he is a turncoat, a traitor, what does that say about authors like me, and Joe Konrath, and Barry Eisler, and a dozen other authors formerly published by the Big Six, who have crossed over and contracted for their next book (digital and print) with...Amazon. Eisler, a perennial bestseller, says he is now accused of "shilling" for Amazon. Joe Konrath, another bestseller, is a millionaire (or very close), thanks to his self-published books and to Amazon. He's smart and hilarious and supports Amazon, and doesn't give a damn what the world thinks.

But some of us are not yet that successful, not that well-known. Nancy Pearl, the librarian/author who had signed with Amazon talks of the outpouring of vitriol on her Facebook and Twitter. Some of my acquaintances have stopped talking to me, legacy-published diehards who see Amazon as a drooling succubus that will ultimately devour all of publishing, then all of human civilization as we know it. A former friend called me a sellout and a slut. Oh, my.

In fact, I did not exactly cross over; I was catapulted. I will not reiterate the whole sordid story of how, against their contractual obligations, Penguin Publishing terminated my book contract for my forthcoming novel, simply because I self-published two story collections, HOUSE OF SKIN and CANNIBAL NIGHTS on Amazon Kindle, their arch-enemy (the editor's words.) This, in spite of the fact that several years back Penguin had turned down these same prize-winning stories as a collection. For those of you unfamiliar with the background of this psycho-drama, please see my blog post "SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY." August 25, 2011.

I had, in fact, stopped giving interviews about this fiasco. How I ended up on the front lines of this legacy war, I still do not know. Surely, I am not the first author to be fired by a publisher. I wanted it behind me. If there was media-attention to be had, I hoped it would be focused on my forthcoming novel.

Alas. Reporters have their own agendas. They continue to write articles about my struggles with Penguin, speculating on why it happened, who was right and who was wrong, and would we go to court. Erroneous facts are reported. Wrong assumptions made. Wrong conclusions drawn. So... in answer to the hundreds of queries sent me and the amazingly supportive responses to my 8/25/11 blog (from as far away as Scotland, Sweden, Ukraine) asking how this tragi-comedy played out, did I pay back the advance? what happened to my book? here is my response, my attempt at closure. Only now am I able to discuss it publicly. And then I hope I can put it to rest. (Though I will answer any queries.)

In the end - after reviewing contracts and all correspondence – a brilliant attorney, Jan Constantine, Legal Counsel for the Author's Guild, agreed that I had fulfilled all my contractual obligations to Penguin. I had done nothing illegal. Therefore they had no grounds to terminate me. If I were rich and brave, I would have dragged them into court and sued them. (Which would have taken years, huge sums of money, and possibly left me brain-dead.) Instead, I took the high road and repaid the $20,000 partial advance Penguin demanded back, until which time they were holding my novel hostage.

As a result of that blog posting, "SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY," Amazon Publishing approached me and invited me to consider publishing my novel with them. Several other Big Six publishers also approached me, offering to publish the book. One was an editor I have corresponded with and like very much. But here is the thing: they were still offering the same old, outmoded book contract, with the same anachronistic terms and royalties that have kept authors in bondage for decades. The same old 15-page contracts written in micro-script (that even under a magnifying glass weirdly resembles Urdu) to intentionally befuddle authors and keep them ignorant and infantile. The same old twice-annual royalty statements that are often illogical, erroneous and require auditors. (After such an auditing, one friend found her publisher has shortchanged her on her royalty statement by...ten thousand books.)

So this is why I chose to sign a contract with Amazon Publishing. Because the Senior Acquisitions Editor, Andy Bartlett, is extremely articulate, a lover of books, with a Ph.D. in Literature. Because he carefully read my manuscript, then spent hours (literally) discussing with me what he loved about the book, and how he envisioned marketing it in the U.S. and globally. And because...Amazon's royalty rates ( especially for ebooks) are exactly TWICE what New York publishers offer. And because they consulted me every step along the way while drawing up my contract.

Because...they discussed with me when to release my book digitally (before or simultaneously with print.) Because... of their swift production time. Because...they have consulted with me on pricing, packaging, the title, the cover. Because...their non-compete clause allows me to continue self-publishing on Kindle if I choose. Because...their contract is only six (6!) pages long, and completely comprehensible. Because...of their incredible global marketing push. And again, because of a constantly accessible, articulate, compassionate editor. In short, they made me an offer I could not refuse.

My novel, THE SPY LOVER, will be published by Amazon's Thomas & Mercer in August, 2012.

Sound too good to be true? Perhaps. In spite of all of the above, I am still holding my breath. Why? Because Amazon IS a goliath. It's exclusive, and potentially threatening to the livelihood of bookstores, to competitors, and even the publishing industry as we know it. Yes, Amazon is radically and ingeniously innovative, it's considerate of its authors, and its readers. It does not overprice its books. Still, it's in danger of becoming a monopoly and needs strong, healthy competition. Which is why, in spite of being axed by Penguin, in spite of having felt temporarily desperate and futureless, I do NOT wish to see traditional publishers, the Big Six, fail. I do not wish to see them collapse as many people, even industry insiders, predict.

When I look at New York publishing right now, it's like watching the crew repainting the deck chairs on the Titanic. What publishers need to do is wake up, save themselves! Adapt to the new demands of consumers and authors. In short, they desperately need to REFORM. Reduce their outrageously high digital and print book prices, radically edit and alter their book contracts so they no longer resemble the Dead Sea Scrolls, so incomprehensible and insulting to authors. Improve their digital royalties to authors, give authors more control over packaging, titles, book covers. Yes , I would like to see the Big Six publishers give Amazon a run for their money. We live in a democracy, we THRIVE on healthy competition.

For some things it's too late. I see bookstores across the country back-flipping into bankruptcy, and I mourn. Wherever I have lived, Hawaii, New York City, bookstores have always been my sanctuaries, my oases. And I still love the printed page, curling up with novels swollen with age and weather. I love highlighting passages, and writing in margins, arguing with the author. I cherish a first edition of JANE EYRE that still smells of my mother's perfume and transports me to the happiest year of my childhood. But - when I need a book or a reference fast, I turn to my Kindle reader. It instantly grounds me, informs me, and places me solidly in this digital time-warp state of mind we call the Present. We have all emerged from the vortex as hybrids and pragmatists. (Except for twenty year-olds who don't remember the printed page.)

What, you might ask, have I learned from my recent, daunting experience in publishing, my personal Ground Zero? Until Penguin fired me I was incredibly naive. I looked upon writing as a 'holy calling,' forgetting that it was also a business, MY business, my only source of income. Now I look upon writing with a rather jaundiced, wary eye. I look for the bottom line. I now know that writers need to be quicker, shrewder and, most importantly, contractually and technologically hip. And I know that I will never be caught on a publisher's hit-list again. In short, I suspect I've gone rogue: the dreamy writer with the 'holy calling,' has morphed into a quasi-savvy entrepreneurial techie-nerd with attitude.

Now, it is virtually a given that books as we know them are passe. Electronics rule. A very scary concept for traditional publishers unless they adapt, and soon. But (to quote Joe Konrath) books and electronics are only delivery systems. The important thing is still CONTENT. And writers are still the ones who provide the content. So it seems to me that there are two supremely important elements in publishing that have been ignored in this elitist, tragi-musical-comedy called the Legacy Wars.

1) The writers, who provide the content. And 2) Our blessed readers, who purchase the content. Publishing is NOTHING without writers and readers, and publishers seem to have forgotten that, or intentionally ignored it. Perhaps because they are the middlemen, the ones who are most dispensable. Larry Kirshbaum has said that his goal at Amazon is to innovate in ways to help everyone in the industry. "We are trying to create a tide that will float all boats."

A noble goal. I hope he succeeds. And, yes, I do support him. But let's leave boats and tides and ego-stroking battles to the middlemen, and concentrate on one cardinal, time-tested truth:

Whether we are self-published, Amazon-published, or legacy-published, the axis of the planet still shifts in our favor. Writers are not the ones caught in the crosshairs of irrelevance. Civilizations still depend on us to fire up their synapses, they still depend on our intensity, our intelligence, our personal decodings of truth and beauty and horror and hope. No matter who wins the publishing wars, or any war, THE WORLD STILL NEEDS, WILL ALWAYS NEED, WRITERS.

We are still the recording angels, the divining rods. We are still sitting in the catbird seat. God bless us all.

LAUGH, CRY, HATE, LOVE...

Hello World.

We writers constantly shortchange ourselves. We seldom read for pure enjoyment or to escape daily tedium. Instead we ' research, ' hoping facts will gave a book credibility, OR we surgically dissect a runaway bestseller to 'see how the author did it,' OR we read the classics year after year (Tolstoy, Faulkner, Hemingway...yawn) hoping their brilliance will rub off on us. I can quote ANNA KARENINA and ABSALOM, ABSALOM backwards and forwards, but I am not any wiser about human nature than I was at university. And I still don't know why we are programmed to remember pain, (except that without it, we would not have Art.) Consequently, I am learning that...

At some point in life we wise up. We LIGHTEN up. With ebooks now so accessible and reasonably priced, I've begun to read authors I never heard of, because they were recommended and I might enjoy (!) them, or their titles are intriguing, or because I'm curious about an unfamiliar culture, or medical term. And I read as a way of supporting and cheering on the new digerati, self-publishing pioneers.

Here are a few books I read in 2011 that I enjoyed and recommend. They might shock you, make you laugh, make you cry. They might enlighten you. They might make you want to forgive your father, your mother, your ex-wife-or-husand, your ex-partner, and maybe even look for love again.

DO TAMPONS TAKE YOUR VIRGINITY? by Marie Simas. Kindle, $4.99 (The sequel is entitled DOUCHEBAG ROULETTE!) I bought it because the title is outrageous, but the downloaded sample showed there was good writing here. ( An perennial Amazon bestseller.) A gut-wrenching memoir about a Catholic Portuguese-American family in California's Central Valley. A dysfunctional family with a brutal father. With jaw-dropping candor, Marie describes her youth: a headstrong daughter who refused to bow down to a sadistic, sociopathic father who beat her frequently, relentlessly kicked her, even broke her tailbone, and who continually raped her mother even when she was dying of cancer. This was a man beset by demons, who obviously needed psychiatric help. The Catholic church with its misogynistic preachings and double standards only further fed his sociopathy.

Yes, rough stuff, here. But as I read I saw this memoir as a catharsis, a purging of the rage and sorrow Marie held in as a girl. Somehow she kept her mordant humor. There are hilarious passages, and tender ones, too. At 15 she loses her virginity to a boy who then deserts her. Her heart-tbreak is 'worse than all the years of beatings.' She matures into a foul-mouthed waitress, who uses and abuses men. Surprise. But there is a strong will to survive and achieve embedded in this girl. After years of struggle, on her own she earns a college degree. She becomes a respected professional, eventually a successful mother and writer. In the end you want fireworks and marching bands for her. In simple, powerful prose Simas has given us a tale of survival, of triumph over tragedy. It's shocking and poetic and tragic, and finally uplifting. You might weep, you won't forget it.

UNRAVELING ANNE. by Laurel Saville. Amazon Encore. Kindle $7.99. (Also on the Amazon bestseller list). A memoir of a beautiful, brilliant woman whose downward spiral led her to a violent death. Saville's mother, Anne Ford, was a ravishing beauty queen, model, actress, fashion designer in Los Angeles, who dated Marlon Brando. Through bad choices, booze and possibly creeping schizo-phrenia, she threw her talents and looks away in the hippy 60s and 70s of L.A. Saville and her brother were raised in near-degradation, subjected to their mother's daily abuse, exposed to a nightly parade of strange men, and left to clothe and feed themselves for years.

Living back East with her father, Saville learned her mother was now living in the streets in empty lots. Finally she was found strangled and stabbed to death in a burnt-out hovel. After her death she discovered clues to her mother's past. An emotionally starved childhood with unloving and unforgiving parents. At nineteen when Anne came home pregnant, her father punched her in the stomach. Saville slowly began to grasp who her mother really was: a sensitive, possibly schizophrenic woman, rejected by parents who had primed her for success, then shunned her as a failure, an obscenity. She finally understood that though deeply flawed, a cruel and competitive mother, Anne Ford was also a human deserving of love. This is a tale of surviving and healing, a testimony to the generosity of a daughter who could finally understand, and even forgive, her mother.

SHOES, HAIR, NAILS. By Deborah Batterman. Kindle. $4.99. A collection of stories set in New York, Las Vegas, and life in post-9/11, about relationships between mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, lovers and friends. On the surface they seem to be about the day to day, but then evolve into stories of human frailty, male and female sexuality, and how we handle longing and rejection. Each story starts simply, then sideswipes the reader with heart-rending takes on morality, mortality, and all the epic mishaps in-between. The writing is elegant, restrained, often satirical.

"Shoes" explores a mother's addiction to pricey shoes, then the authors hijacks us from shoes to desire to sex to adultery to a character's death. Shoes as metaphor. In "Hair, ' a mother cold-bloodedly abandons her young daughter to a friend, then, out of dim-wittedness, sadism, or some form of sociopathy, through the years writes letters to her daughter about her fashionable life in Paris, her every-changing lovers, and hair-styles. When the mother finally disappears, nothing found but her wallet, this reader stood and cheered. So we are swept along with Batterman's gleaming little gems of poignant, heart-breaking, laugh-out-loud stories that address the universals of love, death, birth, loss and our against-all-odds human will to survive. Brilliant stories to cherish & reread.

DELIGHTFULLY DIFFERENT. By D.S. Walker. Kindle $7.99. (Pricey, but an important book.)
Much more than fiction, an award-winning educational novel aimed at 9-12 YA readers. But adults should read too. Especially those with children on the autism spectrum. Its deals with ASPERGER'S SYNDROME, one of those medical conditions most parents are not aware of - until their child is afflicted. This is a lovely work of fiction that also educates, and tells the truth. And most importantly, it teaches Tolerance. Its told from two different perspectives, the mother's and the afflicted daughter's. Mia Lung, a young girl with Asperger's Syndrome, allows us into her life and mind so we 'personally' experience her life of deep sensory sensitivity, her 'differentness' from other children, her pain from their bullying.

Walker, a registered nurse of 25 years, studied sensory processing and knows of what she speaks, so there is a beauty in how she translates Mia's 'affliction' into more of a personality replete with 'quirks,' as all human have. Its hard to do this book justice. Walker dispels much of the mystery of AS, as she gently advocates Tolerance as a humane treatment. She also emphasizes how drastically teachers and guidance counselors need to be re-educated about AS, since they handle these children everyday. DELIGHTFULLY DIFFERENT is also important because it deals with ASPERGER'S SYNDROME in a female child, whereas most literature deals with AS afflicted males. I thank Walker for writing this important book. More people should be aware of it. It needs vigorous marketing by the publishers!

THE OLD MERMAID'S TALE. By Kathleen Valentine. Kindle, $3.99 A lavish, sweeping saga of maritime history, myth, and an all-encompassing love. A coming-of-age tale set in the Great Lakes region, rough, bustling waterfronts of the early 1960s. Clair Wagner, a modest Ohio girl, enters college at nearby Port Presque Isle and is drawn to the unknown, even the forbidden, in the waterfront grog-shops of Lake Erie where she is ultimately exposed to seamen, poets, harlots, musicians, to phantoms and legends that step fully-fleshed into her life.

Valentine's writing is so sensuous and graphic, it resurrects the lusty, maritime smells and tastes of that bygone era. Clair is initially swept off her feet by the dashing seaman, Pio, but finds a deeper love in Baptiste, the hypnotic Breton, a seaman and musician of tragic, aching vulnerability who harbors a dark secret from his past. While exploring this complex and doomed love, the author transports us to other eras: shipwrecks on the Great Lakes, Native American legends come alive, the boomtown years of prosperity in these slowly fading waterfront towns. There are scenes where the book's depth approaches the Biblical, the epiphanic, as her characters contemplate the meaning of love, and of existence. The writing is on an epic scale such as Fielding and Melville. A nourishing novel, a great journey. I loved it.
*****

Its sheer coincidence that these books were all written by women. I hope men will read them, too. In a forthcoming post I will list books authored by men that I read in 2011 and enjoyed and recommend.

What is great literature, we ask? The answer is still the same: books that last down the centuries. Alas, the classics don't always give us answers to contemporary life. The world is moving fast, each day it's transformed by coding gurus. And so are we. As we march inexorably toward a radically greater degree of transparency in our personal lives, perhaps what we look for in a good book is empathetic characters who make us feel less alone, less naked.

Even if they start out as fascinating psychopaths who run on all fours, in the end we want our characters rehabbed. We want to relate to them, want them to make us laugh and cry. We want high-low humor, secret vices, acts of contrition. In short, we want books full of characters like us: Fearful, questing, excruciatingly complex. Losers who morph into heroes. And heroes who morph into everyday humans searching for love.