OMG, OMG, OMG… A giveaway! Beginning October 7th and ending November 7th, enter to win a sign copy of my novel: DESPERADOS. No need for special skills or feats of strength to enter, just clickity- click the enter button. Goodreads automatically pulls the winners out of a Top Hat, they send me the winning address, and I mail out the books. Sorry, U. S. Entries Only. Good Luck!
There’s an enormous amount of pressure from publishing houses to avoid authors with pseudonyms, because they need their author’s to get out there and do the publicity rounds, magazine and TV interviews, give readings at bookstores. Drum-up sales is the name of the game, etc. So, when I learned that there was a wildly successful Italian author who embraced her anonymity wholeheartedly, for two decades; it was a breath of fresh air. Because at the end of the day it should be about the book or story the author wishes to tell. Not about; selfies, tweets, likes, or whom he, or she fucks.
The so-call unmasking of author Elena Ferrante, which is bordering on doxing if you ask me, should be condemned by any self -respecting book lover simply because it was her wish to remain anonymous. For two decades she been writing this way, and has stated that she’d rather let her books do the talking, she has said that that privacy allows her creative space, and that if she can’t have that she won’t publish anymore. Well guess what? According to the Walls Street Journal, because of what happened to that privacy, she is off the grid completely and indefinitely. Grazie giornalismo giallo
An author is not the Kardashians, I repeat; an author is NOT a member of the Kardashian family, unless said author wants to be a Kardashian (meaning: a fame whore) then, and only then, should they be treated as the fame whore they wish to be. If on the other hand, the author wants to toil away on his or her books, and wishes to remain anonymous then its their right to do so; you and I have no right to deny them that, because, guess what? They DON’T owe us anything, other than a good book or good story. If that at all.
That being said, and me, being the professional cynic that I am (but my heart’s not in it *wink, wink*) I just hope this is not a publicity stunt on the part of the author’s publishing house, PR personnel or (God forbid) the author herself—that would suck moose.
Much respect, hats off and all the best to you Elena Ferrante.
My 2 Cents.
Never a dull moment; we’ve got: Twelve arrested in creepy clown hoaxes, Pepe the frog has become a hate symbol, God tells a man to burn his house, seaweed that taste like bacon, and Is Wells Fargo a ‘criminal enterprise’? Say it ain’t so… Read On
There’s no way in hell, this novel could’ve been written in this day and age of hyper-sensitive ‘special’ snowflakes—the author would’ve been hanged by the balls and left to dry in the hot desert sun for being perceived a misogynist fool (among other things). However, those who dismiss it, fail to see that in order to create something as ballsy and unapologetic as this piece of work. One needs to be brave, and not give a fuck about ruffling any feathers, which remains me; I should read more Charles Bukowski.
Chinaski grabs a beer. Drayer Baba have mercy!
Henry Chinaski is the average Joe, the average nasty sonofabitch, drunken, ugly, and misogynistic poet who beds any c***t who throws herself at him, and they do, by the busloads (some sad, some bonkers, some a combination of both). But hey what’s an old alcoholic at the twilight of his miserable existence to do? Say No? Fuck you buddy! So what if from time to time he can’t get it up? Screw another one because, hey, why the hell not. And so the novel becomes a tad repetitive with the wake up, drink, puke—puke or drink, (been there, done that) go to the race track, do a reading, drink some more, fuck some nubile,(wish I could do this. Often) do a reading, drink, repeat—oh wait, he can’t get it up—okay repeat. Yet it’s done in a raw, funny, repulsive, passionate, honest and breezy way. Midway through the book though, you’ll come to the realization that no one writes this way, meaning; he doesn’t give two fucks about impressing the sneering glitterati. Or anyone. You either like it or hate it, it’s there, raw and festering like a staph infection, or a flower growing in the sewage—take your pick.
Some unexpected insights rewards the readers of this book, with quotes aplenty:
“You’re so full of shit!”
I laughed. “That’s why I write.”
So, if you’re of a sensitive predisposition you might want to steer clear of this one, ya special little snowflake ya. 🙂
5 out of 5