The Storyteller Magic Show

Welcome all my friends, to the show that never ends.

Here I am. A storyteller, a literary magician, ready to show you tales from my imagination, dark and sinister. It's what I do. It's in my blood and in my soul. This is my exhibitionistic streak. I do it on paper.

Okay, I regale people with songs and music as well. I play guitar and sing. But that's a different story all together. That's purely for entertainment value. I play, you relax, you smile, sing a long, and we bring a little peace into the world.

But the writing. You get to see a piece of me, what's blossoming in my soul and my imagination, you learn about who I am with each word you read. In a way, you know me more intimately than the folks who know me, because they only know what I reveal. But what I reveal in my words is from the soul, deeper than just surface dialog.

And I take you away for a little while, bring you into my worlds, negate time until you're lost in the tale and then . . . magic. You're with me in the darkened room with some thing close by or a stranger watching you with wicked intent. Do you know them? Familiar but yet . . . then they're gone and you're . . . alone? Maybe. Welcome to my worlds. Come in and play and let the magic wash over you. Get lost in here for a while. I've have such wonders to show you!

But don't worry, you can look away any time you like, return to your world where it's all safe and warm and . . . or is it? Maybe the magic's seeped out and now everything around you is a little different. Noises that were familiar are tainted, shadows are more than what they had been moments before.

Just put the book down and go to sleep. The magic stays with you, doesn't it. Isn't it wonderful? Hide under the covers and feel the nostaglia of your heart racing like when you were a kid. Delightful, isn't it?

Thanks for coming and being a part of the show. You can try to brush the magic off, but it'll stay with you. Rejoice in it while you can. And don't worry. I'm right here waiting for when you want to come back and feel the magic once more.


Peace,
Gary . . .

Just back from SHU

I just got back from the ever excellent Seton Hill University "In Your Write Mind" retreat. Nothing like a blast of writing juice to pump you up (unless you are a man... in that case, juice drinking makes you look girly).

In an effort to pomposly declare myself a writer here where my friends will see, I am going to post this needlessly egotistical piece of fluff that is masquerading as a deep sentiment about the writer's craft. 

->            How unnatural it is to try to put your inmost thoughts into words for others to ponders and reject or worse to somehow make their own, rendering your originality or angst a byproduct of their own experiences. How awful it is to dredge up those long buried outrages of youth for some sappy sentimentalist to chortle over as she sips her latte at Borders. Or worse… she doesn’t chortle at all.

            Yet we do it.

            There’s truly a sense of exibitionism that imbues the organs of a writer. To lay bare the bones of your very existence for the world to see and to judge and then perhaps to be rejected by the established judges of the profession. Sadomasocism at it most acceptable.

            Hours spent mining the cobwebbed corners of your psyche. Days suffering over revisions… Did I use that word too often? Is that verb to passive? How do I show the violence life subjects me to in so many supple sentences? How to bleed on a page without bleeding out? It’s vampirism, pure and simple. I am a gimp for the masses, though they don’t yet want my blood. Still I do try to bleed for them.

            I hack at my veins with my pure white Mac, dribbling bits of myself into the cup that is Microsoft word. “Drink me,” I proclaim to the editors sifting through the slush pile that must be gelatinous and rank with the devotions of so many writing Renfields.

            Some have tasted my prose and declared it to thin for their hearty appetites. Guess I should eat more iron with my verbs.

Salute!

Donna Munro

New Shadow Cat Review by Manic Readers

Click here to read a new Shadow Cat Review by Manic Readers. I’m also pasting it below.

Manic Readers Review
Shadow Cat
by Zoe LaPage

Isabelle is an art historian who has come to the Loire Valley in France to do a major restoration at the Chateau Limoges on a Francious Clouet mural that is covered in plaster. While out on a stroll on her first night she is attacked by a panther and saved by her neighbor Jules Valdrome, who happened to be in panther form when the attack occurred.
Later, Jules saves Isabelle again when she is attacked in her bedroom by a Rogue, an evil vampire werecat. Isabelle then learns that Jules is a Favres, a good werecat. While doing the restoration work on the mural she goes through a series of puzzles that reveal the secrets of the werecats. She is soon involved in a battle between good and evil.
With the help of Jules and his brother, Isabelle must find a way of defeating the Rogues before they begin their war on humans.

I enjoyed reading Shadow Cat by Zoe LaPage. It was different with fascinating historical art details coming from the unveiling of the mural with a different blend of cultures and references of the werecats. Isabelle finds she will do anything for Jules. She goes from being a vegetarian and coming to terms with eating meat to killing her enemies. Isabelle is surprised to find out that she is the key to unlocking the secrets of the goddesses and the werecats. Jules finds out that Isabelle is his love, will do anything to protect her and knows that he needs her help along with his brother to beat the Rogues. There are parts of this book that have you laughing as well. LaPage draws you into the book along with her characters. I will be looking forward to reading more books from Zoe LaPage.

ZoeLaPage.com