A am working on getting A Woman's Worth formatted and ready for upload to the various retailers.
Today I want to introduce you to an author I met in one of my online groups. Carl Stevens' bio reveals the life experiences that prepared him to be an author.
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Jack London lamented that he had spent his life as a working
class intellectual rubbing shoulders with the underprivileged on tramp
steamers, in gold mining camps, on wharfs and in warehouses while reading
extensively and writing books of serious social and philosophical merit only to
be renowned for writing about dogs. It
irked him yet inspired me decades later. Eighteen-wheelers, psych wards,
factory floors and the halls of academia and corporate America may not be perfect matches to London’s, but
they have all been part of my own working class adventures. I have lived in numerous careers the fiction
that each was intrinsically important while in fact each was merely research
for the role of Carl Stevens, Writer.
Professor-in-training (in three fields so far, philosophy, history and
psychology), nurse in a psychiatric facility, long-haul truck driver, security
guard, waiter, bartender, clerical worker, manual laborer, engineer - they
were all facades I presented while my true life’s work went on behind the
scenes, reading and writing and incorporating life experience with the
scholarly to create the self-identity that is now creating novels.
Three novels speak for the success of this creative
self-identity. If a hundred years from
now people neglect the layers of substance and only praise my exciting tales of
adventure and if I am still alive, then I will be proud to have failed like
Jack.
Here's a little bit about his book:
Michael Chabon, Lev Grossman and others
argue that genre and literary fiction are not exclusive categories. Chabon won a Pulitzer writing about comic
books. Grossman won acclaim writing an
adult story about wizardry school. THE CANTERBURY TALES IN NEVERLAND is a
post-apocalyptic mystery wherein the detective’s need for hard facts clashes
with a culture’s need to reinvent itself on the ever shifting sands of
storytelling. There are two main
stories. In one, Jackson Thomas, a
former mayor of a small town known as The Ville, is trying to avoid being
stoned to death on false charges of conspiracy to incite riot and murder. He is hampered by being under arrest and
dependent on a friend to wear out shoe leather poking into what really
happened. Meanwhile Jackson’s son and
several of the son’s friends have all talked themselves into believing that the
wisest solution to Jackson’s dilemma is to trek across a hostile landscape in
search of angels and a miracle. Both
stories work on multiple levels. They are
each an adventure on their own, a detective thriller in town, a road trip
through chaos in the wilds. They are
also each a metaphor for the epistemological quandaries of storytelling. Jackson is trying to find his way through a
dark woods of conflicting witness accounts. His son and fellow travelers are
finding their way through a physical wilderness while sharing with each other
the stories which make up their culture . . .and enough puns to choke The Bard.
Excerpt:
The Canterbury Tales
in Neverland
A
Post-apocalyptic Mystery of Literary Survival
Chapter, the first, having no other title
It is a simple story and if it will not do, you and I will invent another hundred or
two. In the beginning, long after the
end, when the world will be without form, the word will shape the world as it
always has in ways not known; man will not know what he knows not, nor woman,
neither. A tale will be born of idylls
past and present, lost and found in time. Knowledge will be a thing of the past
and knowledge of the past a wispy dream shaken off in a dusky dawn like the
obscure opening lines of a book not yet written when you have skipped to the
end, but once upon a time.
After The Time of Tribulations when some
choose to till the land and some to steal the fruit and others tell their
stories, Casavero Thomas guards against those who would breach the peace of The
Ville. His feet walk the parapets
between rooftops black in moonlight while his mind sprints through grassy
fields bright in the sun and brighter still because Julie Garcia runs before
him, smiling over her shoulder with golden tresses just out of reach. Today is Midsummerfest and the people of
Brodman’s Bluff will come to enjoy the lull between planting and harvesting.
The people of The Ville will play host in return for the favor of last
year. There will be games and food and,
with any luck, Casavero and Julie will be one of many couples to slip off for a
stolen moment or two.
Beyond the pasture canopies sway in a
gust, a harbinger of a pre-dawn storm perhaps, wind and trees an alarum, or
just the day awakening with a yawn and stretch of leafy branches before rolling
over for a bit more sleep. It is a
holiday. Trees and wind and young men
all can sleep in if they choose once their watches end, but Casavero knows that
neither he nor any of the other guards will sleep tonight. There is an excitement in the air beyond any
chance of a storm or bandit raid. There
is the certainty of the festival and the chances it will bring.
“Casavero,
ho?”
“Ho, Temo, que
sera de mi? It’s
me again and point that thing away again, will you? I’m tired of looking at the tip of your
thirty-eight every time we meet.”
“You could have
been a bandit. That’s what we’re here to
look for, you know.”
“Yes, but out
there, Temo, not up here. If some bandit
had climbed the wall and took my place you’d have heard me object, strongly,
trust me.”
“Well, . . .”
“And don’t you
shoot our relief, either. They’re due
any minute and we can get off the wall and greet the dawn at the fairground as
long as you don’t involve us in a battle with our own people.”
“A bandit could
slip in and approach from behind. We’re
supposed to challenge everybody even if we’re sure it’s a friend, our own
father, or the mayor himself. Sorry,
Casso, I . . .”
“Forget it. I’d say you’re right and we should challenge
the mayor, but that hasn’t worked very well for my father, has it?”
“No, but you know what I mean. Any shadow could be a threat so challenge and
shoot if you don’t get an answer.”
“Fine. Just don’t shoot any Bluffers today. They’re supposed to be our guests.”
“Them we’ll beat on
the field. Xian will at least. He can run and wrestle any Bluffer into the
ground. Oh, sheep’s tail, I’m sorry,
Casso.”
“Forget it. He beat me fair enough. At least I got up the pole first. And your arrow hit the circle dead center like it was placed there by hand. If I had not seen it myself I would have sworn
you stabbed it then only told the tale of shooting it. You’re bound to win for The Ville today.”
“No azar.
That was just with the boys competing.
There’ll be girls watching the festival matches. I’ll be lucky not to shoot my own foot.”
“Julie
watching will make me climb faster.”
“Even
your girl watching is enough to fluster me.
Other girls, that I might, that may, that could . . . . I can’t talk straight just thinking about
it. I’ll probably string my bow to my
ear and shoot my cap into the sky. Will
your sister be there?”
“Susanna? Sure.
You know everyone will.”
“You
know I meant Tiffany, you grinning weasel.”
“I’m
sure she’ll be there, too. And if you
don’t shoot yourself in the foot maybe you’ll get around to talking to her.”
“Not
much chance of that. I’d almost rather
shoot a toe off. You don’t think she
might take pity on me if I did, do you?
Maybe nurse me back to health?”
“I
don’t know. If she won’t notice Temo
with toes I’m not sure how she’d feel about Temo the Toeless.”
“You
could at least call me Timothy when your talking to her. I’m not scared of everything like I am girls,
you know. Do you ever talk to her about
me?”
“Can’t
really say I do, Temo, amigo, but if you ever do come up in conversation I’ll
do my best to get the name right. What
was it again?”
“Pig Snout. I hope you slide off that pole now.”
***
The Canterbury Tales in Neverland is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.
Catl can be contacted here:
