Delving Into the Shadows
Please
welcome a wonderfully talented author to my blog today...
Recently,
I had two notes from readers. I think these two notes point at the dichotomy in
my writing—light and dark.
The first
note was from a woman, who said:
I love your romance novels. They can be a little
angsty, but for the most part, they’re light and fun. And they have a
happy-ever-after, which is a must for me. I have to admit, I’m scared to read
some of your other stuff. I’m afraid it would give me nightmares.
The other
note, from a man, said:
I really enjoy your romance novels. They’re sweet
and romantic, but what really connects with me are the darker ones, that deal
with real issues. Those are the ones I remember long after I close the book.
What’s a writer
to do? A writer needs to remember the maxim: You can’t please all the people all the time.
And,
although it might sound selfish, my first responsibility when creating any work
of fiction, is to please myself. I have to tell the story that’s itching to get
out of my psyche. Love stories are great—I enjoy writing them more and more.
They usually make me both laugh and cry as I take my character or characters on
their journey to true love.
But like
the reader above, it’s often my darker work that resonates with me, that echoes
in my head long after I’ve typed those bittersweet words, the end.
Bashed is a good example. I
wanted initially to write about a very real plight in the gay community—hate
crimes. People being beaten for just who they are seems unimaginable, but those
crimes happen with alarming and often growing frequency. Bashed examines, through the structure
of a paranormal love story, the after-effects of a tragic hate crime on a small
group of people—both victims and perpetrators, and tries to show how even hate
can bind us in unforeseeable ways.
That is
probably the essence of my writing and it holds true whether I’m writing about
something ripped from the headlines or something that might give you
goosebumps—ultimately, almost everything I write is about finding that elusive
state most human beings search and long for—true
love.
The same
is true for Bashed. My main character, Donald,
loses the love of his life at the beginning of the book, loses him in an almost
unbearable way—at the hands of people who, for no other reason than sexual
orientation, want to hurt them in the most terrible ways possible.
But the
thing I want to say to the woman who wrote to me above is that she shouldn’t be
afraid to read a book of mine like Bashed, because, at its heart, it
provides hope, and the possibility of finding true love again, even in the face
of unbearable loss. I think that’s why some of my darker works sticks with me
and resonates more deeply—because my characters have to come from such a place
of despair to find love that it’s that much more worthwhile when they do.
Blurb
It
should have been a perfect night out. Instead, Mark and Donald collide with
tragedy when they leave their favorite night spot. That dark October night,
three gay-bashers emerge from the gloom, armed with slurs, fists, and an
aluminum baseball bat.
The
hate crime leaves Donald lost and alone, clinging to the memory of the only man
he ever loved. He is haunted, both literally and figuratively, by Mark and what
might have been. Trapped in a limbo offering no closure, Donald can’t
immediately accept the salvation his new neighbor, Walter, offers. Walter’s
kindness and patience are qualities his sixteen-year-old nephew, Justin, understands
well. Walter provides the only sense of family the boy’s ever known. But Justin
holds a dark secret that threatens to tear Donald and Walter apart before their
love even has a chance to blossom.
Buy Links
He had found Mark, fifteen years his junior and
with the face of an angel but the mind of a demon, at the Brig, the leather bar
they had patronized “that” night. But this was last winter, March, and it was
bitterly cold. The bar was a Chicago institution with a strict leather dress
code and lots of macho posturing. A Harley hung from the ceiling. Tom of
Finland posters adorned the walls. Hard-core porno played on monitors hanging
from the ceiling. A St. Andrews cross was set up in one corner. And then, of
course, there was the infamous back room, where anything could happen. Donald
knew the latter for a fact, since once upon a time, he had been a habitué of
that back room, instigator, hunter, and hunted.
The Brig was not exactly celebrated as a place
where love ignited and blossomed. It was known more for multiple, faceless
partners in the crowded back room, where a full-length urinal ran along the
length of one wall and one could indulge oneself with many partners in an
evening, all of them unrecognizable should you pass them on the street the next
morning. The idea of romance and a long-term relationship by the Brig’s
standards was a one-night stand.
Donald had fully expected, that night in March,
to enter the bar, grab a shot of Jack and a Budweiser, down them, and head to
the back room for a quick release. Oh sure, it wasn’t pretty, and it certainly
wasn’t romantic, but it was efficient, and he could go home feeling that his
evening was complete. His night had begun innocently enough with dinner with
his friend Mary on Devon Street at their favorite Indian hole in the wall (they
shared samosas and chicken tikka masala) and then a play at The Steppenwolf.
He could have, maybe should have, gone home
after that, but once he dropped Mary off at her condo in Evanston, he found he
was still wide awake and hungry for a different kind of companionship than his
good friend could possibly offer.
But life often had a way of surprising you. Life
often was deliberate and patient, waiting until just the right moment, when
hope, such as it was, was extinguished, to throw a big, surprising present
right in your lap.
And that present was Mark. Donald hadn’t even
glanced around the bar for potential suitors. He wasn’t looking to make idle
chitchat, to buy someone a beer, to go to some walk-up in Rogers Park where
passion would rule for an hour at best, only to be eclipsed by an awkward
exchange of numbers and excuses Donald would make about having to get up early
in the morning and needing to head home. No, Donald was on his determined way
to the back room, half downed beer gripped in his fist. He knew he could be in
and out of there within minutes and home in his comfy bed in Edgewater fifteen
minutes after that. The routine was becoming habitual, and Donald wondered, in
darker moments, if he wasn’t stunting himself emotionally with such behavior.
But dark thoughts like these were not foremost
in Donald’s mind as he neared the arch that would lead into the back room. The
thoughts he was having (a warm mouth just waiting for him in the shadows) were
rudely interrupted by the appearance of a stranger, blocking his path. The guy
was young, blond, and smiling, dressed all wrong for the Brig. (His leather
biker jacket was the only thing that had probably allowed him in the door on a
Saturday night.) He had the kind of innocent face one might call cherubic: pale
blue eyes, creamy white skin, cheeks that were noticeably rosy even in the dim,
functional light of the bar. His hair was a riot of curls, very Shirley Temple.
Under the biker jacket, he wore a pair of Levi’s and a dark cotton crewneck
sweater with a white T-shirt underneath. Christ, the kid was even wearing
Asics! The guy on the door must be asleep at the wheel tonight.
Donald almost couldn’t believe the kid’s smile
was for him. He tried to brush by him. But then the kid said, “Don’t I know
you?”
Donald regarded him with a wary eye. Donald was
six-two, with salt and pepper hair and a full beard to match. He had stayed in
good shape and still filled out a form-fitting T-shirt well. The wrinkles
around his green eyes and the bushy eyebrows above them only served to make him
more appealing… especially to kids like this one, who, he knew, wanted to get
around to calling him “Daddy” sooner or later.
He gave the kid a smile and shook his head.
“Don’t think so.” He tried to brush by him again. Even though the kid was cute
and the fact that he had approached him opened the door to possibility, Donald
just wanted to get in, get off, and get out. He wished it weren’t so, but
Donald couldn’t hide from himself, not after thirty years or so of hanging out
in just such places as the Brig.
“Sure. You work construction… downtown. At
Wacker and Michigan?”
Donald rolled his eyes. Was he supposed to be
flattered? He supposed he looked the part, but he hadn’t done any job even
remotely physical since he had landed a summer job in a steel mill when he was
in college. The truth was, Donald made his living as the director of marketing
for a professional association downtown, not far from the corner the kid had
just mentioned. If the kid had seen him at that intersection, he would have
been wearing khakis and an Oxford button-down, not flannel, denim, tool belt,
and hard hat. He placed his hand on the kid’s shoulder, and a little jolt went
through him, unexpected but delightful. The kid felt solid beneath his cotton
and leather, a real man’s body, broad-shouldered, belying the Shirley Temple
hair and the angelic face. It gave Donald pause. He met the kid’s blue-eyed
gaze and grinned. “Yeah, I drive a fork lift down dere.” Donald could do a good
Chicago south-sider accent. He burst into laughter. He couldn’t maintain the
ruse, not even for a few seconds. “Actually, I do work near Michigan and
Wacker. But in a high rise that was finished long ago. And the most physical
labor I do is adjusting a mouse pad just so.”
The kid winked. “I probably could have guessed
that, but I knew I needed a good opening line fast when I saw you walk in.” He
shrugged and took a swig from his beer. “The best I could come up with.” He
took another swallow and looked up at Donald. “I’m ready for another one. How
’bout you?”
And so it began. Before Donald could even
respond in the affirmative, Mark had taken note of what brand of beer he drank
and had nimbly made his way through the crowd, ordered, and returned with two
fresh, sweating brown bottles. Donald hadn’t even had a chance to think about
answering the siren call of temptation issuing forth from the back room, just
opposite from where he stood. In any event, when Mark pressed the beer into his
hand and pressed close to him, Donald suddenly abandoned any thought of the
back room. Tonight was going to be different. And no one was more surprised
about the turn of events than Donald himself.
Rick R. Reed Biography
Rick R.
Reed is all about exploring the romantic entanglements of gay men in
contemporary, realistic settings. While his stories often contain elements of
suspense, mystery and the paranormal, his focus ultimately returns to the power
of love. He is the author of dozens of published novels, novellas, and short
stories. He is a three-time EPIC eBook Award winner (for Caregiver,
Orientation
and The
Blue Moon Cafe). Raining Men
and Caregiver
have both won the Rainbow Award for gay fiction. Lambda Literary Review has called him,
"a writer that doesn't disappoint." Rick lives in Seattle with his
husband and a very spoiled Boston terrier. He is forever "at work on
another novel."
Web: http://www.rickrreed.com
Blog: http://rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks
Twitter: www.twitter.com/rickrreed.
E-mail: jimmyfels@gmail.com
Web: http://www.rickrreed.com
Blog: http://rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks
Twitter: www.twitter.com/rickrreed.
E-mail: jimmyfels@gmail.com
July 14: Havan
Fellows
Now...here's the cool thing, if you follow Rick on his blog
tour not only do you get to learn lots more about this amazing author, but you
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Looks like another good book. Thanks for the giveaway!
ReplyDeletehi Rick, I have been looking forward to reading this book for awhile now. I'm not sure what about it has me craving it so much, but I can't wait to read it
ReplyDeleteCan't wait to read it!!
ReplyDeleteLooking forward to it!
ReplyDelete