Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Atlanta was great
Big shout out to everyone in Atlanta who came out and supported my book signings and big shout out to Hot 107.9 and Pezo. I had a great time down there. Look for me to return to the A.T.L. some time in February.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Sweet Soul Sisters
I had a great time at the Sweet Soul Sister's 2nd Annual Book Club Celebration. The conversations were great and the food was excellent. It's always a great feeling to be in a room full of book lovers. Looking forward to the next event...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Baltimore Book Festival
I had a great time in Baltimore this weekend at the Baltimore Book Festival. I met a lot of great people and really enjoyed chatting with my fellow Strebor authors. I'm looking forward to the next big event. Also, I'll be signing Friday, October 19 at GW (23rd and I) from 3p to 6p. Hope to see you there.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Short Stories
I think that's going to be my new thing. It's my understanding that in this day and age, the average reader has a shorter attention span. This, coupled with an overall slump in print sales, means that in the future shorter pieces will likely have a marketing edge. Either that or be the next H. Potter. So with that being said, my next foray may be a collection of short stories either based on one central character or one central location, such as Kansas City, my home town. Below is short story I wrote for a workshop class. Two of the main characters are spinoffs from The Tragic Flaw. Feel free to leave me a comment about what u think. A primary component of the structure and form is the movement in tense, from present to far future and back, then back to middle future. Take a gander:
Everlasting
St. Vincent’s stands on the corner near fifth and Lydia Avenue. In the fall this will become my church, after my mother’s sudden stroke. She will live, but she will be crippled. I will move in with my father. They will say it’s for the best. My father will say St. Augustine’s, my current church, is too far away. St. Vincent’s will become my church, my place of worship. It will also be a place of death.
The church is enormous. All stone. Decorated on all sides by stained-glass windows. Light passes through them, through vibrant blues and vivid shades of red. Today, snow lightly powders the front stairs as the parish priest works hard to sweep it away. Soon a young assistant pastor, one still learning the way, will come out and lay down some salt.
An enormous mosaic of St. Vincent de Paul, patron saint of the needy, hovers above three tremendous archways and seems to guard the church. The cathedral marks not only a place of worship, but also the edge of the neighborhood where my father grew up, and where I will come to live: Piccola Italia—Little Italy.
In thirty years, a man will enter St. Vincent’s Church late at night. It will be freezing cold, dark and windy. It will be two days before Halloween and black as pitch. The church will be lit up with candles, and a few steadfast believers will sit in the first two pews praying and sliding their wrinkled fingers over black rosary beads.
The man will walk into the confessional and quietly close the door behind him. He will be tired, his clothes wrinkled. Several minutes will pass until that assistant pastor, now a middle-aged priest, balding and thin, will enter the adjoining room on the other side of the black iron screen, likewise quietly closing the door behind him.
The man will fidget a little. He will clear his throat several times. When he calms himself, he will say, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned.” He will clasp his hands tightly, staring at a fleshy scar on his left hand, and then slowly, he will stop fidgeting.
The priest, having done this many times, will ask the man, “How long has it been since your last confession?” The man will say twenty-five years, and the priest, listening carefully, will look down at the hardwood floor, patiently, and then ask, “What sins would you like to confess today, my son?”
“Just one, father. I have held onto this sin for many years,” the man will say. His forehead will bunch. His cheek will quiver slightly, as if annoyed by some flying insect. Many seconds will pass. The chilly air outside will blow in spurts, soft, and then forceful. Dust motes -- tiny specks of dead skin, decaying elements from the earth -- will float throughout the vast sanctuary, landing on bibles and hymnals filled with songs of praise. The priest will be patient. He will contemplate his life’s work, the oath he took before God. He will feel comforted, knowing that he is doing the Lord’s work. He will exhale, contently. After some time, he will say, “My son?” Then the man, having paused, thought, and finally mustering his courage, will say, “For many years, father, and even tonight, father, I have wished to kill you.”
The priest will be stunned, then afraid. He will look up at the screen’s small black swirls, his eyes blazing. But he will not see the man’s face, the night’s shadows concealing him, so the priest will slowly look down again, frightened.
“My son, why, why do you say this? I am a servant of God.”
The man will sit there; his hands weaved together by fingers like dead palm leaves, overlapping in a brittle heap, bridging left to right, index to index, middle to middle, and so forth; fine hairs protruding from his knuckles. He will think about many things. Things he fought for many years to forget, but was reminded of by his own father’s death.
“Son, come closer,” His father said, coughing in his bed earlier that day. “Closer. Son, I hope… I tried to be a good father. To teach you what a man is, how he conducts his business. I hope I’ve done that.”
Tears will well in the man’s eyes and one will wet the confessional floor. He will remember things done to him years ago. He will remember things his father said, how to handle dilemmas and tribulations. He will take a deep breath, then exhale, slowly.
“Why do I wish to kill you, Father Michael? Because you touched me. Because you kissed me, father. Because you took advantage of me, father. Because you raped me!”
The priest will become very afraid.
“My son, I, I… we are only human. Man often knows not what he does,” the priest will stutter. “Perhaps, maybe, you, we… can ask today that the Lord will forgive us, us both, for our sins.”
The priest will hear a cocking sound and he will again look up, terribly afraid, into the blackness beyond the separating iron gate. A floorboard will creak near the first pew and a biblical thunderclap will ring out. The two remaining parishioners will quickly look up toward the confessional, then walk, as fast as they can, out the church’s side door. Leaves and chilly wind will blow in and extinguish several candles, which have been lit for the dead, the dying, and the sick.
Hearing the priest’s body drop to the floor, the man will leave the church. Two days later the man will be found dead, hanging from a rope in his mother’s garage. His mother’s home nurse, her aide, Anne, will find the body. His pants will be soaked with pee; his sandy brown hair limp and unbrushed. He will forever burn in hell for taking his own life. He will know suffering like never before. Demons will torture him. Hellfire will burn his flesh. Lucifer will revel in his sorrow. The stink of shit will always fill his nostrils. His torment will last forever and ever, without end.
But today, I’m riding with my father in his dark blue Cadillac. He came to my mother’s house this morning and picked me up. This week at school we’ve been studying for the Catholic High School Entrance Exam, but he said not to worry about it today. I make straight As, he says, so I’ll be fine if I miss one day. My mother agreed. I’m going with my father to run errands, he says. I never get to see my father. In a few minutes, he will beat a man in the street, almost killing him.
I will feel sorry for the man. At school, we are taught to love our neighbor. He’s wearing a Chiefs jacket. My favorite team. My father’s favorite team, too. I will feel sorry for the man. I will learn later that he owed my father money, gambling debts. After this day, I will begin praying for my father, hoping that his soul will go heaven. I will pray that when I die, I will see my father in heaven, along with grandpa Joseph and mom’s mother and father, grandma Saraphine and grandpa Charlie.
My father will be kicking the man, punching him, making him bleed all over the sidewalk in the snow. He will look like a strange child. Like he was forced to create a sad snow angel, one with broken wings. My father does this, not worrying if I see it, but hoping that I do. He will say, “Cicero,” as he swivels to the right, clapping the snow from his dress shoes, then placing them in the car. Out of fear and curiosity, I will turn to him, no longer pretending I didn’t see him beating that man.
“Son, you have one life to live,” he will say as he slam’s the driver’s side door and stares into my eyes. “Uno. And so help you God, if you come across a piece of shit that wants to complicate it, you do whatever you have to do to make sure things don’t stay complicated.”
I will be afraid. Not of my father, just, afraid. I will nod. He will say, “Do you understand? You never want to be the one getting kicked. Capiche?”
I will nod again, and he will smile.
But right now, we‘re heading north through the city, from Seventy-Third Street to streets where the numbers get smaller, passing liquor stores, homeless men and women bundled up against the winter, and hustlers and whores looking to make money.
His car cruises north on Troost Avenue from where the poor black people live, across the railroad tracks to where the poor white people live. Mostly old Irish families, along with a few Germans, and most recently some Vietnamese and Laotian families.
My father makes a wide left turn on Fifth Street, near an old factory, and drives five blocks to the corner where St. Vincent’s stands. My frosty breath fills the car. Fumes spew from the Cadillac’s exhaust pipe as my father and I are thrust forward. The tires briefly slide in the snow, only a block from the unsuspecting maker of snow angels. When I am old enough, I will hear my father’s words again. A few years from now I will have my own problems. After my father conducts his business today, we will go to my grandmother’s house. My father’s mother. She will ask about my grades, and why my sandy brown hair looks a mess.
In seven months I will meet that young priest, Father Michael. He will be so friendly. We will talk. Through his encouragement, I will become an altar boy. I will spend a lot of time at the church. Serving at mass on Sundays. Helping at the pantry with food drives and collecting can goods. Father Michael will tell me that he’s Italian. I will tell him that my father is Italian, and that my mother his black. I have her last name (they never married). He will tell me how Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great man, how we should all strive to live by his example, to live his dream. I will cut my hand one day cleaning up broken glass near the altar. Father Michael will bandage me, and comfort me. He will tell me that my mother will be okay. That God has a plan for all of us. We will spend a lot of time together, Father Michael and I. He is nice. He listens. He understands. We will talk about what it means to be Catholic. And most importantly, he will tell me what I need to do, to secure God’s blessing, and the gift from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He will tell me everything I need to know to receive the Lord’s gift, the gift of heaven, the gift of everlasting life.
Everlasting
St. Vincent’s stands on the corner near fifth and Lydia Avenue. In the fall this will become my church, after my mother’s sudden stroke. She will live, but she will be crippled. I will move in with my father. They will say it’s for the best. My father will say St. Augustine’s, my current church, is too far away. St. Vincent’s will become my church, my place of worship. It will also be a place of death.
The church is enormous. All stone. Decorated on all sides by stained-glass windows. Light passes through them, through vibrant blues and vivid shades of red. Today, snow lightly powders the front stairs as the parish priest works hard to sweep it away. Soon a young assistant pastor, one still learning the way, will come out and lay down some salt.
An enormous mosaic of St. Vincent de Paul, patron saint of the needy, hovers above three tremendous archways and seems to guard the church. The cathedral marks not only a place of worship, but also the edge of the neighborhood where my father grew up, and where I will come to live: Piccola Italia—Little Italy.
In thirty years, a man will enter St. Vincent’s Church late at night. It will be freezing cold, dark and windy. It will be two days before Halloween and black as pitch. The church will be lit up with candles, and a few steadfast believers will sit in the first two pews praying and sliding their wrinkled fingers over black rosary beads.
The man will walk into the confessional and quietly close the door behind him. He will be tired, his clothes wrinkled. Several minutes will pass until that assistant pastor, now a middle-aged priest, balding and thin, will enter the adjoining room on the other side of the black iron screen, likewise quietly closing the door behind him.
The man will fidget a little. He will clear his throat several times. When he calms himself, he will say, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned.” He will clasp his hands tightly, staring at a fleshy scar on his left hand, and then slowly, he will stop fidgeting.
The priest, having done this many times, will ask the man, “How long has it been since your last confession?” The man will say twenty-five years, and the priest, listening carefully, will look down at the hardwood floor, patiently, and then ask, “What sins would you like to confess today, my son?”
“Just one, father. I have held onto this sin for many years,” the man will say. His forehead will bunch. His cheek will quiver slightly, as if annoyed by some flying insect. Many seconds will pass. The chilly air outside will blow in spurts, soft, and then forceful. Dust motes -- tiny specks of dead skin, decaying elements from the earth -- will float throughout the vast sanctuary, landing on bibles and hymnals filled with songs of praise. The priest will be patient. He will contemplate his life’s work, the oath he took before God. He will feel comforted, knowing that he is doing the Lord’s work. He will exhale, contently. After some time, he will say, “My son?” Then the man, having paused, thought, and finally mustering his courage, will say, “For many years, father, and even tonight, father, I have wished to kill you.”
The priest will be stunned, then afraid. He will look up at the screen’s small black swirls, his eyes blazing. But he will not see the man’s face, the night’s shadows concealing him, so the priest will slowly look down again, frightened.
“My son, why, why do you say this? I am a servant of God.”
The man will sit there; his hands weaved together by fingers like dead palm leaves, overlapping in a brittle heap, bridging left to right, index to index, middle to middle, and so forth; fine hairs protruding from his knuckles. He will think about many things. Things he fought for many years to forget, but was reminded of by his own father’s death.
“Son, come closer,” His father said, coughing in his bed earlier that day. “Closer. Son, I hope… I tried to be a good father. To teach you what a man is, how he conducts his business. I hope I’ve done that.”
Tears will well in the man’s eyes and one will wet the confessional floor. He will remember things done to him years ago. He will remember things his father said, how to handle dilemmas and tribulations. He will take a deep breath, then exhale, slowly.
“Why do I wish to kill you, Father Michael? Because you touched me. Because you kissed me, father. Because you took advantage of me, father. Because you raped me!”
The priest will become very afraid.
“My son, I, I… we are only human. Man often knows not what he does,” the priest will stutter. “Perhaps, maybe, you, we… can ask today that the Lord will forgive us, us both, for our sins.”
The priest will hear a cocking sound and he will again look up, terribly afraid, into the blackness beyond the separating iron gate. A floorboard will creak near the first pew and a biblical thunderclap will ring out. The two remaining parishioners will quickly look up toward the confessional, then walk, as fast as they can, out the church’s side door. Leaves and chilly wind will blow in and extinguish several candles, which have been lit for the dead, the dying, and the sick.
Hearing the priest’s body drop to the floor, the man will leave the church. Two days later the man will be found dead, hanging from a rope in his mother’s garage. His mother’s home nurse, her aide, Anne, will find the body. His pants will be soaked with pee; his sandy brown hair limp and unbrushed. He will forever burn in hell for taking his own life. He will know suffering like never before. Demons will torture him. Hellfire will burn his flesh. Lucifer will revel in his sorrow. The stink of shit will always fill his nostrils. His torment will last forever and ever, without end.
But today, I’m riding with my father in his dark blue Cadillac. He came to my mother’s house this morning and picked me up. This week at school we’ve been studying for the Catholic High School Entrance Exam, but he said not to worry about it today. I make straight As, he says, so I’ll be fine if I miss one day. My mother agreed. I’m going with my father to run errands, he says. I never get to see my father. In a few minutes, he will beat a man in the street, almost killing him.
I will feel sorry for the man. At school, we are taught to love our neighbor. He’s wearing a Chiefs jacket. My favorite team. My father’s favorite team, too. I will feel sorry for the man. I will learn later that he owed my father money, gambling debts. After this day, I will begin praying for my father, hoping that his soul will go heaven. I will pray that when I die, I will see my father in heaven, along with grandpa Joseph and mom’s mother and father, grandma Saraphine and grandpa Charlie.
My father will be kicking the man, punching him, making him bleed all over the sidewalk in the snow. He will look like a strange child. Like he was forced to create a sad snow angel, one with broken wings. My father does this, not worrying if I see it, but hoping that I do. He will say, “Cicero,” as he swivels to the right, clapping the snow from his dress shoes, then placing them in the car. Out of fear and curiosity, I will turn to him, no longer pretending I didn’t see him beating that man.
“Son, you have one life to live,” he will say as he slam’s the driver’s side door and stares into my eyes. “Uno. And so help you God, if you come across a piece of shit that wants to complicate it, you do whatever you have to do to make sure things don’t stay complicated.”
I will be afraid. Not of my father, just, afraid. I will nod. He will say, “Do you understand? You never want to be the one getting kicked. Capiche?”
I will nod again, and he will smile.
But right now, we‘re heading north through the city, from Seventy-Third Street to streets where the numbers get smaller, passing liquor stores, homeless men and women bundled up against the winter, and hustlers and whores looking to make money.
His car cruises north on Troost Avenue from where the poor black people live, across the railroad tracks to where the poor white people live. Mostly old Irish families, along with a few Germans, and most recently some Vietnamese and Laotian families.
My father makes a wide left turn on Fifth Street, near an old factory, and drives five blocks to the corner where St. Vincent’s stands. My frosty breath fills the car. Fumes spew from the Cadillac’s exhaust pipe as my father and I are thrust forward. The tires briefly slide in the snow, only a block from the unsuspecting maker of snow angels. When I am old enough, I will hear my father’s words again. A few years from now I will have my own problems. After my father conducts his business today, we will go to my grandmother’s house. My father’s mother. She will ask about my grades, and why my sandy brown hair looks a mess.
In seven months I will meet that young priest, Father Michael. He will be so friendly. We will talk. Through his encouragement, I will become an altar boy. I will spend a lot of time at the church. Serving at mass on Sundays. Helping at the pantry with food drives and collecting can goods. Father Michael will tell me that he’s Italian. I will tell him that my father is Italian, and that my mother his black. I have her last name (they never married). He will tell me how Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great man, how we should all strive to live by his example, to live his dream. I will cut my hand one day cleaning up broken glass near the altar. Father Michael will bandage me, and comfort me. He will tell me that my mother will be okay. That God has a plan for all of us. We will spend a lot of time together, Father Michael and I. He is nice. He listens. He understands. We will talk about what it means to be Catholic. And most importantly, he will tell me what I need to do, to secure God’s blessing, and the gift from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He will tell me everything I need to know to receive the Lord’s gift, the gift of heaven, the gift of everlasting life.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Looks like I'm about to gear up for a book launch party, September 6 in DC. I'm really looking forward to it. Here's a notice in advance to all my family and friends across the country. Come out and get your signed copy of The Tragic Flaw. I think we're going to have a great time. There will be more specifics on this in coming weeks. Hope to see you all there.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Book Signing a Success
Thanks to everyone who visited with me and took home a free, signed copy of The Tragic Flaw at the BookExpo America in New York. I had a great time and met a lot of inspiring people. I'll be looking for feedback and your thoughts on the book right here on my blog. Drop me a note, or yell at me, or just say hi. All are welcome. And be sure to tell your friends about the site, cheparker.com, and the book, which will be in stores nationwide on September 4. Thanks again for the support. Until next time...
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Another Saturday
Writing is amazing. I had a workshop class today and we discussed how writers can "slow down" a story. It was very interesting. Certain words work to slow the pace down in literature. Conversely, other words can speed sections up. It depends on what an author wants to do. If I want you to take your time in a section, and really soak it up, my writing style can do that. If I've mastered my craft, I can do it successfully, with ease. For example, longer sentences slow a passage down, and shorter ones speed it up. Together they make a passage more effective. In addition, "ing" words and "ly" at the end also helps to slow stories down. I'll try to put together a quick example:
"He ran slowly at first. Galloping, trotting with clumsy strides. Then quickly, he began running with purpose, imaging himself hoisting a grand trophy high above his head, glowing and proud. Now, he was wholly expecting to take the lead. And he did. He was winning. Passing the other runners as if propelled by the wind itself. He was breathing heavily, but the sight of the ribbon, horizontal and enthralling, fueled the driving force within him and he dug deeper into his soul until he knew he could not be beaten. Crossing the finish line first, he had proved his point. He grinned slyly, knowing all along, that by persevering, he would surely be the victor. He won. He would never lose a race again. No. Not after today. How could he? He knew what it took to be a champion. And from this day forward, when the competitive nature of mankind called, and the stage was set, spikes agleam and brows wetted by anxious perspiration, he would be ready."
"He ran slowly at first. Galloping, trotting with clumsy strides. Then quickly, he began running with purpose, imaging himself hoisting a grand trophy high above his head, glowing and proud. Now, he was wholly expecting to take the lead. And he did. He was winning. Passing the other runners as if propelled by the wind itself. He was breathing heavily, but the sight of the ribbon, horizontal and enthralling, fueled the driving force within him and he dug deeper into his soul until he knew he could not be beaten. Crossing the finish line first, he had proved his point. He grinned slyly, knowing all along, that by persevering, he would surely be the victor. He won. He would never lose a race again. No. Not after today. How could he? He knew what it took to be a champion. And from this day forward, when the competitive nature of mankind called, and the stage was set, spikes agleam and brows wetted by anxious perspiration, he would be ready."
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Saturday
It's Saturday. Almost 6 p.m. I'm sitting here bored. I need to read this really uninteresting book for class. Turned on the NFL network and watched little program about quarterbacks. It was cool. They talked about Rick Mirer. He was garbage! Back in the day I actually had his rookie card. Like that was a good investment. LOL. I honestly thought that at some point I could sell off my baseball and football card collection and rake in some real dough. Haha. Yea right. Any who. This blog shyt is kinda therapeutic...
Friday, February 9, 2007
Here's a little something about the book:
The Tragic Flaw is a tale of good and evil, power and money, style and grit. It’s about ruthless bad guys with panache and charisma told in with descriptive imagery. The beautiful and yet powerful language brings the characters and the unique Kansas City, Missouri setting to life. A key aspect of this piece regarding the antihero, the Italian and black Cicero Day, is how he shuns his mother’s deep religious beliefs, and is reluctant to consider that there may be forces in the universe that are greater than him. This page turner will keep readers amazed at Cicero’s simultaneous callousness and absolute charm. He is the antithesis of morality and the paragon of Machiavellian ways. This college-educated gangster knows no bounds, but unfortunately, Cicero is plagued with reoccurring nightmares. And due to one small (yet significant) flaw in his character, forces greater than him are prepared to teach him a lesson he will not soon forget. Jimmy, a ruthless Kansas City Mob boss and a good friend of Cicero’s father, keeps a close eye on Cicero and his business aspirations, for he has a personal stake in Cicero’s success. Cicero’s cohorts, the resolute and unflinchingly loyal Kameron Brown, and the seductive and deadly Olivia, make for intriguing characters in this modern tale of corruption and deceit. Definitely a hard-to-put-down novel.
The Tragic Flaw is a tale of good and evil, power and money, style and grit. It’s about ruthless bad guys with panache and charisma told in with descriptive imagery. The beautiful and yet powerful language brings the characters and the unique Kansas City, Missouri setting to life. A key aspect of this piece regarding the antihero, the Italian and black Cicero Day, is how he shuns his mother’s deep religious beliefs, and is reluctant to consider that there may be forces in the universe that are greater than him. This page turner will keep readers amazed at Cicero’s simultaneous callousness and absolute charm. He is the antithesis of morality and the paragon of Machiavellian ways. This college-educated gangster knows no bounds, but unfortunately, Cicero is plagued with reoccurring nightmares. And due to one small (yet significant) flaw in his character, forces greater than him are prepared to teach him a lesson he will not soon forget. Jimmy, a ruthless Kansas City Mob boss and a good friend of Cicero’s father, keeps a close eye on Cicero and his business aspirations, for he has a personal stake in Cicero’s success. Cicero’s cohorts, the resolute and unflinchingly loyal Kameron Brown, and the seductive and deadly Olivia, make for intriguing characters in this modern tale of corruption and deceit. Definitely a hard-to-put-down novel.
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