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Saturday, June 14, 2014
Come to a place where favorite authors read their books for you and clothing is 100% optional
CK Webb is an author of thriller books, a book reviewer, and the host of WebbWeaver Books, Where our favorite authors read their books for you and clothing is 100% optional!. What a joy it is to come on her radio show, to talk about my dark fantasy book, Twisted, and my other books!
When a father says: I was not prepared for you. Forgive me.
At the end of the cab ride to Sunrise home, the silence is finally broken when my father glances at me, and his face softens, and he says, “Anita is right. I have been tearing her, inside. I need to separate what is real and what is not.”
“I plan to read all her other books. Hers is a unique voice”
And I say, “This here between us, this is real. And the loneliness, too.”
In return he says, “I am so sorry, Ben. I do not know what came over me tonight. I guess I was not prepared for you. Forgive me.”
★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★
Friday, June 13, 2014
It would make you dribble! Drive you to madness!
"When I sprinkle my secret blend of spices; here, take a sniff, can you smell it? When I chop these mouthwatering sun-dried tomatoes, add a few cloves of garlic for good measure, and let it all sizzle with lentils and meat—it becomes so scrumptious, so lip-smacking, finger-licking, melt-in-your-mouth good!
There is a certain ratio of flavors, a balance that creates a feast for the tongue and a delight for the mind; and having mastered that balance, with a pinch of imported cumin from the north of Persia, a dash of Saffron from the south of Egypt, I can tell you one thing: When the pot comes to a full bubbling point, and the aroma of the stew rises up in the air—it would make you dribble! Drive you to madness! For a single bite, you would sell your brother, if only you had one! "
Yankle in A Favorite Son
Modeled on the biblical story which is truly fascinating to me, this is a present-day twist. At this point in the story he is preparing a lentile stew for his brother, Esau, who comes home so hungry from a day of hunt, he is prepared to throw away up his birthright for a bite of that stew.
There is a certain ratio of flavors, a balance that creates a feast for the tongue and a delight for the mind; and having mastered that balance, with a pinch of imported cumin from the north of Persia, a dash of Saffron from the south of Egypt, I can tell you one thing: When the pot comes to a full bubbling point, and the aroma of the stew rises up in the air—it would make you dribble! Drive you to madness! For a single bite, you would sell your brother, if only you had one! "
Yankle in A Favorite Son
Modeled on the biblical story which is truly fascinating to me, this is a present-day twist. At this point in the story he is preparing a lentile stew for his brother, Esau, who comes home so hungry from a day of hunt, he is prepared to throw away up his birthright for a bite of that stew.
Later in the story Yankle will resort to cheating his father, who is lying on his deathbed, to steal away the inheritance. Here is a ceramic sculpture of Jacob preparing to wear the hide of a kid on his arm, so that if his father will touch him, he will mistake Jacob for his hairy brother Esau. In this piece, I focus on the moment of contemplating the crime, rather than the moment of action. He is about to make a choice: is the inheritance truly worth the price of losing his honesty, his soul?
My clay sculpture of Jacob, "What if my father touches me?"
"There is so much I enjoyed about this book, that I do not quite know where to begin"
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Here, at last, is my father...
At this moment, a man is lying in his armchair, propped up on a large pillow. He has lived, or rather, has confined himself within these walls for decades, for a reason unknown. In this stagnant place all sounds are muffled, all images erased – but for one thing: his youth. There is a vibrant longing in him for the adventures of his early days.
Was it not just yesterday when he left his home in Poland, never to see his parents again? Has he not escaped from the Nazi death camp in France, climbed across the Pyrenean Mountains, and found his way to Spain? He can still spot the snow-covered trail winding down, shining in the mist. It is fading out now, vanishing into a cloud, into fog.
No, it is not fog anymore but a storm, a raging storm at sea. There he stands, aboard the deck of a small ship, straining to see the dreamy outline of a new shore: Israel. There is a certain glint, the vivid, restless glint of the wanderer, playing in his eyes.
It is high noon, but the room is dark. The blinds are drawn. Only a thin plume of daylight reaches in somehow, and writes a bright dot against the shadows. If – like him – you waited long enough, you could actually see the dot bleeding slowly, steadily across the bare floor, rising up over the wall, becoming longer and longer still, until at long last it would fade out, like a sentence unfinished.
Dark circles can be noticed around his eyes; which suddenly brings to mind a tired animal, one that has not felt sunshine for a long time. The eyelids fall shut and at once, the glint is gone. An invisible hand is writing on the wall. He knows it in his heart. He bears it in fear and silence.
And then, trying to ignore the ticking, the loud, insistent ticking of the clock from the adjacent kitchen, you too would, perhaps, start sensing a presence. Voices would be coming from a different place, a place within. A faint footfall… A soft laughter... Who is there? He glances nervously at the entrance door. Is it locked? Can a stranger get in? Then – quite unexpectedly – the fear subsides and for the first time, gives way to something else. Something wells up in his throat. Why is the door locked? He feels a sudden urge to crawl down, get to that threshold, and cry. Mommy! Open the door! Let me in, mommy! Let me come home!
But for now, he can still hold it in. He forces himself to turn away from that door. Somehow it feels lighter in the dark. The bareness of this space, which was once adorned with rich Persian rugs, colorful oil paintings and fine furnishings, is more bearable this way. So is the weight of loneliness.
Opposite from him, playing out endlessly, unintelligibly and in quick succession on the TV screen, are strange images from unfamiliar places. Noise. He lets the images come. He lets them go. He has no will. He has no curiosity. But from time to time he stirs, despite the sharp, sudden pain in his wrist. He fumbles at the remote control, wondering why the sound is so distant, so mute. And yet – no matter how much he tries – he finds it impossible to fix that which is broken.
The shelves behind him are laden with books, three of which he has written himself in years past. Signed: Blue Wolf. Here is the poet, a man notorious for his contradictions, a man of a great passion and an equally great skill to capture it, to put it in beautiful, eloquent words in any one of ten languages. Here is the storyteller whose listeners have left him. Locked in a world of no sound, in a world of no expression, here he is: a cage within cage. This is the place where even the wolf surrenders. The fight is over. No more howling.
Here, at last, is my father.
This story, which I had written two years before my father passed away, is now included in my poetry book, Home.
I thought it appropriate to display one of his own oil paintings. How it evolved fascinates me: He painted the slope of a mountainside, and a moon high above, then archived the painting, never to take another look at it--until, several years later, he unearthed it and asked himself: What if... What if I paint this line here (which became the nose)...
And with that question in mind, the painting became what it was meant to be: A Wandering Jew, with the moonlight that accompanies the life of a nomad.
Was it not just yesterday when he left his home in Poland, never to see his parents again? Has he not escaped from the Nazi death camp in France, climbed across the Pyrenean Mountains, and found his way to Spain? He can still spot the snow-covered trail winding down, shining in the mist. It is fading out now, vanishing into a cloud, into fog.
No, it is not fog anymore but a storm, a raging storm at sea. There he stands, aboard the deck of a small ship, straining to see the dreamy outline of a new shore: Israel. There is a certain glint, the vivid, restless glint of the wanderer, playing in his eyes.
It is high noon, but the room is dark. The blinds are drawn. Only a thin plume of daylight reaches in somehow, and writes a bright dot against the shadows. If – like him – you waited long enough, you could actually see the dot bleeding slowly, steadily across the bare floor, rising up over the wall, becoming longer and longer still, until at long last it would fade out, like a sentence unfinished.
Dark circles can be noticed around his eyes; which suddenly brings to mind a tired animal, one that has not felt sunshine for a long time. The eyelids fall shut and at once, the glint is gone. An invisible hand is writing on the wall. He knows it in his heart. He bears it in fear and silence.
And then, trying to ignore the ticking, the loud, insistent ticking of the clock from the adjacent kitchen, you too would, perhaps, start sensing a presence. Voices would be coming from a different place, a place within. A faint footfall… A soft laughter... Who is there? He glances nervously at the entrance door. Is it locked? Can a stranger get in? Then – quite unexpectedly – the fear subsides and for the first time, gives way to something else. Something wells up in his throat. Why is the door locked? He feels a sudden urge to crawl down, get to that threshold, and cry. Mommy! Open the door! Let me in, mommy! Let me come home!
But for now, he can still hold it in. He forces himself to turn away from that door. Somehow it feels lighter in the dark. The bareness of this space, which was once adorned with rich Persian rugs, colorful oil paintings and fine furnishings, is more bearable this way. So is the weight of loneliness.
Opposite from him, playing out endlessly, unintelligibly and in quick succession on the TV screen, are strange images from unfamiliar places. Noise. He lets the images come. He lets them go. He has no will. He has no curiosity. But from time to time he stirs, despite the sharp, sudden pain in his wrist. He fumbles at the remote control, wondering why the sound is so distant, so mute. And yet – no matter how much he tries – he finds it impossible to fix that which is broken.
The shelves behind him are laden with books, three of which he has written himself in years past. Signed: Blue Wolf. Here is the poet, a man notorious for his contradictions, a man of a great passion and an equally great skill to capture it, to put it in beautiful, eloquent words in any one of ten languages. Here is the storyteller whose listeners have left him. Locked in a world of no sound, in a world of no expression, here he is: a cage within cage. This is the place where even the wolf surrenders. The fight is over. No more howling.
Here, at last, is my father.
I thought it appropriate to display one of his own oil paintings. How it evolved fascinates me: He painted the slope of a mountainside, and a moon high above, then archived the painting, never to take another look at it--until, several years later, he unearthed it and asked himself: What if... What if I paint this line here (which became the nose)...
And with that question in mind, the painting became what it was meant to be: A Wandering Jew, with the moonlight that accompanies the life of a nomad.
★ Inspired by poetry? Treat yourself a gift ★
"There are vignettes, streams of poetry, and scenes of such exquisite depth and beauty that I found myself taken aback at the skill of the writing and the power it had to touch my heart."
Monday, June 9, 2014
Spend some quality time with a Biblical hero
A lovely new review for the audiobook edition of Rise to Power:
What made the experience of listening to Rise to Power the most enjoyable?
I loved listening to Rise of Power. The match of narrator to text was perfect for this wonderful book. The narrator got the nuances of the Biblical David precisely as one would most like to hear them. A reader can suspend disbelief and feel that David is telling his story.
What did you like best about this story?
This story delivers great insight into the life and time of David. The intimacy evoked by the combination of author and narrator weaves a potent spell. The tale took me to the Biblical world in all its color, danger, and grandeur.
What does David George bring to the story that you wouldn’t experience if you just read the book?
David George's narration is gritty and knowledgeable, smooth and yet prickly. He sounds as if he allows the characters to inhabit him and use his voice.
If you were to make a film of this book, what would the tag line be?
David...the Untold Story.
The Writing Process (a blog tour)
I got tagged by Christopher Bynum on his blog The Black Writer to carry the torch by taking part in a blog tour, in which we discuss our writing process. Christopher is the talented author of several books: Love Won't Let Me Wait, Speaking As A Man: Poetry And Prose, and With Benefits.
What am I working on?
I am in the last stretch of writing my next novel, titled A Peek at Bathsheba. This is the second volume in my new historical fiction series, The David Chronicles, told in the voice of King David.
I know no better way to share a taste of my writing than to let you read an excerpt. Here goes:
“Come here,” I whisper to her.
Instead she goes to the window. I find myself unable to say anything, so instead I make a note to myself, to write down these words, later: “The fragrance of your garments is like the fragrance of Lebanon. You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride. You are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain.”
By the reflection I can read her. I see that she wipes the corner of her eye. Silk curtains start swishing. They sway, they billow wildly around her, blotting and redrawing the curves of her silhouette.
I join her by the window and hold her, rocking her gently in my arms. Together, we look out at the last glimmer of the sun, sinking.
Our touch is magical. It melts away the bitterness in her. I hum a sweet melody in her ear. She closes her eyes and so do I. There is no need for words, because both of us know, we both understand the hardship she has to go through in my court, and both of us know she has to go it alone.
If I would try to put in a good word for her, it would miscarry. I mean, it would be construed as favoring her to others, which would put her in even greater isolation.
I do not know if Bathsheba can find her way up from the bottom of the hierarchy down there, in the women’s quarters. It takes a special skill to survive, to persevere is spite of any and all obstacles. It takes grit.
Trust me, I know all there is to know about it. That determination, graced by the joy of taking risks, allowed me to challenge men stronger than me, and rise to power in their place. And to this day, it helps me hold on to it.
Does she have it in her? Can she take on women more established than her, such as my first wife, Michal, and my second wife, Abigail? Can she gain their support, and climb over their shoulders into her own power?
Time will tell.
How does my release differ from others of its genre?
I go through meticulous research, like every author worth his salt in the historical fiction genre, and collect every detail about the time and the setting. But then, I choose where to take my departure from the reference material. In this series, I chose to let the character speak in modern language. This is a design decision, meant to bring the reader into the realization that this is a universal story, happening here and now, rather than an old fairytale.
Being an artist, I find my inspiration also by artwork depicting the story. In each era, the artists did not shy away from staging David in garments that belongs to their time, and surrounding him with a contemporary scene. I take my cues from them. Here, for example, is a modern painting by Shaggal, depicting David and Bathsheba. Compare it to this excerpt from the book:
And the one image that keeps coming back to me is our reflection in the glass, where our faces melded into one. My eye, her eye, and around us, the outline of a new, fluid identity. A portrait of our love, rippling there, across the surface of the wine.
Why do I write what I do?
I am drawn to characters of complexity. By writing them I hope to put a mirror to the torment we all go through, as we stand on a crossroad contemplating our choices. In this series the character, David, tells his story. How does he see himself, during this first phase of his life? With his hands stained with blood, can he find an inner balance between conflicting drives: his ambition for the crown, his determination to survive the conflict with Saul, and his longing for purity, for a touch of the divine, as expressed so lyrically in his psalms and music?
How does my writing process work?
Since this novel is the sequel to my first volume, Rise to Power, the character of David already lives in me. I know him through and through, and the writing flows out of my pen in an amazingly fluent way. When I am away from my desk he goes on talking in my mind, and I cannot wait to get back and put his words on paper.
Here is another excerpt, this time from my book Home, where I share my writing process by attributing it to one of my characters:
He looks at the line. It is written in blue ink, pressed into the sheet of paper—vigorously here, faintly there—with his usual stroke, a stroke that drives through the spikes and valleys in the shapes of the letters at a steady slant. The line reaches the margin, where it is punctuated, unexpectedly, by a red stain.
Blotting it is bound to leave fingerprints, and so Mr. Schriber decides to leave it alone. He lifts the paper by its corner—and a drop bleeds down; he lays it down on the desk—and the stain goes on spreading. Going back to his writing, he applies too much pressure on the pen—and the pointed nib digs into the paper. Taking a deep breath, he tries to compose himself. The pen is his weapon. The simple act of pulling it over the soft, white surface has never failed to calm him down. Letter by letter, mark by mark, it will soon draw him into a different state of mind.
My tag picks are:
Forgive me ma, now at last I am allowed to cry
Written by my father
Translated by me
Translated by me
Somewhere at night a string sings out
All's dark, silent, filled with doubt
I'm alone, and you?
Out there, in the cold, a string sings out
Forgive me ma, that under your wing
A poet grew, only to sing
Forgive me ma, I knew no way but run
I was a defiant son!
In your life I sang you no songs, but now I miss—
Forgive me ma, that I wiped off your kiss
Which you gave me, thinking I were asleep...
Now, after you're gone, I confess and I weep
I loved no one like you!
After you were gone, I knew
I had travelled to a place so alien, so cold
How bitter it had felt, to you I never told.
How you waited to receive a word from me, a letter,
How I missed you! Only now I know better
No longer am I ashamed to say, to try:
Forgive me ma, now at last I am allowed to cry.
This is a watercolor painting--the largest I have painted--of my father. Measuring 40" x 30", this is called 'Silence of the Bard. Why a Bard? Because even though my father never played a musical instrument he composed beautiful images using the music of words. This is why the impression of the strings extends out into the landscape, which becomes a melodically conceived universe.
And, why Silence? because he never shared his last body of work with anyone. It is not been read by others, until now, until I published this book in his tribute: Home.
★ Inspired by poetry? Treat yourself a gift ★
"Absolutely Stunning!" "scenes of such exquisite depth and beauty"
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