These are exciting times. As mentioned in my last blog, I will submit my new manuscript to the first of two contests over the weekend. I would appreciate any feedback to the synopsis which I have pasted below. Feel free to critique in the comments below or by email to alshalev at bigfoot dotcom.
It is also exciting to see that people are picking up Oilspill dotcom in its e-book format from both Smashwords and Scribd. The world of e-book is accelerating and I am so happy to be part of this wave. If you have read the book, please post a review on these sites and also Goodreads if you hang out there.
To all who follow my blog and my progress as an author - Happy New Year - I appreciate all your support and encouragement.
Alon
http://www.alonshalev.com/
Unwanted Heroes (80,000 words)
Unwanted Heroes (80,000 words)
Good coffee, vintage wine and the magic of San Francisco bring together an elderly, battle weary Chinese American war vet and an idealistic and pretentious young Englishman. But when repressed memories suddenly surface, they discover a more dangerous commonality where the key to release for each of them lies in an unlikely partnership.
Will Taylor finds employment as a barista at The Daily Grind in the Financial District of San Francisco and is inspired to write his breakout novel. Walking the streets of Kerouac and Ginsberg, Taylor discovers a beautiful city and cutting edge culture alongside the harsh underbelly of American society.
When his boss suddenly disappears, Will unravels an injustice he must try and help rectify before he loses his friends, his sanity and love. He needs all the help he can find and all the allies he can muster. A homeless professor, precariously balanced between intellectual pinnacles and mental abyss, offers advice and contacts. Taylor's Goth girlfriend initiates him into the West Coast counter culture, while her Nob Hill father digs up his own military nightmares to help another haunted soldier in desperate straits.
The unique culture of San Francisco lends itself to the comical aspects of the novel, offset in a rollercoaster of emotions where comic follows tragic. When Will meets his Goth girlfriend's parents for dinner at their home on Nob Hill, the only conversation piece he can offer is teaching them to toast in twelve languages. In the ensuing abrupt scene change, he is frantically searching a military graveyard at night, looking for his boss who has suddenly disappeared without his medication.
Unwanted Heroes confronts the issue of homelessness and, in particular, American war veterans who could never readjust into society. This novel is a tribute to a beautiful, unique and quirky city and its people, and yet highlights those who sacrificed so much to keep it and America free.
As such, Unwanted Heroes fits into a genre of novels written by authors who want to effect change in the world. Erin Brockovich, The Rainmaker, A Civil Action and The Appeal, are comparable works in this respect. In addition, the humorous scenes reflect the influence of Christopher Buckley and Christopher Moore.
But above all, Unwanted Heroes is a story of injustice, friendship and romance, as seen through the eyes of a struggling young writer from across the Atlantic, who brings more baggage than just his shiny laptop and romantic ideals.
Showing posts with label heroes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroes. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2010
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Heroes
My latest novel, completed but not finished editing, changes title every few weeks. The current favorite is: Unwanted Heroes. It is a story that highlights the plight of the homeless, and in particular, war vets.
Today is Remembrance Sunday in the UK and will be Veterans Day on Wednesday here in the US. The following passage from Unwanted Heroes is in honor of our war vets.
***************************************************************************
It is a gray, cloudy Bay Area day in the Presidio: as it should be. James meets me for an early lunch and then drives me to the cemetery. We ate in near silence and I realize this isn’t easy for him. But he never hesitated in agreeing to come. James was a soldier, still is.
The nearest I’ve ever come to witnessing military funerals have been Hollywood dramatizations. I’m immediately consumed with the intensity as the honor guard solemnly makes their way to the graveside. These young men so polished, so precise. I wondered whether this is a chore for them or whether they truly see it as an honor, a tribute to a fallen comrade they never knew.
The wind whistles through the swaying pines. For a moment I fancy I hear a voice: voices on the wind. He was one of us…We are brothers-in-arms and one day, we will all meet here.
The casket is lowered and I glance over at Tzu, his hands in the pockets of a thick coat. He stands still, every facial muscle straining, I think, to do its duty. Their children aren’t here. I doubt he even asked them to make the trip. Only his wife stands by his side; she gazes down at the casket of a man she’d never known existed.
What thoughts are going through her head? Could she have helped? Could she have made the difference, tipped the scales? Could this so easily have been her husband if they had never met? Or some point in the future?
But nothing is revealed through the heavy lines of Chinese history etched across her face. As I look at her, I prefer to picture the laughing Mrs. Tzu, siding with Jane and Tabitha to bully me, and chiding me for not writing to my mother.
The 21-gun salute abruptly jolts me from my thoughts. Birds soar from nearby trees. I cringe with each volley and feel James take my arm. I resist looking at him, he might not want me to, but I make room for his hand on my upper arm and his fingers grip tightly.
The flag is folded with incredible precision and offered to Mr. Tzu. He takes it solemnly, stares at it and then caresses it to his heart. I think I see tears in his eyes, it is hard to be sure: my own are blurry.
And then the bugler plays the Taps. His notes ring out and rise to the tops of the pine trees, up into the swollen clouds, and out towards the partly shrouded Golden Gate Bridge. Then, just as abruptly, it is over. The few people in attendance are all Asian, save for the honor guard, James and myself. We hold back as they pay their respects to Tzu, shaking hands and occasionally a stiff hug.
When only Tzu and his wife are left, I introduce James. I tell Tzu that it was a beautiful ceremony and that I’m sure his brother would have been proud. He nods and Mrs. Tzu smiles and thanks me for coming.
Tzu and James exchange words. It is code to me: numbers of units, of places where they’d fought. Then James glances to the grave.
“You buried him away from the last line. You wish to reserve the adjacent plots?”
“You cannot reserve spots, other than for a spouse,” Tzu replies softly. “But maybe when my time comes, it would be nice to be near him.”
James nods and looks back at the newly dug grave. “I have friends. I’d be happy to put in a call. Would you mind?”
Mrs. Tzu answers for her husband. “My husband would appreciate it, thank you. You have a wonderful daughter. You must be very proud.”
“Oh I am,” James replies and his pride shines through the gloomy weather.
Mrs. Tzu nods theatrically at me. “Just not sure of her taste in men,” she adds lightly.
“She gets that from her mother,” the reply comes smoothly.
As I turn with Tzu away from the grave, the conversation vanishes instantly from my mind.
They stand in two rows, a different guard of honor, leaving a corridor for Tzu to walk through. Salvador is first and there are about twelve of them; come to pay their last respects to a colleague, a brother from the street, a friend who fought the good fight for as long as he could.
**************************************************************************
Good Writing,
Alon
http://www.alonshalev.com/
Today is Remembrance Sunday in the UK and will be Veterans Day on Wednesday here in the US. The following passage from Unwanted Heroes is in honor of our war vets.
***************************************************************************
It is a gray, cloudy Bay Area day in the Presidio: as it should be. James meets me for an early lunch and then drives me to the cemetery. We ate in near silence and I realize this isn’t easy for him. But he never hesitated in agreeing to come. James was a soldier, still is.
The nearest I’ve ever come to witnessing military funerals have been Hollywood dramatizations. I’m immediately consumed with the intensity as the honor guard solemnly makes their way to the graveside. These young men so polished, so precise. I wondered whether this is a chore for them or whether they truly see it as an honor, a tribute to a fallen comrade they never knew.
The wind whistles through the swaying pines. For a moment I fancy I hear a voice: voices on the wind. He was one of us…We are brothers-in-arms and one day, we will all meet here.
The casket is lowered and I glance over at Tzu, his hands in the pockets of a thick coat. He stands still, every facial muscle straining, I think, to do its duty. Their children aren’t here. I doubt he even asked them to make the trip. Only his wife stands by his side; she gazes down at the casket of a man she’d never known existed.
What thoughts are going through her head? Could she have helped? Could she have made the difference, tipped the scales? Could this so easily have been her husband if they had never met? Or some point in the future?
But nothing is revealed through the heavy lines of Chinese history etched across her face. As I look at her, I prefer to picture the laughing Mrs. Tzu, siding with Jane and Tabitha to bully me, and chiding me for not writing to my mother.
The 21-gun salute abruptly jolts me from my thoughts. Birds soar from nearby trees. I cringe with each volley and feel James take my arm. I resist looking at him, he might not want me to, but I make room for his hand on my upper arm and his fingers grip tightly.
The flag is folded with incredible precision and offered to Mr. Tzu. He takes it solemnly, stares at it and then caresses it to his heart. I think I see tears in his eyes, it is hard to be sure: my own are blurry.
And then the bugler plays the Taps. His notes ring out and rise to the tops of the pine trees, up into the swollen clouds, and out towards the partly shrouded Golden Gate Bridge. Then, just as abruptly, it is over. The few people in attendance are all Asian, save for the honor guard, James and myself. We hold back as they pay their respects to Tzu, shaking hands and occasionally a stiff hug.
When only Tzu and his wife are left, I introduce James. I tell Tzu that it was a beautiful ceremony and that I’m sure his brother would have been proud. He nods and Mrs. Tzu smiles and thanks me for coming.
Tzu and James exchange words. It is code to me: numbers of units, of places where they’d fought. Then James glances to the grave.
“You buried him away from the last line. You wish to reserve the adjacent plots?”
“You cannot reserve spots, other than for a spouse,” Tzu replies softly. “But maybe when my time comes, it would be nice to be near him.”
James nods and looks back at the newly dug grave. “I have friends. I’d be happy to put in a call. Would you mind?”
Mrs. Tzu answers for her husband. “My husband would appreciate it, thank you. You have a wonderful daughter. You must be very proud.”
“Oh I am,” James replies and his pride shines through the gloomy weather.
Mrs. Tzu nods theatrically at me. “Just not sure of her taste in men,” she adds lightly.
“She gets that from her mother,” the reply comes smoothly.
As I turn with Tzu away from the grave, the conversation vanishes instantly from my mind.
They stand in two rows, a different guard of honor, leaving a corridor for Tzu to walk through. Salvador is first and there are about twelve of them; come to pay their last respects to a colleague, a brother from the street, a friend who fought the good fight for as long as he could.
**************************************************************************
Good Writing,
Alon
http://www.alonshalev.com/
Saturday, January 3, 2009
New Year’s Writer’s Resolutions.
I’ve always considered it kind of kitsch – making New Year Resolutions. In fact, every December, I make a pre-New Year’s resolution not to make any next month, but always do. This is based on my struggles and attempts to be efficient and to set goals that guide me through each month. And the reality is that this accountability is what enables me to produce at the level I do, while holding down a demanding job, being held down by the demands of a young family, and demanding from my body to think it is still in its 30's when it isn't.
But there is something empowering about setting goals at the beginning of the year and outing it in Blogosphere. The accountability grow considerably. So here goes:
1) Oilspill dotcom will be published in March.
2) I will hold two launch parties – one in Berkeley and the other in San Francisco
3) I will market intensely until the end of the year, following a marketing program that I will finish developing in January.
4) I will sell 500 copies by the end of the summer.
5) I will continue to edit Lost Heroes (my next novel) and finish it by the end of the summer. I will then spend 6 months shopping it around.
6) I will begin writing something new during the summer.
FINALLY: I will identify myself as an author and seek every opportunity to promote my work and myself.
Wishing everyone a happy and peaceful New Year,
Alon
But there is something empowering about setting goals at the beginning of the year and outing it in Blogosphere. The accountability grow considerably. So here goes:
1) Oilspill dotcom will be published in March.
2) I will hold two launch parties – one in Berkeley and the other in San Francisco
3) I will market intensely until the end of the year, following a marketing program that I will finish developing in January.
4) I will sell 500 copies by the end of the summer.
5) I will continue to edit Lost Heroes (my next novel) and finish it by the end of the summer. I will then spend 6 months shopping it around.
6) I will begin writing something new during the summer.
FINALLY: I will identify myself as an author and seek every opportunity to promote my work and myself.
Wishing everyone a happy and peaceful New Year,
Alon
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