Please, Please Buy My Novel — Part Cinq

January 1, 2023

In the spirit of a brand-new year this Sunday evening, so it is with another call-out plea to please buy my novel, “Brown-Eyed Girl With A Cold Corona,” self-published last March by Outskirts Press, and help generate a literary following of some note.
And, too, make me some money, which is not such a terrible concept.

A first-person-written quick read, ‘Corona‘ is a murder mystery coated with romance and horror.
My Outskirts author’s page is here.

The most-important Amazon/Kindle page is here.
An astute-review:

Not since the Time Travelers Wife has a story tugged at my heart, f*** with my head, and left me so chilled, haunted and thoroughly impressed. A vivid, romantic and ultimately chilling debut, I sincerely hope this author doesn’t stop here. A new, genre bending talent has been unleashed and I personally can’t wait to see what he comes up with next.

I like that, ‘genre-bending‘ — has a ring, huh?

Synopsis off the back cover:

Life can sometimes alter course in a finger snap. One second existence seems normal, the next, an out-of-step leap beyond the imagination. A night bar-hopping during Spring break on the California coast shifts from the typical to peculiar and strange in scant moments.
As if out of thin air, she was suddenly sitting close, leaning inward at the little table, her face directly at him. Large, brown eyes intimate and captivating, demanding full attention. The bar’s loud, swirling noise of music and muffled chatter seemed to have quickly vanished into shadow.
Easily, he closed off everything with total focus only on those liquid-brown eyes. In minutes, he fell completely head-over-heels in love, gobsmacked like a virgin little boy.

However, in just a brief, single tick when he’d once glanced away, she vanished. So astonishingly quick the episode, he never got a name or a telephone number. And other people had seen her in the bar, so she was real. Or was she? Such is the beginning.

In an ensuing couple of days, he tumbles like Alice down the rabbit hole. He’s no virgin little boy, but middle-aged and fighting the loose tendrils of a mid-life crisis — divorce, children (for instance, he occasionally smokes pot with his 15-year-old daughter), intense guilt about everything, and booze, all combined for close-call disaster. Yet petty compared to the wondrously-haunting hallucinations he encounters created off that one night with the young woman,

An illusory mystery revealing a murder, though, in an abnormal sequence.

I wrote the original first draft in the summer of 1994 and the expanded manuscript dwelt in a Poor Richard’s Press cardboard box for more than 20 years. The project was most-likely more therapy than anything, and since it’s really personal, maybe it shouldn’t have been published. Yet there it is.

And again, the Amazon/Kindle page.

The front/back cover of ‘Corona:’

Appropriately, and to play us out, The Beatles:

Write or wrong, either way, here we are once again…


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