Posts from the ‘Promotion’ Category
February 12, 2015
“A shooting star zipped across the sky. I watched it streak behind the mountain on the other side of the island as I thought about the woman against the opposite side of the concrete wall, so very different from me – or anyone. She was a genuine being, pure in spirit and without pretense, willfully removed from possessions, greed, artificiality, and guided, not by tradition like the fishermen, nor by desire or competitiveness as I’d been, but by her imaginings and passions and, to use her word, interpretations. Either because of or in spite of her past, she’d become a culture unto herself, far removed from anyone or anything I’d ever known and, for that, there was something uncorrupted and beautiful within her – unlike myself, the waste of a man beside her, who’d been given much and only wanted more, and who’d traded love and purpose for the grotesque satisfactions of a smirking man.
I turned around, reached for her dirty hand through the bars, and kissed it; and nothing in mind and memory seemed more honest, more true than this single kiss.”
— Excerpt from THE LAST ISLAND by David Hogan
Available here: http://viewbook.at/thelastisland
February 10, 2015
“Come with me, little girl,” said Fausto, leading me back inside. “I’ll light your candy cigarette for you.”
The easiness of us surprised me. I had thought a relationship with an Italian man would be fuelled by arguments and accusations, judging by the amount of couples I came upon in the street doing their impression of a Punch and Judy show. I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the old stereotypes until I realized Italians wholly embraced them: women liked to be whistled at because it signified an appreciation of their femininity and the efforts they made with their appearance; men wore the lothario label proudly as a tribute to their manhood; both sexes considered outlandish exhibitions of jealousy a sign of devotion, and any reference to their highly strung personality was amended with the word ‘passionate’ and accepted with a shrug.
However, in Fausto, I had stumbled upon the antitype: reflective and trusting, he was an example of the less-chronicled new model of Italian male. He would come in from a football match and rustle me up a risotto. Next to his slickly presented countrymen, his hair never conceded to his wishes, its colour alone preventing him from ever appearing coordinated.
Among the sprawling herds of Vespas, Aprilias and Piaggios, his scooter, which he named Quasimodo, was the proverbial black sheep, a triumph of individuality. He didn’t own a cell phone carrying instead a battered volume of Italian poetry in the back pocket of his jeans.
I enjoyed his cooking—especially the truffle dishes––preferred his dishevelled manliness to the plucked and tweezed variety, and even developed a grudging respect for Quasimodo which he had assembled with his brother over the course of a summer mostly from scrap parts. The poetry he recited was from the thirteenth-century and had nothing to do with modern Italian established in the seventeenth century, so while I loved how it sounded—scholarly, lyrical, romantic—I didn’t understand a word.
All in all, Fausto and I had the kind of relationship I couldn’t even have dreamt up for myself.
The next day…
The sound of my phone ringing lifted me from my thoughts: it was Edward.
“Oh thank goodness, I am saved,” I said. “I’m on the tram of the damned, miles from civilization, hurtling through the frozen inner circle of hell. Keep me company, Edward. Tell me stories so I don’t fall asleep and end up God knows where.”
“Okay. How’s this for a story? I lent my flat to a friend for an evening, and she burnt the fucking place down.”
— Excerpt from SILK FOR THE FEED DOGS by Jackie Mallon
Available here: http://viewbook.at/silkforthefeeddogs
February 9, 2015
From Craig McDonald’s preface to the Hector Lassiter series:
“The “hero” of this series, your guide through these books, is Hector Mason Lassiter, a shades-of-grey guy who is a charmer, a rogue, a bit of a rake, and, himself, a crime novelist.
Some others in the novels say he bears a passing resemblance to the actor William Holden. Hector smokes and drinks and eats red meat. He favors sports jackets, open collar shirts and Chevrolets. He lives his life on a large canvas. He’s wily, but often impulsive; he’s honorable, but mercurial.
He often doesn’t understand his own drives. That is to say, he’s a man. He’s a man’s man and a lady’s man. He’s a romantic, but mostly very unlucky in love. Yet his life’s largely shaped by the women passing through it.”
Read also Craig McDonadl’s post about Brinke Devlon, the woman who “created” Hector Lassiter: http://craigmcdonaldbooks.blogspot.ie/2014/08/brinke-devlin-woman-who-created-hector.html
while listening to the song that runs through some of the Hector Lassiter novels:
February 8, 2015
February 6, 2015
…just not in person. Nope. They’re sending Kat and Edward.
You see, Silk for the Feed Dogs is now on Kindle Promotion for a limited period in Australia!
Time to let everyone know Kat and Edward have landed. I’m calling all my Aussie blogging friends; poking on Facebook my fashion lovelies who are ahead of the trend by a whole other day; reconnecting with the Adelaide backpacker I met on a train in Austria when I was twenty-one; digging out the address of my old school pal whose family owned the town’s only ice-cream shop but who emigrated to Brisbane and left us ice-cream-less; tracking down the girl from my MA who dropped out and went off to save the Great Barrier Reef ( leaving us all behind to sew in rainy drizzly London)…Basically I’m asking anyone in the sixth largest country on the planet with its awesome displays of mountains, deserts, reefs, forests, beaches and bookstores to look out for the colorfully assorted pair and make sure they don’t get lost.
Read more here: Australia, I’m Coming….
February 6, 2015
“A full white moon glistened above and lit my way along the dusty road back to the cove. The walk was pleasant, and
I took it leisurely, thoughtfully, kicking up rocks and staring at the sky, until I turned off the road into the unpaved
path that led to the cove. Because of the trees, the path was darker than the road, and I kept my eyes on the light coming from within the tree-tunnel just ahead. When I got there, I cleared the branches away with my hand. Just before I broke through the opening, I heard a chopped laugh and a big splash. Then there was laughter again. I stopped and stood in the loose dirt of the tunnel. Still in the dark myself, I was able to see ahead where the moon lit up the cove like a spotlight.
There, a woman traveled through the sea at incredible speed – but without kicking or moving her arms. In fact,
there was no motion at all and no sound or evidence of a motor or propeller or mechanical device – only a slight
ripping sound. The woman’s head, framed in shadows, was thrust forward and strands of shoulder length hair
flew behind her as she moved through the sea like the cap of a small wave. As she approached, only her head and
shoulders were visible; the rest of her body was beneath the surface but somehow suspended, as if she were surfing on her chest. She stopped at the ladder and sank softly into the water. Grabbing onto the second rung, she shook her
head violently like a dog, spraying water everywhere. She laughed, and the ripping sound stopped as the wake behind
her silently formed a widening V.
Thin, with long wiry muscles, she climbed the stairs looking at the sea behind her. Her smallish breasts bounced
slightly and her stomach flattened and tightened as she rose.
Then she stood naked on the dock and seemed, above all, triumphant, like a predator reigning over the cove.
Another sound began, different from the one before; it was a type of etching noise but with a high pitch. The woman
turned to face the sound, her back to me now. I watched a single drop of water wind down her back, creating a glazed
stream that disappeared into the crease of her loins. Taking two large steps, she hurled herself up into the moonlight, gently spreading her arms and legs, her reflection gliding over the mirror of the sea. Landing in the water, she went down and then emerged, flying once again.
She sped away from me, the back of her head getting smaller and darker. She went to the edge of the cove, to the
start of the open sea, and then began a slow circle back, almost levitating on the water, and rocking ever so slightly. When the circle was completed, she came to rest near the ladder. A sigh escaped her lips as she rolled onto her back. And there she floated, nose pointing at the stars, tiny ripples lilting over her stomach…
I don’t know how long I stayed in the tunnel and watched the woman floating. Eventually, she climbed the stairs and
dried herself with the red towel. When she finished, she spoke to the water and, exposed and proud, walked back to
Then the cove was deserted, silent and calm. And now the bright, limpid moon dangled far away, over another portion of the Aegean Sea.”
— from The Last Island by David Hogan
Get it here: http://viewbook.at/thelastisland
February 5, 2015
“I got into my dress and new Prada shoes, smeared Ravish-Me-Red on my lips, and arranged the netting of my hat
over one eye. I grabbed my coat and couldn’t get out of that draughty warehouse fast enough. Instead of traffic, the streets were now filled with attractive girls and boys striding purposefully in every direction like they were part of a city-wide ad campaign. Confidently, I clipped along as if one of them. I turned the corner off Viale Piave, and the crowd changed. I passed the newsstand that was twice the size of all the others to accommodate its extensive range of porn magazines and DVD’s, vintage and current. I was slightly curious to know why it drew such solid business but not enough to raise my head. I hurried by the ogling men and across the intersecting tram tracks.
Edward waited by an entrance policed by dark-suited bouncers wearing earpieces. Despite the dark, the gleam
from his patent shoes reflected the animation of the city as he paced back and forth, and Debbie Harry twinkled from
underneath his tuxedo jacket. I snuck up behind him as he self-consciously arranged a ruffled evening scarf over his
shoulders like some grand dame waiting to be escorted on board her transatlantic passage.
“God, I thought you’d never get here!” he said. “I’m bloody freezing.”
“Von Dazzlington, I presume?”
C’mon, let’s just get in and get a drink down us. I could be wearing five of these patches, I’d still kill for a smoke.”
A girl consulted a list, the bouncers parted, and we tiptoed through. There was another triad of bouncers and two
more imposingly draped entrances through which the sounds of a DJ flown in from London beckoned from somewhere just beyond. Edward, unable to contain himself, stopped and broke into a shimmy causing me to crash into him.
“Steady. Keep it together,” he cautioned, importantly tossing his scarf and swatting me in the nose with it. “Let’s
not get chucked out before we’re even in.” We stepped through the final curtain and gawped.
“Bloody Nora!” I spluttered.
Edward concealed his first impressions more successfully.
“How entertaining,” he remarked.
Like a pair of boulevardiers, we strolled along a bar that stretched the length of one wall. Its lacquered surface was
laid with rows of cocktails, an invisible line dividing the gin tonics from the vodka tonics, the rum and cokes from the
whisky sours. All the straws faced east like the whole regiment was engaged in a formal salute of welcome. As drinks were snatched up, the infantry of topless barmen swooped in and lowered fresh ones into the gaps.
I selected a gin tonic but Edward hovered indecisively.
“Gin makes me sin.”
I could almost see the film reel of possibilities unspooling in his mind. But after a quick scan of the room, he said,
“What the hell, it looks like I’ll be in good company.”
We withdrew to an observation post, twirling and stabbing our straws in our glasses. What had been a state-ofthe-
art raised catwalk that afternoon had become a pulsating dance floor for a jumble of twiggy, writhing bodies.
They were silhouetted against a grid of lights and the effect was almost pagan, like watching a bonfire’s flames dancing between the tinder. There were low-hanging chandeliers and gold-trimmed cushions of Brobdingnagian dimensions for communal lounging: a tricky proposition as women in skimpy printed dresses tugged at hemlines but continued to reveal too much, and men with slicked back hair and baroquely patterned shirts aimed for a macho, spread-legged nonchalance but resembled toads on lily pads.”
— Excerpt from Silk for the Feed Dogs by Jackie Mallon
Get it here: http://viewbook.at/silkforthefeeddogs
February 2, 2015
“This month, Head Games, my debut novel and the book that launched the Hector Lassiter series, returns in some slick new packaging from Betimes Books.
Of all my novels, HG has traveled the widest, become the most translated, and is now in the final steps of being transformed into a graphic novel. The book has been out of print in the U.S. for a few years, so this is a chance for newcomers to get the novel between actual soft covers. Some extras for this version include…”
Head Games is available for pre-order here: getBook.at/HeadGames_preorder
January 19, 2015
Our edition of highly acclaimed HEAD GAMES, the Edgar® and Anthony Awards finalist, will be released on the 24th of February 2015 and is now available for pre-order here: getBook.at/HeadGames_preorder
“Craig McDonald, a genuine expert on the history of crime fiction, gives free rein to all his obsessions in a debut novel that’s a berserk 1957-based caper running roughshod through the politics and pop culture of the latter half of the 20th century. …Strap in, hold on, enjoy the ride.” — San Francisco Chronicle, Eddie Muller’s Top 10 list in crime fiction for 2007
“Reminiscent of James Crumley’s Milo Milodragovich PI novels, this slick caper novel touches chords of myth, history, loss and redemption just enough so you can hear echoes faintly under the gunfire.” — Publishers Weekly
“Blurring the lines between historical fact and fiction, Craig McDonald’s triumphantly twisted first novel is one of the most unusual, and readable, crime-fiction releases to come along in years. … Crime-fiction fans looking for an original voice should check out this exceptional debut, which blends Jack Kerouac’s picaresque narrative style and James Ellroy’s noir sensibilities with a heaping helping of urban legend, subtle social commentary and a trunkful of decapitated heads.” — Chicago Tribune
“Reading Craig McDonald’s HEAD GAMES was like reliving those wonderful and exciting, tequila-fired weekend border-town tours of my youth in the ’50’s. A different character, vivid and lively, waiting around every new corner of the artfully twisted plot. The time and place are captured perfectly, and story never falters as it dashes to the surprising ending.” — James Crumley
“HEAD GAMES is a gravel and mescal cocktail, a one-day burn, a novel of genuine piss and vinegar, the kind of book you thrust on people with the wild eyes and intent of a PCP freak.” — Ray Banks
January 1, 2015
“…wrought with dark humour and a multitude of literary, philosophical and psychological references. The trilogy is an essential read for anyone who enjoys a challenge: predictable neither in content nor in form, CENTRAL PARK WEST TRILOGY is not your average novel.”
Full review here: http://www.palatinate.org.uk/?p=52129
Richard Kalich’s book is on promotion in the UK and Australia. Don’t miss it!
December 17, 2014
Christmas is not always magic but good books always are.
Whether you love or hate Christmas, you might enjoy a good story.
Our collection GIFTS: NINE BITTERSWEET CHRISTMAS STORIES is free on Amazon this week: getBook.at/FREE_GIFTS
December 15, 2014
Congratulations to Colin O’Sullivan whose novel KILLARNEY BLUES is performing extremely well on Amazon Australia:
Amazon Bestsellers Rank: #2 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)
- #1 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Literature & Fiction > Literary Fiction
- #1 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Literature & Fiction > Contemporary Fiction
December 12, 2014
Excerpt from KILLARNEY BLUES by Colin O’Sullivan
“Cathy is ignoring Janet’s requests to open the door. She stays in the same position. On the floor. On that nice soft carpet. Her legs are stretched out in front of her. Her head hangs low. She is a collapsed marionette. But who will pick up the strings and give her life again? Who will manipulate her now? Jack is no master puppeteer, but at least he spun her round and made her dance, for a while. Yes, she danced in that brief romance, and as she did so, she had no idea. No idea he had such evil in his hands, no idea the depth of the savagery, but it was all there in his eyes, as he beat that man, beat him till hot blood dried before her on the hard mud of that pernicious place. The scene replays over and over in her head. It will never go away. How could it? It’s going to take some amount of therapy, or some amount of alcohol or drugs, to obliterate it. She can still hear the crack of rock on skull, the quake that ran through her and for several seconds stopped her heart from beating; the aftermath is just as potent, tremors up and down her spine now. How can she get away from this?”