‘DOGGED STAR’ – When the teenage Leonardo Da Vinci experiences a spontaneous emotional outburst while painting his first masterpiece, he unwittingly initiates a long-term long-distance love affair that defies physics. An extraordinary romance spanning five-centuries transpires inspired by the dogged nature of canine loyalty, the fine art of unwavering reincarnation, and blind faith written beyond the stars.
Most titles of my books contain wordplay clues. For example, my middle-grade time-slip adventure ‘TWINTER’ melds the main characters: a pair of twins and a winter curse; similarly, ‘WOO WOO – the posthumous love story of Miss Emily Carr’ is ‘highly paranormal woo woo’ as well as the name of the artist Emily Carr’s pet monkey, Woo – the true hero of the story.
Significantly, when anagrammed, ‘ART’ reveals the word ‘RAT’. But to appreciate the deepest supernatural magic of ‘DOGGED STAR’, an ‘S’ must be added to form ‘RATS’ and then read backwards as ‘STAR’.
In 1470, eighteen-year-old Leonardo da Vinci, an apprentice in Master Andrea del Verrocchio’s studio, paints a high-spirited dog and a wily fish for an altarpiece while riding a wave of unprecedented creative energy. His corresponding animating lifeforce results in a spontaneous unconstrained time rift that transports the apparition of a teenage girl – an art student sketching the altarpiece 500 years in the future in London’s National Gallery.
But after the smitten teens continue to meet in a stream of lucid dreams across time, innocent puppy love evolves into a into an ill-fated love triangle with lasting repercussions of star-crossed reincarnation and an unwavering romance that spans five-centuries.
EXCERPT FROM PAGE ONE:
[Once upon an ominous star, a dog was born. By my reckoning we were hapless twins born 500 years apart. I presume such a wild notion because the universe creates wondrous paradoxes in plain sight, which is why a tail can wag a dog, a human can dream a lifetime in the space of a cat nap, and unexplained phenomenon can doggedly serve humans in unimaginably perverse ways.
Case in point. My eyes have six months to live. Tragic for a photographer, ruination for a painter of fine miniatures, and damnably inconvenient for an art historian editing their first book.
Unfortunately, the only upshot of perpetual head-on collisions with disaster is that serious challenges come as no surprise. I’d been expecting a long overdue catastrophe for thirty-three years — ever since I turned nineteen.]