These days, life is a creepy puzzle. Who knew? Turns out there are aliens among us – some too small to see. But some have always been larger than life… I’m looking at you, LEO!
WHEN GENRES AREN’T US … and by us, I mean me
Sometimes an author has to step up. And by stepping up, I mean making use of one’s personal soapbox to speak out… and by speaking out, I mean writing outside the genres that continually fail to accurately represent (and by represent, I mean portraying favourably) their books. I don’t much like being caught in the crossfire of genre wars.
And by soapbox, I mean my newsletter and this website where I blog about the eccentricities of art history-mysteries and cozy ghost stories involving reincarnation and time travel.
When it comes to genres, I believe the words Supernatural and Paranormal should require a license. Artificial intelligence has broken out of the science fiction section of the library, and Supernatural and Paranormal have devolved into lewd tales of, and I use the term loosely, animal magnetism.
I write ghost stories that aren’t horrific, fanciful art history-mysteries that aren’t dry facts, and paranormal romances that never involve vampires wearing leather pants or shirtless werewolves. Antagonists don’t have to be predators. Ghost stories can be cozy. History is inherently, juicy. And art history can be inspiring.
CLASSIC OUTER SPACE, where spaceships and aliens go bump in the night, is too small a cyber space to contain unlimited tales where science and humanity play together nicely. INNER SPACE, where ‘outer limits’ imaginations roam free of limiting genres, IS THE FINAL FRONTIER.
Here is my personal definition of book promotion as an Indie Author:
UFO = Unidentified Fundamental Objectives: to turn a long time ‘hobby’ into a ‘going concern’ (as opposed to a growing concern) because cozy ghost stories are hard to find in the asteroid belt.
YOUNG LOVE… OLD SOULS
Delphi Sharpe, an abandoned girl with extrasensory abilities and a tenuous grip on reality, falls in love with a boy in a 500-year-old painting and strives to find the family she senses in dreams, believing her mother is the Mona Lisa and her father is Dr. Who.
ELEVATOR PITCH for ‘THE INDIGO PEARL’ and it’s follow up ‘PEARL BY PEARL’
– an abandoned autistic child with a tenuous grip on reality believes her mother is the Mona Lisa and her father is Dr. Who.
[I begged Cecco to stay. “No, Carissima,” he said. He took my hands in his and shook them hard. His eyes were serious, almost cruel, and what he said next terrified me. “A ghost can still die, Cara.]
WHEN GENRES AREN’T US … and by us, I still mean me
Here is my personal definition of ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE as it relates to my ‘pearl novels’
AI = Autistic Intelligence… ‘State of the art’ time travel just became transcendental.
Both ‘THE INDIGO PEARL’ and ‘PEARL BY PEARL’ are earmarked, and what I mean by earmarked is marketed under the genres ‘paranormal romance’ and ‘science fiction’. What it really is, is a TENDER LOVE STORY where a hybrid-android transcends the laboratory into the world of renaissance art.
THE PITCH: When the consciousness of an autistic woman with the extrasensory ability to converse with paintings and birds is transplanted into the circuits of an android programmed to retrieve famous works of art lost in the distant past, intelligence is no longer artificial.
Two rivalling ‘art whisperers’, become single-mindedly obsessed to consummate the love of Delphi’s life – a teenage boy in a 500-year-old portrait. But while the spirit of Delphi wants to rest in peace with her beloved, her counterpart intends to exact revenge on the art syndicate that exploited them.
Sometimes ‘near death’ is the only road home… SOMETIMES IT TAKES TWO LIVES TO MAKE ONE WOMAN
[When I was born my wings were too small to defend themselves… as if a white butterfly had alighted between my shoulder blades. Within the hour, they withered and fell like rose petals. At least, that’s what I assumed. But I was mistaken. They were folded tightly into an invisible bud, dreaming. And sometimes, when tropical breezes stir the treetops or I track a flock of geese across the sky, my phantom wings quicken and purr. When I’m angry, they bristle and hiss. It’s as if I’m carrying a kitten on my back.
I belong to the air… all humans do. We share a deep-seated fear of being caged. We are instinctive homing pigeons. Birds awaken deep ancestral memories of flight in us. They evoke the inherent joy of weightlessness and summon primal dreams of riding a perfect updraft in the clear blue. And even though you may have forgotten your natural habitat, you subconsciously display your inbred bird personas. I am a devoted human-watcher, and before you utter a single word, I see yours in plain sight.
A robin was my first friend. In my earliest years, I was treated like a dodo which led me to believe I was an ugly duckling. I was considered backward – an ‘indigo child’. But after I fell in love with a boy in a painting, my wings woke up and I became a swan.]
‘I think, therefore I create’ – a sentiment that bears repeating
SILENT K PUBLISHING, a.k.a. the indie books of V Knox – promoting long ‘metaphysical’ novels for discriminating bookworms who savour reading strange books as slowly as possible
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