The weather has yet to cool, but I can feel Fall creeping up on us. While I’ve had a rocky last few months, I’m charging full speed ahead with new projects, stories, and more–just for you. Below are some sneak peeks of what I’ve been up to, Chapter 1 of Enforcing Fate, sample audio of Mobster’s Angel, and my blog post on the Willing Suspension of Disbelief.
The Willing Suspension of Disbelief.
“Suspension of disbelief or willing suspension of disbelief is a term coined in 1817 by the poet and aesthetic philosopher Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who suggested that if a writer could infuse a “human interest and a semblance of truth” into a fantastic tale, the reader would suspend judgment concerning the implausibility of the narrative. Suspension of disbelief often applies to fictional works of the action, comedy, fantasy, and horror genres.” Wikipedia
Why does it exist? Why do we feel compelled to push ourselves into another world? We already have one we are living in now. Books, movies, and even music transform us and transport us to a new world and place. We allow ourselves to be taken.
We don’t have to till the fields or milk the cows anymore, or build our own houses. But yet hundreds of years ago people in poverty, middle-class, and even the elite traveled to coliseums and cheered when thespian troops ventured to their towns. Shakespearean plays performed offered an escape to leave the world for a couple of hours and be transformed into another. Books were a luxury and copies were passed down from generation to generation.
The willing suspension of disbelief is an amazing ideology and sometimes we definitely need it to get away from our own lives to settle back and relax and let someone else do the work. Human nature wants to be entertained.
Mobster’s Angel is working its way towards a downloadable audio book!
Stay tuned, even more audio books to come!
He’s dead. The words roll about in my head as I swirl the amber whiskey in my glass around and around staring at it slosh. The casino I’m at is busy tonight. The lights are low but the sounds of the slots are loud.
I tip my drink to my lips, gulp the rest of it down and slide the glass across the bar for a refill without leaving my stool. The guy tending is someone I haven’t seen before. I have been spending my nights here since I moved to Chicago right after it happened. I couldn’t face our home, our stuff, or even our car when it was finally over. I sold or gave it all away and left as fast as a seven-forty-seven could take me. His death didn’t leave me destitute but it left me alone.
My phone dings with a text from a friend I hardly ever saw when he was alive.
“How are you?” she asks.
I click the delete button. I’m not ready to talk. I can’t hear it again, “You’re so young. You’ll meet someone else. It’s too bad you never had kids.”
The calls from aunts I haven’t spoken to in ten years really piss me off. I wasn’t worth a call when I was married, why am I worth a call now that I am a thirty-four-year-old widow?
I look up at a different bartender. He’s scrounging under the bar not really seeming to know what he’s doing. His dark brown hair is on the long side and hangs in his eyes. I watch him shove it out of the way miffed.
“Excuse me.” I tap my finger on the shiny granite. “I’ll have another when you get a chance.” He is busy, engrossed in pouring and figuring out how to use the tap and agitated. I watch him. It makes me stifle a giggle. Clearly, this is not what he is cut out for.
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “It’s coming. Give me a minute.”
Oh, he’s ruffled. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand attempting not to laugh at him instead of being bothered by his attitude.
“Are you new?” I can’t stop myself from asking.
“No, I’m not new.” He barks low aggravated. “I’ve worked here practically my whole life.” He snaps up to full height with a whiskey bottle in one hand and a clean glass in the other.
I giggle because his mannerisms are so cute.
“Okay.” I keep my laugh as contained as I can.
He’s staring. So I turn to see what is behind me. People are going back and forth to slot machines and roulette tables that are near the bar. I twist back around and my drink is directly in front of me.
“Thank you,” I toss out scooping it up. Instead of going back to his prep area or helping others around me, he is standing before me.
“I have a running tab,” I tell him assuming he is waiting for me to pay him. Awkwardly, he grabs a rag from below and wipes down my area. He is concentrating on his own movements intensely like he wants to stay right here but is embarrassed to look at me.
“So,” I start. “You have worked here practically your whole life, huh? I guess not as a bartender though?
“Security,” he states firmly.
“I would say that is definitely the opposite of tending bar.” I lift my glass again.
“Alex!” A dark haired guy calls to him. His head shoots towards the voice. “Bobby is here.”
“I’m good!” he calls back.
The guy who called over has a face twisted in confusion.
“I think he is letting you know that you are all set,” I offer taking a swig of my drink before turning my attention back to the two men. “Bobby is a regular bartender here.” The one who should be serving drinks instead. I down the last drops of my whiskey and reach into my purse for my credit card.
“It’s on the house,” he says quietly still intent on wiping the counter. My brows furrow in confusion. I don’t know what to do. This has never happened to me before. I dip my fingers into my wallet and put a twenty on the bar. Alex, I assume that is his name, pushes it back towards me. “I said it is on the house.” His voice is commanding with a touch of darkness. It is the kind of voice that exudes danger. He is the total opposite of the fumbling cute guy from a few minutes ago. His demeanor has transformed.
He has flustered me so I squeak out a very low thank you shoving the twenty back in my bag and zip for the casino exit.
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