Great New Review from Florida Book Review

I have a couple good emails that I want to respond to, but I just got an outstanding review on ALL OR NOTHING by reviewer John Rodonis and the great people at FLORIDA BOOK REVIEW (http://www.floridabookreview.com/id1.html) that I'd like to share with you.


. . . Allen examines the flaming abyss compulsive gambling burns in its victims’ guts, self-esteem and bank accounts, the desperate, myopic immediacy it incites, the self-destructive need it feeds on, the families and relationships it destroys. For with gamblers, it really is all or nothing. Usually nothing. Take it from a reviewer who’s been there. Allen is right on the money here.

"If someone says, Buy some medicine for me with this $20, my life depends on it, and you go to the casino, you will blow all of your money, all of the money in your ATM up to the daily maximum, then dig around in your pockets for whatever spare change you have remaining, and blow the $20 your friend gave you, whether his life depends on it or not. You will leave with nothing. Every penny you have goes into the machines because you never know when lady luck is going to dance with you. Tonight, I blew all of my loose cash, blew my daily max on the ATM, then went out to the car and found three quarters and 26 pennies in the toll tray. That made a dollar. That was all I needed."

. . . Allen constructs his plot around wild, sometimes convenient, swings of fortune. P. befriends “C.L.,” a slot-crazed woman he employs to curb his own compulsivity. Soon after, just as casino security closes in on a disguised P who has been barred due to never elaborated on IRS problems, P makes one final desperation slot play and wins $160,000. When he brings his winnings home, his wife, sick of it all, dumps him, refusing the money. P and C.L. move on to Las Vegas where P. discovers—at least for a time—a heretofore unknown discipline and success.

After P. strikes it rich, women are more than willing to “barter” with him in his suite for money to scratch that indelible itch. “C.L.,” “E.V.,” “S.” and “Missy” (the “twelve-step” initialization of names reminds us that these people are addicts), are female characters so degenerately entrenched in “the game” they’ll do anything for another chance to “hit it hard” at the one-arm-bandits, chasing the “ping ping” payoff of hitting “the big one.” P.’s willingness to fund their addiction is their “luck.” As for what happens to his, you’ll have to read the book.

All or Nothing is a recommended read, one that weaves a world where people live and die waiting for “their numbers” to appear in ordered redemption. And if this place proves unrecognizable, then the reader has certainly had little experience gambling.

And my most earnest advice would be to keep it that way.

John Rodonis.

You can check out the complete review at the Florida Book Review's Website. It's worth a visit: http://www.floridabookreview.com/id1.html

Is Writing for Everyone?

"Professor I am amazed at your gift. Not everyone can write, especially when it comes to putting words (not just any words) together. It is said that a writer has a profound imagination. I can truly relate. My imagination is interesting. Certain things that come to my mind are like, huh? I always wanted to write a book, but fear would always prevent me. What do you think? Should I? You are the perfect person to answer me honestly. May your imagination, produce more books for me and for everyone else! M.M."

Thanks for the question, M.M.

Is writing for everyone? That is a good question. I'm going to begin my answer by paraphrasing something I heard around the time I was in grad school, though I am not sure who said it, or where I heard it from. It is this: By the time you are 16, you have at least one book in you--your autobiography; by the time you are sixty, you have at least one other book in you, someone else's biography--your husband's, your child's.

I believe that we do have several books in us. Are we willing to do the work to get to the place where we are skilled enough to set these stories down? Do we have the drive (or endurance) to write 300 to 400 pages? I believe that it can be done. I believe that each of us can write that ONE book at least.

But does writing that one book make you a WRITER? Do you love words and sentences? Do you yourself love to read? Do you have many stories in your head? Are you constantly trying to phrase things more beautifully, more forcefully? Do you love the craft of writing and revision?

No, in that sense, I do not believe that writing is for everyone, or more correctly stated, not everyone is a writer.

Thus, everyone can write at least one book; but not everyone is a WRITER.

Everyone has at least one story to tell, but a writer is a storyTELLER, descended from a long, proud tradition of storytellers, extending back to a time before there was even such a thing as the written word.

In fact, go read this very brief but cool story by Spencer Holst, "The Zebra Storyteller," and you'll see what I'm talking about. It has me nodding my head everytime I read it.

http://www.archipelago.org/vol3-1/holst.htm

Thanks, MM, now go write that book. You have passed the landmark of 16. After you have finished that book, if you still have the drive to write then you are probably a writer. Welcome to the family.

Preston

How Do You Write a Lisp?

"Preston L. Allen, I loved ALL OR NOTHING. I'm glad I met you on Goodreads. I'm honored to have such a great writer to correspond with back and forth like this. Isn't technology wonderful? As you know, I am still working on my science fiction novel and I agreed with you and some others who have read it that the character [ ]'s lisp is not working. One of my readers even suggested that I get rid of it. But I like the lisp. It sets him apart from the other warriors and I think it adds humor. Any suggestions? Sci-fi guy."

Thanks for the email and for reading the novel, Sci-fi guy. Here's something you can do. I'd like you to go and buy a little novel called PUSH by Sapphire which was published a couple years ago. After you have read the first few chapters of that book, I want you to reflect on the severity of the main character's poor grammar and non-standard dialect. It is pretty bad, isn't it? Clarice Precious Jones is a child of the ghetto and she speaks like one.

Now I want you to reflect on how relatively easy it was for you to UNDERSTAND everything that Clarice was saying, despite her use of non-standard English. Does this surprise you?

Finally, I want you to go back and re-read Clarice's words, paying attention to how much non-standard stuff is actually there on the page.

Are you surprised that the actual stuff on the page is not as poorly written as you originally thought? It sounds worse in your head than it actually is on the page.

Remember this rule: More is less and less is more.

What writers do when they are creating dialogue for characters who speak with an accent, or who speak a non-standard English, or who are afflicted with speech impediments is that they SPRINKLE THE SOUND OF THE LANGUAGE in the reader's head: in other words, they give you a sampling of the way the speaker sounds and then your brain continues to hear it each time the character speaks.

For example, they may have a character say, "Zees is not so good. I zink that I will have to leave before your theater group arrives. Your director does not like me too mucho, I zink."

Your brain hears a heavy accent, but when you see the actual sentences, only the words this (zees), think (zink), and much (mucho) are non-standard. If you sprinkle the sound of the accent in strategic places, the reader's brain will hear the accent everywhere (less is more).

On the other hand, look at this passage: "Zees ees no so gut. I zink zet I weel hef to leef before jour zeater groupo will to arrives. Jour deerictor doos no to liki me too mucho, I zink."

This passage has more of the accent, but it is rather difficult to read--imagine trying to read an entire page of it. Instead of allowing the brain to HEAR the accent of the speaker, a passage with too much dialect sprinkled in creates a problem in comprehension (more is less). Furthermore, It may create humor where none is intended, or it may offend the speakers of that dialect (or speakers with that speech impediment) where no offense is intended.

So in the case of your character [ ]'s lisp, I think what we readers found when we reviewed it is that there was too much of a lisp. It became annoying after a while and didn't really add anything to the character, except a cheap laugh. Sprinkle in a little bit of the lisp, however, and the scene will read a lot better.

I hope this helps, Sci-fi guy. Keep on writing!

By the way, you didn't give me your interpretation of my dreams.


Thanks,

Preston

The Interpretation of Dreams

Interpretation of dreams anyone?

I’ve been having some pretty strange dreams, so I am putting this up on both of my blogs to get some feedback.

My Aunt Exposed

In the first dream, I walk into my aunt’s room, mistaking it for the bathroom, and find her lying in bed with her breasts uncovered. She is an older woman and her breasts are very large and very black. She tries to cover them, but the sheets keep falling away from them. I am stunned, embarrassed, and I back out of her room apologizing profusely.

What does this mean?

Well, a good friend of mine, mostly in jest, provided an interpretation: “Subconsciously, you want your family to keep their secrets to themselves. They have been revealing things to you of late that you do not want to know. You wish they would not tell you these things. You do not want to know these things.”

Wow. My friend may have been kidding around, but his interpretation rang true for me. I have of late learned some dark family secrets that both saddened and angered me, and one of these secrets does in fact involve my aunt.

The second dream is even weirder.

My House Invaded

In the second dream, my wife and I are in our bathroom brushing our teeth as we do every morning when a tall, innocent-faced young man reaches over my shoulder for one of our toothbrushes to brush his own teeth. I react with shock and anger, telling him to get out of our bathroom.

As the young man retreats apologizing, I ask my wife: “Who is that guy?”

She jokes: “He is my boyfriend.”

I say, “You’re kidding, right?”

She says, “Of course. He looks twelve, if that.”

When we leave the bathroom and enter our own room, my mother-in-law is on our bed with our son, who is 13, but in the dream he is much young, maybe 6 or 7. I am alarmed that there are people crowded into the room, opening closet doors and looking through our things. As I recognize some of their faces, I realize what has gone wrong. The college where I teach is having some sort of event and the attendees got the wrong address and ended up at our house instead. I say to my son, “Get these people out of here. Show them how to get to the college.”

Then my little son gets up from his grandmother’s lap and begins to lead the people out of our room, out of our house and I suppose to the college.

Then I leave my house (I can’t remember the reason why) and I become disoriented when I try to find my way back. I can’t find my own house. Everything looks familiar, the neighborhood, the houses, the cars, but my memory lapse is so severe I can’t remember which street I must go down in order to get back to my own house. At that point in the dream, I say to myself, “If I were in my car I would know how to get back home, but not on foot. I am lost on foot.”

When I spy a familiar security guard from the college, I say to him, “Which direction are you going in? I need to get home.”

The guard, who is wearing his neatly-pressed black uniform, says, “I am going to the college. I can only take you as far as the college because I have to clock in.”

This sounds good to me. I am convinced that if I can get to the college, everything will look familiar and I can find my way home from the college as a starting point.

So I follow the security guard, who for some reason gets out of his car and leaves it behind. We are walking through another familiar looking neighborhood that I can feel in my bones is near where I live, but I cannot figure out how to get home from here. If I had my car, however, I could turn down each and every street until I found the one that was mine. But on foot like this, it is too much of an effort to go down every street one at a time. I am so weary for some reason, so exhausted.

The security guard stops at a tree-lined section of the neighborhood and lights a torch and begins to set the trees on fire. The fire leaps from one tree to the next. He stands back and asks, “Do you think they will all burn?”

I say, “No. The fire will stop after that tree.” I point to a gap in the trees behind the houses. “You are going to have to light that second row of trees.”

The guard says, “Okay. You’re going to have to wait until I am done. I have to do this before I clock in.” Then he leaves to go light the second row of trees.

As the trees around me burn, I am upset because my only chance of finding my way home is with the guard and I have no idea how long this new duty of his is going to take. Will I ever get home?

Then I spot another guard from the college, an older, heavy-set female guard who has a reputation for being chatty and friendly. She too is wearing the black uniform. I do not want to betray the first guard, but I have to get home. So I ask the female guard if she can help me find my home and she says, “Hop in.”

I get into her car with the feeling that she is not going to be any more successful in getting me home, but at least I am off my feet. I feel very tired, exhausted. It is good to rest my feet.

I think the dream ends there.

Thanks,

Preston