I. Author. 002

   Nearly every childhood memory of my father involves a book. On weekends, I'd wake up to find him frowning at the pages of a book. Sometimes, he laughed. Other times, I'd hear him sigh longingly. 
   At ten, I had no idea why. None of the books he read contained a single picture. Sometimes, even the cover had nothing more than a few lines of text. Boring.
   I recall a particular Sunday when the city lost power, which often happened, and Dad and I sat in the living room in the serenity of candlelight. 
   "This reminds me of Edmond Dantes." When I stared blankly at him, he added, "The Count of Monte Cristo."
   "Who?"
   For the next few hours, Dad told me this magnificent story of hope, justice, mercy, vengeance, and forgiveness. 
   When the power was restored, we shut the lights off and sat in the dark until Dad finished it. Throughout the narration, I rode an emotional roller coaster, captivated by every part of it, especially Edmond. 
   I asked Dad where he heard the story, and he took me to his study and pulled a leather bound book off the shelf. I watched as he smiled at the cover and carefully opened the gilded pages for me.
   "Books are portals that can take you on a journey to faraway lands, different eras, and incredible adventures."
   Alone in the study, I delicately flipped through each page, hoping to get a glimpse of Chateau d'If or the pirate ship Edmond took back to Paris, but I was foiled. I didn't even find the treasure map responsible from elevating Edmond into the Count of Monte Cristo.
   A month later, Dad left a thick book on my desk: Jules Verne's Dick Sand, A Captain at Fifteen. The cover promised an adventure I couldn't find illustrated in its pages. Dejected, I left it in my shelf, never expecting to read it.
   Enter Mom...
   Whatever I did, was bad enough to land me in solitary for a whole weekend according to Mom. I thought I had discovered a new soap by combining every cleaning solution and bar of soap in the house, but I tried to take comfort in the knowledge that many scientists were incarcerated because of their research. 
   Mom, my warden, took away my Legos and my radio as part of the grounding.
   The ensuing boredom reminded me of something in Edmond's plight. While prisoner, Edmond learned to read and write. He learned history, economics, and read every page from books an old man shared from his cell.
   I didn't think I'd learn anything by reading Dick Sand. I figured I'd get bored and fall asleep.
   I was wrong...
   I read my first Jules Verne novel in one sitting, and when I read the list of his other titles, I couldn't wait to get my hands on them.
   Not a single picture and yet, I heard the echo of Captain Nemo's voice aboard the Nautilus 20,000 leagues under the sea. I felt the unforgiving cold of the permafrost in Iceland as I followed the professor into the center of the earth. Just before taking a trip around the world in eighty days, I read The Count of Monte Cristo, and knew exactly why my father reacted so strongly. 
   While I read it, it hit me.
   I didn't know whether Alexander Dumas ever spent a day of his life in jail. But somehow, he placed me in the dank cells of Chateau d'If. He made me feel the desperation, the hopelessness...
   Jules Verne didn't live to see a submarine or an astronaut on the moon, but he took me on those adventures and the real life achievements of the human race meant all the more to me because of his vision.
   Dumas and Verne wrote what they saw in their minds! 
   The first time I had taken the initiative to create another Christmas story, it cost me recess for a week. Maybe I deserved it, for the story wasn't mine, but what if I made my own story? What if I created my own faraway land, my own era, my own incredible adventure?
   It was the first time I asked myself: What would it be like to write a book?

to be continued...

Who were the authors that inspired you to write?

I. Author. 001

    Beginnings

   My mother lost the title of "Greatest Storyteller" I bestowed upon her when I was finally able to read Red Riding Hood. At first, I was outraged the tale involved some talking wolf that somehow tricked the heroine with her impersonation of her grandmother. 
   Where were the dwarfs Mom had guide Red through the enchanted forest, where they met the Cheshire cat, and had tea with three fairies, who watched over a princess's slumber? 
   New trips to the library and the emergence of Disney films finally answered those questions. My poor mother, tired and half asleep, had created her own brand of bedtime stories. Moby Dick never swallowed Pinocchio, and Cinderella never met the genie of the lamp. Peter Pan did not discover America, and Puss in Boots was not a Jedi knight. But Mom's creative streak, whether purely accidental or masterfully designed, planted a seed in my six year old mind.
   In the years that followed, Grammar, Composition and Vocabulary became my favorite subjects. 
   In the fourth grade, the assignment consisted of writing about Christmas. Where I come from, especially in Catholic school, we could not leave out the birth of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the manger, and the Star of Bethlehem so I was careful to implement those elements into my 500 word essay...

   ...along with two kids, modeled after myself and my best friend, who traveled back in time to save Mary and Joseph from the persecuting Romans by feeding a powerful sleep medicine to their horses.
   Of course, Freddy and I kept Pegasus and we flew all the way to Bethlehem. We even beat the three kings and got first row seats to the birth of the Messiah! 
   It was the greatest story ever told, but...
   As you can imagine, I failed the assignment. I was openly ridiculed in front of the entire class. In fact, I was kept in class during recess, forced to rewrite the essay according to my Catholic teachings, aware of the torn shreds of my story in the wastebasket. 
   At home, I wrote the essay my way, and it turned into a 1000 words mini-saga. This time, Freddy and I took our teacher, Señorita Rosa, with us, but the Romans caught her and fed her to the Lions at the Colosseum. 
   I prayed for forgiveness that night before bed, and fell asleep with a grin. I'd never felt so empowered. Hey, I even gave my mother back the title of Greatest Storyteller.
   The Christmas Night Adventure remained hidden beneath my math papers in the drawer of my desk. I feared Mom's reaction at the demise of Señorita Rosa, but I didn't have to wait long for a reaction to another piece of writing. Not when the entire experience changed my life forever... 

 to be continued...

   What was the first time you felt empowered by words you wrote?

Conviction

    My friend,

   While reading a page is crossing a portal into a new universe, writing is creating it.

   It's a lonely endeavor but if it's inside of you, if the first thing that comes to your mind when you wake is to write then you're the instrument of untold characters who want to be brought to life.

   Writing is a skill that demands constant improvement. You may not write your words in blood, but you will inevitably add pieces of your very soul into each line you ink. 
   If you're a poet at heart, you're more than half way there.

Poetry is singing on the page, and few are those who can masterfully compose a melody of words full of meaning, taking the very best language has to offer, and evoking a broad spectrum of emotions.

   If you're on your way, don't settle for being a writer. A writer writes, but a novelist creates. Create an adventure, create a romance, create emotion, inspiration, whole new worlds risen out of your imagination, and let your voice stay true all the way to that last page.

   Strive to create characters your readers will think about long after closing that back cover. Touch another's heart and soul, and take them along on the climbs and falls of your stories.

   I started writing when I was a kid and I never stopped, but it took most of my life to draw the audacity and courage to package it all into a novel, and lay it at the hands of someone else.

   Suffering the critique and judgment of others, who may have never lived what inspired you to write, will leave you in tatters, but don't let one opinion, one harsh review or one stinging insult hang your head. Follow your instincts, and let your characters tell their story.
   If the naysayers and the obligations of life force you to drop your gaze, let it be upon a blank page, and keep doing what you were meant to do. Create a universe, and invite readers to walk through the portal, and lose themselves.

   

   Javier A. Robayo

Pure Writer

“Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.” 
― Stephen King, On Writing

   It's been a year since I finished writing my first novel. I'm about to release a third, and I've never been more nervous.
  I'm excited, I'm thrilled, I'm over the moon with the knowledge that the small pile of composition notebooks is now compiled into the first novel of a series. It took only twenty-four years.  But the novel is now a reality that has not sunk in, and old and new fears haunt my mind over this achievement, as crazy as that sounds. The truth is, at some point, something started changing and that change made me afraid.
   I wondered if my biggest fear was whether the hypercritical minds like the story or not. I wondered if my biggest fear was ending up with a pile of unsold novels, mocking my efforts each time I looked at it. I wondered if I feared the first inevitable bad review. 
   Honestly, I've been told Gaze will never sell because of its length. I've been told Next Chapter is too controversial to market. I've been told stories about immigrants are a dime a dozen, just like vampire romances and zombie apocalypses. I actually sat down one night to think, hmm, let's see, what will sell? And that's when it hit me.
   My biggest fear is forgetting why I started writing.
   I was working on my new project, developing a character and considering situations, thinking more along the lines of a market when it hit me that I did not write my first novels that way. I did not browse through periodicals of the state of the book market. I did not study the latest trends, and I did not have a cover nor title in mind. I just wrote.
   Looking through the 50k odd words, I couldn't find anything that altered my breath or made me grin. Nothing. 
   I discovered I was actually conscientious of verbal mechanics, sentence tone and rhythm, active voice, generating tension on every page, and show vs. tell arguments. I put so much emphasis on those elements that I was ultimately not feeling the story. I was writing a book without a soul.
   I stopped and asked myself, "What kind of writer am I?" And I couldn't come up with an answer.
   I can't even adhere to a specific genre because as soon as I'm faced with limitations or parameters, the rebel in me says "%&#$ that," and I fill the pages with the sole purpose of not conforming to any such limits.
   I just write.
   When I wrote The Gaze, I did not do it for fame or fortune. I certainly didn't do it to impress my friends and gain new ones. I just wrote because a character named Samantha Reddick had a story to tell, and she chose me as her instrument. I just wrote.
   Samantha's story doesn't really fit any particular model other than fiction. It's fiction riding an undercurrent of drama, a dash of suspense, a bucketful of romance, a sprinkle of humor, and a twisting ride filled with scenes that evoke a laugh, a scream of sheer frustration, the stinging of unshed tears, and the blubbering sobs of those that fall. I am only expressing what Samantha's story put ME through.
   I may never write another character as deeply flawed as her. She is wrong in so many ways, evil at times, but damn if I don't feel for her, for everything she fought, for all she put herself through, for all she taught me...
   That was the reason I wrote. I did not know it at the time, but I hoped, I wanted, another person to feel what I felt upon composing the story though I do entertain goals and daydreams.
   Maybe one day, one piece I write will find its way to enough readers that will grant me a respite from the daily grind, and offer me enough to make possible some of the dreams I have. Maybe one day I'll be offered a table at a ritzy restaurant for nothing more than an autograph. Maybe one day, an establishment may recognize my efforts and allow me fifteen seconds in the spot light. We all hope for that one day. I'm no exception.
   But if that's the reason I write then I've lost sight of the kind of author I want to be, the kind of author I promised myself to be. 
   I don't want to copy someone else's style and voice because they produced the latest script for a Hollywood blockbuster. I don't want to draw from the tragedy of others and line my pockets with someone's tears. I don't want to exploit the lack of imagination our world is plagued with for the sake of making a buck.
   I want to write phrases that will inspire people to post them on Facebook. I want to write a piece that will make the reader sigh with the longing for just one more word. I want to write for someone not to remember my name and follow me on the networks; I want to write for someone who absorbs every emotion I infused in that page, and I want them to know the characters by name, to see them in their minds, and miss them when they close that cover.
  I want to be an author that writes with the hope of enriching another's life as well as his own. Like Stephen King says, I want to get happy.
  I want to be a pure writer.
  And pure writers just write.

  Javier A. Robayo

The Next Big Thing Blog

I was asked to participate in this blog hop and I'm happy to do it. It sounded like fun, and of course, what author wouldn't want to take the chance to talk about their work? 


What is the working/official title of your book?

My Two Flags. It will be out this month.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The idea came from some of the experiences I lived throughout my high school years. Since I was learning English as a second language, I started keeping a journal that I'd translate in the hopes of expanding my vocabulary. By my sophomore year, I had compiled a series of plot lines that I wanted to weave into a novel. I'm not known to write with a specific goal in mind, but I did want to offer a glimpse of life as an immigrant, particularly in the beginning. 

What genre does your book come under?

I don't always write with a genre in mind so I'll call this a drama, with a heavy YA undertone.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

As much as I would love to see a movie version of FLAGS, I don't believe I should look so far ahead. But for the sake of fun, I'll answer as best as I can although I'm not really in tune with the Hollywood or TV scene.
To tell you the truth, since MY TWO FLAGS is set in the late 80's, it's difficult to imagine teen actors with long teased hair, wearing acid wash jeans. I may have an idea of who I would've liked to see play those rolls back when I was that age, but it seems impossible to do now.
I did do a little research and came up with a few characters, but not all of them. 
Once again, I wasn't too keen on casting my novel, but a few friends of mine were quick to fill my inbox with photographs and this is what we compiled, all in the name of fun and big, ginormous dreams.

Kevin Aponte is broody enough to play Antonio (Tony) Amaya as long as he wears brown contacts

I think Ariel Winter would make a great Gloria Espinoza. Her role grows in the second book of the series.

Abigail Breslin comes to mind to play the part of Gabrizia, whose role also grows in the next installment.







Avan Jogia just makes me think of Rex in the story. 








The very lovely Brie Gabrielle would make an ideal Patricia Paris









Bailee Madison as Paola Amaya. She just has such a spark in this shot, just like the little girl she'd portray. 








Oscar Priego would play a perfect Carlos Arellano








Issac Reyes has a lot of the elements I'd look for in the character playing Ramon







And before my brain explodes, we'll do one more. Sara Paxton as Celestyn







Of course I'm leaving out all the grown ups in the story, but since this is a series based in high school, there will be several characters.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

I've been taking forever to come up with the blurb, but I have this, and only after a lot of help from my honorary Big Sis, C.F. Winn: 

   How does a thirteen year old overcome a language barrier, racial slurs, and bullying while putting on a brave face for his parents who have given up everything to give him a better life? 

Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency?

I'm hoping to make this the first novel for a new independent publisher. I'm still learning the ins and outs of what's involved in it.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

24 years. My Two Flags is based on the journals I kept all through high school. I always wanted to turn them into something, but I lacked the skill and the courage. I still have a lot to learn, and I don't feel very courageous, but it felt right to finally create this story.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I'm not sure about which ones in the same genre. It's getting a little more difficult to cubby-hole a novel, especially a fictionalized memoir. However, Vladimir Nobokov's "Pnin" resonates a little bit. But FLAGS is not as tragic as "Call It Sleep" by Henry Roth. Junot Diaz wrote a novel called "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao", but my story doesn't exploit the angle of nationalism. 
My novel is more contemporary and many of the situations within, are no longer such a big issue. Racism and bullying were definitely not as prominent in the 80's as they were in earlier decades, but enough that lives were affected.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I'd say life itself, particularly the life of the kid I used to see in the mirror.

***

Thank you Kristi Ayers for inviting me to participate!  
Christina Fifield-Winn will be joining me in blogging "The Next Big Thing" next Friday, March 15th.  

Her blog: http://simplystick.blogspot.com/

Anniversary

  
  It seems life is all about numbers. I could enumerate the words I wrote. I could bore you with my battles with page count. I could lament the many nights I didn't sleep in favor of writing another chapter. I could proudly tell you how many readers keep making my dream come true. I could, but I won't. Today, it's all about the number one.
  Exactly one year ago, I self-published The Gaze. I will not lie to you, I'd hoped to hit the ground running but instead, I fell flat on my face and the momentum carried me into a full tumble over jagged ground. 
  Did the work stop at the publication? Hell, no!
  This trip had only marked its first step.
  Samantha Reddick's emotional roller coaster touched its share of hearts. The reviews and emails I received were far more than I could have possibly dreamed. 
  I constantly fight the perfectionist in me, who wants to open that file and rearrange a phrase, a cover page, a comma, and even considered republishing it in two parts...
  But any artist who abuses the brush will inevitably cover his vision in a monochromatic mess therefore, its quill will never again leave its inkwell.
  Samantha will just have to be happy with her place in the literary universe. I'm indebted to her, and all my characters who put me through every facet of the human emotional spectrum.
  The Gaze changed me by inspiring me to believe in myself again, by making a writer out of a dreamer.
  It's my first novel, one of my best accomplishments, one book that transformed me and gave me one glimpse at the life I wanted despite the thousands of writing hours, the hundreds of hours working on its promotion.
  Life is about numbers...
  But today...
  Today is all about the number one.

  Happy Anniversary, Samantha, Lewis, Gwen, and Tony. Thank you for all you've taught me.

  Javier A. Robayo

Poetry and The Letter Inside THE GAZE

Recently, I came across Stories of my Soul, poetry by L.J. Lenehan. I highly suggest you visit her Facebook and author pages if your heart and soul need an infusion of poetry. 

Poets are amazing at coloring each word they link together with palpable emotion, and Ms. Lenehan titled her page appropriately.  

Poetry comes from the deepest confines of the soul; where joy lives, where past wounds still bleed, where dreams take flight. 

I always thought a poem had to rhyme, and in most cases, I'm not exactly wrong, but I'm not altogether right either. Poetry is the literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas, it's a quality of beauty and emotion. In other words Poetry is alive. 

When I wrote THE GAZE, I had this one central idea based on a piece of writing born of pain and regret. I never considered it poetry, and I still don't. Not when I compare it to something like Lenehan's A Better Tomorrow or Side of the Road. I don't believe I wrote anything like Jo King VonBargen's poems like The Unspeakable, Glow or To My Child Far Away. I can feel every lash, every giggle, every comforting touch. 

I can't compose poetry, but I wonder if this piece qualifies. 

Although THE GAZE turned into a maelstrom of emotions, I may be biased in my opinion but this is at its core, the most emotional piece within its pages. 

It was written in a diner, near midnight, on the back of a diner placemat...

I miss you, please forgive me…. I love you…

A man laughs heartily with a couple sitting at a booth.  No doubt he has known them for years.  His baritone voice echoes throughout the diner, but fades in my mind as the older couple looks on, placid smiles upon faces lined with laughter, their hands entwined…

Not so long ago I dared to believe that her hand would hold mine.  That my face would crease with laughter at the sweet sound of her voice, enriched with life and love, a love that I denied myself… in the absurd quest for revenge…

The petals of her rose have grown brittle.  Its delicate perfume more memory than anything real and my heart breaks with the knowledge that other than her blue eyes, I see little in my mind of her face.

Gwen, beautiful Gwen…

No more can I feel the soft warmth of her kiss than its its absence becomes me in the form of a living death.

Who am I to be now that I don’t see that reflection of myself upon those blue eyes?  That reflection that showed a better man I’ll never be without her…

An empty shell is all that I am, yet she is not even aware of all that I left behind, with her, in her, forever.

I’ll be no more than a transient thought in her mind, a small measure of time.  Insignificant.  Nothing more than a faintly familiar set of notes to a song seldom remembered…

The very essence of her name is an endless symphony that sets my soul on fire that consumes me with the crushing need to see her… to hold her… to kiss her…

I grit my teeth as a scream in my mind rips through my insides.  The trembling grows less disabling as I list the reasons why I shouldn’t drive those eight hours and knock on her door, my face down in shame, and heavy with the terrible, wonderful knowledge, that I was made for her alone; that my existence is forever entwined with hers…

This ache in my heart, though painful, is bound to grow comforting each day.  The comfort lies in the fact that the pain, this horrid, ceaseless clawing burning through my insides, reminds me that love was within my grasp.

She is somewhere out there, unknowingly carrying all that I am or will ever be while I live as a hollow stomp…

Another night brings in its dark wings the fluttering memories of when all was right and of the place where I rightfully belong.  It will allow the light to come and find me still awake living this nightmarish loneliness and another day will start…

Without her…

I miss you, please forgive me…. I love you…

Javier A. Robayo

visit:

L.J. Lenehan at ljlnehan.com and StoriesOfMySoul

Jo VonBargen at TheTwo-Bit Bard and her Facebook page