The world of writers, readers, and reviewers is a close-knit family of friends, fans, and fiction fanatics. That’s the world Milo Cook and Logan Hunter reside in—thriving on the give and take of creativity, the sharing of stories and ideas, and forever glorying in their boundless love of books and the words that make them breathe.But sometimes words can cut too deep. And when they do, there is inevitably a price to pay.
What begins for Milo and Logan as a time of new love and gentle romantic discoveries, becomes before it’s over a race for their lives and for the lives of everyone they know.
Who would ever suspect that an entity as beautiful as the written word could become a catalyst for revenge? And ultimately—murder?
Buy links: Dreamspinner | Amazon
Cat gives this one 4 Meows with a 3 Purr heat index...
Words is a very unique story. It’s wren in an unusual perspective with it being omg both Logan a reviewer, and Milo and authors view. We get a take on both men’s job, a good romansnce plus an added bonus of a mystery person’s view.
Logan is still in mourning over the loss of his husband, Milo is in the aftermath of a bad breakup neither men looking for a relationship or love.
The romance itself was interesting and sweet but mix in thi murders of reviewers and the story heats up in a non sexy way as well.
If you like Authors, reviewers, sweet romance and a bit of mystery/suspense with a twist this is for you.
Excerpt..
MILO COOK sat behind a long wooden table inside the doors of the Andiron Bookstore in Coronado, California, hoping to snag each and every book shopper as they strolled in off the street. The problem was, there was no one strolling in.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocean, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.
Milo kept his smile intact until she returned some minutes later. Once again her eyes skimmed over him like he didn’t exist as she headed straight out the door. She did look considerably relieved to have found a public toilet, however, and for that Milo was happy for her. He was also pleased as punch to see she was dragging a three-foot streamer of toilet paper that had stuck to her shoe.
He dug into his sport-coat pocket and plucked out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, quietly peeled it from its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. He settled in again to wait, avoiding the eyes of the sales clerk, who kept glancing his way, either in pity that the poor writer was getting so few nibbles, or in annoyance that the writer was taking up so much space for nothing. Milo couldn’t quite be sure which.
There are few things more exciting for a writer, Milo mused, than to be parked in a bookstore, offering himself to the masses for slavering admiration and the chance to buy one of his books and cop a free autograph. And there are few things more humiliating than when the masses have better things to do with their time and clearly wouldn’t recognize a decent book—or a world-renowned writer—if one leaped up and bit them on the ass.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocean, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.
Milo kept his smile intact until she returned some minutes later. Once again her eyes skimmed over him like he didn’t exist as she headed straight out the door. She did look considerably relieved to have found a public toilet, however, and for that Milo was happy for her. He was also pleased as punch to see she was dragging a three-foot streamer of toilet paper that had stuck to her shoe.
He dug into his sport-coat pocket and plucked out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, quietly peeled it from its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. He settled in again to wait, avoiding the eyes of the sales clerk, who kept glancing his way, either in pity that the poor writer was getting so few nibbles, or in annoyance that the writer was taking up so much space for nothing. Milo couldn’t quite be sure which.
There are few things more exciting for a writer, Milo mused, than to be parked in a bookstore, offering himself to the masses for slavering admiration and the chance to buy one of his books and cop a free autograph. And there are few things more humiliating than when the masses have better things to do with their time and clearly wouldn’t recognize a decent book—or a world-renowned writer—if one leaped up and bit them on the ass.
John Inman is a Lambda Literary Award finalist and the author of over thirty novels, everything from outrageous comedies to tales of ghosts and monsters and heart stopping romances. John Inman has been writing fiction since he was old enough to hold a pencil. He and his partner live in beautiful San Diego, California. Together, they share a passion for theater, books, hiking and biking along the trails and canyons of San Diego or, if the mood strikes, simply kicking back with a beer and a movie.
John's advice for anyone who wishes to be a writer? "Set time aside to write every day and do it. Don't be afraid to share what you've written. Feedback is important. When a rejection slip comes in, just tear it up and try again. Keep mailing stuff out. Keep writing and rewriting and then rewrite one more time. Every minute of the struggle is worth it in the end, so don't give up. Ever. Remember that publishers are a lot like lovers. Sometimes you have to look a long time to find the one that's right for you."
great post today
ReplyDeleteThank you for the review and excerpt!
ReplyDelete