“Conversation is the duel of insecurity, curiosity, and the yearning to belong.”
– Samuel McCord
“Man is a riddle; his words masked evasions.”
– Meilori Shinseen, Empress of a shadow alien race and new bride of McCord
Isn’t Kathleen gracious to let me sneak into her blog to talk of my new book?
Thank her for this kindness by commenting down below, will you?
But what is this about not buying my book?
How many things have you bought over the phone from tele-solicitors? Yeah, me, too.
Rest easy. No arm-twisting from me. But aren’t those the words of every used car salesman?
Words. They are spoken to disguise in these times, not to reveal. Nature teaches us we survive by camouflage not by standing out.
Novels these days contain anywhere from 50% to 70% dialogue. Why is that do you believe? Let’s think on it, shall we?
There is internal dialogue and external dialogue. A good novel juxtapositions the two to provide tension and mood.
Dialogue increases pace and gives the narrative a sense of immediacy.
It provides texture and depth and provides a deeper insight into the characters.
The reader is able to interpret the kind of people they are through their dialogue and therefore determine what sort of personalities they possess.
Readers want to know about the traits and behavior of your characters. They want to know what makes them tick.
Good dialogue does just that.
Don’t be put off by my Steampunk genre. The characters, their hurts, their hopes, their struggles are what captivates us no matter what genre we read.
Sure, my book is a bit like PENNY DREADFUL meets JULES VERNE and H. G. WELLS.
A frightened young princess Victoria is kidnapped by cruel, bigoted Sidhe. A disgraced Texas Ranger braves eternal damnation by trying to rescue her, driven by the guilt of seeing his sister killed in front of his very eyes and being helpless to stop it.
Political Intrigue, famous figures from history tainted by a rare blood disorder.
Thirty year old Samuel Clemens learning what it means to be more than just a skilled writer but be one who sees through the eyes of the hurting.
A good man drawn to marry an immortal bad woman, not by her otherworldly beauty, but by the haunted loneliness he sees in her slanted eyes.
The immortal empress, unable to unleash the monster within in front of her loving husband, slowly becoming better because of it.
By them, we get to know a few of my cast of characters as they stroll to the Louvre in 1867:
Benjamin Franklin walked beside me, his calculating eyes peering at me through glasses he no longer needed. They were not bifocals, simply plain glass. He wore a furred hat, much as he had when he first visited France to bolster the image of the backwoodsman sage.
Image had been important to him all his life and undeath. What was important to the revenant now? Did he even know?
He said, “I tried to drain your wife of blood, turning her into a revenant like myself. I betrayed your trust, freeing your wife’s enemy, Empress Theodora. Yet, you have not struck me down but shown me mercy. Why?”
There were times you told your enemy the truth, and times you told him a truth. I decided to go for the latter option. “You were the only founding father who had a hand in all four of the documents that birthed America from the Bill of Rights to the treaty signed here in Paris that ended the war with England. You managed to forge a two-pronged Congress that was democratic yet balanced out the needs of the larger states.”
Franklin frowned, “You dissemble, sir.”
“And you are an object lesson to young Nicola Tesla here that even great inventors can lose their way … and their souls. Besides, it is for Meilori to avenge herself upon you not me.”
The breeze blew from behind Nicola, and his nostrils flared at the scent of the boy’s blood pulsing in his veins, and I said low. “But feed upon an innocent again ….”
“You told me I would become a grunting animal, bereft of intellect.”
“And so you would.”
“You promised to kill me should that happen.”
“But I didn’t say when. I might keep you in a cage with a trough full of blood for a month … or a year to make an example of you to my other enemies.”
He paled which was hard for a revenant to do. “But your promise ….”
“Would be kept … eventually.”
“You are a hard man, sir.”
“You have no idea.”
He eyed me stonily. “Abigail Adams hates you but does not fear you. She errs.”
“In what way?”
“She does not realize it is herself she hates for what she has become, and she should fear you very much. I do.”
He turned and strode to the Louvre alone. I sighed. He probably did most things alone. All who remembered him as a human were long dead. When living, he worked hard to always have like thinkers around him from his Junto to his apprentices. Now, he was alone and most like would always be … until the final death took him.
Nicola tugged on my sleeve. “But Captain, I thought he was a great man.”
“He was and could be again.”
I started as I felt the feather-touch of Meilori’s finger-tips stroke my cheek. “How you have lived so long in a vicious world and yet remained a romantic is a mystery to me, Beloved.”
Lucanus, the Greek physician who only a few knew was “Saint” Luke, muttered, “You are a fool.”
I looked after the shrinking form of Franklin. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
At the end of this novel is a complete short story given to you free as Lagniappe. Following that is a Readers’ Discussion Section for Book Clubs.
And it is only 99 cents! Ignore the name of my book tour and take a chance on my book, will you?
Step aboard the Xanadu, the first Air/Steamship, as it sails over 1867 Paris. You won’t be disappointed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roland Yeomans was born in Detroit, Michigan. But his last memories of that city are hub-caps and kneecaps since, at the age of seven, he followed the free food when his parents moved to Lafayette, Louisiana. The hitch-hiking after their speeding car from state to state was a real adventure. Once in Louisiana, Roland learned strange new ways of pronouncing David and Richard when they were last names. And it was not a pleasant sight when he pronounced Comeaux for the first time.
He has a Bachelor’s degree in English Education and a Master’s degree in Psychology. He has been a teacher, counselor, book store owner, and even a pirate since he once worked at a tax preparation firm.
So far he has written thirty-four books. You can find Roland at his web page: www.rolandyeomans.blogspot.com or at his private table in Meilori’s. The web page is safer to visit. But if you insist on visiting Meilori’s, bring a friend who runs slower than you.