Vincent Zandri's Blog - Posts Tagged "italy"
REAL TIME BLOG: Departure Observations
I rarely spend less than two weeks in Europe when I travel there. More often, I spend about a month at a time. In this case, three countries and five cities in 9 days, two of them travel. Not including daily jogs, I logged in probably 100 miles over cobblestone pavement leaving the bottoms of my feet feeling and looking like raw hamburger.
But it's worth it. Europe, especially, Italy, is always worth it...
Get the rest of the scoop here at The Vincent Zandri Vox:
http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
The Innocent
But it's worth it. Europe, especially, Italy, is always worth it...
Get the rest of the scoop here at The Vincent Zandri Vox:
http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
The Innocent
Sharing a First Beer with your Son
The following blog is "Now Appearing" at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Ok, comes a time in every parent's life (most parents anyway) where they sit down and enjoy a first beer with their son or daughter. In my case, my son Harrison and I were able to experience exactly that in the Irish Bar located in Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy.
Bear is 17 and a half and more than old enough to legally drink a beer here. So what a great opportunity to share something so sacred as a drink with my own son and to unwind and just talk with him in a way we rarely can back in the states.
We took a table outside that my friends who work the establishment cleared for us. The bartender Steve (an art student and all around great dude), brought us two Heineken's a piece. Setting them on the table, Bear grabbed his in his fist and took a big swig. I told him to go easy. The alcohol could go to his head. But he just shrugged his shoulders like, "No big deal, dad."
Suddenly I was reminded of that scene in the 80's comedy classic "Vacation" where Chevy Chase sits down to enjoy a first beer with his teenage son. The kid chugs the beer and crushes the can in his fist, making it plainly apparent it's obviously not his first. Now, I'm not condoning underage drinking here by any means. But what I'm talking about is a sacred right of passage. In this case, I thought I was above being the forty something naive dad, and totally in tune with my son. But when he downed his beer like it was just another glass of Pepsi, I knew that this wasn't Bear's first beer by any means.
It made me feel strange, like I didn't know him as well as I should. However, we had one more together and we entered through that rite of passage together and we talked about life and dreams and adventures and ups and downs, and all those things that make up a life worth living.
Sharing your first beer with your son isn't all about beer. It's about love.
The Remains
Ok, comes a time in every parent's life (most parents anyway) where they sit down and enjoy a first beer with their son or daughter. In my case, my son Harrison and I were able to experience exactly that in the Irish Bar located in Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy.
Bear is 17 and a half and more than old enough to legally drink a beer here. So what a great opportunity to share something so sacred as a drink with my own son and to unwind and just talk with him in a way we rarely can back in the states.
We took a table outside that my friends who work the establishment cleared for us. The bartender Steve (an art student and all around great dude), brought us two Heineken's a piece. Setting them on the table, Bear grabbed his in his fist and took a big swig. I told him to go easy. The alcohol could go to his head. But he just shrugged his shoulders like, "No big deal, dad."
Suddenly I was reminded of that scene in the 80's comedy classic "Vacation" where Chevy Chase sits down to enjoy a first beer with his teenage son. The kid chugs the beer and crushes the can in his fist, making it plainly apparent it's obviously not his first. Now, I'm not condoning underage drinking here by any means. But what I'm talking about is a sacred right of passage. In this case, I thought I was above being the forty something naive dad, and totally in tune with my son. But when he downed his beer like it was just another glass of Pepsi, I knew that this wasn't Bear's first beer by any means.
It made me feel strange, like I didn't know him as well as I should. However, we had one more together and we entered through that rite of passage together and we talked about life and dreams and adventures and ups and downs, and all those things that make up a life worth living.
Sharing your first beer with your son isn't all about beer. It's about love.
The Remains
Florence Writer's Retreat Report
The following blog is "Now Appearing" in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox:http://vincentzandri.blogspot.it/2012...
Some writers apply to conferences like Bread Loaf or Yaddo where they go to get some writing done in peace and without the day to day intrusion of job, kids, bills, sig other, Facebook, or whatever life-force gets in the way of their creative muse. It's the same for musicians and visual artists too. They apply to elite artist residency programs like the Millay Colony. I've been to Bread Loaf for an extended residency and conference, but haven't applied anywhere else. The application process takes so much time and effort that, in my mind, could be better spent actually writing. Which is why I choose to create a writing retreat of my own. In this case, it's located in Florence, Italy.
I first came here during my honeymoon twenty three years ago. Then I came back with my girlfriend ten years later. And for a short time I made this a temporary home base while writing and photographing for RT and other world publications. But over the past 4 years, I've been coming here twice a year, sometimes for a month at a time, only to write fiction. Over the past year I've spent more than one hundred days in Italy. At that rate, I will become a resident. Unofficially.
The important thing is that I can escape to place where I can live cheaply yet richly in a city full of romance, classical art, architecture, the memory of Dante, and get lost in my work. I've been close to some visual artists over the past few years and for obvious reasons, it's easier for them to demonstrate the progress they are making at their artist residencies and retreats. But I can tell you this: since having arrived in Florence by way of Rome just 3 days ago, I've written nearly five thousand new words on my fifth Moonlight novel, Moonlight Sonata, and edited twenty pages of my new stand-alone literary thriller, Precious (Aziz). I've also written several design pieces for Globalspec, and reviewed a part of the galley for my novel, Permanence, which I am putting out under my own, Bear Media, label in a month or so.
So I'm working hard in Tuscany and making my time here count. There is no better place to work than in an ancient city haunted by the ghosts of artists, writers, and musicians whose memory and work belong to the ages.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Some writers apply to conferences like Bread Loaf or Yaddo where they go to get some writing done in peace and without the day to day intrusion of job, kids, bills, sig other, Facebook, or whatever life-force gets in the way of their creative muse. It's the same for musicians and visual artists too. They apply to elite artist residency programs like the Millay Colony. I've been to Bread Loaf for an extended residency and conference, but haven't applied anywhere else. The application process takes so much time and effort that, in my mind, could be better spent actually writing. Which is why I choose to create a writing retreat of my own. In this case, it's located in Florence, Italy.
I first came here during my honeymoon twenty three years ago. Then I came back with my girlfriend ten years later. And for a short time I made this a temporary home base while writing and photographing for RT and other world publications. But over the past 4 years, I've been coming here twice a year, sometimes for a month at a time, only to write fiction. Over the past year I've spent more than one hundred days in Italy. At that rate, I will become a resident. Unofficially.
The important thing is that I can escape to place where I can live cheaply yet richly in a city full of romance, classical art, architecture, the memory of Dante, and get lost in my work. I've been close to some visual artists over the past few years and for obvious reasons, it's easier for them to demonstrate the progress they are making at their artist residencies and retreats. But I can tell you this: since having arrived in Florence by way of Rome just 3 days ago, I've written nearly five thousand new words on my fifth Moonlight novel, Moonlight Sonata, and edited twenty pages of my new stand-alone literary thriller, Precious (Aziz). I've also written several design pieces for Globalspec, and reviewed a part of the galley for my novel, Permanence, which I am putting out under my own, Bear Media, label in a month or so.
So I'm working hard in Tuscany and making my time here count. There is no better place to work than in an ancient city haunted by the ghosts of artists, writers, and musicians whose memory and work belong to the ages.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Obsession
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.it/2012...
A gifted writer who attended my panel discussion on "balancing life with work" at this weekend's ITW-sponsored Thrillerfest in NYC made a startling admission. As a collaborator/writer for one of the most popular authors in the world, she's been finding herself working seven days a week, taking time out only to eat and, in her words, "catch some MSNBC." An attractive 60-something women with lush graying hair, her knees trembled as she spoke. I took her admission of obsession as a serious cry for help.
Let's face it, the writing game can become an obsession if you allow it to be. We all suffer from it at one time or another. Some authors have even turned their obsession into some memorable fiction.
Stephen King comes immediately to mind. Remember Jack Nicholson's portrayal of Jack Torrence in The Shining?
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
Ernest Hemingway admitted his obsession also in one of his many letters to his then editor, Charlie Scribner, Jr.
I've also found myself becoming so obsessed with writing novels and stories that I will write myself into an exhausted state. I neglect my friends, family, and my reading. In a word, I neglect life.
My advice to this woman and others like her: If you write full-time, it's best to treat it like a job.
--work only Monday through Friday if possible.
--work 9-5
--take plenty of time out for breaks and exercise.
--take days off to go hiking; to hit a movie; to do nothing
--don't work on holidays
--don't work on the weekends unless striving to make a deadline
--breathe
--eat
--drink
--travel
...The point is to have a life. And while we're gifted and lucky for being able to write full-time, it doesn't mean we must beat ourselves up by spending every waking hour with fingers glued to the keyboard. There's no reason to feel guilty about your place in life, no matter how fortunate.
How are you balancing your work with your life?
the innocent
A gifted writer who attended my panel discussion on "balancing life with work" at this weekend's ITW-sponsored Thrillerfest in NYC made a startling admission. As a collaborator/writer for one of the most popular authors in the world, she's been finding herself working seven days a week, taking time out only to eat and, in her words, "catch some MSNBC." An attractive 60-something women with lush graying hair, her knees trembled as she spoke. I took her admission of obsession as a serious cry for help.
Let's face it, the writing game can become an obsession if you allow it to be. We all suffer from it at one time or another. Some authors have even turned their obsession into some memorable fiction.
Stephen King comes immediately to mind. Remember Jack Nicholson's portrayal of Jack Torrence in The Shining?
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
Ernest Hemingway admitted his obsession also in one of his many letters to his then editor, Charlie Scribner, Jr.
I've also found myself becoming so obsessed with writing novels and stories that I will write myself into an exhausted state. I neglect my friends, family, and my reading. In a word, I neglect life.
My advice to this woman and others like her: If you write full-time, it's best to treat it like a job.
--work only Monday through Friday if possible.
--work 9-5
--take plenty of time out for breaks and exercise.
--take days off to go hiking; to hit a movie; to do nothing
--don't work on holidays
--don't work on the weekends unless striving to make a deadline
--breathe
--eat
--drink
--travel
...The point is to have a life. And while we're gifted and lucky for being able to write full-time, it doesn't mean we must beat ourselves up by spending every waking hour with fingers glued to the keyboard. There's no reason to feel guilty about your place in life, no matter how fortunate.
How are you balancing your work with your life?
the innocent
Dear Random House/Penguin Author....
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Voyager: http://vincentzandrinoirauthor.blogsp...
Dear Random House/Penguin Author:
Congratulations on the merger of the two giants who control your career and your life. I just wanted to let you know that from this point on, your agent will be telling you, "All's cool bro, no problems. Random House/Penguin (...or insert imprint HERE) loves you man. They totally fucking dig your style. You are their dough-ray-me future...Oh, sorry, gotta go, call from the Bertlesmann bros on the other line..."
Right now, author, you are feeling sort of sick. Your stomach is tight. You haven't slept much over the past few days. You might have a headache. You are irritable towards friends and family. You can't work.
You're not getting a straight answer from anyone.
All you want to know is, "Is my present publishing contract secure in the midst of this new merger?"
Or, "Are you going to renew my contract like you promised?"
You probably gave up your day job once you were told a major pub had accepted your new book and were paying you a six figure advance to start out with. Maybe you told your entire circle of friends and family about your good fortune.Maybe even the local newspaper ran a "local boy/girl makes good story" on you." Maybe you've never been so happy in your life. Maybe even your significant other now believes that all those horrible moments of doubt...all those arguments about "getting a real job and writing on the side" ... were for naught.
Your ship has finally docked. Or so you thought.
Problems: Maybe your only source of income is the advance promised you by RH and/or Penguin. Perhaps, they paid you the first installment but now that a merger is taking place, your agent can't seem to get anyone who knows what they're doing on the line. Maybe you never considered what might happen in the face of a corporate merger. Of course you didn't. What writer anticipates a corporate merger?
Maybe you have new friends in New York who work in Editing, or who work in Marketing. Maybe you have already partied with them and now consider them your buds. Maybe they can help you. Because that's what friends on the inside do, right? They help you.
But then, you're not hearing from your new friends no matter how much you call, email, or text.
Maybe their fate is as hellish as yours. Maybe after years of service they are being let go. Maybe the corporate merger is dictating that they go find new jobs in greener pastures. Perhaps pastures that have nothing to do with publishing.
Dear author. I hate to say this, but there's a pretty good bet that unless you're already bringing in publishing numbers equal to James Patterson or Harlan Coben, you are going to be dropped from the list. You are going to be the "casualty" of the inevitable "cleaning house" that the new RH/Penguin company will have no choice but to do. Because after all, these conglomerates are two white whales that are already dying and making them co-join like two gigantic Legos ain't gonna work. For some reason, the powers that be feel like by joining up, they can beat a publisher who actually cares deeply about its authors: Amazon Publishing.
Dear author...Have no fear.
The future is here and if you have talent, endurance, and the willingness to adapt, you will survive to publish another day. You will be around for years to come. Your former, now gigantic conglomerate publisher will not be. In fact, it is already dead.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Blue Moonlight
Dear Random House/Penguin Author:
Congratulations on the merger of the two giants who control your career and your life. I just wanted to let you know that from this point on, your agent will be telling you, "All's cool bro, no problems. Random House/Penguin (...or insert imprint HERE) loves you man. They totally fucking dig your style. You are their dough-ray-me future...Oh, sorry, gotta go, call from the Bertlesmann bros on the other line..."
Right now, author, you are feeling sort of sick. Your stomach is tight. You haven't slept much over the past few days. You might have a headache. You are irritable towards friends and family. You can't work.
You're not getting a straight answer from anyone.
All you want to know is, "Is my present publishing contract secure in the midst of this new merger?"
Or, "Are you going to renew my contract like you promised?"
You probably gave up your day job once you were told a major pub had accepted your new book and were paying you a six figure advance to start out with. Maybe you told your entire circle of friends and family about your good fortune.Maybe even the local newspaper ran a "local boy/girl makes good story" on you." Maybe you've never been so happy in your life. Maybe even your significant other now believes that all those horrible moments of doubt...all those arguments about "getting a real job and writing on the side" ... were for naught.
Your ship has finally docked. Or so you thought.
Problems: Maybe your only source of income is the advance promised you by RH and/or Penguin. Perhaps, they paid you the first installment but now that a merger is taking place, your agent can't seem to get anyone who knows what they're doing on the line. Maybe you never considered what might happen in the face of a corporate merger. Of course you didn't. What writer anticipates a corporate merger?
Maybe you have new friends in New York who work in Editing, or who work in Marketing. Maybe you have already partied with them and now consider them your buds. Maybe they can help you. Because that's what friends on the inside do, right? They help you.
But then, you're not hearing from your new friends no matter how much you call, email, or text.
Maybe their fate is as hellish as yours. Maybe after years of service they are being let go. Maybe the corporate merger is dictating that they go find new jobs in greener pastures. Perhaps pastures that have nothing to do with publishing.
Dear author. I hate to say this, but there's a pretty good bet that unless you're already bringing in publishing numbers equal to James Patterson or Harlan Coben, you are going to be dropped from the list. You are going to be the "casualty" of the inevitable "cleaning house" that the new RH/Penguin company will have no choice but to do. Because after all, these conglomerates are two white whales that are already dying and making them co-join like two gigantic Legos ain't gonna work. For some reason, the powers that be feel like by joining up, they can beat a publisher who actually cares deeply about its authors: Amazon Publishing.
Dear author...Have no fear.
The future is here and if you have talent, endurance, and the willingness to adapt, you will survive to publish another day. You will be around for years to come. Your former, now gigantic conglomerate publisher will not be. In fact, it is already dead.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Blue Moonlight
Travel Day
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
In 1937 the young journalist Martha Gellhorn traveled to Spain to to observe the Spanish Civil War and to get a little private face-time with Ernest Hemingway. She carried only a knapsack, a portable typewriter, and fifty dollars in her pocket. I think for Martha, or Marty as Ernest would call her, it wasn't what she brought along on her travels that bore importance, it was more about what she left behind. There's nothing romantic in packing up your entire apartment and dragging it along with you on your travels. Far more romantic to leave it all behind. Everything.
Martha would become a life-long traveler, never staying in one place for very long. She would go on to have homes in Cuba, Mexico, Rome, East Africa, and eventually London. Her homes were always small if not humble and in terms of mod cons, sparsely equipped. Instead the layover-homes contained the essentials for a writer who spent most of her time on the move: books, a typewriter, booze, and an ashtray for her never ending cigarette. Even into her late eighties she was always ready to travel at a moment's notice and often found herself making difficult journeys on her own dime in order to research a new novel she was writing or to find the truth behind an armed conflict or the resulting carnage of that conflict.
She had a son, Sandy (adopted), but she would claim herself to be the worst mother in the world. She had several husbands (including Hemingway), but she would claim to not only be a poor wife, but also very bad in bed. Once, she spent a couple of years playing the house-frau to the then editor and chief of Time Magazine, complete with weekend house parties in the suburbs and she nearly committed suicide from the boredom and despair. I think it safe to say that Martha Gellhorn was not the domestic type.
I've just packed my knapsack. I have considerably more than fifty bucks stuffed in my pocket, but given the more than three quarters of a century that's lapsed in between 1937 and now, I'm not carrying much more than its 2013 equivalent. I'm heading back to Italy for two months and then onto France for the New Years. When I'm gone I will be rewriting two books, MOONLIGHT WEEPS and THE BREAKUP. I'll also be mapping out another new standalone that at present has no title. I'll be taking care of my normal journalistic duties for some magazines I work for (I have a deadline tomorrow which I'll make as a soon as I land in Rome). It will be a busy time that will also include some four-wheeling in the Tuscan Mountains and short trips to other countries. Traveling light without the burden of possessions is important. Traveling without regret is essential.
I'm not sure who pointed out to me that if sharks don't move forward they die. Probably some dude in a bar. But no one wants to be that dead shark laid out on the couch watching the flat screen in his living room whispering shoulda, coulda, woulda. Not me anyway.
Passport...check.
Boarding pass...check.
Wallet and euros...check.
Kindle...check.
Backpack...check.
Laptop...check.
I'm off to the airport.
So long and farewell.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
In 1937 the young journalist Martha Gellhorn traveled to Spain to to observe the Spanish Civil War and to get a little private face-time with Ernest Hemingway. She carried only a knapsack, a portable typewriter, and fifty dollars in her pocket. I think for Martha, or Marty as Ernest would call her, it wasn't what she brought along on her travels that bore importance, it was more about what she left behind. There's nothing romantic in packing up your entire apartment and dragging it along with you on your travels. Far more romantic to leave it all behind. Everything.
Martha would become a life-long traveler, never staying in one place for very long. She would go on to have homes in Cuba, Mexico, Rome, East Africa, and eventually London. Her homes were always small if not humble and in terms of mod cons, sparsely equipped. Instead the layover-homes contained the essentials for a writer who spent most of her time on the move: books, a typewriter, booze, and an ashtray for her never ending cigarette. Even into her late eighties she was always ready to travel at a moment's notice and often found herself making difficult journeys on her own dime in order to research a new novel she was writing or to find the truth behind an armed conflict or the resulting carnage of that conflict.
She had a son, Sandy (adopted), but she would claim herself to be the worst mother in the world. She had several husbands (including Hemingway), but she would claim to not only be a poor wife, but also very bad in bed. Once, she spent a couple of years playing the house-frau to the then editor and chief of Time Magazine, complete with weekend house parties in the suburbs and she nearly committed suicide from the boredom and despair. I think it safe to say that Martha Gellhorn was not the domestic type.
I've just packed my knapsack. I have considerably more than fifty bucks stuffed in my pocket, but given the more than three quarters of a century that's lapsed in between 1937 and now, I'm not carrying much more than its 2013 equivalent. I'm heading back to Italy for two months and then onto France for the New Years. When I'm gone I will be rewriting two books, MOONLIGHT WEEPS and THE BREAKUP. I'll also be mapping out another new standalone that at present has no title. I'll be taking care of my normal journalistic duties for some magazines I work for (I have a deadline tomorrow which I'll make as a soon as I land in Rome). It will be a busy time that will also include some four-wheeling in the Tuscan Mountains and short trips to other countries. Traveling light without the burden of possessions is important. Traveling without regret is essential.
I'm not sure who pointed out to me that if sharks don't move forward they die. Probably some dude in a bar. But no one wants to be that dead shark laid out on the couch watching the flat screen in his living room whispering shoulda, coulda, woulda. Not me anyway.
Passport...check.
Boarding pass...check.
Wallet and euros...check.
Kindle...check.
Backpack...check.
Laptop...check.
I'm off to the airport.
So long and farewell.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
When Traveling ...
The following blog is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.it/2013...
When traveling in Venice, try not to stay on the Grand Canal anywhere near the Casino. You know, the one where James Bond rolls up to the table in his white dinner jacket, tosses a couple of die, and nails craps. And then, when the lovely young brunette standing beside him spilling out of her red gown asks him his name, he replies, "Bond ... James Bond," with a face that conveys neither happiness nor sadness, but surly intuits, "I'm also available and I've got a big hard gun." Anyway, don't stay at a hotel near the casino because you will be up most of the night due to thunderous beat of Euro-Disco, the lyrics "I'm too sexy for my car ..." replaying in your brain again, and again, and again. Not even James Bond could withstand such a torture without cracking (You listening to me Q?).
But hey, this is Venice so I'm not complaining.
While here I have been retracing the steps of my main characters in The Disappearance of Grace, my Venice stand-alone novel. Hitchcockian in form, the novel is about a solider, an officer, who having returned from the Afghan war suffering from PTSD along with temporary bouts of temporary blindness, attempts to try and reconcile his stressed relationship with his significant other. A painter named Grace. Problem is, while the two are enjoying a quiet lunch in San Marco, Grace suddenly goes missing. Our blind soldier has no choice but to try and find her, blindness be damned.
Yesterday while in Piazza San Marco I saw the exact table where Grace disappears and I saw the exact boat that carries her away to one of Venice's many islands. This is not my first time here but every time I visit I see something different and the experience becomes new again.
Walking the narrow, maze-like corridors of this ancient city is an experience of both claustrophobia and wonder that is not always easily described unless you expose yourself entirely to its magic on your own terms. I tried to get all the emotions right in "Grace" and hopefully I've succeeded. Imagine being half blind and losing the love of your life inside this aquatic city of love and broken hearts? A city that, at times, seems impossible to navigate even when your vision is 20/20.
Tonight I will board the night train to Paris. I've been overseas now for 64 days and will fly home from Paris later this week. I've gathered more material for a new novel or two, while completing a brand new novel called The Breakup.
Europe can be a wonderful place to write, to disappear, to find yourself amongst the eternal ruins. But do not ever try and attempt a good night's sleep by laying your head beside a casino.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Disappearance of Grace
When traveling in Venice, try not to stay on the Grand Canal anywhere near the Casino. You know, the one where James Bond rolls up to the table in his white dinner jacket, tosses a couple of die, and nails craps. And then, when the lovely young brunette standing beside him spilling out of her red gown asks him his name, he replies, "Bond ... James Bond," with a face that conveys neither happiness nor sadness, but surly intuits, "I'm also available and I've got a big hard gun." Anyway, don't stay at a hotel near the casino because you will be up most of the night due to thunderous beat of Euro-Disco, the lyrics "I'm too sexy for my car ..." replaying in your brain again, and again, and again. Not even James Bond could withstand such a torture without cracking (You listening to me Q?).
But hey, this is Venice so I'm not complaining.
While here I have been retracing the steps of my main characters in The Disappearance of Grace, my Venice stand-alone novel. Hitchcockian in form, the novel is about a solider, an officer, who having returned from the Afghan war suffering from PTSD along with temporary bouts of temporary blindness, attempts to try and reconcile his stressed relationship with his significant other. A painter named Grace. Problem is, while the two are enjoying a quiet lunch in San Marco, Grace suddenly goes missing. Our blind soldier has no choice but to try and find her, blindness be damned.
Yesterday while in Piazza San Marco I saw the exact table where Grace disappears and I saw the exact boat that carries her away to one of Venice's many islands. This is not my first time here but every time I visit I see something different and the experience becomes new again.
Walking the narrow, maze-like corridors of this ancient city is an experience of both claustrophobia and wonder that is not always easily described unless you expose yourself entirely to its magic on your own terms. I tried to get all the emotions right in "Grace" and hopefully I've succeeded. Imagine being half blind and losing the love of your life inside this aquatic city of love and broken hearts? A city that, at times, seems impossible to navigate even when your vision is 20/20.
Tonight I will board the night train to Paris. I've been overseas now for 64 days and will fly home from Paris later this week. I've gathered more material for a new novel or two, while completing a brand new novel called The Breakup.
Europe can be a wonderful place to write, to disappear, to find yourself amongst the eternal ruins. But do not ever try and attempt a good night's sleep by laying your head beside a casino.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Disappearance of Grace
Let's Get Physical
The following blog is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Week two into my foot reconstruction surgery.
People keep asking me how I'm feeling, and I always respond the same way. I feel like somebody has drilled two stainless steel screws into my right foot and jammed a steel rod into my second toe. That's how it feels (for all you runners out there, remember to take care of your feet or you'll end up like me). But seriously folks, I'm starting to feel like I'm on the mend. Thanks for all the good vibes.
One month into the New Year and already I'm taking notice of the vast changes occurring in the publishing business. Things are getting personal out there. The word of the day for full-time novelists these days is "relationships."
That's right, we ... I ... want to get physical.
We, and that means yours truly, are attempting to establish personal relationships with everyone of our readers. That means encouraging you (both readers and authors) to join my new monthly "For Your Eyes Only!" newsletter (subscribe at Vazandri@aol.com). By doing so you will be privy to daily, weekly, and monthly specials. There will be stuff in there for writers, and stuff in there for readers. I'm even featuring another author every month, so if you're a writer interested in getting some great exposure, please subscribe. I'll be giving away free stuff. Everything from t-shirts, coffee cups, to signed paper editions of my novels. I'll also be giving away $100 gift cards to both Kindle and Nook from time to time to selected subscribers. But again, you gotta join up or you'll miss out.
More than just free stuff though, I want to here from you. I encourage you to write reviews of my books and stories. Honest Reviews!!! I encourage you to send me an email, or when time permits, give me a call. For instance, if we both happen to be in New York City for the day or a weekend, let me know and we'll have coffee or a beer. Seriously, I want to see you, and I want to know you, and I want to make you feel like we have a personal relationship together, because we do.
Okay, I'm going to limp my way into the kitchen for some breakfast. We'll talk soon!
FULL MOONLIGHT is FREE today only!!!! Grab one Up and Review it!
Also, SUSPENSE MAGAZINE says "Zandri has brought back that wonderful ‘quest’ story ... THE SHROUD KEY is well worth every minute."
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Shroud Key
Week two into my foot reconstruction surgery.
People keep asking me how I'm feeling, and I always respond the same way. I feel like somebody has drilled two stainless steel screws into my right foot and jammed a steel rod into my second toe. That's how it feels (for all you runners out there, remember to take care of your feet or you'll end up like me). But seriously folks, I'm starting to feel like I'm on the mend. Thanks for all the good vibes.
One month into the New Year and already I'm taking notice of the vast changes occurring in the publishing business. Things are getting personal out there. The word of the day for full-time novelists these days is "relationships."
That's right, we ... I ... want to get physical.
We, and that means yours truly, are attempting to establish personal relationships with everyone of our readers. That means encouraging you (both readers and authors) to join my new monthly "For Your Eyes Only!" newsletter (subscribe at Vazandri@aol.com). By doing so you will be privy to daily, weekly, and monthly specials. There will be stuff in there for writers, and stuff in there for readers. I'm even featuring another author every month, so if you're a writer interested in getting some great exposure, please subscribe. I'll be giving away free stuff. Everything from t-shirts, coffee cups, to signed paper editions of my novels. I'll also be giving away $100 gift cards to both Kindle and Nook from time to time to selected subscribers. But again, you gotta join up or you'll miss out.
More than just free stuff though, I want to here from you. I encourage you to write reviews of my books and stories. Honest Reviews!!! I encourage you to send me an email, or when time permits, give me a call. For instance, if we both happen to be in New York City for the day or a weekend, let me know and we'll have coffee or a beer. Seriously, I want to see you, and I want to know you, and I want to make you feel like we have a personal relationship together, because we do.
Okay, I'm going to limp my way into the kitchen for some breakfast. We'll talk soon!
FULL MOONLIGHT is FREE today only!!!! Grab one Up and Review it!
Also, SUSPENSE MAGAZINE says "Zandri has brought back that wonderful ‘quest’ story ... THE SHROUD KEY is well worth every minute."
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Shroud Key
Social Media: A Situation Report
The following post is now appearing at The Vincent Zandri Vox in slightly different form: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.com/201...
Time has been a precious commodity lately.
I've been nailed with a two developmental edits for two upcoming books at the same time, plus I had to write a 70 page novella for the mystery collective I belong to, and add to this a re-edit of an already published novel and my normal duties as a journalist and I'm about ready for the funny farm.
What did Hemingway once pen? "No one can work everyday...without going stale."
But hey, business is business, and while I have a nice advance riding on at least one of the two aforementioned books (more money than I made in an entire year five years ago), I'm not shirking my duties. However, I have noticed myself getting more and more agitated with the social media and the persistent onslaught of useless information that bombards me not day in and day out, but minute in and minute out.
No, I do not wish to be invited to play a Game of Thrones or whatever it's called.
No, I do not wish to like your "I love Fluffy Cats" page
No, I don't care about your impromptu selfie snapped in the office bathroom
No, I don't care that after twenty glorious years of marriage you and the hubby are still in love.
No, I don't care that the old girlfriend has a new boyfriend.
And for God's sakes, please don't IM me unless the house is burning down around you. Even then it might take me a while to respond.
As for texting me without being invited to text? You're risking your life here...
Okay, I can hear you loud and clear, "You're one to talk Zandri!" and it's all too true. I'm not casting cyber stones so much as I'm realizing the utter time suck and futility of the social media networks (don't forget to add in useless emails here...). Christ, you can't even pimp your books on Facebook anymore without having to pay out the ass for the, ummmm, privilege.
I think there was a time, not all that long ago, where social media played a vital role in an author's promotion. It got our names out there on a global level, and if our work was any good, we gathered many new fans and sold a few books. Some of those fans even became friends. Some of those good friends live in far away places like Moscow, Cairo, Florence, and many other places. I've never met some of these friends, but a few I have, and that is the beauty of social media.
But when it comes to the everyday posting of useless information, I find it to be a distraction of immense proportions and I'm more inclined lately to turn the damn thing off altogether while I tend to my work.
Okay, so much for my rant about social media. Time to finish this essay and get it out there on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google+, ...
www.vincentzandri.com
The Remains
Time has been a precious commodity lately.
I've been nailed with a two developmental edits for two upcoming books at the same time, plus I had to write a 70 page novella for the mystery collective I belong to, and add to this a re-edit of an already published novel and my normal duties as a journalist and I'm about ready for the funny farm.
What did Hemingway once pen? "No one can work everyday...without going stale."
But hey, business is business, and while I have a nice advance riding on at least one of the two aforementioned books (more money than I made in an entire year five years ago), I'm not shirking my duties. However, I have noticed myself getting more and more agitated with the social media and the persistent onslaught of useless information that bombards me not day in and day out, but minute in and minute out.
No, I do not wish to be invited to play a Game of Thrones or whatever it's called.
No, I do not wish to like your "I love Fluffy Cats" page
No, I don't care about your impromptu selfie snapped in the office bathroom
No, I don't care that after twenty glorious years of marriage you and the hubby are still in love.
No, I don't care that the old girlfriend has a new boyfriend.
And for God's sakes, please don't IM me unless the house is burning down around you. Even then it might take me a while to respond.
As for texting me without being invited to text? You're risking your life here...
Okay, I can hear you loud and clear, "You're one to talk Zandri!" and it's all too true. I'm not casting cyber stones so much as I'm realizing the utter time suck and futility of the social media networks (don't forget to add in useless emails here...). Christ, you can't even pimp your books on Facebook anymore without having to pay out the ass for the, ummmm, privilege.
I think there was a time, not all that long ago, where social media played a vital role in an author's promotion. It got our names out there on a global level, and if our work was any good, we gathered many new fans and sold a few books. Some of those fans even became friends. Some of those good friends live in far away places like Moscow, Cairo, Florence, and many other places. I've never met some of these friends, but a few I have, and that is the beauty of social media.
But when it comes to the everyday posting of useless information, I find it to be a distraction of immense proportions and I'm more inclined lately to turn the damn thing off altogether while I tend to my work.
Okay, so much for my rant about social media. Time to finish this essay and get it out there on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google+, ...
www.vincentzandri.com
The Remains
An Affair in Italy
The following essay is now appearing in slightly different form at The Vincent Zandri Vox: http://vincentzandri.blogspot.it/2014...
He's been coming to Italy to work alone for six years now.
The first year he came, he hardly worked at all. He was suffering from the pangs of lost love, and a career on hold, and he barely had enough work to keep him going, much less a novel in the works. He was also broke. He brooded as he walked the cobbled streets of Florence in his black leather coat in the rain, wondering where things in his life had gone wrong.
The next year he was a different man. He'd pulled himself out of his funk, and he reinvented himself once again as a freelance journalist who traveled to places like West Africa and Moscow writing for global news outlets such as RT. He was taking pictures and writing articles and essays as fast as he could while working under deadline. He came to crave the rush of dispatching a story written up on the fourth floor of a Florence guest house to Moscow, and then an hour later seeing it as a top-of-the-hour story in Europe. He was a foreign correspondent and life abroad was thrilling.
The year after that he was still a journalist but now he was back to writing fiction with a vengeance and it was wonderful to come to Florence be alone and walk the streets and think up plots. He had some scratch in the bank now and he could afford a real apartment. He would wonder about people he knew or had known, and women he had loved for a short time or a long time, who were going to make it as characters in his newest novel. People were drama and drama, although painful, was sometimes fun. It was also fun to play God in a place where almost no one knew him.
These days he's no longer unknown, and he's working on at least three books (and novellas) at once for three different publishers, plus a book for his own label. He's still a journalist (he knows this because he just paid his SPJ dues), only the fiction is trying to shove it out the door like the beautiful, young, brunette-haired affair who's angrily had enough of the wife. It's a violent and emotionally heartbreaking conflict. He forces himself between the two beauties wishing absurdly and selfishly that they could somehow get along and coexist peacefully.
"I need you both," he pleads.
But they both stare him down.
"Soon, you must choose between one or the other," says the affair.
But he will never choose. He wants them both. So, he just keeps on working as best he can, no matter what happens in his life, no matter what goes on in the world. The work: She is his most reliable friend, his most trusted lover, his affair, and his wife. She is ageless and her beauty only improves with the years, like ancient green-white marble that glistens and radiates in the Tuscan rain. She might resist him sometimes. She might pretend to be elusive, but in the end, she always sheds her clothing and slips into bed with him.
The work ... He comes to Italy to be with her, alone.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
Vincent Zandri
He's been coming to Italy to work alone for six years now.
The first year he came, he hardly worked at all. He was suffering from the pangs of lost love, and a career on hold, and he barely had enough work to keep him going, much less a novel in the works. He was also broke. He brooded as he walked the cobbled streets of Florence in his black leather coat in the rain, wondering where things in his life had gone wrong.
The next year he was a different man. He'd pulled himself out of his funk, and he reinvented himself once again as a freelance journalist who traveled to places like West Africa and Moscow writing for global news outlets such as RT. He was taking pictures and writing articles and essays as fast as he could while working under deadline. He came to crave the rush of dispatching a story written up on the fourth floor of a Florence guest house to Moscow, and then an hour later seeing it as a top-of-the-hour story in Europe. He was a foreign correspondent and life abroad was thrilling.
The year after that he was still a journalist but now he was back to writing fiction with a vengeance and it was wonderful to come to Florence be alone and walk the streets and think up plots. He had some scratch in the bank now and he could afford a real apartment. He would wonder about people he knew or had known, and women he had loved for a short time or a long time, who were going to make it as characters in his newest novel. People were drama and drama, although painful, was sometimes fun. It was also fun to play God in a place where almost no one knew him.
These days he's no longer unknown, and he's working on at least three books (and novellas) at once for three different publishers, plus a book for his own label. He's still a journalist (he knows this because he just paid his SPJ dues), only the fiction is trying to shove it out the door like the beautiful, young, brunette-haired affair who's angrily had enough of the wife. It's a violent and emotionally heartbreaking conflict. He forces himself between the two beauties wishing absurdly and selfishly that they could somehow get along and coexist peacefully.
"I need you both," he pleads.
But they both stare him down.
"Soon, you must choose between one or the other," says the affair.
But he will never choose. He wants them both. So, he just keeps on working as best he can, no matter what happens in his life, no matter what goes on in the world. The work: She is his most reliable friend, his most trusted lover, his affair, and his wife. She is ageless and her beauty only improves with the years, like ancient green-white marble that glistens and radiates in the Tuscan rain. She might resist him sometimes. She might pretend to be elusive, but in the end, she always sheds her clothing and slips into bed with him.
The work ... He comes to Italy to be with her, alone.
WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
The Remains
Vincent Zandri
