Archive for the ‘Main’ Category

The CityZen

Sunday, January 30th, 2011

Angie Cooper dragged herself out from beneath the warmth of her down comforter with great reluctance. The house felt cold, especially for Pennsylvania in June. Her rose print pajamas were twisted and bunched up around her waist and she left them that way, tripping her way across the clothing strewn floor headed to the bathroom down the hall.

            The master bedroom and its en suite bathroom collected dust as Angie slept in the room where she spent much of her childhood and trudged her way to the hallway bathroom instead.

            Brooding in the mirror she thought, Why am I such a loser? Her brows furrowed over her pale blue eyes. Four years out of Columbia and she was writing human interest fluff for the Pocono Record, the local newspaper. A double major in archaeology and anthropology flushed down the john, along with her dreams of a fulfilling career.

            Her clear acrylic hairbrush made prisms dance on the wall, which she ignored like so many tiny rainbows vying for her attention. Instead she concentrated on untangling strands of her shoulder-length ginger-blonde hair that wove in and out like misery through her life. The blame for her failed career was clearly on her shoulders and she wanted to smash the mirror until glass slivers rained down into the sink.

            “You’re an idiot, Angela Cooper,” she said, putting down her brush and staring deep into her own eyes. “Anasazi . . . damn it! You know better than that.”

            The phone’s shrill ring distracted her from her depressing reverie. She listened for a few moments before dashing down the hall. It had been nearly two years and yet she still hesitated as if her mother might call out, “I’ll get it.”

            Pushing aside the National Geographic with the Mayan ruins on the cover from her nightstand, she lifted the receiver of her pink, circa 1985, princess phone.

            “Hello?”

            “Angie?”

            “Digger, is that you?”

            “Thank God . . . thank God, holy shit—”

            Tarek “Digger” Rashid, her best and perhaps only friend left in the world of archaeology. She hadn’t heard from him in at least a year, a very long time for him to be out of touch. They were students at Columbia on their first real dig when they met. They hit it off immediately. Digger’s quirky sense of humor kept Angie from becoming too overly serious, she helped him to buckle down and do some of his best work. From then on when Digger found work, so did Angie. They worked digs as a team and gained in reputation by doing so. That was until she screwed it up.

            Angie sat down on the bed and uncurled the phone cord with her free hand. “Digger, what’s wrong?”

            “Angie, listen to me,” Digger said, “I need you to come to Washington.”

            “Washington—?”

            “Yeah, I need you to come today. I have to talk to you, it’s urgent.”

            After a year out of touch Angie wondered what could be so urgent that Digger would need her to fly to Washington without notice; something was definitely awry. “Digger, what’s going on?”

            “Meet me at the CityZen, 6:00 . . . please be there Angie.” He hung up.

            Angie made reservations at the Willard InterContinental, her favorite D.C. hotel. She packed enough clothes for a couple of days not sure what Digger had in mind. Fantasies of ceremonial clay pots and hidden chambers played in her mind’s eye, but she knew in her heart those days were over. Besides, Digger’s tone was upsetting and she wondered if he had made some sort of career ending mistake, not unlike herself. Still, her boots and khakis made their way into her suitcase, just in case.

~

The wall of wine, the heavy granite pillars reflected in the stone and wood floors, the cathedral-high ceilings, all added to the CityZen’s light and lively atmosphere. Angie slowly sipped her Apple Martini she ordered while waiting for Digger. She looked good, all five-feet-four-inches of her, dressed in a silky short black skirt—designed to show off her athletic shape—and a classic red v-neck sweater. She hadn’t worn two inch high heel sandals since college; they felt good dangling from her feet.

            She almost sat at the bar, more to be seen than anything, but the stools just seemed a bit too high. So instead she sat at a table in the back that had a wonderful view of the place. A smile found its way to her lips for the first time in what seemed like years. That’s when she saw Digger moving quickly across the room, his usual neatly combed black hair tousled, his clothes and jacket in disarray, a Manila folder with its contents spilling out pressed tightly to his chest.

            “Digger—”

            “Professor Rothschild’s dead.”

            “What—?”

            “There isn’t much time,” he said as he sat down across from her. “Just listen carefully.” He looked back over his shoulder as if he were expecting someone to be following him.

            “You’re scaring me, Digger.” Angie whispered, seeing the tension in his jaw from his tightly clenched teeth.

            “Just listen. Remember the kiva at Bandelier?” He continued without waiting for her to answer. “The spot in the wall where we found the hidey-hole? You need to go—”

            Suddenly, a thin man wearing a dark blue Armani suit, a blue shirt with its collar unbuttoned, and expensive looking loafers, sat down beside Digger. Digger leaned back pulling the folder closer to his chest, desperation in his eyes. The man’s arms were crossed, his left hand within his jacket, the other holding the opposite elbow. He smiled at Angie, a broad smile that didn’t hide his arrogance. His tufted white hair and black eyes made him look like some sort of bird, a predatory bird.

            “Tarek, who’s your lovely friend?” The man asked as his eyes moved up along Angie’s body.

            “She has nothing to do with this.”

            “Is that right?” he asked, staring at Angie, his right foot bouncing against his crossed leg.

            “Do with what?” Angie asked indignantly. “Who the hell are you?”

            He twisted his head toward Digger. “She’s got fire. I can see why you’d bring it to her.”

            “Bring what to me—?”

            Even in the boisterous CityZen Angie heard the faint “pfffaat” of the man’s silencer. It was a sound she was entirely unfamiliar with. She didn’t put it together until she realized Digger’s head had fallen back and to the side and the man was relieving him of his folder. Still, it took catching a glimpse of his pistol before real terror set in.

            “So . . . what were you two chatting about?” he asked.

            Angie trembled, words caught in her throat as she labored for breath.

            He smiled his arrogant smile, baring his teeth at her. He lifted his hand, covered by the Manila folder, onto the table. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Her breathing became rapid, nearly out of control.

            “I suppose it’s not important really,” he was saying, “I know as much as I need to.”

            “Is he okay?” A waiter carrying a tray of drinks startled the gunman. He turned quickly to see who had spoken. Angie took it as a cue to make her escape. She stood, stumbling on a chair, knocking into the waiter, the drinks crashing down upon the table and the gunman. The waiter falling against the table caused the candle to ignite the alcohol. The gunman’s sleeve burst into flames. Angie ran for the door. People began screaming hysterically. An enormous mirror crashed to the ground as she passed; she didn’t hear the muffled shot over the din of the fleeing crowd.

            Angie was out the door and into a cab before she could quite grasp what had happened. A throng of patrons erupted from the CityZen in panicked terror. She peered out the back window to glimpse the gunman emerging from the building, crushed by the frenzied wave of people, his predatory eyes following the cab as it sped down the street.

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A Savva Masterpiece

Saturday, January 29th, 2011

A Time To Tell is the spellbinding story of Cara Hughes, and the dark secrets that plague her and her family. From the time she first falls in love, and that relationship’s tragic ending, to meeting her first love again as an elderly woman, we are transported as voyeurs through the heartbreak of Cara’s life.

Now, confined to a wheelchair, Cara must confront the torrent of problems that have coursed their way down through her family, washing over each in turn, inflicting suffering on those she truly cares for. After years of heartache and denial, Cara must finally face her own role in the circumstances of her life. She must bring her own hidden secrets out into the light of familial scrutiny.

Maria Savva weaves a tapestry of misfortune and turmoil that draws you in and drapes you in its story. Each throw of the weaver’s shuttle brings out another detail of the emotional hardships of Cara and her family’s lives, forcing them further from each other and closer to your own heart. Savva’s mastery of dialogue allows you to live inside this woven fabric of Cara’s world and feel the genuine sorrow of each character.

A Time To Tell is a book not to be missed.

www.mariasavva.com

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Digger’s Bones Receives 5 of 5 Stars on BookPleasures

Wednesday, January 26th, 2011

A very impressive debut novel. Digger’s Bones is a thriller with substance. Angie Cooper is a failed archaeologist; having wanted nothing more than to pursue her lifelong dream to follow in her father’s footsteps and become an accomplished archaeologist, she destroys her career by being too impulsive and making a huge mistake.
We meet Angie at her lowest ebb, she has lost touch with her friends, her career has ended and she has also recently lost her mother. Her father died when she was a child and she still harbours feeling she associates with guilt over his death and experiences recurring nightmares.

Out of the blue, her old friend, Tarek ‘Digger’ Rashid, contacts her, asking her to meet him. At their meeting, in a restaurant, he advises her that a former colleague of theirs, Professor Rothschild, is dead. Then, a strange man joins them at the table, and kills Digger; taking away the Manila folder that Digger had brought with him.
Angie is left reeling; two of her colleagues are dead and someone is evidently keen to stop some information being disclosed. Professor Rothschild and Digger had obviously unearthed an important archaeological find. Digger’s last words to her were that she should revisit a place they had been together, Bandelier, New Mexico, and look in a hidey-hole. Angie knew that he must have left something there for her to find, something with implications so huge that people were prepared to kill to prevent the word getting out.

Digger was the only one who’d stood by Angie when her career was falling apart and had always been there for her. Even though she knows she will be risking her own life, she is determined to find out what Digger had wanted to tell her.

In the hidey-hole, Angie finds a flash drive containing photographs which appear to hold clues to the mystery. Angie knew that Professor Rothschild had a theory that Judas’s bones were somewhere in the holy land and he wanted to find them. Perhaps he had? Fans of Dan Brown’s books will find more religious controversy to whet their appetites within these pages.

We follow Angie on her travels to locate Digger’s bones. She is ruthlessly pursued by the strange man from the restaurant, who she now knows is called ‘Tek’. But he is not the only one who wants to stop her uncovering the secret. Many people associated with Digger’s bones are being killed. But who is the killer?

As she embarks on her search for the bones, Angie is reunited with her former lover, Reilly, and for a time it seems that her life may be getting back on track; perhaps if she discovers the bones, she could get back to her work as an archaeologist and be taken seriously again? But even Reilly is reluctant to help her in her search when the going gets tough.
There is a lot of edge-of-your-seat action in this book as Angie is forced to run for her life on more than a couple of occasions. The action scenes are well written and compulsive, and this complex story is crafted with skill. There is a lot of historical information in the book, showing that it was well-researched.

All the characters are believable, and I was especially impressed by the character of Angie Cooper whose emotions and thoughts were so realistic as those from a female perspective.
This book contains action, adventure, mystery and romance. Angie’s character is particularly well-developed as she tries to deal with her emotional baggage in regard to her father’s death. The subjects of regret, guilt and forgiveness are dealt with well by the author.

There are enough twists and turns and unexpected discoveries in this book to keep the reader enthralled to the end. A very enjoyable read.

Reviewed by Maria Savva as a reviewer for Bookpleasures.com

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Digger’s Bones, Chapter 1

Sunday, January 23rd, 2011

Angie Cooper dragged herself out from beneath the warmth of her down comforter with great reluctance. The house felt cold, especially for Pennsylvania in June. Her rose print pajamas were twisted and bunched up around her waist and she left them that way, tripping her way across the clothing strewn floor headed to the bathroom down the hall.

            The master bedroom and its en suite bathroom collected dust as Angie slept in the room where she spent much of her childhood and trudged her way to the hallway bathroom instead.

            Brooding in the mirror she thought, Why am I such a loser? Her brows furrowed over her pale blue eyes. Four years out of Columbia and she was writing human interest fluff for the Pocono Record, the local newspaper. A double major in archaeology and anthropology flushed down the john, along with her dreams of a fulfilling career.

            Her clear acrylic hairbrush made prisms dance on the wall, which she ignored like so many tiny rainbows vying for her attention. Instead she concentrated on untangling strands of her shoulder-length ginger-blonde hair that wove in and out like misery through her life. The blame for her failed career was clearly on her shoulders and she wanted to smash the mirror until glass slivers rained down into the sink.

            “You’re an idiot, Angela Cooper,” she said, putting down her brush and staring deep into her own eyes. “Anasazi . . . damn it! You know better than that.”

            The phone’s shrill ring distracted her from her depressing reverie. She listened for a few moments before dashing down the hall. It had been nearly two years and yet she still hesitated as if her mother might call out, “I’ll get it.”

            Pushing aside the National Geographic with the Mayan ruins on the cover from her nightstand, she lifted the receiver of her pink, circa 1985, princess phone.

            “Hello?”

            “Angie?”

            “Digger, is that you?”

            “Thank God . . . thank God, holy shit—”

            Tarek “Digger” Rashid, her best and perhaps only friend left in the world of archaeology. She hadn’t heard from him in at least a year, a very long time for him to be out of touch. They were students at Columbia on their first real dig when they met. They hit it off immediately. Digger’s quirky sense of humor kept Angie from becoming too overly serious, she helped him to buckle down and do some of his best work. From then on when Digger found work, so did Angie. They worked digs as a team and gained in reputation by doing so. That was until she screwed it up.

            Angie sat down on the bed and uncurled the phone cord with her free hand. “Digger, what’s wrong?”

            “Angie, listen to me,” Digger said, “I need you to come to Washington.”

            “Washington—?”

            “Yeah, I need you to come today. I have to talk to you, it’s urgent.”

            After a year out of touch Angie wondered what could be so urgent that Digger would need her to fly to Washington without notice; something was definitely awry. “Digger, what’s going on?”

            “Meet me at the CityZen, 6:00 . . . please be there Angie.” He hung up.

            Angie made reservations at the Willard InterContinental, her favorite D.C. hotel. She packed enough clothes for a couple of days not sure what Digger had in mind. Fantasies of ceremonial clay pots and hidden chambers played in her mind’s eye, but she knew in her heart those days were over. Besides, Digger’s tone was upsetting and she wondered if he had made some sort of career ending mistake, not unlike herself. Still, her boots and khakis made their way into her suitcase, just in case.

~

The wall of wine, the heavy granite pillars reflected in the stone and wood floors, the cathedral-high ceilings, all added to the CityZen’s light and lively atmosphere. Angie slowly sipped her Apple Martini she ordered while waiting for Digger. She looked good, all five-feet-four-inches of her, dressed in a silky short black skirt—designed to show off her athletic shape—and a classic red v-neck sweater. She hadn’t worn two inch high heel sandals since college; they felt good dangling from her feet.

            She almost sat at the bar, more to be seen than anything, but the stools just seemed a bit too high. So instead she sat at a table in the back that had a wonderful view of the place. A smile found its way to her lips for the first time in what seemed like years. That’s when she saw Digger moving quickly across the room, his usual neatly combed black hair tousled, his clothes and jacket in disarray, a Manila folder with its contents spilling out pressed tightly to his chest.

            “Digger—”

            “Professor Rothschild’s dead.”

            “What—?”

            “There isn’t much time,” he said as he sat down across from her. “Just listen carefully.” He looked back over his shoulder as if he were expecting someone to be following him.

            “You’re scaring me, Digger.” Angie whispered, seeing the tension in his jaw from his tightly clenched teeth.

            “Just listen. Remember the kiva at Bandelier?” He continued without waiting for her to answer. “The spot in the wall where we found the hidey-hole? You need to go—”

            Suddenly, a thin man wearing a dark blue Armani suit, a blue shirt with its collar unbuttoned, and expensive looking loafers, sat down beside Digger. Digger leaned back pulling the folder closer to his chest, desperation in his eyes. The man’s arms were crossed, his left hand within his jacket, the other holding the opposite elbow. He smiled at Angie, a broad smile that didn’t hide his arrogance. His tufted white hair and black eyes made him look like some sort of bird, a predatory bird.

            “Tarek, who’s your lovely friend?” The man asked as his eyes moved up along Angie’s body.

            “She has nothing to do with this.”

            “Is that right?” he asked, staring at Angie, his right foot bouncing against his crossed leg.

            “Do with what?” Angie asked indignantly. “Who the hell are you?”

            He twisted his head toward Digger. “She’s got fire. I can see why you’d bring it to her.”

            “Bring what to me—?”

            Even in the boisterous CityZen Angie heard the faint “pfffaat” of the man’s silencer. It was a sound she was entirely unfamiliar with. She didn’t put it together until she realized Digger’s head had fallen back and to the side and the man was relieving him of his folder. Still, it took catching a glimpse of his pistol before real terror set in.

            “So . . . what were you two chatting about?” he asked.

            Angie trembled, words caught in her throat as she labored for breath.

            He smiled his arrogant smile, baring his teeth at her. He lifted his hand, covered by the Manila folder, onto the table. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Her breathing became rapid, nearly out of control.

            “I suppose it’s not important really,” he was saying, “I know as much as I need to.”

            “Is he okay?” A waiter carrying a tray of drinks startled the gunman. He turned quickly to see who had spoken. Angie took it as a cue to make her escape. She stood, stumbling on a chair, knocking into the waiter, the drinks crashing down upon the table and the gunman. The waiter falling against the table caused the candle to ignite the alcohol. The gunman’s sleeve burst into flames. Angie ran for the door. People began screaming hysterically. An enormous mirror crashed to the ground as she passed; she didn’t hear the muffled shot over the din of the fleeing crowd.

            Angie was out the door and into a cab before she could quite grasp what had happened. A throng of patrons erupted from the CityZen in panicked terror. She peered out the back window to glimpse the gunman emerging from the building, crushed by the frenzied wave of people, his predatory eyes following the cab as it sped down the street.

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Digger’s Bones Book Trailer

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011

Digger’s Bones
by Paul Mansfield Keefe

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Books By, For and About Women

Saturday, January 8th, 2011

I feel honored to have my latest review of Digger’s Bones posted to “Books By, For and About Women.” Honestly, I hadn’t heard of the site before, being of the male gender, but have found that it is a great resource for women seeking books of empowerment. Granted, my novel is a thriller and so is more about a particular woman than about women’s issues, but the site itself is a wonderful concept that is worth taking a look at.

Here’s a link to my review, don’t forget to scour the site for other great reads:
http://women4reading.wordpress.com/2011/01/08/exciting-debut-novel-by-paul-mansfield-keefe/

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First Annual BestsellerBound Sample Anthology

Tuesday, January 4th, 2011

Read some outstanding Indie book excerpts in the First Annual BestsellerBound Sample Anthology. I’ve read many of these authors and can tell you first hand you’ll find a new novel worth reading. This link sends you to volume 1 and you can navigate to the other two from there.

http://www.scribd.com/doc/46280258/1-BsB-Anthology-Vol-One

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Interview with Kindle Author

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011

Hey bloggies, check out my interview on Kindle Author. It was fun to answer David Wisehart’s insightful questions, I really enjoyed the process as it made me view my process from a different perspective. The meta-thinking that goes into everything we do can be so automatic that we pay no attention to it. David got me to pay attention to it.

http://kindle-author.blogspot.com/2011/01/kindle-author-interview-paul-mansfield.html

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Writing Goals for 2011

Saturday, January 1st, 2011

It’s difficult to set writing goals for many, just how many words should I try to write in a day? How will this add up to the number of words I will need to sell my novel in my chosen genre? There are many theories on how to choose this number.

When I started writing I read up how others approached writing goals, write 1000 words a day, write 100, or write an entire scene. It seemed that many agreed that you should set a goal of 2000 words a week. That sounded reasonable. It allows you to reach 100,000 words in a year. From that I thought that I would do a 1000 on the weekend—only 500 a day—and 200 at the end of each workday.

Before long I had fallen behind, guilt plagued me and I felt as if I had let myself down. Not to conducive to writing, unless you’re writing about how you can never accomplish anything. No, that still wouldn’t work.

I needed a better way to create some consistency in my writing habits. Another author, I can no longer remember who, said the goal should be small enough so that you can always accomplish it, a paragraph or even a single word.

This method worked for a while as it was easy to meet the demand, but it didn’t hold any measure of quality, simply very low quantity. And honestly, the single word seemed silly and so I never really applied it.

Quality, I decided was the key. With that in mind, I created my own writing goal. Write one quality sentence per day. That’s right, just one. It worked like a charm, I wrote large amounts each time I sat at my modern typewriter, my laptop. So, why did it work for me and why might it work for you?

Forcing yourself to write one thing of quality requires all your best writing skills. What you write must meet your best criteria, it must fit the plot of your story, if dialogue, it must truly reflect the personality of the speaker. And once you’ve written something that fits the story, that improves it in some way, well, it’s very hard to stop. This technique works because it allows you to foster what makes you a great writer in the first place, without placing an unneeded burden upon yourself.

Give it a try, you might find your writing benefits from it. And it’s guilt free!

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Silenced

Thursday, December 23rd, 2010

When I was eighteen, a senior at Mt. Vernon High School, I had an English teacher who clearly hated the very sight of me. Believe me when I say he let me know on numerous occasions that this was the case. I’m not sure why, it might have been the long hair (yes, I once had long hair—no, I did not sport a mullet), it might have been my look of boredom at his monotonous tone, I really can’t say. But he allowed his hatred for me to squash any glimmer of talent I might have shown.

At his bequest, in other words, homework, I wrote a poem about a fledgling bird leaving the nest. I thought it was quite good since my normal poetic take was far darker. Handing back our assignments he smirked at me; at the top of the page was an extraordinarily large, red F. I couldn’t believe it. So, I confronted him—trotting up to his desk I slammed it down and demanded his reasoning. He pointed to a paragraph he had written at the bottom of the page which went something like this, “This work is far too professional for a person like you to have written and therefore it must have been plagiarized.”

I was dumbstruck! Maybe not the first time, certainly not the last, but I was! And I was angry. I told him I could prove it was my work which evoked from him some long forgotten snide remark. I went home and gathered up my rough drafts, of which there were several, and prepared mentally for the next day’s battle. I also spoke with my mother who gladly offered to storm in and give him a good boot in the ass.

The class bell rang, signaling my arrival at the battlefront, and I threw my rough drafts down upon his desk with the vigor of a dueling glove to my enemy’s face. I said nothing. I simply walked to my seat and sat; waiting.

Suddenly, my teacher got up from his desk and walked the long walk to mine, put down my poem and walked away. An A-. Would he give an A- to the professional I had supposedly copied from? Then I read his reason for the minus, “Typing errors marred your paper.” There were three. And they had been fixed by White Out as we were taught to do in the typing class I had taken at the same high school.

I was livid. I brought it up to his desk and looked him square in the eye and said, “You just couldn’t give me an A, could you?”

Nearly thirty years later I find myself writing and wondering where my voice had been; I feel like I had been silenced for so very long. Silenced by one public act of writing, showing my work to my classmates and to my then little world, that was stomped beneath the Jackboot of an uncaring and perhaps jealous educator. No, I don’t believe all educators are angry want-to-be writers. In fact, I’ve been lucky enough to have a few inspiring teachers in history and art for example. But still I wonder, what life might have I led if I had started a writing career as a younger man? What great novel might I have left behind in my silence?

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