Tuesday, April 21, 2020

Meet Michael Fiorito and Read About CALL ME GUIDO, His Collection of Stories About Growing Up Italian in Queens, NY


About Mike
I am currently an Associate Editor for Mad Swirl Magazine and a regular contributor to the Red Hook Star Revue.
My writings have appeared in Narratively, Pif Magazine, Longshot Island, Beautiful Losers, The Honest Ulsterman, Chagrin River Review, The New Engagement and many other publications.  
My short story collections, Hallucinating Huxley and Freud's Haberdashery Habit, were published by Alien Buddha Press.  Both are available on Amazon.    
Published by Ovunque Siamo Press in 2019, my book CALL ME GUIDO explores three family generations as seen through the lens of the Italian American song tradition. 
In 2019, I was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by Ovuqnue Siamo Press.

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About CALL ME GUIDO


Call Me Guido is about three family generations as seen through the lens of the Italian American song tradition. 

           
Simultaneously confronting and courting Italian-American stereotypes head-on, all of the stories are connected by crooner themes: An uncle who discovers himself by believing he’s Tony Bennett; a son discovering Sinatra’s fragility while driving with his father; Bobby Darin selling his soul to possess the gift of performance; a mother, dark and strong, like the earth itself, teaching her son the meaning of strength; a mobster hired to kill a singer who wouldn’t cow-tow to the mob.  In this collection, there are gamblers and mobsters, but philosophers and poets too. 
           
As poet Joey Nicoletti (Thundersnow) writes, these are “the stories of relatives, potato farmers, performers, imagined aristocrats, and the ballads they sing.” John Keahy (Seeking Sicily) says, “This collection, in quick bites, informs, entertains, and surprises---a masterpiece of storytelling.” 
           
Alfonso Colasuonno, cofounder of Beautiful Losers Magazine writes “Mike Fiorito navigates his readers through the ethnic twilight of the 21st century Italian-American experience in CALL ME GUIDO, a book that is hilarious, thought-provoking, and poignant in equal measure. Fiorito’s CALL ME GUIDO will be regarded as a seminal work of Italian-American literature.” 

  
An Excerpt from CALL ME GUIDO

One More for My Dad 

Driving in the car with my father, he reaches over to turn on the radio, steering with his left hand. He puts on “The Imaginary Ballroom,” a program that plays Sinatra, Martin and Bennett.
Sinatra’s voice emerges warmly from the speakers.
“Yes, it’s alright with me,” Sinatra sings sweetly. The song is not full of bravado; it’s tender and hesitant. He’s telling a woman that she looks like his previous lover; she has sweet lips too, like his old lover. He says that if she’s lonely one night, it’s alright if she kisses him with those lips.
We never hear her response.
I hate to admit that it’s a great song and that Sinatra sings it dramatically and convincingly. I don’t want to like my father’s music — he desperately wants me to.
I look over at my dad; he turns the music up louder.
There are parts of the song that Sinatra sings in a whisper. He’s pleading with the woman. This is not the Sinatra I had despised growing up. A braggart, a “wop” gangster. This is the voice of a fragile and sensitive person. If I said this to my father, he’d say, “You’re too deep for me,” which would piss me off. I’d hear that as “I don’t want to talk about that kind of shit with you.” So I don’t say anything. I have a reputation to uphold with my dad. I am the tough, independent kid, unlike my brother Frank who, as a kid, cried when my mother washed his hair in the tub.
I am also the one who punched a kid in the face so hard when I was about eight or nine, I knocked his tooth out. The kid’s father was so angry he came to our house, knocked on the door.
My father opened the door.
“Do you know your son punched my son in the mouth and knocked his tooth out?”
My father looked at the kid. He had a big gap to the left of his two front teeth.
“I want your son to apologize,” the other man said.
“Michael,” my father shouted, “please come here.”
I came to the door, dirt still on my face from playing outside.
The man looked me up and down then looked at his own son. Standing next to his kid, I was about a head shorter.
“You let this kid knock your teeth out?” the man asked his son, fixing his stare at me.
His son started to cry, like he was about to get a worse beating than the one I’d given him.
The man grabbed his son by the shirt, and dragged him away.
When they were gone, my dad said, “You gotta learn to control yourself.” He didn’t yell at me. He never directly encouraged me to fight, but when retelling the story to my mom at the dinner table, he laughed a bit.
“He don’t take shit from no one, this kid,” he said. Being tough might get me far. The world is cruel.
Then, when I was about fourteen, he and my mom came back from a parent-teacher meeting at my school.
“I met Mr. Amato,” my father said. Mr. Amato was my science teacher. It was his first year and my classmates and I weren’t interested in making it easy on him. In the lab, I had hit a kid in the back of the head with a frog kidney.
“He said he has a hard time keeping the class in order.”
I listened attentively, curious to hear what else Mr. Amato had to say.
“I raised my hand,” my father said, “and asked him if he could single out the troublemakers and punish them.” I told him I thought that was a good idea.
“He asked me my last name,” my father said, then paused.
“When I told him Fiorito, you know what he said?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“He said, your son,” – my father paused and sighed – “is the ringleader of the group.”
He looked disapprovingly at me, curling his tongue in his cheek.
“Ringleader” echoed in my head over and over.
Shaking his head, he had a slight grin on his face. He seemed to at least be proud that I was in charge.
The sound of the Sinatra songs brings me back to the present.
We stop at a red light; my father taps his fingers on the steering wheel and then looks over at me.
He lowers the music.
“Why do you have a mopey face on?” he asks.
“No reason.” I’m not sure what in particular was bothering me, but I’m sure something was. Something was always bothering me.
“Are you worried about us going to live with grandma?”
I’m not, but I say yes. The housing authority had found out that my mom was working and had evicted us from the projects. Since rent was based on income, we were at fault for not declaring my mother’s earnings. But my mother paid the rent; my father’s gambling debt consumed almost all of the income he made. Whereas my father was a gambler, sometimes stripped into vulnerability, my mother was constant, hardworking and indefatigable.
“Don’t worry, everything will be okay.”
I am not worried about that, at least I don’t think I am.
“We’ll be there for only a few months,” he says.
“Grandma lives near your school,” he adds.
I think of how nice it will be to walk to school, instead of taking two buses every morning.
He turns up the music again.
I change the station, looking at him for approval.
He nods okay.
“I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” is playing.
My father lowers the music.
“I like this song,” I say over Jagger’s shrieking “And I try, and I try.”
“It’s noisy,” he says. “This is the guy who struts like a rooster?”
He starts to jerk his head back and forth, mimicking Jagger.
I make a face at him. “He does more than dance like a rooster,” I say.
I hear Jagger’s words about not wanting to listen to TV announcers and wanting to do his own thing as if he is speaking to me directly.
I don’t know if my father hears the words, or if they would matter to him. Jagger is a rooster, is all he knows.
“He’s alright,” my father says. “He’s got balls. Can’t sing, but he’s got balls.”
You don’t know shit about music, I think to myself.
I look out the window.
I’m thinking about Mick Jagger and then about how Maria Hermano sucked my dick earlier that day.
“I told you not to worry,” my father says. “It’s going to be okay.”
I’m happy he’s worried about me, even if for the wrong reasons.
“We’re going to stop over at Pete’s to get sausage,” he says, “before we pick up Mom at the train station.”
I nod.
“Satisfaction” is over. He looks at me before turning the station back to the oldies.
“Old Devil Moon,” sung by Tony Bennett, comes on.
He looks at me, raising the volume.
“It’s not noisy; this is quiet music.”
The guitar playing is terrific. Bennett’s vocals swing with feeling.
“You like this?”
I shrug my shoulders, saying, “I don’t know.”
“Is he the one that looks like a parrot?” I ask to get him back for the knock on Jagger.
“What, Bennett?”
I point to the radio.
He’s got a big Italian nose, like my father.
“He sings like a parrot.”
“At least he doesn’t strut like a rooster.”
We both laugh a little, but I don’t reply. I let him get the last word so I can hear the rest of the song.







THE HISTORY OF FEAR

 My sister, Gina, calls me after she read my story.
“Oh my God, why did you write that stuff about Dad?” She’s not frantic, but she’s upset that I wrote publicly about our father’s gambling problems.
“I write about our family because it’s hard to write about,” I say. “Because it matters.”
“You know Mom can’t see this story,” she adds. And I know that too. Too many details about how he borrowed money, and the general despair we all felt. Though it was an almost daily discussion when we were kids, it’s now a subject to be avoided. When my father died twenty-five years ago, he became saintly. His earthly sins were buried in his grave.
“I know. I don’t want her to see it. I don’t want to upset her.”
“Well, I’m happy for you,” Gina says. She means it, too. “I’m thrilled for your success.” 
My father’s worst critic, when he was alive, was my mother. I remember how it upset me to hear her talk to him. Before she moved out of our house for a few weeks, her attacks on him became even more vitriolic.
“If you have to get another job, do it,” she said. “I’m working all day, come home to make dinner, clean the house then sell jewelry at night,” she added, raising her voice. Then. “I don’t care if you never come home.”
This last statement clanged off the project building walls and rang throughout the house, like a rusted metal bell hammered on a steel stairwell.
My father didn’t respond. He had swallowed so much guilt, he couldn’t speak. The guilt stuffed his mouth, froze his throat and sank into his stomach. From there it went straight into the infinite space of his soul. Enough guilt to fill the universe. He looked down at his crossword puzzle and tapped his foot in his slipper. In silence.
Hearing the shriek in my mother’s voice bothered me as a kid. Why did she have to be so mean? Now I know better. She was out of her mind with worry. How will we pay rent? How will we make it to the next day?
She went on long into the night. Her voice searing and desperate.
But nowadays, my mother only praises my father. About how smart he was. How talented. How handsome. The truth is they did love each other very much. You could always see that. They hugged each other. Spoke kindly most of the time. And they enjoyed each other’s company. It was the gambling that poisoned their relationship.
And so now I am the Fredo of the family. The snitch. I say things. I write things. You have to understand that this tradition of keeping your mouth shut is very old. It goes back centuries. It is the modern form of omertà, or code of silence. Omertà is a dialect form of the word umiltà, “humility,” in reference to the code of submission of individuals to the group interest. Being taciturn, you’re serving the needs of a greater good. Shut up, don’t upset your mother. Keep your mouth closed, show respect.
The roots of our family silence extend back hundreds of years. It begins in Sicily and Southern Italy in general. Since Sicily was a crossroads for empires, it was often occupied by foreign powers. The Greeks, Romans, Moors, Normans, Bourbons, and Nazis, to name a few. Average Sicilians couldn’t count on government, or society, to help them. This was only compounded when Garibaldi united Italy. Although Garibaldi recruited the South to fight the Bourbons in the North, he then abandoned the South. The South suffered from lack of infrastructure: schools, hospitals and so on. And the villages were under feudal rule; if you were a laborer, there was simply no way out. They were trapped, like mice in a cage. The only thing they could count on was family. Family was their refuge. When Vito Corleone says “Never let anyone outside the family know what you’re thinking,” he’s referring to the tradition of omertà.
Given the tumultuous nature of Sicily’s history, its notable writers – Leonard Sciascia, Luigi Pirandello, Giuseppe di Lampedusa, Elio Vittorini, and Maria Messina – have described an overarching narrative of paura storica, or history of fear. Fear of the outsider. Fear of the unknown.
In writing about my family, I’ve committed a sin. I’ve broken a long held tradition of silence. It’s as if I’ve woken my father from the grave. Only I can see him looking at me disapprovingly. Behind curtains, behind doors. Walking the halls of our project apartment, alone. Like I unleashed fear of the outsider on our family.
And while my sister and other siblings might be slightly wounded by my breaking the silence, they are also happy for me. And proud of me. That’s another contradiction in the Southern Italian soul. The love for family is so strong, you can hate someone, or really be annoyed at them, maybe never even talk to them, but still love them, still want the best for them. This isn’t always true with every family, but it’s true with mine.
So I continue to tell our story, our history of fear.








Tuesday, April 7, 2020

Three Strands of Research and Planning ~ Past, Present and the roll of a Dice By author Diana Jackson


Three Strands of Research and Planning
~ Past, Present and the roll of a Dice
By author Diana Jackson




My inspiration for MISSING Past and Present began from two angles; three if you count the dice!

1.       The Past

When an old abandoned, but not dilapidated house was pointed out to me while walking with friends one day, I was moved to look it up on an old map and found that it was called ‘The Grange,’ a not uncommon name I noticed, since there were several other also places labelled ‘the Grange.’ I looked this up on line.
Dictionary.com wrote:

grange
noun
Chiefly British. a country house or large farmhouse with its various farm buildings (usually in house names):Bulkeley Grange;the grange of a gentleman-farmer.
(in historical use) an isolated farm, with its farmhouse and nearby buildings, belonging to monks or nuns or to a feudal lord:the nunnery's grange at Tisbury.
the Grange, See under Granger Movement.
Archaic: a barn or granary.
That led me to do some research in my local archives:
·         Was there a monastery or nunnery in the area? I found several, surprisingly.
·         Were there any notable mysterious happenings? Yes ...
I stumbled upon a story of a trainee nun’s ghost who is allegedly still swinging from the rafters in a place not far from the abandoned home. She caught my attention and I was hooked. The ghost is at Chicksands Priory, a place with a fascinating history of its own, but I decided against relocating my novel there.
I next wrote down a series of questions about monastic life, many of which I could discover on line:
·         What are the stages to become a nun?
I chose an 'aspirant nun' for my story and called her Evie.
·         What kind of dress would she be wearing in the 18th century?
I Googled this and found some great pictures, but an aspirant nun’s costume would have been simpler. More of a tunic, especially when doing farm work.
·         What would the pattern of her day be like?
There are seven hours of prayer:
any of certain periods of the day set apart for prayer and devotion: these are matins and lauds, prime, tierce, sext, nones, vespers, and compline. Prime - the second canonical hour; about 6 a.m. terce, tierce - the third canonical hour; about 9 a.m. nones - the fifth of the seven canonical hours; about 3 p.m.”
My imagination was working at its most virulent in thinking of ideas for a possible plot.
·         Why did she become an aspirant nun? You’ll have to read the story ...
·         Did she have any family?
Yes she did and I decided that her sister would be training to be a nun alongside her. It is Evie's sister Millie who disappears.
·         Why is she swinging from the rafters?
You’ll have to read the story to find out.
My research continued for Millie. Without giving the story away too much, this included questions and visits:
·         How long did it take people to travel on 18th Century tracks and roads?
·         What canal systems were in place? A visit to the canal museum in Stoke Bruerne.
·         What type of work did itinerant workers find in different areas of the country heading north?
·         There was a workhouse to research.
·         A visit to make to New Lanark Mills. (and guidebooks to buy)

Research is never quite finished but is ongoing until the first draft is complete.

2.       The Present

In the present I was drawn to the uncomfortable truth about homelessness and the need for food-banks, but also the human aspect of refugees. (It is all too easy to think of numbers) As a friend once remarked ‘there but by the grace of God go I,’ which sums up my feelings that if it were not for chance, it could happen to any one of us in the ‘blink of an eye’, if you’ll excuse the cliché. It is a worrying thought that we even have many ‘refugees’ escaping the flood waters in the UK at the moment. (I'm talking here of folks being temporarily re-housed in the crisis.)
I made notes on my experiences of volunteering at a soup kitchen in Luton years ago and more recently at a food-bank locally in Fife. I also noted many of my memories teaching refugees and asylum seekers while teaching at a college in Luton.
I drew on personal experiences or on second hand accounts for much of Dot's life, my homeless character, and I based her living in a make believe town called Drumford with the Grange at a village called Canbury. I chose made up locations this time to preserve the anonymity of the actual house on which the story was based.

3.       The Dice

This was an unusual device I stumbled upon. I found a dice and was rolling it one day and found myself wondering about times in my own life which could be seen as a 'one' or a 'six'. This was perfect for Dot as she remembered the back story of her life, which had brought her to the point of homelessness.
I must admit I loved this idea and enjoyed writing about it.

~ And so MISSING Past and Present was conceived, researched, planned and now it is born!



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Meet Narrator/Voice Actor/Storyteller Nina Price and How She Discovered Audio Books--Including Mine!


Nina has narrated several of my books, and is working on more, my romantic comedy time travel FOR LOVE AND LOYALTY with a variety of British accents (she's nailing the Yorkshire accent). Her voice is expressive and animated, and her accents include German, French, Australian, New York, Scottish, and several regional British accents. She has an impeccable sense of comedic timing and sarcasm. She really makes my characters come to life--the fictional ones I made up, and the historical figures who really lived!


 Nina's Story:

How I Came to Narrate the Audio Versions of Diana Rubino’s New York Saga Books

I’m Nina Price and I thoroughly enjoyed reading and narrating all three of Diana Rubino’s New York Saga books: From Here to Fourteenth Street, Bootleg Broadway and The End of Camelot. The characters are delightful and the stories compelling. In fact I enjoyed Diana’s books so much that I offered to do another one: For Love and Loyalty, which should be available by next fall.

Diana thought her readers would enjoy knowing more about me. So here’s a bit of the story about how I became an audiobook narrator.


MY FIRST EXPERIENCE WITH “AUDIOBOOKS” - THE SINGING LADY


As a child growing up in New York many of the adults in my family read stories to me, but my first experience of someone reading me a story and creating special voices for all of the characters, was when I listened to Ireene Wicker, The Singing Lady on WNYC radio. Like millions of children before me, I was enchanted by The Singing Lady and her stories. Most of all, I loved her voices. At the time, I never thought that I could or would tell stories with voices, but apparently a seed was planted.

I Started Each Day in College with 30 Minutes of an Audiobook  (Even though they weren’t called “audiobooks” in those days)


I studied music as an undergraduate at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. I’m fond of telling people that when I graduated from high school, even though most kids received a typewriter for a high school graduation gift, my Dad gave me a radio. I had to borrow a typewriter each week to write a paper for my Freshman English class, and I listened to my radio each morning as I began my day.


East Lansing, MI the home of Michigan State University was also home to WKAR radio where Dick Estell, The Radio Reader read 30 minutes of fiction each morning to me through my beloved radio. Dick Estell didn’t really create voices for his characters but I loved his readings and never missed an installment, except when I was out of range.

UNBEDTIME STORIES – My Own Foray into Radio Storytelling


I never started out to be like Dick Estell, or Ireene Wicker, but in fact the Unbedtime Stories segment of my radio show Dancin’ in the Fast Lane with Ann Arbor premiered along with the show in April of 1993. My radio show was, and still is a music show on KFJC 89.7 FM kfjc.org in the San Francisco Bay Area each Wednesday morning from 6 to 10 am. I added the Unbedtime Stories segment to my show because I wanted to learn to cold read – to be able to pick up a script and just read it cold.



Dick Estell

Unbedtime Stories featured up-and-coming works by up-and-coming authors read by me. Later it included writers who participated in NANOWRIMO, National Novel Writing Month – which one of my listeners introduced me to, and which debuted in the San Francisco Bay Area. For twenty years I read (or hosted) Unbedtime Stories.

Then audiobooks came along. Since I had read stories on the radio for years, I figured I should narrate audiobooks. In December of 2015 I got started and I’ve been going strong ever since. To date I’ve produced about 40 books for Audible.

Nina Price narrates audiobooks, and is a Licensed Acupuncturist and Master Herbalist in Palo Alto, CA.  Ann Arbor continues to host Dancin’ in the Fast Lane each Wednesday morning (kfjc.org

Find out more about Nina and her audiobooks -- click on: her new website.  

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Tuesday, March 3, 2020

Meet Alicia Dean and Read About PRECARIOUS: MARTINI CLUB 4 ~ THE 1940s

About Alicia

Alicia began writing stories as a child. At age 10, she wrote her first ever romance (featuring a hero who looked just like Elvis Presley, and who shared the name of Elvis’ character in the movie, Tickle Me), and she still has the tattered, pencil-written copy. Alicia is from Moore, Oklahoma and now lives in Edmond. She has three grown children and a huge network of supportive friends and family. She writes mostly contemporary suspense and paranormal, but has also written in other genres, including a few vintage historicals.

Other than reading and writing, her passions are Elvis Presley, MLB, NFL (she usually works in a mention of one or all three into her stories) and watching (and rewatching) her favorite televisions shows like Ozark, The Walking Dead, Dexter, Justified, Sons of Anarchy, Haven, Vampire Diaries, and The Originals. Some of her favorite authors are Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Stephen King, Lee Child, Lisa Gardner, Ridley Pearson, Joseph Finder, and Jonathan Kellerman…to name a few.




About PRECARIOUS
Boston ~ 1947
Iris Taggart should be ecstatic.  She’s engaged to one of  the wealthiest men in Boston, and he dotes on her. But, her marrying a rich man is her mother’s dream, not hers. Iris longs to be a nurse and care for others, and she’ll never have the career she wants if she marries a Boston Blue Blood. It just isn’t done. 

Dante Morello returned from WWII a war hero, and now he’s a Boston detective working the South End Slayer case where a deranged killer is butchering the poor and homeless. Dante’s investigation leads him to reconnect with Iris—a girl he’s known most of his life—who is volunteering at the soup kitchen where the murderer finds his victims. When Dante learns Iris is in the killer’s sites, he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, and not just because she’s woken something in his heart he thought he’d never feel.

But neither of them is prepared for how precarious life can be. When secrets are exposed, and a madman’s full intent is revealed, will their love…and their lives…be destroyed?

Excerpt

Dante stood and rolled down his shirt sleeves, then slipped on his jacket, not bothering to straighten his tie. “Hello, Iris. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Y-yes.” She held something tightly in her fists and shoved it toward him. “I-I found this.”

He peered at the object—a woman’s scarf, which looked as though it had been dragged through a tar pit—then lifted his brows. “And?”

She drew in a deep breath, her breasts rising with the action. He forced his gaze back to her face. “I found it at the clinic.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting. He’d offer her a seat, but then she might stay all day, rambling on and on about whatever popped into her pretty head. On one hand, that sounded like the perfect way to spend his day. On the other, he had a killer to catch.

“The bastard left it there for me.” She didn’t apologize, or even flinch, at her use of the curse word. She thrust the scarf out again, and this time he took it. “Have you heard any news? Any new victims? It belongs to Alma Vernon. She’s dead, isn’t she?” The sentences fell on top of one another. Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. “Mercy me. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Dante tightened his fist around the scarf, battling the rage rising inside him. “How well did you know Ms. Vernon?”

“I saw her frequently at the kitchen. Then, a few days ago, she had a seizure, and I treated her.”

“Morello!”

Shannon’s shout drew Dante’s attention away from Iris, and for a moment, he was peeved at the interruption. Although she was bearing potentially disturbing news, seeing her lovely face was a balm to his soul.

“What is it?”

“We got a report of another victim.”

“Dammit to hell.” Dante shot a look at Iris but didn’t apologize for his language. He was damned well frustrated and feeling more incompetent each day. He said to Iris, “I’m sorry. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”

She nodded. Her lovely blue eyes swam with unshed tears, and her lips trembled. He wanted to stay, to hold her and comfort her. It was obvious that the killer was either fixated on Iris, or working his way through victims until he got to her. Either option opened a cold pit of fear in his chest.

Purchase PRECARIOUS on Amazon - On Sale for .99




Connect with Alicia

Twitter : @Alicia_Dean_
Instagram: AliciaDeanAuthor