A warm welcome to author Lloyd A. Meeker joining us today here at Love Bytes . Lloyd talks about Hope and Despair , shares an excerpt of his new release and also brought along a giveaway!
Welcome Lloyd 🙂

Hope and Despair in Writerland

Sometimes I think writers must be the current embodiment of that old Chinese curse, May you live in interesting times. Well, we do. Such interesting times, we live in. Traditional publishing can’t cope with the Amazon phenomenon, Amazon creates unilateral, great-sounding but unpredictable projects like Kindle Unlimited that seem vulnerable to gaming by scammers, small presses crop up and close down faster than I can keep track of them, authors agonize over going indy or not, and social media continues to be a rolling boil of new platforms, cat pictures, hashtags, disappearing reviews and fads.

Hope

The indy gurus say this is the best possible time to be an author. Identify your genre and its expectations, then meet them and you’ll get rich. Well, it’s certainly true that now is the best time to get published, because failing everything else I can do it myself.

Despair

But a zillion other writers are doing exactly the same thing. Shouting and handing out pens and fridge magnets to stand out from the crowd is not the answer for me. I just can’t shout loud enough (or afford enough fridge magnets) to get noticed. And don’t get me started on “leveraging” metrics for optimized SEO on my beleaguered website!

Hope

I hear a lot of authors asking, “What genre am I?” One this week asked, which box do I check — horror, romance, mystery, or YA when my story is all four? This, I think will be a growing concern as our literature matures. There will always be “pure” romances and mysteries, I have no doubt, but I’m hoping we will also see increased flexibility in what writers are willing to attempt, and in what readers are willing to try.

Despair

And all that is completely independent of what I manage to write. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by all that frenzy and it seems I’m standing on a cliff looking out to sea, watching the biggest storm in years flatten the waves into a deadly surge, knowing that I have to push the little paper boat of my book out to sea.

Hope

I’m lucky, though. I’m retired. That means I’m an author who doesn’t need to make a lot on his books (a very good thing, as it turns out!), but still needs to work two days a week at a local historical site selling entry tickets in order to support my writing habit. That income makes it possible to afford the conferences, travel and education I think I need in order to network, improve my craft, and market my books.

Yesterday DSP Publications released a new edition of my spiritual manifesto, Traveling Light. I’m thrilled! I’ve had terrific luck getting published so far. I’ve had five books published, and I’m working on number six. I’ve got three more books in planning stages, and story ideas for over half a dozen more. At my rate of one book a year, roughly, that will keep me going for a long time. Plus new ideas I don’t know about yet, of course. I intend to write until (as my friend Susan Kelly says) someone pries the mouse from my cold stiff hand.

Despair

So far my sales so far haven’t lit up any skies. An agent I pitched some time ago stopped answering my emails when she saw my sales figures. Self-doubt continues to chew on my guts, because I know all I can do is write the stories that are mine to write, regardless of genre or expectations or popularity.

Hope

But I’ve found some readers who don’t mind my romance/mystery/metaphysical/whatever stories, and if you’re one of them I’m profoundly, passionately grateful for you. Please don’t give up on me!

Despair

I’ve despaired this year at some of the small scandals among us.

Hope

May they prove to be growing pains and not symptoms of a persisting collective habit. I hope that our community of authors, readers, publishers and reviewers will continue to deepen, that our literature will continue to evolve and mature, and that we will increasingly present ourselves to each other with authenticity and strength.

And most of all, may each story we tell each other be more wonderful than the last!

 

Publisher: DSP Publications

Release Date: March 15th , 2016

Blurb:

An eye for an eye….

Ian McCandless is a hospice nurse, training to become a shaman. When his mentor orders him to make peace with his estranged family, Ian reluctantly agrees, anticipating another conflict-filled visit. On their way from the airport, Ian’s older brother Will interrupts a convenience store robbery and is shot. As he dies in Ian’s arms, Will begs Ian to avenge him.

Ian uses his shamanic abilities to track down the killer, but his quest soon becomes a hunt for revenge—forbidden to any shaman. His actions jeopardize his relationship with the spirit-world, endanger the lives of those he loves, and threaten to banish him from the path that gives his life meaning. Ian must choose between vengeance and service to community as the root of his shamanic covenant. Evil or noble, every choice is sacred to the Great Web, and every choice has consequences.

Buy links:

Amazon

DSP Publications

OmniLit

Spring hours had just kicked in, Sam had said on the phone, so the Sun Yat-Sen Garden was open until six o’clock, and the trees were already in full flower. Ian took a deep breath as he got of the bus, smiled it out into the spring sunshine. It was a perfect place for them to hang out together for a while. He hadn’t been here for ages, and he was excited at the romance of it.

He saw Sam waiting for him outside the entrance and waved, pleasure buzzing through him as Sam waved back. He broke into a trot to join him faster. Sam opened his arms and grinned, welcoming Ian’s hug but avoiding his kiss. “Discretion—my parents are benefactors here,” he murmured in Ian’s ear as they embraced.

Ian squeezed him harder, acknowledging. Years ago Sam’s immigrant parents had quietly accepted that their only son was gay, and they were kind to Ian, even fond of him. But an overt public display here could cause them embarrassment, and Sam’s filial duty would be to avoid that.

Ian watched Sam show his card to the attendant and sign them in. His movements were precise, graceful, completely focused, as if some of the effort he expended was to restrain wilder movement coiled inside his compact, athletic body, waiting to burst free. That intensity must be intimidating in the courtroom, Ian thought, not for the first time. Admiration and desire flooded him—Sam, the beautiful warrior.

As always, Sam was well-dressed—jade silk T-shirt under a tan leather jacket, dark tailored slacks, loafers. He’d started spiking his short black hair recently—just enough to be edgy without being rebellious. Discreet nonconformity, always in good taste. Sure, quiet, strong, in charge. That was Sam. His beautiful warrior. “I didn’t realize you were a member here.” Ian’s voice hushed as the atmosphere of the place enveloped them. “You must come often.”

“Mostly I like to come here alone. I can think here.”

“I can see why.” Ian felt himself relaxing into the elegant beauty of the courtyard. Memory of the peace of his last visit, sitting on the rocks watching the turtles and carp, rose up in him. He should come here more often. “Everyone needs a sanctuary. This is a gorgeous one.”

Sam sighed and looked around. “I get grounded here.” He cocked his head at the main hall to their right. “You know all this stuff was brought over from China? Built using the old ways?” He scuffed his shoe lightly against the paved courtyard. “Even the stones.”

“Yeah, I remember overhearing that from a tour guide once.”

“This place reminds me of what I come from. It’s built according to principles my people practiced long before the white man came to North America.” Sam steered them into the double corridor, ambling to the jade water pavilion. “A man needs something to harmonize with. This helps me remember harmony. My place in something larger, older than I am. My roots.”

This was odd, Ian thought. Sam didn’t usually talk like this—as if he were building up to something, like the preface to a lecture. He had expected a lovers’ walk among the flowering trees. His pleasure chilled into wariness. “Sam, why are we here?”

“Guess you know me too well,” he said with a shrug, his half smile conceding without apology. “I wanted to show you something.” Sam turned to Ian, his face undefended. “I’m worried about you. You’ve changed since Halifax.”

“Of course I have,” Ian snapped. “My brother was murdered, an innocent bystander. Should I behave as if nothing happened?”

“Hey,” Sam murmured, “I’m on your side, remember?”

Resentment was bitter on Ian’s tongue. “Are you trying to fix me, then? I’m not wrong to feel the way I do.”

“Of course not. You have every right to feel angry, and to feel grief. You’re one of the good guys, Ian.” Sam shoved his fists into his jacket, looking helpless. “I love you for that. You’re kind, generous, do compassionate work.” He paused. “You scared me when you talked about revenge the other night. It’s so completely unlike you.”

“Is it? Really?”

“I sure hope so.” Sam bent down to pick up a fallen sprig of plum blossoms, studied it for a moment, then with ceremonial care stroked it across his lips. He held it softly against Ian’s chest for a heartbeat, two, then brushed it across Ian’s lips before offering it to him. Ian smiled in spite of himself as he took it.

“Some guys talk all kinds of smack,” Sam continued. “Never do anything about what they say. You’re not one of them. I think when you talk about revenge, you really mean it. That’s what scares me.”

The shadow of a cloud crept across the garden, and Ian shivered at the subtle chill. Sam led him onto the promontory in front of the symbolic mountain. He stared at it for a while. “We have a complex system to manage the problem of justice,” he said without turning around. “Yes, I’m biased. I’m a lawyer, part of the system. It’s not perfect, but maybe you’d be amazed at how well it works most of the time.”

Ian’s stomach clenched. This was insulting. “And how is the system likely to work in this case, if the police can’t even identify the guy?”

For a moment Sam didn’t say anything. Then he pointed to the mountain. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He moved closer to Ian, hand on one shoulder, pressing against his side. “You know the story behind this pavilion, the ting?”

“No.”

Sam faced Ian, looking sad. “You are right to be angry, but let me say my little speech.” He turned again to contemplate the mountain. “About the time Hadrian was building his wall in Britain to keep your people from attacking his legions, my people were thinking about landscapes in a different way. As works of art. They started building these little pavilions where someone could sit and view the beauty of nature and at the same time experience a harmonious relationship with it, as if by observing the landscape one changed its meaning. Borrowing, they called it. You see the ting in paintings all the time. They represent man’s tiny but essential place in the natural order of things.”

Ian tried to focus on his anger but could feel himself softening against his will to the beauty in front of him. He didn’t want to soften. “Okay,” he said. “And you’re showing me this because…?”

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “I don’t want you to lose your sense of place in the natural order, Ian. Your anchor. Criminals cut themselves loose from the natural order. They don’t have a sense of place. They have only themselves to serve. Except the crazy zealots who think they know not only what their place is, but what everyone else’s place is too—”

“You’ll let me know when it’s my turn to talk?”

Sam winced. “Sure. But it’s still my turn. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway.” He looked up at the pavilion, as if looking for something hard to see. “Whether criminals wear suits and abuse the law from a corner office on Wall Street or Bay, or whether they are solo crooks like the bastard who killed your brother, they’re the same. They’ve lost their place in the whole to their own desires. They have only their own direction, and no obligation, no belonging but to themselves.” Sam stopped and stared at the mountain. “If I don’t understand what anchors a man, I can’t trust him. Even you, Ian. Revenge is not a good anchor.”

“Thank you for the lecture.”

“I know it sounds like one, but it’s not meant to be.” Sam turned to Ian, his eyes wide and pleading. “It’s more of a call for help, Ian. I’m nervous.” He stopped, correcting himself. “No, I’m afraid—of what’s boiling in you. I’m afraid of what it might do—to us.”

As Ian stared back, something at the bottom of his connection to Sam separated with a soft tug and almost no resistance. They were so different, maybe more different than he’d realized. Sam’s sincerity, his belief in what he was saying, was undeniable, and in that moment Ian cherished it with a flicker of envy, realizing he’d never held that strong a belief—ever. He’d never believed in any cosmology that deeply, even his childhood catechism. It must be so comforting to have that, he thought, to belong to such a well-defined world.

“Thanks, babe,” Ian murmured, fighting a spreading sadness. No— loneliness. “I know you mean well.”

Sam nodded, a signal of defeat. “Will you at least think more about what I’ve said?”

Ian no longer wanted to sit with Sam on the rocks, spending time in the sunshine with the carp and the turtles. He smiled at Sam, feeling like he was watching Sam leave in a departing taxi. “I promise.”

Lloyd Meeker can’t help what he writes—stories arising from the between places, the mystical overlapping between the worlds of matter and spirit, and the sentient, unpredictable beauty that dwells there. It’s his natural habitat.
Happily ensorcelled by music, subtle energy healing, and the wonders of nature, he lives with his very understanding husband in southern Florida, among friends, family, and orchids that take his breath away every morning.

In addition to his written work, which includes novels, essays, poetry and short stories, he has served since 2008 as a final-round judge in the Queer Foundation’s annual National High School Seniors Essay Contest, which promotes effective writing by, about, and/or for queer youth, and awards scholarships to the winners. Finalists are selected from schools across the United States by members of the National Council of Teachers of English.

His novel The Companion was named a finalist in the 2015 Lambda Literary Awards, and is the author of other popular titles, including Blood and Dirt, Enigma, Blood Royal, and A Cape of Good Hope Christmas.

www.lloydmeeker.com

https://twitter.com/LloydAMeeker

Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/MBe1gp

Lloyd is generously offering a copy of his new release “Traveling Light” to a Lucky reader

leave a comment to enter the giveaway !

Good Luck 🙂