Showing posts with label literary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literary. Show all posts

Thursday, February 14, 2019

"The Unlounging" by Selraybob


REVIEW and GIVEAWAY
The Unlounging
by Selraybob

The Unlounging by Selraybob

The Unlounging by Selraybob is currently on tour with Reading Addiction Book Tours. The tour stops here today for my review, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.


Description
Mid-twenties, beaten down and out of shape, Selraybob spends his days on his worn out lounger, drinking quarts of Busch and talking to his buddy Herm on the phone. Productivity is a forgotten dream. Until, right in the middle of his wife’s long-overdue kiss-off speech, Selraybob has an epiphany. It’s about Time. Time, he determines, is a count. It’s only a count. Einstein was wrong. And life on the lounger will never be the same.
With warm wit and a complete lack of pretense, Selraybob shares his journey from a man stuck in his lounger to a verified, and often vilified, time-theory iconoclast.


Excerpt
Chapter 1: No Good Time to Lose a Wife.
I was sitting by the window, quart of Busch on my belly, when my wife Joalene walked in and commenced to tell me that I’m a witless, no-good, washed-up nothing and how I’m never going to amount to even a worm on a pile of mole scat if I spend all my time sitting on the lounger and drinking beer—which, just to be clear, I was not drinking, since it was on my belly. But while Joalene was talking, just as she said the word time, instead of looking out the window at the leafless oak like normal, I looked at the clock. And I started thinking about the black marks on the white face and the hands and how they go round and round and round and round and what that means now that we have digital clocks, one of which was on the top of the movie recorder. So I looked over there. The red numbers were 9:45, and the circular clock, as close as I could tell, was pointing at 9:38. So while Joalene was breathing in, which she almost never seemed to do, I asked her if she had seven minutes I could have. “Because I’m thinking,” I said, “that if you would just move over a bit, so as I can’t see the clock there that says 9:45, then it will only be 9:38, and I’ll have seven more minutes to sit here with my beer, and maybe drink some, and then, if you don’t mind so much, sweetheart, you can get me some lasagna from out of the fridge.”
She scowled and spun around. Her hair went swooshing past her neck, and she went swinging those delicious heart-shaped hips of hers into the bedroom and then back out a couple minutes later with her hair curled, eyes done up all blue and hot, and her lips puffed out showing teeth smudged red with lipstick in the way that used to make me want to jump up and start mashing my tongue into her mouth to clean them off. But it didn’t work that way anymore. She’d become the errand woman and me the pizza eater.
Now that’s no way to think about your high school cherry turned wife. I knew it, too. It’s crap. But when I looked at her parading herself back and forth for me, trying to get me going in that malicious way of hers, I didn’t think about us driving up to St. Louis to get her now dearly-departed toy poodle Lexie, or barbecuin’ quail by the river and sitting naked later and giggling.
No. I thought that she was wasting my time, and where was she going, and why wasn’t she getting me that lasagna? And if she was just going to flaunt herself at me and not come over close so as I could smell her, then she may as well call the pizza man and order us a large pepperoni.
I didn’t say anything, though. She may have been parading, but she was scowling while she was doing it. And even with this acorn I got in my head, after eight years you learn when to shut up. And sometimes you actually do.
So I looked at the clock again, at the circular one with a second hand that goes round and round, tick by tick, then back to the skirt hugging Joalene’s curves and back to the red numbers and back to Joalene as she walked back into the bedroom and slammed the door. I caught myself sitting up and listening and wondering whether she was packing or undressing or adding another coat of gloss to her lips. But I sure wasn’t going to have her burst out and catch me gawking at the light under the door. So I went back to staring at the clock. I almost got myself hypnotized watching the second hand go round and round, which would’ve been good, I tell you, to keep my thoughts from turning on. Because unfortunately, they did. I caught the red number clock flip four to five, and it got me to wondering why one time is right and another is wrong and why one is fast and another slow. Why do we even watch the clocks, and who decided what a minute is anyway?
Of course, then Joalene came out with her yellow suitcase, hand-painted with red flowers—by her, with the paints I’d bought—and planted her heels in the vinyl brick of the entranceway and glared down at me and said, “I’ve waited long enough for you to make something of yourself. I have. A long time, Selraybob.”
After she said that, I said, “Eight years.”
EIGHT YEARS!” she yelled. “And you’ve become fatter and fatter and less and less.” And I had, I admit. I’d tried plumbing school a few years back, thinking all that bending over and getting up would slim me down, but two weeks in, I flooded a funeral home with a backed-up toilet. After that came furniture moving with my friend Herm. But not three days after the fatal encounter between little Lexie and the blind man with the spiked cane, Herm and I dropped a dresser on a two-pound Chihuahua. Two dead dogs in three days. It was rough. Tearful even. I took it as a sign to ease back on the physical strain. So Joalene was right. “It’s a long time to wait, Sel. It really is.”
I hate to say it, because she sounded a little sad, but instead of looking at her while she was talking at me, I was checking the clock and counting. And the next thing I did was ask her, “Joalene,” I said. “What is this thing ‘time’ you keep talking about, and does it really make sense to wait, or have you just been working a whole lot on improving me while I’ve been doing a good deal of sitting on the lounger and enjoying my quarts of Busch?”
She called me an asshole and told me to get my own self to the unemployment office from now on. Which scared me a little. Joalene had done the financial statements for us. And it’d been three years since I’d been downtown. I didn’t even go the river anymore, and the Mississippi’s king. So I sure didn’t want to go searching Waketon, on a bus, for some office of biggeties telling me all the things I should’ve done. It was a traumatic moment.
What I should’ve done is gotten up and said something, like told her, Baby, all these years I know I’ve been bad, been a selfish swine, but in the future I’ll be different. Promise. Soon as you can blink an eye, I’ll be a new man.
Didn’t though. I couldn’t. Because I tell you, I sure as hell didn’t see any new man popping out of my gut. I did say, “Baby…” but then nothing. I clammed right up.
So she opened the door and let the frigid in, stepped out, turned around and told me, “I’m done caring for you, Sel. I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.” I didn’t answer, and she waited a few seconds and then said, “Nothing? That’s it?”
My head was still empty and my body cold from the winter coming in, so I just looked at her and shook my head. She spun away disgusted and slammed the door, and I leaned over the arm of the lounger, picked the old corded phone off the floor and set it on my belly and then called the grocery mart to have them deliver a few more quarts of Busch. But I heard Joalene’s fan belts squealing in her old Malibu and then her tires screeching out of the driveway, and I got myself a hankering real strong for some chicken, which, because she’d grown up downwind of a chicken farm and couldn’t stand the sight of it or the smell, even on my breath, I hadn’t eaten since our first date in high school, three years before she’d moved in. So I ordered a roasted one, as large as they had, and mashed potatoes, and some slaw too, since I needed vegetables, and also a piece of chocolate cake. While the mart people were doing their calculating with the register, I looked out the window. The moon was gigantic and low. If I’d still been a farmhand, I’d’ve been out there harvesting into the night. But I wasn’t. Just a guy staring at the moon that pretty much took the whole window. It was a beautiful thing, dammit, and it got me to thinking of Joalene when she wears her gray pants. Not that she’s got an ass as big as a moon, but the pants are spotted, and she only wears them when she’s digging in the garden, which is how we spent our first anniversary together—seeding watermelon and cucumbers and getting ourselves all dirty before we went to the fancy hotel, sudsed each other up in the whirlpool tub and then did what married people do on their first anniversary.
My eyes got foggy. And I don’t mind admitting now that it was probably because of Joalene. No sense sitting and sulking all night though, so I said, “Dammit, Sel!” and punched my thigh—hard too, bruised myself—then I heaved myself out of the chair and put on my jacket, walked outside and stood and watched the moon. I stood so long I saw it move, which got me thinking about sunset and moonset and where Joalene was heading and if she saw the same moon I was seeing and at the same time? What would her watch say and what would mine if I had one, and would we be looking at the moon at two different times if there are two different watches?
The mart guy drove up and I paid and walked inside to the fridge and put the beer in. I found the forks and knives and napkins, got myself a plate and went to the lounger to eat. As I squatted to sit, I passed a little backside wind. And as I settled down I heard the chair squeak and smelled the thick cloud of gas from my insides—the putrid gas since Joalene had been forcing broccoli down my gullet. It was mixing with the spices from the steaming chicken, which should have watered my mouth, but nearly gagged me instead. Luckily, I only passed once, and since the chicken was still hot and steaming and still putting off its smell, I just had to sit quiet, breathe into my hand, and relax and let my bones settle and blood go while the nastiness squeezed its way out beneath the doors.
Once it had, I settled back and watched the clock circle and started calculating the minutes she’d been gone, and then the hours and the number of quarts I’d drunk that day, which wasn’t many really—three, in fact, like every day. Then I took a bite of chicken and tasted that long-lost succulent flavor. I closed my eyes it was so good. Moist and falling off the bone but not overcooked, and with still-crispy skin that I tore off and let sit on my tongue while I looked out the window at the moon and wiped chicken juice from my chin. I took another bite and chewed slowly, trying to make it last. And I found myself doing what they call ruminating. I took another bite and chewed and ruminated some more, then another, and I kept on ruminating.
What happened, the thing that pretty much changed my world—not to say watching Joalene step out didn’t—I’m not making light of that in any way; it’s just not the same—but the thing that screwed with me bad was that two-thirds through the roaster, right after sucking the meat off a wing, I had something foreign and strange—an epiphany, a new thought. A decision.
What I decided was this: all we’ve been doing when we tell time, since we started telling time, is counting things. That’s it. We’ve been counting. I wasn’t sure what things the cavemen counted, but I’d seen on the old westerns some Indians talk about many moons ago, so I figured they counted moons. What other folks counted, though, I didn’t know. I did know that I counted the number of times the clock went around and around and that every time the hours went around twice, I was supposed to put an X on the calendar and add one to the days. Simple. And I caught myself yelling towards the kitchen. “It’s a count, baby. Time is a count.” So I looked over and saw the counter clean and Joalene’s apron hanging on the oven handle. The dish towels were all folded and her spices organized. I glanced to the bedroom. A lamp was still on. I mumbled, “Baby?” And then, “Joalene?” And I heard the sink drip, and the neighborhood cur bark, and the round clock tick and the water drip and the clock again tick, and tick, and tick, and tick.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]


Praise for the Book
“This humorous novel is one I had one of my eyes on (the curious fun-loving eye) for a few months. It’s an indie book that received starred reviews from both BlueInk Review and Kirkus Reviews, even landing on the Kirkus ‘Best Books of 2018’ indie list. Color me impressed. Although, my other more cynical eye was skeptical, and here’s why. Usually for me, if someone says a novel is very funny or laugh out loud, then it isn’t. For me. I know that humor and what is considered funny is subjective and very different for everyone. But I rarely find books declared hysterical to actually be hysterical - until now. The Unlounging is funny - really funny. I burst out laughing often while reading it and - let me tell you, folks - that means something to me. It really does.” ~ Scott Semegran
“Selraybob grows on you: from a loser, that appears as a quitter and a cartoonish version of a redneck, comes a brilliant interpretation of time and deepfelt, meaningful and sarcastic opinions about daily life. This is a read that will give you a really good time.” ~ Marcia
“The writing is really great, it is funny, skillful, surprising and I really enjoyed every page. The character of Selraybob is also very entertaining and likeable, he grew on me more and more throughout the story. I can really recommend this book to everyone, and that is not something that happens often. I think that anyone can enjoy a well-written, interesting, funny and enjoyable story, regardless of age or literary genre preferences. If you have the chance, try it, it will grab you in the first five pages.” ~ Sanjin
“Funny, smart, and stimulating, the Unlounging of Selraybob will have you questioning your own preconceived notions of how we measure our days, and maybe even unlounge you out of your own rut of an existence. That is, if you can stop laughing long enough to consider getting up. Truly the most interesting book i've read in a long time. Read it now!” ~ Bob Dzik
“This book was a great read. Loved Sel, and Susy Liu Anne even more... the author captured their personalities perfectly. Laughed throughout and learned some interesting facts along the way. Pure entertainment!” ~ C Holmes


My Review
I received this book in return for an honest review.


By Lynda Dickson
When his wife Joalene walks out on him, Selraybob spends his time reclining in his lounger, drinking beer, and ruminating on random thoughts such as, “What is Time?” This leads to him starting to Think, which can never be a good thing. One epiphany leads to the next and, before you know it, to the unlounging of Selraybob. A road trip with his quirky friends in search of the meaning of Time might just result in Selraybob finding himself.
This book is written in the form of a memoir, with the main character being the author of the book. It is full of astute observations, humor, romance, mystery, and pathos. In the humorous glossary at the end, Selraybob explains difficult concepts in his own unique way. This is truly philosophy for the common man.
I love the reference to The Princess Bride being “the most romantic movie ever.” I totally agree!
Funny, touching, genius.


About the Author
Selraybob
Selraybob is a philosopher, writer, and, given his modest Missouri background, one of the least expected deep thinkers on the planet. His theory of time - that Einstein and Hawking and the rest of the spacetime preachers are misguided to the point of lunacy - has invited ridicule and hatred and threats of violence. He has become, arguably, an iconoclast. Selraybob continues to pursue Time, related physics theories, and, with the help of his buddy Herm, Herm’s wife Susy Liu Anne, and a small but growing band of supporters battle the narrow minds of the Time Fixers.

Giveaway
Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a copy of The Unlounging by Selraybob.

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Friday, January 18, 2019

"Melding Spirits" by Michael E. Burge


EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY
Melding Spirits
by Michael E. Burge


Melding Spirits by Michael E. Burge is currently on tour with iRead Book Tours. The tour stops here today for an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.


For another book by this author, please check out my blog post on Bryant’s Gap.

Description
Twelve-year-old Evan Mason’s life has been turned upside down by the sudden death of his father. His mother isn’t home much, the insurance office during the day, waiting tables at night. Evan is spending a great deal of time alone.
Now he finds himself on a Greyhound bus headed for a small town on the Wabash River where he’ll spend the summer of 1958 with his loving grandmother.
Evan soon meets his new neighbor, Katie Dobbins. She’s a feisty blue-eyed girl with a ponytail, the type of girl Buddy Holly might sing about on American Bandstand. Evan is instantly enamored with her.
It seems the perfect summer is underway - but strange things are happening in the woods surrounding the Ghost Hill Indian Mound.
There’s a dark cloud lingering over the Wabash Valley - It won’t be long before it erupts into a raging storm.


Excerpt
1
Summer1958
Evan Mason sat in the back seat as Gladys Hatfield dropped the Ford Crestline into first gear, revved the engine, and lurched along the circular drive that serviced the all-in-one train depot and bus station in Chicago Pointe.
Today was Saturday, and Evan would soon be on a southbound bus headed for Laurenville, Illinois to stay with his grandmother for the summer. The thirty-three-year-old woman riding shotgun was Lila Mason, Evan’s mother. On Monday, she would be on a plane headed to Manhattan for a week of training. She had worked as a clerk in the Chicago Pointe office for two years and now had a shot at becoming an agent for one of the biggest insurance companies in the world.
“Okay, Lila,” Gladys said, as she double-parked near the main entrance to the station. “I’m going to drop you right here. I’ll park somewhere around the corner and wait for you. I think that’s his bus.” Gladys jumped from the car, opened the trunk, and with little effort hoisted the overstuffed suitcase and plopped it onto the ground.
Gladys was a large, sturdy woman. She wasn’t what one might call homely, but she had a crooked smile and her features were plain and asymmetrical. Her lips and fingernails were painted a ruby red and her dark auburn hair was piled up on her head in a massive layer of sweeping curls. A stiff northerly breeze was blowing, but her hair remained steadfast as she went about her business.
Not long ago, Gladys had discovered the magic of those aerosol cans that had made their way from the battlefields of WW II, where they were used to dispense insecticides, to the dressing tables of women around the world.
Only instead of DDT, they now were filled with a flowery smelling lacquer, a few layers of which could transform the flattest of hairdos into a high rise bouffant of staggering proportions. Gladys Hatfield had certainly done her part to keep the hairspray companies in business.
“You got a big kiss for your Aunt Gladys, Evan?” She beckoned him around to the rear of the car. He knew what was coming and tried to brace himself for the trauma that would ensue. She pulled him to her bosom, enveloping him in a fog of lavender perfume and talcum powder.
He was light-headed from lack of oxygen and the sheer devastation of the moment, and when he saw the two huge, over-puckered lips coming in for a landing, he was certain things were going to end badly. Fortunately, the sharp, instinctive reflexes of youth took over. He gave a quick twist of his neck and the two ruby red marauders landed three inches off target, splashing down high on his cheek, just below his right eye.
Gladys stepped back to arm’s length. “You have a good time down south, and don’t you worry about your mother. I’ll be watching over her. She’s going to do just fine in that new job. I just know it.” She reached into her purse, pulled out several folded bills, and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “Take Grandma Bea out for a soda. Go see a movie. Buy something for yourself, whatever tickles your fancy. It’s our little secret.”
“Thank you, Aunt Gladys. I—”
“Hold still, honey.” She yanked a flowered hanky from her pocket, wrapped it around her index finger, wet it with her tongue, and executed the dreaded lipstick erasure. Later in his life, Evan would have Freudian nightmares related to that moment.
Incidentally, Gladys wasn’t really Evan’s aunt. He called her that because Lila had always considered her one of the family. It made his mother happy.
Gladys lit a cigarette and slid behind the wheel. “See you in a bit, dearie,” she said to Lila, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she spoke.
“Shouldn’t be long, Gladys,” Lila said, looking at her watch. “If the bus leaves on time, it’ll be pulling out in the next fifteen minutes.”
“Don’t rush. If I’m not in the car, I’ll be across the street at the drugstore. Alvin is there today.” She gave a little wink as she popped the clutch and humped her way down the street and around the corner. Gladys wasn’t the best of drivers.
“I hope you remembered everything, Evan. Did you pack your books and the card for Grandma Bea?” Lila said.
“Yes, Mother.”
She reached for the suitcase, but Evan rushed over and picked it up.
“I can carry it,” he said. “Do you want to hurt your back again, right before your trip?”
“Well, if you’re sure you can manage it,” she said. “I don’t want you to rupture something.”
He rolled his eyes and said, “Please, I’m not going to get a rupture!”
They walked toward the waiting bus, Lila checking the list she had taken from her purse.
“Okay, do you have your good jacket, your extra belt, and—”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Your new sneakers?”
He looked down at his brand-new Keds. “I’m wearing them,” he said, shaking his head in mild disgust. “We went through that list an hour ago. It might be a little late now, don’t you think?”
“Now, don’t be a smart aleck, dear. I could certainly mail those things to you, now, couldn’t I?” She snapped the clasp on the large purse she was carrying and pulled out two comic books. She handed them to Evan, then snatched a brand new brown leather wallet from the side pouch. “Your money is behind the little window compartment. Now, make sure you tuck this deep into your pocket so it doesn’t fall out,” she said as she demonstrated the prescribed tucking technique. Evan took it and jammed it into the hip pocket of his jeans. “And I hope you brought your harmonica. The people on the bus might enjoy hearing you play. Music helps pass the time on a long trip, you know.”
At Lila’s suggestion, Gladys had given Evan a top of the line harmonica for his last birthday. Evan had plenty of musical talent. His father had begun teaching him to play the piano when he was just four years old. Evan’s cognitive skills and tonal awareness had been uncanny, especially for a child his age. After his father’s death, Evan’s interest in music had waned. Lila hoped the harmonica might rekindle it.
Got it right here, Mother.” He pulled the instrument from his pocket and waved it to allay any doubt.
They sat on a bench in front of the station and watched as the driver tossed the bags into the cavern under the bus.
Lila lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs. “Evan, you know, I don’t like the idea of leaving you with Grandma Bea all summer, but I hope you understand, it’s important for both of us that I get this job and get off to a good start. It can mean everything to our future. Aunt Gladys offered to help out, but you wouldn’t have been happy staying with her, would you?” She took another puff on her cigarette.
Evan looked at her and gave another roll of the eyes.
“I didn’t think so. You’ll have a good time at Grandma’s. She loves you a lot. She’ll be grateful for the company,” Lila said.
“Mother, it’s okay. You know I have a lot of friends in Laurenville, probably more than I have here. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Everyone headed south may begin boarding. Please be sure you have your ticket and all your belongings. Once we leave the barn, we don’t look back!” the driver said as he began to assist people onto the bus.
“Now remember what I said. You give that driver a good up and down inspection as you board, and when you get off at those rest stops, you make sure you keep him in sight all the time you’re there. When he gets up, you follow him. The bus can’t leave without him,” Lila said.
“What about when he goes to the restroom?” Evan said.
“Very funny,” she said and mashed the half-smoked, lipstick-smeared cigarette into the ashtray beside her. Lila didn’t have a robust sense of humor. “Now, get over here and give me a big hug.”
“I’m going to miss you, Mom.” He patted her on the back as they embraced.
“And I’ll miss you,” she said. “You’re the best son a mother could ask for.”
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]


Praise for the Book
“With Melding Spirits, Michael Burge crafts a poignant coming-of-age story laced with suspense and grit. Crossing genres, this story is sure to appeal to a wide audience. […] Burge keeps the reader guessing and achieves an exhilarating climax toward the end of the novel. Aside from some profanity, this is a relatively clean read, with no graphic details or bedroom scenes, and I recommend it as a fantastic summer read.” ~ Litterarum Studiosus
“I enjoyed reading the story. There were many fun and interesting side stories to the plot. The tension of the story grows as you continue to read. It was fun to see all the pieces fit together to the somewhat surprise ending. There were also some great side characters to the story that added to the overall story.” ~ Dale Hansen
“I just loved this book very well written about growing up in the late 50's, your first love, standing up for a friend. Buy this book read it you won't be disappointed!” ~ Christina
“The suspense made me want to keep reading to find out what was going to happen next. It is definitely not a book that I could predict. I had it read in one day. It is that good. I am giving Melding Spirits a well deserved five plus stars. I would give one hundred stars if I could. I highly recommend it for other readers to add to their must read lists. I look forward to reading more by Michael E Burge and see where else he takes a reader to next. He has extraordinary talent. Melding Spirits is most definitely a must read!” ~ Amy C
“What a delightful book. Michael E. Burge has a way of getting into his characters hearts. I love meeting Evan, Katie, Riley, and Grandma Bea. Mr. O'Malley reminded me of my Papa. This story takes you back to a simpler time of 1958, where neighbors helped each other and looked after one another. I really enjoyed the build-up of this story and loved the ending. Truly a melding of spirits. I highly recommend this book.” ~ Amazon Customer


My Review
I received this book in return for an honest review.


By Lynda Dickson
It’s 1959 and twelve-year-old Evan is sent to spend the summer with his Grandma Bea. There, he runs into some old friends and makes some new ones. He spends time searching for Indian relics, eating ice cream at Dairy Queen, discussing movies and music, going fishing, and experiencing first love. Meanwhile, teenage girls are disappearing, and a murderer is on the loose …
Initially, this book appears to be a quiet look at the idyllic goings-on in the summer of a twelve-year-old boy. We are introduced to the characters and given an insight into their background, whether they are main characters or not. A lot of this is unnecessary but adds to the quiet charm of the book. Then the book takes a turn, and it feels like we have been thrust into an episode of Criminal Minds. This book doesn’t know what it wants to be. It reads like a middle grade action/adventure/romance but the language and violence place it firmly in the adult demographic. The chapters switch between the points-of-view of children and adults but, towards the end, we are head-hopping from paragraph to paragraph. Editing errors include overuse of exclamation marks and unnecessary italicizing of words and phrases. In addition, the title and cover image don’t accurately reflect the story. There is one reference to the melding of spirits in the book (see below), but it has no bearing on the plot, while the bridge on the cover only makes a minor appearance towards the end of the book.
Not what I expected.
Warnings: coarse language, sexual references, violence.

Some of My Favorite Lines
“They believed that every living creature has an energy, a spirit, that after death becomes even stronger because it melds with every other being that came before.”
“Sometimes, a person’s dreams have to be altered a bit.”
“He said most people just stumble along waiting for something good to happen, then before they know it, they’re out of time, kind of like a balloon that shoots around the room in every direction until it runs out of air, then it just lays there.”
“It must be hard having all that ability and knowing that you’ll never be able to use it. What a waste. Like being a bird in a cage.”
“You get used to it. I guess, after a while, change starts seeming normal.”
“I think that being happy has a lot to do with being able to control the thoughts that come into your mind.”
“Everyone has a story, son. Sadly, for most people, their story is never told.”

About the Author
Michael E. Burge
Michael E. Burge grew up in the Chicago suburbs and a small town on the Wabash River in Southern Illinois.
In the late sixties, he left college to serve on a U.S. Navy destroyer out of Norfolk, Virginia. Upon leaving the service, he transitioned to a career in the burgeoning computer industry, positions in product management and marketing.
He is now pursuing his lifelong interest in writing, publishing his debut novel, Bryant’s Gap, in 2015 and his second, Melding Spirits, in 2017.
Michael also plays piano, paints, and is an avid golfer. He and his family currently live in Illinois.


Giveaway
Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win one of seven copies of Melding Spirits by Michael E. Burge. Two winners will also win a $20 Amazon gift card (open to USA/Canada only).

Links