Goodkind's move huge for all

I awoke to two shocking things on Facebook this morning. One of the things has nothing to do with books, so I won't even mention it (I will, however, look toward Steven Savile and Dean Drinkel with pity).

The other thing happens to deal with Terry Goodkind's announcement that he is self-publishing his next novel, The First Confessor, on July 2.

My first reaction to the announcement, which is saw through buddy Jon F. Merz, was one of awe. I couldn't believe it. Here is one of sci-fi's great authors dipping his big toe into the waters of self-publishing. Much like when Barry Eisler did so on March 2010, Goodkind's move to self-publishing gives this movement just a little more legitimacy than it had a few years ago.

There are so many questions, of course, as to why Goodkind is doing this. He is not, however, forsaking traditional publishing altogether; TOR is publishing the sequel to The Open Machine shortly after TFC comes out. If anything, this is his grand experiment to see if self-publishing is viable, at least in my opinion. If the experiment is successful, how many other books will Goodkind put out without using the middle man of the Big Six? The possibilities, of course, are endless.

And there will always be detractors in this world of publishing that we live in who will say that Goodkind is shooting himself in the foot with this move. There will be those who don't want to give self-publishing legitimacy and will always work to down it.

But let's look at the facts: a 70 percent royalty on Kindle for books priced between $2.99-$9.99 (I expect Goodkind's new book to hit $9.99 for maximum earning potential), and 65 percent on Nook. Either of those royalty rates would surpass anything he could receive at a Big Six publisher (hello, 17.5 percent) for the amount of books he will sell -- and yes, he will sell. Goodkind recognizes his earning potential, and receiving 65-70 percent for his work will just increase his coffers.

There have been several authors who have been traditionally published -- Savile, Merz, Daniel Arenson, Jim C. Hines, Mike Stackpole and Kevin J. Anderson, to name a few -- who have moved on to self-publish ebooks, whether new stories or backlist, and have sold rather well.

Terry, welcome to the party.

The revolution continues.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Kicking off summer with some beach reads

I had hoped to do this post before this past weekend, but things have changed in my life and somewhat delayed me. First off, I've begun writing the first draft of the fourth Jaclyn Johnson novel. I'm about 25,000 words into it and am well on my way to a 100,000-word novel, I think. I'll let you know.

Secondly, I have a new girlfriend, and I've been spending every free moment with her. She's an awesome woman, and we've grown incredibly close in a short amount of time. So I have that going for me, which is nice.

She and I are planning several trips to Cape Cod this summer -- the first time I'll be on a beach since dad passed away in 2003 -- and there may or may not be enough time to read. However, I want to tell you about a few books that are on my reading list -- and should be on yours.

Game Of Thrones
Les Miserables
Daniel Arenson's Song of Dragon's Trilogy
David Dalglish's fantasy books
Misty Johnson, Supernatural Dick
Towering Pines by Bruce A. Sarte

Whether or not I get to all of those will be seen. I'm currently reading East of Eden by Steinbeck, and I'm 2/7ths of the way through.

Other than those last four, you should have the following on your list, too:

Philadelphia Story by Bruce A. Sarte
Double Agent
Rogue Agent
Cold Altar
Eminent Souls
Silver by Steven Savile
Lessons I-IV by Michael Crane

There may be more... I'll write more posts when I come up with more!

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

The DoJ's lawsuit -- it's about time.

On Wednesday, the United States Department of Justice filed a Sherman Anti-trust Act lawsuit against Apple as well as five of the Big Six publishers that colluded -- I'm not going to use the word alleged like the New York Times and CNN used yesterday; we all know the collusion occurred -- to fix prices to a higher rate than Amazon wanted two years ago.

On behalf of ebook readers everywhere, may I just say yesssssssssssssssssssssssssss!

This is a long time coming. I read the 36-page complaint courtesy the Wall Street Journal Wednesday afternoon, and while it broke down things I've known for two years, it went deeper -- much deeper -- than we, the general public, all believed. The length of time that these publishers spent trying to break Amazon's $9.99 price point -- which, let's face it, is a good price point for digital books that just happen to be newly-released NYT bestsellers -- is just unfathomable. They were obsessed. That's the only word I can come up with here. It was an obsession. Of course they had to raise prices; they were all meeting at high-end Manhattan restaurants discussing this endeavor. It screams of the 1 percent, doesn't it?

Enter Apple. Now, I'm not going to kick dirt on Steve Jobs' grave, God rest his soul. It wasn't just him in this; there are many to blame. All of these wo/men knew what they were doing. It's unconscionable that in this economy that these people willingly gouged their customers, and had planned it for months beforehand. And now, the plan they created, the agency model that Apple and the Big Six imposed upon Amazon and Barnes & Noble, is dying a fast death.

Oh yeah, you didn't hear that? Yep. HarperCollins, Hachette and Simon & Schuster all settled with the government yesterday. Unlike Apple, Penguin and Macmillian -- remember Macmillan's troublemaking two years ago? -- they're ripping up their agency model contracts and re-negotiating with retailers.

And this is a good thing, folks.

As a reader -- a consumer -- I refuse to pay upwards of $13 and $15 for an ebook. A book that doesn't need to be housed in a brick, mortar and steel warehouse, or take up physical space shouldn't cost the same as a trade paperback. If it's a book I really want, I'll pay up to $10. A savings of $18 (hardcover to ebook) is better for me, the consumer, than a savings of $15 or $13. Since a majority of my reading now is in the digital form, I'm looking to save a few bucks, and what Amazon had done once the Kindle came into being in 2007 -- using the wholesale model for ebooks, much like it and other retailers had with ink and paper books for years -- was perfect. The model wasn't broken. Publishers broke it.

And now the government is fixing it. The government is protecting its people. Businesses aren't people.

This lawsuit is down to three now. I can't wait to see what happens next.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Guest author: Jeffrey Beesler

I'd like to introduce you all to Jeffrey Beesler, whose debut novel Spell of Entrapment made its way into the Kindle store this week. Jeff is a talented, budding author from the state of Washington who is on a blog tour to promote the book. I've already read it, and I must say it's a breath of fresh air into the fantasy genre.

Without further ado, here's Jeff:

When a knight, Sir Patrew of Trava, infiltrates sorceress Embekah’s manor, a spell of entrapment binds them both inside her home.

This is the premise for my debut novel, Spell of Entrapment, the first installment in the Mages of Trava series. I’d really like to discuss how I came up with such an idea, but I fear the story has long since escaped me. Quite frankly, I’m not even sure how many of my ideas ever crop up.

This morning on my way into writing this guest post for Sean, I happened upon a photo that another writer friend had posted to Facebook. It featured a fortune cookie whose omen for the day read as follows: “Creativity: Anarchy of the mind”. This got me to thinking, as desserts are often wont to do in my case. How many times have I had a dream I just couldn’t shake, or a thought that wouldn’t die no matter how much I wanted it to? 

Sometimes, however, I get the sense that these ideas speak to me even when I’m asleep. Often I’ll have dreams of people who I’ve never even met in real life. It’s almost as if my own characters are talking to me in my sleep, trying to get my attention even as I’m working on something else.

For Spell of Entrapment, I decided to tackle the matter of solitude, and what it might be like for someone who spent twenty years of her adult life in exile. Then I built on this by making her come face-to-face with the awkward nature of having to socialize with someone after having no one to talk to all those years. Adding in the notion that this guy should carry a sort of antagonism toward her, I wound up fleshing out the conflict in the novel.

Not every idea I have will be turned into a novel or story. However, I consider each idea that crosses my path as an exercise in and of itself. It’s keeping my creativity healthy, which will keep me in fine shape to tell stories for many years to come.

Jeffrey Beesler was born on May 2^nd, 1978. In addition to self-publishing his debut novel, Spell of Entrapment, he has had a short fantasy story published in Abandoned Towers #4, The Broken Pipes of Drei City.  He is a graduate of the LongRidge Writers Group correspondence course, Breaking into Print. His book can be purchased here:

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Spell-Entrapment-Mages-Trava-ebook/dp/B007C0MKPY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1330014268&sr=8-1

Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/135275

Thanks for stopping by, Jeff!

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Coming down the Pike....

For the past three weeks or so, I've been working on a new series for you. As I've hit practically every genre there is to write in, I've decided that this new series will be a mystery series. The first novel will be entitled COLD ALTAR.

There's a little something special about this series, as I've set it in my hometown of Fitchburg, Massachusetts, which will be easier for me to write than, say, New York or another big city not named Boston. The protagonist, Alex Bourque, is a small-town private investigator whose first case is a cold case from the early 1980's. His father, Todd, had worked on the case originally as a detective in the local police department. There is very little in the way of evidence, but as Todd tells Alex, "If anyone can solve it, it's you."

I've set the book up like a Robert B. Parker Spenser novel, in first person with quick-hit sentences and paragraphs. A few graphs, though, do have some meat to them. I don't want to go into any further detail as I'm still in the middle of writing the book, but I can say the part I'm writing now deals with Alex asking a person on the wrong side of the law for help.

Now, back to writing while you get back to reading.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

#SampleSunday -- Eminent Souls

Boston Police escorted the two men out of the Crawford House with little fanfare. Management prevented the officers from taking Joe away, especially at the insistence of Charlene. She had pulled the lead officer to the side and spoke with him for several minutes. He returned and breathlessly told Joe there would be no charges pressed against him.

Joe couldn’t help but take a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Charlene asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am. I thought I was going to jail there for a few seconds.”

“Why, for being chivalrous? I never knew that was a crime.”

Joe caught Charlene’s wink. He smiled at her sarcasm.

“Hey Joe,” Bernardino said, approaching the pairing. “It looks as though the rest of the show is off. You want to go up to the How—”

“No, that’s okay, Tony,” Joe cut him off. “I don’t think I will.” With half widened eyes, Joe tilted his head toward Charlene twice. Several heart beats later, Bernardino’s eyes widened in realization.

“Oh, never mind then. Enjoy your night, bud. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Damn, I’m starved. No Mama Cafario’s lasagna?” DiPasquale said as the band walked away. Ciccolini winked at Joe as he departed.

Within a few minutes, the Theatrical Bar was empty save for Joe, Charlene and a custodian who milled about, straightening the tables and picking up broken glass with dirtied, calloused fingers. Charlene bit her lip as the silence — and the thought of being somewhat alone with Joe — descended on them.

“So, are you hungry at all?” Joe asked. He cringed as he said it. He knew he should have stopped himself before he let his lips start flapping away like a schoolboy. His thoughts ran as fast as his heart did now.

But Charlene’s answer startled him.

“Actually, I am. It’s been a few hours since I ate last.”

Joe pursed his lips and brought his fingers to his chin in thought. He snapped his fingers and said, “I know just the place. I think you’re going to like it. Come on.”

“It isn’t your mom’s kitchen, is it?” She still smiled.

Joe chuckled as they walked out the door and onto Court Street.

“No, it’s not. It’s better, though.” He paused. “Just don’t tell her that.”

Charlene brought her index finger up and drew an X over her chest.

They walked north.

“Where are we going?”

“Just to a little place up around the corner here.”

“Is it where you take all the girls that you’re chivalrous toward?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“That’s a double negative,” Charlene said softly. “I think you’re fibbing, Joe Cafario.”

He shook his head as she smiled.

They crossed Hanover Street and headed toward the split at Sudbury and Cambridge Streets. Despite the hubbub from not half an hour ago, Scollay Square was somewhat quiet, as if the Lord himself removed everyone from the streets, from the bars and taverns, and even the tattoo parlors, so that Joe and Charlene could have a moment’s peace with each other.

As they walked slowly, not wanting to rush to get to their destination, Charlene tried her best not to sound like a schoolgirl bobby soxer with a crush on a famous crooner.

“You sound fantastic,” she said. She hoped her blush wasn’t apparent to him in this darkness. “I love your voice on stage.”

“How does it sound off stage?” Joe said. He winked at her before she could say anything.

Charlene bit her lip. Her heart skipped a solitary beat.

They crossed Court Street just before the split and came to a short line of buildings that separated Court from Howard Street. In this three- and in most places four-story brick building, Scollay Liquors advertised Orchard Springs rum, while a street light flickered in front of four small businesses before they came to Pizza Land. Charlene thought they would head in here, but Joe kept them moving until they came to the corner of Court and Stoddard Streets.

He had brought her to Joe and Nemo.

Charlene wet her lips as she smiled. Her cheeks started to hurt, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want that feeling to go away.

There were several people inside. Charlene looked at some of the patrons biting into their hot dogs, which they had covered with mustard, relish, catsup, and onions.

She immediately — as if she had any other humanly choice — inhaled the scents that bombarded her senses.

It smelled like heaven.

Then the shouts began, and for a few moments, Charlene thought that she walked with a god of Boston.

“Hey, there’s Joey!”

“Joey!”

“Hey, guys. How are we doing tonight?” Joe said as he led Charlene up to the counter.

“We’re good. No show tonight?”

“The show was cut short.” Joe explained what happened over at the Crawford House and introduced Charlene to the guys. They all held out sterile hands, and Charlene wasn’t shy about shaking each one, even though she looked meek around all of these large, burly men.

“How many tonight, Joey? What’s on ‘em?” they asked once the introductions concluded.

“Three all around, and a pitcher.”

“Four.”

Both Joe and the man behind the counter turned and saw Charlene looking not so meek any longer. She had a smirk on her face.

“Four?” Joey asked.

“Four.” Charlene leaned in. “You don’t think I’m going to let you out-eat me, do you?”

Joe grinned again.

“All right Tommy, four all around and the pitcher.”

“Coming right up.”

Charlene watched as Tommy lifted the lid to the black cauldron and saw steam barrel its way to the ceiling. The water didn’t appear to bubble. Condensation coated the inside of the lid, rolling off and dripping onto the floor.

“You don’t boil the dogs, huh?”

“Nope,” Tommy said as he pulled out dog after dog with his bare hands. “We don’t ever boil them. We slow cook them instead. You see, you boil the dogs, the skins tend to break, and then the dog loses its flavor into the water. We don’t like that. We slow cook them, keep the flavor in, and that’s just part of the reason why our dogs are the best in not just the city, but everywhere.”

“And what’s the other part of the reason?” Charlene asked.

Tommy smiled as he pulled out the last two dogs and set them in the steamed buns.

“All around.”

Charlene looked to Joe. He nodded. She looked back to Tommy and shot him a quizzical look.

“All around?”

“Yep, all around. A hot dog all around is a hot dog with mustard, relish and onions.” He leaned toward her, purposely blocking Joe from the conversation. “A long time ago, though, we had horse radish as part of it, but the younger set don’t really care for it, so we took it out.” He fixed the hot dogs with their condiments and brought them to the counter before he poured a tall pitcher full of Schlitz. Half an inch of foam headed it. “You want some beef stew to go with that, Joey?”

Joe shook his head.

“Nah, that’s okay.” He leaned toward Charlene. “The beef stew’s great, full of beef, vegetables and potatoes with hardly any room for sauce. It would keep you full for three weeks and you could stand your spoon straight up in it. Fifteen cents, too. It’s a good bargain, especially for how much they give you in the bowl. That’s why I like coming here to eat if Mama’s sick, or just for lunch, you know?”

Charlene pursed her lips and nodded.

“Thirty cents, Tom?”

Tommy waved him off.

“Nah, they’re on the house. Just keep plugging us in the show. We need more people from the Crawford coming here.”

“You bet I will.”

Charlene took the tray of dogs while Joe grabbed the pitcher and the two pint-sized glasses. They made their way over to one of the picture windows that lined Court Street. They sat down and started eating.

“So,” Joe said in between mouthfuls. “Tell me a little about yourself, Charlene Phillips. Wait, hold that thought,” he said before yelling over the counter, “What the hell, Tommy? No horse radish?!”

Laughing, Charlene brought a napkin to her lips and wiped the mustard from the corner of her lips.

“As I said, what’s your story?”

Charlene tilted her head and flashed a smile his way.

“What story, Joe Cafario?”

Joe rested his elbows on the table. He was glad his mother wasn’t around, or else he would have jumped at the crack of a dish towel. He stared into Charlene’s gray eyes as he brought his chin to his fingers.

“You intrigue me. We get a lot of people into the Theatrical at night, but never does a beautiful young woman like yourself come to see me play two nights in a row.”

This time, Charlene couldn’t help but bite her lip. She put her hot dog down, picked up her yellow-stained napkin, and began to wave it about in front of her face as if surrendering to the enemy — albeit a handsome enemy.

“Guilty.”

“Why?”

Charlene blinked. She didn’t expect him to question her like this, but the way his eyes danced as he spoke disarmed her and kept her at ease.

“It’s a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

“I like long stories,” Joe said, not missing a beat. “They’re great for wasting time and for getting to know a lovely young lady like yourself.” He flashed a lopsided grin at her.

Charlene couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth turning upward. The blush returned to her cheeks within a few heartbeats.

“Let’s finish eating first, then I’ll tell you my story. Stories are best told over beer, not hot dogs.”

“True. Want to race?”

“That’s a race I think you would win easily.”

“Fair enough.”

They ate their hot dogs in near silence, but they occasionally snagged a peek at the other. Charlene noticed he had a rugged exterior and that his face rippled as he ate. Joe noticed that she tried desperately to keep her pinky finger close to the rest of her fingers, as if her upbringing taught her to treat food like a teacup.

When she was done, she daintily wiped her mouth while he proceeded to pour the beer. He made sure to tip the glasses so that as the amber beverage swirled, little foam formed as he righted them.

“A perfect head, as they say,” he said.

She didn’t ask what that meant. She brought the glass to her lips and took a short sip. Her face twisted into something he couldn’t recognize.

“Not a beer drinker, I take it?” Joe took a sip from his glass.

Charlene shook her head.

“Not really, no.”

“That’s a double negative.”

Charlene couldn’t help but smirk.

“So, your story.”

“Where to begin?” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. I should start at the beginning. Very well,” she said, noticing Joe’s own smirk. She took a deep breath, then began her narrative.

Their beers sat forgotten in front of them.

“I was engaged to be married about a year and a half ago.” Charlene didn’t know why she chose to start there, but she figured that Joe would want her to cut to the quick. She didn’t want to bore him. “Walter was a good man. He died in Korea.”

“I’m sorry.”

Charlene’s smile was wistful, but no tears came to her eyes, which surprised her.

“Thank you. He was from a big old Yankee family like myself, so it was supposed to be a perfect match. It was weird, though: His family had all of that money, yet they couldn’t buy his way out of the service.”

“He died serving his country; he made a wonderful sacrifice. I lost a couple of friends from high school overseas. I couldn’t go. Heart condition.”

“I could’ve gone into medicine if I wanted to,” she said. “But no, I had to pick law.”

“So you’re studying to be a big lawyer.”

She nodded.

“I want to help the less fortunate. I don’t want to be a public defender, though. I want to be a civil attorney.”

“That’s very admirable,” Joe said. “There’s not a lot of money in that, though.”

“Money doesn’t drive me. I have plenty of it through my family. I just want to make a difference in other people’s lives.”

“How much longer do you have until you become a lawyer?”

Charlene seemed to collapse under the weight of the question.

“About six more years,” she replied. “I have three years of undergrad left, then the three years of law school, and then the bar exam. I should be good to start my practice by 1960, then retire by 1990 if I play my cards right.”

“You have it all mapped out,” Joe said with a grin. “I admire that.”

Charlene blushed.

“Thanks.”

“So what brought you into the square last night?”

“That goes back to Walter. After he died,” she said, “I was pretty despondent. I didn’t snap out of it for a while. I eventually started attending Harvard last fall. I met a few nice girls, and they decided to trick me last night.”

“How did they trick you?”

“You sound like you’re the one who’s going to be in a courtroom,” Charlene replied with a smile. She explained Pamela and Marcy’s plot from the night before. “I think they wanted me to live a little. I had fun for the first time in eighteen months last night.”

Joe’s cheek twitched.

“I had fun looking at you last night.”

Charlene bit her lip again. She didn’t know how to continue. She didn’t want to be forward. It wouldn’t look good, she knew, but there was something about Joe Cafario’s demeanor that seemed inviting. Her heart trembled at his husky voice, and soon the words spilled from her lips before she had the chance to stop them.

“Well, if you must know, my eyes weren’t disappointed, either.”

Joe sniffed a smile.

“I’ll keep your secret.”

The pair looked into each other’s eyes as the minutes passed. Neither moved, nor did they want to move for fear of breaking this one special moment.

They simply stared at the other, their eyes smoldering together over empty hot dog wrappers and a forgotten pitcher of beer.

Eminent Souls on Kindle (US)
Eminent Souls on Kindle (UK)
Eminent Souls on Nook
Eminent Souls on Smashwords

This book has love written all over it...

When you see this cover, it's incredibly obvious that it's not a cover that reflects romance in any way:

That's the new cover of my new novel, EMINENT SOULS, which is a romance -- of sorts. It's not your usual, every day, run-of-the-mill romance novel. There is love, yes: there is the love of two young people from different styles of living. But there's a different kind of love in this book: the love that two young people share of a piece of property -- not just any piece of property; it's where they met and fell in love.

In truth, it was more than just a piece of property: Scollay Square was a lifestyle.

For yours truly, Scollay Square became a love affair -- even if I didn't know exactly what was in it until a couple of years ago.

Back in 1991, I was 14 years old, and during the summer, I was about to enter my freshman year at Fitchburg High School. In late July, my folks, myself and my sister all went to Boston one Saturday. I didn't know why. It was just a day trip. We had walked through the Government Center area first, even though I really didn't know it at the time. We walked up to the State House and down Beacon Street. We approached the Cheers bar -- remember, it was 1991 and they were between seasons nine and ten -- and Jen and I were excited about that. But I more excited for seeing the Citgo sign in Kenmore Square: we were going to the Red Sox game! I think we were seeing the Twins that day. Or the Mariners. Who knows, really. We saw the game, then joined the throngs of people on the Green Line.

Dad had said something about seeing a free concert that night, but truthfully, I wasn't in the mood. I had seen enough (*gulp* and that is nothing I would say today) of Boston for one day, and just wanted to get home. Hell, I had seen the Red Sox game. That was enough for me.

I still had to go to the concert. Reluctantly, I went.

As we stepped off the subway at Government Center and walked up the steps to City Hall Plaza, I was amazed by what I saw. The monstrous City Hall off to my right, the towers of the JFK Federal Building straight ahead and off to the left a bit. People filled in the amphitheater around the north stage. It seemed like a great place.

That's when dad said, "We're in Scollay Square, the old happening place in Boston."

Those words set off a love affair with the Square. I knew about it -- but I truly didn't know about it. It wasn't until a couple of years ago, when I was in the process of brainstorming MODEL AGENT, that I decided to look into Scollay Square's history a little more.

Suffice it to say, I was astonished -- and sickened -- by what I saw and read. Gorgeous architecture, gone. Twenty-two streets, altered or wiped out completely. Over 200 years of history, wiped out with a wrecking ball. But more importantly than that, I learned that what my father had said was true: Scollay Square was a happening place. It had spirit. It had life. It was the heart of Boston, the entertainment district that preceded the Combat Zone. And I decided that I would have been quite comfortable living in and around Scollay Square.

It is also why I had Jaclyn Johnson thinking, "They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot," as she gets out of Hanson's car on Congress Street in MA.

EMINENT SOULS deals with more than just love. It deals with the fear Bostonians dealt with in the late 1950's and early 1960's. It deals with prejudices the poor endured from the snobbish Boston Brahmins. And it also deals with the fight Bostonians entered with the city against urban renewal -- one gentleman I spoke with said that his brother in law was a state representative at the time the West End, near Scollay Square, was revitalized a few years before the Square went through the same eminent domain process, and he said that he still hasn't forgiven his brother in law for how the city and state never helped those people. It's absolutely shameful.

But more importantly, EMINENT SOULS is a love letter from me to Scollay Square. I was born too late to fully enjoy the Square in its heyday, to take in a burlesque show at the Old Howard (that's the Old Howard on fire on my cover, 25 years to the day before the Celtics were honored by the city at City Hall Plaza, the same day Jerry Williams said, "I am not broadcasting from Government Center; I am broadcasting from Scollay Square. Let's bring back Scollay Square!") and have a Joe and Nemo hot dog all around (with horse radish, too), but I know in my heart of hearts that I would have loved it all.

Dad was right. Scollay Square was happening. It was the scene, the place to be.

So you see, it's more than just about romance. It's more about remembering what was once good and great about Boston, and what can happen when fear sets in. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you, too, can fall in love with a neighborhood that now only exists in our elders' minds.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Eminent Souls on Kindle (US)
Eminent Souls on Kindle (UK)
Eminent Souls on Nook
Eminent Souls on Smashwords