Tag Archives: Books

My first published book!

Hello everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve really posted anything. I don’t even know if most of you remember me. But I wanted to share some good news with all of you, I finally self-published my first book! You can check purchase it via lulu.com, it will also be available on amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com in the next few weeks. Please click the link below my cover and it will bring you to the above mentioned website for further detail.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/gabriel-faraci/far-above-dust-a-collection/paperback/product-23082701.html


Of broken things.

Photography by Gabriel circa 2011

               Authors note: Hello my fellow bloggers and word-nerds, this short romantic fiction piece was something of a whim. I loved writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it. It may be the start of a new book and so please leave some feedback. This is my 50th posting on the Papparaci, thank you for reading my work and making me feel like a writer.          

He wondered about the broken things. Feeling like something shattered in her heart, he contemplated on how to fix it, and, if she wanted them repaired by the person who caused the damage in the first place.  The man realized the situation for what it was, he ‘d wished nothing but happiness for her, yet felt he had done something to cause her to back away. To slowly retreat back into obscurity, leaving questions unanswered. He hoped it wasn’t something he said in passing. He prayed it wasn’t because the emotions he left dangling on his sleeves.

Remembering how it was on the beach, with seagulls soaring and tumultuous waves crashing along the warm Long Island Sound, he thought back to those days and the ones that followed. How happy this short, caring man was in the months which followed. With every sunrise, hope arose too. With every closing of the day, peace lifted him out of the haze of solitude. Yes, it’s safe to say that in those days, he had reached a great summit and had found happiness in her company. He was reluctant to release these feelings of euphoria to any other but himself. Not that he was a selfish man, but finding comfort in someone so wonderful, so near to his own heart, well, it was a hard cross to bear.

They had spoken less and less in the coming weeks. Much to his discontent, he understood the reasons. At least he thought he did. Certain facts could not go unnoticed, how would a beaked nose, old soul compete with such a person? With nothing to offer but love and companionship, he stood gallantly with his hands in his pockets and tried not to weep.

He had done plenty of that in front of her and this caused him no small amount of shame and embarrassment. He couldn’t seem to help it though. Whenever she was in his presence, his whole body reacted in odd ways. He was normally an introverted, quiet man who said little about himself and usually found it hard to fit in with crowds. No one really knew the things this man had endured; his sensitivity was not a sign of weakness, but rather a testament to the inner strength that kept him going day by day. He wasn’t afraid to show her raw emotions. He felt the world lacked true love and to be able to show it to someone was life’s greatest gift. Besides, they were mostly happy tears, mixed and mingled with a touch of melancholy.

But it was different with her. Friendship had blossomed and seeds of something much grander were planted in his heart. Joy, peace and wholeness seemed to wash over his abandoned soul making him a king in some obscure way. He knew deep down that these feelings may not be reciprocated, but took a chance. For a time they were, there was laughter and jokes, stories and romance. They shared dinner and coffee and in some way, mended one another. He wanted to tell her these things, but was afraid she would misunderstand.

How agonizingly happy he was for her, how thankful and appreciative he was because of the kindness she had showed him. She had been his best friend for a time, but like many other good things, it couldn’t last. He wanted to express himself but didn’t know how. Thinking of the way her hair danced in the wind and the way her eyes told many stories, he put something down on paper. Maybe, just maybe, she might read it and feel comforted knowing there was somebody who thought the world of her.


To live a better story.

Image

Long Island New York circa 2012
Photography by Gabriel

            At some point during the night, the Spirit led me towards a foggy shoreline blanketed with smooth grey and white stones which filled the apple of my eye for as far as I could dare to see. A silence of biblical proportions swept over this dream and yet the only sound which could be heard was of tide gently slapping rocks beneath my feet. Horrific clouds reached for miles above me and stretched the width of many great nations before cracking open and releasing wave after wave of life giving water to the parched earth on which I stood like a pawn waiting to be moved by forces unseen. The darkness came, the earth stood still, I looked for cover and waited for an eruption of light to come screaming down from the netherworld to vanquish evil once, for all always. But everything remained still. The nothingness continued.

I thought it might be considered, by some, to be quite presumptuous of me to post multiple articles in a relatively short time period but I began to ponder who I thought I was to contend with the winds of inspiration and challenge its’ coming and going and just be grateful the words entered my heart in the first place. Whenever the poetic strings are plucked it would be to my advantage to heed the song and yet resisting these moments of creativity could in fact alter future endeavors I would wish to undertake with my pen and pad, actually, I loathe writing longhand but respect people who prefer to use this method to get their individual thoughts and ideas down. I have a tendency to get easily distracted and longhand makes writing more difficult because I have to center most of my short attention span on spelling and staying between the lines. Suffice to say I shall stick with my laptop and the Microsoft Word program installed within.

A good story is concocted deep inside the inner most chambers of a creative heart before working its way to the imagination where the fine tuning begins. Letters are pumped through the blood stream until they morph into words which other people will be able to recognize once you jot them down. Writing must come from the heart or else you run the risk of failing to keep your audience interested and, ultimately, inspired and this is, for all intent and purposes, the very reason we write in the first place. When my stomach begins twisting for food my first instinct is to make a sandwich and yet when I do it turns out to be anticlimactic because I fail to put the heart behind what I choose to consume. I despise cooking so whatever I make turns out to be nothing short of tasteless.

Donald Miller writes like this. After reading his book “A million miles in a thousand years” for the third time this year, I have grown to admire this man and the words which he uses to describe life and the pursuit of something more than just everyday mediocrity. He brings us on a journey based on his attempt to live a better story by walking in faith and partially by sight, and challenges us to step out and live extraordinary lives. Donald writes, “I’ve wondered if one of tImagehe reasons we fail to acknowledge the brilliance of life is because we don’t want the responsibility inherent in the acknowledgement. We don’t want to be characters in a story because characters have to move and breathe and face conflict with courage. And if life isn’t remarkable, then we don’t have to do any of that; we can be unwilling victims rather than grateful participants.”  He goes on to discuss what he calls “inciting incidences” and describes it as possible life changing events. Don said “Great stories go to those who don’t give in to fear.” He gives us a few examples in this excellent read on how he caused a chain reaction which affected the lives of everyone he came in contact with. He hiked the Inca Trail at Machu Picchu to capture the heart of a young woman he was trying to court. He biked from Los Angeles to Washington D.C with fifteen other adventurers in order to bring awareness to the suffering of the world, and in the process change his own personal story so it would reflect outwards to reach a wider audience of people stuck in the traffic of life. He brings wit and humor to the table once again for people like me who need an inciting incident to kick-start the story I know is living inside of me waiting to be printed and bounded in all its coolness. I am going to end this blog with an excerpt from Donald’s book and I implore you to get in your car and go pick up a copy I promise it will be money well spent. Until next time, adios!

A good storyteller doesn’t just tell a better story, though. He invites other people into the story with him, giving them a better story too.”


Friday Night follies: Bookworm

After my shadow split the sliding glass doors like the Red Sea a blast of lukewarm air smacked my face to make sure my attention was no longer divided but focused on the bargain bonanza displayed all about me. From Hemingway to Stoker and Dickinson to Hugo the king sized tables of oak and cherry stood gallantly like mute waiters holding up small treats to hungry masses before showing them to the main dining hall for supper. Short of taking my cap and coat, a pretty associate of Barnes & Noble smiled and continued on her way to heavImageen knows where but the Fish & Tackle periodical stuck between her arm and, um, bosom, led me to the conclusion she was on her way to put it back in its’ respective place alongside Guns & Ammo and MADD magazine which, by the way, is as dull as Saturday Night Live and has been for several years.  I shuffled in the general direction of Starbucks to retrieve my fix before heading out to get lost in a maze of books made of paper and bound with whatever it is that keeps them together and readable in my hands. It’s the smell of paperbacks mixed with the soft white ceilings and random cartoon drawings of authors strewn about the place which keeps me coming back to this old haunt year after year. I looked around to see other cool cats arriving in style on this late spring Friday night. If you never spent a Friday night at a bookstore then you my friend are missing out, so for your own benefit, I’d advise you to put it on your Bucket list underneath  ‘Find out what it’s like to be the epitome of dull’.  I stepped on the escalator and began my ascension with suppressed hope of catching someone doing something bizarre beneath me on the first floor. Ever catch someone making a silly face or filling their gullets with food and wish you had a camera to capture the moment?  There is little to think about on escalators so I just zone out if nothing is happening down below. I nodded my head like an idiot after a group of teenagers waved at me for no apparent reason. I am sure they moved along to throw eggs at unsuspecting bus riders or skateboard along the newly placed sidewalk or whatever it is those crazy bastards are calling fun these days. As for me, I headed to the second floor to grab Henry James off the shelf, not wanting any trouble from the wild looking gang sitting in the corner I made a quick beeline to the escalator and leaped down the steps three at a time and made it safely to the cashier. I love this store and all the crap inside of it. From the overly priced and useless trinkets, to the leather bound journals waiting to be filled with inventive thoughts, I enjoy the hours spent here in a multitude of good people, brilliant writers and melodramatic music.

The other day I was sorting through the collection of books and random magazines I had acquired over the years because I am moving across country shortly and I wish to take them all with me. Alas, it will not be feasible because I have other items to store in my van, like food, survival gear and courage. I hate the idea of having to part ways with my library even on a temporary basis. Some people adopt animals, others collect cuckoo clocks. I shell out a few spare shillings when I can on the written word. It’s just something I do. I admit my assortment of novels has become priceless to me and to give them up for a time is akin to forcing me to put one of my lungs on EBay and the way I smoke Pall Malls, they wouldn’t fetch much.  Granted I am in relatively good shape mind you. But the lung is and will always remain used goods no matter how many miles I run or mountains I manage to climb. Unlike my organs, the literature collecting dust on the shelves of my barren walls become more valuable as time moves forward and only serve to prove the printing press will never be put out to pasture by handheld gadgets and gizmos. We coffee drinking, readers of paperbacks and lovers of sexy librarians are stuck in a world filled with wicked contraptions such as Kindles and Nooks and other mechanical piranhas looking to tear apart the paper between our fingers and put many librarians out of work. I am not being cute I would hate to see any of them standing on the bread line, especially without a book to keep them company.

My family purchased a Kindle for me this past Christmas and it sat on a pile of clothes for about a week before I took it back and told my mom I just couldn’t bring myself use it. I guess some habits are hard to shake and as preposterous as it sounds I felt like I had committed adulWe musn't allow this to happen.tery by picking up that horrible machine. Some will call the electronic device convenient and portable. Rubbish I tell you. Balderdash! How big is a book? Put it in your pocket and boom, you’re good to go. Set to travel the world armed with something to do if the monotony gets out of hand and as a bonus, you gain a little bit of renown in the intelligence department. A touch of sophistication women tend to take notice of. If nothing else she will walk away knowing you are literate and from my experience this is a good place to start.