Mabel Normand - Hollywood Pioneer

Serious film fans know there are levels to slapstick. "The Three Stooges," for instance, are unquestionably funny. Yet their art wasn't indicative of anything in particular. Not so for some early slapstick icons. Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Roscoe Arbuckle, and Ford Sterling could knockabout with the best of them. Looking under the surface, however, one can find social themes and even commentaries in many of their works  This is particularly true in the case of Mabel Normand. Yes, pretty, funny Mabel Normand had a lot to say in those silent films of hers. While Chaplin famously went on to comment on the downtrodden through his work, Mable's messaging was more subtle - but it was there nonetheless.

Mabel's prime career years (1912-1920) coincided with a world in turmoil. Empires were crumbling. Worldviews were changing. Technological advancements were simultaneously making life easier and more dangerous. In short - the established ways of seeing and doing things were fading fast. Intentionally or not, Mabel repeatedly addressed the moment in her work. A lady, after all, was not supposed to be toting a gun. In A Dash Through the Clouds, Mabel not only held but fired a gun...while flying on the wing of a primitive airplane, no less. Women weren't supposed to drive around race tracks at high speeds, but that's what Mabel did in Mabel at the Wheel. 

Sure enough, in film after film, Mabel shattered societal norms. Whether she was playing with a live bear in The Brave Hunter, allowing herself to be dragged through mud for a laugh in A Muddy Romance, or walloping Chaplin in His Trysting Place, Mabel defined herself at least in part by defying the expectations society had placed on women at the time. Just how much of a groundbreaker was Mabel? So much of one that she made more money than the President of the United States and ran her own studio all before women could vote. 

Perhaps one of the most notable things about Mabel, though, was that she was as comfortable with some traditions as she was flying in the face of others. Mabel loved to keep up with the latest fashions, for instance. She also was outspoken in her loyalty to the United States and its military. On top of all that, Mabel was a devout Catholic her entire life. Ultimately, she was a groundbreaking female pioneer who nonetheless felt that some ground didn't need to be broken. Nearly one hundred years after her death, Mabel can be looked back on as someone who marched to the beat of her own figurative drummer. Film, and popular culture as a whole, is all the better for it. 

"Lexington," Six Months After Publication

Lexington has now been published and on the market for half a year. It's doing well, as far as sales go, which is very rewarding. What's even more rewarding is the overwhelmingly positive feedback I've gotten from those who have read it. To all of you who have purchased and read Lexington: Thank You! And for those of you who have yet to pick up a copy - remember to click on the link below.

In penning this novel, I wanted to provide a fresh perspective on the events that led to blood being shed in the town of Lexington on April 15th, 1775. After all, the people gathered at Lexington that morning literally lit - or witnessed the lighting of - the spark that blew up history, the American Revolution. Indeed, because of what transpired at that seemingly obscure town, the world has literally never been the same.

Yet history entails more than the dates of battles and the outcome of events. History is made up of people. In fact, it's people, not incidents, which drive history. And there were a wide variety of people occupying Boston and its surrounding area in 1775. Some wanted a revolution. Some simply wanted practical change. Some wanted things to remain as they were. Some wanted an excuse for violence. And some just wanted to be left alone in order to live their lives. By presenting characters from each camp, I feel I was able to present a more complete picture of the time than is generally provided by  books, podcasts, and motion pictures.

And then, of course, there was the matter of what goes on behind closed doors. People simply aren't completely occupied by the great events of their time. Individuals have personal feelings, agendas, hang ups, and biases. Relationships between couples can have at least as great an impact as the larger stuff going on outside the home. Indeed, small events are as relevant to the individual as the great events are. That, too, was something I delved into while penning Lexington.

Overall though, Lexington, like all novels, must be judged mainly on it's writing. Needless to say I put a great deal of effort into making sure the writing was the absolute best I was capable of. If you're not going to write at your best, I figured, why write at all? Six months after publication, I feel it's safe to say I did an okay job putting words on paper.

* To purchase your copy of Lexington, simply click here.

Out Here On The Edge

 

You make your way out into the Los Angeles night, turn right at the end of your uncle’s Beachwood Drive property and head for the Hollywoodland sign. As you walk the mile and a half or so to the flashing lights you allow your determination to push you forward, ever forward, forward until you’re off the street, into the park, and climbing the hill itself. It’s chilly atop that hill, but you keep moving until you get to the oversized H which flashes, along with the other letters of the sign, in several second intervals. The maintenance ladder is there, leaning against the giant H on the opposite side of the lights – the side where you now stand.

After a moment’s hesitation you find the courage to actually climb the forty foot ladder to the top of the enormous letter. It gets windier the higher up you climb in your fine dress, shoes and purse, but you push your growing fear aside as you continue with your journey. Finally, after several minutes, you stand upright on top of the towering H. Looking outward at the city and its sea of lights, you pause. You can hear the enormous, industrial bulbs of the sign flicking on and off every few moments in their pre-set order: HOLLY…WOOD….LAND. The impact is eerie, as is the sight of the rugged hill with its shrubbery below, shrubbery which becomes visible every time the lights burn on, only to hiss off a moment later.

Two hundred performances. Tommy had been performed two hundred times on Broadway. You were interviewed, applauded, and valued. Now, out here on the edge of the abyss, you’ve got a failure for a movie under your belt with Thirteen Women and have no immediate prospects. And all at the age of twenty-four. The wind continues to blow. You find yourself remembering past turbulent times – the loss of your father, the nightmare your marriage became. Hadn’t, you think to yourself as you stand before the sprawling city, you survived such ordeals? The darkness inside, however, wipes away any desire for reflection.

You’re still conscious moments later as you lay sprawled on the hard desert earth fifty feet below. You cough up blood, then look back up at the H. The lights continue to burn on and off intermittently, causing the shrubbery and rocks around you to switch from visible to invisible in the matter of brief moments. You summon the effort to turn your head and can just make out the Los Angeles skyline far below the hills. In the morning all the lights will be off, those before you, as well as those which flash  behind you, for the darkness will by then be gone. You, however, will be gone as well.

Yet there’s still the matter of your few remaining moments.

Equinox

 

You keep on driving your 1992 Voyager up towards Manchester. Fall ends early in Vermont, which means you’re disappointed. You wanted to see the foliage in all its glory when you jumped off the mountain. You felt the colors would have added beauty to the entire endeavor. Now there will probably be a frost when you leap.

No matter.

The Master – or rather the Interpreters – have made it clear that the only way to re-enter the Prism is to jump from a great height. You’re driven to follow their suggestion.

“Driven.”

Indeed that’s the word that best describes your Journey as a Cyclical Pioneer. After first learning about The Master on the band’s website that night after the concert, you purchased his book, “Time Delay,” and subsequently read of his education.

And you were enchanted.

The entire narrative of the Master’s autobiography – from the campus of Yale, to the desolate Rhode Island beach where he met The Educator, to his final understanding of the Cyclical Prism – engrossed you. The central message of the work – as you understood it – was that you, yes you, could achieve what the Master eventually did.

Indeed, you could physically journey up through the Aurora Borealis or down to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. You could interactively communicate with animals and distant life forms, as well as with your own reflection, which could converse with you on its own. The power to actually see, hear, and engage in strange matters could be yours – with the right guidance.

“But that’s what this guy’s teachings are all about,” your cousin, a student at the Rabbinical Seminary of America, told you. “Power. Not the love of God or man, but the love of power.”

You argued furiously that The Master’s message was completely positive, the culmination of all previous faiths and forms of learning. For its foundation rested not in the love of power, but in the knowledge and development of the self. 

“There’s that word again,” your cousin interrupted.

“What word?”

“Self,” he smiled wryly. “All your master’s teachings are about the self.”

By that point, however, you weren’t about to be convinced by anyone who spoke against the Master. For, after contacting one of the Interpreters via Twitter, you went to several of the Master’s workshops and then – unbelievably – were invited to learn at the Master’s own compound.

What memorable days those were. The Master would sometimes leave the security of his private room to float in and out of the many other rooms in the enormous home. Sometimes he would speak to you directly – even on occasion asking a small favor; to pick up juice or water from the store, perhaps. Yet it was like he was the one doing a favor for you, so great was the honor of his request.

As time went on, of course, you broke entirely with your family – something the Master himself said all Cyclical Pioneers must eventually do. It was hard, yet not as hard as you had feared it would be.

For you now lived in the Master’s House, studied the Master’s Teachings, and had sex with the Master’s Interpreters (former doctoral candidates, all - beautiful, statuesque, and filled with knowledge, both of physical pleasure and of the Teachings).  In short, you had your own family unit now - you were a part of the Prism.

As the Master himself told you after you had hung up on your weeping mother, you had learned to put on the emotional armor that all Pioneers needed for their journey.

********************

“Space.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s where the Master says I’m from…space.”

You rolled over onto you side. She was lying on her back, naked and only half covered by the thin bed sheet.

“Where in space?”

She waited a long time before answering.

“I forget. He told me exactly where once, but I forget.”

“Don’t you believe what he’s told you?”

Another long pause.

“I don’t know.”

A chill slowly worked its way up your spine. Ethereal was an Interpreter. According to her birth certificate she was twenty-six, but the Master had informed all of you in the compound that she was ageless.

And now here she was talking to you. Like this.

“Sometimes the Master dismisses certain Pioneers,” Ethereal said, “just like that…just to keep the rest of us on our toes.”

You rolled over and asked her to share the bed sheet with you.

********************

Driving through the trendy and quaint New England wealth of Manchester, you tighten your grip on the wheel of the Voyager. Passing the Equinox Resort you realize you’ll be at the mountain it’s named for within minutes. Now is the time to let your learning, your experience and your training as a Cyclical Pioneer be your compass.

“Once you jump,” Eminence, the oldest and most informed of the Interpreters told you earlier this morning, “your own will shall pull you towards the prism rather than towards the earth.”

“But I was told the prism is here with all of you.”

“And so it is,” she replied. “Yet because of your waywardness, you must now prove your obedience.”

“And those are the thoughts of the Master?” you asked.

********************

Pulling into the toll house on Skyline Drive, you breathe in deeply. The trail is closed for the season, so you will have to do a bit of walking. No matter. You know full well that you won’t have to climb to the top of Equinox in order to get high enough to make your leap.

You get out of the Voyager with the engine still running. There is no more need for you to carry out ridiculous tasks such as removing keys from ignitions and closing vehicle doors. You are now on a mission of far greater importance than the petty missions the Mundanes find themselves trapped in daily.

********************

“You’ve broken away from the cycle,” Ethereal told you over the phone just yesterday. “Yet the Master has found a door through which you can re-enter the Prism.”

“And that door is beyond the edge of a cliff.”

“Don’t you trust the Master?”

“You didn’t seem too trusting of him that night in bed.”

A long pause.

“I was mistaken, that night. Adrift. I was jealous of Eminence…of her knowledge and the favor the Master shows her.”

“Did you have to jump off a cliff to return?”

Another long pause.

“We each must find our own entrance,” she said, finally. “The Master’s told you as much himself.”

“The Master told me a lot of things. Then he told me completely different things. The Master says a lot.”

“We’re all you have,” she responded sweetly. “All that’s left for you is the Prism.”

You didn’t respond – but you knew she was right. Family. Career. Future plans. Personal identity. All were gone.

“Come to the compound at sunrise,” she continued. “Eminence will provide you with final instructions.”

“Not the Master?”

“You’re not worthy enough to remake his acquaintance yet.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be waiting…after you return to the Prism.”

“But not before I make the jump.”

A final long pause.

“Remember the Teachings,” she said. “You have so much left to learn. Perhaps you’ll find that, like me, you’re actually from some place far from here.”

Like the song of a siren, her words had already begun to draw you back in.

********************

You push yourself up the slick, damp path. You will soon be with the others once again. Each long step gets you closer to obedience, closer to where the Master wants you to be. By taking away all you had the Master allowed you see that the Prism was all you ever needed. You understand that now. Indeed, you feel like all your doubt, all that poison the Mundanes refer to as “common sense,” has been shed.

You pause to catch your breath. Looking to your right you see that you are quite high up. What’s more, there’s a rocky drop no more than a few yards away, one which goes straight down about two hundred feet.

Here, you decide, is where you’ll make your leap.

Checking to make sure the drop is steep enough to kill a mere Mundane, you step back in order to give yourself a running start. You think of what you will eventually learn after you make the jump.

Perhaps you will learn to travel into the past or future, just like the Master does. Or perhaps, like Ethereal, you will learn that you’re a timeless being from beyond the petty sight and knowledge of man.

You race forward.

Then you slip on wet leaves and slide over the edge of the cliff, a good ten feet away from where you intended to make the jump.

Before you even realize what has happened, you find your entire body dangling over the steep drop. Yet it isn’t your will that’s keeping you from crashing to earth – it’s your fingers, which; in a subconscious desire for survival, have grabbed onto a large, jutting stone.

You don’t think of letting go. Not now.

Without even realizing it, you reach for a crevice higher up the cliff with your free hand.

You find another crevice after that. Then another. Then another.

Pulling yourself back onto the damp earth, you roll onto your back. Looking up at the late afternoon sky, you see the moon is already starting to form – as are several stars.

After a moment, you get to your feet and begin making your way back down the mountain. It’s night when you finally (and with great difficulty) get to the bottom. The Voyager is still there with the driver’s side door open, its engine humming in the darkness.

A Free Chapter Of "Lexington"

    One of the things I'm pleased with about my novel "Lexington" is the fact it gives attention to both sides of the American Revolution. One of the novel's two main characters is sympathetic to those in and around 1775 Boston who oppose the King of England, while the other is loyal to the English government. Neither character is a "bad person," if I do say so myself. It's been my experience that very rarely are conflicts as black and white as they seem. People generally have their reasons for thinking and behaving as they do. It's often only when one's sincere beliefs become warped into an excuse for cruelty that acts of evil truly begin to occur. 

    The following chapter from the novel shows just how individuals can tarnish a legitimate cause through acts of terror and aggression. Here William, a man loyal to the English government but previously empathetic to those opposed to it, has his life altered in the most horrifying of manners by an unruly Boston mob. 

“They’re Coming To Hurt You Very Badly”

            Had he full control of his faculties, William might ask himself at this moment what is it about terror that takes away one’s identity, that sends one on a rapid journey from a mature adult to what is essentially a shrieking infant in the dark.  He has no time to ponder such things now, for a citizen has come to his property on School Street with news that a mob is now heading towards his home. When thanking the lad, William noticed he could barely slip the Good Samaritan some money, as his hand was shaking so badly.

            “They’re coming to hurt you,” the young man, who appeared to be a laborer of some kind, had said to him. “They’re coming to hurt you very badly.”

            Terror. It is the state which defines William right now. Terror which he has never known, terror which can paralyze and debilitate if not dealt with, terror that brings with it physical symptoms like no other - a weakening of the insides, as if the innards have transformed into something unnatural, terror which removes all dignity, all critical thought, all self-reliance, terror which overwhelms all hope of self-defense, terror which removes his humanity and brings him to the level of a hotly pursued animal. He races into his room, where Sarah, combing her hair, is startled by his demeanor.

            “We must leave this place.” Words he is barely able to utter. “Immediately.”

            They gather the servants and his mother and race as quickly as possible out the house, into the garden and onto the property of Benjamin Mason and his wife, Eleanor, an aging couple who live nearby. He can hear the crowd approaching down the street. He almost finds himself racing past the pregnant Sarah and is able to keep from doing so only through the utmost self-restraint. By the time they reach the Mason’s – no easy task when trying to avoid the road with a party that includes several elderly individuals - William cannot bring himself to engage in adult formality. In truth, it’s all he can do at the moment to keep from crying while trying to hide behind Eleanor Mason’s frail frame.

            “You must hide us!” he declares.

            As they stand in the darkness of the Mason’s ballroom half an hour later, they can catch sight of the screaming crowd though the large window. The mob is breaking into the house, throwing rocks at the windows, looting the valuables, and throwing items into the street. Before he even realizes it, William’s terror is being pushed aside by a profound rage. In the rapid passing of less than a moment, something inside him has altered.  

            “That is not theirs to do with what they want,” he hisses. “WE are not theirs to do with what they want.”

            Had he brought a weapon with him, he might well use it now, he thinks. He then realizes he could borrow one from old Mason himself. Upon consideration, however, William decides that he’s already demanded enough of the poor man. It’s not Mason’s fault he was too wild with fear to remember to pick up a weapon. He looks through the window, hoping to catch sight of actual faces. Sadly, he can’t see any in the dark. I should have been prepared for this when I refused to go to the Liberty Tree this morning, he thinks, but the fact that the afternoon came and went gave me a feeling of false safety.

            “Naturally,” he says aloud, “they waited for night to cloak their identities. Were these truly Patriots, as they call themselves, they’d have confronted me in the daytime.”

            “Do you think they’ll search for us?” asks Sarah.

            “It wouldn’t be a wise idea at this point.”

            “But what could you do?”

            “All I’d need to do is grab the throat of one,” he says. “I’d then make sure there was one less of them.”

            Looking about, William sees that his talk is coming across as vapid. After all, he was the one leading everyone through an unlit property in a state of utter terror less than an hour ago. Still, William thinks, what I say is true. I honestly could strangle one of them to death at the moment.

            “And to think I pitied these bastards,” he says to the others. “Father was right.”

            “About what?” Sarah asks.

            “About the natural order,” he says. “Someone now has to maintain it.”

            “Perhaps we’ll all have to do our part,” she tells him.

            William breathes in deeply.

            “Some of us,” he says, “may have to play a bigger part than others.”

* To purchase a copy of Lexington, simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09XWS57RD/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1

I Didn't Intend For My Historical Novel To Reflect Today's Society - But It Did Anyway

I remember being told by a film director out in California that movies based on historical events have to somehow reflect the here and now. I didn't buy it then...and, honestly, I don't but it today when it comes to my writing. Good creative work is good creative work, after all, and that's basically all there is to it. Besides, I write with pretty much two simple goals in mind - to express my own thoughts and experiences through historical fiction, and try to make my work as artful as possible.  Still, now that my new novel, Lexington, is published and out in the world, I can't help but realize how much of the work reflects today's society, even though I hadn't intended for it to do so.

Lexington, as you might have guessed, deals with the dawn of the American Revolution. The book tackles such issues as class differences, personal guilt, relationship challenges, faith, personal expectations, and, ultimately, bloody combat. While such themes could apply to millions throughout the world and throughout history, I realize that Lexington relates directly to America in 2022 - to the here and now. This might not come as a surprise, as we are a very divided nation at the moment. Still, I didn't realize how uncomfortably,  profoundly divided we actually are.

First things first, though - America in 2022 is in nowhere near the state it was in 1775. That's a good thing. We may be divided, but by and large we're not blasting away at each other. That's the good news. The bad news is that now, just as in 1775, one group of Americans views the world in an entirely different light than the rest. And that's alarming. Reflecting on those loyal to the King of England during the time of my novel, I find they would  have much in common with a large percentage of Americans today. King George III of Britain, after all, was seen - or was at least presented - as a benevolent leader, one kindly put in place to protect the people he ruled over. 

The word "ruled" is important here. For George III's 18th century American fanbase embraced him as a ruler rather than as a leader. That's a fine distinction. A ruler is to ultimately be imagined as a the loving parent who figurately tucks you in and keeps you safe at night. A leader, on the other hand, is seen as first among equals, someone who controls people by their consent rather than by decree. Those Americans who rose up against England during the Revolutionary War went on to have a leader, rather than a ruler, after the break from Britain was complete. Ultimately it all came down to trust. Those loyal to the King trusted that he and his government were the right people for the job. The individuals known as the Patriots on the other hand, had by that point no trust whatsoever in the English monarchy.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Some in today's America want a government to protect them, to act as the nation's moral arbiter, to - in effect - tuck everyone in at night, while many others don't think it's the government's place to play such a role. Yet those who trust in government would prefer to have things like the internet and media  judged for content by authorities. I would argue most of us don't want our government to play the role of warm blanket. Many do, however, perhaps more than at any other time since the late 1700s. And that's something worth pondering. 

Two small matters:

First, King George III appears to have been a genuinely decent if misguided man.

Also, it's said George Washington, America's first President, could have become the United States' first king had he so chosen to do so.

Etta Place

You stare closely at her face on this night, just as you do every night. Funny how it’s her and not Longabaugh who you find yourself observing. You vaguely remember reading somewhere that the woman in the picture wasn’t even her, but someone else. You don’t know where you read that, though.

Besides, it only makes sense that this is the exact person the Pinkertons claimed was Longabaugh’s companion. They used this very picture on their WANTED signs, after all. Strange how they completely lost interest in her after reports of Longabaugh’s demise surfaced. You could never imagine something like that happening today.

Or could you? You look at the clock and see it’s almost one thirty. In less than seven hours you’ll be at work, taking phone calls and telling patients to sit and relax, that the doctor will be with them in just a few minutes.

You go back to the picture.

What’s so striking is how attractive she was. Women back then weren’t supposed to be as well kept up as that. At least women who hung around men like Parker and Longabaugh weren’t. Who was she, really? Part of you thinks she was simply a figment of some Pinkerton man’s imagination, a composite of various women who ran in Longabaugh’s circle.

Yet if that were the case the picture would surely lose some of its allure. For the person in the photo would then just be a forgotten and largely unrecognized woman, and not the historical enigma whose been keeping you, another forgotten and largely unrecognized woman, up at night.  

Besides, the Pinkerton’s clearly kept quite an eye on her (no pun intended). They may not have known her actual name, where she was from or even what she did before meeting her criminal beau, but they knew what she looked like and where she went. In other words, they knew she was an individual, not a composite. They didn’t get paid to track composites.

They documented her movements with Longabaugh, after all. New York. South America. The Saint Louis World’s Fair and back to South America again before that final trip to San Francisco. It was there that she reportedly parted ways with her famous bad boy forever. He returned south to come to his bloody end while she disappeared into the proverbial ether.   

Who was she, though?

You wonder if you’re insane to continue this ritual night after night, this repeated viewing of a century old photograph, coupled with a compulsive Google search for someone who, no matter which way you look at it, died in obscurity long ago.

Perhaps you really are insane. Or perhaps everyone deserves to be identified, be they divorced receptionists, or the mysterious girlfriends of famous unsavory figures.

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*To purchase my latest novel, "American Socialite," simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=    

Ipatiev House

 

The fact those Latvians want no part of any of it troubles you. Surely they are as solidly grounded in the Revolution as you are. Why, then, does their refusal to involve themselves disturb you so deeply?

Perhaps it's because you've recently caught sight of the Tsar and his family in the garden, easily interacting with one another. Strangely enough, they've reminded you of your own family just outside the city.

Now, though, the royal family is not in the garden. It’s being led into the small room, behind the closed double doors, where the rest of you stand waiting. You can hear them speaking in there. The Tsarina asks for chairs for she and her husband to sit on. You're surprised she didn't ask for one for the boy, who is clearly sick.

Yurovsky enters the room a moment later and tells you all to be ready. You feel the Belgian revolver you’ve been given weigh heavily in your hand. You can still hear the royal family talking. They are unarmed.

You stare at Yurovsky for a moment. He's a man who has truly struggled for the Revolution, a man who has literally sacrificed his freedom for it on numerous occasions. If such a man feels it is just to kill the royal family, then who is someone like you, a lowly soldier from Yekaterinburg, to question it?

Then again, those Latvians certainly struck you as dedicated to the Revolution – and they stepped away. You're uncertain. The Tsar's supporters are said to be closing in. If any member of the family should be rescued, even one of the daughters, the enemies of the Revolution might remain inspired. 

And then what might happen?

Yurovsky opens the double doors and leads all of you out. You find the family, along with their remaining staff, bunched before a wall. The Tsar and Tsarina are seated. The young boy sits on the Tsar's lap. The daughters are gathered among the others.

You wonder what reason there is for the staff members to die. You also note the princesses look about the same age as your own daughters.

The order is given.

“What?” asks the Tsar, clearly stunned.

You wonder whether or not to fire along with the others.

The Tsarina and one of the girls attempt to bless themselves.

The room erupts in thunder.

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*To purchase my latest novel, "American Socialite," simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=    

Pioneers

Is it the past I miss, or is it some dreamlike perception of the past that I feed on? This is a question I ask myself a bit now that I’m older. At the age of seventy I find myself staying up late, watching old shows on YouTube, shows from my era, or rather, from the era of my prime. 

The other night for instance I watched a made for television movie from the early 70s called “Hijack.” It starred David Jansen and Kennan Wynn and was pretty much a chase flick. It wasn’t “Duel”, but I liked it. Or rather, I liked the images and feelings it conjured up within me. For the era brought back memories of my life during that time.

The vehicles, the hairstyles, the worldviews, it was all very much of the past, a past I myself reveled in. How could I not have? I was on a hit show myself back in the 70s, albeit for only one episode and in brief flashes, at that. Still, if you look carefully at the specific episode in question, you can actually spot me standing near the stern shirtless. You can also see me underwater, though I’m armored up in scuba gear.

Indeed, the times have changed. Cousteau isn’t seen as the hero he was back then. Truth be told, I didn’t speak to him much during that filmed exploration. He was a legend. That red hat atop his head said it all. Now, though, he’s remembered, if he’s remembered, as a phony, a racist, and as someone who may have been as cold as the bottomless depths he explored (whether he was any of these things I can neither confirm nor deny). Even more than all that, however, he’s known as a philanderer, a cheat (a fact no one can argue against).

I only met his original wife, Simone, once or twice. She was an impressive person, though. Lissy and I were engaged at the time and she was completely won over by Simone’s acumen and ability. Sure enough, Lissy got irked upon learning of Cousteau’s secret family years later. She got even more irked when she found out Cousteau had granted the keys to the kingdom to his lover-turned-second wife, Francine, after his death.

“Disgusting,” she snapped. “What about his son…the one he had while he was married?”

I can’t lie. I was a bit put off by the whole thing, too. Here’s this famous, esteemed guy who whores around on his wife, then leaves his legacy in the hands of the woman he carried on a long time affair with. “Distasteful” was the word that came to mind and for years I used it frequently whenever I was asked about Cousteau in conversation.

That being said, I haven’t talked a whole lot about Cousteau in some time. The seasons change, after all, and people end up forgetting about even the most relevant of individuals. Besides, there was more to my life than a single expedition aboard the Calypso.

For instance, aside of my work at the university there was the exploration of submarine canyons, a full two years spent with the Foundation, a search for living stromatolites in the western Atlantic, underwater mapping off the California coast for the oil companies, and a variety of other adventures that have compiled what I like to think of as a blessed and full life.

Still, people forget. And that’s troublesome. It shouldn’t be troublesome, but it is. Everyone knows the wheel but no one knows who first created it, what that inventor’s name was or whether or not that particular pioneer was of good character. There was no such thing as television when the wheel was invented, after all, and no such thing as YouTube to keep an old man up all night.

Indeed I didn’t get to bed until after three a.m. one day last week. For, after years of successfully battling the temptation, I finally buckled and decided to once again watch that episode which I was somewhat a part of (one can only relate to old made for T.V. movies up to a certain point, after all). Needless to say, watching the episode again was a jarring experience. Then again, it’s always unsettling to see a far younger version of yourself behaving with the passion of youth.

Still, I was intrigued. I was able to catch a clear shot of my young face as I stood next to Jean Paul on board the Calypso. Then, after another quick flash of my profile as Dr. Bob gave instructions, the camera followed all of us as we entered the eighty two degree water in our shorts and yellow and black scuba suits.

I felt a shiver of excitement as we were shown going down to one hundred and twenty feet. I remembered how it was eerie down there, really eerie. Aside from the sharks, we were inundated with pieces of debris which fell down from the reef up above. What’s more, the arches of the caves looked almost manmade. I even remembered the thrill I felt when I suddenly realized the structures hadn’t always been under water, but that the ice age was responsible for their current condition (a discovery I was later to write about at length for the Foundation).

It was hard distinguishing myself from the other divers, but I was still engrossed as the camera followed us under endless hanging, phallic shaped reefs, our bubbles of exhaled carbon dioxide bright to the point of blinding. We were shown taking small samples, measuring stalactites, even exploring the lifeless bottom.

Before making our way back up to the boat, the camera captured us connecting an enormous piece of broken stalactite to a cable. Up and up we went with our treasure, the camera catching it all: the lines, we shadowy divers, the climbing ladder, the rippling waves upon the surface and light, high up above it all, shining down atop the Calypso and diving into the water itself, illuminating all that it encountered until the darkness finally became too strong to penetrate.

The Pharisee

 

It’s said the man is not as popular or powerful among his peers as those individuals named James and Peter are. He is, however, a citizen of Rome, born in the province of Cilicia. He is also Jewish, a Pharisee, no less, which means it should be a surprise to no one he’s become a member of an upstart Jewish sect. The problem, of course, lies within the fact this citizen of Rome, this Pharisee called Paul, now stands accused of evangelizing outside accepted law. That sort of development is problematic for Rome, if not outright dangerous.

What's more, although Paul’s sect is frankly less menacing than other sects within Judaism, much less the Empire as a whole, its adherents now appear determined to grow their numbers beyond what Rome would deem its natural boundaries. These particular Jews, it seems, wish to spread their teachings well past the area in and around Judea. Again, such things are problematic. Their original leader, a messianic Nazarene, was executed by order of the Empire. Rome raises an eyebrow when an execution is unable to stop a potentially disruptive movement. 

And so you, Porcius Festus, are left to deal with this Paul now that your predecessor, Antonius Felix, has been recalled to Rome. Becoming Judea’s procurator is not an enviable task to begin with. Resentment for the Empire is starting to rise above a slow burn among the Jews, plus Agrippa and the priests are at odds with one another. Now you have the matter of this Paul before you. Wiping some sweat off the back of your neck – and you thought Rome could be sweltering – you stare out the window out at the clear blue water of the Mediterranean.

A merchant vessel is struggling to sail out of the elaborate port Herod had built several years ago. The wind is pushing its vast, square shaped mast into an extraordinary curve. You turn back around to the sound of voices coming from somewhere nearby inside the palace. This Paul, you realize, is being led your way. You nervously fidget with the gold ring on your finger, then polish the amethyst it holds with your robe. The formality of the imminent hearing aside, your orders are simple – convince Paul to quietly go to Jerusalem in order to stand trial. Do not, under any circumstances, encourage him to appeal to Caesar himself, which is his right to do as a citizen of the Empire.

You take a deep, nervous breath, then glance once more out the window. The sailors down in the port beyond the palace are leaving the merchant vessel. They will try another day – when the wind is more favorable. The ship is no doubt filled with goods. The sailors know cargo can’t be kept here in Judea indefinitely. There are simply things that need to get to Rome. Such, you conclude, is the way of things.

When Modern America Begins To Look Like The America Of The Chaotic Past

Violence is generally a bad thing. Although it's acceptable at times - such as in the boxing ring, MMA octagon, or the battlefields of World War II, violence in general should be avoided. Sadly, it seems there ain't many people who feel that way these days. 

Is that true, though?

I've been working on my next novel, which culminates with the dawn of the American Revolutionary War, and the similarities I see between 1770s America and modern day America are frightening. There are also frightening similarities between today's America and the America that brought about Shay's Rebellion, which my first novel was set against the backdrop of. 

The first thing I've noticed is that each side in the cultural wars of then and now vilifies the other. In the leadup to the American Revolution, for instance, the British were considered arrogant, oppressive evildoers while the Americans were considered unruly, bloodthirsty and indecent. Sound familiar? The second thing I noticed is that each side in these scenarios tends to cover for it's own villains.

As an American author, I find I sympathize with the American cause when I study its Revolution. The truth, though, is that the more I research, the more I see some Americans, particularly the Sons of Liberty, could be cruel and gleefully violent. You can agree with a cause without agreeing with the psychotic behavior of radicals. That was true in the 1770s, it was true during the riots that rocked America last summer, and it's true today, immediately after an unprecedented assault on our nation's Capital.  

The third, and most frightening, thing I've noticed is that, in heated moments, people stop being reasonable, opting instead for oversimplified thinking. England's King George III, for instance, seems to have been a genuinely decent human being. Yet I've read he felt that, since he only wanted good for people, those who opposed him had to be bad. The kind of stubborn outlook - which argues we're on the side of good and therefore those who oppose us are villains - leads to some bad stuff. 

Sam Adams, to use another example, was a true patriot...but he wasn't into fairness, as he felt fairness would weaken the strength of his patriotic ideology. That kind of belief is dangerous. And nuts. If you read history, you'll see that once the American Revolutionary War began, Adams became less and less of a prominent voice, as cooler heads started to take the lead on the American side. 

Which leads to two more quick things:

First, and most importantly, modern America differs from America in the past in that we are nowhere NEAR the point right now where violence is morally excusable. 

Watching the assault on the Capital last week, I was truly stunned. No matter how bad people may have thought the situation was in America, how could they have possibly concluded such behavior was warranted? We've got to get it through our heads that killing, rioting, and any other source of collective violence is absolutely, positively indefensible in the America of January, 2021. 

The last thing I think worth touching upon is that today, just like during the American Revolution, leaders have flaws. I've brought up George III and Samuel Adams, but I also feel compelled to bring up George Washington, as well. For Washington was truly a great man...but he also believed some of his fellow human beings were his personal property. It's hard to excuse that kind of thinking from any person of any era. The point? That those who feel certain elected officials are going to become messianic figures are sadly mistaken.

Introducing "Lexington"

And we think America is divided now.

Back in 1775 - which really wasn't that long ago when we look at the big picture - shots were fired in a relatively obscure community near Boston, shots that would literally change the course of history. For colonists in America were turning on their leader, the King of England, essentially in order to decide for themselves how they should lead their lives. Needless to say, the fighting in Lexington that day would ring in the bloody American Revolutionary War, which would last eight years and cost untold thousands of lives. In the end, however, America would end up being a free nation no longer burdened by European imperialism.

Still, things are rarely as black and white as they first appear to be. This is particularly true in the case of major historic events, and the American Revolutionary War was no exception. For many, a great many, colonists wanted to remain under British rule. And, in truth, it must be noted that the English government was far from a bloodthirsty authority, at least as far as the colonies were concerned. What's more, many of those in the Boston area who protested British governance before the fighting started did so in unfair, and at times remarkably cruel ways.

Perhaps that's why I've chosen such a tumultuous backdrop for my next novel, Lexington. I'm fascinated not only by historic events, but by the often complex and motivational issues that lead to those events. The fighting in Lexington can be traced back, as all such shocking moments can, to individuals. And the actions of individuals can be traced back to a variety of familial, psychological, and biographical factors. 

Thomas Crawford and William Prentiss will be the main characters in Lexington. Having gone from friends to enemies, they will find themselves on opposite sides of a conflict that is about to erupt into violence. Each of these Boston natives will have his reasons for his actions, and perhaps not all of them will be honorable. Such is the stuff of life. They will, however, be decent enough souls, men with families who are navigating through an exceedingly dangerous time. 

One thing I can promise, however, is that their story will not be predictable. The reader knows what will ultimately happen in the town of Lexington, but won't know how each man will or won't be involved in the events of that morning. In other words, don't expect a final "battlefield confrontation." Don't expect cardboard characters, either. Thomas and William are strong men trying to do right by their families...and by their equally strong wives, who may or may not disagree with their decisions.

They say there was a "shot heard round the world" that morning in Lexington. There were, however, many factors, personal as well as social and political, that led to that simple, explosive moment. 

With all that being said, it takes a good amount of time to pen a novel worth publishing, and I'm just far enough along on Lexington to comfortably announce its presence. I'll be sure make regular posts throughout the creative process, however, in order to keep everyone abreast on the book's progress. In the meantime, be sure to pick up one of my published novels by clicking on the links below.

Happy New Year!

Click here for American Socialite: https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Click here for The Regulator: https://www.amazon.com/Regulator-Sean-Crose/dp/1097223299/ref=pd_bxgy_img_2/140-4411494-9635762?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1097223299&pd_rd_r=234b5c5e-df6b-4357-9403-cced39f1877e&pd_rd_w=v1OKn&pd_rd_wg=lOHdE&pf_rd_p=f325d01c-4658-4593-be83-3e12ca663f0e&pf_rd_r=JSCZ9HBJE0AYKG2BFKP7&psc=1&refRID=JSCZ9HBJE0AYKG2BFKP7

Heading Towards Christmas - Some Thoughts On Jesus

                                                         

And so we're at the time of year where many celebrate the birth of Jesus. Fewer and fewer of us believe in the divinity of Christ around here these days. Those of us who do are a shrinking and unfashionable demographic. Still, I think there's some things about Jesus worth considering. You don't have to believe Jesus is God in order to give the matter some thought, either. This a documented historical figure we're talking about, after all.

At any rate, it's occurred to me that if Jesus were walking the earth today, he would rub a lot of people the wrong way, just like he did during his own lifetime. Back then, Jesus offended those in power. Today he would offend occupants of social media. For Jesus told people to love their neighbors as they love themselves. And that just doesn't wash here in the 21st century. 

For we in the here and now are into hating our neighbors. What's more, we like hating our neighbors. We think it's good to hate our neighbors. We're proud of hating our neighbors. We're convinced our neighbors engage in fear mongering, hatred, and oppression. We want these people cancelled - if not as thoroughly as Jesus was, then as thoroughly and conveniently as possible (we're really into convenience these days). So no, we have no interest in that love your neighbor thing Jesus was all about. 

We also don't like that whole forgiveness business Jesus taught, either. As far as we're concerned, our neighbors don't deserve forgiveness. What's more, we deserve to enjoy their comeuppance. The more degrading and thorough the comeuppance, the better. To us, it's only fair. Jesus just wasn't into that way of thinking, so frankly we're not all that into Jesus.  

It's not like we're exactly happy in the here and now, though. Truth be told, we're completely miserable. Maybe, just maybe, it's possible someone who walked the earth thousands of years before the age of Google might have actually made some valid points. 

Merry Christmas. 

Ozymandias In The Basement Flat

 

If you were able to step back and look at it all objectively now, you might realize that your great enemy was the belief that there are rules to be followed in life. That simple idea was something you could never abide by, after all – not in the military, not in your relationships, not even while backing up the Isleys. Your abhorrence of rules, of structure, had, frankly, been your greatest asset in many ways. Now, though, as you’re suffocating to death, it’s proven to be your greatest enemy.

No one on earth can intake nearly two grams of a barbiturate in as short an amount of time as you just did. Combine that with a day’s worth of wine and cannabis and it’s no surprise that you’re lying in the bed of a basement flat right now drowning in your own vomit. People are going to wonder what were you thinking when you kept popping those pills, anyway. They were Vesparax, right? People are going to say you were suicidal, that those lawsuits – or even Monika - drove you to do it.

You know better, though. You know it’s your own sense of specialness that has led you to where you are right now. People who have suffered as you have are somehow gifted, you’ve always thought, with a differentness that magically makes the boundaries everyday individuals must adhere to null and void. Hence your personal biography.

Remember how you told that interviewer you didn’t practice so much as try to attain new heights? You admitted such a set of priorities led to mistakes in your playing, but you also knew full well they took you’re playing in unique directions. Indeed, you did some amazing things.

And you couldn’t even read music. Astonishing, really.

You won’t be creating anything new now, though. Those days are officially over. By the time Monika calls for help it will be too late. Maybe you’ll die after the paramedics get you to St. Mary Abbott’s. Or maybe you’ll be dead before the paramedics even arrive. Harsh as it may seem, none of it matters. For your life’s work has already started its journey towards that place where the lone and level sands stretch far away.

How the mighty once looked upon that work and despaired, though! Punching Paul after your house was broken into. Smashing Carmen in the face with that bottle during a drunken rage. Busting up the Opalen during that fight.  How everyone had to tame their impulses in the face of such actions. The work was your Berlin wall. You were impenetrable.

Yet now those actions, or rather the behavior which led to them, will be as much a part of your legacy as your talent will be. The humility you showed during that interview will, on the other hand, be largely forgotten. This is unfortunate, of course, though there’s no changing things at this point.

For yours is a story of appetites. Shoes. Clothes. Women. Booze. Drugs. Music. You have been a vacuum, a vacuum which has now exploded upon consuming too much. Little will be remembered of the child whose mother had left him. Little will be remembered of that driving seriousness.  Such things will remain hidden treasures, passed over by travelers through your antique land.

Thanksgiving And "American Socialite"

Poor Betsy Bonaparte doesn't have it easy. That's as true in my novel, American Socialite as it is in the historical record. Abandoned by a lout of a husband, she's literally left stranded far from home in Europe. Betsy expresses anger and resentment throughout American Socialite and, in a sense, she has good reason to. She's been promised a life that she's ultimately not allowed to live. Such things are hard on the psyche - very hard.

Yet Betsy's biggest problem in American Socialite is her insatiable set of expectations. Rather than accepting her situation at some point and simply being thankful for the life she has - and it's a luxurious life, indeed - Betsy instead chooses to pine for what cannot be. It ends up being an exhaustive waste of time. As frustrating as her situation is, one wishes Betsy could simply make the best of it. 

Her son, Bo, however, doesn't end up having Betsy's expectations. He's happy with what he has. Even when  a "greater" life than the one he leads is dangled before him, Bo doesn't get overly excited. In truth, he'd rather not live a "greater" life at all. He prefers the life of a successful American businessman to that of a member of royalty . Although he's not perfect, Bo certainly has a more balanced outlook than his mother.

None of this is to suggest Betsy is a villain. To the contrast, the woman is unquestionably a victim. As we head into Thanksgiving, though, it's good to note the importance of focusing on what we have, rather than what we don't. That's a lesson Betsy could learn, but so could the rest of us. We all get overwhelmed by our expectations, after all. Betsy certainly isn't the only one guilty of that shortcoming.

*To pick up a copy of American Socialite, simply click on the link below.

https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=GSZ5q&pf_rd_p=07442e57-5bbc-4b36-bdb2-92a549250cee&pf_rd_r=52D1NRN2XHTVZF59CEHF&pd_rd_r=5196d49b-9598-4479-85fb-fd9607e91925&pd_rd_wg=7eCzd&ref_=pd_gw_ci_mcx_mr_hp_d

The Night Of Ellen Barbosa

 

       I was working on my thesis when the results started coming in. Within five minutes of intently watching cable news, everything else I was doing started seeming small and irrelevant. Sure, the waning influence of postmodernism may have been more challenging than glad handing on a daily basis, but Rob was clearly on his way to being elected to the United States Senate. Shots of his campaign headquarters periodically flashed across the screen, where many young, bright eyed individuals partied and waited patiently to bask in the glow of Rob’s sunshine. After half an hour, I logged off my laptop, knowing I would be unable to work for the rest of the evening.

         Still, I couldn’t abide sitting there in front of the idiot box, either. I had been alone since the divorce, after all. I hadn’t even dated. Now I just wasn’t capable of bringing myself to witness Rob’s nightlong moment of glory from the confines of my dark condo. Rob had some good reasons for leaving me, to be sure, but there were lots of not so good reasons, too – up to and including his ambition and his current wife, Kelly. In truth, I didn’t want to put myself through what I essentially saw as an entire awards ceremony Rob had garnered by virtue of leaving me. Yet I couldn’t turn the television off entirely, either. Who knows why (and the truth is that I really don’t want to know why), but I decided to keep it on with the sound off.

        It was from within this limbo state that I finally decided to take a bath. I couldn’t unload on Erica, after all. She was with her father at the moment, along with Kelly and her own two beautiful children that she had with Rob (actually, Kelly’s kids weren’t exactly beautiful…I just like to throw the word in there for effect). Surely Erica wouldn’t want to have an important evening spoiled by my telling her how down and out and second best and irrelevant her mother felt.  I wondered, however, if Erica might feel second best herself as the results poured in. No doubt she did – at least a little.

         As the water ran in the tub I began to ask myself if I could endure watching the victory speech. The truth was, I couldn’t. There Rob would be, standing with perfect Kelly and their children, adored, cheered and celebrated, while Erica would be somewhere slightly back and to the left. The thought sickened me to my core. Yet I also knew Erica would want me watching her. Sliding inside the tub, I told myself it wasn’t easy being a mother. I wished there was someone else I could share that nugget with, but there wasn’t. Actually, there was, but I didn’t want my friends thinking I was spending the evening choking on sour grapes.

         Ultimately, however, I decided to go to bed. I had my own psyche to worry about. Growing up, my mother had told me to always ask myself what Jesus would do. Needless to say, I couldn’t see Jesus condemning me for calling it an early night. I could watch Erica up there on a replay, after all, after the pain and bitterness had somewhat subsided. And so I slipped under the sheets at around ten, convinced I had done the right thing.

         At around three in the morning, I was awoken by Sandy, who seemed to be having some kind of Golden Retriever nightmare at the foot of the bed. She settled down after a few, but by then I had suddenly found myself wanting, no, NEEDING, to know about Rob’s victory. Call me a masochist, but my curiosity demanded I see a headline, a picture, something. Giving into temptation, I took hold of my iPhone from the nightstand.

         Rob had lost by over ten thousand votes to Ellen Barbosa. The western part of the state, which wasn’t counted until last, had rallied behind her. It was, to be sure, an upset. Needless to say, that was one of the happiest moments of my life, one I remain guilty for cherishing, why, I’m still not sure. Perhaps it’s because Kelly’s kids looked so despondent up there on stage during Rob’s concession speech. You can tell the little squirts had expected so much.

         That was Rob for you.

American Socialite Characters - Bo Bonaparte: The Renegade Son

The man himself.

One of the more interesting things about writing American Socialite was discovering the paradoxes that surrounded Betsy Bonaparte. Both in the historical record and in the pages of my novel, Betsy often comes across as a walking contradiction. For instance, her husband Jerome abandons her and her  son because she's not royalty, yet she goes on to insist later in the book that her son only marry a member of royalty himself. When her son, named Bo, decides to marry a commoner instead, Betsy's entire world falls apart on her. For Betsy, whatever her charms and fine qualities might be, simply cannot see beyond the expectations she has set for herself and others.

 Bo, on the other hand, doesn't long for what Betsy does. A royal marriage simply isn't something that interests him, at least not enough to keep him from marrying Baltimore heiress Susan May Williams. Although being an heiress might not be enough for Betsy, Bo wants the person he wants, regardless of social stature. Not that it's easy to for him to arrive at that conclusion. Betsy isn't the sort of person you want to cross. This is particularly true if you are her own offspring. Still, Bo decides, underhandedly at first, to choose his own path. 

 This ends up being the final blow for Betsy in the novel. First her husband abandoned her, now her son has disappointed her. She lives a life of elegance, luxury, and prestige, and associates with royalty,  intellectuals, and the great movers and shakers of her day, but her world has crumbled around her. Bo's decision to marry the woman he loves rather than someone his mother might approve of triggers in Betsy a long decline which ultimately leads to the realization that her expectations are no longer worth being enslaved to. Not that Bo is an angel throughout the proceedings. He shamefully keeps Betsy in the dark about his marriage, then has to be convinced to reach out to her by his wife - the same wife who Betsy has rejected.

 What's striking to me about both the real and fictional Bo is the fact that he's not a bad person. In fact, he's a refreshingly independent person. Even his unwillingness to confront his mother head on comes from a place of fearfulness rather than a place of genuine disrespect. Betsy is formidable in her quest to see her expectations come to fruition. She is, ironically enough, as rigid in her expectations as Napoleon, the man who caused her marriage to evaporate, was. Little wonder Bo is hesitant to challenge Betsy's expectations in an upfront manner. The fact that he gets around to doing the right thing - albeit belatedly - tells the reader something about the man's character. 

To buy American Socialite, simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/American-Socialite-Sean-Crose/dp/B08C8RW7N4

American Socialite Characters - Jerome Bonaparte: The Rogue Husband

 

I always try to be fair when I write. I feel we live in an era where so many writers are so consumed with "telling it like it is" that they ignore their own unfairness and biases. Still, it was hard for me to be fair to Jerome Bonaparte, the man who married Betsy Patterson, then abandoned her and their soon to be born son for a life of Imperial glory. Such people are hard to like by their very nature. Both in my novel, American Socialite, and in the historical record, Napoleon's younger brother is a rogue. There's simply no other way to put it. 

The historical Jerome abandoned his responsibilities as a French naval officer, married Betsy, a young American girl from a wealthy family, got her pregnant, then left her high and dry with their child because Napoleon, his French Emperor brother, preferred him to marry into royalty. Jerome did indeed wed again, while he was still legally married to Betsy, in fact. This time his wife was a princess, someone more to Napoleon's liking. Jerome went on to have five or six more children - some with his second wife and some with other women - and continued to find himself in positions of power long after his notorious older brother was sent off into exile and died.  Needless to say, history has not looked kindly on the man. 

Still, people are not made up entirely of their flaws. Jerome's letters to Jerome Junior, who was his son with Betsy, exude genuine warmth and even concern for the future of the young man, who was known as "Bo." This can't be denied. It's also worth noting that Jerome is reported to have been valiant on the battlefield. That's no small thing, especially when one has soldiers under one's command, as Jerome did. For these reasons - as well as the fact that I don't believe any one person is all good or all bad - I've tried to present Jerome as even handedly as possible in American Socialite.

The Jerome in my novel is actually not a bad man - he's simply a weak man thoroughly helpless in the face of his desire to lead the good life. Jerome does indeed have pangs of conscience in American Socialite. Those pangs, though, aren't as strong as his personal desires. Weakness defines him. Jerome would be a tragic figure if there weren't so much familial damage left in his wake. His wife, Betsy, is abandoned while his son, Bo, is left without a father. Rogues can be charming, but they're ultimately quite destructive. 

To order a copy of American Socialite, simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08C8RW7N4?pf_rd_r=R2GDB8SF22VS9D6PSCND&pf_rd_p=edaba0ee-c2fe-4124-9f5d-b31d6b1bfbee     

American Socialite Characters - Napoleon: The Most Feared Person On Earth

In American Socialite, Betsy is thrilled at the thought of being married to a Bonaparte. The Bonaparte family, after all, is arguably the most prestigious family on earth. Not only are the Bonaparte's royalty, the most notable Bonaparte, Napoleon, is the single most powerful person on the planet. The man is a military genius - and a political genius, to boot. The fact that she is about to marry Napoleon's younger brother Jerome convinces Betsy that she's about to live a life beyond anything she could imagine. 

What Betsy learns all too soon is that Napoleon, despite whatever positive characteristics he may have, is not a nice guy. The same could well be said of Napoleon in real life. He may have been brilliant, but Napoleon was in the business of taking what wasn't his. He became the leader of France courtesy of a coup. As if that weren't enough, the man ended up conquering large swaths of Europe and beyond. What's more, Napoleon's will and craving for power, coupled with his obvious talents, meant that he always seemed to want more. The guy was indeed the most frightening person on earth. 

By the time Betsy - both in real life and in the pages of American Socialite - married Jerome, Napoleon had his eyes set on conquering England. He wasn't able to pull that stunt off, so he then set his sights on Russia. He wasn't able to pull that stunt off, either. Napoleon, however, was simply not a man to be deterred. After being sent by his enemies into exile, Napoleon escaped, returned to France, and set the world back into turmoil again. It wasn't until his final defeat at the Battle of Waterloo that Napoleon was stopped once and for all. 

My portrayal of Napoleon in American Socialite probably can't be considered flattering, though I do try to be fair to the man. Ultimately, I think it's worth asking ourselves what it is about people like Napoleon that allow them to become the menaces they inevitably do. Perhaps it's the promise they exude, the belief that those who join them can somehow partake of a truly special moment in time. Or perhaps it's just a desire to be a part of a winning movement (look no further than those sports fans who suddenly start adoring a recently successful team).

One thing that's certain is Betsy, both in the historical record and in American Socialite, is enthralled with what Napoleon represents. I've presented her in my novel as a person so overwhelmed by her personal desire and ambition that she's blind to all other matters (just like Napoleon). Bad choices, however, can lead to personal growth. The question in American Socialite is whether or not Betsy will allow herself that growth. 

To order a copy of American Socialite, simply click on the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08C8RW7N4?pf_rd_r=R2GDB8SF22VS9D6PSCND&pf_rd_p=edaba0ee-c2fe-4124-9f5d-b31d6b1bfbee