About the Author:
Gregory
Delaurentis spent his adult life roaming from job to job, working for Lockheed
in California, various law firms in New York, and financial firms on Wall
Street. Throughout this period of time, he was writing—unceasingly—finally
producing a large body of work, albeit unrecognized and unpublished . . . until
now. Cover of Darkness is the first in a series of upcoming books that
include Edge of Darkness, Pale of Darkness and Cries of Darkness.
These novels follow the lives of three individuals who do battle bringing
criminals to justice, while they struggle to understand the complex
relationships that exist among themselves. This intriguing trio has absorbed
the attention of Mr. Delaurentis for the past year and a half, so much so he
decided to self-publish their stories to bring them to a wider audience. [AUTHOR’S DISCLAIMER: These are works of
fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.]
Where to find him:
Blog
MY TAKE ON CRITIQUE
GROUPS
I think everything
needs a critique, from movies to cupcakes. That’s how many people make
decisions, and that is through the critique of others. Anything that takes a
significant investment in time and money falls under the scrutiny of the person
doing the undertaking, and the first steps that they make before proceeding is
to ask someone else about their experience. Some people, by doing the same
thing many times, view themselves as professional critics. This may be so, but
that is to me a dubious authority. I watch these television shows about cooks
trying to become professional chefs subject themselves to the abuse of renown
chefs who show no mercy when it comes to their critiquing.
Some professional and
delusional professional critics spend too much time and energy tearing down a
work and not reviewing it. There is a difference to me. A review of something
is bringing out what you liked or did not like about a project, whether it is a
movie, book, album, or show. Criticism is something else altogether, where the
critic pours their personal issues onto a project, ranting and raving far
beyond the scope of the very work itself. Some critics react with such
revulsion that you can see their personal bias towards the work, or personal
struggle with something entirely different.
I have no problem with
criticism. I’m not a comedian standing on a stage and being heckled by someone
in the audience because I’m not hitting my timing on my jokes. I am not
interrupted in my art and continue until I am done with what I have to say.
Then if someone has to say otherwise, that’s up to them. But I don’t have to
suffer them at all, just as they do not have to suffer me. I ignore negative
criticism. This is different than negative reviews. If a reviewer has a problem
with this or that in my stories I’ll take note and maybe even make changes in
the future. But if you have nothing but heated negativity,
and your point is not to enlighten but to dissuade others from purchasing my
novel, I have no more interest in you or your group.
I think, in this
business, especially if you have been spending years shopping around your
manuscript to agents, editors and publishers, you have to develop a thick skin.
When the rejection letters pile up you need to persevere and continue to tell
yourself that you are a good writer and can tell a relevant story. Critics are
no better people. You have to overlook their negativity, tell yourself that you
are better than that, and continue on. Maybe you flubbed this book, but you may
shine in your next one, or your next one.
I take critique groups
with a grain of salt, if that.
Gregory is giving away to one randomly chosen commenter a $50 Amazon/BN.com gift card: a Rafflecopter giveaway.
Blurb:
A
high profile murder of a Wall Street executive in Westchester pits three people
against the criminal underbelly of Manhattan nightlife. The key players are two
ex-cops turned private investigators—Kevin Whitehouse, whose sharpest tool is
his keen analytical mind, and David Allerton, a former Special Forces
operative—and Margaret Alexander, Kevin’s lover. In their search for a killer,
they are forced to travel to the edge of sanity and morality, while stumbling
onto their own confusing secrets as well. The Cover of Darkness is a
gritty noir saga that untangles a web of deceit in the course of tracking down
a brutal murderer.
Excerpt:
The
pool area was wide and reflected the sun on this hot summer day. It was edged
with white marble so polished that it looked like pearl. Deck chairs lined the
sides of the long pool, which was two lengths more than Olympic-sized. Outside
the deck area was the carpeted lawn of the vast backyard, dappled with sun.
Hugh
Osterman walked along the side of the pool wearing a heavy terry cloth robe and
sandals. In his right hand, he held a martini glass. He ran his left hand
through his sandy sun-streaked hair as he looked over his shoulder at the man
following him.
“What’s
going on? I don’t get it,” Osterman said, stopping at the end of the pool where
the flotation chairs were kept.
“They
said no,” the man replied. Considering the backdrop, he was incongruously
dressed in a dark suit and tie.
“They
said no . . . just like that?”
Osterman
sat his drink down on the marble surface, and pushed a flotation chair into the
deep end of the pool, sending it out and away. Then he peeled off the robe and
dove smoothly into the water, emerging next to the floating chair.
“You
go back and tell them that we aren’t pleased,” Osterman said sternly, pulling
himself up and into the seat of the chair. “You tell them that Hugh Osterman
wants to know what’s holding things up—what the problem is.”
The
suit just stood at the edge of the pool, opening his jacket against the heat of
the day. Osterman paddled to the side, and reached out and retrieved his
martini glass. “I take it you have nothing to say about this?” he persisted,
despite the other man’s silence.
The
suit shook his head.
“Well,
what are you waiting for?” Osterman said as he tipped the glass up to his lips.
Suddenly, the bottom of the stem shattered. Osterman gurgled as he dropped the
glass, blood bubbling from his mouth, an open tear in his neck. He jolted
upright in the chair as the suit closed the distance between them, his Colt .38
Super still trained on its victim, its silencer smoldering.
Osterman
slowly sat back as the suit pumped more rounds into Osterman’s bare, well-defined
chest—the hot shells of his pistol ejecting out and striking the surface of the
water, settling to the bottom. His life ended as his body tumbled from the
floating chair, his blood a widening crimson slick roughly in the area where
his body slipped through.
The
suit popped his clip, slipped in a new one, and headed for the sprawling house.
Where to Buy: Amazon
Kobo
Barnes and Noble
Sony
Smashwords
Where to Buy: Amazon
Kobo
Barnes and Noble
Sony
Smashwords
