In the dark

So I’m walking around in the dark, flailing my arms like a chicken. I’m at the gym on a Saturday night. It’s only 5:30, but this time of year that means dead of night and there are no lights. I got in with one those fobs, no problem. Now I’m trying not to stumble over kettle balls and dumb bells and negate my modest attempt to stay healthy. I figured the lights would go on with a motion sensor. Makes sense, right?

Wrong. I’m just getting some weak, blue ambience down from distant street lights and through the tinted windows. After a few minutes of this, I decide to workout anyway. I’m here, this is the time, and light shouldn’t matter much to the bone density I want to protect. I change into my shorts. I use the light on my iPhone to find the settings on the machine and put my ear buds in.

Here’s the weird part. I have to take the ear buds out. I can’t sit in the dark AND tune out the world. I can’t listen to a pod cast about grammar. I can’t listen to music. I have to keep the ear buds out because I’m so freaked out working out in the dark. I think now losing one sense does not make the others stronger – it makes you cherish them more. It makes you want to wring more out of them. As we should with just about everything. I listen to my huffing and puffing. It's not pleasant, nor informative.

I did not injure myself attempting to stay healthy. Yeah me.

Dumpster Diving

So I stop at the Dollar Store because I want a new luffa. Being the Dollar Store I buy all kinds of other crap - candy bars, tissues, Band-Aids – you know how it goes. I bring my own nylon bag, but in my checkout haze the cashier puts everything in an unmarked, brown paper bag. This unsettles me, but fine. It’s not worth dumping stuff from container one to another, even though this is not my system. I’m trying to be more flexible in my life and not make a huge deal out of such things. It is in trying to be better that I am wrong. I drop the bag somewhere in the house, I don’t care where, and go about doing things. 

The next day is Sunday, I decide to take all my paper recycling up to the church. As a family, we put out a lot of paper. Junk mail, schoolwork, old manuscripts, new manuscripts – I put them in brown paper bags and when there seems like too many, I load up the trucklet and head for St. Stephen’s. I think they make like twenty bucks a month from everyone tossing their paper in the shed-sized bin. Part of me wants to believe it also makes me a better citizen. It is in this belief that I am also wrong.

Later that day I remember my bag from the Dollar Store. I can’t find it. I in the familyroom, kitchen, bathroom . . . the bag has vanished. It’s not small. We’re not hoarders. We should be able to find a brown paper bag . . .

No, I tell myself. I am not that out-of-it. There’s no way I chucked a bag of candy and bathroom supplies thinking it was scrap paper. No way. I’m not that daffy. And I would’ve had to be that daffy twice. Once to load the SUV, then again to snatch it up and hurl it into the bin. No. I’m not that . . . touched. After another search, I decided there’s no other course of action. I announce that I’m returning to St. Stephen’s to see if my Dollar Store bag is in the dumpster. Max, for reasons that escape me, says he’s in. We drive up to the church and look inside. Someone else has been there and deposited several hundred pounds of shredded documents. Light, wormy snow. Oodles of it. There’s a light rain, and the temperature has dropped, and Max climbs in anyway. We dig around finding a couple of the bags I chucked. They are easy to spot. Most of the stuff says “Martineck” in the upper right corners.

We do not find the bag of Band-Aids, tissues, luffas and candy.

I return home not know if I’m going crazy, already crazy or if rolling around in wet shreddings proves I am simply nuts, no other modifier necessary. It is a depressing internal conversation. Do the mad know they’re mad? Is there a moment, like this one, that tips you from kooky to insane?

Two days go by and I go down to the basement to get the Firestick off the old TV. Between the old TV and the couch facing it sits a brown paper bag. Inside are Band-Aids, a box of tissues, two luffas and a mess of candy wrappers. There are more of those on the couch. My first thought is mice. But they don’t unwrap. And they don’t lug bags down a flight of stairs so they can relax. Mice never relax. I realize I’m wrong one more time . . . in my choice of mammal of interest.

I take the bag up to Max and show him. Max – after watching me search the house, drive up to the church, and rummage through a soggy dumpster for thirty minutes says, “Oh that bag?”

First Ever?

For the life of me I don’t understand the trend over the past few years to advertise something – usually a car – as The First Ever. Ad agencies continue to repeat the technique, so it must have shown some value early on. Personally, I’m hoping it dies soon, as I do with every trite, over-used, dead-horse phrase. 

Auto companies should be especially concerned with hackneyed headlines. Hackneyed is an old term that refers use of a horse used for ordinary rides. Not to show off, race or impress others. None of things one might want out of their Lexus or BMW.

The First Ever also strikes me as a dubious feature. It’s good because it’s first? That’s how you want me to spend my $50 large? Yeah, it’s nice to own the newest and all, but how many of us like to have some of the bugs worked out?

Usually just under 30-percent of any population will consider themselves early adopters. Maybe that trends higher in the luxury car world, where you are paying not to see your car passing you every couple of miles. Still, is that the salient feature? Speed, mileage, safety, comfort – none of these things matter more than being first? Regardless, the headlines alienate two-thirds of your market.

In the case of Lexus and BMW, I get it. The cars are, in fact, bum-spanking new; you’re not going to get patient adopters anyway. At least in theory. I think trust in the brand goes a long way. Lexus and BMW customers are less hesitant to buy in the first model year because the makers make good cars, so maybe being first has appeal that's not countered by being unseasoned. Still, we're talking cars. Not this year's spring line. Not even a new iPhone. A car is the second biggest purchase most people ever make in one shot. Being the new kid on the block is a weak raison d'acheter. 

And the phrase is tired. Another word that should never be associated with your very new, very expensive automobile. Or your horse.

I missed the whole month of September. I hate doing that. I don’t want to abandon this blog all together. But, I started writing another novel and I own a home. Or, more accurately perhaps. I live in a home to which I share a deed. It never occurred to me until lately that the house is also on the deed and I’m starting to think the whole deal is a bit of a con. 

 Do I own the house or does the house own me?

The painting, cleaning, tweaking, duct-taping – just trying to figure what to do with the damn thing (what IS that chirping sound?) takes up so much time. Money, yes. But time is the real cost. I can’t get this back. Even hiring people to help takes time. Like I’m feeding my hours to a great, insatiable beast.

And so a month goes by without the silliest of posts. A whole month of shoveling minutes into a gaping maw. Sigh.

Ninety minutes of smiles

I attended poetry reading Sunday hosted by the Just Buffalo Literary Center. They held it at a glen, in Buffalo's Silo City, under at Cottonwood tree that is probably older than all of poet's ages combined. Times four. The readers and writers ranged in age from 13 to 18 and in every case - each one - surpassed my expectations. I am not an easy audience. Writing is serious business for me. And yet every participant left me moved, touched, grinning or thinking. 

Sometimes, when I'm writing advertising copy I purposely flip over my notes. I let time pass and see what sits in my memory. What holds the value of recall. These were the grains of gold that stayed in my pan:

"My voice is a grain of sand on a beach" Keira Lorelei Van Der Beck. 
"Every 10 days a country celebrates their freedom from British rule." Theo Bellavia-Frank. 
"It's easy to feel tall in a shallow pool" Nzingha.
"You are a tower of book spines" Zanaya Hussain.

I looked the author names up later, after deciding what resonated. I had access to a online collection and I am really thankful for it. There were even more pieces in the album to provoke me, make me want to read. 

The event was called Hope Blooms from Shattered Roots. It's a strong title except these young people showed strong, sturdy roots drinking in all the literary nutrients they could find. If they ever were shattered, they healed quick . . . like the young can.

Swinging my machete

 

I want to walk around swinging my machete. I like doing it and it is my right. I like exercising that right. Grocery stores, movie theater, concerts at the Town Ball Room – I want to walk in swinging and swing whenever I feel like it. My intention is not to hurt anyone.  Still, I will swing wildly and at random from my truck, through the parking lot, into the dollar store and out again, swiping back and forth and back and forth. I’m not worried about swinging near children. I tend to swing high and they tend to be short. I’m not worried about swinging my machete near old people because they are old. Why do I like swishing my machete in wide arcs as I move through life? That’s personal. What if I nick, cut or slice someone along the way? That is a matter of their personal responsibility. This is the land of freedom.  Express that freedom. Revel in the freedom. Swing your machete. Or bat or axe or even just your firsts. Don’t let anyone tell you no. They are trying to control you and that’s a slippery slope. If you let them stop you from swinging a machete, soon you will find yourself on a collective farm raising quinoa for the elites. Fight it now. Swing, batta batta batta, swing.

Lessons in imagination

I had the honor of speaking to a Ms. Brown’s seventh-grade reading room a few weeks ago. They had just finished The Misspellers, my first novel, and therefore more than special to me. The novel was written with reluctant readers in mind and Ms. Brown is the first teacher I’ve come across in eighteen years who caught on. Of course, that could be more my fault than the whole of the teaching profession, but it’s probably more an exposure issue. The book was never a runaway bestseller.

The students asked amazing questions. And I use that word the way Oxford intends: They filled me with wonder. Startled me.

“How did you write about a bulldozer fighting an excavator if you’ve never seen it.” Love this question. Gets the heart of why anyone writes – or why anyone reads. We all want to stretch are known experiences into the unknown. It helped our ancestors survive lions and tigers and snow. I’ve seen a snake before, could one be hiding in that hole? This is how imagination saves our lives. Exercising it makes it work better. Which is how writers and artists ensure the existence of humanity.

“Does Carlin really like Jack?” I love this question, too. It comes from a cunning insight: Is Jack simply a decent person tossed into Carlin’s world or is there genuine affection? It’s the question of a new person, growing into their world. How much of any of this is real? The same imagination that helps us envision a rock beneath the waves and makes us hesitate before a jump, can also keep us from leaps of the heart.

That’s a lot from a little class, reading a little book. It’s the best any writer could ever hope.

Hotdogs, Scotch and the Mona Lisa . . .

For those willing and fearless, go inside the mind of Michael Martineck. This was my first interview in quite some time, so I was a little rusty. Being interesting ain't like riding a bike - supposing I was ever interesting in the first place. Spoiler Alert: I'm not. There is a discussion of wiener classification as it pertains to literary communication paradigms. You won't be getting that anyplace else. 

Happy Cinco De Mayo everyone. Margaritas and tortas are great, but if you really want to celebrate, crack open your copy and read a favorite passage tonight. That's what I'll be doing.

A little reluctant love

Good reviews are like children. You shouldn't have favorites. Still, we can appreciate certain qualities we find special, right? I love this review form Liliyana Shadowlyn because she wasn't sure she was going to like a book with the art world as a backdrop. She tried it, as one might snails or caviar, and found it quite delightful. Which is also kind of a great meta-metaphor for Untouchable. Not everything is as it first appears. Or even second. Check out her reviews here or here. They are the same, but that second one, the Faerie review, is better because Lily thinks the book might be of interest outside the usual mystery-novel community. Me too.

From Melisende

 

"Quite an entertaining caper!"
I'll take that. Melisende has quite an entertaining blog. Always happy when someone likes the book, obviously. Little known fact - I'm just as fascinated when they don't. I have not yet read a bad review of Untouchable - probably because it is universally beloved - but you can learn just as must from a negative comment as you can from a gush. 

Shout-out . . .

 

. . . to The Mary Reader for her post featuring Untouchable. So glad she found the time and space. It's a great resource if you're looking for something fresh with which to cozy up. The site curates quick mentions of books, which I find quite helpful, especially if I'm in the library and the book I want is out and I'm like, what was the name of that other book by that other person? Then I get the log flume of all the dead trees in my head. It jams up everything. In my head, mental beavers laugh at the flow they stanched.  They laugh still, even as a trickle leaks through, allowing me to post this post. 

The Rushing of the Sea - Fund Me!

If you're looking for a way to support the arts - that doesn't include books - look no further. The Rushing of the Sea is a short film project from the delightful Dani Martineck. Related by marriage, they have no novelistic gene. Dani writes for the screen, in addition to producing and performing. You can help fund the project here, and we're not talking about millions. You too can be a Hollywood mogul for like $20.

Review, Untouchable, Readers' Favorite

Untouchable is a crime/mystery novel written by Michael Martineck. After an undercover operation goes bust, FBI Special Agent Leah Capello is recruited to investigate the case of a stolen Keifer painting. But her investigation goes off the tracks when she meets the Russian billionaire Stepan Markov and finds herself plunged headfirst into solving the kidnapping of his four-year-old son. Further complications arise as Leah is forced to work alongside the unpredictable art connoisseur Joshua Fawls, whose psychometric abilities seem to cause as much hindrance as they help. However, the duo soon learns to work together and find out that they might have more in common than they previously thought. As they move through the underbelly of the art world, they find that their only chance remains in getting an invite to a private auction organized by a man named Neal Pozner.

Untouchable is a well-written crime novel that provides a rare glimpse into the darker aspects of art deals and keeps you thoroughly entertained with its colorful characters and fast-paced plot. The relationship dynamic between Leah and Joshua takes center stage and feels like the backbone of the narrative. Aside from Leah and Joshua, Michael Martineck treats his side characters with enough care to make them seem realistic. I found the banter between Leah and Joshua highly amusing. There are plenty of twists and turns in the plot that keep you turning the pages with anticipation. Michael Martineck's frequent doses of humor also enhance the enjoyment of the story. I thoroughly enjoyed Untouchable and highly recommend it.

Reviewed by Pikasho Deka for Readers' Favorite

Review, Untouchable, by Kristel Greer

FBI Agent Leah Capello works in Art Crime and her recent sting operation involving Stepan Markov didn’t go to plan after the mysterious Joshua Fawls entered the room. The deal goes south and months of work are wasted. Leah is called to a gallery theft by the NYPD but Markov has staged the robbery to leverage her help locating Joshua in exchange for the missing painting. She finds Joshua in a compromising position and events get weirder from that point on. Leah learns the reason Joshua constantly wears gloves and refuses to be touched. He has psychic abilities and reads the emotion and circumstances surrounding an object with touch. Leah doesn’t know whether he is telling the truth or is simply a highly skilled conman.

Either way, she needs his special skills, uncanny luck and art world connections to save Markov's son who was kidnapped to keep Markov from an exclusive auction. The unlikely partners try to track down the location of the boy and the auction while identifying the kidnapper. An elaborate, fast-paced, and exciting search ensues full of intrigue, revelations, crazy ex-girlfriends, and dangerous adversaries at every turn. Is Joshua selling Leah a fabricated story just to cover his involvement in the kidnapping or is he honestly trying to help her solve the case? It doesn’t help that there is an obvious and tenable attraction between them that might be clouding her judgment.

This was a 🌟🌟🌟🌟 story with thrilling action and a compelling plot that involved high society manoeuvring, intricate storyline weaving with an unexpected supernatural twist. Leah and Joshua were fascinating and excellently written characters. You get a genuine sense of who they are and their motivations quite quickly which makes them easy to like. Their endless witty banter and obvious chemistry bring depth to the story as you will them to succeed both as individuals as well as a pair. Overall I was impressed with the narrative style and character portrayal. The ending did seem a little open for more but that might just be my wishful thinking.

(You should seek out more charming reviews by Kristel at livinginmyownprivatelibrary and Goodreads.)

WandaVision, Washington Post, Wrong

I loved Sonny Bunch’s March 8 Washington Post opinion piece on the finale of Disney’s WandaVison, despite the fact that he’s totally wrong about villainy, darkness and the purpose of entertainment. That last bit, purpose, is not discussed nearly enough. It also elevates WandaVision above fan bickering to more substantive debate about the strata of art.

Spoiler Alert – I’m writing about the end here, people.

Bunch’s point makes perfect sense: SWORD acting director Tyler Hayward was right to send a drone, and then White Vision (Cataract for you old school fans) to kill Wanda. She had mentally kidnapped and tortured thousands of people for what could be months. Wanda is the real villain, Hayward the real hero. This makes Monica Rambeau’s forgiveness of Wanda cowardly and depreciates the show’s daring look at grief.

So why is the audience encouraged to view Hayward as a villain? Because he is.

Hayward never wants to save the people of Westview, NJ. He lies and bullies his staff and outright assaults those he can’t control because control is his ultimate goal. He wants a sentient weapon and Wanda stands in his way. He never struggles over his decision to use lethal force, he conceals it. When Monica pleads with him for time, for a chance to avoid violence, he dismissed her. He wants power and people of Westview are incidental.

Now that doesn’t exactly absolve Wanda, but I disagree that the writers took the easy way out. They made sure both Wanda and viewers were confronted with the horrors Wanda wrought. “If you won’t let us go, just let us die,” Sharon (Debra Jo Rupp) begs of the witch. The morsels of true tragedy are mixed in throughout the show. Along with flying and punching and energy blasts and car crashes.

As it should be. WandaVision’s only mistake was being TOO good. The wily, imaginative step through a young woman’s grief process was so engaging it made us forget that it was first a show about superheroes. Entertainment. It should be celebrated for raising that art form, making it more tangible, all while casting the kind of spells that led us to watch to begin with, not scolded for falling short of Hamlet.

Art has layers. Art does different things at different times. I applaud WandaVision for doing many things at once. It was magical.

To Be Read

Untouchable is now on Gina Rae Mitchell's read list. Which is kind of a big deal for me. She was intrigued by the cover blurb. One never knows if those things work or not, so it's quite refreshing to hear had some impact. Of course, that means I didn't hear from people for whom it did not work, but I prefer, when it comes to my books, to be a that-glass-is-gonna-be-filled-again-real-soon kind of guy.

Listen to Nina

 

The second best Martineck writer has a story out in the new Havok Podcast. Check it out, if you like things that are cozy, creepy and designed to make you smile.

The Pull of Picasso

A work of art can lead you by invisible rein. I first saw Boy Leading a Horse by Pablo Picasso (oil on canvas, 1906) at the Albright Knox art gallery, in Buffalo NY. It was part of the traveling William S. Paley exhibit that opened on my birthday in 1995. While Paley was building the Columbia Broadcasting System, he amassed an art collection so intriguing and substantive that it warranted a good showing before being splintered off into the world’s foster homes for art.

I got lucky. The whole exhibition dripped with monumental works of art, including works by Cézanne, Degas, Matisse, and Renoir, but turning a corner and seeing this thing - Boy. I can still see it more than 25 years later.

Paley acquired Boy in 1936 and never sold it. He must have liked it, too. According to a lawsuit filed on behalf of the Mendlessohn-Bartholdy family, the relatives of composure Felix Mendelssohn also liked it very much and only sold it at the insistence of the Nazi party. The painting’s first owners (after the gallery that briefly held it) were Leo Stein and his sister, Gertrud – writer, art lover and matron of the Lost Generation. I don’t know why they parted with it, but they kept it for nearly 20 years.

So a long tether connects my book Untouchable with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Lewis, Pound and Wilder. A continuance of inspiration.

I knew none of this when I first saw the piece. Didn’t know its name, nor its famous painter. All I knew was stature and color and power. It pulled me and held me; it led me through my last novel. Like I was a horse.

Just out today, Part III of the Knowers series: The Duplicity. I love this series, and this book in particular, because all of the characters are forced to work together, despite their relative animosities or amorosities. The fact that everyone's super smart makes the awkwardness and struggles that much more pointed. Very fun, from my second favorite author.

Untouchable

Today, my new novel is officially out on the street. Or up on shelves. Or ready to be cradled in a cardboard box with little plastic pillows and delivered to your home, a new born novel. 

Untouchable is about FBI Special Agent Leah Capello, a member of the Bureau's Art Crime Team and the underside of the New York art world. And it's about her relationship with Joshua Fawls, who claims to be an art expert, seems a little psychic and is probably, more than likely, a conman. The book was inspired by a quote from the artist Edgar Degas: Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. Just like the perfect crime. 

You will love it more than the year 2020. Promise.