All posts by William Gensburger

The Seventh Island

REVIEW: [Note, this is an unpaid, honest review]

Stunningly Compelling, With a fantastic Caribbean setting, it’s hard to not be drawn into the action Brad Stone finds himself in; chased, shot at, needing a guard, arrested, and a race against time to prevent a murder, all in the name of solving a great mystery. Interviewed by a reporter (with her own secrets), a well fleshed-out character of Brad Stone and the intricate details of the setting that brings it all to life, compels the reader onward, hoping for a sequel. Gregory Stenson’s “The Seventh Island” offers a great read.

 

 

THE SEVENTH ISLAND by Gregory Stenson – A Stone & McLeish Thriller

Life was good for Brad Stone working in the tropical Caribbean islands.
One night, he answered a distress call from a beautiful woman, it changed his life forever.
Temptation followed and so did events that would threaten Stone’s life, he needed an armed guard 24/7 to survive, not to mention a voodoo curse.
A whirlwind of terror, stalking, murder and kidnap tested Stone and his partner Mac’s tenacity and resolve to the limit…and a race against time to find an island where someone will die…there are over 7,000 islands in the Caribbean.

Reviews
“…the story gripped me from start to finish, I read it in forty eight hours and as soon as I finished the book I started the sequel Dead Mans Justice….. Watch this space.”
“…unputdownable, clever, intelligent…”
“I actually could not put this book down … It’s beautifully written , with a great storyline – suspense that keeps you going until the end..”
“This was a fantastic book – the story is full of clever twists and turns, I just could not put it down.”

THE SEVENTH ISLAND (Stone & McLeish Thriller Series of Stories Book 1)


THE SEVENTH ISLAND by Gregory Stenson – A Stone & McLeish Thriller

Life was good for Brad Stone working in the tropical Caribbean islands.
One night, he answered a distress call from a beautiful woman, it changed his life forever.
Temptation followed and so did events that would threaten Stone’s life, he needed an armed guard 24/7 to survive, not to mention a voodoo curse.
A whirlwind of terror, stalking, murder and kidnap tested Stone and his partner Mac’s tenacity and resolve to the limit…and a race against time to find an island where someone will die…there are over 7,000 islands in the Caribbean.

Reviews
“…the story gripped me from start to finish, I read it in forty eight hours and as soon as I finished the book I started the sequel Dead Mans Justice….. Watch this space.”
“…unputdownable, clever, intelligent…”
“I actually could not put this book down … It’s beautifully written , with a great storyline – suspense that keeps you going until the end..”
“This was a fantastic book – the story is full of clever twists and turns, I just could not put it down.”

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On Deck

A short story by William Gensburger

She sat demure, blond hair straight down, mid back length, smooth legs outstretched.  Daniel didn’t have a name for her yet, was almost ready to settle on Karen-she looked like a Karen, pale skin, soft features, eyes made up to stand out, foundation hiding freckles, white and tight T-shirt, revealing curves.  There was no doubt she was pretty, Daniel thought and he had seen her every day for the four weeks he’d been coming to the skate park, watching from the air-conditioned comfort of his van parked few feet away by the chain link that separated the skate park from dirt parking area.

Karen had seen him, had gotten in the habit of looking his way every quarter-hour or so, making eye contact for a second before looking elsewhere.  She was seated on the grass in the shade thrown down by the pylons and concrete tracks of the spell BART system, oblivious to the trains scraping past, the sound the blending with the grinding of skate board lips onto metallic rapping on concrete walls and steps.

Karen had two boys, Jason and Sam, real names he had heard when Karen had called to them.  Both boys about 12 years old and Karen barely 30-she had lost her virginity young and lost the father moments after the pregnancy test glowed pink.  There was no dad, no wedding ring, and she had the look of someone who had given up expecting a man to take her from the difficulty of single parenthood.

“You will not,” Karen said loudly.  Jason and Sam were laughing.  Daniel couldn’t determine why, but from his van he smiled along with them-their tone was infectious.  As if on cue she looked his way, but only in passing.

The skate park was relatively new, a good edition for an otherwise generally drab Bay Area city in need of creative outlets for youths.  The designers had done well, a series of bowls, half-pipes, and steps with walls to keep all level of skaters happy.  The grassy area allowed a reprieve from the extreme California sun.

“I wouldn’t let my boxers hang out like that,” Jason teased.  He was the more sensible of the two boys, slightly older, tall, almost six-foot, lanky and gawky, yet with a certain grace to his movements when he skated.  In a single movement he lunged forward dropping his board into a roll and casually stepping onto it, body leaning ever so slightly, arms by his side, palms facing back.

At the other end of the park his friends were taking a break, lined up orderly like sparrows on a telephone line or mosquito shaped Harriet Jump jets stretched on the deck of an aircraft carrier waiting for the launch command.

Jason did a spin and landed on his ass, pants dropping, underwear showing.  He pulled them up, accepted a few high-fives for the attempt and assumed his place on deck.  Friends didn’t need words.

“Mom, come skate with me,” Sam shouted.  Karen smiled, shook her head then looked at Daniel who pretended not to have noticed.  He envied her, enjoyed their visits.  Sam reminded him of Alex his own son whom he had not seen for two years.  Such regrets are not correctable, Daniel told himself. Sam’s mother had seen to that.

Karen had accepted Daniel as a daily fixture in a way beyond words.  He had often thought about getting out of the car and actually talking to her, but he knew that he might never return if he did; he would learn that she was not as he had imagined, or worse, that she might not be so accepting of him, after all he was a man, alone, parked in a van at a kids’ skate park — a definitive cause for concern.  Of course it was all open for interpretation as he had no way to know for sure what would happen short of actually finding out what she thought.

It was only when a skateboard sailed across the chain link fence and smashed into his hood, indenting a large section before falling to the floor that the decision was made for him.  He looked up to see Jason aghast, clutching at the fence in disbelief and, peripherally, Karen getting up and walking quickly toward him only to realize that to reach him she would have to go all the way back and around, which she started to do.

Jason leaped over the fence and awkwardly landed in front of Daniel.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Daniel looked at the dent, large, visibly needing attention, and shrugged it off.

“It’s fine, barely noticeable. Apology accepted.” He forced a smile, watching Karen off to the side — she was out of the park now. “You do a good half-turn but your landing needs work.” He picked up Jason’s skateboard and handed it back to him.

Jason stared in shock, expecting a tirade. “It’s not nothing, “ he finally said, “it’s huge. I’ll have to pay for it to be fixed. My mom’ll tell you…”

Daniel was shaking his head, backing off now to the car. He opened the door.

“It’s nothing, really. Forget about it. I’m late for a meeting — have to go. Goodbye.” And he got into the car, started it backing away from the fence, from the park…from Karen who, seeing him leaving, abruptly stopped. She was thirty feet away. She looked puzzled, then looked over at her son.

Daniel was gone, a cloud of dust from where he had backed roughly over the gravel.  Jason walked to Karen.

“What happened?” she asked?  “Didn’t he need our insurance information?”  He shrugged.

“He told me to forget it,” Jason explained, “said it was nothing.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s odd. Did you at least get his name?”

Jason shook his head. “Maybe you should ask him tomorrow when he comes.”

Karen smiled. Maybe she would.

But he did not return the next day. Karen arrived earlier than usual hoping that he would be there. She had a good feeling about him, even though there seemed to be a lot of mystery surrounding him. She wondered why he was hiding, what could make him so uncomfortable. She felt awful that her son had dented his car and she could not even give him insurance information so she could pay for the repairs.

“You should talk to him, Mom,” Jason said. “He’d understand. We know you like him.”  Sam nodded as though this had been some secret he had been protecting for months.

“Like him? I don’t even know his name. How can I like him?”

Jason shrugged. “Why don’t we make a name for him, that way we have something to call him?”

“Like what?”

Sam said, “I know – David. He looks like a David.”

“David works,” Jason said.

Karen smiled. “David it is.”

The following week Karen began to be concerned. She had not seen David since the day of the accident. Now she sat waiting, watching each car pass as though he might at least drive by, even if he did not stop. Carefully she scrutinized each face, in case he had used a different car. She didn’t see him.

“Mom, I told you,” Jason argued, “he didn’t say anything except that I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Was it a big dent?” Karen had asked, again.

“It looked big, but he said it wasn’t. I dunno, maybe it was there already.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she added. “I wonder why he didn’t come back.”

“I know that he seemed very nervous when he saw you coming closer. That’s when he left.”

“Me?” Karen did not understand why she should have made him nervous. “Did I look angry? Maybe he thought I would attack him?”

Sam began to laugh. “Mom, you don’t attack people.”

“I know, Sam, but what else could it be?”

“You like him, huh?” Sam asked her.

Karen smiled. She couldn’t explain it. “Just a little. Maybe! He seems like he could be a nice man. I have a feeling that he is a father, but we haven’t seen his children.”

“Maybe he’s divorced and doesn’t have his kids. Like Dad.”

Karen seemed angry at the mention of “Dad.”

“Your father…,” she began, and then changed her mind. “I don’t know. Go play, skate — do something,” she told them both, and made herself comfortable on the grass in the shade.  Overhead the light rail scraped by toward the nearby station.

It felt good talking about David. It made him more real. It had been a long time since she had shown an interest in a man, and longer still since she had slept with one. There was something fearful about opening herself to that kind of hurt again, but more; the energy required to get to know someone, to learn their details, nuances, intentions, actions, likes and dislikes, to become part of a whole rather than a separate, to rely on, at least in some sense, for a degree of joy — was way too much to consider. Certainly she had desires, but they could be fleeting and she could handle that herself. The boys’ father had left her with quite a need for self-protection.

“Hi David,” she said only mouthing the words silently, smiling at the thought that he had just arrived. “I was worried about you. I thought you’d never return. I missed you. Won’t you come sit and talk with me. I’d like to get to know you.”

She could imagine him smiling back. In her mind he was happy to see her, too.

“Hi, David,” she said during another imagining. “Why do you stay in your car? Why don’t you come and join us?  I’d love to spend some time with you.”

And yet again, “I’m glad you came back. Would it be possible to talk?”  She liked that approach and promised herself that when he came back she would approach him.

“David…,” she said softly. And then remembered it wasn’t his name.

Two weeks later, Daniel returned to the skate park.  He arrived later than usual, just in case Karen had been expecting him. He pulled into his usual spot on the dirt lot, close to the fence, close to where she was, but far enough to leave quickly. He turned off the car.

Karen looked up and froze. Daniel stared at her, then smiled and quickly looked away. His heart was racing and he could feel the hard beats. Ahead of him Jason skated past, looked and waved. Daniel waved back, but just enough to be noticed. He tried to relax. It felt odd.

Jason passed by again and stared at the hood of the car. There was no dent to be seen.  He rolled over to his mother and said something to her. She looked up. Jason pointed at Daniel, but Daniel could not hear what was being said. Karen stood up, nodded, brushed grass from her jeans and patted her hair back.  Daniel could see that she was about to come his way.  She looked scared. He felt scared. He wasn’t ready for this, needed to stop it before it got too far.

As she started to move he started the car. She heard it and stopped. He slipped it into reverse. She took a step toward him and he allowed the van to roll back slightly. Karen stopped, as though facing a wild cat that was about to lunge at her sudden movement. Daniel stopped. She took another cautious step and Daniel rolled further back. She understood and turned to walk back into the skate park.

Daniel slipped the van forward to the spot he was in, waited until she had sat back down before turning the engine off again. He could feel her staring at him. He looked at her, smiled and nodded. She nodded back then turned to watch her son skate.

Daniel leaned back in his seat, his eyes scanning the park, watching the kids on deck, dancing on wheels and defying gravity. And every few minutes his eyes would sweep past Karen, noticing a detail here and there, the way she sat, the way her back curved, the way her hair blew forward with the slight breeze.  He felt as if he had always known her and could count on her.

Here there was no loss and no pain. There was no disappointment to be had, no let-downs. She could never betray him the way his wife had betrayed him. She could not steal his son away never to be seen again. And he could still feel some joy to compensate. It was good enough. It was all he could handle, at least for now. It was the best he could do.

And it was good to come home again.

#

 

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Thanks,

 

 

 

 

 

© 2016 William Gensburger www.Gensburger.com

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Is There Anything Older Than The Rolling Stones

page-16-wg-stones

by William Gensburger

On Dec. 1, the Rolling Stones released their first album since 2005, widely applauded as a truly solid Blues offering titled Blue & Lonesome. This latest offering adds to a career of 29 studio albums, 18 live albums, 29 compilation albums and 109 singles.

With a career that began in 1962, there is little doubt that the Rolling Stones have survived the test of time, both musically and in life; although they stand on the cusp of being older than dirt itself.

Rather than review the new album, which has been universally hailed a five out five stars by most review publications, I thought I would focus on the longevity of the band, their many meanderings and the life lessons that they have offered the rest of us.

They have outlasted the Boeing 707 and 747, both long retired, along with the NASA Space Shuttle program. They have outlived many astronauts who walked the moon, half the Beatles, most rock and roll groups from their generation, and more.

Audio cassettes, the computer mouse and silicon breast implants were invented the year the Stones hit the scene. That year the first telecommunication satellite was launched. The milestones amass like so much luggage that it is hard to keep track.

Musically, the Rolling Stones have outlived Reel To Reel, Vinyl L.P.’s, 8-Tracks, cassette tapes, and even the popular Sony Walkman – remember those? They have surpassed those flimsy things into the digital age, MP3 music and, ironically, have lived long enough to see their albums available again on the newly popular vinyl L.P. Records.

All the while the “boys” lived a heavy rock ’n roll existence complete with women, drugs – lots of drugs from weed, to cocaine and heroin – as well as the ordinary alcohol and cigarettes, most of which they now claim they gave up three decades ago! They certainly survived against the odds, despite the weathered faces – Keith Richards’ facial grooves have a similarity to the surface of Mars; weathered, worn hard, but still showing signs of life.

And let’s not forget that they still remain musically relevant.

Front-man Mick Jagger, now a senior 72 years old, is expecting his eighth child.  Collectively the group has 19 children of their own, ranging from one month to 48 years old, 17 grandkids (Mick Jagger has one great-grandson). Charlie Watts has one child, Keith Richards has four kids and four grandkids and Ronnie Wood has 6 kids and 7 grandkids, adding to the adage that a rolling stone gathers no moss.

Blues & Lonesome, which features another icon, Eric Clapton playing on two tracks, as well as a haughty music video for the track Ride ‘em on down that features the rebelliously broody actress Kristen Stewart driving a hot, royal blue classic Mustang while acting like a model for designer jeans, a bit of an odd mix, but who cares; it’s the Stones playing great music and everything else becomes irrelevant.

Word has it that this is not their last album. Like I said, older than dirt and a good thing too. In this age of endless change, some things shouldn’t change.

 

Damaged Goods

There’s no such thing as a free life or an easy death….

Chapter One

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be”  ~ Lao Tzu, 6 B.C

damaged-goodsHeat. Harold Cranston remembered the heat. He had been lying on the table awaiting the procedure, drugged up but not unconscious. The heat hit him first, tearing at his skin as though it needed to be excised from him. Wu, the technician, oblivious to the expression on Harold’s face, had warned him he would feel something uncomfortable, but the words paled to the experience.

“Relax and try to endure,” Wu said, fiddling the dials nervously as though they might be interrupted.  That would be the least of Harold’s problems.

“It’s burning,” he said, feebly.  Jesus, at ninety-two there wasn’t much he could do anymore. The last decade had been spent on a variety of drug cocktails, mind-numbing pain medication, anti-nausea pills, acupuncture and other holistic treatments to fight the cancer therapy.  He had watched himself shrivel up, finally winding up able to function clearly for less than a half- hour each day, and even that only with the help of the benzodiazepines and hydrocodone he frequently abused.

The heat increased and he moaned awaiting the death he knew was coming. He was certain he could smell the skin burning off his body.  The air permeated with the sound of electricity coupled with that malodorous thought, and even though he tried moving – something Wu had expressly told him not to do – he found he was unable to even twitch.

“Wu, you bastard,” he tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. And then blackness dropped around him and he was gone.

“Wake up,” Wu said to him, his voice booming as though he had been yelling. That wasn’t it; Harold could hear clearly now. He opened his eyes slowly, repelling the blinding light, and drew in a deep breath. The overhead light was blinking for some reason. The smell of flesh and the sound of the electricity had gone. Instead he could breathe uninterrupted, free of pain – he hadn’t been able to do that for the last five years. He took in another deep breath and held it before exhaling.

“Amazing,” he said. “Simply amazing.”

Wu leaned over him, looked at the scanners attached to make sure all was as it should be, before removing the lead wires and helping Harold up. He was unsteady, but not in the way he had come into the facility this morning; pushed in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank by his side. Instead, his legs now felt heavy, muscular, not the atrophied pencils he had just left behind. They felt like his legs used to feel when he was far younger and able to sprint the track at school.

That was how he had met Helen – his wife now ten years dead. She had been doing homework on the track benches as he rushed past, his traditional whooshing exhale sounding like a steam locomotive. He had spotted her first before she finally looked up and their eyes met. She had smiled at him.

Already this new body felt amazing; the changes in his DNA that he had requested had obviously been completed, and he felt his heart quicken at the thought of seeing the rest of the handiwork in front of a mirror.

The new body was under thirty years old, grown just for Harold per his specifications, and he had waited until it was stable enough for the transference to take place; placing his thoughts and memories into the vacant brain of the new body, all the things that made him who he was. Was that the essence of a man, he wondered?

Despite the fact that the technology that permitted swapping out a body was less than a decade old, it had become the rage for anyone with enough money.  To hell with the facelifts and the skin tightening; once you could grow a new body from your own DNA, and modify it to your desires, the sky was the limit. You could no longer tell who was young and who was old except by conversation; the real young ones had no experience from which to draw, and their idioms were foreign to anyone over the age of thirty.

Interested in reading more?  This novel will soon be available. Complete the form below and we will keep you updated. Thanks. WG

 

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Signs You May Not Be An Idiot

Signs You May Not Be An Idiot: But Don’t Take My Word For It.


There are many signs in life that clue us in to how we live and what we are doing. This book is a collection of thoughts about life in general, education, family, philosophy, parenthood and everything that you might not discuss in a politically correct manner. The book focuses on the sheer stupidity that pervades so much of contemporary life. It is a reflection of our times.
List Price: $9.99 USD
New From: $9.99 USD In Stock

There are many signs in life that clue us in to how we live and what we are doing. This book is a collection of thoughts about life in general, education, family, philosophy, parenthood and everything that you might not discuss in a politically correct manner. The book focuses on the sheer stupidity that pervades so much of contemporary life. It is a reflection of our times.

Available in print and e-book formats

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Wasp Men:Guts and Glory

wasps-coverI watch the wasp flit around the back yard, checking out the nooks and crannies to be found under the overhang before zipping off. Like a fighter jet coming on for carrier landing, it flies with its carriage hanging low, stinger like the hook on a fighter that grabs the deck wire to stop it from going off the edge of the carrier, only this one won’t be stopped.

Back again it passes my head, menacing because I have been taught that it is territorial and does not give a shit about my territory; and the fact that as spring slipped into summer heat and the onslaught of the wasps proved insurmountable, I was beginning to feel like a minority at a racist rally; always on the lookout for the attack that would be aimed my way, but never knowing where it would come from.

I stared at it through its zigs and zags, my weapon loaded, oozing excess toxins out of the nozzles that I had adapted for this hunt, and caught it in the gunsights, trying for that Mister Miyagi ballet of movements that would allow me to Zen in on the kill; the fucker had to land sometime.

Pulling hard on its ailerons it snapped upward in an illegitimate movement from Top Gun, you know the one where crazy Tom Cruise pulls on the speed flaps and goes from hunted to hunter in under a second. The fucking wasp should be screaming its own kudos by now as it zips past my head for a return maneuver, me reeling from the disorientation of tracking it around the trim and focused in through bad prescription glasses that leaves me wobbly.

And then it stops dead, flattened on an empty and open space of stucco wall; some stupid reasoning only wasps can understand. It waits and I zoom in for the shot that will end it all. Careful. Careful. Ignore the ooze falling onto my open toed flip-flops, the toxic creation of my own design, ready to kill without affecting my children, my wife’s flowers or the daycare kids when they cascade outside to destroy the back yard later in the day.

It waits and I aim, pump, load, pump, load, pump, load – trained for hours with this lightweight weapon of mass destruction my kid loves; I can feel the pressure is primed in the gun barrel and that it will not eject any faster or stronger than at this moment. I also know that after I pull the trigger I will need to keep holding it as I rapid pump this baby to spurt its lethal contents out until the territorial terrorist is soaked and down on the ground where my shoe will formally finish it off.

Across the street my neighbor uses a power hose, shooting directly at the spots where the wasps land and, like me, missing. Even when a direct hit takes place, the water does nothing. A few wing vibrations and they are good for flight again, trying to track the source of attack. You have to keep moving, never standing stationery so as to escape detection.

“Any luck?” he yells out.

“Almost,” I tell him. “I have one pinned down.”

“Good luck,” he says.

I’m ready. I suck in one final breath and pull the trigger, watch as a strong jet of foamy fluid shoots at my prey, missing by less than one wasp hair – an eternity of a distance – that allows the thing to launch off the wall at hypersonic speed toward its attacker. I dodge, flail, stinky fluid shooting off in all directions and landing on my head.

I back up, pumping even more furiously, a vile vinegary foam oozing out in spurts as I wave it around for maximum coverage, missing at every shot. My arms hurts from the repetitive motion.

The wasp detours like Tom Cruise in pursuit, aiming at me, determined to make a kill of its own. I back up a few steps, still furiously pumping away, the wasp dodging each barrage. I am running low on toxin, knowing that one false move and the wasp will be upon me seeking vengeance for the hives I have already obliterated from my yard and overhangs, seeking vengeance like a Jihad in progress, in revenge of its brethren lost in the battle. It does not look promising for me and yet I am unable to give up. I’ve come too far, too embroiled in this war to surrender what little territory I have left.

Finally, one of the last squirts smacks the thing square on, and I can see it coated in my homemade ooze. It falters, tries to shake off the goo, forcing itself to fly at me, but fails as gravity drags it to the ground by my feet. It smacks head first into the concrete by my flip-flop and without hesitation I raise my foot and smear it across the ground. Game over, dammit! You – are – done.

“Well done, you got it,” the neighbor says peering over our common fence. “I’ve yet to make my first kill.”

“You will,” I assure him. “It takes training. You have to think like the enemy or you’ll never survive.”

Out of breath, now, and out of ammunition, I stand exhausted, my pumping arm throbbing at the joints, despite the victory at hand. I look down at the remnants of wasp and know that I have succeeded. But at what cost?

From the corner of my eye I see another figure slip by, and another, their bodies hanging low as they scout my house for a landing site,  then even more wasps as the morning rays of the sun crest over the backyard fence; just a few of the million jihadist wasps that will sooner or later succeed in making a hive that I will fail to find despite all the technology at my disposal.

A sudden blast of water from the neighbor’s hose scatters their formation as they take shelter away from the spray. I stare at him and begin to wonder whether he started this war with his amateur weapon used carelessly at the hives infesting his home. Did he send them all my way? Is this how I became embroiled in this war?
I think back to when it began but cannot remember the day when I first started; it seemed as though I have always been fighting this fight.

Will I be defeated by a numbers game played by an enemy that cares little of my race, beliefs or even my right to exist. And is the neighbor an agent enhancing the wasp squadron’s ability to infiltrate my home? After all every crevice in my home is ripe for insertion; every opening, every under-hang a prime location. And all it took was a neighbor with a hose and a penchant for starting a war that I was determined to finish but couldn’t.

“We should team up,” the neighbor suggests. “We might be able to kill more of them.”

I look at him incredulously. You dumb shit, I want to say to him. You created this mess. Somewhere there is a queen and a superhive and you have no idea the destruction that will follow. I hoped that it was in his house and not my own; but there was no way I would join forces.

In the background I could just detect the fervent buzzing of a million gossamer wings vibrating furiously; wasp engines readying for the day’s mission. The kill was just the dress rehearsal; the scout party, if you will. The mothership was coming in and there was no stopping it.

I dropped onto the nearest deck chair in defeat, allowed the weapon to slip from my hand and onto the floor and waited like a real man, as the buzzing toward me grew louder and louder.

William Gensburger

 

 

Did you like this story?

Shaping Destiny: A quest for meaning in art and life

REVIEW: [Note, this is an unpaid, honest review]

When I first bought this book I expected a simple mix of a life of an artist, Destiny Allison. It only took a page to find myself immersed in a raw journey quite aside from the journey of a sculptor; rather a beautifully written and profoundly expressed reflection of my own life’s questions seen through the eyes of someone I have never met.

What Destiny writes about is life, raw, unadulterated, brutally honest, haunting, and yet somehow poetic in the complex meanderings that brought out, for her, her true self, her passions, her career, a deep understanding of life and death and, perhaps more importantly, of motherhood. It is only after she has run full circle through her past, her pains, the loss of her father and grappling with an understanding of her own self-worth, that she ends in a place of optimistic peace, still taking on challenges, but without the tempest that had preceded it. At the end, it has become a dance.

I had to read this straight through. I could not put it down. What Destiny sees and feels in her art, I see and feel in music, words; what I observe when I hide in a corner and watch the world without the world seeing me. I was fixed to her brutal honesty, the raw pain conveyed without the cliched obscenities or graphic violence we expect of writers. Her words flowed smoothly, thoughts to actions to feelings to emotion, all the while tying the lessons to the threads of her art, her growth as an artist, told in tandem, each leading to the next lesson until she has fully emerged.

Life is pain with love sprinkled throughout. Or life is love with pain sprinkled throughout. There is a lot of sprinkling of both, along with hope and understanding. I highly recommend this book and look forward to her next one. And here I thought she was a sculptor!

William Gensburger

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Shaping Destiny: A quest for meaning in art and life


1st place winner non-fiction/memoir 2013 Global Book Contest.

Shaping Destiny is about the conflicts between who we were taught to be and who we actually are. It drives to the heart of what it means to be an artist while it reveals the sources of art that lie hidden in one’s own personal experience. 
 
This powerful and compelling narrative illuminates the creative process, shows us new ways of looking at and talking about art, and demonstrates how making art helps us discover our humanity an determine our lives. 
 
Destiny Allison is an award winning sculptor and business woman, but that wasn’t always the case.  In Shaping Destiny, Allison shares her story as if sitting over coffee with a close friend. While exploring what it means to fully engage in creative pursuit, she illuminates parallels between life and art and provides valuable tools for navigating the often perilous roads of each. 

If you are an artist, or simply seeking to transform your life, this thought provoking memoir will further your journey by laying bare transformative moments, offering instruction that can be applied across media, and demonstrating the development of a unique and powerful voice.

List Price: $14.95 USD
New From: $12.94 USD In Stock