"Love's Compass"- NEW from Kung Fu Treachery Press!

The New Year of 2020 has started off with a bang for me! On New Year's Eve, a bundle of author's copies of my latest book, Love's Compass, arrived on my doorstep! It's from Kung Fu Treachery Press, an imprint of Spartan Press. It's an act of love in itself, and many thanks are due to Jason Ryberg and his team for all their hard work.

Small presses are indeed multiple acts of love, and I definitely had the easier part in this. All I did was write the poems, and that happens whether or not they find homes beyond my file cabinet. Jason and his gang did an excellent job of editing, layout and design, and I couldn't be more pleased with the result.

I feel like the potential sappiness of the title is mitigated by the stark cover, which is based on a photo I provided, one of those old flip phone creations with the a Stone Age filter applied. The poems do deal with love, both romantic and pedantic. It's a mixed bag, but I think I'm safe in saying most of my work deals with love of one kind or another. The romance enclosed here isn't linear, nor is it entirely satisfactory. Just like in life.

I have a very few copies left onhand (they are selling amazingly fast!), but for once, I can refer interested parties to both Amazon (https://www.amazon.com/Loves-Compass-Cheryl-Rice/dp/1950380769/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=Love%27s+Compass&qid=1578756419&sr=8-3), at present without cover art, and Barnes & Noble (https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/loves-compass-cheryl-a-rice/1135682036?ean=9781950380763), divine justice there in that I was employed by the chain several lifetimes ago.

Feel free to review on either site, although a major goal of mine this year (I hesitate to use the work "resolution") is to backtrack and review online all the books of my friends and acquaintances that I've read and enjoyed but neglected to promote adequately. So, if your one of those folks, no pressure at least until I've made good on that.

20th Century Dreams in a 21st Century Literary World

On the drive home yesterday, after a particularly trying few months and an especially “challenging” day at work, my mind drifted again to one of my favorite fantasies. There is a space now in the lower Rondout area of Kingston, my current city of resident. It’s a leftover from the days when Rondout was a thriving community in its own right, with businesses up and down the Creek, supporting the D&H Canal business. It’s a two-story, brick structure, with a storefront on the bottom, and living quarters above.

My Beloved and I visited the space about a year ago, when the current residents were trying to make a go of a vintage/thrift shop thing. It was full of intriguing items, but without a theme or energy to unify the business. In fact, we only stumbled on it during one of our evening wanderings around the odd maze of streets in that part of town. Too far past the current business district to attract attention on its own, the shop was quiet. We enjoyed our browse and headed on.

On another drive recently, we noticed that what little activity had been going on in the space was gone. We were not surprised. Both of us being old hands at retail, mainly on the corporate level, it was clear that either start-up funds were low, or the shopkeepers underestimated the power of word-of-mouth advertising.

It was that space that wandered into my tired fantasies yesterday. All the careers I’d pondered in my early years have pretty much become obsolete. Newspaper reporters, teachers, novelists all struggle in a way that didn’t exist when I was planning out my life. Independent bookstores had their day and seem to be struggling back to take their place in some small, hip towns, but often feel the obligation of a “hook” of sorts, beer or coffee, live music or toys. In the ancient economic models that still linger in the deep recesses of my pockmarked brain, I still dream about a bookstore.

I remember the sunlight streaming into the tall windows at Ariel, the slate floors slick with dust and curiosity. Norman Levine’s treasure trove on Route 28 was a destination for a rainy Sunday afternoon, filled with the brilliant odds and ends that only a used bookstore can boast of. And Manny’s Lounge, the long-lost piles of paperbacks, whimsically priced according to the big man’s mood.

There will never be another Manny’s, mainly because of pesky fire codes, but more than that. Manny was a bombastic huckster. One went there for art supplies and low cost reads and came out with a world of knowledge a la Manny Lipton, whether or not they wanted it. His daughter still runs the store, by the way, but without the tasty stacks of books that made passing through the aisles as challenging as climbing the Gunks.

These places were my homes away from home. In a good bookstore, I could escape the confines of my various body states, the ravages of love, and browse the lives of others, often at little to no cost. How one might keep the doors open and the lights on with such a business these days is beyond my scope of expertise. The quiet I seek in such a space, the thoughtful conversation, the gentle dusting of the shelves—all these would be bad for business.

I could acquiesce to a monthly open mic of sorts, perhaps passing the hat and giving away one flavor of coffee. I could even sell a few toys, book related of course. Book signings might help the bottom line, too. I salute those who made such shops viable for so long and envy the times in which they made their magic. I may take another drive past the shop of my dreams soon. And then head back to Barnes & Noble, itself no stranger to the shifting sands of paper and ink. And, I can dream.