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| Kindle edition $0.99 cents only. |
I'm happy to announce we have author John Watson as our guest here today.
Q. Where do you come from?A. I am from Los Angeles the inner city of Compton CA. But
I was born in Springfield Illinois.
Q. What made you write this book?
A. I've always been big on the paranormal, sci fi, surrealism.
It's interesting to see how much more depth you can get out
of a book when you go beyond ourselves. I like how it
makes the past and the future so much more accessible to me as
a writer.
Q. Which authors have had a significant influence on your writing?
A. The two who had the most are Dickens and Baldwin. They’ve both shown
a light on human disparity and the abuse of power.
Q. Do you like to listen to any music while you write?
A. I love to listen to both music and sometimes a good talk show. On
the talk show side, I listen to KTLK with Randy Rhoades
and Tom Hartman. They are extremely knowledgeable and intense.
Q. What do you think of the changing world of electronic books?
A. I think that it's great for those who know how to use the net.
There are so many great sites that could help a writer if you
put your nose to the grind stone and study the sites. Be
persistent with them.
Q. Do you have any other books you can talk about that you’re writing?
A. I am writing a book I call Mad. It's about a strange sister who
puts her brothers in harms way, using dreams of her evil
grandmother and using crazies on the streets.
Q. If there were three books you could only take to a desert island what
would they be?
A. Richard Wright's The Outsider, Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Damn,
and Baldwin's Another Country.
Q. What advice do you have to offer other aspiring authors out there?
A. If you're in school, don't drop out to write the great novel. Stay
there and get those needed connections. Be around people who can
help you get noticed. I'm definitely going back for that reason.
Q. Is there anything else you would like to say about your self and
your work?
A. I would like for my name to be synonymous with the paranormal and
social consciousness as well. I remain interested in how the country
has changed since the days of Ronald Reagan and I would like to write
fiction about the shift of attitudes his period brought about. I want
to show how much less feeling we are towards fellow Americans.
Thank you John for visiting with us today.
Q. How can readers find you and follow your progress?
or
Goodreads - Book Club.
Product Description
A child with clairvoyant abilities is conceived during a sexual attack. The child's spiritual mentor; an antebellum slave has a mission to reform a militant extremists group now terrorizing a community. The story centers on confrontations between members of the extremist group and the clairvoyant as he carries out the spirit's orders. It comes to a climax when an antagonistic spirit/mentor, also a slave in his lifetime, manifests itself in the home of the once converted militant resulting in his return to militant behavior, hence his self-destruction.
Reviews
Though many of the main characters in this novel are disturbed, angry and violent, through his skillful story-telling the author shows us the root of their pain. --Customer review --Customer Review
Good observations into human nature and good story telling is what curiously allows an extra glimpse into these characters thoughts, which transport you to the place in time, and entice you into the story to understand the depth of what they are feeling, making this book an enjoyable page turner with some insight into life in the 70’s. --Customer Review.
Here is a free excerpt from John Watson’s novel, This Child Will.
Chapter One
It was approaching twilight as Cherece Guiles sat at the bus stop waiting for the number fifty-five to take her from what always felt like the middle of nowhere to her apartment, not that far away, but still a rather lengthy walk. She recalled the length of time she had spent sitting in what was becoming a blistering chill when suddenly from out of nowhere, a woman dressed like a streetwalker appeared and sat down next to her. She recalled feeling the eyes of the woman looking at her before finally speaking a word.
“Do you have a cigarette, baby?”
Without a word or a second thought, Cherece reached inside of her purse and produced a pack,smacking it lightly to force one out. She turned her head as the prostitute took it. It was then when Cherece experienced what sounded like the voice of a woman in her head. She then turned to the streetwalker, Cherece with a puzzled expression.
“Did you say something, ma’am?”
The prostitute responded with nothing more than a sick, throaty laugh before standing up and sashaying away with cat-like grace.
It was immediately after her departure when the man named Bill entered into Cherece’s soon to be damaged life. He was, of course, polite and extremely well mannered there on Birmingnorth Avenue, a quarter of a mile south of where the assault would take place. From what she could remember, it did seem quieter than the norm in that part of the city. And now that she thought of it, he seemed to fit that quietness; white, humble, speaking to her with so much charm, so much sensitivity. She thought of his superior, assertive walk as he headed towards her, proud, unafraid of the place or of its people, how, judging from his ready smile she concluded that he was a stark contrast from those around him. There in a disheveled city, he stood, spotless in his sky blue, polyester, flair bottom pants and beige fly collar silk shirt, the fashion for the better part of the seventies. Something about him made him seem overtly contented, well bred, suburban in a city stereotypical in it’s blackness, uncommonly desolate for any place in America. People pushing shopping carts along the streets to transport their goods from the store to their home, stray dogs rummaging through the toppled trash barrels, and at least three or four liquor stores, all within a one-mile radius. Cherece always lived according to the lessons her elders taught her, one of which was not to trust the people in her home town of Holtsville, California, the hoodlums in their bandanas and khaki pants, the dregs who’d neglected life’s spiritual factor.
This man, however, was certainly not from here. He was too professional looking. He must have been an attorney or a judge in a court of law, someone just passing through to view how the inferior half struggled from one day to the next. He must have been a doctor or a college professor at USC or UCLA.
There was no doubt in this woman’s embarrassingly innocent mind that he was the true measure of a man, especially compared to all of this! She looked in the mirror across the room where, suddenly his image appeared, the mouth curling into a wry smile, the eyes childishly malicious, peering into her soul and somehow seeing all it lacked. The harsh sensation of fingernails clawing the small of her back left an indelible mental impression. And though it was far different from her first sexual experience, only three years earlier, it was easy to equate the two. He was also an older man, inexperienced in love, lacking in the passion she expected. But with him she could see herself as a gift, not the object of spite.
He said, “It’s a shame, miss, how we’re taught to disregard so many beautiful people of the world.” And he shook his head with a look of deep contemplation on his face.
“You know, I’m the type who can sense inner beauty, especially in a woman. If there’s a speck of it, I can sense it in a minute.”
He spoke, like a well-honed actor, the baritone, round and flowing. Cherece was his captive audience and she showed it in the light of her eyes. She showed it in her voice that became deeply sensual.
“Oh, so I guess you’re one of the good guys; that you’re on the side of us underdog minority ladies.
“I’m just more human than my daddy would have preferred, I guess.”
“But, Christ isn’t liberalism so yesterday?”
“Oh no, Miss, not for the aesthetic mind.” He let his eyes drape her body. “Yes sir, it is aesthetic,
indeed.” He waited for Cherece to turn her head before staring down at her perfect breasts and biting his lip. Her undulating hips fascinated him as the tight, black, woolen skirt accentuated their shape, like those he’d eyed around the clubs he frequented, looking for a female who’d managed to stray from the crowd. He looked down at her well-rounded thighs, like those of a trained runner. Yet this one would only run so far. He liked her platform; open toed shoes as well as the shape of her toes, short, feminine, well manicured. He relished the thought of a handful of that enormous Afro in his hands when the two of them were alone and there was no one to stop him. And, if she were the woman his criminal intuition said she was, that time would be soon. Cherece felt the mellowness of joy welling inside of her. She threw back her head and the laughter rang in the air.
“So, it seems we’re on the same wave length, ma’am.”
“My name is Cherece, baby. Stop calling me ma’am.” She laughed again. It was adorable, infectious, the most adorable and infectious laughter he’d heard from any of his prospective victims.
He said, “My name is Bill.”
“Oh, Bill. ‘Bill The Liberal’,” she laughed again.
“Okay, then, I’m a liberal. Maybe I should start by liberating you.
“Oh, so you’re going to liberate me, huh.”
Please note: If buying soft cover or hard copy books, they each were given different book covers. This Kindle version is only $0.99 cents.
