When two vacationers disappear in the Mediterranean, their friends go in search. The truth is not what they expected—but then, on an island like this, the truth never is.
A Passion
Worth Pursuing
by A.L. Means
Genre: Erotic
Romance
When two
vacationers are reported missing in a sailing accident at a Mediterranean
island, their four friends back in London decide to investigate.
Questions begin with the fact that there were originally three
vacationers—Reynard, Klara and Anton. So which two are missing? Was it a tragic
drowning or something sinister?
As told by the unnamed fourth member of the investigative expedition, this is a
light-hearted and amorous odyssey featuring friends Roderick, Greta, and Diane
as they go in search of answers. Each has theories about what happened, drawn
from past romantic attachments with the missing and fond reminiscing.
Their voyage of discovery leads to island exploration and a climactic bacchanal
in an old fortress. Could jealousy be a motive in the disappearance, as
Roderick suspects? Has Anton, the youthful initiate into romance, rejected the
advances of his two more experienced companions? Or does the island have still
more to reveal?
Influenced by my mother’s devotion to language and literature, I had pretty much settled for the writing life by the time I left school. I started as a newspaper reporter in southern England, but it took a while for me to develop ideas for fiction.
How did you come up with name of this book?
A process of elimination. I wanted a title that reflected the search for missing friends that is a key element in the plot. So it was a case of doing keyword searches and seeing what ideas had already been used. As you might expect, a lot of word combinations are already in use. I’m pleased with the title I came up with. I think it’s distinctive and represents the story well. I hope readers agree.
What did you edit out of this book?
You can probably guess! Like countless writers before me, I changed names, although there are only a handful of people who could guess whom my characters were very loosely based upon. Other than that, fictitious embellishment is mixed with incidents the way I wish they had really been.
Who designed your book covers?
For this one – me, sort of. I’d been saving an image from an online catalog. All it needed was a change in the coloring, which the publisher’s staff duly supplied. Purple is the favorite color of one of the characters. Nails. Lips. Clothes — some of them anyway. So the face on the cover traded in her rosy sheen accordingly. The costumed look makes sense later in the story.
Tell us about a favorite character from this book:
Sometimes a character assumes iconic stature in an author’s mind from the outset. Such was the case with Klara. She’s charismatic, self-assured to a fault, and once experienced she’s never going to fade out of the picture — even if she’s reported missing.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Let me think about that for a while – before I commit to paper or screen.
What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
I find one interesting approach to this is to use characters to speculate about other characters that are difficult to define or explore. As a writer I may find it hard to describe the inner workings of a particular character, but I may be able to make judgments as seen through the eyes of others. That leaves open the option of confirming or refuting those judgments in further developments in the story.
If you could have been the author of any book ever written, which book would you choose?
The Bible. Think of the royalties.
What do you think about the current publishing market?
Bewildering. Never have so many writers chased so many publishing opportunities. Just about anyone who finishes a book can find a way to get it into print. That’s good for self-expression. On the other hand, it means quality control is not what it used to be under the tighter control of the traditional presses. And now there’s the additional challenge of AI-created works. Whether independent publishers, especially in the fiction category, can hold their own remains to be seen. Without them, our reading choices would suffer.
Have you written any other books that are not published?
I have. One is waiting for a response from a publisher. Another couple are needing illustrators. Still others need revision or at least a read through before republishing. I don’t think I’m alone in neglecting the promo and marketing necessities in my desire to write. The result may be that I will take masterpieces to the grave with me, and thus forfeit my rightful due to be hailed as the modern Homer.
Advice you would give new authors?
Read analytically. Experience life. Observe those around you. Rome wasn’t build in a day; don’t expect writing to be otherwise.
EXCERPT
The first we heard about it was through a news agency. A reporter phoned to check details. Names, ages, addresses, that sort of thing.
Those of us who considered ourselves their friends were stunned. We were still getting over the reports of their being missing, and now this.
“Can it be true?” Greta was on the phone almost as soon as I’d finished talking to the reporter. It was good to hear her voice again, even in these circumstances. Since she’d moved back home to Denmark I’d hankered at times for the calmness she seemed to bring to life and, let’s face it, those riveting sapphire eyes.
“It’s all still vague,” I told her. “They haven’t even identified bodies. I’m not even convinced they’ve found them yet. “
“But just two,” she said with rare agitation. “And which two? You think they’ll find the other one?”
“Sooner or later I expect. I mean, bodies, even if they’ve found any, can’t have been far away from the boat, and that part of the Mediterranean is pretty well traveled I think.”
The next day we surrendered to the distractions of stone columns and finely chiseled human appendages. Our pilgrimage to hallowed sites, each one partnered by an interpretive museum, reminded me of childhood Sundays, when the need for rites was as much of a mystery as the rites themselves. It was just something that had to be done. Still, despite the exertion, we paid our respects and by the end of the day were glad we did.
For all our technology, I don’t think we have come any closer to an appreciation of the human physique than those sculptors of the ancient world. Statues and fragments of statues stood on display in all sizes. Some of them looked a little weathered, it’s true, and a few had limbs missing. But you could tell how dynamic they must once have been.
Alongside lofty freestanding relics, glass cases held a menagerie of manikins and, if there is such a term, girlikins. Many were in the most agile and graceful poses, so that you couldn’t help feeling that this was a civilization which really understood bodies and what they were capable of.
We paused before larger-than-life marble figures on platforms and pedestals, and then paced around to see if their rear ends were as appealing as their front exposures. They were. Those smoothly-polished posteriors, we agreed, were the work of people who must have known a thing or two about buttocks.
I will always remember my bedroom at that hotel, but not for any aspect of the sparse furnishings and plain walls. The appeal began with the rectangle of night sky that I surveyed from my bed once the French doors were pushed open and the shutters pinned back.
Calmness permeated that place to an extent that I, a city dweller, had rarely experienced. Outside, the pool and surrounding deck were chopped into still, angular shapes by the light of the moon. The white noise of the tide was the soundtrack of my wine-induced haze, that and the rustle of leaves in what remained of the day’s wind.
Then, as I lay there that night, there came the slight blips of approaching feet. Pebbles were dislodged and there was the light slap of soles on pavement, followed by the scratch of branches on clothing as feet descended into the patio outside my room.
I guessed who to expect before his outline eclipsed my view. To be honest, I was in two minds. A visitation for a second night running seemed a bit of an imposition. On the other hand, the initial experience had not been unpleasant. Much of it, as already mentioned, had merged with my dreams, so that I had woken up that morning unsure whether my passions might have been triggered by some auto-erotic fantasy.
Sitting up in bed, I prepared myself to speak.
“Look, I don’t think we should do this again,” I was going to say. It sounded feeble even as I concocted my challenge to him. What was the harm? No one need know…
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About the Author
A.L. Means grew
up in Britain and has lived in or near Phoenix, Arizona, for over 30 years. He
has authored fiction and nonfiction in various genres, using different pen
names, and has spent much of his working life as a journalist for magazines and
newspapers.
His fiction includes a self-published novel entitled Shine Like The Sun, a set
of short stories, Foreign Ways, and two tales suitable for readers of most
ages, The Trouble Upstream, loosely inspired by a childhood favorite—The Wind
in the Willows, and a fanciful fable, When Rabbits Ran Rampant.
As Andrew Means, he has written biographies of novelist and essayist George
Orwell and the rock group Pink Floyd as well as Some Memories, a memoir about
the childhood of the late Country-Western singer Marty Robbins, who lived in
the Phoenix area before and after World War Two.
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Author Links
Website: https://meansal.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100065021108954
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/a.l.means/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/A.L.-Means/author/B08YWR7S9M
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6995811.A_L_Means
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