Imagine,
if you will, a music venue. The place is packed. The support band has just
finished, and now we are waiting for the roadies to get the stage ready for the
main event. It is here that I catch up with author, O. F
Marz.
While we quickly head to the bar to grab ourselves a drink, why don't you take
a look at O.F Marz's latest book.
Satan's Courtier
Bill and Jenny Mancini set off on a
vacation to Jackson National Park located in the beautiful state of Virginia.
Their idea is to catch a ride on the Appalachian Trail and enjoy some of what
is to be a huge mountain bike event. Their plans go awry when one of the
contestants in the race is killed in an accident and they have to shut the
event down.
Then they meet Skinner.
A vacation and a break from the
mundane turns into survival and tests the limits of their relationship with
each other. In the end, it proves one thing. Even hatred in the hearts of
others cannot break their connection.
***
MY: It is a pleasure to meet you. I think we just about have
enough time to do this interview before the band starts! Can you describe your
journey to becoming an author?
OM: I had started a project entitled “365 Ways To Be A
Bassist”. It was based on some works I was reading at the time; daily
inspirationals and such. I was on my way to building up my faith and I thought,
“Shoot, I can do that. I can write an inspirational; something that would pick
people’s spirits up on a daily basis.” So I set off to it. Out of 365 days, I
only got about 40 done. Yeah, it’s harder than it sounds. Then I got a call
from my Dad. He had set plans to visit his sister, my Aunt Bea, in New York.
Her health was deteriorating and he wanted to spend some quality time with her
before the inevitable. So, I suggested he take a copy of this with him. I
printed it out and explained to him it was to be read one day at a time and to
let her know it was my contribution to her feeling better, just a little bit.
It was genius. Each day was entitled with some play
on words in music theory. My personal favorite, “Just because you can keep a
beat, doesn’t make you a drummer.” How is that inspirational, you ask. The core
of that thought was to let the reader know that, “Yeah, we all drop the ball.
It’s gonna happen. It’s what you do to get yourself back up again.”
So when my Dad came back from New York, he was blown
away. He hadn’t read any of it before going, but when he had read a couple of
days to her, he was impressed. So was my Aunt. They both pushed me to start
writing and really get out there. My Dad encouraged me by showing me some of
his early work. He wrote some poetry, fiction, unpublished, of course. He also
did some local history work for our church. Much of his writing is in the
church’s archives.
I figured, why not.
Let’s see what happens, I thought. So I set to it. Starting out with the idea
of something I enjoyed and knew a lot about, cycling, I got to thinking. What
would happen if you went to a mountain biking event and something tragic
happened? And boom. The core of Satan’s Courtier was born.
MY: It is great when family members are so encouraging. What
does your average writing day look like?
OM: Fueled by coffee to the right of me, split screens on my
laptop with notes on one side, Microsoft Word on the other with jazz music;
either Duke Ellington or Billie Holiday, in the background. Mostly in the
evening, that’s when I write.
MY: Are there any authors that you particularly admire?
OM: James Patterson, Stephen King, Oscar Wilde, Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, Edgar Allen Poe. Why? They all have one thing in common. They can
paint a picture of a scene, an event, and have you actually visualize it. The
way these people write makes you feel you are right there with the characters.
Also, there’s a certain edge; almost hypnotic how they draw you in and you have
to find out what happens. You become addicted, somehow, to their writing and
their stories.
MY: Could you tell us what you are currently working on?
OM: Oh, you guys are gonna love this. I have a great deal of
passion towards the house I grew up in. It still stands, but for how long, who
knows. A family lives there, but it is in need of work. This is my attempt to
make this house carry on after its, and my, demise. So here it is.
The current working title, “In The Dark Soul”, tells the
story of a very evil woman, this sister of the original owner that passes away.
She takes over the house after he dies and becomes the scurge of the area.
Children fear her, adults hate her. Fast forward twenty or so years, we meet
the total opposite. The young couple that buys the house are the perfect young
couple; they’re trying to start a family and it just doesn’t happen. Until one
day, the man gets a promotion, she finds out she’s pregnant. They go out to
celebrate only to get in a massive car wreck and die.
In comes me. Well, the littler me. Our family buys
the house, and as I am born in 1971, we’re there for about 10 years before we
move to a less negative part of town. By 1980, this area is going downhill. But
before we do move, we get “visits”. We experience things; strange noises in the
attic, voices, etc. My Mom sees fit to get a medium inside the house. This is
where we “meet” the young, good couple. We find out they wanted children so
much, they start following us around. This part of the book is based on true
experiences I can attest to. And that’s just the start. More to come.
MY: Wow! That sounds amazing. Do you have any advice to those
thinking about writing a book?
OM: It would be just this. Write to make yourself happy. You
aren’t going to get rich, you won’t make everyone happy. Just write for
yourself. Walk away from a project knowing that if one person is entertained,
you can’t go wrong.
MY: Good advice. Authors are often portrayed as cat owners and
drinkers of coffee… Is this true of you?
OM: You’ll have to forgive me. I need to set my computer down
to go clean up the coffee spill my cat, Tank, just made.
MY: Lol! What does your perfect day look like?
OM: Tuesday. My Wife is off and as of late, that’s quality
time day. We have a chance to do stuff as a family once the boy gets out of
preschool. The daughter is still in school, though.
MY: What would you say is your biggest vice?
OM: I’ve quit a lot of things that are bad and have gone to
puttering with tech and gadgets. I fancy myself the family IT guy. It comes in
handy when a cell phone goes wrong somewhere. Learning some coding this year.
MY: If you could meet anyone from the past who would it be and
why?
OM: Edgar Allen Poe. It would be awesome to sit down with him
and discuss his inspirations, dreams, likes, dislikes, so on.
MY: Where do you see myself in five years?
OM: Probably very close to where I am
now. Though, I have plans to colaborate with my daughter on my children’s book
series. She will be doing the art. I would like to see that take off. But yeah,
I’ll be working everyday still writing as a hobby. Not trying to get rich, just
writing for that one person that enjoys my work. Gotta keep your fourteen fans
happy.
MY: Thank you so much for answering my
questions. I think the band is about to start, before they do, could you share
an extract from your book.
OM: Of course.
Book Extract
“What are you going to do to us?” screamed Jenny.
She couldn’t see anyone, but she could tell someone was there, the light was
awful. She heard breathing next to her, she was pinned against what seemed to
be a wet, maybe stone or brick wall. The breathing was strained, almost
restricted. She couldn’t tell who it was.
“Bill, is that you?” she asked
nervously. No reply. “Bill…” she began to talk louder, not knowing who it was
or even if he was around. “BILL!” she screamed. No reply. Suddenly, a voice
came from nowhere, her heart jumped a beat because the only voice she wanted to
hear was Bill’s, but it wasn’t his.
“Scream all you want,” a deep,
coarse voice said. “He can’t hear you. Did you enjoy your nap?” She still couldn’t
make out whose voice it was, so she tried something.
“Smith, is it you?” Jenny asked.
Laughter from across the dark cave echoed.
“No, it’s not your loving Smith. Oh,
I nearly forgot. The name’s not Smith. It’s Skinner. Smith is easier to say
when you have a mouth of chewing tobacco.”
“What happened to Bill?” she asked,
with a sobbing sound to her voice.
“Well, it’s like this.” He paused,
thinking. “You don’t remember anything, do you?” he asked, starting to laugh.
“No, w—wh,” her words becoming more
difficult to say, the thoughts of something terrible that might have happened
floating to the forefront of her mind, “what happened?” She finally was able to
muster the words.
“Let me bring you back up to speed,
girlie.” He put something down on the card table next to him; Jenny couldn’t
see what it was. Skinner slowly walked close to her, maybe three or four inches
away. His eyes traveled from hers, down her face and meeting at the rest of her
body. Skinner woke himself up from a fantasy and walked back over to the card
table. “Once we got back to the office, Bill, your loving husband had a case of
bravery and we had to cure him of it. He started fighting back because, after
all, he was right. He screamed something about being kidnapped for my own sick
twisted pleasure and came at me with a hammer he found on a desk. My .45 took
care of him. I plugged about three or four shots into him and ohh…,” he said
with a great deal of sadistic joy, “you should have seen him bleed.
Strawberries couldn’t put out something so red and so sweet.”
Her crying became more intense, both
with the loss of her man, but also with the wondering of what she would have to
endure.
“Why don’t I remember?” she screamed
as she was crying.
“You don’t remember because you
started freaking out and I couldn’t have my children misbehaving, so I had to
discipline you. Is your headache more meaningful now?” His tone had contempt
and hatred she had never seen or heard before.
After he was done talking, she
evaluated her physical state; a great pain just above her left eye, she was
finally able to see a portion of her clothing, blood covered the left front of
her shirt. She thought maybe she had been hit by a bullet, and then she
realized it wasn’t from her, it was from Bill’s gun shot wound. As soon as Bill
was shot, she held his head in her lap, these memories were finally coming back
to her. Of course, she was passed out when he moved her from what was the
office to this dark, musty wet place with hardly no lighting. Her survival mode
kicked in and she calmed down, knowing she had to think like him to survive his
means.
She looked around, taking mental
notes of her surroundings. She saw daylight to her left, but she couldn’t see
any opening. She plotted a map in her head. Knowing she was in a cave of a
sort, more than likely still on the park property, she envisioned the opening
to her left, an area inside the cave close to 1200 square feet, shaped like and
‘L’ , the entrance way to the cave forcing you to take a right into the larger
area. But who was the other victim, struggling to breathe to her right? While Skinner was off doing something, all
she could hear was him muddling around, walking back and forth mumbling to
himself, she looked more intently to her right and saw a face, dirty and
bloody.
Where can I purchase
this fabulous book?
About the author
Born in 1971
in Battle Creek, Michigan. I am a session bassist, author and work in Inventory
Management. Married for 19 years to my Wife, Heather and father to two
wonderful children, Jenna Rae (17) and Mason (4). Oh, we have a cat, too. His
name is Tank.
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