Stephen Metcalfe

It’s been about four months now since my novel, Attachment Patterns, was released by the publishers.  Okay, four months and thirteen days, 23 – no, wait, 24 minutes and who knows how many seconds. But hey, who’s counting?  How’s the book doing, how many copies have been sold in the last four months, you ask? 

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Newsflash.  Amazon has now limited the number of books an author can self-publish on its Kindle website to three a day.  Their concern is that some authors are using Ai services to generate manuscripts and then they’re posting them on Amazon to sell.  Well, thank goodness these “authors” and their Ai buddies are limited to three a

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My lovely wife is now walking dogs with me.   We rise.  We get the chip off the old block son and the beautiful daughter off to school which is like dragging burros out of a barn and now, because the wife feels that Juneau, the canine jet pack, and Mully, the canine garbage disposal, also

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                               Well, here it is.  Yes.  Cover #3 newly edited by the publishers for my novel Attachment Patterns.  It should be noted that cover #1 was described in an otherwise positive review as “the worst book cover in the history of mankind”.  The publishers took this to heart and immediately insisted on some changes —

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Is it an improvement?  I think a little bit.  I’d still like to see some breaks in the frame itself.  It would suggest broken, not yet repaired, relationships.  Thoughts welcome.  By the way, the novel has gotten some good reviews on Amazon.  I’ve posted some of the below.  I’m grateful for them – thank you!

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Written for Racquet Magazine – NYC – 1981 It was situated on a bluff that overlooked a lake surrounded by small cottages. It was quiet there, often deserted. The pine trees, Maine pine trees, as tall and proud as redwoods, formed a windscreen all around it and gave it a natural backdrop of green. It

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  When he was sixteen years old, my son, along with the boys and girls on his high school swim team, did the Sharkfest Swim.  Alcatraz to the wharves of San Francisco, one and half miles in cold, turbulent, shark infested water.  I still shiver and quake at the thought.  Six months later, he and

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