Joseph Pinto has been touring the internet, supporting his novella Dusk and Summer. Dusk and Summer was written as a tribute to his father, who he lost to cancer in 2007. Given that the subject matter is so intensely personal to Joseph, we wanted to know why people should pick up Dusk and Summer and delve into its story. This is what he told us…
Dusk and Summer; An Investment From The Heart
Joseph A. Pinto
If there is anything I’ve learned as an author, it’s this: if you write with the sole intent of selling books, chances are you won’t achieve your desired level of success. Rather, a book should be written from the heart so that the reader will invest their time in its story.
I believe that readers will find my novella Dusk and Summer a unique experience. I lost my father to pancreatic cancer on June 28, 2007, and in the months that followed, I honored his life the only way I knew how – I wrote for him. My father loved the ocean and had once been an avid scuba diver, exploring many shipwrecks along the bottom of the New Jersey shoreline. I took this element of his life and crafted it into a fantasy tale. In the process, I realized I had done much more. The pages before me spoke of the incredible pain over losing a loved one, the anguish of one’s inability to alter fate. But they also spoke of something far greater; hope, and the realization that sometimes a goodbye is not as final as it may seem.
Dusk and Summer shares the tale of a dying father who whispers a cryptic message to his son: “Must find me…she…come back from Tolten.” A race against time immediately commences. How does the Tolten, a freighter sunk off the New Jersey coast by German torpedoes in 1942, factor into the realization of the father’s wish? Who, exactly, claims the identity of the mysterious she?
I’m extremely proud that my story has allowed me to keep an eternal connection with my father even as I’ve managed to help others deal with the grief of losing a loved one. It’s a role I never would’ve expected, but one I now relish.
Continuing to honor of my father, I’ll be donating a portion of all proceeds from my book to the Lustgarten Foundation for Pancreatic Cancer Research. I hope that through the Dusk and Summer, as well my own awareness campaign, I can play a small part in finding a cure for this horrible disease.
For me, there’s no greater investment than that.
Thank you Joseph. Now let’s take a closer look at Dusk and Summer… There will be an excerpt to follow as well!
When his dying father whispers a cryptic message to him, he has no choice but to summon his courage and begin the quest of a lifetime. It’s a race against time to realize his father’s wish and fulfill his own destiny; it’s a discovery of the unbreakable bond between father and son. It’s a journey of the heart that unfolds where only the Chosen exist – in the moments between Dusk and Summer.
“A poignant, metaphoric conversation between son and father. A story that will warm your heart.”
–Yvonne S. Thornton, M.D., bestselling author of The Ditchdigger’s Daughters
The author will be donating a portion of the proceeds from this book to the Lustgarten Foundation for Pancreatic Cancer Research.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Joseph A. Pinto is the horror author of two published books and numerous short stories; he is a member of the Horror Writers Association as well the founder of Pen of the Damned, a collective of angst and horror driven writers. Indulge in his unique voice on his personal blog josephpinto.com and PenofTheDamned.com. You can follow him on Twitter @JosephAPinto. Joseph hails from New Jersey where he lives with his wife and young daughter.
There’s a Giveaway too!!
Sirens Call Publications will be giving away digital copies of Dusk and Summer by Joseph A. Pinto to 5 (five) lucky winners! Follow the link to enter for your chance to win!
An now an excerpt from Joseph Pinto’s Dusk and Summer…
Numb to the core, I curiously watched the foreign appendages attached to the steering wheel. To the left, to the right they twisted, occasionally jabbing at the directional to signal a lane change. My mind had dulled since leaving the hospital for home to collect some things before hitting the road, rendering me a puppet, aware of my actions but oblivious to whom pulled at my strings.
Lifting a shaking hand to my feverish brow, I wiped at sweat trickling down my temples, pooling under my eyes. Before me, the parkway yawned endlessly toward a shimmering horizon. Each weary glance into the rearview mirror revealed splintered, black asphalt crumbling off into the bowels of the earth. The sky above seemed to buckle, and I tensed, expecting at any moment for it to fracture like a thin pane of glass. I strained to hold myself together. Oblivious of the road, I threw my face into my hand as the first sob pinched the soft flesh of my throat. I suddenly lost the strength, the will, to keep at my journey, to remain upon the intended path. What did it matter anyway? My father lay dying and now his limbs, his very hands that served him so loyally his entire life cruelly betrayed him. I could not bear his agonizing erosion any longer and yet, day after day, I stood witness to it all. Helpless. Useless. It was not supposed to be this way. My father was only sixty years old. Too many Sundays remained watching and discussing football, Friday nights out sharing drinks like college buddies. Too many opportunities to call and ask him over my house to help fix stuff. Any kind of stuff. It did not matter, as long as he was there. And grandchildren? Did he not deserve to someday hold my child? Someone… please tell me this was a heartless prank. My father… only sixty years old.
Horns blared. My body became my own once again. My head snapped up, and I swerved recklessly back into my lane, clammy hands wringing the wheel. Took a deep breath.
Too much time remained.
I expelled the wind from my lungs, and for a sickening moment I thought I had struck an animal of some kind as it crossed the parkway, its tortured wail rising higher and higher within my truck until my ears popped and my eyes bulged. But it was me. Only me.
Time slipped away.
“Come on, Dad! Come on, Dad!” My fist beat upon the steering wheel. Eventually my howls subsided. My fever disappeared. The drone of the truck’s tires pacified me. I cracked the window for some air. “I’m not giving up,” I whispered to the open road. “Don’t you.”