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| Michael Paul Fuller, Author THE BAD POET |
Reviewers tout
Michael Paul Fuller’s THE BAD POET as “original” and “romance, a bit of mystery and
definitely thrills” as well as “funny, serious, mysterious and heart warming.”
Fuller himself credits its originality to his plot that revolves around
characters participating in a chatroom—not an often-used ploy—but concurs that
it is a “mystery,
thriller, romance and adventure story.” His reviewers also applaud his
characters “which
are tightly framed and are filled with passion.”
Fuller
has written “and thrown into a drawer” many stories but also published Chronicles of a Nappi Head subtitled
Tales from the Back of Your Mind. Mostly, he just likes to write. When he’s not
writing, he enjoys golfing, gardening, and coaching middle school basketball.
He lives in Atlanta with his wife and family where he is working on a sequel to
THE BAD POET.
Don't miss the excerpt following his interview.
Q: Reviewers
describe THE BAD POET as “an exciting, original book.” What makes it
“original?” How did you conceive of it? Is it a mystery, thriller, romance
and/or adventure story?
Michael Paul
Fuller: I
think it is original because I haven’t read a novel that revolves around the
internet chat room. I thought of
the idea because my cousin would visit me and go into my office to get on my
computer and chat with people in the chatrooms. She would chat for a long length of time. She shared many stories with me about
the conversations they would have. She even told me one time they kicked her
out of the chatroom because of her fowl mouth. I thought that was very interesting so I decided to write a
story about people communicating in the chatroom.
I
think my story is all of the above.
It is a mystery, thriller, romance and adventure story.
Q: Your
reviewers also applaud your characters. They are “tightly
framed and are filled with passion.” What makes us embrace your characters and
care what happens to them?
Michael Paul
Fuller: I
think they care about the characters because they are ordinary people. They enjoy talking in the chatrooms and
they are involved in interesting relationships and to top it off the main
character is a poet.
Q: How do you make your characters
and plot “believable?” Do setting and back-story contribute?
Michael Paul
Fuller: I
make them believable by making my characters similar to people that I know and
have known in my life. In this
particular book , the setting does contribute because the story takes place in
Chicago, which is my hometown.
Q: How do you mix the elements of
“thriller,” “page-turner,” “suspense”, and “mystery,” with those of “romance,”
“heart warming,” and “funny?” Are you able to use the suspense side of your
story to build the romance side and vice versa?
Michael Paul
Fuller: Well
I start off developing relationships between a woman and a woman, a woman and a
man, a woman and her daughter. I then add the suspense and the mystery to the
relationships.
Q: How helpful is the concept of
“villains vs heroes” to tell your story? Would you characterize your
protagonist as a “hero?”
Michael Paul
Fuller: No
there isn’t a hero in the story but I do consider the protagonist of my story
to be a villain.
Q: How helpful was humor in
developing your characters and telling your story?
Michael Paul
Fuller: Humor
was very helpful in developing my characters. My villain had to have a sense of humor so that he could
entice the lead character. He
wanted her to fall in love with him so that she could help him work out his
plan.
Q: Did you write THE BAD POET
strictly to entertain readers? Or did you also want to educate or deliver a
message?
Michael Paul
Fuller: I
wrote the story to entertain and to enlighten the reader as to the dangers of
the chatroom.
Q: Can you explain your title THE BAD POET without revealing too much of your plot?
Michael Paul
Fuller: The
Bad Poet basically describes the main character. She enjoyed writing poetry and wrote often, however her
poems weren’t very good.
Q: What’s next?
Michael Paul
Fuller: I am
presently writing a sequel to the book THE BAD POET. I am also writing a play.
Q: Tell us about Michael Paul Fuller.
What do you like to do when you’re not writing?
Michael Paul
Fuller: I
love playing golf. I am a gardener and have vegetables and herbs growing on my
deck, I coach middle school basketball and I plan on becoming involved with the
2016 Presidential election in some capacity. As soon I figure out who I want to win I will try and become
a part of their campaign.
About Michael
Paul Fuller
He was born in Evanston, Illinois and
received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science and Sociology in 1977
from Southern Illinois University. Now, Atlanta is home with his wife (Sheila)
and family.
He had written many essays and term papers
throughout college, where Plato’s Republic
and Machiavelli’s The Prince, along
with Dr. King and ‘X’ ruled his time and efforts. But it was Richard Wright’s Native Son and Steven King’s Stand that brought him into fiction.
They gave him the gumption to sit down, be patient and create characters and
let those characters take him to different times and places. His writing would
begin without knowing which direction the characters and plot would end up,
which for him was the most exciting part of the creative process.
After some time had passed his first story
was finished, and was not read a second time. Instead, he threw it in a drawer
unedited and unseen by anyone. Then, another story was written and finished and
again tossed into the drawer of no return.
So what was it? Why did he continue to write?
For him, it was the time spent alone in his writer’s closet with not a soul to
direct his path. He closed his eyes, then bent and twisted plots and characters
to go as they pleased and do and accomplish whatever possibilities. Now, after Chronicles of a Nappi Head, comes his
first novel THE BAD POET.
About THE BAD POET
You never know about people. Human
predictability is the singular thing that mathematicians and scientists cannot
calculate with 100% accuracy. The human chemistry ebbs and flows from second to
second where only one thing is certain, and that is unpredictability. Just as
in one’s own decision making, where life’s twist and turns will eventually
dictate your final decision, sometimes even when you know it is the wrong
choice. The time an individual spends on earth is as small as a tiny pebble
tumbling down the Grand Canyon. We should spend it as wisely as possible by
measuring each day, hour, minute and second given to us. Life is a fleeting
spirit and with each breath worthy of congratulations as it is given only by
the grace of God. We must cherish it, and nurture every moment as our
transitory time marches to an end. An end that man has been studying, writing
songs, creating stories about and trying to beat, since the beginning of his
existence.
The tragedy of 9-11 changed many things for
Americans that will never be the same. In the cloudy days soon thereafter,
Carla King’s husband disappeared without a trace and she was left with their
daughter to survive. After their divorce, she was living a mundane life one day
at a time when one night while out with friends, she runs into Cutino Grigsby,
her mister right. From the start, time spent with Cutino was adventurous and
lustful, gregarious and fanciful free. They danced the Marengo on the Bay of
Biscay and flew with the doves over mountains of joy. Their impromptu travels
to faraway places and gifts from Cutino blinded her from any negative judgments
about him. His physical appearance was striking and his confidence brought her
security and made Carla take a note of admiration. But it is his deceit that
teaches her the most, as her renaissance man will bring changes into her life
that she never anticipates. She must hang on for the ride towards a crossroad
of life which could land her in deep water, or even her demise.
Experience her journey and enjoy the ride.
Excerpt
Carla
King
‘09
I
yelled at the top of my voice to the jogger, or at least he was thin like one.
But at this time of night, who knew. He could have been a burglar or an addict
running from some ill-conceived crime, then fleeing to his freedom. But at this
point, I had to take a chance. So I pleaded to him, “Help me! Help me!
He
slowed for an instant, turned and peered over at me, taking a step in my
direction. But as if stuck in cement, he stopped in his tracks, recoiled back
around and took off running again, only this time faster. Damn, I thought, he’s
running away from me.
Despair
welled up inside of me. Once again I called for his help, then twisted around
to see the nightmare closing in for the kill. The jogger must have seen him and
wanted no part of our mad theater. Even so, I tried to enlist him to join in,
petitioning him to be my hero. Again, I yelled for him to show compassion and
rescue me. “Stop! Stop! Help meeee!”
I
turned to see the shadowy horror gaining on me with each second. I spun around
in hopes that the jogger was coming back. But the slim exercise freak was long
gone, his schoolboy physique flying down the gloomy side street, probably never
to jog at that time of night or down that path again.
I
angled around the corner dashing past closed retail stores and barren alleys
hoping to bump into the jogger’s path again. Seconds later my stomach churned
with a sour sensation and while running, I vomited. My lungs burned and my
kidneys cut into me like my insides were trying to digest thumbtacks. Suddenly,
a pain shot through my foot as if it was hit by a hammer. That’s when I
realized one of my favorite black Juicy Couture sling-back pumps was missing.
The cost of three hundred and seventy-five dollars flashed into my mind, the
most expensive shoes that I had ever purchased. At first I overcame the initial
shock of pain and just kept running, but soon it became a throbbing ache which
slowed me down, but still I continued to drag the bashed foot along.
My
breathing was short and rapid, while the throbbing pain from my shoeless foot
challenged my will to the point that I was about to give up and take a stand.
Truth be told, I was at the end of my physical ability to continue. However, as
quickly as the thought of giving up had crossed my mind, it disappeared. I
refused to let this happen to me and become a victim, so I dug deep into my
soul and with every ounce of strength left, commissioned my body to continue
the escape for survival.
I
whirled my head back around and saw that my pursuer had stopped running, too.
He was power-walking towards me, evidently tired as well, but nonetheless
determined to finish what he’d planned.
The
crackling sound like exploding Wildcat firecrackers rang out again. The slugs
bounced off the brick walls of the closed stores and sleepy condominiums and
whizzed past my head, so close that I felt the hot metal singe the hair from my
ear. Nothing had changed; he was still resolute on disposing of me.
Hobbling
down South State Street, struggling to keep from giving up, I squealed out
again for help, still hoping that somebody would rescue me. Like one of those
bobble head dolls that sat on the dashboard of some young Mexican kid’s leisure
van, I kept a vigilant eye on the killer imp, constantly rotating my head back
and forth, looking for some kind of escape.
There
it was, a sidewalk sign that stood a little taller than my five foot
seven-inches, used for advertising Tommy Gun’s Diner and Theater valet was
tucked away in the restaurant’s entrance. I ducked into the corridor, folded
myself into a ball and hid between the modern A-frame sign.
The
sorrow of the moment consumed all of my thoughts and emotions. Why me? If I had
just stayed home that innocent evening, all of these tribulations could have
been avoided. As I thought back, it all began that trouble-free night not so
long ago…
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