Release Date: October 26, 2022

Publisher: Hear Our Voice LLC

Joshua Traxon, a former L.A.-based rock star, and B-list reality show fixture left L.A. for small-town Vermont hoping to write his memoir. Escaping a past filled with lies, reckless drunken behavior, salacious backstage tales, and death will push him to his limits, especially as he recounts it on paper for the world to read.

Josh and his frenetic pug Pickle have a routine: Josh drinks away his pain while struggling to write, and Pickle reminds him that he's still alive, with his infectious personality and boundless love. When Josh meets Laurel, his new neighbor, along with her precocious young boy, he'll struggle with that routine as he falls in love, attempting to evolve and reconcile with his boorish former persona. A tragic death that's haunted him for years will fight to pull him back to the edge of despair, but not before Laurel's own life-changing secret knocks Josh off his feet-and deeper into a bottle. Only a journey home, where he'll unearth a forgotten childhood relic, may save him from himself. If it's not too late.

Excerpt

The daylight had stretched itself over the landscape of my front yard, bending off the bright white corners of the outside trim and spilling into pockets that had been dark an hour earlier. A lone beam ricocheted off one of the white gutters that hung from the piece of roofing that covered my front porch, illuminating a patch of grass that was withered and amber in color. In L.A. ninety percent of the grass looked that way, and if you were lucky, you'd get a patch of hunter green, shaggy growth here and there on your lawn, which in total was no bigger than a card table. This particular patch, however, wasn't the result of poor soil or climate, but instead, the ball of wrinkles and eyeballs I was carrying.

When I lived out west, one of the roadies and guitar techs for my band, Jeremiah Stoven—what a name on that guy—showed up at my place with this nine-week-old puppy. It was wiggling and whining to get out of his arms, dead staring me, so he let it go and the dog was about to stroke out trying to climb up my leg. I sat down on the floor, and his wrinkled, smushed-in face released this maniacal tongue that wiped across every inch of my cheeks and chin as Jeremiah told me their dog had four puppies and this was the last one. He knew I was a dog nut and said he wanted me to have it. Ballsy move, just showing up with it, aware that I'd always been enamored with the critters. I hadn't had a dog in ages, so Jeremiah said, “It's time, dude,” and just left the two-pound hairball with me, almost four years ago now. Have to say, it was a near genius move on Jeremiah's part, arriving pup in hand, never letting me get a word in, and then vanishing as the canine was pissing on my Fender jazz bass. The little bugger had some accidents early on, but he was a quick study to housebreaking.

Pickle had decided, for reasons that only his tiny, deranged mind could know, that when he peed in the front yard of his new place, it would only happen on this one, now brownish spot of turf. He’d storm out of the house, perform his ritualistic dance of what I'd always called “devil circles,” where he’d speed in figure eights confined to a small stretch of earth, then explode into random darts and weaves with his tongue dangling and flopping like an uncooked slice of bacon out of the side of his mouth. Then, without warning, he’d make a beeline to ‘the spot’ and take a leak. I guess this lunatic expulsion of energy was formally called “the zoomies,” according to whatever experts study dogs going batshit nuts, and it was completely normal, but a sight to behold. He'd always done the frantic running, zoomy whatever it is, but the peeing on that specific patch was new behavior. Of course, I had just taken a small animal that had known the same home for his entire life across the country and plopped him in a place that looked entirely different than anything he'd experienced. There was one dainty tree in our backyard in L.A. that wasn't any taller than the fence that bordered our property, and now he's surrounded by hundreds that dwarf most of the houses we had on our old block.

Go ahead and take a leak wherever you want, buddy.

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About the Author

Dave Abare was born in Hartford, Connecticut, and has spent most of his life in and around the Connecticut area. He became enamored with writing at a very young age, writing his first book, "Troll Island" at eleven years old. This work was never published, thankfully, but it was the beginning of a passion that has only intensified over his adult years.

His love of music led him to begin a part-time gig as a music writer, interviewing bands for his own "Fanzine" in the mid-eighties, including such Metal icons as Slayer, Metallica, and Anthrax, as well as bands such as Van Halen, Blues Traveler, Motorhead and Big Head Todd and the Monsters for other publications. In the last several years, Dave has spent his time working on short stories, poems, and his debut novel, "The Swing Over the Ocean," which was, in his words, “a bit of a mess” in terms of editing, etc., but an invaluable self-publishing learning experience. Most recently, he's completed work on his second novel, “The Timber Stone,” which is available for pre-order now.

In addition to writing and music, Dave enjoys reading, travel, cars, and Pugs (and all critters), as well as frequenting local New England wineries and breweries, with Tree House Brewing Co in Charlton, MA being his favorite. You can follow him @AbareDavey on Twitter or look for his Facebook Author Page.

Website: daveabare.com

Twitter: @abaredavey

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authordaveabare

Instagram: @authodavect