Why do I write Novels?


Frankly I do not know for sure, but I am certain that each novel writer has his or her answer.

Many writers say that the novel writes itself. Yes, but…that answer begs the question. Maybe the need to write novels stems from the lonely child syndrome. There were no playmates around so I played with my stuffed animals, gave them voices, characters, faults and put them into situations. Later they became people given a virtual life through my imagination. They are historical figures, alter egos and doubles, and their lives did not end when the words The End appeared on the last page because I think about them constantly, just like real people, friends or enemies, lovers or folks that are just passing through. We writers create and live with ghosts, not the returning dead, but the constantly alive with strong or tenuous links to reality, to our pasts and presents, to our hopes and fears. Writers are never lonely, there is always somebody looking over our shoulder, administering advice, reprimands or praise, treating us as the hollow reeds with pen holding ability to get their word through. Writing is a sort of catharsis, the pathway which Joyce alluded to in Ulysses. « We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-law. But always meeting ourselves. »




“Night Cream” SOON

Jessica Connors is not just the super entitled only child of a well-to-do family. She is evil with super rich ambitions. Obsessed by losing her drop-dead-gorgeous looks, Jessica decides to milk a few droplets from her vampire boyfriend Cortes and package it into a crème de nuit, Transformation. After all, why be vain in vain? Vamp blood’s the new Botox. But what happens when the scam dawns on Cortes? You can’t say “drop dead” to one who already is. What is the definition of a happy ending? When the fair maiden is saved or when the vampire rises up(in rebellion)? Who is the more evil of the two?


couv NC© cover Alain-H Guyot

Read a free excerpt from my zany, hilarious, irreverent, outrageously politically incorrect novel, Night Cream. And tell me where I went wrong or got it right on my blog.




“Thirty two Acres of Paradise”

Once upon a time, there was a lovely old house in Southern France, just outside the busy port city Marseille…

Once, in fact, in 1940, this lovely old house that had been boarded up for years, opened its doors to a bizarre “tribe” of Parisians, led by an even weirder individual, an American called Varian Fry. Fry leased the Villa Air-Bel which became his headquarters during his daring rescue mission in the twilight months after the fall of France but before America’s entry into the War. Fry’s protégés included some of the greatest artists of the 20th century (Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wifredo Lam, André Breton) who were fleeing Paris and were temporarily stuck in Marseille.


Read a free excerpt, click here