Community Corner

Hampton Bays Resident Publishes E-Book, Fallen Flower Child

Fallen Flower Child by Robert Lovett is available on Amazon.

While many authors struggle to get their words into print, Bob Lovett of Hampton Bays has taken a different approach.  Rather than publishing his latest novel, Fallen Flower Child, in paperback, he opted to go with the latest craze — e-books.

Currently, his book is available on Amazon.com’s Kindle and Barnes & Noble’s Nook.

“It is the fastest way to get a book out there, said Lovett, who is a former Catholic school English teacher. “It is also a good way to test the waters when most publishers won’t commit to an unknown author.”

Find out what's happening in Westhampton-Hampton Bayswith free, real-time updates from Patch.

Lovett imagines his novel will sell well as nearly 5 million people now use an e-book or e-book app for the i-Pad. And the price of his novel, since it’s not in print, will also boost sales; he said it's just $8.49 a download.

He added that just about every baby boomer would relate to the storyline and at least two characters in the book.

Find out what's happening in Westhampton-Hampton Bayswith free, real-time updates from Patch.

Lovett, who works with his brother’s landscaping business in Southampton, says he drew inspiration from his life as a teen in the 1960s. “It is very similar to my story,” he said.

The book, he said, is in the form a deathbed confession from one of the three main characters.

Aside from telling a story of passion, mystery and murder, the book is loaded with 1960s cultural references and history, said Lovett.

“The 1960’s is a very nostalgic period,” said Lovett, who holds a master’s degree in English literature from St. Johns University in Jamaica.

Lovett says that it is his best work to date; he previously self-published a book that he printed only 100 copies of — distributing just to family and friends.

“I didn’t feel I was quite there until Fallen Flower Child,” said Lovett, who said it has been his life-long dream to publish a popular novel.

And what’s next for Lovett? Possibly, he said, a sequel to Fallen Flower Child.

The following is an except from Lovett’s Book, Fallen Flower Child provided by Lovett.

I, on the other hand, have had a very long time to examine MY life, and I must confess that it has been nothing but one unending, living nightmare since that awful day so long ago---that momentous day when I stood at the crossroads of my life and  purposely chose the darker “path not followed.” But telling you that story is still a bit off.  I will get to it in time if you are just a little patient with me. I figure that I have still got a couple of months left with nothing better to do than to confess and to die. It will help to pass the days in this filthy, roach-infested, garbage-littered Manhattan apartment which I still call home. They say that confession is good for the soul. I am curious to find out whether that is true or not. My reckoning day has certainly been a long time in coming! Of course, I don’t actually believe in a “soul” anymore. “Soul” is merely a word that the ancient Greeks made up in order to explain how we humans are able to think and to form a consciousness. Despite their age-old wisdom, the Greeks knew next to nothing about brain-functioning.  I do, however, strongly believe in Heaven and Hell, but my belief is not in the conventional versions. Heaven and Hell are Here and Now on this big, blue planet of ours in each of our present lives! Heaven and Hell are what we make of our lives and HOW WE CHOOSE TO LIVE THEM!  I am intimately acquainted with Hell on earth by now, because a Living-Hell is what I have made of my life! Yes, Hell is the place where I have barely survived, subject to the tormenting harpies of body and mind for the past twenty-five years!

I plan to leave this confessional memoir on my apartment desk after I die. It will serve as my message to the world, and to ONE special person in particular. I have always been too cowardly to go to the authorities with my confessions. Perhaps by leaving this lengthy statement as my last will and testament, I will have made up in some tiny way for my crimes of commission as well as omission. Do not worry about my having gotten away with anything!  Justice has already been MORE THAN rightly served! I have paid the ultimate price for my crime a thousand times over, here inside of my self-made prison. I have never really required any kind of institutional punishment. Imprisonment would probably have even been the EASY way out for me! What I have done to MYSELF the past few decades is far more tormenting then any sentence a civilized judiciary would have handed down against me. An impartial jury would have had, at least, a modicum of sympathy for me and, perhaps, have had some understanding of WHAT I did and WHY I did it.

While we were engaged in pulling my luggage from the car, two enormous jocks with buzzed haircuts walked past, leered at Bel and then disgustedly shook their heads at me. I overheard one of them say “Dirty Hippie” to the other as they passed us. I realized, much to my relief that they were only referring to Bel. Although my hair was unconventionally long, my sparkling Nordstrom white shirt, Ralph Lauren tie and immaculately-pressed Calvin Klein khakis made up for my flowing hairstyle. I promised myself that my precious blond locks were the one thing I would never sacrifice in order to blend in with my future redneck roomies. I knew that I was presently in for enough deception, and I wanted to retain at least one physical manifestation of my inner, un-conventional self.

“Well, pardner, this is where we have to say goodbye,” Beth volunteered. 

We had deposited all of my suitcases before the sliding, double-doors of the men’s wing of the ugly, squat, square brick box that was the new jock dorm.

Beth leaned in for her customary kiss, and I pecked her on her cheek. I silently prayed that nobody was watching me “make out” with a “dirty hippie chick” from some window in the three-story façade of the red, non-descript dorm building. I knew that I would probably never be able to live that down with the jocks, despite my infinite, well-practiced capacity for continual, ongoing dissembling. I had probably been a Shakespearean actor in one of my former lives!

“We’ll get together soon,” I promised Bel.

“Probably not for awhile, Buddyboy. The coaches keep me very busy with their training schedule. Then, of course, there’s gonna be classes and homework. You and I will hafta settle for an occasional lunch and some of our shared classes. Besides, my absence from your life now might help you make some new friends. A little… separation wouldn’t hurt MY social life either! The last thing I need now is for people to start concluding that you’re my boyfriend or something!”

“Fine!” I petulantly replied. I had missed Bel tremendously the past month. We had been together almost every day of our lives up until that August. Her parents and my parents had even often vacationed together in the Hamptons before Bel’s father had died of pancreatic cancer. I certainly did not appreciate Bel’s newfound streak of independence from me.

Bel merely smiled, shook her head and got back into her van.

Father insisted upon having J drive our brand new Mercedes coupe when the morning of our departure for the Hamptons finally dawned. He cheerfully informed us that we could keep the small, sporty car for the entire summer. My dad assured J that he would be able to use his Mercedes sedan for driving back and forth from work.           

Father looked downbeat, and mother shed some tears as they watched J and I descend from the front porch of our townhouse. We flung our suitcases into the small, back trunk of the sleek, black car. Then, we put down the roof and sped away up the street. I looked back. My parents stood there together, solemnly waving us off. J never once glanced behind him, a character trait I was to later find very costly to me. He was thoroughly enjoying driving the fast, well-tuned machine, hurtling his way ahead into new adventures and an unknown future. Unlike me, J was not the kind of person who relished any ties to “the good old days.” He lived purely in The Moment. His restless, anxious nature was continually compelling him to move on and to keep his eyes glued to the new horizons opening up ahead of him. I should have realized that at the time. Perhaps, I could have swerved a bit to avoid the tragedy which lurked ahead of us in the oncoming days of our golden, sun-drenched summer in the Hamptons, but, as I have written before, I was simply too much in love to objectively notice anything negative involving Joseph Blanchard.

J and I skidded to a halt at the end of our street to pick up Bel. Bel was all smiles and laughter as she rushed down her townhouse stairs and leaped over my closed door to land in the Mercedes’ small back seat. She was wearing her customary tight, tie-dyed tee-shirt, bells and sandals. Her granny glasses glittered in the warm, strong sunlight. She looked beautiful and very, very sexy.

When my story takes place about forty-five years ago, however, the Hamptons were still relatively unspoiled by the invasion of the Wall Streeters and their cheap imitators. When we finally pulled up in front of Bel’s dead father’s studio, I was once again reminded of the sheer natural beauty of the area’s fabled environs.

As I said before, Bel’s small, simple, glass-sided box sat on an un-landscaped acre surrounded by a large expanse of open potato fields. The house was only a quick walk from the beach. On that sunny June afternoon, we all could hear the roar of the Atlantic Ocean the moment that J turned off the Mercedes.

“What the hell is all that noise?” J inquired.

We all remained in the topless car, basking in the brilliant sunshine, absorbing the special Hamptons’ clarity of the cloudless sky arching overhead.

“That’s the sound of the ocean, you dummy!” Bel happily chided.

 


Get more local news delivered straight to your inbox. Sign up for free Patch newsletters and alerts.

We’ve removed the ability to reply as we work to make improvements. Learn more here