I was curious to read Jordan J. Scavone’s Young Adult Urban Fantasy, Night Warrior. This author has also written several books for much younger readers, which I’ve also read, so I was curious to see how his imagination would evolve into a longer, speculative work for older audiences. I was not disappointed. I was immediately drawn in when I discovered that the main character was female. Gender opposite writing is a technique I’m pleased to see more writers utilizing. Imagination excels when authors step outside of their normal touchstones and investigate character emotions and thoughts in this way. Mr. Scavone’s ability to become his main character as he told us this story was fluid and believable. The magical elements were also intriguing. Artifacts of both good and evil drove suspension of disbelief, bringing new layers of power to the factions that wielded them. The environments Jordan designed were also quite interesting. Three very different worlds; one physical, one we only know by inference, and the last embedded deep in imagination. These worlds compare and contrast with such vitality that it’s easy to imagine traveling between them. My favorite locale, not surprising to anyone who knows me, was the bookshop. I always get sucked into a story the minute a bookshop or library is mentioned. Extra points to Mr. Scavone for feeding my greatest love inside his story. Most memorable, however, was the technique of bringing us a terrific puzzle through a complex narration sequence. This book is written primarily in first person, from the main character, with multiple assists from other strong characters who often vie for the reader’s attention. The fantasy comes to life as we are invited to live directly in the experience of being a fledgling author, with all its gifts, quirks, and curses. The parallels to real-life writer’s block and the frustrations of knowing - and not knowing - what might come next in a book one is writing makes this a story perfect for anyone who writes, no matter their age or process. This is high fantasy, presented in an urban setting, and meets all the criteria to fit the genre. There are magical artifacts, special potions and spells, a hierarchy of power, sacred societies, and exotic beasts. Also true to the genre, there are plenty of battles, and a few were fairly intense. Mr. Scavone has done his research on stage combat, as each fight was step-by-step visually believable. My only critique for this book is that I would have preferred more emphasis on the backstory and the emotional and intellectual “emergence” of the main character rather than the many moments of combat. I’m far more interested in the psychological elements of a struggle than the physical… and I recognize that I am in the minority among Young Adult Fantasy readers. The ending left me wondering if this book may be the first in a series. If it is, I will watch for the next book, and read it, too. I would also be interested in reading a prequel… should such a thing ever come into being. Thank you, Jordan, for a fun romp through a writer’s imagination.
4 Comments
What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?
None What is the first book that made you cry? The Outsiders, when I was a kid What is your writing Kryptonite? Lack of confidence. Do you want each book to stand on its own, or are you trying to build a body of work with connections between each book? I wrote one book that is definitely a stand alone book. How did publishing your first book change your process of writing? I cant say it did but publishing it changed how I would approach sales. I would do more pre-marketing next time. As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal? Eagle. What did you edit out of your books? (keep it family-friendly, please) Passages that I was told seemed judgmental or preachy. What one thing would you give up to become a better writer? I was really happy with the outcome, I wish I was a better marketer. What is your favorite childhood book? The Secret Garden. What is the most difficult part of your writing process? Editing was harder for me than writing. I had no lack of ideas or writer block, making my thoughts clearly understood was where I had challenges. What is the easiest part of your writing process? I had no confidence for years and wrote probably half of the book in my head; so for me, writing down the content was easy. The editing, marketing was/ is harder. A common misconception entwined with authors is that they are socially inept, how true is that? Not at all for me. I’ve spend 20 years in outside sales so I’m the opposite. When did it dawn on you that you wanted to be an author? When I realized that I had an important message that really needed to be heard and could potentially change lives. Who are your biggest literary influences? John Steinbeck. What’s your favorite movie which was based on a book? Why? The Help. I loved the story and love a story about strong women. How did it feel when your first book got published? How did you celebrate? I was relieved I finally got to the finish line. I wasn’t sure if I would ever finish. I didn’t celebrate but I finally told my family about it. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case I dIdn’t finish. What is that one thing you think readers generally don’t know about authors? Some of us didn’t dream of writing a book but just felt compelled to tell their story. When it comes to research for your books, are you a hunter or a gatherer? Talk about your research process. More of a hunter. Could you be housemates with your characters? Why or why not? Yes- they all remind me of my 20 something year old self in some way. All 13. What’s your typical writing routine or schedule? I work full time and have kids so I take a notebook and write at small intervals typically while I’m waiting for them. Writing can be an emotionally draining and stressful pursuit. How do you recharge? Unfortunately, I was recharging by taking week long breaks which is not a good idea. It slowed me down tremendously. Do you prefer music or silence when you write? Do you have a writing playlist? What’s on it? I need silence. Which celebrity would you choose to narrate your audiobook? Emmy Rossum What well-known author, living or dead, do you wish could be your mentor? Why? Allice Hoffman, I am amazed by her writing style. What is your favorite of the six senses (touch, taste, smell, sound, sight, intuition) to write about, why? I'd say based on my book, touch. The book is about what happens when kids touch and have regrets. What is a favorite location you’ve written about? Have you visited that place? How did you choose which details to include? Not really applicable but I’m from NJ my whole life so I feel like my story would be based on NJ girls. Travel back in time (without negative effects for you or the timeline) what year do you visit? Why? I’d say 1969. I was alive, barely, and would like to see in person what life was like. What is something about your hero or villain that drove their character, but you didn’t specifically tell your reader? I have 13 characters and what drives them all, and me, is the desire to inform others, to prevent people making the same mistakes they made. Have you ever resuscitated a project you'd shelved? What helped it work better the second time around? Nope. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to write a novel and it didn’t go anywhere. What do the words “literary success” mean to you? How do you picture it? I picture thousands of young people reading my book and passing it along to others. Success would mean people read the book, learned something, and decided educate themselves more before making a decision. Can you tell us about your current projects? For now, I’m focused on marketing this book. I have ideas for other books but I can’t spread myself that thin with a career and family. Any advice you would like to give to aspiring authors? Don't’ spend years talking yourself out of it. Put pen to paper and see what happens. Please provide links and/or instructions about how readers can purchase signed copies of your books. My book is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and BookBaby.com I’d be happy to sign any book requests People l can find me on Linkedin. Last week, my friend, Joan H. Young sent me a challenge. Joan is on a year-long hike across several States, which, for the record, I think is the most courageous thing I've ever seen anyone do. She began this amazing journey at the beginning of December 2021, and she's already logged 954.5 miles! She keeps us updated on her progress and the interesting things she sees along the way with a daily blog post. This is tremendously comforting for me. I like to know she is safe. Along her journey, she came upon two old wooden cabins in the woods. She thought there might be a story in them, and challenged me to write that story. So, of course, I accepted the challenge. It's the least I can do to support her amazing quest! Stay warm, Joan. Stay safe, and enjoy your amazing adventure. I'm looking forward to talking all about it with you when you return! The Wedding Quilt by Diana Kathryn Plopa The cabins were old, older than any other building I’d ever seen. Even though there were some slats missing in the siding, and I was sure a strong wind could topple them easily, I was grateful. I’d been on this route for at least two hours, avoiding the dedicated trail, desperately trying to find a place to hide. Wintertime is no time to be out in the elements unprotected, but I would rather fight the specters of snow and ice, with the threat of losing my fingers and toes to frostbite, than face what made me run. It wasn’t a choice any rational person would make… but rational thought isn’t something prisoners know. The sun falling toward the horizon insinuated night’s approach. But I had no idea how fast that might happen. He took my cell phone, my wallet, and my watch. Walking toward the sun as it got darker meant east, I thought… but who knew? Orienteering class from scouts was decades ago, and I’d long since given up on adventures that didn’t involve carefully planned itineraries and four-star hotels. The snow started to fall again, and despite my concern about spending the night with rabid rodents, I walked closer to the largest of the two cabins, hoping for a bit of respite until the morning. If my luck held out, he would give up the search, chalk up my disappearance as a minor inconvenience, and give up. For the record, I have never been a lucky person. I thought the door might fall off it’s crumbling hinges when I pushed through the entrance. There was no sound, but the wood vibrated the strain of movement through my hands and down to my elbows, as I pushed against a snowdrift to squeeze my body through it’s opening. I turned back before letting it close behind me. The snow was falling harder now, soon my tracks would vanish. A helpful thing to dissuade him from following, but a frustration when I thought of a rescue team who would be hindered by the same. I stepped across the threshold, and pushed the door closed, resting my back against its fragile planking. The rhythm of my breathing resonated through the door and traveled along the walls as the entire room seemed to inhale and exhale my anxiety. My stocking feet were numb, and probably blue or white by now, but I didn’t dare remove the covering. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to remain conscious once I saw myself in the beginning throes of decay. Grateful for the blanket I’d snatched before climbing out the window. I was thankful that he’d allowed me to dress in sweats, rather than the flimsy lingerie from the night before. I chastised myself for kind the thought. He didn’t deserve it. My eyes moved around the room as the dwindling light revealed what I was sure would soon become my tomb. Sparsely furnished with what I assumed was Civil War era poverty, I was reassured that Fate’s string would be cut here, with nary a whisper of argument from me. The place was empty with no signs of life… not even tiny footprints across the snow-covered floor. It would seem even the rats knew this was a lost cause refuge. In an act of foolish desperation, I felt the mantle above the hearth, my hands like clubs, pawing across the years of decay in search of anything that might improve my situation. I’m not sure what I was looking for but doing something felt better than doing nothing. Miraculously, I discovered an old tin box. When I opened it, small sticks of wood with crimson tips laid before me in soldier readiness. “Matches!” I said aloud, my voice becoming lost to the insulation of winter’s blanket. Quickly, I closed the box and tucked it in the pocket of my hoddie. I dropped my blanket and grappled for the ladder-back chair that stood on its side just a few feet away. Even though the wood was brittle with age, it still took nearly all of my energy to break it apart, using my foot to stomp on it. Finally, I had firewood. “Now, what to use for kindling?” I looked at my blanket. It was the logical choice. But, if it didn’t work, I’d be worse off. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m probably going to freeze to death, anyway.” I arranged the wood in the fireplace as a sort of tee-pee, and wrapped the blanket around the outside, leaving a small opening in both the front and back for the air to circulate and feed what I hoped would soon be raging flames. Before I lit the thing, though, I needed more wood. “This little bit isn’t going to be enough to make it through the night.” Exhausted, I crawled on hands and knees through the cabin, and into a small adjoining room, which I quickly discovered to be a bedroom. It was surprising. The cabin didn’t look large enough for a second room from the outside, but then, I didn’t take the time to walk all the way around. I found another chair, and two old, faded quilts on a decaying mattress laying upon a cast iron bed frame. Most of the batting was lost, but I thought these two together might make up for the blanket I was about to burn. I struggled to my feet, scooping up the quilts from the bed and dragging the chair behind me, using it for a bit of stability as I hobbled back to the hearth. Upon seeing my tiny bonfire preparations, hope and a bit of rationality returning, I swapped out my newer blanket for one of the ragged quilts. After breaking up the second chair, I dropped to the floor and draped my blanket around my shoulders. I slid the second quilt under me, wrapping the extra end pieces over my lap. It wasn’t a tremendous physical difference, but in my head, hope swelled. It’s crazy to think how the brain will fool us into a false sense of security when we are offered the tiniest bit of possibility. I pulled the match tin out of my pocket and cradled it in my hands. I opened the box and counted. “One, two, three, four, five… Five chances to get warm. Five chances to not die. I hope I don’t screw this up.” I scooted a little closer to the hearth, and leaning in, my nose nearly touching the baby bonfire tee-pee, I struck the first match. “One.” Nothing. I dropped the spent match inside the hearth and tried again. “Two.” Nothing. The second dead soldier followed his brother to the bottom of the hearth. “Okay, they say three’s the charm. Let’s hope they’re right.” I closed my eyes and struck the third match. A tiny flame erupted but died before I could get it close to the fringe of the blanket. “RATS!” I inhaled slowly, trying to calm and steady my hands. I scooted a bit closer, and this time, held out the tin so that it was almost touching the fringe of the quilt. “Let’s try this again.” I focused my vision, blinking a few times to be sure I was seeing the world correctly. I took a deep breath and this time with eyes wide open, struck the next match. “Four.” Again, a tiny flame exploded, and this time, caught the thin threads. The fire slowly began to travel along the bottom of the quilt. Heaving a sigh of relief, I blew on it a little bit, adding whatever confidence I could to the fire’s life. I tucked the tin with the final match back in my pocket and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. As the flame ate at the old quilt, some of the chair wood also began to burn. My little fire was beginning to grow, pushing a small billow of smoke up and out the flue. Warmth pushed itself toward me, and my hands began to ache as blood once again made its way to my fingers. I felt a little light-headed and found it difficult to keep my eyes open. I steadied myself, pushing one hand to the floor. The fire had taken hold now and was dancing before me in a reminder that perhaps death wasn’t right around the corner. “Oh, I’ll probably still die, but at least I’ll be warm when death gets here.” I thought about the smoke becoming a beacon for my assailant to find me, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to be warm. I threw one of the slats from the second chair on the fire and felt myself swaying in dizziness again. I no longer had the energy to sit upright, and in a slow-motion moment my face flushed, and I curled myself into a fetal ball, my face finding the cold floor, my vision fading to black. **** “That’s when I found all of you here, standing around me as if I was an exhibit at a museum.” My voice was raspy, and my vision was still slightly blurred as I tried to recognize the people staring at me, their faces glowing in a warm illumination from the hearth. “Who are you?” “I’m James Coffrey, and this is my wife, Anna, and our two children, Abigail and Charles.” He reached for my hand and helped me to a nearby chair. Anna brought me a blanket and draped it around my shoulders. It was heavy and warm. Abigail handed me a mug of tea. I blinked several times, pushing the tears of being found… being rescued… from my eyes. “What is your name, Miss?” “I’m… um… Valerie…” “We’re pleased to have you in our home, Miss Valerie, but we’re a little startled and surprised about how you got here.” James continued to talk, his words reaching my ears as indistinguishable mumbles. I sipped from the mug in my hands and looked around the room as James spoke, recognizing the cabin, and realizing that it was somehow new. There were no worn slats through the siding and there was no snow upon the floor. Glass sat in the window holes, and a delicious aroma of stew floated through me, stimulating my stomach to lurch with a growl of insistent hunger. “How… Where…” I began to feel dizzy again. Anna reached out a hand to steady me in the chair. As I regained my balance, I took another moment or two to look around the cabin. Everything screamed old America. I was in a small cabin, just two rooms, from what I could tell. Under the window, stood a dry-sink sideboard with a pitcher and bowl for washing. The family’s clothing, their shoes, the style of furniture… all clearly hand-made. The open hearth had a cook pot hanging above the log fire, and finally, a sepia-toned photograph of President Lincoln in an oval wooden frame placed prominently above the mantle. In elegant script, the caption read Inauguration Day, March 4, 1861. This wasn’t just an off-grid tiny house. This was a cabin, and a family, from another time. “James, can’t you see the young lady is famished? Let your questions be. She needs to eat. Abigail, please bring a bowl of stew for our visitor.” Abigail, who must have been about eight years old, replaced my mug with a bowl filled with meat, potatoes, and vegetables, steeping in hearty broth. Charles, who may have been five or six, handed me a spoon. “Thank you,” I said feebly. I raised the spoon to my mouth and felt the stew’s warmth fall through to my stomach. I took two more spoonfuls as the family watched in silence. “There, that’s better,” said Anna as she looked to her husband. “You can’t expect a person to speak with half a brain unless they’ve got at least half a stomach.” She sat in the chair next to me. The others joined us at the table and began to eat the bowls of stew Abigail set before them. After a few minutes, James offered me a slice of bread, and again asked, “Who are you, and where have you come from?” “I’m Valerie Thompson, I was being held captive by a man… I escaped out a window and ran. I got lost in the woods and found myself here, at your cabin… but it was different. Everything was different…” I looked down to notice that my hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants were gone. In their place was a long dark blue muslin dress, white apron, and black lace-up boots. “What happened to my clothes, did you dress me?” I asked, reaching up to my head and feeling a muslin bonnet perched there. “Of course not, my dear, we would never do such a thing,” said Anna, a bit flummoxed by my suggestion that they would be so forward as to take away my clothes. “This is how we found you, huddled in front of the fire when we came in from the fields. “Who is this man you say kept you prisoner?” asked James. The look on his face was all worry and seriousness. “Doug… Douglas Grady… my… husband.” The family grew statue-still and just as silent. “Why on earth would your husband keep you against your will?” Anna looked to her children, sitting silently, eating their supper as a mild disgust fell across her face with concern that I might be a poor influence on their young ears. Wives didn’t escape from their husbands, after all. It was scandalous. “He is my ex-husband, actually,” I told them, regret dripping from my words. I set the bowl of half-eaten stew on the table. “A judge granted us a divorce last year because he was beating me.” My face grew dark at the memory of his brutality. “He came for me three days ago, vowing to get even for tarnishing his name and forcing his business clients to pull their contracts. He builds houses. No one wanted to work with him since they found out what he did to me. He took me in a revenge-fueled rage…” My voice trailed off into the foggy place words go when you can’t find the energy to say them aloud. “How horrible,” said Anna, as she made the sign of the cross. Her face changed to concern for both me and my soul. James looked to me with a gentle strength. “Well, you are here with us now. He won’t hurt you again.” It was a promise I knew I could believe. “But we need to get you back to your home. I’m sure there are people looking for you… family…” “There is no one,” I said, a tone of finality in my voice. “I have no children, or siblings. My parents passed away four years ago, in an accident.” I picked up the bowl of stew again, and helped another spoon bring energy to my exhaustion. “Besides, I’m not sure where I am.” Or when. “I don’t know how you would get me home.” “Well, surely, you know where you were when you were taken? We could go back there,” suggested Anna. She noticed that the children were finished with their supper and gestured for them to go to the other room. They did as she asked, without a word. Quiet obedience, I thought, taking another few bites of stew. That’s not normal. This is not my time. “Where is your home?” asked James. “Perhaps we can help you find your way back.” He stood from the table and walked to a small desk in the corner of the room, returning with a hand-drawn map. “Now, this isn’t official, but this map has got me out and back enough that I know it works.” There was a hopeful confidence on his face as he unfolded and smoothed out the paper before him. “What town are you from, my dear?” “Lewiston,” I said, finishing off the last of my stew and bread. I set the bowl on the table and waited for James to find the town on his map, although I knew he wouldn’t. Lewiston hadn’t become incorporated until 1891, thirty years after where I believed I was, or rather, when. I felt a sense of calm knowing that Doug wouldn’t be able to find me… but what now? “Hmmm… I don’t see it on the map, but that’s not unusual. As I say, this is not as accurate as it could be. How long have you been traveling, perhaps we can find your town by the distance you traveled?” James was trying hard to be useful, but I knew the futility of it. “I… I can’t remember. I collapsed in the snow on my escape. So much is a blur, I’m just so grateful that I was able to find your cabin before I froze to death. I’m sorry.” I hung my head in sincere apology and sadness. I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself here, in this place and time, and I wasn’t sure how I would manage… but I knew the first step would be acceptance. “I don’t think we’ll be able to find it.” Tears began to roll down my cheeks. “Well, there’s no need to fret about it. You’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.” Anna looked to her husband, covering the hand on his map with her own, and drawing compassion from his heart. “You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you like… perhaps one day, you’ll remember. But until then, you shall find a home with us.” She moved her free hand to cover mine, and James nodded his agreement. **** Thirteen years later, I sat at the kitchen table, helping Anna prepare for Abigail’s wedding. Winter came early, and we struggled with making a headpiece of dried Black-Eyed Susan and Goldenrod. Late year weddings were unusual, but Abigail’s parents couldn’t deny her love simply to have a nice party in the Spring. Her suitor was a butcher, a nice young man, named Noah Taylor. He was very kind and promised her every advantage. Anna and James thought highly of him and supported the union. “This is going to be such a pretty wedding, Abigail,” I said, full of the anticipation of the next day. This is such a special time for you. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of it.” A smile exploded from me that engulfed both women in warmth. “Oh, Valerie,” said Abigail. “You have been a true joy to us. I’m so happy you came to join our family.” “Indeed,” said Anna, echoing the sentiment. “Our family has become so much more since you came to stay with us.” It was true, these past years had been the happiest of memory. When I found myself laying on the kitchen floor, I had no idea how my life would change… how it would be so much better. At first, I struggled with the work life required in the late 1800s, but soon, it became as second nature to me as carrying a cell phone and checking email in my old life. There was a simplicity of this life that brought peace. More than that, it was a life I could count on. There were no surprises and no brutality. There was no competition for a lifestyle beyond what was needed. Frivolous status and commercialism didn’t exist in this small farming community. This co-existence with Mother Nature wasn’t easy, not by any stretch. But it was comfortable, and it meant something. I discovered that was more valuable to me than all the technology, pizza, and Netflix binges I now only barely remembered. I made many friends over the years, but never took a suitor to husband. That was the one piece that never felt right. My first marriage hadn’t gone so well, and I wasn’t in a hurry to repeat that history. James and Anna understood that my heart was broken, and they didn’t force me to pretend anything different. Shortly after I arrived, James built a second, smaller cabin near the main house for me. It was just one room, but it was heaven. This was my refuge. Anna taught me to sew, cook, and manage on my own in this new wilderness of comfort. I planted a small vegetable garden and helped with the family farm and their small collection of livestock. In the evenings, I read and joined the family in storytelling with mugs of tea near the fire. Before I came to this cabin in the woods, I was afraid of guns. But in the time I spent with the Coffrey family, I became a fairly decent shot, able to take my own rabbits and birds when necessary. It was a skill James insisted I learn. He never wanted me to feel obliged to take a husband, but knew I needed to be able to fend for myself, if that’s what my heart demanded. I regret none of it. In those years, I became a better person, inside and out. As we prepared the flowers and sewed the veil for Abigail’s dress, James, Noah, and Charles were out deer and rabbit hunting for the wedding feast. We sang the songs of childhood and talked excitedly about the wonderful mother Abigail would be one day. “I’ve been working on a special wedding gift for you,” I told Abigail as we finished sewing the veil. “Really?” she asked, her voice giddy with excitement. “What is it?” I smiled at Anna and looked over to Abigail as I began to pack up my sewing kit. “I don’t know if I should tell you… after all, you’re not quite married yet.” I shared a giggle with Anna, knowing how much Abigail detested secrets. “Oh please,” squealed Abigail. “You know I’m a horrible waiter… Please tell me what it is!” Her face instantly transformed to that eight-year-old girl I saw my first day at the cabin in the woods. I was delighted beyond words. “How could I say no to that face?” I said, clutching her cheeks gently between my hands. “Stay here, I’ll go get it and be right back.” I ran to my little cabin next door and pulled the quilt I’d been sewing from the shelf above my bed. I held it carefully in my arms, considering the past year, and how much I learned. It was a triangle-pattern tapestry done in blue, green, yellow, and red. I’d added extra batting to make it thick, warm, and durable. Each square represented a year spent with a family who took me in and loved me unconditionally. Just as I was about to open the door and walk back to the main house, I heard a shot. It was too close to be the hunters, but too loud to be anyone but them. I put my hand on the door handle and heard a second shot. The surprise of its reverberation through the door of my little cabin knocked me to the floor. I hit my head hard as I fell against the corner of the table on my way down. The world went black. **** I awoke, dizzy and with an ache in my body I’d not felt in years. I heard strange voices around me but couldn’t focus on their words. I was cold, my hands and feet were numb, and my face was covered with a layer of fresh snow. “In here!” a man’s voice called. There was a flurry of action as four men in dark clothes came rushing toward me. I opened my eyes to see one of them wrapping a blanket over me, and three more struggling to bring a gurney to me through the snow. “One, two, three,” came a voice. I was lifted to the gurney and another blanket was tucked around me. Safety straps were tied gently about my legs and torso. As they took me from the cabin toward the waiting ambulance, I looked to my right and saw an officer zipping up a black body bag, laying on the ground between the two cabins. “What… who…” I asked with an exhausted whisper. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” came a voice nearby. Douglas Grady won’t hurt you ever again.” After they put me in the ambulance, the EMT pulled away the blankets the police had wrapped around me, to start an IV. A sad smile came to my face as I realized I was still clutching Abigail’s wedding quilt. To begin, I fully appreciate that poetry is HARD! Not just difficult to write, but also challenging to read. I honor all authors who take on this Herculean task. Writing poetry requires an author to step outside of their “normal” self and engage with a deeper set of emotions and observations usually overlooked in everyday life. Reading poetry requires that we disconnect from our philosophical defaults, and allow the writer to lead us somewhere new, without judgement. For both the author and reader, it can be an amazing ride, a train wreck, or anything in between… and usually, whatever your interpretation, another reader will always see something different… as it should be with this genre. Inside Social Suicide, some of the pieces are lovely and introspective. They show tremendous depth of sensitivity and awareness. My favorites were Inner Child: A Monologue, A Gift To Remember, and For My Grandfather. However, the bulk of the poems, although still drawing from a deep well of emotion, were either angry, extremely dark, or simply depressing. I suppose I should have anticipated that by the title, but as I said, I feel reading poetry requires relinquishing all preconceived expectations. I see poetry as a specialized art form. As art, each piece will speak to us differently, depending on our mood, belief systems, and connectivity with the touchstones of life. I also consider that poetry is meant as a study of the human condition and the nature of the world we live in. This collection certainly offers an opportunity for all of that. I found some interesting perspective within its pages, and some of it was deeply moving. However, I felt the collection was microscopically tunnel-visioned with an emphasis on the emotional injustices of living, almost to the point of complaining. The result was an intellectual distress and an energetic drain that made reading to the end arduous. I was also dismayed to discover so many editorial errors… homophones, odd line breaks, uneven formatting and fonts, and punctuation that seemed poorly placed. These problems distracted from what could have been a much more thought-provoking encounter. As a poet, Ms. Crandall certainly has the potential to reach readers, but with this particular collection, I felt so mired in a mechanical quicksand by the editorial mistakes, that I feel this work misses the beauty of meter and alliteration that I could have discovered inside the lines. I truly believe Ms. Crandall to be a terrific author, her poetic interludes invite seeing the world in a way that, although uncomfortable, may give us an opening to be more appreciative of the gifts we enjoy every day. I sincerely look forward to investigating her novels. The Science Fiction genre is overflowing with unusual stories… almost to the point of saturation. So much attention is focused on space battles and the strange, weird aliens, that the possibilities of invention inside a more familiar territory are often overlooked. But this one is different. Not since Jules Verne, can I recall such a creative approach to speculative science. The adventure takes us to another planet, sure… but the depths we explore are far more intriguing. This underwater military expedition delivers impressive cleverness page after page. The world building and innovative technology of this book are fascinating. From the specific details of the alien races, and their formidable strengths and equally worrisome weaknesses, to the training exercises which are psychological as much as physical, the weapons detail, and transportation used to explore and fight in this environment is simply fun. Made more believable by the real-life experience Ms. Ash holds in environmental science, everything, right down to the unusual food, is assumed real. Why wouldn’t it be? This author allows us to experience the story through strong sensorial and memory triggers. Even the “new” pieces feel somehow familiar. Added to this unique storytelling style are two powerful women as main characters. They don’t just dominate because they are “strong” women. They shine with equal brightness to their male counterparts. It was refreshing to read character development that wasn’t lopsided in psychological and physical traits. There are no weak characters in this story. Each is given ample time to grow into their roles, while still being emotionally vulnerable, intellectually evolved, and physically believable. The focus is on the morality of the situation, rather than which gender excels at that objective more effectively. A few characters are more repugnant than others – as it should be – but none is trapped in gender expectation. That alone, is a fantastic reason to read this book. This is the first in a series of four books, and I am anticipating with delight where the next adventure will lead. About The Author: Barbara Pietron is the author of the urban fantasy novels, Veiled Existence, Soulshifter, Thunderstone, and Heart of Ice. Having a love for witches and vampires before they were trendy, she gravitates toward stories with supernatural elements both when she reads and when she writes. Although classified as young adult, her books are enjoyed by a wide audience—pre-teen through adult.
Barbara’s novel Thunderstone was awarded 2013 Book of the Year Finalist status by Forward Reviews and before it was published, Thunderstone was a quarter-finalist in the 2012 Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest, winning a review by Publisher’s Weekly. When she’s not writing, Barbara works in two libraries where she’s tortured by all the books she has yet to read. She’s a cult fan of the movies Labyrinth and Nightmare Before Christmas and a fan of all things Tim Burton. Barbara lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with her husband, daughter and sassy cat. Title: Thunderstone Genre: Young Adult Urban Fantasy Book Synopsis: Sneaking out at night, driving without a license, and falling for a guy weren’t things fifteen-year-old Jeni expected to do while visiting Lake Itasca, Minnesota with her family. The guy, Ice, turns out to be the local medicine man’s apprentice, and when he tells Jeni she’s connected to the spirit world, her first instinct is to run. But after Ice’s stories of a mythical underwater monster—that Jeni allegedly released—prove true, she realizes it’s up to her to contain the beast. Jeni must first convince herself that she’s able, and then save the locals, Ice, and ultimately herself. Find The Book HERE! Visit Barb's Website HERE! Watch the Video on YouTube HERE!
About The Author: Whether the story is fiction or non-fiction, J.Q. Rose is “focused on story.” She offers readers chills, giggles and quirky characters woven within the pages of her mystery novels. Using her storytelling skills, she provides entertainment and information with articles featured in books, magazines, newspapers, and online magazines.
Blogging, photography, Pegs and Jokers board games and travel are the things that keep her out of trouble. She and her husband spend winters in Florida and summers up north with their two daughters, two sons-in-law, four grandsons, one granddaughter, two grand dogs, four grand cats, and one great-grand bearded dragon. Title: Terror On Sunshine Boulevard Genre: Cozy Mystery/Thriller Book Synopsis: Rescuing a naked woman lying in a geranium bed or investigating mysterious murders are not the usual calls for first responder Jim Hart. He expects slip and fall accidents or low blood pressure emergencies in his retirement community of Citrus Ridge Senior Community and Golf Resort. The ghastly crime scenes turn the winter time fun into a terrifying season of death and mystery when the authorities cannot track down the predator responsible. Jim and his wife Gloria could escape the horror and grief by returning to their northern home, but concern for their friends and residents keep them in Florida. With the entire community in a dither over the deaths, the Harts participate in the normal winter activities of golfing, dancing, and pool parties with their friends to distract them from the sadness and loss. Can Jim and Gloria work with the authorities to discover who or what is killing the seniors on Sunshine Boulevard and stop the increasing body count? Find The Book HERE! Visit J.Q. Rose's Website HERE! Watch the YouTube Video HERE!
About The Author: Lisa Jacovsky currently lives in her hometown of North Brunswick, NJ. She works as a Child Development Specialist with Early Intervention. In her job she is able to help children under the age of 3 with cognitive and developmental delays, sometimes with a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder. She has been working in the field of applied behavior analysis for eight years and this is where she had inspiration for writing her very first series, Lets Talk!. Her hopes for this series are to simply inspire families and their children to be open to anyone no matter their differences. There will be six books in the series. Lisa has always loved writing and hopes to use this way of expression to show the beauty that is in Autism Spectrum Disorder.
Title: Let’s Talk! Going To The Zoo Genre: Children’s Book Synopsis: Harper and Emma are two best friends who first met at the pool in the summer. Emma has Autism which affected her speech. Harper became determined to find a way to talk with her new friend and learned about Autism. Neither girl would allow anything stand in their way of becoming best friends. Now, Harper and Emma are excited to go to the zoo for the first time. This is a new adventure for them which they are going on with their daddies. Once they get there, they are amazed at the different animals they see. Then, while admiring them, a group of children come by and begin to laugh and point at Emma. She had been flapping her hands and making noises in excitement watching these new animals. Harper is confused by this but does not allow the bullying to continue. She educates the bullies about Autism and who Emma is. The bullies eventually walk away however, one little boy stayed behind. He apologized for his actions and wants to be friends. The three new friends finish their day at the zoo exploring and meeting new animals making memories with their daddies. Find The Book HERE! Visit Lisa Jacovsky’s Website HERE!
About The Author: Justine Manzano is the geeky author of geeky YA novels The Order of the Key, and Never Say Never. Her fiction is tough on the outside and sweet on the inside, like an M&M or a hard candy with a gooey center, delivered with sass and snark. A freelance editor, she also serves as an Editor-in-Residence at WriteHive. She lives in Bronx, NY with her husband, son, and a cacophony of cats and can usually be found at her website, www.justinemanzano.com or all the usual social media haunts. If you’ve looked in all these places and can’t find her, she’s probably off reading fanfiction. She’ll be back soon.
Title: Never Say Never Genre: Young Adult Contemporary Fantasy Book Synopsis: After she walks in on her mom doing the horizontal mambo with a man that's decidedly not her dad, Brynn Stark swears to NEVER fall in love. One of her friends--Val-- reveals her true identity--Aphrodite, goddess of love, and promises to show Brynn why she shouldn't lose faith. But when Brynn realizes she's beginning to fall for Adam, Aphrodite's boyfriend, Brynn's forced to decide if she'll choose her goddess-given fate, or risk it all for the wrong-but-right guy. One thing's for sure. Love sucks. And it's all about to blow up in their faces. Find The Book HERE! Visit Justine Manzano’s Website HERE! Watch on YouTube HERE!
What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?
Specific to the writing of “The White Lake Chronicles” series, I have made trips to take pictures of the primary high schools in these stories. In addition, I constantly drive past my former home that serves as the back ground of this work, to pull into the driveway and allow myself to for a brief second to once again be on this property. In fact, one time when this residence was up for sale, my wife and I pulled up to the house and spent time just walking the grounds and peeking into windows. What is the first book that made you cry? Charlotte’s Web. What is your writing Kryptonite? I am too detailed, which means more words on paper than might be necessary. I feel comfortable, however, in this approach. I once read a mystery novel that was 300 hundred pages in length. One sentence was dedicated as to a clue of who the murderer was. Right or wrong, from that day on if ever got lucky enough for a person to read my book, then they were going to be given a road map of who the characters were and the direction of where the story was going. Details!! Details!! Details!! Do you want each book to stand on its own, or are you trying to build a body of work with connections between each book? I grew up reading book series. i.e., The Hardy Boys; Chip Hilton, Tom Swift and Nancy Drew. Part of the excitement was waiting to read the next book or await when a new one was coming out. That was half of the excitement. Thus, in the writing of The White Lake Road Chronicles, I have decided to make this into a series. Just like I did as a child some 1,000 years ago. How did publishing your first book change your process of writing? This did not really change my process of writing. However, it did change my thought process of instead of just writing for family and friends, that I should be trying to write for other people that I have never met before. As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal? A golden retriever. Somehow their name and picture always end up on the cover of any books that I have had published. And, as it should be. What did you edit out of your books? (keep it family-friendly, please) I will not say that I did any specifically editing. However, I have made is a strict point not to use any curse words. They are alluded to, but never actually used. What one thing would you give up to become a better writer? Trying to please friends who want to have roles in my stories, when there is really no room for them as a necessary character part. It is hard to say no!! What is your favorite childhood book? The House on the Cliff and Touchdown Pass. Both books were part of the Hardy Boys and Chip Hilton series books authored by F.W. Dixon and Clair Bee. What is the most difficult part of your writing process? Sitting down and pounding out a numerous amount of words in one sitting. I have heard authors say that they can sit down at the computer and belt out thousands of words in one session. Since I have an attention span of seven seconds, I instead chunk it out on a daily basis. What is the easiest part of your writing process? For better or worse, it is coming up with background information or side bars for new characters or events.I love doing that. A common misconception entwined with authors is that they are socially inept, how true is that? What few authors that I have been in contact with, I have not found them to be socially inept at all. In fact, get us started on what our books are about, we may never stop talking. When did it dawn on you that you wanted to be an author? When I was in sixth grade. I would write stories of how I was a Secret Service agent and how I would be protecting the President of the United States or be on secret missions in Viet Nam. Who are your biggest literary influences? As mentioned above, F.W. Dixon and Clair Bee for the book series that they wrote. I also like the style of David Rosenfelt with his Any Carpenter character. However, the biggest influence was a former offensive lineman of the Green Bay Packers. He, along with the late Dick Schaap, authored a book by the name of Instant Replay. A day-by-day log of the Green Bay Packer’s 1967 season. And that is the style that I have adopted for The White Lake Road Chronicles. Basically, a journal of my senior year of high school. In addition, I read a book by the name of The Colville Terriers that gave me the idea of how the four main characters of TWLRC ended up transferring to another high school outside of their local school district. What’s your favorite movie which was based on a book? Why? The Godfather. I read this novel about six months before seeing the movie, and did not understand much of it. An outstanding cast for this flick allowed me to comprehend the book much better. How did it feel when your first book got published? How did you celebrate? Since I knew that this was going to be an ongoing series, I did not have any great elation because I was far from being done with this writing journey. There was a scene from the television show, Castle, where Richard Castle is playing poker with Michael Connelly and James Patterson. I believe it was Michael Connelly that said when he completed a book, “He just shut up and started writing another one.” That’s probably what I did as well. I am lucky that friends and family are always glad when another work product of mine comes out. What is that one thing you think readers generally don’t know about authors? That they are consumed with what project that they are currently working on. The mind rarely strays far away from that undertaking. When it comes to research for your books, are you a hunter or a gatherer? Talk about your research process. I would put myself in the category of a gatherer. I keep an ear and eye out for a line or situation that I can use in a future work. Example: I overheard a person once say. “If this does not get a middle school named after me, then nothing will.” I will use a variation of that for my works. In addition, since my books are time specific, the 1969-70 school year, I have to research to make sure that a movie was produced for that time frame; how the Detroit Lions did in their game; and, if a TV series was still on and the night and time slot involved. I use a resource called, Paper of Record that provides an electronic version of the Sporting News magazine. A wealth of information for my writing needs. Could you be housemates with your characters? Why or why not? I have known a majority of my story characters, which includes my wife, Terese Fitzpatrick. I like and respect these people too much to be housemates with them. I probably have more of a grandparent rather than a parent mentality. I like picking up and departing from my friends before becoming a burden to them. What’s your typical writing routine or schedule? I try to type every day, preferably in the morning. I set a goal of what I want to accomplish every day. “X” number of words, minutes, developing basketball box scores, etc. While I do not type thousands upon thousands of words per day, I feel great when I reach my daily goal and extremely guilty when I do not. Writing can be an emotionally draining and stressful pursuit. How do you recharge? I walk every day, usually for 30 to 45 minutes, plus ride an exercise bike as well. This is where I plot out what is next for me writing wise. Do you prefer music or silence when you write? Do you have a writing playlist? What’s on it? I do not have the concentration capability to listen to music and type at the same type. I write my books in complete silence. I admire people that can have a lot of commotion surrounding them when creating their works. If I did have a playlist, however, it would consist of the musical arrangements of Raphael Mendez. Once considered the greatest trumpet player in the world. Which celebrity would you choose to narrate your audiobook? This is a great question!! If this gentleman was still alive, it would be actor Lorne Greene of Bonanza fame. A beautiful voice. Gene Hackman I think would be excellent as well. Toss in an occasional Bill Murray for an occasional sound bite as well. What well-known author, living or dead, do you wish could be your mentor? Why? Clair Bee of the Chip Hilton series as he wrote 20 some books using this character. David Rosenfelt for the humor that he injects into the Andy Carpenter character and, John Grisham for his ability to create an immediate interest for the reader in his books. What is your favorite of the six senses (touch, taste, smell, sound, sight, intuition) to write about, why? Sight and intuition would be the ones I use in my writing. Sight for reading and researching. Intuition for when I hear a phrase or story that I can implement in a book at some point. What is a favorite location you’ve written about? Have you visited that place? How did you choose which details to include? Since this is a story about my senior year of high school, I use my childhood home at the time, 12074 White Lake Road, Fenton, Michigan. Specific locations include the Family Room, Beardslee’s Barn and 15,000 pine trees. I drive past that site every chance that I get. I also refer to a high school Band Room numerous times.It was a sanctuary for me in my high school days. Travel back in time (without negative effects for you or the timeline) what year do you visit? Why? The specific genre is 1969-70. With many flashbacks included. This is a point in my life where a lot of things went well for me and wanted to remember it. And yes, as enjoyable as that time frame was for me, there were still some rough spots. What is something about your hero or villain that drove their character, but you didn’t specifically tell your reader? There are two individuals who come across as bad guys in The White Lake Road Chronicles. A high school coach and a Band Director. The former is based upon a former brother-in-law. A truly miserable you know what. The latter is based upon a combination of former bosses who all had one thing in common. It was all about them. Have you ever resuscitated a project you'd shelved? What helped it work better the second time around? The White Lake Road Chronicles have been stopped and started too many times since I first wrote a rough draft of it in 1971. When I retired in 2015, I finally got serious about actually starting and completing this series. I now had the time to concentrate on this project and could look at it from a person who now had been around the block a few times. What do the words “literary success” mean to you? How do you picture it? That phrase means that I have finally reached the stage of a writing just not for friends and family, but others as well. I am still trying to reach that thought process and stage in my writing career. Can you tell us about your current projects? The White Lake Road Chronicles will have a total of 20 books by the time it is completed. So that is the number one project. Currently, I am also experimenting of having a companion book about the various sports seasons that are portrayed in my works, i.e., there will be a football book dedicated to the Hartland High School season. Drive by drives; statistics and articles. I enjoy doing this but have found that it will take some time to complete. Any advice you would like to give to aspiring authors? I put myself in the category of being an aspiring writer. So, things that have helped me write include: being passionate about your story; read and write as much as you can; always be aware of your surroundings as a good idea for a story is always out there. Please provide links and/or instructions about how readers can purchase signed copies of your books. My books are available on Amazon both in the softback or in Kindle format. Amazon.com : michael beardslee My Facebook page with more information about myself and my writings is at: Michael Beardslee Author - "White Lake Road - Bad Hombre" | Facebook Please feel free to message me through Facebook or email me at:tfitzjake@aol.com |
WelcomeYou'll find some interesting stuff here... some Op Eds, some Information, Book Reviews, and More. Poke around the categories and see what ruffles your feathers... in a good way! Archives
March 2024
Categories
All
|