#the blurb calls it a thriller which. i wouldn’t call it that

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads // twitter thread

Reader, I Murdered Him

spinoff of jane eyre, following Adele, the young french girl she’s a governess for

she retells the story of her young life, from when she’s adopted to her life in boarding school in in London where she witnesses other young women being hurt and assaulted by abusive men, and becomes a vigilante to try and protect them

bi MC, f/f

[grandhotelabyss]

I recently watched Donald Cammell’s WHITE OF THE EYE, which you prefer over Zulawski’s own 80s cult classic POSSESSION. When you speak highly of a film on here I take it seriously, and was not let down: a narratively, thematically, and aesthetically rich (and just remarkably weird) desert southwest giallo slasher of sorts with sinister performances from David Keith and Cathy Moriarty. As I can no longer find the post where you first mentioned it, would you speak more to why you like it?

Thank you, and I'm glad you liked it! I had trouble finding the original post too—Tumblr's tagging system used to use hyphens for spaces and now doesn't, making even reasonably labeled things hard to rediscover—but I did manage to dig it up. I hope you don't mind if I simply paste it in here since a lot of newer readers probably missed it. I only saw the movie once and won't try to recapture the (over)enthusiastic prose I wrote upon the first viewing. Tumblr is also bad at date-labeling things, but I believe this dates from summer 2021.

___________________________________________________________

I now believe White of the Eye (1987) is criminally unheralded in the semi-arty horror-thriller pantheon (do not, please, speak to me of Ari Aster). 

Being a philistine, I like White of the Eye better, for instance, than the connoisseur’s go-to ’80s cult object, Żuławski’s Possession, which I find unendurably over-stylized despite its other merits. Fun fact: Possession was co-written by novelists’ novelist Frederic Tuten, who once received the most extravagant blurb from my beloved Cynthia Ozick, as friend-of-the-blog @danskjavlarna pointed out: “What an amazing, glittering, glowing, Proustian, Conradian, Borgesian, diamond-faceted, language-studded, myth-drowned dream!” exclaimed our greatest living Republican-voting novelist (remember that Cormac McCarthy doesn’t vote). Tuten, by the way, is not to be blamed for what I call Possession’s over-stylization, which is a matter of performance not script. But I don’t want to get into a hipper-than-thou spiral, “My cult movie’s better than your cult movie,” to be trapped in a crisis of Girard’s mimetic desire or Bourdieu’s cultural capital—merde, but the French are depressing, “too human, too historical,” as Deleuze complained in acclaiming “the superiority of Anglo-American literature.” The work of art has formal, affective, conceptual intrinsic qualities, not just extrinsic social determinants, and White of the Eye is, I argue, intrinsically spectacular.

Speaking of performance: White of the Eye was directed by Donald Cammell, the co-director with Nicolas Roeg of the classic 1970 film Performance. Again a philistine, I could never get into Performance—never even watched it all the way through—even though it sits at the nexus of two of my early influences. First, in a Comics Journal interview in the mid-’90s, English artist Bryan Talbot credited Performance’s jump-cut montage techniques for inspiring the storytelling innovations in his graphic novel The Adventures of Luther Arkwright. The underread Arkwright is the lost key to comics’s British Invasion—without it we wouldn’t have had V for Vendetta, Watchmen, Sandman, or The Invisibles. (It’s also a key to this movement’s cryptic politics, as Talbot stages a Jacobite uprising as anti-fascist revolution, precursor to Moore’s much more famous but still baffling ancom in Guy Fawkes garb. Is all anarchism Tory anarchism?) Second, Performance was a particular interest of Professor Colin MacCabe’s, whose class on James Joyce, with its mind-altering 12 weeks on Ulysses, helped to make me the reader and writer I am today back in that explosive landmark year, 2001. Protagonist of an epochal affaire in poststructuralism’s history and erstwhile director of the British Film Institute, MacCabe later wrote a book on Performance, which, alas, unlike his books on Joyce and Godard, I haven’t read. 

I like White of the Eye better than Performance as I like it better than Possession, though. Mysterious symbolism, desert desolation, languorous eroticism, and, yes, some montage. The scorching, doomed marriage between a fanatic Western audiophile—he looks like the young W. Bush—and his breathy, no-nonsense New York wife; a Paglia-esque misogynist rampage (“that fuckin’ black hole…if that’s not female, I don’t know what is”) in an arid outpost of the Reagan-era bourgeoisie and its multicultural fringe: it all evokes the inherent evil of the American landscape that Burroughs observes in Naked Lunch. It has that ’80s quality of emotional amplitude not just between but within scenes. At every moment you might ask, “Is this sad, funny, or horrifying?” and answer, “Yes.” I do see filmmakers today working in the same vein and aspiring to the same compass. Witness the already famous Jacques Derrida High School in David Prior’s ultimately disappointing Empty Man or the scarcely resistible vaporwave dreamscape of Anthony Scott Burns’s also ultimately disappointing Come True (can’t anybody end a movie anymore?). But White of the Eye does it without effort or self-consciousness, as the very essence of its being an artwork at all—an artifact from a lost civilization.

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

Who to Believe by Edwin Hill

Brilliant, well-crafted, riveting read ~ drew me in, grabbed hold, and wouldn’t let me go ~

What I liked:

* Superb story telling

* The plot, pacing, and setting

* Multiple – seven – viewpoints all sharing new elements that build the suspense

* That characters are more than they appear to be on the surface

* Thinking about what it might have been like to have been any one of the characters in this story and deciding which one, if any, I could most relate to or might find myself willing to call friend

* Thinking about what would have motivated the murders and what would create a person willing to kill someone – or more than one person

* The few more sane characters that helped balance out those who were less so

* The dark, twisted, deviousness of the story and just how brilliant it truly was

* That it made me think and care and really hope that at least the teenagers might come out okay in the future

What I didn’t like:

* Who and what I was meant not to like

* Thinking about evil, murder, and the way some can appear so “good” but have rather rotten centers

Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Would I read more by this author? Yes

Thank you to NetGalley and Kensington Books for the ARC – This is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

In this twisting domestic suspense thriller from the acclaimed author of The Secrets We Share , the aftermath of a murder in a quiet New England coastal town reveals a web of dark secrets . . . Monreith, Massachusetts, was once a small community of whalers and farmers. These days it’s a well-to-do town filled with commuters drawn to its rugged coastline and country roads. A peaceful, predictable place—until popular restaurateur Laurel Thibodeau is found brutally murdered in her own home. Suspicion naturally falls on Laurel’s husband, Simon, who had gambling debts that only her life insurance policy could fix. But there are other rumors too . . . Among the group of six friends gathered for Alice Stone’s fortieth birthday, theories abound concerning Laurel’s death. Max Barbosa, police chief, has heard plenty of them, as has his longtime friend, Unitarian minister Georgia Fitzhugh. Local psychiatrist Farley Drake is privy to even more, gleaning snippets of gossip and information from his patients while closely guarding his own past. But maybe everyone in Monreith has something to hide. Because before this late-summer evening has come to a close, one of these six will be dead.  And as jealousy, revenge, adultery, and greed converge, the question becomes not who among these friends might be capable of such a thing, but—who isn’t?

[seventhstar]

reading update 1/20/22

6/50 books read! We are steamrolling.

Current TBR:

The Councillor by E.J. Beaton

The Lady or the Lion by Aamna Qureshi

The Charm Offensive by Alison Cochrun

Riot Baby by Tochi Onyebuchi

A Darker Shade of Magic by V. E. Schwab

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

The Queen of Ieflaria by Effie Calvin

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz

The Ruin of a Rake by Cat Sebastian

Current Library Haul:

The Hellion's Waltz by Olivia Waite

A Master of Djinn by P. Djeli Clark

A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters

Read:

The Ones We're Meant to Find by Joan He

This is the second Joan He novel I've read and I think I can now definitively say her books just aren't for me. This was so hyped up and it was so underwhelming. Kasey is an incredibly dull protagonist, the worldbuilding is really thin, and the plot just...doesn't make a lot of sense to me. This book is full of secrets that it keeps threatening to reveal, but it never gives you a revelation that makes all the pages you've slogged through worth it. Also, I expect a book being promoted as climate change sci-fi to actually have something to say about climate change, and this just...doesn't.

Overall it feels like a book made to be twitter quote bot fodder. It's full of beautiful writing, but it's like cake fondant: tastes a lot worse than it looks.

Act Your Age, Eve Brown by Talia Hibbert

Man, Talia Hibbert does not miss. This is my favorite of the three Brown Sisters books, which I am shocked to say, because I loved the second one so much. But Eve and Jacob's dynamic is so compelling, so sweet, and Eve's development as a character is so wonderful to read. I was quite annoyed with her during the first couple chapters, but as the book unfolded, I loved that she was allowed to grow and mature without having to become more "normal".

Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley

Whoa. This is a book that succeeds at everything it tries to do in spades. it brings to life the community and people it wants to portray, it gives you a mystery you can sink your teeth into, and it brings a courageous and compassionate protagonist that I would happily spend another 500 pages with. I have not read a lot of literature from indigenous authors, but if that is something you're looking for in books, I would highly recommend this.

Note that the subject matter is pretty heavy (drug use, kidnapping, murder, violence, sexual assault) but in my opinion it's handled very well.

The Darkness Outside Us by Eliot Schrefer

This is marketed as YA SF and the blurb makes it sound a lot more light-hearted than it actually it. This is a twisty, turny thriller set aboard a spaceship. The romance is integral to the story, but I wouldn't call this a romance. It asks you to reflect on what the meaning of life is and what makes it worth living, and my only complaint is that I wish we'd gotten to see the protagonist reflect more on some of his beliefs.

[atamascolily]

After Ursula K. Le Guin died, I made an agreement with myself I would read anything and everything she'd written as the chance arose. That said, Searoad: Chronicles of Klatsand probably would have been the last on my list, had I not stumbled across a paperback copy in a library booksale (in pre-pandemic times) in a "fill a paper bag for $10" sale and it languished in my TBR pile for months before I finally got around to it.

The reason? Genre snobbery, in reverse of the usual direction. Searoad is a collection of short stories published in magazines like The New Yorker, and fancy-sounding publications with Review in their names. Serious publications publishing so-called "literary" fiction, or maybe "realistic fiction" or just plain fiction--fiction that's supposed to tell-it-like-it-is, lay bare the inadequacies of modern life, and leave you feeling empty and unfulfilled after watching empty and unfulfilled people make poor decisions in futile attempts to fill the emptiness and inadequacies of their lives. Because that’s the whole point of literature, right?

Oh. Perhaps I'm generalizing. But so it feels to me whenever I dip into one of these publications. They are "literature", everything else is "genre": romance, science-fiction, fantasy, action, adventure, thriller, mystery, crime. "Literary" fiction is usually just plain old "fiction" in the library classification systems and in common parlance: it is assumed to be the norm, the default, from which everything else is a deviation. And I hate this. I've always hated this.

To write about petty modern people with their petty modern lives is one thing--we all have our kinks--but to disdain others for imagining different things, for epics and grandeur and you-could-have-anything-so-why-not-go-for-it always struck me as a deep failure of, and disdain for, imagination. Genres, like so much else in our lives, are social constructs: us and them, the have and the have-nots. Literary fiction are the "haves", everything else is the "have-nots". That's changing, obviously, and the boundaries aren't as rigid as they once were, but I still see that divide reflected in so-called "serious" publications, and I generally avoid them.

Ursula K. Le Guin has always hugged the boundaries between "pure" genre (aka trashy, flashy, unfit for serious folk in the eyes of the pedants) and "literary merit". She's been accepted and respected by both camps, although the "literary" folks speak of the sci-fi rather patronizingly in their reviews of her works. Le Guin, however, never disdained the sci-fi labels in the same way that Margaret Atwood--another boundary-spanning writer--has always done.

For this reason, I've retained infinitely more respect for Le Guin than Atwood, despite Atwood's considerable talents as a writer. Atwood wants to play with sci-fi tropes, but she doesn't have the backbone to stand up and be proud of it. Atwood wants to write science fiction but not be judged for it, and the easiest way to do that (since genres are a social construct) is just to firmly insist that it's not sci-fi at all--move along, nothing to see here.

Here's a blurb on the back of my copy of Searoad by Carolyn Kizer, a Pulitzer-prize winning poet from the Pacific Northwest:

"For a number of years, the only science-fiction I read was that of Ursula K. Le Guin. I don't read science-fiction any more, thought I wouldn't think of missing a book of Le Guin's. She has transcended the genre..."

How very generous and open-minded of you to only read science-fiction so elevated it “transcends” its genre entirely, thereby becoming worthy of notice. And this is supposed to make me like literary fiction? 

That said, the irony is that Kizer’s statement sums up my approach to non-genre stuff as well, although I would not have phrased it quite so baldly. More like “Okay, not usually my cup of tea--but if it’s you, it’s okay....” The genre transcending thing, as much as I despise the phrasing, works both ways here.

All this is to say I finally read Searoad, even though I had to coax myself into it by pretending that this was an alien society that Le Guin and I were exploring together in order to tell us stuff about our own, and that helped. It also helped because the stories were so damn good, and I got carried away, even though they are very literary stories, with ambiguous endings, the usual focus on unexpressed and/or self-destructive emotions of love, birth, and death, and no magic or wizards or dragons whatsoever.

(To repeat: I am a genre snob who has never understood why writing without dragons was inherently better than writing with dragons in it. I have always operated under the principle that dragons made everything better. And I have never understood why depicting the world as it is was a stroke of literary genius, if all you were going to do with it it is show people being unhappy in the usual old ways instead of unusual ways. Or even imagine something new and different!)

Searoad reminds me of Lake Wobegon a little, but that's only because it's a small town, with characters from one story popping up in others in the most unexpected places--just like small town life. After a while, it feels like we're constantly running into old friends, a shared world--real, but in a good way. The stories were published across a wide range of outlets from 1987-1991, yet flow into each other astonishingly well when read in rapid succession, or indeed, in any order at all.

My favorite is "True Love," which is all about ditching unsatisfying conventional relationships to focus on one's true passion instead:

For me, sex is sublimation. Left to itself, in its raw, primitive state, my libido would have expend itself inexhaustibly in reading.

And since I have been a librarian ever since I was twenty, I can truly compare my life to that of some pasha luxuriating in his harem--and what a harem! Half a million mistresses, when I was at the Central Library in Portland! A decade-long orgy! And during the school year, since I teach now at the Library School, I have access to the University Library. Here in Klatsand where I spend the summers, the harem is very small and a good many of the houris are rather out of date, but then so am I. My lust has lessened somewhat with the years. Sometimes I imagine I could be contented with a mere shelf of tried, true, and highly selected Scheherazades, with only now and then a pretty little novel to flirt with, or a volume of new poetry to make me cry out with excess of pleasure in the heart of the night.

And in the same story, Le Guin makes it clear she's one of us:

"Do you like science fiction" I asked her, because all I can really talk about is books. And of course, she couldn't talk about books. That had been knocked out of her years ago. We compromised on "Star Trek," new and old. She liked the new series as well as the old one. I liked the old one better. Antal stared, not at Rosemarie, only at me. "You watch it?" he said. "You watch television?"

I didn't answer. ... I was not going to let him try to shame us for our commonness.

"The one I liked best was the one where Mr. Spock had to go home because he was in heat," I said to her.

"Except, he never, you know," she said. "They just had a fight over the girl, him and Captain Kirk, and then they left."

"That's his pride," I said, obscurely. I was thinking how Mr. Spock was never unbuttoned, never lolled, kept himself shadowy, unfulfilled, and so we loved him. And poor Captain Kirk, going from blonde to blonde, would never understand that he himself loved Mr. Spock truly, hopelessly, forever.

Reader, I LOLed. Because it's true. You know it, I know it, and so does Le Guin. And she had the guts to say so in the Indiana Review, and the editors published it. LEGEND.

Like all of Le Guin's writing, the stories in Searoad are lyrical, elegant, soaring, and moving--sympathetic, yet unafraid to call out bad behavior and terrible things when she sees it. My other favorite story, "Sleepwalkers," is a brilliant example of this: it starts with a complaint by a privileged male playwright about the housekeeper at his summer cabin, only for us to quickly learn (if his tone and phrasing didn't give it away) that he's an arrogant asshole who sees only what he wants to see and misses what's actually in front of him. We then pivot to a number of other people at the little resort, and their views of the housekeeper, and we're left with an open question at the end: which view is more accurate? Which story do we believe? What is actually going on? Can any of us really know or understand the hidden depths within another person? It's so deep and lush and well-written, and even funny on occasions.

And there's also a diversity of viewpoints and perspectives and scenarios enough to keep me interested: a lesbian grieves the death of her long-time partner, a war veteran deals with PTSD, a college student runs off into the woods to secretly map illegal old-growth logging stands, a ghost appears in a late-night diner to a sexual-abuse victim. The ghost thing seems like it ought to fall under genre conventions, but doesn’t because of the framing, and yet it still works for me--another example of Le Guin’s skill.

Anyway, so Le Guin actually made me enjoy so-called "literary" fiction and that was unexpected and delightful. Regardless of my feelings about most "realistic" fiction, I'm glad I read this collection.  

[lovexdejun]

a/n: uhh technically this ain’t angst but it was requested from the angst prompt i reblogged? this SO FUCKING FUN to write. i love these kinds of scenarios so. much. i guess this is like a thriller/crime blurb? i hope you enjoy it as much as i did! (also, in no way, shape or form do i think like this, it’s just what i think serial killers would think like.)

requested by @hyucksxx from this prompt list

56. “I could have died and you couldn’t have cared less.”

60. “Don’t hate me for this. You would have done the same.”

warnings: uh mention of death and serial killings?

middle of the desert, 1:03am

sometimes you wonder what your life would have been if you’d never met hyuck. probably boring; probably that same old 9 to 5 desk job, takeout every night, and standstill traffic on the 101. it wouldn’t surprise you if you’d spent over half your adult years trapped on that stupid freeway.

but then he came along, and everything got fun. he went by haechan when he met you, wouldn’t tell you his real name until he could “trust you.” you can imagine how surprised he was when you rolled into the bar the next night and called him donghyuck—that 9to5 sure had its perks. that’s probably about the time that he fell head over heels for you, and needless to say, you were already very very intrigued by the boy. but no matter how much you loved each other, you were both still pretty selfish.

no one in the world could convince you to throw yourself under the bus for them, even donghyuck. if it came down to it, between you and him, you’d always protect yourself—and you had no doubt he felt the same.

so you definitely weren’t surprised when you saw donghyuck slowly drop his shovel and sprint off back toward the hidden jeep over the detective’s shoulder. it kinda hurt though, knowing you weren’t about to get caught with your partner in crime. you always thought you’d get got together, and it would be like bonnie and clyde... or something. even though you’d probably pin the whole thing on him, and him on you. still, it would have been fun for you guys to look at eachother and know you did all of this together.

but no, you were in this alone, just like you’d expected.

“i finally caught you in the act.” said the exceptionallly dressed man. he’d been trailing you for a whole year now, and you could have kicked yourself for not keeping an eye out. he was obsessed with you! ever since that murder last spring—your wallet had been found at the scene, but you could easily explain it away as theft because she was a transient and, well, you were the perfect, sweet girl next door.

detective kim doyoung, however, didn’t buy it. you think he just got out of a bad relationship and needed some validation and that’s probably why he was stalking you at clubs and restaurants to try and catch you doing something illegal. but when you found out he was doing it of his own accord, you decided to take part in his game. you filed a police report on his “harassment” and got him fired—and maybe pissed him off a bit.

so there he stood in the pitch black, the only thing illuminating the area being the flashlight he held under his drawn firearm. you’d be lying if you said your heart wasn’t bouncing around in your rib cage, but you kept a poker face, leaning on your shovel like you were talking to a neighbor.

when you spoke, it was with a mocking type of humor, “i wondered when you would—took you long enough.”

he played along, chuckling himself. “you didn’t make it easy.” he confessed. “which is gonna make it so much sweeter when i can take you in and put you on display for all those fuckers who didn’t believe me.”

this made you go weak in the knees, but not in a good way. there was no way you’d let this crazy guy take you alive, and if you could help it, you definitely didn’t wanna die any time soon. suddenly you found yourself wishing for haechan—and not just so you could throw him in the line of fire. you wanted him to be there to just hold your hand.

your distraction must have been evident because detective kim made a point of calling you out on it.

“no one is gonna help you now, sweetheart. it’s just you and me.” he sounded so cocky, so confident. he didn’t realize he’d just screwed himself by giving you an idea.

you let out a laugh that was almost too evil before you spoke with a voice that dripped with sweet venom.

“that’s where you’re wrong, detective.” you cooed, shifting your eyes just behind his head. you made sure it was noticeable, but not an obvious ploy, and called out into the nothingness, “came to save me, baby?”

maybe his overconfidence got the best of him, maybe he was too excited; doyoung knew he made the wrong decision just as he went to spin around. but it was way too late. you had already lifted your shovel, and in a split second it was creating a sickening metallic thud against his head. you could feel the vibrations flooding back up your arms and into your spine, and it felt painfully good.

you heard him let out a low, weak groan, and clicked your tongue, shaking your head then going to search for his weapon.

you found his gun in the dim flashlight beam and sighed before firing a shot into his back. it was much much louder than you had anticipated, yet you shrugged, and fired one more round into his skull—just for good measure. you stood for a moment to admire your work, then quickly recovered the casings and kicked the detective’s flimsy corpse into the hole containing your initial half-buried murder victim. it was quick work to fill the grave, a newfound energy coursing through your veins. maybe it was because this time you killed someone with a real life—someone who actually had family and friends and a job to wake up to in the morning. it filled you with anxiety, but also gave you a kind of thrill that your usual victimology had stopped giving you. the fear of getting caught was beautiful. you wanted your heart to race like that every time you made kill.

once you assured that you’d covered your tracks, you set off to find your boyfriend and give him a piece of your mind. it wasn’t too long of a walk to the jeep hidden behind a large rock and some brush, however, you weren’t sure it would even be there by the time you got back.

much to your luck, it was—engine off and lights out. you peeked into the black interior to see haechan gripping the steering wheel, his forehead pressed into the leather. it almost looked like he was crying.

with a tap on the passenger window, you held up his discarded shovel and motioned for the startled boy to unlock your door. once you had thrown your tools in the back and climbed into the passenger seat, you ignored his bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks. mostly because he was clearly trying to hide it, but also because it caused these horrid feelings deep in the pit of your stomach and somewhere in your chest.

“so what happened?” he questioned, his voice thick with emotion though he acted unphased.

you crossed your arms, pressing against the back of the seat and looking to the window out into nothing. “i killed him, obviously.” pause. “you could have helped me, you know? hit him from behind or something.”

he sighed, palming his face and leaning his head against the headrest. “i panicked.”

“bullshit!” you tightened your crossed arms. “i could have died! and you couldn’t have cared less.”

now he was rolling his eyes and turning his body to face you. you almost flinched at the sincere regret behind his features.

“don’t hate me for this.” he whispered. “you know you would have done the same.”

there was a moment of silence that was so loud it made you wanna crawl out of your skin. you let his words soak in. he was right, obviously. you would have gone out there and arrested him yourself if it meant you were off the hook.

“yeah,” you agreed. “i would have.”

another lapse of silence came, then heachan reached over to take your hand in his own. “when i heard those gunshots, i wanted so badly to get out of the car and run to you.

“my heart felt like it was ripped out and all i wanted was to be holding your hand and saying i love you until they didn’t feel like real words anymore.”

you felt your chest tighten at his words. neither of you were ever this sappy with eachother, and honestly, it wasn’t as bad as you thought. you leaned over and pressed your lips to his, kissed him until you saw stars. you kissed away the tears that had spilled over his cheeks and giggled when he cupped your face to do the same.

“i love you so much.” you said through your happy crying.

“i love you too.” he smiled, holding your cheeks and letting his eyes wander your face. “god, my girlfriend is such a badass.”

[andimarquette]

Introduce yourself to the rest of the class.

I’m a lifelong writer, originally from California (Los Angeles and then San Francisco), retired now and living in Decatur, Georgia. For many years I wrote under my given name, Priscilla Scott Rhoades, for the gay/lesbian and alternative press in San Francisco, including the Sentinel, Plexus, and the San Francisco Bay Guardian. I also published poetry and short fiction in a number of literary journals, and articles in various magazines and newspapers.

A few years ago I tried writing erotica under the pseudonym Pascal Scott. My erotic short stories have appeared in several anthologies including Thunder of War, Lightning of Desire: Lesbian Historical Military Erotica; Through the Hourglass: Lesbian Historical Romance; Order Up: A Menu of Lesbian Romance and Erotica; Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink; Best Lesbian Erotica, Vol. 2 (2017); and Best Lesbian Erotica, Vol. 3 (2018).

Now I’m trying thrillers. Hard Fall: A McStone and Martinelli Thriller is the first in a series of novels coming from Sapphire Books Publishing.

Who are you and what makes you tick?

What makes me tick? Writing. I truly believe that the writing life is the best life imaginable, and I’m lucky to be able to live it and to share it with my lover, who is also a writer.

What does it mean to you to be an author?

An author is a writer who has been published. A writer is someone who has pages of written words lying around that may never get the blessing of a publisher. Being published is a privilege. I’m extremely fortunate to be a published author. There are lots of good writers who never get published.

What makes a writer a writer?

Writing is an obsession. Thomas Mann said a writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. The compulsion to write, no matter how your day is going, is what makes a writer a writer. The novelist Don Winslow talks about how when he committed to writing five pages a day, he forced himself to keep that commitment no matter how his day unfolded, including the day he was chased and shot at by drug lords.

A writer is someone who understands that it takes more than desire to write well. As Christopher Hitchens said, “Everyone has a book in them, and in most cases that’s exactly where it should stay.” Everybody has a story to tell, but not everybody can tell a story. Writers need to learn their craft, to study grammar, to respect the beauty of the English language, to take classes, to get a job at a newspaper, to do all the things writers have always been advised to do. And read. If you’re not reading, you’re not a writer. Read everything that’s good. As Jewell Gomez said recently, if you’re reading only authors who look like you, you’re not reading widely enough.

Are you promoting a specific book? Tell us about it. Include the book blurb if you’d like.

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Hard Fall: A McStone and Martinelli Thriller.

Five days after the Loma Prieta earthquake strikes San Francisco, Emily Bryson, a young, everything-to-live-for lesbian SFSU student/part-time exotic dancer, is dead, her body washed up on a beach south of the Golden Gate Bridge. The medical examiner rules it a suicide, and the police close the missing person case filed by Emily’s lover, K. M. “Stone” McStone. Through a series of fortunate circumstances, Stone is introduced to Zoe Martinelli, office manager of Coppola Investigations, amateur sleuth, and student psychic. Stone and Zoe team up to find out what really happened to Emily. Was it suicide, as everyone assumes? Or murder? Or something else?

 Tell us about your biggest guilty pleasure. For example, to you sit naked in your pantry in the middle of the night and eat Nutella with your fingers?

Coffee. I joke about it, but I drink too much coffee. Seriously too much. But still, it’s coffee. I’m interested in watching where the American Psychiatric Association is going with their “Caffeine Use Disorder,” which came this close to be included in the DSM-5 (the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, their bible). Now that they’ve depathologized sexual diversity and consensual kink, they’ve got to have somebody to pick on. Guess it’s going to be us coffee drinkers. I’m only half kidding here.

Tell us one thing that you’re passionate about. For example, would you strap yourself to an oil rigging a la Lucy Lawless with a Greenpeace sign in your hands?

Uh, no to the Greenpeace strapping. I’m passionate about my lover, the author Josette Murray. I’m passionate about writing, reading, words, books. That’s about it. Hemingway said he needed two things in his life to be happy: work to do and someone to love. That’s my formula, too.

What’s your writing process? That is, do you have a particular place you write and/or time of day? Do you have any particular things you do before you write? (e.g. do you listen to music, drink coffee, take dance breaks…)

I usually get up between 5:00 a.m. and 8:00 a.m. and am at my desktop computer first thing, drinking coffee. I write until about noon, then break, and then take it up again in the late afternoon or early evening. This is my schedule now that I am retired, which is wonderful. When I was working fulltime, I wrote when I could—in the mornings before work or in the evenings when they were free, or on the weekends.

Tell us something that most people don’t know about you (unless you’d have to kill us, in which case tell us something that some people don’t know).

Like several of the characters I write about, I was a ward of the state of California and grew up in foster care. I know there are good foster parents out there, but there are too many bad ones, and too many bad group homes. The comedian Monroe Martin, who grew up in care, once joked that foster care is where they take you out of a situation in which you were neglected, molested, or abused and put you into that exact same situation. Too often that’s what happens when a kid goes into care. It did with me, which is part of why I became a writer.

Is there a book by another author that you wish you had written?

The Silent Wife by A.S.A. Harrison. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith.

If time and money were no problem, where would you most like to go in the world?

Europe. I’ve never been. Back in my twenties when so many people I knew seemed to be backpacking through Europe and staying in hostels, I was busy working a survival job, finishing my BA (which took me nine years to complete), and juggling parttime assignments as a freelance writer. If I had all the money in the world—I’m retired so time isn’t the problem now—I’d travel more and see Europe. And I’d do more Olivia Cruises. I got back recently from a Sapphire Literary Adventures at Sea cruise with Olivia to the Caribbean. If I had money, I’d live on a Holland American ship and cruise the world with Olivia.

And finally, what sorts of writing projects are next for you?

I just submitted the second book in the Hard series to my publisher, Sapphire Books. It’s called Hard Luck: An Elizabeth Taylor Bundy Thriller. It picks up where Hard Fall ends and follows the Elizabeth character. I’m currently working on Hard Line: A McStone and Martinelli Thriller. Hard Fall took place in 1989; Hard Luck in 1996. It’s 2008 in Hard Line, and this third book in the series brings the reader up-to-date to that year in the lives of Stone McStone and Zoe Martinelli. And, of course, in every Hard book somebody dies, and there are disturbing circumstances and unanswered questions about the death. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a thriller, would it?

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Pascal Scott is the pseudonym of the author of Hard Fall: A McStone and Martinelli Thriller from Sapphire Books. Writing under her given name, Priscilla Scott Rhoades, her poetry, short fiction, and newspaper and magazine articles have appeared in numerous publications. She has a BA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University and an MA in Liberal Studies from the University of North Carolina-Greensboro. After a long career in academia, she retired happily to Decatur, Georgia.

  www.sapphirebooks.com

Facebook/Priscilla Scott Rhoades

Twitter/pascalscottwrit

https://www.amazon.com/Hard-Fall-McStone-Martinelli-Thriller-ebook/dp/B07QFYNMC5/ref=sr_1_fkmrnull_3?keywords=hard+fall%3A+a+mcstone&qid=1558213269&s=books&sr=1-3-fkmrnull

  Back Cover Blurb

  Five days after the Loma Prieta earthquake strikes San Francisco, Emily Bryson, a young, everything-to-live-for lesbian SFSU student/part-time exotic dancer, is dead, her body washed up on a beach south of the Golden Gate Bridge. The medical examiner rules it a suicide, and the police close the missing person case filed by Emily’s lover, K. M. “Stone” McStone.

Stone, the university’s graduate admissions officer, doesn’t believe it’s a suicide. The Emily she knew had too much going for her to take her own life. Through a series of fortunate circumstances, Stone is introduced to Zoe Martinelli, office manager of Coppola Investigations, amateur sleuth, and student psychic. Stone and Zoe team up to find out what really happened to Emily. Their investigation takes them into the private lives of San Francisco’s exotic dancers and into Emily’s dark past where they discover that some secrets can be deadly.

Was it suicide, as everyone assumes? Or murder? Or something else?

Q & A with Pascal Scott

Introduce yourself to the rest of the class. I’m a lifelong writer, originally from California (Los Angeles and then San Francisco), retired now and living in Decatur, Georgia.

Q & A with Pascal Scott Introduce yourself to the rest of the class. I’m a lifelong writer, originally from California (Los Angeles and then San Francisco), retired now and living in Decatur, Georgia.

[doll-in-the-walls]

Horror Movie Reviews

This is a redo of my post on my main, minus the gifs that way I can make it as long as I want. That being said, this post gets long. Not in any order really though towards the end it’s in order of me watching or remembering movies I’ve seen.

Keep in mind: These are just my personal opinions/reviews.

Rating Key - Pumpkins

🎃🔶🔶🔶🔶 - HATED IT

🎃🎃🔶🔶🔶 - Really didn’t like it but it wasn’t that horrible

🎃🎃🎃🔶🔶 - It was decent. Neutral. No strong opinion.

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 - Really liked it but probably wouldn’t watch it again.

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃 - LOVED IT. 10/10. Would watch again. (Probably already have)

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Halloween (1978)

🎃🎃🎃🔶🔶 3/5 Pumpkins

It was very slow to me. Didn’t seem to really get going until the last 10-20 minutes. I don’t like movies that do ADR honestly but it’s to be expected from older movies. It was a nice start to the series. Don’t hate it. Ending definitely worked to make me watch the next one.

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Halloween II (1981)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

Not sure why but I liked this one better even though I didn’t get answers to most of my questions. More action, some VERY nice camera shots (in my opinion) and cool lil moments that make you gasp.

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Halloween The Curse of Michael Myers (1995)

🎃🎃🔶🔶🔶 (2/5 Pumpkins)

I left with even more questions and very few answers… Looks much better effects/fake wound wise though.

I was super happy to see Paul Rudd. Nice surprise, I didn’t know he was in it.

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Freddy vs Jason (2003)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶

Very enjoyable to watch. (I of course was rooting for Jason the whole time. Just not a fan of Freddy). Didn’t need to watch either original movie/series to understand the two. (I’ve only seen parts of Nightmare on Elm Street, and honestly never watched Friday the 13th.)

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The Boy (2016)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃 (5/5 Pumpkins)

I LOVE Brahms and CAN’T WAIT for the sequel. Movie kept me guessing and shocked me at the end (I was pleasantly shocked). The scares weren’t too in your face and the movie kept me interested the whole time. Definitely going to watch again.

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House of Wax (2005)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃 (5/5 Pumpkins)

Loved it. I’ve already watched multiple times. I feel so bad for Vincent (pretty much any mask man from horror movies I seem to love. Idk why). Loved the effects and set/props (wax stuff obviously lol). Never really liked the opening scenes though, I’d rather we get right to the House of Wax but understand it’s necessary.

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Child’s Play/ Chucky Movies [1-6] (1988-2013)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃 (5/5 Pumpkins)

(I’m going to do each one at some point so grouping these all together just for now).

I’ve rewatched these so much. I find 4 (Bride of Chucky) and 5 (Seed of Chucky) more funny than scary honestly.

Though no idea what they were thinking after that, the one after Seed is no good in my opinion. They should have ended it after Seed. BUT (See below)

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Cult of Chucky (2017)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

Watched this only cause it was on Netflix and I gotta say it wasn’t that bad. I actually loved the ending though I’m usually one for happy endings. Probably wouldn’t watch it again but it was better than the one before

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The Lost Boys (1987)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃 (5/5 Pumpkins)

Love it so much I have it on DVD. Watched it as a kid and never found it too scary but it that’s just cause I fell in love with the characters.... Love Kiefer Sutherland. Didn’t care for any of the sequels.

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Friday the 13th (1980)

🎃🎃🔶🔶🔶 (2/5 Pumpkins)

It’s one of those that was probably super scary at the time it came out. I was between 2-3 Pumpkins for the rating. 1) I knew who the killer was. Hard to avoid spoilers when the movie came out in the 80s 2) I could figure out who survived 3) I like the acting by “Alice” but “Marcy” and “Annie” (omfg).... don’t get me started on Annie.

I am however excited to see the next one. Gimmie some Jason.

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Friday the 13th Part 2 (1981)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

Liked it much better than the first. Acting was better. I like how this (like Halloween II) basically showed the ending of the first movie as a reminder (though I didn’t like that it was shown as a nightmare Alice had) And I had a few issues. 1) MUFFIN 2) WHERE’S PAUL? (What was real? What was a dream?)

I also have played the Friday The 13th The Game and it was cool to see one of the maps and basically one of the challenges kill for kill. I didn’t know the challenges were based off the movies, I knew the maps were.

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Friday the 13th - Part III (1982)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

I liked this one but was left with questions that I don’t know if I missed the answer or what.

Idk how I feel about them changing Jason’s face. Part 2 his face was half deformed (and he had hair!) And now suddenly it’s his whole face and he’s bald. (which, don’t get me wrong, I don’t care what he looks like. I’m just confused as to why they changed it.)

Again cool to see a place the game has as a map (I knew what rooms were what lol) and again how certain people died. And now that kill in the barn (in game not movie) makes sense to be called a revenge kill.

Can’t wait to watch the next one.

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Friday the 13th The Final Chapter (1984)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

First off…. Yay tiny Cory Feldman. Second … WHAT THE WHAT?! So I liked this one and only had a few problems with it. Namely.. I thought Jason only killed people who we teens/“being bad”/on his land. The family of three had to have been there during the 3rd movie, it was only like a day after the end of that one. I think he shouldn’t have killed the only blonde mom (maybe he doesn’t trust anyone who looks like his mom anymore). And the kid did nothing

WHICH BRINGS ME TO TOMMY. (Who I didn’t know was a kid in the movies…) Why and how did him making himself look like a young Jason work? A simple “he moved” would have assured his sister he wasn’t going insane. And also, what did Jason possess him at the end?? (Or was it just to show he’d grow up to like hacking people?)

And my last problem was… Why did the “peace” girl have to die?! She wasn’t doing anything!

Also … Trish… Why didn’t you just jump over that body…you did going back. Anyway I liked it. (XD)

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Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The beginning (2006)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

Well right off the bat I want to hug Thomas and never let go. (I also want to maim everyone who insults him and calls him the R word. I really HATE that word). Honestly didn’t know about the whole cannibal aspect to the movie(s) I just knew about the face wearing. “Hoyt” gave me the fucking creeps but I did like how he defended Thomas in the beginning. I still have to watch the movie that came before this and the originals (Where his name isn’t Thomas apparently. I like it as Thomas) but Thomas has been added to the list of Slashers I like.

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Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2

🎃🎃🎃🔶🔶 (3/5 Pumpkins)

This one was meant to be a dark comedy, which I can see how but yikes...

I watched this one before the first one just because I heard that he ends up liking a girl in it and I love Bubba so I wanted to see that. Now I know where the “Wiggles” gif comes from. I find him so adorable even though he makes the girl wear a face… I like him a bit better than the one in the first movie only cause we see more of him not just chasing someone. I’m a sucker for anything even slightly romantic.

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Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)

🎃🎃 🔶 🔶 🔶(2/5 Pumpkins)

I honestly started it and stopped it so much just cause I was bored... I kinda knew what happened so maybe that had something to do with it but for most of the movies I knew what was gonna happen, this one just kept loosing me anyways.

One of those movies that makes you wanna scream at the victims for how stupid they were. Who goes up to a house and after not getting a response the first five or so times GOES INTO THE HOUSE. That’s trespassing and STUPID.

I really both loved and hated the way Sally screamed the ENTIRE time she ran. It really made her sound actually terrified but also...if he lost sight of her it wouldn’t matter cause he could just follow the screams.

I prefer Thomas’ family better cause they’re not as mean to him...

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Scream (1996)

🎃🎃🎃🎃🔶 (4/5 Pumpkins)

I had seen Scary Movie, which is a spoof/parody of this movie, so even if I didn’t already know who Billy was I would’ve known who the killer(s) was. Probably actually scary for its time but also I don’t personally get too scared by horror movies like this. Billy is very yummy though…

Took me forever to realize where I knew Stu from… The live action Scooby-Do movies… XD

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Jason Lives Friday 13th Part VI (1986)

🎃🎃🎃🎃 🎃 (5/5 Pumpkins)

Okay.. just reading the lil blurb on Show Box… TOMMY DID WHAT NOW? How do you accidentally… I’m just gonna watch the movie…

Was it supposed to be as funny as it was? XD The whole thing could’ve been avoided if Tommy just didn’t stab his body during a storm. (Also... Tommy is very yummy, omg)

I would honestly watch it again just because it’s so funny and I don’t mind looking at Tommy.

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The Babadook

🎃🎃🎃🎃 🎃 (5/5 Pumpkins) 

I loved this. Technically a “drama/thriller” but damn some scenes got me. I loved the meaning behind it all and would definitely watch it again.

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Working on watching more movies. Below is what I still need to watch.

Friday the 13th A New Beginning (1985)

(which apparently isn’t even Jason so I’m probably going to skip it)

Friday the 13th Part VII The New Blood (1988)

Friday The 13th Part VIII Jason Takes Manhattan (1989)

(What is he, a giant monster like Godzilla now?)

Jason Goes to Hell The Final Friday (1993)

Jason X (2001)

Halloween (2007)

Halloween II (2009)

Scream 2 (1997)

Scream 3 (2000)

Scream 4 (2011)

House at the End of the Street (2012)

Probably a ton more I need to see but that’s all I can think of for now. Got a movie suggestion? Lemme know.

[bruhn48cates-blog]

International Or Bilingual Main Schools Institution And also Specialised Establishments Education and learning

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Our comics are full of those neo-pagan mythic heroes who exaggerated individual virtues always total up to, whatever else could be true of them, 'beats individuals up good'. Inning accordance with Microsoft last month, Windows 10 was actually working on more than 400 thousand devices around the globe, up from 200 thousand in January. The 1st indicator that this possibly had not been visiting be actually an excellent manual is the fact that the blurb had not been even an ad, but somewhat the opening pages from the story. There is actually mocking, however certainly not without passion ... beyond nationality, guide is about the immigrant's mission: self-invention, which is the American target. We expected to create a counterweight to Notion Magazine's cool and trendy digital company with an even more reflective sequel company as a publication publisher.

As the sea lining from collectivism sinks under the weight of its personal huge ineptitude (a smart idea, yet the leader was inebriated as well as the workers were actually sticky-fingered rascals), you leap over the top, clamber on the only on call boat (commercialism) just to discover that there is actually a large leopard on board which will definitely eat you unless you Oh eventually I get that. I review this a couple of years ago as well as this was actually supposed to become all about The lord. Though that is actually ski run really isn't however open, Doha Celebration City has actually presented a monthlong set from destinations for children 5-12 years of ages. Mentally manipulative manuals that feel as if the author set out with an agenda to tug at my heart strands - that would certainly be actually As long as I just like a really good romance, I wouldn't contact myself an enchanting. Many diet plan think about weight loss that are established through nutritionists and also health and wellness specialists are based on 1200 fats daily. Apple's Wellness application tracks your steps just fine, yet it is actually dreadful at really featuring any helpful relevant information. The Sun is actually Likewise a Celebrity through Nicola Yoon ended up being an excellent shock as I go through the book! I'll Offer You the Sunshine delivers a genuine contemporary check out love as well as relationships. Our experts read LOTR for my dream literature training class and also I had actually intended to read this just before I began FOTR, but I entirely forgot as well as for that reason aimed to cram this in prior to starting the book for class. And through creating English the subject from the book which rarely this is as the girl never possesses a trouble with his english and also its own a love story eventually, CB got an added reason to compose horribly. I'm visiting need to presume you have actually read this book, as if I don't I will not be able to state anything regarding this whatsoever.

[much-ado-about-nothing03]

‘Ragdoll’, Daniel Cole

A body is discovered with the dismembered parts of six victims stitched together, nicknamed the Ragdoll by the media.

Assigned to the shocking case are Detective William Fawkes, recently reinstated to the London Met, and his former partner Emily Baxter.

The ‘Ragdoll Killer’ taunts the police by releasing a list of names to the media, and the dates on which he intends to murder them.

With Six people to save, can Fawkes and Baxter catch a killer? 

⭐⭐

_____________________________________________________________

As a true crime enthusiast I was quite excited to start this book. I had been out with my best friend during the COVID lifting of restrictions browsing through charity shops when I came across ‘Ragdoll’ by Daniel Cole and bought it straight away, for only the price of £2. Anticipating an exciting and scary read I saved the book for a special occasion, unfortunately after all this waiting it did not live up to my expectations. 

About the Author: 

Daniel Cole lives in Bournemouth on the coast of England and at 33 years of age had worked as a paramedic, an RSPCA officer and worked for the RNLI which is, I believe, quite an impressive resume. 

‘Ragdoll’ was Daniels debut novel which had come after five years of rejection and became the first book in a series of three, the sequel titled ‘Hangman’ and the third book titled ‘Endgame’ with another due to release this year. The book was a great success with Cole who had his book published in over 30 countries becoming Sunday Times bestselling author, as well as a TV adaptation in the works.

Therefore my opinion perhaps is unpopular and won’t do any detriment to his reputation.

My Thoughts:

The Positives:)

The concept of the book is imaginative and was ultimately what drew me to it. In my spare time and while I complete art homework I often listen to true crime podcasts and documentaries, my favourite source being the youtuber and podcaster Stephanie Soo (you should check out her videos: (234) Stephanie Soo - YouTube), therefore I have heard of many a gruesome tale however when I read this blurb I was shocked. Never had I come across a case as bizarre as this. Of course I was drawn in, who wouldn’t want be? I have to praise Daniel for this as it is what kept me turning the next page or picking up the book to read the next chapter. 

Another positive to this read were the characters. I found myself laughing at their interactions and continuously intrigued by their relationships between one another. Detective Emily Baxter reminded me off a more outspoken version of Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn 99 and I could constantly relate with her being irritated with the more incompetent or overly ambitious characters such as Edmunds, a character which despite his eagerness holds an undeniable endearment. Although the characters were interesting they were somewhat one dimensional and I wasn’t able to grasp onto one or feel emotion towards any. But maybe I’m just cold and hard to please.

The Negatives:(

I don't know if my standards are high or I’ve just become numb to gruesome events but in my opinion the book wasn’t very...Scary? It’s a thriller and I haven’t read in this genre before but Brian Masters' biography on Dennis Nelson: Killing For Company was more unsettling than this. Which makes sense considering it goes into depth of his murders but I was a bit under whelmed ,not to sound too psychotic, I just thought there would be a focus on the killer and his murders. Furthermore the discovery of the killer was extremely confusing and therefore anti-climatic. Initially (spoiler alert) it seems that a trusted police officer after a long, scary and disappointing career and unsuccessful marriage has gone completely rouge (as well as bat shit crazy) in order to gain brutal justice. However it just seems he made a phone call to sell his soul (but not really) to get someone else to kill a few people, including himself, that he didn’t really want dead and actually quite liked. I know. What?

On top of this I felt a prequel was necessary as the whole situation was ignited by a previous serial killer labelled the ‘cremation killer’ who burnt little girls alive, was captured by previously mentioned ‘trusted police officer’ William Fawkes, was found not guilty at the trial, was then released, killed another little girl, was then arrested and found guilty of being the cremation killer and was finally murdered in prison by the ‘Ragdoll Killer’. I The whole context of this built up the behaviour and situations of many of the characters and without a full narrative of the events something felt missing.

Are you tired of hearing my complaints? Because I am. To briefly summarise the storyline was interesting and the characters were fairly compelling but the language and description used was not breath taking. As well as this the switching of point of view of character was disorientating and i was not extremely impressed with the end reveal.

_____________________________________________________________

But who really cares? If you’ve read it or now want to read it despite my criticisms (or because of them) let me know if you disagree, would love to hear your opinions on this. Despite everything I did want to read it and finish it nor did I ever get so incredibly bored that I stared into space rather than look at the page, but I won’t pick it up to give it another read. 

My next Post will be on ‘Cilkas Journey’ by Heather Morris, writer of ‘The Tattooist of Auschwitz’ which I have just finished reading recently. Looking forward to sharing my thoughts :)

Hope you are having and have had a good week. 

See you soon. 

Eliza Moon *)

[bakechochin]

The Book Ramblings of June

In place of book reviews, I will be writing these ‘book ramblings’. A lot of the texts I’ve been reading (or plan to read) in recent times are well-known classics, meaning I can’t really write book reviews as I’m used to. I’m reading books that either have already been read by everyone else (and so any attempt to give novel or insightful criticisms would be a tad pointless), or are so convoluted and odd that they defy being analysed as I would do a simpler text. These ramblings are pretty unorganised and hardly anything revolutionary, but I felt the need to write something review-related this year. I’ll upload a rambling compiling all my read books on a monthly basis.

The Man Who Was Thursday - GK Chesterton I bought the Penguin English Library edition of this book mainly because of a tweet that I saw slagging off the cover, saying that the sticks of dynamite in the cover pattern looked like tampons and that 'this could have been avoided if only one woman had looked at the cover’; this irritated me a lot because I know for a fact that the cover was in fact designed by a woman (Coralie Bickford-Smith, to be precise, an artist whose similar works I am also a good fan of), and I wanted to own this edition simply so that I could prove to myself and others that this is the case. However, whilst the cover of this book is indeed very pretty, the texts published in the Penguin English Library collection do not possess the handy introductory chapter at the beginning that the Penguin Classics include, and thus with no frame of reference, I was at something of a loss to describe this book. It is certainly an interesting read insofar as it seemingly refuses to stay as one genre for the whole book. The blurb describes it as a ‘strange and haunting novel’, and at the beginning, this is very appropriate; it depicts a sensationalist image of villainous anarchists and zealous unhinged detectives that is incredibly compelling, and I hold that the character descriptions of the members of the Council of Days (as introduced in chapter five) make for some of the best writing that I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. By fuck is Chesterton great at characterising these dudes. The blurb describes the novel as a spy thriller, and all seemed to be going well on this front, with a melodramatic but consistent tone maintained for around the first half of the book, with some great twists scattered here and there for good measure. But then things start getting a tad daft, and I’m going to spoil a bit of the plot here because you need to understand how off the rails this shit gets. The adventure grows to involve much of the main cast of antagonists being revealed to be policemen in increasingly convoluted disguises, ridiculously overblown chases in different countries with the stakes being continuously raised in the stupidest and funniest ways, and the main antagonist, built up as a grand unknowable titan of crime and anarchy, escapes the protagonist by leaping over a balcony ‘like an orang-utan’, riding away on a rampaging elephant that he broke out of the zoo, and finally evading capture by flying away on a stolen hot air balloon. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of this sort of shit as a general rule, but by fuck does it seem incongruous in a novel such as this, that is so clever and so beautifully written and, whilst containing its few bits of sensational ridiculousness (as an overt parody of the genre or its tropes), generally quite a serious read. Similarly to The Heat’s On, if this book had just kept on the rails or channelled its madness into chaos that stayed within the genre’s boundaries, instead of just throwing its hands up into the air and screaming, ‘fuck it, put in an elephant chase scene!’, I’d have enjoyed it a lot more. As it is, it reminds me of the overblown nonsense of the 007 stories - this is a novel for dads, I reckon. After finishing this book I then found Beaumont’s introduction to the text, which describes the text as ‘antirealist’, and cites Chesterton’s description of ‘great works which mix up abstractions fit for an epic with fooleries not fit for a pantomime’. As a concept, I can fully get behind this - the juxtaposition of heroics and farcical nonsense puts me in mind of high burlesque, and I’ve always been fully against realism because fuck that noise. But you can’t stick with the idea of this book being wholly antirealist if it takes place in a world recognisable as our own and then suddenly changes to be ludicrous and laughable; that’s just inconsistent, and indeed mildly vexing when I was fully engrossed in the sensational spy thriller. Furthermore, attempting to justify this book’s content by saying that it is reminiscent of a ‘nightmare’ is a bullshit defence, because a) the word ‘nightmare’ could simply be used in reference to this book’s negative depiction of a world in which anarchists triumph in their nasty villainy, and b) it’s difficult to keep the idea of this book’s world supposedly being a dream forefront in one’s mind when it, as mentioned above, represents a view (albeit a sensational one) of reality, with dream nonsense hardly being a part of it at all. That is, of course, until the very end, when the book gives up all pretence of being a spy novel and instead wallows in metaphor and overt Christian imagery before ending abruptly. The ending is bullshit and I don't like it.

Dead Souls - Nikolai Gogol I’ve often cited Gogol as one of my favourite authors, but for the longest time I stayed clear of this book, somewhat daunted by whether what I loved about Gogol’s short stories would translate well to a novel form. This is a different beast to his short stories, but no less interesting to talk about, and indeed possessing many of the short story’s positive attributes, for all of the excellent writing, characterisation, and understanding of the fun nuances of society abounds here as it does in his shorter works. Apparently Gogol was attempting to recreate the structure and overall vibe of The Odyssey and other such Homeric epics in prose form, and although the overall setting and storyline does not reflect the grand awe-inspiring epics of the past, I’ll be buggered if the story’s writing and tone doesn’t somehow achieve it. This is not, despite what some critics have said, due to Gogol’s tendency to ramble on about unrelated digressions (a device apparently comparable to Homeric epics), or at least it didn’t stick out to me as such when I read it - that’s just kind of what Gogol does. No, it’s the writing and tone, as mentioned above, that seems to ape the Homeric tone, in such a way that you wouldn’t notice its explicit presence until after you’d been informed of it, and yet when you are aware of the Homeric influence you see it everywhere clear as day; I’d call it an ineffable concept but that’s just me trying to cover up for the fact that I can’t find the words, because I’m bad at writing these things. But I digress. Gogol’s excellent means of conveying character voices shines as always in this text, but I can’t feel like I’m missing the extent of it because I’m reading it in English. The introduction by Robert A Maguire describes Gogol’s extensive research into ‘all the prosaic rubbish of life, all the rags’, and makes efforts to incorporate such minor details as regional slang, official jargon, outdated terminology, etc. into his characters’ voices, but I fear that I’m missing some of the nuances of these techniques by my lack of knowledge in these fields or that some of the subtleties in language don’t translate as well as they ought to. Of course there are some characters which exemplify Gogol’s skill at diverse voices, such as some of the peasant muzhiks and one of my favourite characters Nozdryov (who draws from a wide array of sources for his dialogue with hilarious results), but there are some instances in which the character voices seem somewhat interchangeable, especially considering how a lot of individual personality is often subsumed by the necessity of upholding social decorum, and thus there are many characters who only speak in refined socially acceptable manners. The characters themselves are all bloody great, be they individual grotesque landowners or incredibly detailed and often brilliantly satirical descriptions of wider groups or demographics. Whilst the writing remains as excellent as ever, the characters in the second part of the book lack the grotesque simplicity of those in the first part - indeed, efforts are made by Gogol to give them complex fleshed-out characterisation - and subsequently these new characters are nowhere near as memorable as the fantastic personifications of negative traits that we got in the first part. Yeah, I forgot to mention, this book is technically made up of two parts, the first part highlighting the problems of society and the second part intended to delve into the resolution of some of these issues; of course, the second part does not exist in its entirety, because Gogol was a great fan of melodramatically burning his manuscripts, but it’s not a major issue because what does survive of the full text is amazing enough on its own (specifically the entirety of part one). Plus, I’ve delved into my thoughts of authors trying to ‘change the world’ through their works (in that I think that it’s a fool’s notion and only really serves to exemplify the author’s delusion), so I’m content with this text only portraying the detrimental aspects of society, as opposed to trying to fix them. I am quite fond of the narrator in this book. Similarly to his short stories, Gogol employs a narrative voice that exists almost as a character in of itself, and I don’t just mean that in the sense of ‘it’s got a lot of personality’. The narrative voice apologises for the story’s content and makes changes in an attempt to preserve decorum, it makes excuses for the story’s characters (especially the protagonist Chichikov), it often reveals information at the same rate as the characters within the setting discover things and have epiphanies, and it even establishes itself as a character with a physical voice as it only chooses to speak of Chichikov’s past when Chichikov himself is asleep, and apologises all the while lest he somehow slight the man. Bringing up this also gives me an opportunity to briefly mention the 2006 BBC radio adaptation for this, which establishes the narrator as a physical character in all scenes to humourous effect (and what’s more gave me yet more reason to love Mark Heap, who makes for a fucking excellent Chichikov). But I digress. Part two of the novel, as mentioned above, does not possess the same sort of wonderfully grotesque characters as part one, and considering that this is a novel defined mainly by its characters, this is somewhat problematic. The plot of part two is perhaps vaguely interesting, even though it seems to shunt the titular focus of dead souls to the side somewhat, but all in all I found it difficult to be too invested in this new story due to its lack of compelling characters. In addition, the Homeric epic tone of part one is somewhat absent, and without a distinctive narrative voice, the narrative suffers. I feel bad shitting on part two, since it was everyone else shitting on part two that catalysed Gogol to burn the manuscript (again) and possibly starve himself to death. Honestly, the first part is bloody amazing, so just read that and then be satisfied with the knowledge that your opinion of the book overall has not been tarnished by the shoddy second part. Sorry Gogol.

Complete Short Fiction - Oscar Wilde I’ve been vaguely aware of Wilde’s short fiction for a while now, having read a selection of his fairy tales and ‘Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime’ (a favourite of mine) for uni, so I decided to give his complete collection a shot. The Penguin Classics edition of his short fiction is separated into his different published collections, but can generally be categorised as either fairy tales or miscellaneous short stories. I’ve studied a shit load of fairy tale authors/compilers (Basile, Straparola, Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, Andersen, Wilde and whoever compiles the radical Russian fairy tales), and Wilde is certainly my favourite of the bunch. The specific blend of Wilde-esque traits incorporated into the fairy tale format make up my favourite fairy tales of any author - this is by no means all of Wilde’s fairy tales, but I’ll get into that. My favourite fairy tales of Wilde take place in a world vaguely recognisable as our own, or at least existing as an exaggerated facsimile of our own society, not just because the urban setting reminds me of Hoffmann’s ‘The Golden Pot’, but because such a setting allows for some heavy-handed but undeniably hilarious social commentary and satire. Such satire works especially well when juxtaposing the romanticised world of the fairy tale with the grimmer reality of Wilde’s society - the two tales that commence the collection, ‘The Happy Prince’ and ’The Nightingale and the Rose’, exemplify this excellently. Whilst I liked the satire attainable by setting the fairy tale in an urban society environment, similar levels of hilarity are obtained via Wilde’s satirical look at certain character archetypes (the titular character in ‘The Remarkable Rocket’ being my favourite example). The fairy tales obviously possess their morals and their teachings (though I was a fan of how this is subverted slightly by some characters actively avoiding, misinterpreting or arguing with the story’s moral), but the tropes that we’d expect to see in fairy tales - the morals from Perrault, the recurring overt ties to Christianity from Andersen, etc. - are not why I like Wilde’s fairy tales so much. The tales in the collection titled A House of Pomegranates are undeniably excellently written, and what’s more include some fantastic settings inspired by the Victorian obsession with the Orient that allow for phenomenal and evocative descriptive writing (the likes of which is not seen in any other of Wilde’s fairy tales), but they fail to capture my preferred positive attributes that the aforementioned tales possess. I cheekily skipped 'The Portrait of Mr W H' because I’d heard from a mate who had also read it that it was a long and dull read, and thus refrained from checking it out lest it tarnish my idealised view of Wilde. I’m sure I’ll live with myself knowing that I haven’t read Wilde’s entire body of works. Indeed, who gives half a toss about that when we’ve still got to talk about the last remaining collection contained within this publication: ‘Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories’, which is not made up of fairy tales but other ‘popular’ genres of writing. Taken at face value, the stories’ content of murder, ghosts, and mystery slot in nicely alongside the fairy tales, in that they can all be considered, at face value, writings intended to appeal to the low-brow interests of the masses. They are, of course, more than that, possessing some great subversions of genre tropes and Wilde’s typical social satire, which all comes together to make the short stories (in particular ‘Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime’ and ‘The Canterville Ghost’) hilarious and very enjoyable reads. The fact that these stories are written with the primary intentions of entertaining, rather than revolutionising the written form or making one think about grand philosophical themes, means that I can’t really offer anything about the stories other than that they’re fucking good and that you should go and read them.

Shit I read this month that I couldn’t be arsed to write about: A Short History of Drunkenness by Mark Forsyth (which I started back in December(?) last year, forgot about until now, and love immensely), and ‘The Penal Colony’ by Kafka (it was much more enjoyable than the other works by Kafka that I’ve read, but that isn’t really saying much).

[grandhotelabyss]

Though my online course is over, I still feel obligated to provide audiovisual content on Mondays. Above is a movie I watched recently, White of the Eye (1987). I hadn’t even heard of it before I ran across it in Bezos’s archive, and I now believe it’s criminally unheralded in the semi-arty horror-thriller pantheon (do not, please, speak to me of Ari Aster). 

Being a philistine, I like White of the Eye better, for instance, than the connoisseur’s go-to ’80s cult object, Żuławski’s Possession, which I find unendurably over-stylized despite its other merits. Fun fact: Possession was co-written by novelists’ novelist Frederic Tuten, who once received the most extravagant blurb from my beloved Cynthia Ozick, as friend-of-the-blog @danskjavlarna pointed out: “What an amazing, glittering, glowing, Proustian, Conradian, Borgesian, diamond-faceted, language-studded, myth-drowned dream!” exclaimed our greatest living Republican-voting novelist (remember that Cormac McCarthy doesn’t vote). Tuten, by the way, is not to be blamed for what I call Possession’s over-stylization, which is a matter of performance not script. But I don’t want to get into a hipper-than-thou spiral, “My cult movie’s better than your cult movie,” to be trapped in a crisis of Girard’s mimetic desire or Bourdieu’s cultural capital—merde, but the French are depressing, “too human, too historical,” as Deleuze complained in acclaiming “the superiority of Anglo-American literature.” The work of art has formal, affective, conceptual intrinsic qualities, not just extrinsic social determinants, and White of the Eye is, I argue, intrinsically spectacular.

Speaking of performance: White of the Eye was directed by Donald Cammell, the co-director with Nicolas Roeg of the classic 1970 film Performance. Again a philistine, I could never get into Performance—never even watched it all the way through—even though it sits at the nexus of two of my early influences. First, in a Comics Journal interview in the mid-’90s, English artist Bryan Talbot credited Performance’s jump-cut montage techniques for inspiring the storytelling innovations in his graphic novel The Adventures of Luther Arkwright. The underread Arkwright is the lost key to comics’s British Invasion—without it we wouldn’t have had V for Vendetta, Watchmen, Sandman, or The Invisibles. (It’s also a key to this movement’s cryptic politics, as Talbot stages a Jacobite uprising as anti-fascist revolution, precursor to Moore’s much more famous but still baffling ancom in Guy Fawkes garb. Is all anarchism Tory anarchism?) Second, Performance was a particular interest of Professor Colin MacCabe’s, whose class on James Joyce, with its mind-altering 12 weeks on Ulysses, helped to make me the reader and writer I am today back in that explosive landmark year, 2001. Protagonist of an epochal affaire in poststructuralism’s history and erstwhile director of the British Film Institute, MacCabe later wrote a book on Performance, which, alas, unlike his books on Joyce and Godard, I haven’t read. 

I like White of the Eye better than Performance as I like it better than Possession, though. Mysterious symbolism, desert desolation, languorous eroticism, and, yes, some montage. The scorching, doomed marriage between a fanatic Western audiophile—he looks like the young W. Bush—and his breathy, no-nonsense New York wife; a Paglia-esque misogynist rampage (“that fuckin’ black hole...if that’s not female, I don’t know what is”) in an arid outpost of the Reagan-era bourgeoisie and its multicultural fringe: it all evokes the inherent evil of the American landscape that Burroughs observes in Naked Lunch. It has that ’80s quality of emotional amplitude not just between but within scenes. At every moment you might ask, “Is this sad, funny, or horrifying?” and answer, “Yes.” I do see filmmakers today working in the same vein and aspiring to the same compass. Witness the already famous Jacques Derrida High School in David Prior’s ultimately disappointing Empty Man or the scarcely resistible vaporwave dreamscape of Anthony Scott Burns’s also ultimately disappointing Come True (can’t anybody end a movie anymore?). But White of the Eye does it without effort or self-consciousness, as the very essence of its being an artwork at all—an artifact from a lost civilization.

[natalie-m-davis]

Filling Vacant Shelves

Rating: PG-13 Words: 1,620 Warnings: None

A/N: Part 2 (Chapter One) DONE! Now I know all of BTS doesn’t speak fluent English but for the sake of this piece of fiction, they do. As you read further in this part you’ll definitely see that Namjoon is my bias. Do you like the Milk and Honey concept? If you guys haven’t read it it’s a collection of poetry that you definitely want to have as apart of your library. The Sun and Her Flowers as well. Oh, and don’t worry, Jin, Hoseok, and Jimin will be in the next part. I will be making a master-list once I post part three and when I figure out how to make one. Don’t forget to give me feedback guys MY INBOX IS OPEN and WAITING. Enjoy! 

[Part 2] Encounter One: Work

i know it’s hard believe me i know it feels like tomorrow will never come and today will be the most difficult day to get through but i swear you will get through the hurt will pass as it always does if you give it time and let it so let it go slowly like a broken promise let it go.

— Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey

“Getting the usual today Tanya.” I asked one of out regulars.

“You know it! Thanks Camila.”

I took her order of a venti iced caramel macchiato— almond milk, extra caramel sauce, light ice and 3 shots of espresso. Since no one was in line behind her I went on and made the drink as well. She prefers I do anyway since I seem to be the only one who makes it to her perfected taste.

It was a bit slow to be a Friday morning, but I didn’t mind it. Ever since I got transferred to this store when I moved back home a week ago; I’ve slowly come to like my new coworkers—who treat me as if I’ve been working here forever—and the atmosphere that comes with our store being part bookstore as well. As I made my way back to the register, a group of customers was approaching. I greeted them and asked the usual—

“Good Morning. What can I get for you all?”

There were three of them and they all looked exactly alike. Except for the hair colors that gave them a bit of a distinction. One approached me already knowing what he wanted to order while the other two stared at the menu above me. Once he got a bit closer to me I was able to get a better look at him. He was well polished, style practically screamed he has coin, multiple piercings on the ears. Seems to be the artsy type. Taking in the appearance of his face, all I could say to that was— he was beautiful! Like, mesmerizing and blindingly beautiful that I finally realized I was still staring and hadn’t heard his order.

Snapping out of the trans-state I was in, “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” He smiled, nodding his head.

“I’d like a grande sweet cream cold brew, light ice.”

“Name?” I asked as I was prepared to write on his cup.

“You can just put V.” He looked back to the others to see if they had decided on what they’re getting. One that had jet black hair and baby like facial features stepped up next to him and relayed me his order.

“Hi, may I have a venti iced blonde vanilla latte. Uuhh, that’s all.” He smiled wide, making his features then to look… I don’t know, almost bunny like.

“And the name for the cup?”

He looked me in the eyes and said “International Playboy.” Giving me a wink afterward. A flirt, cute. I bit my lip absentmindedly writing his “name” on the cup. The last one stepped to me. Beauty just as equivalent to the first two. His bleached blonde hair pushed back with a headband was the cherry on top. I gave him a courteous smile.

“Can I get a grande iced coffee with milk, extra sweetener. The name for the cup is Suga.”

I marked the cup as he spoke. After ringing them up my manager told me that we had just received a shipment of books ready to be shelved. And just like that, within seconds, I went from barista to bookseller.

I took off my apron as I made my way to the back. I picked up the inventory list and saw that our shipment today was a new mystery novel. With the box on a dolly, I made my way to the Mystery section. Right in between Thriller and Science Fiction. And there it was, the shelf labeled for me need to stock with our newest addition. It took me a while to begin because I was so focused on reading the book— the title and description blurb on the back. A girl has to have a little something to say about it to a customer if they ask about it. It’s kind of my job. I got more wrapped up in the book that I ended up on the third page of the first chapter when I saw a customer approaching the Sci-fi section next to me.

He was rather tall. Bleached blonde and bubblegum hair. Gold round-framed glasses that almost sat at the edge of his nose. I couldn’t see much of his face but his neck was as long and slender as the rest of his limbs. A few moles making their way up to his jawline. He was wearing a fitted yellow and navy blue polo tee with dark denim overalls. Black and white hightop vans to complete his look. He reminded me of the guys that ordered coffee earlier, I wonder if there’s any relation.

His eyes were scanning the shelves as my eyes were scanning him. Haven’t stocked the shelf and I’m eyeing down a complete stranger. You could get penalized for this. I averted my attention back to the books, starting to fill the shelf one book at a time. I caught a few glances over at the stranger once more, since he seemed to be stuck on which book to pick. While keeping my eyes over in my area I said aloud—

“I recommend Fahrenheit 451 or The Giver. I heard they’re good reads. I haven’t read them yet personally but, thought you could use some help. If you’re not sure on what to choose.”

Looking over at him, I saw he had his face in a shocked expression. His eyes were the purest brown eyes I’ve seen. His face relaxed into a smile, flexing a dimple on his left cheek.

“I guess you see me a bit frustrated over here, huh?”

I smiled and nodded my head. “It’s also my job to ask if the customer needs any help looking for something specific. I wouldn’t be doing it correctly as an employee if I wasn’t following the set rules and regulations.” I finished up with putting the books on the shelf, giving him my undivided attention.

He held his head down and gave a shy laugh. “Well, I appreciate the assistance. Now if only you can point out those books for me.”

The level of flirting is hella high here people! I laughed as he stepped aside, making room for me to get to the shelves. Scanning them, looking for the books. I found them in seconds and handed both to him. I watched as he did the same thing I did earlier— read the titles and turned the book to the back to read the synopsis.

“Both seem intriguing— I’ll get them. Also because you recommended them to me…”

“Camila.”

He stuck his hand out. “Camilia.” He said testing out my name on his tongue. “I’m Namjoon.”

I took his hand. “Nice to meet you Namjoon.” We were still holding hands when someone called his same from behind me. I turned and saw that it was the “International Playboy” signaling that it was time for them to be going. So that answers my question of him having any relations with them. He walked past me in a rush, then looked back, assuming I was following.

“You’re not going to check me out?” He asked giving me his dimpled smile.

I gave him a sly one in return. “I’m only on the floor, someone else is on the register today. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Thank you again for the help though. Camila.”

“It was my pleasure. Namjoon.”

He turned to leave, only to end up walking into the dolly I had left in my work area from earlier. He swore then groaned after he hit his leg up against it. I giggled slightly, not wanting him to feel more embarrassed than what he already was. He limped away as I said—

“Hope you come again!” Namjoon…

* * *

Hours later my shift was over. I hung my barista apron up for the week, gathering my belonging and heading out. Preparing myself for my weekend activities. I’m just going to do what you did last weekend: a. stay in bed b. eat chocolate chip mint ice-cream c. disconnect myself from the world d. blast my rock/pop rock playlist…on repeat e. cry. till the tears stop

Technically I’ve been doing a, b, d, and e, ever since the— breakup. Did I mention I’ve been reading Rupi Kaur’s Milk and Honey since then? Yeah. That’s where some of those ideas came from— to do list (after the breakup). And there are plenty more. I had finally made it home. At that point, I was ready to get relaxed and take a quick nap before starting with what I had lined up for the weekend. Still in my work clothes, I  plopped down on my bed. Kicking my shoes off somewhere in my room and tucking my pillow under my head. Ready for sleep to elude me from all else around me.

Minutes after I had laid down, ready for a short slumber, someone was telling me to get up. My best friend— Vera.  

“Get up Camila, we’re going out! You are not repeating last weekend’s shit. I won’t allow it.” She said as she threw the cover off of me. I didn’t move.

Next thing I knew, I was being pulled off of my bed and onto the floor. Ass hitting it then my head. She wasn’t playing any games and it surely wasn’t up for discussion.

[paul-tudor-owen]

Review: The Weighing of the Heart by Paul Tudor Owen: ‘incredibly original, passionate and powerful’

A really glowing review of my novel The Weighing of the Heart from Lynne aka The Book-Reviewing Mum:

Well this is definitely not like something I have ever read before! A story which is based around Egyptian Mythology and Art, it really took me to different places where normal books wouldn’t!

I have never read a novel based on Egyptian Mythology before and actually before I read this book I googled the title ‘The Weighing Of the Heart’ and it told me all about this Ancient Egyptian history! I only have a basic knowledge on Ancient Egypt and I actually ended up learning something which I loved!

You can really feel the passion the author has for art in this book as well, with a number of famous paintings and artists being mentioned and a lot of the story also being based around art, it was talked about a lot which I also thoroughly enjoyed! It was refreshing to read something that’s based around such different subjects than I am used to!

We follow the main character Nick through the book from moving to a new place in New York due to a breakup, to him falling in love and basically losing his mind a little!

He moves in with the Peacock Sisters who are very wealthy and have an amazing apartment in a more lavish part of New York! Their apartment is filled with expensive and beautiful artwork which include lots of originals!

While living here Nick meets Lydia who lives across the hall and also rents from the Peacock sisters! They get to talking and both realise they share the same passions which not only include art but also art that is based on Egyptian Mythology and history and this draws them together!

They embark on a romantic love affair, but Nick is always slightly paranoid shall we say, he ends up seeing things that others possibly don’t, becomes quite jealous which drives him up the wall.

One day they commit an impromptu crime which was hardly planned and this is when things start to change for the 2 of them!

They deal with the guilt and their own thoughts differently and this is where the cracks begin to appear and they start to learn things about each other that they previously did not know…

…and well you will have to read the book to find out where this takes them!

I thoroughly enjoyed the storyline, I loved how it touched on so many genres, from romance, crime, thriller and I would class it as slightly magical with some of the mythology and how can you go wrong with a book that includes so much!

I loved how in different chapters it would take you back to Nick’s past and Lydia’s past so we could learn more about each character! It really helped build an understanding as to who they are, and why they act the way they do!

This book is a really easy read and super easy to follow! The romance, crime and mythology really kept me engaged and I couldn’t wait to find out what was going to happen in the end!

I’d like to give this book 4 ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ for being so incredibly original, educational, passionate, and powerful!

An Awesome Read!

Another positive review of The Weighing of the Heart, this one from Bex aka That Bookish Fangirl, who calls the novel "beautifully written".

So this book is definitely not my usual type but an art heist and Egyptian mythology? Sign me up. For his debut novel Paul does a fantastic job in fully immersing the reader into the story line and New York. Personally I didn’t connect with the main characters and would have loved to read more about the Peacock sisters but that didn’t mean I could put the book down. It’s beautifully written and you can really tell that Paul has a passion or at least did a lot of research onto Art and Artists which was great to read. Also who doesn’t love a twist at the end of a book?

It’s unsurprising that this book has been shortlisted for the People's Book Prize 2020.

And here's another very positive review of The Weighing of the Heart, this one from the.b00kreader, who was "captivated by the writing style and the plot".

This was quite an intriguing read.

After his breakup, Nick moves in with the Peacocks. In the adjoining apartment lives a young woman, Lydia, who has recently been divorced. As they both get into a crime... things don't exactly work like you'd expect.

Throughout this book, I was captivated by the writing style and the plot. I do feel as though Nick was way too overprotective of Lydia. The ending was not what I had expected, I was expecting a completely different outcome. But there ain't no complaints!

**TRIGGER WARNING** This book contains details of stolen items and I feel, some manipulation. Please be aware of this before purchasing / reading.

Another great review, this one from Kirsti aka Mrs Feg Fiction:

I was very excited to read this one because I love to support independent publishers and authors where I can. The blurb of this book is also very interesting, an Englishman in New York who is fascinated by Egyptian mythology and art. A guy down on his luck who happens to find himself living in a lavish Upper East Side apartment which he rents from the exuberant and slightly eccentric Peacock sisters.

Enter Lydia their other lodger, who happens to be Portuguese, beautiful and also interested in ancient Egypt and boom you've got a love interest that quite quickly develops into an unorchestrated heist... You're interested now right?! 😉

@paultowen writes really well and despite this being his debut book, I didn't struggle with the writing style at all. I fell into the storyline quickly and the energy moved along at a good pace.

The main character, Nick is not hugely likeable because it's clear early on that he has some demons and there's something sinister about his past. Lydia is more likeable, she's a bit of a wimp, but she's smart and relatable. The Peacock sisters are hilarious, in a good way.

There are lots of parts to this story, it is by no means all about the crime. I particularly enjoyed learning about the Egyptian Mythology and it's clear the author has a keen interest in this. There is a great deal of depth to each character and you do need to do a fair amount of reading between the lines for parts of the story.

I felt the ending was a little rushed and I had more unanswered questions than I would have liked, but I think that might be kind of the point.

Overall a solid debut.

Here's another great review of The Weighing of the Heart, this one from Soph aka Book, Blog & Candle:

In The Weighing of the Heart by Paul Tudor Owen, our main character is Nick Braeburn. An Englishman in New York who has recently lost his girlfriend, his job and his apartment. Luckily, he is taken in by the eccentric Peacock sisters. However, trouble starts when he and his beautiful neighbour take advantage of their kindness and commit a despicable crime. 

Nick is a polite, unassuming and perfectly nice character but it's not quite enough to cover all of the skeletons in his closet. He quickly falls for Lydia, the classic next door, both connected by their love for Egyptian art based on Egyptian mythology. However, there is a thin line between love and obsession which is a definitely theme throughout the book! As we all know, obsession feeds into paranoia and Nick's true colours are soon revealed. 

There was amazing imagery and fantastic writing all throughout this book. I loved how Ancient Egyptian mythology was woven seamlessly alongside the storytelling. I knew it was going to be my kind of book when I read the blurb, so it's no surprise that I read it in one sitting and loved it! 

The Weighing of the Heart is a great mystery and perfect for fans of The Goldfinch! 

Buy The Weighing of the Heart for 99p here or 99c here, and read its numerous 5-star reviews!

And you can vote for The Weighing of the Heart for the People’s Book Prize 2020 here.

[the-reading-closet]

This year has been a wild one, in terms of life and as always, in terms of books. This time last year I was a reader that would prefer the devouring of the most chilling thrillers, I wouldn’t usually read anything else. That was until I started this year as a blogger. Becoming a blogger was one of the best decisions I made last year, for multiple reasons, that’s (possibly) for another post.

Anyways, this year I’ve been pushed out of my comfort zone, I’ve delved in further to the translated fiction genre, which i’d already dipped a toe into. A majority of the translated fiction that I read this year has been crime fiction from Orenda Books, one of my favourites you’ll find in this list. Also, due to the newest imprint Harper Via Books, who publish a new translated fiction once a month or so, they are brilliant! Another genre I’ve experienced more of is female fiction, especially those surrounding necessary topics, such as consent, feminism and motherhood. 2019 has brought some incredible independent publishers onto my radar, those including Red Dogs Press, Panther Publishing and Fahrenheit Press, publishers who have produced books that are on this very list.

So, without further ado, in no particular order, these are (out of a triple figure amount of books read this year) my top 28 reads – my blog my rules – these reads may not have all been published this year, but I read them this year so *shrugs*. I’ve linked my reviews to each title, where you can find the blurb and my thoughts.

Red Hands by Ariana D. Den Bleyker Lost Lives by Lisa Cutts The Magic Show by Dean Jones Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult (Review due Jan 2020) Expectation by Anna Hope Stay Mad, Sweetheart by Heleen Kist Nothing Important Happened Today by Will Carver Murder on the Rocks by JS Strange Payback by RC Bridgestock (Review to come during January's blog tour) Hydra by Matt Wesolowski A Suitable Lie by Michael J Malone In The Absence of Miracles by Michael J Malone Violet by SJI Holliday Call Me Star Girl by Louise Beech Breakers by Doug Johnstone The Supper Club by Lara Williams My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell I Wanted You To Know by Laura Pearson (Review To Come) On My Life by Angela Clarke The Life of Death by Lucy Booth Blood Orange by Harriet Tyce The Four Woman by Michelle Keill Lost in the Spanish Quarter by Heddi Goodrich Life in a Jar by Jack Mayer The Warehouse by Rob Hart This Mortal Boy by Fiona Kidman

Out 9th September 2019

There you have it, some (because I have loved 99% of my reads this year) the books that I will tuck up in my heart from this year. Some of them have made my heart shatter, some have made me angry, some have filled my heart with love while others have chilled me to the bone. I like to think I’ve learnt something from every one of these books and I am absolutely sure that next year I will read some absolute crackers that will join these in my reader’s heart.

Are any of my favourite reads, your favourite reads this year? What ones? And what reads are you most looking forward to reading next year?

Until next time!

  The Reads that Made my Year #TopReadsOf2019 This year has been a wild one, in terms of life and as always, in terms of books.

[luminoustico]

47 sherlolly pleaseeeeeeeeeee

47: meeting at a festival au

He’s among people who seem more suited to the false light of a reading lamp than natural sunlight. They gather in dimly-lit tents and listen wide-eyed to the latest literary idol. He’s missing Sussex already.

He wonders dimly how his bees and Redbeard are doing as he scans the crowds, standing in a queue to some debut author’s Q&A. He reaches the entrance. He waves his pass at the staff. In return, they press a book into his hands.

“It’s on request of the author,” they say with a smile, standing by a pile each. Sherlock glances up and down the line. The other attendees are each passed a copy as they enter the tent. Sherlock settles himself at the back of the seating, which is only 100-strong and covered in pink and purple drapes, artfully hung from the lighting.

A small stage is set up. Pink roses, nestled in a white vase, sit on a table between two leather armchairs.

The announcer, or interviewer rather, makes final checks. Feedback briefly sharp against Sherlock’s ears, cut off with a laughing apology by the interviewer. A female, the interviewer is tall. young and red-haired. The shade (natural) reminiscent of Mrs Hudson’s flame-red hair. She wears neat clothing, monochrome and out of place with the romantic atmosphere. 

Sherlock glances over the cover. Glossy, plain black, with only the title in colour: a sharp, shocking white. Not a jot of pink or purple. 

It’s been a while since he’s held a brand-new cover like this one. He has his library, back at the cottage, which keeps him content enough, and on the occasion that he desires something different, the library often has a long-forgotten classic he can delve into. He’s an old soul, more than willing now to let the present live on without him.

He flicks to the dedication, past the blurb and opening pages. There’s a lot to be told by a dedication.

Dear, a man. He sighs and snaps the book shut. No doubt the author thought that clever, or groundbreaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, apologies for the wait,“ says the interviewer, holding now the microphone in her right, and a clipboard in her left. The lights overhead focus on the small stage, and she smiles over the audience. "My name is Helena Robertson, and I’ll be doing a small interview with our esteemed author before we begin the actual Q&A section. And I see you’re all digging into your copies! We don’t normally sanction free giveaways of new books, but seeing as this one has sold so many already, we didn’t see the harm!”

A few ripples of laughter flow over the audience. The interviewer continues.

“Our author for today’s exclusive Q&A has been travelling the length and breadth of the country promoting her debut novel, Amo.” Sherlock twitches but the interviewer, getting giddier by the moment, is speaking, so he focuses on that. “After spending much of her writing career in nonfiction, and garnering much respect from her peers, she has now branched out into fiction with her debut novel which has been called ‘outstanding’ by the Guardian, 'a sensory exploration into the mind of humanity’ by the Times and has been in the New York Times bestseller list for seven weeks – though topping it only for two of those seven.”

A humorous sympathy drones from the audience, including the agent. Sherlock shoves his copy underneath his chair and leans back, grunting a little as he shifts. A shorts-wearing middle-aged man scoffs at him and pulls up their socks. Sherlock focuses back on the stage.

The roses are in full bloom.

“So without further ado, please, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your author – Molly Hooper!”

All of his weight sinks down into the lower pit of his stomach, while his heart flies up in his throat. He coughs, jerking forward as applause ripples over the audience. He sighs. He hears her speak into a microphone, bright-voiced and friendly.

“Hi! Thanks for the welcome – and to Helena for the introduction. Shall we, um—”

“Very well organised!” quips Helena as she and Molly (Molly, Molly, Molly, if he says it enough it won’t throw him) confuse one another over where the other is supposed to sit.

“Much more organised than any other festivals I’ve been to,” Molly replies, earning a few laughs. He sits up straight, closing his eyes, listening as she swaps small talk about traffic with Helena, beginning the interview.

The small talk soon falls into structured questions. Her influences (none, she’s a terrible reader, she confesses); her writing routine (a laptop, coffee and nothing but junk food); the best part of writing; if she believes fiction is a change for good or bad.

"Thanks very much Molly. Does anyone have any questions?"

Helena and Molly look over the audience. Sherlock leans forward, hiding his face from the stage behind an older woman's bouffant hairstyle.

"Yes, the young lady over there."

Sherlock tilts his head, staring through shoulders at the questioner. The young lady is in her 20s, with friends, and giggles as she begins to speak. Helena interrupts her.

"Sorry, you're very quiet -- we'll get you a microphone---" She gestures to someone off-stage, and a crew member darts out, handing a microphone to the 20-year-old. She's blonde, with her hair brushed back into a plait.

"If you could ask your question again," Helena prompts, as she glances at her clipboard.

"Yeah, like, um -- just wanna say, and ask, the book's great, I love it but me and my friends, we were wondering -- about your dedication? We looked everywhere on the internet, at your interviews, it's never been explained... So yeah. Who's the dedication to?"

Helena tilts an eyebrow at Molly, raising her microphone to her lips. "It's true. 'Dear, a man'. I wouldn't be surprised if there are conspiracy sites dedicated to cracking that particular code."

"There are!" shouts one of the girl's friends, leading to uncomfortable giggles.

"Well, there's no particular code to crack. Sorry to disappoint," she adds with a smile.

She looks beautiful. She's grown out of ill-fitting blouses and cardigans that clash. Now, she takes pride in her love of fruit-based clothing. She wears a sundress dotted with cherries and sandals with straps that wind perfectly around her ankles. A thin silver bracelet slips down her arm as she speaks into the microphone.

"The book was always going to be something... something like a journey. Even though the people were fictional, the concepts weren't. So my dedication reflects that, really, though initially, it wasn't supposed to."

"You mean, you wanted to dedicate your book to someone both real and unreal?" Helena asks. Molly shakes her head. Her hair is down around her shoulders, and there's a slight kink in it. She must've had it up most of today, then taken it down just before going on stage.

It reminds him of false curls, a silver bow and red lipstick. He clenches his fists.

"No. It was originally going to be dedicated to someone very real, but I realised, just before publication in fact... he was never one for attention."

"So you took his name from the book because he was shy?"

"No, he was never shy. Never ever," Molly laughs a little, "the furthest from shy. But he never liked getting the attention that he wasn't the cause of."

He'd have to be an idiot not to realise who she is speaking about.

He retrieves his copy from underneath his seat. He opens the opening page.

Amo. The main title. (His hand trembles again.)

The subtitle: A Story of Grief.

Another inquiring mind stands up, passed the audience microphone by the crew member. This one is elderly, with glasses hanging from their neck.

"Grief is one of the strongest elements of this book," they begin. "You seem so young, how come you managed to tap into such a deep emotion?"

"I've spoken in other interviews about this, and the answer's simple: my father died when I was younger." She sounds charming, but terse underneath the brightness. He hides a proud grin. "And grief, and this is a point made in the book, never leaves you."

"This is an important point," Helena says, jumping in. "Sometimes, grief in books is written off as 'one of those things'. Yet your protagonists are never able to get over it, even up until the last page."

"Quite right. Because that reflects life. The immediate grief fades, but the long-term grief, the knowledge that that particular person will not be around anymore -- ever -- is a fact. And facts, as I've learned, are inescapable. But that doesn't have to be a bad thing," she adds quickly. "Grief makes us. Me, for instance. My father's death spurred me onto my career as a forensic pathologist."

"I was just about to discuss that," Helena says, eager but still noting the sober atmosphere. "Others involved in scientific fields, while venturing into creative writing have often become involved with genres like thrillers, or murder mysteries. With you having been a forensic pathologist, it's an easy assumption to make that you would follow that path also."

"And yet I didn't!" She scoops her hair around her shoulder. "I often wonder why I didn't, to tell the truth. It is my field after all, death and its causes. But this book, this story of friends coming together after a tragedy, was what ended up in my head. I think real life bled into my ideas a little bit."

"Real life?" Helena sounds excited. Obviously, this hasn't been discussed before. Molly blushes underneath the lights and shifts in her seat.

"I, um... I used to work alongside the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Right up until he left London, actually. We often saw cases where people came together after a death, and that's where it came from."

Amo. He smiles. Molly Hooper is an excellent liar.

"I have another question! I've got one!" It's the 20-year-old again, waving like she's bringing in a plane. When the crew member rushes over to her, she pulls the microphone from his hands.

"Is Sherlock Holmes the man? The one you were going to dedicate your book to? An online theory said it was---"

"Thank you very much," Helena says loudly, as Molly colours. The 20-year-old's friends tug her down, and they whisper angrily among one another. A brunette of their group gets up and flounces to the back of the tent.

An awful silence falls over the tent.

"Molly," begins Helena, "obviously you don't have to answer..."

Molly hesitates. She brings the microphone to her lips. Crosses her legs, tucking her hand against her side, as if hugging herself one-handed.

"It's fine. Yes, I can confirm that, finally. Sherlock Holmes is the man in my dedication. My reasons why, however, are personal."

"Very understandable," Helena says, eager to gloss over the incident. Sherlock feels thrown, off-balance, has been ever since her name passed Helena's lips and she stepped out on stage.

"Um... sir? Do you have a question?"

He looks up, realising he's stood as he's been staring at the white words: Amo. Another dedication. One only he, John, Mycroft and a handful of high-ranking government officials will ever know.

The crew member runs up to him and holds the microphone out to him.

The world is treacle as he holds it, and lifts it to his lips. 

"Hello."

Molly's flushed pallor turns pale. Her brown eyes sweep over, then lock, onto him. He has neither improved or worsened during his time away from her, from London. He'd made the plans for departure, for retirement, in secret, and left everyone hanging. Mycroft found him after a week and Rosie had to be held back by her father when they first came to visit, a month later. Molly... he hadn't searched for her, despite offers from Mycroft. He'd just left her, to grow and blossom as she never would do with him in the picture.

The worst thing is, she has.

Her hair is still as long as it ever was, a rich light brown, her skin sun-kissed from the book tour. A little filled out, from all those luncheons from publishing agents, he suspects. (That's the stereotype, anyway.)

He blushes as he remembers how he's gone grey early. They call it the 'pepper pot' look. Flecks and streaks of grey in his black curls. A slight tummy from all the honey his bees make. A fisherman's jumper with pushed up sleeves over an ironed shirt. Rosie says it's fashionable for men of his age.

He wears glasses now, too. Thick-rimmed ones, rounded non-reflective lenses.

She jumps to her feet suddenly, causing murmurs. She sways, then stills. Her lip trembles, her hand shakes as she brings her microphone to her mouth. Her eyes are wet.

"Hello. Sherlock."