Something’s Not Right With Lucy by Dawn Taylor

Lucy lives a hard life of a 7-year-old as the punching bag of her mother and living toy of her pedophile grandfather. All she wants is a kitten and peaceful playtime with little sister Daisy. Her father loves her, but struggles in his marriage and financially. School and Social Services fail Lucy.

Taylor does an excellent job showing how each person who could have assisted this little girl had an agenda they prioritized—mom, grandpa, teacher, principal, social worker, and foster parents. She, however, doesn’t fully explore the alternate personality of Violet, who does her best to protect Lucy and can inexplicably access memories of baby Lucy. The timeline is a bit confusing, as the reader sees Lucy being molested by her grandfather at age 7 as though it’s the first incident, but Violet witnesses memories of earlier sexual abuse. There’s also no real explanation for Lucy seeing the dead whom she calls “wonders.”

The mother Doreen is one-dimensional, actively seeking ways to terrorize her children, while taunting her husband, with no redeemable qualities, merely a couple references as the child of an alcoholic who ended up in foster care as a play for sympathy. The father Dan is more complex, with conflicting emotions driving his behavior, and a sense of desperation with the loss of control over his own family.

Lucy’s story comes across as a worst case scenario, showing every step of the way how every adult who could have improved her life chose instead to focus on their own selfish needs.

I was fortunate to receive this copy from the author in a giveaway.

Prompt: “The bridge is icy.”

Sarah ran through the crowds downtown, shoving and apologizing the entire seven blocks. Reaching the bridge, she turned right and heaved a great sigh at seeing the bridge empty. Run-walking let her catch her breath as she tried to figure out why Johnny would be late. He’s never late, punctuality only one of his expectations to which he held her to his own strict standards. Maybe he finally stepped in front of a bus. She laughed in her head, hearing that silent voice actually saying “ha, ha, ha.”

From behind the second pillar of the bridge, Johnny stepped in front of her, admonishing her, “You’re eight minutes late. Early is best, Sarah. Late is never okay.” He grabbed her upper arm and walked swiftly across the bridge, pulling her back into a run-trot.

“Let me go, Johnny!”

“The bridge is icy, Sarah. I don’t want you to fall.” He gripped her arm tighter. “You were late. We must walk faster. I have only so much time for lunch and you’ve already wasted eight minutes of it.”

“Rawr!” She screamed to the winter white sky and karate chopped his hand.

He let go. “Christ, Sarah, what is wrong with you today?”

She pushed him. He shoved her back and turned away, walking on, stating his case, “If you act like that, I don’t even want to have lunch with you. You’ve wasted far more of my time than the eight minutes you were late. Go on back to work, Sarah. You don’t deserve lunch with me.”

“Rawr!” Sarah shouted out to the world and gave Johnny a bigger shove than before.

He slid sideways, hit a cable in front of the railing, fell over on his side, and slipped under the bottom bar, clunking his head a couple times, scrabbling at the end with glove-less fingers before flailing toward the East River.

Sarah screamed after him, “The bridge is icy, Johnny!”

How to Window Box: Small-Space Plants to Grow Indoors or Out by Chantal Aida Gordon and Ryan Benoit

This gorgeous, little book begins with a basic introduction to container gardening: aesthetics, placement, sunlight, tools, soil / topping, plant selection, watering, and maintenance. It’s then divided into16 chapters with succinct, descriptive headings, such as Herb Garden, Edible Petals, Southern Belle, and Rain Forest. Each chapter begins with a photo of the finished product and a quick review box of logistics: location, light, window direction, ease of care, soil / topping, water, and feed. Following is a spread of the individual plants with Latin and layman names. Step-by-step instructions have corresponding pictures. At the end, there’s a short chapter on customizing a box and another listing resources.

For a hobby gardener, anyone who lives in an apartment, or someone who cannot have plants inside due to pets, this book is perfect for a weekend project to make a beautiful arrangement for a window, balcony, or out of pet’s reach inside. Information is laid out for quick and easy understanding. Take it along to the nursery to choose the plants—it’s small enough to throw in a purse or cargo pants pocket.

I was fortunate to receive this wonderful book through Blogging for Books for an honest review. I plan to make the Detox Box to clean the air in my home—the authors shared a bit of trivia that “snake plants were shown in a NASA Clean Air Study to remove benzene, formaldehyde, toluene, and other toxins from their surroundings.”

Prompt: She watched the blood-stained dress burn, as I watched her.

Cheap Sparkles

Mama stood in the already blistering heat of the Nevada desert we both loathed. She watched the blood-stained dress burn, as I watched her. Black Irish, my mama looked like a Disney princess, with her long dark hair and fair skin. But she was no princess. Not that she was evil. It’s the ridiculous nature of the princesses that I deny in her. Practical to her core, does what she’s gotta do.

She had to do this.

Podunk, Kentucky was founded in 1842, boomed with forty-niners, and exploded with railroad and river travel. Then it slowly died. I lived in a dead town. Mama worked in the big chicken farm, like most everyone else. Smelled like shit every day. Whole town smelled like shit.

I heard Mama making call after call one day when I got home after school. I lingered in the doorway to the kitchen, so I could get the gist of it from her side of the conversations. They all sounded the same.

“So you work for Harley? Uh-huh. I see. Oh, really? It pays well? Higher than most? Oh, that’s good. You like living there? Gotta be better than Podunk, Kentucky.” She didn’t have to laugh that loud, and not every time. I could even hear the other women laughing loudly with her. Whoever they were, I didn’t want anything to do with them. After the fifth phone call, she turned and saw me. I faked like I was just coming in, threw my backpack on the table.

“Hey, Suzi Q, how are you?” I grinned. Though she said it every day, that phrase made me feel loved. Maybe it was the continuity of it, the expectation fulfillment. “My precious girl.” Mama kissed my forehead and pulled out a chair. “Sit down. I’ve got big news.”

“Yeah?” Why was I suspicious? Was it the phone calls, all them women laughing at my home town? Mama sat next to me, held my hands, and took a deep breath.

“We’re leaving this chicken shit town.”

“What?” She placed her hand on my cheek.

“Mr. Harley, the guy I met yesterday? He’s legit. He does own a club in Vegas. I called all nine of the dancers on his list who work for him.”

“Mama, you ain’t been a dancer since before I was born.”

“Ain’t that kind of dancing, sweetie. it’s all a show of fancy costumes and bright lights, with easy dance steps. Mr. Harley told me I’d fit right in.”

We piled everything we especially wanted in our old pickup and drove west on the advance from Mr. Harley. Two days later, we pulled into Vegas near midnight. It was glorious. Sparkles everywhere, even from the fountains. Huge fountains of sparkling water in the desert. Crazy.

On Mama’s first night, I went with her. The club was way off the strip, with a couple bars on both sides. Harleys filled their parking lots. Inside was busy, women wearing extraordinary costumes. We passed a wall of photos across a map of the US. I pointed out Mama’s picture to her and she grabbed a passing dancer.

“Why’s my photo on this map?” The woman looked at the photo and back at Mama.

“Rosalie!” She hugged Mama. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m Donna. Let’s get you a costume. You’ll be in next week’s show, so you’ll be backstage tonight. But you gotta get used to the heavy costume.” She took her by the hand, but Mama didn’t budge.

“Tell me about the photo.” Donna turned around with a blank face.

“Oh, that’s how Mr. Harley chooses his dancers. He’s got a whole system of traveling salesmen and tourists giving him pictures of beautiful women. He’s rescued all of us from dead boring little towns across the country. Isn’t that wonderful?” Mama snake-eyed her, then followed her to costuming. On the way, Donna explained, “When someone leaves, we dancers get to pick the next one on the map. We chose you. Anyone else goes, you get to help choose our next dancer.”

Mama’s look told me she didn’t give a crap. She smiled and shrugged at me, whispered, “Whatever.”

In the costume room, Donna helped Mama pick out her size in the white dress covered with rhinestones, with slits up the sides at the waist. Mama handed it to me. Man, was it heavy. Then she tried on the headdress and nearly fell over.

“Yeah,” Donna said, “Practice at home. That’s what we do. Each costume forces a different center of gravity. Just a matter of focus, really.” She stopped and looked at me. “Hey, if you’re interested, we can get you a costume for backup. I mean, it’s not regular pay, but…..you’re still in high school, right?”

“She’s 13,” Mama snarled.

“Holy geez! I thought you were at least 17. Sorry.”

Everything went okay, I guess. I wandered through the casinos every day after school before I did my homework. Mama made more money and nobody smelled like chicken shit. Vegas had its own stench. The desert, however, had no scent of its own, which freaked me out. Mama didn’t seem too much happier here than in Kentucky. Still didn’t date, said cuz of me, how I didn’t need no one messing up my childhood.

About three months into Vegas, on a Tuesday, the only night I was allowed, cuz of low traffic, a dancer’s boyfriend touched me.

Mama danced on stage as I watched from the sidelines. She was gorgeous in the rhinestone dress with the feathered headdress that doubled her height. Just before she came offstage, Ella’s new boyfriend stepped close to me and breathed into my ear lewd suggestions that I didn’t understand. Then he latched onto my butt cheek and I screamed. I didn’t mean to. I’d never been touched like that before.

Like Mama says, all hell broke loose. The music went louder. Mama and Ella crashed through the other dancers. Mr. Harley was yelling on the other side of the stage. Mama launched herself at Ella’s boyfriend. Ella jumped me. I went down easy, the breath knocked out of me. Mama hauled Ella off me. Then the weirdest thing happened. Ella reached into her dress. I swear I heard the “snick” of the switchblade, though I know I couldn’t have. Out of the tussle, Ella backed away with big eyes.

Mama’s dress was shifting to red, like a wave coming in. The boyfriend snatched Ella by the hand and dragged her out the back door. I helped Mama to the truck. For the first time in my life, I drove. I felt bad for every jerk and lurch that made my mama gasp in pain. I doctored her up and threw everything we especially liked in the truck. By sunrise, Mama claimed she was rested enough.

“One more thing,” she said.

The rhinestone dress sat in a bucket in the bed of the truck as we drove into the desert. We watched it burn together.

“You and me, babe.” We held hands.

“I hate this fucking town,” she said.

“We going back to Podunk?”

“Hell, no.”

“Let’s go to California, Mama.”

“Yes, my love, let’s go be beach bums.” She smiled and we hit the road.

The Handbook for Mortals by Lani Sarem

Lani Sarem spoke at a writers’ conference to give her side of the story about being the only person booted from the NYT bestseller list. She’s a good speaker–engaging, humorous, and credible. From this encounter and her summary of the story, I decided to purchase her book. Hmm…..

I don’t believe anyone edited this book. There are strange errors that are not just typos and cut and paste issues. Although this distracts from the story, it doesn’t affect the coherency, but becomes more of an interesting side note. The narrator of the story learns a secret of her mother’s, but the readers are maddeningly left to figure this out, and only at the end can connect it. The writing doesn’t flow as well for me as I would have liked. Zade (the narrator) joins a magic show in Las Vegas, keeping the true magic of her “illusions” to herself and the show’s founder. The whole idea of a real witch (Sarem doesn’t use the term) in a magic show is fascinating. Unfortunately, Sarem spends the majority of the book on the love triangle, endlessly lamenting over which one Zade should choose.

About 2/3 of the way through the novel, Zade experiences a huge glitch in her “illusion” and must be rescued by none other than her real witch mother. The scene in her home seems to go on and on while Zade lay dying, the timing of which is only explained after the fact. Zade can see everything that happened from the memories of those involved, and this fact is mentioned many times throughout that part of the narrative to remind the reader how she knows. It seems Sarem doesn’t trust her readers. She also spends too much of the story telling the reader how to feel instead of showing the characters’ emotion through behavior. I know she originally wrote this story as a screenplay and it feels like it.

I liked the story. The writing / characters need development, and Sarem needs a good editor and to move beyond obsessing over romantic interests. A writer can show that a character does this without doing it with the writing itself. Two things that stood out: a new character attacked Zade at the mall and barely featured again, with only two slight references; Zade met Carrot Top and Wayne Newton at the mall, for the sole purpose, apparently, of name-dropping in the book, as they simply had cameos in that scene. I expect that Sarem was setting up the attacking character for the next book in the series, but it was oddly glossed over by the main character, who only mentioned it casually after she recovered. The name-dropping was silly. It’s a book.

Sibley Birds of Land, Sea, and Sky: 50 Postcards by David Allen Sibley

The set is divided into five sections: Waterfowl, Woodpeckers, Wading Birds, Songbirds, and Owls & Raptors. The sketches are meticulously detailed and brightly colored, enhancing possibility of identification. Each postcard is elegantly simple with softly rounded corners. They come in an understated, light gray box with four examples on the front, a slip-off top, and a linen-like appearance and texture.

For a bird lover, this postcard set may well stay a set instead of for its implied use. The packaging makes it a mobile resource, easily put in purse or even jacket pocket when going birdwatching. It’s small enough to fit in a glovebox. Though not a comprehensive guide (which Sibley has already given us for reference), it’s a lovely piece to display in the box or individually framed. It would make a lovely gift for animal lovers, those who appreciate beauty, and people who love unpretentious art.

I received this set through Blogging for Books for an honest review, and am grateful for the gift.

Prompt: Start your story with a sentence that is genuinely happy and upbeat . . . . .

The glorious sunrise shone down upon my face. I daydreamed of vacations on the beaches of North Carolina, a different one each summer, and after 17 years, plenty to visit. They were all perfect, golden hot sand, like his golden hot body. Blonde hair so thick and luscious, super sexy when wet and curling around his ears. Oh, God. I love him so much even though he’s no longer perfect. It’s so bizarre that he looks exactly the same, but needs me to move him, feed him, care for every little personal need. One riptide and my love is mute and still. Mother Nature is a bitch. She took his essence and left me his body. Which is why we were walking in the stupid, fucking woods. Walk. Pfft! He’s so noisy in his all-terrain wheelchair. I stare at the remote for the wheelchair next to my unnaturally bended knee. It looks fine. I could probably reach it. I could probably move him around. But what would be the point? I mean, who the fuck digs a 20-foot hole in the middle of the forest? Three sunrises and no one has come to see what’s been trapped. I’ve vowed to stay positive until the end. The glorious sunrise shone down upon my face.

Laura Spinella—award-winning author of women’s fiction and paranormal romance

Laura Spinella gifted me a digital copy of Ghost Gifts and an autographed copy of Foretold in a giveaway, and I loved them! So I wanted to spread the book passion. I’m pretty excited that she agreed to be on my blooming little blog. She’s supportive of other writers, no matter where they are on their journey. Some of her besties are writers.

Laura and Barbara Claypole White

 

Laura works for her web developer, so her website is “very custom!” It’s like an amusement park, with fascinating rides around every corner and tons of visual fun. She’s also on Twitter, Facebook, Google+, Goodreads, Pinterest, and Instagram.

 

Describe your writing environment and process, including research.

Click on book cover to pre-order Echo Moon!

Most book writing occurs in my sunroom, which is…sunny! The room has a great vibe and it’s really where I do my best work. My desk faces the only wall in the room, so that provides a bit of built-in discipline. But the wall is covered in a collage of old postcards. They’re all of my hometown, Bayport, New York. The postcards provide a lot of inspiration. Interestingly, one card plays a pivotal role in my next book, Echo Moon.

Lots of writers like to work in coffee shops, libraries, or other people-oriented locations. That’s just not my style…or maybe I’m just lazy. I’m most comfortable in my own space, but I can and have worked in some unusual spots. When my middle daughter was a teenager, she was quite ill and spent a lot of time at Children’s Hospital in Boston. (She’s fine now!) I wrote most of my first novel, Beautiful Disaster, in various hospital rooms, sitting on linoleum floors, or in waiting rooms.

As for my research team? Mmm…that’d be the renowned team of Me, Myself & I. Naturally, I reach out to experts when necessary, but I do all the leg work. Last summer, I traveled to NYC to research early 20th century tenement housing, as well as making a trip to Coney Island. A portion of Echo Moon takes place in Luna Park, an incredible amusement arena that was a singular sight back in the day. Getting a place so rich in history right took a lot of research. Luckily, Coney Island’s museum curator couldn’t have been more helpful.

Talk about the publishing process.

My first novel was published in 2011—Beautiful Disaster. The book did well and went on to be a RITA finalist. I always say I wrote the first draft in about six weeks. From there it was about six years to publication. That included the learning curve of writing a novel, to securing a literary agent, to actually selling the book. The book was published on the cusp of e-books, so it was a very different world in terms of publishing.

Click on book cover to order Ghost Gifts!
Click on book cover to order Foretold!

Echo Moon, my latest, is due out May 22nd. It’s the last installment (after Foretold) of the Ghost Gifts Novels. Ghost Gifts was a Kindle First, which is an Amazon program that opens your book up to a huge audience. I really had no intention of writing any more “ghost stories.” Ghost Gifts did very well and Montlake, my publisher, asked me to continue with the main character, Aubrey, Ellis, for two more books. I hadn’t anticipated anything like this.

Contractually, my next book was slated to be a women’s fiction novel, Unstrung. Looking back, I wish we’d put Unstrung on hold; the book kind of got lost in the Ghost Gifts shuffle. But Montlake has a fantastic publishing team in place—I really couldn’t ask for more in terms of a team effort, particularly the editing folks. They are top shelf.

Click on book cover to order Unstrung!

As far as in the moment publishing, we’re just gearing up Echo Moon marketing. I have a brand new street team, accessed via Facebook. I’ve always loved visiting with book clubs, and I thought this would be as close as I could come to creating an environment like that—a place to chat and chill with readers.

Tell me about your support system and reciprocity.

Naturally, readers are everything. You start with two or three readers and hope your writing attracts a larger audience. It’s an ongoing process in an extremely competitive market. I have a small group of published authors who are also close friends. One of them is my critique partner, so we trade a lot of publishing stories and share the stressful moments.

Click on book cover to order Beautiful Disaster!

I had no author support when writing Beautiful Disaster—no real beta readers or other writers to share my work with. In fact, it’s kind of surprising I succeeded on any level! I learned, I think, from reading. I did end up with an extraordinary agent who gives incredible editorial advice. That said, I’m still a fairly private writer. I’ve grown in terms of a public persona, and I really do enjoy that part. But the writer in me is drawn to the solitude of the craft.

Elaborate upon life influencing writing and vice versa.

I’m not sure that my everyday life influences my writing all that much. When I go in that sunroom, it really feels like a whole other world. Writing, on the other hand, largely influences my everyday life. I’m fortunate to have an extremely supportive family. That’s code for they let me do my thing without a lot of fuss. Unless it’s crunch time, probably when I’m three months out from deadline, I try to keep to set writing hours. Those deadline months can get stressful because no matter how much time you have, it never feels like enough.

What pleases you the most about your chosen career?

Ha! Well, this would be easier to answer if I felt like I chose writing. I think writing chose me. It’s a strange life, a writing life. It’s isolating, exhilarating, frustrating, and fits into very few boxes. It can be difficult for other people to relate to, which is frustrating in an entirely different way. But that’s not what you asked, is it? Every time I finish a novel, there’s a brief moment where I sit back, look at the thing, and say, “Geez. How did that get there?” I like that moment a lot.

Laura and Auggie

Connect with Laura on social media:

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Lullaby Road by James Anderson

Ben Jones delivers necessities to the “desert rats” along the way to a small, isolated town in Utah. He keep his business to himself and ask his customers no questions. One day, while getting gas at the usual station, the owner informs him that he was left a package at one of the pumps. A man Ben knows only from tire purchases has left his child, guarded by a big dog. He can’t leave them out in the winter weather. As he prepares to leave the station, his “it’s complicated” neighbor rushes her baby to him to watch for the day. He now has two children and a dog to take on his treacherous drive to deliver items necessary to survival to the people whose experiences have led them to choose a life in a harsh climate away from society. The tale reads like a day in the life of Ben Jones as he interacts with characters who barely accept him for practical purposes, though this seems a non-typical day with the children, and then his friend, the “preacher,” a victim of hit-and-run. The story moves away from the surprise babysitting, down the path of mystery driver investigation, returning to the child at the end.

Ben learns more than he cares to know about the desert rats on this day, as though he’s hit a day of revelation. The child’s father ends up murdered, as does the station owner, who was part of a tire smuggling ring. This had turned into a child smuggling ring under the leadership of the out-of-town partner, a secret son of one of the desert rats. There was no clarity on the purpose of either of those criminal activities. Ben’s statement that he didn’t care to understand leaves the reader in the dark too. There’s a running reference to UPS and Fedex truck drivers who drifted from the highway during a snowstorm, but somehow found each other way out in the desert, huddling together to stay warm until rescued. This seemed to be the setup for Ben somehow finding the child in the desert after she runs away, although he specified repeatedly that she ran northeast and he figured out that he’d mistakenly gone west, so judgment cannot suspend. Saying that, the story is worth reading for all the fascinating characters, their speculative reasons for living in the desert, and their volatile interactions with Ben ad each other. Tension hangs in the environment like air….always there.

I received a copy through Blogging for Books in exchange for an honest review.

Take Out by Margaret Maron

Sigrid is moving on from Nauman’s’s death, investigating a double homicide in a neighborhood with two suspects. A homeless man and a minor star of the opera industry grown old wind up dead together on a park bench in front of one’s family and the other’s friend, both of whom are suspected of killing one man purposely and the other accidentally through sharing their takeout from the nearby restaurant. Sigrid simultaneously searches for the answer to the mysterious reason for Nauman’s’s journey on which he died.

The latest in the Sigrid Harald series, this is a nice and neat continuation after a couple decades—kudos to Maron! However, I feel that the resolution to the murders didn’t clarify every point, but I’ll leave that up to the reader, since it’s a wonderfully twisty, turny story.