Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

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Book Review: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

July 14, 2014 No comments

Guilty.

I had never read this classic from the 1960s. I had picked it up as a child at a garage sale, but the language was too difficult for me, and I stopped after chapter one. When I went to visit my parents recently, I saw the book on the shelf of my room, and I took it home with me. This time, I finished the book in two days. Funny, my dog-ear was still there at the start of chapter two. And I did, in fact, remember having read the first chapter all those years ago.

After reading it from a grown-up’s perspective, I’m still not sure I would have completely enjoyed or appreciated this book as a child. There are lots of great vocabulary words that would have confused me back then, and there were so many references to Shakespeare, the Bible, and great philosophers of the world that would have gone right over my head.

That said, as an adult I truly enjoyed the book.

The story follows a girl named Meg who finds herself a failure at school. Though she’s great at math, she just doesn’t seem to fit in the way her teachers want her to. Her younger brother, Charles Wallace, is only five, but he’s precocious and seems to have strange abilities to “read” his mother and sister. At the start of the story, Meg’s father has been missing for several years. He works (worked?) for the government, and it seems the top-secret nature of his research may be responsible for his disappearance. Nonetheless, everyone in the community is gossiping about it, speculating that Meg’s father must have run off with another woman. This, of course, makes Meg’s lack of fitting in even worse.

Early on in the novel, Charles Wallace mentions three strange characters, Mrs. Who, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Whatsit. They remind me of the three witches in Macbeth, but they are decidedly more caring and helpful. In fact, toward the end of the tale, Calvin (Meg’s new friend, who accompanies Meg and Charles on the adventure) refers to them as Angels. We come to learn that these three “beings” have been around for millions of years. They are here now to help Meg, Charles, and Calvin travel through time and space. There is a theoretical concept called the tesseract, which it turns out isn’t so theoretical. Essentially a wormhole, the tesseract allows them to travel great distances of time and space without effort (though it’s a terrifying experience that reminds me of the transporter in Star Trek, only without the equipment).

The three Mrs. W’s are doing this so that Meg can try to save her father, who has been trapped. There is a thing called “IT,” which is also related to a darkness that is trying to encompass Earth and is trying to encompass (or has already encompassed) other planets. They go through fantastic experiences in their travels, but when they finally arrive on the planet Camazotz, which is where Meg’s father has been kept prisoner, they see that IT has already been spreading the Darkness. The people here have lost all of their freedom. They move, think, and act in unison. Everything is planned and regulated. To save her father, Meg must travel to the CENTRAL central intelligence headquarters, where she confronts IT, which reminds me somewhat of a scarier version of the giant head of “the great and powerful Oz” in The Wizard of Oz.

I won’t spoil the rest of the plot. I enjoyed the way the story wove together witchcraft (there was a medium with a crystal ball), philosophy, arts, education, and religion in a way that didn’t make them seem to contradict. Rather, they were all framed in the lens of light-versus-darkness or freedom-versus-slavery. In fact, when Meg asks why they couldn’t have simply used the Medium to see how their quest would turn out, the Mrs. W’s reply that knowing one’s future would be too similar to the planned structure of Camazotz. She uses an interesting metaphor to illustrate human freedom: it’s like a Shakespearean sonnet: although we must conform to the basic structure, meter, and rhyme, we can write about whatever we want with whatever message we want. We aren’t million-year-old creatures who can bend space and time, but we do have freedom in our own way.

As someone for whom freedom is paramount, I enjoyed the theme of freedom that ran through the book, especially as it was linked to education and philosophy, including Shakespeare and the Founding Fathers. I enjoyed also the message in the end about how love is something that “bad guys” usually don’t have and can’t fathom or cope with. In the end, it turns out to be one of Meg’s most important assets. Most “bad guys” rule through fear and force.

You may have read my review of When You Reach Me. The main character in this book is almost obsessed with A Wrinkle in Time. Now that I have finally read the whole thing, the references are a lot more powerful. I’m glad I finally got the chance.

 

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Flash Fiction: It’s in the Basement

July 10, 2014 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month the prompt is to use three of the following words in the story- tremble, start, tiptoe, yank, and dresser.

 Today’s contribution comes from Val Muller, who you can stalk at valm16.sg-host.com. The story takes place in the world of her current work-in-progress, a middle-grade novel with a scifi twist.

It’s in the Basement

By Val Muller

Mel kept still in the giant queen-sized bed. Her grandmother was snoring now, a good sign that Mel could sneak away. But she shifted a bit and found the sheets were tucked in too tightly. Grandma always tucked her in like that—like a mummy. The sheets didn’t let in any air, and Mel started to sweat. She should have tried harder to convince Grandma to let her sleep on the couch.

Dad, you owe me, she thought as she wriggled out of the tightly-tucked sheets. She got one leg out, and Grandma stirred next to her, clicking her tongue against her teeth. Grandma adjusted the blanket a bit and rolled onto her side. Mel stilled again, waiting for Grandma’s breathing to become regular again.

Finally it was, and she tiptoed across the floor. She didn’t remember what part of the floor creaked, but she knew it did. She tried each step before she committed, remembering all the spy movies she’d ever seen. Spy Kids. Yep, that was her. She was living a ten-year-old’s Mission Impossible.

Luckily, Grandma’s bedroom door never fully closed—the wood was too swollen—so all Mel had to do was pull it open. But she was so concerned about creaking floorboards that she slammed right into the dresser. Her side exploded in pain, and she bit her cheek to stifle it. She didn’t know which hurt worse, now. She’d be bruised in the morning, and salty foods would sting for the next few days.

“Danny,” Grandma muttered in her sleep. “Danny.”

Danny was the name of Mel’s grandfather, a man who had passed away before Mel was born. It was Danny’s pictures Mel was going to steal. No, not steal, she reminded herself. Borrow. Dad said it was a travesty for those historical photos to waste away in the basement. But Grandma didn’t like to let anything go. Dad had bribed Mel with a new Wii if she was able to sneak into the basement, retrieve the pictures, and get them home—all under the guise of a weekend at Grandma’s.

These were photos from Grandpa Danny’s time in World War II. He’d taken them in the field, and he’d put them in an old suitcase when he came back from the war. He never liked to talk about them, Dad had said. But they were too important to be left in the moldy basement. Dad wanted to scan them into his computer and maybe even publish them. Mel wondered what Grandma would think of that.

But why did they have to be kept in the basement? Of all the places in the world, the scariest was Grandma’s basement—and at night, it was even worse. Mel crept to the basement door. She trembled.

Grandma kept flashlights all over the house in case of a power outage. Mel took the one from the kitchen counter. The moonlight was just enough for her to see her way around the house, but the basement had only those two tiny windows. There would not be enough light. She couldn’t risk turning on the bright florescent lights, either. They made this awful hum-snap when they warmed up. No telling what might wake Grandma.

She flipped the flashlight on. It was an old, metal one, and it clicked so loudly it seemed to echo through the house. She stuffed it under her shirt to hide the light and listened to see if Grandma had heard. The silence was almost deafening—so dense. She thought she heard Grandma’s steady breathing, but her ears strained. Then the refrigerator motor started up, and Mel realized it was now or never.

She crept down the basement stairs, directing her flashlight beam before her. Her heart leapt, and last night’s dinner touched the back of her throat. In the darkness, the shapes in the basement lurked like monsters. A dressform hovered like a ghost under its protective sheet. An exercise bike laden with coat hangers looked like a scary dinosaur. Shadows shifted behind boxes, and everything seemed to be moving in on Mel.

She would remember this night as the first time she was ever drenched in sweat. How would she explain it to Grandma? She directed the flashlight at the wall. There, under an ancient Monopoly game, was the brown suitcase, just as Dad described it. Inside it was a shoebox of pictures. All Mel had to do was grab it and be done. She yanked the suitcase, but the board game on top of it toppled over, crashing to the floor. Monopoly money and playing pieces scattered around. She froze, turned out the flashlight. Waited for Grandma.

#

When he came to pick her up, Dad kept eyeballing Mel, his eyes asking the question he dared note speak. Did you get them?

But Mel just averted her eyes.

“You should take Mel to the doctor,” Grandma told him just before he pulled away. “I caught her sleepwalking.”

“Sleepwalking?” Dad asked.

“Could have broken a leg on those stairs,” Grandma said.

“What stairs?”

“She sleepwalked all the way into the basement. Was trying to play Monopoly at midnight!”

Dad bit his lip and frowned. He had long told Mel how hard it was to sneak anything out of Grandma’s house. Oh, well. There was always next weekend.

 

The Spot Writers- our members:

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie: http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price: (Website in development)

 

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Shenandoah Children’s Literature Conference: A Writer’s Perspective

July 9, 2014 No comments

During the last week in June, I attended the Shenandoah University Children’s Literature Conference. The conference invites award-winning and nationally- (and internationally-) recognized authors to present talks and roundtable discussions to attendees. In the afternoon, small group sessions are led by leaders working in education, and two graduate credit options are available. The conference targets elementary school teachers, but it also attracts middle and high school teachers, librarians, and reading specialists.

I attended wearing two hats. I attended as a teacher (and enrolled in the writing section for graduate credit), but I also attended as a Middle-Grade author (ages 8 – 12 or so) and a presenter. Though I absorbed teaching strategies and other useful information from a teacher’s point of view, I wanted to share from a writer’s perspective what I learned that week about writing and publishing.

So here goes.

What’s the Big Idea?

What struck me the most, as I sat and listened to author after author discuss each book he wrote and the history behind it, is that each great book truly does have a big, important idea behind it. As a writer, I’ve been told to avoid the elevator pitch that goes something like:

One fine day, Joe’s life is turned upside down.

This really doesn’t tell us anything. In most great works, the character’s life is “turned upside down,” but it’s non-specific, and it doesn’t help to communicate the book’s big idea. This year, the conference’s theme focused on pairing fiction and nonfiction, so most of the authors put lots of research into their works. Even fictional works that were molded by nonfiction experiences had a “big idea” to them. It was an important reminder for authors: consider each piece you’re writing. What’s the message or the “big idea”? Who is the target reader? What do you hope the reader will take away from this piece of writing? It was interesting to hear authors and illustrators talk us through the process of writing each piece. Some of them started with one (mediocre) concept, and through research and writing, they blossomed into something with much more depth. An example would be Brian Floca, whose book Locomotive was the subject of the first talk of the conference (and also went on to win the Caldecott!). He talked us through the process of writing and illustrating the book, walked us through draft after draft, and explained how the book started out as a simple concept, but the more he looked into it, the more he was drawn into the topic, and the more depth he added.

Publishing is Hard

Another surprising takeaway from the conference is that these authors—yes, even award-winning, multi-published authors—complain about the publishing industry. They kept their talks positive, of course, but there were a few hidden comments about how difficult publishing is. One was about the slow pace of the Big Six (or is it Five now?) publishers. Another was about how the big publishers don’t really like taking big risks. There was even a bit of talk about the difficulty of finding an agent. But again, for the most part those Big Ideas helped the authors to get noticed. After all, a good idea is a good idea. Seeing how refined these authors’ works really were made me re-think how I’m going to package my submissions in the future when scoping out agents or publishers. I’ll let you know how it goes, but I suspect that I needed to have put in much, much more work than I have.

Speaking of hard work…

Hard Work

These “big ideas” don’t just materialize as a gift sent by the Muses. And this was inspirational for me to hear as a writer. Many authors started as teachers, or held some other job, writing or illustrating part-time until things took off. The illustrators and authors all had some type of writing nook or studio space they used, but it wasn’t some fancy studio paid for by a big publishing company or anything like that. One author wrote from a glorified laundry room. Many of the illustrators converted an extra room in the house into a studio. One illustrator had to split studio space with four other illustrators because of the rent in New York City.

The bottom line is: writing is hard work. Sure, some authors are “lucky” in that they are picked up or become popular or have movie rights or whatever. But no authors are lucky in that they woke up one day rich, successful, and famous. It’s a reminder to any aspiring writer. A runner runs. A cook cooks. A writer writes. So stop wishing for it, and start making it happen.

The Most Inspirational

On a side note, the most inspirational part of the conference was hearing Aranka Siegal speak. I blogged about it from a freedom angle over at Freedom Forge Press. You can read my post here.

You can also sign up to receive a weekly writing tip. Here is the latest writing tip.  The box to sign up to receive this weekly email is at the bottom of the writing tip.

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Book Review: Search of the Moon King’s Daughter by Linda Holeman

July 7, 2014 No comments

Emmaline Roke’s story begins in the 1830s, in England. Her father worked a shop in a pleasant village, and all is well until her father’s death. At this point, the family is evicted from the shop, and Emmaline’s mother is forced into factory work to support the family. Emmaline dreams of being a seamstress and owning her own shop, but times being what they are—and having a mother like hers—makes that difficult.

After a bad accident that cripples her hand, Emmaline’s mother becomes addicted to opium (it was at first merely a pain killer). In desperation, she sells Emmaline’s younger brother, a deaf-mute, to a chimney sweep for a term of five years. She plans to use the money to buy more drugs. All the while, Emmaline has been resisting the offer of her wealthy aunt (her father’s sister) to move in with her under the condition that she break ties with her mother and brother, neither of whom her aunt approves.

In the end, the main conflict of the novel is Emmaline’s quest to find her brother in the big city and purchase or steal him back, a task made more difficult by the sketchy labor practices and unethical opportunists in the city. The title refers to a running motif that relates to Emmaline’s father, for whom she retains love and respect, but I thought more could have been done with it to increase the impact at the novel’s end.

The novel takes place in fictional settings, but (as the author’s note indicates) these settings are based on extensive research to capture the essence of the time period. In many ways, it reminded me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles in the way Emmaline’s parents are both absent in some way (typical of YA novels) and the way Emmaline has a stubborn streak in which she denies herself an easy life for the sake of taking the moral high ground.

In general I enjoyed this novel, though I felt it meandered a bit at times, hanging on certain chapters. But the second half of the book picked up as the focus shifted to finding her brother. The earlier chapters, however, did allow good insight into what life was like for the working class back then and would be a good way to introduce “modern” young adult readers to such an atmosphere. It’s hard to imagine life being that difficult, but this book effectively illustrated the difficulties Emmaline faced.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Because of Maude

July 3, 2014 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month the prompt is to use three of the following words in the story- tremble, start, tiptoe, yank, and dresser.

 Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.  

 Because of Maude

 by RC Bonitz

I wake up with a start. Noise, some kind of noise has broken my dreams. Just as well–I was dreaming about the woman down the street. Maude Fremont, my friend, seventy-eight years old, the poor thing was raped and murdered in her bed just a week ago.

I’ve been having nightmares ever since. Tonight’s dream probably woke me. I’m all ears though, always am when the house starts talking to me. My imagination takes flight when that happens. Drives me crazy for a while until I work up the courage to get up and check the doors and windows. I–

“Crash, tinkle, tinkle.”

That’s not imaginary, that’s glass breaking. Downstairs, at the back door. Oh God, someone’s breaking in? I try to still my breathing but I can’t, it’s echoing in my ears. What am I going to do?

 I bought a gun this week, because of Maude. I can dial 911 and defend myself until the cops arrive. I hope. I’ve only had one lesson on how to use the gun.

A slash of moonlight slips between the heavy drapes and scores the rug with faint illumination. I fumble for the bedside phone with trembling hand; knock the damn thing to the floor somewhere in the darkness. I have to turn the light on, have to but I shouldn’t, he’ll know where I am.

But I do it. Push back the covers and drag my legs out, turn and slide off the bed, grab the phone off the floor. Push the “on” button. Stab it again. No dial tone- it’s dead. Oh my God, he’s cut the wires. Where’s my cell phone? In my purse. Downstairs in the kitchen. Where he is.

My heart is pounding, panic rising in my belly. I hear him, walking, checking out the house. What’s he looking for? My bedroom? I turn the light off again. Want to curl up in the dark and disappear.

I need that gun I bought the other day. Which is in the dresser all the way across the room.

I tiptoe toward the dresser, listening for him. The floor creaks. I stop, wait, strain my ears. He’s not moving either, probably listening just like me, Oh God. I’m sweating, can’t think of anything but getting to that gun. With slow small steps I start again. Something crashes to the floor downstairs. He’s moving too. Fast.

I throw myself at the dresser, yank open the drawer. Where’s the gun? Tangled in my undies. He’s coming up the stairs!

Tearing the clothes away, I scrounge for the clip, the only one I bought. It’s there. I shove it in the gun and turn as my bedroom door flies open.

Huge, he’s silhouetted in the nightlight from the hall. I raise the gun. The safety? No time, I fire. He fires. I empty my gun into the shadow of his body. He falls.

Shaking, I draw a deep breath. It’s over. Is it? My nightgown is wet. I’m bleeding.


The Spot Writers- our members.


RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

(Website in development)

flash fiction none

Flash Fiction: Return to Cabo San Lucas

June 26, 2014 No comments

Today’s post comes from Kathy L. Price. Her book, Down the nanoTubes, will be released shortly.

Return to Cabo San Lucas

by Kathy L. Price

“Ow, ow, ow,” Courtney winged as she gingerly lifted the strap of her bathing suit over her right shoulder. This was, by far, the very worst sunburn she had ever gotten in her entire life. Normally, she was religious about slathering on sunscreen before venturing out, but she had not done so that day. After all, they’d only just arrived. Immediately after checking into the hotel, they’d hit the bar. Nothing which happened after that was clear but she must have had way too much tequila at lunch, then fallen asleep on the sand. She was now toasted beyond belief. At least the front of her body had escaped the intense rays.

Her head throbbed and she felt queasy. Crap. At her age she should have known better.
“What was in those drinks, anyway?” she wondered, “and where’s Fred?” He hadn’t been beside her on the beach when she had finally come awake.

It had been his idea to fly to a resort in Cabo San Lucas for their seventh wedding anniversary. Courtney had not been all that thrilled with the idea, but Fred had promised it’d be fun and romantic, a grand adventure, so she had agreed. On the flight down he had been unusually talkative and enthusiastic. It had been years since she had seen him express much interest in anything so Courtney had high hopes this trip might renew the spark in their increasingly stale marriage.

Tomorrow they were supposed to go fishing. Courtney knew she’d have to cancel and Fred would be disappointed but there was no way she’d be able to sit in a boat, rocking around on the waves, with the backs of her legs all red and raw.

After a gentle shower with cool water to take some of the heat out of her skin, she slipped into a silk shift, forgoing her bra, and began to worry. Where was Fred? Initially, she thought maybe he had come back to the room, although she couldn’t figure out why he’d leave her alone, passed out on the beach. If he hadn’t fallen asleep, or had awakened before her, why had he just left her there to burn? Where was he?

Twenty-three years later, sitting in the back of a dark, smoke-laden blues bar in downtown Chicago, she saw him. No. It couldn’t be Fred. It had to be her imagination, but that “I know you” pull was strong. As she continued to watch the man, she recognized Fred’s mannerisms, the same quick nod of his head he always used to do whenever he was trying to make a point. He was chatting up a much younger blond with long legs, a very short skirt and amazingly high heels, although it didn’t look like he was making much progress.

It had to be Fred. He had a bit of a paunch, now, and his hair had thinned considerably, but there was no mistaking those eyes or the shape of his nose, the dimple in his chin.

Life had certainly been a challenge since he disappeared so long ago. She had managed to raise their two young children by herself. Her parents, of course, had been supportive and had stepped in to help on many occasions. Fred’s parents, too, had stayed involved in their lives, even though Courtney suspected they blamed her for his disappearance. There had, of course, been official police inquiries. Had it been a case of a jealous wife murdering her husband and hiding the body? A drug-related kidnapping? A suicide? In the end, Fred’s disappearance went into the cold case files and was forgotten.

Knowing how heart-broken his mother, Audrey, had been, Courtney shook her head and thought, “You bastard. How could you do that to your own mother?” The not-knowing what had happened was what had killed them all. So, Fred hadn’t been man enough to tell her he wanted out, that he’d screwed up his life and gotten into debt, that he’d found another woman. No, Fred had taken the coward’s way out and had simply disappeared. His children had grown up without a father. Considering everything, maybe that had been for the best.

Courtney stood and smoothed her dress. Even at fifty-six she had a smokin’ hot body, with luxurious shoulder-length dark hair and heads turned as she crossed the room. She ignored the appreciative stares and focused on the man at the bar. Now, should she say hello or simply walk past, letting him wonder if it was her?

When she was directly across from him, she glanced over. She was wearing her usual perfume, his favorite, and wondered if he’d recognize it. He didn’t even glance up, so focused as he was on landing the blond. Should she confront him, make a scene, or leave it alone?

After a short stint outside in the night air to clear her head, Courtney returned to her seat to listen to the night’s featured performer, Chelsea: her daughter, Fred’s daughter. Was that why he was here? He wanted to hear her sing? Doubtful. Chelsea had always used a stage name, so maybe Fred didn’t even know it was her. So much had happened in the years leading up to this night, so many things Fred had missed: Chelsea learning to ride a horse; the delighted expression on her face when she completed her first successful cartwheel on the balance beam; how beautiful she looked the night of her Senior Prom; her graduation, with honors, from a prestigious performing arts college. What would Chelsea think, if she were told her dad, who had purposefully chosen to walk out of her life when she was only three years old, was in the audience? And Brad? Brad would be so angry. He had taken it particularly hard, a boy growing up without a father. Should she tell their children she had seen him? That he was alive?

No, she wouldn’t open them to more hurt than they’d already endured. She would, however, let Fred know she found him. From her table at the back of the room, she looked over to see him encouraging the blond to leave. The blond, however, indicated she wanted to politely stay until the singer had finished. Courtney, too, waited for the end of Chelsea’s set, then slipped out to follow them. Once outside, she quickened her pace to catch up but pulled back when she heard the squeal of tires. In shock, she watched as a car ran the red light at the intersection, was broadsided by a dump truck and careened down the sidewalk, smashing Fred and the blond into the brick wall of the building.

Two weeks later, on what would have been their thirtieth wedding anniversary, Courtney found herself back in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. From the deck of a chartered fishing boat, she scattered his ashes into the sea.

The Spot Writers – our members:

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://www.writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter

Kathy L. Price
website under construction

 

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Book Review: Whale Talk by Chris Crutcher

June 23, 2014 1 comment

A colleague loaned me this YA book to read. It’s one that is sometimes taught in high schools, so I was interested to read it. First of all, there are profanities and derogatory language in the book, so you’ve got to like, or at least tolerate, grittiness to read this book. This book is very real, and it doesn’t white-wash anything, so if that isn’t your cuppa, then perhaps pick up a different book. Because it is so real, though, I could see many students relating to it and enjoying it. With its powerful male narrator, I could also see it appealing to reluctant male readers as well.

The book follows TJ, a boy who has been adopted and is battling anger issues, as he starts a swim team at his high school. The team ends up being composed of a group of misfits. Over the course of the novel, they come together, using their bus rides to swim meets as bonding time. But the novel isn’t just about a misfit team—that underdog sports story has been done before. This one focuses more on TJ as the leader of that team as he reconciles other issues in his life.

What I enjoyed was all the gray area in the book. For instance, I love TJ’s ambition. He fights for the truth and for freedom when he sees injustice in the world, but as his mom points out, he has anger issues that don’t always let him see rationally. He’ll stand up for abused girlfriends, for instance, not realizing that if they don’t report their boyfriends for abuse, there is nothing TJ can do. It’s almost as if he wants to save everyone from everything wrong with the world. He is reminded by his adoptive parents, neither of whom is perfect, either, that there is more to life than black or white.

He also stands up to the culture of his school, which is something that really resonates with me—standing up for what you believe in regardless of what others think or do. Part of the reason TJ agrees to start the swim team is that one of the boys who becomes a swimmer, Chris, has been criticized by the athletes and coaches for wearing a letterman jacket that belonged to his brother (now deceased). In the culture of the school, one is not supposed to wear a letterman jacket unless one has earned it. Chris is mentally challenged, and his brother’s jacket gives him comfort. TJ can’t fathom why the coaches and athletes simply can’t leave him alone to wear the jacket. And thus his plan—to invite Chris onto the swim team, where he can earn his own jacket.

TJ has a strong personality that dominates the book. His voice comes through strongly in the first-person narration. If you like him, you will like the book. I found he came off a bit rough at first, but as the novel progressed, I came to understand where he was coming from, and by the end I was rooting for him and turning the pages faster. I won’t give away the ending, but it is a coming-of-age tale with a poignant and satisfying conclusion.

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Summer Reading Giveaway

June 22, 2014 No comments
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The corgis enjoying some summer peace.

So many people have been talking about and posting about how happy they are that it is summer–and many of them primarily because summer affords us the time to do one of my favorite activities:

Read.

 

When I was a kid, my dad built me a treehouse. I remember going up there to read often. There’s just something calming and invigorating about hearing the wind rustle through the summer leaves, the way the birds and crickets chirp, the way the sunlight filters through the trees and makes dancing patterns of light against everything. There’s so much life out there in summer that on a summer afternoon, it’s hard to believe it ever was–or ever will be–winter.

Books seem to possess that inherent quality of summer–the quality of life, of being alive. Reading a book helps us to see the elements of the human condition that run through us all. The ability never to give up. To dream. To pursue.

To celebrate summer and all the freedoms it affords us, I’ve put together a giveaway with some of my author friends. Lots of prizes up for grabs. Good luck, and happy reading!

Enter the giveaway here:
a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Flash Fiction: The Beach

June 19, 2014 No comments

The prompt for this month is to use all five of the following words in a story: sand, sea, cartwheels, tequila, and sunburn. Today’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords. (Watch for her next book of short stories, out soon!)

 

Waves of Darkness

Kay watched waves cartwheel onto the shore. Shivering and wishing she had a tissue, she swiped at grey hairs matted in tears. If she wore a sweater, she’d have one stuck up her sleeve. Sleeves came in handy, both for proximity of tissues and warmth.

She was slowly dying. As everyone was. Who knew when a vehicle might zoom around the corner. Or when that madman might appear.

Or when God would call.

The doctor gave her a year, but she figured that meant six months, even less if the cancer spread faster. Who but God could say with certainty?

Kay believed in God. With death looming, she had to. Suddenly, God was her best friend. God won’t take kindly to that, she thought, upset she hadn’t spent more time with Him, but perhaps He wouldn’t forsake her. Despite being a late bloomer, maybe He’d let her enter His kingdom, even though it wouldn’t be fair to decades-old believers.

It couldn’t be easy being one of God’s chosen creatures—to be continually good and kind. Was it all a façade? Kay didn’t know any perfect people, not ones who would be granted immediate access to Heaven. But that was hogwash; everyone religious spouted goodness, despite how they truly felt. Then there were the atheists and those in between, like her, who believed in something though unsure exactly what.

Could God read minds? Kay had never vocalized she didn’t believe, never said she did either. Her thoughts were her secrets, but a true God would be powerful enough to see through her.

Kay possessed no special powers, but her mind had always wandered into the future and wondered “what ifs.” She had never seen herself older than today, which made sense because there would be no tomorrow. She spoke metaphorically. She hadn’t seen this exact day, but she had never seen herself older than the present, never saw a frail woman in a rocker or limping with a cane. Had she truly been clairvoyant, she could have lived differently. She might have eaten healthier, trashed alcohol and cigarettes, prevented sunburns.

The sun. She glanced up, her eyes blinded. Cancer, horrid dreaded cancer—that big C of concern. Funny how she’d never been touched (as the phrase goes) by cancer as others had, yet, here she was, struck down with it herself. Not a friend or a relative—her.

Kay approached the water’s edge. Could she do it? She should have guzzled the remainder of the tequila. The little she drank wasn’t having much effect.

She pictured Frank relaxing before the television. “I’m going for a walk,” she had told him. Frank didn’t seem to care. I love you, she mouthed as she left.

She hadn’t told him of her diagnosis. She didn’t want sweaty hand-holding or sweet smelling flowers—none of which would dull her pain or cause happiness. She wanted to run far away to escape her plight. Or scream. The beach was deserted. No one would hear.

The ice cold water would be invigorating, perhaps knock some sense into her. But, no. Today was it. The end of her life. She sighed. Could she do it?

Wind blew the delicate top layer of sand across her bare feet. The sea’s song pounded at her ears. Menacing waves frothed onto the beach and darkened the sand. Each wave reminded her of a petal: he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me….

Kay had been alone with the doctor when she received the prognosis. Frank wasn’t home when she returned. When Frank arrived, she didn’t want to rehash her tears. I’ll tell him later, she thought. Later hadn’t come. Until now. This was her later. Frank’s, too, though he’d have a future later.

“I must do it now,” Kay muttered. I can’t put Frank through this agony. Nor me. I want to go quickly.

She glanced back at the cottage. With summer over, it looked as dead as she felt.

White caps bounced in the distance. She’d only have to reach one to be carried to oblivion. She dipped her toe into the frigid water, then stumbled in. Just to my waist, she thought. Just a few more feet.

When the water reached her knees, she was suddenly yanked backward. A voice bellowed, “What are you doing?”

Frank?

“Kay, you crazy! It’s cold in here.”

Frank grabbed hold of her. Kay struggled, but Frank held her tight while he dragged her to shore.

“It’ll be okay,” he said.

 

The Spot Writers – our members:

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://www.writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter

 

Kathy L. Price

website under construction

 

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Book Review: When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead

June 16, 2014 No comments

Wow, I really enjoyed this book. It’s hard to write about without spoilers, though. So here’s the short version—without spoilers. For spoilers, you’ll have to scroll down.

I picked up this novel because it was recommended by a literary agent at a writing conference I attended. When I noticed the low price and the Newberry status, I decided to give it a shot.

The novel follows a sixth-grader named Miranda. She grew up in New York City in the 1970s. (When I learned this, I was surprised to learn that this is a modern book—not written in the 1970s.) Miranda has a single mother with a boyfriend who isn’t quite allowed to have a key to the apartment. Her mother is so excited to receive an invitation to appear on a game show, on which she hopes to win lots of money.

There are strange things that happen in this novel: the apartment’s spare key goes missing, Miranda finds notes in her pockets and in other locations, and she keeps talking to an unknown “you” throughout the novel. As an adult reading this, I put the clues together before the end. There are lots of clue. If you think about Chekov’s Gun, the ending should be easy to predict, but I’m not sure if a sixth-grader would be able to figure it out as easily. If you’re reading this review, and your children have read this book, I would love for you to comment about how they enjoyed it.

When I first started reading, I wasn’t sure why this book won a Newberry. I had trouble getting through the first few chapters. I felt like the level of detail just didn’t feel right, but I excused it since it’s told through the POV of a sixth grader. But then the book picked up. For me, what made it all worthwhile is how it all came together at the end. A seemingly realistic novel turned out to have a quite fantastical ending—and yet, it was foreshadowed plenty, so as a reader, I didn’t feel tricked. Now, I like twisted, fantastical stories. If you want a story that stays in the realm of proven reality, the ending might put you off. But as for me, I loved it, and I am forcing two people I know to read it just so I can have someone to talk to about it 🙂

And now, for the spoiler. If you don’t want to learn the ending, stop reading here.

 

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Spoiler ahead

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Because I would totally recommend that you read it yourself…

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Okay. Spoilers:

Throughout the novel, Miranda keeps receiving notes that look like they have been wet. The notes suggest that the person writing them knows her future and has returned to save her friend and himself. Throughout the novel, she is asked (by these notes) to write down as many details as she can about the incidents she is currently experiencing. In the meantime, there are lots of “clues” that this is actually a sci-fi story: one of her friends is making a model spaceship. Another boy is interested in higher math. And her favorite story, A Wrinkle In Time, which is referenced over and over again, involves time travel, which she discusses many times with a friend.

In the end, we learn that this is indeed a time travel story. The person writing the notes is actually one of Miranda’s friends, and he learns of the premature death of a classmate. He returns to the past (the 1970s) as an old man to save the boy’s life. What I really liked about this twist has to do with my fascination with time travel: that if someone were to travel in time, they would always have traveled in time, so they are forever present in the “time” they traveled to, even if they didn’t leave yet. I love examining that paradox.

We learn that Miranda hasn’t yet written the story, which she will eventually give to her friend so that he can (as an old man) save her classmate. But as she learns, she eventually will have written the note, since the old man does arrive to save her friend. When looking for a larger theme that doesn’t necessarily relate to time travel, I like the idea that we are not stuck in our own situations: there is always a chance to make our futures better or make the world a better place. And that theme makes me smile.

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