A to Z Blogging Challenge

I know what you're thinking.  "Gee, I just can't get enough of Miss Shelli's blog posts.  I wish she would write, like, every day!"  (Sorry, I think I gave you a teenage California accent.)

Well, dear readers, I've read your mind and am going to give you exactly what you want!  For the month of April, I'll be participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge:

"The premise of the Blogging From A to Z April Challenge is to post something on your blog every day in April except for Sundays.  In doing this you will have 26 blog posts--one for each letter of the alphabet.   Each day you will theme your post according to a letter of the alphabet.

"You will only be limited by your own imagination in this challenge.  There is an unlimited universe of possibilities.  You can post essays, short pieces of fiction, poetry, recipes, travel sketches, or anything else you would like to write about.  You don't have to be a writer to do this.  You can post photos, including samples of your own art or craftwork.    Everyone who blogs can post from A to Z."

So, what do you say?  Want to join me?  Visit Tossing It Out here,  or click on the button on my sidebar.

I'm Just a Baby

OK, I know what you're thinking.  You've seen my picture and you'd like to beg to differ.  But that's just in people years, not in writer years.

I remember the day that I decided to become a "real" writer.  I've always loved writing, and I thought it would be fun to write a novel some day.  However, I was just a mom, just a housewife, and I was so boringly happy!  I didn't think I could find a story anyone would want to read.

Then my husband and I went to San Diego for our 20th anniversary, December 2008.  We were eating at an outdoor cafe (you can do that in San Diego in December), and I was enjoying watching the variety of people walk by.  It got me thinking about them and wondering what it would be like to actually "be" the 20-something girl in hip clothes laughing with her friends or the harried business man pushing through the crowds.  I wanted to get inside their heads, feel what it was like to live in their skins for a day.

And that spawned my Big Idea.  Finally, I had an idea worthy of a novel!  Something that people would be interested in reading.  In that moment, I became an author.  Eons away from becoming a published author, but in my heart, I was an author.

I quickly learned I had a lot to learn about writing a novel.  I decided to write a "practice" novel before tackling my big idea.  And I did... kind of.  I finished the first draft of "A Novel Idea."  It took me a year to do it, and it's only 36,000 words in length.  Still, I'm thrilled that I did it, and I learned so much along the way.  I fell in love with my practice novel, and I hope to revise it and see it published some day.

I'm still not ready for my Big Idea.  I need to work on my prose, learn how to write in first person point of view, do a lot of research, and learn how to edit.  I'm just a baby.  I've got time to learn and grow up.

Lessons Learned

Participating in the "Hone Your Skills" blogfest was an interesting and eye-opening experience for me.  Most of my work is off-the-cuff, impromptu writing.  In fact, the rules for Fiction Friday forbid editing.  I love it, because you have to turn your Inner Editor off, and it helps my creativity flow better.  I feel like I can go wherever my muse takes me, and if it's not perfect, that's OK, it's not supposed to be.

But "Honing Your Skills" implies revisions.  And quite frankly, I don't have a lot of experience with that.  Inviting people to critique my work was very helpful but nerve-wracking as well.  Here are the things that I learned.

1.  I use a lot of "place setters."  I know where I want to go with a story, and I'm impatient to get there, so I have a tendency to use a generic word to hold my place while I move on to the good stuff.  I figure I can always go back and prettify it later.

2.  Related to that, I'm not specific enough with my nouns.  A room is really a makeshift laboratory in the basement.  A gun is a Glock, Berretta or Ruger.  Flowers are sweet-scented roses or little purple pansies.  I know that in my mind, but I need to get in the habit of sharing that with my readers.

3.  Especially since I write flash fiction, I can cut a lot of unnecessary action.  Sometimes less is more.  I don't need to detail every turn down a maze of corridors or every step taken to exit a car and enter a building.  I need to learn to give less attention to unimportant elements so the important events get center stage.

4.  I'm not as tough as I like to think I am.  I found myself alternately embarrassed ("I can't believe I missed that") and defensive ("But if I change that, I'll give too much away").  I admit to feeling a little cranky and doubting my writing ability.

In the end, all the critiques I received have helped me tremendously.  The final story is much sharper, clearer, and better.  It has a much better chance of being accepted for publication by going through the process.  So, thank you Charity and Rosie, it was a great experience!  If I can grow a thicker hide, I'd love to participate again.

Revision

My piece today is doing double duty:  I've revised my entry from the Hone Your Skills Blogfest using the wonderful suggestions I received, and amazingly, it fits with the prompt for Fiction Friday!  Let me know if you think this reads better.

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room.  My eyes fixed on the only other person there. The old man busied himself with the console before him. He reached to push a button on the upper level, and the sleeve of his lab coat slid back revealing black ink tattooed digits. Faded, but indelible.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," he said.  "The oval table will be to your right.  He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip.  I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve.  Fear tightened my throat, and I knew my voice would crack if I tried to speak.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action.  You must act quickly."

I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?"

"No.  That would raise alarms immediately.  Let them see you and wonder first."

He paused, staring at his hands, unmoving. I knew he had thought this through many times, reliving it throughout the long nights leading up to this moment. Or maybe preliving it is a better word. He returned his attention to the console and made a few final adjustments.

"August 16, 1939. Are you ready?"

I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans and closed my eyes.

I nodded.

My stomach lurched. Was I screaming? No, it couldn't be me, because I couldn't breathe. A high-pitched screech filled my ears, and my knees buckled. Tears squeezed from beneath my lids. And then it stopped.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it.  I crouched in the southwest corner of the room.  The oval table was to my right.  He sat at the head of it.  His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose.  His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand.  The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep.  He threw his head back and laughed, disconcerting me.  I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion.  Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I removed the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man.  I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket.  The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest. 

All fell silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears.  The gun dropped from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor.  The man nearest to my right tackled me, pushing me to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me.  It didn't come.  Two burly men rolled me onto my stomach, wrenched my arms behind me, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists.  They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices.  They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two large men flanked me, hurried me out of the building and into a waiting car.  We drove for miles, and as I stared at the passing German landscape, I wondered what would happen next.  A dark dank cell?  Torture?  Encampment and a cyanide shower? 

We passed through a large wrought-iron gate and came to a stop behind a dirty gray building. I was yanked from the car and propelled forward. Once inside, we walked down a dark corridor, turned left and passed several rooms before coming to a stop. The taller of the two stepped in front of me, and I heard the jingle of keys. He moved aside, and the other shoved me into the middle of a small cell.  Turning me around, he removed the cuffs from my wrists.  I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a small desk and wooden chair against the wall.  A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the desk.  Behind a privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall.  And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV?  I blinked back the surprise.  My confusion grew when I found a remote control on top.  I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched images, color images, spilling from the screen.

Somber announcers with tears in their eyes.  Mourners gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in.  A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall.  Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries.  Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history.  We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world.  We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence.  We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground.  Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Today's prompt:  The one thing your character regrets learning the most is…… 

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Hone Your Skills Blogfest

Today, I am participating in the Hone Your Skills Blogfest hosted by Charity Bradford and Rosie @ East for Green Eyes.  It officially starts tomorrow, so there's still a little bit of time if you'd like to participate.  Find the details here.

I've chosen a previous flash fiction of mine and done some minor editing.  Remember, this is open for critique, so you don't have to just say nice things in the comments!  All constructive criticism is welcome.

*****

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room.  I turned to face the only other man in the room.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," the old man said.  "The oval table will be to your right.  He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

I nodded.  Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip.  I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve.  I didn't speak for fear my voice would crack.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action.  You must act quickly."

Again, I nodded.  I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?" I asked.

"No.  That would raise alarms immediately.  Let them see you and wonder first."

I could see the old man had thought this through, over and over, reliving it again and again throughout the long nights leading up to this moment.

"Are you ready?" he asked.  I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans.  I closed my eyes.

I nodded.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it.  I was in the southwest corner of the room.  The oval table was to my right.  He sat at the head of it.  His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose.  His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand.  The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep.  He threw his head back and laugh, momentarily disconcerting me.  I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men in the room became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion.  Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I pulled the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man.  I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket.  The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest.  The room felt silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears.  I let the gun drop from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor.  I was tackled and fell to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me.  It didn't come.  Two burly men rolled me onto my back, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists.  They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices.  They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two men pushed me through the door, out of the building, into a waiting car.  They drove for miles, and I wondered what would happen next.  A dark dank cell?  Torture?  Encampment and a cyanide shower?  They pulled up in front of another building, pulled me out, pushed me through the door.  They led me down a corridor, turned left, and opened the door to a small room.  They shoved me forward, then turned me around and removed the cuffs from my wrists.  They left me standing in the middle of the room, alone, and I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a round table and wooden chair in the middle.  A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the table.  Behind a small privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall.  And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV?  But that hadn't been invented yet.  I blinked back the surprise.  I found a remote control on top.  I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched the images spilling from the screen.

I watched for hours.  Somber announcers with tears in their eyes.  Mourners spontaneously gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in.  A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall.  Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries.  Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history.  We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world.  We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence.  We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground.  Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines brightly before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Painted Ladies

It was a hot, dusty day, the kind of day that Tumbleweed was named for.  Most people stayed home and kept to the shade.  Not many visitors were in the First Chance Saloon, just a few of the regulars sipping their beers and playing a game of cards.  Old Sam, the colored man, played a melancholy kind of tune, not the usual toe-tapper he was best known for.

The doors opened, and the piano stopped playing.  All eyes turned to the figure in the doorway.

He wasn't from these parts, that was for sure.  Seemed a little too clean, if you know what I mean; his shirt had nary a wrinkle, and there weren't any patches on his jeans.  He glanced around the room, seemed to take us all in while dismissing us at the same time, and then made his way up to the bar.

"Gimme a Tanglefoot," he said.  The bartender lifted a brow and gave him a quick once over.

"Ain't got that in these parts, sir.  Think a little Red Eye'll do ya fine?"

The man nodded, took the glass of whiskey and threw it back with one gulp.  He waved to the bartender for another.  The bartender shot a glance at Miss Kitty fanning herself in the back corner of the bar.  She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off her stool and sauntered up to the man.

"Howdy, stranger.  Ya'll in town for long?"

He didn't look at her when he replied.

"Long enough, I suppose."

"You must be tired after traveling in this heat.  What do you say to some real refreshment?"

He threw back his whiskey, his third, set the glass on the counter, and turned to Miss Kitty, tipping his hat.

"I'd be much obliged, ma'am.  That sounds very hospitable of you."

Miss Kitty led him to her back corner where the rest of us were waiting.

Funny thing about an ugly whore.  They keep you furthest back where the shadows are darkest, because powder and rouge can only do so much.  You don't get chosen so often, and you're always worried when you do, because it's usually the mean ones that'll choose ya.  Miss Kitty won't let a man hit her pretty girls, but she figures with the ugly ones, a few bruises don't make no difference. 

So I was real surprised when the man pointed at me.  I don't know, just something about him didn't strike me as mean.  If Miss Kitty seemed surprised, too, she didn't show it, although Miss Alice had to stifle a gasp.  Miss Kitty beckoned me, and I led the way upstairs, swaying my hips real nice for the fellow, and meaning it this time.

With the door closed behind us, I stripped down to my petticoat and corset, and arranged myself alluringly on the bed.  He took off his gun belt and set it on the dressing table, but that was all.  He sat on the edge of the bed, hardly looking at me.

"Do you ever get...people... who just want to talk?" he asked.

Well, yeah, that was something that happened to ugly whores, too.  I felt a little deflated.

"Sure.  Sometimes."

"It's all right, ya think?"

Something in the way he said it made me feel a little sorry for him, like he was carrying a great sadness.  I patted his arm.

"Why, sure, it's all right."

He let out a big sigh and slowly, haltingly, began his story.

"My pa was a horrible, mean man.  Made his own corn whiskey and finished off a whole jug every day and every night.  Had a terrible temper.  He only took it out on us boys, though, never raised a hand to my ma or my sister.

"He spent a lotta time in the saloons, loved to play cards but wasn't very good at it.  He lost an awful lot of money, and sometimes we went hungry because he'd stopped at the saloon instead of the merchant.  Ma never said anything, though.  I didn't know why.

"One day he came home and told my sister to pack her bags.  He'd gotten himself into a world of trouble at the saloon and owed the owner more money than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime.  'It's either you or the house,' he told her.

"She cried and cried while she packed up, but Ma kept reassuring her.  'You're a petty girl,' she said, 'you're gonna do just fine.  You'll get to wear pretty things, and least it ain't gonna be your pa anymore.'

"I didn't understand," he said with a helpless shrug.  "By the time I did, I came to town, looking for her, but she was gone.  The bartender at the saloon said she just up and left one day, making everyone real mad, but they didn't come after pa because she'd done a real good job while she was there.

"I'm still looking for her."  He stared at his hands for the longest time.

"I chose you because you have pretty eyes," he said, turning to look at me for the first time.  "They look real kind, ma'am."

I blushed.

"I just thought, maybe, if you ever see her?  If she comes by looking for work, you know?  You can tell her that pa's dead now, and her brother is looking for her.  Her name is Annabelle."

I nodded my head, knowing I'd never see that girl, and if I did, she wouldn't be Annabelle anymore.  No one goes by their real name, their Christian name, their pig tails and freckles and crown of daisies name.

He took my hand and held it for awhile, then he stood up and put his gun belt back on.  He left a couple of bills on the dressing table before leaving the room.

*****

Today's prompt:  Set your story in the 1880s, in a mid west, tumbleweed town. The doors of the bar open, the piano stops playing and all eyes are drawn to the figure in the doorway…… Now keep going.

My first  attempt at a Western!  I balked at first, but I'm glad I did it.  It's rough draft, unedited, of course.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Happy Read an E-Book Week!

In honor of the e-book's 40th birthday, March 6-12 is E-Book Week.  To celebrate, everyone is encouraged to read an e-book.  Since I received my Kindle for Christmas, I have been reading lots of e-books -- ten at last count, and I've got 15 more in my "To Read" collection.

Not sure what e-book to read?  Here are a couple of suggestions.

The Reckoning by Tanya Parker Mills.  Her Kindle edition is on sale now for only $.99. 

Journalist Theresa Fuller has epilepsy, but this hasn't slowed her search for stories of injustice to broadcast to the world. When she and her cameraman, Peter Cranston, are captured inside Iraq in August 2002, she is cut off from her medication. Seizures resume, and dreams and visions of her American childhood in Baghdad begin to trouble her. Tormented by the relentless Colonel Badr, she is forced to focus on her own father's death years before in a Baghdad prison. The strain of her own captivity is relieved only by her growing attraction to Tariq al-Awali, the Iraqi captain who took charge of her capture. The more she learns of him and his family, the clearer her haunting dreams become, and the more puzzling her past. Before the American bombs begin to fall, and all of Iraq is thrown into even darker chaos, Theresa must find a way to escape the cruelty of Colonel Badr, and save those she cares for most.

Tanya spent years in the middle east herself, and her knowledge of the region shines through.  Great pace, believable writing, characters you care about.  The mystery unfolds in a very satisfying manner.  The scenes of torture never cross over the line to being excessive, but it is relentless and unsettling.

The Demise of the Soccer Moms by Cathryn Grant.  Kindle version also on sale for $.99.

A seemingly quiet suburban neighborhood is upended when a provocative single mother saunters onto the school playground for the first time. Her Doc Marten boots, tight T-shirts, and in-your-face attitude stir up buried fears and sexual anxiety.

In the dark corners of her home, a woman battles crippling memories that threaten to destroy the family she wants so desperately to protect. A suspicious death forces her best friend to make a hard choice between marriage and friendship.

Paranoia, jealousy, and maternal instinct collide, leading to the demise of the soccer moms.

Suburban Noir - where the mundane is menacing.

Cathryn Grant gets under the skin of her characters like picking at a scab over the old wounds of high school.  Her characters have depth and believability, and they sometimes uncomfortably mirror your own insecurities.  Her imagery is haunting, and she foreshadows bluntly -- watching the climax unfold is like watching an impending car accident.  You see it coming, but are completely helpless to do anything to stop it. 

Also check out Cathryn's collection of short stories, Flash Fiction for the Cocktail Hour. 

More bargains:  K M Weiland of Wordplay fame is offering both of her books at 75% off here.   I've loved her writerly wisdom and advice for awhile, and although historical fiction is not my favorite genre, the deal was too good to pass up.  And Amanda Hocking is making waves with her Indie novel Switched, Kindle version only $.99. 

Above My Pay Grade

I'd taken her under my wing.  But that all changed when I found out she made more money than me. 

She.  Lydia Moulter, the new girl Mr. Robeson hired right out of high school with no college degree or work experience.  I tried to show her the ropes, help her get her feet wet.  But she's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, you know what I mean?  She still files Cathy Friendly before Martin Freeman, for goodness sakes.  And her margins?  She leaves them at 3/4" when clearly a proper business letter needs to be formatted to 1". 

I cut her some slack.  I didn't complain that I was working twice as hard as she, making sure we got to the bottom of the in box by the end of the day.  I figured she'd catch on, eventually.

Friday was her first pay day.  I guess they didn't teach Office Decorum 101 in high school, because she squealed when she saw the amount.  She waved the pay stub in front of my face.

"This is so cool!  Now I can get those boots out of lay away."

She shoved the paper into her purse and clapped her hands, then went back to her game of Minesweeper on the computer.

I narrowed my eyes and seethed.  Really?  I had to know.  What was it about this girl that made her worth that much more than me?

I watched her like a hawk.  And by the end of the week, I noticed a pattern.  Every day at 11 am sharp, she walked into Mr. Robeson's office.  The door shut behind her, and then Mr. Robeson closed the blinds.  She stayed in there for twenty minutes.  And then she came out with the strangest expression on her face.  Not exactly happy; more like a hint of disgust.

I was outraged.  In this day and age?  I was not going to stand for it -- I could not allow that poor thing to be taken advantage of a moment longer.

I stormed into Mr. Robeson's office, not bothering to close the door behind me.

"How dare you?"

He looked up from the monthly report he was perusing and met my eye.  He frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

I lowered my voice to a hiss.

"That girl.  I know why you hired her, and I know why you pay her more money than me."

"Oh, do you, now?"

A twinkle appeared in his eyes, and I wanted to slap his arrogant face.

"Did you know that Miss Moulter is my niece?"

It was my turn to look bewildered.

"Um, no, I didn't... but why does she come in here every day..."

I stared at him in horror.  He quickly waved my unspoken theory away.

"No, no, it's not what you think.  Did you know that the company provides each of its division heads with a personal assistant?  Someone to run errands for them, like picking up dry cleaning or bringing coffee.  In addition to her regular duties, Lydia is my personal assistant."

"But I've never seen her bring you coffee, or lunch, or anything else for that matter."

"Right.  Perhaps I can show you what I require of my personal assistant.  And then, if you're still unsatisfied with the pay discrepancy, maybe you'll consider sharing the post with her."

He stood and closed the door behind me, leaving us alone together.  He walked to the office window and with a twist of his wrist closed the blinds.  I held my breath.  He returned to his desk, sat down, and took off his shoes.

"I've had podiatric problems for years.  My doctor has given me a prescription for the latest bout of issues, but it needs to be rubbed in to be effective.  As you can see," he indicated his rotund and protruding belly, "I have a difficult time following those instructions myself."

He reached with effort to pull off his socks.  He stretched his feet in my direction.

"Would you care to..."

He had bunions on both feet, and the skin was red and splotchy, occasionally dotted with warts.  His toenails were yellowed and cracking from some kind of fungus.  I tasted bitter bile at the back of my throat and swallowed hard to curb my gag reflex.

"Your niece is doing a fine job, sir."

I turned and left his office.  I could hear a soft chuckle behind me.

*****

I wasn't getting into the prompt for Fiction Friday today (sorry Dr. Seuss!), so I went rogue and found a random story prompt generator online.  This week's prompt:  That all changed when I found out she made more money than me.

High Expectations

I am a demanding reader. 

Reading has been my great love since I first discovered it 40 years ago.  (Yeah, I'll admit that.)  I've always been drawn to good literature, even as a child -- Pippi Longstocking, James and the Giant Peach, Island of the Blue Dolphins, and Where the Red Fern Grows were just a few of the books that delighted and entranced me.  OK, I'll admit, I went through a Harlequin phase in high school, but I still enjoyed the likes of Steinbeck and Dickens and even a hint of Shakespeare.  Add to that a course in French lit in college, and I fell in love with Les Mis, L'Etranger, and Le Petit Prince.  Am I a literary snob?  Perhaps.

One thing I do know is that when I buy a book to read, especially one that has been given good reviews, I have pretty high expectations.  I want clarity, I want great prose, I want subtle themes, I want emotional resonance, I want a good story.  Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, sometimes it is.

Here are some of my recent reads, and what I thought.

The Island of Dr. Moreau.  I enjoyed this book very much.  As a scientist myself (did you know I have a B.S. in zoology?), I was very interested to see how the author would try to scientifically explain the creation of these humanized animals.  It was believable, based on the knowledge of the day.  I'd probably give this book four stars.









The Phantom of the Opera.  I'm sure I would enjoy the play more than I enjoyed the book.  I did enjoy the tongue-in-cheek sense of humor, but it was a little melodramatic for my tastes.  I'm sure the writing reflects the era, but I didn't love it.  Three stars..










The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.  I know I enjoyed Agatha Christie novels in high school, but I discovered that I'm not a big mystery fan anymore.  It was kind of fun trying to outguess Holmes, but I didn't love it.  Three stars.










Understood Betsy.   I'm not a big Little House on the Prairie fan, nor did I ever get into Anne of Green Gables, but I found this book to be simply delightful.  Maybe it's because I'm a mom, or maybe because I really like kids in general, I don't know.  But I loved the humor in this book and the transformation of Elizabeth Ann into Betsy.  Five stars.








Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet.  This book was very critically acclaimed, got excellent reviews, and people LOVED it.  Me, not so much.  Maybe I was terminally turned off by the opening chapter, which I thought was a bit muddy and bogged down with back story.  Or maybe I was prejudiced by Amy Tan's excellent portrayal of Chinese American children's relationships with their parents.  Or maybe it was just too much to ask me to believe that a crush between 12-year olds could haunt them for a lifetime.  I don't know, but I was disappointed.  Three stars.