by Gerald N. Lund
ages: adult
First sentence: “David Dickinson’s eyes were wide open.”
Review copy sent to me by someone at By Common Consent because I volunteered for this torture.

Five ways to ruin a historical novel:

5. Write in dialect: “It be joost fur me, Dah?” If I have to read it aloud to understand it, it’s not worth my time.

4. Too much historical detail, not enough plot. “These full-sized coal carts were four feet wide and eight feet long and could hold the contents of six of the small coal tubs. That was about four tons of coal each. The carts had wheels and axles formed from a single piece of steel. This meant the two wheels did not turn independently, nor did they have an independent braking system. This was where the spraggers come in. If a car got rolling too fast down a grade, it would jump the tracks and smash into the wall.” I really don’t care that much about mining practices in England in the mid-19th century anyway. I swear about 500 pages of this book could have been axed. (Granted, I only made it through the first 50, but I’m just sayin’.)

3. Too much narrative exposition, not enough action. “David still hesitated. He liked Albert Beames, or Bertie, as most of the trappers called him. He was a bit odd looking, with freckles hidden beneath the layers of coal dust, and teeth that were prominent enough that some of the older boys called him Beaver Beames. Bertie was a year older than David and about a stone heaver* [yep, that was footnoted] He was totally devoid of ambition and was baffled by David’s continual talk of becoming a hurrier.” Three words for you: Show. Don’t tell.

2. Having a Message. Okay: I get it. They were Brave and Noble and Faithful. It’d be nice if they were interesting characters, too.

And the number one way to kill a historical novel:

1. Footnotes and endnotes. Puh-lease. It’s fiction, not a textbook. If I really cared what Yorkshire Pudding or Turkish Delight was I’d Google it.

I knew there was a reason I never read LDS fiction.

by Beth Pattillo
ages: adult
First sentence: “The taxi pulled up outside Christ Church, and I climbed out of the backseat, but the scorching July heat stole my breath and the threatened to press me back inside the cab.”
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Review copy sent to me by a publicist.

Claire is one of those long-suffering heroines that readers tend to either really identify with or supremely hate. Since her parents’ deaths when she was 18, she has done everything in her power to help her younger sister, Missy. Claire sacrificed her education, getting a GED and foregoing college. She sacrificed a good job: most recently she was an office manager for a pediatricians’ office, and has been recently laid of. She’s been unlucky in men, settling for Neil, a sports enthusiast who, while nice enough, may not even know that Claire’s off to Oxford, in her sister’s place, for a week-long seminar on Pride and Prejudice.

It’s only once Claire’s across the pond that all she’s sacrificed comes plainly into view. She meets James — suave, polished, gorgeous, rich — and immediately falls for him. In addition, she meets Harriet, of the Formidables (a society devoted to keeping Austen’s secrets), who lets Claire on a big secret: she has the original copy of First Impressions, the novel P&P is based on. As Claire reads on — noting the substantial changes from the final novel — she finds similarities to her own life (funny how that happens), and ends up doing some major soul searching. It’s a happily-ever-after, but not the one that you were expecting.

I should be jumping and cheering: the average Joe gets the girl! (Sorry. Spoilers there.) Claire goes with the normal, the everyday, and finds happiness. Yet… Claire is so insipid that I could hardly stand her enough to get through the novel. She eventually finds a backbone, but not before she goes through pages and pages of waffling. Sure, she’s still grieving over the loss of her parents — or rather, she’s suppressed the grieving process in favor of responsibility — but we’re never really given much of a chance to connect with her on that level. But what really bugged me was the significant changes to the P&P story. Sure, it’s nice to imagine that a copy of First Impressions could be out there, and sure it’s plausible that the story would be radially different from the final P&P, but it just didn’t work for me. At all. Period. I skipped those pages, cringing at the attempt to capture the magic that is Jane Austen.

As the characters in the novel eventually figure out: some things are better left untouched.

by Leonardo Sciascia
ages: adult
First sentence: ‘Your Majesty,’ said the Minister of State Santangelo, tapping Ferdinand lightly on the shoulder with one finger, ‘this is Grotte.'”
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I’m not a fan of short stories. I don’t know why that is, really. Perhaps it’s because I feel disjointed from one story to the next — I do better when the stories are interconnected. Or perhaps, it’s just that there’s not enough meat there for me.

So, keeping that in mind, I really didn’t care all that much for this collection of stories. Sure, they were a slice of Sicily — from the mafia to the ups and downs of everyday life — but most of them fell quite flat. I did like the title story, however. It was a tale of a man who bonds with a family and their nanny on the way to Sicily. It’s sweet, it’s funny, and enjoyable to read. Some of the other ones — Guifa and End-Game, are ones that I think of off the top of my head — are cleverly written, but a bit strange. The rest ranged from “meh” to “I think I’m going to skip this one.”

Perhaps it’s the translation? Nah… it’s probably just me. And my short-story issues.

by Georgette Heyer
ages: adult
First sentence: “The Saloon, like every other room in Arnside House, was large and lofty, and had been furnished, possibly some twenty years earlier, in what had then been the first style of elegance.”
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Now this is quintessential Georgette Heyer. Silly, fun, captivating, and all-around good times: the Georgette Heyer that I would happily recommend to everyone.

Kitty is the ward of a grumpy, miserly old man, who has bequeathed his fortune to her under one condition: that she marry one of his grand-nephews. It doesn’t sound like a bad deal — Kitty thinks she’s in love with one of them already — except that the one that Kitty likes doesn’t show up at his uncle’s command to offer for her. She attempts to run away, and then runs into Freddy — another grand-nephew — and talks him into offering for her, mostly because she wants to visit London. Freddy — an all-around good guy, and plain hilarious in the book — agrees, they both away to London, where all sorts of adventures, misadventures and happenings, well, happen.

I did this one as a buddy read with Corinne at The Book Nest and we chatted a bit about it.

Melissa: A bit of background: I noticed that Corinne had had a less-than-positive experience with a Georgette Heyer book (as did I recently), and I thought it’d be fun — since I was reading one for my in-person book group — to see if we could both have a better experience with Heyer. We searched our collective libraries for a common book, and decided upon Cotillion (which I think was recommended to me by Heather at A High and Hidden Place). So… what did you think overall?

Corinne: OH HO HO!! I can now see why people are thrilled with Heyer this was a complete gem. Full of frivolity and love and match-making and characters that made me laugh out loud. Really, out-loud laughing.

Melissa: I totally agree! There were parts that just had me in tears… and I absolutely LOVED Freddy. He killed me. I loved the way he talked, though it occurred to me when I finished that he was a bit more 1920s than 1820: he reminded me of Bertie Wooster! (I dog-eared this quote as quintessential Freddy: “Dash it, Jack!” said Freddy, stung. “Any girl would rather marry me than Dolph or Hugh! No use saying Dolph’s an Earl: he’s run off his legs, besides being dicked in the nob! As for Hugh–lord!”)

Corinne: I didn’t think of Bertie, but of course! I totally agree. It slayed me every time he said someone was “touched in the upper works,” or “buffle-headed.” And of course, there ARE those characters that actually were “touched” – as Freddy says – Heyer’s characters felt perfectly caricatured and yet…NOT annoyingly predictable. At first I worried that Kitty would be too simpering for me – but what a lovely surprise to have her be so scheming and forthright!

Melissa: That’s a great point. They are pretty caricatured — the innocent girl, the annoying rector, the simpering Earl, the frivolous lady, the cad (ooh, we must talk about Jack!). But I loved them all. And I loved how they interact with each other, too. There were some great character dynamics going on in the book. Did you have a favorite character?

Corinne: Freddy – to be sure, for reasons already mentioned. He’s a riot, but deeper than you’d think. And to be honest, Uncle Matthew was also a favorite. Maybe I just have a soft spot in my heart for crabby and penny-pinching old uncles, but lines like this: ‘Man’s an idiot!’ said Mr. Penicuik. ‘Small fire be damned! Not when I’m going to sit here myself, clodpole!” We didn’t get to see him much in the book, but I enjoyed our time with that guy. So, what did you think of Dolph, though? And Jack? Can you imagine a more opposite pair of cousins?

Melissa: No, I can’t! I felt sorry for Dolph, being pushed around by his mother so much. And maybe he was a bit “dicked in the nob” but he was sweet, and he meant well. And, Jack, well… actually, I was surprised at what a cad he was. One of the things I find interesting about Heyer (as opposed to, say, Jane Austen) is her willingness to delve into the seamier side of Edwardian society. The fact that it was well known that Jack was a, um, libertine, was pretty surprising to me. Aren’t they supposed all supposed to be pure and unsullied?

Be sure to check out her blog for the second half of the conversation!

by Roberston Davies
ages: adult
First sentence: “My lifelong involvement with Mrs. Dempster began at 5:58 o’clock p.m. on the 27th of December, 1908, at which time I was ten years and seven months old.”
Support your local independent bookstore: buy it there!

I first became aware of this trilogy several years ago when Julie at On the Curve (Back then she was Bookworm…) told me I HAD to read it. I started it, once, got nearly a third of the way in, and then abandoned it because life got in the way.

Thankfully, my online book group chose it for this month’s book, and I was able to sit down to thoroughly enjoy this book.

The first in a trilogy (I will read the other two… later…), Fifth Business is the personal history of Dunstan Ramsey: historian, scholar, Deptford boy. He’s also a friend to Boy Staunton, recently murdered. The history seems almost pointless, aimless in its endeavor: why does Dunstan’s connection with Mrs. Dempster — the woman of the first sentence, and a fairly major presence for much of Dunstan’s life — matter in the ultimate rise and fall in the plot? I found that it didn’t matter: Dunstan’s story, mundane as it was, was immensely fascinating. The writing was at once elegant and accessible: Davies didn’t go in for the long, flowery, overwrought descriptions that seem to plague many authors, instead choosing a first-person narrative that drew you in with simple, yet evocative language.

It was also surprisingly religious. I think I was expecting something more along the lines of the fantastical: magical realism and all that. What I got was an introspective, philosophical work about faith, doubt, and life’s purpose. Dunstan’s fascination with saints, his discussions with the Jesuit priest about a God to help him grow old; all incredibly fascinating, yet somehow didn’t have much to do with the plot.

I wonder — and this is why I’ll eventually get around to reading the other two — how the story all plays out, because this book felt very much like a beginning. While there was a story arc, the plot, the mystery, didn’t kick in until near the very end of the book. Which makes me wonder in what direction the other two books — The Manticore and World of Wonders — takes the plot.

At any rate, Julie (if you’re still out there), you’re right: Davies is a brilliant writer, and this book is definitely worth the time. I’m just sorry it took me so long to get around to it.

by Stephen King
ages: adult
First sentence: “Hapscomb’s Texaco sat on US 93 just north of Arnette, a pissant four-street burg about 110 miles from Houston.”

This one definitely takes some doing to wrap your brain around. It’s huge (even though I read the “original” version — the one that was published in 1978 — and not the “definitive” version — the one that King went back and added 200 pages to). It’s sprawling. It’s weird and wild and wacky. It’s dystopian, political, religious, horrific, gross, amazing.

It’s… well… Stephen King.

This was my first experience with King (aside from his Entertainment Weekly reviews, and reading The Lawnmower Man in 6th grade, which I don’t remember at all). And what an experience. I was blown away by the sheer craft of the man: not the plotting (which I felt dragged in spots), but the imagination (warped) and the world building, and the characterization, and just the fact that he. made. this. book. work. Not many people could imagine something so sprawling and huge and you’d be able to say that in the end.

The basic plot (in case you haven’t read the book, or seen the miniseries, which I have to admit I’m curious about now): a superflu (something which threw me for a loop: “Government heath officials emphasize that this is Russian-A flue, not the more dangerous swine flu.”) virus gets out and, because it has a 99.4% mortality rate, wipes out most of the population of the country. How or why you survive isn’t known; you either don’t catch it, or you’re dead. The first part of the book is the horror: watching people die terrible, horrible, gross, pathetic deaths not only is difficult, but incredibly unsettling. Shoot: it’s terrifying, especially with H1N1 floating around. King is brilliant in this part: he gives people names, occupations, dialogue, a history… and then kills them off. It’s brilliant watching the spread of the virus, and terrifying how it affects the world, and the reader.

Then, once everyone who is going to die is dead, the book changes tone. It becomes a political book as the survivors gather — either around Mother Abigail in Boulder, Colorado (the good team) or around Randall Flagg, aka The Dark Man (the bad team), in Las Vegas. There’s a whole section, and this is where the book (for me, at least) lags, about setting up a community, how the Free Zone works, about the human race’s urge to gather and organize and build. There’s this one character, Glen, who is the sociologist (he’s the Hermione of the book) who explains everything. And explains. And explains. Yawn.

Then — because having a horror book and a political commentary isn’t enough — King decided to turn religious on us, and has a showdown — though not in the way I expected — between the good and evil forces. Once the focus switches away from the community in Boulder, once Stu, Glen, Ralph and Larry — they’re the leaders, of sorts, of the Free Zone — begin their quest as commanded by Mother Abagail on her deathbed — and once we see what the Dark Man’s been up to in Vegas, the action picks up again. Perhaps King is only brilliant when he’s twisted? I was fascinated with the downfall of Randall’s society, with twists and turns of the plot, and with the climax.

Then — and why do authors feel a need to do this? — the book went on for 50 more pages. Yeah, sure, I suppose we need some sort of denouement, some sort of resolution, but honestly, 50 pages worth? (I was actually glad I got the 1978 version by this point.)

It was an uneven book: when it was on, it was brilliant; when it was off, it was incredibly boring. But, now that I’ve forayed into the world of Stephen King, I have to admit I’m curious to read more. He’s an amazing writer.

Warped and weird, yes. But definitely amazing.