Personally, after reading a really great book, I can’t just pick up any old thing …being a discerning book addict and unfortunately the really great authors are never as prolific as we would like. Sometimes you just get lucky and there is something compelling either by the cover, the description or by word of mouth. This is, I think, the most subjective part of book selection because everyone’s tastes vary and simply because one person loved it is no guarantee that you will. Thankfully with the advent of Google and websites like Goodreads much of the risk out has been of book selection. Even with these resources some people, you know who you are, still require further assurance that what they are reading is worth their time which brings me finally to the object of this post.
Sometimes a story affects us intensely, which sounds like a good thing, it may even be one the best things about reading. There is a darker side to it though, I have joked in that way people do when they really aren’t joking “that the book had broken me“. If a reading hangover is the “inability to start a new book because you are still living in the last book’s world”, I must have had the equivalent of book alcohol poisoning that left me in an 18 month long coma following the conclusion to a book series that I had been anticipating with almost as much fervor as I did the birth of my first child. Suffice it to say that when you look forward to something that much there is no way that the author could satisfy my expectations. Even I realize how crazy that sounds, that being said Richelle Mead’s conclusion to the Georgina Kincaid series spectacularly disappointed me to the point that I did not even bother to finish the Dark Swan series.
I realize that books are the intellectual property of the authors who write them but don’t they have some responsibility to the reader? Particularly when they are successful and have established a significant following. Having never written nor published a book I cannot imagine the pressures that a successful author is under but is writing not like any other business and to a degree where customer satisfaction plays a rather important part? While I think fans threatening an author’s life is more than a little extreme as in the case of Charlaine Harris‘ conclusion to the Southern Vampire series.
I will say that after concluding Succubus Revealed I simply didn’t want to read anymore. I am the first to admit that I probably overreacted. As readers, I think, we come to believe in authors whose books we love and I felt that Richelle Mead’s effort was marginal at best having seen what she could do in her past novels. It wasn’t until recently that I even felt remotely interested in searching for something new and exciting to read or even revisiting some of the classics that I knew could never disappoint. Suffice it to say that my spring reading has reignited the passion I feel for reading and I am looking forward to that next great read and possibly even more reviewing it.
This blogger may be my long lost BBC television series twin, having watched Andrew Davies version of Pride and Prejudice so many times I swear my then infant daughter responded to the theme music. I may just reblog this so I remember to watch “The Lizzie Bennett Diaries” alone as I have seen and own all the rest.
“You pierce my soul. I’m half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I’m too late. […] For you alone I think and plan.”
–Captain Wentworth, in the best-loved love-letter of all time in Jane Austen’s ‘Persuasion’.
Do you ever feel that you’re an anachronism? That you’d rather have been born in a time and place where romance was simpler and yet more complex than now? I get that whenever I watch or read period romances. Like I’ve been doing for the past few days. I started with ‘The Lizzie Bennet Diaries’, moved on to ‘Lost in Austen‘, then watched all the four episodes of BBC’s adaptation of ‘North and South’, got worm-holed (my friend V’s expression, I hope you don’t mind me borrowing, V!) into watching my favorite scenes of ‘Emma’ (Jonny Lee Miller playing the gorgeously correct Mr. Knightly), and rounded up by watching Ciaran Hind…
Although I am really not a fan of cherry fudge ice cream being an advocate of Gold Medal Ribbon myself or Project Runway as I prefer The Bachelor, I couldn’t agree with this blogger more. I also stumbled upon All About Romance’s top 100 poll and found it to be an excellent tool for a while I was actively searching out many of the books I found there before others that I came across at the same time diverted me from the path. A top 100 list of my own seems daunting even though I know I have at least that many that I have categorized as “Library Worthy” and that is my own personal library of course so they are handily accessible when I NEED to re-read them.
There’s nothing better than a witty, heartwarming romance novel. Not molten chocolate cake, not a half gallon of cherry fudge ice cream, not a Project Runway marathon, not three-day weekends, not sleeping in on Saturdays, not welcome-home hugs. A real life romance might compete, but it would need to make me laugh and cry … and last at least six hours.
Several years ago I stumbled across All About Romance’s top 100 poll. They were compiling a list of readers’ favorite titles, and I thought, I should send them mine. I knew I’d read at least 100 romances by then, but tragically, I couldn’t remember all the good ones—much less rank them.
So I immediately started my own top 100 list. I don’t always remember to update it, especially if a book’s so good that all I can think about is tracking down the rest of the series; and it’s missing all…
I wrote a paper for psychology class a few years ago about the influence books have on the reader. My argument, extremely simplified, was something to the effect of if you were to read a book where everyone jumped off a bridge and survived it was unlikely that the reader would try it themselves. I believe that it is Murphy’s Law that when I want to quote the paper itself I cannot find it anywhere. Upon reflection I have since revised my thoughts on the matter somewhat.
Indirectly a woman, who I have never met and likely will never meet, is partially responsible for one of the most important decisions I will have ever made. All because Diana Gabaldon conceived the character of Jamie Fraser, I found Outlander in the romance section attracted by its artistic cover and substantial size, serendipitously because according to the author it was not in fact intended for this genre. The significance of this purchase would not become apparent for another three years, a friend wanted to arrange an introduction and when I was asked what I liked my response was immediate “smart and red haired”. My husband is the 6’4 red head I was introduced to after that faithful conversation beyond the superficial he does not have much in common with this iconic character but it was enough to drastically alter the future I envisioned for myself. Considering my own experience it lead me to wonder how something so outwardly innocuous could have such a powerful effect on us and in how many other ways have the written word dramatically altered the course that we have set for ourselves even unknowingly.
The first night after Caroline moves into her fantastic new San Francisco apartment, she realizes she’s gaining an intimate knowledge of her new neighbor’s nocturnal adventures. Thanks to paper-thin walls and the guy’s athletic prowess, she can hear not just his bed banging against the wall but the ecstatic response of what seems (as loud night after loud night goes by) like an endless parade of women. And since Caroline is currently on a self-imposed dating hiatus, and her neighbor is clearly lethally attractive to women, she finds her fantasies keep her awake even longer than the noise. So when the wallbanging threatens to literally bounce her out of bed, Caroline, clad in sexual frustration and a pink baby-doll nightie, confronts Simon Parker, her heard-but-never-seen neighbor. The tension between them is as thick as the walls are thin, and the results just as mixed. Suddenly, Caroline is finding she may have discovered a whole new definition of neighborly…
Wallbanger by Alice Clayton is in a word FUN. I hadn’t even finished it before starting this review. When we meet Caroline she has just moved into a lovely sublet in San Francisco and everything seems perfect until the first night. The title really says it all, poor Caroline, who has misplaced her “o”, the “O” for those of us who require further elaboration, is an involuntary auditory spectator to her neighbours sexual antics adding insult to injury considering her “o-less” state.
When she does finally meet “Wallbanger” it is not love at first sight which is a refreshing change from many of the novels I have read in recent years. Too often the hero and heroine meet and before a full day has passed they are irrevocably in love. Clayton has masterfully created likeable, funny characters, Caroline has a healthy self image there are no painful mental soliloquies bemoaning why Wallbanger could never love her.
Her relationships with her girlfriends are refreshingly irreverent and free of female rivalry even in some situations where a little cattiness wouldn’t be unexpected. She takes the time to build a relationship between the protagonist and the love interest, at no time is the reader wondering what the characters see in one another. After this enjoyable read I will definitely read more by this author.
If I were to try and describe the novel On the Island by Tracey Garvis Graves in terms of popular television and movies within the last few decades it would be as the bastard child of Lost and The Blue Lagoon but that description may not do justice to the simple elegance that is this novel. Garvis Graves has managed to deftly depict a story-line which on the surface is somewhat off-putting to the vast majority of the population portraying the inevitable romance between a teenage boy and his much older tutor after they are marooned on an uninhabited island in the Indian Ocean. Visions of Mary Kay Laterno aside, On the Island is a thrilling story of survival that I finished in a single evening.
When the story opens Anna is in a relationship that is going nowhere and has taken a tutoring position in Maldives for the summer. Her prospective student T.J. is to spend the summer catching up on all the school work he missed while in cancer treatment. They miraculously survive the crash of their private plane into the ocean and are washed ashore on one of the many uninhabited islands of the Maldives.
I devoured this book, reading it at every opportunity that being said On the Island isn’t for everyone. The relationship that develops between Anna and T.J. is contentious both within and without the book. The question is what would make a romantic relationship between a woman in her third decade and a much younger man okay? Is the vaguely discomfited feeling that one has following the conclusion of the story simply hypocrisy? Would the reader be more comfortable with a male protagonist and a female fourteen years his junior? Regardless of the questions of morality On the Island is unexpectedly intriguing the reader is compelled to follow the story to its conclusion routing for not only this unlikely couples survival but their happiness together.