Tag: reading-is-hot

Random Saturday musings


Back in March of 2019 is when I think I posted using Keri Smith’s Wreck This Journal for the first time. The page I chose to do involved fruit stickers, and it looked like this.

I may have added a few since then.

Here’s a new one I did this month. Another way to test my memory.

When I did it, I kept wondering what smelled so wonderful. Well, it was a couple of pages prior, done in April 2019, and still smelling as FABULOUS as ever: splashes of Chanel N° 5.

It took me more than five years to have the nerve to do this one. It is done as of yesterday.

Author Keri Smith warned it would be difficult.

Did you flinch a little when you saw that I did it? Even book lovers who read the cheapest of paperbacks protect the spines. (And most of us use bookmarks to keep from bending down the pages.)

No worry about cracking the spines or bending the pages when I read ebooks on my iPad, including this latest one from Carolyn Haines in her Sarah Booth Delaney mystery series. Of course, my iPad has fallen to the floor a couple of times and now has thin cracks across the surface of the glass. I don’t blame the dogs, who ran into power cords and pulled it down. I blame whoever makes covers for devices like this one. When my old iPad that I had for many years stopped working, it still had a flawless screen because of the great case that kept it well-protected. When I replaced the iPad, I couldn’t find a case even close to that one in quality or protective features. So I deal with those hairline cracks; it’s worth it to read my favorite writers. Carolyn Haines is certainly among that group.

Hump Day


Since I mentioned author Donna Leon in Monday’s post, I decided to poke around and see which novels in her series I hadn’t yet read. There are two, and I’d forgotten I downloaded one of them quite a while back (and I immediately added the other). I’ve been kind of low-energy this week, so though I’ve done some writing, I also began reading Give unto Others (number 31 in Leon’s Commissario Brunetti series).

Along the way, I was struck by this excerpt and copied it, redacting information that might constitute spoilers.

These words from Leon so perfectly summed up a character in the Neverending Saga whose actions in the past (before my narrative begins), and years later in the first book of my series, negatively impact people’s lives for decades.

I can think of only three characters I’ve ever written who are irredeemable. Do I think people like them exist? Yes. Everyone is capable of redeeming themselves; some never make that choice. Unlike in life, where you often read about the irredeemable in the headlines, when you’re a writer, you get to mete out a satisfying justice for those characters.

There were a few things from the overall series that I missed from Give unto Others, but those made sense in context of the time it was set. As soon as I finished it, I started reading number 32, So Shall You Reap. Just as with the Martin Walker books, I learn so much about culture and history from the many details authors deftly weave into their plots. Some of those things I missed from the previous book were back, to my delight.

I believe the next novel in the series comes out in July. The next Martin Walker novel in the Bruno series is due out in September. These are things I can look forward to while I write my way through the summer and fall forecast of heatwaves and hurricanes, and I also have a couple of other favorite series/authors with books just out or on the way.

Mindful Monday

I’d saved that a while back, but over the last few days, it really hit home for me as I read the three Martin Walker ebooks that had been waiting on my iPad for a while. I’ve already posted about the other two; this was the third I finished Saturday night:

There’s another in the series coming out in the fall. I’m really looking forward to it.

In the last two novels, Walker scattered a lot of global topics among the mysteries, the denizens of St. Denis, and the food (always the food!). I found these new storylines riveting (and not cumbersome): election interference, countries on the edge of war, the manipulation of public opinion via social media and disinformation, global politics, the rise of tech billionaires, the historical and cultural significance of migration from centuries past. There are many cozy things about the Bruno books, but the books themselves are not cozies. They fall into the same smart writing as Donna Leon and Louise Penny, two others among my favorite writers (with series set in Venice and Quebec, respectively), in which family, friends, and fellowship are always part of the theme but aren’t the full stories of their characters’ lives.

In Walker’s series, Bruno himself seems to be changing, but in all the ways that matter, he’s still the good human he’s always been.

Wikipedia background on Martin Walker: Born in Scotland…Martin Walker was educated at Harrow County School for Boys and Balliol College, Oxford. He lives in the Périgord/Dordogne in Southern France with his wife with whom he has two daughters.

Walker was on the staff of The Guardian from around 1971, working in a variety of positions, including bureau chief in Moscow and the United States, European editor, and assistant editor. Walker resigned in 1999 after 28 years with the newspaper.

Walker joined United Press International (UPI) in 2000. While at UPI he was also an international correspondent. He is now editor-in-chief emeritus of UPI. He also holds a variety of other positions, including senior scholar at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars in Washington, D.C.; senior fellow of the World Policy Institute at The New School in New York; member of the board of directors of the Global Panel Foundation (Berlin, Copenhagen, Prague, Sydney and Toronto). He is also a contributing editor of the Los Angeles Times’s Opinion section and of Europe magazine. Walker also is a regular commentator on CNN, Inside Washington, and NPR.

June Is Bustin’ Out All Over

The title of this post is taken from a Rodgers & Hammerstein song from the musical Carousel, a production of which I saw at a dinner theater with my mother, nephew Daniel, and Daniel’s mother Terri in 1986. At that time, I believed (right or wrong) the musical was a favorite of Lynne’s, and since I wasn’t familiar with it, I looked forward to seeing it. Had I known some of the plot, theme, and sorrow of it, I might have realized I was seeing it at the wrong time considering my reality during 1985/86, but…as Jim likes to say, “It is what it is.” It was a night out in company I enjoyed, and I remember that part of it with affection.

One of the advantages (for me) of getting older and a little wiser is that during particularly difficult times (however that difficulty manifests), history reminds me that everything is not all bad and forever and never has been all bad and forever. Though June this year has been challenging and expensive, it’s just… June. Just right now.

Yesterday, when the dogs and I had to be out of the house from early morning to well after dinnertime, we were in a quiet, cool place together. Meanwhile, Tom was overseeing and doing lots of things at Houndstooth Hall that will be beneficial in the long run, and I got to read two of three books by a favorite author, Martin Walker, that I’d downloaded via Kobo to my iPad quite a while back (meaning I still have another ebook to look forward to from him!):

I can never regret a day spent reading this ongoing series set in France, full of people, places, dogs, horses, and gastronomical feasts (without consequences like calories and hangovers!). I read all of the short stories yesterday, and finished the novel today. It was a joy once again to be in the company of Benoît Courrèges, aka Bruno, Chief of Police, in the fictional town of St. Denis.

I’m so grateful for writers.

Button Sunday


Found this button online, a steampunk theme with cursive writing. I do so little writing by hand these days that my penmanship is atrocious. But I do know how to write that way, and I well remember all the handwritten letters I received in my younger years (truth be told, I still have most of them, though I hope all the males to whom I ever sent letters have thrown all of mine away–or could send them to me, so I can roll my eyes at my younger self).

I already had journals and journaling on my mind when I was looking at buttons today. Yesterday, as I searched for my original essential oils inventory list, which I never found (finally just started a new one and input it to a computer doc, so I’ll know where to find it when I need it again), I opened a file folder that contained a tangle of embroidery thread and a ticket stub. I suspect the embroidery thread went with a cross-stitch piece I started back in the 1990s of a white cat sitting in a window (you can read about that in an old post here).

When the stitching remained unfinished, I finally wrote a poem about it and put the partially finished piece in a frame with the poem. It hung on my wall at The Compound for years, and now I have no clue where it is. I added it to my list of inexplicably missing items.

In the same folder, I found a ticket to a matinee showing of Star Wars: The Last Jedi from February 2018. That faded ticket, at least, I could put inside my current Moleskine.

As you can see, I’ve rarely used my Moleskines for capturing my sloppy cursive writing.

Like the one above, the Moleskines (and some are Moleskine knockoffs) are filled with mementoes of all kinds, and they get very fat; too fat for shelving. So they have a bin they go into when they’re full. I do still journal from time to time, but I mostly scribble a day’s events or thoughts in whatever kind of day planner or daily appointment book I keep.

Do you still handwrite your letters? Do you journal or keep a datebook or diary?

P.S. I have now reread all five of the TJB novels. I was amazed at how many things I’ve forgotten and how moved I could still be by those characters and their stories. This book, in particular, required a box of tissues right next to me. I kept having to close the book and cry.

Now I need to get back to The Musician in the Neverending Saga before he writes mean songs about my neglect.

On writing and looking back

Something else I did while the power was out was unplanned but not unprovoked.

From time to time, readers of the TJB books mention to its four writers, or on social media or book sites like Goodreads, that they’re reading the five Manhattan novels again (the fourth of those isn’t set in Manhattan but is connected peripherally with two or three cameo appearances by or references to the Manhattan characters). There are also people who say they reread my two Coventry books (especially A Coventry Christmas during the holiday season). There are still people who tell me Three Fortunes In One Cookie (written with Timothy) is their favorite of all the books I’ve cowritten (and some who contend that in The Deal, the main character chose the wrong man at the end, which always tickles me; as readers, we bring our own histories with us to the books we read).

I understand this compulsion to reread, because there are novels I’ve been rereading since I was a kid. They’re comfort novels, or novels connecting me to childhood, or funny novels that still make me laugh, or novels with love stories that I never tire of. There’s nothing like a satisfying ending to a love story. One set of novels I’ve reread more times than I could count, written in the 1940s/50s, is a series that tracks a family from the American Revolution to World War II. It connects me not only to my joy of reading as a young teen, but to my mother and sister, who also read, treasured, and reread the series. (Note: The last time I read these, I said, “Debby, these novels would be problematic now,” and she agreed. I guess they’re like early love: recalled with affection, but with awareness that it probably wouldn’t appeal to you at a wiser age.)

Additionally, beginning around 1990, I read a lot of gay fiction (and non-fiction, for that matter), much of it recommended by my late friend Steve, a bookseller and avid reader. It was Steve who said to me, “One day, when you write, please tell our stories. Please don’t let all these things be forgotten.”

In the early to mid ’90s, every attempt I made to do so (mostly in short stories) felt flat to me. It could be because I felt flat. There was a lot of loss to take in over a few short, intense years. I knew I’d rather write nothing than write it badly.

And then into my life came very much alive men who urged me to write those stories, and the three men who began to write them with me, with the outcome of that: books on bookshelves.

About those novels I wrote or cowrote: I read them so much when writing, editing, and proofreading them, that by the time they were released (usually about a year after the final manuscript was submitted), I didn’t have a lot of interest in revisiting them. As soon as a novel was released, I’d read it once, for two reasons: I looked for any errors that made it through all those sets of eyes (ours and our publishers), and I wanted to refresh my memory before I read industry reviews and reader reviews, and before I/we started getting reader email.

Not including short stories in anthologies, the nine novels I’ve written or co-written were released over the years 2001 to 2007. I likely haven’t reread any of them since their publication year, other than quick checks to ensure continuity (since characters are shared in the TJB books and they are linear, and the same is true of the Coventry books).

Upon the release of the TJB novels, I could say with pinpoint accuracy which of the writers wrote what scenes, as well as recall discussions of what edits were made by us to all of us. And now… I have discovered that’s no longer true. While the power was out, during daylight hours, I picked up the first Manhattan novel, It Had To Be You, and read it again. I was amazed by all the things I’d forgotten. I knew the general plot and how it would end, but mostly it was like reading it for the first time. The most startling thing was that I COULDN’T REMEMBER WHO WROTE WHAT.

All that made for a much more pleasurable read. I’d worried about a couple of things over the years: that the books would be dated (especially with how technology has changed); and that some things might seem insensitive, because we understand or are learning so much more about LGBTQ+ lives and issues in 2024 than we did when that first book was written (beginning in 1998 and up until publication in 2001). All of those concerns melted away as I got to read that book with fresh eyes. Would I rewrite the book? No. Are there word choices I might edit? Sure. Always. But none of that took away my enjoyment of the characters, the humor, the pathos, and the drama–because some characters are actors, female impersonators, or drag queens, of course there is drama. Drama is their profession. And after all, outside of novels, we are each of us the main characters/heroes/villains of our own ongoing stories.

I don’t know if I’m ready to reread all of the novels I’ve written or cowritten, but I don’t mind admitting that when I closed the back cover on this one:

I immediately returned it to the shelf and took out this one:

In both novels, though I couldn’t say for sure who wrote exactly what, there are points when I said, “OH, this sounds like me, and I hope I wrote that. Either that or part of it.” And points when I realized there are connections/similarities between things in those first two novels to things I’m currently writing. That leads me to believe those things were written by me, or if not, as I texted Timothy and Jim, “Don’t sue me.”

J’aime la France


Oh, a hundred years ago, or thirty-something, I created a character and made him French. I think because I wanted to use the surname of my college French teacher who’d taught me a few years before. Her class was when I got those two books. (There’s a third book, but I must have stuck it somewhere else.)

This is my experience with other languages.

I had six weeks of German in tenth grade before I was moved to another school, where German wasn’t taught. It didn’t matter. I was born in Germany, but my only real interest in taking the class was because Lynne and other friends did, and I wanted to take classes with my friends. Didn’t we all?

I’m not sure which year of high school, junior or senior, I took at least one semester of Spanish. It was, as I recall, the only option for a foreign language in that school. In hindsight, learning Spanish would have been a great choice, and I did very much like the teacher, but here’s my problem with language classes. I was never one of the students who volunteered answers in ANY class. I never asked questions. I couldn’t stand to draw attention to myself. Giving any kind of oral report (even book reports, though I always read and loved reading) or reading anything out loud: absolute torture for me. Being called on for an answer? I usually pretended I didn’t know so the focus would quickly shift elsewhere.

So speaking aloud in a class using a language I was trying to learn? You might as well have escorted me to the guillotine.

ETA: Look! When I went to return the other two books to my reference shelves, I found this very thin volume (24 pages, which means a mere 12 pieces of paper) tucked among some other books. I took pronunciation seriously! Now, I can hear native French speakers teach me pronunciations online. Students these days have no idea…

Over the years, I’ve taught junior high and college students. I’ve read out loud to students. I’ve presented work-related seminars in several companies where I was employed. I’ve given talks at retreats, moderated discussions among small groups of people on various topics, and led guided meditations. I’ve spoken at book signings where my novels were being sold. I’ve done all that, but inside, I’m still the girl who didn’t want all eyes on her. And I STILL will almost never speak any of the phrases/words I know in any foreign language because I’m so uncomfortable about possibly bungling pronunciations.

And yet I love the country and the language. I don’t know a lot of French history, but I’ve done research on specific topics because… I still have that same character taking up real estate in my brain, and he, and France as a setting, play larger roles than they once did in his initial appearance in my fictitious world.

I have friends who speak French. Friends who love France. One acquaintance who is French, French-born, probably living in France again. I know when the time comes, there are people who can beta check what I’ve written, and who can make sure the online translator I’ve used when my characters (infrequently) speak French has done right by me.

Something that amuses me: I borrowed my character’s first name from a novel set in France that I read decades ago. (I liked him so much that I’d have fallen in love with him, too, just as the female character did, yet my character who bears the name isn’t a romantic lead in my series.) People I know who are familiar with the Spanish version of his name have questioned me, but I’m correctly using the French spelling. His name is the only thing I borrowed from that novel.

In addition, for the past few years, I’ve read a mystery series set in France, and I’ve tried very hard to use NOTHING from those books. (I recently realized that although I’ve bought and downloaded them, I’m two novels and one short-story-collection behind in this series. I need to spend more time reading.) I’ve met the author at book-signings and seen his online discussions of book releases during lockdown, and somewhere along the way, I was lucky enough to glean one bit of true information from him on international relations that vastly helped my plot. But other than that, my France and my French characters are all mine (with help from Google and Wikipedia), and all inaccuracies or unlikelihoods rest squarely on my shoulders (let the researcher beware…).

Though my writing brain right now is firmly in the U.S. because of the section I’m laboring over in the Neverending Saga, France is never far… And I’ve already chosen my next coloring page when the right character returns to getting page time.


Vive la République!

Book your appointment at The Zen Goat

Before Janna Rollins’s debut cozy mystery An Escape Goat: A Zen Goat Mystery begins, Callie Haybeck, a young woman living in Seattle, has never quite lived up to her older sister’s life choices. The one thing Callie’s proud of is her certification as a yoga instructor, but the Covid pandemic derailed her career, leaving her to daydream of one day having a yoga practice on a tropical beach. After learning about long-lost members of her family and meeting them, an idea was born: Callie would move to Haybeck Farm in New Hampshire and open a yoga studio, The Zen Goat. Classes would include adorable baby goats and lure tourists from their hectic city lives to the bucolic countryside.

From the moment the book opens at the start of Callie’s first four-day yoga retreat, things go awry. Though she loves the baby goats, she’s fighting an unexpected allergy–to goats. Along with the babies, she also rescued an adult goat, Bugsy, who always finds ways out of his enclosure. Her first clients, a group of four affluent women from Boston, including a social media influencer and her best frenemy, along with a ballerina and a medical student, all accompanied by a male driver/assistant, have arrived ahead of schedule with enough tension among them to defy even goat yoga. The influencer’s chihuahua, Matilda, immediately darts away to face off with Bugsy. When Callie hurries from the farmhouse to rescue the dog, her clients aren’t impressed by her frazzled appearance, especially when she falls and gets goat “raisins” caught in her braids. Matilda takes an instant dislike to her and bites her. After she finally gets the women and dog ushered into the guest cottage, Callie learns the massage therapist and esthetician she’s booked for the spa day that her clients requested during their retreat can’t make it.

From those opening minutes, the book offers mishaps, mayhem, and murder with a lively range of characters; an abundance of motives and secrets; relatives from both sides of the Haybeck family who want Callie off the farm; an adventurous great-aunt; and a handsome veterinarian who thinks Callie’s the last person who should have goats in her care. It’s all set against the kindness of family and a charming small town that may make Callie’s dream of a tropical escape fade a little more each day.

An Escape Goat, available March 12, 2024, from Level Best Books, checks all my favorite boxes: snappy dialogue, engaging, layered characters, a good mystery, and funny situations. I look forward to reading future books in the series. Who wants to book a retreat at The Zen Goat with me? I promise to leave my own neurotic chihuahua at home.

Read and reviewed from an ARC and cross-posted to Goodreads.

Happy Caturday!


I don’t have cats, but in solidarity with those who do, I thought I’d dedicate part of today’s post to cats. Mainly because Debby gave me this cool Haunted Cat Tarot deck for Christmas. Any particular card you’d like to see?

When I took her to an appointment earlier in the week, I took this coloring book with me.

I’d already torn a page out of it at some point, and I decided to color that one. But I wasn’t sure how to color it, so I looked up various wild cats and found this one to inspire me.

Here’s how it turned out.

What I do have is dogs. The other day, after a frantic round of digging, which she isn’t supposed to do, Delta apparently found somebody’s last marble.

It’s all cleaned up and put with the other marbles now.


Meanwhile, Anime had dental surgery yesterday morning, and she’s had a miserable two days. She started drinking water again sometime around noon today, and this evening, she took some meatballs (canned dog food rolled around her regular meds and her pain med). She’s finally stopped dripping blood from her mouth and is overall a lot more comfortable tonight. Through it all, she’s been very sweet and stoic, so clearly it wasn’t her last marble Delta found.


The tree has been stripped and all the ornaments and decorations have been put away.

Except we have to find the bin that has the box that my vintage Holt Howard angel goes in. Meanwhile, I posed her with an appropriate old Southern novel that I haven’t read in decades and probably should read again.

Sometimes when I get really busy, I forget to eat. When tonight’s light meal of a BLT, half an apple, and some potato chips seemed ridiculously good, it occurred to me that I’d only eaten yogurt with the water and coffee I drank today. It was a good sandwich, though.