Tag: fiction

The Last Dance Of The Debutante

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

It’s no surprise, well at least it shouldn’t be, I have a fondness for British books. Or books with British settings. Historical British books. British etiquette and customs. So, Julia Kelly’s latest historical fiction novel The Last Dance of the Debutante was a must read.

Kelly’s last few novels focused on World War Two. With The Last Dance of the Debutante, it’s 1957 and the last London season with the debutantes being presented to the Queen (Elizabeth II) is fast approaching. Basically, it’s peak Claire Foy in The Crown time. True confession: The Crown isn’t my thing but oh well.

Quiet, bookish Lily Nicholls comes from an excellent family.  She lives with her widowed mother in reduced circumstances, with Lily’s terrifying paternal grandmother paying for her school and expecting an iron grip on deciding her future. A bit first season Gilmore Girls with less coffee and a mother who rarely socializes and doesn’t sound like a Preston Sturges 1930s leading lady on Pixi Stix.

Then Grandmother Nicholls decides Lily is going to be one of these final debutantes, Lily’s education and her mother’s retreat from the world be damned.

Now since Lily is pretty, smart and can make her own clothes look like something from couture, I was never too worried about her future and was pretty sure she Would Prevail and Find Her Path and Her Tribe.

Does she?

Please read the book.

Of course, what truly grabbed my attention wasn’t the round of parties and just how exhausting being a debutante is. I’ve read my Nancy Mitford. Being a debutante is like being in beauty pageants only the stakes are a husband (preferably rich, titled and the right social class) versus a fur coat and a scholarship. There’s a lot of sacrifice behind the pretty dresses and wide smiles. There are  secrets lurking in the Nicholls household and Lily’s Mummy aka Josephine is a tightly coiled bundle of nerves.

If you want to make Lily’s mummy Josephine jump faster than me at work deep in a project when a coworker comes over to my desk to ask a question? Say “Joanna” and a simmering rage plus terror comes to the surface.

Who is Joanna? Joanna, Lily’s much older sister has committed some grave social sin and her banishment from the family unit is complete right down to her name never being spoken. She’s the shadow haunting everything.

And bit of a side tangent on Mummy Josephine please? She is a such a bitter person she draws your attention. The bitter and coldness radiate off the page. I half want to smack Josephine while not wanting to incur her wrath. And I am talking about a book with a beautiful yet poisonous fellow debutante everyone half loves half fears, a found family tribe of debutantes who will never be Debutante of the Year but are The Girl Squad Who Has Your Back Bestie and a flock of potential suitors.

I try very hard not to reveal spoilers but there is a plot twist I had about 75% figured out before Lily was even presented at Court (Elizabeth II not “Oh crap I have jury duty” court) except for one person. And a second plot twist is quickly handled with much more good character of spirit than I could summon in that situation. I do admit I wish there had been more time devoted to that second plot twist because the ramifications could have been awesome in a glorious peak 1980s soap opera plot line. But Julia Kelly’s heroines are much better people than me even with their flaws. And unlike me, Julia Kelly can really write excellent historical fiction.

So TLDR. Did I enjoy The Last Dance of the Debutante? Yes. Will I ever watch The Crown, nope. And am I waiting not so patiently for Julia Kelly’s next book? Hard YES!

The Bookshop of Yesterdays

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2021 might be the year I read All The Debut Novels. Some are okay, some are meh and some have me looking to see what other books the author might have written. And in the case of Amy Meyerson’s The Bookshop of Yesterdays, I’m planning on grabbing The Imperfects. And I have a huge stack of books from my latest Friends of the Library book sale adventure waiting to be read.


Our heroine Miranda is a well-liked teacher at a Quaker school with a boyfriend. One day she finds out her beloved Uncle Billy, long estranged from her family, has died. And he has left her his beloved bookstore Prospero Books along with clues to what caused his break with her and parents when she was twelve. Because there is a Big Secret. So instead of returning back to her regular life after the funeral, Miranda decides to stay.


Now for that big secret. I’m not going to reveal it here. If you want to know…read the dang book. What I do have to say is somehow I managed to figure out the big plot twist by chapter one. Now I’m not particularly smart, even the tiny companion knew Klara and the Sun took place in the US but not me. Maybe the stars are right because I sure as heck did not inherit my mother’s ability to figure out plot twists. However, this is not a discussion of my dimness.

A few key phrases during a heated encounter had me pausing while cocking my head like our Dalmatian when he realized how to open the pantry for treats. The other clues scattered in the book had me questioning if I was just reading too much into that heated discussion which made reading The Bookshop of Yesterdays much more interesting. This is not a diss on Amy Meyerson’s ability to craft a compelling plot. The first question in the Questions for Discussion section asks if the reader suspected the truth earlier or if they were surprised by the truth.

The Bookshop of Yesterdays still a solid book if you figure out The Big Secret right away or not and I’m very glad I took a gamble when I saw it at the library. Miranda’s journey is painful but there is hope and new chances in her future.

Band of Sisters

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Ahhhh historical fiction. Not my favorite genre but I shove historical fiction titles in the library book bag on occasion. Now you think a person who studied history at university, has a BA in History, is a Phi Alpha Theta member and briefly considered graduate school, would love her some historical fiction. And also have a grasp of English grammar but I never claimed to be an English major now did I?

But back to historical fiction. A person would think I would be cramming all the historical fiction like setting a new world record for eating Lindt truffles. That person would be wrong.

I prefer actual history books and biographies and when I do read historical fiction it tends to be modern person finds documents/diaries of historical figure and then we get alternating chapters of modern person, historical person, modern person. And I end up getting bored to pieces by modern person and just wanting to read only the historical person unless it’s very well written.

And if your historical fiction is the secret life of very famous historical person, for example you’re the poor but gorgeous gal who has Prince Edward (later the Duke of Windsor)’s love child? Or you’re the noble but poor mistress of Henry VIII? I. AM. OUT.

I have opinions. Strong opinions. And my bar for historical fiction is set pretty damn high. Especially now as the vast age of fifty looms not too far in the horizon. Not even the brilliant Fay Weldon gets a pass. And Fay Weldon is a goddess who wrote the pilot episode of Upstairs, Downstairs.

Let’s jump to yesterday morning around 3 am. Normally I’m in a half-awake state, knowing I need to crawl from my warm bed and summon the strength to be functional enough to start my work day at 6 am. My life is most glamorous.

But it is a Saturday morning and I’ve just put Lauren Willig’s Band of Sisters down. Not to shove in the library return bag unfinished. And not to read after running errands. Down as in done and dusted. Finished. With thoughts. Perhaps barely literate but thoughts.

In a nutshell, Band of Sisters is the tale of gentle reared rich ladies going off to provide support and comfort in World War I France. Well, not everyone is rich (hi there working class Irish/Bohemian Kate) and they all attended Smith College.

Now for those unfamiliar, Smith College is one of the Seven Sisters, historically women’s colleges which are considered equivalent to the Ivy League. I was not clever enough for Smith College but that is a tale for another time.

Our heroines have left Smith College and are whipped into a fervor by a former professor who wants to send a unit of Smith women over to France to serve the French citizens. The plan is to provide aid, restoring villages and the inhabitants spirit without the burden of charity. Very lofty goals.

After all, anyone can join the Red Cross efforts, handing out donuts and cigarettes to Our Brave Boys. But it takes a strong person, A Smith College Girl, to be boots on the ground, down in the trenches, getting things done. Not afraid to muss her hair or get dirty. Nails will be broken.

Hmm…I’m sounding very gung ho and like I’ve meet that professor. Interesting.

Will the Smith College alumnae respond to the former professor’s siren call and find themselves in France? Yes because that’s the plot of the book.

Of course, there are tensions, secrets and deprivation galore. It’s World War I France once the Americans joined. Unlike many historical fiction books, Band of Sisters isn’t all dances with Our Brave Boys, Finding True Love While The Battle Rages Off Screen.

Frankly? I loathe those historical fiction books. If you like those books. Glad you found something to read that brings you joy but I prefer a much heartier fare.

Band of Sisters is that heartier fare. There is some romance, but you never forget the trenches are mere miles away and the treat of Germans/the Boche is very nearby. The French countryside is both beautiful and destroyed right down to the people. Still alive but shells of themselves. And the Smith Girls aren’t immune. They are so very innocent in their mostly privileged bubbles it hurts yet shells of themselves. One character has such an obsidian hard shell you think she is just a snotty bitch but nope. Oh golly nope. Another character needs to have the very concept of a “Boche baby” explained.

At that point, yes, I gave a deep sigh, because honestly how did she think a very young French girl was impregnated with said baby. Thank heavens she learns a thing or two before the book ends because the last quarter of the book is brutal and merciless. The devastation, terror and exhaustion are so truthfully and beautifully written you are in the horde, barely awake and still pressing on because you can’t succumb.

After devouring Band of Sisters, I can say it’s a gripping read and even if you want to shake perhaps Maud until her teeth rattle (I will help you with that! Maud does my head in something awful), have one character teach a class on self-defense before sitting Emmie down for a reality check, it’s hard to put down. And read everything. Don’t skip the stuff everyone does.

 Seriously, READ THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS! Lauren Willig based her book on real Smith College women who were in the Somme. How could I not love a book by an author who stumbles and gobbles books like myself? Her fictional band of sisters Smith College alumnae are just as real and a force of nature as the Smith College alumnae I encountered as in my youth.

Would I recommend Band of Sisters? Most certainly!

My Best Friend’s Exorcism

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My local library is a city library. Sometimes a book is on their site, but the actual book is away with the fairies. Example? Grady Hendrix’s My Best Friend’s Exorcism, in the catalog but AWOL since 2020, which meant a trip to library a half hour away. In my Big Book of Whiskey Tango? This a great way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon.

For those of you who might not be familiar with Grady Hendrix.  Short answer for folks like my Dad or spouse.  You know all those weird paperbacks I read in the 1980s, the ones with the black covers and lurid paintings? So did Grady Hendrix. Only unlike my corporate cubicle dwelling self, Grady Hendrix has turned his love of those battered paperbacks into a fine living.

I am a huge fan of Grady Hendrix’s Horrorstör and I’ve heard great things about his other books too. My Best Friend’s Exorcism should be perfect Wendy-Marie reading. Horror, 1980s, references to Duran Duran and an author who really can bring the ickkk.

***SPOILER***

This should not be a surprise if you’ve read any review or summary of My Best Friend’s Exorcism but just in case you are new to this book?

Spoilers ahead.

***You have been officially warned***

Okay…so you are still reading.

Great!

Was I the only person who thought Gretchen got her demon friend that night in the woods? Not her period. The actual demon possessing her.

Or did you figure out she got possessed at summer camp?

Because I sure didn’t.

Not sure if I’m feeling ultra-dumb or grabbing my pink FBI baseball cap from Hunter Dog in order to doff it at Mr. G. Hendrix, Esquire.

Yeah…I’m dumb right? I mean I know I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

<takes deep breath>

I don’t hate My Best Friend’s Exorcism. There are truly great parts. The friendship before things go downhill between Abby and Gretchen has wonderful notes I really related to. When dinosaurs, moussed hair and the United Colors of Benetton ruled the Earth, I was the poor friend. It is not fun and it’s a bit challenging to not feel out of sorts when the world smiles on your peers.

And I wonder about Gretchen. Is she chafing against her parents because of their religion, normal teenage growing pains or something darker? Because I always suspect something darker lurking in the corners of life.

Also, I want to smack Glee so hard, enough to leave a little undead raccoon paw print on her cheek-she captures the perfection annoyance of several rich girls I knew in my part of small town Connecticut. I can’t remember Grady Hendrix describes her because my brain can only hold so much information and Bill Paxton’s filmography is more important. Even if I can’t watch more than five minutes of Mortuary or The Colony.

In my head? Glee has thick golden hair and a dainty facial structure. I do not possess a dainty facial structure. Remember when everyone was using Google Arts & Culture app to find their fine art double? Mine was Charles the Bewitched. So, my long-lost Habsburg self can picture Glee’s Benetton outfits, the very precisely flipped up polo collars and the matching Tiffany bean earrings and necklace. I hate Glee.

<cue me having some sort of flashback to 1986 and need a lie down to get my head back to 2021. Listening to peak Duran Duran while writing this might not have been the best choice>

Now what is stuck in my poor head after putting down My Best Friend’s Exorcism?

One word.

Margaret.

***HI SPOILER AHEAD***

Thanks to consuming enough true crime media the spouse has declared Harold Schechter “my true crime boyfriend”, I suspected arsenic poisoning versus the true body horror. Which is so gross, especially if you know anything about the body horror and well, I might end up a more than a pants size smaller after if I continue reading more Grady Hendrix books. What happens to Margaret has me squirming, unwilling to drink anything I cannot see through. I also can’t eat any noodles or ice cream. Seriously I had enough food aversions and issues before reading My Best Friend’s Exorcism. If I finally sign up for the therapy I most likely desperately need, can I send Grady Hendrix my co-pay bills?

But I don’t love My Best Friend’s Exorcism. I should love it. The main fault is not the book itself. Grady Hendrix came up with an interesting plot and the design team at Quirk Books captures the quintessential 1980s high school yearbook right down to the signed yearbook flysheet/endpapers or whatever you call those pages in a book. The problem is me.

I am not the reader My Best Friend’s Exorcism needs for maximum enjoyment.

2016 Me still deep in my love affair with weird fiction/horror would have loved My Best Friend’s Exorcism. The hopeful me. 2021 Me is not in that same headspace and ultimately My Best Friend’s Exorcism did not hit the sweet spot I need in fiction. Not every book is meant for every stage of life. And there are plenty of readers who will find My Best Friend’s Exorcism their perfect book.

Several People Are Typing

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One day I will learn to NOT try writing reviews while the spouse is on the couch watching videos.

But today isn’t the day.

Today is give commentaries on a let’s play video day.

Which in a way actually works for Calvin Kasulke’s Several People Are Typing. Between the let’s play gamer and the spouse it’s like being trapped in a Slack channel or chat or whatever it’s called (the actual job uses MS Team vs Slack so I’m not exact hip to the lingo). For those even less hip/out of the loop than me, Several People Are Typing is written as various Slack channels at a NYC public relations firm. It works. There are difficult accounts, a PR disaster, interoffice fun and games, a love affair complete with messaging the wrong person and one particular coworker who claims he is stuck in the Slack channels.

If you’ve worked in an office you’ve heard all sorts of reasons why people are calling out/unable to come into the office but stuck in the Slack channels isn’t one I’ve ever heard in all my years as an cube dweller. But Gerald claims he got stuck while browsing his winter coat spreadsheet. The dude made spreadsheet for picking out the perfect winter coat?!?!?! says the person who had a near meltdown trying to find the perfect matchy-matchy athletics leggings and top last month.

Back to Gerald. His coworkers, very skeptical…at first. Honestly, as an essential worker who has to go into the office everyday? I’m quite envious of the remote/hybrid workers. But when you work in an office with a coworker who claims to hear howling everywhere, another coworker is auctioning off a prime desk, and your boss is convinced the custodial staff are messing with his adjustable desk, is saying you’re sucked into the Slack channels really that odd?

I could go on and on about the meaning of technology and how we are losing ourselves to said technology. Are we becoming one with our tech? Can we exist without tech? But I’m not that sort of reviewer.

I’m the sort of reviewer who is going to enjoy peeking into people’s messages, wants to see Gerald’s spreadsheet and I imagine the public relations firm’s NYC office as a cross between a BBC sitcom and the really weird episode of Black Mirror when the game designer gets stuck in his game. I’m the reviewer who counts the pages and wonders how/if Gerald is ever going back into his own body. I’m the reviewer who is going to recommend you hunt down (actually it’s very easily found at Target and major bookstores/a Good Morning America book club selection) Calvin Kasulke’s Several People Are Typing and once you’re done? Order some takeout and watch that episode of Black Mirror.

The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes you finish a book and wonder what the same plot would be in another author’s hands. This can be very interesting but not the most productive thing when midnight isn’t far off, and you have to be at work the next morning at 6 am.

Enter Eleanor Ray’s The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton. The cover looked interesting, and the inner jacket copy had me tucking it into the library bag. If the first 20 pages didn’t captivate, I could always just not finish it and get a good night’s sleep for once. Imagine that.

Unfortunately for my sleep app, a good solid seven hours of sleep wasn’t in the cards. You meet Amy Ashton at a leaving-do (or if you are an American like me, drinks to celebrate a coworker’s departure). Amy isn’t psyched to be out or knocking back the drinks and within a few paragraphs I’m really liking Amy. I might not tuck an empty green wine bottle into my bag and then have a train full of people thinking I’m a raging drunk but the level of uncomfortable is familiar.

Then the story takes a turn. Amy is broken by something in her past. And her coping/survival mechanism is to retreat into things. She has a house but it’s literally falling apart and trying to get to the upstairs would honestly be excellent training for an Everest expedition. Sure, one neighbor is super annoying, but lady has a point. Someone needs to step in and stop things before someone gets severely injured.

And here is where Eleanor Ray’s genius lies. You could take this same plot, thirtysomething lady with a mystery past and deep personal issues and put in the hands of another author. Let’s say Marian Keyes because yup, I’ve devoured so many Marian Keyes books both good and bad. Marian Keyes isn’t a bad author; she has her strengths and can write a solid book.  

But Marian Keyes’ Amy Ashton? The book would have been at least twice as long, we would know exactly who Amy and Chantel would be listening to while doing their makeup and watering down Toyah’s liquor cabinet. Also, I have the suspicion the Marian Keys’ Amy would have boinked the baddie and hoarded fancy handbags too.

Laurie Notaro could have done a lovely job, but her Amy would also have a crippling eBay/vintage collection to tuck into any corners not crammed with the local newspapers/bottles/broken pots/cups plus a few adorable elder dogs.

Never ever let me be the Plot Fairy doling out plots to authors.

My point is Eleanor Ray keeps the plot lean. That leanness helps disguise who the baddie is. He seemed to be engaged and wanting to help. And I like that Amy doesn’t magically get better once the main mystery is solved. She is still a hot mess, and she has a hard road ahead even if you can now see the floor of her front hall. And we leave her at the start of her journey. Anything can happen now. Any wonder why I didn’t stop reading even when the spouse wandered into the bedroom for his nasal spray and asked why I was still awake. Sometimes you must finish that book.

The Operator

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Life in a small town is like no other. Guaranteed someone knows your business, even the secrets you do not know. It doesn’t matter you live in a tiny English village straight off a biscuit tin, a New England mill town, a seaside hamlet or a Midwest town. And I am not immune to secrets and revelations so when I heard about a 2020 novel called The Operator? I was interested enough to take a screenshot and see if the local library carried it.

According to the author bio on the back flap of The Operator, this is Gretchen Berg’s debut novel. Seriously? Because unlike another debut novel I took a chance on earlier this spring I had absolutely no problem diving into tiny 1950s Wooster, Ohio even with the spouse braying at the antics of whatever Minecraft Let’s Play video he was watching. The first page sucks you in, you are right there with Vivian, wearing old winter boots on her way to work.

A 1950s woman…working? Weren’t all women housewives being supported by their husbands. Not exactly. Vivian’s work at the telephone company makes life nicer, paying for the things her husband’s salary cannot quite cover. And Vivian likes her work, she loves knowing the ins and outs of what is happening in her town and being a telephone operator is a great match. Until Vivian learns a secret about herself.

Giving away the secret takes away the fun of reading The Operator but let’s say Vivian doesn’t die, it’s a whopper with nesting boxes of whoppers. And Vivian is very relatable. She doesn’t curl up in a ball and give in even if some of her decisions are made from social pressure. She keeps on going and a bit at the end has me tearing up because that part of journey touches on something in my own mother’s life. Go Vivian go!

The Operator is a fine book club recommendation (I have book clubs on the brain at the moment having just joining a site wide book club at work) and between you, me and the World Wide Internet if the trade paperback edition has one of those book club suggested discussion questions I need to see “When did you realize CHARACTER NAME was THING I DIDN’T FIGURE OUT BECAUSE I AM THAT DIM” because I can’t be the only one this dim. Also The Operator would make nice Paramount Plus show because Vivian and her pluck remind me of Ginnifer Goodwin in Why Women Kill. Get cracking out that Paramount Plus.

I can give The Operator a firm Essie Hi Maintenance (Revlon’s Fire and Ice looks dreadful on me) thumbs up. Grab it from your book source, find a comfortable spot (I recommend not on the other side of the couch from your spouse) and spend a few hours with Vivian Dalton and the secrets of Wooster, Ohio.

Surrender Brain Cells

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Years ago I wrote a post for this very blog about Caleb Carr. The Alienist and The Angel of Darkness truly hit a sweet spot for me. True crime blended with historical fiction. Formulaic yes but I really wanted a third volume.

It took years but unlike my nearly impossible to grant wish for Jasper Fforde to write a Shades of Grey sequel, my wish for a third Dr. Kreizler book was fulfilled back in 2016.

This is a bit hard to type. Either Caleb Carr has entered a season of suck or my brain has finally corrupted beyond repair over almost five decades on this big blue ball floating in space. Both are valid theories. So is the theory Caleb Carr has never been a good writer and I need to rethink my reading.

Now for a little story.

My favorite podcasts aren’t posting as much due to real life getting in the way. I’m not interested in certain podcasts or podcast companies so I’ve been using Libby/Overdrive and Hoopla to listen to audio books. And I most certainly don’t have Audible money.

I was at work, in the mood to listen to an engrossing book and what I want wasn’t available. The Libby app had a Caleb Carr book called Surrender, New York I wasn’t a firm 100% sure I’d read before so I was willing to give it a try. it was even set in Rensselaer County. I know those little tiny towns, those counties where farming still clings on, there can be more cows than people and working in the prisons is a solid job.

It couldn’t be worse than Killing Time could it?

We shall speak no further of Killing Time.

I downloaded Surrender, New York and grabbed the stack of ID cards needing mailing labels. Because I have an actual job besides reading books. And because this is a book review maybe it’s a good idea to touch on the plot yes? Okay here it goes.

Super detective Dr. Trajan Jones and his partner Mike have been exiled to tiny Surrender, NY where they teach crime solving inside a hidden plane inside a barn/outbuilding on the Jones family farm. Occasionally the local police enlist their aid. And the local police have come a calling…

No I have not eaten an entire bag of Japanese green tea Kit-Kat. I would like to do so even if I’m flirting with the diabetes but nope that is the plot. Exiled super detective stumbles across evil crimes in his historical stomping grounds. Oh and it’s in the Kreizler-verse because of course Dr. Trajan Jones is THE Dr. Kreizler expert and disdains modern science/techniques.

It took about five minutes to realize I had read Surrender, New York when it was a brand spanking new hardcover.

It took 30 minutes to remember how hard I wanted to smack the main character Trajan Jones so hard he fell off his leg prosthesis and cover him in Chick Fil A sauce as a snack for Marcianna Jones. I would also love some Chick Fil A frozen lemonade.

It took an additional three minutes to try and remember if I still have the Brotherhood of the Wolf DVD my brother bought in Canada or did I give it back to him? Because if I want to be strung along about what kind of beastie something is Brotherhood of the Wolf is the clear winner.

It took another minute to start twitching over how darn long it was taking to sum up anything. Lovecraft gets to the point quicker. Flipping never met an adjective he didn’t use Lovecraft. LOVECRAFT!

Then I paused Surrender, New York and decided perhaps the audiobook hack wasn’t working. The narrator was lovely and really captured the sheer superiority of Dr. Trajan “STFU DUDE” Jones. The utter suffocating pretentious pompous… <takes a deep breath>

Perhaps I needed the weight of a physical book and not being in a cubicle trying to remember how to spell Albuquerque properly vs “Al-bear-quirky” for mailing labels to appreciate Surrender, New York.

Three hours later I was on my couch, spouse watching his favorite You-Tubers with Surrender, New York on my lap.

I started to read.

Page 131. I carefully dog-eared page 131, my thumb firmly creasing the paper, a sharp dog ear in a sacred library book. Page 131.

It’s almost a month later. My local library in the City of Hard Hitting has auto-renewed Surrender, New York. more than once. Such a lovely gesture these auto renewals. But I never re-read past page 131. I never will re-read past page 131.

Surrender Brain Cells…

Better Luck Next Time

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If you asked me to list my favorite movies, the majority would be John Carpenter and James Cameron titles. And right next to Aliens is the superior aka the original film adaptation of Clare Boothe Luce’s The Women. There’s a 2008 remake? No there is NOT!

And the best scenes in The Women aren’t the beauty salon or the climax at the nightclub. Norma Shearer is a dull eyed automaton taking up space while Rosalind Russell buzzes around and Joan Crawford oozes bad girl from every pore. The very best scenes are set on a dude ranch where mostly rich ladies wait for their six weeks of Nevada residency to kick in order to get Reno-vated (aka divorced). Paulette Goddard’s Miriam Aarons is so luminous and leaps off the scene. She’s modern and not quite like the other cast. Beyond glorious especially when Rosalind Russell appears and things happen. I love me some Paulette Goddard.

Between The Women and trying to tracking down a copy of Guestward Ho! a comic tale of a New Mexico dude ranch with Patrick Dennis as a co-author which has become a victim of the Deaccession Squad, of course I’m interested in a historical novel set in a 1930s dude ranch. A book with glowing reviews that might not be sappier than a New England maple syrup factory. I even made a special trip to the library to grab Julia Claiborne Johnson’s Better Luck Next Time from the New Fiction section after work.

And now for the basic plot. An retired doctor, Ward, is shown a picture by a young visitor and remembers his time working at a dude ranch, The Flying Leap. It’s a quirky little place, engineered to be the picture perfect dude ranch with lovely horses and ranch hands chosen as much for their resemblances to Hollywood leading men as their wrangling skills. Ward favors a young Clark Gable and Sam could give Gary Cooper a run for his money. Hubba hubba. Honestly the main reason for The Flying Leap is to be a soft place to land for wealthy women seeking quick divorces. Horses and riding are just a nice distraction.

Pity places like The Flying Leap don’t still exist, particularly when the spouse decides to be extremely chatty while I’m writing.

Back to Better Luck Next Time. The Flying Leap is welcoming new ladies for their six weeks in Nevada. We have the Zeppelin, an older woman of the world who still considers herself to be vibrant and attractive to the men folk. There’s a showgirl type who doesn’t seem very deep intellectually even though she is well traveled. And then we have our two heroines. The Mouse and the Doomed One. These are not their names but the moment they appeared on the page Emily (The Mouse) a meek San Francisco housewife and Nina (The Doomed One) a glamorous heiress with a pilot’s license and a string of husbands obtain brand spanking new names in my head.

And this is where my experience with Better Luck Next Time doesn’t match up with the vast majority of reviews I’ve seen. To my odd self, Better Luck Next Time is a nice read to crawl into bed with on a chilly night, something I can read in a few hours. A book that captures the imagination but doesn’t tax my brain and can be easily picked up and started again after the spouse comes into the bedroom. The fates of Emily and Nina aren’t a huge surprise. If would have been more surprising if Emily and Nina ran off with the dishy younger Ward and set up a triad. But that would be an entirely different novel indeed.

Better Luck Next Time is a perfectly fine book. If the book club at work was revived and I was allowed to suggest a title (which is another story to be told at another time), Better Luck Next Time would be a great choice. There’s something for everyone even cranky me. Learning Julia Claiborne Johnson’s own father worked at a dude ranch like The Flying Leap was interesting and the little tidbit one dude ranch did have a stagecoach to pick up their clients. The Zeppelin is delightful and I would love an entire book about her adventures in amour right up to her visit to The Flying Leap.

If you’re in the mood for a nice read? Grab Better Luck Next Time or better yet? Recommend it to your book club.

The Zombie Autopsies

~ Wendy-Marie ~ 1 Comment

If you’re on the third floor of Company X’s F-ton location and wandering down the aisles, the dark haired chick with the scuffed rectangular glasses in the white oxford with a certain stuffed green monster at her desk and glaring at her dual monitors with a hot pink iPhone 3GS jammed into ears is me. Okay, maybe I’m not exactly glaring at the dual monitors (see scuffed glasses reference, Blacklight is an expensive spouse) but there are iPhone headphones jammed in my ears from the second the clock hits 7am until snack time. And what am I listening to so intently as I process away? HPPodcraft, Stuff You Should Know, Pop Culture Happy Hour, Skeptoid and Monster Talk. And thanks to my podcast habit, I have a huge list of Stuff I Want If I Ever Had Money. Hey…that iPhone? It’s a refurbished/reconditioned 3GS with the cheapest plan known to man, ATT and Company X. And remember those scuffed glasses?

So thank heavens for the Connecticut Public Library system. Because this afternoon while taking some Me Time at the Noah Webster/West Hartford Public Library, I saw IT, the book that had been calling my name, nay, screaming my name at the Blue Back Square Barnes & Noble. Curse Barnes & Noble and curse the good people at Monster Talk and curse Steven C. Schlozman because there was The Zombie Autopsies just sitting there on the shelf in Science Fiction, all “you know you want me. Who needs to pick up boring old lactose free milk and get quarters for laundry?”. Let me tell you it took all my strength to walk away from the book shelf and march out the door and over to the library. Because come on! George Romero wants to do The Zombie Autopsies. GEORGE FREAKING ROMERO!

So I was in the new fiction section of the library. And what did my tiny little hazel eyes see? And what did my little undead paws snatch off the shelf like there were slavering hordes right behind trying to reach the same book? The Zombie Autopsies of course! (You know…the book I’m writing the blog post about?)

Do I even need to say the second the milk was shoved into the fridge and comfy clothes were on, The Zombie Autopsies joined me on Mr Couch for a hot date? And the second I put the finished book down I was reaching for Mr iPhone to tweet how awesome sauce The Zombie Autopsies was?

Here’s the basic plot, it’s 2013, a zombie virus known as Ataxic Neurodegenerative Satiety Deficiency Syndrome (ANSD) has unleashed havoc on the world. Billions are dead, non-infected humanity lives in underground bunkers and an island laboratory might be the one thing that can possibly unlock the secrets of ANSD.

Sounds awesome right? Then again in the wrong hands the above plot could go horribly disaster zone coughcoughdeankoontzcoughcough wrong. Right now Dean Koontz is tearing out his hair plugs and stomping his feet. Calm the bleep down Dean! I read and actually thought Funhouse was a hoot. And your literary biography is great. I just don’t think your take on the basic The Zombie Autopsies plot would be very good. And don’t go strutting around too cocky Mr King, Cell wasn’t very good either. Many an eyeroll betwixt the first and final pages.

Part of what makes The Zombie Autopsies so good is that Steven C. Schlozman is a doctor. A doctor that has the rare of gift of making the tricky science bits seem so basic and easy that even my stuffed dragon baby Bob could understand them. (Bob: “I smart! I not dumb! I real!”) And like Michael Crichton, Schlozman has the knack of making you believe as you sit on your couch “yeah I can totally see this being true and going down”.

If I had to break down The Zombie Autopsies for a Hollywood pitch it would be “okay imagine Max Brooks’ Zombie Survival Guide had a baby with Michael Crichton and Margaret Atwood’s Haidmaid’s Tale now where’s my $30 million?”

So if Shaun of the Dead and The Zombie Survival Guide are in your favorites, scamper down to the library or Barnes & Noble and splash out the $20 for The Zombie Autopsies. Me? I’m off to fill my weekly intralibrary loan request with all zombie things starting with World War Z!