Write-On Prompt: Misspelled Words and a Haunted Mansion

 

Note: We had prompt night last night and it started with a spelling test on ten commonly misspelled words. The prompt became that we had to use five of the ten words in a story about a haunted mansion. I borrowed the location and characters from some previous story attempts on my part and played around a lot with word choice and description. This doesn't have a conclusion, but I thought it was a nice exercise. 

Here are the words I had to choose from: Restaurant, Rhythm, Schedule, Separate, Success, tomorrow, twelfth, vacuum, weird, zoology. I have underlined the ones I used in the text. 

Weird? That’s an understatement. Saying Thunder Lane is weird is like calling the surface of the sun toasty. That might be kinda right, but it doesn’t fit exactly. Spooky? That’s closer, I suppose. It’s a hella spooky street if you happen to be walking down it tomorrow night when the moon is full and the shadows long. Yet, spooky is so childish sounding, like a story told to keep kids from wandering off into the woods. Spooky doesn’t do it justice. Haunted? Perhaps, but there’s a lot left open to interpretation with the word haunted. Like maybe it’s just Casper whispering sweet nothings in the wind rather than the spirit of some tortured soul. No, the only word that fits into place when I think about Thunder Lane in Lincoln, U.S.A. is possessed. That strip of blacktop from Main Street to Adams Street is a mile owned by evil, maybe so evil that even Satan wouldn’t pick it for a vacation spot.

 And right on the northwest corner of Thunder Lane and Main sits the epicenter, the dilapidated mansion with gabled peaks and gargoyles sneering so savagely that walkers-by break their usual rhythm before speeding along, suddenly remembering that anywhere but here is better. Young kids run toward school, gamblers toward their debtors, old men turn back home to their fussing wives, and even cats take one look at that damned house and seek out the company of the nearest big dog.

Then there’s me. Why do I know so much about it? How do I stand separate from any of the rest who whisper in this damned town about the evils of Thunder Lane and that one house? Well, I’m the fool who twenty years ago bought the house next to it. A tiny thing, a ranch style house built in the 1970s and when sitting next to that looming monstrosity appeared to be nothing more than a dropping of that hulking beast rather than a living structure of its own. Up to that point, my life had been on schedule. Graduate high school. Check. College. Check. Got a degree in education, you see, and I wanted to be a history teacher. When Lincoln High School hired me on in 1991, I was stoked for the chance to shape young minds in the Midwest, and when I visited town to find a place to live, I couldn’t believe the luck that I could live so close to such a vintage looking mansion.

Nobody told me, of course, about Thunder Lane. Certainly not the real estate agent, who was probably drooling about making a commission on an otherwise unsellable house.

“Who lives next door?” I asked while that greasy scumbag showed me the one-car garage that had a cheap roof that would blow off in a storm two summers later.

“Well, that is the old Scarlet Mansion. Not sure why it’s called that, but I think one of the town’s founders built it. No one lives there, I think it’s just waiting for the historical foundation to dump some money into it to fix it up.”

“Well, I hope so, it’s a shame to see such Victorian architecture go to waste.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’ll get worked on next summer, probably just needs the right budget resolution. Politics, am I right?”

I laughed, but hell, I was twenty-two, what the hell did I know about politics. I just thought we went to vote every so often and then the right people get in. Goes to show that I was as stupid about the real world as I was the otherworldly back then.

When did I first notice things were a bit off? You sure ask a lot of questions. You aren’t planning on publishing anything on this? I don’t want the whole country thinking that Lloyd Rivers is some sort of quack.

Just some paranormal research, you say. Well, be sure to keep it that way. I could survive the embarrassment, I suppose, and folks around here wouldn’t think any less of me, that’s for sure, but I doubt the scarlet witch would approve, and she’s less forgiving than me.

The scarlet witch? Well, that’s what you’re here for, aren’t you? I mean there are others. Those god-awful twins from the other end of the block cause a ruckus from time-to-time. Then there’s that vile Mr. K. He’s a bit more outgoing than the rest, carrying his cane and wearing that ridiculous monocle. The other one I call the druid, wears a brown robe and some say he has no tongue. Boy, I could go on and on about the things I’ve seen, but the Scarlet Witch, she’s my neighbor, and I know her best. She’s boss demon in this troupe. Anything that goes down in Lincoln, goes through her first. Well, anything bad, that is. Not much good to write about here, just a lot of heartbreak and split blood.

Anyways, I didn’t notice anything was up until the twelfth night living next to the Scarlet Mansion and the witch within. That night the twins – ugly beasts those two, each about four hundred pounds and never wearing anything but ragged bibs overhauls that let the fat of their torsos spill out in grotesque roll ­- visited the witch.

About midnight, I heard them pounding on her door – the front door that faces Thunder Lane. The knocking was like thunder, and it woke me like someone cracking a ball bat against my head. I fumbled around in the dark, only reaching the window in time to see the two hulking figures lurch forward into the mansion.

Write-On Prompt: Earl's Two Requests

Note: Last night was prompt night at the Write-On Writing Group. I used the prompt that my first line had to be "When he died, their father had two requests." This is not a completed work, and I do have hope of expanding it. Where do you think I should go with it? 

Earl's Two Requests

When he died, their father had two requests. Making two the grand total of requests that Earl Little had made to his children in the entirety of existence. He’d been a solitary man, so quiet that it chased his first wife out the door of their farmstead after eight years where she did a lot of yelling and he did a lot of retreating. The divorce was handled civilly enough, Earl gave her everything she asked for as long as her requests came via the mail. He didn’t want to hear her voice anymore. It’s little wonder that his second wife was deaf. She couldn’t hear him, which was good because he didn’t have anything to say.

Earl fathered one child with each woman. Della was the product of his first marriage, her features were angular much like her father, but her personality rotund just like her mother. She was often belligerent toward authority while going through school and kept her peers at an arm’s length. Della struggled to trust anyone after her mother died of an embolism when Della was eighteen. At forty-one, Della lived alone, owning a cat that spent most of its time hiding under furniture. Her home was above a storefront downtown that she rented for three-fifty a month, and she made her money as a clerk at the thrift store at the edge of Jordan.

Earl’s second child was named Marvin, after Earl’s second-wife’s father. Marvin was raised in a house so quiet that he still felt driven to apologize for any sound he made, which made his normal stride almost absurd, as with each step he appeared to turn his jaw over his shoulder to whisper a quiet missive for the tap of his toes on the earth below. His shyness was so ingrained that many thought he was dumb, including most of his teachers in grade school. They were the most surprised when his ACTs came back perfect. Although it didn’t matter, Marvin didn’t have the courage to apply to schools, choosing to stock shelves overnight at the Save Mart, a time when the store was otherwise empty. Unlike Della, Marvin wasn’t alone in life, he still had his mother, who had also divorced Earl after a time. She might not have been able to hear, but she had never felt more alone than her twelve years out on that farm with that silent man.

Earl’s funeral was an unobtrusive affair, a graveside service consisting of the usual rites said before a crowd of Della and Marvin and the man that sold Earl Little his crop insurance. When the final words were spoken, Della whipped a pile of dirt into the hole, mad about something and just waiting for the appropriate time to yell it at someone. Marvin tried to ease the dirt from his palm, hoping it would drift down and not disturb the worms and other crawly things below much less his father’s corpse inside the casket.  After the funeral, Della and Marvin assumed they would never see each other again.

Except both were approached by the man who sold Earl crop insurance. His name Jamison Matterhorn, a red-haired man in his seventies. Earl had been his last living active client, and this funeral meant Jamison could officially retire with a clean slate and a clear conscience.

“You two,” he waved, as Della and Marvin were already heading toward different cars parked a few feet away from the gravesite. “I have something for you.”

“What now?” Della cried. “We paid all the bills already. Bleeding vultures, pecking at dead folks’ bones for every last cent. I tell you, Marvin, we’ll both end up in the poor house just cause our pops died.”

Marvin didn’t respond. Della terrified him so much that he actually worried that the volume of her voice might crack open the fabric of the atmosphere and send them all spiraling into the vacuum of space. The only reassurance he got from that was that he knew that sound didn’t travel in outer space, so at least it would be quiet.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Jamison said. He introduced himself and how he was connected to their father. Explaining that Earl had bought crop insurance faithfully for that the last fifty years. He also had served as a lawyer of sorts for Earl in the last few months, as the sick man (Earl had had cancer although no one knew, and he never bothered to tell anyone) put his affairs into order. The one hundred twenty-two acres were to be sold to pay off the debt incurred from trying to keep such a small farm going. The house wasn’t much, and likely would be destroyed by whoever bought the land. All Earl left was two requests.

“See he wants two things from you both,” Jamison said, taking out an envelope and opening it. He hadn’t read it yet, but had been instructed to read it aloud to both of them, just to be sure that the note was heard at least once.

“Jesus,” Della raised her arms to the sky. She didn’t like what was going to be said even though she hadn’t a clue what it was.

Marvin put his hands in his pockets, nervous for the sake of being nervous.

“Ok,” Jamison cleared his throat. “First, Earl says he’d like you to try and forgive him for being such a lousy father. You don’t have to go all the way through with it, just a try it out, and see if you can forgive a little at least.”

“Cripes,” Della muttered. Marvin was already feeling sorry for having been put into a place of having to forgive his father.

“Second, ‘I want you both to try to love someone. Even if it doesn’t work out. Give it a go. It’s something worth trying at least once.’” Jamison handed the note Della, his job done and walked off.

Blog Update: I'm Still Writing!

Well, this old blog has become a bit of a barren wasteland over the first few months of 2022, and while a lack of motivation shoulders most of the blame, it hasn’t been entirely because I haven’t been writing. Between a busier work cycle and a series of other projects, I just haven’t been able to devote time to writing content for the blog. So, I thought I’d report on a few things going on concerning my writing career. 

• Earlier this year, I found out another one of my short stories will be published by a literary journal. My story entitled “String Theory” will be published in the spring edition of American University’s literary magazine FOLIO. I will let you know when that it is available for purchase. 
• I have the next episode of the Pandemonium series wrote, but haven’t been happy with it. So, I am waiting for a bit of time and inspiration to tackle an edit. As I said at the beginning, this is based off a NANOWRIMO project from a couple years ago, and I encountered similar issues that time. I was hoping a different approach would open some avenues, but so far, traffic remains stalled. 
• This week I received news that I placed second in the first round of the NYC Midnight Short Story contest. My story “What’s in a Name?” was created based off the prompts of Political Satire (Genre), Edutainment (Subject), and a Witch (Character). I hesitated making this story available to read publicly initially because I am generally uncomfortable in the political sector. I believe that political beliefs are like rear ends, everyone has one and all of them stink. This sort of attitude means that I almost always revert to a sophomoric sarcasm when confronted with political satire. The judges picked up on two of my inspirations in my style: Vonnegut and Orwell. I wasn’t sure I pulled it off, but they seemed to like it. Now, I have to consider if I want to take the edits they offered and pursue publication. If you want to read it, contact me directly and I’ll send it. I never publish potential publication pieces on the blog because oftentimes that disqualifies them from most professional publications. 
• With my advancement to the second round, I will receive a new prompt on Thursday night and will have three days to write a 2,000-word story using said prompt. I have entered this contest three or four years in a row, and I have never advanced past the second round, so here’s to hoping for a good prompt and a visit from a profound muse. There are four rounds total in the short story contest. 
• I have also started a new project that could turn into a larger work. I have workshopped the first 7,000 words or so with my writing group and have received positive feedback. The one drawback is that I tend to be a pantser instead of plotter, which means that I don’t write with an outline just by reacting to the whims of my imagination. While this tends to work for me in short spurts, I can often write myself into corners. (See Pandemonium bullet above). This project is more of a dystopian epic set it two different times in the future. One time feels like a time-travel Sci-Fi story, the other timeline is closer to a fantasy story. It’s too early to tell if I am going to be able to pull off a logical, meaningful and entertaining story. That’s the challenge, if I choose to accept it. 

Well, I think that basically does it. I hope to get back on track to posting once a week or so. Sorry for making you wait, and thanks for reading. 

Write-On Prompt: Staying on the Road

Note: It was prompt night last night (2/15/22) at the Write-On Writing Group. We had a list of prompts last night to choose from that included "Write about an argument" and "Write something that includes the color red." So I combined the two. I am on a stretch of traveling both personally and professionally, so I guess the feeling on being alone in a hotel room was in the back of my mind.

Staying on the Road 

The desk clerk at the hotel was an Indian man who spoke in broken English from a mouth with broken teeth in a hotel with mostly broken amenities. Ice machine – unplugged. Air conditioning on life support. Television, four channels, all of which were in Spanish. Pool drained. Shower leaky. Key card defective.

“Enjoy your stay,” the clerk had told Harold, probably assuming only a person that enjoys inconvenience would follow through with staying the night there.

Harold grumbled a thanks out of habit.

“You are always soooo damn polite,” Susan shouted in his mind. “Tell that idiot this place looks like it fell out of his butthole.”

“What good would that do?”

“Maybe it’d inspire him to pick up a mop or something.”

“I doubt it.”

Harold had these conversations in his head all the time with Susan. The bickering little back-and-forths that had marked their twenty years of marriage. After a few minutes, his key card found the right spot near the door handle for his room, a dim green light flashed and there was a croaking sound. He grabbed the handle and the lock gave way.

The room reeked of stale marijuana and old cheese. The bedspread was a dark red with an even darker red spot about the diameter of a basketball in the middle.

“Jaysus,” Susan’s voice sounded. “Call the cops, we found the crime scene.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, if you were staying in Baghdad, maybe.”

“Where was I supposed to go?”

“How about the Holiday Inn five minutes down the street?

“Who do I look like, Donald Trump?”

“Jaysus,” Susan’s favorite expression sounded again. “All I am saying is you might as well sleep in the dumpster; it would be cleaner.”

Harold dropped his bag on the floor. It had his change of clothes for the conference the next day. He attended a dozen conferences a month these days, peddling his company’s shit while wearing a wrinkled suit and thinning hair. None of the young kids wanted to hit the road like this, shake hands with a customer, look a man in the eye when he gave him his word. These kids couldn’t sell water to a dying man in a desert.

“You’re kidding yourself,” Susan replied to his thoughts. She was always only a moment away from interjecting. He went to the bathroom, turned the handle for warm water on the sink and something brown spewed forth from the faucet.

“I know sales.”

“You don’t know, jack. Those kids make a dozen sales with emails while you’re trying to find a parking spot.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jaysus, this doesn’t have anything to do with sales.”

“Oh yeah, Ms. Smarty, what’s it about then?”

“You know.”

Harold looked in the mirror, his sad eyes refusing to meet the reflection. He’d been on the road for the better part of the last two years, stopping at home only long enough to retrieve bills and use the washing machine.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered, unbuttoning his shirt and removing his belt.

“You stay on the road so you don’t have to admit that I’m not at home.”

He turned off the bathroom light, wanting a hot shower, but assuming the water here would probably only make his skin itch or burn. Plopping on the bed, he switched on the TV, a bunch of masked Mexican wrestlers jumped about on the screen.

“I miss you.” He said to the empty room. 

 

Pandemonium Season 1, Episode 5: Jailbreak (1991)

 

The walls of the kitchen were like a vise squeezing in on Maggie as she juggled a hot casserole pan and a barrage questions and comments winged at her from both directions. Richie was stuck on her medical issue, and RJ was trying to get the story on Richie’s suspension. And both were answering for her.

“He told the teacher what?”

“Will they cut your boob off?” 

“No, Christ, Richie.” 

“Get bent.” 

“Don’t say that to me, boy!”

“No, that’s what I said to the teacher.” 

“You both should take a break to eat something.” 

“Will all your hair fallout?” 

“Well, she doesn’t have much hair left.” 

“That’s true.” 

“Why the hell did you say that?”

“Well, it is true.” 

“No, why did you say that to your teacher?”

“Oh, that.” 

“He was washing his hands.” 

“Who?” 

“I was.” 

“When?” 

“When he should have been in class.”

“Do I have to go to your appointment? I can see the germs from here.” 

“Don’t start in on that shit!”

“That’s what got us in this situation to begin with.” 

“What?”

“You got a lump from the germs? I knew it!” Richie jumped from the table and went straight to the sink, poured a quarter of a bottle of dish soap on his small hands and turned the water on full blast. 

“Stop that,” Maggie shouted. “Washing your hands for twenty minutes is what got you in trouble, I didn’t get a lump from the germs.” 

“Christ!” RJ said. 

“Oh,” Bubbles were floating from the sink and into his hair. 

“I have had it with this shit,” RJ stood, grabbed his son by the elbow, and dragged him away from the sink.

“Hey, that hurts.” 

“RJ, stop that.”

“You are going to spend the next two weeks getting over this once and for all. We’ve spent thousands of dollars at the shrink and that hasn’t worked. Now, it’s my turn, I am going to break you of this washing business if I have to beat it out of you.” 

“RJ!” Maggie yelled, but her husband was lugging Richie from the kitchen and down the hallway to his bedroom. The boy was screaming, and her husband was listing all the things he was taking away. TV. Books. The record player. Candy. Soda. Anything that could be named, RJ was shouting it, not that Richie could possibly have heard him. Not that it mattered anyways, come five in the morning, RJ would be out of the house for twelve hours leaving Maggie to be the warden of this prison he was creating. Typical of him, set a bunch of rules that he couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to enforce, putting her in the position of dealing with her angry son or dealing with him when he came home to find most everything had returned to normal. 

RJ plopped Richie on his bed. 

“You’ll stay in here and think about what I just said.” 

“I hate you!” Richie’s face was beat red, his eyes filled with tears, and his hands were still drenched in water and soap. RJ slammed the bedroom door, behind it something heavy and hard hit it. 

Maggie eyed her husband, who was wearing a dirty t-shirt and blue jeans. His stomach pushed at the seams at the shirt. He was still basically fit, but the years and the beers were catching up with him. 

“Really.” 

“I’m done coddling him.” 

“You think taking everything away just a few hours after finding out his mother might have cancer was the right move?”

“Someone had to do something.” 

She wanted to slap him. That damn line: “Someone had to do something.” He had said the same thing to her the night they had met, seconds after he leaned in for a kiss. 

“What was that?” she had asked, flirting at the time with the sounds of Led Zeppelin roaring from the bar’s jukebox. 

“Well, someone had to do something,” RJ had said, grinned and kissed her again. 

That felt like a thousand years ago, and the charm of the line was completely lost on her now. She followed him back to the kitchen. She had met RJ Glenn when she was in college, and he was working construction on a bridge at the edge of campus. He had walked into a bar one Thursday night while she was filling the jukebox with quarters to play about two hours of Zeppelin. That was enough to win him. He was young, bronzed from working outside, and still had a hint of bad boy gleam in his eyes, that little gleam she’d learned later he’d inherited from his father, the real bad boy of the family. RJ and his father had never got along, and even though RJ was determined not to make the same mistakes as Ricky Dean Glenn, he was doing a grand job of finding all kinds of other mistakes to make. 

“You can’t just expect Richie to stop because you say so,” she said. 

“Why the hell not? I’m his father.” 

“Because he can’t control it no more than you can control having to go to the bathroom. It’s his compulsion.” 

“Oh, don’t get me that psychobabble, if we give him some tough love, he’ll change.” 

“No, he’ll get worse.” 

“Whatever.” 

“So, are you going to stay home and enforce all these rules for the next two weeks?”

RJ eyed her. Their arguments had verged on the precipice of violence for the last few weeks, both too proud to admit part of their anger was fear over her prognosis. Neither could admit that much like their son, their emotions compelled them to behave in certain ways, and this tension brought out the worst in both of them. 

“Fine, do whatever you want,” he said. “I’m going to the bar.” 

He stormed away.

“That’s just great, and who is that just like?” She went to the sink, finally turning off the water, and didn’t bother to listen to his reaction. She knew where to hit him where it hurt. Running had been Ricky Dean Glenn’s specialty, and any comparison to Ricky would just spur RJ’s anger. Maggie didn’t cry, she just put her hand to her heart and then felt a little lower to that alien being clinging to her body, the one that reminded her that when life felt like it was going completely to shit, there was always something worse just waiting around the corner. She squeezed it like a zit, but the damn thing wouldn’t pop. Maggie didn’t cry. She never cried. 

From the Beat: Goodbye, Grobber

 

I suppose every person must reconcile Pluto’s standing in our solar system at some point. That frozen sphere on the outskirts of our neighborhood has been a source of speculation for the better part of the last two decades after scientists first indicated that Pluto might not, in fact, be a planet. In an age where identity is everything, this change in planetary designation dwarfs any concerns about bathrooms signage or pronoun usage we mere humans can manage.

Two great scholars of our time have tackled the issue. The first I was aware of was Les Grobstein. 

Anyone who works nights knows that there is a different rhythm to the world when you are awake while the rest of the world is asleep. My shifts at SVM were a strange combination of second and third shift, and often I was driving home at 2 AM or 3 AM, and the voice riding along with me was the Les Grobstein, the overnight host for 670 AM The Score, the sports talk radio station based out of Chicago.

Grobstein, 69, who died on Sunday, was an eccentric callback to radio days of yore. He spent most of his shows taking calls from the eclectic night birds of the upper Midwest between dropping detailed accounts of any and every sporting event of the last fifty years. Grobstein had an encyclopedic memory, and he never hesitated to display it. He had antiquated radio bits like “Bum of the Week” and sometimes a caller’s joke was lost on him, but it all fit into the overnight vibe beautifully. He did the show five nights a week, often from 10 PM to 5 AM, and often, he did them alone. In contrast, most of the daytime hosts have three hour shows and they are often two-person on-air crews with a slough of support staff and guests.

I met Grobber twice in my days as a sports scribe, both times at Soldier Field. One time I rode the elevator to the press box with him, admiring the vintage tape recorder he slung over his shoulder. He talked a lot, including an unusual amount of swearing for a guy that spent so much time on the air, but he was affable and friendly to every face in the media box whether they worked for the Chicago Tribune or a little paper like SVM.

Anyways, Grobber was the biggest proponent of Pluto, never hesitating to ridicule a caller or any scientist that dared deprive that glorious sphere of its title as a planet. He would get legitimately upset about the issue, something I must confess to never truly understanding. Perhaps, a change like this disrupted some coding in Grobber’s encyclopedic mind. Maybe he was just passionate about the planet. Or maybe, like so many of us, it just feels like this world and universe too often changes too much and too fast. We want to cling on to everything that was fact and feel assured that it will be fact for eons after we’re gone. Maybe it gives us comfort, hoping that our own memory will have a similar lasting standing.

Here is a link to Grobber talking about Pluto: Boers and Bernstein: Les Grobstein Discusses Pluto's Dwarf Planet Status - YouTube

I don’t think Grobber had to worry about his place in the sports solar system. From the outpouring of support on social media, it's easy to see he’s left an indelible impact on the sports scene in Chicago and around the country. I know he’ll always be part of the wealth of memories I’ll keep from my time at SVM.

Oh, the other scholar to tackle the Pluto issue. Well, another Illinoisian, of course. John Prine. He handled it with a little more humor in the song “The Lonesome Friends of Science.” I think a bit from the lyrics is an appropriate way to end this post. Goodnight, Grobber. I look forward to tuning you in on the other side.

Poor old planet Pluto now
He never stood a chance no how
When he got uninvited to
The interplanetary dance
Once a mighty planet there
Now just an ordinary star
Hanging out in Hollywood
In some old funky sushi bar

 

The lonesome friends of science say
The world will end most any day
Well, if it does, then that's okay
'Cause I don't live here anyway
I live down deep inside my head
Well, long ago I made my bed

 (All right to John Prine and Oh, Boy Records). 

Link to the song: https://open.spotify.com/album/13UwfQZqne7ZQIkUZsAPLg?si=0_xlKSewRBeVL7diD2EMZA

2021 Books in Review: Part 5

The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perrotta

Synopsis: High School Sex Education teacher Ruth Ramsey finds herself in the crosshairs of her community’s conservative evangelicals after making a flip remark during a class. She also crosses paths with one of them on a personal level, Tim, her daughter’s soccer coach who is also a recovering addict.

My thoughts: This is an example of taking a current issue and creating a narrative around it. The reviews I read, and I probably would have to agree, is that it was a bit on the nose, and not surprisingly in this day and age, lacked the voice reason between to the opposite points of view. I guess being raised Lutheran, I thought the Christian side was handled with a heavy hand. I think a book with the goals of this one needed something to balance the discussion, and the character of Tim just doesn’t live up to that.

The Last Camel Died at Noon by Elizabeth Peters

Synopsis: Egyptologist Amelia Peabody and her family find themselves stranded in the desert while trying to rescue a wealthy heir in search of his long-lost relatives.

My thoughts: I know this genre has a huge following, but the combination of this being a diary and the voice being Victorian just made this a stagnant and at times irritating read. Just felt to me like this book (published in 1992) and its ilk just haven’t aged well. The diary aspect removes any suspense (well, of course they make it, since she’ writing about it), and the time-period voice feels condescending.

Wishin’ and Hopin’ by Wally Lamb

Synopsis: This is humorous story follows fifth grader Felix Funicello, a distant cousin of Annette Funicello, as he navigates the holiday season.

My thoughts: The tone of this is completely different from the other Lamb novel I read, which was dark. I think this is a lesson in how to tell a story and not let the writing get in the way. The style is direct, and the voice is spot on for the subject matter.

I’ve also read by Wally Lamb: She’s Come Undone

The House at Tyneford by Natasha Solomons

Synopsis: Nineteen-Year-old Elise Landau flees from Vienna in 1938 to England, trading a life as the daughter of an opera singer and writer to that of a parlor maid. The backbone is the early stages of the WWII and the secondary theme is the transition away from the traditional English social system.

My thoughts: This hits many of the beats of a WWII era narrative, and does it well. While a love story ensues, there is some misdirection, and the overall story is the reconnecting of Elise with her sister, the lone remaining member of her family to survive the Nazi occupation of Austria.

The Honk and Holler Opening Soon by Billie Letts

Synopsis: An ensemble cast of characters come together around the sleepy Oklahoma diner known as “The Honk and Holler Opening Soon.” The heart of the story is the budding relationship between the diner’s owner Caney Paxton and the mysterious newcomer Vena Takes Horse.

My thoughts: I enjoy this sort of slice of life, set piece stories where literary themes and aspirations are put to the litmus test of ordinary people living ordinary lives. Some of the language and treatment of minorities might be a bit outdated in this era, but it also lends to the realism of the narrative.

The Killing Tree by Rachel Keener

Synopsis: Recent graduate Mercy Heron falls in love with the wrong boy and finds out how influential her domineering grandfather is in their small Appalachian community.

My thoughts: While I liked this book, and it didn’t hesitate to swim in the symbolism pool for long periods. Symbolism isn’t my strength as a writer or a reader.