KimberlyFish

Water for Elephants

I bought this book on one of the sale bins at a big box store–surprised that it was there. Wasn’t that like finding a diamond in the straw field? I’d heard people chat up the novel, so I paid all of $5.99 and brought it home where it collected dust on my reading table for months. Poor book. If covers have feelings this one would have been blue. BUT, here in an insane time in my family’s life (son graduating high school, husband caught up in a local bond election battle, daughter trying out for officer on her drill team, and me with writing deadlines) I decided that I need a spot of fun so I opened the book and started reading about Jacob Janokowsi, a man either 91 or 93. It wasn’t long before I realized this was a gritty, portrayal of depression-era circus life totally unlike anything I’d expected. (It’s not hard to care for the elephants more than the people after reading of their conditions.) Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a fun read, but it was gripping. And with the detailed research Sara Gruen weaves into the story, a very dark story arises from behind the curtain. I’d known about the squalid conditions, but reading a novelized account of them makes the stink smell bad–real bad. Can’t say I loved this book. But I won’t forget it.

Musings from a Southern state of mind

I’ll be honest, I usually post if I have some literary reason to do so–books to review, movies to grouse about. But I’ve been so swamped with end of the year activities related to my son’s high school graduation and my 15-year-old daughter’s dramatic life (drill team tryouts, formals, boyfriends, hormones, grades, driving, etc… ) that getting some face time with book pages is nothing more than a fond memory. The last movie I saw was in January. Why is it the thing I need most — a fiction vacation courtesy of someone else’s angst and glamour–is farthest away when I’m desperate. I tell you why, its because I’m living in the moment.  That’s probably a good thing as living in the past has been well-documented as a psychiatric condition. And living in the future . .  well that doesn’t work so well for a lady stalled in traffic who still has to wash the laundry, cook the dinner, remember what time the carpool drop offs are, and has a pile of writing deadlines sitting next to her dusty laptop. So do you want to know how I cope? I’m mean this is as close to a state secret as I can share and not be turned in to the FBI’s most wanted list. I dream. When I have those five minutes after my head has hit the pillow and before I go into a snoring coma, I spend a few minutes in my fantasy life. (Men have fantasy football so don’t judge.) I go to my Southern state of mind. Sometimes it’s a rustic cabin on a lonely lake in North Georgia, sometimes its a hip beach cottage next door to some artsy hippies on Amelia Island, sometimes its a chic apartment overlooking Atlanta, but always I’m thin, glamorous and highly successful. Dreaming has the same magic of fiction, its just that I get to star in all the action scenes. So, if you like me, are overwhelmed with  responsibilities, then savor those five minutes at night with your own personal, on-going story starring none other than the most perfect version of you. I’ll bet you, like me, won’t be afraid to zip line across Stone Mountain, or ride bare back through the surf on St. Simon’s, or ski down the double blacks of Vail while being chased by George Clooney. See, already you’re smiling and that–as Martha would say–is a good thing. If you’ll bear with my musings for a few weeks until I can get past graduation, then I’ll get back to reviewing books (could I be indulging in mental avoidance to distract myself from shock that my first baby is graduating? Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.)

Until next time, sweet dreams.

She Walks in Beauty

She Walks in Beauty is the title of Siri Mitchell’s gilded age, historical fiction novel–it’s also one of the most delightful lines of poetry ever penned. And Lord Byron factors into this novel via a first edition keepsake for our main character, Clara. I’d love to go on and on about Siri’s engaging characters and fascinating time period–if you’ve loved Edith Wharton’s novels you love Siri’s–but I have a sunburn and I’m a bit too achey to go on and on about anything. As I was on the deck reading about Victorian women who’d cinch their waists and essentially develop anorexia to achieve the desirable 16″ waist that was the rage back then, I was in a non-corseted swim suit exposing winterized skin to the sun for the first time in 2010. I’m afraid I got a bit too wrapped up in the forced courtship of the main characters to recognized that my skin had fried. So, before I submerge myself in aloe vera, trust me on this . . .this novel, like the others books I’ve read by Siri, is wonderful. Her research is refreshing in its unusual details and observations and her style is excellent. Now . . .where’s my ibuprofen and orange juice chaser?? Read the rest of this entry »

Whistlin’ Dixie in a Northeaster

I bought Lisa Patton’s debut novel (in hardback, no less) the other day and started reading it even though I have a perfectly good stack of books collecting dust on my nightstand. And do you want to know why Whistlin’ Dixie in a Northeaster was a line-jumper? Because it’s all about Southern girls. Memphis girls, to be exact. Coming from the land of Carson McCullers I wasn’t one who was really into the whole country club scene, but I sure do love to read about it. And the best parts of this book are when the main character, LeeLee, is with her girlfriends. They do get up to mischief in Yankee -land. I would have liked to know more behind the facades of LeeLee and Baker Satterwhite, and why he (**spoiler alert**) leaves her high and dry in Vermont, but I’m not going to complain. Bring on the peach preserves, peach jam, peach candles and peach daiquiris and let’s just have a good ole time.

As a Georgia girl, I do miss hearing a good Southern drawl and a “bless your heart” every now and then. Since it doesn’t look like I’m leaving Texas anytime soon, I guess I’m just going to have dig into my imagination and bring out a story or two from my days along the Chattahoochee River. Oh, even better, I’ll climb into one of those age-old, Spanish moss-covered trees on Amelia Island and spin a tale told to me by one of my great aunts. Have I mentioned a pair of them (twins) used to work for the OSS? (That would be the front runner to the CIA back in the day.) Are there any other displaced Georgians out there hankering for a Golden Flake dinner roll and cold RC? Let me know. I still have friends in the old country. I’m pretty sure they’d put together a care package for the desperate.

Almost Home

Don’t let the name deceive you, Almost Home is not the sweet novel you might think by the title–actually having read (and  enjoyed ) this book, I would have named it something entirely different. Don’t know what, but something. This is the third novel I’ve read by Pan Jenoff. The first two were page-turner WWII dramas, heavy on the unsuspecting character angles, small stories made large, and imminently well-written. (There’s a great backstory to the Kommandant’s Girl that is an inspiration to all unpublished authors with a bestseller in their pen.) This book is set in contemporary times. A State Department employee, with enviable connections, asks for a reassignment that stuns the people to whom she’s closest. I was captivated by page one. This story spins out into elegant settings around Cambridge and London, and falls probably more into the ‘thriller’ category than drama. But the elements of romance, friendship, loyalty, greed and political ambitions are big enough to throw it into whatever genre appeals to you. All I can tell you is that I was surprised by the end and left hanging with the dear hope that Pam Jenoff has written a sequel. After reading a book like this, you wonder how much of it might be autobiographical (it feels that real) but I guess if she were tell us the answer to that question . . .then she’d have to kill us. Spies are like that.

Catch a Rising Star

So, I picked up a copy of Tracey Bateman’s 2007 book, Catch a Rising Star. She and I are friends on Facebook–not that it’s an important fact, but a connection is a connection. I’ve followed many of Tracey’s travails writing (we writers were made for the 140 characters on Twitter and Facebook, it’s a challenge to easy to resist,) and when I found one of her books I snatched it up. This one falls into the chick-lit category and it was a fun, fun read. I actually laughed out loud in places, I’m not going to lie, and I’m not even a fan of daytime soap operas–not since the Luke and Laura wedding of the 1980s, but I digress. The good news here is, after reading this juicy little book about a day time soap diva who has an up and down and up ride on the road to fame and romance, I’m not going to worry about Tracey’s writing travails. She’s obviously well equipped to overcome even the nastiest of editing deadlines. I wonder who I’ll stalk–I mean read–next. Let’s see…

The Thirteenth Tale

It’s been a while since I read this novel, but when I was dusting the bookshelves (what I need to be doing is some serious spring cleaning, but for now I’ll just run a Swiffer over the book tops and call it done) and saw this cover ,I remembered that I’d always wanted to blog about The Thirteenth Tale. I’m not usually drawn to Gothic, Victorian-esque mysteries, but this debut novel by Diane Setterfield scattered all my objections like bone meal in the wind–how’s that for my own bit of Gothic imagery?? This novel tells the story of a famous eccentric, Vida Winter as her saga unfolds to biographer, Margaret Lea. Both women are not what they seem, actually all the characters between these pages are so original that none of them are what they seem. This oh, so clever “ghost” story is chocked full of lies, secrets, abandoned babies and the like, but its so well-plotted that you get sucked into the roller coaster road of discovery right along with Margaret. Others have said Ms. Setterfield is on equal par with the Bronte sisters, albeit a modern version, but I saw a lot of Daphne Du Maurier in the colors, storms and shadows of the various tales Ms. Winters spins. You’ll have to find this book and read it for yourself. It’s a keeper.

Brava, Valentine

For those of you who love the crazy emotional hangups of Adrianna Trigianni’s Italian families, globe-trotting adventures, tense romantic conflicts and inter-personal dramas, you’ll love this second story in Valentine’s saga toward maturity and love, maybe mutually exclusive elements. I’m eating the pages up like popcorn, even though I’m not finished. Speaking of popcorn, I’ve spent this bizarre snow day (yes, its March 21st) curled up on the sofa alternating between staring into the fire, staring into the HDTV screen to watch Johnny Depp work his magic as Captain Jack Sparrow, and burrowing into the pages of Brava, Valentine. Did I mention there have been teenagers running through the front door all day too?

I’ll be honest, I’m grieving from my corner of the sofa. My malaise is not due to snow. I like the white, fluffy stuff because in these parts it doesn’t come often and doesn’t do a lot of damage. It’s like the lace on a vintage greeting cards. Pretty, harmless and such a surprise that with everyone I meet, it is the central topic of conversation. We’re Southerners, talking about the weather is right up there with asking about Aunt Annie’s gall bladder surgery or Joey’s new baby. Strange as this may seem, I adore winter. The minute the Christmas decorations go down and I strip my house to its bare winter self, is one of the best days of the year for me. I hibernate. I go deep under the covers. I write for hours on end. I cook pasta with cream sauce. I lay on the floor and dream in Technicolor. And I avoid thinking about spring. You know those people who on January 1st invoke a  resolution to move into the gym? I see that light and I turn left, with a cup of hot tea and Bischoff cookie in hand. I spend enough months running, walking, yoga and all the million of other meetings, projects and activities that clutter a life, that come January I dig my heels into the hard, cold soil and I don’t budge. And you know what? I’m happy–in a reclusive sort of way.  Maybe too much, which is why spring is my least favorite season on the calendar. Like you, I have parties, events, school programs, trips, company, clients and this year my son’s high school graduation all staring at me with a double-circled ink blot on my schedule. Spring is inevitable. Like the hyacinths in my yard, I will be forced out of the ground. **sigh** So, for a few more hours, I’ll go back to Brava, Valentine and walk the streets of Buenos Aries and smell the bagels in New York before I pick up my car pool keys in the morning and face a beautiful week of seventy degree weather. Oh, the despair.

Velva Jean Learns to Drive

Velva Jean Learns to Drive is blueberry experience. Hot summer sun will beat down on you, you will go through thorns and you’ll come out with chiggers, but when those blueberries melt on your tongue-heaven has come down. That’s the way it was reading Jennifer Niven’s novel. A hot, summer blueberry. She told a “coming of age” story of Velva Jean Hart that could easily resonate with any person from the South. As one who spent summer camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains this story not only resonated, it evoked some of the “bone memory” that people say come from your ancestor’s experiences. Though this book takes place in the 1930s-40s, its as real today for the humanity of the characters. Cheering for Velva Jean is just as close as crying for her. I loved this novel and hope you’ll reach for that blueberry too.

The Swiss Courier

The Swiss Courier is a great story well told. But before I oohh and ahhh over the intelligence of the plot and the believable characters, let me tell you some back story. I’ve been working for several years on a novel set in Bayreuth, Germany –specifically related to the famed opera house and Wagner’s opera series. One day–on face book– I noticed that a fellow writer  was discussing a book she was writing set in Bayreuth and the opera house. After my shock (I’d been told  my story would never sell because of the setting and the simple fact that no one wants to read a book set around an opera festival) I messaged Tricia Goyer and told her we had probably done similar research. And since I’d actually lived in Bayreuth, Germany for a few years and had attended the opera festival and I did have  leg-up on the research–although, that was my only leg-up. (She’s a research wunderkind.) We then arranged to talk on the phone (crammed a week’s worth of conversation into about thirty minutes) at which point I could see where her novel was going to fly off bookstore shelves. In part because hers was part of a WW II series and she already had an audience. But also, it sounded like a great plot. Of which I can take credit for one teensiest bit of character motivation. She told me so. With their weirdest of sighs, I wished her well.

As a thank-you for the help on the Bayreuth story, she sent me a copy of her hot off the press release, The Swiss Courier, a novel she wrote with Mike Yorkey. I do love a good spy novel. This story, set on the heels of an assassination attempt on Adolph Hitler (remember the movie, Valkyrie?) spins fast. Hitler is after anyone of even the remotest Jewish ancestry and the focus become zeroed in on a scientist with an affinity for constructing an atom bomb. Meanwhile, a covert group of undercover spies in Switzerland go to work protecting and transporting people across enemy lines. There were a lot of characters (I’m not going to lie–it got confusing) and a lot of settings (I’m not going to lie–it got confusing) but it was so well-researched and the characters were so believable and that it became more of a page-turner than anything else. There were a few surprises at the end, always a treat. And issues of faith and trust were linch pins to this story.  A great read!! Look for the rest of her WW II stories for your summer pleasure.