Book review - Roadblocks to Nirvana, by Patricia Halloff

The difference between a fine novel and a mediocre one is often found in the strength of its characterisation. In this respect Ms Halloff does not disappoint, and it is, above all, the detailed and powerful portrayal of the various players in this drama that gives the work its strength. The facility with which she speaks with each character’s voice, not just in dialogue but in her narrative, so vividly coloured with the different points of view, makes the book a delight; and not just the voices of the characters, but those of the various newspapers and pundits surrounding the book’s events. I almost screamed with laughter reading the Transcript reports, with their English translations of Latin phrases; the tone of the tabloid reporter, writing about comments by an educated person which he only half understands, was priceless.

This lightness of touch, with its sprinkles of comic relief, prevents the book’s essential sadness from becoming overwhelming, and allows the reader fully to enjoy its marvellous graininess.

The few depictions of sexual activity were handled with beautiful restraint, and I could only marvel at the writer’s ability to convey the sordid bestiality of a really down-and-dirty encounter without descending into the merely graphic.

All in all, a book by Ms Halloff is a rare pleasure, and Roadblocks to Nirvana is no exception.

Book review - Naked Determination, by Gisela Hausmann

This charming little book from the author of Naked Determination offers us a selection of good advice for life, from a cat's perspective, and illustrated with photographs of the beautiful Artemis. It's well presented and would make a great gift.

Ferret Ormiston-Smith has asked me also to say, from a cat's viewpoint, that Miss Artemis Hausmann is an extremely attractive young lady whom he would enjoy meeting (paraphrased somewhat).

Book review - Writing Tips From Authors by Patti Roberts

This little book is packed with useful tips from working writers, and should be on every new writer's bookshelf.

There are some wonderfully trenchant comments in particular from David Bishop and Donya Lynne on so-called "writer's block", and on writing in general. I can't resist quoting a couple:

"The most successful way to market your work is to write it exceedingly well." (David Bishop on marketing)

"You can't edit nothing, but you can always edit crap" (Donya Lynne on keeping at it)

"Turn it off" - Donya Lynne on Facebook when writing

"My plumber doesn't only fix my plumbing problems on mornings when it isn't raining and when the moon was full the night before." (David Bishop on writer's block)

Interestingly, I was very surprised to note how few of the featured authors had apparently chosen to have their contributions edited. As a working editor myself, I was especially narked that one writer who is my client did not ask me to cast an eye over it. But, edited or not, the many different viewpoints in this collection were refreshing and there is good advice there for everyone.

Book review - Naked Determination, by Gisela Hausmann

This unique book is a collection of true stories from the author’s richly varied life. Each story illustrates one lesson learned in the author’s quest for achievement and empowerment.  This being said, though, the book is just a great read for its own sake, and should not be viewed as being merely in the self help, or personal development category.

The popular trope of self-reinvention is always a drawcard for me, but even so, this book stands out above the general run of “self-help” books, which all too often contain nothing but platitudes. The basic premise behind Ms Hausmann’s work is that one can do almost anything as long as one refuses to admit that one can’t do it - a great attitude and certainly one that has worked for her.  

The book is structured into chapters of which each chapter illustrates one single lesson the author has drawn from her life experiences. Each chapter tells the story and then unpacks the lesson learned. There are small pictures and illustrations, but these don’t get in the way of the text, and in fact give the work something of the flavour of a friendly chat, with the occasional photo coming out of a wallet. I found Ms Hausmann’s writing style extremely engaging; there is a warmth and naturalness to it that makes one feel one is in the presence of an old friend.  The occasional awkwardness in English arising from the fact that English is not the writer’s first language does not detract at all from the book, and in fact I felt that it enhanced it rather, giving Ms Hausmann’s writing that faint exotic flavour that a slight hint of European accent can give to a person’s speech. As a working editor myself, if called upon to fix this, I would not touch it - one of this book’s great charms is the way the author’s unique voices sounds so clearly in every line of it.  A thoroughly enjoyable read, and one that I am sure I will revisit often.

Book Review - A Princess of Fae, by Bob Craton

This short novel appears to be an attempt to follow in the footsteps of Terry Pratchett. Although it is reasonably entertaining, the writer lacks Pratchett's formidable experience in his craft, and dare I say, also his commitment to quality. Of course, a writer published by a major mainstream publishing house has access to editing free of charge, something for which an independent author must make his own arrangements, but regardless of the cost of having one's work professionally edited, one cannot but feel that it is money well spent.

Specifically, the work lacked focus and structure, and there was virtually no character development; the characters are flat, like comic book figures. The references to other fantasy worlds were entertaining, but rather repetitive, and it all began rather to pall after a few chapters. I felt this book would have done better as a short story.

This said, there is certainly something there, and it would be worth persevering with; basically, though, I don't think the work was ready for publication.

Excerpt from King's Ransom

Here is an excerpt from my work in progress, provisionally titled King's Ransom:

The sun was low in the sky when John awoke. He lay still for a few moments, savouring the looseness of tired muscles and the cool play of the breeze, refreshingly chill on the damp patch on his face.

The damp patch on his... the damp.... what? John sat up uneasily, putting a hand to his cheek, which felt vaguely slimy. He looked suspiciously around the tiny glade.

Tall oaks rose majestically towards the lavender sky, in which the first faint star of evening was almost, but not quite visible. A single willow leaned gracefully over the chattering brook, seeming to sip daintily from the cold pure water. John had drunk from the brook earlier, and had washed the day’s sweat from his face, enjoying the fresh tang, so much better than the flat stuff from the castle well.

Everything seemed normal. The grassy sward ran down a gentle slope to the brook, unmarred by weeds or any blemish. A chaffinch trilled from somewhere nearby. From the edge of the clearing, a monster glared at him.

Adrenaline surged into his blood like a kick in the stomach. He struggled frantically upright, grabbing at his sword, which he was not wearing. The groping, panicked fingers encountered only a small knife, suitable for trimming quills. John froze.

The monster was large, grey and attenuated, about half again the height of a wolf, with madly staring eyes. A huge mouth gaped open, crammed with rows of enormous, needly-looking teeth. John cast about frantically for a means of escape, wishing he had stayed in the solar with his books, or could fly, or had not been born. The monster moved, angling towards him on long, stick-like legs. Its action was rather like that of a praying mantis, John decided, the thought floating transparently across the surface of his stalled mind.

Could he get to his horse in time? John cast frantically about. The horse was nowhere in sight. Besides, he’d loosened the girth when he stopped here. What about leaping up a tree? He glanced upwards, hopefully, and saw sky. The monster was between him and the trees. It was edging closer. John took a step back and fell into the stream.

The stream was cold; not deep, but unpleasantly lined with pebbles. John scrambled to his knees, tugging desperately at his penknife. Water! Perhaps the monster was a troll and could not cross running water. Holding up his now saggy breeches, John lurched across the stream and squelched out, almost losing a shoe.

As he turned, he was just in time to see the monster sail gracefully across the stream.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena -” was all John could get out before the monster was upon him. It fetched him a mighty blow with its foot. John, overwhelmed, fell over. The monster leaned over and licked his face, delicately. Its beard was slimy. John screwed his eyes up tightly and commended his soul to God and St Wulfstan.

He waited to die, cold, alone, and damp. The sun had gone right off the ground now, and it was quickly becoming quite chilly. There was no priest to hear his confession and bring him the comfort of the church in his last moments. There were no wailing maidservants. There was no trouvère to immortalise his dying battle. Perhaps just as well, John thought ruefully, becoming aware that once again he had failed to Measure Up.

A volley of loud clopping sounds assailed his shrinking ears. Well, John decided, at least he would die with his eyes open, thereby not being totally shamed in his own eyes and those of the world. Not that there would be anything left of him to find; the monster had definitely looked as though it needed a square meal.

He edged his eyes open a tiny way and squinted out. The monster was lying down a few feet away. The noise was made by it rapidly snapping its ferocious jaws together, quickly and repeatedly, as it tossed its head about. John opened his eyes the rest of the way, forgetting to be alarmed in his astonishment. This was nothing like the behaviour he had been led to expect from monsters. First they roared, then they ravened, then they either devoured you or were vanquished in single combat and their heads stuffed and hung in the hall. There might be details about their eyes gleaming like the coals of hell, hot sulphurous breath, etc etc.

John sat up cautiously. Catching the movement, the monster crawled over towards him, dragging itself along on its elbows and belly, and whining. It put its head down on the grass and stared up at him, making him feel that something was expected of him. This was nothing new; John had spent his life with a vague feeling that something was expected of him and he had no idea what.

Well, he was going to die anyway. Probably going to die, a small voice of hope whispered to him. Almost certainly going to die, he corrected it sternly. He reached out to pat the monster’s head. It whined again, and licked his hand.

A friendly monster? John supposed there must be such things, but he had never heard of one. He looked again. Viewed with calmer eyes, it was rather an ordinary-looking monster as these things go. There were no twisted horns dripping gore, or extra heads, or bats’ wings. Lying down, it really looked more like a pile of dirty rags than anything else. And wasn’t there something teasingly familiar about the position in which it had arranged itself? With one front leg sticking out and the other hidden? Didn’t it really look a bit like a hound, sort of? John just wasn’t sure.

CONTINUED IN FOLLOWING POST

Excerpt - King's Ransom

King's Ransom excerpt, continued....

Of course, if the monster were really friendly, as it now seemed to be, John faced a really horrifying dilemma, worse in some ways than if it were ravening. There was no precedent in any of the tales and songs for dealing with a friendly monster. Of course, you killed monsters, but then they were always trying to kill you. Might it not be dishonourable to, as it were, murder one? On the other hand, it was practically a Sacred Duty to slay monsters. God’s Legs, they practically existed to be slain. It might be a craven and cowardly act not to kill it. On the other hand, it was looking at him so trustingly, he didn’t think he could do it even if armed with the sword that in his minds’ eye he could see so clearly, propped in a corner of the solar, the cheerful flames dancing off its gleaming scabbard from the fireplace.

Suddenly John wanted a hot bath more than anything in the world.