Sunday, 19 March 2023

REVIEW - LOSS BY DONNA ASHWORTH

  

Title: Loss
Author: Donna Ashworth
Publisher: Black & White Publishing
Genre: Poetry, Essays & Collections, Health, Mind & Body
Release Date: 4th October 2022

BLURB from Goodreads
Amidst an incredible understanding of how it feels to lose the ones we love the most, Donna's writing gives a glimpse of light that can be found within the darkest moments. This collection of grief poetry will bring comfort but also peace, acceptance, and the very important reminder that you are never alone. A must for anyone who has lost someone. Those cast adrift in the lonely sea of grief will find something on every page to cling to, when that water gets too rough. 

Goodreads Link

PURCHASE LINKS
Amazon US
Amazon UK

REVIEW
As I have said before when I have reviewed these types of books, I wouldn't say I am a great lover of poetry, in fact I am much nearer the opposite side of the scale. Recently book by book my view has been changing. I can honestly say I truly loved some of the different types of poetry by this author, and in particular the ones in this book. Some are not necessarily poetry as I would imagine it so much but still resonated and felt they belonged in this collection.

If you are organising a funeral service some of these are ideal to be read at those. As I said earlier in my review my mum recently died and we chose a poem my daughter remembered from school called Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden. There were many in this book that I could and would have had.

THE LOSS OF A MOTHER is a really good one and I took a deep breath expecting to really tear up as my own mum died quite recently but it was THE LOSS OF A FATHER that made me the most emotional, the one that had me nodding in agreement with its words and sentiment, especially with the part where your father has already planted the answers you seek etc

GREAT GRIEF is another that I definitely agree with the sentiment & words of 'that great grief is born only of great love' A sentiment recently mentioned in connection to the death of Queen Elizabeth that echoed her words of 'Grief is the price you pay for love' which she said after the death of her own husband.

Other poems I absolutely adored/loved were
ONCE A DAY
TAKE THE LOVE
IF I EVER HAVE TO LEAVE
LAST NIGHT

I found I really identified with A MOURNING MOTHER, YOU MAY BE GONE, and THAT MOMENT
Having said that I also really liked FEATHERS, ROOTS, and THERE WILL ALWAYS BE LOSS

There was only one poem I felt negativity towards and it was DEATH IS A THIEF I really strongly disliked the reference to death being like a 'cancer' personally I would substitute 'cancer' with 'monster'

Summing up, whether you are a great lover or connoisseur of poetry or a complete novice learning to love poetry you will enjoy this book.
 



Thursday, 16 March 2023

BLOG TOUR - I LOVE IT WHEN YOU LIE BY KRISTEN BIRD

  

Title: I Love It When You Lie
Author: Kristen Bird
Publisher: MIRA
Release Date: 14th March 2023


BLURB supplied by Harlequin Trade Publishing
The Williams women don’t just keep secrets…

They bury them.

The three Williams girls are as close as sisters can be, and they also share one special trait in common: each of them has a man in her life that she could do without.

Tara, the pastor’s wife, has been stealing money from the church and would prefer that her husband stay out of it. Then there’s June, who would do anything to have a baby of her own, even if her husband is dead set against it. Clementine, the youngest, is entangled in an affair with her professor, a man whose behavior she's starting to seriously question. Their sister-in-law Stephanie, an outsider, knows all the family dirt and is watching the three of them—and the men in their lives—closely.

When the woman who raised them, their beloved Gran, dies on the eve of her eightieth birthday, the Williams sisters return home to the Appalachian foothills to bury her. But their grandmother won’t be the only one they’ll put in a grave this weekend…because now someone has gone missing in the dark Appalachian woods.


And if Gran has taught them anything, it’s how to get rid of a good-for-nothin’ man.


PURCHASE LINKS
BookShop.org 
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
IndieBound

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristen Bird lives outside of Houston, Texas with her husband and three daughters. She earned her bachelor’s degree in music and mass media before completing a master’s in literature. She teaches high school English and writes with a cup of coffee in hand. In her free time, she likes to visit parks with her three daughters, watch quirky films with her husband and attempt to keep pace with her rescue lab-mixes.


AUTHOR LINKS
Author Website: https://www.kristenbird.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/kbirdwrites
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kristen.bird.writes/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kristenbirdwrites/ 

EXCERPT 

The Sheriff’s Office in Willow Gap, Alabama One Week After

STEPHANIE

It would’ve been a touching moment except for the reality of the grave at their feet. Gran’s grave. I shiver just thinking about the three Williams sisters standing in the family cem­etery, their arms entwined, gazing up at the sunrise, all that cool Alabama clay piled beside them, their fingernails packed with the red earth, the stench of what they’d done in their nostrils. It was Decoration Sunday, the one day of the year when the entire family descended on Gran’s property to pay respect to the dead and gossip about those still living.

Tara, June, and Clementine Williams are my sisters-in-law. For so long, I’ve waited for the day that their little coven would topple some man’s ivory tower. Now that the time has come, I realize that each of us has a man that we might be better off without, but only one of us is lucky enough to have actually rid ourselves of him.

Four men: a preacher, a doctor, a professor, and a mayor. One goes missing. It’s like our own little Willow Gap edition of Clue. How charming.

Sheriff Brady Dean, his badge shining in the interrogation lights, brings me back to the moment at hand, the moment of reckoning. The aged sheriff wants to know what I know, wants me to spill all the whys, whens, wheres, and hows of the Williams sisters over the past forty-eight hours.

“I’m sure you know why you’re here, Mrs. Williams.” The words emerge like a sigh. He’s been after this family for more than thirty years, ever since he was first elected. Poor guy. Must be exhausted.

I meet the sheriff eye to eye, tapping my recently painted nails—Los Angeles Latte, the dark bottle of polish had read—against the metal table in the claustrophobic office where he’s brought me for questioning. Not that I’m the one in trouble here.

My husband, Walker Williams, knew Sheriff Dean before Walker and I ever met and married a decade ago. Some say ours was a Yankee seduction, but I don’t care. Walker has been the mayor now for eight years, and they have to put up with me, the damn Yank in their midst.

I think of my three children—Walker Jr. and Auggie and Bella—their features too much like my husband’s. They’re fine, I remind myself. They’re with the nanny while I’m here tying up all of the loose ends. I shake my head to dislodge their faces from my mind. It’s important that I focus. I must get this right.

“Call me Ms. Chadrick. Or Stephanie. I’ll be using my maiden name soon enough,” I tell the sheriff.

Sheriff Dean clears his throat, and I follow his eyes to my hand. I’m still wearing my massive diamond, the one Walker bought for our last anniversary. To ten years, baby, and a lifetime more, he’d said as he slipped it on my finger in our Nashville hotel room. I’m not planning to part with my jewelry just be­cause my husband can’t keep his dick in his pants.

I blink innocently at the sheriff and twist my ring around, pressing the stone into my palm until it bites. “I’m here to tell you what I saw after Gran Williams’s funeral. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes’m.” The sheriff lets out a heavy breath that reaches all the way down to the gut hanging over his belt. “I know these women are your husband’s sisters, but we’re hoping…”

“Soon to be ex-husband,” I fire back, reminding him once again.

“Fine. As I was saying, we’re hoping you’ll be willing to give us an account of the movement of your sisters-in-law these past few days. With a missing person, time is of the essence.”

He gives me one of those indulgent smiles saved only for a wronged woman. He knows about my cheating bastard of a spouse, and I breathe, reminding myself again that I’m in good company. Jackie O., Eleanor Roosevelt, Hillary—all of these fine ladies were cheated on by their infamous yet politi­cally savvy husbands. Remembering them makes it easier for me to deal with the fact that everyone knows about Walker and his lying ways.

When I first moved here from DC, I thought my new hus­band and his town were adorable, quaint even. As I prepared for Walker’s bid for mayor, I even got a kick out of researching its history at the local library, trying to understand the place where generations of Walker’s family had lived for so long.

Alabama. Some historians say the word is from a Native American language and means “tribal town” or “vegetation gatherers.” My favorite definition of the word, though, was penned by one Alexander Beauford Meek, a highly unreliable

source, but isn’t that what history is made of? Mr. Meek said that the word means “here we rest.” Alabama: here we rest. It’s deliciously spooky, isn’t it? Like something from one of those Faulkner stories I couldn’t get enough of in college.

To be fair though, my problem isn’t actually with the great state of Alabama. It’s with these people, this town, this fam­ily. They forget so easily that I’m a part of them now, for bet­ter or worse. They forget that I know where all the bodies are buried, and I’m not just talking about their kinfolk in the family cemetery a couple hundred yards down the hill from Gran’s house.

The sheriff clears his throat and tries again. “As I was sayin’, we’re hopin’ you can give us a clearer account of who all was there and what exactly went on, so we can understand what led to our missing person. He’s an important man, a good man, and the last time anyone laid eyes on him was Saturday eve­ning a few hours after the funeral at Gran Williams’s cabin.”

Our missing person. There’s something so possessive in the phrase. I almost giggle, realizing that this man is handing me my chance on a silver platter, an opportunity to expose every inch of the Williams family drama.

“Sheriff, ask me any question, and I’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear.” I cross my legs and study my cuticles. “Al­though, if you want to know the whole truth, you need to go a lot further back than the past few days.”

I take a sip of the coffee he brought me earlier and stretch my arms in front of me as if preparing for a catnap. I wonder if the sheriff realizes just how far back he needs to reach, how far down he needs to dig until he hits something like the truth.

The sheriff nods at me to continue, and I notice again the plump circles hanging under his eyes. He sneezes into the crook of his arm and settles in for the real reason why people involved with the Williams family might just disappear.

I sit up straighter. “All right, then. Let’s start with the dead one.”

Excerpted from I Love It When You Lie. Copyright © 2023 by Kristen Bird. Published by MIRA Books.



 


 

 



 


 

Monday, 13 March 2023

BLOG TOUR - DAUGHTERS OF NANTUCKET BY JULIE GERSTENBLATT

 

Title: Daughters Of Nantucket
Author: Julie Gerstenblatt
Publisher: MIRA
Release Date: 14th March 2023

BLURB supplied by Harlequin Trade Publishing
Set against Nantucket’s Great Fire of 1846, this sweeping, emotional novel brings together three courageous women battling to save everything they hold dear.

Nantucket in 1846 is an island set apart not just by its geography but by its unique circumstances. With their menfolk away at sea, often for years at a time, women here know a rare independence—and the challenges that go with it.

Eliza Macy is struggling to conceal her financial trouble as she waits for her whaling captain husband to return from a voyage. In desperation, she turns against her progressive ideals and targets Meg Wright, a pregnant free Black woman trying to relocate her store to Main Street. Meanwhile, astronomer Maria Mitchell loves running Nantucket’s Atheneum and spending her nights observing the stars, yet she fears revealing the secret wishes of her heart.

On a sweltering July night, a massive fire breaks out in town, quickly kindled by the densely packed wooden buildings. With everything they possess now threatened, these three very different women are forced to reevaluate their priorities and decide what to save, what to let go and what kind of life to rebuild from the ashes of the past.

PURCHASE LINKS
BookShop.org
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
IndieBound

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Julie Gerstenblatt holds a doctorate in education in Curriculum and Instruction from Teachers College, Columbia University. Her essays have appeared in The Huffington Post, Grown & Flown, and Cognoscenti, among others. When not writing, Julie is a college essay coach, as well as a producer and on-air host for A Mighty Blaze. A native New Yorker, Julie now lives in coastal Rhode Island with her family and one very smart shichon poo. Daughters of Nantucket is her first novel.

AUTHOR LINKS
Author Website: https://www.juliegerstenblatt.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Juliegerstenblattauthor
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/juliegerstenblatt/

EXCERPT 

ONE WEEK BEFORE THE FIRE

Monday, July 6, 1846

ELIZA

IN THE HEAT of summer, gossip spreads through Nantucket town like wildfire.

Everyone on the island knows that, including Eliza Macy. Usually, Eliza enjoys the chatter of the women in town, the way her neighbors walk and talk with baskets of goods on their arms as they exchange tales along the busy, brick-paved and cobbled streets that lead to the harbor, where thousands of kegs of oil wait to be processed and shipped. Usually, she’s very much a part of that very chitchat. On any given Monday, she might lean in close over a barrel of grain at Adams and Parker as so-and-so says such-and-such about you-know-who. And although she’s not proud of it, Eliza has been known to follow a small cluster of ladies out of Hannah Hamblin’s candy store on Petticoat Row just to catch the end of a particularly juicy tidbit about a Star­buck or a Coffin, prominent families on the island, even if she hasn’t yet purchased the black licorice whips she came in for. But today turns out to be anything but an ordinary Monday, which is why Eliza isn’t out socializing in town.

The morning begins with a vexing conversation with her husband Henry in the kitchen of their stately Colonial home on Upper Main Street.

“But, what do you mean, Henry? How can you possibly stay out at sea when we need you here at home?” Eliza asks. There is no answer. Eliza continues. “I just wish you would be clearer in your intentions. Less obtuse. It can be so very frustrating to be married to you!”

Well, not a “conversation,” exactly. How can one possibly be speaking with one’s husband when he has been off at sea for al­most four years? Conversations exist mostly in her mind—and when she’s really annoyed, aloud—in a pretend dialogue with an absentee man. In reality, these conversations are monologues, long letters sent back and forth across the globe. Delayed wor­ries and emotions so stale that by the time they get a response, Eliza’s concerns have moved on to something else entirely. In a letter, Henry will present a solution to a problem three months old—the leak in the roof Eliza has since gotten fixed, the sea­sonal cold that one of their twin daughters Mattie has recovered from—and think he is being helpful! And so Eliza thanks her husband of twenty years for his thoughtful ideas and lets him be­lieve anything he says from the Pacific Ocean is meaningful to her everyday existence. Then she tells him what she really thinks from her kitchen. Alone.

The letter from Henry she receives this morning, by way of a sailor passing through to Nova Scotia, is one such missive. On folded parchment, in his slanting script, Henry informs Eliza of his new plans. She reads the line aloud to herself, imagining Henry’s deep baritone filling their home. “Although I prom­ised to be back on Nantucket this summer, my love, this trip has been delayed due to unforeseen complications,” his letter says.

Eliza is trying to enjoy a cup of tea, while sitting at the small table tucked under the windows in a corner of their bright kitchen. The tea tastes bland and watery, for she is trying to conserve sugar. And tea leaves. She reaches to the wooden shelf on the wall beside her, locating the dark glass bottle of lauda­num, and adds a dash or two of the powder into her china cup. She closes her eyes and holds the bitter liquid in her mouth for a second to let it cool before swallowing. There. The hot tea is surprisingly refreshing as she gulps it down, one quick sip after another, knowing the medicine will do the trick and ease what­ever ails her. Nerves. Loneliness. Headache. Heartburn. Three to four times a day, the dosage on the vial suggests. Better to take more than less, to ensure effectiveness. It’s readily available on the island, so Eliza can always get more at the apothecary when she runs out.

She reads the letter again.

“What unforeseen complications, Henry? Please do tell!”

Henry doesn’t specify, leaving her confused. What else is there possibly to do at sea but catch and kill whales, dismantle them by means of stinking, gory masculinity, and turn the massive mammals into profits? Isn’t that what the captain of a whaling ship does, for goodness’ sake? Grow his whiskers long and bark at his crew and risk life and limb in pursuit of oil?

He says only that he’s reached the port of New Orleans and not to worry.

A puzzle. Apart from the obvious annoyances this letter im­plies—that she and her children, who haven’t seen Henry for forty-plus months, will have to wait even longer for his pres­ence—is the practical impact that delayed return will have. For Eliza Macy, on dry land, is out of household money. And, until Henry’s ship comes in, weighed down with its hundreds of bar­rels of oil, albeit liquid gold (God willing!), no more money is to be found. She has gotten used to trading candles for goods and services, but now she is even running low on them.

Eliza takes a break from her worries by calling out to her twins, getting ready for the day in their bedroom above the kitchen. “Girls! Breakfast! School!”

“Five more minutes, Mother!” one daughter calls down the stairs.

“Where is my satin hair ribbon?” the other yell-asks.

Sixteen-year-old identical twin girls. Eliza goes to the front hall where the acoustics are better for shouting, and aims her voice up the grand staircase. “Girls, you know I cannot tell your voices apart unless you are standing before me. I found a hair ribbon on the floor last night, but couldn’t see the color. It’s on my nightstand.”

Footfalls above. Then, “I don’t see it. Let’s just go to Jones’s Mercantile after school and buy new bows.” It’s Rachel. The girl peeks her head through the spindles in the banister.

“Oooo, that’s a lovely idea!” Mattie says, right beside her sister. “And then we can shop for summer dresses. Maybe something new for our upcoming birthday?”

“Maybe,” Eliza concedes. Although she knows there’s no way they’ll be doing that. She must keep her entitled daughters away from the mercantile! As the girls finish getting ready upstairs, Eliza heads into the kitchen to avoid hearing them. With a small knife, Eliza cuts an apple into very thin slices and divides them onto two china plates with a slice of buttered bread.

Until Henry’s ship comes in, their wealth is all theoretical, their profits floating in wooden barrels at sea. Eliza has no money on hand with which to pay for flour or cornmeal or music les­sons. No coins for bolts of silk and wool to make party dresses for their sixteen-year-old twin daughters about to enter society. Just ink and a quill to write Henry’s name on a black line in a leather-bound book at the dry goods store and the doctor’s of­fice, to record what the Macys owe and what they will pay back when his ship the Ithaca returns.

But when will the Ithaca return?

The rant that follows is also one-sided, as Eliza paces the kitchen alone, letter in hand, responding to Henry, her frustration causing her to speak much louder than she should. Keep your voice down, Eliza, she scolds herself, a reminder that Rachel and Mat­tie are probably listening in from the grand staircase in the hall.

Eliza takes a last sip of tea, her arms tingling with vague numb­ness caused by the powder she’s added, as her mind fills with a pleasant fog. She pops the apple core into her mouth and chews. The twin girls enter the kitchen, both starving, not understand­ing why they can’t have eggs and hash and corn fritters for their breakfast. After all, they have to walk to school, and they can’t very well learn while their stomachs grumble, can they? Eliza does her best to appease their appetites while not arousing their suspicion that something might be amiss.

But one quick glance between the twins—with identical pale blue eyes like their father’s—is all it takes for Eliza to know that they are alert to her every move. It’s probably too late for her to continue pretending all is fine when it isn’t. But keeping the girls calm and happy while their father is Lord Knows Where with a harpoon in his grasp has been her job for their entire lives, and she’s not about to shirk her responsibilities now. Bet­ter her girls be left in quiet darkness than to deal with the harsh light of day, that’s Eliza’s parenting motto. There’s only so much a girl needs to know.

And so Eliza lies. “I’m just so busy with house chores, I haven’t had a moment to get to the grocer. You’ll help me later with the last of the housework after school, won’t you? Then maybe we can talk about the mercantile for another day.”

The girls roll their eyes but nod that yes, they will. Then up and out they go. How Eliza has managed to raise such idle crea­tures, she’ll never know. At least Alice, the oldest of the three Macy daughters, has some ambition. But then again, Alice isn’t actually hers. She is Henry’s daughter with his first wife.

Eliza gathers together items for a package she’s been planning to send to Henry, adding a new note to the parcel. She tries to be measured in her response, although the point of her quill scratches through the parchment twice. She is frustrated by the miles and miles of time, oceans of time, between his words and her retort.

Eliza then spends the rest of the morning alone, washing dishes, changing and cleaning bed linens, dusting the wooden staircase, darning old stockings, and polishing the silver set that belonged to Henry’s mother in anticipation of having to sell it. It used to sit atop a beautiful mahogany sideboard, but Eliza sold that piece six months ago for cash to run the house. Now she keeps the silver in a cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes. That way, when she sells it soon, she won’t miss it.

A sparse and unfulfilling lunch follows, stale brown bread with thin jam in the silence of her now clean kitchen. In these moments she misses her former housekeeper, Mrs. Charles, ter­ribly. For her elbow grease, certainly, but even more so for the pleasant conversation. Eliza reads Henry’s letter again over a sec­ond cup of tea. Then she sees clearly what she must do next, in response to Henry’s delay. She has no choice.

Excerpted from Daughters of Nantucket. Copyright © 2023 by Julie Gerstenblatt. Published by MIRA Books.