Compliments Can Be Honest and Heartfelt

The way she looked at me, looking deeply into my eyes, I had a flicker of thought that maybe she had lived in California so long she had become Californicated and she was hitting on me.

No, the flicker passed and I got back into my own head. Sally was not hitting on me. She was looking deeply into my eyes because she was actually complimenting me and being surprised. She could not tell whether my eyes were green or blue or grey. I told Sally that I had always considered my eyes grey and that is what I put on my state ID, but my eyes are actually turquoise -- blue and green. I have changeable eyes -- always have. I come from a family of blue-eyed people, but I do actually have turquoise eyes, that striking combination of blue and green that is far prettier than the turquoise stones that make up squash blossom necklaces or armlets, bracelets, etc. made of turquoise.

Sally was serious and so am I. Elizabeth Taylor had lavender eyes and I have turquoise eyes. There are such beautiful, arresting, and noticeable eye colors. I am one of them and I appreciate the people who notice, marvel, and mention their surprise and delight to me. It is not always about sex or lust or even sexual in nature. It is nice to be noticed and complimented -- and not just 'you have such a pretty face,' the way my Mom complimented me. Mom always coupled her compliments ('such a pretty face") with the slap in the fact.

Sally's compliment was not that kind of compliment because there was no slap. She was offering to do me a favor and hours later appeared at my door with the favor done and her surprise patently evident. Her compliment was very nice to see and hear and I was flattered. I am usually flattered when someone does something nice for me -- like Jim or Ken buying me a meal because they were buying meals for themselves and wanted to treat me. I had already mentioned that I could not pay them back because I was out of money, but they also knew that Meals On Wheels (MOW) had not shown up that day and they did not completely understand that I was comfortable with intermittent fasting. I accepted their kindness and let them know how much I appreciate their kindness. I always pay them back with a meal when I have food in the house and with keto because they do not understand or are knowledgeable about nutritional ketogenic lifestyles. It is also nice to serve them a fat bomb or a treat made without sugar and made with coconut or alternative flour.

I want to help people understand that there are many ways to live one's life and not all of them will make them sick or leave them with cancer or nearer death because they are fasting. I think of "A Chorus Line" where the auditioning actor is keeping his mother from eating cat food when he does not feed her and she cannot afford to feed herself. Sometimes, intermittent fasting is beneficial and healthful -- with moderation.

Or as my new friend says, Balanceology is also acceptable. Balance in all things -- especially food and dealing with other people -- is beneficial and healthy. Check it out at Balanceology by Al William Johnson. From what I have read so far, the introduction is well written and right on target. I have hopes for the rest of the book and believe it will be a good book.

I do not want to queer my review, but I do know what is good (to me) and what I like and will recommend, hence my surprise, delight, and appreciation of Sally's compliment to me.

Once upon a time, I wished I had eyes like Elizabeth Taylor, but turquoise-colored eyes are just as remarkable as lavender. I will take them since that is what I ended up with.

Anyway, I appreciate it when another person looks up and looks into another person's eyes, really sees them, and compliments them. I think most people compliment another out of some feeling of noticing and not knowing what else to say except "Your eyes are remarkable." I will take it and I will offer a compliment in return.

For me, of late, the best compliment other than thank you is not noticing their average eyes are more than average and saying so. How many people have lavender or turquoise eyes? If you happen to notice that someone else's eyes are remarkable and memorable, tell them. You do not have to be in love or lust or anything other than complimentary and looking deeply into the other's eyes. You do not have to have sex or romance on your mind. You obviously care enough to look up and look into another's eyes because you want to be noticed and that you are noticing that you share this life with the other person. It pays to notice and compliment another, but be sincere -- very sincere. Do not fake it and do not take advantage of the other person because you noticed them and looked into their eyes -- or their souls. You are present. They are present. Be glad and share the fact that you are glad to be in their presence and appreciate them -- and their remarkable eyes.

Do not follow your compliment with a slap in the face like my Mom.  Be truthful and open and honest. You would be surprised how often a civil response will stay an angry hand and maybe even a slap in the face, especially if you do not pinch their bottoms or have wrong thoughts.

Compliments also do not have to be followed with a slap in the face or a proposition. You decide if you would rather be nice and honest or abusive or want to get into the other person's pants -- or pocketbook.

That is all. Disperse.

Behind the Scenes

Various friends, intent on sharing their favorite new shows, have urged me to check them out. The list keeps growing and I finally managed to get through a few of them, three to be exact: Hawaii Five-O, The Walking Dead and Mike and Molly. I have opinions about them all.

First of all, I do not like zombies. I almost want to add, "Sam I am." I have read very few zombie stories that actually had more in them that literary versions of George Romero's classic movie, Night of the Living Dead. There is not much about zombies to like and most people get the biology completely wrong, unaware as they are of the decomposition of the human body and that rate at which the decomposition compromises function. I have seldom been entranced, awed or even not disgusted by zombie stories. It's no wonder vampires are more interesting and palatable as forbidden fruit; they can talk and move without bits of them falling off and there's the whole being able to interact with humans on an intellectual and personal level that is absent with zombies. Few writers, or filmmakers, make it to the top of my list when zombies are in the mix. Cast a Deadly Spell with Fred Ward is a good example of an interesting story with zombies where they are mindless workers and muscle for the bad guys. In those capacities, they make sense, and there is also the mention that they come cheaper by the dozen and have a very short shelf life, although I doubt I would want to live in a tract house built by zombie labor simply because there would undoubtedly be pieces of rotting flesh in the plaster, beneath the flooring and in the walls that would make the houses uninhabitable for at least a few months until the bits dried out and were less smelly. The only writer who makes the addition of zombies about something other than the inevitable apocalypse and armies of animated rotting corpses interesting add other elements, like Brian Keene's old race coming into our world through a wormhole and animating the dead in order to take back this dimension and Scott Edelman's zombies that provide the backdrop to a larger human truth. Those stories are interesting.

And there is Mary Ann who wrote a fascinating short story that remains with me. It is she, who dislikes zombies as much as I do, who raved about The Walking Dead from the AMC channel and pointedly urged me to watch the show. And I did. Aside from what seems at this point to be a very short-lived series since the main goals are gained within the first three shows, I cannot see how it can continue and not fall into supernatural soap opera territory. However, the show is interesting and I was quickly engaged.

The story revolves around a wounded cop and his search for his family, which he believes survived the zombie apocalypse. I won't tell the story or spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen this well written and acted series, but I will say it held my interest and I went back to watch the second installment. I was not expecting to make it through the first half hour, let alone two shows, which is all that is available at this point. The main character is handsome, but he has brains and compassion. He is a thoughtful and well rounded character with depth and he can act. The other characters he meets along the way, apart from the walking, shambling and sometimes running zombies, have depth and purpose and the actors portraying them get it right. The show is smart and interesting and very well done. The budget is not endless and there aren't a lot of explosions, other than gun fire, but the cast and crew make the most of what they have. This show is definitely worth watching, although I do believe it will have to pull a zombie rabbit out of the hat to keep up the momentum and set new goals to reach since the original goal is fast running out of time and heading toward what could be a soap opera cliche moment.

Christy suggested I watch Mike & Molly, the story of two fat people looking for an possibly finding love while surrounded by skinny people who torture them with advice while gorging themselves on massive quantities of food.

I read some of the articles and forum postings about this show and I don't agree that the fat jokes over shadow and outweigh the relationship between Mike and Molly. Mike is a cop and Molly is a fourth grade teacher who meet by chance at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting (OA) and are interested. Mike makes a fool of himself, as some guys do, and Molly is baffled by what seems to be his interest and his rapid retreat, until she has to take matters into her own hands, as women often do when faced with clueless and socially inept men, or at least men whose social skills are rusty and stiff from lack of use. One blogger complained that she found it disgusting to see Mike and Molly in a romantic clinch, but I did not. Romance is romance no matter the size of the people involved, and a kiss is still a kiss. The fat jokes do tend toward the sophomoric, but they are, at least from the four shows I watched, not out of place, if a bit mean at times. I wasn't completely put off because that is how most people, the fat and the thin, deal with the issue of obesity -- by self deprecating humor and meanness. I still have quite a few shows to get through before I decide whether or not the fat jokes take away from the awkward and burgeoning romance of two very nice and complex people.

The final show is Hawaii Five-O and I wasn't as put off by the show as most of the critic have been. It is a show about blowing things up, car chases, gun battles and beating up the bad (and good) guys. I remember the original series and was suitably interested in Jack McGarret and Dan-o, but my favorite character was Chin Ho, now played by Daniel Dae Kim, who is much younger than the original character and Korean and not Chinese. The other character on the team, previously played by another Asian and quite forgettable as characters go, is now played by Grace Park and is Chin Ho's cousin. Grace Park, of BSG fame, is also Korean. I guess the Asian races are interchangeable, at least in television.

Alex O'Loughlin plays Jack McGarrett and he is real eye candy. I liked him the first time I saw him and loved him as the vampire detective in Moonlight, the CBS series canceled after one season. I guess they are planning to cancel him again and put him into another detective or cop or enforcer slot on another remake show if the howling over low ratings continues. CBS obviously likes the actor, but can't come up with the right vehicle for his considerable talents.

McGarrett was born on Oahu, the main Hawaiian island, and is drawn back there by a continuing hunt for terrorists led by two brothers, one of whom he has captured in South Korea. One brother is killed in a failed rescue attempt and McGarrett's father is killed by the remaining brother, thus luring McGarrett back to Hawaii to bury his father and continue his five-year-long hunt to end the international arms trafficking and terrorism fronted by the brothers. Jean Smart, once Charlene of Designing Women fame, is suitably a tough politico governor who is willing to give McGarrett carte blanche and immunity to form a task force to rid her turf of terrorists and bad guys. She wants them off her island. McGarrett initially refuses until he is caught trying to remove evidence from an active crime scene by the haole from the Mainland assigned to his father's murder investigation, the new and not much improved Dan-o, an arrogant cop from New Jersey who relocated to be closer to his daughter, his wife having remarried and moved to the tropical paradise. Dan-o doesn't understand why anyone would want to live in Hawaii since there are no big cities, no skyscrapers and too much beach and water. He doesn't swim for fun and doesn't like the sun unfiltered by smog and mile-high buildings.

Chin Ho is a security guard who was kicked off the force because he was suspected of being on the take who got caught and his cousin is a world class surfer who blew out her knee and is one week shy of graduating from the police academy who will not be taken seriously because she's a woman and his cousin. Chin Ho is not eager to join forces with his old high school buddy, the guy who broke his high school football record, and his cousin is only along for the ride because she is unknown and can go undercover with the head human trafficker in humans on the island. All in all, a fair mix of talent and sexes that supposedly mirrors a PC cross section of the social classes.

There is plenty of action and lots of explosions in the first few moments of the show and they predictably continue throughout. On that side at least the show works. It does what it is meant to do, give those jonesing for summer action films a dose of special effects, blood and bullets on the small screen to ease their cravings. The relationships work less. Dan-o is insubordinate and cocky and a smart ass. McGarrett is far too belligerent and tough with a mere ounce of humor and compassion, which is probably because his father was just killed and he is on the trail of his murderer. McGarrett is smart, savvy and very unorthodox and that does work in his favor. However, he has been away from Hawaii too long to understand how the island works even though that is why the governor chose him for the task, because he understands how the island works. Definitely a fail in dialogue and stated motives. The Governor is a no-nonsense, tough talking politico who folds under pressure even though she has extended the offer of immunity, and must be reminded of how things work. A bit on the wishy-washy side, although I still cannot figure out why a cop would need immunity in the first place, unless it's another way of saying McGarrett and his future team will not be subject to the law and will be in essence a black operations team.

One of the things I liked most about the original show was the integrity of the members of McGarrett's team. They may brush the edges of the law, but they stayed within its confines. Maybe that says more about the current state of affairs in the war on terrorism -- excuse me, the situation of terrorism since there is no more war with the current administration -- and the techniques used to gain information and bring down suspected and known terrorists. It's like saying water boarding is all right with the Governor and the team can do whatever they like without fear of reprisal, although I doubt that is an issue for the current McGarrett's team.

Chin Ho signs on and brings his cousin, Kono, with him. As Kono, Grace Park looks suitably waif-like, which is part of what worked for her as a Cylon in Battlestar Galactica and made her a sympathetic character even though she was a mole for the bad guys, but she is far from being a conflicted waif. She is as rough and tough and ready to smash in a guy's face with a "love tap" as any of the team. What happened to women who were women and not men in drag? I remember the women on the Mission Impossible team and how they finessed their opponents, not merely resorted to kick boxing and love taps. Kono is about as soft as a granite bed and just about as engaging. Daniel Dae Kim is more a prop than an actual character, a mine of information about the way things are done on the island, but barely there when it comes down to brass knuckles and gun battles. That is McGarrett and Dan-o's turf, and they do it without winning too easily and come away with a few battle scars. Well, at least McGarrett got a few bruises and battle scars while Dan-o remained clean and unruffled throughout, still trash talking and smart mouthing to the end.

Hawaii Five-O is a commentary on what Hollywood, on the small and large screens, thinks the real world is like and less about a smart cop show with beautiful vistas and lots of sand and surf. The characters mirror those goals and are good for a fight and show up well against the backdrop of crime, blood, explosions, and bullets. Don't expect any real depth, although there were glimmers that no doubt will be eradicated in future shows. Even the stated reason for forming the task force with McGarrett at its head -- because he knows how the island works -- is refuted in the first few minutes of the show when McGarrett meets Dan-o and signs him on because he has a new and different perspective and then bumps into Chin Ho Kelly for the first time in 15 years and is told he is out of the loop. This version of the original in no way improves on the original formula and is all about action and special effects and not so much about people or any insights into current world politics, methods, and means. It is a Band-Aid for die hard Die Hard fans and little more. Too bad, because it has the right talent and the potential for much more, and it fails. Still, Alex O'Loughlin and Daniel Dae Kim, what I saw of him in his rubber bullet uniform, are worth watching just as eye candy.

That's it for some of the shows I have been urged to watch. In short, The Walking Dead is surprisingly good and a smart, well written show. Mike & Molly has potential and is charming and the new and special effects improved Hawaii Five-O is not new, special or much improved. It would be better to wait until everyone who remembers the original shows when they were smarter, funnier and just better to die before remaking another old series. It seldom works out.

That is all. Disperse.

In the Darkness There is Danger

The latest box of books to review from Authorlink came on Friday and I decided to dive in with Ted Dekker's latest thriller The Bride Collector. It was a bad choice for bedtime reading, which is my favorite place to read and my favorite form of sleep aid. Can't sleep? Read. Works every time, not because the books are boring but because they relax and transport me to a place where my body, a usually tensed wirespring of emotions held in check and muscles cramped from over or under use, can let go and float on a puffy cloud of alternate realities and wondrous prose. Not last night.

I knew from the cover, a bas relief picture of a bridal veil hanging from a rusted, bloody, oft-used meat hook, and the title that it was a thriller, but I usually don't have problems sleeping after reading books with graphic violence or horrific scenes. Every one in a while . . . This was one of those once in a while times.

Eyes drooping from fatigue (I haven't been sleeping through the night, harking back to some newborn state I avoided the first time around, probably emotional or mental colic), I bookmarked my page, stacked the book on top of the others and turned out the light, composing my heavy limbs for sleep. It didn't take long for Morpheus to gather me in his arms and whisper sleeping thoughts in my ear before I was yanked out of the bliss and into a world of darkness and terror where I was hunted by a family of throwbacks intent on playing Operation with my not so vital parts until they could dig out the vital parts with a rusty, bent spoon.

The leader of this homicidal group had his smirking, eager brothers hold me while he prodded between spine and right kidney with a thin lead rod, increasing the pressure until I writhing in their grip, biting my lip to keep from screaming in terror and pain. How I got away I don't know, but get away I did, running up a flight of stairs that appeared out of nowhere with the happy howling hounds on my trail. At the top of the stairs were two shovels, one point and the other flat-bladed, and I turned, grabbed the pointed shovel and stood my ground ready to swing at the first head within reach, except the shovels were chained to each other and to the banister. It was a trick and a trap. I started to run and catapulted out of the nightmare into drowsy wakefulness unable to free myself from the grip of the nightmare or wake fully. The struggle continued with the hounds hot on my heels, having grabbed my dream state to reel me back in and back in I went, fighting for consciousness and being dragged back inch by inexorable inch until finally I broke free, still sleep heavy, and tried to change the dream until at last I was saved by a full bladder near to bursting. It's the first time I was glad for nature's call.

That wasn't in the book and I hadn't finished the second chapter.

Dekker's writing is so visceral and evocative and the killer so insidiously dark that it set my mind to creating a nightmare all its own. I've decided that under no circumstances will I ever read a Ted Dekker thriller that close to bedtime, nor will I read him in bed unless there's plenty of daylight. Nope, reading Dekker will be cut off a minimum of six hours before bed while there's still plenty of light and a chance to purge his prose with frothy musicals, tear jerking romances and plenty of time to get it all out into my paper journals. His writing is far to suggestive to my overactive and very creative mind.

The last Dekker book I read and reviewed, which was also my first, was Green, the last and the first in a cycle of four. Once I started reading the book I was drawn into the story and quickly immersed. I resented needing to sleep; I wanted to finish it all in one sitting. That didn't happen, but the world and the ideas on which I gorged myself were a banquet for the senses and I enjoyed every moment, returning to read as soon as I finished work. Luckily, I work at home, so it was a short commute. I curled up in bed and flew away to the worlds of Dekker's imaginings and in spite of the religious themes, which were seamlessly woven into the overall narrative. This book, The Bride Collector, is a different Dekker than the one that fascinated me before. This Dekker knows the deepest darkness of the human soul wherein lies the joy and the insatiable need to warp the very fabric of reality and refashion it in its own image. This Dekker weaves nightmares and taps the instinctive and deep-seated fears in all of us, and especially, obviously, in me.

I highly recommend Ted Dekker's books. I must finish The Bride Collector in order to review it -- two chapters is not enough -- but I will read it in the daylight where nightmares can't drag me back into the abyss. Then I'll get Boneman's Daughters and read that in daylight, too, but I will read it. I suggest you do the same. Make sure it's daylight and keep your loved ones close; don't go to bed alone and, under no circumstances, read Dekker's thrillers in bed.

News and Reviews

Bread was in the oven and filling the house with the aroma of yeast and goodness when I got the word. The review of Past Imperfect has been posted at Authorlink and it was worth waiting for.


Diana Palmer is a woman with a plan. Fixing up her plane in the hangar, wearing her grease-stained overalls, a voice comes from behind her; a voice that still, after all these years, gives her goose bumps and releases the butterflies in her stomach. Turning around, she meets Adrian Cahill’s familiar gaze. This is the moment Diana has waited for and, immediately, she goes into her “act” with the man she once loved with all her heart.

Adrian Cahill lost his soul mate a long time ago. Lynn was the woman who inspired him and intrigued him, but he’d made the ultimate mistake when he told her that she simply wasn’t the “one.” Upon his heart-breaking declaration, Lynn had raced out of his life and into a fatal-car accident. Adrian has never forgiven himself for the words he spoke to Lynn all those years ago, but upon meeting Diana in the hangar, the feeling of the “one” comes over him in a rush. Perhaps he’d been right all those years ago, because Diana Palmer, in her grease-stained overalls, with her strong no-nonsense attitude makes his heart beat out of his chest.

What Adrian doesn’t know is that the woman he shunned years before is, in fact, the goddess who stands before him. Lynn has changed her appearance - needing reconstructive surgery after her horrible accident. While recuperating, Lynn had bought a cabin in Pennsylvania where a local handyman by the name of John Logan came into her life and brought his friendship into her otherwise empty world. Over time, Lynn became Diana, taking on the identity that would give her the ability to re-connect with Adrian Cahill, and get the marriage proposal that she richly deserves.

With wit, drama, and just the right amount of mystery, Diana/Lynn reconciles with Adrian and takes him on the ride of his life. The author not only delivers the “game” with precision and humor, but also offers a twist at the end that no reader will be expecting.

Fun, sassy, and mysterious…this is one of those books that you won’t put down until you find out exactly who is playing who.

Reviewer: Amy Lignor

Of computer mice and mien

Since everyone seems to know about the Tiger Woods' babes, except for me, I thought I'd share a little of the Tiger love.



There. Don't you feel better now? I don't, but that's only because I have to work.

I was up until past 11 p.m. last night finishing a review book that needed to be reviewed and sent in this morning. I fell asleep reading, which is not that uncommon, except I don't remember when I turned out the light. No, it's not burnt out; it was actually turned out. I just don't remember doing it. After a day of typing an extra 60 reports, amounting to 150 pages, I am entitled to a little fugue state now and again. However, the book, Leaving Gee's Bend, which is probably a YA novel, is actually quite good and it will go to my granddaughter Savannah to add to her growing collection of books. The other book, a fantasy novel, the first in a new series, Flesh and Fire was surprising and innovative. The author, Laura Anne Gilman, used the story of Jesus Christ, turned it on its head a little and created a world where the magic is in the grapes and the magicians, Vinearts, wine makers who imbue their spell wines with specific properties, like healing wounds, staunching blood, creating winds, mending bones and even setting fires that burn on what they are told to burn. There's a good deal of the wine making art and the oenophile's sensuous savor of the taste and flavors/aromas of wine, but that doesn't detract too much from the main story. I recommend both books.

I've a few minutes left before I have to shuffle back to my office and dig in for another day of typing op reports and getting stiffed on the page counts, so I'll keeping wandering aimlessly through my thoughts in hopes of finding something worthwhile to write.

Or not.

At least I'll be able to stop this insanity early on Thursday, although probably not. I just won't get paid for it until next year because the office closes the books early on Thursday to make sure we get paid next week. I'd keep thinking of the money if only I wasn't so tired and achy and feel like I could drop off to sleep sitting at my desk in the midst of an involved and technical cardiothoracic surgery or penoplasty (that last one is cosmetic surgery of a kind on penises -- there have been a lot of those lately. Don't they grow normal penises any more?). Nothing like resurfacing the shaft of penises, glans wings and aortic valve replacements to make life interesting.

Or not.

That is all. Disperse.

Self-serving promotion

A little while ago I received another review of Past Imperfect from Night Owl Romance and it's a good one.

Here's the money shot:

One thing about Diana is that she is one determined lady and no matter what the problem is she prevails. These are three people with so many obstacles yet one chance for one of them to find their true love. I just loved it.

That's 4.5 out of 5 stars. I can live with that.

That is all. Disperse.

The week in review and reviews

This morning's email contained a notice that my interview with Lisa Haselton will go live on Wednesday, November 11th, otherwise known as Veteran's Day and my best friend Chili Bob's birthday. Lisa called my answers fantastic. That remains to be seen. I was, as always, just being myself, but I'd be interested in what you all think, especially you, , because your name came up.

Wow. The sky outside my window looks like a layered blue and white parfait with a mile of whipped cream on the top. Probably means snow, although I haven't checked the forecast in a few days. I've been buried in work and Alzheimer's disease of the early onset variety.

Did you know that there are specific tests available to detect Alzheimer's in utero and by a simple blood test? There are. It's only for the early onset Alzheimer's disease (EOAD) because that is as a result of faulty genes that are passed on. Offspring have a 50% chance of getting EOAD. They say drowning is pleasant when you quit struggling and from what I read in Lisa Genova's Still Alice Alzheimer's is very much like drowning. Sad, haunting, devastating and touching, although I don't care for Alice's husband who loves his work more than he loves his wife. I suppose life must go on even when one's partner is there and not there.

Finally got a box of books out to Aunt Anne and right this moment she is giving Jaye her autographed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family. Jaye will be "over the moon" according to Aunt Anne because a contributing author sent her a signed copy. At least she is easy to please. Timmy will give my fan his copy of the book this weekend, but I sure hope he reads On Esther Time because in the future it may well be him.

Aunt Anne told me as soon as she opened the box and took out the book she had to read it and she loved the story, and the signed copy of Past Imperfect I sent, which she will not loan out to Jaye. That one stays in Aunt Anne's possession.

I just finished Ted Dekker's new book, and the final book of a four-book cycle, Green. It's really good and I have to get the other three books, Black, Red, and White. This is strange fare but it's also fascinating. The characters and world created are amazing and although there is a strong good and evil element to the book, it's not overwhelming. The story takes precedence over the religious themes. If the other three books are as good as this one, I may have to check out more of Dekker's writing. I haven't been that engrossed in a very long time.

Well, breakfast is almost over and I need to get back to the work of editing and laundry, so arrivaderci, au revoir, bye-bye.

That is all. Disperse.

A tangled, twisted review

Google Alerts (if you don't have it, get it) sent me a message about Past Imperfect. I didn't get an email from the reviewer, but Google Alerts let me know a new review was posted, and I was surprised.

Read it for yourself. Hibiscus, the reviewer, gave Past Imperfect 3.5/5. I can definitely live with that.

And the money shot: Past Imperfect, in my humble opinion, was not a perfect story but it was a very good story with many twists and turns. The twisted minds and manipulations of some of the characters made Past Imperfect a darker romance than what I was expecting but I still had fun yelling at them in my mind. I enjoyed reading it and think if you enjoy a romance with lots of surprises, you will too.

That is all. Disperse.

The hidden secret of Twilight

A smart review that touted the first blush of high school romance and the overwhelming feelings that come raging hormones and the perfect guy, usually older and out of reach, made me decide to ignore the bad reviews and read Twilight for myself. There's good news and bad news.

The bad news is that, as Stephen King said about J. K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyer never met an adjective or an adverb she didn't like, and she uses them all, frequently, sometimes many of them in a single sentence, and I won't go into the fact that there are no paragraphs devoid of overwritten, overblown and overused adverbs. The writing is sophomoric at best and needed a good editor. And how many times is it necessary to tell the reader how perfect Edward is? Certainly not in every single chapter or several times on the same page. Please. Now for the good news.

I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep so I continued reading Twilight with the intent of being able to fall back to sleep. Eight chapters in, it hit me, a rush of emotions and memories that exploded as if they were happening all over again. First, it was a trickle and then a deluge. This is where the book should have started, not with all the drivel that went before.

It is that first roller coaster, heart and stomach jostling to reach the throat first and that low down, aching, humming void that threatens to engulf you that Meyer tapped into and wrote about. That's what makes the book so appealing to young girls and middle-aged women caught in the irreversible tide of aging, car pools, teenagers and bills. It's not the writing because that is facile. It's not the evocation of a place or characters that transcend the page. It's that wonder, awe and aching need to touch another human being that is too far above you to even notice a little nobody like you.

I was a sophomore and had fallen head over heels for a senior. He was perfect, from his crew cut and athletic body to his black pants, black silk shirt and thin white silk tie. He radiated confidence and a worldliness that was so powerful I couldn't speak when I was near him, and he spoke to me, invited me to see him in the library where I stood every free period just to listen to him talk, half afraid anything that came out of my mouth would be inane and naive. I was besotted. He noticed me. Talked to me. Spent time with me. He was a god.

We went for a walk in the woods at Darby Park, wandering along the trails until we got to the river. He leapt from rock to rock, urging me to follow him to the island on the other side of the stream that joined the river surrounding the island. He came back for me and I started across. I fell into the water and he fished me out and got me to the island. That's when it happened, that yawning, aching void that opened just below my belly button and sent my blood hurtling through my body.

I was soaked, and so was he, so we took off our clothes, not all of them, just shirt, shoes, socks and pants. We lay down in the warm sunshine in a hidden glade on the island after laying the clothes out on bushes and grass to dry. Clad and bra and panties, I was nervous and shy. He wasn't. Even wearing just jockey shorts, he was impressive. And then he touched me, his hand warm on my chilled skin, and my body went up in flames. His caress was feather light along my trembling skin. He thought I was cold and moved closer, holding me in his arms. I wasn't cold. I was in shock. He touched me.

He was a gentleman and didn't take advantage of our situation. I didn't understand it at the time because I wanted -- more. He wanted more, but not from me. He was in love with someone else, a girl two years older than he who had offered her body to him and he had refused out of fear and awkwardness. He wanted her. I wanted him. His best friend wanted me.

I had the same effect on Paul, two years older than me and a senior, that Dick had on me.

Every time I walked into a room, Paul lost the power of speech. When I got near, I heard his heart drumming in his chest and see the sweat that beaded his upper lip and forehead. His hands shook and he always stuffed them in his pockets so I couldn't see. If I touched him in any way, like brushing off a piece of lint or taking his hand or arm, he trembled, sometimes so violently I thought he had St. Vitus' Dance. The first time he put his arms around me he nearly passed out.

Bella's feeling and reactions to Edward were the same as mine, and Dick's and Paul's, and reading about the two of them in the sunlit glade brought it all rushing back. All those feelings of unworthiness, awe, trembling and that aching void begging to be filled are there. That's what Stephanie Meyer captured.

There are stories that cannot be dimmed by a lack of technical skill and writing talent. No matter how bad the writing, the essence of the story, like a perfect diamond in a pile of muddy sand, shine with fiery clarity. Stephanie Meyer has a lot to learn about writing and a lot of bad habits to break, but she definitely found the diamond in the mud and reminded legions of women and teenage girls that they're not alone. What they discovered they share with millions of other teenage girls and adult women -- the first disconcerting, painful, awkward and reverent blush of love.

Money shots

Last week was a difficult and challenging week and a few things slipped past my radar, at least in terms of putting them up on LJ. Two of those slip-ups involve reviews of Past Imperfect reviews. I warned you that I would get positively obnoxious with all of the book stuff, so be forearmed.

In order to keep the obnoxiousness to a minimum, I'll only post the money shots.

First, from Ruth Shelton, aka , "...The deft handling of Diana's contradictory emotions makes "Past Imperfect" a believable tale, and her character one that will resonate with everyone who's ever fooled themselves about what they wanted, and why they wanted it in the first place.

I only gave this 4 stars rather than 5 because I wish Logan's character had been more deeply developed. Dare one hope for a sequel?" .

I must commend Ruth on her correct use of the comma in the last paragraph. Bravo!

This morning's email list contained a review from Coffee Time Romance reviewer, Matilda, who ends her review with "...Past Imperfect is a pleasurable read, one that will touch your heartstrings and even complicate you on which man Diana should be with. Smooth flowing dialogue makes this a story you can breeze [through] without losing a thing. This is a book worthy of the shelf space.

There have been random reviews from gentlemen of my acquaintance who read the book out of friendship and were surprised -- pleasantly, so they tell me -- that they "thoroughly enjoyed" the book and the characters. They even related to the men, but I won't say which ones. That will remain their individual secrets.

One reviewer emailed to say that the book didn't hook her and she didn't feel she could review it since she couldn't get into it, but that is to be expected. I am not so naive as to think that everyone who reads Past Imperfect will like it or won't damn it with faint praise. If everyone liked only mysteries or nonfiction biographies, there would be no room for the diversity that currently abounds in the publishing and reading worlds. That's a good thing, a very good thing.

That is all. Disperse.

A shot across the bow

I've been swamped with work and getting marketing together for Past Imperfect, but it seems to be paying off. My publisher, L&L Dreamspell just sent me the link to my first review. Past Imperfect got 4.5 out of 5 stars. I'm pleased.

I'm ecstatic.

I'm high on ecstatic pleasure.

When I called Beanie to tell her she told me about her visit to the dentist. Eww, right? Wrong. She took my book with her and was reading it in the waiting room, carrying it with her when she sat in the dentist's chair. He asked her about the book and she told him her sister -- that would be me -- wrote it and that it is a romance. He said he and his wife would love to read it and asked how to get it. She gave him directions and he said he and his wife would have to have their own copies. Two more sales. Not much in the scheme of things, but one person became two and those two, if they like the book will mean more people. Who knows? My book may go viral.

It could happen.

Anyway, I'm off to spread the news. Happy Monday to everyone and don't give up on your dreams. It may take a while, but if you don't let go, they turn into books with good reviews. My first review is good so I can handle the bad ones now -- and they will come.

That is all. Disperse.

Tech wars and terminators

It's actually nippy here today. Before anyone asks, yes, really nippy. I was forced to put on clothing before venturing into the cool confines of my living room. I turned off the fan and donned real clothing, instead of my usual morning uniform of over sized t-shirt or white cotton nightgown now wearing great splotches of black ink. I had an accident with the ink bottle when I filled my fountain pen last night while sitting on the bed. The great spill, as it will now be called, cost me half a bottle of Levenger's finest black ink and another shower, not to mention the damage to the sheet and my nightgown. I only have two nightgowns and that is why I am dressed before dawn instead of lounging around under the faux mink throw with my feet up. The other one is in the laundry that I didn't do over the weekend, along with my over sized t-shirts.

It's also frustrating here this morning. I have no Internet.

I called the phone company because the DSL was wonky yesterday and after a long menu of pushing buttons to respond to a menu-driven idiot system asking me to check the things I'd checked before I called, I finally spoke to a human being. After a few minutes and a couple of tests on the other end (I think they just put you on hold and go for coffee or a restroom break), the result was that I need a technician to come out today to check the wiring. I had this problem before and the guy told me he replaced the crumbling and aged wiring with all brand new, high tech wiring, but maybe he didn't. I suffered through four hours of no Internet access before calling my ISP and asking for a local dial-up number, configured the program, plugged in the phone wire and listened to the tinny sound of the modem dialing, rushing static and then voila! connection at 54 kbps. That's a far cry from the usual light speed. Nothing like crawling along at sub-light speeds. But I was connected and checked my email.

The real reason for going the dial-up route instead of waiting for a technician to show up between the hours of 8 and 12 today was because I needed to get my weekly reviews written and sent so I would get paid this week. With no guarantee my access would be fixed by 10 a.m., I needed to take care of things ahead of schedule, and I'm glad I did. Books read. Check. Reviews written. Check. Email written and reviews attached (I forget the attachment once in a while). Check. Email sent. Check. Done and done. Deadline met.

While I was online checking on some other necessary information, like funds available for paying bills and rent and buying food, I did a little research and reading and engaged in a little Live Journal badinage between one of my favorite LJ friends. He usually has something interesting to say and it often involves food and laughter. Last night was no exception. We talked of callused gun boats, the efficacy of large pink grapefruit to soften and remove said calluses and the farming of maggots for digesting dead flesh. You had to be there. Then I disconnected the dial-up and went to bed early with a book.

This morning, dressed and ready for a quick trip to the grocery store for breakfast foods, I decided to turn on the computer and check email, just to get it out of the way. As the modem began to do its little tonal dance, the line stutter-beeped. I had a voice mail message. Someone called when I was online last night. I unhooked the line, plugged it into the phone and dialed my voice mail. Two messages. The first was from the phone company. They canceled the technician this morning because the problem is an outage in the area. Well, duh! A computer generated phone call will let me know when the outage has been resolved. Oh, goody! It was their problem all along. I figured that out before I answered the 50 stupid questions about whether the modem was plugged in and the cables connected.

One thing I have noticed about technical support is they don't know much about technology and with their kind of support in my bra my boobs would be on the floor. The people usually speak English and reside within the confines of the continental United States, but their expertise is limited to their memorized spiel. Get them off track by asking a pertinent question and explaining that you did the things they're asking you to do before you called and they are completely lost and must go back to the beginning. I often wonder if they're not computer generated menus that just sound like real human beings because they sure don't act like rational, intelligent, tech-savvy people. If that's the current generation of artificial intelligence, I don't think Skynet is going to happen in our lifetime and no terminators will be striding across the landscape over our decomposing flesh and stripped skeletons any time soon.

Long story short: I still have no Internet without dial-up which ties up my phone so I won't know when the outage is fixed. At least I have access and I'm dressed and ready to go outside, get in my car and start driving until I find some quiet, secluded mountain valley to stop, get out and scream until my throat is bloody and my voice fails me. Life is good.

That is all. Disperse.

Unexpected gifts

I love being a reviewer. Having access to some of the best writers and books in the world is a huge perk and keeps my book buying budget down. The only bad thing about that is that I end up buying more food and that means I have a harder time losing weight. It's so much easier on a starvation diet in a house full of books.

The mailman dropped a package on my deck this morning, a white quilted package full of book. A nice heavy and thick book that wouldn't fit in the mailbox. The sender's address on the label was a dead giveaway and I'm sure people heard my Yahoo! all the way to Trinidad. Inside the plastic wrapped package was a first edition copy of Tarot for Writers and it is going to take a lot of self discipline to go back to work and do my job instead of reading every single solitary page and absorbing all that knowledge. But here I go again, back to work again, so I can finish and dive into the well of tarot and writing and my idea of heaven.

That is all. Disperse.

Twilight in the Zone

You were not here last night
And I could not sleep.
Will you be here tomorrow?

Egyptian poem -- 7th Dynasty

Last night I received the galleys for Past Imperfect and a compliment from my publisher in capital letters about how I did a great job and how much better the book is. That's due to having a great editor who made me see my story from a different perspective and a publisher who asked the right questions. I actually rewrote several scenes, added some layers to the characters and shifted the motivation slightly. I've just begun to go through the galleys, but so far it looks really good. This is the part of the publishing process that always makes me feel like a marathon runner in sight of the finish line.

The feeling that this is real and the book is about to hit the shelves is intoxicating. One friend said he could almost understand, that it must be the way he felt when he finished his Masters of Science thesis. Then, in typical fashion, he said it wasn't really the same. But it is. It is all about accomplishment. He worked hard to write his Masters thesis just as every writer whose words are immortalized in print between covers works hard to write a book or story. Seeing all those hours of frustration and single-minded concentration come together as a homogeneous whole is the same.

For me, the next step is the copy edit, followed by the typeset version and then the book with its cover art, which I still have not seen. What I have seen is the ISBN number. The book is real and it is just the first of its kind. I knew the day would come and now it is here. My book has an ISBN number. That is something only my writer friends can fully appreciate. To the rest of the world it is just red tape. To a writer, it is tangible proof of reality. Win or lose, the book is a reality that has measurable dimensions. It is intoxicating.

Into this rosy afterglow comes another reality: work and reviews, the staples of my daily life. There is also Don who wants my full attention this weekend to help him look at more properties. I feel like whining, "Aren't you done yet?" I want to enjoy my little accomplishment, read my words and make the final changes before I dive back into the latest book to review and finish polishing the review I've been working on for a week. I also want time to polish the next book and write a few stories with looming deadlines. In short, I want to spend my time in the Writing Zone where the world narrows to the arena where I wrestle ideas and words to the page.

Roses and Australia

That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that they weave so well.

Roses. Fragrant, beautiful, flourishing roses. I love them, but only if they smell good. Roses, or any flower, that has no fragrance is not for me and I am not for them. Nothing like mixing and mingling a little of the Bard of Avon with a bit of Frank Sinatra to start the day.

I want roses. I'm going to plant roses and dig up the evergreen hedge in the planters surrounding the front and side of my cottage. I'm also going to plant some perennials to encourage butterflies and hummingbirds on this little island of greenery in the sea of asphalt that surrounds me. A few vegetables and some herbs and maybe even a few planters to surround the deck and create a wall of color and beauty. I'm in a nesting phase and I will have a beautiful nest when I'm done, inside and out. I need the fragrance and color to combat the fumes of buses and trucks and traffic and the smell of hot asphalt under the summer sun that give me headaches. A little bit of faery in a land of machines and urban sprawl, not unlike the outback in Australia during the big wet. Now that was something to see. It's too bad the characters who peopled it were so one dimensional.

I'm talking about the movie, Australia with Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman, featuring a very brief cameo by Bryan Brown. Now that was a collage of beauty and mediocrity that didn't surprise me.

Nicole Kidman played Lady Sarah Ashley with all the sensitivity and talent of a fifth rate contract actress for Mack Sennett and her acting was little short of slapstick with brief -- very brief -- moments of ability that failed to transcend a stock portrayal of privileged English upper class deigning to set things right among the savages. Even the love scenes were barely believable and she had such wonderful material to work with. Who wouldn't want to kiss and be kissed by Hugh Jackman? Obviously not Kidman because she approached it with all the gusto of eating a slug sandwich.

Hugh Jackman, on the other hand, as Drover was marvelous. While Kidman was chewing the scenery, he was completely at home as the rootless wanderer questing the savage world with an ease and familiarity born partly of talent and mostly of being at home in the landscape and his own skin. He was surprising and had depth. The only depth Kidman seemed to find was in the collagen injected into her trout lips.

I'll never understand why women with perfectly natural lips insist on pumping them up with collagen and steroids so they look like Lisa Rinna or Angelina Jolie. It never works well and they only end up looking bizarre. /rant

The story of the movie is about the lost generation of half caste (white/aborigine) children who are taken from their aborigine mothers (who won't miss them ten minutes after they're gone because they don't have the feelings of a white mother) and forced to live on Missionary Island to be taught by priests how to be white, despite the fact that forcing them to be white doesn't make them white and won't better their lot in white society. They're called Creamies. Lady Ashley and Drover are just the vehicles to tell Nullah's story, a tale of adversity and prejudice and incredible depth and beauty that was marred by Kidman's performance. She was not, however, alone in her over acting and scenery chewing.

She was joined briefly by Bryan Brown as the rapacious cattle baron whose monopoly on providing beef to the military is only exceeded in the greed shown by his second-in-command, Neil Fletcher, played by David Wenham. Wenham's overly melodramatic villain was worse than Brown's greedy cattle baron only because he got more screen time. I'm certain Brown would have been up to the task to overplaying and phoning in his stereotypical drunk with power boss had he had just a few more lines. Brown's portrayal was lazy and uneven while Wenham only lacked a long black mustache to twirl while tying melodramatic Sarah to the railroad tracks. Good thing there were none or this movie could not have been saved by Jackman and the beautiful young boy playing Nullah, Brandon Walters.

Perhaps the most fascinating of all the characters was King George played by aboriginal actor David Gulpilil who was a sphinx of magic and mystery and heart.

A few minor characters managed to pull off their part of the film with workmanlike precision and a touch of talent, but it was hard to get past the awfulness that was Kidman, Brown and Wenham. I expected better of Brown and Wenham and was sadly disappointed.

Even so, the movie is worth seeing if you're depressed and need a laugh or if you just want to be awed by the cinematography that drinks in the stark and surprising beauty of the Australian outback. That is worth the price of the ticket, especially if you're not into seeing the buff and handsome figure of Hugh Jackman wet and half naked or just half naked. Even with a rough beard, he's what makes the Big Wet really wet.

That is all. Disperse.

Excess and eccentricity

One of the best parts about being a book reviewer is being surprised by what books arrive in the mail. One of the worst parts about being a book reviewer is being surprised by what books arrive in the mail.

One of the books I got this time around was purportedly a humorous memoir. It was also a Christian memoir overflowing with Bible verses, half pages of verses and citations and prayers and, even though some of the prayers were funny, most of them were tedious. Every chapter contained some heavy-handed Christian dogma and, while I understand and appreciate religious zealotry, it was also also a bit much.

At times like these, I focus on the story and the tale being told. I don't share the author's beliefs or his way of looking at and dealing with things, but I respect his right to do so. I'm a reviewer. I don't have to believe or even share a writer's faith, just critique how well he writes and gets his point across. Sometimes it's hard to do, but that's why I get paid the big bucks.

I have to admit there were times I laughed out loud, but Southern writers are all about excess and eccentricity and they put their madness right out on the front porch in the rocking chair with a pitcher of sweet tea close to hand. Southerners are proud of their loony relatives, not like the rest of the country who hide their mad relatives in the attic or in nursing homes and sanitariums, although nowadays they call them spas or treatment centers.

They Popped My Hood and Found Gravy on the Dipstick is as Southern and funny as it gets and in that respect Todd Starnes did a good job. It's a Christian book and that should guide every reader's decision. If you don't mind the constant references to church brothers, sisters and families or Bible verses or the Christian agenda, plow ahead and enjoy yourself. There is a lot to like and Todd's story is an amazing journey from the abyss looking at death to running a New York marathon, a journey that covers the loss of 150 pounds and of both of his parents as he turns his life around, but refuses to give up BBQs and all things pig.

Honeymoon in Tehran

Honeymoon in Tehran is one of the books I recently reviewed, but 300-400 words is not enough to explain what this book contains or what insights it provided.

First and foremost, Azadeh Moaveni's book is a memoir, a history of her more recent time in Iran before and after her marriage. The honeymoon part of the book is not just about her marriage, which comprises the last one-third of the book, but about her relationship with Iran, its customs, political climate and people.

In many ways, Moaveni's honeymoon was part of a continuing cycle in an abusive relationship with Iran, and that relationship, as well as the relationship of most Iranians with their country and its government, is abusive. What else would you call it when the government goes through periods of crackdowns on satellite dishes and dress codes and then ignore those same things just to crack down on them again when the unsuspecting citizens lapse into a feeling of safety and marginal freedom just to be plunged back into terror, fear and paranoia?

The government jams the Internet and satellite television all the time, but having a satellite dish is against the law, and yet millions of Iranians have them, pointing out that in the past when government workers came to kick down the dishes they were rude to the doormen and the families and now they politely march up to the roof and kick down the dishes and take them away. It's the plaintive claim of any abused person who does their best to find something good about the relationship they either cannot leave or are afraid to leave, and it is Moaveni's reaction as well. Iranians know they are breaking the law by having satellite dishes, but they keep buying more dishes and putting them back up in order to have a little freedom and a chance to see something other than the heavy-handed religious and state operated channels they are allowed.

It is the same for dress codes. The chador, a traditional shapeless black, sometimes patterned, garment that covers from head to toe and held together by the hand or teeth, is worn by extremely religious women. The manteau is a long coat that must be worn when a woman is in public, although modern Iranian women who are more secular and less religious wear shorter and tighter manteaus when the government police and Basiji (members of a volunteer paramilitary organization, or civilian militia, mostly populated by young people from poorer sections of the country and Tehran) are less vigilant. And it is the same thing for head scarves. When the government is on a crusade to fine and imprison any Iranian woman not wearing an opaque and voluminous head scarf, women wear sheer and colorful head scarves. The problem is that no one knows when the government will change its tone and mood, but secular Iranians have learned to cope, just as Moaveni learned to cope, dancing along a dangerous razor's edge line between the cycle of rage and honeymoon with the government and her homeland.



Despite what the Western world believes about educated and modern Iranians' devotion and belief in Ahmadinejad, the truth is very different. Ahmadinejad is hated by most Iranians, except for those in the religious right, and suffer under his rule. They are ashamed of his ranting and raging against the Western world and his stance on Israel, but the cannot do anything about it since he is the figurehead chosen by the mullahs (religious leaders) to govern the secular government. During his tenure, Iranians have watched their marginal economy take a nose dive as Ahmadinejad and the mullahs drive the country deeper and deeper into debt by funding Hamas and Hezbollah and other terrorist organizations while antagonizing the West by continuing work on nuclear weapons instead of focusing on providing clean and safe electricity as publicly stated.

Just after Ahmadinejad was elected, Moaveni interviewed a mullah and asked why the people, who wanted a secular government, voted for a man "...who considers cemeteries decorative." He responded, "Do you think the people who voted for him even knew that? He spoke only about jobs and the economy. Eight years of failed political reform disappointed people. It made them indifferent to politics. [T]hey figured that if they could not have real freedom, they might as well have more manageable rent, better jobs." Arising from obscurity, Ahmadinejad's "...campaign slogn, 'We Can and We Will' implied fighting corruption, not building the Bomb..." Despite his belligerent attitude and his naïveté and amateurish fiscal policies that resulted in the further ruin of the economy, many Iranians applauded him -- at first.

Despite the "...cozy regard [for America that] had evaporated under President Bush...no one appreciated Ahmadinejad's party ridiculous, party insulting letter [to President Bush and considered it] embarrassing to Iran and Iranians." And yet Moaveni assured a friend in California, who wanted to come to her wedding that "...[i]t's safe! People love Americans here. You'll get marriage proposals in the street, probably."

Interspersed with the darker side of Iran is the beauty of its culture and the reminiscent glory of its past before the arrival of Islam into the Persia of ancient days and fame. Moaveni's descriptions of her extended family and the world they inhabit make Iran sound like a paradise, or at least dwindling pockets of paradise in a toxic world where people become ill and die from the pollution or take their lives in their hands when they go shopping for food or go for a stroll with their children.

Fruit sellers notice when their patrons are buying less fruit because of the economy and tuck a few extra pieces of fruit in their patrons' bags. Western stores glitter for a brief moment before censors black out objectionable illustrations and words. Uneven sidewalks trip and harm the unwary while in poor neighborhoods gangs of Basiji thugs harass women not sufficiently or modestly dressed and covered. In the distance on days when the pollution isn't a thick smoke-filled haze, the distant mountains glisten with snow and families trapped in ugly cement buildings cut into apartments escape to family estates in nearby rural communities where fountains cool the air of walled gardens and children laugh and play with their families.

Iran is a world of conflicting views, modern urban sensibilities and unstable government pulled by secular and religious concerns and Azadeh Moaveni's Honeymoon in Tehran an attempt to breach the gap between Western ideas of Iran and the realities of its beauty and dangers. Even among her extended family in Iran, Moaveni's Western education and sensibilities and rose-colored view of her grandmother's beloved homeland are naive and overly romantic. As a journalist, Moaveni is competent, but careful in what she says and how she says it to protect herself from the torture and imprisonment that would surely follow if she stripped away the veil and showed Iran as it truly is.

She admittedly spins her stories and articles to please the government and that makes much of what she writes questionable, something to be taken with a grain of salt. In the wake of harassment and the fear of imprisonment and worse, Moaveni becomes a soft journalist, shying away from hot topics and writing what she considers neutral stories, discovering along the way "...that there were no 'neutral stories.' [T]here was no avoiding mention of the regime's flaws." When finishing Lipstick Jihad, she "...confessed to Lily, my publisher friend, that despite all my efforts it ended sorrowfully. 'I want so badly not to write a grim Iran book. Why is it turning out this way?"

"It's not your fault," [Lily] said with a knowing smile. "you can't write the sadness out of Iran's story."

In the end, for all its faults and flaws, Honeymoon in Tehran is a closer look into an Iran most of the West has never seen and would not otherwise know and for that reason Azadeh Moaveni's views of Tehran are well worth reading. The view through cracked rose-colored glasses of a sadder by wiser woman is a view worth experiencing. Moaveni's memoir is a revealing odyssey of the heart and soul.

Review: My Daughter's Deli

I'd heard about My Daughter's Deli and finally went inside yesterday morning. I wanted some hot chocolate and a quick breakfast. I got more than I bargained for.

The walls are plaster with patches of brick showing and people have written all over the plaster walls beside, below, above and around the original art work featured on all the walls. There are tables and cozy seating areas in niches and the atmosphere was quiet and relaxing in spite of two gentleman having a friendly discussion. Sharon, the owner, was courteous and moved with a quick efficiency.

I ordered a cream cheese and lox bagel and a large cup of hot chocolate. The best part of the visit was the food. Expecting a bagel with cream cheese schmear and a bit of lox, I was amazed to get tomato, fresh sliced red onion and a bit of lettuce on the bagel, which was fresh and toasted to perfection. The hot chocolate was heavenly with a generous dollop of whipped cream on top.

I was surprised to find the place so empty, especially with such good food. Sharon told me business has fallen off in the past two years because Old Colorado City is not being promoted as it should be. Over the past three years, I have watched business after business pull up stakes and move out in an area that should be teeming with tourists and locals visiting this historic corner of Colorado Springs for the antiques, shops and ambiance of the more relaxed and friendlier west side of town.

Sharon did tell me that two writers come in every Friday at 1 p.m. and stay until 4 p.m., leaving one hour before the deli closes. They bring their laptops and write sitting in the back among the art work and wonderful graffiti decorating the walls, sharing the muse and the food. The food is wonderful and the prices moderate. If you are looking for somewhere to relax and recharge and get a little something to eat, My Daughter's Deli & Espresso is the place to be.

Resistance is futile

There are some movies I resist seeing on principle, that principle being that everyone is talking about it and tells me I should see it. It's what my grandfather called me being mule-headed, and he was right. I get that way on occasion, digging in my heels and refusing to do what is expected. When I finally do follow the herd to see what is so fascinating about the movie, I'm usually glad, as I was when I recently watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

The movie sounded like the usual fare of stereotypical immigrant jokes and a child appalled and embarrassed by her immigrant parents as they clung to old traditions and out-dated ideas, and I wasn't disappointed. There was the obligatory elder member of the family who had never been assimilated into American culture, clinging to her prejudices and language like a tick on a dog. The father of the clan was man of the house and his wife adept at thwarting his most antiquated plans for his children. American Romeo meets Greek Juliet and the Americans and Greeks try to find some common ground while failing to understand the others' cultural differences, like one very Greek aunt who invites American Romeo, who is a vegetarian, to dinner and saying, "It's okay. I fix lamb". Second City alumna do the usual ethnic jokes and caricatures and the main character, Toula, the Greek Juliet yearning to be more American, provides comic and wry narrative.

Toula, who looks like a 50-year-old spinster, undergoes the Ginger Grant makeover, changing her from frumpy woman old before her time into young and attractive date bait with the application of makeup, hair rollers and new clothes. It's amazing what waxing, plucking and contact lenses can accomplish.

The jokes are obvious and often funny. Greek Granny spying on the neighbors and spitting on the Turkeys is irritating at times and Greek dad's death hold cling on tradition, although it does not come close to Tevya's Jewish angst over seeing his daughters falling away from the tried and true rutted path, did make me laugh a few times. I do think the whole arranged marriage with the horrific and stereotypical bachelors for dinner was completely unfunny and done to death once again, but there were moments when the movie transcended genre and triteness.

We laugh at immigrants coming to America to find a balance between the ingrained traditions of their homeland and embracing the laissez faire attitude and new traditions of their new country, but I was especially touched by Greek dad's gift to Toula and her American Romeo (played by John Corbett who is great eye candy). Even though American Romeo came from a well-heeled family from the country club set, it was the generous gift of a house for the newlyweds from Greek Ma and Pa that left the most profound impact in this uneven and sometimes funny movie. It was an old world gesture and the embodiment of the American dream.

One thing is certain. I will never look at Windex in the same way again.

Another voice

It is always gratifying to know one's work is appreciated and this afternoon I received word that an author whose work I reviewed had contacted Authorlink to let me know what he thought of my review.

Jon Land writes thrillers -- marvelous thrillers -- and I have had the opportunity to read and review two of his books. The latest, Strong Enough to Die will be available March 2009 and I reviewed it last month. Here's what Mr. Land had to say about the review:

I was flabbergasted, in a wonderful way, by J. M. Cornwall's [sic] review of STRONG ENOUGH TO DIE. Once again she honed in on all the things I was trying to do and based her review on how well I accomplished them. I couldn't be more inspired by her words, including her one negative comment which I whole-heartedly agree with and even then wouldn't know how to change it. Since these are the first critical comments/review I've gotten on the book, I take them especially to heart.

Could you please forward me J. M.'s e-mail address, or forward mine to her, so I can share my thoughts with her personally? She's a shrewd and sensitive reviewer, as well as a very good writer.

Too often authors, especially those who have received less than glowing reviews, blame the reviewer instead of taking a good look at what the reviewer found questionable or didn't like about the book. Some authors even accuse the reviewer of prejudice or personal disagreements, and on occasion that may be true. However, there are many good reviewers who, in spite of their personal feelings for or against a particular author, write honest critiques of the books they review.

In the end, a reviewer is a writer, a literary journalist, who gives their considered opinion based on their own background and skills, but reviewers are still people and their opinion, however learned and honest, is still just one opinion. I tell authors and readers to use the review as a guideline in forming their own opinions not as the last and only word. It's up to the reader to judge for himself what he does and does not like, but it is also good to get another reader's opinion to compare and contrast.

This is the second time I've reviewed one of Land's books and I look forward to reading and reviewing more of his work. I enjoy the places he takes me with his stories and getting to know those people Land chronicles so convincingly. Best of all, is knowing that Jon Land is one author who takes the time to thank me for my critique of his books -- even when I find something negative. That is the mark of a true professional with class and style.

Thank you, Jon Land.