I'm at it again....

Bueno,

I have always been reluctant to give my opinion about a book in a review because as I have said in the previous reviews "I liked it" doesn't quite capture the true essence of the book, but I was compelled to break down and write a review about Billy London's newest book On Caristo's Watch. Why you may ask, and well Billy I'm sorry but I'm going to have to be honest, mostly because Lydia is me. Now Billy I'm sure you didn't want this to get out but with the following facts I think it will be hard to keep the secret.

1. Lydia is a nurse and I work in the medical profession of sorts (I'm a mental health professional).

2. Tony is Italian and I am married to an Italian (He's also Irish just for future reference).

3. Lydia is an African raised in Ireland and I am of African and Irish descent.

4. Lydia is kick ass and well I think it goes without saying that I am pretty kick ass myself.

Yes, you may point out that whole mob connection thing, and all though Sig Other isn't in a Family, he could be homicidal if pushed to it. Obviously some creative licence was taken but in the end this is totally my story. Now imagine my surprise when it was told with such poignant insight and spot on humor. On Caristo's Watch does a fabulous job of mirroring Windows (there may have been a pun in there) in that as a sequel it fits seamlessly into the time line of the first book so that you have the pleasure of revisiting moments of Windows in your head while being immersed in the new story. 

As with Windows I appreciate the way Billy plays with the concepts of what is good and bad or right and wrong. Tony is a criminal and there is no sugar coating that, but he is a criminal that fits nicely into the romantic fantasy of what the reader may think of as his "type" of criminal. I don't really want to know about the seedier parts of his profession because his bad is oh so good that it feels right that it is so wrong. He protects those that he loves and lives by a code of honor that bends a bit to allow him to be a criminal but still retain some aspect of his humanity. It is lovely and complex but superbly simple in its execution that you don't get boggled by esoteric notions of crime and punishment. 

Lydia is a woman with a problem but instead of being burdened by her problem or spending endless amounts of time obsessing about said problem, she goes to the head of a mob family to handle this problem. I actually really liked this concept because not only did she get Tony for her ingenuity but it cut through what could have been endless amounts of obsessing about what to do. It also created Lydia as a perfect foil to Tony's good/bad, right/wrong persona. She is a "good" person that found herself in a "bad" situation and must do something "wrong" in order for her life to start being "right" again. Brilliant I must say because it plays well with the White Knight dichotomy but with a twist because the Knight may have stolen the horse.

The book also flows in such a way that if you haven't read Windows you can still appreciate the characters in On Caristo's Watch, which is the hallmark of a good spin off. Of course why you haven't read Windows yet makes me give you the squinty eye and wonder what's wrong with you. 

Great story and great job Billy. Oh and Billy dear, it really was so kind of you to do this for me. Now when you create Luca and Rocky's story feel free to create Sig Other in their image as well. Oh and if you are contemplating ethnicity's for your heroine, I'm also of German and Scottish descent, just so you know.

I got kinda fancy and created the title with a hyperlink in the beginning but if it doesn't open you can find Billy's book and it's description at Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

Janet (or is it Lydia...ummmm)

The ball took a bad hop...

Well Hello,

I was recently having a conversation with two of my co-workers about personal accountability and how we foster that in children. It all started because my co-workers three year old asked him for something and my co-worker said he would do it later, adding just as his little son went to walk away, "Make sure you hold me accountable." We all chuckled because it seemed like such an odd thing to say to a three year old but my co-worker said he wanted to start early.

Driving home that day I started thinking about how personal accountability was fostered in me as a child. What immediately came to mind were the times I would say I couldn't do something because "so and so" prevented me or it was hard for me to learn something because "so and so" didn't make it easy and my mother would simply ask, "The ball took a bad hop?" I'm sure dear reader you're probably wondering what the hell does that have to do with personal accountability, well let me explain.

My mother would quote this commercial endlessly when I was a child. As it was in circulation a good decade before I was born I only have her and some of my cousins recollection of how it went. I believe it may have been a cereal commercial but the premise was there was a little boy that complained about how everything prevented him from playing baseball well. His line was, "The ball took a bad hop, the sun was in my eyes, and this glove is too big. I tripped over that rock, stupid rock."

The line was always delivered in this whiny sing song manner that implied that the speaker was incapable of seeing their part in what went wrong. No personal accountability. It was an affective tool for me as a child and even into my adult years. Until I realized sometimes the ball really does take a bad hop and the fucking sun is in my eyes, these damn gloves are way too big for me, and that stupid rock was in my way. Personal accountability can only go so far when life is determined to get in your way.

Which brings me to the crux of this narrative. How do you teach someone they have to be responsible for their actions knowing there will be times when somethings are just out of their control?

It's a good thing I only have cats;)

Janet

What's your favorite flower?

Bonjour mon ami,

For the 4th of July weekend Sig Other and I took a trip up to Napa with our close couple friends B&H, the second trip we've made with the couple because they are the BEST people to travel with. It's like having our own tour guides/concierge/DJs and if you've ever taken a trip for any extended period up the 5 North you know that great traveling companions are a must. It was during one of the inevitable moments that happens on a road trip where everyone is talked out, the radio gets a little louder and the barren landscape starts to lull one into a state of reflection that Sig Other started one of those conversations that alters the way that I see how he sees me.

I was watching the landscape of dry grass, not so happy looking cows and more dry grass fly by as I sat in the front passenger seat when Sig Other asked as he drove, "What's your favorite flower?" Now this question was particularly interesting because I struggle with labeling anything my "favorite". I feel that there is a great deal of expectation in the answer and how it reflects on you as a person, particularly to the person that is asking. What if your favorite is something they completely hate and now you feel obligated to justify your choice or they share the same, are you now instantly bonded by this connection even if you detest everything else about the person? Is your favorite hip enough or cool enough and what if you change your mind, only to be labeled with this "favorite" thing indefinitely? Of course I have a tendency to over think things, like to the nth degree, so this spiralling internal dialogue of neurosis is probably something unique to me...but I digress.

What I really struggle with is I am constantly changing and evolving as a person that I find it difficult to think of something as my favorite constantly when my desires and taste can shift so dramatically from the present to the future. But this is Sig Other and I decide to play along and say, "The sunflower," because in that moment it was the flower that spoke to me the most (yes that is new agey but what can I say, I'm from California). To which Sig Other replied, "That's what I thought."

Well of course I'm now immensely curious because where as I pulled that answer from a place housed in my present reflection, a reflection that could be altered a year from the date I was asked the question, Sig Other sounded so sure in his assessment of what a "favorite" thing of mine may be. I asked him, "What made you think that?" Now this question could be answered in a variety of ways by my illustrious better half, falling into two major categories. He could be romantic in his response causing me to smile and think how lucky I am to have him or he could be romantically clumsy in his response causing me to roll my eyes and think how lucky I am to have him.

What he said was, "I knew you would pick the sunflower because it's strong like you. A rose or flower like that seems too delicate, not sturdy enough." Looking over I could see his brow crinkling in concentration as he sought the words to express himself, as he stared out onto the open road. It was romantic and to a woman that doesn't have such a abiding confidence in her self worth as myself the "sturdy" aspect may have been a tad bit unromantic, but for me it was honest and I wouldn't have had it any other way. Smiling I reached over and squeezed his hand resting on the center console of the car and thought maybe the sunflower would be my favorite flower a little longer than I expected.

Janet

I'll take sex in space for 200...

Greetings, you lovely people you.

Here I am again playing the role of a reviewer and this time it is no less strange but now that I've had a taste of the power I can wield with my opinion, I'm heady with anticipation. Okay, that was pretty megalomaniac of me but I'm sure you get where I'm going.

Wanted 2: Vodka Shots

Marteeka Karland

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1613

This story could not have been better titled than Vodka Shots. Like a shot it starts off quickly with the action and keeps you feeling warm and tipsy all the way to the end. I actually appreciate a story that can just pick up with the characters, with minimal background information, and I'm immediately hooked. Ms. Karland's work has a tendency to appeal to those more, shall we say, darker aspects of my fantasy world that I keep locked away until she beacons them to come out to play. So much so that when I was reading the story, in my secret heart of hearts I was a bit disappointed there wasn't actually a little menage action going on. Ummm Hawk....

But I've gotten ahead of myself. Wanted 2: Vodka Shots is the story of a man (Dmitry) trying to locate the woman (Karri) that double crossed him and make her pay. Only to find out the double cross, no less hurtful, had justifiable reasons. It happens in space, with cool space descriptions and a cool space fight. That's basically my synopsis because you can read the blurb that a professional took the time to write if you want more details.

What I want to talk about is the sex. Yes, I took it there, and how can I not with this story. Like the heady burn of a Vodka shot that gets you all warm and courageous (or that could just be me) the sex is awesome. Mostly because it's angry, you betrayed me but I can't seem to get you out of mind and I might want to hurt you a little but only in a really good kind of way, angry sex. Totally confusing but since this is a story for adults and most of us have probably had this type of (consensual) angry sex it was so good. Just to turn around and be, I know this might not be perfect but I really want to make this work and I can't imagine my life without you, make up sex. Seriously, if that doesn't speak to you than...well I just don't know what to think about you because both of those are some good sex. Just saying.

And like a nice Vodka shot or two...okay maybe three or four but not that fruity shit, I mean the good stuff...the story does what it needs to do and moves on. Fast and to the point without all the internal angsty stuff that can weight down what in essence is...since I'm going to ride out this analogy until it can't be ridden any longer...just a shot.

Go check it out because you know you want to...Do It...Do It...Do It...okay that's the last of the shot jokes.

Janet

Where my imagination goes...

So I've had this idea that I wanted to write a Sci-fi type of story for awhile. I start to think of something, plan out my galaxies and other-world type sha-bang-ga-bang and than it fizzles. A great deal of it has to do with the fact that I can get obsessive when I research things and my tangential mind starts to wonder off into a variety of places and I forget what my origin of thought was. Yet, I've been circling the wagons of this Sci-fi concept for awhile and when I got a gentle nudge (I'm not being sarcastic, it was actually a flattering nudge) from Nicole Kurtz over at Mocha Memoirs Press to submit something I committed myself to focusing and getting it done.

But it seems my imagination went on hiatus. I couldn't finish my stories Tasty Bits or Fire and Ice for Beautiful Trouble Publishing and my poor little sci-fi story got neglected again. Even cycling into another round of insomnia couldn't be used for anything productive. I was at a great lose until I decided, "Fuck It", if my creative center didn't want to be found than it could stay lost. I had a plethora of things I could be doing instead. Now, what is that saying, when you let something go, if it comes backs it was yours or meant for you or...whatever, the point is where ever my imagination went it brought something back for me.

It's actually so strange that I couldn't help sharing. Now it may never become more than what it is but if it does, I swear Nicole, it's yours, if you want it of course (now that's my gentle nudge).

Unedited Excerpt


When the end came it wasn't a great shock. Like the slow rolling wave of change it seemed to envelop everyone before they'd realized they'd been swallowed. The cry "The End is Nigh" lost it's resonance when people accepted "The End" had always been there. It was of no fault of their own that they didn't notice. One has their life to live, planning for its conclusion can take up far too much time. Now as the masses finally awoke to the reality of their situation, was there panic, a post apocalyptic existence of hidden dwellings and the anarchist pledge? Hardly, it was rather anti-climatic, because like the great master of evolution the human race had become, it adapted. After all, life had to be lived, planning for its conclusion would have to wait.

But I digress from the real purpose of my tale. This isn't a story about "The End" but more of "The Beginning", not quite the "Once Upon A Time", but a "Happily Ever After" of sorts. This is the story of one man and one woman, brought together during this time of change that didn't seem so different. A comedy if there is an allowance for tragedy, because what would a story of the human condition be without both. The story of two people that realize endings are often the start of great beginnings.

Love me...

Hola mi amor,

I recently experienced a bump in the road of wedded bliss. The argument was so trivial that it doesn't bare repeating but the feelings that it left behind do require some reflection. The gist is both Sig Other and I were left holding hurt. Mine because he hurt me and his because he hurt. There was the "conversation" in which we both explained how we felt and held accountability for our actions. All the hard work that needs to be done to maintain a healthy relationship. During this conversation I stated my boundary and drew a firm line in the sand about behavior that would not be tolerated from either him or myself. To which he replied, "I guess it's true only mother's love unconditionally."

The statement was so fascinating to me because after almost 10 years of being with him I learned something new. We think of love differently. In the conversation that followed he explained how he would love me regardless of any action I did to him, therefore loving me unconditionally. Needless to say I was shocked because my love does have conditions. It requires trust, honesty, and respect. It requires that you care for me, and treat me, yourself, and our relationship with integrity. It requires you value me as an individual as much as you value yourself. When explaining this he nodded and agreed but still felt that when all those things failed to exist he would still have love for me because his attachment is so deep that the roots of it could not die (this is me taking artistic license with his words but you get the idea).

That night as I slept next to this person whom I love as much as my next breath I wanted to cry because my love could never be like his. My love is fierce and true but if it is not fed, if it is not nurtured, it will wither away and die. Rolling over I snuggled up to the one that I have chosen to give my love to and in that moment I realized that "loving" was not going to be enough, it would take work.

As always I find solace and inspiration in poetry and here is a one by Pablo Neruda that articulates most eloquently how I feel.

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.


This poem was taken from PoemHunter.com. www.poemhunter.com

Lets be scared together...

Well Howdy,

I've been gone for a hot second but dear readers you must know that I haven't forgotten you. That job I've been planning to leave for quite some time just won't let me go. Quite mob like it is, just when I think I'm out it keeps sucking me back in. BUT, through it all I've been able to complete the third story in my Goddess Chosen Series, Time For You And Time For Me is over at Beautiful Trouble Publishing waiting anxiously for you AND a fun little ditty called Love's Bloom at Shara Azod's house, apart of the A is for Amazon series, sits with bated breath hoping you'll arrive. Yes that's right, even with adversity I rise up and whip out the prose for my adoring fans. Selfless I am, so selfless.

Anyhoo, I'm now sick (shocker) and have been sequestered to my bed all day. Yawn. The majority of my enjoyment derived from reading the post in the Jayha and Jeanie yahoo group. One of the threads that caught my attention the most today was the horror movie one. I LOVE to be scared and contributed to that one in particular with great gusto between my bouts of pain induced unconsciousness. Now this got me to thinking about a short little scary story I'd written, just a few lines strung together for my morbid amusement, and I decided to share because...well because sharing is caring. A select view have already seen how the inner workings of my brain can twist toward the macabre but so bolstered by the fervent agreement of my fellow horror lovers I thought it only fair to extend to it to all you wonderful people. (this is the point where eerie music begins to swell up) Muahhhhaaahhhaahh

Untitled and Unedited Scary Story
Janet Eckford

"They say another girl has gone missing," I tell my husband while making his eggs.

"Um, damn shame," he answers absently while he reads the paper.

"That's the third one this year," I say as I continue watching eggs firm and crumble.

He likes his eggs that way with just a little bit of crispness around the edges. Sometimes as an added bonus I put cheese in them. He loves cheesy eggs.

"Um, damn shame," he replies still as absently.

Turning from the stove I carry the steaming plate of eggs to the table. Smiling up from his paper he places it down on the chair next to him and rubs his hands together in anticipation.

He really loves my eggs.

"They say they found her in that old ravine on the other side of town," I'm obsessed now and can't seem to stop.

Spooning food on his plate he gives another non-committal response with a variation on "damn shame". I watch him as I've watched him these last twenty years. You see this is not the last girl, I know there will be more.

They say they never know. Some give adamant denials, while others have that stone face resigned stature of the shocked and awed. Others weep, sobbing to the jury of public opinion. They say they never know but they do.

How can you not when you love a monster.

"I hope this is the last," I say staring at him.

He takes a bite and smiles a sad secret smile.

"Um, damn shame."