Marcia Thornton Jones's Blog, page 149
July 13, 2016
WRITING MANGA AND COMICS--EVEN IF YOU DON'T DRAW (GUEST POST BY DANICA DAVIDSON)
When I tell people I have a manga book out and a Barbie comic book coming out, the response is usually the same, “Oh, so you draw!” To which I have to explain with embarrassment, “No, I don’t.” This is usually followed by confusion, but I’m not in a rare situation. Many times when there are books that involve pictures, one person writes and another person draws. That’s true when it comes to manga and comic books.
I read comics as a kid, and when I was a teen, I READ them voraciously, especially manga (Japanese comics). From there I started writing about manga for places like MTV, CNN, The Onion, Publishers Weekly and Booklist, and for a while I adapted manga into English for an American publishing company. This background allowed me to sell my first book, Manga Art for Beginners, even though I’m not an artist. Here’s how it worked: I sent in a proposal of all the chapters of the book. Because it’s a how-to-draw book, I have it start with basics. Readers learn how to draw eyes, faces and bodies first. Then I move onto common manga character types, like ninja or butlers. I wrote out the book so that it would be very detailed, showing twelve or so steps for each character. This came out of my frustration with other how-to-draw books showing only three or so steps. Melanie Westin, the artist I worked with, drew to match what I’d written. We’d talk on the phone maybe once a week and email back and forth with the drawings. After Melanie sent me her drawings, I added more writing, detailing each step as I saw Melanie draw them.
The Barbie comic book was a different experience. I queried multiple comic book publishers and Papercutz, which does comic books for kids, wrote back to me. They were working on Barbie titles, so I pitched a story where Barbie, her sisters and their new puppies throw a party to find homes for the local shelter pets. My pitch was approved by both Papercutz and Mattel. Then I wrote a script for it. Comic book scripts general go something like this: You number the page and the panel, then give people lines and describe the action. For instance, you say, “Page 1, Panel 1.” Then you said “BARBIE:...” (or whomever) and put in what she’s saying. Then you give a description of what’s happening in the panel. Next, you would say, “Panel 2" and continue. Page 2 will start with, “Page 2, Panel 1.” With the manga book, I worked closely with the artist. With Barbie, Papercutz chose the artist they wanted and the editor has been the go-between for the artist and me. I’ve seen some of the panels, and they look beautiful! Barbie: Puppy Party will be released in September.
I also write books that are purely prose. My Overworld Adventures series is known as “books for Minecrafters” because the main character, Stevie, is an eleven-year-old boy living in the Minecraft world who finds a portal to Earth. They books are aimed for middle grade readers, and four books have been released so far: Escape from the Overworld, Attack on the Overworld, The Rise of Herobrine and Down into the Nether. The final two books in the series, The Armies of Herobrine and Battle with the Wither, will be released in September and October, respectively. People also sometimes assume that because of my work in manga and comic books, The Overworld Adventures are illustrated, too, but that’s not the case. For this series, it’s just me writing! If you’re a writer and not an artist, it doesn’t mean you have to stick to just prose writing . . . there are opportunities for you to work with an artist as well! 
Website: www.danicadavidson.comTwitter: @DanicaDavidsonAmazon Author pageAudio books
July 12, 2016
Wine Making MG Style: by Darlene Beck Jacobson
This scene is from a historical MG WIP:
Pa wanted berries so he could make his home made wine. Summer was nearly done and most of the bushes picked over. A few pea-sized berries were scattered around this late in the season. Not nearly enough to fill even half a bucket. I was ready to go home. Until I heard whistling and saw a boy emerge from the trees. “Hi, Joe.” “Hey, Helen. What are you doing out this early?” “Pa wants these buckets filled with...” I stopped when I saw his pail brimming with plump, ripe berries. “Where’d you get those? I’ve been out here since the sun came up and this is all I’ve got.” Joe grinned. “I’ve got a special place, not too many people know about. I don’t want people messing it up.” “Can you take me there, Joe. Please? If I come back with empty buckets, Pa’ll be mad.” “How do I know I can trust you not to tell?” “I like knowing there’s a special place nobody knows about.” I could tell by the look on Joe’s face that he knew what I meant by secret places. I looked him in the eye and said, “It will just be our secret.” Joe’s look was so intense, my stomach suddenly felt quivery. I was glad he stopped staring and said, “You have to promise that if you come back here, you come alone.” Joe spit on the palm of his hand and held it out. I set my bucket down, worked saliva around my tongue, spitting a glob of it onto a palm. We pressed our palms together and slid them across the sticky surfaces, smiling at each other. “Follow me,” Joe said. We hiked about a half mile, through the bushes, into the hills.
I stared with amazement. “There’s enough here to fill ten buckets.” “They’re a lot sweeter than the ones down below.” I stuck my tongue out and he dropped the berry onto it. “Yummy.” I dumped out the small, hard berries I’d gotten below, and began filling my pail with the perfect ones. “Give me the other pail and I’ll fill it for you.” In no time at all we filled both buckets and looked as if we’d barely touched the bushes.
“What does you Pa want these for?” “Wine.” Joe looked at me, a sudden spark in his eyes. “Do you know how to make wine?” “No.” I shrugged. Joe set the bucket down and untied his shoes. “What are you doing?” “Do you want to make wine or don’t you?” “How can we make wine here?” “Take off your shoes.” Joe laughed when I turned up nose as he wiggled his bare feet. “I saw this book once about Italy. They made wine by smashing grapes with their feet.” He smiled. “We could do the same thing with the berries. You game?"
Pa wanted berries so he could make his home made wine. Summer was nearly done and most of the bushes picked over. A few pea-sized berries were scattered around this late in the season. Not nearly enough to fill even half a bucket. I was ready to go home. Until I heard whistling and saw a boy emerge from the trees. “Hi, Joe.” “Hey, Helen. What are you doing out this early?” “Pa wants these buckets filled with...” I stopped when I saw his pail brimming with plump, ripe berries. “Where’d you get those? I’ve been out here since the sun came up and this is all I’ve got.” Joe grinned. “I’ve got a special place, not too many people know about. I don’t want people messing it up.” “Can you take me there, Joe. Please? If I come back with empty buckets, Pa’ll be mad.” “How do I know I can trust you not to tell?” “I like knowing there’s a special place nobody knows about.” I could tell by the look on Joe’s face that he knew what I meant by secret places. I looked him in the eye and said, “It will just be our secret.” Joe’s look was so intense, my stomach suddenly felt quivery. I was glad he stopped staring and said, “You have to promise that if you come back here, you come alone.” Joe spit on the palm of his hand and held it out. I set my bucket down, worked saliva around my tongue, spitting a glob of it onto a palm. We pressed our palms together and slid them across the sticky surfaces, smiling at each other. “Follow me,” Joe said. We hiked about a half mile, through the bushes, into the hills.
I stared with amazement. “There’s enough here to fill ten buckets.” “They’re a lot sweeter than the ones down below.” I stuck my tongue out and he dropped the berry onto it. “Yummy.” I dumped out the small, hard berries I’d gotten below, and began filling my pail with the perfect ones. “Give me the other pail and I’ll fill it for you.” In no time at all we filled both buckets and looked as if we’d barely touched the bushes.
“What does you Pa want these for?” “Wine.” Joe looked at me, a sudden spark in his eyes. “Do you know how to make wine?” “No.” I shrugged. Joe set the bucket down and untied his shoes. “What are you doing?” “Do you want to make wine or don’t you?” “How can we make wine here?” “Take off your shoes.” Joe laughed when I turned up nose as he wiggled his bare feet. “I saw this book once about Italy. They made wine by smashing grapes with their feet.” He smiled. “We could do the same thing with the berries. You game?"
July 11, 2016
Out-Pranked!
I started writing this summer adventure from the point of view of a secondary character in the book I just finished. The voice, though, took on entirely different nuances here. That happens sometimes. Who knows? Maybe I've begun getting to know a whole new character. Happy summer!
--Jody Feldman
It wasn’t my fault that we lost all our cabin’s pranking supplies. We couldn’t let the same thing happen again, you know. Last year when we needed to retaliate against Cabin #4, we only had a minuscule window of opportunity. And it took way too long for our cabinmates to pull their supplies out of their trunks. Then, busted! Cabin #4 laughed at our lameness the whole rest of summer.
So this year I brought an old backpack that I wouldn’t be caught dead carrying. It was genius. We’d put everything in there and – pow! – we’d be ready to roll when the time was right.
We amassed a great collection: toilet paper, string, feathers, honey, plastic wrap, even a whoopie cushion, plus a few other secret weapons. We could barely get the zipper around it all. But we did. And everything would have been fine if Jesse and Taylor had sucked it up. The backpack wasn’t sagging that low into their bunks and it was the only place to hang it from the rafters where the counselors wouldn’t notice.
Still, they blamed me. Was it because I listened to Jesse who complained the loudest? Or Taylor would wouldn’t stop bugging me? Is it because I suggested that the only other place to hide it was underneath one of our bunks where it’d be out of sight, easy to grab? So honestly. It’s not my fault the thief stole the entire backpack. Tore holes in the cloth, supplies strewn from here to the woods. We could have gotten it all back—at least most of it—but a counselor from Cabin #4 stumbled over a jar of flour. And now we’re on double kitchen duty and everyone is glaring at me. But it wasn’t my fault. It was Jessie’s fault. It was Taylor’s fault. And that stupid raccoon’s.
--Jody Feldman
It wasn’t my fault that we lost all our cabin’s pranking supplies. We couldn’t let the same thing happen again, you know. Last year when we needed to retaliate against Cabin #4, we only had a minuscule window of opportunity. And it took way too long for our cabinmates to pull their supplies out of their trunks. Then, busted! Cabin #4 laughed at our lameness the whole rest of summer. So this year I brought an old backpack that I wouldn’t be caught dead carrying. It was genius. We’d put everything in there and – pow! – we’d be ready to roll when the time was right.
We amassed a great collection: toilet paper, string, feathers, honey, plastic wrap, even a whoopie cushion, plus a few other secret weapons. We could barely get the zipper around it all. But we did. And everything would have been fine if Jesse and Taylor had sucked it up. The backpack wasn’t sagging that low into their bunks and it was the only place to hang it from the rafters where the counselors wouldn’t notice.
Still, they blamed me. Was it because I listened to Jesse who complained the loudest? Or Taylor would wouldn’t stop bugging me? Is it because I suggested that the only other place to hide it was underneath one of our bunks where it’d be out of sight, easy to grab? So honestly. It’s not my fault the thief stole the entire backpack. Tore holes in the cloth, supplies strewn from here to the woods. We could have gotten it all back—at least most of it—but a counselor from Cabin #4 stumbled over a jar of flour. And now we’re on double kitchen duty and everyone is glaring at me. But it wasn’t my fault. It was Jessie’s fault. It was Taylor’s fault. And that stupid raccoon’s.
July 10, 2016
Summer FreewritingBy Marcia Thornton JonesI am always sur...
Summer FreewritingBy Marcia Thornton Jones
I am always surprised at what I write during a freewriting exercise. Here is my freewrite using Smack Dab In The Middle’s ‘summer’ prompt!
Not a hint of breeze tickled the yellow sheers, even though I opened the window as far as it would go. At the beginning of the summer, the Sanderson’s had installed whole-house air-conditioning, and I imagined Tory in crisp baby doll pajamas all cool and goose-pimply while I was destined to lay in a tangle of sweat-soggy sheets.I turned the pages of Jo’s senior yearbook, examining each and every page, and tried to figure out where I would fit in when I started high school. There were no pictures of ugly kids. No fat thighs, blotchy complexions, or ratty hair. Absolutely no place for someone like me. But there were exactly seventeen pictures of my sister. I counted. My brother was in a total of twenty-three. Combined, my perfect brother and even more perfect sister had graced nearly every club and sporting event with their smiling presence.I grabbed my blanket, pushed up the screen, and crawled onto the roof of the porch. Hot air heavy with the scent magnolia mixed with cut grass slapped me in the face. The Wheeler’s dog was howling, and the last verse of Jim Croce’s Bad Bad Leroy Brown floated out Henry’s window.Even through the blanket, the grit of the shingles dug into my back as I looked up at the star-freckled sky. One was moving, and for a heartbeat’s time, I thought it was a falling star waiting to grant a wish. But then it blinked and I knew it was only an airplane passing high over Lexington on its way somewhere else.God, how I wished I could be up there instead of here. To be Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin or Captain James Tiberius Kirk at the helm of the Starship Enterprise. To be up there hurtling through space amongst the stars. I imagined looking down at the earth. Down at my little house in the middle of the suburbs. Down at me on the roof of our porch.And what I saw was a girl who was totally alone on this planet.No. That wasn’t right. If I were really alone, then there’d be no family on the inside oblivious to the fact that I was out here, looking up to the stars, and wishing I could do one thing…one tiny thing…to make them just a little bit happy that I was ever born. A twig cracking brought my attention back down to Earth. I tried to scream, but the erratic pounding of my heart balled up my scream, trapping it in my chest. There was someone in the shadow of the forsythia staring straight at our house. Staring straight up at me.
I am always surprised at what I write during a freewriting exercise. Here is my freewrite using Smack Dab In The Middle’s ‘summer’ prompt!
Not a hint of breeze tickled the yellow sheers, even though I opened the window as far as it would go. At the beginning of the summer, the Sanderson’s had installed whole-house air-conditioning, and I imagined Tory in crisp baby doll pajamas all cool and goose-pimply while I was destined to lay in a tangle of sweat-soggy sheets.I turned the pages of Jo’s senior yearbook, examining each and every page, and tried to figure out where I would fit in when I started high school. There were no pictures of ugly kids. No fat thighs, blotchy complexions, or ratty hair. Absolutely no place for someone like me. But there were exactly seventeen pictures of my sister. I counted. My brother was in a total of twenty-three. Combined, my perfect brother and even more perfect sister had graced nearly every club and sporting event with their smiling presence.I grabbed my blanket, pushed up the screen, and crawled onto the roof of the porch. Hot air heavy with the scent magnolia mixed with cut grass slapped me in the face. The Wheeler’s dog was howling, and the last verse of Jim Croce’s Bad Bad Leroy Brown floated out Henry’s window.Even through the blanket, the grit of the shingles dug into my back as I looked up at the star-freckled sky. One was moving, and for a heartbeat’s time, I thought it was a falling star waiting to grant a wish. But then it blinked and I knew it was only an airplane passing high over Lexington on its way somewhere else.God, how I wished I could be up there instead of here. To be Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin or Captain James Tiberius Kirk at the helm of the Starship Enterprise. To be up there hurtling through space amongst the stars. I imagined looking down at the earth. Down at my little house in the middle of the suburbs. Down at me on the roof of our porch.And what I saw was a girl who was totally alone on this planet.No. That wasn’t right. If I were really alone, then there’d be no family on the inside oblivious to the fact that I was out here, looking up to the stars, and wishing I could do one thing…one tiny thing…to make them just a little bit happy that I was ever born. A twig cracking brought my attention back down to Earth. I tried to scream, but the erratic pounding of my heart balled up my scream, trapping it in my chest. There was someone in the shadow of the forsythia staring straight at our house. Staring straight up at me.
July 8, 2016
Before "The Book of Dares for Lost Friends" begins .... by Jane Kelley
Summer in New York City is so hot, the pavement is actually soft in spots. Tasman walks along the sidewalk. He does his best to stay away from the air conditioners. They blast hot air at him because he isn't inside; he's outside. He feels like he always is.
Up ahead, he sees the leafy green of Central Park. It would be cooler there. The trees would provide shade. And, he has read, the water molecules in their leaves can actually absorb heat. Evapotranspiration. That sounds like a made up word. Like something that could cause time travel. If that were true, then he could evapo himself out of any predicament. Touch a leaf and zam himself to safety.
But he doesn't go into the park. He can't take the risk. He knows who he might meet––or what. He stands at the edge. Sweat drips along his body. People push past him. He gets dragged a few steps when a dog's leash wraps around his legs. An impatient mom with a double-wide stroller shouts, "Excuse me," at him. Which is code for, you are an idiot.
Is he? Yes. He shouldn't be afraid. He wipes his face on the bottom of his shirt. He takes a deep breath. He walks quickly into the park.
Look at all the miracles. A man waves a wand and makes an enormous bubble. A child dances along the path. Two people play guitars. They sing. Imagine that. And then Tasman sees the castle.
Is it real? It can't be. He wipes his face again on his shirt. Yes. The tower is still there. If it exists, then maybe there can be happy-ever-afters? Tasman doesn't care about the princes and princesses. He just needs someplace to be safe.
"Boy!!!!!" The voice pierces Tasman. Its screech of pain hurts Tasman.
"I see you, I know you, I am you. Don't run. Boy!!!!"
That castle is for other people. Tasman runs from the wild man. He has to. Evapotranspiration doesn't work.
To find out more about Tasman, follow this link. The paperback version of The Book of Dares for Lost Friends will be out on July 16.
Up ahead, he sees the leafy green of Central Park. It would be cooler there. The trees would provide shade. And, he has read, the water molecules in their leaves can actually absorb heat. Evapotranspiration. That sounds like a made up word. Like something that could cause time travel. If that were true, then he could evapo himself out of any predicament. Touch a leaf and zam himself to safety.
But he doesn't go into the park. He can't take the risk. He knows who he might meet––or what. He stands at the edge. Sweat drips along his body. People push past him. He gets dragged a few steps when a dog's leash wraps around his legs. An impatient mom with a double-wide stroller shouts, "Excuse me," at him. Which is code for, you are an idiot.
Is he? Yes. He shouldn't be afraid. He wipes his face on the bottom of his shirt. He takes a deep breath. He walks quickly into the park.
Look at all the miracles. A man waves a wand and makes an enormous bubble. A child dances along the path. Two people play guitars. They sing. Imagine that. And then Tasman sees the castle.
Is it real? It can't be. He wipes his face again on his shirt. Yes. The tower is still there. If it exists, then maybe there can be happy-ever-afters? Tasman doesn't care about the princes and princesses. He just needs someplace to be safe.
"Boy!!!!!" The voice pierces Tasman. Its screech of pain hurts Tasman.
"I see you, I know you, I am you. Don't run. Boy!!!!"
That castle is for other people. Tasman runs from the wild man. He has to. Evapotranspiration doesn't work.
To find out more about Tasman, follow this link. The paperback version of The Book of Dares for Lost Friends will be out on July 16.
July 5, 2016
Summer Days with JANE IN BLOOM by Deborah Lytton - July Theme
My debut novel JANE IN BLOOM is set during Jane's 12th year and the summer months are a backdrop for her recovery after the loss of her beloved older sister. The freedom of summer gives her a chance to grieve and then to heal.
First days of summer -
"When I wake up at noon, I don't bother to get dressed. I fill a mixing bowl with every kind of cereal. Frosted Mini-Wheats, Fruit Loops, Cheerios, Special K, and some kind of organic whole wheat diet cereal of Mom's. I pour a layer of sugar over the whole thing and drown it in milk. I take my trough into the TV room and settle into my new favorite spot. For I have found something to occupy my summer days--soap operas. I used to hate them with a vengeance, but things are different now. I'm different now. I feel better about my own life when I'm watching other people's lives fall apart. Even if I know it's all fictional." (Jane in Bloom, page 84-85)
Last days of summer -
"We drive home in the late afternoon, and I watch the sun set outside my window. The ocean turns pink and gold. Surfers ride the waves in to shore. Dogs run on the sand. Children splash in the water. I smile at Dad. And he smiles back. Kona crawls into the front seat and lies down in my lap. I am happy." (Jane in Bloom, page 162)
First days of summer -
"When I wake up at noon, I don't bother to get dressed. I fill a mixing bowl with every kind of cereal. Frosted Mini-Wheats, Fruit Loops, Cheerios, Special K, and some kind of organic whole wheat diet cereal of Mom's. I pour a layer of sugar over the whole thing and drown it in milk. I take my trough into the TV room and settle into my new favorite spot. For I have found something to occupy my summer days--soap operas. I used to hate them with a vengeance, but things are different now. I'm different now. I feel better about my own life when I'm watching other people's lives fall apart. Even if I know it's all fictional." (Jane in Bloom, page 84-85)
Last days of summer -
"We drive home in the late afternoon, and I watch the sun set outside my window. The ocean turns pink and gold. Surfers ride the waves in to shore. Dogs run on the sand. Children splash in the water. I smile at Dad. And he smiles back. Kona crawls into the front seat and lies down in my lap. I am happy." (Jane in Bloom, page 162)
July 3, 2016
Whit's Summer Adventure: Feeding Elephants
Whit, the hero of DON'T FEED THE BOY, lives at the zoo with his parents. He's lonely a lot of the time, and it's a long, hot, summer -- but when he makes a new friend (Stella), he realizes sometimes it's kind of cool to be the son of zookeepers. It allows him behind the scenes zoo adventures. Like feeding elephants.Stella watched as Whit retrieved a bucket from the long line of hooks. "So how do we do this?"
illustration by Stephanie GraeginDon't get too close," he instructed. "Let Lila do all the work. It's good for her to stretch. Safer, too." Whit relaxed his fingers and held out the apple in his flattened palm. "That trunk is composed of tens of thousands of muscles. Lila here can pick up a penny with that trunk. Or pull a tree right out of the ground."Stella grabbed a carrot and held it out to Lila. Her eyes widened as Lila curled her trunk around it and pulled the carrot from her hand. "It tickles."
------------------
Want to have an interactive zoo experience of your own? Here's a list of zoos that offer (for a price) all sorts of special animal encounters, as compiled by Mental Floss magazine.
And here is a link to pictures of my family's Baby Tiger Experience at the Gulf Shores Zoo (Alabama). Enjoy!
***
Irene Latham often writes about animals. She is the award winning author of two novels for children LEAVING GEE'S BEND and DON'T FEED THE BOY. She also serves as poetry editor for Birmingham Arts Journal and has published three volumes of poetry for adults. Her current focus is on poetry for children with the 2014 release of DEAR WANDERING WILDEBEEST, which was named an SCBWI Lee Bennett Hopkins Poetry Award Honor book, and two 2016 titles: FRESH DELICIOUS and WHEN THE SUN SHINES ON ANTARCTICA.
July 2, 2016
Our Kind-of Vacation by Harper Lee Morgan (Also Known As Harper by Ann Haywood Leal)
Hem and I pretend we're on vacation when Mama's out looking for work. We walk along the water as if we're going to hop in our very own boat, our long wooden paddles moving us quickly and soundlessly through the canal.
We pass the lady with the messy ponytail sleeping on the bench every morning, her head resting in the same spot, and her legs curving around her dusty black backpack.
I moved closer to her today, stepping into the shade of the palm tree.
Her eyes snapped open, wide and round and full of fear, as if I had just walked into her house without knocking.
And then I realized . . . I had.
June 29, 2016
MAKE YOUR OWN PROMPTS - HOLLY SCHINDLER
I'm a total idea junkie. For me, the initial spark of inspiration is the absolute most exciting part of the process--followed closely by drafting those opening pages.
When I first became a full-time writer, I was always getting distracted by shiny new ideas. I even tried to fool myself that I could actually write multiple projects at once--the project that had hit the sluggish middle AND that brand-new idea.
Yeah. Maybe that works for some writers, but it really doesn't for me. All that happens is that I start a hundred new projects and nothing gets done. So I started keeping notebooks. Big notebooks that pile up next to my computer at home, small notebooks I can stick in a purse and carry with me. I write down every single possible new book idea that goes through my head, then get back to my current WIP.
The cool thing is that when it's time to start a new book, what you've basically got is an entire notebook (or two or three) of writing prompts. Do some freewriting using your notebook(s) to help guide you. Keep flipping through your pages; figure out ways to connect seemingly unconnected ideas. It'll take your initial-stage brainstorming to an entirely new level!
When I first became a full-time writer, I was always getting distracted by shiny new ideas. I even tried to fool myself that I could actually write multiple projects at once--the project that had hit the sluggish middle AND that brand-new idea.
Yeah. Maybe that works for some writers, but it really doesn't for me. All that happens is that I start a hundred new projects and nothing gets done. So I started keeping notebooks. Big notebooks that pile up next to my computer at home, small notebooks I can stick in a purse and carry with me. I write down every single possible new book idea that goes through my head, then get back to my current WIP.
The cool thing is that when it's time to start a new book, what you've basically got is an entire notebook (or two or three) of writing prompts. Do some freewriting using your notebook(s) to help guide you. Keep flipping through your pages; figure out ways to connect seemingly unconnected ideas. It'll take your initial-stage brainstorming to an entirely new level!
June 22, 2016
Summer Reading: Smack Dab OUT of the Classroom by Dia Calhoun
What was the best thing about summer when I was a child and a teen? Summer reading! For ten weeks I could read whatever I wanted. No assignments. No homework. Only those stars mounting up on my summer reading chart at the local library. Read ten books and you get a prize.
Ten? I was just getting started at ten! I reread old favorites, and many new books as well. With that memory in mind, I browsed the library shelves today looking for something fun and new. I spend a lot of time driving, so audio books are my friends. But when I'm driving, I can't listen to anything too serious--too distracting.
And so, having just watched the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, my eye was primed when I pulled a book by Marion Chesney titled Emily Goes to Exeter. The premise sounded fun. Miss Hannah Pym, formerly housekeeper of Thornton Hall (OK, good sign, loved the parallel to Jane Eyre's Thornfield Hall) becomes a travelling matchmaker in 1800's England.
Could be fun. Could be terrible. That's the point of summer reading. You never know.
I'll lreport back next month. Meanwhile, choose a book that is fun and different, lean back against a tree, and think of nothing else for a few hours.
Ten? I was just getting started at ten! I reread old favorites, and many new books as well. With that memory in mind, I browsed the library shelves today looking for something fun and new. I spend a lot of time driving, so audio books are my friends. But when I'm driving, I can't listen to anything too serious--too distracting.
And so, having just watched the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, my eye was primed when I pulled a book by Marion Chesney titled Emily Goes to Exeter. The premise sounded fun. Miss Hannah Pym, formerly housekeeper of Thornton Hall (OK, good sign, loved the parallel to Jane Eyre's Thornfield Hall) becomes a travelling matchmaker in 1800's England.
Could be fun. Could be terrible. That's the point of summer reading. You never know.
I'll lreport back next month. Meanwhile, choose a book that is fun and different, lean back against a tree, and think of nothing else for a few hours.
