Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 12

THE GIRL ON THE SUBWAY

THE GIRL ON THE SUBWAYBY ROY L. PICKERINGJR.


            Did you ever see someone who made your heart sit still for just a moment, but what a moment?  I hope you have, for that’s the most accurate description I can give of the girl on the subway.            She was usually reading a magazine, the kind with plenty of glossy photographs of beautiful celebrities hobnobbing with one another.  Perhaps she wished to be one of them.  Perhaps she was content to admire them from afar.  I could only guess, for I did not have the nerve to ask.  This was okay though.  For forty minutes a day I was able to take her in, and this served my needs just fine.            When I first saw the girl on the subway, I happened to be halfway through a relationship.  Of course I didn’t know yet that Sharon and I had already peaked and would be starting the decline of our relationship within a matter of weeks.  I was reasonably content with the way things were going at the time, so the state of my social life went unaffected by the crush I had developed.   I must confess, however, that I did consider if I would be willing to leave Sharon for this stranger, provided that such a scenario ever presented itself.  It was not a serious thought, just idle contemplation to help make my morning journey pass more quickly. 

            Perhaps I should have felt guilty about these thoughts, but resistance to them was futile.  This girl I saw five mornings a week possessed the sort of beauty that did not boldly pronounce itself, but made its appearance known in a quieter, steadier manner.  She was the owner of impossibly high cheekbones and lioness eyes that beheld the world with seeming indifference.  Her hair was simply styled, straight and about shoulder length, somewhat on the stringy side.  She habitually twirled strands of it on her fingers, sometimes examining the loose ends, other times paying it no mind.  Her body was not of the voluptuous type I favored, in fact she was rather thin, but somehow this worked to her advantage in my eyes, for a sense of fragility and vulnerability was exuded that made me want to protect her.  The baggy clothing she favored put me in mind of a little girl in hand-me-downs she had not quite grown into.  Adornment was kept to a minimum.  She wore no jewelry of any kind, putting her in stark contrast with her glittering female counterparts.  Her ears were not even pierced.   Her fingernails were unpolished, perhaps for health consideration, because sometimes she chewed on them, usually when the train was stalled.  Perhaps she was a little claustrophobic.  The only make-up I could detect was rust red lipstick that stained the lid of her Starbucks coffee cup.            She struck me as the active type, perhaps a tomboy, for the flesh of her arms compressed sinewy muscle, and based on a succession of bumps and bruises, I concluded that she played rough and tumble games with reckless abandon.  No doubt there was a boyfriend somewhere with whom she scaled walls, roller bladed, and partook in other trendy activities intended to procure perspiration and encourage the purchase of designer water.  Sharon preferred more intellectual entertainment such as poetry readings and lectures by Pulitzer Prize winners.            One morning I was surprised to find a cast over the forearm and wrist of the subway girl’s left arm.  I saw this as an opportunity, for it gave me a feeble excuse to comment on her condition.  Perhaps I would come off as charming if I asked to sign her cast.  I prepared to speak, but the words remained locked in my throat.  She kept her eyes glued to the pages of People magazine for the entire ride, and I kept my own pupils focused on her pretty profile.

            Sharon and I went on vacation together to Barbados in August.  Petty arguments had been spoiling a substantial share of our time.  I thought that tropical breezes, the dazzling water of the Caribbean, and frozen daiquiris might be the proper remedy to our woes.  I thought wrong.   We were still together when our airplane returned us to New York’s Kennedy airport, but our relationship was hanging on a thread.            On my first day back to work I stepped onto the F train at a quarter past eight in the morning.  My eyes welcomed a sight that surprised me by how much it had been missed.  She looked up shortly after I had secured a position.  Her eyes rested on my face for a beat longer than they ever had before.  Then her gaze returned to the magazine in her lap.  Her expression remained blank as she looked at me, but I felt certain that my presence was recognized.  My absence had been noted, and perhaps my new tan as well.  I hoped to catch her eye one more time, and if successful, perhaps I would finally venture a smile.  She did in fact pay minimal attention to her reading material on this ride, peeking up frequently to observe the advertisements that bordered the walls of the subway car.  With much frustration I tried but failed to intercept her path of vision.  I had just about given up when three stops before my destination, she looked at me once again.  I sensed that something monumental was about to occur.  Instead, she opened up her purse to look for something and the moment was lost.            One week after she stopped sporting a cast on her arm, she appeared with a bandage on her forehead that did not fully conceal the bruise beneath it.  It was likely the result of excessive enthusiasm in squash or racquetball.  I pictured her running after a ball with total abandon on the court of a New York Health Club, and this image put a smile on my face.  But I could spare little time to fantasize about her on this day.  My thoughts were occupied by the turmoil of the previous night.  The stress Sharon was dealing with at work had overflowed into our love life.  Arranging time for us to get together was growing increasingly difficult, and when it was managed, it ended up hardly worth the effort.  The night before we had argued passionately.  Things had been said that were eventually apologized for, but could not truly be taken back.  The end was near.  It took no great gift of foresight to recognize this.  We would promise to remain friends, but this would be an easily broken vow.            Two weeks later I grasped a strap with one arm while holding up a folded newspaper with the other.  I did not usually read the newspaper on my morning commute because of the overcrowded condition of the train.  However, Patrick Ewing had returned to the Knicks lineup after a long injury plagued absence and I was anxious to find out how he had done.  The sports section engrossed me so deeply that I paid little mind to the object of my infatuation, who was seated just off to my right.  An occasional peek at her sufficed.  When the train pulled into my station and the herd of midtown white collar workers moved as one towards the open doors, I looked at her for the final time that day.  The last thing I expected to see was a single teardrop rolling slowly down her cheek.            Sharon and I broke up that night.  It was a mutual decision, although I allowed her the privilege of broaching the subject and simply agreed with all she said.  Agreeing with Sharon had always been the best, if not the only way to keep the peace with her.  Now it was the best method by which to withdraw our respective troops and call a truce to our affair.  In a great many ways, Sharon was perfectly suited for me.  My friends and family certainly felt as much.  Maybe if our timing had been better.  Maybe if we had both shown more willingness to compromise.  When things between us were at their best, we had had some amazing times together.  As our goodbyes were being said, I realized that I had almost loved Sharon.  Too bad “almost” never counts in love, or in much of anything else.            On the morning of Columbus Day I stepped into the third car of the F train.  Since it was a paid holiday for many people, the train carried only about a third of its usual load of passengers.  For this reason I was able to get a seat.  Not just any seat, but one adjacent to you know who.            She did not look up from her magazine for what seemed like forever.  My countless glances went either unnoticed or ignored.  The jerking of the train caused our knees to occasionally touch, sending tiny shocks of electricity up my leg.    I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, though not necessarily to flatter her and make my interest known.  I happened to be in the earliest stage of a new relationship that seemed promising.  The words which begged release from my tongue were simply what I felt so strongly, believed so sincerely, that I felt I would burst unless this essential truth was proclaimed.  The only motive behind my desire to speak was honesty.            Finally she looked up from her magazine.  At first she stared vacantly into the space before her.  Then she turned towards me.  When she did, I no longer thought of giving testimony to her loveliness.  I was startled by an obscene marring of her delicate features, and even more so by the most unmistakable expression of misery I had ever been witness to.            I did not believe that her black eye was sports related.  I did not presume this time, as I had often before, that her injury had been suffered accidentally.  Instead, I said my first words to her.            “Why don’t you leave him?”            “I’ve tried to.”

            We spoke as if old friends with no secrets between us.  For almost a full year I had been communicating my affection for her with carefully aimed glances.  Now I spoke of my concern plainly, leaving no room for misinterpretation, leaving her no option to deny the painfully obvious truth.            “He doesn’t love you or else he wouldn’t do this to you.”            “It’s complicated,” she said so quietly that I only made the words out by reading her lips, which I imagined to be as tender as the first flakes of winter, and her kisses perhaps as fleeting.            “It seems pretty simple to me.  He hurts you, so you have no choice but to get as far away from him as possible.”            “I have walked out on him before,” she told me.  “He finds me and tells me how sorry he is, how badly he feels, how it will never happen again.  My friends tell me not to go back.  They say he’s no good.  I know they’re smart and they have my interest at heart, so I try to follow their advice.  I pray for the strength to stay away from him, and sometimes it works.  Almost.”            Our train pulled into the next station.  She stood up and walked out.  This was not her usual stop.  Ordinarily she would still be on the train when I departed.  I considered getting up to follow her, to speak to her, to help her.  Instead I watched her recede into the distance growing between us.            I never did see her again.  Perhaps she switched cars on the train or the timing of her commute so she would no longer encounter me each morning.  If she could not escape her torment, she could at least avoid my questions.  On a more hopeful note, maybe she finally listened to her friends and moved someplace far away, free from the violence of deformed love.              I try not to think of the worst case scenario.  I prefer to believe that wherever she is, she is safe and she is happy.  .            My wedding day is fast approaching.  Dana, the woman I began to date after breaking up with Sharon, turned out to be the one.  A strong sense of unreality colors my days now.  I’m going to be someone’s husband soon.  Eventually I will probably become someone’s father.  A whole new life is about to get underway.  This is a good thing, an incredibly wondrous thing, a somewhat terrifying thing.            I reflect on days past and inevitably recall my rides on the third car of the F train.  I remember the girl who stopped my heart for an instant, right on cue five days a week.  I think about the last time I saw her and wonder what would have happened, how different my life might be if I had gotten up and followed her out of the train.  Perhaps nothing would have taken place other than her pleading with me to leave her alone, and my slightly late arrival at work that day.  But just maybe she would have allowed me to continue speaking, and our conversation would have moved from subway platform to a more intimate setting.  After that, who knows where the road might have led?            What I do know is that I’ll always remember her.  I’ll always remember that I chose to follow her, to save her life, to forever change my own.  Almost.                                                       x  x  x  x  x


And now for a sneak peek at the drawing that will eventually become the illustrated cover art for Matters of Convenience

PRINCE

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Not Prince. No— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 21, 2016

We weren't supposed to use phones at Prince in ATL last week, but I couldn't resist. Last performance of Purple Rain pic.twitter.com/6FjkJTksJO— Jake Reuse (@ReuseRecruiting) April 21, 2016

4-21-16 The day the music died. The "real" music anyway. R.I.P. to true rock royalty - the man who made it rain purple. #Prince— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 21, 2016

Sometimes it snows in April
Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad
Sometimes I wish life was never ending
But all good things, they say, never last— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 21, 2016

Prince was so special that it's weird to think he'd do something as mundane as *die.*— fredara (@fredaraMareva) April 21, 2016

there's no one left...— The Weeknd (@theweeknd) April 21, 2016

#ThePeopleVsOJSimpson

I, along with just about every one else, was mesmerized by every minute of The People v. O.J. Simpson: American Crime Story.  Kudos all around to the people who were involved in the making of this TV gem, with a special shout out to Jeffrey Toobin who wrote the book that the series is based on.  I'm long enough in the tooth to have watched the actual proceedings in real time.  FX did a fantastic job of bringing us down memory lane. It was called The Trial of the Century for good reason. This was an important moment in our history, unlike, say, a Gap Kids ad daring to have a white kid leaning on a black kid's head in one of the pictures, or some random white guy with "the audacity" to wear his hair in dreadlocks. No need to whip yourself into a frenzy over such trivial matters back in the mid-90's. OJ Simpson's murder trial was legitimately a Very Big Deal that brought critical issues to light for inspection by society. Polar opposite reactions to the verdict by many blacks and whites was all too real, no faux outrage required. People too young to have experienced it first hand were gifted with an impressive simulation over the course of several weeks rather than a whopping 8 months. Below are some of my thoughts stated on Twitter as the series unfolded, along with commentary from others.  Now I need a new TV show to fall in love with while waiting for more OJ Simpson documentaries.  Hopefully not another program that will be over with far too soon.  Any suggestions?

Keep your #PeoplevsOJSimpson think pieces coming, people. Those I'll actually read. I miss it so much already. https://t.co/cGGQW5ni8z— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 6, 2016

I loved the People vs. OJ Simpson but the 7.5 hour OJ doc, coming this summer, is even more incendiary: https://t.co/K2Iei1y0Zl— Anne Helen Petersen (@annehelen) April 6, 2016

#ThePeopleVsOJSimpson finale tonight. Wonder what that verdict is?! pic.twitter.com/HEOaeSTREw— Oliver Willis (@owillis) April 5, 2016

OJ shld be doing life for murder, but his Vegas case was bogus. My friend Sterling Brown right about parole. @ACSFX https://t.co/WQ1SuXUhcx— Jeffrey Toobin (@JeffreyToobin) April 6, 2016

Flavor Flav -- Do I Own the Real O.J. Statue? Yeaaaaahhh BOYYYYYYY!!! https://t.co/dWZ4Y6Yk3Q— TMZ Sports (@TMZ_Sports) April 6, 2016

An O.J. Juror on What The People v. O.J. Simpson Got Right and Wrong https://t.co/8MXYbRSrRv via @vulture - Very interesting read— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 6, 2016

The most obscure figure in The People v OJ Simpson was the man at its center. https://t.co/8k6QuaZkxA pic.twitter.com/lTIY0hGGER— New Republic (@NewRepublic) April 7, 2016

Twitter couldn't have handled #ThePeoplevOJSimpson IRL. Only thing keeping ppl from losing their minds now is it seems so much like fiction.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 30, 2016

I felt sad for families of Ron Goldman and Nicole Simpson watching #PeoplevsOJSimpson. I'm not proud that at the time I pumped fist for OJ.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 6, 2016

It was such a strange case. Our history of gross inequality made many hope for OJ's team to strike a blow against racist police brutality.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 6, 2016

This made many forget the case wasn't about America's f'd up racial history. It was about a crime of passion with tons of damning evidence.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 6, 2016

Justice should always be sought and hopefully found on a case by case basis, not based on broad generalities.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) April 6, 2016

#StopTrump - Before it's too late

I need to start researching in case Trump improbably wins it all. Which country should I move to for at least 4 years?— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 25, 2016

So much dumbed down. Reality TV rules tube. 50 Shades tops Bestseller list. Journalism: ugh! But I thought we already bottomed @ POTUS w/ GW— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 25, 2016

Trump would be lower than I at my most pessimistic ever thought we would go— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 25, 2016

Whether you've made up your mind or you're still undecided, know that whichever candidate you vote for will be flawed & a truth fudger.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 26, 2016

Maybe you'll go with candidate who seems the least flawed and has flung the least amount of BS. Maybe you have different selection criteria.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 26, 2016

Whoever you vote for, you're voting for a politician and they are what they are. Unless you vote for Trump - then you're just an idiot.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 26, 2016

Donald Trump wavers on disavowing David Duke, the white nationalist and ex-Ku Klux Klansman https://t.co/1vK3hcbLbK pic.twitter.com/YoLwncLsEB— NYT Politics (@nytpolitics) February 28, 2016

#Trump supporters dressed as KKK outside #NVCaucus location. pic.twitter.com/iPfPcEghqW— Krystal Heath (@TheFriddle) February 24, 2016

America's first black president cannot and will not be succeeded by a hatemonger who refuses to condemn the KKK.— Bernie Sanders (@BernieSanders) February 28, 2016

Trump was quick to condemn Latinos & Muslims, and mock a disabled reporter. But when it comes to the KKK, he needs time to think about it.— Lisa Bloom (@LisaBloom) February 28, 2016

If Trump wins the presidency I will personally track down and smack every eligible voter who chose not to vote at all.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 28, 2016

How do you feel about David Duke is one of those gotcha questions like what magazines do you read. Where does America find these people?— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 1, 2016

Even David Duke would rebuke any semblance of an endorsement from David Duke.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 1, 2016

if the republican party is committing suicide via toxic racism, its in our best interests to help and hope something better rises— Oliver Willis (@owillis) March 1, 2016

Think I'll take a pass on giving racism an assist. Plenty of institutions have been built on it rather than destroyed by it.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 1, 2016

This @CNN #SuperTuesday fight between @VanJones68 and Jeffrey Lord got ugly FAST: https://t.co/YEPfWILePd pic.twitter.com/R5eRKeajzk— Matt Wilstein (@TheMattWilstein) March 2, 2016

As I think on it I grow less surprised by Trump not rejecting David Duke which = openly courting bigot vote 100%. It's calculated.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

While the establishment GOP was wondering how to steal back some of the Latino/Black/etc. vote won by Obama, Trump went the other way.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

Trump saw there were many ppl pissed about 2 Obama terms, rise of #BLM movement, strengthened gay rights, etc. He courted those people.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

Trump went all "throw out all Muslims & Mexicans" and rednecks ate that sh*t up. They feel they've been opressed for 8 years, poor idiots.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

Trump captured good will instead of serious flack for pushing that birther nonsense and decided to run with it.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

I suspect that Trump's run is a sprint, not a marathon. Saner voices will be heard in general election. GOP primary is catered to crazies.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

Trump supporters caught on video pushing black woman out of rally | theGrio https://t.co/lkhbnLzs9V via @theGrio— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

#StopTrump pic.twitter.com/nTPj17ZTMC— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 2, 2016

Enough is enough.

30. #BlackHistoryMonth https://t.co/X3HinJ0Gwu— Slim Thique. ✨ (@DillonJaden) February 24, 2016

Beyoncé Think Piece

People want Bey 2b > she is. They want her as spokesperson 4 all their convictions. So they turn all she does into statements of solidarity— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 12, 2016

Feminists want Bey 2b feminist. Natural hair cheerleaders want Bey as their leader. #BLM civil rights activists want Bey to be woke as hell. The list of causes that people want to recruit Bey as face/body/soul for goes on and on, but what her fans want Beyoncé to be doesn't magically transform her into what she simply isn't.

Bey is none of these things. She's a performer & great self promoter who wants max $ success. No time for or interest in your passions.

Fortunately for Bey, her fans are happy to fill in blanks. She gives an inch and is credited with a mile. She reps whatever u want her to.

If Bey actually was who you want her to be, you'd grow bored. Best to be a blank slate that each fan can fill up to their personal liking.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 12, 2016

Beyonce is Chauncey Gardiner. Pat yourself on back if you get the reference.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 12, 2016

"@JonMichaud: @AuthorofPatches "I like to watch.""— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 12, 2016

btw - None of that is meant as a slight of Beyonce. To the contrary. Bravo! What she has pulled off puts her in rarified air. No easy trick.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 12, 2016

Protests planned against and for @Beyonce https://t.co/RkugcUpiV0 #BoycottBeyonce #Formation pic.twitter.com/ELrPpXk28k— CNN Entertainment (@CNNent) February 10, 2016

Boycotting Beyonce is even more ridiculous than being a stan beyond reason. She isn't worth the energy to be so strongly for or against.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 13, 2016

Just enjoy the music, the videos, the intoxicating live performances. Let that be enough. And if you can't beat them, join them?

Bey isn't the only one who can get into Black Panther mode. https://t.co/iWCaLegqhU #BHM pic.twitter.com/sNRk2pKPjx— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 13, 2016

You stan for Beyonce, I'll stan for Toni Morrison, Jesmyn Ward, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Zadie Smith. I win.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 20, 2014

Or do I?

AND NOW FOR SOME BOOK REVIEWS.

A Drink Before the War by Dennis Lehane
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Dennis Lehane's debut novel that introduced us to private investigators Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro is an example of him doing what he does best. He brings readers to the gritty streets of Boston where bad people do bad things and the good guys do all they can to make things right. If the line between good guys and bad guys gets a little blurred, such is the nature of life. That doesn't change what's right and what's wrong. The examination of racial tensions and unrepentant bigotry is a worthy effort within the confines of a crime genre novel. I've read novels Lehane subsequently wrote prior to reading his first effort, so I know that A Drink Before the War demonstrates raw talent destined to grow from book to book.

View all my reviews

The Axeman by Ray Celestin
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This was a thoroughly entertaining read populated with interesting characters and intriguing situations right out of history books. But most appealing of all to me was the setting. New Orleans shortly before the onset of Prohibition. This book has the Mafia, vice, jazz musicians, voodoo, racial tensions, interracial love in defiance of the times, crooked politicians, determined police detectives, intrepid private investigators, and as you may have guessed from the title, a serial killer running amok. And let me not forget the predecessor hurricane to Katrina thrown in for good measure. It delivered what the cover copy promised. I can't ask for any more than that.

View all my reviews

NOS4A2 by Joe Hill
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This book delivered and proved the old adage that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Stephen King's son has proven capable of giving his old man a run for his money. Taking the merriest of holidays and turning ho ho ho's into a tale of horror was a stroke of genius. Hear Jingle Bells in late November or December and it brings smiles to the faces of those who celebrate Christmas on December 25th. Heard in June and it's straight up creepy because it so obviously does not belong. I wouldn't be surprised if it was this particular event that planted the seed which became NOS4A2. Regardless, Joe Hill's novel is a well executed tale inhabited by characters who are easy to relate to. It features a protagonist who is able to conjure up a bridge with her mind that can take her wherever she wishes to go. We all wish at some point that we had a super power, whether it be invisibility or x ray vision or superhuman strength or the ability to take flight. In NOS4A2 we meet a woman who can find whatever is missing, wherever it may be. But taking too many trips in search of lost things comes at the risk of losing her mind. Or having everyone believe that is what's happening to her. This spooky, inventive story has me anxious to read more of Joe Hill's work, and to take down my Christmas decorations ASAP. Anybody can make Halloween scary but Mr. Hill appears capable of freaking out readers 365 days a year.

View all my reviews

American Gods by Neil Gaiman
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Intriguing premise. The various gods who have been worshiped by mankind over the centuries are real. When belief of them is at its height, when they are being prayed to and sacrifices are regularly made in their honor, their powers are at peak. As the years pass into modern times and memories of the old gods fade, they become shadows of their former selves. New gods are continually created because there are always new things that men believe in and live for and sometimes kill for. But plenty of the old gods, usually masked as common people walking among us, are still around. If enough of them band together, perhaps the ancient gods can vanquish the newer ones in a war. A man named Shadow, who toes the line between the world of man and gods, is enlisted in the cause. There are many books I've greatly enjoyed that I no longer recall many details about. Something tells me that American Gods is one of those books that for reasons I scarcely understand will stick with me.

View all my reviews

LOVE STORIES

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE THAT. THIS BLOG POST IS FOR TRUE LOVERS.

A Line A Day: In Love With Love Stories? https://t.co/Oviv5Sbtay #ValentinesDay approaches— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 4, 2016

Looking to get a Valentine's Day gift for your favorite bookworm?... https://t.co/r6cc7vuNUQ— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 30, 2016

DANGEROUS HABITS https://t.co/oDOP2phYzk a #shortstory for #ValentinesDay— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 3, 2016

LESSONS https://t.co/C4xWUVd7PT a #shortstory for #ValentinesDay— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 3, 2016

I love them all in my fashion. For me, love means never forgetting. http://t.co/2gChdexJ72 #FeedingTheSquirrels - A Novella Serialized— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) October 6, 2015

Where it starts. The prologue to #FeedingTheSquirrels https://t.co/ohqTOvZcnl— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) September 20, 2015

http://t.co/OIPcvudQhm #Quotes #GoodReads #FeedingTheSquirrels http://t.co/kv6BkgRtS3— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) March 5, 2013

Imagery from #FeedingTheSquirrels http://t.co/yMVxDTqb3C— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) November 8, 2014

My 2nd novel Matters of Convenience chronicles the hazards of this zone. Tread carefully. https://t.co/kqkJXwNYRD https://t.co/DXf9hf3fIL— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) February 5, 2016

It was almost as if she had willed him into existence, into standing before her at the precise moment she was willing to accommodate him, arriving not a minute too early or too late. ~ from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE




Perhaps all love stories no matter how varied are essentially the same. We each search for the person put here specifically for us and play a guessing game with whoever comes along. One of them will be the one we were waiting for. In the midst of uncertainties this inarguable truth sustains us, even if it isn’t true. ~ from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE





They all believed back then that love lasted forever. By now they surely knew as did he that forever was a treacherous myth, though probably a necessary one. ~ from PATCHES OF GREY




So he decided to suffer from selective amnesia. Forgotten would be the sound of Janet’s laughter; the feel of her lips against his skin; the way her hair spread out over his chest as they lay in repose; the look on her face as they made love; the sound of her voice when she said he was her sun and moon and stars. Only by deleting heaven from his memory did he have a chance to survive on earth. ~ from PATCHES OF GREY




The genesis of their love was physical attraction, and his complexion had lured her the same as hers undoubtedly pulled him. It was not his blackness that she fell in love with, but it was a part of him, and therefore, a part of what she loved. ~ from PATCHES OF GREY



Was love ever easy for anyone? If less complicated, would this make it less appreciated? Perhaps love was difficult for good reason. Perhaps everything on God’s green earth was the result of a flawless plan, even that which seemed most muddled. ~ from PATCHES OF GREY






If you found anything of value in this blog post, by all means...

Twitter https://t.co/k1EfVa8tZp— Eliza Bayne (@ElizaBayne) February 4, 2016

ALL THINGS BLACKNESS

There are a few things I'd like to confirm for you since we get an extra day of Black History Month in 2016.  They will also apply when we go back to a 28 day February.  Also, feel free to follow links to the supporting testimony that pictures and prose below will bring you to.



Yes, BLACK LIVES MATTER and THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES.


Yes, BLACK GIRLS ARE MAGIC.





Yes, BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL.




Yes, I fully believe in and celebrate BLACK EXCELLENCE.





Yes, NATURAL HAIR IS GOOD HAIR.





Yes, WE NEED DIVERSE BOOKS.  I repeat, WE NEED DIVERSE BOOKS.





Yes, BLACK VOTES ARE CRITICAL.





Yes, BLACK COOL NEVER GOES OUT OUT STYLE.





YES, I don't care if you think I'm hotep or conscious or a cornball brotha or whatever. And it's none of my concern if you only celebrate BLACK HISTORY MONTH in February. I embrace it 365 days per year.

By Any Means Necessary?

BEWARE: Catfished By A Fake Penguin Employee https://t.co/3DTFn4Z7Dy pic.twitter.com/0t3bvJyCGX— Jon Gold (@staygoldjonny) January 5, 2016

Interesting story. My take on it isn't "how dare someone catfish a book blogger!". I'm actually somewhat impressed by the scam.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

The scam itself did not require evil genius abilities. But the idea behind it is in line with the way I feel about many book bloggers.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

Namely, even though a book blogger is in essence an indie book reviewer, a great deal of them refuse to read indie authored books for review— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

They agree to review electronic & print ARCs IF/WHEN provided by major publishers, as if those are the only books that may be any good.

Submissions guidelines on their blogs tell you flat out, don't bother to query me for a review if you're an indie author. Okay, as you wish.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I'm sure that author saw such comments one too many times & said F it. Stick Penguin logo on letterhead & suddenly book is review worthy.

It's not like author was trying to trick anyone into giving rave reviews. If his book sucked presumably honest book bloggers would say so.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I wouldn't do anything like that but I get why someone would be tempted. I understand that there are too many books out there to review ALL OF THEM— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

It makes sense for a book reviewer to say "there are certain kinds of book I feel best suited to read, others that are outside of my area."— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

So maybe you say "no erotica" or "no Christian fiction" or "or no whatever genre doesn't happen to float your particular boat". That's fair.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

But Big 5 Published is not a genre and neither is Indie Published. All kinds of books come from both sources & a wide range of quality also.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I'll grant that there's a higher % of garbage coming from self pubbed sources. No gate keeper means everything slips in. Fair argument.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

So maybe blogger says "if self pubbed I need to see 1st chapter before considering for review". Books w/ typos on page 1 need not apply.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

Instead, many book bloggers won't give indie authors the time of day. So an author got fed up & tricked his way into some honest reviews.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I wouldn't do it but I'm not knocking author's hustle either. I don't see why indie author & indie reviewer communities don't work together.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I'd think bloggers may be > honest in reviews of indie books. If too critical of too many titles from Harper Collins, HC may stop sending.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

But if you give indie author 2 stars out of 5, you're not concerned about damaging the relationship. There is no relationship.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I'm going to be querying for reviews of ARCs of novel # 2 later this year so this is stuff I need to think about and deal with.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I get why so many indies work together as a collective. Review each other, promote each other. I'm more of the lone wolf type.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

It often takes a village no matter which publication route one ends up taking. Except when it doesn't, when a book somehow defies all odds.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

I envy Instagram models. They don't need a corporate stamp to get hits. Just post pics & if they look good, or if they don't, feedback comes

It's A LOT harder to get people to look at your book than at your bikini pictures. — Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 5, 2016

Have you begun making book reading plans for 2016? https://t.co/U2p58EeUj9 #PatchesOfGrey https://t.co/wDLmK0qLzs— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 1, 2016

A Line A Day: A reading from MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE - Audio Excerpt https://t.co/J1TBRIkHy7 Publication date is creeping closer. Stay tuned.— Roy Pickering (@AuthorofPatches) January 4, 2016

Year End Recap for 2015

Life will try its best to drag you down into the depths some days. Don't you let it.



Also going down (temporarily) is the price of the Kindle edition of my novel Patches of Grey at Amazon. It will be discounted to a mere 99 cents beginning on December 17th. You'll have until Christmas to obtain it at a steal of a price before it returns to the still extremely reasonable cost of $2.99.



And now on to my recap of some of the most memorable happenings of 2015.  It was many things. Dull was not one of them.

Serena Williams, although supposed to be past her prime according to Father Time, continued to win and win and win and as result was named the sportsperson of the year.  This launched a bunch of think pieces about the fact that she looks very sexy on the Sports Illustrated cover, and whether this is a good or bad thing.  Why it would be a bad thing, I have no idea. It doesn’t take much to launch think pieces these days.  

An icon unlike any other. Congrats @SerenaWilliams. 2015 Sports Illustrated Sportsperson of the Year. pic.twitter.com/2NWfNEV6mo— Gatorade (@Gatorade) December 14, 2015

Black Lives Matter. No, Blue Lives Matter. No, All Lives Matter. No, Just Black Lives Matter because too many have demonstrated that they believe to the contrary. What do I think? I believe that Love Matters.




A sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird dropped. Even more shocking than learning that Harper Lee actually wrote another book, and that she actually allowed it to be published after all these years, was finding out that Harper turned the beloved icon Atticus Finch into an a-hole in Go Set a Watchman.  


Apparently a woman’s mug may grace US currency in the relatively near future.  Maybe it will be the $20 bill.  Maybe it will be a black woman. Perhaps Harriet Tubman. Think pieces launched over whether the selection of Harriet would be a righteous act or not.  Sounds like a well-deserved honor and flawless plan to me.    


Men such as Freddie Gray died under mysterious circumstances.  Police officers far too frequently seemed to be at fault, to be doing the exact opposite of protecting and serving.  When arrests were not immediate, people protested. They marched.  Sometimes they rioted. They demanded justice.  Or was it revenge that they craved? Sometimes they got what they wanted. Other times they did not.  Racism continues. Needless gun deaths continue to happen as well.  But there are fewer Confederate flags waving in the South now, so at least there’s that.




In spite of numerous obituaries, BOOKS continued to be printed and independent brick and mortar bookstores continue to sell them.  Some of these books are written by well-known perpetual Best Sellers. Others are penned by your next door neighbors who just may be extremely talented.   


The unsettling notion that President Barack Obama could be followed by President Donald Trump stubbornly persists because polls continue to defy logic and show Trump maintaining a lead over his GOP opponents.  Hillary or Bernie will have to save us from such a cruel fate. Either one will do.  
 




Various formerly popular African American celebrities did/said something to lose cool points and be accused of not being sufficiently black.  This was to be expected. Rachel Dolezal happened. This was not to be expected AT ALL.  







We collectively lost the capacity to think fondly of The Cosby Show.




Bruce Jenner vanished and Caitlyn Jenner happened.



The Force Awakened.




HAPPY HOLIDAYS from me and mine to you and yours.





I'm the one on Santa's left knee with the awesome sweater.

THE TELEVISION - A #SHORTSTORY

THE TELEVISION

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.
        Television was in Willie Gilmore's opinion, mankind's crowning achievement.  The actual programs were secondary in importance.  It was the fluttering images and cadence of sounds which attracted and soothed him. 
Because of this, he tended not to view any particular rhythmic pattern for long.  No matter what he was watching, he was usually more interested in what else might be on.  He simultaneously devoured sitcoms filled with canned laughter that erupted every 30 seconds; hour long dramas featuring impossibly attractive doctors, lawyers and police officers; movies showcasing the disease of the week; star studded self-congratulatory extravaganzas; game shows that allowed ordinary Americans to become temporary celebrities provided that they were sufficiently enthusiastic about winning money; contrived scenario reality shows featuring actors pretending not to be script following actors; and edited feature films modified just right for his screen.  Much like an obese man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, he would sample one dish, discover that he was still ravenous, so quickly move on to the next selection.  Thanks to the blessed advent of cable his choices were bountiful, if not always appetizing.  As long as something was showing somewhere, and something else somewhere else, Willie was a happy camper.
This is why he held such reverence for the device that perfected the world's most perfect creation.  The remote control.  This marvelous result of modern technology enabled him to scoot across the numerous broadcast systems like a barefoot man on a bed of hot coals.  With his remote in hand, Willie had no need for grandiose dreams.  Hopes and aspirations were not even trivial concerns, for he was master of a twenty inch universe.  Willie Gilmore was God, with a real short attention span.
Willie's footsteps quickened once his pleasure dome came into view.  The listlessness characterizing his movements during the nine to five portion of the day magically evaporated as he leapt up the stairs with grace that would have made Tanya Harding go for his kneecaps.  He was just in time to catch the beginning of Full House, Family Matters, and The Golden Girls, as well as the second half of the cinematic masterpiece, Spies Like Us.
Upon entering his home one particular evening, it took no longer than immediately for Willie to discern that something was awry.  The first thing he routinely did upon arrival was pick up his remote and turn on the TV.  But on this day there was no need, for it was already on.
"How strange," Willie thought aloud.  He always switched the television off just before walking out the door.  It was quite odd that he would have forgotten to do so this morning, equivalent to not belching after eating a chili dog.  But he supposed that stranger things had been known to happen, so he didn't dwell on the matter for long.  Instead he changed out of his work clothes, microwaved himself dinner, and zoomed through sixty-two channels with the speed of an amorous jackrabbit until it was time to go to bed.
Each interval of Willie Gilmore's life mirrored the one prior and foretold of those to come.  This was more than fine by him.  Variety and change were not his cups of tea, coffee, or any other beverage.  Personal growth through gained experiences was as foreign a concept as putting on a pair of pants by pulling them over his head.  Physically possible?  Perhaps.  But for what purpose would he bother trying to find out?  He knew precisely what pleased him and had no intention of adding to or subtracting from the list.  To describe him as a couch potato would be a severe understatement.  After all, a potato was easily moved. Once home and in position, Willie was a couch barnacle.
At 7:40 a.m., his alarm clock signaled the start of a new day. As always, he hit the snooze button to grant himself nine more minutes of slumber.  When the time was up, he cursed the morning for ending the night.  Then he headed towards the bathroom, switching on his television on the way.  Not actually listening to the morning talk show, but nonetheless comforted by the sound of it, he went about the business of preparing to trudge through another day.  He began by relieving himself of last night's Kool Aid, followed by brushing his teeth, shaving, and taking a shower. On the way back to his bedroom, Willie picked up the remote and zipped around a few channels.  The only difference between this morning and any other occurred in his head.  He reminded himself to do what he had previously done instinctively - to turn off the television.
"What's the deal?" asked Willie, when he was welcomed for the second day in a row by a TV set that had anticipated his desire.  He definitely recalled turning it off that morning.  So certain was he of this fact that he would have been willing to bet his three month supply of Pringles on it.  What could be the cause of this unsettling turn of events?  One solution he came up with was preposterous, but less so than the only alternative which came to mind.  After all, televisions could not turn themselves on at will. They had no will.  Not yet, anyway.  So this could only mean that someone had come into his apartment while he was at work.  Yet nothing had been taken, nothing was out of place.  His home was in the same condition as when he left, except for the baffling enigma encased in plastic and glass.
Such thoughts caused Willie to pay even less attention to the sounds and images on the screen than usual, and when he went to sleep he dreamed of dancing televisions.
At 7:49 a.m. the next day, Willie picked up the remote and took aim.  But just as he was about to push his thumb down, he recalled the bizarre happenings of the past two days.  Willie was not what you would call a morning person.  Not that he was an afternoon or a night person either.  He was particularly inattentive and unfocused upon awakening, however, so perhaps his mind had tricked him into thinking that he had done what in actuality he had not.  It was the only explanation which conformed to logic. 
Groggy or not, it was clear that his television was now at rest.  If let alone, it would be in the same state when he got home.  Sound reasoning if ever there was any.
Much to his annoyance, Willie's thoughts involuntarily ventured back to his television throughout his day of professionally processing data.  He had solved his mini-mystery quite sufficiently, and made sure that the peculiar occurrence would not repeat itself.  What was there to think about?  The case was closed.
It re-opened when Willie entered his apartment that evening.  "What in the world is going on?" he asked of himself, half expecting the television to speak up and account for its bizarre behavior.
Willie paced around the living room in search of an answer.  The same one kept presenting itself.  Someone was breaking into his apartment for the sole purpose of turning on his television.  As for why, he would pose that very question to the culprit upon capture.
Instead of going to work the next morning, Willie called in sick.  He made a big breakfast, then settled comfortably on his sofa and stared ahead at the television screen.  His beloved remote was achingly within reach.  But he let it lie on the coffee table. Willie wasn't about to do anything to alert his mystery intruder to the trap he was setting.  He would silently await the appearance of his nemesis, then end this madness once and for all. 
Willie faithfully kept his promise.  Until about 3:00 that is, when unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he dozed off.  About an hour later he awoke to the precocious banter of Arnold and his older brother.  "What you talkin' bout, Willis?"
How was this happening?  Who would have the audacity to sneak into his apartment while he was still in it, just to turn on his television?  What motivation could this lunatic have for perpetrating such a dastardly crime? 
Willie made a most solemn vow.  Tomorrow, no matter what it took, he would be ready and waiting for the psychopath who was making his life a living hell.  He would not allow this to continue any longer.
The next morning he rose over an hour before his alarm clock would have awakened him.  Every nerve in his body was tensed.  He didn't even glance at the remote as he passed through the living room.  Willie didn't bother to shave, and the shower he took was almost ice cold.  He went into the kitchen to prepare the first of several pots of coffee he would consume.  Instead of lounging on his sofa, he sat on a hard back chair.  Death itself was not going to close his eyes today.
Time ticked by ever so slowly.  Willie was aware of every second, of every minute, of every hour that silently passed.  He counted the beats of his heart while staring ahead with startling intensity.  The only movement he made was to bring the coffee cup to his lips, and then back down to the table.  He didn't eat anything, because hunger made him more alert.  He kept an empty apple juice bottle by his side as substitute for trips to the bathroom, because such trips would put him out of eye shot of the TV.  Willie had a simple, clear cut mission to accomplish.  He must protect his television until 6:00, which was the time he usually came home from work.  He was confident that if he did this, the bizarre streak of the last few days would be broken and life could go back to the familiar pattern he had grown accustomed to.  To keep his television off he had to watch it.  And so he watched, and watched, and watched.
It was 5:59 forever and a day.  The digital clock on his cable box had stuck on that time after plodding ahead surely all day long.  Willie held tight to the bottom of the chair to keep himself down. And then suddenly, as if by magic, six o'clock arrived.  Victory was his.  Nothing else achieved in his monotone life had been as sweet.  This was Willie Gilmore's moment in the sun.
His apple juice bottle had been full to the rim for the past hour and a half, so Willie opted to hold the urge in rather than abandoning his post.  Now that his mission was accomplished, there was no reason to refrain from relieving himself.  Several cups of coffee he had imbibed were anxious to be released.  The pleasure he felt as he set the golden stream free was immeasurable.  He closed his eyes, and for a split second thought he saw God.  Once this task was performed, Willie started to shave off his stubble.  He was about halfway through when his concentration was broken, causing him to nick his chin. 
"Sunday, Monday, Happy Days.  Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days."  Willie rushed into the living room to confirm his worst nightmare.  The television set was on.
Perhaps it was an unearthly sign, a message that he needed to adjust his priorities.  He was after all, stuck in an intolerable dead end job.  A few casual acquaintances with whom he spent a scare amount of time constituted his social scene.  As for a romantic life, it was non-existent, unless one counted the crushes he had on various TV actresses.  It seemed evident that he was being told to reclaim his soul from the grips of this monastic lifestyle creating, intellect sapping, boxed form of entertainment.
The matter thus settled, Willie stuck his hand into the closet and withdrew the Louisville slugger he hadn't swung since childhood.  But he swung it today all right.  The sweet spot of the bat connected dead center with the TV screen, causing the latter to explode on impact.  Shards of glass took off in every direction.
The bat hung limp from Willie's hands once the heat of the moment had passed.  He stood motionless for a few seconds, uncertain of how to feel about the destruction of his most prized possession.  Then a smile crept across his face.  The demon was dead. 
Realizing that it was no longer necessary to battle the fatigue raging war against his eyelids, Willie dropped the bat in the middle of the mess he had created and headed for the safe confines of his bed.  His slumber lasted about three hours.  Upon awakening, his heart was filled with contentment.  A gentle breeze came through the window, caressing his half shaven face.  Willie sat up, rejuvenated, feeling like he could conquer the world.  It was to be a short lived emotion.
The sound he heard was faint, but grew more coherent once its source was recognized.  He would know their voices anywhere.  Jo, Blair, Natalie and his personal favorite, Tootie.  After eavesdropping on their conversation for a few seconds, he was able to recall the episode taking place. 
Then he remembered what he had done a few hours earlier.  Willie leaped from his bed and ran into the living room.  The sight of his television seemingly destroyed beyond usefulness was disturbing.  More so was the fact that the sound still worked.  Then he looked down at the floor, at the scattered jagged pieces of glass, and witnessed the most unsettling phenomenon of them all.  Within each piece of what had been the screen, a section of The Facts of Life was somehow playing.
Willie considered jumping out of a window, for it was clear that he had gone insane and this did not seem an agreeable way to spend the remainder of his days.  But the notion was quickly passed on, for such a drastic measure seemed disproportionate to the symptoms of his dementia.  After all, it was not as if neighborhood dogs were talking him into dismembering random strangers.  Beyond the hit his electricity bill might take, this peculiar haunting should disturb him very little once he grew accustomed to it.
On the verge of hysteria just moments ago, his mood had taken a dramatic turn for the better.  He had tried to deny his nature, and was therefore destined to fail.  His chances had been no greater than those of a cat attempting to bark.  Such a cat would be a silly one indeed, for cats were meant to meow just as surely as Willie's role was to watch television. 
It was now perfectly clear.  The key to sanity was acceptance of what life gave you, like it or not.  Mental institutions and psychiatrist offices were filled with lost souls who questioned too vigilantly why things were as they were.  Those smart enough to know better roamed the earth free of care, if not quite happy, at least a close enough facsimile.  One of these people, a man named Willie Gilmore, dropped to his knees to assemble a most bizarre jigsaw puzzle, each piece put back into place bringing his life that much closer to order.





And now for some book reviews.


Loving Day by Mat Johnson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Mat Johnson has a very funny (as in comical) way of looking at the world, perhaps because he grew up with a fair number of people looking at him funny (as in odd). Is he black, is he white? The box you decide to put a person into upon introduction, the label you instantly apply to their existence, shapes the dynamics of the relationship you will have with them. If you're not sure of which box to go with, which label to use, then what is there to guide your first impression? If you're not sure what someone else is, how do you go about being yourself around them? We live in an identity obsessed culture. What are you? Who am I? We are comforted when we can tell at a glance whether someone is a star bellied sneetch or a starless sneetch. But when the truth about someone cannot be discerned by a glance at them, then either they need to forcefully declare what they identity as being, or else we'll do it for them. Loving Day is filled with indelible characters; a line-up of humorous situations; an entertaining blend of reality and unreality; a considerable amount of wry, insightful prose; great compassion; and a handful of ghosts. It is about figuring out that regardless of how clearly our stars can be recognized (thanks for helping me out with this review, Dr. Seuss), it doesn't change the fact that we're all just people put here to find other people to love. Preferably people who will love us in return for whatever the hell we are.

View all my reviews


The Star Side of Bird Hill by Naomi Jackson
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Home is more than where you live. It is where you are loved. It is the place you feel safe, where your fondest memories are created and stored. Home plays a major role in the creation of your identity. If another place was home, you would be a different version of yourself. The Star Side of Bird Hill is about two sisters, one a preteen and the other a little closer to the verge of womanhood, who are sent from Brooklyn to Barbados to spend a summer with their grandmother. This temporary arrangement is given permanence when their severely depressed mother kills herself. With their father out of the picture, having no parents in their lives means that home is suddenly redefined. But Bird Hill is not what they know nor what they have chosen. It is an idyllic prison cell. The children of Bird Hill are not their true friends. Their grandmother is an unbending woman with strange ways, not the adored woman who raised them. This is not to say that Brooklyn was paradise, for that was where their mother had been vanishing before their eyes by withdrawing into herself as depression took hold. Brooklyn is where their father abandoned them. Barbados is where he makes a surprise reappearance that is difficult to trust. Who they can have faith in is their stalwart grandmother, and she is rooted in an island they knew little of up until now. So Bird Hill is where they will finish becoming the women they are meant to be. Memories happy and sad, at least for the time being, must stay behind in Brooklyn. The new shape of home, including loved ones they have gained and those who have been lost, must be accepted no matter how reluctantly. Passage of time will construct that acceptance. This is a fine debut novel by Naomi Jackson, an author to keep an eye on.

View all my reviews


Drama by Raina Telgemeier


This title (which my daughter adores and I haven’t actually read yet) made the 2015 Banned Books list. Why? It doesn't ignore the fact that homosexuality and homosexuals exist. They can even make appearances in graphic novels geared to young readers. Deal with it.

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Sonia Sotomayor: A Judge Grows in the Bronx/La juez que crecio en el Bronx by Jonah Winter
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Inspirational story of a girl who grew up in the Bronx, like myself. We even went to the same high school (Cardinal Spellman in the house!). My daughter, who read this book aloud to me, loved the illustrations of a young Sonia Sotomayor by Edel Rodriguez. Reminded her a bit of herself, although Sonia has "only" made it as far as the Supreme Court while my daughter plans to be President one day. So what's not to love about this book?

View all my reviews


Just One Look by Harlan Coben
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

3-1/2 stars. This book was headed towards a 4-star review due to its infectious page turner style of prose that will be mistaken by no one for literary flair. Strictly meat and potatoes. This writing style effectively accomplishes the goal of all mystery books which is to make readers extremely curious about who dunnit and why they dunnit. As I have found to be the case with quite a few mysteries, the grande finale portion where all/most gets solved and the culprits are revealed was a bit underwhelming. Hence I settled on 3-1/2 stars, but GoodReads/Amazon won't give us a half star option for some incomprehensible reason, so 3 stars it is. The explanation section at the end of Just One Look is so choppy and convoluted and hole punched that I stopped caring halfway through it. In other words, I raced to the end only to find myself somewhat dissatisfied by the destination. Nevertheless, I will be sure to give another Harlan Coben book a shot because he is excellent at leaving a trail of crumbs for readers to eagerly devour, and that's what we read mystery novels for - the thrill of the blind chase.

View all my reviews