Lise McClendon
Goodreads Author
Born
in Carmel, California, The United States
February 08
Website
Twitter
Genre
Influences
Member Since
March 2007
URL
https://www.goodreads.com/lisemcc
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Lise McClendon
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Blackbird Fly
5 editions
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published
2009
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The Girl in the Empty Dress (Bennett Sisters Book 2)
by
3 editions
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published
2014
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The Things We Said Today (The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 4)
by |
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Give Him The Ooh-la-la (Bennett Sisters #3)
2 editions
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published
2014
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The Frenchman (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 5)
4 editions
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published
2017
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The Bluejay Shaman
6 editions
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published
1994
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Nordic Nights (Alix Thorssen Mystery, #3)
10 editions
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published
1999
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One O'Clock Jump: A Dorie Lennox Mystery
9 editions
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published
2001
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Painted Truth (Alix Thorssen Mystery, #2)
8 editions
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published
1995
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Birds of a Feather: 3: Fly the Nest (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 16)
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Lise’s Recent Updates
Lise
and
1 other person
liked
Phyllis's review
of
A Bookworm of a Suspect (A Cozy Mystery Tribe Anthology, #6):
"Thanks to Aconite Café Publishers, BookFunnel and Lise McClendon for a digital advance reader copy. All comments and opinions are my own.
This is a book of short cozy mysteries, all related to books and writers. My review is for "Under The Gun” by Lis" Read more of this review » |
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Lise
rated a book really liked it
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Lise
rated a book it was amazing
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Lise
finished reading
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Lise
liked
R Moore's review
of
DEAD FLAT: a trilogy featuring Pascal d'Onscon (Bennett Sisters Mysteries boxsets series Book 5):
"The Bennett Sisters' series
I have just read my way through this entire 16 book series and thoroughly enjoyed them all. I liked the way we got to know each of the sisters better as individual books focused on them and the little references to Pride an" Read more of this review » |
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Lise
rated a book it was amazing
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“I am a book.
Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines
a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty
from shelves.
Steamy and anxious, abused and misused,
kissed and cried over,
smeared, yellowed, and torn,
loved, hated, scorned.
I am a book.
I am a book that remembers,
days when I stood proud in good company
When the children came, I leapt into their arms,
when the women came, they cradled me against their soft breasts,
when the men came, they held me like a lover,
and I smelled the sweet smell of cigars and brandy as we sat together in leather chairs,
next to pool tables, on porch swings, in rocking chairs,
my words hanging in the air like bright gems, dangling,
then forgotten, I crumbled,
dust to dust.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
a book brand-new, sprung from the loins of ancient fathers clothed in tweed,
born of mothers in lands of heather and coal soot.
A family too close to see the blood on its hands,
too dear to suffering, to poison, to cold steel and revenge,
deaf to the screams of mortal wounding,
amused at decay and torment,
a family bred in the dankest swamp of human desires.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
I am a mystery.
I am intrigue, anxiety, fear,
I tangle in the night with madmen, spend my days cloaked in black,
hiding from myself, from dark angels,
from the evil that lurks within
and the evil we cannot lurk without.
I am words of adventure,
of faraway places where no one knows my tongue,
of curious cultures in small, back alleys, mean streets,
the crumbling house in each of us.
I am primordial fear, the great unknown,
I am life everlasting.
I touch you and you shiver, I blow in your ear and you follow me,
down foggy lanes, into places you've never seen,
to see things no one should see,
to be someone you could only hope to be.
I ride the winds of imagination on a black-and-white horse,
to find the truth inside of me, to cure the ills inside of you,
to take one passenger at a time over that tall mountain,
across that lonely plain to a place you've never been
where the world stops for just one minute
and everything is right.
I am a mystery.
-Rides a Black and White Horse”
―
Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines
a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty
from shelves.
Steamy and anxious, abused and misused,
kissed and cried over,
smeared, yellowed, and torn,
loved, hated, scorned.
I am a book.
I am a book that remembers,
days when I stood proud in good company
When the children came, I leapt into their arms,
when the women came, they cradled me against their soft breasts,
when the men came, they held me like a lover,
and I smelled the sweet smell of cigars and brandy as we sat together in leather chairs,
next to pool tables, on porch swings, in rocking chairs,
my words hanging in the air like bright gems, dangling,
then forgotten, I crumbled,
dust to dust.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
a book brand-new, sprung from the loins of ancient fathers clothed in tweed,
born of mothers in lands of heather and coal soot.
A family too close to see the blood on its hands,
too dear to suffering, to poison, to cold steel and revenge,
deaf to the screams of mortal wounding,
amused at decay and torment,
a family bred in the dankest swamp of human desires.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
I am a mystery.
I am intrigue, anxiety, fear,
I tangle in the night with madmen, spend my days cloaked in black,
hiding from myself, from dark angels,
from the evil that lurks within
and the evil we cannot lurk without.
I am words of adventure,
of faraway places where no one knows my tongue,
of curious cultures in small, back alleys, mean streets,
the crumbling house in each of us.
I am primordial fear, the great unknown,
I am life everlasting.
I touch you and you shiver, I blow in your ear and you follow me,
down foggy lanes, into places you've never seen,
to see things no one should see,
to be someone you could only hope to be.
I ride the winds of imagination on a black-and-white horse,
to find the truth inside of me, to cure the ills inside of you,
to take one passenger at a time over that tall mountain,
across that lonely plain to a place you've never been
where the world stops for just one minute
and everything is right.
I am a mystery.
-Rides a Black and White Horse”
―
“Don’t get between the moments you want to live in by overthinking them. Succumb to the joy.”
― The Frenchman
― The Frenchman
“Possibility. Was that all that it took to feel alive? Could it be that it wasn’t getting the thing you desire itself but the anticipation, the struggle, the dream of it that makes living so amazing? Was it that simple?”
― Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 1 & 2
― Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 1 & 2
Topics Mentioning This Author
topics | posts | views | last activity | |
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The Seasonal Read...:
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2302 | 750 | May 31, 2012 09:02PM | |
The Seasonal Read...: 5.3 -- Dust in the Wind | 47 | 109 | Aug 14, 2012 07:20PM | |
Crazy Challenge C...: CCC RaT #3, August 29 - September 3 | 169 | 80 | Sep 04, 2012 03:59PM | |
Crazy Challenge C...: Summer Scavenger Hunt - 2012 | 175 | 141 | Sep 22, 2012 08:57PM | |
The Seasonal Read...:
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2321 | 726 | Dec 28, 2012 03:29PM |
“I am a book.
Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines
a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty
from shelves.
Steamy and anxious, abused and misused,
kissed and cried over,
smeared, yellowed, and torn,
loved, hated, scorned.
I am a book.
I am a book that remembers,
days when I stood proud in good company
When the children came, I leapt into their arms,
when the women came, they cradled me against their soft breasts,
when the men came, they held me like a lover,
and I smelled the sweet smell of cigars and brandy as we sat together in leather chairs,
next to pool tables, on porch swings, in rocking chairs,
my words hanging in the air like bright gems, dangling,
then forgotten, I crumbled,
dust to dust.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
a book brand-new, sprung from the loins of ancient fathers clothed in tweed,
born of mothers in lands of heather and coal soot.
A family too close to see the blood on its hands,
too dear to suffering, to poison, to cold steel and revenge,
deaf to the screams of mortal wounding,
amused at decay and torment,
a family bred in the dankest swamp of human desires.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
I am a mystery.
I am intrigue, anxiety, fear,
I tangle in the night with madmen, spend my days cloaked in black,
hiding from myself, from dark angels,
from the evil that lurks within
and the evil we cannot lurk without.
I am words of adventure,
of faraway places where no one knows my tongue,
of curious cultures in small, back alleys, mean streets,
the crumbling house in each of us.
I am primordial fear, the great unknown,
I am life everlasting.
I touch you and you shiver, I blow in your ear and you follow me,
down foggy lanes, into places you've never seen,
to see things no one should see,
to be someone you could only hope to be.
I ride the winds of imagination on a black-and-white horse,
to find the truth inside of me, to cure the ills inside of you,
to take one passenger at a time over that tall mountain,
across that lonely plain to a place you've never been
where the world stops for just one minute
and everything is right.
I am a mystery.
-Rides a Black and White Horse”
―
Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines
a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty
from shelves.
Steamy and anxious, abused and misused,
kissed and cried over,
smeared, yellowed, and torn,
loved, hated, scorned.
I am a book.
I am a book that remembers,
days when I stood proud in good company
When the children came, I leapt into their arms,
when the women came, they cradled me against their soft breasts,
when the men came, they held me like a lover,
and I smelled the sweet smell of cigars and brandy as we sat together in leather chairs,
next to pool tables, on porch swings, in rocking chairs,
my words hanging in the air like bright gems, dangling,
then forgotten, I crumbled,
dust to dust.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
a book brand-new, sprung from the loins of ancient fathers clothed in tweed,
born of mothers in lands of heather and coal soot.
A family too close to see the blood on its hands,
too dear to suffering, to poison, to cold steel and revenge,
deaf to the screams of mortal wounding,
amused at decay and torment,
a family bred in the dankest swamp of human desires.
I am a tale of woe and secrets,
I am a mystery.
I am intrigue, anxiety, fear,
I tangle in the night with madmen, spend my days cloaked in black,
hiding from myself, from dark angels,
from the evil that lurks within
and the evil we cannot lurk without.
I am words of adventure,
of faraway places where no one knows my tongue,
of curious cultures in small, back alleys, mean streets,
the crumbling house in each of us.
I am primordial fear, the great unknown,
I am life everlasting.
I touch you and you shiver, I blow in your ear and you follow me,
down foggy lanes, into places you've never seen,
to see things no one should see,
to be someone you could only hope to be.
I ride the winds of imagination on a black-and-white horse,
to find the truth inside of me, to cure the ills inside of you,
to take one passenger at a time over that tall mountain,
across that lonely plain to a place you've never been
where the world stops for just one minute
and everything is right.
I am a mystery.
-Rides a Black and White Horse”
―
“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”
―
―
“And just as music is the space between notes, just as the stars are beautiful because of the space between them, just as the sun strikes raindrops at a certain angle and throws a prism of color across the sky - so the space where I exist, and I want to keep existing, and to be quite frank I hope I die in, is exactly this middle distance: where despair struck pure otherness and created something sublime.”
― The Goldfinch
― The Goldfinch

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message 7:
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Peter
Oct 15, 2012 07:30AM

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Thank you so much for Friending me. So, what are you reading at the moment? And how's the writing going?

Kris
Kris Neri
Magical Alienation: A Samantha Brennan and Annabelle Haggerty Magical Mystery