Uvi’s Comments (group member since Apr 09, 2012)

Uvi’s comments from the The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky group.

Here is an excerpt, especially for celebrating holidays, a flashback to Passovers past, taken from Apart From Love:

If I were to focus strictly on my parents, ignore the entire background of this place, and let the clutter and the smell of it just fall away, this could take me back to a different time, a time in my childhood, when our kitchen table was set for the Passover meal. What comes back to me first is the tinkle, as my father finished blessing the wine, and clinked his glass against hers, against mine.
I remember: the table was draped, all the way down to the floor, with mom’s best, rarely used tablecloth, made of the smoothest ivory satin you ever touched. Dad sat at the head of the table, mom to his right, I opposite her.
All day long she had been cooking, which infused the air with a wonderful aroma. In it you could detect a sharp whiff of horseradish and of gefilte fish and sweet brisket and red cabbage and roasted potatoes, all of which made my stomach growl. It went on growling until he finished reading the long, archaic text in the Hagadda, which meant little to me, except a vague notion of the utter futility of patience.
I remember: my mother ladled the clear, golden chicken soup and set it here, steaming before my eyes, with three matzo balls floating inside, which was her way of giving. “It’s hot,” she said. “Make sure to blow on it first.” Yes, the smell of her cooking was good, but then, the taste! Just wait till you took the first bite—

A Woman's Voice ~ Volume 1

And the second one is lovely book by Marcia Quinn Noren, Joan of Arc: The Mystic Legacy:

When you read Marcia Quinn Noren's study of Jeanne d'Arc, it becomes clear from the beginning that she has devoted years of careful research, and has made every decision in terms of the layout and arrangement of the text and the photographs. The writer aims to provide readers with a substantive essence of the story, by quoting directly from the records of the trial. Jeanne d'Arc became a legend in her time and remains a mystery to this day. She changed the course of a savage war that ravaged France, which drew immediate suspicion from the Church; the French monarchy too viewed her as a threat.

I've read the reviews on Goodreads, including the reviewer who called the image on the frontcover "cartoonish" (while at the same time, said the book was well researched and well written.) I believe that the cover designer wanted to impart a supernatural feel, while connecting it to Jeanne's Christian roots: the outlining in the picture and the lettering gives somewhat of a stained glass look. The arc behind the fragile figure of this girl is symbolic of her name. In addition, there is a great relationship between between Jeanne's image on the front and the authors photo on the back, which reveals a personal bond between writer and subject.

I Highly recommend The Mystic Legacy. Five stars.

Today I am going to post two reviews here, for books inspired by history. The first one is for Dignity, which I have just finished reading:

I happened to like it when a book cannot easily be classified in the narrow confines of a particular genre. Is this an Erotic Fiction, or a Historical Fantasy? In my mind, life itself (and the art that mirrors it) constantly changes from one genre to the next, depending on the moment of experience. I appreciate a story for its contrasts, which explains precisely why I enjoy this work, and why some readers may not. Perhaps they expect one thing, based on the title 'Dignity'--and on some pages they get something entirely different, such as a steaming, sensually described love scene. If you are one of these readers, beware. Otherwise, you will find such contrasts quite thrilling.

The book opens with an out-of-place Epilogue (titled Prologue) which describes the queen rehearsing for the most important day of her life, the day of her execution. "It was important, she believed, do end with the dignity of a queen. After all, the only thing that she had left was her dignity." From there, we cut back to her childhood and her affair and marriage to the king. She becomes the witness--and in the end, the victim--of the high drama surrounding him. "His arrogance both attracted and infuriated her... She knew he could take her by force... she'd still have her dignity, and even he couldn't have that."

Katheryn Howard, the heroine of this story, is based on a historical figure about whom little is known (not even her date and place of birth.) Henry the VIII married her immediately after the annulment of his marriage to Anne of Cleves was arranged. Katheryn was beheaded after less than two years of marriage, on the grounds of treason for committing adultery. This life, which is barely sketched in historical books due to its unknowns, provides a great, blank canvas for painting every emotion, every thought of this sensual woman. Confined in the tight dresses of the time, she is fighting to survive, as best she can, in the world of men.

One last note: when his painting The Nude Maja created an uproar, Goya created another painting of the same woman identically posed, but clothed. This book is provided in two versions: censored and uncensored, so you may take your pick.

Four stars.

Hmmm... Too bad... I had two events (on facebook) with a variety of fun activities, including a writing contest in each one of them... The entries of the contestants are still displayed on my blog, Angela. Check them out here:

http://uviart.blogspot.com/p/entries....

The event is long over, but you can still go in and take a look around, using this link:

http://www.facebook.com/events/299302...

Happy holidays to all! xoxox

For some reason I am reading a lot of children books lately. Here's my review for Burly & Grum: Beyond the Forest

"Deep in the great forest there was a clearing filled with rays of warm, bright summer sunshine." Thus, with a lovely tone of fairytale, and with descriptive details that magically awaken all the senses, opens this story.

In the center of this story in a pensive goblin named Grum P. Groblin, who has to figure out a way to prove himself, and to prove his bravery to his older brothers, Grimly and Gripe. I found these names to be chosen not only with musical alliteration but with humor, too! Which is also true of the illustrations that grace the pages of this book. Done with black pen, they do not overpower the text, but extend it by adding a visual suggestion.

Along the path of his adventure he meets a bear named Burly (notice the musical alliteration again!) and they become best friends. I loved the dialogue between them on their first encounter:

Grumpy wiped his nose with the sleeve of his grey jacket. The bear pulled a face. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Grum P. Groblin."
"Grumpy?" The bear's lips twitched as he tried not to laugh.
"Yes... no... not Graumpy -- Grum P. Groblin."
"Pea?"
Grum sighed. He had this problem all the time. "Groblins always have a secret middle name so I can't tell you what it is but is starts with P."

What more can I say but this: the beauty of this story is in reading it aloud. That is the best way to capture all the hidden clues...
five stars.

Review for The Test Slayer's Handbook

The title 'The Test Slayer's Handbook', as well as the subtitle 'Unleash Your Inner genius' highlight the tone of the book: it is a battle plan! Written with a dynamic, even aggressive approach to tackling the difficulties we face studying for exams, the book offers detailed advice, which is based on the strategies developed over a lifetime of learning and practice by Brian V. Menard.

The chapters focus on a variety of issues, from building up an attitude of confidence, offering tips to increase reading speed, sifting through the text to glean the important information and discard the unimportant details, even analyzing how our mind files and stores new information.

Towards the conclusion of the book, Menard discusses something that all of us have experienced: the sense of being overwhelmed by large quantities of new knowledge. In his direct conversational style he asks, "Have you ever been so overwhelmed when studying a subject that you said, ENOUGH! I don't think my brain can hold anymore! If so, you are not alone..." I will not elaborate on his battle plan, more than to say this: five stars.

Contrary to popular belief, I see the brain working together, undivided between it left and right sides. It is overlaying its creative and analytical functions in every task. There are compositional problems to resolve, and color combination methods to gauge when you are painting a picture, at the same time that you are chasing your muse. The same is true for writing a story or composing a piece of music, with the added effect of time: a painting is perceived at once, more or less, while music and story unfold for the listener one note at a time.

So I say, paint with a pen, write with a paintbrush. My art strives to tell a story, and my stories strive to bring you into the scene being painted! Here is a good example of the mutual influences between art and writing. I painted this oil painting a few years ago, driven to do so by a recurrent nightmare. Then, earlier this year, I brought it to life in letters, and weaved it into my novel, Apart From Love (see excerpt below.)



Just yesterday—when I laid there in bed, bleeding all day, not even knowing where I was—that was when at last, the dream found me.
In it, I find myself in a public place, which is strange to me—even though I know, somehow, that I’ve already been here. I’ve visited this place, perhaps the night before.
It’s raised like a stage, and flooded with light: a harsh glare, which blinds me. For a minute I can’t see nothing in the dark, beyond that ledge—but I know that them faces are out there, blank and blurry. They’re all there, hushing each other, gazing at me.
I see myself standing there in front of them, naked.
Red-faced, I hunch up as tight as I can. I fold over my thighs, trying to hide, to cover my body, my shame—but my hands, they’re way too small, so my nipple slips out of my fingers. And there it is, circled by light, for all to see, and to jeer at me, and to lick their lips, which is like, glistening out there, tiny sparks hissing in the distance.
For a little while, my sleep is light. And so—even as I’m looking straight into that spotlight, or like, reaching down to touch the ledge of that stage—I can tell that all this is false, it’s nothing more than a dream. But then I fall deeper, even deeper into it, and now I really believe what I see:
Some thread is crawling on my skin. Laying across my knees is a strap of fabric, which is frayed and stained, here and there, with my blood. When I pull it in, trying to drape it around me, or use it for a blanket, it resists. It don’t hardly give in, ‘cause it’s tied to something—no, somebody—standing right here, directly over my bare back.
Me, I don’t want to turn, but I take a peek over my shoulder. Wrapped in layers of rags and straps and loose ends, all of which is tattered and like, drenched in reds and browns, the figure seemed shaky. He lifts one leg, and tries to balance himself, teetering—this way and that—on one foot. His hand tries to touch the back of my neck—and misses it, grabbing a handful of air, instead.
And his blood-red lips, they’re curled up, in something that looks an awful lot like a smile. A mocking smile, one that don’t change.
In my dream, my feet must have frozen. I can’t move, can’t run away from him, or even climb off the stage, because at that point I’m weak, and too scared to even breathe, and because of that thread, which binds us. And so, rooted to that spot, I look up at him. At this close range, our eyes meet, and my heart skips a beat, ‘cause at that second, his are empty.
Suddenly I catch sight of someone else, someone standing way over there, in the distance, behind him; behind the curtains, even. Except for her hand, which is caught in the light, it’s hard to even notice her, ‘cause at first she’s like, real shy, even modest, and keeps herself in the shadows, out of the spotlight.
But then, she changes. Her long fingers, they’re gathered, one by one, into a fist. And twisted around her little finger, you can find—if you focus—the ends of the rags, and the straps, and the thread, all of which extend from there to here, where he stands; all the way, to the joints of his wrists and his elbows, tying them like, real tight.
And from backstage, she’s pulling him—raising, dropping, tightening, loosening—making the puppet move, shake, jiggle, even dance on the tip of his toe, and like, bringing him, somehow, to life. I gasp, thinking: she can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to.
Me, I cringe as he puffs, breathing something in my ear. “Go, go back home, go,” says the puppet, in a voice that is not really his. “Go to the place, the place where you came from, you came from. Go back to your ma, ma, your mama.”

Angela wrote: "Wonderful review! And so descriptive, Delores! Beautifully written and I fully agree- just exquisite!"

Thank you Angela! Dolores has magic flowing from her pen...

Thank you so much Dolores for posting your review of Apart From Love! Hugs and kisses!

Marcia wrote: "Uvi, the difference between writing nonfiction biography and nonfiction "memoir" is enormous, and that difference is mostly related to "distance" between the third person narrative (biography) and first person narrative. It is difficult to write effectively in the first person. "

I don't envy you this task... While in my own writing I enter the skin of the characters and let them speak to the reader in first-person narrative, this would be incredibly difficult for me to do, unmasked.

It takes such bravery to face yourself! To strip off everything you have built over a lifetime to protect your own vulnerability. And, being subjective you can never gauge if you have gone overboard or not given enough...

Thank you for offering this comparison. I cannot wait to read more. Feel free to post excerpts here, anytime.

"He lays there, having wrapped himself in my mother’s arms, his eyelashes still somewhat aflutter, his hands still shivering slightly over his heart, his face pale, nearly blue, and I know that if I would leave him at this moment to go look for Martha, the care giver, it would be over. Dad would be gone by the time I rush back.
So I draw closer and stand there, behind the head of the bed, over my sleeping mother. From this angle, his ribs seem to move—but I think it is because of her body clinging to him, and because of her breathing, which is so deep and so peaceful. I lean over her arms to take his hands in mine, absorbing his shiver, taking it into my flesh, until finally it dies down.
And the light, growing even brighter, washes his face, till all that is left is a smile, frozen."

http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...

I would say 2, 3 or 4 years old.

Here is a children's book I have just read: Buck the Good Doog

This is a warm-hearted, endearing children's story, told in the from the point-of-view of an eight-week old collie called Buck. As you turn the pages, the pup grows older and his adventures more far-reaching.

When you read this to your children, as I did, they will immediately 'take' to Buck's point of view, as it is in so many ways similar to their own: seeing the world with all its wonder with fresh eyes, and being open to its surprises, its magic. This is a great lesson in empathy, and an early exercise in changing their perspective and seeing things from different angles.

Written by Renee Pierce Williams, this book is mother-and-daughter, story-teller and illustrator joint creation, in loving memory of their own dog; which for me, deepens the sense of bonding with Buck. The pages are vividly illustrated by Shelby Renee Williams with warm, lush colors and rustic country scenes, which reflect everything described by The Good Doog.

Five stars.

Great!
And feel free to offer your own reviews here!

Anybody can post reviews in this thread--including me...

Here is my recent review of A Woman's Voice ~ Volume 1:

In her introduction for A Woman's Voice, Dolores Ayotte sets her eyes on a goal which for most of us may be illusive: "I want to permanently shed my insecurities and enter this final stage of my life with as much grace and wisdom as humanly possible." This sets the tone for the entire book.

Her voice is a whisper, a gentle suggestion, which allows us to take in what she says. She opens each chapter with a personal note, telling us about the little things in her life that invoked the idea around which this chapter is built. For example, in The Empty Nest, Dolores opens the chapter describing her relationship with her husband. "We are never alone despite the silence that endures between us." From here she guides you to an alternative view of this stage of life: no longer as an empty nest, but rather as a time for reflection and for being grateful for having survived live's challenges.

And, to support her way of thinking about life, Dolores offers many quotes from other writers and philosophers, most of whom may be new to you. This enriches the text and you are left there to taste each word, each thought as it is whispered to you from the pages of this lovely book.

The book cover truly reflects the gentle nature of its content. Laid in front of you upon the tablecloth is a freshly cut, yellow flower, and in the background is the wick of a candle, waiting to be lit, perhaps later. It is an intimate gift from the author.

Five stars.

Have you ever wanted to go back to your youth, to reverse the flow of time? For you, is it tempting thought? It would take some kind of magic, which I describe in my story A Heartbeat, Reversed. In it I use a silent movie projector as a device that allows my character, Edna, to make believe she can rewind time. And perhaps it is more than make-believe...

At first, it stirred into motion, casting a glowing, larger-than-life face into the darkness. The eyes sparkled, and from the lips came a laughter. It was giggly, yet utterly silent. Edna smiled back at this girl, the spirit of her youth. The eyelashes fluttered and then—with a sudden stutter—something took over the machine; for stuck on that single frame, it started rattling uncontrollably.

In this state of mind, Edna watches her long-forgotten wedding event flickering on the wall. The sequence, which is so formal we all know how it ought to be arranged, is reversed. Starting from the moment he carries her across the threshold, we go back through events:

Ethan gathered her to his chest, his face dark with effort, his brow dripping with sweat. He swept the bride off her feet, and carried her in his arms, walking backwards. He backed away from the living room, out through the corridor. Edna shouted, Look out! She sucked in her breath; somehow she was quite sure that in a snap, the veil would ensnare him.

And going farther and farther back in time, here is how the groom and bride place the rings and exchange vows. Seen in reverse, the meaning is changed, too. You realize that they are about to separate, perhaps even forget they ever met:

Ethan and the bride had just separated out from a kiss and stood still, facing each other. The silvery light could barely filter through the wedding canopy. Gathered around them were members of both families. They bore witness, in a serious and ceremonious manner, to the unravelling of this union.
Edna could see clearly how he kept tugging at that ring on his finger, as if it did not fit, no, it did not feel quite right, now did it. She caught herself hesitating, wavering there under the gray shade, between one nail and another. Finally the bride took back her vows and set him free. With great gentleness, she recovered his ring. Ethan, in turn, recovered hers.

How far will she allow this magic to take her? Will she lose control over it, and what are the risks, the repercussions of denying the normal flow of time? Will Edna go back to being a young woman? A girl? A baby? Will she lose her mind? You can reverse a sequence of numbers, but when you get to a single heartbeat, no longer in the context of a sequence, would it matter anymore which way it is played, forward or backward?

A Heartbeat, Reversed appears on the pages of my poetry book, Home.

Angela wrote: "Uvi wrote: "That is great. Exactly how I come up later with babbling characters... lol"

I so remember these lines in Apart From Love. the father, here, so selfish, yet willing to fix it. Will he? ..."

Yes, will he... That is the question.

So I bend over, putting my ear to his mouth.
He breathes, “Here—now—I could not have written it any better.”
And a moment later, “This is the most important day, the most important hour of my entire life. I can see things clearly, more than ever before, as if from a distance. You,” he takes a pause, “you have made your share of mistakes—but the whole thing started with mine.”
“Sorry, dad,” I say.
And he says, “It is my fault, and we both know it. Both of us have been paying the price. Don’t—don’t worry, son. I am going to fix it.”
These few words between us do me good, and my lungs expand and suddenly I can breathe so much easier than before—even though I am left wondering what he means by the whole thing and how exactly can it be fixed.

(Excerpt from Apart From Love)