Tag Archives: Reading

I miss them

I miss my characters. I finished a story for the Goodreads MM Romance group Love’s Landscape a week ago. I’m waiting to hear from an editor who’ll have the brilliant job of reading my crap. Poor, poor volunteer editor.

That said, I miss the characters. I think about them when I’m driving, when I’m reading, in my shower, or now, in front of my computer.

I want to write more about them. Ideas keep popping up in my mind. They have more to say, more to experience, more to share.

I think I’ll continue it, just for fun.

Tom, Dylan, I’m coming! Hold on!

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I never realized

I was a HEA person. I mean, I like happily ever afters just like the next person, but I didn’t realize I sometimes needed it.

I just finished a book that left me wanting to throw my tablet out the window. On the ice. So it can break into a million pieces.

Some guy said something like: “Writing is not to let people read but to make them feel”.

Ah.  Here it is:

Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.
EL Doctorow

at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/e_l_doctorow.html#u3M0bdThIXWBSRLq.99

This is it. This book made me feel. Like, everything. Their love, their troubles, the beauty of their relationship.

At 80% in the book, I wanted to write to the author to let him know how much I enjoyed his writing. The images he creates with words are so real, poignant, honest and true you can’t help but be impressed. I was saying to myself: “Well perfection’s been done, so I might as well quit writing altogether”.

Then WHAM! Like an old Batman episode. POW! And another hit to the gut. At about 90% the story just crumbles. One minute they’re fine the next their life as they know it is over. And I mean over. I skimmed the ending just because I couldn’t bear to read it. I just couldn’t.  No HEA here.

Now I want to write the author to give him shit for putting his characters and his readers through so much fucking pain. I mean, come on! This is the closest I’ve ever been to crying over a book! I NEVER cry! Ever.

Fuck. I guess he did a good job. His book moved me like no other in a long, long time.

No matter. I’m still mad at him. So there.

 

Come on!

Check out this warning:

NOTE: This book contains explicit language, sexual content, slightly inappropriate humor and is recommended for mature audiences who like that sorta thing. This book is also a less explicit version of Ian Dalton’s novel Inappropriate Thoughts. For more information, please see Luke Young’s Amazon author page.

Friends with Partial Benefits

You read this at the end of the description of a book you’re thinking of downloading (for free) on Amazon. It’s under Romance, Humour. You download the book. You start reading it and get to a sex scene. 

Are you surprised? Are you shocked? It says so right there: “explicit language, sexual content”. 

So of course you run to your keyboard and write a one-star review about it being porn and how you weren’t aware of what you were going to read (!) and of course insult the author. 

Mature. Really mature.

What was I thinking???

I signed up to write a story based on a photo in my Goodreads discussion group MM Romance.

What was I thinking?

What possessed me to do something so stupid as to think I could write a story? I’m such a fool.

This poor girl picked the photo and wrote a preamble for the (stupid: me) author who would pick her photo for the challenge.

I must have had low blood sugar or sniffed too much nail polish or something that night to think I could do this when I clicked on the photo.

I can’t let her down. If there was no one in particular involved, I’d give up. I’d write to them right now and say I was out of my mind blablabla.

I can’t do that to the photo girl. When people put up photos with their preambles they’re all happy when someone picks them.

Fuck.

I guess I’ll have to try.

Gulp. 

I’ve done it again

I could cry. I finished another book series. I loved it. I miss the characters already and my tablet is still hot. Five books of pure bliss.

When I started high school, I discovered the school library had a whole bunch of books by a lady named Agatha Christie. I devoured them. All. I could never guess who the murderer was. The best one? The Murder of Roger Akroyd. A classic. Genius.

After that, I was hooked on mysteries.  P.D. James, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (meh), then a whole bunch of more contemporary writers and more mysteries. No one was ever as good as Agatha Christie to keep you guessing until the end.

This series wasn’t like Agatha either. I usually guessed by 70%-80% of the books who had done it, or had a pretty good idea. Only one blew me away.

But I didn’t care.

The romance between the bookshop owner and the cop/PI was what got me.

It spans on all five books and couldn’t have  been written better. It was FABULOUS. Would they? Wouldn’t they? Finally? No? What the fuck do you mean he’s getting married? Aaarrrgghhh!!!! Damn you author! I hate you! Okay, I don’t hate you anymore.  What????? You had to throw that in there? Just to fuck things up??? I’m going to die….. Oh. Okay. I feel better now. Thanks.

Each book has its own murder to be solved. But each book is just a continuation in the long and peppered-with-angst love story. What a romance. Wow.

Such deep, intelligent characters. I’ll miss them.

I’ve done this to myself again. I’ve gotten deeply sucked in a good series and now will miss the characters I’ve been living with for the past sixteen days.

I know I’ll do it again too.

To read and weep is better than not to have read at all. (Who said that?)

 

Thanks, Josh.

How addicted are you when…

You’re afraid of reading the 8th book of a series because people have written bad reviews on it?

I’m so afraid of being disappointed and heartbroken that I don’t wanna read it. I will. Of course I will. But with just one eye…

See, people have written that the story is full of new characters and the two main characters (MC’s) are not the focal point of this book.

Well, I happen to miss these two MC’s and was sooooooo looking forward to reading book 8 because I would reconnect with them and love them and bask in their glory and live vicariously (precariously?) through their new adventure with them that I’m kinda not looking forward to reading it now….

The power of the review.

Be careful when you leave one, guys. Those suckers are potent.

I just read an encouraging one that says that, although the series MC’s aren’t the main characters in this one, it’s a good transition to maybe the end of their story and the beginning of a new one.

Sad but true. It’s gotta end someday, right?

(Sobs on her keyboard as she writes this post….)

 

Flash Fiction on Goodreads group: Twelve Years After

I wrote this little piece for my Goodreads M/M Romance group flash fiction. Only two people wrote comments, to say it made them sad (one wanted to cry).  I know I should be glad it elicited emotion from readers, that’s what writing is all about. But I feel really bad it made them sad. I’d love comments on this.  The prompt was:

We didn’t realize what we had back then, wasted it, gave up, thinking that the first imperfection was a reason to split. That we needed perfection. Years later, I know that nothing can always be perfect, but that what we had was special. So when I suddenly saw you again after all these years, I could not believe my eyes … 🙂

And this is what I wrote:

“It seems so trite now. Who cares where we would have lived? As long as we were together. I can’t believe neither one of us gave in. We were so young and silly. We didn’t know we had it so good. Seeing you last week in the metro in the train going east for two seconds made it all come back. I saw you again today. I wonder where you’re going.
So you’re in Montreal again. I guess city life didn’t kill you after all. Or maybe it’s slowly draining your life away like you thought it would.
Do you have a family? A boyfriend? A dog? Did you finally sell our house at a huge profit? Did you keep the mural I painted in the living room or did you paint over it the minute I left? Are your parents still alive?
Do you miss me? Do you think of me sometimes, like I think of you? Do you ever wonder what if? What if we hadn’t split up? What if you would have agreed to move to Montreal with me? What if I would have stayed in Sainte-Catherine with you?
I loved you, so much. I think – no I know you loved me too. And we threw it all away.
I wanted to call you, to tell you I regretted my decision, I wanted to come back, I felt so alone in Montreal in my small but trendy apartment.
Of course I didn’t. I was too proud to admit I made a mistake. After all, I was the one who felt like I was suffocating and had to move back to the city. You’re the one who didn’t want to come with me.
You broke my heart. I probably broke yours by leaving. We had promised each other forever and I left.
I hoped and prayed you would come to your senses – yeah I know, I was arrogant. I had fantasies that you phoned, crying, telling me you couldn’t live without me; or that you’d show up on my doorstep with a suitcase and you’d rush into my open arms.
I saw you in the street, at the store, at the market, in the park, I saw you everywhere. Any guy with long, curly brown hair was you. I went mad.
And still I didn’t call. Then time flew by and it was most probably too late, you had most likely met someone; I’d make a fool of myself.
Twelve years have come and gone.
You’re still gorgeous. You still make my heart pound. You looked tired today and I wanted to take you in my arms and rock you gently, comfort you. It was a fleeting moment, but I felt it all the same.
I was with Noah for eight years. He’s a great guy. You’d probably like him. He wasn’t you. There’s no one like you. I’m sorry I was such a jerk. If only I could make it up to you.

***************

I saw you yesterday at the McGill station. You were seated across from me, in the metro going west, on the other side.
You haven’t changed. You’re so beautiful. There’s grey hair mixed in with the chestnut now. It makes you look even more sophisticated. It makes me feel even less worthy.
Do you remember me? The guy from Hicksville who was afraid of loud noises and fast cars? I remember you. Every single day.
I was so impressed by you. You were going places, you were expected to succeed in the great big world. Your clothes, your hair, your car, your speech. I was in awe of you. You weren’t meant to live in the boonies with one shopping centre to serve a whole small city. Montreal called to you. I heard it every time we visited your folks, every time your friends phoned, every time you looked for something in our unique drug store and couldn’t find it, every time you sighed as you opened the front door at the end of the day.
I knew I couldn’t keep you. I knew I had to let you fly away towards the skyscrapers where you could perch and watch your city live and breathe twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t drag you in mediocrity with me.
It broke me. The house was suddenly too big, too quiet. I couldn’t sell it and move though, I couldn’t leave your mural behind. Your blood and guts were on that living room wall and I couldn’t bear to think of someone else living with it, with you; and I couldn’t cover it either.
I sat watching that painting and cried my heart out for a whole year. My mom begged me to sell. I couldn’t.
I finally sold the house last year. I received an offer I couldn’t refuse (The Godfather still your favourite movie?) and moved to Montreal. I painted over the mural before moving. It was mine, all I had left of you, and if I couldn’t bring it with me, I couldn’t leave it either.
Matt told me about Noah. I knew you’d meet someone worthy of you. I wasn’t an idiot; you were too special to be alone for long. I expected it to be someone more in your league, someone in advertising, or designing. I was right.
I was happy for you. I was also devastated.
Even if I didn’t have any hope of you ever looking back, it nearly killed me.
Things are good now. I date on and off. Guys I meet in bars, in the supermarket, on the internet. Never anything serious. I tell myself I don’t have time for a relationship but we both know that’s not true. I can’t help but compare them to you and they all pale in comparison.
I know now I should have held onto you. I should have followed you to the ends of the earth. I should have fought for you.
I’m ready now, to fight for you. I looked you up on Facebook five minutes ago. Your status says single. I guess Noah’s not in the picture anymore. I’m thinking I’ll send you a private message and see if you remember me. If you do, I’ll invite you for coffee, just to catch up, you know, just old friends. Then I’ll tell you I never forgot you, I always loved you, I still love you. And see what happens. “