Unsearchable RichesThe Christian life and books reviewed therein.

sheets of rain slap
the window pane
rat a tat tats
the pipe next door
older and wiser
sits the mother
knowing she knows
so much less than before

steel giants
rock the harbor
pillowed slumber
clouds the waters
ice drops glistening
along the rail
throw back the day
to Helios’ daughters

black bird war birds
peck the jungle clean
cities on hills
bunk underground
if time cannot stop
then why does she bother
and what has been making
that horrible sound

too many people
tear down the jungle
afraid of the creatures
instead of the shore
the mother reminds them
they are the weak ones
the harbor’s no safer
than canopy or floor

(The best inspiration for the poet is sleep deprivation. No?)

Caveat: I am a huge Jeri Smith-Ready fan. She’s smart, witty, friendly, and she loves animals. And as with Lili St. Crow’s book, that doesn’t make me any less objective in my review, but I will say I LOVE LOVE LOVED this book. It was even better than WICKED GAME, which is rare for a second book in a series to accomplish (to me).

What worked for me? Besides Ciara’s delicious first-person narrative, what struck me was that even though this is a novel, nothing is wasted. Every scene, every line, DOES something, usually more than one something. Jeri layers thought-provoking discussion of the afterlife and religion into a book with vampire DJ’s and a vampire dog. That takes more than a little skill.

I am wondering when/if we’ll ever get the real story about Ronan O’Reilly, and if I’m okay with it if we don’t. He has been somewhat of a convenience for the plot, but in a way I can’t say is manipulative or heavy-handed. In this book, Ciara had to do the usual dealing with my-boyfriend-is-a-monster, and as with many such heroines, there was a more-human-morsel to possibly indulge, but unlike series who play multiple love interests off each other to keep things interesting, Jeri used the attraction to David, Ciara’s boss, to explore and deepen her commit to Shane, the vampire. Ciara might be a con artist, but she has standards and sticks to them. I applauded that move because the book could’ve been very different and “attention-grabbing”, but ultimately, I think, less authentic to its characters. (Trying not to be spoilerific, sorry.)

The world gets deeper, the characters get deeper - one of the vampires who was edgy in the first is shown to be dangerous but still on the “good” side in this one, and the only girl vampire DJ who is punk b*tch is shown to have a soft side; I’m glad the vampires get as many dimensions as the humans and it isn’t just “cool,” “sexy,” or “angsty” mode.

I cannot wait until books three and four, and this one only just came out!

The handprint in the dust
of the bedside table is not
hers.
Ghosts of a light touch
extend in radiant parallels.
The thumb is missing.
The alarm clock chord cuts
off where the palm should be.
When was this testament left?
How many nights
has she              tossed and turned
beside the forgotten?
The index finger is too wide,
smudged in the dust notes -
imperfect,
where the rest is not.
The table’s swirled texture
could be her fingerprints.
Delicate impressions ready
to wipe away time -
Instead
she has left the dust
untouched.
Something stays her
from erasure. The whisper
I am here.

(c) 2009 Jessica Tudor

(Writing the Life Poetic is a wonderful book. Here are its firstfruits.)

Wow. Where to start?

In my life I have bought only two books based on their covers without stopping to read the entire first chapter or fifty pages. One was The Lies of Locke Lamora, Lynch, and the other was this book. The most gorgeous blues with wonderful silver lettering, a mysterious beautiful woman - no backsides, no naked toros, no itty-bitty painting of a scene I can’t make out, no half a face cut off. It was breathtaking. The copy said it was a novel about faeries in Elizabethan England. A historical fantasy! One of my favorite eras! Woo! I bought it no holds barred.

I tried to read it in maybe August? I got halfway through Act I, and just couldn’t keep going. I didn’t lose interest, exactly, I just needed the break. (Coincidentally, this also happened with Locke Lamora!) The writing was poetic, the imaginings unbelievable and intricate. But it was, well, slow. I’m only twenty-three. I was raised in the Technology Era where one provides explosions or car chases every other scene to hold interest. I despise this but admit it does shape me somewhat. I have a better attention span than many of my peers, but it only extents so far. Now. To be fair. The REASON this book FEELS slow (it’s not, really) is because there aren’t explosions or car chases. The novel is one of intrigue, so lots of important things happen that don’t feel important.

I picked it back upon again in early spring, I think. I reread what had happened and kept going. The pace “picked up” and I was blown away. Because humility is not my strong suit, there are few writers who can make me think, “I’ll never be this good,” instead of, “Wow, I hope my writing reaches that level someday!” (Maybe it’s optimism rather than hubris? Nah.) I had to put the book down a second time because I felt so destroyed over my own work. I would NEVER be that good.

But I HAD to know what happened. The ending is one you would never predict, yet inevitable. The legend and lore and history are spot-on and evocative. I felt like I lived there. I wanted to live there. I’m excited that soon a second book in the Onyx Court series will be out. I know it won’t take me a year to get through.

A writer aside: randomly, I have a short list of agents who I’d love to work with [not that if I found an agent not on the list I'd be upset, mind] and said, I have to know who Marie Brennan’s agent is! I couldn’t discern it from the acknowledgements so I googled. I write historical fantasy as well (if I had Brennan’s research skills, my goodness) and thought it might be useful knowledge in the future. Turns out, her agent is already on the short list. How unsurprising is that?

This is the message I wrote in my mother-in-law’s card:

Dear Mom,

I had trouble this year thinking of something to get you. You have everything, right? I thought about it, and realized when I say “everything,” I usually mean you have a lot of stuff, which while true, is not exactly the meaning of ‘everything’, is it? I broadened my context. . . and it’s still true! You do have everything because you have God. So what could I give you? I can say how very much you mean to me, and no one else can give you that.

It would be easy to lead off with a laundry list of thank yous, but that can sound empty. So instead, here are some of the things that you have shown me with your life.

God is Alpha and Omega. In everything you do, I see a heart for God and his people. If you hear of an opportunity to fill a need, whether or not it’s out of your way, you’re involved. Your relationship with God isn’t simply reading your devotional regularly; it’s sharing your life with God and letting us see it. (I will certainly say thank you for that!)

Being a good wife does not mean being a doormat. You and Dad are adorable. No, really. It’s fun to hear you banter and the love between you isn’t a construct put on for anyone watching. It’s helped me grow in my own marriage to your wonderful son by having good examples.

Contentment is pro-active. You don’t really have everything. But what you do have, you use and share. You get new things, but it’s never been about having or buying the stuff: if it’s going to allow you to spend more time serving or make it easier to use your gifts, you’ll get it.

The devil isn’t in the details; God is. A simple thank-you note, the extra touches on a favorite dinner, a random phone call to catch up – these things don’t take a lot of time, but I know I overlook them in the bustle of my life. You remind me to make the effort.

There’s so much more I could talk about, although I think a lot of it is summed up in the first observation. I am more than blessed to have you as my family. Now, if only your housekeeping skills would rub off . . .

I love you and I thank you for everything you do for [my husband] and me. God bless.

Today is hopefully my last day on crutches. I haven’t posted here about it because it’s all over my Facebook and Twitter, and anyone who’d read this saw it already.

A week and a half ago, I was swimming under those deadlines I DID talk about - and drowning. Reports weren’t done correctly and I had to fix everything. No one’s fault; our database system is persnickety, but very time consuming and stressful.

On Wednesday, I needed to get this large estate done. It was SO close. I had worked late Monday, and Tuesday, and it looked like again on Wednesday. I needed one more signature for the affadavit; the book department is on the mezzzanine over the first floor gallery, so I decided to go on down.

I’m an exercise junkie these days. I’ve incorporated MORE steps into my commute and had started going to the bathroom on another floor just to add in more steps to my day. But I was in such a hurry, I figured I’d take the elevator. Now, our building was built in 1924, so the elevator is a bit antiquated. You need an operator because it doesn’t come automatically if you push the button. Thankfully the elevator was on the fifth floor. I got in thinking, well, I’ve at least ridden it before; how hard could it be?

I got down to the first floor and couldn’t get the door open. I’m middly claustrophobic. My already high stress levels skyrocketed. Thankfully, the elevator operator hadn’t left yet (it was just after closing, which is why I’d needed to take it myself), and he said, “Pull the bar.” OH. Right. I got out.

I climbed the two flights of stairs to the book department and got my signatures. Then I attempted to go back upstairs.

I didn’t even make it to the gallery. I fell down the book department stairs. Of course, I was wearing nasty high heels that day. The floor of the platform between flights was slippery, and down I went.

Thankfully, nothing broke. Took till Friday to make sure, but a huge relief. I’ve been on cruches for easily a week now, and things are feeling better. The toes and ankle are mostly all recovered, though the foot itself is still very painful, especially in the evenings when I’ve been on it.

Thursday, I went in, I mailed off that large estate, I got things ready on the next one, and I didn’t feel so anxious. Because with my hobbling, I needed a lot of help, and I was very SLOW. (My usual speed is, if you can’t tell, mow-them-down.)

I still had a huge pile of deadlines and work, but I could only do what I can do. God said, “STOP,” and I had no choice but to listen! I’d be more upset about the crutches and all if I didn’t see God’s hand so clearly in it, I think.

In learning patience at work, and learning to accept help (not my strong suit, either) has helped me with the slowness of the writing. Before if I was writing so slowly, I’d think something must be wrong!! And often it was, but for a billion different reasons. Now I can say, “Well done, I wrote,” and be happy with progress, rather than perfection.

(Though my armpits WILL be happy to be off the crutches. I had been trying to strengthen my triceps, and lo! Crutches are a tricep boot camp. *G*)