I don't commonly read romance nor mythological fantasy novels, so this was way off the beaten path for me. BUT, I read, and liked Kristi's first effort, The Corpse Goddess and enjoyed it (see my review here), and felt compelled to give her second book a try as well.
I really liked Valkyrie's Kiss! Kristi's writing is fluid and fun and the themes, descriptions of characters and the overall story were well fleshed out and intriguing. Although I don't commonly go in for romances, Kristi was able to integrate it smoothly into the story. Her tone and voice, which is fun, nicely descriptive without being overbearing or boring, and compelling might be the reason I keep coming back to her novels.
My complaints? It wasn't long enough. It was like an amuse bouche. Whetted the old appetite but I wanted much more. A tad more story, a bit more meat on the bone, a few more thousand words. But as a short diversion from the mysteries and thrillers I commonly read, and a quick sojourn into a genre I'm not used to, it was nicely done.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
A First Time Thriller
Whether out of spite (here) or not, I'm glad I read Daniel Suarez's Daemon.
Engaging? Yep. Easy to understand? Yep. Fun to read even if you have a bit of an IT background? Yep again.
It reminded me of when the reader discovers who the enemy in Wool is (here). The one critical point I have? It became a tad prosaic in the final few chapters, far too rote and stereotypical. I also didn't care for the fact that the book ended in a cliff hanger. I like resolution in my novels, no matter how long that might take or how expansive the novel must become.
Still, it was gripping. Daemon reminded me of when I read Jurassic Park and stayed up till 2 AM to finish it.
The last line of the book is:
Sebeck gazed back along the road behind them— away from the blue thread. He thought of his previous life. Of those he’d left behind. Of the sheriff’s department, Laura, and his son, Chris. Of everyone and everything he’d ever known. Peter Sebeck was dead.
Suarez, Daniel - Daemon
Naturally if we want to know what happens to Sebeck we must read his next book, Freedom.
Engaging? Yep. Easy to understand? Yep. Fun to read even if you have a bit of an IT background? Yep again.
It reminded me of when the reader discovers who the enemy in Wool is (here). The one critical point I have? It became a tad prosaic in the final few chapters, far too rote and stereotypical. I also didn't care for the fact that the book ended in a cliff hanger. I like resolution in my novels, no matter how long that might take or how expansive the novel must become.
Still, it was gripping. Daemon reminded me of when I read Jurassic Park and stayed up till 2 AM to finish it.
The last line of the book is:
Sebeck gazed back along the road behind them— away from the blue thread. He thought of his previous life. Of those he’d left behind. Of the sheriff’s department, Laura, and his son, Chris. Of everyone and everything he’d ever known. Peter Sebeck was dead.
Suarez, Daniel - Daemon
Naturally if we want to know what happens to Sebeck we must read his next book, Freedom.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
It's a Tautology
I'm telling you it's just something that authors love. They love to write about the morning in their works (see here). Here are two that I've spotted so far in Kristi's.
First this one:
The morning dawned with its usual luminescent brightness. Jess slept beside me,
Then this one:
The night blended into a dark and rainy morning.
Jones, Kristi - Valkyrie's Kiss
Not a bad thing mind you, just a feature of "professional" writing. I'm glad to see that based on the evidence, Kristi is now firmly "coach class" (here).
First this one:
The morning dawned with its usual luminescent brightness. Jess slept beside me,
Then this one:
The night blended into a dark and rainy morning.
Jones, Kristi - Valkyrie's Kiss
Not a bad thing mind you, just a feature of "professional" writing. I'm glad to see that based on the evidence, Kristi is now firmly "coach class" (here).
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Sure Its a Bit Romancy for Me
Yes, this is outside my the typical genres I read, but I know the author and always support local artists.
I wanted to kiss him the moment I laid eyes on him, but of course that was the one thing I most definitely could not do. The young girl with the AK-47 held him steady in her sights.
Jones, Kristi - Valkyrie's Kiss
I read Kristi's earlier work (here) and really liked it. This one is even better (so far). Plus I think she's gotten better with first lines.
I wanted to kiss him the moment I laid eyes on him, but of course that was the one thing I most definitely could not do. The young girl with the AK-47 held him steady in her sights.
Jones, Kristi - Valkyrie's Kiss
I read Kristi's earlier work (here) and really liked it. This one is even better (so far). Plus I think she's gotten better with first lines.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Pulp Covers for a Holiday Post
The other day I wrote about Big Red's Daughter (here and here) and how much the book didn't agree with me. One thing that did agree with me was the cover art I found. Despite what some may think of my covers, which are meant to evoke a Dick Francis cover (here), I really dig cover art. I remember years ago tooling through the aisle at Bookstop ranking my selections for purchase purely on the cover. I read some doozies based on this one criterion.
I ran across a series of cover's (here) that stoked my interest by following a link at Stuff You Should Know (here). My favorites are listed below.
This first one I like purely for the fact that I want to read it to find out what the hell is happening. Is he trying to stage a murder or saving her from herself.
This second one I enjoy if only for the title. The cover is good, but just how have the characters determined the sexual proclivities of Satan? That's what I'd like to know.
Finally, this one I love just because it could be the title slide for this blog.
There are more out there on the site (here) and they're quite fun to see. These were just my favorites.
I ran across a series of cover's (here) that stoked my interest by following a link at Stuff You Should Know (here). My favorites are listed below.
This first one I like purely for the fact that I want to read it to find out what the hell is happening. Is he trying to stage a murder or saving her from herself.
This second one I enjoy if only for the title. The cover is good, but just how have the characters determined the sexual proclivities of Satan? That's what I'd like to know.
Finally, this one I love just because it could be the title slide for this blog.
There are more out there on the site (here) and they're quite fun to see. These were just my favorites.
Good News
It is with an exhale of relief that I read the article in the WSJ regarding Apple and the "Star Chamber" that they had been saddled with.
I've posted intermittently on this over the past few months (see here) but my ire spiked when I read:
"Mr. Bromwich says he must oversee Apple's "corporate structure, process, culture and tone" and the "tone at the top of the company,"
In my last post on the subject. I don't believe that the "tone" of any company should be overseen by the Federal Government.
I've posted intermittently on this over the past few months (see here) but my ire spiked when I read:
"Mr. Bromwich says he must oversee Apple's "corporate structure, process, culture and tone" and the "tone at the top of the company,"
In my last post on the subject. I don't believe that the "tone" of any company should be overseen by the Federal Government.
But The Apple Vindication which showed up in the WSJ the other day may indicate a shift in direction. The opening passage is:
So Michael Bromwich won't be Apple's AAPL -0.42% prosecutor in residence after all. On Monday a unanimous three-judge panel of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals reined in his abusive inquest and admonished his sponsors, the Justice Department and especially Judge Denise Cote.
They certainly aren't through with their difficulties, but this is movement in the right direction.
Friday, February 14, 2014
I'm Reading this for Spite
Much as Jerry Seinfeld returned his jacket in the episode The Wigmaster, like I said last week, I'm reading Daemon by Daniel Suarez out of spite.
Thankfully, although I'm reading it out of spite, I'm really enjoying it.
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The first few lines got my attention and Mr. Suarez has kept my attention so far through chapter 4.
What the hell just happened? That was all Joseph Pavlos kept thinking as he clenched a gloved hand against his throat. It didn’t stop the blood from pulsing between his fingers. Already a shockingly wide pool had formed in the dirt next to his face. He was on the ground somehow. Although he couldn’t see the gash, the pain told him the wound was deep. He rolled onto his back and stared up at a stretch of spotless blue sky.
His usually methodical mind sped frantically through the possibilities— like someone groping for an exit in a smoke-filled building. He had to do something. Anything. But what? The phrase What the hell just happened? kept echoing in his head uselessly, while blood kept spurting between his fingers. Adrenaline surged through his system, his heart beat faster. He tried to call out. No good. Blood squirted several inches into the air and sprinkled his face. Carotid artery…
He was pressing on his neck so hard he was almost strangling himself. And he’d been feeling so good just moments before this. He remembered that much at least. His last debts repaid. At long last.
Suarez, Daniel - Daemon
Thankfully, although I'm reading it out of spite, I'm really enjoying it.
The first few lines got my attention and Mr. Suarez has kept my attention so far through chapter 4.
What the hell just happened? That was all Joseph Pavlos kept thinking as he clenched a gloved hand against his throat. It didn’t stop the blood from pulsing between his fingers. Already a shockingly wide pool had formed in the dirt next to his face. He was on the ground somehow. Although he couldn’t see the gash, the pain told him the wound was deep. He rolled onto his back and stared up at a stretch of spotless blue sky.
His usually methodical mind sped frantically through the possibilities— like someone groping for an exit in a smoke-filled building. He had to do something. Anything. But what? The phrase What the hell just happened? kept echoing in his head uselessly, while blood kept spurting between his fingers. Adrenaline surged through his system, his heart beat faster. He tried to call out. No good. Blood squirted several inches into the air and sprinkled his face. Carotid artery…
He was pressing on his neck so hard he was almost strangling himself. And he’d been feeling so good just moments before this. He remembered that much at least. His last debts repaid. At long last.
Suarez, Daniel - Daemon
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Apropos to Be One Day After Yesterday's Post
On the heel's of yesterday's post, where I lambasted Big Red's Daughter for being a pointless, waste of time to read, comes this post.
For years I would answer people who ask that my favorite writer is Dick Francis. I loved that he wrote about horse racing, but every main character wasn't necessarily a jockey. Instead he took bites from around the periphery of racing which made it so much more interesting. I loved that his writing was just flowery enough, to the point and quick but with enough color to make it fun. I loved that although he had a series, every main character was a new one. Each book was fresh and new but at the same time a reader and fan knew basically what they were going to get.
I won't be able to answer so easily anymore for I think that Lawrence Sanders might be my new fave.
I fell in love with Lawrence Sanders' books late in his career. I've written in this blog about how much I enjoy his writing (here). That seems appropriate if only cause Sanders started writing late in his life. Still, I loved the McNally books. They were vibrant and fun and the fact that Archy could list the ingredients of his gourmet lunch so succinctly, or run by the Pelican Club for a vodka gimlet at nine in the morning or wear his puce beret with such aplomb. What did I dislike? They were a tad too frolicsome. They lacked gravitas.
I found the gravitas that was lacking in The Sixth Commandment. I can't wait to read all of Sanders' earlier works now that I know what to expect. It was as if I was reading a Robin Cook mystery (I generally find the writing too trite) and an Archy McNally novel. It was a terrific blend of serious mystery and fun loving life liver. There were still the early morning gimlets, the alcoholism, the spectacular vocabulary and too in depth descriptions of wardrobe, but in The Sixth Commandment there is a reason for it.
The final passage, which loses something by not reading the entire chapter, is:
About 9: 30 P.M., on my third highball, I gave up, and sat down near the phone, trying to plan how to handle it. I brought over several sheets of paper and the sharpened pencils. I started making notes.
“Hello?” she would say.
“Powell,” I’d say, “please don’t hang up. This is Samuel Todd. I want to apologize to you for the way I acted. There is nothing you can call me as bad as what I’ve called myself. I’m phoning now to ask if there is any way we can get together again. To beg you. I will accept any conditions, endure any restraints, suffer any ignominy, do anything you demand, if you’ll only let me see you again.”
It went on and on like that. Abject surrender. I made copious notes. I imagined objections she might have, and I jotted down what my answer should be. I covered three pages with humility, crawling, total submission. I thought sure that, if she didn’t hang up immediately, I could weasel my way back into her favor, or at least persuade her to give me a chance to prove how much I loved her and needed her.
And if she brought up the difference in our ages again, I prepared a special speech on that:
“Powell, the past week has taught me what a lot of bullshit the whole business of age can be. What’s important is enjoying each other’s company, having interests in common, loving, and keeping sympathy and understanding on the front burner, warm and ready when needed.”
I read over everything I had written. I thought I had a real lawyer’s brief , ready for any eventuality. I couldn’t think of a single way she might react, from hot curses to cold silence, that I wasn’t prepared to answer.
I mixed a fresh drink, drained half of it, picked up the phone. I arranged my speeches in front of me. I took a deep breath. I dialed her number.
She picked it up on the third ring.
“Hello?” she said.
“Powell,” I said, “please don’t hang—”
“Todd?” she said. “Get your ass over here.”
I ran.
Sanders, Lawrence - The Sixth Commandment
I can't wait to read more.
For years I would answer people who ask that my favorite writer is Dick Francis. I loved that he wrote about horse racing, but every main character wasn't necessarily a jockey. Instead he took bites from around the periphery of racing which made it so much more interesting. I loved that his writing was just flowery enough, to the point and quick but with enough color to make it fun. I loved that although he had a series, every main character was a new one. Each book was fresh and new but at the same time a reader and fan knew basically what they were going to get.
I won't be able to answer so easily anymore for I think that Lawrence Sanders might be my new fave.
I fell in love with Lawrence Sanders' books late in his career. I've written in this blog about how much I enjoy his writing (here). That seems appropriate if only cause Sanders started writing late in his life. Still, I loved the McNally books. They were vibrant and fun and the fact that Archy could list the ingredients of his gourmet lunch so succinctly, or run by the Pelican Club for a vodka gimlet at nine in the morning or wear his puce beret with such aplomb. What did I dislike? They were a tad too frolicsome. They lacked gravitas.
I found the gravitas that was lacking in The Sixth Commandment. I can't wait to read all of Sanders' earlier works now that I know what to expect. It was as if I was reading a Robin Cook mystery (I generally find the writing too trite) and an Archy McNally novel. It was a terrific blend of serious mystery and fun loving life liver. There were still the early morning gimlets, the alcoholism, the spectacular vocabulary and too in depth descriptions of wardrobe, but in The Sixth Commandment there is a reason for it.
The final passage, which loses something by not reading the entire chapter, is:
About 9: 30 P.M., on my third highball, I gave up, and sat down near the phone, trying to plan how to handle it. I brought over several sheets of paper and the sharpened pencils. I started making notes.
“Hello?” she would say.
“Powell,” I’d say, “please don’t hang up. This is Samuel Todd. I want to apologize to you for the way I acted. There is nothing you can call me as bad as what I’ve called myself. I’m phoning now to ask if there is any way we can get together again. To beg you. I will accept any conditions, endure any restraints, suffer any ignominy, do anything you demand, if you’ll only let me see you again.”
It went on and on like that. Abject surrender. I made copious notes. I imagined objections she might have, and I jotted down what my answer should be. I covered three pages with humility, crawling, total submission. I thought sure that, if she didn’t hang up immediately, I could weasel my way back into her favor, or at least persuade her to give me a chance to prove how much I loved her and needed her.
And if she brought up the difference in our ages again, I prepared a special speech on that:
“Powell, the past week has taught me what a lot of bullshit the whole business of age can be. What’s important is enjoying each other’s company, having interests in common, loving, and keeping sympathy and understanding on the front burner, warm and ready when needed.”
I read over everything I had written. I thought I had a real lawyer’s brief , ready for any eventuality. I couldn’t think of a single way she might react, from hot curses to cold silence, that I wasn’t prepared to answer.
I mixed a fresh drink, drained half of it, picked up the phone. I arranged my speeches in front of me. I took a deep breath. I dialed her number.
She picked it up on the third ring.
“Hello?” she said.
“Powell,” I said, “please don’t hang—”
“Todd?” she said. “Get your ass over here.”
I ran.
Sanders, Lawrence - The Sixth Commandment
I can't wait to read more.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Not My Style?
For just a moment I wondered if Hard Boiled, 1950's era, noir style detective novels were for me. This soul searching came as I finished John McPartland's Big Red's Daughter and threw it away in pseudo-disgust at having wasted so much time reading it.
Why did I question my views on this genre? Because I hated Three For the Ring as well. I found it hollow, pedantic and silly. Same reasons I didn't like Big Red's Daughter. But, as I looked through my blog I saw two that I remember liking. There was Ross MacDonald's The Imaginary Blonde and John D. MacDonald's On the Make. Granted, I liked Ross much more than John, but I remember liking both of those far more than this last one.
I read Big Red's Daughter because I saw a blogger I like recommend it. Never again. A more pointless, less well written, with more pathetically fleshed out character's I don't think I've ever read.
Maybe I should go try another Ross MacDonald just to get my legs under me again.
Why did I question my views on this genre? Because I hated Three For the Ring as well. I found it hollow, pedantic and silly. Same reasons I didn't like Big Red's Daughter. But, as I looked through my blog I saw two that I remember liking. There was Ross MacDonald's The Imaginary Blonde and John D. MacDonald's On the Make. Granted, I liked Ross much more than John, but I remember liking both of those far more than this last one.
I read Big Red's Daughter because I saw a blogger I like recommend it. Never again. A more pointless, less well written, with more pathetically fleshed out character's I don't think I've ever read.
Maybe I should go try another Ross MacDonald just to get my legs under me again.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Not Bad Leading to Horrid
HE WAS DRIVING AN MG—a low English-built sports car— and he was a tire-squeaker, the way a wrong kind of guy is apt to be in a sports car. I heard the squeal of his tires as he gunned it, and then I saw him cutting in front of me like a red bug. My car piled into his and the bug turned over, spilling him and the girl with him out onto the street.
By the time our iron touched I'd swung my car to the right, so it wasn't much of a crash. I climbed out in a hurry, angry and ready to go.
The MG pilot was up and ready to go, too. The girl was beside him, brushing the skirt over her long legs. Nobody drew even a scratch out of the bump.
This was a tall, lean lad with a pale face and hot, dark eyes. I saw that much before his left fist smashed into my face. Not a Sunday punch—a real fighter's hard, straight left.
McPartland, John - Big Red's Daughter
The first few lines do not represent this book. This might be one of the first in this first line's series where a great first few lines does not mean a great book.
I've logged great first lines that herald a terrific book (see here). We've had horrible first lines and great and/or good novels (see here). We've had horrible first lines precede horrible novels (see here). This could be the first where we've had a decent/good and even great first few lines and a rotten book.
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