When submitting your review, please copy and paste this format and include your answers, as well as an Amazon or Goodreads link.
Thank you.
Title:
Author:
Genre:
Brief summary of book (5 sentences or fewer):
Word Count:
Publisher:
Self-Published?:
Agent:
Publicist:
Author’s other books:
Brief author bio:
Monday, August 13, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Monday, November 21, 2011
The 'What If' Guy--Excerpt
Excerpt from "The 'What If' Guy" by Brooke Moss
Seattle, Washington
“Why are you doing this?”
The desperate, sad look in Henry’s eyes made my heart ache. His brown hair fell across his forehead in rain-soaked waves, and his eyelashes gathered in dampened clumps. Henry’s eyes, the same shade of gray as the weeping clouds above us, searched my face for answers I was too ashamed to give.
“What we have is real, Autumn.” He pulled me against his chest. I felt his heart pounding through the wet fabric of his soft, flannel shirt, and we trembled in unison, standing on the front steps of Henry’s apartment building. “Why do you want to break up? Don't you love me?”
“Don’t do this,” I said weakly. My eyes filled with hot tears that threatened to undermine my brave façade. When he grazed his fingers across my cheekbone, swiping away a tear, I instinctively turned my face into his hand, breathing in the warm, outdoorsy aroma of Henry.
My Henry.
He kissed my cheeks, my temples, my shivering lips. My resolve started to crumble. Strength. I needed to show strength. I needed to walk away before I ruined his life, before I hurt him any more than I already had.
“Tell me that you don’t love me,” he whispered into my drenched hair, tangling his fingers in my curls. “Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”
I choked on a sob. I did love Henry. The past two months had been the best months of my life. Not once had I dreamt of meeting someone who made me feel safe, peaceful, beautiful, and deliriously happy, the way Henry Tobler made me feel. I wanted to be with him—and no one else—forever.
“Of course I love you,” I said.
“Then why are you doing this?” His voice cracked.
I shivered in Henry’s arms, not only from the cold, but also from the burden I
bore. Pulling back, I raised my eyes to meet his. “I….I’m pregnant.” My words were barely audible over the sound of the pounding rain and passing traffic.
His face morphed from shock to anger, then settled on absolute sadness. We hadn’t slept together yet.
“It was from before,” I explained lamely, feeling dirty as the words came out my mouth. Henry’s shoulders drooped. He released me and a shadow fell across his eyes. That said it all. His girlfriend was pregnant with someone else’s child.
Henry deserved better than me.
I had to get out of here. I backed away, down the cement steps and onto the sidewalk. I rubbed my chest, my heart breaking just beneath the surface.
“I’m sorry,” I said, words quavering. “I’m so sorry.”
I turned and ran. Away from love.
Seattle, Washington
“Why are you doing this?”
The desperate, sad look in Henry’s eyes made my heart ache. His brown hair fell across his forehead in rain-soaked waves, and his eyelashes gathered in dampened clumps. Henry’s eyes, the same shade of gray as the weeping clouds above us, searched my face for answers I was too ashamed to give.
“What we have is real, Autumn.” He pulled me against his chest. I felt his heart pounding through the wet fabric of his soft, flannel shirt, and we trembled in unison, standing on the front steps of Henry’s apartment building. “Why do you want to break up? Don't you love me?”
“Don’t do this,” I said weakly. My eyes filled with hot tears that threatened to undermine my brave façade. When he grazed his fingers across my cheekbone, swiping away a tear, I instinctively turned my face into his hand, breathing in the warm, outdoorsy aroma of Henry.
My Henry.
He kissed my cheeks, my temples, my shivering lips. My resolve started to crumble. Strength. I needed to show strength. I needed to walk away before I ruined his life, before I hurt him any more than I already had.
“Tell me that you don’t love me,” he whispered into my drenched hair, tangling his fingers in my curls. “Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”
I choked on a sob. I did love Henry. The past two months had been the best months of my life. Not once had I dreamt of meeting someone who made me feel safe, peaceful, beautiful, and deliriously happy, the way Henry Tobler made me feel. I wanted to be with him—and no one else—forever.
“Of course I love you,” I said.
“Then why are you doing this?” His voice cracked.
I shivered in Henry’s arms, not only from the cold, but also from the burden I
bore. Pulling back, I raised my eyes to meet his. “I….I’m pregnant.” My words were barely audible over the sound of the pounding rain and passing traffic.
His face morphed from shock to anger, then settled on absolute sadness. We hadn’t slept together yet.
“It was from before,” I explained lamely, feeling dirty as the words came out my mouth. Henry’s shoulders drooped. He released me and a shadow fell across his eyes. That said it all. His girlfriend was pregnant with someone else’s child.
Henry deserved better than me.
I had to get out of here. I backed away, down the cement steps and onto the sidewalk. I rubbed my chest, my heart breaking just beneath the surface.
“I’m sorry,” I said, words quavering. “I’m so sorry.”
I turned and ran. Away from love.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
With Friends Like These-Excerpt
Excerpt from "With Friends Like These" by Sally Koslow
Chapter One
Quincy
"A fax hit my desk for an apartment that isn't officially listed yet--you must see it immediately." Horton's voice was broadcasting an urgency reserved for hurricane evacuation. But in 2007, anyone who'd ever beaten the real estate bushes would be suspicious of a broker displaying even an atom of passivity. Shoppers of condos and co-ops in Manhattan and the leafier regions of Brooklyn knew they had to learn the art of the pounce: see, gulp, bid. Save the pros and cons for picking a couch.
Several times a week Horton e-mailed me listings, but rarely did he call. This had to be big. "Where is it?" I asked while I finished my lukewarm coffee.
"Central Park West." Horton identified a stone pile known by its name, the Eldorado, referring to a mythical kingdom where the tribal chief had the habit of dusting himself with gold, a commodity familiar to most of the apartment building's inhabitants—marquee actors, eminent psychotherapists, and large numbers of frumps who were simply lucky. With twin towers topped by Flash Gordon finials, the edifice lorded it over a gray-blue reservoir, the park's largest body of water, and cast a gimlet eye toward Fifth Avenue.
"I couldn't afford that building," I said. If Horton was trying to game me into spending more than our budget allowed, he'd fail. While the amount of money Jake and I had scraped together for a new home seemed huge to us--representing the sale of our one-bedroom in Park Slope, an inheritance from my mom, and the proceeds from seeing one of my books linger on the bestseller list--other brokers had none too politely terminated the conversation as soon as I quoted our allotted sum. What I liked about Horton was that he was dogged, he was hungry, and he was the only real estate agent returning my calls.
"That's the beauty part," he said, practically singing. "You, Quincy Blue, can afford this apartment." He named a figure. We could, just. "What's the catch?" In my experience, deals that sounded too good to be true were--like the brownstone I'd seen last week that lacked not only architectural integrity but functional plumbing.
"It's a fixer-upper," Horton admitted. "Listen, I can go to the second name on my list."
"I'll see you in twenty minutes," I said, hitting "save" on my manuscript. I was currently the ghostwriter for Maizie May, one of Hollywood's interchangeable blow-dried blondes with breasts larger than their brain. While she happened to be inconveniently incarcerated in Idaho rehab, allowed only one sound bite of conversation with me per week, my publisher's deadline, three months away, continued to growl. I hid my hair under a baseball cap and laced my sneakers. Had Jake seen me, he would have observed that I looked very West Side; my husband was fond of pointing out our neighborhood's inverse relationship between apartment price and snappy dress. As I walked east I called him, but his cell phone was off. Jake's flight to Chicago must be late.
Racing down Broadway, I allowed myself a discreet ripple of anticipation. Forget the Yankees. Real estate would always be New York City's truest spectator sport, and I was no longer content to cheer from the bleachers. Two years ago, my nesting hormones had kicked in and begun to fiercely multiply, with me along for the ride. We were eager to escape from our current sublet near Columbia University. I longed to be dithering over paint colors--Yellow Lotus or Pale Straw; flat, satin, or eggshell--and awash in fabric swatches. I coveted an office that was bigger than a coffee table book and a dining table that could accommodate all ten settings of my wedding china. I wanted a real home. I'd know it when I saw it.
Horton, green-eyed, cleft-chinned--handsome if you could overlook his devotion to argyle--stood inside the building's revolving door. "The listing broker isn't here yet," he said, "but you can get a sense of the lobby." A doorman tipped his capped head and motioned us toward armchairs upholstered in a tapestry of tasteful, earthy tones. Horton unfurled a floor plan.
I'd become a quick study of such documents. "It's only a two-bedroom," I said, feeling the familiar disappointment that had doused the glow of previous apartment visits. Was the fantasy of three bedrooms asking too much for a pair of industrious adults more than twelve years past grad school? Jake was a lawyer. I had a master's in English literature. Yet after we'd been outbid nine times, Jake and I had accepted the fact that in this part of town, two bedrooms might be as good as it would get.
"This isn't any two-bedroom," Horton insisted. "Look how grand the living room and dining room are." Big enough for a party where Jake and I could reciprocate every invitation we'd received since getting married five years ago. "See?" he said, pulling out a hasty sketch and pointing. "Put a wall up to divide the dining room, which has windows on both sides, and create an entrance here. Third bedroom." He was getting to how cheap the renovation would be when a tall wand of a woman tapped him on the shoulder.
"Fran!" Horton said as warmly as if she were his favorite grandmother, which she was old enough to be. "You're looking well."
The woman smiled and a feathering of wrinkles fanned her large blue eyes. The effect made me think that a face without this pattern was too dull. "Did you explain?" she said. Her voice was reedy, a piccolo that saw little use. She'd pulled her silver hair into a chignon and was enveloped in winter white, from a cape covering a high turtleneck to slim trousers that managed to be spotless, although they nearly covered her toes.
"We were getting to that, but first, please meet my client, Quincy Blue. Quincy, Frances Shelbourne of Shelbourne and Stone."
I knew the firm. Frances and her sister Rose had tied up all the best West Side listings. I shook Fran Shelbourne's hand, which felt not just creamy but delicately boned. She stared at my sneakers and jeans long enough for me to regret them, then turned her back and padded so soundlessly that I checked to see if she might be wearing slippers. No, ballerina flats. Across the lobby, elaborately filigreed elevator doors opened. Fran turned toward Horton and me and with the briefest arch of one perfectly plucked eyebrow implored us to hurry. When the doors shut, she spoke softly, although we were alone. "The owner's a dear friend," she said. "Eloise Walter, the anthropologist." She waited for me to respond. "From the Museum of Natural History?"
I wondered if I was supposed to know the woman's body of work and bemoaned the deficiency of my Big Ten education.
"Dr. Walter is in failing health," she continued, shaking her head. "This is why we won't schedule an open house." Every Sunday from September through May, hopeful buyers, like well-trained infantry, traveled the open-house circuit. Jake and I had done our sweaty time, scurrying downtown, uptown, across, and down again, with as many as a dozen visits in a day. Soon enough, we began seeing the same hopeful buyers--the Filipino couple, the three-hundred-pound guy who had the face of a baby, a pair of six-foot-tall redheaded teenage twins who spoke a middle-European tongue. By my fifth Sunday, in minutes I could privately scoff at telltale evidence of dry rot. Silk curtains draped as cunningly as a sari could not distract me from a sunless air shaft a few feet away, nor could lights of megawatt intensity seduce me into forgetting that in most of these apartments I would instantly suffer from seasonal affective disorder.
"You'll be the first person to see this one," Horton added by way of a bonus. I could feel the checkbook in my bag coming alive like Mickey's broom in Fantasia.
When we stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Mrs. Shelbourne gently knocked on a metal door that would look at home in any financial institution. From the other side, a floor creaked. A nurse in thick-soled shoes answered and raised an index finger to her lips, casting her eyes toward a shadowy room beyond. The scent of urine--human, feline, or both--crept into my nostrils, followed by a top note of mango air freshener. "Doctor's sleeping." My eyes strained to scan a wide room where old-fashioned blinds were drawn against the noon sun. An elderly woman, her hair scant and tufted, was folded into a wheelchair like a rag doll, despite pillows bolstering her skeletal frame. Dr. Walter looked barely alive. Mrs. Shelbourne placed her hand on my arm. "We shouldn't stay long in this room. I'm sure you understand. Alzheimer's."
"I do--too well," I said, rapidly beholding the high ceiling and dentil moldings, while memories of my mother, scrupulously archived yet too fresh to examine, begged for consideration. I pushed them away even as my mind catalogued herringbone floors with an intricate walnut border and the merest wink of a crystal chandelier. Mrs. Shelbourne grasped my arm and we hurried into a small, dark kitchen with wallpaper on which hummingbirds had enjoyed a sixty-year siesta. In front of the sink, which faced a covered window, linoleum had worn bare. There were scratched metal cabinets and no dishwasher, and I suspected the stove's birth date preceded my own. I thought of my unfinished chapter, and cursed my wasted time.
Halfheartedly I lifted a tattered shade. "Holy cow," I said, though only to myself. Sun reflected off the park's vast reservoir, which appeared so close I thought I could stand on the ledge and swan-dive into its depth. Far below, I could see treetops, lush as giant broccoli. The traffic was a distant buzz. I felt a tremor. The subway, stories below? No, my heart. Picking up my pace, I followed the brokers through the spacious dining room and down a hall where I counted off six closets. I peeked into a bathroom tiled in a vintage mosaic of the sort decorators encourage clients to re-create at vast expense. We passed through a starlet-worthy dressing room and entered a bedroom into which I could easily tuck my current, rented apartment, with enough space to spare for a study. As Mrs. Shelbourne pulled the hardware on draperies bleached of color, I could swear that a strobe had begun to pulse. From the corner of my eye I saw a black cat slink away while Horton kicked a dust bunny under the bed, but I took little note of either. As I stood by the window, I was gooey with the feeling I'd experienced when I first laid eyes on the Grand Canyon.
The silvery vista spread casually before me might be the most enchanted in the entire city. I closed my eyes, traveling through time. Women were skating figure eights in red velvet cloaks, their hands warmed by ermine muffs. Bells jingled in the evergreen-scented air as horses waited patiently by sleighs. I blinked again and the maidens wore organdy, their porcelain skin dewy under the parasols shielding their intricate curls. I fast-forwarded to my girlhood and could imagine the large, glassy pond below was the crystal stream beside my grandparents' log-hewn cabin in Wisconsin's northern woods, the bone-chilling waters of Scout camp, perhaps Lake Como of my honeymoon scrapbook.
Beside this champagne view, the fifty-four other apartments I'd considered seemed like cheap house wine, including the possibilities that cost far more--almost every one. I pulled myself away from the window and looked back. Walls were no longer hung with faded diplomas, nor was the carpet worn thin. Mirroring the reservoir, the room had turned gray-blue. I saw myself writing at a desk by the window, lit by sunbeams, words spilling out so fast my fingers danced on the keyboard like Rockettes. This time my manuscript wasn’t a twenty-year-old singer-actress' whiny rant. It was a novel, lauded by the critics and Costco customers alike.
I could see myself in this room. My face wore deep contentment. The bed was luxuriously rumpled, since a half hour earlier Jake and I had made love, and now he was brewing coffee in our brand-new kitchen, as sleekly designed as a sperm. Perhaps he'd already gone out to bike around the park or was walking our shelter-rescued puppy. Tallulah, the little rascal, loved to chase her ball down our twenty-foot hall.
In every way, I was home. Then I snapped out of it. I was wearing my real estate heart on my sleeve, all but drooling. Quincy Blue, you dumb cluck. I sensed Horton looking at me as if he were a cannibal in need of protein, and checked to see if he and Fran had excused themselves to decide whether they should triple the apartment's price or merely double it. We walked past another bathroom, this one housing a tub as long as a rowboat, ambled back through the dim hallway, and ended in the living room.
"The view's even better from here--a pity we can't pull up the shades," Mrs. Shelbourne whispered as she walked toward the statue slumping in the wheelchair and greeted her. "Hello, Eloise dear." She took the woman's listless hand. "It's Frances. I wish you could sit at that piano"--she pointed to a piece of shrouded furniture--"and play me Chopin."
The woman emitted a dry rattle, craned her neck toward Mrs. Shelbourne, and smiled. She was missing several teeth.
"If you wish," she said clearly. Suddenly Dr. Walter tried to raise herself in the wheelchair. "If you would be so kind as to assist me." The nurse lumbered to her side. On her aide's sturdy arm, Dr. Walter walked toward the piano, her posture better than my own. She settled on the cracked black leather stool and stretched her knobby fingers. I covered my mouth with my hands, afraid I might gasp. Her hands fondled the ivories and began to play an unmistakable Chopin mazurka. The Steinway was out of tune and the pianist wore a faded housecoat, but Dr. Walter's rendition pleased her audience to the point that even Horton was wiping away tears. The concert continued for almost twenty minutes and then, as if someone had pulled a plug, the pianist's hands froze. Like a small child, she looked around the room, confused. I was afraid she, too, might cry.
We clapped. "That was exquisite," Mrs. Shelbourne said hoarsely as the nurse helped her patient back to the wheelchair. "Simply exquisite."
Dr. Walter closed her eyes and in less than a minute was sleeping. Mrs. Shelbourne thanked the nurse and hurried Horton and me to the elevator. I waited for his chatter, but it was she who spoke. "Tell me your story. I can see from your face that you have one." She looked at me as if she were the dean of women.
________________________________________
Excerpted from "With Friends Like These" by Sally Koslow Copyright © 2010 by Sally Koslow. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Group, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Chapter One
Quincy
"A fax hit my desk for an apartment that isn't officially listed yet--you must see it immediately." Horton's voice was broadcasting an urgency reserved for hurricane evacuation. But in 2007, anyone who'd ever beaten the real estate bushes would be suspicious of a broker displaying even an atom of passivity. Shoppers of condos and co-ops in Manhattan and the leafier regions of Brooklyn knew they had to learn the art of the pounce: see, gulp, bid. Save the pros and cons for picking a couch.
Several times a week Horton e-mailed me listings, but rarely did he call. This had to be big. "Where is it?" I asked while I finished my lukewarm coffee.
"Central Park West." Horton identified a stone pile known by its name, the Eldorado, referring to a mythical kingdom where the tribal chief had the habit of dusting himself with gold, a commodity familiar to most of the apartment building's inhabitants—marquee actors, eminent psychotherapists, and large numbers of frumps who were simply lucky. With twin towers topped by Flash Gordon finials, the edifice lorded it over a gray-blue reservoir, the park's largest body of water, and cast a gimlet eye toward Fifth Avenue.
"I couldn't afford that building," I said. If Horton was trying to game me into spending more than our budget allowed, he'd fail. While the amount of money Jake and I had scraped together for a new home seemed huge to us--representing the sale of our one-bedroom in Park Slope, an inheritance from my mom, and the proceeds from seeing one of my books linger on the bestseller list--other brokers had none too politely terminated the conversation as soon as I quoted our allotted sum. What I liked about Horton was that he was dogged, he was hungry, and he was the only real estate agent returning my calls.
"That's the beauty part," he said, practically singing. "You, Quincy Blue, can afford this apartment." He named a figure. We could, just. "What's the catch?" In my experience, deals that sounded too good to be true were--like the brownstone I'd seen last week that lacked not only architectural integrity but functional plumbing.
"It's a fixer-upper," Horton admitted. "Listen, I can go to the second name on my list."
"I'll see you in twenty minutes," I said, hitting "save" on my manuscript. I was currently the ghostwriter for Maizie May, one of Hollywood's interchangeable blow-dried blondes with breasts larger than their brain. While she happened to be inconveniently incarcerated in Idaho rehab, allowed only one sound bite of conversation with me per week, my publisher's deadline, three months away, continued to growl. I hid my hair under a baseball cap and laced my sneakers. Had Jake seen me, he would have observed that I looked very West Side; my husband was fond of pointing out our neighborhood's inverse relationship between apartment price and snappy dress. As I walked east I called him, but his cell phone was off. Jake's flight to Chicago must be late.
Racing down Broadway, I allowed myself a discreet ripple of anticipation. Forget the Yankees. Real estate would always be New York City's truest spectator sport, and I was no longer content to cheer from the bleachers. Two years ago, my nesting hormones had kicked in and begun to fiercely multiply, with me along for the ride. We were eager to escape from our current sublet near Columbia University. I longed to be dithering over paint colors--Yellow Lotus or Pale Straw; flat, satin, or eggshell--and awash in fabric swatches. I coveted an office that was bigger than a coffee table book and a dining table that could accommodate all ten settings of my wedding china. I wanted a real home. I'd know it when I saw it.
Horton, green-eyed, cleft-chinned--handsome if you could overlook his devotion to argyle--stood inside the building's revolving door. "The listing broker isn't here yet," he said, "but you can get a sense of the lobby." A doorman tipped his capped head and motioned us toward armchairs upholstered in a tapestry of tasteful, earthy tones. Horton unfurled a floor plan.
I'd become a quick study of such documents. "It's only a two-bedroom," I said, feeling the familiar disappointment that had doused the glow of previous apartment visits. Was the fantasy of three bedrooms asking too much for a pair of industrious adults more than twelve years past grad school? Jake was a lawyer. I had a master's in English literature. Yet after we'd been outbid nine times, Jake and I had accepted the fact that in this part of town, two bedrooms might be as good as it would get.
"This isn't any two-bedroom," Horton insisted. "Look how grand the living room and dining room are." Big enough for a party where Jake and I could reciprocate every invitation we'd received since getting married five years ago. "See?" he said, pulling out a hasty sketch and pointing. "Put a wall up to divide the dining room, which has windows on both sides, and create an entrance here. Third bedroom." He was getting to how cheap the renovation would be when a tall wand of a woman tapped him on the shoulder.
"Fran!" Horton said as warmly as if she were his favorite grandmother, which she was old enough to be. "You're looking well."
The woman smiled and a feathering of wrinkles fanned her large blue eyes. The effect made me think that a face without this pattern was too dull. "Did you explain?" she said. Her voice was reedy, a piccolo that saw little use. She'd pulled her silver hair into a chignon and was enveloped in winter white, from a cape covering a high turtleneck to slim trousers that managed to be spotless, although they nearly covered her toes.
"We were getting to that, but first, please meet my client, Quincy Blue. Quincy, Frances Shelbourne of Shelbourne and Stone."
I knew the firm. Frances and her sister Rose had tied up all the best West Side listings. I shook Fran Shelbourne's hand, which felt not just creamy but delicately boned. She stared at my sneakers and jeans long enough for me to regret them, then turned her back and padded so soundlessly that I checked to see if she might be wearing slippers. No, ballerina flats. Across the lobby, elaborately filigreed elevator doors opened. Fran turned toward Horton and me and with the briefest arch of one perfectly plucked eyebrow implored us to hurry. When the doors shut, she spoke softly, although we were alone. "The owner's a dear friend," she said. "Eloise Walter, the anthropologist." She waited for me to respond. "From the Museum of Natural History?"
I wondered if I was supposed to know the woman's body of work and bemoaned the deficiency of my Big Ten education.
"Dr. Walter is in failing health," she continued, shaking her head. "This is why we won't schedule an open house." Every Sunday from September through May, hopeful buyers, like well-trained infantry, traveled the open-house circuit. Jake and I had done our sweaty time, scurrying downtown, uptown, across, and down again, with as many as a dozen visits in a day. Soon enough, we began seeing the same hopeful buyers--the Filipino couple, the three-hundred-pound guy who had the face of a baby, a pair of six-foot-tall redheaded teenage twins who spoke a middle-European tongue. By my fifth Sunday, in minutes I could privately scoff at telltale evidence of dry rot. Silk curtains draped as cunningly as a sari could not distract me from a sunless air shaft a few feet away, nor could lights of megawatt intensity seduce me into forgetting that in most of these apartments I would instantly suffer from seasonal affective disorder.
"You'll be the first person to see this one," Horton added by way of a bonus. I could feel the checkbook in my bag coming alive like Mickey's broom in Fantasia.
When we stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Mrs. Shelbourne gently knocked on a metal door that would look at home in any financial institution. From the other side, a floor creaked. A nurse in thick-soled shoes answered and raised an index finger to her lips, casting her eyes toward a shadowy room beyond. The scent of urine--human, feline, or both--crept into my nostrils, followed by a top note of mango air freshener. "Doctor's sleeping." My eyes strained to scan a wide room where old-fashioned blinds were drawn against the noon sun. An elderly woman, her hair scant and tufted, was folded into a wheelchair like a rag doll, despite pillows bolstering her skeletal frame. Dr. Walter looked barely alive. Mrs. Shelbourne placed her hand on my arm. "We shouldn't stay long in this room. I'm sure you understand. Alzheimer's."
"I do--too well," I said, rapidly beholding the high ceiling and dentil moldings, while memories of my mother, scrupulously archived yet too fresh to examine, begged for consideration. I pushed them away even as my mind catalogued herringbone floors with an intricate walnut border and the merest wink of a crystal chandelier. Mrs. Shelbourne grasped my arm and we hurried into a small, dark kitchen with wallpaper on which hummingbirds had enjoyed a sixty-year siesta. In front of the sink, which faced a covered window, linoleum had worn bare. There were scratched metal cabinets and no dishwasher, and I suspected the stove's birth date preceded my own. I thought of my unfinished chapter, and cursed my wasted time.
Halfheartedly I lifted a tattered shade. "Holy cow," I said, though only to myself. Sun reflected off the park's vast reservoir, which appeared so close I thought I could stand on the ledge and swan-dive into its depth. Far below, I could see treetops, lush as giant broccoli. The traffic was a distant buzz. I felt a tremor. The subway, stories below? No, my heart. Picking up my pace, I followed the brokers through the spacious dining room and down a hall where I counted off six closets. I peeked into a bathroom tiled in a vintage mosaic of the sort decorators encourage clients to re-create at vast expense. We passed through a starlet-worthy dressing room and entered a bedroom into which I could easily tuck my current, rented apartment, with enough space to spare for a study. As Mrs. Shelbourne pulled the hardware on draperies bleached of color, I could swear that a strobe had begun to pulse. From the corner of my eye I saw a black cat slink away while Horton kicked a dust bunny under the bed, but I took little note of either. As I stood by the window, I was gooey with the feeling I'd experienced when I first laid eyes on the Grand Canyon.
The silvery vista spread casually before me might be the most enchanted in the entire city. I closed my eyes, traveling through time. Women were skating figure eights in red velvet cloaks, their hands warmed by ermine muffs. Bells jingled in the evergreen-scented air as horses waited patiently by sleighs. I blinked again and the maidens wore organdy, their porcelain skin dewy under the parasols shielding their intricate curls. I fast-forwarded to my girlhood and could imagine the large, glassy pond below was the crystal stream beside my grandparents' log-hewn cabin in Wisconsin's northern woods, the bone-chilling waters of Scout camp, perhaps Lake Como of my honeymoon scrapbook.
Beside this champagne view, the fifty-four other apartments I'd considered seemed like cheap house wine, including the possibilities that cost far more--almost every one. I pulled myself away from the window and looked back. Walls were no longer hung with faded diplomas, nor was the carpet worn thin. Mirroring the reservoir, the room had turned gray-blue. I saw myself writing at a desk by the window, lit by sunbeams, words spilling out so fast my fingers danced on the keyboard like Rockettes. This time my manuscript wasn’t a twenty-year-old singer-actress' whiny rant. It was a novel, lauded by the critics and Costco customers alike.
I could see myself in this room. My face wore deep contentment. The bed was luxuriously rumpled, since a half hour earlier Jake and I had made love, and now he was brewing coffee in our brand-new kitchen, as sleekly designed as a sperm. Perhaps he'd already gone out to bike around the park or was walking our shelter-rescued puppy. Tallulah, the little rascal, loved to chase her ball down our twenty-foot hall.
In every way, I was home. Then I snapped out of it. I was wearing my real estate heart on my sleeve, all but drooling. Quincy Blue, you dumb cluck. I sensed Horton looking at me as if he were a cannibal in need of protein, and checked to see if he and Fran had excused themselves to decide whether they should triple the apartment's price or merely double it. We walked past another bathroom, this one housing a tub as long as a rowboat, ambled back through the dim hallway, and ended in the living room.
"The view's even better from here--a pity we can't pull up the shades," Mrs. Shelbourne whispered as she walked toward the statue slumping in the wheelchair and greeted her. "Hello, Eloise dear." She took the woman's listless hand. "It's Frances. I wish you could sit at that piano"--she pointed to a piece of shrouded furniture--"and play me Chopin."
The woman emitted a dry rattle, craned her neck toward Mrs. Shelbourne, and smiled. She was missing several teeth.
"If you wish," she said clearly. Suddenly Dr. Walter tried to raise herself in the wheelchair. "If you would be so kind as to assist me." The nurse lumbered to her side. On her aide's sturdy arm, Dr. Walter walked toward the piano, her posture better than my own. She settled on the cracked black leather stool and stretched her knobby fingers. I covered my mouth with my hands, afraid I might gasp. Her hands fondled the ivories and began to play an unmistakable Chopin mazurka. The Steinway was out of tune and the pianist wore a faded housecoat, but Dr. Walter's rendition pleased her audience to the point that even Horton was wiping away tears. The concert continued for almost twenty minutes and then, as if someone had pulled a plug, the pianist's hands froze. Like a small child, she looked around the room, confused. I was afraid she, too, might cry.
We clapped. "That was exquisite," Mrs. Shelbourne said hoarsely as the nurse helped her patient back to the wheelchair. "Simply exquisite."
Dr. Walter closed her eyes and in less than a minute was sleeping. Mrs. Shelbourne thanked the nurse and hurried Horton and me to the elevator. I waited for his chatter, but it was she who spoke. "Tell me your story. I can see from your face that you have one." She looked at me as if she were the dean of women.
________________________________________
Excerpted from "With Friends Like These" by Sally Koslow Copyright © 2010 by Sally Koslow. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Group, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Runner-up Associate Entry-Kathryn Hamilton
"Good in Bed" review
By Kathryn Hamilton
Cannie (short for Candace) Shapiro is a plus size newspaper journalist who has wit in spades and and is not afraid to speak her mind. Professionally, she is confident and self-assured. Personally, she is the complete opposite; filled with self-doubt, she uses her humour as a way to charm those around her. After she discovers that not only has her ex (Bruce, a fellow journalist) written about her in his new magazine column, but that he has divulged intimate details of their relationship, Cannie begins to re-evaluate herself and her decision to "take a break" from her relationship with a man who understands her much more than she gave him credit for. With the support of friends (both old and a few new ones she meets along the way) and family, Cannie is taken on a journey to self-acceptance that is filled with humour, heartache, and raw truth.
Ms. Weiner has the propensity for creating characters that readers can deeply connect with, and writing stories that make her books difficult to put down; "Good In Bed" was no exception (and incidentally, was also her first published novel). I believe this is the best of the three novels I have read so far by Ms. Weiner. As someone who is also plus size, I found Cannie to be a character that was easy to relate to in many ways. However, the beauty of this story is that you need not wear a size 16 to identify with Cannie's insecurities and longing to be loved; this observation is keenly made by one of her friends, which confounds Cannie since she believes thin women are always confident (if only that were true!). I felt her anger, sadness, joy and heart break, and was able to understand how she saw the world without needing to have had similar life experiences. The story was well written and the pace flowed nicely. Although I knew who Cannie would end up being with almost from the first time the character is introduced, I enjoyed seeing how that relationship developed throughout the story.
There were, however, a few things that bothered me about the book, but as a whole, they are minor issues. First, I found it difficult to believe that Cannie would develop a relationship with someone who just happened to be in a position to help her achieve one of her biggest dreams. It is possible that situations like this happen, but for me I had to suspend reality. Secondly, I noticed some errors in the text that were distracting. I will note that I was reading an ebook copy, so the fact that there were a few places where the words ran together may not be the fault of the publisher, but it's still something that took a little bit away from the reading experience. Lastly, I have to say that I wasn't crazy about the cover. I discovered after I had purchased the ebook that I actually had the 10th anniversary copy. Although the differences from the original cover are small, I prefer the original. I'll also mention here that when reading the "Introduction," I didn't realize at first that it wasn't part of the story and ended up skipping over the rather lengthy text.
Jennifer Weiner is one of the most respected and beloved authors in the chick lit genre. After reading Good In Bed, it is clear why this is the case. Any issues I had with the book are minor and I would certainly recommend it as a must read (especially if you haven't read any of Ms. Weiner's other novels).
By Kathryn Hamilton
Cannie (short for Candace) Shapiro is a plus size newspaper journalist who has wit in spades and and is not afraid to speak her mind. Professionally, she is confident and self-assured. Personally, she is the complete opposite; filled with self-doubt, she uses her humour as a way to charm those around her. After she discovers that not only has her ex (Bruce, a fellow journalist) written about her in his new magazine column, but that he has divulged intimate details of their relationship, Cannie begins to re-evaluate herself and her decision to "take a break" from her relationship with a man who understands her much more than she gave him credit for. With the support of friends (both old and a few new ones she meets along the way) and family, Cannie is taken on a journey to self-acceptance that is filled with humour, heartache, and raw truth.
Ms. Weiner has the propensity for creating characters that readers can deeply connect with, and writing stories that make her books difficult to put down; "Good In Bed" was no exception (and incidentally, was also her first published novel). I believe this is the best of the three novels I have read so far by Ms. Weiner. As someone who is also plus size, I found Cannie to be a character that was easy to relate to in many ways. However, the beauty of this story is that you need not wear a size 16 to identify with Cannie's insecurities and longing to be loved; this observation is keenly made by one of her friends, which confounds Cannie since she believes thin women are always confident (if only that were true!). I felt her anger, sadness, joy and heart break, and was able to understand how she saw the world without needing to have had similar life experiences. The story was well written and the pace flowed nicely. Although I knew who Cannie would end up being with almost from the first time the character is introduced, I enjoyed seeing how that relationship developed throughout the story.
There were, however, a few things that bothered me about the book, but as a whole, they are minor issues. First, I found it difficult to believe that Cannie would develop a relationship with someone who just happened to be in a position to help her achieve one of her biggest dreams. It is possible that situations like this happen, but for me I had to suspend reality. Secondly, I noticed some errors in the text that were distracting. I will note that I was reading an ebook copy, so the fact that there were a few places where the words ran together may not be the fault of the publisher, but it's still something that took a little bit away from the reading experience. Lastly, I have to say that I wasn't crazy about the cover. I discovered after I had purchased the ebook that I actually had the 10th anniversary copy. Although the differences from the original cover are small, I prefer the original. I'll also mention here that when reading the "Introduction," I didn't realize at first that it wasn't part of the story and ended up skipping over the rather lengthy text.
Jennifer Weiner is one of the most respected and beloved authors in the chick lit genre. After reading Good In Bed, it is clear why this is the case. Any issues I had with the book are minor and I would certainly recommend it as a must read (especially if you haven't read any of Ms. Weiner's other novels).
Winning Associate Entry-Becky Gulc
"Meet Me at the Cupcake Café" review
By Becky Gulc
Narrowing down an extensive wish list of books to just four for a week-long holiday in the sun is never an easy task – Jenny Colgan’s "Meet Me at the Cupcake Café" was however instantly top of my holiday list this year from the title alone (shallow but true), it didn’t disappoint. Prior to spotting this book I had read just one of Jenny’s previous novels – "Looking for Andrew McCarthy" which was just a genius concept for me as someone who had a serious teenage crush on Andrew at the time of "Mannequin."
For anyone who loves to bake and cannot leave the house without gravitating towards the ever-expanding Patisserie Valerie’s and Hummingbird Bakeries on our high streets "Meet Me at the Cupcake Cafe" is the perfect book for you. Best still, it won’t affect your waistline…well, unless you act upon the numerous recipes listed quite comically but accurately in this book. You’ll be ensuring your friends hand this book back when they’ve read it!
This book is about new beginnings. In the current climate we all know someone who is facing redundancy if not ourselves – this book explores how 31 year old Issy deals with being made redundant from her mundane but longstanding office job. Possibly the worst thing for Issy is not being made redundant itself, but being made redundant by Graeme, her successful but unworthy boyfriend/secret love.
The book follows Issy as she does what many of us can only dream of – taking what is a fun hobby and making it into something she can make a living from. Her journey is far from easy and there are some great characters built into this book that you feel for, laugh with and swoon over! Whilst being quite a light-hearted read many of the characters in this book haven’t had an easy life and you really do route for them to succeed and find happiness albeit in a variety of forms. Issy’s relationship with her Grandpa is central to the story and is moving and heart-warming throughout – we learn early on that Issy was raised by her grandparents and it is her Grandpa that instilled Issy’s love of baking and his recipes and ethos are an integral part of Issy’s vision for the Cupcake Café.
I do believe that if you love chick-lit and love baking or just eating cakes then you will enjoy this book. The description is rich throughout; you could really picture the café; the surrounding area of Stoke Newington and most importantly the cupcakes. The sense of community, or lack of at some points hangs very true and you will be able to relate some of the characters to people you see but maybe have never spoken to wherever you live. The book may be a tad predictable but that didn’t detract from the enjoyment of it one bit. Overall this book is an uplifting read with strong characters and enough twists, turns and recipes to keep your mouth-watering until the very end!
By Becky Gulc
Narrowing down an extensive wish list of books to just four for a week-long holiday in the sun is never an easy task – Jenny Colgan’s "Meet Me at the Cupcake Café" was however instantly top of my holiday list this year from the title alone (shallow but true), it didn’t disappoint. Prior to spotting this book I had read just one of Jenny’s previous novels – "Looking for Andrew McCarthy" which was just a genius concept for me as someone who had a serious teenage crush on Andrew at the time of "Mannequin."
For anyone who loves to bake and cannot leave the house without gravitating towards the ever-expanding Patisserie Valerie’s and Hummingbird Bakeries on our high streets "Meet Me at the Cupcake Cafe" is the perfect book for you. Best still, it won’t affect your waistline…well, unless you act upon the numerous recipes listed quite comically but accurately in this book. You’ll be ensuring your friends hand this book back when they’ve read it!
This book is about new beginnings. In the current climate we all know someone who is facing redundancy if not ourselves – this book explores how 31 year old Issy deals with being made redundant from her mundane but longstanding office job. Possibly the worst thing for Issy is not being made redundant itself, but being made redundant by Graeme, her successful but unworthy boyfriend/secret love.
The book follows Issy as she does what many of us can only dream of – taking what is a fun hobby and making it into something she can make a living from. Her journey is far from easy and there are some great characters built into this book that you feel for, laugh with and swoon over! Whilst being quite a light-hearted read many of the characters in this book haven’t had an easy life and you really do route for them to succeed and find happiness albeit in a variety of forms. Issy’s relationship with her Grandpa is central to the story and is moving and heart-warming throughout – we learn early on that Issy was raised by her grandparents and it is her Grandpa that instilled Issy’s love of baking and his recipes and ethos are an integral part of Issy’s vision for the Cupcake Café.
I do believe that if you love chick-lit and love baking or just eating cakes then you will enjoy this book. The description is rich throughout; you could really picture the café; the surrounding area of Stoke Newington and most importantly the cupcakes. The sense of community, or lack of at some points hangs very true and you will be able to relate some of the characters to people you see but maybe have never spoken to wherever you live. The book may be a tad predictable but that didn’t detract from the enjoyment of it one bit. Overall this book is an uplifting read with strong characters and enough twists, turns and recipes to keep your mouth-watering until the very end!
Winning Associate Entry--Gail Allison
"Bright Lights, Big Ass" review
by Gail Allison
Traditional? Nope. Honest? Yes. Just so damn uncontrollably-giggling, mascara-smearingly funny that you should never ever bring this book on public transportation? 100% absolutely for sure. Consider yourself warned.
In Jen Lancaster’s second memoir, “Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why it Often Sucks in the City, or Who are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?”, she explores life in the big city with her husband. She begins with a scathing letter to Carrie Bradshaw, accusing her of setting unrealistic big-city living expectations and then, through a series of short essays about her life, illustrates exactly why the Sex and The City lifestyle could never be anything but fictional. After losing her high-powered corporate job, Jen had to refine her lifestyle, and this memoir details her life after making the dizzying jump from top-shelf cocktails to boxed wine from Trader Joe’s.
Her experiences around her hometown of Chicago range a whole spectrum of possibilities, from getting into (and losing) a death match with a paper gown at her annual “well-woman” exam, to accidentally reporting her neighbors to Homeland Security. Ms. Lancaster’s writing is so open and real that I would defy you to NOT want to be BFFs with her after finishing this book.
Jen is not afraid to tell you exactly how she’s thinking, why she’s thinking it, and what she’s planning to do about it, which makes for an incredibly engaging and candid book. Her writing style is reminiscent of chatting with a friend (albeit a mouthy, somewhat self-absorbed friend), and her biting sense of humor will be met with everything from a dropped jaw to uncontrollable laughter. Her absolute sincerity is what makes this book a real gem. There is no self-conscious glossing over uncomfortable situations: she dives right in and unapologetically takes you with her.
A word to the wise: if you are offended by inappropriate language, this may not be the volume for you. She is not afraid to season her text with the occasional f-bomb, so perhaps this isn’t the best gift for your precocious 11-year-old niece’s 6th grade graduation, but it makes for a fantastic read on a warm summer day while lounging in your backyard with a nice cold glass (box) of wine beside you.
Overall, this is easily one of the most entertaining books I’ve ever read (and will definitely read again). It’s absolutely refreshing to read a memoir that is this hilarious, this honest, and just this much fun.
by Gail Allison
Traditional? Nope. Honest? Yes. Just so damn uncontrollably-giggling, mascara-smearingly funny that you should never ever bring this book on public transportation? 100% absolutely for sure. Consider yourself warned.
In Jen Lancaster’s second memoir, “Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why it Often Sucks in the City, or Who are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?”, she explores life in the big city with her husband. She begins with a scathing letter to Carrie Bradshaw, accusing her of setting unrealistic big-city living expectations and then, through a series of short essays about her life, illustrates exactly why the Sex and The City lifestyle could never be anything but fictional. After losing her high-powered corporate job, Jen had to refine her lifestyle, and this memoir details her life after making the dizzying jump from top-shelf cocktails to boxed wine from Trader Joe’s.
Her experiences around her hometown of Chicago range a whole spectrum of possibilities, from getting into (and losing) a death match with a paper gown at her annual “well-woman” exam, to accidentally reporting her neighbors to Homeland Security. Ms. Lancaster’s writing is so open and real that I would defy you to NOT want to be BFFs with her after finishing this book.
Jen is not afraid to tell you exactly how she’s thinking, why she’s thinking it, and what she’s planning to do about it, which makes for an incredibly engaging and candid book. Her writing style is reminiscent of chatting with a friend (albeit a mouthy, somewhat self-absorbed friend), and her biting sense of humor will be met with everything from a dropped jaw to uncontrollable laughter. Her absolute sincerity is what makes this book a real gem. There is no self-conscious glossing over uncomfortable situations: she dives right in and unapologetically takes you with her.
A word to the wise: if you are offended by inappropriate language, this may not be the volume for you. She is not afraid to season her text with the occasional f-bomb, so perhaps this isn’t the best gift for your precocious 11-year-old niece’s 6th grade graduation, but it makes for a fantastic read on a warm summer day while lounging in your backyard with a nice cold glass (box) of wine beside you.
Overall, this is easily one of the most entertaining books I’ve ever read (and will definitely read again). It’s absolutely refreshing to read a memoir that is this hilarious, this honest, and just this much fun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)