a non-stop read

george-review-mary-guarino-clark-papa

What makes a book a non-stop read?

In the case of my book, Making Room for George, my readers tell me it’s that they can’t wait to find out what happens next.

This book is not a thriller and the only crimes committed are those of the heart, but there is plenty of suspense in what’s happening between the characters nevertheless.

 

ed-kohler-dumpster-via-cc

image:  used with permission of the artist, Ed Kohler via Creative Commons.  Rights reserved.

 

For example, the time the protagonist, Bet, gets a call from her father-in-law’s neighbor saying, “George is in the dumpster!”

 

lovers-via-cc-marius-maehlen

image used with permission of the artist, Marius Maehlen via Creative Commons.  Rights reserved.  This edition of the photo was adapted from the original by Courtney Carmody.

Or the time Bet and Steve first meet on a double-date and steal a kiss plus a whole lot more in the yard between the houses while their dates sit drinking wine in the living room.

rubbermaid-expandables-cc

image:  “Rubbermaid Homefree Series Closet Kit 3H11used with permission via Creative Commons & RubbermaidRights reserved.

Or the time, many, many years later when Bet moves out of the closet she’s always shared with Steve and into a room of her own across the house from him.

anno-malle-via-creative-commons

image:  “housewife” used with permission of the artist, Anno Malle via Creative Commons.  Rights reserved.

And most suspenseful of all:  what Bet does when she can’t take her life the way it is anymore!

Making Room for George is FREE to Kindle Unlimited users, 0.99 for Kindle & $9.99 in softcover.

 

 

 

 

 

“& God forbid; my father-in-law lives in the house!”

reading at Malvern Books, Austin, Aug. 11, 2016

Sixteen minutes of fun for you from my novel, Making Room for George, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, 2016.

 

If you liked Olive Kitterage…


You will like Making Room for George

Notice on the screenshot from Amazon above that there are only 6 reviews showing for George

In reality, The book has 23 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 reviews but 16 of them are assiciated with the first edition (Balboa Press, 2013;about to be out of print ) and thus Amazon is unable to link them to my second edition (Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, 2016). 


So… I am capturing them myself! Isn’t that Super-Indie of me?

This reviewer compares the book to Olive Kitterage and Dinner at the Heartbreak Restaurant. Cool!

Here is what she has to say:

Take this journey. 
(click here to read it on Amazon) 

By sandy foster morrisonon June 30, 2015

I love this woman. Guts and grit, and grace under fire…until a reckoning was due. We know this story. Or know of it as I do from writing my own memoir about life in the Piney Woods. Especially if you share history with East Texas, the sights and sounds, struggles and redemption, ride back on waves of memory stifling as summer heat. My heart felt bruised and I was pissed from the first lines. The tension of small gestures. That particular brand of Texas men. Their unconsciousness. And still the feminine automatically – foolishly? – by nature, holds nurturing space for them to be. And still…the extraordinary power of love seeps up through the cracks in even the meanest of circumstances.
As I read Making Room for George, I was reminded of Dinner at the Heartbreak Restaurant and Olive Kitteridge. George is equally large in creating an immense, aching tension through the small cuts of disappointment. I feel the Bet’s insides…the small diversions…taking the top off flammable circumstance. The sleepless mind on spin cycle. The clueless man. Universal female understanding and automatic, inbred response to clueless men. That sense of entitlement. The wifely service rendered always…no matter. Until a lit match ignites the gasoline spill inside the gut.
This is a love story. But not as you imagine. The reflections shared touched me deeply, and brought me squarely home to myself: “I spent hours swinging in the shade of the elm, under the summer sun. I wrote in my journal, drank iced, herb tea, and tried to think what karmic act, what law of attraction, what principle of Quantum Theory I had set into motion that had shifted my life so dramatically in just three short years.” If you have accepted that change is the only certainty in life, and you are willing to look at yourself honestly, you will feel supported and alive to possibilities as you read this impelling story.

book reveiw submission guidelines

Collage Studio Portrait

  • First, let me say, that if you have written a book, you have really done something.  I honor your effort and persistence. Reviewing a book is my way of honoring quality writing that moves me.
  • I review books by independent and traditionally published authors pre or post publication on this blog at no charge and with no obligation to the author.
  • I read non-fiction, memoir, women’s fiction, spirituality, poetry, self-help, and literary or general fiction with an empowered or courageous female protagonist.  Think To Kill a MockingbirdThe Secret Life of Bees, and Care of the Soul (non-fiction).   I will consider non-violent psychological thrillers and paranormal.  I do not read vampire stories, crime drama, romance, erotica or any other writing that denigrates women or promotes violence against them.  I like books that make me think, that make me feel good or cry for happy.  I enjoy strong characterization and vivid detail.  I love books that are not in a hurry.  (Those are rare.)  I love to be taken away, back in time or to foreign lands, especially those that exist outside of physical reality.  I read only a few books a year, so I am very particular about what I choose to read.
  • Send me a link to your book with a “look inside” if it’s published or, if not, send me a  short synopsis via email to dellisphelps@gmail.com requesting a review.  If your book interests me, I’ll let you know within a few days, requesting the entire manuscript.  Feel free to prompt me once after a week or so.  We all get too busy or check out sometimes.
  • Once I have requested your book and if you have an electronic version of your book, you can gift a copy to me via Amazon.  If you have only hard copies of your book, you can send me a copy via snail mail.  I will provide an address when I contact you.
  • Once I have read your book, I will not review it if I cannot give it a four or five star rating and I will notify you if this is true, otherwise, I will send you a link to your review when I have posted it.
  • Click below to read two examples of my reviews:
  • Corvus Rising
  • Just Because You’re Dead Doesn’t Mean You’re Gone

I also provide editorial services for writers for a fee.  Should you require these services, contact me via email and I will send you my list of services.

The Choice for Love

 sadness_149 from hipish.free.fr

photo courtesy of http://hipish.free.fr/graphics/feelings/sadness/?id=149

The day I saw my reflection in the microwave glass, standing in the kitchen of my posh, suburban home, drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle, I decided to leave alcohol alone. But it was later, much later, and with careful counseling; active listening in recovery groups; abstinence from alcohol and mind-altering, prescription drugs; and prayerful surrender that I made the life-changing choice for self-love and acceptance.

Sunday mornings in Central Texas where I grew up, were for going to church and Sunday school. Sunday afternoons were for being with family, eating fried chicken, mashed potatoes made from scratch with brown gravy, canned English peas soaked in butter, white bread (also spread thick with butter); drinking sweet iced tea; and watching the Cowboys on television: my dad’s regular nap time. We attended the First (Southern) Baptist Church as did all our kin except for my grandmother who swore we would all go to hell because we didn’t attend The Church of Christ. Early on, as you might guess, I got confused about religion.

There were volatile arguments between my grandmother and my dad over religious choices.  Of course, these might have fallen on deaf ears for most eight-year-olds, but not on mine. I practiced deep thinking, said my prayers fervently, and read the scripture in the King James Version of the Bible (a gift from my father bound in black leather with my name inscribed on the front cover in gold), and I listened. I was looking for answers to questions I could barely formulate as yet.

My reasoning probably went something like this: maybe if I listen hard enough, I will understand who’s telling the truth and then I can settle this thing once and for all or, at the very least, keep myself out of hell. Or maybe I thought: if I go to church, read my lessons, sing in the choir, invite Jesus into my heart, and behave really, really, really well, my dad will stop throwing my mother’s head against the wall and shoving her down all the time.

Yes. I lived with family violence regardless of church, regardless of prayer.

Violence is a learned behavior. My father learned how to treat a woman from witnessing the way his father treated my grandmother and he learned how to treat a child from the way his father treated him: beatings with a horse whip; tongue-lashings; harsh, unforgiving judgmental attitudes. And from birth, I began to learn this destructive pattern as well. Of course, I had no idea how it would eventually surface in my adult behaviors or even that it would. In fact, I swore it would never happen to me nor would I ever perpetrate such unhappiness and wrongdoing upon myself or others. How little I knew.

I’m cognitively unsure about my eight-year-old-reasoning, but I can say that I listened well, to everything, like a dog on point. And I tried to be good at everything. I did my chores. I did my homework. I made straight A’s and I never, ever talked back.

Until I did.

When I left home for The University of Texas in the fall of 1970, I was determined to leave all that chaos at home. But guess what? I’d learned what I’d lived. Rebellion had been rumbling in me like a stampede about to happen and when I added alcohol to the mix, wild abandon broke down the gates of any inhibition that lingered in this small town Baptist girl.

As was the prevalent mind-set on campus, “I loved the one I was with,” and I was with many. I took up smoking, cigarettes and pot. I perfected the art of cursing; peppering every phrase with a well-placed explicative. I went to class, but slept through the early ones. I played Spades in the dormitory hallway passed midnight and studied just enough to get by. I drove drunk, bought and sold dope, and blacked out, forgetting my way home more than once.

Most of these mild diversions may sound typical of college life to many, and really they were typical. I was never arrested (only by luck), after all. I functioned well, albeit often hung over. I landed a role as a dancer in the chorus line of the UT production of Cabaret after my first audition, winning the role over many dance majors with whom I competed. I served as a dormitory advisor and a resident assistant during my sophomore and junior years, both honorary positions. I excelled as a student-teacher during my senior year. And I got my degree.

I was educated and ready to live life, but emotionally miserable.

“So,” you ask. “What does any miserable, twenty-something-year-old woman do to get happy?” Get married and have a child. Right? Wrong.

I did get married and have a child I wanted very much to have, but I was still miserable.

“So what was the problem?” you asked. The problem was deep-seated rage and self-hatred—fear in disguise.

By the time the day came that I saw my reflection in the microwave glass, my five-foot-four frame supported a mere one-hundred and five pounds; I was drinking close to a fifth of straight whiskey daily but could not get drunk no matter how I tried; I smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. I carried at least three prescription drugs in my purse at all times (for nervousness, headaches, and chronic bowel distress); and I was depressed, misguided, and suicidal.

As you may have guessed by now, I’d stopped attending church as soon as I left home, abandoning virtually all of its teachings in return for agnosticism. I’d seen my first of many shrinks; had multiple affairs; and found that I had no idea how to be happy. My marriage failed, ending with an affair that broke up two families, creating painful waves of dysfunction to this day.

My second marriage and my drug and alcohol free lifestyle have survived, however, for thirty-three years. Why? Not because I am holy now. I am far from it. Not because I have returned to church. I haven’t, though I did time and again, but found no match for my version of spirituality in organized religion. Not because now I am finally married to the right man. This relationship has been tumultuous at best. Not because my life is trouble-free. It hasn’t been. We’ve faced years of federal investigations by the IRS, the SEC, and the FBI for alleged misbehavior and received subsequent judgments that took our life savings. We’ve raised a potpourri family. We’ve been through surgeries, illnesses, counseling and treatment and we’ve watched our parents age, move in with us, and die. Sometimes we thrived and sometimes we just survived and sometimes we nearly killed each other, but here we are. Here I am.

Here I am, healthy as I am, and able to be as authentic and as honest as I am with you because of choice. Not a once-in-a-life-time choice, but a consistent, committed, daily choice to love and to accept myself with all my strengths and weakness no matter what rather than to self-destruct and in the process also destroy others and any chance of life-giving relationship.

Here I am because I choose to look at myself honestly and with great reverence for the path I’ve walked. I choose to acknowledge the grace that has accompanied me on this path. I choose to forgive myself and others completely and quickly. And I choose to hold my head up high.

Here I am because I choose to let go of fear and live in the present not the past.

Here I am because I choose to live and learn without regret. And because I choose to live this way, I know how to let you make your own choices, understanding deeply that church or no church, there is wholeness in all of us that seeks its own level that will rise above all apparent unhappiness and create new life—given half a chance.