ARC Review — Slaying Isidore's Dragons, by C. Kennedy

5 Best friends

4 Vicious brothers

3 STD tests

2 Guys in love

1 Car bombing

&

Nowhere to run

Slaying Isidore’s Dragons follows the burgeoning love of two high school seniors during the worst year of their lives.
Irish born Declan David de Quirke II is the son of two ambassadors, one Irish and one American. He’s come out to his parents but to no one else.
French born Jean-Isidore de Sauveterre is the son of two ambassadors, one Catalan and one Parisian. His four half brothers have been told to cure him of his homosexuality.
Declan and Isidore meet at the beginning of their senior year at a private academy in the United States. Declan is immediately smitten with Isidore and becomes his knight in shining armor. Isidore wants to keep what little is left of his sanity and needs Declan’s love to do it.

5 Weeks of hell

4 Attempts on their lives

3 Law enforcement agencies

2 Dead high school seniors

1 Jealous friend

&

A love that won’t be denied

One is beaten, one is drugged, one is nearly raped, one has been raped, they are harassed by professors and police, and have fights at school, but none of it compares to running for their lives. When the headmaster’s popular son attempts suicide and someone attempts to assassinate Declan’s mother, they are thrown headlong into chaos, betrayal, conspiracy, allegations of sexual coercion, pornography, even murder. And one of them carries a secret that may get them killed.

5 New family members

4 BFF’s

3 Countries

2 Extraordinary Psychologists

1 Courageous Mother

&

A new beginning for two young men in love

*****

What a ride! What an amazing story. I’m still reeling. And so full of hope, for the future, for the future of these boys, all our boys.

In this story, as is the usual fare with Kennedy, there is action; there is no time to relax, no time to slow down, things are happening all the time, and in so many layers, it takes all my concentration to keep it together. And I love it. I just simply love it. I roll in it, I run with it. I revel in it.

I feel I know these people, already after a few chapters. It is as if I am running beside them, seeing what they are seeing, feeling what they are feeling. It is almost overwhelming. I scream, and I scare the cats. I giggle, and I wake Mr. Anna.

Kennedy must be the king of purple prose, and yet, somehow, here, it just works; it doesn’t become ridiculous, it just becomes powerful and full of awe-inspiring, foreign flavors.
And then another bomb goes off.

Why am I not surprised?

While reading until my iPad hits my face, I realize, just as I am falling asleep, that there is so much more to this story than meets the eye.

There is the careful choosing of words. The loving turn of phrase that won’t scare a potential victimized reader. Words are of such vital importance to young survivors; those of us who have never lived through abuse, can never quite understand how loaded a simple word can be.

And then there is the momentous message to abuse victims and survivors that there is a future, also for them. That there is hope for sunshine and love, in all our futures.

It is uplifting. It is caring. There is hope.

And then another bomb goes off, yeah?

This book had me sitting on the proverbial edge of my seat, jumping with excitement, smiling with bliss, and feeling the love between the two young men grow and blossom. (See? I have achieved some purple myself). I cry me an ocean, too, for good measure.

The way Declan and Isidore discover each other is beautiful, loving, enriching, sweet, and so sexy. Without ever going into the exploitative and crude, the physical love they explore is simply beautiful. They are both on the older side of their teen years, at eighteen and seventeen, thinking about their bodies and discovering a new sensuality, and the way Declan gets frustrated with his dick makes me scream with laughter. So many good feels, here, too.

There is no way I can review this book without drawing parallels to Omorphi, Kennedy’s other long novel about abused youth. The similarities are of course there, but what really strikes me is the difference between them. The main character in the first story, Christy, is a survivor of abuse. In Slaying Isidore’s Dragons, Isidore is still a victim, and he is still living with his abusers. There is such a huge difference in mindset.

Now, there is a special talent to be able to describe and write about this kind of abuse, without either falling into the exploitative, or brushing over the sad facts. Here, none of those things happen. There is truthfulness in these pages, but most of all, there is hope. Awe-inspiring Hope. It makes the reader understand what goes on inside the mind of an abuse victim.

It shatters me to see how this new life, when saved from an abusive environment, can be so overwhelming that the victim is ready to go back to the abusive home, just to get to a place where everything makes sense.

This is a book with really difficult themes, and it is striking how it can ring true in all its horrid details, while still giving hope and showing a way out. This book may very well be saving lives, and giving hope.

It is interesting how well the double POV works, where we see things mostly from the eyes of the boyfriend, Declan. I don’t think we could take seeing it all from inside Isidore’s mind, but the short interludes that we do get to see are so revealing. Thank you for showing us how completely different the same scene may seem to the victim.

Now, I also want to tell everybody about how much I adore Sorcha, Declan’s mother. She is a powerful, gorgeous, strong, beautiful, and loving woman. I love all those things in people, but I especially appreciate them when they are attributed to a woman in an m/m setting. This is finally happening more often, but I still want to say thank you for this: thank you, author, for a strong and good woman. Mothering is not easy, and she does shine a light. The fact that she was also an Ambassador in her own right, makes my heart sing. A real woman. Somebody with both a job and a career. Not only, she is also absolutely hilarious, and a good belly laugh really makes life worth living. The healing value of humor is well known, but is even more so to a victim of abuse.

It is important for me to see that the story in this book actually rings true in the ears of the intended readers, i.e. young survivors of abuse; youth who, through this novel, can visualize a potential future, a possibility of a decent life, of love, of happiness. Reading young Timmy’s review of this book, I see the story through his eyes. See his review here.

It is true. This story brings hope. It shows the path forward, it shows the possibility of future.

This is top notch.

On my Top-Read-Of-2015 shelf.

Well done, Kennedy. I just realize that I have written the word “hope” nine times in my review. That must mean something.

You pass with flying colors.

Five shining stars.

***

I received an ARC of this book from the author, and a positive review wasn’t promised in return.


Find this book at Harmony Ink/Dreamspinner Press

Alive Again - Valentine's Day

I take a shallow breath. Everything hurts. That must mean that I am still alive. This is paramount. This is all that matters, for a moment. I feel every, single part of my body, there is a pain so excruciating that I don't even know where I am. I am coming out of the haze, and try to move. It is impossible. I am folded in two on a small bed in a hospital, and all I can do is moan.

Somebody hears me, and comes closer. I feel a hand on my hair, and a quiet voice asking me how I feel. I want to say like total, utter crap, but I can't even take the deeper breath I need to be able voice my pain. So I moan. It ends with a whimper. I have never felt so defenseless in my whole life.

The kind soul attached to the caressing hand tells me not to worry, and fiddles with the IV, and within half a minute I am floating again, slowly leaving the pain behind me. I remember now, I know where I am and what happened. Opening my eyes I ask her with a whisper of a voice "Anything left?"
"You need to talk to the surgeon, dear." She moves closer so that I can see her. "He'll be coming to talk to you in a couple of hours. Sleep now, it's the best cure."
"Mmhm." I am lost in my drug-induced haze. "Just tell me, is it all out?"
"Yes. All of it."

That's it, it's all gone. I am happy and sad and have a head that feels like cotton wool. I fall asleep knowing that the next time I wake up, I will have to take reality by its proverbial horns again. But not now, not right now. For now, I can lie back and just give in to the feeling within me that says: "Somebody else is in charge. Relax. Sleep."

And I do, because someone else was in charge; a hysterectomy is not an elective surgery. You do it when they tell you to. And it hurts like a bitch, in every way.
At the hospital, and after, at home during my convalescence, I start reading a series of books that I have been wanting to read for a long time. I never could find a long enough stretch of time in front of me in which to indulge; work and life are always getting in the way. Now I throw myself in, nothing holding me back.

Weeks later, my books are finished. I have read all of them, several times over, and I'm searching the net for more, anything, more, I need words, more words. I need more words telling me it'll be all right, words to pull me through, to tell me there is life, words to make me believe in magic again.

I find them on a writing forum, where thousands of—mostly—women are baring their souls for everyone to see, and are posting story after story. I find it remarkable, especially as many of these stories are exceptionally good. Some are terrible of course, but there's no need to linger. I move on to the good ones.

I find the words I was looking for there. The words I need, search and hope for. The words that heal, soothe, the words that care for me and make me care. Then I also find the words that make me happy, that make me squeal and scream out loud. Because a good story is when—while sitting there in your armchair reading something that is exceptional—you just have to look away for a second and say "Fu-u-ck!" out loud. Then go back to reading.

A good story takes you somewhere else, and when you come back to your own life, it is fuller, more colorful and more your own. It is a kind of magic. It is like new curtains on your soul, it brightens up the room that is your life.

One night, I stay up late to watch a movie, it is beautiful, and at the end I am simply staring at the titles that roll up, up and disappear. At the very end, when even the dolly-grip boys have been duly thanked for their job, right there, is a song that catches my attention, a song which sends me completely out of the real world.

Who would have known? They blow my mind, their song takes my breath away. I am traveling, in my mind, to new places, new sights, new everything. What is happening? Why? And then I realize the question should be Why not?
I start asking myself Where did my music go? When did I stop listening to ear-deafening drums and hard guitar riffs? I have no answers, so I turn everything off and start doing some long-needed soul searching, right there in the middle of the night.

Looking back, I can see where taking a left turn—then left again, and then right, and left once more—has made me into the person I am today. This is not necessarily a bad thing, it is just something that I will have to take into account. To change something, especially if that something is yourself, you need to get accustomed to what is.

If you don't know who and what you are right now, in no way can you influence who and what you will become tomorrow. It's simple math, really.

I realize I need to make sure I take some correct left-right-left-turns in the very near future, because somewhere along the way, I have stopped caring; I have stopped caring about myself, about what I wear, about what I look like every day. I've stopped caring about where I am going, and what makes me happy.

Somewhere along the way I stopped caring about myself. Completely.

My hair started turning partly grey, and instead of fighting it and doing something about it, I cut it all off, to a shorter, more age-appropriate length. Or so they said. Too bad it also pushed me into that mind-frame of old, into this sinking feeling that tells me it is all mostly over.

Besides, with forty pounds of extra padding, I suddenly look at myself and see that I look and feel nothing like how I used to feel, nothing like the old me. I am just old. Not me. The old me? Right out the window.

I keep reading story after story, and suddenly discover that I can also speak directly to the authors. Not only that, the first time I try to send a short review telling the author how much I have enjoyed reading her story, she answers back within half an hour. This is a new, exhilarating experience. We chat back and forth in short messages on the forum, and suddenly I feel part of something bigger. I am talking directly to an actual author. My field is linguistics, I give her a hand with a couple of sentences in Italian. Next thing you know, she has thanked me in public in her story chapter. My name is up there, where all of their names are.

Up there with all of those fabulous writer people whom I admire so much.
I am somebody. And someone appreciates my help. I am seen.

This does something to my brain; I don't know what happens, but suddenly—instead of just passively looking at things, seeing life and years pass me by—I am right there, in the middle of it, living it. How such a small thing like a mention of your name can stir your soul, shake you right back to life, it is uncanny.

I start to write myself. Oh, my production of words is absolutely craptastic the first months, sentences flow like elephants trying to do a fast Samba. It rocks so bad, I actually laugh out loud right there where I am sitting in my armchair, laptop heating up under my fingers.

That laugh scares me, because I realize I don't even remember the last time I heard myself laughing out loud. And I want to hear more of it, much more, I want my laughter to come back and seize me, kick me, shake me into that happy stupor that only laughter can provide. Of course, it doesn't, not yet, I'm still baby-stepping here. But I see that that is where I would like to be in a few months' time: I want to be in a place where laughter comes fast and easy. And hard. Life-giving laughter.

I buy an iPod, a bright orange one. It is a thing of beauty, it screams this goddamn isn't over yet in a loud voice. I realize that the last time I walked with music in my ears, I was still using cassettes.

I buy tons of music—one song pulls the next, and while one band screams about my redemption and absolution, the next one tells me to chill, relax, go with the flow. I float and delve into the feelings that emerge out of these long-forgotten depths. My neighbors wonder what has gotten into me—they see me pass in my small car, where everything is vibrating with roaring guitars and crazy drums.

Music makes me feel alive; I finally rock. And I swear, my new iPod is psychic. I just put it on shuffle, and we are off—it knows exactly what I need to hear on any given day.

I keep reading, of course, but with new eyes, critical eyes, searching eyes, I seem to be filtering what I am reading from the standpoint of trying to be a writer; I am not just a reader anymore. I decide to stop reading any story that I feel is badly written, that I don't absolutely love at once. I concentrate on reading those that speak directly to my heart. I want to learn from authors who write correctly, authors who respect me enough to actually care about my reading experience.

As there are close to two hundred thousand stories to choose from on the forum, I decide to become a picky reader, and only spend my time on the ones that have a message of some kind. Preferably a message of love is love. Of the powerless finding power. Or of friends standing up for each other.

Instant pay-off. Words flow beautifully, both before my eyes and through my fingers. I read stories of great personal development and love. I write things that make sense and that might actually be interesting also for other readers.

Some days it is like I have been blessed with automatic writing, like someone is dictating the words to me and all I have to do is take them down, as fast as I bloody well can. My fingers are rushing over the keyboard, it is exhilarating, it makes my blood flow faster, it is fun and I suddenly stop. Hold my breath. Then let it all out in a huge guffaw of Happy. Pure and true happiness fills me.

I rattle off messages to some of the new friends I've made, and they all tell me they know exactly where I am, what happened to me; they have all been there, in the Writing Zone, and they welcome me into their fold. It is like truly finding a long lost family.

It is like finding your pack, the people you need to be able to run free again.

One of my new friends helps me with editing, she shows me where I stumble and where I am steady. It is sheer brilliance, this giving freely of knowledge and time. It thrills me to hear her say that she loves my first story. That she is crazy-proud of what I wrote. And it makes me feel like a million dollars when she later asks me if I would take a look at something she has written. Not that I'd be doing the editing, but I can perhaps help by being a new set of eyes on her text. It feels like something really big. She trusts me. I am worthy. No words can describe what all that does to me. No words.

I travel a lot in my work. There is a lot of empty time in traveling, and this is time that I now use for reading or writing, and for listening to ear-deafening rock music, courtesy of my beta who is also a music fanatic. She shares more up-to-date music knowledge with me than I can actually keep up with, bless her heart.

Crossing the Rockies, the airplane I am on hits some really serious and quite scary turbulence, with the whole airplane doing a couple of dives that almost turn my stomach inside out. The lady sitting in the seat beside me goes white, and simply whimpers. She is so afraid she is incapable of even voicing a full-out scream. I take her hand and look her straight in the eye and say "Listen. We are all right. And we will be all right. Everything is all right. Whatever happens, it is all right."

She holds on to my hand like it is a lifesaver, and perhaps it is. Perhaps the single, simple gesture of taking the hand of a fearful stranger actually is a lifesaver.

I realize right then, that after all is said and done, I am all right. Even if it should all end right here, right now, I am okay. I have lived, I am living. I have loved and I am loving. If it is time to go right now, then I'm okay with that, too. It is with a huge sense of relief that I just sit through the whole ordeal, holding her hand. I am at peace. It feels wonderful.

It is quite an anticlimax when we, some ten minutes later, come out of the turbulence, and we smile at each other, a little shy and a little happy. I slowly let go of her hand, giving her a last squeeze, and she leans toward me, and says, "Thank you for being real. For being a rock. I will never forget you."
Two huge tears leave my eyes as I look back at her and say, "No worries at all. I've been there. It's all in the perspective. It's all in the love. Spread it on down the line." My smile widens to a full-on grin when I see how she gets it, she really gets it.

Ah, perhaps I have managed to give to someone else what has so generously been given to me? Have I managed to send strength and courage to one woman in my life, I shall consider myself happy and good. Fulfilled.

We land in Toronto. We part ways. We will never meet again, and we will never forget.

My hair has grown back out. I care for it and for myself again. When I open my laptop, I once more see myself in that black, start-up screen, not some old woman. I look fifteen years younger; somehow, just coming alive again has left me thirty-five pounds lighter and I am beautiful, I feel beautiful. I am alive.

I have a new, secondary family of strong, fabulous women who have helped in holding me up for the better part of two years. Some of you do not even know how much you have done for me. All your stories have given me hope, love and a will to keep on trucking. I know that I am living. It's ok. It's good. I'm good.

You are all a part of something I need. You are like family. You are friends. Like lovers. Teachers. Buddies. Crazy fun people. Cuddlers to hold me when I'm down. Happy dancers for when I'm up. And most of all, you are instant—instant friends, I just turn on my laptop, and instantly find any one of the more than a hundred women I love and speak to regularly.

I had no idea that a group of women—spread out all over the planet—could become so important to me. And I never knew I could make such a difference in your lives. Without even having met 99% of you sweet people, you have nestled yourselves into my everyday life, and it would be so much more grey without you.

Thank you for writing stories for me, ladies. You have saved my life, several times over.

It is once again Valentine's Day. I know I have never faced a better one than this year.

I hope yours is too—full of music.
Magic words.

Sisterhood.

And life.
Hot, sizzling, awe-inspiring life.

Will you be my Valentine, sweetness? 




February 14th, 2015:

Five years later, and I am still thankful for all of you. Some of you may have read this last year—or the year before—or the year before that.

So many new people have come into my life since then, I thought I would give it to you here on on my blog, too.
(Originally posted on Fanfiction.net on February 14th, 2012).

Alive Again, ©AnnaLund2011

On writing

Ah, Sandi. http://sandyquill.com

Last summer, I was messaging back and forth with author Sandi Layne about the pain of writing, and suddenly realizing that I was turning myself inside out in the story I had just finished, sharing so much of myself I felt quite lost.

She sent me the above message in response. It was my birthday, and what a gift.

Anyone who receives a message like this should feel heartened. Uplifted. Should feel slightly better. Because there is such truth in these few words.

But at the same time, it kind of kills you, because let me tell you, I am not a courageous woman. I have done a gazillion things in my life, mostly because I am stubborn and hardheaded and use sheer force of will to march through obstacles, but doing it just with and by courage?

Never.

Until writing happened.

Writing is probably the most courageous I have ever been, or ever have had to be. Because every time I try to cut corners and write for an audience, it falls flat on its face.

Just as, every time I try to write from the bottom of my heart, something happens and my words get wings. When I write to write.

~~~~

So much courage is needed to spill your heart out onto the blank pages of a piece of paper—or onto the screen of your computer, as it were. Nothing more daunting than that empty word document, cursor blinking in the upper left corner, waiting for you.

Even more courage is needed to later edit the living daylights out of the baby that you have birthed through pain and labor, but also through cackling glee and awesome rush of happiness.

You use your sadness. You write your anxiety. You make the reader live the drama that happened. Your strongest writing comes through, loud and clear, when you describe disaster striking. When a whole life crumbles in the chaos and madness of destruction.

When those things have happened to you, for real and in your life, you can either despair and go under, or you can USE IT in your writing. Or both. There is power in despair, when it most certainly can get no worse, it can only get better.

You have such power in your words. When you tap that specific river of personal knowledge. When you use it, and turn it around from having been something that hurt you (emotionally or physically) into something that whispers to people who are reading your words, whispers, until they themselves scream out loud—

“This is truth—this is real—OMG—I am IN THIS SCENE with the author, feeling her feelings, and seeing what she sees! I am dying, running, screaming, fainting, loving, hating, seeing, feeling utterly lost and blind. Everything. I experience everything.”

That. Is. Powerful. Magic.

There is such enormous power in that kind of writing.

To revisit your demons in writing is cathartic. You get to go there again, but you have the power now, and with millimeter-precision, you can excise the hurt. Turn the whole incident into something that YOU created, that YOU have power over, that YOU can use.

There is true greatness when, in the process, you get to take back your power.

It is how I deal with pain. I use it. Manipulate it. Force it, until it is totally mine and in a place where I can do with it as I please.

Those are powerful feels.

I know you see it. There is power to be had here. I hope you use it.

Because when you tap into that source, my friend, you get handed a pair of huge, huge wings—the kind that make you soar.

You f*cking soar.

A Silent Challenge

Yesterday, I read the combined blogposts written by Cody Kennedy and Timmy Ashton—and they blew me away.

And when I leaned back and tried to get my bearings again, I knew, deep inside, that I had to take Timmy up on his challenge to not speak for a whole day. At all. Just use pen and paper, body language, and/or sounds, but no words.

You see, they both wrote about not talking. Not having speech as a tool. See Cody’s words here, and Timmy’s words here—more eloquent guys are difficult to find, which makes it all the more amazing to try to step into their shoes, if just for one day.

Now, I know full well that I can never understand what it is like to not be able to speak to the people who surround me. To only be able to write or sign (to those who understand sign language). I will never be able to step into those shoes, because, let’s face it: when I need to talk I can just. Talk.

So what happened with this challenge? 
After eighteen hours of this silence I am exhausted.
Discouraged.
Sad.
And so very appreciative of what Cody and Timmy and lots of other people go through every day.
I still have six hours to go, and I can’t wait to be done. I am sad, and feel insecure, and I just want to go to my bed and pull my blankets up around my nose and wait for tomorrow.
And yet. Everyone I met was nice, more or less. Some were a bit obnoxious, like the woman who started to speak LOUDER at me, when she read my note saying that I didn’t speak. As if that was any part of the problem.

Let me take you by the hand, and lead you through my day. 
It started with me writing good morning to mr anna and then scribbling Have a good day, see you later. It felt completely empty. Mr anna is a good sport, so I got a kiss and a smile, and then I was on my own.
 I am a technical translator, and I work from my home office, but I had to divert four business phonecalls to texting Skype chats instead of speaking with my clients directly, and three were okay with it, the fourth said he had no time for bullshit, and hung up. Well, goodbye, buddy, I don’t want to work for you anymore, anyhow.

Procrastination. Why, yes.
Then I realized that I was procrastinating, trying to find things to do in the office, to avoid going out and interacting with people. And this was the first sign that something was different, indeed. I have never hesitated to go out and seek contact before.

“I do not speak” 

I got in my car, and drove to a mall nearby, I was thinking McDonalds, some fries and a coke. I can honestly say that I have never been that nervous waiting to order anywhere before. Lunch hour rush, and there I was, standing in line with my note pad and pen.

My first scribble was “I do not speak”. 

I showed the young woman this, and she smiled, and said “Sure thing! Hello!” That seriously made me tear up a little bit, she was so nice. Casual.

“PREGO: You’re welcome”

Then I showed her my note for the food I wanted, ending my order with, “Please.” She turned on her heel, took off and got my stuff together, told me how much it was, gave me my money back, and then asked for my note pad.

She wrote “You’re welcome” at the bottom of my order.

I smiled so wide I thought my face was going to crack in two. After finishing my snack, I waved at her, and got a smile back, even though she was very busy.



But that was a false start
to my challenge. The next stop wasn’t going to be that much fun. At the cosmetics shop (OMG, right? I never go into those) the girl got very nervous when I showed her my note that I don’t speak. It made her speak louder at me, as if that was my problem, that I didn't hear well. At first, she wanted to help me, and then she just ended up ignoring me. At the checkout she didn’t make any eye contact at all, filled my small bag up with samples without any explanation, like she wanted to give me all the stuff if I would only get out of her store.

It was deeply unsettling.


Fashion store and Anna—not a good mix
I took a deep breath before entering a fashion store next. Two clerks circled around me at once, all smiles. I gesticulated, to let them know them I just wanted to look around, and then showed them my note saying that I don’t speak. The both dropped off like I was contagious.
Not even a smile.
No small talk.
No, “Look around and let us know if you need any help.”
No nothing.
Not even a wave in response to mine when I exited the shop. They ignored me completely.

It made me really, really angry. Needless to say, I won’t be going back to that store.

“A tepid cappuccino, please.”

Time for coffee
Thinking I might be ready for a coffee at that point, I headed over to the corner bar. Same procedure, I showed her that I don’t speak, and then scribbled “A tepid cappuccino, please.”
I got it, and together with the change she gave me an Italian “corno,” a stupid, little, red plastic horn, which supposedly brings luck to the superstitious. I guess she really thought I needed it.

My cappuccino was steaming hot, and I burned my palate. Made me very upset.




I was changing
I was just done with the mall. I noticed myself changing, with every minute of this Not-Speaking-thing. I noticed I stopped making eye contact, to avoid having to answer a potential question. Or, not answer it, as it were.
I became shy, avoiding, wanting to go home.
Not me at all. Scary thing is, it took only about an hour to get me to this point.

At the stables
So I pushed myself to go to my stables, to friends, and my sweet horse, Moro. The one close friend I have there already knew that I was going to do this challenge, so that felt good, like I’d have an ally there.
Of course, shit always happens, it blows up in your face, because she wasn’t there, and the people who were there, are the ones I don’t much like to interact with even on a good day. So when they saw my note, there was endless riling and giggles, and one of the older guys (of course, one of the men) said to the others, “Well, that was to be expected, stupid foreigner that she is. What an idiotic thing to do, stop talking just for fun.”

I was fuming. But nothing I could say (even had I used my voice) would have made any difference what so ever with those guys, so I took off, out into the paddoks to see Moro. He saw me from far away, and came running. I think maybe I cried a little bit in relief. There are many emotions hidden in the manes of horses, safely guarded.
We took a walk together where he could get a bite of fresh, green grass, and I could feel connected again.
Thank DOG for horses.

After an hour with Moro, I was feeling more like myself again, because this is one soul who never expects words from me, who never wants my voice, who just is happy to be by my side. It is healing to be with him. As I drove away from the stables, I thought about my two cats waiting for me to come home, and again, thank DOG for cats.

Six hours left
Now I’m waiting for mr anna to get home in a couple of hours, and a silent dinner and evening. I know he has an online game lined up tonight, so me, I’m probably going to be chatting with YOU guys!

So thankful for you all. So thankful for my voice, because this has been one of my worst days in a long time.

I cannot even begin to say how much I admire you two, Cody and Timmy, for living this, for surviving this, day in and day out. And I am more than ever determined to be the voice of those who have none.

It is also my responsibility to make sure all voices are heard.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How about you? Are you ready for a challenge like this? 

The Power of Positive

 There is this thing going around on Facebook where you get tagged from a friend asking you to list three positives in you life.
I love this concept, and if we could only concentrate more on the GOOD, maybe the world would be a better place?

Jase Glines (from Jase's Athenaeum!) tagged me to list three positives for today. I feel both honored and happy to have been chosen by him, because he is a person I greatly admire.


Three positives in my life right now:
1. The people I spend my days with on Facebook. You have made my life richer in ways you might not even understand.

2. I am alive, and you are alive. Yes, you! The one who is reading this! That is not only positive, it is goddamn AMAZING! So grateful that you are in my life. Please stay. Have a cookie. Jase made them!

3. A huge positive in my life, finally, are words. The words you write me, the words I read in books, the words I write myself. I thank you all for WORDS. They take me by the hand and lead me to faraway places. To places where there are mermaids, and unicorns, and dragons, and love, so much love.

There are of course a million other things that are positive in my life, like horses, family, sunshine, good food, the ocean, watercolor painting, etc... but this excercise was just to get us all started:

STARTING THE GRAND-SLAM POSITIVE THINKING MOVEMENT OF THE EARTH!

Sending this on to Mel Leach, Deeze Browne, and Sandra Fictionnook.

Have at it, ladies! 

*blows a kiss to Jase*


©Art by AnnaLund/2014

Book Review - Omorphi, by C. Kennedy

High school senior Michael Sattler leads a charmed life. He’s a star athlete, has great friends, and parents who love him just the way he is. What’s missing from his life is a boyfriend. That’s a problem because he’s out only to his parents and best friend. When Michael accidentally bumps into Christy Castle at school, his life changes in ways he never imagined. Christy is Michael’s dream guy: smart, pretty, and sexy. But nothing could have prepared Michael for what being Christy's boyfriend would entail. Christy needs to heal after years of abuse and knows he needs help to do it. After the death of his notorious father, he leaves his native Greece and settles in upstate New York. Alone, afraid, and left without a voice, Christy hides the myriad scars of his abuse. He desperately wants to be loved and when he meets Michael, he dares to hope that day has arrived. When one of Michael’s team-mates becomes an enemy and an abuser from Christy’s past seeks to return him to a life of slavery, only Michael and Christy's combined strength and unwavering determination can save them from the violence that threatens to destroy their future together.

As you know, I don't write recaps of the story (read the blurb), nor do I fill my reviews with spoilers. This is my experience of the story. My connection to it.

AND WHAT A STORY IT IS.

Christy. You had me, hook, line, and sinker, already when you were sitting up on the bleachers, watching Michael from afar. His #1 Fan.

How somebody can take this subject matter and gently turn it into something so brilliant and elegant, is beyond me. Child abuse, sexual child abuse, in a story that has me cry like a baby and laugh like few books before, without ever even potentially falling into the horrifying trap of exploiting the abuse for the reader's "pleasure"?

Simply amazing.

Even the (quite tame, young and loving) sex scenes are never graphic nor exploiting. All power is, thanks to Michael, left in Christy's hands, for him to rediscover sexuality, love and discover Mike.

There is the one scene that just killed me dead, when Christy says he is glad that at least Michael is a virgin, and Michael responds:

"You are too. You have never been touched by someone who loved you."

There is so much in this book that just totally rocked. Or had me sitting in the corner, rocking.

The only parts that grated on my sense of correct storytelling were about the slacker security, and while I understand that it was to make the story more interesting, seriously, it just managed to annoy me, and took half a star off my rating.
Nuff said.

One of the most charming characters was to be found on the sidelines: young Lisa. She was a force to be reckoned with, and by god I loved that. More and more intelligent women-side-characters are appearing also in m/m books these days, and I applaud it.

There were people from different continents and several colors in this story, and they all had their own voice. That is quite unusual, so extra kudos for that. (I have no idea if the Greek written in the book was correct, but the Italian could have benefited from a helping hand from a native speaker).

What is great with a story like this is that this was an MC I could really root for. Every step Christy took in the right direction was a screaming victory and I adored him so much for his strength. Even when he froze and walked in the wrong direction. To eventually bolt like a rabbit. God, I screamed for him, rooting so hard.

There is so much understanding about abuse and power play in this story that I am left shattered at the end. But mended, somehow, by the fine example of NEVER GIVING UP ON YOUR FRIENDS.

You stand up for your friends. Every. Single. Time. 

And the cover of the book? That is seriously such a perfect image of Christy. I kept closing the book, and looking at the cover for minutes on end.

Beautiful.

Omorphi.

Indeed.

***

I received a free ARC from the publisher, Harmony Ink/Dreamspinner Press. A positive review was not promised in return.

Disclaimer: Since reading and reviewing this book the first time in September 2013, I have become friends with the author, who has gifted me with a paperback copy. It is simply beautiful.

On my list of Top-Ten Reads of 2013


Find and buy this book at Harmony Ink/Dreamspinner Press

Book Review – Freeing Stella, by Zoe Lynne

Stella Marshall feels invisible to everyone but her sister Jessica and best friend Jenna. Thanks to their Friday night LGBTQ youth group meetings, she can be true to herself and cast aside the boy she was born as, Steven. The rest of the time, she locks herself away, because if her super conservative, Christian parents ever found out…. When her little sister admits to liking a girl as more than a friend, it becomes ten times harder for Stella to keep up the charade. She wants to stand by Jess and take some of the heat away, and that means coming out of the closet—even if it costs Stella her family and the girl of her dreams, Lillian Nelson. Unfortunately, it’s too frightening to give up the security of hiding behind Steven. But Stella knows she has to be brave, for herself and her sister.

An absolutely lovely and short story (around 100 pages) about coming out a girl in a boy’s body. About family, siblings, parents, and close friends.

True to my usual form, I have jumped feet first into a series at #2, but it was totally standalone, and I will run and buy book #1 as soon as possible.

To free the person stuck inside the wrong body must be devilishly difficult. This story takes a beautiful look at how Steven struggles to become Stella, and how she manages to stay true to herself.

I am not a religious person, but I loved how there was also talk about how there are churches that accept you as you are, churches that don’t condemn you before even knowing you. Look for them! Search them out, if you need them!

This is a great book for young people, adolescents, who are looking for answers, and maybe finding that they are not so strange as they feel inside. Adolescence is a difficult moment at the best of times, and feeling lonely is a big part of that. Here, a young person can see how it is to be unique, not lonely.

There is no sex, only two sweet kisses, so if you are looking for something to put into the hands of your young ones, (perhaps 12-18?), you can relax. There is no talk of bits and pieces either, quite unusual for a transgender book. Very refreshing.

I found the story absolutely charming, with a little moment of angst, and then full of love and understanding—even though there, at first, was quite an upheaval within the family.

I adored the best friend’s mother, who told Stella there would always be room for her in her home, if needed. That is how you act as an adult, that is how you take responsibility for all our children, not just the ones that are straight and your own. Kudos for showing a real human being.

Warmly recommended. Will look for more books from this author, who says in the afterword that she wants to write stories for young people for whom very few stories exist.

I approve with all my heart.

Favorite sentence:

“I love you, I don’t understand you, but I love you.”


***

I was given a free copy of this book by the publisher, Harmony Ink Press, and a positive review wasn’t promised in return.



Find this book at: Harmony Ink/Dreamspinner Press

Book Review – The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro, by Sarah Black

Abraham needs a Christmas miracle or three. His lover Santos wants to play with masks, his brother is searching for a gay bear, and now Abraham's been cursed by that expert tamale maker and grandmother Magdalena Socorro. 
















I won this book with a limerick, and I am damn proud of it, too. The prize was supposed to be an Idaho spud, but those monstrosities are notoriously difficult to send overseas, so Sarah gave me this book instead.

LUCKY ME!!!

It is totally charming.

A sweet bear of a Jewish chocolate maker dates a Hispanic detective without any of the two being exactly clear on how much actual dating is going on. Mix in a hilarious gang of kickass relatives of Santos'—ladies of the tamale persuasion—and it is cooking! Recipes galore! Sweet and hot (the recipes, mate, get your mind out of the gutter!) and plenty of action. Actually, there's a lot more sensual action than I am used to from this author, but I am not complaining.

The Padre fainted, however.

God I love every word that comes out of this author. Every single one.

Favorite line?
Here:

“Well, he’s Muslim, you’re Jewish, I’m Catholic. We could join hands and sing Kumbaya for world peace.”

If you like tamales and other hot south-western stuff, there’s also a great recipe for mole in here. Come get it!


***

I received this book after winning the limerick contest on the Meet the Author Sarah Black-event on Goodreads. A positive review was never part of the deal.


Find this book at: Amazon

Book Review - Tell Me It's Real, by TJ Klune

Do you believe in love at first sight? Paul Auster doesn't. Paul doesn't believe in much at all. He’s thirty, slightly overweight, and his best features are his acerbic wit and the color commentary he provides as life passes him by. His closest friends are a two-legged dog named Wheels and a quasibipolar drag queen named Helena Handbasket. He works a dead-end job in a soul-sucking cubicle, and if his grandmother's homophobic parrot insults him one more time, Paul is going to wring its stupid neck. Enter Vince Taylor. Vince is everything Paul isn’t: sexy, confident, and dumber than the proverbial box of rocks. And for some reason, Vince pursues Paul relentlessly. Vince must be messing with him, because there is no way Vince could want someone like Paul. But when Paul hits Vince with his car—in a completely unintentional if-he-died-it'd-only-be-manslaughter kind of way—he's forced to see Vince in a whole new light. The only thing stopping Paul from believing in Vince is himself—and that is one obstacle Paul can’t quite seem to overcome. But when tragedy strikes Vince's family, Paul must put aside any notions he has about himself and stand next to the man who thinks he's perfect the way he is.

This was a ride and a half.
This was a crackfic on meth, smoking pot, while chewing coca leaves. So THERE went the spelling, right out the window. And look, THERE went the politically correct, straight out the other window, without even opening it first. (The crash you just heard was the glass shattering, and falling to the ground several stories down, on all kinds of people who are not gay). And booom THERE went half of your fans, the female ones who can't handle that many gay men have issues with vaginas. LOL. (Yeah, there could have been a few less jokes and less dumping shit on the vagina, but hey, it takes a true connoisseur to appreciate the art of the female fancy parts). (No, knowing Helena Handbasket is not enough). And KABOOOM there went a bunch of people who don't like slurs of any kind.

I don't mind, when it's done this way. I love it when everything gets put upside down and inside out, because THAT is where you notice it. Suddenly it's RIGHT IN YOUR FACE. So you notice.

About bloody time, if you ask me. (But I still love my vag, so stop cussing it, will ya?)

This book was pure crazy. It could most certainly have taken three more tours through the editing process, as both verbs and words were in the wrong tense and just plain wrong. Prepositions up the creek without a paddle. And usually that grates on my soul. Usually, I hate it.

BUT HEY! I just laughed my ass off, I laughed and laughed, and then I laughed some more. In two separate instances I even woke up Mr Lund from my guffaws.

So, even if the language wasn't up to Mr Klune's usual standards, I feel this book was written in one looooong sitting, maybe while he was writing some really deep and hurtful stuff in another book? (Into this River I Drown, comes to mind—that must have been a dark and heavy book to write, and this one would have cheered him up a lot).

What saves the day here is how it all gets so fucking out of hand it borders on the comically tragic. Or the tragically comic. There is one instance where a serious discussion about in how many ways Paul could possibly destroy their relationship, and ends up, after mere minutes, to be all about the superhero costume that Sandy should be wearing. Something just goes SPACE-BOINK-OIK in my head.

Crazy book is crazy. Now you will either love this book or you will hate it. There simply is no in-between.

You all know where I stand. I am firmly in the corner with the two-legged, squeaky-wheels dog named Wheels and the homophobic, slurring parrot named Johnny Depp. We are having a ball over here.

So, Mr Klune, please. Continue. We are all ears, over here. Feed us more words.
Pretty please.


***

I was NOT asked to read this book by anyone, I paid for it with my own money.

Find this book at: Dreamspinner Press