The Terror by Dan Simmons Book Giveaway

Synopsis from Publisher (Hachette)

“Dan Simmons writes with the salty grace and precision of Patrick O’Brian. But in piling supernatural nightmare upon historical nightmare, layering mystery upon mystery, he has produced a turbocharged vision of popular doom.” -Men’s Journal

Greeted with excited critical praise, this extraordinary novel-inspired by the true story of two ice ships that disappeared in the Arctic Circle during an 1845 expedition-swells with the heart-stopping suspense and heroic adventure that have won Dan Simmons praise as “a writer who not only makes big promises but keeps them” (Seattle Post-Intelligencer). THE TERROR chills readers to the core.

“Brutal, relentless, yet oddly uplifting, THE TERROR is a masterfully chilling work.” -Entertainment Weekly

“In the hands of a lesser writer than Dan Simmons, THE TERROR might well have dissolved into a series of frigid days and three-dog nights. But Simmons is too good a writer to ignore the real gold in his story-its beleaguered cast.” -Bookpage

“Guaranteed to have readers pulling their covers up to their noses, THE TERROR will make for a blood-freezing, bedtime read this winter-and any season thereafter.” -Pages

I LOVED this book! I read it last year and it was so gripping and crazy that the 992 pages flew by. I even wanted it to be longer, if you can believe that. I am very excited to read Dan Simmons new book Drood, which is fictional account of Charles Dickens. You can read more about it here.

I am so excited that the generous Hachette Book Group wants to give away FIVE copies of The Terror! If you don’t win, I highly recommend it and it is out in paperback at a great price on Amazon.

TO ENTER: LEAVE ME A COMMENT ABOUT WHY YOU WANT TO WIN

ANOTHER ENTRY: STUMBLE THIS CONTEST, TWITTER(FOLLOW AND TWEET,(HEART BUTTONS BELOW) OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY NEWSLETTER OR BLOG. (IN SIDEBARS) LET ME KNOW LINKS

ANOTHER ENTRY: GRAB MY BUTTONS AND LET ME KNOW LINKS

THIS CONTEST WILL END MARCH 3RD AND RANDOM.ORG WILL CHOOSE THE WINNER. PLEASE RESPOND WITHIN 48 HOURS OR YOU WILL FORFEIT THE PRIZE AND I WILL RE-DRAW ANOTHER WINNER. U.S. AND CANADA ONLY AND NO P.O. BOXES.  GOOD LUCK AND I’M EXCITED FOR THIS GIVEAWAY! MARK YOUR CALENDERS FOR THE BOOK GIVEAWAY CARNIVAL MARCH 2ND-8TH!

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Madapple by Christina Meldrum

I just finished reading Madapple by Christina Meldrum and LOVED it! Before you click on the cover to read my review I wanted to share with you some interesting things I learned about the young adult market. First of all I was surprised when I clicked over to Amazon,   to read Madapple is published by Knopf books for young readers. Madapple appealed greatly to me as an adult and I know many other adults would love it. So I googled “young adult market” and found some great information. First of all the young adult market didn’t come about until 1950’s when librarians pressured publicists there was nothing for adolescents out there. Thank you librarians! This is how Judy Blume and S.E. Hinton books came about. Currently the young adult to adult line is becoming increasingly fuzzy. Several articles I read talked about two books that have successfully crossed over to the young adult market. Those books are Life of Pi and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Both include complex storylines and language.

 After reading Madapple I would put it in that category. I predict big things for this lovely book. Click here to read an excerpt and then make sure you click the book cover to read my review and grade.

Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister by Gregory MaGuire

We all have heard the story of Cinderella, the beautiful child cast out to slave among the ashes. But what of her stepsisters, the homely pair exiled into ignominy by the fame of their lovely sibling? What fate befell those untouched by beauty . . . and what curses accompanied Cinderella’s exquisite looks.

Set against the rich backdrop of seventeenth-century Holland, Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister tells the story of Iris, an unlikely heroine who finds herself swept from the lowly streets of Haarlem to a strange world of wealth, artifice, and ambition. Iris’s path quickly becomes intertwined with that of Clara, the mysterious and unnaturally beautiful girl destined to become her sister.

 Book Review

Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister begins with Margarethe leading her two daughters, Iris and Ruth, in search of food. They are homeless and poverty stricken until they encounter an egotistical, angry artist by the name of The Master. He takes them in under the condition that Iris poses for a painting. The painting has been commissioned by a wealthy man, Van den Meer, who notices that Iris can speak both Dutch and English.  He agrees to have Margarethe hired as his cook so Iris can teach his beautiful daughter, Clara, English. Eventually Van den Meer’s wife dies and he marries Margarethe, thus becoming Clara’s evil stepmother. But this is where the fairy tale differs from the book.

Iris grows attached to Clara and her sister Ruth is portrayed as simple. We don’t even meet the prince until closer to the end of the book.  Gregory Macguire brings to life complex characters and shows us a different perspective on the differences of beauty and ugliness.  Just when I thought I had the story figured out, Mr. Macguire left me reeling with a twist in the final chapter.  This is a book that changes perspectives and makes you think.  I wish all fairy tales for were so thoughtful.

The Fires by Alan Cheuse

Click on the book cover of The Fires by Alan Cheuse to read my review and grade.  Below is an excerpt

I awoke at first light, basking in the luxurious silence that enveloped the room, the floor, the entire hotel, the street, the town, perhaps even the state and the entire eastern seaboard, the nation, the hemisphere, the world. The headache hit me just as I lay my head back onto the pillow, hoping for more sleep. I had clocked only about three hours, and I was suffering, and my compassion for the couple in the next room had evaporated in the night.

I knew my room number and from that subtracted two, and picked up the telephone and punched out that new number. Through the wall I could hear their telephone ring once, twice, and then I broke off the call. Three more times I did this before either of them could pick up receiver. I could hear faint mumblings. I punched the number again. I got up, took a shower, and called the number again. Twice more, and then I got dressed. Twice more. And then I left the room.

The lobby was deserted, except for the young college boy behind the desk. He looked up at me as I passed by, but didn’t speak. It was cool outside, and the hot coffee I found at a little doughnut shop on the main street filled me with warm cheer. After a while I returned to the hotel, called the room next to mine several more times, and by then it was almost time to meet Ceely for breakfast.

She was waiting on the porch, smoking and staring into space, in a dark sweater and baggy jeans looking beautiful and fresh, which made me, in my nearly sleepless condition, feel as bad as I had ever felt. But Rashid wasn’t there, and so I sighed a father’s sigh of relief.

Ceely flicked away the cigarette and picked up a bag and carried it to the car.

“What about the rest of your stuff?” I asked.

“Rashid is going to put it in the storage room for me,” she said, settling in to her seat.

“That’s awfully nice of him,” I said. “That means you plan on coming back?”

“Father,” she said, as if that were an answer.

“Father,” she said again when I reproved her for ducking out of the breakfast place for a quick cigarette.

“You’ll have to direct me to the dean’s office,” I said when it got near the time for our appointment.

 

Silence for a while as Ceely sipped at her coffee. “I’m not going,” she said.

 

“Hey,” I said, “Charmaine is fixing up your old room—”

 

“I mean I’m not going to this meeting,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to that lame bitch. She’s the one needs psychiatric care. Lonely old dyke.”

I sighed and wiped my mouth with my napkin, looking around the room as if there might be something the waitress could do for me. That was when I caught a glimpse of Rashid standing outside the restaurant, leaning against a parking meter, smoking casually. “Okay,” I said, “you wait here. I’ll find the dean and come back to get you.”

Ceely looked a little unnerved because I wasn’t applying any pressure on her to attend, and it gave me a secret pleasure to have outfoxed her even on this tiny point as I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek—she took it stoically, without blinking—and left the restaurant. Outside I asked Rashid for directions and went on my way.

This dean, I forgive her, was not what I expected.

Probably not even thirty, she was a lovely freckle-faced strawberry blonde dressed in a white blouse unbuttoned down to her sternum where a Star of David dangled between her rather fulsome breasts. Before she even opened her mouth, I was confused.

“You’re the dean?”

“This happens to me a lot,” she said, extending her hand toward me across her desk. It was surprisingly cold to the touch.

“You understand why?”

She laughed, and I felt a splash of painfully pleasant body chemicals wash up and down my chest.

“Mr. Swanson,” she said.

“Tom,” I said.

She cleared her throat.

“Tom,” she said, and just the way she said it made her voice seem so familiar. “We all love Ceely here, you understand.”

“She’s very lovable,” I said, wondering about where I might have heard her voice, and then letting go of the thought.

“She’s suffered, that we know, too.”

“She has,” I said.

“Her mother was terribly gifted.”

“One of the rising young stars of jazz,” I said.

The dean smiled, cleared her throat again. “Not my favorite music. And rather esoteric these days, what with hip-hop and all that.”

“Do you like hip-hop?” I asked her.

She unfolded her ample lips in a smile.

“Would you believe that I’ve written about hip-hop? My field is psychology, and I did my dissertation on the effect of hip-hop on learning-disabled inner-city children.”

“That is extraordinary,” I said.

“But, now, Ceely…”

“Not a learning-disabled inner city kid,” I said.

“But in her own way disabled,” she said.

The telephone rang. She looked at me, and I looked at her and nodded. She picked up the telephone.

“Hello?…Uh-huh. Oh…Oh…” She looked over at me, and I looked away. “Oh…” I looked back at her.

“Oh…yes…yes…Okay…Bye…”

She looked back at me as she set the telephone on her desk. I looked over at her, wondering if I was going mad.

“Sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said, “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Worrying about this, you know.”

“Certainly,” she said. The look she gave me made me believe she understood. “Where did you stay?”

I told her.

“Such a lovely place,” she said. “A little shabby these days, but lovely. I stayed there when I first moved to town, before I found a house. Sometimes, I like to put people up there. When I have an overflow of house guests.”

I cleared my throat. “I’d like you to send me a bill for the piano,” I said.

“We may be covered by insurance,” the dean said.

I shook my head.

“I doubt it. I know a little about that sort of business, musicians willfully destroying instruments and such. Unless you have a specific clause…”

“I’ll check into it,” she said. “Meanwhile I don’t want you to worry about it. I want you to think about Ceely.”

“You’ve suspended her,” I said.

“Pro forma,” the Dean said, raising a hand to her mouth to mask a rather large yawn. “Oh, excuse me.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Late night, huh?”

She stared at me, a tiny smile on her large attractive lips.

“A friend of mine came to town,” she said. “A…a girl I went to college with.”

“Oh,” I said, “and you stayed out late. Where do you stay out late in this little town, anyway?”

“You’re showing your big-city chauvinism,” she said.

“You’re the one who writes about inner-city kids and hip-hop,” I said, not sure what I meant. “So where did you go?”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure,” I said.

She stared at me, and stared a little more. She didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t know what was going on, but it was going on.

“We went roller-skating,” she said.

“Roller-skating?”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t that amazing?” I said.

“It’s just a small town diversion,” she said. “A small college town diversion.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” I said.

“What?”

“Just curious,” I said.

“Mr. Swanson, I don’t think my friend’s name matters much in our current discussion.”

“You just want to keep your personal life out of this matter, right?”

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t it be? Mr. Swanson?”

“Of course, of course,” I said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m pretty exhausted myself. Forgive me. Forgive me?”

The first real wave of fatigue—and there would be many that day—washed over me, and I suddenly wanted out of there. I told the dean that Ceely and I would talk on our drive home about intensifying her therapy.

“Tell her to call me if she needs to talk,” the dean said. “I’ll give you my home number in case she needs to call me there.”

“I will,” I said. “And don’t forget to send me that bill.”

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, again offering me her hand, still cold as ice.

An hour later, and Ceely and I were rolling out of town.

 Lisa from Books On The Brain wrote an excellent review here, check it out too!

New Books

I received some lovely books in the mail today.  I hope to have the reviews up next week.  Also please check back tomorrow.  We have an author interview about a book you won’t want to miss!

Say You’re One of Them by Uwem Akpan

Say You’re One of Them is a powerful collection of short stories.  Told from the perspective of young children, the collection takes us into the brutality of the childrens’ lives in Africa.  Each story is a slow awakening to unbelievable horrors for both the child and the reader.  The first story, An Ex-Mas feast, looks at a poverty-striken family that must rely on their twelve year old daughter’s income to survive.  She has to prostitute herself for food and money but she is trying to earn enough money so her younger brother can go to school.  The children in “Fattening for Gabon” are being prepared for sale into slavery by their uncle.  In “What Language Is That?” two little Ethiopian girls are best friends until their parents suddenly say they cannot speak to each other anymore because one is Muslim and the other is Christian.  In “Luxurious Hearses”, a Nigerian boy from the north is trying to escape to relatives in the south on a bus filled with the same religious animosity that he hopes to escape.  The final story, “My Parent’s Bedroom”, describes the violence between the Rwandan Hutus and Tutsis as seen through the eyes of a young girl who has mixed parentage.

For me, the most powerful story is the last.  I will forever hold the powerful images of a toddler playing in his slain mothers blood.  Each story is a work of fiction, but is based on real situations that have transpired.  In the Afterword, written by a pastor who knows the author, Uwem Akpan, the writer offers his belief that the publication of these stories is a bold attempt to enlighten readers about children of Africa, which in turn may create a passionate desire to create a safer place for children all over the world.  After laying down this book, I know I am one of those affected people, and I thank Pastor Akpan for this powerful lesson.
Uwem Akpan was born in Ikot Akpan Eda in southern Nigeria.  He was ordained as a Jesuit priest in 2003, and received his MFA in creative writing from the University of Michigan in 2006.  “My Parents’ Bedroom”, a story included in this, his first book, was one of five short stories by African writers chosen as finalists for The Caine Prize for African Writing.