Reviews - What's the full SP?

I've just read - and reviewed - Geoffrey West's Sheer Fear.

Amazon Review - Read Here

A terrific book. For fans of crime fiction with a difference, read any one of Geoff's three  Jack Lockwood books, of which Sheer Fear is the third, and you won't go too far wrong. He's around the Cauldron on Sunday.

Last week, I read After The Sucker Punch by Lorraine Devon Wilke. I have bored people stupid with my esteem for this book - I genuinely think that, with luck, it has the scope to go all the way to the top and make Lorraine famous. It is a beautiful piece of work.

http://greenwizardpublishing.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/after-sucker-punch-review.html

Georgia Rose's A Single Step and Before The Dawn  were consumed, both intricate, considered and beautifully written romances and lovely looking paperbacks for my shelf. 

Gladys Quintal's  Underserving, a tale of spousal abuse, which shocked me to the bone, with the darkest ending you will come across, was another notable read.

Many of you may know I am a big advocate of Terry Tyler's Kings and Queens, which is as good a novel as you will get - a wonderfully written, sweeping, combination of contemporary drama and updated historical fiction. 

I have also recently read Billie Jones/Rebecca Raisin's Mexican Kimono, which has the funniest opening fifty pages of any book you will read in Indie

Great books. Great stories. Great fun. I've reviewed them all and given them 5*. 

The authors are all my friends too, to a lesser or greater degree. It's the nature of the beast that is Indie, that we tend to become online friends with other authors and naturally feel like supporting them by reading their books. 

My tactic is to read, consider, make notes and review. I don't just skim read (however I DO understand why people do skim read in the Kindle age). 

It's a testament to how good self published authors have become that you don't get the complaints you used to about bad grammar, spellos, typos etc. They seem to have been wiped out - at least with the more experienced authors out there.  

It seems that authors who don't invest won't sell books and will end up clogging up FB pages and twitter feeds until they get bored and disillusioned and go away. The market will become more efficient over time with this.

I tend to give a lot of 5* reviews because, quite frankly, I socialise with writers online and I don't need the fuss. 

There are stories of harassment and threats and friendships-concluded-in-acrimony over reviews that you will not believe.

Not bothered about exact reciprocation either. For example, Geoff doesn't like my book The Night Porter and he was honest about it. He still gave me a respectable 3*. I can name two of the above list of authors who don't like at least one of my books, but they just didn't finish the book and it will never be spoken about again - the writer's version of the Elephant In The Room. I'm sure you have all come across it.

That's fine - it happens for many reasons, and, really, the only writer you should be trying to convince is yourself. 

But hey, if you look at the actual wording next to the 5* box when you are writing a review on Amazon, it says, "I Love It".

And nowadays, reading, for me, is a two stage deal. 

Either I dislike a book (as has happened fourteen times recently) and don't finish it, or I love it, (and in some cases, I love it enough to rave about it). 

Yet, I won't 5* a bad book because my online friend has written it, nor will I 1* a bad book.  Perhaps I should be nastier to bad books, but I don't need the fights in my life. 

That story this week of the author Katherine Hale who confronted (stalked?) someone across America that she considered a hater, a blogger who one-starred her debut novel, was a salutary tale of obsession and revenge. Life's too short and these are only novels.

Apropos of nothing. 

I am writing this because I would like to know what other people think? What are your thought processes? Do you demand exact reciprocation? Would you fall out with someone over a review of your work? Would you consider joining a bartering group?

My friend Terry Tyler has a slightly different approach to reviews, a blog well worth a read.

http://ukartsdirectory.com/terry-tylers-literary-blog-30/#comment-31888

Cheers

Mark

After The Sucker Punch: A Review

After The Sucker Punch (ATSP) is a fantastic novel. 

I'm writing this because I know most of my readers are always on the lookout for a good book - and ATSP is a very, very good book.

Lorraine Devon Wilke

The Context

I met the novel's author, Lorraine Devon Wilke, two weeks ago through a lovely friend of mine, Orange County's Brenda Perlin. 

A resident of LA, Lorraine came around the interview Cauldron to widen her exposure to a UK audience. 

Out of respect, Lorraine made a gift to me of both her novel and short story "She Tumbled Down" and while I loved the short story, the novel is something else entirely.

An Indie novel, it is definitely in the top ten of the books (Trad or Indie), I have read (which is a fair number) since I started Green Wizard. 

After reading twelve chapters on Kindle, I immediately logged on to Amazon and like some literary Victor Kiam, I bought the paperback. 

I am glad I did. It is a magnificent paperback indeed.

UK readers buy here

US/.com readers buy here

The Paperback

I teach the odd hour of Creative Writing and Self Publishing, and last night, I took the paperback of ATSP to our latest group to demonstrate how to structure dialogue . 

The group I teach are professionals, experienced diarists, bloggers, report writers who wish to learn about e-publishing and between them, they read 100-200 books a year. 

Not one of them could tell that this was a self-published book. 

Printed by Createspace and professionally edited, it is a beautiful piece of work to hold in your hand. ATSP  would not be out of place in Waterstones, (and, without getting political, it makes a total nonsense of the idea that self-published work is somehow inferior. Saying so would be an insult to this novel and its creative team).

The Review

ATSP is a family saga. Tessa, a dreamy, thirty-something, sometime artist/writer/drifter with aspirations to something better than her current humdrum life, attends the funeral of her father, Leo. 

After the Wake, and while staying at her mother's house, she reads one of his many journals. 

What Leo wrote is so shocking, it changes Tessa's life and the lives of everyone in her extended family. 

Four factors mark Lorraine's brilliant debut as something special.  

Firstly, her characters. Each so individual, so distinctive and so well defined, you can tell who is talking without the character being named. That's no mean feat. Secondly, the dialogue is crisp, sassy and real, patter so realistic, you can hear it taking place. Thirdly, the way Lorraine links and merges the historical comments Tessa reads in the journal into the real time narrative is shrewd and repays rereading.  

Then, finally, there is Tessa herself, the novel's protagonist. You may not like her - two days after completing the novel, I am completely ambivalent about her*  - but she is real and you can follow her train of reasoning at all times. 

None of her behaviour is extranormal and you can imagine doing the same things she does (and that's not a necessarily recommendation). 

You watch her progress and change. You understand her one minute, then you can't comprehend what she's up to the next. Then immediately after, you want to reach into the pages of the book and wag your finger at her. You live her deliberations and you can feel her confusion on your fingertips as you turn the page. 

At no time does Tessa lapse into stereotype. She constantly surprises you and - whether you like her or not, you cannot stop following her trials and tribulations for a second.

The supporting cast is excellent. Her family, particularly the harassed Micheala, and the alcoholic brother, Ronnie, are similarly absorbing. Tessa's long suffering boyfriend, the corporate sportswear schill David, struggles manfully to accommodate Tessa's whys and wherefores before being completely overwhelmed by them in some of the novel's saddest scenes.

Her relationship with best friends Katie and Ruby would satisfy any fan of chicklit, (and I quite fancied the hapless, heartbroken Ruby, in a Sir Lancelot kind of way), but it is Aunt Joanne who steals the show. 

The Catholic Nun-cum-Therapist helps Tessa deal with the aftermath of the revelations unleashed by Leo's journal and becomes by far the strongest foil for her increasingly self-destructive angst. 

You long for her to reappear in the narrative - perhaps because she is the only person strong enough - and brave enough - to confront Tessa, whose self-absorption is relentless.

Contemporary Drama

Like the best contemporary fiction, nothing extraordinary happens. 

People talk on the telephone (which happens a lot in this novel). Conversations take place in cars, in coffee bars, around the water cooler, on sofas, in the still life of the marital bed, the post-coital cigarette smoke still swirling between the blades of the fan rotating overhead. 

There is virtually no action - just like real life. 

The sheer joy of the ATSP is its very ordinariness. These are ordinary people going about their business, all of them affected to one degree or another by the portentous, unhinged rantings of Leo Curzio. 

The richness of the everyday needs no explosions, because the revelations are the explosions. 

A Christmas Conclusion

If you like contemporary work, I strongly recommend After The Sucker Punch. 

Forget the e-book for once:Treat yourself to an early Christmas present and buy the paperback for seven quid or so. It is lustrous, with its cream pages, one and a half line spacing and comforting, airport-shelf heft. 

It is a book which is written for paperback and meant to be read in bed; absorbed, over time, savoured by lamplight. 




Lorraine's Interview Around the Cauldron

UK readers buy ATSP here

US/.com readers buy ATSP here

*Maybe its a man thing :D

Incidentally, if you are short of a blog post, or pushed for time, please feel free to scrape this, as long as you acknowledge the source. This book deserves wider coverage than I can give it. Thanks.

Wilmslow Tower: South London - an extract from Kid Atomic

Written for 14-25 year olds - the hinterland that literary thinkers are calling New Adult, Kid Atomic is a much underrated book, even by Green Wizardwatchers. Traditionally written in a third person perspective, with very little violence, no sex anywhere, (bar a fumbled, easily despatched attempted rape), very little bad language and set in a quiet suburb of Nottingham (Sherwood, just off Haydn Road), very few people have taken the plunge so far and, to my knowledge, only a few of the target age group have sampled the book. When I first set up GW, I wanted to write at least ONE book from the six which attracted an audience. If a reader didn't like one much, they could drop onto another and they might like that. It's not worked out like that: most readers who take the dive from the 99p cliff tend to buy the lot or they don't bother at all.

And for those who buy the lot, Kid Atomic is the one they talk about least.

The problem may be the beginning. The first two chapters possibly need rewriting. It's a very old fashioned book and it's a real slow burner, with a lot of character introductions and the establishment of the premise. Reading, two years on, I realised that you could get away with that in 1972. but in 2012, it's not something sage Indielit gurus recommend on their Novelwriting 101 blog articles.

Nowadays, it seems to be you have to start with the premise, introduce characters over the first fifty pages so as not to overcrowd the reader's imagination, and, of course, add some bloodshed, violent death, dirty sex and enough curses to make your grandma wince while you are at it.  Hope you enjoy it.

Anyway, here's one of my favourite chapters.  Kevin and Ricky, sent to London by the machiavellian Lance to bring back the crates for the upcoming demonstration, have found themselves in South London, at their destination. There, they meet Verna, the pungent, alluring, strangely attractive Euro-communist who is the link to the crates.

____________________

Here they were. Finally.

The Chadwick Estate.

Peckham in the afternoon.

‘Is this it, Ricky’? Kevin asked.

‘According to the satnav it is. In fact, I think our contact is up there.’ He pointed at a huge tower block and pulled out a folded and printed e-mail. ‘Wilmslow Tower. Flat 247. If that’s Wilmslow Tower, then job’s a good un. We’re nearly there, mate.’

They parked outside a children’s playground.

The entire area was empty. No children frolicked on the monkey climbers or the tiny seesaw horses. No women pushed buggies to the shops on Peckham High Street. No large, forbidding gangs of youths – the thing Ricky expected most – hanging around on BMX bikes in hoods. The area was eerily silent. 

Ricky stepped out of the van, put on his hat and gloves. It was chilly, the beginnings of an evening frost in the air. That explained things. Maybe this was one of those areas where the locals come out at night, like vampires.

‘Kevin zipped up his coat and pulled up his hood. ‘This is a bit scary, Ricky.’

‘It’s no worse than that time we got lost and cycled into Bestwick.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. I really needed that.’

‘What’s up? We got out, didn’t we!’

‘Only just. We were only kids. I still have nightmares.’

‘Mate, there’s no one about, what’s up with you!’

‘They could be anywhere. I want to go home.’

Ricky jabbed Kevin in the shoulder. ‘If anyone comes near us, leave it to me. I’ll deal with it. If it gets nasty, then, do you see that…’ he pointed airily toward the area they had just travelled through. ‘That’s Peckham High Street. Run like the clappers and hide in a shop or something.’

‘Ricky…’

‘I’m only kidding. I won’t leave you and anyway, we’re going to be fine. C’mon, let’s get moving.

The two young men walked through the children’s playground and into an alley bookended by blue tubular barriers. 

Kevin had his fingers crossed. He saw shadows everywhere, moving shadows.

As they passed row after row of sixties Maisonettes, every doorway he saw contained a silhouetted bandit in a hood waiting to cut him to pieces. He heard footsteps behind him and continually looked round. The frigid air, descending gloom, and the eerie unnatural silence, occasionally punctuated by the barking of a frustrated dog, saw his paranoia reach fever pitch. He felt something loosen a little in his belly, but the sight of Ricky strolling about in front of him stopped it from releasing.

Ricky. His friend wandered about as if he owned the place, glancing at the crumpled e-mailed address as if he was Captain Morgan at the head of a band of buccaneers about to sack the Spanish port of Portobello, or better, as if he lived right next door and had traversed the alleys, ginnels and jittys of Peckham all his young life.

There was something about Ricky that gave him confidence. 

Something indestructible about him.

But even so, Kevin thought. We’re in gangster country. Hoodies are scary enough in Nottingham, but here? The home of Hoodies.

They reached the entrance to the giant tower block that seemed to touch the sky. Kevin looked up and instantly felt sick. He sometimes suffered a form of reverse Vertigo, a condition where he is badly affected by mass, height and size, once fainting while standing underneath the Eiffel Tower looking upward.

 ‘Wil slow Towers.

‘Someone’s wabbed the M. Not far now, matey.’ Ricky said. ‘Let’s take the lift.’

They could see the lift up ahead, at the back of the graffiti-covered concourse. Mostly tags, some art. It looked like an open-air modern art gallery run by hyperactive ten year olds. The stench of urine was overpowering and there were several piles of multi-coloured dog excrement next to the staircase entrance. Some of it fresh. There was a defaced guide next to the lift that told Ricky that 247 was one below the top floor and he sighed. As he pressed the Call button, he hoped fervently that the stuff wasn’t heavy: It was going to be a devil to shift from here.

They exited the lift on the second top floor. Kevin realised that there was still no sign of anyone and, curiously, there was little sign of life in the flats, as if everyone had gone out for the day. No screaming rows. No naughty kids. No loud TVs. No loud music…all the politically motivated stereotypes of working class life that middle class BBC documentaries ejaculate nightly into living rooms around the country.

It was still silent – only the cold wind roared past the balconies, its ambience amplified by height and powered by the fading skies. He followed Ricky up the concourse. There wasn’t even a washing line to be seen, strapped between TV aerial and balcony barrier – though maybe it was too high here.

‘This is it…’ Ricky stood in front of a featureless blue door. Frosted, reinforced glass next to it, modesty unburdened by nets or curtains. Still, you couldn’t see through. A buzzer was mounted on the doorframe, a white button the size of a polo on a black base. ‘Here we go…’ Ricky pressed the button twice. In the distance, a buzzer sounded twice. ‘Let’s hope she’s in.’

They waited. And waited. And waited.

Ricky pressed the buzzer again. Still no reply.

‘We’ll have to call Lance.’ Kevin said. ‘We could be here all day.’

‘Let’s wait a bit. She might have gone out for a pint of milk and a paper.’

‘Lance said she’ll be in all day.’

‘That’s a figure of speech, Kev. She’s entitled to go out for a pint of milk and that.’

They waited a little longer, not talking. Kevin kicked distractedly at the lintel below the purple barrier. Then he heard something. The lift…

‘The lift’s coming.’

‘Might be her.’

‘Or…’

‘Kevin…’ Ricky almost wagged his finger at his wavering, spooked friend. ‘Everything’s going to be okay. You’ve got this far.’

It seemed gloomier now.

Two silhouette figures exited the lift. It was difficult to see from this distance. They looked young and, to Kevin, gangsterish.

Blue hooded coats and jeans. They started walking towards them and Kevin tensed.

‘Ricky…’ he tugged on his friend’s jacket, nervously.

‘They probably live on here.’

‘Oh no…they’re staring at us…’

‘No they’re not…’

‘Look, they are.’

Even Ricky was getting nervous. They were about twenty metres away and just about to start trotting. The wind behind them seem to howl loudly and the cold didn’t stop his neck getting warm. ‘I’ll deal with it, get behind me…’

One of the hoodies reached into his pocket as he walked. The other, faster now,  was speaking on a mobile phone. Ricky pulled Kevin back behind him quite roughly and clenched his fists. If they were going to get a kicking, he would take at least one of them with him and protect Kevin as much as possible. As they approached, he could see they were the same age as the two of them, but if they were tooled up, neither stood a chance…

‘Here we go, Kevin. Roll over and protect your head and balls…’

‘I told you we shouldn’t have done this…I told you… I told you…

The hoodies, ten metres away, were close enough for Ricky to see the whites of their eyes, but that’s all. Scarves covered up their mouths, close circuit TV camera-proof. He could see what one of them reached into his pocket for, a flash of silver in the fading gloom. Oh no, no, no, here we go, here we go..

The door opened, finally. A figure even more shadowy than the hoodies appeared, partially obscured by the light behind him. ‘Get IN. Quick. What are you waiting for…’

The two boys needed no further prompting. They jumped like triple jumpers into the flat and the door shut. On the walkway, the shuffling of feet, the breathless sighs of predators foiled, a weird, whispered cockney patois. Ricky’s heart raced and Kevin looked as if he was going to be sick.

She put her finger to his mouth and listened at the door. She whispered. ‘There are cameras out there. They won’t barge in here. I think they’re going anyway.’ She whispered in an Eastern European accent. Neither of them were sophisticated enough to know precisely which country. ‘When you leave, I’ll escort you. They’ll leave me alone. There are some real characters round here. Characters! Hah! Come…follow me.’

The flat hadn’t been painted for years.

Grey finger marks and dents punctuated the magnolia surface of the corridor. Up ahead, lit by a single, un-shaded bulb, was the living room. Leaning against each wall a component of a beige three piece suite. It had seen better days.

‘Sit.’ She pointed to the two armchairs, while she lay down on the sofa. The TV was on, an old-fashioned box resting on a coffee table, rather than a wall mounted plasma screen. A horse race, ten or so brightly coloured jockeys sailing over huge steeplechase fences. ‘I’ve placed a wager in this race. On the grey horse. That one there, look. See! You British are a silly people, but I thank the stars you gave the world racing horses…’ she said, perhaps wistfully. ‘Let me finish and we shall converse.’

Ricky could see the woman was older then them. Older than Lance. She wore tight, ripped, faded black jeans and a black Greenpeace South Atlantic Mission 2007 tee shirt. Anti-Japanese whaling. A cause he believed in - well, a cause the world believed in except the Japs and the Icelanders. Short, her feet not reaching the far arm of the sofa. Wiry and taut, like an over-tuned guitar string, a military, short back and sides haircut dyed black, parchment grey cheekbones - a sallow complexion that hadn’t seen sun for some years.

Something smelled – Ricky speculated it might have been the Mizami training shoes underneath a bookshelf behind the sofa, or maybe her pink socks that looked inky and nobbly, as if they hadn’t seen the wet bit of a washing machine for a while. 

Then, he realised in a fit of inspiration that the odour came from her. 

The spectre of past cannabis fumes loitered along with the tangy smell of her uncompromised feminine body odour. No air freshener or doilies or anything artificial about. It was definitely her - the pungent emanation of natural woman seemed almost overpowering – and, he was surprised to discover – not unattractive.

Her horse hit a fence and started to fall away from the main body of the horses and she gasped. ‘Gah! Another five pounds wasted on these things!” She switched off the TV and sat up. The muscles connecting her neck to her shoulders seemed cabled and inflated. Her blue eyes shone. ‘If you want tea, make it yourself. In there.’

‘We’ll be alright, won’t we Kevin.’

‘Definitely.’

‘I’m no-one’s bloody servant. How old are you two boys?’

‘Nineteen and twenty.’

‘I thought Lance would send men to do a man’s job, not boys.’

The lads shrugged and said nothing.

‘‘Never mind, you’re here now. I have things for you to take home. Where is your transport?’

‘Over by the children’s playground. Not that I’m complaining or anything, but weren’t we supposed to do the password and response thing?’

‘Hah! Lance playing at Revolutionaries. Who else would be calling unannounced on a winter Saturday afternoon in Peckham? I’ve been here a decade in this country and never been bothered by the Police at all. Now in Gdansk, where my father fought with Solidarnozj, I would never arrange to meet at my flat! I would meet you in a deep forest and even then, you would have to come recommended by family, not acquaintances I’ve met over the internet‘. She laughed. Her accent seemed to Ricky harsh and guttural, almost a growl, but her face was, on second glances, full of humour and gentle sarcasm.  ‘I am Verna, by the way.’

The friends made their introductions.

‘I was just kidding about the tea. I have some Earl Grey that is good for your intestines. I’ll make a pot, seeing as you’re such young boys whose mothers do all the hard work.’

‘Less of the young, Verna.’ Ricky grinned, stood up with the intention of helping her, for the purposes of standing next to her. ‘We’re nearly twenty.’

‘You’re boys to me. Sit.”

The kitchen was behind a wall, with a huge hatch. They could see her as she busied and they could hear her as she talked, animatedly. As she made the tea, chatting away seemingly about nothing at all, Ricky noticed that Verna kept looking at Kevin, who, as was his wont, hadn’t noticed a thing.

He didn’t understand why.

She must have looked at Kevin seven or eight times.

She seemed to be perusing him.

Assessing him.

There must have been a reason for it.

She wasn’t exactly hiding it either. It was just that Kevin was still shaking inside from his near-mugging experience.

As she stirred the liquid in the mugs, she looked at him one final time. Then she came back into the living room.

Green Wizard Rainy Saturday News

The Illustrated Woman is out in paperback, ladies and gentlemen.

*drum roll*

US: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_21?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=the+illustrated+woman+by+mark+barry&sprefix=The+Illustrated+Woman%2Cstripbooks%2C0

https://www.createspace.com/4026119

American readers - if you are interested in buying TIW in Paperback, please use Cspace! It's much better for my business and costs you nothing extra! Thank you.

UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_21?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=the+illustrated+woman+by+mark+barry&sprefix=The+Illustrated+Woman%2Caps%2C330

So far, it has received mixed reviews. 

E

Though all the readers have found TIW to be a decent read and well written - and beautifully edited by my editor Mary Ann Bernal - the criticism has focused on the sex, which is probably a bit too hard.  

One of my biggest friends in this game couldn't finish it and, for a writer, that's the worst thing. 

My book Hollywood Shakedown was once slaughtered - I mean savaged, muntered, banjaxed and totally destroyed - by a friend of Kelly's and I didn't mind because she read every word. 

For a writer, the qualitative review doesn't matter in my opinion - its whether a piece is read or not, so when my friend wrote to me and said she couldn't finish it, I felt a failure. 

Then this happened again with another close female friend who felt the descriptions were just too hard.

Originally, I wrote this as an urban piece, like Carla, a dark romance-cum-love triangle and then decided to spice it up a bit due to dismal first quarter sales for Green Wizard. 

The spicing up, in retrospect, was probably a mistake, though I will challenge anyone who says the three chapters concerned are not well written. The collective erotica genre in Indielit is often - technically, at least - the skimpiest lode of decent writing and I know the three chapters concerned stand muster.

However, you CAN read The Illustrated Woman without reading the dirty chapters. It won't harm the experience.

___________________________________________________________________________
For a cleaner reading experience, Please avoid the two chapters named after Idomenus and the one named after Ajax
______________________________________

Cuckolding: The Idomenus chapter is a description of the art of Cuckolding and that has also annoyed a couple of readers.

In the US, there is a fascinating and quite scary subculture of older white men who pay well endowed black men to service their wives.

I had never heard of it until I bumped into the practice on Tumbler when I was writing Carla - the chapter with Kenny undergoing Group Therapy.

On many occasions, they film the act. I'm told its an extreme form of swinging. I read about it in a state of astonishment and the notes I made form the crux of the Idomenus chapters.

If you're not interested in that stuff - as two or three of the readers have already found out - it can be a bit of an, er, awkward read.

I do think the story overall passes muster. Its 164 pages long and can be read in a morning over two cups of coffee and a doughnut. If you live in a city, you will recognise much of what goes on and the book covers age old themes. Choices. Decisions. Good guys/Bad guys. Poverty. Hopelessness. Redemption.

And tattoos.

Better still, its £5.99 in the UK and $8.99 in the US in PAPERBACK. (half those prices and less on Kindle).

Ideal Christmas stocking filler material, if you ask me! Just watch the hot stuff.

_____________________________________________________________________

NaNoWriMo: I'm joining in with this, even unofficially. The US National Novel Writing Month. 50k in a month. Anyone who knows me will also know that is what is known as a piece of piss. Any of the great pulp writers of the forties and fifties could do that standing on their heads - with typewriters - if they could keep off the whisky.

My working title. "Love, Nat.": A story of an English teacher who falls in love with a fifteen year old pupil.

Nothing exists so far. I'm off to watch Newmarket and then I'll have 2k tonight. I won't give a blow by blow because its too hard, but I will record the numbers.

Anyway, much more interesting stuff on the Cauldron on Tuesday.

Thanks for listening. Wizx

_____________________________________________________________________
An absolutely fantastic review of The Illustrated Woman by K-Trina Meador, reviewer for the Cross Plains Examiner in Texas and a great friend of the Indielit community.

http://www.examiner.com/review/the-illustrated-woman-by-mark-barry-1