Tag: black

Laurell K Hamilton post

In preparation for the release of Sucker Punch in August, I recently completed a reread of the entire Anita Blake series.  Every time I do this, I find myself wondering about different  questions and I pepper my friends who are also fans with questions AND go on rants about primarily Richard but some of the others as well.  There  are books i seem to fly through and others where I slog through.  Each time those books change, so I am not going to say which ones read slow or fast.  
So, here for your consumption is a list of things  (passages) that spoke to me this read through  not necessarily in order so you will have to search to find them:
The practicalities of life do not cease needing to be done just because other things are going wrong.
Love’s hard to come by, Edward; you should never throw it away just because it’s a bad idea.
Either choice was a bad one. Multiple choice should have at least one right answer, but some people only come with wrong answers. Some people are like rigged tests where you can only fail.
It can always get worse.
The love of a lover, of friends, and of partners, of people that I never wanted to lose, and damn day. It was about home. Home wasn’t a place, or a building, or a tropical night full of flowers and rain. Love made home not out of boards and walls and furniture, but of hands to hold, and smiles to share, and the warmth of that body cuddled around you in the dark.
comforting hands, our bodies that had made us all home, and the craziness of having too many people, too much going on, but what would we give up, who would we give up, and the answer, in the end, was not a single thing.
Love is never about the object of our love, but always says more about us than them.
no one knows you as honestly, warts and all, as the people who love you, truly love you.’
‘True love means you love the real person, not an ideal that you have in your head and superimpose over them.
I’d grown to understand that love, real love, is full of choices that make no sense, that should go horribly wrong, but you make the choice anyway. Why? Because love is different. 
I opened my mouth, closed it, and then shook my head. There was as sure where “here” was anymore.
Because I had had a nasty shock and was all emotionally vulnerable; that usually made me want to either run for the hills or get angry and stay angry.
You can experience trauma without getting stuck as the victim forever. You can choose to work the shit and rebuild yourself, or you can sit in the ruins and mourn forever. 
Sometimes there isn’t enough therapy in the world to fix a person, and that’s when you have to find another cure.
There are so few true villains, just other screwed-up people who pass the damage on.
The elderly will also begin to decline faster if they don’t have anyone to touch them. Patting someone’s hand, or shoulder, a hug, all of it is necessary to be happy and healthy for most people. It doesn’t have to have anything to do with sex; in fact, most of the touch that keeps us all going is as innocent as a newborn lamb frolicking on the spring grass,
the thought of how close I must have come to losing the man in my arms scared me more than anything else. Sex was not a fate worse than death, because with life there was always hope. Hope that the big breakup wasn’t permanent. Hope that the issues that drove you apart might bring you back together again. Hope that you’d see their smile again, even if they were with someone else. Only death was final, and without hope; short of that, there were options.
There’s a lot of ways to be smart; the kind that gets you straight A’s in school is only one way.
It was like someone who is so used to being made fun of that they say the mean things first, try to make it their joke, so the bullies don’t get a chance to cut them up. It works, in a way, but it means the person saying the words internalizes the message more, because they’re the ones saying stupid, clumsy, fat, ugly —whatever the bullies might say.
being in love makes people beautiful, and falling out of love makes you see the truth. It may set you free, but it’s going to fuck you up before it does.
It was like someone who is so used to being made fun of that they say the mean things first, try to make it their joke, so the bullies don’t get a chance to cut them up. It works, in a way, but it means the person saying the words internalizes the message more, because they’re the ones saying stupid, clumsy, fat, ugly —whatever the bullies might say.
being in love makes people beautiful, and falling out of love makes you see the truth. It may set you free, but it’s going to fuck you up before it does.
love could be a cup that you both filled up with love, kindness, joy, sex, all the things that made you a couple, but if you could fill the cup up, you could also drain it dry with cruelty, sorrow, pain, jealousy, and anger.
“Sorry, Damian, but it doesn’t make sense to me when I do it either. If something makes you happy you should just enjoy it and embrace it, but I’ve got a whole list of things that make me happy and I fought like hell not to enjoy them, not to want them, not to do them, because they didn’t match who I thought I was, or who I thought I should be.”
Just tell me what she’s done, Anita. That should be awful enough to help us appreciate whatever happiness we can find.
we must trust each other, for we are built link by link into a chain that is stronger together than as a pile of individual links.
Your first lover gets a piece of your heart until you have enough therapy to take it back.
But one thing I’d learned in therapy was that just because a feeling made no sense didn’t make you stop feeling it.
“As much as I’d prefer the world to be black and white, yes or no, right or wrong, Nicky’s right: Sometimes you can be both,”
Fear will bind you closer than love, or hate, and it works a hell of a lot quicker. 
So many traumatic events and your time sense screws up. Too much happening in too short a space of time.
The trick would be to decide whom to be grumpy at, and what to do about it.
I had been running on fear, adrenaline, and stubbornness for hours. In the quiet hush of the car I could feel my body. It was not happy.
The hour after dawn is the most private of all.
You’d think I’d get used to not knowing what the hell is going on, but I never do. It just makes me grumpy, and a little scared.
If you keep the gun in your purse, you get killed, because no woman can find anything in her purse in under twelve minutes. It is a rule.
Most people choose to think of themselves as white hats, good guys. A few people wear black hats and enjoy it. Grey was Bert’s color. Sometimes I think if you cut him, he’d bleed green, fresh-minted money.
There was something a little frightening about a man who knew he was not a nice person and didn’t give a damn. It went against everything America holds dear. We are taught above all else to be nice, to be liked, to be popular. A person who has set aside all that is a maverick and a potentially dangerous human being.
It takes real breeding to make a person feel like shit with one word.
When in doubt, change your vocabulary.
There was something a little frightening about a man who knew he was not a nice person and didn’t give a damn. It went against everything America holds dear. We are taught above all else to be nice, to be liked, to be popular. A person who has set aside all that is a maverick and a potentially dangerous human being.
there are days when I think you can’t save anyone.
When in doubt, take a deep breath and keep moving.
Murphy’s law is the only true dependable in my life most of the time.
I was the closest thing Edward had to a real friend. A person who knows who and what you are and likes you anyway. I did like him, despite or because of what he was.
He had bet his life on my integrity, and that pissed me off. I hate to be used. My virtue had become its own punishment.
Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
We had saved each other’s lives; it is a bond that sticks with you.
Most hatred is based on fear, one way or another. Yeah. I wrapped myself in anger, with a dash of hate, and at the bottom of it all was an icy center of pure terror.
A zillion brownie points for me.
Women may get to wear lots of pretty colors, but men get the comfortable shoes.
You never really filled in the hole. It was like a piece of you gone goes away. You deal with it. You go on, but it’s there.
Only inhibitors in the brain prevent us all from destroying ourselves.
No one had ever attacked me at home before, not like this. It should have been against the rules. You should be safe in your own bed.
She had broken a rule. One I hadn’t even known I had. Thou shalt not attack the good guy in his, or her, own home.
Coffee was my comfort drink.
But I’ve been stared at by experts, so I was careful not to flinch.
Sarcasm is one of my natural talents.
Freud is so often at work in our lives.
Hope is a lying bitch.
It felt wet, like it had soaked through to the skin, but it hadn’t. It was a sensory illusion.
People are seldom just one thing.
There are fires that last for all eternity. Fires that make napalm look like a temporary inconvenience.
I notice all sorts of things that go unnoticed during most of life.
I could taste my calm, orderly pulse in my mouth like a piece of candy.
For tension release laughter beats the hell out of tears.
I had the urge to giggle, but that was the pain medication. I never giggle on my own.
some drugs don’t give a shit if you need your body. You belong to the drug until it wears off, period.
staying alive was the goal. Everything else was gravy.
Best friends, a concept that most women never outgrow.
If I ever managed to get married and my husband cheated on me, it wouldn’t be me to go missing.
If you’re not ashamed, you don’t need to look away.
hysteria gets you nowhere but dead.
Worry about the things you can control; the rest will either work themselves out, or they’ll kill you. Either way, no more worries.
you can be embarrassed or you can be aggressive.
Truth, justice, and the American way certainly didn’t work within the legal system. Money, power, and luck were what worked.
Anita. No matter what you do or how bad you feel about it, life just goes on. Life doesn’t give a fuck that you’re sorry or upset or deranged or tormented. Life just goes on, and you gotta go on with it, or sit in the middle of the road and feel sorry for yourself.
I never doubted God. I doubted me. But maybe God was a more generous God than I allowed him to be.
I felt that measure of calm that I sometimes got when I prayed. It doesn’t mean you’ll get what you asked for, but it does mean that someone is listening.
 If you can’t impress yourself, then no one else really matters. 
Why is it when you have a sure thing to bet on, there’s never anyone around to take your money?
it used to bother me that I could be in such confusion, such pain, and the world just didn’t give a shit. The world, the creation as a whole, is designed to move forward, to keep on keeping on without any one individual person. It feels damned impersonal, and it is. But, then, if the world stopped rotating just because one of us was having a bad day, we’d all be floating out in space.
I’d learned long ago that if you’re feeling unloved by the man in your life, the best revenge is to look good
“The heart wants what the heart wants, Dolph. You don’t plan on making your life complicated, it just happens, and you don’t do it on purpose, and you don’t do it to hurt the people who love you. It just turns out that way sometimes.”
I thought of several smart alec remarks, but you should humor crazy people when you’re at their mercy; it’s a rule.
You can’t shovel other people’s shit for them, not unless they’re willing to pick up a shovel and help.
There’s only so much emotional super glue in a person’s soul, after that everything just stays broken.
It was a little like being in shock. Shock is nature’s insulation, the thing that shuts you down so you can heal, or sometimes so you can die without hurting, or being afraid.
I guess you can’t undo all your upbringing, no matter how hard you try.
sometimes guilt or habit makes you listen to those other voices—the ones that beat you down. Sometimes you just can’t shake them. 
“You ate the living darkness, Anita. It has given your own necromancy a power jump of near-legendary proportions. You raised every cemetery and lone body in and around the city of Boulder, Colorado last year, while you chased down the spirit of the Lover of Death, one of the last members of the now-disbanded vampire council who did not bend knee to Jean-Claude’s rebellion.” “You say rebellion. I say killing crazy motherfuckers to save the world from their plans to spread vampirism and contagious zombie plague across the planet.” “It would have been an apocalypse for the human race.” “But not the apocalypse.” “You mean the biblical one?” he asked.  “Yeah, as in the apocalypse.” “You say that as if there is only one.” “There is only one.” “You have prevented two on your own. We have prevented more events that would have destroyed the planet, or at least the human population. Some of us lived through the last great extinction and the coming of the great winter.” “You mean the Ice Age, as in the real Ice Age.” He nodded. I took in a deep breath, let it out slow, and said, “Okay, some of you guys are old as fuck. Make your point.” “My point, Anita, is that apocalypse as in the great devastation or second coming of some religious significance has happened before and will likely happen again.” “I’m not sure we’re defining it the same way,” I said. “Perhaps not, but there really does need to be a plural for apocalypse .” 
A few years back I’d have argued until either we had a fight or the cows came home, but therapy had helped me realize that I could just let some things go.
Real love is about consistency over time, battles won, battles lost, the pain, the pleasure, the sharing. 
 Strength shared is strength multiplied.
She just looked happy, and nothing makes someone as beautiful as happiness and being in love. No makeup or youth serum can come close to that beauty secret.
Who wanted to be around a constant stream of negativity?
I knew he would shield me with his own body, and the strength that would have scared me under other circumstances now became the ultimate comfort. I knew that all that energy and strength was now aimed at keeping me safe. The difference between prince and beast is often just a matter of how a man uses his strength and rage. Aimed well, it is a shelter that you can hide behind no matter how great the storm. Turned against you, it makes shelter into a trap.

Sometimes you need to embrace the suck and just go along for the ride, but sometimes you need to tell whoever is making your life suck to stop being a dick and do better. Tyburn was now on my you-almost-killed-me-so-do-better-or-let-me-drive list
Part of wisdom is being honest with yourself,

#Sucker Punch #Anita Blake #LaurellKHamilton

“Shatter the Earth” Cassandra Palmer 10 Karen Chance

Yeah. I scratched something that had imbedded itself near my hairline, and a couple bits of rubble fell out and hit the white tiled floor, making little clattering sounds. The attendant didn’t say anything, so I didn’t, either. I guessed we were both going to agree that hadn’t happened.


It was funny how you couldn’t tell now, I thought, staring. Like you couldn’t tell if a lot of the bodies around Vlad’s city of the dead were male or female, after a while. They just turned into corpses, blackened and split open, with ropes of trailing entrails festooned with maggots and dripping with unknown liquids. Mothers, fathers, lovers, friends; they were all the same in death, rotting under a cheerful blue sky . ..


Somebody had told me that war was a lot of serious tedium interspersed with moments of sheer terror, however. Which I thought described my job perfectly.


…liberated my new cat. Who looked in disbelief at my bed, which was round and so oversized that they needed a new designation for it. Orgy-sized maybe, because it could have fit ten, maybe twelve in a pinch.


You got it, I gritted out, after half a freaking hour. I had been awake for going on a day, under less than ideal conditions. My body ached, my brain was fried, and my eyes actually burned. I was going to sleep right now, damn it! Only I didn’t. I tossed and turned and tried every conceivable position. I plumped my pillow, changed it out for a different one, and then pounded that one into submission, too, before giving up and going back to the first one again. I put on a sleep mask. I took off a sleep mask, because I had black out curtains that my vamp bodyguards almost always kept closed even when they weren’t in here. I didn’t need a sleep mask, goddamnit! The problem was, I didn’t know what I needed.


Somebody had told me that warm milk helped insomnia. It sounded nasty, but I was willing to give it a try. Right now, I was willing to try anything. Of course, that required that I play the fun and exciting game of Hunt the Milk, which was no mean feat. The penthouse’s kitchen had been designed to feed a horde, with three fridges—two regular ones and a shorty under the counter—a standalone freezer, two wine coolers, another wine cooler that was used only for beer, and God knew what else. I didn’t, because I couldn’t find half of it! And what I could find, I often didn’t want


Tami, my friend and self-appointed life manager, and I had sat around one night shortly after we moved in playing “guess the item” with a couple drawers full of weird, one-use-only gadgets. We’d managed to correctly identify an avocado slicer, a carrot peeler, a pair of herb scissors, a strawberry stem remover (okay, we cheated with Google on that one) and a vertical egg cooker. Plus some stuff that even the search engine of the gods hadn’t been able to help us out with.  Tami’s go-to greeting for visitors to the kitchen these days was to drag them over to the mystery item drawer and try to make them identify something.


I didn’t have an answer for her. It was one of a whole host of things I didn’t know, because this job didn’t get easier as you went along, like I’d expected. It actually seemed to be getting harder, which was a problem since I was already giving a hundred and fifty percent. Literally. I turned around and went back to bed.


Only you can’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” She leaned forward and put a hand on my arm. “Everybody wants a piece of you, all the time, but you can’t give it to them. They’ll take and take, until there’s nothing left. That’s how people are—”


I seriously contemplating just sleeping where I lay. The bed had one of those down-filled mattresses that grabs your ass like it’s trying to get handsy, and then draws you down into enveloping softness. 


I groaned and put a hand to my head, where it felt like I had the mother of all hangovers. And the grandmother and great-grandmother as well, I thought, trying to take stock.

Now, if you please.” Damn it, Gertie! I thought. But I stomped over anyway. “What?” “Pear?” She offered me one. I looked at it blankly. It was fat and yellow, with a blushing bottom. It was a nice pear. It also made no sense at all. “What?” “Yes, I have an apple,” Gertie said, and jerked me inside. “What are you doing?” I demanded, because this was bizarre, even for her. But she just shushed me and turned me toward the crack in the door. It was still open maybe a quarter of the way, giving us a sliver of a view, although why we needed one, I didn’t know. I needed to get back—“Watch,” Gertie said, and ate pear. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I watched anyway. Don’t argue with teacher, I thought. Only I didn’t know what I was supposed to be watching. The little girls were the easiest to see, still facing their wall. Or most of them were. One was playing with a doll she’d smuggled out, hidden in a fold of her dress, and another had squatted down to examine a fat green caterpillar. But most of the rest were dutifully reciting something, I didn’t know what, because it was in some other language. “A test,” Gertie said, her voice low. “For what?” “To see if they can age a flower.” I looked back at her. “How? They don’t have access to the Pythian power yet.” “No, they don’t,” she agreed. “The question is, can any of them get its attention?”


Or a fight, I thought, catching sight of the rest of the courtyard. “I told you I needed to get out there!” I said to Gertie, as my acolyte faced off with her own mother. I started forward, but Gertie pulled me back, and she was surprisingly strong for an old woman


Why London had what was essentially a petri dish of plague running through the city was beyond me, but it wasn’t my main concern


He’d come back for me, all right, but to capture not to kill. He’d started grafting souls onto his body, like adding apps onto a phone, and I was supposed to be his next upgrade. There to add to his power, but with none of my own, and no say in what mine was used for. Or any way to stop the process or even to die and make the torture end.


Throughout history, the number three has been fundamental to how we understand the world. The space we inhabit is measured in length, width, and height. Time is measured in past, present, and future.” He paused, and I just sat there, expectant. Until I realized that he was smiling slightly. “What?” I asked. “What are you waiting for?” “For the rest—” I stopped, realizing that I had unconsciously been waiting—for another example. I frowned. “The third instance would be body, mind, and spirit,” he continued, “which is how we understand ourselves. But the fact that you knew—instinctively—that there was a third example indicates how our minds classify things…People have always seen the world in threes. Look at religion: Christianity is fundamentally based on the Trinity—the father, son and holy spirit. The magi gave Christ three gifts, the devil tempted him three times, and he rose from the dead after three days. Even the Christian universe is traditionally seen as having three expressions: the upper world of heaven, the middle world of Earth, and the underworld of hell…The Greeks were also particularly fond of the number: there were three Fates, three Graces, three Gorgons and three Furies. There were three brothers who ruled over three realms: Zeus, Hades and Poseidon. Artemis…is often seen as a triple goddess, a unity of the divine huntress, the Moon goddess and the goddess of the underworld… the rest of the world’s religions follow a similar pattern: the Sumerian Goddess Inanna is remembered for having spent three days and nights in the underworld. There are three main gods in Hinduism: Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer. Yggdrasil, the sacred tree of life in the Norse religion, has three roots under which are three sacred wells——not to mention how often the number shows up in the world’s imagery. The triskelion, a three-legged spiral, can be found on items dating back more than six thousand years. The Borromean rings are a centuries-old symbol of unity made up of three interlacing circles. The Valknut rune of Odin——consisting of three interlocking triangles, stood for his power. Even the old superstition of not walking underneath a ladder stems from an ancient Egyptian belief that one should not “break a triangle’. The geometry of the number three was seen as being complete and perfect, and therefore not to be disturbed—”


“When shall we three meet again?” he quoted. “In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”

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Karen chance Dorina Basarab and Cassandra Palmer quotes

Since the next book is currently in arc form I decided to do a reread…these are the things that spoke to me…

Touch the Dark

I usually did the Goth thing, or as close as I could get without looking truly awful—strawberry blondes don’t wear black well—but that was when I was working. I found out pretty early that no one takes a fortune-teller seriously if she shows up in pastels. But on my days off I reserved the right not to look like I was going to a funeral. My life is depressing enough without help.
My parents were an obstacle to his ambition, so they were removed. Simple.
. I was like some kind of poison—get anywhere near me, and you’re lucky if you just die.
My only thought was that, in a room full of vampires, it would be my luck to get killed by the only other human.
… it wasn’t a surprise. Where my life was concerned, I’d learned long ago that everyone wanted to use me for something.
Claimed by shadow
gave myself a mental slap. At the rate things were going, I was going to need therapy.
At this rate, I was going to be the youngest person ever to die from a stress-induced stroke.
“The only thing I want is a nice, uncomplicated life. With no one trying to kill me, manipulate me or betray me.” And where, if I messed up on the job, I didn’t get anyone killed
Embrace the night
Tomorrow there would be trouble and danger and pain, and I didn’t know if I would be smart enough or strong enough or capable enough to handle it all, especially now that I understood what I was up against. But I knew one thing: today, finally, something had gone right.
Buying Trouble
Gamelans don’t merely speak the truth, they rip away all the happy little lies we tell ourselves to mask it, forcing us to acknowledge it deep in our very souls. They make us face the raw facts about our lives, and most of the time, they’re not pretty.
Death’s Mistress
, I just stood there, swaying a little on my feet and wondering how paranoid a person had to be before she decided the toys were out to get her. But in the end, I shrugged my shoulders and just
. I realized that I wanted it to be real, all of it, wanted him to have cared about her, wanted him to care about me. And I was so very afraid that he didn’t. It was easier not to ask, to let the possibility last a little longer
A Family Affair
A lot of people believed that John had a death wish. Even some of those closest to him acted like they suspected it, despite denying it when anyone else brought it up. But it had never been true. There had been times when he could honestly say he hadn’t cared much, either way, but he’d never been suicidal.
Ride the Storm
You have to let go, Cassie.” Yeah, people had been telling me that all my life, too. To the point that I’d started to tell it to myself: don’t care, don’t love, let everyone and everything that matters slip away. Let life take them, let it have them, because it’s going to anyway, because that’s all it does: take and consume and destroy. It lets you feel happy so the pain hurts more, lets you have hope so it can crush it, lets you have loved so it can rip it away. You can fight against it, but it’s a trap, the whole damn thing. Better get used to it. But I wasn’t used to it. I’d never gotten used to it. I was tired of it, sick to death of it, and furious, so furious I could barely see.
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Celebrate women on International Women’s Day

Today is supposed to celebrate women around the world… And it’s a tough time to be a woman but hopefully we can make it a better world for our daughters… I have a dream of a world where women don’t have to work twice as hard for equal pay, where paternity leave is as common as maternity leave, and where women are celebrated for the fact that they give life and aren’t told that math and science are too hard to worry their pretty little heads about. A world where people look back in amazement that in 2018 1 in 6 women have survived an attempted or completed rape in their lifetimes… And to honor all that I hope you watch one of my idols and a person who inspires me…

If you don’t have the time to hear it live maybe the transcript will speak to you

I am a nasty woman.

I’m not as nasty as a man who looks like he bathes in Cheeto dust. A man whose words are a distract to America; Electoral College-sanctioned hate speech contaminating this national anthem.

I am not as nasty as Confederate flags being tattooed across my city. Maybe the South actually is gonna rise again; maybe for some it never really fell. Blacks are still in shackles and graves just for being Black. Slavery has been re-interpreted as the prison system in front of people who see melanin as animal skin.

I am not as nasty as a swastika painted on a pride flag. And I didn’t know devils could be resurrected, but I feel Hitler in these streets—a mustache traded for a toupee; Nazis re-named the cabinet; electro-conversion therapy the new gas chambers, shaming the gay out of America turning rainbows into suicide notes.

I am not as nasty as racism, fraud, conflict of interest, homophobia, sexual assault, transphobia, white supremacy, misogyny, ignorance, white privilege.

I’m not as nasty as using little girls like Pokémon before their bodies have even developed.

I am not as nasty as your own daughter being your favorite sex symbol—like your wet dreams infused with your own genes.

But yah, I am a nasty woman?!

A loud vulgar, proud woman.

I’m not nasty like the combo of Trump and Pence being served up to me in my voting booth.

I’m nasty like the battles my grandmothers fought to get me into that voting booth.

I’m nasty like the fight for wage equality. Scarlett Johansson: Why were the famous actors paid less than half of what the male actors earned last year?

See, even when we do go into higher paying jobs our wages are still cut with blades, sharpened by testosterone. Why is the work of a Black woman and a Hispanic woman worth only 63 and 54 cents of a white man’s privileged daughter?

This is not a feminist myth. This is inequality.

So we are not here to be debunked. We are here to be respected. We are here to be nasty.

I am nasty like the blood stains on my bed sheets. We don’t actually choose if and when to have our periods. Believe me, if we could, some of us would. We don’t like throwing away our favorite pairs of underpants. Tell me, why are tampons and pads still taxed when Viagra and Rogaine are not? Is your erection really more than protecting the sacred messy part of my womanhood? Is the blood stain on my jeans more embarrassing than the thinning of your hair?

I know it is hard to look at your own entitlement and privilege. You may be afraid of the truth. I am unafraid to be honest. It may sound petty bringing up a few extra cents. It adds up to the pile of change I have yet to see in my country.

I can’t see. My eyes are too busy praying to my feet hoping you don’t mistake eye contact for wanting physical contact. Half my life I have been zipping up my smile hoping you don’t think I wanna unzip your jeans.

I am unafraid to be nasty because I am nasty like Susan, Elizabeth, Eleanor, Amelia, Rosa, Gloria, Condoleezza, Sonia, Malala, Michelle, Hillary.

And our pussies ain’t for grabbin’. Therefore, reminding you that are balls are stronger than America’s ever will be. Our pussies are for our pleasure. They are for birthing new generations of filthy, vulgar, nasty, proud, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Sheikh—you name it—for new generations of nasty women. So if you [are] a nasty woman or love one who is, let me hear you say, “HELL YEAH!”

I am a survivor in many ways. I’m a survivor of rape and the fact that just typing those words made me pause and wonder how my friends will take that admission and feel even the slightest bit of shame, tells me how far we have yet to go…

Please help me make a world where women are celebrated… And one(ok it’s really two) last thing to inspire you… Have you heard Patrick Stewart speak on violence against women? I was a trekkie (always gonna love me some star trek the next generation) but I fell in love with the person behind my favorite captain when I heard his response at comicon take the time to watch these speeches… It is time well spent

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An Unwavering Recommendation…

Usually, I post about the books I read, the friends I find within each story and reconnecting with them.  And right now I am reconnecting with Olivia and Gabriel–and all the mystery and magic of Cainsville.  But I wanted to tell you about something seemingly unconnected and in the process I will explain the thought train that led to this post.

I love reading, as you know all to well.  And I dislike audiobooks because depending on narrator, the book can be enriched through the process of creating an audiobook or it can be ruined by the slightest thing-a name pronounced differently, an accent that is different than what was expected or any other of a million reasons.  When we read a book, we imagine the characters, their accents, and a million other things.  An audiobook can ruin that because it makes the elements written in stone and each of these things can skew the enjoyment of the book.

I have been a long time fan of the Elfquest comic book series.  When I first found them they had been reprinted as a graphic novel and were in color.  When they later rereleased the comics in Black and White, they used a similar explanation–that the coloration of the comics limited the possibilities and locked the characters descriptions in stone.  Printing the comics in black and white allowed for infinite possibilities and for the enjoyment of the stories in a whole new way.

For years I was a physical book reader, and my daughter still is.  For her a book has to have a physical presence in order to be a book.  Ebooks do not work for her-without the pages to flip and the smell of the paper and weight of the book in her hands, they do not seem real to her.  Now, I fully enjoy all the facets of having ebooks- the ability to carry hundreds or thousands of books in the palm of my hand, rather than having to carry an extra suitcase on trips.  I enjoy having multiple copies of the books in multiple places and the ability to transfer from device to device.  I was and am a firm supporter of amazon kindles and have been for a long time.

Anyone who reads ebooks should look into the freeware program Calibre.  It allows you to organize your library by author or series or even by publication date.  It allows you to convert your books from one format to another and that allows you to use multiple devices.  It can also manage your devices.  You can merge files together (using plugins) and a million other things.

So now I have found the best program for my needs to be google play books.  First off, google offers 24-7 tech support on using the play books app for free. In addition to allowing books to be read on multiple devices, with your progress in each book being communicated no matter which device you read the books upon.  Google Play has a read aloud feature-it uses a computer voice of your choice.  Much like the black and white comics, it still allows me to add the details to the story.  It also allows me to speed up the reading so I can keep pace with where I would be approximately without using the read aloud feature.

So, whats the point of this long rambling post?  It’s actually quite simple.  My smartphone has become my reading device of choice.  And protecting that smartphone has become VERY important.  While there are a million choices in the market for cases, tempered glass protectors or plastic film protectors I want to speak with you about my experience with a company called Skinomi.  They produce plastic film phone protectors.  You can buy one just for the front screen, one for coverage of the entire device (front, back and sides), or one for just the front and back.  he plastic film is self healing and the have a lifetime warranty on their products.  They now have lines that can be used to change the look of your phone from wood to tempered steel or even  cool black carbonite looking skin.

They are the best phone protectors out there.  I have used a lot of different ones, but theirs have stood the test of time with each of my phones.  In addition, they have exceptional customer service and replace your screen protector if there is an error in installation or for some other reason you need a new one.  And it is a lifetime replacement on their products and there is a bubble free guarantee.  So protect your phone-get a skinomi protector, they are the best on the market and worth the price!

 

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Review of Come Sundown by Nora Roberts

I have long been a Nora Roberts fan and am constantly amazed by the number of novels she writes and they are usually always a good read.  Sometimes they do end up recycling old themes and some books do have remarkable similarities.  This doesn’t bother me though because each story has its own unique attributes and qualities.  That being said, this book was a huge disappointment to me.

I went into the book expecting a story about a family and a central love affair.   This book was not about the strength of a family or multi generational love stories.  If anything, it was the story of the kidnapping, torture, rape and indoctrination of one female who was the black sheep of her family and on her way home when her life skipped the track.

Nora Roberts has had some dark books that were still exceptional, but this was not one of them.  I kept expecting it to improve and for it to all come together but it never did.  This is one of the worst Nora Roberts books I have ever read.  Do not buy or read this book.  It is brutal with rape, beatings and indoctrination into a loosely bible based theology.

I look forward to discussing all of this with fellow fans at my site bestbooklover.net and at the Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/BestBooklovernet-336745780072074/

If you want to help support this website, donations are accepted at paypal.me/Bestbooklover/






Come Sundown Book Cover




Come Sundown





Nora Roberts





Fiction




May 30, 2017




480



A novel of suspense, family ties, and twisted passions from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Obsession... The Bodine ranch and resort in western Montana is a family business, an idyllic spot for vacationers. A little over thirty thousand acres and home to four generations, it’s kept running by Bodine Longbow with the help of a large staff, including new hire Callen Skinner. There was another member of the family once: Bodine’s aunt, Alice, who ran off before Bodine was born. She never returned, and the Longbows don’t talk about her much. The younger ones, who never met her, quietly presume she’s dead. But she isn’t. She is not far away, part of a new family, one she never chose—and her mind has been shattered... When a bartender leaves the resort late one night, and Bo and Cal discover her battered body in the snow, it’s the first sign that danger lurks in the mountains that surround them. The police suspect Cal, but Bo finds herself trusting him—and turning to him as another woman is murdered and the Longbows are stunned by Alice’s sudden reappearance. The twisted story she has to tell about the past—and the threat that follows in her wake—will test the bonds of this strong family, and thrust Bodine into a darkness she could never have imagined.

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Feast’s Famine by Debra Dunbar

I really enjoy all of Debra Dunbar’s works.  She has a unique voice.  I don’t think any of the characters from any of her series would have occurred to me in a million years, but they work.  There are 2 main series that she writes and they are completely different worlds.  Her Imp world series follows the bizarre and sometimes slightly bad but always hilarious life of Samantha Martin, a low level imp from hell who just wants to slip under the radar and somehow manages to attract the attention of the archangels and end up in charge of Hell.  And yeah that sentence was as bizarre as it sounded.  That would ends up incorporating all kinds of other creatures, from elves who decided to live in hell after the big war, to nephilim (children of an angel and a human and totally illegal) to vampires.  And so there are a few spin-offs from that world, and all are worth a read.  I promise you will laugh at things that make no sense outside of the context of the story-I learned that the hard way.  I tried to share a couple of quotes with people and got horrified looks.  SO, I just recommend the books now, I don’t even try to explain them.  But that is only one of the series Debra writes.  

SO on, to the second series, which Feast’s Famine is the 4th book of.  This is the Templar series, and much like the Imp series they revolve around a young woman heroine.  These books revolve around  Solaria Ainsworth, who was raised in a family of Knights Templar.  The Knights Templar are holy warriors, blessed by god to protect the temple, its artifacts and the pilgrims on the path to salvation.  And they have done this for a long time and built up huge libraries of vast knowledge and they are bound to help all those who seek them out.  They have grown rich by protecting and preserving their charges.  And Solaria has been raised to become a knight, which means that she has been trained in swords and fighting in all styles.  But when it comes, time to take her place among the others, she balks.  And ends up living in Baltimore, working in a coffee shop.  And through a series of events, ends up involved with mages and vampires and all kinds of supernatural craziness and LARPing too!  Solaria ends up becoming the Templar protecting the city of Baltimore in her spare time and involved with the vampires too!

Feast’s Famine is the fourth book in the series and delivers the same pace of crazy events.  It opens with a medieval tournament and speeds along from there.  There is a disease demon in Baltimore and he’s created a unique disease along with all the usual suspects, including the Black Plague.  This disease causes a person to have insatiable hunger.  And the group of humans that have been infected are willing blood donors to the vampires, and this virus can infect the vampires too! And vampires with insatiable hunger could cut quite a swath across a modern city.  

This creates an urgency to Aria’s investigation.  And it doesn’t help that she has finally crossed the line into an inter species sexual relationship with Dario, a powerful vampire.  It’s a fun read and a great addition to the series!

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dawn-herald:

The front counter of the little booth was lined with cobweb doilies on
which sat the usual diabetic-coma-inducing pyramids of doughnuts and pastries.
And something new. Something awful.

“What is that?” he demanded,
transferring his glare from the case to the Goth girl standing behind it.

She looked like an extra from Beetlejuice, all wild black hair and dead
white makeup except for raccoon-dark circles around her eyes. But her
expression indicated that he was the one being scary. Her gaze dropped to the
item in question, which was wedged between a tower of zombie cake pops and a
bunch of “fruit cups” laced with custard and cream.

“M-muffin?” she asked, as if she wasn’t sure.

He couldn’t blame her. The monstrosity spilling over the edge of a
shiny gold baking cup was big as a couple of clenched fists, a bloated alien of
a sweet menacing the other nearby treats. And then he noticed the little
heart-shaped sticker that someone—some fiend—had
attached to the front of the foil.

“Heart healthy?” he asked,
outraged.

Karen Chance – Shadowland

Just some quality art posting of a perfect, angry mage

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Author Scott Lynch responds to a critic of the character Zamira Drakasha, a black woman pirate in his fantasy book Red Seas Under Red Skies, the second novel of the Gentleman Bastard series.

rejectedprincesses:

fuckyeahscifiwomenofcolour:

The bolded sections represent quotes from the criticism he received. All the z-snaps are in order.

Your characters are unrealistic stereotpyes of political correctness. Is it really necessary for the sake of popular sensibilities to have in a fantasy what we have in the real world? I read fantasy to get away from politically correct cliches. 

God, yes! If there’s one thing fantasy is just crawling with these days it’s widowed black middle-aged pirate moms. 

Real sea pirates could not be controlled by women, they were vicous rapits and murderers and I am sorry to say it was a man’s world. It is unrealistic wish fulfilment for you and your readers to have so many female pirates, especially if you want to be politically correct about it!

First, I will pretend that your last sentence makes sense because it will save us all time. Second, now you’re pissing me off. 

You know what? Yeah, Zamira Drakasha, middle-aged pirate mother of two, is a wish-fulfillment fantasy. I realized this as she was evolving on the page, and you know what? I fucking embrace it. 

Why shouldn’t middle-aged mothers get a wish-fulfillment character, you sad little bigot? Everyone else does. H.L. Mencken once wrote that “Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.” I can’t think of anyone to whom that applies more than my own mom, and the mothers on my friends list, with the incredible demands on time and spirit they face in their efforts to raise their kids, preserve their families, and save their own identity/sanity into the bargain. 

Shit yes, Zamira Drakasha, leaping across the gap between burning ships with twin sabers in hand to kick in some fucking heads and sail off into the sunset with her toddlers in her arms and a hold full of plundered goods, is a wish-fulfillment fantasy from hell. I offer her up on a silver platter with a fucking bow on top; I hope she amuses and delights. In my fictional world, opportunities for butt-kicking do not cease merely because one isn’t a beautiful teenager or a muscle-wrapped font of testosterone. In my fictional universe, the main characters are a fat ugly guy and a skinny forgettable guy, with a supporting cast that includes “SBF, 41, nonsmoker, 2 children, buccaneer of no fixed abode, seeks unescorted merchant for light boarding, heavy plunder.”

You don’t like it? Don’t buy my books. Get your own fictional universe. Your cabbage-water vision of worldbuilding bores me to tears. 

As for the “man’s world” thing, religious sentiments and gender prejudices flow differently in this fictional world. Women are regarded as luckier, better sailors than men. It’s regarded as folly for a ship to put to sea without at least one female officer; there are several all-female naval military traditions dating back centuries, and Drakasha comes from one of them. As for claims to “realism,” your complaint is of a kind with those from bigoted hand-wringers who whine that women can’t possibly fly combat aircraft, command naval vessels, serve in infantry actions, work as firefighters, police officers, etc. despite the fact that they do all of those things– and are, for a certainty, doing them all somewhere at this very minute. Tell me that a fit fortyish woman with 25+ years of experience at sea and several decades of live bladefighting practice under her belt isn’t a threat when she runs across the deck toward you, and I’ll tell you something in return– you’re gonna die of stab wounds.

What you’re really complaining about isn’t the fact that my fiction violates some objective “reality,” but rather that it impinges upon your sad, dull little conception of how the world works. I’m not beholden to the confirmation of your prejudices; to be perfectly frank, the prospect of confining the female characters in my story to placid, helpless secondary places in the narrative is so goddamn boring that I would rather not write at all. I’m not writing history, I’m writing speculative fiction. Nobody’s going to force you to buy it. Conversely, you’re cracked if you think you can persuade me not to write about what amuses and excites me in deference to your vision, because your vision fucking sucks.

I do not expect to change your mind but i hope that you will at least consider that I and others will not be buying your work because of these issues. I have been reading science fiction and fantasy for years and i know that I speak for a great many people. I hope you might stop to think about the sales you will lose because you want to bring your political corectness and foul language into fantasy. if we wanted those things we could go to the movies. Think about this! 

Thank you for your sentiments. I offer you in exchange this engraved invitation to go piss up a hill, suitable for framing.

Here follows is a non-comprehensive list of historical female pirates and sailors, women of color first:

In conclusion: read a goddamn book, critic person.

You know, the trolls on the internet are not good people.  Nor are they sane!

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the interminable wait for book _______

So, here’s the thing.  I am a reader.  And with the advent of new technology, I can have my phone read to me while I do a gazillion other things…So, due to the fact that I had a speed reading class in high school and …well I consume books.  And quickly.  It makes Tuesdays my favorite day.  And I have a lot of series I follow.  So Karen Chance is one among the many for me.  And at first I was Seriously mad at the delays and changing publication dates.  

But in the last year, I have come to realize that my book’s are a coping mechanism.  They give me something to hold on to.  Something to talk about.  Something to occupy the 60% of my brain that keeps screaming this can’t be my life.  And to let me be somewhat calm, and positive.  At least I’m not being chased by monsters, only creditors!  And yes, I am a widow with two beautiful teenage daughters.  Which means that I am scared to bring any man home because I am very careful about my blue eyed, blonde haired beautiful brilliant children are exposed to.  And I had a great husband which means I am not willing to settle for anything else.  So I read a lot of very explicit series cause that’s my only sexual release.

So I read Laurell K Hamilton and lots of others.  But here’s the thing.  We have to support our authors.  The publishing business is hard.  And they create these amazing worlds and characters we all.love.   And for them the creation process is amazingly complex with first drafts and then edit after edit.  Some people get really nasty about these amazing works of creation.  And I understand that, too.  I love the main characters in my books.  They are like friends who I visit with every time I read the book.   And I hate some of the things that happen.  In a way even the violently negative feedback is a compliment to the author.  But why should they keep spending 6-8 hours a day writing for us if we just bitch about it.  Why do the work of edit after edit?  

I am making a stand.  Laurell K Hamilton won’t publish when her next book will be out or which series it will be.  Why should she? Her fans will wail and whimper.  If she just publishes it and tells us after the last draft is finalized, she gets to bypass all the people mad when she misses a date!  And poor Karen Chance, who keeps trying to put out book 8-but the book is too long for paperback.  And then there’s the other stuff she writes.  Freebie’s that are hard work for her but taken as though they are due to the readers.  Ever since Karen published Book 7, with delays, she has been working hard to give us a good book 8.  And what do the readers do? Some of us go back and reread.  Look for all the nuances we keep missing in the race to find out what happened.  And then another group gets vocal-and trashes Karen Chance for missing publicized release dates.  Rather than doing that, I’m doing the opposite.

I am going to support my favorite authors.  I don’t care how long I have to wait for the next installment.  I’m going to send them messages, asking questions about the books I have.  I’m going to reread, and laugh and cry and scream and yell.  I’m going to write new reviews, new FAQs, new posts.  I’m going to do whatever the hell I can to make sure I get to know how the stories end.  I will write petitions.  I will beg,  plead and cajole.  I will help the next Kit Colbana book be made by sending money on Patreon.  And I will appreciate the freebies, the alternate POV, the deleted scenes.  I am doubly supportive of the authors I love who have prepublished schedules and put out surprise books too! I love Jenna Black and Lauren Dane and Seanan Mcguire and Kelley Armstrong and Christine Feehan.  But I will keep on supporting everyone…

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