I need critical review help, friends. Am writing the blurb for the back cover for print (and for the Amazon print and e-description) of A Thousand Glass Flowers.
What would make you pick up the book and read it?
The most curious thing has happened. For days I have been thinking of writing a post on grief, on the positives and negatives, as part of the Pillowbook of Prudence. I began it today and was three quarters of the way through and Word froze… I had to force quit and lost the whole thing. I sat and looked at the computer and decided that Fate was taking a hand, that I am not meant to write such a post. That last week when I wrote about Spot it was enough. That it is better to move on. Not with denial, but acceptance.
*A sample of the book to be published in full for e-book and POD in August-September 2011*
‘Little damsel, you must eat something or at least drink. You cannot go on like this.’ The afrit pleaded with her but she had only a care beyond reason for the quality of her work, not for herself, refusing the trays of delectables the Other laid out.
Was Shakespeare right? That a rose by any other name would smell as sweet? What if a rose was called Pigswilliam or Foxscent or Pricklius Garderobei? If one could get past the connotations of the name and smell the flower itself, of course it would smell divine, but its getting past those images that might be the difficult part.
Today’s instalment is part of the new Twitter feature called #SampleSunday or #ss
Finnian stared at the waters of Veniche as they flowed around him like undulating threads of silk. Guilt pulled him in one direction, anger and revenge in another, indifference in another still. What is a Færan but one who has only self-interest at the heart of his life. I am no different. The sailor’s death shouldn’t matter. What do I care for a young boy destined for life without a father. I managed.
Taut with expectation, Lalita hurried behind a persistently verbose Salah and the eunuchs. She ignored the beauty that surrounded her as her feet clacked on the tiles in hard-soled little slippers and her fingers clenched tight. Her throat choked and she wanted to scream at Salah to stop his inane chatter. The one saving grace was that the afrit was nowhere to be seen.
‘Fill the goblet, boy, and keep filling it.’ A ironweight mood settled on Finnian – a Castello mood, and vaguely he observed Gio’s head bob in acknowledgement as the young fellow circled the Captain’s table. The calming sea had and the presence of the boy reminding him of his own lack dug like a thorn in his side. The pretentiousness of the Captain’s table, with its flickering candelabra and polished silver rubbed him raw and the meal was on porcelain plates, as if that matters.
‘Lalita the Mad. Lalita the Confused.’ The afrit grabbed his toes and rocked back and forth. ‘They think you’re insane. And do you know, little scribe, the odalisques are scared of you. They pass by your apartments in threes and fours or with a eunuch to guard them for they think you will come leaping from your room, frothing at the mouth.’