The Out-Of-Sorts Time For Novelists

If you are a writer, could you base a novel on a single solitary memory from your childhood? 

Sometimes that's all that's needed to jumpstart a story.

For me it was a barefoot boy beckoning from an adjacent dock on a Northern Michigan lake,  the boomerang that wouldn't come back, and the boy who lived with his family in a migrant's shack and one day stopped coming to school.

Writing is a solitary business (why writers love to write). Yet we eavesdrop and belly up to the bar where interesting people rub shoulders and words flow and ideas percolate to flow off our fingertips onto the white expanse of a screen or a notebook or a bar napkin.

Some of the reasons I'm passionate about writing and the natural world are explained here  (the scary out-of-the-way, desolate places our dad would park our pop-up camper on family vacations), along with some of my favorite immersive fiction from 2023 and the novels whose readers I felt would enjoy Let Evening Come.  But I wonder how accurate my assumptions are.

I've been asked, if I  had to do anything other than write, what would it be? I would like to hide in the upper branches of a tree. Drop raspberries in a basket tied at my waist and stomp grapes. Walk the fencerow to the rear of the farm to see the eagle's nest I've heard tell of, a mere hundred-acre walk away.

With one project complete and out of my hands while another is stalled and yet another still percolating like a an old coffee pot, I'm stuck in that out-of-sorts time for a writer. So, why not do some of those things? Why let a 20-mile-an-hour wind dissuade me, or a cold rain, or a mass of turbulent clouds skuttling across the sky to hide the sun as if another eclipse were underway? Why do I let the mundane eat away at the day, like the moon to the sun, or suddenly find myself daydreaming in front of the open refrigerator as if dinner will miraculously appear? Why let the out-of-sorts-time interfere with a walk along a fencerow to discover an eagle's nest rumored to be as big as a dining room table and maybe . . . maybe even catch sight of an adult in the act of remodeling or adding to last years structure.

Now that would be something to write about!

The Interview And the Robin

MIRACLES OF SPRING

 

While answering questions about my writing in an Interview with the publisher, two plump robins engage in a mating dance on snow-crusted grass outside my window. They fly their affair into the maple, bare as a February field, and find foothold in the crook of a branch for spring is coming and there's work to be done.

The miracle of the greening.  

The poets at What's Going On (the mighty foursome!) reminded me that all around there are miracles in our midst. We only have to stop and look to see the plump robin in a new light, how she fends off the blue jays through patience and perseverance. 

Then there's the first pop of green in the towering birch trees that seemed to happen overnight.

Speaking of miracles, my launch party at Inscribe Books went off without a hitch! Another miracle. A day I dedicated to my grandma who bolstered my fragile self-esteem through adolescence; to my father who collated copies of my early poems, bound them together with his stapler and titled the collection The Farmer’s Daughter; and to Mother who always wanted to know what I was doing if I hadn’t stopped in for a visit—immersed in a novel I regretfully never shared with her.

        I'm sorry Mom. 

        I wish you had been here. 

I reacquainted with some long lost friends tonight at our local library, coming together over a book. Now that's a miracle! It's a miracle that this book is out in the world. A miracle that someone wanted to interview little ol' me. Proof that (yes Mother) patience pays off and perseverance is a virtue.

Grandpa's Haymow (The Secret Place)

 We appreciate what we have after we no longer have it

 

I unhook the latch on the door and climb over the ancient
threshold of the haymow erected when grandpa was little.
The wind moans and groans through the cracks in the boards
and the door swings and bangs on its rusted hinge.
The smell of hay baled in summer and stacked for winter
from floor to rafters to a peekaboo window
the fun of seeing without being seen. But there—

A cache of eggs in a bowl of straw.

Brown and warm, chocolate and tan

Hens who like to sit, murmur, and coo

Beneath a watertight roof safe and secure.

Puffed-up doves preen in the rafters.

One flies overhead, east to west, the length of day.

Temperatures drop, wind rifts through the cracks

The sound of eaves dripping,

November come calling.

But the mow stays dry, a refuge from the farm on the farm.

I write in here. If I were a bird I’d nest in here.

If I were an owl, I’d sleep in here. 

If I were a architect I construct this here.

But they don't make barns like this anymore.

The resident cat from a long line of felines is on patrol.

When dad had dairy there were many of them.

Does she have a batch of newborns curled in a ball

In grandpa’s hay mow? 

A melodic song from high in the rafters

Stirs the hair on my arm.

No common sparrow this trilling song. Doves don’t mind

Our looking at them but somewhere up there—

Where no light can shine, nor eye can see

Perches an uncommon bird warbling a song.

My breath freezes in frame like a cat on the prowl

But this diminutive bird

Compelled to sing of the day 

Remains hidden from me.

 

For dVerse, a poem about a building that was more than a building to me.

 

What Happens After "The Call"

I have a guest post on Anne Allen's blog, What Happens After "The call". 

My novel releases one week from today.  I hope you'll add it to your bookcase.📚 I just got an advance blurb from  Dave Essinger, author and editor. I'm geeked about it.

Let Evening Come is a compelling contemporary Northern coming-of-age tale, gripping in its conflicts and transfixing in its prose. - Dave Essinger, author of Running Out, and Editor, Slippery Elm Literary Journal.

I'm so grateful to all of you who have been willing to shell out hard-earned dollars for this book. It's very humbling and I hope you'll find it worthwhile.
 

The Elevator Pitch 📚and Last Call

The hardest thing for an author to articulate is the one-sentence pitch. I've made a hundred adjustments and it still doesn't feel right. 😕

Let Evening Come  is the story of an Indigenous person displaced from his ancestral home in Canada and the motherless farm girl from Michigan who befriends him. 

Since I'm within ten days of my book launch (shiver, shake, commiserate) I thought I'd give last call for my newsletter signup. Sign up by April 2nd and your name will be included in the drawing for an autographed copy with some other goodies. Signed first printings are worth a lot!! 😀 My heartfelt thanks if you have already done so. 

The Worm Moon is shining in my window like a headlamp, illuminating the snow-covered landscape such as you wouldn't need one. A beacon in the darkling night while the world sleeps.

A Dead Man’s Pockets

As sand falls from a sand dollar
on a windowsill miles from the seashore,
so do you at day’s end empty your pockets
of where you’ve been.

The seasons of the year left their trace

on you

til there was nothing

to drop on the dresser but lint in the folds of your hanky.

 

Leaves weighted by rain drop from a gunmetal sky,

swirl and land on the freshly dug grave,

the mound of dirt unsettled and coarse,

 

unlike your face clean-shaven on the blade of the mortician.

Lids drawn over the sterling blue eyes,

tie straightened and mouth closed,

tight-lipped, as our father never was.

 

The mouth isn’t right, my sister whispered

as the kneeler wobbled under our connected sorrow.

I checked his pockets, like a child for a coin,

climbing on a lap, cool, deep, and empty.

For Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings: In Memoriam 

Publishing Note:

A Dead Man's Pockets appeared in the 2021 Slippery Elm Literary Journal

I GOT BOOKS!

What the UPS guy brought me yesterday!

Now that I have my advance copies,  I'm counting down the days to the release of my novel on April 2nd. I'm extremely nervous about how the public will receive it. I practically have the darn thing memorized, but what you think is what matters.

"Let Evening Come is penned by author Yvonne Osborne in the literary style and the interpersonal drama and coming-of-age subgenres. Author Yvonne Osborne has crafted a truly emotionally resonant novel that delves into themes of loss, displacement, and cultural conflict. The up-close and detailed portrayal of Sadie and Stefan's budding romance against the backdrop of their respective struggles was both captivating and poignant. 

I loved the way their unique dialogue was presented and readers will feel the dynamics between the lines. The exploration of cultural misunderstanding and the challenges faced by Indigenous communities was an incredibly poignant touch that is really focused on and never used as a gimmick, fostering genuine empathy and understanding. As the characters navigated adversity and sought connection across borders, I found myself deeply invested in their journey, rooting for their love to transcend the obstacles in their path. Overall, Let Evening Come is a recommended read and a compelling tale of love, resilience, and the human capacity to overcome adversity amidst cultural divides."  

--Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite

I understand it can be intimidating to leave a review. Even if you enjoy a book, it puts you on the spot. But honestly, it doesn't have to be long. It can be one sentence, or even one word!  They mean so much, especially for a new, unknown author.  Editorial reviews might carry more weight but reviews from readers are more personal and meaningful to the author.

This Daylight Savings Times gives us late morning darkness but my inner clock tells me it's time for a cup of coffee! 

Graveyard Hierarchy

My son asked how much a tombstone costs
as we trace ancestry through the graveyard
and calculate dates—how common it was to bury babies.
 
Some lucky souls merit saintly companions
who guard their tombs with outstretched arms
or a wrought iron fence to ward off vagrants.
But look how the monied died just as young.
 

At the rear of the yard are the stones we can’t read—

all the names swallowed up by the cold.

Bare of epitaph, they lean against each other,

even their stones are tired.

 

Then there are the markers that only bear a number,

like the tattooed at Auschwitz.

One straggler is off alone and we wonder

if he wanted it so.

The rounded stone juts white from Earth like a tooth.

And what of those who couldn’t even get inside the fence—

separated from the gilded, even here.

To celebrate Swedish Nobel Laureate Tomas Transtromer, dVerse's Bjorn Rudberg asked us to write a poem of exactly 144 words, including a line taken from one of the Nobel writer's poems. In case you can't guess, it's all the names swallowed up by the cold.

More at dVerse on this renowned poet and how he captured the long winters of Scandinavia in his writing.

Note: All the photographs herein on my own. No peeping AI on my shoulder with his shudder eye.

She Took Venice

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful
though the surf smells and seagulls scour the tideline.

All along the shore the ocean unfurls its soul.

Beer with salty clams to peel, dip, and swallow.

The bar faces the ocean with a poolroom where poets rhyme.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful.

One size fits all with three ways to fold, wrap, and tie.

In Venice, where guitarists skate the boulevard

all along the shoreline the ocean unfurls its soul.

Sea birds ply ocean weed, piles of shell, and salty form.

Bougainvillea drapes the cafes. She collects all she finds.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful.

She took the ocean home - salt, shells and sun coils.

Maybe he'll come over with a hank of garden lettuce or another sign.

Because all along the shoreline the ocean uncurled its soul.

On the whisper of her sarong she crosses the wooden floor

and watches him cut grass, sun on his shoulders, tasting salty brine.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful

and all along the shoreline the ocean unfurls its soul.

Tasked with the challenge from Poets & Storytellers to write a poem about a sensual piece of clothing, I immediately thought of a  trip to Venice Beach where the beach was littered with what the ocean didn't need, where sarongs were as popular as sun hats and, yes, where everyone was beautiful.

The Uprooting

The fate of a rose planted by my grandmother a hundred years ago released by Flapper Press

The Flapper Press is a literary magazine of Useful Words, Inspiring Stories, and Eclectic Perspectives and I'm very happy to be a part of it.

Also shared with Poets and Storytellers's "Lasting Impressions". No one makes more lasting ones than mothers and grandmothers.  

The Boomerang That Came Back

As with writing, learning to throw a boomerang requires perseverance and discipline, the subject brought up this week at Poets and Storytellers, the power of discipline.  As it has an important, if symbolic, place in my novel, and in anticipation of my April 2nd release date, I thought I'd repost the poem I wrote back when I was first throwing the idea for a novel around in my head. (No pun intended.) 

Some of you may remember the G-Man and his Friday Flash 55 challenge to write fiction with a plot in 55 words. He inspired me to write flash poetry.  You could say, in a convoluted way, that he inspired me to write Let Evening Come.

The birth of a novel in 55 words.

Even as a child, she was drawn to the night
when the air was soft and fraught with life.
He, too, a child of twilight—
mysterious boy boomerang in his belt
Was my father’s he said,
dog circling, divining the night air.
Fingers entwined, he taught her to throw
so it would always come back.

The Newspaper City

We walk to mass along sidewalks
slick with mist from the ocean bay.
Hulking shapes huddle in doorways
where the sun won’t ever shine
to shiver the whole night through
under newspaper blankets.
 
We hasten into church to kneel and pray
with Asian, Latin, and Creole speakers
as incense wafts over the pews and candles twinkle
like the flickering of the holy spirit
descending on the fortunate.

 

With the transubstantiation of altar bread and wine

there’s a rush from the back for the body and blood.

Confused at the lack of decorum

  (do they fear the chalice will spring a leak?)

we ease our way into the jostling line of supplicants

like automobiles jockeying for an off ramp.

 

With a finger dipped in the font at the door

we exit into the misty morn of a cash-strapped city.

Beggars await us on the steps with their outstretched cups.

Father always dropped a five in the tin can of the gaunt man

who sat wrapped in wool at the top of the exit ramp

on trips into a different city.

 

We walk back to the hotel

past darkened storefronts and empty streets.

Silent except for the rustle of newspapers. 

Written for dVerse in memory of Kurt Cobain, the legendary alternative rock musician whose birthday was this past Tuesday. Nirvana's lyrics were known for metaphor and emotional depth. Challenged to use lines from one of the songs posted in the prompt, I chose a couple that would fit this poem.  Check out Melissa's post at dVerse for more on the enigmatic Cobain, photos and lyrics. And the poets at What's Going On who've asked us  to write about "Color" so taking liberty, as this is more about the absence of color.  There are other more beautiful poems about color passing through so head over. 

I Saw A Ghost Today

 

I saw a ghost today.
A shadow in the shrubbery
a lurker behind the shed.
A floater in the corner of my eye
or am I growing a cataract
like everyone I know
mistaking angels for ghosts
seeing something where there’s nothing.
 
My father said he had a guardian angel
and his name was Joseph.
Father talked to Joseph.
Such intimacy, like the whisper of a lover.
Maybe I have one too.
 
Call me a cynic—I looked it up.
But why wasn’t Joseph watching over him
when he lost two fingers in an auger.
Or when he rammed a nail up his foot—
a rambunctious boy—
and nearly died of blood poisoning.
 
I thought I saw a ghost today.
An anomaly in the fog
A lurker in the lilacs

When in the doorway bloomed.

Do I just flat out ask—

Hey! What’s your name?

Written for Shay's Word Garden using words from her word list taken from "The Waste Land and Other Poems" by TS Eliot.  And for d'Verse's Open Link Night (with a little twist of Whitman's lilac). And it's a secret (for Poets & Storytellers United) I guess I don't mind telling now as my father is with Joseph.
 
 

The Flow Of Water

Waking up in the lowlands with the murmur of the teakettle, a pour-over coffee, and a ticking clock. Within a short drive of Lake Huron and a stone's throw of the creek that trickles into the Black River that flows into the big lake which rushes to the ocean. 

Contemplating this business of publishing, royalty gigs and division of the pie with so many forks, and me with nothing but words in my head, phrases and ideas, passion and pain, spinning, weaving, plotting, scheming. 

Why do I wake up in the middle of the night? Thinking about the old man on the tractor and the woman with the broken broom, the man who trekked over a mountain with his youngest on his back to stay ahead of the soldiers, and the teen who enlisted for glory only to stowaway on a boat for foreign lands. Then there's the biologist who lives in a tent and studies the die-off of amphibians, and the reporter who only wants a story but comes face to face with a second chance at love.

Beyond our yard and across the pasture there runs a creek, which flows into a river that crosses the plain and enters the ocean. Currents collide, the Labrador meets the Gulfstream to merge with the Canary to circle a globe without borders. 

One story I wrote that's out of my hands but still won't let me sleep is about an Indigenous son who lost home and family and a motherless farmgirl who is simply lost.

Which brings me to the end and mention of my favorite modern invention which Rommy at Poets and Storytellers asks us to write about. Has to be the Universal Book Link.

A coming-of-age story in times of distress available now at  Your Favorite Digital Bookstore 

And This Is What I Know

In the quiet splendor of a predawn morn
the moon gilds the hoophouse in shiny opulence.
Lace-riven cloud formations circle the sky
with the moon at their apex high above the earth
circling quiet, like a giant snow globe.
How could anyone have ever thought this world flat?
And I, an inconsequential ant of a being
invade the quiet on a shuffle across the snow
in my husband’s boots and a hand-me-down coat
and my daddy’s hat with the flashlight
of my mother’s trepidation
in my pocket just in case.

How's your life today on Planet Earth? the poets at  What't Going On? ask. "Those of us who write frequently might give ourselves a break on days when we simply show up."

As I once heard a wise person say, half of life is showing up."

The Waiting Game

The time span between a preorder being announced by your publisher and the actual launch date is filled with angst and self-doubt. Waiting for advance reader copies, waiting for the data to be disseminated to libraries and bookstores, waiting for reviews (for a star🌟🌠), waiting for your fingernails to grow back as your hair turns gray. With the winter weather that gripped most of the country last week, I reckon my ARCs are still somewhere between Portland and Michigan.

In the meantime, I have a Universal Book Link This is a truly remarkable invention, a link that will take a reader to their preferred digital store, from America to Australia and all points in between. Like magic, the digital age at your fingertips. Check it out. This is also a great tool if you are self publishing. 

I mentioned Shepherd before, the new site for discovering and sharing books. My page just went live today! I chose the template for my three favorites of the past year. If you want to give your three favs a shout-out (with a spot for your own published or soon-to-be-published book if applicable), they are taking submissions until July of 2024. As a Goodreads Author, I'll be doing a giveaway to celebrate the book's launch, and if you follow me or have added my novel to your Want-To-Read List you'll automatically be notified about the offer. These actually work. I received a free book in the mail last week. speaking of free, if you are in a book club and you choose my novel, you will receive a free autographed copy, bookmarks for everyone, and a box of my homemade truffles. 

Finally, I have an interview online here  by the Awesome Gang. I tried to amend an, ah, inappropriate word but didn't have the opportunity to do so before it went live. I still like the interview overall so decided to share it, but hope I don't offend anyone with my off-the-cuff comment.

Thanks for reading. I am deeply grateful.

A City, A Country, A Gift

dVerse (the pub where the poets hang out) has asked for a city-inspired verse. 

Turning Down The Linen

The lost sunrise, rare coin, I now lament.

So too, its flaming slide at end of day.

I can’t escape my farm girl sentience.

Unleash me over those fields of fresh mown hay,

Not here, where brick and steel climb up the sky,

Where wren and hawk have flown a quick retreat.

Gray smoke and stacks alike tarnish surprise,

Over a city that rumbles beneath my feet.

This busy beast that swallows every sound

With clotted breath. To water’s edge I’m drawn

Where stars appear from out the black surround.

Like fields of wheat, waves undulate in song.

 

And then there’s you with power to part the night.

You turn the linens down and dim the lights.

That's the only sonnet I've ever written. Now, living where I do, I have to say this cold country sky is on fire!🔥 Streaks of crimson flood the windows, coming in from all directions, a sky made more beautiful by the dark sentinel trees and the white ground beneath. How is such a thing possible on a dark winter morn in the northern hemisphere? Window to window, I draw back the curtains. A blue jay is rocking it in the bare branches of the maple tree, and the fleeting shadow of an owl escapes over the shed. A quiet house, a cup of coffee, jays for company, a rural morning.

To go with the gift of a new day, my novel is on Barnes and Nobel!! It's also now on Amazon but somehow the B&N makes me more excited. Maybe it's the brick and mortar? I feel like they've given me an early Valentine's gift. 💝💘💕  

I am also now officially a Goodreads Author.  Please consider signing up for my newsletter where I'm sharing what I've learned on this journey from idea to draft to an ISBN. I will have a drawing for signed copies from the subscriber list on April 2nd to celebrate the launch of

I'd also like to mention a new site for discovering and sharing books called Shepherd. They're awesome. I love his little staff and hat-you gotta check it out!

In looking back, I've been blogging here since 2008. I laugh at some of my first posts. (What's Under The Bed) It seems so long go. I've had some ups and downs but stuck with it. The writing has been an exercise in itself. I cringe at some of those old posts but am also proud of a few. 

In closing, I just want to say thank you to all old and new friends and followers who have been so kind and supportive. You who have been generous with sharing your own writing and expertise, especially those at dVerse and Poets and Storytellers.  I wish I could have you all over for a drink. The house is small but I'd make it work!

Over and Out,

Yvonne
Human

INDIAN HORSE A review

In awe of an expertly bound book, I ran my hand across the smooth surface of the Milkweed edition of Indian Horse, the feel of it a tactile pleasure. From front to back, I fanned the pages, intrigued by the page numbers elegantly printed in cursive on the bottom left, and the smell of print. I leafed through them—I couldn't seem to stop—the promise of a story captured between the covers of this book.

Indian Horse is the beautifully written story of the Ojibway youth, Saul Indian Horse, who is trapped at an early age in Canada's residential school system. The story is an affirmation of Saul's perseverance and resilience as he struggles to survive the horror of the school and the demeaning actions of those who felt compelled to subjugate and drive the savage out of the Indian. In testament to the endurance and spiritual wisdom of his people and the grandmother he remembers, Saul battles to reclaim the dignity he was endowed with. I loved him and cried with him.

I just realized there was a movie made and it's on Netflix. I recommend it. But read the book first, if you can. 

Gifted to me at Christmas, owning and reading this novel has made me realize how personal books are to me.  Books have been my best friends since I learned to tie my shoes. Stages of life bookended by the books I read.

Now we have eBooks, the epitome of inanimate. They aren't books—I would argue—but devices. They are screens that need battery power to light up. They need electricity to turn the pages. They smell like nothing. But they are cheaper than print (and friendlier to the environment), thus the way of the future. 

I gave up my eight tracks for cassettes and my cassettes for CDs. I confess to the convenience of Alexa sitting on a shelf, devoid of rizz even when she's plugged in, but she has her place, like an electronic reader on an airplane or in the dark of bedtime. But my bookshelves sag with that which I will never give up. Books that remain readable when the power goes off.

It's early in the year, but it will be difficult for any novel to unseat Indian Horse's number one position on my shelf.

Poets and Storytellers,  invited us to "de-retro" our vintage vocabulary with a post, including the Oxford word of the year for 2023 - Rizz,  an informal noun defined as style, charm, or attractiveness; the ability to attract a romantic or sexual partner. 

I stuck it in above. Did you notice.

yvonneosborne.com

BEGINNINGS Newsletter Signups (what's in it for me?)

Everything must have a beginning … and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. – Mary Shelley.

This Friday's prompt from Poets and Storytellers is to let the idea of Beginnings inspire us in our responses. For me, 2024 marks the beginning of being a published novelist, the birthday year for LET EVENING COME 

This beginning is linked, as Shelly says it must, to all the years of reading that went before. From Island of the Blue Dolphins and Ramona to the latest novels on my nightstand, which somehow, somewhere along the line, gave me the impetus and courage to write a novel of my own. 

Now it's time to say, I’m proud of this thing! This is hard because, like most writers, I’m humbled by the process of putting my writing out there. Humbled that people would want to put down hard-earned money to read it. There are no words to express the gratitude I feel.

I started a newsletter to share the process, the bump and grind of a publishing journey in hopes readers would find it interesting and to help get the word out. I know it takes an extra step to signup for a newsletter, and there is so much noise out there, advertisers, bloggers, "influencers" (I hate that term). I get it. I've been there.  So it takes a leap of faith for which I may or may not be worthy of, to sign up for my newsletter. But I promise to focus on succinct, interesting content. I will not flood your inbox with drivel. Most importantly, there will be two drawings from the first fifty subscribers for a signed, first edition book, and, honestly, (alert: arm twisting) there are exactly 8 spots left.  

The sign up form for my mailing list is here . Thank you for your trust and support. 

Finally, I'd like to plug an author's two best friends. The library (this is me recently at the one in Rochester) and independent bookstores. Both form mutually beneficial relationships with authors, readers, and their communities. 

To new beginnings in 2024!  

Yvonne,
 Human

GOOD NIGHT IRENE (review)

Good Night Irene by Luis Alberto Urrea is the untold story of the Clubmobile women of  WWII.  Though their official assignment was to make coffee and donuts in their kitchen-outfitted clubmobile truck, they drove the front lines, from Normandy to Bastogne, Belgium (the Battle of the Bulge) to Germany itself. How did someplace so gorgeous come up with something as ugly as they did? They saw combat, brandished rifles and tommy guns, dodged bullets, and suffered injuries and loss like the men they stood beside, comforted and bandaged. Sometimes the dearest thing to a soldier is a hot cup of coffee  and a little friendly banter. 

These are your sisters and the GIs are your brothers and we expect you to treat them as such. Win this war with your decency. Because we are Americans. And this is what Americans do.

In contrast to the horrific scenes from Buchenwald when the allies first entered the town, (the stench was unrecognizable and visceral)  Urrea has composed the most beautifully written love scene between Irene and her pilot while in the south of France that I've ever read.  From here, can you  smell Africa? Spain?

Even if you've read accounts of the European theater and the brutality of the Nazi regime, Good Night Irene is a singular accomplishment that sings of the unsung female heroes who may not have received purple hearts but were as deeply wounded, physically and mentally, as any American GI.

This is my five-star read of 2023. On my bedside table now are INDIAN HORSE and THE HEAVEN AND EARTH GROCERY STORE, and in the works is  LET EVENING COME, my breakout novel. 😊 Which I hope will soon be on yours.

Over and out and into the New Year wherein the idea of peace and prosperity beckons like a steaming  cup of coffee and a donut, or as mother called hers, friedcakes!