Jean Hanff Korelitz Presents... The Plot... An Extraordinary Tale About...Writers... A Discussion

Good writers borrow, great writers steal. —T. S. Eliot (but possibly stolen from Oscar Wilde)

Anybody Can Be a Writer 

Jacob Finch Bonner, the once promising author of the “New & Noteworthy” (The New York Times Book Review) novel The Invention of Wonder, let himself into the office he’d been assigned on the second floor of Richard Peng Hall, set his beat-up leather satchel on the barren desk, and looked around in something akin to despair. The office, his fourth home in Richard Peng Hall in as many years, was no great improvement on the earlier three, but at least it overlooked a vaguely collegiate walkway under trees from the window behind the desk, rather than the parking lot of years two and three or the dumpster of year one (when, ironically, he’d been much closer to the height of his literary fame, such as it was, and might conceivably have hoped for something nicer). The only thing in the room that signaled anything of an actual literary nature, that signaled anything of any warmth at all, was the beat-up satchel Jake used to transport his laptop and, on this particular day, the writing samples of his soon-to-arrive students, and this Jake had been carrying around for years. He’d acquired it at a flea market shortly before his first novel’s publication with a certain writerly self-consciousness: acclaimed young novelist still carries the old leather bag he used throughout his years of struggle! Any residual hope of becoming that person now was long gone. And even if it wasn’t there was no way to justify the expense of a new bag. Not any longer. Richard Peng Hall was a 1960s addition to the Ripley campus, an unlovely construction of white cinder block behind the gymnasium and beside some dormitories slapped together for “coeds” when Ripley College began admitting women in the year 1966 (which, to its credit, had been ahead of the curve). Richard Peng had been an engineering student from Hong Kong, and though he probably owed more of his eventual wealth to the school he’d attended after Ripley College (namely MIT), that institution had declined to construct a Richard Peng Hall, at least for the size of donation he’d had in mind. The Ripley building’s original purpose had been to accommodate the engineering program, and it still bore the distinct tang of a science building with its windowed lobby nobody ever sat in, its long, barren corridors, and that soul-killing cinder block. But when Ripley got rid of engineering in 2005 (got rid of all its science programs, actually, and all of its social science programs) and dedicated itself, in the words of its frantic board of supervisors, “to the study and practice of the arts and humanities in a world that increasingly undervalues and needs them,” Richard Peng Hall was reassigned to the low-residency Master of Fine Arts Program in Fiction, Poetry, and Personal Non-Fiction (Memoir). Thus had the writers come to Richard Peng Hall, on the campus of Ripley College, in this strange corner of northern Vermont, close enough to the fabled “Northeast Kingdom” to bear some trace of its distinct oddness (the area had been home to a small but hardy Christian cult since the 1970s) but not so far from Burlington and Hanover as to be completely in the back of beyond. Of course creative writing had been taught at the college since the 1950s, but never in any serious, let alone enterprising way. Things got added to the curriculum of every educational institution concerned with survival as the culture changed around it and as the students began, in their eternally student-y way, to make demands: women’s studies, African-American studies, a computer center that actually acknowledged computers were, you know, a thing. But when Ripley underwent its great crisis in the late 1980s, and when the college took a sober, and deeply trepidatious look at what might be required for actual institutional survival, it was—surprise!—the creative writing that signaled the most optimistic way forward. And so it had launched its first (and, still, only) graduate program, the Ripley Symposia in Creative Writing, and over the following years the Symposia basically ate up the rest of the college until all that was left was its low-residency program, so much more accommodating for students who couldn’t drop everything for a two-year MFA course. And shouldn’t be expected to! Writing, according to Ripley’s own glossy prospectus and highly enticing website, was not some elitist activity out of bounds to all but the fortunate few. Every single person had a unique voice and a story nobody else could tell. And anybody—especially with the guidance and support of the Ripley Symposia—could be a writer. All Jacob Finch Bonner had ever wanted to be was a writer. Ever, ever, ever, all the way back to suburban Long Island, which was the last place on earth a serious artist of any kind ought to come from but where he, nonetheless, had been cursed to grow up, the only child of a tax attorney and a high school guidance counselor. Why he’d affixed his star to the forlorn little shelf in his local library marked AUTHORS FROM LONG ISLAND! was anyone’s guess, but it did not pass unnoticed in the young writer’s home. His father (the tax attorney) had been forceful in his objections (Writers didn’t make money! Except Sidney Sheldon. Was Jake claiming he was the next Sidney Sheldon?) and his mother (the guidance counselor) had seen fit to remind him, constantly, of his mediocre-at-best PSAT score on the verbal side. (It was greatly embarrassing to Jake that he’d managed to do better on the math than the verbal.) These had been grievous challenges to overcome, but what artist was without challenges to overcome? He’d read stubbornly (and, it should be noted, already competitively, and with envy) throughout his childhood, departing the mandatory curriculum, leapfrogging the usual adolescent dross to vet the emerging field of his future rivals. Then off he had gone to Wesleyan to study creative writing, falling in with a tight group of fellow proto-novelists and short story writers who were just as insanely competitive as he was. Many were the dreams of young Jacob Finch Bonner when it came to the fiction he would one day write. (The “Bonner,” in point of fact, wasn’t entirely authentic—Jake’s paternal great-grandfather had substituted Bonner for Bernstein a solid century before—but neither was the “Finch,” which Jake himself had added in high school as an homage to the novel that awakened his love of fiction.) Sometimes, with books he especially loved, he imagined that he had actually written them himself, and was giving interviews about them to critics or reviewers (always humble in his deflection of the interviewer’s praise) or reading from them to large, avid audiences in a bookstore or some hall full of occupied seats. He imagined his own photograph on the back jacket flap of a hardcover (taking as his templates the already outdated writer-leaning-over-manual-typewriter or writer-with-pipe) and thought far too often about sitting at a table, signing copies for a long, coiling line of readers. Thank you, he would intone graciously to each woman or man. That’s so kind of you to say. Yes, that’s one of my favorites, too. It wasn’t precisely true that Jake never thought about the actual writing of his future fictions. He understood that books did not write themselves, and that real work—work of imagination, work of tenacity, work of skill—would be required to bring his own eventual books into the world. He also understood that the field was not uncrowded: a lot of young people just like himself felt the way he did about books and wanted to write them one day, and it was even possible that some of these other young people might conceivably have even more natural talent than he did, or possibly a more robust imagination, or just a greater will to get the job done. These were not ideas that gave him much pleasure, but, in his favor, he did know his own mind. He knew that he would not be getting certified to teach English in public schools (“if the writing thing doesn’t work out”) or taking the LSATs (“why not?”). He knew that he had chosen his lane and begun swimming, and he would not stop swimming until he held his own book in his own hands, at which point the world would surely have learned the thing he himself had known for so many years: He was a writer. A great writer. That had been the intention, anyway. It was late June and it had been raining all over Vermont for the better part of a week when Jake opened the door to his new office in Richard Peng Hall. As he stepped inside he noticed that he had tracked mud along the corridor and into the room, and he looked down at his sorry running shoes—once white, now brown with damp and dirt, never in fact used for actual running—and felt the pointlessness of taking them off now. He’d spent the long day driving up from the city with two plastic Food Emporium bags of clothes and that elderly leather satchel containing the nearly as elderly laptop on which his current novel—the novel he was theoretically (as opposed to actually) working on—and the folders of submitted work by his assigned students, and it occurred to him that he had brought progressively less with him each time he’d made the trip north to Ripley. The first year? A big suitcase stuffed with most of his clothing (because who knew what might be considered appropriate attire for three weeks in northern Vermont, surrounded by surely fawning students and surely envious fellow teachers?) and every printed-out draft of his second novel, the deadline for which he’d had a tendency to whine about in public. This year? Only those two plastic bags of tossed-in jeans and shirts and the laptop he now mainly used for ordering dinner and watching YouTube. If he was still doing this depressing job a year from now, he probably wouldn’t even bother with the laptop. No, Jake was not looking forward to the about-to-begin session of the Ripley Symposia. He was not looking forward to reconvening with his dreary and annoying colleagues, not one of them a writer he genuinely admired, and certainly he was not looking forward to feigning excitement for another battalion of eager students, each and every one of them likely convinced they would one day write—or perhaps had already written—the Great American Novel. Most of all, he was not looking forward to pretending that he himself was still a writer, let alone a great one. It went without saying that Jake had not done any preparation for the imminent term of the Ripley Symposia. He was utterly unfamiliar with any of the sample pages in those annoyingly thick folders. When he’d begun at Ripley he’d persuaded himself that “great teacher” was a laudable addition to “great writer,” and he’d given the writing samples of these folks, who’d put down real money to study with him, some very focused attention. But the folders he was now pulling out of his satchel, folders he ought to have begun reading weeks earlier when they’d arrived from Ruth Steuben (the Symposia’s highly acerbic office manager) had traveled from Priority Mail box to leather satchel without ever once suffering the indignity of being opened, let alone subjected to intimate examination. Jake looked at them balefully now, as if they themselves were responsible for his procrastination, and the appalling evening that lay ahead of him, as a result. Because after all, what was there to know about the people whose inner lives these folders contained, who were even now converging on northern Vermont, and the sterile conference rooms of Richard Peng Hall, and this very office, once the one-on-one conferences began in a few days? These particular students, these ardent apprentices, would be utterly indistinguishable from their earlier Ripley counterparts: mid-career professionals convinced they could churn out Clive Cussler adventures, or moms who blogged about their kids and didn’t see why that shouldn’t entitle them to a regular gig on Good Morning America, or newly retired people “returning to fiction” (secure in the knowledge that fiction had been waiting for them?). Worst of all were the ones who reminded Jake most of himself: “literary novelists,” utterly serious, burning with resentment toward anyone who’d gotten there first. The Clive Cusslers and mom bloggers might still be persuadable that Jake was a famous, or at least a “highly regarded” young (now “youngish”) novelist, but the would-be David Foster Wallaces and Donna Tartts who were certainly present in the pile of folders? Not so much. This group would be all too aware that Jacob Finch Bonner had fumbled his early shot, failed to produce a good enough second novel or any trace of a third novel, and been sent to the special purgatory for formerly promising writers, from which so few of them ever emerged. (It happened to be untrue that Jake had not produced a third novel, but in this case the untruth was actually preferable to the truth. There had indeed been a third novel, and even a fourth, but those manuscripts, the making of which had together consumed nearly five years of his life, had been rejected by a spectacular array of publishers of declining prestige, from the “legacy” publisher of The Invention of Wonder to the respectable university press that had published his second book, Reverberations, to the many, many small press publication competitions listed in the back of Poets & Writers, which he had spent a small fortune entering, and, needless to say, had failed to win. Given these demoralizing facts, he actually preferred that his students believe he was still struggling to reel in that mythical and stupendous second novel.) Even without reading the work of his new students, Jake felt he already knew them as intimately as he’d known their earlier counterparts, which was better than he wanted to know them. He knew, for example, that they were far less gifted than they believed they were, or possibly every bit as bad as they secretly feared they were. He knew they wanted things from him that he was utterly unequipped to deliver and had no business pretending he possessed in the first place. He also knew that every one of them was going to fail, and he knew that when he left them behind at the end of the current three-week session they would disappear from his life, never to be thought of again. Which was all he wanted from them, really. But first, he had to deliver on that Ripley fantasy that they were all, “students” and “teachers” alike, colleagues-in-art, each with a unique voice and a singular story to tell with it, and each equally deserving of being called that magical thing: a writer. It was just past seven and still raining. By the time he met his new students the following evening at the welcome cookout he would have to be all smiles, all personal encouragement, and full of such scintillating guidance that each new member of the Ripley Symposia Master of Fine Arts Program might believe the “gifted” (Philadelphia Inquirer) and “promising” (Boston Globe) author of The Invention of Wonder was personally prepared to usher them into the Shangri-La of Literary Fame. Unfortunately, the only path from here to there led through those twelve folders. He turned on the standard Richard Peng desk lamp and sat down in the standard Richard Peng office chair, which gave a loud squeak as he did, then he spent a long moment tracing a line of grime along the ridges of the cinder blocks on the wall beside his office door, delaying till the last possible moment the long and deeply unpleasant evening that was about to commence. How many times, looking back at this night, the very last night of a time he would always afterward think of as “before,” would he wish that he hadn’t been so utterly, fatally wrong? How many times, in spite of the astonishing good fortune set in motion by one of those folders, would he wish he’d backed his way out of that sterile office, retraced his own muddy footprints down the corridor, returned to his car, and driven those many hours back to New York and his ordinary, personal failure? Too many, but no matter. It was already too late for that.

~~~~

You know folks, sometimes you read a book and questions start coming into your mind... As I think about it, they started right from the beginning. So I went out and found several negative reviews about this particular book... Or maybe, I've caught a little of the fear that was recently expressed about somebody using AI to create a novel, under your name, and then selling it. In any event, I decided not to review this book, but to consider the aspects of the book itself, in relation to reading it as a new book to be read...

First, the author--the main character--has written a one-time gigantic hit which brought him into the big time writers list very fast... But his second novel failed to achieve that recognition. Was it writer's block? I've read a horror novel about having writer's block and I have to say that it was very well done, and scary, LOL... But that doesn't address the point of my question. How can you write a masterpiece and then, what, your mind just stops working? No creativity still exists?

Some might think I am a writer; I am not. What I do routinely is "respond" to another person's work, their words, their actual completion of a project--or a poem, which I've often done. Some may be written well; some not... But I know I do not have the creative mind to actually write an entire novel and all that it entails. I also know that I am not a "critic" as was used when more newspapers had book reviews by critical reviewers... I have done that sort of review early on, especially when I was a paid reviewer on an online site--Independent Professional Reviews.

So, right away, I could not understand how a first book could be an immediate hit. Was it merely the concept that had made that happen? The title of that first book was The Invention of Wonder. My first thought was that the title was pretty heavy. But, since nobody will ever read it, we have no idea exactly what that first top seller even said, or why it was so well received. One or two of the negative reviewers of this book said it was because of the "hype" used by publishers... From my own experience, I realize that not every book by the same author will be as good or as well written... Still, all the books written by a top author normally received equal praise... That just doesn't happen in my experience... I can watch a writer's work grow in talent and through experience. Indeed for a few, there has been a book that came along which revealed just how much the actual story had become "fuller," "more fluid in presentation," or even "a plot that is well beyond earlier books." Frankly, that's what I expect for writers I've followed for years... Something--whatever IT IS--has changed from earlier books...

Taking it a step further, when the second book was written and discovered NOT to be another hit, the publishers were not as enthusiastic in continuing to work with Jake. So this writer of The Invention of Wonder found himself without an income. And finally found a teaching job for teaching writing classes. Yes, you may wonder how he was able to teach what he has found he really can't do? Be A Writer?

Let me quickly point out that there are many writers, and really not a way that everybody who writes books can be successfully employed doing that. That's good, because it shows that we as a world continue to Read... But for the individual writer, it is a very difficult life. Mainly because of the number of books being written. If writers don't find a connection within the publishing world, then the choice to self-publish is full of dangers of various kinds... Some people can write, but have an inadequate mastering of the language used for the novel. Some people, though, think they can write, really can't... For instance, a young guy I met online asked me to read his book... It was full of creativity that he had seen on television or movies...but, it really wasn't a novel... No setting, no background, little dialogue... And, he couldn't understand what I was saying. I asked him about his reading--and learned, of course, that he had little reading experience...

Well, this is where this novel arrived. One of Jake's students at that class had told the entire class when he arrived that he had an idea that would make an award-winning novel... At one point, he talked about the concept with the class leader... 

Before long, the owner of the idea/concept was dead...

Life goes on, the writer was trying to complete a novel which was due to his publisher--and was being hassled to submit... Jake was also questioned about his connection with the student who had died.

At the same time, he met a woman who he almost immediately fell in love with and ultimately married...

But, also, at the same time, he decided since the original idea creator was now dead and time had swiftly gone by, he gave himself permission to "steal" the idea, which was a great one, and wrote a novel which quickly turned into a hit, of course...

You must realize, however, that the teacher had actually taken just a concept and wrote an entire novel from his own mind, responding to that idea...

Once it had been published and he was back into the limelight, it started... Notes were received that somebody knew he had used the book of a dead man... There was sufficient information that made him realize that somebody did know something--but what? He decided to go back into the area where the class had originally been taught, to the place where the young student had lived... All the while gathering information about who the egotistical young man actually was who claimed he'd write a best-selling novel...

But, when he returned, he learned that his wife had now been contacted with accusations...

When you read such a book about the actual writing of books, you immediately want to know more about the concept--at least I did. And, the author did insert a number of pages from that proposed book, for readers of this novel to read. Not enough to actually get involved with the plot, of course...

Most readers of mysteries will begin to know exactly what is going on. It really was not difficult. When you are faced with a mystery, you naturally begin to pinpoint all the possible characters in the book and work to eliminate the "not's" from the possibilities. In this book, that wasn't provided. In fact, the first chapter, which is provided as the above excerpt, is quite depressing and, instinct makes any reader wonder who this main character actually was...  

But an avid reader may quickly pinpointed the only person it could be. Case closed...

But this is not a simple mystery. Yes the investigation becomes a mystery... The frightful emotional concerns of the supposed plagiarist makes the book somewhat edgy... And, the book does pull readers at least to the next page, and the next... Is this enough to make a book a hit, to be praised by all? I wasn't quite convinced, since I went out to read some of the reviews, which I normally never do.

Bottom line for me was that there are so few books that I finish reading and have no real positive feeling about. That is, if I've read the entire book. By the time I'm finishing, my ranking begins to form. Normally with my system, I rate high for purposes of a store which requires ranking. Why? Because I include in my mind the lowest ratings for those books which I found not to be worth reading...they get 1 or 2... So my lowest rating for a good book would be 3. And that requires things like problems with editing or lack of continuity, or no recognition of break points, for scene changes, etc. Anyway, I'll just say I was a little disgusted as the book was moving on... And I certainly was not happy how it ended. 

I find using words more effective than a rank... which is often based upon nothing to do with the book itself... Such as those who rank a book because sex is explicit... That just means that you bought a book that you shouldn't have, if you have such a bias... Then, return it, is what I suggest... But don't claim a book itself deserves a 1, purely on personal opinion. I know you can do anything you want on most book sites. But, that just proves my point that a rating system is really illogical unless based upon specific points clearly outlined and provable... A difficult, if not impossible, thing to do, again, in my opinion.

I don't plan on posting a review for this book... But if I did, I think it would have to be a 3...Too many things don't add up... I just read a comment that the reader felt that plagiarism had actually taken place. Whereas I read the book as if the "concept" which is just a small part of writing a book, actually meant that the teacher did not write the entire book based upon a concept he heard about. That's not how I read the book, so if you think I'm wrong as I read it, let me know and we'll discuss...

And on final point...it was clear to me in the very first chapter that Jake had received no positive support in his life. We are therefore left with the question, did he actually write The Invention of Wonder, which was not even questioned at the time of its being published... Yet, the reader does have a right to wonder why none of his other books were deemed publishable? In this type of book, too much is left open-ended, in my opinion. My reading is that he did not steal the book. He took an idea and wrote a book. Surely before the end of the book it should have been determined whether the book itself was the same book that was supposedly completed... It made no mention that another book was forthcoming. Indeed, there is some question about who exactly first had the "concept" that was explored and ultimately led to a new book...

I don't like serial books which require waiting for the next book, unless it also closes out the present book. Cliff-hanging books are an unworthy thing to do to readers, again, in my opinion. There is no guarantee that the reader will ever learn the end of the story, which is, to me, simply not acceptable. I don't see too many writers using cliff-hangers any more. Perhaps because nobody remembers to buy that next book, out of all the others who don't "leave us hanging..." LOL

A final note: Through the videos above, I learned that the author has other top-rated books. I, too, wonder, if the hype by the publishers on this book is not part of the reason why it received so much visibility. At the end of the book, there was no real closure for those of us who felt the book was not stolen, rather that an idea had spurred another writer to create another well received book. Ideas are just that, you can't copyright an idea unless you give a whole more information about your proposal than a concept... Consider this... The Wizard of Oz has been changed to Wicked... An entirely different concept and story... Both are/were fantastic creative endeavors. Such creativity should be nurtured in any way possible, especially in children. Once they are old enough, basic principles of writing must be learned, practiced and explored to a greater extent--a goal... A concept is the bedrock of any type of creativity, including inventions, business models and more... But it is always the one who initiates a plan of action and performs the necessary work to move forward that should be credited with the fulfillment of that goal... It is those individuals who should be recognized, don't you think?

GABixlerReviews

I got visitors before I could finish, so I'm not doing a final proofread today... Will check it over tomorrow when free...

Gabby

Claws of Justice: A Cozy Cat Mystery by Emmie Lyn - Mint Chocolate Chip Mysteries Book 1 - Plan for Fast-Paced Cozy--if that is Possible!

 This officially was one of the worst days of my life I said to the rock poking into my cheek.

The above video has nothing to do with the book except for the title...all of the kittens are sweet and cuddling--Ah, but, maybe when they grow up and get involved with their owner's life of amateur detective...

“Sold!” Police Chief Bullock yelled and pointed in my direction. After watching his performance, I decided that the-middle-aged law enforcement officer loved moonlighting as an auctioneer more than his police responsibilities here in Pineville. I looked at the people milling around the old Nine Pine Nursery parking lot. Retired couples in baggy jeans and light jackets, millennial owners of local shops, and out-of-towners in designer hiking gear stopping to check for bargains. An event like this, in my quaint Maine town, brought out familiar faces and complete strangers. Some trudged back to their vehicles while others tossed their bidding numbers aside and gathered in groups to chat. I wondered which one of these people just bought this bankrupt business that had once belonged to my grandparents. “Hey.” The gray-haired guy next to me nudged me with his elbow. He hitched his khaki pants over his ample belly and tilted his head toward Chief Bullock. “He means you—Sunny Shaw—right?” He cupped his hand around his mouth as if telling a secret. “I got a peek at the auctioneer’s list and put two and two together. Congratulations.” If he hadn’t said my name, I would have thought his congratulations was directed to someone else. Anyone else. Instead, I stared, with what I assumed was my mouth dragging on the parking lot and my eyes bugged out. “What?” “You just bought this old place. Well, what’s left of it, I should say. I did some research and it’s a real shame that the previous owner sold off the land. But the retail building is solid, and the glass greenhouse only needs a good cleaning. Nothing some hard work can’t fix right up. Congratulations,” he repeated. “I was thinking about buying it myself if I could have gotten it for a song. Didn’t happen; you beat my bid. I suppose it’s a bit too big for my needs anyway.” He looked around wistfully, or so I decided, raised his New York Yankees ball cap and smoothed his thinning hair. “I did?” This was news to me. I’d only come for entertainment after being canned from my job as the sandwich-wearing lobster who walked up and down Main Street in Pineville, advertising—you won’t believe this—a get-away for an all-day cruise around Blueberry Bay. I know it sounds exciting, but believe me, I worked on that cruise and it’s full of a rollicking, stomach-upsetting, hang-over-the-railing, seasick six hours. 

Even my Newfie, Jasper, wasn’t a fan. And she loves the water. My ex-boss didn’t appreciate that I shared my story with potential fare-paying customers. “Yeah,” the guy said, talking to me like I didn’t have a clue. “You need to go up and pay.” Pay? “How much?” “All of it.” He shook his head and must be thinking I was the biggest dimwit he’d ever seen. “You want some advice?” he asked, dipping his head as if trying to keep his advice from the eavesdropping public. At the moment, I wanted answers, not advice but he’d stirred up my endless pit of curiosity. “Sure.” “Watch your back. By the look of this crowd, lots of other people were after this gem.” 

He glanced at his watch, frowned, and walked away without a goodbye. I bent over to tie my sneaker and think about what he’d said. Watch my back from what? But, more importantly at the moment, did I have enough money in my bank account to cover this purchase? Definitely not. The inheritance from my great aunt was still tied up in court for the foreseeable future. Maybe a run to the Canadian border was my best option. Unfortunately, before I even had time to figure out which way was north from the Blueberry Bay area, about a hundred and fifty-five pounds on four legs hit me from behind, squishing me flat into the dirt. 

This officially was one of the worst days of my life I said to the rock poking into my cheek. “Sunny? Open your eyes this minute.” With great effort, I cracked one eyelid a fraction of an inch. “Tilly?” I mumbled. “You brought Jasper here?” My neighbor, Tilly Morris, stared down at me. Even with all her quirks and wacky ideas, she looked out for me, watched my dog when necessary, and I considered her to be my pistol-packing guardian granny. Of course, I never referred to her that way out loud. She was a tad sensitive about her age—seventy, though you wouldn’t know it from her neon wardrobe and oversized personality. And she wasn’t anyone’s grandmother. “You sure did get yourself in a pickle this time, Sunny Shaw,” she said as she tugged on my arm. “Come on. Get up before you catch some disease from all that dirt you’re lying in. What happened to that guy who was standing next to you? He disappeared.” 

I shrugged. Not one bit of all this made a lick of sense. Something warm and wet traveled from my chin to my hairline. “Jasper! Stop!” But my dog, a big Newfoundland mix, the other half something like a small whale, had launched herself at me when Tilly brought her into the parking lot. Now she was straddling me, cleaning every exposed piece of skin she could find. “What is so tasty? Did I spill lobster on myself or something?” I tried to avoid her slobber, but my best hope of getting away from Jasper’s tongue was to wiggle and squirm out from under her. With Tilly pulling my arm while Jasper turned something I’d spilled on myself into her morning snack, I managed to get on my knees and crawl out from under her somewhat unusual embrace. “There,” I said, dusting the dirt from my fall in the parking lot off my khaki capris. I pulled the elastic out of my ponytail. A quick shake sent bits of twigs and leaves flying before I twisted my mass of dark hair into a messy bun, minus the debris. 

“What just happened?” “Apparently, you just bought this property,” Tilly hissed while pulling me away from all the people. “Are you crazy? How the heck are you planning to pay for it?” “No worries, Sunny. It’s all taken care of.” I almost gave myself whiplash when I turned around at the sound of the one voice that sent shivers up and down my spine. And not in a good way. At least, not anymore. There, smiling at me with green eyes like a cat stalking a mouse, and dimples that always meant trouble, stood Ty Hitchner. At one time I’d hoped he’d be my destiny. But then, he took off for more excitement than he could find with me in Pineville. Seeing him wasn’t good on so many levels. “Hitch,” Tilly said, using his nickname. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” I think she even batted her eyelashes. Ewww. My neighbor had always thought Hitch was Pineville’s gift to women; or, one woman in particular—me. Don’t ask me why because Hitch and I had different goals in life. Ever since he’d moved to the Big Apple for what he’d expected to be his dream job as a private security guard, I’d put him out of my mind. My goal was to not think about Hitch at all. But here he was, looking at me like he’d just returned to save the world. Or, maybe just my world. I crossed my arms. 

“What’s all taken care of?” I asked even thought I probably didn’t want to know the answer. “Paying for Nine Pine Nursery.” Hitch cocked his head with a quizzical don’t-play-dumb look. “You’ve always said you wished your grandparents hadn’t sold it.” “Look, Hitch,” I said feeling confused and more than a little frustrated. “I just lost my job, and I have no patience for your games. You were here in Pineville, then you left, and now, here you are again. Don’t mess with me.” I blinked back tears that threatened to spill and ruin my tough-girl pose along with a tiny bit of mascara. Hitch reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. I wished he hadn’t done that. How would I possibly resist his charm that he worked like an expert, using that chiseled jaw, those green eyes? “Sunny,” he said with a voice full of compassion. “This is no game. I’m back and we just bought the nursery.” Then he flashed a grin that normally made my heart flutter. “You can thank me later.” “Wait a minute. We?” Instead of a flutter, my heart pounded, mostly from anger but there might have been a bit of excitement mixed in if I was honest with myself. I patted my chest to calm down this internal battle. “Yeah, you and me.” Hitch spread his hands across the sky in front of us like he was unraveling a banner. “There’s room for both of us. I can see it already—Pineville’s new Shakes and Cakes Shop. Sounds great, right? You love those weird smoothies that are all the rave now, and I’ll use the greenhouse for my orchid collection and some herbs.” “But—” He covered my lips with his finger. A finger that smelled like peppermint candy. I closed my eyes, hoping I didn’t embarrass myself and take a taste. “Think about it before you shoot me down,” he said, pulling me out of my daydream just in time. “That’s all I’m asking, Sunshine. If you don’t want to partner with me, I know I can find someone else.” He winked, and I knew I was doomed. A scream pierced the air, which barely entered my consciousness with this latest emotion overload. Tilly raced toward us. I hadn’t even registered her absence with Hitch distracting me. “That guy who was standing next to you?” She looked at me with her big blue eyes wide with fear. Something Tilly rarely showed. “He’s dead.”

~~~~

Whew! This author must have read the same Readers' Digest I did that suggested you grab the reader's attention right from the beginning! Because this is probably the first cozy which I would consider more thriller based. Know what I mean?

Lyn plows into the story like none I've ever seen. The reader is found in the middle of an auction scene where Sunny Shaw is almost immediately told that she has bought a building! And she never even opened her mouth! Then, to top that amazing surprise off, a man comes up next to her--a stranger--who congratulations her for getting the building which he had bid on and really wanted... But he couldn't go any higher... If you, as the reader, think that she's dreaming, then know that you will soon realize that she is not dreaming...

And she now owns that building--bought and paid for!

Ok, let's back up just a bit... Because before she even gets to start asking questions, the man who had stopped by to talk with her... He's now dead! Murdered! Of course, there is always a death in a cozy mystery, but really? In the first chapter?! This writer started writing--and apparently couldn't stop writing until she was finishing the book! It moves that fast! And I read it that fast!

I was caught into the page-turning, reading and finishing in one evening... Once you get into the pace of the book, you cannot stop... A warning if you think this is a normal cozy where you can have a cup of tea, a few cookies or crackers... You know...just like me, we choose a cozy whenever we need a break from the chaos and confusion of the world we have now. At least that's how I choose cozies, especially if it is a "cat" cozy! Not goin' to work with this one...

Take a break and breathe. The murder has happened, the amateur detective has been identified...

Now we can get down to the investigation... Not...

Don't you wonder just who bought the building? Surely that was something you needed to clear up right away? No! Because it's also covered in that first chapter! And meeting the humorous main character, Tilly, is also there along with Jasper the cat-loving monster of a guard dog. And, you even learn about the plans for a shake and cakes theme...

But, you didn't learn about the secret dream that Sunny also has thought of doing... And it involved cats! and flowers--orchids in particular...

But let's get back to building a chronology of events. You really need to get some basic info, right? Well, Hitch had left for New York, hoping Sunny would go with him. That didn't happen. While he was there, he worked as a security guard of rare plants--the insurance company required coverage for the amount the owner wanted  to have them covered for. One very old bonsai tree was, frankly, unbelievably worth more than anybody could imagine, especially me! LOL

Hitch had been hired due to this insurance coverage... But it was at that owner's location, that Hitch had also been shot--by his boss--while another man was there watching... 

Harry got exactly what he deserved—a type of justice. But who delivered that death penalty?

And the mystery begins at that point... Why was Hitch shot...

On the other hand, it is no surprise that he returned back home and knowing that Sonny was still there--and, that the building now being sold had once belonged to Sonny's grandparents--that Hitch used Sonny's name to purchase that building... And all he was asking in return, was to have the building provide space for his orchid collection... which he'd started when he was working in New York...

During a shootout, I got hit and left my job with a big insurance payoff.”

Tilly had known what was happening, but hadn't shared it with Sonny, but she was there that day, to help whatever adjustments needed to be made in the "new" relationship as partners in renovating the building for a new purpose, which they'd have to discuss and decide together...

But the police had other ideas. Sonny had been seen talking to the man who was dead. Who also happened to be the former boss who had shot Hatch! Since Sonny had been seen talking to the man--who was a stranger merely being treated as a stranger in town--Sonny was of no help to the police whatsoever...

Except that Sonny had a past with both the police officer as well as Hitch...And that fact alone, kept Sonny in his mind as the officer learned that Hitch had actually bought the building putting it in Sonny's name... In any event, bits and pieces of what had happened began to be discovered. Who had seen what, began to be pulled together. Tilly, for instance, had seen a woman arguing with the murdered man sometime during the auction... And, she loved orchids too...

A pathetic mew caught my attention. Under my chair was the cutest, most adorable, but terrified kitty I’d ever seen. Well, to be honest, all kittens are adorable.

And then there happened to be a new man in town--a contractor who was to work on a job, but was brought to the attention of Sonny and Hitch as a possible contractor for their new building. Hitch had already formed a judgment of him personally as maybe a conman and didn't trust him, making that clear to Sonny...

But then Tilly and Sonny got together, and Tilly shot some "female boss courage,"advice to Sonny to start acting like reality was... SHE was the owner on the deed for the building... NOT Hitch...

And Sonny, indeed, knew exactly what she wanted to do with the building, and proceeded to act to move in that direction.  But, you really didn't think it would go smoothly thereafter did you? For before long, a woman who worked for the orchid lover in town, suddenly looked to Sonny to help her... She had learned quite a bit about what was happening, simply because rich people don't think their help are smart enough or care enough to hear what was being said within their hearing... Well, we all know that's a serious flaw for rich people to ignore... And it was the bonsai tree that launched a major theft, bait and switch, and much more that became more and more confusing, and caused Sonny and Hitch to become involved in this side hustle... 

Dumb hiding spot, by the way. No one was fooled by that flock of pink birds in your rock garden.” “Really? I thought it was very clever.”

I had to throw in the reference to pink flamingos--my mother loved them in her back yard/garden... LOL

Well, all that needs to be covered at this point, is the secret that Sonny openly started talking about... In a back corner of the newly renovated building was to be a kitty corner where kittens and act would live while they were waiting to be sold...Maybe a fountain, plants--and orchids! Well, I had to tell you I panicked on behalf of Sonny and Hatch, because the author clearly did not have inside cats as was being proposed... Can you imagine small claws knocking over plants, or, if the bonsai plant was chosen to live there, the kittens would be clawing on that ancient wood... Seriously, some plants are even dangerous for them to eat... 

Boo hiss on this, in my opinion, serious flaw for the cats+plant corner... Trust me, I speak from years of experience... Also, they were thinking about books? Ah, No...they will be chewed, torn, and tossed around whenever cats can get close to them...

And if you still question my own experience... check this out... The first video may be of value for some cat owners... But it would take a lot of discipline to allow this type of thing. Still it may give you ideas for such a space...

This is a cute video I just had to add...even if it was probably made by AI... And, if your cats act like these, then you have much more time for your companion than I do...

All my cats who sneak in, soon know that I'm in front of the computer most of the day...and am not to be bothered...

Until I turn to reading...and nothing but a reader can be used than--just keep it up and away from paws! LOL

Enjoy this one!

GABixlerReviews

Harold Michael Harvey Speaks on Peace Walking Through a Storm and When Peace Meets Fear

Peace Walking Through a Storm

How a line of monks exposes the moral weather of America today

They came walking as if the world had not yet taught them to hurry.

The monks moved in single file, robes brushing the winter air, each step a soft rebuttal to the nation’s rising clamor. Their silence is not retreat. It is testimony. In a country vibrating with fear, raids, and the cold machinery of federal power, their calm feels like a counterargument written in human form. They walk with the unbothered rhythm of people who know that truth does not need amplification to be heard.

America, meanwhile, is loud, loud with suspicion, loud with enforcement, loud with the grinding gears of a government that too often forgets the people inside its policies. 

Yet these monks walk as if to say: Noise is not authority. Stillness is not surrender. Their presence does not quiet the storm; it reveals it.

When the monks walked out of the Huong Dao Buddhist Temple/Vipassana Bhavana in Fort Worth, Texas, on October 26, 2025, on foot en route to Washington, D. C., few could see the storm brewing in America. Perhaps the monks sensed that America was a powder keg, ripe for explosion and in need of a cooling-off period.

Photo from the Internet.

Across the country, ICE operations have grown into a symbol of a government leaning heavily on its power. Families awakened by pounding on doors. Citizens detained because their paperwork was questioned. Long-time residents swept into a system that moves faster than the truth can catch up.

The official language is always the same: “procedures,” “protocols,” “enforcement actions.” But beneath the bureaucratic phrasing lies a simple reality. Fear has become a governing tool. Keep the populace in fear, stressed out, full of worry and concern, then willy-nilly govern at your pleasure.

Into this atmosphere stepped the monks, unarmed and unafraid. Their walk is not a traditional protest. They do not chant. They do not carry signs. They do not demand anything. They moved through the nation like a slow-moving mirror, reflecting the moral cost of our choices.

Their silence asked a question the country has been avoiding: What kind of nation requires this kind of walk?

This question becomes all the more important when one realizes that we are two Americas, side by side. Neither resembles the other.

As a journalist, I might describe the scene in terms of contrast: On one side, federal agents in dark uniforms, radios crackling, vehicles idling, tear gas smoke filling the air, the choreography of state power on full display. On the other, monks in saffron robes, hands folded, eyes lowered, their only weapon the steadiness of their breath.

A prophet like Isaiah or Jeremiah would frame it differently: One America is ruled by fear. The other is ruled by memory — the memory of who we said we were, and who we still might become.

A poet like James Baldwin would see the contrast in color and motion: the sharp lines of enforcement against the soft geometry of devotion; the clipped urgency of command against the unhurried cadence of prayer.

Both Americas are real. Only one, Baldwin would urge, is sustainable.

Baldwin taught me to bear witness and to speak of an American, “No better than I have seen.”

I have lived long enough to recognize this moment. I have seen federal power used to protect me on the first day of integrating the Lanier Jr. High School for Boys in Macon, Georgia, and I have seen it used to intimidate me as a criminal defense lawyer representing my clients in Hancock County, Georgia, and Butts County, Georgia.

Rev. C. T. Vivian dropped by for dinner to celebrate Harold Michael Harvey’s 60th birthday, October 16, 2011.

On his 95th birthday at the close of the last decade, I asked Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient Rev. C. T. Vivian, who had lived so long, what he thought of the Black Lives Matter protests. Vivian answered, “The kids blow it. They had the government in the palm of their hands until the rioting and looting started.”

I have watched peaceful walkers before — in Birmingham, where I marched not with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., but with Jesse Jackson, in Fort Valley, Georgia where I marched with Hosea Williams, in Macon, Georgia, where I marched with Dr. Joseph E. Lowery, and in the long shadow of Tuskegee with people who carried the moral weight of a nation on their shoulders simply by refusing to move in anger.

The monks remind me of that lineage. They are not marching against ICE. They are marching for the soul of the country.

Their walk calls forth memories of earlier reckonings, when ordinary people stepped into the streets not because they were strong, but because they were right. And like those earlier walkers, the monks understand something essential: that moral authority does not shout. It stands. It walks. It endures.

We are twittering on the prophetic edge with full knowledge that prophets do not predict the future; they diagnose the present. And the diagnosis is clear: A nation that treats its people as threats will eventually become a threat to itself.

The monks’ walk exposes the spiritual cost of our policies. It reveals how easily a government can drift from protection to punishment, from order to oppression, from vigilance to fear. Their silence is not passive; it is surgical. It cuts through the noise and lays bare the truth:

We are living in a time when compassion is treated as naïveté and enforcement as virtue.

But the monks insist on another reading of the moment. Their walk says: A nation is not measured by the strength of its borders, but by the breadth of its humanity.

Here is what their walk reveals about us:

In the end, the monks do not indict America with words. They indict America with presence.

Their silence becomes a mirror. Their calm becomes an indictment. Their steps become a prayer for a country that has lost its way.

They remind us that the measure of a nation is not how it treats the powerful, but how it treats the vulnerable. They remind us that dignity is not a privilege to be granted, but a birthright to be honored. They remind us that fear is a poor architect for a democratic home.

And perhaps the most urgent reminder is this:

The monks do not come to condemn America. They come to remind America of the promise it once made to itself — that dignity is not negotiable, and humanity is not optional.

As the heathens rage with long guns drawn in the snowy streets of Minneapolis, the monks walk up the eastern seaboard, offering an interesting contrast. 

Their walk is not a protest to the violence they know is happening in America. It is a prophecy. A quiet one, yes, but “quiet things have always had a way of outlasting storms,” wisdom according to C. T. Vivian.

~~~~

When Peace Meets Fear

The Quiet Tensions Along the Walk for Peace

An Evangelical Baptist in Monroe, Georgia attempting to convert the Monks to become Jesus worshippers. Photo Screen Shot from Baba Omaloh’s TikTok

 For weeks, the Buddhist monks walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. have moved through the South like a soft wind — steady, humble, and unthreatening. Their message is simple: peace begins within. Their method is ancient: walk, breathe, bless, repeat. And their presence has drawn thousands into moments of unexpected unity.

But as their visibility grows, so does something else: The quiet resistance that always rises when peace enters a space where fear has been living comfortably. Most of the country sees the crowds, the thousands who gather in cold weather, the families who bring food, the churches that open their doors. But on the edges of this movement, minor confrontations are beginning to surface, not in the mainstream press but in the digital spaces where many Americans now live their public lives. These moments are not the story of the walk. But they are part of the story of America.

 Will Butler, Georgia Executive Director for Frontline Response, International

 hosting the monks in DeKalb County, Georgia, December 28, 2025. Photo credit 

Will Butler In Monroe, Georgia, a small group appeared with picket signs, not many, but enough to signal discomfort. On social media, a lone protester confronted the monks directly, warning them that they were “walking to hell” and “taking their supporters with them.” And in another Georgia town, a church called the police simply because the monks were walking past their property. None of these incidents escalated. None became violent. None drew the attention of major news outlets. But they reveal something important: peace does not move through a society without stirring the fears that lie beneath its surface. These reactions are not about the monks. They are about the people who feel threatened by what the monks represent. What has struck me most is not the resistance itself, but the monks’ response to it. When confronted with condemnation, they said: “Let them say what they want to say.” When crowds grew tense, they reminded everyone: “Everyone has the right to express themselves. Focus on the peace within you.”

 The Venerable Monk charged with leading the monks on a 2300-mile trek for peace. Photo by Will Butler 

Encouraging their followers to respect everyone’s right to express their views is not passivity. Supporting freedom of expression is a discipline — the same discipline that has sustained spiritual movements for centuries. It echoes the teachings of Jesus on the hillside: Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the merciful. Blessed are the peacemakers. It echoes the posture of Dr. King in Birmingham and Selma: We will meet your physical force with soul force. It echoes Gandhi’s wisdom on the long road to the sea: In the end, the truth will stand alone. The monks are not reacting to fear. They are absorbing it, transforming it, and walking on. These minor flare-ups, a sign here, a harsh word there, a police call rooted in misunderstanding, are not evidence of widespread hostility. They are evidence of something more subtle and more revealing: Some Americans are unsettled by unfamiliar expressions of faith. Some feel threatened when peace comes from outside their tradition. Some mistake difference for danger. Some fear what they cannot categorize. 

And yet, these reactions also reveal something hopeful: the overwhelming majority of people respond to peace with openness, curiosity, and gratitude. For every protester, thousands are standing in silence, waiting for the monks to arrive. For every harsh word, there are countless gestures of kindness. For every fearful reaction, there is a community ready to embrace the moment. The tension is real, but so is the hope. When I stood among more than 5,000 people in Fayetteville, Georgia, waiting in the cold for the monks to arrive, I saw the best of what we can be. The sky was gray, the wind sharp, the morning heavy. But when the monks appeared, the clouds broke, and the sun poured through as if the day itself had been waiting for them. That moment felt like a blessing. But I also know that not everyone sees what I saw. Some see danger where there is none. Some see a threat where there is only humility. Some see spiritual competition where there is only compassion. 

And that, too, is part of the American story. For all the warmth that has greeted the monks across Georgia, their walk has also stirred a quieter, more complicated response. The kind that rarely makes the evening news but spreads quickly through the digital spaces where many Americans now form their understanding of the world.

 Will Butler with Akola trusted friend and companion of the monks. 

Photo from Will Butler 

In Monroe, a small group appeared with picket signs. On social media, a lone voice confronted the monks directly, warning them that they were “walking to hell” and “taking their supporters with them.” In another Georgia town, a church called the police simply because the monks walked past their property. These incidents were isolated but revealing. They showed that even a message as gentle as peace can unsettle those who fear what they cannot categorize.

What struck me most was not the resistance itself, but the monks’ response to it. “Let them say what they want to say,” they told their followers. “Everyone has the right to express themselves. Focus on the peace within you.” 

The monk’s posit was not resignation. It was discipline, the same spiritual clarity that has sustained peacemakers across centuries. Their posture echoed the teachings of Jesus on the hillside, the resolve of Dr. King in Birmingham, the quiet courage of Gandhi on the long road to the sea. Peace, when practiced sincerely, does not flinch at fear. It absorbs it, transforms it, and keeps walking. 

When the protestor in Monroe, Georgia, proclaimed that the monks were “walking to Hell,” the Venerable monk replied, “It’s okay, then let me go.” The monk added, “Are you at peace?” The protestor feigned that he was, then, as when Jesus was run out of the Synagogue and driven to the edge of the cliff before parting the crowd and walking past his persecutors, the protestor, blocking the monks’ movement, moved as the monks marched through his line of resistance.

These minor flare-ups do not define the walk. But they do reveal something about the American moment: that we are a nation still deciding whether we recognize peace when it approaches us, or whether we recoil from it out of habit, suspicion, or inherited fear. 

The monks are not here to convert anyone or challenge anyone’s faith. They are here to hold up a mirror. And in that mirror, we see both our generosity and our anxieties, our openness and our reflexive defensiveness. 

When the Monks reached Decatur, Georgia, they were met not with resistance but with the warmth of brotherly love in the person of Will Butler, Georgia Executive Director for Frontline Response International. Butler runs a shelter for the unhoused in Decatur. He was tasked with feeding the monks and housing them overnight at the Tobie Grant Recreation Center in DeKalb County, Georgia. Butler, whose mother is an ordained minister of the gospel, said, “It was truly an honor and pleasure for the Frontline Response team to provide overnight hospitality services to the Venerable Buddhist Monks. 

Witnessing all walks of faith and even non-believers coming together peacefully and respectfully in one place was awe-inspiring, and this moment in history will forever be remembered and forged into our hearts.” Leaving DeKalb County, Georgia, their journey continues. 

The question remains.

The monks are not here to convert anyone. 

They are not here to challenge Christianity or any other faith. 

They are not here to win a debate. 

They are here to ask a question, not with words, but with their walk: 

 

It is a question that reveals more about us than about them. 

And as they continue toward Washington, step by step, blessing by blessing, mile by mile, they invite us to choose, not between religions, not between ideologies, but between fear and compassion.

 

The monks have already chosen their path. The question now is whether we will choose ours. 

After all, whose side is God on?

 

When religion becomes divisive, it is no longer from the God who created ALL...When religion becomes more important than God's Love, it is no longer of God...This is what I believe. and as illustrated by Michael through his words and wisdom... Many have died based upon somebody's opinions of what religion they choose means...

But when you choose God, the Father

You may recognize His Truth His Love...

and find religion is of little value if Love is not present...

Gabby