Synopsis (by the author): The Selection began with thirty-five girls.
Now with the group narrowed down to the six Elite, the competition to win Prince Maxon's heart is fiercer than ever—and America is still struggling to decide where her heart truly lies. Is it with Maxon, who could make her life a fairy tale? Or with her first love, Aspen?
America is desperate for more time. But the rest of the Elite know exactly what they want—and America's chance to choose is about to slip away.
Review: I'm not often swayed by a cover. It's usually more about the story. The Selection was one of several books I picked up at the same time. I was in a heavy YA reading phase, and wanted more dystopian, more zombie related stuff.
Of the latter, The Selection has none. The former - well the jury was completely out on The Selection. I didn't feel like it was a dystopian world. There were the odd mentions about how the world of Ilea was ruled, but the clear definition was lacking for me.
The Selection is more a romance than a dystopian book. I have the feeling that HarperTeen knew how to market the book, so with the success of The Hunger Games, mentioning a dystopian world, however lightly, ticked a box. There's a strong possibility the author Keira Cass fully meant to explore this darker side of Ilea in later books, and while I will admit that The Elite begins to develop that side, it is still not developed enough in my view. But this is my own personal wish for the story. If the author wished to go another direction with this, that is her right.
Let's start with what I liked. With fewer girls left in the Selection, we get to know them in more depth. Whilst Celeste is perhaps the best known of the girls after Mer, I was pleased to read more about Kriss and Marlee because I liked them from the first book.
Maxon did a 180 for me near the end of The Selection. I could not help but call him a paper hat (tw*t) for acting the way he did. This time, he seems to understand the weight of responsibility that being King might actually mean and I liked this development for the character. He needs to be more than eye candy for the girls in my view, and again, the author succeeds.
The story overall is better, and though it ends abruptly, just like book one, the announcement that The One was already slated for release, just made sense. It doesn't get away from my belief that the story is a little too stretched out. But as a second book, it works.
Here's what was less certain. Aspen as a guard, in the palace, no less. He dumps Mer in book one, and it's never clear to me why he did that. I know why I have ended relationships with girls in the past. Aspen's actions are at odds with his behaviour. There is something of the night about him. He is too creepy for me, and as a plot device. seems to have been inserted to make the choice for Maxon and America not so plain sailing.
It's not a love triangle. Maxon also does dark things - going into the different girls rooms and one would have to be dense to know that he was playing them, and Mer, for that matter. I was pretty uncomfortable with that.
Of course, if we are to take the dystopian world at face value, then this behaviour by the prince should not surprise or shock us. Despots do this. Can Maxon rule absolutely in the future? The rebels, such as they are, seem pretty useless, so I believe Maxon and the monarchy are safe to treat Ilea as their personal plaything.
As the book draws to its close, we are no clearer to understanding Mer. For a main character, I think she is poorly conceived. Celeste and Marlee are far better drawn, and the book is better for it.
Ultimately, The Elite works well as a second book of three. I know The Heir is upon us, but I believed that Keira Cass intended only three books for this story. It looks like it could run and run. Would I be persuaded to read The One? Yes, even though The Elite doesn't offer any real surprises. It's good, solid YA fun. I think unlike The Selection, it doesn't pretend to be anything else.
Synopsis (from the author): A Powerful and emotive story. Mandy McCabe is a single parent trying to cope with her three children. All she wants in life is to love, nurture and protect them.
Without warning her world begins to crumble.
For the sake of her family Mandy has to find the strength, knowledge and will-power to face her problems. With her world falling down around her, she is forced to take drastic measures, but will it be enough to save her family?
Review:Things Fall Apart is a brutal and unflinching portrayal of life in Scotland in the 1980s. As I look back to my teenage years, it's easy to see that decade in anything other than a nostalgic haze. This is not helpful as we must look at things as they are.
Well. The first thing to say is that it is a family drama of the highest standard. The MC is Mandy McCabe, a mother who does her best to keep her family together, but as they descend into a vicious cocktail of drugs and alcohol (though the latter seems gentle in comparision as a method of abuse), things really do fall apart.
Part of the main issue I felt was the mother's often blanket denial that nothing was wrong, yet knowing it was. I am not a parent, but I can imagine protecting my kids from the outside world, yet might end up scolding them in private if they went off the rails.
It's hard not to think of one of the most famous portrayals of life - Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. The book and the film gave us a flavour of Scotland, and it is far from the national pride displayed in the recent referendum. Scots are a proud people - as they should be,but drugs is not about pride - in fact it will take your pride and leave you with nothing.
As I read the book, I wondered why the author had given us such a hard read. Well, life is certainly not all sunshine, rabbits and rainbows. It's hard, and for some readers, the realism on offer amongst its pages may be a little too much to take. Having said that, if you do read this book, it's not likely to leave your mind for a while.
This is one of those books that hits you so hard, I think it is best to read once, take your time over it and absorb it all. I mean, Schindler's List is a very hard film for me to watch, and to date I have only seen it twice. Once in the cinema, once at home. Its dark, uncompromising tone meant that I only had to view it a few times to take it in.
After reading this book, I promise that you will do whatever you can to protect your kids and those around you from drugs.
The first third of the book has a lot of police involvement, the middle third a descent into madness and depravity caused by drug abuse, and yet, by the third segment, I began to feel that maybe this dark story could have a good ending. That doesn't mean I wasn't put through the ringer, because I was.
Ultimately I think this story is about hope - that through a terrible set of tragedies there is a possible sunrise that one can aim for. But I was genuinely shocked that the falls were not the final humiliation for some of the characters. Some of them just kept on falling.
As I was reading I was thinking 'come on, get a grip.' But they can't. How can they? Drugs offer a different reality. No wonder the outer effects are so hideous.
So why should you read this? I suppose because not every story needs a zombie, vampire, mermaid, or billionaire boss. Sometimes a book needs to bring us back to Earth. This one does, and whilst you wil find it hard to read (not because of the writing style - which is excellent) but because it examines so clearly the brutal truth about drug abuse. When it is happening under your nose as a parent, I cannot think of anything worse.
Read this unflinching drama. It will make you think that your next day, your next moment is one to treasure. When you are drowning in drugs, or those around you are, you really can't see the rainbow - not the real one anyway. But the fight is worth it.
Synopsis (from the author): Ten For The Devil is a labyrinthine murder/revenge ride from an idyllic English Village to the industrious shipbuilding port of Saint John, NB (then St. John), in the newly formed country of Canada, over a span of fifty years. Chief Inspector Michael McLaughlin has believed that his nemesis was dead, but discovers that Seth Shaw is alive and in the very city that Michael and his family are visiting. His loves ones at risk, Michael closes in on a collision course with a serial murderer while the city is in flames. Book 1 - Michael was an eleven year old boy when he witnessed a murder and the lives of the families - friends, of both our murderer and witness are intertwined throughout generations from 1850 to modern day. A dark tale of obsession, revenge, murder, seduction, a love curse, reparation and survival. Our young boy grows up to join Scotland Yard and is obsessed with bringing Seth Shaw to justice. There is a sense of paranormal forces at work protecting our villain. The story’s climax will occur during the fire of June 20, 1877: a fire - second - only in size and damages to the famous Boston fire.
Review: Reading many books over the years, I cannot quite recall coming across a stronger representation of evil than the primary antagonist in Ten For The Devil. The story itself is a truly remarkable work in depth and in scope. This is the first book in the series and yet manages to cover a huge amount of time within this one volume.
Reading it back, and actually feeling sorry for Seth, I wondered why he had become so evil? We hear in modern media that the reason killers do what they do can be explained away through some medical imbalance in the brain. Others may state there was an emotional disconnect at home, where the father constantly beat the child for every minor infraction, or the mother never offered a simple hug.
In Ten For The Devil, I think the answer is far more simple. The main antagonist is evil, but not pure and certainly not simple.
I found it remarkable how the author drafted other characters into the story, some who were an unknown witness to several brutal and unnerving kills, and as the reader I felt like I was over their shoulder too - that if the antagonist saw me reading this stuff, he would come after me too.
No-one is safe from his brutal ways, yet he displays many signs of the psychopath - he is self assured, full of himself, has a total lack of respect for all kinds of life, and is vain in the extreme.
This is, however, just one facet of the story, and it would be inaccurate to list Ten For The Devil as a one man show. I will admit, however, that as rotten as he was, I missed him when he was not part of the narrative.
The story ends satisfyingly, though there is a lot more to come from the author, the extremely talented Deborah R Mitton.
Ten For The Devil features bizarre and sometimes distasteful elements of romance, but in no way does the author try to colour her main baddie with shades of grey. Yes, he is handsome, charming, disarming. But he is also a killer, and we must never forget that.
He is not someone you can root for, but you cannot ignore him either.
The story does not lack humour though, and one of the lines I liked:-
Referring to Pastor Brown: 'His voice carried the whole breadth and width of the church and a parishioner had once speculated that the pigeons in the bell tower flew to safer perches when he preached.'
But it is full of beautiful lines like this, too:-
The candle on the side table gave the sleeping pair a halo of golden light before it flickered and died, enveloping the room in darkness.
The book is choc-full of lines like this. Eerily beautiful, I have to say.
Beautiful, eerie, strange, dark, deliciously compelling. Buy Ten For The Devil today!
Short post today: When I wrote the first book in the Haunted Minds series, The Ghost of Normandy Road, and indeed, many of my books are enhanced by musical compositions that I reference throughout the stories.
For 'Ghost', the song that stayed in my head was released some twenty years ago. As I write this blog post, I cannot quite believe so much time has passed. But life has a way of doing that. Anyway why not play the music whilst you read short excerpt from the story. Maybe you will want to give the full book a try.
Every time I go to the house on Normandy Road, I think it will be the last. No matter how many times I do this, I find myself shaking uncontrollably. Perhaps it is understandable. I do this to myself, time and again. Because, I want to feel the excitement, the exhilaration, the fear. Okay, I admit it.
I want to see her.
I know she’s there. I’ve been told about her before. Only in ghost stories, they are just stories, they don’t mean anything, nor should they, to you or I. When I am not anywhere near that house on Normandy Road, that’s all it is. A house. Nothing more, nothing less.
I want to believe in her. I want to believe in the existence of ghosts.
Oh, I know you will think I’m being silly. Your questions? I’m sure you have many. I bet you have the answers to them all as well.
Do the floorboards creak? Of course they do. Does the door open slowly, making a sound only those on the other side of the grave could possibly make? You bet.
Do the windows rattle? Yeah, for real.
All houses do this, don’t they?
Sigh.
Yes they do. Pretty much all of them.
Come on. Rationalise this. Everyone knows why I shake uncontrollably when I go there. It’s because she is real. She exists, and she will not rest in her grave. Why? Because she belongs there, belongs in the house on Normandy Road. She’s never going to leave, because she can’t. But I can. I tease her every time I go, daring her to scare the living daylights out of me.
Sometimes, I can swear she responds to my dare. But no-one will believe me. No-one believes in ghosts, where I live.
Perhaps they don’t believe because I have not followed through on the dare, and lived to tell the tale. I hear them say ‘you should spend a night in the house then’, or they put it in the rules of threes, you know, like saying ‘you should go there, three nights in a row. Whatever is in that place, sure won’t like that.’
Of course, it’s my own fault. I say I will go and stay the three nights, but I never do. I can’t, really. I have to be home soon after school, otherwise Mum will be mad.
To understand, you’d really have to see the world through my eyes. That’s the problem with convincing people of the truth. They are only ever willing to accept their version of it.
Everything else, is a lie.
---
“Came in from a rainy Thursday
On the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly
I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio
Still I can't escape the ghost of you.”
Ordinary World – Duran Duran
---
Act One: The Witch of Hill-Top Green
The route from my school to home takes about fifteen minutes to walk, maybe ten if I run. On the days that I dare to pass the house on Normandy Road that stands so tall, foreboding, and yes, terrifying to me, I go quicker. Much quicker. On those days, I don’t think Jesus himself could catch me.
It’s something my mum would term as ‘he’s got the fear of God put into him.’ That would be a pretty accurate way to describe it. My heart would beat fast as I would approach it, and even faster as I passed it. As to what happened to my heart as I ran alongside it, maybe, just maybe it stopped beating for a few moments.
I know you won’t believe me, and think that it is the overactive imagination of a child. I’m only ten years old, and I will soon be eleven. I think I might just be growing up, but I know for a fact that the adults think differently when they look at me.
They think I am scared of my own shadow, and well – they’re probably right.
I do have a genuine reason for being scared, I really do. I’ve been nervous for as long as I can remember. Maybe it is a case of genetics, and my parents have passed their fears on to me.
Every time I pass that house on Normandy Road, I refuse to believe my fears are anything to do with genetics. The fear – the one psychiatrists would say is not real or rational, nor one that could hurt me, takes on a life and persona all of its own.
I believe an entity that is the embodiment of all I fear resides in that house.
Now I know I’m being irrational.
At school, we are always trying to scare each other. Sometimes, it’s a dare like going into the girls toilets, even though it’s five minutes after hometime and only the teachers remain in the school.
Oh, and the caretaker. He’s always there.
And the ghost.
Well. We don’t know for sure. There’s an old story that the girls failed to confirm or deny, but it is said that a girl died after being locked in the toilets one night.
The official record of her death (say the girls) is that she died from a severe anxiety attack. The news had reported she was found with her eyes sewn up, and her tongue had been ripped out to stop her screaming.
The boys that heard this added something to it.
“She was killed by the Ghost of Normandy Road.”
Prior to them saying anything, I never believed there was a ghost on Normandy Road. Our school was in the next street, called Bayswater Road.
There was a church beyond it, and a football stadium on the other side of the road that stands to this day.
Normandy Road had tall houses back then, and it’s fair to say that adults were sure to be dwarfed by that big old house.
It stood alone, you see. Every other house was semidetached or part of a terraced block – all except that one. Why, I did not know, but I was intrigued to find out.
That’s what we kids do. We like to look around – if there’s a side entry, a dark alleyway, a broken window or an abandoned house, you can bet we want to check it out.
Not for its historical significance, if it had any, and not because we are without any sense of right and wrong. Don’t let anyone just say ‘oh, they’re kids.’
We know what we are doing – we just happen to rely on the foolishness of society to let us off the hook. I know for a fact that there are some children at the school who play the ‘I’m only a child, I didn’t know it was wrong’ card on purpose.
As for me, I probably had one of those faces that looked innocent in one way, only to be ratted out by my guilty as charged expression.
Sometimes, it was innocent enough. I would be unable to wait to open at least one Christmas or birthday present. I would sneak down the stairs, placing one foot, then another on the far side of the stairwell.
Life was very simple back then. We had a bit of blue carpet that covered the stairs, except for the edges where I now depended on keeping my balance, my safety and my secret. In fact, falling down the stairs and breaking my neck would have been preferable to my mum or anyone else in the family catching me.
I wasn’t supposed to be out of bed. Young children were supposed to go to bed early, quietly, and stay there until the right time to get up for school.
Ugh.
School.
School itself was fine. Looking back, it’s hard to know exactly what we learned in class. I think we had fun for the most part. There was Miss McManus, who would teach us almost every lesson.
Maths, English, Music, she’d do it all.
Sometimes, we’d get Miss Oakley, who was a Nazi in a twinset. Okay, I’m being a little unkind. That sort of title was better reserved for Mrs Pearson (or Mizz Pearson, we were never quite sure and she was unlikely to explain her married status, or otherwise, to a class of school children) whose contempt for us was barely concealed.
Mr Flanagan would teach us Maths too, along with Geography.
P.E class would involve having to change with the other schoolchildren, which I disliked intensely. Not for the bizarre communal situation, no, it was just that certain boys would take it upon themselves to talk when they weren’t supposed to, and our class would be harder as a result.
“Today, we’ll be doing cross-country running.”
The teacher was probably going to let us play football, but decided on a change of lesson content just because one boy was sniggering or had been playing another boy up.
Now we would all pay for it.
“Hey,” they’d say to me, as we would go for the hated run in the mud, the rain, and the cold, “you had better keep up with the pack. The Witch of Hill Top Green is just behind one of the trees, waiting for you to pass.”
I’d fight back with words. “Witches wouldn’t hide in trees. They wouldn’t have to. And it’s you who needs to keep up with the pack, not me. You watch out for the bleedin’ witch!”
Ah yes, the Witch of Hill Top Green.
We’d all seen her, though no-one admits to it, at least, not openly.
We would run, and it would be pleasant enough. The September sun grazed our shoulders gently, unlike the harsh glare of early July. Honestly – two weeks before breaking up for the summer holidays, and they are making us run in blistering heat.
In contrast, I almost found myself enjoying the September run. Then, they’d start their annoying tales again.
“Roy’s gone missing,” said one of them. “I’ve lapped you lot twice now, and there’s no sign of Roy. She must have got him, her bony fingers must be gutting him out right about now.”
I would get a poke in the back when I’d attempt to ignore them, and continue on my run.
“Are you listening? She’s out there! Out here.”
No. I am not listening. I’m running, and will keep running until we get back to the school.
Usually, we would see the teacher over the course of the run. Where was he?
The Witch of Hill Top Green has got him, and Roy. Best be happy she hasn’t got you.
Synopsis (from the author): Walking Over Eggshells is an autobiography that tells the story of a mentally abused child, who married a "Walter Mitty" clone who took her to live in many different countries. They moved from England to Kenya, from Libya to Botswana and on again to South Africa. It took all her courage to survive in situations that were at times dangerous, sometimes humorous, but always nerve wracking. She had a variety of jobs, different types of homes, and was both a millionairess and totally broke. At one end of the scale she met royalty, hosted ambassadors, and won numerous awards for her writing and for her television programmes. At the other end, she climbed over garbage dumps, fended off the bailiffs, and coped with being abandoned in the African bush with a seven week old baby, no money and no resources. She admits to being the biggest coward in the world, but her survival instincts kicked in and she lived to tell her story. This book will make you laugh and cry, but also it also explains the damage being brought up by a mother with a personality disorder can inflict on a child. However, it is not all doom and gloom, and hopefully it will inspire others who did not have the best start in life either. All names have been changed to protect both the guilty and the innocent - and that includes the author as well!
Review: ** spoiler alert ** I'm definitely not one for reading stories about abuse, though I accept many stories would have much less impact as a result.
The book I am about to review was harrowing, with a parent who seemed to have no redeeming qualities at all.
The main character, Lucy, goes from life crash to life crash, sometimes on her own, sometimes with the man in her life.
Although just over two hundred pages, readers should take care to read the book properly. If you skip pages, it would be easy to miss things. In this review, it may be virtually impossible not to give out spoilers, so that's how this review will be presented.
From its opening pages, Lucy is treated as nothing by her mother. Well, perhaps not exactly nothing. It would be a wonder to know what her mother would do with her time if she did not have Lucy to direct her attacks towards.
The book shows Lucy from a young age to a middle aged woman, and not once does she appear to have gotten any love from her mother. As I read the book, I thought I would have gotten desensitised to the mother's actions, but no...my thoughts were along the lines of, Come on! This is your daughter! Try and be nice for once!
If this was a work of fiction, one might say that the mother was a one-dimensional baddie. But there comes a reveal near to the end that shows Lucy's mother might - just might have had a reason for all this behaviour.
It seems that if Lucy was thin, her mother would call her a stick insect. If she was fat, and in one scene she is, and her mother calls her out on it:-
"Lucinda, you are a fat girl and you will always be a fat girl."
This shocked me, but did not surprise me. However, I know all too well how sensitive women can be about their weight. I just couldn't imagine saying something like that to a family member, or indeed, to anyone I care about.
The story moves through different places - some I know, others I just have an awareness of.
From Dublin, the place of my mother's birth, through to Cheltenham - not a million miles away from me...then onto several countries within Africa including Libya and Botswana.
What's the reason for all this country hopping? There are valid reasons, but I advise you read this book so as not to give it away!
One of the things I absolutely loved was the naming of Lucy's car - Domino. There's a scene where Domino is in desperate need of a new battery (God, I've been there) and yet the hills in Bath (love that place) provide a solution. I believe you could have a 200 year old car with no battery and yet you would still be able to ignite the fuel to get and keep it going, such are the hills in Bath.
This story would risk falling on its face if not for the delicate humour placed throughout the book. Another memorable scene was where Lucy's husband karate chops a doorknob from its housing, and Lucy has to carry it in her bag at all times in order to open the door!
It's very difficult for me to review this book and give it any sense of justice. After all, this is a person's LIFE - who am I to review it or critique it effectively?
Hopefully, what I have done is give you a flavour of what is contained amongst its pages.
It's a wonderfully written book that sweeps you along with this girl, who in my view is a hell of a fighter, and there isn't a dry chapter in the whole book. Now that takes some doing.
I applaud the author for creating such an engaging book, but also heart wrenching at times. Still, I found I could not pull myself away from it.
It's definitely a five star book as far as I'm concerned. I'm sometimes told I am a little too enthusiastic with praise for authors. Not true. I will call it as I see it.
Don't Walk Over Eggshells to get this book. Make a stampede. It's excellent.
But Violet is resistant. Can she open her heart again after having it broken so brutally? And more importantly, should she?
Review: Easily one of my favourite authors, J Kahele once again gives us a strongly narrated adult romance, but with a heart.
The opening scenes in the book show Violet being viciously and brutally dumped for a fleeting moment of sexual gratification by her ex-fiance Harrison.
He's an idiot, pure and simple. At this point in the story we don't know that much about Violet, but as the tale progresses it is clear that H made a mistake. Unfortunately for him, there is to be no second chance, as Violet becomes the focus of Chain, our main male of the piece.
There's also a wonderful scene featuring Violet's brothers, Vince and Victor - despite having the same initial which one might think leads to some confusion, it doesn't. I loved it, and it gave the book some light comedic relief.
It's fair to say that apart from Archie in Miss Kahele's Crazy on You, her male characters tend to be super rich, super good looking....something I can't relate to all that well! But Chain, for all his apparent good fortune, seems to be her best characterised male to date, and I for one am pleased to see this progression from the author.
The story it told from Violet's perspective, but also Chain's. This is something I am noticing in a lot of stories of late. If they are all as well written as this one, I won't be complaining.
Violet Chain works because the story - a broken heart, finds one to mend it. But this is the tale at its most basic level. It is much more than that, and ends strongly that will have you screaming for more.
Whilst fans of Miss Kahele await a possible third installment of the Mine series, this will do very nicely indeed!
The cold hard reality of reading your draft back after a given period.
"Your book is ready? Nuh-ah-nuuh. No. I don't think so."
Anyone who has ever written a first draft of a book will know that it is just that - a draft. The hard work starts afterwards, where you have to look at your work in a different way altogether. This is a discipline so hard for independent writers - not all of us of course, but in my case, making the jump from mere writer to hard-line-critique-spewing-red-pen-at-the-ready editor is difficult.
No wonder we hand this task over to someone who does this for a living.
In my own experience, the choice of an editor was the right one, however we have to accept that even they have limitations to their powers. An editor will view your book one way, you, as the author will view it another way.
And then, there is an army of readers ready to read it in their own unique way.
So the need for the author to get his or her book right from the off has never been more important. Authors need help too - it's a far bigger team all of a sudden, with editors, proofreaders, beta readers et al getting in on the act.
However, not all authors can afford all these professional services. One proofreading service I contacted said they charged £450 for the first 50,000 words. This may be reasonable enough, but if you are a first time author hoping that your book is going to make enough (quietly) so that by month two or three, that vital service or services are suddenly more affordable.
Getting your book professionally proofread and edited is a must for authors. As a first time author, you should take a step back, because although your book has been written, you might just find yourself seeking out all these services, which you could save a lot of time and money by doing some more of the ground work yourself.
My books have a three month gestation period. Whilst that sounds hideous, it is pretty necessary. I may want to make swathing changes to the book - not the story itself (because hopefully you've created an outline first and knew how the story was going to end), but grammatical changes, sentence and paragraph structure, and of course, the (eventually ending ) hunt for typos.
It's all too easy to send your book out to an agent, publisher or editor without the proper cooling down time being applied to the work. After all, you worked hard on it, and the narcissist in us will want it read (and praised!) as soon as possible.
But you should wait. Really, you should wait. The draft is not the final one. There's much work to be done.
We have to toughen up and take the hits. Not everyone will think what we have done is awesome.
"What? Don't you understand? My book is finished. You don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? My mum likes my book. Why don't you? Ugh - you're mean!"
You've only just thrown off the shackles of being an author.
So how do you become your own editor?
The simple truth is, you can't do the job of an editor. Not perfectly. But if you can get into an editor's mindset, your book will be all the better for it.
An editor:-
Will tell you what is wrong with the plot
Point out character flaws that simply do not work in tandem with the story
Highlight timeline issues
Highlight glaring plotholes
Simply advise you (you don't have to accept what they say, but you probably should)
Delusions that we have written a truly great story need shaking up. It may well be great, but be realistic. You can be truthful to yourself and win more readers as a result.
"I finished my book. And yet it seems amongst the praise, you dare to criticise it? Allow me to find something that will convince you that I am right."
As the author of the work:-
You may think your draft needs work, but that the story is brilliant
You may think your story is rubbish, even though it has potential
You will speed read it, missing loads of errors, instead of going through it line by line
You will not see the story as it needs to be seen
Look at the point directly above, again
That is not to say that editors are the first, last and final word on everything. I have a paperback book from the Writer's Workshop - a very highly regarded entity, that contains a glaring mistake in a chapter about not making spelling errors. Something tells me that there is some irony at play here.
Still, the book is excellent, so I would look over something like that.
The one month to three month holiday that your eyes gets from your draft allows you to come back, fresh, energised and most important - with some level of ability to effectively edit your work.
Don't try and write one book in the morning, and edit another in the afternoon. It really can mess you up - i know it did for me. So as appealing as writing new stories maybe be, hold off until you have finished your book properly.
There's an argument that authors who suffer writer's block should go and work on other projects. Maybe - but I am inclined to disagree. If you are writing a book about vampires, and another about mermaids, if you don't split yourself properly from the respective works, you will end up merging the ideas.
This in itself is not always a bad thing. Darren Aronofsky, one of my favourite film directors, had the idea for a story where a ballerina fell in love with a wrestler - the highest art meeting the lowest one (that's not my quote or my belief - all arts are valuable to the one who practises them) - but the story would not gel, so DA split the ideas.
The result was the excellent The Wrestler with a powerhouse performance from Mickey O'Rourke and an Oscar winning turn from Natalie Portman in Black Swan.
So step back, take a breather, and become the Odile to the more comfortable Odette. If you really can't critque your work, do - really do give it to someone else. Editing isn't evil - it just needs to be done, done again, and done to death. You'll come to the point that you actually hate your book.
