Ever wonder what makes your favorite author tick? Our author interviews bring you closer to bestselling authors than ever before.Click for Your Example
What's almost as good as a great ebook recommendation from a friend? One from us.See What You Get
Free ebooks, reading devices, and much more from sponsoring authors. Why not win while you read?Click to See One
Ever wanted to be a part of the editing and creating experience with an author? Well, these authors want you to help.Click to See an Example
Wonderful short stories published by our favorite authors just for your VIP experience.Read An Excerpt
Q. After graduating from college, you spend five years in Europe studying literature and preparing to teach meditation. What does that preparation involve? How do you know when you’re ready to actually teach someone how to meditate?
A. I studied under Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who had a structured teacher-training program lasting 9 months. Once I graduated from that program, I was ready and able to teach meditation.
Q. You’ve dedicated a substantial portion of your life to the search for permanent happiness and the goal of attaining human enlightenment. When did that shift in focus occur, and what prompted it? How far have you come in your personal journey to achieve permanent happiness?
A. The primary shift occurred in college, when I began to question whether the outward-oriented, societal-success model for life made sense. I began to turn toward studies in religion, psychology, philosophy, and anthropology for answers. I realized that I had a soul, not simply a body. The biggest change was getting initiated into meditation just after graduation from college.
Q. This needs to be a question unto its own: What do humans have to do in order to achieve permanent happiness?
A. Meditate regularly. While there are other avenues for spiritual evolution, meditation is the fastest. One should also practice kindness to others, eat healthy foods, sleep sufficiently, and exercise well. It is useful to spend time with the most evolved people you can find and to read spiritual literature.
Q. On the lines of spirituality, you recently released an ebook entitled “The Whisper of a Saint.” It is about a person’s path to enlightenment, from the perspective of a Western man. How does spirituality differ in the West versus somewhere like India, where some of the most important historical spirituality has derived from?
A. Maharishi's goal was to bring the wisdom of the East to the lifestyles of the West. We are busy, so he suggested short, 20-minute periods of meditation twice daily, morning and evening. We don't like a lot of ceremony, so he kept the practice simply. Ultimately, spirituality is the same wherever one goes. Finding one's true Self, Pure Consciousness, is easily done by anyone, anywhere. It is, after all, what we truly Are.
Q. If you could distill the message of “The Whisper of a Saint” to three bullet-points intended to draw people in to read more, what would those points be?
A. 1) The purpose of human life is to evolve toward Enlightenment.
2) Meditation and association with wise souls accelerates the pace of evolution.
3) The miraculous is actually quite ordinary as a soul evolves toward Enlightenment.
Q. Before “The Whisper of a Saint” you wrote “Remembering Eternity.” The series also addresses an attempt to achieve enlightenment, but it comes when the main character has hit rock bottom. He is recently divorced, has lost his family, his wealth and his reputation. He decides to seek lasting happiness instead of anything else. Do you think a stripping of all material things, whether voluntary or not, is necessary to achieve lasting happiness? Do you think that’s even a feasible goal in Western society?
A. No, it is not necessary. But so long as one views "happiness" as being something external to oneself, something to be gotten in the world of material objects or egoic success, then one will not make rapid progress toward permanent happiness. Everything external can disappear: lovers can leave, children can die, careers can end, money can be lost. Obviously, none of them is permanent. Establishing Pure Consciousness, realizing that one Is PC, means finding bliss that no one can ever take away. It is your essence as a human Being.
Q. A topic you broach in “Remembering Eternity” is the “American Elite.” Specifically, the issue of how those American Elite don’t like to discuss “hidden aids” that put the odds of the game in their favor. How did that topic overlap with the path to enlightenment?
A. While at Princeton, I came across the American elite and came to understand how the success game in this country is often rigged in their favor. Early on, I felt inferior to these wealthy, well-dressed aristocrats. But I came to realize that true wealth is something that rises from within oneself. "Remembering Eternity" functions not only on the level of an enlightenment story, but also on that of an analysis of the baby-boomer generation in America.
Q. If you were to create a spirituality/meditation to-read list, a curriculum if you will, what would be on that list?
A. 1) "The Science of Being and the Art of Living"
2) The "Bhagavad Gita"
3) "Yoga Vashistha"
Q. How much closer to enlightenment are you now than 10 years ago? 20 years ago? What is the most important change you’ve made in your life to get there?
A. One can never estimate degrees of distance from Enlightenment. Suffice it to say that I am happy with my progress. Establishing a twice-daily meditation practice, from which I never varied, was key to that progress.
Q. As you continue on your own spiritual path, what else do you think you will produce for the benefit of others?
A. My goal at this stage of my life is to be of service to others. My books were written not for money or reputation, but to help spread the word of Masters of Enlightenment. I try to pass their knowledge on every day, however I can. I will also release more books in the near future.
About the book:
A night out — a few hours of fun.
What could possibly go wrong?
SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE
"The Perfect Mother is a gripping page-turner that explores the pressures of modern motherhood as well as a mother’s absolute worst nightmare. At once wonderfully nuanced and compulsively readable, it keeps you guessing at every moment, up until the very end. I could not be prouder to be bringing this thriller to the big screen."—Kerry Washington
Some people are so good at making perfect look easy.
They call themselves the May Mothers—a collection of new moms who gave birth in the same month. Twice a week, with strollers in tow, they get together in Prospect Park, seeking refuge from the isolation of new motherhood; sharing the fears, joys, and anxieties of their new child-centered lives.
When the group’s members agree to meet for drinks at a hip local bar, they have in mind a casual evening of fun, a brief break from their daily routine. But on this sultry Fourth of July night during the hottest summer in Brooklyn’s history, something goes terrifyingly wrong: one of the babies is taken from his crib. Winnie, a single mom, was reluctant to leave six-week-old Midas with a babysitter, but the May Mothers insisted that everything would be fine. Now Midas is missing, the police are asking disturbing questions, and Winnie’s very private life has become fodder for a ravenous media.
Though none of the other members in the group is close to the reserved Winnie, three of them will go to increasingly risky lengths to help her find her son. And as the police bungle the investigation and the media begin to scrutinize the mothers in the days after Midas goes missing, damaging secrets are exposed, marriages are tested, and friendships are formed and fractured.
Unfolding over the course of thirteen fraught days and culminating in an exquisite and unexpected twist, The Perfect Mother is the perfect book for our times—a nuanced and addictively readable story that exposes the truth of modern mothers’ lives as it explores the power of an ideal that is based on a lie.
International bestselling author Liz Gavin’s books have made to #1 in countries as diverse as Japan, the UK, the US, Canada, Australia and her home country Brazil, collecting 5 and 4-star reviews. Nominated for a Summer Indie Book Award in 2016, and again in 2017, this RWA member constantly seeks new opportunities to improve her craft. This thirst for knowledge propelled Liz to leave the comforts of family and friends in Brazil and move to California to pursue a Master’s degree in late 2015. She lives in sunny SoCal, where she’s researching the writing process, for her thesis, in hopes to figure out why she creates in English instead of her native Portuguese.
Liz Gavin writes in contemporary, paranormal, and historical genres. In her sexy stories, one finds smart, independent women, who don’t need rescuing by knights in shining armor, but indulge in steamy action with swoony Alpha males with big hearts. She also writes about women discovering their sexuality and finding happiness in unconventional setups.
Prospective ARC participants should contact Liz via email at email@example.com to apply.
Cold. God, he couldn’t remember ever before being this cold, never ever in his life. Only one day and he was already beginning to regret his decision. His jaw was numb from the cold and his shoulders ached from hunching against it. The wind was blowing out of the northwest, sweeping snow under the brim of his hat, the beautiful new Montana peak he’d bought just two days before. It swept in, no matter how he tucked his chin or turned away from the blast, blinding him and taking his breath away.
Hell, it was April. It wasn’t supposed to be doing this in April.
His name was Ray Turner, seventeen on his last birthday, and he was bone weary from his first day working the line, his first day of fence duty. No one had told him what a pain in the butt working the fence would be. Where was the glamour? The lariat on the straying calf, the long gallop over the plain to turn the errant steer, the fact-to-face encounter (oh god yes, the encounter) with some angry Sioux warrior come to plague the herd? Where the hell was the romance?
He and Curly were walking their horses back through the snow toward the line shack where they’d stowed their gear after riding out from the main ranch. That morning the Montana sunrise had been beautiful, the prairie grass glistening with dew in the slanting sunlight, nearly blinding him as it glanced off the ground. April in Montana, the huge sky above, the buttes in dark silhouette against the western horizon, the rounded hills leading down to the Yellowstone. What more could a young man ask for?
Well, how about some glamour? A little romance? He knew they were there somewhere.
But first the reality of a long day riding the fence, re-stapling sagging wire, straightening posts, re-attaching supports to the “deadmen.” Curly had thus identified for him the glacial boulders to which the tension wires were strung. By noon his fingers were numb from too many misdirected blows, his hands bloody from handling, mishandling, the barbed wire. By three his back was screaming from all the bending, lifting, pulling—using muscles he hadn’t used before, at least not in the way he was using them then.
And now the reality of a late spring blizzard as only Montana could know it, the Canadian low sweeping out of the north to turn the blush of April back to January scowl.
So much for glamour and romance.
With visibility near zero, they were following the fence back to the line shack. Finally, topping one last rise, there it was, barely visible below them. The slope leading down to the Yellowstone was irregular, with low hills and hollows north and south along the river, and the line shack was built into the side of one such hollow.
It was a sorry affair the color of Montana mud, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape. The back wall and half the two side walls were earthen with cottonwood poles for the front, sides, and roof, the roof then covered with cowhides and sod. But it looked like a palace to the boy.
They dismounted at the shed on the north side, unsaddled their horses and turned them into the fenced enclosure. Then they hauled their gear into the shack.
The line shack was primitive in construction, but it had everything they would need while they were there on fence patrol. One room facing east, fifteen feet square with a plank floor, a window in each side wall, and a door that opened outward and was covered with cowhide to keep out the drafts. There was a pot-belly stove in the middle of the room with a wooden table and four chairs in the south half, then two sets of bunk beds along the north wall with the window in between. Near the door, hanging from a nail, was a water bag, and hanging from nails in the south wall were the sacks of provisions they’d brought with them.
Curly lit the lamps and turned to Ray. “Chips outside,” he said pointing north. Curly was not one to waste words.
Ray came back with an armload of cow chips, deposited them, the put some in the stove. On the chips Curly poured oil from one of the lamps and then dropped in a match. Soon the room was warmer as well as smokier, most of the smoke going up the stovepipe, but not all. And the air was pungent with the mixed aromas of coal oil, steaming saddle blankets, and burning cow chips. Ray didn’t care. He could hear the wind outside but he no longer felt its cutting edge, and the odors were a small price to pay for being warm again.
Curly took off his coat and hat and placed them on one of the upper bunks along the north wall. His head, shining dully in the lamplight, gave the lie to his name. Ray assumed he’d acquired it years before, in the days of his youth and curly locks. Or maybe it was the same mentality that called circus elephants Tiny. Using that logic, the boy thought, Curly should be Gabby. Curly McCoy, Ray guessed, was somewhere in this late forties or early fifties, one of the old-timers in Montana cattle ranching, and a man from whom Ray could learn much. And even though Curly seemed a bit slow with anything other than cows, horses, and fences. Ray could learn by example rather than word. Could learn from him, that is, if Ray was going to continue to pursue his career as a cowboy. After today, he wasn’t as sure of that as he’d been the day before.
He followed Curly’s move, putting his coat on the other bunk, then carefully placing the new hat on top. He’d paid too much for it, he knew, about half a month’s wages he hadn’t yet earned. But it was worth it. He loved the way he looked in it when he stood before the bureau mirror in his hotel room in Miles City where he’d bought it just after signing with the Bow and Arrow. It had taken too much of his meager savings but he didn’t care. No self-respecting cowpoke would be without a proper hat. And that raggedy old cap he’d worn there from home just wouldn’t do.
“You scrounge up some grub ‘n I’ll go tend the horses”, Curly instructed, putting his coat and hat on again.
In the gunnysacks they had provisions for a week: four loaves of bread, coffee, a half-gallon of baked beans, potatoes, carrots, onions, a slab of bacon, a ham, and two chickens. Though Ray had never before done any kind of cooking, he’d watched his mother do it often enough at the Ismay Hotel to believe he could pull it off. After all, a stew’s a stew. How tough could it be? He’d show Curly he was no greenhorn. At least not when it came to cooking.
He found a kettle big enough for more stew than the two of them would need, rinsed out the dust, filled it halfway with water from the water bag, and set it on top of the stove.
That morning, at Curly’s instructions—Curly wordlessly handed him the bag and pointed—Ray had gone down to the river, filled the bag, brought it back and hung it on the wall to be ready for them when they returned that evening.
He got out three potatoes, a half dozen carrots, and an onion. With his jackknife he peeled the potatoes and carrots, then cut them in chunks and dropped them in the water, which was by this time beginning to steam. Next the onion, in generous slabs. He took out one of the chickens from the other sack. It was already plucked and gutted so all he had to do was cut it up and put it in with the vegetables. Legs, thighs, wings, then the carcass in four chunks.
It was all bubbling nicely by the time Curly came back. He sniffed once and nodded. Ray took that to mean it smelled good. Curly brushed snow from his shoulders and beat his hat on an arm. “Nasty un,” he said. “Probly no work tomorrow.” He put coat and hat on the bunk, then sat in a chair with a long sigh. Then, “Thet’s probly okay with you, huh, Ray?” he said, smiling, already knowing Ray’s answer.
Ray assured him it would be better than okay—would Curly believe great, wonderful, heavenly? Even being cooped up for a day or two with Curly, no great conversationalist, beat having to go out to work the fence again. They sat with legs outstretched toward the stove and waited for the chicken to get done.
When Ray awakened, at first he didn’t know where he was, thinking he was back in Ismay still dreaming of being a cowboy. Then he remembered, and looked to see if Curly was laughing at him for falling asleep, like some kid exhausted from men’s work. He was relieved to see Curly slumped in his chair, hands folded over his belly, chin tucked in his chest, snoring vigorously. He looked older now in the lamplight, his features sleep-loose with deep creases in chin and cheeks, lines raying out from eyes that had squinted for too many years into too many Montana suns, his forehead and scalp a smooth white contrast to the heavily weathered face. Then Ray noticed the jagged flesh bunched and puckered from just above the left eye and running across the temple to a point above his ear. When Curly was a young man just learning the trade, he’d been bucked off a frisky mustang and then kicked into a three-day coma. Some of the Bow and Arrow cowboys unkindly suggested that was the reason Curly said so little: the kick had addled his brain and he just didn’t know what to say. But Ray hadn’t been around long enough to have heard the story of the mustang and the kick. Sometime, he promised himself, when he knew Curly better, he would ask him about the scar.
He got up to check the stew. He spooned out a potato chunk, blew on it, and popped it in his mouth. Oh yes, just like his mother’s—no, he decided, better than his mother’s.
He gently shook Curly awake, and they scooped out stew in their cups and ate together in silence. The vegetables were delicious, the chicken the best Ray had ever tasted. They ate it all, sopping up even the last drops with chunks of bread.
“Oooooeee,” Curly cooed contentedly, “mighty fine, boy. I cain’t remember any better.” For Curly, that was a speech, and Ray glowed with the praise.
Curly took out a sack of tobacco and a paper and rolled a smoke, licking the edge, twisting the ends and lighting it, then blowing out a stream of smoke. He extended the bag to Ray, who declined, not so much because he wouldn’t have liked to try it, but because he was certain he’d never be able to get the tobacco in the paper without scattering it all over the shack. While Curly smoked, Ray cleaned the pot out with some water and then hung it on a nail by the vegetable sack.
Just then, even over the moaning wind, they heard the sound of an approaching rider, then a horse’s snort and an answering whinny from one of the horses in the corral. Curly got up and went to the north window. He shrugged and sat down again.
“What is it, Curly? Who’s out there?” Ray asked.
“Too dark,” Curly answered.
Moments later the door opened and a man entered in a swirl of snow and wind, saddle in one hand, bridle and blanket over his arm. He pulled the door shut, threw his gear down in the corner, took off his hat and slapped it against a leg.
“Howdy do, boys,” he said. “We got us a good un out there.”
He took off his coat and put it and his hat on a bunk. Then he pulled a chair up to the stove, holding his hands out and rubbing them together. “Nice to hear yer sweet voice again, Curly. Who’s this young feller? Don’t believe we met before. Name’s Bob Atkins, Texas Bob to my friends. So what’ll it be, young feller—Bob Atkins or Texas Bob?”
Curly snorted his amusement.
Ray wasn’t sure who the man was or why he was there or how he should respond to him. “I’m Ray, Ray Turner,” he said, extending his hand. “I signed on just a couple days ago.” The man took his hand and they shook. “You work for the Bow and Arrow, Bob?” Ray asked. “Texas Bob,” he corrected himself.
“Me ‘n Curly been workin’ fer the Bow fer more years’n I’d keer to say. How many now, Curly? Gotta be . . . damn near thirty. Right, Curly? Just nod, Curly. I know how it pains ya to open yer mouth.”
“I was out checkin’ fence to the north, ‘n when the damn storm blew up. I figgered to come here ‘n spend the night with you boys. This un looks like that blue norther we had in, what, ’92, right, Curly? You ‘member that un, Curl?”
Curly was in the middle of rolling a cigarette, but he nodded as he licked the paper shut. He remembered. He wasn’t simple, after all. He knew what the others said about him, but he chose to ignore them.
“So, Ray, how’s ol’ Curly been treatin’ ya? He talkin’ yer ears raggedy?” He laughed. Then he frowned, having thought of something else. “Ya like ridin’ fence?”
Before Ray could respond, he went on. “Gol dern bob wire anyways. Curly ‘n me remember the days when this country was open—no fences, just God ‘n buffla grass ‘n cows ‘n open range.” He produced a corncob pipe and a pouch of tobacco and proceeded to fill it, tamp the tobacco in, and light it, puffing mightily with blue smoke billowing around him. He sighed when he got it going to his satisfaction, and slumped in his chair remembering the old days, the good days.
Ray considered him in the yellow light from the oil lamps. He was about the same age as Curly, medium height, but lean and tough as old cowhide. His hair was black streaked with gray, and his cheeks and chin were black with a day’s growth of beard. Another one he could learn from, he decided. And this one loved to talk.
“You boys already et, I spose. Yeah, I was afeared I’d get here too late. Well, I kin always rustle up somethin’ in a bit.” He punched down the tobacco with a blunt thumb, then struck a match and sucked the flame down into the pipe bowl.
“How old er ya, Ray? Look a little green to me.”
Before Ray could tell him he was twenty-one and no greenhorn, Bob went on.
“But then I ‘member Luke Sweetman, outta Texas, back in ’86. He’s only eighteen on the big spring roundup that year ‘n he’s headin’ up one of the big outfits in District Eight, Circle Dot, it was. Or mebbe N-Bar-N. I dunno. Which was it, Curly? You ‘member?”
“Yeah, well anyways, don’t much matter how old ya are, long’s ya know what yer doin’.”
The fire in the stove was down, so Ray added several more chips. He was happy to be sitting there, listening to the talk, even though only one of them was doing any talking.
“Them were the days, all right,” Texas Bob went on. “I ‘member when the XIT drove herds all the way from Texas to Montana range. Now we got ‘steaders all over the dern place. Everthin’s fenced now. Short-horn Herefords now ‘steada them mean-eyed, stringy, pisshead longhorns. Probly short-peckered men ‘n boys now too.” He looked at Ray and smiled. Curly was nodding off by the fire, Bob’s patter like an old, often-heard serenade.
Texas Bob got up and stretched. “I’m gonna find me some grub ‘fore I hit the sack. What’s left over here?’
He went to the south wall to the provisions. When he saw the pot hanging nearby, he turned to the others and said with hands on hips, “Gol dernit, Curly! What in sam hill’s the pisspot doin’ hangin’ over here?”
Ray never cooked chicken after that. Ray never ate chicken after that.
Reblogged from "Frank Sonnenberg Online," whose blog can be found by clicking HERE.
Do you think you’re a positive person? A positive mental attitude can improve your health, enhance your relationships, increase your chances of success, and add years to your life.
The fact is, most people are bombarded by negativity each day. Sure, it’s easy to cast blame by saying you’re surrounded by negative people. The reality: A lot of the negativity is self-inflicted…influenced by the company you keep and your personal perspective on life’s realities.
Take a minute…
Think how often in the day you’re besieged by people who argue over money, worry about the possibility of failure, complain about someone’s actions, criticize mistakes, mistrustsomeone’s intentions, blame others to avoid condemnation, envy someone for personal achievements, and gossip about trivial garbage. (No wonder we’re exhausted at the end of the day.)
Let’s take a closer look at the negativity that we face every day…
Arguments. Many arguments are the result of poor communication, the lack of open mindedness, or the clash of opposing values and principles. People also argue to force their viewpoint on others or just to let off steam.
Worry. Others worry about losing control. They desire certainty in an uncertain world. These people feel that worrying is productive, even though they’ll be the first to tell you that they’re driving themselves crazy because they can’t get these thoughts out of their head.
Fear. Some people fear the unknown. Just as pollution damages the environment, fear is toxic to individuals and companies. Fear encourages people to withdraw, keep information close to their vest, hide mistakes, and refuse to take risks. Whether their fear is caused by something real or imagined, perception is reality.
Blame. Criticizing and insulting people in front of their peers, challenging their competence, demanding impossible deadlines, and cutting them out of the information loop are tactics that create negativity. Furthermore, when something goes wrong, people often look to others to cast blame. The result is that everyone watches out for #1 — themselves.
Complaints. The reason many people complain all the time is not necessarily because they’re unhappy with their lives or circumstances. The fact is, compulsive complainers don’t even realize that they’re complaining. Perpetual complainers grumble out of boredom or a desire to turn an awkward moment of silence into a conversation starter. Or sometimes, people complain just because it makes them feel better to vent.
Criticism. There’s a difference between constructive feedback and biting criticism. While constructive feedback is offered with good intent, constant and biting criticism can lead to stress, anxiety, and reduced self-esteem.
Mistrust. How much time is wasted and how much ill will created as a result of mistrust? People spend endless hours second-guessing intent, peering over shoulders, and creating elaborate approval processes to check and recheck.
Jealousy. When is enough, enough? We live in a society where many people aren’t satisfied with their own accomplishments. If our neighbor buys a new toy, if our colleague receives a promotion, or if the TV celebrity flaunts a new design, we want it too. The problem is, after the excitement wears off, the finish line moves as well. Whether it’s affordable, deserved, or needed never comes into question.
Gossip (our national pastime). People gossip to fit into a group, fill a void in conversation, prove that they’re in the know, take revenge on a person, put someone in their place, or merely to gain attention. Gossip is a disease spread mouth to mouth. It’s one of those distractions that keep us from focusing on our own lives.
It Pays to Be Positive
There’s a direct correlation between a positive attitude and better relationships, superior health, and greater success.
A positive attitude can boost your energy, heighten your inner strength, inspire others, and garner the fortitude to meet difficult challenges. According to research from the Mayo Clinic, positive thinking can increase your life span, decrease depression, reduce levels of distress, provide greater resistance to the common cold, offer better psychological and physical well-being, reduce the risk of death from cardiovascular disease, and enable you to cope better during hardships and times of stress.
Here are several ways to adopt a positive mental attitude:
Surround yourself with positive people. Spend time with people who are positive, supportive, and who energize you. Remember, if you get too close to a drowning victim, he may take you down with him. Pick a positive person instead.
Be positive yourself. If you don’t want to be surrounded by negative people, what makes you think others do? Learn to master your own thoughts. For example:
When you visualize a goal, it makes you more likely to take the actions necessary to reach it. Visualize yourself winning the race, getting the promotion, accepting the award, or landing the new account.
Control your negative thinking. This can be accomplished in the following ways:
See the glass as half full rather than half empty.
Anticipate the best outcome.
Stay the middle ground. Don’t view everything in extremes — as either fantastic or a catastrophe. This will help you reduce your highs and lows.
Mistakes happen. Negative people blame themselves for every bad occurrence whether it was their fault or not. Don’t let this be you.
Consciously resist negative thinking. Be cognizant of and mentally avoid negative thinking. This will help you modify your behavior.
Be nice to yourself. Unfortunately, some people say the meanest things to themselves. If you criticize yourself long enough, you’ll start to believe it. This negativity can drag you down over time. It may be time to fire the critic and hire the advocate.
Set realistic, achievable goals. There’s nothing wrong with setting a high bar — unless you beat yourself up for not achieving your goals. The key is to build confidence by setting realistic goals and by hitting a lot of singles rather than swinging for the fences.
Keep it in perspective. Life is all about prioritizing the things that matter most in your life and focusing your efforts in these areas. This means that trivial things that go wrong every day shouldn’t get you down. Learn to address or ignore small issues and move on. It’s time to sweat the big stuff.
Turn challenges into opportunities. Instead of letting challenges overwhelm you, turn them into opportunities. (Rather than hitting the wall, climb over it or go around.)
Count your blessings. Be grateful and give thanks for the special things in your life rather than taking them for granted. Some people do this by giving thanks around the dinner table, keeping a written journal, or posting one special item each day on Facebook. Remember, some of the greatest possessions in life aren’t material. Take every opportunity to make a wonderful new memory.
If you want to achieve happiness, better health, stronger relationships, and continued success, you may not have to look any further than the mirror. “The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the best of everything they have.”* Do you see the glass half full or half empty? True happiness may depend on how you view the world and who you look to for inspiration. It pays to be positive
An eBookHounds Original Review
About the book:
1947. In the chaotic aftermath of World War II, American college girl Charlie St. Clair is pregnant, unmarried, and on the verge of being thrown out of her very proper family. She's also nursing a desperate hope that her beloved cousin Rose, who disappeared in Nazi-occupied France during the war, might still be alive. So when Charlie's parents banish her to Europe to have her "little problem" taken care of, Charlie breaks free and heads to London, determined to find out what happened to the cousin she loves like a sister.
1915. A year into the Great War, Eve Gardiner burns to join the fight against the Germans and unexpectedly gets her chance when she's recruited to work as a spy. Sent into enemy-occupied France, she's trained by the mesmerizing Lili, the "Queen of Spies", who manages a vast network of secret agents right under the enemy's nose.
Thirty years later, haunted by the betrayal that ultimately tore apart the Alice Network, Eve spends her days drunk and secluded in her crumbling London house. Until a young American barges in uttering a name Eve hasn't heard in decades, and launches them both on a mission to find the truth...no matter where it leads.
This...book...was...astounding. We're almost speechless, certainly breathless. It's almost as if we have to collect ourselves before we start writing this review. Where to start?
Perhaps we should rattle off some details to get ourselves orientated. Like much historical fiction, the story concurrently follows to plots, in two different times. First, there is the story set in post WWII Europe, following the teenage Charlie St. Clair. Second, there is the story set in WWI German-occupied France, with Eve Gardiner a/k/a Marguerite Le Francois. Both stories are fascinating in their own rights, but the story of Eve Gardiner and The Alice Network of female spies during WWI is riveting. Lit-trally on the edge of your seat, eyes blurring from reading exhaustion type of writing.
Kate Quinn's (author) writing is exquisite. A perfect blend of detail with pace, agony with triumph, despair with hope. The world around you collapses as you read The Alice Network, and Quinn delivers you the type of escape that not even the most potent drugs deliver. She keeps the suspense taut throughout. However, Quinn does not overdo the cliffhanger/suspenseful endings to chapters--something which preserves their significance for when she does employ that tactic.
We disagree with some of the other reviews we've read of The Alice Network. We didn't find many parts of the story funny or humorous. We also didn't categorize the story as a "tale." It was downright serious. Particularly with respect to the light it shined on the status of women in both time periods. Without detracting from the story at hand, Quinn artfully wove in the second-class status of women in all parts of the world. They could not obtain more than menial jobs. If they went to school, it was to acquire a well-stationed husband. And, God forbid if they got pregnant out of wedlock and then had the temerity to actually carry the baby to full term. In both time periods, those women were tramps, whores and ostracized from society. They were even ostracized from their families. What a different world we live in today. Not a perfect world, but light years better.
Back to the serious nature of the story. Simply put, we did not find any room for levity in the WWI spy story. Like Eve Gardiner, we were on the razor's edge as we traced her attempts to gather information against the German occupiers. Everytime she had to up the proverbial ante, to stay in her role in the bleak town of Lille, France, we shuddered. For, we hesitated to believe it, but our gut constantly reminded us that her likelihood of complete success without tremendous sacrifice (sacrifices we couldn't begin to imagine) was nil. You will not laugh. You will not consider this a tale. You will read in wonderment at the sheer strength and determination of seemingly ordinary women, who wanted nothing more than to serve their country.
We bought this eBook for our Kindle app. We will be buying it in paperback, as well. It is far too easy to forget what books you have when they sit on a digital shelf. Plus, there's a romance and an appreciation that can only be had when you pass physical books that you had a relationship with. The Alice Network is one of those.
Needless to say, a recommendation without reservation.