The Literate Kitty

I've never been one to give much thought to my relationship with my mother; she's just... Mom , and we've always been two very different people. Still, for all our problems--the mild annoyances, and those areas in which our opinions, beliefs, and attitudes do a complete 180 from each other--the inescapable fact is that I wouldn't be, precisely, who I am today... were it not for her. Am I going to spout some claptrap about how, with each passing year, I feel closer to her or understand her better? Um, that would be a big "no". On the verge of acknowledging that the things which have always made me grit my teeth are now just cute little eccentricities? Again, a resounding no. ("Hell, no," would be my woefully-inelegant response to that, actually. I just don't do sentimental.) But, there are a few things I definitely like and respect... things that (usually) make it possible for me to bite my tongue and silently tolerate the rest, even. So...

We’d all like a do-over now and then, wouldn’t we? After royally mucking up something--saying or doing the exact wrong thing--think how fabulous it would be to have a second chance to make things right. Therein lies the problem, of course: it’s not possible; for there to be any second chances, we’d need the ability to go back in time. Ah, but what if time travel were possible... if we had the technology and know-how to traipse back and forth between present and past? If we had the opportunity to go back and undo whatever--and then, to do it differently-- wouldn’t most of us take it? ~ ✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠ ~ At a large (and highly-anticipated) London congregation of geographers, naturalists, botanists, and journalists in 1861, the stage is set for Sir Richard Francis Burton, famed (and famously-controversial) world explorer and linguist, to— hopefully —lay waste to some of the spurious claims recently made by his former-friend-and-exploring-partner, Mr. John Hanning Speke.  T...

Everyone thinks they “know” Florida... whether or not they’ve ever set foot across the state line.    Maybe it’s the rampant commercialism of Orlando. Key West’s breezy, laid-back cool (set to the tune of every Jimmy Buffett song ever written). South Beach’s “Miami Vice” vibes. Beach cities known for hosting raucous Spring Break parties and annual biker meets. Or maybe it’s gator-spotting in the swamps.   Whatever it is, we associate larger-than-life, outrageous places and people with the Sunshine State.   What we rarely think about are all the "normal" people with unglamorous jobs and boring lives just like the rest of us.   But in  Pocket-47 , author Jude Hardin actually combines the two “sides” of Florida, mixing regular Joes and Janes with enough of that trademark craziness and weirdness to satisfy anyone.     Nicholas Colt used to have it all—fame, fortune, and family—back when he was lead guitarist in a popular rock band.  ...

A pair of sexy and highly-skilled grifters—fresh from their most-lucrative con job to date—decide to bow out at the top of their game, leaving behind all the glitz, glamour, and thrills in favor of a new pursuit: getting their own little piece of The American Dream (modest home and one-eared rescue dog, included). Meanwhile, their lovable-but-dim buddy—who wouldn’t know a successful scam if it walked up and slapped him upside the head (which is, by the way, totally likely)—gets a wild hare to try his luck in the art world... as an artist. (This, despite the fact that his friends know he can’t draw a straight line with a ruler.) The setting for their respective suburban dreams and grandiose schemes? Unassuming Santa Fe, New Mexico. (Yes, it’s a little, erm, off the beaten path--especially for anyone who isn’t from there—but you try finding a good place to “go straight” when you’ve been scamming your way along the West Coast and through the Southwest for the past several years, and... ...

I’ve always had what you might call a like/dislike relationship with short stories. In their favor, they perform a useful function: providing some escapist entertainment when reading time is limited. They’re like little morsels in the buffet of storytelling, (hopefully) palatable and (generally) easily-digestible... although rarely approaching the level of delicacies. Of course, the same thing which makes them desirable—their brevity—can also be their downfall. Too many short stories come across as incomplete pieces of what must (or should) have been a larger whole, leaving me unfulfilled in the end... as though I’d sat down at a table famished, prepared for a small feast, but had been served, instead, a 100-calorie bagged snack. After looking through my stacks of books (which are still pretty much everywhere ) recently, and spying several skinny little volumes peeking out from between the much larger ones—not to mention all those shorties I keep having to thumb past on my Kindle’s hom...