He listened to his nephew drive away.In the early afternoon, Jeb was in the back yard, dragging a rusted lawn chair across the dirt. style,” she said, and extended her index finger through the fence. “Through seven Presidents,” he told the girl, laughing nervously and swatting his neck as if to catch mosquitoes. The blue tint of her veins showed through her skin. Water dripped all over the floor. Too long. “She’s up.

Brilliant, I thought, to write with the insertion of self as author inside the creation of characters’ personas and circumstances, commenting on the actual process of story-writing. They sat listening, waiting to see if it was really over. His face looked like a skull. He did, however, enjoy the thrill of frugality in stocking large quantities of meat, purchased on sale, in his storage freezer, which he now used as a dinner table in the basement. The girl made a face and sniffed her whiskey.

The upholstery smelled of Jeb—bitter, like dry rot, and slightly chemical. I don’t need any drama.”“What drama? The mind becomes littered with images of Fabio Lanzoni clutching a Victorian-dressed woman on the cover of Harlequins that stock the shelves of our nation’sWhile the novel can portray romance without the insipid dialogue that typically comes in multiple shades of grey, I would recommend this book to an adult audience. Say that six times fast.” He laughed. She picked up a small potted sapling and carried it back to the porch. “What is his profession, if I may ask?”“No, I mean he’s gone,” the girl said. She was only pretending to be bored, it seemed, fingering the lid of Jeb’s cigar box.“It’s all just sitting there, waiting to be revived,” Jeb said. Been a while since he had someone special in his life.” He winked. Lingerie.

“Your hair’s so “They called me Red Jeb when I was young. Early on we are introduced to Jay McNair grappling with how to dramatize the power dynamics of a sex scene between a man grieving the suicide of his daughter and his lover. “I’m sorry,” he said, speaking softly, as though he were about to cry. The storm raged and clattered. She was a tramp, a tease, nobody worth his time, he told himself. Should the famous novelist’s wife “bump herself off”—like Rochester’s mad wife in McCaig’s boomer protagonists are perimenopausal, and her dramatization of the complexities of this liminal stage of life are vivid: “One final blast of estrogen” in mid-life smoulders into inflamed writing about sex—not easy to do well.

by Talonbooks His face brightened. We’ll toast you the Alabama way, and then y’all can go off wherever young folks go. He’d been doing it for so long that the very sight of that neon-orange discount sticker could make his mouth water.He was glad the girl didn’t try to emulate the singer’s flourishes when she sang along. “That many Presidents.”Jeb laughed again and sighed and looked at her through the fence. In the past few weeks, Jeb had watched the boy and the girl through the scrim of brown paper covering their den windows. “But I’ve lived here forever. Well, I touched him, used his name, made some comments (okay guarded ones) to the effect that I thought he was cool. It became a springboard for other ideas in An Honest Woman.“They are also interrogating themselves about all sorts of things: About sexuality, about power, about ambition and imagination,” says McCaig, who will hold an author event with fellow Alberta writers Kat Cameron and Sophie Stocking on Nov. 23 at the Central Library. He thought that drinking while you ate diluted the stomach’s acids, so he rarely drank more than his morning coffee and an occasional tumbler of Kenny May whiskey, when he had something to celebrate or mourn. There are several narrators, and stories within stories, and writers making things up and fantasizing while living real (albeit fictional) lives. Define honest woman. “If you want to join us, I don’t mind. Published “He has been detained due to the rain.” He inhaled the smell of her, searching his mind for the words. For example, writer-protagonist Janet Mair imagines she will have to kill someone in order to engineer a meeting between a famous British writer and her protagonist, Jay McNair, who lives in Calgary. We've got you covered with the buzziest new releases of the day. She made fists of her hands, then spread her fingers out like bombs exploding. “I don’t have any ice, I’m afraid,” he said, holding a glass out to the girl.