Tag: covers

Bingo @ BlueCastle, November, (or just when I was about to truly despair, I tied in a win….!)

It has been one of THOSE months.

You know, the ones where each week is ascendingly more awful than the week preceding it, until you are at this zenith point of Terribleness, but there is nowhere escape and you think: yep, this is it. Hell has frozen over and I am just waiting for a nod from one of the four horseman before the End of Days is officially declared.

Yeah, one of those Novembers.

September TBR: Joan Wolf (or Castles, Prince Charming & Blackmailing Love…)

This month’s TBR Challenge from the luminary Wendy The Super Librarian (as dictated from her Fortress of Solitude & Books) was No theme! No Theme! No Theme! This should have made it very easy – the reality?
Far far from the madding crowd… Nothing seemed quite right. I was overly picky, underly decisional and the result was just a big ole mess.

SO I made my OWN theme: The Joan Wolf Theme.

Everywhere and Every Way, Jennifer Probst, (Or one trope sandwich – hold the cheese…)

Last month I was late with my TBR challenge (*hangs head in shame*), so I was determined to be AT LEAST almost on time with this one…

This month’s TBR Challenge, pulled from Wendy the Super Librarian’s Cliffs of Insanity was Favourite Trope. Which is kind of like asking me which of my cat-children I love best, or which M&M flavour I horde secretly so I don’t have to share…Or my favourite type of alcohol…

I mean really who can decide?

Wodehouse Shorties, (or chocolate box change and escaping the rut…)

I have a rut. It’s comfortable and secure. Located deep in a dell by BlueCastle, it contains THOUSANDS of romances.

Sky-high piles of romances.

In fact so many romances, I have considered becoming a sort-of endangered species-rescuer of romances; whisking them away from their unfortunate situations and perilous existence in op-shops, garages and the back of wardrobes everywhere and releasing them at BlueCastle…where they can roam freely, without prejudice or fear of poaching…

House By Mouse (a Statement on 80s Feminism, or an Occupational Nightmare of Mammoth Proportions?)

I have book hoarding tendencies. It’s true (and you probably don’t find that all that shocking) but I just can not get rid of any book.
It is unfortunately, a family trait. My father had to build an extra room onto our house when we were young, specifically to house all the accumulated masses collected over the years.
He built this before our bedrooms.

The Coincidence of Coconut Cake, Amy E. Reichert (or the only food book not to make me hungry…)

If there is one thing I can not resist in the world – it’s a romance with food & food peoples. You know how some people are about cowboys? How they start fanning themselves and getting heart palpitations at the mere mention of a jingling spur??? Well, Foodie Romances (is that a thing? I’m not sure – but BlueCastle is making it so), are like my own personal catnip. I can’t resist them. Chefs, cooks, B&B’s with food, kitchens, restaurants, food vans, catering, fast food* – it’s like a book buffet.

Carbon Copy Companion Reading II (or is everything a vague reflection of GEORGETTE HEYER??)

So was reading a book… perambulating through it really – when I was slowly overwhelmed by this feeling. Not all at once mind you – more like an encroaching tide of inevitability, coupled with a sense of ineluctable destiny. Like all roads would lead to this point, regardless of the path I took. No Robert Frost for me thank you. I was like: no, wait…there is something about this that is soo familiar… It was elusive (not unlike the scarlet pimpernel). It was liminal. It was Georgette Heyer. Again. It did make me wonder: do all roads lead to Georgette Heyer?

Again (or How I’ve Climbed onto the Gilles Seidel Love Wagon)

For those following – or caring – I was last writing in the midst of a terrible, horrible, no-good, purple-spotted book slump. It was like being in the fire swamp from the Princess Bride: flame spurts, lightning sand, rodents of unusual size and worst of all: deeply terrible stories.

Fortunately, I managed to stagger through, out into the light, and when I did, I was clasping Kathleen Gilles Seidel’s Again.